Trousers of flame

The only symptom I've ever been able to accurately describe to a medical professional is the feeling of flames licking my ankles. Everything else that happens when I'm sitting on the deli paper is a complete lie (thus the "pants on fire"). There are the obvious lies, like "Do I smoke? I'm not sure what that is?" And then there is the weird combination of my need to please the doctor, prove that I was sick enough to come see her, with my total lack of attention to my physical self. If you asked me right this very minute how I'm feeling, the answer would be, "um..okay I guess?" When they start in with the questions about whether I'm more or less tired than usual, whether I've had a runny nose or a headache, whether my left side hurts, whether my shoulder hurts more during a rainstorm, I'm totally lost. So I start making shit up, and agreeing with everything the doctor says. Then I get paranoid that she'll know I'm lying and I realize that the questions are tricks designed to catch me, so I start denying all symptoms and edging toward the door, holding my paper dress closed.

Why can't I just be honest? I want a definitive answer, a solid diagnosis, and rationally, I know that the baloney sandwiches I'm feeding the doctor don't serve that end. I'm afraid that if I admit that I don't have the slightest idea when my glands were first swollen, I'll be thrown out of the office, or at the very least, that the doctor will question why I don't notice how I personally am feeling. Maybe it's a leftover good student thing. I want to give the correct responses and get a gold star.

I suppose it's good that I so rarely go to the doctor - someday my fibs are going to lead me to be diagnosed with scurvy or leprosy or something ("I'm not sure when my arms fell off. I definitely had them last week, because I was shooting hoops.")

I wrote a hit play!

From the people who brought you the unforgettable Shifty Lady, comes a new play entitled, "How Dare I Act Surprised When I Eventually Get Fired?"

Receptionist (on intercom): Maureen, someone from State Patrol is on line 3.

MJS: Thanks!

[Discussion regarding client ensues, including arranging surrender.]

MJS (to coworker after hanging up): I'm always glad when the cops call and it's about a client rather than about me personally.

CW: Why would the cops call looking for you?

MJS: Well, you never know.

CW: Actually, you do sort of know.

MJS: I guess.

(Awkward silence).

MJS: I was just kidding.

CW: Oh.

Career change

It's not so much that I want to do this job as it is that I want the business cards.

Quick note

This might be the most horrifying development ever. I am rigid with embarrassment on behalf of all parties.

Morning Court: A Short Play

Caution: the dialogue you are about to read actually happened this very morning, with the minor exception of the name of MJS's tormentor.

Court clerk, guiding lady into office of MJS at courthouse.

CC: Here she is! This is Miss Smith, she'll be able to help you.

MJS, reaching out hand to shake: Good morning, I'm Miss Smith.

Shifty Lady, ignoring hand, sounding incredulous: WHAT is your name?

MJS: Maureen Smith.

SL: Well they told me to come and talk to you.

MJS: And what is your name, please?

SL, narrowing eyes: Shifty Lady.

MJS: Okay, Ms. Lady, I see in the court file that you've filed an Answer with the Judge, so that's all you really had to do. You'll get a response from the judge before the end of the...

SL: So this isn't resolved?

MJS: No, ma'am. You see the judge reads what we've each submitted, and then he...

SL: What did YOU tell him?

MJS: Well, your answer just says that you don't have any money, and that isn't a legal defense. You haven't said you don't owe the money.

SL, without taking breath: Lissen, I'm 73 years old and I'm on Social Security and all this happened when I started my business and my husband burned up and I was in the burn ward with babies from Vietnam all the memories came back and I had a nervous breakdown. Look at this blister on my lip! Stress! I have shingles and chronic fatigue syndrome and my daughter told me you have to pack up that business and I'm too old to start now and I have an infection in my eye and I thought it was the shingles... (continues to talk)

MJS: (thinking to self, eye infection? I don't see an eye infection. But still, did she shake hands with me or not? Am I going to have some mysterious Vietnamese baby eyeball infection? No, that's right, there was no handshake. Any chance she's going to breathe so that I can sneak a word in?)

SL: ...and these blisters on my side.

MJS: Yes, ma'am, but unless you're saying you don't owe the money...

SL: Oh, I owe it.

MJS: Right, so that's what I'm trying to say. Whether or not they'll be able to collect the money is another thing, but they will get a judgment against you.

SL, gazing beadily at MJS: The other lawyer was NICE.

MJS: The...the other lawyer?

SL: Yes. He said he wouldn't even try to collect from me because I get the Social Security. So that's what the judge said, and he signed the paper, but I couldn't read the signature and I made about seven copies, but they're gone.

MJS, kicking self for not stopping for coffee before work: So...on this account? There was already a suit...or?

SL, now convinced that MJS is both less nice and less smart than Other Lawyer: No! Not on this account!

MJS: Yeah, okay, that isn't really part of this case, then.

SL: Well my bank they screwed up my checking account and I'm opening a new account, not that I should tell YOU that and that lawyer he took my $43, but then he gave it back and the bank they said we don't need to give you back that $254, but then my new bank they said...

MJS, rising from chair, opening office door: Uh-huh.

SL, following MJS to door: ...they reckon that my bank they shouldn't have done that because...

MJS, moving into hall: Uh-huh.

SL: ...I'm on the Social Security and I hope you never have to know the pain of shingles...

MJS, trying to arrange features into sympathetic expression: Uh-huh.

SL: ...so is this it? Are you gonna start messing up my bank account?

MJS: You should get a notice from the court this week about what the judge wants to do. Thanksforcominginbye! (closes office door)

And, scene.

Sundays at Walmart

One never knows what one is getting into at Walmart. I go there about once a month to restock the house, feeling conflicted because I find the corporation's practices objectionable in so many ways, but I'm poor and their prices are just so much lower than anywhere else. I generally try and keep my head down and move quickly throughout the store, because there is frequently drama happening for customers and employees, and I can't get involved.

Yesterday, I noticed that they had all the back-to-school stuff out. This makes sense, as it is July, and they're going to need to clear this merchandise if they're going to get the Christmas stuff out by Labor Day. The inter-customer drama therefore centered around parents and 18-year olds, stocking up for dorms and first apartments. It should go without saying that this led to interactions of a huge variety of emotions. There was Bratty Know-it-All Guy, loudly correcting his parents on every statement they made about what he'd be likely to need for school. There was Emotional Disaster Area Mom, openly weeping over the storage bins. And, of course, there were packs of guys, buying Ramen and Gatorade, making furtive eye contact with gangs of girls, assuring one another that the wall clock one had chosen up was rilly, rilly cute.

I finally escaped into the grocery store part of Walmart, and picked my way through the usual Trail of Tears made by America's young people, many of whom needed to go home right this very minute, although they did not see it that way. I pressed on toward the cashier, and was brought up short by the worst transvestite ever. I got behind her (?) in line, so I could observe without being obvious. This individual was about 6'2", built like a nose tackle, with long strawberry blond hair that had been crimped. Crimped, I mean to tell you. Anyway, the look was completed with an enormous flower-print dress and sandals. I retrieved the giant box of cat litter from under my cart to take a good peek at the man-feet crammed into these sandals.

So here's my point to the extent I have one. This person can't help being tall and square. And if he likes dressing as a woman, I absolutely do not care. However, what I want to know is - did he get dolled up for yesterday's outing, do one last primp in the mirror and think, "Lookin' good!!" Is that the best he can do with what he has to work with, or was this outfit thrown together for a quick trip to the store? I'm dying to know if he dresses as a woman all the time (the hair would suggest yes), and if so, does he have better clothes than that ratty-looking sundress? Why am I not allowed to interview strangers at length? I just need information, is all.

Poisoned!

Part of the reason I haven't written anything in a while is that I've been sick this week. Sick enough to go to the doctor, which is really saying something. As usual, they refused to hand over the antibiotics - you'd have thought I was rolling up in there looking for painkillers. Unfortunately for my sense of righteous indignation, I think they were right to refuse me the drugs, because I'm feeling much better. My relatively rapid recovery (alliteration!) has caused me to return to my original theory about how awful I felt, which is that I was (Da dum DUM!!!) poisoned.

Last Sunday, I tried this "miracle" laundry additive that supposedly makes your whites their whitest without bleach. How could I resist that siren song? If I had read the directions PRIOR to using the product, I would have noticed that the additive goes in first in plain old water, and soaks with the clothes for a while. Or, you could, let's say, dump in the detergent and then fling a bunch of the powder into the swirling water and not only inhale the powder itself, but whatever evil toxic fumes were released by its interaction with the detergent. Good times. My throat hurts again just thinking about it.

The lesson, boys and girls? Housework is incredibly dangerous and should not be attempted by amateurs like myself. And I don't want to hear a bunch of nonsense about how the lesson might have to do with reading directions on bottles of dangerous chemicals. Clearly, it was the cleaning itself that caused the problem.

A smooch for luck

The tannest girl in the world...

relaxing with Buddy and Carla.

Main squeeze

Katie spends one last magical night with former squeeze Mr. Heinz.

The king and queen of beers

More pictures!

Here are Mom and Kelli at the reception.

Wedding Bell Booze

So, the first set of pictures is making the rounds, and I just can't get enough. I was talking with the newlyweds last night, and we couldn't get over how well everything went. I would like to give shout-outs to Bud and Carla for the shower and the reception - you did a fabulous job on extremely short notice. The spectacular Miss Meaghan organized the Foxwoods event, the bachelorette party, and generally functioned as Julie, our Cruise Director. And, of course, my girl Kasey, for general awesomeness.

I will post more pictures tomorrow, assuming all goes well. Next week I will return to my regularly scheduled randomness.

36 hours until Harry Potter - wooo! I've completely resolved my feeling of shame for reading children's books. If you need me this weekend, I will be reading aloud to the cats. They want updates on Crookshanks.

Shower

The lovely Miss Smith with Buddy and Carla, our kind hosts. The shower was more of a downpour, but everyone rallied strong.

Wha' Happened?

Brother Mike and I after being pummeled by the Ali of blackjack dealers.

So very cute

Unexpected consequences

The groom copes with the Commonwealth's gender-neutral marriage laws.

The following

The following wedding pictures are lifted from sister Meaghan's Snapfish. I anticipate getting mine posted by Friday. I hope I have some good ones to add. I can't believe that was Sunday - it already feels so long ago!

Nice try

The sunglasses fail to conceal my fixed, drunken stare.

Grant gets his party on

It is possible...

...that these drinks were not, strictly speaking, necessary.

Kerry and Steve

Kerry - in her after-party finest, together with main squeeze "Team" Steve.

Daddy daughter day

The beautiful bride and the daddy.

The bride keeps it real...real classy

My Summer of Nerd

A new Star Wars, the Hitchhiker's Guide movie, a bestseller about economics, and a new Harry Potter book? I....I don't know how to feel.

Also, Happy Birthday to Kasey! Miss you already!!

The New Plan

I've decided to become a musician. The fact that I have no demonstrable musical talent may slow me down a little, but I have a list of things I would like to accomplish in my new career, which seems a good place to start.

1) Start a rap beef. I'm thinking of starting this right away with my best friend. I'm just saying it's not a good sign when you tell someone that you tried self-tanner the day before, and they squint at you and say, "Really?" Consider it on like Donkey Kong, Mary!!

2) Form a supergroup. I just like the word.

3) Have a child and name it something improbable, like Lampshade or Rockenroll.

4) "Trash" a hotel room by doing things like not neatly stacking the room service trays.

5) Insist on traveling with someone whose only job is to prevent people from making eye contact with me.

These are really just places to start. I'm sure a major label will be phoning any minute to offer me a great deal of money. Au revoir, little people!