My first felon.

After being dumped, a co-worker decided to introduce me to some guys. He and his posse came to "rescue" me in his wife's Suzuki Sidekick. When they got to the house, it was like watching a clown car at the circus. First my friend Paul, who is a BIG guy, then his friends, a 6 foot plus drug using plumber, a petite immature barely legal James Coney Island worker (he looked all of 15), and then Paul's brother-in-law Con.

Con had been crashing on Paul and Nicole's air mattress and in a rare instance of employment, was working at a shipping service. He was telling me about his time spent in boot camp, the maneuvers, the workouts, the antics in the mess hall, when he mentioned he'd gotten into an altercation with the drill instructor and was given 2 minutes to finish his entire meal. As the drill sargeant was yelling and barking insults at him, and he was shoveling food into his mouth, cheeks bulging with food, trying to chew and swallow without choking, Con decided to hell with all this, became belligerant and totally non-compliant, and got himself kicked out of boot camp the day before graduation.

I listened to the saga, totally incensed at the unfair treatment my 23 year old beau of the moment had received. "What branch of the military did you say you had joined?"

His reply, "I never said I joined the military. I went to boot camp and when I got kicked out I went to prison."

I was dating a convicted felon. Maybe it wasn't that bad. Maybe it was a little felony.

"What did you serve time for?"

"Theft. Grand larceny."

Seems he'd helped himself to several computer systems from a major utilities company and had been turned in to the police by his ex. He also was running scams at his shipping job, getting all sorts of stuff for free, but I won't divulge the details here.

A month or so after I met him, Con decided to go visit his dad in Beaumont. "Call me when you get back," I said.

"I might."

He never called, and as it turns out, never came back. Paul and Nicole were nearly evicted from their apartment due to Con's prolonged (in violation of their lease) stay. They told him he had to go and he took off to Daddy's and wasn't about to tell me the truth, thinking he could stop by and get a little something-something whenever he was in town.

Con packed his questionably acquired belongings into his faded red-orange Geo Metro and disappeared.

After a stint living with his mom and still not being able to secure a job with his felony record, Con moved back to town to live with the ex that turned him in to the police in the first place.
Now she's his sugar daddy and he's her bitch.

Can I pick 'em or what?

Hecho en Mexico

I am a total enthusiast for anything hispanic. I enjoy the literature, the music (Mana totally rocks!), the food, the men....God do I love hispanic men. In fact, it's my preference for latinos that led me to this post.

Not having been much of a social butterfly, I greeted the new millenium with the resolution to start meeting people and find someone to date. I had a guy friend help me write a fabulous internet ad, lend me an email address that couldn't be traced back to me, and sort through the replies, weeding out the obvious jerks, such as "What size are your melons?". He forwarded to my real email those replies he found genuine. Still being single, I'm not sure I can call this venture a success, but I did meet a lot of people I never would have met otherwise. One of them I'll call Speakerman in reference to his love of his surround sound system.

Speakerman is a hispanic guy, about 6 years older than me, owns a house, did a stint in the navy and was the drummer for a band once upon a time. I had to meet him! We saw each other for a month or so and I was devestated when he decided to call things off, humiliating me and sending me home in front of his teenage cousin.

A few months later, I decided I wanted to retrieve some belongings I left at his house, got myself all dolled up and went over. We pretty much picked up where we left off and ended up in the bedroom.

"Let me get a condom," I told him, because as a modern woman I do carry my own whenever I go out.

"Oh no, I've got some," he tells me.

"How long have you had them?"

"I got them in Mexico."

"No. Let's use mine. I don't know about those ones from Mexico." This caused an argument, and I caved, agreeing to use his condom mexicanos.

So we've done the deed, and he jumps out of bed and starts patting down the carpet in front of the bedroom door. "What are you looking for?" I asked him.

"It came off."

"What came off?" I said as I was overcome with a very bad feeling.

"The condom."

So I lay in bed afraid to move, trying to figure out the logistics that would take the condom in question from the end of his penis and my approximate location in the bed to where he was on his knees about 3 feet to my left and a good 5 feet in front of me. Is it possible that the condom flew off, unnoticed by either of us, did a somersault over his right shoulder, and landed on the floor? Not likely.

"Maybe it's here in the bed," I told him, as I started shaking out the sheets. But I didn't find it.

"Could it have come off inside?" I asked him. He continued to crawl around the bedroom ignoring my question.

I tried again. "Could it be inside?!"

"I dunno."

"Well, look for it!" I started the descent into full blown panic.

Ever the concerned, responsible partner (he was the owner of the lost condom after all), he looked at me in horror and said, "I'm not sticking my hand up there!"

"You just had your dick up there; why can't you look for the condom? You lost it!"

I went to the bathroom, to go treasure hunting, and he tells me, "Just jump up and down; it'll be okay."

I got in the shower, crying as quietly as possible, praying to God for all it was worth. "Please God don't let me get pregnant by this idiot!" "Please God don't let me catch a disease from this idiot." "Please God don't let me help this idiot reproduce!!"

After my successful search and recovery mission, I dressed, got my shit from him (some pics and a cd) and left, since Speakerman had nothing comforting to say.

The moral of this story ladies is: always take precautions into your own hands; keep your own supply of Trojans or Lifestyles, whatever you prefer. And whatever you do, stay away from condoms that say Hecho en Mexico and the irresponsible, unfeeling pricks that use them.

Road Kill BBQ

Seriously, that's the name of the booth I went to last night at the cookoff--Road Kill BBQ. Far from actual road kill, the food was quite good. Ever had quail? I hadn't but was pleasantly surprised that I liked it. Brisket, boudin, sausage, beans and potato salad. Now that's good eats.

Have you ever attended a cook-off? I hadn't either. I was a 36 year old, native Texan cook-off virgen until last night. As the recipient of VIP wristbands to Road Kill's soiree, I paid the gate admission, and went straight to the food booth. The time I was inside was like time spent with 500 perfect strangers in a shoe box. Nobody could move, and the little bit of extra space was taken up by the sound. It was crazy. The party was well under way when I got there at 7:30, and when I left at 11:00, there were girls dancing on the bar (think Coyote Ugly), with no sign of slowing down.

I was perplexed at the size of the crowd and the lack of identifying pink wristbands on all the partiers. Why were so many other booths deader than the morgue and Road Kill's was overflowing onto the tarmac?

Well, sports fans, experienced cook-off attendees know that they can go to any booth and pay admission. Your fancy dancy VIP wristband is good to get you into a specific area, but that's it. Evidently Road Kill throws a damn good party, cuz that's where everybody was.

I however, had to give in to my clausterphobic tendencies and eat in the beer garden. Yes it was damn cold for a Houston night, and my fingers were numb, but I had a table and a bench to sit on, plus a front row seat to the stage. Woo hoo! Live entertainment. Who'd of thunk I was gonna get dinner and a show?

Of course, after dining al fresco, we went to the carnival. We took a stroll around the midway, kind of mapping out our game plan. 3 Ferris wheels, 2 bumper cars, 6 spook/fun houses, 2 super slides, 2 roller coasters....In order to enjoy all that fun we needed nourishment. That's right it was funnel cake time!

As we checked out the topping options (powdered sugar, chocolate, syrup, honey, caramel, whipped cream, fruit and nuts), we noticed that they offered fried oreos. Fried oreos??!!
Why fry an oreo? An oreo in it's natural state is chock full of yummy goodness. Why fry it and mess with a good thing? Oreos do not need to be double stuffed, have flavored or colored fillings, be inside out or come in vanilla. And they most definitely do not need to be fried.

After a ride on the largest Ferris wheel, and after getting stuck at the top...why do Ferris wheels always stop when you're at the top?, it was time for beignets. Again with the topping options. We chose caramel and nuts, and took our gastronomic treasure back to the beer garden to check out the band. That's when things really got interesting.

The drunken revelers from the bbq booths had started to work their way outside. We saw an honest to goodness Bubba, complete with overalls, a lady wearing a hat made out of a Miller Lite box, a lady in a feather boa, people wearing all sorts of blinking accessories drinking out of light up glasses, one couple sporting matching Hawaiian leis, and people wearing mardi gras beads the size of golf balls. There was even a guy wearing a Dallas Cowboy jacket and orthopedic shoes. But noone as great as Mr. Harley-Davidson T-shirt.

Accompanied by his date who was stylishly wearing a southwestern print fleece blanket, Harley stopped at the beer garden to lend his support to the entertainment. We can only tell you that we saw The Band, led by The Guy, because there was nothing to identify the act. Harley, who could barely walk, was stomping his bum leg to one beat, while clapping to another, neither of which were the beat of the song. He came to sit at our table, and stood in front of us shaking his ass, and when he sat down next to Ms. Blanket, we could watch as he lovingly caressed his own leg.

Sadly, due to the cold and impending rain, the midway closed early, so we headed back to catch our shuttle bus to the parking lot. Our driver claimed to have finished 51 laps so far, and was proudly training for that great day when Nascar starts turning right.

If you're at the cook-off this weekend, check out Road Kill BBQ in booths 189 and 190. I'm sure the party's still going.

Good help is still hard to find

I called one of our better applicants yesterday and asked if she could come in today because we wanted to get her started and needed to fill out the paperwork and start the pre-employment training. She came in, on time, filled out the papers and started reading the employee handbook.

After an hour or so, she came to me to ask, "Is it okay if I come back tomorrow? I have another interview and I have to be there at 5:00."

My jaw it the floor and I countered with, "You have another job interview? You don't want want to work here?"

"Yeah, I do, but they called me yesterday."

What has me totally astounded is, if she didn't want the job, or if she wanted to check out the other job, why did she agree to come in and start? Why fill out all those forms and read coma inducing manuals when you want to do something else?

And this isn't the only weirdness I've encountered since the our hiring blitz began. Witness the girl who started a couple weeks ago. She was late a couple times, but she was good. Until she just didn't show up. No call, no show.

And then there was the girl who transferred from another location. She went on break and never came back. Wonder where she went for lunch, Fiji?

When you are offered the job you applied for, ask yourself, "Do I really want this job? Do I want to make an honest living and pay my way? Or do I want to continue to mooch off state welfare system?" If your answer is the latter, take a page from Nancy Reagan's book and just say no.

Texan Proud?

For any of you visiting my blog from outside of Texas, it's rodeo time! Yessirree Bob, the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo, www.hlsr.com, is kicking of March 1.

I don't usually attend the rodeo. I was Texas born and raised, but I am the most Un-Texan you'll ever meet. I don't like horses; they're bigger than me and scarier than me. Country music leaves much to be desired with such raucous tunes as "My wife she left home with the dawg". I am proud to never have owned cowboy boots or hat (you will never see me in a hat). I prefer Levi's to Wrangler's any day of the week and find that big W stitched on the rear pockets obstructs my view of some mighty fine asses. So what's there for me at the rodeo?

Livestock. Ummmm....I live in a city, one of the largest in the nation actually. I don't like dogs or cats, much less barnyard animals. I've never ridden a horse. Did I mention my fear of horses? I've never milked a cow. That's why God invented the grocery store. Milk is abundantly at my disposal without getting up close and personal with the bovine set. Pigs? No thanks just give me the bacon. Chickens? Dirty birds. If I think about it too much, I can't even eat eggs. I just don't have any reason to go see all those animals I've managed to avoid by being a City Slicker. Rabbits, ostriches, emus, llamas and others don't fit into my daily life. Besides, have you ever smelled livestock? You get this mammalian menagerie together under one roof, throw in some hay and lots and lots of animal shit and some stale popcorn and fermented soda spilled on the concreve and voila! It's the livestock show. Add in a real life, honest to goodness auction, (no ebay for the rodeo afficianado), and some healthy bidding competition from Mattress Mack, and you got scholarships for kiddos, not to mention your very own livestock souvenir primed for slaughter. (Ok, I admit, the scholarship part's a good thing.)

Rodeo games. Calf roping, greased pig races, chuckwagon races, barrel races...I can't even feint interest in these. Seriously, if I cared, I'd buy a ranch and do this stuff for myself; I wouldn't have to buy tickets to watch others do it for me. The only remotely interesting rodeo sport is the bull riding. Itty bitty men strapped onto giant ass bulls, holding on with one hand. I love to root for the bull. The bull's snorting and bucking around, the cowboy's flailing and flying around, and the rodeo clown is watching it all from the relative safety of his red barrel. In theory the clown acts as a decoy to distract the bull and allow the thrown rider an opportunity to escape, but the bulls I've seen haven't been that easily distracted. You think they dose them up with Adderall?

In all fairness, I do need to point out that the greased pig competition, which involves children chasing greased pigs, trying to catch one and bring it into a marked ring, also benefits the kids. If you catch said greased pig, you get to keep it and raise it for the next year's livestock show. Brings new meaning to "Gee Mom it followed me home; can I keep it??" Nothing like becoming instant foster parents to little Porky Pig.

Live music. Mostly country, but for us rebels, there's usually a rock show or two, latino pride day, black pride day, and this year a special military pride day. Last time I was at the rodeo, when it was still at the Astrodome http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reliant_Astrodome , there was a special presentation by none other than the light company. Drill team girls on horses, with fringe and flags, patriotic music, a mini-movie, and fireworks all extolling the virtues of our utilities provider. Truly a heart warming, tear jerking, multi-media event.

Carnival! Now I actually like this part of the rodeo, but you don't have to go to the rodeo to find a fun carnival, just find your closest Fiesta mart. Cheesy games, really bad for you (but oh so tasty and satisfying) food, stuffed animals, rides that make you dizzy, rides that flip you upside down and empty your pockets....fabulous family entertainment. And funnel cakes. Gotta have a funnel cake at the carnival, otherwise, what's the point?

Cook-offs. Chili for some. Yum-yum. Every true Texan and Texan wanna-be has a secret chili recipe. ( Mine isn't exactly the recipe as what I do with it. But I digress. ) Barbecue for others. Which brings me in a long roundabout way to my reason for posting tonight. For the first time ever, I am going to the cook-off. Thanks to my friend Brandy and her generous husband Jason. (Help me thank Brandy by visiting her blog and saying hello www.buggybran.blogspot.com ). Tomorrow I will be dining on bbq brisket, chicken, quail, hamburgers, hot dogs, potato salad and a bunch of stuff I don't remember, and drinking my way through an open bar. Cuz while I won't give the Rodeo Association any of my money, I will gladly avail myself of the hospitality afforded me by 2 free tickets.

So tune in tomorrow, same bat time, same bat channel and I'll tell you all about it. And if you wanna know my chili secret, just drop me a line.

I have dated Hank Hill.

Everyone in Texas can identify with the Fox network show King of the Hill, www.fox.com/kingofthehill/, but I have personally dated Hank Hill, and he lives in Cleveland, Texas and just like his TV counterpart he sells propane and propane accessories (and a few antiques for his momma.)

Hank just happens to be quite possibly the richest man in Cleveland and he's certainly the only one driving a Lexus SUV. At the back of the propane shop/store/office is a sizeable break room complete with kitchenette that originally was built for the delivery drivers to have a place to relax and stay the occasional night. But Hank has converted it into his very own efficiency apartment complete with big screen TV and Bob Timberlake furniture.

When I met Hank he had suffered a string of bad luck. His dog died. His fiance left him. His house burnt down. His boat was wrecked. His sister sank his wave runner. He wrecked a rental car in the Nevada desert and knocked out a bunch of his teeth.

Hank's woes really pulled at my heart strings and I just knew I would be the start of good things for him.

It was Christmas time so we did a lot of seasonal things together. We watched my favorite Christmas special "Merry Christmas Charlie Brown". ( Hank bought me the dvd even though I only owned a vcr.) We went to look at Christmas lights. We went Christmas shopping. And of course I invited him to the party thrown by my closest friends.

He agreed to go and at the last minute, as I was ready and waiting for him to pick me up, he declined. (This is when I should have known to get out, but I was younger and more naive.)

I went to the festivities and when I returned, Hank calls me, and I was none too happy. I had to go by myself. He had changed his mind at the last minute. Everyone was expecting him to go. How could he embarass me in front of all my friends. Standard guilt trip line. And he says, "But I was gonna surprise you. I had decided to go and wanted it to be a surprise."

"But you never showed up. If you were gonna surprise me, what happened?"

"I was on my way over and I stopped at the little store to buy some hairspray. I just ran in for a minute and while I was in there...they stole the Lexus."

"What?! The $649 a month Lexus? You did have the alarm set, didn't you?"

"Uh....no. I just ran in for a minute."

The smoke started to clear and I realized what had really happened. "Hank, did you leave the car running?"

"I just ran in for a minute."

"You left the keys in the ignition with the engine running, the doors unlocked and the alarm disabled so you could buy hairspray?!!"

"I just ran in for a minute."

Now folks, you might be saying, surely she ended this relationship now, but I must confess I was awed by his stupidity and felt sorry for him cuz the Lexus was the last thing he owned, well, apart from the propane and propane accessories business, the big screen tv and the Bob Timberlake furnishings. But it was Christmas and his Lexus was stolen, so I felt bad for him.

"But I have some bad news."

"Worse than the Lexus being stolen? "

"Well, things have been real busy at the shop and I never got around to unloading the Christmas presents."

Oh, that sucks. I thought of all the stuff we'd bought and picked out for his family and the foster children in the Philippines. But there was still time to get new stuff. (Yes, I actually believed there were foster children in the Philippines."

"Your Christmas present was in the truck."

"MY CHRISTMAS PRESENT WAS STOLEN???" I didn't know I had a Christmas present but was thoroughly devestated to learn of it's loss.

"I'll have my friend Mary go get you another one." Well, gee, that's romantic. If ever there was a time for a little white lie, this was it.

So on Christmas Eve, Hank comes to pick me up in his momma's Mercedes SUV. (Not nearly as nice or comfortable as the Lexus, let me tell you.) And I go off to my first and only Hill family Christmas. After we eat and the family opens presents, I hinted that we should go back to Hank's place and do our own Christmas.

We get to the shop and are watching TV on the Bob Timberlake bed complete with blinking Christmas lights, and the phone rings. It's a customer. His propane tank is low and it's gonna be cold, maybe even snow. Would Hank mind making a run right now?

Let's enter the mind of Hank for a minute. Well, gee Mr. Inconsiderate Customer, it's Christmas Eve, and I was snuggled up on my new king size bed with a pretty cute girl I've been seeing. We were just about to exchange gifts and do a little kissing under the mistletoe...but what the hell, I'm sure she won't mind! I'm on my way!

I thought he'd leave me at the shop while he made this "emergency" run. I'd watch some TV and we'd celebrate when he returned. But no. He wanted me to come so I could "understand the nature of the business".

Exactly, I argued. Business. "The business is closed today; it's Christmas Eve. Mr. Inconsiderate Customer knew his tank was low and should have called you yesterday. It's rude to call you during family time and expect you to drop everything for him."

"But that's the business. If we'd met in the summer we'd be living the life of Reilly." He really said that, I kid you not.

We drove out to the sticks where Mr. Inconsiderate Customer lives. Not that Cleveland is a major metropolis or anything, but we went about 3 towns out from the shop to make the delivery. Hank got out and hooked the hose up to the tank and started the pump as I sat in the cab. Mr. Inconsiderate Customer came over to introduce himself and to ask, "Aren't you gonna help?"

WHAT?!

It's Christmas Eve. I'm dressed up. I was in cream colored slacks and a cream colored sweater. I could envision propane splashing on my clothes and the smell never coming out.

So a couple days later Hank calls me at work. "I almost sent you flowers."

"What? Why didn't you?"

"I had my cousin (secretary) call the flower places here in town (all 3 of them) and there's a big funeral today and they're busy. You can call her and ask if you don't believe me." And I hear her in the background confirming this pathetic story.

Well, there's always tomorrow. Maybe you can send them then.

"Well...I almost sent you flowers."

But he didn't. And I came to realize that I wasn't bringing good things to Hank's life, but he was surely dragging me down.

But at least I have bragging rights. I have after all dated Hank Hill.

In Honor of my 100th Hit...

I should've known Metro wasn't the one for me when he said:

Shake your head like a dog.

Norman Bates has nothing on this place

I spent last night at a neighborhood hotel, not a skanky, flea-ridden hole-in-the-wall, but a nationally known chain. What follows is the letter of complaint I sent to management.

To Whom It May Concern:

I moved to discover my lights not on in the new place and thought, no big deal, there's a hotel down the street, an SL (ShitouttaLuck?) Thinking it looked nice from the street, I got a room for the night. The clerk was friendly and after signing one form, he gave me a key to room #116. He showed me a map, suggested parking and then I was on my own.

Does SL have ice machines? Vending machines? Laundry service? Free coffee and donuts? The website advertises amenities but I don't know what they are. I was issued a key and left to fend for myself. I gave up after 6 1/2 hours.

I thought the property looked nice from the exterior, but looks can be deceiving. My first
impression of the room was that is smelled bad, like stale socks and old cigarettes. (Might I suggest adding Febreeze to the cleaning routine?)

Then I noticed the the rickety looking beds. One bed had 2 flat pillows and the other had 2 lumpy misshapen pillows, and the mattresses had no padding. It was like laying on a bunch of slinkies. To top it off my bed had crumbs in it. But, not having another option, and having spent $65, I decided I'd try to make it work.

I went to turn on the a/c, and discovered the window was open, and that I couldn't completely draw the blinds; they were hung improperly, and the 2 sets of curtains didn't even match. As I sat trying to watch tv and hoping the a/c would dissipate the smell, I noticed the dollar store artwork with the frame sagging away fromt the print, and the bleached out footprint on the green carpet.

Then I tried the bathroom. The toilet didn't merely rock, it pitched to the left and damn near threw me into the tub when I sat on it. A toilet paper wrapper was thoughtfully left in my sink. Was it a welcome wagon offering from the cleaning crew or previous inhabitant?

The kitchenette was not fully stocked as per the inventory posted inside the cabinet door. I was missing the casserole, the bottle opener, the pot holder and both ash trays. Oddly enough, though you provide a coffee pot, SL is the first hotel I've stayed at that does not offer complimentary coffee packets to make use of the coffee maker. The countertop and supporting cabinet were out of square and looked like it was going to fall over.

The nightstand drawer was messed up and wouldn't close. The telephone message light blinked constantly, and the phone was all busted up. I could look through the receiver beside the buttons and see the internal wiring. The hotel and room phone numbers were not given to me. There was no alarm clock in the room and I was not offered the option of a wake up call.

I went out to get dinner and when I returned I discovered there was no place to park near my room. All the guests were assigned to the same area of the hotel, so while there was plenty of parking on the opposite side of the building, I couldn't park anywhere near my room. I had to hike across the property, alone late at night. The stroll did allow me the opportunity to notice the many vacant rooms, some without curtains at all, and the plethora of car alarms utilized by your tenants. I began to worry about the safety of the property and lay awake expecting to hear the vice squad raid the place.

When I tried to take a bath before bed, I noticed there was no tub stopper. So I pulled down the shower curtain that had been draped up into the soap dish, so that I could shower, and the shower curtain was covered in mildew. (Bleach will kill it by the way).

The room was nasty, totally unfit for habitation, and you should be ashamed that you offer such accommodations. Who in their right mind would want an extended stay with you? There is no security; hell the office didn't even stay open, as I discovered when I decided to leave at 2 a.m. and take my chances in my new place despite the lack of electricity. There wasn't even a number I was given to call if I did experience a problem.

The door didn't have a chain lock, just the one lock operated by the door key, although I could see the screw holes where the lock used to be. Thieves, rapists and serial killers the world over thank you for making it that much easier to break into my room at night.

The office was, of course, closed when I tried to check out. The clerk wasn't stupid and knew better than to stick around. You didn't have a drop box for the key. I returned at 6:00 and the office still wasn't open so I could check out. I eventually got someone on the phone later this morning, and they told me there was no need to return the key because it is disposable. Sure would have been nice to know when I checked in.

The state of this property is deplorable. Perhaps everyone was assigned to the same side of the hotel because they wanted to give us all the nicer rooms. Maybe I was assigned such a crappy room because I only intended to stay 1 night and the classy rooms shown are your website are reserved for your extended guests. I don't know and I don't care. But I do expect you to refund my money. And you can expect to hear from other disgruntled customers as I saw 2 other rooms clear out between 1:30 and 2:00.

You cannot expect people to be satisfied with such substandard service. I do not want a credit or voucher for a future stay with your hotel, as I can assure you there will not be one.

Good help is hard to find

A recent boom in enrollment has left the preschool where I work scrambling to hire the appropriate staff. My boss posted a "Help Wanted" ad in 3 local publications, and for the last 2 weeks, I have been fielding calls about the job and answering inane questions. So in an effort to make life easier at work, here's my special list of FAQ's. Please read these over before you apply.

"I don't have a social security number. Will that be a problem?" Yes, that will be a problem. You have to pay taxes and how is that tracked? Through your social security number, of course. You also do have the burden of proving that you are legally allowed to work in the United States.

"I don't have a copy of my GED. Will that be a problem?" Hell yes, that will be a problem. The state of Texas has mandated certain requirements for those working with children, namely that they be over 18 and have a high school diploma or a GED. I realize you are 40 years old, but I can't overlook the state's requirements.

"....Wod sdfjdroo job aldfoe pre qaeof[[ paper...?" Huh? Generally speaking, you have to be able to communicate with the children. If you can't make yourself understood in English, a job in an English speaking school is not for you.

"Do I have to come and fill out the application?" Only if you want the job.

"Are y'all really hiring? I don't want to come down there and waste my time." Nobody's worried about wasting my time. Really, we're not hiring, but smile for the camera cuz you've been punked!

"I can't work before 9:35 and can't work past 9:37 and I demand a 2 hour lunch break. Is that doable?" Let me see what I can do. Nope sorry, that doesn't meet my needs. Might I suggest a home based business like Mary Kay where you are your own boss and can set your own hours?

"I can't work this Tuesday or any Thursday for the next 6 months because I have a personal life. Is that okay?" Sure, we'll just close the school on those days to accommodate your schedule. The parents would love to spend that extra time with their children.

"Well my other job paid me $200 an hour. Can you match that?" What are you smoking? You should have stayed at your other job.

"I don't have any references, can I still apply?" Yes you can. But I can't hire you. I need to speak to 3 people who have employed you, preferrably in a child care setting, but I will also accept volunteer work, church work and private babysitting references. Surely on this big planet of ours are 3 people who can vouch for you.

What do you think? Are we being too selective? These are only the people who will be raising your children in your absence..

As requested, the Porto story

After receiving my weekly booty call, I was at Metro's apartment. The display atop the kitchen cabinets had expanded to include not only the "commercial lighting", which is a story in and of itself, but also very artistically arranged crates, wine bottles, plastic grapes and faux foliage. Apparently Metro had a new hobby and fancied himself a wine connoisseur, despite his habit of purchasing his wines in bulk at HEB. I asked him, "Do you know about wine?"

Not really he replied and more enthusiastically informed me that he had gotten a wine journal.

"A what?"

" A wine journal. I've long wanted to keep track of all the wines I've tried along with their descriptions," he said.

"I'd like to see it," thinking I can scan it for useful information in case we discuss wine in the future.

"Well...I haven't started it yet. But I've got a great bottle of porto we can open up and try."

"Port?" Up to this point my exposure to port wine was limited to the pink and orange nut covered cheese ball found in the grocer's deli case, usually for $1.50.

"No, porto," he says, choosing not to explain further. "But I don't have the right kind of glasses."

"You don't have wine glasses?" I answer, stunned that Mr. Metro himself would be lacking in anything. Even I own 2 wine glasses, souvenirs of senior prom and senior breakfast.

"I don't have porto glasses. They're like a wine glass but shorter and rounder."

"Isn't that a brandy snifter?"

"No." He answered, dropping the subject in lieu of sex, a topic that I am well educated on and one that doesn't require much conversation.

Later, determined to see the wine journal and to prove that I'm as cultured as the next girl, I mentioned it'd be a great time to try the wine. It is a dessert wine after all, and we had just finished dessert.

Metro got up, naked except for his ever present t-shirt, which kept his chest warm and prevented coughing fits, opened the porto and poured it into 2 plastic stadium cups. He went to get the journal making comments about the wine needing to breathe in order for us to properly taste it.

He took a sip and tried to discern the subtle flavors of this particular wine. He wrote it's name, maker and year in the journal and gave his summation, which I have sadly forgotten. But it was something like, "A hint of pears and rose blossoms," which he dutifully wrote in the journal under the comment section.

So I tried mine, trying really hard to taste pears and roses. But I didn't.

"It tastes like pecan grit."

"What?"

"You know when you eat a pecan and you get that little bit of bitter shell stuck between your teeth. That's pecan grit."

He just looked at me in astonishment.

"Write that down. You have to put in the journal that it tastes like pecan grit." I took the pen and made the notation myself and gave him the rest of my wine, which was quite nasty once the undertone of pecan grit had been identified.

Next morning as I was preparing to leave, he got a phone call from his store. (At the time he was a regional manager for a nationally recognized organization.) I was sitting in the living room listening to his end of the conversation as he tried to smooth things over with the irate customer. He walked into the living room, naked except for the t-shirt, and stood there using his best the-customer-is-always-right voice, while little Metro was swinging in the breeze.

Maybe the customer knew the bigwig she was complaining to was butt-ass naked. Maybe his organization approved of doing business in the altogether. Maybe it was a human relations technique approved by UH, flashing the full Monty. It is for sure one of my favorite images. Metro naked is a beautiful thing.

The truth hurts but so do lies

This is an open letter to all those who have ended a relationship with the phrase "something from my past came up"...

When? When did "something" come up? Before or after we made plans to see each other this week? Before or after you broke those plans? Before or after I came to see you? Please tell me when this elusive "something" came up.

And what it this "something"? You say it's best I don't know the details but this inquiring mind wants to know. Perhaps you yourself are unsure as to the nature of "something". Are you going to jail? Are you moving out of the city/state/country/planet? Have you been abducted by aliens? Has the IRS garnished all your wages for back taxes? Did you give me up for lent? Are you gay? Are you a woman trapped in a man's body? Are you married? Do you have a love child? Are you entering the Witness Protection program? Have you joined the priesthood and taken an oath of celibacy? Is your family involved in a gang rivalling the one my family is affiliated with?

If I'm as "great" as you say. And if you're that concerned for my feelings, then respect me enough to tell me the truth.

I realize it's not easy to be truthful. I've ended relationships before and it's uncomfortable to know you will be causing another person pain. But it's necessary sometimes. Let me give you some personal examples.

Cuz, I have realized I still have feelings for Metro. When I'm with you I think about him and talk about him all the time and I realize this isn't fair to you. If I'm still having feelings for Metro, then I can't be with you.

Willis, I have been seeing other people, and one of these guys has asked me to be exclusive. Since I want an exclusive, long term relationship, and you won't divorce your wife, I have to put all my energy into this relationship with Exclusive Guy.

Speakerman, do you really want to know the truth? The truth is I am already seeing 3 other people and I don't want to fit you in.

I have no doubt that these gentlemen were hurt. But they have no doubts about our relationships. So if you're going to cause pain, trauma, intestinal distress, insomnia, binge eating, migraines and mood swings from hell, the least you can do is to explain the "something" that is going on.

You can't turn left on 1960

FM 1960 is a farm and market road no longer. It spans 6 or 7 lanes, depending on if you count the turn lane, and traffic should flow at a steady 45 mph. Of course, then there are the traffic lights every few blocks which tend to slow things down. But like all suburban cut throughs, it has been discovered by the masses who are looking for alternate routes to travel in the search for construction free roadways.

What does that all mean, you might ask? It means you can't turn left on 1960! There will always be traffic stopped at the light blocking your way, or a steady stream of oncoming traffic to keep you blocked in.

Most people understand this idiosyncracy and try to work with it. U-turns are the easiest way to make 1960 work for you. Simply go right and hook a u-ey when all is clear. The people sitting in back of you will bless you for getting out of the way. You feel less frustrated as a driver because you are in motion instead of sitting stagnant in a driveway. So why do I encounter someone on a daily basis who doesn't understand that you can't turn left on 1960?

Why, if given a choice of 2 possible exits, one leading to a light that will let everyone go left without prejudice, and the other leading onto 1960, why do drivers insist on trying to turn left?
Sneaking the nose of your car out into traffic and manipulating the cars in one direction into stopping doesn't mean the oncoming traffic is going to yield to you. Noone stopped and cleared the way to be nice to you, they're protecting their own by not slamming into you, even though many will be fantasizing about it. You will be left with your nose in the turn lane and your back end jutting out into traffic and you still won't be able to turn left on 1960.

And guess what...you can't turn left on highway 6 either. Know why? Because it's 1960! That's right, when you cross 290, only the name changes. There's still way to damn much traffic to turn left on 1960. You aren't going to get a clear break or the opportunity to turn into that shopping center. Go to the light.

So you, in the pickup that's smoking noxious fumes and threatening to overheat because you want to turn left, look in your rearview mirror. That's me behind you urging you to turn right because no matter how you try, you can't turn left on 1960!