Top 5 List

I haven't updated in the timely manner that I'd hoped for, and the amount of tactless occurrences have really piled up. To relieve the stress of covering each one in its own post, they will be summarily lumped into one. Drum roll please:

1. Had a nightmare that the sweet, homeless Chinese man in Boston Common that I see every morning had died. I discovered him in a heap surrounded by the pigeons that he had been so kind to over the years. The next morning on my way to work I saw him throwing out bread crumbs and was so relieved that I ran up to him and gave him a hug. He returned the hug and in doing so spilled a foreign liquid from his canteen down my backside. Upon arrival into work I was greeted with upturned noses and inquiring stares. The smell emanating from me was whiskey. No amount of standing under the hand dryer in the bathroom seemed to help. I sprayed myself down with bathroom air freshener and proceeded about my business.
   


2. Proclaiming myself a master of public transit and tempting the will of the Fates, I dared to not hold the handrails of the subway car and elected instead to read from my Tom Robbins novel. A sudden stop caused me to lose my page and also my footing. I was sent sprawling into the crotch of a middle-aged stranger. It smelled like blueberries and I told him so. I don't think he took it as the compliment I had intended.
   


3. Got food poisoning at an Indian restaurant during a first date. Feeling the chunks start to rise, I jumped up and fled toward the little boy's room. I didn't make it in time. A stream of curry-colored projectile vomit erupted from me and splattered against the bathroom door before I smashed through it and stumbled into a stall. After heaving several pounds of chicken tikka masala and lamb curry, I cleaned myself up, chewed a stick of gum, and returned to my table. After several minutes of silence, I burst out with "Well, that was a waste of money!" and snorted at my own appalling joke. I can't imagine why I wasn't called upon for a second date.


4. Exiting the house to walk Cinnamon, I slipped at the top of my icy porch and fell on my rear. Cinnamon then pulled me down the entire flight of stairs where I smacked my rump on each step before landing in a puddle of melted ice, salt, and dog urine at the bottom. My butt had symmetrical bruises on both cheeks, each increasing in latitude. It looked like a level from Super Mario Brothers.


5. Fainted at my doctor's office after giving blood. Insisting that I was fine 5 minutes later, I stood up to make my retreat and got woozy again. I intended to fall backwards onto an exam table, missed, and fell into a large bin full of soiled hospital gowns. I saw the nurse practitioner write "stubborn" and "weak constitution" on my chart.

Tollbooth Tactics

Since I moved to Boston from New Hampshire, there is one person that I've found myself missing inexplicably. My arch-rival. My nemesis. The north-bound Hampton tollbooth man.

We met a year ago. I wonder if he remembers that fateful day as well as I do. I had my dog Cinnamon in the passenger seat with me, on my way to visit my boyfriend. Because I am an utter fool, I refuse to get an EasyPass—one of those Jetson-like devices that sticks to your windshield and pays your toll for you via a savings account. I don't trust it. Nor do I have a savings account or any savings to speak of.

As I sat one car back from the tollbooth, waiting for the elderly woman to fish out $1.50 from her purse, I watched the tollbooth man. A handsome, 50-something man with salt and pepper hair and a trimmed beard—very New Hampshire. He was all smiles as he held out his hand, graciously accepting the woman's $1.50 like it were a Publisher's Clearing House check. He said "Thank you ma'am," waved goodbye, and she sluggishly pulled away in her green Volvo. I took my dollar down from my sun visor, fished fifty cents from my cupholder, and edged forward to the tollbooth window.

"Morning!" I chirped, happy to be outside in the Spring weather and en route to see my man.

"Hi." He replied flatly, his expression utterly devoid of any cheeriness that I'd just seen directed at the old bat in front of me. In fact, he looked at me and Cinnamon like we had just asked him for spare change. He held his hand out and waggled his fingers, like he were in a real rush. Exactly where are you rushing off to Mister Booth?

Ignoring the thinly veiled hostility, I reached out intending to gracefully plop my tuppence into his paw. Instead, I accidentally managed to hit his hand with my own, launching my money onto the highway. Embarrassed, I apologized and opened my driver door to get out and scrape up the scattered coins. I misjudged the distance between my car and his station. My door flung open and smashed into the side of his booth. The man recoiled in disgust, as if I had done it intentionally and with extreme prejudice. I apologized again, got out of the car, and dropped to the ground, hunting for change. Cars behind me were about as amused as he was. I found my dollar and quarters that had dispersed under the car, stood back up, and held out my money for him to take—hoping to drive away with some dignity.

"Sir, get back in your car please." He said gruffly.

Confused, I got back in my car, shut the door, and extended my hand out the window. This time, he took my money.

"Thanks." I said, still determined not to let this damper a beautiful day.

"Yeah. Thanks a lot buddy." He grunted, looking at his cash register and avoiding my eyes.

His sarcasm wasn't lost on me. Neither were his several slight insults over the course of our 60-second exchange. I decided that I hated this man. The man who had been so courteous to the woman in front of me, and so unwelcoming to myself. He drew a battle line this day, and I intended to cross it. We will meet again.

Next weekend, on my way back up to visit NH, I approached the tollbooth section slowly, stalking my prey. I wanted to be damn sure that if he was working, I pulled up to his booth. Spotting him on the far left, I veered over and gingerly pulled up to his station. Over the course of a day, he must see at least 500 people, but I am fairly confident he recognized me. He did his best to not look at me. No niceties. No greeting. He held out his hand and stared straight ahead at his mini television. Following suit, I stared straight ahead, extended my hand full of quarters vaguely above his, and loosened my grip. The quarters bounced off his palm and rolled down the highway. Not even coming to a complete stop, I just continued through the toll. I was quite pleased with myself. I hope he had to exit his cave and crawl on the pavement, hunting for my change or have it come out of his salary.

Every weekend for the next few months we continued this routine. I made damn sure to pull up to his tollbooth. He made damn sure not to ever look at me. Sometimes he would catch my money and sometimes it would fall to the ground like a battle gauntlet.

Our hatred for each other actually seemed to grow. Once when I was pulling up to his booth, he turned the red light on and took his lunch break—exiting through a side door and never looking back. I had to reverse and find another booth. My rebuttal was counting out 30 nickels and giving that to him on my next voyage. I have to give him credit, because despite the pound of change thunking into his hand, he still never looked at me. I would have given him 150 pennies, but that seemed too obvious and planned. I wanted him to think that I hadn't given it a thought. That he was a nonentity to me. In fact, I spent many hours thinking of the awful things I could do to this man. This stranger that—had things worked out differently—maybe we could have been friends. Maybe we could have hung out at a local bar, sharing beer and peanuts. He could tell me about all the assholes he has dealt with on the highway. I could tell him about the awful dresses on Project Runway this season. Instead, because he wanted to play nasty, I was one of the highway assholes that he tells his real friends about. I could hear him now. "Yeah Jim. There's this little piss-ant and his girly-looking dog that always come to my booth and drops money everywhere without looking or slowing down." Imagining him talk about me behind my back to his friends—or maybe his wife if the sonofabitch duped a good woman into his bed—made me all the more vengeful.

Maybe next time I would simply hurl my change out the window and let the chips fall where they may. If I was lucky, one would get him between the eyes or chip a tooth. Or maybe I would coat my quarters with honey or syrup and plop them into his hand, getting him all sticky for the rest of the day. I bet he's not the type to have hand sanitizer in his booth. I bet it would really put a damper on his day. I bet that everytime he reached out to take change from someone else, he would flinch as it dropped into his sweaty palm. Maybe it would inspire him to wear gloves and be nicer to people that aren't old. I mean, really, shouldn't he be wearing gloves anyways? If I worked in a tollbooth, I would. Maybe I could teach Cinnamon an "attack" command and have him leap out the open window, going directly for the jerk's throat. My mind reeled with possibilities to torture this man. Didn't he deserve it after all? He was rude to me, and I'm a nice person—thoughts of torture aside.

Our time together was cut short after my visits to NH came to an end. All of the plots I so cleverly devised never came to fruition. I actually found myself missing my rival. What is a superhero without his villain? A protagonist without an antagonist in a booth? It was sort of like we were dating. We saw each other only on weekends and all too briefly. Each time we met, we did something different. We always learned more about each other after each exchange. Our minute together was worth all the $1.50's in the world. I wonder if he thought about me too. I suppose he was pretty happy to be rid of me and watch his television in peace.

Several months later, I needed to fly out of Manchester Airport in NH. I drove north in a snowstorm to stay over at my friend's house for an early morning flight. It hadn't even dawned on me that I might be seeing my "friend" again as I crossed over the NH border. Sure enough, as I trailblazed through the snowy night in my little, all-wheel-drive, cherry red wagon, I spotted him in a booth. It was hard to see him through the snow, but I could see his stub of a beard and his ridiculous fishing hat he always wore. He was in a different booth than usual. And there was only one other booth open with an attendant that accepted cash. I thought about going quietly into that good night and driving up to the other booth. Perhaps sparing us both a last, painful encounter. I didn't have any tricks up my sleeve anyways. I was tired, cold, and unprepared. And still, my car gravitated over to his booth.

I pulled up slowly, snow crunching under my salty tires. I rolled down my foggy window and started readying change from my cupholder. You can imagine my surprise when I heard him speak to me.

"Haven't seen you in a while. Where ya been?" He asked in a voice that was unexpectedly warm in such cold weather.

I sat mute for a couple seconds, still in shock and totally unsure of how much information to divulge.

"Haven't needed to come to New Hampshire anymore... I was dating someone here but... I don't anymore... I live in Boston." I stumbled.

"Ah." he said, venturing a reticent glance at me, as if he were in trouble at school and I were a principal.

"Yeah..." I trailed off.

The silence on the dark, snowy highway was unsettling. It seems unnatural that a place designed to fit so many people and loud machines simultaneously could be so vacant and dark. The only light was coming from above us—a single bulb with no covering, like an interrogation room.

I stretched out my gloved hand to give him my $1.50 and he reached out to accept. Our hands touched as I gently placed it into his naked hand. There was no malice in our touch, nor anything sexual. It was simply two people connecting as exposed humans do.

"Thank you." He said grinning.

"No, thank you." I said.

"So... be seeing you and that dumb mutt of yours around?" He chuckled into his beard.

"Yeah bitch. You'll be seeing me again." I gave him a wink.

"Watch your mouth. I'm a public servant." He said, feigning shock.

"Yeah. and don't you forget it." I spat.

We waved goodbye and I sloshed back onto the snowy highway. I actually felt sorry for this man who was out working in a cold booth during a snowstorm at 11:00 pm and had to put up with assholes like me. I glanced in my rear-view mirror to see if he was watching me drive away.

He was giving me the finger.

Another Divorce

Its been a while since my last update. A year to be exact. In the past year I met a wonderful guy who very successfully pulled my heartstrings from another state. After about 7 months of dating I took the plunge and moved in with him. Might seem a bit too early, but a series of events led to it seeming like the best choice—my lease being up, my dog attacking my roommate's boyfriend, wanting a change from the city, etc.

Off I went, bright-eyed and bushy tailed—completely unaware of all the impending problems that arise when 2 people—who until 7 months ago were strangers—mash their lives together. Ignorance really is bliss, and knowledge is quite frightening. When you share a space with someone and see them everyday instead of 2 times a week, you begin to see ALL of them. Not just how they doll themselves up for the weekly visit. The masks come off, the walls go down, and the Emperor has no clothes. The initial relationship magic subsides and gives way to knowing and realization. How do you make love stay? What makes it go away in the first place? I don't think all the couples counseling in the world can answer that.

The human heart is a fickle thing. When we learn something about another that we don't like, we recoil. The first cut is the deepest. After that, we look for other things that are unsavory. We assess whether it is changeable, tolerable, or unwieldy. We have these unsettling feelings that we were wrong in giving our heart to this perfect person who is suddenly flawed. And maybe they think the same about us. What flaws does he see in me? How can I change them for the better, if he won't point them out to me. How dare he tell me that I'm too stubborn and need to compromise. Where does he get off? No. Wait. Its unfair to be angry. He's just sharing his feelings with me. Well what gives him the right to tell me what to do or how to be? He's not perfect himself. When I try to point out something to HIM, HE gets all defensive. Aren't I allowed to do the same. No. Take the high road. Compromise. Relationships are about compromise. But why am I doing all the compromising? Am I the only one who cares? Does he not love me as much as I love him? If he did, then he would listen to me and make an effort to make me happy.

We fight with ourselves long before we fight with our partner. We try to cover every angle. Assure ourselves that it's a battle worth fighting. Think of everything they can/would say in retaliation. It seems to be a battle without a winner. When the losing battles pile up, our feelings change from optimistic caution to frustration and disillusionment. We feel we can do better. Find someone that is a better "fit" for us. Maybe my partner is feeling the same way? I wish they would just tell me. Why do I have to be the villain and start confrontations? Why isn't this a two-way street? I can't believe I gave up my life to be a part of his. I bet he doesn't even want me here. Why stay? Fight or flight?

I chose flight. We had another talk that was supposed to be productive and instead led to disagreement. I couldn't take it anymore and I left that afternoon. To avoid feeling any pain, I set my efforts on stuffing my life into boxes and bags and loading it into a truck. Use anger to avoid the sorrow. Use focus to ignore the loss. It wasn't until unpacking a bag full of underwear into my new, unfamiliar, tiny, shrinking-by-the-second room that everything hit. The past year of effort and love was lost. Why? How? What did I do wrong? Was it a mistake? Does he feel the same? The doubts run rampant and fast like a marquee.

My heart sank and chunks rose in my throat. I'm losing more than a relationship. I'm losing a life and love. I'm losing him and every part of him. His family. His friends. His dogs. His familiar house. The comfort of his hugs and backrubs. His jokes and quirks. His dentist I switched to. His gym I just joined. The upcoming trips we had planned. My date for the wedding. My ride to the airport. My someone to call when something is wrong. My someone to call when something is right. Who do I call now?

This is when we turn to friends. "I'm sorry." "Time heals all wounds." "It'll be okay." I want it to be okay NOW. Make it go away. I would make it go away for you. A friend—far more spiritual than I—actually told me that God doesn't throw things at us that we can't handle. I asked her why people committed suicide then. She didn't have a reply.

I barricaded myself infront of my computer and surfed the internet. For nothing in particular. I stumbled across a few Live Journals and blogs wherein people wrote entries similar to this one. I always hated online diaries. I think that a diary is personal. Private. Not for everyone on Earth to read. But as I read some of these entries—running the gammett from lovesick 15 year olds to 40 year old heart-broken divorcees—I was actually smiling. They were all writing the things that I was feeling. Their streams of consciousness were almost identical to mine. We were all marching in identical, sad, routeless parades. The sameness in me is the sameness in them. It feels good to not be alone. It took strangers to bring me familiarity. I think I understand online journals now. They're not just for us. They're for people like us.

I'm not okay. I don't feel fine. I don't want time to think it over. I want it to BE over. But I know I'm not the only one feeling as I do. I hope if you read this that it brings meaning to your sadness as it did me. Or makes your good mood even better knowing that you are a step above.

I can say with some certainty that my next entry will not be as long in coming as this one. Nor will it be morose. I'll stick to being tactless.

Bathroom Ettiquette

After single-handedly destroying a good relationship with a decent guy who actually enjoyed my company and thus securing my position in the local convent, it was time to move out of my new home. Ironically, the day after the housewarming party was when everything crumbled into spectacular pieces.

Leanne and I looked at some real shit holes before finding a great apartment in Jamaica Plain. All it took was pretending that we were a young couple in love to convince the elderly landlords that we deserved the place. "We're really just looking for a place to settle down together." We chimed in unison and held each other's hands, cooing.

"You're the cutest couple we ever did see." they replied. Jackpot.

My first morning in the new apartment ended badly. Waking up and stumbling over boxes and bags to get to the bathroom for a shower, I found a towel, some soap, and disrobed. I liked our new bathroom. It was somewhat spacious, clean tiles and tub, and even has a little timer dial on the wall that you turn to the desired length of your shower (i.e. 20 minutes) and an exhaust fan on the ceiling would come on for exactly tweny minutes. Aside from the convenience of the fan, it was also nice to have a little alarm clock. When the fan shuts off, it was time to get out of the comfy, warm shower or risk being late.

I reached out from behind the hideous tropical bird themed shower curtain and turned the dial to 20 minutes. The gentle humming of the fan came on and filled me with peace. Before I could turn the water on, the gentle hum of the fan increased into a loud monotone whirring sound, like a super-powered hand dryer in a public restroom. As the noise increased in intensity and pitch, the shower curtain began swaying to and fro. Slapping against my bare, white thighs and then retreating out of the tub entirely. I could feel the wind generated from the fan sweeping over me like an el niño jetstream. It gave me the chills.

Rather than worry about the curtain or how to fix the fan, I was more concerned with getting warm. I reached down and turned on the hot water. It came pouring out of the tub faucet and felt nice against my feet. I pushed the faucet switch over from "tub" to "shower," prepared to be engulfed in hot water.

I was mistaken.

The entire time, I had never even bothered to look up at the shower head. If I had, I would have noticed that it was missing. It was a pipe protruding from the wall that ended abruptly without any sort of controlling device to stop the flow of water. Like a rider of an unfinished roller coaster, I could see what lay ahead, but was powerless to stop it.

Water came bursting forth from the pipe overhead like it were a fire hydrant. The unexpected force of it shoved me back against the tiled wall. My slick, bare bottom skidded over the tiles as I struggled to maintain balance. I reached forward, trying desperately to grab the handle and turn the water off, but the relentless flood blasted me in the face. Blinded by scalding water and stumbling around like a a dog on ice, I reached out for something--anything--to help me regain my footing.

I latched my meathooks around the shower curtain, trying to pull myself upright against the raging torrent of water. As I put my weight on the curtain, the shower rings began to burst open, one by one i could hear them snapping off, unable to bear my heavy burden. The last few rings burst open with a snap and sealed my fate. I lurched sideways and toppled out of the tub like a mighty oak tree.

Luckily, a box of towels and prescription drugs broke my fall and I was spared a savage concussion on the tiled floor. Without my body in the way to take the brunt of the firehose shower head, the water was now spraying against the back wall and splashing all over the bathroom--wetting the floor, ceiling, boxes, and towels.

I tried getting back on my feet. I thought if I could just turn the water off, the morning could be salvaged. I could eat my Lucky Charms, watch Al Roker give me the weather forecast "in my neck of the woods" and traipse off to work like nothing had gone wrong. I tried desperately to get up, but I was tangled up in the curtain. An otherwordly fog was enveloping the bathroom. I couldn't see my feet to disentangle them from the snare. The shower curtain constricting against me felt like a wet trash bag, making my skin crawl.

Thrashing around on the bathroom floor like a drunken goldfish didn't seem to help. Puddles of hot water were forming on the floor. I started to panic.

"LEANNE!" I screamed. "HELP!"

No response.

"WAKE UP! I'M STUCK!"

My pleas for help were being swallowed by the gurgling sound of the ineffectual fan above. Slithering across the floor and shedding the curtain behind me like snake skin, I reached again for the faucet knob. Adrenaline pumping, sweat and tears mixing with saturated air, I finally grasped a knob through the fog and heaved myself on top of it.

The endless stream from the pipe above stopped. My twenty minutes were up and the fan shut off. The chaos was shattered by sudden silence. The drain gurgled as a few remaining water drops slid down its mouth.

I heaved off the limp, wet shower curtain and threw it into the tub with extreme prejudice. The parrots printed on it seemed to caw with laughter. I looked around the bathroom at the broken, soggy box I had landed on, the puddles on the floor, the fogged up mirror, the shower curtain rungs that had fallen on the floor along with me. It resembled a scene from Titanic.

It took another tweny minutes just to clean up the wreckage. I strolled into work an hour late, disheveled, unshowered, and badly groomed.

"How's the new apartment?" My coworkers asked.

"It's good."

Tactfully Replaced

We all have our image problems. Girls certainly have more than guys what with the high gloss magazines telling them they're fat, chestless, and alone. But guys have their share as well.

Some of us have no fashion sense, others have bushy caterpillar eyebrows, while others have nipples the size of petri dishes or dinner plates. Thankfully, my nipples are small, my eyebrows tweezed, and my style impeccable. However, i am not without my physical flaws. My nose is enormous and shark-like, I have a droopy eye, my eye lashes are so long that they push sunglasses right off my face, I have a mole on my belly that grows a giant black hair overnight once a month, and I have large, hairy hobbit-feet, small hands, and thin hair.

An ex of mine that I dated when living in Astoria, New York City pounced on every opportunity to point out these flaws. In fact, after a particularly brutal berating from this fiend, I asked him point blank what DID he like about me? His answer was grounds for an immediate separation.

"Well...I like that you're average looking. Cute guys know they're cute and are arrogant. Ugly guys are boring and try to compensate with personality. You're average-looking and you know it. It's refreshing."

I do?

I was pretty much speechless after that. What does one say when your significant other calls you average looking? That your best quality is your average looks? What does that say about the rest of the package? I don't fancy myself an adonis, but I like to at least think I'm mildly attractive. At least in a dimly lit restaurant or a dark bar I look cute.

Needless to say, our relationship crumbled quickly after this little pep talk. Whether I'm attractive or not, I at least want someone who thinks I'm cute. We decided to stay friends and have remained so even after I left New York for Boston. After not hearing from him for months, I decided to give him a call and see how he was doing. Our conversation went like this:

"Hi Joe, it's Josh. Just calling to see how you're doing. It's been a while."

"Hey Josh. Good to hear from you. I'm doing well. Started seeing a great guy."

"That's great! What's he like?"

"Well, he's 28, tall, skinny, Italian, creative, and shy at first but really funny once you know him."

"Sounds like someone else I know." I said jokingly about myself.

"I guess so..." He continued on. "He lives in Astoria and he's a graphic designer for a nonprofit company."

"Are you serious?" I asked incredulously.

"Yeah, why?" He replied oblivious to the similarities between this new man and myself.

"Nothing...keep going."

"He likes Mel Brooks movies, wine, Apple computers, and Chinese buffets."

"Okay now you're just messing with me." I laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"Nonprofit graphic designer? tall and thin? Spaceballs? Wine? Buffets? Lives in Queens?"

"Yeah. So?"

"Remind you of anyone?"

"What are getting at?"

"You're dating me!" I raised my voice, awed by his unawarement.

"No I'm not. He's really cute." He said nonchalantly.

"What's his name?" I hissed. "Josh?"

"Very funny. His name's Steven."

"What's his sign?" I continued on.

"I don't know. His birthday was in May."

"A taurus?"

"Maybe. Why? What are you?" He asked.

"What do you think? I'm a taurus!" I spat.

"Are you jealous or something? You shouldn't be. You should come meet him. You'd really like him."

"No thanks. I don't like looking in the mirror."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He growled.

"Nothing."

I know it was a silly thing to be mad at him for his new boyfriend. I should have been happy for him. What pissed me off was being replaced by a more attractive version of myself. Isn't there enough competition out there from entirely different people without me having to compete against a prettier me?

I eventually did meet Steven. He's everything that Joe described. He was very nice, and he actually seemed to like me very much. Maybe we're not so alike after all.

Seasonal Tact

The last three people I've heard talking while on the elevator have all been complaining about the weather. Standing there nonchalantly with my earphones on but my ipod turned off so that I can hear every word they're saying, I listened to them rip Autumn a new one.

"I hate the Fall!" they complain. "It's cold in the morning and hot during the day."

"I never know what to wear."

"I'm sick of wearing brown for 3 months."

"All the trees are dying. Raking them is such a pain."

"There's too many college kids around now that school has started."

Etc. Etc. Etc.

Call me crazy, but I love the Fall. How can anyone not love it?

The air is crisp and clean. It feels like snow is coming, but it isn't yet. The leaves on the tree-lined streets are shedding their cumbersome weight in firework displays of red and gold. The leaves on the ground make the nicest crunching noise as you walk all over them--like biting into a head of lettuce. The ground gets so saturated with suicidal leaves that it looks like a red carpet rolled out before you.

Students go back to school, triggering "Back to School Sales" that everyone can enjoy--student or not. Dorm furniture--ripe for the taking--fills the streets after trying in vain to fit in closet-sized rooms.

Perhaps my favorite part of Fall--the part that makes others cringe while I giggle with delight--is the fashion.

The bright fashions of Summer are boxed away in basements in favor of more sensible earth colors. Browns, golds, and reds appear on mannequins in store windows. Short shorts, hairy legs, and cleavage stand aside to make way for smart, touchable sweaters and khakis. No jackets needed yet, unless it's for style's sake.

My dark hair, pale complexion, and feces-colored eyes are perfectly complemented by Fall colors. Not only that, the cool Fall mornings and warm days require careful clothing planning. Layering is your friend. Layering is a gay man's dream. It allows for a mid-day wardrobe change. Leaving the house in a t-shirt covered by a fuzzy pull-over sweater, I return home with my t-shirt on and my sweater in my man-purse. When the sun peeks out in the afternoon, it's my cue for a costume change. 2 outfits in one day! What's not to like?

My only bad Fall experience was during a dentist appointment. Wearing my infallible t-shirt/sweater combo, I sauntered into my dentist's office only to discover that his heating system was on the fritz. It was my first dentist appointment in three years. I had never met this man...this "Dr. DeSoto" as they call him. Walking into his office was like skating into an igloo. My nipples stood at attention and could be seen through my multiple shirt layers.

Acting like nothing was wrong, he shook my frigid hand and ushered me into his torture chair. I couldn't tell if I was shivering because of the cold or out of fear that he would chastize me for not going to the dentist in three years--that I had mouth-rot, that my teeth were so riddled with cavities they all needed come out immediately, that they don't have any veneers to replace them with and so I'll have to gum my way through life.

"Let's see what we have here." He muttered into his mask and yanked my mouth open.
I could see my icy breath rising from my gaping maw. While he was prying around my mouth with some sort of incendiary device, I got the chills. He tapped on one of my tusks to check for decay and I shivered, biting down on his fingers. It wasn't on purpose--at least I don't think it was--but he was too busy screaming and bleeding to accept my apologies. He ran to the bathroom to wash off.

Sitting there on his operating table, I was getting a case of the cold sweats. My t-shirt was soaked to my skin, my palms were wet, my hair stuck to my face. I leapt up and started pulling my sweater over my head, desperate for some air. It got tangled on my melon head on its way off. Struggling mightily, I couldn't remove it. It got further lodged and twisted.

I heard footsteps approaching from the bathroom but couldn't see anything. Trying to look casual I went to sit back down in the chair but missed and sat on a tray of dental tools instead. Crashing to the floor and taking the tools with me, I flopped around on the ground like a seal, bare-chested and exposed.

"What are you DOING?" I heard the silhouette of DeSoto shout.

"I'm sorry!" I yelled into my shirts. "I was cold! I mean...hot! And nervous!"

I struggled to my feet, crunching on some tools and hitting my head on the overhead lamp causing it to swivel into a cabinet with a crash.

"We're done here! Please leave!" He boomed.

It took me several minutes to find the door, but I did leave and never came back. It took me two more years to go to a new dentist. I had three cavities, gingivitis, and a loose filling. It was still an improvement over my last visit.

Hospital Tact

My Aunt Cindy was recently admitted to Boston Medical Center. Going in for a headache, she is now staying with diagnosed acute leukemia.

Having extremely little knowledge of what this actually was, I asked around and the consensus is that this is the "bad kind" of leukemia. Instead of its chronic counterpart which happens over time and can be more easily detected in early stages, acute leukemia strikes suddenly, without warning or cause, and can kill in a matter of weeks.

I didn't see how this was possible. Young, fit, long-distance running Cindy is the picture of health. I had to go and see for myself.

Making a quick call to my Mother, who is a nurse, for advice on what to bring with me, I hopped in the car and went to the hospital. I was told not to bring flowers, fresh fruit, or anything dirty as they can't risk Cindy getting any additional illnesses or infections in her weakened state. Flowers and a fruit basket were out of the question. Instead I stopped by the Latin Market down the street and picked up Twinkies, Moon Pies, Zingers, Ho ho's, and honey buns. Thinking she would be there for a while, I grabbed some books of short stories and novels from my bookshelf for her to read.

Arriving at the hospital and checking in with the nurse's station, I was told she was downstairs having some tests done and would I please wait in the lobby. I waited and watched the Red Sox decimate Tampa Bay until Cindy was wheeled by. Following the bed to her room, I saw her get up, stagger a bit, and work to open the door and pull herself inside. I followed her up to the door and, not wanting to startle her, knocked first, and started to enter her room.

"You have to wash your hands and put on a mask." She labored. "Germs."

"Right. Sorry." I said.

I rushed down the hall, found a bathroom, washed my hands, grabbed a surgical mask and gloves from the nurse's station, and went back to the room.

"Where did you go?" She asked me, sitting in a chair by her bed.

"To the bathroom to wash my hands." I replied, confused by the question.

"You just have to use the disinfectant outside the door, next to the masks. And you don't need gloves."

"Oh. Sorry. I haven't really done this before."

"That's okay. Me neither." She said.

There was a strange span of silence then. It was awful. I looked at her, looking sad, scared, frail, in pain, covered in IV's and bandages, and I just wanted it to stop. I stood up to cross the bridge of space between us and give her a hug. Then I stopped myself. I'm not supposed to touch her, I remembered. Feeling silly just standing there, I picked up the bag of items I brought and handed it to her. "These are for you."

Cindy managed a smile as she opened the bag and pulled out the assorted books and trashy novels I brought with me. Then my marathon-running, health-conscious Aunt pulled out the now-smooshed Twinkies and various Little Debbie assortment from the bottom of the bag.

"I know you don't really like junk food...but they said its what's best for you now. They don't want you to lose any weight and you can't have fresh food." I mustered.

She nodded, smiled, and thanked me.

Visiting her, I thought we would have a lot to talk about. But actually being there changed all that. Everything I had meant to tell her suddenly seemed so insignificant in the face of this impending crisis. I didn't want to talk about my new condo when who knows when she'll see hers again. I didn't want to talk about my new job while she was on a leave of absence or the new dog I was planning to get while she looked so alone. Another moment of silence crept into the sterile room. Unable to bare it and unsure of what I could do to possibly comfort her, I blurted out:

"How are you feeling?" She went to the doctor for an earache and was told her odds are 50/50. How do you think she's feeling, dumbass?

"I'm hanging in there."

She went on to tell me about all of the tests they were doing and they would be starting chemotherapy in the morning. She seemed to know everything that was going on around her. I suppose that if you're in a situation like hers--knowledge is your only real weapon.

I listened to her talk about what the nurses and doctors said, what tests have shown, and general leukemia facts. Even though she was tired and nervous, she was starting to sound a little better. I couldn't physically comfort her in any way, but having someone to talk to was making a difference.

While I was visiting Cindy, every member of our family called to check up on her too. She may have felt lonely, but she was far from alone. Knowing that is keeping up her fight. After she beats leukemia and comes home, I can't wait to go out for some chocodiles with her.