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It comes up in conversation more often now that the end of life as I have known it for seventeen years is closing in. The ultimate question I am asked is if I'm ready.
“How was your day?”
“Fine. Like every other day.”
“Anything exciting happen today?”
“I said no.”
“Got any homework?”
“Some."
"What do you want for dinner?"
"I don't care. Why are you bothering me?”
Too few years ago, I learned about laws of attraction, high expectations, and daily affirmations for positive outcomes. My chemical makeup seems to reject these things, so it’s an almost daily internal struggle to remember.
Yesterday morning, I had to pick up a new remote at the cable company office. I arrived early in an attempt to be first in line, because I had a class in thirty minutes. The doors didn’t open until 9am and it was cold, so I waited in the car. One by one, cars began filling the parking lot. Like vultures, all of us sitting in our cars eyeing each other and our prey, planning our attacks on the Comcast door.
Knowing that being the first car there didn’t necessarily mean I’d be first in line – especially with these people, I had surmised - I got my coat and headed toward the door at 8:57. Typical. The man in the car next to me immediately copied me and got to the door first. I’m sure my expression (evil eye) was transparent.
I have tried to make sure I don’t scowl in public ever since my first ex-husband told me I looked angry and ugly all the time. Allen - or Alan, I can’t remember which and to find out, I’d have to dig up old papers and really shouldn’t have even spent this typing time on him - told me many hateful things, all of which I have no problem remembering. He voiced this revelation after watching me walk from the store to the car, where he had waited in the passenger seat. I thought he was in love and was happy to see me return.
Anyway, I’ve been fairly successful in my attempt not to look visibly ticked-off for no reason until the hormonal years of late.
“You were here first,” he said with a smile as he motioned for me to get in front of him at the door.
“Oh, no, that’s okay,” being the passive-aggressive that I am.
“No, seriously, please.”
“Alright, then. Thank you.” I physically felt the dam of low expectations break and the heat of guilt and embarrassment course through me.
And we made nice little small talk for the next two minutes.
(I wish I had told him about the previous five minutes I had with myself in the car. It might have been the right thing to do in return. But it felt a little too personal.)
Two weeks. She had been in the hospital for two weeks. Not unusual at 95. Every trip to the hospital was a long one.
I was two hours away, so I waited for the school holidays to visit. Then, I waited until Christmas afternoon, when I had to take Austin to his father’s family in Atlanta anyway.
Convenience.
Christmas Eve Day. Her only family visitor in two weeks.
“I’m scared.”
He patted her hand and stroked her hair. “There’s nothing to be scared of.”
The affirmation she needed.
The call came within the hour. He hadn’t even made it home.
I wasn’t there.
I enjoyed Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. He didn’t want to ruin Austin’s visit from Santa.
Convenience.
I love this place: http://www.indyarts.org/
I got my IndyArts card in the mail today, too. Now, not only can I find a database of artists (of all kinds), search calendars, apply for Arts Council grants, find out about the hundreds of FREE events at the ArtsGarden (an incredible seven-story glass enclosure connecting hotels, shops, restaurants and the convention center), I can also get discounts and e-mail newsletters.
One thing you cannot complain about in Indianapolis is the city's dedication to its artists and art organizations. The Council has a new site as well: PAL or Public Art Locator, which pinpoints public art exhibitions on a map of the city.
I feel so artsy.
Well, if I didn’t feel old before, today cinched it.
Dental hygienist, after looking at a tooth issue: “Have you gone through the change?”
“Um, not that I know of.”
“Do you take any medications?”
“Um, noooo.”
“Really? Wow, that’s really good.”
Dentist, after making sure I was mouth-healthy enough to leave, used the patronizing kiss of death: “Okay, young lady, we’ll see you in three months.”
Austin asked for a stamp. “I got bored one day in Atlanta. Do you have a stamp and can you mail my voter’s registration form?”
“Sure. I'll mail it along with my tear-stained AARP application.”
Then I filled out a survey and noticed the age group I’ll move to this year: 45-54. 54?!? Seriously?
And, last but not least, I cannot read the I-sware-it's-the-tiniest-print-I've-ever-seen directions on the bottle of fuel cleaner I bought today. I think it says something about the gas tank but can’t be sure.
All in one afternoon! I should start snoring in my chair any minute now.
I started in position #84 and waited three months for Rosie O’Donnell’s book, Celebrity Detox (which barely qualified as a book, in my opinion).
There was no waiting time for Lou Dobbs’ Independents Day and I was able to renew it today with no problem.
I hate it. I understand it, but I hate it.
When my son was little, we did everything holiday-ish that I could find to do - from visiting Santa at every kid-related event in town to driving for hours looking at neighborhood lights. One tradition was the viewing of the million-lights display that the owners of a huge car dealership in Powder Springs put up every year. We would sit and sit in the miles long traffic just to drive through their cul-de-sac for what couldn’t have been more than 45 seconds.
My son has returned to Powder Springs, to his father’s family celebrations, for about four years now. I imagine he always will and for the same reason I feel a pull to Memphis: the early years.
My mother expected perfection in so many things, and the holidays were no exception. After she died, each year became more and more of a disappointment. I was never able to recreate the memories, but, while Austin was small, I enjoyed every minute of the lights, the colors, the music, the mall decorations, the wrapping of the presents, the putting up of the tree, and even the trips as an adult to what were just scraps of home.
Now that he’s pretty much baked, I still love this time of year, just for different reasons.
I have two traditions now. An annual gratitude exercise (I keep a daily gratitude journal, but this is more general) and a goal setting worksheet. Both make me think about the past year and the possibilities of a new year.
My homemade goal setting spreadsheet (derived from Dan Miller’s 48 Days workbook) is over in my Freelancing Journal.
My 2007 tribute to my tiny corner of the Universe is here:
The late humorist Erma Bombeck once wrote about a recurring dream she had:
"[In it]...I am asked to give an accounting of my...life to a higher court, it [goes] like this: 'So, empty your pockets. What have you got left of your life? Any dreams that were unfulfilled? Any unused talent that we gave you when you were born that you still have left? Any unsaid compliments or bits of love that you haven't spread around?
"And I will answer, 'I've nothing to return. I spent everything you gave me. I'm as naked as the day I was born.'"
From a 2003 entry in Mark Daniel's Better Living blog: "We find our purpose in life when we commit ourselves to giving ourselves, our time, our talent, and our treasures in service to God and neighbor."
I read an article this morning at http://www.wthr.com/Global/story.asp?S=7540715 about a group of people who distribute food specifically to the elderly (who could be more deserving of help, I ask). I think I may have found my New Year's Resolution.
It sure didn’t feel like Christmas this year. I never did put up a tree. A wreath did make it to the door and a sad little plastic waving Santa did make it to the front porch. I say sad, because, he never got plugged in and he kept falling over in the wind, so most of the time he just looked like he needed a chalk outline drawn around him. Hell, I never even watched Rudolph or Frosty this year, completely missing the meaning of Christmas this year!!
December 22nd: It took me all day to calculate that the best time for me to go to the mailbox and get Santa (who had blown into the yard this time) would be after dark. I didn’t want to get in the way of all the holiday comings and goings in the subdivision. Plus, there’s the whole hideous monster thing, best for another time.
December 23rd: I decided to actually leave the house to pick up something to eat. Driving back home, my impeccable timing put me in front of a family pulling out from a nearby church’s Sunday service. The driver – the father, all dressed in his Sunday before Christmas best - tailgated me and swerved from side to side to supposedly make his inconvenience even more visible to me. When I braked and put on my blinker to turn into my subdivision, he nearly hit me. Looking back at him in my mirror, I saw him yelling in my direction and giving me the finger.
December 24th: I went to the post office and re-routed (there was NO parking at Target) to Wal-Mart for two space heaters. I normally don’t shop on Christmas Eve day, but I really had to. The check out girl looked me in the eye, smiled and said, “Merry Christmas” when she handed me the receipt. As I left, the Salvation Army bell ringer man looked me in the eye, smiled and said, “Merry Christmas. You stay warm now. And keep that smile.” It was the most live human contact I’ve had in over a week. And it would be counted among one of my few, but precious Christmas gifts this year.
December 25th: I watched the National Cathedral Service this morning. One of the sermons was ever so Christianly called, “I want what you have”. Of course, what was meant was that the light and peace within we Christians should make others want to ask us what brings us such joy, which in turn, provides us with the opportunity to witness. Or flip birds in traffic. Or say we have four children who need donated coats when we only have one child. Or thank Jesus for “blessing” us with a new car. Or preach to our congregation in the morning, and leave our wife and kids for our mistress's house in the evening. Or ungratefully gripe about our Christmas holidays. I called Austin to wish him Merry Christmas. He got mad at me, because I couldn’t hear him above all the talking in the background. He had to go after exactly 47 seconds because his problem-child cousin showed up and started messing with his game controller. The worst Lifetime movie I have ever seen was just interrupted by a commercial for two interlocking metal sticks that can be squeezed together to build bigger breasts and purchased for only $19.95.
I realize I could and probably should have spread some Christmas cheer by going to a church service or volunteering at a downtown mission, but given my recent experiences with both of these, I know when to leave well enough alone and stay away from others. Christmas 2006 felt better. Christmas 2008 will too.
I’m reading more and more heartwarming holiday giving stories online. I wish I had one to share. If you know me, you know I have always liked to volunteer and donate as much as I can. You also know all about my year-round freakish magnetism and my unfortunate experiences with the less fortunate over recent years (the girl at IndyReads who had been in their "system" for years, didn't bother to show up most of the time and only wanted to play cards when she did, the $100 worth of concert tickets I was told to buy as a Big Sister, the Salvation Army coat and toy store horror stories of liars and thieves, the highway ramp beggar who lived in the suburbs, the gift shop co-volunteer who yelled at me on Christmas Eve, I could go on and on).
My most recent jaw-dropping encounter: Our CFLC group meets monthly in a room adjoined to a tiny café known for welcoming the less fortunate (it has shower facilities, for example). A gal walked into the meeting room mid-meeting last month and whispered to someone who pointed her to our President.
The group was told that she was collecting money for bus fare. She needed $30 to get to a family member’s funeral that afternoon in Ohio. Our leader asked us if we would like to "pass the hat".
The CFLC fights for a living wage for the working poor, so somebody in the café must have told her we would probably be givers. We passed the hat (literally) and went back to our meeting.
This gal took the money from the hat and counted it – in front of us. Then, to the group and at the top of an entitled and accusatory voice, declared, “This isn’t enough” to which someone replied that she needed to move on.
She thanked us, not with a thank you but, with one of those offended hmmphs and stormed out. I wanted to go after her, grab my money out of her entitled little hands and hmmph her right back. But I didn’t. I was there to be charitable and helpful, after all.
So, this year, and until I’m over the last five years, I’ve decided to stick with political causes. This country’s populace (and specifically our collective middle class and working poor) is in dire straits and I think it’s where my time and money are best spent. I know I will still have to contend with certain ingratitude and entitlement, but hopefully in a much more impersonal way. This is best for me right now and best for others. Perimenopause and all.
Peace on earth. Goodwill toward men.
I’ll be teaching my Adult Ed class, Life as a Technical Writer, again at the J. Everett Light Career Center (JELCC) in Washington Township. It runs March 3rd – April 14th, 6:30-8:30 p.m. It will be chock full of hands-on exercises to develop professional technical documents, build professional portfolios, and update resumes. We’ll actually find and query potential customers – whether they like it or not! Peruse the catalog and sign up here: www.jelcc.com/adulted.html.
I attended A Very Phoenix Xmas at the Phoenix Theatre with some new friends last night. I had not heard of the theatre, but I was so glad for the invitation and the experience. The show was a series of somewhat irreverent holiday plays written by local playwrights and starring a handful of players who could do it all: dance, sing, act, play instruments, and deliver lines with believable accents. They call their performance edgy and that it was. One play that cracked me up was based on the munchkins who Dorothy left behind to clean up the dead witch mess (who they discover wasn’t undeniably and reliably dead like the coroner – who blames her error on all the dancing and singing at the time - said).
The Phoenix Theatre is housed in a renovated turn-of-the-century church in the heart of the historic Chatham Arch residential district of downtown Indianapolis. The theatre mission was to fill a niche in the Indianapolis theatre community with issue-oriented plays and professional production values in an intimate setting.
I’m an “indie-wanna-be”. I admire unique thought, music, movies, books, you name it. And now I can add the Phoenix Theatre to my list of things to appreciate.
And some new friends to enjoy getting to know.
I’ve been mostly and accidentally working in and around IT since the late 1987. I majored in Journalism in college, and Information Technology (IT) was never a thought. Besides, when I started college in 1981, COBOL programming was the extent of IT.
However, I learned quickly in the '80s that IT jobs paid more, so I leaned as far as I could in that direction. They also didn’t typically require a college degree (I didn’t graduate the first time around).
And I got lucky/was blessed. I started out doing software training for corporations in Atlanta, steadily built up to a development position (at which I thought I failed miserably, but had a ball), earned a CIS bachelor’s degree, and have ended up doing contract and freelance technical writing for a variety of large and small businesses and non-profit organizations.
The development position was my first exposure to working with IT folks from India. I didn’t especially like it then, and I really, really don’t like it now, almost ten years later. It has gone from a mere adjustment to a more diverse college-educated candidate pool to a moral issue for me.
It’s different now. It’s unequivocal and unabashed greed now. And it is affecting everyone. The middle class, who depend on corporations for financial survival and who provide the working poor and poor with most of their financial assistance, are finding it more difficult with each passing year to get jobs, much less minimal cost-of-living raises. Being one small step above office supplies, IT contractors simply can’t compete with whoever offers the cheapest rates, when rate is often, the only consideration.
I’m not in IT development roles anymore, but my rates are directly affected. It can be hard to justify paying me, as the Technical Writer on a project, more than the Indian developer. What company wouldn’t wonder what lowest rate they could propose?
The Software Configuration Management (SCM) managers at my current client recently refused to hire a well-qualified, stable, local candidate for a position they desperately needed to fill, because his salary requirement was $90,000 (average for this position). Instead, the company hired two Indians who are still being trained by this client and one of whom still struggles with English.
IT organizations intently hiring and marketing to Indians because of their cheaper rates is comparable to my shopping at Wal-Mart (which I don’t do anymore, except for an occasional ermergency trip for Newman’s Own Mango Salsa). The only people who benefit from Wal-Mart are the small percentage of customer service employees and distributors, when the people who could be employed making products at plants in this country would be thousand-fold. I’d bet a year’s salary that if you asked any shopper if he would rather have a bag o’ cereal for a dollar less or a full-time-with-decent-pay-and-benefits job making the cereal, the answer would be the job every time. But, since the job option doesn’t exist, his need for the cheaper cereal is understandable.
I recently met with an online education company with great vision and a hopeful cause. They develop online training classes for manufacturing employees – those who want promotions or just a foot in the plant door. What an admirable goal to help to the working people in this country trying to earn more for their families! Problem is: plants close every day, and manufacturing employees are being laid off every day - and by the thousands.
Where are we middle-class Americans to go? Should we start training and specializing in new fields? Great, how do we pay $50,000 for college for an entry-level job probably paying less?
And what are we supposed to say? We’re not supposed to be maddened by this. We’re supposed to be politically correct – the last term I heard for this was “internationally aware”. The media make us feel guilty for thinking negatively about immigration and NAFTA and the temporary Visa/guest worker program.
I love being exposed to and learning about other cultures, and I’d love to work with people from all over the world, but I just can’t play on the same financial field with the people here from developing countries. If that makes me politically incorrect or internationally unaware, give me the badge, because I’ll wear it proudly.
I wish I were smart enough to recognize a good solution to this problem before my son has to face the workforce. I don’t think a repeal of Clinton’s NAFTA will do it. I don’t think new immigration laws alone will do it. I think there has to be some sort of government-imposed returned incentive for (or penalties upon) companies to hire here and make things here. I think.
It’s beyond political; it’s really just the right thing to do for a class of people who contribute the most to this country. But who do we trust with “right things to do”?
Whatever presidential candidate addresses this with a non-partisan and non-political solution is the one for me, and I haven’t quite found him yet.
Mike Huckabee (who has a history of taxation) has a Fair Tax Plan on his website stating that American companies would be far less likely to move overseas and foreign companies far more likely to come here if a fair tax was implemented.
According to the explanation on his website: “A recent study by MIT found that our tax system deprives us of about $1 billion in exports annually. When you export over-priced goods as we have, you inevitably end up exporting jobs and industries as we now are. We are the square peg trying to fit into the round hole of international trade. The rest of the world isn't going to change, it's time that we do.” And according to Wiki: “Because the U.S. tax system has a hidden effect on prices, moving to the FairTax would decrease production costs due to the removal of business taxes and compliance costs.”
So, are taxes the key to repairing NAFTA and immigration and the Visa program? Does that mean that the greed is shared by both corporations and our government?
I’m officially a student. I’ll study and try to remember the bigger, critical picture, while I temporarily work in an office heated to 90 degrees (because, come to find out, Indians are “allergic to the cold”), listen to Hindi all day long (which I now hear in my sleep), and polish my incorrect and unaware badge.
I’m a huge fan of Independent Lens series on PBS. The airings are a little unpredictable here in Indianapolis, so I recently signed up for the series newsletter here: http://www.pbs.org/independentlens/newsletter.html
And today’s newsletter announced the second annual Independent Lens Online Shorts Festival!!!
We can watch the 11 award-winning films and vote for the Audience Award at:
http://www.pbs.org/independentlens/insideindies/shortsfest/
I can't wait to watch every last one tonight!
There are so many things I love about National Public Radio, but here's a particular favorite at www.npr.org: Each week, NPR presents leading authors of fiction and nonfiction as they read from and discuss their work. There are excerpts, podcasts, and RSS feeds to it all.
Books: http://www.npr.org/templates/topics/topic.php?topicId=1032
Book Tour: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=10448909
If you’re looking for a good cause this holiday season, don’t forget your local member station.
I just love this girl: This Fish Needs a Bicycle.
She takes me back to days loooong gone. She makes me think of ADP days and Studebaker’s on Windy Hill nights.
Of a bar behind Fuddrucker’s on the corner of Windy Hill and Powers Ferry Roads that meant so much to me at the time but the name of which I can’t remember now. Of Benson and Hedges Ultra Lights. Of red Pontiac Fieros. Of New Jersey’s Patty Rypkema.
Of Judd Nelson phone calls.
Of Iris Best and our mission to get her some action (*gasp* - it was the 80’s - at least we had a goal). Of leaving work to play drunk putt-putt golf. Of deck parties. Of the determination of a guy named Mark.
Of a real dinner and dancing date with Bryan Franz.
And of my swan song (and nose dive) in New York City with a poor man who liked me under a couple of false pretenses, but without which I never would have had the once-in-a-lifetime chance for so many things female.
Two tears - one sad, one happy - slowly roll down the same face of a different woman.
So, thanks for the memory
And strictly entre-nous, darling how are you?
And how are all the little dreams that never did come true?
Aw'flly glad I met you, cheerio, and toodle-oo
And thank you so much.
“Thanks for the Memory”
Written by Ralph Rainger and Leo Robin
(c) 1937 (renewed 1964) Paramount Music Corporation
Well, I hate myself. I just cast my 5 online votes for my favorite Dancing with the Stars contestant. Can I sink any lower? Apparently so, because I don’t want to divulge my choice, just to be all mysterious about it.
I do have a semblance of a line, though, thank gawd. I saw a commercial last night for Big Brother casting. Never again will I watch that show. Even I don’t have that kind of time (or tolerance).
I need to do a TBS search for the Rudolph and Frosty and Grinch shows to come so I can work my schedule around them. Oh, a shiny holiday star amidst the gray skies of writers’ strikes.
It was Helio. I voted for Helio.
The dryer is making soft tumbling noises, the rain is steadily trickling from the roof onto the front porch, Austin is laughing like he did when he was a baby at some television show in his room, I just found video of an X-Factor (first I’ve heard of it) contestant singing a touching rendition of Somewhere on the Internet (*update: the link to the YouTube video has been removed, but this site still has a video.), and I’m re-reading Cynthia’s response to my post to her about how scared I was to stop watching TV (a seemingly impossible dream).
**I have a fantastic story about the wonder of Cynthia Morris’ coaching. Someday, when I’m through raising what looks like a perfectly grown man, I’m going to pay her to lead me where she’s always sure I can go. Anyway, two years ago, I won a summer contest and got a few free sessions with her. We talked about dreams and obstacles, imaginary and real. The most real being fear and money, which boiled down to fear of money, which boiled down to fear of no money. I needed a magical number to live on and not worry every month and to concentrate and be able to think about other things like pursuing writing dreams. A month later, I was earning that magical number, allowing us to become debt-free and create an emergency fund. Absolutely by the grace of God, His Laws of Attraction, and the Muse that is Cynthia Morris.
Her original post is here: http://vivelaslink.typepad.com/vive_la_slink/2007/11/what-to-do-when.html
I'd love to stop watching television and I agree so much. I know it's key to fulfilling my life's purpose, but I also think I'd die from the silence and loneliness after just one day! :)
Posted by: Karen | November 21, 2007 at 01:39 PM
No, you would not die from the loneliness, but I understand. When I stopped reading while eating, I felt a pool of loneliness waiting to take me over. But then after a day or two, it went away and I was able to enjoy my food. I lost two pounds in two weeks just from stopping reading while eating.
In the silence without TV, you'll be able to better hear your Muse.
Posted by: Cynthia Morris | November 22, 2007 at 07:28 AM
Karen,
Wait a minute. You have the key to fulfilling your life's purpose and you're not using it to open the door? What are you waiting for? Many people wander around not having the key.
Come on! Your adventure is waiting for you!
no...more...T...V....
Posted by: Cynthia Morris | November 22, 2007 at 07:29 AM
**This just in: Austin was giggling at Kenny and Spenny – a new to Comedy Central show about disgusting and inappropriate boy things.
No matter how much I don’t want to like Oprah, I do.
I’m not a regular viewer – haven’t been for years now. I think I stopped watching when the audience was taken over by giddy suburban housewives who dress up for the occasion and shake when Oprah enters the room.
But that’s exactly the reason I watch the annual Favorite Things show. My favorite thing about Oprah’s Favorite Things is the feeling I get about ME. I live for that holiday feeling of condescension I get from watching a group of silly women gush and jump and scream and cry and raise their hands to the Heavens over Oprah’s favorite panini maker.
But, each year, I’m also sucked in to all the shininess and find myself making a note about at least one of the “things”. I research and sometimes….I even buy. I hate myself for it, but I do. At least I don’t gush, though. I refuse to gush.
And then today, I stumbled upon a column written by a gal named Lisa Kogan. In my perfect world, I would write like Lisa Kogan. She says in one sentence what I need paragraphs to say. She’s witty, smart, natural, and fun. She says what I’m thinking most of the time. She writes about living her own life by her own rules and I just love that.
But, come to find out, Kogan writes for O Magazine. Damm you, Oprah Winfrey! If loving you is wrong, I guess I just can’t be right. But I’m not gushing. Or shaking. Or shopping for show outfits.
Crushed tomatoes. Diced tomatoes. Chopped tomatoes. Stewed tomatoes. Whole tomatoes. Tomato sauce. Tomato puree. Tomato paste. Big cans. Little cans. Low sodium. Organic. Brands. Brands. And more brands.
All dangerously close to the spaghetti sauce that could have solved this entire thing.
But I was bound and determined to find what the recipe called for.
So, I stared at my list again. I breathed. And took it one can at a time.
A blur to the right heading towards me. A person. A man. I backed up a bit as a polite gesture and smiled into the air. I didn’t want to take my eyes off the tomatoes and lose my place.
The blur walked in front of me to the shelves of whatever it was he needed to the left, looked for a second, then walked, I think empty-handed, back to the right to rejoin his awaiting cart.
I heard, “Excuse me.”
“No, excuse ME.” A reflex.
28-ounce cans of whole tomatoes. Nope, definitely not it.
“I’m sorry. I just keep bothering you.”
“That’s okay.”
He was back. And not such a blur this time. I looked away first to clear my mind of tomatoes, and then looked at him. He was the cutest, in that understated way that just adds to the cuteness, thing I’ve ever seen.
He stood to the left for a second or two. Green beans, I think.
And, again, empty-handed to his cart.
“Really sorry.”
“Really okay.”
He smiled like he didn’t expect me to take him so well.
I didn’t want to stare or make him think I might stalk him later in the checkout line or the parking lot, the poor guy, so I went back to my study of canned tomatoes.
Back again.
“You know, I guess I’m just going to keep walking back and forth in front of you. I really am sorry.”
“It’s really okay. I’m having a tomato dilemma anyway.”
He laughed.
I laughed.
“It’s all just too much, isn’t it?”
“Yes! Yes, it is.”
I eventually got the proper tomatoes. I don’t remember if he found what he needed or not. And this morning I can’t really recall what he looked like. I do remember tall. And sandy-colored short hair. And polite. And funny. And entirely too close.
Moments like this happen about twice a year and shake up my asexuality. Damm this green bean shopper and Gary Allan videos.