Wanted :: Day Off

Criteria: Must be full-24 hour period where work is not able to be done.
Presentations are not able to be reviewed.
Collection calls are not able to be made.
Registrations will miraculously just happen. And the form will work.
Like it is supposed to.
Silly questions cannot be asked. Repeatedly.
Budgets cannot be scrutinzed.
Speakers cannot back out.
Phone cannot ring.
Peeing must not be acceptable form of a break.


So, I haven't had a day off in at least 3 weeks. Yes, that's right - I've even been working Saturday's. Six hours on Saturday to be exact. Two hours Sunday. Nevermind that I'm a complete social leper and my dance card has been less than "filled." But ya, seemingly overnight I have become the worlds most underpaid professional or the worlds most over paid collection agent (depending on how you look at it). (Ok, the underpaid thing wasn't overnight) My brain is turning me into one of those women...you know, the ones who work 12-hour plus days and who feel a little bad when they take a couple of hours away for themself, and God forbid their email. It's disgusting.

Working is overrated.

To top it off, I haven't had a cocktail in two weeks. I know - the horror. The dismay. The irony...the gym? Tis' true. The empty calories simply haven't been worth it.

Seriously, who is this person and what have they done with the real Nat?

Mama needs a martini. And a cig. And some time away.

Where's the Calgon when you need it.



Oh and ya. That little big accident I had. Well, the verdict is in. Superior service also means serious retribution. They doubled my insurance. DOUBLED. Sometimes you can't win for losin'. I'm screwed.

Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones...

I have spent the greater part of the last few days thinking about the power of words.

When you think about it for any amount of time, you come to realize the true significance of the thing that makes up the bigger picture - the one thing we all share - the human language. For most words, when they sit alphabetically in a dictionary alone, there isn't much significance. Sure, there are a few that can stand on their own, but when the individual words are put together - well, that's where their true power lies.

When you think about the power of words there isn't one person alive that hasn't felt their thrust. You remember that words do indeed hurt more than sticks and stones when you are the middle school kid bullied on the playground, taunted by someone claiming their superiority. You trust the kindness of words when a friend or family member tells you how they have missed you. You feel the butterflies that come along with the admission of love for the first time. You can't forget the pain you feel when you disappoint someone or when someone says something that disappoints you. You are transported to the past through the songs that tell the story of your life, the ones you can still sing and feel exactly as you did in the years before.

They can say so much.

Everyday, words are the most important choice we make. They can change everything in a second. They can make you change course, direct your future, or make you relive your past. They can make you smile. They can make you laugh so hard your sides split. They can make time stand still. They can lift you up and make you believe in yourself. They can make it better. They can make it worse. They can crush you without warning. They are the only things you can never take back.

They can tell you everything you need to know.

The perfect formulation of words is what we as humans spend a large majority of our subconsious time consumed with. Just as I am laboring over the writing of this entry, I do the same when crafting a communication at work. I look for the just right combination so to most effectively convey my true meaning. I sometimes craft conversations to other people in my head before I am able to speak the words outloud. I freely admit that I spend most of my life analyzing the meaning behind the words of others. There must be a billion different combinations out there. Surely, there must be one perfect sentence for every situation.

I wish I had a handbook...

A handbook for others to know the right and wrong words to say. I could distribute my handbook to those who know me - whether by birthright, friendship, employment, acquaintance, or by some other chance. My handbook would contain only the acceptable words and combinations of words for use on me. It would be a handbook of only words of love, encouragement, answers to questions, and constructive criticism. The words would answer my questions when I had them, teach me when I needed to learn, and unpatrionizingly tell me when I was wrong.

I wish everyone else had one, too. A dictionary. A theasauraus. And a beginner's handbook of knowing the right / wrong things to say.


In my next life I'm coming back with thicker skin.

(Oh, and also a smaller nose and ass, too).

I Couldn't Make This Shit Up If I Tried

I'll admit it. Sometimes I bring on certain circumstances. I am probably more at fault for some of the crazy shit that happens to me than I want to acknowledge, realize, or admit. But there are just sometimes when I swear, I couldn't make it up if I tried.

So, let's just say I made a new friend - a friend met through a friend, if you will. I kind of knew that there probably weren't going to be sparks or anything after the first conversation revealed a certain propensity to say my name, repeatedly. Now, I don't know about you, but it makes me nervous when someone states and restates and then restates my name. It's sort of like a dirty salesman (no offense) who can't help but make you feel cheap because of their constant desire to sell themself (themselve?) to you. Anyway, I decided what the heck. My expectations were low, and I thought - why not, I have nothing to lose. Girls, let me tell you. Sometimes, you just should stay at home. The second inclanation I had that this meeting would be less than the whirlwind Joseph Fiennes type romance I envision for myself, was in the time (9:00 p.m.) and choice of establishments for our encounter. I gave him the choice of three. He chose the one I would prefer to go to with a few good friends for a Sunday afternoon football game beerfest. So me, being the good drunk girl I am, said sure. After all, I'm agreeable. Why not, nothing to lose, right?

Now, I'll give the dude props - he did bring me a little gift - one of thoughtfulness for my love of the OHIO STATE BUCKEYES. That was nice. He reiterated that I am truly a thing of beauty and desire. He was not a bad guy. Ok, I made the beauty thing up. But, we did have lots to talk about. Lots more in common. Clue numero trois this was going to go nowhere: phone rings - it's the ex-wife. He takes the call. T-A-C-K-Y. Tacky, tacky, tacky. I think at that point, whatever dude. Nice guy - probably would hang out with you but no further interest in making you a fixed part of this girls life. He seemed to want to pound the beers. Me being the lush I am, says rock and roll, Axl. Show me what you've got. We do shots of Jaeger.

To make the rest of this otherwise completely long and rambling story short...well, let's just say I've added a new "must" to the ongoing list of "must not haves." Let's just say, that I am, as anyone who knows me would tell you, the worst of the worst kinds of drunk. I am the one without the know when to say when switch. The one who suddenly passes out or who sneaks off. The one who goes from fine to forget it in seconds. I will admit. I am a drunk asshole. Cute but an asshole. BUT, there is one thing that I don't do. One thing that frankly, I would say could be the clencher of all clenchers for even the worst drunk like myself. Let alone a man. A man on a first date.

I don't, well, how do I put it nicely. Well, I believe I've firmly established my questionable judgement regarding my tolerance. And well, I would expect that a thirty year old male would be able to drink me under the table...Not puke those cheese fries after a few beers and a couple small shots of Jaeger.

Oh ya. He did it. He puked.

I told you, I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.


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So on Saturday, NB-C and I went to my newest obsession in the LV - Culver's. Let's just say a big freakin' YUM-O on the cheddar butterburger and crinkle fries. Not to mention fabulous rootbeer and strawberry sundae. Is it really so wrong to be in love with a hamburger? So it's the one bad meal I have a week. Sue me. I would have taken a picture if I could have. I also would have murdered the annoying, undisciplined 2-year old asshole that was rolling all over the floor in the table next to us. I am not kidding when I, the one who LOVE LOVE LOVES the babies and kids, said outloud to this FloorWalleringAsshole "I hate you" in my nicest nasty voice, while he laid on that dirty floor looking directly at me. I know it's not really his fault. I blame the idiot parents who never ONCE told the kid to sit his unruly butt in the chair. I'm not sure but I'm pretty certain my mother would have taken me outside and busted my hind end if I would have acted like that. Now you understand why I can't watch Supernanny. Those parents should be shot, flogged, or beaten for rasing their children like that.

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The Belgian will be here in one month and 3-days. So excited! Oh wait, that means I have one month and three more days to freak out about this little conference that I'm planning and that is otherwise consuming my life and taking me away from you my little blogosphere readers. I'll try to keep up with new and refreshing adventures of my profoundly un-exciting life, I promise. Please don't leave me or lose interest in this little thing we have. I love you, really. I just need a promotion more. Remember, my finances are for shit.

Kisses.

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In case you were wondering how the story ends...The answer is no. No, I will not be going out with the puker again.

Ever.

This Is Why I Love Myspace

So an old friend from High School asked me to be his friend and sent me a fun little reminder of exactly how I got my nickname...LOVE IT! Made my day.

Funny thing is, I don't think think we were that good of friends, but it sure is nice to feel that familiar connection.

Anywhooooooooooo...I am completely blank this week for refreshing, witty and otherwise ingenius blog material so please stay tuned. I promise, I will be back soon to delight you all. I am thinking some new material is quite possible very soon...

XXOO,
Nat X

I'll Stop Soon, I Promise

But seriously, this kid is so cute I can't stand it. And smart, smart, smart. He doesn't look like a newborn and is so attentive. Much like a certain other someone I know (who incidentally will be one year old very soon)!

For Kate

Here's hoping he eats his schnitzel...

Kate, where are you I am going to Chicken Dance for you...

Ok, it's way too early to try to be witty...These are a little joke between my friend Kate and I about this coming weekend's Octoberfest in the 'Nati...

More later.

I Ain't No Holla Back Girl

And I am not even sure what that means. But I'd bet that I'm not really one either.

Sooooo, I know I have been a slacker in the refreshing new and uplifting content lately. Maybe it's cause I've had a rockin' good week. It goes a little somethin' like dis...

My Partner In Crime was here for a long weekend last week. If I could have, I would have held her hostage. We did the stuff we usually do when together. Drank a lot of red wine. Smoked more cigarettes than in all previous four months. Talked for hours about our lives and places in the world. Used spell check, poorly, and masterfully re-created me. Watched a boatload of movies. Laid around. Ate. Watched more movies. Drank lots of beer with NB-C and watched UK get destroyed by UofL. Watched more movies. Ah yes, we really bring out the best in one another. In all it was wonderful. Wonderful because it was just us and it was exactly what we both needed.

Go see Little Miss Sunshine. Run, do not walk. You must see and laugh hard at that movie.

Hello...cutest baby in last 11-months was born last Thursday. Take a look at this chunk a chunk of burnin' love...Going to see him and his momma tomorrow and am very hap hap happy.

Went to ATL for another sales meeting. Stayed here. It was, let's just say, awesome. Now that is a hotel experience. Had a pretty good time catching up and hanging with some of the work folks. Drank too much. Blew the hinges way off the old diet. Well, there's always next week to get back on.

And I will. Get back on.

Speaking of, the old girl is back in the saddle again. So to speak. No further comment...

Did you fully absorb the cuteness of this child...If not, please oooh and aww again...I love da' babies and I love showin' 'em off to you who do not care...Feel free to hate me when I have mine. I'm gonna be the worst kind of offender.

But seriously, could he be any cuter?

OH! In other wonderful news of the week!!! My good friend, The Belgian, is coming to my conference in October. By the way the Belgian will be hanging with the homies for homecoming...He just smells good...ah yes, gotta love the Jean Paul Gautier (that one was for you P, I see you've been reading).

Anyway, that's about it from Camp Cupcake. More later...

The Man We Never Speak Of

My grandfather was a sailor.

He went to the yacht club and sailed sailboats. I have a silver tray that he won at a Regatta. Proof of a life I would otherwise believe belonged to someone else, except for the shared blood that runs through my veins. My grandfather, would have loved my Flossie forever. Instead, he loved her for as long as he could. He would have taught his children things only a father can. My mother would have been able to call him dad. Instead, he died before his children had the chance to know him, before my mother and her youngest brother knew what they should call him. He was only a few years older than I am now.

We never speak of him.

He was the man who began a family and set us on our course. Him. His family...An ironic thought of some place long ago and far away.

And for that, we reward him with our silence. With the distant, fading memory of who he was. He is everyday rewarded by his family who never speaks of him.

He was an English professor. He wrote a thesis on Wuthering Heights. My mother was four-years old when he died. He was a handsome man. In pictures he has the kind of eyes that make you look back at him, the kind you trust.

He is buried in a flat field in a state filled with mountains. We never go there. I think I've only been there one time.

I don't know much more about who my grandfather was. He loved sailing and English. I don't know if he loved English because he liked to write, or if it was because he liked to read. I don't know why it was English, and not History or Math.

He was a professor, who moved his wife and four children from the safety of their Massachusetts roots to a place far away. He was to be a professor at Columbus Academy. They didn't know anyone in Columbus. I don't believe he ever taught a day at that prestigious school.

I think it was somewhere along the way, before their journey to their new life was complete that he got sick. Short of breath walking up a hill. Went to a doctor. Lung Cancer. Couple months? Maybe it was only a couple of weeks. Whatever it was, it was swift.

I've never even asked if he smoked. He was young. He had sort of wavy hair and he looked like he was a man who thought a lot. I bet when he spoke, people would listen. I recognize him only from a few pictures that remain and the oddly similar and hauntingly familiar features of his face in my cousin Ben.

Like his image in Ben, I wonder if his legacy to me was the gift of writing, or for poetry, or even in a shared love for Heathcliff and Catherine.

After all. He was my grandfather.

Who would he have been? Who would he have been to me? Who would he have been to us...To his daughter...And his wife...And to his sons.

I wonder if he would have taught me about what it was like growing up in New England. Or if we would have spent summers on a sail boat. Or under a tree reading books. What would the professor have taught me...

We are all full of a quiet sadness that has never been addressed.

For him.

He is the man we never speak of. He was a sailor and a teacher. He was a father and a husband. He was a son.

What I realize now, even though I would never know him, is that he was my grandfather. For thirty years I tried to figure that out. The man we do not speak of and who he was to me.

A few years ago, we went to the flat field to pay our silent hommage to this man, our grandfather, father, and husband. It was the first time I learned anything more about him than his affinity for the water or his choice of profession. It was twenty-five years or so before I would hear for the first time about how he and Flossie met. How they fell in love. What life was like in that sleepy New England town. A little about how he lived. Who he was. How he died.

But we never talk about what life is like without him. How we have missed knowing him. How we missed loving him. How I'd never know the sound of his voice or if when he laughed, if he laughed hard. We never talk about all the memories we would never make.

He is the man we never speak of.

He was an English professor. A sailor. He was a father. A husband. A son. A friend. The man we never speak of was also my grandfather.

I can only speculate about the reason that those who knew him, those who heard his voice, those who knew the touch of his hands, and who understood the content of his character do not speak of him. It is as if they are saying a silent prayer for him because to them, he was so much more.