How to Hit a Home Run!

The other day I started reminiscing about a few of my favorite work stories. Often, the best moments came from me and my big mouth asking the questions that no one else would ask.
There was the owner of the sports marketing agency that I worked for in the early 1990's who, at the end of every team meeting would encourage us all to get out there and do a great job by telling us to, "put our dicks on the plate and hit a home run." Since I was the only girl on the team, I wondered why Mr. S thought those words would motivate me to do anything besides pray for his imminent death.
I consulted another woman at the agency, asking her what she would do if she were me. She told me to do nothing, not to rock the boat. Balls to that, said I, and plotted the moment for my protest.
My moment came at our next team meeting. After carefully considering all of my smart ass options, I decided that innocently asking a question was the way to go. When the meeting was over and Mr. S gave us our usual dismissal line, I raised my hand, cleared my throat and said, "Mr. S?" Everyone turned my way to see what the girl had to say. "For those of us without a dick, could we put our tits on the plate instead," as I mimed holding up my breasts like a shelf, straight out in front of me. Mr. S turned bright red and managed a strangled, "uh, sure," before bolting from the room.

And guess what? He never closed our meeting with that little phrase again, although on the day I handed in my resignation, he did tell me not to let the fucking door hit me in the fucking ass. A gentleman until the end!

Oi, Canada!

On my never ending quest for cheap airfare to Paris, I booked a two-leg flight on Air Canada. That is how my generous backside came to be planted in Terminal 1 of the Toronto Airport. After my normal Departure Panic this morning, I boarded a very small tin can w/ wings (literally, a 13-row airplane! who knew they still came this small . . . that's what she said.) for the 2 hour flight to Toronto.

I haven't been on a small plane like that in at least 10 years and my god, but it's LOUD. I couldn't hear a damn thing anyone was saying except for the old lady across the way who wanted to know if bringing two cameras into Canada would be considered commercial merchandise. Bless her heart.

And here's the irony of my day in the Maple Leaf Nation: I used to work for a Canadian company, a group of very nice people, but my brutally honest, proactive style didn't mesh well with the ultra polite and (slightly) passive Canucks and we parted ways when I went to work for the soft drink company. It was a nice parting, but I vowed never to work for Canadians again. Just too nice!

So, as I was soaring up in the tin can today, I thought how ironic it would be if I were to perish in the tin can, possibly on Canadian soil. It would surely be payback for the time I told my workmate that he and his fellow countrymen were, "fence-sitting pacifists" but I wasn't ready to go today. I will confess that as the tin can hit the tarmac on landing, I almost bit my tongue in two as we slammed into the ground. Would have served me right.

I have to give the airport kudos. They've already liberated me of about $300 between duty-free purchases (mom's birthday!), a new converter and some large glasses of wine. And they have free WiFi. Maybe I should revise my opinion.
Or maybe not. I just spotted some Wannabe Cirque de Soleil performers in body builder pants, sporting mullets. Even the girls.

Oi, Canada!

Da Agony of Da Feet

I was channel surfing on Sunday when I came across an old episode of Sex and the City on E! I hate to admit it, but I know the plot line of every episode - all I have to see is the episode title and I can tell you who sleeps with whom, what kind of shoes they wear, where they have drinks and whether it's Carrie and Big, Carrie and Aidan, Carrie and Big Part 2 or Carrie and Aidan Part 2 (or Carrie and Big Part 3 or 4).

One of the creepiest episodes ever was when Charlotte went shoe shopping and didn't have enough to pay for the shoes. The creepy sales guy told her if she let him feel her feet, then he'd give them to her for free. Now, I'd heard of foot fetishes before and laughed my ass off with my friends when imagining a guy asking to fondle my foot.

Never in my life did I realize it would actually happen to me one day.

The guy in question was a friend of a friend who I'd met many times before. With his wife. The night of the Foot Incident the wife was no where to be found, but the guy (we'll call him Cheater) had another women hanging out with him (we'll call her Slut). Little did my naive heart know. After leaving a local bar, we all went to the mutual friend's house to sit by the pool and drink wine.

Pretty soon, people were shucking off their clothes and heading for the water. Not me, of course. I've only been skinny dipping once and that was with a boyfriend. Group skinny dipping? Not for me. Any way, one thing lead to another and soon they were all out of the pool and drying off (I couldn't help but look at them - I mean, they were 2 feet away from me). One woman was so hairy that the only word that came to mind was . . . pelt. Bleuch.

And that's when the other shoe dropped. Cheater sat at the feet of Pelt and Slut, one of their feet in each of his hands. I just thought he was being friendly at first. Until he took one of their feet and started sucking toes. I believe I spit wine in the face of my friend's husband at that moment. But the real highlight came when Cheater sneaked a hand under the umbrella table and inserted his index finger in between my big toe and my second toe. And started stroking me. I jerked my foot out of his grasp so hard that I hit my knee on the underside of the table. I felt violated, I felt creeped out, I had just knee capped myself!

I jumped up as Pelt, her husband Giant Schlong (I told you, I looked), Slut and Cheater all laughed at me. I tried to maintain my cool but decided it was time to hot foot it out of there.

When it comes to feet, I'd rather have mine massaged by my local pedicurist, who I know is always telling her buddies how disgusting my feet are in her sing-song-y Vietnamese.

I guess I'm just not a Foot Girl. These feet were made for walking. But not for toe sucking. Bleuch.

It's Freezing Cold and I Hate Everyone

Happy New Year!

Hope your year has gone well so far - I mean, it's been 14 whole days, so what could possibly have transpired that would be that good or that bad?

Here's whats been going on with me:

Atlanta got 7 inches of snow on Sunday night and we got Monday off from work!

Atlanta got 2 inches of ice on top of the snow and we got Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday off, too.

I almost ran out of cat food on Wednesday (but not wine, ahem), so I braved the icy roads and idiots to make it to my local Publix, where I grinned foolishly at the other humans in the store, talked to all the grocery clerks and told a complaining woman in the (not very long) checkout line that if she thought this was bad, she should have seen the checkout lines after Hurricane Katrina at the only grocery store open in Uptown New Orleans. What a lightweight.

I slid my way home (who knew that you could use a Honda Element as an oversized sled!) and have been inside ever since, working on developing summer promotions for that big soft drink company in Atlanta, and yelling at the dogs when they start playing their new favorite game, "Furniture Jump."

I've cooked non-stop for the last 6 days, including Soupe a l'Oignon (Julia's recipe, of course), Chicken Biryani, omelettes, one fried egg sandwich and countless chicken breasts for les chiens. The soup and biriyani lasted for several meals and I can officially announce that I will be eating neither for a very, very long time.

Have limited alcohol intake during my time on the inside to a cocktail at 6PM and the odd glass of wine here or there. In fact, I've only put one empty wine bottle in the recycling bin all week!

On the up side, I did finally take down my Christmas tree. I know, I know, it should have been before January 5th, but who's counting?

Anyway, I'm going so stir crazy (along w/ the rest of the city) that I'm about to risk life and limb to have lunch outside of my house today. I am SICK of watching people slide down my street, sick of helping people figure out that they have to slide back down the hill if they get stuck in front of my house, sick of falling on the ice (my knee!) and sick of working in my house. I want to go to the office! Anything to get me out of here.

Now I am totally sympathetic to people who live in the snowy north. And I hope that I will soon stop being a cranky shut-in.