Lost and Found

The Best Evening on Earth.

The office holiday party is quickly approaching, and for the third year in a row, I'm hesitant as to whom to invite to the debacle. Mediocre food at the Country Club paired nicely with thirty couples trying to see how much alcohol they can down on the company's tab. Longtime readers will remember that my first guest to the event was a then-recent ex boyfriend that didn't talk to me ever again after experiencing my co-workers. (I had fun, though.) The next year, I brought a platonic male friend who somehow can get along with everyone. He's now in a relationship and less likely to attend the soiree with me.

This year, once again, I'm sans serious boyfriend. But while I've been waiting for the perfect dude to fall into my lap, the perfect evening fell onto my desk. As part of my job, I purchase media. And during the holidays, no matter how little I've bought, I usually get tokens of thanks (some call them bribes) from my sales reps. Today when I got into work, there was a card from a media company in town that publishes gay-friendly newspapers and magazines. I've bought a total of four ads from them in the last year - nothing too fruitful for them. Nonetheless, they sent their holiday greetings and two tickets to an event called "Virginia West's Greatest Drag Show on Earth." The event is on the same evening as my company party.

Rock.

I know that time with me can be taxing. And company parties kind of suck. But this year, I have a value-added component to aid me in search of my date. Start the evening with free booze and end it with a ticket to the Greatest Drag Show on Earth.

An Open Letter to Victoria's Secret

Dear Victoria's Secret,

Thank you for helping me realize that I am
masochistic. You are everything I hate, yet I still
come back for more.

You assume that I am not intelligent, that I wasn't
paying attention the first and second times you told
me about the free Super Model Lip Gloss that I'll get
if I spend fifty dollars today. Really, I know. It's
just that I don't want your lip gloss. I'm just here
to buy a bra.

And when I go into the fitting room, you turn into an
evil step-mother-turned-molester. Once I'm in that
chamber, your silicon smiles are gone and I have no
choice but to take up your offer of a "Free Bra
Fitting". Seriously, VS, freshman college guys are
less transparent than you. You whip out that tape
measure, so conveniently hanging around your neck and
then you tell me the words that you think will win me
over. You tell me that I'm a C cup, that I have been
all along. Your buttery words won't get me into bed,
VS. I know that I'm a B cup as much as I know that I
wasn't the most beautiful girl at the dorm pizza
party. Nonetheless, I feel a little bad fighting with
you about my breast size when I leave the room, even
though I know that I don't matter to you, that there
are seventeen equally self-loathing women behind me
ready to fall into your measuring tapes and lies.

And then I check out. Again and again you ask me for
more. No, I don't have an Angel's Card. No I don't
want one. Not even if I get a free pair of panties on
my birthday. No means no, and you just don't seem to
realize that persistence won't work in this case. You
make me uncomfortable, and I have to reach into my
purse to double check that you haven't slipped your
Card in while I wasn't looking, during the fumbling
around for my credit card.

I leave your place with a forty dollar B cup bra that
I don't even really like, having been ridiculed,
molested and preyed upon by you. And as I look around,
I see hundreds of women carrying your bags. Your smile
is fake but your bras are stacked high. I want to
leave you forever, but I can't find anyone better.

Sincerely,

Jill

P.S. What are you doing for Christmas?

Turkey Talk.

Ah, the Holidays are upon us. Kind of. For roughly six days a year, I surround myself with kids ten years younger than me, while mastering the art of bagging groceries and carrying them out to the cars of the well-to-do in Columbus. I circulate three or four discussions with the customers as I load their turkeys, wine and organic vegetables into the backs of their Lexus SUV's, BMW's and Pathfinders.

The easiest conversation is the weather. "It's so nice outside today," I say to the person, "I work in the office, but help out near Thanksgiving and Christmas. Usually it's sleeting out. This is nice." They nod, smile and drive home to their suburban mansions.

The next one is the educational one. "Have you cooked a Bowman & Landes turkey before?" I ask customers that I don't recognize, "It's pretty simple. They take less time to cook and they're very tender. Give yourself 15 to 20 minutes per pound and be sure to use a meat thermometer." At this point in time, they ask me a question that I can't answer. It's neat. After three years in the gourmet grocery marketing business, I've somehow become somewhat of an expert on things like turkey feed, brining and the correct temperature at which to store your fresh turkey. But ask me what temperature to cook a turkey to, and I'm speechless.

And then there are the personal conversations. For example, a woman mentioned that she's from a certain part of Italy. A sweet woman in her late sixties, I figured she'd be a perfect candidate for a signed cookbook on Italian cuisine. Having been the one to order the books, I've tried to sell them as quickly as I can, so no one can blame me for backstock. I mention the cookbook and she says she already has it. I go in for the whole "this one is signed by the author" plug and tell her about the fundraiser we did with the author for NPR a few weeks ago. As she pops open her trunk with a fancy keychain she says, "Well, I don't really support NPR," which caused horror to seep through my body before she finished her sentence, "because I own three commercial radio stations in Columbus." Oops. I ask her which ones and am shocked to find out that this sweet woman buying a jar of mincemeat and a 24 pound turkey owns the hard rock station that once housed Howard Stern. Nice. And foot in mouth. I smiled and said my standard, "Have a happy holiday" while omitting the fact that I buy all the media for the store.

Tomorrow I'm just sticking with the turkey talk.

Pick Up Lines.

I'm at the circulation desk of the Library. Sarah's working behind the desk and we're pretending to talk, but in actuality, we're checking out the guy reading a newspaper in the large print book section adjacent to her desk.

I want Sarah to hand him my phone number when and if he checks something out. She wants me to peruse the artwork surrounding him. I settle on looking at the periodicals nearby. He's reading a newspaper focusing on education. Before I have the guts to say anything, he's gone, without checking out any books.

"Guys here are too quiet," Sarah consoles me, "besides imagine him in sweat pants and a hoodie. You just like the way he's dressed. You wouldn't like him in sweat pants and a hoodie."

I stand there thinking about sweatpants in general. They're not very attractive. By the time you start thinking someone looks good in sweatpants, you've already written off his back hair as "adorable" and convinced yourself that his collection of comic books is endearing.

I don't know what I'd say, if I actually would have talked to him. I could have been honest and said, "Listen, I don't know if I'd find you attractive in sweat pants, but you're actually reading at a Library, and that makes me believe that you're literate. Plus, you're dressed in a way that indicates that you may have a job and your own form of transportation, which isn't completely important to me, but it's nice to know that you don't spend all day skateboarding outside the mall." Or not.

Last weekend, one of my NPR programs mentioned Europe's most successful pick up line: "A year from now, let's be laughing together." They dissected it, and it made sense. In theory this was a good line. "A year from now" indicates that the dude could be around for longer than a night. And the laughing part suggests that he's interested in a friendship. (Note: this line would only work for someone you're already attracted to, in some sense. Otherwise, it would just be creepy. Which is probably the case for most lines.)

I'd like to take a moment to list lines that my friends and I have actually received. I will then indicate whether or not the line worked.

• "Is that you I smell, or the bathroom?" (This did not work, as Sarah realized it was the bathroom he smelled.)

• "Are you at the Library, because I'd like to check YOU out this weekend." (This text message to Kristin was not returned. It should also be stated that this message was received three or four days after a "dinner and a movie" first date. This will go down in history as one of the tackiest first dates ever, as the dinner was nachos and the movie was Space Balls.)

• "I'll make you pancakes in the morning." (Somewhat similar to the NPR line, this one worked, to a certain extent. The pancakes insinuated that the gentleman - known only as 'Mark from Vancouver' - knew his way around the kitchen and that he wouldn't be gone before dawn. Unfortunately, I never got breakfast in bed, nor did I share a bed with him. The last time I saw him that evening, he was vomiting on a trash can.)

And finally, one that visited my inbox this morning (copied and pasted):

• "hi. So you need to wash a lot of clothes? I have to tell you look sexy on red hehe" (This was received through good ol' Friendster, where a photo of me wearing a red cheerleading costume and smoking a cigarette is on display for the world to see. Under "people I want to meet," I've written "someone with unlimited dry cleaning." Hence his witty message.

Let's dissect.

"hi." - Friendly opening. Not too wordy.

"So you need to wash a lot of clothes?" - This shows that he can read, and understands why I would want to meet someone with unlimited dry cleaning. It also suggests that maybe he understands, and he, too, has dirty laundry. But one might also determine that he doesn't know the difference between dry cleaning and washing. Really, though, who does?

"I have to tell you look sexy on red" - He does not type very well, or does not understand prepositions. He also is either attracted to cheerleaders or smokers. Had he written, "I enjoy the juxtaposition between the cheerleading costume and the cigarette in your photograph, therefore I find you attractive," then I'd still not really know how to respond.

"hehe" - This is creepy.

All I can say is that if the Friendster message was somehow miraculously from my Library guy, than this could be the beginning of something beautiful. Because really, creepiness is kind of endearing, and I'm sure that he'll look adorable in sweat pants.

Casting Call.

I need to get to get to the city soon, before it's miserably cold. This is a casting call for partners in crime for a road trip, or (slightly richer) partners in crime for a more time-efficient plane ride.

In other news, I went to the dentist yesterday and browsed a copy of People Magazine from last month. That's when I found out that the chick who played Miranda on Sex & the City is dating a woman now.

Somewhere, in a parallel universe, I like to imagine that someone is sitting at a beauty parlor, waiting for her perm to set, reading a magazine with a photograph of me with the caption - "Jill gets her teeth cleaned. No sign of cavities!"

Right. Um. Back to work.

Woe Is Me.

I’m starting to recover from my emotional hangover, slowly leaving the fetal position I’ve been in since Tuesday evening. In the past five days, I’ve dived into comfort foods (meatloaf and mashed potatoes), set up office in my local coffee shop, taken up knitting and watched feel-good and/or family movies (The Wizard of Oz, Tuck Everlasting and Mona Lisa Smile, in that order). It seemed as if Prairie Home Companion couldn’t be aired soon enough. My defeated spirit was begging to be hugged by Garrison Keillor’s good ol’ stories from the heart of America.

Meanwhile, depression has elevated to general pissiness and irritation. Family holidays aside, the week of November 1st could very well be the worst week ever in the history of my life. The following list may prove the aforementioned statement to seem overly dramatic, but this is coming from a girl whose never broken a bone, never been in a house fire and hasn’t even received a speeding ticket. Both parents are alive and well and my major current ailment is a hangnail.

Nonetheless, read on:

Fleas. As in, the (indoor) cats residing in my apartment (had) them. I spent Friday night and all day Saturday washing and/or throwing away everything the cats have ever been in contact with.

Fender benders. Two of them. My car got hit in a parking lot on Friday by a “gentleman” who refused to take credit for my cracked bumper, even though our vehicles were obviously touching when I approached my car. Not that I really care about a crack in my bumper, but it was irritating that I’d considered not even approaching him, as we were in the parking lot of my nice coffee shop, and I figured all their patrons were honest and kind. Not the case.

Which makes the second fender bender significant, as I was at fault - I backed into the side of a car parked on my street - and the owner wasn’t present. I looked at the side of the car in the dark and thought I saw a dent. Fuck. After a minute of consideration, my first name and phone number were on the windshield. Karma. (I checked the car by daylight this morning and saw that the dent was hardly noticeable AND that the car has a Kerry bumper sticker. One can only hope that my generalizations about Kerry supporters are more accurate than those about independent coffee shop patrons. No phone call, yet.)

I now declare Dick Cheney the patron saint of All Things That Suck. Because I have this creepy feeling that he’s got something to do with all of this. Or maybe that feeling is just the fleas.

Don’t Blame Ohio, Not All of Us.

It’s one a.m., and I’m sitting in a bar filled with Republicans. I’ve been up since four a.m., twenty-one hours. I’m drunk, tired, emotional and openly bawling at the bar.

“Can I bum a smoke?” the guy next to me asks. I start to send the box of Camels his way and then hesitate.

“Who did you vote for?”

“Bush,” he says. I renig my offer and turn my back to him, waiting for Michigan to turn blue, waiting for the rest of the Franklin County votes to be counted.

The drive to get Bush out of office has been highly organized in Ohio for more than a year. PAC workers from Brooklyn, Seattle, Portland, have been living in my city since September first, training us on the phone banks, planning door-to-door operations, parties, “visibility” measures, sign making, sign distributing. I’ve participated in nearly everything. And on November 2, 2004, Lainie and I made our temporary home a food workers union in Whitehall, on the East side of Columbus. (East Side = First Time African American Voters).

We worked for nearly fourteen hours in the cold rain, going door to door, reminding people to vote, only taking time off to go vote ourselves. Another two hours of standing. I didn’t get to vote until noon, and fewer than three hundred voters at my precinct had been able to vote on one of the three machines in the Catholic School. Yes. Two hours of waiting. Three machines.

Exhausted and wet, and feeling triumphant, we retired our lists of registered suburban democrats at seven, at the America Coming Together headquarters. The team leaders were getting ready to deploy to all the polls, as cheerleaders for the thousands of voters waiting in line when the polls closed at seven-thirty. To tell them to hang in there, to encourage them to stay, even though they may not be able to vote until one a.m.

“This is for the voters,” the woman in charge yelled. “Take off your ACT gear, lose the Kerry buttons; we want this to go as smoothly as possible.” Lainie and I, already soaked, went home. We’d walked over fifteen miles, and I’d logged nearly 100 miles of driving. We’d done our deed.

I bar-hopped after that, even though I was exhausted. I found a bar that had televisions and was quiet. It was full of republicans, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I just needed to watch the television.

The very worst part of living in a swing state, when the vote doesn’t go your way, and you’ve given your whole to a candidate, is that those people who voted against him don’t live somewhere else. While my friends in New York, California, Washington, can just be pissed and threaten to leave the country (which isn’t out of the question for me, by the way), they live in “blue states”. They’re surrounded by people who voted with them.

But here in Ohio, I have to face Bush supporters every day. My boss. My neighbors. I’ve stopped talking to most republican acquaintances. We can’t understand one another, so why bother trying? When they call Ohio a “battleground state” it truly feels like a battleground. I stand on the street corner with a “Vote for Change” sign. Some jackass with a W sticker on his SUV flicks me off. I return the favor. Someone steals my Kerry sign. I get another, and consider wiring it to electrocute the next thief.

It’s gone from friendly banter to absolute hatred. And they have a victory to throw in my face. And for the most part, they haven’t been gracious about it at all. I plan on working from home for the next week, to avoid my Christian Conservative boss. If only I could do that for the next four years.

I do have one note of victory. Yesterday, at four p.m., my staunch republican father called to tell me that he voted. He’s one of those – an “undecided voter” – and I’ve been working on him since February. He held out for a few minutes before admitting that he voted for Kerry. I screamed “I love you” into the phone in the same way I’d blurt it to a friend who agreed to pick me up from the airport. And then I realized that I meant it. I hung up the phone, and my first tears of the day were those of joy.

Oh, how things can change in just a few hours.

A Reminder.

I'll be off tomorrow, working the streets of Columbus, shaking hands, smiling and listening to stories. In a way, through my week of political activism, I know what it's like to be a politician. When a child runs down the street, skipping behind me screaming "John Kerry, John Kerry," I can't help but be giddy, forgetting for a second that I am not, in fact, John Kerry.

Vote. Vote with thanks for what you have, with hope for what others could have. Vote for the future. Choose inspiration over fear and make the right choice.

P.S. Mom, please look into your heart. I think you'll find that the man that will best help you, your children and your grandchildren is not the man that manipulates his constituents with fear.