The Chip Smile

It took me almost 60 seconds in this pose for Focker to look up from across the table. At which point, she nearly spit out her margarita.

Totally worth it.

To Sing or Not to Sing?

My entire life, I have regarded traditional church hymns as unnecessarily strenuous and taxing. Reminiscing on the days of my Arkansas childhood, the most unpleasant part of every Sunday was exactly that - the part of worship that required me to take on yet another impossible melody. As it turned out, I was an atrocious singer (which as a side note, is precisely why I'm such an accomplished whistler. I had to be good at something musical). Yet somehow, it wasn't until the early United Methodist days that I came to that realization. Most Sundays, I'd get the look from those seated nearby - mostly children with their brutally honest, unable-to-produce-a-poker-face-innocence, but sometimes mothers and even elderly men (hearing aids not withstanding) - and I understood what it meant. Just what exactly is that noise? Make it stop. Oh, it's you. You sound awful. Shh! And so I would. I would stop actually singing, and transition into mouthing the words. A few in the congregation seemed onto my new trick, I knew it, and with this, it became a game, a hobby of sorts, and there was only one thing to do: master it. Each song brought on an unknown challenge, involving anticipated lip synched pauses, breaths, and of course, the notes themselves. It took years of practice, and I'm not afraid to gloat. At the green age of six, I made lip synching my bitch.  

Nearly twenty years later, I found myself put to the test. I was attending a funeral for my boyfriend (he didn't die; I was there for support), and to my horror, opened up the program to find many traditional hymns slated for this very service. I don't think I need to mention that I was sitting in a pew with his entire family and also surrounded in front, and behind, his extended family. But this situation seemed different. I wasn't at church as an elementary school child, I was at a memorial service for somebody. A service that honors the individual's life, and comforts those that are still living. The right thing to do, is to sing.

The piano struck the first chord of "Amazing Grace," I took a deep breath, and we all joined in. My voice was shaky, but it sounded tolerable. I pressed onward. Then, blindsided by an unexpected high note, the looks from the nearby family commenced. Rather than completely abort mission, I merely toned down the racket while simultaneously lowering my chin as to only be heard by myself. This stunt drew the attention from the boyfriend, during which I slipped one step further to that familiar place of lip synching. And that's exactly where I finished out the duration of his great grandmother's memorial. Better this way, than to be forever known as the deaf girl.

Perhaps I'll try whistling the hymn next time. Not sure how that would go over.

Nonetheless, the question remains: to sing, or not to sing: that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the outrageous cacophony, or to take arms against the sea of temptation and remain mute. Until the faire has gone settled, I bid thee well, my good men and good ladies.  

The Untimely Men in Black

It was just an ordinary Sunday evening. The boyfriend and I were outside on the front porch playing a game of Yahtzee. The desert sun was starting to set, the breeze was pleasant, and the weather started to dip into the low 70's. It wasn't unusual for foot traffic to stroll by on a weekend evening like this, nor was it unusual for an occasional flow of traffic to mosey along our quiet street, each car tossing a piece or two of downtown rubble into the balmy breeze for just a second, until slowly taking its place back against the warm pavement.

So when the clattery Buick made the attempt to park alongside the curb adjacent to our house, in doing so side-swiping the right side of the vehicle and curb-checking the front tire, it was fair to say my attention had been caught. Despite the semi-wrecking of the Buick, no correctional action seemed to be underway and after a few seconds, it was placed into park. With one swift attempt to open the passenger door, the mystery voyagers learned the height of downtown Phoenix curbs (particularly when your vehicle is currently adjoined to them) and with no luck of exiting the vehicle, the Buick once more rumbled started. A few cracks and snaps to follow, and the mystery car crossed the road, this time scraping the exterior of the car against the opposite curb (this time on the driver's side), and again settled into park.

I looked over at Mr. Itule and realized we hadn't really spoken during the entirety of this parking disaster. We were enthralled at what was in front of us, and let it be known, the answer is still unknown in our overly-curious minds.

What emerged from this horribly driven Buick, was two white men in jet black suits. They were pudgy gentlemen, and as they slammed the doors to the vehicle, they slung their backpacks on and started to walk.

Greeeeeeeat. Mormans. Or Jehovah's Witnesses coming to knock on doors. But wait, they couldn't be. Everybody knows Mormans don't drive when on mission. And don't Jehovah's Witneses ride bikes? I looked down at the time. It was 7pm on a Sunday. What was going on here?

They took no notice to us - the ones most accesible for a missionary or salesman - and headed directly to a home a few houses up and across the street from us. Just as they were out of sight, we noticed their dome light. It had been left on and was gleaming in the nightfall. Greeeeeeeeeeeat. Even if they aren't missionaries, their car will no doubt be dead when they return, and we'll be a likely candidate for assistance.

And just as the thought settled in, their bulky figures emerged and we watched them waddling back in our direction. Frantic, I told Mr. Itule that I did not want to speak, and even planned to go the deaf mute route. But as they got closer, it was obvious that they weren't interested in us. Without skipping a beat, they selected the home directly across the street from us. Backpacks still on, they zeroed in on the second dark house. And this was when it got quite perplexing. I knew the neighbors weren't home; their cars were gone. The mystery men reached out, rang the doorbell with purpose, took two synchronized steps backward and waited - feet spread apart, eyes forward, not speaking to one another and in an almost choreographed stance they waited. And they waited. Waited for a good 30 seconds of eyes forward, cocked stance, not a mere suggestion of movement. When there was no answer, they descended the stoop, dismounted their backpacks, hopped back in their automobile and putted off in the same clumsy manner that they entered.

And that was the end of the men in black.

Twenty four hours later, I can't get my mind off of what the hell was going down. I've ruled out missionaries, since they didn't even attempt to approach us, and appeared to have two specific homes in mind. I've axed undercover anything, since they proved to be elephant-like and incapable of making any form of a stealth entrance. The thought crossed my mind that they might be strippers delivering strip-o-grams, but then... they were fat. And why the backpacks? They were nobody's friends stopping by - that was clear. Salesmen? Collectors? They were on "business." But what kind of business calls for suits and backpacks at 7pm on a Sunday?

I toss it out to the masses. Please do enlighten.      

Oh the Passive Aggressive Office Notes

My favorite part of the note is the closing sentence, which is positively the most passive aggressive line in the flyer. "You might try covering your food when heating it."

I'm also fond of the poster's choice to write the threat in all caps. Are they yelling? Or are they simply trying to draw the most attention possible?

Just a sidenote, that I've never actually covered my food while heating, although it never occurred to me that the "splatterings" were anything other than another challenge for housekeeping to take care of. Similar to when I dropped the water cooler refill and left a huge water stain on the floor. Woopsie...