Personally Yours, Part IV

A few months back (Okay, March. Whatever), I randomly confessed that I once placed a personal ad (see here, here and here for details). In one portion of the confession, I noted that only two people responded to the ad. I only told you about the first (and worst) response.

I feel the need to rectify this situation, as a means to regain dignity tie up this little story and move on into the next year.

Fast forward approximately two years from the first response. I am now living in Eastern NC, acclimating to Semi-Southern Culture and preparing for my wedding...which is to take place in Northern Maine. It is around August sometime, as I am now living in what will be 'our' house - rather than at the B&B with my Newly Adopted Southern Parents.

I receive a package from my (biological) parents, which includes, for those interested: random bridal magazines (which I will not read), silly cartoons (from my dad), five pounds of raisins (I can't explain this one), shredded paper, a coffee mug, two t-shirts... and a rather beaten up envelope.

Upon closer inspection, I realize that the envelope is date-stamped approximately three months earlier, and is postmarked Charleston, WV. The envelope is blind-posted to my college mail box, with a forwarding sticker to my parents' home in Northern Maine. It is stuffed full.

I open the envelope carefully, wondering who on earth sent me a letter this long. Seriously, it was in the arena of eight to ten pages. The handwriting is somewhere between teenage boy and shy guy. It is obvious that the writer took great pains to be legible. I attempt brainstorming, but am unable to come up with even one person living in the Charleston, WV area that I might know. I slowly begin to read.

The first few sentences send me into a fit of laughter: So, yeah, the letter reads. You probably think I'm insane, writing to you after all of this time. I'm not crazy, and I'm not a stalker. Sadly, I don't really look like Christian Slater. At all...

The writer goes on to explain that, in reality, he's kind of nerdy. He's kind of chunky, not particularly athletic. He's a great fan of Beavis and Butthead, and is perfectly okay with a girl who prefers boxer shorts and beer over "prissy stuff".

He goes into great detail over why it has taken over two years to write to me, and confesses that it was probably kind of creepy that he cut out my ad and kept it in his wallet the entire time. It turns out that the guy actually worked for the Indie Magazine where I'd sent the ad, and employee responses to all entries were strictly prohibited. So, upon leaving employment with said company, he decided to take a chance and write to me.

I find myself grinning and laughing the entire time I'm reading the letter, only to sigh and feel awful. I am getting married in a matter of weeks. Reading the letter, for whatever reason, makes me feel like I'm cheating on Chachi. I also worry that the personal ad thing, though two years old, will somehow affect how Chachi sees me.

I feel that I have no choice, and immediately "confess" the entire ordeal to Chachi. He reads the letter reluctantly, and only at my insistence. I sit, nervously awaiting his response.

Chachi sits at the kitchen table, alternately raising eyebrows and chewing on his lip. My heart sinks. He's going to break up with me. I can feel it.

When he finishes reading, Chachi looks up at me. He shakes his head, clears his throat, and sighs. You know what you need to do, don't you? is all he will say. I try not to throw up.

Cancel the wedding? I squeak out.

No! He laughs. You need to write back to him. I insist. Any guy willing to wait two years to respond to a personal ad, who writes stuff as funny and thoughtful as this letter? This guy deserves to know who you are, where you are, and that you are real.

Do you want to read it when I'm done? I ask.

Nope, he says. This is personal.

Then, with a laugh, Chachi leaves to go home.
----------------------------------------------------------------------

I did write back to That Guy. I told him all about me, including the fact that I was getting married in a matter of weeks. When the letter was finished, I sealed it in an envelope and sent it. Then I threw his letter away.

That was almost fourteen years ago now. I don't remember his name, his age, or even the name of the Indie Magazine he worked for in Charleston. I do remember that he was funny, nice and really down to earth. After all this time, I have only one hope: that That Guy found exactly what he was looking for, and that His Girl thinks as highly of him as I do.

Rennratt's Un-Funeral

As I previously mentioned, I am no fan of funerals. However, Tiff's suggestion of an Un-funeral intrigued me. As I am not prone to Public Displays of Affection, I will skip the recommended orgy, and put my own spin on the event.

First, a few ground rules:

1. No one is to wear black, unless the outfit is accompanied by mesh gloves and Doc Martens - a la Abby/NCIS. Tats and facial piercings are also welcome. (If I can't see 'em, I don't want to know. M'kay?)

2. No crying/sobbing - unless hysterical laughter is involved.

3. MY kind of music is to be played. (See Playlist below)

4. DJ!

5. Eulogy must be in line with my personality: hire a stand up comedian. Or bring Marge Schott back from the dead.

6. Save the flowers for the living - I like daffodils and larkspur.

7. BUFFET! (Trinamick, bring some of that crazy salad dressing you've been raving about.)

8. Don't make me wear makeup. But PLEASE, for crying out loud, give me guidance on these eyebrows! (I have tunnel vision...)

9. Under NO circumstances are clowns to be invited. (I'm talkin' to YOU, Chachi!)

10. Can anyone say Mosh Pit? (Or migraine? Or dislocated neck?) Can mix it up with a dance floor, sans rhythm. Disco ball is optional.

The Playlist

Dirge: Dead Man's Party - Oingo Boingo

Service Songs (or 'Fun things to jump around to')

Girls Just Want to Have Fun - Cyndi Lauper

Pictures of You - The Cure

Fugitive - Indigo Girls

The Vampire Song - Concrete Blonde

Be My Escape - Relient K

You Don't Know Me - Meryl Streep/Postcards from the Edge soundtrack

Language or the Kiss - Indigo Girls

Fat Bottomed Girls - Queen

Bring Me Some Water - Melissa Etheridge

A Requisite Smattering of Def Leppard (listener choice)

Requiem: I Wanna Be Sedated - The Ramones

This is where it gets 'serious'. Your assignment, nay, your obligation - is to complete the following:

When you attend the Un-Funeral, whether in person or on line, you are to bring your own music.

This music should be the wierdest, most obscure piece of listening (agony?!) that anyone has ever heard. Throw in a foreign language for bonus points! Music, regardless of language, should be the social equivalent of The Chicken Dance. You must approach the DJ (remember? We have one!). In your most serious, grieving manner possible, convince the DJ to play the song...because, after all... "This was Rennratt's FAVORITE!"

Again, are you GAME?!

The 500 Word Challenge

The Zs were clearly losing. It seemed, each time they came into play, that people would immediately relax, sleep closing in without warning. They were doomed, it appeared, to be corporate shills for restful weekends and Sleep Number beds. No marketing ploy could save them from a boring, relaxing, sleep-filled future.

The Os, on the other hand, were letters of excitement, bringing cheers and screaming wherever they went. Their market influence seemed to know no boundary - effects were felt from cereal to cookie jingles. The Os soon became exhausted. Longing for release, retreat and vacation with the Zs, the Os let out a long, mournful howl.

Ooooo!, They cried in frustration. Why couldn't they take a vacation? They worked long hours, well into early mornings most times. Yet no vacation was allowed; there was no rest to be found. This was when the Os decided to strike.

In response, Corporate Scientist I.M. Greedy began a quest to create the Ultimate Selling Letter: He created the Super Os. Designed from Alloyed Steel, these Super Os would exceed the need in the marketplace, ensuring profitability for all jingles involving the Letter O. These would be the letter to cross the picket line: The Scab Os.

What Dr. Greedy didn't expect, however, was that his Super Os would be created with a conscience. In what would did conscience and commercialism merge? It happened, nonetheless. Each time a Super O was cut from the rest, it would immediately reattach itself to the rest. The result was a long, metallic string of Super Os, mimicking the howl of frustration from its lesser brothers.

Dr. Greedy soon became frustrated. His Super Os were a rather uncooperative bunch, refusing to fit the mold that he had so intricately designed. The continued to be cut and re-cut, defiant from beginning to end.

Corporate sponsors fell away, opting for numbers instead. Greedy and his crew, nearly bankrupt, left advertising for more lucrative jobs. The Os, Zs and Super Os took jobs with Alpha Bits...and they all lived happily ever after.

If I should Die...

Someday, I am going to. Though armed with this inevitability, I have yet to prepare. This is not to say that I am afraid of death; I'm not. It just seems incredibly morbid to drive out, locate a cemetery, and complete paperwork for a party that I will not attend.

It may seem horrible, or naive (or whatever), but I don't want to be buried. At least not in the traditional way: with a casket and a nameplate in an organized fashion. I want my body to be donated to science. I figure, with the prodding and poking and injecting that they do on me already, I will at LEAST be a familiar face. My dream job in death would be to be used as pranks at a teaching university, a la Bernie. If not, I want to be thrown at the Body Farm in TN. I could be a controlled experiment: Decomposition Rate of PsA medicated patient vs. (uncontrolled) nonsystemic lupus. Or, for the medically disinclined: the rotting chick in aisle five.

The least appetizing part of this death thing is the FUNERAL. I hate them. I find nothing more disturbing than sitting in awkward silence with others, in an oddly scented room, staring at a Corpsicle. This would only be fascinating to me if, in a twist of events, the funeral was for the undead - and they stood up and gobbled people during the Eulogy. I routinely entertain myself with such thoughts during funerals, and enter the dangerous phase known as the Church Giggles very early on. Not wanting to put others through this ordeal, I would like to pass on a funeral.

Chachi, however, does not understand this. He insists that, as the [inevitable] survivor, he would like to honor my memory with a celebration. I like to counter that, as I hate funerals, the best way to HONOR my memory is to skip this step. I think that he should have a party instead. Cuz, see, I LIKE those.

I am clearly going to need some help here. As I am too cheap to spring for a lawyer, I will plan my own funeral - here, with my beloved seven (or eight, if you count the nurse hunter in Hong Kong - ahem) as my witnesses. I am clearly going to need your help.

Are you game?

Fillalou

My Grandfather Irish had nicknames for all of us grandchildren. Some dealt with attitude, some dealt with ability. Today, some of the nicknames would probably get him into trouble. A prime example would be his nickname for my cousin, Tim. Tim was simply known as "That Friggin' Kid". Believe it or not, it fit.

My nickname, on the other hand, was Fillalou. According to my Grandfather, a Fillalou was a mythical bird that flew backward to see where it had been, rather than forward to see where it was going. The result? Extreme clumsiness. It was his creative way of calling his grandkid a clutz. Like "That Friggin' Kid", "Fillalou" fit me to a T.

It likely began when I was a little over a year old, just learning to walk. My sister (KeddyJ in the comments section) decided that I 'looked stupid'. So she pushed me. INTO A COFFEE TABLE. There is still a scar over my eyebrow, if you need proof.

From that day forward, no walk down the street, no bike ride, no step off a school bus was safe. The Rennratt was sure to fall down.

I fell UP the stairs with such regularity in high school that, eventually, my bruises and bumps had bruises and bumps. Oddly, I rarely fell DOWN the stairs.

I have a scar on my scalp from a walk into town at age 16 or so. I ran into a telephone pole and drove a nail into my head.

I fell out of a school bus at age 16 and nearly broke my ankle. Naturally, it happened hours before receiving "MVP" at a SPORTS BANQUET. [I was fine at 2 pm when school let out. At 8 pm, I arrived with a cast/splint...on crutches. CLASSY.]

I regularly ran into doors, walls, parked cars. I don't know if it was from living inside my head or a true, undetected problem with balance. To my knowledge, I was never tested for hearing problems or sight issues. [Maybe my parents should have had me tested for THIS...] Other than sports physicals - which mostly were comments about how much I weighed - I rarely saw doctors at all.

By the time I hit college, I was sure that the curse of clumsiness had gone. I moved just shy of 1,000 miles from home (922, to be exact) in hopes that Fillalou had been safely left behind.

No such luck. By the time I graduated from college, I was on crutches 7 more times. My right ankle was severely weakened by the Bus Incident, and no step was safe for me. I took ONE STEP outside the cafeteria (Curse you, Benedum Hall!) and had to be taken to the ER. I was on crutches for 3 weeks. Each incident following had the same result - whether it was a friendly hike to Bickles Knob or simply a casual stroll across the room. There would be a fall, there would be pain, and someone would be driving Rennratt to the hospital.

Fast forward to...today. I am nursing a three day headache from an unfortunate encounter with a paper towel dispenser. There is a bump (under my hair), dried blood, and I'm sure, soon, there will be another scar. This time, however, I wasn't spacing out -0r even looking backward. I just had my eyes closed.

If Grandfather Irish was alive today, he would look at me, sigh, and shake his head. Then he would slowly say "Fillalou, really. You're getting worse than That Friggin' Kid".

Momma, You're Craaaaazy...

I was around six or seven the first time my mother lost her mind. A closet hippie, she rode the line between quiet homemaker and front cover of Mother Earth News. I don't recall what triggered the episode, but I remember the results: My mother joined a Co-Op.

When I say Co-Op, I don't mean a small group of friends casually discussing how to grow rutabagas. I mean darn near Commune Co-Op. We weren't lined up to drink the Kool-Aid, mind you. That was because, in a flash of genius, Mum decided that sugar was evil. The Kool Aid was thrown away. I think she even threw out the pitcher.

This type of event is cataclysmic to a small, impressionable child. The Kool Aid pitcher was replaced by a water distiller of such grand proportions that it was bolted to the kitchen counter. Not only was the water distilled, it was to be consumed at room temperature, or, per instructions, warm. The end result was not unlike dipping one's head into the bathtub for a casual chug-a-lug.

Mum also decided, for reasons still unknown, that we lacked adequate doses of daily vitamins. While this could have been easily solved by cutting back on our daily carb and salt intake (spaghettios, anyone? How about some generic hamburger helper?) - Mum decided that we needed mega-doses of vitamins (in pill form). I was also placed on prune juice- 'to keep me regular'.

In addition to the warm water, pills and prune juice, we were also forced to eat the 'food' purchased from the Co-Op. Everything was purchased in bulk, generally in five to ten pound quantities. I don't know about you, but I have no use for an OUNCE of carob chips laced with honey, nevermind TEN POUNDS of it. All these years later, I can still taste the 'desserts' made with those chips. The memory still makes me gag.

I don't recall how long this bout with eco-insanity lasted in our house. The distiller stayed bolted to the countertop for years, finally dismantled and trashed when the kitchen was remodeled. I was twelve when that happened.

The second time my mother lost her mind, I was around 14. For reasons still unclear, we ate quiche for a month. Every. Freakin'. Night. There was bacon quiche, broccoli quiche, cauliflower quiche (gag!), ham quiche, Cheese (plain) quiche. There was no sense in complaining: Mum would merely roll her eyes at whichever ungrateful child that spoke up, signaling that whining was simply our way to make her nuts.

In this instance, I clearly recall when the fad ended. My father (Mr. Law and Order) ate the quiche quietly for the entire month. On the last night, he simply put his fork down, looked my mum in the eye and said quietly, "Hon, when I come home from work tomorrow, I would really like not to eat Scrambled Egg Pie for dinner. It doesn't matter what you make. Just not that."

That was all it took. The next night, things took a decided turn for the worse. Mum decided that I needed to learn how to cook. This brings us to my mother's turn: The first time I thought I'd lose my mind, Renn was fourteen. She was just learning to cook, and I didn't want to discourage her. But all she knew how to make was Meatloaf. I think we ate it for about a month, along with boxed potato, corn and snickerdoodles. It's been twenty years, and the thought of how a snickerdoodle smells still makes me gag...

Now it's your turn! In honor of Mother's Day: When did your Mum first lose her mind? Or, as a mum, when did you first lose yours?

[In a twist of what can only be irony: Blogger spellcheck tried to change "Co-Op" to "crap"!]

Never Drive a Forklift in Kitten Heels (and other lessons learned in construction)

One of the ladies in our Corporate Office adores memos. A stringent Rule Follower, she insists that all regional offices be reminded of the varied rules and regulations that we are to follow, be it lunch hour policy, smoking, or public expulsion of gas (...Policy 4.6 of Corporate Regulations reminds us that loud BURPING within the office is prohibited, as it may be offensive to others sharing the same work space").

Management in each regional office receives at least two or three such reminders each week, via email. The nature of said emails has become so ridiculous that we (ok, I) have turned it into a game.

When any email regarding policy is received, I immediately print it out. I then run straight to Rick, the Big Boss with my take on the email. (Rick and I have worked together for years. He enjoys my input as much as I enjoy giving it.)

On Friday, I received my favorite email to date. I cut and pasted MOST of the email verbatim, for your enjoyment. The memo read as follows:

"...As springtime and warmer weather are now upon us, it is a good time to revisit office policy regarding proper in office attire. Examples of unacceptable office attire are as follows: Any color jeans (except Friday)...Tank tops...Anything faded or torn...Sweat pants...Tube tops...Anything low cut...Painters pants...Flip-flops...Anything see- through...spandex...Halter tops...Inappropriate language or graphics...Stretch leggings...Hats...Tennis shoes. At the discretion of the manager, an employee can be sent home to change if dressed inappropriately. The employee would be expected to make up any time lost on the same day".

I immediately printed out the memo and marched to Rick's office. "Have you seen the latest memo from Jess in Corporate?" I asked. "Do you mean 'What Not To Wear'?" Rick asked.

"Yeah, about that", I responded. "I only have two things to say."

"And they are..." Rick responded, waiting.

"Well" I replied, "First of all, I am sooo glad that I re-thought my outfit this morning".

Rick smiled slightly, leaning in, still waiting.

"Because" I continued "I was soooo going to wear my see through tube top covered in profanity - with my spandex painter's pants!"

Rick's laughter burst out, machine gun style, his hands slapping his desk. He recovered quickly, asking "What was the second thing?"

"As management, I realize I am duty bound to send people home for rule violations. I gotta tell ya, though. I won't."

He nodded seriously, waiting.

"At least not without taking a picture first".

I turned and walked back to my office slowly, with Rick's laughter following me.

[regarding the title: that is ONE email that I have never received - and it would have been really handy!]

I am the Cheese

When Nooze was around 2 1/2, she decided to throw off the chains of oppression imposed upon her. Tired of the home-based hierarchy, she refused to call me Mommy, Mum or Momma. She wanted to call me by my first name.

It only happened a handful of times, as she learned that I clearly did not care for this. Still wanting to push the envelope, she changed her tactics. She turned it into a game.

"Momma", She would say, "Let's play! I'll be the Momma, You be the Hon". Then she would grin wickedly and, in a high pitched voice, squeal "Hi, Hon!" I would obligingly respond "Hi, Momma!"

After a while, the game was expanded into 'I'll be the (A), you be the (B)' - with (A) and (B) filled in with whatever struck her at the moment. I have been the Kool Aid to her Sugar, the Chicken to her Stapler (never mind).

One rainy Saturday, during a particularly grim trip to Wal-Mart, the game made a rather public debut. "I'm BORED, Momma", Nooze whined. "Let's play the Momma Hon game!" So we played within our normal terms, being Sneaker and Sock, Book and Paper, Candy and Soda.

We turned into the Ice Cream aisle, nearly finished with shopping and gaining on the check out with each step. Then Nooze said "You be the Cheese, I'll be the Cracker!" - immediately following in a high pitched voice with "HI, Cheese!" Laughing, I responded "Hi, CRACKER!"

At that precise moment, a well dressed businessman, who happened to be African-American, passed by. The utter look of confusion on his face made me nearly scream. It clearly said "Did she just call her kid a cracker?!"

It took every last ounce of restraint not to chase him down. In my mind, I was yelling "But you don't understand! I am the CHEESE!"

Nostalgia

I have been feeling nostalgic, lately, for the music of my youth. Not 80's pop or Thrash Metal, but the music of my parents. This music shaped me, molded me. It began the summer that I was twelve.

Looking back, it is easy to sugar coat the lyrics, remember them with fondness. It doesn't matter that some songs were unfit for a child, I listened and loved them regardless. As a child born of a closet hippie and a staunch "follower of law and order", music was diverse.

When my father, Mr. Law Abider, was around, we listened to limited amounts of Country and Western, as God clearly intended. While he was at work, however, the doors to the music world swung wide open. Poetry, in all its forms, invaded our house.

There was John Denver, CCR, spoken word poetry, you name it. Music and rhythm in all forms resonated through the airwaves. The more creative and oddball, the better.

It may not surprise you that, as a small child, only Joy to the World by Three Dog Night or Time in a Bottle by Jim Croce were suitable as lullabies. Even in my thirties, when tired and panicked, the words "Jeremiah was a bullfrog..." relax me immediately.

My longtime favorite, however, was Rod McKuen. I could listen to his music for hours. I remember it clearly: the temperatures were a tepid 70, long considered hot in Northern Maine. As we had no air conditioning, windows were wide open with fans shoved in them; the smell of fresh cut grass hung in the air. I would lay in the middle of the living room floor - linoleum- allowing the fans- and the music- to wash over me.

Rod was a poet, a musician, a comedian, a beatnik hippie protestor, a playwright. I would play The Mud Kids, a song about the disaffected youth of the 60s, over and over again. My mother, who introduced me to this, would beg relief from the bizarre, somewhat morbid lyrics. I would comply, only to bring on the syrupy, crazed music from the McKuen/Anita Kerr production Joanna! [sidenote: I Googled 'Joanna' for a picture/link. It is in the genre Blaxploitation!] This cycle would continue until my father returned from work. I would quietly put the records away, knowing that, within 12 hours, I could bring them out once again.

When I moved out on my own and got married, my mother gave me her two McKuen records - The Earth and Joanna. I no longer own a record player, so the records sit, unused, in my living room. I look at them with great fondness, remembering the smell of summer in Maine, the blackflies, and the freedom of being twelve.


The Mud Kids

Out of the curious foraging rain
moving over the lawn like evening,
one by one they come,
the mud kids.

Carrying their mud in buckets
sometimes hardened into bricks
or molded into Ken and Barbie dolls.

They're the ones who claim we never understand them.

So they BB gun the street lights.
Roll the old bums in the park.
And build doll houses out of sugar cubes
instead of Lincoln Logs.

We blame it all on Freud,
the Madison Avenue cult of youth,
the decline of moral standards in the neighborhood,
urban non-renewal,
Dylan songs that taught them how to think,
England.

Anything but what it is.
The turning from homes that weren't quite right
the getting up from TV dinners to eat the snow,
the playing with each other
instead of dolls.

We can't be Batman to all the Robins of the world.
There are some that want more than
an all purpose super-duper utility belt.

Mary Poppins is alive and well in Argentina.
She sends her regards.
Tinker Bell has joined the Jet Age...
she flies economy class.

They may yet find a way to bottle Phyllis Diller's laugh.
A brand new penicillin for a frowning world.

Let the mud kids make their mud pies
and throw them at the world.
It could be a better place to live in.
Maybe they'll make it better.

-from the album "The Earth"

I (heart) Nerds, vol. II

The phone call started just like all of the others. Small talk about the weather, family back in Maine, old friends. Predictably, it turned to why I remained in West Virginia, and followed by 'So, when are you going to move down here?'

The weather was, at best, grim. Gray and sandy air hung outside my apartment, slush and ice scattered around me. It was 17 degrees outside, and I had just completed round one out of two at work. I was working double shifts at the redneck bar, with a 4 hour break in between. My days began at 11 am and ended after 3 the next morning. The money was decent, but I was exhausted.

It was one week before Christmas. In a matter of days, I was to board a plane bound for Maine to visit family for the holiday. Chachi would remain in North Carolina for Christmas, while his family, also in Maine, celebrated without him.

We had the same conversation, verbatim, every time we spoke. We had broken up five years earlier, while still freshmen in college. The distance had finally gotten to us; it was too far and we were simply too young.

Once a year, it seemed, fate would draw us back together for small talk - compliments of AT&T. But something was different this time. When he asked why I remained in West Virginia, I didn't chafe. I wasn't angry. I wasn't defensive. For the first time, I honestly didn't know why I stayed.

I told him about my trip back to Maine, and our call ended on a good note. He asked me to call him when I returned to West Virginia. Two weeks later, I called him back. When he asked this time, I didn't hesitate. I told him that I remained in West Virginia 'because it was better than Maine'. He understood. Predictably, he asked when I intended to move south. I opened my mouth to say 'I don't know'; 'When are you coming to get me?' popped out instead.

He came to get me the next Friday, on his 24th birthday. Despite the fact that he never actually proposed, we were married 8 months later.

Looking back all these years later, I must be honest. I fell in and out of love with a lot of different types and stereotypes over the years. When push came to shove, though, the hardworking, kindhearted honest nerd won me over. I wouldn't have it any other way.

I (heart) Nerds

I should have taken my first crush as an omen. I was sixteen years old, and my crush was on Tom Brokaw. He was smart, well spoken, tall, and had a wonderful voice. Each night, from 6:30 to 7, he ruled my world. My friends, all mad with crushes on Tom Cruise or Jon Bon Jovi, were convinced that I had lost my mind.

"Renn", they would sigh. "Tom Brokaw is, like, old. He's like, I mean, ewww." I would not be dissuaded. I was hooked. In the process, I came to learn something very important: A pretty face means little if there is nothing behind it. So began my quest to find the perfect nerd.

As no plan is every truly perfect, I hit some bumps along the way. While in college, I fell for a rich boy, a frat boy, a gay boy; my crushes ran the gamut from cowboy to PETAhead.

My taste in men was so bizarre that my friend Janine came to call me The Leftover Queen. According to her, you could line up 100 men from any remote corner of the world; Renn would consistently choose the ONE guy that no one else would ever possibly want.

I took that as a compliment.

Late in my sophomore year, I met the guy. I thought. He was tall, smart, funny...and WEIRD. He was the kind of guy that you could be friends with or date. In short, he was nice. We dated off and on for about two years, never quite making it to the point of 'serious'. In the end, he found his true love in a girl just as nice as he; they now live in a DC area condo with a passel of kids. [ I should probably mention that he was 6'6" and dressed like a pirate.]

After years of research, I finally settled down. I'll be honest; it didn't happen in the way I had planned. I moved south to NC one year after college graduation. Journalistic opportunities were next to impossible in Parkersburg, WV; I was working as a bartender in a dive joint that forced me to dress as a gas attendant.

It all started when Chachi called.

to be continued...

Die, Frau, Die

It had truly been one of those days. Frustrating, stressful. I had spent a greater part of my day beta testing a useless system, the rest of the day explaining myself. I had been trained by a man whose charisma challenged only Ben Stein, without the benefit of intelligence. My assistant had the day off. Invoices and receivers littered a 4 square foot area. People were charging at me from all angles, needing everything from pencil refills to material samples. I was tired.

I raced out early for a doctor's appointment, leaving 15 minutes later than expected. I had exactly 30 minutes to make it 20 miles, in afternoon traffic. In my rush, I completely bypassed the easiest route. This added 13 miles - and 4 stop lights - to my trip. Keeping my eye on the speedometer, I whispered hurry, hurry, hurry but don't-speed-don't let me be stopped today all in one fair breath.

I made it to the appointment with 5 minutes to spare. I signed in, sat down, and exhaled. It was then, I suppose, that the weight and stress of the day hit me. I was completely exhausted. Needing to decompress, I decided against reading magazines during my wait. I vegged instead.

Within minutes, I found myself completely enthralled by the high end wallpaper. It appeared to be made out of cloth, with all manner of arches and calligraphy scrawled across it in hues of gold and green. At first glance, the writing appeared to be in Latin. If I had ever taken Latin, I may have spent the time translating. Instead, I amused myself with possibilities. "Welcome, peasant" it proclaimed. "Give me your money and leave". Mid-giggle, my eyes rested on one word, located at eye level. It simply said, in elegant script "DIE". I did a double-take. Did it really...yup. Charming, I thought. That explains my insurance premium. Cheap, but effective. Just send the old gal to someone unafraid to TELL her what to do! I glanced around the lobby for the potentially obedient. To my joy, all of my fellow patients-in-waiting were still very much alive.

Suppressing a snort, I thought of other potential wall snobbery, in equally inappropriate places. Why not "get up, fatso" at McDonald's? Or "SMILE!" at a funeral home? What logic was applied in the selection of this paper?

Further investigation (ok, warped translation) of other words within the wallpaper led me to the truth. The script wasn't in Latin at all. It was in German. This brought on further stifled giggles. Since when is the German language rated as an art form? I distinctly remember studying this language in college. People do not sound artistic when they speak it. It is not for the romantic, the faint of heart, the creative soul, or those plagued with allergies. I scanned the room furtively for any indication that Deiter had been there. My poor translation skills found no sign of Now we dance! or any mention of Monkey Touching. Truthfully, I was disappointed. That would have made quite a story.

Dust Bunny

My husband strolled casually into the room one day last week, looked me straight in the eye, and uttered the following:

"I don't think it's you, but this room really smells like DUST".

Caught somewhat off guard, I paused, pen in hand, with wrinkled brow. I then calmly said, "So you don't think it's me?"

It was then, I think, that the reality of his wording hit him. He had just told his wife, casually, that the dust smell may be her.

I don't know about you, but tidbits like that do not lead to romance around here. Since then, I have quizzed him endlessly (ok, tortured) about this 'dust smell'. I am a bath junkie, and have the lotions, potions and bubbles to back me up. Since when have I stunk? I generally smell of shea butter. Or chocolate, if I am baking "Killer Brownies". As I work in construction, I am a stickler for deodorant and overall cleanliness. Why do men say these things out loud? Have they no edit filter?

I must admit, however, that this has led to fun all around. I laughed myself to tears while contemplating this phrase- generally just the first few words. I don't think it's you. Why thank you, darlin'.

This phrase has officially replaced my former favorite, which kept me laughing for about 6 years. "What is it, exactly, that is wrong with you?" (I have an auto immune disorder, and the poor girl couldn't remember which one it was!) The owner of that phrase was the new, young bride of a friend. Sadly, she was very quiet at the time, and did not take my screaming laughter well at all.

So here's my query for you : What is the funniest/most horrifying, accidental insult you ever received?