I remember Linus.

The Suz has been on a three and a half year campaign to get me to approach the holiday season with something other than fear and dread. There's a lot to fear-- my aunt and cousins sitting around the dinner table trashing everyone they've ever met, making me wonder what they say about me when I'm off in the kitchen getting more pie-- and there's a lot to dread-- the lengthy process of finding gifts for aunts and cousins that are nice enough to keep them from talking trash about me while not sending me into debtor's prison. And then there's the usual crap that everyone fears and dreads-- the weight gain, the gift wrapping, the lights that don't work.

It's hard to get your peace and love groove on when these things are hovering over your head.

This year I explained to The Suz that perhaps we could decorate The Fortress of Power with some tinsel and lights. Maybe that would work.

At the local Tar-jay we found a selection of tree options, and faced an existential pop cultural dilemma. Should we go with the small Scotch pine tree from Houseplants, or the silver fiber optic tree in Christmas Ornaments?

The fiber optic tree was shiny and brightly lit. The Scotch pine was, well, small and prickly. And we might kill a live tree.

But we remember Charlie Brown. We remember Linus.

And we hope we don't kill an innocent little tree with our good intentions.

I had one simple expectation from my day.

But, Manda, you say, haven't you had enough good things? You got a job that makes you happy. You got a shiny new AlmostBoyfriend*. Most importantly, the Sox made the playoffs. Isn't there a limit to which good karma can not be stretched?

Apparently I hit my limit this morning when, despite my best efforts, I was unable to obtain tickets for the Barenaked Ladies concert. I was at work, and that forced me to leave a few things to chance. But at 10:00 this morning I dropped my responsibilities like a hot rock and poised myself in front of my computer at work. Credit card in hand, I made a valiant attempt. I almost had pretty good seats. I was even ready to not fuss about that stupid "convenience fee" they always charge. I'm not sure whose convenience I'm paying for, but I'm pretty sure it isn't mine. I entered the necessary information. I clicked "Buy." And there was an "Error Processing Your Request."

I don't know what kind of &*^%$# error it was.

I tried for an hour on an endless loop.

And then all the tickets were gone. All because some programmer at Ticketmaster has his head up his bum.

I don't think I have to actually say what Ticketmaster does to dogs for quarters. I don't want to be crude.

*We're in uncharted territory here, but M. finally developed a term that didn't make me break out in a rash, so we're going with this one for now. I think I owe somebody a dollar.

Sometimes a girl needs a big cheeseburger the size of her head.

I like mine with lettuce and tomato, Heinz 57 and french fried potatoes....

Okay, actually it was with bacon and mushrooms and onion rings. There was a big kosher pickle* but it was an Oreo milkshake, not a cold draft beer.

The place to get a good cheeseburger in Boston is Mr, Bartley's in Harvard Square. They don't pay me to say that or anything. Not that they need to. Everyone knows this.

Mr. Bartley's is right next door to the Harvard Bookstore. We-- the collective unit known as Stewie-- passed the Harvard Bookstore as we escorted one of our number-- The Suz-- to the T, where she would ride over to see "Joe." E Money also needed to pick up his monthly selection of comic books-- but we don't talk about that.

The Harvard Bookstore has books like Deconstructing the Subversive Paradigm of Existential Thought and John Donne: A Life in the front windows. It's all trade paperbacks and hardcover editions of books about Big Ideas.

So of course I wanted nothing more than to walk right in there and ask them if they have the new John Grisham in stock.

Not that I want the new John Grisham, mind you. I was just wondering how that would go...

"HAH!"

"You can't be serious...."

"No, but can I interest you in this first edition of Roland Barthes's Mythologies?"

I didn't do it, of course. Partly because I don't have the stones. But mainly because I was afraid it would go like this:
"Why, yes, of course. Right this way? Will that be cash or credit card?"

And then I'd be stuck with the new John Grisham novel, and who wants that when all you ever wanted in life was to just eat a cheeseburger?

*Pickles, we have found, in Boston are not always pickles. Sometimes they are simply cucumbers that have been sitting in vinegar or brine trying to pretend they are pickles. In fact they are cucumbers with delusions of grandeur and we can't support that. Mr. Bartley's, I'm happy to announce, has real live honest to God pickles with their cheeseburgers. But you probably already knew that.

Grafitti spotted on walls about town:

In the ladies room at House of Blues in Cambridge.
"Mark, I'll love you always.
And if we ever part,
I'll come back to the House of Blues
and think of all the good times we had here."

No you won't, honey. They're closing in three weeks. Hope you kids can make it work, or break up soon, because I don't know where you'll go to remember the good times.

In the U.S. District Courthouse 3rd floor ladies room.

"Jim, I'll love you 'til the day you die." (this in blue ink)
"Rest in Peace" (same handwriting, red ink)

Wondering if that second time was for the trial.

I got a letter in the mail from my father (stepfather, technically) a few days ago. It included some updates and a few proud papa comments. He sent me a picture of my mom from the later 70's. Someone with a camera had surprised her in the hallway at work. She's wearing her white uniform, with her little white cap on top of a bun on her head and stethoscope slung around her neck. She's looking over her shoulder and smiling.

She's beautiful, my mom. And stronger than anyone I've ever met.

I remember her getting up so early in the morning to be there for the 7-3 shift at the hospital. I remember her brushing her impossibly long hair and twisting it up to rest under that cap. I remember playing with that stethoscope, placing the earpieces in my ears and talking into the pad at the end of the cord, amazed at the sound of my own voice so loud. I used to think it was the coolest thing in the world to go see her at the hospital. We'd eat lunch in the cafeteria, and the best part of that was the hole in the wall where you'd place your tray when you were done eating. A little conveyor best in there would take the tray away. And then she'd buy me a lollipop or a pack of Juicy-Fruit at the gift shop and let me look at the flowers in the glass case.

In this picture, she's 29 or 30-- about the age I am now. She'd be freshly separated from my dad. She'd be going to college and working full time. And she'd have a 3 year old girl to look after at home.

To be left by the person who promised to love you and take care of you forever. To work a job where you're dealing with all the different kinds of goo that can come out of the human body. Then to come home and make dinner and clean and pay bills and somehow find time to push a little person on the swingset or read her a story or comfort her when the hamster got lost. Then cap off the day by having to study Hamlet or molecular biology or Spanish.

And to still be able to smile when someone catches you off guard.

That's quite something, I think.

Still no word from The Suz, re: exit interview. I hope they didn't cook her and eat her. I wouldn't put anything past those suits, you know?

email from The Suz at 9:49 am-- it's truly a magical time to be alive:

Status: same
Action: Going to pee and then going to my exit interview.

email from The Suz at 9:35 am:

You secured the video cameras and union crew for filming the documentary
portion of the action movie, right?

email from The Suz at 9:12 am:

I have a meeting with the Bobs in 48 minutes.
They called me at home.

email from The Suz at 8:53 am

Calls taken: around 5
Words spoken to anyone: a few, none pleasant
Emails about leaving: 1 (Duff Brewery), 0 (Shotz Brewery)
The silence: thick, but strangely comforting

You know, I think you will find as you traverse through life, meandering
through its ups and downs, you may find that if you are going to be a dick
to someone, it's probably best to stop their access to your money, and that underwear probably doesn't make all that good of a hat.

TODAY is the Suz's last day at the Shotz Brewery. While this throws a wrench into my plans for The Action Movie, it's much easier than having her work there. That place made her so miserable that *I* had to go to Amsterdam just to get away from it.

So we'll be bringing out moment to moment updates ocumenting this auspicious occasion:

email from The Suz at 8:23 am
Calls taken: one
Words spoken to anyone: 0
Emails about leaving: 1
The silence: thick

So I came home two nights ago and the power was out.

What fresh hell is this? I wondered.

There were trucks from the electric company blocking the street. Flashing their little lights. Dropping their little men down the big hole in the street.

Maybe the bats have been chewing on the wires.

So on the second floor landing, the neighbors were having a summit conference.

"Were you here for the fire?" they asked.

"Fire?" I was alarmed (tee hee).

"The building transformer in the street caught on fire. They evacuated the building. We were worried you were still inside."

"I wasn't." I had been with The Suz at "Joe's" house. More specifically the bar down the street from "Joe's" house, where she was trying to sell me an Irish car that I really didn't want to drive.

"Nice to know they've installed the new fire alarm system," Downstairs Neighbor Girl said. Sarcasm is a language I speak fluently.

There's no new fire alarm system. There are wires sticking out of the walls and there are holes in the ceilings where bats can get through, but there are no alarms.

These alarms should have been installed a year ago, when the Suz, bless her, set our kitchen on fire. But Ex-NotBoyfriend #4 says I'm not allowed to talk about it. God rest the Austin Powers Memorial Kitchen. Now it's just green again.

So I stumbled in the dark. I lit some candles.

It was really boring.

Today we offer The Suz's top ten list. Why Working in the Shotz Brewery Sucks:

10) Someone stole my ergonomic footstool and replaced it with old boxes.
9) The copy room that smells like pee.
8) This place makes my shirts smell like feet.
7) Two words: Ferretweasel cooties
6) Two more words: someone farted
5) No chocolate
4) No booze
3) No cute boys with washboard abs
2) It's not New York. It's not London.
1) Hell, it's not even Sheboygan.

And we offer Manda's top ten list. Why Being Unemployed This Week Kicks Ass.
10) Lucked into my dream job yesterday.
9) Catbox is in the other room.
8) Cleaning lady was here Wednesday-- no foot smell here
7) Four words: No more Ferretweasel cooties
6) Four more words: Haagen Dazs Cherry Vanilla
5) Chocolate
4) Booze
3) No cute boys with washboard abs
2) Amsterdam
1) It's not the Shotz Brewery

We're working round the clock to make the Suz's list look more like Manda's list.

In contemporary urban living, there are some things one doesn't expect to face in one's own home.

Bats, for example.

No, really, bats.

Back in the dark ages, when I lived in a smallish city down south, I had a bat come into my apartment. I was living alone at the time, and the place had a porch that faced out onto a wooded area. It was summer and I can only guess that the bat must have come in from the porch.

So at 1:00 in the morning I called The Suz long distance. "I think there's a bat in my house."

"There's not a bat. You're high."

"I'm not high, and I think there's a bat in my apartment. AAAGGH! Yes! It's a bat it's a bat!"

This line of dialogue was accompanied by my scurrying out of the spare bedroom/ office where I had been talking on the portable phone.

"You there?"

"Yes."

"It's a bat. It's definitely a bat. What do I do now?"

"(yawn) Call animal control."

So I called animal control. A recording referred me to the county sherriff's office. The sherriff then gave me the on-call number for animal control. I dialed and proceeded to get the animal control guy and his wife out of bed.

"Ma'am, are you sure it's a bat?"

"It has a face!"

And so at 2:00 on a Wednesday night this poor guy has to shlep over to my apartment so he can trap the bat in a garbage bag.

I'd love to know the odds on this kind of thing happening to one person twice in a lifetime.

Now it's one thing to have a bat in your home in a Southern suburb. It's another to find one flopping about on your hallway floor on a Tuesday night when you're coming in from seeing Macbeth on the Common.

This bat was the last in a long chain of "how could it possibly get worse?" events.

The Suz was right there this time. I didn't have to do this alone.

So I did what any strong, independent, red-blooded American woman would do in such a situation.

I screamed. I screamed loud. I screamed hard.

And the bat flopped across the floor into the linen closet.

Later, after calling the property management company, the police, and finally animal control, it occured to us that more bats might be in the laundry baskets in the hallway.

I took the handle of my Swiffer and beat the hell out of the dirty clothes.

It felt good.

Two weeks and then it's summer. Summer means bags packed and car loaded. Gotta make lots of CD's for the trip South for the summer.

Summer means Tuesday is Trivia Night and Thursday is Big Beer Night. And any night might end at the pool hall or on the deck at the cantina drinking pitchers of cheap margaritas and eating quesadillas. Or maybe there will be grits and bigass biscuits at 3 am.

Summer means hushpuppies and barbeque the way God intended. Hair frizzing in the heat an humidity because I won't have an air conditioner.

And sometimes it means bad bad bad decisions.

The heat makes people crazy.

But not this time.

You should put up signs, they said.
My advice to them is to get some shares in Kinko's and 3M. And maybe Starkist.

Put up signs.
Why didn't I think of that?

Except that I did.
And if one more person tells me to put up signs, I'm going to kick him in the dingding.

Put up signs, so that everywhere I go in the nieghborhood I can see her little face staring at me from telephone poles and doorways.
Put up signs so she's looking at me when I'm trying to buy groceries.
So I can't come through the front door without her staring at me. Accusing me of not taking care of her, when I promised I would.

That same front door she wandered out of after 8 years with me. 8 years after my first week living on my own. 8 years that I wasn't alone, because the second week I went to the shelter and she picked me. She waddled into that little visiting room and hopped up on the bench beside me and kneaded my leg. Then she rolled around at my feet and I had to take her home.

She was never supposed to be out there. Someone left the doors open, and by the time I figured out she really wasn't under the bed, she'd gone. I was supposed to take care of her, and I don't know how she got out there or where she went. Maybe she really dies have magical powers.

I didn't abandon her. I think she abandoned me.

So I put out cans of tunafish. I poked around in alleys and backyards after dark, and I'm lucky I didn't get arrested or attacked (heh, I'd like to see them try). I shook the foodbag and called her name.

I put up signs and answered every call. I don't know when to give up, so I keep looking. Every tip that leads to nothing, every animal at the shelter that isn't her, every meow in an abandoned garage that isn't hers drives in another nail.

Friends and neighbors offer condolence and advice.
"Cats have amazing resources."
"I'm sure she'll find her way back when she's ready."
"You hear miracle stories all the time."
"Have you put up flyers?"

It was 45 degrees here today. People peeled off their long underwear to reveal pasty legs, and they went outside to blink at that thing in the sky-- was it the sun?
There were girls on rooftops sunbathing. The old women and men from the neighborhood gathered on the corner down there to chat. By 4:00 they were performing a beautifully coreographed rendition of "Having a Heat Wave" in Russian. Traffic was tied up for a few minutes, as, of course, such musical theatre numbers must of necessity take place in the street.
And I knew that my acclimation to New England was complete when I uttered the words "it won't last."
And indeed it won't. By nightfall The Weather Channel announced that colder air and possible snow would settle in again by Wednesday.

I can't believe I'm actually sitting here worried that I might have to move away from all this loveliness.
I grew up in the South, though, and in the South 45 degrees means we put ON the long underwear and stay inside. We don't do musical numbers in the street until it reaches at least 60 degrees, and then it's just easier to sit on the porch with a glass of sweettea and count the cars that pass by.

To grow up in the South is to grow up knowing that Yankees are surly, selfish, and almost entirely lacking in social graces of any kind. Having lived through three New England winters, I can say with certainty that Yankees are not rude-- they're just COLD. I don't mean cold in some metaphorical sense. It's hard to be friendly when you haven't been able to feel your own feet since October. It's hard to be optimistic when you haven't seen the sun in a month and grass in almost three. I see the nightly forecast and marvel that this country ever got founded. Only a group as joyless as the Puritans could have come to Massachusetts in November and thought "yeah, this looks like a nice enough place." It leads me to wonder how the face of global politics might be different right now if the weather was just a little nicer in New England.

How sick is too sick to work?

Every time I call in, I am racked with feelings of guilt and of generally feeling like a weenie.

But there I was this morning, in the kitchen and it just felt like too much trouble to put my clothes on-- and not in a good way. I made the call.

Too sick is when you're coughing up small animals. Your nose has turned against you and explodes every few minutes in a cloud of ickiness. Too sick is when you're seriously entertaining the idea of calling up Ex-NotBoyfriends to demand reciprocity for past backrubs given because you're so achy you'd take relief from a gorilla if it was offered, but you wouldn't want the gorilla to catch what you have. Too sick is when the IsCats are looking at you thinking "How can she sleep that long?"

So you do what you have to do. You call in. You feel like a weenie. You imagine that they're not at all convinced that you're actually sick and that tomorrow when you go back they're going to grill you about the wild time you had out drinking martinis and shooting pool all day. The closest I got to this was the bottle of NyQuil and watching the IsCats bat little rubber ball around on the floor.

Mesmerizing.

Sometimes life doesn't disappoint.
Hasn't happened often around here lately, but it's good to know that some things are every bit as cool as you expect them to be.

I have loved The Pretenders since I was about 6 years old, and I saw the video for "Brass in Pocket" on MTV. There was a groove to that song, and that voice. My cousins were my earliest musical influences, and they indoctrinated me in the finer points of late 70's rock and roll. I was subjected to videos and albums by quality groups like Van Halen and Led Zeppelin, which gave me a healthy appreciation for the finer points of good guitar. And then there were the other bands, like Motley Crue. Most of the women I saw on MTV looked like something.... well something I had never seen and knew, even in my little six year old brain, that I would never be able to be like.

Then I saw "Brass in Pocket." Chrissie wasn't all painted up and she wore normal clothes, and she had that voice. And that was the first time I knew that women could be in a band and make music. At six years old, in the early 80's there weren't many examples of that to go around, and even fewer that I was likely to encounter in the world of boy cousins who were my sole male influences.

I went to see The Pretenders on Saturday night with Surrogate Brother EMan, and I fully expected to be disappointed. I figured a lot has changed. MTV doesn't show videos anymore. Chrissie Hynde is my mom's age. And speaking of which, there was Drunk Soccer Mom in the row in front of me, alternately flailing about in such a way that made me fear for my face and grinding against her companion, Slightly Sober Soccer Dad. More to the point, every instance in which I have met/ seen one of my heroes, they never measure up. How could they?

But they did. The band played hard, and didn't seem averse to playing the old standards-- I hate when artists think they're too good to play the material that put them on the map. If I still enjoy hearing it after thousands of turns through the record/tape/cd player it seems that the people who wrote it should like enough to still want to play it. They also mixed in some new stuff, and made the crowd love it just as much. And Chrissie Hynde said "fuck" a lot and made a few jokes, but not so many as to sound ingratiating. As if she could be.

Surrogate Brother EMan and I went for a drink after the show was over. On the way back to the train station, we saw roadies loading up buses and gave some thought to hanging around, seeing who we could meet.

But we decided it was best not to ruin it.

Today's list: Reasons Why Everything Should Be Mango

1. Mango Guava Smoothies at TeaRex in Charlotte, NC
2. Mango Martinis at The Last Hurrah in Boston, MA
3. Mango Body Butter at The Body Shop
4. Mango Mama juice by Fresh Samantha
5. Mangos from the tree in my Dad's backyard

Reasons why everything shouldn't be mango-- that stupid character that Chris Kattan does on Saturday Night LIve

Next week: Why everything should be lime.

I'd like to add that this whole thing where they waste my time with a clip show when there's MONEY (and dirty dishes) on the table is what my delicate, classy, Southern mamma would call a crock.

Thank you. That is all.

Tonight The Suz and I admit to ourselves and to the world that we have a problem.

For years we resisted reality television. Thought it was a stupid joke. I read Ben Elton's Dead Famous last summer, and that's as close as I have been to this cultural phenomenon. I know what I know about these shows from previews and from friends and coworkers.

Then all that changed. Joe Millionaire promised to be the nadir of American culture to date, and how could we resist?

I think The Suz secretly likes the idea of the name Joe paired with the word Millionaire, as this is something she is unlikely to see anywhere else in her life. I jumped in headfirst for the misogyny, the torrid lust, the raging stupidty of people out to make a buck. And of course the lies, lies, lies.

And it didn't stop there. Suddenly we're watching The Surreal Life and Jamie Kennedy on Thursdays. I fear this box can not be closed now.

But I digress.

Joe Millionaire has exceeded our expectations. First there's that guy. He's got a thick neck and the worst hair in the known universe. And he's dumber than a bag of hammers. His monologues go something like this:
"I just want these girls to like me for who I am, and I'm not a rich guy. I have to figure out which of them aren't into me just for the money. And this one is really hot. She's got a great body and wouldja LOOK AT THAT RACK!!!!"

Yeah. That.

And we get to make fun of Alex McLeod, because we think she has all the personality of a ball of drain hair. Her face doesn't move when she talks, and we were so happy when that cute little Paige Davis replaced her on Trading Spaces because Paige doesn't talk to the audience like we're stupid. While, we're also glad that Paige would never sully herself by being involved with something as sordid as a Fox dating show, we wonder how someone like Alex gets to be on television and we're still stuck working 9 hour days with supervisors who grab themselves and short people who pick their noses incessantly. And that's just at The Suz's job.

And then there was that story that broke about one of them being in fetish films, which prompted The Suz to make me visit the Adult Film Database with this very computer, on account of hers is broken right now. I don't even want to think what kind of mailing lists I'm going to end up on in exchange for seeing the cheesy blonde who gave Joe a hummer tying some poor schmo's feet together.

But the best part is that the whole thing has boiled down to the oldest known game that men play: Game Scenario Number 5. Game scenarios 1-4 have been lost to the ages, so we don't know what they were. What we do know is that sometime during the last century scrolls were unearthed near Olduvai Gorge that confirmed scenario #5.

Briefly, Game Scenario #5 involves the separation of women into two categories, Virgins and Whores. Good Girls and Bad Girls. Girls You Marry and Girls You F***. 4F Girls and Date Girls. The list of actual names goes on and on. The idea of which is that some girls are good for a hummer and some are good for washing your socks, and never the twain shall meet.

Do I believe that most men play this game?
In truth, I don't know anymore.

But it's an old cliche and our friends at Fox have orchestrated it for our viewing enjoyment. So of course I'm off to watch, as I've got $1 and who has to wash the dishes this week riding on the outcome of this thing....

Uncertainty causes stress.
Waiting for the bad news is usually far worse than the bad news itself.
So we sit in a holding pattern, waiting for the other shoe to drop. And it's evident, almost tangible. Everywhere.
But the bad news is never in the place or time when we're waiting for it, and expecting it.
The bad news comes when you're sitting in the bar at the casino at 10:00 on a Saturday morning, up $30 and down 2 drinks on video poker.
And suddenly it's 1986 all over again, and you're standing in the kitchen in your Underoos eating Sugar Pops and watching what will be the biggest tragedy of your young life to date.
Until one Saturday night 11 years later when you're packing your bags for your very first trip abroad-- filled with excitement about the adventure ahead-- and you think Saturday Night Live is doing a really tasteless skit. But a week later you'll be standing on a roadside in London watching the coffin pass by followed by two motherless children.
Until one Tuesday morning when a kid pops into your classroom telling you a plane crashed into the Pentagon, and you're thinking he's crazy because we have jets patrolling to prevent that kind of thing. And you turn on the television and find out that it is so very much worse than a joke.

Or it comes on a Sunday afternoon in a phone call, and the woman who told you bedtime stories took a nap after dinner and didn't wake up. Or you go to visit her and she thinks you're a 6 year old boy. Or you get a message on your machine telling you a friend and mentor is gone. Or the phone rings in the early hours of the morning, and you're thinking how it's not your job to handle other people's bad news.

But as humans, we see each other through these things. And we wait together for the next shoe to drop.

Clearly my New Year's Resolution does not involve having more discipline about the writing.

Who needs more discipline?

So to bring both my readers up to date on the past month's events, I offer the following list:

1) Finished the Mom's Christmas Present sweater in time for Twelfth Night. Haven't mailed it. I say this is because I distrust the postal service, but of course it's really because now that it's done I want it for myself.
2) Ditto for the Harry Potter Scarf I made for my friend.
3) Have tickets to see the Pretenders in about 3 weeks. I'll finally get to worship Chrissie Hynde properly.
4) I'm having a Replacements renaissance.
5) Got the entire series of Sports Night on DVD. Is roommate and I are starting to sound like dialogue from that show, and we're not really cool enough to pull that off.
6) My GayHusband got me a book called I and Claudius: Travels With My Cat for Christmas, and I highly recommend it for all disgruntled 20-something women types.
7) Diet Vanilla Coke is the greatest thing since Harpoon's Winter Warmer.
8) Neighbors are playing John Mayer CD too often and too loudly.
9) The Two Towers was all that I hoped for and more, but was long-- I'll enjoy it more on DVD when I can stretch my bad knee and go to the bathroom in between scenes. Not nearly enough surfing, either.
10) There is no #10, I just like round numbers better.

And there are two New Year's resolutions, of course. I tend to choose things that are fun for me. No dieting or quitting anything. Everyone else should follow my lead.
1) Improve my pool game.
2) Go to the movies more.