> This guy, this floral cake, chocolates and a balloon came to my office today. The card was unsigned. >
> > > >

Snoring in the other room is the man in my life. He’s back from his work thang, replete with office-y, technology-esque, imprinted giveaways, like a courier bag and a desk clock, and a very respectable looking, blunt instrument feeling crystal trophy celebrating his sales-raking prowess. Good to have him back, even if it meant losing remote control.

The downside of the deep cleaning at the dentist, besides the “scaling” itself, was the burden of guilt. I take a painful, pointed sense of personal responsibility about the shit state of my teeth. Not enough to actually floss regularly or show up to the dentist since moving to Cali three years ago, but guilty nonetheless. As the cheerful, inquisitive and chatty hygienist dug away, I felt like the kind of imperious princess who shits on the floor knowing full well that the maid will clean it up.

I’ll probably try to floss well for weeks on the guilt fumes.

The high side of the broken teeth and gums that need help is I was so thorough in cleaning up work stuff at the end of the year and then again before vacation, I got shitloads of time. I’m coasting on my prior organization while waiting for the boss to get back to 120 percent after being on leave. As long as the daily stuff keeps moving it’s all peaceful like.

Tis got me thinking right after someone I know from Boston comedy had instant messaged some complaints about his customer service job with a major shipping company. Basically, the customer service treadmill had gotten him feeling pretty unloved.

It got me thinking about the flip in the customer service aspects of my job. I’m the public face that gets most of the cold calls from folks looking to raise some capital for our group. In other words, instead of wanting something from me that I’m supposed to give, or might have failed to give, or didn’t work out right, I’m answering the phone for people with a huge incentive, like six or seven zeroes worth of placeholders on a check, to be nice to me. So they are. Very.

Where a lot of public interaction gigs chip away at your self-esteem, like my friend from Boston who IM’d, mine kind of boosts my pathetic need for stroking support. They laugh at my jokes, they compliment my comprehension of our industry, they know the path through me could mean at minimum a meeting with people with authority to dole out the dough. We’re instant friends when I merely give a listening ear and promise nothing more.

Kind of brightens the workload a bit. It also makes it harder and harder to remember the way it was at my last bit of paid toil when a ringing phone meant current and future pain. The days can go by more slowly, though.

Finally, and maybe it’s related to my self-esteem, the best part of M.’s being back is, in addition to the nice things I could say about him, is he keeps one neurotic thought at bay. I was pretty much one night away from lying in bed waiting for the home invasion or other onslaught of ne’er-do-wells in my little existence.

The downside of living alone was always the free-floating anxiety associated with what if I am brought in harm’s way and no one hears me scream? Or what if I die right now and no one notices for days and days. At least with my current domestic arrangement, M. would probably notice if I disappeared.

Technorati Tags: California, dentist, guilt, self-esteem, work

A big exciting day today — Part one of a deep dental cleaning. Oh boy, ain’t we got fun. It was an hour or so of scraping and scraping and a whopping dose of Novocaine. I hates me that giant Novocaine needle. No matter how modern the dentistry, that’s a bit monster of an archaic looking torture-y.

The hygienist sent me home with a gentle toothbrush, floss and some Sensodyne toothpaste with a call to gargle with warm, salt water and take ibuprofen for the pain. Yikes, I though, even as I accidentally spit on the wall while spastically and numbly trying to rinse.

So far, though, no pain. I’m a fucking hard guy, I tell you what. And, I gather my right side is lower in tartar than I am sure it has been for years and years. Nothing like a poking, filing, prodding, scaling procedure to get you feeling half clean.

Next week, it’s even more scraping and the added bonus of getting a filling removed, replaced and a crown fitted for the tooth that broke around my old school silver amalgam when I was eating something in Malaysia. No fucking fun, but I won’t in the short term be toothless hag. Something to worry about as the 44th b’day is days away. Nope, I’ll be a toothsome hag.

Other than that, it’s day two of sleeping alone. I’ve used the time questionably. Instead of writing and creating and embracing the ripe possibilities of time enough, I’ve been watching the kind of flicks that M. just can’t handle. Somewhere in the relationship, I conceded control of the remote control, and it looks like I won’t be getting it back. Ever. Sad little (impotent) power play to chick flick it up in my solitude.

Yesterday was Julia Sweeney. I think I’ll by the recording of the book version of her show Letting Go of God. I like a good religious transformation story, especially if it’s away from the big g god. I also inexplicably watched Major League.

Tonight was Bette Midler’s Gypsy, Muriel’s Wedding and the end of Victor/Victoria. Whenever I see any version of Gypsy, I get fired up a bit to perform. I want to have hung out with Gypsy Rose Lee. Maybe I just want to be a stripper deep down. I have the self-esteem for it or lack thereof.

Somewhere a few clicks up the highway from where I sit, M. is sales rallying it up in a hotel with his company and a slew of employees.

I’d be lying if I didn’t say that after two weeks of total togetherness I am kind of digging the solitude. I like M. and all, but it’s been a while that I had the remote control, the apartment, the heat, the lights, the windows all to myself. I ate cereal for dinner, because Weetabix were just find by me. Then, I dominated the television choices opting for Julia Sweeney’s “God Said ‘Ha.””

The irony there was spending any time at all watching some one’s one woman show in stead of using the quiet down time writing. I mean nothing like evenings alone to get my writing swerve on. Did I? Ah, well, did I mention the Weetabix?

The big weekend event was the big recital. We went to see M.’s aunt’s husband’s high school friend’s teenage daughter. Folks from the old country who live in the relative neighborhood have a singing daughter, so we thought we’d get tickets and check out the show.

The main problem with supporting a talented child is they tend to be surrounded by the more averagely gifted. It was a big night in the big city for Asian suburbanites and their families and friends. I hadn’t been surrounded by that many non-Caucasions since, well, last week.

The big act of the night was a core crew of 15 to 20-year-old young women singing their little hearts out both in ensemble and with solos. They were supported by their sister companies, both the older “graduates” and the younger, junior high up-and-comers. If that weren’t enough there was a local high school band appearing for their 4th gig, yup numero 4 after having 3 under their belts, a crew of Asian teen rappers and an a cappella church group of quasi-adults. Oh yeah, chockfull of entertainment goodness.

Remember the rock and rollers who formed a band in your high school and with cocky, earnest bravado jumped on stage and banged away on the equipment their parents gave them? Yeah, same shit, different generation. An amp and electric guitar does not talent make.

Now, unlike back in my day, you don’t even need instruments. You can kill time and make audience ears bleed with some rhyming, rhythm and mediocre choreography. Oh yeah, thug-style.

As for the main group of girls, one could belt a tune and shake the rafters. Even though she was singing some current, pop, R&B-light shit that I hate, I almost got the goosebumps she sold her song so hard. Other than that, the girl we knew took some voice classes on a whim, because her friend had signed up, and discovered a powerful soprano. Despite a cold, she still hit the high hard ones and best of all, she can hold a tune. Thank god, she’s good.

A handful of the rest had you hoping that they get good grades. I can’t think of any sight quite so heart-wrenching as an awkward, not-yet-woman with all her heart and soul singing off key.

It was a few hours we won’t get back, but I think karma might smile on us a wee bit.

Technorati Tags: Asia, California, music, puppy, recital, singing, talent_show, Teenage, women

The big weekend event was the big recital. We went to see M.’s aunt’s husband’s high school friend’s teenage daughter. Folks from the old country who live in the relative neighborhood have a singing daughter, so we thought we’d get tickets and check out the show.

The main problem with supporting a talented child is they tend to be surrounded by the more averagely gifted. It was a big night in the big city for Asian suburbanites and their families and friends. I hadn’t been surrounded by that many non-Caucasions since, well, last week.

The big act of the night was a core crew of 15 to 20-year-old young women singing their little hearts out both in ensemble and with solos. They were supported by their sister companies, both the older “graduates” and the younger, junior high up-and-comers. If that weren’t enough there was a local high school band appearing for their 4th gig, yup numero 4 after having 3 under their belts, a crew of Asian teen rappers and an a cappella church group of quasi-adults. Oh yeah, chockfull of entertainment goodness.

Remember the rock and rollers who formed a band in your high school and with cocky, earnest bravado jumped on stage and banged away on the equipment their parents gave them? Yeah, same shit, different generation. An amp and electric guitar does not talent make.

Now, unlike back in my day, you don’t even need instruments. You can kill time and make audience ears bleed with some rhyming, rhythm and mediocre choreography. Oh yeah, thug-style.

As for the main group of girls, one could belt a tune and shake the rafters. Even though she was singing some current, pop, R&B-light shit that I hate, I almost got the goosebumps she sold her song so hard. Other than that, the girl we knew took some voice classes on a whim, because her friend had signed up, and discovered a powerful soprano. Despite a cold, she still hit the high hard ones and best of all, she can hold a tune. Thank god, she’s good.

A handful of the rest had you hoping that they get good grades. I can’t think of any sight quite so heart-wrenching as an awkward, not-yet-woman with all her heart and soul singing off key.

It was a few hours we won’t get back, but I think karma might smile on us a wee bit.

Technorati Tags: Asia, California, music, puppy, recital, singing, talent_show, Teenage, women

After a week (or a tad less) back at work, and some much needed sleep, we’re almost back into our routine (i.e. boring) lives. Thank god.

The fun thing back at work was due to a leave that meant I hadn’t seen my boss since before Christmas, and left on vacation right before we would see each other again, a few official things were a tad delayed in our office. Among them was the official word on annual salaries. Right when I came back, voila, letter about my salary. It was good news all around and a bit surprising. (Well, not that surprising, since for a full year there’s been convos about how the work I was doing didn’t quite match the cash, since the position I was hired to had once been filled by someone half my age with no prior experience.)

Of course, because of past experiences with my so-called real jobs, I’m in a bit of neurotic zone. If past performance is an indicator of future success, then I have a couple more years of impressing the powers that be and taking on more responsibility so my value and earnings increase. Then, I will flame out in an amazing blaze of glory. I wonder how it will be this time.

On the political front, now that I am back in the U.S. of A., I’m in awe of how truly fucked up the Bill and Hill show has become. They were the ones with the campaign chops, the machine, the ultimate strategies. Now it’s a bit sad. Like a prize fighter staying in the ring that one last fight past his prime. Or some other hackneyed metaphor.

Once Obama seemed like the unlikely young also ran, now it seems like his game to lose. My feminist side does weep that Hillary was the best we could do at this historic moment.

Meanwhile, is anyone fucking surprised that McCain is cozy with lobbyists. I don’t believe the grumpy, old man nailed Vicki Iseman, mostly because she doesn’t look the sort who wants to wake up and wash the old man smell off herself.

What amazes me is the McCain hubris. Other politicians according to his world run the risk of being tainted with their associations with fundraisers, corporations, lobbyists and whatnot. But, not John, nope he’s impervious Apparently, all other pols are weak-willed and susceptible, but he has integrity.

I mean obviously, anyone who learned such a lesson in corruption by helping to fuck up the savings and loan industry would now be a pillar among men, right? Someone like that would never again associate with questionable characters and appear to peddle his influence. Oh wait, he would, but he’d no better and his new lobbying friends are the good guys.

Other than that, same old, same old, and I’m happy to be back in it. I also have photos up here: http://gallery.mac.com/dee_rob and here: http://dee-rob.com/zenphoto for different viewing experiences (and so as not to direct co-workers who asked for pics to this particular site of web ignominy).

M. particularly likes these shots.

I can’t believe that his aunt asked if I wanted “black jelly,” and I said yes.

So good, old Jane Fonda apparently said “cunt” on America’s morning TV. Not only can you see the clip here, but you can read hard right commentators losing their shit and dredging up her Vietnam-era treachery. (By the way, if even McNamara has admitted and apologized for how fucked up the Vietnam War was and how misguided, is she still a traitor?)

Apart from laughing at the anger over a word said in reference to the actual name of the monologue Fonda was asked to do in Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues, here’s what I want to know? Rather than worrying about Fonda’s accurate but profane reference and morning television, and wringing hands about the children, oh my god the children, who may have heard, what the fuck was Eve Ensler and her famous play even doing on the Today Show?

I mean, it’s not like there is any surprise at all that that particular play deals with “adult” themes. Because, of course, discussing women, their points of view and sexuality is ugh awful dirty and bad. It’s not called the Hoohaa Chronicles (thankfully).

I would think the Today Show should be catching the heat for introducing the topic. It’s not like Fonda just threw it in there all gratuitous, Diane Keaton, like.

Hope I never make it on the television set when I’m a woman of a certain age (an age that is certainly creeping up on me). No doubt, I’ll find inadvertently call the host a fucking cunt. Rock on celebrity women. Maybe some day we’ll all admit that sometimes grown ups talk that way and it doesn’t fucking matter.

Technorati Tags: comedy, sexism, vote, Diane_Keaton, Eve_Ensler, Jane_Fonda, women, vagina_monologues

We are thoroughly back and re-acclimating to what Reader’s Digest calls “Life in These United States.” Pretty much, I’ve spent the weekend in a near coma catching up on much-needed sleep (apart from jetlag, cramped planes and whatnot, I generally don’t sleep well in places that are not my bed. I guess my slutty 20s were extra special slutty, because I never really slept around, I stayed awake around.)

Anyhow, with a little perspective and time not spent rushing around on either trying to soak up the local flavor tourist-style, eating or interacting with family (also known as eating), I can pause and think about what aspect of travel really affects me. I’d have to say toilets.

I spent a good deal of time pondering the squatting pan style toilets all over Singapore and Malaysia but more importantly the ever-present hose. The hose is actually next to every kind of toilet (most public places had stalls with both your western-style regulation toilet and the squatters). For the life of me, I can’t work out how exactly the hose is meant to work. Some places only have the hose, no toilet paper to be found. (As a side note, everyone in M.’s family, man, woman and some children carry around pocket packs of tissues that they whip out at meals, since napkins aren’t prevalent.)

Apparently, the hose is solely a Muslim thing, since no one I spoke with of the non-Islamic, Chinese persuasion, could give me an answer on use. The closest I got was a teenage cousin telling me a story of how they use the bathroom hoses to spray each other at school for some fun shenanigans.

I didn’t see Muslim women drenched on their way out of the stalls, so there has to be some technique passed on from mothers to daughters and fathers to sons. Thanks to the magic of the intertubes, I’m honing in on information. And, M. found the delightful link: http://www.thebathroomdiaries.com/essays/pageasia.htm.

In the general topic area, I loved this sign in the Singapore Zoo for it’s clear use of language. Poo is just poo.

Technorati Tags: Asia, toilets, poo, Muslim, toilets, travel

It’s embarkation day. We leave Asia this morning and return to the old U.S. of A. this morning actually, as we get back the day lost to the International Date Line.

Best monkey story of the vacation actually happened at the Singapore Zoo, where some native species roam pretty freely in the treetops. A particularly festive orang utan (as they spell here where they live, well, probably not the orangs themselves, don’t know how well they spell), he swung his way to directly above the footpath and commenced to pooping on people’s heads.

Good monkey.