Train of Thought

A common term, bandied about on the train, is 'management.'

Management, in that circle, means "my wife."
Senior Management means "mother" or "mother-in-law."
The Cartel is the circle of commuter's wives [management] who know and talk to each other.

Used in a sentence, "I'd love to come to the pub tonight, but the cartel told management what I did last time, so I'm on lockdown."

Now, since I'm gay, I happen to be a curiosity for the eunuchs. There is no female in my household, who is management?

I tell them, there IS no management, but then they insist it must be me. "Because," insert circular logic "Only management would deny being management." [Remember Life of Brian? - "Only the true Messiah would deny his divinity!"]

Seriously, I live in a cooperative. Co-ops, for short "are based on the values of self-help, self-responsibility, democracy, equality, equity and solidarity. . . . Co-operative members believe in the ethical values of honesty, openness, social responsibility and caring for others." - Wikipedia

They vehemently deny the existance of such an entity in a married household.

Once, I told my husband I wanted to go to the strip club (See Strip Club Epiphanies) and did he have any objections? A courtesy, really.

"Ah HA!"
What?
"You asked permission to go out. HE's management."

So, time passes and they ask a question here and there, trying to nail the title of management to one of us.
"Who handles the money?"
My paycheck pays for [list], his paycheck pays for [list].
"Who does the dishes?"
Like that would determine it? We both do.
"Who decides where to go on vacation?"
We both agree on when and where to go out, but I am more social than he is.
"Ah HA!"
What?
"YOU'RE MANAGEMENT!"

[I shake my head.]

Time passes again and we're all at a pub. I am observed coming from the bar multiple times with our beers.
"Ah HA!"
What?
"Your serving HIM ! HE must be management!"

[I shake my head.]

Really, I suspect they only do this to rankle me, but they come across as wild animals, raised in captivity, who have no IDEA that there is a better way of living. Their pea-sized, henpecked brains cannot be wrapped around the philosophy of a cooperative existence. It MUST be dominate or be dominated. (Which, of course, can be fun now and again - but I digress.)

[Still shaking my head.]

It has now occurred to me that the Eunuchs claim I am part of the cartel. I must confront them this evening and solve the conundrum: If HE is management [which they are currently insisting] then how can I be in the cartel?

Hmmmm? One of two things will happen:
1) More circular logic or
2) Their heads will explode.

I need to buy a slicker.

Save Dora !

How to raise tuition for college.

(I)
The order in which we would eat our pets if we run low on funds because of college.*



(II) (These ideas were inspired by my train friends.)

1) $100 dollars for every time I answer a commuter's wife with "I don't know." when she asks about your TR (Train Romance).
2) $30 dollars and I won't 'act straight' and charming when there's a new girl on the train.
3) Sell individual beers to train riders for a profit.**
4) $40 dollars and I'll promise not to do the open-mouth-insert-beer-bottle trick that makes the straight guys nervous.***

(III)
$500 and I'll cut my hair.

(IV)
$100 and I'll wear to work the ugliest sweater (that I'm knitting right now) for a whole week. - This offer has been withdrawn. First I'd have to finish the damn thing.

(V)
$40 + Materials and I'll knit you a scarf or a hat.

(VI)
$50 and I'll retract my statement on this jacket/dress ensemble

(*We would certainly NOT eat our pets.)
(** Probably illegal, so I wouldn't do it.)
(*** Another $40 would eliminate the beer CAN option.)

Strip Club Epiphanies II

I started to watch the women at center stage ply their craft. Chairs line the curved edge of the oval-shaped, knee-high stage, which was divided lengthwise with a mirrored wall.

As disinterested as I was in any parts that the women shaved or jiggled, I focused on their faces and their shoes. Wait a minute. They wear makeup? Aside from me, who's ever going to be paying attention to their faces? That's not where one stuffs the dollar bills. Every single performer had a far away look in their eyes, like the expression a cat gets in the litterbox. Ironically, as disinterested as I was in their bodies, they were just as disinterested in the men looking at their bodies.

Like, I said, I'm watching their faces and when they faced their 'client' they shook and jiggled and gave them a you're-the-only-one look, but when they turned away to gyrate and expose other parts, their faces transformed to a mental shopping list. You could actually see them go somewhere else in their heads--like, "Did I leave the iron on?" Right, like you own an iron.

So, guys - and girls - this epiphany is going to be a little difficult to digest, so you'd better sit down. It's better you learn it hear than face the harsh reality in the field. Ready? When you're getting a lap dance, they don't really mean it.

I spent the rest of the time waiting for my friends with my back to the stages, playing video games and getting multiple high scores in all of the spelling and strategy games until they arrived. (If you ever want to feel really good about yourself play the spelling games at a redneck bar.)

While I played, one of the diminutive performers in her street clothes took the bar stool next to me and ordered a drink. ("Is it her? Can it be? Is she one of the performers?") I tried not to stare and while trying not to stare, I had another epiphany. I was in a place where one is supposed to stare. All this time, I'm politely trying NOT to stare, when I paid a cover charge in order to do just that. (Like I said before, this is not one of my usual haunts.)

She smiled at me as she took her drink and cigarettes and deftly climbed down from the stool, without spilling a drop, then headed to the dressing room to prepare. The performance time was drawing closer and the big, mirrored stage was transforming. The wall of mirrors were slid back into the wall to reveal an entire other room! Chairs were placed all the way around a now 360 degree stage. This new room had couches that surrounded mini stages with poles. There were steps up to another bar, neon and pool tables and a mechanical bull! Very exciting.

All of the non-dancing employees scurried about to make this new room ready. These busy men all wore their "court clothes." You know, jackets and ties, slacks and button down shirts that working stiffs wear to court to appear, I dunno, respectable? Innocent? (I'm sure judges are fooled all the time.) It's hard to describe how these men didn't look natural in what they were wearing. Maybe it was the expression on their faces, or the haircuts that didn't really go with the ensemble, or even the L-O-V-E / H-A-T-E tattooed on their knuckles, I'm not sure.

You'll remember, I took some time to think about what to wear to a strip club. It was a wasted effort. In a sea of flannel and Lynard Skynard t-shirts , I was wearing a nice black button shirt with a subtle vertical design in a shinier black. What a mistake. Do you know how well the black lights pick up ANY specs of lint on a black shirt? So, for you who may take that first visit to a gentlemen's club, dress for a bar room brawl, because whether you look nice or not, what really gets their attention is the denomination you wave near their Jello.

And while speaking of clothing, I was amazed at how stretchy some of the women's clothing was. Some of the girls would finish their shift and pull what seemed like a scrunchy, or one of those sporty rubberbands off of their wrist. These would magically be stretched over their head and arms then be tugged wider to cover their goodies. I'm telling you, I have never seen anything like it, but again, none of my sisters shop at the Hoochies Be Us either. (Well, maybe one, based on what she wore to our sister's wedding, but I digress.)

Next epiphany: Just TWO rubberbands, and all your naughty bits are covered. Why, oh WHY then do women need walk-in closets? Oh, nevermind, I know. The shoes.

Still more to come.

Send Chuck to Finishing School !

I know that many of you would agree that Chuck could use some refinement.

Years ago I was well on my way to a degree in English and Education at St. Mary's College of Maryland. A strong student with A's and B's, Dean's List all that jazz, I overloaded with credits every semester and studied while I worked the night audit at the local motor inn.

But then, tragedy struck. (Cue melancholy music, cut to me walking in park in Winter, as you hear my taped story.)

My father became gravely ill. He was hospitalized and diagnosed with cancer. He was too far gone and remained unconscious. I left my job and took some time off from my classes to be with him and console my sister. Eventually, I made the difficult decision to remove him from life support. When he died, he was penniless and it took whatever college money I had to get his affairs in order and take care of his funeral arrangements, so I withdrew from school completely.

I decided then that I could be penniless and jobless anywhere, so I moved to Washington, D.C. (Cue That Girl theme music.) At first I paid rent with credit card cash advances until I found work as a flower delivery guy - which paid for beer, while I still paid rent with the credit card.

Eventually I succumbed to pressure from friends and found a 'real' job that has benefits and holidays and the like.

But now, after 11 years of cubicle nonsense, I've decided to quit my job in D.C. (goodbye commute!) and enroll at Shepherd University in West Virginia to complete my English and Education degree with the goal of teaching (Cue Laverne & Shirley theme music).

Nearly all of the 'General Studies' and electives bologna have transfered as well as a number of the classic English courses, so I'll be taking pretty much only Literature and Education classes. (YAY!)

But how on EARTH are we going to pay the mortgage and buy groceries and pet food (not the same) on top of college tuition? (Would someone PLEASE think of the children! - Soldier, Maxi, Dora and Blue.)

Here's where you can help Chuck in finishing school.

Sending money with PayPal is as easy as typing in an e-mail address and clicking send, and it only takes a minute to sign up.

My e-mail address is

poizniv@gmail.com

I am, of course, leery of publishing my street address, but if you know it already, I will gladly deposit any checks I receive in my mail box.

When you visit, you could also drop any spare change into the 'College Fund' jar as well.

I am proud, but I am also not rich.

Beauty is in the Eye

On the discussion of beauty, Just Chuck and Lady Prisspott bored some of their good friends with an endless and painful diatribe.

Boiled down for blog visitors:

LP says: there must be things that are considered beautiful in all cultures.

Chuck reply: Are there? I don't think so.

Blah blah blah blah ....nature
Blah blah blah blah ....nurture
Blah blah blah blah ....jab at Chuck's hair

The whole conversation stems from:
LP likes P. Cruz's Oscars dress and Just-Chuck doesn't AND because the majority of people (interested) agree with LP, LP must be more right.

LP feels: a majority attraction must point to a universality.
Just Chuck says: No. It merely points to a majority.

I'd like to put it to a test, but all a response would show is that a portion likes this and a portion likes that.

But on a whim, for the pitifully few people who actually visit my blog:
what do you think of this blonde's dress and jacket ensemble?

Please, no comments about the blonde.

Blasts from the Past.

I hopped on Myspace a little bit ago. Created a profile - which pretty much redirects folks to this spot.

It was SO depressing. It's a place where you link to other friends spots and they link back to yours and your profile keeps a running tally of ALL your friends.

SO.

You create a profile and it says.

"You have ONE friends."

And that's TOM. Just a myspace guy. I guess they feel NO ONE should be friendless. So they automatically stick TOM in there.

Thanks, Tom.

Delete Tom yes/no?

YES YES YES YES YES YES YES

Okay so now,

"You have ZERO friends."

Okay, that's just plain awful. SO, you search around (during work of course) for people you know. Send invites and friend requests and you build yourself up to the current, "You have 13 friends."

Okay, not as bad as one or zero, but nothing near as good as the friend whores who still have "TOM" and hundreds of other people linked to their page.

SO, you start broadening your search......

Hmm. Who do I know, who did I know, whom have I ever known my entire life?

Which brings me to my point today.

I located a friend from 20 years ago. We were stationed at the same place.
Hung out with the same folks and had much the same interests and pursuits.

Lots of fun.

We later went to the same college. He and his wife let me bunk at their house for a while. Still good stuff.

But, then I left that college for another one.

We didn't really write.

Pretty much lost contact.

But now he's found again. And I've redirected him to THIS page.

SO- NOW I have to hurry up and add a post here so the FIRST thing he sees when he gets here isn't "GAY CARD REQUIREMENTS."

HI MILES ! Good to find you again. How's Carla?
Click around a bit to get caught up. And I'll chat with you soon!