M-m-m-m-my Sharona.

You know how when you're at an intersection, and the light turns green, and you accelerate, and your vehicle moves forward?

Well, that was an experience that I had apparently been taking for granted.

(This picture is thanks to street view on google maps, that is not actually my car,
however that is exactly where I got stuck.)

There I sat, on the corner of Byron Center and 28th Street, one vehicle in front of me and several behind me. The light changed from red to green and the car in front of me began to move. Eager to escape the heat and traffic, I excitedly pushed on my own gas pedal. Nothing.

I pushed it again, this time to the floor. The mini van gave one last feeble shake and closed her eyes.

"No." I said out loud.

I pushed harder on my accelerator. She remained still and silent.

"No, no no!" I repeated with increasing volume.

I pushed the button with the red triangles and my hazard lights began to flash.

I thrust my hand out of the open window in an attempt to notify the growing line of cars behind me that this was all I knew to do in such a situation.

"No, no, no, no, no!"

I shifted into park.

I turned the car off.

I turned the car on.

I shifted into Drive. No dice.

Repeat performance with a few more "no"s, and some other choice words. Nothing. I looked into my rear view to see my fellow drivers with their own frustrated hands in the air. Some told me where to go as they blew by me, others simply honked, and one or two cast me a sympathetic look.

Panic. Call Dad.

Dad is the savior of all things car-related. He comes to the rescue when I run out of gas, when I need a jump, when I'm stuck in a snow bank, or when I crash into other cars. He'll even come when I can't figure out how to put air in my tires.

He answered. I told him what had happened and where I was. I asked (about thirty six times) what I should do. Despite my heaving tears and incessant babbling, he stayed calm (he's good like that) and told me that a police officer would be along soon.

By this time two light cycles had come and gone.

Two boys that had been walking across the street came up to my window while I asked my dad (for the thirty seventh time) what I should do.

"We're going to push you." The taller one said.

Unfortunately I was in the inner lane, and traffic was lined up on both sides of me. I smiled through my tears, wondering where the hell they were going to push me.

The boys looked around, looked at each other, looked at the stop light, and looked at D.U.F.F.y. (as that is now the name of my van, more on that at a later time).

"Man, I saw those tears and I knew we had to do something" I overheard the shorter one say.

He went behind my van and stopped the traffic in the right hand lane. The two boys pushed me around the corner and all the way into that CVS parking lot, shown earlier. I thanked them repeatedly, almost to the point of being obnoxious.

I called my Dad two more times. He could not come out, but mama bear did.

As for now, D.U.F.F.y sits in the CVS parking lot, crossing two spaces and leaving me nervous that someone will pillage her for my National City swag, two jackets, umbrella, granola bar wrappers, and my itrip.

Discombobulation

Today I am working at our Plainfield branch.

Its always strange to fill in at another bank. The teller windows are different at each location.

I don't have my three cubbies under the counter where I neatly display my phone, breath mints, stapler, and sticky notes. I don't have the 8 to 10 pictures of GAGWAGGERs, former roommates, and family members smiling back at me. My containers of paper clips and rubber bands are missing.

I don't have the security of looking up and seeing Luke schmoozing old ladies in hopes of an investment or Jen maintaining a smile while a customer berates her for another overdraft charge or denied credit application.

Nihada isn't next to me, asking me if a half dollar equals fifty cents or if a customer named Jonathan can cash a check made out to Jon. Its weird.

The Plainfield branch employees are nice and friendly, but they're not MY employees. I don't know if they will find me as funny as the Eastbrook people will (or at least humor the way that they do).

I keep reaching to my left for my scissors, here they are on the right.

This phone rings and I want to answer with my customary "Thank you for calling National City Eastbrook, This is Stephanie, How can I help you?"

Unfortunately I remember where I am just as I get to the "eas-". As a result my greeting sounds like "Thank you for calling National City-ese... (awkward pause) how can I help you?"

Plainfield is very slow.

It is slow, strange, and disconcerting.

Baa Baa Black Sheep, Have you any decency?

On Monday I committed the ultimate corporate e-mail faux pas.

"Can you imagine spending a week of camping with Dave?
I don't think one of us would make it back."

The intended recipient of this e-mail was Luke, the LFC at our branch. Unfortunately my electric letter found its way into Dave's inbox instead of Luke's.

Dave, who had been on vacation for the last week, camping with his dad and brother, read the e-mail, printed it off, and showed it to our boss. She addressed it with me, assuming that she was the intended recipient (which kind of shows how the rest of the Eastbrook branch feels about Dave).

Once again, I have placed myself in an awkward situation, and in doing so, deeply hurt my co-worker's feelings.

Things like this make me think of all the other stupid/irresponsible/crappy/immature things I've done recently.

It's clear that I, the youngest of four children, have filled the position of "black sheep".

I don't suppose that I need to list all of the heinous acts I have committed over time, but I can assure you that none of my siblings has skipped church due to a hangover, totaled their car, been told to tone down the language in work e-mails, fled the cops on several occasions, placed themselves in over $2,000 in credit card debt, or celebrated Cake and Porn Thursday.

I like things that are expensive BECAUSE they are expensive. My music library has enough expletives to make Dennis Leary blush. I will cause a scene if warranted. I don't subscribe to the same political values that my parents do, and I am not afraid to question their fundamentalist beliefs.

And while my discretion isn't as bad as some others, (think textsfromlastnight.com) it is enough to push my pedastal a bit lower than that of my siblings.

Don't cry out loud (just keep it inside)

Oh how I hate the emotional breakdown at work.

I hate the later reflection and the inevitable realization that the breakdown was completely baseless and uncalled for. However, I would like to acknowledge that my emotions were right on the surface thanks to little sleep, post-MSing, and the fact that my co-worker did not tell me what I wanted to hear after sharing my issues with him.

Fortunately I finished work at 1:15 today. The first tear didn't fall until the parking lot. The last one fell somewhere between the College Ave exit and the 131 interchange on 196.

I don't let myself cry in front of people. This is a skill I have been refining since my eighth grade English teacher made me cry in the school counselor's office. I don't remember why we were in her office, or what he said to make me cry, but it happened, it was humiliating, and I vowed never to give in to tears in public.

Unfortunately I broke that vow when my high school choir teacher said the following:

"If you sing that way at Solo and Ensemble,
you will embarrass yourself."

I hated that man. I still hate that man.

I have never been the girl to get drunk and cry at a party/bar. I have never been the girl who cries to get out of a ticket. I didn't cry when I totaled my car. I didn't cry when I fractured a part of my ankle, and I didn't cry when I spun the van all the way around in the snow and ice on the way home from class*. When I cry, its not pretty. There's no elegant run of tears, its a gusher of moisture, blotchy skin, and uncontrollable shaking. Think along these lines:



The last time I let myself cry in front of people was at my Grandmother's funeral last fall. I
figured that was an appropriate venue, however the dozens of wet tissues in my purse were not.

So today I cried at work. Tears that wouldn't have happened, had my co-worker not so eloquently said:

"Oh snap, you're shaking! Are you going to lose it?
You're about to lose it! Eeew!"**

Which is when I booked it out of his office, despite his protests for me to come back and sit down. I blew through the glass doors and let it happen. Those obnoxious tears that I couldn't fight anymore.

*That's a lie, I totally cried when this happened.
**Like most men, Luke does not know how to properly handle a woman on the verge of tears.

Mean Girls and whatnot...

I think I am irrational. No. I know that I am. Over time, there have been several individuals in my life that I have completely shut off. Their minor offenses kind of push me over the edge. Apparently you shouldn't push me. Hm.

High school friends will recall that incident involving Corin during our junior year. Even I can't quite explain that situation.

One day the switch flipped and we went from co-existing and sharing mutual friends to me wanting to see him fail at everything he tried. For no real reason, I delighted at his failures and exploited his poor decisions. Looking back, I did not really benefit from his downfall. Contrary to Isaac Newton's famous theory, there was no equal and opposite reaction. I was just a bitch. Somehow I came out on top, too.* Which is absurd and leaves me feeling slightly guilty. But to be honest, I have no desire to reconcile with him. He was weird, whiny, and too emo for this straight-shooter.

It has been five years since I shoved Corin out of my life. Five years later I am in a similar place of malice and rancor. No, it is not directed at the 300 lb. theatre kid with more gel in his hair than your average jersey Guido (can I say that?). Similar to the Corin meltdown, I've flipped the switch on one of my co-workers. Yes, 34-year-old-weird-al-loving-aldi's-shopping-HPV-suffering-Dave has found himself in my tractor beam of distaste and malignance.

Sidenote: There is a scene Mean Girls in which Lindsay Lohan states via voiceover:

"I was a woman posessed. I spent about 80% of my time talking
about Regina. And the other 20% of the time I was praying that someone
would bring her up so I could talk about her more."

And while I can't honestly say that I spend 80% of the time talking about Dave, I can vouch for the latter part of that phrase. Dave has become the subject of breakroom gossip, drunken texts, and awkward silence filler.

Everytime the man opens his mouth, I just want to jam a handful of pennies in it. When he walks by my teller window, I silently plead with him not to talk to me, and when he starts tapping out a clumsy rhythm on his desk, every single profanity I know scrolls through my head.

Recently (as of this morning around 11:30AM) I took over Dave's job. Not only is Dave 34, single, and a dollar store fiend (I mean, he pitches a tent whenever the Dollar Store manager walks in), but he has now last his job to a 22 year old college student. A sudent who has only been with National City for a year (Dave is somewhere between years four and five).

Despite my frustration and annoyance towards Dave, I can't help but feel a teeny bit guilty. I keep telling myself that Dave is bad at his job and really just an all around bad person. It doesn't effectively ease the guilt, but I suppose that's a good thing, because I haven't gone full fledged monster yet.
*I realize that this phrase could be contradictory to a previous statement, so allow me to clarify, when I say that I came out on top, I mean that Corin faced social demise, and my own social standing stayed fairly solid within the high school community

Junie B. Jones and the lack of judgment

My best friend is in a toxic relationship. Last night we (G#1, G#3, and A#2) drunkenly blindsided her with our "disdain" for her current boyfriend, her current boyfriend that has been sucking on her soul over the past year and a half through improperly timed make out sessions and absurd guilt trips.

Now, we here at GAGWAG are a very non-confrontational people. Our issues are typically resolved with a little passive-aggressiveness and the passing of time.

However, once in a while, we will call one another out. And because of the "time" factor, its typically after that issue has festered and things are said that shouldn't be said.

How is it that the six of us found eachother and created this dysfunctional friendship that has lasted since highschool?

Anyway, back to W's toxicity. Let me set this scene for you: I am driving the four of us back from a Copenhaver bonfire. In my mini van sit three of my bests. Katie is talking about Tom, the guy with male pattern baldness and moobs, who she has been hooking up with for about a year. We don't particularly like Tom because he's 30, creepy, and lets Katie have sex with him in the presence of others. The blindsiding went on like this:

G#3: Tom has been texting me all night, you guys don't understand, I really have feelings for him, we aren't just fu*kbuddies.
W: Katie, its an unhealthy relationship, he doesn't respect you, you shouldn't buy into this. You can do so much better! (She says other things that I can't remember and would prefer not fabricating, which kind of ruins the effect of the story, and for that I apologize). You're putting yourself in a bad situation.
G#3: Jen! You are in the same situation!
G#1: (Jaw drops)
A#2: (Eyes bug)
W: What?
G#3: J! You're in the same situation! You are better than him. He's not a good guy! (Once again, Kates says other things that add tension to my white soccer-mom-mobile that I cannot quite recall). He's an ass hole.

Silence. (My mouth is still noticably agape).

G#3: J! Are you mad?

Silence.

I pull into Jenny's driveway. She silently exits the car.

So I drive Kates and Annie back to Kate's house. I drop them off. I head for home. I get a text from W. "Was I out of line?"

In my impared judgement (due to slamming several blueberry beers and the fact that I had been awake for twenty solid hours) I take the bait.

G#1: "Neither one of you were out of line"
W: "I guess I deserve that"
G#1: "Its not an issue of deserving, you were both being honest"

I go on to inform W that we all hate her boyf. ALL of us, independantly. We all want them to break up. We all think she can do better.

My texts went unanswered.