“it all depends on what you want out of life and the attitude at which you look at your current situation. from my eyes it would seem that you have it all: a gorgeous and supportive husband who truly loves you enough to move away from everything he ever knew, gorgeous and intelligent children, your biggest cheerleader in a mom who sees the spectacular woman you are even when you don’t see it yourself, a good paying job for a company that is owned by one of your best friends, a big house, a car that i would kill for, etc.

so i will ask you, what do you feel that are you being held back from? what is it that you desire that you feel that you can’t have by being married to jared and being mom to your children? are you sure that you really are being held back and not simply afraid to try certain things?”

I received this in an email from a brilliant friend of mine yesterday. She was responding to an email from me in which I basically asked her if she regretted any part of her life as a single woman and confessed to her that I was struggling to appreciate my own.

I have a habit of doing that. I look at people like Dave2 who get to travel the world, meeting new people and doing exciting things - and the jealousy eats me up. I watch my friends who don’t have children and can get in the car and take off for a long weekend without a second thought to child care, and the envy seethes from me.

I even find myself being jealous of my mother - who is living on her own for the first time in 28 years. And I know first hand the pain she’s been through to get to where she’s at right now.

In it’s worst form, my jealousy manifests itself in resentment. In those ugliest of moments, I resent my family like hell - including my children.

I will kindly ask that no one reminds me of that on Mother’s Day.

And yet, I know that my dear friend is right. I know, in my head, that I have a great life. I know, in my heart, that I absolutely adore my children. And my husband.

And still… I am restless. The world is flying by outside without me, while I go to work and make dinner and ignore th laundry. My children’s childhood is racing past me and I have to force myself to keep my focus there, even though I am longing to pack a bag and take off for a new adventure.

Yes, I know. It’s selfish. It’s immature. It’s an “always chasing the carrot” mentality. I know. OK, Mom? I know.

But still… I am restless.

“so i will ask you, what do you feel that are you being held back from? what is it that you desire that you feel that you can’t have by being married to jared and being mom to your children? are you sure that you really are being held back and not simply afraid to try certain things?”

What I desire…

Is to travel the world. I have never seen New York City - and it calls to me in a very sick, eerie way, I’m sure. I’ve never been to Germany or France or Spain. I want to show someone else what I loved about Italy. I want to live some place long enough that I am forced to learn their language.

What I desire…

Is to live spontaneously. I want to pick up and go when I’m ready to go. I want to stop and relax when it’s time to relax. I want to read when the mood strikes and drive absolutely nowhere just because.

What I desire…

Is to be alive. To breathe and breathe deeply. To not be so God damned tired. To laugh and to cry and to feel it in every cell in my body. To wring every glorious thing possible out of every moment of life until I am spent and there is no more to do.

That is what I desire.

Is that asking too much?

If you come to this blog on a regular basis, you know that I went to TequilaCon in Philadelphia last weekend. And by now, if you have any interest in blogger drunkenness, you’ve no doubt read recap after recap all over the Internet.

I want to tell you about what you won’t see in the pictures.

I want to tell you what TequilaCon has to do with you.

I’ve been thinking about this since the plan ride home. Sitting in my business class seat beside Avitable, watching him fall asleep sitting upright with his sunglasses on, I couldn’t keep the grin of my face. I found I was absolutely overflowing… with pride.

What Adam didn’t tell you on his blog is that he hates to fly. In fact, it had been at least three years since the last time he’d been on an airplane. Of course, there has been very little reason for Adam to fly because even more than flying, he hates hates hates stepping outside of his comfort zone. (Or his fiefdom as our friend Crys so wisely describes it.)

He likes to host parties rather than attend them. He would rather invite you to his house than show up to yours. He’d just as soon die as make small talk with a stranger in a bar. He’ll drive 45 minutes out of his way to pick you up rather than have you pick him up, because it’s just easier if he drives. Like most control freaks, he asserts his as a way to keep himself “safe” and comfortable.

And yet… with less than 24 hours notice, he packed his bags and hopped on a plane to meet more than 50 strangers. He allowed his hotel room to become Party Central, offering up his bed and his bathroom when they were needed unexpectedly. He went to a party and moved from seat to seat, introducing himself to damn near everyone in the room - despite his inclination to stake out a spot and wait for people to approach him.

And you know what? He had a blast. “Most fun I’ve had in forever”, as a matter of fact.

Sitting on that plane, thinking about how much he’d pushed himself, I was so damned proud of him and absolutely thrilled that he’d stepped outside of his comfort zone.

And I started thinking about all the other people I’d watched to that over the last few days.

I thought about the woman who always classified herself as “better friends with guys”, and how she roomed with two women and allowed us into her world.

I thought about the man who admits to being an extreme introvert who was terrified of forcing himself onto new people, and how he quickly became the life of the party and the heart of his own little posse.

I thought about the women who were terrified to walk into a room full of strangers on their own, and how they begged their friends to come with them to give them strength… and walked away from the weekend with a suitcase full of stories and new friends.

I remembered the man who felt like he didn’t know anyone and worried about fitting in - the same man who would find himself becoming an invaluable lifeline to a brand new friend by the end of the weekend.

More than the tequila shots and the belly tattoos, this was the story of TequilaCon 08. Never before in my life have I seen so many people in one place who were pushing themselves past their fears - absolutely terrified, and doing it anyway.

To say it was inspiring would be an understatement. It was a supreme honor to be able to watch firsthand as these people changed themselves and their lives.

Yes. I said it. An experience like this life changing.

Every time we force ourselves to take a step outside the box, to push the envelope, to ignore what we think we “know” about ourselves, we have a unique opportunity to change our perspectives. Of ourselves and of the world around us. Walls come down, limits fall away, and if we’re lucky we see a whole new piece of the world that we never knew existed.

My friends, believe me when I tell you that there is nothing more empowering than that.

Now, what the hell does all this airy fairy bullshit have to do with you?

You tell me. What are you limits? What are your fears? What are the things you’d “never be able to do” because of your own insecurities? It’s OK - we all have them.

Whatever yours may be… push it. Whether it’s going to a party with a room full of strangers or simply commenting on a blog that you typically lurk on because you’re afraid no one will like you. Just… try it.

I know without a doubt that you have it in you because you’ve already started putting yourself out there. If you’re a blogger (as most of you are), you open up a web page and willingly share at least some small part of yourself with the Internet. That? Is amazing and something that lots and lots of people are unable to do.

And maybe you’re not a blogger. Maybe you just read what other people write but you don’t write yourself because there’s no way you could do that. And yet… here you are. Inexplicably drawn to watch as someone else spills their guts and their glory for the whole world to see. Maybe, just maybe, there’s something in all this vein splitting that calls to you…

Believe me. Trust me. Hear me when I tell you that if you just jump, it will be absolutely beyond measure worth it.

This may come as a surprise, but apparently there is more to Philadelphia than traffic and booze.

In fact, Philadelphia is kind of a big deal in the grand scheme of things where things = American History. At least, that’s what everyone keeps telling me. I decided I had to spend Saturday nursing a hangover exploring all of the historic crap that Philadelphia had to offer with a few members of my sweet, sweet posse.

Come, let’s see Philly together.

One of the absolute must see attractions in Philadelphia, and our first stop, is Independence Hall (formerly known as the Pennsylvania State Hall). This is often referred to as The Birthplace of The United States, because it is here that the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution were both drafted. It is also pictured on the back of every one hundred dollar bill.

I was very excited to see the real thing and get plenty of pictures to bring back home. Like this one:





On a completely separate note: the National Park Rangers in Philly are dicks.

Whatever. Who needs the stupid old Independence Hall anyway. There is lots of historic crap to see in Philly!











After about 5 more minutes of assigning great historical importance to random buildings, we decided fuck this shit, we need to hitch a ride. Thank God Hilly and Becky were able to flag us down a ride and a tour guide.





Thanks to the tour guide, we were able to learn all sorts of real and true Philly facts during our carriage ride. For example:














Whew. We learned a lot in 30 minutes!

Next stop: Liberty Bell! Because you just can’t go to Philadelphia and not see the Liberty Bell. Hell, you can’t hardly call yourself an American if you don’t make it a point to see the Liberty Bell at some point in your life. It’s all about Liberty - it says so right in the name “Liberty Bell”.








Are you getting bored yet? Are you still reading? There’s going to be a quiz you know. Seriously.

ANYway, after taking the time to fully appreciate all that is The Liberty Bell, we set off to find the really cool stuff. Namely, dead people. Thank God the cemetery we wanted to see wasn’t very far away. We only had to walk 5 blocks North, 2 blocks East, 4 blocks south and 3 blocks west.





Ben Franklin is buried in the cemetery behind Christ’s Church. And do you know who else is buried there? A few signers of the Declaration of Independence, the “father of psychiatry”, the man who was the Christ’s Church organist for 41 years…





OK, I’m sorry. Downer. But that picture is so cool. In fact, I think I took more pictures in that cemetery than I did the entire rest of the weekend. I also think I laughed harder in that cemetery than I have ever laughed in my entire life. And also? I am probably going to hell now.





After Karl got dressed, we made our way to the next must see attraction in Philadelphia: The Free Quaker House. What, you may ask, is a Free Quaker?





In my book, what all that says is “cool as shit”. I have a soft spot for rebels and idealists. I officially love Free Quakers.





At least Mr. I’m A Big Fat Phony Quaker was able to recommend a good cheese steak joint for us.

Well, everyone else said it was good. Me? Apparently I’m not made for Philly or Cheese Whiz.

So, as you might have heard, I went to a little blogger get together called TequilaCon on Friday.

Here’s how it went down:

At about 12:45, Avitable and I boarded a plane from Orlando heading to Philadelphia. Of course, we kissed our loved ones good by from our iPhones first.

The bad thing about traveling with Avitable is he makes me buy him water. At a gazillion dollars a bottle at the fucking airport snack bar. The good thing is he’s a pretentious ass and upgraded us both to Business Class.

We landed about who cares what time o’clock and were greeted at the airport by Karl and Hello Ha Ha Narf. No, I do not have pictures of that. Why would I have taken pictures of that?

We drove through the very lovely Philadelphia to get to our very lovely Hotel La Sheraton.

Once we checked in, we had to call Hilly and explain to her that we could not come pick her up from the airport - but we would happily send a cab.

While Hilly was happily taking a cab from the airport, we found a few more bloggers who were also stuck in traffic.

By the time Hilly got to The Hotel La Sheraton, we were prepared to make it up to her welcome her.

Oh my God. I just realized I have no pictures of welcoming Hilly!

Oh. Wait.

Blah blah blah, yada yada yada, we all met up in the hotel restaurant to go out for dinner.

After spending all of someone else’s money on food and booze, we retired to the bar.

The End.

Of The First Night.

Dear Fellow TequilaCon 08 Attendees,

It was amazing to meet you. What a fucking crap load of fun you all are. Seriously. I really think we need to make this an event that happens far more frequently than once a year.

XOXO
The Crazy Blonde Chick In Yellow

Dear Sheraton Homies,

I miss you so much it hurts.

I felt just as much at home on the 10th floor of the Sheraton all weekend as I do sitting in my own kitchen right now. I can’t wait to see you all again.

Until then - remember me in your twats.

XOXO
The Crazy Blonde Bitch Kept Asking You To Make Out All Weekend

Dear Readers and Bloggers Who Weren’t in Philly This Weekend,

I hope you know, you were there in spirit. I can’t wait to share the stories and the pictures and the laughs with you once I’ve had a full night’s sleep. Because you need to know - you are part of something incredible. Even if you don’t have a name tag that says so.

XOXO
Miss Britt

Dear Bank of America,

Can we just pretend like this weekend never happened?

Please?

You have reached Miss Britt’s blog.

Unfortunately, she’s not here right now. She is terribly busy in Philadelphia trying to convince Dave2 to loosen the fuck up and get freaky with her already.

Please leave a message after the jump and she will return your comment as soon as possible.

Beep Beep Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep

P.S. Husband, if you’re reading this? We are clearly just kidding about that Dave2 freaky thing. And also, please remember to clean the tub. XOXO

P.P.S She might be living posting pictures to her Flickr… if you’re into watching.

I think it was about 11:00am yesterday morning when it happened.

Everyone on twitter was talking about how they couldn’t WAIT to get to Philadelphia on FRIDAY. I was busy sitting in my office, stewing about the fact that Avitable and I weren’t getting into town until Saturday afternoon.

I cannot stand the idea of missing out on something. Especially a pre-party to THE Party of the Season - TequilaCon ‘08!

“Adam, you stupid son of a bitch, why did you schedule us on a flight for Saturday?”

“Because you said Jared had to work Friday and you wouldn’t have anyone to watch the kids.”

“Bullshit. Don’t blame this on me.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I suck. How can I make it up to you?”

“Call the airline. Tell them I’ve changed my mind and we’re leaving Friday instead.”

“What about Jared?”

“Who?”

“Never mind. What about your children?”

“What about you stop changing the subject and go DO WHAT YOU’RE TOLD, BOY!”

And so…

I’m on a plane to Philly today. I’ll be back with pictures and stories and tequila soaked videos on Monday.

Unless… I change my mind again.

(You can keep up with the party LIVE on Twitter - just follow me here.)

My son had just turned two when I realized that I had already failed him as a mother. I remember very clearly thinking “I can’t believe I’ve already screwed this up. What the hell do I do now?”

The daycare had called. Again. It seemed Devin was biting the other children in class. Again. Specifically, he was walking up to unsuspecting toddlers and removing large chunks of their face with his teeth. Just… because.

Now, I am not an idiot. Obviously I did not pronounce myself a failure and my son a lost cause over a little toddler biting. That would be ludicrous.

After all, I had read that children bit from time to time. I vaguely remembered something about a need to express one’s self or communicate aggression. Something like that. My point is that the first time I heard about what the daycare administrator referred to as a Biting Incident, I did not panic.

I sat my two year old down and we had a very rational conversation. I acknowledged his need to be heard and vent his frustration. We discussed that biting was not a socially acceptable form of communication because it infringed on the boundaries and rights of others. We explored alternative ways to express anger, such as alone time and using our words. I made sure to keep the lines of communication open and spoke in very soothing tones that said “I am not here to judge you”.

I can’t imagine for the life of me why that wasn’t more effective.

Two days after The Talk, I received a phone call about another Biting Incident. At this point, I started to get suspicious.

Perhaps the adults at the daycare facility were not properly in tune with his needs. Maybe Devin had tried to use his words and no one had validated his feelings. Whatever the reason, I had raised this child and I knew he was not capable of unprovoked violence.

I refrained from saying all of this when I called the mother of his latest victim to apologize. I was determined that she would not think I was making excuses for my child. I was far too responsible a parent for anything that lazy. I stuck to assuring her that this would “never happen again. And again, Devin is very, very sorry.”

Because of course, he was. He must be.

A few weeks passed after The Phone Call and I was buoyed by the fact that we had been free from another Biting Incident. And honestly, I wasn’t surprised. The Talk: Part Two had obviously been more effective than the first. I had put a little more emphasis on alternative ways of expressing frustration the second time around – including time outs and spanking, should the need arise. I must admit, I was proud of my superior mothering. I had been proactive and involved and put an end to this little “issue” before it became a real “problem”.

Clearly, I had this parenting gig figured out.

In fact, all thoughts of the Biting Incidents had been nearly forgotten the day that we invited our friends and their daughter over for dinner. It didn’t even occur to me to bring it up as the other mother and I watched our husbands master the grill and our children run back and forth across the little wooden deck while we swapped accomplishments and anecdotes about them.

I think I was bragging about his uncanny ability to put together a jigsaw puzzle upside down when it happened.

Their little girl was beautiful. The very picture you call to mind when you think about a brown eyed girl. Her cheeks were full, her hair dark and springy as it curled from her ears to her shoulders. And those brown eyes – she could melt you into an appeasing puddle of good with one longing look from those perfectly round eyes.

Frankly, I’m not sure how Devin was able to deflect her charm. But he did. As she reached out a toy to him in a beautiful gesture of sharing, he seized the opportunity to attack. My son leaned in close, as if to hug her, wrapped his arms around her to hold her still, and proceed to rip the flesh from the side of her face.

She screamed. Oh my God did that child scream. And cried. Big, wet tears spilled all over her now lopsided face and on to her perfectly spotless sweater set.

I could have killed him. Right then and there. I’d have put us both out of our misery in one fell swoop if given the right tools and a few seconds of privacy. But of course I couldn’t do that because there was all that screaming and crying to attend to.

I don’t remember what happened immediately after that. It’s possible that I eventually saw through the blinding humiliation and packed my son up into his room for the night. It’s also possible that I sat whimpering in a corner for the rest of the evening while my husband took care of the discipline and apologies and whatever awkward small talk surely followed. The aftermath, for whatever reason, has not been etched into my memory as clearly as the attack itself.

And that God awful screaming.

What I do remember is the phone call with my mother the next day. She called to see how our much anticipated Date Night With The Other Parents had gone (because when you’re 21 and have a two year old, finding other parents who want to hang out with you is always a pretty big deal).

“So? How was it?” her voice bubbled over the line, so full of naive hope and optimism. “Did you have fun? What did you guys do? How were the kids?”

“He’s doomed, Mom! Doomed!” I was doing a pretty good imitation of The Scream myself.

“Um, hello? Honey, is that you?”

“Oh my God…” I sobbed, “I’ve ruined him. Ruined him! I don’t understand where it all went wrong! You should have seen him. He was so… so… wrong! It was so awful.”

“Baby? Honey?” I think my mother was still trying to confirm my identity in between my gulping for air.

“I don’t know what I did. But.. but… he’s ruined. Oh my God Mom, he’s going to be a serial killer. This is how it starts. We have to get rid of the dog before he starts torturing it. That’s what they do when they’re kids. Torture animals and children…”

“Britt? What in the hell…” at least she had figured out it was me.

“He tried to EAT HER! I’m going to be that woman on TV. That one that says she never saw it coming and she doesn’t know how her son ended up like this and she never saw the signs and OH MY GOD WHERE DID IT ALL GO WRONG?!?!”

I was too busy listening to the reporter in my head who was interviewing me twenty years in the future to hear my mom’s reaction. Plus, I was crying a lot. And sniffing and snorting from all of the crying. It was probably a solid two minutes before I recognized the sound coming from the phone.

“Mom? Is that you? Are you there?”

“Heeee… heeeee… yes… heeee…. Yes….. heee… I’m here… heeee.”

Oh yeah, she was there alright. And the bitch was laughing her ass off.

I received a present on Tuesday that made it difficult not to break down into tears on the spot. I’m pretty sure presents aren’t supposed to make you cry. Even if you do have PMS.

We have a professional writer on staff at work. And while she gets paid for technical writing, she is also in the process of finishing up her own fiction novel. I consider her a real writer. She’s not only trained in the craft, she practices it.

On Tuesday morning she handed me a paperback book, the pages of which are littered with highlighted pages and black ink underlining. “I’m not using this anymore, I thought that you might have a use for it.”

The Truth of the Matter: Art and Craft in Creative Nonfiction.

The title jumped off the cover and punched me in the gut. It reminded me of another title that I’ve been haunted by in recent weeks - the title of my own book. Of course, this book, The Truth of the Matter, is sitting in my hands, completed and edited and published. Real.

It is a sickening contrast to my own. To be fair, I shouldn’t even call it “my book”. I should more accurately describe It as “the series of essays and thoughts and paragraphs and sentences that have been plaguing me since the light bulb came on and the title fell out of my mouth.” Because that’s what it is - that’s all that it is.

I’ve wanted to write my entire life. Of course, I’ve also wanted to be an actress and a fashion designer and a trophy wife. Writing has long been a fantasy with about as much teeth as the possibility of passing Bill Gates in an airport and instantly mesmerizing him with the power of my terribly small bosom. But a girl can dream, right?

Except I’m no longer content with the dream.

For the first time, the words are there. The story is there. The perspective and the voice and the purpose and the theme… all of it. Is there. Well, if “there” means “in my head”.

I haven’t written a word of it. And it’s killing me.

For once it’s not the fear or the uncertainty that is preventing me from putting all of It on paper. But the time. Or rather, the fact that there doesn’t seem to be any.

I know. I know. We never have enough time. We never get it all done. The story of a working mother with more responsibilities than hours is not new and it’s been years since I’ve tossed around the phrase “in my free time” without a dramatic eye roll to indicate THERE IS NO SUCH THING.

But this is different.

I find myself getting extremely resentful of my work. Not the work - but the time. To be honest, I can get my work job done (and done well) in about 5 hours a day. Six if there are excessive emails and returned calls. But between the day care run, the commute, and the Required To Be At Your Desk Hours, I’m away from my house for almost 11 hours a day. Five days a week.

And all I can think as I’m driving back and forth and waiting for the phone to ring is “this is time I could be spending writing it down.”

Of course, once I get home there is more time - and even more things to do. There is dinner to be made and children to be played with. I can’t in good conscience sacrifice either of these things because the little bastards have to eat… and they won’t be little bastards for long.

After baths and bed time there are emails to be answered and posts to write. If I’m lucky I’ll read a few blogs here and there. And all the while I’m thinking “I need two hours. Just two hours to sit down and get some of this out of my head.” But I don’t give up the blog because it is the very thing that led me to this place. If I’m not writing The Story - at the very least I’m writing something. And it’s something I happen to believe a great deal in.

And then there is The Truth of the Matter: Art and Craft in Creative Nonfiction.

The timing of this gift was uncanny. The title itself answered a lot of questions I’d been having in my own head in a single flash. I hadn’t finished the first paragraph before I realized that a lot of the Floating Gunk was starting to take shape.

And still… there is the question of time.

EDITED TO ADD: Apparently when it absolutely, positively has to be written - you find the time. I’m at 4600 words between my lunch break, an afternoon slow down, and the kids watching cartoons for 30 minutes.

Holy shit. I have 4600 words.

In other words… this whole post is shit.

I have to confess, my brain is mush. I have been fighting with Wordpress code all. damn. night and I still can’t figure out how to get a thumbnail in my sidebar that will automatically update and post to the most recent post on my photo blog.

ANYway, I tell you all that to tell you this… Thank God for Jester.
————————————————————-

My current supervisor and I have had several occasions where he feels like we are not “communicating” well.

It’s always when we have a face to face conversation and I finally understand why.

Here’s a typical conversation:

Boss: “How’s it going?”

Jester: “It’s going fine. I’m working on the design of this web application.”

Boss: “Great, let me take a look…”

He pulls a chair around to my side of the desk and moves in closer, taking the mouse from my hand to take control of my computer. He turns to look at me and when he speaks, there it is again… the bane of my existence. L’objet de mon hypnotiser. It pokes out at a slight angle, parting his barely visible lips that seek shelter in the wooly overgrown salt-and-peppered mustache and beard.

It’s a singularly grey tooth surrounded by several bright white neighbors.

Boss: “… is this?”

Jester: “Um. Oh. That’s the spot where I’m going to put the search form.”

I only know what he’s referring to because he’s once again peppering my computer monitor with greasy fingerprints. He makes a quick note on his ever-present notebook and continues narrating his perusal of the web site.

Boss: “So what I was thinking w..”

Oh man, there it is again. Poking its head out like a gopher in a field made of black grass. Did it just wiggle a bit? I could swear it waved at me. Maybe it was shaking from sobbing? Why so sad little guy? Do you feel inferior to your white neighbors? Why ARE your neighbors so white? Did you turn prematurely grey, or did they receive a bleach treatment that you were left out of? No wonder you’re so sad. You’re neglected and mistreated.

I’ll bet he drinks coffee all day long and never once brushes you or gives you a quick rinse with the good blue stuff. I’m guessing that because of the foul odor that now permeates my cubicle. Are you responsible for that smell, my little grey friend? Maybe that motion was you waving off the gas attack you are suffering. That could explain the smell. Little grey tooth farts.

Boss: “What do you think?”

Jester: “Err. I think I’ll need some time to figure out the best way to implement that.”

This is totally coming out of my ass. A drawing has made his way on to his notebook page in front of me that gives me a clue as to what he’s describing.

Boss: “How much time do you think?”

Jester: “Two weeks.”

Everything in a government web design job takes two weeks. You want me to change that font? Two weeks. You want to change the color on that background? Give me a couple of weeks.

Boss: “I guess that would be ok. While you’re working on that I need you t…”

Man, that was too easy. Two weeks? It will take me five seconds once he gets out of my way. I’d better make that change as soon as he goes, otherwise I’ll forget what it was.

Ugh, there’s the full smile again. Doesn’t he see you in there every morning, my little grey friend? I assume he looks in the mirror like a normal person. Well, maybe not. He does wear a jaunty beret over his ass-long ponytail every day. Perhaps he has a fear of mirrors and he doesn’t even know you’re in there, just waiting for a little attention. Maybe if you spoke up by reaching out and grabbing his lip when he’s talking… go on, you’re so close… just reach… right……. ugh, you missed again. You’re totally wasting every opportunity to let yourself be heard. Oh! I know… what if you developed a sudden sensitivity to cold drinks? Just a little twinge of pain would make him wake up and scrape the discolored crust from your skin? Is it a crust? What is that, anyway? Are you a victim of tetracycline? Surely not, or your neighbors would show signs of the poisoning… Are you wearing a silver filling on the back side that just shows through? What made you turn grey? Are you that much older than all your friends? Are they all your friends or do they shun you and not let you play their toothy games?

Boss: “Do you think you can do that?”

Jester: “Of course.”

Do what?

JEEZ, won’t he just shut up and take his mouthful of wonders back to his big Ph.D. adorned office? Or maybe a dentist appointment? He’s been here what… 30 years? He should be making at least 180k every year, and I know he gets the same benefits I do, which include full dental. Does he have some moral or religious aversion to doctors and dentists?

Boss: “By the way, I’ll need you to document this meeting and every change you make to the application.”

Jester: “Sure.”

I’ll get right on that. Oh wait, I gave my notice, so no I won’t.

I’ll miss my giant fingerprint-less computer monitor. I’ll miss the health benefits, but I think I’ll miss my little grey buddy most of all.