An Evening of Wine-Induced Reminiscing

I visited my parents yesterday evening. I was overdue for a visit, and I wanted to mention my rather traumatic workweek (see previous blog entry) to someone other than a girlfriend. Before I left to go to my parents’, I had a glass of red wine. When I arrived at my parents’, I consumed another glass of red wine with my mom. I guess I could safely say that after that second glass I was pretty relaxed.

We lived in Columbus, Ohio until the summer before my sophomore year in high school. We then moved to Chicago. It was as though all my “kids’ stuff” took place in Ohio, and my more “adult stuff” took place in Illinois. Last evening I told my mom over the kitchen table that I missed both Ohio, and being a kid. She calmly asked me if I longed for the “good old days”. I told her that I did. My mother kind of smiled as she informed me that today my “good old days” are my childhood days, but in twenty or thirty years the “good old days” will be the very days I am currently living. My mother told me that someday in the future I might possibly reminisce back to the actual discussion we were having and think of the conversation as a part of the “good old days”.

Sometimes my mother will mess-up some simple math problem while looking over some bills, but then she will turn right around and say something insightful or philosophical that seems almost genius.     

Over the last few months I have become aware that there are occasional brief moments when I will miss doing the silly, meaningless kids’ stuff, stuff like playing backyard soccer with my friends, pretending I’m a cheerleader, or playing dress-up. And at times I will miss the modest stuffed animal collection I had, and my favorite, Fuzzy Bear, in particular. But I think that, deep down, the truth is that what I am really missing during these periods of foolish reminiscing is the childlike innocence and the naivety I felt back then.

Nine years ago in Columbus my best friend was Shannon Thomas. Yesterday evening I got to thinking that I’d like to visit Shannon again. I thought that I’d like to meet the 23 year-old Shannon, but I knew that in reality what I really wanted was to chat with my friend, the 14 year-old Shannon from 2003. After all, that was the Shannon who I really miss. But even though I had consumed a little too much wine, I knew that traveling into the past was not possible. Still, there are times when I wish it were, last night being one of those times.

A couple of glasses of wine can do some strange things to a brain, especially my brain.  

Anger, Tears, and Truffles

We all go through days that involve a series of minor disasters or calamities that will make a person wish that they never got out of bed in the morning. However, every once in a while something good will happen right in the middle of all the misery that will suddenly turn the day-in-hell, into a day that has a little bit of heaven.

I’m a crybaby. I’ve admitted to it in this blog. Pretty much anything will make me cry. I average about one cry every few weeks. I’m as likely to cry when I’m happy as I am when I’m sad or upset. I don’t think I’m more sensitive than anyone else, I just cry easier. It might be an unidentified, unnamed medical syndrome of some kind. But anyway, right now I am not crying. In fact, my eyes are staring at a purplish box of chocolate truffles sitting on my desk at work. There were about 16 or 18 truffles to begin with, now there are only a few left.

I work at a car dealership as a receptionist, among other duties. I am occasionally confronted by customer complaints, but not very often, thank god. Yesterday I picked up the phone, thanked the person for calling the dealership, said that I was Heather, and then asked him how I could be of assistance. Well, the complaining customer, a man, started right off in an angry, hostile tone with the general subject being his car’s audio system. My immediate strategy was to calm down the gentleman and then direct his call to the service department. The trouble was, the harder I tried to soothe the man, the madder he seemed to get. Angry or not, I finally decided to directed his call to the service department, the only problem was, no one in the service department was available – a fairly common occurrence.

I began to talk to the irate customer again, and I told him if he came in to the service department he would get immediate service, no appointment, no waiting. I did not have the authority to make such a promise, but I figured I’d prefer to have the service department manager mad at me rather than listen to any more of the enraged customer’s tirade. Unfortunately my offer was not good enough. The customer insisted that it was time for the service department to come to him. He then asked me in no uncertain terms for the specific time that a technician would be out to address the problem. When I told the man that I did not know if such a service were even possible, his tone went from controlled anger, to shouting.

At that point I started to cry. I probably should have just hung-up, but instead I started to cry. The tears were brought on by a combination of being assaulted by an angry voice, and a high level of frustration. I actually tried to keep talking but it was very difficult. My condition was clearly discernible to anyone listening to my fluctuating, babbling voice tone.  My idiotic sobbing immediately made the customer cease his rant. In fact, he went silent for a few seconds. Then, in a gentle voice, he apologized and hung up.

About forty-five minutes later the sales director usher a man back to my cubicle, in the man’s right hand was a box of chocolates. As he gently placed the box upon my desk, he said that he was the angry customer who had called a short time earlier. He then said, “Heather, I can be such an ass and I hope the chocolates help make things better.”

Naturally I was in total shock. I muttered something about his car but he both waved his hands and shook his head. I think he said, “Hell with the damn car.” Then the man just smiled, turned, and walked towards the exit.

As soon as the man was out the door, three or four bewildered coworkers descended upon me, asking me about both the man, and the candy. Of course by that point I was in no condition to answer. Yes, I had started to cry.

Now I think I’ll have a truffle.

Heather's Crushes

I get silly romantic crushes all the time. Sometimes they are powerful, sometimes they are short-lived and faint. I believe that my romantic crushes are created as much by my flights of fancy as they are created by any actual knowledge of the target guy. I know that I will attribute qualities to a man that might not actually be there. This has generated some disappointments, but on the other hand it has also provided some spice, although usually just in my imagination.

My first crush was when I was about 7 or 8 years old. His name was Harvey Hinton. He wasn’t a good-looking kid, but he was about the best athlete in my grade. But the thing that got me was that he did not make a big deal about it. My girlfriends and I would watch him knock down an opponent in a playground football game, and then he'd smile and help the other kid up to his feet. To me Harvey was practically a playground superhero. How could I not get a crush?

Later in my public school career things had not changed much. I would get a crush on a boy who was never going to be a teacher’s pet, but yet underneath it all, was a nice, friendly kid. My imagination would take care of the rest. In 10^th grade the boy was Dale Corbin. I remember one time I was leaving school and I saw Dale and some of his pals at the edge of the school parking lot, sitting in a parked car and drinking beer. I recall carefully walked by them with my girlfriend, trying not to disturb them. But with a Busch Beer resting in his hand, Dale nonchalantly mumbled out, “How’s it going, Heather?” I had this feeling that if a girl was with Dale, she was in danger, and safe, both at the same time. At least that's how I imagined him. I thought he was very cool.

My current crush is on a guy who lives in my apartment building. I don’t know his name, so I’ll call him Brad. I have talked to Brad only about a half dozen times and even then just for a moment or two in passing, but I know enough about him to formulate a crush. Brad is personable without being overbearing. He has a sense of humor, a sense of humor that is often aimed at himself. He doesn’t own anything expensive and that doesn’t bother him a bit. Brad’s clothes are nice but nothing fancy, and his 15 year-old car is a prime target for his humor. Those things I know as truths, but I have this suspicion that there is something inside of the guy that he is not revealing. At least that's what my imagination wants to believe. My imagination sees a hidden dangerous side to Brad. If a girl got to know him she might find Brad a little devilish, perhaps even hazardous, but she would also know that when she is with him she would be safe, and that would be so cool.

When it comes to me and my romantic crushes, nothing seems to change much.

A Long-Ago Hero

Most evenings I make it a point to go outside for a few minutes just to experience the world in its darkness. I’ll gaze up into the vast night sky as I listen to the crickets, or the sound of the wind rushing through the nearby trees. For those few moments almost anything might go through my mind. It could be something philosophical, or silly, or it might be a memory from long ago. Last night a personal hero came to mind.

Seventeen years ago, when I was about six years old, I had a neighbor-friend named Dawn who was my age. One Saturday there was a dance recital down at the local recreation center. Dawn, her big sister, and I decided we wanted to go. My mother would not have allowed me to go if not for Dawn’s big sister escorting us. She was all of ten years old.

My mother gave me $.75 to get something to eat from a vending machine, should I get hungry. I remember I became hungry when I walked by the snack machine on the way to the auditorium and got a look at a bag of Fritos sitting there begging to be purchased. But I could not buy the Fritos then and there. We had to first get our seats in the auditorium.

About a half hour into the program there was an intermission. I immediately climbed out of my seat and trekked out to the vending area and that bag of Fritos. I remember reaching up and dropping the three quarters into the machine and pushing the button for the Fritos, but nothing happened. No Fritos, not a murmur from the machine. I recall trying all the buttons and none of them worked. Finally I pushed the COIN RETURN button, but still nothing happened. I stepped back from the machine and glared at it in frustration.

A few seconds later a boy scurried up to the vending machine. From the knees down he was damp, as though he had been recently wading, shoes and all. Latched onto his shirt were about a half dozen brown burrs. To a six year-old girl, the boy was actually a little scary.

Out of the boy’s pocket emerged a little squeeze-open change purse, and from the change purse came a handful of change. He slipped some coins into the machine and pushed a button for a candy bar. Not only did he get the candy bar, but he received an extra $.75 in change. Naturally I knew the $.75 was mine, or at least it had once been mine, but the boy was far too imposing for me to intercede, so I remained silent.

The boy gleefully hollered, “I’m rich!” and dropped the three quarters into his change purse. He then gave me a quick glance and happily pranced away. Both Frito-less and moneyless, I dejectedly turned to wander back to the auditorium. But before I could travel more than a few steps, the boy had returned. He gently took a hold of my arm, and carefully turned me around. He asked me if I had lost $.75 cents in the vending machine. My eyes lit-up with joy and I happily nodded.

The boy pulled the coin holder from his pocket, opened it, and stared down at the contents; four quarters, two pennies, and one safety pin, as best I recall. He shook his head as he said, “Well here’s the trouble; one of the quarters was a Canadian quarter. They won’t work in candy machines. They’re a different size or something.”

The boy extracted from the coin holder three American quarters. He stepped to the machine and dropped the money into the coin slot. “Okay, go ahead and choose what you want,” he instructed. I swiftly poked the button for the Fritos. Sure enough, the machine began to hum as the shiny yellow and red bag started to march forward, finally falling down behind the PUSH plate at the bottom of the machine.

“There you go, little girl,” chirped the boy. He then turned and hurried away.     

I didn’t think much about the boy’s gesture for a few days, perhaps a few weeks, but it just wouldn’t leave my mind. He had sacrificed his bit of wealth for no other reason than to do the right thing.

Over the months, and years, I came to understand and appreciate that. When I was in the 5^th or 6^th grade I had reason to mention the boy’s deed in front of the class. I said that it was a selfless act and I admired the boy who did it, even though I did not know his name, and never saw him again. Some of the kids laughed, but I didn’t care. He wasn’t their hero, he was mine.

Now over seventeen years have passed and I still think about that boy on occasion. In fact, one such occasion was last night, when I was out looking up into the night sky with no one there but me, and a memory of my young hero from long ago.   

I'm Calling This "Luke Has Coffee With A Ditz"

Okay, I’m going to do something that I once said I would not do again, and that is; talk about a date in my blog. I wrote about a date once before and it was a big mistake. But I’ve got to talk about this somewhere and I thought that it might as well be in my silly blog. Besides, this time it is a little different. The guy is not an “OKCupid date”, and he does not know I have a blog. Nor is he going to find out. It was not exactly a full-fledged date anyway.

So alright, let me begin. The guy’s name is Luke. Luke is a delivery route driver for FedEx. He delivers to my workplace, which is an auto dealership. I think he is an ok-looking guy, but not exactly amazingly handsome. He appears to be a little older than me. I think he is at least 30. I have not yet asked and he has not said. To anyone who has read much of my idiotic blog would know; I seem to have a preference for older men lately. Anyway, those are some of the basics.

I think Luke started working on his route about three months ago. That’s when I first noticed him anyway. He had deliveries to make to the dealership most weekdays but not all of them, maybe averaging about three days a week. At the beginning he would simply drive to the service department, have someone there take his deliveries, then jump back in his truck and drive away. Then about six weeks ago he was asked to park his truck out front for some reason. Anyway, from that point on he would walk through the main building and right by my work station.

At the beginning, Luke would say a quick hello to me on his way in, then on his way out he would smile and say a quick goodbye. Sometimes he would slowdown as he walked by my work area, tip his Fed-Ex hat to me and say something like, “Have a good day ma’m.” It was funny and kind of cute too. To that point I had never said a word to him. Then one day he had nothing but one small parcel that probably contained documents, so he asked me if I would sign for it. We ended up chatting for a minute or two. From then on Luke would usually stop by my work station to casually speak to me for a few seconds.

As the days passed, these conversations got longer and longer. Within a few weeks our chats were going on for maybe ten minutes or more. I didn’t mind, even when I was having a busy day. But still, I wasn’t sure how I felt about this man in a more personal, non-work setting, and since I am not a complete idiot, I was pretty certain that’s where it was headed.

Last week we were chatting and Luke told me that his favorite scent was freshly cut grass. I said that my favorite scent was roses. The next day he brought in a single rose for me. He didn’t even have anything to deliver that day to the dealership. I guess the rose was kind of a “special delivery”. The romantic gesture was kind of what I was both looking forward to, and also dreading. It was a make-or-break moment for both me, and our friendly little relationship. Until that instant I really did not know if I was going to feel good about a romantic overture, or if I was going to suddenly realize that I was getting into something I did not actually want. I guess that I was going to leave it up to my female instincts to figure it out. Yes I know; that sounds really goofy.

Anyway, it turned out that my reaction was delight. I loved the rose. But what really got me came next. Luke smiled and casually joked that he hoped I would like the rose because he had just snipped it from a rosebush growing by the dealership’s driveway. Anyone who does something so nice and then dismisses it with a bit of silliness, well, that made me certain that if he wanted to pursue me, I wasn’t going to stop him. Several days went by and Luke nervously asked me if I wanted to go out for coffee after work sometime. I told him I did.   

Four more days passed and we did exactly that; had coffee. I met him at a Starbucks yesterday after work and we sipped coffee and talked for more than an hour. Initially Luke was even more nervous than I was, but I think we both relaxed by the end of the hour we were there. Luke is not amazingly good-looking, but he has these really sexy, dark eyes, and he talks in this slightly deep voice that I loved listening to. This might sound weird, but I will often look at a guy’s hands. Luke has nice hands. I could say that they were almost handsome. They were not marred by hard work, but they weren’t delicate-looking either.

Luke has a great sense of humor. He said that he has a fear of rats, bats, and spiders, but nothing scares him more than a pretty girl who shows any interest in him. “You terrify me,” he said to me with a smile. Luke said that he never knows how girls are going to take a guy who displays a sense of humor, and that he didn’t want to be taken as just a clown just because he can get silly.

Luke told me that he had worked for Motorola but had been laid-off about eight months ago and had been jobless for several months. He had a good attitude about it. He kind of shrugged and said something like, “If you’re going to be looking for a job, there’s no better time than the spring.” Luke has had a couple of girlfriends and had once been engaged, but never married.  

When we walked out of Starbucks and were standing out on the sidewalk, Luke said that he thought the coffee-thing had gone well and maybe we could go out to dinner sometime. I told him that I would like that. Then, believe it or not, I grabbed his arm, held him steady for a second, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. God, I can’t believe I did that. If ever I need to see a real ditz, all I have to do is look in a mirror.