One More Quandary For Heather

I work at a car dealership. Since no one I work with knows that I have a blog, I will now state that the vast majority of my coworkers do not follow what is generally considered appropriate workplace etiquette. Things such as political correctness just do not seem to go hand-in-hand with the auto sales business. And this observation is coming from a person who will on occasion discreetly sniff her own underarms, checking for unwanted odor. Don’t get me wrong, everyone is friendly, it’s just that contemporary decorum is not necessarily a high priority.  

I have approximately forty coworkers. Other than one or two persons, I think all of them are older than I am, and about thirty are male. Throughout the average day I am referred to as “sweetie”, or some variation (sweetheart, honey, etc.), about four or five times. After almost two years of employment, I have come to the conclusion that, overall, I do not like these terms being applied to me.

There are two older men who often call me “honey”, and from them I actually like hearing it. I enjoy the term coming from these men because I know that they know my real name, and they say “honey” in a kind, respectful manner. They refer to me as “honey” as though I am their granddaughter. But then there are about a half dozen fellow employees who call me “sweetheart” or “honey” who I am not completely sure know my real name. These sexist monikers are kind of huffed at me. It can go something like, “Sweetie, would you be a good girl and bring us a couple of cups of coffee?” I grit my teeth just writing that command, a command I have actually heard.

There seems to be no set profile for the men who refer to me as “sweetie”. Some of the men are older, and some are barely over 30 years old. I could raise a fuss and probably get a few things changed, but do I really want to do that? Truth is; I’m not sure if it would be worth it. Just yesterday one of the men who is most likely to call me by a chauvinistic term was kind enough to ask me if he could bring me back something for lunch. A half hour later I was devouring a sub sandwich without either leaving my desk, or paying a cent. I have been the recipient of a number of other thoughtful acts. But my biggest concern is that I do not want to be seen as a bitch. I would hate that more than anything. So, should I just take the bad with the good? To tell you the truth, I don’t know. I hate being called “honey”, but I seem to be well-liked and I would not want to do anything to jeopardize that, and besides, that sub was absolutely delicious. I think it's just one more quandary for Heather.      

Heather's Dos/Do Nots

Heather Do Nots;

#1; I do not give money to a Salvation Army Santa unless he is ringing his bell.

#2; I do not look at myself in the reflection of a storefront window for fear someone inside the glass will see me inspecting myself.

#3; I do not make eye contact with a stranger in a pharmacy check-out line if he or she is buying a product that I do not recognize.

#4; I do not just jump into my car without first checking the seat for cleanliness (applies only when wearing nice clothes).  

#5; I do not abide by the “5 second rule” concerning dropped food when the food is chocolate.

#6; I do not like to clean my bathroom mirror; consequently I have learned to floss “by feel”.

#7; I do not speed up when I am being tailgated if I am going the speed limit.

#8; I do not admit to ever suffering from PMS no matter how moody I have become during certain times of the month.

#9; I do not vacuum but once a week unless there is a significant number of particles on the floor that cannot be identified.

#10: I do not go to the grocery store without first checking my supply of popcorn, microwave pizza, and shampoo.   

Heather Dos;

#1; I do give money to a Salvation Army Santa who is ringing his bell.

#2; I do cheerfully chat with any child who happens to be stuck standing or sitting next to me.

#3; I do look at a sunset, and will even stop what I am doing to do so.

#4; I do get my car’s oil changed regularly (but usually my father has to remind me).

#5; I do check my weight every other day, and [try to] eat accordingly.

#6; I do like to get silly in front of others.

(Heather: “For my New Year’s resolution I’m going to try as hard as I can not to smoke a single cigarette after midnight, January 1st.”

Mindy: “But Heather, you don’t smoke.”

Heather: “I wasn’t looking for anything too challenging.”) 

#7; I do attempt to make it to my fitness center at least three times a week.

#8; I do use SPF 15 sunscreen from April to November, but seldom at night.

#9; I do drink wine, but rarely beer.

#10; I do sing beautifully, even though for some reason my singing seems to make others wince, roll their eyes, and shake their heads, usually in that order.

The Refrigerator Magnet

I don’t have any real current events to put in my blog, but for a day or so I felt like writing something. The question has been; what? Then this morning I went to my refrigerator and saw the magnet on the door. I knew immediately what I could blog.

When I was growing up my dad and I got into a lot of arguments. I don’t think I won any of them. We argued about how long I could play on the computer, if and when I could borrow a car, and how much money I could spend on clothing, and every once in a while, what the clothing could look like. Some of these arguments were recent enough that they can still irritate me a little. But my father really is a saint. This all came to mind this morning when I happened to glance at my one and only refrigerator magnet.

One summer day, when I was about 9 or 10 years old, my dad sacrificed an entire Saturday afternoon to take two of my girlfriends and me to Lake Hope State Park in southern Ohio. At that time, we lived in Columbus, Ohio and Lake Hope was an hour or so away. All the way there to the lake us kids constantly pushed and shoved at each other, we chattered and giggled endlessly. It must have been like pure torture for my father, but he never said a word. He just endured it.

When we got to the lake, us girls spent two hours splashing each other, giving each other piggyback rides, and performing various kinds of silly hydrogymnastics in the water. We had great fun. The whole time Dad watched us from the shade of a tree along the shore. When we got hungry, my father escorted us to the snack bar where he bought us hamburgers, Cokes, and potato chips. Several hours later, when we had tired of the water, we kids got dressed, and Dad took us on a hike on one of the trails through the woods.

The only time Dad actually stopped and talked to us the entire day was on that trail. We stopped at a little clearing and he told us about the time when he was our age, and he was trekking through the woods in the dark, one snowy winter evening on his way home from ice skating on a pond. According to Dad, he was just meandering along when all of the sudden his hat got knocked off his head and he immediately felt a stinging on the back of his head where he had been slightly cut. My dad turned around to see who or what had attacked him but nothing was there. It scared the heck out of him so badly that he ran all the way home. Once he got home, he franticly told his mother -my grandmother- what had happened. My father thought sure he had been belted by some sort of ghost that was haunting those woods, but my grandmother calmly told him that most likely he had been struck by a swooping owl that had seen the fur on my dad’s hat and took it for an animal traveling through the woods. I still remember that the story had us girls nervously looking up into the trees overhead.

Just before we left Lake Hope that day we stopped at a bait shop to get some snacks for the drive home. While we were there, Dad bought me a Lake Hope refrigerator magnet. I thought it an odd little gift, but my father told me I should put it in a drawer and someday I might see it and be reminded of my day at Lake Hope.

For about ten years the magnet was lost and forgotten, but not any longer. A few years ago I found it with some old pictures.The Lake Hope refrigerator magnet now sits in plain view on the door of my refrigerator. It is the only thing there. It reminds me not only of that long-ago trip to Lake Hope and all the fun we had, but also that my dad really is a saint. 

  

My Favorite Shirt Ever

About two and a half years ago I had one of my most romantic impulses. The memory of it came to mind this morning moments after I woke up, and it hasn’t completely left my thinking since. So, I guess it’s time to write about it in my blog.

Two and a half years ago I had been dating this nice guy for five or six weeks. Though he was significantly older than I was, I felt this real connection with him, and the connection spawned a wonderful affection. One Friday evening he drove us back to my apartment after an evening of playing bingo, among other activities, at a small festival. Who would have thought that I would be especially mesmerized by a man with whom I could play bingo? But believe it or not, that was exactly the case.

As I would usually do, I asked him to come in. I closed the door behind him and clicked the lock. I then told him straight-out that I wanted him to stay the night. I was a little nervous, but I said it hurriedly and in one breath so my voice would not falter, and the words would not sound too timid. It was going to be our first night together, our first encounter into full love-making. Of course it was not just the bingo that brought on my invitation, we had been seeing each other for well over a month, and I thought the appropriate time had arrived. The gentleman was very nice about it. He carefully placed his hands onto both of my arms and asked me if it was really what I wanted. I remember looking him in the eye and nodding.

The next morning when I woke up, I was instantly wide-awake, not a bit groggy as is usually the case. It was like when I was a little girl waking up on Christmas morning, full of adrenaline. I quickly looked over to my left, to my visitor. He was still sound asleep. I sat up in bed and glanced around the room. I saw his pants lying over the seat of my little bedroom’s only chair, draped over the back of the chair was his plaid flannel shirt.

A few days before, I had seen a photo advertisement for a man’s dress shirt, but in the picture the shirt was not being worn by a man, but rather by a slim, alluring, and otherwise nude lady. I thought the ad was very sexy. In fact, I knew immediately that I had to recreate it, best I could.

I tiptoed out of bed, slipped into the shirt, buttoned a lone button, and crept out of the room. I went into my kitchen and began making my gentleman caller a breakfast consisting of coffee, two eggs, wheat toast, and vegetarian bacon. It might sound odd, but the shirt was just perfectly too large for me. The sleeves were a few inches too long, the body of the shirt was sensuously unconfining. On a couple of occasions I had worn dresses and gowns costing hundreds of dollars, but I never felt so sexy as when I was preparing breakfast while wearing nothing but that $25 flannel shirt.

Fifteen minutes later I put the breakfast upon this old, ugly metal tray and delivered it to my guest in the bedroom. He was half awake when I arrived and so a mere fingertip touch was enough to open his eyes. As I had hoped, he was both flattered by the breakfast, and very pleased to see me in his shirt.

Subsequently, not every detail went entirely according to plan that morning. Although the gentleman did not complain, I could see that he was not particularly enamored with the veggie bacon; information I made sure to remember on my next visit to the grocery store. And before the breakfast was concluded, his work duties summoned him via cellphone, which we both found painfully disappointing. I had hoped we could spend at least a few romantic hours together, but it was not to be, at least not on that morning.

But being engulfed in that sublimely over-sized shirt met all my expectations. And now two and a half years later, this confirmed romantic is convinced that someday she will have the opportunity to once again slip into a gentleman’s shirt, some blissful weekend morning.  

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A Wussy's Viewpoint

I’m a sissy, a wuss. But that’s not not the only reason why I’ll rarely take a social stance. Truth is, I usually see, and comprehend, the various positions in some controversial issue. Yes, there are times when I will actually ponder social or political issues, and believe it or not, a lot of the time I will see both sides of the debate. Take global warming. I understand the argument from both sides. I believe that the earth’s climate is warming, but I’m not convinced that it is a result of human activity. 

Recently I saw an internet debate where someone was stating that as a business owner, he should have the right to turn away any would-be customer he chooses, regardless of the reason. It’s his business, he contends, and choosing his customers ought to be his right. The poster was making an argument for discrimination, basically. But believe it or not, I understood his point. I disagree with it, but I understood it.

I do not get the argument denying same sex marriage. Are gay people equal to straight people or aren’t they? If they are, then they deserve the right to marry each other. If they are not, then let’s make it official and move them to the back of the bus. Let’s have separate “gay” and “straight” drinking fountains.

Just about the only arguments against same sex marriage are religious arguments. But aren’t we a nation that separates church and state? So, in other words, religious arguments have no grounds. Here in America, the minute a person dismisses civil rights in favor of The Bible, the Koran, or any other religious doctrine, his point of view fails, or at least it should fail. 

Here’s how I see it; murder, rape, theft, these transgressions disobey Biblical teachings, but that’s not why they are illegal. These criminal actions are illegal because they violate the civil rights of the victim. Gay marriage does no such thing. Gay marriage is illegal for no other reason in that it offends people’s religious beliefs. In this small but real way, American culture is no different than Pakistani or Saudi culture where religious beliefs can trump human rights. As a proud American, the mere thought of that bothers me. It bothers me to the point where I’ve put my fingers onto this computer keyboard and written about it in my blog. And that’s saying something, because I’m a wuss.

I'm Really More Picky Than Snobby

When it comes to going out with unknown guys, I’m awfully picky. Sometimes I think I can come-off as a snob, but really, I’m just picky.

I think I’m picky because I am “different”, not better, not worse, just different. I’m not into parties or clubs. When I stop and give it some thought, I almost never drink just to drink. I enjoy a glass of wine with dinner, or even while watching TV, but I won’t drink just for the sake of consuming alcohol. It might sound contradictory, but I like to do stupid stuff with a guy. I’m talking about miniature golf, or going on a trip out to Matt’s Hometown Pizza for dinner in the tiny town of Stillman Valley. Someday I’d like to go to Maywood Park Racetrack with a guy, eat hotdogs, munch on popcorn, and watch the horseracing.

I have had an OKCupid account for a couple of months. OKCupid is a dating website. In my OKCupid profile I have the web address to my blog. I receive about six or eight messages a day, on average, at OKCupid. The first message I ever got the guy just said “Hi, wassup?” Two words, and one wasn't even a real word. I did not respond. I’m not sure what I could have said. But I figured if the guy really found my OKCupid profile interesting he would have put more thought into his message. Along those same lines, I receive a lot of OKCupid messages that tell me nothing more than I am hot, or I have a sexy smile. Again, I’m somewhat flattered, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say, so I don’t respond. To be completely honest, I don’t want to respond to these messages. I feel kind of bad just admitting that, but it’s the truth. 

Some of the messages I get will ask me if I’m interested in casual sex. These messages do not offend me. I’m glad the guy is up-front with his intentions. Still, I generally do not respond to such messages. I’m sure the guys sending these offers will understand.

I have received a number of messages that feature a profile photo of a guy without his shirt. Thankfully, there are always pants, but sometimes no shirt. These photos are not of the guy as he is getting out of a pool. He is shirtless specifically because he wants to show his body. Usually the guy is well-built, which I can appreciate, but regardless of what the message might say, just being sent by a shirtless guy seems to give the overture a lack of depth and romance. Still, I can’t fault the strategy. I’m sure these guys will find success with other girls.

The messages that initially get my attention are the ones that contain a number of paragraphs. I will always read the messages that have three or more paragraphs (unless they are sent by a shirtless guy). I go to the edge of my seat when they first start talking about what they find interesting about me, and then go into some personal, relating characteristic of their own. I can become fascinated by the guy who reveals little things about himself, like a fear of dentists, or an appreciation of chocolate sprinkles atop vanilla ice cream. And I can safely say that it excites me when I read that someone has read my OKCupid profile and found it interesting enough to warrant a visit to my blog. I know the guy has put in some effort, at least more effort than a quickly written “wassup?”

I write this blog entry now, on Saturday morning, because tonight I am going to meet a guy I contacted through OKCupid. This is the second such foray into an OKCupid connection. Of course he knows I have a blog so unlike the first time, I will not mention this guy in my blog after this entry, nor will I relay my experiences, no matter what happens. I will not make that mistake again. I will simply say that he wore a shirt in his OKCupid profile photo, he wrote more than two paragraphs to me in his initial OKCupid message, and he has read my blog. Another words; he survived my pickiness.