Don't Hate Me, Mitch

I'm planning my return to blogging in January. Don't give up on my block-headed self quite yet.

Hell, I even gained a follower after weeks of no posts at all. At least one person misses me. (Maybe I should post even less and see what happens.)

May your holidays be happy and safe, folks. See you in '09.

A Farewell Post From Stephanie

Something happened on my birthday yesterday, and it was life-altering.*

I feel like Jim Carrey towards the end of The Truman Show...that's the kind of curveball I've just been tossed by life.

So I'm saying goodbye (at least for now) to Rider and his Block.

Rider is cool with me leaving. He says I'm welcome back whenever I want. He is currently immersed in his writing projects and has said he'll get back to blogging soon. His exact quote:

I'll return to the Block sooner rather than later. I was bitten and infected by the blogging bug years ago, and it's in my blood. But right now I'm having too much fun writing my fiction. My readers will understand. (Well, maybe not McGone, but he's a big boy. He'll deal.)

I thank him for inviting me to contribute. I had a great time. I also thank you for reading and commenting on my posts. I had more stories I wanted to tell here, but they'll have to wait until I sort stuff out.

I leave you with a quote that probably means more to me than it will to you. Extra credit for the commenter who can name the artist and song without Googling it like a punk.

Mama told me when I was young
Stand tall, girl, you’re number one
She said, You can be what you wanna be
But you can’t change the course of your destiny

Stephanie P. has left The Block. Peace and love.

* I mentioned it briefly on my original blog yesterday, but you won't find any details. It's more of a note to myself than anything. If you really care though, it's posted here.

"Dotty? Blueberries, Dotty!"

I try not to overhear conversations people have at work despite the theme of my previous blog, but sometimes it's not possible.

I was serving a customer the other day, and he was on his cell with a woman who apparently did something horrible.

"Dotty?" he bellowed.

I almost spilled his coffee as I poured. He'd startled me.

"They pick up freezer, Dotty?"

That isn't a typo, mind you. He didn't say "the freezer." This gray-haired man in a shirt and tie was talking to someone like they were: A) non-English-speaking, or B) three years old.

He was also pronouncing "Dotty" like "Dod-dee."

"They pick up freezer, Dotty?"

Heads began to turn in his direction.

"You get my note, Dotty?"

I walked away, trying to ignore him, trying to act like I wasn't amused by his tone or his nonchalance at allowing others to hear his conversation. I couldn't tell if he was hard of hearing, but I confirmed later he wasn't wearing a hearing aid.

"The blueberries, Dotty, did you take out blueberries?"

Now the entire coffee house was listening. Blueberries were involved. How could they not want to find out what happened to them?

"On the Post-it, Dotty! I put it on the Post-it! Didn't you see the Post-it?"

Now the gray-haired man rubbed a hand over his forehead and eyes. He was in emotional distress. He looked like Harvey Keitel towards the end of The Bad Lieutenant.*

"The note said to take the blueberries out of freezer, Dotty."

He slammed his hand on the counter. Several customers nearby jumped. A sugar bowl in front of him clinked as the spoon inside flew out. Then the gray-haired man shouted his first non-Dotty statement into his phone.

"The blueberries are gone."

The blueberries were gone. All gone. He was very clear about that fact. He once had blueberries, now he didn't. It was like a Greek tragedy, except it concerned blue fruit. It was like the simple, to-the-point plot of a Lifetime movie. Tori Spelling is "Tori Johnson" in Mother, May I Buy More Blueberries?

"The blueberries are gone now, Dotty."

His statement was so devastating I saw people lower their heads throughout the house. A moment of prayer, perhaps, for the lost berries. Then he summed up.

"All gone now, Dotty. I left a note. Blueberries."

He finally hung up, rubbing his forehead. He eventually snapped himself out of his funk, and summoned me over. In a regular voice he asked for a muffin to go.

"Blueberry?" I asked.**

Ba-dum-dum.

* A movie I'm sorry I watched, btw.
** OK, I didn't say that. But how funny would that have been?

Giving Thanks (And Excuses)

I didn't blog the whole weekend. (Rider hasn't been in touch with me, so I assume he's back to his novel or he spent time with loved ones.)

Saying, "I didn't feel like posting," won't cut it, right?

Saying, "I worked long shifts every day before and after the holiday," isn't good enough.

Saying, "Very few of the regular lurkers on The Block posted on their blogs, either," is weak.

So what did I do that was so important?

I don't want to get into it.

But, hypothetically, I could say that on Thanksgiving my "dad" entertained a "lady friend" named "Candyce-with-a-Y," which resulted in an empty bottle of Jäger and a Friday morning walk of shame to her red '95 Fiero that needed a battery jump. Hypothetically.

Meanwhile, I had a leftover five-dollah-foot-long turkey sub from Wednesday. I stayed in my room, listened to CDs, looked at photos, and played my Gibson.

If any of that were true, it would sound sad.

Honestly, though, as lame as my family situation is, I am thankful for the way my year is ending. Last spring my status quo improved drastically, I made many awesome friends, I have a job, my creativity is at an all-time high, and I have my health.

That's better than most folks, right?

I hope you had things to give thanks for, too.