Powder to the People

I once read that if more people skied, there’d be less war. And, as crazy as that sounds, I believe it. In fact, just last week alone, we went to Steamboat and broke into someone’s condo, and no one was even mad about it let alone hostile. However… before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.

You see, even though I lived out West and have been fortunate enough to ski most of the major resorts in North America, I’d never done Steamboat, which was definitely a mistake on my part. Now, I love it - and not just for the elevation or the powder, but because of the culture. Sure, Aspen gets the X Games, but Steamboat is becoming the new Mecca for winter biathletes, people who participate in a sport that combines cross-country skiing with target shooting. To quote the guy in the gear shop, “folks trudge through the snow, stop, shoot a gun, and keep going.” It’s like Chicago… with mountains. 

That said, please don’t get me wrong. I do NOT cross country ski. I wouldn’t even do it if I lived in a smaller country. I downhill, period… but I also digress. The point is that the locals there love their mountains, and I cannot blame them. I would move tomorrow if the stars aligned. As for breaking and entering, this time it wasn’t my fault. 

Unlike previous years, DB and I took the kids and met his mom, his sister, and her family at the resort. And, because they aren’t cheap, the four of them flew directly into Hayden and arrived at 3:00 PM as scheduled. However, because I am, we flew into Denver, got into the rental car, and hit a blizzard on the way to Steamboat. After a six hour drive… through the mountains… in a white out... we made it to the main lodging office, checked in, got the keys, and headed to the condo. Sadly, it wasn’t ours. No really. They gave us the keys to someone else’s condominium. 

Luckily, they weren’t home. We know because we walked through each and every room trying to figure out why we were given a dirty condo that was filled with Jesus art… until finally, after fifteen minutes, I called the concierge who profusely apologized and told me, “Whoa, you’re not in unit 32. You’re in unit 23. Sorry man, my bad.” 

You know, ever since that night, I’ve caught myself wondering what those poor people thought when they got back to their condo. Did they think that someone gently broke in and took something, and did they spend the rest of their vacation trying to figure out what it was? Honestly, I almost took a six pack of beer just to give them some peace of mind. That way it wouldn’t have been so… random. That way they could’ve opened their fridge and screamed, “What asshole steals someone’s beer?” And it would have been over for them. But I didn’t give them that closure, and now they just have to wonder… forever. On the up note, I didn’t break in and leave anything on the counter just to fuck with them either, so they should thank me! 

At any rate, after all of that, we went back to the front desk, got new keys, went to our own condo, then met up with DB’s family. I’m pleased to announce that a fabulous time was had by all. The white out was worth it because the powder was to die for, and trust me about Steamboat. It’s amazing.

There's no accounting for taste...

First, the good news… last month, mkromd crossed the five thousand reader mark. It’s taken me two years and fifty-four posts, but I’ve done it. No, I mean that literally - over half of those hits were probably me visiting my own site. Sure, I selected Blogger’s, “Don’t track your own page views,” but I once put black electrical tape over the 12:00 that kept flashing on my VCR because it was the only way I could make the fucking thing stop blinking at me. So who knows?

Now for the bad news… which, interestingly enough, is connected to the good news AND last month’s post. One of those five thousand readers is one of my three closest friends in the world… and she had absolutely no idea that I was blogging… or that my karma ran over my dogma existed… even though I have written about her… ad nauseam. Yes. Really. Seriously though, in my defense, what the HELL are the odds of that happening?

Turns out they’re about 1 in 5248… give or take a few.

At any rate, before I can tell you why, I have to tell you this part of the story first... I’ve not always had the best of luck writing. In fact, in a previous life, I had another blog. It was also anonymous, but it wasn’t always kind, and people got hurt. Very hurt. As a result, I immediately killed the site, made three deeply sincere apologies in an attempt to make amends, and did some serious soul searching. Unfortunately, the damage was done, and it was irrevocable.

Afterwards, people encouraged me to blog, but I couldn’t. I honestly had nothing to say. Days turned into weeks which turned into months, and - no matter how much I wanted to write, nothing would come out but tears. Don’t get me wrong, I deserved it. I knew better. My father used to say, “A joke isn’t funny unless everyone in the room laughs.” Well, at some point, I forgot that, and getting even was more important than getting better… which was the whole reason that I started writing to begin with. It was therapy for me.

Then, one day, I had to get new tires, and it was a complete disaster, but it was funny. And, what started out as an e-mail to friends, rapidly devolved into the first post that I ever published on this blog. Too bad I failed to mention some of the people who got me from there to here:

DB, who encouraged me to write but reminded me to, “First do no harm."

My mother, who (even though I'm forty) said, “I don’t care if we debate, so long as you do what you’re told.”

My oldest friend, who told me, “No one can take your voice unless you give it to them willingly.”

A reader who once candidly posted, “My mom is dying of cancer. And, in a world of unfunny things, you made you made us laugh until we cried… the good kind of tears. Thank you.”

And Zoey, who wrote a million e-mails, sent a billion texts, did a zillion lunches, and drove a trillion miles – all the while saying, “Write!” To which I would simply reply, “Wrong.”

So what the hell does all of that have to do with the post, “Forty, it's not the new thirty they promised you. Thank God!” Well, everything. In the spirit of full disclosure, what I didn't tell you is that, after my divorce, I was so angry… and so lost… and so bitter… that I refused to do anything which required me to leave my couch let alone take the highroad. In fact, I’d probably still be hiding at home today, except that Zo staged an intervention. No really, it’s true. She e-mailed our other friends and bullied me into the very dinner that I wrote about last month. And, when I finally got to the restaurant, I had a panic attack that was so awful that she had to come to my car to get me, which wasn’t easy considering that I was lost and refusing to answer my phone. I’m not proud, but there you have it - the truth.

This is a woman stuck by me and not only propped me up but cheered me on... through everything, and a thousand times I wanted to say, “I’m blogging!” Instead, I always simply replied, “Wrong” when she said, “Write.” Well, Zo - though this post wasn't funny at all, it is sincere, and I am sorry. I’m glad you found it. I’m glad you read it. I hope you know how dearly I love you and – more than that - how deeply I appreciate you. With that, I'm heading to out West to ski. As always, the flights are ghetto but the fare was simply too good to pass up. I mean really... how bad could it be?

Forty, it's not the new thirty they promised you. Thank God!

A while ago, I went to dinner with four friends whom I dearly love, all of whom I've written about at one point or another. And - as I sat there, it dawned on me why Steve Jobs genuinely enjoyed people his own age. Of the five women at our table, all of us are in our forties... at varying stages of our careers.. and marriages... with children who are ours and/or our partners'... and we have all lost at least one parent. We have laugh lines and wrinkles. Highlights and gray hair. Personal trainers and nagging ailments. Retirement accounts and college funds. And stories that make us interesting. Really interesting, actually.

Ironically, next to us was a table that also had five women, all of whom were in their mid-twenties to early-thirties. Beautiful women who were young and athletic and who had not yet looked at their budgets or their consciences and wondered about Botox. I mean really wondered. Women who, more-than-likely, had just finished graduate school... landed their first real jobs... gotten married... and maybe had their first child.

When I pointed them out, one of my girlfriends laughed and said, "Those poor souls have absolutely no idea what's about to hit them." And she's right. We should know. When we met fifteen years ago, we were those women. So, we played a game. Which one of them would end up like each one of us? Which one would end her marriage because she was actually a lesbian? Which one would make Senior Partner at her firm, only to quit and be a stay-at-home mom? Which one would simultaneously have a child in college and a child in pre-school, both from the same husband? Which one would make CEO one week and watch her oldest child go off to war the next? And which one of them would go through a devastating divorce?

As we did our round-robin, my friends unanimously picked the woman who reminded them the most of me at that age. She had a pixie haircut, wore a cashmere turtleneck, and had a boisterous laugh that you either loved or you hated. There was no middle ground. Judging by the ring on her finger, she was married. And, although everyone else at the table was having a glass of wine, she was drinking a beer. I instantly adored her. She had the exuberance of youth and more than that... she was still innocent. Sure, she was probably sarcastic but she wasn't cynical yet, and I silently prayed that she'd stay that way... that, regardless of what life threw at her, she would always like her life like she liked her music, "louder than everything else."

At any rate, after we said good-night, I called my mother on the drive home and asked her what I was like at twenty-five. To which she replied, "Thankfully, you weren't experienced enough to know that you couldn't possibly do the things that you were actually doing."When I figured out what she meant, I realized that she was right. I was unsustainably over-the-top in everything I touched. I wanted to change the world, and I actually tried... one cause at a time. I not only said, "til death do we part," I genuinely believed that I would die without the man I'd married. I idolized Geraldine Ferraro and wondered if George Stephanopoulos ever debated in the nude... and, more importantly, if I'd ever get to see it.

Now... I still want to change the world, but I daydream about decorating it with environmentally-friendly Pottery Barn furniture, too. I love my partner. I love him immeasurably - more than I ever knew I could, but I cannot ever love someone with everything in me ever again. There's a part of me that's reserved only for me, and I accept that it's the tragic collateral damage caused by a terrible divorce, but that doesn't make it less true. And though I miss Geraldine Ferraro, these days I fantasize more about picking Lawrence O'Donnell's brain than playing the spoons on George Stephanopoulos' abs. OK, that last one's a lie. Why choose?

Anyway, where does that leave me and where does it leave that beautiful young woman from the other table? 

At forty, I've figured out that I want to write and I'm trying to get published. I've fallen apart, looked at the pieces of myself, and taken inventory of the parts I want to keep and the parts I need to toss. And I've tried to do it. As for her? I want to give her some great advice that Baz Lurhman gave to the Graduating Classes of 1997 - the year that I was out of graduate school... had that first real job... and first marriage... when I was her. Here it is, "If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long term benefits have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Never mind, you will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they have faded. But trust me, in twenty years you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked... You’re not as fat as you imagine.

Don’t worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind. The kind that blindside you at 4pm on a random Tuesday. Do one thing every day that scares you.

Sing!

Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts, and don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours. Floss! Don’t waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you’re ahead. Sometimes you’re behind. The race is long, and in the end it’s only with yourself.

Remember the compliments you receive. Forget the insults... If you succeed in doing this, tell me how. Keep your old love letters, but throw away your old bank statements. Stretch! Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at twenty-five what they wanted to do with their lives, and some of the most interesting forty year olds I know still don’t.

Get plenty of calcium, and be kind to your knees. You’ll miss them when they’re gone.

Maybe you’ll marry. Maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll have children. Maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll divorce at 40. Maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance, but so are everybody elses.

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don’t be afraid of it or what other people think of it. It’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own. Dance... even if you have nowhere to do it but in your own living room. Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them. DO NOT READ BEAUTY MAGAZINES. They will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents. You’ll never know when they’ll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They are the best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future. Understand that friends come and go but for the precious few you should hold on to. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography in lifestyle because the older you get, the more you need the people you knew when you were young. Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.

Travel!

Accept certain inalienable truths: price will rise, politicians will philander, you too will get old, and when you do you’ll fantasize that when you were young prices were reasonable, politicians were noble, and children respected their elders.

Respect your elders!

Don’t expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out. Don’t mess too much with your hair or by the time its forty, it will look eighty-five.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it’s worth. But trust me on the sunscreen.”

I know we’re all probably old enough to remember the speech, but it’s honestly the only advice I’d give to her – or anyone else. I'd also tell the women my age to visit this great new blog that I've fallen in love with. It's called womenatforty. It's not the womenatfortyisthenewthirty either. It's a forum of women for women by women our age, and it's fabulous. I hope you check it out, and not just because I might be a guest writer (keep your fingers crossed), but because it's just a really great blog.

Talk to you later.

It's not gay if it's in a three-way...

Have you ever seen that Saturday Night Live digital short with Justin Timberlake, Andy Samberg, and Lady Gaga? I have no way to describe it other than saying it's hilarious. It's also the only thing that comes even remotely close to, "Two it's you, three it's me, and five it's gay..." the search string that someone used to find my blog. Yes. Really.

Now, for the record, for those of you who DON'T know me, the closest I've ever come to a three-way (let alone a five-way) is that SNL skit. Seriously. Because, although I went to Catholic school in Appalachia, I was raised so WASP that I actually once walked into the confessional and said, "Bless me father for I have sinned... and this is our family attorney, Ms. Bertling." Anyway, regardless of the reason, upbringing or education, I got the message. Group sex was off-limits. My hippie brother, however, did not. In fact, he subscribed to the Woody Allen school of thought, "Sex between two people is a beautiful thing — between five, it's fantastic." And, though he swears it never happened, when we were in college, I swear that I heard two women talking about it and him.

You see, we both went to Penn State, and during my freshman and his sophomore year, my "free-love" loving sibling lived at a commune. It wasn't a crazy religious one. It was just a bunch of like-minded, liberal students co-habitating in a socially conscious, co-operative way. My parents, to their credit, didn't like it, but they didn't stop him. After all, it was his life to live not theirs. That said, they didn't approve and when my sister needed directions to visit him, my mother said "Drive with your windows down. When you're overwhelmed by the stench of patchouli, turn left. If you don't see partially naked liberals within five minutes, you took a wrong turn."

At the risk of digressing too far, it should be said that my father was a Franklin Delano Roosevelt Democrat and my mother is a Teddy Roosevelt Republican. This is a woman who voted for Nixon... and admits it. I think she even believes that Nixon's only mistake was getting caught. But I digress. The point is that my brother not only lived there, he loved it. Too bad, my mother (though completely wrong about Watergate) was absolutely right about socialism, "It's a great hobby. It's just doesn't pay the bills." And so, when it was time to grow up, he did... kind of. Personally, I think he still subscribes to the Peter Pan philosophy that "Growing old is mandatory. Growing up is optional." It's why I will always adore him... As to whether or not I'm right about the group sex thing when he was at PSU, I can't say. It's been over two decades and when I brought it up, all he said was, "After twenty years, people are more disappointed by the things they didn't do than by the ones they did." Either way, that's the closest I've ever come to, "two it's you, three it's me, and five it's gay." Happy New Year!

Single Woman Seeks...

Happy New Years! I have good news and bad. The good news is that, thanks to your wonderful comments, mkromd just made a $30 donation to Heifer International to purchase honey bees for a village in South America. Why? To quote the Bee Movie, "Bees have never afraid to change the world. Look at Bee-Jesus." Now for the bad news.

One of my closest friends (the one about whom I wrote, "St. Valentine's Day Massacre... Take Two") asked me to look at her online dating profile and give feedback. And not just because I know her pretty well, but because I love her dearly and genuinely want her to be happy. That said, given that she would never use my edits (and I no longer work for her), I'm posting them here. Sorry KJ. This time it's better to ask for forgiveness than it is to get permission.

Without further ado, here's what I would write if I were her:

"Single woman seeks... what? A much-needed vacation? A well-deserved raise? A spa day? A good dinner and a bad joke? YES... YES... YES... and YES. But I'm also looking for someone to share those moments with... other than gay men and straight women. Don't get me wrong, I love my friends. I'm just not IN LOVE with them. So who?

I could write that I want someone warm, fun-loving, and loyal; however, if I wanted that - I'd get a dog. I want someone who is himself. Actually, scratch that. I want someone who is himself and doesn't care that I want to be myself.... and not just because Oscar Wilde is right, "everyone else is already taken," but because I'm a genuinely interesting person. I'm well-read, well-educated (CPA), and well-traveled (I've visited and/or worked on six continents). I'm also a work-a-holic. At thirty-six, I'm an IT Communications Manager at a Fortune 100 company. And, while I'm extremely proud of my professional accomplishments, I'm tired of being married to my job. Not that I want to be married to anything else, but I wouldn't be opposed to the idea. You know?

With that, here's what I don't want. Marathoners... mean people... mean marathoners. In other words, serious athletes need not apply. I feel about runners the way homophobes feel about gay men. I don't care if you work out, I just don't want to see you do it in public. Seriously, if I was interested in seeing someone put Vaseline on their thighs or pant, sweat, and grab their calf muscles, I'd be sleeping with them - not working out with them. Don't get me wrong, I like hiking and scuba diving. I don't even mind biking around town. I just hate gyms. All the tight pants and muscle shirts make me feel like I'm at Studio 54, except there's no Village People or alcohol - the two things that actually make tight pants and muscle shirts almost bearable. What else?

Assholes, cheaters, and perverts need not apply either, especially twisted polygamists who act like dickheads. Seriously - to the fetish crowd... to quote my dear friend, mkromd, "There's a fine line between 'trust me baby you're gonna dig it' and 'wow, I fucking hate you. You should leave now." And I refuse to cross it. Because if we can't make eye contact, how can we have a relationship? I'm not saying I'm not into things, I am. I grew up in Nebraska, so I'm very into college football. I also love baseball and tennis. I'm just not into things that require me to sign a medical waiver or consent form. Other than that...

Yes, I'm attractive, and no -I don't want a knight in shining armor to rescue me or sweep me off my feet. I like them being firmly planted on the ground and I can take care of myself. I'd just like some good company while I'm doing it."

At any rate, that's what I would write if I were her. Talk to you next week and thanks again for all of the wonderful comments. Go Heifer Go.

Christmas is coming. My ass is getting fat. Please put some money in my Kate Spade bag!

Actually, it's not for me. It's for Nathan Bransford's annual Hooray for Heifer drive, where he sends this ripple of kindness across the blogosphere and challenges each of us to raise money for a wonderful cause, Heifer International. Here’s the deal, if I link to his site and this cause, he will redirect people to my site to keep it going. So we should REALLY do this! For each comment that you post below (until the first week of January 2012), I'll donate 25 cents on your behalf (up to $50 total). This is the third year we've done it, and I'd like to keep this tradition going, including sharing the post, "tap tap tap... is this thing on?" As dysfunctional as it is, it's the mkromd equivalent to, "Twas the Night before Christmas." Yes. Really.

With that, happy holidays.
*********

Just when I thought no one was paying attention because the Indonesian Blog, kewtawa lucu, is kicking my ass, someone sent me a note me about Nathan Bransford, who is raising money for a wonderful cause, Heifer International. Now, if you aren’t familiar with this organization, they use donations (like this) to purchase sustainable items for indigenous people around the world, many of whom I’ve personally offended at one point in time or another and need to apologize to en masse. Hopefully this will help me make amends (and improve my karma). And... for those of you who regularly read my blog, you know I need all the help I can get. You even already know that years ago, in college, when I studied in Sardinia, I was attacked by a passive-aggressive hair stylist who shaved my head. But, what you don't know is that, as tragic as that event may have been, it was far from the worst thing that's ever happened to me abroad.

That probably happened in India, after I graduated from college.

You see, every year my large co-dependent family vacations together in a place we've never been before. It's true, we pick some unfortunate destination and descend en-masse, and one year we decided to go to Asia. At any rate, there we were, visiting a mosque in India, when someone suggested that we see the, “lesser known Poor Man’s Taj Mahal.” If you've never heard of it, don't be alarmed. It’s more like a roadside attraction than it is a mosque, but the rules still apply: men can go inside, women cannot, and everyone has to take off their shoes regardless.

So there I was... walking around... outside... in India... without shoes on... when I stepped in bird poop.

If you know nothing about me, please know this - I’m a complete germ-a-phobe; however, luckily for me, there was a big pool of water right there. And, as a recently-graduated, culturally-sensitive Anthropologist, I hopped over to it and stuck my bird poop covered foot RIGHT in. No kidding, about twenty-five men immediately ripped their hands out of there the second I'd touched it. Being the polite idiot that I am, I was loudly apologizing/explaining and showing them my foot while saying, “Sorry – I stepped in crap and I need to get it off.”

Now, if you know anything about Islam, then you probably know the following:
1. That’s holy water and it’s used for men to clean themselves before they pray. Women don’t use it… EVER!
2. Never show a Muslim the bottom of your feet. It’s like giving them the finger.
3. Either one of these things is offensive.
4. Both of these things together can be life-threatening.

I now know that too…

That said, as I’m writing this, it dawns on me that the poop "incident" wasn't actually the worst one. The worst was definitely when I was living and working in London because of an international assignment. I tried to warn my boss this was a bad idea, but it wasn’t until I lost my knickers on High Street that he agreed.

However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.

You see, one morning, I’d gotten up and headed into the office to prep for a big meeting with my manager and his peers, all of whom are men. However, because God hates me, I didn't get to work early at all. In fact, I got there late because of traffic on the M25. Already tardy and frustrated, I quickly grabbed my stuff from the car and accidentally slammed the door on myself - which naturally resulted in a MASSIVE tear in my nylons. As I looked at my watch, I realized that I could pull it off (no pun intended) and literally JAUNTED (in heels) to Woolworths on High Street for a new pair.

Though I was able to successfully repress most of what happened next, I still remember running into the store, grabbing a pair of pantyhose off the rack, looking at the back of the package, and realizing that this wasn’t going to end well for me. You see, the problem with buying clothes in England is that the height and weight charts are metric.

Do you know how many stones you weigh or how many meters tall you are? OMG… ME EITHER!

But I grabbed a pair anyway and hauled back to the office where I went into the bathroom, pulled off my nylons, pitched the torn ones into the garbage, and opened the new pack. Clearly God hates me, because when I opened them, they were thigh-highs… for an Amazon. I’m five foot two, and in NO parallel universe would those have worked - even if I'd had a garter-belt, which I didn't.

So there I was, eyeballing the torn ones in the trash and running the numbers in my head, when I realized that it would require a lifetime of therapy if I went dumpster diving for my own used clothes. Instead, I tried to make my B Plan work.

I literally PULLED MY NYLONS THROUGH THE TOP OF MY UNDERWEAR AND TIED THEM TOGETHER IN THE BACK.

After fifteen minutes of sheer hell (no pun intended), I walked over to my boss’s office, shut his door and said, “We have a problem.” It was (quite literally) five minutes before one of the biggest presentations of my life, so he was clearly upset by this declaration and asked why. That's when I stamped my right foot three times, and my thigh-high fell to the floor... engulfing my shoe. As we stood there, staring at each other, not sure what to say, the left thigh-high fell to the floor, too. And no, I hadn’t shaved. That’s when my boss said, “Take the damn things off and tell them you’re French. Let’s go.”

To think I was scared of what could happen on our last family vacation to Peru. No kidding, I was genuinely terrified that I’d hear a blow dart and wake up days later in some South American jungle hut without a kidney. Since that didn’t happen, I clearly still have amends to make before my karma can improve, so PLEASE help me out. Give to Heifer International. Or, post a comment and I will make a donation on your behalf (up to $50 total from mkromd).

Have a great holiday! Talk to you next week.

Panama!

If you have no idea who Van Halen or who David Lee Roth is, this post won't make any sense to you at all, and I apologize in advance. That said - it might not make sense to you even if you do know, and I’m sorry for that, too. Either way, disclaimer disclaimed, our story begins...

Last week, two Van Halen related things happened to me. One, according to Blogger's analytics, we have a reader in Panama (the southernmost country of Central America, not the song "Panama Ah Ah Ah Ah Ah PANAMA"). And two, I discovered that a friend of mine's ring tone is "Just a Gigolo." In other words, every time you call it, you hear "HUMALE-BIBALE-ZIBALE-BOOBALE-HUMALE-BIBALE-ZIBALE-BOP." Yes. Really.

Now, at the risk of blaming the victim, you can't have a mobile which does that and not expect me to exploit you for my own personal delight. Because, let's be honest, you may think you know how funny it is to see a grown man's pants burst into, "Just a Gigolo," but you don't. In fact, the only thing funnier than that is going into multiple conference rooms and calling him from different telephone numbers …over… and over…. and over… so he doesn't know whether to take the call or not. Sadly though, after the fourth or fifth call, he put it on vibrate and stole my joy, which forced me send the following text, "whoa oh oh mkromd's crying." To which this friend of over a decade wittily replied, "I KNEW it was you. I’m going to “Finish What You Started,” an obscure reference to a song from the album OU812.

Please know that when you throw down a ‘battle of the band’ gauntlet, I will pick it up like a middle-aged, wanna-be music nerd. Below is a copy of the threaded conversation that immediately ensued.

me: REALLY?

him: That’s right. “You Really got Me,” but I “Won't get Fooled Again!”

me: Nicely played. Points awarded. But it’s GO time. You and me… in the parking lot… NOW. When you wake up in a week, you’ll be humming “Outside Woman Blues.”

him: Oh, hell no, “Poundcake.” That “Dream is Over!”

me: That’s right. One song for you, “Black and Blue.”

him: But we’re friends. “Why can’t this be Love?”

me: Cause, I “Ain't talkin' 'bout Love.” I’m talkin’ ‘bout, “Somebody Get U a Doctor.”

him: LOL! How ‘bout lunch? “Everybody wants some. I want some, too.”

me: TOTALLY! I’ll be at your desk in two minutes.

Then, on the way to his cubicle, I called his cell phone one last time and heard, “HUMALE-BIBALE-ZIBALE-BOOBALE-HUMALE-BIBALE-ZIBALE-BOP." Thank God some things never change.