I found the sign!

.

I saw this from Kennedy's Pub. I didn't have my camera on me, so I went back the following week. Looks meant to be, doesn't it?

Just to reassure you folks,

I am not turning this into a comic blog. Not that there is anything wrong with them, that's just not what this is about.

Kevin was kind enough to let me guest on his so I could throw some thoughts out in the sphere. You'll need to scroll down a mite, as it went up yesterday (I had no idea he would post it so quickly).

There is going to be one more comic related post this week, and that is all you'll hear from me on the subject. I'll throw my stuff out, and then leave the quality work to the experts.

I think he looks like Ronald Reagan.

.

Thanks, Kevin.

Day in Boston: The Destination

Back at my old college, to see an old friend in a show. This was the point of the day.

Outside, it all looks the same. Same trees, same buildings.

The kids are different. First of all, they’re kids. I feel (and look, I am sure) so old around them. Inside the “Fishbowl” that became “The Colonel's Coffee House” is now something entirely different. I don’t think it has a name. It’s just a big, red room with a massive flat screen TV. What is up with those funky chairs? Some sort of bizarre modern art pieces? These kids must think I’m insane...laughing at plastic chairs.

Part of me really wants to go back to my old dorm room. To knock on the door, ask the child who inhabits it if I can come in. Does the window still make those horrendous rattling noises when the wind blows. Is it still always boiling hot in the warm weather and frigid in the cold? Does she go out onto the flat roof of the parlor below with her friends and their beach towels? We’d sunbathe outside my window and “study” (no one can study outside on a pretty day). Stacey’s security guard boyfriend saw us from the top of another building.

“You’re not supposed to be up there! Guys, I could get in trouble...”

“Please don’t tell! Please? Pleeeeease?”

Would you say no to six college girls in bathing suits?

Now I am back in the theater building. There are different names on the doors. Everything is repainted. Why is there is a baby grand piano in the guy’s dressing room?

The old theater assistant's office looks the same. There are more posters on the walls. "The Crucible" is right above the desk...it's right above a desk, let's just leave it at that. I have to run my fingers over the text. "Arthur Miller's The Crucible, Directed by...".

Neal is still around. He is so excited to see me, he’s taking me backstage, to the places where I felt more at home than when I was with my own parents. The picture of Adlai Stevenson with lipstick kisses all over it is gone. The music they are listening too is different. We’d listen to Susan Tedeschi and Chet Baker and Cake and The Commodores. What the hell is this? Some pop station? In the makeup room? The makeup room is for swing or disco or something loud!

Neal introduces me to one of the new kids. Good old Neal, he’s so thrilled. “This is...” he says my name with enthusiasm, like I’m some Tony winner. Like I'm someone they should know.

The kid has no clue who I am. He smiles, though. “Oh. It’s really nice to meet you.” he says, and I can tell he’s mentally scanning the photos and playbills of past shows, trying to figure out who the hell he’s talking to. Neal looks astounded that my name hasn't caused a gasp in him. Not a flicker of thrill. Sorry, Neal, I'm a ghost to this boy.

“It’s okay,” I say, shaking the young actor's hand. “you don’t have to know me, I’m old.”

Day in Boston: Stealing from Pauly

Pauly often lists what he sees people reading on the Subway. It took me a while to get at an angle where I could see the books people were reading. I don't know how you do it withouth getting right in their laps, Dude.

The Last Five Books I Saw People Reading on The T:
1. I Know This Much Is True Wally Lamb
2. The Run Stuart Woods
3. Until You Beatrice Small
4. Black Notice Patricia Cornwall
5. Does The Wall Street Journal count?

No, I know it doesn't. I thought I saw a girl reading The Tao of Pooh, but I couldn't get close enough to be sure.

Hunter S. Thompson

Pauly, Kevin (scroll down a wee bit) and this guy have done it better than I could have.

Day In Boston: Kennedy's Pub

I love pubs.

I know that the places in Boston are only imitations of the wonderful, true pubs in Britain.

Damn, I miss London.

I miss the smell of the air, that wet, wet air. One of my friends is going back for two weeks. Lucky punk.

I miss the pubs with their deep, dark booths. A real pub needs some drunk guys in football jerseys playing darts. I miss that little place we went to after "Chekov Circus" (ghastly, painful little play) where we had pea soup and bread and red wine for lunch. Damn good lunch.

Kennedy's pub is okay for now.

Day In Boston: Drunk on Guys.

Men are gorgeous! All kinds! Love 'em!

There was Mister Titanium Eyes on the T, then Big Red Dreadlocks at Toscanini's, the Comic Store Guy (not from The Simpsons, from an actual comic store), and just now, in Quincy Market, there's this guy.

He's hunched on the steps of the South Market with a backpack. Tallish, brown hair, getting a little thin at the back. Brown eyes, wire glasses. Full lips. Somehwere between 25 and 35, I would guess. He's in the typical Boston Cold Weather uniform. Wool peacoat, sweater, scarf, Doc Martens. All in shades of navy/grey/black. Kind of a long, straight nose. Totally similar to thousands, maybe millions of other men. He is utterly Lovely, yet Unremarkable. In him I am seeing men that I know well, acquaintances, random guys from coffee shops, college campuses.

He does not, however, remind me of my husband. My husband is not only aesthetically lovely, he is artistically unique. I could stare at his lips for hours. I think I have, at some point.

When God designed my husband's mouth, He wracked His brain for months getting it right. When He was done, He said "Okay, that's it! I can't make anymore like this one! It's a masterpiece!" Jesus was all "Dad...why didn't I get a mouth like that? I would have gotten so many chicks!" and God was like "Oh, for crying out loud, you came back from the dead! You can't have everything!" Yeah, and then Jesus was like "Man, I hate this Heaven. When I was back on earth I hung out with cool people!" and God said "What, I'm not cool? I'm totally cool, I can make stuff out of nothing, let's see your fisherman friends do that!" and Jesus rolled His eyes and went to His cloud.

Wow. I didn't write that paragraph in Boston. I did that now, just typing it into blogger. Damn. If I didn't know me better, I'd think I was high. Or something. I'm not high. I'm kind of tired. I'm not going to edit this one, I'll just post it as is...see what happens.

Mmmm...Husband.

P.S. As thought on the Red Line a few hours later:

No matter how handsome, how charming, how adorable, how sexy, how punk, how dapper, how much he resembles a poet, a professor, an actor, a potentially great father to your potential children, he will look like a horse's ass in a sideways baseball cap.

P.P.S. Even later:

There is a charming specimen on this Braintree train. He has a beard. It's not a favorite facial fashion statement of mine, but I like his because it's a wonderful copper color. He has shaggy hair. The kind that looks like it was almost trendy a few months ago, and hasn't been cut since. The kind of hair that looks like it has hands raked though it in moments of frustration. Nice hands. Funny, I don't often notice hands. He has very long, graceful fingers. Rather feminine, really. Wonderful to look at, and probably to be touched by. Though I prefer thicker, more masculine hands, these are ceratinly quite fine. Of course, he has milky skin, with pink nose and cheeks from the cold. I like his glasses. Yes, they do make a man look smarter, and that is always sexy.

I wonder if I notice redheaded men more because I'm a redhead? My high school sweetheart looked like Richie Cunningham. That makes me seem very coneited. I really don't think I'm much to look at...except for my pretty hair.

Day in Boston: Public Transport

I love making eye contact with people on the T. You should all try it with the Tube, Subway, L, etc. After you make eye contact, smile. I realize you risk getting a nut case who starts yelling about how the Boston mob runs BU, but you might not. I've had a lot of surprised smiles back. Makin' people smile...I dig it.

There is a young guy right across from me who is obviously avoiding my eyes. He is reading my tote bag, looking at my socks. I feel like laughing. This guy really is trying to look at me without looking at me. I don't want to stare at him, because that would freak him out, but I would really like to catch him. He has very pretty eyes, large, clear. A silvery blue, almost like titanium.

Ha! I caught him. Now he knows I'm writing about him. Ha! Caught him again. This time I giggle and he looks away, as though scared.

Now I'm at Harvard. I grin at him over my shoulder as I leave. I can hear it now

"Dude, the strangest chick was looking at me on the T today".

Public transport is super fun!

Day in Boston: My Favorite Place

Curious George Goes to Wordsworth. I got my new Batman notebook there. Kicking children's book store.

Day in Boston: Driving In

It's just after lunch. I am driving down 95. Just as the song comes on, the phone rings. I usually don't answer it while driving, but it could be my husband, a medical emergency. It's not. I answer the phone, out of surprise. I can't believe he called just as this song stars.

Years ago, we rode the T together. The whole car was silent. It was a Sunday, in March. At one point, he made a grimace. "I need you." he said. So I leaned in and rested my head on his chest. He began to sing Ghost, quietly. I closed my eyes. His smell, his heartbeat were both familiar, comforting. I was not aware, but he was, that all eyes and ears in that car were on us.

Park Street. As we got off, he chuckled. "There are a lot of people in that car who thought we were a very sweet couple." he said. I laughed. We weren't a couple. We never were.

Six months later, I married someone else.

I wouldn't do anything differently. I would choose my husband a million times. Our love has had uncommon struggles, heart wrenching separations, a few screaming matches, and more devotion forged in fire than would be possible with the boy who seranaded me.

He and I are so much alike. We always know everything, and have learned nothing from each other. Were we to be together, we would still be the people we were at sixteen and eighteen. He realized a year after my marriage that he had to go on a quest of some sort. Literally and figuratively. He traveled the world, looking to find something to grow him. He grew.

His quest has brought him to places I never thought he would go, to see realities that I never thought he would. He wouldn't have done that with me. I either would have allowed him his delusions, or spit the truth on him so brutally that it would have hurt him, and we would no longer be friends. Which we are now. I realize how lucky I am.

Just after Christmas, after nearly a year of not seeing each other, we met in the rain, in Boston. We felt a minuscule sadness that quickly gave way to a great relief. Once we made each other's heads spin, and now...we were just friends. There was nothing romantic about it, but it was very, very good.

As the song comes on the radio, the phone rings, and it's him. It's a call of little importance. Yes, I am still coming. Yes, I can swing by his work before the show. Sure, coffee or ice cream (ice cream? has he been outside?) would be good. I'm trying not to get hit with an SUV, I have to go.

I hang up. I hit the back button on the cd player. I hear it again, and remember that Sunday in March.

My Cup Runneth Over

I spent today in Boston. I think the city was trying to make up for my last visit there. I wrote over 14 pages. I had to go out and buy a new notebook (a Batman notebook) because my Chococat one filled up.

Over the next week or so, I'll post some of the many things I scribbled. Tonight I need a warm bed. It truly was bitch cold.

Break Up Stories: My Friend The Amazing Kisser

I know Valentine's Day is over, but I still have some stories coming in. This is my own contribution.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Charles was punk. Very. His hair color changed every other day, he played bass, had multiple piercings, and during our brief courtship, got the first of many tattoos. Completely different than any other guy I had ever dated.

We always had so much fun when we were together. We could talk to each other for hours and hours about anything. We naturally assumed that, since we were such bizarrely compatible friends, a romantic relationship would be perfect!

He was a phenomenal kisser. I kept telling him that he needed to teach classes, because God truly gave him a gift, and our gifts should be shared with the world. That always made him laugh. After one of his kisses, I would be sort of paralyzed for a few minutes. Often I had to sit down. Just from kissing, mind you.

However...once we actually started dating, Charles would no longer tell me things. I’d see him scowling about something. I would ask what was wrong. Instead of opening the floodgates, griping about his boss, a professor, his roommates, he would say “Nothing.” Bigger scowl.

The answer was never “Nothing” when we were just friends. When we were just friends, he’d plop his electric blue head on my shoulder and let go. Now, when I wanted to talk about anything, he’d either get really sullen, or quietly slide his hand...somewhere. One rather frustrating, one rather distracting (but more enjoyable).

It became a purely physical relationship. Fantastic...except that I missed my friend so much. So much that after a while I really began to resent this hot guy who had taken him away from me.

One night we drove down to the beach. A storm was starting (how melodramatically appropriate). I begged him to tell me what was wrong.

He wasn’t able to give me an answer, other than he had never been involved with someone who was his friend. I found this very strange, as I have never been involved with anyone I wasn’t friends with.

We sat there for a while. I was racking my brains to come up with a way for this to work. He was sitting next to me, certain that it never would, and feeling very sorry for himself.

He looked at me “I miss my best friend.”

“I haven’t gone anywhere!”

“I know. This is me. I can’t do this right now. If we don’t break up now we’re going to get to a place where we can’t be friends ever again.”

That hit me like a bucket of ice water.

We both started to cry. Then we drove back to campus. I remembered that I still had his jacket at my place. He told me to hang onto it as long as I wanted. I went back to my room. My roommate was there with a couple of her friends. Nice girls that I didn’t really know all that well. There was the mandatory girl reaction (“Oh Honey! Are you okay? Do you need ice cream?”). I explained that it was for the best, really. I was fine, really. Maybe now we could be friends again, really. They finally left me alone. So I could cry. I knew we had done the right thing, so I couldn't figure out what I was crying for.

At the time, I never would have said so, but seven years later, I know it was the sexual aspect of the relationship. It was the only thing worth mourning.

The next afternoon I sprayed my perfume all over his jacket, then gave it back to him (how awful!).

There is a happy ending, believe it or not.

Shortly before I got married, four years after we dated, Charles and I talked about our brief romantic relationship, and its demise.

“Is this strange for you, my getting married?” I asked him.

“I think if I were single it would be. But, you know, I wouldn’t be with Sarah if it wasn’t for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You made me see women differently. Sarah’s my best friend...and I’m in love with her. I didn’t know I was supposed to want both.”

"You can talk to her...and stuff?"

He grinned "Oh yeah. All of it."

Sarah caught the bouquet at my wedding. He proposed a month later. Less than a year after that I was a bridesmaid at theirs. My husband always says that they’re his favorite couple, other than us. She loves telling people she caught his ex- girlfriend’s bouquet.

I always tell her how lucky she is...because he is such an amazing kisser!

Mer Musing

One more thing to love about Chicago.

Martin Rollins has a blog that is a small, wonderful collection of musings and poetry that...that...that stirs...things.

Death of a Writer

Arthur Miller died. He was always one of my favorite playwrites. My senior year of college, I directed The Crucible and it was the most difficult, mose rewarding thing I have ever done. I loved that his work was both brutal and forgiving, recognizing that humanity is deeply flawed and very beautiful.

Another of the great artists is gone.

Before you read this

go to Rick's and read "An Online Community For The Anti-Social Set".

Sam and I started talking about that on the way into the office this morning. I had read it. He hadn't yet (although he has now) Sam's argument was that we are not becoming anti-social. We are socializing in a new way.

I have to admit, when I read Rick's post, I felt a bit guilty.

I started wondering if I started this as a means to encourage my own anti-social tendencies.

Two of my close friends know about this (three if you count my Beloved Husband). None of them are allowed to read it. Lately when I need advice about something, rather than call one of the people who have known me for years, I post my problem for a world of strangers to see.

I am, however, typically seen as a very social person. On the keyboard side of the screen, I mean. In the last year or so, I have been less so, but that's more a question of my friends moving away. Mail (e and snail) are the means by which I regularly communicate with them. I hate the phone. Don't ask me why, I don't really know.

When I was in college, there was always something going on. It was a tiny campus. If there was an event, it was very easy for people to know if you weren't there. In the insecurity that we all have when we are very young, when our friends pull away, even for a small amount of time, we worry. I went to a lot of parties, a lot of midnight trips to Newcomb's, a lot of movies in large groups, a lot of "girl things" where there's, like, ten college chicks in jammies painting each other's nails and braiding each other's hair while watching anything with Jon Stewart. That man is so damn sexy.

Pardon me...

Sometimes, though, I got tired of it. Sometimes I got tired of talking, of laughing, of intereacting with others. It was much better for all involved if I just went into the city by myself or hung out in my room for a while. I would return (or emerge) much more pleasant, and more appreciative of my peeps.

A little anti-social behavior isn't a bad thing. It's not necessarily because people suck, but because sometimes it is just healthy to be alone.

Maybe because I was an only child for much of my life, I always enjoyed being alone and it gave me a rich imagination and an ability to entertain and nuture myself.

So why can't I do that now, and what the hell am I really trying to say?

Okay...I started this because I was out of fresh ideas, and to be honest, so are my "out here" friends. That's why I came to you.

But if I started ignoring the people who have given me several years of devotion and good times...that would be unhealthy.

I am not there yet. Not even close.

Yes. I think that's my point.

Oh, and I am not trying to say that the way I socialize is right for everyone. I think it works for a lot of people, but Diff'rent Strokes for Diff'rent Folks.

Good topic, Rick!

Break Up Stories: Guest Writer, Maureen Fish

I was once asked out on a date with a guy a worked with over the summer. I didn't know him really well, but what did I have going on? The radar screen was totally blank, so I said fine, whatever, we'll go out.

While we're on this date, he tells me that he was gay (yes, you read that-"was"). Now that he's decided to be a Christian, he needs to have a woman in his life, and that he thought I was just the "diamond in the rough" for him.

?!?!??

Firstly, "was" gay? Does that mean in a few months he may decide he "was" straight?

Secondly, you want me to be your token-woman-experiment so that you fit the Christian mold? Wow. How romantic!

Thirdly, "diamond in the rough"? What the hell is THAT supposed to mean? "Well, Maureen, you're nothing fabulous to look at, but you might have something beautiful inside of you that I could grow to love as I avoid falling for your male friends".

Surprisingly, when I made no attempts to contact him after this date, he got really mad at me and yelled at me over the phone. Score another bonus point for yourself on the "we're-never-going-to-date board", buddy!

That's my favorite story.

Break Up Stories: Novice's Husband

My husband has several stories of his adventures in dating, prior to meeting me. This is my particular favorite, as he is still unsure as to whether or not he was dumped:
---------------------------------------------------
Boy meets Girl. Boy thinks Girl is really cute. Girl seems to reciprocate these feelings. Boy asks Girl to movie. Boy and Girl see movie, end up talking for hours afterwards. Boy thinks this is great! Boy and Girl have several more dates, movies, lunches, etc. Boy thinks of referring to Girl as his "Girlfriend" but wonders if maybe it's too soon for that, as they haven't really clarified the relationship. Then Girl drops a bomb, of sorts.

"See, here's the thing..." says Girl "I have a wife."

She has a whaaaaat? Thinks Boy.

"Well, not a wife, exactly, but I live with a woman, and we're in love, and I'm a lesbian, and I don't think you and I should see each other anymore."
---------------------------------------------------

Ah! College love!

Break Up Stories: Bon Jovi Rocks!

This guy has put some really sad music on in the office, and for some reason, I'm thinking about Valentine's Day. Everyone always shares their really romantic stories around this time of year, and while I have those, I thought it would be interesting to see what kind of breakup stories people can offer. I am encouraging anyone who wants to to contribute. Something funny, something sad, something truly bizarre.

Here's the first one (which is not mine...told to me by a co-worker).

Sometimes a rational, intelligent human being will be involved with someone who is wrong for them in every respect. This guy's girlfriend was so completely stupid and irritating, and he was desperately infatuated with her. She was a total Drama Queen who drove his friends and family insane with her demanding nature. Yet when she broke up with him, he weepingly tried to get her back. After several phone calls and much pleading on her answering machine, she agreed to talk to him.

Mid-plea, The Drama Queen cut him off and said

"(Big Sigh) Shot through the heart, and you're to blame. You give love a bad name."

After that he made a face and said "Ohhh...okay, I don't want to go out with you anymore, either." and hung up. Then he turned to his friends and burst out laughing.

"Diversity..." explained

This is the follow up to yesterday's post...sort of.

Freshman year of college, I had to take a useless class. All freshman who had an AP (or equivalent) English class their Senior year of high school had to take it. It was about the proper way to write research papers, persuasion essays, document our research (things we all learned in our AP English classes a year previously). Many of us became very good friends from that class, mostly because we were all freshmen and strangers, and were united in the fact that we all hated the damn class so much!

It wasn't the waste of time (that wasn't such a big deal to us...we were freshmen, our time was spent playing air hockey and watching South Park) as much as it was the professor, a tiny, irritating 60 something woman. I am debating with myself whether or not I should mention her name. I think I'll just call her PEG.

Tenure can be a good thing. In this case it was not. It was a bad thing. A very, very bad thing.

Something PEG did a lot was assign titles to papers that were way off topic. One girl wanted to write about the diversity of cuisine available in the area (Boston). The prof gets into a mood and starts building off the word "diversity". PEG starts talking about diversity on campus or the diversity of peoples in the city of Boston or (suddenly she is struck with inspiration)

Diversity! On the T!

Thirty people tried to stifle a whole lot of laughs when that gem came out of her mouth. Only half succeeded. Seriously, the poor chick just wanted to write about seafood and kim chi.

From that day on, whenever we encountered anything on Boston Public Transportation that was out of our typical realm of experience we would look at one another and say "Diversity! On the T!" THAT is how I got the title for yesterday's post.

Damn, I'm feeling ranty now. Hold on...

The worst habit PEG had was grading down if she didn't agree with you. Not over writing issues...no, she would grade you down because she didn't agree with the point you were making. In the late 90's, there were a few public libraries that banned books like Heather Has Two Mommies and Daddy's Roommate, which are about children of same sex parents. I thought the banning was appalling, and wrote a paper saying so. I cited many authors and child psychologists, and well as a whole lot on the first amendmant.

PEG told me it was a B paper that got a C because of the subject matter. Not the writing quality. I actually asked her about the writing quality a few times when I met with her, because I was so baffled and thought "Okay, a C. My writing either wasn't very good, or I documented my sources wrong or..." Nope. She thought it was well written. She didn't like the "homosexual family" subject matter or my opinion on it.

Yes, that is what she said.

Yes, I realize that professors are not supposed to do that. She did it to three other people that semester, and when one guy mentioned it to another professor, he (other prof) flipped out.

Tenure. She'd been there forever, so they couldn't fire her. Although two years (and seven complaints) later PEG was "encouraged to retire".

Man, seven and a half years later and it still makes me mad.

That's your College Anecdote for the day, guys!

Maybe next time I'll tell you about the Theft of The Talking Bush or the Mysterious Floating T-Shirt.

“Diversity...on the T!”

(I will explain the title in a later post. If I do it now, it'll just be distracting.)

I am on my way to visit a friend at the tiny college I attended. A very tiny, Christian college just outside of Boston. Two guys, one in a Big Blue Coat, one in a Baseball Cap. They get on the T, mid conversation.

They’re talking about people that I don’t know, but a lot of them are either “Fucked Up” or “Whacked”. I raise my eyebrows when I hear one of them answer his cell phone with “Holla!” I thought people only did that on TV.

They’re talking about their friends, and some (I know it’s a colloquialism to some people, but I just cannot bring myself to say the “n” word”) who got busted for..."aw, shit, what was it? Drinkin' and Drivin!”. And another “n” who got up all in his face about some bitch who was nasty and THEN Big Blue Coat pulls out a knife. A big knife.

It was closed, but I must say, I was impressed and freaked out at the same time.

The man has brass ones. I mean, it’s the Red Line at 2pm. Not exactly the cover of darkness...of course, there were only five people in the entire car. And I wasn’t going to say anything...most people (“most”...the other two people) were at the opposite end of the car anyway.

Big Blue Coat is back on his cell phone talking to someone that they’re about to visit, telling her when they’ll arrive. Baseball Cap Man turns to ME and says:

“I mean, y’all smoke weed, don’t you?”

Is it the torn Army coat? I am wearing an old army coat that my Dad gave me. Whenever I wear it, I get "looks". I think it's the old army coat.

Why I did this next thing, I don’t know. I have never done a joint, lit up a fatty, rolled a bone, or smoked a jibber in my life. I got the expressions I just used from High School and this guy Dave that I hung out with in college.

But I say, “Yeah, when I was in college. My husband won’t let me now.”

I hate lying! I only do it for surprise parties (“No, we’re only going to the movies, why?”) and the occasion when I met my now-husband-then-new-boyfriend’s friends and wanted to see if I could convince them I was a stripper (no idea why I wanted to do that).

I LIE to men with a knife! A BIG knife!

They were really nice to me. Baseball Cap and I got into a discussion about the legalization of marijuana (which I support).

He says “I mean, weed, ain’t a real drug. Coke, Crack, Heroin...that shit will fuck you up, Man! (turns to his friend) Like that bitch, Brandy. She's fucked up on that shit.”

Big Blue Coat agrees. “Oh, yeah, she's hot, but so fucked up, no one wants to touch her!”

Baseball Cap turns back to me, and this is his pot legalization argument:

“Weed makes you hungry, makes you eat. They oughtta give weed to them skinny anorexia chicks who don’t eat”.

(Pause for you all to absorb this.)

This argument has never crossed my mind before. It makes sense in an odd way. Give anorexics the munchies...they’ll have to eat!

I talk about people with cancer and glaucoma, the benefits of hemp over traditional paper, and he agrees wholeheartedly.

As the train pulls into my stop, and I rise to go, Baseball Cap says “Hey, take care! And tell your husband that it ain’t right, not letting you have weed.”

And I lie YET AGAIN!

I tell them that I’d tell my husband, all he’ll do is roll his eyes, which they think very funny. In reality, when I tell my husband this, he’ll probably say “Honey, you can have all the weed you want, as long as you share.” followed by “So what are you talking about?” .

Or maybe he’ll just say “Whaaat?” (extra a’s for laughter).

So am I going to hell for lying? No...I'm pretty sure God finds this situation highly amusing.