I Can Tell By Your Body Language That You're A Tea Drinker

Is an insight into human behavior that has been gleaned because of envy still valid? The other evening, co-worker and I had just returned from our breaks when I saw her drinking from a paper cup with one of those cardboard cozy/the-cup's-too-hot-to-handle things. Immediately I was simultaneously mad at myself for not thinking and jealous of her for thinking to grab a to-go coffee to aid in enduring a holiday shopping madness evening. "Damn," I said, probably slugging my forehead at the same time, "I should have gotten myself some coffee too!" She replied, "It's tea." But "replied" hardly does justice to the totality (at yesterday's Christmas mass, the priest used the word "totality" at least three times, I swear) of her response. No, she cuddled and huddled compacted and retracted her whole body around the center of gravity that was that paper cup as if she were hugging a five-minute-old puppy, and let out a quietly proud but weirdly defensive (not defensive in an "I'm ashamed to be seen drinking this" way, but defensive in an "I'm hoarding the family jewels in my hands here, please don't bother me" way) eek of declaration, "It's tea." At that moment, as my senses were flooded with the image of her folding herself inward to surround that cup of tea and hearing that wanly whispered "It's tea," I realized that co-worker (lovely person that she is) was no individual but just another tea drinker, any old tea drinker, at once both the apotheosis of tea drinkers and also maybe just the ten billionth tea drinker in the history of the world. Because in that moment of her quiet (in volume) but cacophonous (in terms of total body/soul language) I saw what I have always seen but have been too blind to notice, what everybody always sees but never really acknowledges--if somebody is drinking tea and you ask them what they're drinking, there is only one possible response, one genetically/chemically/culturally (whatever the origin)-determined verbal and physical response for that person to give: a hunching, cuddling, slightly defensive but also very proud, somewhat whispered eek of, "It's tea."

Just try it. The next fifty people you see drinking something obviously warm from a paper or ceramic cup, go up to them and ask (accuse them of) them if they're drinking coffee. You'll either get a simple "yeah," "hell yeah," or, depending on the person's level of caffeine addiction, "hell effing yeah, it's coffee," or you'll get the same old cuddled whispered eek, "It's tea." Well, sure, there are degrees of that cuddled whispered eek (CWE) but it's there nonetheless. I mean, far be it from me to ever entertain, let alone utter, let even more alone publish a sexist thought, but I do believe as a whole, women might CWE a bit more pronounced than men, but even in the roughest toughest beer guttest truck drivin' tea drinker, you'll get a CWE. Who knows, maybe it's just a phonetic thing, that quiet squeal that has to be made pronouncing "tea" that makes one have to enfold oneself a bit and meekly announce what one is drinking (think Georgette from the Mary Tyler Moore Show admitting she's just won a hundred million in Lotto--that's the overall effect of one's--anyone's, everyone's--announcement that he or she is drinking tea). Trust me, you can search the world over, seek out the gnarliest urban back alleys and the most remote rural thickets, and you will never ever find anyone who will answer your query with a robust, Moses-parting-the-Red-Sea expansive gesture, "It's fucking tea I'm drinking, shithead, now sod off!" Physically impossible, that. CWE, exclusively, universally.

Now I have nothing against tea, and I am categorically NOT impugning tea drinkers. Once in a while I like a cup of tea myself (hot tea, we're talking, though I guess the proper terminology is brewed tea; I've never "gotten" the appeal of iced tea. I appreciate that many people swear by it and that's fine. I love lemonade, which seems to me to be the dog to iced tea's cat. But iced tea never has appealed to me, and while I certainly like libational concoctions, don't even mention Long Island Iced Tea to me--you lose me at Long Island), and I am sure that on those rare occasions when I am drinking (and loving, I'll admit) some hot brewed tea, if anyone would ask me what I was drinking, I would respond with a modest CWE. How could I not? (And no, I'm not going to get into the differences involved in drinking other warm drinks--the worlds of espressos and cappucinos et al. are not worlds I care to tread into or rub elbows with.)

It seems to me there's a whole culture, a benign secret society, that goes along with drinking tea, as opposed to the Joe the Plumber, rather mundane world of drinking coffee. You drink coffee from a mug, but tea from a "cup." You buy somebody a generic coffee maker (face it, the most famous coffee maker is just good old Mr. Coffee), but you buy somebody a "tea set." You make coffee in a pot, tea in a kettle. Is there a more quaint word than "kettle"? Even the fanciest, most aerodynamically designed coffee cups are merely crafted. Tea cups and kettles are works of art. The fastidious Brits are notorious tea drinkers. Swarthy Latin Americans are coffee drinkers. Again, not casting any aspersions, facts are facts, but tea drinking--compared to coffee drinking now, not miniature doll-making or curling (the "sport," not curling the hair on a miniature doll)--is just a little twee, ain't it? (I lead a busy life, I don't have time to research the etymology of "twee" but here's fifty bucks saying it came about because of a speech impedimented tea drinker.)

Which all leads me to the bigger picture, the bigger question. Do all classic liquid refreshments possess unique body/verbal language signifiers, like tea has its CWE? Is there a certain getting-ready-to-fight tensing up and side-of-the-mouth snarled "whiskey" that emanates from whiskey drinkers when you ask them what they're drinking? A hyperkinetic human trampolining "Jolt, man, want some? You can't have any of mine" when you ask Jolt drinkers what they're drinking? A louche, uncontrollably disdainful smirk of "Martini"? A torso expanding proudly kick ass man exclamation "Beer, dude"? A jejune just the facts ma'am muttered "Grain alcohol"? A calorie burning strut of a sermonizing "Carrot juice"? A flatlining shadow of a shoulder shrug that merely hints "Absinthe"? Who knows? I am not an anthropologist. Just a blogger, done for the day and looking to re-fill his coffee mug.

Christmas Greetings From The Spitoyurgum Family

Well Ho Ho Holy Gee Willickers Friends, it seems like just yesterday Randall and Dewey were beating the heat with their homemade Slip'n'Slide, and now it's Holiday Time! My how time flies here in the Cleveburg Metropolis. Not to worry, though, Drake and Polly have knitted each other their Yule sweaters (23 years and counting for that tradition!), and the boys (sorry, Randall, man and boy) have rigged up another Wow-O lighting display (you can see it driving by the old homestead, or maybe, on a cloudless night, from Outer Space!) using the new Survival Generator Dewey designed in his la-bor-a-tory (formerly Polly's laundry room). As long as Santa can navigate all the motion detectors, alarms (silent and not so), and trip wires Dewey has rigged the house with, I'm sure we'll all have a splendid Christmas once again. 

The big news for the Spitoyurgums in '11 is the new member of our family. Now hold on there a minute, Drake and Polly haven't gone back to cross-stitching or anything; the new Spitoyurgum is none other than Wiccandood, a beautiful, though nosy I might just add (and, alas, camera-shy), ferret that Randall won at his annual excursion to the Unsound & Furry Con in Decatur, IL. After the not-really-necessary 911 call following Polly's fainting spell upon first meeting Wiccandood, the family has embraced its newest member. In a related note, if you're in the neighborhood, stop on by to "check out" the new carpeting and drapes we've installed (as well as the elaborate "apartment" Dewey built for Wiccandood--after he quite amusingly "threatened" that "either that rodent gets put in a cage or they're going to put me in one for 20 to life for the havoc I'm fixin' to wreak"--Boys! How does Polly survive living with 1, 2, 3 and now 4 of them??!!!).

Dewey continues pursuing his myriad interests as he makes his way through 11th grade. He has started a club at school, the Students United to Draft Col. Oliver North To Run For Czar of the United States, serves as the trusted "roadie" for his two "buddies" William and Theodore, who are among the state's most promising aspiring air guitarists (finished fourth at the Hocking County Fair, despite what Dewey claimed was "a totally senile sucky third judge"), and of course spends the bulk of his free time "tinkering" in his lab (Dear Santa, bring more portable fire extinguishers, please!). In his first gesture toward "style" and "being his own person," fashion-wise, Dewey cut a unique and distinctive wedge from the side of his bangs (look at him so proudly pointing it out in the photo! Polly's baby's growing up!).

Dewey's older sibling, Randall, has been busy these few months exploring all the opportunities presented by his "gap" year. To date he has attended 26 Renaissance Fayres, where his continued mastery of the panpipes has won him quite a "cult" following. He is also quite the budding jousting expert. Claiming that he is "bored to the gills" with technology, especially the "social" aspects of social media (these kids and their lingo!), Randall has taken up the ancient art of smoke signals, creating quite a haze in the backyard most nights, sending out signals in search of "a true soul mate" (Santa, how about some more kindling wood and blankets?). From the proceeds he garnered by selling his beloved and vast trove of Magic Cards on eBay (tears were shed, Polly will admit, if not Randall himself), Randall purchased a bus ticket to Tulsa, OK and had himself a ball at the inaugural Male-AdjustedCon; he reports that "drum trapezoids" will soon be all the rage. And just look at that well-kempt goatee he returned with!

Papa Drake has spent a fair amount of time this year trying to interest the Guinness people (book, not beer) in his "gotta be some kind of a record" streak of wearing a different sweater vest for 734 (and counting!) straight days. Polyester Perseverance indeed! In his very best Gandhi-like, civil disobedient, if-you-can't-lick-'em-join-'em mode, Drake has taken to volunteering at the Unemployment Agency as a greeter and all-around ad hoc ombudsman, putting his vast experience to, well, work, aiding people in directing them to the appropriate line to stand in, advising them on which forms need to be filled out and which can be, as he puts it, "sh--canned," and apprising them of the current going rate for plasma. A true public servant. And of course, he has his "side" business of appearing as Waldo for kids' Where's Waldo-themed parties.

And Mama Bear Polly keeps rolling along too! In March she reached a milestone, clipping her one millionth coupon, and in August she received "special mention" at the Tuscarwaras County Fair Bake-Off for her tasty parsley muffins. Her audio book club thrives (time off this month for the holidays but the group will re-gather in her living room come January 17th to listen to Nicholas Sparks' True Believer, once again read by the author; all are welcome). And, as you can see from the picture (you better see!), Polly has shed a few pounds this year; she is investigating the possibilities of writing a book tentatively titled Walking Your Ferret To A Skinnier You! Drake has kindly offered to read the audio version. Other than all that, she continues her domestic endeavors: putting the seat down, finding (and counting) more uses for Krazy Glue (that's her other proposed literary effort--1,001 Sane Uses For Krazy Glue), and trying to interest her boys in the benefits of a good old-fashioned iron.

Here's wishing you all a happy and blessed Christmas and New Year, from all of us Spitoyurgums: Wiccandood, Dewey, Randall, Drake, and Polly!

The Ten Commandments Of Holiday Shopping: How Not To Be A Cranky Customer

The other day a co-worker (perhaps at the end of her shift, at the end of working six straight days of holiday madness) suggested told me to blog about cranky customers. Now being the autonomously creative guy I am, I usually pay no heed to requests demands, and as I was in the first hour of working after a couple days off and the John Denver and The Muppets Christmas CD was NOT playing at the time, I was in a rather good mood, when all holiday-shopping customers looked like they had just walked out of Johnny Mathis's rendition of "Winter Wonderland" and the only thing cranky in my world was my old war-wound left pinkie (a victim of a thumb-wrestling bout gone awry with a Salvation Army bell-ringer back in the 80s). Thus, I kind of dismissed the idea that customers could be cranky at all. Well, a few hours later, I had an inkling. But far be it for me to Scrooge all over anybody's Yule time cheer. So instead of whining all about nasty customers (maybe 1%, how ironic?) and recognizing that they are truly the lifeblood of, well, of my paycheck, to be blunt, I will simply offer some tips on how you can avoid being called a "cranky" customer by some hard-working, well-meaning, friendly (and trust me, they don't get much friendlier than said co-worker) retail employee. Now I know I have covered some of this before, but this is official; I am codifying these behaviors in the ALL POWERFUL form of TEN COMMANDMENTS (all I've ever wanted for Christmas is Charlton Heston's mien). Follow these dicta and you won't necessarily achieve eternal salvation, but I promise you you will not contribute to others' madness, which in this silly world is a pretty good merit badge to earn.

The Ten Commandments of Holiday Shopping

1. Thou shalt leave thine cellphone in the car.
2. Thou shalt wait thine turn and never assume that simply yelling, "Excuse me!" will grant thou instant service.
3. If thou art paying with a check, have thine driver's license handy and use the time in line to make out the check as completely as possible; nothing unnecessarily slows down a long line (the line thou've been silently [or not so silently] cussing for ten minutes) than an unprepared check-writer.
4. Thou shalt realize that holiday shopping is not some kind of quasi Price Is Right game; don't gather a bunch of merchandise, have the register person ring it all up, then start asking the register person to "take that one off" until thou reaches thine spending limit; either do the math in thine head while gathering, or bring a non-cellphone-feature calculator.
5. Especially as we get closer to Christmas, thou shalt not hold the store, or especially the specific employee trying to help thou, responsible for not having the item thou seeks. Lots of people celebrate the holidays by purchasing merchandise for others--it's definitely possible that the item thou seeks hast been sought by others who have gotten here first (see the early bird thing for further clarification). Thine loved ones love thou. If thou can't purchase the only thing they want for Christmas, in all likelihood (if they're really worth loving) they will still love thou even if thou doesn't buy them that particular thing. So chill out, thou.
6. Thou shalt certainly make sure thou hast an acceptable form of payment (most stores don't operate on the barter system anymore, 'tis a pity) and that thou hast sufficient funds available in that form of payment, before thou reaches the point of having to fork over the payment.
7. If thou art paying in cash, please arrange the bills so they're all facing the same way and hand them to the register person when he or she is ready to accept them; thou shalt not toss a bunch of crumpled bills on the counter in disdain that thine purchases cost as much as they do. Furthermore, an endless search for the correct change is almost as bad as waiting until the last minute to search for thine checkbook and start making it out, asking what the date is, what is the name of this store, how much was that again--making change is easy for a register person; really it's no problem.
8. Thou shalt never say, in the event of a piece of merchandise not having a price sticker or not immediately ringing up, "I guess it's free, then, hunh? (chuckle chortle snort chuckle)." Nothing is free in life, and thou art only the billionth person to utter that bon mot.
9. Thou shalt not make the assumption, especially the week of Christmas, that all the "good" merchandise is still stacked in some nebulous "back" just waiting for thou to show up and shop. What's on the shelves is what's available for purchase; what's not, is not.
10. Thou shalt realize that obscure items that were "on that table right there" back in August have probably been moved and quite possibly been sold, gotten rid of, or even stolen since then. Shit happens. Merry Christmas.

Twosome: Year's Best Golf & Music In One Fell Swoop

Just the idea makes all my top ten lists for the year; the ad-lib lyrics push it way on top.

Nothing Like The First Listen

The other day a co-worker asked me to make him a mix of tunes. There are few greater small pleasures in life for me. Now he didn't specify what kind of a mix, which would have been easier. No, he didn't request a mix of songs exclusively by British fops or songs only recorded south of the Mason-Dixon Line or songs only about animals--requests that would have been easy to accomplish. So, I had my usual response to the general "make me a mix" request--I went overboard, zealously. He'll be receiving a nice box set of mixes from me, filled with universally great songs as well as some geared more specifically to his personality and perceived likes (though he is a vociferous Rod Stewart hater, how could I refrain from including "Every Picture Tells a Story"?). Of the hundred or so songs I've collected for him, I'd be willing to wager 90% of them will be new to his ears. Just the thought of how thrilled he might be to hear such gems as Dan Reeder's "Work Song" or R.L. Burnside's "Stole My Check" or The Coasters' "Shoppin' For Clothes," or some other unpredictable song for the first time, has me giddy.

I started thinking about this phenomenon--the first time you hear a song destined to be one of your all-time favorites--and was struck by how few of the thousands of "all-time favorite" songs on my list I actually remember in detail hearing for the first time. Why? Shouldn't everybody remember vividly the first time they heard "Satisfaction" or "Like a Rolling Stone" or "Mamma Mia" (sic)? Maybe it's the saturation of listening to such songs so many times over years and years that dims the memory of the first time. Maybe some songs have just always been in one's consciousness. Who knows?

One song that stands out is a rather obscure one, "Boston," by a guy named Dave Derby. I was in a record store, the only customer at the time, and all of a sudden the song came over the speakers. Looking back on it all, I can't say I wasn't the victim of that great record store ploy employed in High Fidelity when John Cusack announces he's about to sell five copies of the Beta Band's 3 Ep's record, puts the record on and everyone in the store starts grooving and asking what the record is. Maybe the guy in the store I was in, who certainly knew a little of my tastes in music, knew that I'd respond to the beautifully gloomy, dreamy "Boston." Halfway through the song I had to ask what was playing, by the end of the song I had bought the record.



Having been a big Meat Puppets fan for several years, I of course was excited when their 1987 record Huevos came out. I remember playing the record for the first time late one night in an apartment I shared with two other guys, after they had gone to bed. Not being able to crank the volume became torture when I heard the first riffage of the great "Look At The Rain." But when the band kicked in again the glorious wailing of the title phrase after a false fade-out, well, in some ways I've been swooning ever since ("I gotta shirt that costs a dollar twenty-five/I know I'm the best-dressed man alive!").



I was at a friend's when he played me Bill Fox's epic Shelter From The Smoke album for the first time. Those jangly first notes and the not-expected high lonesome voice of Bill singing, "Over and away she goes ..." spelled instant addiction. I am blessed to see Bill play often, and often he begins his set with "Over And Away She Goes" and I am able to re-live that first-time thrill of being granted admission to a singular world once again.



Strangely, the most vivid "first-time" listening experience I remember is a bit confusing; I don't remember the exact song I heard. I had just returned to college and had to get up at dawn on a snowy, dark morning to return a rented car. As I drove down empty streets, the radio played the Roches' "Hammond Song," or was it "Losing True"? Seeing that "Losing True" is kind of a re-make of "Hammond Song" (I bet many Roche sister fans wished they'd make more and more re-makes--gorgeously strummed acoustic guitar, three angelic voices all-entwined, and a touch of Frippery thrown in for seasoning), nearly thirty years of memory have confused me as to which one I actually heard on that drive. All I know was that I had to have that song, that sound. Funny, though, I can't remember the first time I actually heard the song I didn't hear that morning.



Here's hoping thirty years from now, when my co-worker is reflecting on his lifetime of good listens, he'll remember a moment listening to one of the mixes I've made for him.

Be Thankful For What You Wish For

Today was a day of celebration. I was celebrating an off day after six straight Christmas-shopping retail days of work, and celebrating last night's successful poetry reading (successful not so much in terms of mass adulation from a five-figure crowd, but successful in terms of not being heckled, not having my poetic license revoked, and not provoking any audience member to run from my words out of the room screaming, "My God, I'm going to be sick"). How did I celebrate? By putting my nose back to the grindstone by doing loads of laundry and some much-needed grocery shopping, all wrapped around a nice afternoon nap. A pretty normal off day, to be honest. But the celebrating came before during and after all the domestic chores: I've been happily munching Fig Newtons all day.

What, you say? I knew poets were crazy, but you've gone 'round the bend, boy. Fig Newtons = Celebration? As Sarah says, youbetcha! Now I've had nothing but a pleasant history with Fig Newtons. But the emphasis is on history. I liked them as a kid, but I can't say that in all my grocery shopping since childhood I've ever bought a package of Fig Newtons. But chalk up my newly-revived admiration for the delicious cookie to the holiday season. See, we recently had a Secret Santa thing ($15 limit) at work. Weeks ago we pulled names and this past Sunday at our party we revealed and gifted. Early on in the process, as I was talking Secret Santa strategies with a co-worker, I jokingly told her, "If whoever is my Secret Santa asks you what to get me, just tell 'em to get me $15 worth of Fig Newtons." It was good for a laugh. Little did I know that said co-worker would turn out to be my Secret Santa. So there I was Sunday night, as said co-worker handed me a big shoe-box wrapped with a gold ribbon. Having completely forgotten about my Fig Newton joke, I opened the box not knowing what to expect. Inside, among other goodies (look out for a future post extolling the deliciousness of pure maple sugar genuinely Canadian Maple Leafs) was a package of the genuine Nabisco Fig Newtons. Ah, how my jokes come back to me in cookies of superiority!

Damn these Newtons are good. So small yet so dense--in a good way. And to think I'm eating a cookie with "natural fruit"! It must even be good for me. And I'm no design expert, but the shape and look of the cookie, the more I consider it, it's pure art. Now Oreos, duh, are the Platonic ideal of cookies; I think we are all in agreement on that. But really, with Chips Ahoy kind of losing a certain magic since childhood for me, I gotta say the Fig Newton stands as Silver Medalist in the mass-produced, corporate cookie world. I mean, suddenly I feel like going out and buying some figs, and when was the last time you ever said that? I'm serious--indulge yourself today and go out and buy some Fig Newtons. You won't be sorry. I'm certainly not sorry I joked about Fig Newtons a few weeks ago, since the payoff is munching on them now. And to think I gave my giftee nothing but the new Tom Waits CD (nothing against Mr. Waits, I love him and all, but come on, a gravelly-voiced rabblerouser vs. near-perfection in a cookie? It's not even close.).

My only disappointment in this whole Fig lovefest is finding out that Fig Newtons are so called because the company that first mass-produced them, the Kennedy Biscuit Company, was located near Newton, Mass. (Fig Clevelands, anyone?) Kind of boring, especially when I was all set to wax paeans to some Col. Figacious T. Newton, a Civil War Hero from somewhere like Biloxi who loved his figs almost as much as his bourbon. Oh well, there's nothing fictitious about the culinary pleasure of Fig Newtons. So, yes Laura, there is a Santa Claus. My gratitude.

Eyebrows Make The Man?

I've been told on a couple of occasions that I "dress up well," which probably is just a euphemism for, man you're a slob but a shave, a comb, a shower, and some nice duds make you look halfway presentable. Personal grooming, beyond the necessary, is not a great passion of mine. But maybe, just maybe, that's all going to change after my experience this morning. I had my eyebrows done.

To be honest, my eyebrows are about the last location of my body's temple that I have ever thought about. I can do the double brow lift, a tacit "hey, how you doin'," and I can do a decent left eyebrow arch, the hmmm, intriguing thing, though for the life of me I can't get the right brow to budge on its own. And that folks, is all there is to know about my eyebrows, or was to know, until this morning.

I've been spoiled my whole life. Up until recently I had probably had my hair cut 99% of the time in my life by one of about five barbers. But lately I've been on the lookout for a new one. Over the summer I found a great one, a guy named Lu (perhaps most of why I loved the guy was that he's Lu, not Lou). He cut my hair twice. Alas, he's 87 and I just learned he retired. I learned that today from the woman who cut my hair, just three doors down from Lu's old place. Now both times I sat in Lu's chair he asked me if I wanted my eyebrows trimmed. Nobody had ever asked me before, and the first time I politely declined, thinking Lu was just doing what he had been doing for nearly 70 years. The second time he asked I declined again, thinking, I'm not one to care about brow grooming. But afterward, I started to get a little defensive. Is there something wrong with my eyebrows? Are they hideously bushy? Do people talk about me behind my back: "Lookout, here comes Bushy Brow"? I'm sure for the first time in my life I took a long hard look in the mirror at my brows. They looked inoffensive enough, but who knows, maybe Bushy Brow Guys are the last to know. But, since I've never really worked any kind of a definable 'do--just get it cut whenever it starts to bug me-- time passed and my thinking about my eyebrows returned to normal, which is, never.

But today, this rather sassy, though perfectly pleasant woman who was cutting my hair just announced, after seemingly finishing with my haircut, "Now we'll take care of your eyebrows and we'll be all finished." It was morning, I was on my way to a Saturday in December retail job, I wasn't thinking clearly yet, so instead of throwing my arms up over my eyes and declaring, "Nobody, ma'am, but nobody touches my brows!" or at least finally breaking the taboo and shyly asking, "What is it with my eyebrows all of a sudden? I'm just getting used to trimming old man hair tufts from my ears and nose; must diligent attention to my brows be paid too?"--I just sat there and acquiesced to the woman's trimming implements. It took about thirty seconds, with absolutely no excitement, pain, or sensation whatsoever.

And so, for the first day in my life, I am sporting trimmed eyebrows. Big deal, right? I sort of nonchalantly considered the whole ordeal as nothing much at all while walking out of the place, but my God, the difference! I was amazed at how swift I felt doing my usual pre-work 40 yard dash warm-ups in the back parking lot. Prepared with the usual retort of "Yep, all fifty-three of them," for when people at work would invariably ask me if I had gotten a haircut/hair cut (yuk yuk), I was flabbergasted when, within the first hour of work, three different people came up to me and said, "My God, Dan, your eyebrows. What have you done to them? They look fantastic!" Then, as I shopped at the Everything's A Dollar Store (sometimes I shop, other times I just go in there and pick up random things and ask new employees, "How much is this? This? This too?"), buying some Christmas wrapping paper, the cashier lingered while giving me my change and finally hissed as she dropped four pennies into my hand, "Your brows ... so ... alluring." At the Dollar Store no less.

Anyway, a big day. Now I'm just wondering where a guy can get a manicure on a Sunday.