Don't Ignore Me. Do You Feel that Pang Most Jerks Get?

Every year. Six years in a row. Usually about seventy hours or more. I volunteer for Salvation Army to harass customers and pedestrians around local grocery or department stores. Normally, I am a chatty, congenial person, so when it comes to bombarding the public with guilt and discomfort, there is no contest. Before I go out, I make sure I am wrapped up well. It gets very cold standing stationary with the wind blowing against the bones. Long underwear, clothes, more clothes, down vest, fleece, winter ski coat, wind-proof pants, two scarves, hat that almost covers my eyes, very thick gloves. I am now in disguise. I am the unidentifiable Salvation Army Volunteer.

The best victims are the moms who come in the day before Thanksgiving with three or more small children buzzing around them like the electrons of a nucleus.

"Hello!" I call out, clanging my bell at her. The mother smiles without eye contact and turns to yell at her children. "Ma'am did you know that just fifty cents can touch the lives of children like your own?"

The mother pauses and, with some eye contact, smiles again in my direction.

"Children are at risk Ma'am," I call after her. Clang, clangity, clang. "They must be provided for! They must be protected!" She snatches the hand of her son who is five feet away from me, staring curiously.

The men who are sent by their wives are especially fun.

"Doing all the work, eh?" I comment to a middle-aged man, tightly clutching a list decorated with indistinguishable writing. Clangy, clang, clangy.

The man sighs and nods. "I don't know why she couldn't have just gotten this yesterday when she went out."

"You know us women, Sir! We never think ahead." I smile.

He stops walking, and peers at me closely. He is trying to decide whether or not there is actually a woman under the sixteen inches of coats and scarves I am wearing. Clang, clangity, clang, clang. I beam him my best smile.

He cannot decide. He gives me $1.19 in change because he feels bad that he couldn't recognize my gender.

There is always revenue from the flustered ones who charge out of the store right before it closes with two carts, five feet of receipts, and a handful of change.

All you need to say is, "Happy Holidays!" and ring the bell a little. A handful of change is dumped into the pot, half of it spilling on the ground, as the person runs after their other cart.

Clang, clangity, clang, clangy, clang. Watch out! I'm here to take your money and your heart.

Have You Ever Cried for Someone You Didn't Know?

Do you know who Tom is? You probably do. Myspace, anyone? Tom "made" Myspace, or something along those lines. No one knew who he was, I personally think he was an alien or a hypnotist. No one has that many millions of friends.

I had a Myspace for twenty-three hours and an unknown amount of minutes. I vowed never to have one, but I broke the vow in middle school. I felt so guilty that I broke my own vow, that the next day I deleted it. Of course, just because I didn't have a Myspace didn't mean I couldn't creep around on it. Don't shake your head at me dear reader; you have creeped around on Myspace too. I found lots of interesting things on Myspace, like Jeffree Star. That horrible day is forever branded in my mind.

I also found cute poems, funny quizzes, and hot guys. Myspace creeping was a good alternative to homework, and I enjoyed expanding my knowledge and vocabulary. I am no longer surprised by what people say on the Internet, or what they put up, or how they will detail a night out and "...hope my parents don't find out! Click this link for pictures!"

One day I was Myspace creeping and I found a page that hadn't been written on in a few months. That was odd, there were lots of messages, but they were all old. Next to the birth date of the person, was a death date.

"I will always love you Jeremy!"

"I can't believe you are dead..."

"Rest in peace Bro. I love you Man."

"I hope heaven is good!"

"Is this a joke?! Are you really dead?!!!"

"Goodbye Jeremy!! I miss you!!!"

"I love you Jeremy!"

"You're gone..."

There were hundreds of messages written to this dead young man. I don't know how he died. Lots of people didn't get to say goodbye, so they wrote on his Myspace. They wanted to talk to him, so they did. They wrote as if he would respond tomorrow. They wrote as if he would read them. He had been dead for months. The Myspace was there. It is probably still there. Drifting through cyberspace with empty wishes for a person who will never benefit from them. I read all of the messages.

If You Wear Pantyhose, You Can Feel Like a Supermodel Too

The female restroom is a place of enlightenment, bursting with new experiences. I just had to pee, but well…you know how these things come out. I followed a woman into the restroom; I didn’t know her, she didn’t know me. The lady (we’ll call her Suzie) in front of me said hello to a woman (Mildred) washing her hands at the sink.

Mildred said, “Oh hello Suzie! Great minds think alike!”

Suzie, “Yes they do!” and entered a stall.

I am acquainted with Mildred, we have talked twice. However, since Mildred was already wrapped up talking to Suzie, I smiled in her direction and slipped into my own stall without a proper greeting. I almost had the door closed when Mildred sang out, “Hello Sadie!”

Isn’t it amazing how many different outcomes your mind can calculate in 0.3 seconds?

Option One: Don’t say anything.

Option Two: Leave the door closed (since it was nearly there) and say, “Hello Mildred!” from behind the stall.

Option Three: Open the stall door, give Mildred eye-contact, and politely say, “Hello Mildred, how are you today? I haven’t talked to you in a while, and since we are both in the bathroom at the same time and you are obviously just completing the action I am about to undertake, we should swap stories and chat for a while.”

Now Option One is clearly a very rude option. Mildred is a few decades my senior, and I thought I should show more respect than simply ignoring her. Option Two is a good choice, it acknowledges Mildred, but it also allows her to subtly understand the three cups of coffee that were giving my bladder muscles a work-out. Option Three is a particularly nice gesture, because, of course, eye-contact is always desirable, and I am particularly fond of Mildred so I wanted to continue to establish the idea that I would like to continue to be her acquaintance (because you see, I hadn’t conversed with Mildred for a few weeks).

In the 0.3 seconds it took me to run these options through my head, I had already closed and locked the stall door. But, since Suzie was safely tucked away in her own stall, and since I was feeling so friendly that morning, I chose Option Three. Boldly unlocking the door with a snack of the lock that did not help to hold the door shut at all, I swung wide the flimsy sheet metal, and extended my body forth.

I smiled, showing all of my teeth. “Hello Mildred!” I said in a bright, peppy voice.

Mildred was wearing a skirt. It was a nice skirt: black, simple, unwrinkled. Mildred was also wearing flesh-colored pantyhose under the skirt (on the box, it says “nude” in italics, backed up with a cut-out in the box so you can see the actual pantyhose as proof that they are indeed nude). Pantyhose are cruel. They itch, they squeeze, they make you sweat. The purpose is to instill the image that you are a skinny, tan model lying on a beach, seductively rubbing your legs. Mildred’s pantyhose were bothering her on the back of the waistband, which is where they usually bother me too. Mildred’s pantyhose were also bothering her in her crotch, and in her backside area. I was informed of this as I watched her bundle her skirt up to her waist and yank animatedly on the afflicted areas. My mouth still open to complete the soliloquy detailed in Option Three, I was thankful that my arm muscles worked faster than my jaw to close the door and leave Mildred to adjust in peace.

I don’t think she was aware that I witnessed this display. We didn’t have any eye-contact because of the slightly hunched over position in which she happened to be. With the failure of Option Three, I shrank back in my stall. Mildred said no more, and she left before I ambled, red-faced, from my throne.

I wish you the best in the new situations sure to be encountered in your female restroom experiences.