You Might As Well Live

In the late '80s, I had a teenage driver on the insurance policy, so I got a second job at the latest rage, a video store. Video stores back then were like Starbucks or nail salons today. They were everywhere.

The work was easy, but I learned people smell bad. There was always a stink of fast food, cooking grease and farts in the air when the store was crowded, especially in the evening. We had our regulars, guys who rented a movie or two every single day. How lonely and bored were they? When snow was forecast, we'd rent out 80 percent of our stock, sometimes more! We were open seven days a week, 13 hours a day, no matter what the weather, so when the snow was too deep for people to go to work, they still managed to get to the video store.

One memorable night after a snowstorm, the 80 percent of our stock that had gone out all came back during one evening shift. (This was back in the one-day rental days.) We could not file them back on the shelves fast enough, so when the store closed for the night, we had literal five-foot high piles of videos on the floor. Everyone pitched in to get them back on the shelves, singing, laughing, and gossiping about the stinky customers. Our store, Erol's, filed library-style, spines facing out, separated by genre and then alphabetized. Then you had to balance the shelves so one didn't have 10 videos and the next 25, so the store had an orderly look. I truly enjoyed returning the store to pristine order every night and starting fresh each new day.

Except for the supervisors, my co-workers were high school and college students. The college boys were particularly dedicated and responsible. They had gone to J. Sargeant Reynolds for most of their undergraduate courses, then transferred to the University of Richmond for the last years so ultimately their degree would be branded the more prestigious UofR. The high school kids were less serious about working.

One of them was short, thin, pimply, and always excessively happy and excited. Sometimes he came to work wearing a Frank Sinatra-style fedora hat. His puppy dog enthusiasm was annoying. Just be quiet and work! The supervisors were patient with him and tried to keep him focused. The college boys were dismissive. The high school girls paid no attention to him, no matter how charmingly he tried to chat them up.

He had a flair for performance. One night at closing, he was assigned to vacuum the store. Instead of vacuuming, with a tip of his fedora hat, he danced with the vacuum cleaner. Instead of being charmed, we were all just annoyed because no one could leave until all the closing chores were done.

He seemed happy at the store, but I don't know what was going on at school or at home. I had my own teenager and didn't need to talk to another one about life, especially one that was always jabbering about his big future plans involving unrealistic fame and fortune.

One morning I was on first shift and the shift supervisor met me at the door with the news. The boy in the fedora hat had gone out to a shed in his backyard, put a rifle in his mouth and blown his head off. As the word spread from shift to shift that day, the high school and college kids were shockingly nonchalant about it. What a dork! What a dorky thing to do! But the adults were numb with shock. For days afterward we kept talking about it, comparing notes, trying to figure out if there had been a clue, some warning, that we had missed. But the truth was, none of us had ever really talked to him much because...well...he was so irrationally happy and annoying, like the Tigger character in Winnie-the-Pooh.

That was 20 years ago. The boy in the fedora hat would be in his late 30's now. Surely whatever was so unbearable when he was 16 would have long since been resolved and he'd be living his life now, rolling along with the rest of us. Instead, we left him behind in the '80's, always and forever 16 years old, never knowing anything more about life than teenage confusion.

He has been my touchstone ever since. No matter how bad things are, they are never so bad that you should kill yourself because...things change. Things will change. Things will change!

Life gets better. Or maybe life gets worse, but in a different way. Inevitably, life always has the potential to get better, or at least get different. Maybe still bad, but tolerable. You always have to take a chance on the change. Always.

The boy in the fedora hat drifts through my memories at odd times. I see today's teenagers and think, they own the future, a future the boy in the fedora hat will never see. He doesn't know that VHS won out over Beta, that our Erol's store was bought out by Blockbuster, that Blockbuster is now on the ropes to Netflix. No one rents VHS tapes anymore. Things changed. They changed for me, and they would have changed for him. In big and little ways. Surely one of those changes would have made life more hopeful.

I was just one of the adults at the store when he was there, no one significant in his life, but he turned out to be someone very significant for me. He'd probably be surprised to know how much of an impression he made on me, how often I still think about him, how he helped me push through my own difficult times, and sad to say, how I can't remember his name.

My Brief Bartending Career

In the early 1990s, I left a husband, a house, and a job because none of it was turning out as I had hoped. I could live off the proceeds from selling my house for one year, so I had one year to get on my feet. My plan was to work at night in the lucrative field of bartending while writing by day.

It seemed like a plan. I’d work at night in an atmosphere of noise, hubbub and congeniality, which would take the loneliness out of being single again and make me forget all my romantic and career failures while I lived in this netherworld. There would be the added bonus of big tips for mixing magical potions. I would be a wizard before Harry Potter was ever invented.

This was also pre-Internet and pre-blogging. If blogs had existed back then, and I had blogged my bartending adventures just as Diablo Cody would one day blog her adventures as a stripper, which got a book deal, then a movie, and an Oscar, where would I be now? Alas, I was ahead of the curve, and my bartending life didn’t last that long anyway.

I took a course at J. Sargeant Reynolds in bartending. There was such a thing then. We met once a week at Extra Billy’s for a couple of months, learning recipes, mixing tips, equipment, customer service, and listening to fascinating and hilarious bartending stories from our young, attractive male teacher. All my classmates were younger than me, but back then I could pass. I received my diploma, which no one ever asked to see, and a folder full of drink recipes, which I converted to index cards.

Getting a job as a bartender was just as impossible as getting a job as a journalist. There were seldom ads for the position. Cold-calling bars produced no results. No one wanted to let me start behind the bar. I would have to waitress first, with no promises of advancement. Even at the least trendy places, like Piggy's Attaché Lounge, I was told I had to waitress first. Men did not have to waitress first. They went straight behind the bar, either as a bar back (carrying ice and supplies from the back) or actual bartending. It was discrimination.

I don’t remember now why I didn’t agree to that. Maybe I thought it would be too degrading. With my shiny new diploma, I didn’t want to be out on the floor carrying a tray. I was ready to mix!

So I signed up with a temp agency that supplied bartending and catering services. I said I was a bartender, not a waitress. I didn’t want to do gigs where I carried food trays. I was very clear about that, so I worked less than girls willing to do it all. Still, I got a few jobs.

On the surface, it was glamorous. The uniform was a white tux shirt with a black bowtie, a black cummerbund, a black skirt, and black flats. I still had the legs for the skirt. I’d see older, exhausted women who had transitioned to black pants, but I wasn’t there yet. And my stomach was still flat enough then to rock a cummerbund. A bowtie and a tux shirt is a good look for anyone. I would see how the other half lived, and in Richmond there was definitely another half where life was sophisticated and elegant.

Under the surface, it was not so glamorous. It was a sticky job. You started the evening cutting up dozens of oranges and limes for your station, the juice splashing all over you. Since you had to report to work in your uniform, you were stuck wearing that sticky outfit for the rest of the night. During the course of an evening, you’d be making dozens of basic highballs with club soda, ginger ale, tonic water, orange, grapefruit or cranberry juice, mixed with vodka, gin, whiskey or rum, and garnished with fruit. You’d be rapidly cracking open the soda bottles and getting sprayed by them. By the end of the night, you were as sticky as a pest strip from head to toe, standing in a big wet spot -- and not the good kind either.

Four jobs stand out in my memory, and in the end, I didn’t work much more than those four because they sealed my fate as a bartender.

I’ve never been good at memorizing anything, a flaw that kept me from being an accountant (multiplication tables) and an actress (lines), both careers I wanted to do. So I was very nervous about a special afternoon event at the Lewis Ginter Botanical Gardens where we would do more than the basic highballs. We were equipped to make a few fancier drinks, like whiskey sours, Manhattans, martinis, and others. I had some of my index cards in my skirt pocket and would peek at them. One of my table customers thought this was charming and would cheerfully talk me through his drink orders.

But at the end of the evening, the temp agency booker, who had also worked the event, chewed me out for using cards. It was unprofessional, he said. I was never going to make it in the bartending biz at that rate. Shame on me.

I felt humiliated. Here I was with a college degree, and yet I’m being made to feel like dirt because I peeked at the instructions for a whiskey sour. I would have cried all the way home -- and I did shed a few tears -- except for the fact I had a $20 tip in my pocket from my most helpful customer. There was a certain advantage to being a damsel in bartending distress that my boss did not fully appreciate as far as making money. As long as you looked like you were trying, there was always a mercy tip. But that turned out to be the exception, not the rule.

I didn’t think I’d be called again, but two big events were coming up and they needed everyone they could get. So I got a station at the Bal du Bois ball at the Country Club of Virginia, the only time I’ll ever see the inside of that temple of privilege. Here was Richmond’s most elegant young people and their very rich parents, dancing, eating and drinking in their very fine clothes. But despite all the good breeding, drunk guys are still drunk guys and there’s nothing elegant about being a sloppy drunk.

At the end of the night, as I was closing my station, one of those drunk boys came up to me and blubbered, “I jus wanda you to know you made me feel baaaad all night. Ever’ time I came to you for a drink, you looked at me that way.”

I knew what "way" had cut him to the quick -- a look of disapproval that despite his fine tuxedo and jazzy, multi-colored cummerbund, and his Porsche parked outside, and his future career as a corporate lawyer, he was still one sorry, sloppy drunk tonight and I felt for at least that moment that I was better than him.

I was going to have a serious problem as a bartender if I made my clients feel like crap every time they ordered a drink.

The downward spiral continued at New Year’s Eve at the Tredegar Ironworks, another expensive ticket for the rich kids. It was a BYOB affair. The catering service supplied the mixers and fruit. The guests brought their own liquor, which was name tagged and kept at the multi-staffed stations and poured on demand by we the bartenders. The evening went okay until the end of the night when a very drunk young man came to retrieve what was left of his bottle from my station and I couldn’t find it. He accused me of stealing it, but his party convinced him to forget about it and leave.

Shaken, I ran to the ladies’ room, which was a disaster area. Every toilet was full and overflowing. There were a couple of inches of water on the floor. Sanitary napkins, tampons and wads of toilet tissue were floating in the bowls and puddling on the floor in white and pink heaps. Faucets were left running. Every sink was full of plates of leftover Swedish meatballs and chicken wing bones. Lipstick smeared the mirrors. Garbage was everywhere. There’d be no peeing here tonight. Girls who came from well-to-do families had trashed this bathroom. Had no one ever told them not to flush tampons and sanitary napkins in all their private school years? Had no one ever told them to put their leftovers in the trashcan, not the sink?

Out in the parking lot, my drunken nemesis spotted me heading to my car and tried to attack me again for supposedly stealing his liquor bottle. His friends had to tackle him as I ran for my car just as the police pulled up. There was yelling, accusations, and a disgusted police officer who clearly saw a very drunk boy and a pathetic older woman in her sticky tux shirt and bowtie with no liquor bottle concealed on her body. I'm just glad I wasn't strip searched.

You would think that would finish bartending for me, but I took one more job at a reception at VCU President Trani’s home in Windsor Farms. His house is like the White House, with the spacious ground floor a series of reception rooms for entertaining. The kitchen was huge and impersonal, built for caterers as a staging area. The actual private quarters were upstairs and unseen by the public.

I dutifully cut up oranges and limes, only to find out that I would not have a bartending station at this gig. Despite my request to only be booked as a bartender, I was assigned to pick up glasses. Only guys could bartend. The girls walked through the grounds and the reception rooms, picking up abandoned glasses and returning them to the kitchen. I remember being disgusted by a big fish with its face still on being used as a serving plate. It had been split open and its insides were filled with some mushy stuff people were scooping up with crackers. I feel your pain, fish. This is a humiliating way to end up.

When it was over, we were supposed to hang around to load up the caterer’s truck, but the truck was late coming back and when it did, it was parked at the end of the long, curving, downhill driveway. Let the guys carry the trays and stuff down to the truck. They hadn't been walking all night, picking up glasses. I physically could not carry trays of plates down a cobblestone driveway. I had not signed on for that duty anyway, so I left. I left without asking permission if I could leave. I left before the gig was officially declared over. I left confused about my career as a bartender, reduced to picking up glasses from the lawn of the president of the college where I had attended and graduated with hope and promise.

I never got paid for that job and I never called the agency to report that I did not get paid because I figured they’d just yell at me for leaving before the truck was loaded. I never got a call to work again either. And thus ended my brief career as a bartender.

Virtual College

When my son was in college a few years ago, it was like I was back in college, and it was just as dumb as it was the first time. Once he called for help with his English class. They had watched "Dr. Strangelove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb," and he was supposed to write two paragraphs on how satire was used in the movie.

To submit his paper, he had to post his thoughts on an electronic discussion board, which was a lot different from when I was in college and we actually wrote on paper and handed it in. At the time, he didn't own a computer or know how to type, so he would call me on his cell phone from the computer lab, I would log into the same discussion board from home and I'd type in what he dictated.

On this particular evening, before he could think of something profound to say about the use of satire in "Dr. Strangelove," a campus policeman flashed a card in front of his face which said the use of cell phones in the computer lab was forbidden. So he logged out and walked home, dictating his two paragraphs to me as he walked. I typed it into the discussion board.

This may not be the college I remember, but thinking about "Dr. Strangelove" is. College is a lot of information you will never use again. Dr. Strangelove had nothing to do with his major either, a technical trade that requires no philosophical thought. There were 200 people in his class in an auditorium setting. At the first session, the professor taught relaxation and meditation technique to prepare for the semester. In preschool, this was called nap time.

Before I logged out of the discussion board, I read what the other students were writing and was appalled to find even in an English class, they were submitting their "papers" in email style writing -- all caps or no caps at all, minimal punctuation if any, and no paragraph breaks. They were not learning to write, spell, or punctuate in this class, although there was an advisory to utilize the spellcheck.

The next week my son called again because he needed to analyze three poems and didn't know how to think about poetry. The poems were vaguely related to "Dr. Strangelove," being anti-war and satirical. For each, the professor's online instructions were to "tell how the poem deepens your contact with its content." And, the instructions prodded, "don't forget to say why this poem is good, and what you wonder about."

What if I wonder why the professor presupposes I think the poem is good? What if my contact doesn't deepen? What if the poem is stupid? What if I think most poetry is a fraud, especially the stuff that doesn't rhyme or have any iambic in its pentameters?

My son got angry with me. "We have to take this seriously. It's a grade."

Well, okay, but it's difficult to discuss poetry and what it means and how our contact is deepening when one of us is making an illegal cell phone call with a dying battery from the computer lab and the other is reading the poem for the first time. I read the poem that begins with the line "McNamara Rusk Bundy." Then it vaguely talks about children in a school yard. Do college sophomores today know what McNamara Rusk Bundy means? That's from the '60s.

"They were poets in the '60s?" my son asks. No. They were government guys involved in the Vietnam War. How old is your teacher that he's going back to the '60s for war protest poems? My son points out that "Dr. Strangelove" is pre-Vietnam War. He has a point. Our contact with the content is actually deepening after all.

My own English professor many years ago was a young man who was teaching to avoid the draft and ending up in Vietnam himself. He wore sandals and sat on top of his desk, cross-legged. His favorite book, from which he obtained his philosophy of life, and from which he taught, was "The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis."

To put this in historical context, before there was "Gilligan's Island," there was a show called "The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis" based on this book about a frustrated college boy. Bob Denver, who would go on to play Gilligan, played Dobie's beatnick friend, Maynard G. Krebbs. His catch phrase was "You rang?" To put beatnicks into historical context, before stoners, there were surfer dudes, and before surfer dudes, there were hippies, and before hippies, there were beatniks. Hey, I should be teaching college.

All this I remember, yet I can't think of much I actually learned in college that was useful when I went to work. I learned all the work stuff on the job, or by teaching myself things I needed to know to get a certain job.

Still, everyone will tell you that you need a college degree in life. All a college degree means, though, is you went through a lot of crazy hoops and ordeals over a period of time. Maybe that in itself is some kind of preparation for life -- except now we don't get graded.

Elegy for a Printer

I just returned from Colonial Heights where I donated my HP Laserjet 2100M to the Swift Creek Mill Playhouse office. A young man carried it out of my car, up the stairs and left it on a table in the hallway. I said a few final words to it, hoping it would have a nice life and stay busy in the theater world.

Yes, I felt bad about leaving my printer. We had been through a lot together.

I think I bought it in 1997 for $800 from CompUSA. It was a huge purchase for me because I didn't have a job at the time. My hobby, a monthly newspaper I pasted up in my dining room, was almost as time-consuming as a real job and had expenses that were barely covered by the advertising money I raised. Everyone running a website as a job these days knows what that's like.

I originally created the newspaper on a Apple Classic II and a Stylewriter II printer, printing out columns of justified type, headlines and cutlines, cutting them out with a razor blade and a ruler, coating the backs with a glue stick and pasting them onto blue-lined sheets of card stock in a newspaper page design. This was the same way the daily newspaper was created between the eras of hot type and computers. I had been a paste-up girl for about a decade at the daily, assembling pages like a puzzle while old, cranky newspapermen acted inappropriately. When a story was too long to fit its diagrammed space and needed a part cut out, you had to call out, "I need a bite!" to get an editor's attention to come tell you which part you could cut out.

Papers took preplanning back then. You had to diagram them out as precisely as you could because once you had your photos screened, you were stuck. I had to have all my art and photography together in advance, crops marked with a grease pencil, and take them downtown to a very small business that did photo screens. I had to know what size I wanted the photo to be in advance. The screen guy would rephotograph the cropped part of my photos and blow them up or shrink them to the requested size, and give the screened photos back to me in big sheets called veloxes. If you looked at the velox with a magnifying glass, you could see each photo was actually a series of dots. Those dots were your resolution and what made your black and white photos have all the necessary shades of gray; otherwise, without a screen all dark areas of a photo reproduced as black.

Doing color photos was even more complicated, involving color separations, and was something I never learned and couldn't afford to do anyway.

I was paying the screen guy anywhere from $75 to $200 a month, depending on how many photos I had to use, so between the screen guy and the print shop that actually printed the whole newspaper, my profit margin was very small.

Enter the HP Laserjet 2100M. This printer not only produced sharper text than the Stylewriter, it could do 1200 resolution. If I printed out a grayscale photo on it, it would have enough dots in it to look like the photo. All I had to do was cut it out and paste it down, just like I was doing with the text. I could pay for it in four to six months if I stopped using the screen guy downtown. It was my first big business decision, after the decision to start the paper itself.

I still feel bad about the screen guy because I think the Free Press and I were his last regular clients and he was on the brink of being an unnecessary business and had not planned for anything else.

So for the next couple of years, I continued to roll along with the cut and paste, and then doing the paper on QuarkXPress and printing it out in two big chunks, the top of the page and the bottom. But by 2002 or so, my printer in Ashland was telling me, after I did the whole paper in QuarkXPress, to just convert the whole thing to a .pdf and bring it to him on a disc. No more glue sticks or razor blades, and no more need for the printer. It wasn't long after that when I didn't even have to bring the disc anymore. I just uploaded the file. And it wasn't long after that before I decided why bother to pay the printer all the money anyway, just upload the file to a website and let people look at it that way. And it wasn't long after that before the website itself became the paper.

So for the past decade, the big old printer has just been grinding out copies of emails and manuals. It became more and more difficult to connect it to newer computers. I had to buy a converter box to run an ethernet cable through it when USB became all the style. With the latest Apple operating system, Snow Leopard, there was no longer any support for printers requiring AppleTalk, and I had to network it to an older Mac to use it.

I'm not sure if Swift Creek will be able to figure out how to get it to work with PCs, but I wish them well. That printer was a partner and a companion as I taught myself everything I know today about publishing and print production. I'm sorry to see it go, but there's seven other printers in the house right now and it's just crazy to have so many.

That printer is also the star of my second most popular video on YouTube with almost 17,000 views. Good bye printer. I loved you. I'll miss you. I think I finally paid for you, although I'm not sure. Have a nice life at the historic theater and I hope you don't end up in a recycling drive anytime soon.



This Old T-Shirt

My husband has never worn a suit to work. He has never had to interpret "office casual." His entire working life has been spent in uniforms, sometimes with his name embroidered in italics on a breast pocket patch.

Not that there's anything wrong with that. Jobs requiring uniforms are just as honorable as suiting up. Toilets gotta flush; cars gotta run; product gotta ship. My husband has never spent money putting together a work wardrobe.

He has a funeral/wedding suit and a button-down collar shirt to go with it. He has a pair of dress shoes, and up until recently when I converted him to Skechers, he always had three pairs of Reboks: lawn-mowing Reboks, work Reboks (when he wasn't required to wear steel toe boots), and dress Reboks. They were all the same shoe, just in different states of wear.

Instead of office casual, his non-work wardrobe is life casual. He has a week's worth of jeans in two sizes, fat jeans and thin jeans. He used to have several pairs of Dockers, but after 10 years with the tags still on them, I gave them to charity.

He has never bought a T-shirt, and yet the last time I counted, he had 75. T-shirts are accumulated free so often, it'd be foolish to buy one. His T-shirts are a lifelong habit. His siblings are dressed up in their school photos. He's in sci-fi movie T-shirts. For a pricey Olan Mills studio portrait, he shows up in a Close Encounters T-shirt.

When I first met him, he wore shirts that advertised his state of mind. He often showed up for our dates in a shirt that said, "Ask Me If I Care." It was more nihilistic than romantic. Another favorite shirt presented a quandary: what do you call a bear with deer antlers?

A beer.

Another was philosophical, outlining the "four stages of tequila: I'm rich. I'm good looking. I'm bullet-proof. I'm invisible."

After we married, the shirts disappeared. Must have been some kind of laundry accident, I would say. But I can't make his entire wardrobe disappear. He wears shirts that advertise music festivals and events long past. Twenty-two, in fact. Whenever someone in his family goes on vacation, they bring him back a souvenir T-shirt, so there's all these shirts from places we've never been. Some of them have disappeared, like the one from the Outer Banks that says, "Got crabs?" I just don't want to go out to dinner with someone wearing that shirt. Some advertise colleges he's never attended. Several are tie-dyed. A couple of dozen advertise products he has sold, shipped, or purchased at one time or another.

Four are Redskins shirts that are only worn on game days because it helps the team. That's what I hear.

Sixteen shirts promote bands he's played with or roadied for and some of his favorites in that category are so thin, you can see your hand through them, but they can't be thrown out because of the "memories." They can't be worn anymore either to protect the fabric that's left. I can't think of any clothes I have that gets the museum artifact treatment. Okay, maybe my wedding dress. I still have that. But he still has his Stiff Richard band t-shirt from 1992 with a cartoon of a bare-assed boy holding his penis. Somehow it's not the same.

He spends his life as a walking billboard for bands, products, businesses, schools, and resorts, and for no more compensation than the shirt on his back, literally. Like the side of a bus, he travels around town emblazoned with a message.

Baby, I'm Amazed

I missed a critical episode of a TV program, even though I have Tivo. I was bummed out for half a day, but then thought to check the Internet to see if it was online anywhere. It was.

One day at work, I brought up a local news website and watched a breaking news story on the corner of my computer screen while I continued to answer emails.

Both of those things are amazing only if you, like me, have lived most of your life before the Internet was invented. Today's college students have no memory of a time when there was no email, cell phones or Internet.

My parents were born before television was invented. My childhood TV was black and white and round like a porthole. In New York City, we had the luxury of five channels. When we moved to North Carolina, we had two. Daytime television was either a game show or a soap opera. There was nothing else. Now I have more than 300 channels. I watch late night talk shows during the day. I could say Tivo is the greatest, most liberating invention of my lifetime, but there's so many other amazing things.

I've had email only since the early 1990s, and at first there were many days when I didn't get an email at all. Now 80 percent of my work is email: answering them, sending files, photos, and press releases out by email -- things I used to do by phone, letter, or physically walking or driving to another office.

What do encyclopedia salesmen do now? Because I can find anything I want to know on the Internet. The whole time I was in school and college, I had to go to the library and find books and magazines in order to research anything. It was a time-consuming process, and you were limited to whatever resources your particular branch library had available. How quickly I can find information now is amazing.

For people who pay their bills online, that must be amazing. I haven't reached that point yet, but I am delighted that I can check my bank balance online now instead of calling in to a robotic answering service or a grumpy human being. I like shopping online. My store is amazon.com. It has everything. For years, I was a big-time eBay buyer and seller.

Cell phones are amazing. How did we move through our lives without being in constant contact with people? Even the poorest people huddled at my bus stop are all talking on their cell phones. On my bus ride home, everyone is on the phone. In the supermarket, everyone is on the phone talking about what to buy. I do that, too. I call home to see if we have mustard. How did we manage before? We had a lot of extra mustard, I bet.

I used to go to the movies. Now the movies come to me. Sometime it's on Netflix. Sometimes I download a movie to my TV.

iTunes is amazing. Most albums (I still call them albums) are two good songs and dreck. (Nirvana excluded. Their whole album was good.) Now I just buy the two good songs. And I don't even have to go to the store.

Video cameras and home movies are not new, but you can edit them yourself, add music, and upload them to YouTube. It used to be you had to invite people over to torture them with your home movies. Now you can just send them a link. It's amazing to me that a video of my cat batting at paper coming out of a printer has been viewed more than 14,000 times and is on a website in China.

My grandmother thought an indoor toilet was amazing. A washing machine was amazing. Getting on a plane and flying home to Italy in half a day when it took her almost two weeks to get to America on a boat the first time was amazing. Every generation has its mind-boggling advancements. I'm sure my grandchild will find my Internet-less childhood amazing to think about when he's coming to visit me in his flying car. I'll be in a nursing home hooked up to a virtual reality machine simulating Waikiki.

Things Bosses Have Made Me Do

I once had a boss who wanted me to print out all the photos on his bosses' camera. I open the camera card and see an assortment of vacation and party photos, and then a group of the boss' boss sitting around the house wearing nothing but a T-shirt and a tight pair of red underpants.

My eyes, my eyes.

I went back to my boss and told him this was inappropriate for me to view since his boss was not fully dressed in some of the photos. He told me to burn a CD of the photos and make an extra copy for him.

***

Everyone in my office was required to email the boss when we arrived and when we left, keep a timesheet, AND sign out on a dry erase board. He would schedule staff meetings and then he wouldn't show up for them or let us know they were canceled.

***

When a Presidential candidate came to town, he sent me out to buy two of the man's books at a Shockoe Slip bookstore, saying I had to get them and get back in 10 minutes. (Our office was not in Shockoe Slip.) I said it wasn't possible to get there, find a parking space, get the books and get back that quickly. He said to doublepark in the street. Since I thought the books were for the Big Boss, who was going to see the candidate that night, and I was currently in line for a promotion, I somehow managed to do it. It turned out the books were just for him. He wanted to get them autographed.

***
He emailed me at 8:55 on a Friday night -- even though I didn't have a Blackberry or a pager -- to tell me to come in Monday even though it was my day off and clean out the storage room. I found out later he wanted to use the storage room for his things while he was having new carpet installed in his office.

***
He took the spaceheater I had in my office for the past two years and moved it into his.

***
He asked me to get him a bowl of chili from the cafeteria because he was busy waiting for the phone to ring. I declined. He said he could change my job description so I would have to run personal errands for him. I went to HR. They said, no, he can't.

***
He brought an old draft of the annual report to a staff meeting. We told him that version had been updated already and we all had the new versions, but he wouldn't admit he had the wrong version. For the next three hours, he discussed changes to the report that we had already made. We tried to suggest we should all use the same version of the report for the meeting, but he said we had a "fixation" about versions and to stop bringing it up.

***
One winter, the staff took old candy dishes and vases from the supply closet to fill with water and put on the windowsills to add some moisture to the overheated office air. He said we were monopolizing all the vases. When a cow0rker went to lunch, he went into the coworker's office and moved one of the bowls of water to his own office. The next day, he continued to comment about how we were hogging all the water bowls until the coworker who had suffered from the dry heat the most felt so guilty, he put his vases and bowls back in the supply closet so he wouldn't have to hear about it anymore.

***

One day I called in sick and after cross-examining everyone in the office about when I called in, he told them I was probably out "shopping at Dillard's because they're having a sale." This is funny because I am the least fashionable person on earth.

***
I selected a photo to use for an employee promotion story. The employee liked it, but he said to use another one. He said the employee didn't like it. I said, "She just told me she did." He said, "it doesn't matter what you think; it matters what I think."

***
Our building was closed because of a water pipe break for two days. On the second day, he called me into work to send a notice to employees that our offices were closed for the day. When I arrive, I find there is no electricity. My computer cannot be turned on. He makes arrangements for my computer to be carried down three flights of stairs to a floor being powered by an emergency generator. By this time, it's 2:30 in the afternoon. I don't know who read the message anyway because everyone was at home.

***
One day he told me the company's money wasn't real money, it was "play money."

****

He changed my spelling of Landmark Theater to Landmark Theatre. When I sent him documentation showing it is spelled "theater" on its website and on its logo, he said, "do as I say." When I asked him if he wanted me to change it all over our own website, where it was spelled "theater," he said he would take care of that. He never did.

***
He sent me an email at 2:57 a.m. (yes, as in middle of the night) to do a typing project he had already told me to do the day before.

***
He neglects to approve a logo in time for me to present it at a meeting, even though he told the people conducting the meeting that we had an approved logo. He tells me I am not to talk to anyone about anything at the meeting, just take notes and report back to him. He says I also cannot tell anyone I was told not to talk at the meeting.

***

He gets a request for a speech 13 days before it is due and tells me to write it the day before it is due.

***

He yells at me for letting seven of his phone calls go to voicemail. It turns out they were old saved messages. When the admin assistant is away from her desk, he expects me to hear and answer his phone, even though I am three offices down the hall from him. Male co-workers are in the closer offices.

***
He says he doesn't have time to look at my emails to him requesting him to sign off on work I need to send out. I have to tell him verbally that I have sent him an email.

***

At 11:40 a.m., he assigns me to write a speech for his boss to deliver at a function at 12:45 p.m., that same day.