There’s a woman standing at the edge of the fishless pond that marks the center of your residential neighborhood. She’s holding what appears to be a makeshift fishing pole (complete with yellow-rope fishing line) and she’s “fishing” for a metal rod protruding about 18 inches above the water’s surface.

That woman would be my mother.

Sure, we all have mom stories. Aside from being the altruistic caretakers of our youth, they’re also prone to “random acts of momness” that make good fodder for some light-hearted ribbing.

They’re the kind of stories you rehash on holidays and they’re the kind of stories your memory replays when you’ve read every Happy Birthday, Mom card in the store and concluded that none of them do her justice.

Hence why the fishing story continues to play over in my head: it’s my mom’s birthday.

Unfortunately I wasn’t present when the fishing went down (oh how I wish I had been), but my mom passed it along knowing that I’d appreciate it.

A couple months back my mom decided to hose off her patio furniture. Once the monster umbrella had been sufficiently scrubbed down, she returned it to its rightful place over the table – open, so it could dry.

Enter a sudden storm, complete with hail and high winds, that sent my mom (and her mom, who was visiting) scurrying into the house. But that umbrella! “Well I’m not running back out into the hail for a silly umbrella,” mom thinks. “It’s pretty well secured to the table. I’ll just keep an eye on it.”

A few moments pass and, sure enough, a flash of something shoots past the window. There, in the backyard, the umbrella rocks upside down – either due to the wind or in an effort to comfort itself after that unexpected flight.

Before my mom can move to fetch it, the umbrella moves toward the fence, gets momentarily caught, then takes a leap over into a field.

It rolls on its side, gaining speed, bearing down on a parking lot full of cars. By the time she gets to where the umbrella should be (perhaps nose-down in the windshield of a neighbor’s car) it’s nowhere to be found.

Searching and head-scratching ensue, until a keen eye spots a metal rod poking out of a nearby pond. The rest of the umbrella, it’s assumed, is submerged.

What happens next is a telling moment. Most people would accept the loss and leave the umbrella to its watery grave. But not my mom. She’s getting that puppy back.

Back home she constructs a 15-foot pole using every mop or broom handle she can find. With the colossal pole and a good length of yellow rope, she returns to the scene.

The makeshift pole, however, barely reaches halfway. Even attempts to lasso the umbrella failed (there’s not much lasso training going on in the suburbs these days – but really it’s never too late to learn).

Eventually passing motorists pull over – asking what in the world she’s doing and probably wondering if she’d just escaped from some nearby facility.

No, she’s not crazy. She just wants her damn umbrella back.

One of the generous motorists (who happens to live nearby) agrees to get a pool raft from home, strip to his shorts, enter that questionable body of water and rescue that drowning piece of patio furniture.

The umbrella is saved - thank you kind neighbor. And, bless my grandmother, she took pictures.

So cheers on your birthday, mom – your determination is infallible and the mom stories never cease to entertain.

I had a professor in college who gave an entire lecture on how people don't complain enough. Yes, I scoffed then just as you may be scoffing now.

But he wasn't referring to the daily grumblings about that extra 15 pounds, that lawn that grows too fast or that jerk next door who insists on mowing his lawn in the buff. Instead, he harkened back to a terribly constructed pair of dress shoes that he purchased (for a decent amount of money) - shoes that soon after their first wearing began to fall apart.

The problem, he said, was that people would curse the shoes, curse the brand, toss them into the trash and never look back. He, on the other hand, wrote a letter to the shoe manufacturer relaying his dissatisfaction and the manufacturer responded with a box full of shoes - just his size.

I remember asking myself why I'd want ten pairs of bad shoes, regardless of whether or not I paid for them. I still wonder that. But I think his point was that people weren't diligent enough about voicing their opinions when a product didn't meet their standards. I think he also wanted to stress that free stuff is always good.

After the admonishments on the last post, it's pretty clear that no one here has trouble voicing their displeasure. And that's fine. What floats for one person sinks for another. It happens. But ouch, some of those opinions sting.

So after the ample reproach directed my way, I sought comfort the same way many downtrodden cubicle workers do - with several highly potent drinks and The Office.

Ah, now that's better.

I'll have to contact my old professor to make sure he's since rewritten his lecture.

I just had to write after I read the "Seen Jesus lately? Me neither" blog a few weeks ago. I won't lie (never have, never will), it upset me. I mean, it's a lose-lose situation for me sometimes - cynicism has made my job difficult.

You appear to someone in a dream and they wake up, go to Borders, buy a dream interpretation book and end up believing they're about to come into some money (in which case they stop off at a gas station to purchase a flurry of Lotto tickets) or someone in their family is going to become ill (in which case they watch their mother-in-law with devout - and disturbingly upbeat - anticipation).

But nobody thinks it's really me.

Appear to someone as a warming bright light, an angel in the sky or even a benevolent voice in the dark and they shake their head in disbelief, eyeball the beer can in their hand and wonder "What the hell is IN this." Should they mention the incident later, they'll be rewarded with a fast-track ticket to the bughouse.

So I go out of my way to ease into people's lives - a tortilla here, a water stain there. And sometimes it works. Sometimes I get that blessed look of recognition. Sometimes a full week of appreciation, understanding and worship goes by before I'm mis-employed as a for-profit neighborhood attraction. Eventually the word "eBay" comes up and I'm sold along side five Webkinz and a toaster.

It seems like nobody takes me seriously.

My most recent appearance wasn't even noticed for years! There I am, in plain view on a tree in the front yard of a Portland home. Months go by without even a glance. I even start shouting, "I'm over here!" and still nothing.

Then finally, last week, discovery!

"Awesome," I thought. "Now I'll finally be able to spread my message of love to those who need it most." Then I notice the keen-eyed lady is giggling, calling others over, pointing and taking photos.

I closed my eyes in despair. "Ugh, another cynic."

So please, a little respect and consideration is in order. I've thus laid out some ground rules:

1. Jesus is everywhere, so keep your eyes peeled (and stop doing that thing you do when you think no one is looking. It's gross).

2. While Jesus can and has appeared on edible goods, he's shutting down that avenue going forward. People don't seem to pay much attention to what they're eating these days and Jesus ends up in a place he doesn't want to be.

3. Don't sell Jesus on eBay. Think about it. It's just not right.

Eternally yours,
Jesus

UPDATE:
Andrea, please don't get down on yourself. Here, I've outlined my profile on this image so you can better see it.

God bless cell phone cameras. Without them, I'd be forced to describe this scene with an array of weakly descriptive words that would never do it justice.

What is he doing, you ask? Perhaps he's engaging in a one-man anti-war protest? Negative. Is he establishing his rightful place in the teenage male dominance rankings by following through on a dare? It's possible.

Truth is, he's hoping to encourage passing motorists to pull over for a car wash.

Yes, it's usually the cheerleaders you see on the side of the road flashing their school spirit in an effort to raise funds for...cheerleading, I think. So part of me was glad to see the guys parading on Boadway. But then part of me wasn't glad to see it at all.

What happened to the old-school ways of making money? Baked goods or rocks with eyes and mouths painted on them?

I remember, not so long ago, the best way to make some change was a scavenger hunt. A fifth-grader-concocted scam scavenger hunt (I honestly think this was the start of what would become a life-long downward spiral).

A scam scavenger hunt's most important element was a carefully crafted list of 'needed items.' Household items like thread, pop tops, a plastic spoon, a straw, a pencil, a stamp would populate the list (the list would be typed, to reinforce its authenticity). The final item on the list: a quarter.

But you already have all these items - collected from your own home and put into a plastic bag - all of them but the quarter, of course.

So you go knock on your neighbor's door and explain to them that, yes, it's your birthday. And yes, it does seem like you just had a birthday. And your mom planned this great scavenger hunt and you've almost got everything on the list (flash bag of goods and authentic list with everything but 'One Quarter' already checked off).

Neighbor kindly digs out a quarter from a change purse or a pocket or a jar and drops it into the bag and you happily bounce around the front porch in celebration. And then you go knock on another neighbor's door and repeat the process.

In 30 minutes, you and a couple of friends could raise enough funds for a 7-11 shopping spree (selecting the best of the best from the bottom shelf 5-cent candy).

I know, it sounds awful. Though I did grow up and start working for a living, so my parents did manage to instill some sense of morality in me. But I guess, if I’m going to be fair, I can’t knock a guy for standing on the street with no pants on.

Ah, the things we do for money.

First there were Tupperware parties. Then came Mary Kay, candles and jewelry made from recycled material in Africa.

I've admittedly been to my fair share (because hey, there's always food, usually alcohol and a slim chance that you might walk away with some free stuff).

There's also a good chance that you won't be able to afford anything there.

Myself, I'm a resale and clearance rack shopper. I'm broke and used to being broke and don't usually succumb to "this is a must-have item" pitches. But that doesn't make the purchasing period of the evening any easier.

Typically, when my cohorts begin pulling out their checkbooks and filling out order forms, I'll make myself busy with the chips and dip - or become suddenly intrigued by a hanging plant or ceramic animal in another room.

But I'm not a total cheap skate. I've purchased an essential item or two - take the beer bread mix from last year. The sales pitch, "just add one 12-ounce beer, stir and bake" was all I needed to hear.

Unfortunately I failed to take into consideration that even simplistic directions like "just add one beer and stir" would still produce an inedible, rectangular disaster in my kitchen. Who screws up a two-ingredient recipe? I do.

But this weekend was the the most blasphemous of all get-togethers: the psychic party. The set-up is similar to its party cousins, only instead of walking out with a knock-off purse or a $150 tourmaline ring, you go home with your future…theoretically.

It’s okay to laugh. Despite the efforts of Montel Williams and prime time TV dramas, psychics haven’t been able to kick their “for entertainment purposes only” status in the mainstream. But I like entertainment. And who am I to say this psychic doesn’t have the power of foresight? Open mind, open mind, open mind.

So I enter the room and take a seat at the table with madam psychic. Greetings are exchanged and, somehow, we begin discussing how I dyed my hair jet black and used to iron it (yes, with an iron iron) back in high school. Then she begins.

Psychic: “You don’t say much. But what you say has meaning.”

[Um, was she not just listening?]

Me: “Actually, I talk a great deal.”

Psychic: “Well, what you say is important. You don’t just talk.”

Me: “Actually, that’s not true at all. I can spend an hour critiquing a Dunkin’ Donuts commercial and that’s not very important.”

Psychic: “Yes, but you’re not prone to babbeling.”

This is right about the time my open mind completely closed up. She really couldn’t have been any more off the mark. Thus, everything after that was met with a smile, a nod and a mental “riiiiiiight.”

But hey, if I DO change careers, become a flight attendant, meet a freakishly tall guy on a plane, marry him and move to Michigan, well, I guess I’ll just have to live with that.

Maybe you hate your coworkers, in which case being in the office by yourself is probably a welcome respite.

Unfortunately, I actually like the people I work with.

So days like today, when one person's vacation time and one person's day off overlap with maternity leave here and a return to school there, I find myself talking aloud to empty cubicles.

And yes, my coworker is well aware that his "organized piles" aren't fooling anyone.

A couple of systems folks are spitting-distance away (that's an estimate, I've not yet tested that claim) and we talk sometimes, but I feel like there's this wall between us - mostly because there is a wall between us.

So I'm doing what I can today to keep myself busy. You know, playing white board bullseye with promotional magnets.

Digging out the rubber cement [deep inhale] and gluing [deep inhale] a coworker's mouse [deep inhale] to his desk.

Enjoying the view of plastic.

And propping cardboard cutouts within eyesight to help manage my rampant abandonment issues.

OK, I enjoy beer as much as the next guy.

Strike that. I love beer. I love beer gardens in the summer and supporting the local beer economy year-round. I love beer labels with offensive names or pictures and beer made with the slightest hit of blueberry. I love happy hour beer and ready-for-work beer - in a glass, in a bottle, in a 40-oz. bottle covered by a paper bag.

Of course, caffeine and I are good friends, too. And considering the number of coffee shops within walking distance of where I sit, I'm clearly not alone.

But alcohol and caffeine together? Jagermeister and Red Bull have been doing it successfully for years.

But Maine's Attorney General isn't seeing the benefits of alcoholic energy drinks like Sparks, Bud Extra (referred to as "B to the E" on the web site. I'm not joking.) and Liquid Charge.

The story from the Sun Journal: Feds urged to crackdown on energy-drink claims

The article states:

...the attorneys general warn that aggressive marketing of alcoholic energy drinks targets young people who are buying energy drinks without alcohol.

Also targeted are middle-aged borderline alcoholics who are sick of passing out in the men's room at 8:00 p.m.

I haven't tried it yet, but I would should the opportunity arise. There's plenty worse you could be putting in your beer. Say,pizza, for example:

Suburban Hobbyist Puts New Spin On Beer And Pizza

To quote a Midwestern friend who tried it recently at Beerfest in Milwaukee: "It's not awful. It's not good, either."

Otherwise harmless phrases take on entirely new -- and malodorous -- meanings depending on where you're standing when you hear them.

If you were, say, standing next to a gas pump and someone called out, "It's full," you'd understand it as an innocuous acknowledgement that someone has a full tank of gas or oil or whatever.

If you were standing outside a grocery store near a Salvation Army donation bucket and an elderly woman looked into the pot and exclaimed, "It's full!" you might be impressed with the monetary collection (but you'd still try to shove a dollar in anyway so you could say you helped).

But if you were at Baystock, apprehensively standing in a line for a porta-potty (acutely aware now of the downside to hanging out in the beer garden all evening) and a gentleman six people ahead of you steps out of the portable toilet and says"Um, yeah, it's full"...well, the phrase has entirely new implications.

If you were a guy, you might excuse yourself from the line in search of the nearest moderately dark corner (or just urinate off the pier next to the ice truck, as one man did).

If you were a girl, you might muse that holding it another hour wouldn't be completely impossible - and if you should pee your pants, would it really be THAT bad? You'd also come to understand why contraptions like the "Freshette" were developed.

I was moderately fortunate -- my line wasn't headed toward the "full" toilet. Even still, I wasn't optimistic. Any hope that did remain, however, was quashed when the woman in front of me stepped out of the porta-potty, kindy held the door and said, "Good luck."

I survived. My shoes, however, won't talk to me anymore.

Other things you don't want to hear in close proximity to a porta-potty:

"Oh my God."
"I've never seen anything like it."
"What IS that?"
"Somebody here today is apparently very ill."

Drive Forest Ave. much? If so, this parked truck and its fine sign may look familiar to you.

Not being one to pay attention to the road while I'm driving, I've stared this sign down repeatedly. But it wasn't until my most recent rendezvous down 302 that it really caught my attention. "What? Does that sign say 'losers'?"

No, that was low self-esteem talking. But then, what's a 'lobser'?

Perhaps you highly attune sign readers out there noticed the misspelling (or is it...?) right away. But it reminded me of an e-mail forward I've gotten at least a half-dozen times -- the one that shows how the human brain can gloss over misspellings as long as the first and last letters are in the right spot.

Prvonig, ocne agian, taht proepr spleling is oevrrtaed.

And by "roller coaster" I mean "roller coaster." Not whatever you were thinking.

Some people find love in the most absurd of circumstances: Boy accidentally sits on girl working out at the gym. He's embarrassed. She's sweaty. It's love.

Girl drunk dials the wrong number. Boy answers. They talk. They meet. They get married.

But online dating has emerged from the damp, dark corners of social isolation. It's crawled up from the parent's basement, lost 30 pounds, gotten a job and started talking. To real people.

Everyone's meeting online these days. And why not? Sometimes you just want to see what's available without being bothered by the clingy, high-pressure salespeople.

But forget love. What do you do when you have two tickets to an amusement park and the only people you know who can go are you and...well, just you. Maybe you stay home, deny yourself the ultimate joy that is The Giant Drop, reheat Mac and Cheese for lunch and cry yourself to sleep.

Or maybe you post an ad on Craigslist, something like, "Looking for LTR but would settle for a trip to Six Flags"

My friend did (yes, it really was "my friend") and asked my opinion on the responses. She cleared out all the obvious sickos (i.e., those who sent nothing more than a photo of their privates), those who lacked conversational skills (i.e., e-mails that said nothing more than "wuddup") and anyone who used the word "sexy" to describe what made them a good amusement park companion.

Who was left? Still quite a number of seemingly normal, non-murderous Joes. She picked one and is off to roller-coaster-ride the day away today. I'm sending positive thoughts her way, as well as regular text messages to ensure she hasn't been cut up and tossed, piece by piece, over the side of the Splash Water Falls raft.

If it all works out for her, well, I might just have an extra ticket to Six Flags...

Ah, glorious vacation! But oh, the bittersweetness of an office hiatus.

I didn't leave the state during my time off, which, anywhere else but Maine, would be a depressing admission. But when you live in "Vacationland"...well, you live here. You know what I mean.

Instead, I gave an Illinois friend the deluxe Maine tour. While I always appreciate the company of friends from state's past, I admit ulterior motives were at work. My goal: to prove that moving to Maine was not part of a wildly delusion quarter-life crisis - that I hadn't gone soft(er) in the head. That, no, "Northern Exposure" was not filmed here. The state is not buried in snow 11 months out of the year. The population does exceed 50 and I have not adopted flannel as my primary office wardrobe.

The day after she returned home she sent me a message: "I miss Maine." Yeah you do.

Task completed: Another flatlander convinced. But don't worry. She won't be moving to Maine, buying up property and bringing her crazy Midwestern ways to Maine anytime soon (who calls soda "pop" anyway? Oh yeah, I do).

But the splendor of my feat was dampened with a cruel reality: Only two despairingly brief vacation days left until 2008.

How ever will I make those last? The pressure of deciding what events are truly vacation worthy!

Of course, I could always play hooky should the need arise, right? Invent some unfortunate, yet believable calamity in order to dip into that precious, untouched bank of sick and personal days. The excuses have to be delicately chosen - I'm not a fan of the macabre decision to (even fictitiously) kill off relatives or curse a friend with a near-fatal car accident just because I'd like to leave a day early for a camping trip.

Besides, there are bosses out there that are following up on their employee's stories. Take this recent e-mail inquiry:

I am trying to see the Police Log from Saturday, but I can not find it since I was out of town. Is there a way to go look at previous logs? I am trying to see if there was a stabbing Friday night at [a local bar] to support why my employee did not come in to work or did he lie again?

If it's a lie - it's an elaborate one. He'll either have to show up to work with a recreated knife wound or be known as the bagel shop/gas station/office worker who stabs people. And that just doesn't look good on a reference letter.

Just yesterday it occurred to me that it had been over a week since I last used the "Mainers behaving badly" cop image. Where were the riotous lawbreakers that grace us with such comical fodder? Had the blazing summer sun calmed the dumb-criminal spirit?

Nope.

The Morning Sentinel ran a story today about a Pittsfield woman who has been arrested for calling 911. Her 'emergency'? Missing house keys.

Pittsfield woman charged with misuse of 911 line

You can almost forgive the woman if it had been just once -- and if she really didn't understand how ridiculous her request was. But...

According to a partial Somerset County dispatch center call log, (Sandra) Hickey called 911 six times in less than 30 minutes on July 24, as well as three times in 45 minutes on July 27...

Hickey, who allegedly was intoxicated at the time of the calls, would sometimes make an excuse for calling the emergency number, (Sgt. Timothy Roussin of the Pittsfield Police) said. At one point she claimed to have information on a murder, police say. But her complaints always went back to the missing key, Roussin said.

Now the arrest makes sense. But, oh, the irony!

The missing house key, it was later learned, had been returned without Hickey's knowledge, Roussin said.

Absurd 911 calls are a nation-wide phenomenon. Glumbert.com has a nice package of some of the most inane: How to misuse 911

Of course, there's nothing like using 911 as a dating hotline. You'll may recall this story from last year:

Bless the internet for making this brilliant stuff so accessible. Some people are just...wait...where's my lucky pen? It was just here! I need that pen! My handwriting looks so good when I write with that pen!

[Dialing]

"Hello, 911?...Yes, it's an emergeny... "

Early this morning I caught a news story about another image-of-Jesus spotting. This time, the face of Jesus appeared in Forest, Va. after a paint can was lifted off a garage floor.

You're jealous, right? Well fret not, you can buy it for yourself on eBay.

The paint-stain Jesus reminded me of the Virgin Mary Grilled Cheese that GoldenPalace.com purchased a few years ago for $28,000.

So I walked into work this morning chock-full of optimism. Maybe those e-mails my grandmother keeps forwarding are right, and Jesus is everywhere. My eyes were peeled, ready, awaiting my first image-of-Jesus-where-you-wouldn't-expect-it spotting.

And then, there it was!

Wait, isn't that the kangaroo from the Aussie Hair Products commercials?

I guess it wasn't meant to be. But for anyone who has a severe hankering to have his/her own Jesus, Mary or Oprah on toast, CoolToast.com let's you create your own. (If you try this, be sure to click "Mohammad" and "Lohan".)