cowboys and indians

Today is my second to last day at work.

My good pals planned a party full of my favorite pizzas and a strawberry pudding cake. It was swell. That Terri should open a bakery.

The kitchen and my desk were decorated with chili peppers, cacti and cowboy boots. On top of the cake: cowboys and indians poised for battle near a covered wagon a teepee and a cook fire.

Sometimes it feels like that at work. I envision us circling the wagons to prevent sudden attacks, stoking the fire to keep away the predators. Sometimes I feel we are on the outside, trying to penetrate the closed wagons - being kept out of the loop.

Why do adults continue to play the games they were taught as children?
And who decides who are the cowboys and who are the indians?

Hungry

I am clueless when it comes to adult things.

I have friends who use their credit cards at will, always seem to know where to go to place an order (even in a new restaurant) and have the money to pick up the check.

These folks are savvy in the ways of the adult.
I must not have been paying attention when these skills were taught.

I find myself simply not ordering anything when we go out because I haven't checked to see if they take a debit card, can't quite recall how much money is in the account or don't want to order something bizarre like a chicken club sandwich with curly fries and salsa when everyone else opts for a vodka martini with an onion. Nothing like needing a napkin to wipe your chin when everyone else is a sipping sophisticate.

I rarely even eat while at parties with buffets. I can't seem to balance the plate/fork/napkin animal while carrying on animated conversation. Believe me, I've tried - someone usually ends up with sauce on their jacket or a close encounter with a cocktail toothpick. Or I am the unfortunate who decides to try the seaweed wrap and ends up with large green strings in my front teeth. These, of course, I discover upon returning home.

And so, I go to gatherings with large outlays of food and drink and I come home hungry. I end up making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the privacy of my own home and rinsing the jelly off my face while in my pajamas. The humiliation just seems easier that way.