I’ve been back from Atlanta for over a week now, and I really don’t have anything earth-shattering to tell my readers about the trip. Other than the fact that I was one of about five women in a hotel full of 1500 male tractor dealers, and that I feel as though I was visually groped about 1476 times while staying at the Hyatt Regency, there’s not much else exciting that happened that week. I did get to see my friend, T, and enjoy some sushi and sake with her my last night in town. I don’t get to eat a lot of that here, as it’s considered “bait” where I live. And, I was sure to do a short, yet obligatory nostalgia drive through my old digs. I went past the perfect, Colonial house I grew up in, the old apartments I lived in after my divorce, the Big Chicken in Marietta, of course, and my last place of employment before bolting out of the land of debutantes and dogwoods several years ago.
I love my friend T. She’s my favorite bleeding heart liberal on the planet, after all. If you’re reading this, T, I adore you and promise not to make fun of any more of Obama’s lame and non-tax-paying appointments to his cabinet. Or his ridiculous “economic stimulus package” that may as well be a box of vibrators, as they are about as relevant to economic stimulation as his so-called stimulus package is. Socialist healthcare reform in an economic stimulus plan? Really? Nice that the Dems are cramming in all of those little projects they never quite got on the docket into a package that’s labeled “economic stimulus.” Transparency? Um, no. It’s called socialism, people. Open your eyes and take a big bite of the Karl Marx rotten apple. Tastes kinda funny.
Phew. Sorry. Got a little sidetracked there.
So, T. My brilliant, yet liberal friend. I promise not to make fun of these things in front of you, anyway. But I still love you, nonetheless. Just don’t ask me to come along with you to get that eventual group lobotomy that’ll be served up with that rotten apple.
Upon my return from Atlanta, I was hit with work, work, and more work. No big shocker there, as it’s usually the status quo for me. But this time, I’m doing my day job, my night job, and then taking on the grading for another professor. One of my professorial colleagues has pancreatic cancer, and I was asked to do all of her grading for the semester. How could I say no to that? And, how on earth does that type of news not change one’s perspective on the work at hand? I haven’t complained about a single weekend I’ve had to work through since, nor will I. Instead, I’m thanking my lucky stars that I’m alive, healthy, and kicking. Perspective, indeed. If you pray to God, Allah, Buddha, Obama, or whomever, say a little prayer for Daisywriter's professorial colleague. And then go kiss and bear-hug the people you live with immediately after reading this entry.
Speaking of kisses, this weekend marks the holiday we all wait patiently for every year! And, if you didn't sense that dripping bucket of sarcasm in the previous sentence, then you weren’t reading hard enough. In honor of this Hallmark holiday, Husband Man and I are doing the great American dinner of Japanese food, cooked table-side by a genuine Japanese chef with big, sharp Ginsu knives and a miraculous flaming volcano formed by a simple onion. Pure magnificence. Our sweet little Indiana town just got this restaurant (which is conveniently placed right next to a John Wayne’s American Grill restaurant, I might add), and I’m very pleased to be able to have our inaugural dinner there on Valentine’s Day and spend it with my loving spouse - even though we would’ve just eaten there on Saturday night anyway.
Coincidentally, Valentine’s Day is also my father’s birthday, so I’ve always honored it more as the day my father was brought into this world instead of the alternative chocolate-and-roses capitalist plot (which, is indeed brilliant, I might add, but still bullshit, nonetheless). So, happy birthday, Dad. I hope you have a wonderful day. You taught me to be independent and self-sufficient and to not trust boys that don’t have their own toolboxes and can’t fix flat tires. You taught me that cold beer and good company can cure any trace of the blues. You taught me that with 50 bucks and a lawn chair, pretty much anyone can do anything in life. You taught me to be a fiscal conservative capitalist, but a social moderate who believes in love (but not necessarily Valentine’s Day, because you should always continue to question, question, question). And because your Mom wasn’t around after my 9th birthday, you taught me a little of what she taught you – that women in 4-inch high heels and matching accessories can be smart, graceful, and devastatingly down-to-earth funny.
And for that, I salute you on the Hallmark holiday and shall raise a glass of Japanese sake (or Asahi) in your honor while I clap like a monkey to the onion volcano. And get tipsy just enough to forget that the economic stimulus plan is a complete JOKE. Oh yeah - you taught me to recognize that if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it's probably a damn duck.
So thanks again, Dad.
