They say that you should pursue art that "speaks" to you. To really get your money's worth, you have to have some sort of connection to it. Otherwise, you might as well just buy something at Bed, Bath and Beyond to sling on your walls.
Today, during my weekly pre-class coffee stop, there was a featured artist on the walls of my favorite caffeinated watering hole. I believe it's the artist’s first exhibit, and one of her paintings spoke to me immediately. It’s not that I gushed over it as much as it just called out to me and said, simply, “look at me…NOW.” The painting is called, Leaving it all Behind. The artist's name is Madame Aradia. She has an interesting style; it’s kind of Tim Burton’esque, but it has that same willowy type figure that I seem to be drawn to (see my links at Bella Pilar). She’s not a girlie girl, I would guess, but more of an “I dye my hair black and listen to Evanescence” type chick. Either way, I like her stuff. It’s cool.
While I'd like to say that I'm a 100% practical, Virgoan, mainstream chick, I'm a big believer in signs, destiny, fate, and all that crap. I can't help it. It's just a part of who I am. A straight-laced Banana Republic tweed skirt wearing closet hippie. Without the patchouli smell, of course.
I think that signs show up in everyone's daily life - sometimes they're smacks upside the head - but most of us inadvertently ignore them. We hear things, see things, smell things, and feel more than we allow our brains to actually acknowledge on a daily basis, I'm convinced. I know that about 99.5% of the psychics I've visited (after a few glasses of vodka while out with the girls) were completely full of shit, but I do believe that we all have some sort of spirit guides that try to tell us things along our way. I guess some would perceive this as intuition. Others view it as common sense. The "you really shouldn't be doing this" voice in your head when you're jumping head first into something you know is going to be truly bad for you, but you throw caution to the wind anyway. That common sense intuition – and the tiny deviations in our path each day – have to be something other-worldly, giving us a bit of guidance in this crap shoot we call living.
Yesterday, when I saw the painting, I thought, “Huh...must be one of those moments.”
And then, as if the painting wasn't enough for one day, a business card was lying right next to it. And, there was only one. It wasn’t a normal business card, but rather a card with a simple website on it – it was for the National Novel Writing Month website. A seemingly simple idea – write 50,000 words (or 175 pages) in a month. Go ahead, the contest prompts...put out quantity over quality, and see what happens, along with a gazillion other aspriring writers. The prize? Jack squat, unless you think some notoriety among other writers is a prize.
I just started training for a yet unnamed half marathon last week, getting up in the morning and running my obligatory 20-30 minutes to get my body somewhat back in shape. November is one of the busiest months I foresee in a long time. Yet, I’m still wondering...what if. What if I actually can spit out 175 pages of low quality stuff, only to have it morph later on into a work of true art? What if?
The picture – it said, “If you spend your life looking back, then soon you will become but a ghost of the past, living in the future.” The business card? It said, “Write for you, just shut up, do it, and don’t regret.”
Four weeks and 175 pages? With three simultaneous jobs already? I don’t know about that...but the sign was duly noted.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Monday, October 08, 2007
Sibling Loyalty and the SWAT Team
My sister posted a comment, and I believe she may have paid someone else to post another one. This is loyalty, people. The kind of raw, inexplicable sibling thing that is clearly unconscious. Siblings do that stuff. They tell you you're a dumbass in one breath, and then they kick someone's ass if that said someone is overheard calling you that same dumbass. I can make fun of my sister as much as I damn well please, but if someone else makes fun of her, I may land myself in jail. It's like some unwritten code. Bylaws of a sort.
When we were little, there was this kid named Timmy that lived in our neighborhood in Pittsburgh. Every childhood has a memory of the smelly kid, and Timmy was that kid. Well, I was about 5, I guess...around that age. And, I was sort of like a gerbil on crack, I've been told. I was probably chasing a bug or something when I walked in front of Timmy swinging a bat - that just happened to smack me in the head. It was one of those solid, aluminum-steel looking things. And, honestly, I don't even know if it was Timmy who was behind the great cranial homerun...I just remember him above all the other boys, as he was, well, really friggin smelly.
I went down with a thud. Out. Gone. And, to a sister that was only 3.5 years older than me, I'm sure I appeared dead. Killed by the smelly kid. So, my sister brutalized him, as I recall. Kids ran to get my Dad to tell him that I was dead, I'm sure, and my sister just wailed on Timmy. This is the story I remember, at least, and I like my version of it. My seemingly dead five-year old body just laying there in the makeshift baseball field, lifeless. And, my sister...beating the shit out of the smelly kid to revenge me.
It's what flashbacks in movies are made of, really.
Turns out I wasn't dead. I know you're shocked, but the big noggin went OUT...not IN. My Dad told me that as a parent, if your kid is hit in the head, you always look to see if a big goose-egg appears. If there's a bump, you're golden. If it caves in, you're screwed. I had the goose-egg. And, Timmy was beat up by a girl. It was a good day in steel town.
That's loyalty. It's the stuff that supercedes even parental love. It's when you get in a huge fight, proclaim your hatred for your sibling, then ask them to go to Target with you 2 minutes later.
So, thanks for the support, sis. I know you'll be first in line when I end up at Borders someday, doing a book-signing for three people. You'll be one of the three. And, I know you'll buy a bushel.
On the subject of loyalty and unwritten codes, we met our new neighbors last weekend. They haven't built their house yet, but they still manage to enjoy their acreage in the form of a big bonfire, complete with beer and friends. I had met the male counterpart before the bonfire and never suspected what he did for a living. He was painfully quiet. Of course, I am not, so he did a lot of listening. I thought, "maybe he's a school guidance counselor."
It wasn't until I was drinking beer and talking about how I had planned on ending the lives of skunks that I realized I was talking to the county's SWAT team. One even pulled his gun out and told me that I could use it to kill the skunk. (He was joking. I think.) Four or five of them....all drinking beer just steps from my property. At first, I retracted quickly, wondering if my record had followed me to Indiana. Then I remembered that it doesn't work that way.
They really are a tight-knit group of guys (and cop wives). They all seem to watch out for each other and have that really cool sense of camaraderie. Sort of like siblings, but without the parental baggage.
First, raccoons, and now, the SWAT team. I've learned to live among what I never dreamed I would have as neighbors. And, I didn't even snort like a pig and scream "I SMELL BACON!!!!"
Maybe I AM maturing.
When we were little, there was this kid named Timmy that lived in our neighborhood in Pittsburgh. Every childhood has a memory of the smelly kid, and Timmy was that kid. Well, I was about 5, I guess...around that age. And, I was sort of like a gerbil on crack, I've been told. I was probably chasing a bug or something when I walked in front of Timmy swinging a bat - that just happened to smack me in the head. It was one of those solid, aluminum-steel looking things. And, honestly, I don't even know if it was Timmy who was behind the great cranial homerun...I just remember him above all the other boys, as he was, well, really friggin smelly.
I went down with a thud. Out. Gone. And, to a sister that was only 3.5 years older than me, I'm sure I appeared dead. Killed by the smelly kid. So, my sister brutalized him, as I recall. Kids ran to get my Dad to tell him that I was dead, I'm sure, and my sister just wailed on Timmy. This is the story I remember, at least, and I like my version of it. My seemingly dead five-year old body just laying there in the makeshift baseball field, lifeless. And, my sister...beating the shit out of the smelly kid to revenge me.
It's what flashbacks in movies are made of, really.
Turns out I wasn't dead. I know you're shocked, but the big noggin went OUT...not IN. My Dad told me that as a parent, if your kid is hit in the head, you always look to see if a big goose-egg appears. If there's a bump, you're golden. If it caves in, you're screwed. I had the goose-egg. And, Timmy was beat up by a girl. It was a good day in steel town.
That's loyalty. It's the stuff that supercedes even parental love. It's when you get in a huge fight, proclaim your hatred for your sibling, then ask them to go to Target with you 2 minutes later.
So, thanks for the support, sis. I know you'll be first in line when I end up at Borders someday, doing a book-signing for three people. You'll be one of the three. And, I know you'll buy a bushel.
On the subject of loyalty and unwritten codes, we met our new neighbors last weekend. They haven't built their house yet, but they still manage to enjoy their acreage in the form of a big bonfire, complete with beer and friends. I had met the male counterpart before the bonfire and never suspected what he did for a living. He was painfully quiet. Of course, I am not, so he did a lot of listening. I thought, "maybe he's a school guidance counselor."
It wasn't until I was drinking beer and talking about how I had planned on ending the lives of skunks that I realized I was talking to the county's SWAT team. One even pulled his gun out and told me that I could use it to kill the skunk. (He was joking. I think.) Four or five of them....all drinking beer just steps from my property. At first, I retracted quickly, wondering if my record had followed me to Indiana. Then I remembered that it doesn't work that way.
They really are a tight-knit group of guys (and cop wives). They all seem to watch out for each other and have that really cool sense of camaraderie. Sort of like siblings, but without the parental baggage.
First, raccoons, and now, the SWAT team. I've learned to live among what I never dreamed I would have as neighbors. And, I didn't even snort like a pig and scream "I SMELL BACON!!!!"
Maybe I AM maturing.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Monday, September 10, 2007
Buddhist hunter
I think it's human nature to want to find the answer to the age-old question: what's the meaning of life? Why are we here? Well, in my quest, I've dabbled in several different denominations of religions. While not religious, per se, I've always considered myself spiritual. So, when I found out that the Dalai Lama is coming to Indiana to speak at Purdue University next month, I just had to buy a ticket. That's right...the Lama had tickets for sale online. Kind of like seeing the Foo Fighters. Very OM rock and roll.
So, I bought myself one ticket about a month ago. I figured no one would want to come with me, and I thought it'd be nice to go through security without extra people weighing me down. They say no cameras, personal items, etc., but I still yearn to bring a lighter and scream FREEBIRD!
Fast forward to this past week.
It began with flames. I mean, literal flames. I should’ve known the week would be crazy when on the Tuesday after Labor Day, I set a bagel on fire in my office cafeteria. I know. I’m a regular Betty friggin Crocker. Here I was, innocently waiting for my bagel in the conveyer-belt toaster thingy, when I smell something burning. I look around, thinking it couldn’t possibly be me. I mean, it HAD to be some other dumbass who can't use a toaster. Well, lo and behold, there was my breakfast, half bagel - half fireball, caught in the conveyer toaster. I immediately went into action, smacking it furiously with big steel tongs, people peering over their morning coffees and danishes, watching the crazy girl beat the fire-bagel to death. I’m sure I was the source of much laughter that morning, which is the least I can do for humankind on the first day back from a long Labor Day weekend.
The violence against the bagel was warranted. I can't afford to pay for an office building, and I saw the ruins of it flash before my eyes as I beat it into submission.
That's how my week started. With a fire bagel. Despite the omen, I've settled into country living. I really do love it, even if the next occurrence of the week happened to be the great skunk incident of 2007. This literally left a bad taste in my mouth (and my sinuses and my carpet...). Adjustments aside, I’ve fallen in love with the deafening silence out here in the country, the extreme darkness at night, and the fact that I can now see stars I believe I’ve never seen before in my life. Cities tend to mask them, I've learned. Yesterday, I saw my first RUNNING deer. Two young ones ran across my property at full speed in all their glory. I almost peed myself with glee. Just beautiful.
It’s been 5 days since the great skunk attack, and Tessie still smells a bit funky, even after seven washings with a lethal combination of chemicals. The skunk changed me. I mean, it literally flipped a switch in me. I must preamble this newfound change with the fact that for about a year in my pre-adult phase, I had a bumper sticker on my car that read, “Liberate Laboratory Animals.” And, now I work at a pharmaceutical company. Yeah. There's a trend here...bear with me.
In my past, I've been vehemently opposed to guns. I fear them, so I've historically been anti-gun girl. If I lived in my apartment or in a suburban neighborhood, I would never have one, as you're 350 times more likely to kill someone or be killed, and I don't think I could live with that. Especially if I was dead. I am not one to go out and hunt things for fun, either. I know people who do this, and I'm the first to speak up and tell them that it's about as pointless as watching Nascar or golf, really.
Well, there are critters out here in the country. My perspective has changed just a tad because of my environment. The critters I encounter are not the Snow White-type critters who will come hither and flock to me in a friendly manner when I outstretch my arms. After I spent almost eight hours of one day cleaning my skunked dog, my house, and my person, I realized something profoundly life-altering:
I want to kill some f*cking skunks.
I know, it goes against everything I aspire to be. A calm, together, Buddhist-like being. Free of anger and revengeful feelings and hatred. A centered, wise, and loving capitalist. A smiling beacon of goodness.
I don't intend to apologize for my newfound feelings of skunk hatred. If you have ever had skunk smell on your hands for four days after scrubbing furiously about 25 times a day, you’d understand why.
Deer, I love. Bunnies - they are divine little creatures who are welcome to eat my plants anytime. Gophers and moles and even mice and rats, I’ll deal with. Honestly. I’ll protect them at all costs. And snakes? The fiance caught one today in our window well, in fact, and he so lovingly set it free in the woods. But skunks and raccoons might as well refer to me as Chuck Norris now. They're the gang members of the wilderness. They're the little Al Capones. And, they've screwed with the wrong city-turned-country girl. This bunny has fangs.
Skunks and raccoons add nothing to the ecological hierarchy that some non-spraying, non-stinky creature can’t fulfill. And, when all is said and done, it could’ve really hurt Tess. Or, even more evil, it could've hurt the baby, Zeke. Since the incident, I’ve seen that little skunk walking around on my property at 5 in the afternoon. Skunks are nocturnal, I’ve learned. So, something’s obviously wrong with this one.
I believe the fiancé was slightly floored when I asked if I needed a license to buy a rifle with a scope at Wal-Mart. Me, the girl in her Banana Republic ensemble (they used to have very sporty clothes, mind you) and her heels, touting a rifle and on a one-woman crusade to kick skunk ass.
What would Buddha do? He'd let the skunk live and let live in its natural state, spray my dog a few more times, and he'd love that skunk with open arms. Alrighty then. I can't bring myself to do that. Not this week, anyway.
So, instead of looking to a deity, I'll do what I like to do in a lot of life situations where I'm at a crossroads - morally, spiritually, or whatever. I'll ask myself, "what would Grandma do?"...then, I'll look at the picture on my desk of my paternal Grandma, a vision of elegance and beauty and matching accessories, and I'll ponder for a second, channeling her wisdom.
I know what she'd do. She'd put on her matching gloves, pill box hat, and heels, and she'd go kill that little f*cker with a scope and a silencer, so as not to disturb the sweet little deer.
Wal-Mart, here I come.
So, I bought myself one ticket about a month ago. I figured no one would want to come with me, and I thought it'd be nice to go through security without extra people weighing me down. They say no cameras, personal items, etc., but I still yearn to bring a lighter and scream FREEBIRD!
Fast forward to this past week.
It began with flames. I mean, literal flames. I should’ve known the week would be crazy when on the Tuesday after Labor Day, I set a bagel on fire in my office cafeteria. I know. I’m a regular Betty friggin Crocker. Here I was, innocently waiting for my bagel in the conveyer-belt toaster thingy, when I smell something burning. I look around, thinking it couldn’t possibly be me. I mean, it HAD to be some other dumbass who can't use a toaster. Well, lo and behold, there was my breakfast, half bagel - half fireball, caught in the conveyer toaster. I immediately went into action, smacking it furiously with big steel tongs, people peering over their morning coffees and danishes, watching the crazy girl beat the fire-bagel to death. I’m sure I was the source of much laughter that morning, which is the least I can do for humankind on the first day back from a long Labor Day weekend.
The violence against the bagel was warranted. I can't afford to pay for an office building, and I saw the ruins of it flash before my eyes as I beat it into submission.
That's how my week started. With a fire bagel. Despite the omen, I've settled into country living. I really do love it, even if the next occurrence of the week happened to be the great skunk incident of 2007. This literally left a bad taste in my mouth (and my sinuses and my carpet...). Adjustments aside, I’ve fallen in love with the deafening silence out here in the country, the extreme darkness at night, and the fact that I can now see stars I believe I’ve never seen before in my life. Cities tend to mask them, I've learned. Yesterday, I saw my first RUNNING deer. Two young ones ran across my property at full speed in all their glory. I almost peed myself with glee. Just beautiful.
It’s been 5 days since the great skunk attack, and Tessie still smells a bit funky, even after seven washings with a lethal combination of chemicals. The skunk changed me. I mean, it literally flipped a switch in me. I must preamble this newfound change with the fact that for about a year in my pre-adult phase, I had a bumper sticker on my car that read, “Liberate Laboratory Animals.” And, now I work at a pharmaceutical company. Yeah. There's a trend here...bear with me.
In my past, I've been vehemently opposed to guns. I fear them, so I've historically been anti-gun girl. If I lived in my apartment or in a suburban neighborhood, I would never have one, as you're 350 times more likely to kill someone or be killed, and I don't think I could live with that. Especially if I was dead. I am not one to go out and hunt things for fun, either. I know people who do this, and I'm the first to speak up and tell them that it's about as pointless as watching Nascar or golf, really.
Well, there are critters out here in the country. My perspective has changed just a tad because of my environment. The critters I encounter are not the Snow White-type critters who will come hither and flock to me in a friendly manner when I outstretch my arms. After I spent almost eight hours of one day cleaning my skunked dog, my house, and my person, I realized something profoundly life-altering:
I want to kill some f*cking skunks.
I know, it goes against everything I aspire to be. A calm, together, Buddhist-like being. Free of anger and revengeful feelings and hatred. A centered, wise, and loving capitalist. A smiling beacon of goodness.
I don't intend to apologize for my newfound feelings of skunk hatred. If you have ever had skunk smell on your hands for four days after scrubbing furiously about 25 times a day, you’d understand why.
Deer, I love. Bunnies - they are divine little creatures who are welcome to eat my plants anytime. Gophers and moles and even mice and rats, I’ll deal with. Honestly. I’ll protect them at all costs. And snakes? The fiance caught one today in our window well, in fact, and he so lovingly set it free in the woods. But skunks and raccoons might as well refer to me as Chuck Norris now. They're the gang members of the wilderness. They're the little Al Capones. And, they've screwed with the wrong city-turned-country girl. This bunny has fangs.
Skunks and raccoons add nothing to the ecological hierarchy that some non-spraying, non-stinky creature can’t fulfill. And, when all is said and done, it could’ve really hurt Tess. Or, even more evil, it could've hurt the baby, Zeke. Since the incident, I’ve seen that little skunk walking around on my property at 5 in the afternoon. Skunks are nocturnal, I’ve learned. So, something’s obviously wrong with this one.
I believe the fiancé was slightly floored when I asked if I needed a license to buy a rifle with a scope at Wal-Mart. Me, the girl in her Banana Republic ensemble (they used to have very sporty clothes, mind you) and her heels, touting a rifle and on a one-woman crusade to kick skunk ass.
What would Buddha do? He'd let the skunk live and let live in its natural state, spray my dog a few more times, and he'd love that skunk with open arms. Alrighty then. I can't bring myself to do that. Not this week, anyway.
So, instead of looking to a deity, I'll do what I like to do in a lot of life situations where I'm at a crossroads - morally, spiritually, or whatever. I'll ask myself, "what would Grandma do?"...then, I'll look at the picture on my desk of my paternal Grandma, a vision of elegance and beauty and matching accessories, and I'll ponder for a second, channeling her wisdom.
I know what she'd do. She'd put on her matching gloves, pill box hat, and heels, and she'd go kill that little f*cker with a scope and a silencer, so as not to disturb the sweet little deer.
Wal-Mart, here I come.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Welcome to the country.
I sent this to some of my closest friends about an hour ago, and I figured I'd post it here rather than have to re-tell it. What a day.
I'm sending this to let you know that no matter how crappy you think your day is, at least you didn't have mine. So, thank God, Buddha, Oprah, or whoever for such a wonderful day you're having. :-)
Let me preamble this tiny novella by telling you that I had the worst migraine of my life last night. So, I take both Imitrex AND Ambien to knock my ass out. The work was done. I was out by 9 pm, and I woke up at 5:15 with a slight migraine hangover, let my two gorgeous dogs out, and was so proud when Mr. Zeke pooped and peed like a champion. Tess, on the other hand, goes around the corner of the house where it's dark. I trust her and all, but I just can't see her. She's not one to run off, so I call her, and right as I say her name, I hear a "scuffle." She yelps a little, comes running back to me, and her eyes are all blinky and she's sort of blowing her nose. As she runs inside the back door, I realize that she's been sprayed by a skunk. No lie. If you've never experienced true skunk spray, I cannot even begin to explain it without using a description so vivid, you may actually get sick.
At this point, she is in the brand, spanking-new house. Eau de skunk ass is everywhere. She runs back to the bedroom, I'm starting to freak, my fiance is just waking, and I throw her in the tub without thinking. I'm a city idiot at this point, not realizing that I should've never let her in the house.
Long story short, it's 2:00 pm as I write this. I had to "work at home" today, and I just sat down at my computer about an hour ago. You know what I've been doing? CLEANING. I had to wash Tess about 7 times. No lie. Not with soap, mind you, but with a GALLON of vinegar, a trough of baking soda (family size), four whole bottles of hydrogen peroxide (this is all very lethal if ingested and doesn't do well in eyes), and I had to douche her friggin face. I've never bought douche, just so you know. I was raised to actually use soap and all. So, here I was at my wonderful little local grocery store this morning, hair sticking up, jammie pants on, buying three things of Massengil, a gallon of vinegar, hydrogen peroxide and baking soda. (Hi! I'm the new girl in town!) The dude behind the register looked at me like I had filmed some sort of nasty video last night. I think he even winked.
Welcome to the country.
I'm sending this to let you know that no matter how crappy you think your day is, at least you didn't have mine. So, thank God, Buddha, Oprah, or whoever for such a wonderful day you're having. :-)
Let me preamble this tiny novella by telling you that I had the worst migraine of my life last night. So, I take both Imitrex AND Ambien to knock my ass out. The work was done. I was out by 9 pm, and I woke up at 5:15 with a slight migraine hangover, let my two gorgeous dogs out, and was so proud when Mr. Zeke pooped and peed like a champion. Tess, on the other hand, goes around the corner of the house where it's dark. I trust her and all, but I just can't see her. She's not one to run off, so I call her, and right as I say her name, I hear a "scuffle." She yelps a little, comes running back to me, and her eyes are all blinky and she's sort of blowing her nose. As she runs inside the back door, I realize that she's been sprayed by a skunk. No lie. If you've never experienced true skunk spray, I cannot even begin to explain it without using a description so vivid, you may actually get sick.
At this point, she is in the brand, spanking-new house. Eau de skunk ass is everywhere. She runs back to the bedroom, I'm starting to freak, my fiance is just waking, and I throw her in the tub without thinking. I'm a city idiot at this point, not realizing that I should've never let her in the house.
Long story short, it's 2:00 pm as I write this. I had to "work at home" today, and I just sat down at my computer about an hour ago. You know what I've been doing? CLEANING. I had to wash Tess about 7 times. No lie. Not with soap, mind you, but with a GALLON of vinegar, a trough of baking soda (family size), four whole bottles of hydrogen peroxide (this is all very lethal if ingested and doesn't do well in eyes), and I had to douche her friggin face. I've never bought douche, just so you know. I was raised to actually use soap and all. So, here I was at my wonderful little local grocery store this morning, hair sticking up, jammie pants on, buying three things of Massengil, a gallon of vinegar, hydrogen peroxide and baking soda. (Hi! I'm the new girl in town!) The dude behind the register looked at me like I had filmed some sort of nasty video last night. I think he even winked.
Welcome to the country.
Monday, September 03, 2007
A new, improved, deep breath.
So, here it is. September 2nd. Labor Day weekend has been just that - a weekend of sheer manual labor. The hard work has finally paid off. I felt it a little bit on day two of the moving and unpacking, but as I sit here in my gorgeous office, peering out of my glass double doors at Tess sleeping on her bed and a new pup a few feet away from her, I know that the life I had just a short week ago is now a memory.
We have an all-glass shower, and while you're in there, you can look into the mirror directly across from it that reflects a high window. I looked into it today and noticed the reflection. It was the landscape of a cornfield with a stereotypical Indiana red barn. Not to be dramatic, but it took my breath away. It was then that I realized how much I love it here. And how all of the shit I've been through has led me to this place. I would've appreciated this house, this landscape, and the people that surround me now, even if I hadn't experienced hardship. But I appreciate so much more because I have jumped through some serious hoops of fire along the journey. Life is funny that way.
As if the house wasn't enough, I got a surprise birthday present from the fiance'. A Great Dane pup named Zeke. He'll get his own entry, so stay tuned.
For now, though, I'm exhausted. My muscles ache from moving, the pup kept me up half the night, and I need a pedicure. I have some serious wombat toes. But I just took the first deep breath I've taken in a year, I think. And that, without a doubt, trumps the weariness.
We have an all-glass shower, and while you're in there, you can look into the mirror directly across from it that reflects a high window. I looked into it today and noticed the reflection. It was the landscape of a cornfield with a stereotypical Indiana red barn. Not to be dramatic, but it took my breath away. It was then that I realized how much I love it here. And how all of the shit I've been through has led me to this place. I would've appreciated this house, this landscape, and the people that surround me now, even if I hadn't experienced hardship. But I appreciate so much more because I have jumped through some serious hoops of fire along the journey. Life is funny that way.
As if the house wasn't enough, I got a surprise birthday present from the fiance'. A Great Dane pup named Zeke. He'll get his own entry, so stay tuned.
For now, though, I'm exhausted. My muscles ache from moving, the pup kept me up half the night, and I need a pedicure. I have some serious wombat toes. But I just took the first deep breath I've taken in a year, I think. And that, without a doubt, trumps the weariness.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Mourning Jane
I'm embarrassed to admit this, but Jane magazine died about a month ago. That's right, my favorite "women between 18 and 34" magazine just up and died without my knowledge for an entire month. I should know about this tragic death, as I still glance at mediabistro.com every so often in my build-a-house-get-engaged-and-still-manage-to-have-two-jobs frenzy. However, I missed it completely.
Until today when I stopped by my mailbox on the way to the house site, and lo and behold, there's a little postcard in there from Jane magazine. It says, "Jane will no longer be published. We are sending you editions of Allure magazine in its place until the end of your subscription."
It's as if someone punched me in the stomach, and then offered me a hot dog. My mom once said that hot dogs are really just "lips, tits, and assholes." Allure is like a hot dog. Sure, it's good for a quick fix if you're hungry enough. But it's not like it provides sustaining nutritional value. Allure is no substitute for Jane, people.
You see, Jane was the brain child of Jane Pratt, the ex-editor of Sassy. And while I didn't really read a lot of Sassy as a young lass, I was familiar with it and knew it was different from your run-of-the-mill, "how to lose 10 pounds in 10 days" chick magazine. Don't get me wrong, I like Vogue, but Jane had more edge, and it gave me just a sliver of hope in the form of publishing for this Paris-Lindsay-Britney generation. Instead of a makeover, it presented readers with a monthly makeUNDER every issue. Pamela Anderson had her own column, and it was fabulous. Bimbo meets editor.
There are those that are slinging mud about it. I suppose that's they're business, as they're in the business. I just read the thing, and I'll miss getting it in my mailbox, so screw the naysayers.
Then there's the symbolism of it. The timing is sort of apropos, I guess. I'm turning a year older. I'm no longer in the 18-34 bracket. I was out of it last year, actually, but I guess it's time to move on and start reading Redbook or Oprah.
I think I just vomited in my mouth. Seriously.
Or maybe I'll just start reading more Plath and buy old copies of Sassy on Ebay.
Farewell, Jane. And farewell 18-34. I'll miss ya.
Until today when I stopped by my mailbox on the way to the house site, and lo and behold, there's a little postcard in there from Jane magazine. It says, "Jane will no longer be published. We are sending you editions of Allure magazine in its place until the end of your subscription."
It's as if someone punched me in the stomach, and then offered me a hot dog. My mom once said that hot dogs are really just "lips, tits, and assholes." Allure is like a hot dog. Sure, it's good for a quick fix if you're hungry enough. But it's not like it provides sustaining nutritional value. Allure is no substitute for Jane, people.
You see, Jane was the brain child of Jane Pratt, the ex-editor of Sassy. And while I didn't really read a lot of Sassy as a young lass, I was familiar with it and knew it was different from your run-of-the-mill, "how to lose 10 pounds in 10 days" chick magazine. Don't get me wrong, I like Vogue, but Jane had more edge, and it gave me just a sliver of hope in the form of publishing for this Paris-Lindsay-Britney generation. Instead of a makeover, it presented readers with a monthly makeUNDER every issue. Pamela Anderson had her own column, and it was fabulous. Bimbo meets editor.
There are those that are slinging mud about it. I suppose that's they're business, as they're in the business. I just read the thing, and I'll miss getting it in my mailbox, so screw the naysayers.
Then there's the symbolism of it. The timing is sort of apropos, I guess. I'm turning a year older. I'm no longer in the 18-34 bracket. I was out of it last year, actually, but I guess it's time to move on and start reading Redbook or Oprah.
I think I just vomited in my mouth. Seriously.
Or maybe I'll just start reading more Plath and buy old copies of Sassy on Ebay.
Farewell, Jane. And farewell 18-34. I'll miss ya.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Seeing the finish line...
Craziness. Insanity. Chaos. That’s the best way to describe my life these past few months, especially in the last few weeks. Closing is on the 30th, moving is Labor Day weekend, and the house of my dreams will be mine in less than two short weeks.
Time has flown since we broke ground back in March. Well, sort of. The days fly, but the closing and the reality of it still seems like it’s a million miles away. After working at the house last night, I was driving home thinking about the things that have literally gotten me through this stressful time. And, in my I’m-too-busy-to-write mode, I shall put forth my concise list instead to convey those things that have literally carried me.
So, what’s kept me going until I get into the house of my dreams, get married, and start my new life in my new digs?
- First and foremost, the huge Kohler soaking tub, taunting me every day since framing was completed. It beckons….calls my name like a welcome ghost. I’ve already planned my first lavender bath to be an hour long, involving enough pruniness to make my skin look like an 80-year old woman’s. It’s a symbol of peace, stability, and relaxation. Something I feel I’ve earned in my life, and I can’t wait to grab hold of with both hands.
- Looking in my driver’s side rear-view mirror every evening on the way back to our dinky apartment and seeing Tess’ jowls flapping in the wind as she shoves her head out the window to smell the passing cows. She’s the best damn dog ever. My little shadow. When she closes her eyes and shoves her snout up into the air like she’s in a canine trance, I just smile and remember that I, too, must stop to smell the cow shit once in while.
- My power-bright-red office. I can’t wait to write everything my brain can dump from that fabulous, all-mine office.
- My fiance’s utter exhaustion. I know, it sounds bitchy, but it’s quite the opposite. This man is the antithesis of my ex-husband, who believed that work consisted of playing video games in his underwear as I held down two jobs to pay the mortgage. Fiance’ man is just that: a real man. He’s a Midwestern workhorse; your typical “I worked in the cornfields in high school” kind of guys. He’s never once spoke a negative word about working. The man can fix the electrical system on an F-16 without batting an eye, for chrissake, so his idea of a nice Saturday consists of doing something with his hands, involving way too much sweat equity (I’d rather be organizing an underwear drawer, reading a book on a hammock, or getting a pedicure). So, when he becomes exhausted, you know that real work has been accomplished. He’s been literally working his ass off, and he had a back with a crack to begin with. This alone is an inspiration. I’ve got a good one this time.
- Brussel sprouts. Yes, those little green vegetables. I just have to throw them in as being little inspirations in themselves. My cafeteria at work serves brussel sprouts nearly every day. I’ve always been obsessed with them. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I love everything miniature, and brussel sprouts are really just miniaturized heads of cabbage. Let’s face it; they are a divine creation packed with vitamins and minerals, and they make me smile. It’s always been the little things, you know, and if asked how I’ve managed to work some 15-hour days, I’d have to say that it’s the sprouts, really. My version of Popeye fuel.
- My 3-acre front yard and my 4-acre back yard. Me...a city girl on 7 friggin acres to do with what I please. It just doesn’t get any more glorious than that.
- The thought of driving my new, red Arctic Cat ATV out on the property. Perhaps pulling a teenager or two on an inner tube in the snow. With my stiletto boots on, of course.
- And, lastly, but perhaps most potent - thoughts of my old life in the ‘burbs. I mean, when a substandard vendor does something like, I don’t know, relieves his bowels in my house when there were no toilets (yes, this has happened – don’t get me started), the day can be somewhat disillusioning, to say the least. In fact, some of these guys that call themselves upright humans (as opposed to chimpanzees) are absolute morons. I’ve witnessed Darwin’s theory in action, although I’m amazed some of these guys have managed to stay alive this long to receive a paycheck. Anywho, even with the irritation here and there, and even with the thought that I may never want to do this house-building thing again, I’m truly grateful. I look back at my old life and it pales in comparison to the fresh air and non-claustrophobic digs we’ve created here in the cornfields. It’s breathtaking, and while I’d have to be on some heavy drugs or in a jacket-that-ties-in-the-back to do it again, it’s one of the best accomplishments of my life thus far.
Building a house has been a lot like running a marathon. It starts out fun…at the beginning phase, the thought of it seems so exciting, brimming with hope and expectations of yourself and the journey. You make it through the beginning, smiling and still buzzing from the cheers at the start line. And then you hit mile 18 and want to start stabbing people, including yourself. At mile 24, you’re beyond exhausted, weary, and spent. And, all you can think about is how great it’ll be to finish, how fantastic that cheeseburger is going to taste, and how appealing a big bed full of pillows is going to feel in a mere two miles. My two miles are the equivalent of my two weeks, and I can feel that lavender bath now...
I don’t run marathons anymore. I do halves, but marathons are out of the question with my aging body and my equally wise mind due to life experience. I did it once, so I’ve got nothing to prove. I suppose the same thing goes for this house. I’m hoping it’s the last house I’ll ever build, not only because it’s been a royal pain in the butt, but more so because it truly feels like home. And that’s more rewarding than any finish line I could ever cross.
Time has flown since we broke ground back in March. Well, sort of. The days fly, but the closing and the reality of it still seems like it’s a million miles away. After working at the house last night, I was driving home thinking about the things that have literally gotten me through this stressful time. And, in my I’m-too-busy-to-write mode, I shall put forth my concise list instead to convey those things that have literally carried me.
So, what’s kept me going until I get into the house of my dreams, get married, and start my new life in my new digs?
- First and foremost, the huge Kohler soaking tub, taunting me every day since framing was completed. It beckons….calls my name like a welcome ghost. I’ve already planned my first lavender bath to be an hour long, involving enough pruniness to make my skin look like an 80-year old woman’s. It’s a symbol of peace, stability, and relaxation. Something I feel I’ve earned in my life, and I can’t wait to grab hold of with both hands.
- Looking in my driver’s side rear-view mirror every evening on the way back to our dinky apartment and seeing Tess’ jowls flapping in the wind as she shoves her head out the window to smell the passing cows. She’s the best damn dog ever. My little shadow. When she closes her eyes and shoves her snout up into the air like she’s in a canine trance, I just smile and remember that I, too, must stop to smell the cow shit once in while.
- My power-bright-red office. I can’t wait to write everything my brain can dump from that fabulous, all-mine office.
- My fiance’s utter exhaustion. I know, it sounds bitchy, but it’s quite the opposite. This man is the antithesis of my ex-husband, who believed that work consisted of playing video games in his underwear as I held down two jobs to pay the mortgage. Fiance’ man is just that: a real man. He’s a Midwestern workhorse; your typical “I worked in the cornfields in high school” kind of guys. He’s never once spoke a negative word about working. The man can fix the electrical system on an F-16 without batting an eye, for chrissake, so his idea of a nice Saturday consists of doing something with his hands, involving way too much sweat equity (I’d rather be organizing an underwear drawer, reading a book on a hammock, or getting a pedicure). So, when he becomes exhausted, you know that real work has been accomplished. He’s been literally working his ass off, and he had a back with a crack to begin with. This alone is an inspiration. I’ve got a good one this time.
- Brussel sprouts. Yes, those little green vegetables. I just have to throw them in as being little inspirations in themselves. My cafeteria at work serves brussel sprouts nearly every day. I’ve always been obsessed with them. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I love everything miniature, and brussel sprouts are really just miniaturized heads of cabbage. Let’s face it; they are a divine creation packed with vitamins and minerals, and they make me smile. It’s always been the little things, you know, and if asked how I’ve managed to work some 15-hour days, I’d have to say that it’s the sprouts, really. My version of Popeye fuel.
- My 3-acre front yard and my 4-acre back yard. Me...a city girl on 7 friggin acres to do with what I please. It just doesn’t get any more glorious than that.
- The thought of driving my new, red Arctic Cat ATV out on the property. Perhaps pulling a teenager or two on an inner tube in the snow. With my stiletto boots on, of course.
- And, lastly, but perhaps most potent - thoughts of my old life in the ‘burbs. I mean, when a substandard vendor does something like, I don’t know, relieves his bowels in my house when there were no toilets (yes, this has happened – don’t get me started), the day can be somewhat disillusioning, to say the least. In fact, some of these guys that call themselves upright humans (as opposed to chimpanzees) are absolute morons. I’ve witnessed Darwin’s theory in action, although I’m amazed some of these guys have managed to stay alive this long to receive a paycheck. Anywho, even with the irritation here and there, and even with the thought that I may never want to do this house-building thing again, I’m truly grateful. I look back at my old life and it pales in comparison to the fresh air and non-claustrophobic digs we’ve created here in the cornfields. It’s breathtaking, and while I’d have to be on some heavy drugs or in a jacket-that-ties-in-the-back to do it again, it’s one of the best accomplishments of my life thus far.
Building a house has been a lot like running a marathon. It starts out fun…at the beginning phase, the thought of it seems so exciting, brimming with hope and expectations of yourself and the journey. You make it through the beginning, smiling and still buzzing from the cheers at the start line. And then you hit mile 18 and want to start stabbing people, including yourself. At mile 24, you’re beyond exhausted, weary, and spent. And, all you can think about is how great it’ll be to finish, how fantastic that cheeseburger is going to taste, and how appealing a big bed full of pillows is going to feel in a mere two miles. My two miles are the equivalent of my two weeks, and I can feel that lavender bath now...
I don’t run marathons anymore. I do halves, but marathons are out of the question with my aging body and my equally wise mind due to life experience. I did it once, so I’ve got nothing to prove. I suppose the same thing goes for this house. I’m hoping it’s the last house I’ll ever build, not only because it’s been a royal pain in the butt, but more so because it truly feels like home. And that’s more rewarding than any finish line I could ever cross.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Monday, June 04, 2007
It's June. Batter up.
It’s June. I can’t believe it’s already halfway through 2007. What a whirlwind this year has been so far. Have I accomplished my to-do-in-2007 list yet? Hell no. But I will, or at least make up for some of my procrastination. Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans, after all, but I work well under pressure.
This weekend was packed with activity. For SO’s birthday on Friday night, we caravanned down to Comedy Sportz in Indianapolis. It’s a cool, improvisational comedy place that has “teams” of comedy “athletes” and treats its show as a sporting event. Way fun. I highly recommend it.
Saturday was the long-awaited Gwen Stefani concert. As expected, Gwen was completely flawless and pitch-perfect in every way. My partner in crime, “Leroy”, and I relentlessly scanned the Jumbotron to find a zit on her face. Something to make her less flawless. But we did so in vain, and Gwen remains one of the top five female heroes in my life. A chick from Anaheim, working her butt off first in a ska-reggae-type man’s world, and then using those pipes to get her to mega stardom and fashion icon status. Add the hot husband, Gavin Rossdale, and baby Kingston, and we really love to hate her fabulousness, all while hoping to be half as hella-cool in our daily lives of deadlines, cornfields, and reality.
Opening up for Gwen was Akon, who I believe is marginal at best, and opening up for him was an act called Lady Sovereign. New to me (but around for a while, I’ve learned), Lady Sovereign appears to be about 12 years old, is very British and white, and sings a funky kind of gangsta-type, Eminem-like rap. Something I wouldn’t normally listen to, and while quite surprising to see a teenage-looking girl scream “f*ck you” with two middle fingers up in the air before singing, she kind of grew on me. Even Leroy turned to me at one point and said, “I’m kind of embarrassed to admit this, but I like it.”
Come to find out, she’s a 21-year old woman that looks disturbingly LIKE a 12-year old girl. And, she’s been quoted as being influenced by her mother’s Salt N Pepa albums. This just proves that I’m officially old. She did pay homage to the Sex Pistols when she sang, “Pretty Vacant,” but it was this particular track that I feel compelled to share:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H1sHAX2F4PE.
The F-bomb showed its fabulous head a lot during this song, but we were able to sing along after about 2 stanzas. Not melodically intellectual at all. But riddled with expletives? Yes. Entertaining and catchy? Double yes. She may very well be the new “chav” face of the feminist movement. All I know is that her music is a heck of a lot of fun to dance to, so that’s all I have to say about that.
I’m still building a house, and I’m still looking for that perfect job. The one that will catapult me to communications success and accolades. So far, no match. As with anything else in my life, I’ll keep swinging the proverbial bat until I get a home run. Because that’s what it’s all about, right?
Batter up.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
The Jake Ryan Myth
In one of the opening school scenes of Sixteen Candles, Samantha is completing a sex test. Of course, the word “Confidential” is spelled wrong and I notice this every time I watch it (editorial geek alert). I’ve seen this movie a lot. Too much, I think. It’s one of those movies that I can watch over and over again without getting sick of it. It came out when I was 14, and at 35, I can still recite it verbatim start to finish. In fact, I remain covetous of the outfit Sam has on at the school dance – the pink skirt ensemble that looks as though it’s been torn to shreds. Stereotypically 80s, but I swear to God, I’d wear it to work tomorrow if given an exact replica. Recently, I found myself wondering if I’ve been emotionally screwed up by John Hughes. It was like a mini-epiphany. I mean, I believe Mr. Hughes could be responsible for single-handedly scarring me for life, and although I'm no longer litigious in my old age, I may very well have a class action lawsuit to pin on his ass. Seriously. Hear me out.
I can name at least three other women I know – just off the top of my head – that have had a vision in their mind of the perfect man. And, if any other women read this blog entry, they too will agree that John Hughes is an evil man for giving us that said perfect man.
He gave us Jake Ryan.
Jake Ryan (I'm smiling, too, ladies) is the perfect guy, and as a woman in my 30s, he was introduced to me right before I started dating, so I’ve technically been searching for him unconsciously my whole life. I think I suffered more than most, as 14 is a crucial formative and emotionally developmental period in a girl’s life. John Hughes took my childhood innocence and ripped it to shreds with the likes of Jake Ryan. That dark-haired, blue-eyed, ridiculously polite, painfully gorgeous guy who had his own Porsche in high school, yet drips with modesty over his lot in life. For starters, he's gorgeous. And then, add to that the fact that he's the coolest guy in the school, in town, and quite possibly, on the planet. He’s calm and secure and emotionally stable. He can dress himself. He can mingle with the cool people and in the same night, enable a geek. He’s that guy that, when faced with your grandparents answering the phone, asks to “converse with you briefly” and is secure enough with his manhood at age 17 to tell his jock friends that he’s “interested in more than a party” when it comes to relationships. And, most importantly, he’s going out with the blonde senior with the great rack, but he REALLY wants to hang out with you, because you’re the cute, witty, smart one, and let’s face it...the REAL catch that’s just never been snapped up. Jake Ryan is the only boy wise enough to see how incredible you really are. Like I said, the perfect guy.
And Mr. Hughes fed this bullshit to us.
Twenty years after being introduced to Jake Ryan, I’ve been through several boys, five real relationships (well, at least I consider the majority of them somewhat real), one marriage thrown in the mix, and the enlightenting, educational, and entertaining various dates scattered here and there that are not really worth mentioning. In fact, my sister and I went to have wings and beer a few weeks ago, and I remembered I went on a date to that particular restaurant once a few years back. But, neither one of us could remember his name to save our lives. Case in point: this guy was clearly NOT Jake Ryan.
I think, in some strange underlying way, I’ve had my expectations unmet on several occasions due only to the pedestal erected solely by John Hughes. A ridiculously exaggerated pedestal. Jake Ryan was, and still remains, the holy grail of men. If a 30-something woman says otherwise, she's a lying sack of dog crap. Young, impressionable pubescent girls, now wandering through the relationship jungle in their 30s, believed that this man truly existed somewhere in the world. Little did we know that he would end up an urban legend. He just doesn’t exist, but we went (and some of us still go) through years of thinking he does, only to learn in the last year of our starter marriage that Jake Ryan is as real as Freddie Kruger. This pivotal moment usually comes when the cobwebs in our eyes clear and we see – I mean, REALLY see for the first time - that spouse lying on the couch in his boxers, scratching his butt, unemployed and dipping daily into his quickly draining trust fund, playing Nintendo, fresh with Cheetos residue on his white, pit-stained t-shirt. The a-ha moment, if you will. Jake was a figment of our romantic, idealistic imagination. And, Mr. Hughes is a dirty, rotten jerk for giving us this relationship version of Santa Claus.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m not upset that men aren’t perfect. I actually love that they aren’t. I have never stopped loving the species, even though I've been through some of the worst of the worst. Most of them before S.O. have betrayed me, lied to me, and or mistreated me in some way, yet I find men endearing in many more ways than I lead on. I’ve always looked for the best in them, which was part of my problem, actually. I know now that love is what you make it. Relationships take work. I've learned that if they come so without any effort whatsoever - complete with roses and sunshine up your butt, then you’re probably in a one-sided relationship. Or you may be a stalker and just haven’t been served restraining papers yet.
As an older and more experienced woman, I love the honesty that I see in the man I love. It’s this realness that shows me glimpses of what Jake would be had he not been so damn two-dimensional. The little nuances like leaving little whiskers in the sink, or nodding his head while you chatter on about the day, using that "I'm interested, hon" look, all the while knowing that he tuned you out after 45 seconds. You learn to appreciate the head nodding, really - it's like a sweet gesture in the grand scheme of things. It’s the little things, like when he kisses the dog on the head when he doesn’t think you’re looking. Or when he makes you dinner after a long, crappy day - without prompting. I try to recognize and love the everyday crap, the snoring, the occasional fashion faux pas, and the fact that he doesn’t drive a Porsche. These are all reminders that he’s real...reminders that he’s NOT Jake Ryan. And after what I've seen, this is a good thing. It’s the end to a figment of my imagination. Just as believing in Santa Claus is a little creepy at age 35, Jake Ryan is something I should’ve stopped believing in at least at age 18. If only my sister would’ve told me the truth at a young age like she told me about the nonexistence of Santa. I can't even think about the money that could've been saved on divorce lawyers.
I still believe I could have a class action suit against Mr. Hughes. It may be worth seeking, too, because I’ve spent a ton on therapy and could use that money back for some killer Christian Louboutin python stilettos. Or better yet, that shredded pink outfit Samantha wore to the dance that’s probably on Ebay right this second...
Friday, May 18, 2007
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Ode to Vonnegut.
Joe, a young man from Pittsburgh, came up to me with one request: "Please tell me it will be okay."
"Welcome to Earth, young man," I said. "It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, Joe, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of: Goddamn it, Joe, you've got to be kind!"
I woke up early this morning with a touch of a migraine, getting up around 5’ish to take my Imitrex and fall back into bed. It must've been an omen or some sort of sympathy pain, because I awoke an hour or so later to S.O. touching my arm softly and saying, “Hey babe, Vonnegut died last night.” At least S.O. was the one to tell me gently, and I preferred that much more than being told by Matt Lauer or something. I’m just not a Matt Lauer kind of girl...
I know I never met the man, but just like countless other of his fans, I felt like I knew him enough to know that I liked him. That’s the mark of a gifted artist – to make you feel as if you can identify with him in some way. And, I did. Just as Marvin Hamlisch and "The Entertainer" made me want to play the piano at age five, Kurt Vonnegut made me want to be a better writer. He made me more honest and unapologetic.
With his passing, it was as if I lost my favorite great uncle today. He was 84, so he lived a great and very meaningful life, but it still sucked to see him go - for all the selfish reasons we have when someone dies. He was supposed to be here in Indianapolis, speaking at Butler University, on April 27th. In fact, they’ve made 2007 here in his home city “the year of Vonnegut,” which is pretty apropos. I will never do his work justice in a blog, but I can at least pay homage the best way I know how and tip my proverbial hat. He was a visionary, and he will always be in my “top five writers of all time” list.
...what made being alive almost worthwhile for me, besides music, was all the saints I met, who could be anywhere. By saints, I meant people who behaved decently in a strikingly indecent society.
Perhaps my favorite thing about his writing style – and the way I presumed he lived his life – was his raw honesty of how he viewed the world and who he was. No bullshit, no pretense, and no apologies. A writing style that I could only hope to emulate. A way of living I hope to emulate, really.
So, I’m wearing my “READ VONNEGUT” shirt today. And, if I had a beer in my hand right now, I’d hold it up for a toast and say,
"No matter how bad things get, the music will still be wonderful."
Amen, Mr. Vonnegut.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Spirit Guides, Jobsites, and Basements, Oh My!
Today (or yesterday, I think) was Easter. It was a very calm day, full of errands and day-to-day stuff. Life stuff. The stuff that happens when you're busy making other plans. Today, I was planning and just getting by, really. Allowing life to go by. Tonight, it's time to catch up and unload a bit so I can actually sleep. It's past midnight, and I'm still up. Partly because I'm a chronic insomniac, but also because I have a lot going on and the old noggin' needs clearing. And my poor blog has been like a neglected child - I'm trying to feed it to ease my own mind and to avoid the mental equivalent of Child and Family Services.
This weekend, I met my hippie-chick friend "T" on the other side of town for some tea and conversation in her favorite New Age store. When I arrived, she informed me that she'd signed me up to do a "reading" with her favorite psychic, Dave. Dave is an Indian man who channels your so-called spirit guides and tells you what they're saying to him. It's interesting. He asked me my name, my date of birth, then he closed his eyes and spewed for exactly 15 minutes (he had a timer to make sure we didn't go over). I wasn't expecting much - I try not to when in those situations, as I know most of them are clearly full of shit. I look at those experiences as entertainment. And, I try to think things in my mind to see if they can read it. It's a fun game. Things like, "Damn, I'm hungry" and "Did I remember to mail that bill?" and "God, my ass itches right now...I need to scratch it"...just wondering if they'll pick up on it. So far, no psychic has ever said, "Just scratch your ass already, OK?"
Dave told me that my primary spirit guide was an older woman - more than likely a grandmother that had passed. She'd be in her 90s if alive today. She's spunky and strong-willed...very liberal in her thinking. A somewhat mythological - yet very real - figure in my head. This could only be one person, and I wasn't shocked to know it was her if I indeed have a spirit guide. My paternal grandmother, of course. He brought up the regular things like job changes and marriage(s) and potential offspring. He talked about how my aura is overtly passionate and fiery. "Glowing and almost overpowering when (I) walked in the room," he said. I thought that was cool - to have an obnoxiously vibrant aura. But, above the predictions for me "having many, many more changes over the next six months and I'll be happy no matter what path I choose in life" I thought it was ultra-cool that he said my Dad's mom was my main spirit guide. I mean, some people pray to God. Well, I talk to my Grandma a lot, truth be told, so maybe I'm not so crazy after all. At least Dave gave me hope that I'm not...worth the 10 bucks, for sure.
I suppose it was sort of apropos for me to see a psychic dude this weekend. After all, so many changes have been occuring in my life, and it's exciting as hell. I'll start with the job front. I'm looking again...jobsites never left my side, to be honest, as the nomadic part of me never will. I've accepted this wholeheartedly, and I am proud of the fact that I'm adaptable on most days. I work in a volatile small business. Totally up my alley and a great match for my need for excitement on a regular basis. But with the everyday "rush" comes a lack of security. I love the people I work with. And, I'm part of what's considered "senior staff"....this doesn't really make me important or able to sling around some big title. I could care less about that. Rather, it makes me just that more accountable and part of both the big picture and the details. I'm in the trenches - helping to build a business. I'm also a vague figurehead. It's challenging, and I like that. But, like a lot of other small companies, it's a simultaneous crap shoot. The proverbial ship looks like it may sink, so the rats are starting to scatter. And, I know I must develop a Plan B as a result. I'm used to doing this. Hell, I'm the chick who delights in that delicious ambiguity. No big deal, but yet another change on the horizon (I'm sure) nonetheless...another reason for that chronic (yet sometimes welcome) insomnia.
Our home is on its way. It's as if a year and a half of "maybes" have come to fruition. Excavation has been completed, and we now have a big hole that will be our basement in the near future. The basement is pretty big. S.O. and I walked around in it the other day, and you could even hear an echo. It's the foundation of something new. It felt good.
In dream interpretation, basements symbolize the past. Past loves, past lives, the need to sort things out before starting anew. I've had a lot of opportunities to do just this. Several things I will replay in my head as long as I'm breathing, I believe. "Why did I do it that way?" What could I have done differently to avoid that situation? Did I really want to avoid that situation? Why did I allow that person to treat me like that? Why in the hell couldn't I see the truth - the forest through the trees - earlier? Why in the hell did I actually think that outfit looked cool?" Those types of things. What's left lurking in my subconscious? A lot, just like everyone else. But this time...this particular week...it's just different. It's as if the house - that basement - is dirt in my hand. A tangible foundation that I can finally see, smell, and touch. It's not just in my mind. It's my reality.
In so many words, Dave said that my Grandma was telling me to "just live, honey...live and don't worry so much about past mistakes or future ones. Just live."
To some, it's a hole in the ground. To me, it's yet another fresh start to do it right. To live as rich as the soil I hold in my hand.
This weekend, I met my hippie-chick friend "T" on the other side of town for some tea and conversation in her favorite New Age store. When I arrived, she informed me that she'd signed me up to do a "reading" with her favorite psychic, Dave. Dave is an Indian man who channels your so-called spirit guides and tells you what they're saying to him. It's interesting. He asked me my name, my date of birth, then he closed his eyes and spewed for exactly 15 minutes (he had a timer to make sure we didn't go over). I wasn't expecting much - I try not to when in those situations, as I know most of them are clearly full of shit. I look at those experiences as entertainment. And, I try to think things in my mind to see if they can read it. It's a fun game. Things like, "Damn, I'm hungry" and "Did I remember to mail that bill?" and "God, my ass itches right now...I need to scratch it"...just wondering if they'll pick up on it. So far, no psychic has ever said, "Just scratch your ass already, OK?"
Dave told me that my primary spirit guide was an older woman - more than likely a grandmother that had passed. She'd be in her 90s if alive today. She's spunky and strong-willed...very liberal in her thinking. A somewhat mythological - yet very real - figure in my head. This could only be one person, and I wasn't shocked to know it was her if I indeed have a spirit guide. My paternal grandmother, of course. He brought up the regular things like job changes and marriage(s) and potential offspring. He talked about how my aura is overtly passionate and fiery. "Glowing and almost overpowering when (I) walked in the room," he said. I thought that was cool - to have an obnoxiously vibrant aura. But, above the predictions for me "having many, many more changes over the next six months and I'll be happy no matter what path I choose in life" I thought it was ultra-cool that he said my Dad's mom was my main spirit guide. I mean, some people pray to God. Well, I talk to my Grandma a lot, truth be told, so maybe I'm not so crazy after all. At least Dave gave me hope that I'm not...worth the 10 bucks, for sure.
I suppose it was sort of apropos for me to see a psychic dude this weekend. After all, so many changes have been occuring in my life, and it's exciting as hell. I'll start with the job front. I'm looking again...jobsites never left my side, to be honest, as the nomadic part of me never will. I've accepted this wholeheartedly, and I am proud of the fact that I'm adaptable on most days. I work in a volatile small business. Totally up my alley and a great match for my need for excitement on a regular basis. But with the everyday "rush" comes a lack of security. I love the people I work with. And, I'm part of what's considered "senior staff"....this doesn't really make me important or able to sling around some big title. I could care less about that. Rather, it makes me just that more accountable and part of both the big picture and the details. I'm in the trenches - helping to build a business. I'm also a vague figurehead. It's challenging, and I like that. But, like a lot of other small companies, it's a simultaneous crap shoot. The proverbial ship looks like it may sink, so the rats are starting to scatter. And, I know I must develop a Plan B as a result. I'm used to doing this. Hell, I'm the chick who delights in that delicious ambiguity. No big deal, but yet another change on the horizon (I'm sure) nonetheless...another reason for that chronic (yet sometimes welcome) insomnia.
Our home is on its way. It's as if a year and a half of "maybes" have come to fruition. Excavation has been completed, and we now have a big hole that will be our basement in the near future. The basement is pretty big. S.O. and I walked around in it the other day, and you could even hear an echo. It's the foundation of something new. It felt good.
In dream interpretation, basements symbolize the past. Past loves, past lives, the need to sort things out before starting anew. I've had a lot of opportunities to do just this. Several things I will replay in my head as long as I'm breathing, I believe. "Why did I do it that way?" What could I have done differently to avoid that situation? Did I really want to avoid that situation? Why did I allow that person to treat me like that? Why in the hell couldn't I see the truth - the forest through the trees - earlier? Why in the hell did I actually think that outfit looked cool?" Those types of things. What's left lurking in my subconscious? A lot, just like everyone else. But this time...this particular week...it's just different. It's as if the house - that basement - is dirt in my hand. A tangible foundation that I can finally see, smell, and touch. It's not just in my mind. It's my reality.
In so many words, Dave said that my Grandma was telling me to "just live, honey...live and don't worry so much about past mistakes or future ones. Just live."
To some, it's a hole in the ground. To me, it's yet another fresh start to do it right. To live as rich as the soil I hold in my hand.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Age and the Manah Manah Song
I'm sore today. I mean, REALLY sore. My back hurts like a mofo, and my right arm and shoulder are throbbing. I realized this morning that while I can run a half marathon without any huge problems, I can't spend an hour at a driving range without showing my age.
Yesterday, I took the 13-year old to the driving range, attempting to do some sort of maternal'esque duty while S.O. was buying a new car for his teenage daughter. I think maternal'esque may be even too kind, really, as I allowed him to have a venti Starbucks frappe as a pre-dinner snack. As he filled up on it, I realized that this is probably why I have not yet given birth and mothered any children of my own. I'd more than likely feed them ice cream for dinner. I fully admit this.
We ventured to the golf club, and I held my own. I even managed to smack-talk back when smack-talked to. I mean, I don't think he was expecting me to be able to whack it 200 yards, but I still can, despite my own reservations. It's been a while, but I proved to myself that I still got it. It just hurts a hell of a lot more the next day.
I woke up this morning in excruciating pain and soreness, which reminded me that I am indeed getting up there in age whether I like it or not. Additionally, I had to work. And, even on top of that, it was 80 degrees here in the cornfield today. The first 80-degree day in God knows how long. I can't even remember. Needless to say, I was a little bummed that I couldn't enjoy it fully. So, I tried to be positive and remember what made me laugh as a kid. I laughed a lot as a kid. Mainly because I was really a goofy-ass kid.
While perusing You Tube for old Muppet Show bits and 70's and 80's sitcom theme songs, I came across this fabulous clip from Sesame Street. It's the "Manah Manah" song - perhaps the best Sesame Street skit of all time. It made me laugh then, and it almost made me pee my pants today (no, I'm not old enough to even think about being incontinent yet, so shut it):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7wMHcpMmV9g
Watch it all the way through without cracking some semblance of a smile. I dare you. If you can, then I don't even want to know you. Seriously...you need help.
Pass the Ben-Gay.
Yesterday, I took the 13-year old to the driving range, attempting to do some sort of maternal'esque duty while S.O. was buying a new car for his teenage daughter. I think maternal'esque may be even too kind, really, as I allowed him to have a venti Starbucks frappe as a pre-dinner snack. As he filled up on it, I realized that this is probably why I have not yet given birth and mothered any children of my own. I'd more than likely feed them ice cream for dinner. I fully admit this.
We ventured to the golf club, and I held my own. I even managed to smack-talk back when smack-talked to. I mean, I don't think he was expecting me to be able to whack it 200 yards, but I still can, despite my own reservations. It's been a while, but I proved to myself that I still got it. It just hurts a hell of a lot more the next day.
I woke up this morning in excruciating pain and soreness, which reminded me that I am indeed getting up there in age whether I like it or not. Additionally, I had to work. And, even on top of that, it was 80 degrees here in the cornfield today. The first 80-degree day in God knows how long. I can't even remember. Needless to say, I was a little bummed that I couldn't enjoy it fully. So, I tried to be positive and remember what made me laugh as a kid. I laughed a lot as a kid. Mainly because I was really a goofy-ass kid.
While perusing You Tube for old Muppet Show bits and 70's and 80's sitcom theme songs, I came across this fabulous clip from Sesame Street. It's the "Manah Manah" song - perhaps the best Sesame Street skit of all time. It made me laugh then, and it almost made me pee my pants today (no, I'm not old enough to even think about being incontinent yet, so shut it):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7wMHcpMmV9g
Watch it all the way through without cracking some semblance of a smile. I dare you. If you can, then I don't even want to know you. Seriously...you need help.
Pass the Ben-Gay.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Getting in touch with my inner Gwen.
I was watching one of those cheesy entertainment shows the other night and avoided changing it mainly because Gwen Stefani was on. If I could be anyone in the entertainment business for the day, it would be her. When asked about a reunion with No Doubt, she said that they were probably going to get back together after her current tour. I'll be first in line for tickets.
For all the die-hard No Doubt fans, this is a pretty cool "evolution" video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-XaBRl4XdOc&mode=related&search=
And of course, one of my many recent life mantra songs:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zEAzxDMYrWU
It's Thursday. Let's all get in touch with our inner Gwen...
Friday, March 16, 2007
Happy Green Beer Day.
It's St. Patty's Day here in Indy. Well, it's actually tomorrow, but today is the big parade here in town. The bagpipes are warming up, and the loudspeakers are already going. My office is in the center of downtown, on the eighth floor of an old building on a very pivotal street for the annual St. Patty's Day parade. The green and white beer tent is right outside my window, and I'm sure my coworkers and I will walk downstairs and partake a bit at lunch. It's one of the perks of working downtown. History and festive events galore. It's cold and windy out there, but that won't keep us from watching and enjoying it from our view from the top.
I was once married to an Irish dude, and one of the fond memories I have of the institution was the great shepherd's pie he made. I also gained a true love for Guinness during those years. Partly to drown him out, but also because I just like the stuff. It's good for you, you know. I suppose a lot of that could be because of the fact that I, myself, am a quarter Irish, so I have a penchant for good beer running through my veins. I'm a strawberry blonde, green-eyed chick with pretty pale skin. Let's just say I'd fit in at a bar in Dublin if I kept my mouth shut. My Dad's side of the family was raised across the street from the almighty Notre Dame, so that was crammed down my throat a lot as a kid. And, even though I'll root for Tennessee every time they play the Irish, I'll always have a soft spot for the tailgates in South Bend. It's a family thing, after all.
In the spirit of the fact that it's both Friday and the day before St. Patty's Day, I'll have my obligatory green beer and try to keep it light today. No major things to spew. No worries. Nothing but cheer and some Cranberries lyrics to top off my entry. Here's one of my favorite songs from Ms. Dolores O'Riordan and the Cranberries.
Top of the afternoon to ya.
DREAMS
oh my life is changing everyday
In every possible way
And oh my dreams
It's never quite as it seems
Never quite as it seems
I know i felt like this before
But now i'm feeling it even more
Because it came from you
Then i open up and see
The person falling here is me
A different way to be
I want more,
impossible to ignore
Impossible to ignore
And they'll come true
Impossible not to do
Impossible not to do
And now i tell you openly
You have my heart so don't hurt me
You're what i couldn't find
A totally amazing mind
So understanding and so kind
You're everything to me
Oh my life is changing everyday
In every possible way
And oh my dreams
It's never quite as it seems
'cause you're a dream to me
Dream to me
I was once married to an Irish dude, and one of the fond memories I have of the institution was the great shepherd's pie he made. I also gained a true love for Guinness during those years. Partly to drown him out, but also because I just like the stuff. It's good for you, you know. I suppose a lot of that could be because of the fact that I, myself, am a quarter Irish, so I have a penchant for good beer running through my veins. I'm a strawberry blonde, green-eyed chick with pretty pale skin. Let's just say I'd fit in at a bar in Dublin if I kept my mouth shut. My Dad's side of the family was raised across the street from the almighty Notre Dame, so that was crammed down my throat a lot as a kid. And, even though I'll root for Tennessee every time they play the Irish, I'll always have a soft spot for the tailgates in South Bend. It's a family thing, after all.
In the spirit of the fact that it's both Friday and the day before St. Patty's Day, I'll have my obligatory green beer and try to keep it light today. No major things to spew. No worries. Nothing but cheer and some Cranberries lyrics to top off my entry. Here's one of my favorite songs from Ms. Dolores O'Riordan and the Cranberries.
Top of the afternoon to ya.
DREAMS
oh my life is changing everyday
In every possible way
And oh my dreams
It's never quite as it seems
Never quite as it seems
I know i felt like this before
But now i'm feeling it even more
Because it came from you
Then i open up and see
The person falling here is me
A different way to be
I want more,
impossible to ignore
Impossible to ignore
And they'll come true
Impossible not to do
Impossible not to do
And now i tell you openly
You have my heart so don't hurt me
You're what i couldn't find
A totally amazing mind
So understanding and so kind
You're everything to me
Oh my life is changing everyday
In every possible way
And oh my dreams
It's never quite as it seems
'cause you're a dream to me
Dream to me
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
From Chivalry to Jong-il to Generation Me...
It’s been a while since I’ve written. Same excuses, different day. In fact, I have another deadline today. And, I’m working on getting permits for my new home. In light of these facts, my time crunch, but my yearning to spew the many things floating around in my head, I shall do this blog in another list format. Life is about learning, after all, and I’ve learned a lot in the past few weeks. What have I learned? Well, here’s my list:
Chivalry is not quite dead yet.
I learned this when I had a meeting with a man, about 60’ish, who my company was wooing for a position in New Orleans to assist in rebuilding the city with the Corps of Engineers. He was your typical, old-school, flat-top sporting man's man. Complete with Marlboro-stained teeth and vocal chords to go with the flat top. I resisted my urge to complain about the temperature in my cushy little office; after all, this guy probably crawled inside a dead cow once or twice to stay warm while in the fields of 'Nam. He had a handshake that only a Marine should have. Our meeting included him, myself, and two of my male coworkers. I was the first to greet him. And, when I entered the room, he stood up at attention, shook my hand, called me ma’am (keep in mind that I’m about half his age – O.K., almost), and then showed me singlehandedly that chivalry isn’t dead. He waited. The man would not sit until I was seated. Totally old school. I have to admit…I loved it. In fact, I'm contemplating going on a one-woman campaign to bring that shit back. S.O.’s 13-year old son has started to occasionally open a door for me here and there, so maybe there’s hope yet…one male at a time.
The Amish aren’t taxed.
Maybe my head has been in a hole. I don’t know. But, I just learned that the Amish don’t pay ANY taxes. Maybe sales tax - that hasn't been confirmed yet - but I'm still irritated. This came up in a conversation at work yesterday where one of my coworkers was comparing them to a non-profit organization. Here’s my take on that. April 15th is approaching, I’m taking it up the proverbial ass again in many respects, I’ve never gotten a break on taxes, I work my tush off, and I don’t think they should be exempt just because they have different religious beliefs than I do. No one should be exempt from taxes in this country. OK, maybe just the Native Americans, but that’s it. Amish kids go to public schools until the 8th grade, they shop in our stores, and I’ve even seen them using cell phones. Nice scam, people. Now how can I get in on this action? I refuse to wear the bonnet, but if it keeps me from getting screwed every April 15th, I need to know how I can get a slice of that homemade-from-scratch-but-not-from-electricity pie.
If you’re a skanky ex-stripper that sleeps around shamelessly, peddles diet drugs, and then perishes due to your reckless lifestyle, you are worthy of Presidential funeral coverage.
Welcome to America. Someone pinch me, because I’m in slight disbelief. I know Anna Nicole has passed away and we should have respect for the dead, but come on. Honestly. I can't stop shaking my head.
"Generation ME."
I read this article the other day about how kids nowadays are complete narcissists. The current generation of teens and 20-somethings are called “Generation Me”. I’ve seen it first hand, actually. Now, I know teenagers are by nature somewhat self-centered, but the article’s argument was that this generation is the worst ever. They have been told that they are “special and can have anything” from birth. And this has proven both dangerous and unhealthy. Now we have a bunch of spoiled brats walking around expecting life to hand them everything on a platter encased in bling. It’s an epidemic. It’s nauseating. It makes me either want to not have a kid at all or it presents a true challenge to me to make any kid I ever do have more sensitive to others. I've actually heard a kid say, "If you can't buy nice things for your kids, then you shouldn't have them." Another head-shaker. Our media doesn’t help, either. The other day, I overheard S.O.’s 13-year old watching a show on MTV called My Super Sweet 16. These girls are getting Range Rovers for their birthdays, acting like they’re celebrities. It wasn’t a joke. This is the new generation. Mark my words - basements all over the country are going to be filled with disgruntled “Generation Me” kids in the next 5-10 years because the real world - with its credit card bills (you mean I have to PAY for the stuff I charge?) and that dirty word "work" was just too much to bear. All those child psychologists who invented “you are special no matter what” and “time out” should be shot. Bring back spankings and the fear of your parent's smackdown if you don't shut up and behave, I say. It worked for my generation. Thanks, Mom and Dad.
Kim Jong-il. Satan’s new bitch.
This dude scares me. I’ll admit it. Not his stature or his little smirk I want to smack off his nasty little beady-eyed face. But the evil that sums up who he is. The dude is evil personified, and I suppose it’s scary for anyone that has half a heart to see this guy in action. I watched a documentary on the National Geographic channel about North Korea a week ago, and cameras showed just a portion of what goes on over there. A very passive and secluded country, Jong-il keeps what he does there under wraps. People there are prisoners, plain and simple. Half are starving, most never receive medical care, and none will ever know what freedom is as the country stands right now. It’s a place of brainwashing and concentration camps. The only religion – the only faith these people have – is the religion that is Kim Jong-il. I just can’t believe this crap still occurs in the year 2007. We've been overly concerned about the Middle East, but we really need to pay a bit more attention to this freak. I’ve been saying that for a while now, but that documentary solidified it for me. He’s Hitler all over again – but worse.
Size 00.
I was on BananaRepublic.com the other day, perusing the new spring and summer fashions, and lo and behold, there’s a new friggin’ size. As if being a size 0 just wasn’t thin enough, there is now a DOUBLE size zero. A 00. Yep. Something more for all those wannabe anorexics to aspire to. How many celery sticks do I have to forfeit now to get into a size 00? I really WANT to look like a heroin addicted 9-year old boy. Pleease? Wow. Pass the size 4 skirt and the pudding, please. Real boys like curves, ladies...
Chivalry is not quite dead yet.
I learned this when I had a meeting with a man, about 60’ish, who my company was wooing for a position in New Orleans to assist in rebuilding the city with the Corps of Engineers. He was your typical, old-school, flat-top sporting man's man. Complete with Marlboro-stained teeth and vocal chords to go with the flat top. I resisted my urge to complain about the temperature in my cushy little office; after all, this guy probably crawled inside a dead cow once or twice to stay warm while in the fields of 'Nam. He had a handshake that only a Marine should have. Our meeting included him, myself, and two of my male coworkers. I was the first to greet him. And, when I entered the room, he stood up at attention, shook my hand, called me ma’am (keep in mind that I’m about half his age – O.K., almost), and then showed me singlehandedly that chivalry isn’t dead. He waited. The man would not sit until I was seated. Totally old school. I have to admit…I loved it. In fact, I'm contemplating going on a one-woman campaign to bring that shit back. S.O.’s 13-year old son has started to occasionally open a door for me here and there, so maybe there’s hope yet…one male at a time.
The Amish aren’t taxed.
Maybe my head has been in a hole. I don’t know. But, I just learned that the Amish don’t pay ANY taxes. Maybe sales tax - that hasn't been confirmed yet - but I'm still irritated. This came up in a conversation at work yesterday where one of my coworkers was comparing them to a non-profit organization. Here’s my take on that. April 15th is approaching, I’m taking it up the proverbial ass again in many respects, I’ve never gotten a break on taxes, I work my tush off, and I don’t think they should be exempt just because they have different religious beliefs than I do. No one should be exempt from taxes in this country. OK, maybe just the Native Americans, but that’s it. Amish kids go to public schools until the 8th grade, they shop in our stores, and I’ve even seen them using cell phones. Nice scam, people. Now how can I get in on this action? I refuse to wear the bonnet, but if it keeps me from getting screwed every April 15th, I need to know how I can get a slice of that homemade-from-scratch-but-not-from-electricity pie.
If you’re a skanky ex-stripper that sleeps around shamelessly, peddles diet drugs, and then perishes due to your reckless lifestyle, you are worthy of Presidential funeral coverage.
Welcome to America. Someone pinch me, because I’m in slight disbelief. I know Anna Nicole has passed away and we should have respect for the dead, but come on. Honestly. I can't stop shaking my head.
"Generation ME."
I read this article the other day about how kids nowadays are complete narcissists. The current generation of teens and 20-somethings are called “Generation Me”. I’ve seen it first hand, actually. Now, I know teenagers are by nature somewhat self-centered, but the article’s argument was that this generation is the worst ever. They have been told that they are “special and can have anything” from birth. And this has proven both dangerous and unhealthy. Now we have a bunch of spoiled brats walking around expecting life to hand them everything on a platter encased in bling. It’s an epidemic. It’s nauseating. It makes me either want to not have a kid at all or it presents a true challenge to me to make any kid I ever do have more sensitive to others. I've actually heard a kid say, "If you can't buy nice things for your kids, then you shouldn't have them." Another head-shaker. Our media doesn’t help, either. The other day, I overheard S.O.’s 13-year old watching a show on MTV called My Super Sweet 16. These girls are getting Range Rovers for their birthdays, acting like they’re celebrities. It wasn’t a joke. This is the new generation. Mark my words - basements all over the country are going to be filled with disgruntled “Generation Me” kids in the next 5-10 years because the real world - with its credit card bills (you mean I have to PAY for the stuff I charge?) and that dirty word "work" was just too much to bear. All those child psychologists who invented “you are special no matter what” and “time out” should be shot. Bring back spankings and the fear of your parent's smackdown if you don't shut up and behave, I say. It worked for my generation. Thanks, Mom and Dad.
Kim Jong-il. Satan’s new bitch.
This dude scares me. I’ll admit it. Not his stature or his little smirk I want to smack off his nasty little beady-eyed face. But the evil that sums up who he is. The dude is evil personified, and I suppose it’s scary for anyone that has half a heart to see this guy in action. I watched a documentary on the National Geographic channel about North Korea a week ago, and cameras showed just a portion of what goes on over there. A very passive and secluded country, Jong-il keeps what he does there under wraps. People there are prisoners, plain and simple. Half are starving, most never receive medical care, and none will ever know what freedom is as the country stands right now. It’s a place of brainwashing and concentration camps. The only religion – the only faith these people have – is the religion that is Kim Jong-il. I just can’t believe this crap still occurs in the year 2007. We've been overly concerned about the Middle East, but we really need to pay a bit more attention to this freak. I’ve been saying that for a while now, but that documentary solidified it for me. He’s Hitler all over again – but worse.
Size 00.
I was on BananaRepublic.com the other day, perusing the new spring and summer fashions, and lo and behold, there’s a new friggin’ size. As if being a size 0 just wasn’t thin enough, there is now a DOUBLE size zero. A 00. Yep. Something more for all those wannabe anorexics to aspire to. How many celery sticks do I have to forfeit now to get into a size 00? I really WANT to look like a heroin addicted 9-year old boy. Pleease? Wow. Pass the size 4 skirt and the pudding, please. Real boys like curves, ladies...
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Running Mix
It's Thursday. And, I count it as the end of the week, even though it isn't. Tomorrow will be a coaster. The past few hours have been the first time I've really breathed non-panic stricken air for four days. A $17 million proposal does that to me. But it was finally Fedexed and out the door at 3 pm, my wrap-up meeting was at 4, and I was home by 5:30. Ready to run.
When I'm stressed, I need to walk, run, or lift really heavy weights. It's just as good as meditation (although I'm working on learning how to sit for five whole minutes and do that, too). And, when I got on the treadmill tonight to finally expel some energy, I listened to my newest Running Mix on my IPod. You know, those songs that really get you going, and in my case, sometimes take me across finish lines. Case in point: Unchained (Van Halen) took me across the Disney Half Marathon finish line. The Foo Fighters got me across the Country Music Half Marathon finish, and I honestly can't remember what got me across the Chicago (whole) Marathon finish line. I think I was half looped and begging someone to kill me with a blunt stick.
I haven't made a list for a while, so I'm sharing my all-time favorite kick ass running mix songs. Many come and go, but these have always made the rotation in some way or another.
Top 20 Kick Ass Running Mix Songs, in no particular order:
When I'm stressed, I need to walk, run, or lift really heavy weights. It's just as good as meditation (although I'm working on learning how to sit for five whole minutes and do that, too). And, when I got on the treadmill tonight to finally expel some energy, I listened to my newest Running Mix on my IPod. You know, those songs that really get you going, and in my case, sometimes take me across finish lines. Case in point: Unchained (Van Halen) took me across the Disney Half Marathon finish line. The Foo Fighters got me across the Country Music Half Marathon finish, and I honestly can't remember what got me across the Chicago (whole) Marathon finish line. I think I was half looped and begging someone to kill me with a blunt stick.
I haven't made a list for a while, so I'm sharing my all-time favorite kick ass running mix songs. Many come and go, but these have always made the rotation in some way or another.
Top 20 Kick Ass Running Mix Songs, in no particular order:
- Unchained - Van Halen
- Cold Hard Bitch - Jet
- Baby I'm a Star - Prince
- In God's Country - U2
- All My Life - Foo Fighters
- Panama - Van Halen
- Crosstown Traffic - Jimi Hendrix
- Livin' Thing - ELO
- Just a Girl - No Doubt
- Alright - Janet Jackson
- Learn to Fly - Foo Fighters
- Rock and Roll - Led Zepplin
- Here it Goes Again - OK Go
- Never There - Cake
- Carry On - Crosby, Stills, and Nash
- Go Your Own Way - Fleetwood Mac
- Synchronicity II - The Police
- Highway to Hell - AC/DC
- Shambala - Three Dog Night
- She Sells Sanctuary - The Cult
At least these are the 20 I pick today. Ask me again in 10 years.
Monday, February 26, 2007
A shout out to one of my peeps...
This is a blog of my friend Ron. He and I were cubemates once upon a time at one of the many countless jobs I've held. He sent me the link to his new blog, and I believe it's cross-blog worthy - due primarily to the fact that he listened to George Carlin as a child and may be almost as weird as me.
:-)
http://twistedknottedandbent.spaces.live.com/
:-)
http://twistedknottedandbent.spaces.live.com/
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Fluff and Substance
I was reading Glamour tonight while watching South Park. I know...fluff. I require my fluff, thank you very much. While perusing Glamour, I was shocked to see a small snippet that mentioned a previously unpublished poem of Sylvia Plath's. Written in 1955 while she was in undergraduate school, the Blackbird online journal has the primary rights to publish...
http://www.blackbird.vcu.edu/v5n2/poetry/plath_s/typescript-final.htm
It's very Plath. Notable enough for me to stop watching South Park, put my Glamour down (I dog-eared my spot, of course), get up off my ass and put the link in my blog.
http://www.blackbird.vcu.edu/v5n2/poetry/plath_s/typescript-final.htm
It's very Plath. Notable enough for me to stop watching South Park, put my Glamour down (I dog-eared my spot, of course), get up off my ass and put the link in my blog.
Kermit Wisdom
When I was a little kid, I was obsessed with all things Muppet. I loved them all, really...Gonzo, Fozzie, the Swedish chef, and Beaker. Even those old guys in the balcony. But, I especially loved Kermit.
On my 8th birthday, I remember my entire party centered around Kermit. I got a Kermit puppet doll, I had a Kermit cake, and me and my four best girlfriends ventured out to see the Muppet Movie. I was a buck-toothed, skinny, awkward little girl with a bad haircut and I clearly remember wearing rainbow suspenders. And, yet, I was so cool. Very Mork from Ork. It's my most memorable birthday to date.
My sudden flashback to all things Kermit was jogged by my sister's Valentine's Day gift yesterday. A book called, It's not Easy Being Green, and Other Things to Consider. I read it from cover to cover last night, and I felt obliged to share my two favorite quotes from the book today. So, here goes.
The words say, "It's not easy being green," but the song is about knowing who you are. And in it you hear Jim's (Henson) message most clearly. He believed that people are good and that they want to do their best and that no matter how or why we might be different from anybody else, we should learn to love who we are and be proud of it."
~Ray Charles
Preach on, Ray.
Looking back, I think I liked Kermit because he was the unassuming leader of the bunch; he was just a good, quietly confident, sincere little green dude. Plain and simple. Kermit was the sound of reason in a world of chaotic whimsy and fun. He had fun, but kept it all in perspective. He soaked in the crazies around him, and he loved someone who was completely opposite of him. Because some things defy explanation. He loved the simple things in life. And, as a kid I adored him, but as an adult, I just plain get him and his little Zen-like philosophies. It's amazing how perceptive we are in our youth. It's amazing the things we latch onto without really knowing what we're latching onto, but we do it because it just feels good. Something all "grown-ups" should take heed of.
"Life's like a movie, write your own ending
Keep believing, keep pretending
We've done just what we set out to do
Thanks to the lovers, the dreamers, and you."
~Kermit
On my 8th birthday, I remember my entire party centered around Kermit. I got a Kermit puppet doll, I had a Kermit cake, and me and my four best girlfriends ventured out to see the Muppet Movie. I was a buck-toothed, skinny, awkward little girl with a bad haircut and I clearly remember wearing rainbow suspenders. And, yet, I was so cool. Very Mork from Ork. It's my most memorable birthday to date.
My sudden flashback to all things Kermit was jogged by my sister's Valentine's Day gift yesterday. A book called, It's not Easy Being Green, and Other Things to Consider. I read it from cover to cover last night, and I felt obliged to share my two favorite quotes from the book today. So, here goes.
The words say, "It's not easy being green," but the song is about knowing who you are. And in it you hear Jim's (Henson) message most clearly. He believed that people are good and that they want to do their best and that no matter how or why we might be different from anybody else, we should learn to love who we are and be proud of it."
~Ray Charles
Preach on, Ray.
Looking back, I think I liked Kermit because he was the unassuming leader of the bunch; he was just a good, quietly confident, sincere little green dude. Plain and simple. Kermit was the sound of reason in a world of chaotic whimsy and fun. He had fun, but kept it all in perspective. He soaked in the crazies around him, and he loved someone who was completely opposite of him. Because some things defy explanation. He loved the simple things in life. And, as a kid I adored him, but as an adult, I just plain get him and his little Zen-like philosophies. It's amazing how perceptive we are in our youth. It's amazing the things we latch onto without really knowing what we're latching onto, but we do it because it just feels good. Something all "grown-ups" should take heed of.
"Life's like a movie, write your own ending
Keep believing, keep pretending
We've done just what we set out to do
Thanks to the lovers, the dreamers, and you."
~Kermit
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
The happiest place on earth...
It's been a few weeks since my last confession. Or entry. Whatever.
I spent two weekends ago in sunny Orlando, Florida, where I ran the Disney Half Marathon with one of my best girlfriends. "Ran" is a very subjective term, as we sort of ran/walked it. You have to do that at Disney, I've learned. They have characters along the route with which you can get your picture taken. We stopped around mile 6 - right around the Magic Kingdom - and waited in line to get our pictures taken with Prince Charming and Cinderella. It's definitely different than any other race I've done. While I did it in under three hours, I wasn't so concerned about my time or beating any records. I mean, I had friggin' Chip and Dale cheering me on at the finish. Time? I don't need no stinkin' time.
I did wear Tinkerbell wings throughout the whole race, and I'm most proud of that. S.O. was there to cheer me on at miles 3, 8, and the finish. He even got a movie of me finishing, and you can hear the announcer over the microphone in the background saying, "Here comes Tinkerbell!"
You gotta love that.
On the way home from our weekend, we had a few travel mishaps, to say the least. Long story short, it took us 12 hours to get back to the cornfield. Weirdly enough, that particular day of traveling hell ended up being a good day. Not only did I get to see my Dad - he drove from Jaxvegas to Orlando and BACK to Jaxvegas just to get us on a plane that would get us back home, but I learned something about S.O. that day as well. I learned how the man I live with happens to be the most patient, calm, and accommodating man I've ever known. It astounded me, really. You think you know someone. I mean, you live with them. You share toothbrushes with them occasionally. You witness them scratch their ass when they think you're not looking. You take it all in stride, and you smile at those things. The little things are what make people interesting when all the hoopla is taken out of the daily equation. And, then there are those stand-out little things that seem to shine above the rest. Like a hand on your shoulder when you need it, a pat on the ass when you really need it, or a surprising, "It's all right, hon. We've got some cash, we have credit cards, and we have each other. We'll be O.K." And, with that, your eyes are opened to something you've never experienced before. With that, you realize that past baggage is a powerful drug in shaping your perception. You can continue to believe that life won't change. Or, you can choose to accept the change and be happy that you're where you are. Just like that.
I'm back home in the cornfield now; back in the 20-degree weather. Today was our first day of snow. That beautiful, flaky white stuff (before the gray sludge of February). It's about damn time. I become a kid in a Toys-R-Us when I see the first snow. People in my office think I'm completely mental, but I know that it's just their perception being the opposite of mine. I think when you're raised in the south, snow becomes a hot commodity, so to speak.
They say Disney is the happiest place on earth. While the rollercoasters are pretty fun, I don't know if I agree. Groucho Marx once said, "I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn't arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I'm going to be happy in it." The happiest place on earth?
Wherever I am, whenever I decide.
I spent two weekends ago in sunny Orlando, Florida, where I ran the Disney Half Marathon with one of my best girlfriends. "Ran" is a very subjective term, as we sort of ran/walked it. You have to do that at Disney, I've learned. They have characters along the route with which you can get your picture taken. We stopped around mile 6 - right around the Magic Kingdom - and waited in line to get our pictures taken with Prince Charming and Cinderella. It's definitely different than any other race I've done. While I did it in under three hours, I wasn't so concerned about my time or beating any records. I mean, I had friggin' Chip and Dale cheering me on at the finish. Time? I don't need no stinkin' time.
I did wear Tinkerbell wings throughout the whole race, and I'm most proud of that. S.O. was there to cheer me on at miles 3, 8, and the finish. He even got a movie of me finishing, and you can hear the announcer over the microphone in the background saying, "Here comes Tinkerbell!"
You gotta love that.
On the way home from our weekend, we had a few travel mishaps, to say the least. Long story short, it took us 12 hours to get back to the cornfield. Weirdly enough, that particular day of traveling hell ended up being a good day. Not only did I get to see my Dad - he drove from Jaxvegas to Orlando and BACK to Jaxvegas just to get us on a plane that would get us back home, but I learned something about S.O. that day as well. I learned how the man I live with happens to be the most patient, calm, and accommodating man I've ever known. It astounded me, really. You think you know someone. I mean, you live with them. You share toothbrushes with them occasionally. You witness them scratch their ass when they think you're not looking. You take it all in stride, and you smile at those things. The little things are what make people interesting when all the hoopla is taken out of the daily equation. And, then there are those stand-out little things that seem to shine above the rest. Like a hand on your shoulder when you need it, a pat on the ass when you really need it, or a surprising, "It's all right, hon. We've got some cash, we have credit cards, and we have each other. We'll be O.K." And, with that, your eyes are opened to something you've never experienced before. With that, you realize that past baggage is a powerful drug in shaping your perception. You can continue to believe that life won't change. Or, you can choose to accept the change and be happy that you're where you are. Just like that.
I'm back home in the cornfield now; back in the 20-degree weather. Today was our first day of snow. That beautiful, flaky white stuff (before the gray sludge of February). It's about damn time. I become a kid in a Toys-R-Us when I see the first snow. People in my office think I'm completely mental, but I know that it's just their perception being the opposite of mine. I think when you're raised in the south, snow becomes a hot commodity, so to speak.
They say Disney is the happiest place on earth. While the rollercoasters are pretty fun, I don't know if I agree. Groucho Marx once said, "I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn't arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I'm going to be happy in it." The happiest place on earth?
Wherever I am, whenever I decide.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Otis
For the past two weeks, I've been both traveling and then in deadline mode. Today I turned in a proposal - the last one due before the Thanksgiving holidays. I had planned on writing tonight about my trip to San Francisco. I have a lot to say about it...things I did, people I met, unbelievable sights...
But, I've been sidetracked by a piece of my past that has remained with me more than I ever realized until tonight. I'm absolutely wrecked, and while I usually don't blog when I'm slightly under par (OK, most of the time), I felt obliged to do so tonight. I'm not really sure where else to direct it, actually.
After I got home tonight, I did my usual...I put my laptop case and purse down, let Miss Tess Larue out of her cage, did the "good girl" dance with her and let her out to play a bit. Then, it was feeding time for her, and I sat down to read my email while listening to her munch. Just like I always do upon my return home from work. Much to my surprise, there was an email in my Inbox from my ex-husband. It's been a while since I've heard from him. And, it was titled, simply, Otis.
Otis was the very first dog that I got on my own. I got him in 1993 in Boston, while I was attending Harvard that summer along with my ex-husband. It was the best summer of my life, actually, that I can recall before I divorced. Boston is just one of those places that I loved instantly. I lived at 127 Commonwealth Avenue in the shittiest of student housing apartments. It was one of the hottest summers on record, and we had no air conditioning. We didn't have a kitchen. And, the linoleum on our apartment floor was cracked and aged - God knows it probably came with the place and was built in the Depression. But, I loved every inch of it, because it was in the best part of town - and it was Boston, for chrissake. There's nothing like that place. I was just 21 years old that summer, and it seems like it was yesterday.
One day, while strolling along Newbury Street (the Rodeo Drive of Boston), my ex and I walked into a pet shop. I remember looking through the cages and seeing Otis. I truly believe that animals pick us, and Otis definitely picked me that day. My ex had his eye on a little Shitzu, but I didn't notice any other dogs besides Otis. I had the owner take him out of his cage, and he ran around for a while before landing on my lap. His little puppy feet smelled like Fritos, and I knew I wouldn't be leaving there without him. So, I shelled out 150 bucks for the mutt (future vets would say he was part coonhound, part cocker spaniel, but we never really knew nor did I ever really care) - 150 bucks was steep, yeah, but it was Newbury Street, after all. And the rest was history.
We named him after Otis Redding. Being from Georgia, I had a sordid affair with Redding's music when I was in my early 20's. This was post-Bob-Marley phase and pre-Dave Matthews phase. Otis just looked like an Otis, too. There was never another name in the stars for him.
If someone asked me to describe that dog in one word, I'd have to say warmth. He was unconditional love...absolute joy...wrapped up in a dog. He was selfless, brilliant, and loyal to a fault. He didn't have a mean bone in his body. He had a wicked-unbelievable vocabulary by a year old. He was tolerant and gracious and unbelievably patient as a dog. He let children pull on his ears and adults pose him at will as he laid there, trusting and always docile. He was definitely part hound, and hounds in my experience are like my favorite type of person. They're just real in every sense. No frills, no bullshit.
I didn't have kids, and Otis was my kid. He was my first baby, and so today, when I got the email titled with his name, I just knew what it was going to say. I suppose it's like when a mother gets bad news about her kid. She just knows. And, I knew. So, I hesitated, took a deep breath, and opened it.
My ex wrote simply, "Otis was put to sleep today. I thought you should know."
I would go on and on about Odie...what he meant to me, but I think I've said enough. In fact, I dealt with it the best way I could at this point. After a few glasses of vodka and a river of tears, I had to write something about the dog I loved so very dearly. My blog is the only eulogy he'll ever get.
If my faith in God ever wavers, I remember that dog. And, I know, in an instant, that there is a God. Because that dog was truly an angel sent from him.
I'll miss you, sweet little Odie.
But, I've been sidetracked by a piece of my past that has remained with me more than I ever realized until tonight. I'm absolutely wrecked, and while I usually don't blog when I'm slightly under par (OK, most of the time), I felt obliged to do so tonight. I'm not really sure where else to direct it, actually.
After I got home tonight, I did my usual...I put my laptop case and purse down, let Miss Tess Larue out of her cage, did the "good girl" dance with her and let her out to play a bit. Then, it was feeding time for her, and I sat down to read my email while listening to her munch. Just like I always do upon my return home from work. Much to my surprise, there was an email in my Inbox from my ex-husband. It's been a while since I've heard from him. And, it was titled, simply, Otis.
Otis was the very first dog that I got on my own. I got him in 1993 in Boston, while I was attending Harvard that summer along with my ex-husband. It was the best summer of my life, actually, that I can recall before I divorced. Boston is just one of those places that I loved instantly. I lived at 127 Commonwealth Avenue in the shittiest of student housing apartments. It was one of the hottest summers on record, and we had no air conditioning. We didn't have a kitchen. And, the linoleum on our apartment floor was cracked and aged - God knows it probably came with the place and was built in the Depression. But, I loved every inch of it, because it was in the best part of town - and it was Boston, for chrissake. There's nothing like that place. I was just 21 years old that summer, and it seems like it was yesterday.
One day, while strolling along Newbury Street (the Rodeo Drive of Boston), my ex and I walked into a pet shop. I remember looking through the cages and seeing Otis. I truly believe that animals pick us, and Otis definitely picked me that day. My ex had his eye on a little Shitzu, but I didn't notice any other dogs besides Otis. I had the owner take him out of his cage, and he ran around for a while before landing on my lap. His little puppy feet smelled like Fritos, and I knew I wouldn't be leaving there without him. So, I shelled out 150 bucks for the mutt (future vets would say he was part coonhound, part cocker spaniel, but we never really knew nor did I ever really care) - 150 bucks was steep, yeah, but it was Newbury Street, after all. And the rest was history.
We named him after Otis Redding. Being from Georgia, I had a sordid affair with Redding's music when I was in my early 20's. This was post-Bob-Marley phase and pre-Dave Matthews phase. Otis just looked like an Otis, too. There was never another name in the stars for him.
If someone asked me to describe that dog in one word, I'd have to say warmth. He was unconditional love...absolute joy...wrapped up in a dog. He was selfless, brilliant, and loyal to a fault. He didn't have a mean bone in his body. He had a wicked-unbelievable vocabulary by a year old. He was tolerant and gracious and unbelievably patient as a dog. He let children pull on his ears and adults pose him at will as he laid there, trusting and always docile. He was definitely part hound, and hounds in my experience are like my favorite type of person. They're just real in every sense. No frills, no bullshit.
I didn't have kids, and Otis was my kid. He was my first baby, and so today, when I got the email titled with his name, I just knew what it was going to say. I suppose it's like when a mother gets bad news about her kid. She just knows. And, I knew. So, I hesitated, took a deep breath, and opened it.
My ex wrote simply, "Otis was put to sleep today. I thought you should know."
I would go on and on about Odie...what he meant to me, but I think I've said enough. In fact, I dealt with it the best way I could at this point. After a few glasses of vodka and a river of tears, I had to write something about the dog I loved so very dearly. My blog is the only eulogy he'll ever get.
If my faith in God ever wavers, I remember that dog. And, I know, in an instant, that there is a God. Because that dog was truly an angel sent from him.
I'll miss you, sweet little Odie.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Columbus Day
It's Columbus Day, so I had to post this. It kind of made me laugh, and doing that on a Monday these days is a feat in itself.
My Business Development Director (the one who thinks that Shawshank Redemption’s main theme is “Bull Queers take by force”) just came into my office and said:
“Happy Columbus Day. In honor of this day, I hope you will go out and meet some interesting people that you wouldn’t normally meet on an average day. Then, give them yellow fever and kill them.”
Ah yes. Holidays bring out the best in people.
My Business Development Director (the one who thinks that Shawshank Redemption’s main theme is “Bull Queers take by force”) just came into my office and said:
“Happy Columbus Day. In honor of this day, I hope you will go out and meet some interesting people that you wouldn’t normally meet on an average day. Then, give them yellow fever and kill them.”
Ah yes. Holidays bring out the best in people.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Fresh Lipstick and the Unconscious Family Code
Right after I arrived at work yesterday - I got a phone call. It was my sister, telling me simply, "Mom is in the Emergency Room. I'm on my way there."
Since that phone call, my life has been seemingly on hold.
I know I've talked about my mother in other blog entries, but I'll still begin this with a slight preamble. My mom is the chick who works in a hospital as a Patient Rep, but seems to hate doctors from a personal health standpoint. She's the one who stays awake during procedures if at all possible, believing it's simply unnatural and she may die from being put under. She is the woman who has surgery on her eye and drives herself home (looking like a pirate and swerving as she sees double, I assume), only to tell us about it three days after the fact. She is the woman who, when they ask, "What's your pain level on a scale from 1 to 10?" she will answer, "Oh, it's a 4." We know damn well that her 4 is the rest of the world's 10. She's the mom, when I was a kid and I wanted to stay home from school because I didn't feel well, that would look to see if my eyes were bleeding. If not, I'd have to get my butt to school.
She's not the kind of Mom who goes to the E.R.
To back up even more, last week was one of female family drama, where many past emotional traumas had come to the surface. Basically, my sister, mother, and I were in the process of "having words," as I like to refer to it. It was one of those "we put the fun in dysfunctional" type of peaks in the rough terrain of that treacherous family mountain range.
So, when I got the call, after my helacious morning in traffic, I didn't hesitate. I packed up my crap and I got right back into my car to make the trek back to the south side of town. The drive - the action of me getting in the car - was like blinking.
I showed up at the hospital to find my sister already there.
After 2 and a half hours of waiting, my sister, the nurse, started getting irritated. I don't claim to know a damn thing about hospitals, so I just tried to find something besides "Saved by the Bell - the Vegas episode" - on the television in my mom's examining room (while cracking a joke every once in a while to lighten the mood). Apparently, a nurse is supposed to check a patient's pain every 30 minutes or so, and moreover, my Mom is a friggin' employee at the hospital. My sister was slightly put off by this and subsequently ripped the staff new buttholes. A surgeon was in the room within 20 minutes. I was beaming with pride.
A lot of things go through your mind when you see a swollen belly and understand that there's a level of pain. The worrying mind tends to think of ovaries and tumors and the "C" word. We all think that crap. Especially when it runs in your family. Much to our amusement, though, Mom was diagnosed with appendicitis, and it had to come out as soon as possible. We were relieved, because it was a tangible outcome. So, we broke into the "dance". You know...that sibling dance that's done on the "heavy" occasions. I assume all siblings do it. You divide and conquer. You decide, in a very short period of time, what needs to be done, who will do it and how. I take this, you take that, drop off that car, pick up those clothes, stock her fridge with those groceries for her recovery, prep the bed, get some lunch, make sure we get her pain pills and antibiotics, alert the family, man phone calls, and of course, pick up her lipstick. She asked for that specifically. I knew she would also require lip liner. I realized at that moment that no matter where I went or how far I strayed from her, I was indeed her child.
This is the time when I tend to thrive, and it makes me wonder if I wouldn't have been a good hostage negotiator or something that requires on-the-spot, adrenaline-rush decision making. But, it's that unconscious auto-pilot thing we all have when a family catastrophe, or a bout with appendicitis, ensues.
It's funny how her appendix became inflamed after several harsh words and a few days of female family drama. I could get all hippie about that, but I'll save it for another day. It's funny how when faced with a situation such as this, my sister and I just stepped up without even thinking. It's funny how you do things for your family in such an unconscious way. It's amazing how a little appendix - a useless, meaningless, piece of the human body - can bring out the good in people.
Back to normal tonight. Mom is safe in her bed, tucked away with painkillers, her pocket solitaire, and some cheesy Saturday night movie. And, it's comforting to know that the family code prevails over drama.
Since that phone call, my life has been seemingly on hold.
I know I've talked about my mother in other blog entries, but I'll still begin this with a slight preamble. My mom is the chick who works in a hospital as a Patient Rep, but seems to hate doctors from a personal health standpoint. She's the one who stays awake during procedures if at all possible, believing it's simply unnatural and she may die from being put under. She is the woman who has surgery on her eye and drives herself home (looking like a pirate and swerving as she sees double, I assume), only to tell us about it three days after the fact. She is the woman who, when they ask, "What's your pain level on a scale from 1 to 10?" she will answer, "Oh, it's a 4." We know damn well that her 4 is the rest of the world's 10. She's the mom, when I was a kid and I wanted to stay home from school because I didn't feel well, that would look to see if my eyes were bleeding. If not, I'd have to get my butt to school.
She's not the kind of Mom who goes to the E.R.
To back up even more, last week was one of female family drama, where many past emotional traumas had come to the surface. Basically, my sister, mother, and I were in the process of "having words," as I like to refer to it. It was one of those "we put the fun in dysfunctional" type of peaks in the rough terrain of that treacherous family mountain range.
So, when I got the call, after my helacious morning in traffic, I didn't hesitate. I packed up my crap and I got right back into my car to make the trek back to the south side of town. The drive - the action of me getting in the car - was like blinking.
I showed up at the hospital to find my sister already there.
After 2 and a half hours of waiting, my sister, the nurse, started getting irritated. I don't claim to know a damn thing about hospitals, so I just tried to find something besides "Saved by the Bell - the Vegas episode" - on the television in my mom's examining room (while cracking a joke every once in a while to lighten the mood). Apparently, a nurse is supposed to check a patient's pain every 30 minutes or so, and moreover, my Mom is a friggin' employee at the hospital. My sister was slightly put off by this and subsequently ripped the staff new buttholes. A surgeon was in the room within 20 minutes. I was beaming with pride.
A lot of things go through your mind when you see a swollen belly and understand that there's a level of pain. The worrying mind tends to think of ovaries and tumors and the "C" word. We all think that crap. Especially when it runs in your family. Much to our amusement, though, Mom was diagnosed with appendicitis, and it had to come out as soon as possible. We were relieved, because it was a tangible outcome. So, we broke into the "dance". You know...that sibling dance that's done on the "heavy" occasions. I assume all siblings do it. You divide and conquer. You decide, in a very short period of time, what needs to be done, who will do it and how. I take this, you take that, drop off that car, pick up those clothes, stock her fridge with those groceries for her recovery, prep the bed, get some lunch, make sure we get her pain pills and antibiotics, alert the family, man phone calls, and of course, pick up her lipstick. She asked for that specifically. I knew she would also require lip liner. I realized at that moment that no matter where I went or how far I strayed from her, I was indeed her child.
This is the time when I tend to thrive, and it makes me wonder if I wouldn't have been a good hostage negotiator or something that requires on-the-spot, adrenaline-rush decision making. But, it's that unconscious auto-pilot thing we all have when a family catastrophe, or a bout with appendicitis, ensues.
It's funny how her appendix became inflamed after several harsh words and a few days of female family drama. I could get all hippie about that, but I'll save it for another day. It's funny how when faced with a situation such as this, my sister and I just stepped up without even thinking. It's funny how you do things for your family in such an unconscious way. It's amazing how a little appendix - a useless, meaningless, piece of the human body - can bring out the good in people.
Back to normal tonight. Mom is safe in her bed, tucked away with painkillers, her pocket solitaire, and some cheesy Saturday night movie. And, it's comforting to know that the family code prevails over drama.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Wise women quotes for the day....
We were incompatible in a lot of ways. Like for example, I was a night person, and he didn’t like me.
~Wendy Liebman
I shall not die of a cold. I shall die of having lived.
~Willa Cather
Any woman who thinks the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach is aiming about ten inches too high.
~Adrienne Gusoff
Ted needs someone to be there 100 percent of the time. He thinks that’s love. It’s not love – it’s babysitting.
~Jane Fonda
It’s afterward you realize that the feeling of happiness you had with a man didn’t necessarily prove that you loved him.
~Marguerite Duras
When men do dishes, it’s called helping. When women do dishes, it’s called life.
~Anna Quindlen
Feminism is an entire world of gestalt, not just a laundry list of women’s issues.
~Charlotte Bunch
The only real elegance is in the mind.
~Diana Vreeland, Vogue editor
~Wendy Liebman
I shall not die of a cold. I shall die of having lived.
~Willa Cather
Any woman who thinks the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach is aiming about ten inches too high.
~Adrienne Gusoff
Ted needs someone to be there 100 percent of the time. He thinks that’s love. It’s not love – it’s babysitting.
~Jane Fonda
It’s afterward you realize that the feeling of happiness you had with a man didn’t necessarily prove that you loved him.
~Marguerite Duras
When men do dishes, it’s called helping. When women do dishes, it’s called life.
~Anna Quindlen
Feminism is an entire world of gestalt, not just a laundry list of women’s issues.
~Charlotte Bunch
The only real elegance is in the mind.
~Diana Vreeland, Vogue editor
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
"All your life you are told the things you cannot do. All your life they will say you're not good enough or strong enough or talented enough; they will say you're the wrong height or the wrong weight or the wrong type to play this or be this or achieve this. THEY WILL TELL YOU NO, a thousand times no, until all the no's become meaningless. All your life they will tell you no, quite firmly and very quickly.
AND YOU WILL TELL THEM YES."
~Nike ad
AND YOU WILL TELL THEM YES."
~Nike ad
Friday, June 23, 2006
My review of Nacho Libre.
I finally saw last night what I had been anticipating for over a month now: Nacho Libre. It was everything I thought it would be, and I’m not just saying that because I’m a big Jack Black fan. It had a sort of mentally-challenged-Napoleon-Dynamite-Rocky’esque thing going on – and I’m also a huge closet fan of Rocky (1, 2, and 3 – not 4 or 5, because, well, I have taste, people).
I attended the movie with my SO and his 12-year old offspring, and we almost peed ourselves several times - especially at the genius fart humor strewn throughout, which proves that I apparently have the mentality of a 12-year old boy (fart humor, much like chimps, is comic gold).
Cinematic genius. A must see.
I attended the movie with my SO and his 12-year old offspring, and we almost peed ourselves several times - especially at the genius fart humor strewn throughout, which proves that I apparently have the mentality of a 12-year old boy (fart humor, much like chimps, is comic gold).
Cinematic genius. A must see.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Friday, June 02, 2006
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Invading the Herd and a Rite of Passage
I was a pseudo soccer mom this past weekend. I went with my significant other, dressed in a tight Janis Joplin t-shirt, still feeling slightly out-of-place, but getting more comfortable with the environment. I found that pre-teen boys’ soccer can be quite entertaining. Not unlike the Cubs games I’d go to at Wrigley and really enjoy, even though I’m not a baseball fan at all (I went for the beer and the ambience, of course). It’s the sociological aspect of soccer that seems to fascinate me a bit. I’m not embarrassed to admit that. From a technical standpoint, the games themselves are a definite notch above watching tiny kids that just jump on the ball with no skill (my S.O. calls that clusterf*ck ball). Eleven and twelve-year old boys actually know how to play the game and exhibit skills and proof of training, so that’s a bonus from a spectator standpoint. I do like watching sports in general. But, it’s really the parental units and the animalistic nature of the game that make it a true spectator sport.
I’ve received much underlying teasing from family and friends about my newfound, inherited hobby as a result of being involved with a man that has a pre-teen and a teen who both play the sport. My sister keeps talking about slapping one of those half soccer balls on my back car window without my knowledge. You know - those dorky ones that look like they’re stuck halfway through. She threatens, laughs hysterically, and I consequently shoot her the bird.
The teasing I get is due to the knowledge my family and friends have about me. They know I’d rather stab myself in the eyeballs with a rusty knife than drive a minivan and assimilate with suburban drones that are known as the dreaded soccer moms. I cringe at the thought of rubber shoes and Bermuda shorts. I’m not above them, by all means. Just different. I don't know, though...maybe I’m the one missing the boat. Maybe the big world outside the fields is just distraction in the form of scenery. Maybe a minivan would make me less cynical and analytical and more pleasant. Maybe soccer and the life that is wrapped up in it is a life more extraordinary. Maybe breeding soccer kids is the answer to the world's problems. Hey, you never know. They may be on to something...
I’ve been part of groups all my life, so I really can’t say that I’ve been a rebel against them without backing it up with substantial data, and the only data I have is how I felt. I’ve done the circuit of clubs throughout my life, mainly because I’m social and have way too many interests. I was a princess among the piano dorks, the head cheerleader, and felt the pride associated with National Honor Society. Albeit a false pride, but it was like any other petty milestone in life. I was in a sorority back in my undergrad days. These were rites of passage. Maybe that’s how these moms feel; like having the soccer sticker on the back of their car is a rite of passage. A badge to be worn with pride. “I popped a kid out; look at my sticker.” Kind of like the pregnant parking places at Kroger. You’re special because you got knocked up. Huh. I have often pondered parking in those spots to see if I’d get ticketed if I did it. I mean, how in the hell would they know if I was a month pregnant or not?
I like to think that on that soccer field, I’m a bright red crayon in a box of Eddie Bauer-brand khaki crayons, but I'm not. I'm just the soccer Dad's girlfriend, really. Tight Janis Joplin shirt, platform flip flops and all.
Just like any other stereotype, though, reality exists. There are exceptions to the soccer mom rule, and I must give props where props are due. It was approximately my fifth game I’ve attended since being a soccer Dad’s girlfriend. Keep in mind that five has historically been my lucky number. This was no exception last Sunday when one of the mothers actually engaged me in conversation. I think I may have yapped at her first, come to think of it, but we chatted nonetheless. This was a step forward in evolution, as one species approached another, and much to my dismay, she was somewhat normal and had an actual sense of humor – something that can be difficult to pinpoint amongst the screaming stage moms who are on the brink of blowing a carotid artery when their son’s footwork is not up to par. She didn't bite or claw at me. She just sniffed me for a bit. I figure I've always had the ability to communicate with a wall or a CEO (no redundancy intended there), so why not the soccer mom?
So here I stand. A gazelle who’s making her way into the herd of sheep. I didn’t try to break in, and I don’t suppose I’ll ever be truly accepted as one of the herd. I’m so OK with that. It’s just fun being the new species in the gene pool, and it's going to make for some interesting future entries.
I’ve received much underlying teasing from family and friends about my newfound, inherited hobby as a result of being involved with a man that has a pre-teen and a teen who both play the sport. My sister keeps talking about slapping one of those half soccer balls on my back car window without my knowledge. You know - those dorky ones that look like they’re stuck halfway through. She threatens, laughs hysterically, and I consequently shoot her the bird.
The teasing I get is due to the knowledge my family and friends have about me. They know I’d rather stab myself in the eyeballs with a rusty knife than drive a minivan and assimilate with suburban drones that are known as the dreaded soccer moms. I cringe at the thought of rubber shoes and Bermuda shorts. I’m not above them, by all means. Just different. I don't know, though...maybe I’m the one missing the boat. Maybe the big world outside the fields is just distraction in the form of scenery. Maybe a minivan would make me less cynical and analytical and more pleasant. Maybe soccer and the life that is wrapped up in it is a life more extraordinary. Maybe breeding soccer kids is the answer to the world's problems. Hey, you never know. They may be on to something...
I’ve been part of groups all my life, so I really can’t say that I’ve been a rebel against them without backing it up with substantial data, and the only data I have is how I felt. I’ve done the circuit of clubs throughout my life, mainly because I’m social and have way too many interests. I was a princess among the piano dorks, the head cheerleader, and felt the pride associated with National Honor Society. Albeit a false pride, but it was like any other petty milestone in life. I was in a sorority back in my undergrad days. These were rites of passage. Maybe that’s how these moms feel; like having the soccer sticker on the back of their car is a rite of passage. A badge to be worn with pride. “I popped a kid out; look at my sticker.” Kind of like the pregnant parking places at Kroger. You’re special because you got knocked up. Huh. I have often pondered parking in those spots to see if I’d get ticketed if I did it. I mean, how in the hell would they know if I was a month pregnant or not?
I like to think that on that soccer field, I’m a bright red crayon in a box of Eddie Bauer-brand khaki crayons, but I'm not. I'm just the soccer Dad's girlfriend, really. Tight Janis Joplin shirt, platform flip flops and all.
Just like any other stereotype, though, reality exists. There are exceptions to the soccer mom rule, and I must give props where props are due. It was approximately my fifth game I’ve attended since being a soccer Dad’s girlfriend. Keep in mind that five has historically been my lucky number. This was no exception last Sunday when one of the mothers actually engaged me in conversation. I think I may have yapped at her first, come to think of it, but we chatted nonetheless. This was a step forward in evolution, as one species approached another, and much to my dismay, she was somewhat normal and had an actual sense of humor – something that can be difficult to pinpoint amongst the screaming stage moms who are on the brink of blowing a carotid artery when their son’s footwork is not up to par. She didn't bite or claw at me. She just sniffed me for a bit. I figure I've always had the ability to communicate with a wall or a CEO (no redundancy intended there), so why not the soccer mom?
So here I stand. A gazelle who’s making her way into the herd of sheep. I didn’t try to break in, and I don’t suppose I’ll ever be truly accepted as one of the herd. I’m so OK with that. It’s just fun being the new species in the gene pool, and it's going to make for some interesting future entries.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Writing, Madness, and Sanity
I have a dog now. Tessie Larue. And, she's fabulous. She's a semi-baby boxer, complete with a moosh mouth and newly forming wrinkles. She genuinely makes me smile. Consistently, on a daily basis. She tries to bat me around like a fellow canine pal when I'm doing Pilates. She greets me with her butt, wiggling sideways toward me, wagging her little nubbin tail, when I come home from work. She jumps up, puts her paws on my shoulder, and lays her head down on me - just like she's giving a human-like hug. She looks at me with these inquisitive, big brown, almost-wise eyes, as if to say, I love you no matter what the day was like, you know."
She's a pretty darn good pup. Already one for the record books, and I've had a lot of canines come in and out of my life. For being only about 7 months old and a resident of my home for a mere three weeks, she has only been rebellious once. A week ago, she escaped her cage during the day while I was at work. I have never confirmed how, actually, but I suspect it was through the top. She broke and wiggled through, climbing out to freedom. She was understandably pissed off and ruined my blinds. I think the blind-shredding was just her way of saying, "I really hate that cage." I'm just shocked she didn't chew anything else. Nothing. Not even the biggest chew toy of all - my brand new, supple leather couch. Instead, she just jumped up on it, got comfortable on the faux-fur throw, and watched VH1 until her humans returned.
Tess has been a Godsend over the past few weeks. It's been a while since I've had a dog - due to my nomadic existence the past few years. I have a dog now, and life is better because of it. She loves me. And dogs are never wrong.
She's a pretty darn good pup. Already one for the record books, and I've had a lot of canines come in and out of my life. For being only about 7 months old and a resident of my home for a mere three weeks, she has only been rebellious once. A week ago, she escaped her cage during the day while I was at work. I have never confirmed how, actually, but I suspect it was through the top. She broke and wiggled through, climbing out to freedom. She was understandably pissed off and ruined my blinds. I think the blind-shredding was just her way of saying, "I really hate that cage." I'm just shocked she didn't chew anything else. Nothing. Not even the biggest chew toy of all - my brand new, supple leather couch. Instead, she just jumped up on it, got comfortable on the faux-fur throw, and watched VH1 until her humans returned.
Tess has been a Godsend over the past few weeks. It's been a while since I've had a dog - due to my nomadic existence the past few years. I have a dog now, and life is better because of it. She loves me. And dogs are never wrong.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Top Five Men Every Woman Must Date
I'm in this really cool class called "Stiletto Boot Camp". It's a 10-week course designed to make normal chick writers into mainstream women's magazine writers. It's just what the title implies: boot camp for getting published in rags like Redbook, Marie Claire, and Cosmo.
One of my first assignments was to do a service article. Service articles give a reader a list of things to do that will empower them or inform them. For instance, I did an article on "The Top Five Vitamins you Should be Taking Now"...
Fluffy stuff, but it's fun.
I had to keep mine sort of tame as it was my first assignment, but what I really wanted to write was "The Top Five Guys Every Woman Needs to Date Before She Turns 35". So, I'm doing it here.
The Top Five Guys Every Woman Needs to Date Before She Turns 35
1. The financial mogul
This guy is your typical MBA, ivy-league, blond-haired, blue-eyed ex-frat boy who was raised in the south, has impeccable manners, hits it big in the banking industry, and is looking for a well-bred trophy wife. This guy reeks of new money. He's also clearly in the state of a homosexual panic, as backed up by his impeccable taste in window treatments and the act of french-kissing his champion Labrador Retriever, which makes you extremely uneasy and nauseated. You date him for a few months, enjoy the free 5-star restaurant meals, and bat your eyes until he lets you drive both his Range Rover and his Mercedes convertible. Then, you stop taking his calls.
2. The abstract expressionist
This guy is the one with the mop haircut, the pensive eyes, and the brooding disposition. The first time you meet him, he calls you rubinesque and offers (i.e. begs) to paint you naked. He doesn't own a couch, but he has an easel, a carton of Marlboro Lights and a seemingly unending supply of tickets to the Steppenwolf theatre. He's basically living off Mom and Dad's cash flow until he gets his first big gallery exhibit. Which is basically forever. You date him for the poetry, sensitive artist "thing", and the compliments on your bone structure. Then, you promptly dump him.
3. The tattooed Italian guy
This guy is tough on the outside, sweet on the inside. He's like a pair of Manolos. You can't really see yourself wearing the shoes every day, nor will you get them as they're not quite your style, but they're fun to try on for a few minutes, anyway. Nice and polite, but with that machismo undertone. He wears enough leather to embarrass you in public. You wonder how he can have that much skin covered in ink and still hold down a normal job. You enjoy the canoli and martinis and say ciao.
4. The Man Still in the Closet
This is the gay guy who pretends he's not. He's the one who holds his cigarette like your mother, compliments you on your gorgeous chandelier earrings, and asks you what type of moisturizer you use while pointing out some dryness around your delicate eye area. He is fun to hang out with, but when he tries to kiss you goodnight, it's like you just kissed Hillary Duff and you want to run home so you can shower at least four times from the ickiness. You consider being an almost-fag hag, but weigh the pros and cons and decide to bolt. Faster than you can say Bravo.
5. The Boy
This is the pretty boy. The one 8 to 10 years your junior. He's just nice to look at. Period. It works for a while, until one day you're in the car, REM comes on the radio, you proclaim that you saw the Green tour when you were a senior in high school, and he says, "I was 10." Um, yeah.
There are more. Like the ones who rip your heart out and run it over with their trucks. Those are the ones who build character, though, while the five above are the fun ones. And, they say dating is supposed to be fun, after all...
One of my first assignments was to do a service article. Service articles give a reader a list of things to do that will empower them or inform them. For instance, I did an article on "The Top Five Vitamins you Should be Taking Now"...
Fluffy stuff, but it's fun.
I had to keep mine sort of tame as it was my first assignment, but what I really wanted to write was "The Top Five Guys Every Woman Needs to Date Before She Turns 35". So, I'm doing it here.
The Top Five Guys Every Woman Needs to Date Before She Turns 35
1. The financial mogul
This guy is your typical MBA, ivy-league, blond-haired, blue-eyed ex-frat boy who was raised in the south, has impeccable manners, hits it big in the banking industry, and is looking for a well-bred trophy wife. This guy reeks of new money. He's also clearly in the state of a homosexual panic, as backed up by his impeccable taste in window treatments and the act of french-kissing his champion Labrador Retriever, which makes you extremely uneasy and nauseated. You date him for a few months, enjoy the free 5-star restaurant meals, and bat your eyes until he lets you drive both his Range Rover and his Mercedes convertible. Then, you stop taking his calls.
2. The abstract expressionist
This guy is the one with the mop haircut, the pensive eyes, and the brooding disposition. The first time you meet him, he calls you rubinesque and offers (i.e. begs) to paint you naked. He doesn't own a couch, but he has an easel, a carton of Marlboro Lights and a seemingly unending supply of tickets to the Steppenwolf theatre. He's basically living off Mom and Dad's cash flow until he gets his first big gallery exhibit. Which is basically forever. You date him for the poetry, sensitive artist "thing", and the compliments on your bone structure. Then, you promptly dump him.
3. The tattooed Italian guy
This guy is tough on the outside, sweet on the inside. He's like a pair of Manolos. You can't really see yourself wearing the shoes every day, nor will you get them as they're not quite your style, but they're fun to try on for a few minutes, anyway. Nice and polite, but with that machismo undertone. He wears enough leather to embarrass you in public. You wonder how he can have that much skin covered in ink and still hold down a normal job. You enjoy the canoli and martinis and say ciao.
4. The Man Still in the Closet
This is the gay guy who pretends he's not. He's the one who holds his cigarette like your mother, compliments you on your gorgeous chandelier earrings, and asks you what type of moisturizer you use while pointing out some dryness around your delicate eye area. He is fun to hang out with, but when he tries to kiss you goodnight, it's like you just kissed Hillary Duff and you want to run home so you can shower at least four times from the ickiness. You consider being an almost-fag hag, but weigh the pros and cons and decide to bolt. Faster than you can say Bravo.
5. The Boy
This is the pretty boy. The one 8 to 10 years your junior. He's just nice to look at. Period. It works for a while, until one day you're in the car, REM comes on the radio, you proclaim that you saw the Green tour when you were a senior in high school, and he says, "I was 10." Um, yeah.
There are more. Like the ones who rip your heart out and run it over with their trucks. Those are the ones who build character, though, while the five above are the fun ones. And, they say dating is supposed to be fun, after all...
Friday, April 21, 2006
Monday, April 17, 2006
Tessie and the Resurrection
Fate has stepped in, and as a result, I am now a new pet owner. It all started two weekends ago when my guy and I were playing baseball with his son outside my apartment (I live in the Field of Dreams, for chrissake). We noticed a dog on the second floor balcony of a neighboring apartment. The poor thing was trying to scratch her way out. Porches in my complex are screened in, and she had already destroyed a panel. When she saw us, her efforts became even more focused. I found out later that her owners had left her on the deck for over 13 hours (this is a 6-month old puppy, I must add). She ripped through the screen, then propped herself up like she was going to jump. I immediately freaked out, guy-I-date ran over to her, and before he could get there, she did just that...she jumped. Beautiful, brown little boxer baby just jumped off the deck like a kamikaze pilot. Poor thing just wanted to be away from where she was. She fell on her shoulder and it looked pretty broken when he got to her. He scooped her up, brought her back to my place and we doted on her for an hour while I desperately tried to track down her absent owners.
After we found them through my leasing office, I learned a few things about the owners. Dude owner is not only a deadbeat and hasn’t paid his pet fee, but he also is delinquent on rent, and there have been complaints before about his pet handling skills. Nice. As a side drama, my ex-cop neighbor answered her door sometime last year to a bloodied face of dude’s live-in girlfriend caused by an “argument”. I swear to Christ, I live in Jerry Springer’s backyard.
Now, I know the Ted Bundy-type abusers. These are the guys who are handsome and charming on the outside, dress well, act "normal" to the outside world, but are manipulative beyond belief and sing a different song behind closed doors. I've experienced that type in my life, for sure. They all have that “devil’ thing in their eyes. It’s your classic fratdaddy look with the Ted Bundy interior. This guy is one of those guys, and I seriously want to cause bodily harm to him as a result. You know that if he’s beating his girlfriend, he’s definitely smacking the puppy around without any conscience whatsoever.
After the kamikaze episode, it was the girlfriend who picked the dog up from my apartment, and she really didn’t say much at all. In fact, she barely could look me in the eyes. She’s your textbook abused woman, truth be told. Beautiful face with no trace of makeup (he probably doesn’t let her wear it), disheveled hair, cute figure with abnormally baggy clothing (textbook). She never once looked me in the eyes, instead averting them to the ground pretty much the entire time. I talked to the couple a few times. With the combination of their body language, the fact that the dog cowered every time dude approached her, and then my newfound knowledge about what these people were all about, I was peeved.
Now, I know I can’t do much for the girlfriend except befriend her a bit and hope that she wakes up in time to leave that bastard. I have opened my door to her in case she needs someone to come to, but that’s pretty much the extent of what I can do. Well, that, and I told my ex-cop (yet always connected) friend down the street, but who's keeping score, right? As for the dog, though, she’s now mine. I pushed a bit to take her off their hands, and I got her last Friday night. I’m not looking back. She’s beautiful, well-tempered, and so appreciative of her new digs. She rides in the car like a human, chases after tennis balls like a bunny, and has the best, most loving personality. I can’t wait to see her grow up.
So that is the story of how Tessie Larue came to be. Easter weekend 2006. For Christians, it's a weekend of celebration for resurrection. For Tessie, it was just that. She fell out of the sky, really. Kind of like a fated gift from the heavens. And now she has a shot at a great life. And, I've got a new shot at getting back what I've lost in the past canine-wise. At least I’d like to think so.
After we found them through my leasing office, I learned a few things about the owners. Dude owner is not only a deadbeat and hasn’t paid his pet fee, but he also is delinquent on rent, and there have been complaints before about his pet handling skills. Nice. As a side drama, my ex-cop neighbor answered her door sometime last year to a bloodied face of dude’s live-in girlfriend caused by an “argument”. I swear to Christ, I live in Jerry Springer’s backyard.
Now, I know the Ted Bundy-type abusers. These are the guys who are handsome and charming on the outside, dress well, act "normal" to the outside world, but are manipulative beyond belief and sing a different song behind closed doors. I've experienced that type in my life, for sure. They all have that “devil’ thing in their eyes. It’s your classic fratdaddy look with the Ted Bundy interior. This guy is one of those guys, and I seriously want to cause bodily harm to him as a result. You know that if he’s beating his girlfriend, he’s definitely smacking the puppy around without any conscience whatsoever.
After the kamikaze episode, it was the girlfriend who picked the dog up from my apartment, and she really didn’t say much at all. In fact, she barely could look me in the eyes. She’s your textbook abused woman, truth be told. Beautiful face with no trace of makeup (he probably doesn’t let her wear it), disheveled hair, cute figure with abnormally baggy clothing (textbook). She never once looked me in the eyes, instead averting them to the ground pretty much the entire time. I talked to the couple a few times. With the combination of their body language, the fact that the dog cowered every time dude approached her, and then my newfound knowledge about what these people were all about, I was peeved.
Now, I know I can’t do much for the girlfriend except befriend her a bit and hope that she wakes up in time to leave that bastard. I have opened my door to her in case she needs someone to come to, but that’s pretty much the extent of what I can do. Well, that, and I told my ex-cop (yet always connected) friend down the street, but who's keeping score, right? As for the dog, though, she’s now mine. I pushed a bit to take her off their hands, and I got her last Friday night. I’m not looking back. She’s beautiful, well-tempered, and so appreciative of her new digs. She rides in the car like a human, chases after tennis balls like a bunny, and has the best, most loving personality. I can’t wait to see her grow up.
So that is the story of how Tessie Larue came to be. Easter weekend 2006. For Christians, it's a weekend of celebration for resurrection. For Tessie, it was just that. She fell out of the sky, really. Kind of like a fated gift from the heavens. And now she has a shot at a great life. And, I've got a new shot at getting back what I've lost in the past canine-wise. At least I’d like to think so.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Friday, April 07, 2006
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