On Sunday there were 7 boxes of cereal in the pantry and a full gallon of milk. This morning there are 3 boxes of cereal in the pantry and just enough milk to faintly lighten a cup of coffee. Such is life with 2 young men in the house.
Cereal is a huge favorite all-occasion food at the Tiny House, particularly among the under-21 set. Thing 1, I think, would eat nothing BUT cereal if left to his own devices, and can plow through 3 or more bowlsful at a sitting if allowed. I suspect that this is one of the main reasons why he’s usually so ready to wake up in the morning and fend for his own breakfast – he knows that I’d probably put the kibosh on multiple bowls if I was awake to see the feeding frenzy. Thing 2 also can chow down on the Cap’n Crunch (or Frosted mini-wheats, or whatever is available), but he’s no match for his big brother.
This conspicuous consumption shouldn’t really come as a surprise, being that both boys are growing like weeds on steroids. This eating thing is necessary to power the many inches of growth they’ve both experienced over the last year; the expansion of shoe size from 11 to 14, the addition of things like ‘leg hair’ and ‘deeper voice’ require sustenance!
It’s expensive, is what it is. Many years ago I had a friend with a 14-year-old son who went from 5’9” to 6’5” in the space of a year, and with that phenomenal growth came an appetite that almost ate the family out of house and home. Their grocery bills were $250 a WEEK, most due to his gigantic appetite. He’d eat 3 pieces of chicken, 2 cups of cooked rice, and a huge salad for breakfast (I know!), and 2 hours later was rooting around for something to eat because he was ‘famished.’ Back then I was amused, but now I am afraid. There are many many more years of this to come, as once they boys are grown to full height they will, naturally, start putting on muscle to get to their eventual adult size. Heaven help us all, because at not-quite-13 Thing 2 is already 6’2” and over 200 pounds, a true thing of beauty of the ‘family size’ variety. Thing 1 is about 6’1” and weighs…..140 pounds. Yes, they’re from the same 2 parents; it’s just that Thing 1 is built like his father (think ‘beanpole’) and Thing 2 has the sad duty of making do after inheriting my far studier frame. On the plus side, when the bomb drops, that kid will join me pulling a plow somewhere, I just know it.
All fueled in large part by cereal. Many many boxes of cereal.
--
Already it’s Fat Tuesday. Tonight in New Orleans there will be booby flashing, bead tossing ,and general mayhem, all in the name of Christianity.
Wait, what?
Mmhmm! The following from the history channel:
Also known as "fat Tuesday," this pre-Lenten festival is celebrated in Roman Catholic countries and communities. In a strict sense, Mardi Gras, or Shrove Tuesday, is celebrated by the French as the last of the three days of Shrovetide and is a time of preparation immediately before Ash Wednesday and the start of the fast of Lent. Mardi Gras is thus the last opportunity for merrymaking and indulgence in food and drink.
The nice thing is, that even if you’re NOT preparing for a season of self-denial like a fair number of churchy folk, you can still get your drink on tonight and party like a renaissance man! Woohoo! Mead and meat all around, let’s work on a specTACular headache as a way to start Lent! Because honestly, who doesn’t want a big ol’ hangover on the first day of the season of penance to remind them of what they ought to be doing for the next 40 days (or 44, or 46, or even 55, if you’re really Orthodox about it).
So go on, work it until you walk like Keith Richards and talk like Ozzy, for tomorrow you will be clutching a banging head and a roiling stomach, all in the name of observance of an ancient rite of Spring. Prosit!
--
Y’all have a fine Shrove Tuesday. EAT THEM PANCAKES! And have a lovely afternoon.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
90% of the universe is inscrutable, so why bother scruting at all?
So, there were cupcakes to be had this morning. Seems one of the folks here has decided that we are not nearly festive enough and has organized little get-togethers to stand around eating baked goods and chit-chatting while our mouths are stuffed with yet another missile of carb-laden death.
FUN!
NOT!
If you know me at all, it should come as no surprise that I did not attend this feste fest. Social activities at work are horribly painful things, and unless there’s wine or an open bar involved they do not get much better as time goes on. Seriously – how much do I really want to know about the people with whom I work that I don’t already know and feel comfortable talking about? It’s not like I’m going to engage the Pharter in a political discussion (having seen his list of bookmarked web pages, this is now a 100% Sure Thing) or ask AmpHead how her widdle puppins is, because, to be quite frank about it, I do not care all that much. Is this so wrong? Should I be more involved? Is it customary to want to know all the deets about some random coworker’s mom’s knee surgery and perhaps show interest in another person’s latest Sudoku successes? Ought we to be slavishly following the ins and outs of our cube-mates’ children’s soccer teams or coordinating our schedules to accommodate a daily hashing-out of sibling rivalries that someone needs to vent from her system before the next family gathering so that we're seen as 'team players'?
If its true, that would suck. Might make a nice excuse for why my career ladder only has like, 2 rungs, but even so I don’t know I’d climb and faster or farther if eating pastries with the people who have the effrontery to breathe my air at the office was the key to sure success, such is my total aversion.
So, I ignore the invitations to chomp on down with a dozen or so folks I recognize but don’t speak to, so I can sit in my corner cube and wait for the platter of leftovers to be put out by the coffee machine, whereupon I POUNCE on a delectable item and wolf it down on the way back to my corner, safe in the knowledge that no awkward moments were had in the eating thereof – eg, nobody watched me navigate a quarter-cup of neon yellow icing into my maw, and nobody was subjected to the quasi-sensual licking of fingers that occurred after the last sinful crumb had been lapped up. I’m all about making my coworkers comfortable, it would appear. Thoughtful!
--
After spending the last cuple too-tree years growing out my hair because someone to whom I am married likes long hair (and I really have no opinion on the matter, so, whatever makes him happy), I am proud to announce that the longest of it is at lower bra-strap length when it's dry and ALMOST to the small of my back when it’s wet. The curliness sproings up almost 4 inches of length! The whole long-hair thing is 90% enjoyable, except that nowadays I have to do things like ‘flip it out of the way when closing the car window’ and ‘bunch it in one hand when laying down to sleep so it doesn’t get pinned under a shoulder,’ which are, admittedly, low-key maintenance items that just take practice and muscle memory to get down pat in order to move toward 100% enjoyment.
There’s a part of me that wishes I had perfectly straight hair so that there could be a cascade of glossy hair spilling over my shoulders that would reflect sunlight like a mirror when I shook my head, but then that would mean that the bouncyness and body would have to go as well, which are two things I like about the hair, so oh well. It’s enough that it’s serious hair now – and probably nearing on an ‘identity’ hairstyle thing. You know what I mean – the Hair That Wears You? Yep – it’s probably only a year or so away.
I’ll just be the little old lady with All That Hair at the nursing home in 30 years, I’m sure. And that would be sweet, because I’m sure by that point I’ll be doing things like "forgetting to put on a robe before showering’ in which case having Lady Godiva hair would come in plenty handy. Also might help if we need to beat a hasty middle-of-the-night retreat out the window for whatever reason. “Hairbraid of Freedom!”
--
Anyhow. That’s about it from this corner of the universe. Just one last thing you need to know – if you lived on Venus, you’d be dead by now.
Have a nice day!
FUN!
NOT!
If you know me at all, it should come as no surprise that I did not attend this feste fest. Social activities at work are horribly painful things, and unless there’s wine or an open bar involved they do not get much better as time goes on. Seriously – how much do I really want to know about the people with whom I work that I don’t already know and feel comfortable talking about? It’s not like I’m going to engage the Pharter in a political discussion (having seen his list of bookmarked web pages, this is now a 100% Sure Thing) or ask AmpHead how her widdle puppins is, because, to be quite frank about it, I do not care all that much. Is this so wrong? Should I be more involved? Is it customary to want to know all the deets about some random coworker’s mom’s knee surgery and perhaps show interest in another person’s latest Sudoku successes? Ought we to be slavishly following the ins and outs of our cube-mates’ children’s soccer teams or coordinating our schedules to accommodate a daily hashing-out of sibling rivalries that someone needs to vent from her system before the next family gathering so that we're seen as 'team players'?
If its true, that would suck. Might make a nice excuse for why my career ladder only has like, 2 rungs, but even so I don’t know I’d climb and faster or farther if eating pastries with the people who have the effrontery to breathe my air at the office was the key to sure success, such is my total aversion.
So, I ignore the invitations to chomp on down with a dozen or so folks I recognize but don’t speak to, so I can sit in my corner cube and wait for the platter of leftovers to be put out by the coffee machine, whereupon I POUNCE on a delectable item and wolf it down on the way back to my corner, safe in the knowledge that no awkward moments were had in the eating thereof – eg, nobody watched me navigate a quarter-cup of neon yellow icing into my maw, and nobody was subjected to the quasi-sensual licking of fingers that occurred after the last sinful crumb had been lapped up. I’m all about making my coworkers comfortable, it would appear. Thoughtful!
--
After spending the last cuple too-tree years growing out my hair because someone to whom I am married likes long hair (and I really have no opinion on the matter, so, whatever makes him happy), I am proud to announce that the longest of it is at lower bra-strap length when it's dry and ALMOST to the small of my back when it’s wet. The curliness sproings up almost 4 inches of length! The whole long-hair thing is 90% enjoyable, except that nowadays I have to do things like ‘flip it out of the way when closing the car window’ and ‘bunch it in one hand when laying down to sleep so it doesn’t get pinned under a shoulder,’ which are, admittedly, low-key maintenance items that just take practice and muscle memory to get down pat in order to move toward 100% enjoyment.
There’s a part of me that wishes I had perfectly straight hair so that there could be a cascade of glossy hair spilling over my shoulders that would reflect sunlight like a mirror when I shook my head, but then that would mean that the bouncyness and body would have to go as well, which are two things I like about the hair, so oh well. It’s enough that it’s serious hair now – and probably nearing on an ‘identity’ hairstyle thing. You know what I mean – the Hair That Wears You? Yep – it’s probably only a year or so away.
I’ll just be the little old lady with All That Hair at the nursing home in 30 years, I’m sure. And that would be sweet, because I’m sure by that point I’ll be doing things like "forgetting to put on a robe before showering’ in which case having Lady Godiva hair would come in plenty handy. Also might help if we need to beat a hasty middle-of-the-night retreat out the window for whatever reason. “Hairbraid of Freedom!”--
Anyhow. That’s about it from this corner of the universe. Just one last thing you need to know – if you lived on Venus, you’d be dead by now.
Have a nice day!
Thursday, February 11, 2010
fake priests and scab pickers
So, am I really the only one who thought Father Mulcahy was sexier than Hawkeye Pierce?
If you don’t know what I’m talking about, shame on you. Go Netflix you up a bunch of M*A*S*H and get to watching. Especially that one where Hawkeye and Hotlips are alone in a camp tent while the unit is under attack, and the pair, who usually spar like teenage sisters, wind up….KISSING?
Oooh, sexay. At least it was for me when I was a young lass. TINGLY!
--
So, that leads me to a question: how old were you when you figured out you really really wanted the attention of someone else in a boyfriend/girlfriend kind of way (or…boyfriend/boyfreind or girlfriend/girlfriend, if that’s your heart’s desire). I was about 11, I think. Fifth grade. Oh, I did have a little boyfriend in first grade (Hi Bruce Mueller) who would kiss me on the sly once in a while and we’d play in the hallways while our older brothers were in Cub Scout Pack meetings, but that was all very innocent. I think. It was on MY part, you can be sure.
It had to have been my last year in New York that I started realizing that some boys made me feel funny inside. Like, the thought of them touching me, or looking at me, or talking to me, made me all nervous. Yes, I had self-esteem issues even THEN, which did no stop my active fantasy life, oh noes.
By sixth grade I was in full-blown adolescence, and Philip Grifano was the object of my affection. Feathered hair, bell bottoms, PLATFORM SHOES, and he played guitar in a 3-piece ‘rock’ band that know one song. That’s right: Smoke on the Water. Oh, Phillip - a slightly zit-faced good-smelling arbiter of savoir faire! I would sit across the table from him in class, sneaking looks, and once or twice I caught him sneaking looks back, so that was the end of that, because as much as I wanted him to notice me, I was not at all sure what to do if I really captured his attention.
Smooth, I wasn’t. Never have been, to be quite honest. Sometimes painfully so.
Which is why the news that the American Psychiatric Association’s proposal to lump Asperger’s syndrome back in with general autism spectrum disorders is of some interest to me. See, I highly suspect that I am an Asperger’s person, or that I HAVE it, or whatever it is that defines some one who is intelligent (not bragging, just true), socially awkward, and highly focused on repetitive behavior or interests (knee bobbing and Bejeweled Blitz, anyone?). Wonder if a lack of self-discipline is a hallmark of Asperger’s Syndrome. If so, place a check in that box too.
Anyway, those folks who are diagnosed with AS do NOT, by and large, want to be identified as someone with an ‘autism spectrum disorder,’ claiming that AS has a very different effect on people’s perception of them, that AS is very different from autism even in its mildest form, etc etc. They have a point – AS is almost a sexy thing, like that quirky scab-picker in study hall with the smart mouth and the sideways glance that lets a person know she knows ‘stuff,’ while autism is much more like the brilliant yet poorly-dressed kid with unfortunate glasses who shuffles cards incessantly as talks to his shoes. It seems that Asperger’s and autism are like that. One you’d hit, the other you’d mock. Or something.
The diagnostic points of AS make a lot of sense to me: repetitive patterns of behavior and interests. There is relative preservation of linguistic and cognitive development. Although not required for diagnosis, physical clumsiness and atypical use of language are frequently reported.
Oh dear. Hitting close to home, that one. Add in hated of overhead lighting, love of quietness, and a deep abiding romance with sleep, and I’m your poster child, baby!
--
I’m off to pick some scabs and see if that Spybot’s done running on my nearly ICU-worthy computer. Wacky life, I has it. Y’all have a tolerable afternoon.
If you don’t know what I’m talking about, shame on you. Go Netflix you up a bunch of M*A*S*H and get to watching. Especially that one where Hawkeye and Hotlips are alone in a camp tent while the unit is under attack, and the pair, who usually spar like teenage sisters, wind up….KISSING?
Oooh, sexay. At least it was for me when I was a young lass. TINGLY!
--
So, that leads me to a question: how old were you when you figured out you really really wanted the attention of someone else in a boyfriend/girlfriend kind of way (or…boyfriend/boyfreind or girlfriend/girlfriend, if that’s your heart’s desire). I was about 11, I think. Fifth grade. Oh, I did have a little boyfriend in first grade (Hi Bruce Mueller) who would kiss me on the sly once in a while and we’d play in the hallways while our older brothers were in Cub Scout Pack meetings, but that was all very innocent. I think. It was on MY part, you can be sure.
It had to have been my last year in New York that I started realizing that some boys made me feel funny inside. Like, the thought of them touching me, or looking at me, or talking to me, made me all nervous. Yes, I had self-esteem issues even THEN, which did no stop my active fantasy life, oh noes.
By sixth grade I was in full-blown adolescence, and Philip Grifano was the object of my affection. Feathered hair, bell bottoms, PLATFORM SHOES, and he played guitar in a 3-piece ‘rock’ band that know one song. That’s right: Smoke on the Water. Oh, Phillip - a slightly zit-faced good-smelling arbiter of savoir faire! I would sit across the table from him in class, sneaking looks, and once or twice I caught him sneaking looks back, so that was the end of that, because as much as I wanted him to notice me, I was not at all sure what to do if I really captured his attention.
Smooth, I wasn’t. Never have been, to be quite honest. Sometimes painfully so.
Which is why the news that the American Psychiatric Association’s proposal to lump Asperger’s syndrome back in with general autism spectrum disorders is of some interest to me. See, I highly suspect that I am an Asperger’s person, or that I HAVE it, or whatever it is that defines some one who is intelligent (not bragging, just true), socially awkward, and highly focused on repetitive behavior or interests (knee bobbing and Bejeweled Blitz, anyone?). Wonder if a lack of self-discipline is a hallmark of Asperger’s Syndrome. If so, place a check in that box too.
Anyway, those folks who are diagnosed with AS do NOT, by and large, want to be identified as someone with an ‘autism spectrum disorder,’ claiming that AS has a very different effect on people’s perception of them, that AS is very different from autism even in its mildest form, etc etc. They have a point – AS is almost a sexy thing, like that quirky scab-picker in study hall with the smart mouth and the sideways glance that lets a person know she knows ‘stuff,’ while autism is much more like the brilliant yet poorly-dressed kid with unfortunate glasses who shuffles cards incessantly as talks to his shoes. It seems that Asperger’s and autism are like that. One you’d hit, the other you’d mock. Or something.
The diagnostic points of AS make a lot of sense to me: repetitive patterns of behavior and interests. There is relative preservation of linguistic and cognitive development. Although not required for diagnosis, physical clumsiness and atypical use of language are frequently reported.
Oh dear. Hitting close to home, that one. Add in hated of overhead lighting, love of quietness, and a deep abiding romance with sleep, and I’m your poster child, baby!
--
I’m off to pick some scabs and see if that Spybot’s done running on my nearly ICU-worthy computer. Wacky life, I has it. Y’all have a tolerable afternoon.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
They changed it, I hate it, Bite me
I'm angry.
For no reason.
Anybody else ever get so mad they feel like biting the ass end of an alligator just to see if it'll put up a fight?
Once again, I blame the cats. Or that thing about having to get super-duper-double-plus-tough with Thing 1.
Either way, I'm gnawing ingot out of pencil leads, and doing a fine job of it.
Have a great night, y'all!
For no reason.
Anybody else ever get so mad they feel like biting the ass end of an alligator just to see if it'll put up a fight?
Once again, I blame the cats. Or that thing about having to get super-duper-double-plus-tough with Thing 1.
Either way, I'm gnawing ingot out of pencil leads, and doing a fine job of it.
Have a great night, y'all!
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Oh dear.
I'm Bored. Yes, with a capital B.
I made dinner last night, so didn’t have to cook tonight, which would have been a good thing to do being as how when it’s just me around I tend to bore myself to utter tears, which is weird because I think I’m sort of interesting except I don’t DO interesting things when I’m bored except try to beat my stupid high score on Bejeweled Blitz and see if anybody else has done something interesting.
What's that you say? Quit bitching about having sweet sweet alone time and tell us what you cooked? Well, since you asked so nicely, I'll tell you:
Beef/veg soup inna pot. It goes something like this:
Brown a pound or so of ground beef INNA POT.
Throw a chopped onion INNA POT halfway through the beef cooking
Salt and pepper the beef and onion mix INNA POT
Add 3 chopped stalks of celery, 2 chopped carrots, and a 14-oz can of diced tomatoes and their juices INNA POT.
Add a can of Great Northern Beans and their juices INNA POT.
Add a can of water (or to cover the other stuff) and a bayleaf INNA POT.
Add a tsp of garlic powder INNA POT.
Add a dash of balsamic vinegar INNA POT.
Do NOT MIX. Cover and simmer for 30 minutes INNA POT.
Mix. Chomp a carrot to see if it's done. Taste for seasonings. Add more S&P if needed. Simmer INNA POT for 20 minutes more or until you damn well feel like eating.
Eat.
(Serving suggestion: A nice hunk of baguette goes well with this, as does a nice glass of red wine. Or two.)
Enough for one person for 3 nights, or 4 people for 1 night if they like bread. A lot. It’s more filling with more bread (ta da! The power of logic does not fail me!), plus which the juice-soaking-up thing is fun with multiple iterations of breadly goodness. Sop, sop, sop!
Honestly, you can’t beat that shit for simple. And good for you. Look at all the veg in there! And if you make it yourself, your house too will smell like Auntie Esperanza’s, if she was the type to cook beef soup on a basis regular enough so that her house, clothes, and hair took on a perma-aroma of delicious things bubbling INNA POT!
--
Clearly, I need to go do something original, fresh, and fun. Washing dishes doesn’t count, does it? Needs to be done though. Been a couple too-tree days since I washed a dish. Or clothes. I tend to let things go when I’m home alone. Let them waaaay go. Like, over the river and through the woods go, if I could see that far, which of course I can’t, because it’s FIGURATIVE and thought-provoking, much like the dishes. You see, each day when I come home there’s a NEW dish in the sink that I’m sure I didn’t put there, because I’m not in the ice-cream eating habit lately and also? I’m not HOME during the day.
I blame the cats.
Though the Things could also have had a hand in this mystery. Methinks that when they get home from school (and particularly on those days when the Tiny House is merely a landing zone before their Dad picks them up), they dig out a big bowl of ice cream, douse it with Ovaltine, then give it to the cats. With 2 spoons.
Yep – I just bet that’s what happens.
Your thoughts?
--
Eh. The dishes are calling my name, even though we’ve never been formally introduced. I’mma gonna go waterboard ‘em in hot soapy water before the shouting gets much louder.
Dang I miss Biff.
I made dinner last night, so didn’t have to cook tonight, which would have been a good thing to do being as how when it’s just me around I tend to bore myself to utter tears, which is weird because I think I’m sort of interesting except I don’t DO interesting things when I’m bored except try to beat my stupid high score on Bejeweled Blitz and see if anybody else has done something interesting.
What's that you say? Quit bitching about having sweet sweet alone time and tell us what you cooked? Well, since you asked so nicely, I'll tell you:
Beef/veg soup inna pot. It goes something like this:
Brown a pound or so of ground beef INNA POT.
Throw a chopped onion INNA POT halfway through the beef cooking
Salt and pepper the beef and onion mix INNA POT
Add 3 chopped stalks of celery, 2 chopped carrots, and a 14-oz can of diced tomatoes and their juices INNA POT.
Add a can of Great Northern Beans and their juices INNA POT.
Add a can of water (or to cover the other stuff) and a bayleaf INNA POT.
Add a tsp of garlic powder INNA POT.
Add a dash of balsamic vinegar INNA POT.
Do NOT MIX. Cover and simmer for 30 minutes INNA POT.
Mix. Chomp a carrot to see if it's done. Taste for seasonings. Add more S&P if needed. Simmer INNA POT for 20 minutes more or until you damn well feel like eating.
Eat.
(Serving suggestion: A nice hunk of baguette goes well with this, as does a nice glass of red wine. Or two.)
Enough for one person for 3 nights, or 4 people for 1 night if they like bread. A lot. It’s more filling with more bread (ta da! The power of logic does not fail me!), plus which the juice-soaking-up thing is fun with multiple iterations of breadly goodness. Sop, sop, sop!
Honestly, you can’t beat that shit for simple. And good for you. Look at all the veg in there! And if you make it yourself, your house too will smell like Auntie Esperanza’s, if she was the type to cook beef soup on a basis regular enough so that her house, clothes, and hair took on a perma-aroma of delicious things bubbling INNA POT!
--
Clearly, I need to go do something original, fresh, and fun. Washing dishes doesn’t count, does it? Needs to be done though. Been a couple too-tree days since I washed a dish. Or clothes. I tend to let things go when I’m home alone. Let them waaaay go. Like, over the river and through the woods go, if I could see that far, which of course I can’t, because it’s FIGURATIVE and thought-provoking, much like the dishes. You see, each day when I come home there’s a NEW dish in the sink that I’m sure I didn’t put there, because I’m not in the ice-cream eating habit lately and also? I’m not HOME during the day.
I blame the cats.
Though the Things could also have had a hand in this mystery. Methinks that when they get home from school (and particularly on those days when the Tiny House is merely a landing zone before their Dad picks them up), they dig out a big bowl of ice cream, douse it with Ovaltine, then give it to the cats. With 2 spoons.
Yep – I just bet that’s what happens.
Your thoughts?
--
Eh. The dishes are calling my name, even though we’ve never been formally introduced. I’mma gonna go waterboard ‘em in hot soapy water before the shouting gets much louder.
Dang I miss Biff.
Monday, February 08, 2010
Obviously, I'm not the life of the party.
Overheard in 2 different bars this past weekend:
I’ve never seen her git so druhnk so kweek
I’m Vice President of Quality Assurance at Company X.
More cowbell!
No thanks (when offered a free drink).
Poor thang, losin’ her job and not having balloons for her birthday. It’s just a shame, is all. No wonder she drank so much.
Ahm a CHEVY GIRL!
We’re going on a cruise in 2 weeks!
Stairway to Freebird!
--
See if you can sort that list into Bar A and Bar B.
--
So, Biff’s band ‘played out’ twice this weekend, and the experiences couldn’t almost not have been more different. (HUH?) Bar 1 was NASCAR-y and pool table-y and video slot-machine-y (but has a great stage), Bud and Bud light on tappy, and smoke-filled; bar 2 was retro design-y, yuppy, nonsmoke-y, 12 beers on tappy. You’d think that Bar 1 would have been full to the gills with enthusiastic people out looking for a good time, and Bar 2 would have been cleared out by 9 as Mummy and Daddy made their Hummere’d way home, and you’d be partly right. Bar 2 did largely clear out as the dining crowd finished chewing, and bar 1 did have several folks out looking to whoop it up, but overall it was Bar 2 that won the crowd participation award, hands down.
The old adage, handed down as lore to me by an ancient bartender years ago, that therere’s nothing like full dance floor to get a band energized, is true. To the point that the lead guitarist got his very own stalker/admirer, a lovely lady who looked to be in her middle 30’s and who therefore should have known better than to KEEP APPROACHING him while he’s playing. Seriously – dancing up to him, hips a-swiveling, arms stretched out to let the batwings wobble in the warm breeze created by her heaving chest. Oh, lovely.
It’s weird to watch grown women flirt like that, weird to watch them gyrate their pelvi on the dance floor, weird to see the hunger in their eyes as the third drink takes hold and their fading hormones rush to fuller bloom, rendering them, for the moment, capable of delicious fantasies involving the lead singer or whoever strikes their fancy.
Just so you know, I do not dance in public, especially when I know the band, and here's why: I don’t want people to ID me as ‘that woman who thinks she’s all that.’ Awkward enough being the spousal unit of the sexiest guy in the band, but to go out front and center to dance? Nah, thanks. That’s way too much attention-whoring for this old girl. I’ll keep my insane terpsichorean skillz at home, where I can go all-out pretending to be Miss Janet Jackson busting many a smoove moove, without the added weight of jealous strangers’ scrutiny (because hoo boy, I can dance!) holding me down.
It’s hard to shimmy shoulders with a dozen people’s scorn heaped on them, is what I’m saying.
And no, I SHOULD NO GIVE A DAMN what other people think of me, for I am too old for that nonsense, but my pride is still as strong as it was when I was young and unsure of myself and totally unwilling to make a mistake for fear of someone, anyone, noticing. Those old uncomfortable feelings never really go away, and I realize now that I’ll never have the self-confidence it takes to put myself out there, preferring instead to shine my little light when I know it’s totally safe.
Not like the woman I met this weekend who slow-danced with a stranger. He walked up to her, asked, and off she went. Just.Like.That! If I were her, I would have sooner died, and if death was not an option you can be sure the instant I raised an arm to drape around his neck my pits would rebel and I’d hyperhidrose all over the place. No cool cucumber, me.
--
ANYHOW.
Did I mention the 2 big girls on the stripper pole?
That action made me wicked uncomfortable for many reasons, the first of which spring to mind that it seems….pathetic. At the very least, it’s against some of the most basic precepts of my emotional/interpersonal makeup (see above) to be so flagrant. Perhaps this is why I’ve heard, more than once, that I seem to be aloof or cold. Whatever, man. Just because I won’t show you my titties an hour after we meet doesn’t mean I’m cold, it means my decorum is on high alert. Plus which, if we’re not on a date it’s a fair chance that I won’t even let you TOUCH my boobies, so flashing them is pretty much not going to happen. Suffice it to say then that once I saw what was going on (no nakedness was involved, THANK GOD), my internal propriety tyrant shouted 'get the hell out of here' and thus I donned my coat and beat a hasty retreat to the car for 'a breath of fresh air.'
Yep – if I ain’t turning into MY Gramma, then I’m turning into SOMEONE’S. Now get off my lawn before I fetch my cane to beat you with.
I gotta go take my Geritol. Y’all have a fungus-free afternoon.
I’ve never seen her git so druhnk so kweek
I’m Vice President of Quality Assurance at Company X.
More cowbell!
No thanks (when offered a free drink).
Poor thang, losin’ her job and not having balloons for her birthday. It’s just a shame, is all. No wonder she drank so much.
Ahm a CHEVY GIRL!
We’re going on a cruise in 2 weeks!
Stairway to Freebird!
--
See if you can sort that list into Bar A and Bar B.
--
So, Biff’s band ‘played out’ twice this weekend, and the experiences couldn’t almost not have been more different. (HUH?) Bar 1 was NASCAR-y and pool table-y and video slot-machine-y (but has a great stage), Bud and Bud light on tappy, and smoke-filled; bar 2 was retro design-y, yuppy, nonsmoke-y, 12 beers on tappy. You’d think that Bar 1 would have been full to the gills with enthusiastic people out looking for a good time, and Bar 2 would have been cleared out by 9 as Mummy and Daddy made their Hummere’d way home, and you’d be partly right. Bar 2 did largely clear out as the dining crowd finished chewing, and bar 1 did have several folks out looking to whoop it up, but overall it was Bar 2 that won the crowd participation award, hands down.
The old adage, handed down as lore to me by an ancient bartender years ago, that therere’s nothing like full dance floor to get a band energized, is true. To the point that the lead guitarist got his very own stalker/admirer, a lovely lady who looked to be in her middle 30’s and who therefore should have known better than to KEEP APPROACHING him while he’s playing. Seriously – dancing up to him, hips a-swiveling, arms stretched out to let the batwings wobble in the warm breeze created by her heaving chest. Oh, lovely.
It’s weird to watch grown women flirt like that, weird to watch them gyrate their pelvi on the dance floor, weird to see the hunger in their eyes as the third drink takes hold and their fading hormones rush to fuller bloom, rendering them, for the moment, capable of delicious fantasies involving the lead singer or whoever strikes their fancy.
Just so you know, I do not dance in public, especially when I know the band, and here's why: I don’t want people to ID me as ‘that woman who thinks she’s all that.’ Awkward enough being the spousal unit of the sexiest guy in the band, but to go out front and center to dance? Nah, thanks. That’s way too much attention-whoring for this old girl. I’ll keep my insane terpsichorean skillz at home, where I can go all-out pretending to be Miss Janet Jackson busting many a smoove moove, without the added weight of jealous strangers’ scrutiny (because hoo boy, I can dance!) holding me down.
It’s hard to shimmy shoulders with a dozen people’s scorn heaped on them, is what I’m saying.
And no, I SHOULD NO GIVE A DAMN what other people think of me, for I am too old for that nonsense, but my pride is still as strong as it was when I was young and unsure of myself and totally unwilling to make a mistake for fear of someone, anyone, noticing. Those old uncomfortable feelings never really go away, and I realize now that I’ll never have the self-confidence it takes to put myself out there, preferring instead to shine my little light when I know it’s totally safe.
Not like the woman I met this weekend who slow-danced with a stranger. He walked up to her, asked, and off she went. Just.Like.That! If I were her, I would have sooner died, and if death was not an option you can be sure the instant I raised an arm to drape around his neck my pits would rebel and I’d hyperhidrose all over the place. No cool cucumber, me.
--
ANYHOW.
Did I mention the 2 big girls on the stripper pole?
That action made me wicked uncomfortable for many reasons, the first of which spring to mind that it seems….pathetic. At the very least, it’s against some of the most basic precepts of my emotional/interpersonal makeup (see above) to be so flagrant. Perhaps this is why I’ve heard, more than once, that I seem to be aloof or cold. Whatever, man. Just because I won’t show you my titties an hour after we meet doesn’t mean I’m cold, it means my decorum is on high alert. Plus which, if we’re not on a date it’s a fair chance that I won’t even let you TOUCH my boobies, so flashing them is pretty much not going to happen. Suffice it to say then that once I saw what was going on (no nakedness was involved, THANK GOD), my internal propriety tyrant shouted 'get the hell out of here' and thus I donned my coat and beat a hasty retreat to the car for 'a breath of fresh air.'
Yep – if I ain’t turning into MY Gramma, then I’m turning into SOMEONE’S. Now get off my lawn before I fetch my cane to beat you with.
I gotta go take my Geritol. Y’all have a fungus-free afternoon.
Friday, February 05, 2010
Poe-pore-y
I think someone needs to write a movie with these lines in it:
"Lobsters and butter. Drawn butter. With pictures of a Dutch village on it, just to add class. Yeah man, that’s what I’m talkin’ about. CLASS."
Sadly, unless I write that movie, there’s real doubt if those words will ever be utter, by anyone.
Must get on that.
--
Might I just say now that if either of the Things comes home with a Jersey Shore haircut that I’m marching them right into the bathroom and washing that crap out of their hair, pronto?
I might, and did. The same goes for spray tans, those dorktastic hair bands, and LIP GLOSS ON BOYS. Just….no. I’d rather they go full-on emo than Guido. Really. Black goes with everything, while orange skin goes horrifyingly well with douchebaggery.
--
Work update:
Yet another personal phone call being taken by The Talker. Oh yes, the puppy is being super-super-super sweet! Yes she IS. Poor baby, being alone all day long, missing her mommles. What’s that you say? I’ll be home by 7 or so. Out where? Someplace in downtown is what I’m thinking, the warehouse district. Ya think? I did too, but not sure if he’s going to call again. It was loud. Right. Hey, that’s cool – we could totally do that. Uh-huh. But we’ll need chocolate. M&M’s maybe. Was that a bird I heard? Sounded like a bird. That was the dog? Poor widdle wumpkins, you should go have a snuggle with the sweetie.
(all true people. All true. And she’s not done yet. As an added bonus, it’s almost time for the daily afternoon trip to the vending machine for what must be the LOUDEST CHIPS IN THE WORLD which will be eaten with gusto and an open mouth because she can’t really breathe well through her nose, ever.)
--
In a couple of days I’m going be home alone for many days in a row. The LOML is travelling to foreign lands to do good works, leaving me the sole protector of the Tiny House until Thursday when the Things arrive once again. It is at this time that I have chosen to go ‘dry’ both in solidarity with Biff who will likely NOT be quaffing, and as an experiment in just how addicted AM I to those nightcaps. It wouldn’t really be fair to Biff for me to do this while he’s around, as I envision my overall mood might be hovering somewhere between ‘feral’ and ‘orc-ish’ as I embrace utter sobriety for 10 days in a row.
Y’all think I’m joking, but no. You know I likes me some drinkage, but it’s been getting a tad out of hand lately and it’s time to pull the plug. Heaven only knows how much will be accomplished as I wend my way through what is sure to be a weird week - why, I might even do my taxes, and bake a lot, and research ancient societies of Mesopotamian midgets, and possibly discover a hidden treasure in my crawlspace as I start digging it out teaspoonful by teaspoonful in preparation for the Roman-marble natatorium I might just have the energy to install.
Could happen.
Or, I could wind up being fine and simply be as lazy as I usually am.
Let’s hope for the latter, because really? We don’t need a pool in the crawlspace (but the treasure might be nice).
--
Busy weekend around these parts; two gigs for Biff’s band, which means we’re home by MAYBE 4 a.m. on the next mornings, and Sunday he’s flying out at 7 a.m. which means he’s to be at the airport by 5, which in turn means we’re going straight to the airport after the Saturday gig, after which I need to be at church by 8 to run the info booth (stupidly easy way to serve. I’m all about rocking the stupid), which of course means that if I don’t get a TON of sleep tomorrow I’ll be drooling into the offering envelopes Sunday morning.
Oh, this ought to be good.
"Lobsters and butter. Drawn butter. With pictures of a Dutch village on it, just to add class. Yeah man, that’s what I’m talkin’ about. CLASS."
Sadly, unless I write that movie, there’s real doubt if those words will ever be utter, by anyone.
Must get on that.
--
Might I just say now that if either of the Things comes home with a Jersey Shore haircut that I’m marching them right into the bathroom and washing that crap out of their hair, pronto?
I might, and did. The same goes for spray tans, those dorktastic hair bands, and LIP GLOSS ON BOYS. Just….no. I’d rather they go full-on emo than Guido. Really. Black goes with everything, while orange skin goes horrifyingly well with douchebaggery.
--
Work update:
Yet another personal phone call being taken by The Talker. Oh yes, the puppy is being super-super-super sweet! Yes she IS. Poor baby, being alone all day long, missing her mommles. What’s that you say? I’ll be home by 7 or so. Out where? Someplace in downtown is what I’m thinking, the warehouse district. Ya think? I did too, but not sure if he’s going to call again. It was loud. Right. Hey, that’s cool – we could totally do that. Uh-huh. But we’ll need chocolate. M&M’s maybe. Was that a bird I heard? Sounded like a bird. That was the dog? Poor widdle wumpkins, you should go have a snuggle with the sweetie.
(all true people. All true. And she’s not done yet. As an added bonus, it’s almost time for the daily afternoon trip to the vending machine for what must be the LOUDEST CHIPS IN THE WORLD which will be eaten with gusto and an open mouth because she can’t really breathe well through her nose, ever.)
--
In a couple of days I’m going be home alone for many days in a row. The LOML is travelling to foreign lands to do good works, leaving me the sole protector of the Tiny House until Thursday when the Things arrive once again. It is at this time that I have chosen to go ‘dry’ both in solidarity with Biff who will likely NOT be quaffing, and as an experiment in just how addicted AM I to those nightcaps. It wouldn’t really be fair to Biff for me to do this while he’s around, as I envision my overall mood might be hovering somewhere between ‘feral’ and ‘orc-ish’ as I embrace utter sobriety for 10 days in a row.
Y’all think I’m joking, but no. You know I likes me some drinkage, but it’s been getting a tad out of hand lately and it’s time to pull the plug. Heaven only knows how much will be accomplished as I wend my way through what is sure to be a weird week - why, I might even do my taxes, and bake a lot, and research ancient societies of Mesopotamian midgets, and possibly discover a hidden treasure in my crawlspace as I start digging it out teaspoonful by teaspoonful in preparation for the Roman-marble natatorium I might just have the energy to install.Could happen.
Or, I could wind up being fine and simply be as lazy as I usually am.
Let’s hope for the latter, because really? We don’t need a pool in the crawlspace (but the treasure might be nice).
--
Busy weekend around these parts; two gigs for Biff’s band, which means we’re home by MAYBE 4 a.m. on the next mornings, and Sunday he’s flying out at 7 a.m. which means he’s to be at the airport by 5, which in turn means we’re going straight to the airport after the Saturday gig, after which I need to be at church by 8 to run the info booth (stupidly easy way to serve. I’m all about rocking the stupid), which of course means that if I don’t get a TON of sleep tomorrow I’ll be drooling into the offering envelopes Sunday morning.
Oh, this ought to be good.
Thursday, February 04, 2010
$104.3 Million
The sculpture you see on the left just sold at auction for $104.3 million dollars.That's right. $104.3 MILLION.
Isn't there a world of good that can be done with that kind of money that doesn't involve the acquisition of copper knick-knacks destined to collect dust in the corner of some mega-rich person's overpriced penthouse?
What is it that's so special about this thing, anyhow? Looks like something any reasonable talented high-school kid could weld together in about a week. Does it somehow speak volumes about man's plight in the post-apocalytic techno jungle, or illustrate our isolation and slowly evolving ultra-limbs as we face the long slow walk into our destiny? Does this thing somehow encapsulate over a million dollars worth of encouragement or angst or inspiration or maybe diamonds? Because if it does, I'm not seeing it.
Sure, if one of my kids came home with this having turned it out for a class or whatever, I'd display it proudly because they're my lil' geniuses, but to pay that much coin for what looks to me to be an entirely ordinary piece of work is....irresponsible? Foolish? Uninformed?
To whomever bought this thing, might I suggest a new course of action when looking to dis-purse some fundage: lay 100K smackeroos on a THOUSAND people and see real joy, do real good, be real change.
Heh. Change. A joke!
--
Seems this isn't the first time I've bristled at what I perceive to be an astoundingly asinine way to relieve onesself of major amounts of money. Perhaps I am just jealous that it's not ME who has millions of dollars to blow on a few pounds of solder and rebar. OK, yes, I am jealous of that sort of money, but it's more than that. The kinds of people who HAVE ridiculously large bank accounts go about purchasing ridiculously expensive pieces of 'art' when the world is busy clawing its way out of recession, effectively thumbing their noses at those masses who are desperately clinging to the hope that 'things will get better.' It's just not a kind thing to do, the nose thumbing. Didn't we get over this kind of conspicuous consumption sometime last year, or have the closet shoppers come OUT and are now waving their filthy rich freak flag proudly once more?
If so, they should just stop it. Go back into hiding, disgustingly rich people! Go back into your dark wood-panelled hidey holes and be ashamed of your great wealth! Hire personal shoppers to do your dirty work (economic boost for the jobless), and please don't spend more than a thousand bucks at any one time (diversification, it's good for you AND me). Also note: paying 30 grand for a purse is just silly, so knock that off too. It's just a bag.
--
Of course nobody will listen to me, and we'll continue to see obnoxiously wealthy people wasting their money and perfectly horrible things like spindly art and ugly shoes. It's been like this since...forever, right? Might as well give up and accept it, right? Just be happy with being a little person, right?
You'd.Be.So.Wrong.
I reserve my right to bitch and whine and moan about this topic from now unto my very last breaths. It's the only thing I can do lavishly, and you know what? It's also free. So yeah - me being ranty and taking umbrage are good to go.
--
Speaking of 'going,' I am. Y'all have a great ol' day and try not to think too much about what YOU'D do with 104.3 million dollars. No good can come of it, I tell you. None at all.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Things I almost never do
Forget to eat
Forget to wipe
Chew with my mouth open
Cut up sushi before ingesting
Wear a hat
Use a lint brush
Pay attention for an entire meeting, no matter how short
Wish we had more cats
Shop for purses
Thought you should know.
Forget to wipe
Chew with my mouth open
Cut up sushi before ingesting
Wear a hat
Use a lint brush
Pay attention for an entire meeting, no matter how short
Wish we had more cats
Shop for purses
Thought you should know.
Monday, February 01, 2010
doesn't this just figure
The credit card company that is constantly sending me 'checks to use as I want' and offers to 'transfer balances from other cards and get a 0.00% APR for a year' has just informed me that the interest rate is going to go up starting January 2010.
Not just go up, but DOUBLE.
That's right. Double.
I am now looking around for things to sell so that I can pay off the balance on this card and get serious about paying off the other card. The hole into which I've spent myself over the last 3 years must be filled in so I can start to see some financial daylight.
One bright note: Tinkerbell is paid off. Dave Ramsey's 'debt snowballing' says to pay off the work van next, then the damn-fool HVAC we had to put in last year, THEN the lower-balance card, then the ultimate big-one card, but Lord knows I'd like to put paid to the folks who want to charge me double what they did last year just to walk away from those sorts of shenanigans. My sense of fairplay has been rubbed the wrong way by this recent turn of events, and the brief feeling of being on somewhat firm financial footing is beginning to slip and slide.
Might as well call into play another of the "Financial Peace" tricks - SELL SOMETHING. So, yeah, it's me and the research for the next little while to see how best to get this monkey off my back. Little poo-flinging effer has outlived its welcome.
-------
Day off of school AND work today. It's a bright sunshiny day, it's looking 8 kinds of inviting outside, and yet it's impossible to GET anywhere as 1) Biff had to take Tink to a job today as Lurch the truck won't budge out the driveway due to his very inefficient rear-wheel drive and 2) the local roads are a mess of black ice, slush, and regular old ice.
We went out yesterday afternoon to purchase the final supplies for the bathroom remodel, and what a nice surprise it was to be able to drive on actual pavement once we got to the main roads! Why, it made the torturous struggle of navigating the 3 miles of secondaries and feeders almost worth it to be able to glide along the main
highways at regular speed. FORGET the white-knuckling of the neighborhoods - Route 1 was actually DRY in places, thanks to the diligent work of our road crews! Well done, guys and gals! You just keep pushing the shoulders free of snow and we, the taxpayers of this fine state, will continue to hyperventilate in complete terror as mounds of slush on every OTHER road fling our car around like a carnival funhouse cart. And sure, we'll wait a few more days to have even the barest of attention paid to our local roads, never MIND our little ol' dead-end street. It's FINE to hang out here, waiting patiently day after day for some help from our self-funded D.O.T. Why, it's like homesteading, only within a MILE of what we know are good passable roads! Who WOULDN'T think that sounds like a giant LOAD of fun? Not me, I love hearing cars whizzing by in utter freedom while I remain stranded like a flounder on a hot dock, panting desperately for the comfort it knows is but one flop into the water away. That's me - I'm a dehydrated flounder over here, panting for some small breath of attention. Hear me PANT, road doods, and do something about it!!! I am the pretty princess of peril and need your help to find the final jewel to adorn my crown and turn it into the Lost Treasure of the Apocolope, which will free the fettered herds of ungulates that previously roamed the Plains of Yargh! DO IT NOW!
-oh-
Sorry.
I might just be a little stir crazy, is all. Maybe. Ya think?
----------
Oh, that's about it for today. My blood is starting to boil thinking of that damned credit card situation. They're thisclose to getting a very tersely worded phone call from me asking ohsonicely to put the rates back where they were, dammit, and I won't continue to shoot hate beams at them from 120 miles away. Grrrrr....
But y'all have a lovely day, all right? I'll be here doing all the laundry I can and washing dishes and basically just pretending to be Laura Ingalls Wilder for yet another day, only without the corsets and petticoats. If it gets really bad, I might just start baking. Again.
Not just go up, but DOUBLE.
That's right. Double.
I am now looking around for things to sell so that I can pay off the balance on this card and get serious about paying off the other card. The hole into which I've spent myself over the last 3 years must be filled in so I can start to see some financial daylight.
One bright note: Tinkerbell is paid off. Dave Ramsey's 'debt snowballing' says to pay off the work van next, then the damn-fool HVAC we had to put in last year, THEN the lower-balance card, then the ultimate big-one card, but Lord knows I'd like to put paid to the folks who want to charge me double what they did last year just to walk away from those sorts of shenanigans. My sense of fairplay has been rubbed the wrong way by this recent turn of events, and the brief feeling of being on somewhat firm financial footing is beginning to slip and slide.
Might as well call into play another of the "Financial Peace" tricks - SELL SOMETHING. So, yeah, it's me and the research for the next little while to see how best to get this monkey off my back. Little poo-flinging effer has outlived its welcome.
-------
Day off of school AND work today. It's a bright sunshiny day, it's looking 8 kinds of inviting outside, and yet it's impossible to GET anywhere as 1) Biff had to take Tink to a job today as Lurch the truck won't budge out the driveway due to his very inefficient rear-wheel drive and 2) the local roads are a mess of black ice, slush, and regular old ice.
We went out yesterday afternoon to purchase the final supplies for the bathroom remodel, and what a nice surprise it was to be able to drive on actual pavement once we got to the main roads! Why, it made the torturous struggle of navigating the 3 miles of secondaries and feeders almost worth it to be able to glide along the main
highways at regular speed. FORGET the white-knuckling of the neighborhoods - Route 1 was actually DRY in places, thanks to the diligent work of our road crews! Well done, guys and gals! You just keep pushing the shoulders free of snow and we, the taxpayers of this fine state, will continue to hyperventilate in complete terror as mounds of slush on every OTHER road fling our car around like a carnival funhouse cart. And sure, we'll wait a few more days to have even the barest of attention paid to our local roads, never MIND our little ol' dead-end street. It's FINE to hang out here, waiting patiently day after day for some help from our self-funded D.O.T. Why, it's like homesteading, only within a MILE of what we know are good passable roads! Who WOULDN'T think that sounds like a giant LOAD of fun? Not me, I love hearing cars whizzing by in utter freedom while I remain stranded like a flounder on a hot dock, panting desperately for the comfort it knows is but one flop into the water away. That's me - I'm a dehydrated flounder over here, panting for some small breath of attention. Hear me PANT, road doods, and do something about it!!! I am the pretty princess of peril and need your help to find the final jewel to adorn my crown and turn it into the Lost Treasure of the Apocolope, which will free the fettered herds of ungulates that previously roamed the Plains of Yargh! DO IT NOW!-oh-
Sorry.
I might just be a little stir crazy, is all. Maybe. Ya think?
----------
Oh, that's about it for today. My blood is starting to boil thinking of that damned credit card situation. They're thisclose to getting a very tersely worded phone call from me asking ohsonicely to put the rates back where they were, dammit, and I won't continue to shoot hate beams at them from 120 miles away. Grrrrr....
But y'all have a lovely day, all right? I'll be here doing all the laundry I can and washing dishes and basically just pretending to be Laura Ingalls Wilder for yet another day, only without the corsets and petticoats. If it gets really bad, I might just start baking. Again.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Hi, my name is Tiff
It’s gotten so I don’t even hide it anymore. Time was I’d try to cover up my addiction, pretending to be better than I really am, but now I don’t really care who knows or sees that I can’t go a day without it. What does it really matter anyway? It’s not like being an addict changes much about who I really am, because it’s part of who I am and that compulsion is a bit of what makes me tick.
So no, I won’t just quit a game of Bejeweled Blitz because someone walks up to my cubicle. I won’t even try to hide the screen anymore. They can be made aware of how dependent I am on a stupid 1-minute web game, and if they’re offended? Well, that’s just their problem.
I STILL won’t use the boosts though. I do have my principles, you know.
--
Purchasing an extra-deep tub for the shower remodeling project was a fabulous idea. I’d show you a picture of it, but that’s not terrifically exciting when all that’s to be had are the catalog photos off the Lowe’s page. Far more exciting is the sensation of soaking in neck-deep hot-hot water, gently bobbing up and down with each breath, watching steam rise from the surface and listening to the gentle lap of wavelets against the UNSCARRED and SINGLE-COLOR sides.
Ah, bliss in a bucket, it is.
Gone is the old partly harvest gold, partly spray-on white finish. Gone is the line of black schlyme at the top of the shower surround, the filthy/gunky hardware, the clunky tub stopper. GONE! Sweet Maria, what relief. It feels GOOD to sit in a tubby now, letting the water gurgle and splash, and even though there’s no real spigot for filling (instead a foot-long piece of pipe pokes out of the wall and shoots a stream of water halfway into the tub, which is kind of cool but probably hazardous on a long-term basis) and even though there’s no shower head (yet!), the experience of bathing is ever so much more sublime than it was a week ago.
We’re officially through the “hack at stuff with the Sawzall” and “rip out yards of trim” and “be grossed out by how truly nasty everything was behind those walls” stage already. Demo is done, now it’s time to put it all back together. Biff is on the job, and I’m wicked proud of him and his skills. Not to be too girly about it, but there is something nice about having a handy dude around the house. It’s fun to watch boys operating power tools!
Yes, dear feminist friends, I’m sure I could do most of this stuff by myself, and in fact HAVE done similar things before, but it’s a whole heck of a lot better to turn the reins over to someone who does reno for a living instead of stutter-stepping through a process in half-blind hesitation, praying that the plumbing doesn’t leak or the tiles don’t fall off the walls three days after install. Sometimes it pays to 'hire' a pro. :)
--
Also, has it really been since TUESDAY that I posted? Dang. No excuse at all, no reason either (said ‘EYE-ther,’ please), just…haven’t. Something about not having much to say, I’m thinking. Also, Facebook.
And watching the kittens play.
And going to tile shops and lawyer’s offices.
And being very lazy.
Somewhere there's a big black hole that is taking the hours in the day and crushing them down into tiny specks of time, rendering them nearly useless for anything but pursuit of quick pleasures, for that is what one does with infinitesimal bits of chronology – one jams as much fun stuff into them as possible while ignoring most of the drudge work, which explains the giant pile of laundry and the leaves on the kitchen floor.
So much can be attributed to black holes, and with good effect, don’t you think?
--
Y’all PLEASE have a lovely weekend. We’re bracing for winter weather here, and I’m sure the 2-4 inches of snow that are expected will make it a real horrorshow on the highways and byways. Yee-HAW!!! We'll be watching the news tonight!
So no, I won’t just quit a game of Bejeweled Blitz because someone walks up to my cubicle. I won’t even try to hide the screen anymore. They can be made aware of how dependent I am on a stupid 1-minute web game, and if they’re offended? Well, that’s just their problem.
I STILL won’t use the boosts though. I do have my principles, you know.
--
Purchasing an extra-deep tub for the shower remodeling project was a fabulous idea. I’d show you a picture of it, but that’s not terrifically exciting when all that’s to be had are the catalog photos off the Lowe’s page. Far more exciting is the sensation of soaking in neck-deep hot-hot water, gently bobbing up and down with each breath, watching steam rise from the surface and listening to the gentle lap of wavelets against the UNSCARRED and SINGLE-COLOR sides.
Ah, bliss in a bucket, it is.
Gone is the old partly harvest gold, partly spray-on white finish. Gone is the line of black schlyme at the top of the shower surround, the filthy/gunky hardware, the clunky tub stopper. GONE! Sweet Maria, what relief. It feels GOOD to sit in a tubby now, letting the water gurgle and splash, and even though there’s no real spigot for filling (instead a foot-long piece of pipe pokes out of the wall and shoots a stream of water halfway into the tub, which is kind of cool but probably hazardous on a long-term basis) and even though there’s no shower head (yet!), the experience of bathing is ever so much more sublime than it was a week ago.
We’re officially through the “hack at stuff with the Sawzall” and “rip out yards of trim” and “be grossed out by how truly nasty everything was behind those walls” stage already. Demo is done, now it’s time to put it all back together. Biff is on the job, and I’m wicked proud of him and his skills. Not to be too girly about it, but there is something nice about having a handy dude around the house. It’s fun to watch boys operating power tools!
Yes, dear feminist friends, I’m sure I could do most of this stuff by myself, and in fact HAVE done similar things before, but it’s a whole heck of a lot better to turn the reins over to someone who does reno for a living instead of stutter-stepping through a process in half-blind hesitation, praying that the plumbing doesn’t leak or the tiles don’t fall off the walls three days after install. Sometimes it pays to 'hire' a pro. :)
--
Also, has it really been since TUESDAY that I posted? Dang. No excuse at all, no reason either (said ‘EYE-ther,’ please), just…haven’t. Something about not having much to say, I’m thinking. Also, Facebook.
And watching the kittens play.
And going to tile shops and lawyer’s offices.
And being very lazy.
Somewhere there's a big black hole that is taking the hours in the day and crushing them down into tiny specks of time, rendering them nearly useless for anything but pursuit of quick pleasures, for that is what one does with infinitesimal bits of chronology – one jams as much fun stuff into them as possible while ignoring most of the drudge work, which explains the giant pile of laundry and the leaves on the kitchen floor.
So much can be attributed to black holes, and with good effect, don’t you think?
--
Y’all PLEASE have a lovely weekend. We’re bracing for winter weather here, and I’m sure the 2-4 inches of snow that are expected will make it a real horrorshow on the highways and byways. Yee-HAW!!! We'll be watching the news tonight!
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
oooh, a ranty one!
I wish the Facebook would quit mentioning my age in every dang advert they sidebar. I KNOW how freaking old I am, I don’t CARE for it, so quit reminding me.
And no, I don’t want any UGG boots, any auto insurance, any tips to whiter teeth, and simple rules for losing my age’s worth of pounds (and how dare you for implying the degree of my lard-assedness, anyhow?). I don’t think the president really cares that I go back to school, those dancing ladies will NOT get me to purchase any product whatsoever, and I daresay that Mr. Obama could identify someone in our vast governmental bureaucracy to urge me to refinance rather than doing it himself.
I refuse to click on those links. Won’t you pledge to not do the same, and use this as your FB status for at least an hour today?
--
Also, just as a little op-ed thing, it’s my humble opinion that Bejeweled Blitz did not need to get any better. Why, it was just last week that the fine folks at FB (or was it PopCap?) asked our opinion of the newest beta version of their deliciously addicting game, fooling us naysayers of the new bells and whistles into believing that hey might actually be listening to us and possibly NOT deploy what, to this purist, looks like a cheat-ridden upgrade. There’s no need to purchase an extra 5 seconds of play time, is there? The game’s a minute long, you make as many good moves as you can, some games are great and some suck hobo toes, and that’s the way of life. You can’t purchase an extra few years at the end of your life just go get more points out of it, CAN YOU? No, you can’t, and so neither should you be able to buy your way into more points in a game like this.
IMHO only. Lots of folks seemed to love the new ‘improvements.’ They’re probably the ones who can’t break 100K on the regular pro version of the game. Buncha whiny babies, wanting a way to purchase a higher score, and FB GAVE it to them, regardless of what high-scoring mavens of the game (like me!) had to say. Sure, our comments counted. Not. I feel so ripped off, so undervalued. I haven’t spent HOURS A DAY over the last few months driving up my score to claw to the top of the leaderboard for NOTHING. It was hard work, requiring focus and dedication, and now some snot-nosed punk with no skill but hours to spend racking up points to but a special gem AND more time AND whatever other flat-out cheats are for offer will be able to sail to the top with no mention at ALL of that fact that he (or she) BOUGHT their way to the top. Their sullied scores will be as shiny and awe-inspiring as those from someone like me who fully intends to NOT buy their shiny new badges to flim-flam a world-ending point tally.
Now, ask me how I really feel about some stupid minute-long game that’s taken way too much of my time and attention. I'd be glad to tell you.
--
Oh, and it’s that time of year again when I declare that I’m officially sick and tired of being fat and vow to ‘do something about it.’ Seems the weight-loss fairies did NOT visit me this past holiday season (again!) and whisk away with 20 or some extra pounds (a good start), so it's apparently fallen to me to offload 'em myself.
Doesn’t help that this year there’s a significant HS reunion coming up, and the start reality is that if I lose a pound a week in preparation I’ll still be…
Wait…let me get the abacus…
Only about halfway to what I’d really like to lose, all in all. Frighteningly similar to what Facebook thinks I need to lose.
*Sigh*
Plastic surgery seems the easier option at this point.
--
Gotta go. Much to do and the day’s growing short. Y’all stay as smooth as just-brushed teeth, mmkay?
And no, I don’t want any UGG boots, any auto insurance, any tips to whiter teeth, and simple rules for losing my age’s worth of pounds (and how dare you for implying the degree of my lard-assedness, anyhow?). I don’t think the president really cares that I go back to school, those dancing ladies will NOT get me to purchase any product whatsoever, and I daresay that Mr. Obama could identify someone in our vast governmental bureaucracy to urge me to refinance rather than doing it himself.
I refuse to click on those links. Won’t you pledge to not do the same, and use this as your FB status for at least an hour today?
--
Also, just as a little op-ed thing, it’s my humble opinion that Bejeweled Blitz did not need to get any better. Why, it was just last week that the fine folks at FB (or was it PopCap?) asked our opinion of the newest beta version of their deliciously addicting game, fooling us naysayers of the new bells and whistles into believing that hey might actually be listening to us and possibly NOT deploy what, to this purist, looks like a cheat-ridden upgrade. There’s no need to purchase an extra 5 seconds of play time, is there? The game’s a minute long, you make as many good moves as you can, some games are great and some suck hobo toes, and that’s the way of life. You can’t purchase an extra few years at the end of your life just go get more points out of it, CAN YOU? No, you can’t, and so neither should you be able to buy your way into more points in a game like this.IMHO only. Lots of folks seemed to love the new ‘improvements.’ They’re probably the ones who can’t break 100K on the regular pro version of the game. Buncha whiny babies, wanting a way to purchase a higher score, and FB GAVE it to them, regardless of what high-scoring mavens of the game (like me!) had to say. Sure, our comments counted. Not. I feel so ripped off, so undervalued. I haven’t spent HOURS A DAY over the last few months driving up my score to claw to the top of the leaderboard for NOTHING. It was hard work, requiring focus and dedication, and now some snot-nosed punk with no skill but hours to spend racking up points to but a special gem AND more time AND whatever other flat-out cheats are for offer will be able to sail to the top with no mention at ALL of that fact that he (or she) BOUGHT their way to the top. Their sullied scores will be as shiny and awe-inspiring as those from someone like me who fully intends to NOT buy their shiny new badges to flim-flam a world-ending point tally.
Now, ask me how I really feel about some stupid minute-long game that’s taken way too much of my time and attention. I'd be glad to tell you.
--
Oh, and it’s that time of year again when I declare that I’m officially sick and tired of being fat and vow to ‘do something about it.’ Seems the weight-loss fairies did NOT visit me this past holiday season (again!) and whisk away with 20 or some extra pounds (a good start), so it's apparently fallen to me to offload 'em myself.
Doesn’t help that this year there’s a significant HS reunion coming up, and the start reality is that if I lose a pound a week in preparation I’ll still be…
Wait…let me get the abacus…
Only about halfway to what I’d really like to lose, all in all. Frighteningly similar to what Facebook thinks I need to lose.
*Sigh*
Plastic surgery seems the easier option at this point.
--
Gotta go. Much to do and the day’s growing short. Y’all stay as smooth as just-brushed teeth, mmkay?
Monday, January 25, 2010
It's just not Wheaties if there ain't no wheat.
So, there’s sushi to look forward to.
And then a trip to a lawyer’s office to start the process of writing up wills and estate plans and naming executors and guardians and Grand Lord Poohbahs if anything terribly untoward should happen to me or Biff in the next several years.
Also, benefits to sign up for at work – which plan at which deductible, how many multiples of annual salary to take as life insurance, dental preventive or just dental discount, etc etc blah blah blippity blah.
Never mind the work stuff, which I just made up a list of for ‘to do’ and which now sits glaring at me in orange dry-erase marker over my right shoulder, daring me to take a bite out of it, go on, just TRY.
All of which buzzes around my bleary noggin, for a combination of
1) some mystery really really BAD smell in the house plus
2) being a touch too warm plus
3) a restless spouse plus
4) kittens playing with toys at 3:45 a.m.
combined to make for a very odd rest after waking up at the aforementioned 3:45 a.m.. Amelioration action items included:
a) opening the BR window to help with the smell (which I suspect is coming from the dog),
b) ignoring the cats as much as possible because we all know that nothing will calm down a cataranging kitten (much less TWO of them), and
c) kicking off the covers to help with the warmth,
but even so, the sleep I got in the second half of the night was the semi-awakey kind when the act of falling asleep is accompanied by the sensation of falling which in turn wakes a body up so that one can catch ones-self before impact. That, and every time I thought I was falling asleep it felt like I was choking, and so had to wake up to fix THAT lil’ problem. Eventually, thankfully, there was some sleep happening, but because I’m me the rest was not restful and instead filled with dreams of gigantic dual-rotor helicopters whizzing overhead, tornadoes that seemed to want to chase only me and my family, trying to hold onto children while in the midst of said tornado, and other Armaggedon-ish nightmares. Something tells me I shouldn’t have started a conversation about the end times with Biff over nachos and cocktails last night, for while I learned a great deal about his personal philosophies and beliefs on that subject, my brain is still just beginning to gnaw on the low-hanging fruit of that particular tale, therefore rendering it all too active trying to chew the philosophical cud during the semiconscious hours.
Oh, and we ripped out the tub/shower last night, so there’s not even the clarifying balm of a scalding hot shower to put into play. Eh, once we put in the brand-spanking new super-deep soaking tub, that little item will be somewhat rectified. Now there’s merely the questions of what kind of tile to put in, in what pattern, and with what grout. Let’s hear it for spur-of-the-moment renovation decisions! Even if they are accompanied by a thick coating of “OMG that’s so gross” when the tub comes free and all the gross moldy damp mouse-chewed insulation and backerboard become apparent. This is what rubber gloves were invented for, and why having about 800 55-gallon contractor’s trash bags at the ready is such a good idea. Because dang – don’t touch that crap but let’s get all of it out of the house as soon as possible. Also, try hard to not breathe very often, because fiberglass and mold and mouse ick = nothing you want to have in your lungs. At all. Ever. It’s cleaned up now, and is airing out, but that hole in the floor where the plumbing comes up from the crawl space is squicking me out and must be dealt with soon else I have visions of rat heads peeping at me while I’m pooping. It’s me, people, you know it’s only a matter of time.
Anyhow, there’s sushi to look forward to. Maybe a heaping helping of wasabi (wasaaaaaabi!) will help clear my head and get me to a place of unmuzziness. Could happen, but don't bet the farm on it.
Keep on rocking, y'all. See you around.
And then a trip to a lawyer’s office to start the process of writing up wills and estate plans and naming executors and guardians and Grand Lord Poohbahs if anything terribly untoward should happen to me or Biff in the next several years.
Also, benefits to sign up for at work – which plan at which deductible, how many multiples of annual salary to take as life insurance, dental preventive or just dental discount, etc etc blah blah blippity blah.
Never mind the work stuff, which I just made up a list of for ‘to do’ and which now sits glaring at me in orange dry-erase marker over my right shoulder, daring me to take a bite out of it, go on, just TRY.
All of which buzzes around my bleary noggin, for a combination of
1) some mystery really really BAD smell in the house plus
2) being a touch too warm plus
3) a restless spouse plus
4) kittens playing with toys at 3:45 a.m.
combined to make for a very odd rest after waking up at the aforementioned 3:45 a.m.. Amelioration action items included:
a) opening the BR window to help with the smell (which I suspect is coming from the dog),
b) ignoring the cats as much as possible because we all know that nothing will calm down a cataranging kitten (much less TWO of them), and
c) kicking off the covers to help with the warmth,
but even so, the sleep I got in the second half of the night was the semi-awakey kind when the act of falling asleep is accompanied by the sensation of falling which in turn wakes a body up so that one can catch ones-self before impact. That, and every time I thought I was falling asleep it felt like I was choking, and so had to wake up to fix THAT lil’ problem. Eventually, thankfully, there was some sleep happening, but because I’m me the rest was not restful and instead filled with dreams of gigantic dual-rotor helicopters whizzing overhead, tornadoes that seemed to want to chase only me and my family, trying to hold onto children while in the midst of said tornado, and other Armaggedon-ish nightmares. Something tells me I shouldn’t have started a conversation about the end times with Biff over nachos and cocktails last night, for while I learned a great deal about his personal philosophies and beliefs on that subject, my brain is still just beginning to gnaw on the low-hanging fruit of that particular tale, therefore rendering it all too active trying to chew the philosophical cud during the semiconscious hours.
Oh, and we ripped out the tub/shower last night, so there’s not even the clarifying balm of a scalding hot shower to put into play. Eh, once we put in the brand-spanking new super-deep soaking tub, that little item will be somewhat rectified. Now there’s merely the questions of what kind of tile to put in, in what pattern, and with what grout. Let’s hear it for spur-of-the-moment renovation decisions! Even if they are accompanied by a thick coating of “OMG that’s so gross” when the tub comes free and all the gross moldy damp mouse-chewed insulation and backerboard become apparent. This is what rubber gloves were invented for, and why having about 800 55-gallon contractor’s trash bags at the ready is such a good idea. Because dang – don’t touch that crap but let’s get all of it out of the house as soon as possible. Also, try hard to not breathe very often, because fiberglass and mold and mouse ick = nothing you want to have in your lungs. At all. Ever. It’s cleaned up now, and is airing out, but that hole in the floor where the plumbing comes up from the crawl space is squicking me out and must be dealt with soon else I have visions of rat heads peeping at me while I’m pooping. It’s me, people, you know it’s only a matter of time.
Anyhow, there’s sushi to look forward to. Maybe a heaping helping of wasabi (wasaaaaaabi!) will help clear my head and get me to a place of unmuzziness. Could happen, but don't bet the farm on it.
Keep on rocking, y'all. See you around.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Title goes here
The email system at work has been down for 2 days now. You'd think that would make a person happy, but no. No email also means no contacts, no calendar, no access to those messages I was storing until 'later when I could get to them,' which of course is now.
Essentially, I'm stagnated on the important stuff and have access to only the back-burner items. Weird. Bottom line is that it could well be that the pile of approval forms stacked on my desk will get to archiving today, and perhaps that 60-page document that explains all the new company benefits might get read. After that, it's anyone's guess as to how my time will be allotted. Many a hallway conversation might be in the near future, and that would also be weird as this company tends to live on email. Face to actual FACE with someone? Perish the notion.
---------------------
I LOL'ed yesterday at this:
Passive agressivness FTW!
--------------------
Last week, on the first leg of our journey north, something amazing happened that might well be a normal part of how the day passes to night, but I don't think so. We were flying at sunset, a gorgeous time to be in the air, and as the sun was going down we were still above the clouds, so sunset took a gloriously long time. The WAY it set was extra-special, it seems, because as it slid over the edge of vision it left behind a horizon-wide rainbow.
Seriously. ROYGBIV from the bottom up, stretching as far as the light was wide, reaching up into black night sky. Not your normal sunset, at least not like those I've seen as a ground-based unit.
The spectrum persisted as long as there was light, and as time went on it became deeper and more burnished, until all the colors ran together into umber then faded into a slice of light right at the edge of the earth. It was spectacular, and then it was night.
Don't think I'll ever forget it, and even if that sort of show gets put on every day at 35,000 feet, my opportunity to see it is so limited that this might have been my only chance. Best to not take it for granted.
Essentially, I'm stagnated on the important stuff and have access to only the back-burner items. Weird. Bottom line is that it could well be that the pile of approval forms stacked on my desk will get to archiving today, and perhaps that 60-page document that explains all the new company benefits might get read. After that, it's anyone's guess as to how my time will be allotted. Many a hallway conversation might be in the near future, and that would also be weird as this company tends to live on email. Face to actual FACE with someone? Perish the notion.
---------------------
I LOL'ed yesterday at this:
Passive agressivness FTW!
--------------------
Last week, on the first leg of our journey north, something amazing happened that might well be a normal part of how the day passes to night, but I don't think so. We were flying at sunset, a gorgeous time to be in the air, and as the sun was going down we were still above the clouds, so sunset took a gloriously long time. The WAY it set was extra-special, it seems, because as it slid over the edge of vision it left behind a horizon-wide rainbow.
Seriously. ROYGBIV from the bottom up, stretching as far as the light was wide, reaching up into black night sky. Not your normal sunset, at least not like those I've seen as a ground-based unit.
The spectrum persisted as long as there was light, and as time went on it became deeper and more burnished, until all the colors ran together into umber then faded into a slice of light right at the edge of the earth. It was spectacular, and then it was night.
Don't think I'll ever forget it, and even if that sort of show gets put on every day at 35,000 feet, my opportunity to see it is so limited that this might have been my only chance. Best to not take it for granted.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Time for a change
Dudes.
Whoa.
That was one tough week.
-----
And it's at this point I decide to, because it is my natural bent, go back to the comfort of everyday life. Sorry folks, but the sob story will go underground at the least and completely covert at the worst.
--------------
Can't believe the Dems lost the blasted seat. Is there NOTHING more sacred in politics than that seat from MA?
-----------------
The 2 new kittens in the house are quickly turning into cats. They should be neutered/spayed by the time they're 6months old, and we have no idea how old they are now.
Sucks. They might be bereft of HRBLS and KTCNTS any days now.
Sorry guyz!
---------------
Love y'all. I'm out.
Whoa.
That was one tough week.
-----
And it's at this point I decide to, because it is my natural bent, go back to the comfort of everyday life. Sorry folks, but the sob story will go underground at the least and completely covert at the worst.
--------------
Can't believe the Dems lost the blasted seat. Is there NOTHING more sacred in politics than that seat from MA?
-----------------
The 2 new kittens in the house are quickly turning into cats. They should be neutered/spayed by the time they're 6months old, and we have no idea how old they are now.
Sucks. They might be bereft of HRBLS and KTCNTS any days now.
Sorry guyz!
---------------
Love y'all. I'm out.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
A quiet day
After yesterday, folks around these parts pretty much shut down. Our personal local news superseded all other, the biting wind and brilliant sun of a Michigan winter afternoon wiping away concern for anything else.
As the casket was raised to its new home 4 rows high and moved into the empty crypt, all therein gathered watched in silence. The scrape of plastic tray against concrete was the only accompaniment to my father-in-law's final ride. Someone maybe should have played a soundtrack of motorcycle engine with an Amazing Grace chaser, but those were details not thought of until the moment had come and nearly gone.
So too were the details surrounding how seating arrangements at the funeral would be worked out. As the spouse of one of the bereaved, it was my place to sit up front with him during the service. As the second wife of one of the bereaved; whose first wife, their kids, and her new husband were in attendance and sitting in the third row; seating arrangements became very dicey very quickly. In the end, my actions were cowardly and I sat in the back, 50 feet from Biff, watching the service like a stranger. At the moment, it seemed to me that sitting up front would have been an affront to those who had shared so much more history than me, legal and binding marriages notwithstanding. I'm not proud of how I chose to act; in fact, I am ashamed of the cowardice which I shrouded in a blanket of 'sensitivity for the family.' My place was with him, and I failed. Never again will this be allowed to happen. I am his, he is mine, and we are part of this big family together. That much was preached to me by more than one family member after the service, and I must step up and take my place, because these are people that it wouldn't really 'do' to disappoint. Nice people never are.
Watching grief take place is bizarre. Knowing that mourning is in active process, and not being able to fully engage with the assembled masses is disenfranchising. Thank goodness the funeral came with a strong message of hope, of peace, of connectedness and forgiveness. There were no loud bursts of weeping, no overt shows of sadness; instead the final goodbyes were messages of salvation, love, service, and redemption. Fellow chaplains, fellow motorcycle riders, fellow model airplane makers, old neighbors, former coworkers, and not a few former inmates to whom he ministered were in attendance. The homages were honest, heartfelt, poetic at times. To have such witness to a life served well is a testament to a man who meant to save the world, one lost soul at at a time. To see the measure of his success in the people who spoke of their love and admiration for him is inspiring. Bonds were forged, tears were shed, and then there was lunch.
Not a bad way to send off a man of such diverse interests, of such deep faith, of such strong family ties.
Still, too damn soon.
As the casket was raised to its new home 4 rows high and moved into the empty crypt, all therein gathered watched in silence. The scrape of plastic tray against concrete was the only accompaniment to my father-in-law's final ride. Someone maybe should have played a soundtrack of motorcycle engine with an Amazing Grace chaser, but those were details not thought of until the moment had come and nearly gone.
So too were the details surrounding how seating arrangements at the funeral would be worked out. As the spouse of one of the bereaved, it was my place to sit up front with him during the service. As the second wife of one of the bereaved; whose first wife, their kids, and her new husband were in attendance and sitting in the third row; seating arrangements became very dicey very quickly. In the end, my actions were cowardly and I sat in the back, 50 feet from Biff, watching the service like a stranger. At the moment, it seemed to me that sitting up front would have been an affront to those who had shared so much more history than me, legal and binding marriages notwithstanding. I'm not proud of how I chose to act; in fact, I am ashamed of the cowardice which I shrouded in a blanket of 'sensitivity for the family.' My place was with him, and I failed. Never again will this be allowed to happen. I am his, he is mine, and we are part of this big family together. That much was preached to me by more than one family member after the service, and I must step up and take my place, because these are people that it wouldn't really 'do' to disappoint. Nice people never are.
Watching grief take place is bizarre. Knowing that mourning is in active process, and not being able to fully engage with the assembled masses is disenfranchising. Thank goodness the funeral came with a strong message of hope, of peace, of connectedness and forgiveness. There were no loud bursts of weeping, no overt shows of sadness; instead the final goodbyes were messages of salvation, love, service, and redemption. Fellow chaplains, fellow motorcycle riders, fellow model airplane makers, old neighbors, former coworkers, and not a few former inmates to whom he ministered were in attendance. The homages were honest, heartfelt, poetic at times. To have such witness to a life served well is a testament to a man who meant to save the world, one lost soul at at a time. To see the measure of his success in the people who spoke of their love and admiration for him is inspiring. Bonds were forged, tears were shed, and then there was lunch.
Not a bad way to send off a man of such diverse interests, of such deep faith, of such strong family ties.
Still, too damn soon.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
How things are different
It’s a little after 8 p.m. as I write this. I’m sitting in a bookstore listening to a Russian girl talk on the phone, listening to a group of folks talk about housing prices in Guatemala, listening to the whirr and gurgle of a cappuccino maker, and listening for the phone’s ring signaling that the coast is clear for me to return to the funeral home. Not that I want to, not really, because they’re not all that great to hang out in, but would rather be there in support than stranded here, waiting. But, in order to be reasonable, mature, accommodating, understanding, and sensitive, my exile to the bookstore is necessary. A learning experience, driving a strange car through strange streets at night in winter, a stranded weird escape from just a little too much family.
These past few days have felt very out-of-place, as we’re staying at the home of the deceased, sleeping in what was the master bedroom, combing through piles and piles of papers looking for those bits and pieces that will indicate what the plans were for end-of-life issues or if indeed we’re totally hanging in the fierce breezes of chaos. Despite some very assiduous digging through what seem to be the important papers, there is no current will. There is nothing filed with the county either. There is no clear indication of how much insurance was carried, who the beneficiaries might be, how big is the estate, what he actually owns and what the bank really owns, who’s liening on whom, and just how to move forward with so much remaining a mystery. What’s clear though is that Biff is going to have to return to his home state soon; the task of cleaning up, digging out, straightening up, moving forward is just too huge to be done in a week, even with many hands working at the Herculean task. Life moves on and is leaving a certain whiff of dread in the air as the hours march past. Too much to do, not enough time to do it, and then there’s the question of the cat.
It should come as no surprise then that the idea of a bourbonless January has flown out the window like a cartoon safe. Some things require medicating; the facts of this matter demand liberal applications of feel-good juice at regular intervals. Yes, yes, I could be strong and do this thing stone-cold sober, but that would mean existing through yet another death experience fully aware of how much it hurts. The familial grief and brave face of mourning picks at the scabs of my own experiences with death, and I’d really rather that exercise be blunted with the fumblefingeredness of a little happy glow. Being too aware, being too nimble, could lead to too-adroit uncovering of old deep hurts, a thing to be avoided when running ‘support services’ for a family who has been plunged deep into the heart of sudden mourning.
Having buried my own Dad 18 years ago, having buried my former father-in-law nearly 10 years ago, I have some practice on what to expect, but nothing is ever the same as the time before. This time I’m not in the core of hurt, which is a relief but odd at the same time as I’m married to someone who is at the center of a world-shattering experience. As I see it, this time around it is my job to be capable, to be strong, to be calm and cool. Being weepy and teary-eyed would be a touch disingenuous, for the length and depth of the family’s hurt is a decades-long history of love and family I don’t yet share. All I can hope to do in these days and hours is to be a strong-enough partner, a source of relief for those who utterly exhausted at being so very sad, and maybe a voice of experience and reason and hope. So I speak with the chatty, we get to know one another through 5-minute interchanges over coffee in the back room. I sit at a table sharing dinner with almost-strangers who are family, hoping I don’t do anything too foolish or say anything too stupid. I smile and laugh, hug and listen and hope like heck I’m doing it right, for this family, in this time. They are wonderful people, and deserve so much better than this precipitous launch on a monstrous dark journey.
One step at a time, one tiny baby step after another toward resolution and out of a world of hurt. After tomorrow, after the funeral, after the bashing together of this world and the next, we start the walk toward what becomes the new normal, knowing nothing will ever be the same.
These past few days have felt very out-of-place, as we’re staying at the home of the deceased, sleeping in what was the master bedroom, combing through piles and piles of papers looking for those bits and pieces that will indicate what the plans were for end-of-life issues or if indeed we’re totally hanging in the fierce breezes of chaos. Despite some very assiduous digging through what seem to be the important papers, there is no current will. There is nothing filed with the county either. There is no clear indication of how much insurance was carried, who the beneficiaries might be, how big is the estate, what he actually owns and what the bank really owns, who’s liening on whom, and just how to move forward with so much remaining a mystery. What’s clear though is that Biff is going to have to return to his home state soon; the task of cleaning up, digging out, straightening up, moving forward is just too huge to be done in a week, even with many hands working at the Herculean task. Life moves on and is leaving a certain whiff of dread in the air as the hours march past. Too much to do, not enough time to do it, and then there’s the question of the cat.
It should come as no surprise then that the idea of a bourbonless January has flown out the window like a cartoon safe. Some things require medicating; the facts of this matter demand liberal applications of feel-good juice at regular intervals. Yes, yes, I could be strong and do this thing stone-cold sober, but that would mean existing through yet another death experience fully aware of how much it hurts. The familial grief and brave face of mourning picks at the scabs of my own experiences with death, and I’d really rather that exercise be blunted with the fumblefingeredness of a little happy glow. Being too aware, being too nimble, could lead to too-adroit uncovering of old deep hurts, a thing to be avoided when running ‘support services’ for a family who has been plunged deep into the heart of sudden mourning.
Having buried my own Dad 18 years ago, having buried my former father-in-law nearly 10 years ago, I have some practice on what to expect, but nothing is ever the same as the time before. This time I’m not in the core of hurt, which is a relief but odd at the same time as I’m married to someone who is at the center of a world-shattering experience. As I see it, this time around it is my job to be capable, to be strong, to be calm and cool. Being weepy and teary-eyed would be a touch disingenuous, for the length and depth of the family’s hurt is a decades-long history of love and family I don’t yet share. All I can hope to do in these days and hours is to be a strong-enough partner, a source of relief for those who utterly exhausted at being so very sad, and maybe a voice of experience and reason and hope. So I speak with the chatty, we get to know one another through 5-minute interchanges over coffee in the back room. I sit at a table sharing dinner with almost-strangers who are family, hoping I don’t do anything too foolish or say anything too stupid. I smile and laugh, hug and listen and hope like heck I’m doing it right, for this family, in this time. They are wonderful people, and deserve so much better than this precipitous launch on a monstrous dark journey.
One step at a time, one tiny baby step after another toward resolution and out of a world of hurt. After tomorrow, after the funeral, after the bashing together of this world and the next, we start the walk toward what becomes the new normal, knowing nothing will ever be the same.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
A few points, before things get too dull
Go see 'Avatar' in 3D. Who cares if you can forecast the story line in the first hour? It's exciting, gorgeous, entrancing.
Plus which, naked alien heineys! Woot!
-
We bought a humidifier a couple of weeks ago. Worked great for 1 week, then started making gravelly, rattly noises the clearly were signaling that something was horribly wrong.
And so?
Biff took it back and got a better one, for less money.
!!!! Took.It.Back. The concept floors me.
I would have just took the old one to Goodwill and bought a whole new one, because I am not a fan of the retuning of things and just hate for people to think I wasn't happy with their product, even if they do suck. Obviously, I need to buy me a quart of spine.
-
Also? It's possible to return a used waffle maker.
I KNOW! Who would have guessed it? Not me. The one we got three days ago was not producing mile-high waffles a la 'the second best hotel you ever stayed at that served breakfast in the lobby', and so it too was returned.
USED. Again - !!!!!
The store took it back, and daggone if we're not the possessers of a new fancy-azz flippy-aroundy waffle maker that should provide hours of entertainment, rather akin to a Snuggli, or Garden Weasel.
What? Things are slow around here. A new waffle maker might just make the cover of our local paper, if I make the right calls, such is the rampant excitement.
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And because of the new waffle maker, right now we're (Biff is) poring over waffle recipes, deciding which one will get the honor of being the test batch for tomorrow's breakfast.
This is the moment that you realize with a pang that you wish you were me. Envy all you like, my friends, but it takes a stout countenance to withstand the onslaught of adrenalin this life demands in order to keep up with the fast-breaking speed of change and challenge. For you, I live it first then report it here, so that you can vicariously experience Life in the Fast Lane.
Surely, it will make you lose your mind.
Ah - I'm being called to consult on the perfect seasoning oil for the new appliance. Must dash!
Plus which, naked alien heineys! Woot!
-
We bought a humidifier a couple of weeks ago. Worked great for 1 week, then started making gravelly, rattly noises the clearly were signaling that something was horribly wrong.
And so?
Biff took it back and got a better one, for less money.
!!!! Took.It.Back. The concept floors me.
I would have just took the old one to Goodwill and bought a whole new one, because I am not a fan of the retuning of things and just hate for people to think I wasn't happy with their product, even if they do suck. Obviously, I need to buy me a quart of spine.
-
Also? It's possible to return a used waffle maker.
I KNOW! Who would have guessed it? Not me. The one we got three days ago was not producing mile-high waffles a la 'the second best hotel you ever stayed at that served breakfast in the lobby', and so it too was returned.
USED. Again - !!!!!
The store took it back, and daggone if we're not the possessers of a new fancy-azz flippy-aroundy waffle maker that should provide hours of entertainment, rather akin to a Snuggli, or Garden Weasel.
What? Things are slow around here. A new waffle maker might just make the cover of our local paper, if I make the right calls, such is the rampant excitement.
-
And because of the new waffle maker, right now we're (Biff is) poring over waffle recipes, deciding which one will get the honor of being the test batch for tomorrow's breakfast.
This is the moment that you realize with a pang that you wish you were me. Envy all you like, my friends, but it takes a stout countenance to withstand the onslaught of adrenalin this life demands in order to keep up with the fast-breaking speed of change and challenge. For you, I live it first then report it here, so that you can vicariously experience Life in the Fast Lane.
Surely, it will make you lose your mind.
Ah - I'm being called to consult on the perfect seasoning oil for the new appliance. Must dash!
Monday, January 04, 2010
Paper, not plastic
Have you ever lived a ‘weird’ patch of life? Like, when things just don’t seem to be progressing correctly, or things don’t go how you expect them to, or stuff occurs that you wish you could change because even though they might be little things, they pile up and suddenly you’re all irritated and twitchy?That was last night at our house. For ALL of us. The cats were hissing constantly at the kittens, the kids were picking at each other and gyrating in the path of things that needed to happen, the spousal unit and I were both slightly testy, and for no really good reason. Everything felt like it was made of wool, and nothing could be done to cure the itch.
Things could have taken an ugly turn after the accidental wine glass smashing, but thankfully did not, perhaps because by that point we were too full of The Most Excellent Shepard’s Pie Ever to even care that needle-sharp glass could become embedded in our feet at any moment. I’m pretty sure by that point the wine I’d had and the promise of homemade chocolate chip cake for dessert were also gently clouding my perception and reaction.
Sometimes life just goes like that.
And then, sometimes life is a grade-A coont and just keeps throwing curve balls at you, so that even AFTER announcing the prior evening that there would be fresh waffles from breakfast (waffleversary!), one teen boy gets up at 6 a.m. and has a bowl of cereal for breakfast which is kind of irritating because you know he knew about the damn waffles already and that sets teeth on edge. Full-on grinding occurs when said teen puts the empty bowl and spoon into the sink that you’ve just emptied to prepare to wash dishes, which is a sure sign of flippant effrontery at worst and of completely clueless teendom at best. At those moments (it being only 10 past 6 in the morning, keep in mind), the very best thing one can do is crawl back into bed for a half an hour with your already-retreated spouse and pray for peace and understanding.
After 30 minutes of trying to get a fresh start, you look at the love of your life, sigh, say ‘happy start to our second year,’ and announce that it sure is getting off to a weird start.
To which she will reply ‘yeah, it sure is’ and squeeze you tightly, because she knows just how hard this all can be and how very proud she is to be married to someone like you who addresses rough patches with as much aplomb and humor as can be gusto’ed up on short notice.
And as a small tribute to her spousal unit's grand good nature and how much he means to her, she reads the words she said to him in the company of God and a few friends and family a year and a day ago and decides to include them in a blog post because they’re more true now then 366 days ago, yet not as true as she suspects they’ll be 3000 days hence:
I promise you these things, in no strictly particular order:
To love you, fiercely and tenderly, all the days of my life
To hold to you and no one else
To comfort you with patience and goodwill,
To find joy in everyday things, as is our wont
To laugh until breathless, as is our bent
To keep focus on the good, through everyday actions
To appreciate you deeply.
For now and always, I promise.
To love you, fiercely and tenderly, all the days of my life
To hold to you and no one else
To comfort you with patience and goodwill,
To find joy in everyday things, as is our wont
To laugh until breathless, as is our bent
To keep focus on the good, through everyday actions
To appreciate you deeply.
For now and always, I promise.
Happy Anniversary, Biff. You totally hang the moon.
(Image from here. This dude rocks, but does not hang the moon, for that is Biff's job.)
Saturday, January 02, 2010
Seems the weekends were made for blogging
First - my blog is borked. I know. I'm working on it.
(UPDATE: rehosting some pics on my own Photobucket site works for the header, got rid of the images in the post body and list formats, and have imported all the old posts to Wordpress. I've been told the WP is the cool kids' way to blog...so change might well be in the works. It's surprising me just how much I'm resisting it.
It's clear I've become stuck in my rut, and quite like it here.)
-
Ah, the long slow demise of a personal blog. First, don't post on the weekends. (Did that a couple years ago). Second, quit posting every day. (Started that about a year ago). Third, pretty much quit posting at all, and when you do make it a hastily thrown-together mess that would compel no-one to come back to read what might come next.
I believe mission might well be accomplished.
Maybe I should make 2010 the year I get the writing mojo back. Used to be some interesting things going on around here.
-
To that end - I never thought I say this, but yesterday I wrote and helped to write some limericks about a psychic and Rasputin's pickled member. What a way to ring in the New Year. You should try it, or at least go on over and read some of the entries - people can be so daggone CREATIVE, ya know?
(Of course you MUST be aware that the subject matter is completely adult, and does come complete with a photo of the object in question. Yikes.)
Thanks to BuzzardBilly for the find!
-
Ah, and in ratherbig news: there are now two extra kittens in the Tiny House. Read all about WHY, here. Yes folks, Biff posted again, and who and I to steal any of THAT thunder?
On a related note - it's kind of tough being hitched up with another blogger when interesting things happen in life. I found myself propositioning Biff the other day with "OK, if you don't post about A and B in the next day, they're fair game for me" (for my motivation skills are just.that.subtle). Because honestly, some things simply scream out to be blogged, no matter who might be reading. Go read his post. You'll feel way better about your neighbors afterward, I promise.
-
Lastly, might I just say that there's no better bonding experience with a spouse than working together in a dirt-floored 2-foot-high crawl space to jack up a kitchen floor? Even better if the very first thing one does when embarking on such an enterprise is to drop a giant concrete block on one's arm.
No really, that's the very best way to do it.
The big payoff is of course that the kitchen floor no longer bounces like a trampoline when people or pets walk past the sink, and that the floor is now far more level than it was previously. Oh, it's a grand thing alright, and worth every bit of heaving and ho-ing, lifting and crawling, straining and dissing that needed to be done to get the support blocks placed and the jacks arranged and the beams put on just so and the whole works cranked up into 100+ year old joists that were understandably a little bit creaky. Kind of exciting, really, to watch good posture return to a slumping set of construction materials, much like embarking on a course of house yoga or somesuch.
And with that done, we now move on to the 'what kind of floor do you want?' phase of kitchen remodeling 101. Oh yes, the game (as the pocketbook allows) is on.
-
Gotta go. There are kittens to be played with and a Christmas tree to take down. In 2 days I'll be back at work, so it's time to sloth to end the bizzy to being agin.
Dang it.
Y'all have a fantastic weekend. Hope to see more of you around in MMX.
(UPDATE: rehosting some pics on my own Photobucket site works for the header, got rid of the images in the post body and list formats, and have imported all the old posts to Wordpress. I've been told the WP is the cool kids' way to blog...so change might well be in the works. It's surprising me just how much I'm resisting it.
It's clear I've become stuck in my rut, and quite like it here.)
-
Ah, the long slow demise of a personal blog. First, don't post on the weekends. (Did that a couple years ago). Second, quit posting every day. (Started that about a year ago). Third, pretty much quit posting at all, and when you do make it a hastily thrown-together mess that would compel no-one to come back to read what might come next.
I believe mission might well be accomplished.
Maybe I should make 2010 the year I get the writing mojo back. Used to be some interesting things going on around here.
-
To that end - I never thought I say this, but yesterday I wrote and helped to write some limericks about a psychic and Rasputin's pickled member. What a way to ring in the New Year. You should try it, or at least go on over and read some of the entries - people can be so daggone CREATIVE, ya know?
(Of course you MUST be aware that the subject matter is completely adult, and does come complete with a photo of the object in question. Yikes.)
Thanks to BuzzardBilly for the find!
-
Ah, and in ratherbig news: there are now two extra kittens in the Tiny House. Read all about WHY, here. Yes folks, Biff posted again, and who and I to steal any of THAT thunder?
On a related note - it's kind of tough being hitched up with another blogger when interesting things happen in life. I found myself propositioning Biff the other day with "OK, if you don't post about A and B in the next day, they're fair game for me" (for my motivation skills are just.that.subtle). Because honestly, some things simply scream out to be blogged, no matter who might be reading. Go read his post. You'll feel way better about your neighbors afterward, I promise.
-
Lastly, might I just say that there's no better bonding experience with a spouse than working together in a dirt-floored 2-foot-high crawl space to jack up a kitchen floor? Even better if the very first thing one does when embarking on such an enterprise is to drop a giant concrete block on one's arm.
No really, that's the very best way to do it.
The big payoff is of course that the kitchen floor no longer bounces like a trampoline when people or pets walk past the sink, and that the floor is now far more level than it was previously. Oh, it's a grand thing alright, and worth every bit of heaving and ho-ing, lifting and crawling, straining and dissing that needed to be done to get the support blocks placed and the jacks arranged and the beams put on just so and the whole works cranked up into 100+ year old joists that were understandably a little bit creaky. Kind of exciting, really, to watch good posture return to a slumping set of construction materials, much like embarking on a course of house yoga or somesuch.
And with that done, we now move on to the 'what kind of floor do you want?' phase of kitchen remodeling 101. Oh yes, the game (as the pocketbook allows) is on.
-
Gotta go. There are kittens to be played with and a Christmas tree to take down. In 2 days I'll be back at work, so it's time to sloth to end the bizzy to being agin.
Dang it.
Y'all have a fantastic weekend. Hope to see more of you around in MMX.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
I love Robot Chicken.
I have a song playing in my head I've never heard before.
This happens from time to time, as do the perfect opening lines for stories and the just-right taste of whatever meal I'm to cook next.
To clarify - When I say a song is playing, please understand the the WHOLE DANG THING is going on; words, melody, harmony, instrumentation, possibly even some wicked sound board action mixed in. It's freaky, and so weirdly nice. This song will fade in a few hours time until there's nothing left of it but the smile on my face, but in the meantime I'll hum along with whatever my brain is doing and enjoy this small gift.
----------------
Oh, and speaking of perfect opening lines for stories, there's one going on (I hope) at facebook right now. A line popped into me ol' noggin' a while back, which prompted me to begin writing a story in my head while washing dishes (a zen practice not to be overlooked). While I quite liked my story (it being immediately dark and horrible), I wondered if it was too curious a thing to ask if a nation of people could work together to write something collaboratively. Curious, meet me.
If you're on the FB, you know how to find me. See if you can create something new on this long winter's night!
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Thus endeth this parenthetically gifted post of nothing much at all. Here's hoping your Sunday might finds you as richly satisfied and bone-tired as your wants permit. It's a good feeling, that one.
This happens from time to time, as do the perfect opening lines for stories and the just-right taste of whatever meal I'm to cook next.
To clarify - When I say a song is playing, please understand the the WHOLE DANG THING is going on; words, melody, harmony, instrumentation, possibly even some wicked sound board action mixed in. It's freaky, and so weirdly nice. This song will fade in a few hours time until there's nothing left of it but the smile on my face, but in the meantime I'll hum along with whatever my brain is doing and enjoy this small gift.
----------------
Oh, and speaking of perfect opening lines for stories, there's one going on (I hope) at facebook right now. A line popped into me ol' noggin' a while back, which prompted me to begin writing a story in my head while washing dishes (a zen practice not to be overlooked). While I quite liked my story (it being immediately dark and horrible), I wondered if it was too curious a thing to ask if a nation of people could work together to write something collaboratively. Curious, meet me.
If you're on the FB, you know how to find me. See if you can create something new on this long winter's night!
-----------------
Thus endeth this parenthetically gifted post of nothing much at all. Here's hoping your Sunday might finds you as richly satisfied and bone-tired as your wants permit. It's a good feeling, that one.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Very nearly a screed, but then things turn around.
(Author's note: I've been having some trouble adjusting to Christmas this year; my inner Scrooge has been hard at work with the humbuggery....which is a great word that ought to mean something fun is about to happen, but in fact means that everything a little sour-tasting to the mental mouth. If ya know what I mean. So what follows is admittedly a little grim, and I might take it down, but dang it, all these cretins who try to ruin everything with their guns, or bombs, or anger, or selfish acts, or general douchebaggery while saying they're using those weapons for the work of God or that 'righteousness' is on their side need to feel my wrath, and how. Hooo boy.)
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Peace on Earth.
Goodwill toward men.
Joy to the world.
What great ideas! It sure would be nice if those phrases were hauled out on a daily basis and used so energetically that they became threadbare. Our existence would be so very different if those who purport to believe in such things lived them instead of setting them to music and belting out a few rounds one week a year. I’m not just looking in the general direction of Christians, even though those expressions of collegiality do come straight from their songbooks.
No, this plea to actually live the basic precepts of one’s religion/spiritual bent/conscience might well be applied to everyone to rather good effect, because really, it’s a safe bet that there are more people in this world who believe in being good (or at the most only a little bit naughty) than those who take as their life’s motto “be wicked unto death, for in such wickedness is your eternal reward.”
(I just made that up, but you get the idea.)
We COULD overcome worldwide negativism if we all just did what we're told to do, ever dang day instead of for just a couple of weeks a year. The current paradigm of expressing merely seasonal cheer, the inconsistent application of auspicious wishes, the fragility of forced joy, aren’t enough. The best of things should be lived the most days possible, with genuine goodwill, deliberate actions toward peace, and generous application of joy.
So yes, I do say Merry Christmas, Happy New Year. Add to that joyous days, thoughtful weeks, heartfelt fortnights (LOVE the fortnights), and self-aware months, and you begin to have an idea of my best wishes for all of you who choose to come by this little place for a visit.
So hey, let me say, Feliz Everyday, baby!
-------------------------------------
Peace on Earth.
Goodwill toward men.
Joy to the world.
What great ideas! It sure would be nice if those phrases were hauled out on a daily basis and used so energetically that they became threadbare. Our existence would be so very different if those who purport to believe in such things lived them instead of setting them to music and belting out a few rounds one week a year. I’m not just looking in the general direction of Christians, even though those expressions of collegiality do come straight from their songbooks.
No, this plea to actually live the basic precepts of one’s religion/spiritual bent/conscience might well be applied to everyone to rather good effect, because really, it’s a safe bet that there are more people in this world who believe in being good (or at the most only a little bit naughty) than those who take as their life’s motto “be wicked unto death, for in such wickedness is your eternal reward.”
(I just made that up, but you get the idea.)
We COULD overcome worldwide negativism if we all just did what we're told to do, ever dang day instead of for just a couple of weeks a year. The current paradigm of expressing merely seasonal cheer, the inconsistent application of auspicious wishes, the fragility of forced joy, aren’t enough. The best of things should be lived the most days possible, with genuine goodwill, deliberate actions toward peace, and generous application of joy.
So yes, I do say Merry Christmas, Happy New Year. Add to that joyous days, thoughtful weeks, heartfelt fortnights (LOVE the fortnights), and self-aware months, and you begin to have an idea of my best wishes for all of you who choose to come by this little place for a visit.
So hey, let me say, Feliz Everyday, baby!
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Don't try this at home
We took a lil' road trip this past weekend straight into the gates of Hades.
This past weekend was to have been the big family Christmas gathering, usually a time of abundant merriment and warm basking-type feelings. It’s about 230 miles from the Tiny House to my Mom’s house. Normally, a car trip between points A and B takes about 4.5 hours, including rest stops. This past weekend? It took 10.
We left on Friday night, thinking we could ‘beat the storm’ that was roaring out of the Gulf of Mexico and that was bearing straight down on our intended weekend’s lodgings. It was a fine plan, certainly better than waiting for Saturday morning to leave, as was the original plan. Ah yes...if only we’d left an hour earlier, we may have been sitting smugly in Mom’s living room at 8 or 9 having thwarted the snow, but instead conditions veered sharply southward about 90 minutes into the ride. Light sleet turned to light snow, then heavier snow, then really truly heavy snow. Just seeing far enough ahead to drive looked to be nearly impossible; the snow was belting at the windshield so hard it looked like we were going into hyperspace drive. After 3.5 hours of driving in steadily crappifying weather and very dark darkness Biff, bless him, had had quite enough thank you of the treachery and pulled into a hotel parking lot just in the nick of time to get what had to have been one of the last rooms available. Sweet relief. Let me tell you that it's been a loooong time since I've been so happy to be sleeping in a strange place. A bonus – there was a WalMart and a liquor store not but a couple of blocks from the hotel, AND there was a restaurant attached so food was readily available. Not a bad place to accidentally find oneself, and a serendipitous choice because further north on 95 there's NOTHING, hotel-wise, for miles and miles.
After a restorative night’s sleep, we haggled about continuing the trip north, as it was STILL SNOWING and wasn’t looking like it was going to let up. Clearly, the weather people had been spot-on in their predictions and we were headed into the belly of the beast. Mom offered to put us up for another night where we were, and we dithered on the point, but made the decision to keep on going, because there were only 80 or so miles to go and how bad could it be?
It is at this point, dear reader, that you realize that the last sentence was blatant foreshadowing.
Friends, it was Bad. Even the full light of day brought no relief. There was slipping, sliding,and rampant douchenozzle-ing by far too many other drivers. It also continued to snow, a LOT. Poor Biff was subject to many of my alarmed utterance as he drove along, for I am perhaps the world’s worst passenger, convinced that nobody but me can see 1) brake lights ahead, 2) vehicles sliding, 3) cars stuck in the median, 4) 18-wheelers swerving, 5) etc etc. Ultimately it was best for me to simply shut my eyes and pretend to nap, saving me from a heart attack and us from a possible fight at my stubborn need to CONTROL EVERYTHING.
When I did take the odd peek, I could spot innumerable wrecks and spin-outs. A semi’s engine blew up right behind us. Tink’s muffler scraped the snow-hump in the middle of the lane on many more than one occasion, and all the while snow keep falling. There was tire spinning, arduously slow progress up hills to avoid having to start again from a dead stop, perilous slides downhill. There was the smart choice to finally leave Route 95 behind after about 5 hours of 5-MPH plugging along, and then there was the 30 minutes spent digging Tink out of a snowbank at a Chevron station in Quantico, where a miracle occurred in the form of 5 Good Samaritans who appeared just as it seemed we were well and truly stuck to dig us out and give us the shove needed to get us, once again, on our way. Sometimes what you need is the kindness of strangers, even if you can't always rely on it.
With snow-caked boots and freezing cold hands, we climbed back in our trusty little car and headed into the last 22-mile leg of the journey just as the sun was going down. Only 22 miles. Only 22. On a road, unfortunately, that hadn’t seen a snowplow in at least 2 hours. It was clear there HAD been a plow by at some point, as the mounds of snow in the shoulders was a good 2 feet tall (and which were truly the only viable road marker at far too many points along the way), but in general there were 5-6 inches of humped and hillocked snow to drive through/over/around. After such a long day of hard travel, those 22 miles ahead loomed large. After about 40 minutes of truly difficult driving, there was brief talk of turning around and spending another night on the road at a hotel we’d passed. But no, once again we decided to press on.
Dusk came, taking with it the shadows that demarcaded where the best-traveling could be had between the snow humps. Every so often there’d be a break in traffic and we’d swing around a slow-moving car, taking up the lead and making progress at a breathtaking 25 miles an hour. I began praying for safety as dusk turned to dark. I know I was clenching my hands together so hard my fingers were cramping. Fear became a very real passenger on that dark snowy road with who-knows-what just over the spindly guardrails.
And then, about 6 miles from Mom’s, a distant twinkling of lights. Was that an actual snowplow? No, it was not. That twinkle was in fact THREE plows. Three gorgeous plows, scraping the road nearly clean. Three beautiful plows, making the last part of our nightmare journey just a little more tolerable. Three stunning plows, easing us safely into home base. A prayer answered? I should think so. They peeled off right at the entrance to Mom’s development, and after that point we only had to negotiate one super-slippery hill, tires a-spinning, to get onto their street.
Who cared that Biff and I and my stepdad had to shovel about 2 feet of snow off the driveway to get Tink a place to spend the night? Not me. (It should be noted that I didn’t do much shoveling, as my stepfather shooed my inside pretty fast) Released from the confines of Tink, released from the fear and worry, I would have shoveled 3 driveways in thankfulness.
-
Final snowfall total at Mom’s? 26 inches. All of which we drove through. Every single stinkin’ last bit of that trip was, in some way, covered by the super-storm that shut down entire cities and delivered the largest one-day snowfall total in over 70 YEARS on the DC area. Oh, you might say it was a stupid thing to do, all that driving in that kind of weather, and you're probably right, but it makes for a pretty good story that, fortunately, has a happy ending.
The fact that our neck of the woods in NC got NOT A FLAKE will not be expanded upon here. Nope. We courageously risked out necks for family, and thus will have something MAJOR to lord over them for years and years to come. And that, my friends, makes this treacherous story have an even happier ending. Nothing like a good lording-over to make the next family gathering that much more festive.
This past weekend was to have been the big family Christmas gathering, usually a time of abundant merriment and warm basking-type feelings. It’s about 230 miles from the Tiny House to my Mom’s house. Normally, a car trip between points A and B takes about 4.5 hours, including rest stops. This past weekend? It took 10.
We left on Friday night, thinking we could ‘beat the storm’ that was roaring out of the Gulf of Mexico and that was bearing straight down on our intended weekend’s lodgings. It was a fine plan, certainly better than waiting for Saturday morning to leave, as was the original plan. Ah yes...if only we’d left an hour earlier, we may have been sitting smugly in Mom’s living room at 8 or 9 having thwarted the snow, but instead conditions veered sharply southward about 90 minutes into the ride. Light sleet turned to light snow, then heavier snow, then really truly heavy snow. Just seeing far enough ahead to drive looked to be nearly impossible; the snow was belting at the windshield so hard it looked like we were going into hyperspace drive. After 3.5 hours of driving in steadily crappifying weather and very dark darkness Biff, bless him, had had quite enough thank you of the treachery and pulled into a hotel parking lot just in the nick of time to get what had to have been one of the last rooms available. Sweet relief. Let me tell you that it's been a loooong time since I've been so happy to be sleeping in a strange place. A bonus – there was a WalMart and a liquor store not but a couple of blocks from the hotel, AND there was a restaurant attached so food was readily available. Not a bad place to accidentally find oneself, and a serendipitous choice because further north on 95 there's NOTHING, hotel-wise, for miles and miles.
After a restorative night’s sleep, we haggled about continuing the trip north, as it was STILL SNOWING and wasn’t looking like it was going to let up. Clearly, the weather people had been spot-on in their predictions and we were headed into the belly of the beast. Mom offered to put us up for another night where we were, and we dithered on the point, but made the decision to keep on going, because there were only 80 or so miles to go and how bad could it be?
It is at this point, dear reader, that you realize that the last sentence was blatant foreshadowing.
Friends, it was Bad. Even the full light of day brought no relief. There was slipping, sliding,and rampant douchenozzle-ing by far too many other drivers. It also continued to snow, a LOT. Poor Biff was subject to many of my alarmed utterance as he drove along, for I am perhaps the world’s worst passenger, convinced that nobody but me can see 1) brake lights ahead, 2) vehicles sliding, 3) cars stuck in the median, 4) 18-wheelers swerving, 5) etc etc. Ultimately it was best for me to simply shut my eyes and pretend to nap, saving me from a heart attack and us from a possible fight at my stubborn need to CONTROL EVERYTHING.
When I did take the odd peek, I could spot innumerable wrecks and spin-outs. A semi’s engine blew up right behind us. Tink’s muffler scraped the snow-hump in the middle of the lane on many more than one occasion, and all the while snow keep falling. There was tire spinning, arduously slow progress up hills to avoid having to start again from a dead stop, perilous slides downhill. There was the smart choice to finally leave Route 95 behind after about 5 hours of 5-MPH plugging along, and then there was the 30 minutes spent digging Tink out of a snowbank at a Chevron station in Quantico, where a miracle occurred in the form of 5 Good Samaritans who appeared just as it seemed we were well and truly stuck to dig us out and give us the shove needed to get us, once again, on our way. Sometimes what you need is the kindness of strangers, even if you can't always rely on it.
With snow-caked boots and freezing cold hands, we climbed back in our trusty little car and headed into the last 22-mile leg of the journey just as the sun was going down. Only 22 miles. Only 22. On a road, unfortunately, that hadn’t seen a snowplow in at least 2 hours. It was clear there HAD been a plow by at some point, as the mounds of snow in the shoulders was a good 2 feet tall (and which were truly the only viable road marker at far too many points along the way), but in general there were 5-6 inches of humped and hillocked snow to drive through/over/around. After such a long day of hard travel, those 22 miles ahead loomed large. After about 40 minutes of truly difficult driving, there was brief talk of turning around and spending another night on the road at a hotel we’d passed. But no, once again we decided to press on.
Dusk came, taking with it the shadows that demarcaded where the best-traveling could be had between the snow humps. Every so often there’d be a break in traffic and we’d swing around a slow-moving car, taking up the lead and making progress at a breathtaking 25 miles an hour. I began praying for safety as dusk turned to dark. I know I was clenching my hands together so hard my fingers were cramping. Fear became a very real passenger on that dark snowy road with who-knows-what just over the spindly guardrails.
And then, about 6 miles from Mom’s, a distant twinkling of lights. Was that an actual snowplow? No, it was not. That twinkle was in fact THREE plows. Three gorgeous plows, scraping the road nearly clean. Three beautiful plows, making the last part of our nightmare journey just a little more tolerable. Three stunning plows, easing us safely into home base. A prayer answered? I should think so. They peeled off right at the entrance to Mom’s development, and after that point we only had to negotiate one super-slippery hill, tires a-spinning, to get onto their street.
Who cared that Biff and I and my stepdad had to shovel about 2 feet of snow off the driveway to get Tink a place to spend the night? Not me. (It should be noted that I didn’t do much shoveling, as my stepfather shooed my inside pretty fast) Released from the confines of Tink, released from the fear and worry, I would have shoveled 3 driveways in thankfulness.
-
Final snowfall total at Mom’s? 26 inches. All of which we drove through. Every single stinkin’ last bit of that trip was, in some way, covered by the super-storm that shut down entire cities and delivered the largest one-day snowfall total in over 70 YEARS on the DC area. Oh, you might say it was a stupid thing to do, all that driving in that kind of weather, and you're probably right, but it makes for a pretty good story that, fortunately, has a happy ending.
The fact that our neck of the woods in NC got NOT A FLAKE will not be expanded upon here. Nope. We courageously risked out necks for family, and thus will have something MAJOR to lord over them for years and years to come. And that, my friends, makes this treacherous story have an even happier ending. Nothing like a good lording-over to make the next family gathering that much more festive.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Un-nun-nun-motivated
(This one is all over the place. Apologies in advance.)
After a lovely meal out with pleasant people at an enjoyably appointed restaurant, it’s very nearly impossible to accommodate the notion of returning to work, which of course is why I’ve spent the last 90 minutes doing very little of a productive nature at all.
That is just how I roll. Me n’ every available time-waster on the internet are pretty much going steady at this point. Except for the naughty sites. I don’t do naughty sites at work. That would be bad. Very, very bad.
Heh. Speakinna which...last night Biff and I were wasting time on the internet in parallel, him on the home box and me on my work laptop. I was looking up sites that show pictures of bad boob jobs, because I’m thinking that when I turn 50 my gift to myself is going to be to have them suckers hauled up to where they were when I was….35 and I want to know what BAD looks like, when Biff ambled over to show me a few pictures of a cabinet job he just finished. He likes to share. I think it’s sweet.
Anyhow, up on my screen, because I did not think it necessary to minimize it, there was a photo of NOT a bad boob job at all, which naturally caught his eye. Hard to argue with a photo of a perfect pair of D cups, ya know? After tearing his eyes from the screen and wiping up the gobbets of drool from his manly chin, his question to me was like “why are you looking at pictures of boobs” and then of course I told him of my plan, which hearteningly he heartily endorses, and life was good.
Apparently though he was not expecting me to be ogling other ladies’ ta-tas on the WWW. Clearly, he learned a thing. Hey man, don't judge me - I was simply doing my research into what I DON’T want and what may be possible for me if I do decide to hoist the sweater puppets up a few inches.
Honest. RESEARCH.
-
On a semi-related note: Anybody ever go to an ‘adult novelty’ store? I’ve been in one, once. I felt about as smooth as a cobblestone street in that place. What a tremendous amount of items available to enhance your love life! The mission I was on was a simple one, but dang – with about 100 styles of toys to choose from, how’s a girl to decide?
Ultimately, after about an hour of trying to look suave while debating the merits of this model over that model (like, are LIGHTS really necessary on this thing?) ‘simple is best’ won out and me and the shopping partner beat feet without pausing to examine the various slings/straps/cuffs/costumes/lotions/lubes that populated the rest of the store. It was all a bit overwhleming, if you want the truth.
Does that kind of reaction mean I’m just immature about stuff like this, or do y’all have similar stories of your ‘first time’?
Curious minds (mine!) want to know.
-
Also – what’s for dinner at your house tonight? Recent weeks have seen a distressing lack of creativity in the Tiny House kitchen (when I’m cooking). Suggestions for tonight’s meal are most welcome.
Leave ‘em in the comments please, and have a lovely rest o’ the day.
After a lovely meal out with pleasant people at an enjoyably appointed restaurant, it’s very nearly impossible to accommodate the notion of returning to work, which of course is why I’ve spent the last 90 minutes doing very little of a productive nature at all.
That is just how I roll. Me n’ every available time-waster on the internet are pretty much going steady at this point. Except for the naughty sites. I don’t do naughty sites at work. That would be bad. Very, very bad.
Heh. Speakinna which...last night Biff and I were wasting time on the internet in parallel, him on the home box and me on my work laptop. I was looking up sites that show pictures of bad boob jobs, because I’m thinking that when I turn 50 my gift to myself is going to be to have them suckers hauled up to where they were when I was….35 and I want to know what BAD looks like, when Biff ambled over to show me a few pictures of a cabinet job he just finished. He likes to share. I think it’s sweet.
Anyhow, up on my screen, because I did not think it necessary to minimize it, there was a photo of NOT a bad boob job at all, which naturally caught his eye. Hard to argue with a photo of a perfect pair of D cups, ya know? After tearing his eyes from the screen and wiping up the gobbets of drool from his manly chin, his question to me was like “why are you looking at pictures of boobs” and then of course I told him of my plan, which hearteningly he heartily endorses, and life was good.Apparently though he was not expecting me to be ogling other ladies’ ta-tas on the WWW. Clearly, he learned a thing. Hey man, don't judge me - I was simply doing my research into what I DON’T want and what may be possible for me if I do decide to hoist the sweater puppets up a few inches.
Honest. RESEARCH.
-
On a semi-related note: Anybody ever go to an ‘adult novelty’ store? I’ve been in one, once. I felt about as smooth as a cobblestone street in that place. What a tremendous amount of items available to enhance your love life! The mission I was on was a simple one, but dang – with about 100 styles of toys to choose from, how’s a girl to decide?
Ultimately, after about an hour of trying to look suave while debating the merits of this model over that model (like, are LIGHTS really necessary on this thing?) ‘simple is best’ won out and me and the shopping partner beat feet without pausing to examine the various slings/straps/cuffs/costumes/lotions/lubes that populated the rest of the store. It was all a bit overwhleming, if you want the truth.
Does that kind of reaction mean I’m just immature about stuff like this, or do y’all have similar stories of your ‘first time’?
Curious minds (mine!) want to know.
-
Also – what’s for dinner at your house tonight? Recent weeks have seen a distressing lack of creativity in the Tiny House kitchen (when I’m cooking). Suggestions for tonight’s meal are most welcome.
Leave ‘em in the comments please, and have a lovely rest o’ the day.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
This is the one that ends well
Tiger Woods owns a 155-foot yacht.
Thought you’d like to know.
---
Isn’t a 155-foot yacht a little excessive? Wouldn’t a nice 60-footer do? Really now, how much time does he spend on that thing? Couple weekends a year?
Unless the length is compensating for something….
---
Also – it’s the middle of December. Hi holiday season! Nice of you to come speeding along like you have. While we HAVe a tree, and cards, and some gifts have been purchased, nothing is complete. No baking has been undertaken, no egg nog consumed, no tinsel draped. There are 2 wreaths on the Tiny House, but no garland, no bunting, no geegaws or frounces have been applied to festive the place up.
I am maybe a little bit Grinchy.
Christmas comes at a very bad time of year, doesn’t it. After the glory that is Hallowe’en and the gluttony that is Thanksgiving, Christmas comes ho-ho-ho-ing into our lives with expectations and history, with high hopes and exhaustive lists of Things To Do To Get Ready, and man it’s a long list. Simpletons like me (ie – people who value simplicity) can get overwhelmed with the prep work, and as a consequence can turn a lil’ bit grumpy or….unmotivated. Doesn’t help that yrs trly is a world-class procrastinator and as such denies the passing of days to The Big One until it’s almost too late.
So tonight, after getting home at about 9, those dang Christmas cards will get done. There’s only a few dozen of them; how long could it possibly TAKE?
Then maybe I’ll start wrapping. Or putting something on the pine tree that’s been standing in our living room for over a week. Yes, really. It’s that bad.
---
Also, nobody wants to hear about how roundly awful life at work as been lately, what with the busy and whatnot, so I’ll refrain from mentioning it, much. But…wow. The holiday break can’t come soon enough. I’m hoping by the time it’s over I’ll be good and bored and ready to come back into Crazy Central.
---
I hope all y’all are keeping well, and that life is nothing but sunshine and puppy tummies all around. Here - have one now, and then have a lovely afternoon.
Tiff out.
Thought you’d like to know.
---
Isn’t a 155-foot yacht a little excessive? Wouldn’t a nice 60-footer do? Really now, how much time does he spend on that thing? Couple weekends a year?
Unless the length is compensating for something….
---
Also – it’s the middle of December. Hi holiday season! Nice of you to come speeding along like you have. While we HAVe a tree, and cards, and some gifts have been purchased, nothing is complete. No baking has been undertaken, no egg nog consumed, no tinsel draped. There are 2 wreaths on the Tiny House, but no garland, no bunting, no geegaws or frounces have been applied to festive the place up.
I am maybe a little bit Grinchy.
Christmas comes at a very bad time of year, doesn’t it. After the glory that is Hallowe’en and the gluttony that is Thanksgiving, Christmas comes ho-ho-ho-ing into our lives with expectations and history, with high hopes and exhaustive lists of Things To Do To Get Ready, and man it’s a long list. Simpletons like me (ie – people who value simplicity) can get overwhelmed with the prep work, and as a consequence can turn a lil’ bit grumpy or….unmotivated. Doesn’t help that yrs trly is a world-class procrastinator and as such denies the passing of days to The Big One until it’s almost too late.
So tonight, after getting home at about 9, those dang Christmas cards will get done. There’s only a few dozen of them; how long could it possibly TAKE?
Then maybe I’ll start wrapping. Or putting something on the pine tree that’s been standing in our living room for over a week. Yes, really. It’s that bad.
---
Also, nobody wants to hear about how roundly awful life at work as been lately, what with the busy and whatnot, so I’ll refrain from mentioning it, much. But…wow. The holiday break can’t come soon enough. I’m hoping by the time it’s over I’ll be good and bored and ready to come back into Crazy Central.
---
I hope all y’all are keeping well, and that life is nothing but sunshine and puppy tummies all around. Here - have one now, and then have a lovely afternoon.
Tiff out.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Simulated Interest
If I'm really good at faking my own death, I figure the insurance money will keep us in pretty good stead for a few years...perhaps long enough to get massive amounts of plastic surgery and begin life over as a sassy, plucky administrative assistant who by dint of extraordinary powers of insight and intellect for someone who appears to be as young as she is, rises quickly through the ranks of the non-profit for which she works, attracting the attention of corporate gift-givers who offer her a position in their front offices which she takes, but only for enough time to amass a small fortune before leaving the hustle and bustle behind to live out the rest of her days traveling the world with the LOHL and only what will fit in a modestly-sized backpack.
Just a thought.
-------------------------------
So yesterday I was dropping Thing 1 off at the 9th-grade center (an assemblage of modular units, really) and I think if the woman behind had gotten any more mad at my NOT PASSING THE STOPPED SCHOOL BUS she might have exploded her head, all 'Scanners'-like.
See, the cars line up in the left lane (traffic only goes in one direction once you're on the grounds), the buses of course take the right to drop off the kids in the morning. If you're done dropping off your kid, but there's a stopped bus next to you, law says you can't go until they pull in the little "stop sign on a swing arm" thing. You're stuck there for the 2 minutes it takes for the kids to leave, then once the bus goes? You go too. Those are the rules.
Well, yesterday, I stopped in place even after Thing 1 was safety out, because there WAS A STOPPED BUS next to me. This is when some steering wheel pounding began. When that ol' stopped bus finally went, so did we, but don't you KNOW we promptly got stuck behind a line of cars waiting to take a left turn. This is when a bit of shouting started. Then, at just the right, at the exact moment when traffic broke a little and we could start moving up, don't you know that another bus pulled up next to us and extended the "thou shalt not pass" sign. Oh well. Here we sit for another 2 minutes...and it was during this time that she lost it. Oh.My.God. She was 1) pounding her steering wheel while 2) gesturing frantically at us with her lit cigarette while 3) shouting something I'm sure was less than complimentary and 4) beeping her horn. It was a moment of pure beautiful road rage, but dangit - it wasn't going to get me to PASS THE STOPPED BUS OF THE LEFT just because she had to be at the Lee Press-on Nails clinic in 26 minutes.
Truthfully, the frantic wavings became so comical, her horn bleats because so irritating, that I thought I'd play a little.
So I pulled up. A FOOT. She practically rammed her Ford F350 quad cab right up Tink's butt-bumper, such was her enthused reaction to movement. I pulled up a tiny bit again, and I see her behemoth lurch forward and jerk to an abrupt halt. One more squinch up, and the BUS DRIVER starts honking their horn, because it's clear we are ignoring the stop sign onna steek, endangering the precious cargo. This is when I turned around in the seat, did the "SEE?" jazz hands thing to lil' Miss Impatientpants, and thought about how nice it would be if her hair caught on fire.
Sometimes, I can be a little bit mean.
--------------------------------
Don't forget to email me if you want to do a holiday card exchange with friendly readers and bloggers. I think ti would be kind of fun, and would love for massive amounts of people (maybe 10?) to think so too. Thanks to all of you who have responded positively thus far; it's for YOU that I'm going to shop so very carefully at theDollar Store Target this weekend for just the right card.
And that'll do it for me. I think I'll leave early today to make up for coming in late. Gotta balance out both ends of the workday, eh?
Just a thought.
-------------------------------
So yesterday I was dropping Thing 1 off at the 9th-grade center (an assemblage of modular units, really) and I think if the woman behind had gotten any more mad at my NOT PASSING THE STOPPED SCHOOL BUS she might have exploded her head, all 'Scanners'-like.
See, the cars line up in the left lane (traffic only goes in one direction once you're on the grounds), the buses of course take the right to drop off the kids in the morning. If you're done dropping off your kid, but there's a stopped bus next to you, law says you can't go until they pull in the little "stop sign on a swing arm" thing. You're stuck there for the 2 minutes it takes for the kids to leave, then once the bus goes? You go too. Those are the rules.
Well, yesterday, I stopped in place even after Thing 1 was safety out, because there WAS A STOPPED BUS next to me. This is when some steering wheel pounding began. When that ol' stopped bus finally went, so did we, but don't you KNOW we promptly got stuck behind a line of cars waiting to take a left turn. This is when a bit of shouting started. Then, at just the right, at the exact moment when traffic broke a little and we could start moving up, don't you know that another bus pulled up next to us and extended the "thou shalt not pass" sign. Oh well. Here we sit for another 2 minutes...and it was during this time that she lost it. Oh.My.God. She was 1) pounding her steering wheel while 2) gesturing frantically at us with her lit cigarette while 3) shouting something I'm sure was less than complimentary and 4) beeping her horn. It was a moment of pure beautiful road rage, but dangit - it wasn't going to get me to PASS THE STOPPED BUS OF THE LEFT just because she had to be at the Lee Press-on Nails clinic in 26 minutes.
Truthfully, the frantic wavings became so comical, her horn bleats because so irritating, that I thought I'd play a little.
So I pulled up. A FOOT. She practically rammed her Ford F350 quad cab right up Tink's butt-bumper, such was her enthused reaction to movement. I pulled up a tiny bit again, and I see her behemoth lurch forward and jerk to an abrupt halt. One more squinch up, and the BUS DRIVER starts honking their horn, because it's clear we are ignoring the stop sign onna steek, endangering the precious cargo. This is when I turned around in the seat, did the "SEE?" jazz hands thing to lil' Miss Impatientpants, and thought about how nice it would be if her hair caught on fire.
Sometimes, I can be a little bit mean.
--------------------------------
Don't forget to email me if you want to do a holiday card exchange with friendly readers and bloggers. I think ti would be kind of fun, and would love for massive amounts of people (maybe 10?) to think so too. Thanks to all of you who have responded positively thus far; it's for YOU that I'm going to shop so very carefully at the
And that'll do it for me. I think I'll leave early today to make up for coming in late. Gotta balance out both ends of the workday, eh?
Thursday, December 10, 2009
The geeky, busy, CHEERY one
WOOT!!
BBC News (12/9) reported, "A drug being tested to treat cancer could also help patients suffering from asthma." It's well understood that "too many uncontrolled eosinophils can damage other cells that line the lung, contributing to inflammatory conditions such as asthma." But, scientists at Edinburgh University discovered that the drug, R-Roscovitine, "caused the eosinophil cells to undergo a form of cell death known as apoptosis, a natural process where unwanted cells are removed from the body." The discovery, investigators say, "could lead to an alternative way to treat asthma in patients who are resistant to steroid treatments."
Folks, I spent 7+ years doing research into this kind of thing, with eosinophils as the primary target of research. We didn't really ever come up with anything, so the blurb above came as great news to me this morning. To have a therapy that doesn't rely on steroids is terrific news, and if you know someone with severe asthma you'll understand why I'm pretty excited by this. To shut down one type of cell that, when activated, can release all manner of molecules that alert not only the immune system but can also start an inflammatory cascade is kind of like finding a drug that will cure 80% of all cancers. Seems to me this is pretty big news.
Yes, I'm a geek. A proud one. And sometimes, that geek flag is run up the flagpole to its highest setting. Like today.
------------------------------------
It's been a while, hasn't it? Life has kind of spiraled out of control, and apparently a break from posting was the first thing to be sacrificed at the altar of Life Craziness.
So things have been happening. LOTS OF THINGS. Which may or may not be described here; only time will tell. For now I just needed to crack open the tough outer shell of insanity that's been keeping me imprisoned lately, just to say hi.
-------------------------------------
And a request: despite me feeling really Grinchy about Christmas this year (we've had the tree up for days and it's not decorated yet!), I am a big lover of holiday cards. If any of y'all would like to do a card exchange, please email me at sweatinggoddess@gmail.com, and I'll start a list that can be emailed out to all interested parties next week. Then we can all send cards to each other, and it will be like Christmas in Virtual Mayberry!
Cards exchanges are cheap, easy, and kind of fun. In years past I've done a card exchange with other almost completely anonymous bloggers, but that opportunity has passed me by this year. So hey, why not take matters in to own hands and try to get something going among the people I know? Hope you'll play along. You'll get a card from me, and from other lovely people who like to be jolly and who probably smell like hot chocolate (with marshmallows!), so what's not to like?
Deadline for emailing me is ..... Sunday.
Hope to be mailing you soon!
BBC News (12/9) reported, "A drug being tested to treat cancer could also help patients suffering from asthma." It's well understood that "too many uncontrolled eosinophils can damage other cells that line the lung, contributing to inflammatory conditions such as asthma." But, scientists at Edinburgh University discovered that the drug, R-Roscovitine, "caused the eosinophil cells to undergo a form of cell death known as apoptosis, a natural process where unwanted cells are removed from the body." The discovery, investigators say, "could lead to an alternative way to treat asthma in patients who are resistant to steroid treatments."
Folks, I spent 7+ years doing research into this kind of thing, with eosinophils as the primary target of research. We didn't really ever come up with anything, so the blurb above came as great news to me this morning. To have a therapy that doesn't rely on steroids is terrific news, and if you know someone with severe asthma you'll understand why I'm pretty excited by this. To shut down one type of cell that, when activated, can release all manner of molecules that alert not only the immune system but can also start an inflammatory cascade is kind of like finding a drug that will cure 80% of all cancers. Seems to me this is pretty big news.
Yes, I'm a geek. A proud one. And sometimes, that geek flag is run up the flagpole to its highest setting. Like today.
------------------------------------
It's been a while, hasn't it? Life has kind of spiraled out of control, and apparently a break from posting was the first thing to be sacrificed at the altar of Life Craziness.
So things have been happening. LOTS OF THINGS. Which may or may not be described here; only time will tell. For now I just needed to crack open the tough outer shell of insanity that's been keeping me imprisoned lately, just to say hi.
-------------------------------------
And a request: despite me feeling really Grinchy about Christmas this year (we've had the tree up for days and it's not decorated yet!), I am a big lover of holiday cards. If any of y'all would like to do a card exchange, please email me at sweatinggoddess@gmail.com, and I'll start a list that can be emailed out to all interested parties next week. Then we can all send cards to each other, and it will be like Christmas in Virtual Mayberry!
Cards exchanges are cheap, easy, and kind of fun. In years past I've done a card exchange with other almost completely anonymous bloggers, but that opportunity has passed me by this year. So hey, why not take matters in to own hands and try to get something going among the people I know? Hope you'll play along. You'll get a card from me, and from other lovely people who like to be jolly and who probably smell like hot chocolate (with marshmallows!), so what's not to like?
Deadline for emailing me is ..... Sunday.
Hope to be mailing you soon!
Thursday, December 03, 2009
Wailey wailey wailey!
I’ve spent so much time hunched over my computer in the last few days that I’m going all Quasimodo. The space between my shoulder blades hurts if I look down, my forearms are going numb, and I think perma-squint is just over the barely visible horizon.
Clearly, I need better posture.
Work is blowing up big time, and not just for me. Last night at around 11 p.m., as I was trying to put a spit shine on some documents that are NEEDED URGENTLY I was surprised to be getting email replies from a couple of folks who should know better than to be online woring at such a crazy hour. We’re all trying to forge on with a horribly complicated project toward an unholy deadline, and so there we were, tippity-typing away at nearly midnight. Sometimes? It just happens. Then of course this morning while I was supposed to be prettying up another document for final-final (honestly! Really! No more changes!) review, someone else identified a gap that MUST BE TAKEN CARE OF IMMEDIATELY and so there’s nothing to do but drop the formerly hot-potato issue and pick up the new bushel basket of steaming tubers.
High glamour.
So here it is almost 1 p.m., I haven’t started the thing I said I’d get done last night, I’ve run my hands through my hair so many times it looks downright greasy, my neck feels like it’s going to snap in half, and there’s not yet been any lunch. This last one must change, before I get irretrievably butt-welded to this stupid office chair or my back refuses to unfurl from its cramped-over position.
But first – some good news: I still have a job! Got the notice today. The new job (which of course we all know I’m already doing and have been for the last 2 years) now comes with a slightly different title and….get this…..a BONUS! Yep – every year, if we’ve met our goals as a company, we all get a wad of cash at year’s end. This is a most sweet development. I like bonuses, of nearly all kinds.
So there’s that.
Let the rejoicing commence!
Clearly, I need better posture.
Work is blowing up big time, and not just for me. Last night at around 11 p.m., as I was trying to put a spit shine on some documents that are NEEDED URGENTLY I was surprised to be getting email replies from a couple of folks who should know better than to be online woring at such a crazy hour. We’re all trying to forge on with a horribly complicated project toward an unholy deadline, and so there we were, tippity-typing away at nearly midnight. Sometimes? It just happens. Then of course this morning while I was supposed to be prettying up another document for final-final (honestly! Really! No more changes!) review, someone else identified a gap that MUST BE TAKEN CARE OF IMMEDIATELY and so there’s nothing to do but drop the formerly hot-potato issue and pick up the new bushel basket of steaming tubers.
High glamour.
So here it is almost 1 p.m., I haven’t started the thing I said I’d get done last night, I’ve run my hands through my hair so many times it looks downright greasy, my neck feels like it’s going to snap in half, and there’s not yet been any lunch. This last one must change, before I get irretrievably butt-welded to this stupid office chair or my back refuses to unfurl from its cramped-over position.
But first – some good news: I still have a job! Got the notice today. The new job (which of course we all know I’m already doing and have been for the last 2 years) now comes with a slightly different title and….get this…..a BONUS! Yep – every year, if we’ve met our goals as a company, we all get a wad of cash at year’s end. This is a most sweet development. I like bonuses, of nearly all kinds.
So there’s that.
Let the rejoicing commence!
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
Inspired to blog? Yes, I think I am.
In the interest of time I won't post this backwards, as I had intended, but rather forward, which is the proper way to move through life except of course if you're a spotter in a ski boat, in which case facing forward means YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG.
Where was I?
Oh yes, right here. Where I left off.
In the afterglow of a wonderful weekend. Family, friends, DRIVING, friends, family, and more friends. Plus, a hot tub. Hey people? I met my new in-laws for the first time on Thanksgiving day. All 100 of them. Aunts, Uncles, cousins, step-ish cousins, something-ish half-nelsons, and others who bore enough of a faint family resemblance (like me!) that they could get a cut of poultry and a scopp of the most feckking delish stuffing ever made. Yay for me fitting in with the crowd. Also? There was basketball in the gym after, so that was good.
After that there was some hot tubbing at de hotel, and then Biff and I made Chinese stir fry for the immediate family at his sister's house. How freaking bold is that? "Hi, I just met you and now will COOK YOU DINNER!" What gall I have.
Everyone (as far as I know) survived.
OK. Everyone did. Adorable dog included. Thanks the Meijer, for the Meijer is the best of everything that is mega shopping, including large amounts of liquor and a 'foreign' food aisle that would make Brit ex-pat weep in thanks.
Where is this post going, anyhow?
Things were a bit of a rush, but the best kind, The kind where you can't wait to get out the door to find out what the next thing will be, the kind that feels like you're about get a new bike, the kind that maybe might include a rollercoaster ride. That kind, you know? Sandwiched between 2 stupidly long car rides, I found out this stuff:
And that, dear friends, is that. I'm tired. It's 11:20, and I think after Genesis we have Daft Punk up next for dancing porpoises. No way I'm missing that.
Tiff out.
Where was I?
Oh yes, right here. Where I left off.
In the afterglow of a wonderful weekend. Family, friends, DRIVING, friends, family, and more friends. Plus, a hot tub. Hey people? I met my new in-laws for the first time on Thanksgiving day. All 100 of them. Aunts, Uncles, cousins, step-ish cousins, something-ish half-nelsons, and others who bore enough of a faint family resemblance (like me!) that they could get a cut of poultry and a scopp of the most feckking delish stuffing ever made. Yay for me fitting in with the crowd. Also? There was basketball in the gym after, so that was good.
After that there was some hot tubbing at de hotel, and then Biff and I made Chinese stir fry for the immediate family at his sister's house. How freaking bold is that? "Hi, I just met you and now will COOK YOU DINNER!" What gall I have.
Everyone (as far as I know) survived.
OK. Everyone did. Adorable dog included. Thanks the Meijer, for the Meijer is the best of everything that is mega shopping, including large amounts of liquor and a 'foreign' food aisle that would make Brit ex-pat weep in thanks.
Where is this post going, anyhow?
Things were a bit of a rush, but the best kind, The kind where you can't wait to get out the door to find out what the next thing will be, the kind that feels like you're about get a new bike, the kind that maybe might include a rollercoaster ride. That kind, you know? Sandwiched between 2 stupidly long car rides, I found out this stuff:
- Biff is better than me at the alphabet game, by far
- His sisters are really really pretty. Good skin runs in their family, apparently. Grgh.
- I love me some hot tub. ESP those with supah-jets.
- The term "happy sock" never gets old.
- Deer hunting sounds like a dang good thing.
- Stiff beds in strange places, when shared with someone you love, can feel like home.
- Holiday Inn Express cinnamon rolls? SIN ON A PLATE.
- There are people in this world who, once met for the first time, feel like old friends. Y'all know who you are, and thanks for two wonderful visits. Next year? BLOGSTOCK!!! Now who's got a farm? We need plenty of room for rocking the ball dents!
And that, dear friends, is that. I'm tired. It's 11:20, and I think after Genesis we have Daft Punk up next for dancing porpoises. No way I'm missing that.
Tiff out.
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