As I pulled into the Freedom station on Minnesota Avenue this morning to get gas, things seemed a little off. The two other guys filling their tanks were looking around and a third man jumped out of his truck and ran towards a cop car that was pulling into the lot. Three more city cops and a sheriff quickly followed so I asked the guy ahead of me if he knew what was going on.
“Not sure,” he said. But then another fella quickly brought everything into perspective.
“She just got robbed at gunpoint,” he said.
The gas station I always go to in Sioux Falls was robbed at gunpoint on a Monday morning not long before nine. I had to process that for a minute. I wondered which of the gals was working. I wondered if anyone had gotten hurt. I wondered if the jackoff who robbed the place got away. I wondered what would have happened if I had gotten to the store a few minutes quicker. And as I walked into the store and saw Renee, the gal working, with tears in her eyes, I got a little mad. All I could do was pay for my gas and give her a hug. But I was a little mad because why the hell would someone rob anyone, especially for the piddly amount of cash that would be on hand at that time on a Monday morning and scare the hell out of the nice lady who is just working to get by. It was probably the same jackoff who robbed the pizza delivery driver a few blocks from there on a few days ago.
The irony that he (yes, the suspect is male) robbed a gas station named Freedom on Memorial Day wasn’t lost on me. I’m sure there are many ways to explain away why he did what he did; that was a desperate act. Maybe I’ve watched too many movies, but I expect any robbery, with the exception of a mugging, to be a big heist or something. Make the payoff more worth the risk? Who knows. Two customers took off after the guy and there were tons of cops looking for him. Maybe he’s been apprehended. What a stupid way to risk your own freedom.
It got me thinking about my days working as a paralegal for criminal defense attorneys and thinking about how for punishment, people get time. Time is all they have on the inside. I hear people talk about not having enough time or wishing they had more time, well, at the time. Maybe time means more when we have the freedom to choose what we want to do with it. But then so many of us overschedule and overbreed ourselves out of having any time for ourselves. Which made me think of something my friend, Minnesota Hoops, posted on Facebook: The more time I spend doing things, the less I think about the things I wish I was doing.
Had Hoops tricked himself into happiness? Or was keeping himself busy with his family, work, and hobbies the way to a fulfilling and contented life?
The bitches live a life of simple pleasures, just water, some kibble, play, and a run. Hell, they sleep half the day. If bitches run free, why can’t we?
Monday, May 30, 2011
Saturday, May 28, 2011
SEE RED
So my Bulls lost. Sigh… such a fun season to watch it was. I write like Yoda when I am reflecting whimsically. I became a Bulls fan back in the 90s. Six championships in eight years. Da Bulls. Between the SNL skits, Wheaties boxes, and Starter jacket I was legit.
I’ll admit that I fell off the face of NBA watching for a bit. I always liked KG, so I followed the Wolves and then became a bandwagon Boston fan. For the record, Rondo is the only good thing that ever came out of Kentucky. Beast.
Then this year, the Bulls caught my eye again. Maybe it’s WGN televising the games or some sort of reminiscing for my youth, but I started Seeing Red again and a big part of that was the play of Derrick Rose.
Rose deserved the MVP, whatever any of you may think. Of course, I cannot be impartial when it comes to my boy, but he is exactly what basketball needed. He is a hometown boy, a smart player, a team leader, and a good shooter who also knows when to pass and make electrifying plays. With all the Big Three nonsense, yes I said nonsense ‘cuz to hell with ‘em, and too many years of Kobesque bullshit, we basketball fans longed for a hero. I know there was an academic issue at Memphis, so we don’t need to fight that out. I never said he was completely without fault. I’m only looking for Rose to be a basketball messiah.
And what a great band of disciples he has, I mean, Jesus named brothers James and John “bo-aner’ges,” which means “sons of thunder.” Sons of thunder? Hello? Noah and Boozer. I think so. Deng’s gotta be right up there as Peter and let’s call Korver Matthew since he looks the most like an accountant. A dumb accountant, but an accountant none the less. However, there is no Judas here. These guys play so well together and are young. I know they’ll be back to get theirs.
But now I guess I have to be some sort of bandwagon fan. I’ve already told Miami to suck it. It’s like watching the Yankees play anyone or seeing results from Republican primaries. I’m cheering against someone, not for anyone…
However, the bitches are always up for supporting a fellow Kraut, so Go Dirk. It’s like some sort of Nazi dream, pinning my hopes on the white German basketball player… I should quit now before I offend anyone else…
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Tiny Seacrest
I watched the American Idol finale tonight. Go ahead, make fun if you want. I can take it. I used to consider myself a bit of a music snob. I was never one of those hipster kids who listened to indie music exclusively, but I was of the opinion that everything on the Top 40 radio was total and complete bullshit. I was an occasional closeted Idol watcher throughout the years. Kelly Clarkston was great. My ex was locked up during the Carrie Underwood season, so I could watch without getting a pop music died in the 80s lecture.
I barely watched this season. After the Colombian chick was kicked off, I decided the 12 year olds who spend the night jamming up the voting lines could have the champion. I knew where the real talent was. Some kid named Scotty won. I remembered seeing him earlier in the season. He was the assembly line country guy, but since he held his own with Tim McGraw tonight, the assembly line will be gold-plated. The whole thing was a little weird, really. The other finalist was a girl named Lauren and they were both very chicken-friend Southern types. Maybe that’s who votes the most. Mouth breathers must love Idol. Maybe next year some banjo playin’ Deliverance kid will audition.
I love how any super star out pimping a new album or tour makes an appearance on the show. Beyonce, Gaga, Tim McGraw, Tom Jones, and my personal favorite, Tony Bennett. He was the cutest thing ever. The TLC thing got a little weird, very left field. And I’m not sure if Left Eye actually died in a car wreck or if T-Boz ate her.
That was really mean. Sorry.
It was going to the finale two years ago that helped me mend my relationship with pop music and realize that just because something is mass marketed or on the radio doesn’t mean it is terrible.
In May 2009, I received the awesome early birthday present of tickets to the American Idol finale and after party. I hadn’t watched any of that season, but sort of knew what was going on thanks to co-workers and general media coverage. I needed a vacation and a few days in LA sounded perfect. The tickets were in the 20th row and the buzz was that there would be amazing star performances. My travel companion and partner in crime for the trip was Tim, a super fun family friend. My roommate, Chef Boy, made some joke about taking care of Alli if I died in an earthquake. We actually landed during a small earthquake. Chef Boy felt kinda bad about that.
It was Paula Abdul’s last season so Tim and I were praying that Paula would be fall off the chair loaded. She was not. Sigh. Ryan Seacrest was tiny. Adam Lambert was brilliant. The whole night was brilliant really. We saw Jason Mraz, Black Eyed Peas, Queen Latifah, Lionel Richie, Cindi Lauper, Rod Stewart, and KISS perform. Now, seeing KISS almost put me over the edge. I was screaming like it was 1979. And then, during the commercial break, a large banner dropped and covered most of the stage. Tim and I were having a, “Oh my lord, can you believe we just saw KISS” moment and experiencing general bliss, when I saw him. I wouldn’t mistake the skinny man with the big black hair. Brian May walked on stage. I started pounding on the arm of the man sitting next to me and said something unholy about just seeing Brian FUCKING May. Sigh. Lambert killed “We Are The Champions” with Queen.
The after party was great, too. We were able to meet a bunch of the finalists, we danced, we ate great food. Tim enjoyed the open bar. The whole energy of the show and the party was amazing. I hadn’t been to a major live show in over a year, so it had been a while since I had had that type of joyful crowd experience. I couldn’t believe I had so much fun. Really, I couldn’t. It was such a good lesson about not being cool or worrying about what other people think. If ya like something, ya like it. Period. It’s funny how rigid I used to be in my open-mindedness…
The bitches like all types of music. They are the chosen audience when I play iPod karaoke. The current favorite is Bohemian Rhapsody or anything Michael Jackson. Joey also likes dancing to Single Ladies. I grab her front paws and sing, “You’re a stinky pubin, you’re a brown head bubbin.”
I really need to pitch my life as a reality show. There is definitely an hour a week of entertainment here…
I barely watched this season. After the Colombian chick was kicked off, I decided the 12 year olds who spend the night jamming up the voting lines could have the champion. I knew where the real talent was. Some kid named Scotty won. I remembered seeing him earlier in the season. He was the assembly line country guy, but since he held his own with Tim McGraw tonight, the assembly line will be gold-plated. The whole thing was a little weird, really. The other finalist was a girl named Lauren and they were both very chicken-friend Southern types. Maybe that’s who votes the most. Mouth breathers must love Idol. Maybe next year some banjo playin’ Deliverance kid will audition.
I love how any super star out pimping a new album or tour makes an appearance on the show. Beyonce, Gaga, Tim McGraw, Tom Jones, and my personal favorite, Tony Bennett. He was the cutest thing ever. The TLC thing got a little weird, very left field. And I’m not sure if Left Eye actually died in a car wreck or if T-Boz ate her.
That was really mean. Sorry.
It was going to the finale two years ago that helped me mend my relationship with pop music and realize that just because something is mass marketed or on the radio doesn’t mean it is terrible.
In May 2009, I received the awesome early birthday present of tickets to the American Idol finale and after party. I hadn’t watched any of that season, but sort of knew what was going on thanks to co-workers and general media coverage. I needed a vacation and a few days in LA sounded perfect. The tickets were in the 20th row and the buzz was that there would be amazing star performances. My travel companion and partner in crime for the trip was Tim, a super fun family friend. My roommate, Chef Boy, made some joke about taking care of Alli if I died in an earthquake. We actually landed during a small earthquake. Chef Boy felt kinda bad about that.
It was Paula Abdul’s last season so Tim and I were praying that Paula would be fall off the chair loaded. She was not. Sigh. Ryan Seacrest was tiny. Adam Lambert was brilliant. The whole night was brilliant really. We saw Jason Mraz, Black Eyed Peas, Queen Latifah, Lionel Richie, Cindi Lauper, Rod Stewart, and KISS perform. Now, seeing KISS almost put me over the edge. I was screaming like it was 1979. And then, during the commercial break, a large banner dropped and covered most of the stage. Tim and I were having a, “Oh my lord, can you believe we just saw KISS” moment and experiencing general bliss, when I saw him. I wouldn’t mistake the skinny man with the big black hair. Brian May walked on stage. I started pounding on the arm of the man sitting next to me and said something unholy about just seeing Brian FUCKING May. Sigh. Lambert killed “We Are The Champions” with Queen.
The after party was great, too. We were able to meet a bunch of the finalists, we danced, we ate great food. Tim enjoyed the open bar. The whole energy of the show and the party was amazing. I hadn’t been to a major live show in over a year, so it had been a while since I had had that type of joyful crowd experience. I couldn’t believe I had so much fun. Really, I couldn’t. It was such a good lesson about not being cool or worrying about what other people think. If ya like something, ya like it. Period. It’s funny how rigid I used to be in my open-mindedness…
The bitches like all types of music. They are the chosen audience when I play iPod karaoke. The current favorite is Bohemian Rhapsody or anything Michael Jackson. Joey also likes dancing to Single Ladies. I grab her front paws and sing, “You’re a stinky pubin, you’re a brown head bubbin.”
I really need to pitch my life as a reality show. There is definitely an hour a week of entertainment here…
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Play It Fucking Loud
For anyone living under a rock, May 24th was the 70th birthday of Mr. Robert Allen Zimmerman, better known to the world as Bob Dylan. My Facebook status for over 22 hours was a birthday greeting to him. I love him. He is my favorite person I have never met. I see him as the father of my imaginary rock and roll family. The love is obvious to anyone who knows me or spends any time at my house. From the stacks of books, CDs, and bootlegs, to the concert posters and t-shirts, this chick is officially a Dylan nerd. I even have the eye logo that is the backdrop of every tour show I’ve seen tattooed on my back. George was my favorite Beatle because he quoted Bobby the way some people quote the Bible. This could go on in an epic form Isis would appreciate.
I didn’t really get into Bob until I was in college. Sure, I’d heard the big songs on the radio and understood that he had an important place in the musical history of the 1960’s, but if I am going to be completely honest, the young me thought he sounded like a bug and I never really gave him a good listen. Then I one of my writing workshops introduced me to the nuttiest poet professor I’d met. To this day, I don’t know if he had a Ph.D., we never called him anything but Greg. I don’t know how many classes he taught or how he fit into the faculty, but he left an impression. There was no syllabus or rubric. It was about creativity and brainstorming and doing away with the rules. We just wrote and talked and disagreed and wrote more. The group had a weird synergy that fed off this oddball, ragtag leader and it was one of those classes that no one wanted to skip. To this day, I still have a folder full of scribbles and workshop notes from that class.
All this thinking about Bob today naturally led me to think about Greg since he was the one that turned me on to Bobby. I went digging in my files, found the folder, and dug out the first poem I brought to that workshop, the one Greg dubbed my “Positively 4th Street.”
The Poem I Forgot to Share with My Old Roommate
You acted like you were so deep,
a true intellectual,
the last great philosopher.
More like a hippie wannabe for my tastes
but you were my slacker,
the chain-smoking, caffeine swilling man
of my 1993 dreams. The one
who quit working so he would have
the perfect spot on the couch
when the parents’ monthly allowance
was delivered. Your lack of hygiene
wasn’t alternative, if cleanliness is next to godliness,
you were Satan.
Your drug stories and dirty t-shirts
might have been interesting
last summer, but your big words
never were, the way they
lack… a… dais… i… cal… ly
rolled off off your
con… de… scen… ding
tongue made me want to vomit.
I can now say,
without the slightest trace of guilt,
how happy I am
that you moved to Idaho.
I know it’s not Dylan, it’s not even that great, but the feedback was laced with Dylan references and I left the workshop wondering what this 4th Street nonsense was all about since that Dylan guy was impossible to comprehend and only sang about rolling stones and shit blowing in the wind.
Thus began the first great Bob overdose of my life. I started going to live shows almost immediately and realized that being moved like that must be the way church made other people feel. I was blown away by this tiny Jew from Minnesota and started to see his influence everywhere. I contend that “Subterranean Homesick Blues” was the first rap song. And I will forever fight the battle that if there had been no Bob Dylan, there would have been no punk music. He couldn’t sing, wasn’t pretty, and gave them the musical finger at Albert Hall when all those people were pissed he went electric. “Play it fucking loud.” If that wasn’t punk, what the hell is?
Bob going electric is such a great example of someone following his gut and doing what he felt was right as an artist. I will always admire him for that. He’s been making music for decades, so of course there is some shit in the vault. Personally, I am not a huge fan of his late 70’s or early 90’s stuff. But I love the fact that he keeps going. He’s written some great stuff in the last 15 years. Sure, some may say that the voice of their generation has lost his hero status because he isn’t so political or whatever anymore. I like the old man Bob who is a bit more country but still rocks it out live. He’s just a song and dance man, after all. I love how he tells the truth without trying. I love that he’s on a never-ending tour. I love how the more I have tried to learn about him as a person, the more mysterious he became to me. He’s taught me that the art should be more interesting than the artist.
In another Dylan nerd move, I named Joey after a Dylan song. She is really “Visions of Johanna.” Show bitches shouldn’t be the only bitches to get the fun names.
HBD, BOB! XXXOOO
I didn’t really get into Bob until I was in college. Sure, I’d heard the big songs on the radio and understood that he had an important place in the musical history of the 1960’s, but if I am going to be completely honest, the young me thought he sounded like a bug and I never really gave him a good listen. Then I one of my writing workshops introduced me to the nuttiest poet professor I’d met. To this day, I don’t know if he had a Ph.D., we never called him anything but Greg. I don’t know how many classes he taught or how he fit into the faculty, but he left an impression. There was no syllabus or rubric. It was about creativity and brainstorming and doing away with the rules. We just wrote and talked and disagreed and wrote more. The group had a weird synergy that fed off this oddball, ragtag leader and it was one of those classes that no one wanted to skip. To this day, I still have a folder full of scribbles and workshop notes from that class.
All this thinking about Bob today naturally led me to think about Greg since he was the one that turned me on to Bobby. I went digging in my files, found the folder, and dug out the first poem I brought to that workshop, the one Greg dubbed my “Positively 4th Street.”
The Poem I Forgot to Share with My Old Roommate
You acted like you were so deep,
a true intellectual,
the last great philosopher.
More like a hippie wannabe for my tastes
but you were my slacker,
the chain-smoking, caffeine swilling man
of my 1993 dreams. The one
who quit working so he would have
the perfect spot on the couch
when the parents’ monthly allowance
was delivered. Your lack of hygiene
wasn’t alternative, if cleanliness is next to godliness,
you were Satan.
Your drug stories and dirty t-shirts
might have been interesting
last summer, but your big words
never were, the way they
lack… a… dais… i… cal… ly
rolled off off your
con… de… scen… ding
tongue made me want to vomit.
I can now say,
without the slightest trace of guilt,
how happy I am
that you moved to Idaho.
I know it’s not Dylan, it’s not even that great, but the feedback was laced with Dylan references and I left the workshop wondering what this 4th Street nonsense was all about since that Dylan guy was impossible to comprehend and only sang about rolling stones and shit blowing in the wind.
Thus began the first great Bob overdose of my life. I started going to live shows almost immediately and realized that being moved like that must be the way church made other people feel. I was blown away by this tiny Jew from Minnesota and started to see his influence everywhere. I contend that “Subterranean Homesick Blues” was the first rap song. And I will forever fight the battle that if there had been no Bob Dylan, there would have been no punk music. He couldn’t sing, wasn’t pretty, and gave them the musical finger at Albert Hall when all those people were pissed he went electric. “Play it fucking loud.” If that wasn’t punk, what the hell is?
Bob going electric is such a great example of someone following his gut and doing what he felt was right as an artist. I will always admire him for that. He’s been making music for decades, so of course there is some shit in the vault. Personally, I am not a huge fan of his late 70’s or early 90’s stuff. But I love the fact that he keeps going. He’s written some great stuff in the last 15 years. Sure, some may say that the voice of their generation has lost his hero status because he isn’t so political or whatever anymore. I like the old man Bob who is a bit more country but still rocks it out live. He’s just a song and dance man, after all. I love how he tells the truth without trying. I love that he’s on a never-ending tour. I love how the more I have tried to learn about him as a person, the more mysterious he became to me. He’s taught me that the art should be more interesting than the artist.
In another Dylan nerd move, I named Joey after a Dylan song. She is really “Visions of Johanna.” Show bitches shouldn’t be the only bitches to get the fun names.
HBD, BOB! XXXOOO
Monday, May 23, 2011
Werds, Schmerds...
Women. We talk and we talk and we talk. Of course there are men who speak just to hear their own voices but they are called lawyers and get paid for it. Verbal diarrhea seems to generally afflict more women than men. Maybe we are just more verbal naturally or maybe we are raised to communicate that way. At any rate, words can be a gift or a curse. It’s all about what is coming out of our mouths.
Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t some high and mighty sermon here where I judge all the gossipers. I do it, too. We all gossip and talk about other people sometimes. Whether it’s whatever the latest celebrity rag is hocking or what the neighbors or co-workers are up to, we are all in the glass house.
I have the good fortune to work and hang out in places where I can do a lot of evesdropping. I say good fortune because a lot of times, I just hear odd snippets of conversation that are really funny out of context, like a group of doctors talking about poop. Yes, they were enjoying a meal. Or half of a cell phone conversation at a coffeehouse. And being one of the few sober persons in a bar is always a good time. “Don’t eat that. It’ll make your butthole burn,” is a new classic. One of my favorite evesdrops was a convo with no words. A deaf family was fighting. Angry faces and gestures. I still wanna know what pissed that kid off. Probably the most memorable thing I have ever overheard was, “It’s almost my birthday and I’d like another diamond, but I don’t know where I’d put it,” as she flashed enough bling around her hands, neck, and face to match the GDP of a small country.
It’s the people like that who tend to stick with me. Lots of material but not a lot of substance. (Ah, the sweet sound of judgment.) There was a group of several women I overheard the other day who didn’t seem to have anything nice to say. Granted, they had had a few drinks, it was the weekend, and they were blowing off steam with friends. They were well-mannered and well-dressed. But one had to wonder about the well-being of people who participated in that unbridled bitchfest. Husbands, family, friends not there… no one was safe from the venom.
One of my favorite books is “The Four Agreements.” It is one of the reasons that I am still walking this earth and able to do it sober. One of the most important lessons I took from that book is that everything that is communicated is a reflection of the communicator. If someone says something nasty to me or about me, it was never really about me. It’s so easy to internalize everyone else’s crap and judgments and just get right on the negative train.
I really do make the effort to find the good in situations. I make a lot of jokes, can be sarcastic, and gossip. I just hope that I do it all for fun and not at the expense of others. I’m trying to adopt the “Bark Less, Wag More” platform of the bitches.
Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t some high and mighty sermon here where I judge all the gossipers. I do it, too. We all gossip and talk about other people sometimes. Whether it’s whatever the latest celebrity rag is hocking or what the neighbors or co-workers are up to, we are all in the glass house.
I have the good fortune to work and hang out in places where I can do a lot of evesdropping. I say good fortune because a lot of times, I just hear odd snippets of conversation that are really funny out of context, like a group of doctors talking about poop. Yes, they were enjoying a meal. Or half of a cell phone conversation at a coffeehouse. And being one of the few sober persons in a bar is always a good time. “Don’t eat that. It’ll make your butthole burn,” is a new classic. One of my favorite evesdrops was a convo with no words. A deaf family was fighting. Angry faces and gestures. I still wanna know what pissed that kid off. Probably the most memorable thing I have ever overheard was, “It’s almost my birthday and I’d like another diamond, but I don’t know where I’d put it,” as she flashed enough bling around her hands, neck, and face to match the GDP of a small country.
It’s the people like that who tend to stick with me. Lots of material but not a lot of substance. (Ah, the sweet sound of judgment.) There was a group of several women I overheard the other day who didn’t seem to have anything nice to say. Granted, they had had a few drinks, it was the weekend, and they were blowing off steam with friends. They were well-mannered and well-dressed. But one had to wonder about the well-being of people who participated in that unbridled bitchfest. Husbands, family, friends not there… no one was safe from the venom.
One of my favorite books is “The Four Agreements.” It is one of the reasons that I am still walking this earth and able to do it sober. One of the most important lessons I took from that book is that everything that is communicated is a reflection of the communicator. If someone says something nasty to me or about me, it was never really about me. It’s so easy to internalize everyone else’s crap and judgments and just get right on the negative train.
I really do make the effort to find the good in situations. I make a lot of jokes, can be sarcastic, and gossip. I just hope that I do it all for fun and not at the expense of others. I’m trying to adopt the “Bark Less, Wag More” platform of the bitches.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
The Match Nine
This is another repeat that was posted on Facebook around a year ago. Enjoy...
Since my Match.com subscription was scheduled to run out any minute, I decided I should really try and get the maximum use out of it. Maximum use is code for equal parts looking for losers and/or freaks and genuinely looking for decent guys. It wasn’t that I thought I was going to meet someone through the site, but more of a restoration in the concept that there are good men out there. Good men who are really single and not possibly bait for To Catch A Predator. There was a lawyer who lived near Des Moines who, upon only a few emails suggested that he come up to Sioux Falls for a weekend to visit. I politely responded that I would like to get to know him better before any plans like that were made. Of course I couldn’t leave it at that, so I wrote, “Besides, how do I know you’re not really a 14 year-old and this is an elaborate set-up to catch a predator? ‘I made iced tea!’”
He never wrote back.
No sense of humor or 14 year-old boy? You make the call.
As for the looking for losers part, I usually needed to look no further than the “Who Has Viewed Your Profile” section. Who I attracted on that site was a bit disturbing to me. Of course I think my profile is Classic Schooly, meaning funny, no bullshit, and utterly fabulous. Then again, who am I kidding as who I attract in general mystifies me. Alcoholics, drug addicts, the former hobo, those not fond of working, and the last fellow who asked me out was recently arrested for an allegation of child molestation. How many of you gals can claim that delight? I did not accept the date. I don’t like Chucky Cheese. KIDDING. About the Chucky Cheese. I did not go out with him.
The search for a good egg on Match was interesting. The site sent a whole bunch of matches to my email almost everyday. They were clustered in San Francisco, Boston, and Portland. Sigh…
Since I decided to make my search genuine, I explored the site a bit more. I never realized you could really tailor your searches, adding every requirement from physical features to income to education. Want kids? Got kids? Do you like baseball? It was kind of neat. So I went to town. Minimum 6-1, minimum bachelor’s degree, you gotta make at least as much money as I do. I don’t want any kids, but if you already have them, fine. Similar interests, check. Any religion was fine. Smoke or drink, it’s okay if you do or you don’t. Since my Matches via email were always from so far away, I gave myself 2,000 miles from my zip code. And finally, since there were millions of members on the site, I thought it was important to keep the age range really narrow, 32 to 35, just so I didn’t have to many hits through which to sort.
Now, as I was hitting send, I was a little excited. I just built the perfect man. Fun. Then I was a little scared since my old idea of a perfect man was Ethan Hawke circa “Reality Bites” and arrest records tended to be part of the resume. Hope always beats experience though, and excited beat scared. I didn’t shut down the browser and BAM, there they were. All nine of them. NINE. OUT OF MILLIONS OF PEOPLE, ONLY NINE DUDES FIT MY NEW AND IMPROVED STANDARDS. Balls.
It was shocking at first. I thought I’d get at least a couple hundred hits, but NINE. Out of millions, I could barely get enough to field a baseball team. Four of them were atheists. Six of them were pretty cute. They all knew how to spell. Some divorced fathers. Some never married and never want kids. One hit out of Madison, Wisconsin, otherwise they were California, Brooklyn, Portland, or oddly enough, Texas. I didn’t see that one coming.
The strange thing was, the more I read, the more my little experiment worked. It was pretty cool to find out that they do exist. They might not exist in my world, now or ever, but they exist. I said a long time ago that I would be perfectly happy with Alli, and now Joey, being the loves of this life.
I didn’t sign on to the site for a while for a few weeks after that. I’d get the emails of a new “wink,” which is the way to get someone’s attention if you’re too scared or stupid to write an email. All the winks and emails were the usual suspects, like the guy older than my mother, the single father of three with the epic mullet, or the race fan who couldn’t punctuate. Commas are precious, people. Learn how to use them. I had emailed a few of the Match Nine and the typical response was, “You sound great, but you live so far away.”
Then Match thought it was a good idea to auto-renew my subscription without so much as an email notification. They charged my VISA. And there’s one thing that never happens in my relationships anymore. You don’t fuck with my money.
The time had come. Match and I had been together for a long time, too long. We were really only together out of some faint hope. I didn’t get mad when Match used my profile photo for advertising and one of the line cooks at work was like, “What up schooly77? Wanna meet singles in your area? I saw you when I was checking my email!” Match had burned me with a few dates, like the guy who told me about the lady he wanted to “kick in the vagina.” Match tempted me with The Nine. But then Match took my money. It was time to break-up.
I deleted all my photos. I deleted that delicious profile. Since the site insisted that I have a short description of myself, I wrote something along the lines of, “Dear Match, before I only thought that the single men in my area were uneducated alcoholic racing fans, now I know this much is true. Thanks!” Then a bunch of the word, “blah,” until I reached the required 200 characters. I couldn’t find a way to cancel my account on the site, so I had to call customer care. I was glad to know that Match preferred to care about me rather than service me.
Apparently you have to check your sense of humor at the door when you work at Match’s customer care. There was a terse discussion of how I agreed to a renewal when I initially signed up, I wasn’t getting any money back, all the usual run around. So at that point the only way to get my money’s worth was to mess with him.
“I just want my account cancelled.”
“I can’t do that. You are renewed until August.”
“I don’t want anymore of these NASCAR hobbits that are older than my mother looking at my profile. I deleted my pictures and made my profile snappy. You should check it out. It’s good.”
“You are renewed until…”
I had to interrupt him, “WOW, so I’m signed in right now and I just got an email from ‘harderfaster69’. That’s so classy. He spells ‘you’ with one letter and wants me to text him. I have his number if you want it.”
“Miss, I am going to block all users from looking at your account.”
“Excellent,” I replied, “and please make sure that my subscription does NOT get renewed in August. It’s just not funny anymore.”
“So Miss, you’re account will not be renewed. May I ask why you’re leaving Match?”
I didn’t wait an instant and deadpanned it.
“It doesn’t work.”
There was silence for a moment and he said, “Well let me sign on to your account and see what’s not working.”
“It doesn’t work.” I could hear him breathing. “It doesn’t work.”
“Just let me sign on to your account and I’m sure I can fix whatever isn’t working.”
“IT doesn’t work.”
Suddenly he got the joke and couldn’t wait to get me off the phone as he said harshly, “Your account is blocked from all users and will not be renewed. You can still sign on if you choose. Is there anything else?”
I thought about asking for his number, but decided to leave well enough alone.
Since my Match.com subscription was scheduled to run out any minute, I decided I should really try and get the maximum use out of it. Maximum use is code for equal parts looking for losers and/or freaks and genuinely looking for decent guys. It wasn’t that I thought I was going to meet someone through the site, but more of a restoration in the concept that there are good men out there. Good men who are really single and not possibly bait for To Catch A Predator. There was a lawyer who lived near Des Moines who, upon only a few emails suggested that he come up to Sioux Falls for a weekend to visit. I politely responded that I would like to get to know him better before any plans like that were made. Of course I couldn’t leave it at that, so I wrote, “Besides, how do I know you’re not really a 14 year-old and this is an elaborate set-up to catch a predator? ‘I made iced tea!’”
He never wrote back.
No sense of humor or 14 year-old boy? You make the call.
As for the looking for losers part, I usually needed to look no further than the “Who Has Viewed Your Profile” section. Who I attracted on that site was a bit disturbing to me. Of course I think my profile is Classic Schooly, meaning funny, no bullshit, and utterly fabulous. Then again, who am I kidding as who I attract in general mystifies me. Alcoholics, drug addicts, the former hobo, those not fond of working, and the last fellow who asked me out was recently arrested for an allegation of child molestation. How many of you gals can claim that delight? I did not accept the date. I don’t like Chucky Cheese. KIDDING. About the Chucky Cheese. I did not go out with him.
The search for a good egg on Match was interesting. The site sent a whole bunch of matches to my email almost everyday. They were clustered in San Francisco, Boston, and Portland. Sigh…
Since I decided to make my search genuine, I explored the site a bit more. I never realized you could really tailor your searches, adding every requirement from physical features to income to education. Want kids? Got kids? Do you like baseball? It was kind of neat. So I went to town. Minimum 6-1, minimum bachelor’s degree, you gotta make at least as much money as I do. I don’t want any kids, but if you already have them, fine. Similar interests, check. Any religion was fine. Smoke or drink, it’s okay if you do or you don’t. Since my Matches via email were always from so far away, I gave myself 2,000 miles from my zip code. And finally, since there were millions of members on the site, I thought it was important to keep the age range really narrow, 32 to 35, just so I didn’t have to many hits through which to sort.
Now, as I was hitting send, I was a little excited. I just built the perfect man. Fun. Then I was a little scared since my old idea of a perfect man was Ethan Hawke circa “Reality Bites” and arrest records tended to be part of the resume. Hope always beats experience though, and excited beat scared. I didn’t shut down the browser and BAM, there they were. All nine of them. NINE. OUT OF MILLIONS OF PEOPLE, ONLY NINE DUDES FIT MY NEW AND IMPROVED STANDARDS. Balls.
It was shocking at first. I thought I’d get at least a couple hundred hits, but NINE. Out of millions, I could barely get enough to field a baseball team. Four of them were atheists. Six of them were pretty cute. They all knew how to spell. Some divorced fathers. Some never married and never want kids. One hit out of Madison, Wisconsin, otherwise they were California, Brooklyn, Portland, or oddly enough, Texas. I didn’t see that one coming.
The strange thing was, the more I read, the more my little experiment worked. It was pretty cool to find out that they do exist. They might not exist in my world, now or ever, but they exist. I said a long time ago that I would be perfectly happy with Alli, and now Joey, being the loves of this life.
I didn’t sign on to the site for a while for a few weeks after that. I’d get the emails of a new “wink,” which is the way to get someone’s attention if you’re too scared or stupid to write an email. All the winks and emails were the usual suspects, like the guy older than my mother, the single father of three with the epic mullet, or the race fan who couldn’t punctuate. Commas are precious, people. Learn how to use them. I had emailed a few of the Match Nine and the typical response was, “You sound great, but you live so far away.”
Then Match thought it was a good idea to auto-renew my subscription without so much as an email notification. They charged my VISA. And there’s one thing that never happens in my relationships anymore. You don’t fuck with my money.
The time had come. Match and I had been together for a long time, too long. We were really only together out of some faint hope. I didn’t get mad when Match used my profile photo for advertising and one of the line cooks at work was like, “What up schooly77? Wanna meet singles in your area? I saw you when I was checking my email!” Match had burned me with a few dates, like the guy who told me about the lady he wanted to “kick in the vagina.” Match tempted me with The Nine. But then Match took my money. It was time to break-up.
I deleted all my photos. I deleted that delicious profile. Since the site insisted that I have a short description of myself, I wrote something along the lines of, “Dear Match, before I only thought that the single men in my area were uneducated alcoholic racing fans, now I know this much is true. Thanks!” Then a bunch of the word, “blah,” until I reached the required 200 characters. I couldn’t find a way to cancel my account on the site, so I had to call customer care. I was glad to know that Match preferred to care about me rather than service me.
Apparently you have to check your sense of humor at the door when you work at Match’s customer care. There was a terse discussion of how I agreed to a renewal when I initially signed up, I wasn’t getting any money back, all the usual run around. So at that point the only way to get my money’s worth was to mess with him.
“I just want my account cancelled.”
“I can’t do that. You are renewed until August.”
“I don’t want anymore of these NASCAR hobbits that are older than my mother looking at my profile. I deleted my pictures and made my profile snappy. You should check it out. It’s good.”
“You are renewed until…”
I had to interrupt him, “WOW, so I’m signed in right now and I just got an email from ‘harderfaster69’. That’s so classy. He spells ‘you’ with one letter and wants me to text him. I have his number if you want it.”
“Miss, I am going to block all users from looking at your account.”
“Excellent,” I replied, “and please make sure that my subscription does NOT get renewed in August. It’s just not funny anymore.”
“So Miss, you’re account will not be renewed. May I ask why you’re leaving Match?”
I didn’t wait an instant and deadpanned it.
“It doesn’t work.”
There was silence for a moment and he said, “Well let me sign on to your account and see what’s not working.”
“It doesn’t work.” I could hear him breathing. “It doesn’t work.”
“Just let me sign on to your account and I’m sure I can fix whatever isn’t working.”
“IT doesn’t work.”
Suddenly he got the joke and couldn’t wait to get me off the phone as he said harshly, “Your account is blocked from all users and will not be renewed. You can still sign on if you choose. Is there anything else?”
I thought about asking for his number, but decided to leave well enough alone.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Balls...
One of my Facebook friends, who happens to be a reader of this blog, posted a status update regarding getting her dog neutered today. Cool Lit Chick, since she posts things by great writers, joked about taking Henry to the vet to be castrated, or deprived of his vigor. I contemplated whether or not to post a comment on the status due to the fact that I would be notified if anyone else commented.
Both of the bitches are technically “altered females.” We won’t be birthin’ no babies here. Seeing animal shelters full of fur babies needing homes and knowing that lots of babies are euthanized simply because of lack of room at shelters and lack of forever families breaks my heart. So I am firmly in the spay and neuter your pet camp. Bless your heart, Bob.
After a bit of contemplation, I decided to give props to Cool Lit Chick for being a good parent. And then I prayed that a whole bunch of guys wouldn’t get on the “poor dog needs nut implants” bandwagon. They do make nut implants for neutered dogs. And so it goes…
Happily, there were only a couple of people concerned about Henry’s junk and it was in a playful way. But I have noticed that men seem to be more sympathetic to a dog being castrated than women are to a spayed bitch. I’ve known men who practically mourned the loss of their dog’s balls. These are the type of men who bring their Chessie Retriever with grapefruit-sized testicles swinging about to the park and then wonder why toddlers run in fear. The kids aren’t afraid of the pooch, they are afraid of knockout by scrotum.
Women, on the other hand, seem totally okay with getting a hound fixed. Whether it’s snip and rest for a dog or surgery, stitches, and rest for a bitch, for whatever reason, women don’t seem to define ourselves as much below the belt. Internal versus external? Would I have an issue, or at least more sympathy, about spaying my bitches if I could touch my own ovaries? Or if I spent a good part of my life adjusting them when I thought no one was looking?
Until the dogs evolve enough to demand reproductive rights, I guess it will be up to the pet parents. By then they should be evolved enough to have jobs and buy their own houses and kibble, so I will be totally okay with it.
All this thinking about cojones and what’s the first thing I see when I hop on the internet? An article that Mother Jones posted today regarding San Francisco’s proposed ban on male circumcision. First stop, family jewels, next stop wieners, I guess.
According to the article, only 32.9% of male babies born in the US in 2009 were circumcised. That number surprised me. Personally, I have never run into an uncircumcised Richard, so it would probably scare the hell out of me and I would run the other way screaming. Friends that I know who’ve had baby boys had them circumcised like the day after the baby was born. A friend who is pregnant said they’ve talked about it with her doctor, who quoted the same stat as Mother Jones, but said nearly everyone in this area (Midwest) has the child circumcised.
I understand the ban on female circumcision is where is whole thing started. We’ve all heard the horror stories of young women being circumcised in unhygienic situations. And the reasoning behind the female circumcision is all about controlling those young women’s sexuality.
I guess the argument against male circumcision has a basis in sex for the uncircumcised male being more pleasurable and that due to better hygiene practices, it is no longer an issue of cleanliness. The other side of the coin is that circumcised men are less likely to transmit STDs. Those were just little bits I gleaned from the article and the chatter on it. Frankly, I have been thinking about cocks and balls way too much today because of all this and the thought of Goggling anything to do with a dude’s junk just makes me tired. Plus, blogs aren’t about facts, they are about spewing opinions. I don’t see how the San Francisco ban could pass; it seems like a pretty cut (pun intended) and dry First Amendment issue since circumcision has a religious basis.
I guess we should be able to do as we wish with our bodies and if we are minors, our parents get a say. Oh, this territory is getting so familiar. Keep your hands off my uterus and I’ll keep mine off your foreskin or lack of foreskin… whatever, I am going to bed. Balls…
Both of the bitches are technically “altered females.” We won’t be birthin’ no babies here. Seeing animal shelters full of fur babies needing homes and knowing that lots of babies are euthanized simply because of lack of room at shelters and lack of forever families breaks my heart. So I am firmly in the spay and neuter your pet camp. Bless your heart, Bob.
After a bit of contemplation, I decided to give props to Cool Lit Chick for being a good parent. And then I prayed that a whole bunch of guys wouldn’t get on the “poor dog needs nut implants” bandwagon. They do make nut implants for neutered dogs. And so it goes…
Happily, there were only a couple of people concerned about Henry’s junk and it was in a playful way. But I have noticed that men seem to be more sympathetic to a dog being castrated than women are to a spayed bitch. I’ve known men who practically mourned the loss of their dog’s balls. These are the type of men who bring their Chessie Retriever with grapefruit-sized testicles swinging about to the park and then wonder why toddlers run in fear. The kids aren’t afraid of the pooch, they are afraid of knockout by scrotum.
Women, on the other hand, seem totally okay with getting a hound fixed. Whether it’s snip and rest for a dog or surgery, stitches, and rest for a bitch, for whatever reason, women don’t seem to define ourselves as much below the belt. Internal versus external? Would I have an issue, or at least more sympathy, about spaying my bitches if I could touch my own ovaries? Or if I spent a good part of my life adjusting them when I thought no one was looking?
Until the dogs evolve enough to demand reproductive rights, I guess it will be up to the pet parents. By then they should be evolved enough to have jobs and buy their own houses and kibble, so I will be totally okay with it.
All this thinking about cojones and what’s the first thing I see when I hop on the internet? An article that Mother Jones posted today regarding San Francisco’s proposed ban on male circumcision. First stop, family jewels, next stop wieners, I guess.
According to the article, only 32.9% of male babies born in the US in 2009 were circumcised. That number surprised me. Personally, I have never run into an uncircumcised Richard, so it would probably scare the hell out of me and I would run the other way screaming. Friends that I know who’ve had baby boys had them circumcised like the day after the baby was born. A friend who is pregnant said they’ve talked about it with her doctor, who quoted the same stat as Mother Jones, but said nearly everyone in this area (Midwest) has the child circumcised.
I understand the ban on female circumcision is where is whole thing started. We’ve all heard the horror stories of young women being circumcised in unhygienic situations. And the reasoning behind the female circumcision is all about controlling those young women’s sexuality.
I guess the argument against male circumcision has a basis in sex for the uncircumcised male being more pleasurable and that due to better hygiene practices, it is no longer an issue of cleanliness. The other side of the coin is that circumcised men are less likely to transmit STDs. Those were just little bits I gleaned from the article and the chatter on it. Frankly, I have been thinking about cocks and balls way too much today because of all this and the thought of Goggling anything to do with a dude’s junk just makes me tired. Plus, blogs aren’t about facts, they are about spewing opinions. I don’t see how the San Francisco ban could pass; it seems like a pretty cut (pun intended) and dry First Amendment issue since circumcision has a religious basis.
I guess we should be able to do as we wish with our bodies and if we are minors, our parents get a say. Oh, this territory is getting so familiar. Keep your hands off my uterus and I’ll keep mine off your foreskin or lack of foreskin… whatever, I am going to bed. Balls…
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
The Connection of Selection
I’m a believer that we always have choices. I don’t have to get up in the morning, I don’t have to go to work or pay my bills, and I could tell the family to fuck off over Thanksgiving dinner. You get the drift. We might not necessarily like the possible outcomes of the choices we have to make; never the less, we still have choices.
Some of this is a probably a product of my middle class upbringing and the Susie Sunshine attitude I’ve adopted. I haven’t had to make choices like those facing chronic poverty or racism have made. But I also have a feeling that a lot people who have lived those experiences might share my view.
Life can beat us down in so many ways—we’ve all been victims at some point. But what separates those of us who choose to polish off the attitude, be resourceful, and not get stuck in the mire from those who wallow in it?
It’s as if some have no resiliency skills whatsoever and some live for the chaos. And they just keep choosing it. The world’s favorite psychology 101 lesson: The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. I wonder if some people really like being unhealthy, or is it that they just don’t know how to be healthy?
Life hasn’t been great every day of my life, but a lot of the not so great times were due to poor choices I made and life didn’t start to get better until I learned to own my shit and do it a different way. Man, that’s hard stuff sometimes, and being as bull-headed as I am, I’ve had to learn it on my own. I’m one of those who hears, “Hot stove!” and I want to touch it to see how hot is hot, I mean hot is different to everyone, right?
But I digress. Sometimes we make our own shithole and sometimes it’s handed to us. We get to choose how we deal with it. Choice for the bitches, on the other hand, runs on instinct, which isn’t a bad lesson for us humans. They trust their instincts, a skill of which many of us have been deprogrammed.
Some of this is a probably a product of my middle class upbringing and the Susie Sunshine attitude I’ve adopted. I haven’t had to make choices like those facing chronic poverty or racism have made. But I also have a feeling that a lot people who have lived those experiences might share my view.
Life can beat us down in so many ways—we’ve all been victims at some point. But what separates those of us who choose to polish off the attitude, be resourceful, and not get stuck in the mire from those who wallow in it?
It’s as if some have no resiliency skills whatsoever and some live for the chaos. And they just keep choosing it. The world’s favorite psychology 101 lesson: The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. I wonder if some people really like being unhealthy, or is it that they just don’t know how to be healthy?
Life hasn’t been great every day of my life, but a lot of the not so great times were due to poor choices I made and life didn’t start to get better until I learned to own my shit and do it a different way. Man, that’s hard stuff sometimes, and being as bull-headed as I am, I’ve had to learn it on my own. I’m one of those who hears, “Hot stove!” and I want to touch it to see how hot is hot, I mean hot is different to everyone, right?
But I digress. Sometimes we make our own shithole and sometimes it’s handed to us. We get to choose how we deal with it. Choice for the bitches, on the other hand, runs on instinct, which isn’t a bad lesson for us humans. They trust their instincts, a skill of which many of us have been deprogrammed.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Just another love child
The Governator had a baby with a staffer more than 10 years ago. I know all the women with Kennedy genes eventually start to get that hard, mannish look, but Maria is still pretty hot. So what gives, Arnie? She was been a good political wife, she stuck with him through the allegations of misconduct with women and gave up her journalism career. Twenty-five years of marriage and four children. The news of the 10 year old must have been steroid that shrunk the bodybuilder's nuts. When the proof is a walking, breathing human being, I guess it's a bit harder to dismiss.
The CNN headline read, "Schwarzenegger acknowledges having child with staffer." Acknowledges. As in, he accepted or admitted the truth of fathering a child. I'm certainly glad it didn't take over ten years for my dad to acknowledge me. And frankly, admitting the truth of the child sounds a little like an admission of guilt in a criminal proceeding, as in only guilty because he was caught and no contest isn’t an option.
A friend of mine recently went through child support proceedings. My friend never asked for a dime after the daddy left the scene when the child was less than a year old. They lived together through the pregnancy, he took her to the hospital to have the child, they send out birth announcements, and they travelled to his mother’s for the baby’s first Christmas. Then one day, he walked into her job, told her he moved out, and that was that.
Flash forward more than 10 years. Due to a change of employment and change of her financial situation, my friend filed the paperwork to request support. Of course, he initially denied the paternity. The test proved he was the father. Then he said he must have slept with her, but didn’t remember her being pregnant. Yeah. So the judge had to have everything from the birth certificate to the birth announcement to the pictures of them all together at the first Christmas entered into evidence. Child support was ordered, as well as several years of back support.
The kicker to this situation was that his current wife, with whom he has children, was sitting through the various court proceedings. I wonder if the wife ever had a clue of a child in his past or if she was totally blind-sided. Being a fly on the window during that car ride home would have been interesting to say the least.
We’ve all kept secrets, but I can’t imagine denying a part of yourself for years. Whether you’re famous and powerful or an average schmuck, do you convince yourself that whatever money or distance you have put in place to dismiss that part of your life is enough and move on?
I just don’t get it. There was a point where Joey was my foster baby and I didn’t know if I would be able to keep her. She was considered evidence for a court case because she was seized from an alleged puppy mill. My original intention was to be a foster family for one of the dogs; if it went well, I thought I could continue to help out the local shelters as a foster parent. I had Joey for about 12 hours when I realized she wasn’t going anywhere. I fell head of heels in love with the little brown-headed nutcase of a puppy.
I can’t begin to tell you how many tears were shed watching the court case played out on the local news or reading emails from the shelter regarding the case. At one point, I thought she did have to go back to the breeder. I talked to friends and secured places where she could stay, my version of the Underground Railroad for dogs, if you will.
I’m not trying to say I understand a parent’s love for his or her child, but my love for the bitches is as close as I can get for now. The thought of giving her up nearly broke me. I am almost in tears thinking about it now. And that’s after the little whore chewed up everything from a Droid to a laptop chord. So if I can love a dog that much, what kind of a heartless bastard does it take to turn his back on his child?
The CNN headline read, "Schwarzenegger acknowledges having child with staffer." Acknowledges. As in, he accepted or admitted the truth of fathering a child. I'm certainly glad it didn't take over ten years for my dad to acknowledge me. And frankly, admitting the truth of the child sounds a little like an admission of guilt in a criminal proceeding, as in only guilty because he was caught and no contest isn’t an option.
A friend of mine recently went through child support proceedings. My friend never asked for a dime after the daddy left the scene when the child was less than a year old. They lived together through the pregnancy, he took her to the hospital to have the child, they send out birth announcements, and they travelled to his mother’s for the baby’s first Christmas. Then one day, he walked into her job, told her he moved out, and that was that.
Flash forward more than 10 years. Due to a change of employment and change of her financial situation, my friend filed the paperwork to request support. Of course, he initially denied the paternity. The test proved he was the father. Then he said he must have slept with her, but didn’t remember her being pregnant. Yeah. So the judge had to have everything from the birth certificate to the birth announcement to the pictures of them all together at the first Christmas entered into evidence. Child support was ordered, as well as several years of back support.
The kicker to this situation was that his current wife, with whom he has children, was sitting through the various court proceedings. I wonder if the wife ever had a clue of a child in his past or if she was totally blind-sided. Being a fly on the window during that car ride home would have been interesting to say the least.
We’ve all kept secrets, but I can’t imagine denying a part of yourself for years. Whether you’re famous and powerful or an average schmuck, do you convince yourself that whatever money or distance you have put in place to dismiss that part of your life is enough and move on?
I just don’t get it. There was a point where Joey was my foster baby and I didn’t know if I would be able to keep her. She was considered evidence for a court case because she was seized from an alleged puppy mill. My original intention was to be a foster family for one of the dogs; if it went well, I thought I could continue to help out the local shelters as a foster parent. I had Joey for about 12 hours when I realized she wasn’t going anywhere. I fell head of heels in love with the little brown-headed nutcase of a puppy.
I can’t begin to tell you how many tears were shed watching the court case played out on the local news or reading emails from the shelter regarding the case. At one point, I thought she did have to go back to the breeder. I talked to friends and secured places where she could stay, my version of the Underground Railroad for dogs, if you will.
I’m not trying to say I understand a parent’s love for his or her child, but my love for the bitches is as close as I can get for now. The thought of giving her up nearly broke me. I am almost in tears thinking about it now. And that’s after the little whore chewed up everything from a Droid to a laptop chord. So if I can love a dog that much, what kind of a heartless bastard does it take to turn his back on his child?
Monday, May 16, 2011
Feminist + Misogynist = Happiness?
I always saw a feminist as someone who believed in equality and was strong and independent. The idea of a feminist as a man-hater never made any sense to me, especially since I knew men who embraced feminist ideals or defined as feminists themselves.
The one thing about my beliefs that didn’t compute was that, until the age of 28 or so, I really felt like I needed to be in a relationship. For all the rhetoric about self-sufficiency and independence, I had no confidence in my ability to be alone and frankly, made poor choices about the type of men I dated.
After the long-term relationship that nearly left me bankrupt in literal and figurative ways, I was hell bent on being single and embraced the idea that if Alli was the love of my life, I was blessed with more love than a lot of people. I focused on myself and tried to figure out who I wanted to be. The best part was the change in thinking that came about naturally. Putting myself first has allowed me to discover my own interests and have an attitude of “Maybe I would enjoy that” instead of “I probably couldn’t or shouldn’t do that.” I tried shooting handguns, got some fabulous tattoos, adopted Joey, ran a half marathon, took yoga classes, started writing again, and discovered that cake decorating is a fabulously good time. I was able to not work as much and re-connect with my friends, but more importantly, myself.
Sure, I dated here and there, but never really felt that love connection. There were the Match.com disasters. The odd part was, for the first time in my life, I was totally okay with being alone. I had enough sobriety and time to be okay with myself and realized that figuring out who I was would be an ongoing process that could very well last my entire life. I’d been through enough bullshit to appreciate that the occasional loneliness of single life was better than the stress of the relationships I chose.
Then I learned of my Man Friend. Our mutual friend, DJ Extra Chromosome, wanted us to meet for a while. He would send these ridiculous texts about his having found a gigolo for me. He was half-joking cuz he is always half-joking, but who doesn’t need a gigolo sometimes? But, since I was in my “strong feminist girl is finding herself” phase and was slightly scared from the Match.com fiascos, I always declined. By chance, we ran into each other on Halloween. He was Michael Jackson, I was Princess Leia Slave Girl. He said he was a misogynist. I think he was pleasantly surprised I knew what that meant. I said I was a feminist. Apparently we both enjoy a challenge because we have been getting to know each other ever since.
So now Man Friend has to spend most of the week out of town for work. Of course I’m glad he has a job and likes to work, I never realized how attractive that quality is until I met him, but damn, I do miss him. The old me would have thought missing him would make me less of a feminist. But it really makes me feel more whole as a person. I’m happy to want him in my life.
The bitches love him. Alli did right from the start. That’s how I knew he was a good egg. Sometimes she takes a while to warm up to people, but she picked him for me. Now, Monday comes and she’s holed up on the couch, looking forlorn because she knows Man Friend will be gone for a few days. I think she understands that he’s coming back; I guess it doesn’t really matter. I like the simplicity of her view of the situation: pout a bit, then get on with the week as normal, and wag that tail so hard your butt shakes when you get to see him on Friday.
The one thing about my beliefs that didn’t compute was that, until the age of 28 or so, I really felt like I needed to be in a relationship. For all the rhetoric about self-sufficiency and independence, I had no confidence in my ability to be alone and frankly, made poor choices about the type of men I dated.
After the long-term relationship that nearly left me bankrupt in literal and figurative ways, I was hell bent on being single and embraced the idea that if Alli was the love of my life, I was blessed with more love than a lot of people. I focused on myself and tried to figure out who I wanted to be. The best part was the change in thinking that came about naturally. Putting myself first has allowed me to discover my own interests and have an attitude of “Maybe I would enjoy that” instead of “I probably couldn’t or shouldn’t do that.” I tried shooting handguns, got some fabulous tattoos, adopted Joey, ran a half marathon, took yoga classes, started writing again, and discovered that cake decorating is a fabulously good time. I was able to not work as much and re-connect with my friends, but more importantly, myself.
Sure, I dated here and there, but never really felt that love connection. There were the Match.com disasters. The odd part was, for the first time in my life, I was totally okay with being alone. I had enough sobriety and time to be okay with myself and realized that figuring out who I was would be an ongoing process that could very well last my entire life. I’d been through enough bullshit to appreciate that the occasional loneliness of single life was better than the stress of the relationships I chose.
Then I learned of my Man Friend. Our mutual friend, DJ Extra Chromosome, wanted us to meet for a while. He would send these ridiculous texts about his having found a gigolo for me. He was half-joking cuz he is always half-joking, but who doesn’t need a gigolo sometimes? But, since I was in my “strong feminist girl is finding herself” phase and was slightly scared from the Match.com fiascos, I always declined. By chance, we ran into each other on Halloween. He was Michael Jackson, I was Princess Leia Slave Girl. He said he was a misogynist. I think he was pleasantly surprised I knew what that meant. I said I was a feminist. Apparently we both enjoy a challenge because we have been getting to know each other ever since.
So now Man Friend has to spend most of the week out of town for work. Of course I’m glad he has a job and likes to work, I never realized how attractive that quality is until I met him, but damn, I do miss him. The old me would have thought missing him would make me less of a feminist. But it really makes me feel more whole as a person. I’m happy to want him in my life.
The bitches love him. Alli did right from the start. That’s how I knew he was a good egg. Sometimes she takes a while to warm up to people, but she picked him for me. Now, Monday comes and she’s holed up on the couch, looking forlorn because she knows Man Friend will be gone for a few days. I think she understands that he’s coming back; I guess it doesn’t really matter. I like the simplicity of her view of the situation: pout a bit, then get on with the week as normal, and wag that tail so hard your butt shakes when you get to see him on Friday.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
A Turd's Day Afternoon (A repeat for Robo Alexander)
This was a story I originally told via Facebook last spring and re-posted it today at the request of my buddy, Rob. If it's new to you, enjoy!
Pushing my way through the back gate has been difficult as of late. The fluctuating temperatures have caused quite a bit of snow to melt off the roof of the garage and the sun has taken care of a few inches on the north side of my yard. The plus is that I know spring is coming. The bad part is the damned ice, freezing my gate shut and turning our walks into skating adventures. But enough about the ice, the important part of this story is the melting.
I am not afraid to admit that there’s been a little issue with the girls eating poop. My babies are shit eaters. Dirty, nasty two girls without a cup, play with a frozen turd like it’s a toy shit eaters. Joey even tried to smuggle a turdcicle into the house. Tim, my older brother, says that his Shorthair, Ranger, eats his poop all the time and eats their other dog’s poop. He doesn’t even seem all that concerned about it.
It’s not that I expect them to be lady-like or cross their legs when they sit. I have big, energetic, athletic dogs because I want them to run, wrestle, and play fetch. I find humor in the fact that Alli smells her own farts for God’s sake. But shit eating? Sigh.
I consulted our vet about it and he gave us a delightful product called For-Bid. For those of you who have never had the pleasure of dealing with a crap connoisseur, For-Bid is a powder that is sprinkled over the food of the offending eater. It can be used for both dogs and cats. The key is that it has to be on the food of animal whose poop being consumed. Since neither of the bitches would cop to as to which of their turds they were consuming, I treated both of their meals for several days.
It worked like a charm. Where the girls had tasted the flavorful feces, they were now simply sniffing at it and moving along. I thought the problem was licked.
Sometimes my thinking fails me.
My thinking fails me when I remember that the snow in my yard is melting. And my thinking fails me, when I remember that, no matter how diligent I am in grabbing a bag, snapping on a rubber glove, and going stool hunting in my back yard, I never get every piece of crap. The numerous heavy snowfalls left caca cookies hidden about the grounds. And with the melting, those tasty treats are seeing the light of day.
Boo.
Apparently, we need to do another round of For-Bid. I decided this was probably a little pointless until all the turds are removed. This means a lot of close watching of the dogs and trying to pick up the poos immediately, something that I suck at when it’s below zero and the middle of the night. Fine. Anything for my babies. They love me unconditionally so I love them unconditionally… although there will not be kisses until the shit eating is under wraps.
This afternoon my roommate mentioned that he caught them eating the filth again. “Dirty shit eater pubins,” he said.
I could smell it on their breath when they came in the living room. I felt like the wife of an alcoholic checking his breath when he hits the door. Of course, Joey tried to give me kisses. After I declined the kisses, I wanted to take a quick nap before going back to work. So I lay down on the couch. Alli covered my feet and Joey was lying on my chest. They really are the best blankets. I set the alarm on my phone for a 15 minute power nap.
It was the unmistakable lurching gag sound that woke me. Anyone who has had a dog knows the canine wretch. I opened my eyes and Joey’s face was a little over a foot from mine. She started to gag again and right as I asked, “Are you okay?” and started to sit up, she projectile vomited chunks of partially digested shit all over me.
Re-read that. I’ll give you a moment.
We’ll call it shuke.
I should probably add that to Urban Dictionary.
I sprang off the couch, dumping some of the shuke on the carpet and some on the couch, which thankfully had a cover on it, so that would be an easy clean-up.
Of course, I had on my work uniform. My shirt and tie were covered in a substance that wasn’t really brown and it wasn’t really yellow. It was an odd hybrid that defied description. It felt like a heavy, chunky puke and just clung to my shirt. But the smell was undeniable. Shit. Good Lord, did it smell like shit.
I ran to the kitchen and pushed the dirty plates in the sink aside. I had to start washing the tie before I could take it off. Both the wider top and the underneath part were marinating in the shuke. I couldn’t just pull the knot out without getting shuke everywhere and I certainly wasn’t going to loosen it and pull it over my head for fear of getting shuke in my hair.
When the tie was shuke-free enough to be removed, the shirt was next. I leaned over the sink, thinking most of the shuke would run off as I tried to unbutton it, but I just got shuke all over my hands. And I’ll be damned if the shuke didn’t keep clinging to my shirt. So I sat on the sink ledge and shimmied out of the shirt. To my surprise, I only got one drop of shuke on the counter. Everything else managed to stay in the sink.
But the smell… it was shit on acid. It hung in the air, on my skin. Shuke is not a smell for those easily grossed out or who suffer from weak stomachs I thought as I grabbed a towel and scrubbed shuke out of the area rug.
I pulled the cover off the couch and grabbed the towel, shirt, and tie, once again thankful for the laundry in the basement. Mela Power detergent had a new foe in shuke.
Joey, or Turdpac Shukur, followed me around the house, her head hanging in shame. She looked so guilty. I really do think she felt bad for puking on me. I felt bad for her feeling bad, like a little kid does when he or she messes up something he or she couldn’t control. I just wish her doggie brain could connect the dots that she felt bad for puking because she ate the turds. No turds means no puke means momma running around the house like a crazy person.
After all this, still had almost an hour before I was due back at work. I figured watching a little TV was a mindless way to pass some time. As I picked up the remote, I realized it was covered in shuke.
Pushing my way through the back gate has been difficult as of late. The fluctuating temperatures have caused quite a bit of snow to melt off the roof of the garage and the sun has taken care of a few inches on the north side of my yard. The plus is that I know spring is coming. The bad part is the damned ice, freezing my gate shut and turning our walks into skating adventures. But enough about the ice, the important part of this story is the melting.
I am not afraid to admit that there’s been a little issue with the girls eating poop. My babies are shit eaters. Dirty, nasty two girls without a cup, play with a frozen turd like it’s a toy shit eaters. Joey even tried to smuggle a turdcicle into the house. Tim, my older brother, says that his Shorthair, Ranger, eats his poop all the time and eats their other dog’s poop. He doesn’t even seem all that concerned about it.
It’s not that I expect them to be lady-like or cross their legs when they sit. I have big, energetic, athletic dogs because I want them to run, wrestle, and play fetch. I find humor in the fact that Alli smells her own farts for God’s sake. But shit eating? Sigh.
I consulted our vet about it and he gave us a delightful product called For-Bid. For those of you who have never had the pleasure of dealing with a crap connoisseur, For-Bid is a powder that is sprinkled over the food of the offending eater. It can be used for both dogs and cats. The key is that it has to be on the food of animal whose poop being consumed. Since neither of the bitches would cop to as to which of their turds they were consuming, I treated both of their meals for several days.
It worked like a charm. Where the girls had tasted the flavorful feces, they were now simply sniffing at it and moving along. I thought the problem was licked.
Sometimes my thinking fails me.
My thinking fails me when I remember that the snow in my yard is melting. And my thinking fails me, when I remember that, no matter how diligent I am in grabbing a bag, snapping on a rubber glove, and going stool hunting in my back yard, I never get every piece of crap. The numerous heavy snowfalls left caca cookies hidden about the grounds. And with the melting, those tasty treats are seeing the light of day.
Boo.
Apparently, we need to do another round of For-Bid. I decided this was probably a little pointless until all the turds are removed. This means a lot of close watching of the dogs and trying to pick up the poos immediately, something that I suck at when it’s below zero and the middle of the night. Fine. Anything for my babies. They love me unconditionally so I love them unconditionally… although there will not be kisses until the shit eating is under wraps.
This afternoon my roommate mentioned that he caught them eating the filth again. “Dirty shit eater pubins,” he said.
I could smell it on their breath when they came in the living room. I felt like the wife of an alcoholic checking his breath when he hits the door. Of course, Joey tried to give me kisses. After I declined the kisses, I wanted to take a quick nap before going back to work. So I lay down on the couch. Alli covered my feet and Joey was lying on my chest. They really are the best blankets. I set the alarm on my phone for a 15 minute power nap.
It was the unmistakable lurching gag sound that woke me. Anyone who has had a dog knows the canine wretch. I opened my eyes and Joey’s face was a little over a foot from mine. She started to gag again and right as I asked, “Are you okay?” and started to sit up, she projectile vomited chunks of partially digested shit all over me.
Re-read that. I’ll give you a moment.
We’ll call it shuke.
I should probably add that to Urban Dictionary.
I sprang off the couch, dumping some of the shuke on the carpet and some on the couch, which thankfully had a cover on it, so that would be an easy clean-up.
Of course, I had on my work uniform. My shirt and tie were covered in a substance that wasn’t really brown and it wasn’t really yellow. It was an odd hybrid that defied description. It felt like a heavy, chunky puke and just clung to my shirt. But the smell was undeniable. Shit. Good Lord, did it smell like shit.
I ran to the kitchen and pushed the dirty plates in the sink aside. I had to start washing the tie before I could take it off. Both the wider top and the underneath part were marinating in the shuke. I couldn’t just pull the knot out without getting shuke everywhere and I certainly wasn’t going to loosen it and pull it over my head for fear of getting shuke in my hair.
When the tie was shuke-free enough to be removed, the shirt was next. I leaned over the sink, thinking most of the shuke would run off as I tried to unbutton it, but I just got shuke all over my hands. And I’ll be damned if the shuke didn’t keep clinging to my shirt. So I sat on the sink ledge and shimmied out of the shirt. To my surprise, I only got one drop of shuke on the counter. Everything else managed to stay in the sink.
But the smell… it was shit on acid. It hung in the air, on my skin. Shuke is not a smell for those easily grossed out or who suffer from weak stomachs I thought as I grabbed a towel and scrubbed shuke out of the area rug.
I pulled the cover off the couch and grabbed the towel, shirt, and tie, once again thankful for the laundry in the basement. Mela Power detergent had a new foe in shuke.
Joey, or Turdpac Shukur, followed me around the house, her head hanging in shame. She looked so guilty. I really do think she felt bad for puking on me. I felt bad for her feeling bad, like a little kid does when he or she messes up something he or she couldn’t control. I just wish her doggie brain could connect the dots that she felt bad for puking because she ate the turds. No turds means no puke means momma running around the house like a crazy person.
After all this, still had almost an hour before I was due back at work. I figured watching a little TV was a mindless way to pass some time. As I picked up the remote, I realized it was covered in shuke.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Under here, under there, underwear
Panties, boxers, briefs, undies, skivvies, fundies, spankies, lollies, knickers, going commando, no matter your preference, we all have an opinion on underwear. I fall into the yes and no category for wearing underwear with running as nearly always being a time to go commando. Maybe I feel more in tune with the bitches then since they are 100% commando. One of my friends hasn’t worn undies in something like 30 years. I tend to see underwear as more fun than necessary with bras being a completely different story and absolutely necessary. We’ve all known that old lady that should give up Woodstock and strap up those bad girls in a tit sling. Plus, the type of physical activities I enjoy coupled with the well-endowed genetics from my mom’s side made that decision for me.
But enough about boobies, let’s go back below the belt. Having made no effort to study the history of underwear, I only have my life experience from which to draw. Although I must say I would definitely watch a History Channel feature on the history of underwear, if anyone knows of such a program or has any pull. I guess we are socialized to think underwear is important when we are kids. It’s the natural transition from our diapers and the marketing geniuses made sure every kid in America could have Luke Skywalker or Strawberry Shortcake on his or her ass. And somewhere along the way, lots of dudes gravitate for the greater freedom of boxers or simply give up the skivvies for the most part. Not us girls… I speak of the thong epidemic. If I had a dollar for every teenage girl I have seen with acres of her thong peeking out of her low-rise jeans, I wouldn’t have to go to work tonight. Don’t get me wrong, I am not anti-thong and do own several, I just feel that ass cleavage is a private matter. It is an especially private matter when one’s weight is in excess of 200 pounds. Anyone privy to the ass cleavage incident of the old table 67 at work will back that statement.
The interesting thing about the teenage girls and the thong is that they have been brainwashed to think it’s sexy. It’s about as sexy as the toilet on the “Rock of Love” tour bus. It’s such a rarity that less is more and it seems like they are absorbing the message of showing all the goods as sexy before they even have a chance to develop into a woman and realize that sexy has more to do with what’s between your ears than what’s between your legs or in your bra. Any guy worth his weight will tell you that because he has learned not to objectify women. Any chick that has that figured out probably also has a few nice things from Victoria’s Secret that make her feel sexy. And her non-objectifying man friend probably could tell you ten reasons she’s sexy in addition to anything she might wear. I just wish I could pull a few of these girls aside and explain to them that their sexuality has a power that will develop over time. They just gotta have a little faith and patience or they could very well be 21 and expecting the third baby with the third daddy. Thong to three times pregnant might seem like a bit of a stretch, but a friend was just invited to a baby shower for someone in that very situation. And so it goes…
One time I put a bra on Alli. It was a maroon lacey thing and the only time she didn’t fight me for trying to put clothing on her. She never wanted anything to do with the doggie sweaters or any of that nonsense. She would shake and pull and try to bite anything else off. Maybe she felt sexy. Maybe I should throw a thong on Joey later and see what happens…
But enough about boobies, let’s go back below the belt. Having made no effort to study the history of underwear, I only have my life experience from which to draw. Although I must say I would definitely watch a History Channel feature on the history of underwear, if anyone knows of such a program or has any pull. I guess we are socialized to think underwear is important when we are kids. It’s the natural transition from our diapers and the marketing geniuses made sure every kid in America could have Luke Skywalker or Strawberry Shortcake on his or her ass. And somewhere along the way, lots of dudes gravitate for the greater freedom of boxers or simply give up the skivvies for the most part. Not us girls… I speak of the thong epidemic. If I had a dollar for every teenage girl I have seen with acres of her thong peeking out of her low-rise jeans, I wouldn’t have to go to work tonight. Don’t get me wrong, I am not anti-thong and do own several, I just feel that ass cleavage is a private matter. It is an especially private matter when one’s weight is in excess of 200 pounds. Anyone privy to the ass cleavage incident of the old table 67 at work will back that statement.
The interesting thing about the teenage girls and the thong is that they have been brainwashed to think it’s sexy. It’s about as sexy as the toilet on the “Rock of Love” tour bus. It’s such a rarity that less is more and it seems like they are absorbing the message of showing all the goods as sexy before they even have a chance to develop into a woman and realize that sexy has more to do with what’s between your ears than what’s between your legs or in your bra. Any guy worth his weight will tell you that because he has learned not to objectify women. Any chick that has that figured out probably also has a few nice things from Victoria’s Secret that make her feel sexy. And her non-objectifying man friend probably could tell you ten reasons she’s sexy in addition to anything she might wear. I just wish I could pull a few of these girls aside and explain to them that their sexuality has a power that will develop over time. They just gotta have a little faith and patience or they could very well be 21 and expecting the third baby with the third daddy. Thong to three times pregnant might seem like a bit of a stretch, but a friend was just invited to a baby shower for someone in that very situation. And so it goes…
One time I put a bra on Alli. It was a maroon lacey thing and the only time she didn’t fight me for trying to put clothing on her. She never wanted anything to do with the doggie sweaters or any of that nonsense. She would shake and pull and try to bite anything else off. Maybe she felt sexy. Maybe I should throw a thong on Joey later and see what happens…
Friday, May 13, 2011
Lessons from Mom
Since Mother’s Day just passed, I have been thinking a lot about Mother Marilyn and moms in general, really. One’s relationship, or lack of relationship, with his/her mom has a profound impact on his/her life. I have always considered myself one of the lucky ones, even when my mom drove me nuts. And, in her defense, I am sure I drive her more nuts. Like when I was in middle school and would slam my bedroom door and crank up Pearl Jam’s “Daughter” or giving my blog a name that, when Googled, brings up “Dirty Sanchez” and German porn sites.
Nuts or no nuts, the lady has taught me many things, from the practical such as cooking and a bit of sewing, to personal values, like the importance of hard work, education, and finding the humor in every situation. So friends, as I was out running, I started a highlight list of the most important things Marilyn has taught me.
First, sometimes your profession chooses you. My mom was a high school teacher for nearly 40 years, but also studied journalism. She excelled in writing and photography. She could have taught for a few years, then continued her education and pursued a news-related career. Well, a blind date to the movie, “Shaft,” a marriage, and three kids later, she was a teacher for life. A damned good one. I used to harbor a bit of guilt in thinking that I played a part in the death of my mom’s dreams. I imagined her as a little girl, running around the farm, interviewing cows or something, and pretending to be a reporter. But her reassurance coupled with a life filled with accomplishments and lives affected made me realized that teaching was meant to be a huge part of her life’s journey.
She also taught me that a parent never forgets how you treated his/her child. Once, when I was out of high school, she said that she had run into the parent of someone who was in my class. That parent told her how much she appreciated my kindness to her child. Apparently, her child was struggling a lot, something that I didn’t realize at the time, but told her mom that I was nice to her. I didn’t remember doing anything out of the ordinary and I have to say that Marilyn seemed more proud of me in that moment than when I won an election or hit the winning shot.
You may or may not know that I haven’t had a drink in over six years. The reason I mention that is because another Marilyn lesson was that the worst pain in the entire world is to see one of your children hurting. She said she would take any physical pain over that. I know I must have put her through some pain over the years with my bullshit. For that, I am sorry. I am also hopeful that I keep growing into a person of whom she can be proud.
One of the ultimate lessons of Marilyn is that homemade is better. You could be talking food, clothes, or in the 1980s, Cabbage Patch Dolls and denim slacks. Yes, she used to make me jeans and call them denim slacks to torture me. The Cabbage Patch dolls were pretty boss, though. My little bro had one named Pete that went on a variety of trips all over the country. The current favorite homemade item is a Marilyn quilt. I have a few at my house and my man friend likes to curl up in them and cuddle with the bitches. Bitches and Marilyn quilts, that must be safer than a prayer shawl…
I’ll end with my favorite Marilyn lesson. I should preface this by saying that I never had a boyfriend until I was out of college and barely had anything considered a date prior to that, so advice about dudes wasn’t solicited often. When I actually was dating, drunk girl didn’t always pick the best dudes. When things would inevitably not work, Marilyn’s sage advice, “Sometimes you gotta kiss a lot of frogs before one turns into a prince.” Permission to be a slut?* Perhaps.
Anyway, somehow I was blessed to have a radtastic mom who deserves my love and praise everyday of the year, not just on some Sunday in May. So kudos and hugs to Marilyn. I try to be a good mom to the bitches and if I ever do make the leap to human babies, I sure had a hell of a role model.
In case you were wondering, the bitches didn’t do anything special for me on the big day, but they did lick my feet when I got home from work, so that was nice.
*Marilyn doesn’t want anyone to be a slut. She wants everyone to be comfortable and make well-informed choices about sex and dating. She probably will read this so the potential mom guilt forced me to add this disclaimer.
Nuts or no nuts, the lady has taught me many things, from the practical such as cooking and a bit of sewing, to personal values, like the importance of hard work, education, and finding the humor in every situation. So friends, as I was out running, I started a highlight list of the most important things Marilyn has taught me.
First, sometimes your profession chooses you. My mom was a high school teacher for nearly 40 years, but also studied journalism. She excelled in writing and photography. She could have taught for a few years, then continued her education and pursued a news-related career. Well, a blind date to the movie, “Shaft,” a marriage, and three kids later, she was a teacher for life. A damned good one. I used to harbor a bit of guilt in thinking that I played a part in the death of my mom’s dreams. I imagined her as a little girl, running around the farm, interviewing cows or something, and pretending to be a reporter. But her reassurance coupled with a life filled with accomplishments and lives affected made me realized that teaching was meant to be a huge part of her life’s journey.
She also taught me that a parent never forgets how you treated his/her child. Once, when I was out of high school, she said that she had run into the parent of someone who was in my class. That parent told her how much she appreciated my kindness to her child. Apparently, her child was struggling a lot, something that I didn’t realize at the time, but told her mom that I was nice to her. I didn’t remember doing anything out of the ordinary and I have to say that Marilyn seemed more proud of me in that moment than when I won an election or hit the winning shot.
You may or may not know that I haven’t had a drink in over six years. The reason I mention that is because another Marilyn lesson was that the worst pain in the entire world is to see one of your children hurting. She said she would take any physical pain over that. I know I must have put her through some pain over the years with my bullshit. For that, I am sorry. I am also hopeful that I keep growing into a person of whom she can be proud.
One of the ultimate lessons of Marilyn is that homemade is better. You could be talking food, clothes, or in the 1980s, Cabbage Patch Dolls and denim slacks. Yes, she used to make me jeans and call them denim slacks to torture me. The Cabbage Patch dolls were pretty boss, though. My little bro had one named Pete that went on a variety of trips all over the country. The current favorite homemade item is a Marilyn quilt. I have a few at my house and my man friend likes to curl up in them and cuddle with the bitches. Bitches and Marilyn quilts, that must be safer than a prayer shawl…
I’ll end with my favorite Marilyn lesson. I should preface this by saying that I never had a boyfriend until I was out of college and barely had anything considered a date prior to that, so advice about dudes wasn’t solicited often. When I actually was dating, drunk girl didn’t always pick the best dudes. When things would inevitably not work, Marilyn’s sage advice, “Sometimes you gotta kiss a lot of frogs before one turns into a prince.” Permission to be a slut?* Perhaps.
Anyway, somehow I was blessed to have a radtastic mom who deserves my love and praise everyday of the year, not just on some Sunday in May. So kudos and hugs to Marilyn. I try to be a good mom to the bitches and if I ever do make the leap to human babies, I sure had a hell of a role model.
In case you were wondering, the bitches didn’t do anything special for me on the big day, but they did lick my feet when I got home from work, so that was nice.
*Marilyn doesn’t want anyone to be a slut. She wants everyone to be comfortable and make well-informed choices about sex and dating. She probably will read this so the potential mom guilt forced me to add this disclaimer.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Sub 60 400
I used to be a much more competitive person. I don’t know if I’ve mellowed with age or have fallen into the just don’t give a shit category, but I must say that the lack of competition has made me a much calmer person. Like when I play volleyball, I would rather lose a good match than win in a blowout. Or when I do a race, I am not all that concerned with my time.
Somehow, that topic of competitive time came up in conversation yesterday at the Cess Pool. (The Cess Pool is pet name for a local watering hole where I like to enjoy an O’Douls and conversation.) One of the regulars was all jazzed up because he had lost some weight and, pretty much out of nowhere, bet my friend $50 that he could run a 400 in under 60. Now, considering how often said regular steps outside to smoke a cigarette and how much vodka and bourbon said regular consumes, I couldn’t see how that was possible. But trying to be nice and not point out the vices, I asked, “How old are you?"
He responded, “49.”
A few seconds of silence ensued.
My friend’s reply, “When I was in high school, I ran the third leg of a 4x400 relay and my best times were around 55. WHEN I WAS 18. The best guys ran 51s. AND THEY WERE 18."
“I couldn’t run a sub 60 400 and I am in decent shape,” I said.
“You train for endurance,” he responded, “you don’t train for speed.”
Pardon me, I didn’t know Michael Johnson drank at the Cess Pool.
The regular insisted he could do a sub 60 400 through lots of gesturing and strange faces. He requested 90 days to train. He says training starts by running a block and then walking a block. Sigh…
Hands were shaken. He requested that we record his glorious moment for posterity. He wanted a copy of the day’s Argus Leader in the opening shot so there would be no question on the date. He called for a tape to break at the finish line. Really, he did.
Then he went outside for a cigarette.
My friend and I Googled some 400 m record times. World class male athletes run 43+. World class females run 47+. I texted my brother and he said his best time, when he was 18, was a 55.
So, come August 9, 2011, at 5:15 p.m., location to be determined, a 6-3, 180 pound drinker and smoker who has walked this earth for 49 years will attempt a sub 60 400. Or maybe he will have a heart attack. The part I don’t understand about all this is the ego. The clear contention that this was gonna happen and it was gonna be easy. Was it male ego or a general lack of humility? Or had he had just enough vodka that it seemed possible? Too bad he made the bet with a sober guy in front of a sober witness.
I think I’m gonna let it slide and not say anything about the bet for at least a month. Then one day, I’m gonna casually ask him how the training is going, probably while he’s on the way outside to have a smoke.
Somehow, that topic of competitive time came up in conversation yesterday at the Cess Pool. (The Cess Pool is pet name for a local watering hole where I like to enjoy an O’Douls and conversation.) One of the regulars was all jazzed up because he had lost some weight and, pretty much out of nowhere, bet my friend $50 that he could run a 400 in under 60. Now, considering how often said regular steps outside to smoke a cigarette and how much vodka and bourbon said regular consumes, I couldn’t see how that was possible. But trying to be nice and not point out the vices, I asked, “How old are you?"
He responded, “49.”
A few seconds of silence ensued.
My friend’s reply, “When I was in high school, I ran the third leg of a 4x400 relay and my best times were around 55. WHEN I WAS 18. The best guys ran 51s. AND THEY WERE 18."
“I couldn’t run a sub 60 400 and I am in decent shape,” I said.
“You train for endurance,” he responded, “you don’t train for speed.”
Pardon me, I didn’t know Michael Johnson drank at the Cess Pool.
The regular insisted he could do a sub 60 400 through lots of gesturing and strange faces. He requested 90 days to train. He says training starts by running a block and then walking a block. Sigh…
Hands were shaken. He requested that we record his glorious moment for posterity. He wanted a copy of the day’s Argus Leader in the opening shot so there would be no question on the date. He called for a tape to break at the finish line. Really, he did.
Then he went outside for a cigarette.
My friend and I Googled some 400 m record times. World class male athletes run 43+. World class females run 47+. I texted my brother and he said his best time, when he was 18, was a 55.
So, come August 9, 2011, at 5:15 p.m., location to be determined, a 6-3, 180 pound drinker and smoker who has walked this earth for 49 years will attempt a sub 60 400. Or maybe he will have a heart attack. The part I don’t understand about all this is the ego. The clear contention that this was gonna happen and it was gonna be easy. Was it male ego or a general lack of humility? Or had he had just enough vodka that it seemed possible? Too bad he made the bet with a sober guy in front of a sober witness.
I think I’m gonna let it slide and not say anything about the bet for at least a month. Then one day, I’m gonna casually ask him how the training is going, probably while he’s on the way outside to have a smoke.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
A Boost of Self-Esteem
I am a good friend. Bold statement, perhaps, but I could probably get a few affidavits to testify to that. A good friend, and girlfriend, in the sense that I don't mind helping the ones I love out with errands or favors when needed. I've always found that it more than comes back to me.
Anyway, this morning, after the gym, I went to the Social Security Administration office to try to drop off paperwork for someone dear who needed a replacement card. If you ever want a boost of self-esteem or to feel better about your situation in life, spend a little time waiting at that office. Somebody's trying to get the baby's SS card before dad is deployed to Kuwait, somebody from Sudan has just become a citizen, a vet is trying to get benefits after being sent god knows where to do god knows what, and let's not even get into the mountains of elderly and mentally disabled people waiting in line. Of course, there was the obligatory dick who lost his ID and his SS card and can't get a pay stub because his boss won't let him work without an ID so he's just gonna get on the damned bus and head back to South Carolina. Perhaps he might have better luck in a North something?
When number 62 was called, I headed up to the window. I could tell the guy liked me already. I had an organized folder full of paperwork and lacked the attitude of the Carolina guy. But alas, I didn't have enough paperwork and was sent packing. Mission not accomplished.
I headed back home to leash up the bitches and go for a run. As soon as I walked in the door, they knew what was up. Chaos began. They ran to the front door, then the back, then the front. I grabbed a poop bag and started digging around my purse for my iPod. No iPod. Hmmm... I knew I had it at the gym, so it was probably in the car, right? Not in the car. By this time the bitches were tearing around the yard and Joey nearly leaped the fence. One fruitless call to the gym later and I figured it was probably a goner. My first inclination was, "Poor fucking me. I do someone a favor and this is the thanks I get." That delicious alcoholic thinking. I tried to get a human on the phone line at the SS office and finally decided just to drive back there.
The panting, crazy bitches hopped in the car with me for the ride. And about half way there, I realized that being pissed about losing an iPod was pretty stupid. Maybe I dropped it. Maybe somebody lifted it at the gym. Point being, it's gone. It might be gone, but I still have it better than most of those people waiting at the SS office. I am reasonably young, healthy, and have my needs met.
The bitches and I headed back home. We had a hot little three mile run to the tune of nature and traffic. And it was good.
Anyway, this morning, after the gym, I went to the Social Security Administration office to try to drop off paperwork for someone dear who needed a replacement card. If you ever want a boost of self-esteem or to feel better about your situation in life, spend a little time waiting at that office. Somebody's trying to get the baby's SS card before dad is deployed to Kuwait, somebody from Sudan has just become a citizen, a vet is trying to get benefits after being sent god knows where to do god knows what, and let's not even get into the mountains of elderly and mentally disabled people waiting in line. Of course, there was the obligatory dick who lost his ID and his SS card and can't get a pay stub because his boss won't let him work without an ID so he's just gonna get on the damned bus and head back to South Carolina. Perhaps he might have better luck in a North something?
When number 62 was called, I headed up to the window. I could tell the guy liked me already. I had an organized folder full of paperwork and lacked the attitude of the Carolina guy. But alas, I didn't have enough paperwork and was sent packing. Mission not accomplished.
I headed back home to leash up the bitches and go for a run. As soon as I walked in the door, they knew what was up. Chaos began. They ran to the front door, then the back, then the front. I grabbed a poop bag and started digging around my purse for my iPod. No iPod. Hmmm... I knew I had it at the gym, so it was probably in the car, right? Not in the car. By this time the bitches were tearing around the yard and Joey nearly leaped the fence. One fruitless call to the gym later and I figured it was probably a goner. My first inclination was, "Poor fucking me. I do someone a favor and this is the thanks I get." That delicious alcoholic thinking. I tried to get a human on the phone line at the SS office and finally decided just to drive back there.
The panting, crazy bitches hopped in the car with me for the ride. And about half way there, I realized that being pissed about losing an iPod was pretty stupid. Maybe I dropped it. Maybe somebody lifted it at the gym. Point being, it's gone. It might be gone, but I still have it better than most of those people waiting at the SS office. I am reasonably young, healthy, and have my needs met.
The bitches and I headed back home. We had a hot little three mile run to the tune of nature and traffic. And it was good.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)