I've just been working. A lot. Holidays. And pissed cuz I can't be out running with the bitches. The treadmill gets me by, but the sub-freezing temps and ice patches make me long for a warmer climate. So I've been obsessed with remodeling the kitchen. Man Friend probably regrets the suggestion, since I'm always online and taking pics of things at Lowes now. Anyhoo... this is the inspiration. To months of work and dollars to be spent.
Modern Country Style: Anne Turner's Cottage Living Kitchen Before & Afte...: Hey there, sugarplum, I hope you're feeling fine and dandy. But if you're not, if the cold wintry greyness is getting you down, then I ha...
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
A List is Just a List...
Once in a great while, I decide to really clean the house. Not that the place is ever ready for a reality show or anything; the dishes are done and the laundry is maintained. You would never have to be afraid to use the bathroom here, okay? I just wouldn’t earn the Good Housekeeping seal of approval…
However, the past few days have been incredibly productive. Man Friend and I spent time rearranging furniture and art, you know, really setting the place up. He’s good at that stuff, he says things like, “You have the square footage, you just aren’t fully utilizing it.” Swoon. Don’t get me started about when he talks about load bearing walls.
The fantastic part is that the living room feels a lot bigger now, as well as more functional. Plus, this gorgeous entertainment center that he built, AKA “The Big Unit,” is now the hub of the area. Alli is taking her time getting used to the new configuration and Joey could care less as long as she can sleep on the couch.
I have to be honest, though. The most fun of this whole escapade was finding a bunch of notepads with weird lists I made. I love lists. I have legal pads, notepads, and sticky notes stashed everywhere. I make grocery lists, lists for my days off, lists of errands, you get the drift. If I have an important baking project or holiday dinner to prep for, I make the list in the order in which I will go through the store. I have contemplated drawing maps. If I don’t write it down, it probably won’t happen. NOTE: Let the sun rise in the morning.
Much time in my life has been spent writing lists, checking off lists, and throwing away completed lists. I love the sense of accomplishment of a completed list. Thankfully, an uncompleted list doesn’t drive me crazy. I just add what’s left to the next list…
One of the lists I found really made me giggle as it was a list of ideas for blogs:
•Dumb hippies who try too hard
•You should have to maintain a certain GPA to get gov’t loans/aid
•Bread—how dependent we’ve become
•My closet love of Nicki Minaj and Hanson.
•Why do the teabaggers claim Ayn Rand?
•Professional athletes are prostitutes
•People who think Alli is a pitbull
I know Alli guest blogged on the last topic. That was a bitch to dictate.
Another list I found was super weird, but the fact that I made said list speaks to my love of lists… anyone who lives in my area will remember there was tons of flooding a few summers ago. In my city, it was mostly limited to basement flooding, but we had a few huge rains and lots of people living near rivers lost everything.
I was fortunate enough to not have to deal with those type of issues, but we did have a neighborhood issue with the sanitary sewer system. A line broke, everything was overstressed and we were asked to not flush our toilets, run our showers, or add any water to the sanitary system during “the crisis.” On the plus side, I learned that I am not afraid to shit in a bag and that I can get completely ready with a small bottle of water, a tin bowl, and a wash cloth. Call me Half Pint.
But the point here was that along with the call to not stress the sewer, I was also in the zone where the mayor said there could be sewer backups in the basements. That meant sorting through things in the basement and deciding what needed to come upstairs just in case Poop River picked my house.
Again, I got lucky. Poop River stayed north. The big sort in the basement got me thinking and I decided that I needed to do a big pitch. I challenged myself that I would get 100 items out of the house before I could bring anything into the house, not even a gallon of milk. A regular person might have just trusted that they would ditch 100 items or maybe do a slash count. You already know what I did, with a coded system of Gave Away = ga, Goodwill = gw, Sell = s, Recycle = r, or Trash = t.
I won’t bore you with the whole list:
1-7. Underwear for doggie periods (ga)
8. Diapers for dogs (ga)
30-39. Pairs of socks (gw/t)
56. Top Hat calendar (t) (You know which one.)
84. Peppers from flowers (t)
85. Callus remover (t)
95-100. Various projectors and film shit that sat in the garage for years
101-105. Expired condiments from fridge (t: food waste/r: containers)
147. Pom poms (gw) (I had pom poms?)
148. Earmuffs (gw)
149. Cast iron skillet (gw) (Weaponry?)
I have never felt so completely weird and so completely normal simultaneously. I guess that just means I like me.
However, the past few days have been incredibly productive. Man Friend and I spent time rearranging furniture and art, you know, really setting the place up. He’s good at that stuff, he says things like, “You have the square footage, you just aren’t fully utilizing it.” Swoon. Don’t get me started about when he talks about load bearing walls.
The fantastic part is that the living room feels a lot bigger now, as well as more functional. Plus, this gorgeous entertainment center that he built, AKA “The Big Unit,” is now the hub of the area. Alli is taking her time getting used to the new configuration and Joey could care less as long as she can sleep on the couch.
I have to be honest, though. The most fun of this whole escapade was finding a bunch of notepads with weird lists I made. I love lists. I have legal pads, notepads, and sticky notes stashed everywhere. I make grocery lists, lists for my days off, lists of errands, you get the drift. If I have an important baking project or holiday dinner to prep for, I make the list in the order in which I will go through the store. I have contemplated drawing maps. If I don’t write it down, it probably won’t happen. NOTE: Let the sun rise in the morning.
Much time in my life has been spent writing lists, checking off lists, and throwing away completed lists. I love the sense of accomplishment of a completed list. Thankfully, an uncompleted list doesn’t drive me crazy. I just add what’s left to the next list…
One of the lists I found really made me giggle as it was a list of ideas for blogs:
•Dumb hippies who try too hard
•You should have to maintain a certain GPA to get gov’t loans/aid
•Bread—how dependent we’ve become
•My closet love of Nicki Minaj and Hanson.
•Why do the teabaggers claim Ayn Rand?
•Professional athletes are prostitutes
•People who think Alli is a pitbull
I know Alli guest blogged on the last topic. That was a bitch to dictate.
Another list I found was super weird, but the fact that I made said list speaks to my love of lists… anyone who lives in my area will remember there was tons of flooding a few summers ago. In my city, it was mostly limited to basement flooding, but we had a few huge rains and lots of people living near rivers lost everything.
I was fortunate enough to not have to deal with those type of issues, but we did have a neighborhood issue with the sanitary sewer system. A line broke, everything was overstressed and we were asked to not flush our toilets, run our showers, or add any water to the sanitary system during “the crisis.” On the plus side, I learned that I am not afraid to shit in a bag and that I can get completely ready with a small bottle of water, a tin bowl, and a wash cloth. Call me Half Pint.
But the point here was that along with the call to not stress the sewer, I was also in the zone where the mayor said there could be sewer backups in the basements. That meant sorting through things in the basement and deciding what needed to come upstairs just in case Poop River picked my house.
Again, I got lucky. Poop River stayed north. The big sort in the basement got me thinking and I decided that I needed to do a big pitch. I challenged myself that I would get 100 items out of the house before I could bring anything into the house, not even a gallon of milk. A regular person might have just trusted that they would ditch 100 items or maybe do a slash count. You already know what I did, with a coded system of Gave Away = ga, Goodwill = gw, Sell = s, Recycle = r, or Trash = t.
I won’t bore you with the whole list:
1-7. Underwear for doggie periods (ga)
8. Diapers for dogs (ga)
30-39. Pairs of socks (gw/t)
56. Top Hat calendar (t) (You know which one.)
84. Peppers from flowers (t)
85. Callus remover (t)
95-100. Various projectors and film shit that sat in the garage for years
101-105. Expired condiments from fridge (t: food waste/r: containers)
147. Pom poms (gw) (I had pom poms?)
148. Earmuffs (gw)
149. Cast iron skillet (gw) (Weaponry?)
I have never felt so completely weird and so completely normal simultaneously. I guess that just means I like me.
Monday, November 19, 2012
And the spirits played on...
I went through one of those existential phases in my early 20s, where I decided there couldn’t possibly be any type of spiritual afterlife or divine creative force. I was never one of the lemmings to the sea types and I doubt growing up in a Footloose-type town really helped. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to believe in something, it was more that it never made sense that I was given a brain and all sorts of interesting books, music, and people to talk to, and somehow it was all gonna be served up on a nice platter for easy consumption.
So after some muddling in my teens, a lot of alcohol-fueled anger and a general pissed at the world attitude said, “Done.” I decided, yes, Camille, God was an invention of Man. I think I still do believe that in a socially constructed context, but that’s a story for another day.
My ideas on spirituality and an afterlife changed for a simple reason: Ghosts. Ghosts are not quite right, since that conjures up a negative connotation. Spirits is better, as in the spirits of those who have passed. I had a few experiences with spirits, some of which I didn’t really understand at the time, and most of which was just sort of a playful, “Hey, I’m here,” like the one who would push the quarters back when I started the dryer in the basement of the Brownstone. Sometimes, they spoke to me in my dreams. Sometimes I recognized them, but most times I didn’t. One time, I was one of them in my dream, a man dying in a hospital bed. I could tell by our hands he thought there should have been more time in his life.
I didn’t want to accept the communication, because it simply was something for which there was no rational. And if I could see and feel the communication from these spirits, I certainly could no longer discount the concept of an afterlife. Okay, universe, I’m listening.
The great part of all of it was that I’ve learned to slow down and see the cues and find the lessons. The best part is when someone I know drops by to say hello.
My friend, Tim, was one of the most interesting people I have had the pleasure to know. He was kind and complex, messy and hilarious, and struggled with addiction and health issues. My favorite attributes of his were his sense of humor and his genuine ability to connect with people. He was so completely all in when it came to living. In life, he was the type who would talk to anyone. After he died, I knew he would make sure to stop by now and again; he would never let us go too long without thinking about him.
By a strange turn of events, Timmy and I ended up going to the American Idol finale a few years ago, the one where it was Kris Allen versus Adam Lambert. I must admit that I did not watch much of that season, or really any season for that matter, but knew what was going on thanks to co-workers and general media coverage. My auntie gave us two tickets in the 20th row and the buzz was that there would be amazing star performances. I certainly wasn’t going to pass that up, plus a few days in L.A. with Timmy were bound to be fun.
We were not so secretly hoping that Paula Abdul would be falling off her chair loaded. We even made a point to visit her star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame the day before and say a little selfish prayer to that effect. Ryan Seacrest was even tinier than we imagined. The Idols were 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 effing May. Sigh. Lambert killed “We Are The Champions” with Queen. There’s no replacing Freddie, but he was pretty damned great.
Somehow in our part of the audience, we were in this little pocket of gay men. Of course, the tween female demographic was the majority of the studio audience, but we managed to fit in the gay haven. Perfect for oh so many reasons...
But the point of this part of the story is that Kris Allen won that night. Since we were in gay haven, we heard plenty of, “Oh the little kids just get on every phone in the house and vote as many times as they can.” Blah, blah. Tim’s take? “They are both really talented so it didn’t really matter who won. Now, IS there an open bar at the after party?”
I’m giggling a little just thinking about this since we ended up meeting a bunch of the Idols, having great food and drink, and dancing the night away. Since the show started at five and the party at seven, we even managed to do midnight IHOP and get to the airport by five the next morning.
It was a crazy whirlwind, three-day trip and we made a bunch of memories that I’ll never forget.
Timmy passed away earlier this year and I do miss that crazy sense of humor. I miss him stopping in to the restaurant where I work for a late dinner and a glass or three of wine. Even if I was cut for the night and ready to hit the door, I stayed to wait on him and catch up.
And as things go on for the living, I did think of him from time to time, when something made me laugh or I heard a certain song.
Last week Wednesday, I was at work, just having a normal weeknight. There was an event at the Pavilion and hunters in town, so it was fairly busy. I got a table of four twenty-something guys, who looked like artists of some sort, whether they were writers or musicians or whatever didn’t really matter to me. They were just genuinely nice people who wanted to have a good meal.
Earlier that week I had been thinking about another person who used to tell me “Faith, love, and hope were the most important things in life.” I agreed with her statement but also thought that “grace” should be on the list. So I had been thinking about grace and about times in my life when I felt like I was in a state of grace. Grace was also my maternal grandmother’s name and she was a woman who believed in faith, love, hope, and grace.
Timmy loved my Grandma Grace.
While I was answering a couple of menu questions for the four top of the artist guys, I noticed one of them had several tattoos. Clearly on the outside of his right arm was a permanent “GRACE.”
Hi Grandma.
He knew I was looking at him oddly, so I had to tell them about faith, love, hope, and grace. And they instantly understood. They didn’t look at me weirdly or question the connection, they thought it was cool and agreed that grace fits right in the mix. He also had turtle tatts like mine, so I couldn’t help but wonder if he was my long, lost brother or something.
One of my co-workers asked if the guys at the table were my friends, she said they “Look like guys you’d be friends with.” Since they were cool, I took that as a compliment and relayed the story when I was back at the table. They thought that was funny, but none of them jumped in to say exactly what they did for a living, so I figured they were unemployed bums with credit cards.
Kidding.
I overheard something about “You should do a song with him.” They were musicians. Cat’s outta the bag. I just hoped to grab a name off and credit card and then do a Google search later. God bless technology. I figured any group of musicians that humble and nice was worth checking out.
So when the meals were eaten and the checks split up, I went over to the computer to run the credit cards. And when I looked down at the cards, I felt like a chump and then had a great laugh.
The name?
Kris Allen.
Timmy, you crafty little shit. I know you and Gracie got a kick out of this one. XXXOOO
So after some muddling in my teens, a lot of alcohol-fueled anger and a general pissed at the world attitude said, “Done.” I decided, yes, Camille, God was an invention of Man. I think I still do believe that in a socially constructed context, but that’s a story for another day.
My ideas on spirituality and an afterlife changed for a simple reason: Ghosts. Ghosts are not quite right, since that conjures up a negative connotation. Spirits is better, as in the spirits of those who have passed. I had a few experiences with spirits, some of which I didn’t really understand at the time, and most of which was just sort of a playful, “Hey, I’m here,” like the one who would push the quarters back when I started the dryer in the basement of the Brownstone. Sometimes, they spoke to me in my dreams. Sometimes I recognized them, but most times I didn’t. One time, I was one of them in my dream, a man dying in a hospital bed. I could tell by our hands he thought there should have been more time in his life.
I didn’t want to accept the communication, because it simply was something for which there was no rational. And if I could see and feel the communication from these spirits, I certainly could no longer discount the concept of an afterlife. Okay, universe, I’m listening.
The great part of all of it was that I’ve learned to slow down and see the cues and find the lessons. The best part is when someone I know drops by to say hello.
My friend, Tim, was one of the most interesting people I have had the pleasure to know. He was kind and complex, messy and hilarious, and struggled with addiction and health issues. My favorite attributes of his were his sense of humor and his genuine ability to connect with people. He was so completely all in when it came to living. In life, he was the type who would talk to anyone. After he died, I knew he would make sure to stop by now and again; he would never let us go too long without thinking about him.
By a strange turn of events, Timmy and I ended up going to the American Idol finale a few years ago, the one where it was Kris Allen versus Adam Lambert. I must admit that I did not watch much of that season, or really any season for that matter, but knew what was going on thanks to co-workers and general media coverage. My auntie gave us two tickets in the 20th row and the buzz was that there would be amazing star performances. I certainly wasn’t going to pass that up, plus a few days in L.A. with Timmy were bound to be fun.
We were not so secretly hoping that Paula Abdul would be falling off her chair loaded. We even made a point to visit her star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame the day before and say a little selfish prayer to that effect. Ryan Seacrest was even tinier than we imagined. The Idols were 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 effing May. Sigh. Lambert killed “We Are The Champions” with Queen. There’s no replacing Freddie, but he was pretty damned great.
Somehow in our part of the audience, we were in this little pocket of gay men. Of course, the tween female demographic was the majority of the studio audience, but we managed to fit in the gay haven. Perfect for oh so many reasons...
But the point of this part of the story is that Kris Allen won that night. Since we were in gay haven, we heard plenty of, “Oh the little kids just get on every phone in the house and vote as many times as they can.” Blah, blah. Tim’s take? “They are both really talented so it didn’t really matter who won. Now, IS there an open bar at the after party?”
I’m giggling a little just thinking about this since we ended up meeting a bunch of the Idols, having great food and drink, and dancing the night away. Since the show started at five and the party at seven, we even managed to do midnight IHOP and get to the airport by five the next morning.
It was a crazy whirlwind, three-day trip and we made a bunch of memories that I’ll never forget.
Timmy passed away earlier this year and I do miss that crazy sense of humor. I miss him stopping in to the restaurant where I work for a late dinner and a glass or three of wine. Even if I was cut for the night and ready to hit the door, I stayed to wait on him and catch up.
And as things go on for the living, I did think of him from time to time, when something made me laugh or I heard a certain song.
Last week Wednesday, I was at work, just having a normal weeknight. There was an event at the Pavilion and hunters in town, so it was fairly busy. I got a table of four twenty-something guys, who looked like artists of some sort, whether they were writers or musicians or whatever didn’t really matter to me. They were just genuinely nice people who wanted to have a good meal.
Earlier that week I had been thinking about another person who used to tell me “Faith, love, and hope were the most important things in life.” I agreed with her statement but also thought that “grace” should be on the list. So I had been thinking about grace and about times in my life when I felt like I was in a state of grace. Grace was also my maternal grandmother’s name and she was a woman who believed in faith, love, hope, and grace.
Timmy loved my Grandma Grace.
While I was answering a couple of menu questions for the four top of the artist guys, I noticed one of them had several tattoos. Clearly on the outside of his right arm was a permanent “GRACE.”
Hi Grandma.
He knew I was looking at him oddly, so I had to tell them about faith, love, hope, and grace. And they instantly understood. They didn’t look at me weirdly or question the connection, they thought it was cool and agreed that grace fits right in the mix. He also had turtle tatts like mine, so I couldn’t help but wonder if he was my long, lost brother or something.
One of my co-workers asked if the guys at the table were my friends, she said they “Look like guys you’d be friends with.” Since they were cool, I took that as a compliment and relayed the story when I was back at the table. They thought that was funny, but none of them jumped in to say exactly what they did for a living, so I figured they were unemployed bums with credit cards.
Kidding.
I overheard something about “You should do a song with him.” They were musicians. Cat’s outta the bag. I just hoped to grab a name off and credit card and then do a Google search later. God bless technology. I figured any group of musicians that humble and nice was worth checking out.
So when the meals were eaten and the checks split up, I went over to the computer to run the credit cards. And when I looked down at the cards, I felt like a chump and then had a great laugh.
The name?
Kris Allen.
Timmy, you crafty little shit. I know you and Gracie got a kick out of this one. XXXOOO
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
The Way to a Man's Hands...
I am obsessed with Law & Order. I have been for the better part of my life, way back in the Paul Sorvino days, and well before anyone called Chris Noth “Big.” While the cheese factor of Ice T’s tough guy lines in SVU will always have a special place in my heart, my absolute favorite episodes are in the original series of the franchise, back in the Briscoe/Curtis or Briscoe/Green detective years. Maybe my love of the series boils down to my love of Lenny Briscoe. I have seen the episode where he relapses and Clare gets killed in the car accident dozens of times, but I still cry when he gets out of the car and realizes…
Briscoe was the epitome of the old school detective. He could take the Ice T line and make it believable. Find a socialite’s body in a cooler? Here comes Lenny with something like, “I thought they only liked their martinis on ice.”
There is something about that type of old school guy that appeals to me. Always has, whether it was Han Solo or Magnum P.I., I liked that take charge kind of guy and even more so, the type of guy who wasn’t afraid to get dirty.
My dad worked at a grain elevator and I remember him coming home covered in dust. And even though he wore a facemask to protect his lungs, I remember my childhood fascination at the weird dusty snot rockets he could blow. And I knew my dad was the coolest guy in the universe.
It’s safe to say I was never going to be with a guy who stamped loan papers for a living.
So I really had a chuckle when one of my friends on The Book posted a question as to why women find the blue collar working man attractive. Of course, the bait of “His paycheck” was thrown out, both seriously and in jest.
Man Friend qualifies as one of those blue collar guys since he’s a carpenter. He’s a workerman with the tools and the giant truck. I don’t date freeloaders anymore, so I appreciate the fact that he gets a paycheck, but the paycheck isn’t what I find attractive. I like his workerman hands. They’re all roughed up and calloused, full of little nicks and scars from years saws and drills, telling the stories of all the things he’s made along the way. Holding his hand is like holding a book filled with tables and dressers and cabinets.
I suppose everyone’s hands tell a story like that. I remember how soft the pads on Joey’s paws were the first night she came to live with us. I laugh when I think of her hop stepping the first time she felt snow. The miles have toughened her up. It might sound dorky, but I do hold their paws sometimes when we’re cuddled up on the couch. It doesn’t seem so dorky ‘cuz they let me.
Briscoe was the epitome of the old school detective. He could take the Ice T line and make it believable. Find a socialite’s body in a cooler? Here comes Lenny with something like, “I thought they only liked their martinis on ice.”
There is something about that type of old school guy that appeals to me. Always has, whether it was Han Solo or Magnum P.I., I liked that take charge kind of guy and even more so, the type of guy who wasn’t afraid to get dirty.
My dad worked at a grain elevator and I remember him coming home covered in dust. And even though he wore a facemask to protect his lungs, I remember my childhood fascination at the weird dusty snot rockets he could blow. And I knew my dad was the coolest guy in the universe.
It’s safe to say I was never going to be with a guy who stamped loan papers for a living.
So I really had a chuckle when one of my friends on The Book posted a question as to why women find the blue collar working man attractive. Of course, the bait of “His paycheck” was thrown out, both seriously and in jest.
Man Friend qualifies as one of those blue collar guys since he’s a carpenter. He’s a workerman with the tools and the giant truck. I don’t date freeloaders anymore, so I appreciate the fact that he gets a paycheck, but the paycheck isn’t what I find attractive. I like his workerman hands. They’re all roughed up and calloused, full of little nicks and scars from years saws and drills, telling the stories of all the things he’s made along the way. Holding his hand is like holding a book filled with tables and dressers and cabinets.
I suppose everyone’s hands tell a story like that. I remember how soft the pads on Joey’s paws were the first night she came to live with us. I laugh when I think of her hop stepping the first time she felt snow. The miles have toughened her up. It might sound dorky, but I do hold their paws sometimes when we’re cuddled up on the couch. It doesn’t seem so dorky ‘cuz they let me.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
The Cat and Ham's Key...
I just finished reading “Cloud Atlas,” which is an amazing piece of writing, if anyone is looking for a good read. I cannot stop talking about it. As a writer, I have moments in which I am reading something and get this twinge of jealousy because it’s so damned good. Sometimes it’s just a sentence or a paragraph, but there are entire scenes and characters that keep me writing just for the sake of trying to get at something partially as amazing.
Now, I don’t want to ruin it for any of you with specifics, but the big theme of the novel is how lives intertwine and affect each other throughout time, in the past, present, and future. It’s this big, creative philosophical puzzle that really makes you think. It’s a gift with a big, fat bow on it for an introspective chick like me.
So last Tuesday, with about 200 pages to go, I decided to leash up the bitches and go for a run. Time to digest a story like that is really important and a run is the perfect space for me to muddle around in it.
We cruised down 18th Street and hopped on the bike trails behind the zoo. A loop around O’Gorman High School and the hills of Kiwanis Avenue give us a nice five miler.
And just as we had, so many times before, we broke off the trail at 41st Street, in front of O’Gorman, so we could break back to the north.
But, like never before, a beautiful cat lay dead next to the sidewalk. My gut reaction was to make sure the bitches didn’t get interested. Wrestling away squirrel carcasses is one thing; disrupting the lifeless body of someone’s family member is another story.
It was a very pretty cat, dark gray with those tigery stripes and a touch of white on his paws. He seemed peaceful enough, postured in a slight stretch. Since 41st is a busy street, how he met his maker was probably not a case for the Hardy Boys. I just hope the little one didn’t suffer.
I called Animal Control when we got home so he would be picked up. I’m sure someone was looking for him.
And I really didn’t think about him again, until last night, after I finished the book and jumped on The Book.
Facebook really is a wily bastard. For all the bullshit, nonsense, politics, and well, hate, that is often spewed there, now and then there is a reminder of the promise of social media. The promise of actually connecting people and making us see the connections throughout our lives.
I know you’re thinking that I found the cat’s parents.
This is my life we’re talking about, not an ABC Family Movie of the week, kids.
I caught a status update by my buddy Sambourine Man, who prefers the moniker Ham Surly. His story, below in italics, is used with permission. I would like to state, for the record, that I do not condone his blind consumerism. I would also like to state that, other than that, he rules. Hard.
Today while delivering tasty beverages for Coca-Cola, my co-worker gave me a soda machine key off of his key ring, so that we could go to different machines at the same time, thus saving time. Upon unlocking the soda machine, I tossed the key into my sweatshirt pouch, for quick storage until I could return the key to my co-workers key ring. The machines were filled, and we were on our way.
As the weather gets colder, one must start wearing warmer clothing items. The way I ween into winter mode is through added layers, until I need to just put a dedicated winter coat on. This morning I wore two sweatshirts, staying fairly slim and agile, but adding extra thickness and warmth for the chilly morning.
The next stop was O'Gorman high school, and I was already heating up from my double sweatshirt strategy. I make the decision to remove my innermost sweatshirt layer, (one non-zipper hoodie is an awkward task in its own to remove, two takes some prerequisite courses in physics and biology) and then proceed to hop out of the truck and be on my way with work.
Spoiler: this is where the key fell out.
There are different keys for different soda machines. Each key is universal in a sense, but only to the machines that have a lock specifically set for it. On my route, I have 3 or 4 different keys for the numerous machines I service. The situation with losing a key is that you can't just get a replacement key and continue on. Someone could find that key and go on a Coke banaza, so all of the locks in the machines designated to that key must be changed. That is a lot of machines and a lot of money, all put on the person who lost the key. Me.
Roughly two hours after removing my innermost sweatshirt and dropping the key, we arrived at the next soda machine that required that keys pattern to unlock it. My co-worker asked for the key and I assume I looked like Sponge-Bob and Patrick doing the slap dance in 'The Spongebob Squarepants Movie' (http://youtu.be/j5mb3Uoz3hQ). I couldn't find it but remembered putting it in the pouch pocket of my sweatshirt, possibly the worst pocket to leave it in.
The rest of the day I had to record all the machines we were unable to fill because we were unable to unlock them. Machine by machine I slid into a deeper somber state, imagining all the hours I had worked turning into all the dollars I had earned, that would soon disappear because of a misplaced, quarter-sized hunk of metal.
At the end of the day I was allowed to take a work truck around to retrace my steps in hopes of finding the key, which turned out a lot easier than a hostile attitude would first perceive. Any time I get hit with a ticket, fine, or lose money I imagine all the cool things that could have been purchased with that same sum of money. All the currency possibilities, dead and depressing.
Rolling up to O'Gorman I could see something shining from a distance, a light of hope. I parked where we had hours before and hopped out to where that first small step for Sam-kind was this morning, and there it was. The key, literally "chilling" on the cold ground, presumably untouched, ultimately unclaimed, now retrieved. I hated the day until that moment, but now I gotta say, today was a good day.
Back to the thinking of all that money that was about to be lost because of a key. The key was found and back in our possession, thus leaving my funds snug in my bank account. But now that things are back to normal, is it too soon to forget "all the cool things that could have been purchased"?
Luck was indirectly on my side today, and now it's time to buy something.
Crazy luck, right? Maybe. Good Catholic kids? Perhaps, although I have plenty of evidence to the contrary, some even living under this roof!
You see, an introspective like myself, high on the philosophical novel has to draw a deeper conclusion here. And since it all happened within a 48 hour time frame, I have to believe that there was some sort of karmic energy at work. I think my little kitty friend took some suffering away from the world right here, on that campus, so there was enough good floating around for no one to mess with Ham’s key.
I don’t always understand the balance of the universe and I don’t often see it, but I know it’s there. That I believe.
I don’t know what Ham bought. I might suggest that he buy a bag of cat food and donate it to the Humane Society.
Now, I don’t want to ruin it for any of you with specifics, but the big theme of the novel is how lives intertwine and affect each other throughout time, in the past, present, and future. It’s this big, creative philosophical puzzle that really makes you think. It’s a gift with a big, fat bow on it for an introspective chick like me.
So last Tuesday, with about 200 pages to go, I decided to leash up the bitches and go for a run. Time to digest a story like that is really important and a run is the perfect space for me to muddle around in it.
We cruised down 18th Street and hopped on the bike trails behind the zoo. A loop around O’Gorman High School and the hills of Kiwanis Avenue give us a nice five miler.
And just as we had, so many times before, we broke off the trail at 41st Street, in front of O’Gorman, so we could break back to the north.
But, like never before, a beautiful cat lay dead next to the sidewalk. My gut reaction was to make sure the bitches didn’t get interested. Wrestling away squirrel carcasses is one thing; disrupting the lifeless body of someone’s family member is another story.
It was a very pretty cat, dark gray with those tigery stripes and a touch of white on his paws. He seemed peaceful enough, postured in a slight stretch. Since 41st is a busy street, how he met his maker was probably not a case for the Hardy Boys. I just hope the little one didn’t suffer.
I called Animal Control when we got home so he would be picked up. I’m sure someone was looking for him.
And I really didn’t think about him again, until last night, after I finished the book and jumped on The Book.
Facebook really is a wily bastard. For all the bullshit, nonsense, politics, and well, hate, that is often spewed there, now and then there is a reminder of the promise of social media. The promise of actually connecting people and making us see the connections throughout our lives.
I know you’re thinking that I found the cat’s parents.
This is my life we’re talking about, not an ABC Family Movie of the week, kids.
I caught a status update by my buddy Sambourine Man, who prefers the moniker Ham Surly. His story, below in italics, is used with permission. I would like to state, for the record, that I do not condone his blind consumerism. I would also like to state that, other than that, he rules. Hard.
Today while delivering tasty beverages for Coca-Cola, my co-worker gave me a soda machine key off of his key ring, so that we could go to different machines at the same time, thus saving time. Upon unlocking the soda machine, I tossed the key into my sweatshirt pouch, for quick storage until I could return the key to my co-workers key ring. The machines were filled, and we were on our way.
As the weather gets colder, one must start wearing warmer clothing items. The way I ween into winter mode is through added layers, until I need to just put a dedicated winter coat on. This morning I wore two sweatshirts, staying fairly slim and agile, but adding extra thickness and warmth for the chilly morning.
The next stop was O'Gorman high school, and I was already heating up from my double sweatshirt strategy. I make the decision to remove my innermost sweatshirt layer, (one non-zipper hoodie is an awkward task in its own to remove, two takes some prerequisite courses in physics and biology) and then proceed to hop out of the truck and be on my way with work.
Spoiler: this is where the key fell out.
There are different keys for different soda machines. Each key is universal in a sense, but only to the machines that have a lock specifically set for it. On my route, I have 3 or 4 different keys for the numerous machines I service. The situation with losing a key is that you can't just get a replacement key and continue on. Someone could find that key and go on a Coke banaza, so all of the locks in the machines designated to that key must be changed. That is a lot of machines and a lot of money, all put on the person who lost the key. Me.
Roughly two hours after removing my innermost sweatshirt and dropping the key, we arrived at the next soda machine that required that keys pattern to unlock it. My co-worker asked for the key and I assume I looked like Sponge-Bob and Patrick doing the slap dance in 'The Spongebob Squarepants Movie' (http://youtu.be/j5mb3Uoz3hQ). I couldn't find it but remembered putting it in the pouch pocket of my sweatshirt, possibly the worst pocket to leave it in.
The rest of the day I had to record all the machines we were unable to fill because we were unable to unlock them. Machine by machine I slid into a deeper somber state, imagining all the hours I had worked turning into all the dollars I had earned, that would soon disappear because of a misplaced, quarter-sized hunk of metal.
At the end of the day I was allowed to take a work truck around to retrace my steps in hopes of finding the key, which turned out a lot easier than a hostile attitude would first perceive. Any time I get hit with a ticket, fine, or lose money I imagine all the cool things that could have been purchased with that same sum of money. All the currency possibilities, dead and depressing.
Rolling up to O'Gorman I could see something shining from a distance, a light of hope. I parked where we had hours before and hopped out to where that first small step for Sam-kind was this morning, and there it was. The key, literally "chilling" on the cold ground, presumably untouched, ultimately unclaimed, now retrieved. I hated the day until that moment, but now I gotta say, today was a good day.
Back to the thinking of all that money that was about to be lost because of a key. The key was found and back in our possession, thus leaving my funds snug in my bank account. But now that things are back to normal, is it too soon to forget "all the cool things that could have been purchased"?
Luck was indirectly on my side today, and now it's time to buy something.
Crazy luck, right? Maybe. Good Catholic kids? Perhaps, although I have plenty of evidence to the contrary, some even living under this roof!
You see, an introspective like myself, high on the philosophical novel has to draw a deeper conclusion here. And since it all happened within a 48 hour time frame, I have to believe that there was some sort of karmic energy at work. I think my little kitty friend took some suffering away from the world right here, on that campus, so there was enough good floating around for no one to mess with Ham’s key.
I don’t always understand the balance of the universe and I don’t often see it, but I know it’s there. That I believe.
I don’t know what Ham bought. I might suggest that he buy a bag of cat food and donate it to the Humane Society.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Pawsitively trying...
I once mused, “Are ugly people attracted to politics or do politics make people ugly?” There was a variance of responses, usually depending on how invested one was in the process. Some people took me literally and struggled to point out a lawmaker who they found physically attractive. That was incredibly amusing, as the number of women who found John Thune good looking mystified me. He reminds me of Skelator. And I have no desire to visit Greyskull.
But what I was really getting at was the seemingly ever-present dirtiness of politics. The negativity that offends/sways/turns off the masses for whatever reason. Maybe negativity is all that some of us understand anymore... I don’t want to believe that, but it does make sense to me.
I thought people got into public service to affect change in the world. I thought. Or at least I thought maybe some of them did. Some were after power and money, I’m sure. Some are just the uber competitive type and playing with trillions of dollars and people’s lives has to have mad appeal.
But the striking thing to me, the thing that I’ve only really started to notice since the advent of social media networking, is how the negativity has saturated down to nearly every voter.
A friend made an innocuous post earlier simply asking if anyone could articulate why she should vote for Romney. She clearly stated that everyone she had previously talked to said they were voting for him because they didn’t want to vote for President Obama. She also asked that no one attack her.
Easy enough. I wanted to get on board because I really wanted to see how the average Mid-western Republican would respond. So I took the feminist route and said I couldn’t give a reason to vote for a ticket that didn’t believe in equal pay or my right to autonomy over my body.
Of course, someone had to jump on and remind me that Romney thinks it’s okay to get an abortion if I were pregnant via rape. I didn’t even try to debate that Ryan’s weird personhood ideas would outlaw some types of birth control, so autonomy is more that choice. But I digress…
The whole mess turned into an Obama hating shitfest. Remember the original question? Sigh. I said to check out some non-partisan sites and BBC News. She’s a smart girl. She’ll figure it out.
But they kept going. Someone even posted a link to website entirely devoted to why Obama should not be elected. Holy fucking balls. I get it. I voted against Bush in ’04. I didn’t vote for Kerry.
Maybe it was the poor grammar. Maybe it was the complete lack of structure in the arguments, as there was nothing articulate or factual in the statements. Maybe I’m still upset about Opie “Sons of Anarchy.” I just don’t get the haters on the President. Sure, I thought Bush was an idiot, a dry drunk, a puppet. But I don’t think I ever hated him the way people seem to hate Obama.
I’m sure there are plenty of ways to opine the whys of it. Racism. Definitely. His cool demeanor. Maybe. Calling him a Marxist, Socialist, insert whatever ist you think it’s the most un-American. But his story is so American. I don’t know. I know for whom I’m voting, so I guess that’s something.
The bitches are definitely Obama voters. I mean, I’m pretty sure Alli is a lesbian and I can see her being involved in equal rights. Both the bitches enjoy the outdoors and were offended by the Republicans laughing about climate change at their convention. I just wish the kibble vote had more pull on the national stage.
But what I was really getting at was the seemingly ever-present dirtiness of politics. The negativity that offends/sways/turns off the masses for whatever reason. Maybe negativity is all that some of us understand anymore... I don’t want to believe that, but it does make sense to me.
I thought people got into public service to affect change in the world. I thought. Or at least I thought maybe some of them did. Some were after power and money, I’m sure. Some are just the uber competitive type and playing with trillions of dollars and people’s lives has to have mad appeal.
But the striking thing to me, the thing that I’ve only really started to notice since the advent of social media networking, is how the negativity has saturated down to nearly every voter.
A friend made an innocuous post earlier simply asking if anyone could articulate why she should vote for Romney. She clearly stated that everyone she had previously talked to said they were voting for him because they didn’t want to vote for President Obama. She also asked that no one attack her.
Easy enough. I wanted to get on board because I really wanted to see how the average Mid-western Republican would respond. So I took the feminist route and said I couldn’t give a reason to vote for a ticket that didn’t believe in equal pay or my right to autonomy over my body.
Of course, someone had to jump on and remind me that Romney thinks it’s okay to get an abortion if I were pregnant via rape. I didn’t even try to debate that Ryan’s weird personhood ideas would outlaw some types of birth control, so autonomy is more that choice. But I digress…
The whole mess turned into an Obama hating shitfest. Remember the original question? Sigh. I said to check out some non-partisan sites and BBC News. She’s a smart girl. She’ll figure it out.
But they kept going. Someone even posted a link to website entirely devoted to why Obama should not be elected. Holy fucking balls. I get it. I voted against Bush in ’04. I didn’t vote for Kerry.
Maybe it was the poor grammar. Maybe it was the complete lack of structure in the arguments, as there was nothing articulate or factual in the statements. Maybe I’m still upset about Opie “Sons of Anarchy.” I just don’t get the haters on the President. Sure, I thought Bush was an idiot, a dry drunk, a puppet. But I don’t think I ever hated him the way people seem to hate Obama.
I’m sure there are plenty of ways to opine the whys of it. Racism. Definitely. His cool demeanor. Maybe. Calling him a Marxist, Socialist, insert whatever ist you think it’s the most un-American. But his story is so American. I don’t know. I know for whom I’m voting, so I guess that’s something.
The bitches are definitely Obama voters. I mean, I’m pretty sure Alli is a lesbian and I can see her being involved in equal rights. Both the bitches enjoy the outdoors and were offended by the Republicans laughing about climate change at their convention. I just wish the kibble vote had more pull on the national stage.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
We Are Brownheads...
It was about three and a half years ago that my friend, Moto Cat, asked me if I would be interested in running a half marathon with her. She is one of those fearless, sporty chicks who does multi-day bicycle tours for fun and takes kickboxing classes at the Y. Don’t get me wrong, there had been points in my life where I would have called myself an athlete; I just wasn’t sure if those days had passed. Plus, I always hated running.
I grew up playing softball, volleyball, and basketball. My brother and I played tennis for fun. I loved sports and competition, but I always hated the conditioning aspect and viewed it as a necessary evil, especially since basketball was my favorite.
I had done a handful of 5K charity-type races throughout my 20s, but was more interested in post-races drinks. I remember one race where I was puffing on a cig while stretching along the path at Yankton Trail. I was the type of racer mothers pulled their small children away from and serious runners just started at in disbelief.
Needless to say, the idea of 13.1 miles in a single stretch seemed out of my league. Although I was sober and not smoking, the race was just after my 33rd birthday and if I hated running when I was half that age, why would I subject myself to it as a grown-up? There would be no coach yelling, er motivating, me. Part of the fun of being a grown-up was doing whatever I wanted. Ice cream for breakfast? Sure. Stay up till four in the morning? Why not. It was the trade-off for having to work and pay bills.
But Moto Cat is good. She talked to several girls and organized a Tuesday night run for anyone interested. Since that’s my night off, I figured I better at least go and give it a shot.
I thought I would hate it.
I really did. I thought it would be a matter of, “You have to try the beets, Julie. It’s fine if you decide you don’t like them, but you have to try.” Thanks, mom.
Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t easy and I didn’t love every minute of every run, but something felt right. I leashed up the bitches for every single run, whether it was a mile or 10. One time, one of the girls from the Tuesday group said, “You know, you aren’t the fastest, but you can go forever.” Feather in my cap, thank you. I don’t know if she realized how great the bitches are as pacers…
So we did that half marathon and I surprised myself by keeping the habit. I did a bunch of 5Ks and another half, still logging all the miles with the bitches. It was like my brain started firing right for the first time in my life when I had those leashes in my hands and a pair of good shoes on my feet. It was never about winning or times or any sort of numbers. I was a bad ass carrying a bag of dog poop for several miles until we find a trash can.
I ran with humans like Moto Cat on occasion, but I preferred the company of the bitches. I began to understand how every run is like an entire life of its’ own; there are moments where you want to quit and moments where you feel like you never want to stop. You see the place you’ve lived for years differently because you are forced to take in your surroundings as nature intended you to, not through the windshield of an automobile. You get to explore new places and develop mantras to push you through another mile.
So I was just enjoying my new habit and planning on doing another half marathon in the fall when Moto Cat dropped another bomb on me. She wanted to go for the big boy.
The marathon.
I won’t lie to you and say that I immediately jumped on board wholeheartedly. But I did figure why not and started upping the mileage, leashed bitches in tow. Since I liked the time outdoors with the bitches, why not just increase the time? It wasn’t a competition in any sense, really just more of a challenge to do something that not everyone does. One of my brothers spent a bit of life accusing me of always trying to be different. Maybe there is a grain of truth to it, or maybe I was always just trying to be me. Plus I wanted a finisher medal.
It was a long, hot summer of drought. Barely a drop of moisture fell from the sky during the entire month of July. I would pick the warmest year on record to try and compete a marathon. Since my training partners lacked the ability to sweat, this meant we were routinely getting up at 4:30 or 5:00 a.m. to beat the heat. If only we could have beat the rabbits… although I think the upper body workout was beneficial long-term.
Mid-August I finally decided to register, an event that I thought would produce a bit more emotion. Instead it was equal parts of a Zen-like “Everything you need is inside you” mantra and Curtis Jackson saying, “Pray or worry. Don’t do both.” Just keep going, as they say.
The light worry didn’t turn into actual fear until we were into the tapering phase. Then I woke up two days before the race, literally shitting myself and my hands were shaking. Thankfully, taking the bitches out for a couple of miles calmed me. Throw in some words of encouragement from my co-workers and I was okay.
Hands down, the most fun part of the pre-marathon was the carb-loading. I ate till I couldn’t eat anymore, which is a task for someone who normally grazes several small meals throughout the day. I ate bagels, potatoes, chicken, and waffles. God, did I eat waffles.
Since I already mentioned shitting myself, I think it’s worth having the poop conversation. Yes, there are porta-potties at several points along the race. Yes, sometimes people don’t want to lose time and lose it down their legs. I know someone who had it coming out both ends at mile 18. I know there are a great many worse experiences in this world and in perspective, having a shitty butt/leg, is a low priority problem. Lots of people would like to have two legs. Understood. The puking didn’t scare me from an embarrassment perspective at all. My formerly drunk ass had puked a great many public places, such as in front of Memorial Stadium, not on game day, but on the way to a final, but that’s another story. I just hoped my guts were as tough as my mind.
Before I knew it, the 5:00 a.m. alarm rang and it was oatmeal and coffee time. The ritual began… the shorts, the lucky blue bra, the shorts, the Brooks, no the Asics, definitely the Asics. I grabbed the hip pack and turned to see two very eager looking German Shorthair Pointers watching me with anticipation. The ritual never involved guilt before. I explained to them that momma was gonna do a big race with Moto Cat and they were the reason that she could because they were the best trainers in the world. Blank puppy stares followed by a race to the front door where the leashes are kept. I have a bigger brain, but they have bigger hearts.
I said goodbye to the sad bitches, glad that their little brains would forget this and be thrilled to see me in a few hours.
I hopped in the car, picked up Moto, and we headed to the start. It was a beautiful morning and honestly, cold at the 6:45 a.m. start, a nice change of pace to the sweltering summer. We found a nice space at the back of the starting group and before I really even had time to worry, we were off.
We had a previously discussed plan of a nice slow pace. As long as we kept miles around 11 minutes at the start, we wouldn’t stress ourselves and empty our tanks. Plus, that would give us time over the whole course. The course was open for six hours, which gives you like a 13:40 pace. The plan was just to keep trotting along and enjoy the experience.
The previous weekend we decided to tackle the first eight miles of the course, just for familiarities’ sake. On our test run, someone had apparently had a dresser fall off their truck, evidenced by the chunks of that pressed particle board everywhere. Why do I say dresser? Well, it must have been the big blue dildo resting sadly on the side of the road. I would like to take a moment here to give thanks that neither of the bitches tried to pick it up. I’ve negotiated various dead critters away from them but never sex toys.
So on race day, I was more interested in playing Where’s Blue Dildo on mile two. I’m sure some poor race official or community service kid had to take care of that bad boy as it was nowhere to be seen.
It was a weird thing, how easy the first 15 were. We just stuck to the plan, one foot in front of the other. We stopped to stretch a bit here and there. Moto’s hubby did about 400 meters with us at the 20K mark. We ran with a local girl for a while and a woman from New Hampshire for a while. She was doing a marathon in every state. Hard core.
For me, it started to get harder around 18 to 20. That’s when you really start to love the people at the aid stations. An encouraging word can go a long way when you’re starting to doubt yourself. I got a little weird at one point and started singing, “To All The Dogs I’ve Run Before.” You know the tune. Actually, that really isn’t weird coming from me. And it made Moto laugh.
At this point, my mantra from the summer came in handy. I guess lots of runners have that go-to quote that motivates them to push through the pain and go further. Mine developed from the runs with the bitches. I would say, “We are not quitters. We are brownheads.” I would say this over and over to myself during the summer, whether it was just to get out of bed and go or to do another mile. The bitches were always game for another mile, they are brownheads.
I’m not sure how many times I said that to myself between mile 21 and mile 24. I know I started saying it out loud. A lot.
I had been drinking plenty of water and sports drinks. I had downed like 18 gummy chews. I was a brownhead.
Moto and I started to separate a bit around the 22 mile mark. I decided to employ a strategy of race walk the first half of a mile, then jog the second half. It was on a part of the bike trails that the bitches and I had been on so many times over the summer. It was incredibly flat. I knew I was so close; I just wanted to be done.
And then I saw it, the 25 mile marker. It felt like a pass to the promised land. I had a water bottle with just a few ounces left in my hand, so I poured the water out on the mile marker, like a gangster with a 40 on his boy’s grave, and yelled “This one’s for the bitches.”
Like I was going to do the whole thing without doing something dramatic. Please.
I took off like a bat out of hell. Well, it was a bat out of hell for me cuz my last mile was just a little over 11:00. I know Jurker can do an 8:20 at the end of an ultra, but he’s Jurker. I’m a brownhead.
I did it. We did it. It was crazy. I hit the finish line with enough sass to tell the announcer just to call me, “Schooly” as he was searching for my name. I got that finisher medal that I wanted so badly. I did it.
Keeping up the workouts was never an issue. I knew I would keep logging the miles with the bitches, whether it was three or five or whatever. Today it was 11 on one of the familiar routes from this summer and as we ran past Paisley Park, I took in a breath of cool air and realized that the seasons had just changed. Fall happened right in the middle of our run, an experience missed by any of you who were stuck in a car or at a desk. Or maybe it’s something only a runner, er marathoner, understands…
I grew up playing softball, volleyball, and basketball. My brother and I played tennis for fun. I loved sports and competition, but I always hated the conditioning aspect and viewed it as a necessary evil, especially since basketball was my favorite.
I had done a handful of 5K charity-type races throughout my 20s, but was more interested in post-races drinks. I remember one race where I was puffing on a cig while stretching along the path at Yankton Trail. I was the type of racer mothers pulled their small children away from and serious runners just started at in disbelief.
Needless to say, the idea of 13.1 miles in a single stretch seemed out of my league. Although I was sober and not smoking, the race was just after my 33rd birthday and if I hated running when I was half that age, why would I subject myself to it as a grown-up? There would be no coach yelling, er motivating, me. Part of the fun of being a grown-up was doing whatever I wanted. Ice cream for breakfast? Sure. Stay up till four in the morning? Why not. It was the trade-off for having to work and pay bills.
But Moto Cat is good. She talked to several girls and organized a Tuesday night run for anyone interested. Since that’s my night off, I figured I better at least go and give it a shot.
I thought I would hate it.
I really did. I thought it would be a matter of, “You have to try the beets, Julie. It’s fine if you decide you don’t like them, but you have to try.” Thanks, mom.
Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t easy and I didn’t love every minute of every run, but something felt right. I leashed up the bitches for every single run, whether it was a mile or 10. One time, one of the girls from the Tuesday group said, “You know, you aren’t the fastest, but you can go forever.” Feather in my cap, thank you. I don’t know if she realized how great the bitches are as pacers…
So we did that half marathon and I surprised myself by keeping the habit. I did a bunch of 5Ks and another half, still logging all the miles with the bitches. It was like my brain started firing right for the first time in my life when I had those leashes in my hands and a pair of good shoes on my feet. It was never about winning or times or any sort of numbers. I was a bad ass carrying a bag of dog poop for several miles until we find a trash can.
I ran with humans like Moto Cat on occasion, but I preferred the company of the bitches. I began to understand how every run is like an entire life of its’ own; there are moments where you want to quit and moments where you feel like you never want to stop. You see the place you’ve lived for years differently because you are forced to take in your surroundings as nature intended you to, not through the windshield of an automobile. You get to explore new places and develop mantras to push you through another mile.
So I was just enjoying my new habit and planning on doing another half marathon in the fall when Moto Cat dropped another bomb on me. She wanted to go for the big boy.
The marathon.
I won’t lie to you and say that I immediately jumped on board wholeheartedly. But I did figure why not and started upping the mileage, leashed bitches in tow. Since I liked the time outdoors with the bitches, why not just increase the time? It wasn’t a competition in any sense, really just more of a challenge to do something that not everyone does. One of my brothers spent a bit of life accusing me of always trying to be different. Maybe there is a grain of truth to it, or maybe I was always just trying to be me. Plus I wanted a finisher medal.
It was a long, hot summer of drought. Barely a drop of moisture fell from the sky during the entire month of July. I would pick the warmest year on record to try and compete a marathon. Since my training partners lacked the ability to sweat, this meant we were routinely getting up at 4:30 or 5:00 a.m. to beat the heat. If only we could have beat the rabbits… although I think the upper body workout was beneficial long-term.
Mid-August I finally decided to register, an event that I thought would produce a bit more emotion. Instead it was equal parts of a Zen-like “Everything you need is inside you” mantra and Curtis Jackson saying, “Pray or worry. Don’t do both.” Just keep going, as they say.
The light worry didn’t turn into actual fear until we were into the tapering phase. Then I woke up two days before the race, literally shitting myself and my hands were shaking. Thankfully, taking the bitches out for a couple of miles calmed me. Throw in some words of encouragement from my co-workers and I was okay.
Hands down, the most fun part of the pre-marathon was the carb-loading. I ate till I couldn’t eat anymore, which is a task for someone who normally grazes several small meals throughout the day. I ate bagels, potatoes, chicken, and waffles. God, did I eat waffles.
Since I already mentioned shitting myself, I think it’s worth having the poop conversation. Yes, there are porta-potties at several points along the race. Yes, sometimes people don’t want to lose time and lose it down their legs. I know someone who had it coming out both ends at mile 18. I know there are a great many worse experiences in this world and in perspective, having a shitty butt/leg, is a low priority problem. Lots of people would like to have two legs. Understood. The puking didn’t scare me from an embarrassment perspective at all. My formerly drunk ass had puked a great many public places, such as in front of Memorial Stadium, not on game day, but on the way to a final, but that’s another story. I just hoped my guts were as tough as my mind.
Before I knew it, the 5:00 a.m. alarm rang and it was oatmeal and coffee time. The ritual began… the shorts, the lucky blue bra, the shorts, the Brooks, no the Asics, definitely the Asics. I grabbed the hip pack and turned to see two very eager looking German Shorthair Pointers watching me with anticipation. The ritual never involved guilt before. I explained to them that momma was gonna do a big race with Moto Cat and they were the reason that she could because they were the best trainers in the world. Blank puppy stares followed by a race to the front door where the leashes are kept. I have a bigger brain, but they have bigger hearts.
I said goodbye to the sad bitches, glad that their little brains would forget this and be thrilled to see me in a few hours.
I hopped in the car, picked up Moto, and we headed to the start. It was a beautiful morning and honestly, cold at the 6:45 a.m. start, a nice change of pace to the sweltering summer. We found a nice space at the back of the starting group and before I really even had time to worry, we were off.
We had a previously discussed plan of a nice slow pace. As long as we kept miles around 11 minutes at the start, we wouldn’t stress ourselves and empty our tanks. Plus, that would give us time over the whole course. The course was open for six hours, which gives you like a 13:40 pace. The plan was just to keep trotting along and enjoy the experience.
The previous weekend we decided to tackle the first eight miles of the course, just for familiarities’ sake. On our test run, someone had apparently had a dresser fall off their truck, evidenced by the chunks of that pressed particle board everywhere. Why do I say dresser? Well, it must have been the big blue dildo resting sadly on the side of the road. I would like to take a moment here to give thanks that neither of the bitches tried to pick it up. I’ve negotiated various dead critters away from them but never sex toys.
So on race day, I was more interested in playing Where’s Blue Dildo on mile two. I’m sure some poor race official or community service kid had to take care of that bad boy as it was nowhere to be seen.
It was a weird thing, how easy the first 15 were. We just stuck to the plan, one foot in front of the other. We stopped to stretch a bit here and there. Moto’s hubby did about 400 meters with us at the 20K mark. We ran with a local girl for a while and a woman from New Hampshire for a while. She was doing a marathon in every state. Hard core.
For me, it started to get harder around 18 to 20. That’s when you really start to love the people at the aid stations. An encouraging word can go a long way when you’re starting to doubt yourself. I got a little weird at one point and started singing, “To All The Dogs I’ve Run Before.” You know the tune. Actually, that really isn’t weird coming from me. And it made Moto laugh.
At this point, my mantra from the summer came in handy. I guess lots of runners have that go-to quote that motivates them to push through the pain and go further. Mine developed from the runs with the bitches. I would say, “We are not quitters. We are brownheads.” I would say this over and over to myself during the summer, whether it was just to get out of bed and go or to do another mile. The bitches were always game for another mile, they are brownheads.
I’m not sure how many times I said that to myself between mile 21 and mile 24. I know I started saying it out loud. A lot.
I had been drinking plenty of water and sports drinks. I had downed like 18 gummy chews. I was a brownhead.
Moto and I started to separate a bit around the 22 mile mark. I decided to employ a strategy of race walk the first half of a mile, then jog the second half. It was on a part of the bike trails that the bitches and I had been on so many times over the summer. It was incredibly flat. I knew I was so close; I just wanted to be done.
And then I saw it, the 25 mile marker. It felt like a pass to the promised land. I had a water bottle with just a few ounces left in my hand, so I poured the water out on the mile marker, like a gangster with a 40 on his boy’s grave, and yelled “This one’s for the bitches.”
Like I was going to do the whole thing without doing something dramatic. Please.
I took off like a bat out of hell. Well, it was a bat out of hell for me cuz my last mile was just a little over 11:00. I know Jurker can do an 8:20 at the end of an ultra, but he’s Jurker. I’m a brownhead.
I did it. We did it. It was crazy. I hit the finish line with enough sass to tell the announcer just to call me, “Schooly” as he was searching for my name. I got that finisher medal that I wanted so badly. I did it.
Keeping up the workouts was never an issue. I knew I would keep logging the miles with the bitches, whether it was three or five or whatever. Today it was 11 on one of the familiar routes from this summer and as we ran past Paisley Park, I took in a breath of cool air and realized that the seasons had just changed. Fall happened right in the middle of our run, an experience missed by any of you who were stuck in a car or at a desk. Or maybe it’s something only a runner, er marathoner, understands…
Monday, August 27, 2012
Pets, Vets, & No Debts
We were out running on the bike trails mid-day on Saturday. It’s one of my favorite places to run since other than one stretch near the interstate, you almost feel like you aren’t in a city. There are a few places deer have made a home and we always see lots of ducks and geese. A little taste of the country for my city bitches, if you will.
Unfortunately we did see one flattened frog near the golf course. Sad-faced me. I didn’t wonder if the biker had any issues, I worried that the frog suffered. So it wouldn’t surprise you to know that we stopped near 26th Street to pick-up a baby turtle and set him down by the river. His little shell’s diameter was only a bit over an inch, so you can imagine how slowly he moved. He would not meet the same fate as the frog… at least not on my watch. There is still a bit of the little girl who used to hold funerals for the dead birds she would find in me.
I have been thinking a lot about just what it is that animals mean to me lately. For instance, all but one of my tattoos feature animals. I try to be mindful of how the animals I choose to eat are raised. I get way more excited about pet pics than small human pics on the Facebook. I like my bitches more than most people. I interrupt my runs to get baby turtles off the bike trail.
What got me going on this was that a friend of mine, let’s call her Farmer in the Deltron, was struggling with what to do about her beloved dog, Finny. He was getting older and the usual age issues were coming to light. Even with the health stuff coming out, he was still a pretty happy dog, which is one of my favorite things about them. They find something simple to wag about, even if their bodies are falling apart.
My advice: Letting him go before it gets too bad is a gift.
Letting go. Such easy advice, but probably the hardest thing to do in the whole world. Whether it’s a relationship or some object like a shirt or a car, it’s such a human thing to hold on to everything as tightly as we can, especially with the fear of actually losing it. We will hold on to the point of enabling, like the parent of an addicted child.
I’m just as guilty as the next person. It’s part of the reason I’ve done the major clean-ups at my house and insisted that 100 items leave via garbage, recycling, or donation, before even a gallon of milk can come back in. It’s weird how letting go of a sweatshirt can let so much more go.
Not like an article of clothing is anywhere on par with a dog. The friend, the defender, the protector, the pain in the ass. It’s like having an entertaining, energetic child that just wants to have fun, eat, cuddle, sleep, and eat some more. But the child also knows how to perfectly read your emotions, whether you need your tears licked away or want to dance to “Single Ladies.” (Joey loves that song, cuz I liked it and put a collar on it.)
I had to let go of my childhood dog, Blacky, a Chessie-Lab mix. It was never an issue with death, everyone knew it was time. He was almost completely deaf and his hips were shot. In retrospect, we did probably wait a bit too long, but my dad waited until I was home from college one weekend so I could be there.
Blacky never liked going to the vet and always put up a fuss. I think my dad had to practically drag him in to get shots. I have to laugh just thinking about it. My dad wasn’t much for nonsense like that. But on that final trip, Blacky seemed pretty okay with it. I’ve heard other people say that, as if the dog intuition takes over and realizes it’s all for good. I have to believe that since they are wired with a pack mentality where showing weakness can get one left behind. Canine Zen, perhaps.
I still tear up when I think about it. Over 12 years have passed and trust me, I wouldn’t have wanted it to be any other way. My older brother and dad were there so we all got to say goodbye and I held his handsome old face in my hands as he took his last breaths. My brother said, “I’ll be walking behind you again someday.” I think the old farm vet even shed a tear at that one. It was such a dignified, beautiful way for him to leave this life. We buried him near the farm where my dad grew up, where they had spent so much time hunting, and I left wildflowers with him in his grave, just like I did with the birdies.
So Farmer in the Deltron had a decision to make. I don’t know the specifics; the specifics don’t matter. I know that she let him have a whole bacon cheeseburger and some chicken strips, so I can only imagine how happy his last meal was. And I know he was loved, fully and unconditionally. Not a bad life, not bad indeed.
Unfortunately we did see one flattened frog near the golf course. Sad-faced me. I didn’t wonder if the biker had any issues, I worried that the frog suffered. So it wouldn’t surprise you to know that we stopped near 26th Street to pick-up a baby turtle and set him down by the river. His little shell’s diameter was only a bit over an inch, so you can imagine how slowly he moved. He would not meet the same fate as the frog… at least not on my watch. There is still a bit of the little girl who used to hold funerals for the dead birds she would find in me.
I have been thinking a lot about just what it is that animals mean to me lately. For instance, all but one of my tattoos feature animals. I try to be mindful of how the animals I choose to eat are raised. I get way more excited about pet pics than small human pics on the Facebook. I like my bitches more than most people. I interrupt my runs to get baby turtles off the bike trail.
What got me going on this was that a friend of mine, let’s call her Farmer in the Deltron, was struggling with what to do about her beloved dog, Finny. He was getting older and the usual age issues were coming to light. Even with the health stuff coming out, he was still a pretty happy dog, which is one of my favorite things about them. They find something simple to wag about, even if their bodies are falling apart.
My advice: Letting him go before it gets too bad is a gift.
Letting go. Such easy advice, but probably the hardest thing to do in the whole world. Whether it’s a relationship or some object like a shirt or a car, it’s such a human thing to hold on to everything as tightly as we can, especially with the fear of actually losing it. We will hold on to the point of enabling, like the parent of an addicted child.
I’m just as guilty as the next person. It’s part of the reason I’ve done the major clean-ups at my house and insisted that 100 items leave via garbage, recycling, or donation, before even a gallon of milk can come back in. It’s weird how letting go of a sweatshirt can let so much more go.
Not like an article of clothing is anywhere on par with a dog. The friend, the defender, the protector, the pain in the ass. It’s like having an entertaining, energetic child that just wants to have fun, eat, cuddle, sleep, and eat some more. But the child also knows how to perfectly read your emotions, whether you need your tears licked away or want to dance to “Single Ladies.” (Joey loves that song, cuz I liked it and put a collar on it.)
I had to let go of my childhood dog, Blacky, a Chessie-Lab mix. It was never an issue with death, everyone knew it was time. He was almost completely deaf and his hips were shot. In retrospect, we did probably wait a bit too long, but my dad waited until I was home from college one weekend so I could be there.
Blacky never liked going to the vet and always put up a fuss. I think my dad had to practically drag him in to get shots. I have to laugh just thinking about it. My dad wasn’t much for nonsense like that. But on that final trip, Blacky seemed pretty okay with it. I’ve heard other people say that, as if the dog intuition takes over and realizes it’s all for good. I have to believe that since they are wired with a pack mentality where showing weakness can get one left behind. Canine Zen, perhaps.
I still tear up when I think about it. Over 12 years have passed and trust me, I wouldn’t have wanted it to be any other way. My older brother and dad were there so we all got to say goodbye and I held his handsome old face in my hands as he took his last breaths. My brother said, “I’ll be walking behind you again someday.” I think the old farm vet even shed a tear at that one. It was such a dignified, beautiful way for him to leave this life. We buried him near the farm where my dad grew up, where they had spent so much time hunting, and I left wildflowers with him in his grave, just like I did with the birdies.
So Farmer in the Deltron had a decision to make. I don’t know the specifics; the specifics don’t matter. I know that she let him have a whole bacon cheeseburger and some chicken strips, so I can only imagine how happy his last meal was. And I know he was loved, fully and unconditionally. Not a bad life, not bad indeed.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Countless women are being told that they are not reliable witnesses to their own lives, that the truth is not their property, now or ever. — Rebecca Solnit
We've spent the past couple of days bombarded with the moronic quote regarding rape and abortion by Missouri Rep. Todd Akin being played over and over. From a political perspective, it should be a beautiful mistake viewed through my lens. A real-live human being, in the middle of a tight Senate race, saying something so stupid is an early birthday gift, wrapped up in a big blue bow. I mean, seriously, how could anyone vote for him after saying such ridiculous things like that? People are smarter than that. Oh, wait, that's right he's already serving in Congress. And oh yeah, he's one of the Paul Ryan personhood-type buddies whose anti-woman rhetoric on everything is ignorant, and frankly, frightening. And apparently, he is still leading the polls by one point.
Sigh. A big one. A really big one.
The whole idea of "legitimate rape" is almost too much for me to handle. Like my head nearly blows off the top of my body. And this isn't about me saying that men can't be raped. They can. And this isn't about me saying that women can't commit rape. They can. A married person can rape his/her spouse. Sexual preference isn't an issue.
You know what really gets my goat here?
THAT THESE COCKSUCKERS USE RAPE AS A POLITICAL TOOL TO PUSH THEIR ANTI-WOMAN, ANTI-CHOICE AGENDA.
Cuz, you know, women say they get raped by their husbands has a tool in a divorce or as a means to justify abortions. Because apparently, we can't truthfully ever have control of our own bodies or make our own choices regarding sexuality. If we can't have our own bodies or our truth, what can we have?
We've spent the past couple of days bombarded with the moronic quote regarding rape and abortion by Missouri Rep. Todd Akin being played over and over. From a political perspective, it should be a beautiful mistake viewed through my lens. A real-live human being, in the middle of a tight Senate race, saying something so stupid is an early birthday gift, wrapped up in a big blue bow. I mean, seriously, how could anyone vote for him after saying such ridiculous things like that? People are smarter than that. Oh, wait, that's right he's already serving in Congress. And oh yeah, he's one of the Paul Ryan personhood-type buddies whose anti-woman rhetoric on everything is ignorant, and frankly, frightening. And apparently, he is still leading the polls by one point.
Sigh. A big one. A really big one.
The whole idea of "legitimate rape" is almost too much for me to handle. Like my head nearly blows off the top of my body. And this isn't about me saying that men can't be raped. They can. And this isn't about me saying that women can't commit rape. They can. A married person can rape his/her spouse. Sexual preference isn't an issue.
You know what really gets my goat here?
THAT THESE COCKSUCKERS USE RAPE AS A POLITICAL TOOL TO PUSH THEIR ANTI-WOMAN, ANTI-CHOICE AGENDA.
Cuz, you know, women say they get raped by their husbands has a tool in a divorce or as a means to justify abortions. Because apparently, we can't truthfully ever have control of our own bodies or make our own choices regarding sexuality. If we can't have our own bodies or our truth, what can we have?
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Radio in the Bathtub...
When we were little bitty kids, my baby brother, Tiny T, was extremely quiet. For any of you who now him now, you know sometimes it’s a wonder if the he’ll shut up. Back then, my parents thought there might be something wrong with his hearing since he never talked. When he was a bit older, my aunt thought he was on drugs. His explanation, “I don’t talk unless I have something to say.”
Novel concept. I think he was about 12 when he said that.
I can think of about 80 people I would like to present that to…
That popped into my head yesterday when I was listening to someone bloviate about all the things he knew and the places he’d been. High decibel announcements of anything in a pubic place just never seem as interesting to me. Blah, blah, and blah. But this man did make me think of my little bro’s high decibel announcement when he was about 3 or 4 years old.
I was the family piano player, or maybe it’s more accurate to say I was the only one who took piano lessons. The sitting was kind of hard for me. Still time was something I preferred to reserve for reading and being stuck at the piano bench when there was action outside was a bit torturous for the smaller version of myself. Plus, the budding feminist in me was always quick to question why I had to do anything that neither of my brothers had to do.
I don’t know if Tiny T wanted to take lessons, but his Mozart moment is burned into my mind. The moment “Radio in the Bathtub” was born.
We never understood from where the simple lyrics came, just a repetition of “Radio in the bathtub, raaaad-I-o in the bathtub” over and over, his tiny hands pounding in unison on the keys, stretching as far as they could reach, building with the intensity of Elton John working through the third hour of the concert. Rocketman, burnin’ through milk and cookies in Edgerton.
Once he realized he had an audience, there were encores, but “Radio in the Bathtub” left as quickly as it came with the burst of creative glory of our favorite one hit wonders. Or maybe it’s just the inspiration for future renditions of stupid shit I do like “Remote in the Fridge” or “Car Keys in the Backdoor…”
Novel concept. I think he was about 12 when he said that.
I can think of about 80 people I would like to present that to…
That popped into my head yesterday when I was listening to someone bloviate about all the things he knew and the places he’d been. High decibel announcements of anything in a pubic place just never seem as interesting to me. Blah, blah, and blah. But this man did make me think of my little bro’s high decibel announcement when he was about 3 or 4 years old.
I was the family piano player, or maybe it’s more accurate to say I was the only one who took piano lessons. The sitting was kind of hard for me. Still time was something I preferred to reserve for reading and being stuck at the piano bench when there was action outside was a bit torturous for the smaller version of myself. Plus, the budding feminist in me was always quick to question why I had to do anything that neither of my brothers had to do.
I don’t know if Tiny T wanted to take lessons, but his Mozart moment is burned into my mind. The moment “Radio in the Bathtub” was born.
We never understood from where the simple lyrics came, just a repetition of “Radio in the bathtub, raaaad-I-o in the bathtub” over and over, his tiny hands pounding in unison on the keys, stretching as far as they could reach, building with the intensity of Elton John working through the third hour of the concert. Rocketman, burnin’ through milk and cookies in Edgerton.
Once he realized he had an audience, there were encores, but “Radio in the Bathtub” left as quickly as it came with the burst of creative glory of our favorite one hit wonders. Or maybe it’s just the inspiration for future renditions of stupid shit I do like “Remote in the Fridge” or “Car Keys in the Backdoor…”
Saturday, July 7, 2012
There is no kiss on this list...
I rant on occasion. Okay, that’s just a balls out lie. Man Friend can tell you that some of my biggest rants are at the television and they involve sports and political programming. My love to bitch and rant made me start a list of things that so much of the populace seems to dig, but I could give a shit about. So, it’s time to publish a list… we’ll think of it has a critical thinking list…
Mumford and Sons/Modest Mouse
I think I get equally disinterested in a band when celebrities and hipsters proclaim love for it. Maybe I shouldn’t watch an E!News. Maybe it’s because I was never cool enough to be a hipster. Or maybe I just don’t like music that gets filed under M. Although I totally own Maroon 5 as a guilty pleasure and do, in fact, have moves better than Jagger. So you don’t have to tell me which song I need to hear to understand or appreciate the music. I say, eh, and as long as we’re talking music, on to another musical dislike.
Needing to have credit for introducing someone to a musical artist
Someone once claimed to have introduced me to Bob Dylan, even though I had over 10 discs and three concerts under my belt prior to meeting him. I’ve never had a problem recommending music or a book or movies or whatever to someone. If s/he likes it, great, and if not, that’s cool, too. But I’ve known people who will fight over who introduced a band or artist to the friendship. Fucking balls, fight over healthcare reform or whether MJ or LeBron will go down as the greatest, but why argue over who found a band first. It’s like some weird badge of honor and self-importance to some people and I just don’t get it.
Colorado
Everyone around me used to talk about Colorado like it was the promised land. When I lived in Lincoln, lots of people cheered for the CO professional sports teams and talked about how cool Boulder was. And how young and hip everyone was. Then when I moved to So Dak, there was an odd exodus of people moving there. Everyone acted like it was this incredibly cool place filled with micro-breweries, pot, and never-ending fun. But I would read about really conservative, anti-choice politics and think about school shootings and really wonder. To me, it was So Dak with tits, meaning mountains. I’m sure there are lots of amazing people there and amazing scenery, but there also seemed to be a lot of conservative politics from the retired military and megachurch populations. Hello Mr. Haggard! And let’s not get started on the credit card hippies.
I’ve softened a bit on my CO stance and we’ll credit the fine work of Dog Chapman on the Denver episodes for that.
Qudoba
It’s a tortilla. It’s meat. It’s vegetables. I can make something more interesting, cheaper, and more healthful. I should admit that this annoyance primarily comes from a group of stoners I met when I first moved to So Dak and one would always want to “Go to the ‘Dob,” every time he was ripped. He was ripped a lot.
Bacon
Can we please just get over bacon? Having worked in restaurants for years, I am yet to find any chef or cook who is not over the moon for this salty chunk of fat. Then there are the contests devoted to cooking with it and people using it in dessert. Yes, I think everyone should eat less meat and yes, I think hog confinements are deplorable. But this isn’t an ecological or animal welfare argument. I just really don’t think bacon is very good. I will enjoy pork tenderloin from time to time. Bacon is just entirely over-rated. The stupid Facebook memes of piglets as “Bacon Seeds.” Eh. Eh. Eh.
Shopping
This is probably listed more because of my status as a chick. You know how we’re supposed to enjoy shopping and want to spend a whole day doing it? Malls are supposed to be magical and all that retail therapy bullshit? I know exactly what I want when I go shopping, get it, and leave. The only possible exceptions to this are grocery and price club shopping, because checking out other people’s carts is a fascinating, judgmental process. Carts with obese children, those stories write themselves. And as far as price club, it’s mystical to see someone with cheap wine, a bag of pre-cut broccoli, and a gianormous pack of adult diapers. So I guess non-essential shopping is really the eh for me. How many pairs of shoes do you really need? It’s not like the shoes are gonna hug you.
Cars for non-essential transportation
I get that there’s a whole culture of people who fix cars or restore them or race them or whatever. That’s nice for them. I just think it’s really weird. Like I’m sure they think it’s weird that I buy three or four pairs of running shoes every year.
“How I Met Your Mother”
What a stupid show, primarily due to that idiot redheaded girl. Maybe vapid and clueless is funny to some, but she wrecks the whole thing for me. Or maybe my love of Jason Seigel and Neil Patrick Harris made my expectations way too high. Doogie Howser as the ultimate womanizer should be a laugh riot. Sadly, it is not.
William S. Burroughs
I know I’m supposed to be able to separate the art from the artist. I know. And while I will acknowledge that he is a good writer, I just personally can’t get past what a sucky human he was. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead… Hitler was a vegetarian, so that’s nice. But seriously, Mr. Burroughs, you shot your wife and were a terrible addict. Your son was so messed up he drank himself to death at 33. At some point, the art matters less than the mess he left in his wake.
Ron Paul
If you put a gun to my head, I would probably tell you I am a Libertarian. I really don’t give a fuck what people do. Wanna smoke pot, own an arsenal of firearms or porn, or have access to a medically safe abortion? Go nuts. Grow a field of pot. I don’t care. But so many younger people fell victim to the Ron Paul cult this year. It might be because of his appeal as an alternative candidate or the fact that the man does have principles. But his anti-choice stance will never fly with this chick and the weird racist stuff is just over the top for me. Back to my Libertarianism, I believe in the First Amendment and if someone wants to Join the KKK, they can. But I sure as fuck don’t have to agree with them and am not gonna have my picture taken with them. Yikes. Eh. P.S. Rand is a turd.
Fake holidays
New Year’s Eve, St. Patricks, Cinco de Mayo, and the like. Just gianormous excuses to get wasted. Amateur hour for 24. The professionals don’t need this excuse. It’s not like the chick that shit her pants or the guy throwing up on the boulevard was out to celebrate Catholicism coming to Ireland. And a bunch of white people stumbling around in Dollar Store sombreros…
I give Derby Days a pass here since it is a fake holiday centered around a sporting event. No culture or religion is being ripped off or compromised.
Contemporary church services
Bass guitars and raising your hands to the air doesn’t make it more interesting or fun. It makes it creepy and cult-like. I like my religion old-timey. In all honesty, if I were religious, I think I would go Catholic, if I didn’t have to check so many feminist credentials at the door. Or maybe Jewish. Hmm…
Please don’t hate or send me invites to your super fun service where everybody wears jeans. I believe what I believe and it works for me.
Pregnancy
A couple of teenagers in the backseat of a car trying to get cast on the next season of “Teen Mom” is a real miracle. Almost everyone has the ability to get pregnant or get someone pregnant. (My gay and lesbian friends get a pass here. The work a gay or lesbian couple has to go through to get pregnant is proof of how much they want to parent.) Maybe I’ve gotten a little jaded from hearing too many unplanned pregnancy stories, but I don’t see getting knocked up as much of an accomplishment. Call me when you graduate, set a new PR, or get your dream job.
Mumford and Sons/Modest Mouse
I think I get equally disinterested in a band when celebrities and hipsters proclaim love for it. Maybe I shouldn’t watch an E!News. Maybe it’s because I was never cool enough to be a hipster. Or maybe I just don’t like music that gets filed under M. Although I totally own Maroon 5 as a guilty pleasure and do, in fact, have moves better than Jagger. So you don’t have to tell me which song I need to hear to understand or appreciate the music. I say, eh, and as long as we’re talking music, on to another musical dislike.
Needing to have credit for introducing someone to a musical artist
Someone once claimed to have introduced me to Bob Dylan, even though I had over 10 discs and three concerts under my belt prior to meeting him. I’ve never had a problem recommending music or a book or movies or whatever to someone. If s/he likes it, great, and if not, that’s cool, too. But I’ve known people who will fight over who introduced a band or artist to the friendship. Fucking balls, fight over healthcare reform or whether MJ or LeBron will go down as the greatest, but why argue over who found a band first. It’s like some weird badge of honor and self-importance to some people and I just don’t get it.
Colorado
Everyone around me used to talk about Colorado like it was the promised land. When I lived in Lincoln, lots of people cheered for the CO professional sports teams and talked about how cool Boulder was. And how young and hip everyone was. Then when I moved to So Dak, there was an odd exodus of people moving there. Everyone acted like it was this incredibly cool place filled with micro-breweries, pot, and never-ending fun. But I would read about really conservative, anti-choice politics and think about school shootings and really wonder. To me, it was So Dak with tits, meaning mountains. I’m sure there are lots of amazing people there and amazing scenery, but there also seemed to be a lot of conservative politics from the retired military and megachurch populations. Hello Mr. Haggard! And let’s not get started on the credit card hippies.
I’ve softened a bit on my CO stance and we’ll credit the fine work of Dog Chapman on the Denver episodes for that.
Qudoba
It’s a tortilla. It’s meat. It’s vegetables. I can make something more interesting, cheaper, and more healthful. I should admit that this annoyance primarily comes from a group of stoners I met when I first moved to So Dak and one would always want to “Go to the ‘Dob,” every time he was ripped. He was ripped a lot.
Bacon
Can we please just get over bacon? Having worked in restaurants for years, I am yet to find any chef or cook who is not over the moon for this salty chunk of fat. Then there are the contests devoted to cooking with it and people using it in dessert. Yes, I think everyone should eat less meat and yes, I think hog confinements are deplorable. But this isn’t an ecological or animal welfare argument. I just really don’t think bacon is very good. I will enjoy pork tenderloin from time to time. Bacon is just entirely over-rated. The stupid Facebook memes of piglets as “Bacon Seeds.” Eh. Eh. Eh.
Shopping
This is probably listed more because of my status as a chick. You know how we’re supposed to enjoy shopping and want to spend a whole day doing it? Malls are supposed to be magical and all that retail therapy bullshit? I know exactly what I want when I go shopping, get it, and leave. The only possible exceptions to this are grocery and price club shopping, because checking out other people’s carts is a fascinating, judgmental process. Carts with obese children, those stories write themselves. And as far as price club, it’s mystical to see someone with cheap wine, a bag of pre-cut broccoli, and a gianormous pack of adult diapers. So I guess non-essential shopping is really the eh for me. How many pairs of shoes do you really need? It’s not like the shoes are gonna hug you.
Cars for non-essential transportation
I get that there’s a whole culture of people who fix cars or restore them or race them or whatever. That’s nice for them. I just think it’s really weird. Like I’m sure they think it’s weird that I buy three or four pairs of running shoes every year.
“How I Met Your Mother”
What a stupid show, primarily due to that idiot redheaded girl. Maybe vapid and clueless is funny to some, but she wrecks the whole thing for me. Or maybe my love of Jason Seigel and Neil Patrick Harris made my expectations way too high. Doogie Howser as the ultimate womanizer should be a laugh riot. Sadly, it is not.
William S. Burroughs
I know I’m supposed to be able to separate the art from the artist. I know. And while I will acknowledge that he is a good writer, I just personally can’t get past what a sucky human he was. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead… Hitler was a vegetarian, so that’s nice. But seriously, Mr. Burroughs, you shot your wife and were a terrible addict. Your son was so messed up he drank himself to death at 33. At some point, the art matters less than the mess he left in his wake.
Ron Paul
If you put a gun to my head, I would probably tell you I am a Libertarian. I really don’t give a fuck what people do. Wanna smoke pot, own an arsenal of firearms or porn, or have access to a medically safe abortion? Go nuts. Grow a field of pot. I don’t care. But so many younger people fell victim to the Ron Paul cult this year. It might be because of his appeal as an alternative candidate or the fact that the man does have principles. But his anti-choice stance will never fly with this chick and the weird racist stuff is just over the top for me. Back to my Libertarianism, I believe in the First Amendment and if someone wants to Join the KKK, they can. But I sure as fuck don’t have to agree with them and am not gonna have my picture taken with them. Yikes. Eh. P.S. Rand is a turd.
Fake holidays
New Year’s Eve, St. Patricks, Cinco de Mayo, and the like. Just gianormous excuses to get wasted. Amateur hour for 24. The professionals don’t need this excuse. It’s not like the chick that shit her pants or the guy throwing up on the boulevard was out to celebrate Catholicism coming to Ireland. And a bunch of white people stumbling around in Dollar Store sombreros…
I give Derby Days a pass here since it is a fake holiday centered around a sporting event. No culture or religion is being ripped off or compromised.
Contemporary church services
Bass guitars and raising your hands to the air doesn’t make it more interesting or fun. It makes it creepy and cult-like. I like my religion old-timey. In all honesty, if I were religious, I think I would go Catholic, if I didn’t have to check so many feminist credentials at the door. Or maybe Jewish. Hmm…
Please don’t hate or send me invites to your super fun service where everybody wears jeans. I believe what I believe and it works for me.
Pregnancy
A couple of teenagers in the backseat of a car trying to get cast on the next season of “Teen Mom” is a real miracle. Almost everyone has the ability to get pregnant or get someone pregnant. (My gay and lesbian friends get a pass here. The work a gay or lesbian couple has to go through to get pregnant is proof of how much they want to parent.) Maybe I’ve gotten a little jaded from hearing too many unplanned pregnancy stories, but I don’t see getting knocked up as much of an accomplishment. Call me when you graduate, set a new PR, or get your dream job.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Just Waiting on a Friend
The bitches are pretty clear about what they like. Food, play, and sleep top the list. They like to run, they like to have their ears scratched, and I’m pretty sure they like to practice being cute while I’m at work. Most of the things they really seem to like have to do with getting my attention.
Canines are pretty good at commanding attention. To be more precise, I should say they demand your attention. Anyone who has ever been followed around the house by his dog or felt that nose pushing under her hand, just begging for some petting knows exacting what I’m talking about. Even when they’ve been naughty, after a little time has passed, I’m totally okay if I sit down to read or watch TV and suddenly a little furry brownhead is resting on my thigh as if to say, “I’m here, I love you, and please love me back.”
Humans aren’t as quick to demand attention or ask for forgiveness, at least the ones who need it most. Babies rightfully have the capacity and we all know some adult babies who will suck the life out of you if you let them. Today I have been thinking about one particular friend of mine who just got a special visit from someone very dear to him.
Saturday was my friend’s birthday, you see, and while he is a very young man, life has been difficult. It wasn’t for lack of family or love, but rather issues with anger and drugs that led to some horrible choices that have made this life a hard one for him. This birthday and many, many future birthdays will be spent in prison. This isn’t a debate about any aspect of the judicial system. My friend was part of a crime that led to the death of another person. Some might say that letting him rot in a cell for decades is exactly what he deserves. Others, like me, would say that we shouldn’t be singularly judged by the worst of our actions. But that isn’t why I was thinking about my friend.
The last time I saw him, he was standing on a corner downtown. He was barefoot, babbling to himself, and obviously messed up. I knew he wasn’t in contact with his PO. He hadn’t been working at the restaurant with me for a few weeks and by the looks of him, I doubted that he had a job. He didn’t notice me and for a second, I thought about making the call. Not much time had passed since a DWI and I remembered the name of the PO. Then I thought about something a former boss said to me in regards to people with substance abuse issues, “Sometimes you gotta give them enough rope to let them hang themselves.”
Since I never thought of myself as a snitch, I sided with the latter advice and figured he would miss enough appointments, eventually find himself back in court, and maybe have a good shot at sobriety this time. Unknowingly, maybe he was begging for my attention, just like the bitches do. In my wildest dreams, I never thought he would be charged in a murder case.
I knew him as a charming, fun young man who was a good worker. I’ve known his grandma for many years and consider her a friend as well. She absolutely loved and adored him from the moment he was born. When he was getting into trouble as a kid, she always made a point to visit him and remind him that he was loved no matter what. But the last arrest was it for her and she couldn’t bring herself to visit him over the past couple of years.
I can’t imagine the feeling of seeing all the hopes and dreams you have for a child you love crushed, whether by his own actions or the actions of another. It must be one of the worst feelings in the entire world. One of the old adages about prison is that it isn’t just the person on the inside who is doing time. It’s also the ones who love them. No matter how reprehensible the crime, it’s a near certainty that the prisoner is important to someone and loved by someone. So I guess you hang on to hope, just like I had to when the bitches weren’t getting along. The hope that no matter whether freedom comes in 40 days or 40 years, everyone can find a little peace along the way.
His grandma went to visit on his birthday. We talked a little about it, about the emotions, the tears, and how he has changed. She had to distance herself from all of it for a long time, just to protect herself, I guess. And to be honest, I don’t really feel like that reunion is my story to share right now. I’m just incredibly thankful that it happened.
Canines are pretty good at commanding attention. To be more precise, I should say they demand your attention. Anyone who has ever been followed around the house by his dog or felt that nose pushing under her hand, just begging for some petting knows exacting what I’m talking about. Even when they’ve been naughty, after a little time has passed, I’m totally okay if I sit down to read or watch TV and suddenly a little furry brownhead is resting on my thigh as if to say, “I’m here, I love you, and please love me back.”
Humans aren’t as quick to demand attention or ask for forgiveness, at least the ones who need it most. Babies rightfully have the capacity and we all know some adult babies who will suck the life out of you if you let them. Today I have been thinking about one particular friend of mine who just got a special visit from someone very dear to him.
Saturday was my friend’s birthday, you see, and while he is a very young man, life has been difficult. It wasn’t for lack of family or love, but rather issues with anger and drugs that led to some horrible choices that have made this life a hard one for him. This birthday and many, many future birthdays will be spent in prison. This isn’t a debate about any aspect of the judicial system. My friend was part of a crime that led to the death of another person. Some might say that letting him rot in a cell for decades is exactly what he deserves. Others, like me, would say that we shouldn’t be singularly judged by the worst of our actions. But that isn’t why I was thinking about my friend.
The last time I saw him, he was standing on a corner downtown. He was barefoot, babbling to himself, and obviously messed up. I knew he wasn’t in contact with his PO. He hadn’t been working at the restaurant with me for a few weeks and by the looks of him, I doubted that he had a job. He didn’t notice me and for a second, I thought about making the call. Not much time had passed since a DWI and I remembered the name of the PO. Then I thought about something a former boss said to me in regards to people with substance abuse issues, “Sometimes you gotta give them enough rope to let them hang themselves.”
Since I never thought of myself as a snitch, I sided with the latter advice and figured he would miss enough appointments, eventually find himself back in court, and maybe have a good shot at sobriety this time. Unknowingly, maybe he was begging for my attention, just like the bitches do. In my wildest dreams, I never thought he would be charged in a murder case.
I knew him as a charming, fun young man who was a good worker. I’ve known his grandma for many years and consider her a friend as well. She absolutely loved and adored him from the moment he was born. When he was getting into trouble as a kid, she always made a point to visit him and remind him that he was loved no matter what. But the last arrest was it for her and she couldn’t bring herself to visit him over the past couple of years.
I can’t imagine the feeling of seeing all the hopes and dreams you have for a child you love crushed, whether by his own actions or the actions of another. It must be one of the worst feelings in the entire world. One of the old adages about prison is that it isn’t just the person on the inside who is doing time. It’s also the ones who love them. No matter how reprehensible the crime, it’s a near certainty that the prisoner is important to someone and loved by someone. So I guess you hang on to hope, just like I had to when the bitches weren’t getting along. The hope that no matter whether freedom comes in 40 days or 40 years, everyone can find a little peace along the way.
His grandma went to visit on his birthday. We talked a little about it, about the emotions, the tears, and how he has changed. She had to distance herself from all of it for a long time, just to protect herself, I guess. And to be honest, I don’t really feel like that reunion is my story to share right now. I’m just incredibly thankful that it happened.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Say Goodbye to Your Little Friend...
The other day I was walking down the street with the bitches and noticed some pretty heavy-duty squirrel action in the coming block. Not like porno squirrels or anything weird, but about six or eight of them running frantically around in what appeared to be some sort of confused squirrel fashion.
I must admit that I’ve never put a lot of thought into the thoughts of squirrels. The bitches like to chase them and actually caught one once. The squirrels have caused plenty of arm jerks and tight leashes. My mom wages wars against the squirrels in her garden every year. And I do have to admit, although they are a pain in my runs and walks, I do think they are pretty cute and I admire their climbing skills.
But back to the pack of squirrels on Duluth Avenue… so there were six or eight of them, running around crazily, darting through the street, and I noticed the problem as we got a bit closer. Two squirrels were freshly passed away, just hit by a car, their bodies hardly flattened. Sad. It made me incredibly sad. I could only imagine the shock of seeing two of my friends or family members killed at once.
The softy in me started to tear up. I am, after all, the girl who used to hold funerals for the dead birds I would find around the neighborhood. So as I’m starting to cry, we’re getting closer, and simultaneously, the bitches and the surviving squirrels were aware of each other.
The previously mentioned frantic pace turned into a complete manic episode for the pack of squirrels. The bitches started to pull as the squirrels ran to the other side of the street, seeking refuge up trees. And as I looked across in the mayhem, I saw a third squirrel who was injured, his back legs just mangled, who was trying desperately to get to the tree, but the legs just wouldn’t work. He would use the front paws with every muscle he had but he could only get about a foot before having to stop and regroup.
Part of me wanted to go across the street and put him out of his misery. But it wasn’t like carry a shovel with me on a walk and death by bitch, although probably quicker than what he was to experience, just wasn’t something I could stomach.
But then the damnedest thing happened. One of his little friends came back for him. Braving the threat of the bitches, other humans, cars, and the world in general, the second squirrel came back to the injured one and started talking to him, pushing him and encouraging him. Like a soldier going back for an injured friend.
Then the bitches quit pulling and watched.
Then I just cried. Bawled actually.
Nobody ever taught that squirrel loyalty or bravery. He just knew. He just knew that you don’t leave your friend who’s in trouble. There was no reward for his action. And while I’m not fluent in squirrel, I swear he was trying to spur on his buddy. That little squirrel had more guts than most people I’ve ever known.
I don’t know why the bitches quit pulling and just watched the squirrels. Maybe they knew his inevitable fate and saw an easy meal. Or maybe they knew his inevitable fate and offered up a little cross species respect. It sounds like a lot of credit to give to a dog, but after seeing the intuitive nature of that squirrel, who knows?
I must admit that I’ve never put a lot of thought into the thoughts of squirrels. The bitches like to chase them and actually caught one once. The squirrels have caused plenty of arm jerks and tight leashes. My mom wages wars against the squirrels in her garden every year. And I do have to admit, although they are a pain in my runs and walks, I do think they are pretty cute and I admire their climbing skills.
But back to the pack of squirrels on Duluth Avenue… so there were six or eight of them, running around crazily, darting through the street, and I noticed the problem as we got a bit closer. Two squirrels were freshly passed away, just hit by a car, their bodies hardly flattened. Sad. It made me incredibly sad. I could only imagine the shock of seeing two of my friends or family members killed at once.
The softy in me started to tear up. I am, after all, the girl who used to hold funerals for the dead birds I would find around the neighborhood. So as I’m starting to cry, we’re getting closer, and simultaneously, the bitches and the surviving squirrels were aware of each other.
The previously mentioned frantic pace turned into a complete manic episode for the pack of squirrels. The bitches started to pull as the squirrels ran to the other side of the street, seeking refuge up trees. And as I looked across in the mayhem, I saw a third squirrel who was injured, his back legs just mangled, who was trying desperately to get to the tree, but the legs just wouldn’t work. He would use the front paws with every muscle he had but he could only get about a foot before having to stop and regroup.
Part of me wanted to go across the street and put him out of his misery. But it wasn’t like carry a shovel with me on a walk and death by bitch, although probably quicker than what he was to experience, just wasn’t something I could stomach.
But then the damnedest thing happened. One of his little friends came back for him. Braving the threat of the bitches, other humans, cars, and the world in general, the second squirrel came back to the injured one and started talking to him, pushing him and encouraging him. Like a soldier going back for an injured friend.
Then the bitches quit pulling and watched.
Then I just cried. Bawled actually.
Nobody ever taught that squirrel loyalty or bravery. He just knew. He just knew that you don’t leave your friend who’s in trouble. There was no reward for his action. And while I’m not fluent in squirrel, I swear he was trying to spur on his buddy. That little squirrel had more guts than most people I’ve ever known.
I don’t know why the bitches quit pulling and just watched the squirrels. Maybe they knew his inevitable fate and saw an easy meal. Or maybe they knew his inevitable fate and offered up a little cross species respect. It sounds like a lot of credit to give to a dog, but after seeing the intuitive nature of that squirrel, who knows?
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Everyone in my life needs an adult diaper and a helmet...
That really is how it feels sometimes. I know there are plenty of reasonably healthy people in my life. But for whatever reason, I also seem to attract a lot of people who seemingly have no interest in being well. Some just pass through, but others get under my skin, for better or worse. Both my therapist and a very smart, sober friend of mine think part of me enjoys feeling superior to others. Maybe. One of my friends thought what we dubbed my “Anne Frank Quality,” or my uncanny ability to see there is some good in everyone, was to blame. Maybe. I have put up with some insane nonsense.
It’s funny to me how I do tend to associate with people who drink a lot. Although it still makes me angry sometimes, I have accepted that I shouldn’t drink. For the rest of my life. Understood. And I do have sober friends. I just also have drunk ones. Just a few days ago I was asked, “How can you stand this? How do you just laugh and roll along with the drunkenness?” I replied, “At least if you’re drunk I know why you’re an asshole.”
That might be the most honest statement I’ve ever made. I didn’t even think about it, and although it came out as a joke, we all know there is always a bit of truth to a joke.
Life is a journey to get well. That statement makes complete sense or no sense at all. Ultimately, I guess we’re all where we’re at and that’s just how you have to take people. There are a lot of people walking around this planet unconscious. It’s a shame that the wonder and beauty of this existence is so lost on people who are so focused on form.
We’re all just a bunch of atoms, formed in a star so many years ago. A star just like our sun. A star died so here we are. Something is always giving life so something else may live. That is simply the transitory nature of existence.
So do we owe the universe? Do we have some sort of karmic debt to repay? I’m thinking almost like paying rent for our existence. I know there are religions that believe good works or gaining followers will buy one a ticket to eternity. But paying rent seems like such a misnomer since you, as in your form right now, wouldn’t really know if the landlord ever came calling for it.
I don’t even know what I’m getting at here. Adult diapers are made of atoms? As an alcoholic, I have a karmic debt to help others? Should I just sell all my shit and live in the mountains with the bitches until we die from exposure?
It’s a bitch trying to be well but also feeling so negative. I guess it’s just a moment, so I should get over it and try to focus on sleep and a better tomorrow. I promise I’ll share diaper and helmet stories someday.
It’s funny to me how I do tend to associate with people who drink a lot. Although it still makes me angry sometimes, I have accepted that I shouldn’t drink. For the rest of my life. Understood. And I do have sober friends. I just also have drunk ones. Just a few days ago I was asked, “How can you stand this? How do you just laugh and roll along with the drunkenness?” I replied, “At least if you’re drunk I know why you’re an asshole.”
That might be the most honest statement I’ve ever made. I didn’t even think about it, and although it came out as a joke, we all know there is always a bit of truth to a joke.
Life is a journey to get well. That statement makes complete sense or no sense at all. Ultimately, I guess we’re all where we’re at and that’s just how you have to take people. There are a lot of people walking around this planet unconscious. It’s a shame that the wonder and beauty of this existence is so lost on people who are so focused on form.
We’re all just a bunch of atoms, formed in a star so many years ago. A star just like our sun. A star died so here we are. Something is always giving life so something else may live. That is simply the transitory nature of existence.
So do we owe the universe? Do we have some sort of karmic debt to repay? I’m thinking almost like paying rent for our existence. I know there are religions that believe good works or gaining followers will buy one a ticket to eternity. But paying rent seems like such a misnomer since you, as in your form right now, wouldn’t really know if the landlord ever came calling for it.
I don’t even know what I’m getting at here. Adult diapers are made of atoms? As an alcoholic, I have a karmic debt to help others? Should I just sell all my shit and live in the mountains with the bitches until we die from exposure?
It’s a bitch trying to be well but also feeling so negative. I guess it’s just a moment, so I should get over it and try to focus on sleep and a better tomorrow. I promise I’ll share diaper and helmet stories someday.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Because there are better things to do while sitting on the toilet...
It's been a long time. Too damned long, really. I was letting life get me all out of whack and not really sure which way was up. I know you've felt that way yourself. And since I've been all about trying to be a better, more-centered person and not letting my ego run the show anymore, I made a fateful decision.
Last Thursday, I gave up Facebook for 30 days.
Since it was my primary form of contact with a lot of people, it was a little scary to me. I mean, how would I know who was blaming who for what, or who was knocked up, or who hates his/her ________ (insert job/boss/significant other/best friend/parent)? How would I be able to see what all the anti-choice crazies are up to this week without those status updates that alternately sent chills down my spine or made my blood boil?
It started as an innocent little wager with Man Friend. He was always giving me shit for being on my phone all the time. "You Facebooking?" or "You on the Book?" seemed to be the most popular question at my house. And, although I must admit that the amount of asking, while annoying, really made me think about how I was spending my time.
I would check it first thing in the morning. Like while I was peeing and before I made coffee. I would check it at stoplights. I would check it when I was bored at work. I would check it on my break from work. I would check it on commercial breaks while I was watching TV. I would take reading breaks to check it. I would bring my phone everywhere just so I could check the damned Book. And it certainly was the last thing I would check before I went to sleep at night, the bright little screen jacking with my brain just before my head hit the pillow.
A little obsessive, definitely. And a little crazy for a woman who has no trouble admitting that she's an alcoholic and really shouldn't have a drink for the rest of her days on this earth.
There have been many moments in which I had to tell myself to put down the phone and take a couple of breaths. Then I remind myself that ultimately, the universe will tell me the things that I need to hear. The rest is just noise...
Last Thursday, I gave up Facebook for 30 days.
Since it was my primary form of contact with a lot of people, it was a little scary to me. I mean, how would I know who was blaming who for what, or who was knocked up, or who hates his/her ________ (insert job/boss/significant other/best friend/parent)? How would I be able to see what all the anti-choice crazies are up to this week without those status updates that alternately sent chills down my spine or made my blood boil?
It started as an innocent little wager with Man Friend. He was always giving me shit for being on my phone all the time. "You Facebooking?" or "You on the Book?" seemed to be the most popular question at my house. And, although I must admit that the amount of asking, while annoying, really made me think about how I was spending my time.
I would check it first thing in the morning. Like while I was peeing and before I made coffee. I would check it at stoplights. I would check it when I was bored at work. I would check it on my break from work. I would check it on commercial breaks while I was watching TV. I would take reading breaks to check it. I would bring my phone everywhere just so I could check the damned Book. And it certainly was the last thing I would check before I went to sleep at night, the bright little screen jacking with my brain just before my head hit the pillow.
A little obsessive, definitely. And a little crazy for a woman who has no trouble admitting that she's an alcoholic and really shouldn't have a drink for the rest of her days on this earth.
There have been many moments in which I had to tell myself to put down the phone and take a couple of breaths. Then I remind myself that ultimately, the universe will tell me the things that I need to hear. The rest is just noise...
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
The F Word..
Last night, I couldn’t get to sleep at all. And I wasn’t busy writing a pop song. It wasn’t like when I was little and I was sure that Russian tanks would be rolling down Main Street or a nuclear bomb would blow us all to hell. It wasn’t that type of fear-induced worry where you sweat yourself into a bad dream. It was more of a mind racing from one thing to another that kept me landing on the same question. Is feminism dying?
I was all worked up because I was thinking about how female politicians that I admire like Barbara Boxer and Diane Feinstein are getting older. Who is gonna step up and take the lead? It’s scary to me how many people, including women, there are who are willing to back someone as blatantly anti-woman as Rick Santorum. Coincidentally, he was in a small Minnesota town, not far from where I’m typing, last night. I noticed a few Facebook posts regarding his visit and one response to a post mentioned how nice it was that someone was interested in a rural part of the country. TOO BAD HE THINKS HALF THE FUCKING PEOPLE LIVING IN SAID AREA AREN’T FIT TO LEAD AND SHOULDN’T HAVE AUTONOMY OVER THEIR BODIES.
I’ve never really understood why more women (and men) in rural areas haven’t embraced the title of feminist. All you’re affirming is you believe that regardless of what’s between one’s legs, everyone should be treated equally politically, socially, and economically. Rural women have worked raising families and doing farm work as long as there have been farms. At least that’s the way it was explained to me, by my grandmas, who both lived on farms and raised children. Why is wanting to be equal such a threat?
And insert whatever you want about religion here. Religion definitely has something to do with the weird patriarchal society that often prevails in rural areas. My favorite rural people are the Libertarians who just don’t want to be bothered. That makes so much more sense to me that trying to compartmentalize a person because of a (perceived) lack of a cock.
I understand that oppressors need someone to oppress. A bully has no identity or access if s/he has no one to beat. Historically, I realize we aren’t very far removed from segregated schools and women being denied voting rights. It’s just mind blowing to me how sexist, racist, classist, and homophobic this country still really is. Greg Brown talks about how bad change comes so quickly and good change takes so long in one of his songs. I have to cling to that sometimes.
I used to not use the “f word.” That word being feminist, since it often got a snide reaction out of people, varying from allegations of misandry to bra burner to whatever derogative they used for lesbian. I don’t hate men, own many bras, and love lesbians, but that is seriously a whole other blog that culminates in deciding whether Tabatha or Rachel is my ultimate celebrity chick crush.
I originally pondered if feminism was dead, but I was probably just being a dramatic, hysterical female. (Pause for hysterical drama.) I think it’s something fluid, like the law, open to interpretation and changing as the times change. I do think it’s important for women and girls to grasp the importance of what has changed and what work still needs to be done. It’s a different ball game for women of color and women of different economic situations. To me, one of the most important issues is getting more men to identify as feminists. Crazy? Maybe, but I think they are out there.
The first night I ever really talked to Man Friend, he looked me straight in the eye and said, “You know, I’m a misogynist.”
I didn’t know him well enough to know if he was full of shit, trying to get my goat, serious as a heart attack, or trying to find out the extent of my vocabulary.
My response?
“Well, I’m a feminist, so this could get interesting.”
I was all worked up because I was thinking about how female politicians that I admire like Barbara Boxer and Diane Feinstein are getting older. Who is gonna step up and take the lead? It’s scary to me how many people, including women, there are who are willing to back someone as blatantly anti-woman as Rick Santorum. Coincidentally, he was in a small Minnesota town, not far from where I’m typing, last night. I noticed a few Facebook posts regarding his visit and one response to a post mentioned how nice it was that someone was interested in a rural part of the country. TOO BAD HE THINKS HALF THE FUCKING PEOPLE LIVING IN SAID AREA AREN’T FIT TO LEAD AND SHOULDN’T HAVE AUTONOMY OVER THEIR BODIES.
I’ve never really understood why more women (and men) in rural areas haven’t embraced the title of feminist. All you’re affirming is you believe that regardless of what’s between one’s legs, everyone should be treated equally politically, socially, and economically. Rural women have worked raising families and doing farm work as long as there have been farms. At least that’s the way it was explained to me, by my grandmas, who both lived on farms and raised children. Why is wanting to be equal such a threat?
And insert whatever you want about religion here. Religion definitely has something to do with the weird patriarchal society that often prevails in rural areas. My favorite rural people are the Libertarians who just don’t want to be bothered. That makes so much more sense to me that trying to compartmentalize a person because of a (perceived) lack of a cock.
I understand that oppressors need someone to oppress. A bully has no identity or access if s/he has no one to beat. Historically, I realize we aren’t very far removed from segregated schools and women being denied voting rights. It’s just mind blowing to me how sexist, racist, classist, and homophobic this country still really is. Greg Brown talks about how bad change comes so quickly and good change takes so long in one of his songs. I have to cling to that sometimes.
I used to not use the “f word.” That word being feminist, since it often got a snide reaction out of people, varying from allegations of misandry to bra burner to whatever derogative they used for lesbian. I don’t hate men, own many bras, and love lesbians, but that is seriously a whole other blog that culminates in deciding whether Tabatha or Rachel is my ultimate celebrity chick crush.
I originally pondered if feminism was dead, but I was probably just being a dramatic, hysterical female. (Pause for hysterical drama.) I think it’s something fluid, like the law, open to interpretation and changing as the times change. I do think it’s important for women and girls to grasp the importance of what has changed and what work still needs to be done. It’s a different ball game for women of color and women of different economic situations. To me, one of the most important issues is getting more men to identify as feminists. Crazy? Maybe, but I think they are out there.
The first night I ever really talked to Man Friend, he looked me straight in the eye and said, “You know, I’m a misogynist.”
I didn’t know him well enough to know if he was full of shit, trying to get my goat, serious as a heart attack, or trying to find out the extent of my vocabulary.
My response?
“Well, I’m a feminist, so this could get interesting.”
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Gettin' the Ring, Get in the Ring...
SPOILER ALERT: THE FOLLOWING IS OVERTLY HETEROSEXIST AND WESTERN-CENTRIC. THE WRITER, HERSELF, IS NOT.
Yesterday, a friend posed the question if there was anything on Earth more stupid than a promise ring? My favorite response was yes, an abstinence ring, but contemplating why fake marrying one’s father will keep someone from having pre-marital sex is a whole other realm of bizarro than I care to get into this evening. I must admit, I did always think promise rings were pretty stupid. A way of saying, “I think I like you enough that I will want to marry you someday.” Don’t overthink it, stupid, you’ll know or you won’t, right? And no sense worrying about possible outcomes that don’t have any bearing on the present moment. Ring or not, she’s gonna be faithful or unfaithful on her own accord.
Of course I decided to Google promise rings and see if there is some historical significance to the practice. Talk of betrothals just makes me want to vomit. But the few sites I managed to peruse without losing my smoothie, I did learn a few things. Apparently, not everyone considers a promise ring to be a pre-cursor to an engagement one. Some people consider the previously mentioned purity or abstinence ring as a promise ring. And I guess Tiffany recorded a song about one? After Playboy. Also, there appeared to be no consensus that a promise ring had to be strictly for a lady. Probably more of a nod to the more religious variety than to our gay friends, but I’ll take it none the less.
I guess I never really understood the point of a ring generally. Okay, so a wedding band makes sense as a symbol of your commitment. If it’s something you agree to and can afford, I think that’s pretty cool. I have witnessed people slipping their rings off, which kind of makes me want to puke, but makes me more thankful to not be married to a douche that would do that. Wouldn’t it be nice if everyone loved his/her spouse so much they claimed and celebrated him/her, instead of hiding it? Oh the sanctity.
I just giggled when I realized that I typed “tit.” Beavis.
But back to the pre-marriage rings, why do women wear a ring and men don’t? It’s almost like men are pissing on their turf or marking her off the market. Not to mention the absurd amount of money that these rings can cost. I did nearly eject my smoothie after reading that the average engagement ring cost $5,200 and 12% of American couples spend in excess of $8,000 (http://www.jckonline.com/2011/09/02/average-engagement-ring-costs-5200-says-survey-knot ) . And this is less than a few years ago. Cuz he loves you more if it costs more? Cuz you can stare at it and think how pretty it is when you realize you were more concerned with what the ring was like than being concerned with what being married would be like?
Don’t get me wrong, I know people who are happily married. I don’ t know how much they spent on rings. Some of my friends don’t have any rings. I just think $5,200 plus more for wedding bands is a pretty gnarly investment for a 50/50 shot at success. And what happens to the rings if you get divorced anyway? I may have put up this ad on eBay to try and get rid of a ring I was given…
This ring needs a new home and new kharma, meaning a giver who wants to refer to the receiver as his/her fiance, not his/her roommate. It’s perfect for the pragmatic gal who loves you more than your money. Sized 6½ wedding set, originally purchased in 2004 for $450. It’s white gold and the diamonds are, “perfect even though they’re not that big,” according to a friend of mine who’s into that stuff. Carrots are something I eat and jewelry stores make me want to vomit. The prongs on the engagement band will need to be re-done within the next year or two.
It didn’t sell so I gave it to one of the line cooks at work. I wonder what ever happened to it?
I guess I would be suspect of anyone who expected an engagement ring. Carrots, indeed, are something I eat. Let the hate mail begin…
Yesterday, a friend posed the question if there was anything on Earth more stupid than a promise ring? My favorite response was yes, an abstinence ring, but contemplating why fake marrying one’s father will keep someone from having pre-marital sex is a whole other realm of bizarro than I care to get into this evening. I must admit, I did always think promise rings were pretty stupid. A way of saying, “I think I like you enough that I will want to marry you someday.” Don’t overthink it, stupid, you’ll know or you won’t, right? And no sense worrying about possible outcomes that don’t have any bearing on the present moment. Ring or not, she’s gonna be faithful or unfaithful on her own accord.
Of course I decided to Google promise rings and see if there is some historical significance to the practice. Talk of betrothals just makes me want to vomit. But the few sites I managed to peruse without losing my smoothie, I did learn a few things. Apparently, not everyone considers a promise ring to be a pre-cursor to an engagement one. Some people consider the previously mentioned purity or abstinence ring as a promise ring. And I guess Tiffany recorded a song about one? After Playboy. Also, there appeared to be no consensus that a promise ring had to be strictly for a lady. Probably more of a nod to the more religious variety than to our gay friends, but I’ll take it none the less.
I guess I never really understood the point of a ring generally. Okay, so a wedding band makes sense as a symbol of your commitment. If it’s something you agree to and can afford, I think that’s pretty cool. I have witnessed people slipping their rings off, which kind of makes me want to puke, but makes me more thankful to not be married to a douche that would do that. Wouldn’t it be nice if everyone loved his/her spouse so much they claimed and celebrated him/her, instead of hiding it? Oh the sanctity.
I just giggled when I realized that I typed “tit.” Beavis.
But back to the pre-marriage rings, why do women wear a ring and men don’t? It’s almost like men are pissing on their turf or marking her off the market. Not to mention the absurd amount of money that these rings can cost. I did nearly eject my smoothie after reading that the average engagement ring cost $5,200 and 12% of American couples spend in excess of $8,000 (http://www.jckonline.com/2011/09/02/average-engagement-ring-costs-5200-says-survey-knot ) . And this is less than a few years ago. Cuz he loves you more if it costs more? Cuz you can stare at it and think how pretty it is when you realize you were more concerned with what the ring was like than being concerned with what being married would be like?
Don’t get me wrong, I know people who are happily married. I don’ t know how much they spent on rings. Some of my friends don’t have any rings. I just think $5,200 plus more for wedding bands is a pretty gnarly investment for a 50/50 shot at success. And what happens to the rings if you get divorced anyway? I may have put up this ad on eBay to try and get rid of a ring I was given…
This ring needs a new home and new kharma, meaning a giver who wants to refer to the receiver as his/her fiance, not his/her roommate. It’s perfect for the pragmatic gal who loves you more than your money. Sized 6½ wedding set, originally purchased in 2004 for $450. It’s white gold and the diamonds are, “perfect even though they’re not that big,” according to a friend of mine who’s into that stuff. Carrots are something I eat and jewelry stores make me want to vomit. The prongs on the engagement band will need to be re-done within the next year or two.
It didn’t sell so I gave it to one of the line cooks at work. I wonder what ever happened to it?
I guess I would be suspect of anyone who expected an engagement ring. Carrots, indeed, are something I eat. Let the hate mail begin…
Monday, January 23, 2012
Untitled rambling...
This town is pretty drunk. I know there are plenty of drunk towns the world over, but sometimes the dominant factor that alcohol is around here is almost suffocating. Drink cuz you’re happy, drunk cuz you’re sad, drink cuz you’re bored. Better bring beer to the softball game. Of course we’re going to the bar after the funeral. Naturally the volleyball league is at the bar. Somebody posted a list of the 20 Most Hungover Cities in America on the Book a couple of weeks ago and the last 15 years of my life was listed, so maybe I’m not completely crazy in my feelings. It’s just the overall attitude about alcohol around here that is troubling. A DUI arrest is like a right of passage around here. I actually heard someone say it was just her turn since everybody does it. I know people who willingly ride with people who are shitfaced drunk because there appeared to be no other way to get home. Balls.
Don’t get me wrong. I still like to enjoy a Buckler. I still like to go out and socialize sometimes. I make a living by serving people and plenty of what I serve includes alcohol. This isn’t a rant about banning booze. I promise. There is a place in some people’s lives for a glass of wine with dinner or a drink after work. I accepted long ago that I wasn’t one of those people and I would have to learn to live in their world.
The interesting part about being a sober person that hangs out in bars is witnessing the pervasive, nasty way that chronic alcoholism has a hold on some people. I am well aware that I could hit the door at any time. And sometimes I have to because sometimes it’s just too much, like the anger I feel building when I see someone laughing at a woman who is so drunk she pissed her pants. Just another day for the bartender. I guess we all have our own normal. I couldn’t help but wonder if that wouldn’t have been me if I had stayed on my path. There but for the grace of something divine I am still trying to fathom.
But this rambling does have a point. Sometimes you have to stay close to the monster, just so you remember that it bites.
There were moments this fall when I was ready to say fuck it. Drinking is just so much easier. It’s less interesting, less rewarding, more disappointing, more expensive, well you get the point, but it’s easier in that moment. That’s sort of what drinking was for me, an easy way to say fuck it and not have to deal with anything. I don’t question why I was lucky enough to learn to live without booze at a relatively young age. Sometimes I wonder how, but always decide it’s a fruitless convo and I should put the energy into being grateful I am where I am right now.
I have had more conversations with old drunks that I can count. Those people have some damned regrets. Things they wanted to do with their lives, messed up marriages, you fill in the blanks. The thread that is always woven into the story is the loneliness. The 60 year old always wants to go back and tell the 30 year old to not let that girl get away. The 60 year old can’t get back the time with the kids since the kids are grown up now and learned to get along without. I guess in the end all we want is to be loved.
I think you gotta let your soul shine, as Chef Boy would say, in order to really be loved. Too much of anything will hide that light, my friends. The key here is hide, not extinguish. I don’t think anyone is ever a lost cause. Sure, the habits do get harder to dissolve the longer they go on, but then I’m just back to hope. ☺
Don’t get me wrong. I still like to enjoy a Buckler. I still like to go out and socialize sometimes. I make a living by serving people and plenty of what I serve includes alcohol. This isn’t a rant about banning booze. I promise. There is a place in some people’s lives for a glass of wine with dinner or a drink after work. I accepted long ago that I wasn’t one of those people and I would have to learn to live in their world.
The interesting part about being a sober person that hangs out in bars is witnessing the pervasive, nasty way that chronic alcoholism has a hold on some people. I am well aware that I could hit the door at any time. And sometimes I have to because sometimes it’s just too much, like the anger I feel building when I see someone laughing at a woman who is so drunk she pissed her pants. Just another day for the bartender. I guess we all have our own normal. I couldn’t help but wonder if that wouldn’t have been me if I had stayed on my path. There but for the grace of something divine I am still trying to fathom.
But this rambling does have a point. Sometimes you have to stay close to the monster, just so you remember that it bites.
There were moments this fall when I was ready to say fuck it. Drinking is just so much easier. It’s less interesting, less rewarding, more disappointing, more expensive, well you get the point, but it’s easier in that moment. That’s sort of what drinking was for me, an easy way to say fuck it and not have to deal with anything. I don’t question why I was lucky enough to learn to live without booze at a relatively young age. Sometimes I wonder how, but always decide it’s a fruitless convo and I should put the energy into being grateful I am where I am right now.
I have had more conversations with old drunks that I can count. Those people have some damned regrets. Things they wanted to do with their lives, messed up marriages, you fill in the blanks. The thread that is always woven into the story is the loneliness. The 60 year old always wants to go back and tell the 30 year old to not let that girl get away. The 60 year old can’t get back the time with the kids since the kids are grown up now and learned to get along without. I guess in the end all we want is to be loved.
I think you gotta let your soul shine, as Chef Boy would say, in order to really be loved. Too much of anything will hide that light, my friends. The key here is hide, not extinguish. I don’t think anyone is ever a lost cause. Sure, the habits do get harder to dissolve the longer they go on, but then I’m just back to hope. ☺
Thursday, January 19, 2012
What's up, bitches?
I’ve been called out a few times recently for my love of using the word “bitch.” Sigh. It’s a little amazing what some people let knot up their panties.
Obviously it’s a word I use a lot. I’m not one to be easily offended by words, after all, words only have the power you give them. To me, the offensiveness of a word lies more in the tone that the speaker uses. If I walk up to a group of my friends (mixed gender expression) and say, “Hey bitches!” I’ll bet you American dollars they won’t care. Or if am telling a story about my fur babies that starts with, “You’ll never guess what the bitches did today,” I promise it will be the same story. You, dear reader, certainly don’t care, as you’ve chosen to read this blog. It isn’t like the time when I worked at an after-school program and a first grader, whose parents were going through a rough divorce, referred to me as a “fucking bitch” as he threw a block at me.
But my whole point here is that most of the time when I am using the word, it is in reference to the female canines that live with me. Perhaps technically, they are altered females, since I decided they wouldn’t be mommas and had them spayed. But I think that is sort of like telling a woman who had a hysterectomy that she is no longer really a woman. Alli and Joey will always be bitches to me. Bitches. The plural of bitch, which, I am using correctly according to Merriam Webster’s website: www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/bitch .
Definition of BITCH
1
: the female of the dog or some other carnivorous mammals
2
a : a lewd or immoral woman b : a malicious, spiteful, or overbearing woman —sometimes used as a generalized term of abuse
3
: something that is extremely difficult, objectionable, or unpleasant
4
: complaint
See bitch defined for English-language learners »
See bitch defined for kids »
Examples of BITCH
1. That word is a bitch to spell.
2.
Origin of BITCH
Middle English bicche, from Old English bicce
First Known Use: before 12th century
Related to BITCH
Synonyms: beef, complaint, bleat, carp, fuss, grievance, gripe, grouch, grouse, grumble, holler, kvetch, lament, miserere, moan, murmur, plaint, squawk, wail, whimper, whine, whinge [British], yammer
So all the synonyms are related to the verb. I guess they didn’t want to put in slut, hussy, or any of the thousands of women of historical/intellectual/spiritual importance from Eve to Hilary Clinton who have had to bear the brunt of its negative meaning.
Interestingly, if you click on the definition of bitch for kids… drumroll…
One entry found for bitch.
Main Entry: bitch
Pronunciation: bich
Function: noun
: a female dog
I guess kids only get to know that a bitch is a girl dog. I couldn’t imagine where they would possibly learn about definitions of bitch other than a student dictionary anyway. I almost want to ask some of those super sheltered, home-schooled kids, like a pack of the Duggars and ask them what a bitch is. They might be on my side…
It isn’t my fault that society has taken a word and made it insulting or negative. I am probably overbearing and immoral to many people, so call me a bitch. I’d wear that title with pride since the same aggressiveness or moral code would make me someone else’s hero.
And you don’t need to call me out, yes, the blog title is a little tongue in cheek. I’m one of those people that should be taken with a shaker of salt at times. My use of bitch is at times playful, at times serious, and most of the time, literal.
So bitches, it’s colder than a bitch tonight, and it’s time for me to go snuggle up with my bitches.
Obviously it’s a word I use a lot. I’m not one to be easily offended by words, after all, words only have the power you give them. To me, the offensiveness of a word lies more in the tone that the speaker uses. If I walk up to a group of my friends (mixed gender expression) and say, “Hey bitches!” I’ll bet you American dollars they won’t care. Or if am telling a story about my fur babies that starts with, “You’ll never guess what the bitches did today,” I promise it will be the same story. You, dear reader, certainly don’t care, as you’ve chosen to read this blog. It isn’t like the time when I worked at an after-school program and a first grader, whose parents were going through a rough divorce, referred to me as a “fucking bitch” as he threw a block at me.
But my whole point here is that most of the time when I am using the word, it is in reference to the female canines that live with me. Perhaps technically, they are altered females, since I decided they wouldn’t be mommas and had them spayed. But I think that is sort of like telling a woman who had a hysterectomy that she is no longer really a woman. Alli and Joey will always be bitches to me. Bitches. The plural of bitch, which, I am using correctly according to Merriam Webster’s website: www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/bitch .
Definition of BITCH
1
: the female of the dog or some other carnivorous mammals
2
a : a lewd or immoral woman b : a malicious, spiteful, or overbearing woman —sometimes used as a generalized term of abuse
3
: something that is extremely difficult, objectionable, or unpleasant
4
: complaint
See bitch defined for English-language learners »
See bitch defined for kids »
Examples of BITCH
1. That word is a bitch to spell.
2.
Origin of BITCH
Middle English bicche, from Old English bicce
First Known Use: before 12th century
Related to BITCH
Synonyms: beef, complaint, bleat, carp, fuss, grievance, gripe, grouch, grouse, grumble, holler, kvetch, lament, miserere, moan, murmur, plaint, squawk, wail, whimper, whine, whinge [British], yammer
So all the synonyms are related to the verb. I guess they didn’t want to put in slut, hussy, or any of the thousands of women of historical/intellectual/spiritual importance from Eve to Hilary Clinton who have had to bear the brunt of its negative meaning.
Interestingly, if you click on the definition of bitch for kids… drumroll…
One entry found for bitch.
Main Entry: bitch
Pronunciation: bich
Function: noun
: a female dog
I guess kids only get to know that a bitch is a girl dog. I couldn’t imagine where they would possibly learn about definitions of bitch other than a student dictionary anyway. I almost want to ask some of those super sheltered, home-schooled kids, like a pack of the Duggars and ask them what a bitch is. They might be on my side…
It isn’t my fault that society has taken a word and made it insulting or negative. I am probably overbearing and immoral to many people, so call me a bitch. I’d wear that title with pride since the same aggressiveness or moral code would make me someone else’s hero.
And you don’t need to call me out, yes, the blog title is a little tongue in cheek. I’m one of those people that should be taken with a shaker of salt at times. My use of bitch is at times playful, at times serious, and most of the time, literal.
So bitches, it’s colder than a bitch tonight, and it’s time for me to go snuggle up with my bitches.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Pan and Scan...
I was flipping channels the other day, which anymore seems like checking out the same edition of SportsCenter or avoiding The Jersey Shore or some reincarnation of The Kardashians, and actually came upon something about which I had nearly forgotten. Turner Classic Movies. I’m no expert on cinema, nor am I some type of Luddite longing for the days of yore. Over the years, TMC has reminded me that there are so many great old movies, especially musicals, and last Sunday, it taught me a bit about life.
There was a short feature, probably only 12 to 15 minutes, in which several well-known directors such as Curtis Hanson and Martin Scorsese discussed the film editing technique known as “pan and scan.” Since movies were always shot in the wide-screen format for play in the theater, the directors made the cuts and edits in a way in which their stories unfolded across the width of the screen. Pan and scan came into play to make movies fit onto television screens. The issue the directors had with it was that it altered the original composition of the film as the pan and scan editor could lose over 40% of the original image as they focused on what their perceptions of the most important part of the image. It was really eye opening to see the wide-screen images of classic movies, like “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers,” with the pan and scan image highlighted over the original wide-screen image. So much of the choreography was lost, which had a definite impact on the story.
It dawned on me that a lot of us live our lives in a pan and scan format. We all have big stories about the places and people that move in and out of our lives. We really do. I don’t care if you’ve travelled the world or barely left the county in which you grew up. The stories are there. What is interesting is how we edit them. It’s how we perceive the truths around us. Living in pan and scan is probably the ultimate story of missing the forest for the trees. Maybe editing yourself to try and keep the focus on your best parts is a nice safety net. And of course there are some things you don’t need to share with the world. But for my money, the most interesting things are often tucked away in the corners, just waiting to be explored.
There was a short feature, probably only 12 to 15 minutes, in which several well-known directors such as Curtis Hanson and Martin Scorsese discussed the film editing technique known as “pan and scan.” Since movies were always shot in the wide-screen format for play in the theater, the directors made the cuts and edits in a way in which their stories unfolded across the width of the screen. Pan and scan came into play to make movies fit onto television screens. The issue the directors had with it was that it altered the original composition of the film as the pan and scan editor could lose over 40% of the original image as they focused on what their perceptions of the most important part of the image. It was really eye opening to see the wide-screen images of classic movies, like “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers,” with the pan and scan image highlighted over the original wide-screen image. So much of the choreography was lost, which had a definite impact on the story.
It dawned on me that a lot of us live our lives in a pan and scan format. We all have big stories about the places and people that move in and out of our lives. We really do. I don’t care if you’ve travelled the world or barely left the county in which you grew up. The stories are there. What is interesting is how we edit them. It’s how we perceive the truths around us. Living in pan and scan is probably the ultimate story of missing the forest for the trees. Maybe editing yourself to try and keep the focus on your best parts is a nice safety net. And of course there are some things you don’t need to share with the world. But for my money, the most interesting things are often tucked away in the corners, just waiting to be explored.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Peanut Butter Shorthairs...
I ran into a former co-worker today. Well, I waited on her, so I guess I didn’t really “run” into her. Full disclosure here, kids. Since we’re both busy people, the primary form of contact we have is Facebook. Funny thing, the Book. I have a tendency to post things and figure people don’t really look at it unless they make a comment or say they like it. She was the third person of the morning that mentioned the picture I posted of the biscuits I made for the bitches. Yes, the bitches do get homemade treats just cuz they are sexy.
They also get homemade treats cuz Man Friend bought us a doggie treat cookbook for Christmas. Know me well, he does.
The actual treats were called “Peanut Butter Shortbreads” and for a second I thought about getting a Pointer cookie cutter made and calling them “Peanut Butter Shorthairs.” Okay, maybe I will still do that since it would be the cutest thing since Michelle Tanner.
It was really funny while I was making the treats. It was a simple recipe, just some whole wheat flour, all-purpose flour, baking power, peanut butter, and milk. Bam. I couldn’t help but wonder if they would end of tasting something like what I imagined a diabetic peanut butter cookie would taste like…
Yes, I tried the dough.
Thick, grainy peanut butterishness. It wouldn’t be good in Ben and Jerry’s.
Nothing amazing, but when I went to the other room to put the first batch on the cooling rack, the dough was good enough for Joey to counter cruise and grab a couple uncooked bites.
Whore.
They didn’t really smell delicious, like when I have a cookie or cake in the oven. I doubted the neighbor kids would come running if I put them in the window to cool. For those of you who thought I live in the central part of a small Midwestern city, you’re wrong. I actually live in an Antebellum novel. At any rate, with the bitches’ excitement while eating the treats, I kinda wanted to try the biscuit.
I know it’s kind of weird.
I didn’t try one. Yet.
They also get homemade treats cuz Man Friend bought us a doggie treat cookbook for Christmas. Know me well, he does.
The actual treats were called “Peanut Butter Shortbreads” and for a second I thought about getting a Pointer cookie cutter made and calling them “Peanut Butter Shorthairs.” Okay, maybe I will still do that since it would be the cutest thing since Michelle Tanner.
It was really funny while I was making the treats. It was a simple recipe, just some whole wheat flour, all-purpose flour, baking power, peanut butter, and milk. Bam. I couldn’t help but wonder if they would end of tasting something like what I imagined a diabetic peanut butter cookie would taste like…
Yes, I tried the dough.
Thick, grainy peanut butterishness. It wouldn’t be good in Ben and Jerry’s.
Nothing amazing, but when I went to the other room to put the first batch on the cooling rack, the dough was good enough for Joey to counter cruise and grab a couple uncooked bites.
Whore.
They didn’t really smell delicious, like when I have a cookie or cake in the oven. I doubted the neighbor kids would come running if I put them in the window to cool. For those of you who thought I live in the central part of a small Midwestern city, you’re wrong. I actually live in an Antebellum novel. At any rate, with the bitches’ excitement while eating the treats, I kinda wanted to try the biscuit.
I know it’s kind of weird.
I didn’t try one. Yet.
Monday, January 2, 2012
I Don't Have 99 Problems But, In Fact, Two Are Bitches...
The past few months have been hard. Everybody has problems, I know. This isn’t a story about trying to one up or play down problems. I know that nothing about my struggles, as few as they really are, is overly interesting or complicated. If I have figured out anything at all, it’s that the problems themselves aren’t singular. Everyone experiences hurt, pain, or loss. It’s the reaction that is singular. The piece of the puzzle that we actually have the ability to control is where it gets personal and thankfully, I have been able to cling to my inner Anne Frank and hope that things will get better.
It was sort of a chain reaction of things, which started when I took the LSAT and screwed up my answer sheet when I was skipping around one of the sections. Sigh. School stuff was usually pretty predictable for me. I wouldn’t say I was completely prepared, but I had done some practice tests and stuck my head in a Kaplan book, so I knew what to expect.
I didn’t expect to feel like an animal in a cage, the cage being a tiny desk in which I couldn’t even cross my legs without turning to the side. The cage being in a room with no natural light. Blah, blah, blah. This could go on with excuses for why I fucked up, but in the end it was just my being sloppy. Most people can be sloppy for less than $139 and a Saturday. The weird part was that I felt like I had screwed up as I was leaving the testing room. I should have listened to my guts and just cancelled the score. But the little optimist in me thought I was just tired and brain fried.
So I held on to that hope in the three weeks waiting for the emailed result. Since the email was sent to the account linked to my James Bond phone, I knew the instant the unofficial result arrived. I was at work. You know, that place where I have to be nice to people and take care of their needs to get money. I should have waited till the end of my shift to look, but of course I took a quick peek and was certain that it was all a huge mistake. So I walked around in a daze until the end of the night, when I got home to Man Friend and had the standard “Maybe I am just a big fucking idiot” meltdown. Lots of stomping around the house, scaring the bitches, and such, basically acting the fool because I didn’t get what I wanted, when and how I wanted. Bathe in the self-pity, you silly girl.
Then we threw in the impending gray season. Oh gray season. October is when it usually starts for me for so many reasons, but the hot weather and sunshine that fueled my runs, rides, and happiness begins to fade away. Even though this winter has been quite warm, I find myself longing for a muggy morning run to push out the toxins and bond with the bitches.
Speaking of the bitches, these were two of my problems. I love them. You know this. It goes without saying, but I feel the need to repeat myself. I love them. They just weren’t getting along.
There had been little scraps over toys or food once Joey was taller than Alli. There could be five toys lying on the floor and they would scrap over one. Alli destroyed some of Man Friend’s stuff. She chewed up two of his phones, a stocking cap, a baseball cap, and a wallet. If Alli would take something of his and destroy it, there was never a fight. If Joey took something of mine, like a hair clip, Alli would go after her. This seemed to be the only pattern and it never made sense because an hour later, they would be sleeping in a pile on the pappasan chair.
They would go months without incident and then try to kill each other. There was bloodshed, both canine and human. I now have a lovely scar on my wrist from the straw that broke the camel’s back in November.
After several bites and several hundred tears, I decided that one of the bitches wasn’t going to live with us anymore. It was like Sophie’s Choice without Nazis. I knew who to ask to take one of my girls, I just didn’t know how to pick which one.
“How are you deciding which one to get rid of?” was the most commonly asked question. I wanted to rip people’s faces off when they asked that. You get rid of bad habits or trash. These were my beautiful babies that I had fed, run, and loved since they were puppies.
I thought about that day in the pre-Joey era when Alli and I were walking down 15th Street and I realized I didn’t own her, and more importantly, she taught me that I really didn’t own anything but my spirituality. The house, the books, the pots and pans, the people in my life could all be taken from me. I was just lucky enough that the furry little spirit named Alli had chosen to walk through my life.
And part of my heart wondered if she had chosen to walk out of it.
Arrangements were made, introductions happened, but in the end, I just couldn’t let one go. The lady just wasn’t dirty enough without two bitches. And hope took over.
Hope is that thing. It floats and rises to the top. It triumphs over experience. It’s a tricky one, hope. It will make the battered wife believe he won’t hit her again. It will make the parent believe his drug-addicted child only stole from him once.
Once when I worked at the Public Defender’s Office, I answered the phone and the caller asked for Hope. Those of you in the know are aware that at that time, Hope worked on the other side of Dakota Avenue, at the State’s Attorney. I couldn’t resist.
“There’s no Hope here.”
And god, at times it felt like there wasn’t. But sometimes it was the most hopeful place on earth, cause even with the weight of the world against you, sometimes things worked out all right.
This time hope came in the form of a co-worker. I hadn’t been eating and was so distracted I walked into traffic and was almost hit by a car. I couldn’t believe how painful the process of letting go was and apparently it was written all over my face. She suggested a dog behavioralist and I decided to go for it. I would be a pretty shitty person if I didn’t do everything I could to try and keep our little pack together.
So now I’m learning. The dog trainer’s whole concept is that he doesn’t fix dogs, he fixes people. I guess I made the connection that my dogs see me as a dog and I was doing all sorts of shit to confuse them, which led to the weird aggression issues. We’ve set up a new diet for them and I’m putting myself first. Yeah, put myself first. I’ve never had an issue being a leader among the human sect when it was needed, but for some reason, I think my intense love for animals set me up to put their needs first. Like humans eat first. It’s just my instinct to feed them first because I thought if they were fed and happy, then I could enjoy my meal. Nope, turns out they actually respect you when you eat first and then go to them, in their dominant order. And I am actually seeing the results. I used to think it was cute when they would stare me down and beg for a scrap while I was cooking or eating. Turns out I was letting them dominate me. Sigh. They’ve been kicked out of the human bed and have time outs, like little kids. All in the name of making me the alpha leader of the pack.
Granted, we are just getting going with all this, but Joey seems to be having an easier time than Alli. I’ve also had four more years to screw Alli up, so I guess that’s to be expected. So far, I am happy with the way things are going and looking forward to seeing what else we can do. I’m hopeful that my original vision of many more miles and years of wagging will come to fruition.
It was sort of a chain reaction of things, which started when I took the LSAT and screwed up my answer sheet when I was skipping around one of the sections. Sigh. School stuff was usually pretty predictable for me. I wouldn’t say I was completely prepared, but I had done some practice tests and stuck my head in a Kaplan book, so I knew what to expect.
I didn’t expect to feel like an animal in a cage, the cage being a tiny desk in which I couldn’t even cross my legs without turning to the side. The cage being in a room with no natural light. Blah, blah, blah. This could go on with excuses for why I fucked up, but in the end it was just my being sloppy. Most people can be sloppy for less than $139 and a Saturday. The weird part was that I felt like I had screwed up as I was leaving the testing room. I should have listened to my guts and just cancelled the score. But the little optimist in me thought I was just tired and brain fried.
So I held on to that hope in the three weeks waiting for the emailed result. Since the email was sent to the account linked to my James Bond phone, I knew the instant the unofficial result arrived. I was at work. You know, that place where I have to be nice to people and take care of their needs to get money. I should have waited till the end of my shift to look, but of course I took a quick peek and was certain that it was all a huge mistake. So I walked around in a daze until the end of the night, when I got home to Man Friend and had the standard “Maybe I am just a big fucking idiot” meltdown. Lots of stomping around the house, scaring the bitches, and such, basically acting the fool because I didn’t get what I wanted, when and how I wanted. Bathe in the self-pity, you silly girl.
Then we threw in the impending gray season. Oh gray season. October is when it usually starts for me for so many reasons, but the hot weather and sunshine that fueled my runs, rides, and happiness begins to fade away. Even though this winter has been quite warm, I find myself longing for a muggy morning run to push out the toxins and bond with the bitches.
Speaking of the bitches, these were two of my problems. I love them. You know this. It goes without saying, but I feel the need to repeat myself. I love them. They just weren’t getting along.
There had been little scraps over toys or food once Joey was taller than Alli. There could be five toys lying on the floor and they would scrap over one. Alli destroyed some of Man Friend’s stuff. She chewed up two of his phones, a stocking cap, a baseball cap, and a wallet. If Alli would take something of his and destroy it, there was never a fight. If Joey took something of mine, like a hair clip, Alli would go after her. This seemed to be the only pattern and it never made sense because an hour later, they would be sleeping in a pile on the pappasan chair.
They would go months without incident and then try to kill each other. There was bloodshed, both canine and human. I now have a lovely scar on my wrist from the straw that broke the camel’s back in November.
After several bites and several hundred tears, I decided that one of the bitches wasn’t going to live with us anymore. It was like Sophie’s Choice without Nazis. I knew who to ask to take one of my girls, I just didn’t know how to pick which one.
“How are you deciding which one to get rid of?” was the most commonly asked question. I wanted to rip people’s faces off when they asked that. You get rid of bad habits or trash. These were my beautiful babies that I had fed, run, and loved since they were puppies.
I thought about that day in the pre-Joey era when Alli and I were walking down 15th Street and I realized I didn’t own her, and more importantly, she taught me that I really didn’t own anything but my spirituality. The house, the books, the pots and pans, the people in my life could all be taken from me. I was just lucky enough that the furry little spirit named Alli had chosen to walk through my life.
And part of my heart wondered if she had chosen to walk out of it.
Arrangements were made, introductions happened, but in the end, I just couldn’t let one go. The lady just wasn’t dirty enough without two bitches. And hope took over.
Hope is that thing. It floats and rises to the top. It triumphs over experience. It’s a tricky one, hope. It will make the battered wife believe he won’t hit her again. It will make the parent believe his drug-addicted child only stole from him once.
Once when I worked at the Public Defender’s Office, I answered the phone and the caller asked for Hope. Those of you in the know are aware that at that time, Hope worked on the other side of Dakota Avenue, at the State’s Attorney. I couldn’t resist.
“There’s no Hope here.”
And god, at times it felt like there wasn’t. But sometimes it was the most hopeful place on earth, cause even with the weight of the world against you, sometimes things worked out all right.
This time hope came in the form of a co-worker. I hadn’t been eating and was so distracted I walked into traffic and was almost hit by a car. I couldn’t believe how painful the process of letting go was and apparently it was written all over my face. She suggested a dog behavioralist and I decided to go for it. I would be a pretty shitty person if I didn’t do everything I could to try and keep our little pack together.
So now I’m learning. The dog trainer’s whole concept is that he doesn’t fix dogs, he fixes people. I guess I made the connection that my dogs see me as a dog and I was doing all sorts of shit to confuse them, which led to the weird aggression issues. We’ve set up a new diet for them and I’m putting myself first. Yeah, put myself first. I’ve never had an issue being a leader among the human sect when it was needed, but for some reason, I think my intense love for animals set me up to put their needs first. Like humans eat first. It’s just my instinct to feed them first because I thought if they were fed and happy, then I could enjoy my meal. Nope, turns out they actually respect you when you eat first and then go to them, in their dominant order. And I am actually seeing the results. I used to think it was cute when they would stare me down and beg for a scrap while I was cooking or eating. Turns out I was letting them dominate me. Sigh. They’ve been kicked out of the human bed and have time outs, like little kids. All in the name of making me the alpha leader of the pack.
Granted, we are just getting going with all this, but Joey seems to be having an easier time than Alli. I’ve also had four more years to screw Alli up, so I guess that’s to be expected. So far, I am happy with the way things are going and looking forward to seeing what else we can do. I’m hopeful that my original vision of many more miles and years of wagging will come to fruition.
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