10.30.2007
10.18.2007
What happens when you don't read the memo
This Saturday, Conor's school is having Spooktacular, the annual Halloween blowout. I, being a PTA member and guilt-ridden single working mother, offered to make cupcakes for the bake sale. So last night, I made glorious butter-recipe chocolate cupcakes with an added surprise: Halloween bittersweet chocolate chips inside. Because what on earth is better than chocolate except even more chocolate?
As I pulled them out of the oven, Conor came sidling in (the oven door sound to him is like the sound of a can opener is to a cat, I suppose).
Tonight, She Who Cannot Follow Directions will make yellow cupcakes instead. And tomorrow, She Who Cannot Read will bring 23 chocolate chocolate-chip Halloween cupcakes to work, where there will be much appreciation and no knowledge of She Who Is A Dumbass' mistake.
All better.
As I pulled them out of the oven, Conor came sidling in (the oven door sound to him is like the sound of a can opener is to a cat, I suppose).
"What's that?"
"Cupcakes for Spooktacular."
"They're chocolate."
"Yes. Yes they are, and I even added chocolate chips in there, too."
. . .
"What, hon?"
"The paper said no chocolate."
"The paper?"
"In my backpack. The signup sheet said no chocolate."
There was no sound at this moment. But if there had been, I imagine it would have sounded a lot like a bubble bursting.
"Mom. Can I have one?"
"Yes. Yes you can."
Tonight, She Who Cannot Follow Directions will make yellow cupcakes instead. And tomorrow, She Who Cannot Read will bring 23 chocolate chocolate-chip Halloween cupcakes to work, where there will be much appreciation and no knowledge of She Who Is A Dumbass' mistake.
All better.
10.11.2007
Because Ricki did it.
| How will I die? Your Result: You will die while saving someone's life. The most noble of all deaths. Your rewards will be great in the next life. You are most definitely a humanitarian. If not currently, you will be. To give one's life is a precious moment that will be remembered by friends and family for many decades. | |
| You will die in a car accident. | |
| You will die from a terminal illness. | |
| You will die in a nuclear holocaust. | |
| You will die while having sex. | |
| You will be murdered. | |
| You will die in your sleep. | |
| You will die of boredom. | |
| How will I die? Create a Quiz | |
Hm. I don't know if that's a good or bad thing. Good for the save-ee, I suppose. For me, not so much. Oh, well, it's better than going from a terminal illness.
10.05.2007
Three weeks
It's been three weeks since I've had a cigarette.
And boy, am I pissed.
Maybe I said that wrong, but the thing I've noticed most is the irritability. And the mood swings. And the depression. That's been a big barrel of super happy funtime.
The tightness in my chest and the coughing as my body still tries to rid itself of the poison I'd been feeding it . . . that's a bonus. As is the night-waking, the fatigue and the spotty concentration.
But it's all good. I keep telling myself that. I'm going to be so much better in as little as a week. All I have to do is hold on, ride it out. And FOR GOD'S SAKE, don't have one, don't think for a moment that you can contain it to just one, just when you really need it.
I DON'T NEED IT. I DON'T.
Cripes, I feel like ass.
9.20.2007
Mr. Silver Bentley
Dear Sir,
This morning, as I sat at the turn signal waiting to get onto Summerlin Parkway, I saw you coming up in my rearview mirror. I had a moment of sheer admiration for the size and obvious power of your massive and massively expensive vehicle. My admiration turned quickly to unease, however, as I noticed that you were not slowing down so much.
You, Mr. Bentley, must have an amazing braking system on that thing, because I was sure you were going to hit me. It was at that point that my unease turned to mild terror. My mild terror was mitigated, however, by my annoyance as I focused on your flaccid-lipped, puffy, middle-aged face, flapping excitedly as you talked on your cellphone.
The thought came instantly: I actually wanted you to hit me. I craved it. I wanted your car, a car that cost easily five times my annual salary, to be embedded in the back of my cheap-ass econo-model Honda. And to have it be all your arrogant, jabbering fault. A silly thought, I know. No good would have come from it, and I'm ashamed the idea crossed my mind.
But you saved me from my own weakness. Or at least your car did. Your brakes were pitch-perfect and slid you to a sweet, razor-edged stop just two feet from the rear of my car. And then you did it, Mr. Bentley. You dispelled all my negative emotions. Better than that, you put icing on the cake. And it wasn't just any cake. It was better than birthday cake and Christmas cake combined.
You, still blathering on the phone, took your right index finger and jammed it, decisively and almost triumphantly, up your right nostril.
And then the light turned green.
I wish, Mr. Bentley, I had hung back to get your license plate number so I could have posted that, too, with my letter of gratitude. But I had to get to work, and you were too busy still talking on the phone and blocking every car behind you with your Sunday-speed progress up the on-ramp.
Maybe someday we'll meet again. I hope so. You are quite amusing. But even if we don't, I'll have the memories of your astounding douchebaggery to sustain me. You see, Mr. Bentley, you may not think you share the same planet as people like me –- how else to explain your actions? -- but rest assured, the people like me cannot help but notice you.
But then again . . . isn't that what you, Sir, crave the most?
This morning, as I sat at the turn signal waiting to get onto Summerlin Parkway, I saw you coming up in my rearview mirror. I had a moment of sheer admiration for the size and obvious power of your massive and massively expensive vehicle. My admiration turned quickly to unease, however, as I noticed that you were not slowing down so much.
You, Mr. Bentley, must have an amazing braking system on that thing, because I was sure you were going to hit me. It was at that point that my unease turned to mild terror. My mild terror was mitigated, however, by my annoyance as I focused on your flaccid-lipped, puffy, middle-aged face, flapping excitedly as you talked on your cellphone.
The thought came instantly: I actually wanted you to hit me. I craved it. I wanted your car, a car that cost easily five times my annual salary, to be embedded in the back of my cheap-ass econo-model Honda. And to have it be all your arrogant, jabbering fault. A silly thought, I know. No good would have come from it, and I'm ashamed the idea crossed my mind.
But you saved me from my own weakness. Or at least your car did. Your brakes were pitch-perfect and slid you to a sweet, razor-edged stop just two feet from the rear of my car. And then you did it, Mr. Bentley. You dispelled all my negative emotions. Better than that, you put icing on the cake. And it wasn't just any cake. It was better than birthday cake and Christmas cake combined.
You, still blathering on the phone, took your right index finger and jammed it, decisively and almost triumphantly, up your right nostril.
And then the light turned green.
I wish, Mr. Bentley, I had hung back to get your license plate number so I could have posted that, too, with my letter of gratitude. But I had to get to work, and you were too busy still talking on the phone and blocking every car behind you with your Sunday-speed progress up the on-ramp.
Maybe someday we'll meet again. I hope so. You are quite amusing. But even if we don't, I'll have the memories of your astounding douchebaggery to sustain me. You see, Mr. Bentley, you may not think you share the same planet as people like me –- how else to explain your actions? -- but rest assured, the people like me cannot help but notice you.
But then again . . . isn't that what you, Sir, crave the most?
9.18.2007
Everyone else is doing it
This meme:
1. Is your second toe longer than your first?
Yes. One is named Manute and the other is Bol.
2. Do you have a favorite type of pen?
Sharpies.
3. Look at your planner for March 14, what are you doing?
Checking iCal, I see it's both a Friday night and a Conor night. Other than that, I have no idea.
4. What color are your toenails usually?
Some variation of sheer pink. Tonight, though, I'm planning on red.
5. What was the last thing you highlighted?
I can't remember, but I think it must have been something on a Creative Brief.
6. What color are your bedroom curtains?
No curtains. I have white vertical blinds, because there's a sliding glass door to the patio.
7. What color are the seats in your car?
Dark grey.
8. Have you ever had a black and white cat?
No. My mom hates cats, and I'm a dog person.
9. What is the last thing you put a stamp on?
The confirmation for Hugo's adoption papers.
10. Do you know anyone who lives in Wyoming?
No.
11. Why did you withdraw cash from the ATM the last time?
Weekend money -- trip to the Natural History museum, a prescription and breakfast at Einstein Brothers.
12. Whose is the last baby that you held?
Ry-bo, son of my friends Matt and Amanda.
13. Unlucky #?
I don't really have one. That's okay . . . I don't have a lucky number either.
14. Do you like Cinnamon toothpaste?
Blech.
15. What kind of car were you driving 2 years ago?
A Subaru Forester. But last year, the lease ran out. I opted not to buy it and downsized to a cute and vastly more efficient Honda Fit.
16. Pick one: Miami Hurricanes or Florida Gators?
Blech. No Florida teams PLEASE!
17. Last time you went to Six Flags?
Wow. It was before Conor was born, so probably 11 years ago. It was Magic Mountain, and I got stuck on top of the Viper because it was going too fast. That was so cool.
18. Do you have any wallpaper in your house?
No.
19. Closest thing to you that is yellow?
A set of Japanese kanji flash cards.
20. Last person to give you a business card?
This very scary local video editor who was showing me his production facility. Not. Going. Back.
21. Who is the last person you wrote a check to?
Conor's school, for a fundraiser.
22. Closest framed picture to you?
A framed poster advertising some Italian liqueur. I got it for free (with many samples of said booze) at last year's Modern Drunkard convention, and thought it was cool enough to go over the fireplace.
23. Last time you had someone cook for you?
Miles makes me barbecued something-or-other once a week.
24. Have you ever applied for welfare?
No. Hopefully, I can avoid that.
25. How many emails do you have?
On average? Shoot. Like, maybe, 40 a day?
26. Last time you received flowers?
Valentine's Day.
27. Do you think the sanctity of marriage is meant for only a man & woman?
No. Nor do I believe in its "sanctity." What an arrogant term for a social contract.
28. Do you play air guitar?
Wildly. I play air guitar better than I play any of the three real ones I have.
29. Has anyone ever proposed to you?
No. My ex-husband never proposed, either. Somehow, we just decided to get married without going through any of those funny rituals. Until the actual wedding in a Catholic church. Then we were ritualized up the hoo-ha.
30. Do you take anything in your coffee?
Milk or half-and-half. I have this fun battery-powered mini whisk that foams the milk up.
31. Do you have any Willow Tree figurines?
Yes. They're all gifts from Conor for Christmas. Every year, we get a new mother-son one. It all started because he thought they resembled us. Which is funny, because they don't have faces.
32. What is/was your high school's rival mascot?
Oh, God. Pick one. Everyone hated us. I'd say, though, more than anyone, either the Valley Vikings or the Chaparral Cowboys. Assholes.
33. Last person you spoke to from high school?
Maggie May.
34. Last time you used hand sanitizer?
Sunday, if antibac Wet Ones count.
35. Would you like to learn to play the drums?
I already know a little, but a friend of mine can REALLY play. Balls-out. I wish I could play like him.
36. What color are the blinds in your living room?
White.
38. Last thing you read in the newspaper?
Last week, I read about the ex-CEO of one of our clients. He's been indicted for sinking the finances of our county hospital by giving contracts to his buddies. That wasn't the bad part. The bad part was that his buddies never did any work in return.
39. What was the last pageant you attended?
Last year, I went to Miss Exotic World. A burlesque pageant.
40. What is the last place you bought pizza from?
Red Rock Pizza on Lake Mead Blvd.
41. Have you ever worn a crown?
Every Christmas, my mom puts those Brit Christmas Crackers next to our plates. Each one pops and out comes a small toy, a silly joke and a paper crown. And I put it on every time.
42. What is the last thing you stapled?
Receipts to an expense report.
43. Did you ever drink clear Pepsi?
No.
44. Are you ticklish?
Just on my feet. Every time I get a pedicure, I seize up like I'm being tasered.
45. Last time you saw fireworks?
In August, we were at Disneyland. We watched the show that takes place at Sleeping Beauty Castle.
46. Last time you had a Krispy Kreme doughnut?
Last month. I'd challenged my friend Matt that he couldn't stuff three in his mouth at the same time AND swallow them. He did, but it took a while.
47. Who is the last person that left you a message & you actually returned it?
Someone at work. Against my will.
48. Last time you parked under a carport?
The last time I parked in covered parking at the office. Illegally.
49. Do you have a black dog?
Nope. He's a big blonde.
50 . Have you had your mid life crisis yet?
No, but I seem to be on my fourth childhood.
51. Are you an aunt or uncle?
No.
52. Who has the prettiest eyes that you know of?
My friend Dawn. Her eyes are the iciest blue, and yet they're always warm and smiley.
53. What kind of soap or body wash do you use?
Olay, usually. But if I've splurged, it's something from Bath & Body Works.
54. Do you remember Ugly Kid Joe?
Who?
55. Do you have a little black dress?
It's black, but I don't think it qualifies as little. Neither do I.
1. Is your second toe longer than your first?
Yes. One is named Manute and the other is Bol.
2. Do you have a favorite type of pen?
Sharpies.
3. Look at your planner for March 14, what are you doing?
Checking iCal, I see it's both a Friday night and a Conor night. Other than that, I have no idea.
4. What color are your toenails usually?
Some variation of sheer pink. Tonight, though, I'm planning on red.
5. What was the last thing you highlighted?
I can't remember, but I think it must have been something on a Creative Brief.
6. What color are your bedroom curtains?
No curtains. I have white vertical blinds, because there's a sliding glass door to the patio.
7. What color are the seats in your car?
Dark grey.
8. Have you ever had a black and white cat?
No. My mom hates cats, and I'm a dog person.
9. What is the last thing you put a stamp on?
The confirmation for Hugo's adoption papers.
10. Do you know anyone who lives in Wyoming?
No.
11. Why did you withdraw cash from the ATM the last time?
Weekend money -- trip to the Natural History museum, a prescription and breakfast at Einstein Brothers.
12. Whose is the last baby that you held?
Ry-bo, son of my friends Matt and Amanda.
13. Unlucky #?
I don't really have one. That's okay . . . I don't have a lucky number either.
14. Do you like Cinnamon toothpaste?
Blech.
15. What kind of car were you driving 2 years ago?
A Subaru Forester. But last year, the lease ran out. I opted not to buy it and downsized to a cute and vastly more efficient Honda Fit.
16. Pick one: Miami Hurricanes or Florida Gators?
Blech. No Florida teams PLEASE!
17. Last time you went to Six Flags?
Wow. It was before Conor was born, so probably 11 years ago. It was Magic Mountain, and I got stuck on top of the Viper because it was going too fast. That was so cool.
18. Do you have any wallpaper in your house?
No.
19. Closest thing to you that is yellow?
A set of Japanese kanji flash cards.
20. Last person to give you a business card?
This very scary local video editor who was showing me his production facility. Not. Going. Back.
21. Who is the last person you wrote a check to?
Conor's school, for a fundraiser.
22. Closest framed picture to you?
A framed poster advertising some Italian liqueur. I got it for free (with many samples of said booze) at last year's Modern Drunkard convention, and thought it was cool enough to go over the fireplace.
23. Last time you had someone cook for you?
Miles makes me barbecued something-or-other once a week.
24. Have you ever applied for welfare?
No. Hopefully, I can avoid that.
25. How many emails do you have?
On average? Shoot. Like, maybe, 40 a day?
26. Last time you received flowers?
Valentine's Day.
27. Do you think the sanctity of marriage is meant for only a man & woman?
No. Nor do I believe in its "sanctity." What an arrogant term for a social contract.
28. Do you play air guitar?
Wildly. I play air guitar better than I play any of the three real ones I have.
29. Has anyone ever proposed to you?
No. My ex-husband never proposed, either. Somehow, we just decided to get married without going through any of those funny rituals. Until the actual wedding in a Catholic church. Then we were ritualized up the hoo-ha.
30. Do you take anything in your coffee?
Milk or half-and-half. I have this fun battery-powered mini whisk that foams the milk up.
31. Do you have any Willow Tree figurines?
Yes. They're all gifts from Conor for Christmas. Every year, we get a new mother-son one. It all started because he thought they resembled us. Which is funny, because they don't have faces.
32. What is/was your high school's rival mascot?
Oh, God. Pick one. Everyone hated us. I'd say, though, more than anyone, either the Valley Vikings or the Chaparral Cowboys. Assholes.
33. Last person you spoke to from high school?
Maggie May.
34. Last time you used hand sanitizer?
Sunday, if antibac Wet Ones count.
35. Would you like to learn to play the drums?
I already know a little, but a friend of mine can REALLY play. Balls-out. I wish I could play like him.
36. What color are the blinds in your living room?
White.
38. Last thing you read in the newspaper?
Last week, I read about the ex-CEO of one of our clients. He's been indicted for sinking the finances of our county hospital by giving contracts to his buddies. That wasn't the bad part. The bad part was that his buddies never did any work in return.
39. What was the last pageant you attended?
Last year, I went to Miss Exotic World. A burlesque pageant.
40. What is the last place you bought pizza from?
Red Rock Pizza on Lake Mead Blvd.
41. Have you ever worn a crown?
Every Christmas, my mom puts those Brit Christmas Crackers next to our plates. Each one pops and out comes a small toy, a silly joke and a paper crown. And I put it on every time.
42. What is the last thing you stapled?
Receipts to an expense report.
43. Did you ever drink clear Pepsi?
No.
44. Are you ticklish?
Just on my feet. Every time I get a pedicure, I seize up like I'm being tasered.
45. Last time you saw fireworks?
In August, we were at Disneyland. We watched the show that takes place at Sleeping Beauty Castle.
46. Last time you had a Krispy Kreme doughnut?
Last month. I'd challenged my friend Matt that he couldn't stuff three in his mouth at the same time AND swallow them. He did, but it took a while.
47. Who is the last person that left you a message & you actually returned it?
Someone at work. Against my will.
48. Last time you parked under a carport?
The last time I parked in covered parking at the office. Illegally.
49. Do you have a black dog?
Nope. He's a big blonde.
50 . Have you had your mid life crisis yet?
No, but I seem to be on my fourth childhood.
51. Are you an aunt or uncle?
No.
52. Who has the prettiest eyes that you know of?
My friend Dawn. Her eyes are the iciest blue, and yet they're always warm and smiley.
53. What kind of soap or body wash do you use?
Olay, usually. But if I've splurged, it's something from Bath & Body Works.
54. Do you remember Ugly Kid Joe?
Who?
55. Do you have a little black dress?
It's black, but I don't think it qualifies as little. Neither do I.
9.17.2007
At least it's not TB
Saturday night, I sat in my hot tub. It was wonderful. There are jets and hot water and a soothing blue light in the hot tub and this is, now that it's getting cooler in the evenings, a wonderful way to relax. Until now, at least. Because now I have something called "Hot Tub Lung." No frickin' joke.
How do I know? Mayo Clinic told me so:
Goody gumdrops.
Well, jeez -- I maintain my hot tub. My hot tub, according to the test kit, was all peachy. But test strips apparently don't detect anything in the TB family.
Not to mention the crappy flu-like aches and pains and the feeling like my eyes were going to boil and melt out of my skull. And the fact that my skin hurt? That was a bonus.
Yesterday was messy. Today, not so much. I'm just down, symptom-wise, to fatigue and the shortness of breath. Those things may be related, though.
So tonight, I'm draining the offending appliance and starting fresh.
I know the hot tub sounds like a cheesy thing. Very 70's swinger-ish. But really, it's not that bad. It's fabulous. It's not as if I'm centering parties/seductions around the thing.
Okay. I may have tried the seduction thing a couple of times, but Miles was fine with that. And I promise there were no boxes of Franzia wine, Barry White or gold medallions involved.
In conclusion, if you're going to enjoy the small, swirling pool, either by yourself or with a friend, know that you could be exposing yourself to something completely unexpected.
How do I know? Mayo Clinic told me so:
"Hot tub lung" is an uncommon infection or allergic reaction of the lungs due to inhaling the bacterium Mycobacterium avium (M. avium) from a hot tub. M. avium belongs to the same class of bacteria that cause tuberculosis, but it's not contagious.
Goody gumdrops.
The bacteria get into your lungs when the bubbling hot tub water evaporates. The bubbles rise to the surface, burst and disperse the bacteria into the air. Hot tub lung can be easily prevented by properly maintaining your hot tub, or asking about the maintenance of hot tubs at spas or hotels.
Well, jeez -- I maintain my hot tub. My hot tub, according to the test kit, was all peachy. But test strips apparently don't detect anything in the TB family.
Signs and symptoms of M. avium infection usually include:
* Shortness of breath [shortness? feels like I'm running on one half of one lung]
* Fatigue
* Fever or chills [how 'bout both?]
* Wet cough
* Tightness in the chest
Not to mention the crappy flu-like aches and pains and the feeling like my eyes were going to boil and melt out of my skull. And the fact that my skin hurt? That was a bonus.
Yesterday was messy. Today, not so much. I'm just down, symptom-wise, to fatigue and the shortness of breath. Those things may be related, though.
So tonight, I'm draining the offending appliance and starting fresh.
I know the hot tub sounds like a cheesy thing. Very 70's swinger-ish. But really, it's not that bad. It's fabulous. It's not as if I'm centering parties/seductions around the thing.
Okay. I may have tried the seduction thing a couple of times, but Miles was fine with that. And I promise there were no boxes of Franzia wine, Barry White or gold medallions involved.
In conclusion, if you're going to enjoy the small, swirling pool, either by yourself or with a friend, know that you could be exposing yourself to something completely unexpected.
9.11.2007
8.20.2007
SPELCHK
Funny how the best vacation picture didn't happen until I got home.
UPDATE: I went to the Personalized Plate Search on Nevada's DMV site. As Cullen predicted, the correct spelling was taken. Which makes this guy even more of this:
Or this:
Or maybe this:
By the way, those plates are all available. Really and truly.
7.30.2007
In the name of all that's holy . . .
. . . like, say, the memory of Jackie Robinson, DON'T LET HIM DO IT!
The cheating cockroach bastard Barry B*nds has a chance to tie and break Hank Aaron's home run record at Dodger Stadium. The demon spawn are bringing their particularly vile stench to Chavez Ravine for a three-game series. And chances are, the cheater will pop a couple over the outfield fence.
DAMN IT.
The guys at Dodger Blues indulge in a little wishful thinking:
I wish, at the very least, the Dodgers would walk him every single at-bat.
Just give the cheater a big, fat, "not in my house, asshole."
I wish.
The cheating cockroach bastard Barry B*nds has a chance to tie and break Hank Aaron's home run record at Dodger Stadium. The demon spawn are bringing their particularly vile stench to Chavez Ravine for a three-game series. And chances are, the cheater will pop a couple over the outfield fence.
DAMN IT.
The guys at Dodger Blues indulge in a little wishful thinking:
While Ned Colletti spends the next day or two trying to figure out how to fuck up the team's future, Dodger fans will be preparing for the arrival of an even more offensive creature: Barry Bonds. I've been going back and forth about the timing of this. On the one hand, the thought of seeing this asshole in orange possibly break baseball's most prized record on our soil is completely nauseating. On the other hand, what better way to ruin his moment than to have 55,000 Dodger fans telling the world what a cockface he is. And what better way than this for one lucky fan to say cockface: throw the ball back. I can't imagine that anyone would actually have the balls to do it, and frankly it would take incredible stupidity as well, but we're talking about the bleachers, so you never know. I do know this, though: I'd wet my goddamn pants and put that fan on a pedestal. Or at least send them a free shirt.
I wish, at the very least, the Dodgers would walk him every single at-bat.
Just give the cheater a big, fat, "not in my house, asshole."
I wish.
7.27.2007
Woo-HOOOOO!
This makes me so HAPPY:
Depp plumbs vampire depths
How much fun will this be? Really. Now, I'm going to be casting the rest of the thing in my head.
Depp plumbs vampire depths
LOS ANGELES, July 27 (UPI) -- Johnny Depp said he hopes to trade pirate's garb for medieval clothing of undead Barnabas Collins in Hollywood's take on the campy serial "Dark Shadows."
Depp's Infinitum-Nihil company is teaming with Warner Bros. and Graham King's GK Films to develop a feature based on the daytime supernatural soap opera, Variety reported Friday.
In interviews Depp said he wanted to portray Collins, the series' vampire patriarch originated by Jonathan Frid.
A rights deal just closed with the estate of Dan Curtis, the producer-director who created the ABC daytime drama that aired 1966-1971. Depp and King will produce with David Kennedy, who ran Dan Curtis Prods. until Curtis died last year of a brain tumor.
"Dark Shadows" achieved cult status as an atmospheric gothic tale of vampires, monsters, witches, werewolves, ghosts -- and humans -- that featured time travel and parallel universes during its run. The storyline has been the basis for two movies filmed in the 1970s.
How much fun will this be? Really. Now, I'm going to be casting the rest of the thing in my head.
7.26.2007
Rest now, good boy
Dog that searched for 9/11, Katrina victims dies
With all the terrible things in the world, all the death, it's always something like this that reduces me to tears.
There's more, but this is my favorite part of the story. Some sub-human creep abandoned this poor thing and he was adopted, knit together, loved and gave all he could in return.
Of course, I have a real soft spot for rescues and especially retrievers. But to me, dogs are an example of what's right with the world. And this sweetheart, good ol' Jake, was a truly excellent boy. So when the world loses a Jake, I feel totally okay with getting a little misty and feeling a little loss.
With all the terrible things in the world, all the death, it's always something like this that reduces me to tears.
‘A world-class rescue dog’
[Mary] Flood adopted Jake as a 10-month-old puppy. He had been abandoned on a street with a broken leg and a dislocated hip.
“But against all odds he became a world-class rescue dog,” said Flood, a member of Utah Task Force 1, a federal search-and-rescue team that looked for human remains at ground zero.
On the evening of the team’s arrival in New York, Jake walked into a fancy Manhattan restaurant wearing his search-and-rescue vest and was treated to a free steak dinner under a table.
There's more, but this is my favorite part of the story. Some sub-human creep abandoned this poor thing and he was adopted, knit together, loved and gave all he could in return.
Of course, I have a real soft spot for rescues and especially retrievers. But to me, dogs are an example of what's right with the world. And this sweetheart, good ol' Jake, was a truly excellent boy. So when the world loses a Jake, I feel totally okay with getting a little misty and feeling a little loss.
7.20.2007
On this day 38 years ago
My mom propped me up in front of the TV so I could watch the moon landing. I was all of three months old, still in the blob stage, so I obviously don't remember a bit of it. But I completely appreciate my mom's impulse. She wanted me to see it, wanted me, in all my drooling apathy, to witness something world-changing.
Thanks, Mom.
I'm so full of love and gratitude that I'll post my favorite thing commemorating the day:
Thanks, Mom.
I'm so full of love and gratitude that I'll post my favorite thing commemorating the day:
7.19.2007
Meme Chain
Lifted from Cullen.
Questions
1. Situation ::
2. Theme song ::
3. Kelly ::
4. Club ::
5. Swerve ::
6. Couch ::
7. Bigfoot ::
8. Arbitrary ::
9. Inventor ::
10. Blazer ::
Answers
1. Situation :: Dire
2. Theme song :: Try
3. Kelly :: Staffing Services
4. Club :: Head
5. Swerve :: or I'll hit you
6. Couch :: Balls (heh, that's just where Hugo hides all his tennis balls. Under the couch.)
7. Bigfoot :: Chupacabra
8. Arbitrary :: Punishment
9. Inventor :: Edison
10. Blazer :: Professor
Yeah. Doesn't make sense to me, either.
Questions
1. Situation ::
2. Theme song ::
3. Kelly ::
4. Club ::
5. Swerve ::
6. Couch ::
7. Bigfoot ::
8. Arbitrary ::
9. Inventor ::
10. Blazer ::
Answers
1. Situation :: Dire
2. Theme song :: Try
3. Kelly :: Staffing Services
4. Club :: Head
5. Swerve :: or I'll hit you
6. Couch :: Balls (heh, that's just where Hugo hides all his tennis balls. Under the couch.)
7. Bigfoot :: Chupacabra
8. Arbitrary :: Punishment
9. Inventor :: Edison
10. Blazer :: Professor
Yeah. Doesn't make sense to me, either.
7.17.2007
Poltergeist
So my friend Michael and I were talking about the movie Poltergeist. The upshot was that they say one thing in the movie an awful lot. In the spirit of the great Lebowski edit, Michael put this together:
7.14.2007
A special PSA
I found this on Fark and realized that it was really relevant to us all. Especially Emily.
"Furverts"? Wow. Love it.
Years ago, I was at Disneyland with Shannon C., the lovely proprietor of "I'm Seriously, Dammit!" (which I just now saw is defunct. Crap, Shanny! I'll call soon!). There, I was frotteured by Donald Duck. He/she/it also tried "kissing" me with its fuzzy bill and instead deep-throated my entire head.
So what is it when a normal person is nonconsensually groped by a mascot? I'll tell you.
Just plain fucking creepy.
Cay Crow: Groping is never appropriate, even with costumed characters
Web Posted: 07/13/2007 06:01 PM CDT
San Antonio Express-News
Here is a surprising response to the frotteurism (nonconsensual groping) column that ran on March 17. A collection of readers' responses ran on May 26.
Dear Cay,
I would just like to share my own groping story with you. It's not quite like the others, but it is equally disturbing.
I am a costume character at a well-known theme park. Since it is a performance, I have to stay in character. That means when people ask me if I am a boy (and all of our characters are), I have to say yes (we are not allowed to speak).
Very rude people, always adults and older teenagers say, "I bet you aren't!" and proceed to try to grope and feel whether or not I have breasts. I have been told by some that it "comes with the territory" of my job, but when I informed my manager, he said that it was completely inappropriate and next time it happened, I have every right to inform security and have these people escorted off the premises.
Cay, this is not only men who do this! Women do it as well! And it upset me very much. I am sure that they would not like it if I were to go grabbing right back at them!
I have had people escorted out of the park for doing this with no refund. And I am not afraid of doing it again! I understand that there will always be idiots out there but there will be consequences!
— Obviously Anonymous
Dear OA:
I am so sorry that this happened to you but I am thrilled that your manager is having those animals removed from the park.
OK, San Antonio and surrounding areas, you have been warned! I just can't believe that people could be so insensitive and crude. In this country, we are violently opposed to people frotteurizing our children yet we tolerate nonconsensual frotteurism in adults? That just makes no sense. And who do you think is hanging out at the theme park with mom and dad? What does this behavior, even toward a cartoon character, teach children?
I suspect that some of these folks groping cartoon characters are either "plushies" people with strong attachments to stuffed animals or "furries," individuals who are drawn to furry cartoon characters. Not all plushies or furries gain sexual gratification from the practice. Many just enjoy anthropomorphizing (giving human traits to) animals. Within this community, there is a specific term, a "furvert" for the individuals who groped you indicating, presumably, their sexual attraction to a mascot. Plushies actually prefer the feel of stuffed animals to human skin and furries feel the same about mascots. Some of these individuals actually feel as if they are a particular animal trapped in a human body. Others fantasize about being either half human and half animal or about being a hybrid animal like a griffin (half eagle and half lion). Their favorite greeting is to groom or "skritch" each other. But even the furries skritch each other consensually!
Check out the article at www.pressedfur.coolfreepages.com/press/vanityfair.
"Furverts"? Wow. Love it.
Years ago, I was at Disneyland with Shannon C., the lovely proprietor of "I'm Seriously, Dammit!" (which I just now saw is defunct. Crap, Shanny! I'll call soon!). There, I was frotteured by Donald Duck. He/she/it also tried "kissing" me with its fuzzy bill and instead deep-throated my entire head.
So what is it when a normal person is nonconsensually groped by a mascot? I'll tell you.
Just plain fucking creepy.
6.28.2007
Meet Hugo
The blur of fur. He's my adopted year-old Golden, from the local rescue.
Healing after Cassie is still slow. I know Hugo won't replace her. Nothing can. But this boy needed love and a home and I have both to give. My son adores him and so do I.
Soon, we'll start obedience training. Though I don't know too much of his history (as is the case with most rescues), we can tell he was probably bullied by another dog. But my goodness, he's sweet-natured. I can't believe his first owner didn't want him. Their loss. Our gain.
Hugo's tall, gangly, awkward and has a short attention span -- like the typical teenager. He hoards tennis balls and is wonderful to take on walks. He sleeps by the side of the bed and wakes in the morning with his tail beating the floor, wanting much petting. He kisses profusely and loves hugs. His eyes get both sad and hopeful, all the same time. He lives to have you talk to him, touch him or just appreciate that he's there. The poor thing is underweight, but good food will fix that.
He craves closeness. Whoever's on the move, he's there as a shadow. Doing laundry, cooking, cleaning, he's there. Wherever Conor goes, he has an escort. And if we're off in two different directions, Hugo's torn. Who to follow?
In short, Hugo is part of the family. And we're so happy to have him.
6.21.2007
Trip Interlude: Squirrels are suicidal
What is it about these little creeps?
I was speeding (yes, speeding -- and I have the ticket to prove it) out of the Owens Valley into Death Valley. There wasn't a single car there other than me. And then waaaaaay up ahead, I saw the little speck dart to the middle of the road. So I took my foot off the gas. I gripped the wheel. I was closing in fast, and I didn't know how this was going to work out.
If I hit it, I'd turn it into a smear. If I swerved, I'd run the risk of going off the road.
So I began cursing at it.
"Get OFF the ROAD you lousy little son of a BITCH. Get OFF. DON'T make me KILL you, YOU STUPID STUPID MOTHERCOCKSUCKING BASTARD."
Like that would work.
And then it skittered back to the very center of my lane.
Very carefully, I aligned the car. Fine. If the damn thing had a death wish, I was going to help out as little as possible (you thought I was going to try to smush it, didn't you?). Instead, I set up to straddle the little beast. At 60 miles an hour. He stayed perfectly still and beadily watched me bear down on him. I held my breath, white-knuckled the steering wheel and whoosh! I was over and past him.
And when I looked into my rearview mirror, I saw his fuzzy gray body airborne and rolling like a frickin' stock car that got bumped and lost it in the turn. The tail whipped like one of those jaunty corkscrew windsocks.
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. After all, I didn't know if I'd saved him, killed him, or -- now that I think about it this is worst of all -- maimed him and left him to die in the road.
Best intentions gone astray, I believe. But it was him or me. And I had the car.
Poor little shit.
I was speeding (yes, speeding -- and I have the ticket to prove it) out of the Owens Valley into Death Valley. There wasn't a single car there other than me. And then waaaaaay up ahead, I saw the little speck dart to the middle of the road. So I took my foot off the gas. I gripped the wheel. I was closing in fast, and I didn't know how this was going to work out.
If I hit it, I'd turn it into a smear. If I swerved, I'd run the risk of going off the road.
So I began cursing at it.
"Get OFF the ROAD you lousy little son of a BITCH. Get OFF. DON'T make me KILL you, YOU STUPID STUPID MOTHERCOCKSUCKING BASTARD."
Like that would work.
And then it skittered back to the very center of my lane.
Very carefully, I aligned the car. Fine. If the damn thing had a death wish, I was going to help out as little as possible (you thought I was going to try to smush it, didn't you?). Instead, I set up to straddle the little beast. At 60 miles an hour. He stayed perfectly still and beadily watched me bear down on him. I held my breath, white-knuckled the steering wheel and whoosh! I was over and past him.
And when I looked into my rearview mirror, I saw his fuzzy gray body airborne and rolling like a frickin' stock car that got bumped and lost it in the turn. The tail whipped like one of those jaunty corkscrew windsocks.
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. After all, I didn't know if I'd saved him, killed him, or -- now that I think about it this is worst of all -- maimed him and left him to die in the road.
Best intentions gone astray, I believe. But it was him or me. And I had the car.
Poor little shit.
6.19.2007
Two-and-a-half cases (Part 1 of the trip)
Wine. That's how much I brought home on Sunday, not how much I drank.
I think I may have only been personally responsible for half a case, between tastings and dinners and such. Not to mention the post-golf beers and the vodka tonics.
Zowie.
Before I get into some of the specifics, I have to endlessly praise three vineyards: Terre Rouge/Easton, Twisted Oak, and Hatcher. Oh, there was much loveliness in their cool, damp, dim tasting rooms. If you can find any of their beauties on your local wine list, by all means drink up. You won't go wrong.
If you're interested in more detailed recommendations, drop me a line. I'll be happy to point you toward the real goodies.
Miles and I took off on Thursday morning and drove up US-95 through the dicey Nevada ex-boomtowns of Beatty, Goldfield and Tonopah. Each has its mining past, and each is now populated with hangers-on with very little to hang on to. Don't get me wrong. I've seen many small towns, past their prime, where I would love to live. In these Nevada towns, though, the air is hot, dusty, and there's little interest in preserving their rich histories. On each main drag, the century-old hotels were side-by-side with rundown cottages and dirt lots filled with rusted-out junk.
It was so sad, and so Nevada. Out of all the places I've been, Nevada (because of all its open space, maybe? is everything here disposable because you can just pick up and go somewhere nicer and newer?) is the least interested in preservation. Las Vegas implodes its old buildings. The rural towns just let time do its work.
Out of Tonopah, we began climbing. Mountain ranges seemed to come, one after another. One was full of yucca trees. Another was studded with gorgeous, indestructible Bristlecone pines. Not long after, we were heading up to Tioga Pass and over into Yosemite.
Here's how much of a National Forest geek I am: even those brown signs with place names and arrows make me happy. "Tuolumne Meadows," "Tenaya Lake," "Tamarack Flat," all in that soothing, rich cocoa color. It couldn't have been more than 80 degrees outside, and Miles and I gratefully rolled down our windows. Forest air is one of my favorite things of all. Cool, dense, fresh . . . so lovely. I pulled out the camera and wildly snapped photos. We'll have to see if any came out. I do think I was able to catch the backside of Half Dome.
Once out of the park, it was another haul to hook up with Highway 49, the road that cuts through the middle of Gold Country.
49? Get it? 49ers? Ha.
Gold Country landscape is really strange. Very hilly -- hills are rolling all over the place -- and every hill is covered in a combination of these things: tall, golden grasses; bright green vineyards; scrubby trees; horses; and cows. Honestly, with those crazy gold grasses, the whole region looks like tinder. And yet, this is some of the richest ground anywhere. It's dark, fragrant and fertile.
I noticed this when I saw the gardens in each little town. Everything was flowering -- the shrubs, the trees, vines clinging everywhere –- all these colors just popping out. For a desert girl, this is exotica.
So it's no wonder I love this area. Each old mining town has tried to preserve its historic district. Now, the tiny buildings house shops and antique stores and restaurants. They thrive. And in every spare corner, dripping from every fence, hanging from the rooftops, something is alive and growing and gorgeous.
Later that evening, I stood outside the back door of the Iron Horse Saloon in Sonora. The hills rose above town and I could see a brick-red church steeple. Those golden grasses were even more, well, golden. The trees were dark, whispery greens. There was, of all things, a "Shannon's Barber Shop" across the street right next door to a wine bar, and I had a nice, easy buzz on.
And that's how we started our vacation.
I think I may have only been personally responsible for half a case, between tastings and dinners and such. Not to mention the post-golf beers and the vodka tonics.
Zowie.
Before I get into some of the specifics, I have to endlessly praise three vineyards: Terre Rouge/Easton, Twisted Oak, and Hatcher. Oh, there was much loveliness in their cool, damp, dim tasting rooms. If you can find any of their beauties on your local wine list, by all means drink up. You won't go wrong.
If you're interested in more detailed recommendations, drop me a line. I'll be happy to point you toward the real goodies.
Miles and I took off on Thursday morning and drove up US-95 through the dicey Nevada ex-boomtowns of Beatty, Goldfield and Tonopah. Each has its mining past, and each is now populated with hangers-on with very little to hang on to. Don't get me wrong. I've seen many small towns, past their prime, where I would love to live. In these Nevada towns, though, the air is hot, dusty, and there's little interest in preserving their rich histories. On each main drag, the century-old hotels were side-by-side with rundown cottages and dirt lots filled with rusted-out junk.
It was so sad, and so Nevada. Out of all the places I've been, Nevada (because of all its open space, maybe? is everything here disposable because you can just pick up and go somewhere nicer and newer?) is the least interested in preservation. Las Vegas implodes its old buildings. The rural towns just let time do its work.
Out of Tonopah, we began climbing. Mountain ranges seemed to come, one after another. One was full of yucca trees. Another was studded with gorgeous, indestructible Bristlecone pines. Not long after, we were heading up to Tioga Pass and over into Yosemite.
Here's how much of a National Forest geek I am: even those brown signs with place names and arrows make me happy. "Tuolumne Meadows," "Tenaya Lake," "Tamarack Flat," all in that soothing, rich cocoa color. It couldn't have been more than 80 degrees outside, and Miles and I gratefully rolled down our windows. Forest air is one of my favorite things of all. Cool, dense, fresh . . . so lovely. I pulled out the camera and wildly snapped photos. We'll have to see if any came out. I do think I was able to catch the backside of Half Dome.
Once out of the park, it was another haul to hook up with Highway 49, the road that cuts through the middle of Gold Country.
49? Get it? 49ers? Ha.
Gold Country landscape is really strange. Very hilly -- hills are rolling all over the place -- and every hill is covered in a combination of these things: tall, golden grasses; bright green vineyards; scrubby trees; horses; and cows. Honestly, with those crazy gold grasses, the whole region looks like tinder. And yet, this is some of the richest ground anywhere. It's dark, fragrant and fertile.
I noticed this when I saw the gardens in each little town. Everything was flowering -- the shrubs, the trees, vines clinging everywhere –- all these colors just popping out. For a desert girl, this is exotica.
So it's no wonder I love this area. Each old mining town has tried to preserve its historic district. Now, the tiny buildings house shops and antique stores and restaurants. They thrive. And in every spare corner, dripping from every fence, hanging from the rooftops, something is alive and growing and gorgeous.
Later that evening, I stood outside the back door of the Iron Horse Saloon in Sonora. The hills rose above town and I could see a brick-red church steeple. Those golden grasses were even more, well, golden. The trees were dark, whispery greens. There was, of all things, a "Shannon's Barber Shop" across the street right next door to a wine bar, and I had a nice, easy buzz on.
And that's how we started our vacation.
6.13.2007
I'm leaving
Again, you ask? But Shannon, dearest, you just got back.
Oh, but this time I'm going on a little trip. Tomorrow morning, Miles and I will be taking my little Honda Fit up to Sonora, CA. This is Gold Country, where all the 49ers came to make their fortune. Today, there's less mining and more wining.
(groan)
Every year, we head up to this lovely part of the world, covered in small towns and small Zinfandel wineries, for a golf tournament called the Wine Bottle Open. The tournament is, thank heavens, a Best Ball format. Which means that I don't have to play my real score. Which is often un-countable because, at the more difficult times during the round, I'll pick up my ball and throw it where it's supposed to go. It's really more efficient that way, even if it is illegal.
The main point of the weekend is to go on wine tastings in an area much more laid-back than Napa, drink in some 150-year-old saloons, and hang out with a lot of good people.
So off I go. Back Sunday. Regaining consciousness Monday.
Have a great weekend.
Oh, but this time I'm going on a little trip. Tomorrow morning, Miles and I will be taking my little Honda Fit up to Sonora, CA. This is Gold Country, where all the 49ers came to make their fortune. Today, there's less mining and more wining.
(groan)
Every year, we head up to this lovely part of the world, covered in small towns and small Zinfandel wineries, for a golf tournament called the Wine Bottle Open. The tournament is, thank heavens, a Best Ball format. Which means that I don't have to play my real score. Which is often un-countable because, at the more difficult times during the round, I'll pick up my ball and throw it where it's supposed to go. It's really more efficient that way, even if it is illegal.
The main point of the weekend is to go on wine tastings in an area much more laid-back than Napa, drink in some 150-year-old saloons, and hang out with a lot of good people.
So off I go. Back Sunday. Regaining consciousness Monday.
Have a great weekend.
6.12.2007
6.11.2007
Like, Oh My GAWD!
I'm famous.
Not FAMOUS famous. Not even mildly famous. But I have an IMDB credit for my work on my friend Michael's short film.
It's screening at CineVegas this week, so on Wednesday afternoon, I'll be sitting in a movie theater cringing at the sound of my own voice, reproduced in big, blazing surround. Wheeeeeee!
You can check out more on the movie here:
The Bet main page
The Bet MySpace page
Not FAMOUS famous. Not even mildly famous. But I have an IMDB credit for my work on my friend Michael's short film.
It's screening at CineVegas this week, so on Wednesday afternoon, I'll be sitting in a movie theater cringing at the sound of my own voice, reproduced in big, blazing surround. Wheeeeeee!
You can check out more on the movie here:
The Bet main page
The Bet MySpace page
5.29.2007
Anything happen while I was gone?
Two weeks ago, my laptop took a big, steaming dump. Stupid thing.
Much as I would have LOVED to just buy a new one, such things aren't possible. But, Apple was nice about it (shockingly enough). For a flat fee of $300, I got a new logic board and a new AirPort card -- repairs that, if I'd tried to have some "authorized reseller" do them, would have cost me almost $1,000.
Sometimes, when something sucks to a much smaller degree than you anticipated, you can feel really lucky.
And now I'm here, on my couch, happily typing away.
Normalcy is seeping back. Boy, am I happy to see it.
Much as I would have LOVED to just buy a new one, such things aren't possible. But, Apple was nice about it (shockingly enough). For a flat fee of $300, I got a new logic board and a new AirPort card -- repairs that, if I'd tried to have some "authorized reseller" do them, would have cost me almost $1,000.
Sometimes, when something sucks to a much smaller degree than you anticipated, you can feel really lucky.
And now I'm here, on my couch, happily typing away.
Normalcy is seeping back. Boy, am I happy to see it.
4.28.2007
Hemangiosarcoma
That's the monster that took my Cassie from me this morning.
Her spleen had ruptured, and she'd been bleeding internally all night. She couldn't have withstood surgery. She was a 10-year-old Golden Retriever, and the breed's #1 killer is cancer.
She was my companion, my baby, and one of the largest joys in my life. At 10:30 this morning, she died with her head in my lap, much like she'd spent most of her time with me.
I've dealt with the death of people I loved. People who raised me. And yet, this pain is unsupportable. My pupski. My pain in the ass. My constant that, I always knew, wouldn't be so constant.
They go before you. I know that. But now, as I put away her food dishes, beds, bones and toys and struggle to sweep up all that blonde hair, I have a gaping wound inside me.
Here is a picture from just last year, after she'd laid in the backyard sprinklers and then came in to dry off. I laughed so hard. I loved her so much.
Goodbye, my girl.
Her spleen had ruptured, and she'd been bleeding internally all night. She couldn't have withstood surgery. She was a 10-year-old Golden Retriever, and the breed's #1 killer is cancer.
She was my companion, my baby, and one of the largest joys in my life. At 10:30 this morning, she died with her head in my lap, much like she'd spent most of her time with me.
I've dealt with the death of people I loved. People who raised me. And yet, this pain is unsupportable. My pupski. My pain in the ass. My constant that, I always knew, wouldn't be so constant.
They go before you. I know that. But now, as I put away her food dishes, beds, bones and toys and struggle to sweep up all that blonde hair, I have a gaping wound inside me.
Here is a picture from just last year, after she'd laid in the backyard sprinklers and then came in to dry off. I laughed so hard. I loved her so much.
Goodbye, my girl.
4.17.2007
The Art Director's Pain . . .
. . . set to music.
The Copywriter's equivalent? Exclamation points. Whenever something I wrote comes back from the client riddled with exclamation points (or, as we call them around my office, dog cocks), I want to scream.
For example, I'll do something like this:
The [insert hotel name here] invites you to shake your moneymaker for $300,000.
It'll come back like this:
The [insert hotel name here] invites you to shake your moneymaker for $300,000!!
Was the $300,000 not exciting enough before? And why two dog cocks? Does that literally double your excitement at the prospect of $300,000? Maybe getting you $600,000 worth?
If there's one thing I've learned, it's that you don't need to scream at people to get your point across. And if you need to yell that loudly, then your product isn't that great to begin with.
So there!!
The Copywriter's equivalent? Exclamation points. Whenever something I wrote comes back from the client riddled with exclamation points (or, as we call them around my office, dog cocks), I want to scream.
For example, I'll do something like this:
The [insert hotel name here] invites you to shake your moneymaker for $300,000.
It'll come back like this:
The [insert hotel name here] invites you to shake your moneymaker for $300,000!!
Was the $300,000 not exciting enough before? And why two dog cocks? Does that literally double your excitement at the prospect of $300,000? Maybe getting you $600,000 worth?
If there's one thing I've learned, it's that you don't need to scream at people to get your point across. And if you need to yell that loudly, then your product isn't that great to begin with.
So there!!
4.12.2007
4.10.2007
And so it begins
When Steve Sax threw out the first pitch and didn't throw it into the stands, you could tell it was going to be a long day.
So the Dodgers' opening weekend sweep of San Francisco was probably the last best moments of the whole season. At least I know what to expect.
sob
So the Dodgers' opening weekend sweep of San Francisco was probably the last best moments of the whole season. At least I know what to expect.
sob
4.09.2007
Get off my lawn
I'm 38 today.
Every year since the age of 33, as my birthday has approached, I've felt myself start to drag a little. Question myself more. Wonder who I am on a daily basis. I sleep less, because my mind churns every time the lights go out. And I wonder why that one day has made me feel that way.
It's not as if I'm a drastically different person on the morning of April 9th. My life has gone on, just as always. I get up. I work. I go home. My bills are still there. My dog still needs to be fed. There's still laundry to do and countertops to clean. Today is no different, except that today I get cake.
I've noticed more gray hair. They're those "resistant" grays that will soon require a professional color job, should I choose to keep hiding them. I seem to be buying better (or more expensive) eye creams. And I wonder when my attitude will start to reflect the number.
So far, it hasn't. I love to play video games and watch cartoons. I love devising semi-hazardous experiments using the microwave. I tell gross jokes and I laugh every time someone says "balls" or "box." Some of my t-shirts say things that would get me kicked out of PTA meetings. I burp, loudly, to make my son giggle. My last couple of book purchases have been Japanese manga and I've downloaded a lot more 70's punk rock lately.
Every birthday, the divide within myself seems greater. The older I get, the more I advance in my profession, the more responsible I become in society, the younger I act. Is this rebellion? Am I rebelling against myself or simply trying to be myself despite my age?
Every year, I try to just take a breath and let it be. But we all know that finding acceptance among others is much easier than finding it within yourself.
I'm happy to have this problem, really. As far as crises go, this one is mild. Its persistence drives me a little nutty, but I feel like the day I've reconciled the number with the attitude -- the day I begin to "act my age" -- I will have lost so much of who I am. I know that.
So, today, as I celebrate another birthday and look down the barrel of 40, I'm going to take a deep breath and let it be. And then have cake.
Every year since the age of 33, as my birthday has approached, I've felt myself start to drag a little. Question myself more. Wonder who I am on a daily basis. I sleep less, because my mind churns every time the lights go out. And I wonder why that one day has made me feel that way.
It's not as if I'm a drastically different person on the morning of April 9th. My life has gone on, just as always. I get up. I work. I go home. My bills are still there. My dog still needs to be fed. There's still laundry to do and countertops to clean. Today is no different, except that today I get cake.
I've noticed more gray hair. They're those "resistant" grays that will soon require a professional color job, should I choose to keep hiding them. I seem to be buying better (or more expensive) eye creams. And I wonder when my attitude will start to reflect the number.
So far, it hasn't. I love to play video games and watch cartoons. I love devising semi-hazardous experiments using the microwave. I tell gross jokes and I laugh every time someone says "balls" or "box." Some of my t-shirts say things that would get me kicked out of PTA meetings. I burp, loudly, to make my son giggle. My last couple of book purchases have been Japanese manga and I've downloaded a lot more 70's punk rock lately.
Every birthday, the divide within myself seems greater. The older I get, the more I advance in my profession, the more responsible I become in society, the younger I act. Is this rebellion? Am I rebelling against myself or simply trying to be myself despite my age?
Every year, I try to just take a breath and let it be. But we all know that finding acceptance among others is much easier than finding it within yourself.
I'm happy to have this problem, really. As far as crises go, this one is mild. Its persistence drives me a little nutty, but I feel like the day I've reconciled the number with the attitude -- the day I begin to "act my age" -- I will have lost so much of who I am. I know that.
So, today, as I celebrate another birthday and look down the barrel of 40, I'm going to take a deep breath and let it be. And then have cake.
2.26.2007
Something pretty
The days fly. At first there was only one, then two, which made a week, then two, and on until it's been more than a month. Where have I been? What has kept my attention? I could say, "life," and that would seem to explain it all. And yet, it hasn't seemed like enough. Especially today. When, after another mind-numbing day at work, another hurried dinner and more homework and laundry, I decide to go somewhere I haven't been in ages.
Poets.org
And I find out that one of my favorites is celebrating his hundredth birthday. Or at least he would, if he were still alive.
W.H. Auden.
I can't find the words to explain why I love his work so much. Especially since his words are so much better than my own.
The More Loving One
by W. H. Auden
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
Somehow, there should always be time for the pretty things: poetry, friendship, love. And yet those are the first things to go when you're just trying to get through a chain of days.
But today, there was time for something pretty. And I feel much more like myself again.
Poets.org
And I find out that one of my favorites is celebrating his hundredth birthday. Or at least he would, if he were still alive.
W.H. Auden.
I can't find the words to explain why I love his work so much. Especially since his words are so much better than my own.
The More Loving One
by W. H. Auden
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
Somehow, there should always be time for the pretty things: poetry, friendship, love. And yet those are the first things to go when you're just trying to get through a chain of days.
But today, there was time for something pretty. And I feel much more like myself again.
1.16.2007
Decisions, decisions
I can't decide whether I'm still blogging or not. My posting certainly can't get more infrequent than this.
I could say that work's been in the way. And that's true. It's been terrifically busy here, but I used to be able to blog around it.
Honestly, I feel as if I've said too much about my family here. And the crappier this world gets, the more inclined I am to just take the ones dear to me and hide. There's a line there, somewhere, and I haven't found it. It's going to be a strange process, figuring out what I want this blog to be. I'm not stopping. But until I can post regularly, and be comfortable with what I'm saying out here, it's going to be pretty spotty.
For those that check in, thank you. I'm glad you've been here to offer your support and comments and humor. I'll still be at your places. Pints' Friday Fuck Off is an especially lovely spot.
Until then.
Shan
I could say that work's been in the way. And that's true. It's been terrifically busy here, but I used to be able to blog around it.
Honestly, I feel as if I've said too much about my family here. And the crappier this world gets, the more inclined I am to just take the ones dear to me and hide. There's a line there, somewhere, and I haven't found it. It's going to be a strange process, figuring out what I want this blog to be. I'm not stopping. But until I can post regularly, and be comfortable with what I'm saying out here, it's going to be pretty spotty.
For those that check in, thank you. I'm glad you've been here to offer your support and comments and humor. I'll still be at your places. Pints' Friday Fuck Off is an especially lovely spot.
Until then.
Shan
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