So, needless to say, I joined the ranks of the idiot drivers on the road this afternoon, slowly making my home. And in lieu of bitching and complaining, I'm going to thank everyone that helped me as I will never have another opportunity:
To the lady that crawled under my car to attach a chain and pulled my Jeep up a hill with her giant 4x4 diesel truck, to the man that pushed my car out of a rut on Markham, to the man that let me pee in his house when I ran off the road into his yard, to the woman who took me back to her house, fed me cookies and coffee, gave me warm dry socks and a pair of waterproof snow boots, to the couple that hitched a ride and ended up pushing my car a half dozen times, to that same guy that let me pee in house for bracing the snow and ice to help me and others by pushing my car up a hill and wishing me a merry christmas, to the gentleman who got out his Lexus SUV to push my car around the corner and onto University Ave, to the guy on skis on Kavanaugh for taking off his skis and pushing my car across the intersection and to my mother, who was the first person I talked to once I got cell service on my way home and listened to me scream obscenities and cry like a four-year-old when it took me 11 tries to get up the St. Charles hill and onto Nappa Valley....
To everyone that helped or got out of the way of a scared-shitless girl driving a (unfortunately) rear-wheel drive black Jeep that insisted upon fishtailing, spinning wheels and backsliding at every opportunity, THANK YOU, BLESS YOU AND THANK YOU A MILLION TIMES OVER.
I hope Santa brings them everything thing they want and then some. :)
I'm just glad I'm home, all my limbs are attached, and I live within walking distance of US Pizza, Kroger and a liqour store. Whoo hoo!
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Monday, December 20, 2004
She's got skills (or not)
After the brilliant turkey-cooking for Faux Thanksgiving, I figured I was a certified kitchen goddess. Because, naturally, if one has the skills to make a giant turkey, one has the skills to cook anything else one's heart my desire.
So tonight I tried my hand at chicken and dumplings.
My mother left a small chicken in the freezer a couple of weeks ago when she came up to visit my poor sickly mono-infested little brother. So in lieu of spending my non-existent funds on a deep-fried grease-marinated slab of beef, I decided I would make some good ol' home cooked food.
First, I took the chicken out of the freezer. It was wrapped in plastic, so I pulled off what I could and sawed off the bits that stuck on. Then I found a large pot and filled it halfway with water, slicing up onions and celery to flavor the broth. Then I put the rock of a chicken into the pan, sprinkled it with salt and pepper and covered it with a lid.
One hour later it still seemed a bit frosty and crunchy when I shoved a fork in the side, so I decided that it probably needed to cook at little bit more.
Another hour later and the fork test is still not going well. Random pieces appear to be cooked and succulent. Other pieces appear to be... not so cooked. And slightly oozey.
Another half an hour later (all whilst my stomach is munching happily on my spleen) and the chicken is exuding an offbeat sort of odor. Sort of a burnt chicken-ass smell.
So I remove the chicken and place it on a cookie sheet. I pull off what pieces seem to be cooked and place them back in the broth. I then make the dumplings.
A more apt word has never been found to describe these dumplings. 'Dumplings' pretty much covers it. I don't think I added enough milk. Or maybe I didn't cook them right. Some were deliciously light and fluffy.. albeit flavored with sketchy burnt chicken broth. Others were mushy and gooey and just plain weird.
Overall: I suck. and not in a good way.
In retrospect, the chicken should probably not have been a giant block of ice when I started cooking it. And I probably should have added more water when the water boiled down to a dark brown substance. Maybe I shouldn't have started with something so complicated. I'm going back to the basics: Rice a Roni, Ramen noodles and indivudually frozen, microwaveable chicken breast strips. Can't go wrong.
So tonight I tried my hand at chicken and dumplings.
My mother left a small chicken in the freezer a couple of weeks ago when she came up to visit my poor sickly mono-infested little brother. So in lieu of spending my non-existent funds on a deep-fried grease-marinated slab of beef, I decided I would make some good ol' home cooked food.
First, I took the chicken out of the freezer. It was wrapped in plastic, so I pulled off what I could and sawed off the bits that stuck on. Then I found a large pot and filled it halfway with water, slicing up onions and celery to flavor the broth. Then I put the rock of a chicken into the pan, sprinkled it with salt and pepper and covered it with a lid.
One hour later it still seemed a bit frosty and crunchy when I shoved a fork in the side, so I decided that it probably needed to cook at little bit more.
Another hour later and the fork test is still not going well. Random pieces appear to be cooked and succulent. Other pieces appear to be... not so cooked. And slightly oozey.
Another half an hour later (all whilst my stomach is munching happily on my spleen) and the chicken is exuding an offbeat sort of odor. Sort of a burnt chicken-ass smell.
So I remove the chicken and place it on a cookie sheet. I pull off what pieces seem to be cooked and place them back in the broth. I then make the dumplings.
A more apt word has never been found to describe these dumplings. 'Dumplings' pretty much covers it. I don't think I added enough milk. Or maybe I didn't cook them right. Some were deliciously light and fluffy.. albeit flavored with sketchy burnt chicken broth. Others were mushy and gooey and just plain weird.
Overall: I suck. and not in a good way.
In retrospect, the chicken should probably not have been a giant block of ice when I started cooking it. And I probably should have added more water when the water boiled down to a dark brown substance. Maybe I shouldn't have started with something so complicated. I'm going back to the basics: Rice a Roni, Ramen noodles and indivudually frozen, microwaveable chicken breast strips. Can't go wrong.
Sunday, December 19, 2004
Blurp
Today was a beautiful (if cold) day. I spent it finishing up a book, reading another one and sleeping. A lot.
Was completely unable to function outside of the realm of my feather mattress until I made a run to Nu Fun Ree, the chinese food place around the corner. Granted, I could have walked. Possibly might have counter-acted the order of cheese wontons I ate-- but what would've been the fun in that? So I rolled my shady-looking self into the car and drove 6 blocks to place an order for broccoli chicken and cheese wontons. And then drove six blocks back home (thanking the good Lord all the way that I had not run into anyone I knew), plopped my ass on my brother's 70's era brown velour couch and inhaled a good 40,000 calories in chinese food. But boy was it yummy.
And now I'm confined to the house for the night as I have no plans of making myself look even moderately attractive i.e. bathing, brushing hair, finding clothes that match, etc.
No telling when I'll get to sleep tonight as I spent most of the day in a comatose or semi-comatose state. I did have some vaguely interesting dreams though. Not sure if it's the whole sleeping during the daytime thing or if the vitamis I've been taking are messing with my neurotransmitters... but here's a quick rundown:
1) Dreamed I was at the office Christmas party, dressed in jeans, a black t-shirt and a piece of gold sparkalie cloth wrapped around my waist, sarong-like. The cloth I actually bought last night at Hobby Lobby, unable to resist the glinting-loveliness of it. So I know where that idea came from. But in the dream everyone was dressed up in cocktail outfits, tuxedos and the like. I was unconcerned that I was dressed in some weird get-up, eating mini shrimp and drinking champagne cocktails. I caught a glimpse of myself in a window and saw that I was wearing shiny red antlers on my head (very Bridget Jones-esque). Though there was no karaoke machine to emabarras myself on, I did do a back-handspring after there was talk of having a gymnastic competition...... WTF? Gymnastic competition at office Xmas party? Am I on crack? My co-workers seemed somewhat impressed with my skills until some girl (completely unrecognizable) did some fancy schmancy Olympic-like routine and ended up sitting cross-legged in the chadelier three stories above us. ??????
2) Dreamed was driving around my neighborhood with Kasi in the passenger seat trying to force me to listen to some obscure band and in mid-argument over the CD player, I ran over my Dillards friend. As in, ran over him with my CAR. Felt the bump and EVERYTHING. So I get out of my car and he's lying directly under the vehicle, untouched by any of the wheels. But he sho' wasn't movin'. Scared to death, Kasi and I pull him out from under the car and get him on one of those rolly cart things that mechanics slide under your car on. Where the rolly thing came from, I have no idea. But anyway, no one thinks to call the ambulance and eventually we're all on rolly cart things careening down the hill. ?????
3) Dreamed I was on the doctors table and there were tons of doctors standing around, all dressed in white, all very sterile. On the outskirts of the doctors are lots of random people I know-- mostly kids from when I lived in Mississippi that I haven't seen in years, a couple of girls from college classes that I never liked and even that random guy that I went on a date with a couple of months ago- the Volvo guy that was wearing weird underoos. So anyway, one of them says, "We're going to have to remove them." I start screaming in my head but I can't get any words out. Then, wham bam thank ya mam, someone's holding MY OVARIES up under a light and saying "yep, it's a good thing we got those out." WTF were people doing with my ovaries? Leave that shit alone, assholes! Very strange dream.....
Yeah. So that was my day. I'm a little disturbed by the above dreams and the ones I didn't right down but are still bumbling around in my head like a bad acid trip. Not that I've ever done acid. I'm just assuming. Anyway. Going to go find something productive to do until Desperate Housewives comes on. Yippety do dah.
Office quote of the day: "Damn it feels good to be a gangsta."
Was completely unable to function outside of the realm of my feather mattress until I made a run to Nu Fun Ree, the chinese food place around the corner. Granted, I could have walked. Possibly might have counter-acted the order of cheese wontons I ate-- but what would've been the fun in that? So I rolled my shady-looking self into the car and drove 6 blocks to place an order for broccoli chicken and cheese wontons. And then drove six blocks back home (thanking the good Lord all the way that I had not run into anyone I knew), plopped my ass on my brother's 70's era brown velour couch and inhaled a good 40,000 calories in chinese food. But boy was it yummy.
And now I'm confined to the house for the night as I have no plans of making myself look even moderately attractive i.e. bathing, brushing hair, finding clothes that match, etc.
No telling when I'll get to sleep tonight as I spent most of the day in a comatose or semi-comatose state. I did have some vaguely interesting dreams though. Not sure if it's the whole sleeping during the daytime thing or if the vitamis I've been taking are messing with my neurotransmitters... but here's a quick rundown:
1) Dreamed I was at the office Christmas party, dressed in jeans, a black t-shirt and a piece of gold sparkalie cloth wrapped around my waist, sarong-like. The cloth I actually bought last night at Hobby Lobby, unable to resist the glinting-loveliness of it. So I know where that idea came from. But in the dream everyone was dressed up in cocktail outfits, tuxedos and the like. I was unconcerned that I was dressed in some weird get-up, eating mini shrimp and drinking champagne cocktails. I caught a glimpse of myself in a window and saw that I was wearing shiny red antlers on my head (very Bridget Jones-esque). Though there was no karaoke machine to emabarras myself on, I did do a back-handspring after there was talk of having a gymnastic competition...... WTF? Gymnastic competition at office Xmas party? Am I on crack? My co-workers seemed somewhat impressed with my skills until some girl (completely unrecognizable) did some fancy schmancy Olympic-like routine and ended up sitting cross-legged in the chadelier three stories above us. ??????
2) Dreamed was driving around my neighborhood with Kasi in the passenger seat trying to force me to listen to some obscure band and in mid-argument over the CD player, I ran over my Dillards friend. As in, ran over him with my CAR. Felt the bump and EVERYTHING. So I get out of my car and he's lying directly under the vehicle, untouched by any of the wheels. But he sho' wasn't movin'. Scared to death, Kasi and I pull him out from under the car and get him on one of those rolly cart things that mechanics slide under your car on. Where the rolly thing came from, I have no idea. But anyway, no one thinks to call the ambulance and eventually we're all on rolly cart things careening down the hill. ?????
3) Dreamed I was on the doctors table and there were tons of doctors standing around, all dressed in white, all very sterile. On the outskirts of the doctors are lots of random people I know-- mostly kids from when I lived in Mississippi that I haven't seen in years, a couple of girls from college classes that I never liked and even that random guy that I went on a date with a couple of months ago- the Volvo guy that was wearing weird underoos. So anyway, one of them says, "We're going to have to remove them." I start screaming in my head but I can't get any words out. Then, wham bam thank ya mam, someone's holding MY OVARIES up under a light and saying "yep, it's a good thing we got those out." WTF were people doing with my ovaries? Leave that shit alone, assholes! Very strange dream.....
Yeah. So that was my day. I'm a little disturbed by the above dreams and the ones I didn't right down but are still bumbling around in my head like a bad acid trip. Not that I've ever done acid. I'm just assuming. Anyway. Going to go find something productive to do until Desperate Housewives comes on. Yippety do dah.
Office quote of the day: "Damn it feels good to be a gangsta."
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
Is that drool on your chin or are you just happy to see me?
Okay. Just saw the video for "Mr. Brightside" by The Killers. I have to say--- Mr. Leadsinger is quite tasty. Totally digging the eyeliner. Mentally fanning self. Wow.
Not normally a fan of dark-haired bad boys. WAIT. (laughter) I'm ALWAYS a fan of dark-haired bad boys. With the exception of ex-Evan and ex-Luke (reddish and blondish hair, respectively) they've all been dark-haired drug dealers, OCD-sufferers, fuckwits, liars, cheaters, etc. Bitter much?
Well, shit. Just finished googling Brandon Flowers, the lead singer. Turns out he's engaged and Mormon. Not very concerned with the engaged thing. I can still lust from afar and flirt atrociously. But Mormon? Had one of those. I'll pass.
Oh well. Will just have to find a new object of my lust.
Am trying to implement new program where objects of lust are not married, engaged or otherwise occupied. Though this takes them out of the objects of lust category. No longer objects if have to actually consider meaningful flirting. Totally safe to drool over ones who will never glance in my direction. May have to go to desperate measures. Have to bring home/be able to talk about a boy when I go home for Christmas. Much discussion in family concerning my sexual preference.
Prefer: boys
And yet... my extended family all think I'm a lezzy. Super. Short of having sex in front of those who have found themselves genetically related to me, I'm not sure how to correct this problem.
Oh well.
Will try to forget The Killers leadsinger is Mormon. Note: Mormon = NOT a turn-on
Not normally a fan of dark-haired bad boys. WAIT. (laughter) I'm ALWAYS a fan of dark-haired bad boys. With the exception of ex-Evan and ex-Luke (reddish and blondish hair, respectively) they've all been dark-haired drug dealers, OCD-sufferers, fuckwits, liars, cheaters, etc. Bitter much?
Well, shit. Just finished googling Brandon Flowers, the lead singer. Turns out he's engaged and Mormon. Not very concerned with the engaged thing. I can still lust from afar and flirt atrociously. But Mormon? Had one of those. I'll pass.
Oh well. Will just have to find a new object of my lust.
Am trying to implement new program where objects of lust are not married, engaged or otherwise occupied. Though this takes them out of the objects of lust category. No longer objects if have to actually consider meaningful flirting. Totally safe to drool over ones who will never glance in my direction. May have to go to desperate measures. Have to bring home/be able to talk about a boy when I go home for Christmas. Much discussion in family concerning my sexual preference.
Prefer: boys
And yet... my extended family all think I'm a lezzy. Super. Short of having sex in front of those who have found themselves genetically related to me, I'm not sure how to correct this problem.
Oh well.
Will try to forget The Killers leadsinger is Mormon. Note: Mormon = NOT a turn-on
If I were a rich girl, na na na na na na na na na na na........
I have $16.88 in my checking account.
This is not good.
I got a fortune cookie at Jasmine's the other night (a lovely meal purchased with my fabulous credit card)-- inside the fortune cookie was, per usual, a fortune.
This one:
"You will soon come into a fortune."
You'll forgive me for being overly analytical, but I'm sure they mean a monetary fortune, right? Not a fortune of love, a fortune of macaroni and cheese, a fortune of bad luck, a fortune of household cleaning supplies... But a fortune. A real one. Money. Moo-la. Dough. Greenbacks.
What I have to do to get this fortune is unclear. It's also unclear how soon the "soon" in the fortune cookie is suggesting. Tomorrow? Next Saturday? On my 30th birthday? In the scheme of eternity, "soon" could mean 50 years from now or, if it's being really obtuse, it could be referring to my genetic makeup, passed along in percentages throughout the future, ending at some great-great-great-great grandchild who carries a small bit of my DNA so graciously passed on to the following generations.
Ugh.
Will spend this evening thinking of money-making schemes. Viable ones. Possibly stripping? No.... I'm pretty sure no one wants to see me in pasties. Selling crack? No, much too easy for me to get caught. And go to jail. Besides, as Whitney Houston says, "Crack is whack." Ummmmm I could waitress. WAIT. I'm sorry. I must have been momentarily blinded by checking account depletion. I hate people. I would get fired as soon as I told someone they could get their own ass up and fetch the ketchup bottle. Thinking..... thinking...... I could sell my cats for scientific research. But I might miss them later. Thinking some more.... and still thinking..... yeah. Can't think of anything. I'd sell my car but then I couldn't drive to work and then I wouldn't have ANY income. I have no jewelry. No trust funds. Oh, to be a trust fund baby. I swear I would have turned out well-adjusted and not overly creepy, clingy and whiny.
Thoughts, anyone?
This is not good.
I got a fortune cookie at Jasmine's the other night (a lovely meal purchased with my fabulous credit card)-- inside the fortune cookie was, per usual, a fortune.
This one:
"You will soon come into a fortune."
You'll forgive me for being overly analytical, but I'm sure they mean a monetary fortune, right? Not a fortune of love, a fortune of macaroni and cheese, a fortune of bad luck, a fortune of household cleaning supplies... But a fortune. A real one. Money. Moo-la. Dough. Greenbacks.
What I have to do to get this fortune is unclear. It's also unclear how soon the "soon" in the fortune cookie is suggesting. Tomorrow? Next Saturday? On my 30th birthday? In the scheme of eternity, "soon" could mean 50 years from now or, if it's being really obtuse, it could be referring to my genetic makeup, passed along in percentages throughout the future, ending at some great-great-great-great grandchild who carries a small bit of my DNA so graciously passed on to the following generations.
Ugh.
Will spend this evening thinking of money-making schemes. Viable ones. Possibly stripping? No.... I'm pretty sure no one wants to see me in pasties. Selling crack? No, much too easy for me to get caught. And go to jail.
Thoughts, anyone?
Monday, December 13, 2004
The Brave
My prayer I say 100 times a day:
Dear Lord, I beg you to bring my friends home safely.
Please don't send them back into peril. Please God, keep them home, send them home, make them whole. Let their wives see a face untroubled by grief, death, despair and anguish. Let their children learn their names in truth and not in abstract. Let their families hug their strong bodies and kiss their gaunt cheeks. Let their friends hold them tight and never let them go.
I bring this up only because I got a phone call from a friend today. Tom-one of my high school pack -and the only one not serving overseas. Everytime he rings I can never bring myself to pick up on the first call. I always hit ignore on my phone. And I sit, terrified beyond all possible belief that someone isn't coming home.
You have to understand, first of all, that the five of us were like the three-plus stooges on crack. Matt-- the beautiful one who insisted on pushing everyone for an extra mile on the run and by my side at every turn. Randall--the sweet one who was always a pushover if a pretty girl showed him affection but the first one to stand up for anyone he cared about. Tom-- the smart one who reined in all of us when we got too rowdy-- preaching strength, determination and always full of faith in everyone around him. Josh-- a year younger than the rest of us but the one that always had a plan. A plan for the weekend, a plan for the summer, a plan for buying a jacuzzi... And me, the one strange girl in the group, loving the friendship of these boys and playing mom, sister and confidante for all manner of raging male eccentricities.
Today there came news of Josh. Josh was in Baghdad. He was sent to an undisclosed location after an "accident" and is now, or so we hear, on his way to the States for more treatment. We know only that it's been 3 months since he was injured and very few people can give us information. Very few people knew he was injured until a few days ago. Me included. We know he was in the way of a large explosion. We know he's lost a lot of hearing, permanent or not, we don't know. We know, however crude this may sound, that his head is not whole. He received a purple heart. He 'was severely injured but recovering.' A lot of his fellow soldiers were killed.
My stomach clenches in knots everytime I think about him. Any of them. But dammit. I chose these boys. I'm selfish and I can't for one second think of being any other way. I've watched these boys grow up. I saw them when they thought jumping into a lake in the middle of January was a good idea. I helped shave heads, chests, backs and legs for various swim meets. I slept crammed in tents with them when we still thought sleeping on the ground was a good idea. They didn't bat an eye when I bawled unattractively over the first boy to screw me over. They got even.
I can't think what's happened to him. I know they're all scared. They'll never admit it. But they are. I hope and pray that Josh isn't alone. That he's got a friend with him. I pray that he's safe. That he doesn't hurt. That he'll be alright.
And finally, my irrational rant at our (in my opinion) unfortunately chosen leader:
I will see you in hell you beady eyed fuck-up. I challenge you to spend 1day doing what your soldiers do-- day in and day out. Come back to your barracks after being out in the field only to find a mortar shell that landed three feet beside your bed. Pick up the arms, legs, and recognizable pieces of your friends so there is something to put in baggies and ship home. Carry around packs that outweigh you. Exist on 6 MRE's a week. Be so covered in dust you're not sure you remember what it feels like to be clean. Be away from your newborn son, whom you've never seen. Send emails to your wife, your mother, your father, your friends. Tell them about the the death you've become so immune to you pray, not for forgiveness, but to be able to feel. Anything. Tell your friends what it was like when you killed your first living soul. And your second. And your third. You tell your friends because you're afraid that your wife would never look at you the same and your mother would die of fear. Do THAT for one day. And I MIGHT listen to your ignorantly conceived speeches and watch your arrogantly smug smiles. Fuck abortion. Fuck taxes. Fuck social security. Fuck the environment. You bring my friends home you fucking bastard.
Dear Lord, I beg you to bring my friends home safely.
Please don't send them back into peril. Please God, keep them home, send them home, make them whole. Let their wives see a face untroubled by grief, death, despair and anguish. Let their children learn their names in truth and not in abstract. Let their families hug their strong bodies and kiss their gaunt cheeks. Let their friends hold them tight and never let them go.
I bring this up only because I got a phone call from a friend today. Tom-one of my high school pack -and the only one not serving overseas. Everytime he rings I can never bring myself to pick up on the first call. I always hit ignore on my phone. And I sit, terrified beyond all possible belief that someone isn't coming home.
You have to understand, first of all, that the five of us were like the three-plus stooges on crack. Matt-- the beautiful one who insisted on pushing everyone for an extra mile on the run and by my side at every turn. Randall--the sweet one who was always a pushover if a pretty girl showed him affection but the first one to stand up for anyone he cared about. Tom-- the smart one who reined in all of us when we got too rowdy-- preaching strength, determination and always full of faith in everyone around him. Josh-- a year younger than the rest of us but the one that always had a plan. A plan for the weekend, a plan for the summer, a plan for buying a jacuzzi... And me, the one strange girl in the group, loving the friendship of these boys and playing mom, sister and confidante for all manner of raging male eccentricities.
Today there came news of Josh. Josh was in Baghdad. He was sent to an undisclosed location after an "accident" and is now, or so we hear, on his way to the States for more treatment. We know only that it's been 3 months since he was injured and very few people can give us information. Very few people knew he was injured until a few days ago. Me included. We know he was in the way of a large explosion. We know he's lost a lot of hearing, permanent or not, we don't know. We know, however crude this may sound, that his head is not whole. He received a purple heart. He 'was severely injured but recovering.' A lot of his fellow soldiers were killed.
My stomach clenches in knots everytime I think about him. Any of them. But dammit. I chose these boys. I'm selfish and I can't for one second think of being any other way. I've watched these boys grow up. I saw them when they thought jumping into a lake in the middle of January was a good idea. I helped shave heads, chests, backs and legs for various swim meets. I slept crammed in tents with them when we still thought sleeping on the ground was a good idea. They didn't bat an eye when I bawled unattractively over the first boy to screw me over. They got even.
I can't think what's happened to him. I know they're all scared. They'll never admit it. But they are. I hope and pray that Josh isn't alone. That he's got a friend with him. I pray that he's safe. That he doesn't hurt. That he'll be alright.
And finally, my irrational rant at our (in my opinion) unfortunately chosen leader:
I will see you in hell you beady eyed fuck-up. I challenge you to spend 1day doing what your soldiers do-- day in and day out. Come back to your barracks after being out in the field only to find a mortar shell that landed three feet beside your bed. Pick up the arms, legs, and recognizable pieces of your friends so there is something to put in baggies and ship home. Carry around packs that outweigh you. Exist on 6 MRE's a week. Be so covered in dust you're not sure you remember what it feels like to be clean. Be away from your newborn son, whom you've never seen. Send emails to your wife, your mother, your father, your friends. Tell them about the the death you've become so immune to you pray, not for forgiveness, but to be able to feel. Anything. Tell your friends what it was like when you killed your first living soul. And your second. And your third. You tell your friends because you're afraid that your wife would never look at you the same and your mother would die of fear. Do THAT for one day. And I MIGHT listen to your ignorantly conceived speeches and watch your arrogantly smug smiles. Fuck abortion. Fuck taxes. Fuck social security. Fuck the environment. You bring my friends home you fucking bastard.
Sunday, December 12, 2004
This Week:
1) Kasi made a misguided attempt to dye her hair red. Kasi is a natural blonde with lots of chemical blond. Done correctly, her pixie-cut blonde hair makes her look like a wide-eyed translucent-skinned beautiful elf. The red hair decision was an attempt that all girls make at times (chop off hair, dye different color, change clothing sytle,etc) to improve their mood. The first attempt found her stumbling down her stairs with eyes full of tears, pulling her hair up away from her head as if to pull off the dye. The dye had, very unfortunately, settled onto her highlighted pieces as sort of a bozo the clown-esque neon orange. The natural parts of her hair were a not-so-subtle James and the Giant Peach-esque color. Very bizarre. Three boxes of hair dye later and we've got an interesting strawberry blond color.
2) Spent five very peaceful lunch hours sitting in my car reading my books. Parking lots are not generally a source of calm for me... but I park way up on the hill so I've got a view of actual trees and nature and shit. Nice breezes, though chilly. And most importantly, no noise or strangers attempting to make useless and aggravating conversation with me. :)
3) Have not made decision on new job. Am trying to be calm, rational and mature and not make rash decision. Seems bearable. Trying not to get hopes up or down and be ambivalent. This way I can neither be disapointed or elated. I am my own Zoloft.
4) Had mild episode in car driving home from work on Friday. Ended up with hives. Per usual. Thank God they went away by Saturday morning.
5) Went to my old college roommates graduation on Saturday. Six and a half years later.... and the girl finally managed to get outta school. ;) Spent the day frolicking about Conway. Found 2 bras in my size (YAY!!! This NEVER happens!!) that were 50% off at one of the random new strip malls that have sprung up out of NOWHERE. Also bought two sparkalie pins that I'm going to pin on my winter coat. Sat around Crystal's house... finally dawned on me that she's MARRIED and the guy that's been hanging around her for 6 years is, in fact, her husband. Very odd. Played with Marci's precious 7-month-old. Briefly re-thought ideas on having kids... then the baby started crying and I started to twitch and realized I am YEARS away from making any kind of decision about having kids. Currently standing firm on being a fabulous Auntie but a deranged Mother.
6) Threw up in the new Mr. Stir Fry in Conway-- previously Taco Express. No likey the bathrooms there. People with ulcers need to be able to vomit in relative cleanliness. Holy Crapola. Listen to me. I am an 80-year old woman. "My ulcers hurt. I get hives. My back hurts. My knees ache when it rains." Next thing you know I'll be buying Metamucil by the case and filing corns off my feet.
7) Volunteered to go to church tomorrow. Okay. I can do this. I can be this person. The person that finds a place of worship that fits my theology as close as possible, has good people and good sermons. Have not done well with this in the past. Ugh. BUT... in my attempt to make things better, I have decided to compile a list of things that I am going to change. And this is one of the things on it. So I'm going to try.
8) Found out my brother has mono. Sweet.
I'm sleepy. I'm sure there were other moderately interesting things that happened. These things really aren't interesting. I'm just delirious with lack of sleep and seek to amuse myself in any way possible. This may also include tying the cats up by their tails as I just heard a very unpleasant crash-like noise from upstairs. Shit. Going to go lay down on my bed with my newly purchased feather mattress (thank you, credit card), down comforter, soft sheets (rigorously bleached-- i love that smell) and warm fuzzy kitties by my feet.
Hago muchas cosas extrañas para guardar de ir insano. Pero espero que esto me ayude.
2) Spent five very peaceful lunch hours sitting in my car reading my books. Parking lots are not generally a source of calm for me... but I park way up on the hill so I've got a view of actual trees and nature and shit. Nice breezes, though chilly. And most importantly, no noise or strangers attempting to make useless and aggravating conversation with me. :)
3) Have not made decision on new job. Am trying to be calm, rational and mature and not make rash decision. Seems bearable. Trying not to get hopes up or down and be ambivalent. This way I can neither be disapointed or elated. I am my own Zoloft.
4) Had mild episode in car driving home from work on Friday. Ended up with hives. Per usual. Thank God they went away by Saturday morning.
5) Went to my old college roommates graduation on Saturday. Six and a half years later.... and the girl finally managed to get outta school. ;) Spent the day frolicking about Conway. Found 2 bras in my size (YAY!!! This NEVER happens!!) that were 50% off at one of the random new strip malls that have sprung up out of NOWHERE. Also bought two sparkalie pins that I'm going to pin on my winter coat. Sat around Crystal's house... finally dawned on me that she's MARRIED and the guy that's been hanging around her for 6 years is, in fact, her husband. Very odd. Played with Marci's precious 7-month-old. Briefly re-thought ideas on having kids... then the baby started crying and I started to twitch and realized I am YEARS away from making any kind of decision about having kids. Currently standing firm on being a fabulous Auntie but a deranged Mother.
6) Threw up in the new Mr. Stir Fry in Conway-- previously Taco Express. No likey the bathrooms there. People with ulcers need to be able to vomit in relative cleanliness. Holy Crapola. Listen to me. I am an 80-year old woman. "My ulcers hurt. I get hives. My back hurts. My knees ache when it rains." Next thing you know I'll be buying Metamucil by the case and filing corns off my feet.
7) Volunteered to go to church tomorrow. Okay. I can do this. I can be this person. The person that finds a place of worship that fits my theology as close as possible, has good people and good sermons. Have not done well with this in the past. Ugh. BUT... in my attempt to make things better, I have decided to compile a list of things that I am going to change. And this is one of the things on it. So I'm going to try.
8) Found out my brother has mono. Sweet.
I'm sleepy. I'm sure there were other moderately interesting things that happened. These things really aren't interesting. I'm just delirious with lack of sleep and seek to amuse myself in any way possible. This may also include tying the cats up by their tails as I just heard a very unpleasant crash-like noise from upstairs. Shit. Going to go lay down on my bed with my newly purchased feather mattress (thank you, credit card), down comforter, soft sheets (rigorously bleached-- i love that smell) and warm fuzzy kitties by my feet.
Hago muchas cosas extrañas para guardar de ir insano. Pero espero que esto me ayude.
Monday, December 06, 2004
New Job Update and Observations
1) I busted-- and I mean BUSTED-- my ass in the office parking lot at 7:55 this morning. I don't know how this shit happens. I really don't.
2) There is a lady in my department that is a little obsessed with her cats. I'm afraid this is what I'll turn into. The frumpy cat lady who smells just a touch like kitty litter who keeps pictures of her precious cats on her desk instead of pictures of humans. And wears sweaters that celebrate the holidays. And has an ass that moves independently of her body. PLEASE. I BEG of you people. WARN ME when I am close to becoming the frumpy cat lady.
3) My boss seems genuinely nice.
4) Cubicle land is not as scary as I thought. At least my desk is close to the window. If all else fails, we're only on the fourth floor. I'm sure I could make it if I had to jump.
5) West Little Rock traffic does not make me happy. I will be happy to get on the 11-8 schedule.
6) My department "buddy" has a really strong cone-try accent. But he seems reasonably well adjusted. Will withold judgment for the time being. :)
7) I do not get paid for a LONG TIME. God Bless Credit Cards.
8) I wore a gold sequin belt for flair.
9) There is a cafeteria inside the building. This is a novel idea. You could eat three meals a day there and never have to leave the office. Leads to much productivity, I'm sure. It kinda smells weird though. Like there's too many foods all together and the walls absorb the foods. Gobble Gobble.
10) and finally, though I did not see my Dillards friend today, I whole-heartedly agree with the description "eyes-glaze over" in reference to the power point presentations. But, coming from experience, I am sincerely glad this place provides training, however boring it may be. Though I'm sure I'll be eating those words in a few days.
Word of the day describing cubicle land: peculiar
2) There is a lady in my department that is a little obsessed with her cats. I'm afraid this is what I'll turn into. The frumpy cat lady who smells just a touch like kitty litter who keeps pictures of her precious cats on her desk instead of pictures of humans. And wears sweaters that celebrate the holidays. And has an ass that moves independently of her body. PLEASE. I BEG of you people. WARN ME when I am close to becoming the frumpy cat lady.
3) My boss seems genuinely nice.
4) Cubicle land is not as scary as I thought. At least my desk is close to the window. If all else fails, we're only on the fourth floor. I'm sure I could make it if I had to jump.
5) West Little Rock traffic does not make me happy. I will be happy to get on the 11-8 schedule.
6) My department "buddy" has a really strong cone-try accent. But he seems reasonably well adjusted. Will withold judgment for the time being. :)
7) I do not get paid for a LONG TIME. God Bless Credit Cards.
8) I wore a gold sequin belt for flair.
9) There is a cafeteria inside the building. This is a novel idea. You could eat three meals a day there and never have to leave the office. Leads to much productivity, I'm sure. It kinda smells weird though. Like there's too many foods all together and the walls absorb the foods. Gobble Gobble.
10) and finally, though I did not see my Dillards friend today, I whole-heartedly agree with the description "eyes-glaze over" in reference to the power point presentations. But, coming from experience, I am sincerely glad this place provides training, however boring it may be. Though I'm sure I'll be eating those words in a few days.
Word of the day describing cubicle land: peculiar
Sunday, December 05, 2004
New Job Starts Tomorrow
Okay. Let's just say I hate first days. Really hate them. As in would sooner insert my finger into a cat's butt than have a first day, a first date, a first conversation, a first ANYTHING.
Why?
Because I was tramatized at a young age. Really terrifying, to be honest. Scarred me for life...
So, here's me in fourth grade: Taller than all the boys, boobs busting out of the 'trainer' bras mum got me at the end of the summer. I've already spent 6 weeks in the slow kids class while the bustling state of Mississippi attempts to read my transcript certifying that I am not, in fact, a 'slow learner.' So finally, after the administration spent weeks of deciphering what must have been SUPER difficult English on my transcript, they put me in the smart kids class. (This being Mississippi, the smart kids class consisted of anyone that could read a few words, recite the alphabet and anyone who happened to be over the age of ten. I mean, if you've failed the fourth grade a few times, you should OBVIOUSLY know what you're doing by now, right?)
Anyway, moving along. They hadn't warned me or my parents about the switch so I wasn't even remotely prepared when they came to take me out of the slow kids trailer. See, the slow kids didn't get actual classrooms. They get trailers. On cement blocks. With plywood for stairs. Super. Yeah. So I obviously had not had time to plan my first day outfit. Something truly necessary to all of the female race. We get up extra early on first days to make sure the hair is perfect, the clothes are pressed and the car has gas. Or, in the case of a 9-year-old, make sure the hair is sprayed into a giant permed matzo ball, the jeans are tightrolled tight enough to cut off circulation to lower extremities and Mom knows to drop you off a block away from school so you can walk in with the cool kids.
But instead, they caught me on a day when Mom had made me brush my perm. Which you are NEVER supposed to do. It destroys the curl. Tragedy, I know. But she made me brush it. Said hair had to be brushed at some point and that mine was starting to look like a rat's nest with bangs. So my hair was frizzy and I had left my pony-tail holder in the car. (The remedy to a bad hair day is always a pony-tail.) I was wearing a pink jumpsuit with a fuzzy dog on the front that had a zipper right between his eyes for a pocket. I HATED this outfit. In fact, I hadn't worn it all school year and, along with the mandatory brushing that morning, Mom had told me I had to wear the pink jumpsuit because she'd spent $40 on it this summer after I'd begged her to buy it. I told Mom that the pink jumpsuit just wasn't COOL in Mississippi like it had been in Texas. All the other girls at Wake Village Elementary had had one of those jumpsuits... But at McLaurin Elementary, all the girls wore tight-rolled jeans. Never jumpsuits. So I've got frizzy hair (big surprise), a really unattractive --and unflattering, I might add-- pink jumpsuit and I'm carrying my pencil holder I had made at home over the weekend. The slow learners had thought I was cool for being so crafty--so I had brought a new pencil holder to school that morning to replace the one I had given to Danielle, my friend in the trailer class. The pencil holder was a can that I had pasted dog ears on and made a three-dimensional nose to glue on the front. It had googly-eyes and a tongue that hung down the bottom. It was bitchin.
So anyway, I get ushered into my new class first thing in the morning. The cutest boy in the class laughed at the dog on my jumpsuit. Started barking. REAL mature... :) All the other girls had sleek blond hair with sprayed bangs. Not permed hair with sprayed bangs. No one had crafty pencil holders. And no one had boobs. Which was unfortunately and painfully obvious as the jumper ended right below my boob line, acting sort of like a lifter for the girls.
The day passes by... I'm shunned at lunch. I don't have any books so I have to share with the 11-year-old girl who's like six feet tall and has a lovely aroma. Eau de Unbathed.
And then. In the last class of the day. I get my period. As in the things 9-year-old girls don't get. As in the thing that Mom hasn't even thought to have 'the conversation' with me about, being as I'm 9-years-old. I don't have the slightest clue what's going on. All I know is something very funny is going on DOWN THERE. So I get up out of my chair when the last bell rings. And the cute boy who barked at my outfit that morning starts screaming that I'm bleeding. All the kids lean in closer, cuz there's nothing cooler than having the new girl bleed. Blood on the chair, blood on my--suddenly very pale-- pink pants.
So the teacher comes over and says, "Ya'll shut up. Ain't nothing to scream over. Ya'lls get on out the door to ya'lls buses. This one here just started her period, that's all."
That's all. Just announce it to everyone. Thanks Mrs. Smith. I see that jerry-curl has done wonders for you.
Anyway. So that's my story. ;) Sad, ain't it?
If anyone sees me on my way to West Little Rock in the morning and I suddenly veer off the road... rest assured, it's only to vomit. Happens every first day.
Why?
Because I was tramatized at a young age. Really terrifying, to be honest. Scarred me for life...
So, here's me in fourth grade: Taller than all the boys, boobs busting out of the 'trainer' bras mum got me at the end of the summer. I've already spent 6 weeks in the slow kids class while the bustling state of Mississippi attempts to read my transcript certifying that I am not, in fact, a 'slow learner.' So finally, after the administration spent weeks of deciphering what must have been SUPER difficult English on my transcript, they put me in the smart kids class. (This being Mississippi, the smart kids class consisted of anyone that could read a few words, recite the alphabet and anyone who happened to be over the age of ten. I mean, if you've failed the fourth grade a few times, you should OBVIOUSLY know what you're doing by now, right?)
Anyway, moving along. They hadn't warned me or my parents about the switch so I wasn't even remotely prepared when they came to take me out of the slow kids trailer. See, the slow kids didn't get actual classrooms. They get trailers. On cement blocks. With plywood for stairs. Super. Yeah. So I obviously had not had time to plan my first day outfit. Something truly necessary to all of the female race. We get up extra early on first days to make sure the hair is perfect, the clothes are pressed and the car has gas. Or, in the case of a 9-year-old, make sure the hair is sprayed into a giant permed matzo ball, the jeans are tightrolled tight enough to cut off circulation to lower extremities and Mom knows to drop you off a block away from school so you can walk in with the cool kids.
But instead, they caught me on a day when Mom had made me brush my perm. Which you are NEVER supposed to do. It destroys the curl. Tragedy, I know. But she made me brush it. Said hair had to be brushed at some point and that mine was starting to look like a rat's nest with bangs. So my hair was frizzy and I had left my pony-tail holder in the car. (The remedy to a bad hair day is always a pony-tail.) I was wearing a pink jumpsuit with a fuzzy dog on the front that had a zipper right between his eyes for a pocket. I HATED this outfit. In fact, I hadn't worn it all school year and, along with the mandatory brushing that morning, Mom had told me I had to wear the pink jumpsuit because she'd spent $40 on it this summer after I'd begged her to buy it. I told Mom that the pink jumpsuit just wasn't COOL in Mississippi like it had been in Texas. All the other girls at Wake Village Elementary had had one of those jumpsuits... But at McLaurin Elementary, all the girls wore tight-rolled jeans. Never jumpsuits. So I've got frizzy hair (big surprise), a really unattractive --and unflattering, I might add-- pink jumpsuit and I'm carrying my pencil holder I had made at home over the weekend. The slow learners had thought I was cool for being so crafty--so I had brought a new pencil holder to school that morning to replace the one I had given to Danielle, my friend in the trailer class. The pencil holder was a can that I had pasted dog ears on and made a three-dimensional nose to glue on the front. It had googly-eyes and a tongue that hung down the bottom. It was bitchin.
So anyway, I get ushered into my new class first thing in the morning. The cutest boy in the class laughed at the dog on my jumpsuit. Started barking. REAL mature... :) All the other girls had sleek blond hair with sprayed bangs. Not permed hair with sprayed bangs. No one had crafty pencil holders. And no one had boobs. Which was unfortunately and painfully obvious as the jumper ended right below my boob line, acting sort of like a lifter for the girls.
The day passes by... I'm shunned at lunch. I don't have any books so I have to share with the 11-year-old girl who's like six feet tall and has a lovely aroma. Eau de Unbathed.
And then. In the last class of the day. I get my period. As in the things 9-year-old girls don't get. As in the thing that Mom hasn't even thought to have 'the conversation' with me about, being as I'm 9-years-old. I don't have the slightest clue what's going on. All I know is something very funny is going on DOWN THERE. So I get up out of my chair when the last bell rings. And the cute boy who barked at my outfit that morning starts screaming that I'm bleeding. All the kids lean in closer, cuz there's nothing cooler than having the new girl bleed. Blood on the chair, blood on my--suddenly very pale-- pink pants.
So the teacher comes over and says, "Ya'll shut up. Ain't nothing to scream over. Ya'lls get on out the door to ya'lls buses. This one here just started her period, that's all."
That's all. Just announce it to everyone. Thanks Mrs. Smith. I see that jerry-curl has done wonders for you.
Anyway. So that's my story. ;) Sad, ain't it?
If anyone sees me on my way to West Little Rock in the morning and I suddenly veer off the road... rest assured, it's only to vomit. Happens every first day.
Friday, December 03, 2004
Dear Fabius,
As always, your letter was received with great pomp and circumstance. My butler Gerome handed it to me but a scant minute ago. I did feel I should immediately respond as you seemed so concerned for my well-being.
To begin, I hope my previous correspondence did not lead you astray. The thoughts that inhabit one’s head do not necessarily jump clearly from pen to paper. I’m sorry if I led you to believe I had no faith in Jesus. For I do. He was a great man, a marvelous man and a man that has inspired quite a few inhabitants of this grand planet to lead spectacularly better lives. I will not argue that the world was in dire need of a living example of pious and charitable life. However, I find your argument for his divinity a little confusing.
What need has God to ascertain our thoughts, our devotions, our daily actions by way of human form? Surely He is cognizant of all these and more. After all, he did Create us, did he not? I wish there were some earthly analogy I could invent to describe the full spectrum of my thoughts on this matter… (but I’ll try.): We cannot say that when man ‘invented’ the airplane that he was mindful of every atom, electron, and element present in the make-up. Nor can we say that we are enlightened with the thoughts careening through the heads of our fellow men. But I cannot at this time assume that God required a human body to better love and understand his creations. From my personal perspective, it seems to diminish my belief in his omnipotence.
My distrust in the system, as you mentioned, is not unfounded. I find the prospect of attending a church at this point in my faithful journey leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I cannot and will not be told of the fiery pit of hell and how I have already obtained my passport. I will also not have another’s philosophy belittled or mocked in my presence. I accept that my faith is my own, possibly, though not necessarily, shared by others. I find it disturbing that so many religions have such similarities and yet so many insist upon burning, raping and pillaging over the interpretations that man has assigned to them. And as such I find it quite hard to readily associate myself with a religious-nomer.
But I digress. What I may have failed to bring to your attention in previous correspondence is that fact that I do have a strong belief system. Bluntly and concisely: I believe in God. I believe God created the heavens, the earthly ferment, the roaming animals, the abounding seas and the blue-print of man. I believe everything has evolved under His guidance. I pray to Him when I am in distress, when I need reassurance, when I request forgiveness, to name a few. I see Him in every aspect of my life and the lives around me—even those who do not believe in His existence. I feel His presence on the most beautiful of days when the trees have turned their leaves, the sky is blue and I have managed to avoid another overdraft fee. I feel His presence on the dreariest of days when the heavens are weeping and the ground is sodden and my overdraft fees abound. I feel His presence when I watch a child in the ER cling to his mother in confusion and pain. I watch His love move through the hands of the couple sitting in the ER with their child, complete in their faith that God will see them through.
But now that my faith has been in place for two full hands worth of years, I can look back and see the many ideas and philosophies that I have tried to add to my faith and either discarded or welcomed. Your faith is no more or less important than mine. What’s important is that we both recognize the significance God plays in our lives, whether we want Him to or not. We both, to varying degrees, follow the teachings of great men that we have welcomed into our lives—be it Jesus or a mentor or others of importance. And we both recognize the need for guidance amongst our peers.
Though I must add a sidenote that while my faith does not waver, there are always areas in which I could learn more about the smaller bits that so make up the larger picture. I enjoy your comments and always glean insight from your convictions.
Lastly, dearest Fabius, my comments are meant to spark discussion, not tempers. I hope this letter clarified my position on religion and a few of the intricacies that prevail.
And I, like you, do so enjoy our correspondence and hope that destiny sees fit to continue it.
Fondly,
Sally
________________
Possibly a bit of Childhood's End, Screwtape and various and asundry other works. Ragamuffin Gospel duly noted.
As always, your letter was received with great pomp and circumstance. My butler Gerome handed it to me but a scant minute ago. I did feel I should immediately respond as you seemed so concerned for my well-being.
To begin, I hope my previous correspondence did not lead you astray. The thoughts that inhabit one’s head do not necessarily jump clearly from pen to paper. I’m sorry if I led you to believe I had no faith in Jesus. For I do. He was a great man, a marvelous man and a man that has inspired quite a few inhabitants of this grand planet to lead spectacularly better lives. I will not argue that the world was in dire need of a living example of pious and charitable life. However, I find your argument for his divinity a little confusing.
What need has God to ascertain our thoughts, our devotions, our daily actions by way of human form? Surely He is cognizant of all these and more. After all, he did Create us, did he not? I wish there were some earthly analogy I could invent to describe the full spectrum of my thoughts on this matter… (but I’ll try.): We cannot say that when man ‘invented’ the airplane that he was mindful of every atom, electron, and element present in the make-up. Nor can we say that we are enlightened with the thoughts careening through the heads of our fellow men. But I cannot at this time assume that God required a human body to better love and understand his creations. From my personal perspective, it seems to diminish my belief in his omnipotence.
My distrust in the system, as you mentioned, is not unfounded. I find the prospect of attending a church at this point in my faithful journey leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I cannot and will not be told of the fiery pit of hell and how I have already obtained my passport. I will also not have another’s philosophy belittled or mocked in my presence. I accept that my faith is my own, possibly, though not necessarily, shared by others. I find it disturbing that so many religions have such similarities and yet so many insist upon burning, raping and pillaging over the interpretations that man has assigned to them. And as such I find it quite hard to readily associate myself with a religious-nomer.
But I digress. What I may have failed to bring to your attention in previous correspondence is that fact that I do have a strong belief system. Bluntly and concisely: I believe in God. I believe God created the heavens, the earthly ferment, the roaming animals, the abounding seas and the blue-print of man. I believe everything has evolved under His guidance. I pray to Him when I am in distress, when I need reassurance, when I request forgiveness, to name a few. I see Him in every aspect of my life and the lives around me—even those who do not believe in His existence. I feel His presence on the most beautiful of days when the trees have turned their leaves, the sky is blue and I have managed to avoid another overdraft fee. I feel His presence on the dreariest of days when the heavens are weeping and the ground is sodden and my overdraft fees abound. I feel His presence when I watch a child in the ER cling to his mother in confusion and pain. I watch His love move through the hands of the couple sitting in the ER with their child, complete in their faith that God will see them through.
But now that my faith has been in place for two full hands worth of years, I can look back and see the many ideas and philosophies that I have tried to add to my faith and either discarded or welcomed. Your faith is no more or less important than mine. What’s important is that we both recognize the significance God plays in our lives, whether we want Him to or not. We both, to varying degrees, follow the teachings of great men that we have welcomed into our lives—be it Jesus or a mentor or others of importance. And we both recognize the need for guidance amongst our peers.
Though I must add a sidenote that while my faith does not waver, there are always areas in which I could learn more about the smaller bits that so make up the larger picture. I enjoy your comments and always glean insight from your convictions.
Lastly, dearest Fabius, my comments are meant to spark discussion, not tempers. I hope this letter clarified my position on religion and a few of the intricacies that prevail.
And I, like you, do so enjoy our correspondence and hope that destiny sees fit to continue it.
Fondly,
Sally
________________
Possibly a bit of Childhood's End, Screwtape and various and asundry other works. Ragamuffin Gospel duly noted.
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