Me: I know.
Nora: HA! Michelle! But it's just the illusion of camel toe, not real camel toe!
Me: Sometimes it's real.
4.29.2010
4.24.2010
Line of the Day! (Compost & Cowboys)
The Universe shines down on yours truly these days, I tell you what. Today at Whole Foods, for every $25 you spend, you get a free, 20 lb. bag of compost. It's not advertised anywhere though, so I had no idea. As I left, the WF girl and dude-in-a-cowboy-hat working the bbq outside struck up a conversation with me. They first made sure that I actually do garden, and then they let me in on this special deal.
Having wanted some compost for my garden, but not wanting to spend any more money, I was unduly excited by this news, and even danced a little dorky jig (as I am wont to do). At which point WF girl quips:
Free compost, AND a big, fake cowboy to carry it for you: that's a special day.
Free compost, AND a big, fake cowboy to carry it for you: that's a special day.
4.19.2010
Line of the Day!! (Backdoor friends are best!)
At a friend's bbq this evening. Sunset, alpenglow on the Wasatch, homemade wine and priceless conversation on the rooftop deck. (Really, I need to start carrying that tape recorder around, as this evening merits a full post. Too late now, too much homemade wine. Alas.)
Woman, to man: Oh I know. I have ample ass experience.
4.13.2010
Line of the Day!!!
You know, I told you my mom had a giant bush the entire time I was growing up, and it was pretty soft. Well, from the looks of it - it's not like I sat around petting it or anything.
4.10.2010
Line of the Day
Alright, so I've been privy to some outstanding one-liners lately, and have developed a little something I like to call "line of the day." It's nothing fancy really, just the act of me going, "OH MY GOD, that's the line of the day!" when I hear something really hilarious. So, I've decided this will be my newest recurring blog installment. The "Adventures of Angie" (see: Vaginas! Vaginas! Vaginas!) are awesome, but those have been few and far between as of late. The once promising and now long forgotten "My neighbor is a Douchebag" series really could continue, even in my new home, as I once again am neighbors with a truly crazy woman who naturally fills the douchebag role. I also joined match.com, with concurrent hopes of either (1) meeting someone really cool or (2) at least getting some great first date stories to pen into a quirky little series (working title "Adventures in Dating," all of which would have a unique subtitle summing up the experience). Turns out, to my great surprise, that I actually did meet someone amazing, and now have no plans to go out on a series of first dates as life-fodder for the salty blog. There is, however, a whole ton of material to blather on about with regards to said very cool individual, but I am too exhausted at this late hour to delve into all of that.
So, for now, with limited brain power and time, I begin in earnest on the "Line of the Day" series. Also, loyal readers, let's make this a communal thing shall we? Multiple lives are better than one at culling tidbits from various experiences, yes? So please, if you witness a "line of the day" in action, PLEASE write me and I'll put it on the blog!
To get the ball rolling, we'll start with two lines, from two very separate days.
The first, from my friend Miranda at Westminster, who about two weeks ago was telling me about her experiences having run away from home at 15 years old:
So, I ran off and joined the goth kids, and we hopped a train to New Orleans for the summer. And so I lost my virginity to this guy...his name was Vampire Dave.
And the second, from today, in the restroom at work. First woman is in a bathroom stall, doing her business, when a second woman enters the restroom and uses another stall. First woman finishes up, goes to the sink to wash her hands. A moment later, second woman exits her stall and joins first woman at the sink.
First woman:
Oh, well if I had known it was you, I would've kept pooping.
3.08.2010
Awesome Free Stuff
I got free stuff today. Really awesome stuff.
Don't be jealous. I mean, I know I just went to Hawaii, and I just got an awesome computer. I mean, how much does one gal deserve, right? But, apparently today the universe decided I deserve a free BLT and chips, and free software for my new laptop!
I think the universe is right. I've really been getting shit on lately. It's hard to write about, as I don't like to complain, or to blog about my job. I mean, I love Dooce, but I don't want that kind of upheaval in my life right now. And, frankly, I shouldn't complain too much about having a really good job in the current state of the economy. So, I won't. But, suffice it to say its been a rough few months.
Not to mention I have a 12 year old daughter.
So, today, I have to leave early to take Elise to the orthodontist, and I'm working through lunch. I didn't bring anything to eat, but I remembered I left a giant orange in the fridge last week. I snarf that at noon and by 2:00 I am ravenous. So, I go down to the cafe on the first floor of our building to get a bag of chips. And the WHOLE place smells like bacon. I opened the door and it was a bacon assault. And then, in the dishes where they always have free samples, they have slices of their bacon-stuffed breakfast croissant, which was deceptively delicious. (It doesn't look like much.) So now I want some bacon. They just put a BLT on their menu. I want it. I don't want to spend any money. But, oh, the baaacon smells so good. There was no fighting it.
I order my BLT and chips, to go. I feel slightly guilty. I shouldn't have spent $8 on this. A bag of chips would have gotten me to the end of the day, there was only 2 more hours. Whatever. My Morning Jacket is playing, LOUD, and I love it, and I'm trying not to beat up on myself too much anymore. It is amazing how many trivial issues the mind, or the ego, or whatever, will take up in order to beat down our spirit, isn't it? I've been noticing this a lot lately.
"Oh, um, do you have cash?" The bakery girl interrupts my thoughts. "Our machine is offline, we can't run cards right now."
"No. Who has cash?" I ask.
"Right!" She chuckles and then realizes she has no idea how to handle this situation. "Well, um, hang on."
"I just work upstairs," I say. "I come here all the time, you can ring it up tomorrow and I'll pay you then."
She hesitates, calls the other girl over, who is making a sandwich and more than likely is not a manager, but is definitely the only other person working there.
Bakery girl explains the problem. "What do you think?"
Sandwich girl smiles, throws up her arms, and says, "Free!"
Before I finish saying, "Really?" she says, "Yeah!" and walks back to make my BLT.
Sweet.
And there's more. I got a bunch of software that I desperately needed for my new laptop so I can write papers and my upcoming collection of short stories, finally! (Hold me to it - I've been talking about it for almost a year, and now I have everything I need to make it happen.) And I got to leave work early on a fantastically beautiful, spring-is-in-the-air kind of day, get in and out of the orthodontist in 20 minutes, and then stop by the new house of my super rad friends that I haven't really seen in a long time due to life changing and being busy and what not. They just moved in three blocks from me! And, I get to work with my little elfin fairy friend Darcie everyday, the rad wife, whose rad husband, Dan, gives me mac lessons and software and good conversation and really it's a turkey for me. A trifecta of bonuses! And their awesome new house has an awesome hot tub!
I'm definitely not bringing as much to the table here, but I'm hoping some bruschetta and home-cooked dinner this weekend will begin to show my appreciation. Luckily, Darcie really loves my bruschetta.
I suppose that's a long-enough ramble about all of the good news from my little life in the salty lake. Big stuff really, for me anyway. There's lots more going on - big, groundbreaking shifts in my emotional reality, feeling for the first time in my life like a whole person. Kind of esoteric for the blog I guess. But, things are turning around, spring is coming, and I feel real, solid, serene, filled with gratitude and anticipation for more good things to come.
2.21.2010
Vaginas! Vaginas! Vaginas!
So I went and saw The Vagina Monologues at Westminster last weekend with my dear friend Bonnie (whose nuptials are taking me to Kailua, Hawaii in a mere 4 days!!!), and was fully awed, inspired, impressed and moved. Really, wow. I didn't expect to like it so much, to laugh so hard, or - especially - to cry so pitifully. I'm not really a cryer. Or someone who feels the sad stories of friends very emotionally. I hear them, I empathize, but more with my mind. As in, I understand that must have brought you considerable pain and sadness, and I'm sorry. But the part of me that really feels, deeply feels, has been in a sort of hibernation since, well, my childhood. (But that's another story.) Lately though, I've been going through a bit of an emotional awakening, which is nice. And, um, emotional. But so, it was a really fantastic experience. And Bonnie bought me a chocolate vagina pop, which is still swimming around in my purse and gets pulled out at awkward moments in the elevator at work when I search and fumble for my key card. (That's another story too. A much, much funnier story. Let's just say that errant vaginas - even chocolate ones - in the land of Mormon have a tendency to create socially awkward moments.)
But I know you're here for the real vaginas. So let's just get on with it, shall we?
So, here's my story about vaginas. Or, well, one vagina. And it's not mine. It is a friend's story, as relayed to me this past Tuesday evening. For the sake of anonymity, let's call her Angie (which is the name most resembling the word 'vagina' I can come up with at present. I am, however, open to suggestions and editing this post at a later date if you can best me. Yes, that's a challenge.)
"Oh my GOD. So, I go to work today and everything's fine for the most part. I mean, I'm busy as hell, but, you know, that's how it is, right?"
As in: that's how it is after you've taken a few days off and come back to a teeming email inbox and raging fires to put out. We all know how this goes. Veritable shitstorm. Angie had taken last Thursday, Friday and Monday off work. By Tuesday, she was in for it.
"So, you know, at some point in the afternoon I go up to the reception desk and am talking to Mary and I SWEAR I can smell something."
I raise an eyebrow. Unlike you, I knew where this was going. Angie had taken Thursday through Monday off work in order to travel 3000 miles across the country to visit her new, long-distance boyfriend. (Who just also happens to be the first boy she ever kissed, 20 years ago.) They reunited via - take a wild guess - facebook. Of course, right?? Anyway, so they reunited, and had a blissful two-week telephonic reunion wherein they mutually decide they are completely in love. So, this is their first real in-the-flesh encounter for over 20 years.
Exciting stuff really.
And you can imagine the weekend that transpired.
Which is why I raised an eyebrow.
"You can SMELL something?" I ask. Just to clarify.
"YES! I can SMELL something! And it smelled like sex! Not like vagina, not like that metallic menstruating vagina smell, but just this musty, briny smell of sex!"
Love it. "Briny" pretty much nails it, yes?
"You know that smell?"
Yes, I know the smell. I assume that was rhetorical, and wait for her to continue.
"So I immediately cut off my conversation with Mary, fairly awkwardly really, and run down the hall to the breakroom to make some tea. I figured if I made some really strong tea it would overpower the vaginal odor emanating from under my skirt. And that way if anyone got close enough, they would just smell the tea and not me."
Does this logic seem flawed to anyone else? I mean, really strong coffee, maybe. And even that's only a maybe. But even the strongest tea I've ever encountered I wasn't able to smell until I stuck my beak down to the rim of the cup.
Anyway.
"So, I'm standing there making my tea, and I see a big thing of that hand-sanitizer stuff on the counter. And suddenly it just occurs to me, this great idea! There have been times after I've smoked a cigarette that I wasn't able to wash my hands, and then rubbed them with hand-sanitizer and it completely eliminated the smell of smoke! I mean, something that can completely rid the smoke smell from your fingers after a cigarette is pretty amazing, right?"
Right.
"So, I pump a bunch of globs of that in my hand and make a run for the bathroom. And I get in the stall, and start rubbing it ALL over down there, to odor-eliminate and just freshen things up. And at first, I think this is a fantastic idea. I mean, I bathed before I went to work and if that wasn't enough to rid the love-stench of my weekend, then this was surely the next best solution. I mean, that shit is like 90% alcohol, I figure it will kill whatever bacteria and leftover whatever that's down there."
Now, some of you ladies may have some experience that will inform where this story is headed. Some of you may not. I, for one, have never ended up with a vagina full of hand-sanitizer. There was one night though when I used some homeopathic icy-hot kind of stuff on my inflamed back muscles, and then, HOURS later, having completely forgotten about the earlier application of said ointment, ended up with - you guessed it - an icy-hot vagina.
For the record, not recommended.
"So, I get all slathered up and am just standing there in the stall waiting for it to dry so I can pull my stockings back up, and then OHMYGOD. OH. MY. GOD! It started buuuurning! Everything was absolutely on fire - just inside, where it had barely creeped, all over the outside where I guess there were probably microscopic tears from three days of non-stop, wild, crazy sex. EVERYWHERE it burned! It was awful!"
Not to mention, she shaves.
Say it with me gals: OUCH.
"So I start jumping around, and getting a bunch of toilet paper to wipe it off, but at that point it was dry 'cause you know that shit dries in seconds. And I'm dabbing - I had to keep telling myself, "Don't rub! Just dab! Gentle dabs!" And so I'm dabbing and I'm doing the thing where you cross your thighs as tightly as you possibly can and trying to muffle my moans of pain and biting the back of my hand and praying to GOD that no one comes in the restroom."
At this point the story came to a natural pause as my laughing inhibited all incoming auditory stimuli. This is one of those stories that I wish I could tell in first person, so that you might get the full effect of how absolutely hilarious it was. But then again, I'm actually pretty glad this is not my first-person story. So is my vagina. In fact, it reminds me of the old saying, "A smart man learns from his own mistakes; a wise man learns from the mistakes of others." If nothing else, this episode made Angie smarter, and me a lot wiser. Because I cannot honestly say that I wouldn't have tried the same thing in that situation. I'd like to think I'd have a bit of foresight, what with the old icy-hot experience, but then again, I might not. It had never occurred to me before I heard this story to not rub hand sanitizer on my vagina.
But now I know. Turns out it takes a solid ten minutes for the raging fire of a hand-sanitized vagina to wane.
Just FYI.
But I know you're here for the real vaginas. So let's just get on with it, shall we?
So, here's my story about vaginas. Or, well, one vagina. And it's not mine. It is a friend's story, as relayed to me this past Tuesday evening. For the sake of anonymity, let's call her Angie (which is the name most resembling the word 'vagina' I can come up with at present. I am, however, open to suggestions and editing this post at a later date if you can best me. Yes, that's a challenge.)
"Oh my GOD. So, I go to work today and everything's fine for the most part. I mean, I'm busy as hell, but, you know, that's how it is, right?"
As in: that's how it is after you've taken a few days off and come back to a teeming email inbox and raging fires to put out. We all know how this goes. Veritable shitstorm. Angie had taken last Thursday, Friday and Monday off work. By Tuesday, she was in for it.
"So, you know, at some point in the afternoon I go up to the reception desk and am talking to Mary and I SWEAR I can smell something."
I raise an eyebrow. Unlike you, I knew where this was going. Angie had taken Thursday through Monday off work in order to travel 3000 miles across the country to visit her new, long-distance boyfriend. (Who just also happens to be the first boy she ever kissed, 20 years ago.) They reunited via - take a wild guess - facebook. Of course, right?? Anyway, so they reunited, and had a blissful two-week telephonic reunion wherein they mutually decide they are completely in love. So, this is their first real in-the-flesh encounter for over 20 years.
Exciting stuff really.
And you can imagine the weekend that transpired.
Which is why I raised an eyebrow.
"You can SMELL something?" I ask. Just to clarify.
"YES! I can SMELL something! And it smelled like sex! Not like vagina, not like that metallic menstruating vagina smell, but just this musty, briny smell of sex!"
Love it. "Briny" pretty much nails it, yes?
"You know that smell?"
Yes, I know the smell. I assume that was rhetorical, and wait for her to continue.
"So I immediately cut off my conversation with Mary, fairly awkwardly really, and run down the hall to the breakroom to make some tea. I figured if I made some really strong tea it would overpower the vaginal odor emanating from under my skirt. And that way if anyone got close enough, they would just smell the tea and not me."
Does this logic seem flawed to anyone else? I mean, really strong coffee, maybe. And even that's only a maybe. But even the strongest tea I've ever encountered I wasn't able to smell until I stuck my beak down to the rim of the cup.
Anyway.
"So, I'm standing there making my tea, and I see a big thing of that hand-sanitizer stuff on the counter. And suddenly it just occurs to me, this great idea! There have been times after I've smoked a cigarette that I wasn't able to wash my hands, and then rubbed them with hand-sanitizer and it completely eliminated the smell of smoke! I mean, something that can completely rid the smoke smell from your fingers after a cigarette is pretty amazing, right?"
Right.
"So, I pump a bunch of globs of that in my hand and make a run for the bathroom. And I get in the stall, and start rubbing it ALL over down there, to odor-eliminate and just freshen things up. And at first, I think this is a fantastic idea. I mean, I bathed before I went to work and if that wasn't enough to rid the love-stench of my weekend, then this was surely the next best solution. I mean, that shit is like 90% alcohol, I figure it will kill whatever bacteria and leftover whatever that's down there."
Now, some of you ladies may have some experience that will inform where this story is headed. Some of you may not. I, for one, have never ended up with a vagina full of hand-sanitizer. There was one night though when I used some homeopathic icy-hot kind of stuff on my inflamed back muscles, and then, HOURS later, having completely forgotten about the earlier application of said ointment, ended up with - you guessed it - an icy-hot vagina.
For the record, not recommended.
"So, I get all slathered up and am just standing there in the stall waiting for it to dry so I can pull my stockings back up, and then OHMYGOD. OH. MY. GOD! It started buuuurning! Everything was absolutely on fire - just inside, where it had barely creeped, all over the outside where I guess there were probably microscopic tears from three days of non-stop, wild, crazy sex. EVERYWHERE it burned! It was awful!"
Not to mention, she shaves.
Say it with me gals: OUCH.
"So I start jumping around, and getting a bunch of toilet paper to wipe it off, but at that point it was dry 'cause you know that shit dries in seconds. And I'm dabbing - I had to keep telling myself, "Don't rub! Just dab! Gentle dabs!" And so I'm dabbing and I'm doing the thing where you cross your thighs as tightly as you possibly can and trying to muffle my moans of pain and biting the back of my hand and praying to GOD that no one comes in the restroom."
At this point the story came to a natural pause as my laughing inhibited all incoming auditory stimuli. This is one of those stories that I wish I could tell in first person, so that you might get the full effect of how absolutely hilarious it was. But then again, I'm actually pretty glad this is not my first-person story. So is my vagina. In fact, it reminds me of the old saying, "A smart man learns from his own mistakes; a wise man learns from the mistakes of others." If nothing else, this episode made Angie smarter, and me a lot wiser. Because I cannot honestly say that I wouldn't have tried the same thing in that situation. I'd like to think I'd have a bit of foresight, what with the old icy-hot experience, but then again, I might not. It had never occurred to me before I heard this story to not rub hand sanitizer on my vagina.
But now I know. Turns out it takes a solid ten minutes for the raging fire of a hand-sanitized vagina to wane.
Just FYI.
1.02.2010
Welcome 2010!
Happy New Year! This year I resolve to blog more. Amongst a growing list of resolutions. And while there are a seemingly infinite number of issues and stories I could report on at the moment (really, things are happening for me lately, it's kind of wild), I'd like to begin 2010 with the first really good story of the year. And for my grand entrance back here at saltychelle, I can stay true to the strange oddities and encounters in life that have been the lifeblood of the stories that made this blog famous.
Or, well, not. But those four loyal readers knowwhahmsayn.
Ok, so this story actually takes place on New Year's Eve, 2009. I'm feeling pretty excited - despite a looming sinus thing coming on - for the evening ahead. I get off work early, run a few errands, and am still home by 3:00. Get the dog out to the park, deal with some chores. A beautiful, sunny, productive day.
6:00-something rolls around which is about when I needed to start getting ready. I'm kinda loose about such things as time. But, I realized I had forgotten to get a couple of things for my much-anticipated New Year's Day slow-cooker meatballs. As I'm putting my shoes on to head to the store, my dear friend Nora calls me. I mentioned I'm leaving for the store. She also needs to get some things from the store. "Oh, well maybe I'll see you there," I say, pretending to be an interested potential suitor. "Maybe," she coyly plays back. We laugh, hang up.
I got held up when I had another phone call leaving the house. I figured she'd get there before me, and might even be gone by the time I got there. No big deal, though I do have a good time when I shop with Nora. (Yes, we tend to shop together a lot for some reason.) But, I digress. I am happy to see that she is still there when I enter the parking lot. There's no mistaking the giant silver skull on the rear window of her Xterra. As I walk in the sliding doors, I see her right there at the U-Scan, her back to me.
Ok, so probably an aside worth mentioning here - in addition to the Skullterra (as it's known to it's friends and admirers), there are a LOT of things about Nora that are unmistakable. She is a beautiful, buxom, 6" tall former child-model. She has a veritable mane of luxurious, currently jet-black, impeccably coiffed, long, wavy hair. She dresses kind of, shall we say, noticeably. Other words that come to mind are: loud, sexy, outlandish, Victorian, and always playing up her best feature - curves. She is pretty extraordinary. And wonderful.
So there she is, scanning her box of crackers (which she told me she had forgotten for her NYE party), in her black, mid-calf, heeled boots which I recognize, bright magenta tights, and super-cute, very Victorian, lacy black skirt. She is also wearing her workday standard black, wool, double-breasted coat. I realize this is way more detail than is necessary, but the point - if it wasn't obvious - is that this woman is UNMISTAKABLE. And I spend a LOT of time with her. I recognized her boots and coat. The other stuff maybe I haven't seen before, but this is a woman with a Narnia-wardrobe for a closet; she is constantly bringing out something I've never seen before that she has either made, improved upon, found for $5 at a resale shop, or maybe just forgot she ever owned. Yes, I don't remember seeing those tights or skirt before, but they were exactly the style she whips out at any given moment.
In my NYE excitement, I decide to give her a little surprise. I do this to her a lot. It's fun for me. She's relatively easy to startle and/or frighten, and she's pretty good-natured about it when I fuck with her. So, I quietly walk up behind her and she never spots me, even in her peripheral vision. My chest is nearly touching her back, I get on my tiptoes, place my hand on her left shoulder while simultaneously putting my mouth up to her left ear and saying, louder than a whisper and quite authoritatively, in my deepest, throatiest man-voice, "Ah, excuse me, Ma'am."
She whips her face around so that our noses are about an inch apart and gasps so loudly it kind of finishes with a scream. At which point I emit an equally loud gasp-scream as I realize this woman is NOT Nora.
Yep.
"Oh my god!" I kind of yell.
"Oh my god, I am SO sorry!"
Luckily, Nora's doppelganger is the kind of woman who can laugh about such situations. And she did. Hysterically, actually. We laughed so hard the tears came, and we each had a palm on the other's arm, supporting one another and connecting in this very weird, hilarious moment. Through the gasping laughter I attempted to explain that she looks just like my best friend, whom I was trying to scare.
"For fun," I sputter, in explanation.
She laughs even harder, which I then do too.
"You're really GOOD at it!" she says.
And as I stood there laughing with this cool lady who looks just like my best friend, I felt oddly proud of myself.
And that maybe it's going to be a great new decade.
Or, well, not. But those four loyal readers knowwhahmsayn.
Ok, so this story actually takes place on New Year's Eve, 2009. I'm feeling pretty excited - despite a looming sinus thing coming on - for the evening ahead. I get off work early, run a few errands, and am still home by 3:00. Get the dog out to the park, deal with some chores. A beautiful, sunny, productive day.
6:00-something rolls around which is about when I needed to start getting ready. I'm kinda loose about such things as time. But, I realized I had forgotten to get a couple of things for my much-anticipated New Year's Day slow-cooker meatballs. As I'm putting my shoes on to head to the store, my dear friend Nora calls me. I mentioned I'm leaving for the store. She also needs to get some things from the store. "Oh, well maybe I'll see you there," I say, pretending to be an interested potential suitor. "Maybe," she coyly plays back. We laugh, hang up.
I got held up when I had another phone call leaving the house. I figured she'd get there before me, and might even be gone by the time I got there. No big deal, though I do have a good time when I shop with Nora. (Yes, we tend to shop together a lot for some reason.) But, I digress. I am happy to see that she is still there when I enter the parking lot. There's no mistaking the giant silver skull on the rear window of her Xterra. As I walk in the sliding doors, I see her right there at the U-Scan, her back to me.
Ok, so probably an aside worth mentioning here - in addition to the Skullterra (as it's known to it's friends and admirers), there are a LOT of things about Nora that are unmistakable. She is a beautiful, buxom, 6" tall former child-model. She has a veritable mane of luxurious, currently jet-black, impeccably coiffed, long, wavy hair. She dresses kind of, shall we say, noticeably. Other words that come to mind are: loud, sexy, outlandish, Victorian, and always playing up her best feature - curves. She is pretty extraordinary. And wonderful.
So there she is, scanning her box of crackers (which she told me she had forgotten for her NYE party), in her black, mid-calf, heeled boots which I recognize, bright magenta tights, and super-cute, very Victorian, lacy black skirt. She is also wearing her workday standard black, wool, double-breasted coat. I realize this is way more detail than is necessary, but the point - if it wasn't obvious - is that this woman is UNMISTAKABLE. And I spend a LOT of time with her. I recognized her boots and coat. The other stuff maybe I haven't seen before, but this is a woman with a Narnia-wardrobe for a closet; she is constantly bringing out something I've never seen before that she has either made, improved upon, found for $5 at a resale shop, or maybe just forgot she ever owned. Yes, I don't remember seeing those tights or skirt before, but they were exactly the style she whips out at any given moment.
In my NYE excitement, I decide to give her a little surprise. I do this to her a lot. It's fun for me. She's relatively easy to startle and/or frighten, and she's pretty good-natured about it when I fuck with her. So, I quietly walk up behind her and she never spots me, even in her peripheral vision. My chest is nearly touching her back, I get on my tiptoes, place my hand on her left shoulder while simultaneously putting my mouth up to her left ear and saying, louder than a whisper and quite authoritatively, in my deepest, throatiest man-voice, "Ah, excuse me, Ma'am."
She whips her face around so that our noses are about an inch apart and gasps so loudly it kind of finishes with a scream. At which point I emit an equally loud gasp-scream as I realize this woman is NOT Nora.
Yep.
"Oh my god!" I kind of yell.
"Oh my god, I am SO sorry!"
Luckily, Nora's doppelganger is the kind of woman who can laugh about such situations. And she did. Hysterically, actually. We laughed so hard the tears came, and we each had a palm on the other's arm, supporting one another and connecting in this very weird, hilarious moment. Through the gasping laughter I attempted to explain that she looks just like my best friend, whom I was trying to scare.
"For fun," I sputter, in explanation.
She laughs even harder, which I then do too.
"You're really GOOD at it!" she says.
And as I stood there laughing with this cool lady who looks just like my best friend, I felt oddly proud of myself.
And that maybe it's going to be a great new decade.
1.27.2009
Late again! As usual.
Happy belated New Year readers!
Can it really be that I haven't posted anything since November? Shameful. And I call myself an aspiring writer! And SO MUCH has happened that I should have reported here, to my 4 loyal readers, which after 2+ months of non-posting, probably don't come back anymore anyway.
Sigh.
I mean, there was the whole computer virus debacle in December, which was not terribly funny at the time, when I was crazy busy at work and didn't have a computer to use for a few days, as mine had been hijacked by the SPYWARE VIRUS FROM HELL. Looking back, though, the day that the giant, flashing photo of the pierced vagina popped up onto my screen whilst the most devout morman man in the world stood at my desk rifling through a file... well, that was pretty hilarious.
And my first ever warehouse Christmas rollerskating party! And my friends who showed up dressed in Christmas skating finery (and drag)! I haven't roller-skated since I was in junior high, and man do I suck. I used to be good! But the fun quotient hasn't changed all that much since then, and that's what really matters.
Michelle H., foreground, looking like a hot elf on wheels.
Matt, background, wearing Michelle's clothes.
And then there was Christmas! Not one post about my Christmas in St. Louis, or about how increasingly strange it becomes for me to go back "home" and visit my fam. I love them and miss them madly, and yet I go for a visit and all I want to do is get back to Salt Lake. I want to bring them all with me. I wish we all lived in the same city, as long as that city wasn't St. Louis. I just don't feel really comfortable there anymore. Although, this is most likely due to the fact that when I am there, I am living with my mother, and no matter how short a span of time, if it is more than 24 hours, living with my mother becomes a challenge. And that's an understatement
The Hitler Youth. Oh, I mean, my neices and nephews.
My dad giving us his annual Christmas saxophone concert.
And then there was New Year's in SLC, and my week of love-vacation with my new man while Elise was visiting her dad, and taking my new cross-country skis (and my legs) out on their maiden voyage up Emigration Canyon. Brian (said "new man") instructed me thus: If you can walk, you can cross-country ski. Well, HA! Not quite so, though I understand his intent. However, after a few more excursions with other friends, I think I've sort of figured it out. I did make it to the top of Millcreek with my dog in the same amount of time as my very badass and in-shape friend Karan, so I was feeling pretty good about that.
A fair representation of New Year's Eve:
Me on my new x-country skis:
And then there was back to work and back to life and wintry SLC. But, more on that as it transpires!
Can it really be that I haven't posted anything since November? Shameful. And I call myself an aspiring writer! And SO MUCH has happened that I should have reported here, to my 4 loyal readers, which after 2+ months of non-posting, probably don't come back anymore anyway.
Sigh.
I mean, there was the whole computer virus debacle in December, which was not terribly funny at the time, when I was crazy busy at work and didn't have a computer to use for a few days, as mine had been hijacked by the SPYWARE VIRUS FROM HELL. Looking back, though, the day that the giant, flashing photo of the pierced vagina popped up onto my screen whilst the most devout morman man in the world stood at my desk rifling through a file... well, that was pretty hilarious.
And my first ever warehouse Christmas rollerskating party! And my friends who showed up dressed in Christmas skating finery (and drag)! I haven't roller-skated since I was in junior high, and man do I suck. I used to be good! But the fun quotient hasn't changed all that much since then, and that's what really matters.
Michelle H., foreground, looking like a hot elf on wheels.
Matt, background, wearing Michelle's clothes.
And then there was Christmas! Not one post about my Christmas in St. Louis, or about how increasingly strange it becomes for me to go back "home" and visit my fam. I love them and miss them madly, and yet I go for a visit and all I want to do is get back to Salt Lake. I want to bring them all with me. I wish we all lived in the same city, as long as that city wasn't St. Louis. I just don't feel really comfortable there anymore. Although, this is most likely due to the fact that when I am there, I am living with my mother, and no matter how short a span of time, if it is more than 24 hours, living with my mother becomes a challenge. And that's an understatement
The Hitler Youth. Oh, I mean, my neices and nephews.
My dad giving us his annual Christmas saxophone concert.And then there was New Year's in SLC, and my week of love-vacation with my new man while Elise was visiting her dad, and taking my new cross-country skis (and my legs) out on their maiden voyage up Emigration Canyon. Brian (said "new man") instructed me thus: If you can walk, you can cross-country ski. Well, HA! Not quite so, though I understand his intent. However, after a few more excursions with other friends, I think I've sort of figured it out. I did make it to the top of Millcreek with my dog in the same amount of time as my very badass and in-shape friend Karan, so I was feeling pretty good about that.
A fair representation of New Year's Eve:
Me on my new x-country skis:
And then there was back to work and back to life and wintry SLC. But, more on that as it transpires!
11.24.2008
Not Quite Out of the "Normal" Range. But Almost.
This is what my eye doctor told me at my last exam when fitting me for the horrifyingly painful eye discs of doom. He had no idea how true this statement feels to me somedays. So, anyway, apparently I have "flat eyeballs," as he put it, on the exceptionally flat side of things, no less. Which is why the first pair of contacts (see previous post) were so uncomfortable. So they are ordering me a different brand, better for flat-eyeballed people, so he says. In the meantime I've gone back to my trusty glasses - easy, painless, simple glasses. And if it doesn't snow pretty soon I might forget why I've embarked on this hassle in the first place...
11.18.2008
Somebody's Gonna Lose an Eye
And by "somebody," I mean me.
After nearly fifteen years wearing glasses, I've finally decided to try contact lenses. My friends have made fun of me for years. But I am slow to adopt change. I was one of those people that thought the internet was a fad. I didn't bother double-clicking that little internet explorer icon until I had a teacher who decided to be savvy and post study guides on SLU's intranet. I don't think I even had an email address until 2003. I like paper letters, I like to seal them with my little wax-embosser stamp of my initials, I like decorating the envelopes with cute designs and depositing them into the big blue USPS box on the corner. I like to make food from scratch. I balance my checkbook the way my mom and grandma did, complete with color-coded highlighting and red-ink checkmarks for checks that have cleared. I'm a dinosaur, and I like it that way.
After nearly fifteen years wearing glasses, I've finally decided to try contact lenses. My friends have made fun of me for years. But I am slow to adopt change. I was one of those people that thought the internet was a fad. I didn't bother double-clicking that little internet explorer icon until I had a teacher who decided to be savvy and post study guides on SLU's intranet. I don't think I even had an email address until 2003. I like paper letters, I like to seal them with my little wax-embosser stamp of my initials, I like decorating the envelopes with cute designs and depositing them into the big blue USPS box on the corner. I like to make food from scratch. I balance my checkbook the way my mom and grandma did, complete with color-coded highlighting and red-ink checkmarks for checks that have cleared. I'm a dinosaur, and I like it that way.
Over the years however, I've succumbed to a few trends, like the cell phone, text messaging, picture messaging, online-bill-pay (ok, so I just did that last month, but it's SO COOL - even though it has thrown a glitch into my checkbook register system), facebook, a dyson, and even wireless internet. Though, to be honest, I had NO idea how to get that wireless crap all up and running and had to call in my sweetheart neighbor Frank for assistance. And now, I've jumped on this crazy new contact lens bandwagon. It's a brave new world...
There is only one thing that has driven me to this point: snowboarding. Last winter I spent every day on the mountain in a neverending battle with the fog that constantly accumulated on either my glasses or my ski goggles. The glasses would fog up and I'd remove the goggles, use my little fog-wipe to wipe the glasses, replace the goggles over the glasses, and within minutes I'd be in a fog again. And while I'm used to going through life in a bit of a fog, this was NOT cool given my level of snowboarding prowess (i.e., no prowess at all). I am not a good snowboarder. I don't steer well, I haven't fully mastered the S-turn, I fall a lot, and so on. Combine this with constantly blurred and foggy vision and I'm just screwed.
So, I decided to solve at least one of my snowboarding problems and remove the glasses, and thus, the fog, from the equation. Contacts it is! I said. And I went to the doctor and got fitted for them, went back to pick them up and the nice lady taught me to put them in and I did. I wore them for four hours that first day and endured the pain and mild vertigo like a champ. Second day, I'm supposed to wear them for six hours. So, I put them in before work and head out for my day. I got a new haircut the night before too, and was feeling like a whole new me, a little spring in my step and the pain of a thousand tiny daggers in my eye.
My coworkers noticed my missing glasses and asked, and I explained.
"How do you like them so far?" Brian asked.
"Mmm, not so much," I say.
"They'll get better, don't worry." He says. "You'll get to the point where you love them."
I don't believe him, but smile politely. Because that's how it goes at work.
Rose asks the same questions, and I explain that the left contact doesn't hurt so much, but the right one is KILLING me, and the prescription is all wrong. Everything is incredibly blurry.
"Your doctor will fix that for you, don't worry," she says.
Everyone is so encouraging. And I want to stab them all.
By 1:00 p.m. it had been five hours and I'd had enough. I go to the bathroom to pick the little bastards off my eyeballs so that I might at least enjoy my lunch date with Rose. I pop the right one out, stick it in its little case, squirt in some opti-whatever, and move on to the left. It doesn't want to come. I continue to poke around in my eye to try and pry the little fucker out to no avail. Why does this one hurt so bad? I wonder. The left eye had acclimated pretty well to the contacts actually, it hadn't really been hurting all day, so why is it so excruciating trying to get it out now? I give myself a pep talk and remember my "just pluck it right off your eyeball" training from the nice lady at the doctor's office, and try again. And again. And again. No dice. At this point, my eye is watering all over my face, my nose is running down over my upper lip and into my mouth, I'm sweating and really, REALLY don't want to try again. But I can't walk around with one contact in, and I can't put my glasses on over one contact, and I can't see without either wearing glasses or two contacts and ok, come on, I've gotta be able to get this thing out. I mean, is it suctioned on there forever?
I keep trying.
And poking.
And pulling at my eyeball.
It's not coming.
"Fucking FUCK!" I yell at the bathroom mirror. "Motherfuckingfuckfucker!" The fucks are echoing off the entirely-tiled bathroom walls and floor, taunting me.
I remove my arm brace (battling a little tendon-lining-inflammation, boo), my jacket, and my sweater. I step out of my shoes. My shit is strewn all over the bathroom counter and floor, amidst the zillion wadded-up tissues I've been using to wipe the tears and snot from my beet-red face. I'm jumping around. Because I don't want to keep trying to get this out. But what's the alternative? Going to the doctor, the hospital? I don't have that kind of time. And for some reason jumping around and yelling motherfucker eases the pain. But only slightly.
At this point, another woman comes in the bathroom, surveys the mess I have made with my clothes and kleenex, and asks if I could use some help. I explain that I cannot for the life of me get this damn contact out.
"The other one was so easy," I say through my snot and tears.
"Come here," she says.
I do a backbend onto the bathroom counter to get my face into the light so she can look at my eye. She doesn't see it, but the bathroom is dim. She goes to get Rose, and leaves me to poke around and jump around and motherfuck my way through a few more minutes. When they both return, they pull me out into the hallway where the light is better, leaving my mess behind in the bathroom. Shirley, who sits nearby, comes and joins the party too. So now I am squatting into the position I assume when pooping in the woods (I'm not a giant, but I am taller than these three women, and have to maneuver so they can see into my swollen, scratchy, blood-red eyeball), Lyle, Rose and Shirley are investigating my eyeball, and through my one good eye I notice them all beginning to frown.
"I don't see it," Shirley says.
"Nope."
Rose delivers the final blow. "Its definitely not in there."
"What do you mean, its not in there?" I nearly scream. And Rose - sweet, goodly, devout LDS Rose - is not a woman one yells at. Not unless one wishes to burn in hell for all eternity. Yelling at Rose is akin to stealing a blind man's walking stick, kicking a 3-legged dog, poking a sleeping baby, or any other crime upon the innocent.
"There isn't a contact in your eye, poor thing," she says.
"But I never got it out. I've been poking around in my eye for a half hour and it never came out."
"Well then, it probably never went in, genius," Lyle quips. Because Lyle's a smartass.
They inform me that I need to find the contact, because it will shrivel up and die like a fish out of water. I skip my lunch date with Rose and drive home and find the little piece of shit all curled up like the world's tiniest taco on my bathroom counter. Which explains the fuzzy vision and the reason my left eye was so mysteriously comfortable all day.
That is, until I spent thirty minutes ramming my fingernails into its flesh.
11.12.2008
Hey Zealots: Outta my room, outta my womb, outta my tomb.
Ok, so I moved to Salt Lake City knowing absolutely ZERO about mormons, mormon culture, the LDS church, etc. I thought polygamy was still allowed. I had no idea about the underwear. I had no idea about anything, really. After living here a year, I've learned a LOT about the LDS church and LDS people. Mostly, I've found that in my day-to-day life, the Mormons I know are incredibly nice, always ready to help or listen, and easy to laugh.
That said, the recent election and passage of Proposition 8 has soured me considerably on the Church. Not the people, mind you, but the Church. Though it was people who contributed $20 million to support a measure denying equal rights to homosexuals. I suppose I just don't understand why a Church would spend so much time and money and effort lobbying to curtail civil rights for other people. Especially when those other people are homosexuals that the LDS Church doesn't want in its membership anyway. Oh, that's not the official tack, of course. The official stance is something along the lines of the bullshit the Catholic Church espouses too: We aren't against homosexuals. We are against homosexual acts. And thus basically condemning any homosexuals who would like to be a part of the church to a life of celibacy, or guilt. And in the case of the LDS church in particular, a life of lies - if you'd like to enter a temple anyway, or make it to the 3rd level of heaven, or ever get to puppetteer your own planet.
The rhetoric flying around was all about how gay marriage threatens families and children. Now, I'm not really sure how allowing homosexuals the right to marry one another will threaten families or children. Gay people already live together, raise children together, live in communities with other non-gay families and children. Are they threatening the other families and children in their communities? If we allow them to legally marry, will they somehow become MORE of a threat to the families and children in their communities? The way I see it, the only thing threatening children is bigotry born of fear and hatred. Energy is cumulative and contagious, and spreading fear and hate only creates more fear and hate.
And why? This is the part I will never understand. Why do these religious people - who assume the name of Jesus in the name of their Church - Jesus who loved EVERYONE, who hung out with the lepers and freaks and outcasts of society, Jesus the kindest new-age radical who ever walked his hemp-clad sandals across the planet - why do they fear homosexuals?
Homosexuality isn't going away, people. EVER. It's been around since ancient Greece (where it was accepted, oh how we've devolved...), and it will be around until we annhialiate our planet into oblivion. It exists in the rest of the animal kingdom as well. It is a natural part of life for all creatures, just as GOD created them. It is not a choice. Just like skin color isn't a choice. It cannot be shushed away or counselled out.
The only choice we should be talking about is the choice to do what is right, the choice to truly love our neighbor, to treat others as we would like to be treated, to do no harm, to make Jesus proud.
That said, the recent election and passage of Proposition 8 has soured me considerably on the Church. Not the people, mind you, but the Church. Though it was people who contributed $20 million to support a measure denying equal rights to homosexuals. I suppose I just don't understand why a Church would spend so much time and money and effort lobbying to curtail civil rights for other people. Especially when those other people are homosexuals that the LDS Church doesn't want in its membership anyway. Oh, that's not the official tack, of course. The official stance is something along the lines of the bullshit the Catholic Church espouses too: We aren't against homosexuals. We are against homosexual acts. And thus basically condemning any homosexuals who would like to be a part of the church to a life of celibacy, or guilt. And in the case of the LDS church in particular, a life of lies - if you'd like to enter a temple anyway, or make it to the 3rd level of heaven, or ever get to puppetteer your own planet.
The rhetoric flying around was all about how gay marriage threatens families and children. Now, I'm not really sure how allowing homosexuals the right to marry one another will threaten families or children. Gay people already live together, raise children together, live in communities with other non-gay families and children. Are they threatening the other families and children in their communities? If we allow them to legally marry, will they somehow become MORE of a threat to the families and children in their communities? The way I see it, the only thing threatening children is bigotry born of fear and hatred. Energy is cumulative and contagious, and spreading fear and hate only creates more fear and hate.
And why? This is the part I will never understand. Why do these religious people - who assume the name of Jesus in the name of their Church - Jesus who loved EVERYONE, who hung out with the lepers and freaks and outcasts of society, Jesus the kindest new-age radical who ever walked his hemp-clad sandals across the planet - why do they fear homosexuals?
Homosexuality isn't going away, people. EVER. It's been around since ancient Greece (where it was accepted, oh how we've devolved...), and it will be around until we annhialiate our planet into oblivion. It exists in the rest of the animal kingdom as well. It is a natural part of life for all creatures, just as GOD created them. It is not a choice. Just like skin color isn't a choice. It cannot be shushed away or counselled out.
The only choice we should be talking about is the choice to do what is right, the choice to truly love our neighbor, to treat others as we would like to be treated, to do no harm, to make Jesus proud.
11.05.2008
10.30.2008
I'm IT.
Ok, I was "tagged" on my friend Emily's blog, so now I have to keep this going. Except the only other person I really know with a blog is Emily, so I don't have anyone to tag after this. Ah well, a post is a welcome addition to my neglected blog, eh?
I am: going to preface this whole thing by admitting that I am bad at these sorts of lists of prompts to talk about yourself. Because there are a hundred thousand things that I am, but how do I decide what to say? It boils down to being mostly a reflection of the things that are on my mind at the moment I answer the prompts. But, whatever. Now you can have a little glimpse into my world at 9:30 a.m. on a Thursday at work. Hey, maybe I just should have said "long winded."
I think: It is crazy that a lot of people I come into contact with in my daily life are more upset, vocal, and mobilized over gay marriage (case in point: the LDS church has raised over $19m to defeat Prop 8 in California) than they are about the TWO WARS THAT HAVE BEEN RAGING FOR YEARS, IN WHICH TENS OF THOUSANDS OF INNOCENT PEOPLE HAVE DIED, AND CONTINUE TO DIE, EVERY DAY.
I know: very little. I'm fairly sure that all of the beauty and nuance and grace of life comes from a humble acceptance of the fact that I actually know very little. I don't have the answers, I'm not really sure there are any definite answers anyway, and I certainly don't want them even if there are. I enjoy living my way through the questions.
I dislike: "ists" and "isms." Racists/racism. Sexists/sexism. Classists/classism. Bigots. Small minded myopic judgmental assholes. Especially when said small-minded myopic judgmental assholes attempt (and they always do!) to institutionalize and/or control everyone else based upon their values/belief systems/etc. and their misguided notions that their values/belief systems are RIGHT for everyone. Hey assholes, how about you go make yourselves miserable however you see fit, and leave the rest of us alone? How about that?
I fear: more than I should. I wish I could just stop worrying about things I don't have any control over and/or things that haven't yet, and might never, transpire. But, since I can't, and I continue to worry, my main fears can be categorized under the larger umbrella of mediocrity - that I will never really become something that I am proud of (ie, freelance writer, humanitarian, citizen of the world, beholden to noone and nothing with which I disagree, self-sustaining, etc.) and that I will while away my best years working for someone else in a flourescent box at a computer that gives me headaches and ganglion cysts. That life is too short, that I will miss out on the most beautiful pleasures life has to offer like seeing grizzlies feasting on spawning salmon in the middle of nowhere, jumping out of a plane, getting hazy smelling poppies in Asia.... these are all pretty much related fears of never being able to create the kind of life I envision for myself.
I feel: as if I am being looked out for or taken care of by the Universe, or some higher power, or my dead grandma, or something. (Again, I don't purport to know the answers.) I feel abudance in my life, I feel like the things I want and need are coming to me and life is easier for the first time maybe ever. I feel incredibly grateful for these blessings, like I should send a thank you card to the Universe. THANK YOU.
I hear: and then I forget. I am the master of forgetting someone's name a nanosecond after they've said it. I listen to people's stories and dramas and prattling on and sometimes they bring it up again and its like I was never there the first time. This can get me in trouble. I need to work on my listening skills.
I smell: the stench of the Salt Lake before a storm more intensely than everyone I know in this town. Does it really not bother you all? Or are you just faking in order to make the best of it? I mean, as disgusting as that smell is, I can endure it for the mountains and snowboarding and the beauty of this place. It is definitely worth it. But seriously, it triggers my vomit reflex.
I crave: cigarettes. Though I do not smoke them. Anymore. Ok, confession time: I've been an on-and-off closet smoker since high school. Waaaay back in the closet, with the mothballs and the dusty old shoes you forgot you owned. Only my very closest girlfriends knew. Not my fam, not my acquaintances or coworkers, not my ex-boyfriend I dated for 4 years. Nobody. In retrospect, despite how careful I was and how adept I felt I'd become at masking the smell with my post-cig Orbit/Zum Rub/Aveda spray combo, I'm not sure how some of those people didn't know. No matter now, I've quit. I'm on day four without a smoke, and am incredibly proud of myself. It has not been easy. Yesterday was a DARK DAY. I cried more times than I could possibly recount. I pretty much cried all day. I took a bath to try and calm down and do something for myself, and I cried through my entire bath. So lame. But, this is the price I pay for being a fucking idiot and I deserve it. I deserve to suffer after punishing my body for so many years. I feel a bit like I've lost a dear friend though. There is a void, and I'm trying to figure out how to fill it.
I cry: a lot right now, per previous paragraph. I cry when I am angry or frustrated or thwarted in my best efforts. I cry sometimes without really knowing why. I cry when I'm overwhelmed. And I cried when I saw the Tetons for the first time, and I still cry every time I hear Damien Rice's live album. I do not, however, cry very often at movies or commercials or at times when other people are crying. And then I feel like a big insensitive beast.
I usually: am in a good mood; am an optimist; am running late; cook dinner; am nice to people even if I don't like them; curse too frequently; talk too much; could stand to hustle a bit; see the best in others; forget to brush my teeth before bed; forget a lot of things I shouldn't forget.
I wonder: about the kind of person Elise will be as an adult. Some days I wonder if I am fucking her up with every move I make. As a parent, I find it incredibly difficult to see the child that everyone else sees sometimes. I wonder if I'm too hard on her. I wonder if I should be doing more, nagging less, exercise patience more regularly. And then I wonder if it really matters. She has a stable home and a family that loves her and a big goofy dog that snuggles in her bed on weekend mornings. So that's probably enough, right?
I regret: all the times in my life that I've hurt people. Not that I ever try to hurt people, but I know there have been instances when my dumbass decisions have inadvertently hurt people. Otherwise though, I have very few regrets; every single thing I have done in my life thus far has led me to this moment, and I am fuller and happier and enjoying my life more than I ever have before.
I love: to ramble on and attempt to sound poetic and answer questions such as this with something along the lines of, "I love to watch the sunrise over the mountains," or some other such nonsense. But the truth is, I love my daughter and my dog and my family and my close friends and I can't remember the last time I woke up early enough to see the sun rise. I am likely on my way to loving someone new, but will leave it at that for now.
I care: less and less about this silly post now that I've just noticed I have about 45 more prompts to answer. Good lord. Who comes up with this stuff? However, since I've come this far, I'll attempt to remain true to form here. I care about human rights, about treating people with respect and dignity and taking care of people who are less fortunate. Call me a hippie. See if I care. (I don't.) Yes, I am the girl who will always give money to the strangers that ask for it on the train platform. And yes, I do realize they could use my money to buy crack or alcohol. But, here's where we have something I don't care AT ALL about. Because, (1) it is no longer my money, and (2) if I was homeless, I might want to smoke crack or buy a 40 oz. too. And I'd be damn pleased when a nice lady gave me a few bucks and smiled and told me good luck. And then I'd go buy a 40 oz. to numb the pain and monotony that is sleeping on a street, or in a shelter. Every. Single. Day.
I always: dislike superlatives. Sorry. Don't really have an answer for this one because there isn't something I always do. And even if I could think of something I nearly always do, if I commit it to writing you know I'll forget to do it tomorrow and fuck myself completely over.
I am not: prompt. Case in point, I began this post last Thursday morning. It is now Tuesday evening, and I'm attempting to finish this damn thing so I can post something about the ELECTION in which we will replace the moronic administration that has been steering this sinking ship of a country for the last eight years with Captain Obama. Aye Aye Sir!
I remember: three lifetimes ago when I started filling in this flipping tag-your-blogger-friends-thingie. Oh, sorry readers. Things are devolving here, I know.
I sing: a LOT. I sing in the shower, I sing in the car, I sing when I'm cleaning, I sing when I'm working, I sing to music that's playing, I sing when there's no music playing. I love to sing. And it drives Elise absolutely CRAZY. Which makes it even more fun.
I don't always: listen very well. I mentioned this already I think. Because its just that true, it requires mentioning twice. This is one of those flaws about myself that I am painfully aware of, but somehow unable to remedy with any success. I recognize it frequently, and then I think, "Ok, I MUST work on this. I suck at listening. I really appreciate good listeners, so I should try to be better at this for the people I care about in my life." And I really mean it in that moment when I have that discussion with myself. And then life creeps back in and the next time I have an opportunity to be a good listener, I inevitably fuck it up again. Ah well. Can I blame it on my parents?
I write: damn fine essays but can't come up with interesting fiction. Always been that way. It bums me out a bit, but I've come to just accept it. I'm not a fiction commer-upper. Ask me to analyze a work of literature as it relates to some particular historical moment and I'll knock your damn socks off. Ask me to tell you a bedtime story and I'll put you to sleep with my long string of "um......" Because I won't be able to think of anything. I am not necessarily creative by nature. I'm a good commenter. A pundit. I guess I can tell a story if it happened and I was there. But otherwise, it's a big empty hole in my brain where the creative writing should be, and the sad crickets chirrup in echo....echo....echo....
I win: ----Ok, I was going to say I never win anything. I don't. I'm not lucky. I can't remember ever winning anything except once at a weird TV promotion when I won a $50 gift certificate to the grocery store. Which I really needed, actually, because I was 18 and broke and writing bad checks for food so my baby didn't starve. BUT - I interrupt this rambling to report an actual win - BARACK OBAMA has won the election, and will be the 44th President of the United States of America. Now I feel like I've won something. Oh my god.
I wish:
I listen:
I can usually be found:
I am happy:
See, no need to finish. These are all nice little straightforward and true sentences. Now go drink some champagne and toast the ch-ch-ch-changes!
I am: going to preface this whole thing by admitting that I am bad at these sorts of lists of prompts to talk about yourself. Because there are a hundred thousand things that I am, but how do I decide what to say? It boils down to being mostly a reflection of the things that are on my mind at the moment I answer the prompts. But, whatever. Now you can have a little glimpse into my world at 9:30 a.m. on a Thursday at work. Hey, maybe I just should have said "long winded."
I think: It is crazy that a lot of people I come into contact with in my daily life are more upset, vocal, and mobilized over gay marriage (case in point: the LDS church has raised over $19m to defeat Prop 8 in California) than they are about the TWO WARS THAT HAVE BEEN RAGING FOR YEARS, IN WHICH TENS OF THOUSANDS OF INNOCENT PEOPLE HAVE DIED, AND CONTINUE TO DIE, EVERY DAY.
I know: very little. I'm fairly sure that all of the beauty and nuance and grace of life comes from a humble acceptance of the fact that I actually know very little. I don't have the answers, I'm not really sure there are any definite answers anyway, and I certainly don't want them even if there are. I enjoy living my way through the questions.
I dislike: "ists" and "isms." Racists/racism. Sexists/sexism. Classists/classism. Bigots. Small minded myopic judgmental assholes. Especially when said small-minded myopic judgmental assholes attempt (and they always do!) to institutionalize and/or control everyone else based upon their values/belief systems/etc. and their misguided notions that their values/belief systems are RIGHT for everyone. Hey assholes, how about you go make yourselves miserable however you see fit, and leave the rest of us alone? How about that?
I fear: more than I should. I wish I could just stop worrying about things I don't have any control over and/or things that haven't yet, and might never, transpire. But, since I can't, and I continue to worry, my main fears can be categorized under the larger umbrella of mediocrity - that I will never really become something that I am proud of (ie, freelance writer, humanitarian, citizen of the world, beholden to noone and nothing with which I disagree, self-sustaining, etc.) and that I will while away my best years working for someone else in a flourescent box at a computer that gives me headaches and ganglion cysts. That life is too short, that I will miss out on the most beautiful pleasures life has to offer like seeing grizzlies feasting on spawning salmon in the middle of nowhere, jumping out of a plane, getting hazy smelling poppies in Asia.... these are all pretty much related fears of never being able to create the kind of life I envision for myself.
I feel: as if I am being looked out for or taken care of by the Universe, or some higher power, or my dead grandma, or something. (Again, I don't purport to know the answers.) I feel abudance in my life, I feel like the things I want and need are coming to me and life is easier for the first time maybe ever. I feel incredibly grateful for these blessings, like I should send a thank you card to the Universe. THANK YOU.
I hear: and then I forget. I am the master of forgetting someone's name a nanosecond after they've said it. I listen to people's stories and dramas and prattling on and sometimes they bring it up again and its like I was never there the first time. This can get me in trouble. I need to work on my listening skills.
I smell: the stench of the Salt Lake before a storm more intensely than everyone I know in this town. Does it really not bother you all? Or are you just faking in order to make the best of it? I mean, as disgusting as that smell is, I can endure it for the mountains and snowboarding and the beauty of this place. It is definitely worth it. But seriously, it triggers my vomit reflex.
I crave: cigarettes. Though I do not smoke them. Anymore. Ok, confession time: I've been an on-and-off closet smoker since high school. Waaaay back in the closet, with the mothballs and the dusty old shoes you forgot you owned. Only my very closest girlfriends knew. Not my fam, not my acquaintances or coworkers, not my ex-boyfriend I dated for 4 years. Nobody. In retrospect, despite how careful I was and how adept I felt I'd become at masking the smell with my post-cig Orbit/Zum Rub/Aveda spray combo, I'm not sure how some of those people didn't know. No matter now, I've quit. I'm on day four without a smoke, and am incredibly proud of myself. It has not been easy. Yesterday was a DARK DAY. I cried more times than I could possibly recount. I pretty much cried all day. I took a bath to try and calm down and do something for myself, and I cried through my entire bath. So lame. But, this is the price I pay for being a fucking idiot and I deserve it. I deserve to suffer after punishing my body for so many years. I feel a bit like I've lost a dear friend though. There is a void, and I'm trying to figure out how to fill it.
I cry: a lot right now, per previous paragraph. I cry when I am angry or frustrated or thwarted in my best efforts. I cry sometimes without really knowing why. I cry when I'm overwhelmed. And I cried when I saw the Tetons for the first time, and I still cry every time I hear Damien Rice's live album. I do not, however, cry very often at movies or commercials or at times when other people are crying. And then I feel like a big insensitive beast.
I usually: am in a good mood; am an optimist; am running late; cook dinner; am nice to people even if I don't like them; curse too frequently; talk too much; could stand to hustle a bit; see the best in others; forget to brush my teeth before bed; forget a lot of things I shouldn't forget.
I wonder: about the kind of person Elise will be as an adult. Some days I wonder if I am fucking her up with every move I make. As a parent, I find it incredibly difficult to see the child that everyone else sees sometimes. I wonder if I'm too hard on her. I wonder if I should be doing more, nagging less, exercise patience more regularly. And then I wonder if it really matters. She has a stable home and a family that loves her and a big goofy dog that snuggles in her bed on weekend mornings. So that's probably enough, right?
I regret: all the times in my life that I've hurt people. Not that I ever try to hurt people, but I know there have been instances when my dumbass decisions have inadvertently hurt people. Otherwise though, I have very few regrets; every single thing I have done in my life thus far has led me to this moment, and I am fuller and happier and enjoying my life more than I ever have before.
I love: to ramble on and attempt to sound poetic and answer questions such as this with something along the lines of, "I love to watch the sunrise over the mountains," or some other such nonsense. But the truth is, I love my daughter and my dog and my family and my close friends and I can't remember the last time I woke up early enough to see the sun rise. I am likely on my way to loving someone new, but will leave it at that for now.
I care: less and less about this silly post now that I've just noticed I have about 45 more prompts to answer. Good lord. Who comes up with this stuff? However, since I've come this far, I'll attempt to remain true to form here. I care about human rights, about treating people with respect and dignity and taking care of people who are less fortunate. Call me a hippie. See if I care. (I don't.) Yes, I am the girl who will always give money to the strangers that ask for it on the train platform. And yes, I do realize they could use my money to buy crack or alcohol. But, here's where we have something I don't care AT ALL about. Because, (1) it is no longer my money, and (2) if I was homeless, I might want to smoke crack or buy a 40 oz. too. And I'd be damn pleased when a nice lady gave me a few bucks and smiled and told me good luck. And then I'd go buy a 40 oz. to numb the pain and monotony that is sleeping on a street, or in a shelter. Every. Single. Day.
I always: dislike superlatives. Sorry. Don't really have an answer for this one because there isn't something I always do. And even if I could think of something I nearly always do, if I commit it to writing you know I'll forget to do it tomorrow and fuck myself completely over.
I am not: prompt. Case in point, I began this post last Thursday morning. It is now Tuesday evening, and I'm attempting to finish this damn thing so I can post something about the ELECTION in which we will replace the moronic administration that has been steering this sinking ship of a country for the last eight years with Captain Obama. Aye Aye Sir!
I remember: three lifetimes ago when I started filling in this flipping tag-your-blogger-friends-thingie. Oh, sorry readers. Things are devolving here, I know.
I sing: a LOT. I sing in the shower, I sing in the car, I sing when I'm cleaning, I sing when I'm working, I sing to music that's playing, I sing when there's no music playing. I love to sing. And it drives Elise absolutely CRAZY. Which makes it even more fun.
I don't always: listen very well. I mentioned this already I think. Because its just that true, it requires mentioning twice. This is one of those flaws about myself that I am painfully aware of, but somehow unable to remedy with any success. I recognize it frequently, and then I think, "Ok, I MUST work on this. I suck at listening. I really appreciate good listeners, so I should try to be better at this for the people I care about in my life." And I really mean it in that moment when I have that discussion with myself. And then life creeps back in and the next time I have an opportunity to be a good listener, I inevitably fuck it up again. Ah well. Can I blame it on my parents?
I write: damn fine essays but can't come up with interesting fiction. Always been that way. It bums me out a bit, but I've come to just accept it. I'm not a fiction commer-upper. Ask me to analyze a work of literature as it relates to some particular historical moment and I'll knock your damn socks off. Ask me to tell you a bedtime story and I'll put you to sleep with my long string of "um......" Because I won't be able to think of anything. I am not necessarily creative by nature. I'm a good commenter. A pundit. I guess I can tell a story if it happened and I was there. But otherwise, it's a big empty hole in my brain where the creative writing should be, and the sad crickets chirrup in echo....echo....echo....
I win: ----Ok, I was going to say I never win anything. I don't. I'm not lucky. I can't remember ever winning anything except once at a weird TV promotion when I won a $50 gift certificate to the grocery store. Which I really needed, actually, because I was 18 and broke and writing bad checks for food so my baby didn't starve. BUT - I interrupt this rambling to report an actual win - BARACK OBAMA has won the election, and will be the 44th President of the United States of America. Now I feel like I've won something. Oh my god.
[Short interlude for sobbing tears of joy.]
I wish:
I listen:
I can usually be found:
I am happy:
See, no need to finish. These are all nice little straightforward and true sentences. Now go drink some champagne and toast the ch-ch-ch-changes!
10.20.2008
Do I suck or what? (or, "The Non-Post Post")
Worst blogger ever? Perhaps. As with most of the pet projects in my life, I have fallen sadly behind. And didn't I even post about how I have the internet at home now so "watchout!" cyberworld, here I come? I think I did. And haven't posted since. Because I suck.
However, I am home for lunch at the moment and downloading 8 months worth of pics off my camera. So, stay tuned for a photo-montage style Ode to Summer 2008, and another installment in the always popular My Neighbor is a Douchebag series (complete with a scanned letter the offending neighbors left for the very non-offensive neighbors who live below them). And perhaps an update on the more specific reason I've been less inclined to post these past few weeks...
Oh, and at Walgreens yesterday an irate tranny threw an irate-tranny-fit at the pharmacist for not selling her a box of syringes. Pit bull in tow (at what point did retailers stop prohibiting non-service animals? Not that I care, but really, have I missed something? Because I'm sure Rascal would love to accompany me into Walgreens rather than wait in the car), "fuck you's" flying around, man-calves and sexually ambiguous tattoos ablazin. Good times! And we all know how much I love those kinds of things.
However, I am home for lunch at the moment and downloading 8 months worth of pics off my camera. So, stay tuned for a photo-montage style Ode to Summer 2008, and another installment in the always popular My Neighbor is a Douchebag series (complete with a scanned letter the offending neighbors left for the very non-offensive neighbors who live below them). And perhaps an update on the more specific reason I've been less inclined to post these past few weeks...
Oh, and at Walgreens yesterday an irate tranny threw an irate-tranny-fit at the pharmacist for not selling her a box of syringes. Pit bull in tow (at what point did retailers stop prohibiting non-service animals? Not that I care, but really, have I missed something? Because I'm sure Rascal would love to accompany me into Walgreens rather than wait in the car), "fuck you's" flying around, man-calves and sexually ambiguous tattoos ablazin. Good times! And we all know how much I love those kinds of things.
10.07.2008
Ode to Summer
Goodbye Summer. Though I'm sad to see you go, I really am ready to slide down some snowy mountains once again. So much I could have reported this summer and never got around to it, so I offer homage in the form of the photo montage of some of my favorite moments from the past few months.
Shortly after the visit from my fam, my best friend Molly came to visit me all the way from Brooklyn, to alleviate my loneliness once Elise left for the summer. Because we had each recently left our boyfriends and were nursing fresh wounds, her mother, who is wonderful, bankrolled a fantastic day and night at Snowbird for us, complete with lobster dinner and lovely bottle of wine at The Aerie, massages, and time spent on the rooftop pool. Where we laid sunbathing in bikinis and watching snowboarders carve out the last few bits of slush left on the mountain on the summer solstice.
Elise left to visit her dad in Colorado in mid-June, so I spent a good deal of the summer months playing single-gal, and trying to figure out what all of my single, child-less friends are talking about when they say they're "so busy..." It was incredibly lonely at first, but then I met this amazing woman named Karan at the dog park, who quickly became my newest, bestest friend.
Before meeting Karan, I spent a lot of time painting and decorating my new house. Picked this nice green and awesome and cheap IKEA curtains for the dining room. The big brown blog would be my dog, who spends hours staring out that window at the neighbor's cat, who sits in a window directly opposite.
Hiking up Millcreek with Karan and five dogs on a hot and sunny afternoon:
Free concerts at the Gallivan on Wednesday nights are still one of my favorite things about SLC. This year I skipped the Roots, but got to see Andrew Bird (pictured), De La Soul, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and my personal favorite, Neko Case (also pictured, albeit a crappy photo from my cell phone). Plus, the shows I missed I was able to listen to from the comfort of my backyard...
And, because Salt Lake is THE home of the free concert, I was also able to see one my new favorite bands, Grace Potter & the Nocturnals, rock the canyon walls on a gorgeous evening up at Snowbird. For free. Oh yes.
Sunset over the western mountains of SLC, from an impromptu pool party my friend Richy took me to. Dogs played fetch in the pool, deliciousness cooked on the barbie, and I realized I wasn't lonely anymore.
August began with another trip home to St. Louis for my best friend Kelcey's wedding. Crazy fun whirlwind of a trip, wherein I got to see loads of people I miss like mad. Including Ariel, my best friend who lives in the UK, and Billy, sweet and silly Billy, one of my favorite friends in St. Louis.
Chelle & Billy reunion:
Elise and Ariel, gettin their Lou on at a Cardinal's baseball game:
MAY
Kelcey shakes her booty with multiple strangers at her (2nd) bachelorette party in St. Louis over Mother's Day weekend:
Elise's 11th Birthday Slumber Party, complete with 8 caffienated girls and much soda-spewing from noses. Super gross. Super fun:
JUNE
Mom, my brother Matt and niece Katherine come to visit. Mom entertains us all with her mad-hula-hooping skills in the front yard. We get some photo ops on top of the SLC Library, and later, we all head to Lagoon for my work's "Lagoon Night" party. Much fun was had until Katherine puked up her dinner in the middle of a big crowd of people.
Shortly after the visit from my fam, my best friend Molly came to visit me all the way from Brooklyn, to alleviate my loneliness once Elise left for the summer. Because we had each recently left our boyfriends and were nursing fresh wounds, her mother, who is wonderful, bankrolled a fantastic day and night at Snowbird for us, complete with lobster dinner and lovely bottle of wine at The Aerie, massages, and time spent on the rooftop pool. Where we laid sunbathing in bikinis and watching snowboarders carve out the last few bits of slush left on the mountain on the summer solstice.
JULY
Elise left to visit her dad in Colorado in mid-June, so I spent a good deal of the summer months playing single-gal, and trying to figure out what all of my single, child-less friends are talking about when they say they're "so busy..." It was incredibly lonely at first, but then I met this amazing woman named Karan at the dog park, who quickly became my newest, bestest friend.
Before meeting Karan, I spent a lot of time painting and decorating my new house. Picked this nice green and awesome and cheap IKEA curtains for the dining room. The big brown blog would be my dog, who spends hours staring out that window at the neighbor's cat, who sits in a window directly opposite.
Hiking up Millcreek with Karan and five dogs on a hot and sunny afternoon:
Free concerts at the Gallivan on Wednesday nights are still one of my favorite things about SLC. This year I skipped the Roots, but got to see Andrew Bird (pictured), De La Soul, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and my personal favorite, Neko Case (also pictured, albeit a crappy photo from my cell phone). Plus, the shows I missed I was able to listen to from the comfort of my backyard...
And, because Salt Lake is THE home of the free concert, I was also able to see one my new favorite bands, Grace Potter & the Nocturnals, rock the canyon walls on a gorgeous evening up at Snowbird. For free. Oh yes.
Sunset over the western mountains of SLC, from an impromptu pool party my friend Richy took me to. Dogs played fetch in the pool, deliciousness cooked on the barbie, and I realized I wasn't lonely anymore.
AUGUST
August began with another trip home to St. Louis for my best friend Kelcey's wedding. Crazy fun whirlwind of a trip, wherein I got to see loads of people I miss like mad. Including Ariel, my best friend who lives in the UK, and Billy, sweet and silly Billy, one of my favorite friends in St. Louis.
Chelle & Billy reunion:
Elise and Ariel, gettin their Lou on at a Cardinal's baseball game:
At Kelcey & Matt's rehearsal dinner. Or, to be precise, at the cocktail party following the dinner. My bestest girlfriends in the entire world, my special tribe of women whose friendship has never waned in 15 years since we all met in high school. The handsome chap in the center is Matt, the groom.
And finally, Elise returns home after 8 weeks away and my life returns to normal. The minute we walked in the door from the airport she threw down her things and snuggled up with the dog, whom I'm pretty sure she missed more than me:
10.06.2008
Wired
What a day! Fuzzy and buzzy and distracted most of the day and ended up losing (1) my access card for work on my lunch hour while running to catch the train (which I did not catch, to the amusement of a group of SLC workmen), and (2) my daughter (subsequently found, no worries). It was just that kind of day. I made two trips up to the 21st floor war rooms today and both times either forgot certain necessary files or brought the wrong ones altogether. And trips to the 21st floor are not trips I like to repeat, as the "priority service" elevator (total misnomer) takes forfuckingever and once you finally make it up you step out into the lobby, which is akin to stepping into the sweaty, hairy armpits of a giant hobo with raging body odor. You know this kind of body odor: the kind that lingers, that prickles your olfactory senses 5 stops past where the b.o. offender (b.o.o.) got off the train. And no matter how big of a breath I manage to draw in before stepping off that elevator, it's never quite enough to get me to the office doors, get them unlocked with the special key while balancing an unruly stack of files, and get safely to the other side. Where, strangely, it doesn't smell like b.o. at all. And then you wonder if the lobby really smells that bad. And then you finish your business in the war rooms and go back to the elevator in the lobby and realize yes, yes it is that bad. Its actually worse than you thought. Or maybe it just gets worse all the time. Perhaps it is a constantly evolving b.o., not unlike b.o. left untreated on human specimens. It's absolutely offensive. And the Utah Sports Commission and some other kind of place share the very-swanky office on the other half of the 21st floor, and thus use said b.o. lobby. And I really don't understand why they don't do something, except for maybe they just don't notice. (But how could they NOT notice?? Seriously.) I actually had a discussion one day with a guy who was waiting in the b.o. lobby with me for the "priority service" elevator (the whole situation is just a nightmare, really), and he asked what was wrong, presumably because I was burying my face in my sleeve.
"I just can't handle the smell in the lobby," I say.
"Oh," he says. "I guess I never noticed."
"Do you work here?" I ask.
"Yeah, for the Commission."
"And you NEVER noticed that it smells like b.o. right here?"
"B.O.? Really?" He's honestly surprised and thoughtful for a moment. "Hmm. Nope, I'm probably just immune."
At which point I realize I don't like this guy. Mainly because he started a conversation with me that required me to breathe the b.o. air rather than the Downy-freshness of my sleeve, and then just rubs it in further by being all nonchalant about this VILE, RANCID LOBBY OF DEATH. Like I'm the crazy one. No guy, maybe the acrid stench of this lobby has burned out all of the cells inside your nose, but I am NOT crazy. It could win "Stinkiest Lobby in the Entire World" contests. That's how damn stinky.
Anyway. So it was that kind of day. But I did get some new and fantastic bras from my neighbor, which was a total score. And - major development - I'm writing this from my home computer (old girl's still chugging along, if a big sluggish), after finally buying the wireless card and bribing the downstairs neighbor with a poster of Salt Lake from the '70's that I found at Sam Weller's (they're pretty cool, and only $5.00!) to come and do the hi-tech savvy stuff that I can never figure out. So now we're all up and running and I am able to really ramble (watchout!) as I look at my view of the Capitol all lit up at night just out the windows behind the monitor. Ahh. Life is nice and calm up here in my little computer room in the little city so far away from the life I used to know...
"I just can't handle the smell in the lobby," I say.
"Oh," he says. "I guess I never noticed."
"Do you work here?" I ask.
"Yeah, for the Commission."
"And you NEVER noticed that it smells like b.o. right here?"
"B.O.? Really?" He's honestly surprised and thoughtful for a moment. "Hmm. Nope, I'm probably just immune."
At which point I realize I don't like this guy. Mainly because he started a conversation with me that required me to breathe the b.o. air rather than the Downy-freshness of my sleeve, and then just rubs it in further by being all nonchalant about this VILE, RANCID LOBBY OF DEATH. Like I'm the crazy one. No guy, maybe the acrid stench of this lobby has burned out all of the cells inside your nose, but I am NOT crazy. It could win "Stinkiest Lobby in the Entire World" contests. That's how damn stinky.
Anyway. So it was that kind of day. But I did get some new and fantastic bras from my neighbor, which was a total score. And - major development - I'm writing this from my home computer (old girl's still chugging along, if a big sluggish), after finally buying the wireless card and bribing the downstairs neighbor with a poster of Salt Lake from the '70's that I found at Sam Weller's (they're pretty cool, and only $5.00!) to come and do the hi-tech savvy stuff that I can never figure out. So now we're all up and running and I am able to really ramble (watchout!) as I look at my view of the Capitol all lit up at night just out the windows behind the monitor. Ahh. Life is nice and calm up here in my little computer room in the little city so far away from the life I used to know...
9.16.2008
I Promise I Won't Punch You
Hello blog. Hello readers. [Echo...] What a lameass blogger I am! And I miss my blog. Funny, surreal, irritating, thought-provoking stuff is happening all the time (my neighbor alone provides enough material for a near-daily rant) that I want to report to you, my favorite four friends who come here to read my silly ramblings. And even more so recently, with the departure of my dear and funny friend Richy from my life - Richy, who listened to my rambling stories every day for the past few months, good man, and remembered them, and laughed even if they weren't all that funny and pretended to be interested even when they weren't all that interesting. So now I have nowhere to turn to ramble except for this little salty spot in the cyberuniverse. But despite working my ASS off here at the old jibby job, I can't seem to unbury myself from the constantly shifting (but never shrinking!) piles of work that surround me in my little cubicle of love, and STILL haven't gotten around to buying the wireless card to get the interweb at home. So the posts are few and far between these days, but bear with me - the future is WIIIIIDE open.
I don't even know what that means. Sorry. I heard a little Tom Petty on the classic-rock-radio in the copy room this morning and all day now I've been repeating lyrics in conversation as the songs roll through my brain. This is the danger of the copy room. You go in there to make one innocent copy and for three days you're singing Janie's Got a Gun without ever knowing what happened.
And then somehow you find that your life is so incredibly lame that you are taking a few minutes at work to write on your blog, and you're writing about work. Because you are trapped in a terrifying mirrored bubble where work looms omnipresent at all times, stretching into the vast horizon of your bleak, bleak future...
But that's depressing, huh?
What I really came here to write was the ONE interesting thing that happened to me this weekend. Yes, there was really only one noteworty moment in 48+ hours. Because Karan was on a kayak trip that nearly killed her and I don't have any other friends that I actually hang out with in this town. So this is a story about strangers. Go fucking figure.
Saturday I venture out to Lowe's for some paint for the kitchen, hinges for some doors, curtain brackets, etc. It was project weekend, because that's what I do when I have no life. This incredibly dorky, splotchy-faced, bright-eyed young fellow assisted me to the curtain bracket aisle and was really just overly sweet and helpful. When I go to checkout, his checkout line is the shortest, so I get in it. And promptly realize why no one was in that line, despite the two other open registers having lines spilling back into the power drill department. The man and woman in his line - she middle-aged and obese, he late-twenties and moderately attractive, both emanating an unmistakable white-trash aura, despite being clad and accessorized with all the trappings of middle-to-upper class American consumer culture. You know what I mean, yes? The hard-living types who have enough money to dress and purchase and live, superficially at least, like "the rest of us."
Ok, I officially feel like an asshole.
Except not that much, because THEY are the assholes of this story. Not quite mother-son, not quite romantic-duo, these two shared an intimacy, and apparently a fifth of whiskey or ten, that was PALPABLE in the checkout aisle at the home improvement warehouse. As I stand there assessing them, judging them, imagining the trajectories of their lives - for a good three to four minutes, mind you - I realize that all of their purchases have been rung and are in the bags, ready to go. All that remains is for them to PAY FOR THEM AND LEAVE. Which, I suspect due to the fact that they spent the morning, and perhaps the previous evening, drinking copious amounts of whiskey (the smell is the giveaway on this one), was exceedingly difficult for them to accomplish. She's rooting around in her purse for much too long looking for, I can only assume, her wallet. But no, she's actually looking for her phone.
The phone cannot pay for your PVC connectors honey. Get your fucking wallet out already.
This is what I want to say, but do not, because my mother raised me to be good and Catholic and demure and to hold all my rage inside and never ever ever ever let it out.
She pulls out the phone, opens it, looks through a few screens, says to her companion, "Did Tracy ever text you?" He shakes his head negatory. "That bitch needs to get on the horn already! I can't get anything done until she gets on the damn horn. GOD!" Then she starts to cackle. He's cackling. He's undoing and redoing his belt buckle for who the hell knows what reason. She pokes him in the arm, "Are you even listening to me? I don't even know why I ask, you never listen." They're both cracking up. Because apparently this is hilarious.
And the poor Lowe's guy just stands there, not having any idea what is going on or what, if anything, to do about it. He opts for my frequent favorite: the do-nothing-and-hope-things-don't-end-badly-option. He looks at me, I give a faint shrug and small smirk that says I feel for you buddy. And meanwhile the insanity rages on, unabated.
Suddenly, the lights come on.
"Hey, you better find your wallet in there so we can PAY for this stuff! Ha ha ha haaa!" He is not drunk enough that he cannot re-fasten his belt while doubled-over in laughter.
"Shit! I forgot what we were even doing! Haaaaa!!" She roots around in her purse.
And just when I think this little episode couldn't get any more entertaining - frankly I was not expecting much delight in my trip to Lowe's - the Universe, perhaps sensing my recent battle with a gripping personal malaise, offered up a little something to make my fucking day. And yes, I realize it may be a little sick that I take delight in these things, but I don't have a whole hell of a lot going on these days, so just give me this.
After another good minute of purse-rooting, she finds the wallet, and swipes the card. And swipes again. And swipes again. She is doing something wrong.
"Just swipe it one more time and if it doesn't go through I can type the number in," says geeky-sweet Lowe's guy. She goes to swipe. And the drunk guy PUNCHES the Lowe's guy! Right in the ribs that protect his fragile Lowe's-guy heart. And this was no sloppy-drunk-on-a-Saturday-morning little skin grazer. It was a full-on, BRUTAL hit that knocked Lowe's guy backwards at least a meter or more. I think it was probably meant to be playful (in the convoluted consciousness of drunk-man-on-a-Saturday-morning), but was executed with much more fervor than originally intended. If there ever was an original intention.
My mouth is hanging open, I'm sure. Lowe's guy's mouth is hanging open as he regains his posture and shakes it off. And drunk guy, pretty much immediately, says, "I'm sorry man. I don't even know why I did that! Ha!"
"Um-" Lowe's guy doesn't really know what to say. I mean, he's awkward enough to begin with, and shit like this just doesn't help.
"I have Tourette's."
"Oh-"
FUCK YOU!" Once again, executed with too much zeal, so now everyone in every aisle has whipped around to see. "Ha ha ha! No, not really man. I'm just kidding. Ha ha ha!"
At this point their transaction has been processed and Lowe's guy is handing them their bags of merch. Drunk Lady is laughing so hard she can't even really function, so Drunk Guy, who is still standing directly across the scanner from Lowe's guy, picks up the bags and yells, "FUCK YOU FUCKFACE!"
And as they walk toward the sliding doors, he turns back around to Lowe's Guy and says, "Gotcha!"
[Scene.]
I don't even know what that means. Sorry. I heard a little Tom Petty on the classic-rock-radio in the copy room this morning and all day now I've been repeating lyrics in conversation as the songs roll through my brain. This is the danger of the copy room. You go in there to make one innocent copy and for three days you're singing Janie's Got a Gun without ever knowing what happened.
And then somehow you find that your life is so incredibly lame that you are taking a few minutes at work to write on your blog, and you're writing about work. Because you are trapped in a terrifying mirrored bubble where work looms omnipresent at all times, stretching into the vast horizon of your bleak, bleak future...
But that's depressing, huh?
What I really came here to write was the ONE interesting thing that happened to me this weekend. Yes, there was really only one noteworty moment in 48+ hours. Because Karan was on a kayak trip that nearly killed her and I don't have any other friends that I actually hang out with in this town. So this is a story about strangers. Go fucking figure.
Saturday I venture out to Lowe's for some paint for the kitchen, hinges for some doors, curtain brackets, etc. It was project weekend, because that's what I do when I have no life. This incredibly dorky, splotchy-faced, bright-eyed young fellow assisted me to the curtain bracket aisle and was really just overly sweet and helpful. When I go to checkout, his checkout line is the shortest, so I get in it. And promptly realize why no one was in that line, despite the two other open registers having lines spilling back into the power drill department. The man and woman in his line - she middle-aged and obese, he late-twenties and moderately attractive, both emanating an unmistakable white-trash aura, despite being clad and accessorized with all the trappings of middle-to-upper class American consumer culture. You know what I mean, yes? The hard-living types who have enough money to dress and purchase and live, superficially at least, like "the rest of us."
Ok, I officially feel like an asshole.
Except not that much, because THEY are the assholes of this story. Not quite mother-son, not quite romantic-duo, these two shared an intimacy, and apparently a fifth of whiskey or ten, that was PALPABLE in the checkout aisle at the home improvement warehouse. As I stand there assessing them, judging them, imagining the trajectories of their lives - for a good three to four minutes, mind you - I realize that all of their purchases have been rung and are in the bags, ready to go. All that remains is for them to PAY FOR THEM AND LEAVE. Which, I suspect due to the fact that they spent the morning, and perhaps the previous evening, drinking copious amounts of whiskey (the smell is the giveaway on this one), was exceedingly difficult for them to accomplish. She's rooting around in her purse for much too long looking for, I can only assume, her wallet. But no, she's actually looking for her phone.
The phone cannot pay for your PVC connectors honey. Get your fucking wallet out already.
This is what I want to say, but do not, because my mother raised me to be good and Catholic and demure and to hold all my rage inside and never ever ever ever let it out.
She pulls out the phone, opens it, looks through a few screens, says to her companion, "Did Tracy ever text you?" He shakes his head negatory. "That bitch needs to get on the horn already! I can't get anything done until she gets on the damn horn. GOD!" Then she starts to cackle. He's cackling. He's undoing and redoing his belt buckle for who the hell knows what reason. She pokes him in the arm, "Are you even listening to me? I don't even know why I ask, you never listen." They're both cracking up. Because apparently this is hilarious.
And the poor Lowe's guy just stands there, not having any idea what is going on or what, if anything, to do about it. He opts for my frequent favorite: the do-nothing-and-hope-things-don't-end-badly-option. He looks at me, I give a faint shrug and small smirk that says I feel for you buddy. And meanwhile the insanity rages on, unabated.
Suddenly, the lights come on.
"Hey, you better find your wallet in there so we can PAY for this stuff! Ha ha ha haaa!" He is not drunk enough that he cannot re-fasten his belt while doubled-over in laughter.
"Shit! I forgot what we were even doing! Haaaaa!!" She roots around in her purse.
And just when I think this little episode couldn't get any more entertaining - frankly I was not expecting much delight in my trip to Lowe's - the Universe, perhaps sensing my recent battle with a gripping personal malaise, offered up a little something to make my fucking day. And yes, I realize it may be a little sick that I take delight in these things, but I don't have a whole hell of a lot going on these days, so just give me this.
After another good minute of purse-rooting, she finds the wallet, and swipes the card. And swipes again. And swipes again. She is doing something wrong.
"Just swipe it one more time and if it doesn't go through I can type the number in," says geeky-sweet Lowe's guy. She goes to swipe. And the drunk guy PUNCHES the Lowe's guy! Right in the ribs that protect his fragile Lowe's-guy heart. And this was no sloppy-drunk-on-a-Saturday-morning little skin grazer. It was a full-on, BRUTAL hit that knocked Lowe's guy backwards at least a meter or more. I think it was probably meant to be playful (in the convoluted consciousness of drunk-man-on-a-Saturday-morning), but was executed with much more fervor than originally intended. If there ever was an original intention.
My mouth is hanging open, I'm sure. Lowe's guy's mouth is hanging open as he regains his posture and shakes it off. And drunk guy, pretty much immediately, says, "I'm sorry man. I don't even know why I did that! Ha!"
"Um-" Lowe's guy doesn't really know what to say. I mean, he's awkward enough to begin with, and shit like this just doesn't help.
"I have Tourette's."
"Oh-"
FUCK YOU!" Once again, executed with too much zeal, so now everyone in every aisle has whipped around to see. "Ha ha ha! No, not really man. I'm just kidding. Ha ha ha!"
At this point their transaction has been processed and Lowe's guy is handing them their bags of merch. Drunk Lady is laughing so hard she can't even really function, so Drunk Guy, who is still standing directly across the scanner from Lowe's guy, picks up the bags and yells, "FUCK YOU FUCKFACE!"
And as they walk toward the sliding doors, he turns back around to Lowe's Guy and says, "Gotcha!"
[Scene.]
9.04.2008
Craptastic
I'm thinking my three devoted readers might be wondering why there have been no new posts lately, and so I offer this hastily-penned explanation: I'm busy. Busy as hell, actually, at the job (yes, I AM posting while at said job, in a futile, desperate grab for a few moments of sanity). Now, I had been bitching about being bored and how lame my job was just weeks ago. So, yes, being busy is a welcome change from the monotony of internet-surfing and intermittent discussions I had been having with myself in an attempt to decide whether or not I should venture into the break-room in search of the one, sad, broken-handled bread knife that I might use to chop off an unnecessary appendage just for something to fucking do.
But oh jesus and mary maybe I should have been careful what I wished for. I'm so buried these days that when I went to the restroom at work this morning I realized I hadn't been in there since last week. Too busy to pee! And while it sure is nice to be needed and appreciated and all that, I have turned into a total space cadet. My brain spins fast and furious for 7.5 hours every day, and the rest of my waking hours are spent in complete mental disarray. So unlike my anal Virgo self, I have found myself in the last 3 days spending way too much time looking for my keys, trying to remember where I've left my flip-flops, re-washing towels (3 times now, apologies to Mother Earth) that I forgot were in the washer until the smell of mildew filtered out from the laundry room, and - to my daughter's constant amusement - looking for glasses that were on my head.
Would love to report something (anything!) else, but sadly my life has taken a turn for the bleak, and its time to get back to work anyway.
8.29.2008
Movie Review: The Band's Visit
An Egyptian Police Orchestra travels to Israel for a performance at an Arab cultural concert. When their ride doesn't show, they find themselves stranded in the desert. Forced to follow their stoic, tight-lipped and (only seemingly) hard-hearted leader with suitcases and instruments in tow, they make the best they can of it, especially when they find a hospitable, witty, incredibly sexy single woman in a nearly deserted little town who takes them in for the night.
I was full-on in the hatrix when I watched this movie, and it brought me back around to the more tender places in myself and made me remember that I actually really like people and their crazy demons and foibles and all. There's just something so real about this movie, with just enough really awkward moments, funny moments, poignant moments showcasing little nuggets of fundamental human truths... And while you'd expect politics, there is a surprising and refreshing lack throughout the film. Early on, the stodgy old leader of the group keeps saying things like, "Be careful," and is obviously nervous about being Arabs who stick out like sore thumbs in their matching blue uniforms in this Jewish country. And then nothing happens at all save for the unyielding kindness of strangers set to a fantastic sountrack. I only wish the band had played a little more often, or a little longer. Because they were incredible.
The New York Times says it all better than I, complete with clips and pics.
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