Ya'll, I've been busy writing. I've been writing everywhere but here. Plus, the internet is time-sucking my life away and I need a twelve-step program. In an active effort to change it up, I have resorted to paper and pencil and scribbled notes crammed in the bottom of my purse. I have outlined and plotted and charted my way through a storyline. And then in a fit of impatience, I went back and read everything that I had so far. And you know what? It's crap. Complete and utter overworked and stale crapola. But, it was practice and got me back in the habit of writing a small bit every day. It taught me to be a little more aware of my surroundings and the everyday language that I encounter.
Maybe I should try writing something less lofty. Lower my standards. Write what I know.
Today's work events and an earlier Facebook thread prompted me to discover my next Great American Novel:
Dear Customer
Or How Not To Act In A Retail Enviroment
Chapter One: Please Bathe
Chapter Two: I don't need business or love advice from a guy selling purses out of a van.
Chapter Three: Yes, I look like that girl you used to know, but she didn't like you either.
Chapter Four: Toothpaste and it's common uses.
What? It's a work in progress. Or I need more sleep. It's really hard to say at this point...
Showing posts with label Dear Diary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dear Diary. Show all posts
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Talking to myself
So there's a thread going around the blogger world concerning what you would say to your 16 year old self. Figuring I would rise to the occasion, I've decided to write a letter to the 16 year old me. If nothing else, it will be an exercise in LESSONS LEARNED. And if I drag a few skeletons out of the closet and expose them for the assholes that they are, then all the better.
Dear Teenage Me,
Yes, this is weird. You probably have never received a letter from yourself before, but try and pay attention. I know you may find it shocking that you even have any brain cells left at the ancient age of *cough* forty-six *cough* but there are at least a hundred or so still functioning to impart some wisdom on your skinny ass.
Listen up, kiddo. I've managed to keep your body alive for another 30 years and even managed to beat some sense into that hormone-addled brain of yours. It wasn't easy, but the main thing I need to tell you is that you will be ok. I promise.
Now that the big news is out of the way, here's a few pointers to make your life a little easier to navigate the next few years.
I know that high school sucks, but it pretty much sucks for everybody, so you're in good commpany. The only people that believe that high school doesn't suck are those three or four people that never grow beyond it. There will be good days and bad ones, but that's pretty much the rule of the rest of your life. It ain't all cruising in cars and hot dates. But again, you will be ok.
Embrace your inner dorkiness. I know it's hard to be different in high school, but one day soon, your originality will be something you are proud of. Plus you will never have to drive yourself bat-shit crazy again trying to find the exact same kind of tennis shoes that everybody else is wearing.
Keep your copy of the Thoureau book that your English teacher made you read. Otherwise you will have to spend some serious Ramen-noodle starving college student money for another one. (Which you will love and still have today, btw)
Stop perming your hair. Seriously. If Eddie Murphy can't pull off a Jeri-Curl look, neither can a white girl from the Bible belt of the Midwest. You will not achieve a tousled, carefree, "I just came from the beach" look for many years. Stop it.
Look down. See those legs? They are fabulous. See those abs? Get a good look now and ingrain it in your memory. Look behind you. That is an ass to die for. Trust me. Take care of those, instead of taking them for granted. Good genes will only carry you so far. The rest takes hard work.
Let's talk about your family. Ease up on your mom. She's in a bad position and you're not making it any easier. And about your dad? You need to learn when to keep your mouth shut. And when not to. Alcoholism affects more of your friends than you know and hiding behind lies and denying anything is wrong is denying you of support that you might have found. It will take years, but you can make peace with all of this.
Speak up more. You have things to say and haven't yet found the courage to say them. I promise that if you let your voice be heard, good thing will happen.
Stand by your friends. Hug 'em, love up on 'em, tell them that they are the greatest. Because thirty years later, they are still there and wonderful and irreplaceable.
Now, let's talk about college. You new-found freedom is not a license to lose your damned mind. Have fun, try new things, experience life, but for God's sake stop running around acting like you only have a week to live. Do not drink Cold Duck in the shower every morning before class. Do not blow a week's worth of grocery money on lingerie. Don't sign up for classes that begin at 8:00 in the morning. You are not a morning person, and never will be. And go ahead and have that fling with the guy named Jack. He will teach you how to truly enjoy sex. And when you see him? Tell him I said thank you.
P.S. Call your Grandma, she misses you.
Dear Teenage Me,
Yes, this is weird. You probably have never received a letter from yourself before, but try and pay attention. I know you may find it shocking that you even have any brain cells left at the ancient age of *cough* forty-six *cough* but there are at least a hundred or so still functioning to impart some wisdom on your skinny ass.
Listen up, kiddo. I've managed to keep your body alive for another 30 years and even managed to beat some sense into that hormone-addled brain of yours. It wasn't easy, but the main thing I need to tell you is that you will be ok. I promise.
Now that the big news is out of the way, here's a few pointers to make your life a little easier to navigate the next few years.
I know that high school sucks, but it pretty much sucks for everybody, so you're in good commpany. The only people that believe that high school doesn't suck are those three or four people that never grow beyond it. There will be good days and bad ones, but that's pretty much the rule of the rest of your life. It ain't all cruising in cars and hot dates. But again, you will be ok.
Embrace your inner dorkiness. I know it's hard to be different in high school, but one day soon, your originality will be something you are proud of. Plus you will never have to drive yourself bat-shit crazy again trying to find the exact same kind of tennis shoes that everybody else is wearing.
Keep your copy of the Thoureau book that your English teacher made you read. Otherwise you will have to spend some serious Ramen-noodle starving college student money for another one. (Which you will love and still have today, btw)
Stop perming your hair. Seriously. If Eddie Murphy can't pull off a Jeri-Curl look, neither can a white girl from the Bible belt of the Midwest. You will not achieve a tousled, carefree, "I just came from the beach" look for many years. Stop it.
Look down. See those legs? They are fabulous. See those abs? Get a good look now and ingrain it in your memory. Look behind you. That is an ass to die for. Trust me. Take care of those, instead of taking them for granted. Good genes will only carry you so far. The rest takes hard work.
Let's talk about your family. Ease up on your mom. She's in a bad position and you're not making it any easier. And about your dad? You need to learn when to keep your mouth shut. And when not to. Alcoholism affects more of your friends than you know and hiding behind lies and denying anything is wrong is denying you of support that you might have found. It will take years, but you can make peace with all of this.
Speak up more. You have things to say and haven't yet found the courage to say them. I promise that if you let your voice be heard, good thing will happen.
Stand by your friends. Hug 'em, love up on 'em, tell them that they are the greatest. Because thirty years later, they are still there and wonderful and irreplaceable.
Now, let's talk about college. You new-found freedom is not a license to lose your damned mind. Have fun, try new things, experience life, but for God's sake stop running around acting like you only have a week to live. Do not drink Cold Duck in the shower every morning before class. Do not blow a week's worth of grocery money on lingerie. Don't sign up for classes that begin at 8:00 in the morning. You are not a morning person, and never will be. And go ahead and have that fling with the guy named Jack. He will teach you how to truly enjoy sex. And when you see him? Tell him I said thank you.
P.S. Call your Grandma, she misses you.
Friday, October 29, 2010
I iz not dead.
Holy shitballs, I haven't typed anything in like forevah! My sincerest apologies to all my fans (both of them) and the unwashed masses that have been trying so hard to find me. You can take a bath now, I'm back.
Somehow all the planets got unaligned, and my chi got way messed up. I managed to make it through the days and the nights, but not without sacrificing time from some of the things I would rather be doing. Like writing here. Or tweezing my eyebrows. So now, other than looking like Brooke Shields circa 1985, I have straightened my ass up and gotten back to what I WANT to do, rather than what I HAVE to to do.
I have kept a handy lists of things that I plan on writing about while I was busy doing other things. It's a list compromised of things like "the house is trying to kill me" and "has my ass always been shaped like this?", along with such chilling commentary as "how hard would I punch each one of my employees on a scale of 1-10". I know, real cliff-hangers, eh?
Give me a day or so to catch me breath and I will be back to tell you all about how my cat is and asshole and why you should never give birth to babies with big heads.
**Side note: I have just mailed out some disposable cameras to friends with instructions to take one picture and mail it to another friend. Last frame sends it back to me. Stay tuned to see me get kicked out of WalMart for trying to develop pictures that are sure to be NOT PG-rated.
Somehow all the planets got unaligned, and my chi got way messed up. I managed to make it through the days and the nights, but not without sacrificing time from some of the things I would rather be doing. Like writing here. Or tweezing my eyebrows. So now, other than looking like Brooke Shields circa 1985, I have straightened my ass up and gotten back to what I WANT to do, rather than what I HAVE to to do.
I have kept a handy lists of things that I plan on writing about while I was busy doing other things. It's a list compromised of things like "the house is trying to kill me" and "has my ass always been shaped like this?", along with such chilling commentary as "how hard would I punch each one of my employees on a scale of 1-10". I know, real cliff-hangers, eh?
Give me a day or so to catch me breath and I will be back to tell you all about how my cat is and asshole and why you should never give birth to babies with big heads.
**Side note: I have just mailed out some disposable cameras to friends with instructions to take one picture and mail it to another friend. Last frame sends it back to me. Stay tuned to see me get kicked out of WalMart for trying to develop pictures that are sure to be NOT PG-rated.
Monday, September 20, 2010
hello...remember me?
Yes, I know I been gone for like eleventy-billion years, but there has been so much life in my days lately. I'm still not sure who scheduled all this psychosis filled activity, but as soon as it slows down and my meds kick in, I'll be back to tell you all tales of wonder and merriment. Or naked bikers and camping failures. Your choice.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
For Her. And Him. And Her.
Three deaths. In two weeks. All under the age of fifty. All people I know.
I'm taking stock today of my life and the lives of those around me. Now I could make snarky comments about burning both ends of candles and lifestyles of bacon grease and Budweiser, but now is not the time. Now is the time to assess my own life and the mistakes I make. And to make decisions regarding how I wish to live and not live my life.
I am not going to get into final wishes and living wills on this blog. I won't discuss hows, wheres or what colors of funeral choices. I don't want to talk about my death. I want to talk about my life.
I believe that I have laughed more than I have cried and for that I am truly grateful. Tears have been shed, some joyous, some sorrowful. But each tear I have shed has come from a certain knowledge or memory that cannot be discounted.
I have held family and friends in my heart. They have brought me comfort and taught me gratitude that may not have come my way otherwise.
I have seen beauty and innocence and amazing sights with my eyes and felt these things go straight to my heart.
I have touched the softest baby's cheek and the weathered bark of trees from another century. I've been burned by fire and frozen by snow and reveled in the changes around me.
I've heard whispered words of love and angry words meant to hurt. I've learned to look beyond the words to find the meaning and the intent, and to deflect that which is not useful.
What does this all mean? It means that my life is good. Better than I realized. Too good to be taken for granted. It's time for this chickie to straighten up and fly right. Because there's still meaning and purpose that I haven't yet discovered. There's still more of me to find. And I need to be here for that to happen.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Hot for Teacher
Day 4: Washington, DC
Temperature: 102
Likelihood of heat-induced brain trauma: 75%
Likelihood of me fanning my T-shirt so vigorously that I inadvertantly flash a senator's aide during his lunch: 90%
I'm feeling not funny today, so this post is likely to be full of suckage. But whatev. I'm committed to finishing this thing. I jotted down a few notes yesterday, so the chances of this being mildly coherent are up slightly. So at least there's that.
So, where was I? Oh yeah, Capitol Building. We parked there and died. Not really, but now that we were no longer moving, the air seemed stifling. (Gah, I need spellcheck. Is that right? Stifling? Doesn't seem right.) Looking around the Mall, we personafied typical tourists, all gape-mouthed and whatnot. As we stumbled towards the big fancy buildings, this approached us.
This is Dave. Everybody say hi, Dave! Dave is a high school science teacher and may have saved our lives. He kindly offered to pedal our sweaty asses around the Mall for an undetermined amount of money. Dave drives a Pedi-cab when he's not teaching science to adolescents and works for tips. Since we have cash and looming heat-strokes, we take him up on his offer.
I'm quite sure that Dave is the hot teacher at his high school and all the girls giggle whenever he talks about positive ion attraction and big bang theories. He is a fountain of information and told us more about the area and buildings than we could have gotten from any tourist-y booklets. Since he knew we were in town for only a few hours, he filled us in on which places were best and which would not be worth our time.
I have lots of pictures like this. I didn't want to lean too far out of my seat and take a chance on swaying the Pedi-cab rickshaw thingy, thus causing Dave to get irritated and throw me out, leaving me to die along the street.
After pedaling 2/3's of the way around, we disembarked, paid the cute teacher and started to head into the first of many Smithsonian biuldings. This is when we overheard Dave the Cute Teacher negotiating with his next client. He offered to take the couple HALF the distance we had just ridden, for well OVER the price we had just paid. Clearly, we are cheap and he is re-thinking the whole "working for tips" thing. But in our defense, he told us to just pay whatever we thought was fair. Meh. I hate being cheap. I also hate being guilted into paying more. FAK!
We loaded up our guilt and plowed into the first building, surrounded by middle schoolers on field trips and Griswold family vacationers. First up, the Air and Space Building.
Then the Museum of Natural History
RAWR!
I think this one looks sneaky. I suspect that dinosaurs were assholes like that.
And that's when it happened. You know how you can go somewhere, somewhere far away, somewhere no one ever goes and then you see someone you know? Well there he was. My Ex. The Milkdud himself.
Hi, Asshat.
After that, it was time to change buildings and hope The Milkdud wouldn't find us. The Museum of American History. (My apologies for the poor quality of pics, it's really dark in there and my camera is ashamed of the fact that it is smarter than me.)
You can almost smell the napalm and weed.
I have oodles more pictures, but I'm afraid this is turning into a slideshow at Aunt Liz's house of their trip to Bumfuckville while eating crappy appetizers and inhaling Uncle Raymond's second-hand cigar smoke and beer farts.
A few more buildings later, as our blood reached the temperature of lava, we headed back to Chesapeake Bay and comfy beds and air conditioning.
Stop back by tomorrow, there will be bears, hikers and funeral processions. Not neccesarily in that order.
Bye Dave! You'll always be my Capitol Crush!
Temperature: 102
Likelihood of heat-induced brain trauma: 75%
Likelihood of me fanning my T-shirt so vigorously that I inadvertantly flash a senator's aide during his lunch: 90%
I'm feeling not funny today, so this post is likely to be full of suckage. But whatev. I'm committed to finishing this thing. I jotted down a few notes yesterday, so the chances of this being mildly coherent are up slightly. So at least there's that.
So, where was I? Oh yeah, Capitol Building. We parked there and died. Not really, but now that we were no longer moving, the air seemed stifling. (Gah, I need spellcheck. Is that right? Stifling? Doesn't seem right.) Looking around the Mall, we personafied typical tourists, all gape-mouthed and whatnot. As we stumbled towards the big fancy buildings, this approached us.
This is Dave. Everybody say hi, Dave! Dave is a high school science teacher and may have saved our lives. He kindly offered to pedal our sweaty asses around the Mall for an undetermined amount of money. Dave drives a Pedi-cab when he's not teaching science to adolescents and works for tips. Since we have cash and looming heat-strokes, we take him up on his offer.
I'm quite sure that Dave is the hot teacher at his high school and all the girls giggle whenever he talks about positive ion attraction and big bang theories. He is a fountain of information and told us more about the area and buildings than we could have gotten from any tourist-y booklets. Since he knew we were in town for only a few hours, he filled us in on which places were best and which would not be worth our time.
I have lots of pictures like this. I didn't want to lean too far out of my seat and take a chance on swaying the Pedi-cab rickshaw thingy, thus causing Dave to get irritated and throw me out, leaving me to die along the street.
After pedaling 2/3's of the way around, we disembarked, paid the cute teacher and started to head into the first of many Smithsonian biuldings. This is when we overheard Dave the Cute Teacher negotiating with his next client. He offered to take the couple HALF the distance we had just ridden, for well OVER the price we had just paid. Clearly, we are cheap and he is re-thinking the whole "working for tips" thing. But in our defense, he told us to just pay whatever we thought was fair. Meh. I hate being cheap. I also hate being guilted into paying more. FAK!
We loaded up our guilt and plowed into the first building, surrounded by middle schoolers on field trips and Griswold family vacationers. First up, the Air and Space Building.
Then the Museum of Natural History
RAWR!
I think this one looks sneaky. I suspect that dinosaurs were assholes like that.
And that's when it happened. You know how you can go somewhere, somewhere far away, somewhere no one ever goes and then you see someone you know? Well there he was. My Ex. The Milkdud himself.
Hi, Asshat.
After that, it was time to change buildings and hope The Milkdud wouldn't find us. The Museum of American History. (My apologies for the poor quality of pics, it's really dark in there and my camera is ashamed of the fact that it is smarter than me.)
You can almost smell the napalm and weed.
I have oodles more pictures, but I'm afraid this is turning into a slideshow at Aunt Liz's house of their trip to Bumfuckville while eating crappy appetizers and inhaling Uncle Raymond's second-hand cigar smoke and beer farts.
A few more buildings later, as our blood reached the temperature of lava, we headed back to Chesapeake Bay and comfy beds and air conditioning.
Stop back by tomorrow, there will be bears, hikers and funeral processions. Not neccesarily in that order.
Bye Dave! You'll always be my Capitol Crush!
Sunday, July 4, 2010
A New Bright Shiny Day
After spending the night fearing for my health and safety, not to mention dousing my entire body in 38 gallons of Purell, we headed out for rounds of antibiotics...I mean a hearty breakfast. Making our way eastward we proceeded towards the coast, with our only planned stop for the day being York, Pennsylvania.
Now you may ask what is in York that would attract two happy vacationers? Why it was the birthplace of Christine. Are you still puzzled? Christine is the name that The Man has given to his motorcycle and York is the home of the Harley-Davidson factory where it, I mean she, was born.
We arrived there that afternoon and signed in for a factory tour. We were only allowed a limited tour since the factory was currently making the 2011 models and they had not released them to the public yet. We browsed around the lobby until the tour was ready to begin and after a short introductory movie, we were fitted with protective eyewear and earpieces so that we could hear our tour guide.
Let me be the first to say that this may not be a girly-girl place. But on a coolness scale, this place still rates pretty high. The large machinery, the cool robotic technology, the brawny men walking around in tight shirts......wait. Where was I? Oh yeah, the gorgeous paint colors, the acres of bright shiny chrome...it was still enough to hold this girl's attention.
No cameras or recording devices were allowed inside the factory, but I have a few pictures from the lobby that show the process.
Pieces and parts
Frame (This factory only makes the larger touring bikes.)
The Man gets a look in his eye when he's surrounded by this much chrome. It's the same look I get when I walk in a designer shoe store.
It's starting to look like....something?
What I find completely amazing about this whole thing, is that it only takes them two hours to build one of these beautiful pieces of machinery. No matter what paint color, no matter what emission stardards (different countries have different requirements), no matter what bells and whistles you require, it's still two hours and out the door. Hell, I can barely get ready to go out in two hours! But then again, I'm an older model and they don't even make some parts for me anymore.
After again succumbing to the lure of the gift shop, we loaded up (I pushed The Man kicking and screaming) and headed back out on the road. Rural Pennsylvania is actually quite pretty and I enjoyed the scenery until we crossed into Baltimore.
Word of warning: Do not announce that you are from Indiana while in Baltimore. Especially if you are wearing a Colts shirt. They are apparently still quite bitter.
We tossed a coin, or followed a tractor, or came to some conclusion that we should head south. Another hour of so of wandering around found us here:
We did it! We made it all the way to the coast! We were on Chesapeake Bay and there we would stay for the night. In a real room, with clean sheets and hot water and eveything! Room service! Soap! Down-filled duvet on a king-sized bed!
Edited to add: Mileage totals Day 3: 853 miles
Condition of hind-quarters on a 1-10 scale: 6.5
Median Outdoor Temp: 418 degrees Farhenheit (estimate)
Number of poor meal choices: 3
Tomorrow - The Beach
Now you may ask what is in York that would attract two happy vacationers? Why it was the birthplace of Christine. Are you still puzzled? Christine is the name that The Man has given to his motorcycle and York is the home of the Harley-Davidson factory where it, I mean she, was born.
We arrived there that afternoon and signed in for a factory tour. We were only allowed a limited tour since the factory was currently making the 2011 models and they had not released them to the public yet. We browsed around the lobby until the tour was ready to begin and after a short introductory movie, we were fitted with protective eyewear and earpieces so that we could hear our tour guide.
Let me be the first to say that this may not be a girly-girl place. But on a coolness scale, this place still rates pretty high. The large machinery, the cool robotic technology, the brawny men walking around in tight shirts......wait. Where was I? Oh yeah, the gorgeous paint colors, the acres of bright shiny chrome...it was still enough to hold this girl's attention.
No cameras or recording devices were allowed inside the factory, but I have a few pictures from the lobby that show the process.
Pieces and parts
Frame (This factory only makes the larger touring bikes.)
The Man gets a look in his eye when he's surrounded by this much chrome. It's the same look I get when I walk in a designer shoe store.
It's starting to look like....something?
What I find completely amazing about this whole thing, is that it only takes them two hours to build one of these beautiful pieces of machinery. No matter what paint color, no matter what emission stardards (different countries have different requirements), no matter what bells and whistles you require, it's still two hours and out the door. Hell, I can barely get ready to go out in two hours! But then again, I'm an older model and they don't even make some parts for me anymore.
After again succumbing to the lure of the gift shop, we loaded up (I pushed The Man kicking and screaming) and headed back out on the road. Rural Pennsylvania is actually quite pretty and I enjoyed the scenery until we crossed into Baltimore.
Word of warning: Do not announce that you are from Indiana while in Baltimore. Especially if you are wearing a Colts shirt. They are apparently still quite bitter.
We tossed a coin, or followed a tractor, or came to some conclusion that we should head south. Another hour of so of wandering around found us here:
We did it! We made it all the way to the coast! We were on Chesapeake Bay and there we would stay for the night. In a real room, with clean sheets and hot water and eveything! Room service! Soap! Down-filled duvet on a king-sized bed!
Edited to add: Mileage totals Day 3: 853 miles
Condition of hind-quarters on a 1-10 scale: 6.5
Median Outdoor Temp: 418 degrees Farhenheit (estimate)
Number of poor meal choices: 3
Tomorrow - The Beach
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Ohio Sucks...Except for Cleveland. I heart Cleveland.
Vacation Day 1. Better known as the day we get the hell outta Dodge. Both The Man and I are suffering from serious burnout by the time vacation comes around every year. We are cranky-pants and short-tempered. I was not my usual ray of sunshine. *snort* But Joy! Elation! Happy-happy! Vacation has arrived.
The plan was to roll out at seven a.m., bound for parts unknown. Or Ohio. But what happens when we make plans? Chaos and mayhem, that's what. I was awakened at 4 a.m. by a horrific thunderstorm. And I'm pretty sure I could hear laughing in the background somewhere. We both laid awake until 6 o'clock listening to the storm, until we could bear it no longer and turned to the weather channel to see how bad it was going to be. We got lucky and the rain quit by 8:30 and we were able to hit the road by 9. Freedom was ours. With a wary eye on the gray clouds, we proceeded to Cincinnati. Which I believe is also known as the armpit of the Midwest. From Cincinnati we turned north and made our way through Ohio.
A little background for you. My dad used to pave roads for a living. He was an asphalt man. I understand the concept of road repair and construction. But Ohio, you shouldn't really tear the fresh hell out of a road and leave the speed limit at 70. It causes people to believe that they can drive at least seventy. Or ninety. Crimeny, there were Nascar wannabes racing for the finish line all over the goddamn state. And near me. Which made me feel stabby. I don't want to feel stabby on
vacation.
I don't have many pictures from that first day because as I said before, Ohio sucks. But rolling into Cleveland that evening was divine. The architecture is amazing and the peoples are friendly to a fault. Lake Erie and the pier were a refreshing sight and we took an enjoyable stroll down the pier on our first evening away.
After a wonderful walk, we went in search of lodging for the evening. We got a reasonable room with all the normal amenities and cleanliness. I trotted down the the restaurant and ordered a pizza to munch on while Dave unpacked our gear and found his favorite channels on the tv. I thought a barbecued chicken pizza with some monterrey cheddar and red onions sounded nice, but the smallish Vietnamese gentleman has trouble understanding what I wanted. After pointing my way through the menu, and determining that I did not want a smalleeeee, but a lahgeeee, he kindly offered to bring up my food to the room when it was ready. Wonderful!
Thirty minutes later, our food arrived. Now, most everyone I know has eaten at at least one Chinese buffet in their lives. You know that very red-colored barbequed chicken they serve? The one with the unnatural color? Imagine that laying on a puddle of pizza sauce and sprinkled with some cheese. Run that through an Easy Bake oven and throw some raw onions on top. Kinda reminds me of the crap we invented in our kitchen in college from things leftover in everyone's fridge. Either we were really tired and hungry, or just didn't care becuase we were on vacation. Yup, we ate it. And didn't care. This was about the time that I noticed something about our room. Something different. Something out of place. Something that didn't belong.
In case you didn't spot it, here's a closer look.
I promise this was a nice place. Marble floors in the lobby and leather club chairs. And pine tree air fresheners.
Spoiler alert: Day 2 was so cool, that we are now way cooler just by default. Or at least that's what I'm telling myself.
Vacation Totals Day One: Miles ridden- 373
Condition of ass from riding on a 1-10 scale - 9
Number of times I lost, misplaced, or forgot something - 2
Number of times I cared that I lost, or forgot something - 0
Stay tuned, it gets way better.
The plan was to roll out at seven a.m., bound for parts unknown. Or Ohio. But what happens when we make plans? Chaos and mayhem, that's what. I was awakened at 4 a.m. by a horrific thunderstorm. And I'm pretty sure I could hear laughing in the background somewhere. We both laid awake until 6 o'clock listening to the storm, until we could bear it no longer and turned to the weather channel to see how bad it was going to be. We got lucky and the rain quit by 8:30 and we were able to hit the road by 9. Freedom was ours. With a wary eye on the gray clouds, we proceeded to Cincinnati. Which I believe is also known as the armpit of the Midwest. From Cincinnati we turned north and made our way through Ohio.
A little background for you. My dad used to pave roads for a living. He was an asphalt man. I understand the concept of road repair and construction. But Ohio, you shouldn't really tear the fresh hell out of a road and leave the speed limit at 70. It causes people to believe that they can drive at least seventy. Or ninety. Crimeny, there were Nascar wannabes racing for the finish line all over the goddamn state. And near me. Which made me feel stabby. I don't want to feel stabby on
vacation.
I don't have many pictures from that first day because as I said before, Ohio sucks. But rolling into Cleveland that evening was divine. The architecture is amazing and the peoples are friendly to a fault. Lake Erie and the pier were a refreshing sight and we took an enjoyable stroll down the pier on our first evening away.
After a wonderful walk, we went in search of lodging for the evening. We got a reasonable room with all the normal amenities and cleanliness. I trotted down the the restaurant and ordered a pizza to munch on while Dave unpacked our gear and found his favorite channels on the tv. I thought a barbecued chicken pizza with some monterrey cheddar and red onions sounded nice, but the smallish Vietnamese gentleman has trouble understanding what I wanted. After pointing my way through the menu, and determining that I did not want a smalleeeee, but a lahgeeee, he kindly offered to bring up my food to the room when it was ready. Wonderful!
Thirty minutes later, our food arrived. Now, most everyone I know has eaten at at least one Chinese buffet in their lives. You know that very red-colored barbequed chicken they serve? The one with the unnatural color? Imagine that laying on a puddle of pizza sauce and sprinkled with some cheese. Run that through an Easy Bake oven and throw some raw onions on top. Kinda reminds me of the crap we invented in our kitchen in college from things leftover in everyone's fridge. Either we were really tired and hungry, or just didn't care becuase we were on vacation. Yup, we ate it. And didn't care. This was about the time that I noticed something about our room. Something different. Something out of place. Something that didn't belong.
In case you didn't spot it, here's a closer look.
I promise this was a nice place. Marble floors in the lobby and leather club chairs. And pine tree air fresheners.
Spoiler alert: Day 2 was so cool, that we are now way cooler just by default. Or at least that's what I'm telling myself.
Vacation Totals Day One: Miles ridden- 373
Condition of ass from riding on a 1-10 scale - 9
Number of times I lost, misplaced, or forgot something - 2
Number of times I cared that I lost, or forgot something - 0
Stay tuned, it gets way better.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
How to pack the whole world in a Ziplock bag
So, in a few days the man and I are leaving on vacation. Being the free spirits that we are, we will not hesitate to jump on the Harley and zip off for ten days with no particular destination. Yep, ten whole days. On a motorcycle. Two of us.
While on the surface this sounds idyllic, let's look at the practicalities. Here is our mode of transportation for said ten days.
Notice the failure of adequate packing area? Holy crap! And this has to hold everything for TWO people. The last trip was for seven days, and I'm pretty sure I had to buy new underwear to make it through. Now it's time to make a plan of attack on this issue. Let's start at the top and work our way down. (That's what he said.)
Hair and various products to make it not appear like a taxidermied pelt. Travel size washing and rinsing agents are readily available. And cute. Various blowing, drying, curling and straightening tools. Not gonna happen. Most reputable motels with the exception of Chunky Bob's Love Palace provide hair dryers, so I guess that just leaves curling my hair around empty beer cans before bed every night. It's like recycling, folks! Hopefully the motel dumpster will provide enough Old Milwaukee cans to leave me looking like I'm ready for civilization.
It takes a daily plethora of potions and volatile solutions to prep this face for the world. I will be culling this down to the bare basics. I will only be packing the necessary items needed to not scare and/or scar children and/or small animals. The rest of world should just look away.
Clothing. Herein lies the problem. Sure, we could skip on undies and ride commando, but over a thousand miles on a small leather seat with the seam of your new cool jeans wrapping around your ovaries makes one testy. Seam chafing your labia majorly? Seam rubbing the jay off your vajayjay? "Insert your own disturbing phrase here."
Since we will not be attending any grand affairs or red-carpet events, comfy jeans and cute tops will suffice. Throw in some t-shirts for the man, and we will be all ready for All-You-Can-Eat-Barbeques and roadside flea markets.
Shoes. There will be arguments over the packing of shoes. Namely cute shoes. I choose to live in denial for now. Or at least until the fighting begins.
Various technological devices. *sigh* Dear Laptop-on-which-I-am-typity-typing, I will miss you. Please do not think that I have abandoned you for another. I promise to return to you with tales of wonder and will google all the places that I've been. I will upload pictures for you to see and download any new music that I find while I'm away. Yes, the new camera and the newer ipod will be making the journey with me, but only to keep me amused while we're apart.
The man will probably make me pack practical things like rain suits and sunscreen. I will argue for cute shoes. He will win as soon as I realize that it's vacation and I dont' care. Just don't expect any pictures of my feet.
While on the surface this sounds idyllic, let's look at the practicalities. Here is our mode of transportation for said ten days.
Notice the failure of adequate packing area? Holy crap! And this has to hold everything for TWO people. The last trip was for seven days, and I'm pretty sure I had to buy new underwear to make it through. Now it's time to make a plan of attack on this issue. Let's start at the top and work our way down. (That's what he said.)
Hair and various products to make it not appear like a taxidermied pelt. Travel size washing and rinsing agents are readily available. And cute. Various blowing, drying, curling and straightening tools. Not gonna happen. Most reputable motels with the exception of Chunky Bob's Love Palace provide hair dryers, so I guess that just leaves curling my hair around empty beer cans before bed every night. It's like recycling, folks! Hopefully the motel dumpster will provide enough Old Milwaukee cans to leave me looking like I'm ready for civilization.
It takes a daily plethora of potions and volatile solutions to prep this face for the world. I will be culling this down to the bare basics. I will only be packing the necessary items needed to not scare and/or scar children and/or small animals. The rest of world should just look away.
Clothing. Herein lies the problem. Sure, we could skip on undies and ride commando, but over a thousand miles on a small leather seat with the seam of your new cool jeans wrapping around your ovaries makes one testy. Seam chafing your labia majorly? Seam rubbing the jay off your vajayjay? "Insert your own disturbing phrase here."
Since we will not be attending any grand affairs or red-carpet events, comfy jeans and cute tops will suffice. Throw in some t-shirts for the man, and we will be all ready for All-You-Can-Eat-Barbeques and roadside flea markets.
Shoes. There will be arguments over the packing of shoes. Namely cute shoes. I choose to live in denial for now. Or at least until the fighting begins.
Various technological devices. *sigh* Dear Laptop-on-which-I-am-typity-typing, I will miss you. Please do not think that I have abandoned you for another. I promise to return to you with tales of wonder and will google all the places that I've been. I will upload pictures for you to see and download any new music that I find while I'm away. Yes, the new camera and the newer ipod will be making the journey with me, but only to keep me amused while we're apart.
The man will probably make me pack practical things like rain suits and sunscreen. I will argue for cute shoes. He will win as soon as I realize that it's vacation and I dont' care. Just don't expect any pictures of my feet.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Damned memories
Something today sparked a memory. This evening in the course of dinner conversation the subject of cussing arose. Now, while I personally am a BIG fan, and a veteran in the practiced art of cussery, I generally frown upon the chirren blaspheming. As they morph into the teenagers that will be the death of me, I'm sure the words will become more frequent. It's part of growing up and expanding and finding boundaries. Fortunately, that's not the story to tell today. ("Cause I'm long-winded, ya know.)
When the eldest was about four years old, one of the hilljack aunts decided that she needed a parakeet for Easter. Sidenote: I don't like birds. As a matter of fact, I hate birds. Especially up close. Or in my house. Yes, it's irrational, blame Hitchcock. Whatev.
Unknown to the hilljack aunt, she had purchased the world's oldest parakeet. Guiness Book of Records old. Ought to be drawing a social security check old. I didn't know feathers could wrinkle - old.
Fast forward a couple of weeks full of me cussing birdseed in the carpet and annoying bird noises at 5:30 AM to one bright Saturday morning. I had planned to take the chirren to see their grandmother for the day, and in the process of breakfast, face-washing and clothing the offspring, I look up to see one dead bird in the bottom of one messy cage. Thanks to it's height, the kiddos hadn't noticed it yet. Being the non-dealing-with-shit type mom, I rushed us all out the door and into the car. One quick cell call to the hilljack husband to DEAL WITH THIS, was placed entirely in code. Or pig latin. I can't remember.
Remember the hilljack? Milkdud? That dumbass that I was married to? Yeah, that one. Well, he decides to go one a mission to find an identical bird to replace this one, hence leaving the chirren clueless and happy. It was a nice thought, I suppose, but we all know that those never play out well. Seeing as how he has the attention-span of a gnat on meth, he disposed of the WHITE BIRD WITH BLUE SPOTS, and purchased a BLUE BIRD WITH WHITE SPOTS. (Big diff, dud.)
The eldest childs comment to me upon seeing the new bird for the first time?
"Someone painted my damned bird!"
*At this point the mother went outside, crawled in the backseat of the car, and laughed until the pee in her pants almost dried.
Monday, May 17, 2010
It wasn't that kind of revival
Today I had to have a Come to Jesus talk with other people. Twice. No, this wasn't religious in any form. It was more along the lines of "Straighten your ass up, or I'll make your life hell" kinda talk.
The first group was my employees. How I managed to hire a full dozen people that never matured beyond second grade is beyond me. The meeting was productive and I think that some necessary changes should help make everyone's day's easier, but sweet baby Jesus, they are a loud bunch. Ex-inlaws loud. Monster truck rally loud. I think I still have a little reverb going on inside my head.
The second talk was with my eldest. She's testing her boundaries as a teenager and pushed too far again tonight. There was the standard "Oh shit, I'm caught" moment. The five minutes of yelling time. The requisite twenty minutes of pouting silence, and then the hour long talk. Or should I say TALK. (It deserves capital letters.) My daughter seems to be under the misunderstanding that I should be her friend. All her friends are BFF's with their mothers. Their mothers understand. Their mothers share.
Ok, listen kiddo. I'm not your friend. You have plenty of friends for that. I've met them. I'm your parent. It's my job to make sure that you grow up to be a respectable human being that can take care of herself. Someone who will consider consequences before she acts. Please understand that when you're older, I'd love to hang out with you, but right now it's not in the job description.
Years ago, my cousins were causing some trouble. They were teenaged boys and involved in many stupid acts that teenage boys can get into. There was drinking, drugs, pregnancy scares, wrecked cars, detentions, arrests and boot camps. When their mother, my aunt, was filling us in one evening on the latest escapades of debauchery, she made a statement that has seared into my brain. She said, with all the nonchalance she could muster, "Well, someone had to be Charles Manson's mother." Ummm....really? She was excusing herself for everything? No-second guessing? No regrets?
Now what my child did is nothing compared to the cousins. It's a blip for an otherwise good kid. She goes to school, her grades are excellent, her friends are not wanted by the police. But did I over-react by not being her friend? I don't think so.
And dear Bette, if years down the road you ever read this, I love you but I was right. We can be friends now, but back then you needed a parent.
The first group was my employees. How I managed to hire a full dozen people that never matured beyond second grade is beyond me. The meeting was productive and I think that some necessary changes should help make everyone's day's easier, but sweet baby Jesus, they are a loud bunch. Ex-inlaws loud. Monster truck rally loud. I think I still have a little reverb going on inside my head.
The second talk was with my eldest. She's testing her boundaries as a teenager and pushed too far again tonight. There was the standard "Oh shit, I'm caught" moment. The five minutes of yelling time. The requisite twenty minutes of pouting silence, and then the hour long talk. Or should I say TALK. (It deserves capital letters.) My daughter seems to be under the misunderstanding that I should be her friend. All her friends are BFF's with their mothers. Their mothers understand. Their mothers share.
Ok, listen kiddo. I'm not your friend. You have plenty of friends for that. I've met them. I'm your parent. It's my job to make sure that you grow up to be a respectable human being that can take care of herself. Someone who will consider consequences before she acts. Please understand that when you're older, I'd love to hang out with you, but right now it's not in the job description.
Years ago, my cousins were causing some trouble. They were teenaged boys and involved in many stupid acts that teenage boys can get into. There was drinking, drugs, pregnancy scares, wrecked cars, detentions, arrests and boot camps. When their mother, my aunt, was filling us in one evening on the latest escapades of debauchery, she made a statement that has seared into my brain. She said, with all the nonchalance she could muster, "Well, someone had to be Charles Manson's mother." Ummm....really? She was excusing herself for everything? No-second guessing? No regrets?
Now what my child did is nothing compared to the cousins. It's a blip for an otherwise good kid. She goes to school, her grades are excellent, her friends are not wanted by the police. But did I over-react by not being her friend? I don't think so.
And dear Bette, if years down the road you ever read this, I love you but I was right. We can be friends now, but back then you needed a parent.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Milkdud with a side order of Asshole
I believe that I have previously mentioned the hilljack that I married and divorced several years ago. Also known as MilkDud. See previous post as to why. I can go several weeks or even months without ever hearing from him...or needing to hear from him. But every now and then, he rears his ugly head and plunges it into my world.
Tales from Bette and The Blonde have informed me that his new wife has packed up herself and their two children and moved out. Now, on most levels I couldn't care less. On one BIG level, I worry about how it will affect my kids. They have been told by the evil step-bitch that they are the source of much of the stress in that house. Apparently, the twenty-something, young-enough-to-be-his-daughter, known around here as the Bimbo, that slept with my husband and then married him, has a hard time dealing with my teenage daughters. At one point a few years ago, she called to tell me how to raise my children properly. After all, she HAD taken a class on child development in college. Surely she must know more than the person that expelled said children from said person's girly parts. (Note - this took place before she had given birth to any children of her own. Clearly, she is qualified.)
So, no love lost on the Bimbo. But today, MilkDud reared that ugly head and plunged it into my workday. It started with my receiving a text message with him bitching about the summer vacation schedule. According to state parenting guidelines, he has until April 1 to inform me of what dates he would prefer for visitation with the kids over summer break. Ummmm, today is Cinco De Mayo. Although the MilkDud probably thinks that this means it's a national holiday for eating mayonaisse out of the kitchen sink, surely he must realize that it is at least no longer March. Or even April.
He did not ask for me to reconsider his schedule. He did not ask about the kid's activities and the problems in scheduling around them. He simply accused me of not wanting them, so therefore dumping them off on him at the earliest opportunity.
My children know that The Man and I take two vacations a year. One with kids and one without. They have no problem with that. They generally take a vacation with their dad, so they end up with two vacations also. The only person with a problem is MilkDud.
Our (The Man and I) vacation this year will be spent on a motorcycle. (Also see earlier post. Yes, we're "those" people.) We have planned a week-long, multi-city ride to vist some places in neighboring states. Now, according to The Dud, I should be sitting home with my children and not out being a "biker bitch". (His quote, not mine.)
So his problem is my mode of transportation? Or my bandana? Maybe it's the fact that I'll forget sunscreen and come home wind-blown and burnt? Who the hell knows. All I know is that I'm going. I refuse to let him make me feel guilty about this. I spend way more time with my kids, and participate in their lives and activities than he can ever imagine.
I have let him know that we have another vacation scheduled with the kids later in the year (not that it's any of his damned business)and then thoughtfully also let him know that he could go screw himself.
Tales from Bette and The Blonde have informed me that his new wife has packed up herself and their two children and moved out. Now, on most levels I couldn't care less. On one BIG level, I worry about how it will affect my kids. They have been told by the evil step-bitch that they are the source of much of the stress in that house. Apparently, the twenty-something, young-enough-to-be-his-daughter, known around here as the Bimbo, that slept with my husband and then married him, has a hard time dealing with my teenage daughters. At one point a few years ago, she called to tell me how to raise my children properly. After all, she HAD taken a class on child development in college. Surely she must know more than the person that expelled said children from said person's girly parts. (Note - this took place before she had given birth to any children of her own. Clearly, she is qualified.)
So, no love lost on the Bimbo. But today, MilkDud reared that ugly head and plunged it into my workday. It started with my receiving a text message with him bitching about the summer vacation schedule. According to state parenting guidelines, he has until April 1 to inform me of what dates he would prefer for visitation with the kids over summer break. Ummmm, today is Cinco De Mayo. Although the MilkDud probably thinks that this means it's a national holiday for eating mayonaisse out of the kitchen sink, surely he must realize that it is at least no longer March. Or even April.
He did not ask for me to reconsider his schedule. He did not ask about the kid's activities and the problems in scheduling around them. He simply accused me of not wanting them, so therefore dumping them off on him at the earliest opportunity.
My children know that The Man and I take two vacations a year. One with kids and one without. They have no problem with that. They generally take a vacation with their dad, so they end up with two vacations also. The only person with a problem is MilkDud.
Our (The Man and I) vacation this year will be spent on a motorcycle. (Also see earlier post. Yes, we're "those" people.) We have planned a week-long, multi-city ride to vist some places in neighboring states. Now, according to The Dud, I should be sitting home with my children and not out being a "biker bitch". (His quote, not mine.)
So his problem is my mode of transportation? Or my bandana? Maybe it's the fact that I'll forget sunscreen and come home wind-blown and burnt? Who the hell knows. All I know is that I'm going. I refuse to let him make me feel guilty about this. I spend way more time with my kids, and participate in their lives and activities than he can ever imagine.
I have let him know that we have another vacation scheduled with the kids later in the year (not that it's any of his damned business)and then thoughtfully also let him know that he could go screw himself.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Round and round
Sometimes life can get a little...oddly complicated. Sometimes we get in our own way and our stubborness refuses to budge. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I feel that I have let myself fall into a rut that is all too familiar. It's a procrastination/avoidance/denial rut and it's one deep motherfucker. Like, gonna need a tow truck to pull myself out of this.
I have a bad habit of extremes. I can focus on the larger picture, and I can focus on the minute details. It's the middle part. The part that matters. The execution. The work. I blame my brain.
Does anyone else wake in the morning with a clear plan of exactly how their day should go? I've done this every day for as long as I can remember. And not once has it happened the way my head thinks it should. Rarely my day turns out better than imagined. Mostly it doesn't live up to the plan rattling around between my ears. Sometimes it sucks way worse than I could have ever dreamed.
This however isn't the problem. I can handle change, go with the flow. The problem lies in the thinking. At the first sign of variation from my planned day, I must re-think the whole day. See the problem? As you can imagine these changes occur approximately 4,352,218 times a day.
Now on the surface it appears that I can make most (not all) decisions quickly and efficiently. I can delegate, administrate, and facilitate my ass off. In my head there are about a gadzillion scenarios spinning wildly out of control, each allowing for multiple variables.
The biggest problem with this whole mindset is that with each change comes a little disappointment. It's not what I wanted. (And yes, I realize that makes me sound like a conceited bitch.) But that's what happened and a little piece of my heart hardened with each change. By the end of most days I feel flat and weak, disheartened and shamed at my own ablility to make my world what I wanted.
This is affecting my life and I need to get off the hamster wheel. Is there a way? Does it require planning?
I have a bad habit of extremes. I can focus on the larger picture, and I can focus on the minute details. It's the middle part. The part that matters. The execution. The work. I blame my brain.
Does anyone else wake in the morning with a clear plan of exactly how their day should go? I've done this every day for as long as I can remember. And not once has it happened the way my head thinks it should. Rarely my day turns out better than imagined. Mostly it doesn't live up to the plan rattling around between my ears. Sometimes it sucks way worse than I could have ever dreamed.
This however isn't the problem. I can handle change, go with the flow. The problem lies in the thinking. At the first sign of variation from my planned day, I must re-think the whole day. See the problem? As you can imagine these changes occur approximately 4,352,218 times a day.
Now on the surface it appears that I can make most (not all) decisions quickly and efficiently. I can delegate, administrate, and facilitate my ass off. In my head there are about a gadzillion scenarios spinning wildly out of control, each allowing for multiple variables.
The biggest problem with this whole mindset is that with each change comes a little disappointment. It's not what I wanted. (And yes, I realize that makes me sound like a conceited bitch.) But that's what happened and a little piece of my heart hardened with each change. By the end of most days I feel flat and weak, disheartened and shamed at my own ablility to make my world what I wanted.
This is affecting my life and I need to get off the hamster wheel. Is there a way? Does it require planning?
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