Midwestern Musings

Squashed! Another One Bites the Dust!

2010-08-08T21:44:00.002-04:00

Another one bites the dust,
And another one gone, and another one gone,
Another one bites the dust,
Hey, I'm going to get you, too,
Another one bites the dust. *

All the squash are gone. And the cucumbers. All felt victim to the dreaded squash bug. They came in numbers and with a vengence. I chose to spray the pumpkins, because I didn't want to lose any, and we don't eat them. I hesitated to use pesticides on the veggies we eat. I was wrong. I lost 8 squash plants and 4 cucumbers within a week. I haven't lost one pumpkin plant yet. *sigh* I wonder if the pioneers would have used chemicals if they would have had them?
At least I don't have to eat Zucchini any more....

*Queen

Weeds!

2010-07-06T22:14:00.006-04:00

Slug by Slug,
Weed by Weed,
My garden's really got me teed" *

When it rains, it pours, and apparently it doesn't stop. We have had a record rainfall amount, and the garden loves it. (It has also been paired with record heat.) Unfortunately, the weeds are growing, like, well...a weed. They have overtaken most of the garden. I have tried to put down slate stepping stones, but I have had to use them to cover the weeds. It's not really working.

The good news is that the squash family members love the weather. Zuchinni, crooked neck squash, cucumbers, and pumpkins are all going well. We have had basket after basket of yellow crooked neck squash. Grilled, steamed, fried...we've had it. If you have a new recipe for using squash, please send me one. I'm running out of options, and I don't even like squash.

Speaking of squash, I'm alittle worried about the zuchinni. It was going great guns, but now a few leaves are beginning to wilt. If it's squash vine borers, or squash bugs, all my squash family is in peril. Maybe they're just over-heated. :-)

I now have 3 baby pumpkins. Yay! The biggest is roughly 3 inches tall. (See picture.) I hope we can keep them all healthy until fall!

* Eric Kilborn

New Garden Part II

2010-06-11T23:05:00.003-04:00

It's been three weeks and we have baby squashes, onions, radishes. Of course we also have rabbits and weeds. We're trying a new type of veggie, called the duck weed.

Garden Song

2010-05-18T21:04:00.002-04:00

"Inch by inch, row by row.
Gonna make this garden grow.
All it takes is a rake and hoe,
And a piece of fertile ground."*

For those who have read me before, you know I love Thoreau, and his premises in Walden that we should live by: Simplicity of life, kinship with nature, self-reliance. So, I have embraced all three and I have joined the ranks of the green movement by starting my garden. It's 14 ft by 21 ft which seems tiny in a 4.5 acre yard, but it's my first attempt. I'm going with a non-conventional, European design. I'm mixing flowers, herbs and vegetables all together. No rows, just stuff. If it grows on a vine, we're going vertical. I hope to keep you all posted on the progress.

* Written by Dave Mallett, performed by John Denver, Peter Paul and Mary, John McCutcheon, and of course, the Muppets, among others.

Lefty's Hokey Pokey Blues

2008-11-07T11:45:00.003-05:00

“I only need one sock,
I only need one shoe.
I’ve got the one-legged
Hokey Pokey blues” *

It’s been a year now. I think it’s time to say goodbye. But first, I need to tell the story.

I was managing a small garden shop and needed a cat to keep the mice away and to provide some company during the slow winter months. I decided to go to the local humane society and see what I could find.

I entered the adoptable feline room and began to peer into the cages, sizing up each kitten and cat as a potential mouse killer. A little girl and her mother were also in the room, determining which small handful of kitten fur was the most suitable. I was half-way through the perusal when I heard the girl say “Who would want a cat with only three legs?” in a voice that relayed her disgust with a life form that was less than perfect.

“I would” I heard myself say as I walked to the cage that held the undesirable feline. I peeked around the child and saw a most unsettling sight. A shaved, dehydrated Franken-cat came to the door of the cage and began to purr. He was a young adult, and weighed a little more than 4 pounds. He had 25 or 30 stitches on his shoulder where his right arm should be and his mouth was swollen and he was drooling blood. The shock of seeing how damaged he was churned my stomach. I thought I might faint, and I had spent years as an EMT and had seen much worse damage inflicted on human bodies, but as I stared, I realized this cat was still purring. He rubbed up against the cage and opened his mouth but no sound came out.

“He can’t meow”, the society worker who just entered the room told me. “He was caught in a fox trap and was apparently there for weeks. During the time he was trapped, he tried to chew through the trap, and ended up breaking his teeth. He must have meowed so long he lost his voice, too. They brought a vet with them when they went to get him out of the trap, ‘cause they were going to put him down, ‘cause cats never learn to walk on a stump and he was bad, real bad, but the vet said the cat started to purr when they got him out of the trap, and he just couldn’t put that cat down. So the vet did the surgery, and they brought him here.”

“Can I have him?” I heard myself say, and so began my journey with Lefty. As it turned out, some of Lefty’s surgery bills were paid for by an injured animal charity that I had helped raise money for the year before. After a few weeks, the stitches came out and he began to travel with me to work in the garden shop. He would greet the customers, and even trot awkwardly out to greet some of them, spiraling around their feet. As the weeks dragged into months, Lefty began to develop quite a following. Many customers would make special trips into the store to see the cat, and he began to acquire a handsome treasure of cat treats and toys. During the Mother’s Day weekend, a traditionally busy time of year for garden shops, the store was packed with customers. An elderly woman in a wheel chair from a local nursing home was being pushed around the store by her family. Lefty saw the woman in the wheel chair, hopped over to her, and jumped in the woman’s lap. She continued to pet him as they shopped around the grounds. Some time later, they came back near the cash register and I heard the male traveling with them say, “Mom, you haven’t picked out a Mother’s Day present yet.”

She replied, “I already have it,” as she leaned down and nuzzled Lefty. “I so missed my kitty and this little cat just knew it. You don’t have to buy me a thing, I just got the best present in the world.” More than one customer wiped away a tear that Mother’s Day.

Lefty was great with the customers, and continued to develop a following. During the filming of a Wednesday morning TV spot about wildlife friendly plantings, Lefty jumped up in the middle of the plantings, and began rubbing up against the plant pots. The cameraman began to focus on the cat, and not the plants, and soon the newscaster was asking questions about Lefty, and not the plants. He made such an impression on the TV crew that they filmed a segment about him for the evening news!

After his television debut, the human society asked if Lefty could help with a interview about the charity that helped him. It was a radio interview, but I agreed to take my mute cat with me for the radio announcer to see. During the interview, Lefty sat on my lap and purred, and for the finale, the announcer asked Lefty if he had anything to add. Lefty reached up to the microphone, pulled it down to his level and meowed raspily. We couldn’t have asked for a better response.

Lefty also visited the local veteran’s home. On one occasion, an amputee held Lefty in his lap and said, “You give me hope buddy, you’re a gimp with a job.” After that visit, Lefty and I retreated to the car, where I sat and sobbed like a baby. He touched so many people.

Lefty was great with children as well as adults. He visited the preschool program a number of times at the museum where I later worked. I would bring Lefty out into the room where the kids were sitting, and he would bound up to them and tolerate all their not so gentle patting. Once, I asked the kids what made Lefty different from other cats, and they announced in unison, “HE’S YELLOW!” Lefty made all of us forget that he was different.

Through the years, Lefty made quite a name for himself. He has been on television, radio, done promotional advertising, and even had a song written on his behalf. He’s done museum work, 4-H meetings and charity work. Most humans don’t have that kind of resume!

About a year and half ago, Lefty began to lose weight and breathing was harder for him. We visited our local vet who recommended a specialist. During the visits at the MedVet hospital, Lefty would always purr and be friendly, no matter what procedure was being performed on him. Even as his health declined, he faced it with a feline smile. The assistants would smile when he came in, and they would ask if he could stay with them, instead of the waiting room. The vet even remarked, “I’ve known thousands of cats in my practice, and he might just be my favorite. He is one of the best cats ever.”

The vets initially said that he might last a week, or even a month, but Lefty improved and surprised all of us for many months. One day last October, I sat down with Lefty and told him that it was okay for him to go, that he didn’t need to hold on for us any longer. I told him to look for my grandmother, that she would provide a great lap for him, and that she loved cats. He purred as I petted him, and I cried and he nudged me as if to say that he understood. I went to work, and rec’d a call a few hours later that he had passed. Lefty entered and left my life with a purr and a nudge, and I am thankful for the many years we were together. He will be missed by many. When we all get to heaven, we’ll be looking for the ginger colored tom cat with three legs. If he’s not there, I don’t want to go.

* Lefty's Hokey Pokey Blues, written by yours truly and available on Itunes.

Times They Are a Changin'

2008-09-26T20:23:00.002-04:00

"For the loser now
Will be later to win
For the times they are a-changin'." *

Yup, the times are changin' and the bus is leavin' and I'm on it. Ohio didn't so much work out for me. Part of me enjoyed the last few weeks, with nothing to do, and plenty of time to do it. A pity, all the things I didn't get done. I have, however, found myself. I didn't actually know I was lost, but when you're surrounded by negativity, you either shroud yourself in a peril protective shield, or you become part of it. (The Blob, anyone?) I'm glad to say that I survived. A little more bitter, and a whole lot less trusting, but smarter in the long run. (Someday soon I will write about the experience of being unemployed. Psychologically interesting? We'll see.)

We're packing up (yuck) and heading west. Just like in the Oldey Timey Times. Thankfully, we'll have a moving van and not a Conestoga. To those few who have kept in contact, I will miss you. To those who forgot about me the moment I walked out the door, I will haunt you. To my peeps back in the Hoosier State, look out for the truck, we're coming home.

* Please look it up and commit it to memory if you don't know who popularized this song.

A Place in the Choir

2008-08-09T17:35:00.002-04:00

"All God's critters got a place in the choir
Some sing low, some sing higher,
Some sing out loud on the telephone wires,
And some just clap their hands, or paws, or anything they got now."

Yup, everybody’s got a place. Right now, in the midst of unemployment, mine is in the yard. Not a bad place to be if you like to commune with nature. I have lots to commune with. Birds of all kinds, chipmunks, squirrels, etc ., all make up the choir in our yard. This morning, I filled the feeder and put the extra whole peanuts out on the stump for the little rodents. By the time I was back to the door, the sentinels had alerted the crowds, and the birds were happily eating again. I will miss this when I go back to work. I’ve taken to sitting outside and watching them, and they don’t seem to be phased by me anymore. I have become the “Pasty Large Figure Who Brings Peanuts and Stares at Us, But Seems Harmless”. I used to be the “Strange Beast Who Thinks We’ll Eat Stale Bread and Could Potentially Kill Us”. Just for the record, the raccoons seem to like stale bread, but not so much the birds. Or at least the raccoons like to play with it. They take it and put pieces in the bird bath. On the other hand, maybe they don’t like the bird bath. It’s bright blue. Maybe they would prefer a pastel or more muted color? Do raccoons watch HGTV? I hope not.
Raccoon design preference aside, the fauna seems happy. I have watched for days as the little creatures come in and munch on the vittles. They all have their unique habits. I’ve noticed the bluejay watches from afar , and slowly creeps closer. Then, he springs into action, flies in, picks up a peanut and flies off. He's a thief and the little birds hate him. The small sparrows and starlings have no fear of me whatsoever. They will dash in the moment there is new seed in the feeder and only flee if I make sudden movements. (So, I've abandoned my Fosse interpretive dance training.) The cardinals (state bird of every state except possibly Alaska) have nested in a large bush that I was planning on removing in the yard. The babies are now coming to feeder as well. Ugly birds with bad hairdos. I stopped the plans for bush demolition as I couldn’t bear the thought of homeless birds, suitcases by their side, weeping and mourning as I chopped down their home, and pointing me out to their children as a home wrecker. Maybe next year.
All I know is that in the midst of what could be a horribly depressing summer, I’ve found my Walden, and with it, a sense a peace that had been lacking. Being employed is over-rated, if you overlook the basic need to provide essentials like say, food and shelter. Maybe soon. I have to pay for the bird seed.

* (Bill Staines)

When a Fellow is Out of a Job

2008-05-09T11:52:00.005-04:00

"All nature is sick from her heels to her hair,
When a fellow is out of a job.
She's all out of kilter, beyond all repair
When a fellow is out of a job."*

Since I have time on my hands, I thought I would share five things I think this week:

1) Daytime television has lead to a substantial increase in the profits of pharmaceutical companies, especially those dealing with anti-depressants. I’ve learned that if you’re home during the day, you’re underemployed, depressed, likely to enroll in technical school, have an excess of federal tax owed and are interested in domestic disputes being aired in the public forum.

2) I have done something wrong in the eyes of non-profit fundraisers: What you ask? I don’t know, but I have been singularly unable to get those cute little address labels sent to me. Everyone else in the free world gets some every month. My partner has easily one thousand, eight hundred and sixty-six of the little buggers at the ready to stick onto her outgoing envelopes. (Yes, I counted. I have a lot of free time on my hands lately.) No matter what bleeding heart campaign I donate to, I never get any adorably cute sticky labels with my address. She has seashells, lighthouses, starfish, dolphins and other sea creatures, hummingbirds, pansies, butterflies, simple monograms, cute puppies, even cuter kittens, bunnies (with extra bonus envelope seals), Mother Goose, gardens, sunflowers, roses, Ziggy, hearts (with bonus smiling heart seals), children’s drawings, what looks vaguely like Pocahontas doing yard work, needlepoint facsimiles, autumnal leaves, Victorian drawings, kites (the toys, not the animals), Zebras, smiling suns, birds, grapes, sunsets, winter scapes, the ubiquitous pink bows, garish purses, tea cups, high heeled shoes, bees, frogs, amorous cartoon birds, fish that look like Nemo, trains, plain orange (!), a wide array of patriotic themes, including Uncle Sam hats, fireworks, flag hearts , regular flags, and not to be outdone, a variety of Christmas scenes including snowmen (in a variety of costumes), holly, candles, wreaths, Christmas trees, gingerbread men, little drummer boys, snowflakes, ornaments, candy canes, pine cones, and Santa in a variety of poses. What have I done to offend the address label gods? In the mail this week I rec’d a plump envelope from a non-profit and I thought my drought was over. I opened the envelope carefully, as I was certain I was about to be the proud owner of a sheet of cute little address labels to adorn my personal correspondence. I pulled out the gummy sheets and I was right, my prayers were answered, but as I focused on the picture, my heart sank. Yes, I had new labels. No, they were not cute. What was my new treat? Ferret heads. No cute little bunnies for me, I get ugly ferret heads. Ferrets, just a twig on the family tree away from WEASELS. I ask you, what holiday merits weasel stickers?

3) Employment ads are written by morons. You know, people with bullhorns. I have spent 3 hours a day looking at such ads, so I think I have a good feel for what constitutes stupid . This is an actual headline from a recent ad: “How Many Boxes of Cash Do You Want?! Earn $10,000 in 3 days! Honestly, legally and ethically! No experience needed! Call NOW!” Now, do you really think I’m silly enough to respond to this? Do you really think that by adding exclamation points after each sentence, that I will take you more seriously?! No. And I really doubt the “ethically” part. My favorite ad was “Needed: Poo Cleaner”. Well, don’t we all. I don’t care how much it paid, I prefer unemployment. Another frightening one: “Tattoo artist needed. No experience needed, will train.” That is the reason I don’t have a tattoo. That and the mental image of a wrinkly cartoon on a saggy breast. No thanks. Another favorite: “manger position needed for the holidays”. If the holy family is available, I believe they have experience. Exactly what IS a manger position? Standing, with head in a trough? Or nestled in swaddling clothes?

4) Simple is good. I have enjoyed the last few weeks of having time to myself, communing with nature, and relying only on myself (and the cats) for daytime company. I recommend it. It’s amazing how much you can get done when work doesn’t get in the way. (Bonus points for anyone who can tell me what famous piece of American Literature has the above themes.)

5) Does your book collection tell people who you really are? We’ve finished our book inventory this week, and ended around 900 books. If an outsider looked at our collection, what would they learn about us? I think they would say we have too many books.
Until next time, get out and commune with nature…before it’s gone

* Grant Rogers

Take This Job and Shove It!

2008-04-23T14:28:00.004-04:00

"You better not try to stand in my way
As I'm walking out the door.
Take this job and shove it
I ain't working here no more"

Okay, it's not really folk music, but desperate times call for cheating. I am gainfully unemployed, thanks to the Ohio economy and well...never mind. I'm sure I'll find more time to write, since I don't have anything to do from say, 9 to 5. Alcohol anyone?

Open hearts, open minds, open doors

2007-06-27T16:49:00.000-04:00

"Bring your joys, bring your burdens, all you rich and poor.
Open hearts, open minds, open hearts, open doors"

I marched in my first Pride parade this past weekend. As I have never even attended such a festival before, I was a little nervous. As our group lined up and waited for the parade to begin, we filled rainbow helium balloons and watched the entire spectrum of gaydom file by us: drag queens and kings, flag boys, leather riders, the Pride Band, and all manner of symbolic furry beasts. I suppose that some of the participants were trying to be shocking, but it didn't work. The only shocking thing is the realization that most of the drag queens carry off 3 inch heels much better than I ever will. More disappointment, than shocking, really...but then again, they have more practice.

I watched as bejeweled head-dresses (Vegas!) accompanied by mustachioed men in black leather lederhosen, and thought only "I wonder if those get hot?" Fashion sense aside, the parade soon started. Once I reached the starting point, I was struck by the sheer number of people lining the street. (Papers estimated the attendance at over 100,000!)I saw thousands of people lining the streets, and I had heard horror stories of angry parade protesters from years past, and I was suddenly terrified that I was about to be lead to the lions.

I could hear a loud commotion up ahead, but couldn't see what was going on because we were we turning the corner onto the main street. The crush of humanity on the main drag (no pun intended) was nearly overwhelming. In some places along the street, people were nearly 20 deep, straining to get a glimpse of the parade. The loud rumbling that I had heard in the background was getting louder, and becoming more clear... people were cheering! Tens of thousands of people were clapping and cheering in support of the parade marchers. When the name of our church that I was marching with went over the parade loud speaker as we passed the "grandstand", a huge thunderous applause started and I could hear the people yelling "thank you" and cheering. I passed a woman in her thirties holding a sign that said "Daughter of a Lesbian", and we made eye contact as we passed her position. She mouthed "thank you" as tears rolled down her cheeks.

We passed dozens of people who were teary-eyed, no doubt for the same reason I was- there's comfort and relief in knowing that you're not alone. Many people came up to us after the parade and said how much it meant to them that a church was so supportive, and total strangers thanked us for participating. The few protesters I eventually saw looked fearful and alone...oh the irony. As I finished the evening, I finally understood why it's called "pride", and I was never so proud to be part of something so profound.

All of God's children got shoes

2007-04-10T16:44:00.000-04:00

"I got a shoe, you got a shoe.
All of God’s children got shoes."

Yes kids, I know it’s been too long since I last wrote a coherent blog. Blame the endorphins. You see, I’ve found a new addiction. The cool kids call it “exercise”. I’m addicted to it like crack. It’s sad really. I’ve gone from years of sedentary practice to actually looking forward to sweating on the treadmill. It must be the threat of impending old age.

It hasn’t come cheap though. I had to go out and buy a new pair of sneakers. I believe my first car may have been less expensive and was good for more miles. The shoes came with the information that you should purchase new ones in 500 miles. I first thought that I was golden until say 2015. Then the addiction set in, and I’m looking at new ones in late summer. Who knew that sneakers have a shorter life span than a Firestone Winterforce tire? I guess the vintage Chucks in my closet (circa ’82) will have to go away. Sad. Nothing says style and class like orange high-tops.

Since the high-tops were out, I had to buy an ipod. (It’s import to look cool and trendy while you sweat.) Handy little tool. I’m now re-learning French via free podcasts. However, I made two grave mistakes during my first few weeks with the device. First, I was listening to the Prairie Home Companion joke show (also a free podcast) while on the treadmill. I laughed so hard I pulled my towel off the machine and it fell to the belt and shot off the back of the treadmill like a rocket. (I’m sure the wall mirror will be replaced soon. )I also developed two playlists, one for warm-up and one for exercising. Just for the record, “I’m so excited” is NOT a warm-up tune. I nearly sprained something trying frantically to row to the beat of that song. (WARNING! The ipod can also be used as a strangulation device should the wires get caught in the arms of the CyclePlus machine. Not that I would know from personal experience… I’ve just heard that.)

Thankfully, there are many other people exercising who are in worse shape than me. I’m sure of it, even though I haven’t seen any yet. Last week while doing an incredibly tough arm push-up maneuver, (I’m sure there are real names for these exercises, but “tough arm push-up maneuver” should at least bring SOME image to mind) complete with stressful facial expression and grunting, I turn casually to look over to the person next to me, and make a friendly greeting. There was a kindly, gray haired, old woman …lifting more than 3 times what I was. I was humiliated. She was in her 80’s, pushing 110 pounds up over her head. I was screaming like a girl, fearful of snapping my arms off like Mr. Potato Head, pushing only 30 pounds. I am freakishly weak for my looks.

The good news, you ask? Well, as of last night I’ve lost 9 inches and several pounds. If current measurements bear out, I’ll resemble a snowman by fall, since I seem to be losing weight in my legs and wrists. (Fat wrists...another description to write down in my “humiliating things about myself” book.) Okay, and there’s the fact that I can walk up a flight of stairs without collapsing. It’s a good start. Of course if I had new shoes….

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

2007-01-02T21:45:00.001-05:00

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

1) Christmas is a financial and logistical nightmare for most people. I hate to sound like a scrooge, but even Tiny Tim would be grumpy if he had the expectations of 21st Century Holiday travel and gift buying. Next year everybody gets a gift card in the mail. Then again, I love the smell of fresh chex mix.

2) My favorite gifts are usually the silliest. Playdoh. How can you really go wrong with the gift that keeps on giving like Playdoh? Oh, yes, what about the cashmere, you ask? Well, you can make a sweater from Playdoh, but try making a clay container from your sweater.

3) I love the look of outdoor Christmas lights. Not so much the tiny bright LED kind, but rather the big, colorful circa 1950’s lights. Turn ‘em on and show ‘em off.

4) It should snow on Christmas. Pooh to all you Sunshine State wannabees. Bing said it best. Global warming be damned, I want snow!

5) I vacillate between thinking that you should love your job and the job is only to pay the bills for the things you love. Can’t decide. I’ll get back to you.

6) I miss my Grandma. I know she’s looking over me from afar, but I miss her. She told me once that it was a shame that flowers are usually only sent to dead people. I promised her I would take the time to give flowers to people who could still enjoy them. Every time I give them now I think of her. People should send flowers more often. Think of how good Santa’s sleigh would smell laden with roses. Who needs potpourri?

7) I dread going back to work. Perhaps I was a Bohemian in my first life, but I oh so enjoy the life of sleeping in and putzing around the house. Lottery anyone?

8) Speaking of the lottery, I have already decided what I’ll do with the million I’ll collect when the winning ticket floats my way. One needs to be prepared for miracles. I would hate to make a bad spending decision during the mania of winning. Who says I don’t plan ahead?

9) Speaking of miracles, the Bears will need one to pull off some post-season wins. Did anyone get a quarterback for Christmas?

10) I am a lucky girl. Santa always visits and is kind. Do the world a favor and extend the kindness just once in the next week. We gave a dollar in quarters to a bedraggled lady trying frantically to get a soda machine to accept her crumbled bill. We told her to keep the dollar, and have a happy new year. There were many times in my life that free caffeine could have made my day a lot happier. Do at least one good deed this week. Who knows, the life you change could be your own.

Pans of Biscuits

2006-11-23T01:03:00.000-05:00

It's pans of biscuits, bowls of gravy,
Pans of biscuits we shall have.*

Yeah, well this whole “have a subject or a theme and write about that every week” isn’t working. Time creeps up and then before you know it, the two people who read your blog are emailing you wondering why you’re not writing, and life gets in the way. In homage to Peter King, you get 10 Things I Think:

1) Fast food service has declined tremendously in the last few years. (Someday I’ll write about the fish sandwich incident. Not now, I’d hate to drudge up bad memories.) Drive up attendants never say “thank you” anymore, and you’ve got less than a twenty percent chance that your special order will be right. Why is that?

2) People as a whole are more violent than they were 20 years ago, no doubt because they’re angry at the bad service they’re getting at Burger Doodle. (Or is it Tragedy of the Commons, anyone?) When I was in school, when the football team won a big game, goal posts were torn down. Now, win or lose, a couch-burning riot breaks out. Perhaps the furniture makers are behind this trend.

3) Cranberry sauce as a staple for Thanksgiving is over-rated. Does anyone notice how it resembles bloody congealed fat? Who started the “get it out of the can without scraping it thing anyway.” I’ve never seen anyone wowed by the sight of a can shaped cranberry sauce. Did the Pilgrims really have Ocean Spray anyway?

4) The fact that frosted Poptarts have fewer calories than plain Poptarts bothers me. It seems counter intuitive, and I believe it’s part of a vast food conspiracy. However, it does provide me a good reason to keep eating the frosted ones. Besides, they taste better.

5) Reality tv bores me. Why pay for cable to see “real world” scenarios when I just need to look around at work, at the doctors office or even the pie store. Why just today two women nearly came to fisticuffs over a French Silk Pie, and I wasn’t even near my tv. Just imagine what could happen over a Key Lime Pie!

6) Christmas shopping is difficult when you’re a little ADD. I buy one thing for other people, and then see something that interests me, and I forget why I’m shopping. I need focus…or a personal shopper, or perhaps sedation. Any volunteers? (for the shopping, not the drugs.)

7) We all have different drivers. Some people need to succeed to feel powerful. Other people need to feel successful at work in order to overcome a loss of control in their personal life. Some people live their lives wanting to be other people and lead lives other than their own. I’m glad I’m not one of them. I like my life and where I am. I want all my friends to be as happy as me. Do you think McDonald’s gift certificates would do it?

8) The 80’s had some great music. Who can listen to “Hey Mickey” and not want to join the cheerleading club. Okay, scratch that. At least there’s Culture Club. Who doesn’t want to be Boy George…nevermind. I still want to be the drummer for Blondie. Of course, I don’t own red high top sneakers. Mine were orange.

9) Blogging is a viscous cycle. You feel no one reads your blog, so you quit writing. You quit writing, and people stop reading. Hard to get them back. So why do it? At some point you either come to the conclusion that you’re writing for yourself, or you’re doing to please other people. (Validation is such a wonderful thing.) I haven’t decided yet. Well, actually I have, but I’m not telling you.

10) Life is good. Despite my complaints about food service, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. I miss my peeps, but the occasional get together makes us all feel better. (Except Shanny, and we’re working on that.)

Bonus:

11) Exploded biscuit dough is gross. Especially when it’s moldy, and oozing through the grates in your refrigerator. If you have unexploded biscuits in your fridge, cook them now before it’s too late! This promotional message brought to you by the “Society to Prevent Exploded Dough Accidents.”

*Hedy West, Whores, Hell and Biscuits

And They All Look Just the Same

2006-10-25T15:42:00.000-04:00

Little Star Treks on my TV
Little Star Treks look so ticky-tacky,
Little Star Treks, Little Star Treks,
And they all look just the same.*

Perhaps it’s the fever talking, but I hate daytime television. From the Jerry Springer ringside fiasco to the doldrums of daytime “dramas”,to reruns of bad science fiction, I hate them. People who watch these shows should receive free therapy. I’m glad I have a day job, and don’t have to watch them on a regular basis. But today, I have what the medical professionals call “the flu”. I call it Intestinal Vulcanism. (use your imagination)
But, because I am stricken with the above malady, I am forced to watch daytime television at its best. (By forced, I mean my only option is listening to feline hygiene noises that will cause more eruptions…’nough said.)
Through the delusions of fever, I now have good blog fodder. If I could just concentrate long enough to type….

*Sung to the tune of Little Boxes

Does anyone really know what time it is?

2006-09-15T09:55:00.000-04:00

I would like to say for the record that I've been busy reading other people's blogs so I haven't had time to write my own, but we all know that's a lie. I'll be happy to post another blog when I get three comments asking me to do so. In the vast world of blogdom, surely there are THREE people who read my seldom-updated words of wisdom. If not, it too shall go the way of the dodo.

Ain't it Great to be Crazy?

2006-07-19T16:17:00.000-04:00

Boom, boom, ain’t it great to be crazy
Boom, boom, ain’t it great to be nuts like us
Silly and foolish all day long
Boom, boom ain’t it great to be crazy

You have one, admit it. There is one person that you work with that drives you nuts. The one person who puts your knickers in a twist no matter how good your day has been. I believe that there are three types: people who are incompetent, people who are weird and by nature are irritating, people who are just plain evil. For the ease of comparisons, I will label them Dolts, Dweebs, and Demons. (Those playing at home may feel free to insert substitute words as they choose, but please keep up with the alliteration. For example:
Goofs, Geeks, Guttersnipes works, as does Simpletons, Screwballs and Scamps but Half-wits, Queer Ducks, and Hellions does not. You get the picture, and please don’t use “moron” as it has now become a term of endearment for a small group of former co-workers, you know, people of the land….)
Anywho, the next serious of three blogs shall be dedicated to those three unique sets of individuals which have become the bees in our bonnets. We shall start with the Dolts:

DOLT n. A stupid person; a dunce.

[Middle English dulte, from past participle of dullen, to dull, from dul, dull. See dull.]

An example of doltism: There is an office refrigerator/freezer that everyone shares. The Dolt removes the container that holds the ice, and doesn’t turn the icemaker off. Days go by and an unsuspecting co-worker opens the freezer, setting off an avalanche of ice cubes, which would all but incapacitate the largest of steam ships.

How would we describe this person? (Careful not to use vulgarities, we may have a sensitive audience) How about “not the sharpest knife in the drawer” or “one sandwich short of a picnic” or “two bricks shy of a load”. Surely there are more. Keeping in mind that these phrases should describe INCOMPETENCE and not weirdness or evil, what do YOU say?

His elevator doesn't go all the way to the top floor.
The lights are on, but nobody's home.
He’s a few fries away from a happy meal.
They’re not the brightest bulb on the tree.
He doesn't have all his cornflakes in one box.
He doesn't have all the dots on his dice.
She fell out of the family tree.
She’s dumber than a box of rocks
He has a full six-pack but not the plastic rings to hold it together.
He's knitting with only one needle.
He’s one egg short of a dozen.
She’s not the brightest star in the sky.
He’s a few crayons short of a full box.
The engine is running, but there's no one at the wheel
He has a photographic memory, but no film.
He's as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

Are there more? Tell me how YOU describe incompetent co-workers. (Keep your thinking caps on for the next installment of "Dweebs.")

* Camp song

Deep River Blues

2006-07-11T14:11:00.000-04:00

"Let it rain, let it pour
Let it rain a whole lot more
Cuz I've got them deep river blues..."

Must be the weather. I'm just not feeling creative. I read Dom's Blog, and see Keith's pictures and I feel inspired, but when I sit down to the keyboard, it all goes away. Help me. Give me something to write about... other than the single shoes I see littered on the side of the roads. (Why? Are there hitchhikers who only wear one shoe?) Give me a hint, get me out of this blogger's block!

* Doc Watson

Get Up and Go!

2006-06-14T14:14:00.000-04:00

"How do I know my youth is all spent?
My get up and go has got up and went
But in spite of it all, I’m able to grin
And think of the places my get up has been"*

In the last few months, I’ve nobly tried to take up some form of exercising, so that I don’t wake up one day and find myself shopping for Jabba the Hut sized clothes. I have no desire to walk up to the Ohio Tent and Awning Company and ask if they have a fitting room. I have my pride. The problem is that I hate exercising just for the sake of exercising. It seems, well, pointless. I applaud team sports and all the camaraderie and esprit de corps that go with them. Just exercising? Too boring. When I was in college, it wasn’t a problem, there were a variety of intramural sports, and I played them all. There were also racquetball courts just a stones throw away FOR FREE. Now, if I wanted to play racquetball, I’d have to join some exclusive gym, pay hundreds of dollars in membership fees, AND buy a stunning new athletic outfit, because you know “fitness club” members don’t wear sweat pants from Kohl’s.

I hate to be judged for my fashion, so I tried walking. The problem with walking is that there’s really no way to walk without people watching you. (When they invent the Exercise Inviso-Cloak, I’m there.) I don’t want people to watch me when I’m exercising. Eewww! I’ve tried walking at night, but I find myself drawn to look in people’s open windows when I walk by. Too many distractions, and I have no desire to be arrested. There’s also a myriad of excuses: too late, too hot, too cold, too rainy, and too lazy. And then there was the lady hit by a cheeseburger while walking. (The cheeseburger was not driving the car, but rather flung out of it. Less dangerous, but no less startling.) I can’t take those kinds of chances; I need a safer exercise, perhaps watching television.

Being a proud user of digital cable, and the thousands of channels now afforded to me, I recently found the “fitness” channel. I can now watch all sorts of aerobics and stretches at any hour. Should I wake up in the middle of the night with a nightmare involving spare tires or love handles, I can simply flip on the TV and tune into “Magic Abs”, or “Buns of Steel”. Of course, WATCHING the show doesn’t burn as many calories as say, DOING the exercises, but with my metabolism, I don’t really burn calories anyway, I merely singe them. It seemed rather lazy, so naturally, I asked my partner to do the exercises with me so that I wouldn’t look like an idiot flailing about the television. We began watching “Afro-Brazilian Dance Aerobics”. It seemed quite easy at first. I was confident that we had picked a winner. The teacher was calm, and slow, and explained all the moves necessary so that we could easily keep up. I was thrilled! Then the announcer mentions that we’re now ready to begin the warm-up. What? What have I been doing? Ohmigod, you mean there’s more to it? I briefly hesitated as the exercising became more intense. By minute seven, I was sure that I was not given joints in places the people in the video had. How can you move your body like that? The svelte dancers in the video clearly had no hipbones or spines, and clearly no Caucasian dancing inhibition genes. By the time the Caribbean-Twist-Squats came up I was panting like an aged hound dog after the hunt. When the Swan-Swimming-Swirls came on I had to stop and try to figure out what limbs they were moving with what muscles. My partner, however, danced on... until she heard the laughing. When I stopped out of confusion, I watched her to try to understand the moves. She was whirling around the room moving her head like a swooning chicken having a seizure. I tried to prevent a giggle from escaping, but that just made it worse. I couldn’t stop laughing. (No doubt the effect of a lack of oxygen to the brain.) See, another reason to hate exercising: bad for relationships. Good thing I had one exercise left to try.

We wheeled the bikes out the garage. They looked the same as they did 20 years ago when I rode 10-12 miles a day without effort. They say you never forget how to ride a bike. That part is true. I remembered the mechanics. I put my foot on the pedal, and pushed off. I had gotten about 2 rotations of the pedals when a searing pain began in my right calf. Not to be left out, my left calf began cramping. Because of the design of the ten-speed, I was crouched over, and my back began to spasm, and along with the less-than-comfortable design of the “speed seat”, my haunches hurt. As every muscle in my body began to seize, I debated my decision to ride the open road. I yelled at my partner to stop, and I leaned forward and applied the brakes, only to pinch my pinky finger in the braking mechanisms. I began to slow down and screamed, “Aren’t we done yet?” as my eyes began to tear up.

“We haven’t even left the driveway,” she replied.

Well, add bike riding to the ever-growing list of exercises to take up, and then rigorously avoid. Maybe swimming. What’s the worst thing that could happen there?

*Pete Seeger

Holding Out for a Hero

2006-05-19T16:21:00.000-04:00

“Where have all the good men gone
And where are all the gods?
Where's the streetwise Hercules
to fight the rising odds?”

Things I understand: cause and effect, supply and demand, Will and Grace, and perhaps Tony Orlando and Dawn. I understand that sentences should usually have both a noun and a verb, and that conjunctions are used to bind clauses together. (You can thank School House Rock for that bit of grammar trivia.) I even understand a few phrases spoken in a foreign tongue, though unless a swine bursts in a French city, I may not be a useful foreign translator.

I completely understand the difference between internal and external locus of control, the theory of post-purchase dissonance and the concepts of ID, EGO and Superego as introduced by Sigmund Freud. On some days, I understand (and concur) why some foreign governments hate ours, and if I try really hard, I can even understand that there is a reason that some people voted for George W. Bush. I cannot, no matter how hard I try, BEGIN to understand advanced calculus, the appeal of Seinfeld, Bronte Literature, American Idol and this:

There have been created for no other purpose than our amusement, a group of trailer park action figures. I use the term “action” loosely. The caption underneath the above banjo boy reads:

“Meet Lil Billy Boy. Billy weren’t too good in his schoolin. But he has a special gift. Billy can flat out play some banjo…”

Oh. My. God. (Please pause between the words for special emphasis.) I found it (and the rest of the set) being sold in a gumball machine in a KFC somewhere in Podunk Northern Indiana. I was on a return trip from Holland, Michigan: Dutch Kitsch Capital of the US. A beautiful, charming city complete with all things cheesy Dutch: Dutch shoes, little kissing Dutch Dudes statues, windmills, and the ubiquitous tulip. They did NOT, however, sell the trailer park set, only true Hoosiers would see the value in THAT kind of cheese.

I have to admit though, the above-mentioned toy was purchased by me while on vacation. Yes, for 50 cents and a prayer (“Please let it be the banjo boy, please let it be the banjo boy, please let it be the Arrowood Action Figure that I can relentlessly tease Keith with”) you could be the proud owner of one, too. It frightens me a bit. I’m all for a good action figure, as my desk would indicate, but a Straight-From-Deliverance-Kid is rather scary.

What have we come to? Where have all the superheroes gone? You know, the ones with special abilities and accoutrements? My Johnny West had guns and spurs and a hat, and even had a horse. My French Foreign Legion Ken Doll had the ability to speak in French and make crepes, plus he donned a cool FFL cap. (Okay, most of that was in my mind, but still…) What can banjo boy do? He doesn’t even get shoes! And, a banjo, though a mighty fine instrument, is hardly a super hero tool. (I can see the bluegrass musicians angrily typing, even as I speak.) I mean I understand the appeal of the Sigmund Freud action figure, and we all know what super powers the Jesus action figure has (does it come with bread and fish, or thorns and a cross?), but banjo boy? What’s next? The Chicken Sexer Action Hero? Perhaps Captain History Geek? What action figure do YOU want to see? Perhaps I’ll put it next to my Guardian of the Necropolis statuette, and of course Billy Boy.

*Bonnie tyler of Footloose fame, and there are so many good folk parodies of it....

Do I Ever Cross Your Mind?

2006-05-02T10:10:00.000-04:00

“And when I think of you and the love we once knew,
How I wish we could go back in time.
Do you ever think back on old memories like that,
Or do I ever cross your mind?”

I’ve moved on. At least physically. I’m in a different state, a new home, and pretty much a new life. On paper, this life is much more successful: more money, more prestige, a better chance for advancement. I still miss the old one a little. I’m a little scrooge-esque, being haunted by snippets of Christmas past, only it’s not Christmas I see. I see me sitting at my desk and co-workers coming in to chat, late night talks in the parking lot, coming in early and staying late (I miss that why?), the lunch bus, watching the kids (and adults) grow up, and knowing I had a place to go if the world turned cold.

We had a party this weekend with some co-workers. They were here and gone in a few hours. Where was the “sit and solve the world’s problems” conversations in the wee hours of the morning? They came and went en masse. I so looked forward to the weekend, preparing and making sure everything was perfect, but I felt the entire evening that something was missing. I know now that it was the familiarity I missed. I wanted my old friends. I wanted to have the comfort of knowing that I could be me, and that it would be okay, even preferred. I wrote once many years ago that good friends reminded me of my favorite sweatshirt: It warms me up, makes me feel happier, and well, COMFORTABLE. Like someone I love had her arms wrapped around me. I want that here. (Not the sweatshirt, I still have that. I wore it yesterday.) You can get a NEW sweatshirt, but it takes a long time to wear in, it just doesn’t fit right, and you find yourself going back to the old ones. I miss my “old sweatshirt” friends. We were a good team, we worked hard and played hard, the way it SHOULD be. Perhaps I’m old fashioned. Perhaps I’m not as good at connecting with people as I used to be, who knows. I just miss the warm fuzzy feeling that we had. We just used to all be so connected.

For example, two of the kids we worked with lost their father. It was during the busiest weekend of the year for us. We didn’t really know the dad, at least I didn’t, but funerals and wakes are not for the dead, they’re for those who are left. We buckled down and showed up in force for the kids. I would like to think that it mattered to the family that we were there. It certainly mattered to us. It was the right thing to do. When we were leaving the funeral home one of the guys said, “I hurt for them”. That’s what good friends do best. They feel for each other.

One of my oldest and dearest friends lost her father recently. I got the news while I was at a wedding out of state. I was calm and collected on the phone (We always had a rule that only one of us was allowed to cry at a time.) After the conversation was over, I sat on the plush Westin bed and sobbed. I hurt, not for me, but I hurt for her. She is an “old sweatshirt” friend.

Of course not all empathetic feelings are sad. Another friend is in a new relationship, and is blooming with all the happiness and giddiness that a new loves brings. We feel that happiness for her, too. If people could spontaneously combust from elation, she would be nothing but a pile of Canadian ashes by now. Somehow, we all feel a little happier just by being her friend.

Somewhere in Indiana, or maybe in Denver, I mawkishly hope there are a few people who in the middle of the day, just when they least expect it, perhaps when they see a pumpkin, or hear a Brian Joseph song, or wax poetically about Aengus Finnan, or ride in a golf cart in the rain, or play softball, or see a bullhorn (or a moron), or read an Emily Dickinson poem, or hear a mention of Halloween, or reach for an ice pack, or hear someone calling a dog named Barney or put on a special sweatshirt, that just for a few seconds they think of me. I know there are a lot of people who cross my mind often, just when I least expect it.

What was I thinking?

2006-04-14T11:59:00.000-04:00

What was she thinking?
Quick, buy me a hat!
I should look on the bright side.
In ten years it will grow back.

There are always tough decisions in your life. Do you get a scone or a croissant? Do you get a cat or a dog? Do you wear underwear today or not? Do you pick the M & M off the floor and eat it or kick it underneath the couch? Do you listen to Bruce Hornsby today or Marc Cohn? Do you dye your hair, or do you stick with unfashionably early gray to look decades older than your partner? I picked dye. Sometimes I wonder why.

When I moved, I knew I was going to have to give up some comforts. No, I’m not living in a corrugated community now, or a yurt. But I had to give up the comfort of a doctor, dentist and hairdresser that I knew, and begin the painful process of finding new ones that I like. I once made the mistake of picking a dentist out of the phone book. After what I call “the staple gun incident”, my lesson was learned: no more unreviewed professionals. I want testimonies, portfolios of happy customers, and letters of reference, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I REALLY needed a haircut and “color touch-up”, as I was beginning to look like a hippie Pepe Le Pew, so I violated my personal rules and made an appointment with a name on a coupon that I got in the mail. What was I thinking?

A few days later I drove to my appointment. The outside of the building was nice enough, and it was in a good part of town, so I was feeling pretty confident. When I walked into the door, I started to get the same feeling in the pit of my stomach that you get about the time the scary music begins to crescendo, and you find yourself yelling “No! Don’t open the door!” The surroundings immediately alerted me that they were “in transition”. Wires were hanging from the ceiling and there were patches of drywall painted with various swatches of what I would label “Panera colors”, and waves of plastic sheeting covered unused hair dryer machines. At least I hoped there weren’t people under the plastic. A perky “hostess”, no doubt clueless about what people listened to before CD’s and ipods, greeted me with “Hi, we’re remodeling, can I get you something to drink and take your coat and have a seat, she’ll be right with you, grab a magazine if you’d like, oh don’t sit there, the paint’s not dry yet, thanks for coming in today.” Apparently the new models of humanoids don’t have to breath when they speak.

I waited as calmly as someone can be, knowing that in a few minutes my head would be bathed in some fowl-smelling ammonia bath. My wait was short. In just a few short minutes a pre-teen walked out from behind the plastic curtain and called my name. I walked behind her with a myriad of thoughts racing through my mind. Omigod she’s twelve! I have cheese older than she is! Can she even drive here, and where does she park her tricycle? Since when is cosmetology an elective in Junior High? I took ping-pong! Do I have time to run to the car, or will I be thwarted with a skillful toss of a blow dryer thunking the back of my head? I sat, frightened into submission. “What are we doing today,” she said as she pawed at my hair.

Who is “we” Kemosobee? You should be in school. I should be with someone old enough to read the instructions on the back of the shampoo bottle! “Oh, I just need a trim and a touch-up of color.”

“Do you have a picture of what you want the style to look like?”

Look at me! That’s your picture, only shorter! Are you an idiot? “I just need a trim.”

“But what STYLE do you want?” Again, she’s tousling my hair and turning her head while looking at my hair as if she were a dog and I was asking her a question about Cartesian geometry.

“The same style I have now, only shorter.” This is NOT effing rocket science. Do they not teaching hair cutting anymore, is it only styling and head-tilting?

“Well, after we do the color, why don’t you sit and look at pictures in the hairstyle magazines.” Her bovine-like expression mirrored her understanding. I don’t want to look through magazines of skinny teens with short hair. I use this quality time to peruse Star and US, and other trashy media choices,so that I can keep up with Brad and Angelina, Jennifer and Vince, and the fashion police. I will not have you taking that away from me!

She continues to poke at my head with a variety of instruments and hair swatches and determined that I would be a “brunette, #117” with color highlights. “What do you think about this color?” she asked, still using gestures from the German Shepherd Body Language Book.

Are you blind? Does it match my hair now?Do you think I’m planning on dropping my current job and taking up something like prosititution or pole dancing?Do I look like someone who would value say, MAGENTA hair? I don’t think so. “I was thinking of keeping the same color I have now.”

“Oh. That’s too bad. If you ever decide to change, this would be a good one.”

Thank you Einstein. Should I make a career move to topless dancing, you’ll be the first one I call.

She wisked away the swatches and came back with an “applicator”, which was a combination paint brush/death stick, and a vat of toxic hair goo appromimately the consistancy and smell of rotting flesh. She proceeded to dab the goo around my head, periodically lifting the hair with the death stick and impaling my scalp. After applying a quart of the viscous liquid to my scalp, she sent me off to the magazines. I glanced at my reflection in the mirror as I walked, and muffled a scream. I could clearly see that a two inch band of flesh around my hair was also going to be Brunette #117. I rushed to get it off without disturbing the hair, and settled down with “Hip Hairstyle Magazine” to find a picture of my hair. I thought about showing her my drivers license picture, but I look vaguely like a frightened serial killer. It really doesn’t do my hair-cut justice.

After perusing the “sassy short styles” chapter in the periodical, I marked it and started on a pile of popular culture reference material: ie., star rags. I was well into my third magazine when another woman came to sit beside me. She was sprouting the foil-wrapped mane of highlighting. I asked what time it was and shrieked when I heard the answer. I had been sitting for over an hour with 40-minute permanent color leeching into my head. Ohmigod. Does it cause brain damage? Will it begin to eat through my flesh after 65 minutes? This isn’t going to turn my hair green, is it? Didn’t I see that on the Brady Brunch once?Was it Jan or Marsha? I wonder if Alice is still alive? I heard that Greg wanted to date Mrs. Brady…SNAP OUT OF IT! You are going to have serious hair damage if you don’t focus! I jumped back to reality and tried to flag down the nearest stylist. After some explanation of my concern, the stylist replied “Oh, she’s with another customer, she’ll be right with you.” WHAT? I’m going to have to start wearing hats to cover up the burn-damaged hair. Perhaps a fashionable turban? After picking out a myriad of trendy hats in my mind, my wayward styling agent finally came to get me…after an hour and 20 minutes, or approximately TWICE the length of time the rotting flesh concoction is supposed to stay on my head. My hope of an event-free hair styling experience was nearly gone.

She lead me over to the sink, and I sat down and leaned back, anxious to have the toxins removed from my scalp. She turned on the water and promptly sprayed me with scalding water. “HOT!” was the only thing I was able to say, as the toxins had apparently rendered me monosyllabic. She turned the temperature down and dowsed my head, taking great care to aim the sprayer at precisely the right angle to fill my ears with hot water. I fliched, and tried to get out of the chair. I, unlike the actors in the shower commericals, do not like to have water poured directly on my face. I blame the catholic church for this aversion as I have photographic evidence that I was a happy baby until the priest poured a pitcher of water over my head. I’ve hated it ever since. She appologized and in an effort to avoid my ears, moved the sprayer in the general direction of the 2 inch band of flesh, still brunette #117. Unfortunately, the band was very near my eyes. As she sprayed, the dark water ran straight from hair into my eyes. I screamed as the toxins began to eat away at my contacts. “BURNING!” (Again, unable to form complete sentences.) The combination bovine/shepherd’s reply to my pain was a disinterested “Oh, did I get color in your eye?”

There is toxic black liquid burning out my corneas and all you can say is “did I get color in your eye”! I hate you with the white-hot heat of a thousand suns! Let me stick the business end of that paintbrush/death stick into your eye, and you will begin to know the pain that I’m feeling! “TOWEL!” I screamed. She grabbed the towel from around my neck and gave it to me. I patted my eyes, and the burning began to ebb. “Gahwah” was what came out of my mouth, but instead of Arab coffee, I was referring to the pain in my eyes. I continued to dab, and she stood motionless, inexplicably stoic and unmoved by my predicament. She waited until the sobbing stopped and leaned me back and continued with the spraying, only marginally more careful about orifice-spraying than before. She had, however, forgotten that she removed my protective towel from around my neck. I began to feel a dampness spread down my back, and I had the unpleasant sensation that something bad was happening – again. I reached back, trying to ascertain if the liquid was water, or if she had pierced me with something sharp in an effort to get me not to think about the burning sensation in my eyes. Unfortunately, the positioning of the shampoo chairs renders you useless, not unlike a turtle being upended. The suspense didn’t last, though. She sat me up and uttered the word that should not be heard in a surgery center, dentist office or hair styling salon: “oops”. OOPS! What could possibly be wrong now? Did you wash all of my hair off? Did you accidently use “Bozo Red” as a coloring agent?

“I think I got you wet.” Really? I hadn’t noticed? A toddler having a seizure would have had better sprayer control than you! Did you actually GRADUATE from beauty school?

She applied more towels and we walked back to her “station”. I pointed to the picture in the magazine that I held in a death-grip during the rinse cycle. “Like this, only NOT AS SHORT.” She nodded and began the process of drying off my hair with all the gentleness of a Steeler’s linebacker. She got out her “styling clippers” and began to clip. One hair at time. She combed, she used longish hairclips to hold my hair in different arrangements on my head, and ever-so-slowly clipped. My god, woman, do you need caffeine?At this glacial rate the next season of the L-word will be back on before you finish. How could you possibly be a combination Dog, Cow, Turtle so succcesfully? After an eternity she finished the methodical clipping, arranging, styling process, and began to dry.

“What styling products do you use?”

“I don’t.”

Silence. Staring. Bovine-like chewing.

“I mean like styling paste, mousse, gel, you know.”

“Yes, I know what styling products are, I just don’t use them.” I didn’t offer to her that I had not actually ever SEEN styling paste, but I knew it existed.”

Silence. Staring.

“What do you do with your hair?”

“I comb it.”

Silence. Staring. Shepherd head tilting.

“Wow.” Apparently she thought I was the hair styling equivelent of the Australopithecus.

She styled, she dried, she styled. She added paste. She styled, she dried. She added “sheen”, she dried, she styled. A Jean Auel novel could have been written and re-read by Evelyn Wood drop-outs in the time it took my hair to be styled. She finished with a “ta-da” and turned me around to see in the mirror. I looked like a charred chia pet. Ohmigod. Did I not mention that I didn’t want my hair THAT short. Does the word “trim” not appear in your vocabulary?And what are those stains on my face?

“Face.” Again, I had stunned into one syllable responses.

She got out “Color remover” and a towel and tried to remove the stain by removing the skin itself.

“It’s okay, I’ll shower when I get home.” I was fighting the urge to run. I got up and she removed the attractive shower-curtain cape I was wearing.

“Oh.my.god”. It’s never good when the stylist says thatwith staccato inflection. I looked down at the “used to be pink” shirt I was wearing. Remember in Carrie when the blood starts falling from the ceiling? Picture that, only in sepia tones. When she had removed the protective towel from around my neck, it had allowed all the color run-off to follow my contours down to my shirt. It appeared that a bucket of chocolate fudge had fallen on my upper body.

“Wash it in bleach. I’m sure it will come out. If it doesn’t, come back and we’ll reimburse you.”

You know what? I don’t think so. I’m not sure vanity is worth all this. What was I thinking? I’m going to take my fudge-stained body, charred chia pet hair and scalded scalp home and sulk. And maybe next time I think about getting my hair dyed, I’ll make a stop at the wig store.

*Christine Lavin from the Four Bitchin’ Babes Fax It! Charge It! Don't Ask Me What's For Dinner

Auld Lang Syne

2006-03-29T12:41:00.000-05:00

And here’s a hand my trusty friend and & gie’s a hand o’ thine,
We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet for auld lang syne

Time flies. I was going through an old photo album last night, and found pictures from old Halloween parties. I realized that this year marks my 20th Halloween party. Oh my god, talk about evolution! (And no, I was NOT gray then!) You can document changing popular culture just by looking at the pictures from the parties. The first one had maybe 10 people, and only a few were dressed up. I vaguely remember having dry ice on the floor and the cat and dog walking through the fog. Mainly, people sat on the couch and chatted. We were kids. Now we have kids. (Well, except for me…I have cats.) We sat and talked about things that were important to people getting ready to go out into the world, like what kind of car we wanted, what our dream job was, what kind of relationship we thought we would have, what our ideal mate was, etc. I think only two people who came were married at the time, and they had only been married a year or so. I don’t think I quite had down my ideal mate, but I think I’ve found it now. J I found it comforting that I am still in contact with most of the people who came, I guess that shows I keep my friends…or that everyone I know is co-dependent, however you choose to look at it.

Looking back, was I even close to guessing that I’d be where I am now? Uh, no. For clarity, I looked up in my journal. (Yes, I write and then squirrel things away, get over it.) I wanted to be “settled, married, have a job I reasonably like, and be published”. So far, I have achieved 1, 3, and 4. Three will have to wait for a trip to Canada. Did I know that I’d be writing a blog everyday? No, I didn’t even know what a blog was, and the internet was a boring tool used only by researchers, and my Apple II e didn’t have nearly enough memory to surf the ‘net that we now love dearly. (But I did love the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy Program, and King’s Quest games and they were all text based!) Anyway, a lot has changed, including me. Who knows where I’ll be in 20 more years? Chances are, a lot of you will still be in contact with me, and we’ll have grown because we endured more crap. But I know one thing, put this year’s party on your calendar; you won’t want to miss it!

* Try Bittersweet and Briers Live at the Indy Folk Series

Booth Shot Lincoln

2006-03-24T11:25:00.000-05:00

Poor Lincoln then was heard to say,
And all has gone to rest,
"Of all the actors in this town,
I loved Wilkes Booth the best."

I usually remember my dreams. I blame a psychology class that I took in college where we had to keep a dream journal. I discovered then that once you start writing your dreams down immediately in the morning, you start remembering more than one dream that you had over the night, but I digress. I generally have dreams that seem to be a little Jefferson Airplane-psychodelic funk inspired. (For those of you not old enough, look up the album Surrealistic Pillow) You know the kind of dream I'm talking about, where you’re flying over a building, or swimming through the air, or morphing into something else. Not last night. Last night it was a page from Quantum Leap.

The dream started with my partner and I walking into a dimly-lit theatre lobby. Why was it so dark, you ask? The lobby was lit with gaslights. I pointed that out in my dream. As we walked through the lobby, we passed dozens of other theatre-goers all dressed in their finery. We commented on their clothing as we walked. “Oh, she’s not wearing a corset”, “Hmmm. That Zouave jacket fits her well.” (I was apparently channeling my friend Ericka in the dream.) We also saw our friend Dan there with another mystery woman, and remarked about how well we liked his linen suit. We continued to meander through the crowd and found our seats in the balcony, first row. A stout man, looking suspiously like the singing snowman of animated Christmas-specials, entered the stage and began to make announcements. It is important to note that I did not at this time know what the play was.

The sharp-vested snowman, …er, emcee looked up at us and asked if we were ready for the play to start. We nodded slowly, and the curtain began to rise. At that time we were only about 12 feet above the stage. As the play began, I got a horrible cramp in my hip and decided to get up and stretch. I walked by the folks in the balcony and went inside a side-door that lead to a small closet. I was looking for a plastic cup, but all I could find were glass. “Oh yes, THEY DIDN’T HAVE PLASTIC BACK THEN”, I said to myself. I grabbed a glass tumbler and poured water from a pitcher that was sitting on a dry sink. (Note: Are you beginning to see a pattern here? Stay tuned.)

When I finished pouring the drink I turned around and a handsome young dark-haired man was walking toward me. He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt and black tie. In my dream, I thought if he had a smaller mustache, and straighter hair, he would look a little like Edgar Allan Poe. We chatted and he mentioned that his name was John and he and his brother Edwin were actors.I thought nothing of his remarks as I ended the small-talk and started back to my seat, when I saw that my partner was getting up to come find me.

In trying to get out, she disturbed the row, and a thin man with a beard, his stocky wife and another couple had to move. I recognized one of the men immediately. I said aloud, “Oh look, it’s Majorl Rathbone.” At this point, I was also beginning listen to the words of the play that was being performed. From here, the dream went into fast-forward. The movement of my partner had effected the entire row, and my talking had caused everyone to look back in my direction. What they saw was the man in black (not Johnny Cash, but rather the actor) pointing a gun at the thin man. Fortunately, the row disruption has caused him to miss, and I tripped him as he threw something over the edge and vaulted over the railing to the stage below. (Please note that at some point during this scene I clearly hear the phrase “you sockdologizing old man-trap”). As we all rush to the railing and look down, we see that the stage is now about three stories down, and the actor, John, is just landing on his feet. Interestly, he now has a pistol in one hand, and a knife in another, and begins fighting with a character on stage, vaguely reminiscint of Phantom of the Opera. I said “Wow, how did he do that? He landed on his feet.” My partner responded “Oh, it’s not real, he’s an actor”, and I woke up. Hmmm.

What does this tell us Sigmund? Perhaps that I had a fascination with Abe Lincoln as a child? I know way too much trivia? I spent too long living with someone who specializes in historic clothing? Dan likes linen and I think he is secretly dating someone? Or, do I desperately want to change history? You tell me.

* For an instrumental version try Malcolm Daglish & Grey Larsen's Thunderhead

Circles

2006-03-09T13:46:00.000-05:00

“All my life’s a circle, still I wonder why,
Season’s spinning ‘round again, years keep rolling by.”

I have recently begun to plan for the annual Halloween party, in which this year’s theme is Egypt. To get an idea for decorating, I picked up a few books on the subject. I am ashamed to admit that before this week, my total accumulation of knowledge on Egypt was a) when mummies attacked there was generally someone wearing a Fez nearby which caused an unnatural association between mummies and Shrine Club members and b) Cleopatra wore a lot of makeup, looked vaguely like Elizabeth Taylor, and committed suicide via snake. Five thousand years of rich history and all I have to show are the above “facts”, and a few good puns. (Think “pain in the asp”….) So I started on the task of acquiring more info.

After searching for more Egypt information, I came to the stark realization that I will never “know” as much as I want to. The world is so full of wonder for me that I find myself wandering from topic to topic trying to drink it all in. (For those of you familiar with the Family Circus comics, I AM Billy. I can not walk from point A to point B without being distracted by something at point C.) For every morsel I dig up about a civilization or event, there are a dozen more tangents that draw me in. For example, while reading a new book on Egypt, I learn that there was a short, bearded dwarf god that they called “Bes” (or was it “Keith”?). That caused me to think about other gods and what they might be, so I flipped to the section on deities, remembering that my friend Dom recently mentioned Guanyin, the Chinese goddess of mercy, in a blog. Under deities, I learned that there was a cat goddess, Bastet, and that often the Egyptians mummified cats and placed them with the entombed humans, using copious amounts of linen in the process. This made me think about a) Anna and b) Ericka and the textile ladies making linen shirts…I wonder if Ericka has ever mummified anything, since she happily dressed a rat, and did you know that linen is 20% stronger when it’s wet? Intrigued by the process, I had to flip to the section on mummification rituals. When reading about mummification, and the use of Natron, I learned that Egypt had a wonderful spice trade going on, so I flipped to the economic section, but while turning the page, I spied a recipe for hummus that was found in a tomb. Yum. That lead me to more information about ancient Egyptian food items like omelets and beer. Which made me think of my friend Dan, and the mummy we should have made for him. In thinking about mummies, I thought of Mummy Dearest, which made me think of coat hangers, and that reminded me to do laundry. I could go on, but I think you get the picture. There’s so much to learn, and so little time.

We’re going to need a bigger bookshelf.

*Circles, by Harry Chapin

Blowin' in the Wind

2006-03-08T12:55:00.000-05:00

“The answer my friend, is blowin’ in the wind.
The answer is blowing in the wind.”

These 10 questions originally came from a French series, "Bouillon de Culture" hosted by Bernard Pivot. They are probably more familiar to many as the questions James Lipton asks at the end of "Inside the Actor's Studio." Please feel free to add your own. I've added my response.

01. What is your favorite word? Schnookie

02.What is your least favorite word? Can’t

03. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally? Love

04. What turns you off? Cowardice

05. What is your favorite curse word? F_ _ _.

06. What sound or noise do you love? Purring of a cat

07. What sound or noise do you hate? Sound of cats performing personal hygiene.

08. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Writer.

09. What profession would you not like to do? Lobster claw rubber-band applier.

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? Have a seat. Anna will be here soon.

How about you?

Does Your Spearmint Lose It's Flavor on the Bedpost Overnight?

2006-03-07T16:30:00.000-05:00

“Oh me, oh my, oh you; I don't know what to do.
Hallelujah, the question is peculiar.
It's got me on the go,I'd give a lot of dough.
If someone here would tell me is it yes or is it no”

In my youth, just a few seasons ago, there were several “riddles” that people told and you proceeded to ask them yes or no questions to ascertain enough information to venture a guess. As a rule, most people gave up soon, and just demanded to know the answer. I came across a few of those puzzlers that I, for some reason, decided to keep all these years.

An example:
“A man lies dead in the middle of the desert, with a pack on his back. How did he die?”

You ask: Did he die from thirst?

I say:NO.

You ask: Did he die from rattlesnake bite?

I say:NO.

You ask: Was he alone?

I say: “Not relevant”

You ask: Is he fully clothed? (You’re weird.)

I say: Yes.

You ask: Did he die from heat exhaustion?

I say:NO.

I say: Give up yet?

You pommel me with organic fruit and demand an answer.

Answer: He was jumping out of a plane and his parachute failed to open.

You pummel me with more fruit.

Today’s puzzler: A man on his way home takes 3 left turns and is greeted by 2 men in masks. Who are these 2 men?

*Try the Irish Rovers for answers to this and other musical questions like “Donald, Where's Your Trousers?”

Lean on Me

2006-03-01T10:45:00.000-05:00

“Sometime in our lives
We all have pain, we all have sorrow
But if we are wise
We know there’s always tomorrow” –Bill Withers

Watching the news I’m apt to forget that there is kindness in the world. In our haste to achieve instant gratification with all of our techno-gadgetry we’ve forgotten the human element, but surely it’s just buried somewhere a little deeper than it used to be.

Last weekend while coming back from dinner, we spied a “little old lady” walking briskly down the street by herself and trying to flag a cab. (There aren’t that many cabs in Columbus, she could be there 'til Bush is out of the presidency.) She clutched her purse tightly, and appeared to stumble occasionally, so we decided to go around the block and see if she was okay. When we stopped to ask her if she was all right, she initially looked terrified, then quickly realized that we were not the serial killer types. (We don’t, as a rule, wear tinted eyeglasses circa 1971. Look for yourself, it’s true.) She agreed to let us take her where she needed to go, and although she smelled of alcohol, she seemed really nicely dressed with matching shoes and purse and really rather non-threatening, so don’t lecture me about picking up strangers. (My rule of thumb, is only well accessorized hitch hikers over the age of 70, or weak and frail…sort of how a lion picks out gazelles.)

Anyway, long story short, we took her to where she needed to go, and she threw a $20 bill at us, after we had declined payment.* She said as she was getting out of the car, “You saved my life tonight, they’re aren’t many nice people left.” I’ve been thinking about what she said for days. Was it really that inconceivable that someone would help a perfect stranger? This is where you come in.

Please share with me stories of where you, a friend or family member have been helped by someone you didn’t know, or where you or a friend were the “hero”, helping a stranger in distress. No need to be humble. Prove to me the lady was wrong, that there ARE people who will do the RIGHT thing, even if it’s not the easy way. You’re restore my faith in humanity.

Immediately at the end of the blog, you’ll see the word “comments” in italics. Click on it, and tell me your story.

*We took the $20 and bought donuts for our respective staffs. It seemed like the right thing to do.

Green Latrine

2006-02-27T10:44:00.000-05:00

“It's painted drab, a rustic green. That's why its called … the Green Latrine”*

The Beatles imply that “she came in through the bathroom window”. Liars. Why would any woman risk falling head first into the unclean abyss when she would only need the protection of footwear to enter through the door? Women like to avoid potential life-threatening head injuries from ceramics, and disgusting toxic splatter whenever possible.

I, for one, hate public bathrooms. There, I said it. I do. They generally smell of decaying human products, they put you at great risk for being short-sheeted, and worst of all, as the name implies, they are PUBLIC. Doors fail to latch, or have no locking mechanisms at all, causing one to employ the stretch-and-hold-as-you-pee approach. Such body bending maneuvers during tender moments can’t be colon-healthy.

My worst nightmares come in the shape of public bathrooms full of small, ill-behaved children with a curious streak. Once, while minding my “business” at a local Pizza Hut restaurant bathroom, I heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet arrive in the bathroom. The entourage, consisting of 2 small boys and the mother entered the stall adjacent to mine. I heard the mother say in a stern voice, “Porter, stand up. People don’t like you to look at them when they’re going potty.” As cued, little Porter ducked under the wall, entered my stall, stood up and said,

“Whatcha doin’?”

I screamed, as only a girl can do. I restrained the impulse to kick at the urchin lest I draw a felony assault charge while squatting. It would no doubt draw curious onlookers to the scene, and I was feeling quite vunerable. I put on my best camp counselor voice and said, “This is my stall; you need to go next door.”

“Why?”

I resisted the urge to reply, “BECAUSE IF YOU DON’T, I SHALL RIP OFF YOUR ARM THAT IS CURRENTLY UNTIEING MY SHOELACES AND BEAT YOU WITH THE BLOODY STUMP.” But I didn’t have to. Intrigued by his brother’s conversation, Urchin 2 apparently swerved at an inappropriate moment with regard to bodily functions, causing undue peril in his stall. There was a silence, and then I heard,

“Mama, I made the wall ugly.”

I had never been happier to be childless, unless you count the day when my nephews asked me,

“Do we have to wear underwear today?”

Porter disappeared under the wall, and I hear, “Preston look at what you’re doing. We’re going to have the clean the wall up now. LOOK AT WHAT YOU’RE DOING! We’re going to have to find someone to give us a sponge.” Darn. This was my not my day to equip my bat belt with sponges. In fact, I wondered how many people usually carried spare sponges with them on a daily basis. Forgetting the sponge enigma I hurried as best I could to escape the impending flood. As I exited, both Porter and Preston were engaged in plying paper towels to the floor, to each other, and into the toilet. Eeeuuuuwww. They were dipping their paper towels in the toilet, and then “cleaning” the walls with them, as their mother searched frantically in her purse for wipes. Her purse was clearly much smaller than would necessary to accommodate all the wipes she needed. I thought how thankful I was that I was not currently employed in the janitorial industry, and I stepped away from the sink to throw away my paper towel, when one of the little urchins asked

“Do we have to wash our hands?”

For the love of all that is holy, I hope they did, but I didn’t stay to find out. I have a weak constitution. I’ve also renewed my vow not to have children. It also fosters my hatred of public bathrooms, and my quest to point them out.

One of the most poorly designed public bathrooms in the Midwest is the women’s facility in the building where I work. (Having only entered a men’s room once at the Astro Dome in Houston, I have little experience or basis for comparison.) There is an entrance door, which leads to a small antechamber and another door that leads into the stalls. The problem is that a) the antechamber is approximately the dimension of a human body and b) both door swing in to the center. In addition to the total inability of anyone with a physical disability to use this facility, this creates a potentually perilous situation if you happen to be in the antechamber when people are coming a) out of the bathroom or b) into the bathroom. If you would like a demonstration of how a mammogram feels, stand in the antechamber while both doors are being opened. If you are on crutches, or have mobility problems, avoid liquids the day before your visit.

The worst part may have to be the Lilliputian dimensions of the room, which add up to nearly three square feet. Should you get through the gauntlet of the doors, you’ll find yourself in a room somewhat smaller than a portable toilet, and not nearly the charm. This room contains 3 stalls, 2 sinks, a baby changing station (no doubt so that you can change your baby into something more practical), and a prehistoric tampon/pad machine. It doesn’t take coins; you insert wampum beads to get out a product. You also need to be familiar with feminine hygiene products of the 1940’s, and have an appreciation for index cards, which are a suitable alternative for the chafe-inducing excuse for toilet paper. It could be worse, you could be at the fair.

Bathrooms far worse than the Ohio facilities may be found at the Indiana State Fairgrounds. (Specifically the ones near the Pioneer Barn…oh the irony.) They were designed and constructed in pre-world war II Indiana, no doubt by blind pygmies without any regard for person hygiene or comfort. Perhaps it’s the proximity to the animal barns, but the first thing to hit you is the welcoming “Oh-My-God-What-IS-That-Smell?” Should you be able to soldier through the olfactory sensations, you walk through aisle after aisle of kelly green doors, trying to choose wisely. It doesn’t matter. There are no Monty Hall prizes behind THESE doors. Instead you have short, plywood doors with no latches, and rather obscure spring mechanisms that cause the door to snap back with all the grace and power of rusty bear traps. Once you make your way into the cubicle, judging your clearance carefully into the stall lest you be whapped in the haunches with spring-loaded, splinter-bearing plywood, and you begin your descent toward the sticky primal ooze that is the floor. You then notice that the floor seems to be the origin of the nostril-burning stench that welcomed you.

As you continue to ponder the genetic and/or chemical makeup of the ooze you begin to stare at your surroundings and have a conversation with yourself. The clarity comes quite quickly. “Self, I these doors are mighty short. I wonder if people can see…Oh look, there’s a woman I know from work…OH MY GOD!” There are really few things more disturbing in life than making eye contact with people you know while you’re relieving yourself. Actually, making eye contact with ANYONE during this time is a little unnerving.

Only more irritating might be the lacerations you receive on your right hand as you try to tear off the sheets of “toilet paper” from the torture device placed at an inconceivably bad angle for humans who don’t have prehensile tails or Stretch Armstrong-like features. Ripping the paper with any sort of force creates momentum that propels your hand into razor-sharp teeth, puzzling in that the one-ply sheets need only the grasp of the human hand to separate from each other. It takes 10-15 attempts to prepare enough “paper” to adequately use. The blood-soaked, paper-towel covered right hand is a Red Badge of Courage for anyone brave (desperate) enough to visit.

You leave the facility with watering eyes, burning nostrils, sticky shoes and a mangled right hand. It could only be worse if someone walked in on you while you’re standing in a porta-potty, dressed in 18th century clothing, inserting a tampon. Not that I would know. But, I know that the Beatles were wrong. She SO wouldn’t have come in the bathroom window.

* camp song

Hard Lovin' Loser

2006-02-21T09:37:00.000-05:00

“He's got them taking off their heels, and they like the way he feels
And they call him a carnival clown.” *

Ah, the Olympics! I, like many patriotic others, have abandoned my local cable fare for a few days of Olympic glory. I’ve forsaken my design shows, abandoned my BBC, and applied my full attention to “Torino”. I even *gasp* watched an entire hour of curling. I don’t understand it anymore than I did before, but I watched it. Granted, I am not one for figure skating, or ice dancing or any of vast myriad of “pretty” sports. I like a good competition with some action and edginess thrown in, and certainly not an activity where subjectivity and sequins reign. If I wanted that kind of drama, I’d watch Project Runway with a chaser of Dancing with the Stars. I applaud the Olympic committee for embracing the “misfit” sport of snowboarding. This is the only marginally dangerous sport I would indulge in my advanced age. If not for the looming potential orthopedic reconstruction fees, I’d be out on the slopes in snowboardcross. Who knows, I could be the Anne “Grandma Luge” Abernathy of the snow boarding set. We’ll now overlook that Columbus, Ohio really doesn’t have anything that could be defined as “slopes”.

But realistically, I don’t have the discipline or desire to commit myself to the routine of the Olympic athlete. I don’t like the structure of the weekly trash take-out, so I could never live with the 2 or 3 a day workouts. Besides, I have a Master Card, not a Visa, so the commercials would pose a moral problem for me. I'll have to be content to watch at home. Enter Bode Miller. For the one or two of you rock-dwellers who don’t know who he is, check your local newspaper or Sports Illustrated web site. He’s a brilliantly talented skier with one really bad attitude. Even if you overlook his 60 Minutes interview about “skiing while wasted”, you get a sense that he just doesn’t care.

I really wanted to like him. I’ve been known to be a maverick (though unlike my friend Ericka, I never actually sported purple hair…I just supported those who did). I would stand in support of any athlete who condemns conformity on the sake of principle and practices their right to individuality. Except for the Olympics. The US sends a TEAM to Turin. You’re sent there to represent the country, not your own individual values. Before you stone me for not crying that he IS being American because he refuses to conform, hear me out. He has said to the press things like “and as an athlete you can't underestimate the importance of proper rest and nutrition. Those are 50 times more important than any training you do.” Yet, the night before his big run he’s out partying and drinking ‘til midnight. You don’t have to be an Olympic judge to deem that as the antithesis of “proper rest and nutrition”. It is not our standards he is not conforming to, it is his own.

He has blamed the fans and media for applying too much pressure to win on his “pure sport”.
Note to Bode: Those fans and media writers have made you a millionaire. If you don’t want the pressure, I’m sure the sponsors would like their money back. I don’t hear other Olympic athletes complaining, and I’m sure there are countries that would love to have a trailer of skis available and a staff to wax them. Try skiing your “pure sport” without all the support you’ve had until now.

You mentioned to an Italian newspaper asking about your trouble on the slopes, “As soon as you start having millions of dollars, you literally don’t any longer have money as a motivating force, unless you just simply try to continue to acquire more and more of it.” There’s always a worthy charity if you find financial security to be so cumbersome. I don’t pity you Bode, and remember when I mentioned that I don’t have the discipline to become an Olympic athlete? Apparently you don’t either. We want our Olympians to be heroes, and you’re no hero. You’re just like us, undisciplined, immature and too cowardly to handle pressure without a beer in our hand. We’re back in America watching the Olympics, which is where you should be. Leave the competition for the heroes, and join us in the bars. You’ll be more comfortable there.

*Try Judy Collins on the album In My Life

2006-02-16T09:29:00.000-05:00

“Their Brains Were Small and They Died”

I was engaged in the waiting game at the local optometry hut standing patiently just in front of the counter. The busy clerk who was scheduling some other poor sap for the “blow your eye out with a dart gun” test made eye contact and said “be right with you hon.” Why women over a certain age feel the right to call ANYONE hon, I don’t know, but I felt certain that my waiting would soon be over. Enter Mr. Enormous Ego. He invades my personal space at the counter, causing me to naturally edge away from the coveted primary consumer spot I was occupying. Another counter woman, who we shall call “bimbo”, was just returning from escorting another victim to the dart gun test, and Mr. Enormous Ego displayed marvelous athleticism by pivoting around me and demanded to be helped. Despite my objections, Bimbo helped HIM, delivering a circa 1970’s pair of serial killer metal framed glasses and completely ignored the “first come first served” rule. (In addition to his lack of social skills, the fashion police had an APB out on him as well.) Bimbos cannot, apparently, hear the vocal manifestations of the same sex when Alpha Males appear. I believe this was recently the focus of a National Geographic special.
The testosterone bearer was clearly impervious to the death rays that I was shooting into his occipital region of his brain as he walked off with the counter bimbo. Sunken by defeat, I had my tests done, paid the enormous sum of money for small pieces of Saran Wrap to be placed in my eye, and returned to my car, wishing at some point in my life to be able to realize the Kathy Bates mantra “I’m older and have more insurance”. I was older, probably have more insurance, but still lost out to youth.
I started my car, on my way to console myself with a cold fountain cola beverage, when a car coming the wrong direction down the aisle zipped out and ran the opposing stop sign. I generally detest honking since it rarely serves a good purpose. I don’t believe that there has been a recorded instance of “Gosh, I really glad I used my horn.” More often than not, what the horn is saying is “F_ _ _ Off!”. (I personally believe that this popular phrase should have been added to the School House Rock! “ Interjections!” song, as I believe it is the most frequently uttered exclamation.) Despite those personal feeling of anxiety toward public honking, I hit the horn. Not an “excuse me, sir, you appear to have forgotten protocol” type of honk, or a “Mr. Smith’s friendly toot” but rather a “YOU F_ _ _ING BUTTERBALL, I HOPE GOD REACHES DOWN AND YANKS YOU UP BY YOUR BALLS!” type of honk. Then, and only then did I glance over at the driver, who was “saluting” me. There before me screaming silently at me was Mr. Enormous Ego. I was flipping through the Rolodex of vicious retributions to inflict upon him when I took a close look at his car. A “vintage” Honda Civic held together by duct tape, 3 mil plastic, and a few random coat hangers. Through the smoke-filled interior I could see the broken driver’s side window. There in the parking lot of the local Mega Mall, I smiled. More of a vindictive smirk really, but CLOSE to a smile. Mr. Enormous Ego had gotten the bimbo counter help first, gotten out of the parking lot first, but I have a nice job, a nice car, a wonderful, smoke-free life shared by someone who loves me deeply. The driver of the other car clearly has no support system, nor in my opinion did he deserve one. He may have won the battle, but I clearly won the war. May they bury his tobacco filled body next to the Bimbo.