Be the person your Mom thinks you are...

This is a letter my Mom wrote to Chris' grandmother on finding out that we weren't just "roommates."

September 19, 2007

Dear Ruth and Connie,

Ruth, I am sorry that I had to cut our conversation short on Friday. I had that early morning appointment with my doctor. My thyroid was “out of whack” and he had upped my medication to adjust it. He said it was working OK and just stay on the same dosage of synthyroid.

I hope your inner ear trouble is not bothering you too much this week. Gail Moss, who used to live next door to me, had the same trouble. I saw how she suffered with it. Anyway, I hope you are feeling better and are able to enjoy this beautiful week of fall-ish weather. I certainly have enjoyed it. I am trying to catch up with yard work (if there is such a thing). It was just too hot back in August to work much outside.

I have found the catalogue that I told you about and am enclosing it. I marked the page the dog beds started on with a paper clip. There are so many things in those catalogues that I would like to have, but you can get carried away when it comes to buying things for your pets, can’t you? It is like buying for your kids, I think.

I had been intending to write to you since Jennifer told me that you were aware of her and Chris’s relationship. Jennifer called me that night that you all spoke to each other. She and Chris were both relieved and happy about it. I always told Chris that I believed you knew about it. It does make it so much more comfortable for the whole family to know, so you can relax and not have to watch every word you say, afraid you will say the wrong thing.

Connie and I have talked before about it and how we dealt with it. For me, as you probably know, our oldest daughter, Diana is in a relationship with a girl. I should say, woman, as they are grown women. Diana and Shelly have been together for almost ten years now. Shelly is a wonderful young woman. She is a great teacher of the eighth grade over in GA. We love her as one of our own , as we do Chris.

I would have liked for their lives to have been easier, but I accept their choices. I feel they are born into this life the way they are. I don’t believe it is a choice they have. I love all of my children and just want them to be happy. I couldn’t be prouder of our little family. They are all good human beings and bring a lot of love and happiness to us.

I would have liked to have had more grandchildren, as Connie told me that was one of the things she felt the loss of. We have one grandson, Alex. He is the light in our lives. But, I don’t dwell on what I don’t have, and feel grateful for what I do.

I had told Connie what a wonderful young person Chris is. I will tell you that she is so sweet and we love her very much. She is so talented and smart. We are so proud of her in all she has accomplished. You have a special young lady in her as your daughter and granddaughter. Gordon and I marvel at what they have been able to accomplish with buying their home and making such good decisions in all of their business matters. They are two very grounded young people.

I hope you will consider us part of your extended family and will call on us if you need us. We are here for you all if you need us for anything.

I love your place over there and hope to come and see you all again. Maybe one weekend when Jen and Chris are over there, we can drop by. You all take care.

Love,
Roselie

And before you ask, yes, I do know how lucky I am.

one week from tomorrow...

Season Premiere of Grey's Anatomy!! Woot!

What about your friends...

1 Hot Dog, 1 Slice of Cheese Pizza, 1 Pack of Scalding Hot Boiled Peanuts, 1 Pack of Cracker Jack, 1 Coke, and 2 Beers: $315.97

A night at the ballpark making inappropriate "nut" jokes, screaming at 18-year old girls for t-shirts we had no chance of getting, making fun of barbie doll twins, rooting on the drill, hoping for once they put the kiss-cam on a lesbian couple, explaining to B the phenonmenon of K-mart feet, wincing as CJ does her pterodactyl call, and singing The Brady Bunch theme song in the worst neighborhood in Atlanta with three of my favorite people on the planet: priceless.

The Bux

That's my nickname for Starbucks. The depth of my trendiness is endless. If you remember, I blogged a couple of weeks ago about how I was all intimidated about ordering at Starbucks. See, I was using fast food ordering as my template....size, drink of choice, and extras. As examples:

• large coke with extra ice


• medium orange drink with no ice


• small sweet tea with lemon

As an aside, I don't understand why anyone would order that orange drink that's been recycling in that aqarium-type contraption since 1978, but I'm not one to judge.

Back to my point, Starbucks doesn't follow this standard way of ordering and I found myself feeling all self-conscious when ready to order my favorite beverage. Chris even brought me a pamphlet from Starbucks instructing patrons on how to order. Well, I studied this carefully and practiced over and over again while behind the lead car in the drive-thru. Then the chocolate brown Lexus pulled away and I advanced. My palms got all sweaty and my mouth dried slightly as the speaker crackled to life:

It's a great day at Starbucks, what can I start for you this morning?

For a split second, I panicked. I had the urge to bolt, but that would have involved rolling over the aforementioned Lexus, Bigfoot-style. Certainly an option, but not necessarily practical. Then I took a deep breath, centered myself, closed my eyes and out it came:

Iced tall nonfat mocha

Confetti fell from the sky, trumpets bleated, and the Starbucks baristas hoisted me on their shoulders in an impromtu celebration of my accomplishment. And I can say with all honesty, it was the best damn iced tall nonfat mocha I've ever had.

It really is the simple things in life, people.

It's the little things, really...

SANDY SPRINGS, Ga. -- The discovery of several suspicious items Friday morning forced the evacuation of a post office in Sandy Springs. Police also shut down part of Glenridge Drive while they checked out the items. A visitor to the post office found 10 to 15 mason jars filled with an unknown, brown liquid, a picture of President Bush, a homeland security pamphlet and a stuffed Santa Claus doll. The Cobb County Bomb Squard was called in. They used a robot to remove the doll from the scene. Police said they do not believe the doll is a threat. Officers are now checking out the jars of liquid to see if they are dangerous. The area is still shut down while the investigation continues.

God help me, but this cracks me up. The image alone of poor Santa in the grasps of that bomb-sniffing robot...it's comedy gold, people, and it's what I live for.

Pep Talk

I will swim today.
I will swim today.
I will swim today.

Who cares if I look like an alien in my swim cap and goggles?
Who cares if I have to sit in the hot tub with large, often hairy, men while waiting on a lane to open up?



Who cares that I can really only make it 3/4 of the way across the pool before collapsing with exhaustion?

Who cares that I'm the only one wearing orange floaties on my arms? (Not really, silly people!)

Right?

I will swim today.
I will swim today.
I will swim today.

80's

Heaven Help Me

This was my jam back in the day! It's Deon Estus, who was bassist for Wham! and later George Michael (who I LOVED when I was a teenager. I'm talking about posters on the wall, people!) In fact, that's George singing background. Deon decided to put out a solo record and unless I am mistaken, this was it's one hit. I remember I recorded this song off of the radio (WZYP in Huntsville, AL). They introduced it as a new George Michael song. I'm sure Deon would have loved that.

Sing it with me...

Heaven help me talk to strangers
Heaven help me over you
I can seem to take these changes
Everything reminds my heart of you

I also love the fact that this video is from Night Tracks. Do you remember that show?? I think it was on TBS on Friday nights. Yep, here 'tis: Night Tracks. I freaking love the internet. Night Tracks is not to be confused with Friday Night Videos which was on ABC. MTV put them both out of business.

Oh, hold the damn phone people.

How Can I Fall

Breathe, 1988. Need I say more?

This video is total late 80's. Ah, another summer day in the city. Some kind of block festival. Stick ball. Girl in hat with puppy (let's call her Susan) flirts with cute stick-ball batter (Rick). Big-haired friend of girl (Gina) is with jerk stick-ball pitcher (Vinnie...who looks strangely like Scott Stapp from Creed). Vinnie gets mad because Rick gets a home run off of one of his pitches. But really Vinnie, you throw like a girl. Vinnie takes his attitude out on Gina, who tries to slap him. Vinnie has had it! He turns over a nearby table and storms off! Of course the block party gets rained out. But Susan and Rick don't care. They dance in the rain. Meanwhile, Vinnie and Gina pout separately. Moral of the story: It's just stickball, for chrissakes.

Check out the lead singer's (Gayer McHomosexual) tight Levi's pulled up to his navel and that tapestry vest! I think I had that very outfit.

No boxes for you!

So, I've been surronded by laptops all week. Blue screens of death, overrheating, bad hard drives...you name it, I've seen it. Yesterday, I was working on 4 laptops at once. I had them spread out all over my office and I kept bouncing back and forth, updating, installing, drop kicking. You know, the usual stuff.

Important point: these laptops were sent to me by employees that work either out of their homes or other branches. So, for each laptop there was a box that each laptop was sent to me in. These aren't any old boxes. They are specially outfitted with preformed styrofoam packaging that protects each precious machine. And I had 4 of them neatly stacked in front of my desk. So, I walk in this morning and noticed that my office looked really neat. Peculiarly so. And I recall yesterday afternoon thinking, "The first thing I'm going to do in the morning is clean this place up!" Then it hit me...my garbage can is empty...housekeeping came! Wait, where are my laptop boxes? That mother-effer threw them away!!! How can you throw away someone's laptop boxes!!! They weren't near the garbage can!!! You don't throw away anything unless it's in or near the garbage can. And if it's near the garbage can, don't throw it away unless it has 'GARBAGE' written on it. Now, I'm going to have to go to Office Depot and buy boxes and bubble wrap so that I can send these back out again!

Why me?

Starbucks..Emphasis on the 'bucks"

$4 for a Grande Iced Mocha? Highway robbery!

And why is it that they make you feel stupid when you order something? I always say:

1 grande iced mocha with whipped cream

And they repeat it back to me, but never in the same order. I've tried to figure it out and order it correctly the next time, but they always just snicker and repeat it back to me a different way. It's like their speaking in snobby highly caffeinated tongues. They say something crazy like:

Mocha grande 1 iced whip!

They don't even say "whipped cream"...it's whip. They are too cool to fully pronounce words.

Bastards.

But I'm halfway through this grande iced mocha (no whip!), and I'm feeling the love. These things should be illegal 'cause I feel like could take on the world right now. Who am I kidding, give me 15 minutes, and I'll crash and be curled up in a fetal position on my desk.

It's A Hurricane...ooh Flossie Flossie

Hurricane Flossie skirted just south of Hawaii last night. This is only blog worthy to me because of the name...Flossie. Everytime I hear it, I think of that Fergie song, Glamorous. No, not the one where she's comparing her lover to her binky, the one that goes like this:

We flyin' first class
Up in the sky
Poppin' champagne
Livin' my life
In the fast lane
But I won't change
For the glamorous
Ooh, the flossy flossy

For those of your who are urban-slang challenged, flossy means flashy or showy. So, you can see where I make the connection. What can we expect next? Tropical Storm FoShizzleMyNizzle? Typhoon BlingBling?

fast food rant

If you know anything about me and my love for the efficiency of fast food...separate orders are a cardinal sin. I effing hate separate orders!!!! If you and your office mates decide to send someone out for McDonald's, total your order, and divide that shit, people. Unless Tammy, the receptionist with the eating disorder, goes crazy with the 2 apple pies for $1, and gets 14, you're not going to be out a whole lot of cash. And if there is just no way around it and separate orders are a must (as in my case), take that shit inside. DO NOT DO SEPARATE ORDERS AT THE DRIVE THRU!! The drive thru is for, "I'll have a #1 with a coke." Period. Next! And no elaborate special orders in the drive thru either. I can handle no pickles. But people get crazy.

Moron: I want a #1 except I don't want onion, tomato, cheese, or meat. Wait, I do want meat but I want the quarter pound patty, not the regular patty. And I don't want salt on my fries. And I want that value-sized, but not the drink. I want a small drink. Orange drink with no ice.

Guess what, sister? YOU DON'T WANT A #1. WHAT YOU ORDERED SHOWS NO RESEMBLANCE TO A #1. YOU JUST INVENTED A NEW COMBO FOR CRACK HEADS...AND TAKE THAT SHIT INSIDE!

And I understand that our fast food workers (God Bless 'em) are not always 100% accurate. I understand the need to check an order. But for the love of all things holy in this great land of ours, keep your self parked and check your order so that if something is missing, you can address the issue promptly. They will probably have you pull around to the front. It's easy! DO NOT PULL HALFWAY OUT OF THE DRIVE THRU LANE TO DISCOVER THAT THEY FORGOT YOUR EXTRA TARTAR SAUCE AND THEN YELL, 'HEY, YOU FORGOT MY TARTAR SAUCE!' I AM ON MY LUNCHBREAK, AND I DRIVE A JEEP GRAND CHEROKEE! THIS THING COULD DIE ANY MINUTE! YOU ARE HINDERING ME FROM GETTING MY LUNCH IN A TIMELY MANNER! TAKE THAT SHIT INSIDE!

I'm so not lovin' it.

1 Degree of Separation

I'm surrounded by the famous folk. Here's the skinny:

They are filming a movie across the street from our house. Making good use of that abandoned gas station by turning it into a redneck-y liquor store. I'm sure our property value with skyrocket when this gem comes out! Sarcasm aside, this movie stars:

Leann Rimes! And can I just say, "Dayyyuuuuuuummmm, Leann grew up!" But wait, there's more. Also starring in this blockbuster:

Dylan...err, I mean Luke Perry! Bitch please, don't act like you didn't watch 90210.

And if the movie stars right outside my house aren't enough, last night at a local Decatur coffee shop, Chris and I spotted none other than:

Chuck Roberts from CNN Headline News! Ok, so I guess you kind of have to a news geek to know who he is. I kept staring at him knowing he was "somebody." He was on his laptop surely working on a breaking news story. Probably on my final famous connection:

The Avondale Estates python! I know what you're thinking, but it's only a matter of time before that snake its popping it's head out of my toilet.

Snakes & Gas Grills

Yeah, I know it's been awhile, but hey...the magic comes when the magic comes, people. And oh, did the magic come this weekend.

Backyard Fun or the Hand of the Devil? You decide!

So first, I almost killed my girlfriend with a gas grill. We were grilling out Sunday night making one of Rachael Ray's 30 minute meals from Episode 1501 titled Sounds Appetizing. The night before, the grill got wet, so when I went to fire it up Sunday, it was a no go. I tried to light it several times with the igniter button...nothing. I kept turning the gas off so that it wouldn't build up, when out walks Chris.

Chris: What's going on?

Me: I can't get the grill to light.

Chris: I'll be right back.

She comes back with a book of matches. Let me just say...gas scares me. I don't like it. Yes, it's more convenient that charcoal, but I don't like it. We have a gas stove in our house. Again, I don't like it. So, I said, "you need to use this little wand thingy." It's a metal rod attached to the grill that you can put the match on so that you are standing AT A DISTANCE when you put the lit flame near the flammable gas. Either she didn't hear me or didn't care. Because I turned on the gas, she lit a match, and I begin to form the thought...this isn't such a good idea...when WOOOOOOOOOOOF! Fireball engulfs Chris. I turn away, then collect myself and run up to her repeating the frantic, "Are you ok, Are you ok?" only to see the hair from her arm, eyelashes, and top of her head have been singed. We're not talking Michael Jackson Pepsi commercial circa 1984, but it was scary nonetheless. I blame myself because I know better than to do that! Anxiety breeds extreme safety, people. To avoid such tragedies in the future, I am currently looking on Ebay to find a fire-proof suit for our next stint at outdoor grilling.

Second, as I type this, there is a 75-80% chance that there's a 7 foot python hanging out in our crawl space. And I'm sure he isn't this cute...

Last night I was watching the evening news, when they teased a story about a 7 foot boa constrictor spotted in a local Atlanta neighborhood. Ha ha, I thought, sucks to be you! So, I stick around to hear the rest of the story. The polished news lady says, "There is a 7 foot boa constrictor on the loose in Avondale Estates." My ears perk because Avondale Estates is not that far from us. So apparently, the snake is approximately 7 feet long and as big around as a thigh...not a chicken thigh, but like a burly man thigh. They were interviewing kids asking what they would do if they saw this snake. Most said they would run and scream, but you gotta love the one boy who said he would smack it in the head with a shovel. I joked with Chris that I thought we were okay unless the snake found it's way to Memorial and hung a right. Ha Ha...look at me, I'm witty. Well, today, I started thinking about Mr. Boa Constrictor, so I went to ajc.com and started reading:

Avondale's breakaway boa constrictor might not be a boa after all. The sneaky snake, spotted in the DeKalb County town last week, is more likely to be a Burmese python, one expert says.

Comforting, really.

[Mr. Python] was seen in a wooded area off Dartmouth Road near Forrest Hills Elementary School. Three workers searched a several acre-sized area for about three hours Friday, but turned up nothing.

Wait, did that say Forrest Hills Elementary? We live in Forrest Hills. I did a frantic google map search, and Forrest Hills Elementary is a whopping .8 miles from our house. Some reverse directions reveal that all Mr. Python would have to do is head south on Forrest Blvd. for 121 ft, Turn Right and proceed on N. Carter Road for .7 miles, and make another right onto Columbia Drive for .1 miles before arriving at his destination AKA our house. And if he takes MARTA, we're screwed.

Ramble

It's 10:39 a.m. on a Monday morning, and I'm high. It's not what you think, people. I'm no druggie. I'm high because I took a Xanax last night to ensure that I got a good night's sleep, and it kicked my ass. It all stems from the fact that my doctor wrote the prescription wrong. Instead of .05 mg, I got .5 mg. For those of you that are decimally challenged: .5 is bigger than .05. So, I popped this magic pill around 10:30 p.m. The last thing I remember was lying on Chris' shoulder watching her do a word search puzzle. I'm searching for Kissimmee (the theme was cities that begin with K). And can I just say that there should be a law agains words being both diagonal and backwards. That makes my head hurt, mmkay? The next thing I know it's 3 a.m., and I'm waking up from a nightmare involving lost shoes, a car chase, and bitch slapping someone's mama. Not that the dream is all that strange for me. My dreams are weird, drugs or no drugs. Oh, you would like to hear the details? Certainly!

It all starts with my friends B & C. Although, B is not B, she's one of my friends from high school, Lara. (People from high school regularly make appearances in my dreams.) So, really it's Lara and C. C really is C, by the way. So, it starts out with C and I going to B's (but really Lara's) parents house. For some reason, my shoes are there, and I need to get them. It was as if I spent the night there and left my shoes. So, I go in the house and I can't find my shoes. I'm asking her parents where they are, but they aren't helpful at all. The Dad finally says, "We hid them because you're a Republican." So, I tell C, "Let's get out of here." We get in C's car which is an old convertible something. We start backing out of the driveway, and the Dad comes out of the house and starts yelling at us not to come back. I turn around and yell, "Fuck off, you SOB!" Then, the Mom and Dad jump in a green truck and start chasing us. I tell C, "Step on it!" She starts giggling nervously and hits the gas which takes us up to a whopping 25 mph. I pull out my cell phone and try to dial 911, but the call won't go through. (This is another recurring theme in my dreams...problems dialing phones in emergency situations). I keep telling C that she needs to go faster, but that's as fast as it gets. We decide to ditch the convertible and try to escape on foot. All of a sudden we're at the top of a mountain looking down on the valley below, and I say, "Look, there's Taco Mac...we're getting close." About that time we run into a ballroom type place, and as I'm about to make my way out the back door, the Mom grabs me and says something that I can't hear or can't understand. I say, "I just want my shoes!" and I haul off and bitch slap her right in the face. Then I wake up.

So, I'm lying there trying to figure out what the hell dream means, and I think I hear a noise. Any time I hear a noise in the middle of the night, I do an animal check. If all the animals are in the room, then I investigate further. If Jack is missing, I assume that he's getting into something, and I fall back asleep. Chris always tries to convince me that any noise I hear is the refrigerator. Car horn, siren, glass breaking...it's the refirgerator. Anyhow, I do an animal check, and all the animals are in the room fast asleep. I decide to get up and investigate. I usually grab a baseball bat that I keep by me bed, but I am too out of it to prepare. I am literally drunk at this point, so I am stumbling around the house trying to be quiet so as to not wake Chris up or let the would-be burgular know that I'm on to him. A room by room search reveals no burgular, but I do stand at the front door trying to figure out who the extra car across the street belongs to. It's a gay boy couple who we have never talked to. We used to see them both alot, but then slowly we only started seeing the one. We assumed that they broke up, because we stopped seeing the silver sedan in the driveway. But then we noticed that the silver sedan was pulled around in back. AHA, we thought. Did the other guy kill him? Then this green truck (OMG...green truck, like from my dream!!) starts showing up on a pretty regular basis, but never parks in the driveway always on the street. Here's what I think, I think the silver sedan gay boy is sick and his partner is taking care of him, but he needs a little something something, so that's where green truck boy comes in, but he feels so guilty carrying on this illicit affair that he refuses to park in the driveway. So, I'm standing at the door last night trying to figure out who the marroon sedan is parked behind the green truck on the street and how that fits into my story. I decide that the gay boy is kinky and is having a threesome with green truck and maroon sedan while poor silver sedan lies in a hospital bed in the den watching QVC. Bastard.

By this time, I'm kind of awake so I turn on the TV and watch Modern Marvels: Welding on the History Channel. I get half way through and pass out again.

So, here I am having sucked down 3/4 of a large sweet tea, and I am still high. My boss came in here earlier and said, "Jeff E. called for you Friday afternoon. He can't get on the internet." I responded with, "Awww...that's too bad for Jeff." Then I sobered up really quick with, "I'll give him a call."

I'm a hop skip and a jump from shaving my head and going to rehab, people. Just say no.

:P <--- Not me

So, I went to the dentist today, and I got a clean bill of health. No cavities for me! If you don't recall why a simple dental cleaning is blog worthy, feel free to revisit a certain post entitled The Importance of Oral Hygiene.

But actually, something out of the ordinary did happen. The cleaning was over and Dr. G came in to check out my teeth. While she was looking around she said, "You know, we can do something about your tongue." I instantly puff up, "What's wrong with my tongue?" Actually, it came out more like, "Wha wong wi my thon?" She explained, "you're tongue tied." Ok, so once again, I am bearing my soul and defective body parts for you people, I hope you appreciate it. So you know how there is that membrane that connects your tongue to the bottom of your mouth? Well, I guess mine is a little longer than it's supposed to be. There is a name for it and everything, Anklyoglossia. It can cause speech problems if severe enough, but in my case in just means that I can't stick out my tongue.

[Enter your own "lesbian who can't stick out her tongue" joke here]

Apparently, they can laser that bad boy, and voila, instant Gene Simmons. I said, something like, "Ok, I'll keep that in mind." So then, I called Chris.

Me: You're never going to believe what Dr. G said to me.

CJ: What, more cavities?

Me: No, she said she could laser that thing under my tongue.

CJ: So, when are you doing it?

Me: Wait, wha...

CJ: Let's see, you will probably need someone to drive you home. I'm free anytime next week. I could block out time in May as well...no wait, I've got that big project coming up...oh screw it, this is much more important.

Then I call my Mom who tells me that my sister had her tongue clipped when she was a baby. "I guess yours just wasn't that bad," she says. "Tell that to my girlfriend," I thought.

So, I might be getting my tongue clipped sometime in the near future. I just wonder if it's going to make me talk differently. Or if in the middle of polite conversation, my unencumbered tongue might unfurl onto my plate.

::Sigh:: Why, must these things always happen to me?

The search is over...

I finally decided that since I couldn't find the perfect red t-shirt for GayDay at Disney, that I would just design my own. Here 'tis:The pic is really small, but it's two women with the text "drunk straight girls need not apply" underneath. Although, I do owe getting laid in my early 20's to drunk straight girls. But that's a another t-shirt for another time.

VA Tech

I had the urge to write a post Monday morning whining about how I couldn't sleep Sunday night. I spent the entire night watching the History Channel. But then the shootings at Virginia Tech happened, and bitching about insomnia didn't seem so appropriate.

So, this is just a plea to my blog readers (all 3 of you): can we please stop shooting each other? Can we just make it a little more difficult for someone to walk into a gun shop and buy a 9mm glock? Can we please teach our kids how to deal with anger/rejection/disappointment in a healthy way? And if your 23 year-old college kid is depressed, has no friends, and doesn't talk, get him some fucking help, no matter what the neighbors might think.

A typical Thursday night...

No, not Pavlov's dogs...the other ones

My mother-in-law was in town last week. Simply refer you to my archives...look up November 2006, and you'll get a pretty good idea of how my week was. Truthfully, it wasn't all that bad this time. Other than the underlying tone of misery, the overuse of the word shit, and the threats to move in with us, things went just great. ::clenched smile::

Last time she visited, I was all up in arms, and posting everyday about what she had done. Now, I just don't have the energy. I'm like one of those dogs from the learned helplessness experiments in the 60's. I'll just take the shock. I won't even try to avoid it, much less complain about it.

I do know this, I think a little more time needs to pass before Mommie Dearest comes back to visit. And when she does, there's a lovely Holiday Inn right down the street.

These are Days

Can I just say that back in 1993 I so wanted to marry Natalie Merchant? I loved her so. It wouldn't have worked though. She wouldn't take too kindly to my conservative (read: NOT REPUBLICAN) ways.

Best.Day.Ever

WTF Moment of the Day

Ok, so I'm sitting here at work minding my own business when there is a knock at the door. If someone knocks, it's usually a sales call. I say, "Come in!" As I am about to give my "We have a policy against solicitors," speech, I notice that it's housekeeping. She seems surprised then says, "Oh, am I early?" I look at the clock and it's 3:30 p.m. Uh yeah, since you usually come after hours.

But whatever, I can go with the flow. If anything, I'm flexible. So, I say, "it's ok, come on in." She does. What I don't realize is that she is on her cell phone. She's talking to her child who apparently had just gotten home from school and is hungry. But that's ok because there's meatloaf in the fridge but no mashed potatoes. I know all this because the entire time she was in here cleaning, she talked on her cell phone. THE ENTIRE TIME. One point, her assistant (aka her teenage son, I know this because when he came in he said, "Mooooom" in that whiny way teenagers do) came in and they had an entire conversation. Something about him wanting to leave and her saying, "What, you don't want to work anymore?" Then, thank God my phone rings so I don't have to sit there and try to look occupied. While I'm on the phone, she comes up behind me and says, EXCUSE ME, so she can put the trash can back under my desk. I'm like, WTF, I'm on the phone!!! This is a business!!! Nevermind that I was talking to my girlfriend at the time. It's the principle of the matter!!

And as I type this, I swear she's right outside my door vacuuming. Oh no wait, now she's mopping and every once in awhile, SLAM, the mop head hits my door. And oh yes, that's the lovely smell of ammonia wafting through the air.

Me and Lady Lysol are going to have words before this is over. I can feel it.

run a carbon black test on my jaw and you will find, it's all been said before

R.E.M. (my favorite band in the world) is being inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame tonite in New York City. I thought I would take this oppurtunity to list my all-time favorite R.E.M. songs. How exciting for you!

1. Radio Free Europe (Murmur)
2. Don't Go Back to Rockville (Reckoning)
3. South Central Rain (Reckoning)
4. Superman (Life's Rich Pageant)
5. Document (The Entire Album)
6. World Leader Pretend (Green)
7. Hairshirt (Green)
8. Losing My Religion (Out of Time)
9. Automatic for the People (The Entire Album)
10. What's the Frequency, Kenneth? (Monster)
11. New Test Leper (New Adventures in Hi Fi)
12. Be Mine (New Adventures in Hi Fi)
13. Daysleeper (Up)

And yes, I know all the lyrics to "It's the End of the World as We Know (And I Feel Fine)."

Try me.

Diapers, Canned Air & A Lesbian With Power Tools

CAPE CANAVERAL, Florida (AP) -- Astronaut Lisa Nowak was fired from NASA on Wednesday, a month after she was charged with trying to kidnap a woman she regarded as her romantic rival for the affection of a space shuttle pilot.

...wait for it...

That's the way the diaper droops. (Ba-dum-bum.)

In other news of the not-so-obvious variety, can I just say how much I love canned air?
Not only have a blasted enough crumbs out of my keyboard to recreate an entire lunch, I have also dusted my entire desk, detailed my car, AND cleaned out my belly button. Although the latter might have left me with a wee bit of frost bite. No biggie though, navel sensation is overrated anyhow.

The view out of my office window is gorgeous today. Nice and sunny. And my trip to lunch confirms that it's warm as well. This is the time of year where I get all inspired to do yard work. I'm planning on doing some planting this weekend, maybe some ground cover in the back yard near Abba Avenue aka Poopy Trail. (Brief explanation, our special needs dog has serious OCD, and when we first got her she wore a path from the deck to her bathroom spot. The path just got worse and worse to where it was almost a trench, so Chris and I finally edged it with about 1000 brick pavers and lined it with 4 inches of mulch. We named it Abba Avenue. Well, since the unfortunate incident with the car running through our yard and the subsequent repairs, Abba refuses to go into the back yard but chooses to poop on her trail, hence the new name Poopy Trail). So, ground covering by Poopy Trail or I might tackle planting some border plants on either side of our walkway in the front yard. The front yard project will involve power tools (i.e. electric edger), so I'm leaning toward that a little.

Wish me luck!

Dang It x 2

I missed the lunar eclipse tonite because I got swept away in cleaning the bathroom. :/

In other news, Dove Chocolates (the ones individually wrapped in foil) are the new crack.

Carry on.

Dang It!

I forgot my lunch again. :/

Not much to say...

Not alot going on this week, hence the lack of posts. The biggest news of the week:

• I was weak and signed up for another 2-year agreement with Cingular so that I could get a new phone. It's a kick ass phone, and I'm psyched. Per FedEx tracking, it's on my back porch right now. Whoop whoop!

• After a mysterious absence, Luda is back working the drive thru at Wendy's. Wha wha? Everybody now:

Watch out my outfit's ridiculous
In the club looking so conspicuous

• My dog has the uncanny ability to chew the buttons off of shirts without damaging the shirt at all. She's done this twice in the last week. As a result, I spent 2 hours last night doing nothing but sewing buttons. How domestic of me!

How you doin'?

While getting my lunch at Arby's today, the drive-thru attendant called me honey (twice!) and baby.

Big J loves the fast food and apparently the feeling is mutual.

"And he knew what else he wanted..."

Mr. Bungle. I so remember watching this in elementary school. I used to harass my best friend in our adult years because she didn't remember who he was.

Gotta Love YouTube

You have got to be kidding me...

The Apocalypse is upon us.

Trash bags aren't for licking.

All morning long I have smelled doughnuts. At first, I thought my office mate was hoarding the tasty pastry in his office and not sharing. Then I thought the people down the hall were having a doughnut party and didn't invite me. Next, I thought that I might have a brain tumor, doughnut-shaped, of course. God does have a sense of humor after all.

None of the above. Apparently, when emptying the office trash, housekeeping replaced my trash bag with a vanilla scented variety. A word of caution though, although the vanilla smell is very realistic, the taste...not so much. It's just what I've heard. Not that I know this first hand.

Ahem.

For My Valentine

Chris and I will be celebrating our 7th Valentine's Day this year. In honor of such, here is an email I wrote her a month or so after we met.

Date: June 10, 999
Subject: 7 minutes before 3:00 a.m.

i can't sleep. not that i don't want to. it's not that i'm not tired. maybe it's that two hour nap i took at 7:45 p.m. ( a really bad time for a nap, don't you think?) or maybe it was the two glasses of tea i drank while i was talking to you at 1:00 a.m. (really bad time for tea, no?) i read your poetry tonite. all of it. maybe that's why i can't sleep. it could be you, i suppose, wandering around through my head. i keep closing my eyes and i keep thinking about what it would be like if you were here. how good it would feel for you to be lying next to me. how i would sleep like a baby then, but probably wouldn't want to if you were here. i know that i must be frustrating with my indecision which i am slowly trying to overcome. i am scared. not of you. not of us, but exactly the opposite. the "not you." the "not us." the absence of what i have felt with you over the past few weeks because it's gone away before, you know. and i don't think i want it to go away. but i am still afraid to let it in. i told you that i couldn't get you out of my head. that was true. but it's not my head that worries me. i don't think it's my head that won't let me sleep at 3:10 a.m. could be that nap though. or the caffeine. or quite possibly...you.

slow is good.

i have no problem with slow.

i just wish slow would hurry up a little.

8

Dear Publix,

As a frequent shopper, I must say that I appreciate your "carryout service," in which your grocery baggers offer to take groceries out to one's car. I have even seen signs discouraging tipping as this is free service you offer. A very nice gesture, indeed.

However, you might want to address the issue of the "overly aggressive bagger" or OAB. The OAB does not ask if they can carry out one's groceries but insist by placing a death grip on the cart and refusing to let go. Is it really necessary that I have to physically wrangle my cart away from the OAB? Shouldn't a "no, thank you, I can manage two cans of soup and mini-pads" suffice?

Just a thought.

For the record...

I am not the father of Anna Nicole Smith's baby.

Houston, we have a problem...

I'm sitting here at work listening to Patsy Cline's "Crazy" (I LOVE Patsy Cline!), and I can't help but imagine that the Astronaut could have possibly been listening to the very song on her trek from Houston to Orlando:

Crazy... for thinkin' that my love could hold you
I'm crazy for tryin', and crazy for cryin'
And I'm crazy for lovin' you

No, baby...you're crazy because you put on a diaper, filled your car with the real-life versions of the Clue gameboard pieces, drove 900 miles, and sprayed somebody in the face with pepper spray. When you departed from the space station, did you leave your mind behind, per chance?

It's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday

Not really.

That sappy song by Boys II Men was my high school graduating class' song. I just got word that we're having a 15-year reunion in May. We didn't have a 10-year reunion because the organizers were morons. Not that I would have gone anyway.

I will not be partaking in these festivities either. I have no desire to see these people. I am perfectly happy spying on them from MySpace.

In the ghetto...

I hate my office for the following reasons:

• Inefficient Heating/Cooling: It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. For the winter months, I have space heaters in each of our offices. But apparently, the building is not wired to handle such loads. Which brings me to my next bullet:
• I constantly blow fuses. Turn on a heater, run the microwave and KABLOOEY there goes half of the outlets. Look, I live in a 50 year old house, ok? Blown fuses are a fact of life. But in an office building built in 2003? I think not. If I am at home, I can simply reset the breaker. But not at the office, because....
• We have no building maintenance. He (yes, just one guy) quit about a year ago. Did they replace him? No.
• I have evidence that Housekeeping is partaking in our drinks/snacks. I found an open bottle of water by the fax machine this morning. I don't drink water, and the other office occupant wasn't in last week. They also rearrange items on my desk.
• No signage. We've been here for 3 years and we still don't have signage. The only thing that denotes our office from the other string of doors is the marker I created with an 8 1/2 x 11 sheet of paper, Microsoft Word, and scotch tape.

I don't know if I can work in such conditions much longer.

Moon Pie Explained!

I know you all are waiting with bated breath to know what my mystery "moon pie" post from yesterday alluded to. And if you didn't really care, can you please just fake some interest? Sheesh!

I was going to try to tough out the poison ivy this time, but as the day went on yesterday, I realized that wasn't going to be possible. The few spots I had on my forearms started spreading to my stomach and back. I was turning into one big whelp. I decided that after work it was time to visit a doc-in-the-box and get a prescription for prednisone. Good stuff: it clears that rash and gives you lots of energy. The downside is that in can cause some slight swelling in your face that gives it the appearance of the otherwise tasty snack cake: the moon pie.

The last time I had the ivy, I got a prednisone shot plus 6 days of the oral variety. Big time moon pie face. And luckily, it just happened to coincide with Pride. I swear there is a picture of me on the parade route where I am smiling and my eyes are completely shut. My face looked like those frisbees the Gay Yellow Pages hand out every year.

So, those of you who know me personally, if you see me over the next few days and I look a little, well, puffy, please try not to stare.

The future is inevitable

Warning: TMI Ahead

Ok, so I have poison ivy, and for only the second time in my life I might add. The first time was last summer when I got this brilliant idea to clear out our fence row of any and all plant life. Two days later, the yard looked great, but me? I was covered with a red bumpy itchy rash. It started on my legs, moved to my arms, then around to my midsection. Actually, it migrated to my midsection while on a 7 hour car trip to Columbia, MO. Poison ivy...not fun. Poison ivy while trapped in a car for 7 hours...really not fun. And yes, I admit, I thought I had contracted a flesh eating bacteria and demanded that we go to the emergency room at 10 o'clock that night. Chris said, "No, we'll take you to a doc-in-the-box in the morning." We arrive at said doc-in-box bright and early the next morning, and sure enough...poison ivy. Steroid shot in the behind, oral steroid pack, oral antihistamine...NEXT! She would have felt really guilty if it was a flesh eating bacteria though...

So, now I have it again. Chris and I were de-ivying our back yard this past weekend and sure enough two days later, I spot the familiar little red bumps on my arm. It's not as bad this time as it is confined to my arms and several little spots on my tummy. Ahem...well, there is one other place. Ok, people, I'm just going to rip it off like a band-aid...quick and virtually pain free:

I think I have poison ivy on my left nipple.

Girls, back me up on this, but barring an infection of the nether-regions, nipple itch is one of the worst of the female itches, no? Ok, so just take your everyday nipple itch and add poison ivy. Oh the humanity!!! Why must these things always happen to me?

Not too far off topic, but Chris and I were watching the L word last night. All I can say is where are these lesbians that have sex in limos and in the bushes upon first meeting??? I can tell you, they were not in Alabama in the mid 90s. The only thing I could lay was down, mmmmmmkaaaay?

In other more PG rated news, I took the hard drive out of our defunct computer and installed it as a slave drive on another PC. I was actually able to retrieve the data (aka our 2005 tax returns) I needed! You may not understand, but to this wannabe computer geek, it was an awesome feeling. I felt like high-fiving myself. And no, not in an attempt to surreptitiously scratch my nipple. Get your mind of my chest, people!

This post is about as random as it gets. Anyways, I have a date with some Caladryl, so I'm out.

Why turkeys don't have recording contracts...

One way I combat my otherwise boring drive to and from work is to turn up the stereo really loud so that when I sing along I can't hear my own voice. A word of warning though, unless you are sure of your vocal ability, turning the music down mid-lyric to see how you really sound is probably not a good idea. In my mind, I sounded just like that girl from Evanescence when I belted out:

"YOU NE-VER CALL ME WHEN YOU'RE SOOO-BAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!"

Instead, I sounded like a screechy wounded turkey. I seriously think I may have damaged a vocal chord while attempting to throw in some vibrato.

From now on, I'm crankin' it to 11 and leaving it there.

MLK Day?

Since when do we refer to the holiday honoring Dr. Martin Luther King's birthday, MLK Day? I heard 2-3 different news agencies use this yesterday. Jeebus, do we as Americans really have to make everything a cute anacronym?

Jeep is a four letter word

A really bad four letter word...

Yes, she was cold...can I gouge my eyes out now?

So, I was minding my own business this morning, pulling out of my driveway on my way to work. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a human figure standing on the corner at the house across the street from mine. I didn't think anything of it since there is a Marta bus stop in our yard (I know you're green with envy), so it's not unusual to see people standing there. However, as I pause to place my car into drive, my focus grows, and I realize that the figure is a woman who doesn't appear to be wearing pants. As I drive closer, I exclaim out loud, "She's only wearing her underwear!" When I'm right up on her, I realize that this woman is wearing a bathing suit and has no shoes on. She has a bag or something at her feet as if, indeed, she is waiting for the bus. Now, I'm a very practical person, so I try to rationalize this. Maybe she's going to the Y to swim, and she just couldn't be bothered with clothing? Is she training for the "Polar Bear Club," those crazy people who go swimming in the ocean in the dead of winter? Did she have a nervous breakdown while waiting for her carport and fence to be repaired after an unfortunate accident 2 months prior? These thoughts were really bugging me until I get an email from B stating a similarly odd situation. Apparently, on her way to work, on the corner of Peacthree and 14th, she saw a man in bermuda shorts, t-shirt, lei, straw hat, and sunglasses.

It all makes sense now: these two obviously have vacation plans in some tropical locale and are meeting at the airport. Makes sense in my pragmatic head, and I'm sticking to that.

mama's freaked out.

Tuesday, January 10, 2007, 3:55 p.m.: I blog about desire to have the dilapidated carport that has been lying in my driveway for over 2 months fixed.

Two hours later: I pull into my driveway to see a brand new carport.

Wednesday, January 11, 2007, 10:01 a.m. - I blog about my happiness over the new carport, and state that all I need now is a new fence.

30 minutes later: I get a call from the fence folks scheduling for tomorrow.

::Enter twilight zone music here::


Not to push my luck or anything, but mama would really like to keep her job.

what mama wants...

...mama gets. What did my little eyes spy when I pulled into my driveway last night? You guessed it, a brand spanking new carport. Dreams do come true, people.

Now, mama wants a fence!

What a difference 54 days doesn't make...

Mama needs a new carport.

Needed: Publix's Address

Dear Publix,

Just a suggestion: tortillas should be located in one of two places: 1) the Mexican food aisle or 2) the bread aisle. In this shoppers humble opinion, tortillas should not be located in a darkened back corner of the store by the cottage cheese/yogurt.

Although lapping the store 14 times dodging those god-forsaken SUV-inspired child carts was good exercise, it did nothing for my mental health.

Just a thought.

Jennifer

Needed: Karma's Address

Dear Karma,

I hope this letter finds you well. Please know that although I don't write very often, it certainly doesn't mean I don't care. We've had some interesting times you and me. Why, just the other day, I thought of that time that I drunkenly "borrowed" a pen from Joe's on Juniper. You said, "You rascal, I shall bestow upon you a rash of car accidents!" Three actually. I got the message, Karma...I returned that pen and the accidents stopped. Ahhh...good times.

I feel as though you have graced me with your presence once again. This morning I got a call from the VP of my company telling me that come May, yours truly may no longer be employed with this company. Certainly not what I expected on a Friday. After the shock of that call, I started thinking about you. And I think I know where this is coming from. Yesterday, I sarcastically referred to B as Socrates then proceeded to call her, well....a rocket monkey. Truly, Karma, it was all in jest. But in all fairness, I apologize for my insensitivity. B was simply asking a philosophical question, and I should have treated it with seriousness:

"Is TM night still called TM night when it is not at TM?"

I say, yes. I think TM night has transcended the specific restaurant we happen to be dining at. It's really about the social interaction.

About the rocket monkey thing. Are you familiar with the origins of the space industry? Monkeys were used in the late 1950's in order to demonstrate that humans could safely be sent into space. They were brave pioneers. Without them, where would we be today? See this Wikipedia article on the subject: rocket monkeys are awesome. While you may see it as an insult, it was really a compliment. Despite that, I do apologize publicly to B, or anyone else in her social circle who may have suffered from my comments.

I do hope you will take these sentiments into consideration while deciding my fate. I wish you all the best in this new year.

Humbly yours,
Jennifer

Oh Snap

That is all.

i hate change

since when are felt tip pens referred to as "pourous point pens?"

i appreciate the alliteration, but seriously.

wonderful

While ordering my favorite item at Moe's this afternoon, I was struck by how strange the words that were coming out of my mouth would sound if taken out of context:

"I'll take an ugly naked guy with a hard shell and pinto beans."

Funny stuff. I remember the first time Chris and I went to Moe's. We lived in Birmingham at the time and had never heard of Moe's. It moved into the space vacated by the ghetto Burger King that was close to my office. We decided to try it out one day. So, we walk in and are immediately unsettled by the counter attendants screaming WELCOME TO MOE'S! Then we looked at the menu and said, "What the hell is a Joey Bag of Donuts?" Actually, truth be told, I got a little excited because nothing sounds better to me than a bag of donuts, especially Krispy Kreme. KK, represent! And don't give me this crap about how Dunkin Donuts are better. Or how DD has better coffee. Who the hell goes to a donut place for coffee? But I digress. Long story short, we walked out of Moe's. It was too overwhelming. Years later, it's one of my favorite places.

In other news, I was told by someone at work today that I was "wonderful" because I fixed his Outlook. Does he know that I simply googled his problem, cut and pasted the fix in an email, and hit send? Follow along while I hash out the following scenarios:

Scenario 1: Jennifer kicks Bob's dog. Bob is mad. Bob either kicks Jennifer in retaliation or calls some some animal protection agency. Images of Jennifer end up on the 11 o'clock news above the subtitle: "Evil Lesbian Dog Kicker."

Scenario 2: Jennifer turns off pop-up blocker so that Bob can browse his "adult" sites unencumbered. Jennifer then kicks Bob's dog. Bob hugs Jennifer, professes his love, then hoists her on his shoulders running her up and down the street in an impromptu parade. Bob's dog is pissed.

I certainly don't object to being called wonderful though. I'll take what I can get.

Oh the humanity...

I just realized that while loudly streaming WHAM! on my laptop that my office door was cracked. Which means, that the nice Hispanic cleaning crew just outside my door now thinks I'm a complete dork.

I heard them laughing and whispering something that loosely translates to, "Wake me up before you go go, you triangle headed gringo...1986 was soooooo 20 years ago."

:/

random

This is completely random, but I just had to share. I work for an auditing firm, and part of my job is to take the auditor's meager attempt at expressing the human language in written form and turn it into something actually understandable to the average taxpayer. I don't get paid enough, believe me. So, I'm sitting here doing just that, and I come across an example of something that drives me absolutely up the wall. I thought I would share. Some jurisdictions refer to their account numbers as PPINs, which stands for Personal Property Identification Number. What I can't stand is when auditors write it as PPIN# 568493. WTF? N stands for number dumbass, you don't have to put the # after it!! Personal Property Identification Number Number??

The things I have to put up with...

It's my blog in a box

Christmas...Blog in a Box

Arbor Day...Blog in a Box

I just love pop culture.

Ok, so about a week ago, I wrote a really long detailed blog (with bullet points and everything). And then I accidentally deleted it. Which led me to post the previous blog where I basically told the entire world to F itself. A little dramatic? Maybe so, but like I said, I had bullet points, people.

I'll be honest...I have not been in the mood to blog lately. I don't really know why. I have lots to blog about, like how my Mom buying pies for Thanksgiving almost sent me into a deep depression, how Rumpelstiltskin awoke from his 100 year nap and promptly ran his Honda CRV through our yard taking out a dogwood tree, a 2-car carport, and a section of chain link fence, how Chris started a letter writing campaign that fed us for almost a month, and how my Jeep is like a really bad lesbian relationship: I let her move in after only one date, she treats me like shit, but I love her anyway. Maybe it's lack of discipline. Could be writer's block or performance anxiety. Who knows.

I will try to do better in the New Year. Until then, Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

hey world

GFY

Comments

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A River Ran Through Me

The following is a little something I wrote after Chris and I went white water rafting in October 2002.

“I fully understand and acknowledge that outdoor recreational activities have: (A) inherent risks, dangers and hazards and such exists in my use of rafting equipment and my participation in WHITEWATER RAFTING activities;(B) my participation in such activities and/or use of such equipment may result in injury or illness including, but not limited to bodily injury, disease, strains, fractures, partial and/or total paralysis, death or other ailments that could cause serious disability..”

Does that sound like a good time to you?? I didn’t think so. That is an excerpt from the waiver I had to sign before my whitewater rafting adventure. I hesitate using the word “adventure” because it gives the impression there was enjoyment involved. There was not. In fact, it was the opposite of fun. Let me just say this, prior to this trip I was unaware that the road to hell was paved with whitewater, but believe me, the devil is alive and well and living in Ocoee, TN.

I’ll start at the beginning. As with most cases where adventure and I collide, it was not by choice. I’m not an adrenaline junkie who feels the need to hurl myself out of an airplane or rappel down a 10-story building. Adventure for me is going inside McDonald’s instead of going through the drive-thru. It is buying a pair of Levi’s without trying them on first. Get the picture? So this latest meeting with adventure originated with Chris. Chris’ birthday was coming up, and she said to me one day, “Let’s go whitewater rafting!” I’m thinking, “Oh Lord, maybe if I stand really still she won’t see me and will drop the subject.” It didn’t work. Me, being the open and upfront person that I am, voiced my concerns by saying, “Sure, that sounds like great fun!” Honestly, I thought that she would forget about it, that it was an impulse statement, and that nothing would come of it. Wrong. The next day in my email inbox I had a message from Chris linking the website of OAR (Outdoor Adventure Rafting) in Ocoee, TN. This was not going away. I checked out the site, and it actually looked like fun. They had pictures of smiling happy rafting people. I thought, “I can do this! It’s just like those rides at Six Flags where you get in the big round boat, and some people get wet, and then you go through the cave, and the big mechanical bear jumps out at you! Fun, fun, fun!” So, I said, “Let’s do it!” We got a nice cabin not too far from the river, and were set to go.

We arrived in Ocoee on a Friday evening. Despite being located in the midst of deliverance country, the cabin was very cute. I thought to myself, “This won’t be so bad!” We were supposed to be at OAR at 8:30 the next morning to begin our rafting expedition. As Chris and I fell asleep, it began to rain. It rained and rained and rained and rained and rained. It was still raining when we woke up the next morning. We got to OAR and found out that it had rained 6 inches the night before, and that the river was running “a little high.” This meant nothing to me at the time. It soon would. The OAR people outfitted us with helmets and life preservers and had us sign that aforementioned waiver. We also met the other people we would be rafting with. It was four other girls who were all Army Rangers. They seemed nice. They loaded us into a bus and took us up to where the chaos would begin. As we’re driving up the mountain, the guides are looking out the window at the river and saying such reassuring things as “Oh my God” and “I’ve been here for four years and I have never seen the river like this!!!” This is not the kind of thing you want to hear from your guide, but I took it in stride. We got to the starting point, and after a brief safety talk we were off.

The river was pretty rough in the beginning, but nothing too severe. It was actually pretty fun getting splashed around and the scenery was beautiful. We went down this one little incline and, I got tossed out of the boat. It was no big deal. The guide grabbed me, and I was back in the boat before I knew it. See, I had been telling Chris since this trip was planned that I was going to fall out. She kept saying that I wouldn’t. “Oh, I’ll fall out alright; the skinny girl always falls out.” I was right. But I thought, “That wasn’t so bad. I got the “falling out thing” over with.” I was so naïve. So, we continue down the river having a grand time. Then the guide says that we are going to pull over so that he can look at this one rapid that we were about to go through. So we pulled the raft to the side and walked over to look at this “monster.” They categorize rapids Class 1-5 by their size and difficulty. This one was a 4, and it was massive. I thought to myself, “There is no way he is going to take us over that. Surely we’ll go around it.” Wrong. We went back to the boat and the guide gave us some last minute instructions, had us tighten up our helmets and life preservers (should have taken this as an omen) and off we went. Here was the game plan: we weren’t going to actually go through the rapid. We were going to veer to the left and catch just the edge of it. Good game plan, but not what the river had in mind. We head for the rapid and try veering to the left, but it doesn’t happen. We end up in the dead middle of this Class 4 rapid, and the raft dumps everyone out, except for the guide, of course.

What I remember next is being under water, then seeing sky, then being under water, then sky, then water again. It was like being in the rinse and spin cycle of a very angry washing machine. When I finally got my bearings I started looking at the sides of the river. I saw people standing their looking at me as if to say, “Glad I’m not her.” I kept thinking, why aren’t they trying to save me?? I kept waiting to hear cheesy synthesizer music and for David Hasselhoff to swan dive off the bank of the river with that red floaty thing behind him and whisk me to safety. It didn’t happen. As soon as that thought popped out of my head I saw one of the Army Ranger girls floating my way. For some reason I grabbed onto her. I guess I was thinking there is strength in numbers. Bad move. Army Ranger was panicking. She was screeching for help and gulping in water. I’m like, “shut up and you’ll stop taking in water.” So, I’m trying to calm her down. This is an Army Ranger. Don’t these people defend our country or something?? Aren’t they trained in all forms of combat and survival?? Shouldn’t she be able to create a floatation device out of her bra or something?? Apparently not, because she just cried and screamed. At this point, I had gone about 200 yards down the river and I was exhausted. The guide had told us that if we fell out of the boat to float on our backs so we could get air. Army Ranger was doing this, but she was also holding on to the top of my life preserver for dear life and was dragging me face first down the river. I told her, “I have to let you go, I can’t breathe.” So we separated. About this time I spot another raft to my right and try to make my way over to it. They pull up beside me and drag my lifeless wet body into their raft. There were 6 manly looking men in the boat. I just curled up in the bottom thinking that I had never been so happy to be in a raft in all my life. The guide asked if I was ok and told me to just hang on, that she was going to take me back to my raft. Well, guess what was between us and my raft. Yep, more rapids. So here we go down the river, hitting more rapids, with these 6 manly men screaming, “Woo hoo” and “Hell, yeah” and high-fiving each other, while I’m lying half dead in a fetal position in the bottom. Finally, I got back to my raft. Chris’ face was the first one I saw. She had a look of fear in her eyes. Looking back, I don’t think she it was concern over what I had been through. She was afraid of what I was going to do to her. So I flop over into my own raft. While I was sitting there, I looked down to see my legs were all scraped up. I hadn’t even noticed. I felt no pain when I was going down the river. I guess I was just focused on trying to breathe. They pulled the raft over to a tree line so that they could tend to the wounds of the injured. Even though the whole boat flipped, there were only two of us that were physically injured. As I’m lying there getting bandaged up I start looking around to see where the EVAC helicopter might land. It seems that a scraped knee is not grounds for such. Apparently, what they do for people who are injured but still have capabilities in most of their limbs is to give them their oar back so they can continue to raft down the river. Here’s the good thing, we didn’t have that much further to go, and no major rapids, so I consented. We were supposed to break for lunch, then after lunch we had a whole other section of river to raft. Not I! I was done. All of the Army Rangers decided to quit too. Apparently, the 6 weeks of basic training they went through didn’t prepare them for commercial rafting. They loaded all of us back on the bus, and we headed back to OAR headquarters. On the drive back, panicky Army Ranger was telling her buddies how I was so reassuring when we were being drug down the river. She said, “I thought I was going to die, and her voice was like the voice of God.” I started to scoot in from the edge of my seat, afraid that Army Ranger might hug me. When we got back to the OAR office, they filled out an accident report and had me sign it, probably saying that we wouldn’t sue them. As our consolation, we got free T-shirts. Almost drowning…free T-shirt. I think it balances nicely, don’t you?

Chris and I spent the rest of the afternoon buying up the first aid aisle at the local Piggly Wiggly and calling everyone that we knew to tell them that we had almost died. Chris was a little upset that she had no scars to show off. Admittedly, I had some trouble feeling sorry for her. My legs weren’t much to look at before and now they looked like they had been attacked by a cheese grater. Of course, now the scars have all healed. Chris has mentioned wanting to go back to Ocoee and rafting again. Obviously, Chris has issues, or perhaps she is just trying to increase her wardrobe by getting another free T-shirt. These days, I pass a flushing toilet and break out into a cold sweat, so I don’t think I will be braving the rapids again anytime soon. Adventure and I just don’t mix. Some people are meant for the fast lane, but let’s face it, people like me should stay in the drive-thru, no matter how long the line is.

traffic

My girl, the artist, wrote this a few years back. We found it going through random floppies last night. I think it deserves more of an audience than that.

traffic stops when traffic starts. all the cars are interlinked to each other, sensing each others moves and zigging and zagging accordingly. until one gets pompous and thinks it should go first, first before everyone. or thinks that they will move out of his way and then in an instant glass and scraps of metal lay on the road scattered like broken bones while the rest of the traffic creeps by in awe at the failure in their sweet system. in the distance, there are wails and whoops of approaching authorities on their way to pick up, reassemble, and reprimand the aggressive one. we are cars. careless in our actions and confident in our immortality. we can last forever...forever is such a short time. we are not steel reinforced, we do not have roll bars or shatter proof windshields. we can not see in the dark. and we control ourselves, sometimes just as foolishly as we control our vehicles. as foolishly as we try to control each other. we are monsters of the dark ages. our horses are shinier and less fleshy, but our egos are just as solid and unweilding. if only we would learn to respect the signs of our times, stop, yield, slow. then perhaps we would learn to respect ourselves. and we could see all the danger and all the possibility in the simple word: go.

Halloween

I had a scare this morning unrelated to it being Halloween. I saw a really bad wreck on my way to work. I was scooting down the left hand lane of the interstate and I see in my peripheral vision what looks like someone in the median crossing from one side of the interstate to the other. (I hate when people do that by the way...go up and exit and turn around for crying out loud.) I soon realize that this person is not slowly crossing the median but flying out of control and heading my way. I quickly get over a lane and see this SUV hit the dip in the median and start rolling. Thankfully, it came to rest in the median and did not cross over onto my side of the interstate. If it had, I think it would have hit me. It was too close. And you always get that weird feeling after you see a bad wreck or have a close call. You slow way down and really start paying attention to every little thing. I was sure that the person had died because the car came to rest on its roof, but I checked online and didn't see anything. I hope that person is ok. It's one of those things that just makes you stop and think. It freaked me out a little.

In other news, it's Halloween. I don't remember Halloween being a huge deal for me as a kid. Of course, I dressed up and went trick or treating in my neighborhood. That was back when you actually knew your neighbors' names. Sure, there was that one house you avoided because you were convinced the widowed lady that lived there was a witch. And the house you tried to go to twice because you remember that they handed out full size Hershey bars last year. I don't think kids even go trick or treating anymore. I heard something on the radio this morning about trunk or treating. That's where groups of people get together and park their cars in a parking lot, decorate their trunks, and the kids go from trunk to trunk to get candy. What the hell is that about? Sign of the times, I suppose.

Embarrassing fact about me: the last time I went trick or treating, I was 14. That's right, I was in high school. No, I was not very popular in high school, why do you ask? I went with a friend of mine who lived down the street, who also thought it was completely appropriate to trick or treat at 14. Of course, I found out years later that that free-spirited attitude and eccentricity I admired in my friend was actually schizophrenia. True story.

Until next time...

Throwing up is hard to do

Well, after only a few blogs under my belt, I am long overdue for one about throwing up. I had my most recent experience yesterday.

Some background, earlier this summer I was diagnosed with endomitriosis. It's a fun disease that causes really painful periods. I had surgery back in the summer to remove most of it, but I take birth control pills to help prevent new growth. A lesbian on birth control...it just ain't right. That reminds me of a hilarious exchange I had with the anesthesiologist during my surgery. I'm in the pre-op area hooked up to IVs and such. Both Chris and my Mom were back there with me, and the anesthesiologist walks up to ask me the standard questions...allergies, past experiences under anethesia, etc.

Anesthesiologist: Is there any chance you are pregnant?
Me: Uh, no.
A: Well, it's really important because the anesthesia could harm the baby. I mean, you may not even know that you're pregnant.
Me: Really, there's no chance.
A: We may need to do a pregnancy test...
Me: Look, there is zero chance...this is my girlfriend. I'm a lesbian.
A: Well, she doesn't know what you do when she's not around.

Freaking hilarious.

Ok, back to the point. So, I take birth control for the endo. and I take Celexa for anxiety. Actually it's the generic version thanks to the blood-sucking insurance company. Bastards. And I don't care what they say, the generic formula is not the same as the name brand. Case in point, and the original subject of this post...the generic makes me sick to my stomach. The name brand does not. Explain that people! The birth control does the same thing. So, I have to remember to take both with a meal. Well, I forgot to take my birth control pill Saturday so I had to double up on Sunday. Not fun. I felt ill all evening. I feel better if I eat something, but good lord, that's the last thing you want to do when you're nauseous.

"Hmmm, I feel as though I am going to empty my stomach of all of its contents. But boy, a turkey sandwich sure sounds good right now."

I think not, my friends. Chris was a trooper and followed me into the bathroom with the wet washcloth, held my hair, and rubbed my back. I appreciated her efforts although, I am not one that wants an audience when vomiting is a possibility. It's just one of the most vile of the bodily functions. Absent of a life-threatening situation, what other bodily function do you pray to get out of? "Please God, don't let me throw up. Really, whatever you want. I'll go to church every Sunday, I'll start doing charity work, I'll return that highlighter I stole from work on Friday...you name it, I'll do it!"

We humans should give ourselves some credit though. We are somewhat couth when it comes to these things. We at least excuse ourselves to the bathroom or hang our head out the window of a moving car or something. Animals? Not so much. Cats, especially, will go to the most inappropriate places. If you have not a stitch of carpeting in your house, your cat will find your bathroom rug. Don't leave any important paperwork out either. An original copy of your birth certificate apparently offers some comfort to the cat with a tummy ache.

Speaking of animals, our cat, Jack, waltzes into the bathroom. It's not that he was concerned about me, he just wants to be wherever Chris is. We actually have a picture of Chris doing a recent home improvement project, painting with one arm and holding Jack in the other like a sack of potatoes. Jack sits in Chris' lap, and I swear, I feel him making biscuits on my back as I'm kneeling on the bathroom floor. Then our dog Abba comes to the door, wagging her tail as if this is a party she wants in on. Privacy does not exist in our house. While all of this is going on, I'm still trying to come up with something that trumps what I promised God I would do last time I felt like I was going to throw up. Apparently what I prayed for, the big G liked, because the clouds parted, the animals scattered, and my stomach settled. And for that gift, all I have to do is adopt a baby from a third world country a la Angelina Jolie.

I think it was a fair trade. Don't you?

The Importance of Oral Hygiene

This is an email I sent a few days ago:

Dearest Family and Friends,

I went to the dentist today. The last time I went to the dentist, George W. Bush was governor of Texas, the world was bracing for Y2K, and I was years away from 30. Ok, enough suspense...it was 6 years ago. And I'm bearing my soul (and puffy gums) for your people to illustrate a point. If you haven't been to the dentist in a while...GO. NOW. Stop what you're doing and run to the nearest dentist's office. I don't know what happened. As a kid and all through my teens, I went to the dentist religiously 2 times a year. (Maybe that's because my Mom drove me there...hmmmmm.) It was sheer laziness. I don't have dental-phobia, in fact, I used to love going to the dentist when I was a kid. I distinctly remember making Valentine's Day cards for Dr. Hamilton and Sue one year. The dentist was fun...I got to pick out a plastic ring from the treasure box before I left, and three words...Mr. Blue Nose. For those of you who didn't go to Dr. Hamilton in Huntsville, AL, Mr. Blue Nose was actually the machine that dispensed Nitrous Oxide. Good stuff. I am scared of many things, but the dentist isn't one of them.

So, to recap, laziness has prevented me from the dentist's chair since, well, the 1900s. It was time. My appointment was this morning, and I was a little nervous last night. Chris has been to this particular dentist before, so I grilled her for information. Chris put me at ease. She said, "she will ask you if you floss, but she admitted to me that she doesn't floss every day. Just be honest." So, I was honest...when filling out my questionnaire it asked, "How many times a week do you floss?" I put 1-2 times per week. Ahem. Hey, it could happen. So, I fill out all of my paperwork, and I'm greeted by a very pleasant hygeinist named Linda who leads me to the chair. First of course come the X-rays. People, we can put a man on the moon, but we can't get someone to measure the inside of a human mouth and realize those things are too big? It's like putting poster board in your mouth. And should I be concerned that she put a huge lead apron over me? So that is over and done with, but now the real fun begins. Lovely Linda then spent the better part of 20 minutes wielding dental instruments like a pick ax. I am trying to focus on the easy listening being piped into the room, and the "Hang in There" poster on the wall with the kitten dangling from the tree limb. "Screw you kitty, when you get your teeth cleaned, they put you to sleep!" Meanwhile, Linda is trying to strike oil between my first and second bicuspid. Finally, she finishes with the scraping and polishes my teeth. Then she flosses. Oh my Lord. Linda grabs the floss and pulls off what I swear is yard of string. And away she goes, all the while explaining that it's really important to get underneath the gum. I'm nodding furiously, "Yes, yes, under the gum, of course, absolutely!" Linda termed it "aggressive flossing" and assured me that after a few days, my gums would get used to it, and the bleeding would stop. I kid you not.

So then, in walks the dentist, Dr. Greissinger with my X-rays. We exchange pleasantries, and she says, "So, you floss 1-2 times a week, huh? Should be more like 1-2 times a day." Wait, where is cool hip, Dr. G who told Chris that she herself doesn't floss everyday? But before I could protest, she says, "Well there are 5 areas that I'm concerned about." I'm sorry, did you say 5? 1-2-3-4-5? Yep, five. F-I-V-E. I'm getting 5 cavities filled. And there must be a limit on how many they can do per day, because it's being spread over two appointments. Linda could see the horror on my face and said, "Just look at it this way, it's almost one for every year you didn't come to the dentist." Gee, thanks, Linda.

Go to the dentist, people. Now, I'm not one to preach, but I remember a picture that used to hang in Dr. Hamilton's office. It was of this old man displaying a huge toothless grin. The caption was, "If ya got 'em, floss 'em." Amen, brother...Amen.

Old Blog

I found my old blog, and I have added those posts with the original dates here. Check them out to see how much I've changed over the past year.

web find o' the day

online pumpkin carving

all the fun of pumpkin carving without the mess and the risk of stabbing yourself with a steak knife.

I'm bringing blogging back

I am giving in to the overwhelming demand to start my own blog. And by overwhelming demand, I mean two people. And by demand, really, it was more like me saying "Hey, wouldn't it be awesome if i had my own blog?" and the reply being "Yeah, whatever. Paper or plastic?"

So, like I said, by lukewarm demand at best, I am officially a blogger. Truth be told I started a blog about a year ago, but I quit after 3 days. Too much trouble. This time will be different. I'm going for 4.