Working My Way to Rehab One Sip at a Time
I have drank alcohol to excess for as long as I can remember. My parents, God Bless their souls, are not strangers to late night slurred phone calls. My first year of college these calls were mainly that I wanted to come home or had a fight with my girlfriend. My second first year of college in Lubbock, TX, these calls mostly centered around the fact that you had to drive outside of town to buy alcohol. Could they believe that? Now I no longer dial direct but rather don't know when it is a bad time to return their call. Case in point: It is not a good idea to call your mother back after three bring you to your knees margaritas and two beers. My saving grace is that I have surrounded myself with functioning alcoholics much like myself. On occassion their antics have made me feel like a saint.
For instance, when I see my friend strip at a restaurant in front of total strangers after forcing them to play the dating game, it makes the time I woke up face down in a friend's living room with my face firmly planted in a cowboy boot seem like an innocent mistake. Anyone could have fallen off the couch in their sleep.
Is it no wonder I read Augusten Burrough's memoir Dry with such rapt attention? It was like looking into a crystal ball into my past or future. At this point I just don't know which it is; did I dodge the rehab bullet or do I merely live in the crosshairs.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Monday, October 24, 2005
Desperately Seeking Jackie
While out running errands this weekend, we pulled up beside another car at a stop light and there, hanging from the rear view mirror, were turquoise rosary beads. It got me traveling back in time to the fashion deficient Eighties and the fact that I followed EVERY bad trend.
If you were to ask me today, I would say it started with Madonna. After watching her videos repeatedly on MTV, my weekend wardrobe consisted of men’s boxer shorts, a wife beater tank top, and colored bracelets snaking up my arm. Sad that if I were in school today those bracelets would make me a walking billboard of sexual preferences. Madonna wore rosary beads around her neck. My mother, being the good Catholic that she is, did not allow me to wear mine.
I got tired of Desperately Seeking Jackie and changed my look to more of a Flock of Seagulls meets the Munsters. My hair was stripped of all color then teased as high as possible in a swoopy-flat-top then sprayed with an entire can of Aqua Net. Next came a few layers of pancake base in the ever popular shade at the time~ Winter White. Approximately half an inch of black eyeliner around the top and bottom of each eye, black clothes to accentuate the white face, and Red as a Baboon’s Ass lipstick topped off the look. I can prove this with a picture of me sitting on our piano bench, looking angry for the camera of course.
Punk got old and I ventured out into my Talking Heads big blazer look. I gave up the teasing comb and Aqua Net and replaced them with hot rollers instead. I did not, however, give up the bleach in a bottle. That event happened just seven years ago.
I know that fashion trends come and go but please, I am begging the Image Gods, don’t bring back the Eighties. My poor hair couldn’t take it again.
While out running errands this weekend, we pulled up beside another car at a stop light and there, hanging from the rear view mirror, were turquoise rosary beads. It got me traveling back in time to the fashion deficient Eighties and the fact that I followed EVERY bad trend.
If you were to ask me today, I would say it started with Madonna. After watching her videos repeatedly on MTV, my weekend wardrobe consisted of men’s boxer shorts, a wife beater tank top, and colored bracelets snaking up my arm. Sad that if I were in school today those bracelets would make me a walking billboard of sexual preferences. Madonna wore rosary beads around her neck. My mother, being the good Catholic that she is, did not allow me to wear mine.
I got tired of Desperately Seeking Jackie and changed my look to more of a Flock of Seagulls meets the Munsters. My hair was stripped of all color then teased as high as possible in a swoopy-flat-top then sprayed with an entire can of Aqua Net. Next came a few layers of pancake base in the ever popular shade at the time~ Winter White. Approximately half an inch of black eyeliner around the top and bottom of each eye, black clothes to accentuate the white face, and Red as a Baboon’s Ass lipstick topped off the look. I can prove this with a picture of me sitting on our piano bench, looking angry for the camera of course.
Punk got old and I ventured out into my Talking Heads big blazer look. I gave up the teasing comb and Aqua Net and replaced them with hot rollers instead. I did not, however, give up the bleach in a bottle. That event happened just seven years ago.
I know that fashion trends come and go but please, I am begging the Image Gods, don’t bring back the Eighties. My poor hair couldn’t take it again.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Mommy and Babies Make Three
We had dinner with a good friend last night and her twins. We were there the day these babies were born and have watched them for the past three years morph into little people. Last night it dawned on both of us that these are not babies anymore. We don’t need to run behind them hunched over waiting for the one misstep that will lead to a busted lip and screaming fit. Motor skills are up and running. When I say running I literally mean running around the patio jumping for joy at the bottom of a step.
Little Miss. M arrived wearing a shirt that read “I (Heart) Ponies”. On her arm was one of her mother’s old purses filled with My Little Ponies. There is Pinky (the pink horse), Purpely (the purple horse), Orangey (the orange horse) and oddly enough Key Lime (the yellow horse). Miss. M. has this wonderful fake, infectious laugh that is all teeth. It reaches into your chest putting your heart in a vice grip.
Mr. J has become the epitome of a boy. He was the one referenced above running the patio and jumping down stairs. When Mommy grabbed his arm to tell him to sit down he promptly began telling her “Quit it. Stop doing that. Quit your pinching” followed by very loud “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!.” Where is CPS when he needs them? He is not the first one to realize that a mother’s embarrassment leads to a quick release of the arm.
We both left in awe of a woman raising twins all by herself. How exhausting it must be. She said trips to the grocery store have been reduced to no more than the thirty minute attention span of two three year olds. I picture that game show Supermarket Sweep. Mommy running the aisles, arms swinging items into the basket, throwing everything on the conveyor belt, glaring at the slow cashier, dashing to the car a screaming child under each arm and a puzzled look when unpacking that says “Did I mean to pick this up?”.
Both of us left dinner last night with a yearning to spend more time. To spend time savoring the small but rapid changes that take place in the blink of an eye. To spend time enjoying conversation and laughter with a close friend.
We had dinner with a good friend last night and her twins. We were there the day these babies were born and have watched them for the past three years morph into little people. Last night it dawned on both of us that these are not babies anymore. We don’t need to run behind them hunched over waiting for the one misstep that will lead to a busted lip and screaming fit. Motor skills are up and running. When I say running I literally mean running around the patio jumping for joy at the bottom of a step.
Little Miss. M arrived wearing a shirt that read “I (Heart) Ponies”. On her arm was one of her mother’s old purses filled with My Little Ponies. There is Pinky (the pink horse), Purpely (the purple horse), Orangey (the orange horse) and oddly enough Key Lime (the yellow horse). Miss. M. has this wonderful fake, infectious laugh that is all teeth. It reaches into your chest putting your heart in a vice grip.
Mr. J has become the epitome of a boy. He was the one referenced above running the patio and jumping down stairs. When Mommy grabbed his arm to tell him to sit down he promptly began telling her “Quit it. Stop doing that. Quit your pinching” followed by very loud “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!.” Where is CPS when he needs them? He is not the first one to realize that a mother’s embarrassment leads to a quick release of the arm.
We both left in awe of a woman raising twins all by herself. How exhausting it must be. She said trips to the grocery store have been reduced to no more than the thirty minute attention span of two three year olds. I picture that game show Supermarket Sweep. Mommy running the aisles, arms swinging items into the basket, throwing everything on the conveyor belt, glaring at the slow cashier, dashing to the car a screaming child under each arm and a puzzled look when unpacking that says “Did I mean to pick this up?”.
Both of us left dinner last night with a yearning to spend more time. To spend time savoring the small but rapid changes that take place in the blink of an eye. To spend time enjoying conversation and laughter with a close friend.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Bittersweet October
I am getting really excited about Halloween. Not really sure why. This year I am going to try to make popcorn balls from the Martha Stewart cook book. She makes it sound so easy but I’ll probably walk away from the experience with permanent scars from hot Caro syrup splatter. I don’t’ even know if the parents in our neighborhood will let their children eat homemade popcorn balls. I know when I was a kid I LOVED popcorn balls. Trick or Treating was a bit spotty for me until we moved out of the apartment complex by LSU. College kids don’t buy candy, they rent kegs. I remember going to several doors and when they realized I was trick or treating people at the party would begin handing over spare change dropping it in my bag. My parents let me spend this change on candy that I like. No Bit-o-Honeys, no black licorice, no apples.
I always had homemade costumes. My father made some of them. One year he made me a daisy. My suit was green with white petals stemming out from my neck. Another year he made me an apple tree. This time a brown body suit and when I lifted my arms red apples dangled down. Flora and fauna seemed to be the theme those days.
One year I told my mother I wanted to be a gypsy but what I really meant was a belly dancer. She worked so hard to make the gypsy costume and when she was done I was clearly upset. She changed the whole thing and by Halloween I was a belly dancer. I had a great clown costume my mother made with big yarn balls hanging down the front as buttons. I wore that one for at least three years in a row.
Our family ALWAYS carved a pumpkin. To this day I love to carve pumpkins. In fact I have convinced our neighborhood to add a pumpkin contest to the annual Halloween festivities. I am ready for the pumpkin but we will see about the popcorn balls.
I am getting really excited about Halloween. Not really sure why. This year I am going to try to make popcorn balls from the Martha Stewart cook book. She makes it sound so easy but I’ll probably walk away from the experience with permanent scars from hot Caro syrup splatter. I don’t’ even know if the parents in our neighborhood will let their children eat homemade popcorn balls. I know when I was a kid I LOVED popcorn balls. Trick or Treating was a bit spotty for me until we moved out of the apartment complex by LSU. College kids don’t buy candy, they rent kegs. I remember going to several doors and when they realized I was trick or treating people at the party would begin handing over spare change dropping it in my bag. My parents let me spend this change on candy that I like. No Bit-o-Honeys, no black licorice, no apples.
I always had homemade costumes. My father made some of them. One year he made me a daisy. My suit was green with white petals stemming out from my neck. Another year he made me an apple tree. This time a brown body suit and when I lifted my arms red apples dangled down. Flora and fauna seemed to be the theme those days.
One year I told my mother I wanted to be a gypsy but what I really meant was a belly dancer. She worked so hard to make the gypsy costume and when she was done I was clearly upset. She changed the whole thing and by Halloween I was a belly dancer. I had a great clown costume my mother made with big yarn balls hanging down the front as buttons. I wore that one for at least three years in a row.
Our family ALWAYS carved a pumpkin. To this day I love to carve pumpkins. In fact I have convinced our neighborhood to add a pumpkin contest to the annual Halloween festivities. I am ready for the pumpkin but we will see about the popcorn balls.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Sowing the Seeds of Misinformation
It was me. I am Suspect Zero. Patient X. The gossipy gardener from whence this nasty seed of misinformation was planted.
It all started at a restaurant when a certain Mother said her daughter used to dance. We were not discussing ballet, however a less refined form of dance. I looked around the table and with only TWO daughters to choose from picked the likeliest candidate.
Who knew there was a THIRD STEP DAUGHTER out there to whom she was referring. One single little STEP in front of the word DAUGHTER and this whole thing would never have taken ten years to straighten out.
So for the written record:
She was not an exotic dancer. She has never danced except at parties with all of us and when she does that it is fully clothed.
It was me. I am Suspect Zero. Patient X. The gossipy gardener from whence this nasty seed of misinformation was planted.
It all started at a restaurant when a certain Mother said her daughter used to dance. We were not discussing ballet, however a less refined form of dance. I looked around the table and with only TWO daughters to choose from picked the likeliest candidate.
Who knew there was a THIRD STEP DAUGHTER out there to whom she was referring. One single little STEP in front of the word DAUGHTER and this whole thing would never have taken ten years to straighten out.
So for the written record:
She was not an exotic dancer. She has never danced except at parties with all of us and when she does that it is fully clothed.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Western Haze
This weekend we attended our second small town festival this month. Below are just a few of the memories that survived Saturday's menu of beer, wine-a-ritas, wine, and champagne:
1) A man we met at the bar told us he is really "hermitized" and spends much of his time traveling by himself in his motor home. On the particular day we met him he had a new haircut and shave. The first in awhile I imagine. He promised as he left the bar, six pack in hand, that the next morning when we saw him he would have his good teeth in (imagine no teeth grin here).
2) Only a man would take lemons, cut them in half and place them beneath the skin of chicken cooking on a smoker with a beer can up its butt. The end result is a chicken with a D cup.
3) The Scrambler (World's Best Carnival Ride) should never have tacky, non-stick seats. The purpose of going on the Scrambler is to squish the person on the outside and slide around wildly. I have a skinned elbow from this new non-stick material. Should I sue for free rides for life? Only if they bring back the glitter infused red pleather seats.
4) If you're looking for junk food, look no farther than a festival: corn dogs, barbecue, tacos, tamales, sausage on a stick, funnel cakes, roasted nuts, and ice cold beer to wash it all down.
5) Wine-a-ritas, although disgusting sounding are DELICIOUS! I am saying this now but must try one before a six pack of beer to confirm. I did sort of look at the woman when she recommended Arbor Mist Blackberry Merlot as the best wine to use.
6) mutton Bustin is hilarious! Children 50 pounds and under are placed on the back of one pissed off sheep with nothing but a helmut two sizes too big and judged on how long they can stay on. A riot I tell you! If I had a child that was under 50 pounds I'd buy a sheep so we could do this in the backyard. Maybe charge admission to the neighbors.
This weekend we attended our second small town festival this month. Below are just a few of the memories that survived Saturday's menu of beer, wine-a-ritas, wine, and champagne:
1) A man we met at the bar told us he is really "hermitized" and spends much of his time traveling by himself in his motor home. On the particular day we met him he had a new haircut and shave. The first in awhile I imagine. He promised as he left the bar, six pack in hand, that the next morning when we saw him he would have his good teeth in (imagine no teeth grin here).
2) Only a man would take lemons, cut them in half and place them beneath the skin of chicken cooking on a smoker with a beer can up its butt. The end result is a chicken with a D cup.
3) The Scrambler (World's Best Carnival Ride) should never have tacky, non-stick seats. The purpose of going on the Scrambler is to squish the person on the outside and slide around wildly. I have a skinned elbow from this new non-stick material. Should I sue for free rides for life? Only if they bring back the glitter infused red pleather seats.
4) If you're looking for junk food, look no farther than a festival: corn dogs, barbecue, tacos, tamales, sausage on a stick, funnel cakes, roasted nuts, and ice cold beer to wash it all down.
5) Wine-a-ritas, although disgusting sounding are DELICIOUS! I am saying this now but must try one before a six pack of beer to confirm. I did sort of look at the woman when she recommended Arbor Mist Blackberry Merlot as the best wine to use.
6) mutton Bustin is hilarious! Children 50 pounds and under are placed on the back of one pissed off sheep with nothing but a helmut two sizes too big and judged on how long they can stay on. A riot I tell you! If I had a child that was under 50 pounds I'd buy a sheep so we could do this in the backyard. Maybe charge admission to the neighbors.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
The Great Gobbler Gallop
Ever seen a turkey race? For that matter how many of you have heard of a turkey race? Not only have I heard of one, but last weekend I had front row seats in Small Country Town America, USA for their annual Turkeyfest which, yes includes a turkey race down Main Street. Front row seats meaning I parked my ass on the curb camera in hand at the ready for the fun to begin.
The emcee of ceremonies introduced this The 33rd Annual Turkey Race by giving a little background into the competitors. It seems that there are not one, but TWO towns in America fighting for the title Turkey Capital of the World. When people ask do they really say, “Well, I’m from the Turkey Capital of the World. Where are you from?.” I don’t know, there are a lot of things I will admit to but I think I would keep my mouth shut on that one.
Next the mayors of the two competing towns got up to give a little pep talk to the Turkey team members and spectators. It was George Forman and Mike Tyson before the fight. They actually insulted each others turkeys. Come on fellas leave the birds out of this.
A different bird races each year but their names are passed down from generation to generation thus the race is always between Ruby Begonia and Paycheck. There is even a bar in town named Ruby Begonia’s Roost. The town’s football team is the Fighting Gobblers. I’m pretty sure there is even a Turkey Queen! Hail to the Queen of Gobblers. Will she put that on her resume one day? Maybe in her wedding announcement?
Finally it was time for the Great Gobbler Gallop. The hounds (oops, fowls) were released followed by handlers shaking giant bead filled paddles to egg them on. The crowd went nuts. Paycheck flew into the crowd but was quickly brought back into the street. Men were standing on trash cans screaming “Go Ruby Go” I caught myself screaming her name as she bobbed by me.
For the first time in three years Ruby won back the traveling trophy and the town is once again Turkey Capital of the World!
This weekend is Western Days in yet another small town. I’ll let you know what I find.
Ever seen a turkey race? For that matter how many of you have heard of a turkey race? Not only have I heard of one, but last weekend I had front row seats in Small Country Town America, USA for their annual Turkeyfest which, yes includes a turkey race down Main Street. Front row seats meaning I parked my ass on the curb camera in hand at the ready for the fun to begin.
The emcee of ceremonies introduced this The 33rd Annual Turkey Race by giving a little background into the competitors. It seems that there are not one, but TWO towns in America fighting for the title Turkey Capital of the World. When people ask do they really say, “Well, I’m from the Turkey Capital of the World. Where are you from?.” I don’t know, there are a lot of things I will admit to but I think I would keep my mouth shut on that one.
Next the mayors of the two competing towns got up to give a little pep talk to the Turkey team members and spectators. It was George Forman and Mike Tyson before the fight. They actually insulted each others turkeys. Come on fellas leave the birds out of this.
A different bird races each year but their names are passed down from generation to generation thus the race is always between Ruby Begonia and Paycheck. There is even a bar in town named Ruby Begonia’s Roost. The town’s football team is the Fighting Gobblers. I’m pretty sure there is even a Turkey Queen! Hail to the Queen of Gobblers. Will she put that on her resume one day? Maybe in her wedding announcement?
Finally it was time for the Great Gobbler Gallop. The hounds (oops, fowls) were released followed by handlers shaking giant bead filled paddles to egg them on. The crowd went nuts. Paycheck flew into the crowd but was quickly brought back into the street. Men were standing on trash cans screaming “Go Ruby Go” I caught myself screaming her name as she bobbed by me.
For the first time in three years Ruby won back the traveling trophy and the town is once again Turkey Capital of the World!
This weekend is Western Days in yet another small town. I’ll let you know what I find.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Things to do today:
- Quit current job. (organize desk so everyone knows where everything is when I am gone, must maintain best assistant ever image)
- Find circus. (if they still travel by rail this should not be too hard, I'll just walk the tracks until I come across one, then again I could search on the internet and find out where they are right now)
- Runaway with circus. (this may be difficult as I do not swallow swords, couldn't hold my fat ass up on a trapeze if there was no net and letting go would mean certain death, I can't train cats to walk a wire the diameter of yarn- hell, I can't keep my own cat from eating himself to death, I could however lay strapped to a spinning wheel while someone else threw knives at my shiny sequined costume)
Friday, October 07, 2005
Names Have Been Changed to Protect the Innocent
My father is writing a book. Part historical novel, part mystery, part Southern fiction, and the real kicker part family history. I asked to read what he had so far. He e-mailed me the Prologue and the first 54 pages with the following disclaimer:
Dearest Daughter,
Attached is your reading assignment.
WARNING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!THE DAUGHTER IS NOT YOU!!!!!!!!REPEAT!!!IT IS NOT YOU!!!!!!THIS IS JUST A BOOK AND DOES NOT REFLECT PRESENT OR PAST FEELINGS ABOUT ANYONE!!!!!!!(except your mother, of course)IT IS FICTION___NOT REAL LIFE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Love, Daddy
Okay, I thought, that’s sweet. There must be something I will recognize, some story from my childhood that he has taken poetic license with and changed to fit the story line. Oh no, mon cher, he took his poetic license got in the driver’s seat and ran over my character like a turtle crossing a highway in rush hour.
First, the character he warns me about is named Nicole. This is what he wanted to name me that my mother would not. She finally compromised by giving me the middle name Noelle. This is how my mother meets in the middle. She drags the line just a little over to her side then refers to the case in point as a compromise. Nicole. Noelle. You got your way they sound similar enough.
Second, the character is a total bitch! I’m talking money hungry, uncaring, and downright evil. I admit I have had my moments in the past when my personal objectives overshadowed the fact that I was asking for money from a man who, at the time, did not have it but always managed to get it to me anyway. I have put myself through enough old fashioned Catholic guilt that those transgressions should have moved from the liability to asset category. I’ll be damned however if they don’t keep coming up.
Back to his disclaimer, I think he was afraid to call me and ask what I thought of the book thus far. Everything in me wanted to pout and make him change Nicole to a loving, caring, giving (or just human) daughter, but I sucked it up telling him I couldn’t wait to read more. Then I promptly sent him an e-mail detailing all of the fun times we had going over anything nice I could think of in the past that I had done for him.
I have never been accused of letting sleeping dogs lie.
My father is writing a book. Part historical novel, part mystery, part Southern fiction, and the real kicker part family history. I asked to read what he had so far. He e-mailed me the Prologue and the first 54 pages with the following disclaimer:
Dearest Daughter,
Attached is your reading assignment.
WARNING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!THE DAUGHTER IS NOT YOU!!!!!!!!REPEAT!!!IT IS NOT YOU!!!!!!THIS IS JUST A BOOK AND DOES NOT REFLECT PRESENT OR PAST FEELINGS ABOUT ANYONE!!!!!!!(except your mother, of course)IT IS FICTION___NOT REAL LIFE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Love, Daddy
Okay, I thought, that’s sweet. There must be something I will recognize, some story from my childhood that he has taken poetic license with and changed to fit the story line. Oh no, mon cher, he took his poetic license got in the driver’s seat and ran over my character like a turtle crossing a highway in rush hour.
First, the character he warns me about is named Nicole. This is what he wanted to name me that my mother would not. She finally compromised by giving me the middle name Noelle. This is how my mother meets in the middle. She drags the line just a little over to her side then refers to the case in point as a compromise. Nicole. Noelle. You got your way they sound similar enough.
Second, the character is a total bitch! I’m talking money hungry, uncaring, and downright evil. I admit I have had my moments in the past when my personal objectives overshadowed the fact that I was asking for money from a man who, at the time, did not have it but always managed to get it to me anyway. I have put myself through enough old fashioned Catholic guilt that those transgressions should have moved from the liability to asset category. I’ll be damned however if they don’t keep coming up.
Back to his disclaimer, I think he was afraid to call me and ask what I thought of the book thus far. Everything in me wanted to pout and make him change Nicole to a loving, caring, giving (or just human) daughter, but I sucked it up telling him I couldn’t wait to read more. Then I promptly sent him an e-mail detailing all of the fun times we had going over anything nice I could think of in the past that I had done for him.
I have never been accused of letting sleeping dogs lie.
Friday, September 30, 2005
A Flu for All Seasons
There is a new dog flu going around. I had no idea until my girlfriend informed me that she received a call at her office from another friend warning her that the Today show was doing a piece on a new dog flu so don’t be surprised when I began taking our dog to the vet for every cough or sneeze. I missed the panic inducing segment but nonetheless was told about this new strain of germ.
It is times like these that the world as a whole should be thankful I don’t have children. The poor creatures would be living in bubbles of fear that every new disease would be the one that took them down for good. I, as their mother, would be no help from my self imposed quarantine in the closet with nothing but a can of Lysol. If I did venture out it would be to get those headaches checked out that I am sure are a tumor the size of a grapefruit eating away at my short term memory. It just could not possibly be the bottle of wine a night.
As my children ventured out into the world would their dorm mates stare at their emergency preparedness kits complete with a flash light, two cans of peas, a can of corn, and bottle water? Would their potential spouses be offended when I chased them with a can of Lysol for sneezing in my house? How would my grandchildren feel that their grandmother won’t let them spend the night if they have runny noses?
Thankfully Isaac has neither sneezed nor coughed since this announcement came my way. If I were smart I would write the emergency vet a check now. Call it a retainer for when he starts exhibiting symptoms.
There is a new dog flu going around. I had no idea until my girlfriend informed me that she received a call at her office from another friend warning her that the Today show was doing a piece on a new dog flu so don’t be surprised when I began taking our dog to the vet for every cough or sneeze. I missed the panic inducing segment but nonetheless was told about this new strain of germ.
It is times like these that the world as a whole should be thankful I don’t have children. The poor creatures would be living in bubbles of fear that every new disease would be the one that took them down for good. I, as their mother, would be no help from my self imposed quarantine in the closet with nothing but a can of Lysol. If I did venture out it would be to get those headaches checked out that I am sure are a tumor the size of a grapefruit eating away at my short term memory. It just could not possibly be the bottle of wine a night.
As my children ventured out into the world would their dorm mates stare at their emergency preparedness kits complete with a flash light, two cans of peas, a can of corn, and bottle water? Would their potential spouses be offended when I chased them with a can of Lysol for sneezing in my house? How would my grandchildren feel that their grandmother won’t let them spend the night if they have runny noses?
Thankfully Isaac has neither sneezed nor coughed since this announcement came my way. If I were smart I would write the emergency vet a check now. Call it a retainer for when he starts exhibiting symptoms.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
A Room With a Door
As I said in a previous blog in the past year I moved up a rung on the corporate ladder, moving from a cubicle to an office complete with a door. Nothing could have made me happier at the time. Now all is lost, for the cubicle that occupies the space directly outside my door has been taken over by the loudest woman on Earth!
I have tried the diplomatic route, calling our head of Human Resources and asking her to have a talk with the woman. I have tried the not so diplomatic approach of muttering “Jesus Christ” under my breath and slamming my door, but this woman is truly clueless to her volume.
She inherited her position from the quietest, most feeble guy in the world. He could be in that cubicle all day and you would never hear a peep. Now, against my will I know the following things:
1. Her father will only wear Sansabelt pants. He gets a new pair for Christmas and (Surprise!) they are hard to find. One must make no less than 50 phone calls to every sporting goods and department store in town recounting your father’s life story to find the pants.
2. She has never owned a computer. Simple tasks like typing a letter in Word elude her therefore I get the pleasure of hearing our IT girl go through Computer 101 on a daily basis.
3. Clearly the intercom is also lost on her. The woman she works for is across the hall from her cubicle and in lieu of announcing calls on the intercom she feels that screaming across the hall is just as effective.
4. This has nothing to do with the volume but speaks instead to the overall hell I am currently in because this woman eats at her cubicle. What do you ask? Asiago cheese melted on Triskets. It’s as if she searched for the stinkiest cheese. My boss even sent an e-mail asking the stinky cheese culprit to please restrict themselves to eating in the lunch room but at that time she didn’t have a computer and thus did not know about the e-mail.
As I said in a previous blog in the past year I moved up a rung on the corporate ladder, moving from a cubicle to an office complete with a door. Nothing could have made me happier at the time. Now all is lost, for the cubicle that occupies the space directly outside my door has been taken over by the loudest woman on Earth!
I have tried the diplomatic route, calling our head of Human Resources and asking her to have a talk with the woman. I have tried the not so diplomatic approach of muttering “Jesus Christ” under my breath and slamming my door, but this woman is truly clueless to her volume.
She inherited her position from the quietest, most feeble guy in the world. He could be in that cubicle all day and you would never hear a peep. Now, against my will I know the following things:
1. Her father will only wear Sansabelt pants. He gets a new pair for Christmas and (Surprise!) they are hard to find. One must make no less than 50 phone calls to every sporting goods and department store in town recounting your father’s life story to find the pants.
2. She has never owned a computer. Simple tasks like typing a letter in Word elude her therefore I get the pleasure of hearing our IT girl go through Computer 101 on a daily basis.
3. Clearly the intercom is also lost on her. The woman she works for is across the hall from her cubicle and in lieu of announcing calls on the intercom she feels that screaming across the hall is just as effective.
4. This has nothing to do with the volume but speaks instead to the overall hell I am currently in because this woman eats at her cubicle. What do you ask? Asiago cheese melted on Triskets. It’s as if she searched for the stinkiest cheese. My boss even sent an e-mail asking the stinky cheese culprit to please restrict themselves to eating in the lunch room but at that time she didn’t have a computer and thus did not know about the e-mail.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Waiting for Rita
We've made all of the preparations and now we sit here waiting. In fact that is all we have done for the past two days- wait. My trusted favorite cat is here with me purring away. The dog is downstairs getting some much needed nap time as all the activity of the past few days has him very confused.
What have we done to prepare? On Thursday, I left work early to hit the grocery store. It helps that I work for someone who is also proned to panic attacks. The grocery store looked like nothing I have ever seen or imagined. There was no bread. They were rolling in large pallets of water but not bothering to stock them on the empty shelves as it took only a few minutes for them to be completely bare. A friend from Cuba says this is what the stores look like in communist countries. On the can veggie aisle my brain just shut down. There was barely anything to choose from and seeing that I am not the veggie eater in our house I just could not decide on what to pick up. I settled on two cans of peas and a can of corn. This strikes Carrie as funny that I only bought three cans of food. On the next aisle I picked up a giant box of Goldfish crackers. Much more my style. Picked up some ground coffeee and fruit then set out to get some kitty litter. There was not one box or bag of litter. I was amazed until it was pointed out to me that plenty of people will be bringing in pets that usually stay outside. Hmm. Something to remember for future disasters.
Yesterday we helped a friend close up her restaurant for what may be the last time depending on the kind of storm this ends up being. She says she will leave it all and move to her home in New Mexico permanently. This was more than somewhat upsetting. We had lunch, filled prescriptions, bought more cigarettes, and came home to wait.
It is the waiting that is killing me. The uncertainty. The constant news coverage. I had a blank diary that someone gave me (it even has a lock) so I began writing in it today. Random thoughts like how we have creamy peanut butter and if I had thought about it I would have picked up some crunchy. I have also been videotaping this event. This afternoon we moved lawn chairs to the end of the driveway to watch our empty streets. Eerie. Tropical Storm Allison snuck up on us. Rita is like that person coming to tickle you. You know they are coming. You are waiting for it to happen. The anticipation is what gets you first. I'm going to take Cat 1 downstairs now and see the latest update. Then I guess we'll wait.
We've made all of the preparations and now we sit here waiting. In fact that is all we have done for the past two days- wait. My trusted favorite cat is here with me purring away. The dog is downstairs getting some much needed nap time as all the activity of the past few days has him very confused.
What have we done to prepare? On Thursday, I left work early to hit the grocery store. It helps that I work for someone who is also proned to panic attacks. The grocery store looked like nothing I have ever seen or imagined. There was no bread. They were rolling in large pallets of water but not bothering to stock them on the empty shelves as it took only a few minutes for them to be completely bare. A friend from Cuba says this is what the stores look like in communist countries. On the can veggie aisle my brain just shut down. There was barely anything to choose from and seeing that I am not the veggie eater in our house I just could not decide on what to pick up. I settled on two cans of peas and a can of corn. This strikes Carrie as funny that I only bought three cans of food. On the next aisle I picked up a giant box of Goldfish crackers. Much more my style. Picked up some ground coffeee and fruit then set out to get some kitty litter. There was not one box or bag of litter. I was amazed until it was pointed out to me that plenty of people will be bringing in pets that usually stay outside. Hmm. Something to remember for future disasters.
Yesterday we helped a friend close up her restaurant for what may be the last time depending on the kind of storm this ends up being. She says she will leave it all and move to her home in New Mexico permanently. This was more than somewhat upsetting. We had lunch, filled prescriptions, bought more cigarettes, and came home to wait.
It is the waiting that is killing me. The uncertainty. The constant news coverage. I had a blank diary that someone gave me (it even has a lock) so I began writing in it today. Random thoughts like how we have creamy peanut butter and if I had thought about it I would have picked up some crunchy. I have also been videotaping this event. This afternoon we moved lawn chairs to the end of the driveway to watch our empty streets. Eerie. Tropical Storm Allison snuck up on us. Rita is like that person coming to tickle you. You know they are coming. You are waiting for it to happen. The anticipation is what gets you first. I'm going to take Cat 1 downstairs now and see the latest update. Then I guess we'll wait.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Roots of Epic Proportions
My hairdresser can’t see me until October 1st. I don’t think her receptionist fully understood the urgency of the situation. I CANNOT walk around looking like a displaced contestant from the Jerry Springer show for the next three weeks. I have roots as long as the Mississippi river and they are DAAARRRRK!
After making the appointment for the first and asking to be put on a waiting list, I hung up the phone in shear panic. When the desperation reached my bones I had a fleeting thought of bleaching my own hair. I shiver again to think of the results. It would not however be my first rodeo with scalp searing bleach in a bottle. I have spent many an evenings, rag towel wrapped around my shoulders trying to outrun the toxic smell coming from my own head. The result was blinding white hair that lasted all of one week before the tiny line of black appeared beneath.
I can say that this is not the worst shape I have been in. I once volunteered to let someone use me as a living model for a hair show. Free haircut and dye job were included. When my mother came home that night there I lay under a blanket on the couch hysterically crying. She slowly coaxed me out from under the covers only to recoil at the sight of my new egg plant colored page boy. To add insult to injury the dye was supposed to be temporary but apparently it really liked my hair because damn if that stuff didn’t hang in there for a good two months.
My hairdresser can’t see me until October 1st. I don’t think her receptionist fully understood the urgency of the situation. I CANNOT walk around looking like a displaced contestant from the Jerry Springer show for the next three weeks. I have roots as long as the Mississippi river and they are DAAARRRRK!
After making the appointment for the first and asking to be put on a waiting list, I hung up the phone in shear panic. When the desperation reached my bones I had a fleeting thought of bleaching my own hair. I shiver again to think of the results. It would not however be my first rodeo with scalp searing bleach in a bottle. I have spent many an evenings, rag towel wrapped around my shoulders trying to outrun the toxic smell coming from my own head. The result was blinding white hair that lasted all of one week before the tiny line of black appeared beneath.
I can say that this is not the worst shape I have been in. I once volunteered to let someone use me as a living model for a hair show. Free haircut and dye job were included. When my mother came home that night there I lay under a blanket on the couch hysterically crying. She slowly coaxed me out from under the covers only to recoil at the sight of my new egg plant colored page boy. To add insult to injury the dye was supposed to be temporary but apparently it really liked my hair because damn if that stuff didn’t hang in there for a good two months.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
The Writing on the Wall
In West Blocton, Alabama my great grandfather owned a Five & Dime. West Blocton was a mining town. Coal dust filled the cracks in every floor. Miners would buy goods from my grandfather on payday before taking to the bars then the streets at night. He would move money and receipts across the store using a pulley system of wires that ran along the ceiling. I don’t remember much of the store. I was too young to take it all in when I visited. My great grandmother was running it then. She let me pick out one toy to take home. I remember proudly taking a plastic cowboy set complete with flimsy brown vinyl vest, gray painted Sheriff’s badge, and cap gun.
During the depression, starving men looking for work would come to my great grandfather for food. He gave them what they needed and in the back room they would write their IOU’s on the walls. By the end of the depression these walls were covered with the names of men who he helped. Most probably caught rail cars to other places in search of work. Some came back to repay the debt. Others didn’t. I don’t think my great grandfather expected them to come back. I don’t know if he asked them to sign their names on that wall or if it was their way of preserving a sliver of dignity.
A friend has been volunteering at the Houston Astrodome helping the victims of Hurricane Katrina. Last night she worked in the clothing distribution center. Evacuees gave her their size and what they need then she sorted through the mounds of clothing to find it for them. I know that this is embarrassing for some of these people. I hope the world continues to give without prejudice allowing them to preserve just a sliver of dignity just like those men who wrote IOU’s on my great grandfather’s wall with nothing but hope backing them up.
In West Blocton, Alabama my great grandfather owned a Five & Dime. West Blocton was a mining town. Coal dust filled the cracks in every floor. Miners would buy goods from my grandfather on payday before taking to the bars then the streets at night. He would move money and receipts across the store using a pulley system of wires that ran along the ceiling. I don’t remember much of the store. I was too young to take it all in when I visited. My great grandmother was running it then. She let me pick out one toy to take home. I remember proudly taking a plastic cowboy set complete with flimsy brown vinyl vest, gray painted Sheriff’s badge, and cap gun.
During the depression, starving men looking for work would come to my great grandfather for food. He gave them what they needed and in the back room they would write their IOU’s on the walls. By the end of the depression these walls were covered with the names of men who he helped. Most probably caught rail cars to other places in search of work. Some came back to repay the debt. Others didn’t. I don’t think my great grandfather expected them to come back. I don’t know if he asked them to sign their names on that wall or if it was their way of preserving a sliver of dignity.
A friend has been volunteering at the Houston Astrodome helping the victims of Hurricane Katrina. Last night she worked in the clothing distribution center. Evacuees gave her their size and what they need then she sorted through the mounds of clothing to find it for them. I know that this is embarrassing for some of these people. I hope the world continues to give without prejudice allowing them to preserve just a sliver of dignity just like those men who wrote IOU’s on my great grandfather’s wall with nothing but hope backing them up.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
June 9, 2001 we awoke at 3:00 a.m. to two very happy Labradors playing in the foot high water in our living room. Earlier that evening we were at a friend’s restaurant drinking bottomless glasses of wine and vodka watching the rain. We were offering to help carry tables to higher ground as she had flooded many times before. We never predicted that hours later we would be standing knee deep in water calling everyone we knew for rescue.
I am no help in a crisis. I grabbed the two cats headed back to the bedroom and cried on the phone to my insurance company for an hour. My first new car, the one I didn’t need a co-signer on, was completely under water in the street. The agent asked if I was calling from Texas and I wailed “How did you know?” As if Tropical Storm Alison was only a local event that this person on the other side of an 800 number would know nothing about.
We were rescued by boat the next morning at 6:00 a.m. by the resident of a neighboring subdivision. They tied right up to the Crepe Myrtle trees in our front yard. A stranger from the neighboring subdivision was going door to door in the boat evacuating as many of us that would leave. The old woman down the street (who stole our cat- but that is a different story) would not budge. I think many of the neighbors who had lived there for 54 years or more without flooding couldn’t believe it was happening.
The waters subsided fast and by 10:00 we were back home to survey the damage. Everything was misplaced. Everything had floated to a different spot as if ours was a doll house and some cosmic giant rearranged it for fun. Mud covered everything we owned. At least those possessions that rest below four feet. Our golf shoes were caught in the ginger plant in the front yard, moved from the porch where we had left them that afternoon.
By 10:30 six people were at our door step ready to help. They put all of our clothes, sheets and towels in plastic garbage bags. Photos were taken away to wash and dry and try to salvage. Not many photos survived but two people in particular did what they could and for that I am eternally grateful. They had the forethought to save the photos of our childhood first.
Our furniture was taken to the edge of the driveway and discarded. Trucks began circling before sun down filled with families taking this or that off the junk pile. I needed at least twenty four hours to adjust to someone walking off with our life and would yell at them to come back later.
We moved in with a friend who was kind enough not only to take us but our two dogs and two cats as well. There we stayed for six months figuring out where to go next. Eventually we tore down the old and built up (4.24 feet) with the new. It took over a year for our neighborhood to rebuild. There are still empty lots that remind us of neighbors and families that never came back. The risk of reliving that night was just too much for many of them to bear. Many did not have flood insurance and were left to rebuild with very little money and a lot of sweat.
Watching the news, my heart is breaking for the thousands of families displaced and grieving by Katrina. They will return home and rebuild their lives from scratch. In addition to restoring their peace of mind they will have to acquire everything anew. New sheet rock, new floors, new beds, new mattresses, new appliances, new sheet rock, new carpet or wood floors, new clothes, new photos, new memories, new books. I could go on but won’t. I’ll keep the people that are effected in my thoughts and help as much as I am able.
I am no help in a crisis. I grabbed the two cats headed back to the bedroom and cried on the phone to my insurance company for an hour. My first new car, the one I didn’t need a co-signer on, was completely under water in the street. The agent asked if I was calling from Texas and I wailed “How did you know?” As if Tropical Storm Alison was only a local event that this person on the other side of an 800 number would know nothing about.
We were rescued by boat the next morning at 6:00 a.m. by the resident of a neighboring subdivision. They tied right up to the Crepe Myrtle trees in our front yard. A stranger from the neighboring subdivision was going door to door in the boat evacuating as many of us that would leave. The old woman down the street (who stole our cat- but that is a different story) would not budge. I think many of the neighbors who had lived there for 54 years or more without flooding couldn’t believe it was happening.
The waters subsided fast and by 10:00 we were back home to survey the damage. Everything was misplaced. Everything had floated to a different spot as if ours was a doll house and some cosmic giant rearranged it for fun. Mud covered everything we owned. At least those possessions that rest below four feet. Our golf shoes were caught in the ginger plant in the front yard, moved from the porch where we had left them that afternoon.
By 10:30 six people were at our door step ready to help. They put all of our clothes, sheets and towels in plastic garbage bags. Photos were taken away to wash and dry and try to salvage. Not many photos survived but two people in particular did what they could and for that I am eternally grateful. They had the forethought to save the photos of our childhood first.
Our furniture was taken to the edge of the driveway and discarded. Trucks began circling before sun down filled with families taking this or that off the junk pile. I needed at least twenty four hours to adjust to someone walking off with our life and would yell at them to come back later.
We moved in with a friend who was kind enough not only to take us but our two dogs and two cats as well. There we stayed for six months figuring out where to go next. Eventually we tore down the old and built up (4.24 feet) with the new. It took over a year for our neighborhood to rebuild. There are still empty lots that remind us of neighbors and families that never came back. The risk of reliving that night was just too much for many of them to bear. Many did not have flood insurance and were left to rebuild with very little money and a lot of sweat.
Watching the news, my heart is breaking for the thousands of families displaced and grieving by Katrina. They will return home and rebuild their lives from scratch. In addition to restoring their peace of mind they will have to acquire everything anew. New sheet rock, new floors, new beds, new mattresses, new appliances, new sheet rock, new carpet or wood floors, new clothes, new photos, new memories, new books. I could go on but won’t. I’ll keep the people that are effected in my thoughts and help as much as I am able.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Spoiled Rotten
After successfully reaching the bottom of a couple of bottles of wine last night I ran straight into the dog bed in our room. Now today in addition to the marching band playing its opus across my temples, I am also semi-limping around the office with a giant raised bruise on the top of my foot. When I explained the injury to a coworker she asked “The dog bed is hard?” Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus and our dog has, not just one, but three beds.
There is the poofy downstairs bed for during the daylight hours when he must be locked in the kitchen to avoid further damage to our windowsills. When anyone so much as breathes in the direction of our house he goes into his rabid-dog-biting-windows-and-jumping-up-on-glass routine. We are partially to blame for the aggression. He was over a year when we snipped him. The rest of the aggression can be blamed on two very evil children who poked sticks at him through an iron gate when we were living with a friend. Looking back I should have poked their beady eyes out.
The wood bed I broke my foot on is upstairs. It has what every dog needs; a head board! My partner didn’t think the mattress that is made to fit the bed looked comfortable enough so she bought him a smaller but softer version (with his name embroidered on the side). Hard to believe but they don’t make wood dog beds as sturdy as those for human slumber. Every night as he spins around working himself into sleep position the beds makes the loudest creaks and pops.
The third bed, which is technically more of a furry fleece mat, rests on the floor right next to the world’s loudest dog bed. Best of all for him though is that he is going to his girlfriend’s tonight and will be sleeping on her mother’s bed.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Surprise
For the first few years of my childhood we lived in a small white clapboard house under a freeway overpass. Mind you it was not like the colonies of homeless you see under overpasses these days camped out with cardboard boxes and signs depicting one tragedy after another that are meant to trump one another in the need department. No, but it was close enough to be considered under the overpass. No one but a starving law student, his child bride and new baby would live there and anyway our Great Dane needed room to roam.
We had one neighbor who cultivated a giant vegetable garden on the side of his house. Having only two houses on the street as well as the field of fresh veggies leant a certain rural feel to the area. If you wore ear plugs to drown out the semi trucks above, you could almost imagine living in a small farmhouse somewhere. Besides this rural feel we had BIG country size bugs. I know because one day giant flying ants attacked me in my own front yard.
My partner would interject here to inform everyone reading this that she believes there are no giant flying ants but who are you going to listen to? A woman who has never been attacked by these creatures or me who not only was attacked by them but also lived to tell the tale? This is a woman who thinks all children have worms at some time or another in their lives. I assure you I have dated a few worms but never in my life had one living inside me.
I accidentally stepped on the mound one morning which must have set off an ALL ANTS AIRBORN alarm inside. They attacked my leg like the remnants of some street festival funnel cake rotting in a gutter. I was covered from toe to knee. My parents jumped into action to rescue me and carried me inside to put medicine on the stings left behind. The only problem being that I was as terrified of the medicine as the stings and therefore proceeded to run around the house screaming.
Parental ingenuity kicked in and my parents developed a plan. So as I sat on their bed, swollen red leg propped on a throw pillow, my mother informed me my father was making some “Surprise”. This was the name they came up with for the baking soda and water paste that is supposed to remove the stinging. Fool that I am, I wanted a “Surprise” so bad I fell for the ruse hook line and sinker.
For the first few years of my childhood we lived in a small white clapboard house under a freeway overpass. Mind you it was not like the colonies of homeless you see under overpasses these days camped out with cardboard boxes and signs depicting one tragedy after another that are meant to trump one another in the need department. No, but it was close enough to be considered under the overpass. No one but a starving law student, his child bride and new baby would live there and anyway our Great Dane needed room to roam.
We had one neighbor who cultivated a giant vegetable garden on the side of his house. Having only two houses on the street as well as the field of fresh veggies leant a certain rural feel to the area. If you wore ear plugs to drown out the semi trucks above, you could almost imagine living in a small farmhouse somewhere. Besides this rural feel we had BIG country size bugs. I know because one day giant flying ants attacked me in my own front yard.
My partner would interject here to inform everyone reading this that she believes there are no giant flying ants but who are you going to listen to? A woman who has never been attacked by these creatures or me who not only was attacked by them but also lived to tell the tale? This is a woman who thinks all children have worms at some time or another in their lives. I assure you I have dated a few worms but never in my life had one living inside me.
I accidentally stepped on the mound one morning which must have set off an ALL ANTS AIRBORN alarm inside. They attacked my leg like the remnants of some street festival funnel cake rotting in a gutter. I was covered from toe to knee. My parents jumped into action to rescue me and carried me inside to put medicine on the stings left behind. The only problem being that I was as terrified of the medicine as the stings and therefore proceeded to run around the house screaming.
Parental ingenuity kicked in and my parents developed a plan. So as I sat on their bed, swollen red leg propped on a throw pillow, my mother informed me my father was making some “Surprise”. This was the name they came up with for the baking soda and water paste that is supposed to remove the stinging. Fool that I am, I wanted a “Surprise” so bad I fell for the ruse hook line and sinker.
Friday, August 12, 2005
My mother’s birthday is Saturday. I am having her over to our house for an early dinner, along with my aunt and uncle who are flying in from Colorado to spend the day with her and my paternal grandmother. She is bringing her own cake because she wants an ice cream cake from Carvel and it is closer to her house than mine.
One of my favorite photos of my mother was from a birthday before I was born. There is a sepia tone to the photo and it is of her standing at a kitchen counter holding back her long straight black hair to blow out candles on a cake. My father had baked her that cake. It was round, white with lemon filling and icing. He forgot to put the lemon filling between the layers so he lathered it all over the top. Then he spread the icing on top of the filling. In the photo you can see the icing sliding off of the cake, running down the sides to a big glob on the plate. Despite this goopy birthday cake she is smiling from ear to ear because the man she loves has made a cake from scratch.
There is another photo from one of her birthdays. This time I am sitting in her lap. The cake is on a table in front of us. My mother is not smiling in this photo. Again, my father has baked the cake. He let me help until it came time to write Happy Birthday on the top in icing. Just below Happy Birthday he has written “to our favorite five letter woman”. To accompany the cake we have bought her a rhinestone necklace that spells “Bitch”. Looking back it is a miracle my mother didn’t grab her purse and cigarettes and walk out of our lives forever.
So Saturday I will endure my aunt’s repeated attempts to offend me. I will endure my uncle’s fanatically conservative views. I will spend the day with my mother on her birthday and hope she smiles when she blows out the candles.
One of my favorite photos of my mother was from a birthday before I was born. There is a sepia tone to the photo and it is of her standing at a kitchen counter holding back her long straight black hair to blow out candles on a cake. My father had baked her that cake. It was round, white with lemon filling and icing. He forgot to put the lemon filling between the layers so he lathered it all over the top. Then he spread the icing on top of the filling. In the photo you can see the icing sliding off of the cake, running down the sides to a big glob on the plate. Despite this goopy birthday cake she is smiling from ear to ear because the man she loves has made a cake from scratch.
There is another photo from one of her birthdays. This time I am sitting in her lap. The cake is on a table in front of us. My mother is not smiling in this photo. Again, my father has baked the cake. He let me help until it came time to write Happy Birthday on the top in icing. Just below Happy Birthday he has written “to our favorite five letter woman”. To accompany the cake we have bought her a rhinestone necklace that spells “Bitch”. Looking back it is a miracle my mother didn’t grab her purse and cigarettes and walk out of our lives forever.
So Saturday I will endure my aunt’s repeated attempts to offend me. I will endure my uncle’s fanatically conservative views. I will spend the day with my mother on her birthday and hope she smiles when she blows out the candles.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Now Someone Else Can Be It
Since I was tagged by Inspired who was tagged by Sass I hurriedly produced the following answers before heading home for the evening. If you are reading this and get the urge to comment that I am a dork, DON'T.
10 Years Ago Today:
Two years away from getting my degree after seven uninspired years of college.
5 Years Ago Today:
Working for my father while he worked on giving me a bleeding ulcer.
1 Year Ago Today:
In a cubicle around the corner. Now I have an office with a door. Movin’ on up!
Yesterday:
In the same office with the door.
Tomorrow:
Anywhere but here?
5 Snacks:
Cheese and crackers, french fries, peanut M&Ms, spicy Cheetohs, more french fries (I am such a health nut)
5 Bands I know most of the lyrics:
Captain and Tenille (ask me about their concert in Tulsa, OK), Fleetwood Mac (thanks to Inspired), Tim McGraw (does that count as a band), can’t really complete all five.
5 things I would do with $1,000,000:
Buy a country and beach house, invest some, write a book then publish it myself, go to Europe
5 bad habits:
smoking, eating French fries with nearly every meal, leaving my shoes under the coffee table, starting a load of laundry but not finishing, thinking I am right about everything
5 things I like doing:
bantering and laughing with my partner, cubing cows, reading, drawing, hand written letters in the mailbox
5 locations I would run away to:
Mexico, New Orleans, New York, Las Vegas, Seaside Florida
5 things I would never wear:
knit caps, head bands, anything neon, a half shirt, white pumps
5 t.v. shows:
West Wing, Law & Order, Dateline, E True Hollywood Story, Average Joe
5 movies
Gone with the Wind, Coal Miners Daughter, Urban Cowboy, Man on Fire, Sound of Music
5 famous people I’d to meet:
David Sedaris, Michael Connelly, Augusten Burroughs, Bill Clinton, Carl Hiaasen
5 biggest joys at the moment:
the love of my life, our home, our dog, our cats, and her father’s ranch house
5 favorite toys:
my camera, the big lens for my camera, sadly I too don’t have enough toys
5 things on my bedside table:
last nights cup of water, two picture frames, an Aveda candle, a friend’s Esquire magazine that I promised to give back to her three weeks ago, the last book I read
5 things I save:
postcards, old letters, obituaries, book jackets although I normally do not put them back on the book after I have read them, ticket stubs, little hotel soaps and shampoo
5 things I won’t travel without:
a big bag for those tiny soaps and shampoos, a black and brown purse, portable dvd player for the plane, sunglasses, a carton of cigarettes
5 cd’s in my car:
none, I took them all out before heading to the ranch this weekend.
Since I was tagged by Inspired who was tagged by Sass I hurriedly produced the following answers before heading home for the evening. If you are reading this and get the urge to comment that I am a dork, DON'T.
10 Years Ago Today:
Two years away from getting my degree after seven uninspired years of college.
5 Years Ago Today:
Working for my father while he worked on giving me a bleeding ulcer.
1 Year Ago Today:
In a cubicle around the corner. Now I have an office with a door. Movin’ on up!
Yesterday:
In the same office with the door.
Tomorrow:
Anywhere but here?
5 Snacks:
Cheese and crackers, french fries, peanut M&Ms, spicy Cheetohs, more french fries (I am such a health nut)
5 Bands I know most of the lyrics:
Captain and Tenille (ask me about their concert in Tulsa, OK), Fleetwood Mac (thanks to Inspired), Tim McGraw (does that count as a band), can’t really complete all five.
5 things I would do with $1,000,000:
Buy a country and beach house, invest some, write a book then publish it myself, go to Europe
5 bad habits:
smoking, eating French fries with nearly every meal, leaving my shoes under the coffee table, starting a load of laundry but not finishing, thinking I am right about everything
5 things I like doing:
bantering and laughing with my partner, cubing cows, reading, drawing, hand written letters in the mailbox
5 locations I would run away to:
Mexico, New Orleans, New York, Las Vegas, Seaside Florida
5 things I would never wear:
knit caps, head bands, anything neon, a half shirt, white pumps
5 t.v. shows:
West Wing, Law & Order, Dateline, E True Hollywood Story, Average Joe
5 movies
Gone with the Wind, Coal Miners Daughter, Urban Cowboy, Man on Fire, Sound of Music
5 famous people I’d to meet:
David Sedaris, Michael Connelly, Augusten Burroughs, Bill Clinton, Carl Hiaasen
5 biggest joys at the moment:
the love of my life, our home, our dog, our cats, and her father’s ranch house
5 favorite toys:
my camera, the big lens for my camera, sadly I too don’t have enough toys
5 things on my bedside table:
last nights cup of water, two picture frames, an Aveda candle, a friend’s Esquire magazine that I promised to give back to her three weeks ago, the last book I read
5 things I save:
postcards, old letters, obituaries, book jackets although I normally do not put them back on the book after I have read them, ticket stubs, little hotel soaps and shampoo
5 things I won’t travel without:
a big bag for those tiny soaps and shampoos, a black and brown purse, portable dvd player for the plane, sunglasses, a carton of cigarettes
5 cd’s in my car:
none, I took them all out before heading to the ranch this weekend.
Classic Cars
My employer’s car alarm began cycling on and off at two o’clock this morning and would not shut off. This would not be a problem except that the car is parked in her business partner’s driveway and they are together in Italy. So I was left to find an extra key and disarm the thing which started me thinking about all of the cars I and my family has had in the past.
The first auto tragedy was when we lived in the ratty apartments mentioned in my previous entry. My father was a law student and my mother was supporting us on the salary she made as a dental assistant. Nice cars were not a luxury we could afford. We had a Torino. Most people reading this have probably never heard of a Torino. Alas at one time we owned a classic. Ours unfortunately was also a lemon. When my father went to start it one morning the engine burst into flames. Quick thinker that he is he ran into the apartment to fetch a pitcher of water. I am sure the fire department appreciated his effort.
The Torino was replaced by a Cutlass. Now, before we go any further it is important to know that my father cannot hold onto money. He is a dreamer and a spender. Always with the best of intentions but as I mentioned we were poor so no matter the intentions whatever it was we couldn’t afford it. So he bought my mother a pony for mother’s day while we were still living in an apartment. A horse has to eat so my parents hauled a bag of feed to the stable. The bag split and they spilled on the back floorboards. My father is also not one to clean up after himself so a half-hearted effort to remove the feed was made. Back to the Cutlass. The roof leaked so when it would rain the back floor boards would be underwater sloshing on every turn. Eventually the floor boards dried but the end result of the water/oat combination was a nice carpet of green that you didn’t even have to leave the car to walk barefoot through.
When my parents divorced I was eight. It was agreed that my mother and I would drive from Louisiana to New Jersey to stay with my uncle until my father finished school. We filled the car with as much as possible and set out for the Northeast. This must have been an awful time for my mother but she tried to keep things upbeat. She did however chain smoke her way out of town putting each cigarette out in the ashtray no less. One day driving along she put one too many in that ashtray and whole thing caught on fire. We pulled into a convenient store and my mother asked me to go inside and get a glass of water. Actually she screamed it in panic. Not one to stay calm cool and collected. I ran into the store announcing to the clerk that our car was on fire. By the time I ran out of the store clerk in tow my mother had removed the blazing ashtray and dumped its contents in the parking lot so she could stamp them out.
I feel bad for people whose parents had new wood paneled station wagons and shiny Cadillac’s. Look at the excitement they missed.
My employer’s car alarm began cycling on and off at two o’clock this morning and would not shut off. This would not be a problem except that the car is parked in her business partner’s driveway and they are together in Italy. So I was left to find an extra key and disarm the thing which started me thinking about all of the cars I and my family has had in the past.
The first auto tragedy was when we lived in the ratty apartments mentioned in my previous entry. My father was a law student and my mother was supporting us on the salary she made as a dental assistant. Nice cars were not a luxury we could afford. We had a Torino. Most people reading this have probably never heard of a Torino. Alas at one time we owned a classic. Ours unfortunately was also a lemon. When my father went to start it one morning the engine burst into flames. Quick thinker that he is he ran into the apartment to fetch a pitcher of water. I am sure the fire department appreciated his effort.
The Torino was replaced by a Cutlass. Now, before we go any further it is important to know that my father cannot hold onto money. He is a dreamer and a spender. Always with the best of intentions but as I mentioned we were poor so no matter the intentions whatever it was we couldn’t afford it. So he bought my mother a pony for mother’s day while we were still living in an apartment. A horse has to eat so my parents hauled a bag of feed to the stable. The bag split and they spilled on the back floorboards. My father is also not one to clean up after himself so a half-hearted effort to remove the feed was made. Back to the Cutlass. The roof leaked so when it would rain the back floor boards would be underwater sloshing on every turn. Eventually the floor boards dried but the end result of the water/oat combination was a nice carpet of green that you didn’t even have to leave the car to walk barefoot through.
When my parents divorced I was eight. It was agreed that my mother and I would drive from Louisiana to New Jersey to stay with my uncle until my father finished school. We filled the car with as much as possible and set out for the Northeast. This must have been an awful time for my mother but she tried to keep things upbeat. She did however chain smoke her way out of town putting each cigarette out in the ashtray no less. One day driving along she put one too many in that ashtray and whole thing caught on fire. We pulled into a convenient store and my mother asked me to go inside and get a glass of water. Actually she screamed it in panic. Not one to stay calm cool and collected. I ran into the store announcing to the clerk that our car was on fire. By the time I ran out of the store clerk in tow my mother had removed the blazing ashtray and dumped its contents in the parking lot so she could stamp them out.
I feel bad for people whose parents had new wood paneled station wagons and shiny Cadillac’s. Look at the excitement they missed.
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