Reality Computer

Second Part

2011-04-12T21:05:00.003-04:00

My father is a damnable man, so I shuck off his rage like the skin off corn.

There were nineteen of us borne to our mother and father. There we were in a Sears and Roebuck home built in the center of Saskatchewan. We piled on each other and yelled and scrapped the whole way through. When my mother couldn't have children anymore after the stillbirth, I was 24 and not a nickel to my name. I begged that old man for 100 acres and damned if he didn't deny me. He said he couldn't afford to take the loss but that was a lie. He spat that lie at me in his thick German. George and I looked at the books one night when my father was asleep. He had the pennies to set us up, George and me. All we wanted were wives and land to farm. But he wouldn't give us that. He wanted us to live and die on his farm without pay, without the company of women, without a chance in the world to stand on our own feet.

When mother adopted the little one off the orphan train and set her to work washing floors and beating rugs, I knew some of my pennies went down the hungry maw of the ingrate. And when my sisters were married off, I know my pennies were packed into their marriage trunks along with all the frippery of weddings. And that bastard still didn't give me my land.

When I went to church, I prayed to God and the Holy Mother to kill him. I imagined him trampled to death beneath the oxen pulling the plow. I saw him keeling into the soil and getting wrapped up in the short roots of wheat and suffocating. I saw myself with an axe...

The winters are so terribly long and dark. Nothing moves for fear of getting colder. The sky gets wider and paler. Look far enough and watch the earth curve to the sides. The land goes dull. Winter is a hard time.

Mother assuaged the little ones with stories of Alsace. She sung German and French songs. But when she started to smile and lose herself in the past, Father would curse her and remind her of the hellish Lutherans. Wars of kings. I cared little for history.

George and I taught ourselves English by reading catalogs and an English Bible. We spoke well enough to trade at the general store. Soon, Father entrusted us with the negotiations, but never the books. George wasn't strong in the maths, but I knew my way with numbers. I knew Father was hiding money.

First Part

2011-04-11T21:51:00.001-04:00

Brother Gil died of fever. His last view was from the bedroom window, looking over the hills. He was twelve. He burnt up and cooled off in one evening. He didn't make a sound. Our mother gathered him in her arms in the morning when the cock crowed. We buried him on a Sunday. The mound of fresh dirt looked like a promise. I helped our father dig the grave. We took special care to make it just so. Brother Gil had a nice box in which to lay; he liked right angles.

Our mother’s face sunk onto her teeth. She blessed the Sunday meal with a flat voice and went to bed after one piece of cornbread. Our father kept silent except for the clicking of his chewing teeth. Afterwards, he lit a pipe and kept the fire stoked. He stayed rocking in the glider and made the floorboards creak.

I wiped the table down, watching the crumbs travel in the grooves of the wood. I shook my foot this way and that. Dust shot out from around the legs of the table. It didn’t seem right that Brother Gil was dead and dust could do whatever it pleased. I let loose a tear but sucked my lip over my bottom teeth. I sucked my lip so hard it bled a little.

In town, people nodded to us knowingly. Most of them looked hungry. Some of the women wore clothes that draped their bony arms. Winter came hard and fast. Two of our cows wandered into a blizzard. We didn’t find them for two weeks. When we did, they were slick and bloated. Our father said it was a blessing we could not smell them--the cold air kept the flesh from stinking. John from the next farmstead came and helped our father drag the carcasses into the wood. The ground was frozen.

In the middle of winter, four farmhouses were set on fire. John said one of them was likely an accident. The other three were the work of incendiaries. I felt sorry for people who were so cold they would set their house on fire. But our father said it wasn’t to stay warm, but to get a new start.

Our mother kept mostly silent that winter. She said a blessing every night. Her eyes wandered toward the horizon during the day.

In January, John came down and sat with our father in front of the fire. He drank whiskey straight from a glinting flash. He sang a few songs. His voice was like rustling wheat. John had walked from Canada to set a farm up in the territory. He told our father the land was worse than what he had heard in Calgary. He told our father it was too damned much to farm it. He also told our father he was thinking about a mail order bride from Germany. Our father said it was a bad idea. Then, John looked at me for a long time. I felt ashamed but curious.

My hands shook the rest of the winter.

My husband might sue me for HIPPA violations.

2008-09-30T09:52:00.003-04:00

Michael found a painful lump in his mumble mumble area, so we went to the doctor. And the doctor did an ultrasound on his mumble mumble and it showed something weird, so the doctor referred Michael to a specialist of mumble mumbles. But this particular doctor was 'out-of-network', which is insurance speak for 'we-are-gonna-screw-you-hard'. And the specialist doctor said not to worry, Michael's mumble-mumble is fine but if it gets really painful, he can remove the source of the pain upon securing a credit report and a share of ownership on our first born child. And Michael had to go for a follow-up test at a hospital, and that test showed that everything truly is fine. And so Michael doesn't have cancer and still has his dignity (sorta), and we're all happy. Except that Michael's mumble still hurts from time to time.

Then we got a bill from our insurance, which indicates that two ultrasounds and a magnetic imaging test actually comes to a total of 1.5 million dollars, and we have to pay about half of that based on our insurance policy. Now, of course, we are completely and wholly to blame for this deductible because I refused to join the 'Quit-the-Nic' program to receive better benefits. Yes, that's right, the insurance company grabbed my ovaries by my fallopian tubes and told me that in order to get decent insurance, I had to quit smoking because people who smoke are obviously not worthy enough of fair pricing. And I did go on several rants over the phone about how insurance companies should not legislate lifestyles because, after all, they don't cover jackshit anyway and if I do get lung cancer, it can't be correlated to JUST smoking, it could have to do with eating lead or breathing in methane and when I mentioned this to the insurance agent, she told me that Blue Cross does not cover alternative medicine for cancer.

But Michael just got on the phone and talked turkey to some chick and got the bill reduced to $20. Which is great. It just proves that not only are insurance companies biased against smokers and drinkers and drug-users, insurance companies are also sexist.

Upon Finishing A Shrug

2008-07-27T18:36:00.004-04:00

The weaving in of ends is tedious, and by the second sleeve, I'm exhausted. The whole shoulder might unravel. The sleeves hug my biceps too closely, and distort the lines of the fabric. One side of the cabling is larger than the other, because I lost count of the pattern, and went my own way. It's a crooked shrug.

See there? It's all a-tilt and hangs almost straight.

I try it on in the afternoon, when the sun is highest, and the breeze through the windows does not penetrate the knit. I know it will be warm about my arms and back come fall, but the shrug seems oppressive, now. I'm lumpy in the mirror, this lopsided face of mine staring back and taking in the tomato color of yarn. I'm colorless in this bright poppy. Sanguinity has never been a feature of which I can boast.

I pull on the edges a bit, trying to straighten them out. Knitting holds memory well, though, and the stitches refuse to budge, though I've dampened the hem and yanked and pulled. Ah, me. The past cannot be erased. What's done is done, what's made cannot go unmade unless I destroy the garment in its entirety.

Even then, the yarn remembers the bumps and purls. It would take many washings for the cotton to relax. By then, the cotton would be little more than a shredded bit of fiber, lying like a pool of blood at my feet. So, unraveling is right out.

Instead, I take the shrug off and fold it. It will live in my closet until the time is right to bring it out and wear it (one time) in the fall, at an anonymous place where no one knows I knit, and I can say: "A friend made it for me; it's an amateur attempt--see how badly the sleeves are set in?"

But then, it occurs to me. Because of my scoliosis, my shoulders are uneven. I don the sweater again. Wait...yes, it's true. On my crooked frame, the sweater sits evenly. The bottom edges are aligned, as are the sleeves. Upon closer inspection, I see I have no problem with the shrug itself. It's the wearer of the garment of whom I am critical.

So I shrug. So be it. I'm a crooked person, off kilter and tempo. My shrug is just right for me; I was knitting it correctly the whole time. I was making it for myself. And as I balance upon my slanted hips and quirky knees, I think for just a moment, if the world was righted on its axis, I would be standing straight, and everything else would just fall over in a heap.

I do believe I'll wear this sad little thing, and be proud of it. My bent hands crafted it, and though it be awry, it be a-right for me.

Bang.

2008-07-21T20:04:00.005-04:00

The first time I shot a gun, I cried.

See, the instructor was telling me to "squeeze the trigger--be gentle with it--like a baby--just squeeze it--" and I'm squinting at my sights and I'm trying to see my target and I'm just hovering on that trigger, nudging it back little by little and then BANG, the gun goes off.

The barrel jerks upward.

A hot shell flies down my shirt, burning my breast. Adrenaline rushes at the sound and the smell of the gun smoke and I am scared, I mean, fucking TERRIFIED of that sound still ringing in my ears, even with the orange headphones hugging my ears.

Shooting a gun, even at a paper target, is a violent act.

Owning a gun, whether it's a right, or a defense, or hunting paraphernalia, or a tactical sport, is engaging in violence. Teaching children how to safely handle firearms is teaching them about violence. If a gun lesson to a child does not begin with words like, "This is a machine designed to kill," then the lesson is incomplete.

Before I shot a gun, I had never heard live fire before. The only bits of gunfire I had heard was on television. But on a firing range, the guns are very loud. The firing line is covered in spent shells. And there is a row of people with their fingers on the triggers. BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM! The air is acrid and smoky. Some people have multiple weapons; they are shooting Desert Eagles and Glocks and AR15's.

A month earlier, a young man shot off his calf muscle at the same range as I. He didn't pull his finger out of the trigger guard. Sure, one would think that's obvious...get your finger off the trigger, get your finger off the trigger, don't do a GODDAMN THING with your finger in that trigger...but it's not always easy to remember. Sometimes, one forgets.

Sometimes, a person isn't always sure of where the muzzle of his weapon is. Two lanes down, I see a guy shoot at a target and then wave at his teacher with his gun. "C'mere! Lookit what I did!" You almost shot someone dead, is what you did.

After my first shot, I quit crying. I just started shaking.

After one clip, my shooting was so terrible, the instructor asked me to stop for the day and go home.

Two months later, I finally qualified with a Glock 17. I could go out in the field as a probation officer and not need any other officer to accompany me.

I was a state certified officer with a weapon. I had a badge and a gun and handcuffs. I had a bullet-proof vest and a can of mace. I did my job for four years, supervising an average of 150 active adult felons. I went to their homes, at night, with no radio. I found that a smile, and a warm voice, could put these people at ease even though I was in their home, going through their belongings, sitting next to their children.

I pulled my weapon twice, and I regret each time I did, because that meant in my mind, I was ready to kill another individual. Kill a person. Take a person's life. Keep him from living. Keep his heart from beating. Keep his brain from functioning.

I don't argue with people who own guns. It's still a Constitutional right. It will probably remain a right for a long time. Gun laws and gun control and rules and legislation don't stop people from shooting guns. None of that stuff will make a difference in America's love affair with weapons. Sadly, criminals will always be able to buy guns legally from private dealers or illegally from street dealers.

I just remember the fear my gun invoked inside of me. I just remember being aware of it all the time ("There's a gun in my closet. There's a gun in my cabinet drawer. There's a gun on top of my refrigerator.")
And I remember the relief of handing my gun back when I was fired. I remember crying then, too. It's over, I thought.

I'll never have to fire this thing again.

And my face broke out into a smile.

Friday Rats

2008-07-18T18:26:00.002-04:00

Bummer.

I was so geared up to see The Dark Knight at our local IMAX theater. It would appear that even in the tumultuous economy of the metro-Detroit area, folks just love their Batman. Apparently, folks are out in droves going to see this movie. The last place I want to be is knuckle-deep in popcorn grease while three hundred adolescents fart their way through two and a half hours of film. Christian Bale deserves better. So do I.

Therefore, we will dine at the illustrious Applebee's so that I can benefit from their Weight Watcher's menu. Then, we shall return home for knitting and The Savages. Tomorrow, I will see The Batman.

Meanwhile: (Not VERY safe for work, completely offensive, all my gay friends hate me, etc.) Please see the following video.
.

Anticlimactic

2008-07-16T21:41:00.002-04:00

I am desperately trying to get the writing bug. I am not catching it. Therefore, I sit and whine and mope about not writing and then when I go to write, I can't access it. I have very little to report. I could tell you about my job, but that's gotten me fired before. I could make up stories about vacations and fabulous relaxing retreats in Europe, but none of that will ever happen to a girl like me. I could describe my garden in detail, but I think it's wilting a little bit. I could chat about me me me, but really, that's very ego-centric.

Everything that gets me upset gets everyone else upset, too, and half the time, lots of other people have written about being upset in the same way I would describe my upsetness, so that's out. Yes, Bush is bad. Yes, I am voting for Obama. Yes, I am disturbed how racist many voters are. Yes, teenage vampire whores are causing our children to suffer from ADD and PTSD and OCD and Asperger's. Meh. Whatever.

Here's the raw deal, I think. I've lost all my creativity to humdrum living. It's no one's fault but my own. I work myself into exhaustion, save just enough energy to knit, and the rest of my waking hours are spent wishing for the weekend to come and get me the hell up out of this rut. I need a break, man. Or a great big fat doobie.

Also, this article depresses me, despite my 9 pound weight loss. I think I'm just going to be fat forever, dammit.

Well, that's Poopy

2008-07-15T20:55:00.003-04:00

Borrowing from Nick, I thought I would review one book. I would tell you that more reviews are to come, but that wouldn't be fair, because I re-read Jane Austen over and over since I'm too lazy to go to the library and pick out something new. And really, who needs another dissertation on Pride and Prejudice's repressive sexuality? No one, that's who.

The other night, I watched the movie Children of Men. After watching the movie, I went home and put my head in the microwave. Never had I watched something so cliche and so gruesome. It disturbed me greatly. I didn't want to, but I borrowed the book from a friend and read it in a day.

While P.D. James is eloquent and well-written (in a very British way), she becomes so Victorian in her writing that one loses momentum. But the pages do get to turning as the reader waits (hopes! prays!) something interesting is going to happen. And interesting things do happen, eventually. Some people die, some other people have things happen to them, and in the end, some people get their just desserts. So, okay, for a read on the weekend, have a go at this book.

But here's where I get disappointed. The pretense of the book is phenomenal. I love it. There are many places James could have gone with this book--it could have wound up as the next Lord of the Flies or Fahrenheit 451 or something else prolific and astounding and thought-provoking. But it doesn't. The punch doesn't follow through to the cheekbone. I'm waiting for the "WHAM" and all I get is the "whiz".

I had this same problem with the movie "Jumpers". I know, tragically awful movie. But just think of what it COULD have been. This is the problem I have with this book. I recommend the book for a car ride or a really boring Sunday. But I would not try to replace Miss Austen with it.

I have also decided that reviewing books is not my forte. I'll stick to mindless blather.

Malcontent

2008-07-13T22:09:00.002-04:00

To hell with you, Weight Watchers!

I am eating my Dannon yogurt sprinkled with a one-point cardboard cake from WW, and I am NOT TRACKING IT.

Nope. It does not even exist, and it shan't appear on my hips. It is a MEASLY five points, and while I have exhausted all of my extra points for the week (and I'm several days away from weigh-in), I will not begrudge myself coffee yogurt. After all, I did not have a second glass of wine or my obligatory Sunday Bloody Mary.

I just finished eating my sub par dessert, and now I feel absolutely wretched. Here's to another week of not being able to curb my appetite.

Additionally, some advice: If you are suffering from sciatica, it is sagely suggested you stay far away from bicycles and their seats. Ow.

Name Calling

2008-07-12T11:17:00.002-04:00

I work four ten hour days. That means I do not work on Fridays. I know, it rules.

Here is the part that does NOT rule: leaving the house at 6:30 am.

At that time of the day, I do not have the wherewithal, the chutzpah, the *verve* to make coffee. So, I go to Starfucker's.

At 6:30 in the morning, there is rarely a line at Starfucker's drive through, because everyone else is sane and still in bed. There is just me, groggily staring over my steering wheel, hoping to coordinate my feet and my hands at the same time.

And every morning, I show up at the drive-through, and the same lady asks me for my order. Every morning, I look UP AT THE CAMERA and tell her exactly what I want, and that order never changes. And EVERY SINGLE MORNING, she asks me for my name.

Really?

First of all, there's no one else with whom to confuse me. I'm the only one in line. Second of all, you have a monitor in which you can see my face. Thirdly, if this is some corporate attempt at getting to know me, she SUCKS, because I am there EVERY MORNING, and if she doesn't know my name by now, then clearly she cannot be trusted to make one (1!) grande bold coffee with two shots of espresso, two creams, and one Splenda.

So: here has been the recent dialog:

Me: I'll have a grande bold coffee with two shots espresso, two creams, and one Splenda.
SF's Employee: Will that be all?
Me (Eye-rolling): YES.
SF's Employee: And can I have your name?
Me: Castro.

Of late, I've been on a communist kick. Monday, I was Frida. Tuesday, I was Castro. Wednesday found me as Che G., and Thursday, I was Lenin.

She never laughs. She never acknowledges my strange names. In fact the one time she guffawed at my name is when I said "Fritz."

Why don't I just start giving my name out as "Grande Bold Coffee"?

Phat-Tee's

2008-07-12T01:29:00.002-04:00

Can we agree on some basic concepts, please?

For example, can we agree that Americans eat too much? Is that really up for debate? Don't we live in a culture of face-stuffers? Face-stuffers who love fast food and bacon? Isn't that, like, totally apparent to every single person with five brain cells?

And don't we, as a nation, use up resources five times as fast as everyone else? Don't we suck up natural resources and fossil fuels and hardwoods like a mega-consuming caterpillar working on its metamorphisis into the Titanic?

Look. The calories I consume each day could probably sustain a pachyderm for a week. I'll admit it. I have an eating problem. I enjoy eating, and it's really easy for me to eat. If I'm too lazy to haul my big ass over to the grocery store, there's myriad opportunities to feast in other places. Like 7-11 or all these damn Coney Island joints; in a mile radius around my home, there are six--SIX--diners in which I can order one four-egg sausage and cheese omelette with a side of hashbrowns and toast. And every weekend, I eat at one of those establishments.

And here we are, a nation of overwieght people with poor self-esteem, eating ourselves right into a food crisis. We eat and then feel guilty about it, and then we go buy clothing to fit our big butts. And then, we feel worse, so we drive our big cars over to our big supercenters where we buy diet food in bulk and when we're all done eating warmed-up cardboard, we poop in mega-toilets.

I didn't think this was, like, news. Apparently, not everyone agrees with me.

Over at Slate, this uber-hip news/commentary blog thingy (I don't know, I just found out about it yesterday), some scrotal sac has condemned the movie Wall-E because it equivocates laziness with fat people and the end of the world. He claims that people who are fat are innocent bystanders in their self-destruction. It's all controlled by genetics! Just because we're fat doesn't mean we're guilty of massive consumption! Fat people aren't to blame! Wall-E mocks fat people! "The new Pixar movie goes out of its way to equate obesity with environmental collapse!"

Um, actually, it talks about people being so lazy, they don't notice all the garbage they are creating until one day, when it's obvious that the trash ain't going away. But because they're so lazy, they decide to go into space and litter up there. And then people get used to sitting around and letting other little robot things do stuff for them, so folks don't really have a need to walk or move heavy objects and then....dum dum dum...humans get fat.

I'm sorry, I thought this was an animated film. Seems pretty true to life to me, yeah?

Do we really have the time to convince ourselves that we are not to blame for the state we're in? Can we ignore our failing bodies and lack of health precautions, blaming big bones and bad genes? Or shouldn't we take some action now, and stop consuming so much, and start taking longer walks, and eat really good, really yummy, really healthy food?

We cannot afford to make excuses for the way we live, and the destruction we're wreaking on our land? And if one stupid, silly animated movie makes us think about the future, then how can it be a bad thing?

Thanks,
One of those Fatties

My Most Delicious Lunch

2008-07-11T12:56:00.005-04:00

I would have taken a picture of my lunch, but my camera's battery was apparently being borrowed by someone else. Ahem, honey.

In mid-April, my dear friend Ilex of Homesteading in a Condo came over and put in my first kitchen garden. A box made from untreated cedar harnesses the garden; she worked tirelessly and grew the plants herself from her own seedlings. All of this work and effort intimidated me--she is venturing into a new business selling gardens to people who rent or live in condos and apartments. She is also trying to educate individuals that gardening is not difficult. I don't believe her, as I am not a gardener. I have managed to slay hostas in a single week, and tulips wilt if I should come near. So, this kitchen garden was as much an attempt at keeping something alive as it was an opportunity to cut down on grocery and fuel costs and avoid salmonella. Lo and behold, my garden is flourishing.

As are my squash plants.

My basil, while hidden underneath the squash plants (along with my beans and cucumbers and peppermint and eggplant) are doing quite well, too. So! With a perfect pesto recipe in hand, I went shopping for the rest of my meal, as my tomatoes still have a good month until they are ripe.

Here's what I made:

Perfect Pesto:
(adaptation of Ilex's fresh pesto)

1/4 cup chopped pine nuts
1/4 cup fresh grated parmigiano-reggiano cheese
1/3 cup extra extra extra virgin olive oil
1 clove of garlic
1 cup of fresh basil

Chop up the basil leaves and pine nuts. Dump everything in a bowl and mix it up. Add a splash of balsamic vinegar and a couple dashes of salt. Set aside.

Italian Ratatouille (Yes, I made that up)
Serves 2
1 organic Vidalia onion
1 fresh yellow squash, picked from your garden, preferably. (Pick them when they have grown 6-8 inches, or be like me, and wait for them to become huge phallic beasts and whack off one half of the end and toss...mmph)
3 Roma tomatoes.
Another clove of garlic, pressed.

Parboil the tomatoes for about one minute. Take them out of the saucer and rub ice all over them. This allows the skins to separate from the fruit. Peel the tomatoes and slice in nice big chunks.

Meanwhile, saute the onions and squash with more olive oil. Takes about five minutes on medium high. When done, dump everything in a bowl (or, for nice looks, place the tomatoes directly on top on the squash and onions). Splash it all with a teaspoon (or a cup, whatev) of olive oil. Sprinkle some of that fancy cheese on it. Let your eyes feast on the beautiful colors, but not for long, lest everything get cold.

Sit down with a glass of wine. Red, preferably. Do this at noon on your day off, and you're already content.

Cover your Italian Ratatouille with your homemade pesto. Have some bread on the side, to make it more pastoral.

Enjoy the scintillating textures of nuts and soft squash, crunchy onions, and chewy basil. I don't think there is a better flavor than this--a meaty vegetarian dish including the product of your own labor.

Ah, contentment.

Those Damn Punk Kids

2008-07-08T20:41:00.002-04:00

Last week, my car was burgled.

All right, let me stop there. I really wanted to use the word 'burgled' in a sentence, but the truth is, we may as well have hung a sign over it reading, "Free Cycle!". We (and by saying 'we', I mean someone in my marriage who is not me) accidentally left the car unlocked and we parked it in the street.

It is a good thing I do not allow my possessions to define me. If I did THAT, I would be extremely sore about the items stolen. I think I'll list those items, now:

-My new navigation system. I was lost without it, quite literally. Now, I am all lost again.
-My older Nano.
-My silly RoadTrip device that allowed me to listen to my older Nano via the cigarette lighter.
-My D&G sunglasses that cost half of a paycheck. I mention these only for the sentimental value; Michael bought them for me the day before my wedding. What an ultra-ridiculous, glamorous gift!
-My body spray.

Here's the real problem: I have a strong suspicion of 'hoo-done-it'. It's those punk kids down the street.

Mmm hmm, I am aware that I referred to a group of teenagers as punk kids. These are the kind of67 kids whom I feared in high school. There is a leader, and he is skinny. He has a Bad Attitude. He smokes in front of his parents' home and swears at small animals. He Litters. His flock includes one severely overweight boy with thin lips, a cousin of small proportion, and a smattering of female teenagers, all drawn to this young man's 'charisma'.

Last summer, the gang walked down the streets with baseball bats, swinging them threateningly at old ladies. They do not go to school, as far as I can tell, because they are out in the streets through every season. They have a gang vehicle--it is an aged Buick with wide headlights and cruft dents. It must not often have gas in it, because I am more likely to see them sitting in the car with the radio playing rather than tearing up and down the roads. These punk kids drive me bat-shit crazy.

I give them the evil eye at every opportunity. I squint them with my laser eyeballs. I have stared them all down at least once, and I make sure they know I am watching them when I hang out in front of my house. I am convinced they despise me. This evening, as I pulled into my driveway, I revved the engine when I saw them and glared at them. And then, as I turned off my car, I realized:

These kids were probably never going to get very far in life. They didn't have much of a chance, period. Their parents are never around, and have never instilled discipline. The opportunities for these punks to get jobs and make money and give back to the community are slim-to-none. In ten years, I could most likely drive down this same street and find them sitting in their car, listening to the radio. I know they have already experimented with drinking, as bottles are often strewn about their yard and one of them seems perpetually drunk. I don't think they are going to have many chances to succeed. They certainly don't seem very happy.

In the end, I don't have any proof these punk kids are responsible for the theft of my items. I'd like to think they did it, because then I could carry around some anger and resentment towards them, and anger and resentment are key to living a fulfilling life. But then, I guess, there is a softer side. Perhaps, it's my role to smile at them. Perhaps, they are not safe and loved. Maybe I'm supposed to turn the other cheek and gently wish them well. It is one thing to steal from unlocked cars, but quite another to be robbed of a good life. Possibly, it might not be wise to get angry over this kind of thing. Rather, I should love my neighbors and their punk kids. I mean, what harm can a little love do?

Also: I'll be much more vigilant about locking the car doors.

I have plenty of time.

2008-07-07T20:43:00.003-04:00

I keep telling myself that I am too old for grad school. I can't afford it! I'm not very bright! I don't know what I want to do when I grow up! I have a new kitten! I don't have the time!

Well. I just took a 'life expectancy' quiz, and despite my weight, smoking, and cholesterol problems, I am going to live to the age of 102.

Shit.

I will never make enough money to sustain that kind of retirement. I better ante up on the smoking or consider a more lucrative career.

Maybe I should just go to fu*king grad school.

Behold! The Power of Kittens!

2008-07-03T21:01:00.000-04:00

Ever looked around at your sad lot in life and thought: "Geez, a kitten would really make this place a lot nicer"?
Well, we had that thought. So I would like to introduce the world to Persephone Hallifax.
That's Miss Percy, to you.

Oddly enough, Delilah does not seem to think kittens improve life that much.
She remains...bitter.

For My Friends

2008-06-28T13:31:00.005-04:00

Photo: Mike Cottle

"Life is all memory except for the one present moment that goes by you so quick you hardly catch it going."
-Tennessee Williams

My existential crisis continues.

I realize I have lost friends since I've moved to Michigan. My life is not long enough to keep them all. I have not continued to follow my friends' paths; I don't know what woods they find themselves in--I cannot take the same inroads to catch up. The grasses have grown up so tall and I can't whack enough weeds down, so I am going a different way.

In the quiet moments, when I am knitting to the hum of the refrigerator, I think about the few people I've known who have died. I wonder about them; do they raise a glass for me, wherever they are? Or are they now so far along their roads that they cannot look back and find me here, sitting in my living room at daybreak, catching yarn between my needles, flipping my skeins this way and that? While I wonder about them, I smile. I put that smile into my garment, and hope that my finishing techniques do them justice.

I think about my other friends often. What are they doing right now? Have I been replaced by newer, more exciting counterparts? Are my friends laughing or crying? Are they going on exotic vacations or fixing the roofs of their homes? Are they getting married? Perhaps some of them have become alcoholics. Maybe a few have broken up with longtime partners. Maybe some of them are extremely wealthy--maybe they are bankrupt. Does Maria still ride her motorcycle (ah, the long rides we would take in summer, the smell of cottonwood and baked asphalt in the Georgia heat, the shimmering skies above the hills, and the curves of Hwy. 118)?

There is only time and memory behind me, and only time in front of me. I am absent without my friends--my existence is only validated by others--the comings and goings of relationships. Otherwise, it would be only quietness. So, I am quiet for my friends, wherever they may be, wherever they may go, whatever memories they make.

I think I'll take up drop-spindling and watch roving become yarn, dropped to the floor, threading up like the Fates' linens. There, I will find myself, contemplating the simple act of time, spreading around my feet.

This next stitch, then, shall be for my friends. The one after shall be for me. The following one shall be for the world. Then I shall make a stitch in time, too.

Mandatory Writing

2008-06-10T21:09:00.003-04:00

Suddenly, I find myself 29 years old. Merciful heavens, but I am aging.

There is this urge to reconnect, to look up people online and find out what all has been accomplished. So I get to moving: I sign up on three different 'networking' sites and browse by high school and college class and bam. I get what I ask.

Pictures and blogs and citings and mishaps and photos and travels and babies and grad schools--people have been mightily industrious while I've been sitting around. People have been doing things. In fact, I'm aghast at how grown up we all are--that, in of itself, is a feat which I never considered. And so I sit, glancing at photos, a voyeur of these high school fellows. I am not much different now as I was then, staring at people walking down hallways, musing about their lives and hairstyles. Constantly comparing myself to their achievements and reckonings. So-and-so is in France, so-and-so is a lawyer and a social worker and a volunteer for Habitat for Humanity and in her spare time, she knits sweaters for children in Mongolia.

I live in Detroit with a wonderful husband and a cat. I work forty hours a week at a job that is mildly interesting. After that, I am home, knitting or gardening or drinking coffee. This past weekend, Michael and I went to Chicago and did tourist-y things. That was the most thrilling thing we've done since last February, when we moved to this Godforsaken part of the world (N.B. I do love Detroit).

I'm having an existential crisis, thanks to these damnable networking sites. Today, I joined Weight Watchers. Next week, I'm going to a Buddhist temple in order to master the refined art of deprivation and meditation. Next month, I'm enrolling in a graduate program (of what study, I know not. I just have to have more education). Three months from now, I'll be pregnant and learning how to trim topiary. In thirteen months, I will be in Indonesia (baby strapped to my breast), learning Sanskrit and strange yoga poses. One year from now, I will be on the cover of Time Magazine (husband and baby in tow), featured for solving the world's global food crisis (kitchen gardens, duh).

Maybe then, I can face the past.

But the teachings of the Yogis proclaim I must guard myself from these thoughts--these misconceptions of the importance (or unimportance) of my own life. All of these things seem totally egocentric. So: I will meditate. I will try to control my food instead of my food controlling me. I will smile more and have faith in my smile. And maybe (just maybe) I'll think about going back to school. But most importantly, I will love and respect myself.

I will look forward to seeing me in the mirror, and giving to that person as I would anyone else. God is good. Hamas. I am That.

I'm ALL that, and a bag of chips.

Yes, I Knit

2008-05-04T13:16:00.000-04:00

The Chipotle Bag

A bag for my mother, felted. Used Cascade 220; designed the bag myself based on various patterns found in the internet ether. The faux cable-cross stitch is taken from Nicky Epstein's Knitting Never Felt Better book--

Notes:
1. Grommets are a necessary evil. Though useful, they prove to be tempermental.
2. Weighted cord in I-cord creates wonderful handles that will not stretch out.
3. No matter what I think, nothing ever shrinks up as much as I hope.
4. More fabric/yarn stores should be open on Sundays.

Shorts, The Garment That Leaves Me Wanting More

2008-04-19T17:12:00.003-04:00

In Michigan, people take sunshine seriously. We get a good three months of the stuff before we all become troll-like hoody-wearing bums. So it's not surprising to see people in shorts when it's like...45 degrees out. Because 45, people, is considered 'balmy' here in Michigan.

Now, I don't wear shorts for a number of cosmetic reasons. I have a theory that the friction created by my thighs rubbing together long enough could possibly create enough energy to power a small weed-trimmer, but I'm holding off on researching this until we either run out of power or I find myself needing to trim something. So, I stick to those abominable fashion mutants--capris and gauchos. But I do not begrudge others their shorts. Hell, if you wanna get melanoma all over your calves and knees, that's cool.

Here's where I have the problem: shorts up to the ol' catamaracker. The fabric that makes up shorts is apparently threatened to the point of extinction, since no manufacturer is using enough to really create an appearance of modesty. Additionally, the shortness of the pant hem is also coupled with this horrible muffin-top fad...pants are sinking around the waistband. This leads to the undesirable affect of seeing all of the back of some overpriced thong when some broad is sitting down. Of course, by sitting, the broad's shorts ride even further up the leg into the black hole that is NOT what you are thinking, but that crease between the lower abdomen and the top of the thigh. The result? A picture worthy of National Geographic, except now, all the loin clothes are in the urban jungle, instead of the real jungle.

I was at an outdoor cafe last night. It was roasting hot (about 70 degrees), and I was sipping a gorgeous, lightly hopped micro-brew. I had the cigarette going, and the nachos were on their way. It could get no better. Then, a gaggle of broads in short shorts sat at the table next to mine. The chicky who sat directly behind me yanked her chair into mine and flung her obnoxiously bleached hair into my naturally (superior) blonde hair. I snorted loudly, slammed my beer down (jolting the head around, dammit), and spun around in my chair. Of course, she was completely oblivious to me, but I was not oblivious to the opportunity that presented itself. She had a two inch gap between her actual waist and her waist band.

I finished my dinner in moderate comfort, though the giggling and smacking and general vulgarity of the party next to me was rather annoying, as was the foot traffic that suddenly increased to my part of the patio. (While I won't pretend to understand why, these kinds of women actually attract men.) I paid my bill, smiled serenely at my husband, and took out a nail file from my purse.

I turned around in my chair as I gathered my purse in my lap. I inserted the nail file into the gap of blonde chicky's waistband. I then stood up and walked quickly away.

Now, I do not know if the girl in the atom-sized shorts actually felt me put the nail file there or if she merely ignored the sensation. I do know that my behavior was strange and pointless, but it felt wonderful to me. In fact, I wasn't even original in this--a friend of mine shared an experience about someone who knew someone who actually did this to someone else...

I don't really know what more to say on this subject. Ladies, if you want to go around naked, then do it. But please. When wearing shorts, make sure you don't have to surgically extract them at the end of the day. And if you don't, you may find more in your crack than you bargained for.

Floggings.

2008-04-08T19:19:00.002-04:00

I was at Starfucker's today, getting my usual dose of over-priced caffiene which will most assuredly kill me in the end, when this asshole sidled up to the counter, asked for a cup of coffee, and began berating the barista (or whatever the hell coffee people call themselves) because she asked him 'too many questions'. That's what he said, right there in front of Allah and everyone: "I come in here every morning, and no one has ever asked me this many questions! Just give me the damn coffee!"

It was 7 o'clock in the morning.

Really?

Who has the energy to be such a dick that early in the morning?

I saw him climb into his (big fucking surprise) huge goddam SUV. From there, he clipped his bluetooth thingy on his ear, put the car in reverse, and almost mowed down two old ladies walking into the store. Instead of doing the easy thing (stick his pinhead out the window and say "Oh, man, am I sorry!"), he honked at them. Honked! As though it was their fault to be standing near his gigantor vehicle! The bastard!

I ran outside with my coffee and threw my coffee on the back of his car. Not the cup, just the fluid. He didn't stop, probably because he didn't see me, but if he had, he would have seen my angry face. It's serious, people. I look like a gladiator when I put on my angry face. I've broken up a lot of fights at strip clubs with my angry face. But he didn't see my angry face, because his booster seat wasn't tall enough for him to look out the rear-view window.

I went back into the Starfucker's and asked for another cup of coffee (but using the same cup--after all, I am conscious of our depleted Earth).

Do you know, I didn't even get a free cup of coffee? After defending the honor of two old ladies and a barista, I couldn't even get a refill?

What the hell is wrong with people?

And now, for something completely different:

I hate that show Little People, Big World. Just because you need a footstool to get up to the sink does not make you worthy enough to have your own damn television show. If you're all about being included, then stop exploiting your 'handicap'. You're just short, you're not miraculous.

April 30, 1917

2008-03-30T09:13:00.003-04:00

My grandmother was born 91 years ago. Her name is Anne Gordon Doring nee Ross. I call her Grangie.

My grandmother is dying. Right now, in Arizona, my mother sits by her side as hospice workers care for Grangie 'round the clock.

She waited for my mother to get to Arizona before she fell silent. The morphine and methadone keep her comfortable enough, but she no longer eats nor speaks. For a few days, she suffered hallucinations. Her facial expressions mimicked those of a woman in labor; a nurse told my mother Grangie is remembering those pains. My mother says she looks like a dolly, but Grangie is no longer pliable. It is as though her mind has already escaped, and now we wait for her body to catch up.

Pictures of my grandmother in her youth are refreshing reminders of her fabulous life. She was born into wealth, but she never 'acted' wealthy. She told me of her days in college, spent flitting around to parties, getting sauced, skipping classes, having fun, reading. Oh, she was always reading some wonderful novel or terrific commentary. She traveled extensively. She worked for the wife of the owner of Carson Pierre Scott, so her buying trips would take her to far-off Egypt, the Orient, Paris, Germany, England. Her summers (as well as my mother's and my own) found her at Madeline Island in Lake Superior, where the days were languid and filled with trees and lemonade and long walks along the beach. I remember her wading into that frigid Lake Superior water without batting an eye.

My grandmother was a Daughter of the Revolution. She is a direct descendant of Queen Mary of Scots, as well as a Mayflower descendant. She was a gardener of pear trees and flowers. My grandmother was always an active member of her church, whether it be the Episcopal cathedral in Chicago or the quiet sanctuary in Tucson, Arizona. She adored my grandfather, a formidable and handsome man. When my grandmother met my grandfather, she was engaged to a doctor, but knew immediately that her heart belonged to a poor man with strong character. My grandfather joined the Marines and served in WWII; when he came home, he met his daughter (my mother) for the first time.

She wrote such long letters, filled with bits of her days. She visited the sick weekly. She drank gin martinis and smoked; she never officially quit any of those activities because in her mind, it was still the catchy thing to do. In her younger days, she wore Chanel suits and riding boots. As she aged, she tended toward bright, tent-like dresses and loafers. But style was never of the utmost importance. Cocktail hour, though, was very important. Cocktails and bridge. My word, that woman has been playing bridge since 1925, and until recently, she was still cheating at it. "Oh, did I do that?" she would always ask with a glint in her eye as she surreptitiously switched cards around or accidentally dropped one in her lap.

Grangie and I always lived far apart. By the time I was born, she and Grandpa had moved to Arizona, but I spent many weeks with them in the summertime. One summer, she and I were alone at the cottage on Madeline Island, and I remember how wonderful it was to be cared for by her. It meant lots of naps and strange food (like duck pate) for breakfast. It meant slow walks to town for ice cream and socializing with the neighbors. It was a pristine summer of sun and joy and many, many books.

Grangie and I are duplicates. My mother laughs at our similarities. On a beautiful day, one could easily find Grangie and I inside the house with the window open, snoozing, rather than doing anything productive. Grangie and I are social butterflies and like to be the life of the party, but we aren't concerned about details like cleanliness or fresh napkins. "After all," Grangie would sniff, "that's what the help is for." Of course, Grangie hadn't had help for over sixty years when she was retired, but I believe she still thought she had help, and that was what counted.

How can a life be wrapped up in one writing? It cannot. But for her, I wish wish wish I could show the world what an extraordinary life she led, what a kind soul she was, what an elf she could be. I wish I had known her as a young woman; I believe we would have gotten on fabulously.

On Thursday, my mother held the phone to Grangie's ear while I told her goodbye. She made soft sounds, like she recognized my voice. I would like to think so. I would like her to know that I intend to carry on her legacy of divine class, outstanding humor, and reluctant task-completion. I would like her to know that I believe in reading, and in card games, and in beautiful gardens. I hope she knows that I love my husband with the same verve she loved hers. We are cut from the same cloth, and I am a lucky woman for having such a magnificent lady of a grandmother.

Now, I only have the hope of my grandmother's heaven. I hope it is filled with songs of Artie Shaw and Tommy Dorsey, of good coffee and better wine, and of endless summer breezes that lift my grandmother's auburn locks and twist them round her bright blue eyes. And her friends. I hope she could be with them and her husband and all of them, chuckling at how wonderful it all is, how absolutely astounding life is. I hope with all my might she can go with a smile and some mirth, and that her beyond is as rich as her life.

Wind on the Hill

No one can tell me,
Nobody knows,
Where the wind comes from,
Where the wind goes.

It's flying from somewhere
As fast as it can,
I couldn't keep up with it,
Not if I ran.

But if I stopped holding
The string of my kite,
It would blow with the wind
For a day and a night.

And then when I found it,
Wherever it blew,
I should know that the wind
Had been going there too.

So then I could tell them
Where the wind goes...
But where the wind comes from
Nobody knows.

-AA Milne

I Just Took The Lamest Quiz Ever...

2008-03-20T18:57:00.002-04:00

this would be the lamest quiz, ever

...to prove a point.

Feminism died in 1982. It was last seen stumbling around the Agnes Scott campus in Georgia, wearing a flannel shirt and smelling of Hot Damn! Yes, it was a terrible hangover, thanks to the Andrea Dworkin chaser to the Gloria Steinhem 40 oz.

I think I'm getting a head cold. Either that, or I have epilepsy. Everything tastes funny and I want to cry all the time.

Hey, DJ, won't you play that song. The one that keeps me dancing. All night long.

2008-03-16T09:30:00.002-04:00

I went to a bar last night for the first time in ages. Actually, I went to two bars, but not a pub crawl. The first bar was filled to the gills with over-privileged children and Germans, I thought I had mistakenly crashed a college party (in Munich). The second bar was filled with community college students and old people. The second bar was more my style, thought it claimed it was an Irish bar and did not serve Harp Lager. Bud Light was the toasting ale of the joint. Icky pooh.

Everything was fine until the DJ started playing music. Bobby Brown, y'all. Whitney Houston. Boyz II Men. A terrible time warp had occurred, and the universe started spinning backwards. Some white chick busted out in a Kid 'n' Play move.

And while I was seething with the concept of 80's pop music being played to a generation of individuals too young to remember the actual horror of these songs, I realized something far, far worse: if the DJ had been playing current music, I would have been just as lost.

I'm getting old.

I went home drunk. That was the highlight of the evening. I think I also turned on some Flogging Mollies, just to prove a point. To whom, I can't say. Nonetheless, I have decided on one, very important choice. I am not going to bars anymore unless the venue includes somber chamber music and lots of port wine.

Here are the ingredients for a Dirty Girl Scout:

Mix the vodka, Kahlua and Bailey's and pour over ice. Pour the Creme de Menthe down the center of the glass.

This is the culmination of the evening: sipping a beverage that vaguely resembles green Pepto Bismo. I think it was entirely appropriate.

Not Ironic

2008-03-14T18:12:00.004-04:00

Just really lame and unfortunate.

Firstly, glamorizing pornography is weak. Porn is boring; it all ends similarly. It's degrading, it's unimaginative, it's exploitative, it can be inhumane, it is certainly amoral, and I don't care how 'liberated' a chick you are, it can't be comfortable.

Secondly, people who wear t-shirts that say 'Porn Star' are sad. Most of those people are not porn stars, but want to be porn stars. Wanting to be a porn star is even worse than being a porn star. If you are reading this and you want to be a porn star, go down the street, find a drug dealer, ask him for a lethal dose of whatever it is he is selling, and eliminate yourself from the human race. You are useless. Go away.

Most importantly, the people who should wear these shirts are people who look like this:
Because that would almost be ironic.

Almost.*

*Except for the fact that Karl Rove has managed to fuck us all in the ass, without benefit of a reach-around, and in broad daylight, to the tune of several million dollars of taxpayer money, and (even worse) I could almost guarantee that some of the money probably found its way to a Texas whorehouse or a porno production company because after all, aren't we dealing with the scum of the Earth?

Pickled

2008-03-13T18:17:00.002-04:00

My husband and I now work at the same facility. He's a property manager. I am not sure what I do, but I've been at it for a year. He has been a property manager for four days.

It's weird. We talk to each other like automatrons at work. 'Hello how are you doing.' 'I am fine and you.' Like we don't know how we are doing. Like he didn't just see me wandering around the bedroom in the old bra and mismatched socks. Like I didn't just yell for him to either eat the lunch I pack for him or go and buy some other food, dammit!

In other news: I hate parking structures. Last night, I drove around one for fifteen minutes. Each time I circled, I wound up at the ticket gate because I missed the five-foot-wide ramp to the next level. I would roll down the window and explain I need to park. The parking guy would look confused before he told me to 'hop the curb and swing left to go back into the structure.' It happened three times. Don't you think he would remember the woman who needed to park?

And wouldn't he want to reach through the window and scratch out her very stupid eyes?

And also: my cat has pushed me off the bed three nights in a row. Does this give me allowance to eat her for dinner?

Lookit!

2008-03-12T22:34:00.002-04:00

I'm typing! On my blog! SHADDUP!

Back by mediocre demand, I thought I'd give this tired old hag another go of it. It's probably going to be a half-hearted attempt, but some heart is better than none. I've been suffering from a sort of malaise known as 'work' and 'life', and it totally gets in the way of being cynical and depressed and rigidly fatalistic. In fact, I think I've actually gotten cheerful about mucking through life like a pig in a box. Fan-fucking-tastic. I've become my worst nightmare. Oh, goody, the doom is starting to come back.

At my last knitting group, the topic of time-travel came about. I think it had to do with someone having to frog an entire project and saying something like: "Oh my holy Jesus I wish I had never started this thing." Anyway, we started to conceptualize time-travel, and query each other of where we would go, what we would do, who we would be and/or meet. The answers varied widely. Some people wanted to re-visit times in their own histories. Others wanted to galavant with Newton and calculus (these people are obviously on the fringe of society, and we accept them as they are). Someone mentioned the Age of Reason, and we discussed the many merits of corsets and physics. Obviously, we are a highly cerebral and intellectual group.

While I was marinating on the concept of reason and its age, it dawned on me: I know exactly where I would go in time and what I would do. I would go to any pest-ridden, garbage-infested, overcrowded mush of a town in Europe during the Black Death. I would absolutely be one of those weirdos who hauled corpses to mass graves. Why? Because of the word buboes.

Buboes are exactly what the world needs. Not hobos, not hubris, but buboes. Nasty little pus-filled sacs developing in unmentionable areas of the body. Lymph nodes gone awry. Tactless purple noodles of mortality, screaming out to all the world: "I'm ugly, and I'm going to wipe out humanity." That's amazing.

It's absolutely beautiful and perplexing that infected fleas managed to wipe out all of the problems in Western Europe during the Middle Ages. What those fleas also managed to do was wipe out a whole hell of a lot of really dumb people. These are the same dumb people who flung pooh out of windows onto the heads of other unsuspecting dumb people. This is not a group of people we needed around. Mostly, they were city-dwellers, and we don't need those around today. Think about New Yorkers. Got the image? Exactly my point. Unnecessary creatures; when given the opportunity, the cab driver from Brooklyn would be more than happy to throw pooh off of his balcony of his overpriced apartment onto the head of meter maid.

Now, I admit: I've been on 'world disaster' kick ever since watching old episodes of 'Jericho', and maybe (just maybe) I should actually be a victim of a world disaster for watching the show--the obvious plot-twists, the scientific oblivion, the transparent acting--technically, I should be drawn and quartered for even considering the merits of this show, but I digress. Three weeks ago, I was memorizing facts about nuclear fallout, thyroid cancer, hydrocephalus, and Chernobyl. Then, I read up on atomic bombs and Hiroshima/Nagasaki. After that stint, I pored over pictures of people suffering from smallpox (ew...and very cool...). Somewhere along the line, I watched five episodes of Ultimate Fighting on some man channel. I'm telling you, this stuff is fascinating.

We watch the world die slowly every day; why, thanks to this concept of flushing old medicine down the toilet, I've probably ingested toxic amounts of Viagra. But I'll look beyond myself: people in India live amongst heaps of computer parts. Commercial hog farms are poisoning small towns in Virginia, and tigers are escaping from zoos. Bozos are running corporations and criminals are running countries. China is finally realizing that girls are actually an important variable in reproduction rates, and the Baby Boomers are now feeling sorry for Gen Xers who will never receive social security checks. These same Baby Boomers are retiring and using their SSI checks for trips to Vegas. In short, we're dying of our very own commercial, guilty, hybrid plague.

I think I know what this fascination really is all about: I want to watch us implode from buboes or die with pockmarks. I don't think it's fair that after all the damage we do to the earth and to one another, we get to die in tidy hospital beds with tubes running all around. I don't really want to be cremated or buried in a pretty coffin--I think I belong in a great, big decaying heap of gross stuff, because honestly, that's what I've amounted to in life. My waste, my unguided consumption, has teetered this planet right up to extinction. Why shouldn't I embrace oblivion in the same manner as my silly, ridiculously stupid ancestors? Why shouldn't pooh be flung right down upon my goofy head, and why can't we smell the shit we've immersed ourselves in?

So, the next time you see a very graphic rendering of the bubonic plague (or MRSA or necrotizing fasciitis or a car accident victim), take a moment to appreciate the visceral nature of mortality. We are part and parcel of every problem and every solution--ever. We are the victims of tiny bacteriae, and the creators of horrendous wars. Don't shy away from the blood and guts of it all. It is what makes us so dastardly stupid and disarmingly loveable.

Malicious Destruction of Christmas

2007-12-30T12:08:00.000-05:00

Dammit.

Dammitydammitydammitdammit!!

Michael and I visited our hoity-toity neighboring town last night. We desired to sit in opulent theater chairs and slurp popcorn grease into our very pores while watching 'Sweeney Todd'. Meh.

We had parked in a nice, well-lit parking deck. It was lovely and cheap and close to the theater. It was full of very expensive cars, because Birmingham, Michigan is full of people who buy very expensive cars. Our bloated-looking Grand Prix looked so Wal-Mart compared to all the Lord & Taylor autos. However, there is no distinction amongst cars when theives are concerned. Theives are interested in what is in the car, and that's why they break rear-driver-side windows.

So, when we arrived at our car to find shattered glass everywhere, we wondered what in the hell the theives were after. In the back seat, we had three or four plastic cups, a box of cat litter, and a bag holding a three inch binder. None of these items were stolen.

A cop came and said the requisite things and a nice man taped a black garbage bag over the window and we went home and I put in a claim with the insurance. The cop had informed me the deductible would be waived. Tra-la-la. No worries.

Nevermind all that. The insurance agent tells me today that the deductible has to be met. There goes our Christmas money.

So much for having one month of easy breathing. I hope those shitsnarking assclowns get anal cancer.

One Flu Over the Pandemic

2007-12-28T23:00:00.000-05:00

I have had a cold for the last week.

My cat has one, too.

While the cat and I were lying around, wilting, it dawned on me: I haven't heard much about the Avian bird flu. When were all we supposed to die from it--last year or last month? No, wait. Last month was MRSA.

This month, there are no health threats. It's Christmas, after all.

Don't get sentimental--we're not being threatened by health worries because we are needed in malls. Sales were only average this year during the holiday season, so I suspect we will be bombarded with car deals and buy-one-get-one free packages for another month. Then, we'll get walloped with Wallaby Virus or SMERGA or some such horrible, exploding hot zone disease that will make our hair incinerate and our teeth rot out through our feet. Please wear your face masks at all times. Do not eat duck pate. And for goodness' sake, watch Oprah for upcoming news bulletins.

I just wiped my nose with a tissue and threw it at the Visa commercial...you know the one(s). All the people are in the store, dancing to an Andrew Lloyd Weber tune, swiping their magical debit cards. Then, there's that asshole that shows up at the counter. S/he's using cash, and just managed to corrupt the whole flow of the fresh water supply on Earth. Coffee spills, children start screaming, and gunfire erupts in Palestine. Apparently, cash is the real nemesis...along with MRS-A. Please. Stick to magical debit thingies connected to great big computers tracking your purchasing habits, your pharmaceutical buys, your on-line gambling problem.

My car's in the shop, so I can't get to the pharmacy to pick up my over-prescribed antibiotic. I have asked my mechanic to take out the black box put into my vehicle. The car manufacturer assured me the box was there to collect data on braking and transmission habits of the vehicle, but based on the insurance company's response to my recent speeding ticket, I tend to think there might be another reason for such a tracking device in my car.

So, here I am, without a car and without cash. I could always use my cell phone to call my college friend who lives in Lebanon. We could chat about the war in Iraq, the assassination of Bhutto, and the consequences of a consumer-driven lust for compartmentalization, cell structure, and conditioned education. But there is a rather large chance that after hanging up the phone, several intimidating men in black jump suits will burst through my front door without the merest attempt at knocking or furnishing a warrant.

I'll skip the phone. Maybe I'll Google some current news topics, like RFID technology and microchipping in children. Maybe, I'll glance at some updated conspiracy theorist's web page.

Nah.

An episode of 'Survivor' is scheduled on my Tivo. And I have to relax in order to heal this cold. I have no sick time left and if I don't get better, I won't get paid for another two weeks. My benefits could renege based on my reluctance to fill a prescription that makes me 'healthy blue' for Blue Cross/Blue Shield. Better to keep my job, keep my head down, keep working until I die, making absolutely sure I do nothing to free myself from this virtual prison in which I have imprisoned myself with help from Them.

Time to turn off the television. Time to hang up the phone. Time to cut the cord. Time to stop buying and start thinking.

My Sympathies...you don't have them...

2007-11-27T23:51:00.000-05:00

Dear Writers' Guild:

I know as a fellow writer, I should be incredibly sympathetic to your plight as Hollywood writers. But when I say 'fellow writer', I truly mean that you (plural) and I share one small trait. We all have computers, and we write on them. However, you are getting paid approximately 200,000 dollars a year to tap out cute little sitcoms and bouncy little mystery stories. Occasionally, you really stoke our fires with an intelligent and meaningful story, but even those television oddities grow stale after one or two seasons. In fact, those of you who have been brilliant enough to write for "Arrested Development" and "Dead Like Me" are probably now in a psychiatric hospital somewhere, suffering the hallucinations brought on by all of the reality garbage pumped out of the camcorder-genre of entertainment. And for all five of you clever writers, I am truly sorry. That blows.

I will not attempt to validate this stunning rejection of television writers with suggestions that I am a better writer. In fact, if you were to diagram that former sentence, you would find I am merely a strange amalgamate of post-Romantic-period writers and Virgina Woolf's pathetic self-esteem. If some hot-shot Hollywood producer demanded I write a witty dialog between two one-dimensional characters, I would probably have to go ahead and shoot myself in the foot before I even sat down--that's how bad it would be.

However, I cannot feel any inordinate amount of sympathy for a group of people who are demanding more money for doing something they should love doing, anyway. While I certainly understand that fat cats somewhere are getting fatter based on your writing, I would also contend that all of us play a part in some fat cat, somewhere, getting fatter.

In fact, it is almost anti-American to wish for higher compensation for a job that is making someone else really, really disgustingly rich. You're just being a bunch of big whiners.

I know I've said this several times before in past diatribes, but I think I have an excellent point. I am a social worker.

A social worker.

True, I am embittered and regretful of this choice of profession. Had the school I attended actually done its job and educated me, I would have chosen management, human resources, or Internet biology as a degree. Instead, I went with the foolish choice of social work. And I am paying the ever-living price for it. I work fifty hours a week for $33,000 a year. For this money, I am expected to:

-Attend four hour long staff meetings that talk about exactly nothing
-Create a dialog between nine or ten other agencies who are also dealing with one individual receiving services
-Answer close to twenty calls a day
-Screen mindless intra-office emails regarding the contents in the break-room refrigerator
and
-Pretend to understand Medicaid, Medicare, Social Security Insurance, Social Security Disability, Food Stamps, Section 8, and all other related documents, policies, and administration purposes of these entities.

So, please. Do not whine about your salary being so small. It could be a lot worse. For a lot less money.

Now, go do your job and pump out another season of 'Heroes', because this last season could not have gotten any worse if Eddy Murphy and a 'Norbit' character showed up with the power to unsnap bras using one finger.

Thanks for listening.

Your Friend,
Fritz

He Couldn't Get Much Nicer

2007-10-13T09:44:00.000-04:00

I am a terrible person in the morning. There are many reasons for this, and none of them are very good reasons. Mostly, it has to do with my severe displeasure in creating a whole morning routine centered around the goal of leaving my snug bed and going to work for ten hours. When I think of mornings like that, it is difficult to be cheery and light-hearted. Another problem is lack of sleep. Every night, I get to bed around midnight and think to myself, "I should really go to bed earlier." But every evening, I also tell myself, "This is your only bit of freedom during the week. Don't waste it on sleep."

The third and least valuable reason for my sheer grumpiness in the morning is related to the fact that I do not wake up with an IV of coffee leading directly to my brain. The absence of the coffee is like missing, oh, I don't know, a limb. It hurts. It tingles. It infuriates. Doubling this annoyance is the fact that I make horrible coffee in the morning, because my vision is always blurred, my motor skills are droopy, and my breath is cause for immediate hallucinogenic behavior.

None of this would be so bad (well, except for having to go to work) if no one was around to witness and/or fall victim to this cruel side of me. Unfortunately, my husband is very much around to witness and fall victim. Since I am nothing more than a petty individual, the whole affair is made worse with the knowledge that my husband doesn't have to awake as early as I, and even when he does, he may not have to go anywhere. He works from home, as I did. It's almost like the Universe conspires to taunt me.

After three mornings in a row, with me stomping around our tiny house, shaking the floors and walls, screaming obscenities for no apparent reason, and sighing at my breakfast cereal (soggy, sad, and insulting), my husband could not take it anymore. That evening he told me, "I like you. But I don't like you in the morning." Because I have the emotional sensitivity of a seven year old with PMS, I immediately began crying, saying, "I j-j-j-just h-h-hate mornings! I have nothing to look forward to!" Yeah, I know. Pathetic.

Any other man would have lost it at this point; the lesser among the species may have hauled off and thwacked me on the back of the head. An average man would have said, "Oh, quit your whining". But Michael is not any other man, and for this I am glad. He gave me a hug and I apologized, telling him that I would try harder in the future to not be such a horrible person in the morning. All was fine.

The next morning, I awoke to an empty bed and the smell of coffee. When I got into the living room (I was sluggish but not biting), Michael presented me with a fresh breakfast of eggs and toast and a hot cup of coffee. I ate my delicious breakfast in silence, slowly allowing my mouth and body to wake up. And that was the first morning in a long time when I was happy about what I had to do that day. Ever since that morning, I have awoken to fresh coffee and breakfast. While I certainly don't expect this from Michael, I cannot tell him (or you, apparently) how much it means to me, how much brighter my day is, since the breakfasts began.

I'm telling you; either Michael is my girlfriend in a man's body, or he was sent to Earth to shame all other men into acting right. All I know is: he's not getting away, and I like my eggs just a little runny. For any cynics who may think otherwise, Michael is not 'whupped'; our house runs like a well-oiled democracy. Where I mostly get my way, but not all the time. But then again, Michael and I hardly disagree about anything. (I just turned and asked my husband if we disagree often; he shrank into the chair and meekly said, 'No, dear.' See? He's not whipped at all).

(Also, Michael was at shopping the other day and picked up these items for me, for no other reason than a couple weeks ago I mentioned I liked velour pantsuits. Humbling of me to admit, no?)

Little House On a Budget

2007-10-08T19:27:00.000-04:00

Remember Laura Ingalls Wilder and her memoirs? Her books were so quaint--oranges in stockings for Christmas, scarlet fever, murderous Indians and poplin on sale. Her Little House on the Prairie books transported me, a middle-class kid with two working parents, into a simple time, where little girls did grown-up chores, and families were poor but clean and industrious and most importantly, happy in a regimented Christian-Westward-Expansion way.

Well, look. If you substitute "Little House" for "rented shitbox" and "Prairie" for "The Most Unstable Economy in the United States" you'd get "Rented Shitbox in The Most Unstable Economy in the United States".

And that's where I live.

Yes, we've been hit hard with the financial woes of being overspenders and underachievers. And living in Detroit. You'd think that two folks making decent money could like, you know, handle it. But we can't. So, we've had to simplify. Like, a lot.

First, the dog went. Ka-ching. Then, Michael's motorcycle. Then, Michael's camera. Now, my motorcycle is up for the kill. Then, the Infinity speakers. Probably, the guitar. Tivo? Gone. Sirius Satellite? Gone. Starbucks? Gone. Smoking? Well. Let's be honest--cut back. Fabulous salad bar at the liquor store where I get lunch everyday? Forget about it. Subway? No way. Yarn? Done. Fresh market? Too pricy. Friday night dinners out? Hasta la pasta. Say hello to the simple life. And say hello to it while still being in debt up to your eyeballs (with the goal of being out of debt in four years).

Now, I'm not suggesting the meaning of life is wrapped up in TiVo, Starbucks, and rockin' music coming through superior speakers. I'm only suggesting that a good portion of my life is wrapped up in these things, so the weaning process is not going to be entirely enjoyable.

It's way boring on the prairie. I don't know how Laura and her blind sister ever made it through the winters on basic cable and macaroni and cheese. But I guess I'm going to find out. Someone get me some wood so I can whittle Michael a Christmas present.

I Am My Own BlogAd

2007-10-07T21:39:00.000-04:00

But it's for a good cause.

Wanna check out some awesome photography? Possibly purchase a picture of a stunning landscape or a portrait of a handsome woman? Knowing that you are supporting a struggling artist (and his wife) is an added benefit of such a purchase. I can't tell you how much it would mean to ~~my overdraft protection~~ an artist.

Edit: Never mind, we don't get any of the money through SmugMug. So, just email me and we'll arrange a purchase. Or, just go look and ignore my blatant exploitation of my husband's talent.

No, really. Go look at my husband's new website. It's fabulous.

The Soul Moved a Little Bit Closer to Nirvana....

2007-09-30T14:20:00.000-04:00

but it still has a long way to go down the dharma highway.

I am not one for praying unnecessarily. My convictions and faith have more to do with logic and the world around me. But I dabble in this and that.

I discovered The Buddhist Blog about twenty days ago, not long before the Myanmar Protests started making waves in the news. I tell you, this revived interest in Buddhism has actually helped quell some of that omnipresent anger I articulate daily. And quite right--I may have suffered an apoplectic fit regarding the junta's inhumane treatment of Myanmar's impoverished citizens and peaceful monks.

I do not know how Myanmar or the myriad of other countries put up with these horrible dictators, but as I type that out, I do know. Americans do it everyday; we are merely wealthier than our counterparts. I suppose that makes it easier for us, somehow. At least, we are tantalized by celebrities and materialism, and that helps quiet the controversy of our own impudent president.

Nevertheless, it is understood that the people of Myanmar have suffered greatly.

I realize I am hopping on the activist-wagon by suddenly and fervently getting concerned about Myanmar. My concern for these recent events will only be surpassed by the next widely-publicized mistreatment of a people or culture. So I am not asking anyone who reads this to sign a petition or join a campaign or even read about the history of Aung San Suu Kyi.

Instead, read this, whatever your religious conviction (or non-conviction). Perhaps, you could contemplate upon it. I did. It silenced anger for a short time; perhaps, I will read it daily.

Metta Sutra:
The Buddha's Words on Kindness

This is what should be done
By one who is skilled in goodness,
And who knows the path of peace:
Let them be able and upright,
Straightforward and gentle in speech.
Humble and not conceited,
Contented and easily satisfied.
Unburdened with duties and frugal in their ways.
Peaceful and calm, and wise and skillful,
Not proud and demanding in nature.
Let them not do the slightest thing
That the wise would later reprove.
Wishing: In gladness and in safety,
May all beings be at ease.
Whatever living beings there may be;
Whether they are weak or strong, omitting none,
The great or the mighty, medium, short or small,
The seen and the unseen,
Those living near and far away,
Those born and to-be-born,
May all beings be at ease!

Let none deceive another,
Or despise any being in any state.
Let none through anger or ill-will
Wish harm upon another.
Even as a mother protects with her life
Her child, her only child,
So with a boundless heart
Should one cherish all living beings:
Radiating kindness over the entire world
Spreading upwards to the skies,
And downwards to the depths;
Outwards and unbounded,
Freed from hatred and ill-will.
Whether standing or walking, seated or lying down
Free from drowsiness,
One should sustain this recollection.
This is said to be the sublime abiding.
By not holding to fixed views,
The pure-hearted one, having clarity of vision,
Being freed from all sense desires,
Is not born again into this world.

Been Vacatin'

2007-09-28T22:18:00.000-04:00

I needed a vacation.

And since I wasn't born with a silver spoon up my ass, I could only afford a two day trip up to Traverse City. It's a gorgeous part of Michigan, made even prettier by near-by attractions like the Sleeping Bear Dunes* and a hell of a lot of cherry orchards. Plus, the entire geography of Northern Michigan is inhabited by people who look like these dudes.

I would give you some pictures, but I actually shoot a film camera. Say it with me now: 'Ff-ei-lmm". It has to do with nickel and negatives and exposures and things that click and whir and light. It's not digital magic. My film is currently being sent off to Kodak or someplace that still develops the stuff. No,really. I shoot with fancy stuff. Do you know why I shoot with fancy stuff? Because I have fancy hair. Please take notice:

There are many things about myself that I dislike. My hair, however, is not one of those things. My hair is a sweet kiss of honey-wheat, and it's all natural. Yup. It's as natural as that little bald spot right in the center of my skull. To die for.

Anyway, when I wasn't taking pictures or stuffing my face with food, I was shopping for yarn. For those of you non-knitters, you must know that a knitter is always prowling for a local yarn store (LYS). I found a couple. Evidence: The best purchase? Easily, it was the 600 yards of alpaca. That's the brown stuff. It's not dyed or anything. Those cute little alpacas have gorgeous hair. I would like to own a herd of the little shits one day, but until then, I can fondle this, and pet it, and call it 'my pretty'.It says: Peruvian Tweed, The Heavenly Fiber. And it is, I assure you.

Besides, I am always on the prowl for yarn. Look at my stash! It's EMBARRASSING! Don't you think it's rather insulting? If you do think so, please email my husband and convince him of the meagerness of my yarn. I mean, really. How is anything productive going to come of this?

Feh. Must own more yarn.

In other news, I am now an official writer, as I am being paid for a piece of writing. Yes. A whole ten dollars. Details and linkage forthcoming.

Also, I am being featured in a Detroit local magazine, and not for exposing myself. Other details forthcoming.

I tell you, I am one fabulous knitting writer. Or one fantastic writing knitter. Or something. Hmph.

*If you want a sweet-crybaby read, go here to read about the origin of the name Sleeping Bear Dunes. Ach, it's fucking beautiful.

I'm Having a Quarter-Life Crisis

2007-09-25T00:38:00.000-04:00

Every morning, I stub my toe on the edge of this catastrophic contraption called a 'bed' in IKEA language.

I spend more money on Starbuck's than most people's annual earnings in Algeria. I am also thinking about bankruptcy.

I have a motorcycle that is bright yellow. I've never liked yellow.

I don't have mad skillz. Period. And quite honestly, if I see someone type that or pronounce that phrase one more time, I might just get jiggy with them. Put that stupid cliche to rest, please. k, thx.

I have a total of 11 friends. That's quite a lot when all I do is knit and blog. And I'm not counting blog friends. That's a different category. I have four blog friends. I officially suck.

No, I really am thinking about bankruptcy, because I'm a social worker. And social workers are stupid.

I have a competition with myself every morning to see what kind of outfit I can wear without repeating something from the last four weeks. That is why I wind up wearing argyle socks, gauchos, and a poncho on any given day.

I have hair jealousy. I'm jealous of men with no hair.

Frequently, I think that the cat serves more purpose than I do.

Yesterday, I fell up while climbing into the Jeep. You try it. It doesn't feel pleasant and it takes an extremely good lack of coordination.

I would like to be a vegan so that I can seem hip when I meet new people. That is the only reason why I am considering it. Wow. What a toolish thing to say.

I'm tired of men. In general. I found the perfect one, and a few of the somewhat palatable. The rest would make that former comment a sick joke, and that is why I am tired of men.

I was told today that I look 35. I'm 28. This is not a good indication of what is to come.

I have an ass that competes for solar energy with most other living organisms. This makes me unattractive and unfriendly to the weakening ecology.

And finally, I dream of selling every last single thing I own, packing up a bag, and talking my husband into living the life of a gypsy. Financially, it would be a wise decision. Emotionally, it would be rewarding. And let's face it. I could use the exercise.

One Year

2007-09-22T22:51:00.000-04:00

One year in our lives seems so small. There it is: 365 days. 12 months. Some years stretch on and on like a river; some flit by like a moth's flight.

And then some years remind us of something more than time. This year of my life is one of the most important--one that will stand out in my small history. It is the first year of marriage.

The first year of marriage is probably not as important as the tenth, or the thirtieth. It is the easy times--lazy Saturdays and wishful dreaming. The first year is the indication of what is to come. Our first year has been an upheaval of life--marriage, mortgages, moving. But it has also been a year of love.

In one year of marriage, I have learned the following about Michael: he will buy me coffee in the morning just to get me out of bed, even when he doesn't need to leave the house. He will bend over backwards to accommodate my schedule and my diet. He will rub my feet and scratch my back. He will attend yarn shops with me and without me, indulging every fiber desire. And at night, he will place his hand lightly on my hip as we drift off to sleep. He will laugh at my inane thoughts as though they are meaningful. On my birthday, he will shower me with gifts and hugs and smiles.

Even when he is sad, Michael will smile for me. He takes every opportunity to tell me how much he loves me. This is a marriage of friendship, of constancy, of childlike faith. I could not ask for more.

There is often a pause in a relationship, when one retires to the bedroom and considers life and all of its inconsistencies. And many can find displeasure in their relationships. This is normal. I would not harbor ill will against Michael if he has done this: I am stubborn and usually in my own world. I can be argumentative and snobbish. I can be dull and listless. And on weekends, I don't shower. But I would also wager that Michael has never had these thoughts of doubt or disappointment. He has always met me as I am.

And so, in one year, I have learned about symbiosis in its most platonic way: Michael and I are a Form of this relationship; we've many roads to walk together, and we acknowledge there may come a time when we will wish to walk apart. But we cannot imagine such a time. Where he goes, so shall I. Where he sleeps, so I will rest. And when he needs me, there I will be.

This year has been a year of firsts. It has lengthened and shortened like tides, bringing us out to sea and taking us back to shore. But there is raft that supports us, and makes us giggle at the waves which toss us. To love Michael is to love the world that created him. It is what makes me believe in people, this love.

It could not be more simple nor more complex. I am glad to be his wife.

Oh. Shit. Homeroom.

2007-09-18T22:37:00.000-04:00

All right, I'll be honest. I'm not down with high school. I never was.

Hated it. Hated cheerleaders and pep rallies and republican-cowboy-buckle-belt-wearin' sychophants. Hated every last minute of fakeness, cruelty, materialism and southern-fried morality.

In fact, during pep rallies, I kinda imagined squeezing the heads of every flag girl, of every dance team member (sorry, old friend), of every single student who actually wore school color. I imagined squeezing their heads so very violently and so very cruelly that the gymnasium would wind up looking like a set on a Tarentino movie. This is true. I am glad college and marijuana happened. I am extremely glad that I learned to ride a motorcycle and smoke and drink vodka straight. I am especially glad of my introduction to the classics in college, as well as hippie protests. I had found my pack, and we were dirty, smelly, high and in love with life.

There is good news. The good news is, I don't give a shit about high school, and with the exception of one person, I have not kept in touch with anybody therein. And I'm completely okay with that. It's nice to hear from that one person (my dearest and oldest friend) about so-and-so getting married or so-and-so accomplishing something fantastic (like the guy, forever high, who slept through AP History becoming a doctor). But all in all, I could totally erase those four years and never look back. It was torture. It was hell.

And now, I live in Detroit. I'm covered in tattoos, I'm married to this fantastic guy who adores me and my bitchiness and I'm planning my next act of insane knitting. High school? Old news.

Until recently. Until I found the blog of a friend who I lost touch with, and then found all these other blogs, and left one comment here and another there, and now...high school is back in session, except this time, they're ADULT republicans with ADULT campaigns on Jesus. Should I have even shown my face? I think not!

Fuck. I might have to change the address to my blog. Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck, if I do say so myself. And I do.

I Don't Understand Football

2007-09-16T11:35:00.000-04:00

Look! A Wolverine taking a dump on top of a Fightin' Irish!

I don't understand anything about it. I know there are downs and yards and incompletes and fumbles and snaps and hooks and shotguns and Hail Mary's. I don't know how or why any of these terms, individually, suddenly a football game do make.

For years, I didn't care.

Then, I went to a Jesuit Catholic college that didn't HAVE a football team, so we had to adopt Notre Dame as our sister school. Yes, it was two or three states to the East of us (no one said an ivy league education made you a fucking mapologist, or whatever), but Notre Dame was the great, shining example that smart kids can be good athletes. And we told ourselves that while smugly reading our Descartes and Aristotilian textbooks. Of course, what any truly clever person understood was that Notre Dame athletes were getting lots of leeway around that education thingy. Creighton's basketball players were given the same advantages: personal tutors, personal classes, personal everything. And I'm pretty sure they weren't taking "God and Persons 401".

Ever since those fucking preists got caught with their pants down and their hands in some not-so-sacred chalices, Catholic schools have been getting honest. Dammit. Now, Notre Dame actually expects its football players to maintain a decent grade point average. Plus, the potential recruits for college football have figured out that South Bend, Indiana is not the ideal college town, especially if you have to spend any time actually studying. So there go all the decent recruits to schools like UGA and Florida and (God Help Us All) Ohio.

Yesterday was an ugly, ugly, ugly day. It was made uglier by my husband's laughter, mocking me as I sank deeper into my Notre Dame sweatshirt. I honestly think I watched Michael swell up three or four times in his Michigan sweatshirt.

When the shittiest coach in all of college history manages to convince his team of mentally challenged rodents to stomp the shit out of a historically recognized institution of football, I quit.

I never liked the stupid game, anyway.

One Day in Detroit

2007-09-15T17:07:00.000-04:00

How exciting. A chance to peruse local artisans' goods at the Russell Industrial Center People's Art Fair. It would only be ninth art fair of the season. Rah.

As we drove down I-75, following the line of expensive cars that normally depart from the highway somewhere around 8 mile, I thought we were in for another crafty-meets-snobby art linup. Little did I know that we were entering the twilight zones of art fairs.

We arrived at the megalithic Russell Industrial Center. Three buildings comprise the complex, each made up of service elevators, concrete, rusty doors and broken windows. Michael was in heaven. I just wanted to take another shower.Gradually, we made our way around the ~~three dozen people~~ throng of Detroiters shopping for baby-doll heads on sticks and glass pipes. We made our way into the buildings themselves. The true art fair had begun.

There were a lot of hallways and stairs and things that went bump and creak. There were also a lot of hippies smoking pot in dark corridors.

Several cars had been left in the bowels of the buildings. Behind this car is a long wall, on which is written "Beware of Dog". Around the corner of this wall is a door made out of plywood, and from here is where I heard growling and barking. We did indeed beware the dog, and turned our attention to the fourth floor hallway, where we found these:

It Reads "Benefit Plans and Agreements/UAW and Ford Motor Corporation"

Boxes of 'em.

The reading material was great. I guess Ford sought a different publisher this year, though. Ford has layed off about 30,000 workers in the past six years. A majority of those workers lived in the Detroit Metro.

Chapter: "Guaranteed Income Stream Benefit Program"

We went up to the roof, but I couldn't convince Michael to stick his leg over the edge. I did manage to get this picture. The sky was gloriously blue today; felt like the perfect Great Lakes weather for a Saturday. Beautiful.

But more fun was to be had by all. After I finished my ciagarette and chucked the butt down into the unsuspecting dreadlocks of one whacked-out goth chick, we bolted down the stairs and headed to the car. Time for a drive through lovely Detroit. We whirled and rolled throughout the city until we reached the eeriest, most desperate and sad place in all of Motown. The Packard Plant was built in 1907 and was made up of forty buildings, stretching down three blocks. It sits on Grand Boulevard in Detroit, which is as un-Grand as you could possibly imagine. We didn't drive through its many alley-ways, as we weren't in the Jeep. If we had fallen into one of the potholes, another car would've been left at the plant. We did see signs of life, though--firepits, garbage, pillows and blankets. And really, can you blame a vagrant for making his shelter here? It's better than the alternative:

As we drove away, through the dangers of forgotten Detroit, I felt true sadness in my heart. Not only had we stood in the place of mechanical history and science, but also on the ground where many of America's true workers had created these horrible and tragic machines--vehicles. To think of the linemen that worked in the Packard plant and their lives made me shiver--ghosts far outnumber citizens in Detroit.

But then, a sign. A sign that all things find their purpose, no matter how mistakenly. One day, all of this will be returned to the Earth, and just like that, man's achievements will be wiped clean after our departure, and something else will get a shot at doing everything much, much better.

iDENTISTification

2007-09-13T18:50:00.000-04:00

Ha! HA HA HA!

I'm laughing at my school nurse and my regular nurse and my childhood dentist. Join me in laughing at them.

HA HA HA HA! SO THERE! HA!

I'm also laughing at my mom, but in a nicer way, because she reads the blog.

ha!

I have a confession to make--I visited the ~~rich imperialist sadistic~~ dentist's office today, something I have not done for about six years. Why the long wait? Well, I'll explain why.

Dentists are people who get rich off of the only bones in your body on the outside on purpose. Dentists make their money by torturing you and then mortifying you with threats of oral cancer if you don't come back every six months. Dentists collect painful and horrific little tools that make whirring noises; these tools are plugged into generators and fluid pumps. These tools wind up in your mouth. Dentists take pleasure in fingering your tongue with no sense of decency. Dentists hide their smirks behind clean, white, impenetrable masks. When dentists see you wince, they wink at their comely hygienists who stand by, always ready to assist in the hell that is a 'dental exam'. In short, dentists are charlatans. They are worse than chiropractors--to complete a dental exam, a person must return to the office nine times in two weeks in order to get a 'clean oral bill of health'. When was the last time you called for an appointment for a dental exam and was then told by the eighteen year old pin-up model in the scrubs outfit that the first appointment was merely an initial screening that must be held before the cleaning which (obviously) comes before the actual exam? And God help you if you have cavities. Or a dead tooth. Or a cracked crown. Or a diaspora. Simply put, you're screwed and may need a loan officer.

Regardless, I had decided the time had come to face the music. I've been a smoker for nine years and have ignored my teeth during the whole she-bang. Sure, I brush, but I hardly floss (because really, who does?)(okay, all of you who just said 'I do', please stop reading this post and go put the floss somewhere that will result in a gut cleanse when it comes out). I drink about nine pots of coffee a day and (thanks to my obsessive and repressive nature) clench my jaws ALL THE TIME. When I do brush my teeth properly, my gums hurt and the root of each tooth screams in agony. The bell had rung, the clock had ticked, my time was up. I had to go.

It being Rosh Hashana, I don't have to go to work today. Yay for secularists of all kinds! And what's a better way than celebrating a day off? Going to the fucking dentist.

Upon arrival, I told the chirpy eighteen year old who 'sets up' for the hygienist that I hated dentists. I was shaking. My palms were sweating and my brow was crinkled as I searched forthe destructing tools ensuring my demise. The dental assistant smiled like a model, patted my hand in a conciliatory manner, and parked me in the car-seat-turned-iron-maiden that is the patient chair. She took some x-rays and then readied me for the dental hygienist.

My dental hygienist was Dr. Ruth, I swear to God. Short and Jewish with a fabulous crop of red hair, she eagerly told me how excited she was to be the first one to make me cry after years of keeping my mouth dentist-free. With the skill of a skid row whore, she propped my mouth into all sorts of interesting poses and 'hmmed' and 'ohhhed' over the state of things in meus os. She created a work of pain in my soul, demonstrating how truly sensitive my roots were by tapping on them with her scalpel.

"You see that hurts?"

tink tink tink goes the metal scraper

"AOOUgghhaalll!" I screamed.

tinktinktinktinktinkscrapescrape

"Oh, poor darling, we'll get you all fixed up!"

An hour later, I was out the door.

So why am I laughing? While my gums have been violated like Paris Hilton in her daddy's hotel room, I can say this with glee:

I DON'T HAVE ANY CAVITIES!! HA HA HA HA HA!

And I've never had one in all of my 28 years of life. The dentists, while they search for ultimate control of my mouth, have not caught me. I have slipped through their latex-and-saliva-covered fingers once again.

Touche! But don't touch the gums, please. Ouch.

If the Anagram Doesn't Fit...

2007-08-29T23:29:00.000-04:00

...then don't buy the dog.

A widely known fact about Labrador Retrievers: they eat everything.

I have been a scrupulous "What the hell is in your mouth, you little shit!?" kind of dog-mom. I have seen more throat than a super-model's vomit. It's just ridiculous.

"LEAVE IT! LEAVE IT!" Children hear me coming from blocks away as I wrestle with a mutating dog down the sidewalk. I swear to God, I just watched the thing grow another two inches in the last five minutes. I have been through three collars and one harness. I have also begun to realize the direct proportion between size of dog paw to size of dog shit. It gets bigger, folks. And it's not pretty. (Like there is such a thing as pretty turds? Never mind.)

If I am not yanking the leash out of the beast's mouth, then I am prying out the cat's tail, sticks, rocks, my vintage-tacky chair's leg, yarn, needles, shoes, expensive shoes, and even more expensive shoes. In the worst instances, I am extracting my own fingers or hems of fancy skirts. I am also yelling a lot. Screaming, in fact: "GET OFFA ME! LEAVE IT! LEAVE IT!" The vacant-eyed canine confuses "Sit" with "Come". He doesn't understand the idea of actually returning to his Mistress once he's off the leash. He'll fetch, all right. He even lives up to his title and brings the ball back. But once he has returned with his prey in his jaw, he becomes a quivering mass of possessiveness. I can hear him, in an annoying child's voice, saying, "Mine mine mine mine mine!" He bites big dogs on the ankles and then points at me when the beasts turn around. I haven't felt clean in weeks. My house smells like mildew, piss, and Febreeze. The crate takes up 90% of the kitchen. The other 10 is left to dog food, dog treats, dog toys, and dog dishes. Scooter is the bane of my existence.

I know many people own dogs, and if any of these dog-owners read this, they are saying all sorts of things to themselves, like: "Oh, it's just a puppy," or, "She should take him to obedience school," or, "Sounds like she's fucked." In all examples, these dog owners would be one hundred percent correct, but I don't want to hear any of it. I am dealing with the absolute most wretched animal on the face of the Earth--and I say this after six years of owning a she-devil cat from Hell. Quite literally, Delilah Amelia has become a sweet little Pussy Cat. She's a breath of fresh air. Her scratches and yowls and occasional bites are like delicious little fairy kisses after dealing with the Lab-mutt-demon.

He stinks.
He farts.
He barks.
He bites.
He pees and pees and pees and ohmigod, honey, he's fucking peeing on the guitar.
He chews.
He eats and eats.
He poops and poops and poops.
He poops in the crate, he poops in the shoes, Dr. Seuss just called to say he pooped in the stew.
He attacks.
He pulls.
He snuffles.
He snores.

It's almost like dating my husband all over again, except this time, I don't have the thrill of new sex. It's a curse, owning a dog. It's a Herculean task that I am almost ready to quit.

Except.

Except that when I arrive home after a long day of dealing with narcissistic harpies, I find myself licked and wagged to the point of utter hysteria--hell, the dog makes me so happy, I pee in the crate.

So I get it. Dogs take work. Dogs take patience and love and a hell of a lot of plastic bags. Owning a dog means giving up on order and hygienic floors. Owning a dog means sacrifice of time and friendship. Owning a dog is exhausting. Owning a dog can create tension among humans. But owning a dog is a lot like owning a living 'honorable mention' ribbon--it makes you feel like you're worthwhile, that you count, that the sun rises and sets on the schedule you set for the dog's bathroom breaks. Owning a dog is a little bit like owning yourself--finally, you have to take responsibility for something stupid and naive and a little dangerous.

In conclusion, 'dog' spells backwards says 'god'. But if god had anything to do with what comes out of the back end of this slobbering fool, then I retract any faith I may have had previously. However, if someone posited that 'dog' spelled backwards says "hope", then I would concur. A dog is all about faith and hope. And hopefully, my dog will stop shitting rocks.

We Were Thinking About a Baby...

2007-07-29T16:59:00.000-04:00

...but a baby seemed too easy--too much like fun. That's why we got a dog.

My dog's name is Champion Master Scooter Wellington, III. We call him, obviously enough, Muffy. Okay, we call him Scooter, or any variation thereof (Scoots, Toots, Scooty, Pooper, You Little Fucker Don't Pee on the Rug). We are quite sure he is dim and possibly deaf. He likes to lie down a lot. Here are his stats:

Age: 15 weeks
Height: about four inches above my ankle
Weight: A lot heavier than the cat
Location: Crate/living room carpet/kitchen floor
Favorite Hobby: Peeing everywhere but outside
Favorite Snack: The leather sofa
Pet Peeve: The whole leash shit bit
Best Friend: Not the cat
Newest Talent: "Sit" command--if "sit" means flopping to one side in a slightly autistic manner and scratching his peter
Stupidity factor: High. Chernobyl high.
If You Could be Anywhere in the World, Where would it Be?: Sitting in a pile of my own crap.

Here is what two days of dog ownership have taught me: Dogs are really dumb and really cute. Dogs smell like mildewy wool. Dogs drink a lot of water; hence, dogs take a lot of pisses. Dogs are perpetual two-year-olds who don't have the ability to say "Mama". Dogs--in short--are for Cubs fans; you just keep hoping they make it, and when they do, it's miraculous and totally worth the effort. The rest of the time? It's a good way to meet other people with dogs who are experiencing the same kind of restless, furtive frustration.

I really, really love my dog.

Why Detroit? Well, why the Hell NOT?

2007-07-09T21:11:00.000-04:00

After all, it's only one of the most segregated city in the entire nation. Good place to bury the word 'nigger'.

Don't get me wrong--I love Detroit. I freakin' LOVE this city. I love its history, its industry, its dirty streets and poorly clad prostitutes. I love its parks and its lakes and its grimy skyline. I love its large population of wealthy and affluent Jews who do not hide their Jewishness. I love the buildings, these megalithic burnt-out ruins. I love party stores and Faygo pop and Vernor's root beer and Woodward Avenue. Detroit Rock City! It is not the mean, horrible place that your mothers and fathers warned you about. It is a lonely, sad place. Detroit is the pretty prom queen that got hooked on drugs. She's pretty nasty to look at up close, but she still has pride. There's still a spark in Detroit.

Here's what I don't love: a city still divided by 8 Mile. A city torn asunder by corrupt politicians and hapless tax men. Detroit is a city feeling the aftershocks of pervasive, destructive, immoral racism. And it's still going on today, with 33 metro-Detroit schools slated for closing and jobs disappearing left and right. For every home standing in a Detroit neighborhood, there are seven more homes on the same street that are falling down, dilapidated, inhabitable and yet still lived in. Who lives in those homes? Let's be completely honest--black people!

On my street in trendy, Yuppie-entrenched Royal Oak, there is not a single black family. I can almost guarantee you there are no black families on either of the streets surrounding my street. I have to go two miles south to 9 Mile before I can find some more color in the rainbow. Don't mistake me! We've got a whole barrage of Iranians across the street from us, and their cousins own the liquor store and the gas station in downtown Royal Oak. Up in Birmingham, Sephardic Jews are milling around with Sicilians. I'm pretty sure Polish people are allowed to live in Berkley, and everyone from Kentucky is allowed to live in Madison Heights. I fit right in with Royal Oak with my unmistakably American looks. But I can't find a damn black person for the life of me. Dammit! I need some soul!

I'm glad to hear of the death of 'nigger'. I hope its cousin 'nigga' passes away someday, too. But while we bury those words, why don't we bury these deserted streets and old racial epithets? Why don't we knock all these sad ghosts over and plant a community garden? Why don't we erect neighborhood safe houses in the place of stale nursing centers? Why can't we bury the riots of 1967 along with all of the history of racism and keep only the lessons alive? What--besides stupidity--is stopping us?

R.I.P., N-word. I'll believe you're dead and gone when I see this country return Katrina victims to New Orleans, when I hear someone apologize to Detroit, when Atlanta becomes the capital of the South, when Africa is returned to her children, when we stop saying to one another in our very white circles "Well, slavery ended over 150 years ago! You'd think they would be over it by now!". I'll believe you're dead and gone when we recognize that hip-hop IS an art, and many geniuses erupt from urban streets. I'll believe you're dead, n-word, when God reveals herself to be a black Jewish lesbian with an afro and one hell of an attitude. Until then, I think you'll be haunting us.

But don't worry, n-word. We've got our crucifixes and our history. We'll keep beating you down until you don't get up anymore. And we'll resurrect this city of brokenness, and bring her back screamin'.

The Truth

2007-04-25T07:19:00.000-04:00

I remember when Jessica Lynch came home from Iraq, and everywhere, we heard the pounding of "Hero! Hero!" I never remember what, exactly, was heroic about Jessica. I know she was in a HumVee vehicle. I know she and her squad were attacked. I know a lot of people died. But I didn't know what exactly made her heroic.

Well, I know now.

She's telling the truth.

Lynch is indeed a lynch-pin. Her testimony about her experience in Iraq, along with others' comments condemning acts of the military, are the beginning of the end of this farce in Iraq.

When a woman-no more than a girl-can tell the American people that America deserves better than betrayal from the media and from the United States Armed Forces, I give her the vote of heroism. She is finally speaking on behalf of herself and her fallen comrades and most importantly, she is speaking to us, the people who somehow managed to vote in representatives and politicians that continue to continue to continue (thanks, Paul Simon) to foist this 'war' on our nation and the nation of Iraq. Her testimony may not be powerful enough to stop the war, nor may it move people the way it has moved me.

But it speaks of honesty, down to the simplest common denominator. A poor woman from West Virginia, who may have joined the Army because there was nowhere else to go, or may have joined the Army because she loved the stars and stripes, tells the ultimate truth, flying in the face of the Big Government's propaganda.

"The truth of war is not always easy. The truth is always more heroic than the hype," she said.

Thank You, Miss Lynch. For a moment, my faith in this beautiful country has been restored.

I'm Part of the Vast Cultural Elite...

2007-04-16T06:43:00.000-04:00

...so give me some credit, dammit.

My friend informed me that I have a rather special heritage. I never really thought about it, but I suppose I should remind myself (and therefore, my readers) of why I should be held in high regard, esteem, company, et al.

I am a descendant of the Tudors. That's right. Royalty.

The maternal line of my family has, for ages, set the standard for elitism. I can't help liking nice things, dammit. It's soaked in through centuries. Also: all the women in my family marry beneath them, in a Protestant guilt effort to dispel all the bad things we have been responsible for. It's a running joke. By now, our bloodline has been so watered down by healthy American males that we have lost many of our horrid recessive traits and have probably gotten better looking as the years went on. No matter. Michael and my father and my maternal grandfather are all wonderful representatives of the 'common' man. I do hope you know I being completely and utterly sarcastic. You don't? Well.

The most important ancestor I can claim is Bloody Mary. If you do nothing to read about her fascinating history, and her relation to Henry the 8th (I am, I am), then do read about her trial and execution. It shows how stubborn Scottish women can be, and it a wonderful ghost story to tell your children. It should shock them fairly well. (Three bloody whacks, resulting in the death of a dog and a good amount of blood sprayed absolutely everywhere! Plus, the sawing of a neck while Mary is still alive...) Anyway. My Tudor line does not die out with Mary, Queen of Scots, but continues on through the ages in bits and peices and lands with the Mayflower and the Revolution. It is true. My grandmother is a DAR. She went to a nice all girls' school in the twenties, and I was offered a legacy scholarship there, as well. I didn't go; I was focused on finding a blue collar grease monkey to take me to the prom.

My grandmother's family also owned the Beloit Ironworks. It was the first factory in the USA where workers demonstrated and got a credit union. This means absolutely nothing. I am positive that my great-great-grandfather had nothing good to say about the arrangement. I am, however, married to the son of a steel mill worker. Irony.

I am absolutely ashamed of much of my heritage. I was lucky enough to have the Protestant Guilt beat into my poor, horse-faced genes. On any given day, I'll be much happier to share with you the Willa Cather existence of my father's people--people of the grain and harvest, of the deadly North Dakota winters, of the depressive Germanic method in raising children. That's such an American heritage, I think, rather than this expansive genetic stew resulting in blonde hair and hyperextended joints. But in any case, I must try and channel this royal bearing more often. I am hoping it will assist me in my goal to take over the world and retire by forty.

Now, bow and worship me. I'm as royal as frickin' Princess Di.

The Hopeful and for Whom We Hope

2007-04-14T16:29:00.000-04:00

Kurt Vonnegut has died. We have lost another one who hoped.

These days, I am living as the philosophical equivalent to a dodo bird. Exultant in my stupidity, I have forgotten all about hope. The reason to do what I do best--write poorly. Many times, I have harkened back to the dreadfully accurate words of Allen Ginsberg:

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix
-Howl

While Ginsberg wrote for the beat generation, his words apply to this maddening generation of post post X'ers. We have bypassed heroin for something better, something more applicable, something safer--apathy. The Boomers were the parasitic joy of the twentieth century. They sucked their hosts dry, and left the land and people dark and hopeless. Instead, we crave technology to support our hollow souls, and have forgotten the truth of the world. We are starving, Allen. We are hysterical. And we are naked and vulnerable to what comes next.

Unlike me, there are those who have decided entropy is absolutely dawning on us, and they have decided not to hope. I do not chastise them, for they have the courage to think everyday that all is past salvation. And they persist. It is a conversation between an athiest and her world. She is truly able to forsake a faith made of cotton candy wisps, and decides to embrace the void of God. She is Without. Many of my contemporaries have grasped this, and continue to live and work and play.

But then, there are us. The hopers.

Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.
-Kurt Vonnegut

Kurt Vonnegut and his satire displays such hope for the world, that in amongst the most dreadful atomic wars and most conflicted and insane individuals, there is a morsel of hope for humanity. All over, these hopers keep lifting their minds up and impart to the world what it means to dwell Within. I could list them: Socrates, Plato, Julius, Alexander, Jesus, Buddha, Hamilton, Jefferson, Luther, King, Parks, St. Theresa, Ghandi,Arvo Part, Vonnegut, Rahner, Kant...but you know these and many, many more.

When we have the courage to be Within or Without, we are stronger than our histories. I am terrified of the world and heart-broken by it. But I am hopeful for it. Whether you are or you are not, you must also love it. Decide on its state. Allow ice-nine in, or flush Lake Erie, or stand at the edge of it all and watch the truth of things and the blinding wings of angels beat at your face. But do not be a dodo. The apathetic are the worst among us. If anything, we must hope to exfoliate these from the Universe. As Kurt said:

Who is more to be pitied, a writer bound and gagged by policemen or one living in perfect freedom with nothing more to say?

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
November 11, 1922-April 11, 2007

Required Reading

2007-04-10T17:59:00.000-04:00

I know I haven't been around much. I've neglected many of you. All of you, in fact. So, for me to demand anything of anyone is just downright selfish. Anyway, I INSIST that you go look at Anne's Silks .

You will find there a plethora--a veritable cornucopia--of artwork. You will fall in love all over with the world, and you will want to dance in the streets, screaming about this artist. You will fall all over yourself in anticipation of another one of her blog entries, and you will email her constantly to commission work from her. You will, in short, be awed by her talent.

All of these things, I promise to you!

Also, Anne is my mom. She's way hot.

Dear Enablers

2007-04-09T21:05:00.000-04:00

(This disgusting peice of kitsch is exactly the kind of thing that is going to make archeologists of the future retch and then wonder how humans ever made it past the Dark Ages. I want it.)

Humans love analogies. That's why my book (my theoretical book) is going to make a killing. I have broken all people down into four different categories. In a perfect world, there would only be two kinds of people (because we've heard that phrase so many times, and we like it). But I am going beyond the whole "There are winners and there are losers" mentality. I'm taking it even further in evolution. Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus? Step aside. My analogy bypasses gender, race, and even human DNA.

Cats and dogs, people.
And cats who act like dogs.
And dogs who act like cats.

'Nuff said.

I am a dog. I am a tongue rolling, tail wagging, oh-scratch-me-right-there-and-I'll-kill-for-you kinda gal. I am loyal to a fault, obedient except when I haven't been given enough playtime or attention, and will protect my loved ones with great big bites and yelps. The only time I compromise others' honor is when someone dangles a tasty treat in front of my face. I am easy to please (coffee, much?) and believe in people.

My husband is a cat. He is a great floppy Maine Coon. He really likes other people, sure. He's awfully easy-going. But he knows what he knows, and that's all he needs. He is independent and will flip the rest of the world off if the world isn't doing things the right way. Michael asserts himself and his boundaries through body language. He practically oozes disdain for anyone who does not meet his expectations. Now, granted, his expectations are merely standards in morality. Pretty much, if you smile and don't lie, Michael will like you. But if you're a womanizing asshole (yeah, you, frat boy across the street), he won't piss on your teeth if your mouth was on fire. That's right. I said piss.

I know someone who is a cat, but acts like a dog. She's actually one of the worst kind of cats--a Siamese (like Delilah). She's selfish and moody and anxious and brooding, but she only lets her closest members in on that part of her personality. The rest of the time, she is a dog. A Golden Retriever, at that. She is loved in the community and is often held to a greater standard than you or I or June Cleaver. Stay clear of cats who act like dogs.

And then, that leaves us with dogs who act like cats. These are the Chihuahuas of the bunch. Independent, yes. But self-serving? No. I think dogs who act like cats make the best leaders, because they are able to determine where real threats lay. They don't sweat the small stuff, and they are loyal, but also able to distance themselves from flattery (unlike myself).

You see, I'm on to something!

For those of you enabling puppy dogs who are always looking for a scratch around the ears, be careful whose dirty fingernails are hooking under your collar and tugging you away from your safe yard.

And for you cats? Take it easy on us dogs. We're just trying to get a bone.

It's Been Way Too Long

2007-04-06T07:00:00.000-04:00

It's been SO long that I can't even recall where I left off or where to begin again. The quick rundown: I do have a job, now. It's a real one, where I go into the office and sit at a computer and look busy as much as possible. I'm still working with the developmentally disabled, just in a very wealthy part of Michigan (there are about eight towns left in Michigan that one could consider wealthy--the rest are merely hanging on for dear life).

I have made two new friends who also happen to share a love of knitting and a love of cynicism.

My husband is often travelling, leaving me alone to learn how to play my new guitar.This is my new guitar. It is a custom guitar from Daisy Rocks. I don't really know what that means, but I know this...my fingers hurt. And I can really bang out some songs on the D chord and the G chord. And if you are a chick and want to learn how to play guitar, I recommend the Daisy Rock brand. The stems are thinner, making it easier on our smaller, more delicate hands. Also: the guitars themselves are frickin' chic. Girls need chic.

I also spend plenty of time enhancing my hand-eye coordination via video games.

My grandmother was put in a nursing home for awhile, but is coming around and will be leaving there for her own home all on the eve of her 90th birthday.

My cat remains utterly insane. And cute.

My new secret diet requires me to repeat in my head everyday the magic words: I want to look good naked. I may be wrong, but I think it's working.

I am happy with my life. And that keeps me from writing. Too bad, really, since I want to write so much, and stay on top of the blogworld. But my days just keep getting shorter, and it's difficult to spend time in front of a computer when I could be doing so many other things. I don't have the time for introspection that I would like, but I can't complain when so many good things seem to be happening all the time.

And now, to shower and go to work.

FUNemployed!

2007-02-19T19:21:00.000-05:00

As hard as I try, I just can't get used to being jobless. I mean, I should know, right? The fiasco with the Georgia Department of Corruption left me jobless, and I survived. This time around, being jobless was entirely expected; indeed, I looked forward to a bout of relaxation. Unfortunately, I find myself lost without a job title to identify. Try going to a knitting group in swanky Ferndale, Michigan and explaining to self-starting, progressive women that you don't work. Okay, most of them moaned in jealousy, but the point is: I'm a worker! And more importantly: I'm a spender! So. I'm in peril.

Here's the idea, then: minimize life. New tiny house, new tiny budget, new tiny grocery stores, new tiny wardrobe...new tiny existence. How to be without extras. How to think without extemporaneous input. How to program the Tivo. God, I love Tivo. Anyway.

Hey, newsflash! Detroit is suffering from a bit of a depression. I know you're probably shocked, what with it being Mo-Town and all these car companies here, but actually, most of them have dried up and gone south..to Mexico, that is. Detroit is a ghost town. Eerie, actually, driving around streets of abandoned homes, some just burnt remnants of craftsman styled homes built in the era of big cars and bigger gas tanks. It's melancholic and lonely and ever-so poetic, and it would be even more poetic if I didn't know that people, REAL people, have to live in squalor and poverty because of the lack of industry. And I had this naive concept that if more people are living in squalor and poverty, Michigan would be rife with social service agencies. It is not so, my friends. It appears that the problem may very well lie in the fact that so few agencies are funded to combat the problems of Detroit. And I am left with very few options.

Which leads me to the strip clubs. I've already documented how many there are, but I am being led closer to the doors of the The Thrifty Hooker. No, there is no establishment with such a name...YET...perhaps I can remedy that situation.

Does anyone have any 'get rich quick' schemes that work? Even 'get somewhat employed for an average income and pay down your credit card bills' would work. I'll take any suggestions. Really. ANY. Morality is becoming rather flexible as long as the bills pile up....

Guns

2007-02-10T21:21:00.000-05:00

My favorite read, The Sun, has a section called "Reader's Write", in which normal schmoes get to submit opinions, stories, eulogies, and other fluff to the magazine in hopes of receiving a six month subscription. The Sun gives guidelines for the entries, and the February 1st deadline revolves around guns. Obviously, I didn't have the time to get my entry in, so I am conducting my own "Reader's Write" on my blog. Which is entirely my right.

I have held the heavy handled pit of a Glock 23 (a 'safe-action pistol') in my hands several times. When I was not holding it, I had it strapped to my waist in a security holster. I carried my police-issued handgun with me at all times on the job, and I felt its weight every moment. A .40 caliber weapon with an ability to shoot through water and sand is not a light instrument. The Glock is touted as one of the most reliable, user-friendly weapons on the market. It is assembled in Smyrna, Georgia, just five miles from my previous workplace. It is a matte black weapon with plastic inserts, and one can fully dismantle the weapon into about forty pieces. It fires just as (I imagine) a well-lubricated piston fires--if the user is aware of the rebound on a Glock, and avoids jerking the trigger.

I could never fire a Glock properly. My Glock jammed numerous times, and each time I qualified with my weapon, I would lose shots because of these jams. I would "rack, roll, and rip" the weapon until it fired again. I cleaned my Glock incessantly, because a dirty weapon could become a fatal mistake in combat fire. The cleanliness of my weapon did not contribute to my jams. I was advised of my poor shooting stance, my trigger jerking, my line of sight, my hesitation in squeezing (ever so gently) the trigger back, letting it surprise me with its plume of smoke and BANG! Instructors would remind me to think of the gun as the clutch on a motorcycle--all I had to do was ease the trigger.

Ease the trigger. Be gentle with the trigger. Such a silly way to treat a gun--as though it were a human, capable of emotion, capable of love.

I pulled my Glock from its holster twice while on the job, and each time, between the rush of adrenaline and my cracking voice shouting out orders ("GET DOWN! GET DOWN! HANDS ON YOUR HEAD! STOP NOW!"), I feared that trigger. I feared pulling it (easing it) in towards the palms of my hands, and I feared the acrid smell of gunpowder. I imagined the victim of my fire splitting open with the force of the Glock's firing. A Glock entry wound would be small, but the exit wound would be enormous. The blood and the bones and the guts that could be the consequence of this fairly light, dusty black weapon were perfectly imagined in my mind. The State reminded us to 'shoot until the threat stops', thereby nullifying the humanity of the gunfire victim. How, I would ask myself, can I dehumanize a living person, whether he is evil or not?

Eventually, after I was fired from my position, I came to understand that I was never prepared for the responsibility that accompanied the Glock. I could never have co-existed with it as other law enforcement officers do. I would take it home, leave it in its holster, and stare at it. On my belt, it coiled as a snake, silently making threats to children and 'civilians'. When I wore it on my side, I constantly kept one elbow on the end of the handle, pulling it closer to me, farther away from other potential victims.

I have come to understand somethings about weapons. I do not like them, I do not want them in my world, I do not want my neighbor to have a gun, I do not want the bad guy to have a gun, I do not want to ever lay eyes on a Glock again. But I know that guns will always reside in this culture, and I will not be able to escape them. I can only be relieved that I will never, ever have to pull a Glock out from my holster, stare into someone's eyes, and threaten him with death.

So I Heard the Bears Won!

2007-02-08T22:59:00.000-05:00

I was so thrilled to hear my favorite home team won the super bowl! Thank goodness for that, because I couldn't watch any of it since I was unloading a truck on the coldest day EVER in Michigan.

Man, it's flippin' cold up here.

Here's a fun idea: try taking 1100 square feet of crap and stuffing it into a 875 square foot house. If that's not your idea of a good Saturday night, then try shopping at a grocery store where you are required to wear 'Uggs' and carry a platinum AmEx card to the meat counter before purchasing your 'Maverick' beef. What the hell? I've entered Yuppie hell.

That being said, I love Royal Oak. While I'm desperately missing my knit group and my friends in Atlanta, I'm totally digging this place. Here's a new concept: talking to strangers! People do that in this town, even when it's thirty below zero. In fact, my new neighbors brought over a tin of cookies as a welcome gift. Who does that? People in Royal Oak, Michigan, that's who.

My house is actually the most adorable thing since Barbie said "Math is hard!" Unfortunately, the sink in the bathroom broke today and there's these unsightly cracks in about half of the windows, and I'm pretty sure our cars have been cased out by neighborhood vandals, but other than that, it's really just precious. Really. Michael has been able to erect his entire MAN THEATER in the tiny living room and was kind enough to leave me one cubic foot for my silk flower arrangement. That's love, people.

The bike, however, refuses to start. The scariest moments of my life? When Michael rode the bike into the Budget rental truck, and when he rode the bike out of the truck. Of course it was scary for me, people. We're talking about my love, my passion, my absolute everything. And my husband was riding it, too.

Hey! I'm gonna start cooking pretty soon, here. After all, I went to the 'market' (we're so swanky we go to market now instead of the grocery store). The market is overridden by hippie love-children who all have these enormously disgusting looking dreadlocks, except the butcher (thank God). The butcher looks like he is in some kind of hell working with these pot-ridden socialists, but it's a job, and he's glad to talk to other normal, bitter individuals like myself. This camaraderie ended shortly after I asked for a pound of turkey burger and admitted half of it was for my cat. I'm sorry. I'm a snob and so is my damned cat.

However, at market (well, now I'm just English, apparently), there is also this scrawny sixteen year old bagger guy who enjoys yelling at morons (like me) who can't figure out how to exit the building, because hippie markets with expensive meat cuts make sure overweight, insecure middle-class women who still wear real leather shoes are put in their perspective places. And how do they do this? Firstly, by placing the exit door in the exact place where an eye will not travel. Secondly, by having this really strict path of how to get around the grocery store. And thirdly, by yelling loudly at the woman going against the flow of traffic: "Hey, ma'am! The exit is THE OTHER WAY!"

Thanks a lot, you underfed vegan. Go to hell.

Anyway, pictures will follow. Thanks, all, for coming around and saying hello. And a special thanks to Sysm for a certain gift that has made life most easy, especially at a certain mom and pop general store.

I Absolutely Hate Packing

2007-01-31T17:32:00.000-05:00

I hate packing. I hate moving. I hate boxes and cartons and dust bunnies and that perpetual question, "Do I REALLY need to take this?"

That is all I have, right now. I am going insane. I am never going to buy another kitchen appliance, ever. Not freaking ever.

If anyone has any extra boxes or some free time tomorrow, please come to my house and help me load the Budget rental truck.

We're leaving Friday. At this point, we will be leaving half of my belongings behind. If you can't make it for the great big packing event, you can at least come and scavenge the leftovers.

Floorlamps, table lamps, a dresser, a side table, a television, and a microwave will be available--free to a good home. There is also a very likely possibility that one deranged cat will be left behind as well, if the tranquilizers don't work.

Or if I haven't taken all of the tranquilizers.

Vampires on Vacation

2007-01-29T19:45:00.000-05:00

A few posts ago, Tits McGee mocked the startling hilarity of this magazine:

Well, I got her beat. It seems the corporate monsters of the Goth world have gone one step further, and are also incorporating my all-time-favorite-synth-pop-band, VNV Nation. You probably haven't heard of them. Despite my knitting habit and my collection of Old Navy clothes, I am a true Gothette, and know more about Goth bands than a suicidal rugrat at a Marilyn Manson concert.

Therefore, I am disgusted and excited to announce the 2007 Gothic Cruise.

Yes, friends, coming all the way from VampireRave.com, I am thrilled to announce that a bunch of goth lovers are going to the Sunny Caribbean for a festival of blood, death, and suntan lotion. While cruising the small isles of the Southern Seas and basking in the relaxing waters of Cozumel, Costa Maya, Belize, and Nassau (Bahamas), one will also be able to listen to the relaxing sounds of post-industrial dark-rave music of VNV Nation.

While the palm of my hand is constantly beating my forehead in absolute horror, I can only imagine a bunch of really pasty white girls covering themselves in black mesh to keep the sun off of their delicate complexions. The absolute irony of the Goth Cruise is not lost on me, no. I am also thrilled to see that the cabins of the Carnival ship are all decorated in pastels.

Pastels, people.

The quintessential cherry on top of this lovely dark, bleeding cake of goth-ness is that this cruise would be the fourth Goth Cruise to date. Somewhere in the world, heroine-sheik girls wearing gas masks are commenting on MySpace pages, chatting about what black bikini to pack and how vinyl combat boots are not always great for the beach.

I'm so glad that in about four days, I will be in the dreary winter land of Detroit, driving by the great fiery towers of steel mills, pondering the ultimate depressive reality that is a city of industry, pipes, and pollution. I guess even vampires need some fun in the sun.

(In April, we are going to see VNV Nation in a truly appropriate venue, St. Andrew's Hall. This is also home to The Shelter, where Eminem got his start. But we'll be upstairs, rocking our own collection of vinyl boots and bustiers and gas masks)

Misery Children Series: Gas Mask Girl Artist: Kathie Olivas

I'm So Lazy I'm Posting a Forward.

2007-01-28T20:41:00.000-05:00

Please feel free to rename these Barbies as they appear in your locale. For your information, I shall be a "Royal Oak" Barbie, and I am consulting with my plastic surgeon accordingly.

Mattel recently announced the release of limited-edition Barbie Dolls for the Greater Detroit market:

"Birmingham Barbie" This princess Barbie is sold only at The Galleria. She comes with an assortment of Kate Spade Handbags, a Lexus SUV, a long-haired foreign dog named Honey and a cookie-cutter house. Available with or without tummy tuck and face-lift. Workaholic Ken sold only in conjunction with the augmented version.
"Canton/Farmington Hills Barbie" The modern day homemaker Barbie is available with Ford Wind star Minivan and matching gym outfit. She gets lost easily and has no full-time occupation. Traffic jamming cell phone sold separately. "Westland or Taylor Barbie" This recently paroled Barbie comes with a 9mm handgun, a Ray Lewis knife,a Chevy with dark tinted windows, and a Meth Lab Kit. This model is only available after dark and must be paid for in cash (preferably small, untraceable bills) ....unless you are a cop, then we don't know what you are talking about.

"West Bloomfield or Bloomfield Hills Barbie" This yuppie Barbie comes with your choice of BMW convertible or Hummer H2. Included are her own Starbucks cup, credit card and country club membership. Also available for this set are Shallow Ken and Private School Skipper. You won't be able to afford any of them.

"Waterford Barbie" This pale model comes dressed in her own Wrangler jeans two sizes too small, a NASCAR t-shirt and tweety bird tattoo on her shoulder. She has a six-pack of Bud light and a Hank Williams Jr. CD set. She can spit over 5 feet and kick mullet-haired Ken's butt when she is drunk. Purchase her pickup truck separately and get a confederate flag bumper sticker absolutely free.

"Royal Oak Barbie" This collagen injected, rhino plastic Barbie wears a leopard print outfit and drinks cosmopolitans while entertaining friends. Percocet prescription available as well as warehouse conversion condo.

"Downriver Barbie" This tobacco-chewing, brassy-haired Barbie has a pair of her own high-heeled sandals with one broken heel from the time she chased beer-gutted Ken out of Butler Barbie's house. Her ensemble includes low-rise acid-washed jeans, fake fingernails, and a see-through halter-top. Also available with a mobile home.

"Ferndale Barbie" This doll is made of actual tofu. She has long straight brown hair, arch-less feet, hairy armpits, no makeup and Birkenstocks with white socks. She prefers that you call her Willow . She does not want or need a Ken doll, but if you purchase two Point Breeze Barbies and the optional Subaru wagon, you get a rainbow flag bumper sticker for free.

"8 Mile Barbie" This Barbie now comes with a stroller and infant doll. Optional accessories include a GED and bus pass. Gangsta Ken and his 1979 Caddy were available, but are now very difficult to find since the addition of the infant.

"Novi Barbie" She's perfect in every way. We don't know where Ken is because he's always out a-'huntin'.

"Woodward Avenue Barbie/Ken" This versatile doll can be easily converted from Barbie to Ken by simply adding or subtracting the multiple snap-on parts.

That's My Boy

2007-01-25T22:53:00.000-05:00

Michael and I went to Target yesterday for the usual list of needed things around the house:

*Foot powder for my stanky feet

*Lotion for my chafed legs

*Toilet Paper

*Cat Litter

So, we came across the aisle labeled "Feminine Hygiene**" which is code for "All that Shit You Need for Your Genitalia". And Michael stops.

"Look, honey! Magnum condoms! I'm gonna get some!" (He's yelling this, of course.)

"Shhh," I say as I blush fushia.

"Oooooo," Michael says, "Look at this whole line of KY stuff! Warming...sensitive...massage oils...different flavors...hey, I bet that's edible!"

A woman who looked like she was suffering from a yeast infection veered away from us in a huff.

And then, he practically screams, "HOLY SHIT, WE GOTTA GET SOME OF THAT!"

As if I didn't have enough of a complex.

**Why's it gotta be called feminine hygiene? Like having a period makes me dirty?

Why I Don't Go For Waterslides

2007-01-25T16:09:00.000-05:00

When I was thirteen, I bought a new bathing suit.

It had shorts and a bra top. I thought I was awesome. In fact, I was a pale, pasty, ungainly ugly duckling who had already developed cellulite.

My (one) friend asked me to go to a water park with her. We went on a weekday during the evening, so no one would recognize me and blow her cover of being 'cool'.

We went on the tallest water slide the park had to offer. It had lots of gushing water streaming down it. The water gushed at a very high pressure.

She went down in her little teeny-weeny bikini. I saw her at the bottom, alive and laughing. The guy at the top of the water slide motioned for me to take off.

Water slides that are tall and have lots of gushing water can really be less of an experience and more of a sensation of having your skin pummelled by chlorinated water. If you're lucky, some of this chlorinated water will be snorkeled into your nasal cavity, and you will go blind with pain for about thirty seconds. In this case, thirty seconds was all it took to push my flabby, pale body down the slide.

When I arrived at the bottom, squirting water from my eyes and nose, my friend started shrieking. I opened my eyes to find my top had been lost in the guzzling, raging waters. It came down about two seconds later.

I covered my sad, adolescent breasts and stomach with my arms and ran to the nearest tree to put my top on. While I ran, crying and blushing, I looked at the lifeguard at the bottom of the slide. She was probably 18 or so.

She had the biggest look of disgust on her face I have ever seen.

No wonder I hate my body.

Detroit or Bust

2007-01-24T00:03:00.000-05:00

Look, people, it's starting to settle in. In less than a week and a half, this entire house is supposed to be packed up and moved to Michigan. I'm moving to Motor City, the home of the Satanic GM Overlord and the Ford museum. The home of nostalgic Woodward Avenue and the race wars of the '60's. The nursery of angry, dark, and macabre industrial music (my favorite!). In essence, the home of a great big abandoned downtown with lots of nice bedroom communities.

I've heard the potholes eat small children for breakfast.

The good news is, I'll only be about three miles north of the famed 8 Mile Road. While Detroit tourism magazines encourage visitors to 'traverse the character-riddled road of Motor City, and discover it is much more than what Eminem portrays!', I will quickly rebut and say, 'No. 8 mile road is exactly what the movie depicts--a wash of superindustrialized factories and a ton of cheesy strip malls.'

And the liquor stores! My God! The liquor stores on every corner! But in Detroit, they are called 'party stores'. Who gets that? Apparently, Michael.

Lemmee tell you something: If you are a single, desperate, slightly disturbing man and searching for the quintessential slimy, grody, ew-something-sticky-is-on-my-seat strip club experience, search no further. You have found your Mecca. 8 Mile Road is home to (and I researched this, thanks to Google):

The Booby Trap
Hot Tamales
Trumpps
The Coliseum (what, do they sacrifice old strippers at the end of the night to lions, or something?)
Player's
Tycoon's Reservations

All within a short mile distance from one another.

(Interestingly enough, the Google search also threw the Rosa Parks Institute for Self Development up when I put in 'strip clubs, 8 mile, detroit'. I'm not entirely sure what this means, but I am pretty sure it is hilarious. I have often wanted to strip to make myself feel better, but it has often ended with me sobbing and someone yelling, "JESUS GOD PUT ON YOUR CLOTHES!")

Truly. I'm thrilled about this move and excited for the possibilities. A strip club could very well be in my future. I saw pictures of these chicks, and I assure you. I have a shot. A long shot, depending on my ability to hang suspended from a pole by my wasabi, but a shot nonetheless.

Those girls looked really tired.

Wish me luck in all my new endeavors.

I Was Going to Be Funny...

2007-01-23T02:43:00.000-05:00

...but then I read about James Dobson through Tits McGee's blog. And I.Just.Got.Angry.

My dear friend Liz was relaying a story to me about a wedding she just attended. In the wedding, one of the groomsmen happened to be gay, and his partner decided to stand up with the brides' maids, which I thought was just touching.

Liz stated that during dinner, another couple made heavy 'Tsk-ing' noises about 'the gays' and 'the gays wanting to get married' and how 'unnatural' the whole situation was, and what threats homosexuality posed to children, and how God does not want children to be raised in an unsanctified and Satanic union.

Interestingly enough, the woman in this couple was very pregnant, and later confessed that she and her husband's first pregnancy had resulted in a shotgun wedding. A year later, the couple separated with intentions of divorcing, but somehow wound up in the sack again, resulting in another (unwanted) pregnancy, so they're going to try to 'work out their marriage'. Hmm. Looks like another winning combination of factors for Heterosexual Marriage in America!

I will not continue this rant, as it is obvious where it is going. However, I just want to throw in that Michael's ex's sister was married to a Promise Keeper. He also had a girlfriend on the side and several unexplained nights out on the town.

The funny thing I was GOING to post was:
Breastfeeding: If you're old enough to ask for momma's milk, you're too old.

Discuss.

Gaaarrghh!

2007-01-21T11:00:00.000-05:00

After years of seclusion and isolation, the feral child of Marietta, Georgia, emerged from her home, stumbling about on all fours, frothing at the mouth and chewing on dry cat food. It would seem she was ready--ready to rejoin society. Before she was whisked off to London to be taught manners and told to sit up straight, her husband came to the rescue and assured all the media that he would be responsible for her grooming and well-being. It would seem there is a happy story to this particular hermit, left in a house for years, and grooming herself like a cat. Obviously, her standard of hygiene suffered throughout the days of seclusion, but we're working on that.
Good news! I am leaving the house today for the first time in about five days! I'm alive! I'm well (kind of). And I'm meeting my two bestest friends for coffee, knitting, gossip, and commiserating!

That is all I have to report. It feels good to leave the house and have a reason to take a shower. And maybe (just maybe) put on makeup. Well. That might be asking too much, right now.

Gratuitous Wedding Photos, Bitches!

2007-01-19T15:06:00.000-05:00

Since my two previous declarations of insanity/insight/verbal emesis have been blithely ignored, I'm taking a hint and posting pictures from the wedding. These are the only ones of which I'm not ashamed. Michael looks awesome in ALL of them. I look okay in about nine.

Now: go read my two previous posts while sipping hot coffee and having a smoke. If you don't smoke, you can still read them.

Adventures

2007-01-19T06:55:00.000-05:00

I have managed three hours of sleep; I awoke with another sinus headache and this time, the huffing of warm salt water did nothing but get my shirt wet. So, here I am, double posting.

I had this really funny dream during my three hours of respite, in which Michael and I were traveling through a developing country, and we didn't have the proper identification to drive a car, so we had to rely on these natives who were up to no good, so Michael stole an electric handcart. In my dream, this handcart turned into some kind of soapbox racer with a handbrake, and while we were unloading groceries from the handcart into a stolen taxi (I'm a thief in my dreams, obviously), Michael forgot to set the handbrake and the cart crashed into a truck and subuaru, totaling the handcart and the subuaru, but not the truck.

I woke up thinking about traveling.

During the past few days of absolute misery and sinusitis, I began reading Ghost Rider:Travels on the Healing Road by Neil Peart, the drummer and lyricist of the band Rush. If you are a woman and have not only heard OF this band, but HEARD the band, you are by far a better woman than I, because I hate Rush and their ten minute long, monotonous ballads about the Lord of the Rings. I have managed to find one website dedicated to all (five) of Rush's female fans. Anyway, I picked up the book because nothing else was doing.
I'm not in love with it, mind you. The writing suffers a tad bit and I'm not enthralled, but I've come to understand Peart's philosophy about the traveler and the tourist, and how these two beasts can be so different. The traveler gets dirty and sore and tired, while the tourist rests between soft, clean sheets. The traveler finds the gravel, muddy road and drives down it even though he knows no one traverses the road, and if his vehicle get stuck somewhere, he's going to have to bail himself out. The tourist sees the sights from an airconditioned bus on a paved and cushy highway.

I am a tourist when it comes to traveling. I don't do dirt or fear or extreme outdoor sports or anything that may involve a hospital visit or cholera. Perhaps this is a rather philistinism way to see the world, but I figure if I can take a silly tour bus ride and find it interesting, then I really don't need to be hiking through the outback of some uncivilized place, hoping for fresh water. So, I suck, Neil Peart. Sorry.

I'm coming to a point, and if only two people read this, then God Bless You.

What is scary to admit is that people can become tourists of their own lives. I think this has happened to me, somewhat. I have been waiting for things to happen TO me, and have not been proactive in many facets of my life. I can see that in my work, and my attitude regarding Michigan (I'm not taking responsibility for THAT decision, even though I'm all for it--it's Michael's deal...), and my attitude about losing weight (let's just see what happens!) and my attitude about smoking (it's not killing me...yet). All of these things I think about, and I'm letting them happen to me, rather than ME happening to THEM.

In 2001, I attempted suicide and was smart enough to make a phone call to a helpline before I stuck a knife in both arms. I was young and heartbroken and lonely and stressed out and ashamed of all sorts of devious, college antics. I wound up in the psych ward of a hospital for three days, and that stay could be a whole book unto itself, but this is what I figured out when I left: life is a choice.

We have been given this glorious opportunity, through God or nature or whatever, to live. So often, we forget that life is an option. There is always a way out of life. There is booze, or sex addictions, or shopping addictions, or addictions to religion. There is suicide, the most obvious choice against life. There is degradation and suffering, battery and abuse. There is TV-watching and never leaving the house. These are all choices, and they are choices we don't have to make. We can become travelers in our own lives, instead of tourists. Now, don't mis-interpret my words: the person who takes the final plunge of suicide had DECIDED something, which is entirely her right. She has said, "Nope. I don't want to fade out in alcohol or food or TV-watching. I'm just going to get it over with right NOW." Okay. But what she misses are these golden opportunities to get dirty, to travel the un-traversed path, to scream from the pinnacle of her own life!

It is my resolution, then, for 2007, to be a traveler of my life. It took me awhile to come up with a resolution this year, mainly because I think resolutions are silly and metaphorical rather than useful and logical. But logic isn't the goal, this year. Living is the goal. Choosing life once more rather than the isolation of past months. Choosing something more meaningful than the self-absorption of weight loss and gain. Choosing to do more than just exist, and breathe.

So if you made it all the way through this writing, I would ask you to do the same: choose life. Or, choose not to choose life. But don't be a tourist of your own fragile days. We just don't have the leisure time for tourism. There's just too much to do.

Sleep Evades Me

2007-01-19T01:55:00.000-05:00

I'm thinking about switching my clocks around, so that during the day, it would be P.M. and during the nights, it would be p.m., and then I wouldn't have to worry about sleeping so much as trying to stay awake. Makes sense, huh?

If anyone ever wonders aloud: "Does huffing salt water up one's nose really help relieve sinus pressure?", I want to be the first in line to say "Yes. Huffing salt water will clear out your sinuses and will also result in the humbling posture of an octogenarian in a swimming pool--surrounded by bits of mucous and a viscous array of bodily fluids dripping out of the nose." I did my huffing over a sink full of dirty dishes (see previous post), so while gargling salt and swishing tap water 'round my nasal cavity, I had the additional pleasure of ruminating on this week's food intake.

1. Popcorn
2. Chicken Noodle Soup
3. Something that required a vast amount of ketchup
4. Velveeta Cheese and shells
5. Something else that required a more vast amount of ketchup
6. Is that apple sauce? Who eats apple sauce in the house?

I consider myself a rather simple being. I don't need much to keep myself happy or occupied. Give me some yarn, or some coffee, or a great cigarette, or a good book, or an opinion, or perhaps a compliment. Give me a feeling of contentedness, or a full stomach, or at least the pretense of good health. I'm ready to roll. But take my health away, and I become a squirming child, tearing up and weeping at my distraught physiognomy.

I caught a cold from my husband and immediately assumed it was bronchitis. I rasped for breath and heard the fluid in my lungs bubble up. I coughed violently enough to make my inner ear spasm, and my dear, darling husband reached for the phone. It was eight o'five in the p.m., so no doctor was available. Only one place to go! The ER...

...in which I told the ER staff that I was dying (in between rasps of air) and that I was a smoker (pariah! horrid witch!) and that I required an immediate breathing treatment, steroid shot, and inhaler. After twenty minutes of filling out insurance paper work, correcting the spelling of my last name ('No, not Frizz-Bottle, it's Fritz-COTTLE'), and maneuvering around the mass of Mexicanos inhabiting the bathroom of the ER, I got a room. Michael brought the laptop, so we were ready for a long night of anxious breathing and sermonizing about smoking. At long last (ten minutes, I think?) an ER physician entered our little curtained Mecca of healing and asked what medications I currently was taking.
"Zoloft," (gasp) said I.
"Ah huh," he said stoically. "And now, big breath in. Okay. Good. Let it out."
He listened to me breathe for about thirty seconds and said, "And when did you last take your Zoloft?"
I rasped for a bit, and told him it had been awhile, like seven or eight days. (I do this thing with my psychotropics--I don't take them once I start feeling better and less anxious. When I stop thinking about the possibility that I could have necrotizing fasciitis, or stop wondering when the world is going to end, or watch the cat for signs of diabetes--that's when I decide I'm cured, and just stop taking the Zoloft completely.
Anyway:
"What does my Zoloft have to do with bronchitis?" I asked the ER doc.
"Absolutely nothing--in that you don't have bronchitis. You have a cold. You are breathing just fine."
"I am?" (rasp...breathe....exhale...inhale...no rasp...)
"Oh. I am," I say as I glance over at Michael, who is laughing.
"So, I'll give you some antibiotics and an inhaler...but don't use it a lot, since it can make people kinda..." And the doctor glances at Michael as if to suggest people 'like her' go a little bit 'round the bend' on Albuterol.
"Shaky?" I say for the doctor's sake.
"Yes. Shaky."

Tidbit! I have two insurance companies, because I'm convinced I'm going to get very sick, so I want Michael to be protected from ridiculous hospital bills by allowing him to pay for my insurance through his company, and me paying through my own company (now defunct as today was my last day of work). And even though I have two insurance companies, I STILL had to pay $100 for a co-pay. The lady at the desk told me that if I didn't speak English, she could have gotten me into a program where I wouldn't have to pay anything at all. Rats. Next time you go to the ER? 'No hablas Inglis!" or whatever. This pisses me off, and I'm a social worker. Is there something wrong with that picture?

So, that's my adventure for the week. I have psychosomatic bronchitis. And the best medicine for that is a glass of salt-water (gently teased through the nostrils) and a tablet of Zoloft. Probably not cigarettes, though. They don't help with bronchitis, real or imagined.

Musings (for the nth time around)

2007-01-11T07:12:00.000-05:00

1. If one morning, I woke up and discovered I was Miss Kendra, I would be deliriously happy.

2. If one morning, I awoke to a size 8 body, I would run around the neighborhood naked. And people would be happy that I did.

3. Well, maybe not this neighborhood. People are weird in my new-soon-to-be-old neighborhood. The people across the street don't talk--they only grunt. And their front door is off-center by three feet. It irritates me to look at it.

4. Here's a reason to love Michael: he looks after my dear, single friend Liz. Her car is on the Fritz. So Michael checked it out. Michael isn't a car wizard, but still. He looked at it. He's a prince among men.

5. I will not miss cockroaches when I move to Michigan.

6. When one puts in her two-week notice at work, does anyone really expect her to WORK?

7. I've come to a sad realization: I'm lazy. There are dishes in the sink from five nights ago. And the dishwasher is nearly empty from the last cleaning, because I keep going in there for dishes. Which wind up in the sink. The good news is: I've almost completely eliminated the need for cabinets.

8. No matter what, there is never enough money.

9. I have a yarn stash that would make many women swoon in envy. I may not have a great body, and I may have a neck waddle, but dammit, I have a stash.

10. God has cursed me. Drinking coffee nowadays leads to an immediate sensation of fire in my belly. Yet, I persist.

11. If I never left the house, I could die happy. What does this say about me? I think it says I don't really like other people. Or maybe, I don't like myself right now. Hmmm. That's depressing.

12. I may or may not have an addiction to internet Scrabble.

13. I worry that Delilah is going to kill herself running into a wall during one of her fits.

14. Michael is the male version of my best friend, Katie. This concerns me and Katie, but not Michael.

15. Do parents get the heebie-jeebies about their kids having sex the same way kids get the heebie-jeebies about parents having sex?

16. I wonder how hard it will be to find work in Michigan. On one hand, I want a similar job to what I do now. On the other hand, social work is hard. I wouldn't mind being a secretary. It would give me an excuse to wear some of my fabulous shoes. And each month, I could budget towards a pair of these.

17. The world is a beautiful place from my little window. I hope we don't kill it off anytime soon. Of course, if I actually left the house from time to time, I might think differently about it.

18. My parents are spectacular people. My dad teaches English as a Second Language, and my mom is in a national guild for silk painters. But that's not why they are spectacular. They are spectacular because they simply are.

19. Someone told me this morning that I changed the fate of his son's well-being and life for the good. If only I had that power. I would wrap the world in it, and spin it away from me in a great orb of light. And each person born with a 'disability' would become a teacher to the rest of us. How much we could learn.

20. Sometimes, on the motorcycle, I zone into the whoosh of wind in my helmet, and feel almost weightless. I think I could die happy, knowing that I've experienced the quieting wonder of the universe from my yellow bike.

My Day In Comics

2007-01-09T20:44:00.000-05:00

These are my drawings, people. I drew them so I own them and stuff. You can't take 'em. So there, people who steal. There.

My ass hurts worse than a frat boy's...oh, nevermind. My ass really, really hurts. Bad.

See how much Michael loves me? He loves me so much that he tattooed my cartoon-self on his arm.

Now, people, that's love--in an incredibly, white-trash, trailer-park fashion--but it's LOVE.

(I'm the one on the left. That's Delilah on the right).

There is A Time (turn turn turn)...

2007-01-06T23:02:00.000-05:00

...to get absolutely shit-faced drunk.

Today is that time.

If one more damn thing happens in this household, I'm going to have a facking nervous breakdown, no qualms about it. Michael is aware of this, and has unearthed the straight jacket from its deepest hiding place (yet another poorly packed box left from the move to the house). If the cat runs out the door in another fit of schizophrenic mania, I will honestly shoot her (with what weapon I cannot say). If one more car is bought, sold, borrowed, or broken, I will slash every tire of every vehicle within twenty feet of me in a Beatrix Kiddo rage. If I am warned about Michigan's winters being horribly cold on one more occasion, I shall rip every single decent hair from my head and drag myself (starving hysterical naked) through the Atlanta streets at dawn, looking for an angry wig.

And if, IF, one more old bald guy tells me I know nothing of the American auto industry, and don't understand the importance of supporting the bloated, fattened automakers of overpriced steel, and am too naive and young to grasp the importance of a global economy, and that I cannot put the price of the environment over the price of American economic success, I shall PLACE MY THUMBS UPON HIS EYES AND SQUEEZE SO HARD HIS BRAINS POP OUT.

I'm so glad a woman is now Speaker of the House. I am so happy that one day, all these old, bloated, red-nosed, rosacea-ridden, old money, baby-boomer, christian whackjob fundamentalists will one day cease their relentless babble and allow those of us (young, naive, hopeful and idealistic) women to start taking care and taking charge of all that is wrong in this world. Maybe we'll even make some babies.

I nominate Tits McGee for president. Spinning Girl for vice. And myself? Defense secretary. Old guys? You're on Notice.

And Then, It Was 2007

2007-01-05T04:24:00.000-05:00

So, I'm up at four a.m. because I'm absolutely roasting, and I step outside to get cold and have a smoke and I wind up sweating. It's January, people. This is heinous.

Sleep escapes me completely at this point, as I'm incapable of shutting my brain off. Here, I'll tell you all why.

Firstly, thanks to those of you who've come 'round, knocked on the door, stuffed a few presents through the mailbox slot, and left sadly. I've been home. I've just been in my pajamas and haven't wanted anyone to see what a miserable, cantankerous old stuffshirt I can be. So, I haven't been blogging or thinking or really doing much of anything except eating. That, on the other hand, I've been doing quite well and now my pants are all about to split, so eventually, I'm going to have to get off my ass and go to the doctor and inquire about gastric bypass surgery and lose about one hundred and seventy-five pounds (exaggerated) before I suffer from a heart attack and an aneurysm and die at the tender age of 28 from obesity. I should probably quit smoking, too, but that's a freakin' long shot.

So, how's everyone's New Year going? Good? Excellent.

As many of you know, we bought this house-thingy, and I've not even put pictures up because the house needs so much work and I'm EMBARRASSED and ASHAMED of it. And I've been too lazy to blog, so that explains some of it, as well. Let's see.

Bought the house in late November. Then, Christmas came. Got a lot of yarn and some lumps of coal--very OLD coal, by the way--the stuff that has turned to sparkles. No, don't worry, conscientious people of the world. I read somewhere that diamonds sold for jewelry are mostly from Australia, and are not the blood diamonds of the Sierra Leone/Ivory Coast. I hope Australia doesn't use aborigines to mine diamonds. Hopefully, they just overwork and underpay plain old Australians to do the diamond mining. Of course, I could just be telling myself this to make me feel better about wearing rocks in my ears. I'm sure I should be ashamed but I love my diamonds. Not because they are diamonds--I would have loved anything Michael gave me. I love them because my husband listens to me even when I am babbling and I don't think anyone else is around. See, because I also got a Swift and a Ball winder, and that's all about Michael listening, too. So my yarn room and stash is flourishing. I should take a picture of that room. It is a haven of knitting and relaxation.

I should also take a picture of it because in one month, I won't have it anymore. No, not because we will be redecorating for Baby--I'm not pregnant. I won't have it anymore because we are moving to Michigan.

Did you guys hear me? I'm moving out of the South to Michigan. Detroit area, actually. Where Michael is from.

See, this is how Murphy's Law works: you buy a house and then your company tells you that you are the best worker ever and they want you to stay put and climb the corporate ladder and they customize a promotion for you. And you get all thrilled and stuff, thinking about how far you've come since your days as an unappreciated probation officer, and you think about how this fairly modest raise will make life a little bit easier and you can afford more yarn and cute fix-its for the house. And then your husband comes home and says: "Honey, what about a twenty-five percent raise, huge commission, car allowance and a life up North?"

Well, what the hell else do you say if you're from Chicago and miss the Mid-West? You say, "Okay." And then you think about the negatives for a really long time, like how two of your best friends live in Atlanta and your parents are an hour away and how much you love the knit group you started and how you can motorcycle nine out of the twelve months and how you bought a house....did I mention that WE JUST BOUGHT A HOUSE? And your husband says, "We will make sure you visit your friends OFTEN and we will find another home up north that is built better and has original coved ceilings and hardwood floors throughout" because believe it or not, folks, housing is cheaper up North than down South. You take a trip to the area you would move to and find a walkable downtown and parks and people who smile a lot and a handful of prostitutes and bodies of water and the MIDWEST, and you know that you are home.

And you are six hours away from Chicago.

And your husband is excited.

And you love the North and detest the South.

We're moving in February.

So, I've likened this move to the whole picture that is life since I got married. Fast-forward. Living in the fast lane. Running with the bulls, etc, etc. Grabbing life by the horn, possibly cheating something or someone out of a good time, laughing in the face of logic, gambling at the great big game of Life.

There's a lot of cliches for life-changes. Somehow, none of them are striking at the truth of this. I'll keep everyone posted. Until then, for those of you are having a real winter, I hope you are very cold. I am very warm. We are killing our Earth.

I hear Michigan gets cold. I only hope that's true.

Humbling

2006-11-27T04:29:00.000-05:00

I couldn't sleep because the decaying furnace in our new old home rattles like Elvis on the toilet. So, I checked my email.

A young woman sent me a note. She had been informed by a friend that her name had popped up on Google and it was my blog that had referenced her. The blog posting was about a time in high school when I felt attacked by her and everyone else that was pretty and popular. In her email to me, she apologized for a particular incident even though she did not remember it occurring. In all honesty, I may have made her the mascot for some of my high school woes. I can not be certain it was her that made that particular day difficult for me. All I am sure of is that words have consequences. She read the post and felt terribly sorry for that memory I had of her. And I feel terribly sorry for making her into the whipping girl. I have been searching through my archives to find the particular post and cannot locate it, so I am offering up my humblest apologies and hope that she is able to forgive me, and I am able to learn from this experience. None of us deserve to be made into monsters. This young lady is far from a monster--she is obviously brave and has a lot of integrity to address the issue with a crazy woman who has a big mouth and a left over anxiety about high school.

Perhaps, it is time for me to let go of those demons of high school and just know: we all grow up. I'm very sorry for what I've said about this person. I do hope she forgives me, and just as soon as I can find the archived post, I'll change it or erase it or whatever I need to do in order to rectify this portrait of a person I hardly ever knew.

It's rather humbling, and rather good to know that people are ultimately kind and evolving souls.

Following Suit

2006-11-08T07:08:00.000-05:00

I think I need an official respite from things.

Good things are happening all the time, it seems. Getting married is really the greatest thing I've ever done, and I am learning to be a good wife. No, not the kind of wife who serves up hot food as soon as my husband comes home, but the kind of wife who is constantly thinking of ways to make life better for my husband. I'm not sure I'm succeeding in leaps and bounds, but I do know that this new life of service is suited for me, or I am suited to it, or something.

In the middle of all this growth, we have finally purchased a home and will be closing in just a few days. I am considering graduate school, and am also in line for a promotion. I'm also trying to finish knitting about three projects I've got on my pointy sticks. I'm busy.

And while I signed up for NaNoWriMo with the greatest of intentions, I cannot seem to find the time or the inclination to truly craft a story and give it the attention it deserves. I feel like a quitter, a loser, an approximation of a bum. Shouldn't true writers find time and opportunity to create? Maybe I'm not really all that much of a writer.

There is a dearth of interesting writing in blogland, and while I feel most of my blogging constituents have much to say, I cannot help but think the end is drawing near. How much could someone really be interested in these meagre thoughts of mine--this simple life with these simple metaphors? While I am thrilled with where my days are going, and how the momentum of life is augmenting my own development, I cannot devote much time to finding the profundity of it all. I'm almost at the point of recording my days in a diary fashion.

My Typical Day:

Got up. Made bed.

Made coffee.

Checked email.

Made phone calls.

Went out on visits.

Hunted down addresses.

Came home.

Did laundry.

Studied for the GRE

Paid bills

Had dinner.

Watched 'Heroes'

Knit scarf

Worried about new house

Worried about money

Took antacid

Did crossword puzzle

Read book

Fell asleep reading book

You see my point? It's not all that interesting. And I'm so tired at the end of the day that even the interesting bits are more trivial than note-worthy.

Sorry, NaNoWriMo. I haven't tossed in the towel, yet, but I'm well on my way to surrender.

I Saw The Number Five

2006-10-25T13:32:00.000-04:00

Last night, I had a dream.

I dreamed I walked through secret hallways, hallways filled with doors. Some of the doors were locked, and a custodian had to open them. The doors led to more doors, and hallways of doors, and L-corners of doors. The doors were white, black, wood, solid, glassed. Some of the doors were half-doors, tinted doors, swinging doors.

And eventually, all these doors led to a train platform, and I waited for a train to take me away from this lighted place of doors. The platform sat adjacent to the ocean, and the water was calm, and the sun was bright. And I didn't want to leave.

In dreams, doors symbolize changes of conciousness. One is entering or exiting different states of spirituality. Locked doors mean life has become stagnant. Open doors means life is moving. And while some of my doors were locked, they were unlocked by assistance. Friends. Co-workers.

In dreams, a sun symbolizes peace of mind, tranquility, happiness, and radiating energy.

It is strange when dreams point me in the direction I should be going. Perhaps I'll take this under advisement--move forward, open my eyes, open my soul, grow in and grow up. I'm going to find that place of tranquility, and it may just force this writing process along.

The writing is dying in the womb. I need to go open some doors.

Because it's Cool Like That

2006-10-24T10:39:00.000-04:00

The writing bug has bitten, and I'm prancing away at my notes and guidelines and outlines for NaNoWriMo. But a good writer (which I'm not) does research. And so in an effort to become a good writer, I wanted to do research myself. Without leaving my home. Or going to the library. Or stopping at a morgue. So.

I called The Body Farm.

And I spoke to Dr. William Bass, author of Death's Acre. He has worked with Patricia Cornwell and the like.

And he was very kind and very helpful and while I knew I was bugging him, I didn't get the feeling I was bugging him. He is a very warm person, and a very knowledgeable person, and he gets to talk about decay for a living. And he told me to call back anytime I needed more help.

So, I will share for you what I learned about decay:

We decay faster in heat (I know, everyone knows this)
We decay from the inside out, and scavengers work on the outside.
We decay in one week on the surface, or on top of the ground. It takes two weeks for us to decay in water, and about eight weeks when we are buried.
Flies are the first to come and start scavenging. If someone dies from a gunshot wound or a knife wound, flies will have a nice buffet and a body will go even faster. If there are no wounds present, the flies go for eyes, mouth, orifices...yeah. Okay, that's icky.
Flies don't scavenge if it's 52 degrees Farenheit or colder.
Rivers don't freeze in the South.
Rivers used to freeze in the South, so I have to consider that for my novella.

I'm not going to say much else. A body, some water, and a story.
That's where I'm starting.

I Starved My Pet Creativity

2006-10-21T09:59:00.000-04:00

It has been a very long while since I have felt the need, desire, presumption, or creativity to truly write well. Blogging has become a chore--at least, writing for the blog has become a chore. I feel guilty when I read Stuntmother's and Monkey's page, because I cannot be so clever or tidy with my words.

Which has convinced me that it is time to up the ante. Throw out a stress test. Jump through a gazillion hoops of fire and small splinters. Stuntmother introduced me to the madness that is NaNoWriMo. It's as nutty as it sounds. The idea behind this insane collabrative is to write 50,000 words in November. If I'm lucky, I'll have a real novella by the end of it. If not, I'll have a ridiculous amount of blogging accomplished. Though I have to get clear on the details. I may be able to not share this others, but then.

It might actually do you all some good.

So, please. Go talk to Stuntmother about how insane this idea is, and yell at her for convincing me that this can actually happen. If you think that's inappropriate, then at least go read HER blog, which is insightful, well-written, and basically, everything that my blog is NOT. I simply can't wait to see what my novella comes out like. (A mockery of the art of literature, I'm sure).

But if you need further convincing that I can write, Spinning Girl would suggest you read my Symphony for Life.

Hell, when I read that, I almost think I might have a shot at this ridiculous thing called writing.
But I'm not hopeful, mind you, that I can accomplish what roughly turns out to be 1600 words a day for one full month. Not hopeful at all. I'm the Eeyore of this whole enterprise.

Join my ranks, and be duly disappointed. Go sign up. It'll do you good, and humble you. You need to be humbled. I'm positive of it.

2006-10-19T11:54:00.000-04:00

Cat Head Theatre

Delilah approves. I laughed for a very long time. It is worthy, My Leige

I'm Like a Big Piece of Bread

2006-10-18T10:44:00.000-04:00

White bread, that is.
(i don't know who half of these people are...)

That stupid site lies. I don't see Kate Moss on here. I don't see Oprah Winfrey on here. But who do I see? Paul McCartney. Yeah. I resemble Paul McCartney so much that people ask me to design clothes for them and inquire after my girlfriend.

And how come none of these celebrities have that deer-in-the-headlight look that I have so perfected?

However, polls indicate that I so much resemble a slice of leavened, processed Wonder bread that even mold ignores me. I think I shall go take these cheekbones and place them in a meat processor. Perhaps, I can then garner Elle MacPherson fans to me, and pass myself off as her.

'cause, you know. Me and Elle. We're like two freakin' peas in a pod.

UberMilf Might Make Me Famous

2006-10-17T11:37:00.000-04:00

If you don't remember this post, you should read it.

My new adventure was emailing the man who conducted art/media exhibits highlighting the plusses of having a plus-sized rump, akin to the Venus Hottentot. I asked if he ever used white women. He said he had not, but was interested. He asked for some photos. I sent them off. He said he'd call me. He never did. And that's fine, because really I just wanted some blogging material.

I got an email yesterday. Apparently, while in discussion with a television company out of Toronto, they asked this man if he ever had used white women, and he said he had not but had been in discussion with a few ladies. They want to use me in the documentary.

I've got a 'photo shoot' on Friday.

Ubermilf is my undisclosed agent. I might just get (in)famous, after all. If anything, I've got some new blogging material.

And because it fits the theme, please, go check out this clip.

Irony

2006-10-16T20:12:00.000-04:00

I have a client who has a sibling.
His sibling is named Trixie.
Trixie drives a semi-truck.
Trixie is a transsexual who does not attempt to disguise the voice.
Trixie is a baritone.

Trixie does not have a sense of humor.

This is a shame. People like Trixie should have senses of humor.

Horrid Memory #2

2006-10-15T21:57:00.000-04:00

So, there I was, perusing Miss Kendra's birthday shenanigans, and I had a moment. It went something like this: "oh-shit-I'm-old and can no longer wear my latex platform boots and purple wig for any decent reason--and while Miss Kendra is having girl nights involving hot wax and loud music, I'm planning out the colors of my living room and trying to figure out how to tackle grout with acrylic nails and oh-holy-shit-I'm-old." Scary.

Anytime I start to doubt my coolness factor (never exceedingly high), I combat it with Flogging Molly and The Dropkick Murphys. And anytime I listen to drunk Irish, I think about drinking, and when I think about drinking, I hearken to college, and simultaneously think of the Air Force situated near my college, and then I think about getting drunk with air force boys. And that is never a good idea.

So, in Omaha, there is a club called Guitars and Cadillacs, and it is as absolutely dreadful as the name would imply. I could not be convinced to patronize this particular joint without having several shots of Goldenschlagger, but once evinced of this liquid poison, off I would be dragged to Guitars and Cadillacs, and forced to dance to 'Cotton Eyed Joe' and poorly mixed Vengaboy songs. And this ludicrous activity would wear my soul thin and usually lead me to throw up in the corner of the dance floor before being dragged outside by my dorm 'friends'. Ah. How many cheap camisole shirts did I ruin? Countless numbers. Yet, I never competed for the obligatory Wet T-shirt contest, though why is beyond me. I mean, at this point, my cruft and intolerable behavior would have best served me as the dumb-ass college girl getting sprayed with cheap American microbeer. Whatever.

It was on one of these evenings that I wasn't so drunk as to not attempt a conversation with some poor, sad loser at the back of the bar. Skinny and a little malnourished looking, this kid had the weathered look of a dog that had been left out too long in Chernobyl. I was instantly smitten. Numbers were exchanged as were drunken flirtations.

Funny how liquor does that crap--makes you think someone is attractive, and the next day you rave to all your friends, "Oh, I met the cutest guy last night at Guitars and Cadillacs!" Uh-huh.

Brian had a 1990 Mustang. You know the ones. The cars that scream "I'm a fast piece of shit"? He was from Alabama (warning sign #2) and stationed at the Air Force Base in Omaha. He smelled weird. His smile was nothing short of lecherous. His breathe was kind of fetid. He smoked Marlboro Reds. I bypassed these issues--he had a car, a loud speaker system in the car, and a bad attitude. Plus, he had friends. My friends plus his friends? Instant drinking buddies. It all fell apart about three weeks later when I fell out of a folding chair in Brian's bunker (or whatever the hell they call military dorms) and hit my head on his shitty half-refrigerator. As I lay on the rug, blinking at the stars and the furry mice produced from the four shots of Jose Cuervo, I wondered what in the hell did a guy like Brian see in a girl like me? I was eventually hauled off the floor by a guy who weighed about a third as much as I did, and I was unceremoniously dumped in the bathroom for the remainder of the night. I'm pretty sure I won some money at a poker game prior to this, but alas, I lost out on that hand. Thank goodness, I vomited up enough sense on that particular evening to avoid such a mistake again. The next time I wanted to date a loser, I would do so while SOBER.

True to my word, I met the next guy sober as the day is long at a music store. After that, nothing much was different. Malnourished and jaundiced, Randy had a partial bridge in his twenty-year-old mouth. He asked for my number--I gave it blithely. A date was made. He would pick me up. Seven o'clock came and went--no Randy. Seven-thirty and I started to call friends for alternate plans when a call came.
"Hey, uh, it's me. Randy. I'm on my way. I just wrecked the Camaro at the gas station. I had to go back home and get another car."
(wrecking the Camaro didn't dawn on me as a problem--just then...)
So, obligingly, I stated I understood and would wait for him to come by. And so he did.
Driving a Plymouth Acclaim missing two windows, conveniently remedied with plastic and duct tape. And Randy? Drunk as a skunk, missing his two front teeth.

I claimed a headache.

Man. I love being married. And I think it will be awhile before I get sad about being a silly college student.

Good Things

2006-10-14T23:48:00.000-04:00

The seller took the offer. We have a house. We have this house. It is ours, and we belong to it, and in less than one month of being married, we have been gifted with this terribly wonderful thing. A home. 1/2 acre, two bathrooms, three bedrooms, two car garage, stainless steel appliances, and best of all...a place to call our own. What luck. Thank you all for happy thoughts. Someone Up Yonder must be looking out for us.

More later! Just had to share the happy news...

The Great Plea or A Great Big Pity-Party

2006-10-13T10:47:00.000-04:00

We have found a house. Not even a month married, and we have found the most adorable home in such a nice area with great big trees and a nice level lot and a two-car garage and stainless steel appliances in the kitchen and it is oh-so-affordable and in quite good shape and now, all we have to do is come up with extra dollars for earnest money, breaking the lease, and paying for a house inspector.

Which comes to over two grand.

Why does everything have to be so difficult? Why can't two hard-working individuals be able to afford things like this? Why can't someone just accidentally erase credit debt? Why did I go to such an overpriced school? And harkening back to Ubermilf's discussion, why am I considered middle class if I am living hand to mouth? I want aid, dammit. Financial assistance. Some kind of government subsidy.

"I, being of sound mind and body, do hereby testify to support my community, pay my taxes, and encourage young people to be responsible. I also give my word and pledge that I shall take care of my yard, only buy outdated iPods, and limit my vacation trips to camping at local parks. I shall work long, hard hours at a job that does not pay nearly enough, and I shall have a child, as is expected, and shall raise that child to also fit the mold that I have fitted--the mold outfitted for me since my birth as a very middle middle-class woman. In turn, I would like a discount on a house."

Please send happy thoughts, if not money. Money, however, would be good.

How does ANYONE afford these things--houses?

I Think I Make a Cute Wife

2006-10-11T16:54:00.000-04:00

I got a new haircut. Mom, don't shoot me. She was trying to convince me to grow my hair out. I grew it out long enough for an up-do. I couldn't take it anymore. I also couldn't take (gulp) being 'just another ding-bat blonde', so I did some color. You know, brunette, burgundy...a little purple. Why not?
Okay, you can't see the purple. It's subtle. And it beats that stupid poem. You know the one.
When I am Old, I Shall Wear Purple. Blech.

The Plot Unravels

2006-10-10T19:12:00.000-04:00

I'm not going to go into detail. Tits McGee's boyfriend has made things unbelievably clear.

An idiot does not run the country. An evil dictator does.

So, you knew that. Okay, nothin' new there.

But the REAL plot..the so-unbelievable-it's-believable truth has recently been exposed. Michael figured it out in the car an hour ago in rush hour traffic.

Remember these two innocuous figures?

Remember the whole episode where The Brain builds a robot and climbs in its head and becomes an evil dictator? Well, I may have spliced in my own perspective, but essentially, that episode was released. Essentially. Okay, so in the episode that I can't track through the internet because Dead Like Me is on and I want to focus on it, Brain is the one in the robot head, being diabolical and whatnot, and Pinky is bouncing around Brain saying, "Narf!"

In real life, this is what happened. Pinky and the Brain got out, built the robot, and built a second, secretive robot that has some problems with its mechanical circuitry but is a decent stand-in. And Brain, in his scheming, diabolical way, said to Pinky, "Pinky, now GO to the robot and make it talk and walk, and make it convince people that you are a good-hearted dictator with certain folksy foibles." And Pinky said, "Narf!" and followed Brain's directions to a T.

Narf!

Of course, the real question is: "WHAT DID BRAIN DO WITH THAT SECOND RATE ROBOT NO ONE EVER SEES?"

There. I figured it out. Ha! We RULE!

Feral Fruits

2006-10-09T16:07:00.000-04:00

One of the best parts about getting married (aside from eternal love and combined credit scores) is getting presents. And on of the best presents one could receive is one sent to you by a Goddess of the Mutual Admiration Society.

Familiarily, she goes by Spinning Girl, and she presented me with this lovely gift of feral fruit from local Oregon farmers Harry and David. And not only did she bless me with such fruit (of which I encourage you to read about the inception of Muthana's love affair with pears here), but she gifted me with this profound poem, as well. I read it aloud twice, because the words are delicious and eloquent and awfully true in the case of Michael and I. Also, I had to read it a second time because Michael was washing dishes and didn't hear me the first time around. Needless to say, it is quite wonderful, as is Spinning Girl, and I simply must say that I know Spinning Girl is following as the stars, as it were, in a patient and noiseless way, and so she shall also reap those stars on some moonlit night, and we shall rejoice for her.
As it is, the pears have yet to ripen fully, and so I stash them in their box and await their blossoming, and drift by them, sniffing them for ripeness, waiting, constantly waiting for the chance to sink my two very large front teeth into the juicy meat and flesh of the tenderest, sweetest fruit available.
So while I cannot be in Spinning Girl's presence in the flesh, so to speak, I will do the following:
-Take a sip of hot apple cider spiced with cinnamon sticks
-Bake two caramel apples in the oven
-Smile and dream of falls up yonder in the Nor'east.

Thank you, Spinning Girl, for your delightful present, for your delightful words, and mostly, for the delightful way you have made my life more pleasant. Truly, you are a friend, and I will forever admire you.

Plus, you send fantastic presents.

Ah, Ochre Light!

2006-10-08T14:14:00.000-04:00

It is not a coincidence, I'm sure, that ninety-five percent of my closest friends and family prefer autumn to any other season. I don't have many friends or a large family. What I do have is a small collection of dreamers and wishers surrounding me. Those of us who love fall are a special breed.

Granted, I'm sure ninety-five percent of the world's population prefer fall to any other quarter of the seasons. How can anyone resist the crisp breeze, the mellowed tones of leaves, the blue skies, the gentle gliding into winter? How can anyone resist the chipperings of squirrels and bluejays, their teenage feathers laid to rest as the bright plumage emerges? How can anyone resist the smell of apple cider, the sight of sweaters and bright pumpkins, the cornucopias of harvested wheat and corn? The bright fall moon and the subtle sunlight? The dreary rain of open-window weather? Fall is a most ridiculously beautiful time.

Fall is heralded as the harvest season, the season of equinox and fallow fields, the season of descent. And we marvel in the gracious death to which the earth surrenders, revealing her white shoulders and black bones of tree trunks. She is a maiden laid to rest in gentlest wools and timbers. We are spinning away from the sun and nearing the cold side of the universe, and Earth graciously pushes off towards her destiny like Aeneas pushed toward Italy.

In the South, fall is most kind. Autumn lasts for two or three months before the somber rains of winter begin. It does not turn the kind of cold many of our Northeastern counterparts tell of--football games require sweatshirts, at the most. There is plenty of time to marvel at the subtle colors of trees dying while motorcycling. There is ample opportunity to sit on porches and read magazines, sipping coffee and hot tea. There is still enough warmth to set people off on paths of errands during the weekends. And this is a kind fall.

The falls of my childhood are a bit different--suddenly, one awakes to fall! and many leaves of the many hardwoods have fallen in the space of one night. Crisp air brings on the steamy exhalations of playing youth, bonfires spark the dry air for a perfect atmosphere of eeriness and comfort. And then, one is piled into down coats, woolen hats, thick mittens and oh-heavens those BOOTS that every mother is entitled to stuff onto the feet of her offspring. There is a store, I'm sure, that caters to these mothers. It sells pairs upon pairs of unsightly and desperately warm boots. These are the boots I resented so much--and came to rely upon. But it is not time for those boots QUITE yet--we have another four weekends of splendorous fall to imbibe upon. Make your costumes! Stitch your hats! Pick out your brooms and superhero capes, for Halloween comes near!

And Halloween, as we all are well aware, was the DAY GOD GAVE CHILDREN TO RULE THE EARTH! Don't mind what anyone says about Druids or Celts or ancient ceremonies or Roman Gods. Halloween is the day adults are absolutely SUBJECT to the powers and ministrations of miniature witches, goblins, and Power Rangers. Watch your step; tread carefully--there might be a ballerina waiting on your doorstep with a can of Silly String and a fundamental desire to see an adult panic in terror.

So, yes, fall is easily my favorite time of year. It is the time when we reminisce, and think upon life in a slower manner. Take a breath. Take a walk! I encourage you to roll your windows down as you drive about in your car. Thank the Earth for Autumn, and bask in the firelight of her slow death. She is beautiful in her decay. She is absolutely enchanting in her golden, ochre, orange, burnt and bruised flowers. To fall as gracefully as Earth does in autumn--that is the true blessing to consider during this season.

Music for Autumn-What's in Fritz's i-Pod...

Gymnopedie #1: Eric Satie

Appalachian Spring: Aaron Copeland

The Planets Suite: Gustav Holst

Transcendental Etudes: Franz Liszt

Linus and Lucy: Vince Guaraldi

Beginnings

2006-10-03T08:17:00.000-04:00

The wedding times have come to an end, and during my honeymoon, I was a little saddened with its passing. The hour of the ceremony was so beautiful and fuzzy in my mind; there was the beach, and my family, and Michael, and a sort of loveliness every bride must feel. And so it came and went.

I realize this morning the wedding may be over, but I have my entire life to begin anew. And it is made even sweeter with Michael as my husband.

The cake, by the way, was delicious.

PS: I'm now FRITZ-COTTLE, but for the sake of brevity and blog identity, I shall remain--
Fritz

Gone to Get Hitched

2006-09-19T09:27:00.000-04:00

You know: jumping the broomstick. Tying the knot. Attaching the ball to the chain. Getting hitched. We're off to get married.

Here's the itinerary, since you're all interested:

We drive to Florida on Thursday. We get a marriage license on Friday. (side note: Florida does not require a blood test--good for us, since we haven't a lot of time, but fairly frightening when considering all the icky things floating around in the flotsam of the human species who aren't necessarily honest). We pick up the tux on Friday. I get a hair consultation with someone who sounds to be the biggest queen in all of Naples, assuring me a perfect hair-do. Who wouldn't want Elton John designing your up-do?

Saturday: The girls get pretty, the boys go out and do whatever boys do. I don't know: Michael is going to be stuck with my dad and his dad and bless his heart, they might go bowling. Meanwhile, my 89 year old grandmother is going to fall asleep at the hairdressers or say something completely inappropriate, which I will explain as old age, but secretly will know differently. Grangie has always said inappropriate things. Bless her heart.

Saturday evening: we get married on the beach, throw sand at one another, and take pictures at sunset. Hopefully, my dress and my butt will not block out all the light.

Sunday: Michael and I (mr. and mrs.) fly off to St. Lucia for our honeymoon, which is predicted to have severe thunderstorms and rain for the entire following week. I am hoping God or Earth or Gandhi's spirit has mercy on us and gives a few favorable days of sunshine so that I am able to get completely inebriated on the beach while knitting. I also hope no stingrays make their acquaintances with either one of us, but particularly Michael, who (while being raised on the shores of Lake Michigan) cannot swim. Perhaps the salt water will aid in his swimming prowess.

I will probably be too drunk to hit the high tides and save anyone from a stingray. Snorkeling is out of the question as that requires some kind of coordination between breathing and not breathing--something that eludes me as it is. However, a massage on the beach may very well be in order, and since we've been very fortunate to have very kind gifts bestowed on us from parents and friends, we may actually be able to afford it.

Meanwhile, I'm obsessing over how the hell I'm going to eat my scrumptious wedding dinner and cake in this torture device called a strapless bra which absolutely does NOT move regardless of my body's positions. So, I'll starve on my wedding and watch everyone else gorge themselves on delectable steaks and delights from the sea. Perhaps when I get back from the all included food buffets at the resort, I will strap that bra on and live in it for a month. Hey, it's worth a shot.

I'm freakin' nervous about all this; not the act, mind you. Michael and I were born to be married--it's pretty nauseating to see us interact. I'm just nervous about all the other stuff that leads up to the marriage.

I'll be back in October. Maybe by then, I'll have reinvested myself in the Blog. 'Till then, take care, I'll miss you, and if you're close to Naples, Florida on the 23rd, come to the beach at 6:30. You'll see us there. (This means you, Madge and Kimberlina).

Musings

2006-09-13T14:27:00.000-04:00

There are days when it is hard to escape the fact that I am aging. It's not found in crow feet or new lumps--though they are present, they are hardly the first step to this realization. No. Other signs are more obvious.

Today, I went for my final wedding dress fitting. It's raining here in Georgia; the sky is murky and has been draining on the roofs of my suburb with adamant percussions. The dress fit fine; a lady stooped to button the last button. And there I was, standing in some generic dressing room underneath fluorescent lights, staring at myself. I'm all grown up. A woman in a beautiful dress.

"It's amazing how much thinner you look!" exclaimed the seamstress. What I wanted to say was, "It's amazing...it's just amazing."

I came home to get back to work, and didn't do a thing. I've been staring at pictures from a decade ago. What a child I was. The rain kept coming down. I made myself some lunch, had some cigarettes, started a new knitting project. Then, a good song came on the computer, and I went into the office. There, hanging on the wall, is my tiny eight by eleven inch diploma from college. It doesn't say much. Just that on such and such date in 2001, a college granted me the rights and privilege of practicing social work. My name is heavy embossed lettering.

When I graduated from college, I revered the diploma. It was my ticket to life; it told everyone that I cared about the world and wanted to make a difference. I took the first job offered to me; I imagined great things. I imagined I could save every life I touched. I lived alone and paid my bills. I had few friends. I spent many late nights at the office, by myself, poring over files of convicted felons, trying to devise goals to help them out of their situation. I walked back and forth to my car with my keys in between my knuckles and my elbow clasped to the Glock on my waist. How I couldn't see that I needed saving, myself, was beyond me.

There are so many lonely souls in the universe, it's a wonder we don't bump into each other more often.

In the summer, lightening storms flashed in my apartment window and lit my studio into fiery light. I'd turn the lights off and gather the cat into my lap. We would watch the old wood of the ancient mill turned apartment flake off the timbers in the ceiling. Neighbors came and went, and I watched them with a curious eye. I speculated about every person I came across. What did they need? What cross did they carry? What hope had they allowed to die?

We swallow our pains everyday without telling. Aren't we good at deception?

Cigarettes overflowed in all my ashtrays. There were many bottles of empty liquor in the trash can. I wasn't drinking to get drunk; I was drinking to have something to do. But I found some friends, and there are memories there, too. Ellen and I drove to Indiana to meet her family. The car ride up is filled with laughter and hi-jinks. Maria moved next door; I played so many pranks on her she developed a complex. There are hollow echoes of giggles in the hallways of the loft.

I was never very good with keeping up with friends. Now, I have new friends. I promise them I will not forget about them in the same manner as I have with these other women. No one deserves to be deserted.

Yet, we all find ourselves deserted at some time. In the wild, wolves die one of two ways: starvation, or another wolf eats him.

In less than two weeks, I will be a married woman. We are thrilled and nervous and excited and gleeful, as we should be. I am marrying the man who I am supposed to marry. There aren't enough people who believe in true love; heck, I was one of them. As I see how much love I have to give and share, no matter how few lives I reach, I know I'm aging. I'm a little sad I didn't try this happiness thing before. And now? No one is going to stop me from joy.

It's not what you thought
when you first began it...
It's not going to stop
It's not going to stop
It's not going to stop
'Til you wise up.
-Wise Up
Aimee Mann

For My Dad, on His Birthday.

2006-09-07T16:01:00.000-04:00

I would post a photo, but my dad would go nuts. He's got worries about Big Government. He also doesn't like having his picture taken.

This day in 1948, my dad was born in North Dakota, to a farmer turned surveyor turned gas station owner turned back to surveyor. He lived in the plains and ate books as a child. Due to this consumption of books, his head outgrew his body exponentially, and he was blessed with the biggest brain I have ever known. My dad is a certified genius.

My dad has ninety master degrees. Okay. He's got two, but that's still saying something. He teaches English as a second language for a community college. He used to work for big big dollars at a big big phone company, but his morality got to him and he opted out to be a fruit cutter at a grocery store before going back to teaching. My dad's got guts.

My dad is famous for saying lots of good things:

"It's not the end of the world."
"Things tend to figure themselves out."
"It's amazing how money shows up when you desperately need it."
"If you can't figure out WHAT to do, do SOMETHING. It helps move things along."
"I think Michael is the best thing that happened to you."
"I'm avoiding your mother."
"You don't have the personality to put up with bureaucracy--I'm amazed you've lasted as long as you have."
"Don't impeach Bush! Then, the country would be left to Dick Cheney!"
"You're pretty smart, kid."
"How much is it going to cost?"
"I need help figuring out what to do with your grandfather."

This is not the sum of good things my father has said, but you get the point. As we both age, I find that he is not filled so much with advice as epithets from his own life. He helps me out a lot in looking at the world from a different perspective. My dad can often be withdrawn, and I think my mother and I drive him nuts often. On the other hand, my dad has a presence most people cannot miss--he's funny and smart and has a way of teaching people, even through casual conversation.

My dad builds things. With all of his brains and his intellect, he is still connected to the present: he fabricates beautiful pieces of furniture in his workroom, his private Xanadu. He enjoys playing UNO and watching cartoons as well as reading the most recent theological doctrine in the church. My dad cusses with great fervor in the car, but tries not to on Sundays. He listens to me now more than ever.

When I was a kid, my dad would take me to the park where we would fly crappy plastic kites for hours. He'd put me in trees and take pictures of me, then help me get down. My dad gets excited about motorcycling, even though he doesn't own one. I think he's proud that I do. My dad poured over homework with me when I was young; I still need help with math to this day. I wish I could say his efforts paid off, but they didn't. I need a calculator just to get through the grocery store. He tried, though, and he never gave up on me.

That's the neatest thing about my dad: He doesn't give up. He gets the job done. He listens and contemplates and responds with great intelligence. More importantly, he is human. He has the worst jokes and puns one could ever imagine, and he embarrasses the shit out of my mother and I. On the other hand, he can quote Shakespeare at the drop of the hat, and not just the famous lines, but the obscure ones, too. He'll recite poetry out of his head and then claim it's 'nothing all that great.' He'll scour writing and proof-read like an editor. He speaks fluent Spanish and a touch of French. He taught himself Greek and has a minor in Latin. And all of these things are accomplishments. But most importantly, he's there.

Hey, Dad. I love you. Have a good birthday.

For Michael on His Birthday

2006-09-05T09:43:00.000-04:00

If I had put a personal ad out there for "Heaven-Sent Man Ready for anything", it couldn't have been more effective. Turns out, all I had to do was wait a few years. It was worth it, darling.

Now I know--if I hadn't taken a chance on love, I would have missed out on the most important person in my life. Thank you for waiting it out with me.

On your birthday, I want you to know what it's all about. The wedding is looming ahead; the rest of our lives will be intertwined in bits and pieces, threads and fibers. But in the midst of all that, I want you to know how much I recognize you for being who YOU are.

You are sincere. You are genuine. When you don't know what to say, you don't say anything and hug me, instead. When you are happy, you make others happy. When we laugh together, the world gets friendlier. When you lead, you lead fairly and kindly. When you tell stories, you invite me into your history, and let me dwell in who you are.

There's memories, already.

Walking down Virginia Highlands in November, bumping elbow to elbow, we shyly flirted and there was a brief moment when our eyes locked, and the universe spun away. Hands in pockets, your head down, smiling.

Or in the mornings at the loft: there was only light and fuzzy lines, sunshine and scent. There is only you.

Last September, I called you in tears. "They fired me." I remember how you called the day off, picked me up, drove me home, held me for hours, told me everything would be all right. You were right, of course. Everything is fine.

Asking my father for his blessing on our marriage. What courage.

I loved you before I knew you. And now, we have so many birthdays to celebrate, so many days to dream and build and love and argue and laugh and live. Oh, to live with you forever. I cannot wait to be your wife. I cannot wait to be your partner. I cannot wait to have you by my side until one of us draws our last breath, and even then, I shall have you.

Before my heart squeezes out of its shell, I shall end this and say: I will love you until time ends.
Have a wonderful birthday.

PS: Come home early!

Proof that I Don't Sock

2006-09-03T15:43:00.000-04:00

That was a pun, get it? I don't suck, because I have figured out how to knit socks. On double pointed needles. For those of you who don't knit, double pointed needles are these terribly scary looking things with a sharp point on each end; a sock being knit looks a lot like a medieval torture device. I had a fear of those things for a long time, plus knitting in the round. I got over that fear because I am avoiding an acrylic shawl I said I'd make for my grandmother.

My father's birthday is coming up, and like most dads, he's got everything he could ever need or want. So, figuring out a gift is no easy feet (ha, another pun). One day, Dad and I were on the phone.
"You still knitting like an old lady?" Dad asked.
"Yes, Dad. It's relaxing. Besides, I often think about Grandma when I knit,"(My dad's mom was something of a savant knitter and crocheter).
"Well, sure, I guess that makes sense. Knit socks yet?" Dad asked.
"No, double pointed needles scare me. But maybe one day I'll knit you a pair."
"That'd be nice. Just watch the heel. Turning the heel can be tough."

He was right. Turning the heel CAN be tough, and thanks to Grandma, Dad knew that. That's why I hope he'll appreciate these.

They are going to be ginormous on him; they are becoming the Grinch socks. They are made of one hundred percent wool and they will shrink once he washes them in a machine, which is why I must tell him: "Don't wash these unless you have absolutely horribly smelly feet and even then, wash them in the sink." Of course, this will make the socks obsolete; he will wear them once and then realize they are far too thick and heavy for daily life and he will place them in the back of his sock drawer along with those other misbegotten gifts I have given over the years. Nonetheless, there they are. Green Grinch socks for Dad.
Doesn't it look like something out of Aliens? However, this wool is really delicious to knit--it reminds me of rustic days and log cabins. I hope my Dad will wear them once before a roaring fire, and sip hot chocolate on a cold day, and remember how his mother used to knit for him, as well.

Dear Anonymous:

2006-09-01T23:22:00.000-04:00

How I love thee for leaving comments on my blog. These elaborate, well-phrased and grammatically succinct comments leave me speechless.

I can' believe you are bashing the civil war battlefield. Yes, I guess you are still Immature enuf to do something so attention getting or just thought it sounded cute in your blog. I think you have deep seated psycho problems. Drop the zoloft and get on some librium. Or better yet move up north,if you hate it here so much. ch ch ch changes!!
LOL, you go anon.!! Can these people even imagine what it would have been like if Kerry Had WON. And Fritzoid, are you still up to your flaming antics.DOC canned ya, and now you cannot function as a social worker.....Geez! Looks like a pattern here. Do you have any friends left in the real world Fritz. Everyone has a right to believe what they want to, but EA you get mean and dirty. Guess some things never ch ch ch ange.!

Why, I can't help but think this must be another placid government employee working for the Georgia Department of Corrections who is so terribly bored with his/her life that he/she must come and read my blog! I'm honored, really. After all, it's been over a year since I've even seen any of those people and still! One comes by to chat! This is endearing.

And pathetic.

All at once.

Anonymous: here is a fact. You are a coward. Your silly, silly, trite comments are made even more silly and more trite by the fact you cannot produce your name; nay, you cannot spell check or edit your thoughts. You are a fool. Shoo, fly. You pester me.

Here is another fact: Since leaving the GDC and working for another agency, I have gotten a big fat bonus and about four or five accolades from others. One of those accolades came from the Governor. That does not make me a Republican. It does make me a fine social worker.

Third Fact: The way I was fired was dirty. The GDC is dirty. Bureaucratic process is dirty. The job that keeps you mindless, bored and ineffective is dirty. The burgeoning caseload that you carry and cannot honestly have any faith in is dirty. I am neither mean nor dirty. I'm opinionated, educated, liberated, and very much loved by friends and family. I also like to think before I speak. You, sadly, do not.

Fourth Fact: Before you comment again, check yourself. Check your actions, your thoughts, and your beliefs. If they do not line up with mine, then tell me why. Explain it to me. Be brave--put your name on something. If you do not do so, then you stand for nothing. I don't like people who stand for nothing. I stand for something. Shoo, fly, your buzzing is quite a nuisance.

Before I extrapolate any more facts from this argument, I shall close by saying: Anonymous and Friends are no longer permitted to comment on my blog. This is not because I am 'nervous' about them. It is not because I don't know how to handle them. It is because they waste my time--I have friends in the blogosphere and friends in real life, family in real life, who have decent feedback to give me. Not all agree with me. But all respect me and I respect them.

Anonymous? GDC? DOC? Bureaucracy? I have no respect for any of it, and that is because I know what works and what doesn't. But then again, I'm just a smart Yankee Liberal woman. And I got myself a damn fine life. Why don't you, Dear Anonymous, go get one, yourself?

And the Award for 'Most Evil and Insidious Personae in the History of Western Civilization' Goes To....

2006-08-24T07:36:00.000-04:00

Your beautiful mind smells like rotten eggplant.

I never celebrated my blog's first birthday, because I neglect my blog. Thanks to me, my blog has a terrible complex and feels very miserable. So, I thought I would take this opportunity to say 'Happy Belated Birthday' to my blog. And what better clown to celebrate with than the Silver Fox? My blog turned '1' sometime back in July, I think.

Barbara sent my blog some cookies and they tasted like cat poop. Damn that Barbara.

Sunburns SUCK

2006-08-23T09:00:00.000-04:00

I was TRYING to post this with the POST about SUNBURNS but stupid BLOGGER is doing that thing where it SAYS it posted the picture and then it DIDN'T. Anyway. I'm in pain. If you look closely at the side of my face, you'll see a fine, thin white line. It's not blow, it's the line from my goggles. Sexy. Oh, I'm so freakin' sexy.

How will I ever be thought of as a bad-ass with those chubby cheeks?

The Stuttering, sunburned Fritz

2006-08-23T08:30:00.000-04:00

Not only have I re-developed my stutter, I've also forgotten that I am a natural blonde with fair skin. That makes me 'Phototype I' (ie: a weak link in the human species, subject to skin cancer and vast amounts of fuzzy body hair). It seemed only appropriate that I start 'tanning' in order to prepare my thin, papery skin for the Caribbean heat.

I also have this idea that being tan makes one look thinner. I know it doesn't, just shut up and allow me to dream.

I was behaving myself in the tanning salon, going for three to five minutes. I got brave and worked up to seven minutes, comfortably frying with little to no pain. Why did I get so far away from my Goth-vampire-I-can-see-veins-through-my-skin roots? Why?

I'll tell you why--those little hoochies who work the tanning salon counter did it.
"Oh, yeah, like you so look darker! It's so awesome! You should try some new lotion--it's totally going to make you bronze!"
"Oh, no, you can't like get REAL skin cancer when you're in there--that's just a marketing ploy the scientists use because you get magical POWERS when you tan--and they don't want that!"
"Oh my God! Your boobs look bigger and your butt looks smaller! Tanning is SO awesome!"

Forgive me. I, too, can fall victim to driveling societal measures encouraging women to kill themselves, one tiny molecule at a time. I went in yesterday for ten minutes.

Ten minutes in a stand-up tanning booth is equivalent to thirty four hours of sunlight while standing on Planet Venus. If you shine a bright light at my face right now, you'll be able to read your future in mercurial colors. I'm bright friggin' red from head to toe.

My breasts are burnt, my nose is burnt, my thighs are burnt, my armpits are burnt, my toes are burnt, my eyelids are burnt, my lips are chapped, and my stretch marks are--not burnt.

The good news is that all of my contortionist efforts in the tanning booth are paying off. There's hardly a spot that isn't evenly burnt. Well. There's a few, but I don't think anyone will see those.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall of a tanning booth--watching what silly things humans do all in the name of vanity. Of course, if a fly really DID sit on the wall of a tanning booth, he would burst into tiny flames (POP! Whiiiiiizzzzzzzzzzz) and die a horrible death.

The good part about my tanning salon is that each booth comes equipped with loudspeakers. This tells me that should a fire alarm go off while I'm baking my ass off, I'll be able to escape (right after I put out my skin and drag on some clothes). The other neat thing about loudspeakers in the tanning booth is that I can listen to the radio, holding one leg up and hopping on the other. Why, just the other day, that stupid "Get Jiggy With It" song came on and I started dancing.

Dancing. Naked. In a Tanning Booth.

It's kind of weird, sure, but it's also fun. Liberating. I'm in public, naked, dancing! Okay, okay, so no one can SEE me, but still--I'm naked in a public place!

Hmm. I think that dancing exposed more of my skin than I'm comfortable with--I haven't been able to sit correctly for a day, now.

Anyway, the madness of tanning should soon cease once I make it to the beach. Then, I'll just slowly allow myself to bake in the natural light of the sun. Ah. To be blonde on the beach. I should just admit it to myself:

I'm gonna shrivel up into a raisin on my honeymoon.

The Stuttering Fritz

2006-08-22T13:29:00.000-04:00

My stutter has come back.

Firstly, the word 'stutter' is really quite indicative of a stutter, isn't it? Like a fast, capitulation of consonants, delivering themselves in rocket infusion of sound. If that sentence is any indication of what is going on with me, then I leave it to you, dear readers, to imagine Fritz stuttering through the days.

I had a stutter at the beginning of my career with the GA. Dept. of Corruption. It had to do with a total lack of ability in communicating with career felons. Pretty soon, I got the lingo down and the stutter went away--well. It changed, manifesting itself in bitterness, cynicism, and a desire for fast food. Then, I went to therapy and everything improved, including the job situation. I got canned and that was that.

So now I've got the stutter again. It just reappeared after two years of dormancy. Michael will tell you I stutter when I am trying to get a point across or have had too much sugar, but these incidents are fairly rare and have more to do with general excitement, not a complete psychological meltdown. Unfortunately, my new job and pending marriage have elicited the Original Stutter, and it is all the fault of a particular parent of a client.

He's got the Stutter, too.

I was just on the phone with him, explaining how the State of Georgia does not seem to think his daughter's needs are as important as funding more artillery for our country, and so she was not granted the Day Supports Waiver she so desperately needs in order to fulfill her life with actualization, independence, and eventual employment. Nope. Georgia can't help the hapless children who suffer from epilepsy. What Georgia can do is hire me as a completely ineffectual caseworker with little to no ability to help these people in need. Yay for me.

He started to stutter, and once he got going, I was swept into the stutter, as well. Both of us were babbling incoherently at each other over the phone, and while the words were far from understandable, the grunts and underlying tones could not be mistaken: disgust, frustration, anger, disappointment. And I'm not even a parent. I'm just a stupid social worker.

While I stutter along today, trying to get words out (be they verbal or typed, they're all coming out like gobbledy-gook--I typed that at least five times before my fingers found their routine), I have to remind myself of certain facts:

My stutter will go away, but I will never understand how terrible and frustrating life is for someone with a developmental disorder.

My wedding will come and go, and hopefully I won't stutter through the ceremony, but when I return from my much-needed respite, there will be at least another fifteen people on my caseload, all needing services, all badly misunderstood.

My stutter is hard to listen to, but more importantly, my clients talk every moment in a different language, and their message is completely clear: "Help me."

My stutter will go away, but my clients' problems never will.

How I wish I could be more eloquent. Right now, all I can do is stutter. And it simply isn't enough.

Why I Am Not a Christian

2006-08-19T13:06:00.000-04:00

My mother occasionally asks when I will go back to church. We’re Episcopalians, so it’s not my soul she’s concerned about. Episcopalians are tepid Christians with a great deal of tolerance for all people and faiths. I think my mother is more concerned about me joining a community of people who think like me. This is kind of my mother; she means well.

I’m not going back to church anytime soon. I don’t want to consciously be a hypocrite. I commit hypocrisy enough without blatantly shoving my fist in God’s face.

In his book, Following Christ in a Consumer Society, John F. Kavanaugh writes: “It is the Christian, the church-going believer, who must face the words of Christ and then try to continue in conscience ignoring the poor, the dispossessed, the hungry, the imprisoned, and the homeless.”

I know a young lady who hears the voice of God. Several weeks ago, God commanded her to go to Israel, and God provided the means for her to get there. This young lady and her husband, along with their ‘Home Church’ pastor, went to Israel to pray with the Jews, to give items to the soldiers, and to testify about God’s love. The young lady showed me videos, and while I was struck with her earnestness, I was shocked to view the video of her pastor and followers praying in a field above an Israeli military camp. The sound of katyushas exploding could be heard. The pastor raised his hand in holy supplication and prayed aloud, “God, send these rockets where they need to go.”

I do not presume he meant for God to send rockets out into open water, where the explosions would spare human life. I can only presume he meant for the rockets to hit the bodies of the enemies of Israel, and hurt them. I can only presume he was praying for the death of Hezbollah members.

I was angered and shocked by this prayer, but kept my mouth shut. Now, I wish I hadn’t. I have been thinking too much, and after watching a video of the Rev. Emmanuel Charles McCarthy, I am solidified in my thinking: Christians have got it ALL wrong. We stand and yell about ‘jihad’ and the terrors of extremist Muslims, but we have failed to see our own terrorism. We are using Jesus as an excuse to wage war, and this is a slap across the face of God. We’re breaking the first commandment, and we’re doing it with the blessings of our church leaders.

Every Sunday, millions of American Christians go to church and get a message from a pulpit. After the sermon and a couple of hymns, Christians deposit millions of dollars into the tankards of the churches. They go home in luxury vehicles, or stop at overpriced restaurants to order food high in fat and calories. They bypass the ‘bad’ parts of town for their own tree-lined suburbs. They never encounter the poor, the dispossessed, the homeless, the imprisoned. American Christians have no need to see the faces of injustice; after all, that’s what tithing is about. But I ask these Christians: when have you seen your church fund a drug treatment program, or feed the hungry, or house the homeless, or shelter the abused? When was the last time you, dear conservative Christian, wandered next door to your neighbor’s home and broke bread with them, regardless of their economic background or ethnic culture? When did you look a starving child in the eyes and contribute to her well-being?

Every nine seconds, someone dies of starvation. And while the deaths of 09-11-01 are tremendous, the devastating effects of starvation far outweigh the number of casualties of that monumental day.

Before the War on Terror, Americans could not find any room in their pockets for better education. To this day, we ignore the needs of our children. Yet, we manage to find 200 billion dollars in the budget for a war on a land that posed no imminent threat to us. Yet, we find monies to destroy and kill innocent civilians. Yet, we find excuses for the thousands of dead American soldiers. While we persist in defending our ‘righteous’ war, the blood of millions of people are running all together, and the color of the blood is the same, and the effect on our nation is the same, and the death toll signifies only one thing: Americans value War over Jesus.

Christian churches tell us about Jesus’ words, and then order us to support the idea of Holy War. But there are many of us that believe this to be the ultimate offense to God. For walking the path of Jesus is about sacrifice, charity and love. It is not about gas prices, vengeance, and profit. But the Conservative Christian is convinced that Jesus would condone violence as a Biblical measure—a tool for preservation.

A sign in Atlanta read “JesUSAves”. This is idolatry. This is the worst culmination of our greed, our egotistical philosophy, our consumerist violence. To think that Jesus defends the national interest of America is disgusting. I don’t hear the voice of God like many Conservative Christians do, but I feel certain God doesn’t like this kind of sign. And the worst of these Christians quote the Bible to defend their works. They find passages in the Old Testament and the New Testament to justify their wealth and misdeeds against others. Yet, I rarely hear the words of Jesus. I rarely hear the Good News.

Consider these passages:
“But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you..” Matthew 5:44.
“Indeed, some are last who will be first, and some are first who will be last.” Luke 13:30.
And most descriptive of Jesus’ teachings:
“Blessed are the poor in spirit,for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”(Matthew 5:3-10).

These are not the words of a vengeful, blood-thirsting Christ. These are the words of a communist, a pacifist, and a humanist. And we ignore these teachings in order to bend the will of God to the will of greed.

And so, Mom, I will not return to church. While the Episcopalian church doesn’t condone the War on Terror, it is not making a forthright stand against it. Therefore, it has failed its people and Jesus. By not making a stand, the Episcopal church has joined the ranks of secular Christians who deny the truth about Jesus— he is against any and all violence. He didn’t drive a Hummer, he didn’t care about money, and he wouldn’t support this war or this government. Jesus’ teachings transcend wealth, greed, and violence. I don’t want the label of ‘Christian’, because Christianity is now synonymous with economic injustice, murder, and a sense of empirical inheritance of the world.

I am an angry woman. I only hope God will remind me of forgiveness. I only hope I can see God’s face amongst the victims of ‘holy’ wars. I can only pray that the ‘Christians’ of America realize that Jesus is being misused for the purpose of profit and gain, and we have unwittingly made him the mascot of violence.

Should I just End it All?

2006-08-16T21:44:00.000-04:00

i am suffering from blog boredom. or guilt. blog guilt.

blog guilt is what happens when you disappear for awhile from the blog scene and then come back and see that everyone ELSE has been blogging relentlessly and you have not been. it then snowballs; you don't know what the point is, and no one is begging you to come back, anyway. so blog guilt becomes blog depression and you think about taking your blog out back and shooting it--a mercy kill.

and then you try to breathe some fetid blog life back into the blog by posting about your lack of blogging. there is something very corporate and consumerist about all this. there is a cycle, here.

The Fritz Self has decided she's just too bored and lazy to do the blogging thing for awhile, and that's distracting, because Fritz writes like nuts. Fritz is also getting married and trying to iron out details and knit a bag and plan music and work on the shower and lose another ten pounds and convince Michael to turn off the thrash metal and figure out what swimsuits look the LEAST bad on her ever-bulging curvy self and how fast money can get spent when one isn't looking and where the cat last puked.

All right. I give up. Should I just put a bullet through this thing's head? If no one comments, I'm doing it. Seriously.

Upon the Departure of a Friend

2006-08-02T13:47:00.000-04:00

Michael sold his motorcycle yesterday. It happened so fast; he put it in the paper two weeks ago--he didn't think it would sell because it's a rare one in a bright color. People who buy these motorcycles are few and far between; Kermit is in between a cruiser and a sport bike. Kermit didn't always fit in. So, when a man came over yesterday to look at it, the last thing we expected was him driving off into the sunset on Michael's bike.

During the two weeks between yesterday and the day Michael put it up for sale, we were both in denial about having to sell it. After all, Michael only had the bike for under a year--I think I wrote an entry about the day he bought it. It truly was something to have two motorcycles under one roof; we'd go for rides together, Michael on Kermit, me on my Bumble Bee. We'd take the long roads home and flick off assholes simultaneously. We would race each other on some twisty roads, and Michael would always win, because he's a far better rider than I and Kermit was a much faster bike. Obviously, selling Kermit was a tough decision Michael made. I cried as Kermit rode away.

I'll tell you why Michael sold Kermit. He sold Kermit for me. Now, he would tell you that's not true--that he sold Kermit because it made sense, and it was a logical decision. He would say that we want to buy a home soon, and the best way to do that is prioritize needs and wants and expenses. He would say that a day will come when he will buy another bike, and then it will be extra-special because he will have a two-car garage to park it in. Michael will say all of these things because Michael is one extraordinary man. But I assure you: he sold that bike because of me. Thanks to some of my income/debt problems, Michael has to help me out a lot. Sure, I know that's what couples do--make sacrifices for one another. And I would make the same sacrifice a thousand times over for Michael. It still hurts to know that I led to the departure of Kermit. Michael loved Kermit. He put a lot of work into Kermit, and while we think Kermit went to a good home, it just isn't the same as knowing Kermit is snug in our own, small garage.

And it's true--he did sell Kermit because one day in the near future, we would like to own something, and call it ours, and paint or knock down walls, or landscape or build a new deck or simply sit in the filthy squalor of OWNERSHIP. We can only do that if we buckle down, liquidate assets, prioritize needs, filter out unnecessary luxuries.

Kermit and my Bumble Bee are two of those luxuries, and they have and will fall victim to the consequences of Michael and I BEING MATURE. It's scary, growing up. It's scary realizing how important a home has become versus the newest after-market motorcycle parts or a three hour facial at a good salon. And it will also be worth it to see the results of these mature decisions.

As the buyer of Kermit rode away, I couldn't help but think about how much fun Michael and I have riding together. Had I known that last Friday was the last day we would take a ride, I would have savored it that much more. I would've demanded a longer route with more curves and quieter roads. I would have taken a photograph of the two of us and our two beautiful bikes. I would have crystallized the memory of Michael's big, handsome frame on his bike, twisting through a curly-que road with me some safe distance behind. But that opportunity is gone, now. We stood in the driveway and sighed, and as we sighed in the hot, hot heat, a thought occurred to me.

Whether we be on two wheels or on four, whether we walk or run, whether we rent or own, or have children or not--whether we squirm in middle-class poverty or breathe openly in comfort, whether we continue our educations or move to Michigan or re-settle in Katmandu, I know this--we are together. And while that does not lessen the sting of Kermit's departure, it nurtures the soul. After all, that's what Michael and I are--soulmates. We should live our lives as nothing less.

See 'ya around, Kermit. We're keeping our eyes peeled for you.

Just Another Reason to Stick to Carry-On Baggage

2006-07-27T15:47:00.000-04:00

Have you ever wondered what happens to unclaimed/lost baggage?
I haven't. Still, I find myself agog over this website. That's right, it's the UNCLAIMED BAGGAGE STORE.

Go take a look-see. When you get past the immediate feelings of revulsions over a company making profits off of the loss of air denizens, you'll be amazed at what you can find.

The prices are still too steep for me. But people pack some pretty crazy stuff. I wonder if they have an 'adult' section?
Then again, who wants to own a pre-used battery operated toy?

They do have a list of unusual items, however. My favorite?

"A special camera designed for NASA’s Space Shuttle was discovered in an unclaimed piece of luggage."
"A guidance system for an F16 fighter jet valued at a quarter of a million dollars showed up in unclaimed baggage"

Great. It makes me feel safe and secure that the best stalemate to allowing top secret, multi-million dollar government projects from leaving the country is through the unpackers of the Unclaimed Baggage Center.

Makes me wonder, though, what happens to unclaimed baggage in the rest of the world. Given to kings and despots? Laundered through drug cartels?

Wonderful. Something else to keep me up at night.

The First Wedding Gift

2006-07-26T14:51:00.000-04:00

Welcome to my office. This is where the magic happens. And by magic, I mean on-line shopping. Sometimes, working. More often than not, blogging. Researching knitting patterns. You catch my drift. Upon my chair rests a tube. It is not the London Tube, nor the Metro. It is a simple white tube used to deliver fragile goods. Photographs, for example. It is my very first wedding gift, and I am thrilled to see it there, resting oh-so-patiently on my rather uncomfortable computer chair.

What's this? Upon opening the tube, I come across a note. A note written so beautifully and so neatly, I can only think of one person who has the extreme patience and dexterity to letter as such. I can only think of a librarian.Ah! Yes! A family of dynamic individuals! Photographers, librarians, mercenaries and civil activists! It could only be from MADGE of the DUCK MOTIF. And what a motif it is.
Madge and her fantastically wonderful Significant Other (his name his Steve, I hope he won't mind me saying so...) were kind enough to share this gift of Steve's with Michael and myself. Now, people, when we look at the photograph that I admired a few weeks ago, do not only look at the lines and minimalism. Also: understand that Steve developed this in his own darkroom. Additionally, the picture was taken with a toy camera. This photo is more than lines. It is truly an accomplishment, and one that Michael and I will enjoy for many years. Additionally, Steve's work will be shown at a Florida gallery in the near future.

Please pardon my 'framing'--it had just sprung out of the tube packaging.
Very faintly on the back of the photo, Steve has signed it. Now, I did not take a photo of his signature because it was such a faint one, and I don't want anyone to take credit for Steve's name. Instead, you can also see how Steve kindly named this photo 'Elizabeth & Michael 1/1'. No, that does not mean we are handicapped. Perhaps, he did not 'title' the photo 'Elizabeth & Michael', but I would like to think so. Next time it's printed, it might be 'Parking in Wheels' or 'The Lines Drawn' or something else profound and intellectual. Meanwhile, this is an original piece done just for Michael and I. We are more than thrilled with it.
I have not yet found the appropriate frame for this work. It will have to be done just so--acid-free matting and all that, plus a good border to highlight the lines of this work. I believe when it is done, it will accompany my churches I've kept in the bedroom. A collaboration of work. For payment, I shall be knitting two hats. Perhaps I can convince Michael to reproduce one of his works. It would be in keeping with the theme of photography.

In closing, I shall say this:
Not only is the work phenomenal, but more importantly, the friendship behind it. Madge and I have been posting on one another's site since late last year. We have created a bond via the Internet, and I am so thankful. Never have I met a more happy-go-lucky and intensely kind woman. Madge has a playful ability to laugh at her life and events therein, but also see the beauty of all things great and small. It is obvious that Steve is much the same. Madge, darling, you are an inspiration and a friend. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for this gift--our very first wedding gift.

(No, no, we're not married YET, it's just that this seems APPROPRIATE...)

Things

2006-07-25T08:43:00.000-04:00

Stuff that keeps me awake at night:
Remembering how I fell out of a truck on prom night. Yes. Me in all my pink glory FELL OUT OF A TRUCK. I hit the curb. I blame the gold sandals--and the beehive some woman created out of my thin hair. I still bear the scar on my elbow. Do you know what my good friend said when I fell? This is what she said: "HAHAHAHAHA! YOU FELL!" That good friend is accompanying me to my wedding. Last weekend, she bought me cool pencils. I put eraser tops on them and sharpened them all to a fine point. On the night in question, I would have gladly stuck one of those pencils in her eye. Man.
Does anyone else talk to herself like I do? Just five minutes ago, I looked up from my computer screen and said, "Is it just me, or is it hot in here?" Like the cat would answer back? No. Okay, even worse, I replied, "No, it's totally hot in here." Concerning? Yes. In keeping with Fritziness? Totally.
Grand Poobah Fritz (my dad) quit his job as a fruit cutter at a grocery store to teach English as a Second Language. He reports there is a Bangladeshi woman in his beginner's class who talks all the time--some in English, most in her native tongue. She is not talking to anyone in particular. I think he resents her for being nuts in his class. HA HA, Dad. Do you think he is having memories of tutoring fourth grader Fritz in fractions?

Dad: So, if you take one apple and cut it in two pieces, what is one of the pieces called?
Fritz: A semi-circle.
Dad: Yes, but what amount of the apple is it?
Fritz: The part with the seeds, which I don't like, so I throw it away.
Dad: It's a HALF. Say 'HALF'
Fritz: Dad, I HAVE to get a Popple. Can I get a Popple?
Dad: Anne? Anne? Can you please suffocate this child for me?
Mom: The cat threw up again.
Dad: I quit.
Fritz: I wore my eraser down. I need a new eraser top.
Dad: You're not listening to me.
Fritz: Mom's gonna make me clean up the cat barf.
Dad: I just wanted a son. A boy, smart in mathematics. Brilliant in golf. But no.
Fritz: So, um, what about long division?

Fritz Cubed: Fourth Grade. Ardent Reader. Lamest Math Student Ever.
I have a blog stalker. She knows who she is. She is sitting somewhere in North Carolina, smirking right this moment, reading my blog. She is another good friend from high school. She used to think that Helen Hunt was her biological mother, and not without good reason. She should totally comment.
Senior year of high school: we got to put these little quotes near the index of the annual. Mine said: "DB, KB: TB and DQ 4ever! John: I love you for all eternity!" A month after submitting that, DB went totally nuts, KB and I never returned to Taco Bell or Dairy Queen, and I smashed John's heart into a million different pieces because he looked a lot like that guy in Goonies whose face was all weird. True story. Do I wish I had said something a bit more profound, like, "Hope is a thing with feathers"? Duh. No shit, I wish I had.
All of this kind of stuff leads to a poor night's sleep. I'm gonna grab a nap.