Today’s Saturday highlight: I took a nap.
Just an observation: It’s a woefully sorry state of affairs when you have an erotic dream and no one is in the dream but you, and you are playing hard to get.
I don’t use drugs, my dreams are frightening enough. ~ MC Escher
Countdown until my buddy Kim’s arrival from the mountaintop in Tennessee:
3 days
I’ve updated my blogroll – if I left anyone out, please let me know. Linkie love is appreciated, but not required!
Hey now, it’s finally Friday of one of the longest weeks ev-ah. All that spare time gave me time to wonder if I’ll ever get laid again, er, I mean of course, have a deep, meaningful, mutually enhancing relationship. So, as part of my marketing efforts, I’ve decided to take a love test–yeah, that will work, right?
The Maid of Honor
Deliberate Gentle Love Master (DGLM)
Appreciated for your kindness and envied for all your experience, you are The Maid of Honor.
Charismatic, affectionate, and terrific in relationships, you are what many girls would call a “perfect catch”–and you probably have many admirers, each wishing to capture your long-term love. You’re careful, extra careful, because the last thing you want is to hurt anyone. Especially some poor girl whose only crime was liking you.
We’ve deduced you’re fully capable of a dirty fling, but you do feel that post-coital attachment after hooking up. So, conscientious person that you are, you do your best to reserve physical affection for those you respect…so you can respect yourself.
Your biggest negative is the byproduct of your careful nature: indecision. You’re just as slow rejecting someone as you are accepting them.
ALWAYS AVOID: The Battleaxe (DBLM), The Stiletto (DBSM), The Sudden Departure (RBLM), The Dirty Little Secret (DGSM)
CONSIDER: The Maid of Honor (DGLM), someone just like you.
Link: The Online Dating Persona Test @ OkCupid – free online dating
This is a bigger problem than my sense of bravado realized when I urged Clio to tag me. I mean, I’ve put most everything out here already. But, here we go.
The rules:
1. I have anxiety attacks. They started 20 years ago and went undiagnosed until I was 36. I can control them without drugs now, thanks to lots of therapy, but still…I never know. It’s scarier than hell. And, I just love it when someone says, “Get over it, it’s all in your head.” Duh, thank you Sigmund fucking Freud.
2. Back in the summer between first and second grade, a high school kid molested me. I never would have told anyone had the friend who was with me who escaped not told her parents. Calm down, I’m fine. No one knew what the right thing was back then so I was forced to stand in the home of the accused—in front of him, my parents, his parents, and the police in order to make an identification. I couldn’t—I was too scared. I felt guilty all those years because I sensed that he probably did it again and again, and perhaps it was my fault if he did. I got over that. But, when I was 42, I found the son of a bitch. He’s an oft-published and very well-regarded historian living on the other side of the country. I emailed him and I told him a little story, the plotline of which remains between him and me. I’m quite sure I scared the living hell out of him. And, that made me feel very, very good.
3. I have never totally gotten over my first real, mind-blasting love. I doubt if I ever will.
4. I have a double sink in my bathroom—don’t ever, ever use the one on the left—I don’t want to clean it out unless you’re helping clean this place. Seriously. I just don’t have time to clean up after your ass. Oh, and don’t move my stuff—ever, unless I’m sleeping with you.
5. Rarely do I watch television anymore. Sopranos and Sex and the City were about the only things I was addicted to watching. But, I have a guilty, secret pleasure that only my kids know about. I draw the blinds and take the phone off the hook. Two words: Judge Judy. Beauty fades, dumb is forever.
6. When I was in eighth grade, I led two student rebellions. The first was in home ec. I questioned the righteousness of having to take it at all, but when faced with participating in a “mother’s tea party” which would take place after school, on my time, and require me to bring my mother, I drew a line in the sand. My mother agreed. After rousing the entire class initially, all of them backed down except for three of us. Chicken shits. Subsequently, it landed me and my fellow conspirators in the library for the lesson block, I don’t know what they called it—tea party 101 or something—and a reduced grade for uncooperative attitudes. There went my 4.0.
Not satisfied with that, and savoring the heady place called near-faux-victory, I next led a rebellion in gym class—my best friend could not dress out in our styling one-piece gym suit and tennies because she had this giant blister on her foot from walking the 20-mile Muscular Dystrophy Walk-a-thon—she had a note from her mom and everything. The cranky gym teacher made her put on her shoe anyway, causing her to bleed—and cry (that did it!). I was outraged at the audacity of violating the spirit and necessary intent of the most difficult-to-get mom note and started both a petition drive that ended up getting over 400 signatures to have the teacher reprimanded and a rebellion in the class itself wherein we all “forgot” our gym suits. She got tough, that teacher, and again, most everyone cowed after her threats of failing the class, but the principal did instruct her to follow the instruction in the parental note so my friend was able to wear what she needed on her poor foot, bloodied for charity. Oh, and I ended up with a lower grade for an uncooperative attitude, but what the hell, I wasn’t getting the 4.0 anyway, right?
Damn, I knew how to pick my battles, huh?
7. The longest I went without sex in my entire adult life (243 days) I was in a committed relationship. There I was in two odd places—a committed relationship, which I’d by then gotten used to, and without sex, of which I’m very fond. When I was having sex in that relationship, if it didn’t happen between 3:40 and 3:43 on Saturday in the fifth lunar cycle during Mercury retrograde with the kids out of the house, the dogs tranquilized, the TV on, and she was in the mood <cough>, it didn’t happen. Bitter, party of one, your table’s ready.
8. Never in my life have I been qualified for the job I took. I have totally bullshitted my way through my entire employed life. Having a way with words and an ability to learn a little about a lot and then take tests well goes a long way. Basically, I do good resume and interview. And pick up the vocabulary of the job. And hang onto mentoring former bosses. I am fully planning on becoming a GYN job next time around—I figure I know my way around that territory pretty well. I do the same with most everything else. Never rappelled off a cliff before—no problem—I just pretend like I have, watch the instructor for a few minutes, start sweating, and just…step…backwards.
And, I tag YOU.
In the little town of Vinton, Iowa, just down the road a spell from the big state mental hospital, and home to of the best popcorn fields in the world, there sat a little tarpaper shack, where the weeds grew unchecked between the cracks of the neglected tar and gravel street, down near the railroad tracks.
The house sat right up against the street, with two lop-sided, rotting wooden stairs leading to the front door. The yard was huge and full of all types of Iowa wildflowers and a large, meticulously tended vegetable garden. In the back was an old outhouse that eventually became the garden shed. The entire house was probably 700 square feet. The floors sloped and waved and jutted from 70 years of settling and warping. The bare floor was sprinkled liberally with simple hand-made throw rugs to keep the chill of an Iowa winter at bay.
The house had that aged, musty smell yet was invariably spotless. Long-faded wallpaper with patterns out-of-date by the 1920s covered each wall. The kitchen was the largest of the rooms and obviously the most used. Under the simple kitchen table was a small rope with a knot in the end that served as the handle to lift up the cellar door, which led perilously down several rickety stairs to the tiny, pungent, dank, dark, dirt room where the year’s food supply, culled from the bountiful garden, were stored. The living room was small—with a coal burning stove eventually replaced by an electric heating stove. A short couch lined one wall, and directly in front of the couch; facing the same direction as the couch, sat the one comfortable chair in which a woman sat for much of her day watching the small black & white television at the other end of the room. Hanging above the television, a small, lonely picture of Jesus looked down upon the room.
The woman, who lived to somewhere between 99 and 101 years old, depending on who you took as authority on such things, was tall and lean. Her dress was always immaculately ironed. Her hair was white as pure driven snow, and was always covered by a hairnet. When she spoke, her voice warbled and rasped from too many years of use. Age and gravity had some interesting repercussions. Her face was very, very long, reminding me of a tired old Bloodhound with wrinkles on top of wrinkles. Her earlobes had somehow managed to extend nearly to her shoulders, and her breasts, well, she was never one to bother with such frills as a bra…she was old, let’s leave it at that. Whenever I saw her, a particular Girl Scout song would pop into my head, “Do your ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro, can you time them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow, can you throw them over your shoulder like a continental soldier, do your ears hang low?”
As a child, I paid little heed to her, and as my conversation wasn’t very interesting to her, we never made a connection. I probably spoke a total of 10 words to her my entire life. She visited freely with her son and grandson (my grandfather and father), but we were left to our own devices playing on most visits at the back of the house in the tiny closet-sized bedroom, with an ancient erector set and tinker toys. All I really knew is she spent over 65 years a widow, raising her kids the hardscrabble way, but most of it was spent alone in that little house, taking care of her business.
Our last visit came when I was about 20, on leave from Germany. Her hearing was nearly shot and her eyesight failing. My father pulled up a straight chair to be near her. She sat in her chair, facing the same direction we faced sitting on the couch behind her—which was always so odd to me—looking at the back of her head. My senses dulled as I listened vaguely to them speaking. Finally, out of the blue, she said, “Lori, where are you?” I snapped out of the daydream state I invariably slipped into, thinking, “Wow, she is actually speaking to me.”
I reached forward and gently and lovingly placed my hand on her arm, feeling suddenly quite warm and sentimental, sure she was asking because she could neither hear nor see me from her current vantage point, and said, “I’m right here Great Grandma.” And, then she sighed, turned to me and said, “No GOD DAMN IT, where are you in Germany? Larry, what’s wrong with the girl?”
As I approve of a youth that has something of the old man in him, so I am no less pleased with an old man that has something of the youth. He that follows this rule may be old in body, but can never be so in mind.
~ Marcus Tullius Cicero
A while back, I talked about this guy who is a Class-A asshat. Well, he struck again. Only, this time, I was prepared for him. Moo-hah-ha, little rat bastard. We have lots of policies—policies stacked upon policies. Red tape is wound tightly around more deskbound paper pushers the level of which is rivaled only by the bureaucracy of the US Government.
So, this relatively simple and routine procedure suddenly had an extra step involved, thanks to one of his undertrolls. So, asshat backed his undertroll. My assistant was stymied. I called asshat. He ignored me and my request to show me in writing how this step was part of policy. I conjured the boss’ name and made the request his. I then received a call with a, “Well, you got me…it’s not policy, it’s just good practice.” Yeah, I’m thinking, you made the entire thing up out of whole cloth to back your employee who doesn’t know jack. After I outlined the counterproductive nature of his overzealousness using many multi-syllable words that seemed to baffle him, he backed down and will not be giving our office any more of his bullshit—of that, I’m sure.
Victory is SWEET! I did my happy dance all over the office—and that was a shock to some, let me tell ya’. It’s those little victories that are so important—especially when battling your very own special pet project asshat.
~ Gerard Way
Kids departed and I am sitting in an empty house. For my viewing satisfaction, I have spent the day:
Man, I miss them already.
The best substitute for experience is being sixteen. ~Raymond Duncan
I heard a song that stuck with me on the camping trip my family took when I was 10 or so–the last trip we took together as a family–this morning it popped into my head (as music often does, randomly). It was by Bobby Russell and called, “Saturday Morning Confusion.” That would be most mornings around here. This morning, the house is ominously still and the children sleeping. By Monday, the house will be even quieter and I won’t hear any confusion for five weeks. I’m going to miss those sounds.
It will be one of our last times all together before Ben grows up. He informed me the other night that he will have to have a job next summer to support a car. Translation: He will not be here next summer. He was telling me so that I could get used to the idea of him not being around. I told him I knew when he moved to Arizona that day would come and I understood. He seemed physically relieved that he did not have to worry about hurting me. And, I presented a plan for him to consider so I get a little time with him next year anyway that seemed to make him happy and had been one he hadn’t considered. I think he learned a lot about me as a parent this summer–things he hadn’t suspected. But, more importantly, I think he also learned some things about me as a person. To him, I’m slowly becoming more than this mish-mosh of momness. Watching him grow up is pretty amazing.
I’m going to go wake them now, despite the early hour, so we can load up and spend the day at the beach in Santa Cruz–their favorite place on the coast.
Thanks to everyone who clicked the Sacramento Top 25 button every day. I ended up in #3 for the week! Also, you can subscribe to the blog via the bloglines button at the top of the page or via Google Reader at the bottom.
I like to call this little countdown I’m doing as the “no cooking” countdown where for 35 days I will probably subsist on Lean Cuisine’s and other microwavable delicacies. As of tonight, I have one more meal to make before the kids wing off to Arizona for a few weeks. My sistah, who last year cooked for me at least once a week during this summer period won’t be around this year to feed me–poor, poor pitiful me.
The children love when Sistah comes to cook—the food is always good, healthy, plentiful for various hollow legs and lacks the usual dry/burnt taste and texture my offerings frequently provide.
So, tonight, we went out to eat and we will grab a little Quizno’s on Friday, leaving me only Thursday to come up with something that tastes like something kinda sorta edible.
The other night, I was proud of myself for coming up with a meal. I made some healthy rice and fresh veggies to go with the baked “basil chicken.” My sis made it for us before, and I vaguely remembered what she did. So, we ate it and it was okay, but I called her the next day and said, “That basil chicken just didn’t taste as good when I made it.” She said, “Do you mean the rosemary chicken?” Oops, all those crazy herbs and spices look the same to me.
She was stunned I didn’t know what a zester was, or the fact I don’t have a juicer or anything remotely resembling a food processor. My meat mallet is the rubber mallet from the toolbox and none of my knives in my drawer are sharp (that is not a metaphor, dammit). My pans are mostly Goodwill castoffs and a cheap set I got at Target. Apparently, I should have paid attention in 8th grade home economics instead of leading that student rebellion that almost got me expelled.
But, my knowledge of all things cooking is exceeded only by my passion for cooking. I rank the entire process right below scrubbing out toilets after a chili cookoff.
I keep hoping some kind soul (Sela Ward, are you listening?) will take pity on a poor girl and bring me gastronomic (and possibly other) joy in my hour of need, but, I have a feeling, that coupled with my dearth of dating applications, both my oven and I will die of loneliness this summer.
A Virginia woman really made herself at home. A 33-year-old woman’s drive Sunday night took a wrong turn when she smashed into the side of a house, according to police, damaging both vehicle and house. The driver was also naked.
This screamed: “Oh, she must have been a Lesbian headed for a second date!”
Yes, ladies. I am a lesbian. ~Samantha Jones, Sex & the City
Hiking in Chico offered some excellent scenery, including some interesting rock formations. When I saw this, I had to grab a picture just for Guy. Hole or tunnel? You decide. God, I’m laughing.
Walking is good for solving problems – it’s like the feet are little psychiatrists.
~Pepper Giardino
