All in the Family

I found this picture last night. It's my parents (at least it really looks like them) on a Harley, but this bike belonged to my cousin Heb's dad...


I found so many other fun pictures in the maternal family photo box, please take a moment to enjoy these random images.

Road Trippin'

Get ready! The first Kuj family road trip in several years is about to take place! Faj, Brother and I are riding down to Illinois to visit the extended family over Memorial Day weekend. Now I just have to figure out how to pack three days worth of stuff into the equivalent of a quart-size baggie. I figure if I pack my camera and battery charger into my underwear (the pair that's on me at the time), I might have room for a toothbrush and deodorant in the tail bag.

I will, of course, report back on the event, complete with pictures. Hopefully, not of my underwear.

A couple of days ago, Faj helped me hack the rear mud guard off the Freaky Tiki. That and a new integrated (turn signals are in the brake light) LED tail light, and now my hind-end is sleek and aerodynamic (does this bike make me look fat?). Here's Bee-Fer...

And the aftah:

"Where have you been?! I was worried sick!"

Momma, I'm riding in clubs...with boys!

A funny thing happened on the way...

Sent this email nugget to my yoga instructor last Friday:

Sheri,

The fact that you and I have done some great work in the past half year became glaringly obvious Wednesday after class.

I'm at the stop sign at the end of your street, waiting on a woman who's turning left in front of me on to said street. I was going to turn left and take a scenic route home, and as I was waiting for her to turn, I thought I might be too far out for the land yacht to turn in without giving me a glare...so I move over a little to the right to give her some room...and lose my balance. I reefed on my front brake and the front end of the bike dove down and to the right. My bike wanted to lay down REALLY BAD. So there I am, the bike about 15 degrees from upright...which doesn't sound like much, granted, but the center of gravity on sportbikes is high, so it weighs a TON that little bit over. That might be an exaggeration...

As sure as the little bit of my face showing turned beet red and I grunted and groaned, I watched that woman turn left and not even look my way. My salvation appeared in the guise of a guy in a pickup truck behind her. I let go of the clutch (which killed the bike) and managed to wag a finger at him to "come hither" PLEASE. He looked. He stopped. He backed up. Amazingly, during that backing up, I managed to shift my right leg in a little and bring the bike up enough to return to upright. I thanked him wholeheartedly for sending his helpful karma my way as I determined his returning to aid me brought some much-needed measure of strength into my now bunched, noodly right thigh. He wondered what I was doing. I said, 'Well it wasn't fun whatever it was," and I send him on his way.

...I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have saved it before I started yoga. Thanks.

Now THERE'S a testimonial. "Sheri's client saves money; paint job."

What I failed to include in my email to Sheri (she's such a nice human being and the woman was undoubtedly a neighbor...there's only a handful of houses in her cul-de-sac), was how I wanted to turn around and rail on that dirty whore in the land yacht because I had the random act of kindness to think of her left-turning plight by moving over and she didn't have common decency to even recognize that I was in distress. And that D.W. glared without looking at me. Of course, I realize she was probably clueless that there was an issue at all.

...Ever get that moment of rage when you are considerate enough to hold a door open for someone and they don't acknowledge it? I usually snap inside and end up saying loud enough, "Why, thank you for holding the door for me!" and follow that up with, "Of course! It was my pleasure!" Alternatively, you get someone who doesn't hold the door open for you when you're right behind them. Again, I say out loud, "Thanks for holding the door, you douchebag." I'm paraphrasing there.

How do you get over it when you give and don't receive? I can do that with gifts, no problem. But if I hold the door open for you, you DAMN well better AT LEAST acknowledge my gesture with a nod (I'll assume you're mute or don't speak English...though I know "Thank you" in most languages).

...I'm not such a nice person sometimes...but I'm funny!

Turns out...It CAN make me look worse.

I give. It's what, quarter to 10 am? I made it maybe 3 hours with new skincare and makeup combo. Remember the Exxon Valdez? Same size oil slick. Also, the "makeup so clean you can sleep in it" has highlighted every fine, blond hair on my face (mostly the chin), making me resemble a teenage Santa. The back of the box says, "Return to the skin you were born with!" Momma? Was this a likeness of my baby-smooth skin at infancy? Because this is what it looked like at 10 am this morning, right before I washed all this junk off at work.


The upside? It only feels like ONE layer of muck instead of THREE.

Sorry this is short, but now I have to run out to my salon to find out if they'll fry the hair off my face (they should probably clean it first so the oil doesn't catch fire).

Damnit. Fine, I'll just try the Murad crap alone for a week or so. I'm THIS close to making an appt with a dermatologist, because frankly, my skin remains an enigma to me. I'm convinced the answer to flawless skin is right up there with "Why are we here?"

What in the wide, wide world of sports is a-goin' here?

Wednesday night I got home from work and...cooked. With wine. Yeah! Wine! Can you believe it? I actually put some of it in the food! And something called "lemon zest." And....tarragon. FRESH tarragon. Those who know me would find this highly suspicious, as did my mother, whom I sent a text message to stating, "Holy crap! I'm cooking with wine!" To which she responded, "What's his name?"

I don't cook. I've never really liked to and didn't harbor any desire to excel at it. However, I live with my brother, whose main food groups are Alfredo pasta, Spaghetti-O's (which, if you ask me, smells like vomit in a can) and Guinness. Despite that, he actually cooks more than I do. But I'm the experimenter...

Another reason I don't cook? Recipes. I look at the list of ingredients. I measure out all the amounts. I start reading the preparation and somewhere I end up missing the "reserve the liquid" from a can of pineapple chunks, or dump in the 1 cup of Parmesan cheese only to find that I must "sprinkle the remaining 2/3 cup over the top and serve." I refuse to read all the way through and then go back. Hence, the experimental status of most of my cooking.

So as I flip through my Real Simple magazine I spot this recipe that sounds good...I had a sub-par bag of edamame in my freezer that I just couldn't throw out. So I run to the store and collect the ingredients for "risotto with edamame, lemon zest, and tarragon" (Real Simple is so simple, they don't capitalize any titles in their magazine).

It actually didn't turn out too bad. The recipe called for 4 1/2 cups of veggie broth....I used the whole carton of "vegetable stock" (I hope that's the same thing), which was said to contain "about four cups." So it was a little browner than their photo.


It still turned out okay. EXCEPT...

Tangent warning! ---> I've always pondered who was the first crazy person to figure out if something was edible? Milk for instance? Ew. I don't claim to be a picky eater...my figure gives that away. But there are just some things that humans have discovered that, in my humble opinion, should NEVER be added to food. Rosemary? You mean PINE NEEDLES? How about cilantro? Man, I can't even describe the nasty-ass flavor that has. But don't you dare put it in my guacamole. I will beat you down. So...veering back to....tarragon...

I despise licorice flavored anything. Not candy, not liqueur, not nothing. Guess what tarragon tastes like? And how does my DAD know what it tastes like when I don't? I'm a girl! Shouldn't that have been in the manual? Ugh. My newly made recipe fairly reeks of it.

I'm eating it anyway. I'm not throwing that crap out. I'm too proud. I just occasionally make...the face, and continue eating. By the way, when they say Sauvignon Blanc is dry, they're not kidding. Don't drink it at room temp from the bottle.

***

So, cooking. Kind of an odd thing for me. What else is not quite?

I'm looking at two starter kits I just ordered from Sephora.com. Understand this. I wear lip balm. Clear lip balm. That's it. I'd like to tell you that I believe I radiate a natural beauty that doesn't require makeup, when in reality, nobody's ever seen me in makeup to know that I look better that way. I'm not stupid, you know.

However, at some time in the last year or so, I thought, "I really shouldn't have to live with a greasy face and zits this long, should I?" The facial hair that is genetically handed down (most likely) from a Polish ancestor working the onion field out near Krakow in her babushka, which frames her deeply wrinkled, dried apple-core face...that's enough to deal with in the mid 30's. I'm actually considering that electric razor with the "What's this? Goo?" dispenser built in. But the pimples and the midday slime have got to go.

My two kits...Murad Acne Complex (read: Acid Dip) Kit and the current fad: Bare Minerals Get Started Kit. I've had them here now for two days. And I just keep looking at the boxes. I'm not expecting miracles, but then I can't help but wonder if I'm ready for another round of "My GOD! If I dab neon paint on every breakout by the light of a UV bulb, kids would be able to earn degrees in Astronomy from my FACE!"

Sigh. I suppose the worst that happens is I spend another week explaining how I must have an allergy to tarragon and this should clear up soon. There's no reason to procrastinate, really. It can't make me look worse, right?

...I'll start on Monday...

Karma believes that revenge is a dish best served cold

I dig Karma. I may not know the exact definition, but in my head, it's the Universe's version of a bitch-slap to anyone who wrongs another. I believe it extends over many lifetimes, hence I'm also a believer of reintarnation (that's the redneck version).

For some reason, I hesitate to spill the entire story on my blog. Probably from fear that, reading my "haha take that you dirtbag" attitude will inspire Karma to practice reciprocity and bitch-slap me for not being a gracious person. Also, in the INCREDIBLY unlikely event that the object of this story happens upon my blog, that aforementioned object would remain anonymous and....oh hell. Everyone's gonna figure it out. I just won't mention any names of the BILLIONS of SERIOUS boyfriends I've had in the past. All one of them.

My birthday came and went last month with little fanfare. Honestly, I've now reached the age where I understand why so many people don't bother with the number of years they've been alive, mostly because you can really say that you don't feel as old as the number sounds. Having said that, I'll be 36-and-a-half in October. Start planning.

As I said, the blessed event came and went...my mom sent me an email about four days after. It was forwarded from my cousin, who showed some concern that the information contained within would possibly ruin my special day. Here I will pause and thank everybody who gave me a gift with wholehearted gratitude. But....this one email was THE best birthday present. Ever.

As quoted from Heb's email (names have been changed to protect the innocent and, also, the karmically bitch-slapped):

I'm sitting at a high table in the bar at a place called Fax And The Pound in Barrel Dream, Millinois with Madeline and Sue Ellen. We've just ordered our first drinks and are contemplating our food order. ...This woman rams into my chair, even though there is AT LEAST 5 feet between my chair and the chair across the aisle from me. So I comment to Madeline about how annoying this is. Not 10 minutes later I get rammed into again and I look to see it's the back of the SAME GD fat woman and I'm like WTF?

So, about 15 minutes later this couple is walking towards the door, about to pass me, the woman is bitching and the guy is just looking like he desperately wants to get this bitching woman some food. She's pregnant, fat, unattractive and not happy. I see his face and the SHOCK fills me because it's PONY MILAS! I immediately look at his hand and he has a wedding band on. As they pass I watch them head for the door, in slow motion, and it's the same back of head of the FAT ASS woman who has rammed into my chair not once, but twice!!!!! They leave with her bitching at him because it's too crowded to eat there and he's just desperately trying to get her to STFU! I don't think he had a clue it was me...

What makes this sweet, sweet Karma-on-a-stick? "Pony" was once my boyfriend...for the impressionable years...somewhere between my first two years of high school till maybe '96(?). I gained weight (100 lbs maybe?), became self-conscious about it and eventually refused to remove clothing for any reason other than to shower by myself, thereby all but ending anything intimate. As it takes two to tango, he didn't help in the way that true loved ones would help a fellow loved one in need...I was snidely reminded from time to time that fat was unacceptable in his eyes. You know, because he could pass for Brad Pitt. <--sarcasm. Trust me, I'm older and wiser now. Should I have the opportunity to return to the beginning, I would've continued to turn down the year-and-a-half attempt to get me to go out with him.

Long story short, it ended rather horrendously. My mom and I recently read Hunter S. Thompson's "Hell's Angels," and she got a kick out of the following phrase she found in that book: "dread spectacle." That's what it turned out to be. And one event that even Jerry Springer would've loved to witness.

Many years have passed, and after spending WAY too much time in the "poor me" phase, and NOT exacting revenge for my hurts, my time has come. I recall once, mired in pain and misery, "Oh, he'll get his. I'll just sit back and watch it happen, knowing he did it all himself."

***

I've learned some important things from this. One of the most important...you know how when your best friend or your child starts to date someone that you just can't warm up to? Or the "outsider" fails to treat your loved one with respect, love, admiration, or can't even be nice? How if you say something to your loved one, they are likely to become defensive and accuse you of not knowing how they really are? Horrid bullshit. All of it. Take in those observations. Pay attention to what other people around you see in your relationship. They know of what they speak. Otherwise, you'll lazy-ass your way through a poisoned relationship WAY too long for your mental and physical health. My advice to you...I'm not using it (at the moment).

I hope his kid turns out fat too. (I couldn't help myself.)

Also? This woman scares me....

Psycho Stepford Woman!

Trish, considering the schedule you have, wouldn't you just love to mush every last ingenious, meticulously designed muffin all over her cake-hole?

....I'm so jealous...

May Day

No my plane's not crashing.

You gotta love this neighborhood. I got home from work today and found this on my front door.

The kids at the elementary school down the street hang these on doors in the area while the rest of us are off somewhere working. I totally forgot today was May Day.

I've read up a lot on pagans, particularly the Celts and they celebrated today as Beltane, long before Christianity took root. The festival marked the end of winter, and rituals were performed to encourage a bountiful harvest and good health for livestock and humans alike in the coming year. Druids lit "need fires" to drive the livestock through and to relight the hearth fires of the community. Celtic couples performed the Great Rite of the God and Goddess by wandering off into the woods to, well...bone. Fertility everywhere! A maypole with young women dancing around it? Not at all bone-like, right?

I just surfed a little on the web and found that in Ireland, there is a tradition of leaving boughs of flowers anonymously on doorsteps.

It was a pleasant surprise to come home to this May wreath. Happy May Day dear readers! And Happy May Day to you too, Matt! How delightfully and sweetly pagan of you. Thank you!

Regrets: A light-hearted look

Every elder in your life will tell you that to regret is to waste energy on something you can't change. Way I see it, for good or bad, they have introduced me to the person I am today. I feel real, knowledgeable, aware, and grateful to be where I am now. Nonetheless, there the regrets are. You either dwell on them or push them to the back of your mind. I like to dwell on regrets from time to time. Except to me, they are not bad, they just are. They're wishes, regrets, accomplishments, however you choose to look at them. Having said that, I decided to use the word "regret" because I'm going with a theme here.

Trish's recent post inadvertently wrestled a laundry list out of me. Instead of slapping a big old comment on her blog, I'll just add my list here.

• I regret that I was born with body hair.
• I might regret finally giving in to dating that first serious boyfriend after refusing him for a year and a half, but (since it didn't kill me), it only made me stronger.
• I regret that I inherited the "Kujawa Reef", as I'm now up to my boobs in the press, trying to fix the assembly I just had to yank on. NOTE: Sometimes too much cleaning is just too much.
• I regret that I stopped biting my nails...yeesh. You should see what they look like when they catch dry ink and fuser oil.
• I regret that I have not yet pulled the trigger on a second skydive. Now I know too much.
• I regret that my ideal tropical lifestyle doesn't involve heat, bugs, weird ocean greeblies, hot salt water or sand wadded up in that "panel" at the bottom of my swimming suit. Find me a tropical island that has a gentle, wispy breeze at a steady 75-80 degrees with low humidity and overcast skies. And a light tide.
• I regret that I burn first, then peel...then maybe tan. See above point.
• I regret that, while I want the next fun sports car, I am keeping the Saturn sedan because it's paid for. Being a grown-up is tough on the inner child.
  
• I regret that my closest friends and family REFUSE to drop everything and move in next door to me up here. Okay...maybe down the block a little...
• I regret that I didn't tell off that Catholic priest during the communion at my grandfather's funeral. It's not Tommy's fault he's Lutheran. In your hand, in your mouth...what difference does it make? The body of Christ ends up in the same place no matter what.
• I regret that I didn't become more financially conscious until now. Boy, money is nice when you have some to spare. See above previous point re: Car.
  
• I regret that I don't own a pair of stilts.
• I regret that Robot Chicken, a 15-minute stop-animation tv show, is more entertaining to me than a 4-hour presentation of "Planet Earth". But I blame the pop culture references as fodder for amusement. And there's an occasional fart.
• I regret I didn't have a camera on me when Mom and I went "poo-ticketing".
• I regret that I didn't catch on to the fact that one of the guys in the CVSC was nice enough to fill up my gas tank (while I was in the bathroom) before I tried to put 36 cents worth of fuel in it. Duh. For a moment there, I thought, "Holy hell! It's magic! 50 miles on and it's STILL FULL!" Double duh.

Huh...I'm actually smiling. That was fun. You try it!