Do or do not. There is no try.

I'm struggling, desperately, after six months of nothing, to finish my post about my day at Road America...and am hung up like a cattle rustler. It's two in the morning, and while I sit here, staring at my laptop, waiting for something, ANYTHING, to help me out, this link pops up on a random page I'm looking at.

Thank you, Honda, for confirming my belief in the benefits of failure.

I wish you all the best in the new year, and hope your future is as bright as I'm determined to have mine be.

Resolution #1: Post more on my blog. Not for you. For me. Silly readers, did you think next year I'd let the world revolve around anything besides me again? Puh. Shaw.

And away we go!

It's that time of year again. I'm counting down the hours until my 2nd track day on Monday, July 13, this time at Road America in Elkhart Lake, WI. I've graciously received a vacation day to do something utterly stupid. Mostly Naked once told me that I would be incredibly wired before track day, and there would be multiple bathroom trips and no sleep. He's also Mostly Right. I didn't have any of those issues before Brainerd last year, though. I attribute it to ignorance and comfort. I knew Brainerd's track layout well enough even though I never rode on it, so I was comfortable and relaxed, and had NO idea what was coming. I walked away from Brainerd, tired and pleased, but I rode at my pace, didn't push myself and frankly, was kinda "meh." I was actually surprised at my reaction as were a couple of others. There was no adrenaline, no abnormal quantity of bathroom breaks, too much sleep.

This year, an entire month before this Monday, as soon as I saw turn 14 at Road America, up a hill to the start/finish, I felt a jello-y quiver in my gut. It got worse a few days after when I clicked the "Submit" button on the website to pay for the opportunity. Now it seems the last couple of weeks, there's nothing else I can think about. I realize most of the thoughts, again, are logistics (don't forget to bring the bike...OR the key), but there's a hyper, spazzy, mildly terrified inner child who's not thinking about anything, except for the riding itself.

Road America is an incredible visual for a track. It's 4 miles long with 14 turns, elevation changes, and long sweeping turns and straights. Brainerd, by comparison is 3.1 miles, 10 turns, flat and tight. Brainerd boasts AMA superbike races and NHRA drag races, but RA not only has AMA superbikes, they also host indy cars as well. In my mind, a race track that can also race open wheel, super-fast, race cars is intimidating indeed.

So I'm a wreck. Anyone who makes the mistake of talking to me these past few days ends up having to hear all about my impending track day, because it's all I can think about. Sometimes more than once (I'm so sorry, "Vern.").

Man, I can't even get this blog out clean. My brains are scrambled.

Last year I wrote up a will and once again, I present my bequests, updated to reflect new friends and new items.

* * *

I reiterate for this year's event:

In the incredibly unlikely (Mom, read that again. Incredibly unlikely.)...I, Kuj, being "all there" at the moment, do hereby blah blah blah.

To my Mother, I bequeath:

• My relaxing "f**k it" attitude. Some things are just not worth the energy. Your only daughter, your sunshine, your favorite child (yeah, I said it) doing a track day, for instance.
  
• Hammick #1, for the purposes of finding the above mentioned attitude.
  
• The three-season porch.
• Your weight in Leinie's Berry Weiss.
• A brand-spanking new Leinie's sweatshirt twice a year.

To my Father, I bequeath:

• An extra sturdy door hinge for the passenger side of the coupe. Because whoever takes my place next to you isn't going to remember to not throw the door open either.
• Two weeks in the Rat Rod mecca out West. Make it a month.
• A toy hauler (see above).
  
• The official title of "Ruffian" (as bestowed upon you by local author, Michael Perry).

To my Brother, I bequeath:

• A job working for Weird Al. He's probably exhausted himself trying to swap out lyrics.
• A bullhorn for your butt. The sound is funny, the smell is not. One hopes the afterlife excludes foul odors.
  
• My bike (again). I'm still picturing that nice end table.

To my cousin Heather, I bequeath:

• The funny.
• Douchebag radar.
• $1400 bucks. NOW can we drive the Ya-ha-ma into a lake?

To my cousin Beefcake, I bequeath:

• The re-gifted Dark Lord. Re-gifted.
• A custom-built Beamish can hat.
• A lifetime supply of grounded shoes.

To my Aunt Joy, I bequeath:

• Facebook.
• Facebook.
• Facebook.
• Somebody to read non-fiction to you.

To my best friend Trish, I bequeath:

• My brother. Take him on your next vacation. You can use the amusement.
• Shorter pants for your gorgeous.
• A pair of scissors. Rush the stage at the next Wilco concert. You can do it.

To my dear friend Billy, I bequeath:

• Somebody to say "Dork" to.
• That one t-shirt. Yes, I found it the other day. I still have it.
• My mp3 player.

To my dear friend Art, I bequeath:

• Someone to yell "ART!" across the room to you.
• One-line zingers to use on Ben.
• Dunt-dunt-dahs.

To my dear friend and riding buddy, Turd, I bequeath:

• All 78 Steam entries. Yes, I did say I have a problem.
• Even more appreciation for "beep."
• Lots of "Proud Daddy" moments.
• /fart
  

To my newest dear friend "Vern," I bequeath:

• As requested, my hair. You'll fit right in it...heck, you're already used to the cold wind on the back of your head whenever anyone walks by.
• Also, as requested, my vocabulary. Though the secret is to have a thesaurus handy, I somehow manage to store the good ones away in the brain, however infinitesimal it may be. Anyway, you're no slouch either. "Brother, can you spear a mime?" That kills me...
  
• A pipeline from Jefferson Street in Chippewa Falls to FtC, with a multi-tapper on your end of it, of course. And all the Beamish left in the fridge.
  
• The world's largest book of anagrams...oh never mind. You wrote it.
• Hammick #2. It'll feel great when the yard's done.
• Firefly and Serenity. Alex will stop giving you the crazy look, and you two will have lots to talk about.
• My sweet, sweet beach cruiser. Only if you promise to ride it in costume.
  
• Enough money to fix up the bus. Keep the Boop drapes. (Boop drapes...that made me laugh).
• $5K. Get a motorcycle. Start slow. You'll love it.

To my newest dear friend Jasonopotamus:

• A full-on poster of Gothapotamus.
• A full-on poster of I Am Junk.
• My memory of the 1983 White Sox. LaMar Hoyt, Greg "The Bull" Luzinski, Harold Baines, Tony LaRussa, Carleton Fisk. I'm sorry...that's all I know. Of baseball. In totality. Besides "Where's the beer guy?"
• Someone to punch you in the arm, so you don't have to.
• My M*A*S*H collection. And let that cut under your nose heal. :)

To my still incredibly gracious boss, I bequeath:

• A bottle of Skyy (for honoring me, of course).
• Someone who will entertain you with really stupid things...like printing blank transparencies. That always gets a laugh.
• Steel mesh gloves for handling lifts of paper and opening boxes.
• Your very own censoring bleep. I wish I had bothered to buy one...

To my neighbors across the street, I bequeath:

• A three-season porch on the back of your house.
• A rattle can to cover up those racing stripes (yes, I had neon lights under my car once. Shut up).
  
• A sixer of Milwaukee's Best.

To the Chippewa Valley Sportbike Club, I bequeath:

• It's your fault I got into this mess in the first place. Have my guilt. Have my mom's too. Hers is really good. :)

Remember people: Think Irish funeral!

Freud is Choking on His Big, Fat Hog

Brother only seems to have road rage when there's a car in his way. A few weekends ago, when we were on our way to watch vintage motorcycle races at Road America, a pokey driver finally moved over to the right lane when he was good and ready and my brother grumbled, "Fat lop of....look at him! Smokin' a big, fat hog!" Having not looked up from book two of the Twilight obsession, I burst into laughter and inquired, "WTF is a big, fat hog??" Apparently the man was smoking the biggest cigar Brother had ever seen. Another simply put phrase that had me cracking up and now I must use ad nauseum. Sorry. But the story below does tie in with Freud. You'll see. Though I don't get the whole cigar thing...

* * *

When we of the Kuj Tribe were much younger, there was a time when us siblings engaged in the truly Polish/German sport of bowling. Every Saturday morning, hanging out in a gloomy, smoke-filled bowling alley, participating in the kid's league. I sucked. I considered it a good day if I managed to keep at least one ball out of the gutter. Little did I know that once I was old enough to drink (in pub-lick, anyway), I wouldn't give a crap if I threw the ball behind me, because bowling had become an excellent excuse to spend time with favored friends and co-workers, and for swilling mass quantities of beer.

Of course, Brother was better at bowling than me. He of the plaques, trophies, patches. Naturally, when one of his birthdays approached, the decision was made to have a bowling birthday party. My mom hired a Superman to show up at the party with balloons for the b-day boy and to do party tricks. Oh, how much damage this would do.

This "Superman" was a short, skinny, hirsute guy with a gold chain and a porn/cop mustache. He wore a near-accurate version of Superman's red and blue costume, except that I'm fairly certain the real thing didn't have a padded suit. PADDED. Padded biceps, pecs, thighs. Mental damage enough, you say? Sure. Cheesy? Most heinously. He told jokes, made balloon animals, did a little prestidigitation. I hope that, at the time, he at least entertained my brother and his friends despite the blatant misrepresentation. Otherwise, if I run into him again, I WILL demand he pay my mother all the money she shelled out for his cheese. I figure I just have to stand over him and flex my Pilates-hardened thigh muscles.

* * *

Trish (you remember her....she used to blog too?) has been my best friend for so many years, she deserves some kind of award. Or maybe I do. I think we met in high school marching band, but the specifics escape me. Despite a handful of years apart, we reconnected a few years ago and, again, talk to each other in one format or another nearly every day. Before I moved away and her gorgeous husband stole her from me, WAAAAY back in the mid 90's, Trish had asked me to stand up in her wedding to said gorgeous husband. Now that I'm thinking about it, I'm the one who deserves the award. That dress. That's a whole other story.

I was invited along with the other bridesmaids to the requisite bridal shower and bachelorette party. I apparently have a gift for memory recall. I've been incredibly astounded, as proven through Facebook, by my ability to remember bits and pieces of events as far back as high school. Unfortunately, this is one particular event I just can't get rid of. I would've hoped it had disturbed me enough to repress. I'm not so lucky.

After opening her gifts, we were interrupted by a knock on the door and the cry of the hormone, "Ooo! The stripper's here!"

* * *

Male strippers. That has got to be the most disgusting form of entertainment known to woman. Now before you formulate and postulate about my er, orientation, please understand that I'm like any other red-blooded, all-American heterosexual woman. Me likey man. But I'm picky on the visual. Just as any man on the street will pull a Pavlov when a hot woman walks by, I also like to observe male hotness in its most natural state: mowing my lawn. Okay, mowing any lawn. Okay, really, doing anything the Brawny paper towel man would do. But, specifically, manfully. Not outfitted in a bow tie and cuffs, women's thong underpants and...jiggling.

The image of the male reproductive anatomy, in my poor opinion, does not inspire grand, sweeping anthems of brass and bugle. It does not shout out in a growly, "Yeeeesss!" It's more of a "wah, wah." Yes, I realize this could be construed as mean, but the specific equipment is utterly and completely functional. There are far more important parts of the male gender that kick-start the furnace, if you know what I'm saying. I realize the human body is never perfect, but even on the scariest looking human being, there's something of incredible visual quality (my eyes, thanks for asking). Sure, his eyes might be hopelessly smoldering. It might be the small of the back. Maybe it's the ab muscles. It could be the graceful arc of a deltoid. It's possibly the broad muscular span across the scapulas. It's definitely that little indentation between the pelvis and gut muscles. Whew.

This? As Alanis Morrisette (the rotten bitch) once sang, "You are a slice of God on a platter..."

I could stare for days. Is he a deep thinker? I don't care. Does he love puppies? Big whup. I prefer my eye candy still...posed, not doing the electric slide with Grandma on stage. Stand still Chippendales, and I will perv out.

So you see where I stand on the whole stripper thing. If your purpose in life is to entertain women while barely dressed, it's far classier to me to just hand out pictures of yourself, than to parade around on stage with Fabio hair (gech) and s-pulse your meat and two veg at my face.

* * *

Hue and Cry. "The stripper's here!" Ugh. I see through the throng of ladies, a polyester cop uniform. "Hello ladies. I hear there's a bachelorette here who's been naughty..." Ugh again. A flash of a plastic badge (I'm welling up right now at the horror). The crowd of women makes way for the focus of our attention....and it's the FREAKIN SUPERMAN GUY!

I'll pause here for the collective outburst....

Seriously. The very same short, skinny, hairy guy (with the gold chain still). As a stripper cop. I remember wishing I could fart wings and fly. I shrink into my chair hoping against hope that, as he sets down his boom box and "Party All The Time" (who cares what song it was, really) blares from the twin speakers, I can will myself to be one with the powder-coated steel and vinyl.

This probably wouldn't be such a big deal if he was just a craptastical stripper, I understand this. As it was, he really was bad. Easily torn off pants and shirt (which is good, because as skinny as he was, I doubt he'd get through a real button), boxers, bikini, thong (really? Three pairs of underwear isn't overkill?). Climb up on a chair and shake his junk two inches from Trish's face (take that, alleged BEST FRIEND! Put me in this multi-color, poofy, organza-coated dress, will you? Karma! AVENGE ME!).

And yet, he still never got completely naked. The hair suit stayed on for some reason.

One wonders if this is the first thing one should share with a therapist upon first session.

Witness to the Incredulous

I hate grocery shopping. Hate it hate it hate it. I just posted up in Facebook that I hate grocery shopping so much, I've been using my brother's toothpaste for the past week. I had finally given up the fight and went today, because I was out of lemons.

* * *

Less than quick story...weird but true. Last March, after returning to Chicago from Tampa with Trish and her family, we are all trussed up in a mini-van taxi being driven by a big man. I had to cram into the front passenger seat, knees digging into the dashboard, nose seemingly inches from the windshield. I love Trish and her family as my own, but I was exhausted from the parental test-driving I did over the week with her two boys. I tried to send my astral body out to a remote island until we arrived at my car's location and I could RUN AWAY. So I was fairly silent in the taxi.

The driver started to tell me a story...and you know how this is if you don't want to talk to anyone...but he reminded so much of Bernie Mac and his spiel in "Ocean's Eleven" at the car dealer that I couldn't be mean. So I listened to him ramble on and then eventually realized he was talking about my then bad bout of acne. Man, I'm 37 years old and more than once I thought about donating my facial oil to a fast food joint or a biodiesel plant. Grease-ee. Why on the GREEN EARTH is this stranger talking about my bad skin?? He was kind though, and pointed out that he had once been a puppet of the McJob himself, suffered the same facial fate, and someone passed on the virtue of lemon juice. No shit. Wash your face, squeeze some lemon juice into your hand (from actual lemons presumably...I'd imagine the concentrated bottled stuff might be too harsh), splash it on. I did thank him for the advice and, after all the money spent on one stupid product or another that never worked, it seemed so ridiculously simple, I was game.

So, March, April, May, June. I've been using lemon juice on my face every day for all that time. Totally cleared up. No more angry red things. No more grease. Even with that monthly eruption issue, only a couple dared surface. Awesome. Thank you, dear, dear Bernie Mac-lookin' driver man. I owe you big.

* * *

Back to the grocery shopping. Out of lemons. Now you know why. After stopping at the local gourmet beer and coffee joint in town, and cleaning them out of Beamish, I sped over to the grocery store. I can't boil down my hatred for shopping into one reason. It might be that I'm weak and lazy, and sometimes come home with $200 worth of frozen, microwaveable food (and ice cream). It might be that I think I'm just a little agoraphobic. I remember one Christmas season having to leave a shopping mall because I was going to lose it. Now, I prefer to shop online as much as possible for the Christmas holiday and only go to the mall if I have no other choice. I WILL not go anywhere near the mall within a week of Thanksgiving, Christmas or New Year's.

I also equate grocery shopping with some of the worst drivers I've ever seen. I am not without my own errors in judgment, but there's people who drive on the "wrong" side of the aisle, who park their cart in the middle, blocking the whole aisle instead of "pulling over", who plug up the only "hole" in the flow of traffic, and God help me, three people who WERE STANDING DIRECTLY IN THE DOORWAY OF THE ENTRANCE CHATTING. Amazing how I can appear to be so laid back most of the time, isn't it? Which is WHY I avoid the grocery store, right?

I've wandered back and forth throughout the store picking up my necessities...seriously, why are the Hershey's bars in the candy aisle, the graham crackers in the cracker aisle and the marshmallows in the baking aisle? If I had my way, grocery stores would have a s'mores aisle. Damn it, I passed the lemons.

I'm rounding the home stretch past the ice cream and through the bakery section when I notice a slim, solo, blond woman seizing a baguette of French bread. Snarky Me pops to the surface to mumble, "Oh God, how movie of her. Now all we need is to see carrots with the tops still attached poking out of her crisply creased paper bag."

I wheel my crap over to the checkout lanes. Gotta get out, gotta get out. I queue up behind one other woman and start unloading my cart. The pleasant woman behind the counter steps out and places a large sign directly behind my groceries that her lane is closed. LARGE sign. About a foot across and half a foot tall. CLOSED. She smiles at me and says, "After you, of course." I reply, "Thank you. I was worried for a minute there you were going to wait until I unloaded my cart to tell me you were closed." We exchange smiles and I continue to dump my junk on the belt. Now it's my turn. She mentions something to me like, "It's funny. You should see how many people actually move AROUND that sign to put their groceries down." I sort of chuckle and start loading up my groceries into the bags as she rings the rest up (it's a YOU bag aisle...fitting, I believe, as I AM a bag).

My face is two feet from the floor as I'm picking up the case of pop from the bottom rack of my cart when I see two feet appear behind it. I stand up and Movie Baguette lady has perched her little single-people's basket on the belt behind my stuff. AROUND the CLOSED sign. That's when I look at the pleasant woman behind the counter...beaming at me through her cute, square rimmed glasses. I bust out laughing as she says, "See? And you didn't believe me." As I'm still packing my groceries into the bags, laughing hysterically and now, welling up with tears and snot, Pleasant Woman continues to make conversation with me...probably trying to keep herself composed while all around her are losing or have lost their head. "Ooo, you're making s'mores? Hunting, camping, fishing?" I blurt out "Camping!" as I gleek on my loaf of bread and carton of ice cream. The laughter subsides...I can't look at Movie Baguette lady, I keep losing it as it is. Then more laughter. "Oh that's awesome. Thanks so much for planning that laugh for me." Pleasant Woman says, "Oh, no problem at all. Camping, huh?" "Yes," I struggle to breathe. "Brother. Brother's girlfriend, me. Vintage. Motorcycle. Racing." Pleasant Woman to me, as I bust out again, "Sweet! Well you have a nice night." Me: "Oh God. THANK YOU! I hope your job ends SOMETIME today." As we laugh again, and I push my cart of shit out the door...looking like I just popped onion peels under my eyelids.

Movie Baguette lady? Utterly, completely, oblivious.

Okay, so it was probably more funny in person that it is on blog. But I was there...ergo, funny. Have a lovely! Try not to stab anyone at Wal-Mart with a pool noodle!


Also...there's this.


That's right, a new fragrance for your armpits! Take your pits away to a Tropical Paradise! Rent 'em a hammock! Buy 'em a daiquiri, one each! Let's go, Pits! Bora Bora!

I'm bored

....be patient until I get everything in here up to snuff.

What I've learned from M*A*S*H

I remember (ever so vaguely) when I was a kid hearing the now familiar strains of the wordless version of "Suicide Is Painless." I'd be trotting upstairs to bed or whatever and hear my dad downstairs tuning into a show that I knew was about war, but never realized was a comedy. Until about 10 years ago when they started showing episodes on the Hallmark Channel in threes or fours after 10pm. Then, I'd use it to fall asleep. But wait, it's a comedy?? Heh, it's not so bad.

And so I'm hooked. I spent WAY too much money on the full series collection (plus movie) and occasionally I'll get the hankerin' to watch it...for the bajillionth time.

I was just watching another episode this morning and it occurred to me I've discovered a few things about the show that you might not realize were there, stored in the scary parts of my brain...

• Korea looks strangely like California.
• Now I know what a "merry widow" is.
• Now I know who Adolphe Menjou is.
• Hitler had a pencil box and it was in Korea, CA being hocked by a local indigenous personnel.
• Now I know where "I'm not so drunk as you think I am" came from.
• Same for "Why don't you let that cut under your nose heal?"
• The C.O.'s office had dirty, dirty windows most of the time. In the cold, it changed to frost.
• Colonel Potter got a male horse (gelding, stallion, whatever, I didn't look that close), but after the first episode where Radar gave it to him, "he" was thereafter named "Sophie."
• Henry Blake's wife's name was originally Mildred, later Lorraine.
• Colonel Potter's wife's name was originally Mildred and stayed that way.
• Acting newbs such as John Ritter, Patrick Swayze, Alex Karras, Richard Masur, Teri Garr, Andrew "Dice" Clay, Ron Howard, and Laurence Fishburne have had guest appearances. There are likely more, but I'm only on season four and can't store all the useless info in the world. Loudon Wainwright III appeared in a handful of episodes as well, decidedly new at his gig as guitar-carrying minstrel. I'm not sure if he's gotten any better at it, I haven't heard word of him since the M*A*S*H eps. Honestly, based off his performances in M*A*S*H, I don't care either.
  
• There was a place in Chicago near the Dearborn Street Station called Adam's Ribs. But there probably wasn't.
• Surplus items from World War II were not unheard of. Beans? From 1943? In the 50's? Ish.
  

"America is a land of taxation that was founded to avoid taxation." -- Dr. Laurence J. Peter

Trish got me started again...

Creative Taxation I'd Like To See In the World:

I'm a fan of air quotes, but I'd like to tax the inefficient use of them.

I'd like to tax people who pay for commercials and billboard advertisements but don't proofread them first (btw, Love, it's "voila"...there's an accent on it too, I think, but I'm too lazy to try to figure out how to Hyper-text Markup Language it).

Trish wanted to tax people who use acronyms. I was once berated by my ex-boyfriend for using acronyms in conversation. DQ, BK, McD's. Apparently my acronyms used to only involve fast food joints. I've branched out since then. I guess I'd probably be taxed for this, but you won't witness me saying "Oh em jee" in a person-to-person conversation, unless I'm using air quotes. :0)

Let's tax companies that come up with misspelled words and/or mush words together with a capital letter separating the two for their businesses and products. Xtreme, YouTube, NetFlix, Facebook, GoDaddy, Xcel Energy, Bancorp, Xtreem...Xtreem? Really?

Extreme and the various spellings of it should be taxed all to hell.

People on scooters who think it's okay to park on my sidewalk five feet from my front door.

Smart Car owners.

Manufacturers who skimp on the tips of their cotton swabs.

Companies who send their bills with extra b.s. in the envelope.

Anything "As Seen On TV."

The person who invented reality TV.

The people responsible for over-hyping global warming.

Manufacturers who sell "green" bulbs with mercury in them.

The government for playing "Over-Protective Parent."

Whoever keeps swapping out my socks for hangers.

Reintarnation

I don't use the bathroom much at work. It's not that it's skanky or anything, I just kinda don't stop to go. Get it? So on the rare day when I have one too many Dr. Peppers or the lunch went in sideways, I'm in there, staring at the little radiator thingy on the wall near the floor and I take stock of the frequent inhabitants, i.e. spiders. I don't know what the deal is. We aren't surrounded by woods at the shop. It's in the middle of an industrial park, but the spiders that somehow get in are radioactively enhanced. The kind of spiders you see on a boat as the sun sets, or the kind that thrive in the forests. Big, meaty spiders. And for some reason, they set up shop in the floor heater of the women's bathroom.

Normally, it doesn't bother me because if I do happen to need to use the facilities, there's really never any activity. Just evidence. And once, as I was staring at the carcass of a recently departed insect, I thought to myself, "What's it like to come back in the next life as a bug?" I haven't looked into this too much, but I thought that Buddhists believe that reincarnation is a series of evolutions toward enlightenment. Meaning, you come back as a new being in each life, correcting your past karmic errors until you achieve perfection of being. I might not be correct on that, but that's how I remember it. So, coming back as a bug. You'd live, like, a day. In the grand scheme of the Universe, human lives are but a blink of a cosmic eye. Imagine the nanosecond life of an insect. Eat, poop, make more of you, die. Short, without complications, hobbies, money, likely not even enough mind to experience the shock and horror of such a brief existence.

I don't think I'd mind coming back as a bug...as long as it counted, anyway, due to its sucky nature. Dung beetles should get to knock off credit for two lives. I don't think I need to explain why.

NO MORE WIRE HANGERS!

My mom was the only one of my MILLIONS of readers (read: two) who braved up and sent me answers to the questions I posted up a while back.

1. What is the one thing you would have done differently as a mom?

Had I been more mature and well-adjusted, less neurotic and unaware of my own dysfunction, I would have given my children much more of my attention. I would have realized that they grow up way too fast and you don't get a second chance. I would have given them more love and understanding. I would have looked into their eyes and really listened. I would still have been a strong disciplinarian but not with physical force. I would have cherished every moment that they were children so that now I would have more of those memories instead of the memories of my own bullshit. I would be the parent instead of one of the children.

2. Why did you choose to be with my father?

He was clean-cut when the rest of the men I met were hippies. He was more or less drug-free, not an alcoholic, not promiscuous, had no STDs. He came from a good family and had a trade which was very important at that time, more so than a college education. He was honest and responsible.

3. In what ways do you think I'm like you? And not like you?

I think you are like me in your level of intelligence but far surpass me in maturity relative to our ages. I think you have filters, that you usually think before you speak which is not like me but more like your dad. I believe you have close to the same sense of humor I have. You are less guilt-driven; you are more likely to know what you want and less likely to be influenced by the wishes of others. You share my love (NOT) of physical exercise. You are able to read and enjoy reading unlike the males in the family.

4. Which one of us kids did you like the best?

What a question! I know it may have seemed at times that I liked Tom the best. The truth is that he was easier for me to relate to and raise. Much simpler and more straight-forward. Letting a boy go off riding a dirt bike seemed much less worrisome than letting a girl go off in a car full of boys. Obviously, the fact that you were so much more a match for me intellectually made you more challenging to control. I never really felt like I knew what was going on in your mind, whereas with Tom, I believed it was always about toys, vehicles and speed. If we were reliving the past at this time in the world I would never expect Tom to put antifreeze in my Kool-Aid, while I might be a little more suspicious of the workings of your mind.

5. Is there anything you have always wanted to tell me but never have?

Not that I can think of, I think I've probably spilled my guts maybe more than I should have at times.

6. Do you think it's easier or harder to be a mother now than when you were raising our family?

Hell no. I was aware of crimes against children back then, as I was even when I was a child myself. They were usually such news, though, because they weren't happening on an hourly basis like they seem to now. I could let you go out and play in the neighborhood without being there to monitor you and didn't have to worry that you might not come back. We weren't worried about guns in school or drugs, at least not until high school. There seem to be more diseases now, more dangers in general. If you cut yourself we didn't have to wonder if flesh-eating bacteria would kill you. And there was no thought of how parents' behavior could/would affect you emotionally in childhood or as adults so it was pretty much that we were free to [do] what we wanted.

7. Is there anything you regret not having asked your parents?

I would like to know more family history. Mostly this is because I have a box of jewelry that includes a couple of lockets with photos and I don't know who the people are.

8. What's the best thing I can do for you right now?

Keep in touch. Answer the emails. Post to the blog, even if it's just stuff you did that you thought was boring. Carry your camera and use it.

9. Is there anything that you wish had been different between us--or that you would still like to change?

I wish the past had been vastly different as explained above. Nothing I would change now except the physical distance between where we live.

10. When did you realize you were no longer a child?

Not yet.

Well done, Momma. Though I have to tell you, I bet most of the people who know me think I turned out just fine. Not sure about Brother, though. ;0)

Momma's Day

I love my Momma. She is my best friend, my mentor, my comic relief, my nurse, my conscience, my rock, my hero. Momma, I hope that your special day is exceptional. Though we live far apart, you are never more than a thought away. :)

Vern, My Muse

I've struck up an entertaining back and forth with one of our customers based in Fort Collins, Co. Sometimes people don't realize what spark they light in the cockles of my brain. My friend on the West Sigh-eed brightens my day with his friendly, pointy wit and the odd pop-culture speak we share. Recently we were sending emails with Latin phrases in the subject line, until he actually pieced one together, thwarting my easy Latin-to-English Googling. Here's a sampling of an email I started and realized it made a better post.

"We've finally got sun today after clouds and rain the better part of the week. I've got a screamer of a headache and I think it's this smelly-ass perfume I'm sampling. I smell like a half-dead old lady. That discussion we had about smells that make you sick? As far as perfume is concerned, instead of sucking you in with an initial lovely scent when dabbed at the neck and wrists, if a scent has the potential for making you ill later on in the day, someone should manufacture some kind of chemical reaction that causes it to smell like fart or rotting corpse upon instant contact with skin. Then you'd know and it would save you giving yourself a whore's bath in the sink at work. Because you KNOW my boss's brain is reeling away trying to figure out why the tips of my hair are wet after I've exited the bathroom.

Also, I should refrain from shaking hands with anyone this weekend. I know, you're thinking I'm wary of swine flu. I'm really not. It's just that my brother's girlfriend took it upon herself (a nice thoughtful thing to do) to purchase poo tickets for the household and somehow managed to find ONE-PLY. I'm not one for ripping through the RPMs when unrolling the T.P., but, since I'm a wadder, I'm fairly sure that's twice as much coming off the roll so as to further distance myself.

Yes, WAY more than you could possibly ever want to know. Meh. I figure, we're both human, we both excrete, along with everything else. Hey, wouldn't it be fun if we were like plants and just expelled a gas instead of dropping the kids off at the pool? Think of the chunk of the planet we'd save. We could all start peeing around the yard like the pets (except for the winter)..."

Momma Said Knock You Out

I'm hard at work behind the scenes trying to catch up on blog posts (I have about 6 in the works going back to February). Hopefully, this might hold you over until the dam holding back the Rio de Useless Info breaks (where IS the damn dam bathroom?).

Mother's Day will be here before you know it. I was just in, uh, the Library, reading and I'm shamelessly stealing this idea from my current issue of Real Simple (though I did have a similar idea WAY before this). Below are 10 questions to ask your mother (interrogate Dad too!). If you want to share them with me and the people who happen to trip and fall on to my blog, feel free to email it to me. Please don't post the answers in the comments section. I'd like to collect all the answers and post them up closer to Mother's Day (and Father's Day), so don't delay! If yo momma (and/or poppa and/or you) wants to remain anonymous, please make that obvious in the email. Otherwise, everything's game, except, of course your last name, address, bank account and SSN.

Tell your friends! Don't be shy! Hit my blog! Yea! Audience participation!

1. What's the one thing you would have done differently as a mom/dad?
2. Why did you choose to be with my mother/father?
3. In what ways do you think I'm like you? And not like you?
4. Which one of us kids did you like the best?
5. Is there anything you have always wanted to tell me but never have?
6. Do you think it's easier or harder to be a mother now than when you were raising our family?
7. Is there anything you regret not having asked your parents?
8. What's the best thing I can do for you right now?
9. Is there anything that you wish had been different between us--or that you would still like to change?
10. When did you realize you were no longer a child?

Palm Coast Art! Good stuff!

My Very Creative Mother Just Creates The Best Stuff.

That's a fairly useful mnemonic for remembering the nine planets. If they were Mercury, Venus, Cearth, Mars, Jupiter, Caturn, Turanus, Beptune, and Sluto. And if Pluto was still considered a planet.

Anyway, my mom creates some incredible things with the brain cells she was fortunate enough to retain after raising my brother and I...and letting us live too. Please peruse and purchase. You will love. Promise. Also? BEERINGS! YEAH!

My Kind of Crack

I just wanted to announce to the world that I just looked through a bunch of Partylite stuff and felt completely and utterly compelled to buy...NOTHING.

I think I've grown financially. :)

O.o.O. (Out of Order)

Good Lord, I'm so sorry to disappoint all two of you out there who read this regularly. I've got a number of posts started, but not completed. I was hoping to get to them while on vacation in Florida, but vacationing with My Dear Trish, her husband and two small boys? Well, silence is a RARE commodity, and I need a measure of it to be able to write something that looks like I contributed my complete attention to it, instead of looking like I was watching TV while blogging. Please be patient. I promise once I'm home (this weekend) and after I've slept off the effect of instant parenting, I will feed your useless need for many posts to come. As much as I'm hoping I can just return to the Northwoods, hop on my Freaky Tiki and go ride off in the 60 degree weather, I just read that it's snowing up there now and it looks like my energy will need to be directed elsewhere. Bummer. For me, not you.

She Who Must Be Obeyed

Happy Birthday Momma.

You have taught me many things. The most important advice that you ever gave me is be who you are and let no one change that. I hope this day was a lovely one indeed, and I wish you a buttload more to come. :D

She Was Sesquipedalian...A Lot

About a month ago, a bunch of us riders made the 20 minute trip to Menomonie to listen to Turd's band. A carload or two of us met up at a fellow rider's house for pre-gig snacks and conversation. Brother, Anya and I rode up with E and his girlfriend, whom I believe E called "Killer" at one point. Killer is a sweet, very pretty young lady who cracks me up at how unfiltered she is. She isn't rude, she just doesn't hold much back. I can appreciate that; it's a refreshing change from that whole, "What are you thinking?" silliness. Also? It means I'm not a lone female wolf in the pack full of less secure women. Who cares what they're thinking anyway??

So we're sitting in the kitchen, stuffing our faces with some good eats and seemingly out of the blue, Killer called me out about my big vocabulary.

Killer: "You like to use big words."
Me: "I...what? Sorry." I'm all embarrassed.

She just pointed that fact out where everyone else around me, never, ever seemed to take the same notice quite so to-the-point. So, I dwelled on it for a number of days afterward. Why do I use big words? In the spirit of the impending St. Patrick's Day, my list o'reasons:

• My high school vocabulary books were the only homework I enjoyed doing. Yes, I waited until 10 minutes before English class each time to do the vocab homework, but it was still my favorite. Even now if I happen to see a Reader's Digest, I'll flip to that word quiz (I'm sitting in a bar at Big Powderhorn updating this...the name is escaping me) and bomb through it.
• I absolutely, positively CANNOT do math. That's one of the reasons I take my brother out for dinner so often...I make him figure the tip. I enjoy his company, of course, and it's with great ease that makes me laugh till steak comes out my nose.
• Common, everyday speech becomes so boring, rarely used words make conversation more colorful.
• The big words just stick in my head, like all the useless information I file away for later use.
• Sometimes, they're just funny in the right circumstances. Especially when you're trying to describe a bodily function.
  

So, I'm coming out of the big word closet, here and now. I love the way they flow out of my head and across my oft-stumbling tongue. I LOVE USING THE BIG WORDS! Everybody knows if you find you enjoy something, you tend to excel at it with seemingly little effort. You may think I use big words to impress you or maybe it makes you think I'm a snob, but that's not the case. If it were, I probably wouldn't be able to back the usage up with a proper definition. And nothing's funnier than someone using the wrong big words. I just enjoy using them bigguns. When you decide to call me out, I'll do my best to not take umbrage at your servile proclivity, you varlet.

Artificial Albums #2 & #3

Psychic Readings by Kuj

I'm binding books today at work, which allows for much thinking because, other than focusing on "don't crush your fingers in this medieval, Teutonic device," there isn't much going on in my head. A song playing on our radio reminded me of a spectacular precognitive moment I had a number of years ago.

Back in Illinois, when I was relaxing with friends post-work at Friday's, indulging in a Captain and Coke and playing some trivia, my dad called from the Harley 100th Anniversary rally in Milwaukee.

Fahjah said, "We're sitting here in a big field, awaiting the surprise headliner. We're so far from the stage, they've got a Jumbotron set up so we can see. We're taking suggestions on who the mystery headliner is. We've got Aerosmith, The Eagles, Bruce..."

I was MUCH angrier those days (happily that has changed some since I moved north), and my answer was, "It's probably going to be Elton John."

Fahjah: "Dawwww...you think?"
Me: "Well, what says 'Surprise!' at a Harley rally, THE Harley rally, than an old, English gay with a penchant for stupid sunglasses?"

We say goodbye and I'm back into my drink and my trivia. After a half-hour or so passes, my cell phone rings again. It's...my dad.

"So," he said, "the band starts into some long, low notes and it suddenly hits me, Jesus this is 'Funeral For A Friend!' Son of a bitch! IT'S ELTON JOHN! It was a mass exodus. A bajillion-strong leather-clad orange-and-black wave of departure. They even opened up the VIP section to everyone. I think someone's getting fired on Monday."

I'm wondering now that I've been reminded of this, if there isn't a career out there for me in predicting corporate downfalls and stock market fluctuations, assuming I gave a crap about either of those. Hey, Trish, that kitten heel on your left shoe needs a looking-at... Might as well throw a prediction out there. If I'm wrong, hey, at least Trish will have a quick opportunity to admire her own shoes...

Fish lips

My blog stalker and good friend-whom-I've-yet-to-meet-in-person Cheryl is working on an art project that a handful of my family members are participating in, including my brother, my aunt, my cousin and my mom. Brother has outdone himself yet again...

Give Me 1,000 Kisses

I Was Wrong About You, Facebook

Facebook isn't quite the devil. Yes, there are totally annoying "apps" cleverly disguised as ads, and probably spyware. I've been avoiding most, if not all of them because it creeps me out a little when you are asked to "allow" an app and it clearly states, "Allowing 'What Beer Are You?' access will let it pull your profile information, photos, your friends' info, and other content that it requires to work." Uncomfortable. You're already kind of all out there as it is, though you can choose to only put the minimal amount of information if you want, but I was unable to restrain myself, and besides, that's what fuddy-duddy sites like LinkedIn are for (I'm there too, all fuddy-duddied up). Except I won't post my cell number. I'm not just gonna post that up for all and any. I hate talking on the phone as it is, and I don't think "It was stomped on 20 times, dunked in acid, run over by a car and taped to an M-80 and ignited" is going to fly come warranty time. Besides, I'm not all that sure there are "friends" (who, in some cases, I hesitantly added in the first place) that I want knowing everything about me.

Over the past couple of months, I've warmed up to the "What are you doing right now?" post. I'm having fun coming up with something amusing all smushed down to one sentence. For someone like me, who posts a small novel up on the sportbike club only to be informed our webmaster may charge per word, it's a creative challenge let me tell you (also, remember from a previous post I had mentioned the guy who hugs nice? He gently suggested to me many months ago that I might enjoy working on a blog. Whaddaya know? And thanks Turd. I'm sure the CVSC is somewhat relieved as well). And for some reason lately, I've been fascinated with the word "underpants," yet can't really find an outlet of humor for that particular aspect. Although the word itself is rather smirk-inducing. AH! I just thought of one.

Today, I was perusing my youngest cousin's profile and found somebody included him in a project where you hit a few websites and use information and images to create fake bands and their album covers. Also, putting one together in Fireworks (like Photoshop) has been educational. I may have a new addiction.

Here's my first album cover and instructions to create your own.


1 - Go to "wikipedia." Hit “random”
or click http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random
The first random wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.

2 - Go to "Random quotations"
or click http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3
The last four or five words of the very last quote of the page is the title of your first album.

3 - Go to flickr and click on “explore the last seven days”
or click http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days
Third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

4 - Use photoshop or similar to put it all together.

One more thing. Oh my God, why?

Well, duh

So Momma's blog had a "What kind of flower are you?" questionnaire and I'm a sucker for being told what I am. I'm not sure how relevant the Canna flower itself is to me, but the included description certainly doesn't sound far off.

You stand up for what you believe in, even if it gets in the way of what other people think. You are proud of yourself and your accomplishments and you enjoy letting people know that.

But not, snotty, like that sounds. I hope I don't give off the "look at me!" impression. I just like to be unique. Marriage, kids, a college degree, that's all...ubiquitous to me. Yeah, I'll probably be that crazy, old, cat lady spinster who lives down the street, but I'll be the crazy, old, cat lady spinster who: 1) hates cats, 2) rides a sportbike, 3) plays her music loud, 4) reads just about anything, 5) loves useless information, and 6) occasionally skydives. Oops...and also finds farts funny after all those years.

Facebook's version of the Taurus zodiac had this to say (with an abhorrent misuse of the apostrophe...Crazy, old, cat lady spinster is also OCD when it comes to spelling, grammar and punctuation. Seriously, it's all I can do to leave the mistake in here for you to see):

According to her Zodiac sign, Denise's patient and reliable, warmhearted and loving, persistent and determined, placid and security loving, jealous and possessive, resentful and inflexible, self-indulgent and greedy.

Hmm. To a tee. In a nutshell. Dead-on, balls accurate. Guess it beats being a stink cabbage.

Because you just NEVER know when...

This might come in handy one day. I'm just sayin'.

When the rest of the world thinks you're nuts.

Is THIS what it's like when hell freezes over?

I just got home from my dad's house. I love LOVE the man, but he's spent the better part of his home-owning time living by the mantra, "White walls are better for resale." I like to think I finally, gently nudged (read: bullied) him into painting a wall in his house a color other than a shade of white. Granted, I do recall suggesting a lighter color weeks before, but he backpedaled and I let it go. So last night when the subject came up again, Fahjah said, "But I've registered for Back to the 50's up in the Twin Cities, and I have to get the coupe done. If I spend any time working on painting..." To which I blurted out, "Look. Get the paint, buy a brush and I'll come over tomorrow and do it myself." ....wha...? I did it again. This is how I ended up riding 30 miles around town on my sweet, sweet beach cruiser with Mostly Naked. Sometimes I think my inner voice is Sam Kinison. Of course, I knew he wouldn't let me do it alone. We of the Kuj Tribe have control issues of varying degrees after all.

This morning, when he opened the can of paint, I said, "Whoa! That's a little (no it's a lot) darker than what I thought you were going to go with." He said, "I got tired of trying to decide and just told the paint guys to give me this one. As I was walking out with my two buckets of paint, I noticed in their clearance section one color called 'Caramel Apple' and I thought...oh, I like that one. Oh well."


At this point (the first wall), he was making manly shrieky noises and exclaiming, "But it's poo brown!" I was as encouraging as I could be: "Oh my god, that's dark. But it'll be fine. Keep painting. Hey, how hard it is to go back and paint a lighter color over a poo brown one?"

Ten minutes later:
"But it's poo brown!"
"It's 'Espresso.' Shut up and keep painting. What if we paint the trim that 'Caramel Apple" color you were talking about?"
"No, that'll look like shit."
"Hmm. Good thing this doesn't."
"What??"
"It's fiiiine. Keep painting."

When we got all done, Faj couldn't wait for the paint to dry and peeled all the tape off. I suspect he was slightly excited about the new color, because we cleaned up and set off for stores to purchase light sconces and bedding immediately after.

Brother, ever helpful as always, suggested painting "corn" randomly on the walls.


Now that it's done, I suggested we run out and pick up smoking jackets, cigars, club chairs and snifters of cognac, and contemplate the marvels of the universe in this room. I can't wait till it's done. I think it'll turd....er turn out just great!

Well done, Fahjah. Way to Jump. Both Feet. Even if I pushed. :)

'Scuse me while I kiss this guy

Brother sent this to me the other day in an email titled, "Why Men Don't Take Notes."

I think I know a couple of guys who went to the Gyna Colleges. Boy, were THEY surprised to find it was an ALL-GIRLS school.

Valiant, Brave Trish

Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside. - Mark Twain

Ah, the flu. I only had one dance this year with the plague and it was all...um, below. That was after Brother had the two-way flu. For me, it only lasted for about 12 hours, but food was so unappetizing after that, it was a few days before I actually started eating solid food again...and it was Guinness, unholy stout of ubiquity. Blech. I've have apparently depleted the Chippewa Valley of all Beamish, and there's really not a lot around to begin with. Oh yeah, I forgot about my first Sonic burger. That was my second round of solid food, post-pipe cleaning.

I haven't had the flu for years and I avoid the shot. For some reason, I thought I had read somewhere that you should really only get the flu shot if you are elderly, very young or have a compromised immune system, which doesn't sound right. Whatever. No flu shot for me.

By comparison, it seems to me that Trish and her family are sick constantly. It took my mom to point out that two little boys and two school teachers make for a fluish window of opportunity for exposure.

A few days ago, I start receiving a stream of text messages on my cell from Trish. Does she abbreviate? No. Is she laconic? No. I get a blog post's worth of feverish outpouring from the wordy one. Blah blah blah, "I'm dying." Schmala schmal, "Everyone's barfing." Yadda yadda, "What does a spleen look like? Is this my spleen?" Jeez.

If you read Trish's last post, I'm sure you imagine a svelte, young mother in designer shoes, standing on a thoroughly defeated, giant microbe, with her hair, cape, and Chanel Tyvek suit blowing in the wind, her jaw set with determination under her bio hazard mask, and wielding a bucket and hand sanitizer.

Sure, so did I. Until the flood of text messages was finally punctuated with this (no, I didn't rotate this picture):

"That's a valiant flea that dares eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion." So says old Billy Shakespeare. Oops, no that's not a flea on that lip. Ugh...breakfast...eggs...uuurrp. Ack. Excuse me...gotta run.

Silly boy...you have so much to learn about being a geek

Brother and I were watching "Big Bang Theory" last night. In the show, dork uber alles Sheldon mentions something about fusing adamantium to his skeleton like Wolverine. To which, Brother barks a laugh and then looks at me as I look curiously at him.

"Did you miss that?" he asks.
"What?"
"Adam. Ant. Ium?"
"Oh...I never thought of it that way."
Brother hesitates. "Why? What were you thinking?"
I answer, "How you could possibly know what adamantium is when you haven't played a video game since 'Space Invaders?'"
"Huh? What is it?"

..."Nerd Metal."

What The Hell? Round One

I'd like to find:

a rodeo clown
a DMV employee
a "sanitation engineer"
a proctologist
a cop
a luchador
a snake milker
a Milwaukee Brewers Polish Sausage mascot

...and ask, "What the hell?"

You've got a little drool there...

I work in a print shop that is very small for the very large amount of work we produce. There are four of us at the most at any one time. If you've read Gary is 60, you already know about our fast-paced finishing man. We also have Chris, who is our sales dude, and also helps out greatly around the shop with whatever needs doing. Then there the boss of us, who as I've said time and again, is truly the World's Greatest Boss. Even though he laughed wholeheartedly at me when I was the only one in the shop at the time as he walked in and found me trying to hold back an avalanche of 30,000 letters stacked in trays, as I was waiting for my body to sprout an extra arm.

If the boss is out running errands or visiting customers, which he does a lot, I am usually the one answering the phones. There's this one brief statement that many of the people who call say to me and it sort of ruffles my feathers. Now I realize they probably don't mean it this way but...

"Hi, is [your boss] there?"
"No, he's out running errands at the moment. Would you like me to leave a message for him?"
"Well, maybe you can help me..."

Kuj's brain interprets:

"Hi, is [your boss] there?"
"No, he's out running errands at the moment. Would you like me to leave a message for him?"
"Since whom I believe to be the competent person in your office is gone, is there any chance you can summon enough spark in that one brain cell to mop the drool from your chin and listen to me tell you the exact same thing on the phone as I typed in the email I just sent to you? Can you handle that, you knuckle-dragging chimp?"

Eh...Maybe I'm reading too much in to it...

It's really no more frustrating than having my mom and brother drive up to the speaker when I took orders at my first job at McDonald's, back in high school.

"Welcome to the worst job ever, can I take your order?"
"Yes, we'd like two chili cheese dogs and an apple pie, hold the hair."
"MOM!"

You can bet after 90 days at my second job, McD's dropped right off my resume, never to be seen again.

*****

Of course, as I'm typing this post, it occurs to me that if I simply replaced "Would you like me to leave a message for him?" with "Is there anything I can help you with?" that would probably eliminate this whole petty deal. Stupid logic.

Also, Chris was reading over my shoulder and wanted me to add that he's really the company Superman (with small hair<--he once complained about losing his hair, to which I answered, "You're not going bald, you just have...small hair...?").

She's going the distance...She's going for speed

To the gentleman sporting an ivy cap in the foreign-born, armor-clad SUV:

Dear Sir,

This morning as I drove down the main drag of our quaint little burg, I noticed you right away as a stand-out. In the deserted section of the three-lane road I saw you in my rear view mirror, closing in at a speed exceeding the posted limit as I was accelerating (I know because I was already working up to ten over and you didn't drop back).

I didn't think much of it at the time, as I was on my usual daily mission to get to work. Though anyone speeding besides me in this town is usually related to me, and, since you clearly are not, this was what drew my attention. As I waited behind two cars in the left lane at a light, you did not appear to slow in the right lane, but instead proceeded to signal (thanks for that) and move across three lanes in one shot at the last minute, ahead of both me and the truck I was driving behind.

While this peeved me somewhat, I blew it off and settled into the far right of the two left turn lanes, next to you. Past history has shown that everyone in traffic with me at this particular double-left turn on to the bypass, queues up sheep-like, into the far left lane and, anyway, I am usually up to the proper speed before I merge on to the bypass, thus ensuring that I will be out front and away from the herd.

I could sense you were in a rush; this probably was not your usual daily pace, and I had guessed that you might have been running late. When you crept forward a bit at the point where you assumed you would get the green left arrow, my suspicions were somewhat confirmed.

Let me explain to you that I am a more observant driver than most people. I know that the traffic light pattern at this particular intersection is not quite the norm. Not only does the sequence change during the day depending on whether it is "rush hour" or not, I also know when the oncoming traffic gets a red light so that we may then turn left at the green arrow. I know this because I can see the reflection of the oncoming traffic's signals shining off the back of the overhead route signs farther down the street. In fact, I have driven this route so often I can anticipate the green arrow seconds before it does indeed, turn green.

As I am forced to drive a car during the winter instead of my beloved motorcycle, I take a small measure of delight in driving faster than the posted limit. Actually, that's the case on the motorcycle as well. It gives me a small thrill, that feeling of passing moving pylons. The sense of forward movement, the excitement of violating a law, it makes this dark, wintry, morning commute something to savor.

Here I must state plainly to you, good sir, in your very fine hat, that it's nothing personal. It was not about you. It's NEVER about you. It's usually about ME. Sure you were probably upset that I had you at the green arrow. You're likely mad that I was ahead of you on the on-ramp. While I didn't anticipate that you would take such offense and stomp on your gas pedal to get ahead of me, predictably, as sheeple are wont to do, you veer to your left as soon as the on-ramp opens up to the bypass, when there is a perfectly good, LONG on-ramp left to use while you get up to speed. Normally, it's just the slow people doing that...merging into traffic at 45 miles an hour instead of getting up to the posted speed limit before getting in everyone's way.

As you fly past me, already in the right lane of the bypass, I take my time getting up to my usual 75 in what's left of the vast on-ramp. As I merge behind you, you no longer seem to want to be ahead of me. Not that this shocks me. I don't expect you to read my mind and understand that I will, in the long run, drive at a higher rate of speed than you overall. As I move closer and closer to your vehicle, it seems you were already upset with me. Again, I state, it's not about you. You are merely an obstacle to pass, as evidenced by your short-term sense of victory over passing me. It is clear that you are not going to man up and continue your hurried pace, and, as you decide to flash your brake lights at me, I change to the left lane.

I suppose it's all this motorcycling I've been doing that makes me feel set apart, but you, my dear sheeple, have fallen in to a pattern of driving that most others of the herd practice as well. I change lanes to pass you, you stomp on the gas (whoa! better not go faster than 74!), now flash your LEFT turn signals at me as I'm next to you, and proceed to flash your high beams at me once I am in front of you.

I continue on my merry way, cruising along at 75, and watch you recede in to the distance behind me.

Now I ask you...knowing that I have not chosen you as my adversary, that you and your funny-looking vehicle are insignificant in my quest for that little thrill, don't you feel a little like a douchebag?

Also? I win. Suck it, sizzlechest.

Don't do it in the dark

Yeah, getting ready for work without turning the light on invites chaos. Take the other morning, for instance. I went through the entire day before I realized my drawers were on inside out.

Or when I overslept this morning. I hit the off button instead of the snooze and woke up with 10 minutes to spare before Fahjah arrived to whisk us away to work. I threw on a nearby "cleanest, dirty" pair of jeans. I was trying to avoid the pair I wore to the Japanese restaurant on Sunday night and the pair I wore out to the bar in Menomonie Saturday night. They had a non-odor so on they went. Now I'm sitting here and I can distinctly pick up the smell of Japanese restaurant. Awesome. At least this hair-do I'm currently sporting can fly with just running a brush through it.

Of course, getting dressed in the dark doesn't help or hinder your sense of smell, but...what the hell...? My underwear's on inside out AGAIN?

Today's the day I meet the man of my dreams, isn't it...

Moldy Oldie

I started a blog back in 2005 on MSN and only entered a couple of posts into it, but tonight, while driving home through Amish country with Turd after listening to a cover band for a couple of hours, the "caution: horse and buggy" sign reminded me of this post...back when I was a wandering fool who would take any motorcycle available. Fahjah had loaned me his Softail and Brother offered up his Buell (before I crashed it, anyway). Turd, por vous.

Here's the post from Summer, 2005.

So, I’ve been a motorcycle momma for a couple of months now…I’m pretty comfortable on both the Softail and the Buell.

This past Saturday, I took Tom’s Buell out to Augusta/Osseo with Fahjah and his friend Dennis. Things were a-stirring in Osseo (or Augusta…I forget) for Bean & Bacon Days (big Bush’s Baked Beans plant in town). We were traveling to Dennis’ parent’s house outside of town. Awesome place to live…top of a hill…100-some acres of your own property and a constant breeze (poop free smell!). I tell you, in a 2 or 3 mile stretch of road, I’ve never encountered more horse doody, pea gravel or Amish in my life. The Amish wave at EVERYONE. ALL of them wave at EVERYONE. They are completely expressionless, but they wave. I was a waving machine that day. Wave at the Amish boy walking on the side of the road in his suspenders, hat, and bare feet. Wave at the Amish 20-something gentleman in his black carriage (pulled by HUGE blond draft horses) as he goes by. Wave at the Amish girl who stops working in her family’s garden as we ride by and….waves. I waved at every bike too. I figure if you’re lucky enough to ride a bike, you’re lucky enough. Made me wonder…do the Amish hate partying like it’s 1699? Especially with all of us “English” (what the Amish call all non-Amish) in plain sight with all our innovative and high-tech toys and equipment? And, you know, things that make life a little easier, like running water, indoor plumbing, a dishwasher? Especially the kids. I can’t help but think that 11ish year old girl in the garden on a beautiful sunny Saturday afternoon was thinking, “I hate this shit. Where are my damn shoes? I could travel exactly two miles and get a pair of Shaq-Fu Reeboks and waltz through the horse crap in comfort and style. Maybe I’ll pick up a MP3 player and finally get to hear that Weird Al Yankovic song ‘Amish Paradise.’ Then I’m going out to the hill behind the house with my boyfriend and sit in the back of his Camaro complaining about what an asshole my dad is.” I wonder if I was born into that life and, living in 2005, would like it. Maybe if I didn’t know any better….of course, today some Englander just rode by on a horse of shiny metal and leather…there’s a potential better out there. Screw this dress crap. Jedediah, Amos, Father Eldon, I’m outta here. I’m gonna come back and bust a cap in your ass for making me do homework by candlelight. No husband wants a wife with rougher hands than his! And I’m bringing back a set of GOODYEAR’S for that frickin’ buggy!

Anyway, it made me want to stop and just chat. I was intrigued. But I was busy…had shit to avoid and places to go.

Best High School Memory Ever, Or Facebook And My Scanner Are The Devil

Recently, I was forced to join Facebook in order to view pictures from a recent bonfire. I say forced because up until earlier this week, I've successfully fended off the urge to join this sort of website. I realize this might be something akin to old-ladydom. All right, it probably is old ladydom. But here's why the resist: I have lurked in a sportbike forum based out of the Cities and it's filled to the brim with teenagers and twenty-somethings spouting acronyms and adding "z" to everything plural. Take, for example, this "blurb" I stumbled across.

hey guys n grls jst to let ya kno im **** ***** or "****" bt i was a cool down to earth racer on my 03 r6. i was so good lookin to i mean ya c me in my pic i put on my pro. bt i used to ride w the SA group it was a lot of fun i loved it, n i used to fly in airplanes to. n i rode boyd ********s bike w him on the back n he taught me a lot of stuff for riding to. n when i was racin mark crashed me in turn 2 at 165 mph. he didnt want a grl to beat him racing n i was the only grl racin in the race he crashed me in. bt the crash did a bunch of things to me as well lol. It ruined my weight, i was 126 lbs before i crashed n now im like 30 lbs more lol so my weight, my voice i do sound like im drunk bt i cnt drink n i sound like i have a southern accent to a very lil 1 tho lol. n my r arm dnt work rite now lol, well i cld lift it up to my mouth bt yeah guys/grls im a really fun/cool person to be with n hang around to so jst talk to me n get to kno me k? n GUYS N GRLS PLEASE FLIPPIN GO BWLING AT BLAINBROOK BWLIN ALLY ROUND 9PM IT IS A SHITLOAD OF FUN TO I PROMISE YA THAT N I GO BWLIN EVERY WED W FUN COOL FRIENDS OF MINE LOL SO JST GO N ENJOY IT PLEASE IT WLD BE FUN SEEIN YA N MEETIN YA TO K? LOL

Uh, yeah. Moving on.

I never found an interest in myspace. That website hurt my eyes. The layouts and images that pass for "home pages" are enough to make Jackson Pollock switch to an Etch-A-Sketch.

Facebook seems a little more mature. You can't go poking around in other people's profiles unless you register (for free). Once you're logged in, you can search a little more in depth for people, but once you find the intended target, you both have to mutually agree to be friends. This opens up your full profile to them and theirs to you. After Turd said he posted pictures from the bonfire on Facebook, my stupid curiosity got the best of me. Now, after three or four days, I've gone plum ape shit.

First, I add a couple of friends from CVSC (and berate Turd for making me sign up). Before I know it, friends I haven't seen or talked to since high school are showing up all over this here site. The guy who got me hooked on Yes. A woman with whom I was inseparable. Several older classmates I like to think of as my mentors and big brothers and sisters. A couple of guys I had terminal crush for. Trish, of course, and Cheryl, who, without Trish's blog and then my blog, I would've never had the pleasure of meeting (or getting internet cookies from another woman). Even our band director is now in Facebook.

This puts me right now at this computer after having spent, over the course of a few days, hours scanning in old high school photographs and posting them in Facebook. I even scanned some patches and artifacts from band. Where's the anti-drug? Facebookinol, anyone?

All this insanity has reminded me of what might be the oddest event in my Marching Band history. Let me tell you a story...

So there we were, a few days before our state contest. We, the marching band, are rehearsing after dark in the brightly lit parking lot of our West campus. Somewhere, up beyond the reach of the light, stands our band director, a couple of stories up on a scaffold, booming out instructions with a megaphone. It is also a few days before Halloween. As we are taking a quick break from practicing, but still standing in our positions on the striped "field," the giant boulder that sits on the corner of our campus goes up in flames behind us. The rumor was the rock started out as a small pebble and people just kept painting graffiti on it until it was the size as it appeared that day; comparable to a Toyota Yaris. Of course, all those layers of highly flammable paint made the ignition something like a small bomb going off behind us.

There was shocked silence from us, including the staff. As we're watching the rock engulfed in flames, a handful of people come running over the berm next to where we're practicing and run into our set. We, being the well-disciplined marching machine we've become, stand and watch...presumably open-mouthed, as the individuals dance around us, one of them yelling something that today I can't remember, and just as quickly realize we aren't probably reacting as they think we would. As they start to leave, I think I remember hearing our director's wife ask if someone should call the fire department. The director answers, "My dear, how long do you think a rock will burn?" Then more silence. Once again, from the scaffold we hear our stern leader speak, calmly and this time without the megaphone, "Well? What are you all standing there for? Gently put down your instruments...and go get them." To which, we all quietly, almost slowly, and gently, put our instruments down on the pavement, and I swear to you, I remember it like that scene from "Braveheart." One hundred and five high school students (and a few staff members) erupt into war cries, swarm back over the berm and are off and running for the costumed morons. I think we even caught a few of them.

HOW FLIPPIN' COOL IS THAT? I nearly fell out of my chair laughing when I remembered it this evening.

PLEASE NOTE: Future marching bands, watch out for this guy, the ringleader. He probably looks older now.


Somebody back me up on this story. It's so surreal, I'm starting to think I dreamed it. That happens sometimes if I eat too much salt at dinner...

S.A.D. is B.A.D.

I think I have S.A.D.

Granted, I'm not much of an outdoor person. Not that you could go outside and play when the wind chill will knock you unconscious. On the sunny, warm summer days when there's a light breeze and the scent of freshly-mowed lawn fills my nose, there's nothing finer than enjoying all that through the open window behind my computer monitor. I do, occasionally, venture out, but I find it difficult to do so when, shielding my sight with my hand as the tears squeeze out of the corners of my blinded eyes, Brother stops what he's doing outside and declares, "Wow, I didn't know skin could be that white." I hate the sun, or at least the being directly in it. My legs resemble the color of those cave-dwelling, blind salamanders; devoid of all pigment. Toothpaste has a healthier glow.

I've never really enjoyed anything athletic. Marching Band was my only extracurricular activity in high school. The most exercise you'd get is the 12 minute run-through at the end of rehearsal and the occasional run-the-perimeter of the football field for running your mouth constantly (not me...much). By joining band, I got to go places, learn a little discipline, develop some personal pride, be a part of something bigger than myself, and sure, get outside some. However, during the two weeks in August for Band Camp, it felt like I had been abandoned in the desert on some forced march. I tried gymnastics at a very young age. Too flip-floppy. Soccer later on...I swear to you, the rest of the girls were HUGE DUDES. I didn't really like either.

I always tell people I was built for comfort, not speed. I like yoga and pilates, but not weight lifting or cardio. In fact, if you mention the word "exercise" in front of me, I will likely stab you with a spoon. My idea of enjoying a summer day is stretched out in my hammock in our three-season porch, reading a book (or at least the first few pages) until I doze off.

My attitude about "outside" seems to have changed over the last summer. I think it started with the purchase of my motorcycle a couple of years ago, or maybe it was the yoga classes I signed up for a year ago, but I think it was the purchase late last summer of my sweet, sweet beach cruiser that may have turned the tide. The local supply of Ben & Jerry's and Dove ice cream is two or three blocks away at the gas station. Hey, if you bicycle to the place to buy the ice cream, it negates any and all calories and/or fat grams. So sayeth I. After buying the bicycle, I ended up riding around Eau Claire 30 miles one day with Mostly Naked. Offroad too. Then there's the semi-annual "tubing" that we do on the Chippewa River when my mom comes up to visit. I say "tubing" because it's really, "The river's so slow, we're actually moving upriver, and Kuj's attention span is only good for two hours, so she pulls the four laziest of family members downstream." I'm canoeing next time, you f**kers.

Getting back to the S.A.D., I try to sit in the sun in the big picture window when it's out, though these days the sun is purely decorative. I even resolved to steal my dad's snowshoes and go tramping around the Lowes Creek County Park where Brother and Mostly Naked like to hit trees with their bicycles in the summer. But this year, the weather has been so commonly below the normal range for this area, that I just really can't bring myself to want to go out except to the mailbox on the house right near the front door to get my Netflix.

But I can't wait to go off-road on my sweet, sweet beach cruiser with the boys. I'm going to buy one of those GPS trackers so they can come back hours later and try to find me. Maybe I should bring somebody with me to eat, in case I don't get rescued right away. Or has that become too trendy?

You kids today...

My boss said the other day, "Once the temperature drops below zero, it really makes no difference how cold it is at that point." True. But when Fahjah showed me a picture on his cell phone that he took this morning of his temp gauge in his truck, while traveling just south of EC, and it registered 35 below, somehow that felt....North Dakotaish.

Eau Claire and Chippewa Falls are about 20 minutes apart. Fahjah and I work within a block of each other up in Chippewa, so late in the year, when consistent temps in the low 40's force me to stop riding my bike to work, we commute to ease the fuel expenditure. Last year, we used my car more since, with the past gas prices, it usually only cost me 40 bucks to fill up while Fahjah's truck was closer to over 100 bucks. This year, I've been completely and utterly lazy and he's let me. The reason, you see, is because I go full retard when driving my car in snow. I'm blaming the car. Two winters ago, Brother had driven it home after I did an all-nighter at work and I Earnharted a bridge wall. He agrees. Not that I'm retarded...well, not the driving part anyway. He blames the car too.

Every morning Fahjah picks me up at my house on the way up to Chippewa. I leave my warm house, get in a warm truck, go to my warm work, get back in a warm truck, and return to my warm house. For me, 20 below is a minor, momentary discomfort of frozen snot in my nose, should I choose to breathe between house and truck or truck and work. I choose to hold my breath.

I realize I'm spoiled. I do. But aside from the comfort level, I enjoy riding to work with my dad. Sure, most mornings I'm surly and quiet. But at the very least, the afternoon rides home are chatty and informative.

This morning as we're following a car that boldly states across the back of the trunk, "Barack Obama supports drilling in fetus heads," Fahjah is reliving a memory to me, one of those "you've got it so good, you spoiled monkey you" stories.

Faj is number four of four children. They lived in a nice Cape Cod style house in Hillside, Illinois, that, if I remember correctly, my grandparents bought right around 1951 when my dad was born. I've seen a picture of it brand new and while I always hold in my memory a house with an immaculate lawn, a huge garden in the back yard (Grandpa had a serious green thumb), and giant trees around it, the initial picture is completely devoid of even a single plant. I'm not even sure there was lawn.

Their house had three bedrooms; two upstairs, the master downstairs. My Aunt Phyllis was the only girl of the kids and I think she had one upstairs bedroom to herself. My two uncles and my dad had the other room on the second floor. Six people shared one bathroom. They had a one-car detached garage and a long, single-car-width driveway.

Fahjah was telling me that they had five cars. Phyllis was the only one who didn't have one at the time. They had to be arranged by order of departure, the latest of whom would park in the garage. The last person home each night performed the "Arranging of the Cars." The older brothers handed down the chore to Fahjah as early as 14 years old.

This was the late 60's and the cars all had carburetors, not fuel injectors. Some finesse and dancing along the fine line of starting and flooding was a requirement to starting a carburated vehicle in the frigid weather. Not this fancy, fuel-injected, turn the key and it starts silliness. Fahjah said in the winter they parked every two cars nose-to-nose in the event of them not starting in the morning. He said there was a 50/50 chance that while one might not start, the other might, and they could jump start the other. And that finesse I was talking about? After 40 or so years, Fahjah still remembers that the LeMans required one pump of the gas pedal then crank. The Bonneville, two pumps then crank. Later on, he said, the Caprice required about six pumps.

On those rare days when I will actually drive my own lazy ass to work, as I back out of my garage-door-opener-powered, two-car garage, down an empty driveway and zoom on down the road, I may think back to Fahjah's story, and exclaim, "No wonder he moved out as soon as he was out of high school. All those people? One bathroom? Dear LORD!"