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!"

The Last Templar Is Throwing Himself On His Sword

I'm just sitting here watching the Golden Globe Awards...really, I'm blogging. I don't watch these lame-ass wastes of time ever unless I've got a really good reason; Robert Downey, Jr. is nominated for Tropic Thunder...he was HIGH-larious. Mostly Naked and I just spent last evening at Turd's house for a bonfire (9 degrees, baby!) and MN and I were flinging RDJr's quotes back and forth.

Anyway, while I'm slapping away at the keys on my laptop tonight, a commercial comes on for an upcoming NBC movie, "The Last Templar." I remember when I walked into our local Borders months ago that this particular book caught my eye and I proceeded to read it. And didn't like it.

I realize I'm not much of a fiction fan. It's very few authors of fiction that have interested me enough to hook me and reel me in. My mom raves about the Stephanie Plum stuff but I just couldn't get in to it. In fact, it seems the only subjects of fiction that ever entertain me are historical fiction, fantasy stories by specific authors and stories revolving around the story of King Arthur.

Because of that, my reading collection primarily consists of non-fiction. Most of that is about Freemasonry and the Knights Templar. My interest in Freemasonry started when I asked my mom long ago about a piece of jewelry she was in possession of. I think it was a ring that belonged to my grandfather and I never realized he was a mason. At that time I knew nothing about the fraternity, but it made me curious. So I read and read and read. At this point, because it's a "secret" fraternity, I still don't know much about the Freemasons beyond what's out there for reading, but the alleged history of the Freemasons has been interesting to read about. It seems from most of what I've read that the Knights Templar evolved into Freemasons.

This information made "The Last Templar" a fairly crappy read for me. It didn't seem like the book was written in any interest of Templar history. More of a storyline for the sake of a sappy romance novel that smacked of "The Da Vinci Code." Just me saving you from a "Indiana Jones, Lifetime style" movie, if that's what you're trying to avoid.

Crap. Heath Ledger was in the same category as Downey. Guess who won. And I just had to suffer through Winslet's crying jag. Is it Spring yet?

Darn that How-To Site

Here you go, Cheryl. Official instructions on how to "Jump. Both Feet."

Sorry, dear cousin, that this is only two sentences long. You can't squeeze jeenus from a turd all the time. :-)

I Bet My Money On A Bob-Tail NAAAAAAAAAAG

My iGoogle page has all these little widgets on it that inform and enlighten. I have a "winder" for a few blogs (yes, my own is in there, self-absorbed much?), another for my email, one for looking up words, one for "totally free crap", etc. One widget that has been most enlightening has been the "How-to of the Day" window. Every day there are two links to various "how-to" articles (remember the "How to dig post holes" blog post?). Today I'm scanning my home page and I see "How to write in Gothic calligraphy" and "6 steps to not being needy." Gothic calligraphy, blah blah blah. Every low-rider sports some kind of Gothic announcement on the windshield and it features prominently in overused tattoos. If it's a ubiquitous trend, I'm not interested.

I click on the "no more needy" how-to, and realize, oh man, that's TOTALLY ME! I'm the neediest of needy. Well, not quite. No one's ever actually said it to my face (though it would've been nice if someone would've clued me in before now), and I've always seen much worse examples of human neediness. Guess the "Jump. Both Feet" mantra should remain relevant only to creative outlets and swimmin' holes. What's slightly amusing to me is that I've started doing some of the suggestions (find a damn hobby, for instance). So "Jump. Both Feet" on again, just not on people or your relationship with them. And since I know people are reading this.... ME! ME ME ME ME ME ME ME! PAY ATTENTION TO ME!!!!

Hey, I'll get the attention where I can.

Thank you for your time.

Undiscovered Cerebral Territory

I've been rolling this thought around in my head for some time. I believe that we all have some hidden talent that could possibly go unfound if we don't think outside our conscious creativity. I know I'm not interested in creating most types of artwork. That is a talent my brother, mom, aunt, and cousin seem to possess and, most importantly, they enjoy it. I'd rather look at it. My dad has an incredible artistic ability too, though he's really more of a genius at creating something out of nothing for the purpose of a solution. He came up with the design for my camera mount, just by sitting down and sketching out a design. And he's really good at this. The proof is in the coupe he's building. I know I can ask him very nearly anything and he knows the answer (or at least it's very convincing).

So, a month or two ago I announced to anyone who would listen that I decided I was a pinstriping genius. That was my latent talent. When Christmas arrived, my dad gave me a pinstriping kit, thus making it a sort of "put up or shut up, JEENUS." With that, and in the spirit of the following formula, I present:

Big Mouth + Pinstriping Kit + A Most Convenient Canvas + Jump. Both Feet =

Clearly, there is still a latent talent in the brain somewhere. I'll just have to keep working on this one. I expect people will be lining up to have their toilet lids striped by me within hours of this post. /end sarcasm

Pretty In Pink with Sixteen Candles lighting St. Elmo's Fire with The Breakfast Club. Bueller?

I've just run through a clump of 80's movies in my Netflix queue. It made me think of things I miss.

• Polos with the collar up (since popped collar is now taboo, I no longer own polos. They make me look like a butch lesbian, or a Best Buy employee)
  
• Rolling the bottoms of your jeans tight against your ankle (conveniently disguising the fact that the jeans were floods)
  
• Gaping at boys in Cavaricchis (they made their rear-ends look cute)
  
• BKs (never owned a pair, just miss them)
  
• Big hair (at least until you just slightly shave the sides of your head and your mom spots it. Then it's small hair from then on)
  
• Big belts worn on the outside of your shirt (vinyl and pleather works of art)
  
• Soccer hair (now referred to by me as "hockey hair," since hockey players seem to be the only ones still wearing mullets...well, hockey players and rednecks)
• Disposable jobs (McWhat?)
  
• The novelty of driving (eventually legally too)
  
• Egging houses (If a teen buys two cartons at 7-11 at 11:30 at night, no, it's not for breakfast)
  
• The novelty of drinking before your time (with the fear of God and/or parent in you, anyway)
  
• Generra Hypercolor shirts (always fun when your armpits were a different color than the rest of the shirt)
  
• The Benetton shirt I appropriated from my then-boyfriend (it looked better on me. And he was a douchebag)
  
• Immortality (conveniently coinciding with ignorance)
  
• Contest overnighters (especially watching your mom belly-crawl across the darkened gym floor in pursuit of junk food)
  
• Witnessing The Rock bursting into flame (not the wrestler, the LPHS rock on the corner of campus)
• John Cook (this one's going to need to be its own post)
• Passing notes in class (btw, keeping them after 19 years just proves you were a dork in H.S. Or now. Maybe both.)
  
• The feeling you get on the last day of school (boing boing boing boing)
  
• Doing your homework 5 minutes before class (thus freeing up your evenings for what-have-you)
• The feeling you get on the last day of summer vacation (yea friends! boo school!)
  
• That new boyfriend feeling (boing boing boing boing (not specifically that boing)
  
• That first kiss feeling (see previous bullet point. Maybe specifically that boing in this case)
  
• That feeling you get when you back away from your date at the dance when he begins to convulse to the music (Oswald, I'm looking at you)
  
• Decorating your locker (even when you have a 6 inch width to work with)
  
• Indiana Dunes (especially when the car breaks down somewhere between Gary and Chicago. In the dark.)
  
• Boy's cars (A Triumph Spitfire, an AMC Eagle, a 60-something Camaro, "The Green Monster", "The White Monster")
• Scribbling on notebook covers (Mine were mostly movie quotes, of course. The gathering of useless information started fairly early)
  
• Getting out of class early for pep rallies (except that one with the wrestling demo...I would've rather stayed in class)
• Secret clubs, handshakes, insignia (Buttholes, too complicated to explain here, a poker chip with the center punched out)
  
• The pride of public victory (What?? I marched good!)
  
• Chasing each other around campus after a full day of band camp (yes, band camp) with coolers full of ice water (Oswald, I'm looking at you)
  
• Coming home to a crowd of applauding parents (and the occasional giant inflated....purple monkey??)
  
• Marching in the pouring rain at a competition (and still winning)
• Parachute pants (never owned. wanted badly. never received. got over them)
  
• "Quejada" (two parades a year...we didn't play this one enough)
  
• Flashbulbs (those F*$*#ers burned!)
  
• The first note of "Pique Dame" as demonstrated by the crowd (it was like the wave, only toward the back wall)
  
• Chemistry class (mixy mixy, blowy uppy, greeny foamy)
  
• The opportunity to be graciously allowed to "hang out" with upperclassmen (shooting warm tequila without barfing was a plus, but not a requirement. Bonus points for not letting your eyes water)
  
• Being awarded your first nickname ("Bug." Don't ask)
  
• Being late for graduation due to "The Sex" (yes, that's exactly why I look all sweaty and bed-heady)
  
• Watching the sun come up with your friends (nuff said)
  

You can't go home again...

Unless you're me.

Not far from my alma mater is a winery that I never ever would've stepped foot in until my best friend Choz dragged me in there one night. They have wine tastings, $5 for a sample of 7 different wines. Every month the flavors change. After that, I started planning a tasting once a month and invited my favorite co-workers and friends. Now that I've moved away, whenever I'm planning to visit again I email people and try to schedule a tasting. It's a great way to get to see a bunch of them in one place and then we go somewhere for dinner afterward.

This time, when we went the Friday after Thanksgiving, I was privileged to meet up not only with Trish, but also a friend of ours from high school, whom, up until that night, I hadn't seen since I was a Junior. Novotny was in Marching Band along with us. For some reason, the two of us called each other by our last names. I'm not sure either of us knows why. Some time ago I tracked down Novotny's email through our alumni directory and got in touch with her. My only regret as far as meeting at the winery was that I wanted to spend so much time catching up with Novotny and Trish, but there were so many people to talk to, it was tough. I hope to spend time with them both at length when I once again return to the Land of Flat. A good time at the winery appeared to be had by all.

Novotny, Moi, Trish

The Family

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Brother, his woman and I took a day trip on Saturday downtown on the train. For around 5 bucks, you can ride all weekend round-trip should you choose. We thought Girlfriend (the Chetekian formerly known as Friendgirl) would enjoy a train ride (I'll just refer to her as "Anya"...I think that might have been a bachelorette bar name...) and I know I never mind eliminating driving to Chicago. If I go downtown these days, it's always on the train.

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A few years ago, around Christmas, my brother and I thought it would be of benefit to my mother's mental health to steal her away from all the holiday stress that she seems so good at piling up on herself. We decided to hop on the Metra from Elgin and choo-choo our way down to Chicago. The intention was to spend the day at the Art Institute, which, for some reason I never get tired of going to. My favorite museum would be the Museum of Science & Industry, so I can't explain why I'm so entertained at the Art Institute. I don't feel any artistic leanings. How things work has always fascinated me so much more. The Art Institute is just plain good eye candy I guess. Not unlike the rippled six pack on Ryan Reynolds or Jason Statham or the newest James Bond, bless him. I can sum up the feeling I get being at the Art Institute in four words: Ferris Bueller's Day Off. The feeling I get looking at rippled six packs is better left unsaid.

Once we arrived in Union Station, we strolled down Adams to have lunch at the Berghoff, a Chicago landmark. History lesson: Herman Berghoff introduced his Dortmunder-style beer at the Chicago's World Fair in 1893 (coincidentally, the fair is the subject of a book I'm currently reading entitled The Devil in the White City). He prospered and opened the Berghoff Cafe in 1898, next door to the current location. Eventually he expanded into a restaurant and the Chicago haven for German food continues to this day.

We planned to eat and continue on to the Art Institute. The Berghoff, which is a block or two from Union Station, was the farthest we got. After two pitchers of Berghoff's Winter Hazelnut Ale and really good conversation (surprising, for us), we ran out of time. We stumbled back toward the train station (stopping at an English pub known as Elephant & Castle for one more pint) and headed home. Since that day, we try to keep up that tradition whenever the opportunity presents itself.

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This time around, since we brought Anya from teeny-tiny Chetek (Brother and I like to tease her about Chetek, saying they've only just started the 80's decade, showing "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" in the theater and stocking 'Roos on the shelves for the first time), we thought we'd do something touristy and (I thought) free.

While the Sears Tower is no longer the tallest building in the world, it does still have on display quite a view of the city. Up we went. But not before going through the security hassle similar to the airport (except I got to keep my shoes on), and forking over 13 bucks a piece. I don't remember the trip up to the observation deck costing anything, but then the last time I went up was in grade school and I wasn't paying then anyway. Needless to say, we stayed up there till it was worth the ticket. And it was. They actually have two observation decks, one on the 99th floor and another around 106, though the 99th floor looks like it has a dance floor in one corner...hmm. Methinks this floor is party-specific. Could you just picture shindiggin' 99 floors off the ground?

We arrived on 99 shortly before dark, so we got two views for the price of one: enough daylight to see way out, and then the opportunity to watch an entire city preparing for darkness. Tres cool.

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Mmm...beer.

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The weather was uncannily cooperative for late November, so we took a few photo ops on our way to and from our next stop (the Berghoff) and the train station. Just goes to prove my theory that I look much better in the dark. :-)

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Just wanted to take this opportunity to wish all of you a Happy New Year. That there are people out there actually enjoying my useless info (besides me, of course) is all the encouragement I need. Be good to each other.

Most love,
Kuj