Old Soul

Every time I hear this song, it takes me back to central Illinois, somewhere around one in the morning around Halloween. It's a ridiculous bit of nostalgia now from a 20-year later point of view. But then, the bus nearly silent, resting my head on the cold window, looking out at nothing but black and the occasional set of car lights, my Walkman plugged into my ears, my brain full of the perceived trauma and angst that is high school life, this song made me feel, just a little bit, what it must be like to live on the road, wishing I had a home to go to. Thankfully, my journey was always short, and I really did have a home to go to.

Now I'm older, and this song stirs up different kinds of trauma. Deaths of loved ones, pain of betrayal, loss of trust, even sons and daughters of others who made a sacrifice I will never be willing to make...for an ideal.

Mark Knopfler should get a guitar throne in Heaven when his time comes. That man can lay on the heavy shit if you give him the chance.

For Junior

I originally posted this on Facebook when our sportbike club's "adopted son" Jake turned 21. He is now graduated from University of North Dakota, and is flying some badass helicopters in the Army, at Fort Rucker. I just stumbled across the post today and, even though I can't remember writing it, it IS my list, with an addendum, thanks to scattered advice from the interwebbage. Thanks, Mom, for suggesting it become a blog post.

* * *

I've been thinking about this momentous occasion for some time now and have miscellaneous thoughts I've pooled together, both from my own head and the internet...two INCREDIBLY EXPANSIVE repositories (suppositories are the ones that go in your butt, fyi) from which to cull.

Things I'VE learned...

* Get in all you can. You may be gone tomorrow.
* Do something that scares the crap out of you, even just once. After that, you can brag about it.
* If you're miserable, work to change your pattern. Nobody HAS to be miserable, they're just too lazy to change.
* Sit down and have a beer with your parents many times over. They are FOUNTAINS of good stories. You'll miss out when they're gone.
* Simplify your financial life. Interest rates are depressing.
* Have a slap fight with your sibling....just try not to get hit. Then it's no fun anymore.
* Play in the snow, mud, and rain.
* Keep at least one person in your life who looks out for you as unconditionally as you look out for them.
* Read. For fun. Lots. Just go into a bookstore and grab the first book you see. You may stumble on a new favorite genre.
* Throw your heart out there (not literally) for someone to catch (I'm still working on this one...).
* Hang out in a coffee shop and play dominoes on a cruddy Sunday afternoon.
* Be nice to everyone you meet. Everyone's fighting some kind of battle.
* Let a stranger in line ahead of you.
* Some turns are sharper than they look. Nobody will laugh if you're cautious. Mock, maybe...
* Listen to different music than you're used to.
* Laugh at least once a day.
* Meditate once in a while somewhere quiet, and feel what it's like to not have a single thought. It takes practice.
* Call an old best friend. Be prepared to talk for hours. (Perfect for the coffee shop!)
* Retain memories of funny events, no matter how insignificant they may seem. I remember I laughed for WAY too long, tears and snot running out just at how someone had accidentally thrown a cigar across the room while gesturing in a conversation. Eight years ago.
* Don't be afraid to fart in the grocery store. People will walk through at that moment no matter what.
* Entertain yourself with your farts. Work on the longest, loudest, highest-pitch and scariest.
* Spend some time with your extended family, especially aunts and uncles...they have the BEST dirt on your parents.
* Make your favorite comfort food.
* USE the good china.
* Buy a round, you know...when you're allowed to.
* Refuse money from someone twice, then take it. No sense being a butthead.
* Dress to the nines, for no good reason.
* Get in the car and go. Anywhere. On a whim. Pack clean underwear.

When it comes to things to do before you turn 40, the Internet sez....

* Don't die!
* Learn a new language.
* Visit a new country.
* Pay off all your debts.
* Sing horrible karaoke.
* Rethink your least favorite food.
* Go outside your comfort zone.
* Take up a new sport.
* Drive on Route 66.
* Kick your all-day caffeine habit.
* Take your parents out to dinner.
* Document your life.
* Stop the tchotchkes.
* Do something romantically cheesy.
* Drop 50 bucks on a bottle of wine.
* Ride a motorcycle. Well, gee whiz...guess you can check this one off.
* Teach a class.
* Have a kid if you want one.
* Learn to work on your own house.
* Buy a piece of real art.
* One-up yourself.
* Surprise someone.
* Sleep outside.
* Get rid of logo t-shirts.
* Ride a roller coaster.

Waving back breaks my concentration and fouls my "cool" aura

Ten Reasons Why Harley Riders Don't Wave Back
10. Afraid it will invalidate warranty.
9. Leather and stud make it too heavy to raise arm.
8. Refuse to wave to anyone whose bike is already paid for.
7. Afraid to let go of handlebars because they might vibrate off.
6. Rushing wind would blow scabs off the new tattoos.
5. Angry because just took out second mortgage to pay luxury tax on new Harley.
4. Just discovered the fine print in owner's manual and realized H-D is partially owned by Honda.
3. Can't tell if other riders are waving or just reaching to cover their ears like everyone else.
2. Remembers the last time a Harley rider waved back, he impaled his hand on spiked helmet.
1. Too tired from spending hours polishing all that chrome to lift their arms.

Ten Reasons Why Goldwing Riders Don't Wave Back
10. Wasn't sure whether other rider was waving or making an obscene gesture.
9. Afraid might get frostbite if hand is removed from heated grip.
8. Has arthritis and the past 400 miles have made it difficult to raise arm.
7. Reflection from etched windshield momentarily blinded him.
6. The espresso machine just finished.
5. Was actually asleep when the other rider waved.
4. Was in a three-way conference call with stock broker and accessories dealer.
3. Was distracted by odd-shaped blip on the radar screen.
2. Was simultaneously adjusting the air suspension, seat height, programmable CD player, seat temperature, and satellite navigation system.
1. Couldn't find the "auto-wave back" button on dashboard.

Ten Reasons Why Sportbike Riders Don't Wave Back
10. They have not been riding long enough to know they're supposed to.
9. They're going too fast to have time enough to register the movement and respond.
8. You weren't wearing bright enough gear.
7. If they stick their arm out going that fast they'll rip it out of the socket.
6. They're too occupied with trying to get rid of their chicken strips.
5. They look way too cool with both hands on the bars or they don't want to unbalance themselves while standing on the tank.
4. Their skin-tight, kevlar, ballistic nylon, carbon fiber, kangaroo leather suits prevent any position other than fetal.
3. Raising an arm allows bugs into the armholes of their tank tops.
2. It's too hard to do one-handed stoppies.
1. They were too busy slipping their flip-flop back on.

Top Ten Reasons Why BMW Riders Don't Wave Back
10. New Aerostitch suit is too stiff to raise arm.
9. Removing a hand from the bars is considered "bad form."
8. Your bike isn't weird enough looking to justify acknowledgment.
7. Too sore from an 800-mile day on a stock "comfort" seat.
6. Too busy programming the GPS, monitoring radar, listening to iPod, XM, and talking on the cell phone.
5. He's an Iron Butt rider and you're not.
4. Wires from Gerbings are too short.
3. You're not riding the "right kind" of BMW.
2. You haven't been properly introduced.
1. Afraid it will be misinterpreted as a friendly gesture.

Me, as seen through the state of my closet

I've been wanting to get back into blogging...but I can't seem to hear that familiar "Aha! A blog topic!" pop into my head. Thankfully, I am breast friends with a high school Honors English teacher who will stunt-double as my baseball bat-wielding muse. With that, I present....

*  *  *

A current snapshot: my closet is a playground. A post-explosion scene. A rumpus room. Shoes have been wrestling with each other; finding a matching pair involves "digging." The "dirty" clothes threaten to avalanche on the next hapless victim to walk by, though he/she would have warning since the majority of the spill oozes out onto the floor of my bedroom. The shelf of sweaters and t-shirts are hanging over my head like half-melted glaciers...waiting to bust off and add to the mess below. This, after "going through" my clothes and trucking a bunch off to Goodwill. This, after crating up a majority of "off-season" clothes and shoving the boxes under my bed.

I'm not the neatest person I know, but then I'm not exactly hacking my way through ceiling-high piles of ephemera with a machete just to get to the bathroom to pee, either. Hey, I've got a hamper you know. I think it's the same one I've owned since I was a teenager, and the included pivoting lid has since given up and disappeared. The problem is just that it fills up quicker than my four-week allotment of underwear. Yes, that's the gauge. I've purchased enough freds to keep me from doing laundry for four weeks. Unfortunately, it turns out that the bigger clothes render my hamper useless after two weeks.

Never fear, though. At the four-week mark, the laundry gets done, somehow there is a shelf and a hanger for everything and the shoes get paired back up and at one glance, the sequined Chucks can be located. I can even shut the door. Not bad for someone lacking a dresser. Problem is, as the weekdays creep by, and I'm either happy to shed my clothing onto the floor at the end of the weeknight or rustle through the clean stuff before the crack of dawn, there it goes again.

I guess the best way to see how my closet relates to me, is how I've seen my life so far. I'm wandering along, neat and tidy and ordered, and gradually there's a sweater avalanche, then there's chaos. I ignore it, then kick through it, dig for a shoe, wallow in it so to speak, and then one day, walk in and, "JEEZ," clean it up. Eventually I'm back to neat and tidy and ordered. Until the next sweater avalanche hits.

Which has got me thinking...why wouldn't I just keep it neat and tidy and ordered? Maybe the Universe will thank me with a neat and tidy and ordered life, for a bit longer than four weeks worth of underpants.

You say "uvula"...

This area of Wisconsin is filthy with one fest or another throughout the summer. Each town has its corn fests, broiler fests, bean and bacon days, beef-a-ramas, oktoberfests, beer fests, blues fests, you name it.

One summer, probably a handful of years ago, Fahjah and I went to one of the local fests. As we stood off to the side, each enjoying a corn dog...

Pop: "There's no unweird way to eat a corn dog in public."

Me: "I know. Then there's the danger of stabbing myself with the stick in the hangy-down at the back of my throat."

Pop: "Uh huh." (pause) "Isn't that the vulva?"

Me: I shake my head. "Lower."

Pop, in a lower voice: "Isn't that the vulva?"

Stop your damn whining already

Apparently, I need an explanation regarding the use of stereotypes. People seem to treat them like derogatory names and get all weird when they are mentioned in conversations. Don't confuse this with pejorative words that are meant to hurt or offend.

But back to the stereotypes. Are they not based on fact for the most part? Can the majority of crackers jump? Are our dark-skinned brothers and sisters not more inclined to be fluid in movement while dancing? Do butch lesbians not dress like dudes?

My guess is if you're offended by a generalized statement of your race, creed (treehuggers avoid shaving), religion (Lutherans love lemon jello), or gender (women are emotional), you probably have a more personal problem.

Then there's people who rush in to defend another race's issues. When the Native Americans get pissy about schools using their tribes as mascots, I'll back them. But not when some fat white PTA mom starts picketing. Besides, if I was Native American, I'd be pretty flattered. There's no high school I can think of whose mascot is  "The White Guy" (no, we don't really know for sure what the Lancer is under that visor). I suppose if there was we whites would be stereotyped as oppressive. Woops, there's another one.

So here's the thing. If you're a woman, and somebody tells you women can't drive, but you are a good driver, have an umbrella drink, and let them have their opinion. Don't start railing on the person, you'll make us all look emotional.

It's just cherry ice, yo

If I had to pick the one innovative thing on the planet that has altered the fabric of good-natured humanity for all time...

The familiar strains of a bullhorned lullaby drifting through the humid summer air a few blocks away would send Bromas and I into a shrieking, money-sucking whirlwind of glee. No coat pocket in the closet was safe from the grasping hands in search of cash when the creepy white delivery truck with the side window tracked onto our collective radar. Yes, once you threw yourself in front of the crazy-eyed driver, you could count on finding a Chocolate Eclair or a Bomb Pop and that mushy, gross chocolate chip cookie sammich. But the one ice cream novelty that, time and time again, sated our lust for sugar and cherry flavor was the Screwball. With that mushy, gross gumball in the bottom.

As we aged, and the happiness of childhood was slowly swapped out with the ennui of adulthood, the Screwball had faded into distant memory. Until, that is, a day that normally wouldn't have been anything more than a mopey event, turned out, well, screwy.

My grandfather had passed away in October of 1999. The following Spring, Bromas had come to visit from Eau Claire and intended to pick up Grandpa's seldom-driven and well-kept 1984 two-door, two-tone Caprice Classic (remember when the gashole (I said it) was behind the rear license plate?). It was a classy, smooth-riding, velour-coated, land yacht of a car.

While we were hanging out in the driveway of our soon-to-be-sold grandparent's house, Tom (age 24) and I (age 28) were in conversation and abruptly halted when the tinny sounds caught both of us simultaneously: SCREWBALLS!

Nothing else was said, it was a mutual agreement on what we must have and when we must have it. We hopped into the couch on wheels. Tom played wheelman and I hung my head out the window like a Labrador Retriever, tongue lolling, desperately zooming in aurally on that childhood need. Once the ice cream man was spotted, Bromas halted in front of the frightened driver and his white truck, this scenario all the world looking like a modern stagecoach holdup, as if to say, "There is no way IN HELL we're letting you get away without the gold."

I waited in the car while Tom went around the side of the truck. And returned with Screwballs. A CASE of them. After I stopped laughing hysterically, it occurred to me that, being in that car, Grandpa meant for us to keep one more memory of him, just for us. Riding down the expressway, windows open, radio blaring (push-button baby!), glomming down Screwballs. Just a pinch of childhood revisited.

* * *

Fast forward to 2005. Fahjah and I embark on a three-day dual Harley excursion with stops in the Wisconsin Dells, Spring Green and Prairie du Chien. As we arrived in PdC after a good span of time hanging out around Frank Lloyd Wright's old hangout (and TOTALLY dumping Fahjah's custom-painted Softail at the bottom of FLW's driveway), I spotted an ice cream truck. The Screwball bulb popped on and I switched it back off. Then I thought, "Why the hell not?" and went ape-shit. My father could only follow after me in what had to appear to him as a fit of throttle stickage. After barely remembering to put the kickstand down, I ran straight up to the window of the (again) creepy, white delivery truck's side window, pushed aside an indecisive young boy and his flabbergasted father, and ordered breathlessly, "TWO SCREWBALLS PLEASE!" The look on my own dad's face was priceless, as I tried to spill out the Screwball history and shove my face in the plastic-coned goodness at the same time.

Of course, in the spirit of good old sibling rivalry, Bromas and Fahjah were on a trip somewhere together not long after, and needed to rub in that they were enjoying another round of Screwballs.

Jeebus help me if I wasn't so easily amused. When my time comes, if you decide to show up for my "wrap party," Screwballs are on the house. Then you'll know.

Snakelips and Hamster Belly

When I was a kid, I think my mom got bored of hearing us ask, "What's for dinner?" She started coming up with new and exciting meal options. One night "snakelips" appeared on the menu...and it stuck.

Snakelips became the go-to name for Kraft Mac & Cheese. Hamster belly just started from a Mad-Lib I remember my brother and I doing in the car with my mom while we were waiting outside of the Walgreen's in Hanover Park. We never really applied that to an actual food, however, now that I'm giving it some thought I think the best fit would be chicken Kiev. Yum.

Does anyone else out there have better names for meals? I can't wait to try out some new ones the next time I cook...if ever. :)

Inaugural installment of "WWYD?" (What Would You Do)

I found this on PostSecret:

I wondered the same thing. I could only guess because I haven't had my abode completely burn down yet. That kitchen incident, I only left after I was sure I put the candle-induced fire out (thereby coating the entire room in white) and my next-door neighbor and good friend Jody grabbed me by the arm and forcibly removed me.

Don't dwell on it. Just ask yourself. What's the first few things you think of that you'd grab if you could (or have had to)? All I could come up with (after grabbing my brother, obviously...no one's gonna make me another one of those) was my computer and the box of photos in the basement. If you're thinking the computer because of the ginormous hard drive full of music or the scads of video games installed on it (what a hassle to lose that!), it's actually the largest repository of photos I have besides the box in the basement.

I would mourn the loss of handmade gifts and memories associated with them, but, aside from my strength of olfactory-triggered memory, my visual memory is right up there and I don't get the same response from a heart-shaped dish my grandmother kept on her dresser as I would of the photo of her sitting on Santa's lap at the family's Christmas Eve party so long ago. The picture of my momma and I sharing a VERY stinky bedroom at a B&B in Salem, Massachusetts one Halloween elicits more emotion than the VERY beautiful, Momma-created ceramic cup. Okay, so I'd grab that too (and the raven necklace). But we're talking only seconds of time and whatever you can hold in your hands (unless you happen to have a backpack in every room...which I seem to).

This question caught me, though, at a time where I just want to get rid of so much "stuff." Things in the basement that are just sitting there...old memories, no-longer-important items, floppy disks and Tae-Bo VHS tapes for Pete's sake. I feel so much better when I purge belongings...actually, now I think I might be on to something. Maybe I should make sure the insurance is up-to-date...

Just a booger on the fingernail of the Universe

That's us. Actually we're much smaller.

I was following along with my friend Wood's Astronomy class and learned some really cool stuff. Everywhere you look on the internet, it is mentioned how difficult it is to grasp the age of the Universe and Earth. Big numbers don't explain the concept very clearly. So this example (also, found everywhere on the internet) was kind of stunning.

If you compressed the timeline of the Universe into a calendar year, meaning the Big Bang is January 1st and present day is midnight, December 31st, here's what it would work out to...

• January 1st - The Big Bang (the Universe begins to form)
• February - Our Milky Way Galaxy forms
• August - Sun and planets form
• September - Oldest known life (single-celled organisms) forms
• November - we see the beginning of multi-cellular organisms
• December 15 - Cambrian Explosion (burst of new life forms)
• December 17 - Emergence of first vertebrates
• December 18 - Early land plants
• December 20 - First four-limbed animals
• December 21 - Variety of insects begin to flourish
• December 24 - First dinosaurs appear
• December 25 - First mammalian animals appear
• December 27 - First birds appear
• December 29 - Dinosaurs wiped out by cataclysmic event
• On December 31st, in the morning, is when any speck of human ancestry appears on Earth
• 12/31 - 10:15a - Apes appear
• 12/31 - 9:24p - First humans to walk upright
• 12/31 - 10:48p - Homo erectus appears (shut up, Beavis)
• 12/31 - 11:54p - Anatomically modern humans appear (that's SIX minutes before midnight, brothers and sisters)
• 12/31 - 11:59:45p - Invention of writing
• 12/31 - 11:59:50p - Pyramids built in Egypt
• 12/31 - 11:59:59p - (1 second before midnight) Voyage of Christopher Columbus

It was only about 12,500 years ago that the very spot where I sit today (killing time during the slow part of the academic year) was only just beginning to thaw out from the last Ice Age.

The thought terrifies and amazes me all at the same time. We humans have done so much, it seems, in such a short time. My parents were watching black and white television and standing, umbilically connected to the rotary phone on the wall. My grandparents were driving early cars, and listening to radio programs at night. And yet, a look at geologic time shows just how small we we really are in the big picture.

I Will Never Forget

Taking some time today to contemplate the meaning of Memorial Day, I find myself feeling genuine heartache at the ultimate sacrifices of our men and women, young and old, at home and across the oceans in times of strife. Some made a choice, some were drafted. Most put aside their way of life and did their best.

Parents lost children, children lost parents, loved ones dying on foreign lands in order to free people of other nations and defend our own.

I am small, I am selfish and I am unworthy. But most intensely, I am grateful to all that I live in a country of peace and prosperity where there are STILL people who are willing to sacrifice their lives in service of our nation.

Thank you, dear Americans, and to my loved ones in particular, for making that profound choice. I will always be in awe of your courage to follow through.

Sigmund Kopec, KIA, WWII

Chester Kujawa

Daniel Kujawa

Donald Barberini

Richard Kujawa

James Pauling

John Kawa

J. Scott Holley

Erin Howle

Benjamin Bridges

Jacob Veness

Jeffrey Juhnke

What Fresh Hell Is This?

What the heck is going on here? Have Facebook and my smarmy iPhone killed my creativity?? The best I can come up with is an anecdote that isn't even mine. After riding our mountain bikes in the Lowes Creek County Park this past Tuesday, my brother said to our friend E, "Oh man! I could go for a chili cheese dog from DQ right about now. Nothing like a bunned pork stick!"

To which I cracked up and couldn't stop laughing about it. So I kept making him say it. Even today. I asked him about his creative process and he says, "I don't know. Shit just pops into my head."

So how come no shit has popped into my head? Is it because I use my best stuff on my text messages, emails, status updates, posts and Tourette's and don't save any for my blog? Is that all there is to my wit? Just blurbs and twitches? Gech. Maybe I need to go make some stories.

Artificial Album #4

Yes, Virginia, you CAN change out your own air filter

I decided to post this little DIY after I went to get the oil changed out of my cage (motorcyclist speak for "car") last week. I only wanted an oil change, and after getting the "You need to replace/change this because it'll cost you an assload down the road" speech for about 5 or 6 things, I smiled and nodded and told the guy to just change the durn oil. I was somewhat insulted that he thought I was fool enough to need someone else to change out my air filter. I realize not everybody has access to a Busted Knuckle Garage (read: Daddy's house and his Shop Class Jeenus brain), but you ladies and less-than-mechanically inclined gentlemen (I've known a couple) should be able to at least change out your own air filter without any tools and save enough scoots from a lube-n-wash for an overpriced double-tall mocha latte, mit foam.

I give you, Kuj's DIY air filter change:

The air filter does just what it says. Your car's engine draws in air in order to create combustion. Air mixes with fuel in the cylinders, the pistons compress the mixture, the spark plug creates the explosion, the explosion pushes the piston back down and the process is repeated in a not very difficult to understand cycle. Check this out if you want to know how an engine works.

Since the engine needs relatively clean air to function properly, the air filter prevents sand, dust, dirt, leaves, etc. from entering the cylinders. As a result, the air filter can get pretty skanky...it'll get skankier faster if you live in a dusty or sandy environment or drive off road a lot.

The air filter typically sits in an easy-to-find spot to one side or the other of your engine. The filter is located inside a largish, plastic box with a big hose attached to it. Here's the air filter box in my Saturn ION (standing in front of the car, on the left side of the engine compartment).

Here's the air filter box in Anya's LHS-mobuick (left side of the engine compartment).

And here is the air filter box in Brother's Nissan pick-em-up truck (right side of the engine).

The air filter box is kept closed by two or three clips you can pop off with your fingers. The opposite side of the box is almost always comprised of a few tabs you'll need to hook together before you clip the box closed again.

Once you've unhooked the clips, you can lift the top of the air filter box and you'll see the air filter. You can pull the filter right out. It just sits on top of the bottom half of the air filter box.

Once you've removed the filter, look at the underside (the fins sticking out, not the flat side). This is where all the trapped dirt and gunk is. If it looks totally filthy or is greasy, it's time for a new one. Put it back in and head over to your local auto parts dealer and ask them for an air filter for your year/make/model car (ex., mine's a 2003 Saturn ION3). They typically will just give you a standard air filter unless you specify you want a certain name brand or high-performance air filter (which you likely don't need).

In my case, here's what my air filter looks like.

When I turn it on its side and bend it back slightly you can see there's just a little surface dirt on the very edges of the fins, and it's dry, so I'll shake it out to get the bigger stuff out if there is any, and if you have an air hose you can blow some of the dirt off.

Then drop the air filter on top of the bottom half of the air filter box, fins down, flat side up, hook the tabs on the one side of the air filter box, and push the clips back on. All set!

There's no reason why everyone on the planet shouldn't be able to do this. It leaves out all that intimidating nut-and-bolt-reefing I'm so good at....breaking off. And buy me a beer next time you see me with that labor money you saved.

"We all po baby, but rich in friends"

It's been an ugly two and a half months. I used to love Winter and deep down, some part of me still does. I don't think I would be able to enjoy living where there's no change of seasons. But the last couple of winters have seemed...joyless. Something to bundle up and hibernate through. It is at all possible that, having moved from the Chicago area to the Northwoods, it's because the amount of exposure I have to the sun up here is less? Truthfully, we get 5 minutes less sun than Chicagoland. Does it affect me? Who knows? That seems so minuscule a number, 5 minutes, that I can't seem to believe it. Is it because I have a summer hobby that has become so much a part of me that it's ruined Winter? Maybe. At any rate, it seems the winters are more consciously tougher to deal with, but there they are every year, same as Summer, Spring and Fall. I'm always aware of the futility that most people seem to not notice when I hear them say, "I can't believe it's getting cold" when October rolls around, or "I wish it was warm" in February. What's the point of wasting breath on the whining when it'll get here when it gets here? Yeah I've done it too. But it's just wasted energy. Same thing with Mondays and Fridays. The seasons and the days of the week are just "Boo! Yea! Boo! Yea! Boo! Yea!" ad nauseum in the eyes of most people. Humans are never happy when it comes to the inevitable.

Look at me on a tangent...back to my point. It's been an ugly two and a half months. In addition to the newly acquired "Boo!" to winter, I was let go from my job, panicked at the knowledge of not getting another job at similar pay and threw myself (nearly literally) into a full-time college schedule at a fledgling school with a RIDICULOUS tuition, merely because my brain said "IT'LL TAKE LESS TIME!!! GO! GO! GO!" Meanwhile, I was trying to find a part-time job and foolish enough to think I could handle four classes of homework AND work.

I'm just not wired that way. I am a woman of leisure.

Now, halfway through my first quarter, I'm breathing slower again. I realize that panic blinds me. I see that I need to explore options, take my time and do the research that I always do before I make a big decision. And GET THE HELL OUT OF THIS SCHOOL. And so I shall. Hey, Expensive University of Chaos! Color me gone at the end of your quarter! It's time to find a full-time job, so that I may live in the manner to which I was once accustomed. Take the schooling to a better, and ironically cheaper, grounded, established collegiate system. Part time, baby, part time. Low and slow. Research my interests thoroughly (and not just what I know how to do, but something I'd enjoy doing). In the deadest, beaten horse way. Summer Session to start? At the big U? Verrry likely. I can do this.

How can I do this? How have I gotten to this point of calm?

Family. My mom, who can bring to startling clarity the common sense things I should be doing that I never thought of actually carrying out. All while gently pointing out that she did NOT raise an idiot, but a bright, smart human being. My dad, who shows me a clear path through the mess and then hands me the flashlight with a comforting smile. My brother, who, with a hug can make all the stress, anxiety, pain and fear come spilling out, leaving an exhausted, but quieter soul.

Friends. Friends don't have to be in your life. Friends want to be in your life. What is that magic that binds you to a complete stranger for the remainder of your existence? Does it have a definition? Some people seem to think that quantity matters over quality. I have around 100 "friends" in Facebook, yet I only need and want a select few to keep their place firmly embedded in my heart. Trish, who does not waste her time focusing on the whining and the emotional bullshit, but (and you can almost hear it when it happens) switches gears from extremely witty and caring to straight thinking, problem-solving superhero. Possible, common sense solutions fly at you. You need only reach out and several hit home. Diz, whose near-daily, pop culture-laden, intellectual conversations can lift the spirits and paint philosophical pictures you didn't know existed. Together we are a pair of sounding boards, alternately flinging life's poo and candy off each other and walking away from it relieved and cheered. Between the incredible photography from him and the word paintings from me, we are one artist. Wood, whom I've only ever met once in person, but has been, for so many years, as much a part of me as to wear my socks while I'm in them. You, my friend, are my soulmate and the very definition of a gift. When I have had the worst moments of self-doubt, fear, and hopelessness, it's you I go running to and you have never turned from me. You have infinite patience and optimism. You are my cheerleader and my solid ground. You have earned your Knight in Shining Armor status many times over.

Thank you all for letting me be welcome in your lives.

"We all po baby, but rich in friends." - Wood

....You do realize, there just has to be a fart-related post coming soon, right? :)

Flashback

A friend of mine and I were having a discussion back and forth via email about his passions. At one point he mentions an old TV show where the self-contained episodes were very short. I immediately had this Vietnamish flash of memory of....

"The Lottery"

Part One

Part Two

It was a short story made into a movie that we were forced to watch in Advanced English my Sophomore year in high school. Sure, it had a grand, sweeping statement to make about dystopian society and the human condition, but it totally sucked the soul out of you. And it looks like Ed Begley, Jr. made his debut in this gem.

Suddenly all these other memories started flooding my head. My good friend Ian, who sat next to me and closest to the window of our classroom. My Adv. English teacher, Miss Gollberg. That nasty lime green pantsuit she wore too frequently. That she would say, "Um" so many times a day, Ian and I started keeping a tally. Ian throwing giant spitballs on the chalkboard while she had her back to us and she just kept on "um"ing.

Our East Campus was the original high school before the West Campus had been built one town over. It was built in the 50's, now houses only the Freshman and Sophomore classes and, in the 80's was wholly depressing and still without A/C. Miss Gollberg's room was next to what must have been a courtyard once, but I suspect its only purpose by the time I was imprisoned there was to ventilate the inner rooms. Bees would come in the open, screenless windows all the time. Ian would spend his time lying in wait with a small, thick English book propped open to the middle, like some kind of pious monk reading a Bible. If a bee was foolish enough to fly within arm's reach, WHAM! He'd slam the book shut, crushing the bee and scaring anyone who wasn't watching him half to death. And us erupting in giggles.

Gollberg would make us watch all kinds of insufferably depressing old movies and read gloomy, dark old stories. It was in that class I had to read Great Expectations, and watch "The Lottery" and...

"The Veldt"

Part One

Part Two

All I can think as I'm going through this mental mess is: 1) Where can I get some uppers? 2) How did Gollberg not HANG HERSELF?? and 3) Thank Sweet Sweet Jeebus for Ian.

Surf Nazi

There's a young guy in my Composition class. He wears a bright white chunk of bling in one ear that you can see across the room. And he is swathed daily in Hurley surf clothing, much as I am fairly regularly donning Triumph wear. So every time I'm in class, I'm torn between assuming he's a poser, and asking him where all the surf nazis hang their toes off here in the Chippewa Valley. Honestly, I don't want to know bad enough, and wondering if he is or isn't, is more fun than asking will be.

...Sometimes I think I'm not a very nice person.

Tap that French Baguette

You see it in a quite a lot of movies. "Top Gun" comes to mind. There's a shot where Goose taps the gas gauge in a futile attempt to will the indicator to show there's more fuel (maybe it was Merlin). Occasionally, I'll notice that in movies. I don't know why I see that kind of stuff, but somehow I can pick up on it when it occurs. I suppose it's a device used by the director to emphasize just how dire the straits are for our heroes.

What I DON'T comprehend is the seemingly ubiquitous appearance of the French baguette in movies. You might not have noticed it before, but it's there. The pretty young woman on an adventure in a cobblestoned village, riding her bicycle, a French baguette resting comfortably in her basket. Why?

I've got it in my head to make a note of every movie I see the woefully uncredited French baguette appear in.

By the way, bonus points if there are carrots accompanying the baguette, with the green tops still attached, or whatever it is that's green and leafy. Both in a paper bag? Hat trick. Join in if you wish. Maybe we could turn it into the American Film Institute...AFI's Top 100 French Baguette movies. I'll start:

Blade: Trinity - Jessica Biel plays a vampire hunter undercover as a frumpy lady with a baby strapped to her chest. Nestled in her right arm? Hat trick.

**Dateline: 10/5/12 - Breakfast at Tiffany's. One in bag and later two in bag. Sweet.

Eat My Ennui

From an email to Trish:

Tuesday was the first Composition class and the instructor told us then that we'll need a composition journal (specifically) and a pen in a color ink other than black or blue, because we will be correcting each other's papers on occasion (I'm think I'm gonna get beat up after class when that time comes). Not only did she speak that out loud, but it's clearly written on our syllabus.

Today (Thursday) I was early because it's been snowing all night and I didn't want the Comp Professor to give me the hairy eyeball, so I got to school about 20 minutes early. She was not in the room, but popped in at one point before class, talking on her cell, and wrote on the board, "I will be 10 minutes late," and then left again. One young lady walks in with a weary sigh, starts unpacking her stuff and sits down. I'm quietly engaged in The Man in the Iron Mask on my iPhone (Stanza app....free books!) (that's where the sesquipedalian quote came from that I sent you earlier, but you probably knew that). She blurts out, "What time does this class start, anyway?" Mind you, this is the second class we've had, she has a schedule of her classes, AND it's on a PRINTED SHEET ON THE WALL OUTSIDE THE CLASSROOM. I answer without looking up "10:25" and she goes back to the sighing. I go back to the reading.

An acquaintance of hers enters the room and sits next to her. They are chatting and now I can't read this smarmily written book so I just start screwing around with the other apps on my phone. They go into great length about the instructor's request for a different color ink pen.

"I don't know why the woman wants different color inks. You'd think blue or black would be easier to read than these other colors."

"My mom's friend is an English teacher and she gets the composition journal but she didn't get the different color ink, either."

"I told my aunt, 'My Composition teacher is mean, and she wants us to call her Professor or Doctor.'"

"I think I might transfer out of this school to UWEC. They don't even start till the 18th and they get, like, a week off in a month and, like, another week off for Spring Break."

I myself don't quite understand why recent high school graduates are here. Globe is TWICE the cost per credit hour that UWEC is. I would think the only people I'd see here, which is pretty much a business school (with commercials...does this mean I'm in a cheesy school and no one will hire me with a degree from "Acme U"?), is people like me who are already in the workforce and need a faster and, therefore, more aggressive pace to get BACK into the workforce. Globe is 12 weeks on, 1 week off, through the entire year, so technically you could get a Bachelor's degree in three years at the most.

I'm a dick. I get that. But you can imagine how hard it was for me to keep my mouth shut. I didn't even want to explain to them the reason for the different color ink. AGAIN. It's like I'm into mental S&M. I'm LOVING just listening to the dumb, but TORTURED by not wanting to correct them, because I TOTALLY do. It's intoxicating, I tell you. But I'm keeping my mouth shut. I have this unreasonable, if not snotty, fear that I'm going to be found out as the "smart kid" in class and then everyone's gonna be making me cut open their GD frog, copy my notes, do their homework and then hang me by my drawers from a coat hook. All for my mad skillz, yo. Screw that. I'm here to get in, get an edumacation, and get out. With the exception of one guy in two of my classes, who, incidentally, sounds like Larry the Cable Guy (but is smarter and funnier than he lets on), I have NO faith in finding any other students in there I find intellectually stimulating or amusing enough to befriend. The Introduction to Software Development class though, shows promise. That's like hanging out in a garage with a bunch of dudes...if it was a computer room filled with stereotype geeks...good time. One of the conversations was between the instructor and a couple of students about one student's dog and peanut butter.

* * *

So the Composition Professor eventually arrives. She is apologizing profusely for the delay because, "I have cancer. I'm currently receiving chemo and radiation treatments and I was late because I needed to schedule surgery for next week." I look over at those two girls for the first time and now they're looking at me like they got caught. Sure I told you she sounded tough, but she's also looking for some measure of quality out of her students and it seems like I'm the only one in there who gets that. So far, she's the only instructor like that. Unfortunately, she also, like most of the instructors in there, has to cater to the weakest link. I actually kinda like her. She's an actual instructor. She has integrity, standards, expectations. I can respect that.

In my poor opinion, post-secondary education should only be something that people attend when they WANT to be there, not HAVE to. I think it makes a huge difference. Granted, lots of people want to be in college right after they graduate high school, but I figured it was because they wanted to escape their parents and behave badly. I realize that could be a generalization on my part...

Anyway, the Professor passes around the attendance sheet for us to sign. I'm the second-to-last person to sign the sheet and it has about 6 or 7 signatures in orange, green, pink... The Prof gets her sheet back and says, sincerely surprised, "Oh! Look at all the different colors! That's pretty!"

This college thing is gonna be SO fun mentally. Just not Algebra. :)

Buck Up Little Camper! We'll Tackle That Slope Together!

I, along with the one other employee at our print shop, was let go from a job that I enjoyed and a place that I loved to work on December 8. On December 9, I was in the admissions office of a local business school on my way to digging in for a bachelor's degree. Between that time and now, I've been forced out of my childlike, "fun" world and into the grown up world. And hey, it BLOWS out here.

So, in trying to find a part-time job, applying for student loans ("I just signed my financial life away and all I got was a lousy t-shirt" ....seriously, I got a t-shirt), ordering textbooks from all over the planet just to save myself 300 bucks down the road, and generally panicking about how to keep myself in the lifestyle to which I've become accustomed (oh iPhone, I heart you so, you expensive fucker), I'm finding it difficult to have a sense of humor about anything, really.

So as I sit here on the eve of my first class (algebra...I might as well get the crap I hate out of the way first), I am filling out an income adjustment form to apply for a Pell grant. I get to the second page that states, "Write a personal statement describing the circumstances leading to this request." There are sixteen blank lines and they encourage you to attach additional pages "as necessary."

I am imagining myself writing down all manner of tragedy...my dog took acid and hijacked a school bus full of penguins, to steal an example. Then something dark and evil crosses my mind. I put pen to paper and write, "I. Was. Laid. Off."

Nope. Still no sense of humor. However, the dark, sharp sarcasm seems to have stood the test of time. Honestly, I should think the last paycheck I received, dated the first week of December and the unemployment check dated the second week of December, should speak volumes.

Oh hey, thanks Obama. Swell job. Hmm, maybe I should add, "Check with Obama, he probably knows why."

I have my Tiki, I have my Tiki, I have my Tiki...