"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? :)

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...

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)
  

Gentlemen, Start Your Looting!

I am an atrocious actress.

My dad was pulled over by a state trooper for speeding as we were heading "into town" (I love saying that....couldn't, living in suburban Chicago), and the trooper asked, "Are you Tom's dad?" I immediately cackled out loud and thereby ruined any fabricated story Fahjah was going to come up with to get out of a ticket. The trooper knew Brother and was apparently amused by the whole thing, therefore we were released ticket-free. Wait. What? Let go ticket-free? Because of my brother??

Here's the reason I couldn't contain myself: Most of Brother's driving past is checkered with hooligan behavior involving all sorts of vehicles. The EC is not a big town (62K) and I remember hearing Fahjah talk about the occasional co-worker who would approach my dad and say something to the effect of "Hey, I saw your son yesterday..." followed by a detailed tattling involving, say a one-wheeled pass for example. Eventually my dad must have started doing the mental version of the fingers in the ears while singing "Mary Had a Little Lamb" out loud just to tune out the "Hey, I saw your son yesterday" conversations. Brother's exploits had started to become legendary; his employer at the time had stickers made and sold them to anyone who was on the same make of motorcycle as him. Stated plainly to deter the po-po from exercising retribution, "I'm not Tom."

Another example: At a toga party, when a handful of drunken us had somehow climbed a 7-foot wrought iron fence to go skinny-dipping, it seemed the cops were there before I had even completed one lap. When asked to hand over my driver's license, instead of silently obliging in an effort to avoid further legal issues, I cracked, "It's in my other birthday suit." What saved my ass? Higher priority call in the area. Whew.

So, relying on me to play a joke on someone, or to blatantly lie to a victim of a prank, or to utter a boldfaced fib to get my way...I suck. If I'm the criminal mastermind and I am free from the stress of face-to-face interaction with the patsy during the prank, I rock (see: Golf is Satan's Game). So, should you choose to involve me in misdemeanor crime, I'm like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get.

Some time ago, when I lived in the Land of Flat, prior to my nasty streak as Junior Pranker, I worked in IT (1 company, 14 years, 4 different jobs). Occasionally, travel to sales rep offices would be required to set up networks, install new computers, etc. On this particular trip I drove the 2 hours north to Milwaukee on a fine June day. Whatever was required of me at that sales office was going to take the better part of a week, so I got a hotel room and visited with a couple of friends when I wasn't working at the local sales office. The upcoming weekend was the Indy car races at the Milwaukee Mile. My dad had been going to this June race (the weekend immediately following the Indy 500) for years and since, at that time, Fahjah and Brother had been living up here in the EC, this was a good opportunity to spend time with them, so I kept the hotel room for the weekend. We went for dinner Saturday night at the Safe House...a Milwaukee landmark. Afterward, some mischievous energy overtook all three of us...we were headed back for the hotel when my elder spied a race banner out in front of a liquor store, zip-tied to a fence. Brother, impish devil that he is, brainwashed Fahjah into "freeing" the banner from its moorings. And the feeding frenzy began.

Eventually, Fahjah decided he should return to the hotel room "to post bail." Brother and I went back out in my trusty 2-door (man, I miss having a sunroof...and manual transmission). "Lovely evening for asshattery, don't you think?" After lifting our 4th or so banner, Brother spied the mother lode. All lit up, definitely bigger than the previous "finds"...and TWO STORIES UP. Looking back, I suspect it was my brother's Mount Everest. Why? Because it's there.

The owner of that now-closed-for-the-evening establishment thought he was so smart, mounting his banner way up there. As the getaway driver, I parked behind the building and waited. Like a blond, gangly ninja, Brother bounded off toward the side of the restaurant, while I watched through tear-filled eyes (What? You thought I'd make it through this without hysterical, paralyzing laughter? We were lucky I could manage to compose myself enough to drive back to our room. My mug shot would've looked like I survived a tear-gas attack, but only just so). Somebody had the convenient foresight to install a chain-link fence only a couple of feet from the building and it was excessively high, as if to say, "Let NO height deter you from that misdemeanor, er...banner!" Brother scampered up between the fence and the brick wall like a monkey and disappeared over the top of the Mansard-style roof.

Finally a giant wad of noisy, crumpled plastic flew through the air and landed feather-like on the pavement near my car. My brother climbed down just as nimble as going up, though I didn't see it. I was too busy with my head rammed against the steering wheel, cackling merrily (and likely loud enough to alert the neighborhood) while the tears ran and the snot flowed. While I sucked in a gasp of air, I heard "Pop the trunk!" and blindly reached for the lever. Brother hopped in next to me and reported that the banner was stapled the entire way around and, at first, he tried to be stealthy; the banner was completely illuminated. He reached one arm over the edge of the roof and started out picking at a corner of the banner, popping the staples out carefully, while trying not to expose too much of his theivery to the passersby below. Realizing it would take too long, he said he finally just stood up, grabbed the corner, ran the length of the roof, and ziiiiiip! One swipe, no more staples. When we returned to the room and I rested my aching sides, I swear I saw a gleam of pride in Fahjah's eyes.

That banner was later stapled to the ceiling of my dad's garage. Brother stapled it starting at the corner where it met one wall...across the two-car-width garage...

...and down the opposite wall another 3 feet.

I told you it was big.

Row Row Row Your Boat...Your Dad Will Kick My Ass

My mom's parents had a cottage up on Twin Bear Lake near Iron River, Wisconsin. Up until the early-mid 80's, we had traveled up there every summer for a week or so to take in the scenery and live among the giant spiders. And black bears. And skunks. And raccoons. You never would've caught me outside after dark. The spiders alone were enough to conjure up terrifying stories of small children being carried off by one of them.

I was never a fishing/hunting kid. Worms were ishy, and if I was ever forced to bait my own hook, it was all I could do keep the barf down when the hook poked through worm flesh. Same for removing the inevitable bluegill from the hook. Any fishing off our dock with me involved one other person, usually my mom or dad, and I'd swing the fishing pole at them to either bait or remove.

Despite all this ookiness, I have some great memories of my time up in the cottage...aluminum tumblers, the (now) retro kitchen table and chairs (yeah, the sparkly red vinyl!), Uncle John's Bathroom Book. The book always sat on the toilet tank and as a kid, it was taboo. I suppose I spent a longer amount of time in the can, sneaking peeks at it while doing my business. This is probably why I now spend WAY too much time in the bathroom. The bathroom is my second library at this point.

The cottage was perched right on the edge of a drop down to the lake. There were a series of stairs leading down to the dock, the railing made from birch tree branches. I never used the railing. Giant spider haven. Even then, filled with the exuberance and stamina of a child, the run back up the stairs to the cottage was sucky.

On the property was a pump house that resembled a little red barn and a mysterious thumping sound could always be heard coming from it...another place I steered clear of. Amazing, really, the things that creep you out as a kid, where if you had just asked someone, you still would've steered clear of it, likely, but at least you'd know what it was. Imagination is a powerful thing.

There was also a big garage constructed of white corrugated panels. I think the roof (maybe the walls too) were fiberglass, because I was always in awe of the amount of light and the airy feeling inside the garage. It smelled like worms and fishing tackle and there was a big old white fridge, that was always stocked with bait and Pop Shoppe pop. The cream soda and strawberry flavors never lasted long when I was there visiting.

Those of us non-sportsman guests spent a lot of time picking blackberries, traveling in the "Iron River Bus" to the dump to get an up-close look at the black bears, and catching painted turtles with a net in a quiet corner of the lake and racing them off our dock later. Heather and I would sit out in the rowboat in that lily-pad strewn spot as much as we could. She was a pro at the catching and eventually trained me as a competent second-in-command. We would even catch extra for my little brother and anyone else up visiting, so we could all participate in the turtle race.

Once, Heather's friend Jenny was with us and we took her with to the turtle catching spot. I think it was her first time in this event and she was having trouble catching anything. When she finally did net her first turtle, we pulled it aboard and EW. A giant nasty leech was parked on top of the turtle's shell. As Heather tried to scrape the leech off the turtle with the frame of the net while Yertle was perched on the edge of the rowboat, we all shrieked like banshees and I'm sure if anyone was within earshot, it would've set their hair on end. One final attempt at scraping and the turtle pivoted too much toward the water and PLOP! Back to the depths of the lake, turtle and leech backpack. And the shrieking halted abruptly at the same time as the splash. Then silence. Then the shrieking was replaced by loud, raucous laughter. Dude, leeches are grody.

On the other side of the lake from our cottage was a beach that we would hang out at once in a while, and not far from it, after we'd row under a bridge was a bigger version of our turtle catching area. Huge lily-pads, water bugs, weeds. Heather is older than I am and she would always be the designated rower. One late afternoon, we took our nets and rowed out to the far side of the lake, I can't remember now, but it felt like it was hours away by rowboat. We spent some time out in the pond hunting for more turtles, but no joy. When we started back for the cottage, we were losing daylight and mild panic started to set in. We both had a good sense of direction, and I don't remember being all that concerned about not being able to find our dock, the lake wasn't that big. What was disconcerting was the absolute, utter blackness that would settle in once the sun went down. No moon that night, of course.

So, there we were, in the middle of the lake, and there was no way to tell where sky met trees met shore. I doubt if we could see each other in the boat. There's me...violating my "after-dark" policy, and I could swear every nasty creature was swarming around our boat waiting for one of us to fall in. Heb just kept plugging along with the oars and I sat in the front of the boat, feeling very small. At some point, we both noticed a flashing light coming from the direction of our dock. Yea! Somebody's trying to help us find our way! Ulp. It's my dad. I can't POSSIBLY imagine that he's pleased with us at the moment. And that, right there? Was the moment that every nasty creature disappeared from around the boat and was replaced by that icky gut feeling you get when you are row, row, rowing your boat toward ugly punishment.

I don't remember my dad ever hitting me except once when I got a crack across the rear end for some transgression. Nevertheless, in my mind, he was never someone I wanted to cross. Just being in the mere presence of him when you know you did something wrong was suffocating. I don't know how Heb felt at that point, but as we rowed toward the dock and I recognized the voice as that of my dad's, well, I have to admit at this very moment as I type this, I can't remember anything after that. Well, except for that overwhelming urge to flop down on the dock, kiss a giant spider and wail, "Land!"

Happy Thanksgiving

Let me whisper sweet nothings in your ear...

As in, I'm doing sweet nothing today.

I may have the best boss ever created by man. Thus, I am on vacation today. Short story...not that important.

Anyway, things of observation...

Remember that recipe I made with arborio rice and (GAG) tarragon? Well I still have the rice sitting in my pantry so I experimented a little last night. Chicken stock instead of water. A little butter. The rice. Follow the directions on the rice package. A little lemon juice and the only thing missing from my favorite Greek lemon-rice soup is well...soup. Sprinkle some Parmesan on it and delish! I used all chicken stock, which made it a little salty. You could probably ratio water and chicken stock for less salt. Tarragon, leave this home and be gone from my sight!

***

I'm still in bed, watching "Buffy, the Vampire Slayer" episodes on dvd, and this particular episode revolves around the school talent show. Which just reminded me of this skit I did in a talent show at our grade school with a then best friend of mine. We did that old phantom arms thing with a makeup demonstration. Kristie stood in front and spoke to the audience while she held her hands behind and I applied her makeup with my own arms...pretending they were her arms. Get it? If I remember it right, we got some good laughs. All right, this is how I remember it. We ROCKED. In my head.

In junior high and high school we started hanging out with decidedly different groups and eventually we drifted apart. Then, back in 2002, my mom noticed an article in the local Illinois newspaper. Not sure how I feel about it. I had forgotten about it until I was just watching this Buffy episode. I recall when I first read about it, how I really didn't have much reaction to it then either. Which makes me think I'm damaged or something. It was something of a "Meh" reaction. RIP, Kristie. I miss our friendship, brief though it was.

***

I've started reading Dispatches by Michael Herr. I think he's the guy who wrote the screenplays for "Full Metal Jacket" and "Apocalypse Now." He writes as a war correspondent while in Vietnam. You can tell in the writing. The point of view speaks volumes of a man exposed to horrors no one should ever see, and written by someone with a decided "dialect" of the 60's. All he left out is "man" after every sentence.

BTW, any guesses on why "Apocalypse Now" would be perpetually unavailable on Netflix? I still have yet to see the movie in its entirety.

***

I had a lovely list of things to do today: clean the house, whittle down the pile of excess belongings in my possession, clean the bike in prepration for bringing it in the house for the winter. In the immortal words of Dana Carvey as George Bush, "Not gonna do it." Shortly, I'll be moving into "Command Central (where we keep the BIG computers)" and playing video games till my butt falls asleep. Shower be damned!

Golf is Satan's Game

I realize it may be boring to some passersby because my blog leans heavily on motorcycling and its inherent adventures. So I was going back over some older posts and suddenly, stories from my past began to bubble up to the surface.

This one's a doozy...but probably only hilarious to me. Which is fine. My purpose in starting a blog was 1) to stop annoying the CV Sportbike Club forum-goers with my brain droppings and 2) to keep a sort of online record of my lifetime exploits, so that when I'm old and frequently crap myself, I can go back over all these posts and read about someone who didn't want to change the world, make a difference or do anything other than say, "I lived a good life." That said, on to the anecdote...except that, in the strictest sense, nothing I write about is short.

Back when I lived in Illinois, the company I worked at for 14 years had a golf league from April to September. I can't remember now why I got involved in the league. I suppose it was like anything else in my life that suddenly interested me...someone I liked, knew, or had a crush on inadvertently sucked me in. I enlisted the aid of a co-worker or two who knew how to whack a ball and before I knew it, I had a $100 set of lefty clubs and was hitting the driving range. A lot. Turns out if something doesn't immediately frustrate the crap out of me, I actually apply myself. Not that I ever got really good at golf...I think my lowest score was a 54 or 53 on 9 holes. But when that happened, it was right around when the U.S. Women's Soccer team won that big thing...and yes, in imitation of Brandi Chastain, I whipped my shirt off and ran around the green, in celebration, wearing...whatever the hell I was wearing under my shirt.

The usual Wednesday ritual involved 9 holes of golf, followed by a lovely evening in the company of good friends and co-workers, a friendly and hilarious bar staff and a pleasant atmosphere conducive to analyzing the game. Ach, we'd drink pitchers of beer and smoked cigars till we closed the place. Nearly every Wednesday. If the local authorities had ever caught on, they'd only have to work on Wednesday nights to fill their ticket/arrest quota for the month.

One of the more tame evenings, I had remained in the clubhouse along with a fellow coworker from my department, whom I affectionately referred to as "Junior." The little smart ass. To be fair...and on a tangent, Junior was a lot of fun. He brought out the prankster in me. Which I didn't know I had.

Prior to his departure on his first business trip with our boss, I informed him that, since he was leaving his vehicle in the parking lot over the next few days, he should give me the keys to his car in case it had to be moved. I was able to back that up with a true story, whereby I left my car in the parking lot one weekend...and was contacted on a Saturday that a local paving company was repaving the lot with a fresh layer of sealer. I was too late, and the dopes actually schmeared the goo directly around my car.

Junior gave me his keys and the next day, I called him to see how his trip was progressing. As I was sitting in his car. In line at a local car wash. You see, it was January or February and his car, a way fun RSX, was normally blue, but at this point was covered in an even layer of road salt. So I called him...never let on that I was in his car...or had made off with it, for that matter. I washed it, promptly returned it to the same parking space at work, then changed all his preset radio stations to Mexican stations. He'd probably claim to this day, that his car was clean when he left. Because all he was really upset about was the radio presets. He didn't believe that I actually took the car.

Another time, while he was on another business trip I cleaned his entire cubicle out (he's an engineer, ergo, a slob. He will, however, tell you that he has a "system."), and put up "This Space for Rent" signs. Take a look.

Great fun. For me.

Anyway, now that you have a little backstory into my relationship with Junior, it may help to understand where this next story comes from.

End of golf night. Junior and I are walking...er stumbling...uh yeah, walking back to our respective cars and I pull my trusty vehicle up to his driver side window to have a last-minute conversation with him. Honestly, I'm laughing right now as I type this. There was a lab tech who worked at the company who was, for lack of a better term, odd. And, looking back, I think, possibly smitten with me. Now, I will be the first to admit that my reaction to somebody being interested in me when I'm not interested in them, well, it turns into a Benny Hill skit. Because I'm a chicken-shit douchebag. At least I was. I think now I might just be chicken-shit.

Junior and I...chatting, driver side to driver side. Odd pulls up in his car on the other side of Junior, as I beg Junior, "Don't you leave me." Odd says to Junior, "I want to ask Kuj something." Me begging..."don't you dare....Junior...Junior!" As Junior slams on the gas pedal and flies away. To which I then slam on the gas pedal and fly away. Junior is gone. I mean gone. Like a fart on Wall Street...in the wind (props, Momma). Odd is hot on my trail as I haul ass out of the parking lot. I am already on my cell phone, calling Junior and coloring the air blue at him for leaving me. Then I inform him that Odd is following me...I'm laughing really hard right now relaying this story to you, you can imagine how hard I was laughing then. I finally get Odd off my tail about two or three miles down the road. Or he gives up. Whatever.

By now I'm in hysterics, I'm laughing so hard that the tears are rolling down my face, I'm screaming in to the phone and Junior actually had a tone of concern in his voice. He says, "Where are you?" I say, "I'm at such-and-such intersection." So he meets me there, we both get out of the car, and start convulsing. Seriously, I think snot was running out of my nose. The two of us laughed so hard, there was physical aching. After relaying "The Chase" to him, Junior suggests, "Oh, we need to get you a drink." Mind you, it's already midnightish on a Wednesday. We end up at a dive bar near my house and after a couple of beers, I believe I recall saying, "You know, one day we'll look back on this and laugh."

Oh I Wish I Was A Waterlogged Weiner

Friends: people who borrow my books and set wet glasses on them. - Edwin Arlington Robinson

Trish and I are enjoying a fit of nostalgic turd slinging between our blogs. A recent post of hers prompted me to leave a cryptic comment. Which she dutifully answered. And then, as if to say, "Oh Yeah?!?", she left an equally cryptic comment on my last post: drowned hot dog.

In the spirit of relaying embarrassing stories, I offer my return shot...

Long, long ago, in a suburb far, far away a good mutual friend of ours was celebrating a birthday. I decided to throw a surprise party for her at my house. It was hot, we had a pool, a grill and no booze. That's right. No alcohol. Please keep in mind, we were all in high school and either in Marching Band or were National Merit Scholars. Some of us were both, as evidenced by the complete lack of common sense.

No sir, this was booze-free because it was a parent-aware party. Besides, we frequently went to another house to drink Bartles & Jaymes, Bloody Brains and room-temperature tequila shots (Mom? Remember when I slept over at Becky's? Not so much.). Anyway, my mom had full disclosure of this party at her house and willingly co-hosted, but that didn't stop us from acting like drunken monkeys. It started out harmless enough...all of us running around in the pool until we generated a fairly strong riptide, playing chicken, trying to drown one another, grilling burgers and loading up on junk food, all while jamming to "Pour Some Sugar On Me" and "Talk Dirty To Me"...when they were new songs.

As night fell, well, that's when the debauchery began. Popping balloons on the grill, flinging raw meat and launching flaming marshmallows at the townhouse behind us, your standard party fare. I'm fairly certain that night was the first (and possibly only) time that the Hanover Park po-po had to respond a call of "a hailstorm of beef and firebrands." I'm so proud.

I recall my mom answering the door while a uniformed officer of the law struggled to keep his composure and ask that we refrain. In turn, my mother ventured out to the back yard to report same issue...while struggling to retain her composure. And so was born the phrase that wandered the halls of Lake Park High School for many months, as uttered by my dear mother, "It is not nice to throw raw meat at the neighbor's house."

While a good time was had by all, there inevitably came the dread clean-up, which, unfortunately, had to be carried out by daylight...maybe 3 or 4 days later. After scraping the burned rubber off the grill grate, running the lawn mower to suck up the remnants of hamburger and marshmallow goo out of the grass, the time came to pull the solar cover off the pool and perform the weekly ritual of skimming and vacuuming. Found in the cool waters...one lawn chair, mildly rusty; one pair of sandals, leather, but more importantly, not mine; and...get this. A full-on hot dog.

The slogan goes, "They plump when you cook 'em." Well, look here, Mister. I can tell you for a fact that they plump when you leave 'em floating in a swimming pool for 3 days. There it was, floating serenely in the crystal clear water, surrounded by a slick of greasy pork/beef/turkey effluvium.

Take a peek in your fridge at the average hot dog. Now picture it about 3 times that size. We're talking humiliatingly large when compared to most men. It gave John Holmes a run for his money (so I've heard).

Despite the metamorphosis that took place in our pool, that wasn't the gem of this story.

So I get the skimmer. You know, the flimsy plastic-framed window screening on the end of an equally flimsy aluminum pole. And I went fishing for the meat stick. I watched with horror as I lifted the skimmer under the huge tube steak and it proceeded to bend the skimmer at a frightening angle, roll right off, back into the water and....fall apart. Try not to throw up in your mouth a little.

Also, I think our dog peed in Mike's shoes. Looking back, he deserved it.

Regrets: A light-hearted look

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

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

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

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

Uhhh....bad time?

Odd post...This is what happens when I am either 1) lacking in ideas for posting or 2) have perfectly good ideas for posting but am FAR too lazy to get off the couch to move to the other computer where the pictures necessary for posting are, OR 3) your best friend tries to steer you away from a post revealing her past...talents. Uh...yeah. Not that dirty.

I warn you, you will likely encounter turbulent tangents. Buckle up, sunshine. You'll thank me later.

Backstory -> Scene: The Grandpa Chair, living room, my house, Eau Claire. Props (no, not those...OR THOSE! NOT THAT DIRTY!): blanket, laptop, Scrubs dvd playing on tv, cell phone. I'm warm, comfy, and playing Mahjongg on my laptop until my contacts dry up and threaten to run off to a more humid climate.

I receive a text message from said best friend TRISH...something to the effect of "I'm bored. When are you going to post a new topic, you lazy bag?" I let her know that I was on the fence with two possibilities for posting: the bike...or Trish's...past talents. For some strange reason, she encouraged the bike posting (see #3 above).

In my attempt to encourage posting reciprocity, I text back, "Maybe we should throw topics at each other. Your is: Oreos."

Shortly thereafter, I receive another text...something to the effect of: "Look, Princess, while you're sitting in a quiet house, watching your beloved Scrubs dvds, letting your big ass fall asleep in the Grandpa Chair, and possibly downing a bottle of Mondoro and a bag of Smarties, I'm running helter-skelter around this house mopping up barf (she was unspecific as to whose) and poop (again, unspecific, whose), while watching HUGE tumbleweeds of dog hair drift across the dining room floor. You can kiss my frazzled ass right now, but I guarantee you, tomorrow there will be an Oreo post. Just for that? Your topic? Colostomy bags!"

...okay. Uhhh. That's not really...I mean, nothing really is coming to me...

Ah, colostomy bags are...oh man. You are all gonna be so very sorry. Especially if you've been reading my comments over on Trish's blog. Well, here goes...

Can you just IMAGINE how funny the FARTS are when an unrestricted orifice and an amplified plastic bag are involved??? And no smelly! Ah hahahaha! (note to self: duct tape one to brother's butt. All laugh, no gag.)
Good lord, I have to get out of this chair. My cheeks really are asleep.