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.

Reintarnation

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

Bucking the system, the Kuj Tribe way

Brother and I are thinking this is a prime piece of living room furniture. So much so that we're considering reassembling his old bunk bed (upper decker only) my dad made for Brother when he was little, and buying a decent looking futon bed/couch thingy for under it.


Thirty-somethings (three of them), who have been spotted--more than once--outside in their stretchy clothes, living in a house with a bunk bed/futon combo in their living room. Outside the norm? Most definitely. Funky? Or just creepy? You decide.

Btw, we actually went to this store to check out the couch behind this contraption. When we attempted to take it down off the rack it was perched on, the arm on the side I was lifting popped off and clocked me in the jaw (it was upholstered and cushy). I had to lay down on another couch and wait for the laughing/crying jag to pass. We get the couch to where we can sit on it and mess with it (in the aisle, likely blocking fire routes). Brother flattens it out into a bed (it's one of those cheesy klik-klak things), proceeds to lay down across it and I watch as it tips to one side and nearly ejects him. The look on his face and the position (picture trying to push a cat into a toilet...limbs splayed): more laughing jag. And some drooling. And definite flood of tears. Never mind when Brother tried to vault himself up onto the top bunk and instead managed to crush his junk when he slammed into the front of it.

We've decided to blame all this store hijinks on the two of us working 10 hour days all this week. Brother+slap happy=destruction of property. Me+slap happy=fits of hysteric laughter. This has been proven in the past, such as the late night run through Milwaukee before the Indy car race. That is another story, however.

*****

The CVSC has a funny pics thread and this one has been in there for a while. But it's taken on a life of its own as of two days ago during our pre-dawn commute.


I had recently posted new funny pictures on the thread and you have to scroll down past the Gothopotamus shot to get to the new pics. I even dwelled on it for a while once again before going to the newest post. As previously stated, Brother and I have been commuting to work together. We work within a mile of each other and the 20 minutes together saves us gas, and my boss is gracious enough to allow me to adjust my schedule (and get overtime...never bad). I'm excessively groggy first thing in the morning, Brother is fairly quiet at that time too. As we ride up to Chippewa, he sighs and says quietly, "Gothopotamus." To which we both begin to chuckle softly. And it builds into laughter.

That night, as we are driving home, we're trying to figure out the gender of the leashed one. I argue that it's a dude. Brother, and later, Mostly Naked, both believe it to be a female. The unfortunate (yet hilarious) side effect is that now Brother and I have started to add "opotamus" to the end of nearly any word we speak. Which, much in the way of farts, makes me giggle audibly. Every time....opotamus.

*****

I nearly forgot our stop at Menards prior to the sofa bed debacle. Brother was in the market for 3 8-foot pieces of 2x4 lumber. He handed me one and took the other two. As we were walking to the cash register I'm carrying my piece under one arm, Brother the two over his shoulder. Like a comedy we are...just waiting to happen. I keep poking him in the rear with my piece. He keeps saying "Stop shoving your wood in my ass." Well, now I'm having fun. It's not often a girl gets to walk around carrying her very own wood. I say, "I'm putting my wood up on the conveyor belt." Brother says to the dazed young cashier, "My good man, ring up my wood." I say, "Yeah, ring up his sister's wood too." Dazed young cashier giggles and rings up our collective wood.

Lack of sleepopotamus, I tell you.

*****

Lastly, a few nights ago, we were waiting at Papa Murphy's for our Steak Gorgonzola pizza (note: Mostly Naked does not favor Gorgonzola cheese in large chunks...I nearly jumped out of the way as it appeared he was going to vomit the one bite he took; needless to say, the remainder of the pizza was ours). I watched an elderly man nearly fall over as he turned around and shifted his weight dramatically to avoid this hole in the flooropotamus.

Trapped in a small space with nowhere to run, it took all the fortitude I could summon to not laugh out loud at himopotamus. I merely turned to my brother and managed to whisper, "That man nearly fell in that hole." Brother said, "There's a blog post." Indeedopotamus.

I'm glad I'm out of thoughts for this post. My stomach hurts from laughing...more...again. Cheers!

...opotamus.

My own stupid clothes are trying to kill me

I'm wearing a t-shirt today with a fleece zip-up hoodie over it. The hoodie is causing the t-shirt to slide back on my shoulders and choke me. Am I alone here? Is this another one of those universal mysteries?

It's White Trash...but it's EXPENSIVE White Trash

I'm about halfway through Such a Pretty Fat by Jen Lancaster. I'm not quite cruising through it as fast as her other two books, but it's still a good, decadent read. I am an avid reader of her blog, Jennsylvania, as well. Today's post...laughed my ass off. I'm telling you, Jen and I were once one person, split into two separate and completely opposite halves, likely in an experiment gone awry. She is light. I am dark. She is fashionista. I am tomboy. She just doesn't know it yet.

And I sound like a stalker.

Swell.

http://www.jennsylvania.com/jennsylvania/2008/10/great-moments-i.html

Random Weirdness

Waiting at a stoplight yesterday afternoon, I watched a flock of small birds, maybe 30 or so, wheeling around in the sky over some trees. They'd swoop back and forth like one, in a big circle shaped group, all of them making the same sharp turns at the exact same time, but never seeming to be in any danger of colliding into one another.

My brain --> How are they doing that? I bet it's bird "Simon Says." Or it's a bird air show. They're the precision flying team, the Blue Swallows. Oops. Green light.

***

Riding to work this morning, I look at the same deer crossing sign I pass every day. And I'm thinking back to a video an acquaintance of mine sent to me. It was video footage from a police car at night, emergency lights on and speeding on a two lane highway in the middle of nowhere. A big deer suddenly appears in the headlights on the left side of the road. Almost as soon as the headlights illuminate this deer, it decides to run out in front of the cop car. And literally explodes as it's hit by the cow catcher on the front of the car. Chunks of guts smear up the windshield. Totally barf-worthy.

My brain --> Are deer really that stupid? That can't be the case. Maybe they can't see right. Is it depth perception? They've only got one eye on each side of their heads. You need both eyes focusing on the same point to have depth perception...right? So if the deer stands perpendicular to the road, it can't tell how far away a car is right? If you cover one eye while you're driving, it affects how you see...maybe it's the same with deer.

***

Saw this in a catalog today, and thought it was just the most fun and quirky chandelier I've ever seen.

....how long is it going to be before I start wearing muu-muus, live with multiple cats and share their food?

Roger "Wilco", Hawkeye Slob-san

The boss man found an internet station that's pretty good...WNEW, from New York. It's commercial-free, and I've heard everything from Marvin Gaye to Death Cab for Cutie, with some Depeche Mode and even School of Fish thrown in.

The only bizarre thing, is that I've now memorized a 2-3 minute piece from one of their DJ's broadcasting "live" from the Bonnaroo music fest in Tennessee. Which was last month. And if I could count the number of times this guy uses the words "audience" and "artist" in his spiel, they'd make up about 90% of the words spoken. It's been played so much that when I was working over by our intern, I said out loud before the DJ did, "Do the artists have the audience in the palm of their hand?" I was promptly answered by said DJ ("The artists here have the audience in the palm of their hand") and our intern stared at me...I thought I detected a little witchcraft fear in his eyes.

That audio quirk hasn't stopped me from listening, though. They even play Wilco...maybe two of their songs. And I just cannot stand them. I feel a little bad...some part of me should automatically like the band because long ago I marched with the drummer, right (I just realized what a dork that makes me...I didn't DO the drummer, I MARCHED with him)? There's a connection and I should honor it by snarfing up all their music...legally, even. Right? Agh...I just can't get into them. I give.

Mostly Naked had never heard anything by Wilco (a trend I'm finding all too familiar, even though Mostly Naked likes just about any music you could name), and asked me to describe what they sound like. I came just short of writhing on the ground in the fetal position, trying to come up with a fair but clear description. Finally, as I sat there sweating with cerebral effort and squinting my eyes as if in physical pain, I blurted out in a Tourette's-like manner, "Pussy Rock."

Sorry, Billy. If it makes you feel any better, I really like that one Son Volt song...

How could I forget this??

On our club website has a page for pictures of member's rides. You can really post up anything you want...motorcycling-related or not. One of our officers with some admin privileges will give new members about 24 hours to post up their own photo...after that, if you are sorry enough to leave the "No Picture" template up, you're at his mercy.

We had a newest member sign up this past Sunday...surprisingly, AFTER we had a crash-and-drop. And he's probably my dad's age. And, (sigh) faster than me. I'm fairly certain he had 24 hours...and I watched quietly, and not without a little panic, waiting for the noob to post a picture. I'm fairly certain THIS is not the photo he wanted posted up:

If you want to view it in all its glory, go here and look for "SVBrad", then click on the image. Enjoy.

Spazzy Synapse Firings

I don't understand how DAYS can sneak by in between posts. My fans must have collapsed, mere inches from the life-giving fountain of useless burblings that is me. All one of ya. Mom. I kid.

I've got nothin. I've been either painting, working or riding. All, which, for the most part, make for a boring post.

The house is very nearly finished being painted. A couple of coats here, another coat there and we get the rest of the summer off.

Our club ride last Sunday was...interesting. We rode a little farther than we usually do and went south of La Crosse through the Mindoro Cut and then back through it toward home. Another Triumph rider went splat just out of the cut in the first turn. His bike broke one of the fence posts and then hovered halfway into the abyss below. Being a Triumph, aside from a scraped up plastic, a bent shifter lever, and a couple of superficial boo-boos, he finished the ride. I thought I'd drop mine on its side for fun as I was pulling off the side of the road to assist.

I need an automatic, retractable kickstand. There's nothing blonder than forgetting to put your kickstand down. Twice. Worse yet, an old dude on a Goldwing had pulled over to let me pass before the Cut and then stopped next to me to help our fallen rider. I was close enough to him that when I dropped the bike, my instrument cowl brushed up against his leg. Didn't affect him. He merely turned his head in my direction and asked, calmly, "Are you okay?" No sir. I'm stupid. Are you okay? Don't sue me.

***

I went for a ride with my dad and his friend last night up to a new tavern on Lake Holcombe. Very nice. Ted's Timberlodge. All pine and slate and stone with a great view of the lake. That was a 70 mile trip. Then I got home and realized I didn't deposit my paycheck, so I rode to the bank branch farthest from my house. At some point I decided to get lost. "I wonder where EE goes? I'll follow it till it ends. Oh, it ends at H. I'll turn left here on H and ride that till it ends." That one was a long one. By the time I got to the end of H, it was getting darkish and all I knew was that I was south. And the farm guys in their pickup trucks were looking at me in a "paddle faster, I hear banjos" sort of way. I found a familiar route and followed it home...85 miles.

***

How are you guys dealing with the gas thing? I think it's around $4.22 here. I could tell you that I've taken an active approach in taking my motorcycle instead of my car, but I like to ride too much. I keep finding the looooonng way home. Honestly, I'm surprised I even know what the price was...I must have glanced at the pump. I don't care, I haven't cut back, I say spook the caribou, start drilling in Alaska, and give me all the 93 octane fossil fuels ya got. I don't think this makes me a bad American. Let's just say I'm doing all I can to hold up my end of the Pursuit of Happiness.

This Saturday the club is heading up to the Twin Cities for a benefit ride. A guy who used to ride in the club (whom we know as "Fez") has an 11 year old little brother who is in remission from Stage 4 Hodgkin's and they are throwing a little party for him. I'm looking forward to seeing Fez again and meeting his brother, but it will also be an all-day motorcycling jag. Yea for me! And Brother is actually going to ride with us for the first time this year.

***

Admittedly, my useless ramblings are more entertaining than current events...but sometimes you just have to build up the good stuff.

And I can't get "Mamma Mia" out. Of. My. Freaking. Head.

And Trish got Italy moments after I threw down my Hawaii gauntlet. Shush, Trish. Threaten me again, and I post up your artwork on the notes we passed from high school. Love to the W-W's!

There are no taste buds down there

Hah. You thought that was dirty didn't you? 'Snot.

I just wanted to publicly announce that I am eating a mashed potato bowl from KFC for lunch. It's mashed potatoes, corn, gravy, breaded chicken bits and cheese. And, so far, I've managed to keep it down.

While this isn't newsworthy in most cases, I am an exception in that my entire life (so far) has consisted of consuming food as if it were perpetually served on a sectioned Chinet plate. I do not mix my food. There is never corn mixed with the mashed potatoes and gravy. There are NEVER cranberries touching the green bean casserole. Barf noise.

I am constantly forced to respond to the statement, "It all ends up in the same place," with a scathing, "I don't have to taste it once it's down there."

Here I am, eating a mishmosh in a bowl...frankly it's not bad. But if there were cranberries in it too, I'd have to draw the line. Barf noise. Guess I'll check this off my list too; right up there with skydiving and track day.

Everyone out there in the food-mixin' USA, have a great 4th of July. Mind the fingers and toes.

How Come I Don't Get to Have Parosamia?

Topic: Things that are stinky.

Stinky: "Escape" by Rupert Holmes
Shortly after I moved up to Eau Claire, I bought an XM radio. Why? There are roughly 11 mainstream radio stations in this area (after eliminating the Christian rock, NPR, talk, and college stations). Aside: college stations play music that reminds me of that scene in "Animal House" when Otter is picking up dates at the nearby women's college. That song playing in the background while he waits in the lobby of the sorority...yeah, that one...the "I haven't washed in three days, my armpit hair is long and braid-able, I'm hanging out here in the coffee shop with the book "On The Road" sitting on the table (unread), and I'm rambling on about curing the world's hurts, but darn if I don't sound intellectual" song. We get a lot of that up here in Collegeland. Sometimes I like to hang out in the coffee shops with a highfalutin book I actually am reading, and scoff at the pretentious little twits. And who gave permission for white boys to grow dreads?

The eleven radio stations can be boiled down to FOUR genres: Top 40, classic rock, country, rock. Ergo, XM. I have a sort of A.D.D. love of music. Not too much of any one thing, but never enough of everything. Oddly enough, my A.D.D. does not include the above mentioned four genres, other than a few hardly-played numbers.

My employer is a definite late 70's/early 80's child of rock. He naturally chooses the classic rock station. With all the machinery noises in the background at work, I can almost drown out the music with the monotonous clicking of the press and my usual busy-headedness. Unfortunately, the station of choice is an internet no-name that, I've discovered, is fairly limited in scope. I have heard "Escape" at least once a week. Now, I KNOW none of you dear readers can claim that. And how is that "rock" anyway?

Last week, the song finally intruded on my conscience, and I was forced to listen to the lyrics. The story goes like this: couple is bored. Man of couple reads personals and finds intriguing mystery woman. Insists he must meet her. Turns out Man of couple re-meets Woman of couple. They laugh, they like pina coladas. Now, would this happen in real life? If you were bored with your girlfriend, and you go combing the personals, find someone you want to meet and it turns out it's your girlfriend after all, would there really be laughing? Or would there be stabbing? Does this do damage to the trust of a relationship? What kind of strength of will is necessary to overcome that terribly awkward realization that your significant other went sneaking off to look for someone new (or had already posted a personal ad doing same) without the common decency to come clean first? I digress. This song still stinks. Brother can come up with better songs thinking about toilet activities.

***

Stinky: Lawn clippings
Leave eight bags of last year's lawn clippings out in your backyard. Then move them to your dad's house. Try not to vomit. There is no way to describe the smell of decaying grass cooking in the sun in a black plastic garbage bag. For 12 months. Does it smell like cow manure? Nope. Feet? Not even. Guinness farts? No. More like all three together.

I had returned from my Saturday morning yoga class to find the back patio cleared of all the black bags, but there lingered a frightening odor that I couldn't pin down. Until our newest roommate wandered into the garage and made the barf noise. And described, all the while moving aforementioned bags, the number of times he and Brother made the barf noise. While I was making the barf noise. And when Brother returned from dumping the bags behind my dad's house, he resumed the barf noise. All day, waiting for the patio and garage to air out...the barf noise.

Now, we go bagless. It helps that Roommate finds mowing the lawn to be "therapeutic" if he's not forced to mow the lawn. I find this acceptable, though he, by no means, is required by us to mow. Frankly, I HATE mowing the lawn. I've mowed once this season; Brother may not have at all. Roommate does this regularly; also, mostly naked (yea for me). And darn if he doesn't mow on an angle. Our lot looks like someone dropped a dilapidated (read: scraped of exterior paint) ranch house in the middle of Fenway.

***

Stinky: Painting a house
Warm weather up here in the Northwoods is slow to appear. It really never hit 70 until early June this year. So when April rolled around and we discovered the exterior paint hanging off the soffit in chunks, and huge bubbles on the siding, guess what took priority while waiting for a suitable temperature to paint? Realistically, we could use new siding and windows, but painting was more financially feasible at this point. The last paint job on our house is crappy at best. No prep at all, it appears. So, perfectionists that Brother and I are, we've been pressure-washing, scraping, filling, and slopping on primer for the last, oh, 2 months. Mind you, I'm inherently lazy. If there's labor to be done, I can come up with all manner of seemly reasons to not labor. My cells are busier than I am.

Brother works two jobs and when he's not at either of those, he's working on the house. I feel bad, but...labor. The last couple of weekends and a couple of weekdays after work, when I'm done eating dinner, and it's not hot, and the sun isn't beating down on me, and I'm properly hydrated, and the hammock in the 3-season porch is not calling me, and I get to use the non-rickety ladder...I've done some work. Mostly because I can't stand looking at our awful Alabama swamp hut anymore. So we've been working in shifts. Brother sands during the day, I primer in the evening. We might get done before we start piling up bags of grass clippings again. Barf noise.

The house-painting highlight so far was last night. I was in the backyard, slapping primer on the bare wood spots when Roommate returns from his "run" (he doesn't, much), grabs a lawn chair and parks it in the grass (mostly naked again; yea for me) to watch me paint. Granted, this was to have a conversation while I was (ech) laboring, but in my head it was totally amusing to watch a woman up on a ladder painting and a mostly naked man in a lawn chair watching. I'm surprised men walking in the neighborhood didn't come up and congratulate Roommate on his achievement.

***

Stinky (but infinitely funny): Farts
Now that there are two dudes living in this humble abode, the farting has increased exponentially. I'm sure you can imagine the giggle factory I've become. Yes, farting is disgusting. Yes, it's socially unacceptable. However, if you constantly laugh at every toot, fweep, and BLAAAAT, you are unconsciously allowing the behavior to continue. It could be worse. We could have cats...and hairballs. Besides, I like to laugh. And now, I do a lot of it.

Brother, as I have stated, will drop a single BRAP and the deadly cloud spreads. Without warning. The rotting gas bag. He has convinced me that he likes the smell of them, even while making the barf noise. "Sniiiiff. Oh. Baaad. Sniiiiff (as if to confirm). Oh yeah. " Fun for him, not for us.

Roommate, on the other hand, makes me laugh, every time. Damn him. Melodic and tonal with a definite longevity. Not a hint of odor (not that you would catch me within 10 feet of him post-symphonic outburst. But, while Brother's has a way of filling the room, Roommate? Non-stinky.) We've determined he's made up of "sunshine and farts." Last night, while we were enjoying our non-cable TV (Public Television, I heart you) in the 3-season porch, I sat curled up in a chair and Roommate was sprawled out (mostly naked) in the hammock. At first I thought a random animal had passed by the 3-season and left a distinct "GTFOOH" mark on the air...then I realized it was the poo-lecules of my fellow human being.

Me: "Hey, you're not supposed to stink."
A pair of eyes peek out over the hammock.
Roommate: "I think I might be lactose-intolerant."
Me: "Why do you think that?"
Roommate: "My dinner of cheese and crackers, chips and dip, followed by cheese and crackers?"
Me: "I suspect it was your 'run'. That's why I don't."
Roommate: "Anyway, it's starting to hurt."
Me: "Want some ice cream?"
Roommate: "Does your pillow smell funny?"

Roommate and I went out on a ride Sunday night after our usual sportbike club ride. He has years of experience at riding (and a few more experiences than me at crashing) and I've improved much piloting my own bike while following him. But, I couldn't help but think as I watched him crest a hill into the sunset and lean out of sight into a left turn, "Is he farting right now? Would I be able to smell it back here? What does he mean 'Does your pillow smell funny?'"

Momma, I'm goin' fast!

America is all about speed. Hot, nasty, badass speed. -Eleanor Roosevelt, 1936

Becoming a motorcyclist changes your view regarding death. I recall, not long after I got my license and then became more comfortable with riding, thinking, "I DO NOT want to die. I will wear every piece of protective equipment I can think of and will make sure I'm well-rested beforehand and completely sober. But, if it does happen to be my time, meh. What can you do?" This should not be confused with BEFORE I was comfortable with riding, when I most often thought, "I'm TOTALLY gonna die."

Okay...so I've slipped up a little on the well-rested part. Which went hand-in-hand with the hangover a couple weeks back on a Sunday morning club ride. What little lesson did the Universe impart to me? Foggy brains are no good on a ride. I was all over the place, wasn't paying attention, reacted slowly. Stupid, really. And if one more rat bastard told me I needed to smile more, I was going to have to head-butt them with my helmet (However, I'm not THAT stupid. Head-butting hurts).

This past weekend's rub with the grass teaches another lesson: Don't be an ass. Tangent --> Speaking of ass, I'm now into the third washing of those jeans. And the butt-specific grass stains? Etched in. I asked our newest roomie, "Are you any kind of laundry guru? Know anything that'll get out ground-in shame? How about those tough embarrassment stains?" Note to self: He is no laundry guru. If that red t-shirt of his (the one that says, "When Chuck Norris parties, he doesn't throw up. He THROWS DOWN") goes in with my lights, I just know I'll end up with pink socks. I can only own one article of pink clothing at a time. Tomboy law.

Back to "don't be an ass." The events of this past Sunday bring to mind a wise and often-overlooked bit of sage advice. "Go that way. REALLY fast. If something gets in your way....turn." Uh huh. Also, duh.

***

I'm not terribly superstitious, but I believe an occasional little bit helps. My Icon jackets come with a little St. Christopher medal sewn into the inside pocket. I'm not Catholic, but it's nice to imagine a diminutive sweatshop worker--I like to picture a mother with many children--sewed this into my jacket with particular care and, as if knowing it would end up in my possession, would say to the aether, "Don't be an ass, Kuj. Even faith can't cure stupid."

Whenever I get on my bike, I give the freaky tiki on the tank a little pat, and say to myself, "Yeah, you could cack today. So, be vigilant, have a blast, and do what you can to return with all 20 digits, 4 limbs, both eyes and a head (I hear those are important), and whatever brain cells you still had when you left the house earlier."

Next week, I'm leaving for the Brainerd Intl. Raceway up in Minnesota. It's a Central Roadracing Association weekend, and a friend of mine is racing Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I love spectating, particularly when someone I know is out on the track. Motorcycle roadracing is a far more exciting sport to watch because it's so edge-of-the-envelope when it comes to speed, inertia, gravity, etc. And the pilot's all out there, skin, leather and plastic, pavement. Knees in the breeze.

Sunday night, the CRA organizers pack up and go home. But we'll be staying overnight again, because Monday all day is a TrackAddix track day. If you've never heard of "track day," it's basically an opportunity for those us of the non-racing persuasion to get to ride on a bona fide race track (and the NHRA dragstrip, which is part of the road course). Cheap too. Try $165 compared to a race weekend total of around $1500.

Gone is the gravel and sand, wildlife of the non-human variety, mini-vans, pedestrians, drunks, greasy horse poo, tar snakes and bicyclists in those icky shorts and cone-shaped helmets. It's just you, your bike, a 3.1 mile track and plenty of knowledge to be gleaned from riders with all kinds of experience.

This will be my first track day, and I've been told many times that track day makes you a much better rider, because all the above issues that make you hyper-aware on the street, disappear to let you concentrate on how to ride. I'm in the novice class, and we get to ride for 20 minutes every hour for most of the day. There are also instructors on-hand to walk you through the track before you start and offer suggestions as you ride.

I'm all excited about it, but I'm fairly certain I was less stressed out about buying my first house. Most of the stress is logistics (what to bring, how to bring it, will I get to have sex with a random blind man, I should shave in case I'm in an accident, etc.). I'm guessing when all the necessities are out of the way, the actual track day will have me as wired as my first skydive.

This introduction of more risk into my life had me thinking this morning about the what if...and I remembered back in high school when we had a Senior Will drawn up where we left various ephemera to the underclassmen. Well, the popular people evidently participated in the Senior Will. The rest of us on the fringes were evidently left off the "I will my foul sweat socks to Stumpy the Junior Jock Strap boy" list. I guess that beats being left a foul jock strap, depending on how you look at it. Also? Not crying about the Will. All the popular kids were douchebags. Being a band fag was fine with me. Especially that one day when the band got free lunch. For 2nd place in the nation. The football team never got that. Meatheads.

***

In the incredibly unlikely event of my demise on-track (Mom, read that twice. Incredibly unlikely), I, Kuj, being "all there" at the moment, do hereby blah blah blah.

To my Mother, I bequeath:

• My Bare Minerals kit, only used once. Using it on my corpse will likely result in a flawless complexion, unless oil-producing glands continue to function post-mortem. If that's the case, there's just no God.
• The bucket full of collected things in the spare room closet.
• The "claws" you talked me into buying at the Ren Fair.
• A song lyrics web page of your choosing. Bone up on your Duran Duran, since you know every other song on the planet.
• My sanity.

To my Father, I bequeath:

• Someone to follow you around one day a week, spouting useless, often-ignored phrases such as "Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad" and "Why won't you buy me that car when I graduate?"
• My XM radio. You can never listen to too much Motown and Blues.
• Sportbike tires for Rachel.

To my Brother, I bequeath:

• A mail sorter the size of a small, third-world country. Just admit it, you won't open your mail when I'm gone, either.
• A cork. Obviously.
• A hot tub. Filled with Guinness.
• A case of Febreze. In case the cork gives.
• My ability to not sweat the petty things, before you perforate your colon from stress. Don't forget to pet the sweaty things. Obviously.
• My bike. I picture a nice end table.

To my cousin Heather, I bequeath:

• My sense of humor and rapier-like wit. The trick is to not announce, "I'm funny!" Although, that worked flawlessly the first time. Huge laugh. HUGE.
• Many tiaras.
• A case of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup. Don't think about the human flesh thing.
• Whatever patience I had left to deal with this "laugh first, ask if you're okay later" family of ours.
  

To my cousin Beefcake, I bequeath:

• Your own bar. Tappers as far as the eye can see.
• A tiny, fart-riding cowboy. Weeeeee!
• Extra-long socks.

To my Aunt Joy, I bequeath:

• Anything decorative that still didn't get hung up on a wall or placed...decoratively. You are a magician of the domestic.
• A lifetime supply of that appetizer from Wildfish.
• No winged f**kers.
• Someone to make sure your nightshirt is on right-side out next time you huddle in the laundry room during a tornado warning.

To my best friend Trish, I bequeath:

• A simultaneous, alternative life. You need the Jimmy Buffet lifestyle; you have no idea. Flip-flops, umbrella drinks, mostly nude, fairly tanned pool boys. Never mind. Talk your gorgeous husband into a flattering Speedo. Make him mow the lawn.
• A hammock. From which to watch Speedo husband mow the lawn. Don't forget the umbrella drink.
• And a babysitter.
• My total and utter disgust for the Wilco drummer's hair. Okay, I'm dead, I can come clean...my total and utter disgust for Wilco's music too.

To my dear friend Choz, I bequeath:

• My Frank Sinatra CD. You've probably spilled Captain Morgan on yours by now.
• My fountain of useless knowledge for NTN trivia.
• My absolute enjoyment in something as simple as a good boat drink and an after-dark excursion aboard the good ship.
  

To my dear friend Billy, I bequeath:

• Every last cd I own (except Frank, obviously). You just can't ever have enough music. You'll love Enya.
  
• That one t-shirt. You know the one.
• My Wilco drummer "memorabilia."
• Full length posters of every "hot chick" who's ever been your "intern."

To my dear friend Ben, I bequeath:

• An ass-smacking hand made of plaster. I swear I'll get back at you one way or another.
• A new hamstring, evidently.
• The title of "Pseudo-Sommelier" for trying to keep the Winery thing going after I moved.
• The simple amusement of "Not Saint, Le, Eau."
• That look on your face when you denied stepping into a strip club 20 minutes after your arrival in Eau Claire.
• Speaking of that, a god blessed chauffeur.

To my dear friend Art, I bequeath:

• A straight pinky.
• No more agita.
• A lounge very near your desk, complete with the Taco Bell dog and "female appointments" calendar.
• A lifetime supply of choco-buttons.
• A dead, sweaty, fake Elvis with camel toe. Yeeesh.
• A ticket for any airline except America West.
• A drunken stroll to the Las Vegas Strip Walgreen's for "beanercheese."
• A $20 sushi lunch.
• A $120 Mexican dinner.
• A new SSCo username.

To my dear....well, to Junior, I bequeath:

• A car radio with one station. Mexican.
• A California Closet consultation for your cubicle.
• An end to polo shirts with a single, horizontal stripe. You and Alan from "Two and a Half Men"? Twins.
• Bernie. You have him follow you around at midnight. See how you like it.
• Your lips bronzed in the shape of "Tooosday." Somebody else may enjoy the sight as much as I once did.

To my incredibly gracious boss, I bequeath:

• An employee who's less of a pain in the ass. And cheaper. But better.

To my neighbors across the street, I bequeath:

• A parking lot.
• Stock exhaust pipes.

To the Chippewa Valley Sportbike Club, I bequeath:

• A case of Anti-Monkey Butt.
• A case of Taint Paint.
• A case of Gold Bond.
• A case of Beamish.
• A case of happy pills.
  
• A case of duct tape.
• A case of zip ties.
• A case to hold it all.

To El Presidente, I bequeath:

• Your very own case of duct tape and zip ties.
• A chiropractor.
• A monkey paw.

To the entire Chippewa Valley, I bequeath:

• More radio format choices besides Country AND Western.
• Lou's.
• Portillo's.
• Siri Thai.
• Wildfish.
  

To Skrawny, I bequeath:

• My ass fat.
• All the tears you made me shed in sheer hilarity.
• A cabinet full of beer steins.

To my ex-boyfriend, I bequeath:

• My old sweatshirts. You freak.

Don't forget to play the music on my mp3 player at the funeral...party it up!

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!