I Will Never Forget

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

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

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

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

Sigmund Kopec, KIA, WWII

Chester Kujawa

Daniel Kujawa

Donald Barberini

Richard Kujawa

James Pauling

John Kawa

J. Scott Holley

Erin Howle

Benjamin Bridges

Jacob Veness

Jeffrey Juhnke

"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? :)

Freud is Choking on His Big, Fat Hog

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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

NO MORE WIRE HANGERS!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not yet.

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

Momma's Day

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

Momma Said Knock You Out

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

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

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

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

Palm Coast Art! Good stuff!

My Very Creative Mother Just Creates The Best Stuff.

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

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

She Who Must Be Obeyed

Happy Birthday Momma.

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

Fish lips

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

Give Me 1,000 Kisses

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. :)

You kids today...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can't go home again...

Unless you're me.

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

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

Novotny, Moi, Trish

The Family

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

****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Mmm...beer.

****

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

****

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

Most love,
Kuj

Jump. Both Feet.

My old stomping grounds were the Northwest suburbs of Chicago. As I was growing up, my aunt and her two children, Heb and Beefcake, lived two blocks from us. My dad's parents lived about 20 minutes from us; my mom's, 40 minutes. My dad's brothers and sisters along with my seven other cousins were within an hour radius of our house. I lived there for about 14 years. I ended up moving a couple of times within the northwest/west area. I worked at the same place for 14 years.

Looking back I can't imagine why I didn't move up to Eau Claire sooner. But then, when I'd lived in Illinois, the thought of leaving every last thing I had come to know and love was a fearful and anxious deal. Until my last parental anchor (I mean that in a good way, Momma) moved to Atlanta. After that, I felt...homeless. I moved in with two other women my age...and couldn't stand it. Aside from living way south of where I worked, I had to commute in what can only be described as a most heinous journey of gridlock, a multitude of stop lights and nearly an hour in the car one way. Then I moved in with my aunt for a year, and as that time passed, and the realization that affording my own place wasn't going to work the way I wanted it to, Eau Claire started to appeal. I had no attachments in Illinois, other than friends and extended family. The job was never that important, but moving away from my social circle, small though it may have been, was something I wasn't ever sure I could do. I didn't have any work lined up in Eau Claire either, despite some dedicated effort to snag employment prior to the move.

But I did it. Granted, I had a comfort zone to move to...I've been to Eau Claire many times before I moved here and having my dad and brother living up here made the decision less intimidating. But the move made me realize that it's true what all those adults had been telling you your entire life (see? They aren't as stupid as we all once thought!): The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. You never know if you don't try.

Since I finally determined I was going to move, it's like this part of my brain has suddenly awakened and I've become so much more brave than my former self. Sure, it's not exactly Medal of Honor courage that makes you move to a new town, or try something that you've never tried before. But it's your own battle against whatever you fear, no matter how small. I fully expect the possibility of failure or face a rough road ahead at whatever I do...at first. Where once long ago the voice in my head would say, "Why bother? You won't be good at it," I now hear, "Why not? You won't be good at it at first."

Failure, I've learned, is a necessary part of everything you do. Human beings cannot be perfect in whatever they attempt. It's also not the way the universe works. Without failure we wouldn't have evolution, advances in technology and science, or medicine. Failure is a required piece of experience.

So, being afraid of failing? Utterly ridiculous. Face the fact that you will likely fail, but what makes a difference is if you keeping trying regardless. I always like to recall something about Thomas Edison failing 1,000 times before he got the incandescent light bulb to work. To put a better spin on his experience, he said, "I have not failed 1,000 times. I have successfully discovered 1,000 ways to NOT make a light bulb." But what other ideas or inventions did those 1,000 times yield? Did one of those attempts steer him in another direction as well?

I'm soapboxing here because I like to think I'm an example (and improving) of the "What the hell?" philosophy. It started with "The Move" and it's only been limited by my finances at the time or my not thinking big enough. Motorcycling was one. Pinstriping is another (oh yes, Me of Little Art armed with a brush...no surface is safe). My first attempt is flippin' HORRIBLE, but I'm still excited about what's to come. Maybe I'll become renowned as a "primitive pinstriper." Guitar lessons (good lord, maybe even singing lessons) are coming as soon as I pay off the 50cc dirt bike I bought last month...for improving my sportbike riding, believe it or not. Okay, so it's really because I'm lazy and would like my own pit bike when I'm trackside. But a neat side effect might be excelling at motorcycling on the street. Why? Because I'm more brave on such a small, slow bike and it presented itself as a much less stupid idea than screwing around on my sportbike.

Maybe you're pinched for cash. Maybe you are completely occupied with your children. Maybe you're "stuck" in a rotten relationship. Find a quiet place, sit down, relax, hash out what's the worst that happens if you change direction? You risk your money? There's more to be found. Think bigger, broader. You have no time? Bet you could find some. Don't go up and down the stairs 20 times a day. Plan out multiple tasks for one trip. Maybe you free up 5 minutes to learn Japanese that way, a little bit at a time.

Fear is stupid, limiting, and keeps you from becoming a well-rounded person. Think of it this way...how much time do you have left if this is the only life you get? Wouldn't you want to be able to say you've accomplished so much and you wouldn't change it for anything? And be proud of that??

Jump. Both Feet.

Tribal Holiday

My super-duper creative mother brought a bucket o' crafty bits to the post-Thanksgiving Day dinner table when we were all in Chicago visiting my family. Here's what we came up with...

So when Mostly Naked saw my masterpiece (front row, 3rd from right), he thought that was our only Christmas decoration in the house. He also thought I made it in grade school. Proof that I'm an ARTEEST with the big vocabulary, not so much the mixed media. Keep in mind, we haven't seen MN actually make anything...except a mess of his motorcycle.

Winter at the EC Tribe's house this year doesn't involve housing any less motorcycles in the living room. Just smaller ones. The one in the lights is my gift to me.

My most excellent gift to the boys...honestly I don't even care if they don't like them (though I think they did)...I just think these posters are the coolest thing. I could stare at them for hours. More, though, at my own poster, hanging up in our "Command Center." me. me. me.

Happy holidays!

Christmas Torture

Brother and I have a long-standing tradition each year at Christmas. The two of us historically have had ants in our pants a matter of days before the event and, despite the fact that we're both in our 30's, this has not lessened where giving each other presents is concerned. What sustains us for another few days is each of us once agreed when we were much younger that I would let him open one present from me and he gave me one from him to open. Really, it's not so much of an agreement, more of a necessity. It's so hard to get wired for a holiday that the consumer-driven world starts marketing to death in SEPTEMBER, and then you're repeatedly bombarded with sales, traffic and people for months to come. It's funny, but this little burst of excitement is so sweetly painful to both of us that only one present a piece, opened early, seems to be an aspirin of sorts. I don't think we've even ever told either of our parents just how many years we've been committing this taboo act.

I only have one present for Tommy this year and I'm so truly excited about the gift I'm giving him and a similar one I have for Mostly Naked, that everything else tied to the holiday is eclipsed. I even surprise myself with this spirit of giving, because for most of the year, in my own head anyway, it's "gimme, gimme, gimme."

Last night, as Brother is signing the pile of mutual Christmas cards (yes, those of you who are receiving, they're gonna be late), I'm sitting on the bench by our picture window, looking at my first real tree in years, modestly decorated and with presents from my mom tucked under it. And the case of beer for M.N. (not the present I'm excited about, btw).

I inform my brother that I've only given him one present this year, so it looks like our tradition will be somewhat fractured. And honestly, I don't even care if he doesn't honor his end of the deal...me--> too excited about my gift to him. After a few minutes, I say to him, "Wanna open it?" He replies without looking up from signing, "Nope."

Me: "DAMN YOU!"
Brother looks up and says, "Look, it's not like I don't know what it is...I saw you bring it in and the shape was a dead giveaway."
Me: "I don't care if you know what it is already. I'm just so spazzed out about you opening it and seeing how utterly awesome it looks."

I begin to go into detail regarding how I snagged the item necessary for Mostly Naked's similar present (not the beer). Which is to say, sneaky web surfing, discreet contacts, and a tiny bit of subterfuge. He interrupts me in mid-sentence...

Brother: "Wait? That's what you got me??"
I halt, my mouth hanging open.
Me: "DAMN YOU!"
Brother: "I'm kidding. I knew already."
Me: "DAMN YOU!" I'm actually shaking my head back and forth and stomping my feet rapidly in a seated tantrum. "Wanna open it?"
Brother: "Nope."
Me: "DAMN YOU!"
Him: "You know, as much fun as the 'open one early' thing is...torturing you? WAY more fun."
Me: Silence. Damn him.

Would he make a great hostage negotiator or what? ...or maybe I'm just that big a sucker.

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!"

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.

All Skate! Everyone out on the floor!

I've had a couple of old Michael Jackson songs on my mp3 player for at least a year now. Old, as in, when Michael Jackson was still black. And...normal-looking. And you couldn't see his brain by way of his nostrils. I've played "Can't Stop Till You Get Enough" and "Rock With You" over and over and haven't gotten sick of them yet.

I'm a crazy Google monkey, I will admit. If a thought occurs to me and there's no one around to hear it...or I get that "you are such a retard" look, I turn to my trusty Google. Really, you can Google just about anything. "What date did Hitler invade Poland?" "What's this lump behind my ear?" "Who was the tallest man?" "Why do zippered hoodies make your t-shirt choke you?" No dice on that last one, though if you're looking to fashion a Bigfoot costume, there's your search sentence.

The MJ songs were two of my favorites that I remembered dimly from my childhood days spent at the local roller rinks. During a club ride a month or so ago, I recalled the reason why I liked those songs and when I got home, I googled "roller skating music," because I might be missing more fantastic songs and, sure as I'm typing, playlists posted by other people triggered all kinds of recollections.

Roller skating is definitely a 2nd generation pastime on my mom's side of the family. I wouldn't be surprised if my grandparents were skaters, but I know for certain my mom and her sister spent most of their teenage years at a rink.

There were at least three rinks near us at the time. My favorite was Fireside in Schaumburg. It had a smooth wooden floor that had been urethaned within an inch of its life. It was bright, airy, high-ceilinged. The center area for "moves" was surrounded by a waist-high wall with maybe four openings to escape from. There was a "roller coaster" along the back wall if you were into working harder at cracking your skull open. And not a helmet to be seen. The floor was almost pillowy, I tell you. I know I spent time there with my cousins Beefcake and Heb, but I vaguely recall skating with my mom and aunt when the organist would play at the rink. Yes, an organist. Dig it.

It was a horrible, horrible day for me when I learned that Fireside was closing down. Now, I was going to be forced to go to, ugh...Coachlite. Dark, cramped, lumpy-ass concrete floor. Hated it. Until I ordered a "suicide" (every flavor of soda from the fountain in one cup). And 4-foot long red licorice ropes, capable of leaving welts. Sometimes you'd eat them too. Or...OR! You could use the red licorice as a straw and SIP your suicide with it. Heaven. My hate relationship with Coachlite started to weaken after these discoveries. What final straw broke the hatin' back? Boys. Ah, hormones. From then after, Coachlite became THE place to flirt. Until I started drinking alcohol...then, surprise surprise, you could flirt ANYWHERE with the booze runnin' through you. But that was a little later down the road. You likely can't drink and skate...you'd spill your Pink Lady.

LOVED the front stopper. This is back in the day where dragging a skate actually slowed you down instead of sending you into a high-speed spin.

My dad had moved up to the Twin Cities near the twilight of my skating years. He hooked Brother and I up with a new-fangled invention that was big in Minnesota at the time and I KNOW Tom and I were the only two kids in the neighborhood if not the WORLD with these.

Yup. Those lace the whole way up.

Coachlite wouldn't let us bring them in. Hah.

Music? I put together a list of the most memorable for me.

"Situation" by Yaz
"I Wanna Rock With You" by Michael Jackson
"Don't Stop Till You Get Enough" by Michael Jackson
"Bad Girls" by Donna Summer
"You Dropped the Bomb on Me" by The Gap Band
"Freakazoid" by Midnight Star
"In My House" by The Mary Jane Girls
"Jam On It" by Newcleus
"It Takes Two" by Rob Base

Hopefully, this jogs the memories of Brother, Heb, Momma and Auntie and they'll share their thoughts, too.

I'm glad I decided to write up this post...I feel better now...it's miserable outside and I'm fighting the urge to go fetal until Spring. Somebody find me a roller rink with a bar. Ooo! Camelbak!

Miss Crankypants

I went with Fahjah for the monthly Sam's Club run to pick up paper towels and poo tickets in bulk the other day. I also purchased chocolate in bulk, and while eating my weight in flavored chocolates typically will soothe my winter ravaged soul, this time it's not working...the cold weather is settling in...my S.A.D. is kicking into high gear, and I've started stocking the fridge with Beamish and the bathroom with Nyquil.

No more Stretchy Pants Sunday (strutting our stuff from garage to front door clad in black, snug Underarmor). No more watching MN mow our lawn...MN. No more using cars as moving pylons. No more sweet, sweet beach cruiser. No more hammock in the three-season porch.

Only things we'll have for the next half a year (whimper)? Beer, bonfires, fluffy white snow, chili (with beans, of course...ammo) and flannel sheets. And the crankiest of residents at La Casa de Gasa. I'm escaping for a week in Tampa as soon as the New Year hits. Once I let her know, I'm sure my mom will be excitedly planning to do all my favorite things as soon as I get off the plane...Go to a Florida Wal-Mart, grocery shopping, bicycle 50 miles on the bike trail, check the mailbox for snakes, etc. I'm hoping if I show up at her house with a case of her favorite Leinie's (and bulk chocolate (Dove, Momma)), I might get off easy.

After my first hardcore season of motorcycling, I'm looking forward to winter this year with all the joy and silliness of a Silkwood shower.

...But I'd STILL rather live here than in Florida. We Cheeseheads may be a more weather-worn, hardy people, but at least we're laid back and delightfully redneck. Worst thing that happens here is somebody lights his friend's balls on fire.