Friday has become our de facto ocean day in St. Augustine. That is, up until we start our full-timeschedules. I’ll probably still have Fridays off, but I’m not ready to go by myself. I want someone to notice if I go missing, you know?
Our first trip to Vilano Beach was perfect. The waves were calm and we were able to wade out to our shoulders and only get splashed by waves occasionally. The water was bath water warm, there was a gentle cooling breeze, and everything just fit together snuggly. We were in love.
Our second trip to Vilano was not smooth. It turned out to be a big wave day, and all the surfers were out en masse. A guy with a surf board walked by me, and I asked, “How did you know it would be a big wave day?” His answer: “I’ve been doing this forty years.” Hmm, good answer, but not very useful to me.
On the second trip, we (I) only waded up to my knees, technically, but the waves were so huge that even at that depth I got covered up to my shoulders. Usually. Sometimes the waves came in so huge that I really got dunked, even so close to the shore like that. I kept score of the waves, hence this post’s title. Six times the ocean knocked me down, and once I withstood the ocean’s wave attack.
Each time I got knocked down, I’d get pushed to a sitting position and pushed toward the shore. This meant my bottom was being dragged across the sandy bottom, and my swim trunks would fill with sand. The trick here is that since I was wading so shallow, I’d have to go in deeper to try and get the sand out of my trunks. Going deeper exposed me to more waves. Exposure to more waves tended to knock me over, thus the dilemma of the cycle.
We managed to have fun anyway, and Matthew seems to really enjoy body surfing in the big swells, so it was far from a bust. What ended up happening to me, though, was that my knees got really sore from constantly being pushed by the strong water. I had to give up on the ocean dip once I realized I was hurting myself—no, wait, once I realized the ocean was hurting me.
We went to the shore to lay out and dry off. We forgot sunblock. And, so, Team Wy earned their first St. Augustine sunburns. Aww. Matthew’s hurts worse than mine, so I guess I’m lucky that way.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Sing just for me
My friend Kathy tells a backstage Duran Duran story that kicks my Simon LeBon pre-teen crush story’s ass, but this isn’t Kathy’s blog, so I’m telling my story instead.
I bought Matthew a karaoke machine as a housewarming gift when we moved to Florida, and since then we’ve been squirreling disks whenever we can, giddy with each new find. One nugget was a song track labeled “Rio” by Duran Duran, but it turned out to be “Hungry like the Wolf.” I didn’t mind; I think I’d sing anything Duran Duran at home karaoke. But singing “smell like I sound” made me remember middle school.
Insert Wayne’s World flashback wavy lines.
Just on the cusp of middle school, my parents moved us to a new neighborhood. It was never like the old place, Reidlonn, instead it was more impersonal and making new friendships was difficult. There were a few kids about my age living on the street behind us, and I tried my best to make friends with them. The problem was that one girl was significantly wealthier than me and had total disdain for me, and another girl was significantly poorer than me and she had total disgust for me. So you see the problem. No one in the middle to be friends with Christine.
I hung out with the rich girl, Raechel, every once in a while. She had an awesome sticker collection, whereas mine anemically contained a few graphic scratch-n-sniff and a few pictures of random objects. But nothing cool, none of the right stickers. Raechel had the most impressive sticker collection of anyone I knew, however. I don’t know where she attended middle school that was so magical, but she talked about her and her friends doing sticker swaps and miraculous sticker book meets. At my school, we kind of took our sticker books to school with us, but no one had anything grade A primo to really worry about swapping.
One sunny afternoon in the summer, Raechel must have been bored because she actually called me over to play. As a bonus, she told me, “I have new stickers.” When I got to her bedroom, she pulled out a 2” by 3” wax sheet of glitter heart stickers that nearly melted my soul with envy. And then Raechel blew my mind. “This is the newest sticker I just traded for,” and she showed me a tiny 1” rendering of Duran Duran—in sticker form. I thought I’d die. Having the Duran Duran sticker would catapult my pedestrian sticker book to stratospheric proportions.
“I’d love it if you could share some of your stickers with me,” I said, trying to figure out how to ingratiate myself to Raechel.
“Mmm, maybe you could have a couple of the glitter hearts.”
I really craved to have Simon LeBon so I could practice kissing his tiny 2 mm visage. “I really like that other one,” I told her, pointing at sticker Duran Duran.
“Welll, I just got it and all…”
Somehow, I persuaded Raechel to blindfold me, and she would do a switcheroo, and then I would point and pick a sticker at random. Like sticker roulette. So, blindfold, swish, swish swish, “Now pick.”
At first I worried that I’d choose wrong and get stuck with glitter hearts instead of my heart’s desire. But then I realized that my disproportionately large nose was causing a huge gap in the blindfold and I could see straight out by just tilting my head back a little. But, was this a sin? If I cheated at sticker roulette, did I have to go to confession? Lying is clearly forbidden by the Catholic church, but, come on, Simon LeBon! Doesn’t Simon LeBon totally trump the Catholic church?
He does. He does indeed.
I tilted back my head, and I could see Raechel’s hands as she moved around the stickers in front of me. On the right, glitter hearts. On the left, clearly a square of Duran Duran. “Okay, now choose,” Raechel said to me, confident her scheme would keep her sticker collection intact.
I extended my left index finger, “That one.”
She gasped. I took off my blindfold and faked surprise like nobody’s business. “Oh my goodness!” I squealed, and picked up the much coveted Duran Duran sticker.
“Um, let’s try again at the sticker game, OK?” Raechel awkwardly asked me. Confident in my ability to cheat her all day if necessary, I was ready for any challenge. Again, sticker roulette, swish, swish, swish on her carpet. “Now choose.” I pointed with my right index finger this time, directly at my future husband’s face, Simon LeBon.
I took off my blindfold: “Oh! I got it again!” I picked up the sticker.
“No, let’s try again,” Raechel told me. “I want to make sure your blindfold is on right.” No problem. She held up two fingers to test if I could see, I said “three?” Lie. She held up four fingers to see if I could tell, and I said, “two?” Lie. She was finally satisfied. And for a third time she played the eggshell game, teasing my obvious future with my boyfriend Simon LeBon.
This time, I acted even harder, and I started to point to the left like I wasn’t sure, and I said, “Ummm,” a lot as my finger wavered. But, at last, my finger settled on the Duran Duran sticker. “This one,” I declared. I took off my blindfold, and Raechel finally conceded defeat.
Knowing when to cut and run, I got out with my precious sticker while I could, so I kept up the lying (sorry God!) and told Raechel I had to be home or my mom would be mad. I bailed so fast I think I left her crying on the white carpet of her perfect princess bedroom, and I didn’t care. She had decorative grass fronds in a vase in the corner of her room; she could get another Duran Duran sticker any time she wanted, right?
I never really saw Raechel again after that, but I didn’t care; I got what I wanted out of the relationship—exclusive access to my husband, Simon LeBon.
I bought Matthew a karaoke machine as a housewarming gift when we moved to Florida, and since then we’ve been squirreling disks whenever we can, giddy with each new find. One nugget was a song track labeled “Rio” by Duran Duran, but it turned out to be “Hungry like the Wolf.” I didn’t mind; I think I’d sing anything Duran Duran at home karaoke. But singing “smell like I sound” made me remember middle school.
Insert Wayne’s World flashback wavy lines.
Just on the cusp of middle school, my parents moved us to a new neighborhood. It was never like the old place, Reidlonn, instead it was more impersonal and making new friendships was difficult. There were a few kids about my age living on the street behind us, and I tried my best to make friends with them. The problem was that one girl was significantly wealthier than me and had total disdain for me, and another girl was significantly poorer than me and she had total disgust for me. So you see the problem. No one in the middle to be friends with Christine.
I hung out with the rich girl, Raechel, every once in a while. She had an awesome sticker collection, whereas mine anemically contained a few graphic scratch-n-sniff and a few pictures of random objects. But nothing cool, none of the right stickers. Raechel had the most impressive sticker collection of anyone I knew, however. I don’t know where she attended middle school that was so magical, but she talked about her and her friends doing sticker swaps and miraculous sticker book meets. At my school, we kind of took our sticker books to school with us, but no one had anything grade A primo to really worry about swapping.
One sunny afternoon in the summer, Raechel must have been bored because she actually called me over to play. As a bonus, she told me, “I have new stickers.” When I got to her bedroom, she pulled out a 2” by 3” wax sheet of glitter heart stickers that nearly melted my soul with envy. And then Raechel blew my mind. “This is the newest sticker I just traded for,” and she showed me a tiny 1” rendering of Duran Duran—in sticker form. I thought I’d die. Having the Duran Duran sticker would catapult my pedestrian sticker book to stratospheric proportions.
“I’d love it if you could share some of your stickers with me,” I said, trying to figure out how to ingratiate myself to Raechel.
“Mmm, maybe you could have a couple of the glitter hearts.”
I really craved to have Simon LeBon so I could practice kissing his tiny 2 mm visage. “I really like that other one,” I told her, pointing at sticker Duran Duran.
“Welll, I just got it and all…”
Somehow, I persuaded Raechel to blindfold me, and she would do a switcheroo, and then I would point and pick a sticker at random. Like sticker roulette. So, blindfold, swish, swish swish, “Now pick.”
At first I worried that I’d choose wrong and get stuck with glitter hearts instead of my heart’s desire. But then I realized that my disproportionately large nose was causing a huge gap in the blindfold and I could see straight out by just tilting my head back a little. But, was this a sin? If I cheated at sticker roulette, did I have to go to confession? Lying is clearly forbidden by the Catholic church, but, come on, Simon LeBon! Doesn’t Simon LeBon totally trump the Catholic church?
He does. He does indeed.
I tilted back my head, and I could see Raechel’s hands as she moved around the stickers in front of me. On the right, glitter hearts. On the left, clearly a square of Duran Duran. “Okay, now choose,” Raechel said to me, confident her scheme would keep her sticker collection intact.
I extended my left index finger, “That one.”
She gasped. I took off my blindfold and faked surprise like nobody’s business. “Oh my goodness!” I squealed, and picked up the much coveted Duran Duran sticker.
“Um, let’s try again at the sticker game, OK?” Raechel awkwardly asked me. Confident in my ability to cheat her all day if necessary, I was ready for any challenge. Again, sticker roulette, swish, swish, swish on her carpet. “Now choose.” I pointed with my right index finger this time, directly at my future husband’s face, Simon LeBon.
I took off my blindfold: “Oh! I got it again!” I picked up the sticker.
“No, let’s try again,” Raechel told me. “I want to make sure your blindfold is on right.” No problem. She held up two fingers to test if I could see, I said “three?” Lie. She held up four fingers to see if I could tell, and I said, “two?” Lie. She was finally satisfied. And for a third time she played the eggshell game, teasing my obvious future with my boyfriend Simon LeBon.
This time, I acted even harder, and I started to point to the left like I wasn’t sure, and I said, “Ummm,” a lot as my finger wavered. But, at last, my finger settled on the Duran Duran sticker. “This one,” I declared. I took off my blindfold, and Raechel finally conceded defeat.
Knowing when to cut and run, I got out with my precious sticker while I could, so I kept up the lying (sorry God!) and told Raechel I had to be home or my mom would be mad. I bailed so fast I think I left her crying on the white carpet of her perfect princess bedroom, and I didn’t care. She had decorative grass fronds in a vase in the corner of her room; she could get another Duran Duran sticker any time she wanted, right?
I never really saw Raechel again after that, but I didn’t care; I got what I wanted out of the relationship—exclusive access to my husband, Simon LeBon.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
School of hard knocks
I learned something today. Leaving my laptop unattended on the spare bed is probably not a good idea. It's covered in cat puke this morning. Mostly I wish my husband had woken up first so he could deal with it.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Curmudgeonly yours
Of all the misguided people I’ve met in my life, hippies are the most self-righteous, self-absorbed, misinformed, opportunistic, greedy jerks I’ve ever met.
Did you hear that? I just turned old. If you’re really quiet, you can hear the death rattle of my youth.
Here’s how else I know I’m old: I don’t understand music videos anymore. Matthew and I were watching Fuse music network, and a video (gasp!) actually came on. Four guys who all looked under the age of 21—much closer to the tender age of 18, I’d guess—were wailing away about how some jerk wad feels like a real man because he hits his girlfriend and they hate him for it. What did I say in response? Was it a, “Wow, it’s really amazing to watch videos for a change since MTV is all Real World/Road Rules/Jackass Challenge these days,” b, “I’m not into this band, but I feel where they’re coming from; violence against women is wrong,” or, did I shout c, “Oh my god! They’re like 18 years old! They don’t know anything about domestic violence!” Yes, it was c. I turned to Matthew and said, “Oh no, I just turned old, didn’t I”
He laughed and asked, “How does it feel?”
“I don’t know yet,” I answered.
And I was stunned. I just turned 31. It felt like a big birthday, because it was a birthday that said, “OK, this is it. This is your life; you’re really an adult now. This is really what’s happening now.” There was no, “tomorrow you skip out on life and go back to grad school!” No, “It’s OK, Mommie and Daddie still cook your meals!” Just, “You look forward to paying bills on time.” It was a pretty un-glamorous birthday, obviously.
So, back to hippies. My neighbor and friend has a sweet but misplaced nurturing streak. She’s letting someone she barely knew before they arrived sleep at her house indefinitely. This person is proud to have been homeless in the past. This person now has a two-year-old son. This person is named Precious. This person is named Precious, brags about being a stay-at-home-mom, and swears like a sailor in front of her gift, the joy of her life, her toddler son. Honey, you’re just unemployed hippie trash. She congratulated me for being “real.” She told me: “It’s great to have someone so real to have a conversation with.” Well, I may have seemed real, but really I was just being polite, and I let her do all the talking or else I was gonna cuss her like a sailor in front of her undeserving two-year-old boy.
Here’s the strange thing about hippies like Precious: all they can talk about is making money. You think hippies are all into free love and stopping the war, but all the people I know who really think they’re “true” hippies only care about finding the next buck. Every time I opened my mouth, Precious turned it into some sort of statement about, “You can make money doing that.” And I’d even respect her need to support herself and her child, but every time she speaks she has another scheme to make a buck: “I could make and sell jewelry at the head shop.” “I could make hula hoops.” “I can be a housekeeper and make $200 a day.” “I can make soap.” She’s so busy with these stream of conscious money scheme updates, that even if I wanted to I couldn’t have an actual conversation with her. So far, the only skill she sticks with is running her mouth.
And there, now I’m old. I don’t understand rock music and hippies make me angry. I’ve turned a corner in life, a crotchety, smaller-minded corner, but I’m not resisting. I feel that although I’m losing touch with so many things that used to motivate me, I’m only getting better with age. I’ve always felt that, every birthday, another year of wisdom and experience gained. It’s just that right now my experience isn’t very precious.
Did you hear that? I just turned old. If you’re really quiet, you can hear the death rattle of my youth.
Here’s how else I know I’m old: I don’t understand music videos anymore. Matthew and I were watching Fuse music network, and a video (gasp!) actually came on. Four guys who all looked under the age of 21—much closer to the tender age of 18, I’d guess—were wailing away about how some jerk wad feels like a real man because he hits his girlfriend and they hate him for it. What did I say in response? Was it a, “Wow, it’s really amazing to watch videos for a change since MTV is all Real World/Road Rules/Jackass Challenge these days,” b, “I’m not into this band, but I feel where they’re coming from; violence against women is wrong,” or, did I shout c, “Oh my god! They’re like 18 years old! They don’t know anything about domestic violence!” Yes, it was c. I turned to Matthew and said, “Oh no, I just turned old, didn’t I”
He laughed and asked, “How does it feel?”
“I don’t know yet,” I answered.
And I was stunned. I just turned 31. It felt like a big birthday, because it was a birthday that said, “OK, this is it. This is your life; you’re really an adult now. This is really what’s happening now.” There was no, “tomorrow you skip out on life and go back to grad school!” No, “It’s OK, Mommie and Daddie still cook your meals!” Just, “You look forward to paying bills on time.” It was a pretty un-glamorous birthday, obviously.
So, back to hippies. My neighbor and friend has a sweet but misplaced nurturing streak. She’s letting someone she barely knew before they arrived sleep at her house indefinitely. This person is proud to have been homeless in the past. This person now has a two-year-old son. This person is named Precious. This person is named Precious, brags about being a stay-at-home-mom, and swears like a sailor in front of her gift, the joy of her life, her toddler son. Honey, you’re just unemployed hippie trash. She congratulated me for being “real.” She told me: “It’s great to have someone so real to have a conversation with.” Well, I may have seemed real, but really I was just being polite, and I let her do all the talking or else I was gonna cuss her like a sailor in front of her undeserving two-year-old boy.
Here’s the strange thing about hippies like Precious: all they can talk about is making money. You think hippies are all into free love and stopping the war, but all the people I know who really think they’re “true” hippies only care about finding the next buck. Every time I opened my mouth, Precious turned it into some sort of statement about, “You can make money doing that.” And I’d even respect her need to support herself and her child, but every time she speaks she has another scheme to make a buck: “I could make and sell jewelry at the head shop.” “I could make hula hoops.” “I can be a housekeeper and make $200 a day.” “I can make soap.” She’s so busy with these stream of conscious money scheme updates, that even if I wanted to I couldn’t have an actual conversation with her. So far, the only skill she sticks with is running her mouth.
And there, now I’m old. I don’t understand rock music and hippies make me angry. I’ve turned a corner in life, a crotchety, smaller-minded corner, but I’m not resisting. I feel that although I’m losing touch with so many things that used to motivate me, I’m only getting better with age. I’ve always felt that, every birthday, another year of wisdom and experience gained. It’s just that right now my experience isn’t very precious.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Grrr! I missed ANOTHER year!
Yet again, I have snoozed through the Perseid meteor shower. Every August, I swear I'm going to remember to do one of those NPR night skies things and watch the meteor shower, but I never do.
The only time I've ever seen the Perseids, it was a total fluke. It was high school, and some friends and I had sneaked out of the house to go sit at the local water tower and talk about life the universe and everything. I was laying on the still warm August evening sidewalk, and I said, "Hey, guys, I just saw a shooting star!" No one believed me.
"You're just making it up to get attention," Louis said.
"No, really, I'm not making it up, I swear." Then, it happened again, "Look guys, I swear I saw another shooting star!"
I made them all come lay with me on the ground, our heads touching in a circle, and our feet radiating out like spokes. "Woah, cool!" Louis said, "You really weren't lying."
We laid there for hours, watching the stars fall over and over. We were so touched by the experience, that except for an occasional "ooh" and "aah," we never spoke another word that night.
I don't even think we ever spoke about the meteor shower again. Later, I would learn that it's the Perseids that show up every August, one of the most regular and observable meteorite shows the earth gets. If by some meteoric chance I ran into anyone from that night, I don't think I would mention the Perseids. It's been years, and they've probably all forgotten, but in my mind we are still restless teenagers stopping for a night to watch the sky.
The only time I've ever seen the Perseids, it was a total fluke. It was high school, and some friends and I had sneaked out of the house to go sit at the local water tower and talk about life the universe and everything. I was laying on the still warm August evening sidewalk, and I said, "Hey, guys, I just saw a shooting star!" No one believed me.
"You're just making it up to get attention," Louis said.
"No, really, I'm not making it up, I swear." Then, it happened again, "Look guys, I swear I saw another shooting star!"
I made them all come lay with me on the ground, our heads touching in a circle, and our feet radiating out like spokes. "Woah, cool!" Louis said, "You really weren't lying."
We laid there for hours, watching the stars fall over and over. We were so touched by the experience, that except for an occasional "ooh" and "aah," we never spoke another word that night.
I don't even think we ever spoke about the meteor shower again. Later, I would learn that it's the Perseids that show up every August, one of the most regular and observable meteorite shows the earth gets. If by some meteoric chance I ran into anyone from that night, I don't think I would mention the Perseids. It's been years, and they've probably all forgotten, but in my mind we are still restless teenagers stopping for a night to watch the sky.
Friday, August 10, 2007
If you're like me ...
... you'll LOL! Really!
I was busy on the internet proving my husband wrong (Homer Simpson buys the F Series Canyonero, not the L Series, as he believed), and I came across this site:
http://www.dribbleglass.com/Jokes/homer-simpson3.htm
It's not the pinnacle of web achievement, but it made me laugh out loud. Bless you internets. I think I'll order a Tab now, after I press the "any" key.
I was busy on the internet proving my husband wrong (Homer Simpson buys the F Series Canyonero, not the L Series, as he believed), and I came across this site:
http://www.dribbleglass.com/Jokes/homer-simpson3.htm
It's not the pinnacle of web achievement, but it made me laugh out loud. Bless you internets. I think I'll order a Tab now, after I press the "any" key.
Face time
I’m feeling mega bummed Team Wy fans. Ever since we moved to St. Augustine, I’ve had major inertia problems. I can’t seem to get motivated to do anything. All I want to do is lay on the couch and drink cappuccino. That’s it. I don’t even want to hula hoop, and that’s just crazy. I even made a huge vat of chili, just so I wouldn’t have to cook for a week.
I didn’t care about the inertia until today. Suddenly today it just feels so annoying since there’s so much to do to move in still, and I can’t make myself do it. Maybe this is my tipping point, though, and my annoyance will motivate me.
I can hear the dog dreaming downstairs. She has long toenails right now, and she always flops and runs in her dreams. I can hear her bumping and scratching the floor. I’d give anything to see what a basset hound dreams, but I think it’s mostly squirrels and cats and rabbits. Just like my dreams. I’m always chasing or running.
I didn’t care about the inertia until today. Suddenly today it just feels so annoying since there’s so much to do to move in still, and I can’t make myself do it. Maybe this is my tipping point, though, and my annoyance will motivate me.
I can hear the dog dreaming downstairs. She has long toenails right now, and she always flops and runs in her dreams. I can hear her bumping and scratching the floor. I’d give anything to see what a basset hound dreams, but I think it’s mostly squirrels and cats and rabbits. Just like my dreams. I’m always chasing or running.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Internet access at last!
Oh Team Wy fans, I am so glad to be back online. I feel like things are beginning to get normal again after all we’ve been through. My first post from Florida, and I’m sitting in our huge living room amidst stacks and stacks of boxes. It’s pretty crazy here so far.
Play-by-play of our sojourn to Florida--no, that’s way too difficult. Use your imagination; it was hard.
The first truck we rented was too small so we had to get a bigger truck and unload everything from the smaller truck and put it on the bigger truck. The trailer we got for our 4 cylinder car was bigger than the one we were supposed to rent, so we were heavily warned against going over 55 miles per hour with it since our car wasn’t technically rated to haul something that big. We stuck to 55 for the first two legs of the journey, then the home stretch into Florida we were so exhausted and road weary that we blew through Georgia at 65 mph, trailer hitch be damned. Then we got here and it was so hot and muggy that Matthew nearly died from unloading the truck. I mean, I guess that’s what we expected from Florida in August, but nothing could prepare us for the reality of being this hot. Maybe if we had conditioned ourselves in Chicago by going to saunas a lot. Which would have been nice. Now when I need a sauna I just go out on the porch.
Florida. We traded a rat problem for a backyard full of lizards. The squirrels are smaller here but not a different species than the gray squirrel. There are things called “live oaks” which I haven’t seen yet. Our backyard has tall palm trees, and somewhere is a small orange tree. Our front yard has a tree *covered* in Spanish moss. Everything I saw and photographed at the green house in Chicago is just growing here in people’s yards. I tried to steal a shoot off some sort of prickly palm tree, but I couldn’t get it to break off and the dog was ready to move on. Apparently there’s serious city council rules here about trees anyway.
And it’s hot. I hear Chicago is having a terrible heat wave too, so I feel better knowing that I’d be suffering there too. And it’s refreshing that my friends are experiencing the same thing as me. Someone who was once my friend said, “You’ll hate Florida. Sure it gets up to 100 degrees here in Chicago, but that only lasts a few days. In Florida, it’s 100 for the whole summer!” I feel vindicated that she’s sweating too. And I love Florida, despite it being hot, so there.
There’s a lot to do in St. Augustine. Our best friend here calls and invites us out to see bands play, go to movie festivals, visit a women’s craft fair, and god only knows what next. We love it.
We ride our bicycles everywhere we go because nothing we need is more than a bicycle ride away. Everyone at the library where I work laughs at me though because of how sweaty I am. They like teasing the northerner about the heat, so I let them. There’s a fellow Midwesterner there, so I bond with him a lot.
Today my goal is to sneak out of the house and see if the local Home Depot has irrigation tubing of the right heft for making hula hoops. I gave my hula hoop to a friend because I knew it would be a while before she could afford one, and she did so much to help me move that she deserved it anyway. Any trooper with that much fire power earns a used hula hoop, so don’t forget it dear reader! I’m also going to try and sell hula hoops at my friend’s shop here in town. I don’t know if it will catch on, but it’s worth a shot.
My new library is a mixed bag. I was hired to be their first archivist ever, so I have to bring together all of the materials they’ve been collecting and arrange them according to archival principles. So far I’m in research stage and I’m gathering information about local historical societies, arrangement principles for college archives, and the history of the college and its founder. I’m busy, but not working hard yet. It’s a big job, one I hope I can accomplish, but it will take time. The people at the library are great though, and even though I can’t remember all of their names at all, I really enjoy being with them.
That’s all the news my tired fingers will type. I’m sorry I’ve been away for so long, but I promise to share more adventures as they happen. I wish I had kept a travel journal on our way to Florida, but I never would have had the energy for it. The trip itself was exhausting, and we haven’t had a recovery period yet.
Love, love, angels.
Play-by-play of our sojourn to Florida--no, that’s way too difficult. Use your imagination; it was hard.
The first truck we rented was too small so we had to get a bigger truck and unload everything from the smaller truck and put it on the bigger truck. The trailer we got for our 4 cylinder car was bigger than the one we were supposed to rent, so we were heavily warned against going over 55 miles per hour with it since our car wasn’t technically rated to haul something that big. We stuck to 55 for the first two legs of the journey, then the home stretch into Florida we were so exhausted and road weary that we blew through Georgia at 65 mph, trailer hitch be damned. Then we got here and it was so hot and muggy that Matthew nearly died from unloading the truck. I mean, I guess that’s what we expected from Florida in August, but nothing could prepare us for the reality of being this hot. Maybe if we had conditioned ourselves in Chicago by going to saunas a lot. Which would have been nice. Now when I need a sauna I just go out on the porch.
Florida. We traded a rat problem for a backyard full of lizards. The squirrels are smaller here but not a different species than the gray squirrel. There are things called “live oaks” which I haven’t seen yet. Our backyard has tall palm trees, and somewhere is a small orange tree. Our front yard has a tree *covered* in Spanish moss. Everything I saw and photographed at the green house in Chicago is just growing here in people’s yards. I tried to steal a shoot off some sort of prickly palm tree, but I couldn’t get it to break off and the dog was ready to move on. Apparently there’s serious city council rules here about trees anyway.
And it’s hot. I hear Chicago is having a terrible heat wave too, so I feel better knowing that I’d be suffering there too. And it’s refreshing that my friends are experiencing the same thing as me. Someone who was once my friend said, “You’ll hate Florida. Sure it gets up to 100 degrees here in Chicago, but that only lasts a few days. In Florida, it’s 100 for the whole summer!” I feel vindicated that she’s sweating too. And I love Florida, despite it being hot, so there.
There’s a lot to do in St. Augustine. Our best friend here calls and invites us out to see bands play, go to movie festivals, visit a women’s craft fair, and god only knows what next. We love it.
We ride our bicycles everywhere we go because nothing we need is more than a bicycle ride away. Everyone at the library where I work laughs at me though because of how sweaty I am. They like teasing the northerner about the heat, so I let them. There’s a fellow Midwesterner there, so I bond with him a lot.
Today my goal is to sneak out of the house and see if the local Home Depot has irrigation tubing of the right heft for making hula hoops. I gave my hula hoop to a friend because I knew it would be a while before she could afford one, and she did so much to help me move that she deserved it anyway. Any trooper with that much fire power earns a used hula hoop, so don’t forget it dear reader! I’m also going to try and sell hula hoops at my friend’s shop here in town. I don’t know if it will catch on, but it’s worth a shot.
My new library is a mixed bag. I was hired to be their first archivist ever, so I have to bring together all of the materials they’ve been collecting and arrange them according to archival principles. So far I’m in research stage and I’m gathering information about local historical societies, arrangement principles for college archives, and the history of the college and its founder. I’m busy, but not working hard yet. It’s a big job, one I hope I can accomplish, but it will take time. The people at the library are great though, and even though I can’t remember all of their names at all, I really enjoy being with them.
That’s all the news my tired fingers will type. I’m sorry I’ve been away for so long, but I promise to share more adventures as they happen. I wish I had kept a travel journal on our way to Florida, but I never would have had the energy for it. The trip itself was exhausting, and we haven’t had a recovery period yet.
Love, love, angels.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Rambling musings from someone who really ought to be in bed
It’s two days til the big move. Or, one day, I guess, since I’m up so late it’s no longer Friday. I’ve had a hectic time of it. That little head cold I mentioned in the story of the snot rope actually blossomed into bronchitis. Oh joy. Stirring up dust and dog hair as we pack every nook and cranny, hacking up chest coughs into snotty Kleenexes all the while.
I haven’t been working very hard, though. To Matthew’s infinite credit, he’s taken up the slack where I’ve been too sick or too lazy to really step up to the plate like I should. Matthew totally earns MVP for this move, and he deserves a big fat trophy for it. To MY credit, I’ve only told Matthew that I’m dying a couple of times, versus when I normally get sick and I tell him several times an hour that I’m dying. Yeah, I’m that mature. I recognize that bitching about my mucus doesn’t actually endear me to the guy who’s packing my eight millionty books.
We’ve said most of our goodbyes to Chicago, the goodbyes we had time for at least. We didn’t make it back to the zoo where we got married, even though we intended to. We didn’t make it to the other zoo either. As usual, we didn’t take advantage of the thousands of Chicago festivals: music, food, ethnic, movie, or otherwise. We even missed Taste of Romania, which is a shame, for real. Oh, and Taste of Chicago. We missed that too. It was hot, who wanted to be outside? I didn’t.
And yet, all this heat has been just Florida’s waiting room. I had felt winter before I moved to Chicago, so even though Chicago’s winter is longer, harder, and stronger than any I’d ever experienced, it was something I was at least sort of prepared for. Florida summer? Haven’t got a clue. The locals say it’s not that bad in the same sentence that they tell us we need to start unloading our moving truck by 7 am in order to avoid the heat. I’m afraid of how relative their “not bad” really is. I’ll probably be wishing my eyeballs would melt out Indiana Jones style and just get the torture over with.
We’re both optimistic though. As nervous as we both are about changes in our lives and adjustments we’ll be making, we’re both very hopeful for our future in Florida. Heck, it’d be nice if we could both have careers at the same time. I know that’s a lot to ask the employment gods, but come on and smile on us already, OK?
Love,
Christine Wy
I haven’t been working very hard, though. To Matthew’s infinite credit, he’s taken up the slack where I’ve been too sick or too lazy to really step up to the plate like I should. Matthew totally earns MVP for this move, and he deserves a big fat trophy for it. To MY credit, I’ve only told Matthew that I’m dying a couple of times, versus when I normally get sick and I tell him several times an hour that I’m dying. Yeah, I’m that mature. I recognize that bitching about my mucus doesn’t actually endear me to the guy who’s packing my eight millionty books.
We’ve said most of our goodbyes to Chicago, the goodbyes we had time for at least. We didn’t make it back to the zoo where we got married, even though we intended to. We didn’t make it to the other zoo either. As usual, we didn’t take advantage of the thousands of Chicago festivals: music, food, ethnic, movie, or otherwise. We even missed Taste of Romania, which is a shame, for real. Oh, and Taste of Chicago. We missed that too. It was hot, who wanted to be outside? I didn’t.
And yet, all this heat has been just Florida’s waiting room. I had felt winter before I moved to Chicago, so even though Chicago’s winter is longer, harder, and stronger than any I’d ever experienced, it was something I was at least sort of prepared for. Florida summer? Haven’t got a clue. The locals say it’s not that bad in the same sentence that they tell us we need to start unloading our moving truck by 7 am in order to avoid the heat. I’m afraid of how relative their “not bad” really is. I’ll probably be wishing my eyeballs would melt out Indiana Jones style and just get the torture over with.
We’re both optimistic though. As nervous as we both are about changes in our lives and adjustments we’ll be making, we’re both very hopeful for our future in Florida. Heck, it’d be nice if we could both have careers at the same time. I know that’s a lot to ask the employment gods, but come on and smile on us already, OK?
Love,
Christine Wy
Monday, July 23, 2007
Tied up in knots
It has come to my attention that the few ardent Christine Wy followers are clamoring for new, fun stories about me. I gotta tell ya, there’s not much fun going on in the world of Christine since I’ve started packing. In the past three weeks, I’m managed to have two head colds. The first was much worse and took a while to recover. This one has been no cakewalk, but I’m recovering pretty quickly. I would describe my head colds best as “inconvenient.” I’m supposed to be cranking out packed boxes like Satan’s fire awaits me at every pitfall. Instead, I’m in bed with ginger ale and tissues. Such is life, right? Just when you need to perform, you fall apart.
This segues nicely into a fun story you’ve never heard about Christine: The Snot Rope.
I’ve always been prone to head colds, and, as a younger person, they frequently developed into serious sinus infections. (After several years of better patient information and treatment options, they don’t get as severe as they used to.) In middle school, I got a real doozy of an infection, and thick, green snot just settled in my sinuses like retiree RV campers. I was sick for a month. I took the medicine, but the snot just wouldn’t go away.
My sister and I shared a room, and we often liked to get into each other’s beds before we feel to sleep. During the vicious sinus infection, my sister came and got into my bed, and we laid there giggling and teasing each other. After a month of immobilized snot residency, I finally felt the tickle that indicated that maybe snot was ready to begin to vacate.
The nose blow turned out to be no ordinary mucus decampment. I blew and I blew, and I could just feel the thick stuff moving through my nose. I pulled the tissue away from my face to adjust to a new spot, and I felt mucus still attached to my nose on one end, and newly attached to the Kleenex on the other. This was resilient stuff; I moved, but the snot just kept on stretching.
I reached up and touched the snot that was so resolutely attached to both the Kleenex and my nose. What I felt was an extraordinarily dry viscously thick strand of nasal sludge. I don’t know why, but I put my hands on the nose slider, and I decided to pull. It moved, and it didn’t break. I was pulling a rope of desiccated goo out of my nostril. I pulled and pulled, exclaiming over and over to my sister, “Oh my god, it’s like a rope of snot! I’m pulling my snot out of my face! Oh my god; it’s still going! It won’t stop!”
And it wouldn’t. I kept pulling, and I literally felt my face get lighter as I pulled. My sinuses felt relieved of their heavy burden they’d been hauling around for a month.
Eventually the snot rope ran out, and I felt pounds lighter. Giddy over my sinus triumph, I tried the other side. While not as tough as the other sinus--I believe it was my right that yielded the snot rope--Leftie did purge a fragile thread of mucus that I could pull a little, blow a little, and gradually coax out of my sinus shell.
Relief. The relief I felt at unburdening my face was indescribable. My sister and I stayed up in bed laughing at the snot rope. I tried to get her to touch it, but she was smarter than me, and figured snot was best left to Kleenexes to handle.
To this day, I’ve always wanted another snot rope, but I’ve never replicated that particular joy. Sure, I never want to have that severe of a sinus infection again, but, if I must, I totally want a snot rope to come out the other end.
This segues nicely into a fun story you’ve never heard about Christine: The Snot Rope.
I’ve always been prone to head colds, and, as a younger person, they frequently developed into serious sinus infections. (After several years of better patient information and treatment options, they don’t get as severe as they used to.) In middle school, I got a real doozy of an infection, and thick, green snot just settled in my sinuses like retiree RV campers. I was sick for a month. I took the medicine, but the snot just wouldn’t go away.
My sister and I shared a room, and we often liked to get into each other’s beds before we feel to sleep. During the vicious sinus infection, my sister came and got into my bed, and we laid there giggling and teasing each other. After a month of immobilized snot residency, I finally felt the tickle that indicated that maybe snot was ready to begin to vacate.
The nose blow turned out to be no ordinary mucus decampment. I blew and I blew, and I could just feel the thick stuff moving through my nose. I pulled the tissue away from my face to adjust to a new spot, and I felt mucus still attached to my nose on one end, and newly attached to the Kleenex on the other. This was resilient stuff; I moved, but the snot just kept on stretching.
I reached up and touched the snot that was so resolutely attached to both the Kleenex and my nose. What I felt was an extraordinarily dry viscously thick strand of nasal sludge. I don’t know why, but I put my hands on the nose slider, and I decided to pull. It moved, and it didn’t break. I was pulling a rope of desiccated goo out of my nostril. I pulled and pulled, exclaiming over and over to my sister, “Oh my god, it’s like a rope of snot! I’m pulling my snot out of my face! Oh my god; it’s still going! It won’t stop!”
And it wouldn’t. I kept pulling, and I literally felt my face get lighter as I pulled. My sinuses felt relieved of their heavy burden they’d been hauling around for a month.
Eventually the snot rope ran out, and I felt pounds lighter. Giddy over my sinus triumph, I tried the other side. While not as tough as the other sinus--I believe it was my right that yielded the snot rope--Leftie did purge a fragile thread of mucus that I could pull a little, blow a little, and gradually coax out of my sinus shell.
Relief. The relief I felt at unburdening my face was indescribable. My sister and I stayed up in bed laughing at the snot rope. I tried to get her to touch it, but she was smarter than me, and figured snot was best left to Kleenexes to handle.
To this day, I’ve always wanted another snot rope, but I’ve never replicated that particular joy. Sure, I never want to have that severe of a sinus infection again, but, if I must, I totally want a snot rope to come out the other end.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Things I'll miss
My friend e-mailed me this question about my last week of work before crazy intense two weeks of packing, "This week might be kind of a tortuous week for you. Can you come up with something to look forward to each day? Counting down the days and hours is so miserable! Maybe an ice cream cone every hour?"
I sent her this list of things I look forward to about my last week at the library:
- listening to my deskmate fight with his wife on the phone.
- listening to my deskmate defend his wife to his friends on the phone.
- complaining to deskmate about how my input is unnecessary in library strategic planning meetings.
- spending time with lelia at work.
- last chance to waste time on the computer while getting paid.
- e-mail chats with monya.
- work cafeteria.
- pizza joint nearby.
- last lunch with monya.
- pooping in someone else's bathroom.
I sent her this list of things I look forward to about my last week at the library:
- listening to my deskmate fight with his wife on the phone.
- listening to my deskmate defend his wife to his friends on the phone.
- complaining to deskmate about how my input is unnecessary in library strategic planning meetings.
- spending time with lelia at work.
- last chance to waste time on the computer while getting paid.
- e-mail chats with monya.
- work cafeteria.
- pizza joint nearby.
- last lunch with monya.
- pooping in someone else's bathroom.
Monday, July 02, 2007
The wheel of fire
I’ve met a lot of interesting people through hula hooping. My instructor often invites her performance artist friends to come to class, and they bring varying levels of hoop skill, but what they really add to class is their incredible enthusiasm. They throw themselves into the hoop like I’ve never had the courage to do. One guy, I can’t even describe how he did it, but he leapt across the room doing aerial spins, swinging his sparkling hoop the whole way. I couldn’t imagine my body flying like that.
My hoop instructor, Mercedes, invited me to a full-moon ceremony on Sunday night. She said she’d be hooping with her fire hoop. A custom hula hoop is nothing like the flimsy, plastic store-bought ones. They’re made of plumber’s tubing to custom fit your size. They’re heavier and more sturdy, which actually makes them easier for adults to use. A fire hoop is like the custom hoop, except there are 12 inch prongs sticking off of it. Each prong ends in a poi, which is like a wick for a fire ball. Mercedes lit all 8 of her fire pois, and away she went, twirling, jumping, bending, twisting, and dancing.
There were many other fire performers that night also. It seemed like the point of the full moon ceremony was to give everyone a chance to drum in a group and to perform their fire dances. There were at least twelve drummers, probably more, and there were more fire performers than I could count. They each took turns, lighting off each other’s fire, and about three or four people performed at one time in the oval the spectators made.
As I watched, I kept thinking, “This is it. I’m leaving Chicago in three weeks. I may never see so many fire dancers at once ever again.” I keep saying I can’t wait to start my next new adventure, but it hurts to leave my home in Chicago too. I think it hurts more than I expected it to. I thought I was so eager to leave that I’d think wistfully for a moment then move on. It’s not happening that way at all.
I have to learn fire hooping to entertain myself. Insert smiley face, because I’m not really known for my expert coordination. Adding fire is just a disaster waiting to happen. But I think one day I’ll try anyway.
My hoop instructor, Mercedes, invited me to a full-moon ceremony on Sunday night. She said she’d be hooping with her fire hoop. A custom hula hoop is nothing like the flimsy, plastic store-bought ones. They’re made of plumber’s tubing to custom fit your size. They’re heavier and more sturdy, which actually makes them easier for adults to use. A fire hoop is like the custom hoop, except there are 12 inch prongs sticking off of it. Each prong ends in a poi, which is like a wick for a fire ball. Mercedes lit all 8 of her fire pois, and away she went, twirling, jumping, bending, twisting, and dancing.
There were many other fire performers that night also. It seemed like the point of the full moon ceremony was to give everyone a chance to drum in a group and to perform their fire dances. There were at least twelve drummers, probably more, and there were more fire performers than I could count. They each took turns, lighting off each other’s fire, and about three or four people performed at one time in the oval the spectators made.
As I watched, I kept thinking, “This is it. I’m leaving Chicago in three weeks. I may never see so many fire dancers at once ever again.” I keep saying I can’t wait to start my next new adventure, but it hurts to leave my home in Chicago too. I think it hurts more than I expected it to. I thought I was so eager to leave that I’d think wistfully for a moment then move on. It’s not happening that way at all.
I have to learn fire hooping to entertain myself. Insert smiley face, because I’m not really known for my expert coordination. Adding fire is just a disaster waiting to happen. But I think one day I’ll try anyway.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
A few bits
1. Moving prep is going well. Husband is packing a lot of his things. I work two jobs, so on my day off, Saturday, I work as hard as I can at home. Last time around my company paid to have us packed and moved, end-to-end. The problem was they labeled every box "Misc." and threw any random things in boxes together. Although it was amazing to not do any of the work, it was an eye opening experience. Now I am taking care to label very thoroughly and to pack like things together, emphasizing the things that don't need to be opened right away so they can sit around as long as I like.
2. My current job ends July 13, which gives us two solid weeks at the end of the month to pack like banshees. I look forward to it sucking. My therapist and I are working on strategies to not go insane. I hope I can remember his awesome advice.
3. Knowing my job is almost over, being here is like being harshly prodded with a fork. I don't actually hate my job or anything, but having one foot out the door is the most unmotivating thing I've experienced yet in my life. I whine about everything. "You mean I have to turn my computer on ... ?" Yeah, I actually do. I still have work to do, whether it's motivating or not. Here is where my Irish work ethic kicks in: resist labor. I wish I had one of those protestant work ethics I hear so much about, but I ain't made that way.
4. I'm moving to a part of the country where I can say "ain't" and it ain't considered quirky. I look forward to that. I also look forward to saying "might could." And "up the way a piece." I also look forward to perople not freaking out when I say "Yes sir" or No ma'am." People in Chicago HATE "sir" and "ma'am," which I find really odd. Here they call each other "chief." I also find that really odd. They also say "couple few" to describe a possible numerical count of things. That slays me. And they refer to a pair of scissors as "a scissors." Which is a singular modifier thingy attached to a plural word. Makes me batty. Oh, and "a garbage can" is "a garbage."
5. I've started saying most of the Chicago-isms, so my voice and mannerisms are a horrible and confusing mixture of Southern and Chicagoan. The net result is that no one can understand me when I speak.
6. We went camping in Eastern Ohio last weekend. When we got home, I washed grass clipping out of places I'd prefer they'd not have been. I don't know how they got there. I was quite disturbed.
7. I need to sell my car. Anyone want an excellent 1995 Honda Accord? E-mail me. It's a great car.
P.S. My birthday is July 5. Send me cakes. Don't send me fruit flower bouquets. I'm allergic to pineapple.
2. My current job ends July 13, which gives us two solid weeks at the end of the month to pack like banshees. I look forward to it sucking. My therapist and I are working on strategies to not go insane. I hope I can remember his awesome advice.
3. Knowing my job is almost over, being here is like being harshly prodded with a fork. I don't actually hate my job or anything, but having one foot out the door is the most unmotivating thing I've experienced yet in my life. I whine about everything. "You mean I have to turn my computer on ... ?" Yeah, I actually do. I still have work to do, whether it's motivating or not. Here is where my Irish work ethic kicks in: resist labor. I wish I had one of those protestant work ethics I hear so much about, but I ain't made that way.
4. I'm moving to a part of the country where I can say "ain't" and it ain't considered quirky. I look forward to that. I also look forward to saying "might could." And "up the way a piece." I also look forward to perople not freaking out when I say "Yes sir" or No ma'am." People in Chicago HATE "sir" and "ma'am," which I find really odd. Here they call each other "chief." I also find that really odd. They also say "couple few" to describe a possible numerical count of things. That slays me. And they refer to a pair of scissors as "a scissors." Which is a singular modifier thingy attached to a plural word. Makes me batty. Oh, and "a garbage can" is "a garbage."
5. I've started saying most of the Chicago-isms, so my voice and mannerisms are a horrible and confusing mixture of Southern and Chicagoan. The net result is that no one can understand me when I speak.
6. We went camping in Eastern Ohio last weekend. When we got home, I washed grass clipping out of places I'd prefer they'd not have been. I don't know how they got there. I was quite disturbed.
7. I need to sell my car. Anyone want an excellent 1995 Honda Accord? E-mail me. It's a great car.
P.S. My birthday is July 5. Send me cakes. Don't send me fruit flower bouquets. I'm allergic to pineapple.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
“You say it’s your birthday!”
It’s beloved husband’s birthday today, so I feel I owe him a day of not being difficult and of actually maybe being sweet to him a little, but I’m dying inside of the need for him to call me at work so I’m actually a little fumarole right now.
But, the real truth is that I love that guy. I don’t always remember his birthday or our anniversary or how long we’ve actually been together (I have to count on my fingers up from 1997, which is easy this year, but will only get harder in the future), but I cherish being with him.
I remember our first big fight being over the word “cherish.” Aww! I’m positive that set the tone for the rest of our affectionate but testy relationship.
I tried to force him to say that he cherished me. I don’t know why, but apparently in 1997 I needed to be cherished. He was recently relieved of a very bad relationship, and he refused to say “cherish” because he said it sounded so … gosh, what did he say? Something like it sounded too possessive and controlling, which was what he had just escaped.
Or maybe it was “devotion” we fought over. Maybe he wouldn’t tell me he was devoted to me. That seems right. (I don’t even remember his birthday, so recounting our first big fight isn’t something I’ve actually put a lot of work into remembering.)
You know what I do remember? Our first “date.” I was twenty years old, and I had never been to a liquor store. I thought it was like a bar where they checked your ID as you entered, and that I couldn’t get past the bouncer since I was under age. The liquor store seemed like a mysterious, sacred place, where I was sure that there had to be more than Killian’s Red and Milwaukee’s Best. But I wasn’t sure—maybe that was really all there was to beer?
Matthew fixed everything. “You’ve never been to a liquor store?”
“No, I can’t get in.”
“Why can’t you get in?” he asked.
“Because I’m not twenty-one.”
“You don’t have to be twenty-one just to go in.”
My mind opened to the possibilities, like an alcoholic flower blossoming in gin. A gin blossom.
“I’ll take you. Let’s go.”
“Right now?”
“Yeah, where do you live?”
And thus we began. With a trip to the liquor store. And it was true, there were more beers than Killian’s Red and Milwaukee’s Best. A whole world of lagers and ales and porters and weis and bitters—brilliant. The world of beer became brilliant. We chose a coffee beer called Silverback Ale. It was divine. The church of liquor store opened to be my place of communion.
The liquor store became our special place. Before every party we attended, we went hand-in-hand to the liquor store to peruse the wall of exotic beers and carefully select our brew for the night. Our special time together before wild college parties, we paid reverence to the sanctity of beer.
He paid; I was still only twenty, after all.
But, the real truth is that I love that guy. I don’t always remember his birthday or our anniversary or how long we’ve actually been together (I have to count on my fingers up from 1997, which is easy this year, but will only get harder in the future), but I cherish being with him.
I remember our first big fight being over the word “cherish.” Aww! I’m positive that set the tone for the rest of our affectionate but testy relationship.
I tried to force him to say that he cherished me. I don’t know why, but apparently in 1997 I needed to be cherished. He was recently relieved of a very bad relationship, and he refused to say “cherish” because he said it sounded so … gosh, what did he say? Something like it sounded too possessive and controlling, which was what he had just escaped.
Or maybe it was “devotion” we fought over. Maybe he wouldn’t tell me he was devoted to me. That seems right. (I don’t even remember his birthday, so recounting our first big fight isn’t something I’ve actually put a lot of work into remembering.)
You know what I do remember? Our first “date.” I was twenty years old, and I had never been to a liquor store. I thought it was like a bar where they checked your ID as you entered, and that I couldn’t get past the bouncer since I was under age. The liquor store seemed like a mysterious, sacred place, where I was sure that there had to be more than Killian’s Red and Milwaukee’s Best. But I wasn’t sure—maybe that was really all there was to beer?
Matthew fixed everything. “You’ve never been to a liquor store?”
“No, I can’t get in.”
“Why can’t you get in?” he asked.
“Because I’m not twenty-one.”
“You don’t have to be twenty-one just to go in.”
My mind opened to the possibilities, like an alcoholic flower blossoming in gin. A gin blossom.
“I’ll take you. Let’s go.”
“Right now?”
“Yeah, where do you live?”
And thus we began. With a trip to the liquor store. And it was true, there were more beers than Killian’s Red and Milwaukee’s Best. A whole world of lagers and ales and porters and weis and bitters—brilliant. The world of beer became brilliant. We chose a coffee beer called Silverback Ale. It was divine. The church of liquor store opened to be my place of communion.
The liquor store became our special place. Before every party we attended, we went hand-in-hand to the liquor store to peruse the wall of exotic beers and carefully select our brew for the night. Our special time together before wild college parties, we paid reverence to the sanctity of beer.
He paid; I was still only twenty, after all.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
3rd OMG! for the day
My high school graduation theme was "My future's so bright I gotta wear shades." I just found out that the actual song is about nuclear war! My mind, she is blown. Oh, that's funny too!
Yo baby daddy
How did “baby mama” and “baby daddy” become acceptable expressions of relationships? I’m not a pro-marriage fundamentalist, but I do believe that if you make a family, you have an obligation to participate and nurture that family. Creating human life is a contract of commitment and responsibility raising the person you brought into being.
We even have other discouragingly common terminology to describe familial failure: “dead-beat dad.” Social commentators consider the phenomenon of dead-beat dads to be a source of dysfunction in child development. It may be one factor, but I don’t whole-heartedly blame dead-beat dads for the totality of family breakdown. I see many social and cultural variables tugging on the strings of the relationship fabric.
And what about the negative connotation, the social stigma, of “single mother,” or, more judgmentally, “un-wed mother”? Are all single parents necessarily flawed at parenting? In my personal experience, I know that not to be the case. I’ve known many successful families created from non-traditional households. My best friend was even raised by a single father and was rarely visited by her “dead-beat mom.”
Maybe these expressions are evolutions in U.S. speech to describe complex relationships that previously had no terminology to quantify the variables of modern families. Maybe these relationships are nothing new to U.S. society, but are getting their own parlance for the first time. Personally, I’d prefer that there be no dead-beats and no negative implication to single parent child-rearing. “Baby mama” and “baby daddy” might be handy expressions, but the implication is the absence of a missing parent. Mommies and daddies should own-up to the complicated family they created and un-complicate their children’s lives.
We even have other discouragingly common terminology to describe familial failure: “dead-beat dad.” Social commentators consider the phenomenon of dead-beat dads to be a source of dysfunction in child development. It may be one factor, but I don’t whole-heartedly blame dead-beat dads for the totality of family breakdown. I see many social and cultural variables tugging on the strings of the relationship fabric.
And what about the negative connotation, the social stigma, of “single mother,” or, more judgmentally, “un-wed mother”? Are all single parents necessarily flawed at parenting? In my personal experience, I know that not to be the case. I’ve known many successful families created from non-traditional households. My best friend was even raised by a single father and was rarely visited by her “dead-beat mom.”
Maybe these expressions are evolutions in U.S. speech to describe complex relationships that previously had no terminology to quantify the variables of modern families. Maybe these relationships are nothing new to U.S. society, but are getting their own parlance for the first time. Personally, I’d prefer that there be no dead-beats and no negative implication to single parent child-rearing. “Baby mama” and “baby daddy” might be handy expressions, but the implication is the absence of a missing parent. Mommies and daddies should own-up to the complicated family they created and un-complicate their children’s lives.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Fire in the belly
My astrological sign is cancer. I’m totally an invasive disease that gets in you and eats you up with anger. My symbol is the crab. I’m totally the gnarly crab nipping at your toes and making your day unpleasant. That is, if you’re my spouse. For those of you not related to me by blood or marriage, only a very few of you have witnessed first-hand the biting-ness that is Christine in full wrath mode (I’m lookin’ at Erin and Monya as my main non-legally-bound victims.) (Sorry.) (Sort of.).
I like to fight. I’m a crab named Cancer--and I’m not into that zodiac stuff—and I like to brawl. I would say that for the most part I’m mature enough to keep my rage in check, but, honestly, I’m a rage-oholic. It’s true. My favorite thing to do lately is to swear at old ladies in parking lots. Now, I’m not talkin’ about I’m in my car, they’re in their car, their bad driving makes me yell road rage obscenities. No. I’m talkin,’ I’m walking in the parking lot, she’s walking in the parking lot, and something about her very existence just pisses me off. So I curse her out. Not loudly, but not quiet either.
I don’t know where the new old lady rage came from. It seems like some sort of Freudian internalized misogyny, right? Or like I’m victimizing the helpless because it’s easy. Or maybe I’m lashing out at a vision of myself that I fear: aged, out-of-touch, fragile.
I don’t know why. I just know it’s fun. So, generally, don’t get too close to me. There’s a safety zone of about 100 feet, but closer than that, and you’re fair game. Especially if you’re an old lady.
I like to fight. I’m a crab named Cancer--and I’m not into that zodiac stuff—and I like to brawl. I would say that for the most part I’m mature enough to keep my rage in check, but, honestly, I’m a rage-oholic. It’s true. My favorite thing to do lately is to swear at old ladies in parking lots. Now, I’m not talkin’ about I’m in my car, they’re in their car, their bad driving makes me yell road rage obscenities. No. I’m talkin,’ I’m walking in the parking lot, she’s walking in the parking lot, and something about her very existence just pisses me off. So I curse her out. Not loudly, but not quiet either.
I don’t know where the new old lady rage came from. It seems like some sort of Freudian internalized misogyny, right? Or like I’m victimizing the helpless because it’s easy. Or maybe I’m lashing out at a vision of myself that I fear: aged, out-of-touch, fragile.
I don’t know why. I just know it’s fun. So, generally, don’t get too close to me. There’s a safety zone of about 100 feet, but closer than that, and you’re fair game. Especially if you’re an old lady.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Three is the lucky number
I just got three parking tickets. Three. All at once. On my scooter! The problem is that they were all totally legit, and I can’t contest them in traffic court.
I found this awesome bike rack on lower Michigan Avenue that was like footsteps from my office. I thought it was the perfect place to lock up. So did a few others. And that was probably my undoing, attracting unwanted attention from the law by having three scooters at one bike rack.
Ticket #1: “Illegally parked motor vehicle on sidewalk.” Unfortunately, this is completely by the book, and it is totally illegal to park any motorized thingy on the sidewalk, but I usually cheat and get away with it. Bummer I got caught. I also heard that the police were going to crack down on illegally parked scooters and motorcycles that they found on sidewalks. Places the target squarely on my bike, repeat sidewalk offender.
Ticket #2: “No or improperly displayed city sticker.” In Chicago, you have to have a special sticker on your car that is basically a tax on city drivers. For motorcycles and scooters, the sticker is impractical, so the city issues a metal badge. In the seven years I’ve been riding, I’ve never had a city badge. It’s a calculated risk, a chance I’ve been willing to take since usually the cops don’t pay much attention to scooters. Bummer I got caught. But I still saved money over all those years of having no city badge in comparison to one ticket.
Ticket #3: “Expired vehicle registration.” Yep, another calculated risk. My license plate expired in June, and we’re moving to Florida in August. I chose not to renew my plates at the cost of one year since I’ll just have to pay for another year once I move to Florida. Again, the police rarely pay attention to scooters, so I thought I could skate. Bummer I got caught.
Walking up to my bike that day, I saw the orange parking ticket glaring on my speedometer. “What?” I shouted to myself. “How did I get a ticket?” And then I got closer: “Oh my god, there’s another ticket!” And then I realized, that, yes, there was a third. Astonishment. There were so many parking tickets that the issuing officer had to get creative on where to place them. Two were tagged on my seat.
After the initial shock, I realized my husband was going to kill me. And then I thought of how preposterous it was to get three tickets at once, and that the situation was so absurd as to be hilarious. “What’s the funniest way to show my husband three parking tickets?” I asked myself. First I considered using lolcats speak from the website I Can Has Cheezburger? One lolcat construction went something like, “I can has fiscal problem?” Or maybe (“mebbe” in lolcat), “I can has cash floe problem?”
Giddy on my three-ticket problem and its absurdity, I settled on the awesomest revelation I could think of: a fan. I would walk into our apartment where my husband would be on the couch playing videogames. I would hold the tickets stacked, facing my husband, so it would look like one ticket. Then when he shouted, “You got a parking ticket?” I would fan one over so it looked like two tickets. Then when he shouted, “You got two parking tickets??” I would fan the last over, revealing that I had three tickets.
I’m not good at jokes, though, and I usually laugh so hard at myself that I can’t pull off a prank. I walked into the apartment, chuckling, with the closed ticket fan in place. As I bent over to set my helmet down, I showed the tickets in profile, which apparently revealed something to my husband: “You got two tickets??” he shouted.
I laughed, and I shook my head. I carried on with the plan. I fanned the second ticket over, and he just stared at me, mouth open in surprised anger. Then I fanned the third ticket over, and I laughed hysterically at my joke, “No! I got three tickets!”
Stunned outrage from my husband, knee-slapping humor for me. He was not amused. I told him my lolcats joke to see if that one worked better. Nope. He was not having fun with the parking tickets. I could see the little financial wheels behind his eyes turning and grinding, thinking, “We can’t afford this. SHE can’t afford this. She’s going to make me pay!” Yep. I was going to make him pay.
After he calmed down, I explained that this was hilarious because it was so outrageous to get three parking tickets at once, and he eventually saw my side of the story. We discussed the financial risks we took with city badges and license plates, and he agreed with my calculation that despite receiving three tickets, we were still ahead on the financial obligation of legal scooter ownership.
Although I enjoyed laughing at three parking tickets, it’s a joke I’d rather have skipped. The only lolcats to describe the end result: “I no has root canal munees?”
I found this awesome bike rack on lower Michigan Avenue that was like footsteps from my office. I thought it was the perfect place to lock up. So did a few others. And that was probably my undoing, attracting unwanted attention from the law by having three scooters at one bike rack.
Ticket #1: “Illegally parked motor vehicle on sidewalk.” Unfortunately, this is completely by the book, and it is totally illegal to park any motorized thingy on the sidewalk, but I usually cheat and get away with it. Bummer I got caught. I also heard that the police were going to crack down on illegally parked scooters and motorcycles that they found on sidewalks. Places the target squarely on my bike, repeat sidewalk offender.
Ticket #2: “No or improperly displayed city sticker.” In Chicago, you have to have a special sticker on your car that is basically a tax on city drivers. For motorcycles and scooters, the sticker is impractical, so the city issues a metal badge. In the seven years I’ve been riding, I’ve never had a city badge. It’s a calculated risk, a chance I’ve been willing to take since usually the cops don’t pay much attention to scooters. Bummer I got caught. But I still saved money over all those years of having no city badge in comparison to one ticket.
Ticket #3: “Expired vehicle registration.” Yep, another calculated risk. My license plate expired in June, and we’re moving to Florida in August. I chose not to renew my plates at the cost of one year since I’ll just have to pay for another year once I move to Florida. Again, the police rarely pay attention to scooters, so I thought I could skate. Bummer I got caught.
Walking up to my bike that day, I saw the orange parking ticket glaring on my speedometer. “What?” I shouted to myself. “How did I get a ticket?” And then I got closer: “Oh my god, there’s another ticket!” And then I realized, that, yes, there was a third. Astonishment. There were so many parking tickets that the issuing officer had to get creative on where to place them. Two were tagged on my seat.
After the initial shock, I realized my husband was going to kill me. And then I thought of how preposterous it was to get three tickets at once, and that the situation was so absurd as to be hilarious. “What’s the funniest way to show my husband three parking tickets?” I asked myself. First I considered using lolcats speak from the website I Can Has Cheezburger? One lolcat construction went something like, “I can has fiscal problem?” Or maybe (“mebbe” in lolcat), “I can has cash floe problem?”
Giddy on my three-ticket problem and its absurdity, I settled on the awesomest revelation I could think of: a fan. I would walk into our apartment where my husband would be on the couch playing videogames. I would hold the tickets stacked, facing my husband, so it would look like one ticket. Then when he shouted, “You got a parking ticket?” I would fan one over so it looked like two tickets. Then when he shouted, “You got two parking tickets??” I would fan the last over, revealing that I had three tickets.
I’m not good at jokes, though, and I usually laugh so hard at myself that I can’t pull off a prank. I walked into the apartment, chuckling, with the closed ticket fan in place. As I bent over to set my helmet down, I showed the tickets in profile, which apparently revealed something to my husband: “You got two tickets??” he shouted.
I laughed, and I shook my head. I carried on with the plan. I fanned the second ticket over, and he just stared at me, mouth open in surprised anger. Then I fanned the third ticket over, and I laughed hysterically at my joke, “No! I got three tickets!”
Stunned outrage from my husband, knee-slapping humor for me. He was not amused. I told him my lolcats joke to see if that one worked better. Nope. He was not having fun with the parking tickets. I could see the little financial wheels behind his eyes turning and grinding, thinking, “We can’t afford this. SHE can’t afford this. She’s going to make me pay!” Yep. I was going to make him pay.
After he calmed down, I explained that this was hilarious because it was so outrageous to get three parking tickets at once, and he eventually saw my side of the story. We discussed the financial risks we took with city badges and license plates, and he agreed with my calculation that despite receiving three tickets, we were still ahead on the financial obligation of legal scooter ownership.
Although I enjoyed laughing at three parking tickets, it’s a joke I’d rather have skipped. The only lolcats to describe the end result: “I no has root canal munees?”
Monday, June 04, 2007
Re: Dream entry #5
Could my dream come true? According to Chicago soft news publication, “Redeye:”
“Rock ’n’ rolled”
After wrestling many a sweaty opponent during his career, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson finds himself wrestling with divorce. You decide which is worse.
The pro wrestler-turned-action star announced his separation from Dany Garcia Johnson, his wife of 10 years, in a statement to People magazine late last week.
“We’ve been fortunate enough to spend the last 17 years together as a couple and look forward to spending the rest our lives together as best friends and business partners,” the statement said.
It’s not exactly as entertaining as “If you smell what The Rock is cooking,” but he makes his point.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
18 millionth new favorite website
http://www.itslikespiders.com/
I watched two videos and both blew my mind.
Cute song with art by same dude, "I Wanna Be Famous."
I watched two videos and both blew my mind.
Cute song with art by same dude, "I Wanna Be Famous."
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