I'm kinda tired, and really drunk, but I love every one and every thing... at the moment.
Going to a baseball game tomorrow, gonna eat hot dogs and drink many beers.
Is there anything more to life?
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Lazy Book Meme for which I wasn't tagged but am completing anyway
1. One book you have read more than once: East of Eden. Favorite book ever. It's got drama, family dynamics, good and evil, biblical symbolism... and it's a darn good story.
2. One book you would want on a desert island: Golly, this is tough. Shakespeare's complete works. Does that come in one volume? Just found it on Amazon, so I guess it does.
3. One book that made you laugh: Operating Instructions by Anne Lammott. Although I'm not a mother, nor expecting to be, the honesty in this made me love Ms. Lammott even more than I already did.
4. One book that made you cry: To Kill a Mockingbird. I was in sixth grade, and remember clearly finishing the book and sobbing. I went out to the living room where my mother was sittin on the green couch. "Why are people so mean?" I asked in that way that only 12-year-olds can ask.
5. One book you wish you had written: This is silly, but Bridget Jone's Diary. It was the first "chick-lit" book I ever read, and it seemed to be specifically about my life.
6. One book you wish had never been written: Billy Budd. Total and absolute waste of paper in my opinion.
7. One book you are currently reading: Only one? I'm always in the middle of three or four. Right now I'm reading Marley and Me, and Honeymoon With My Brother.
8. One book you have been meaning to read: A Home at the End of the World. Torn said he really liked it, and I won't watch the film until I've read the book.
9. One Book That Changed Your Life: Illusions by Richard Bach. I know, it's a hokey book from the late 70's, early 80's, but it really made me think. I still have the same drink-ring-stained copy from high school. I still read it occasionally. It gives me hope.
2. One book you would want on a desert island: Golly, this is tough. Shakespeare's complete works. Does that come in one volume? Just found it on Amazon, so I guess it does.
3. One book that made you laugh: Operating Instructions by Anne Lammott. Although I'm not a mother, nor expecting to be, the honesty in this made me love Ms. Lammott even more than I already did.
4. One book that made you cry: To Kill a Mockingbird. I was in sixth grade, and remember clearly finishing the book and sobbing. I went out to the living room where my mother was sittin on the green couch. "Why are people so mean?" I asked in that way that only 12-year-olds can ask.
5. One book you wish you had written: This is silly, but Bridget Jone's Diary. It was the first "chick-lit" book I ever read, and it seemed to be specifically about my life.
6. One book you wish had never been written: Billy Budd. Total and absolute waste of paper in my opinion.
7. One book you are currently reading: Only one? I'm always in the middle of three or four. Right now I'm reading Marley and Me, and Honeymoon With My Brother.
8. One book you have been meaning to read: A Home at the End of the World. Torn said he really liked it, and I won't watch the film until I've read the book.
9. One Book That Changed Your Life: Illusions by Richard Bach. I know, it's a hokey book from the late 70's, early 80's, but it really made me think. I still have the same drink-ring-stained copy from high school. I still read it occasionally. It gives me hope.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Yesterday? At the Santa Barbara Airport?
At 5 am?
Very interesting situation.
I had no idea what had happened in London, being that I was packing and then sleeping.
Lines out the door, angry people refusing to throw away their $59 bottles of Estee Lauder foundation, bags being checked by hand and piling up in mountains.
Good times.
We were first told "There was a terrorist attack in London last night, so we are at code orange now. No liquids or gels of any kind will be allowed on the plane with your carry-on luggage."
Okay. I end up squatting on the floor (the SB airport is so small, it actually could be mistaken for a hotel), and start the rearranging. My waterbottle hadn't been opened yet, so into the big suitcase it went. I had a bottle of wine I was bringing out to Kevin... I've never packed a bottle of wine in checked luggage... I risked it.
It was expensive!
Next went in the make-up... no biggie there. Then my mini bag of toiletries. You know, the toothbrush, deoderant, lotion, etc. my mother always told me to carry on in case my regular luggage got lost? All of it had to be packed or tossed. Lipgloss? I asked about it.
"Lipgloss is okay." I was told. I overheard a mother being told that she could bring juice or milk in a baby's bottle, but anything else had to be thrown out.
Next, we check in at the counter. Then drop off our bags to be checked. Like I said, SB airport is so small that they have to handcheck everything. That's fun. So there's my bag, under a pile of other bags, in the middle of the airport. I watch as people's items are moved around, and rubber-gloved hands rummage around in folks undies and dress slacks.
Then, the line for the Gate (at this point, I'd acquired a large Mocha, and was feeling better, but still, it was 5:45 in the morning). Long line. The waiting area is so small, that they would only let the people for one flight in the area at a time. Denver, San Jose, and Los Angeles flights were all ahead of we Salt Lake City folks (where I would connect to the Washington DC flight). More waiting.
A lady talking loudly on her cell phone didn't want to wait in the long line. Huh. And?
She sat on a bench and complained loudly to whomever was on the other end of the line. I expect if I'd called any of my friends at that time in the morning, I wouldn't be the one complaining.
Finally it was our turn. Seated cellphone lady cuts in front, and the person checking tickets lets her. Of course, as we all start removing jewelry and shoes and whatnot to go through the security check, she holds things up.
"But this is a pump. It's not liquid you can squeeze out." She was talking about the foundation makeup she had "just bought" and had chosen not to put away after the million intercom and real life announcements about doing just that. She tried arguing and bargaining with the airline person, who was having none of it. The rest of us just stood there.
"It cost a lot of money." The security person suggested putting it in her car... again, the lot is so small, and close, that it was a doable idea.
"But then I'd have to stand in line again."
Eyeballs of mine rolled heavenward.
The lipgloss had to be thrown after all, but ah well, I've got more of those. The lady with the baby had to thrown out the juice after all too. The airline attendants weren't getting too clear instructions either.
I had to wait until I got to Salt Lake, and watch CNN to realize that it was a terrorist plan, not an actual attack that had happened in London.
After all of that, my flights were on time, I got left window seats both times, and listened to Eddie Izzard on my mp3 player.
And here I am. Having a great time so far, and it's been less than 24 hours.
Whoo hoo!
Very interesting situation.
I had no idea what had happened in London, being that I was packing and then sleeping.
Lines out the door, angry people refusing to throw away their $59 bottles of Estee Lauder foundation, bags being checked by hand and piling up in mountains.
Good times.
We were first told "There was a terrorist attack in London last night, so we are at code orange now. No liquids or gels of any kind will be allowed on the plane with your carry-on luggage."
Okay. I end up squatting on the floor (the SB airport is so small, it actually could be mistaken for a hotel), and start the rearranging. My waterbottle hadn't been opened yet, so into the big suitcase it went. I had a bottle of wine I was bringing out to Kevin... I've never packed a bottle of wine in checked luggage... I risked it.
It was expensive!
Next went in the make-up... no biggie there. Then my mini bag of toiletries. You know, the toothbrush, deoderant, lotion, etc. my mother always told me to carry on in case my regular luggage got lost? All of it had to be packed or tossed. Lipgloss? I asked about it.
"Lipgloss is okay." I was told. I overheard a mother being told that she could bring juice or milk in a baby's bottle, but anything else had to be thrown out.
Next, we check in at the counter. Then drop off our bags to be checked. Like I said, SB airport is so small that they have to handcheck everything. That's fun. So there's my bag, under a pile of other bags, in the middle of the airport. I watch as people's items are moved around, and rubber-gloved hands rummage around in folks undies and dress slacks.
Then, the line for the Gate (at this point, I'd acquired a large Mocha, and was feeling better, but still, it was 5:45 in the morning). Long line. The waiting area is so small, that they would only let the people for one flight in the area at a time. Denver, San Jose, and Los Angeles flights were all ahead of we Salt Lake City folks (where I would connect to the Washington DC flight). More waiting.
A lady talking loudly on her cell phone didn't want to wait in the long line. Huh. And?
She sat on a bench and complained loudly to whomever was on the other end of the line. I expect if I'd called any of my friends at that time in the morning, I wouldn't be the one complaining.
Finally it was our turn. Seated cellphone lady cuts in front, and the person checking tickets lets her. Of course, as we all start removing jewelry and shoes and whatnot to go through the security check, she holds things up.
"But this is a pump. It's not liquid you can squeeze out." She was talking about the foundation makeup she had "just bought" and had chosen not to put away after the million intercom and real life announcements about doing just that. She tried arguing and bargaining with the airline person, who was having none of it. The rest of us just stood there.
"It cost a lot of money." The security person suggested putting it in her car... again, the lot is so small, and close, that it was a doable idea.
"But then I'd have to stand in line again."
Eyeballs of mine rolled heavenward.
The lipgloss had to be thrown after all, but ah well, I've got more of those. The lady with the baby had to thrown out the juice after all too. The airline attendants weren't getting too clear instructions either.
I had to wait until I got to Salt Lake, and watch CNN to realize that it was a terrorist plan, not an actual attack that had happened in London.
After all of that, my flights were on time, I got left window seats both times, and listened to Eddie Izzard on my mp3 player.
And here I am. Having a great time so far, and it's been less than 24 hours.
Whoo hoo!
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Not gonna happen tonight
Sorry. As usual, I'm not finished getting ready for my Washington DC trip. I have to be up and out of here at O' dark thirty tomorrow morning, so I should be in bed NOW.
But I'm not.
I'm all packed, but I have to get all my paper stuff in order... you know my etickets and so forth.
Kevin is sure to have internet, but if not, I'll be back next week!
Cheers!
But I'm not.
I'm all packed, but I have to get all my paper stuff in order... you know my etickets and so forth.
Kevin is sure to have internet, but if not, I'll be back next week!
Cheers!
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Psycho-ko
Okay, I know, I have to finish this story. But I'm trying to get ready for a trip to Washington DC, and I'm just harried. Harried I tell you.
And of course my car, which I just spent $700 fixing, is acting up.
p.s.
I ran into Shelly yesterday, after not seeing her for at least 4 years. Isn't that odd? I didn't even know she lived in town anymore. And... Psycho-ko is still around too! Supposedly, "she's not drinking any more."
Ah, perhaps this story will never end.
And of course my car, which I just spent $700 fixing, is acting up.
p.s.
I ran into Shelly yesterday, after not seeing her for at least 4 years. Isn't that odd? I didn't even know she lived in town anymore. And... Psycho-ko is still around too! Supposedly, "she's not drinking any more."
Ah, perhaps this story will never end.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
MORON-ko
So, Hiroko moves in with Shelly and I on November 3rd. That date will be important for reference later.
She seemed to be...um... around a lot. Like I couldn't figure out when she worked. I had two jobs at the time; I was a special Ed Aide for emotionally disturbed children from 8:00 in the morning to 2:00 every day, then worked four days a week (and sometimes weekends) in a residential program for mentally ill adults from 4:00 to 11:00 at night. She was always at home. Always. Asleep when I left in the morning, often taking a nap when I got home from the first job, usually partying when I got back from the second job. Now, I know I was gone a lot, so I supposed she could be working while I was gone.
Nope.
Turns out she wasn't exactly a "Tennis Pro" at all. She had been hired by the club to teach tennis, yes, but not as a pro. She worked as often as someone signed up for lessons. Which, come to find out, wasn't too often. She instead, was totally digging the Santa Barbara party scene. What that is exactly, I can't speak to too well, since I was always working my ass off, or was too tired from the working off of my ass to do anything else but sleep. In hindsight, I know it entailed quite a bit of drinking, smoking, cocaine snorting, and sex with guys who bought her things. But I get ahead of my story.
She was a leech. Big time leech. Anything edible in the kitchen was fair game, as far as she was concerned. Notes, pleas, requests to refrain from other's food went unnoticed. An example:
The kids I worked with during the day were from third grade to sixth grade. One of our class projects was a garden. We planted many of the same vegetables as the Chumash Indians (the tribe from this area), as we were also studying California and local history.
We took care of that beautiful garden like nobody's business. One of our successful crops was corn. We ate fresh corn, boiled it for corn on the cob, and went through the whole process of removing the kernels, setting them out properly to dry, and then grinding them with a mortar and pestle to make cornmeal.
The kids were so proud of themselves. I took the cornmeal home to make cornbread for the class, so we could enjoy the fruits of our labor. I made the cornbread from scratch, it came out beautifully, and left it, covered with tin foil on the counter. I left a note stating "please don't touch, this is for my class tomorrow." I went to bed.
Next morning, you guessed it, about a third was missing out of the pan. The tin foil was crumpled in the sink, and the culprit was sleeping it off in her bedroom. I had a hard time picking up the pyrex dish; I yanked it up, and there was a long string of green gum (spearmint?) attached to both the bottom of the dish and the top of the countertop.
Did I scream? No. Did I go slap her silly? No. I had no time for that. I quietly and quickly made a Jiffy brand box of backup corn bread, and sped off to work. I did leave a nasty note for Moron-ko, which is the name I had started calling her in my head. Some serious thought was now being addressed to my moving out.
That afternoon, she bought me a Hershey bar and said she was "sorry," but it just looked so good," and she had been drunk. As if that was an acceptable way to apologize. I then asked her about the wine I was missing.
"Oh, I'll buy anah dah one fo' you. Why ah' you so worried?"
I love wine. Growing up in wine country's backyard, I was spoiled early. I would spend money on wine before most regular food back then. I didn't have many good bottles, and the ones I had I saved for special occasions. She helped herself to whatever I had, and then (after repeated requests) would replace it with some crap from the grocery store. If Two-buck Chuck had existed then, she'd be all over it.
So, my wine got moved to the closet in my room. She figured it out quickly enough, and just started going into my room.
"I don' know wha' the big problam is. I say I will get you more."
It was like she was from another planet, where everything that was said, really wasn't meant.
"Stay. Out. Of. My. Room." wasn't clear enough.
The deadbolt lock I bought for the the bedroom door seemed to do the trick, however.
Meanwhile, Shelly, my other roommate, worked all the time and never seemed to be around when these ridiculous events were happening. She knew Moronko wasn't a great roommate, but didn't think it was such a big deal. The fact that she slept at her boyfriend's house most nights might possibly have something to do with that.
We decided to have a party. The three of us were in the kitchen the morning of the fete, and Shelly and I were going to the store.
"Well, if we each put in 20 bucks, that should be plenty (Okay, so it wasn't going to be a big party, but remember, it was twelve years ago)."
Moronko looked at both of us, "Oh no. Ah don' ha' that much. No."
"Uh, well, what do you think is fair then?"
"Well... ah don' think... ah jus' won' be part... you guys ha' the parteh by your self."
Great.
"Oh come on. We've planned this for a week."
"I sorry. Ah jus' don' ha' any money right now."
So, whatever... I know this sounds ridiculous, but when I told Shelly I wanted Moronko OUT... Shelly just got all surfer-dudish on me, and told me to relax. At least she had paid the rent. Did I really want to go through looking for a new roommate?
"Becky... just chill."
I tried. I did.
Of course, Moronko was there for the party. She said she'd "stay in her room." How weird was that? She asked a guy over, and we heard her tell him on the phone, "bring som' beer. Bring good stuff..." And of course, this guy did.
Moronko appeared out of her room just as one of my friends showed up, a little early to help. We opened a bottle of wine, one of my good ones, and Moronko asked, "Can I have a glass?"
The fucking nerve. Before I could scream at the top of my lungs at the silly bitch, my friend, unaware of the earlier conversation that morning, had already poured her a glass. Back to her lair, Moronko went.
You do remember that this woman was 33 years old? It wasn't as if she was some princess from a sheltered kingdom, trying to get by without servants for the first time. As I write about her, I'm amazed I put up with her for as long as I did.
Twenty days. That's how long it took between her moving in, and my putting in my notice. Of course, it was a whole month more I had to spend with her, but at least there was a light at the end of the tunnel.
She seemed to be...um... around a lot. Like I couldn't figure out when she worked. I had two jobs at the time; I was a special Ed Aide for emotionally disturbed children from 8:00 in the morning to 2:00 every day, then worked four days a week (and sometimes weekends) in a residential program for mentally ill adults from 4:00 to 11:00 at night. She was always at home. Always. Asleep when I left in the morning, often taking a nap when I got home from the first job, usually partying when I got back from the second job. Now, I know I was gone a lot, so I supposed she could be working while I was gone.
Nope.
Turns out she wasn't exactly a "Tennis Pro" at all. She had been hired by the club to teach tennis, yes, but not as a pro. She worked as often as someone signed up for lessons. Which, come to find out, wasn't too often. She instead, was totally digging the Santa Barbara party scene. What that is exactly, I can't speak to too well, since I was always working my ass off, or was too tired from the working off of my ass to do anything else but sleep. In hindsight, I know it entailed quite a bit of drinking, smoking, cocaine snorting, and sex with guys who bought her things. But I get ahead of my story.
She was a leech. Big time leech. Anything edible in the kitchen was fair game, as far as she was concerned. Notes, pleas, requests to refrain from other's food went unnoticed. An example:
The kids I worked with during the day were from third grade to sixth grade. One of our class projects was a garden. We planted many of the same vegetables as the Chumash Indians (the tribe from this area), as we were also studying California and local history.
We took care of that beautiful garden like nobody's business. One of our successful crops was corn. We ate fresh corn, boiled it for corn on the cob, and went through the whole process of removing the kernels, setting them out properly to dry, and then grinding them with a mortar and pestle to make cornmeal.
The kids were so proud of themselves. I took the cornmeal home to make cornbread for the class, so we could enjoy the fruits of our labor. I made the cornbread from scratch, it came out beautifully, and left it, covered with tin foil on the counter. I left a note stating "please don't touch, this is for my class tomorrow." I went to bed.
Next morning, you guessed it, about a third was missing out of the pan. The tin foil was crumpled in the sink, and the culprit was sleeping it off in her bedroom. I had a hard time picking up the pyrex dish; I yanked it up, and there was a long string of green gum (spearmint?) attached to both the bottom of the dish and the top of the countertop.
Did I scream? No. Did I go slap her silly? No. I had no time for that. I quietly and quickly made a Jiffy brand box of backup corn bread, and sped off to work. I did leave a nasty note for Moron-ko, which is the name I had started calling her in my head. Some serious thought was now being addressed to my moving out.
That afternoon, she bought me a Hershey bar and said she was "sorry," but it just looked so good," and she had been drunk. As if that was an acceptable way to apologize. I then asked her about the wine I was missing.
"Oh, I'll buy anah dah one fo' you. Why ah' you so worried?"
I love wine. Growing up in wine country's backyard, I was spoiled early. I would spend money on wine before most regular food back then. I didn't have many good bottles, and the ones I had I saved for special occasions. She helped herself to whatever I had, and then (after repeated requests) would replace it with some crap from the grocery store. If Two-buck Chuck had existed then, she'd be all over it.
So, my wine got moved to the closet in my room. She figured it out quickly enough, and just started going into my room.
"I don' know wha' the big problam is. I say I will get you more."
It was like she was from another planet, where everything that was said, really wasn't meant.
"Stay. Out. Of. My. Room." wasn't clear enough.
The deadbolt lock I bought for the the bedroom door seemed to do the trick, however.
Meanwhile, Shelly, my other roommate, worked all the time and never seemed to be around when these ridiculous events were happening. She knew Moronko wasn't a great roommate, but didn't think it was such a big deal. The fact that she slept at her boyfriend's house most nights might possibly have something to do with that.
We decided to have a party. The three of us were in the kitchen the morning of the fete, and Shelly and I were going to the store.
"Well, if we each put in 20 bucks, that should be plenty (Okay, so it wasn't going to be a big party, but remember, it was twelve years ago)."
Moronko looked at both of us, "Oh no. Ah don' ha' that much. No."
"Uh, well, what do you think is fair then?"
"Well... ah don' think... ah jus' won' be part... you guys ha' the parteh by your self."
Great.
"Oh come on. We've planned this for a week."
"I sorry. Ah jus' don' ha' any money right now."
So, whatever... I know this sounds ridiculous, but when I told Shelly I wanted Moronko OUT... Shelly just got all surfer-dudish on me, and told me to relax. At least she had paid the rent. Did I really want to go through looking for a new roommate?
"Becky... just chill."
I tried. I did.
Of course, Moronko was there for the party. She said she'd "stay in her room." How weird was that? She asked a guy over, and we heard her tell him on the phone, "bring som' beer. Bring good stuff..." And of course, this guy did.
Moronko appeared out of her room just as one of my friends showed up, a little early to help. We opened a bottle of wine, one of my good ones, and Moronko asked, "Can I have a glass?"
The fucking nerve. Before I could scream at the top of my lungs at the silly bitch, my friend, unaware of the earlier conversation that morning, had already poured her a glass. Back to her lair, Moronko went.
You do remember that this woman was 33 years old? It wasn't as if she was some princess from a sheltered kingdom, trying to get by without servants for the first time. As I write about her, I'm amazed I put up with her for as long as I did.
Twenty days. That's how long it took between her moving in, and my putting in my notice. Of course, it was a whole month more I had to spend with her, but at least there was a light at the end of the tunnel.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Hiroko
Hiroko was the last of many roommates I had, in the top floor (and corner!) apartment on Alta Vista Drive.
I lived there a little more than four years. After coming back from Japan, I moved into a house with four other people. That lasted ten weeks. I had to learn what at 23 seemed a fine living situation, at 27 was just too damn many bodies.
I set out to find a better place. That third floor apartment was beautiful. Huge. Had an air conditioner. A living room and a dining room. A balcony. A master bedroom with double closets, a vanity and its own bathroom. With a bathtub! I love baths. I hate sharing bathrooms. That master bedroom was mine.
Oh, there was an elevator, underground parking, and a pool too. The place used to be a retirement building for over 55's, but was no longer. There was even an empty rec room.
Two reliable female roommates were found, and we were set. The first year was great, then the great movement started. For the next few years, women moved in and out. There were new jobs to go to, and boyfriends to move in with, and marriages to be had; one girl even had a breakdown and moved back in with her parents (I just thought she was sleeping a lot). Through it all, I stayed. The roommates we chose were always female. I'd had it with men and their football and stinky socks and loud voices. I wasn't happy with that gender too much during that time.
Funny though, now that I think about it, I sure dated up a storm. Had a boyfriend or two, and many flings. Sheesh. Maybe that's what I'm doing wrong now. I like men too much.
Anyway, at 30, I made plans with Katrina to go to Greece for three weeks in October. One of my roommates, Christy, had made noises about moving out. I asked her straight out,
"So, what do you think? Are you going to move? Because if you are, I'm going to too. I really want to live in a house. But it would be great to know because I could save money not paying rent during the time I'm gone."
"Oh no. I'm not moving now. Not until spring at least. Probably not 'til summer."
And of course, she had put in her notice a day after I left. My other roommate Shelly, and I had about a week to find someone once I got back from my trip. She had waited because she didn't want to chose someone without me (Remember, this is before cell phones made staying in touch easy.)
We were frantic. We put an ad in the paper, and the weekly freebie one too. Nothing. A stoned guy showed up, even though we had written the vacancy was for a female, and a 16-year-old girl who said she was emancipated from her folks. The last person to show up was a mom with a toddler girl. Pulled on our heart strings, but it wasn't going to work.
Desperate we were. Paycheck to paycheck types, and we had no clue how we were going to cover the extra rent if we didn't find someone. Shelly then mentioned that there was someone at the health club where she worked who might need a place.
Hiroko was 33 years old, was from Osaka, Japan, and was a tennis pro. She came over to the apartment to meet us and check out the place.
It seemed perfect. I'd lived in Japan, so I was pretty sure she'd be mellow. She wasn't young and immature, so we could probably avoid stupid fights about who drank the last soda in the fridge, and she was a tennis pro, which meant she was healthy and took care of herself (you know, no major drugs, sex parties, whatnot).
I couldn't have been more wrong.
But, unaware of what the next two months would have in store for us, Shelly and I enthusiastically invited her to be our third roommate.
(Next up, Moron-ko)
I lived there a little more than four years. After coming back from Japan, I moved into a house with four other people. That lasted ten weeks. I had to learn what at 23 seemed a fine living situation, at 27 was just too damn many bodies.
I set out to find a better place. That third floor apartment was beautiful. Huge. Had an air conditioner. A living room and a dining room. A balcony. A master bedroom with double closets, a vanity and its own bathroom. With a bathtub! I love baths. I hate sharing bathrooms. That master bedroom was mine.
Oh, there was an elevator, underground parking, and a pool too. The place used to be a retirement building for over 55's, but was no longer. There was even an empty rec room.
Two reliable female roommates were found, and we were set. The first year was great, then the great movement started. For the next few years, women moved in and out. There were new jobs to go to, and boyfriends to move in with, and marriages to be had; one girl even had a breakdown and moved back in with her parents (I just thought she was sleeping a lot). Through it all, I stayed. The roommates we chose were always female. I'd had it with men and their football and stinky socks and loud voices. I wasn't happy with that gender too much during that time.
Funny though, now that I think about it, I sure dated up a storm. Had a boyfriend or two, and many flings. Sheesh. Maybe that's what I'm doing wrong now. I like men too much.
Anyway, at 30, I made plans with Katrina to go to Greece for three weeks in October. One of my roommates, Christy, had made noises about moving out. I asked her straight out,
"So, what do you think? Are you going to move? Because if you are, I'm going to too. I really want to live in a house. But it would be great to know because I could save money not paying rent during the time I'm gone."
"Oh no. I'm not moving now. Not until spring at least. Probably not 'til summer."
And of course, she had put in her notice a day after I left. My other roommate Shelly, and I had about a week to find someone once I got back from my trip. She had waited because she didn't want to chose someone without me (Remember, this is before cell phones made staying in touch easy.)
We were frantic. We put an ad in the paper, and the weekly freebie one too. Nothing. A stoned guy showed up, even though we had written the vacancy was for a female, and a 16-year-old girl who said she was emancipated from her folks. The last person to show up was a mom with a toddler girl. Pulled on our heart strings, but it wasn't going to work.
Desperate we were. Paycheck to paycheck types, and we had no clue how we were going to cover the extra rent if we didn't find someone. Shelly then mentioned that there was someone at the health club where she worked who might need a place.
Hiroko was 33 years old, was from Osaka, Japan, and was a tennis pro. She came over to the apartment to meet us and check out the place.
It seemed perfect. I'd lived in Japan, so I was pretty sure she'd be mellow. She wasn't young and immature, so we could probably avoid stupid fights about who drank the last soda in the fridge, and she was a tennis pro, which meant she was healthy and took care of herself (you know, no major drugs, sex parties, whatnot).
I couldn't have been more wrong.
But, unaware of what the next two months would have in store for us, Shelly and I enthusiastically invited her to be our third roommate.
(Next up, Moron-ko)
Thursday, August 03, 2006
This has got to be my all time favorite use of fresh tomatoes:
Alla Checca
· 2 lb garden tomatoes, chopped
· 2 cloves garlic, peeled
· 15 fresh basil leaves
· 1/2 cup olive oil
· salt
· 12 oz spagettini or angel hair pasta
· 2 lb garden tomatoes, chopped
· 2 cloves garlic, peeled
· 15 fresh basil leaves
· 1/2 cup olive oil
· salt
· 12 oz spagettini or angel hair pasta
- Remove the stem end of the tomatoes and discard. With a sharp knife, chop the tomatoes coarsely and place them in a glass bowl. Salt the tomatoes and let them sit for 15 minutes. Drain the excess juice.
- Meanwhile, crush the garlic cloves by placing them, one at a time, on your work surface and placing the side of your knife blade on it. Use your fist to firmly press the blade down, crushing the garlic in the process. After smashing the garlic, chop it finely and add it to the tomatoes.
- Remove the basil leaves from their stems, chop or tear them coarsely, and toss with the tomatoes and garlic.
- Add the olive oil and toss again.
- Let the mixture rest in a cool spot, but not the refrigerator, for about 2 hours.
- Cook the pasta and drain it. Add the pasta to the sauce. Toss the mixture and serve immediately.
My sister gave me some tomatoes from her garden. Don't those always taste best? God. Too bad I couldn't share this with any of you. No, not because I ate it all! Because none of you are close enough.
ps: I am rather garlicky now. Hope Charlie-boy doesn't mind.
Peace Necklace
So, as I've written about before, my living situation is wonderful, but a little odd. I live up a rather rural road, but very close to the school at which I teach. I see rabbits, squirrels, and birds every day. I hear the Coyotes howling almost every night.
Just the other day I actually stopped my car because I saw a white hawk doing that hover-thing they do, and then I saw him swoop down and grab something. I've seen him once since.
(Please don't tell me what I saw wasn't a hawk. I'm not sure it was a hawk, I think it was a hawk, I see the red-tailed hawks all the time... so I sortof know what a hawk looks like... but I could be wrong. In any case, it sounds more impressive to say "white hawk.")
It's quiet and tranquil and lovely. And quirky. I've written before about Freaky Fred next door. He's still freaky, but I avoid him rather successfully.
My landlady has been gone for almost six weeks. She travels all over the world. When she's gone I collect the mail and take care of her lucky bamboo. My apartment, and Freaky Fred's studio are what used to be a grandmother's or guest cottage on the property. The landlady lives in the "big house." Attached to that are two more apartments; an upstairs and a downstairs. Laura has lived in the downstairs apartment for 12 years, even though she gets flooded out several times each winter. She's about 10 years older than me and always calls me "Honey" and "Sweetie." She stays over at her boyfriend's a lot, so I don't see her all that much anymore.
The upstairs apartment has had the most turnaround since I've been here (Three years as of September 5th). First there was Unka. I don't know if she was from Germany, but she had a very strong accent, and never seemed too happy. She put an old pair of shoes in the recycling bin one time, not quite getting the Metal/plastic/paper idea.
Then there was Jinny. She was a 52-year-old former beach baby who still acted like she was 21. Which is fine. Except when she and her boyfriend would have late, loud nights with the stereo blaring, and when her dog would run free in the orchard, or when the boyfriend used grocery bags to pick all the fruit from the mini-orchard. My landlady was not pleased about the last thing.
Next came Simon. A young and cute professor from England, he was here writing a book about American History. I had a big crush on him, but alas, I knew he was only going to be here for a year. Then he fell madly in love, with an American girl, who followed him back to London. Drats.
Which brings us to the latest tenant. John is single, in his early 60's but looks ten years younger. He's always pleasant to talk to, and every once in a while, asks me to come up for a glass of wine. I've always had something going on, but last night, as I was getting my laundry, I said "sure."
When I came up, on his patio table, was the little necklace you see in the picture.
He said it was for me, and fastened it around my neck. Now, this would usually be a little weird to me, but it wasn't awkward at all. He told me there was a story behind it.
"When I moved in you see, I had to move everything quickly from my freezer at my old place to my freezer at this place. I had at least three bags of coffee beans that I remember putting in the new fridge. Well, for the first few months, I didn't even think about them. You know, I didn't want to pull out the coffee grinder, and wasn't quite sure where I put the thing in the first place.
Then, just three or so months ago, I thought I should use that coffee up, if it's not gone bad already. So I pulled out one of the bags of beans, and opened it up... and it was full of these necklaces!"
I looked at him,
"But, where did they come from?"
" I have no idea Rebekah. Can you believe that? They weren't mine, that's for sure. I've only had one guest here since I moved here, and I actually called her up to see if somehow she left them here. She didn't know what I was talking about."
"Gosh, there's a story in there. Something magical."
And he agreed. He's quite the political peace-nik. He told me when he saw the necklaces, he thought it would be the way to spread peace. You know, one person at a time. He told me that he was down at a coffee shop in town, and a girl admired the necklace and he told her the story and gave it to her.
And he told me the story, and gave one to me.
I don't know if it's that easy, but I do know the necklace is special. How could it not be?
Made me think. What if I'd said no to the glass of wine last night? Like I've done every other time?
We all have stories. We need to tell them, that's for sure. But we also have to take the time to hear them from others.
Just the other day I actually stopped my car because I saw a white hawk doing that hover-thing they do, and then I saw him swoop down and grab something. I've seen him once since.
(Please don't tell me what I saw wasn't a hawk. I'm not sure it was a hawk, I think it was a hawk, I see the red-tailed hawks all the time... so I sortof know what a hawk looks like... but I could be wrong. In any case, it sounds more impressive to say "white hawk.")
It's quiet and tranquil and lovely. And quirky. I've written before about Freaky Fred next door. He's still freaky, but I avoid him rather successfully.
My landlady has been gone for almost six weeks. She travels all over the world. When she's gone I collect the mail and take care of her lucky bamboo. My apartment, and Freaky Fred's studio are what used to be a grandmother's or guest cottage on the property. The landlady lives in the "big house." Attached to that are two more apartments; an upstairs and a downstairs. Laura has lived in the downstairs apartment for 12 years, even though she gets flooded out several times each winter. She's about 10 years older than me and always calls me "Honey" and "Sweetie." She stays over at her boyfriend's a lot, so I don't see her all that much anymore.
The upstairs apartment has had the most turnaround since I've been here (Three years as of September 5th). First there was Unka. I don't know if she was from Germany, but she had a very strong accent, and never seemed too happy. She put an old pair of shoes in the recycling bin one time, not quite getting the Metal/plastic/paper idea.
Then there was Jinny. She was a 52-year-old former beach baby who still acted like she was 21. Which is fine. Except when she and her boyfriend would have late, loud nights with the stereo blaring, and when her dog would run free in the orchard, or when the boyfriend used grocery bags to pick all the fruit from the mini-orchard. My landlady was not pleased about the last thing.
Next came Simon. A young and cute professor from England, he was here writing a book about American History. I had a big crush on him, but alas, I knew he was only going to be here for a year. Then he fell madly in love, with an American girl, who followed him back to London. Drats.
Which brings us to the latest tenant. John is single, in his early 60's but looks ten years younger. He's always pleasant to talk to, and every once in a while, asks me to come up for a glass of wine. I've always had something going on, but last night, as I was getting my laundry, I said "sure."
When I came up, on his patio table, was the little necklace you see in the picture.
He said it was for me, and fastened it around my neck. Now, this would usually be a little weird to me, but it wasn't awkward at all. He told me there was a story behind it.
"When I moved in you see, I had to move everything quickly from my freezer at my old place to my freezer at this place. I had at least three bags of coffee beans that I remember putting in the new fridge. Well, for the first few months, I didn't even think about them. You know, I didn't want to pull out the coffee grinder, and wasn't quite sure where I put the thing in the first place.
Then, just three or so months ago, I thought I should use that coffee up, if it's not gone bad already. So I pulled out one of the bags of beans, and opened it up... and it was full of these necklaces!"
I looked at him,
"But, where did they come from?"
" I have no idea Rebekah. Can you believe that? They weren't mine, that's for sure. I've only had one guest here since I moved here, and I actually called her up to see if somehow she left them here. She didn't know what I was talking about."
"Gosh, there's a story in there. Something magical."
And he agreed. He's quite the political peace-nik. He told me when he saw the necklaces, he thought it would be the way to spread peace. You know, one person at a time. He told me that he was down at a coffee shop in town, and a girl admired the necklace and he told her the story and gave it to her.
And he told me the story, and gave one to me.
I don't know if it's that easy, but I do know the necklace is special. How could it not be?
Made me think. What if I'd said no to the glass of wine last night? Like I've done every other time?
We all have stories. We need to tell them, that's for sure. But we also have to take the time to hear them from others.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Telemarketing
We all hate those calls, right? And now, since I have Caller ID, I don't have to answer any of the calls. However, that doesn't stop them from calling. And calling, and calling.
A few minutes ago, I got a call from "Active Periodicals." I answered so I could ask them to take me off their calling list. Lately, I've been getting 3-4 calls a day from telemarketers (is that a word? It looks funny). Anyway, the woman on the other end asks for Mrs. Silvia. That's not my last name. Close, but no. I say,
"There is no one here by that name. Could you please remove my number from your calling list?"
"If you aren't the person we are calling, then your number isn't on our list. You're so dumb."
And she hung up on me! Can you believe it? I'm minding my own business, answer the phone, and get called dumb.
So, I try to call the number right back (it's displayed along with the name of the caller on Caller ID). I get a message that the company won't accept blocked phone numbers. I call back on my cell phone. I get a message that the voice mailbox is full. So, I look them up online and this is what I found.
I wanted to call and complain to the manager or whomever, but after looking over the other complaints, I guess I'm kinda lucky I didn't get through to anyone.
Man.
Oh, and the Salvation Army wouldn't take my old couch away. There were two pencil eraser size dots on the bottom front of it, which meant it was "stained." Gosh. I've seen much crappier things at the thrift store. Guess I'm going to have to figure out how to get it down to the main street near my house. Put a sign on it that says $25 and you know for sure, someone will come along and take it.
Who's got a truck when you need one?
A few minutes ago, I got a call from "Active Periodicals." I answered so I could ask them to take me off their calling list. Lately, I've been getting 3-4 calls a day from telemarketers (is that a word? It looks funny). Anyway, the woman on the other end asks for Mrs. Silvia. That's not my last name. Close, but no. I say,
"There is no one here by that name. Could you please remove my number from your calling list?"
"If you aren't the person we are calling, then your number isn't on our list. You're so dumb."
And she hung up on me! Can you believe it? I'm minding my own business, answer the phone, and get called dumb.
So, I try to call the number right back (it's displayed along with the name of the caller on Caller ID). I get a message that the company won't accept blocked phone numbers. I call back on my cell phone. I get a message that the voice mailbox is full. So, I look them up online and this is what I found.
I wanted to call and complain to the manager or whomever, but after looking over the other complaints, I guess I'm kinda lucky I didn't get through to anyone.
Man.
Oh, and the Salvation Army wouldn't take my old couch away. There were two pencil eraser size dots on the bottom front of it, which meant it was "stained." Gosh. I've seen much crappier things at the thrift store. Guess I'm going to have to figure out how to get it down to the main street near my house. Put a sign on it that says $25 and you know for sure, someone will come along and take it.
Who's got a truck when you need one?
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
"Why Choose Unhappiness"
My friend Torn, says this quite often. Perhaps it works for him.
I believe unhappiness is something to be experienced, just like any other emotion. Sorrow, pain, fear, resentment... all negative feelings, but they have a purpose. Whether or not we learn from them, now that's another story.
Let me tell you about another friend I saw this summer. Do you remember Dream Guy? My first kiss was with him. Jennifer lost her virginity with him and spread rumors about him.
Somehow, he and I stayed in touch throughout all these years. I was madly in love with him for several of them. Or at least I thought I was.
Let me back up. After Dream Guy left for school, I met someone else. Jesse lived in a different town, but I saw him fairly often. He was my first real boyfriend, and we were together until the first year or so of university. He and I were great friends, loved being around each other, and made each other laugh. He was one of those guys that was almost gawky; all arms and legs, but you could see the handsome man he was going to become. I was awkward as well, and when it came to sex, we sure liked kissing, but we didn't do much more than fumble around when it got to more detailed contact.
When I was 19, I realized I was in love with him. Here, I just went to find my journal (What, you thought this blog was it? Journals are things we kept before blogs).
"September 29, 1983
I love Jesse. It's a fact, revelation, glory, wonder, It's terrific. I need to touch him, to have him touch me. I want him so much. I can't wait three weeks to see him again."
However, all was not well. My next journal entry,
"October 18, 1983
I can't believe what I wrote less than a month ago. Jesse thinks he's gay and it's all over with us. I just want to cry forever. We were going to have a wonderful weekend together. We were going to have a wonderful life together. We were going to make love for the first time."
Okay, so that relationship didn't go the way I'd hoped.
Back to Dream Guy. He was back in town on and off. He always made an effort to see me, but was usually late or could only stay a minute. He was charming, so I always let it go. I hadn't forgotten that kiss at my front door either. Dream Guy was different from Jesse in almost every way.
He made me uncomfortable, but in an exciting way. He listened intently to me, the few times he actually gave me his attention. I loved the smell of him. You know how that works? How someone's scent, if you care about them, can be the sexiest thing in the world? Wow. He knocked me off my feet.
Passion.
For the first time in my life, I knew what passion was. I really liked Jesse, but I didn't feel passion for him. At the same time, I didn't know it was missing, because I had never felt it before.
So, a couple years go by, Dream Guy comes home one weekend, and we end up in bed. It was great, until we talked about it several weeks later,
"Do you know how drunk I was that night, Becky?"
Not really what a girl wants to hear.
I carried a big torch for him, he noticed me when he was home, and had his girlfriends and his life elsewhere. At one point, I was willing to quit school and move to San Francisco, just to be near him, just to see if it would work out. God. What a ding bat I was.
But no, I stayed in school, graduated, and a few years later, moved to Japan.
Still, in the back of my heart, was a little fire I kept burning for him. Don't ask me why. I don't have a good reason. He hurt me many many times, yet still I slept with him when ever the chance came up, thinking maybe... maybe.... this time it will work out.
It never did.
So, all this background for my post today.
Before this summer, the last time I saw Dream Guy was at his wedding seven years ago. He has three kids and a mini-van now. We talk on the phone maybe three or four times a year, but the conversations have become stilted. Dream Guy is going through a mid-life crisis. He has always turned to me for an ego boost... which I'm no longer willing to give him. I don't want to talk about the past. He picked someone else, so don't talk to me about our history.
But yes, until this summer, there was always this bitterness that he hadn't picked me. I could never ask him why. Of course not. So if the bitterness existed, then I must still have had feelings for him, right?
Well, yeah.
So, Dream Guy calls, says he and family are going to be in Santa Barbara in a couple of weeks. There's going to be a barbecue at Sam's (a mutual friend's) house, that Saturday, and could I be there?
Sure. No problem.
The Thursday before he and his are supposed to arrive, I get a frantic phone call from him. They are on the road, but haven't been able to find a hotel to stay in in Santa Barbara.
Okay, wait a minute. This is July, in Santa Barbara we're talking about, right? And he grew up here, right? Who the hell waits until two days before to make reservations? And traveling with three small children, it's not like they can all just sleep on the couch at a friend's house.
I try to help him out, give him Katrina's number (she's a travel agent) and wish him luck.
Next day, another call.
"Hey Beck, we're not coming in tonight after all, we'll be coming in tomorrow instead. And, uh, the barbecue's not going to work out, so we'll go to dinner at a restaurant instead."
"Uh, okay. Did you call Katrina?"
"No, but we'll find something."
"You still don't have a place?"
"It'll work out, you'll see."
At this point I'm actually saying out loud to the Dog Wonder, "I am so glad I'm not his wife right now."
Saturday, I get another call.
"Well Beck, dinner's not going to work out tonight after all. But tomorrow, tomorrow for sure. We'll go to Pascucci's in Goleta. Around 6:30 or so. Okay? I'll call you tomorrow when everything is definite."
God.
So, Sunday comes. No phone call. At 5 pm, I start fidgeting. At 6 pm, I call and leave a message on Dream Guy's cell phone. At 6:45, I leave a message on Dream Guy's wife's cell phone.
At 8:30 I eat a sandwich. At 10:30 I go to bed.
Monday afternoon, I get a phone call:
"Oh Beck, I'm so sorry. I totally flaked. I apologize. Blah blah blah...."
You can surely imagine my displeasure, which I expressed to him clearly.
So, coming full circle. "Why choose unhappiness?"
I didn't choose it in this circumstance. I was unhappy with how things turned out. However, I'm actually glad it happened.
See, for the first time, I can say, without reservations, that I'm happy I didn't end up with Dream Guy.
And besides, behavior like his makes me appreciate all the more my true friends. So see?
Unhappiness has a purpose.
I believe unhappiness is something to be experienced, just like any other emotion. Sorrow, pain, fear, resentment... all negative feelings, but they have a purpose. Whether or not we learn from them, now that's another story.
Let me tell you about another friend I saw this summer. Do you remember Dream Guy? My first kiss was with him. Jennifer lost her virginity with him and spread rumors about him.
Somehow, he and I stayed in touch throughout all these years. I was madly in love with him for several of them. Or at least I thought I was.
Let me back up. After Dream Guy left for school, I met someone else. Jesse lived in a different town, but I saw him fairly often. He was my first real boyfriend, and we were together until the first year or so of university. He and I were great friends, loved being around each other, and made each other laugh. He was one of those guys that was almost gawky; all arms and legs, but you could see the handsome man he was going to become. I was awkward as well, and when it came to sex, we sure liked kissing, but we didn't do much more than fumble around when it got to more detailed contact.
When I was 19, I realized I was in love with him. Here, I just went to find my journal (What, you thought this blog was it? Journals are things we kept before blogs).
"September 29, 1983
I love Jesse. It's a fact, revelation, glory, wonder, It's terrific. I need to touch him, to have him touch me. I want him so much. I can't wait three weeks to see him again."
However, all was not well. My next journal entry,
"October 18, 1983
I can't believe what I wrote less than a month ago. Jesse thinks he's gay and it's all over with us. I just want to cry forever. We were going to have a wonderful weekend together. We were going to have a wonderful life together. We were going to make love for the first time."
Okay, so that relationship didn't go the way I'd hoped.
Back to Dream Guy. He was back in town on and off. He always made an effort to see me, but was usually late or could only stay a minute. He was charming, so I always let it go. I hadn't forgotten that kiss at my front door either. Dream Guy was different from Jesse in almost every way.
He made me uncomfortable, but in an exciting way. He listened intently to me, the few times he actually gave me his attention. I loved the smell of him. You know how that works? How someone's scent, if you care about them, can be the sexiest thing in the world? Wow. He knocked me off my feet.
Passion.
For the first time in my life, I knew what passion was. I really liked Jesse, but I didn't feel passion for him. At the same time, I didn't know it was missing, because I had never felt it before.
So, a couple years go by, Dream Guy comes home one weekend, and we end up in bed. It was great, until we talked about it several weeks later,
"Do you know how drunk I was that night, Becky?"
Not really what a girl wants to hear.
I carried a big torch for him, he noticed me when he was home, and had his girlfriends and his life elsewhere. At one point, I was willing to quit school and move to San Francisco, just to be near him, just to see if it would work out. God. What a ding bat I was.
But no, I stayed in school, graduated, and a few years later, moved to Japan.
Still, in the back of my heart, was a little fire I kept burning for him. Don't ask me why. I don't have a good reason. He hurt me many many times, yet still I slept with him when ever the chance came up, thinking maybe... maybe.... this time it will work out.
It never did.
So, all this background for my post today.
Before this summer, the last time I saw Dream Guy was at his wedding seven years ago. He has three kids and a mini-van now. We talk on the phone maybe three or four times a year, but the conversations have become stilted. Dream Guy is going through a mid-life crisis. He has always turned to me for an ego boost... which I'm no longer willing to give him. I don't want to talk about the past. He picked someone else, so don't talk to me about our history.
But yes, until this summer, there was always this bitterness that he hadn't picked me. I could never ask him why. Of course not. So if the bitterness existed, then I must still have had feelings for him, right?
Well, yeah.
So, Dream Guy calls, says he and family are going to be in Santa Barbara in a couple of weeks. There's going to be a barbecue at Sam's (a mutual friend's) house, that Saturday, and could I be there?
Sure. No problem.
The Thursday before he and his are supposed to arrive, I get a frantic phone call from him. They are on the road, but haven't been able to find a hotel to stay in in Santa Barbara.
Okay, wait a minute. This is July, in Santa Barbara we're talking about, right? And he grew up here, right? Who the hell waits until two days before to make reservations? And traveling with three small children, it's not like they can all just sleep on the couch at a friend's house.
I try to help him out, give him Katrina's number (she's a travel agent) and wish him luck.
Next day, another call.
"Hey Beck, we're not coming in tonight after all, we'll be coming in tomorrow instead. And, uh, the barbecue's not going to work out, so we'll go to dinner at a restaurant instead."
"Uh, okay. Did you call Katrina?"
"No, but we'll find something."
"You still don't have a place?"
"It'll work out, you'll see."
At this point I'm actually saying out loud to the Dog Wonder, "I am so glad I'm not his wife right now."
Saturday, I get another call.
"Well Beck, dinner's not going to work out tonight after all. But tomorrow, tomorrow for sure. We'll go to Pascucci's in Goleta. Around 6:30 or so. Okay? I'll call you tomorrow when everything is definite."
God.
So, Sunday comes. No phone call. At 5 pm, I start fidgeting. At 6 pm, I call and leave a message on Dream Guy's cell phone. At 6:45, I leave a message on Dream Guy's wife's cell phone.
At 8:30 I eat a sandwich. At 10:30 I go to bed.
Monday afternoon, I get a phone call:
"Oh Beck, I'm so sorry. I totally flaked. I apologize. Blah blah blah...."
You can surely imagine my displeasure, which I expressed to him clearly.
So, coming full circle. "Why choose unhappiness?"
I didn't choose it in this circumstance. I was unhappy with how things turned out. However, I'm actually glad it happened.
See, for the first time, I can say, without reservations, that I'm happy I didn't end up with Dream Guy.
And besides, behavior like his makes me appreciate all the more my true friends. So see?
Unhappiness has a purpose.
Monday, July 31, 2006
I was right, even back then.
Remember Leif Garrett? Everyone had a crush on him, except me. This proves I wasn't wrong.
Of course, I had a mad, mad crush on Shawn Cassidy.
Of course, I had a mad, mad crush on Shawn Cassidy.
I don't have a "clique"
Those kids in school? The Jocks, the Soshes (short for "Sociable," the "in" crowd), the Loadies (stoners), the Smacks (smart kids), the Theater Geeks,the Richie Riches?
I didn't have a group. Yeah, I was in the choir, but in and of itself, it wasn't a clique. I was on the swim team, but junior varsity. I took AP English, but got kicked out of the honor society for my grades in Spanish (took me four years to complete two years of high school Spanish with Mr. Ochi. But that's a whole other post).
I had friends. It's not like I sat in my car at lunch every day to eat my sack lunch. One, I didn't have a driver's license in high school, let alone a car, and two, I was far too lazy to have ever packed a lunch. I was always annoying my friends, "Are you going to finish that? I'll have it if you aren't." What a leech I could be.
Lately I've been thinking about which group would identify me as a member. Middle-age? Maybe. I'm not quite to what I hope is my middle age, but on the other hand... Let's see. Single? That's a group that gets unpleasant at my age. Single, Never Married? Ouch. More to the point, and also very unpleasant.
There is something very wrong with being single and never married in the society in which we live. If I was divorced, I'd at least have shown that someone desired me for his one and only at least once in my life, and if I was divorced, I'd have an excuse for being single.
At almost 42 (only ten more shopping days), I'm out of excuses.
Everyone seems to have advice. Which in turn, reinforces that I'm in a situation that is wrong. "You're trying too hard," "You have to put yourself out there," "Join the Unitarian church (swing dance class, Habitat for Humanity, harmony.com)," "When it's supposed to happen, it'll happen," and my personal favorite, "Don't worry about it."
No, it's not a group that has flags and parades and banners, and political fights about anything. I've not heard of "Single Pride," probably because it's not something most are proud of, nor is it something most folk want to continue being.
Sure, there are those who prefer a solitary life, I've just never met them (due to the aforementioned solitary life).
I buy into this idea as much as the next person. Can't seem to shake it. There's something wrong with a person who is single at my age and doesn't want to be. I actually only know two other people my age who have been single all along. One is an angry, controlling woman who scares men to death, and the other is a very uninteresting, dare I say it? dull person. See, harsh judgment on my part. Harsh, and not charitable at all.
What's my reason? We feel a need to make excuses. Going back to something being wrong with being single. Remember, I'm not talking about sex here. Sex, by itself, is always accessible. It's just that now, I'm not interested in just sex for it's own sake. I can take care of that quickly and by myself, if that's all I'm looking for.
And, it goes back to something deeper. Identity. I hate that my identity seems to be tied up right now with my single status, and the flaws I must possess that being single at my age imply. Most of my friends aren't single. They have all the advice. Problem is, I'm up to here with advice. Besides, they aren't single. They don't know, and don't want to know, what it feels like to still be alone. They want to fix it, but they don't want to hear me.
Boy, I woke up in a mood today, didn't I?
I didn't have a group. Yeah, I was in the choir, but in and of itself, it wasn't a clique. I was on the swim team, but junior varsity. I took AP English, but got kicked out of the honor society for my grades in Spanish (took me four years to complete two years of high school Spanish with Mr. Ochi. But that's a whole other post).
I had friends. It's not like I sat in my car at lunch every day to eat my sack lunch. One, I didn't have a driver's license in high school, let alone a car, and two, I was far too lazy to have ever packed a lunch. I was always annoying my friends, "Are you going to finish that? I'll have it if you aren't." What a leech I could be.
Lately I've been thinking about which group would identify me as a member. Middle-age? Maybe. I'm not quite to what I hope is my middle age, but on the other hand... Let's see. Single? That's a group that gets unpleasant at my age. Single, Never Married? Ouch. More to the point, and also very unpleasant.
There is something very wrong with being single and never married in the society in which we live. If I was divorced, I'd at least have shown that someone desired me for his one and only at least once in my life, and if I was divorced, I'd have an excuse for being single.
At almost 42 (only ten more shopping days), I'm out of excuses.
Everyone seems to have advice. Which in turn, reinforces that I'm in a situation that is wrong. "You're trying too hard," "You have to put yourself out there," "Join the Unitarian church (swing dance class, Habitat for Humanity, harmony.com)," "When it's supposed to happen, it'll happen," and my personal favorite, "Don't worry about it."
No, it's not a group that has flags and parades and banners, and political fights about anything. I've not heard of "Single Pride," probably because it's not something most are proud of, nor is it something most folk want to continue being.
Sure, there are those who prefer a solitary life, I've just never met them (due to the aforementioned solitary life).
I buy into this idea as much as the next person. Can't seem to shake it. There's something wrong with a person who is single at my age and doesn't want to be. I actually only know two other people my age who have been single all along. One is an angry, controlling woman who scares men to death, and the other is a very uninteresting, dare I say it? dull person. See, harsh judgment on my part. Harsh, and not charitable at all.
What's my reason? We feel a need to make excuses. Going back to something being wrong with being single. Remember, I'm not talking about sex here. Sex, by itself, is always accessible. It's just that now, I'm not interested in just sex for it's own sake. I can take care of that quickly and by myself, if that's all I'm looking for.
And, it goes back to something deeper. Identity. I hate that my identity seems to be tied up right now with my single status, and the flaws I must possess that being single at my age imply. Most of my friends aren't single. They have all the advice. Problem is, I'm up to here with advice. Besides, they aren't single. They don't know, and don't want to know, what it feels like to still be alone. They want to fix it, but they don't want to hear me.
Boy, I woke up in a mood today, didn't I?
Sunday, July 30, 2006
One of those days
when it appears I'm the only one reading my blog. Is there anything more depressing than seeing those "O Comments" after a post? Especially after several of those in the last week or two?
Okay, there are more depressing things. Far more depressing things. I know.
But remember, it's all about me.
It's getting close to that time I need to get back to school.
ooo... Ms. Congeniality is on TBS for the seven hundredth time. I gotta go.
Okay, there are more depressing things. Far more depressing things. I know.
But remember, it's all about me.
It's getting close to that time I need to get back to school.
ooo... Ms. Congeniality is on TBS for the seven hundredth time. I gotta go.
Finally, Kevin, Part Two
Okay, recap so far:
It is December, 1984. Kevin, Jennifer and I have all been friends since high school. Kevin and Jennifer have been having a "thing" since high school. Kevin had gotten very serious about Jennifer. Jennifer has gotten very serious about someone else. I know this, because they've been talking to me. They don't know this, because they haven't been talking.
Kevin is planning to do a study abroad program in Denmark for the second semester. After that, he's got plans to backpack through Europe for the summer before he comes back to finish his last year and earn his double-degree. I'm looking foreward to seeing him during Christmas Break, since I won't see him for almost a year afterward.
Okay, so it's the day before Christmas, around two in the afternoon. I'm annoyed about having to share a room with my 17-year-old sister for a couple of weeks while I'm at my parents' house, so I'm out in the living room, watching It's a Wonderful Life for the millionth time.
The doorbell rings, and I see that it's Kevin at the door. Hurray! I'm rescued. I open the door, say "Merry Christmas!" and go in for a big hug.
It's like hugging a telephone pool. He looks at me and says,
"I was just over at Jennifer's house."
(Oh shit.)
"And you knew."
And he is pissed off.
I try to defend myself... but he isn't buying any of it.
"A real friend would've told me."
Turns out, Kevin had gone over to her parent's house to surprise her. He had bought a round trip ticket for her to travel in Europe with him that summer. That was going to be her Christmas present. How romantic is that? How many college boys would do something like that? As a surprise? Oh gosh. Where is my Kevin?
Her mother had answered the door, he asked for her, and mom said,
"Oh, I'm sorry Kevin, Jennifer is down in San Diego with her fiance's family."
God.
Can you imagine?
And he drove straight over to my house.
Now, in my defense, I didn't know she was spending the holidays with her new guy, and I certainly didn't know she was engaged. She and I talked more than she and Kevin did, but not much.
I look back now and wonder why I was ever friends with this person who just treated others like crap. I don't know.
I wonder how this woman inspired romantic, sweep-her-off-her-feet gestures in men, by being selfish and mean, while I, by being honest, loyal and constant, became every man's confidant and buddy.
I still wonder.
Kevin recovered. He and I are still close, and I'll be going out to Washington DC to see him next month.
This summer, I've really been reminded of what's important to me in friends. I tend to allow bad behavior and make excuses for others, rather than calling them on it. I get hurt easily, but try not to show it (not always successfully). Do I deserve it? Being teased, or chastised, or made fun of? No, I don't.
Kevin doesn't do that. He treats me with respect, he challenges me when he thinks I'm wrong, and he makes me want to be a better friend.
He's not one to get all gooshy about things, so I'll have to pour a couple drinks into him. Then I'll be able to tell him just how much his friendship means to me.
So here's my challenge for you today; tell someone how much and why you appreciate them. Tell them to their face, call them up, send an e-mail. Just do it. You'll make their day. And you'll feel better too. I promise.
It is December, 1984. Kevin, Jennifer and I have all been friends since high school. Kevin and Jennifer have been having a "thing" since high school. Kevin had gotten very serious about Jennifer. Jennifer has gotten very serious about someone else. I know this, because they've been talking to me. They don't know this, because they haven't been talking.
Kevin is planning to do a study abroad program in Denmark for the second semester. After that, he's got plans to backpack through Europe for the summer before he comes back to finish his last year and earn his double-degree. I'm looking foreward to seeing him during Christmas Break, since I won't see him for almost a year afterward.
Okay, so it's the day before Christmas, around two in the afternoon. I'm annoyed about having to share a room with my 17-year-old sister for a couple of weeks while I'm at my parents' house, so I'm out in the living room, watching It's a Wonderful Life for the millionth time.
The doorbell rings, and I see that it's Kevin at the door. Hurray! I'm rescued. I open the door, say "Merry Christmas!" and go in for a big hug.
It's like hugging a telephone pool. He looks at me and says,
"I was just over at Jennifer's house."
(Oh shit.)
"And you knew."
And he is pissed off.
I try to defend myself... but he isn't buying any of it.
"A real friend would've told me."
Turns out, Kevin had gone over to her parent's house to surprise her. He had bought a round trip ticket for her to travel in Europe with him that summer. That was going to be her Christmas present. How romantic is that? How many college boys would do something like that? As a surprise? Oh gosh. Where is my Kevin?
Her mother had answered the door, he asked for her, and mom said,
"Oh, I'm sorry Kevin, Jennifer is down in San Diego with her fiance's family."
God.
Can you imagine?
And he drove straight over to my house.
Now, in my defense, I didn't know she was spending the holidays with her new guy, and I certainly didn't know she was engaged. She and I talked more than she and Kevin did, but not much.
I look back now and wonder why I was ever friends with this person who just treated others like crap. I don't know.
I wonder how this woman inspired romantic, sweep-her-off-her-feet gestures in men, by being selfish and mean, while I, by being honest, loyal and constant, became every man's confidant and buddy.
I still wonder.
Kevin recovered. He and I are still close, and I'll be going out to Washington DC to see him next month.
This summer, I've really been reminded of what's important to me in friends. I tend to allow bad behavior and make excuses for others, rather than calling them on it. I get hurt easily, but try not to show it (not always successfully). Do I deserve it? Being teased, or chastised, or made fun of? No, I don't.
Kevin doesn't do that. He treats me with respect, he challenges me when he thinks I'm wrong, and he makes me want to be a better friend.
He's not one to get all gooshy about things, so I'll have to pour a couple drinks into him. Then I'll be able to tell him just how much his friendship means to me.
So here's my challenge for you today; tell someone how much and why you appreciate them. Tell them to their face, call them up, send an e-mail. Just do it. You'll make their day. And you'll feel better too. I promise.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Happy Birthday Torn!
Today is my good friend, Tornwordo's birthday. I've been trying to post a picture, but blogger doesn't seem to want to cooperate.
Happy Birthday Pal.
Happy Birthday Pal.
Friday, July 28, 2006
I haven't forgotten about Kevin, Part Two, but
I don't think my @#$@#$#! car is ever going to be fixed properly. I first took it in before the Vegas trip with Torn at the beginning of this month. Parts had to be ordered, so I had to bring it back in after I returned. Which I did. a couple weeks ago, I dropped it off early, in Goleta, which is about 13 miles from my house.
I puttered around at K-Mart and Home Depot down there, since the bus runs nowhere near my home, and it was about a bizillion degrees outside. Walking a couple miles up and back down the hill was not my idea of fun. At about 1pm, I called the shop and asked when my car might be finished. "Oh, Rodger didn't come in today. He's sick."
Great. So car not worked on. Air Conditioner still not working. And let me tell you, this is after driving back from Long Beach, on the stupid 405, in 15 mile-an-hour traffic, in 107 degree heat, with no air conditioning. It is not good. I needed the air conditioning fixed.
But what could I do? He was sick. I picked up my car, and hoped he would get better soon.
Brings us to yesterday. Yet again, I bring my car in early, drop it off, and this time, hop on the city bus back to Santa Barbara. I hang out at the mall, do a little shopping, eat lunch, do a little more shopping , and call Rodger around 3pm.
"We still have to order a part for the air conditioner. It's going to cost $200. Do you still want to get it?
YES! YES god damn it!
okay, so that was on the inside. I was all polite on the outside, and asked what time I should pick up my car. Vague, "Idunno" kind of answer. I'm getting annoyed at this point, but the guy has my car. Don't want to piss him off.
I go to the bus stop,where I watch the bus I need driving away. Wait a half an hour, ride for half an hour, and go get my car. And am told I should drive out to the Ford Dealership, which is several miles away, pick up the air conditioning part myself, and bring it back to the shop, where Rodger can fix it.
oi.
But I had dinner plans at 6pm last night.
So, I"m heading out in a bit, back to the garage, where supposedly, I will be able to wait whilst he fixes whatever needs to be fixed so I don't have to deal with being parboiled every time I go somewhere.
Please think good thoughts.
I puttered around at K-Mart and Home Depot down there, since the bus runs nowhere near my home, and it was about a bizillion degrees outside. Walking a couple miles up and back down the hill was not my idea of fun. At about 1pm, I called the shop and asked when my car might be finished. "Oh, Rodger didn't come in today. He's sick."
Great. So car not worked on. Air Conditioner still not working. And let me tell you, this is after driving back from Long Beach, on the stupid 405, in 15 mile-an-hour traffic, in 107 degree heat, with no air conditioning. It is not good. I needed the air conditioning fixed.
But what could I do? He was sick. I picked up my car, and hoped he would get better soon.
Brings us to yesterday. Yet again, I bring my car in early, drop it off, and this time, hop on the city bus back to Santa Barbara. I hang out at the mall, do a little shopping, eat lunch, do a little more shopping , and call Rodger around 3pm.
"We still have to order a part for the air conditioner. It's going to cost $200. Do you still want to get it?
YES! YES god damn it!
okay, so that was on the inside. I was all polite on the outside, and asked what time I should pick up my car. Vague, "Idunno" kind of answer. I'm getting annoyed at this point, but the guy has my car. Don't want to piss him off.
I go to the bus stop,where I watch the bus I need driving away. Wait a half an hour, ride for half an hour, and go get my car. And am told I should drive out to the Ford Dealership, which is several miles away, pick up the air conditioning part myself, and bring it back to the shop, where Rodger can fix it.
oi.
But I had dinner plans at 6pm last night.
So, I"m heading out in a bit, back to the garage, where supposedly, I will be able to wait whilst he fixes whatever needs to be fixed so I don't have to deal with being parboiled every time I go somewhere.
Please think good thoughts.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Dolly Parton
Did a horrific version of Stairway to Heaven. Did you know that? I didn't either, until about 3 minutes ago.
See, I just got the free 7-day trial version of MusicMatch.com. I went to the artist match feature, and it decided that since I like Alison Krauss and the Dixie Chicks, I would like this song too.
Eww.
(I wonder how many of you are going to search for this song now, just to hear it.)
See, I just got the free 7-day trial version of MusicMatch.com. I went to the artist match feature, and it decided that since I like Alison Krauss and the Dixie Chicks, I would like this song too.
Eww.
(I wonder how many of you are going to search for this song now, just to hear it.)
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Time for a change
Okay, I've now been told not only do I look like I have Down's Syndrome by one "friend", but Chunks commented on Torn's blog that I looked demented as well.
So, I have changed my profile picture.
I thought the other one was funny. Oh well.
So, I have changed my profile picture.
I thought the other one was funny. Oh well.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Definitely improved with age
The picture posted over at Torn's blog today made me go ahead and post this one.
I'm pretty sure this is Winter Formal, 1982.
Yes, we had better skin, and no gray hair, but still.
Thank god those days are over.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Kevin
Kevin and I have known each other for many many years. I knew of him even before we met.
When I was in the seventh grade, he was a year ahead of me at Goleta Valley Junior High School, and already very popular. That year, his 17-year-old sister was diagnosed with leukemia, and needed a very expensive bone marrow transplant. Goleta was a small community back then, and there were fundraisers for her and her family for several months. Every day the Goleta Valley Sun would report on how she was doing. I remember going door to door with a collection can for her.
Turned out the best match for her transplant was Kevin. This kid, only 13 years old, adored his sister, and both went into the hospital.
The transplant was a success, and his sister finally came home.
And then she died.
It was horrible. The hard part was over, everyone thought, but she got an infection, her body couldn't fight it, and she died.
It was very public. I didn't officially meet Kevin until two years later, but I knew all about this very private sorrow. You'd think this would set him up for a difficult life, but no matter how much crap the world has thrown at him, he still handles it all.
At first, I idolized him. He was cute, and funny, and always friendly to everyone. I never saw him treat anyone with the contempt or ridicule that so many teenage boys are full of.
Out of all the friends I had in high school, I don't think I would have guessed that he and I would have stayed so close. He was still popular, the student body president, knew everyone, and well, I was in the choir. I had a mad crush on him, asked him to the Sadie Hawkins Dance, and we had a pretty miserable time. Poor guy. He didn't want to hurt my feelings by saying no, but oh boy, was it a stilted, awkward couple of hours or what?
Anyway, it took many years before I realized that he enjoyed my friendship as much as I enjoyed his. You know how we put people on pedestals? We think they are so wonderful and amazing, but don't believe they are our equals? That's how I thought of him for a long time.
I don't know when I realized that he appreciated my friendship as much as I appreciated his.
Maybe Christmastime, my junior/his senior year in college.
He and Jennifer (remember the mean but funny girl from school whom I just recently saw? And posted about?) had had a "thing" for a few years. Neither one would take the chance to get serious, and neither one really got serious with anyone else. Kevin went to Colorado for his degree, and Jennifer went off to San Diego her junior year. They saw each other over holidays, and during the summer, wrote a letter or two, but that was it. This was before instant messaging, and e-mails and cheap phone calls.
When I got back from my lifeguarding gig at Camp Pilgrim Pines that summer before school started again, Kevin had already left to go back to Colorado. Jennifer and I got together a few times before she left too. She told me she had met someone "special" when she had gone down for the transfer student orientation a few weeks earlier at San Diego State. I asked about Kevin, and she said, "Oh, you know, he and I are just friends. I know we have our history, but we're cool."
And then off she went.
Kevin and I talked on the phone not long afterwards. He asked about my romantic adventures of the summer, and I asked about his.
"Becky, Jennifer and I got so close this summer, you wouldn't believe it."
(He was right.)
"She really opened up to me, and I think it's serious."
"Oh, you know Jennifer... don't count your chickens... you know how she is."
"No Becky, you weren't here. You didn't see how we were together. It's different now."
"Gosh. That's great. Have you talked to her lately?"
"You know how she is. It doesn't matter. It's going to work out."
Crap. I didn't know what to do. I mean, I didn't know how serious they got, but according to Jennifer, she had met someone special after a week at school. I couldn't say anything to Kevin about it yet. I didn't know what was up yet.
Phone call to Jennifer:
"Becky, this guy Travis is perfect. He's not like anyone else I've ever known. I think he's the one."
"Have you talked to Kevin yet?"
"You know how he is. We were never going to get serious. He and I both know that."
Basically repeat these two phone calls about three times before Winter break. All of a sudden, I was in the middle of something I wanted no part of.
If I told Kevin what I knew, Jennifer would be pissed at me. I kept telling her to call him, but didn't let on how serious he was feeling because I didn't think it was my place. I also knew that if Kevin found out I knew that she was seeing another man, and I didn't tell Kevin, he would be pissed at me.
There was no winning this. And I personally had done nothing wrong!
(This is getting rather long. I'll leave you there to await the major finale to this drama. Oo.. it was a biggie.)
When I was in the seventh grade, he was a year ahead of me at Goleta Valley Junior High School, and already very popular. That year, his 17-year-old sister was diagnosed with leukemia, and needed a very expensive bone marrow transplant. Goleta was a small community back then, and there were fundraisers for her and her family for several months. Every day the Goleta Valley Sun would report on how she was doing. I remember going door to door with a collection can for her.
Turned out the best match for her transplant was Kevin. This kid, only 13 years old, adored his sister, and both went into the hospital.
The transplant was a success, and his sister finally came home.
And then she died.
It was horrible. The hard part was over, everyone thought, but she got an infection, her body couldn't fight it, and she died.
It was very public. I didn't officially meet Kevin until two years later, but I knew all about this very private sorrow. You'd think this would set him up for a difficult life, but no matter how much crap the world has thrown at him, he still handles it all.
At first, I idolized him. He was cute, and funny, and always friendly to everyone. I never saw him treat anyone with the contempt or ridicule that so many teenage boys are full of.
Out of all the friends I had in high school, I don't think I would have guessed that he and I would have stayed so close. He was still popular, the student body president, knew everyone, and well, I was in the choir. I had a mad crush on him, asked him to the Sadie Hawkins Dance, and we had a pretty miserable time. Poor guy. He didn't want to hurt my feelings by saying no, but oh boy, was it a stilted, awkward couple of hours or what?
Anyway, it took many years before I realized that he enjoyed my friendship as much as I enjoyed his. You know how we put people on pedestals? We think they are so wonderful and amazing, but don't believe they are our equals? That's how I thought of him for a long time.
I don't know when I realized that he appreciated my friendship as much as I appreciated his.
Maybe Christmastime, my junior/his senior year in college.
He and Jennifer (remember the mean but funny girl from school whom I just recently saw? And posted about?) had had a "thing" for a few years. Neither one would take the chance to get serious, and neither one really got serious with anyone else. Kevin went to Colorado for his degree, and Jennifer went off to San Diego her junior year. They saw each other over holidays, and during the summer, wrote a letter or two, but that was it. This was before instant messaging, and e-mails and cheap phone calls.
When I got back from my lifeguarding gig at Camp Pilgrim Pines that summer before school started again, Kevin had already left to go back to Colorado. Jennifer and I got together a few times before she left too. She told me she had met someone "special" when she had gone down for the transfer student orientation a few weeks earlier at San Diego State. I asked about Kevin, and she said, "Oh, you know, he and I are just friends. I know we have our history, but we're cool."
And then off she went.
Kevin and I talked on the phone not long afterwards. He asked about my romantic adventures of the summer, and I asked about his.
"Becky, Jennifer and I got so close this summer, you wouldn't believe it."
(He was right.)
"She really opened up to me, and I think it's serious."
"Oh, you know Jennifer... don't count your chickens... you know how she is."
"No Becky, you weren't here. You didn't see how we were together. It's different now."
"Gosh. That's great. Have you talked to her lately?"
"You know how she is. It doesn't matter. It's going to work out."
Crap. I didn't know what to do. I mean, I didn't know how serious they got, but according to Jennifer, she had met someone special after a week at school. I couldn't say anything to Kevin about it yet. I didn't know what was up yet.
Phone call to Jennifer:
"Becky, this guy Travis is perfect. He's not like anyone else I've ever known. I think he's the one."
"Have you talked to Kevin yet?"
"You know how he is. We were never going to get serious. He and I both know that."
Basically repeat these two phone calls about three times before Winter break. All of a sudden, I was in the middle of something I wanted no part of.
If I told Kevin what I knew, Jennifer would be pissed at me. I kept telling her to call him, but didn't let on how serious he was feeling because I didn't think it was my place. I also knew that if Kevin found out I knew that she was seeing another man, and I didn't tell Kevin, he would be pissed at me.
There was no winning this. And I personally had done nothing wrong!
(This is getting rather long. I'll leave you there to await the major finale to this drama. Oo.. it was a biggie.)
Friday, July 21, 2006
Memories
This summer I chose not to work. So far, it's been great. I've been visiting with old friends, walking every day on the beach with the dog wonder, getting some things done around the old homestead, you know, all the things we wish we had more time for.
I've also had quite a bit of time alone in my head. This isn't always a good thing, since I'm basically a narcissist, and think about me, me, me, most of the time.
Lately, I've been thinking about the relationships I have or have had. Over the last couple of weeks, I've been able to spend time with several old friends. Why do we choose the friends we have? Sometimes we pursue the friendship, sometimes we are the ones pursued, but what makes it last? What's the glue in the first place, and what cements it (or causes it to fall apart) later? Why am I willing to put up with crap from one person, yet cannot tolerate the same crap from another?
How does love factor into this? Romantic attraction? Physical attraction? And in the case of old friends, history? How does our history affect our present situation?
Then, factor into this equation that three of the friends I've seen over the last month, all have histories with each other in addition to me. How does that further complicate or enrich our relationship?
And really, does it matter at all?
Being that I'm my favorite topic, yes.
Watch for future posts about each of these people.
Or don't. It's not like any of them read this anyway.
I've also had quite a bit of time alone in my head. This isn't always a good thing, since I'm basically a narcissist, and think about me, me, me, most of the time.
Lately, I've been thinking about the relationships I have or have had. Over the last couple of weeks, I've been able to spend time with several old friends. Why do we choose the friends we have? Sometimes we pursue the friendship, sometimes we are the ones pursued, but what makes it last? What's the glue in the first place, and what cements it (or causes it to fall apart) later? Why am I willing to put up with crap from one person, yet cannot tolerate the same crap from another?
How does love factor into this? Romantic attraction? Physical attraction? And in the case of old friends, history? How does our history affect our present situation?
Then, factor into this equation that three of the friends I've seen over the last month, all have histories with each other in addition to me. How does that further complicate or enrich our relationship?
And really, does it matter at all?
Being that I'm my favorite topic, yes.
Watch for future posts about each of these people.
Or don't. It's not like any of them read this anyway.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
What I've been Dreading has Happened
A couple nights ago, I was out with some friends (all teachers, by the way) in a weird little bar called Elsie's. It serves only beer and wine, only takes cash, and has the weirdest pool table of all time. It's my friend the department chair's favorite spot.
Anyway, I was on my second beer, when two young girls came over to talk to me.
"Hi, I'm Brittany, and this is Lindsay. Do you remember us?"
Oh no.
No.
It can't be.
"We were your students, uh... nine years ago."
Oh my.
Not until that moment have I run into a student in a bar. My friends who teach high school? It happens often enough to them. Me? Never.
Well, it used to be never.
Funny thing was, I had a really difficult time placing them. One of them looked familiar in that worn-out-at-the-cuff jeans, shorty-hoodie-over-a-longer-tank-top kind of way. I remembered her face anyway.
The other girl? Wow.
Where do I start? She was smoking a cigarette, had a pierced nose, upper and lower lip, had a ton of tattoos all over her chest and arms (not a cute little heart or Japanese Kanji mind you, she was COVERED), and had short, jet black, every which way hair.
Finally it dawned on me.
I did remember these two girls. They had been together in my class, and had been inseparable. They were smart and funny and charming (still were, it appeared). I remembered a book one of the girls had been reading, Sophie's Choice, which I went out and bought at her suggestion. I remembered that for the poetry memorization, Brittany had chosen Rapper's Delight (I still let kids choose song lyrics back then). I remembered that they were the kids that actually asked for more work to do, if you can believe that such a being existed.
They were cute back then, in a very suburban kind of way.
No way would I have guessed the young woman in front of me was the little girl from several years back.
They were friendly and silly with me, and I asked them about school. I expected both of them to say they had just graduated or were going on for their Master's degree from some great school.
Nope.
One was in her fourth year of City College, working two part-time jobs, and the other? She was vague about the details, but I got that she wasn't taking any classes at all.
Again, I was surprised. These were the kids I'd never doubt going on to university for a second.
You just never know.
Anyway, I was on my second beer, when two young girls came over to talk to me.
"Hi, I'm Brittany, and this is Lindsay. Do you remember us?"
Oh no.
No.
It can't be.
"We were your students, uh... nine years ago."
Oh my.
Not until that moment have I run into a student in a bar. My friends who teach high school? It happens often enough to them. Me? Never.
Well, it used to be never.
Funny thing was, I had a really difficult time placing them. One of them looked familiar in that worn-out-at-the-cuff jeans, shorty-hoodie-over-a-longer-tank-top kind of way. I remembered her face anyway.
The other girl? Wow.
Where do I start? She was smoking a cigarette, had a pierced nose, upper and lower lip, had a ton of tattoos all over her chest and arms (not a cute little heart or Japanese Kanji mind you, she was COVERED), and had short, jet black, every which way hair.
Finally it dawned on me.
I did remember these two girls. They had been together in my class, and had been inseparable. They were smart and funny and charming (still were, it appeared). I remembered a book one of the girls had been reading, Sophie's Choice, which I went out and bought at her suggestion. I remembered that for the poetry memorization, Brittany had chosen Rapper's Delight (I still let kids choose song lyrics back then). I remembered that they were the kids that actually asked for more work to do, if you can believe that such a being existed.
They were cute back then, in a very suburban kind of way.
No way would I have guessed the young woman in front of me was the little girl from several years back.
They were friendly and silly with me, and I asked them about school. I expected both of them to say they had just graduated or were going on for their Master's degree from some great school.
Nope.
One was in her fourth year of City College, working two part-time jobs, and the other? She was vague about the details, but I got that she wasn't taking any classes at all.
Again, I was surprised. These were the kids I'd never doubt going on to university for a second.
You just never know.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
I love Ebay
So, there's this stuff, Spun Gold Hair Balm by John Frieda.
When I had short hair a few years ago, I discovered it. It was perfect. Not too gloppy, but sticky enough to hold my hair the way I wanted. It didn't make me look like I had a helmet on my head, but really controlled the hair. It wasn't funky smelling, nor did it dry crunchy. It also had a tiny bit of sparkle to it.
All in all, good stuff. Cheap too; you could buy it at a drugstore. None of this $18 hair gel for me.
Well, on one of our many Vegas trips, I saw that Torn also used it for his locks. We talked about it's many wonderful qualities. Good times.
Then he moved to Montreal with his spouse. Not such good times for me. I missed my friend.
We talked on the phone often, made plans for me to visit over Spring Break.
A few months after he left, during one of our calls, he reported sadly that the Spun Gold wasn't available in Canada, and could I bring some out? Oh boy, a mission!
So I brought him some, but by then, it was gracing the shelves in Montreal's drugstores, but he said "thank you" anyway.
Then, I grew my hair out. No need for Spun Gold, or any other gel or goo for my hair. Just lots of conditioner to keep it smooth.
A year ago, I cut it off again. Saw my pictures from wedding I was in and realized two things: I was not meant to have long hair, and I was fat. Took measures to fix both problems.
But.
Alas, the Spun Gold was no longer in the stores. I talked to Torn. Had he seen it lately? Nope. He said he was bummed because he couldn't find it anymore.
We both moved on to other hair products. He found something he liked, some Got2B Hair Glue or something like that. I wasn't so successful.
In the picture, you can see all my attempts at a replacement hair product. None were satisfactory. I did my best with Chunky Monkey and Out of Bed, but nothing was as good as Spun Gold.
I made do.
Then, in the bathroom at our hotel in Vegas, I saw, in Torn's open dit'ty bag (am I the only person who uses that term any more?), and lo and behold, a shining silver tin of Spun Gold!
"Where did you get that?" I demanded.
"Oh, it's back in the stores. I may have even bought two."
So, for the remainder of our trip, I used it every day. Still as fabulous as I remember. He said he'd get some for me when he went home.
Then, the other night, I had the idea. What about Ebay? They always have everything.
Sure enough.
Three tins of Spun Gold are on their way to me right now. $18, including shipping.
I'm set.
When I had short hair a few years ago, I discovered it. It was perfect. Not too gloppy, but sticky enough to hold my hair the way I wanted. It didn't make me look like I had a helmet on my head, but really controlled the hair. It wasn't funky smelling, nor did it dry crunchy. It also had a tiny bit of sparkle to it.
All in all, good stuff. Cheap too; you could buy it at a drugstore. None of this $18 hair gel for me.
Well, on one of our many Vegas trips, I saw that Torn also used it for his locks. We talked about it's many wonderful qualities. Good times.
Then he moved to Montreal with his spouse. Not such good times for me. I missed my friend.
We talked on the phone often, made plans for me to visit over Spring Break.
A few months after he left, during one of our calls, he reported sadly that the Spun Gold wasn't available in Canada, and could I bring some out? Oh boy, a mission!
So I brought him some, but by then, it was gracing the shelves in Montreal's drugstores, but he said "thank you" anyway.
Then, I grew my hair out. No need for Spun Gold, or any other gel or goo for my hair. Just lots of conditioner to keep it smooth.
A year ago, I cut it off again. Saw my pictures from wedding I was in and realized two things: I was not meant to have long hair, and I was fat. Took measures to fix both problems.
But.
Alas, the Spun Gold was no longer in the stores. I talked to Torn. Had he seen it lately? Nope. He said he was bummed because he couldn't find it anymore.
We both moved on to other hair products. He found something he liked, some Got2B Hair Glue or something like that. I wasn't so successful.
In the picture, you can see all my attempts at a replacement hair product. None were satisfactory. I did my best with Chunky Monkey and Out of Bed, but nothing was as good as Spun Gold.
I made do.
Then, in the bathroom at our hotel in Vegas, I saw, in Torn's open dit'ty bag (am I the only person who uses that term any more?), and lo and behold, a shining silver tin of Spun Gold!
"Where did you get that?" I demanded.
"Oh, it's back in the stores. I may have even bought two."
So, for the remainder of our trip, I used it every day. Still as fabulous as I remember. He said he'd get some for me when he went home.
Then, the other night, I had the idea. What about Ebay? They always have everything.
Sure enough.
Three tins of Spun Gold are on their way to me right now. $18, including shipping.
I'm set.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Hard to catch up
Remember back in the days of handwritten letters? I do. I was a big letter writer. When I lived in Japan, computers weren't yet commonplace. I was there from 1988-1991. A fax was still a big thrill.
Anyway, I saved all the letters I received during that time, and my mother, Katrina, and Carol all saved the letters I wrote to them. I had these big plans of writing a book based on all of them. I could still do it, but it would be dated in this time of emails.
Do you also remember having not written for a while? How hard it was to write about everything that had happened since your last letter? So you kinda gave up and even more time passed?
That's how I feel about this blog the past two weeks. Yes, I know posting pictures is a wussy way to post, but I just had too much to write about, so I avoided it all.
Isn't that always the way?
First off, I had the best time EVER in Vegas this time. And I've been at least 30 times; probably more. Of course, winning over $2000 didn't hurt. I only have won one other time, and that was also on a trip with Torn, also at the Rio, and it was $700. Most of the time I lose what I came with or break a little even.
What was so fun about this win was that I didn't realize I was playing a progressive machine. I mean, it was a penny machine for goodness' sake. Torn was sitting beside me, and I was rather mindlessly pushing the spin button. We were discussing where to eat lunch, and I got a bonus screen. If you've been to Vegas lately, you'll know that all the slot machines have this "bonus" screen deal. What I didn't know, was that this wasn't a regular bonus screen, but the progressive screen.
Next thing you know, both of us are looking at the machine, stuttering a little bit...'uh..I think... I just won... the big... uh.." and then the screaming commenced.
Of course, the screaming was just me. Torn had a smile as wide as his ears, and kept saying "Gahwd!" and hugging me.
We went to a show, which we have discussed doing for at least the last 10 years, but we never do, and we ended up staying an extra day. Four nights! I've never stayed in Vegas that long. Never. But wow. What a good time.
Oh yeah, they also kept comping us for our meals at the hotel. "Is $15 each good enough for lunch for you?" "I can give you free breakfast at our buffet."
Yes! And the rooms were free, and I even got Torn a free tee shirt from my "player's gold" card play points. Main Street Station is not the most fancy hotel in which you'll ever stay, but it was clean, and looked great inside the rooms, and all in all, veddy veddy good to me.
It's going to be hard to top this one.
Anyway, I saved all the letters I received during that time, and my mother, Katrina, and Carol all saved the letters I wrote to them. I had these big plans of writing a book based on all of them. I could still do it, but it would be dated in this time of emails.
Do you also remember having not written for a while? How hard it was to write about everything that had happened since your last letter? So you kinda gave up and even more time passed?
That's how I feel about this blog the past two weeks. Yes, I know posting pictures is a wussy way to post, but I just had too much to write about, so I avoided it all.
Isn't that always the way?
First off, I had the best time EVER in Vegas this time. And I've been at least 30 times; probably more. Of course, winning over $2000 didn't hurt. I only have won one other time, and that was also on a trip with Torn, also at the Rio, and it was $700. Most of the time I lose what I came with or break a little even.
What was so fun about this win was that I didn't realize I was playing a progressive machine. I mean, it was a penny machine for goodness' sake. Torn was sitting beside me, and I was rather mindlessly pushing the spin button. We were discussing where to eat lunch, and I got a bonus screen. If you've been to Vegas lately, you'll know that all the slot machines have this "bonus" screen deal. What I didn't know, was that this wasn't a regular bonus screen, but the progressive screen.
Next thing you know, both of us are looking at the machine, stuttering a little bit...'uh..I think... I just won... the big... uh.." and then the screaming commenced.
Of course, the screaming was just me. Torn had a smile as wide as his ears, and kept saying "Gahwd!" and hugging me.
We went to a show, which we have discussed doing for at least the last 10 years, but we never do, and we ended up staying an extra day. Four nights! I've never stayed in Vegas that long. Never. But wow. What a good time.
Oh yeah, they also kept comping us for our meals at the hotel. "Is $15 each good enough for lunch for you?" "I can give you free breakfast at our buffet."
Yes! And the rooms were free, and I even got Torn a free tee shirt from my "player's gold" card play points. Main Street Station is not the most fancy hotel in which you'll ever stay, but it was clean, and looked great inside the rooms, and all in all, veddy veddy good to me.
It's going to be hard to top this one.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Friday, July 07, 2006
one more thing
Ever since I wrote about the boob-a-la-fiesta photo my sister took of me (and framed and gave to my mother as a present), I've had at least one hit a day from someone googling "boobs picture."
Although anyone looking for a boobs photo doesn't have to let me know, thank you very much.
Ew.
How do I know this?
Site Meter. Very addictive. I get about 15 hits a day, yet only one or two of you ever comment.
Harumph.
Although anyone looking for a boobs photo doesn't have to let me know, thank you very much.
Ew.
Okay, this was fucking confusing. Then I saw the arrows. However, it still was confusing, since this sign was several carlengths ahead of where I parked. Just behind where I parked was a sign stating that there was "temporarily" no parking. Where I ended up, there was no sign at all. I hate L.A. sometimes. 
Whirlwind
So, all of a sudden, my vacation has really begun.
A couple of days ago, I saw my high school friend, Jennifer, and her new boyfriend. They were in town for the 4th of July to visit her mother. We went out for dinner and then drinks afterward.
It wasn't really weird, but it wasn't like old times either. I mean, dinner was great, and the bartender at the bar flirted with me (and asked for my number, which was a shocker), but I actually had more fun talking to the boyfriend than I did with her. Those bosom buddies from high school, aren't always the longest lasting. I'm lucky though, because so many of my true friends actually are from that time in my life.
Like Carol, who just became a mommy on Monday. Actually, her partner gave birth to the little guy, but you know what I mean. I drove to Santa Monica yesterday to see the little peanut, and he's bee-yoo-tee-full. It was a C-section, so they were still in the hospital. Did you know about the little baby alarm they put on infants now? Yeah. I couldn't believe it. That yellow box around his ankle? With the "13" written on it? It goes off if anyone tries to take the baby out of the room. A baby Low-Jack.
Wow. What is this world coming to?
There was also $12 parking. Whether I was in there for one hour or all day, 12 bucks. So, Rebekah tried parking on the street. The picture above explains it all. I made it out of there without a ticket.
However, not without my air conditioner deciding to take a nap during the hottest part of the day while I was stuck on the 405 North trying to get back home. It took me almost 3 1/2 hours to drive 90 miles. Yech.
Last night I caught up with some friends from school, two of whom will be going on a 10-day vacation together with their mountain bikes... felt a little left out, but then again, I've got Vegas with Tornwordo on Sunday (YAHOOLAMUNGA!)
Going to a "going away" get together tonight for another friend who's moving back to New York after 25-30 years away. I'm going to miss her. I hate when people leave. Although, it's at Arnoldi's, a great old Italian place which I love, so dinner will be tasty.
Tomorrow, there is a 25-year high school reunion for the class of 1981. Just a class ahead of me, so I've got lots of friends coming in. One of 'em, at the last minute, decided to fly in from Washington D.C. just from Saturday to Sunday. Even with that tight schedule, he and I are going to try and see each other tomorrow afternoon. He's not seen me since I've lost weight, so I'm hoping for a good response. Of course, he's gay, so I'm just hoping for a compliment folks.
And, then it's Sunday. Whoo hoo! This is going to be the big win weekend this time. I just feel it.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Another day in Paradise
Went for a long walk with the dog wonder today... lots of people already at the beach at 8 am. Lots of smiles and friendly folks. Love when that happens.
Okay, so the stupid personals thing. I finished it... and the matches that are coming up for me are frightening. The number one match for me is a 52-year-old man in a pirate's outfit in his picture (which he spells "pyrate" by the way), and who, in his little write up about himself, uses what he thinks is a "pirate" dialect...
"Aye, me compass doesn’t not always point to where we be goin n’ many a time I be losin’ me way but when ye loses yer way is when the adventure begins n’ ye discover new lands…"
He goes on like this for a while.
I'm with cold guy on this a bit... I feel left out around all my couple friends, but when this is what I have to deal with in trying to get a guy... ew.
Another guy seemed interesting, spelled everything correctly (I mean really, how hard is it to use spellcheck when it's part of the website?), and he was funny, but funny in the way my friends and I are funny with each other... here's part of what he said:
"I like to sit here and assign people new nicknames that would be a LOT more appropriate: 1bigheadache; Nocarbs4you; Nurserachet; Likesvicodin; Watchurwallet; Botoxgonebad; Cautionwideload; Lifeofquietdesperation; Bobdylansmother; YulBeSorry; Vergeofpanic; Venusflytrap; Threedatesandgone; Harpsicordlover... you get the idea."
He would be good to laugh with, but sheesh, what would he call me?
What have I gotten myself into?
Oi.
Okay, so the stupid personals thing. I finished it... and the matches that are coming up for me are frightening. The number one match for me is a 52-year-old man in a pirate's outfit in his picture (which he spells "pyrate" by the way), and who, in his little write up about himself, uses what he thinks is a "pirate" dialect...
"Aye, me compass doesn’t not always point to where we be goin n’ many a time I be losin’ me way but when ye loses yer way is when the adventure begins n’ ye discover new lands…"
He goes on like this for a while.
I'm with cold guy on this a bit... I feel left out around all my couple friends, but when this is what I have to deal with in trying to get a guy... ew.
Another guy seemed interesting, spelled everything correctly (I mean really, how hard is it to use spellcheck when it's part of the website?), and he was funny, but funny in the way my friends and I are funny with each other... here's part of what he said:
"I like to sit here and assign people new nicknames that would be a LOT more appropriate: 1bigheadache; Nocarbs4you; Nurserachet; Likesvicodin; Watchurwallet; Botoxgonebad; Cautionwideload; Lifeofquietdesperation; Bobdylansmother; YulBeSorry; Vergeofpanic; Venusflytrap; Threedatesandgone; Harpsicordlover... you get the idea."
He would be good to laugh with, but sheesh, what would he call me?
What have I gotten myself into?
Oi.
Monday, July 03, 2006
A good day
Yesterday was great.
After another beach walk with my dog (and three girlfriends and their three dogs), I went to lunch with a couple other girlfriends from my writing group. No writing involved, just eating.
Thank goodness for cell phones though. We were to meet up at C's house, and then go on to the cafe on Santa Claus Lane. I got there, but S. wasn't there yet. She's usually never late. I am, but she isn't. After about 15 minutes, we get a call, "Where are you guys? I'm already here." She was at the cafe already, not realizing we were going to meet and go on over together.
So, C. and I get into the car and drive over. A bit of a crowd due to the 4th of July weekend, but we can't find S. We call again on the cell, "Where are you? Are you here?"
Turns out she was at the Luna Cafe, not the Garden Cafe. So more shuffling, and we finally sit down together, all at the same place. Good food, then back to C's house for Sofia Rose from Coppola vineyards and then another Rose I brought back from Paris. Then, since that wasn't enough, we opened up a sparkling Rose from Australia. C's spouse, T., joined us, and we had a great time.
Even the part where they decided it would be a good idea to set up a profile for me on Yahoopersonals.com.
We worked on it all afternoon, but didn't post it. I didn't think a drunken photo of me would be the best way to attract the kind of person I'm looking for.
Although, I'm going to work on it some more. I'm so damn tired of being the single one all the time. I'm tired of complaining about it. This is not necessarily going to do anything, but how can it hurt?
After another beach walk with my dog (and three girlfriends and their three dogs), I went to lunch with a couple other girlfriends from my writing group. No writing involved, just eating.
Thank goodness for cell phones though. We were to meet up at C's house, and then go on to the cafe on Santa Claus Lane. I got there, but S. wasn't there yet. She's usually never late. I am, but she isn't. After about 15 minutes, we get a call, "Where are you guys? I'm already here." She was at the cafe already, not realizing we were going to meet and go on over together.
So, C. and I get into the car and drive over. A bit of a crowd due to the 4th of July weekend, but we can't find S. We call again on the cell, "Where are you? Are you here?"
Turns out she was at the Luna Cafe, not the Garden Cafe. So more shuffling, and we finally sit down together, all at the same place. Good food, then back to C's house for Sofia Rose from Coppola vineyards and then another Rose I brought back from Paris. Then, since that wasn't enough, we opened up a sparkling Rose from Australia. C's spouse, T., joined us, and we had a great time.
Even the part where they decided it would be a good idea to set up a profile for me on Yahoopersonals.com.
We worked on it all afternoon, but didn't post it. I didn't think a drunken photo of me would be the best way to attract the kind of person I'm looking for.
Although, I'm going to work on it some more. I'm so damn tired of being the single one all the time. I'm tired of complaining about it. This is not necessarily going to do anything, but how can it hurt?
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Yoplait White Chocolate Raspberry yogurt
It sounds kinda gross, but it tastes wonderful.
Only 3 points.
Only 3 points.
Off to the beach again
Summer finally feels like it's started for me... I know I got out of school over a week ago, but I had 24 hours before I was in Denver at the Writing Project conference, and then, I didn't get my classroom clean until just a couple days ago. Mom's birthday took quite a bit of time and well...phew.
Katrina and I, and our dogs Jelly and Charlie went on a honking long walk yesterday. Walked on the beach from Montecito to Summerland, where we went to the wonderful Summerland Beach Cafe, which lets people bring their dogs and sit outside. They even have a sneaky outdoor gate so we doggie folk don't break any regulations by walking through the actual restuarant with our canines.
The walk takes about an hour and a half, but we hadn't planned on the tide being as far in as it was (yes folks, I do check the tide tables, but there are other factors, like the lack of sand that seems to be on the beaches this year). We had less than 1/4 mile to go, and we hit a point. Frag's point, or some such name the locals have given it.
The waves were breaking on top of the sandy part, and what was left for us to walk on were slimy, kelp covered rocks. Both Katrina and I tried to just walk through the knee to thigh high water, but there were also rocks there. Not only a little scary when I couldn't see what I was putting my foot down on, but also, around the rocks were deeper places. Take a step there, and the knee high water becomes almost underpant high.
Argh. Jelly had no problem, bounding back and forth in the waves and water; he loves to swim. Charlie? Not so much.
The water was over his head, so he got frightened, took refuge on a rock, and wouldn't budge. I had to pick him up. My soaking, dripping wet dog was hoisted over my shoulder as I forged the rapids.
Not really rapids. But they might've been if someone had seen me afterwards. I might as well have gone swimming in my clothes. Only thing dry I had was my pair of shoes, that Katrina so nicely held for me as I saved my bedraggled dog.
And Katrina? She kept her shoes on, to protect her feet, so the two of us were quite a pair as we sloshed up our way to the eatery.
Oh, but the biscuits and gravy sure tasted good.
Katrina and I, and our dogs Jelly and Charlie went on a honking long walk yesterday. Walked on the beach from Montecito to Summerland, where we went to the wonderful Summerland Beach Cafe, which lets people bring their dogs and sit outside. They even have a sneaky outdoor gate so we doggie folk don't break any regulations by walking through the actual restuarant with our canines.
The walk takes about an hour and a half, but we hadn't planned on the tide being as far in as it was (yes folks, I do check the tide tables, but there are other factors, like the lack of sand that seems to be on the beaches this year). We had less than 1/4 mile to go, and we hit a point. Frag's point, or some such name the locals have given it.
The waves were breaking on top of the sandy part, and what was left for us to walk on were slimy, kelp covered rocks. Both Katrina and I tried to just walk through the knee to thigh high water, but there were also rocks there. Not only a little scary when I couldn't see what I was putting my foot down on, but also, around the rocks were deeper places. Take a step there, and the knee high water becomes almost underpant high.
Argh. Jelly had no problem, bounding back and forth in the waves and water; he loves to swim. Charlie? Not so much.
The water was over his head, so he got frightened, took refuge on a rock, and wouldn't budge. I had to pick him up. My soaking, dripping wet dog was hoisted over my shoulder as I forged the rapids.
Not really rapids. But they might've been if someone had seen me afterwards. I might as well have gone swimming in my clothes. Only thing dry I had was my pair of shoes, that Katrina so nicely held for me as I saved my bedraggled dog.
And Katrina? She kept her shoes on, to protect her feet, so the two of us were quite a pair as we sloshed up our way to the eatery.
Oh, but the biscuits and gravy sure tasted good.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Costumes
We took my mother out for her 70th birthday on Tuesday. One of the presents (notice I didn't say "gifts") my sister gave her was a large frame with space for nine photos in it. All the photos were from my sister's birthday celebration. I'm sorry, there was one space left blank for me to fill with a photo of Charlie. Now, why my mother would want a photo of Charlie on her wall, or a whole bunch of pictures of my sister's birthday on the wall... well, I don't think she would. However, this is my sister's present to my mom, not mine, so what's the big deal?
I'll tell you.
One of the pictures is lovely. My mother, my sister and I all smiling together. I have my pretty new (size 14!) dress on, Sister has her shades on, and we all look pretty good. But did we stop there? Oh no.
There's another picture. I'm sitting on the edge of Sister's pool, with just my feet in the water. Sister's drunk friend is talking to me. Sister came over and took the picture looking down at both of us. I'm also leaning forward, unaware of the result of leaning forward, until I see this picture.
In this picture, not only are my boobs completely popping out of the dress a la Britany Spears in the Matt Lauer interview, you can see practically down to my navel. Okay, not to my navel, but... it's so bad that not only can you see all the cleavage I possess between the boobs, but you can actually see the curve UNDER my boob.
Mortification.
Total and absolute mortification.
Any friend of mine would use this picture to tease me, blackmail me, or just have a good laugh.
Not my sister though.
She puts it in a frame and declares "It's such a cute picture of you!" then gives it as a gift to my mother.
God.
Best of all of this? I asked my mother to please let me give her a different picture of myself to put in place of this awful picture, and she said, "I like it. I'll just cover up your chest with a sticker or something."
Is it time to go to Vegas yet?
So what does all this have to do with Costumes? Well, we get to act differently when we wear costumes. Most of the time, my costumes have been detailed, but ugly. The one below took me weeks of planning to get right. The witch costume above is my fall back.
This last year, if you remember, I decided to be a cute witch. It all goes together. I feel better about my looks, and then I do even more to present myself the best way possible. I feel crummy, and I don't even try.
However. The big-breasts-falling-out-of my-dress look is one I've never gone for. Not that I'm modest in general, but the fact that I'm not small up top is obvious. Why should I make it even more so? No low cut or tight fitting tops for me. I think it looks cheap. Also, it seems that being a chubby girl means that one must play up those big babies even more. It's like, "there's at least one thing about her that's attractive."
I've always fought against it.
The naked breast is a thing of beauty.
Shoving it into a push up wonderbra and wearing a shirt two sizes too small isn't.
I'll tell you.
One of the pictures is lovely. My mother, my sister and I all smiling together. I have my pretty new (size 14!) dress on, Sister has her shades on, and we all look pretty good. But did we stop there? Oh no.
There's another picture. I'm sitting on the edge of Sister's pool, with just my feet in the water. Sister's drunk friend is talking to me. Sister came over and took the picture looking down at both of us. I'm also leaning forward, unaware of the result of leaning forward, until I see this picture.
In this picture, not only are my boobs completely popping out of the dress a la Britany Spears in the Matt Lauer interview, you can see practically down to my navel. Okay, not to my navel, but... it's so bad that not only can you see all the cleavage I possess between the boobs, but you can actually see the curve UNDER my boob.
Mortification.
Total and absolute mortification.
Any friend of mine would use this picture to tease me, blackmail me, or just have a good laugh.
Not my sister though.
She puts it in a frame and declares "It's such a cute picture of you!" then gives it as a gift to my mother.
God.
Best of all of this? I asked my mother to please let me give her a different picture of myself to put in place of this awful picture, and she said, "I like it. I'll just cover up your chest with a sticker or something."
Is it time to go to Vegas yet?
So what does all this have to do with Costumes? Well, we get to act differently when we wear costumes. Most of the time, my costumes have been detailed, but ugly. The one below took me weeks of planning to get right. The witch costume above is my fall back.
This last year, if you remember, I decided to be a cute witch. It all goes together. I feel better about my looks, and then I do even more to present myself the best way possible. I feel crummy, and I don't even try.
However. The big-breasts-falling-out-of my-dress look is one I've never gone for. Not that I'm modest in general, but the fact that I'm not small up top is obvious. Why should I make it even more so? No low cut or tight fitting tops for me. I think it looks cheap. Also, it seems that being a chubby girl means that one must play up those big babies even more. It's like, "there's at least one thing about her that's attractive."
I've always fought against it.
The naked breast is a thing of beauty.
Shoving it into a push up wonderbra and wearing a shirt two sizes too small isn't.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Dinner party
Okay, this isn't a new idea, but today, I read about em's fantasy dinner party, and thought, "good, I'll have something to write about!"
If I could invite any six people in the world to dinner, living or dead, who would I invite? Added to that is what would I serve?
Jesus - Totally curious about him. What would he think of people today? Would he think we were doing anything related to his teachings in the way he intended? I think he'd be one cool conversationalist. Besides, I have a sneaking suspicion that Jesus was a hottie.
Buddha - Gotta keep it real. Can't invite one without the others. There are two places I've felt the presence of something more than this world. Once at Stonehenge in England, and the other in Nara in Japan. I was in a very old temple, with the largest wooden carving of Buddha in the world (so big that a person could fit into his left nostril. But that's neither here nor there), and I just had this overwhelming... sense. There's no word to describe it. Both times I didn't expect it. There's something to be said for any ancient sacred place. I mean, hundreds of years of people's collective thoughts must affect a location. But still...
Mohammad - Again with the fairness. I don't know much about this guy. Want to. Already, with these three, we could have a pretty darn good discussion. I'd love to ask them how they get along, and if they could pass that knowledge on to us.
Antonio Banderas - I don't suspect he's such a sparkling conversationalist, but I'd just like to look at him.
Dorothy Parker - Along with Anne Lammott (whom em has already snagged for her dinner party), one of my two favorite female writers. She had heart, and wit, and sorrow. She tried so hard to be cynical and brash, and yet there's a hope to her writing that still comes through. She also made it in a man's world, doing and saying what she wanted. I've always wanted to meet her. Besides, I think she could definitely hold her own with the big guys.
Midge Sites - Who the heck is that? My maternal grandmother, who died when I was 18. It was too soon. I loved her so much, and she was the epitome of kindness. I never got to know her as an adult, and I don't know if she knew how much she shaped my view of goodness in the world. I know she would like the conversation at this table. And, I would like to hug her one more time.
For dinner, I'd order a couple pasta dishes (chicken, artichoke and walnut penne in rosemary gorganzola sauce and yellow pepper, onion, and sausage fusilli in sun-dried tomato cream sauce), with goat cheese and prosciutto salad from Palazzio, an Italian joint here in town. Oh and their fresh garlic rolls, bathed in butter.
Lots of red wine too. Always a social lubricant. And, if we run out, well, you know Jesus has some mad skills in that area.
Only thing is with this dinner? I'd want all my friends to come too.
If I could invite any six people in the world to dinner, living or dead, who would I invite? Added to that is what would I serve?
Jesus - Totally curious about him. What would he think of people today? Would he think we were doing anything related to his teachings in the way he intended? I think he'd be one cool conversationalist. Besides, I have a sneaking suspicion that Jesus was a hottie.
Buddha - Gotta keep it real. Can't invite one without the others. There are two places I've felt the presence of something more than this world. Once at Stonehenge in England, and the other in Nara in Japan. I was in a very old temple, with the largest wooden carving of Buddha in the world (so big that a person could fit into his left nostril. But that's neither here nor there), and I just had this overwhelming... sense. There's no word to describe it. Both times I didn't expect it. There's something to be said for any ancient sacred place. I mean, hundreds of years of people's collective thoughts must affect a location. But still...
Mohammad - Again with the fairness. I don't know much about this guy. Want to. Already, with these three, we could have a pretty darn good discussion. I'd love to ask them how they get along, and if they could pass that knowledge on to us.
Antonio Banderas - I don't suspect he's such a sparkling conversationalist, but I'd just like to look at him.
Dorothy Parker - Along with Anne Lammott (whom em has already snagged for her dinner party), one of my two favorite female writers. She had heart, and wit, and sorrow. She tried so hard to be cynical and brash, and yet there's a hope to her writing that still comes through. She also made it in a man's world, doing and saying what she wanted. I've always wanted to meet her. Besides, I think she could definitely hold her own with the big guys.
Midge Sites - Who the heck is that? My maternal grandmother, who died when I was 18. It was too soon. I loved her so much, and she was the epitome of kindness. I never got to know her as an adult, and I don't know if she knew how much she shaped my view of goodness in the world. I know she would like the conversation at this table. And, I would like to hug her one more time.
For dinner, I'd order a couple pasta dishes (chicken, artichoke and walnut penne in rosemary gorganzola sauce and yellow pepper, onion, and sausage fusilli in sun-dried tomato cream sauce), with goat cheese and prosciutto salad from Palazzio, an Italian joint here in town. Oh and their fresh garlic rolls, bathed in butter.
Lots of red wine too. Always a social lubricant. And, if we run out, well, you know Jesus has some mad skills in that area.
Only thing is with this dinner? I'd want all my friends to come too.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Communication
Were you a phone-hanger-upper? You know, you're having an argument on the phone with someone, and so to have the last word (and really piss the other person off), you hang up on them?
I wasn't big on that. I don't know that I ever did it. Oh wait. I remember one time. I had a boyfriend in high school. He lived in another town, so we spent lots of time on the phone. Well, I used to call him and talk a little dirty to him sometimes. Mostly goofing around stuff, just to see if I could embarrass him. It never got too heated or anything (which now tells me that I should've known something wasn't quite right, because, I mean, what 17-year-old boy has a girlfriend who torments him by talking dirty?... but that's a whole other story).
Anyway, my boyfriend had a best friend. They were together all the time. Together so much that they sounded identical on the phone. So identical that that's the way they would mess with me. Best Friend would answer the phone instead of Boyfriend. I'd ask (because they'd done it enough to make me wary), "Is this Boyfriend or Best Friend?" But Best Friend still sometimes tricked me.
So, I call up, Best Friend answers the phone. Says he's Boyfriend. I hear no giggling in the background and I say something suggestive to him.
"WHAT!?" and then shrieks of laughter and my boyfriend's voice (yes, the real boyfriend) yelling,"What did she say?! What did she say?!"
I hung up on them.
But, back to the present:
Last night, I was having a disagreement with someone. She thought one thing, I thought another. As far as she was concerned, there was no compromise, because a third party involved agreed with her. The thing is, money was involved, money for a gift for someone important.
A LOT of money.
She's very proud of the fact that she makes so much money. She also likes to remind me that she makes more than me. That I don't have to "put in" as much as she and the other person involved in this decision (subtle hint that I also don't have as much "say" in the decision? you think?).
Remember my post about presents? That the most important factor for me, whether receiving or giving is the thought that goes into it? That's what we were arguing about. She was pushing for something very expensive (and showoff-y, in my opinion), and I was thinking of something more personal, and yes, less costly.
Oi.
So the argument becomes not about this gift, but about my perception of this other person. Every time we get into an argument, it has to be because I "hate her" not because I see things differently. Once she gets into this mode, it's impossible to get her out again. I can't be irritated or annoyed just because of this or that... it's always because I "hate her." And then she gets all hurt and we're not talking anymore about whatever the immediate problem might be.
Now, I do see her as somewhat manipulative, but then again, so am I, at times. I like getting my way, she likes getting hers.
Here's the problem. We start out with the disagreement about the gift. It then turns into this whole big thing about how I don't trust her implicitly to give my idea a fair shake, which means I see her in this horrible light. She's offended I think of her this way, and can't understand why.
So, I tell her why. I remind her of some shit she pulled in the not-so-distant past, and how that affects how I see her now.
"Can't we just move on from that?"
Well, that would be great for her, wouldn't it? My point to her was that I do mistrust her intentions sometimes. She asked why. I gave a reason. She told me to drop it.
And for the first time since my 20's, she hung up on me.
Oh, the drama.
I wasn't big on that. I don't know that I ever did it. Oh wait. I remember one time. I had a boyfriend in high school. He lived in another town, so we spent lots of time on the phone. Well, I used to call him and talk a little dirty to him sometimes. Mostly goofing around stuff, just to see if I could embarrass him. It never got too heated or anything (which now tells me that I should've known something wasn't quite right, because, I mean, what 17-year-old boy has a girlfriend who torments him by talking dirty?... but that's a whole other story).
Anyway, my boyfriend had a best friend. They were together all the time. Together so much that they sounded identical on the phone. So identical that that's the way they would mess with me. Best Friend would answer the phone instead of Boyfriend. I'd ask (because they'd done it enough to make me wary), "Is this Boyfriend or Best Friend?" But Best Friend still sometimes tricked me.
So, I call up, Best Friend answers the phone. Says he's Boyfriend. I hear no giggling in the background and I say something suggestive to him.
"WHAT!?" and then shrieks of laughter and my boyfriend's voice (yes, the real boyfriend) yelling,"What did she say?! What did she say?!"
I hung up on them.
But, back to the present:
Last night, I was having a disagreement with someone. She thought one thing, I thought another. As far as she was concerned, there was no compromise, because a third party involved agreed with her. The thing is, money was involved, money for a gift for someone important.
A LOT of money.
She's very proud of the fact that she makes so much money. She also likes to remind me that she makes more than me. That I don't have to "put in" as much as she and the other person involved in this decision (subtle hint that I also don't have as much "say" in the decision? you think?).
Remember my post about presents? That the most important factor for me, whether receiving or giving is the thought that goes into it? That's what we were arguing about. She was pushing for something very expensive (and showoff-y, in my opinion), and I was thinking of something more personal, and yes, less costly.
Oi.
So the argument becomes not about this gift, but about my perception of this other person. Every time we get into an argument, it has to be because I "hate her" not because I see things differently. Once she gets into this mode, it's impossible to get her out again. I can't be irritated or annoyed just because of this or that... it's always because I "hate her." And then she gets all hurt and we're not talking anymore about whatever the immediate problem might be.
Now, I do see her as somewhat manipulative, but then again, so am I, at times. I like getting my way, she likes getting hers.
Here's the problem. We start out with the disagreement about the gift. It then turns into this whole big thing about how I don't trust her implicitly to give my idea a fair shake, which means I see her in this horrible light. She's offended I think of her this way, and can't understand why.
So, I tell her why. I remind her of some shit she pulled in the not-so-distant past, and how that affects how I see her now.
"Can't we just move on from that?"
Well, that would be great for her, wouldn't it? My point to her was that I do mistrust her intentions sometimes. She asked why. I gave a reason. She told me to drop it.
And for the first time since my 20's, she hung up on me.
Oh, the drama.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Hamburgers from Heaven
Last night I had the best hamburger of my life.
I went over to a friend's house for what I thought would be a nice little meal of burgers, salad, and beer. They have a beautiful place, with a mini orchard of avocado trees. God, I love avocados.
Anyway, instead, the burgers were quite a bit more than ground beef patties. I've searched the internet this morning, trying to find a similar recipe, but can't.
Here's what the burgers had in 'em:
Lean ground beef
chopped andouille sausage
pecans
garlic
blue cheese chunks
some secret spices
Then, on top, there were caramelized onions and chipotle mayonnaise.
All from fresh ingredients. Made from scratch.
I think they should be called Heaven burgers because they taste like that's where they're from.
Also, because that's where one would end up if he or she ate these too often.
(torn, is your mouth watering yet?)
I went over to a friend's house for what I thought would be a nice little meal of burgers, salad, and beer. They have a beautiful place, with a mini orchard of avocado trees. God, I love avocados.
Anyway, instead, the burgers were quite a bit more than ground beef patties. I've searched the internet this morning, trying to find a similar recipe, but can't.
Here's what the burgers had in 'em:
Lean ground beef
chopped andouille sausage
pecans
garlic
blue cheese chunks
some secret spices
Then, on top, there were caramelized onions and chipotle mayonnaise.
All from fresh ingredients. Made from scratch.
I think they should be called Heaven burgers because they taste like that's where they're from.
Also, because that's where one would end up if he or she ate these too often.
(torn, is your mouth watering yet?)
Monday, June 12, 2006
The past
A friend from my past is going to be in town in early July.
She was my best friend for a while in high school. She could make me laugh harder than anyone else... for a while.
She was smart and daring and funny.
And mean.
I don't think she intended to be. She just was.
Remember my Homecoming Dance story? My first real kiss, and my first passionate crush? Well, of course she knew about it. She knew how I felt about him.
We were all friends, of a sort. One night, after a bunch of us had been hanging out in someone's parents' jacuzzi, he gave my friend a lift home. They lived in the same neighborhood, and well, I guess Jennifer was playing footsie with my dream guy under the bubbles.
A couple days later, she and I rode bikes (neither one of us had our license at 16) to Aloha Burger. Those were the days when I could eat double-chili burgers, fries and vanilla shakes without gaining an ounce. It was a great little place, close to the university, and sometimes cute college boys hung out in there.
She started to tell me what happened after the ride home. They started kissing in the car, it got heated, and she told him her folks wouldn't be home the whole next day. Told him to "stop by," if he wanted.
(Remember, dear readers, she's talking about this boy as if he wasn't the love of my life... as if I hadn't confided my deep feelings for him to her. As if it was just something fun she did on a whim.)
Of course, as a footloose and fancy free 19-year-old male who thought he might get some, he stopped by.
And they got... um... into it. Went upstairs, took off their clothes, and Jennifer decided to lose her virginity to him.
(You know how you are hearing something you really don't want to know, but you can't say anything yourself? That open-mouthed-gawking-of-the-mind, if you will? That was me. I had no idea how to react. This was my best friend. Telling me how she had sex with the boy I was crazy about. Giving me all the details as if I would want to know them. Acting as if what she was telling me was just part of being girlfriends. I said nothing.)
Then, she said it really hurt, and they didn't get too far before she made him stop. She said it was over in about two minutes. That neither of them "finished." That it got really weird and uncomfortable, and then he left.
"I can't believe you did that." was all I could say.
We finished our burgers, went to Fedmart to look at the records, and went home.
I cried quite a bit that night. That, in and of itself, wasn't that strange. I was a 16-year-old girl you know.
But these were horrible, can't stop, ugly tears. I couldn't really get my head around what she had told me; I just knew I'd been betrayed. That word wasn't in my head though. In typical teenage fashion, all that I could think was, "Why didn't he want me? What was wrong with me? What's she got that I don't?"
Because of course, it had to be some lack on my part.
Wait.
I'm not done. Oh, did you think that was it? That was the "mean" thing I was talking about? Oh no, not that it wasn't mean of her, of course it was.
But then she really did it.
As talk happened, as it is wont to do among the pre-women of high school, Jennifer wasn't coming out of this looking so sweet. See, she had been on a sorta kinda date that night in the jacuzzi. And it wasn't with my dream man. And, the girl whose backyard we were in? She was the one on the date with my dream man. This second girl had no idea of the feelings I harbored for him in my little heart, because she also had a mad crush on the guy.
Anyway, Jennifer was starting to being referred to as a slut. Although, I don't think we used that word. We were quite a group of goody-two-shoes actually. But maybe we used that word. I know that's what some of the girls were thinking...
And the story started to morph into something dark and bad.
The story changed.
Oh, the kissing in the car was the same. But Jennifer wasn't sure about it. Now, he was the one asking to come over the next day, and her response has become, "well, I don't know, because my parents aren't home."
And now he comes over anyway, univited.
And yes, they do start kissing again, but in this version, Jennifer doesn't want to do anything else, but he's pressuring her. She's vague here, but somehow he convinces her to go up to her room, and he starts taking off her clothes, and then forcing himself on her.
And then she starts calling it rape.
Not at first, but as the story develops over the next few months.
I don't believe her. I know this boy.
But she made me doubt him. Just a little. Just a tiny little question mark.
In my better moments I know she would have told me right away, that next day when she was taking such pleasure in telling me that she lost her virginity with the guy I loved.
In my better moments, I know she changed the story so she wouldn't look like a manipulative bitch to the other girls.
In my better moments, I wish I had confronted her fully. But I never did.
Dream man? He and I are still friends. Still talk. We went on to an odd sort of romantic friendship that never really flamed into anything lasting. Well, other than friendship with a bit of flirting on the side. If I'm honest, with a bit of "what if?" thrown in once or twice a year.
I asked him about it a few years later. Directly asked him about it one night when we had ended up in bed together.
He told me the exact story Jennifer had told me that day at the burger place.
I believed him.
She was my best friend for a while in high school. She could make me laugh harder than anyone else... for a while.
She was smart and daring and funny.
And mean.
I don't think she intended to be. She just was.
Remember my Homecoming Dance story? My first real kiss, and my first passionate crush? Well, of course she knew about it. She knew how I felt about him.
We were all friends, of a sort. One night, after a bunch of us had been hanging out in someone's parents' jacuzzi, he gave my friend a lift home. They lived in the same neighborhood, and well, I guess Jennifer was playing footsie with my dream guy under the bubbles.
A couple days later, she and I rode bikes (neither one of us had our license at 16) to Aloha Burger. Those were the days when I could eat double-chili burgers, fries and vanilla shakes without gaining an ounce. It was a great little place, close to the university, and sometimes cute college boys hung out in there.
She started to tell me what happened after the ride home. They started kissing in the car, it got heated, and she told him her folks wouldn't be home the whole next day. Told him to "stop by," if he wanted.
(Remember, dear readers, she's talking about this boy as if he wasn't the love of my life... as if I hadn't confided my deep feelings for him to her. As if it was just something fun she did on a whim.)
Of course, as a footloose and fancy free 19-year-old male who thought he might get some, he stopped by.
And they got... um... into it. Went upstairs, took off their clothes, and Jennifer decided to lose her virginity to him.
(You know how you are hearing something you really don't want to know, but you can't say anything yourself? That open-mouthed-gawking-of-the-mind, if you will? That was me. I had no idea how to react. This was my best friend. Telling me how she had sex with the boy I was crazy about. Giving me all the details as if I would want to know them. Acting as if what she was telling me was just part of being girlfriends. I said nothing.)
Then, she said it really hurt, and they didn't get too far before she made him stop. She said it was over in about two minutes. That neither of them "finished." That it got really weird and uncomfortable, and then he left.
"I can't believe you did that." was all I could say.
We finished our burgers, went to Fedmart to look at the records, and went home.
I cried quite a bit that night. That, in and of itself, wasn't that strange. I was a 16-year-old girl you know.
But these were horrible, can't stop, ugly tears. I couldn't really get my head around what she had told me; I just knew I'd been betrayed. That word wasn't in my head though. In typical teenage fashion, all that I could think was, "Why didn't he want me? What was wrong with me? What's she got that I don't?"
Because of course, it had to be some lack on my part.
Wait.
I'm not done. Oh, did you think that was it? That was the "mean" thing I was talking about? Oh no, not that it wasn't mean of her, of course it was.
But then she really did it.
As talk happened, as it is wont to do among the pre-women of high school, Jennifer wasn't coming out of this looking so sweet. See, she had been on a sorta kinda date that night in the jacuzzi. And it wasn't with my dream man. And, the girl whose backyard we were in? She was the one on the date with my dream man. This second girl had no idea of the feelings I harbored for him in my little heart, because she also had a mad crush on the guy.
Anyway, Jennifer was starting to being referred to as a slut. Although, I don't think we used that word. We were quite a group of goody-two-shoes actually. But maybe we used that word. I know that's what some of the girls were thinking...
And the story started to morph into something dark and bad.
The story changed.
Oh, the kissing in the car was the same. But Jennifer wasn't sure about it. Now, he was the one asking to come over the next day, and her response has become, "well, I don't know, because my parents aren't home."
And now he comes over anyway, univited.
And yes, they do start kissing again, but in this version, Jennifer doesn't want to do anything else, but he's pressuring her. She's vague here, but somehow he convinces her to go up to her room, and he starts taking off her clothes, and then forcing himself on her.
And then she starts calling it rape.
Not at first, but as the story develops over the next few months.
I don't believe her. I know this boy.
But she made me doubt him. Just a little. Just a tiny little question mark.
In my better moments I know she would have told me right away, that next day when she was taking such pleasure in telling me that she lost her virginity with the guy I loved.
In my better moments, I know she changed the story so she wouldn't look like a manipulative bitch to the other girls.
In my better moments, I wish I had confronted her fully. But I never did.
Dream man? He and I are still friends. Still talk. We went on to an odd sort of romantic friendship that never really flamed into anything lasting. Well, other than friendship with a bit of flirting on the side. If I'm honest, with a bit of "what if?" thrown in once or twice a year.
I asked him about it a few years later. Directly asked him about it one night when we had ended up in bed together.
He told me the exact story Jennifer had told me that day at the burger place.
I believed him.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
So much to do
I forgot to pay my car registration on time. Totally forgot. Had to pay 20 extra bucks for 10 extra days. It was so easy too. All I had to do was go on line and push some buttons. Nope, clean forgot.
I still have to get my car smogged too, before I get my stickers.
Catching up is all I feel I've been doing since February. Self-centered person that I am, it feels like it's been all about everyone else but me these past few months. Of course, I get to talk about myself to my heart's delight here, but that's not what I mean.
So many things have happened that I've had to deal with, but none were of my own doing. It seems like the list of obligations never gets smaller. For a single woman who doesn't even own a house, that sounds ridiculous. I know it sounds ridiculous. It's like a low grade anxiety all the time. And usually, something gets forgotten.
Or lost. I've lost all kinds of stuff lately. Right now it's my Handheld thing. I use it for the calendar, and for grades (but don't worry, the grades are also on the computer), and for phone numbers and addresses.
It was my turn for hosting the book club a couple of weeks ago. As some of you know, my organizational ability leaves something to be desired. I don't put anything away unless it has a place. Being that I have more stuff than places to put it, I usually have loads of things all over my house.
So, anyway, they were coming over, I was running out of time, so I started shoving things into boxes. Several boxes. Now I have no idea where anything is.
Story of my life.
I have to go grade papers.
I still have to get my car smogged too, before I get my stickers.
Catching up is all I feel I've been doing since February. Self-centered person that I am, it feels like it's been all about everyone else but me these past few months. Of course, I get to talk about myself to my heart's delight here, but that's not what I mean.
So many things have happened that I've had to deal with, but none were of my own doing. It seems like the list of obligations never gets smaller. For a single woman who doesn't even own a house, that sounds ridiculous. I know it sounds ridiculous. It's like a low grade anxiety all the time. And usually, something gets forgotten.
Or lost. I've lost all kinds of stuff lately. Right now it's my Handheld thing. I use it for the calendar, and for grades (but don't worry, the grades are also on the computer), and for phone numbers and addresses.
It was my turn for hosting the book club a couple of weeks ago. As some of you know, my organizational ability leaves something to be desired. I don't put anything away unless it has a place. Being that I have more stuff than places to put it, I usually have loads of things all over my house.
So, anyway, they were coming over, I was running out of time, so I started shoving things into boxes. Several boxes. Now I have no idea where anything is.
Story of my life.
I have to go grade papers.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Ticks, fleas and allergies
Let's just say that between itching, scratching, sneezing, and freaking out at yet another tick making its way across my couch, I'm not a pretty picture these past few days.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
The big font
Why, oh why is my font so large? I was messing around with my template a week or so ago, trying to put the tide table on it... and that's when the font grew. I took the tide table thing off, yet still, the font is huge.
I don't have time right now to mess with it.
One other little thing.
I don't usually talk about school stuff here anymore; but I have to. Yesterday was the final exam for The House of the Scorpion, the book we just read. A student came in today, the same one that complained specifically that I get "off topic" when I tell stories (which are usually made to illustrate a point), and had her mother call in to the vice principal to complain about it, yeah, that one, anyway, she said to me today,
"We had a test yesterday?"
argh.
Please let me get all my work done, and let this year be over soon.
I don't have time right now to mess with it.
One other little thing.
I don't usually talk about school stuff here anymore; but I have to. Yesterday was the final exam for The House of the Scorpion, the book we just read. A student came in today, the same one that complained specifically that I get "off topic" when I tell stories (which are usually made to illustrate a point), and had her mother call in to the vice principal to complain about it, yeah, that one, anyway, she said to me today,
"We had a test yesterday?"
argh.
Please let me get all my work done, and let this year be over soon.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
My sister is 40 today
And boy, did she rack in the goods or what at her party last Saturday?
Dang.
I was overwhelmed with the amount of loot on her dining room table by the end of the night. Those L.A. folks sure spend some bucks on each other.
Made me think about gifts. I'm as materialistic as they come, and I love presents, but I was almost embarrassed by the display of spendage I saw. Was I a wee bit jealous? Maybe, but I don't think so.
I have a lot of friends who aren't big present givers. Instead they do small things, like write me a poem, or a sweet card when I'm down, or take me for a coffee and a treat for no reason at all. Those are gifts that really mean something to me. I have a friend who differentiates between gifts and presents. Gifts have more thought. Presents are what the giver actually would like to receive herself, while gifts are made or bought with the specific receiver of the gift in mind.
Does that make sense?
One of my best birthdays was spent in Key West in Florida with a friend. We had drinks, went snorkling (even getting stung by ajellyfish didn't take away from the fun). got all dressed up and went to a great dinner. At the end of the meal, she said, "I got it," even though we had planned to pay our own way. It wasn't that it was an expensive dinner (although it was), but that it was an unexpected treat.
Last year I invited a few friends over for pizza, wine and board games. Even my pal who doesn't really like board games came. We laughed so hard at one point I thought I was going to wet myself. She had brought this really silly little party game; plastic glasses with a stick attached, onto which several other attachments fit. One was a mini basketball hoop, with ball on a string. We all took turns with these glasses, bouncing our heads up and down, trying to make a basket.
It was perfect.
Dang.
I was overwhelmed with the amount of loot on her dining room table by the end of the night. Those L.A. folks sure spend some bucks on each other.
Made me think about gifts. I'm as materialistic as they come, and I love presents, but I was almost embarrassed by the display of spendage I saw. Was I a wee bit jealous? Maybe, but I don't think so.
I have a lot of friends who aren't big present givers. Instead they do small things, like write me a poem, or a sweet card when I'm down, or take me for a coffee and a treat for no reason at all. Those are gifts that really mean something to me. I have a friend who differentiates between gifts and presents. Gifts have more thought. Presents are what the giver actually would like to receive herself, while gifts are made or bought with the specific receiver of the gift in mind.
Does that make sense?
One of my best birthdays was spent in Key West in Florida with a friend. We had drinks, went snorkling (even getting stung by ajellyfish didn't take away from the fun). got all dressed up and went to a great dinner. At the end of the meal, she said, "I got it," even though we had planned to pay our own way. It wasn't that it was an expensive dinner (although it was), but that it was an unexpected treat.
Last year I invited a few friends over for pizza, wine and board games. Even my pal who doesn't really like board games came. We laughed so hard at one point I thought I was going to wet myself. She had brought this really silly little party game; plastic glasses with a stick attached, onto which several other attachments fit. One was a mini basketball hoop, with ball on a string. We all took turns with these glasses, bouncing our heads up and down, trying to make a basket.
It was perfect.
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