Saturday, July 31, 2004
Happy Saturday!
I know I've written about him before, but here goes anyway...
For the last gazillion years, I get a single red rose every Saturday. When the flower shop was downtown, Harry would swing by, pick one out, and deliver it to me while I was working at George's. Since they've moved, he has a single red rose delivered to me at George's every Saturday. Harry is one of the kindest men I've ever had the pleasure to meet. He's in his late 60s, though to look at him, you would think he was pushing 80+. Life has not been kind to him. Yet he remains optimistic and unaffected by most of the crap that has been dealt him.
Last summer, Harry didn't show up for about three days. I, of course, didn't know that, but when he didn't come in one Saturday, I started asking around. I called his house. No answer. Finally, I called the woman who delivered my rose and asked her if she could drive over to his house and check up on him.
She called about an hour later to say that Harry was in the hospital. He had fallen and broken a hip. I was so relieved it wasn't something worse, but a broken hip in an elderly person is not the greatest thing in the world. When I got off work, I ran to the hospital, found out his room number and rushed up to see if he was ok. Poor guy. There he was lying in this bed, reading his newspaper with the magnifying glass with a built in light that I had gotten him the prior Christmas, and trying so hard not to feel the pain.
He was there for almost two weeks because they also found he had colon cancer. Every day after work, I would stop by, bring him books from the library, pictures of Gus (who has gotten his fair amount of treats from Uncle Harry), and anything else I could think of to make him smile.
Well, he's 'fine' now, but he rides a little scooter that we call Mustang Sally. When he does walk, it's slowly, with great pain, and with the use of a cane. On September 15th, he's taking me to a Cubs game as he does every year for my birthday (though we did not, of course, make it last year). I'm happy to be going this year with him because I know it makes him remember his youth, and there's nothing like sitting in Wrigley Field with a giant cup of Old Style and a Chicago dog.
Anyway, I don't know what made me think of Harry this morning, but I wanted to tell you about him. He's a beautiful man with a wonderful heart and a sharp mind. And I love him. For whatever faults I have, he sees through them and every Saturday shows me how much he cares for me. I don't ever want to take something that precious for granted.
And, like he says to me every Saturday he comes into the bar: Happy Saturday!
Who dat snappin' back? |
For the last gazillion years, I get a single red rose every Saturday. When the flower shop was downtown, Harry would swing by, pick one out, and deliver it to me while I was working at George's. Since they've moved, he has a single red rose delivered to me at George's every Saturday. Harry is one of the kindest men I've ever had the pleasure to meet. He's in his late 60s, though to look at him, you would think he was pushing 80+. Life has not been kind to him. Yet he remains optimistic and unaffected by most of the crap that has been dealt him.
Last summer, Harry didn't show up for about three days. I, of course, didn't know that, but when he didn't come in one Saturday, I started asking around. I called his house. No answer. Finally, I called the woman who delivered my rose and asked her if she could drive over to his house and check up on him.
She called about an hour later to say that Harry was in the hospital. He had fallen and broken a hip. I was so relieved it wasn't something worse, but a broken hip in an elderly person is not the greatest thing in the world. When I got off work, I ran to the hospital, found out his room number and rushed up to see if he was ok. Poor guy. There he was lying in this bed, reading his newspaper with the magnifying glass with a built in light that I had gotten him the prior Christmas, and trying so hard not to feel the pain.
He was there for almost two weeks because they also found he had colon cancer. Every day after work, I would stop by, bring him books from the library, pictures of Gus (who has gotten his fair amount of treats from Uncle Harry), and anything else I could think of to make him smile.
Well, he's 'fine' now, but he rides a little scooter that we call Mustang Sally. When he does walk, it's slowly, with great pain, and with the use of a cane. On September 15th, he's taking me to a Cubs game as he does every year for my birthday (though we did not, of course, make it last year). I'm happy to be going this year with him because I know it makes him remember his youth, and there's nothing like sitting in Wrigley Field with a giant cup of Old Style and a Chicago dog.
Anyway, I don't know what made me think of Harry this morning, but I wanted to tell you about him. He's a beautiful man with a wonderful heart and a sharp mind. And I love him. For whatever faults I have, he sees through them and every Saturday shows me how much he cares for me. I don't ever want to take something that precious for granted.
And, like he says to me every Saturday he comes into the bar: Happy Saturday!
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
Reliving some memories
When I was a little kid, my dad would work all hours of the day and night. He and my mom had gotten divorced when I was four and my sister was five. Dad raised us with the help of his mother. He'd drop us off at 5 in the morning, Grandma would let us sleep a little longer, feed us, get us ready for school, and make sure we had something good in our lunch boxes...
After school, we'd return to Storms Court, the horseshoe-shaped street Grandma and Grandpa lived on. Depending on the weather, my sister and I were always outside playing with the handful of kids that lived in the neighborhood, making sure to be back at 5:30 for 'supper'. My grandpa was pretty strict about things; if you were late (and this included the time spent in the lavatory washing up), you didn't get to eat. Of course, that just meant you had to sob silently to yourself in the living room while everyone else ate, and then Grandma would heat up a plate for you after Grandpa went out to the garage to tinker around with his ham radios.
A lot of times after 'supper', my dad would fall asleep on the sofa (or 'davenport' as Grandma called it) while waiting for my sister and me to finish up the dishes. And sometimes it was really hard to wake him up. Other times, he'd mutter funny things while we were trying to tug him awake... things that would make us scream with laughter, all the while thinking he was really sleeping. Finally, he'd get up and we could go home to our whole other world.
My best friend, Cozette, lived two doors down from us and there was an empty lot next door to her. We would spend hours out there playing kickball or making up games to play. Cozette went to the Catholic school, and my sister and I went to the public school. Right across the alley from us was (is) the St. Mary's Convent. Next door to that used to be the Catholic elementary school (burned to the ground in '78), and across the street from there, St. Mary's Church. We loved the nuns. Sister Claire was my favorite; she would give us lemonade on hot days when we were out playing on the jungle gym. She would let us into the hushed coolness of the convent and play ping pong with us in the basement. She would come over to our house for my dad's homemade ice cream. I wanted him to marry Sister Claire, but was too young to understand that strange concept of 'giving your life to God'.
Now, every once in awhile, Sister Pat would unlock the school and let us play hide and go seek. The cool thing about this school was that it smelled good. I used to love just going inside and sitting in the library while everyone was looking for me. I thought the place smelled that way because it was a Catholic school. My school certainly didn't smell like that. The other cool thing was the gym was on the top floor (third). The fire escape was an enclosed curly-que slide. My sister and all our friends loved this thing. I tried to go down it once, got about 1/3 of the way and clawed my way back to the top in a state of extreme panic. Don't know why, but I just don't like small, dark places. Instead, I would run down the three flights of stairs and pretend like I went down the slide so no one would make fun of me. I kept in pretty good shape as a kid, I'll tell ya.
And, of course, summers were always the best. As we got older we became latch-key kids and didn't have to rely on Grandma to take care of us as much. It was an experiment for my dad; he thought we were the smartest kids in the world, and if he left us enough chores, we wouldn't have time to get in trouble. Yeah, right... Washing the kitchen floor was the best chore ever. My sister and I would dump a few buckets of soapy water on it (after removing the chairs and other small things on the floor), attach sponges to our knees with electrical tape, grip sponges in our hands, and saaaaail!!! It was like a four-legged, roller derby... with water. Tons of fun, and Dad was never the wiser... but that floor would be sparkling clean!
Nighttime in our neighborhood was always something magical for us. The bats would come out from the church, the lightning bugs would be everywhere, the cicadas would be singing in that undulating fervor they're famous for, and every kid in our neighborhood would congregate in the lot to tell ghost stories, or play kick the can or sardine or whatever until it was time to go home. My dad had the best way of beckoning us, not with a shout or a whistle or a bell (each family had their own way of rounding up their livestock), but with a light. He had installed the brightest light he could find at the peak of the roof... when we saw that light go on, it was time to head home. You could see it from three blocks over at the Readshaws. No lie. Having grown up in a time when Batman was on tv right after dinner, it always reminded me of Gotham City's call for help. "Here we are, Dad! We'll save you!!"
Once home, he would let us watch a half hour of tv, then it was off to bed. Before we got our own bedroom upstairs, we used to all sleep in the same room. My sister and I slept in 'Mom-and-Dad's' bed, and Dad slept on one of the twin beds. We would go to sleep, but Dad would stay up til the wee hours, tinkering on something in the garage, or maybe having a few whiskeys. If one of us would wake up in the night and he wasn't there, we'd cry out for him and he'd come running (yep, there were intercoms all over the place... even in the garage). Finally, though, we figured out that he wasn't going to leave us.
Come morning, Dad would get up at his usual 4:30 rising time, make his coffee, shower, get ready for work, etc. Now, the thing about my dad (for many, many years after Mom left) was that he would sleep in his clothes. He'd work 10-12 hours days at Freesemeyer's Dairy, Monday through Saturday, then on any given night he'd mow the neighbors' yards, re-wire my Aunt Patty's house, help Herman build his radio tower, remodel the house (an on-going project that lasted FORever and which meant that every room my mother had painted in beautiful pastel colors was treated to the ugliest wood paneling imaginable) or anything else he could do to keep busy. He built the garage one summer with only a few hours' help from my grandpa. All this activity (and possibly with the help of a little whiskey from time to time) made my dad a tired tired man. So yeah, he'd fall asleep wearing his work clothes. And in the morning when he'd get up, I would sneak over to his bed while my sister was still sound asleep, and pick all the loose change out of the sheets. We only got 50 cents a week for allowance, and I was an enterprising little kid.
I'm not sure what made me think of all this. I think it was the change I had in my pocket last night that I pulled out and set on the desk. Or, maybe I was just thinking about my Grandma... Whatever it was, I'm glad I remembered some of the happy times.
Who dat snappin' back? |
After school, we'd return to Storms Court, the horseshoe-shaped street Grandma and Grandpa lived on. Depending on the weather, my sister and I were always outside playing with the handful of kids that lived in the neighborhood, making sure to be back at 5:30 for 'supper'. My grandpa was pretty strict about things; if you were late (and this included the time spent in the lavatory washing up), you didn't get to eat. Of course, that just meant you had to sob silently to yourself in the living room while everyone else ate, and then Grandma would heat up a plate for you after Grandpa went out to the garage to tinker around with his ham radios.
A lot of times after 'supper', my dad would fall asleep on the sofa (or 'davenport' as Grandma called it) while waiting for my sister and me to finish up the dishes. And sometimes it was really hard to wake him up. Other times, he'd mutter funny things while we were trying to tug him awake... things that would make us scream with laughter, all the while thinking he was really sleeping. Finally, he'd get up and we could go home to our whole other world.
My best friend, Cozette, lived two doors down from us and there was an empty lot next door to her. We would spend hours out there playing kickball or making up games to play. Cozette went to the Catholic school, and my sister and I went to the public school. Right across the alley from us was (is) the St. Mary's Convent. Next door to that used to be the Catholic elementary school (burned to the ground in '78), and across the street from there, St. Mary's Church. We loved the nuns. Sister Claire was my favorite; she would give us lemonade on hot days when we were out playing on the jungle gym. She would let us into the hushed coolness of the convent and play ping pong with us in the basement. She would come over to our house for my dad's homemade ice cream. I wanted him to marry Sister Claire, but was too young to understand that strange concept of 'giving your life to God'.
Now, every once in awhile, Sister Pat would unlock the school and let us play hide and go seek. The cool thing about this school was that it smelled good. I used to love just going inside and sitting in the library while everyone was looking for me. I thought the place smelled that way because it was a Catholic school. My school certainly didn't smell like that. The other cool thing was the gym was on the top floor (third). The fire escape was an enclosed curly-que slide. My sister and all our friends loved this thing. I tried to go down it once, got about 1/3 of the way and clawed my way back to the top in a state of extreme panic. Don't know why, but I just don't like small, dark places. Instead, I would run down the three flights of stairs and pretend like I went down the slide so no one would make fun of me. I kept in pretty good shape as a kid, I'll tell ya.
And, of course, summers were always the best. As we got older we became latch-key kids and didn't have to rely on Grandma to take care of us as much. It was an experiment for my dad; he thought we were the smartest kids in the world, and if he left us enough chores, we wouldn't have time to get in trouble. Yeah, right... Washing the kitchen floor was the best chore ever. My sister and I would dump a few buckets of soapy water on it (after removing the chairs and other small things on the floor), attach sponges to our knees with electrical tape, grip sponges in our hands, and saaaaail!!! It was like a four-legged, roller derby... with water. Tons of fun, and Dad was never the wiser... but that floor would be sparkling clean!
Nighttime in our neighborhood was always something magical for us. The bats would come out from the church, the lightning bugs would be everywhere, the cicadas would be singing in that undulating fervor they're famous for, and every kid in our neighborhood would congregate in the lot to tell ghost stories, or play kick the can or sardine or whatever until it was time to go home. My dad had the best way of beckoning us, not with a shout or a whistle or a bell (each family had their own way of rounding up their livestock), but with a light. He had installed the brightest light he could find at the peak of the roof... when we saw that light go on, it was time to head home. You could see it from three blocks over at the Readshaws. No lie. Having grown up in a time when Batman was on tv right after dinner, it always reminded me of Gotham City's call for help. "Here we are, Dad! We'll save you!!"
Once home, he would let us watch a half hour of tv, then it was off to bed. Before we got our own bedroom upstairs, we used to all sleep in the same room. My sister and I slept in 'Mom-and-Dad's' bed, and Dad slept on one of the twin beds. We would go to sleep, but Dad would stay up til the wee hours, tinkering on something in the garage, or maybe having a few whiskeys. If one of us would wake up in the night and he wasn't there, we'd cry out for him and he'd come running (yep, there were intercoms all over the place... even in the garage). Finally, though, we figured out that he wasn't going to leave us.
Come morning, Dad would get up at his usual 4:30 rising time, make his coffee, shower, get ready for work, etc. Now, the thing about my dad (for many, many years after Mom left) was that he would sleep in his clothes. He'd work 10-12 hours days at Freesemeyer's Dairy, Monday through Saturday, then on any given night he'd mow the neighbors' yards, re-wire my Aunt Patty's house, help Herman build his radio tower, remodel the house (an on-going project that lasted FORever and which meant that every room my mother had painted in beautiful pastel colors was treated to the ugliest wood paneling imaginable) or anything else he could do to keep busy. He built the garage one summer with only a few hours' help from my grandpa. All this activity (and possibly with the help of a little whiskey from time to time) made my dad a tired tired man. So yeah, he'd fall asleep wearing his work clothes. And in the morning when he'd get up, I would sneak over to his bed while my sister was still sound asleep, and pick all the loose change out of the sheets. We only got 50 cents a week for allowance, and I was an enterprising little kid.
I'm not sure what made me think of all this. I think it was the change I had in my pocket last night that I pulled out and set on the desk. Or, maybe I was just thinking about my Grandma... Whatever it was, I'm glad I remembered some of the happy times.
Saturday, July 24, 2004
don't bother
A friend of mine just left a little while ago. I haven't hung out with said person in a long time. Let's call him Gus, shall we? (Just because I know he loves my hideous evil poog)...
Once again, I made out like a bandit at work today: the red rose (of course) from Harry, a bouquet of black-eyed Susans and some 'filler' flowers from Tom, French green beans (yeah, yeah... haricots vert... verde... whatevah...) fresh from the Farmer's Market (also from Tom), three ears of sweetcorn from Dan, the TV guide from-the-paper-that-has-the-best-one-in-it from Howard and a pocketful of tips (from heaven). Oh yeah, and then Gus met me when I got off work.
We were both going to make it early nights, for different reasons. Instead, we hung out for a few hours at George's and drank more than we needed to in order to make it an early night (for those different reasons). Then Gus had the great idea to come to my place. I miss Gus. Gus in my house is a good thing (he makes the poog behave... to a point). Talking to Gus about books is good (unless he starts talking too much about sci-fi... sorry, Vader... and I talk too much about 'chic' writers like Barbara Kingsolver... sorry, Texans). Listening to music with Gus is good (except when I made him listen the Chad Mitchel(l) Trio and he thinks he can make me listen to Twisted Sister -- just a joke, folks). Drinking beer (or ale... same diff.. which I spent a longer-than-needed-to-be conversation with Gus telling him how much I depise ale in general all the while not saying there are always exceptions to my 'rules') with Gus is a good thing (unless a Boddington's... ale... drops outta your four-pack, hits the curb, springs a leak, and the creamy pale goodness that is Boddington's... ale... flows down the damn storm sewer right in front of your very eyeballs and tongue, and for whatever reason you think you can save it but all it does is spew on you... and then later at home opening one and all the poog wants to do is lick out your crotch... not mine, because I'm a Viro and opened mine over the sink, having learned by the prior mishap). Hanging out with my dog, Mr. Chadwick (aka Gus) is not such a good thing. Gus has no tolerance for the other Gus. Maybe He is actually right and we shouldn't date again. Maybe I'm right as always ('nother joke here, ok?) Hmmm.
I digress... tangentialize...???
OH, HEY. IFF YOU HAVEN'T STOPPED READING BY NOW, PLEASE ACTUALLY DO BECAUSE I KNOW i'M GOING TO WAKE UP IN THE MORNING AND BE STUPIDIFIED (a mere, yet meaningless, play on the word 'stupefied'... and by the way, do I actually sound like GW?... sorry Jack and Jill and Jay) BY THE MEANDERINGS (or lack thereof) OF NOT ONLY MY FRIKKIN' ***mind***, BUT MY SILLY DIGITS (Phalange Angie... always a funny one).
What the hell was I talking about? I lost my train of thought in all the parenths... (yes, I fuckin' know it's 'parentheses')... Ang, is there a point to this story? Aw, fuck it.
Who dat snappin' back? |
Once again, I made out like a bandit at work today: the red rose (of course) from Harry, a bouquet of black-eyed Susans and some 'filler' flowers from Tom, French green beans (yeah, yeah... haricots vert... verde... whatevah...) fresh from the Farmer's Market (also from Tom), three ears of sweetcorn from Dan, the TV guide from-the-paper-that-has-the-best-one-in-it from Howard and a pocketful of tips (from heaven). Oh yeah, and then Gus met me when I got off work.
We were both going to make it early nights, for different reasons. Instead, we hung out for a few hours at George's and drank more than we needed to in order to make it an early night (for those different reasons). Then Gus had the great idea to come to my place. I miss Gus. Gus in my house is a good thing (he makes the poog behave... to a point). Talking to Gus about books is good (unless he starts talking too much about sci-fi... sorry, Vader... and I talk too much about 'chic' writers like Barbara Kingsolver... sorry, Texans). Listening to music with Gus is good (except when I made him listen the Chad Mitchel(l) Trio and he thinks he can make me listen to Twisted Sister -- just a joke, folks). Drinking beer (or ale... same diff.. which I spent a longer-than-needed-to-be conversation with Gus telling him how much I depise ale in general all the while not saying there are always exceptions to my 'rules') with Gus is a good thing (unless a Boddington's... ale... drops outta your four-pack, hits the curb, springs a leak, and the creamy pale goodness that is Boddington's... ale... flows down the damn storm sewer right in front of your very eyeballs and tongue, and for whatever reason you think you can save it but all it does is spew on you... and then later at home opening one and all the poog wants to do is lick out your crotch... not mine, because I'm a Viro and opened mine over the sink, having learned by the prior mishap). Hanging out with my dog, Mr. Chadwick (aka Gus) is not such a good thing. Gus has no tolerance for the other Gus. Maybe He is actually right and we shouldn't date again. Maybe I'm right as always ('nother joke here, ok?) Hmmm.
I digress... tangentialize...???
OH, HEY. IFF YOU HAVEN'T STOPPED READING BY NOW, PLEASE ACTUALLY DO BECAUSE I KNOW i'M GOING TO WAKE UP IN THE MORNING AND BE STUPIDIFIED (a mere, yet meaningless, play on the word 'stupefied'... and by the way, do I actually sound like GW?... sorry Jack and Jill and Jay) BY THE MEANDERINGS (or lack thereof) OF NOT ONLY MY FRIKKIN' ***mind***, BUT MY SILLY DIGITS (Phalange Angie... always a funny one).
What the hell was I talking about? I lost my train of thought in all the parenths... (yes, I fuckin' know it's 'parentheses')... Ang, is there a point to this story? Aw, fuck it.
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
The Fennwhacker
Everyone's been asking me "So, what'd you do on your mini-vacation?" Each time, I happily reply "Nothing." And that's the truth. It was the most laid-back, wonder-full weekend. Miz Meems and I accomplished what we set out to do which was spend time with Steve and Kerry and RELAX. Now, relaxation in my book involves a lot of sittin' around shootin' the breeze. Oh yeah, and drinkin' some cocktails on the lanai always helps, too. Well, we did that. Sometimes at the same time, too.
Point being: I don't have anything to write about. Well, I do... but it's stuff for another mood. Personal enlightenment, epiphanies, great friends, good times... I may share some of these thoughts, but then again, I may just hoard them.
Instead, I'm going to tell you the story of the Fennwhacker (who the hell knows how it's spelled, but that's exactly how it's pronounced). Kerry told us this story one afternoon and it inspired much consumption of vodka, which also led to the painting of toenails (including Ruby Jean, Miz Meems' dog... poor thing looks like a harlot). Anyway, it's her sister's (Amy) story regarding her time working in a lab somewhere...
Now, Mr. Fenn, Mr. Whacker or Mr. Fennwhacker is the name of the man who invented this little device appropriately called The Fennwhacker. And what this little device does is stimulate monkeys to the point of ejaculation. They were researching color blindness or some such thing, and found that the DNA of certain monkeys aided them somehow in this research. So these darling primates would back up into The Fennwhacker, have a jolly good time and ejaculate into a little contraption that was affixed to their tiny penii.
One morning Amy went into the lab and, lo and behold, there was a poor little monkey lying dead with The Fennwhacker still residing in his bum. The sex-crazed beast had had a heart attack or something while gettin' his rocks off. Amy called in one of her assistants to immediately preserve not only the DNA captured in the little semen sack, but the entire monkey as well. They dipped the monkey carcass in liquid nitrogen, instantly converting him to a monkeysicle, and then put him in a deep freeze.
Some time later, Amy needs to get out the monkeysicle and do some tests on him and what not. Her assistant goes to the deep freeze, pulls out the monkey, takes off the bag he'd been in, and... (you guessed it!) promptly drops him on the floor, thereby shattering him into a gazillion pieces. And that, my friends, is the story of the Fennwhacker via Kerry via Amy.
But just think: what is the thaw rate on miniscule monkey bits? What would you do? Get the big chunks and then call housekeeping? "You'd best not take your time on this one..."
Who dat snappin' back? |
Point being: I don't have anything to write about. Well, I do... but it's stuff for another mood. Personal enlightenment, epiphanies, great friends, good times... I may share some of these thoughts, but then again, I may just hoard them.
Instead, I'm going to tell you the story of the Fennwhacker (who the hell knows how it's spelled, but that's exactly how it's pronounced). Kerry told us this story one afternoon and it inspired much consumption of vodka, which also led to the painting of toenails (including Ruby Jean, Miz Meems' dog... poor thing looks like a harlot). Anyway, it's her sister's (Amy) story regarding her time working in a lab somewhere...
Now, Mr. Fenn, Mr. Whacker or Mr. Fennwhacker is the name of the man who invented this little device appropriately called The Fennwhacker. And what this little device does is stimulate monkeys to the point of ejaculation. They were researching color blindness or some such thing, and found that the DNA of certain monkeys aided them somehow in this research. So these darling primates would back up into The Fennwhacker, have a jolly good time and ejaculate into a little contraption that was affixed to their tiny penii.
One morning Amy went into the lab and, lo and behold, there was a poor little monkey lying dead with The Fennwhacker still residing in his bum. The sex-crazed beast had had a heart attack or something while gettin' his rocks off. Amy called in one of her assistants to immediately preserve not only the DNA captured in the little semen sack, but the entire monkey as well. They dipped the monkey carcass in liquid nitrogen, instantly converting him to a monkeysicle, and then put him in a deep freeze.
Some time later, Amy needs to get out the monkeysicle and do some tests on him and what not. Her assistant goes to the deep freeze, pulls out the monkey, takes off the bag he'd been in, and... (you guessed it!) promptly drops him on the floor, thereby shattering him into a gazillion pieces. And that, my friends, is the story of the Fennwhacker via Kerry via Amy.
But just think: what is the thaw rate on miniscule monkey bits? What would you do? Get the big chunks and then call housekeeping? "You'd best not take your time on this one..."
Thursday, July 15, 2004
Ok, so I had to take a quick break and get a little something in. I've been cleaning my office all day, goin' through those impossible piles of paperwork (aka the dead white mountains), and trying to get things organized in such a way even a monkey could figure it out. Well, so my boss can find anything he might need...
But now I have less than an hour and a half of work left and then it's ALL ABOUT ME. Yes, I am excited. I can't wait to leave here, go do about 40 loads of laundry (ok, maybe only four), then go home and clean my apartment. I ALWAYS clean before I go anywhere so I can come back to a nice, clean home. And so I won't be embarrassed for Jennie to see it, 'cuz she's gonna be checkin' in on the little bastards known as Felix and Rufus (who have taken the art of barfing kibble to its ultimate level). Just called the kennel, Gus is in like Flynn, so tomorrow morn, I'll be ready to go. Assuming I get all the cat puke cleaned up. By the way, anyone want two cats? They're tuxedo boys. Just turned seven on April Fool's Day... No? Ok, I tried.
Things I'm thankful for:
1. Being able to take a vacation. No matter how small.
2. My friends. All of them. Even when we bicker, bitch or yell, I love my friends. Heck, they're not family... we chose each other.
3. My family. Even though they won't take care of my dog for me this weekend and I have to kennel him in a strange place where he doesn't know anybody.
4. Luna Azula, my Mazda Protege... may her tires not go flat, her timing belt not break (Rog, NOT an interference engine!), her brakes not go bye-bye, or her tranny fall out. She'll be a good girl for this trip.
5. And, well... just about everything else in my life.
Life is good, folks.
Who dat snappin' back? |
But now I have less than an hour and a half of work left and then it's ALL ABOUT ME. Yes, I am excited. I can't wait to leave here, go do about 40 loads of laundry (ok, maybe only four), then go home and clean my apartment. I ALWAYS clean before I go anywhere so I can come back to a nice, clean home. And so I won't be embarrassed for Jennie to see it, 'cuz she's gonna be checkin' in on the little bastards known as Felix and Rufus (who have taken the art of barfing kibble to its ultimate level). Just called the kennel, Gus is in like Flynn, so tomorrow morn, I'll be ready to go. Assuming I get all the cat puke cleaned up. By the way, anyone want two cats? They're tuxedo boys. Just turned seven on April Fool's Day... No? Ok, I tried.
Things I'm thankful for:
1. Being able to take a vacation. No matter how small.
2. My friends. All of them. Even when we bicker, bitch or yell, I love my friends. Heck, they're not family... we chose each other.
3. My family. Even though they won't take care of my dog for me this weekend and I have to kennel him in a strange place where he doesn't know anybody.
4. Luna Azula, my Mazda Protege... may her tires not go flat, her timing belt not break (Rog, NOT an interference engine!), her brakes not go bye-bye, or her tranny fall out. She'll be a good girl for this trip.
5. And, well... just about everything else in my life.
Life is good, folks.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
Get that thang outta there!
My friend, Miz Meems, works at a hospital here in town. She was blithely minding her own bidness one day, when an intern (nurse? ward commando?) from another department (geriatric-something-or-other) came to request assistance as they were a little short-handed. Meems, always willing to help out, obliged DIrectly.
The intern and Meems go to the room of an elderly woman (we'll call her Madge). Madge is 84, suffering from dementia, and, at the time Meems was there, constipation on top of that. Madge has her lucid moments, but tends to forget things that happened three minutes prior. Dementia, y'know.
So Meems and the intern gently explain to Madge they are going to give her a suppository to help relieve some of her discomfort. Madge is just fine and dandy with this. All's done, they get Madge re-dressed and take her to the common area (where, evidently, other older folk suffering from dementia and what-not mill about and socialize).
Just minutes after arriving in the common area, Madge begins to fidget and it's apparent that something is really bothering her. Before Meems or the intern can ask what is wrong, Madge blurts out at the top of her lungs: "If that son-of-a-bitchin' husband a mine tries to put that thing there again, I'm gonna kill 'im!!"
Now then, this is all Miz Mimi's tale, and the only thing verbatim is Madge's quote. I cannot even pretend to have done this story justice. AND, by the by, NOT making light of dementia and/or older folk. That is my disclaimer. But when Mimi told me the story, snot flew out of my nose. Sorry.
Who dat snappin' back? |
The intern and Meems go to the room of an elderly woman (we'll call her Madge). Madge is 84, suffering from dementia, and, at the time Meems was there, constipation on top of that. Madge has her lucid moments, but tends to forget things that happened three minutes prior. Dementia, y'know.
So Meems and the intern gently explain to Madge they are going to give her a suppository to help relieve some of her discomfort. Madge is just fine and dandy with this. All's done, they get Madge re-dressed and take her to the common area (where, evidently, other older folk suffering from dementia and what-not mill about and socialize).
Just minutes after arriving in the common area, Madge begins to fidget and it's apparent that something is really bothering her. Before Meems or the intern can ask what is wrong, Madge blurts out at the top of her lungs: "If that son-of-a-bitchin' husband a mine tries to put that thing there again, I'm gonna kill 'im!!"
Now then, this is all Miz Mimi's tale, and the only thing verbatim is Madge's quote. I cannot even pretend to have done this story justice. AND, by the by, NOT making light of dementia and/or older folk. That is my disclaimer. But when Mimi told me the story, snot flew out of my nose. Sorry.
Saturday, July 10, 2004
I need a vacation...
Ok... Rufus is puking all over and Felix is watching in disgust as Gus cleans it all up with that gaping maw of his that houses a big ass flapper of a tongue. Rufus is fat. The vet yells at me each time I take him in for his shots. He's closin' in on 20 pounds, and that's a little big for a kitty. I think he's just bulking up so he can take on the dawg. Anyway, I generally don't get bothered by cat puke. It's all kibble. But just now, I came close to puking on my pets. Yes, I need a vacation.
The last 'vacation' I had was with Twit (his new girlfriend I refer to as Twat). We went to New Orleans a year ago March for a week. It was fun, but could have been more fun had I gotten, oh.. I don't know... LAID. Even if it was him. Like I said in an earlier post, I reallllly miss the viking. Sorry, I digress. This is not about Twit and Twat or even the viking. This is about the fact that I need a vacation.
Next weekend, Miz Meems and I are loadin' up the Mazda and headin' south to Missoura. We're takin' Ruby Jean, Mimi's wondrous sweet-tempered big ol' dawg. It's about a six hour road trip, and I'm lookin' forward to the drive as much as I am to arriving in Springfield and hangin' with Steve and Kerry. Anything that gets my ass out of this god-forsaken shithole of a town. I just wish it could last longer than a Friday to Monday gig...
Tonight I'll be hangin' with my friend, Nuclear Nick, who is in town from Minneapolis. He and his love, Kristen, are getting married October 2, and I'm looking forward to yet another mini-vacation at that time.
Now then, I need to start planning a REAL vacation. A week, two weeks... me, a pile of books, New York Times crossword puzzles sans Monday through Wednesday, warm sun, cool water, cold drinks. Me, alone or with someone. Me. Out. Of. Iowa. City. (Ok, leave off 'city'). I don't care where I go. Any suggestions? In fact, I kind of like the idea of going somewhere alone. I used to take myself out on 'dates' all the time. A nice dinner, great conversation (I have no qualms talking to myself), sometimes a movie, sometimes live music (should, say, the Honeydogs ever find their way back here... that was my last date with myself...). Man, I could get me in bed faster than any guy I've ever met (I don't lick my ears, y'know)... besides, I know the right things to say. But a vacation with me, myself and I sounds like a better heaven.
Vacation. Haiku.
I need to vacate
the pettiness of this hell.
Calgon. Go for it.
Ok, lame haiku. But I used to write a lot of it. Nota bene: on vacation, take a notebook, mechanical pencil, and GET IT OUT.
Well, folks, time to jump in the shower and get ready for yet another day wasted in the Appreciation Factory aka George's.
Oh, but one last thing. I want to mention that I got up this morning and drove half a block (in my jammies) to the local Amoco/BP to drop off Luna Azula (my Mazda) for an oil change. A man by the name of John Logan just bought the station from Rose (who's owned it for 34 years) and this guy bent over backwards to be helpful. When I called the other day to make the appointment, he got someone to come in special to do the oil change, because they don't do them on Saturdays anymore. They close at 6 and I don't get off work until 6:30. He's bringing the car to me. Now, that's service. So, kudos to John Logan.
Anon.
Who dat snappin' back? |
The last 'vacation' I had was with Twit (his new girlfriend I refer to as Twat). We went to New Orleans a year ago March for a week. It was fun, but could have been more fun had I gotten, oh.. I don't know... LAID. Even if it was him. Like I said in an earlier post, I reallllly miss the viking. Sorry, I digress. This is not about Twit and Twat or even the viking. This is about the fact that I need a vacation.
Next weekend, Miz Meems and I are loadin' up the Mazda and headin' south to Missoura. We're takin' Ruby Jean, Mimi's wondrous sweet-tempered big ol' dawg. It's about a six hour road trip, and I'm lookin' forward to the drive as much as I am to arriving in Springfield and hangin' with Steve and Kerry. Anything that gets my ass out of this god-forsaken shithole of a town. I just wish it could last longer than a Friday to Monday gig...
Tonight I'll be hangin' with my friend, Nuclear Nick, who is in town from Minneapolis. He and his love, Kristen, are getting married October 2, and I'm looking forward to yet another mini-vacation at that time.
Now then, I need to start planning a REAL vacation. A week, two weeks... me, a pile of books, New York Times crossword puzzles sans Monday through Wednesday, warm sun, cool water, cold drinks. Me, alone or with someone. Me. Out. Of. Iowa. City. (Ok, leave off 'city'). I don't care where I go. Any suggestions? In fact, I kind of like the idea of going somewhere alone. I used to take myself out on 'dates' all the time. A nice dinner, great conversation (I have no qualms talking to myself), sometimes a movie, sometimes live music (should, say, the Honeydogs ever find their way back here... that was my last date with myself...). Man, I could get me in bed faster than any guy I've ever met (I don't lick my ears, y'know)... besides, I know the right things to say. But a vacation with me, myself and I sounds like a better heaven.
Vacation. Haiku.
I need to vacate
the pettiness of this hell.
Calgon. Go for it.
Ok, lame haiku. But I used to write a lot of it. Nota bene: on vacation, take a notebook, mechanical pencil, and GET IT OUT.
Well, folks, time to jump in the shower and get ready for yet another day wasted in the Appreciation Factory aka George's.
Oh, but one last thing. I want to mention that I got up this morning and drove half a block (in my jammies) to the local Amoco/BP to drop off Luna Azula (my Mazda) for an oil change. A man by the name of John Logan just bought the station from Rose (who's owned it for 34 years) and this guy bent over backwards to be helpful. When I called the other day to make the appointment, he got someone to come in special to do the oil change, because they don't do them on Saturdays anymore. They close at 6 and I don't get off work until 6:30. He's bringing the car to me. Now, that's service. So, kudos to John Logan.
Anon.
Friday, July 09, 2004
Cooter rules. Simple. Easy. Direct.
When I started this blog, it was with the intention of having fun with it, blow off a little steam, whatever... I didn't think I was bound to take it very seriously at all. But now that I've gotten into the whole 'blog mentality', it seems sacriligious to not post at least every other day. This is regardless if I have something to talk about or not. Imagine that.
Of course, I do what most of you do and surf the other blogs. I read several, I comment now and again, sometimes I feel one way, sometimes the other. But one thing that recently caught my attention was some internal strife within a comments section. Not a big deal, really, but it started me thinking this thing IS a huge waste of my time. After all, what am I getting out of it?
And then it hit me: I do this to keep myself sane. I don't care if anyone reads it (please disregard the counter...), I don't care if anyone comments (please disregard my prior cries for attention), and I don't care if anyone is rude to me (please disregard any past bitchy comments).
Basically, here it is: I'm doing this stupid little thing for me, me, me. I don't give a flying rat's ass if anyone thinks it's superfluous, mundane, self-serving, vain, idiotic, vitriolic, etc. As a wise man said in one of his posts, "If you don't like it, there are other blogs out there; please find one you like." (paraphrased)
So on that note, anyone who doesn't like my blog can do one or two of three things: 1) Suck my left tit and make my right one jealous, 2) Kiss my mutherfuckin' sweet ass, and/or 3) Keep the FUCK outta Cooterland.
Who dat snappin' back? |
Of course, I do what most of you do and surf the other blogs. I read several, I comment now and again, sometimes I feel one way, sometimes the other. But one thing that recently caught my attention was some internal strife within a comments section. Not a big deal, really, but it started me thinking this thing IS a huge waste of my time. After all, what am I getting out of it?
And then it hit me: I do this to keep myself sane. I don't care if anyone reads it (please disregard the counter...), I don't care if anyone comments (please disregard my prior cries for attention), and I don't care if anyone is rude to me (please disregard any past bitchy comments).
Basically, here it is: I'm doing this stupid little thing for me, me, me. I don't give a flying rat's ass if anyone thinks it's superfluous, mundane, self-serving, vain, idiotic, vitriolic, etc. As a wise man said in one of his posts, "If you don't like it, there are other blogs out there; please find one you like." (paraphrased)
So on that note, anyone who doesn't like my blog can do one or two of three things: 1) Suck my left tit and make my right one jealous, 2) Kiss my mutherfuckin' sweet ass, and/or 3) Keep the FUCK outta Cooterland.
Monday, July 05, 2004
Regurgalicious
Aaaahh... a Monday that does NOT suck! Thought I'd post a quick missive before I start cookin'. I'm aheadin' to a brunch at Sue and Philip's, whereupon (if we don't get too inebriated) we will all pitch in and help with the finishing of the pergula (sp?).
But I want to tell a funny story for a change, since my recent posts have been blah and down.
Once upon a time I was engaged to this guy. Let's call him Dick. We were living together in an attic apartment with the only 'rooms' being the bathroom and the walk-in closet. Very late one night, or early in the morning, I was awakened from a deep sleep by something. I rolled over to spoon Dick, but his side of the bed was empty. And cold. Then I hear it again... the unmistakable sound of retching. So I just kinda stayed where I was for awhile, then got up and went to bathroom where poor little Dick was curled 'round the terlet, puking his poor little guts up.
Now, I can't be around vomit, whether active or inert. But I wanted to show my support, so I sat down on the floor behind him, held him, stroked his back... I couldn't do this for very long. I started to feel myself gettin' a little queasy, so stood up to go back to bed. But then I lost it. Poor Dick... I regurgitated all over his back. He turned around with the most hang dog baleful look, but all I could do was say, "Please sleep in the tub tonight, honey."
I s'pose it's a good idea that we never tied the knot, because I don't think he ever forgave me for that night. Ah well.
Who dat snappin' back? |
But I want to tell a funny story for a change, since my recent posts have been blah and down.
Once upon a time I was engaged to this guy. Let's call him Dick. We were living together in an attic apartment with the only 'rooms' being the bathroom and the walk-in closet. Very late one night, or early in the morning, I was awakened from a deep sleep by something. I rolled over to spoon Dick, but his side of the bed was empty. And cold. Then I hear it again... the unmistakable sound of retching. So I just kinda stayed where I was for awhile, then got up and went to bathroom where poor little Dick was curled 'round the terlet, puking his poor little guts up.
Now, I can't be around vomit, whether active or inert. But I wanted to show my support, so I sat down on the floor behind him, held him, stroked his back... I couldn't do this for very long. I started to feel myself gettin' a little queasy, so stood up to go back to bed. But then I lost it. Poor Dick... I regurgitated all over his back. He turned around with the most hang dog baleful look, but all I could do was say, "Please sleep in the tub tonight, honey."
I s'pose it's a good idea that we never tied the knot, because I don't think he ever forgave me for that night. Ah well.
Sunday, July 04, 2004
Bad ass days, drunk with some band somewhere... the flowered thing I'm wearing under my jacket is this weird ass dress I got at Goodwill and I'd wear knickers under it. I've never been accused of being fashion conscious... just comfortable.
Dis is Da Poog
Who dat snappin' back? |
Dis is Da Poog
Florida vacations, a few years apart. Sand up my butt on the left, drunk on the right. Yep, I'm holdin' up that pier...
Dis is Da Poog
Who dat snappin' back? |
Dis is Da Poog
I am a sentimental fool. And for whatever reason, I started to think about all the times in my life that had I chosen Door B, things would be sooo different. That door would be me following my instincts, not necessarily my heart. We've all made mistakes. I know. Mine just tend to be in the romance department. I've been proposed to four times in my life. Had I known the last time would be the last, well... let's just say I wouldn't be sitting here, alone, wondering if I'm lovable. How pathetic is that?
Anyway, so I was at work yesterday trying to be the happy bartender. I love my job for the most part. It's a big departure from my 'real' world. I can be myself, I can be crass if I want to, and I can make people feel good about themselves. But yesterday, I just wanted to feel good about ME. Alas, for whatever reason, all I felt was low. I was missing the viking, my youth, my idealism, the thought that once upon a time someone really, really cared for me. And I'm not talking about the viking there. Not sure he ever 'cared'. Don't get me wrong... he's a great guy, but we went into our relationship with two very different ideas. I can't really speak for him, but my guess (based upon some of the things he said to me) is that I was some kind of trophy. That is, until he got to know me. He once called me a 'legend'. No, I'm not tooting my own horn; it made me feel old and washed up. Besides, Iowa City is a small enough town, that if you've been here for more than seven years, that by itself makes you a 'legend'. I, on the other hand, went into this relationship thinking REBOUND. I needed someone to make me feel good after a really shit-ass breakup with a guy who did nothing but make me doubt myself, hate myself... it made me crazy. And then I started to really like the viking. He was tender, he listened, he said all the right things. I really like his friends; they are loving, accepting people. And he was great in bed. I couldn't keep my hands off him. Maybe that had more to do with the fact that my former boyfiend denied me sex for the last year and a half of our relationship. Does this speak volumes about my patience? Or my stupidity?
So here I was, stuck behind the bar while life was going on. It's Jazz Fest time here in IC... and unfortunately, most of it got rained out (3 inches in half and hour... yikes!) When I got off work, Jason came down for awhile, and Mark, who out of all my friends actually GETS me. Maybe it's a Virgo thing, I don't know. But I can say some of the lamest shit to this guy and he'll nod and say he understands. Jason only stayed a few hours, and right now is on his way back to Phoenix for another two weeks. Mark and I sat around for a little bit after Jas left, both of us saying "I gotta go home early tonight" when Pooter and Sue showed up, and shortly thereafter Miz Mimi. Turns out they drug our sorry asses down to the fest where we feasted on yummy Indian food and then jockeyed places in front of the stage to hear Soul Live. If any of you ever have a chance to see them, DO IT!
Hmmm... guess I lost the thread of what the hell I was talking about. But that's ok, isn't it?
Right now 'The Deer Hunter' is on. I've been putzing around, playin' with the Poog, then decided to do a deep search for my motorcycle manual. (Got an electrical problem that needs fixing). Then I found a bunch of pictures that remind of happy times in my life, so out of sheer vanity (probably) I'm gonna post some of them. Stay tuned.
Who dat snappin' back? |
Anyway, so I was at work yesterday trying to be the happy bartender. I love my job for the most part. It's a big departure from my 'real' world. I can be myself, I can be crass if I want to, and I can make people feel good about themselves. But yesterday, I just wanted to feel good about ME. Alas, for whatever reason, all I felt was low. I was missing the viking, my youth, my idealism, the thought that once upon a time someone really, really cared for me. And I'm not talking about the viking there. Not sure he ever 'cared'. Don't get me wrong... he's a great guy, but we went into our relationship with two very different ideas. I can't really speak for him, but my guess (based upon some of the things he said to me) is that I was some kind of trophy. That is, until he got to know me. He once called me a 'legend'. No, I'm not tooting my own horn; it made me feel old and washed up. Besides, Iowa City is a small enough town, that if you've been here for more than seven years, that by itself makes you a 'legend'. I, on the other hand, went into this relationship thinking REBOUND. I needed someone to make me feel good after a really shit-ass breakup with a guy who did nothing but make me doubt myself, hate myself... it made me crazy. And then I started to really like the viking. He was tender, he listened, he said all the right things. I really like his friends; they are loving, accepting people. And he was great in bed. I couldn't keep my hands off him. Maybe that had more to do with the fact that my former boyfiend denied me sex for the last year and a half of our relationship. Does this speak volumes about my patience? Or my stupidity?
So here I was, stuck behind the bar while life was going on. It's Jazz Fest time here in IC... and unfortunately, most of it got rained out (3 inches in half and hour... yikes!) When I got off work, Jason came down for awhile, and Mark, who out of all my friends actually GETS me. Maybe it's a Virgo thing, I don't know. But I can say some of the lamest shit to this guy and he'll nod and say he understands. Jason only stayed a few hours, and right now is on his way back to Phoenix for another two weeks. Mark and I sat around for a little bit after Jas left, both of us saying "I gotta go home early tonight" when Pooter and Sue showed up, and shortly thereafter Miz Mimi. Turns out they drug our sorry asses down to the fest where we feasted on yummy Indian food and then jockeyed places in front of the stage to hear Soul Live. If any of you ever have a chance to see them, DO IT!
Hmmm... guess I lost the thread of what the hell I was talking about. But that's ok, isn't it?
Right now 'The Deer Hunter' is on. I've been putzing around, playin' with the Poog, then decided to do a deep search for my motorcycle manual. (Got an electrical problem that needs fixing). Then I found a bunch of pictures that remind of happy times in my life, so out of sheer vanity (probably) I'm gonna post some of them. Stay tuned.
Saturday, July 03, 2004
Complete and utter lack of judgment...
After reading Jay's last post, it reminded me of a night a long, long time ago...
At the time, I was living in a house with four guys. This, I could write about forever, but I'm going to tell you a story of a particular night I went out with some friends.
It was someone's birthday, so we started out at Jen's house eating pizza (spiked with mushrooms, as I found out about an hour later), swilling wine, and generally being silly. Well, the pizza started kicking in around 9 pm. Now, I have no need for 'mind enhancing' drugs; my brain spins as fast as the hamster can run, and that little bastard is on speed or something. We ended up downtown at various bars, none of which I could stomach for very long because the noise was too intense for me.
It was much better when we hung out on the Pentacrest on the steps of the Old Capitol reenacting scenes from 'Ghostbusters' of all things. I thought I made one helluva gargoyle. After awhile, we were all sweaty and desirous of immersing our bad selves in water. So we strolled down to the Union and took a dip in the duck pond. Man, that was the best part of the night for me... until the kampus kops showed up and threatened to arrest us if we didn't stop tormenting the ducks.
Now, somewhere in there, we'd lost several hours, so by the time we dispersed, it was closing in on dawn. I was walking homewards, cutting through frat row, when I realized I was soaking wet. Duh. It made complete sense at the time that I should take off my wet clothes... By the time I walked down Ronalds Street (where I lived), I was buck nekkid and in the middle of the street. Good thing there were no IC cops around. I arrived home, safe and sound (well, safe anyway). The guys had left the porch light on for me, and I decided that I should put my clothes back on before I went inside (after all, four guys...) So there I was, on the front porch of my house, getting dressed under the 60 watt bulb. Brilliant.
I walked in the door. There, in the living room, was Walter. He worked the graveyard shift at Weeg, and was having a beer. I started to walk up the stairs, when he spoke: "Nice show, Ang. Why were you naked?" All I could say was, "I was wet." Then I went to bed. Needless to say, I got a lot of needling for that stunt... Ah well, you're only young once, right?
Who dat snappin' back? |
At the time, I was living in a house with four guys. This, I could write about forever, but I'm going to tell you a story of a particular night I went out with some friends.
It was someone's birthday, so we started out at Jen's house eating pizza (spiked with mushrooms, as I found out about an hour later), swilling wine, and generally being silly. Well, the pizza started kicking in around 9 pm. Now, I have no need for 'mind enhancing' drugs; my brain spins as fast as the hamster can run, and that little bastard is on speed or something. We ended up downtown at various bars, none of which I could stomach for very long because the noise was too intense for me.
It was much better when we hung out on the Pentacrest on the steps of the Old Capitol reenacting scenes from 'Ghostbusters' of all things. I thought I made one helluva gargoyle. After awhile, we were all sweaty and desirous of immersing our bad selves in water. So we strolled down to the Union and took a dip in the duck pond. Man, that was the best part of the night for me... until the kampus kops showed up and threatened to arrest us if we didn't stop tormenting the ducks.
Now, somewhere in there, we'd lost several hours, so by the time we dispersed, it was closing in on dawn. I was walking homewards, cutting through frat row, when I realized I was soaking wet. Duh. It made complete sense at the time that I should take off my wet clothes... By the time I walked down Ronalds Street (where I lived), I was buck nekkid and in the middle of the street. Good thing there were no IC cops around. I arrived home, safe and sound (well, safe anyway). The guys had left the porch light on for me, and I decided that I should put my clothes back on before I went inside (after all, four guys...) So there I was, on the front porch of my house, getting dressed under the 60 watt bulb. Brilliant.
I walked in the door. There, in the living room, was Walter. He worked the graveyard shift at Weeg, and was having a beer. I started to walk up the stairs, when he spoke: "Nice show, Ang. Why were you naked?" All I could say was, "I was wet." Then I went to bed. Needless to say, I got a lot of needling for that stunt... Ah well, you're only young once, right?
Friday, July 02, 2004
Waaahoooo!!
Hola amigos!!
I am ready 'n rarin' for this wheekend... no lie! I didn't even make any plans (just in case I feel like doing jack). Not Jack, just jack. You know. One thing I was thinking about on the way home from work today was 'Independence Day', though. Hasn't this day sort of lost its meaning... kinda like Christmas? I'm not religious, so I don't really get into the whole birth of baby Jesus and all that. I'm one of those fogged-over Americans who are caught up by the commercialism and the exchange of debt with my family. Sad, but true. As far as the Fourth goes... well, I'm all about having a day off and partying. A bar-b-que here, a party there... Also sad, but true. Memorial Day has far more meaning to me than the upcoming holiday. For one thing, I don't feel incredibly 'free'. This isn't to say I want to live in a third world country, like Canada (just kidding...geesh!), but in light of our current administration, I feel just about anything but free. Heck, I kinda wonder what things would be like if England still 'owned' us. Would we be more civil to each other? Would we NOT behave like the assmonkey bully we are perceived as by the rest of the world? I know there are a lot of people out there who will/do disagree with me, but my feelings are mine. Anyway, enough of that.
Now then. Party. Jason gets back tonight and I can't wait to see him. Since we've re-established our friendship, I've been thinking about how we used to be such good friends and it's damn nice to have a buddy back in my life again. There's still Amos (yo! you sweet thang!), Rog, Pooter, Mark and Skippy, but they've never 'left' me before. (Abandonment issues and the like). I don't know; I'm just excited to see Jas again. He's only here for a few days, but it'll be nice nonetheless.
After Jason leaves on Sunday, my plan is to sleep, clean the pig sty in which I live, and sweat it all out in my garden. Maybe make myself a nice gourmet dinner one night complete with a resplendent wiiiine. All those lovely therapeutic things that make me one with the world and will prepare me for the shortened work week (what a bonus). And on Tuesday I begin my search for a new gym (mine changed hands and I don't much care for the new owner).
Wow... I just re-read this bore fest. But shit... can't disappoint Jack again. He requires Cooter every 72 hours at a minimum, y'know. Maybe I'll get *drunkish* and do a little more bloggin' later on.
Oh yay! Jas just called and got his flight times mixed up, so he got home and hour earlier. Gotta run! And happy fun extra-day-off wheekend everyone! **smoooooch!**
Who dat snappin' back? |
I am ready 'n rarin' for this wheekend... no lie! I didn't even make any plans (just in case I feel like doing jack). Not Jack, just jack. You know. One thing I was thinking about on the way home from work today was 'Independence Day', though. Hasn't this day sort of lost its meaning... kinda like Christmas? I'm not religious, so I don't really get into the whole birth of baby Jesus and all that. I'm one of those fogged-over Americans who are caught up by the commercialism and the exchange of debt with my family. Sad, but true. As far as the Fourth goes... well, I'm all about having a day off and partying. A bar-b-que here, a party there... Also sad, but true. Memorial Day has far more meaning to me than the upcoming holiday. For one thing, I don't feel incredibly 'free'. This isn't to say I want to live in a third world country, like Canada (just kidding...geesh!), but in light of our current administration, I feel just about anything but free. Heck, I kinda wonder what things would be like if England still 'owned' us. Would we be more civil to each other? Would we NOT behave like the assmonkey bully we are perceived as by the rest of the world? I know there are a lot of people out there who will/do disagree with me, but my feelings are mine. Anyway, enough of that.
Now then. Party. Jason gets back tonight and I can't wait to see him. Since we've re-established our friendship, I've been thinking about how we used to be such good friends and it's damn nice to have a buddy back in my life again. There's still Amos (yo! you sweet thang!), Rog, Pooter, Mark and Skippy, but they've never 'left' me before. (Abandonment issues and the like). I don't know; I'm just excited to see Jas again. He's only here for a few days, but it'll be nice nonetheless.
After Jason leaves on Sunday, my plan is to sleep, clean the pig sty in which I live, and sweat it all out in my garden. Maybe make myself a nice gourmet dinner one night complete with a resplendent wiiiine. All those lovely therapeutic things that make me one with the world and will prepare me for the shortened work week (what a bonus). And on Tuesday I begin my search for a new gym (mine changed hands and I don't much care for the new owner).
Wow... I just re-read this bore fest. But shit... can't disappoint Jack again. He requires Cooter every 72 hours at a minimum, y'know. Maybe I'll get *drunkish* and do a little more bloggin' later on.
Oh yay! Jas just called and got his flight times mixed up, so he got home and hour earlier. Gotta run! And happy fun extra-day-off wheekend everyone! **smoooooch!**
