Friday, July 29, 2005

Every Saturday

Every Saturday morning he rides down to the Farmers' Market. He waits for the whistle to blow that announces the beginning of selling. You can't cheat on the time. You just have to wait.

Every Saturday he goes to the same vendors. He'll get a few kolaches from the Amish woman. He pronounces it 'ay-mish'. He'll go to the woman who makes her own dog biscuits from healthy grains and such... a variety of sizes and flavors for the several dogs he calls his 'new friends'. He'll purchase some yellow tomatoes (because the red ones cause him too much reflux from the acid). Perhaps he'll see a pepper or two that look interesting to him and get those. The girl he likes works at a bar. She likes hot peppers.

Every Saturday he has a single red rose delivered to a bar. Every Saturday he raps his cane on the window so the girl will open the door and let him inside. Every Saturday they smile at each other and say "Happy Saturday!" as if it's a special thing for them both.

But, every Saturday, the girl thinks it's a very sad and lonely tradition they both share.

Who dat snappin' back? |

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Addiction is a bad habit...

Yes, this post is about addiction. I have this really bad habit of becoming addicted to things. Can't help it, really. It just happens and then I find myself clenched tightly within the jaws of the bang-bang du jour.

Unfortunately, not all of my addictions are harmless. Let's take, for example, my blogging habit. Now I'm not one to stay up really late at night, but a few nights ago I was up waaaay past my bedtime whilst catching up on my bloggyroll. (Shame on y'all for being too interesting to let me sleep!) The next morning, needless to say, my lazy patoot did NOT want to get out of bed and my right hand (unbeknownst to my left hand) kept hitting the snooze button. As you can imagine, this royally messed up the time-space continuum in which I reside. Therefore, while driving to work *perhaps* a mere seven miles over the speed limit, bleery-eyed and without my usual dose of coffee (another addiction, I might add), my car ran over a squirrel. Ok... I ran over a squirrel. But all of us in Blogland have the blood of that squirrel on our hands. So keep a keen eye on your addictions, folks, before they turn deadly.

On a lighter note, my new addiction is Sudoku (you say Soduko, I say Sudoku)... many thanks to Paul of 'No Milk' fame (linked on the right under 'Milkless'). I tell ya, people... please quit turning me on to stuff I'm not strong enough to deny.

Who dat snappin' back? |

Sunday, July 17, 2005

Crock o'...

my frikkin' dawg.

Honestly. People. If you throw a lot of good 'stuff' in a crockpot... it does NOT necessarily turn out tastin' good.

I'm going to hurl.

At least my dog will eat it.

Not the 'stuff' from the crock pot.

Who dat snappin' back? |

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

unconscious accidents

Stress is a part of life. We all know this. Personally, I’ve always felt that I could handle as much stress as the world should want to throw at me. Lately, my opinion of these (perhaps fictional) capabilities of dealing with this daily demon has somehow gotten itself blown full of holes.

I get up in the morning, make my coffee, do the poog dance, watch the news, shower… whatever it takes to get those sleep hormones out of my system. Then, sometimes unprepared (ie. not sufficiently armed), I go to work. But the past few months it’s felt like I’ve been (how shall we put it nicely?) staple-gunned to the back of a wild boar that wants nothing more to do than fuck me dead and gone. I gotta be honest; that pig is starting to hurt my feelings.

It’s been three years since I started taking anti-anxiety medication (Lorazepam), quickly to be followed with anti-depressants (at the time, Zoloft). I’d been seeing a therapist since August 2001 and just about a year later, started the medication after going for a visit with a full-fledged shrink.

Point is, that while I’m no longer on anti-depressants (haven’t been for a loooong time), and I no longer see a therapist or a psychiatrist, I have in the last two months, started taking the Lorazepam again. Why? I’ll tell ya: there are days I get so FRIKKIN’ tweaked about shit that it causes a tightness in my chest and the soles of my feet hurt… so. In order to bypass this, I’ve been popping a pill before I come into work or taking one on my lunch hour.

Now, I understand there are people who have a serious need for medication (and don’t go getting all Tom Cruise on my ass) and that perhaps I don’t need it, but it’s a concern. My friend Mush openly discusses her bouts with panic attacks and it’s truly, brutally frightening. So yeah… the soles of my feet hurt and I can’t quite breathe in a normal fashion. Big deal. This is a drop in the bucket compared to what Mush goes through. But it’s still my freak on, and I’m not sure what to do with it.

Truth be told, I’m not even sure why I wrote this. I’m not seeking help or answers. I realize that this too shall pass and I’ll find myself back in my natural state of being. Maybe I just wanted to say that it’s ok to feel overwhelmed and frightened. It’s ok to get pissy, pensive, upset or downright angry about things. I’m still learning, but Taza (linked on my sidebar over there > somewhere) has some great things to say regarding the philosophy of do unto others. And if anyone needs a little calm, you ought to read her post of July 7th. Maybe we all need to learn about the Collective Conscious Intention Project… or at the very least, about conscious intention.

Who dat snappin' back? |

Friday, July 08, 2005

Little bits

Haven't had much time (or inclination) lately to update this here blog. Life's been happening; in some ways it's downright wondrous... others perplexing. But here's a few li'l bits:

The Friday work day could not end fast enough. Felt like I was draggin' a snail down a sandpaper track, but what more can you expect when faced with a three-day weekend... (well, a two-day wheeeeekend in my book). Saturday was much like Friday. But at the magical time of 6:30 pm central (bar) time, I was off... sitting down after 8 hours of schlepping beer and burgers. Plans! Plans I had aplenty. Party here. Party there. Invite to dinner. Invite to this, that or the other. Jazz Fest going on about three blocks from my house. Oh yes... I had big plans. But when I sat down after my shift on Saturday drinking a Harp, **whoosh**! Of a sudden, the only thing that sounded really right to me was going home. This, however, I did not immediately do. (Bad Angie)


Sunday morn, tangled up in my own legs and the damn gazillion pillows I have on my bed, that technologically inept contraption that is my answering machine awoke me. I didn't really hear what was being said. Instead, I simply rolled over and tried to fall back asleep. That didn't work because by that time it'd hit me that not only was my head thudding ever so slightly, but boy howDEEEEE did I have to pee. So, up I got. Did da bidness... stumbled into the kitchen, made some coffee, defended my ankles from the poog. Usual routine.

Eventually, I checked my messages (which means I half listened to three of 'em and concentrated -as much as humanly possible before coffee- to the last one). That one was from my friend, The Rog. Now then, Rog is one of my best friends on this earth. There's probably not a damn thing I wouldn't do for this guy. He needed a ride to the hospital. So, of course, I said "Let me drink some coffee, take a shower... I'll pick ya up in an hour or so." (I'm a damn good friend in an emergency). Anywhoodle, long story short, poor guy had a knee a the size of a watermelon. Couldn't walk. I still have no idea how he made it down the stairs of his apartment... So Roger gets a less-than-limo ride to the emergency room. After it was firmly established that morphine was his friend and they (THEY... the ones what want yer money and will gladly charge you for each and every square of toilet paper you might use during your tenure) were strongly suggesting that an overnight stay in the B & B of have-Mercy-on-your-poor-soul-because-you're-going-to-be-paying-this-off-FORever), there was nothing more I could do.

Unfortunately, turns out there was nothing the doctors could really do either. Poor Roger had to spend four days and three nights there before one brilliant doctor decided to give him a shot of cortizone. Yep, the wonder drug worked. Rog is out dancing jigs again and all is right with the world.


Same Sunday, it turns out that while I was at the hospital with Rog, my mom and stepdad were at the hospital in their town. Allen missed a step and busted two bones in his ankle. Yowza! So now he's gimpin' around with a walker on which Mom says she's going to put a pink basket, cup holder and a bike horn (the kind with the big rubber ball... oh yeah...).


Also on Sunday, another friend of mine and I went to hear John Doe play at The Mill. Oh yes, peoples, I sat not 10 feet from JOHN FRIKKIN' DOE. The 3-piece band (Luca, from Tuscon, AZ) that opened for him was ok... their original stuff was pretty repetitive, but they were great when paired up with the superstar himself. It was a tiny thrill to see the bass player wipe the pained look off his face while plucking through songs written to showcase the lead guitarist, and actually become animated; John Doe kept calling him "purdy and smart". They really did mesh well together. And it's with great joy I say that 2.5 hour set was the best 2.5 hours of my entire weekend. I could spend a lot of time writing inanely about the show and how much it ROCKED, but why don't you all do yourselves a favor and just go out and buy his latest CD, "Forever Hasn't Happened Yet"?


Wednesday I finally went out to my garden. Oh. My. Lawd. I headed out to the park after work armed with tomato cages and a resolve to make my plot purty. After ascertaining that yes, that rectangular area with weeds up to my thighs was mine, I carefully waded in, scaring out all sorts o' snakes 'n bugs 'n shit. None of that bothers me... but I'll scream bloody murder at a grasshopper. Sifting through the ragweed, wild mustard, jimsonweed and thistle, the only way to decipher what was noxious and what was not was the four plastic spoons I had put around each plant. A friend told me it keeps the rabbits away, so what the hey... I'll try anything once. Not only did the spoons keep little nibblers from munching on my Biker Billys, Hot Lemons and Cherry Bombs, but they were beacons beseeching me not to yank up the little darlings. Three and a half hours, several blisters and an aching back later, I can proudly proclaim my garden no longer resembles a vegetative ghetto. The weeds have been annihilated, the tomatoes have been staked, and I no longer have to hang my head in shame when my green thumb neighbors walk by.


And so here we are, having arrived once again to Friday. I dare say my expectations of this weekend will not be so high as last weekend. I will have fun in some little old way, whether it's going swimming tonight, out with friends tomorrow or a little trip to Sutliff on Sunday. Who knows what the weekend holds. Not I... but it's going to be a good one.

Who dat snappin' back? |

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