Gift-giving among friends can be tricky. I prefer not to exchange gifts with friends, rather to go out for a nice dinner and have a great time. I can't stand being forced to buy people gifts just for the sake of a holiday. I much prefer to find things throughout the year that suit the person and get and give them at that time.
So last Christmas, 2003, I had no intention of getting CL a gift of any kind. He had a girlfriend and is the kind of friend that disappears whenever he meets a new prospect. I can't blame him - most women don't want their men hanging out with their exes. I even encourage him to ditch me at those times. Anyhow, he was pretty consumed in that situation and I really didn't plan on any sort of holiday exchange until he called to see when I would be around so he could drop off my present. Oh crap, I thought. So I ran out and bought him a new crowbar - the one he had seen months back in a catalogue that was out of stock at the time. He is a mechanic, after all. Useful and something he wanted. Good enough, right?
He arrived at my house all smiles with a small gift box. I knew it was jewelry immediately. It turns out he had bought me the diamond and tanzanite necklace I had loved at a jewelry store when we went shopping together a month back. The necklace cost more than $400. The crowbar? $30. I told him to take it back, it was too much. He blathered on about what a great friend I am and how he wanted me to have something nice, blah, blah, blah. I pretended I was a nice Jewish girl and took it. He was disappointed in his crowbar and just said, "there's always next year." I disregarded the remark and admired my shiney new necklace. Oooh, pretty...
Flash forward to this Christmas season. CL called the day after Thanksgiving to announce he had outdone himself this year - that my gift was better than last year. Great, I thought, now I have to get him something nice.
Problem is that CL has recently proclaimed his love for me and determined I am his soul mate and that he will do whatever it takes to get me back. I have told him repeatedly that I am not interested and there is nothing he can do to change that. Alas, he has a thick skull and a pea brain.
So, rather than take the hard line and tell him to return whatever he got me, I decided to get him a cheap leather jacket. I knew he wouldn't know the difference and figured I could get a decent one on sale for less than $100 and he'd be pleased as punch. I didn't intend to get a super cheap one until I was at Kmart buying Christmas lights. Just so you know, I don't frequent Kmart but there is one by my office and I needed lights for the tree. I certainly don't buy clothing other than those lined flannel shirts there (my mom loves them).
Anyhow, as luck would have it, right as I walked in there was a display of cheap "genuine leather" men's jackets. Perfect, they were even half-price, $50. I thought I had scored. The jacket didn't look too bad. It wasn't high quality but it would work. It did seem cut a bit wide but I didn't think CL, the jeans and sweatshirt type, would mind. I bought it, took it home, and wrapped it nicely.
On Christmas Eve CL came over and gave me my annual necklace and this time complete with matching earrings. Nice stuff, diamonds and, again, tanzanite - this time in silver. In case you aren't aware, the world's supply of tanzanite is just about depleted so it's value has gone up and will continue to do so. It's a nice investment for the ladies in your life.
Anyhow, he opened his package and loved the jacket. Whew! Smelled like leather, felt nice. He exclaimed that he knew I would do something good this year to make up for the last year - that irritated me as I didn't want to do anything this year - just felt like I had to. Anyhow, he liked the jacket, took it out of the box, put it on, ran to the mirror, and frowned...it didn't look right. Damn, I thought. He said he didn't know if the style was right for him, that it was too loose. When did he become so fashion-conscious?!?! I tried to say it didn't look bad, made him look thinner, that baggy is in, etc. He wasn't buying it.
Then he said, "That's okay...you still have the receipt, right? Where did you get it? We can go exchange it for something else."
I stumbled on my words, said I wasn't sure, that I bought it in another town, that I would return it and we could go to the leather store in the local mall to get a replacement. I was backpedaling - I couldn't let him know I had bought a leather jacket at Kmart for him. He was so excited about it. I told him I would have to find the receipt and then we'd go together to get a new one.
So today I was rifling through my box of receipts and couldn't find the receipt. Now I'm stuck with a jacket I don't want and I have to go spend hundreds of dollars on CL.
Anyone interested in a cheap leather jacket, size large, cut loose? I can cut you a deal...
Friday, December 31, 2004
Saturday, December 25, 2004
Christmas with the C's
Eaaa...eaaa...eaaaa...
It's always nice to wake up to that disturbingly familiar alarm clock sound early on your day off. What's that? Oh yeah, it's Christmas and I am getting up early to cook for the C family. Well, due to dissolution, marriage and more dissolution we are no longer the C family, but I'll refer to us as the C family for the sake of time.
For the past five or so years I have hosted Christmas dinner/supper/late lunch/whatever at my house. I absolutely refuse to cook a traditional Christmas meal. It is my goal in life never to cook a turkey. It just appears to be too much effort for too little return. So each year I spend twice the time it would take to make a turkey making something different and creative. I don't know how those unique, non-conformist people do it every day because it's all I can do to be different just on Christmas. Last year was cajun food - jambalaya, blackened catfish, hush puppies, cornbread, black eyed peas. The year before Thai. This year was to be Chinese but I got lazy and did Italian instead...chicken cacciatore, spinach manicotti, bruschetta, prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, salad, garlic bread, and calamari. It was more work than Chinese any day of the week.
Everyone has just left and the kitchen looks like Fallujah. No, there are no leftovers - my gracious family brings their own tupperware to abscond with anything not tied down or too dirty to bother.
Actually, Christmas was great. No family strife. My mother only cried once at the thought my brother put into my gift - a diamond to replace the one missing from the family heirloom ring. To be quite honest, knowing he doesn't read and all...I would have preferred he spend the money on next month's mortgage payment. Then again, that's probably just me being selfish because I would rather not pay his mortgage and wait a few months for the replacement diamond...And where the heck did he get the diamond? Some sort of drug trade, no doubt. I mean, really, who buys a single diamond - not in a setting or anything?
What you really want to know is what I got, right? Never fear, like any Mastercard moment, it is priceless...two miniature pygora goats, a rolling butcherblock from Ikea, a food processor, a diamond, and some lovely flannel pajamas. Not a bad take if I do say so myself. And I have come to the realization that by not having children, hence grandchildren for my parents, I get more stuff each year. Seems petty, and it is, but it is true. If I or my brother had children, neither of us would get the loot we get. We still get Santa sacks, for goodness sake! Thirty-two years old and I get a Santa sack from my parents. Yes, I will have to rethink my existence in the next year.
Well, I'm off to do the dishes and gorge on leftover snickerdoodles.
It's always nice to wake up to that disturbingly familiar alarm clock sound early on your day off. What's that? Oh yeah, it's Christmas and I am getting up early to cook for the C family. Well, due to dissolution, marriage and more dissolution we are no longer the C family, but I'll refer to us as the C family for the sake of time.
For the past five or so years I have hosted Christmas dinner/supper/late lunch/whatever at my house. I absolutely refuse to cook a traditional Christmas meal. It is my goal in life never to cook a turkey. It just appears to be too much effort for too little return. So each year I spend twice the time it would take to make a turkey making something different and creative. I don't know how those unique, non-conformist people do it every day because it's all I can do to be different just on Christmas. Last year was cajun food - jambalaya, blackened catfish, hush puppies, cornbread, black eyed peas. The year before Thai. This year was to be Chinese but I got lazy and did Italian instead...chicken cacciatore, spinach manicotti, bruschetta, prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, salad, garlic bread, and calamari. It was more work than Chinese any day of the week.
Everyone has just left and the kitchen looks like Fallujah. No, there are no leftovers - my gracious family brings their own tupperware to abscond with anything not tied down or too dirty to bother.
Actually, Christmas was great. No family strife. My mother only cried once at the thought my brother put into my gift - a diamond to replace the one missing from the family heirloom ring. To be quite honest, knowing he doesn't read and all...I would have preferred he spend the money on next month's mortgage payment. Then again, that's probably just me being selfish because I would rather not pay his mortgage and wait a few months for the replacement diamond...And where the heck did he get the diamond? Some sort of drug trade, no doubt. I mean, really, who buys a single diamond - not in a setting or anything?
What you really want to know is what I got, right? Never fear, like any Mastercard moment, it is priceless...two miniature pygora goats, a rolling butcherblock from Ikea, a food processor, a diamond, and some lovely flannel pajamas. Not a bad take if I do say so myself. And I have come to the realization that by not having children, hence grandchildren for my parents, I get more stuff each year. Seems petty, and it is, but it is true. If I or my brother had children, neither of us would get the loot we get. We still get Santa sacks, for goodness sake! Thirty-two years old and I get a Santa sack from my parents. Yes, I will have to rethink my existence in the next year.
Well, I'm off to do the dishes and gorge on leftover snickerdoodles.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Rick Springfield's DNA Sample Available Now
While trying to stay awake at Sunday's Christmas party we ended up discussing our first concert experiences. Mine was as vivid as if had happened yesterday...
It was the summer of '85. I was 12 and my three best friends in the world were Karen, Llesena and Malaika. We were a perfect foursome...I loved Ricky Schroder, Llesena loved Adam Ant, Malaika loved Ralphie from New Edition, and Karen, sweet Karen, loved Rick Springfield.
For Karen's 13th birthday her parents had gotten tickets for the four of us to go see Rick's Cathode Ray Tour. Karen wore her I Heart Rick Springfield t-shirt - the homemade kind that you iron the fuzzy letters and hearts onto. At the concert, we somehow managed to fanagle our way to the front, near the stage. We were all dancing (as best you can to Rick Springfield) and having a great time as Rick sang his way into a frenzy. Then it happened, a huge ball of phlegm escaped Rick's mouth and headed in our general direction. Llesena, Malaika and I shrieked in horror and attempted to flee the path of the spit missile. Then we saw the flash that was Karen at top speed, heading directly for it. She studied the flight path and planted herself for the hit. The lougy (spelling?) hit her almost perfectly on the chest, right near the fuzzy heart on her shirt. She was so happy she was in tears. She exclaimed that Rick had spit on her and was thrilled at the thought of his phlegm was firmly embedded in the shirt. We all recoiled in disgust as she pointed to it and demanded no one touch it until it dried. All the way home from the concert she gushed about the spit wad she had gotten. She circled the spit location with a marker so everyone would know exactly where the DNA sample was to be found. She wore the shirt to school weekly, dousing it with cheap musk rather than washing it. It was the quintessential badge of preteen lust and she wore as if it were a Medal of Honor.
To this day I don't know if Karen ever washed the shirt. But in this day of eBay and cloning I am certain she could make a profit selling it. Then again, I don't know how many Rick Springfield's the world can handle...
It was the summer of '85. I was 12 and my three best friends in the world were Karen, Llesena and Malaika. We were a perfect foursome...I loved Ricky Schroder, Llesena loved Adam Ant, Malaika loved Ralphie from New Edition, and Karen, sweet Karen, loved Rick Springfield.
For Karen's 13th birthday her parents had gotten tickets for the four of us to go see Rick's Cathode Ray Tour. Karen wore her I Heart Rick Springfield t-shirt - the homemade kind that you iron the fuzzy letters and hearts onto. At the concert, we somehow managed to fanagle our way to the front, near the stage. We were all dancing (as best you can to Rick Springfield) and having a great time as Rick sang his way into a frenzy. Then it happened, a huge ball of phlegm escaped Rick's mouth and headed in our general direction. Llesena, Malaika and I shrieked in horror and attempted to flee the path of the spit missile. Then we saw the flash that was Karen at top speed, heading directly for it. She studied the flight path and planted herself for the hit. The lougy (spelling?) hit her almost perfectly on the chest, right near the fuzzy heart on her shirt. She was so happy she was in tears. She exclaimed that Rick had spit on her and was thrilled at the thought of his phlegm was firmly embedded in the shirt. We all recoiled in disgust as she pointed to it and demanded no one touch it until it dried. All the way home from the concert she gushed about the spit wad she had gotten. She circled the spit location with a marker so everyone would know exactly where the DNA sample was to be found. She wore the shirt to school weekly, dousing it with cheap musk rather than washing it. It was the quintessential badge of preteen lust and she wore as if it were a Medal of Honor.
To this day I don't know if Karen ever washed the shirt. But in this day of eBay and cloning I am certain she could make a profit selling it. Then again, I don't know how many Rick Springfield's the world can handle...
Monday, December 20, 2004
Cheese Pie and Canned Cherries
Everyone worries about single people at Christmas. Co-workers feign concern, family members fret, married friends attempt to include you, and the other singles rally and have parties for the similarly situated.
Last night L hosted one such party. It was to be the quintessential singles potluck in which there is always more wine than food, more small talk than meaningful conversation, and more likelihood of repeating the event in 12 months than meeting someone great at the party that you'll be able to spend the next Christmas with.
Hopeful that something blogworthy would come of it, I signed up to bring mashed potatoes and headed out. I brought along MM. I don't know why I brought him along but I was glad I did to at least have a witness to the series of non-events that was the party. Mashed potatoes in hand, I acted the part of potluck overachiever by making snickerdoodles as well. After all, who doesn't love a good snickerdoodle? Even if you don't like them, it's fun to say the name.
As we arrived R was pulling out of the driveway. R is a thirty-something, chain-smoking, large, insecure bleached blond with a bottom-of-the-line black 2001 Mustang whose personality traits include acute overreaction, self-absorbedness, scoffing at others, and accelerated offensibility. Her last relationship consisted of spending two years giving blow jobs to a married co-worker in a car during lunch hour. As we approached the door she cheerfully waved hello and said she had to get bread and would be right back. Truth be told, R was unhappy with her chosen outfit for the night and was racing home to change clothes before other guests arrive. You never know when you're going to meet Mr. Right...
That left MM and I as the first arrivals. Awkward moments in which L directs the mashed potato placement and then forces me to taste her stuffing. It was really mushy and I convinced her to put it in a pan in the oven to crisp it up. Another stuffing fiasco avoided.
Soon Mk and Mt, brothers from next door, arrived. They brought a few bottles of wine. Mi, L's roommate, finally emerged from her room to join the party. Meal preparations, small talk and table setting ensued. Mk had brought his dog, Pearl. L's dog Tammy was loose and did not like Pearl. Note to guest: if your dog is growling in another dog's house - take it home or put it in the car. Better yet, don't bring your pets to dinner parties unless invited. I imagined bringing Hogitha, my pet pig at a dinner party. Could be fun, especially if it's a non-pet person's party...
R returned and dinner commenced. R refused to sit at the table because she felt too cluttered. I later learned that she found Mt repulsive and smelly. He had similar comments about her, I am sure.
After everyone stuffed themselves the struggle for pleasant conversation began. Unfortunately, there was no common ground among the attendees and no one seemed interested in anyone else. The two dogs sat begging at the table, owners oblivious to the irritation it caused among the guests. Mk assumed the role of pompous, disinterested party-goer by repeatedly yawning and looking at his watch. L was well on her way after a few glasses of wine and began discussing Mk with his shirt off and then proceeded to tell tales from my life, which are far more interesting than tales from hers. Seizing the moment, R exclaimed it was time for her special dessert. I wasn't done with dinner yet but nevermind that, the masses needed their cheesecake.
What's that? It's not cheesecake - it's cheese pie? R had brought the cheese cake/pie/whatever and insisted on use of proper nomenclature by the party-goers. She then opened cans of blueberries and cherries in sugar slop from the 99 cent store to put on the cheese pie. So much preparation, how thoughtful. Fishing for compliments on the cheese pie. "It's cheese pie, not cheesecake, there is a difference", she kept repeating. No one listened. You say tomatoe, I say tomato, get over it. Upset at the collective refusal to call it cheese pie, or possibly needing to change clothes again, R left.
Mi left soon after - to go to a dinner party at a restaurant. She didn't have any money to buy food at the restaurant so it was just perfect that she could eat at the potluck and then go to the other dinner party. She didn't bring anything to the potluck either, other than her own diet coke. Gotta love the moochers.
That left the drunken L, quiet Mt, clock-watching Mk, bewildered MM, and bored me. The conversation reached its peak after a story about my good friend Karen being spit on by Rick Springfield at a concert years ago. We went on with our favorite colors, favorite cars, blah, blah, blah until I could take no more and announced the departure of MM and I.
The point of this post? It's cheese pie and some things just aren't even blogworthy.
Last night L hosted one such party. It was to be the quintessential singles potluck in which there is always more wine than food, more small talk than meaningful conversation, and more likelihood of repeating the event in 12 months than meeting someone great at the party that you'll be able to spend the next Christmas with.
Hopeful that something blogworthy would come of it, I signed up to bring mashed potatoes and headed out. I brought along MM. I don't know why I brought him along but I was glad I did to at least have a witness to the series of non-events that was the party. Mashed potatoes in hand, I acted the part of potluck overachiever by making snickerdoodles as well. After all, who doesn't love a good snickerdoodle? Even if you don't like them, it's fun to say the name.
As we arrived R was pulling out of the driveway. R is a thirty-something, chain-smoking, large, insecure bleached blond with a bottom-of-the-line black 2001 Mustang whose personality traits include acute overreaction, self-absorbedness, scoffing at others, and accelerated offensibility. Her last relationship consisted of spending two years giving blow jobs to a married co-worker in a car during lunch hour. As we approached the door she cheerfully waved hello and said she had to get bread and would be right back. Truth be told, R was unhappy with her chosen outfit for the night and was racing home to change clothes before other guests arrive. You never know when you're going to meet Mr. Right...
That left MM and I as the first arrivals. Awkward moments in which L directs the mashed potato placement and then forces me to taste her stuffing. It was really mushy and I convinced her to put it in a pan in the oven to crisp it up. Another stuffing fiasco avoided.
Soon Mk and Mt, brothers from next door, arrived. They brought a few bottles of wine. Mi, L's roommate, finally emerged from her room to join the party. Meal preparations, small talk and table setting ensued. Mk had brought his dog, Pearl. L's dog Tammy was loose and did not like Pearl. Note to guest: if your dog is growling in another dog's house - take it home or put it in the car. Better yet, don't bring your pets to dinner parties unless invited. I imagined bringing Hogitha, my pet pig at a dinner party. Could be fun, especially if it's a non-pet person's party...
R returned and dinner commenced. R refused to sit at the table because she felt too cluttered. I later learned that she found Mt repulsive and smelly. He had similar comments about her, I am sure.
After everyone stuffed themselves the struggle for pleasant conversation began. Unfortunately, there was no common ground among the attendees and no one seemed interested in anyone else. The two dogs sat begging at the table, owners oblivious to the irritation it caused among the guests. Mk assumed the role of pompous, disinterested party-goer by repeatedly yawning and looking at his watch. L was well on her way after a few glasses of wine and began discussing Mk with his shirt off and then proceeded to tell tales from my life, which are far more interesting than tales from hers. Seizing the moment, R exclaimed it was time for her special dessert. I wasn't done with dinner yet but nevermind that, the masses needed their cheesecake.
What's that? It's not cheesecake - it's cheese pie? R had brought the cheese cake/pie/whatever and insisted on use of proper nomenclature by the party-goers. She then opened cans of blueberries and cherries in sugar slop from the 99 cent store to put on the cheese pie. So much preparation, how thoughtful. Fishing for compliments on the cheese pie. "It's cheese pie, not cheesecake, there is a difference", she kept repeating. No one listened. You say tomatoe, I say tomato, get over it. Upset at the collective refusal to call it cheese pie, or possibly needing to change clothes again, R left.
Mi left soon after - to go to a dinner party at a restaurant. She didn't have any money to buy food at the restaurant so it was just perfect that she could eat at the potluck and then go to the other dinner party. She didn't bring anything to the potluck either, other than her own diet coke. Gotta love the moochers.
That left the drunken L, quiet Mt, clock-watching Mk, bewildered MM, and bored me. The conversation reached its peak after a story about my good friend Karen being spit on by Rick Springfield at a concert years ago. We went on with our favorite colors, favorite cars, blah, blah, blah until I could take no more and announced the departure of MM and I.
The point of this post? It's cheese pie and some things just aren't even blogworthy.
Sunday, December 19, 2004
'Tis the Season
For holiday parties and this weekend was no exception.
After the drama of Friday I cancelled plans with JP and opted to hermitize myself for the night. I ordered some Thai take-out, lit a fire in the old Ben Franklin stove, hunkered down with some hot cocoa, and watched the always-great claymation version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. You know, the one with the elf that wants to be a dentist and the big, bad abominable snowman. Great stuff - drama, humor, fright, life lessons, reindeer love, and clay. Add my dog and cat sitting on my lap on the sofa and it doesn't get much better than that.
Saturday was the Santa Barbara Hash House Harriers' Christmas run and party. Gifts were required for the gift exchange after the run so I met MM downtown before the run to peruse the adult store for something appropriately inappropriate. I was also to get something for JP who wouldn't dare sink to the lows of retail shopping. There were so many choices but I ended up with the timeless video 'Toilet Tramps' and some jumbo-sized, purple anal beads - Two gifts sure to delight anyone this Christmas. And delight they did at the gift exchange - people were actually fighting over them. There's nothing so entertaining as people chanting "toilet tramps" as two intoxicated women wrestle for jumbo anal beads in the background. Me? I ended up with an MC Hammer CD and a fuzzy hot pink and black leopard print jewelry box. Oh, and as a parting gift I was given a porn video that told the story of a prostitute who turned her life around by becoming a pro boxer. JP confiscated it so I'll never know if she found her way out of the streets.
The highlight of the run itself was the older gentleman out for a walk with his wife who saw me, dressed in tight red pants, a red tank top and santa hat, and began singing a song about a woman in red, then exclaimed that his Christmas wish had come early. I gave him an extra jiggle and trotted off. After all, it's all about spreading the cheer, isn't it?
After the drama of Friday I cancelled plans with JP and opted to hermitize myself for the night. I ordered some Thai take-out, lit a fire in the old Ben Franklin stove, hunkered down with some hot cocoa, and watched the always-great claymation version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. You know, the one with the elf that wants to be a dentist and the big, bad abominable snowman. Great stuff - drama, humor, fright, life lessons, reindeer love, and clay. Add my dog and cat sitting on my lap on the sofa and it doesn't get much better than that.
Saturday was the Santa Barbara Hash House Harriers' Christmas run and party. Gifts were required for the gift exchange after the run so I met MM downtown before the run to peruse the adult store for something appropriately inappropriate. I was also to get something for JP who wouldn't dare sink to the lows of retail shopping. There were so many choices but I ended up with the timeless video 'Toilet Tramps' and some jumbo-sized, purple anal beads - Two gifts sure to delight anyone this Christmas. And delight they did at the gift exchange - people were actually fighting over them. There's nothing so entertaining as people chanting "toilet tramps" as two intoxicated women wrestle for jumbo anal beads in the background. Me? I ended up with an MC Hammer CD and a fuzzy hot pink and black leopard print jewelry box. Oh, and as a parting gift I was given a porn video that told the story of a prostitute who turned her life around by becoming a pro boxer. JP confiscated it so I'll never know if she found her way out of the streets.
The highlight of the run itself was the older gentleman out for a walk with his wife who saw me, dressed in tight red pants, a red tank top and santa hat, and began singing a song about a woman in red, then exclaimed that his Christmas wish had come early. I gave him an extra jiggle and trotted off. After all, it's all about spreading the cheer, isn't it?
Friday, December 17, 2004
More Proof...
...that I was switched at birth...
Today at lunch I went and paid the $45,000 to get my brother out of foreclosure. Yeah, Merry Christmas Big Brother. I could have used that money on so many things for myself. It stings a bit thinking I'll now be paying on that until the house sells, as well as keeping the first mortgage current at a mere $2300 a month. Good thing my mortgage is only a grand a month and I have no personal debt or car payments. It does, however, mean I'll be strapped with close to $4,000 a month in payments - only a quarter of which are mine. Yes, I am a bit irritated at this but I hope it will be over by summer and my brother will be set up with a place he can afford to live and some inaccessible investments to insure he's not on the You-Too-Can-Live-Off-KC-For-Life-Without-Ever-Working-A-Day Retirement Program.
I returned to my office somewhat relieved that The Great Family Drama of 2004 was quelled before Christmas so everyone can pretend to be happy and act like they are doing well. It could have been worse - at least no one is dead or injured, right?
Oh, what's that? An urgent phone message from my aunt in Idaho? (Yes, my relatives live in Idaho, in trailer parks to boot!) Two messages? In the course of an hour, you say?
I immediately think something has happened to one of my grandparents. They are both living with cancer and in their 80's so any calls from the great north, with that urgency, make me think the worst. But why didn't my mother call me if it was urgent? Hmmm...maybe it's my parents? Insert dread music here. Flash of panic. Then the realization that the world has never actually ceased to exist due to bad news.
I don't like when people die or other bad things happen so I pretend I am too busy to return the calls and decide to wait until tonight to call my aunt back. Then she calls me again. Thankfully, it's not my grandparents - two very good people who spawned a brood of social miscreants. How many times have they wondered where they went wrong? Not my parents either.
Still, my aunt is very upset. M, a cousin, has just been arrested. Police came to her place of work (I am briefly impressed - she has a job? How unlike the northtern sect!). But arrested for what? And with the police coming to her work? Apparantly M has been dating a convicted child molester. Makes me cringe to think about it. Something fishy is going on with M helping him or something like that so the police picked her up. Rightfully so if she is in fact doing so much as breathing the same air as him. If it's true, I hope they keep her for felony stupidity.
The problem is that social services took L, M's 9 month old daughter. No, nobody knows who L's father is. At last count it could be any one of five men. The sixth was ruled out because the baby was too pale to be of that descent. Anyhow, my aunt called a lawyer about L but the lawyer actually wanted $2000 up front (to do what? Fill out a temporary guardianship form? I almost hurl up my law degree when I hear about things like this!). She makes about $8 an hour as a telemarketer. Yet another reason not to drop out of high school, folks. That and senior prom, of course. es, I'll make some calls and see what is going on. After all, that is why I went to law school, right?
First, I call social services. A form? Okay. My aunt can do it herself? Great. Free help filling it out? Excellent. Come down before 4:30 pm and they'll help? My aunt frets about leaving work two hours early to do this - she says maybe she should just get the lawyer. Losing $16 for two hours of her time as opposed to $2000 for the lawyer to do it? Some people just do not think. L should be with my aunt by tonight. Still not sure if that's better than child services but that's another story for another time...
Next, I call the DA in Idaho. It's not looking good. Federal offenses, state offenses. M is in deep. The guy she's been helping was convicted of raping an 11 year old girl. Eleven! I want to drive up there and shoot him myself. M will get a public defender. I want nothing to do with anything related to this one.
Come to think of it, I really don't want anything to do with anyone allegedly related to me.
Today at lunch I went and paid the $45,000 to get my brother out of foreclosure. Yeah, Merry Christmas Big Brother. I could have used that money on so many things for myself. It stings a bit thinking I'll now be paying on that until the house sells, as well as keeping the first mortgage current at a mere $2300 a month. Good thing my mortgage is only a grand a month and I have no personal debt or car payments. It does, however, mean I'll be strapped with close to $4,000 a month in payments - only a quarter of which are mine. Yes, I am a bit irritated at this but I hope it will be over by summer and my brother will be set up with a place he can afford to live and some inaccessible investments to insure he's not on the You-Too-Can-Live-Off-KC-For-Life-Without-Ever-Working-A-Day Retirement Program.
I returned to my office somewhat relieved that The Great Family Drama of 2004 was quelled before Christmas so everyone can pretend to be happy and act like they are doing well. It could have been worse - at least no one is dead or injured, right?
Oh, what's that? An urgent phone message from my aunt in Idaho? (Yes, my relatives live in Idaho, in trailer parks to boot!) Two messages? In the course of an hour, you say?
I immediately think something has happened to one of my grandparents. They are both living with cancer and in their 80's so any calls from the great north, with that urgency, make me think the worst. But why didn't my mother call me if it was urgent? Hmmm...maybe it's my parents? Insert dread music here. Flash of panic. Then the realization that the world has never actually ceased to exist due to bad news.
I don't like when people die or other bad things happen so I pretend I am too busy to return the calls and decide to wait until tonight to call my aunt back. Then she calls me again. Thankfully, it's not my grandparents - two very good people who spawned a brood of social miscreants. How many times have they wondered where they went wrong? Not my parents either.
Still, my aunt is very upset. M, a cousin, has just been arrested. Police came to her place of work (I am briefly impressed - she has a job? How unlike the northtern sect!). But arrested for what? And with the police coming to her work? Apparantly M has been dating a convicted child molester. Makes me cringe to think about it. Something fishy is going on with M helping him or something like that so the police picked her up. Rightfully so if she is in fact doing so much as breathing the same air as him. If it's true, I hope they keep her for felony stupidity.
The problem is that social services took L, M's 9 month old daughter. No, nobody knows who L's father is. At last count it could be any one of five men. The sixth was ruled out because the baby was too pale to be of that descent. Anyhow, my aunt called a lawyer about L but the lawyer actually wanted $2000 up front (to do what? Fill out a temporary guardianship form? I almost hurl up my law degree when I hear about things like this!). She makes about $8 an hour as a telemarketer. Yet another reason not to drop out of high school, folks. That and senior prom, of course. es, I'll make some calls and see what is going on. After all, that is why I went to law school, right?
First, I call social services. A form? Okay. My aunt can do it herself? Great. Free help filling it out? Excellent. Come down before 4:30 pm and they'll help? My aunt frets about leaving work two hours early to do this - she says maybe she should just get the lawyer. Losing $16 for two hours of her time as opposed to $2000 for the lawyer to do it? Some people just do not think. L should be with my aunt by tonight. Still not sure if that's better than child services but that's another story for another time...
Next, I call the DA in Idaho. It's not looking good. Federal offenses, state offenses. M is in deep. The guy she's been helping was convicted of raping an 11 year old girl. Eleven! I want to drive up there and shoot him myself. M will get a public defender. I want nothing to do with anything related to this one.
Come to think of it, I really don't want anything to do with anyone allegedly related to me.
Monday, December 13, 2004
The Sistership of the Ring?
MM called me the other night to discuss logistics for the Kwanzaa/Boxing Day/Day Late and Dollar Short Holiday Regift Run scheduled for December 26. We are supposed to be meeting at an undisclosed location this weekend to select a run route.
He called from his cell phone. Note that I do not have call waiting, will not answer call waiting, and cannot stand when someone puts me on hold to see if someone more interesting is trying to buzz in. No sooner are MM and I discussing the run location than the inevitable "boop boop" of an incoming call sounds. If I did have call waiting I would want mine to say "Incoming!" instead of trying to "boop" politely. Maybe I should patent that idea. Yeah, that's it...
Back to my story. I sat on cellular hold for all of 15 seconds and hung up. I have no patience for being on hold on my own time. On the client's time or my boss' time it's fine - but not when I'm in my sweats lounging around with nothing better to do than sit on hold.
A few minutes later he called back. Again, we began speaking. Boop boop. Another incoming. Once again, I hung up.
Finally, he calls a third time. It was his sister, both times. He and his older sister share an apartment and are pretty close. He said she called to tell him what to get her for Christmas. I admit, I am envious of her ability to do this as I am basically buying my brother's house for Christmas and expect nothing from him...but back to MM and his sister.
Apparantly she initially wanted a purse and was to show him which purse she wanted. I always find it a bit offensive when someone tells me exactly what they want as a gift and then expects that I will get it for them. Isn't the point of a gift to show you thought of the person at least a little?
Anyhow, MM's sister had been thinking and determined that this was the year she should receive not a purse, but her "Sister Ring" from him. Sister Ring? I have three siblings and have never heard of such an item. I googled it and the closest thing I came up with was this description of a Sister Ring given between sisters or women, stating "the bond two women share is like no other." MM- is there somehting you are not telling me? This doesn't appear to be something a man gives to his sister. I think I would be creeped out if any of my brothers, after the age of about three, gave me any sort of ring as a token of love and bonding. It's just a bit strange, isn't it? I really think MM's sister just wants some new jewelry and is playing on his manly ignorance of all things female-related to get a new ring because her lousy boyfriend won't cough one up. Women do work in mysterious and twisted ways.
Perhaps MM should consider putting the Twisted Sister Ring on his cell phone so he can avoid such future requests...
He called from his cell phone. Note that I do not have call waiting, will not answer call waiting, and cannot stand when someone puts me on hold to see if someone more interesting is trying to buzz in. No sooner are MM and I discussing the run location than the inevitable "boop boop" of an incoming call sounds. If I did have call waiting I would want mine to say "Incoming!" instead of trying to "boop" politely. Maybe I should patent that idea. Yeah, that's it...
Back to my story. I sat on cellular hold for all of 15 seconds and hung up. I have no patience for being on hold on my own time. On the client's time or my boss' time it's fine - but not when I'm in my sweats lounging around with nothing better to do than sit on hold.
A few minutes later he called back. Again, we began speaking. Boop boop. Another incoming. Once again, I hung up.
Finally, he calls a third time. It was his sister, both times. He and his older sister share an apartment and are pretty close. He said she called to tell him what to get her for Christmas. I admit, I am envious of her ability to do this as I am basically buying my brother's house for Christmas and expect nothing from him...but back to MM and his sister.
Apparantly she initially wanted a purse and was to show him which purse she wanted. I always find it a bit offensive when someone tells me exactly what they want as a gift and then expects that I will get it for them. Isn't the point of a gift to show you thought of the person at least a little?
Anyhow, MM's sister had been thinking and determined that this was the year she should receive not a purse, but her "Sister Ring" from him. Sister Ring? I have three siblings and have never heard of such an item. I googled it and the closest thing I came up with was this description of a Sister Ring given between sisters or women, stating "the bond two women share is like no other." MM- is there somehting you are not telling me? This doesn't appear to be something a man gives to his sister. I think I would be creeped out if any of my brothers, after the age of about three, gave me any sort of ring as a token of love and bonding. It's just a bit strange, isn't it? I really think MM's sister just wants some new jewelry and is playing on his manly ignorance of all things female-related to get a new ring because her lousy boyfriend won't cough one up. Women do work in mysterious and twisted ways.
Perhaps MM should consider putting the Twisted Sister Ring on his cell phone so he can avoid such future requests...
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Fertilizer Doesn't Necessarily Make It Greener...
I ventured out to a "Holly Jolly Holiday Party" Saturday night. I know, it doesn't sound like something I would do but every now and then I have to remind myself that the grass isn't any greener in the burbs'
My friend G and her husband C were the hosts. We are somewhat casual acquaintances and I was a bit surprised to even receive an invite. She later called to inform me that she had a friend she wanted me to meet. Oh dread, a holiday fix-up! Ah, but this one is perfect for me - an attorney and a black man all in one. For some reason G thinks I am one of those blond women who only dates black men. To set the record straight, I have only ever dated one black man and he is a Jamaican with a British accent and two PhD's...hardly the stereotype. Considering all the other races, creeds and colors I've been seen on dates with it always amazes me that I am pigeonholed into that particular class of blonds. Add to that the fact that I really don't like other lawyers and it's a wonder I went to the Holly Jolly thing at all.
The real reason I had to go was that G claimed to have many single women friends. I saw this as a perfect opportunity to set CL up and watch another train wreck. It's mean, but it is fun. That, and it was time to give myself a reality check by venturing into the world of the tract homes, surface marriages, 2.5 kids and three car garages again.
The party was to begin at 6:30 and include dinner, cocktails, games, and a gift exchange. These gift exchange parties are ridiculous because you never know who is going to get the gift and I know I always end up with something I later regift to someone I don't know. If people want to spend money on strangers, they should spend it on gifts for kids and donate to Toys-For-Tots. Hey, that's a good idea for you folks hosting parties - have your guests bring a favorite toy, put them all in a box, and then take it down to a collection center.
Alas, this party was for adults and I, of course brought the gift that keeps on giving, aThigh Master. This is the perfect gift for such occassions because nobody really knows what to do or say when they open it and you know they have secretly always wanted one. Besides, everyone can use some toning this time of year...
As I was saying, the party started at 6:30 so, of course, no one arrived until after 8:00. CL picked me up in his work truck, which is a Ford Ranger with blue flames on the front. I encouraged use of the truck because 1. I knew I would need some cocktails, and 2. I knew we were headed into the land of excess and keeping up with the Jones' - none of whom would dare put flames on their truck.
The cliche that is modern suburban living began when we arrived at the gate of the housing tract G and C live in. CL and I both come from good trailer stock. There are no security checkpoints to enter the trailer park, although there should be DUI checkpoints to get out but that's another story...Anyhow, G lives in a typical suburban housing tract in poorly planned Oxnard, California. For the mere cost of $900,000 you too can own a postage stamp lot with a gargantuan house that looks just like your neighbors'. What's that? No original decorating ideas? No worries, the homeowners association you pay an extra $350 a month to maintain that security shack will provide you with complete guidelines to be a proper member of the tract and as such, never express any individuality whatsoever. From what I can tell that means owning an SUV and a sedan, having two children, and owning oven mittens that match your dishtowels. No worries that your neighbor is similarly situated approximately six feet from your house because you invite them to participate in every event that you hold at your new abode and. And they will bring candied yams and veggie platters. The women will congregate in the kitchen to discuss the latest Pier One holiday theme and the men will be in the garage hovering around a Kegerator full of delectible Coors Light discussing sports.
This was exactly the scene CL and I stumbled upon. We first circled the housing tract and noted that the HOA must have approved one inflatable santa and two reindeer per lawn, along with all white light themes. We even spotted a couple strolling along in matching santa hats. Then we came upon C and G's house. Indeed, a handful of men were standing around in the garage, plastic cups full of pissy beer in hand, discussing the merits of living along golf course fairways. Cl sighed and said we could leave now and catch a movie. I almost agreed but we were spotted (as happens in a truck with flames on it) and summoned in.
We went to the open garage door but were promptly instructed to enter through the front door for our photo opportunity. After ringing the bell, which played a chorus of Jingle Bells, we were advised to place our gifts in a color-coordinated fashion under the tree, posed in front of the Martha Stuartesque tree, and told to smile for the camera. We found our way to the kitchen and CL began grazing. I hit the bar, which was located in the garage/man-space for a much-needed cocktail, leaving CL in the kitchen with the ladies. He was promptly introduced to M who was a single, late 30's city employee that proceeded to tell him her life story and not ask a single question of him. Meanwhile, in the garage, I met D, the lawyer. He was already two sheets to the wind and using poor humor in an attempt to overcompensate in front of the other boys. Saved by the call to dinner, CL and I met back in the family room, ate some excellent food, and compared war stories from our respective set-ups.
After diner I attempted conversations with several of the clones - I say that because every woman was wearing black pants and a red shirt, every man, khaki trousers and a green sweater. I think they all saw the same photo of holiday wear in the latest Macy's ad and modeled their own looks after it. Coversation for the evening revolved around who owned which model of tract home. The 'Golden Eagle' was supreme with five bedrooms and four bathrooms but still close enough to the Fledgling to hear any of the four toilets flush and know the daily routines of either inhabitant. The party-goers could not comprehend the size of my estate and asked whether or not I was scared living "out there all alone". Will somebody please remind me what I am supposed to be so scared of that I need a $7 an hour unarmed guard posted out front?
Thank goodness it was gift exchange time. The exchange consisted of one booze-related item after another, with the occassional poker gift set or card shuffling machine. Oh, and the ThighMaster. It actually went over quite well as the woman who selected it was in her late 60's and immediately removed it from the box and began doing the butterfly. I was fortunate enough to be standing next to her husband who was also pleased with the gift and considering mastering her thighs again himself. After all, a Thighmaster will do more for your sex life than a bottle of booze any day of the week.
The games were to begin after the gift exchange so CL and I made our escape. There was no way we could tolerate a moment more of the pretense that comes with Holly Jollyness in a group of sheep. Add to that the distinct smell of fertilizer that permeated the house due to the location of the tract - next to a strawberry field - and we were sufficiently nauseated for the night.
CL drove me home and when I got out of the flaming truck, I walked through my too-high grass, took a moment to breath in the crisp, clean air, looked up and appreciated the stars that come with living miles from any city lights, and headed in to my one-of-a-kind eyesore of the neighborhood home to find my fluffy little dog and retarded cat waiting for me. I then used actual wood to make a fire in my wood stove and decided my life is pretty damned good.
My friend G and her husband C were the hosts. We are somewhat casual acquaintances and I was a bit surprised to even receive an invite. She later called to inform me that she had a friend she wanted me to meet. Oh dread, a holiday fix-up! Ah, but this one is perfect for me - an attorney and a black man all in one. For some reason G thinks I am one of those blond women who only dates black men. To set the record straight, I have only ever dated one black man and he is a Jamaican with a British accent and two PhD's...hardly the stereotype. Considering all the other races, creeds and colors I've been seen on dates with it always amazes me that I am pigeonholed into that particular class of blonds. Add to that the fact that I really don't like other lawyers and it's a wonder I went to the Holly Jolly thing at all.
The real reason I had to go was that G claimed to have many single women friends. I saw this as a perfect opportunity to set CL up and watch another train wreck. It's mean, but it is fun. That, and it was time to give myself a reality check by venturing into the world of the tract homes, surface marriages, 2.5 kids and three car garages again.
The party was to begin at 6:30 and include dinner, cocktails, games, and a gift exchange. These gift exchange parties are ridiculous because you never know who is going to get the gift and I know I always end up with something I later regift to someone I don't know. If people want to spend money on strangers, they should spend it on gifts for kids and donate to Toys-For-Tots. Hey, that's a good idea for you folks hosting parties - have your guests bring a favorite toy, put them all in a box, and then take it down to a collection center.
Alas, this party was for adults and I, of course brought the gift that keeps on giving, aThigh Master. This is the perfect gift for such occassions because nobody really knows what to do or say when they open it and you know they have secretly always wanted one. Besides, everyone can use some toning this time of year...
As I was saying, the party started at 6:30 so, of course, no one arrived until after 8:00. CL picked me up in his work truck, which is a Ford Ranger with blue flames on the front. I encouraged use of the truck because 1. I knew I would need some cocktails, and 2. I knew we were headed into the land of excess and keeping up with the Jones' - none of whom would dare put flames on their truck.
The cliche that is modern suburban living began when we arrived at the gate of the housing tract G and C live in. CL and I both come from good trailer stock. There are no security checkpoints to enter the trailer park, although there should be DUI checkpoints to get out but that's another story...Anyhow, G lives in a typical suburban housing tract in poorly planned Oxnard, California. For the mere cost of $900,000 you too can own a postage stamp lot with a gargantuan house that looks just like your neighbors'. What's that? No original decorating ideas? No worries, the homeowners association you pay an extra $350 a month to maintain that security shack will provide you with complete guidelines to be a proper member of the tract and as such, never express any individuality whatsoever. From what I can tell that means owning an SUV and a sedan, having two children, and owning oven mittens that match your dishtowels. No worries that your neighbor is similarly situated approximately six feet from your house because you invite them to participate in every event that you hold at your new abode and. And they will bring candied yams and veggie platters. The women will congregate in the kitchen to discuss the latest Pier One holiday theme and the men will be in the garage hovering around a Kegerator full of delectible Coors Light discussing sports.
This was exactly the scene CL and I stumbled upon. We first circled the housing tract and noted that the HOA must have approved one inflatable santa and two reindeer per lawn, along with all white light themes. We even spotted a couple strolling along in matching santa hats. Then we came upon C and G's house. Indeed, a handful of men were standing around in the garage, plastic cups full of pissy beer in hand, discussing the merits of living along golf course fairways. Cl sighed and said we could leave now and catch a movie. I almost agreed but we were spotted (as happens in a truck with flames on it) and summoned in.
We went to the open garage door but were promptly instructed to enter through the front door for our photo opportunity. After ringing the bell, which played a chorus of Jingle Bells, we were advised to place our gifts in a color-coordinated fashion under the tree, posed in front of the Martha Stuartesque tree, and told to smile for the camera. We found our way to the kitchen and CL began grazing. I hit the bar, which was located in the garage/man-space for a much-needed cocktail, leaving CL in the kitchen with the ladies. He was promptly introduced to M who was a single, late 30's city employee that proceeded to tell him her life story and not ask a single question of him. Meanwhile, in the garage, I met D, the lawyer. He was already two sheets to the wind and using poor humor in an attempt to overcompensate in front of the other boys. Saved by the call to dinner, CL and I met back in the family room, ate some excellent food, and compared war stories from our respective set-ups.
After diner I attempted conversations with several of the clones - I say that because every woman was wearing black pants and a red shirt, every man, khaki trousers and a green sweater. I think they all saw the same photo of holiday wear in the latest Macy's ad and modeled their own looks after it. Coversation for the evening revolved around who owned which model of tract home. The 'Golden Eagle' was supreme with five bedrooms and four bathrooms but still close enough to the Fledgling to hear any of the four toilets flush and know the daily routines of either inhabitant. The party-goers could not comprehend the size of my estate and asked whether or not I was scared living "out there all alone". Will somebody please remind me what I am supposed to be so scared of that I need a $7 an hour unarmed guard posted out front?
Thank goodness it was gift exchange time. The exchange consisted of one booze-related item after another, with the occassional poker gift set or card shuffling machine. Oh, and the ThighMaster. It actually went over quite well as the woman who selected it was in her late 60's and immediately removed it from the box and began doing the butterfly. I was fortunate enough to be standing next to her husband who was also pleased with the gift and considering mastering her thighs again himself. After all, a Thighmaster will do more for your sex life than a bottle of booze any day of the week.
The games were to begin after the gift exchange so CL and I made our escape. There was no way we could tolerate a moment more of the pretense that comes with Holly Jollyness in a group of sheep. Add to that the distinct smell of fertilizer that permeated the house due to the location of the tract - next to a strawberry field - and we were sufficiently nauseated for the night.
CL drove me home and when I got out of the flaming truck, I walked through my too-high grass, took a moment to breath in the crisp, clean air, looked up and appreciated the stars that come with living miles from any city lights, and headed in to my one-of-a-kind eyesore of the neighborhood home to find my fluffy little dog and retarded cat waiting for me. I then used actual wood to make a fire in my wood stove and decided my life is pretty damned good.
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Bottom Rung
Two years ago this week my good friend Sarah died unexpectedly at age 36. (Don't worry, this isn't a depressing post - we would never allow that at Glib Gibberish!)
Sarah and I met in law school and became fast friends. She was one of those people you meet who isn't perfect, and doesn't pretend to be, but is good. When I say good, I mean the kind of good you strive to be: never said a bad thing about anyone, always smiling, compassionate to others, nonjudgmental, giving, never petty or envious, and, of course, with a great sense of humor and appreciation for the comedy that is life.
In law school, Sarah wasn't the best student. She didn't have the need to be at the top of the class, in fact, she was proud to hold the bottom slot in the class so long as she got her ticket to practice law. She was like me and saw the night law school as a means to an end. She was also the only other person in my law school class that I could relate to with regard to loving the law and feeling like being lawyers was exactly what we were both meant to be. So many folks go through life and never know what they want to be when they grow up. We both knew and it formed a great bond between us. That, and our weekly sessions at the local steakhouse bar for a cocktail or two before class...
The day of her death was, ironically, the day of the last final exam of law school. I mean the last one, after it we were home free, done, never to study again (except for the bar exam). I had spoken to her the night before about the exam. When I got the call about her death that morning I closed my office door and cried for hours. I ended up taking the exam that night and then telling my classmates the news after the test. Ignorance is bliss, and it would have served no purpose whatsoever to tell people who were not that close to her on the very day we had all been looking forward to for nearly four years. People reacted dramatically, quietly, hysterically, and apathetically. I am still dealing with it but decided to make something positive come from it...
In keeping with Sarah's spirit and sense of humor, I started a scholarship at the law school. Initially, I wanted all of our classmates to donate $10-20 per year to be given to the lowest ranked student entering their final year of law school - as would have benefited Sarah. After all, the top students always get scholarships, why not the bottom? Sometimes it is that person who may have worked the hardest to stay in the game, right?
And so the Sarah Moody Memorial Scholarship was born. Two years later, only one of her classmates other than myself has donated any money, yet the scholarship fund is alive and well thanks mostly to her family and friend. I personally try to take on one case I know bleeding heart Sarah would have taken each quarter and tell the client to donate whatever fees I've earned to the scholarship fund. Why? Because that's what Sarah would have done.
So, if any of the nine of you who haven't donated would like to make a donation to this unique and worthy cause, pull out your pocketbook, make a check for $25 or more out to The Sarah Moody Memorial Scholarship Fund, and sent it to:
Sarah Moody Memorial Scholarship
c/o Ventura County Community Foundation
1317 Del Norte Road, Suite 150
Camarillo, California 93010
It's legit and you get a receipt for taxes if your gift is more than $25. Here's the website for the Ventura County Community Foundation, in case you don't believe me.
Sarah and I met in law school and became fast friends. She was one of those people you meet who isn't perfect, and doesn't pretend to be, but is good. When I say good, I mean the kind of good you strive to be: never said a bad thing about anyone, always smiling, compassionate to others, nonjudgmental, giving, never petty or envious, and, of course, with a great sense of humor and appreciation for the comedy that is life.
In law school, Sarah wasn't the best student. She didn't have the need to be at the top of the class, in fact, she was proud to hold the bottom slot in the class so long as she got her ticket to practice law. She was like me and saw the night law school as a means to an end. She was also the only other person in my law school class that I could relate to with regard to loving the law and feeling like being lawyers was exactly what we were both meant to be. So many folks go through life and never know what they want to be when they grow up. We both knew and it formed a great bond between us. That, and our weekly sessions at the local steakhouse bar for a cocktail or two before class...
The day of her death was, ironically, the day of the last final exam of law school. I mean the last one, after it we were home free, done, never to study again (except for the bar exam). I had spoken to her the night before about the exam. When I got the call about her death that morning I closed my office door and cried for hours. I ended up taking the exam that night and then telling my classmates the news after the test. Ignorance is bliss, and it would have served no purpose whatsoever to tell people who were not that close to her on the very day we had all been looking forward to for nearly four years. People reacted dramatically, quietly, hysterically, and apathetically. I am still dealing with it but decided to make something positive come from it...
In keeping with Sarah's spirit and sense of humor, I started a scholarship at the law school. Initially, I wanted all of our classmates to donate $10-20 per year to be given to the lowest ranked student entering their final year of law school - as would have benefited Sarah. After all, the top students always get scholarships, why not the bottom? Sometimes it is that person who may have worked the hardest to stay in the game, right?
And so the Sarah Moody Memorial Scholarship was born. Two years later, only one of her classmates other than myself has donated any money, yet the scholarship fund is alive and well thanks mostly to her family and friend. I personally try to take on one case I know bleeding heart Sarah would have taken each quarter and tell the client to donate whatever fees I've earned to the scholarship fund. Why? Because that's what Sarah would have done.
So, if any of the nine of you who haven't donated would like to make a donation to this unique and worthy cause, pull out your pocketbook, make a check for $25 or more out to The Sarah Moody Memorial Scholarship Fund, and sent it to:
Sarah Moody Memorial Scholarship
c/o Ventura County Community Foundation
1317 Del Norte Road, Suite 150
Camarillo, California 93010
It's legit and you get a receipt for taxes if your gift is more than $25. Here's the website for the Ventura County Community Foundation, in case you don't believe me.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Monday, December 06, 2004
Hoohoodilly
I received an e-mail from an old Navy buddy, Geno, today. As with most things, it sparked a memory that I deem blogworthy.
Geno is a character. He looks like a cross between the bald bouncer on the Jerry Springer show and the monster in Goonies. Add to that gangster-style clothes, an ability to chug countless pints of beer, and a penchant for running around in his boxers in public and there's really no way you can't love him.
We met a few years back on a project at the Red Lake Indian Reservation in northern Minnesota. There were about 20 of us Navy folks working to put in the water and sewer lines for new homes at the reservation. We worked long hours and lived in a local hotel in the megalopolis of Bemidji. Lucky for us there was a bar at the hotel where we would congregate every night for bar food and beer.
Thing is, the women are a little different in a small northern Minnesota town. Not to say better or worse, just different - and not aware of the ways of the west. Of course, that didn't stop Geno from his usual antics and within a couple of weeks he had swapped at least spit with the entire female gene pool of Bemidji, excluding women missing more than three teeth and one holdout. The omnipresent cute bartender. I can't even remember her name anymore, I only remember the four words she uttered one night in the bar...
That night Geno was in fine form. He had just dropped his pants and was sauntering around the pool table in his boxer shorts, trying to impress said bartender. We patrons were experiencing one of those rare moments of silence in the bar during which jukebox muted itself to change selections, the billiard balls stood still as the players chalked their cues, the chatter was hushed as imbibers chugged, and life progressed in a muted fashion. Geno was seen heading for the bar, presumably for another beer when suddenly, the stunned and shrill voice of the bartender broke the silence and exclaimed "I saw Geno's Hoohoodilly!"
She must have liked the hoohoodilly as she eventually fell prey to the charms of Geno and he added another Bemidji notch to his belt.
Geno is a character. He looks like a cross between the bald bouncer on the Jerry Springer show and the monster in Goonies. Add to that gangster-style clothes, an ability to chug countless pints of beer, and a penchant for running around in his boxers in public and there's really no way you can't love him.
We met a few years back on a project at the Red Lake Indian Reservation in northern Minnesota. There were about 20 of us Navy folks working to put in the water and sewer lines for new homes at the reservation. We worked long hours and lived in a local hotel in the megalopolis of Bemidji. Lucky for us there was a bar at the hotel where we would congregate every night for bar food and beer.
Thing is, the women are a little different in a small northern Minnesota town. Not to say better or worse, just different - and not aware of the ways of the west. Of course, that didn't stop Geno from his usual antics and within a couple of weeks he had swapped at least spit with the entire female gene pool of Bemidji, excluding women missing more than three teeth and one holdout. The omnipresent cute bartender. I can't even remember her name anymore, I only remember the four words she uttered one night in the bar...
That night Geno was in fine form. He had just dropped his pants and was sauntering around the pool table in his boxer shorts, trying to impress said bartender. We patrons were experiencing one of those rare moments of silence in the bar during which jukebox muted itself to change selections, the billiard balls stood still as the players chalked their cues, the chatter was hushed as imbibers chugged, and life progressed in a muted fashion. Geno was seen heading for the bar, presumably for another beer when suddenly, the stunned and shrill voice of the bartender broke the silence and exclaimed "I saw Geno's Hoohoodilly!"
She must have liked the hoohoodilly as she eventually fell prey to the charms of Geno and he added another Bemidji notch to his belt.
Monday, November 29, 2004
Putting the Minivan Before the Family
As JP and I were stuck in holiday traffic on the northbound 405 yesterday I began to observe the many other similarly situated people in their vehicles. There were quite a few minivans filled with impatient families returning from the fun-filled four-day weekend. The sight of the minivans naturally reminded me of a date I had a few years back - once again courtesy of online matchmaking.
Chris was a 32 year-old engineer who enjoyed playing guitar, bowling on Sunday mornings and kite surfing. He was the spitting image of a young Mel Gibson, only shorter. Yes, I know Mel is not known for his stature, and yes, Chris was shorter. Note that this was back when I was 29 and in 'scramble-for-a-man mode' so I was willing to overlook a couple of inches here or there. On our first date we met downtown for midafternoon oven-baked pizza at Caprizio's. Conversation went well, he was seemingly normal and fun despite the fact that he was an engineer. Still, I should have known from his profile - wherein he selected a 'house in the suburbs' as his dream home that our souls would never be joined. But he was so darn cute and I was 29...
It was the weekend before Christmas and after pizza he agreed to help me pick out a Christmas tree. He offered to deliver it to my house in his minivan. I thanked him but informed him that I had a truck. After the tree was delivered and set up we decided we may as well continue the date into dinner and catch a great jazz band that was playing at a local restaurant. I was thinking how great and easy the date was going. Maybe this guy's only problem was that he was vertically challenged. I could live with that. But why was he still single?
Go back to the second sentence of the last paragraph for Clue #1 - he had a minivan.
I inquired at dinner about the minivan. Why would a single guy like him have a minivan? The answer was simple and quite logical...He had a life plan. According to his life plan, he was to have a career and be married by age 30, first child at 32, family trips to Hawaii, retirement at 55, bingo at the rec center on Tuesdays. etc. It was even on a chart on his computer. So the previous year, when he needed a new car he figured he would buy the minivan in preparation for parenthood. The thing was that he didn't even have a girlfriend who would carry his progeny that would eventually ride in the carseat that I am certain was in his garage back home.
The planning didn't end at the minivan. Chris had also had the foresight to purchase a new tract home in a good school district in the suburbs. He did not decorate the home because he was certain his future wife would take care of that and he would need to wait to see if the room should be pink or blue. He was stuck living according to a plan, even though the key components of the plan had not yet arrived.
Needless to say, I did not fit into Chris' plan nor he in my non-plan. I did run into him about a year ago at the post office. He still had the minivan. I asked him if things were back on track. Not quite yet, but he was working on it. Me too.
Chris was a 32 year-old engineer who enjoyed playing guitar, bowling on Sunday mornings and kite surfing. He was the spitting image of a young Mel Gibson, only shorter. Yes, I know Mel is not known for his stature, and yes, Chris was shorter. Note that this was back when I was 29 and in 'scramble-for-a-man mode' so I was willing to overlook a couple of inches here or there. On our first date we met downtown for midafternoon oven-baked pizza at Caprizio's. Conversation went well, he was seemingly normal and fun despite the fact that he was an engineer. Still, I should have known from his profile - wherein he selected a 'house in the suburbs' as his dream home that our souls would never be joined. But he was so darn cute and I was 29...
It was the weekend before Christmas and after pizza he agreed to help me pick out a Christmas tree. He offered to deliver it to my house in his minivan. I thanked him but informed him that I had a truck. After the tree was delivered and set up we decided we may as well continue the date into dinner and catch a great jazz band that was playing at a local restaurant. I was thinking how great and easy the date was going. Maybe this guy's only problem was that he was vertically challenged. I could live with that. But why was he still single?
Go back to the second sentence of the last paragraph for Clue #1 - he had a minivan.
I inquired at dinner about the minivan. Why would a single guy like him have a minivan? The answer was simple and quite logical...He had a life plan. According to his life plan, he was to have a career and be married by age 30, first child at 32, family trips to Hawaii, retirement at 55, bingo at the rec center on Tuesdays. etc. It was even on a chart on his computer. So the previous year, when he needed a new car he figured he would buy the minivan in preparation for parenthood. The thing was that he didn't even have a girlfriend who would carry his progeny that would eventually ride in the carseat that I am certain was in his garage back home.
The planning didn't end at the minivan. Chris had also had the foresight to purchase a new tract home in a good school district in the suburbs. He did not decorate the home because he was certain his future wife would take care of that and he would need to wait to see if the room should be pink or blue. He was stuck living according to a plan, even though the key components of the plan had not yet arrived.
Needless to say, I did not fit into Chris' plan nor he in my non-plan. I did run into him about a year ago at the post office. He still had the minivan. I asked him if things were back on track. Not quite yet, but he was working on it. Me too.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Modern Day Anthropology
Have you ever been in a situation in which you are with a friend and other people join the conversation, and your friend says some totally inappropriate and blatantly culturally insensitive remark like, "I thought all Mexicans were named Juan", or "Why can't you straighten your hair?" or "Don't all YOUR people do that?" or even better, "I'm not racist, I have a black friend."
The first reaction I have is to grasp wildly in the air trying to catch the words before they make it from my friend's mouth to the ears of the listener. I never quite recapture them so I end up turning beet red, embarassed for my friend, who happens to be completely oblivious to the fact that he or she has just offended someone. This is followed by a moment of awkward silence, daggers from the eyes of the politically correct police, and wide-eyed looks of 'are you serious?' And then someone changes the subject before the offender knows how stupid they are and the cycle is set to begin again. Later, people ask me what was wrong with my friend. I usually answer that she's led a sheltered life or is socially stunted.
So today I nearly fell out of my chair when I found the site Black People Love Us. It is a brilliant look at the hypocrisy and subtle racism/extreme ignorance that plagues our "melting pot" these days.
To think that people actually think Black People Love Us is a real site designed by a racist couple astonishes me. Check the letters section of the site to see just how offended some folks are. Hilarious. It just goes to show how ignorant people on both sides of the fence are. Kudos to the creators for causing such a ruckus.
The first reaction I have is to grasp wildly in the air trying to catch the words before they make it from my friend's mouth to the ears of the listener. I never quite recapture them so I end up turning beet red, embarassed for my friend, who happens to be completely oblivious to the fact that he or she has just offended someone. This is followed by a moment of awkward silence, daggers from the eyes of the politically correct police, and wide-eyed looks of 'are you serious?' And then someone changes the subject before the offender knows how stupid they are and the cycle is set to begin again. Later, people ask me what was wrong with my friend. I usually answer that she's led a sheltered life or is socially stunted.
So today I nearly fell out of my chair when I found the site Black People Love Us. It is a brilliant look at the hypocrisy and subtle racism/extreme ignorance that plagues our "melting pot" these days.
To think that people actually think Black People Love Us is a real site designed by a racist couple astonishes me. Check the letters section of the site to see just how offended some folks are. Hilarious. It just goes to show how ignorant people on both sides of the fence are. Kudos to the creators for causing such a ruckus.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
He's Heavy and He's My Brother
Of course, I made my big decision about striking out on my own after first choosing an IPA over a stout. And wouldn't you know it...Murphy is upset because 1. I am Irish, 2. I didn't have a Murphy's Irish Stout, and 3. My life has been too easy for the past year. Of course, I am talking about Murphy's Law.
I thought I had satisfied Murphy two years ago when he took my longish-term boyfriend and one of my best friends from my life within two weeks of eachother. The first left of his own volition, the second died suddenly. Two months after that Murphy sat next to me for three days and helped me to fail the bar exam. I know, boo hoo for me, or as Chief Dorsey in the Navy would have so eloquently put it - "My heart pumps piss for you, babe, now get back to work." I thought I had exorcised the demon.
So here I was yesterday, after having made arrangements for my cute little office, designing the sign on the window - trying to choose between Law Offices of KC, or KC Attorney at Law, or the ever-ambitious KC and Associates, all the while gleefully plotting my escape from servitude. I had just finished the dreaded conversation with the boss man about my leaving at the end of the year. I was happy, thinking life is good, it may be tight financially to start but it will all work out. Then the phone rings. You should never answer the phone when you are happy and in a state of personal balance, feeling on the edge of your next great accomplishment. Nothing good can come of it.
"KC?"
"Yes, this is KC."
"Do you know GC?"
"Yes, he's my brother."
"Do you know how to get ahold of him? I have the number 555-1234 and it's disconnected."
"Who is this? What is this about?"
"This is ZT, his house is in foreclosure and I have the second on it and he is now delinquent on the second."
Then the huge sucking sound the world makes for only you to hear as you feel the life being drained from you.
"How far behind is he?"
"Four months on the first, plus he defaulted on the second which triggers immediate payout or I foreclose too."
"How much does he owe you?"
"Roughly $19,000."
"And the bank?"
"I think he's about $12-15,000 behind. So he needs about $30-34,000 by January 5 or he loses the house."
Silly me, I went to law school for my $30,000. Sister-brother resentment building. He always had the better toys too. Parents always overcompensating. Thinking back to how my parents gave him an "advance on his inheritance" of about $80k to get into the stupid house less than two years ago because "he isn't as self-sufficient as you." Damn myself for not getting stoned and surfing for the past 34 years. Why be responsible? Why should I work when he has never had to? Screw him!!!
"Don't worry ZT. Let me talk to him and I'll take care of it no matter what."
I stewed all day. Wavering between - 'let the bastard hit rock bottom' and 'this will kill my parents so I'd better do something'. In the end I am a sucker and the latter won out. I went to his house last night, figured out a resolution that is essentially me bailing him out and me being in charge of selling the house and distributing the more than $250k in equity (it is southern California) he stands to lose if I don't bail him out. Of course, I'll put it where he can't touch it except in small increments - to get back at him for putting M80's in my Barbie dolls and blowing their heads off. Who's in charge now GI Joe?
So here I sit, Power of Attorney signed, older brother berated, loan sharks at bay, my own mortgage company already tabulating how much they'll give me against my own house, trying to figure out how I'll manage two mortgage payments (I still have to pay mine), and contemplating starting a new business on my own. Heading out at this moment doesn't sound too smart. I start to talk myself out of it. Worry about worst case scenarios. Another dream thwarted. Boo hoo...Chief Dorsey's sage words ringing in my ears...
Then I decided, screw Murphy, time to get back to work.
I thought I had satisfied Murphy two years ago when he took my longish-term boyfriend and one of my best friends from my life within two weeks of eachother. The first left of his own volition, the second died suddenly. Two months after that Murphy sat next to me for three days and helped me to fail the bar exam. I know, boo hoo for me, or as Chief Dorsey in the Navy would have so eloquently put it - "My heart pumps piss for you, babe, now get back to work." I thought I had exorcised the demon.
So here I was yesterday, after having made arrangements for my cute little office, designing the sign on the window - trying to choose between Law Offices of KC, or KC Attorney at Law, or the ever-ambitious KC and Associates, all the while gleefully plotting my escape from servitude. I had just finished the dreaded conversation with the boss man about my leaving at the end of the year. I was happy, thinking life is good, it may be tight financially to start but it will all work out. Then the phone rings. You should never answer the phone when you are happy and in a state of personal balance, feeling on the edge of your next great accomplishment. Nothing good can come of it.
"KC?"
"Yes, this is KC."
"Do you know GC?"
"Yes, he's my brother."
"Do you know how to get ahold of him? I have the number 555-1234 and it's disconnected."
"Who is this? What is this about?"
"This is ZT, his house is in foreclosure and I have the second on it and he is now delinquent on the second."
Then the huge sucking sound the world makes for only you to hear as you feel the life being drained from you.
"How far behind is he?"
"Four months on the first, plus he defaulted on the second which triggers immediate payout or I foreclose too."
"How much does he owe you?"
"Roughly $19,000."
"And the bank?"
"I think he's about $12-15,000 behind. So he needs about $30-34,000 by January 5 or he loses the house."
Silly me, I went to law school for my $30,000. Sister-brother resentment building. He always had the better toys too. Parents always overcompensating. Thinking back to how my parents gave him an "advance on his inheritance" of about $80k to get into the stupid house less than two years ago because "he isn't as self-sufficient as you." Damn myself for not getting stoned and surfing for the past 34 years. Why be responsible? Why should I work when he has never had to? Screw him!!!
"Don't worry ZT. Let me talk to him and I'll take care of it no matter what."
I stewed all day. Wavering between - 'let the bastard hit rock bottom' and 'this will kill my parents so I'd better do something'. In the end I am a sucker and the latter won out. I went to his house last night, figured out a resolution that is essentially me bailing him out and me being in charge of selling the house and distributing the more than $250k in equity (it is southern California) he stands to lose if I don't bail him out. Of course, I'll put it where he can't touch it except in small increments - to get back at him for putting M80's in my Barbie dolls and blowing their heads off. Who's in charge now GI Joe?
So here I sit, Power of Attorney signed, older brother berated, loan sharks at bay, my own mortgage company already tabulating how much they'll give me against my own house, trying to figure out how I'll manage two mortgage payments (I still have to pay mine), and contemplating starting a new business on my own. Heading out at this moment doesn't sound too smart. I start to talk myself out of it. Worry about worst case scenarios. Another dream thwarted. Boo hoo...Chief Dorsey's sage words ringing in my ears...
Then I decided, screw Murphy, time to get back to work.
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
The Back of the Bus
I had lunch with my friend T today. T is a vivacious 30-something, originally from Mexico, now working in the horrific California mortgage industry in southern California. T has five kids and is married to a white guy. No matter how open-minded folks pretend to be, you just can't escape the cultural differences between a woman who grew up in Mexico and a WASP from the upper-middle class. This, of course, makes for interesting lunch rants during which we discuss the idiosyncracies of our very different cultures.
The lunch discussion today was about bus travel in Mexico. T wants to take the family to Mexico to visit her family. Flying seven people would cost an arm and a leg so T decided to check into tour buses. Some of you may be thinking, a Mexican tour bus, no way! Well, that is exactly what T's husband said when she proposed the idea. He has the common belief that the bus would be filled with peasants in straw hats and houarachi sandals, the top of the bus laden with chicken coops and livestock. The good news is that T and her husband compromised and decided piling everyone into the family SUV and driving the 28 hours themselves would be the best answer. Sounds excruciating to me, especially with five kids aged 2 to 17. The conversation reminded me of my own travels in the less-than-luxurious buses of a developing country...
Back in my days in China I did quite a bit of traveling throughout the region. Of course, I was living off a small stipend from the university and the local infrastructure was severely lacking so I often found myself on communist-run tour buses. I'm talking about the kind you'd ride as a kid - with low-backed bench seats, no facilities, no seatbelts, no shocks, no overhead compartment. There is nothing like a good old-fashioned kidney-jarring jaunt through the backroads of China with a guy in a Mao suit at the helm.
In a country with so many people, you can guess that the buses are generally packed to capacity. In the city buses it is always "butts-to-nuts" as they say in the military - standing room only, people pressed against eachother like sardines. of course, I was too young and dumb to know better so during my first month or two there I decided to take the bus to a "resort" on a lake that was about eight hours from my home. I went to the bus station, figured out which bus headed that general direction, bought my ticket (paid twice what the locals would, but 80 cents still wasn't bad), and hopped on the bus. When I got on the bus I was surprised no one was in the back two rows. I thought I had scored big time. I hustled to the back of the bus and claimed a prime window seat in the back. The bus filled and still no one went back that far. I figured they were scared of me, which happened more than you would think during my travels as many people in the coutnryside had never seen a person with fair features. I thought nothing of it as the bus choked to a start and began to roll and I settled into my own prime seat for the long journey.
Everything was fine for the first hour or two. Then a man stood up and headed back toward me. I figured he needed more room and wanted one of the prime seats. I was even a bit pleased that a local would find the courage to approach this foreign heathen. He made his way down the aisle and I smiled my biggest smile at him. He stared at me quizzically. then bent down and flipped the floor board in the aisle up on a hinge so it leaned toward the front of the bus. This revealed the axle and road below. He looked directly at me for a minute and I turned to look out the window as if this behavior were normal. He proceeded to lower his pants, pull out his willy and urinate through the open floorboard space. I tried to look away but was in awe. He finished his business, shook off, put the board down, and went back to his seat. Thus began the procession of passengers to the bus bathroom, of which I had a full view. I sunk into my seat and realized it was going to be a much longer journey than I had ever imagined. Add to that the fact that the bus never stopped and there was no way I was going to bare my white assets to the bus passengers and you can imagine how miserable the trip was.
Needless to say I have never since secured the back seat in a bus in any country.
The lunch discussion today was about bus travel in Mexico. T wants to take the family to Mexico to visit her family. Flying seven people would cost an arm and a leg so T decided to check into tour buses. Some of you may be thinking, a Mexican tour bus, no way! Well, that is exactly what T's husband said when she proposed the idea. He has the common belief that the bus would be filled with peasants in straw hats and houarachi sandals, the top of the bus laden with chicken coops and livestock. The good news is that T and her husband compromised and decided piling everyone into the family SUV and driving the 28 hours themselves would be the best answer. Sounds excruciating to me, especially with five kids aged 2 to 17. The conversation reminded me of my own travels in the less-than-luxurious buses of a developing country...
Back in my days in China I did quite a bit of traveling throughout the region. Of course, I was living off a small stipend from the university and the local infrastructure was severely lacking so I often found myself on communist-run tour buses. I'm talking about the kind you'd ride as a kid - with low-backed bench seats, no facilities, no seatbelts, no shocks, no overhead compartment. There is nothing like a good old-fashioned kidney-jarring jaunt through the backroads of China with a guy in a Mao suit at the helm.
In a country with so many people, you can guess that the buses are generally packed to capacity. In the city buses it is always "butts-to-nuts" as they say in the military - standing room only, people pressed against eachother like sardines. of course, I was too young and dumb to know better so during my first month or two there I decided to take the bus to a "resort" on a lake that was about eight hours from my home. I went to the bus station, figured out which bus headed that general direction, bought my ticket (paid twice what the locals would, but 80 cents still wasn't bad), and hopped on the bus. When I got on the bus I was surprised no one was in the back two rows. I thought I had scored big time. I hustled to the back of the bus and claimed a prime window seat in the back. The bus filled and still no one went back that far. I figured they were scared of me, which happened more than you would think during my travels as many people in the coutnryside had never seen a person with fair features. I thought nothing of it as the bus choked to a start and began to roll and I settled into my own prime seat for the long journey.
Everything was fine for the first hour or two. Then a man stood up and headed back toward me. I figured he needed more room and wanted one of the prime seats. I was even a bit pleased that a local would find the courage to approach this foreign heathen. He made his way down the aisle and I smiled my biggest smile at him. He stared at me quizzically. then bent down and flipped the floor board in the aisle up on a hinge so it leaned toward the front of the bus. This revealed the axle and road below. He looked directly at me for a minute and I turned to look out the window as if this behavior were normal. He proceeded to lower his pants, pull out his willy and urinate through the open floorboard space. I tried to look away but was in awe. He finished his business, shook off, put the board down, and went back to his seat. Thus began the procession of passengers to the bus bathroom, of which I had a full view. I sunk into my seat and realized it was going to be a much longer journey than I had ever imagined. Add to that the fact that the bus never stopped and there was no way I was going to bare my white assets to the bus passengers and you can imagine how miserable the trip was.
Needless to say I have never since secured the back seat in a bus in any country.
Monday, November 15, 2004
Survival of the Fittest
My cat Puffy was not meant to live.
I should have known better when the momma cat, knowing her kitten should be sacrificed, kept removing her from the litter and putting her on top of my parents' barn. Puffy just screamed and wailed all night up there so my mother would take her down and put her back with the litter. The momma cat would promptly take her right back up. It was a battle of wills between the two mothers until I came for a visit. I saw the cute little ball of fur and immediately commandeered an eye dropper and some warm milk. With that Miss Puff was saved and Darwin's theory was thwarted.
Within hours of bringing her home I realized that little Puff had some serious gastrointenstinal issues in the form of excessive diarrhea, or, as we call it in our family - 'oil poop'. Off we went to the veterinarian for some meds. Puff was to take the meds twice a day or the well would flow again. Simple enough, right?
The problem is that Puff was and is the cutest little ball of black and white fur around. Soon after the visit to the vet, I had her out in the front yard while I was pulling weeds. Puffy must have roamed out onto the bridge over the seasonal creek in my yard. The rotten little kids from down the street must have seen my little creature and snatched her. When I realized she was missing I went to the scoundrels' houses to inquire of her whereabouts and was shooed away by the conniving or oblivious parents. I couldn't believe they had taken my kitty and the parents were covering for the little rascals so I devised a plan to ensure the return of Puff.
I went home and made up fliers on my computer. These weren't just any fliers. No, I used the scare tactics of any concerned parent - I described Miss Puff and then wrote in capital, bold letters THIS CAT HAS A DISEASE THAT IS COMMUNICABLE TO HUMANS. YOU WILL KNOW IT WITHIN HOURS AS SHE WILL HAVE DIARRHEA EVERYWHERE. I placed the fliers in the mailboxes of all the kids on the block the next morning before I went to work. Sure enough, as soon as I drove into the garage the following day I heard a sound on the other side of the fence, saw the ball of fur drop, and then heard the distinct screams of my little Puff. I found her in a pile of leaves, covered in her own excrement but happy to see me. That night after Puff was cleaned up I imagined the family that took her, feigning stomach problems and scared to have gotten the disease. Serves them right.
Then again, it wasn't until later that I realized that Puffy's mother was probably right to try to get rid of her because she is, after all, defective. Of course, we would never do that as humans, right? We would rather provide treatment and therapy and allow the miserable, defective little creature live a somewhat abnormal and sheltered life consisting of chasing the same spot on the wood floors for six years.
Originally I thought Puff was a Down's or dwarf cat. She did get over the oil poop problem but she never really grew, except her paws, tail and head, which are huge. She can't fully formulate a "meow", it's more like a "muh" and a "mwa" in a horrific cat-in-heat tone. Add to that her blank stare - her pupils always see dilated and she just looks like she never knows what's going on. Of course, the icing on the cake is her gait. Her back end does not work in conjunction with her front end. Her front legs work fine but her back legs do their own thing so at times the back is moving faster than the front producing a crab-like walk wherein the back legs occasionally overtake the front and Puffy spins.
The veterinarian loves my little marvel of defectiveness. The vet once did a free MRI on Puff as scientific research. She found that Puff has a crooked spine and an underdeveloped cerebellum but htat Puffy was not suffering and seemed quite happy.
My friends love her too. I once had a dinner party during which Puffy scampered across the floor and attempted to go up the stairs toward the bedroom. My friend spit his wine in laughter and exclaimed, "That cat just fell UP the stairs!" Other just come by to sit and marvel as Puffy stumbles around and jumps at the sight of her own shadow.
I guess in the end, when I look at Puffy I am glad I played god that day and selfishly saved the little ball of fur.
I should have known better when the momma cat, knowing her kitten should be sacrificed, kept removing her from the litter and putting her on top of my parents' barn. Puffy just screamed and wailed all night up there so my mother would take her down and put her back with the litter. The momma cat would promptly take her right back up. It was a battle of wills between the two mothers until I came for a visit. I saw the cute little ball of fur and immediately commandeered an eye dropper and some warm milk. With that Miss Puff was saved and Darwin's theory was thwarted.
Within hours of bringing her home I realized that little Puff had some serious gastrointenstinal issues in the form of excessive diarrhea, or, as we call it in our family - 'oil poop'. Off we went to the veterinarian for some meds. Puff was to take the meds twice a day or the well would flow again. Simple enough, right?
The problem is that Puff was and is the cutest little ball of black and white fur around. Soon after the visit to the vet, I had her out in the front yard while I was pulling weeds. Puffy must have roamed out onto the bridge over the seasonal creek in my yard. The rotten little kids from down the street must have seen my little creature and snatched her. When I realized she was missing I went to the scoundrels' houses to inquire of her whereabouts and was shooed away by the conniving or oblivious parents. I couldn't believe they had taken my kitty and the parents were covering for the little rascals so I devised a plan to ensure the return of Puff.
I went home and made up fliers on my computer. These weren't just any fliers. No, I used the scare tactics of any concerned parent - I described Miss Puff and then wrote in capital, bold letters THIS CAT HAS A DISEASE THAT IS COMMUNICABLE TO HUMANS. YOU WILL KNOW IT WITHIN HOURS AS SHE WILL HAVE DIARRHEA EVERYWHERE. I placed the fliers in the mailboxes of all the kids on the block the next morning before I went to work. Sure enough, as soon as I drove into the garage the following day I heard a sound on the other side of the fence, saw the ball of fur drop, and then heard the distinct screams of my little Puff. I found her in a pile of leaves, covered in her own excrement but happy to see me. That night after Puff was cleaned up I imagined the family that took her, feigning stomach problems and scared to have gotten the disease. Serves them right.
Then again, it wasn't until later that I realized that Puffy's mother was probably right to try to get rid of her because she is, after all, defective. Of course, we would never do that as humans, right? We would rather provide treatment and therapy and allow the miserable, defective little creature live a somewhat abnormal and sheltered life consisting of chasing the same spot on the wood floors for six years.
Originally I thought Puff was a Down's or dwarf cat. She did get over the oil poop problem but she never really grew, except her paws, tail and head, which are huge. She can't fully formulate a "meow", it's more like a "muh" and a "mwa" in a horrific cat-in-heat tone. Add to that her blank stare - her pupils always see dilated and she just looks like she never knows what's going on. Of course, the icing on the cake is her gait. Her back end does not work in conjunction with her front end. Her front legs work fine but her back legs do their own thing so at times the back is moving faster than the front producing a crab-like walk wherein the back legs occasionally overtake the front and Puffy spins.
The veterinarian loves my little marvel of defectiveness. The vet once did a free MRI on Puff as scientific research. She found that Puff has a crooked spine and an underdeveloped cerebellum but htat Puffy was not suffering and seemed quite happy.
My friends love her too. I once had a dinner party during which Puffy scampered across the floor and attempted to go up the stairs toward the bedroom. My friend spit his wine in laughter and exclaimed, "That cat just fell UP the stairs!" Other just come by to sit and marvel as Puffy stumbles around and jumps at the sight of her own shadow.
I guess in the end, when I look at Puffy I am glad I played god that day and selfishly saved the little ball of fur.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Mrs. Sanders
About a month ago I finally figured out why Survivor still hasn't chosen me as a contestant...I forgot that I used up my 15 minutes of fame in China 10 years ago.
Last month I was in a deposition in LA. My client was being deposed and she didn't speak English so the defendants had to hire a Mandarin interpreter. This makes the whole process twice as long and especially annoying when you understand everything in both languages and sometimes catch the interpreter making mistakes due to regional variations in the language. The interpreter was a nice guy, Mormon who did his mission in China and picked up the language, and a wife, there. It had to be funny for the actual Chinese people present to watch two white people argue over the meaning of the words "lao bai".
Anyhow, it was an all-day affair and at the lunch break the interpreter approached me and said I looked very familiar and asked if we had worked together before. There aren't many Caucasian folks who a.) speak Mandarin and b.) work in the legal field so I knew I would have remembered him and I didn't. Besides, people often think they recognize me and I am fairly certain they don't. So I said he must be confusing me with someone else. At the next break he again tried to place me but couldn't. I could tell he was certain he'd seen me before but I honestly couldn't place him. Then, after the deposition we were in the elevator and he blurts out "You're the girl from Meiguo Tza Chi!"
That translates to "American Fried Chicken". Yes, it is true, I once did a television commercial for a small restaurant chain in southern China - American Fried Chicken (AFC). The translator had apparantly seen me on TV in China touting the tastiness of the American-style fare offered at the restaurant. I felt a combination of flattery - that I still am recognizable from when I was 22 - and embarassment - that I am known as the Chinese fried chicken girl. The translator then told me he'd not only seen me on TV but also on billboards as recently as three years ago.
I was lured into my acting career by promises of jack cheese and Guinness beer. AFC was owned by a sly Vietnamese man aptly named Charlie (I don't think he got it) who had been to the U.S., fallen in love with the colonel's special recipe, and decided southern China was ripe for it's own chain of fried chicken restaurants.
I found AFC while on one of my infamous bicycle rides through Nanning. Oddly enough, the restaurant had a giant Bob's Big Boy statue holding a platter of burgers in front. I couldn't resist exploring the place so I immediately parked my bike and went in. I ordered a burger and fries. They were horrible but it was the closest thing to home cooking I had eaten in months. I started going to AFC regularly and taught them how to cook more "American-style". Charlie and I became friends and he even offered to marry me in exchange for a whopping $20,000 a year for two years. I declined but probably would have said yes if he had promised to open a cheese factory for me...
You see, along with introducing the Hokey Pokey to China, I believe I also introduced the grilled cheese sandwich when Charlie got a brick of Jack Cheese in from Australia. The grilled cheese sandwich is one of the most overlooked culinary delights and I immediately commandeered the cheese and fried up a sandwich. It was pure heaven and I was in ecstasy the moment I had my first crunchy-melty bite.
Charlie, ever the capitalist, saw the effect the cheese had on me and decided mine was the look he wanted for his upcoming advertising campaign. In exchange for a young, blond, genuine American girl writhing at the thought of AFC and saying things like "AFC is soooo good" and "mmmmm..." while eating various dishes, I would receive all the AFC food I could eat and two cases of Guinness beer in the cans that stay fresh. At 22 and in another land it seemed like a great deal to me.
Fast forward 10 years and I had pretty much forgotten about the commercial. I certainly never would have guessed I'd be recognized while at a meeting on the 39th Floor of a high-rise in Los Angeles. Then again, 10 years ago I never would have guessed I'd be in a high-rise in Los Angeles remembering the simple days of grilled cheese and Guinness. You can probably guess what I'll be having for dinner tonight.
Last month I was in a deposition in LA. My client was being deposed and she didn't speak English so the defendants had to hire a Mandarin interpreter. This makes the whole process twice as long and especially annoying when you understand everything in both languages and sometimes catch the interpreter making mistakes due to regional variations in the language. The interpreter was a nice guy, Mormon who did his mission in China and picked up the language, and a wife, there. It had to be funny for the actual Chinese people present to watch two white people argue over the meaning of the words "lao bai".
Anyhow, it was an all-day affair and at the lunch break the interpreter approached me and said I looked very familiar and asked if we had worked together before. There aren't many Caucasian folks who a.) speak Mandarin and b.) work in the legal field so I knew I would have remembered him and I didn't. Besides, people often think they recognize me and I am fairly certain they don't. So I said he must be confusing me with someone else. At the next break he again tried to place me but couldn't. I could tell he was certain he'd seen me before but I honestly couldn't place him. Then, after the deposition we were in the elevator and he blurts out "You're the girl from Meiguo Tza Chi!"
That translates to "American Fried Chicken". Yes, it is true, I once did a television commercial for a small restaurant chain in southern China - American Fried Chicken (AFC). The translator had apparantly seen me on TV in China touting the tastiness of the American-style fare offered at the restaurant. I felt a combination of flattery - that I still am recognizable from when I was 22 - and embarassment - that I am known as the Chinese fried chicken girl. The translator then told me he'd not only seen me on TV but also on billboards as recently as three years ago.
I was lured into my acting career by promises of jack cheese and Guinness beer. AFC was owned by a sly Vietnamese man aptly named Charlie (I don't think he got it) who had been to the U.S., fallen in love with the colonel's special recipe, and decided southern China was ripe for it's own chain of fried chicken restaurants.
I found AFC while on one of my infamous bicycle rides through Nanning. Oddly enough, the restaurant had a giant Bob's Big Boy statue holding a platter of burgers in front. I couldn't resist exploring the place so I immediately parked my bike and went in. I ordered a burger and fries. They were horrible but it was the closest thing to home cooking I had eaten in months. I started going to AFC regularly and taught them how to cook more "American-style". Charlie and I became friends and he even offered to marry me in exchange for a whopping $20,000 a year for two years. I declined but probably would have said yes if he had promised to open a cheese factory for me...
You see, along with introducing the Hokey Pokey to China, I believe I also introduced the grilled cheese sandwich when Charlie got a brick of Jack Cheese in from Australia. The grilled cheese sandwich is one of the most overlooked culinary delights and I immediately commandeered the cheese and fried up a sandwich. It was pure heaven and I was in ecstasy the moment I had my first crunchy-melty bite.
Charlie, ever the capitalist, saw the effect the cheese had on me and decided mine was the look he wanted for his upcoming advertising campaign. In exchange for a young, blond, genuine American girl writhing at the thought of AFC and saying things like "AFC is soooo good" and "mmmmm..." while eating various dishes, I would receive all the AFC food I could eat and two cases of Guinness beer in the cans that stay fresh. At 22 and in another land it seemed like a great deal to me.
Fast forward 10 years and I had pretty much forgotten about the commercial. I certainly never would have guessed I'd be recognized while at a meeting on the 39th Floor of a high-rise in Los Angeles. Then again, 10 years ago I never would have guessed I'd be in a high-rise in Los Angeles remembering the simple days of grilled cheese and Guinness. You can probably guess what I'll be having for dinner tonight.
Sunday, November 07, 2004
Things to do before you're 32
On the eve of my 32nd birthday I am reminded once again of my infamous internet dating days and one 32 year-old I will never forget...Nate.
I met Nate through American Singles a few years ago. He was a local out-of-work history teacher working at Best Buy until he could get something more permanent. Age 32, he lived in a small apartment with his pet cat that he had taught to play fetch. He had some confidence issues but seemed like a nice enough guy. We somehow came up as matches through the internet, probably due to our mutual interest in surf kayaking. We e-mailed back and forth a few times, exchanged photos and phone calls and decided to meet one Saturday at his parents' beach house for a day of surf kayaking. They had a house right on Feria Beach, which is perfect for surf kayaking. Kayaking is really a perfect first date because you are both having fun, you are in swimsuits, the adrenaline is rushing, and you can't help but laugh at eachother when you wipe out. After kayaking to the point of exhaustion we had a soda up at the house with his dad and were hanging out on the deck talking when his brother and some other friends showed up. The date was going well enough and it seemed like a nice, normal group so when they invited me to stay for a BBQ I couldn't say no.
As the day turned to night, Nate was filling up on liquid courage and started getting boisterous to the point of annoyance so I decided it was probably time for me to head home. I liked his friends and family but felt something was a bit off with him and was not impressed at his ability to guzzle beer and pee off the deck. As I was leaving, Nate walked me to my truck and proclaimed he had something important that he HAD to tell me. I advised him that there really was nothing he had to tell me on a first date, especially while under the influence. He was adamant and I knew something big was coming I just didn't know what. Then he blurted it out...
"I just lost my virginity a few months ago and have never really dated and blah, blah, blah..." I blocked out the rest of his sentence. My mind was reeling as I contemplated those first five words. Why would he tell me that? How on earth could he live 32 years without having tried it? What the heck was I supposed to say in return? I said the first thing that came to mind..."Why did you wait so long?"
"I just never got around to it."
Huh? What? Did I hear that right? Are you not a normal man? Or woman? Or human? No religious reasons, no saving oneself, you can't just say you never got around to it. You never get around to seeing Paris in the spring, to seeing the pyramids, to cleaning the garage. Sex is not something you just never get around to doing, is it?
In honor of Nate and any other similarly situated 30-something single souls out there, I have compiled a list of Things To Do Before You're 32 that will surely enhance you're personal life, especially for those chronically single men still sleeping on futons and living off of cereal, milk and vodka:
1. Have sex with someone other than yourself.
2. Live alone for a year.
3. Learn to cook three good meals from scratch.
4. Spend money on a really good bed and some top of the line sheets.
5. Find at least three friends you'll have for life.
6. Get something that's broken and fix it - a car, furniture, toaster.
7. Get a passport and go somewhere you'll have to use it.
I met Nate through American Singles a few years ago. He was a local out-of-work history teacher working at Best Buy until he could get something more permanent. Age 32, he lived in a small apartment with his pet cat that he had taught to play fetch. He had some confidence issues but seemed like a nice enough guy. We somehow came up as matches through the internet, probably due to our mutual interest in surf kayaking. We e-mailed back and forth a few times, exchanged photos and phone calls and decided to meet one Saturday at his parents' beach house for a day of surf kayaking. They had a house right on Feria Beach, which is perfect for surf kayaking. Kayaking is really a perfect first date because you are both having fun, you are in swimsuits, the adrenaline is rushing, and you can't help but laugh at eachother when you wipe out. After kayaking to the point of exhaustion we had a soda up at the house with his dad and were hanging out on the deck talking when his brother and some other friends showed up. The date was going well enough and it seemed like a nice, normal group so when they invited me to stay for a BBQ I couldn't say no.
As the day turned to night, Nate was filling up on liquid courage and started getting boisterous to the point of annoyance so I decided it was probably time for me to head home. I liked his friends and family but felt something was a bit off with him and was not impressed at his ability to guzzle beer and pee off the deck. As I was leaving, Nate walked me to my truck and proclaimed he had something important that he HAD to tell me. I advised him that there really was nothing he had to tell me on a first date, especially while under the influence. He was adamant and I knew something big was coming I just didn't know what. Then he blurted it out...
"I just lost my virginity a few months ago and have never really dated and blah, blah, blah..." I blocked out the rest of his sentence. My mind was reeling as I contemplated those first five words. Why would he tell me that? How on earth could he live 32 years without having tried it? What the heck was I supposed to say in return? I said the first thing that came to mind..."Why did you wait so long?"
"I just never got around to it."
Huh? What? Did I hear that right? Are you not a normal man? Or woman? Or human? No religious reasons, no saving oneself, you can't just say you never got around to it. You never get around to seeing Paris in the spring, to seeing the pyramids, to cleaning the garage. Sex is not something you just never get around to doing, is it?
In honor of Nate and any other similarly situated 30-something single souls out there, I have compiled a list of Things To Do Before You're 32 that will surely enhance you're personal life, especially for those chronically single men still sleeping on futons and living off of cereal, milk and vodka:
1. Have sex with someone other than yourself.
2. Live alone for a year.
3. Learn to cook three good meals from scratch.
4. Spend money on a really good bed and some top of the line sheets.
5. Find at least three friends you'll have for life.
6. Get something that's broken and fix it - a car, furniture, toaster.
7. Get a passport and go somewhere you'll have to use it.
Thursday, November 04, 2004
Got Tail?
"How did I end up here?"
That was the question in my mind when I experienced one of those moments during which you step outside yourself and see where you are and what you are doing and you are just plain amazed at the thought of your own existence at that very moment. I think it is in this moment that a person realizes one of two things: 1. They have just made a huge mistake, are screwed, and need to get out of the situation, or 2. They are living life, loving the absurdity of it, and never want to leave that moment.
The latter was the case for me on Friday as I found myself in dank, underground, aquamarine theatre, the smell of popcorn wafting through the air, senior citizens and children fidgeting in their hardwood bench seats, me sitting next to a college friend I hadn't seen in 11 years, cheesy Disneylandesque People Mover music playing in the background, all of us staring at a huge white curtain pocked with holes and tears waiting for the Weeki Wachee Mermaids', 2:30 performance of The Little Mermaid.
At first glance, I thought the whole setup was cheesy and so rundown that it couldn't possibly stay in business much longer. A Californian, through and through, I felt some sense of superiority and disdain mixed with pity for the place. I marveled at the fact that people still paid to come into this 1940's roadside attraction when Disneyworld and Busch Gardens are each an hour away. But then I watched as the audience began to arrive for the show. Little girls in the audience began peering through the holes in the battered curtain, seeing them as windows rather than flaws - eyes wide, faces pressed to the glass, hoping to be the first to spy the mermaids in action. As the tattered curtain rose, the audience was lit by the refraction of sunlight filtered through the pure water in the spring that was before us. Bubbles rose in front of the glass and as they cleared a school of beautiful women with fishtails, hair billowing with the current of the spring, bodies moving in synch, appeared to float from the source of the spring. A voice boomed from the speakers in the theatre as the mermaids mouthed the words to a story of one mermaid's quest for love. As the mermaids performed, real turtles and schools of fish joined in as extras, floating by as the mermaids danced and sang. All the while the audience remained captivated and amused. The show itself, The Little Mermaid, had it all - the beautiful heroine, the handsome prince, the wicked water witch, and the wise turtle friend. It was truly an underwater musical the likes of which Broadway will never know but one that every theater fan should see. We adults sat in our straight-backed seats leaning forward, laughing together, applauding the feats of water aerobics and synchronization, strangers brought together by the pleasantly absurd yet amazingly enchanting scene before us.
When the curtain fell I looked around and saw that everyone in the audience was smiling and I realized that even in our modern age there is something undeniably tantalizing to everyone, children and adults alike, about being in the presence of something real, yet fantastic. For those 30 minutes everyone was six or seven again, remembering dreams and how our imaginations once ran free.
Then the loudspeaker came on and a voice reminded us to pick up our own trash in the theatre otherwise the same ethereal mermaids would appear as regular young women tasked with having to pick up our garbage. With that announcement we were reminded that this rare roadside oddity, a throw-back to the days before Disney, cable television and video games, was on its last legs and struggling to compete in a world in which fantasy and imagination are more cyber than natural. The handful of mermaids, so skilled at underwater performance, were also the maintenance crew and young women who had to earn a living.
This in mind, I weighed the pros and cons of mermaid life: Who wouldn't give up a cubicle for a tail? A morning commute on traffic-congested freeways for a swim through the currents of a natural spring? Like every little girl who peered through the holes in the worn out curtain waiting for the show to start, I too want to be a mermaid when I grow up and stay in that moment in which I wonder how I got there forever.
That was the question in my mind when I experienced one of those moments during which you step outside yourself and see where you are and what you are doing and you are just plain amazed at the thought of your own existence at that very moment. I think it is in this moment that a person realizes one of two things: 1. They have just made a huge mistake, are screwed, and need to get out of the situation, or 2. They are living life, loving the absurdity of it, and never want to leave that moment.
The latter was the case for me on Friday as I found myself in dank, underground, aquamarine theatre, the smell of popcorn wafting through the air, senior citizens and children fidgeting in their hardwood bench seats, me sitting next to a college friend I hadn't seen in 11 years, cheesy Disneylandesque People Mover music playing in the background, all of us staring at a huge white curtain pocked with holes and tears waiting for the Weeki Wachee Mermaids', 2:30 performance of The Little Mermaid.
At first glance, I thought the whole setup was cheesy and so rundown that it couldn't possibly stay in business much longer. A Californian, through and through, I felt some sense of superiority and disdain mixed with pity for the place. I marveled at the fact that people still paid to come into this 1940's roadside attraction when Disneyworld and Busch Gardens are each an hour away. But then I watched as the audience began to arrive for the show. Little girls in the audience began peering through the holes in the battered curtain, seeing them as windows rather than flaws - eyes wide, faces pressed to the glass, hoping to be the first to spy the mermaids in action. As the tattered curtain rose, the audience was lit by the refraction of sunlight filtered through the pure water in the spring that was before us. Bubbles rose in front of the glass and as they cleared a school of beautiful women with fishtails, hair billowing with the current of the spring, bodies moving in synch, appeared to float from the source of the spring. A voice boomed from the speakers in the theatre as the mermaids mouthed the words to a story of one mermaid's quest for love. As the mermaids performed, real turtles and schools of fish joined in as extras, floating by as the mermaids danced and sang. All the while the audience remained captivated and amused. The show itself, The Little Mermaid, had it all - the beautiful heroine, the handsome prince, the wicked water witch, and the wise turtle friend. It was truly an underwater musical the likes of which Broadway will never know but one that every theater fan should see. We adults sat in our straight-backed seats leaning forward, laughing together, applauding the feats of water aerobics and synchronization, strangers brought together by the pleasantly absurd yet amazingly enchanting scene before us.
When the curtain fell I looked around and saw that everyone in the audience was smiling and I realized that even in our modern age there is something undeniably tantalizing to everyone, children and adults alike, about being in the presence of something real, yet fantastic. For those 30 minutes everyone was six or seven again, remembering dreams and how our imaginations once ran free.
Then the loudspeaker came on and a voice reminded us to pick up our own trash in the theatre otherwise the same ethereal mermaids would appear as regular young women tasked with having to pick up our garbage. With that announcement we were reminded that this rare roadside oddity, a throw-back to the days before Disney, cable television and video games, was on its last legs and struggling to compete in a world in which fantasy and imagination are more cyber than natural. The handful of mermaids, so skilled at underwater performance, were also the maintenance crew and young women who had to earn a living.
This in mind, I weighed the pros and cons of mermaid life: Who wouldn't give up a cubicle for a tail? A morning commute on traffic-congested freeways for a swim through the currents of a natural spring? Like every little girl who peered through the holes in the worn out curtain waiting for the show to start, I too want to be a mermaid when I grow up and stay in that moment in which I wonder how I got there forever.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
What are the odds?
As you are aware, a couple of years ago I tried my luck at internet dating. CL's recent antics have brought back a flood of memories of that era in my life that will surely result in my needing some therapy or at least a shot or two of good tequila.
One such memory that I still chuckle over is an experience that demonstrates that the powers that be love to put me in situations that will indubitably result in the building of my already massive "character".
The modus operendi for meeting people on the net is generally to fish through the pre-selected matches and correspond with those who seemed compatible. After one or two e-mails I would request telephonic communication and then meet for coffee or lunch accordingly.
I had e-mailed back and forth with J several times. We had similar backgrounds - time in the Navy, grew up locally, senses of humor, etc. The day and time of the much-anticipated phone call arrived. We exchanged pleasantries and then, suddenly, within the first few minutes of conversation, J's voice took on a serious tone as he began to tell me about an unfortunate injury he had sustained while in the military. The injury resulted in the removal of his large intestine and the subsequent and very permanent need for a colostomy bag. I responded sympathetically to this tragedy and he explained that he could do all the things anyone else can do, etc., etc. As he justified that it was not THAT terrible I began to envision the activities I enjoy with a mate as they would be with J: snorkeling in the Carribean with J, poo bag in tow, a school of fish close behind; skydiving with a bag floating above; intimate moments where proximity to the bag might affect the 867 positions that I once studied and know I will someday experience. Then I recalled the faint odor that always surrounded my best friend's grandfather, similarly afflicted, when we were younger, and how we would snicker and comment about farts like the children we were. Add to that my complete and utter fear of all things medical - from needles to people in white coats to bed pans. By the time he finished his explanation I had to tell him there was just no way I could begin a relationship with someone with such, well, baggage. It may seem shallow and he appeared to be a great guy, but I just couldn't do it. Better to know your limits and not get hopes up and pretend to be something you know you are not. He took the news well and we each moved on to the next candidate on our respective match lists.
The next candidate for me was M, a thirty-something writer and adventurer from Santa Barbara. We followed protocol and made it to the point of our first meeting - fish tacos during my lunch hour. Naturally, as two veterans of the internet dating wars, we began to compare stories. Mutual interest was peaking and we were on a great roll about the various people we'd met, thanking ourselves that we had finally met someone "normal" when I told the story of J and the poo bag. M laughed as I described my visions of snorkeling and other such activities. He let me ramble on and then he looked at me and said, "I have a colostomy bag too". I just laughed harder and did an Elainesque "Get out!" combined with a shove. But he was adamant and insisted he had a bag. Still thinking he was joking I insisted on proof. He took my hand and put it on his poo bag and then told me he had been in a motorcycle accident years ago in which he damaged much of his large intestine. I, for once, was at a loss for words. To his credit, he laughed it off and we parted on a good note knowing we would both rejoin the hunt.
My friends, of course, found it hilarious that in my quest for love I had managed to find the two men under age 40 in the county that had poo bags. These days it is standard procedure for me to inquire whether any prospective date has his large intestine.
One such memory that I still chuckle over is an experience that demonstrates that the powers that be love to put me in situations that will indubitably result in the building of my already massive "character".
The modus operendi for meeting people on the net is generally to fish through the pre-selected matches and correspond with those who seemed compatible. After one or two e-mails I would request telephonic communication and then meet for coffee or lunch accordingly.
I had e-mailed back and forth with J several times. We had similar backgrounds - time in the Navy, grew up locally, senses of humor, etc. The day and time of the much-anticipated phone call arrived. We exchanged pleasantries and then, suddenly, within the first few minutes of conversation, J's voice took on a serious tone as he began to tell me about an unfortunate injury he had sustained while in the military. The injury resulted in the removal of his large intestine and the subsequent and very permanent need for a colostomy bag. I responded sympathetically to this tragedy and he explained that he could do all the things anyone else can do, etc., etc. As he justified that it was not THAT terrible I began to envision the activities I enjoy with a mate as they would be with J: snorkeling in the Carribean with J, poo bag in tow, a school of fish close behind; skydiving with a bag floating above; intimate moments where proximity to the bag might affect the 867 positions that I once studied and know I will someday experience. Then I recalled the faint odor that always surrounded my best friend's grandfather, similarly afflicted, when we were younger, and how we would snicker and comment about farts like the children we were. Add to that my complete and utter fear of all things medical - from needles to people in white coats to bed pans. By the time he finished his explanation I had to tell him there was just no way I could begin a relationship with someone with such, well, baggage. It may seem shallow and he appeared to be a great guy, but I just couldn't do it. Better to know your limits and not get hopes up and pretend to be something you know you are not. He took the news well and we each moved on to the next candidate on our respective match lists.
The next candidate for me was M, a thirty-something writer and adventurer from Santa Barbara. We followed protocol and made it to the point of our first meeting - fish tacos during my lunch hour. Naturally, as two veterans of the internet dating wars, we began to compare stories. Mutual interest was peaking and we were on a great roll about the various people we'd met, thanking ourselves that we had finally met someone "normal" when I told the story of J and the poo bag. M laughed as I described my visions of snorkeling and other such activities. He let me ramble on and then he looked at me and said, "I have a colostomy bag too". I just laughed harder and did an Elainesque "Get out!" combined with a shove. But he was adamant and insisted he had a bag. Still thinking he was joking I insisted on proof. He took my hand and put it on his poo bag and then told me he had been in a motorcycle accident years ago in which he damaged much of his large intestine. I, for once, was at a loss for words. To his credit, he laughed it off and we parted on a good note knowing we would both rejoin the hunt.
My friends, of course, found it hilarious that in my quest for love I had managed to find the two men under age 40 in the county that had poo bags. These days it is standard procedure for me to inquire whether any prospective date has his large intestine.
Monday, October 25, 2004
Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch...
I love my parents. While I once considered them insane because they live in a non-traditional sense, I now appreciate them for their uniqueness, simplicity and happiness.
You see, about 15 years ago my parents, dad a credit card processing machine salesman and mom a career seamstress/designer, decided that they wanted to move away from society and become ranchers. Of course, neither had any experience with any animal larger than our doberman, Bruiser, and we had always lived in trailer parks, apartments and condominiums. My brother, a closet hemp farmer, displayed the only green thumb in the family. Nonetheless, after my brother and I left the nest, my parents tapped into their life savings and bought a mini-ranch - seven acres of prime southern California real estate, complete with riding arena, two barns, and access to endless riding trails.
They started their ranch with a couple of used up horses, two fat black labs and a leftover pregnant barn cat. Soon enough they added a local llama with a pinchant for spitting at blondes (i.e. everyone in my family). The next year, when they read in the paper that the Christmas tree farm with the little train kids could ride and the live reindeer had been bought by the state and the state intended to euthanize the deer, my mother decided to begin the Great Deer Campaign of 1998. Turns out the deer were some sort of Slavakian fallow deer and no one in the great State of California had a permit to keep them so by law they must be slaughtered. Upset at this great injustice my parents devised a plan to save the deer. Under cover of darkness my parents took their horse trailer to the tree farm and deernapped the herd on the eve of their demise. The USDA, in a rare moment of clarity, decided my parents must be insane and granted them a permit to keep the deer. The permit, conveniently enough, also allowed my insane creators to obtain all sorts of "exotic" animals.
At the time I just brushed it off as a late-life crisis that would soon pass and at least provide interesting stories in the meantime. Two years later, they sold the seven acres and bought 40 out in the middle of nowhere. They said they needed more room but I feared it was more when my mother was quoted as saying, "we don't like to go out among the people". After the comment, numerous teleconferences with my brother and aunts and uncles were held, intervention was discussed, but in the end we all decided it was okay as long as they were happy.
It was only this weekend, when I went to visit them at their new 80 acre spread that I realized these two great people had reinvented themselves into exactly what they always dreamed they could be.
As I drove up the dirt path leading to their trailer I saw my father, who is missing parts of both feet due to diabetes, chugging along on his tractor, with the sheep dogs running alongside and a trailer full of hay in tow, making his rounds tossing flakes to camels, zebra, horses, sheep, alpacas, llamas, reindeer, goats, donkeys, a variety of miniature creatures, and, of course, the herd of fallow deer that started it all. As I pulled in behind the house my mother approached my truck, her hair was blowing in the wind, donning faded blue jeans, a flannel shirt, and scuffed boots. In her hand she carried some day-old rolls from the local bakery as a young mule deer and three pot-bellied pigs followed her. As she hugged me when I got out of the car the animals enveloped us in an attempt to grab a roll or two and we both just laughed. Then the goats started laughing with us which caused the donkeys to chortle and the sheep to baa. It was a chorus of chaos in the animal kingdom unlike any symphony I've ever heard.
Later, after dinner as we sat watching the sun set behind the mountains, not a power line, road, or other sign of mankind in sight, I glanced over at my parents sitting on the sofa, a small pig in my father's lap, my mother brushing her persian cat, and I realized that they had no reason to go out among the people.
You see, about 15 years ago my parents, dad a credit card processing machine salesman and mom a career seamstress/designer, decided that they wanted to move away from society and become ranchers. Of course, neither had any experience with any animal larger than our doberman, Bruiser, and we had always lived in trailer parks, apartments and condominiums. My brother, a closet hemp farmer, displayed the only green thumb in the family. Nonetheless, after my brother and I left the nest, my parents tapped into their life savings and bought a mini-ranch - seven acres of prime southern California real estate, complete with riding arena, two barns, and access to endless riding trails.
They started their ranch with a couple of used up horses, two fat black labs and a leftover pregnant barn cat. Soon enough they added a local llama with a pinchant for spitting at blondes (i.e. everyone in my family). The next year, when they read in the paper that the Christmas tree farm with the little train kids could ride and the live reindeer had been bought by the state and the state intended to euthanize the deer, my mother decided to begin the Great Deer Campaign of 1998. Turns out the deer were some sort of Slavakian fallow deer and no one in the great State of California had a permit to keep them so by law they must be slaughtered. Upset at this great injustice my parents devised a plan to save the deer. Under cover of darkness my parents took their horse trailer to the tree farm and deernapped the herd on the eve of their demise. The USDA, in a rare moment of clarity, decided my parents must be insane and granted them a permit to keep the deer. The permit, conveniently enough, also allowed my insane creators to obtain all sorts of "exotic" animals.
At the time I just brushed it off as a late-life crisis that would soon pass and at least provide interesting stories in the meantime. Two years later, they sold the seven acres and bought 40 out in the middle of nowhere. They said they needed more room but I feared it was more when my mother was quoted as saying, "we don't like to go out among the people". After the comment, numerous teleconferences with my brother and aunts and uncles were held, intervention was discussed, but in the end we all decided it was okay as long as they were happy.
It was only this weekend, when I went to visit them at their new 80 acre spread that I realized these two great people had reinvented themselves into exactly what they always dreamed they could be.
As I drove up the dirt path leading to their trailer I saw my father, who is missing parts of both feet due to diabetes, chugging along on his tractor, with the sheep dogs running alongside and a trailer full of hay in tow, making his rounds tossing flakes to camels, zebra, horses, sheep, alpacas, llamas, reindeer, goats, donkeys, a variety of miniature creatures, and, of course, the herd of fallow deer that started it all. As I pulled in behind the house my mother approached my truck, her hair was blowing in the wind, donning faded blue jeans, a flannel shirt, and scuffed boots. In her hand she carried some day-old rolls from the local bakery as a young mule deer and three pot-bellied pigs followed her. As she hugged me when I got out of the car the animals enveloped us in an attempt to grab a roll or two and we both just laughed. Then the goats started laughing with us which caused the donkeys to chortle and the sheep to baa. It was a chorus of chaos in the animal kingdom unlike any symphony I've ever heard.
Later, after dinner as we sat watching the sun set behind the mountains, not a power line, road, or other sign of mankind in sight, I glanced over at my parents sitting on the sofa, a small pig in my father's lap, my mother brushing her persian cat, and I realized that they had no reason to go out among the people.
Thursday, October 21, 2004
The Number of The Beast
Until I saw this website, Bush is Antichrist, I had been convinced that a guy I dated a few years back, DE, was the antichrist and I am greatly relieved to learn that empirical data shows Bush, and not DE, is the antichrist - although I still believe they may be in cahoots...
A couple of years back, as the dreaded three-oh approached, I decided that it was time to latch on to a man as soon as possible before I shriveled up and died a lonely woman with too many cats and a vacant uterus. Incidentally, such women are becoming more ingrained in the popular culture as is evidence by this, Crazy Cat Lady. Naturally, I turned to the mecca of modern day match-making - the internet. I posted an ad and began the hunt. One candidate that looked great on paper (and screen) was DE. He was 34, owned his own business making custom guitars, had a BMW 2002 tii, was good looking, and lived within the requisite 30 mile radius. Granted, he did have several cats, did not like to go outside during the day for an unnatural fear of skin cancer, and wore thick wool socks with his sandals, but I was approaching 30 and realized compromise was necessary at this point.
Our first date was coffee in Santa Barbara. It was a fun date that turned into lunch at which time I received the first sign of his antichrist/at-the-very-least-prone-to-psychosis tendencies - he was born on 6/6/66. I casually laughed it off as I dreamed of myself learning to play guitar on a custom koa wood parlor guitar with abalone trim while my doting little devil accompanied me. The second date was dinner at a local steakhouse. Upon arrival he notified me that he had almost cancelled the date because he "wasn't sure this was working" but was then relieved he had come because I was "cuter than he remembered". I thought that was odd but filed it away in my off-handed compliments compartment, which after years of being single is quite full.
For our third date he came over to my house to see me before I was leaving for Minnesota for three weeks of my annual reserve duty. Mind you, it was our third date and nothing had "happened" between us to require a major goodbye ceremony. But good old DE arrived with a care package for me to open when I got to my hotel, a gushing "miss you already" card, and about 10 prepaid phone cards for me to call him daily from Minnesota. Given the fact that he was confused about his feelings for me the previous week, I was surprised by his gesture and informed him we would pick up things upon my return and off I went, refusing to allow him to drive me to the airport.
Silly me, I used the prepaid phone cards to call my friends and family - people I had spent more than six hours of my life with - and only called him twice during the three week period. When I did call him he was upset that I had done such things as go to a movie without him and wander a mall with other reservists so it was difficult to muster the patience to call him even thought the minutes were techinically his. Upon my return DE said we needed to talk about "what had happened" and that he felt counseling was in order and he wanted me to meet with him and his counselor. I nearly dropped the phone when I heard this. Seeing an opportunity for a future tale to tell, I quickly made some excuse to get off the phone and said I would call back. Naturally, I spent the next hour consulting with my girlfriends about this strange development and we all agreed that I must attend the counseling if for nothing else than to later relay the information to the girls. Even my mother advised that it is not often a girl gets invited to counseling at such an early stage and at least it would make for an interesting date.
So DE and I met at his counselor's office a few days later. It was all very serious for a date. He went in first and spoke with her, then they invited me in and informed me that DE had been in counseling for years. He then said I wasn't putting enough energy into the relationship. I was confused as we'd only been on three dates at that time. I responded that this was only our fourth date and DE might be making a mountain of a molehill. An awkward moment passed then DE burst into tears and said something about women abandoning him. The counselor hugged DE and looked at me as if I were the one born on 6/6/66. I gathered my purse walked out of the office and broke into laughter as I walked to my car. I headed to my friend's hosue to tell the tale and we had a great laugh together. Funny thing is, DE called me that night to inform me that he was willing to "give us another try" if I was willing to attend counseling with him. I declined the offer, which is probably why I'm still single today...
What this has to do with Bush is beyond me but reading the number analogy did remind me of poor DE.
A couple of years back, as the dreaded three-oh approached, I decided that it was time to latch on to a man as soon as possible before I shriveled up and died a lonely woman with too many cats and a vacant uterus. Incidentally, such women are becoming more ingrained in the popular culture as is evidence by this, Crazy Cat Lady. Naturally, I turned to the mecca of modern day match-making - the internet. I posted an ad and began the hunt. One candidate that looked great on paper (and screen) was DE. He was 34, owned his own business making custom guitars, had a BMW 2002 tii, was good looking, and lived within the requisite 30 mile radius. Granted, he did have several cats, did not like to go outside during the day for an unnatural fear of skin cancer, and wore thick wool socks with his sandals, but I was approaching 30 and realized compromise was necessary at this point.
Our first date was coffee in Santa Barbara. It was a fun date that turned into lunch at which time I received the first sign of his antichrist/at-the-very-least-prone-to-psychosis tendencies - he was born on 6/6/66. I casually laughed it off as I dreamed of myself learning to play guitar on a custom koa wood parlor guitar with abalone trim while my doting little devil accompanied me. The second date was dinner at a local steakhouse. Upon arrival he notified me that he had almost cancelled the date because he "wasn't sure this was working" but was then relieved he had come because I was "cuter than he remembered". I thought that was odd but filed it away in my off-handed compliments compartment, which after years of being single is quite full.
For our third date he came over to my house to see me before I was leaving for Minnesota for three weeks of my annual reserve duty. Mind you, it was our third date and nothing had "happened" between us to require a major goodbye ceremony. But good old DE arrived with a care package for me to open when I got to my hotel, a gushing "miss you already" card, and about 10 prepaid phone cards for me to call him daily from Minnesota. Given the fact that he was confused about his feelings for me the previous week, I was surprised by his gesture and informed him we would pick up things upon my return and off I went, refusing to allow him to drive me to the airport.
Silly me, I used the prepaid phone cards to call my friends and family - people I had spent more than six hours of my life with - and only called him twice during the three week period. When I did call him he was upset that I had done such things as go to a movie without him and wander a mall with other reservists so it was difficult to muster the patience to call him even thought the minutes were techinically his. Upon my return DE said we needed to talk about "what had happened" and that he felt counseling was in order and he wanted me to meet with him and his counselor. I nearly dropped the phone when I heard this. Seeing an opportunity for a future tale to tell, I quickly made some excuse to get off the phone and said I would call back. Naturally, I spent the next hour consulting with my girlfriends about this strange development and we all agreed that I must attend the counseling if for nothing else than to later relay the information to the girls. Even my mother advised that it is not often a girl gets invited to counseling at such an early stage and at least it would make for an interesting date.
So DE and I met at his counselor's office a few days later. It was all very serious for a date. He went in first and spoke with her, then they invited me in and informed me that DE had been in counseling for years. He then said I wasn't putting enough energy into the relationship. I was confused as we'd only been on three dates at that time. I responded that this was only our fourth date and DE might be making a mountain of a molehill. An awkward moment passed then DE burst into tears and said something about women abandoning him. The counselor hugged DE and looked at me as if I were the one born on 6/6/66. I gathered my purse walked out of the office and broke into laughter as I walked to my car. I headed to my friend's hosue to tell the tale and we had a great laugh together. Funny thing is, DE called me that night to inform me that he was willing to "give us another try" if I was willing to attend counseling with him. I declined the offer, which is probably why I'm still single today...
What this has to do with Bush is beyond me but reading the number analogy did remind me of poor DE.
Monday, October 18, 2004
I'd Rather Run For Beer
I don't know what possessed me to do this, perhaps I had read a recent issue of Shape or Glamour or some other women-unite-and-take-charge-of-your-life-by-setting-an-utterly-meaningless-goal type magazine, but a few months ago I signed up for a local "Fun Run" fundraiser for the Ojai Valley Land Conservancy - an organization that purchases and maintains open space in my little pocket of southern California and whose trails I regularly meander along. Mind you, I signed up a few months ago while I must have been in a physical fitness frenzy and thinking it would somehow be fun and meaningful to join 150 other people on a Saturday morning and run around on a trail with a number pinned to my chest. I have learned my lesson...
Saturday was the big event. Check-in was at 8:00 a.m. - a time at which the most exercise I usually participate in is rolling over and stretching in bed with an occassional yawn thrown in as aerobic training. Luckily, the start was four miles from my house. Initially, I had a grandiose plan to rise early and ride my bike to the start. That plan was quashed by my repeated use of the snooze button on this particular morning. Once I finally arose there was barely enough time to lace up my sneakers and throw on some shorts before heading out.
Seeing as how Ojai is a small community I expected there to be between 20 and 30 people at the run, and had a glimmer of hope that I might, without any training for the event, win my age division. This thought was supported by the handmade signs (cardboard pieces with balck magic marker writing on them) leading to the 5k start as I headed toward the venue. You can image my dismay as I pulled up to the "fun run" to see people clad in lycra and high-tech materials doing high-kneed sprints up and down the road in preparation for what they were treating as a race. As I stood in the check-in line behind folks who munched Powerbars and drank sports drinks I listened to people discuss their race strategies, projected split times, and hopes for placement. I realized this was an event to which people came to compete - against themselves and eachother. Humbled by this realization, I headed over to a nearby rock to feign race-like behavior and mock the stretching antics of the other racers.
As I was contemplating skipping the race entirely, going home, and crawling back into my warm bed, a man who looked a lot like Howard Stern but with a shorter, poofy, curly mullet tamed only by a striped headband, offset by pimp-style sunglasses and velour highwater running pants approached me. For some reason he felt compelled to tell me about his plans for the race and how he would probably do better had he not been a pack-a-day smoker for 20 years back in the good old days. He then cackled to himself, spit a glob of phlegm on my rock, and headed to the race start. I noted that I should do everything in my power to stay either ahead of or far behind him, lest he exhibit such behavior on trail.
Within 20 minutes of my arrival about 150 people were gathered like sheep between a chute of little orange cones at the race start. A man with a bullhorn stood on a folding chair muttered something that sounded like an order at a drive-thru, waved a flag, and then a siren sounded. The mass of people took off as I stayed back to observe the scene. You see, the trails at this park are very narrow and it is for the most part through a river bottom that has lots of rocks and debris. As such, runners could only move along single file and there is not much room for passing and thus no need to rush.
Once the pack was actually moving I settled in behind two chatting women who informed me that they were on an 8-minute mile race pace. That sounded, and felt, fine to me so I trotted along single file behind them for approximately 8 minutes, at which point we saw the first mile marker and they abruptly stopped to walk. Apparantly they only intended to do one 8-minute mile and then walk the remainder of the trail. I opted to continue on and soon fell in with another single-file string of runners at the same rough pace.
I was again trotting along when I heard what I thought was someone gasping for air. Usually if you are running a gasper tends to fall back in the race and walk, but this man was gaining on me. He was heaving as if in the throes of an asthma attack and I was concerned for his health. Thinking it may be my Sternesgue phlegm-spewing friend, I turned to look at him. The sight nearly caused me to lose my balance. It was indeed a man, gasping and flailing in a unique running style, but to add to the style was the fact that he wore some vintage blue satin Dolphin running shorts. You remember those, right? Supertight and supershort, read: not for men? He must not have gotten the memo back in 1976. To make matters worse, he had large, pasty white legs covered in dark, curly hair sticking out from the satin shorts. So there he was, gulping air, flailing his arms and legs, making heaving sounds, all the while gaining ground on me. Then, he passed me. I was shocked, amazed, bewildered, and not sure what had just gone by and determined to pick up my own pace so I too surged ahead, chasing a heaving man in tight satin shorts. I couldn't keep up and settled in behind another runner who had no apparant maladies or strange tendencies.
We chugged along for another mile and a half when all of a sudden we reached a loop where the trail outward overlapped the trail coming in. So runners that were ahead were coming back on the same trails as we slower folks. This was a reality check as I realized there were tons of people far ahead of me and I had no hope of winning any age division. Then it happened, a young boy, probably about 10 years old, came zipping by in the opposite direction. I saw him approaching, looking spiffy in his matching running outfit, and I couldn't help but encourage him by saying "Good job" as he nodded at me. It was then that I realized I was one of millions of people in the middle of the pack at fun runs on that very Saturday in other towns - who don't run to win, or to prove anything, so I really had no reason to be there at all other than to finish.
And what an anti-climactic finish it was - someone took the number off my chest and gave me a t-shirt I will never wear, an unripe orange and a bottle of water.
In the end, I much prefer running around town in a costume chasing a beer truck...
Saturday was the big event. Check-in was at 8:00 a.m. - a time at which the most exercise I usually participate in is rolling over and stretching in bed with an occassional yawn thrown in as aerobic training. Luckily, the start was four miles from my house. Initially, I had a grandiose plan to rise early and ride my bike to the start. That plan was quashed by my repeated use of the snooze button on this particular morning. Once I finally arose there was barely enough time to lace up my sneakers and throw on some shorts before heading out.
Seeing as how Ojai is a small community I expected there to be between 20 and 30 people at the run, and had a glimmer of hope that I might, without any training for the event, win my age division. This thought was supported by the handmade signs (cardboard pieces with balck magic marker writing on them) leading to the 5k start as I headed toward the venue. You can image my dismay as I pulled up to the "fun run" to see people clad in lycra and high-tech materials doing high-kneed sprints up and down the road in preparation for what they were treating as a race. As I stood in the check-in line behind folks who munched Powerbars and drank sports drinks I listened to people discuss their race strategies, projected split times, and hopes for placement. I realized this was an event to which people came to compete - against themselves and eachother. Humbled by this realization, I headed over to a nearby rock to feign race-like behavior and mock the stretching antics of the other racers.
As I was contemplating skipping the race entirely, going home, and crawling back into my warm bed, a man who looked a lot like Howard Stern but with a shorter, poofy, curly mullet tamed only by a striped headband, offset by pimp-style sunglasses and velour highwater running pants approached me. For some reason he felt compelled to tell me about his plans for the race and how he would probably do better had he not been a pack-a-day smoker for 20 years back in the good old days. He then cackled to himself, spit a glob of phlegm on my rock, and headed to the race start. I noted that I should do everything in my power to stay either ahead of or far behind him, lest he exhibit such behavior on trail.
Within 20 minutes of my arrival about 150 people were gathered like sheep between a chute of little orange cones at the race start. A man with a bullhorn stood on a folding chair muttered something that sounded like an order at a drive-thru, waved a flag, and then a siren sounded. The mass of people took off as I stayed back to observe the scene. You see, the trails at this park are very narrow and it is for the most part through a river bottom that has lots of rocks and debris. As such, runners could only move along single file and there is not much room for passing and thus no need to rush.
Once the pack was actually moving I settled in behind two chatting women who informed me that they were on an 8-minute mile race pace. That sounded, and felt, fine to me so I trotted along single file behind them for approximately 8 minutes, at which point we saw the first mile marker and they abruptly stopped to walk. Apparantly they only intended to do one 8-minute mile and then walk the remainder of the trail. I opted to continue on and soon fell in with another single-file string of runners at the same rough pace.
I was again trotting along when I heard what I thought was someone gasping for air. Usually if you are running a gasper tends to fall back in the race and walk, but this man was gaining on me. He was heaving as if in the throes of an asthma attack and I was concerned for his health. Thinking it may be my Sternesgue phlegm-spewing friend, I turned to look at him. The sight nearly caused me to lose my balance. It was indeed a man, gasping and flailing in a unique running style, but to add to the style was the fact that he wore some vintage blue satin Dolphin running shorts. You remember those, right? Supertight and supershort, read: not for men? He must not have gotten the memo back in 1976. To make matters worse, he had large, pasty white legs covered in dark, curly hair sticking out from the satin shorts. So there he was, gulping air, flailing his arms and legs, making heaving sounds, all the while gaining ground on me. Then, he passed me. I was shocked, amazed, bewildered, and not sure what had just gone by and determined to pick up my own pace so I too surged ahead, chasing a heaving man in tight satin shorts. I couldn't keep up and settled in behind another runner who had no apparant maladies or strange tendencies.
We chugged along for another mile and a half when all of a sudden we reached a loop where the trail outward overlapped the trail coming in. So runners that were ahead were coming back on the same trails as we slower folks. This was a reality check as I realized there were tons of people far ahead of me and I had no hope of winning any age division. Then it happened, a young boy, probably about 10 years old, came zipping by in the opposite direction. I saw him approaching, looking spiffy in his matching running outfit, and I couldn't help but encourage him by saying "Good job" as he nodded at me. It was then that I realized I was one of millions of people in the middle of the pack at fun runs on that very Saturday in other towns - who don't run to win, or to prove anything, so I really had no reason to be there at all other than to finish.
And what an anti-climactic finish it was - someone took the number off my chest and gave me a t-shirt I will never wear, an unripe orange and a bottle of water.
In the end, I much prefer running around town in a costume chasing a beer truck...
Friday, October 08, 2004
Extreme Makeover DMV Edition
For years I have carried around what may very well be the most hideous driver's license in existence. I know everyone complains about their license pictures, but I honestly have good cause to do so. I have always known it was bad but could never bring myself to be so vain as to go get a replacement license just for the fact that it was hideous. So you can imagine how pleased I, and many of my friends, were to learn that it was finally time to get a new license. It was only when the woman at the DMV asked for my old license and actually gasped in horror at the sight of it that I realized how dire the situation has been.
First let me say that I blame the Navy for the whole thing. At the tender age of 17 they brainwashed me into thinking that short, butch-type haircuts are acceptable on straight women. They also led me to believe that eating lots of fried food and drinking five pints of beer a day was a healthy diet. They also issued me terrible eyeglasses, which we recruits referred to as BC's - birth control glasses - because no one looks good in them and they have a propensity to repel members of the opposite sex. I know, I wasn't in the Navy forever, so I should have eventually realized this was not a good look, right? It's not that simple...
After the Navy no one notified me of the problems of having this plumped out, butch, waldoesque look because I went to college at Humboldt State University - a college known for it's "Humboldt Honeys" also commonly classified as unnattractive, overweight pseudo-lesbians. I assume people just thought I was one of the "Honeys" and, in the spirit of tolerance, just let me continue on in my Navy/butch/honey ways.
It was in this Navy/butch/Honey state that I returned to southern California five years ago and went to get my driver's license. The photo is of me with a crew cut, round face, blue sweatshirt, and, of course, the BC's. As if the photo alone weren't bad enough, my parents got me a puppy three years ago and the puppy got hold of my wallet and chewed the license up a bit. So for three years I've been carrying around as identification a picture of me at my worst with one corner chewed off and bite marks throughout.
People have occassionally commented at the sight of the license, and it is not uncommon for those who scare easily to gasp. Several of my friends insist on my showing it to strangers just to start conversations. CL, of the pillow addiction, once revealed that he would not have gone out with me had he known I had that license. In fact, as recently as this summer I was carded to get my over-21 wristband at a concert (yes, I still get carded and I am happy about that!) and the license brought me some attention. The attendant looked at the license, looked at me, and said, "That doesn't look like you." I responded, "It is, I was on Extreme MakeOver." She looked at the license, then at me, and said, "Wow! They did a really good job!" Then others in line were looking at the license and me and commenting and asking when the show would air. I enjoyed their reactions so much that I use the Extreme Makeover response regularly now - the scary thing is that people believe it!
So I made my appointment and went in for the new photo on Wednesday. I was sure to arrive early enough to put on some make up and comb my hair prior to the big event. But as I stood line line, waiting my turn, I couldn't help but think how fun it has been to have the world's most hideous license - just for the reactions - and that it was indeed, a sad thing to have to give up. By the time my feet were in place and I was in front of the blue screen I resolved to pay some sort of respect to the legacy that has been my drivers license for the past five years, so I put on my glasses, contorted my face and prayed for the worst. We'll see how it turned out in a few weeks...
First let me say that I blame the Navy for the whole thing. At the tender age of 17 they brainwashed me into thinking that short, butch-type haircuts are acceptable on straight women. They also led me to believe that eating lots of fried food and drinking five pints of beer a day was a healthy diet. They also issued me terrible eyeglasses, which we recruits referred to as BC's - birth control glasses - because no one looks good in them and they have a propensity to repel members of the opposite sex. I know, I wasn't in the Navy forever, so I should have eventually realized this was not a good look, right? It's not that simple...
After the Navy no one notified me of the problems of having this plumped out, butch, waldoesque look because I went to college at Humboldt State University - a college known for it's "Humboldt Honeys" also commonly classified as unnattractive, overweight pseudo-lesbians. I assume people just thought I was one of the "Honeys" and, in the spirit of tolerance, just let me continue on in my Navy/butch/honey ways.
It was in this Navy/butch/Honey state that I returned to southern California five years ago and went to get my driver's license. The photo is of me with a crew cut, round face, blue sweatshirt, and, of course, the BC's. As if the photo alone weren't bad enough, my parents got me a puppy three years ago and the puppy got hold of my wallet and chewed the license up a bit. So for three years I've been carrying around as identification a picture of me at my worst with one corner chewed off and bite marks throughout.
People have occassionally commented at the sight of the license, and it is not uncommon for those who scare easily to gasp. Several of my friends insist on my showing it to strangers just to start conversations. CL, of the pillow addiction, once revealed that he would not have gone out with me had he known I had that license. In fact, as recently as this summer I was carded to get my over-21 wristband at a concert (yes, I still get carded and I am happy about that!) and the license brought me some attention. The attendant looked at the license, looked at me, and said, "That doesn't look like you." I responded, "It is, I was on Extreme MakeOver." She looked at the license, then at me, and said, "Wow! They did a really good job!" Then others in line were looking at the license and me and commenting and asking when the show would air. I enjoyed their reactions so much that I use the Extreme Makeover response regularly now - the scary thing is that people believe it!
So I made my appointment and went in for the new photo on Wednesday. I was sure to arrive early enough to put on some make up and comb my hair prior to the big event. But as I stood line line, waiting my turn, I couldn't help but think how fun it has been to have the world's most hideous license - just for the reactions - and that it was indeed, a sad thing to have to give up. By the time my feet were in place and I was in front of the blue screen I resolved to pay some sort of respect to the legacy that has been my drivers license for the past five years, so I put on my glasses, contorted my face and prayed for the worst. We'll see how it turned out in a few weeks...
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Step Away From the Pillow
Let me preface this post by saying that I am not a huge proponent of attempting to stay friends with your exes. It never works because one person always wants more from the other. That comment aside, I will admit I am friends with my ex CL. One reason we are still friends is that we are sort of neighbors in a rural community and it is nice to have someone to call on when we each need help with something on a moment's notice.
A few months back CL needed some such neighborly/friendly assistance. Before I proceed you should know that CL is an addict. He no longer drinks or does drugs but he becomes excessively addicted to anything that gives him pleasure, i.e. sex, food, adrenaline rushes, etc. Anyhow, a few months back he called me in a panic and said he had a medical problem and needed my advice on it immediately. I am always willing to observe the suffering of an ex so I invited him over.
CL arrived looking quite sheepish and embarrassed. I asked what was wrong. He said it was his penis and there was something on it. At first I asked what I was supposed to do about it and he responded that he just wanted me to look at it to make sure it was something before he went to the doctor.
Knowingly that CL has slept with just about every girl at his gym I figured he must have an STD and figuring he would owe me at least two meals at my favorite restaurant for such a request and it would be a great story for Friday night happy hour with the girls, I agreed to look at it.
Sure enough, he whipped it out and there was a big, red blister on the bottom of it. I asked if he had been having unprotected sex and he said he hadn't had any sex in about four months. I was perplexed until I remembered that CL masturbates quite often and in a somewhat unusual manner - He rubs a pillow up against himself and/or humps a pillow - a throwback to his prison days. I put two and two together and asked if he had been abusing himself lately. He admitted he had been quite busy in that area and that he had indeed been using the pillow. I asked how often he was doing it and he said 6 to 8 times a day!!! I diagnosed him as being addicted to the pillow and advised that he cancel the Playboy channel and get a girlfriend or some lube.
After the incident I bought him a satin pillow on which I drew a woman's face and every once in a while I leave him phone messages pretending I am the pillow and telling him I need a break.
This is my dating pool folks.
A few months back CL needed some such neighborly/friendly assistance. Before I proceed you should know that CL is an addict. He no longer drinks or does drugs but he becomes excessively addicted to anything that gives him pleasure, i.e. sex, food, adrenaline rushes, etc. Anyhow, a few months back he called me in a panic and said he had a medical problem and needed my advice on it immediately. I am always willing to observe the suffering of an ex so I invited him over.
CL arrived looking quite sheepish and embarrassed. I asked what was wrong. He said it was his penis and there was something on it. At first I asked what I was supposed to do about it and he responded that he just wanted me to look at it to make sure it was something before he went to the doctor.
Knowingly that CL has slept with just about every girl at his gym I figured he must have an STD and figuring he would owe me at least two meals at my favorite restaurant for such a request and it would be a great story for Friday night happy hour with the girls, I agreed to look at it.
Sure enough, he whipped it out and there was a big, red blister on the bottom of it. I asked if he had been having unprotected sex and he said he hadn't had any sex in about four months. I was perplexed until I remembered that CL masturbates quite often and in a somewhat unusual manner - He rubs a pillow up against himself and/or humps a pillow - a throwback to his prison days. I put two and two together and asked if he had been abusing himself lately. He admitted he had been quite busy in that area and that he had indeed been using the pillow. I asked how often he was doing it and he said 6 to 8 times a day!!! I diagnosed him as being addicted to the pillow and advised that he cancel the Playboy channel and get a girlfriend or some lube.
After the incident I bought him a satin pillow on which I drew a woman's face and every once in a while I leave him phone messages pretending I am the pillow and telling him I need a break.
This is my dating pool folks.
Monday, August 23, 2004
An Almost Olympic Moment
I intentionally stayed in on Friday night so that I could be up and cognizant in time to watch the women's marathon at the Olympics. I wouldn't normally watch a marathon...Who really needs to see 81 sweaty women with 0% body fat run for two hours? But this time I had to watch. You see prior to running in a red dress in search of beer I actually ran for medals and ribbons and the like. When I found out that one of my former competitors, Deena Kastor, was slated to compete in the Olympic marathon I had to watch. Seeing Deena run on NBC Saturday took me back to those glory days and made me wonder what might have been...
The year was 1988, it was six months after my arrest and part of my "rehabilitation" effort required that I take up a sport and become "involved" at school. It turned out the local police knew I could run and informed a counselor at the school so I ended up on the cross-country team. It seemed like an easy enough sport - you just had to put on some shoes and run. I also realized that you got to miss class to go to meets in which all you had to do was run for about 18-20 minutes and then listen to music and watch the event. Not a bad gig if you can get it. Besides, I was a little, scrawny thing that lived off of microwave popcorn and Pepsi and wasn't really suited for any other sport.
One of the best races of my career occurred that fall at the Paramount Ranch Invitational in Agoura, California. The course ran through the sets and scenes where they filmed Little House on the Prairie. It was really a cros-country race - there was even a water crossing in which we splashed across a creek. It was on that course that I crossed paths with, and beat, a young Deena Drossin (now Kastor). Of course, it was a freak incident for me - some speculated I must have cut the course - and she beat me the other dozen or so times we raced. Still, on the Saturday morning of the Olympic marathon I pulled out my old scrap book, donned my high school running jersey, popped a bag of Blast 'O Butter, opened a Pepsi, and dreamed of what might have been...
After I accepting my imaginary Olympic medal I was pulled back into reality considering the enormity of what it must have taken Deena to get to the Olympics hit me. I pondered her deidication and commitment to a goal and retraced my life in comparison to hers...I figured that for every beer I'd had she must have run at least a mile; for every annoying boyfriend, a demanding coach instead; for every spontaneous trip - a training schedule; early to bed rather than dancing the night away; having to choose a PowerBar over extra crispy french fries, Gatorade in lieu of a cosmopolitan, running shoes rather than heels. As I closed the scrap book, proud of my old competitor Deena I realized that for me the memories count than the medals.
I know this was a cheesy post, but I was feeling sentimental...
The year was 1988, it was six months after my arrest and part of my "rehabilitation" effort required that I take up a sport and become "involved" at school. It turned out the local police knew I could run and informed a counselor at the school so I ended up on the cross-country team. It seemed like an easy enough sport - you just had to put on some shoes and run. I also realized that you got to miss class to go to meets in which all you had to do was run for about 18-20 minutes and then listen to music and watch the event. Not a bad gig if you can get it. Besides, I was a little, scrawny thing that lived off of microwave popcorn and Pepsi and wasn't really suited for any other sport.
One of the best races of my career occurred that fall at the Paramount Ranch Invitational in Agoura, California. The course ran through the sets and scenes where they filmed Little House on the Prairie. It was really a cros-country race - there was even a water crossing in which we splashed across a creek. It was on that course that I crossed paths with, and beat, a young Deena Drossin (now Kastor). Of course, it was a freak incident for me - some speculated I must have cut the course - and she beat me the other dozen or so times we raced. Still, on the Saturday morning of the Olympic marathon I pulled out my old scrap book, donned my high school running jersey, popped a bag of Blast 'O Butter, opened a Pepsi, and dreamed of what might have been...
After I accepting my imaginary Olympic medal I was pulled back into reality considering the enormity of what it must have taken Deena to get to the Olympics hit me. I pondered her deidication and commitment to a goal and retraced my life in comparison to hers...I figured that for every beer I'd had she must have run at least a mile; for every annoying boyfriend, a demanding coach instead; for every spontaneous trip - a training schedule; early to bed rather than dancing the night away; having to choose a PowerBar over extra crispy french fries, Gatorade in lieu of a cosmopolitan, running shoes rather than heels. As I closed the scrap book, proud of my old competitor Deena I realized that for me the memories count than the medals.
I know this was a cheesy post, but I was feeling sentimental...
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