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.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
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...
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