It seems that every year around this time, when the evenings are cool and the days become shorter, I find myself wishing for one more chance. Just one more opportunity to leave work behind and rent that small beachfront cottage for a week. I’d ask that I be called only in case of an emergency, and would spend my days reading, tending a fishing pole, peeling steamed shrimp, and napping under an oversized beach umbrella. At the end of every evening, a steamy shower in the outdoor shower stall with a view of the stars above, the scent of the ocean, and my skin tingling from too much sun, followed by a glass of wine on an old sunbleached porch.
I’m making a promise to myself to make this happen next year.
What do you wish you had done this summer?
I’ve been tagged by my favorite troll, Yorksnbeans over at Two Yorks and a Bean . Being a tag virgin I didn’t know what to make of this, but it turned out to be fun…AND it got me off my lazy non-blogging fanny! Thanks, YnB!
Now, I’m supposed to tag 3 – 4 others. This is the easiest part of the deal because I love me some men, so gentlemen…you are hereby TAGGED. Don’t wuss out on me. Just copy the questions and paste them to your blog, replacing my answers with yours. The world awaits….
SO MANY QUESTIONS:
1. Grab the book nearest to you, turn on page 18 and find line 4. through the glass wall to Deeber’s office. Heads were
2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can & catch _____. a wicker “catch-all” ottoman
3. What is the last thing you watched on TV? Anthony Bourdain’s “No Reservations” (I could eat him with a spoon. Seriously.)
4. Without looking, guess what time it is? 9:00 p.m.
5. Now look at the clock, what is the actual time? 9:09 p.m.
6. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear? The television in the background, and the cat’s (also named Simon!) incessant yowling because he wants some of this ice cream sandwich. It ain’t happening.
7. When did you last step outside? What were you doing? This evening. Yet anotherafter-work fishing expedition with #1 son!
8. Before you started this Q&As, what did you look at? Pics my son took of me with the cell phone. No one will EVER see these. Ever!
9. What are you wearing? cropped jeans, flip flops and a pink hoodie
10. When did you last laugh? This evening after we all ate cabbage. I’m sure you’ll figure it out!
11. What is on the walls of the room you are in? Pictures, large metal star, floating shelf with candles and I’m ashamed to say this but….I think that’s a cobweb in the corner.
12. Seen anything weird lately? The rear end of a big SUV. Up close. While driving in heavy traffic on the interstate in a van borrowed from a dear friend this past weekend. And if you’re reading this….your brakes are in fine shape!
13. What do you think of this quiz? How many did I get right?
14. What is the last film you saw? Hancock. Just subscribed to NetFlix and watched it on the laptop. Love it! I can tell I’ll have to ration my computer time though.
15. If you became a multimillionaire overnight, what’s the first thing you would do? Call work. From Hatteras, NC.
16. Tell me something about you that I dunno! The smoke from my own cigarettes offends me, and I think about quitting every day.
17. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt or politics, what would you do? Get rid of nuclear and long range weapons. Revert to hand-to-hand combat. Let’s make it personal.
18. Do you like to Dance? Yes!
19. Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her? I wanted boys and luckily that’s what I got! Good thing too, because I wouldn’t know what to name her. I’d probably pick something totally duh, like Barbie.
20. Imagine your first child is a boy, what do you call him? Don’t have to imagine. He IS a boy. Rocky. And if you laugh I’ll beat you up.
21. Would you ever consider living abroad? No. Did it as a child. Everything and everyone I love is right here. Think I”ll stay.
22. What do you want GOD to say to you when you reach the pearly gates? Rejoice! For thou art not in deep shit for denying me. Here are the keys to thy penthouse suite.
23. What time is it now? 9:40 p.m.
Working in a Minnesota logging camp will harden a young boy, but the times were hard. They were simple people, working with their hands and moving to wherever work could be found. For this 13-year old boy, leaving school to work with his father in the camps was the natural thing to do. It was the right thing to do. They needed money desperately. The icy winter winds pushed snow through the cracks of their tiny shack, and food and firewood was scarce. So in the mid-1940’s, at the age of 13, when many other young boys were walking to school with bellies full of hot breakfast, Buddy and his father would catch the large, rumbling horse-drawn cart that rolled through town to ferry men to the logging camp. It was a long, cold ride up the mountainside, and Buddy warmed his hands on the wood-burning stove at the front of the cart. And he never gave it a second thought.
He worked alongside his father for several years, cutting trees and loading timber onto the skids. Commanding the horse-drawn skids, he would deliver the loads to the mill, navigating over snow, mud and ice. But for all of the danger and back-breaking work, the money was barely enough to get by.
So he lied. He lied about his age as many young men did then. The Army would take him if he was 18, but he was 2 years short. A lie would feed his parents and younger sister. A lie would buy firewood and coats. And a lie would carry him out of the logging camps.
The Army took the 16-year old man. They fed him, clothed him and provided money that he could send home. Buddy found self-respect. He found a new family. And by the age of 16, he was already a man – supporting a family. He was independent. Self-sufficient. And while it meant that he would rarely ever see his family again, he knew he was doing the right thing – for himself, his family and for his country. He was grateful for this opportunity and swore a deeper internal oath of loyalty to the family that turned his life around. The years passed. And while he missed his biological family, he was willing to make the sacrifice and never gave it a second thought.
Buddy was a tall and lanky, sarcastic, bar-brawling, uneducated but street-smart loyal soldier. She was a petite smart and pretty university student in Kyoto. And he loved her. While visiting a mutual friend in an Army hospital, two people from entirely different worlds met. Her family was well known in Kyoto. She was the grand daughter of a Samurai, and the youngest of 8 sisters. Gracious. Educated. And gentle. Buddy’s face and body already carried the scars and lines of a man 10 years older than him, and worse, he was an American soldier. But his eyes were the palest shade of blue. He had freckles and his hair was strawberry blonde…and she saw a gentleness, honesty and an integrity that can only be born from true hardship and ultimate survival.
Their love for each other would bring its sacrifices, too. Tsuruno’s family was disgraced when she and Buddy married, and they disowned her. Her command of the English language was limited. Being the youngest of 8 sisters, she had never learned to cook, and living on a young soldier’s pay would be a monumental adjustment for her. But they complemented each other – she with her gentle grace and he with his farm boy ways, and she never gave it a second thought.
He did the cooking and washed her hair for her. She kept their trailer tidy and became acquainted with the neighbors. And god, they were poor. When their daughter was born they had no washing machine for diapers and baby clothes and sheets. But she had a beautiful persian lamb coat that she had brought to America with her, and a neighbor gladly gave her a wringer washing machine in exchange for it. And so it was. Buddy would take a second job sweeping the floor of the movie theater on post after it closed late at night to earn extra money… hiding rolls of bathroom tissue in his jacket to take home because they couldn’t afford it, and on some nights, Tsuruno and the baby accompanied him because she afraid to be alone , without him.
It’s not surprising that they came to call each other “Mother” and “Daddy”. Each cared for and supported the other in a way that would be thought odd in modern relationships. They were two orphans, each adopted by the other. Two distinct pulses only made palpable by the presence and feel of the other’s hand.
They were never apart, Mom and Dad. Except when he volunteered to put himself in harm’s way. First Korea, then Vietnam…twice. It was a gratitude and devotion to his country that sent him there. An installment on a note that he felt he could never pay in full, for a life he never believed he would have. And he didn’t think about it twice. Korea was hard for her with 2 small children and no drivers license. She relied on a little red wagon, pulled by my little brother and me, to cart the groceries on our long walks home from the store. Onlyn eight years later, before he went to Vietnam, did he teach her how to drive. I was 14. I wasn’t allowed to go to the train station with him when he left. Instead, I was ordered to buck up and go to school like it was any other day, but when I got home there was a note on my bed. “You’re a good girl” he said. “Take care of mom and your little brother. I know you’ll be fine and I’ll think about you every day. Be strong. I love you. Dad”. Many years later, I realize that he didn’t want me to see him cry.
My little brother and I raised the flag to the top of our 20′ flagpole every morning. In the evening we would take it down and fold it properly, just as Dad taught us. We were good kids, knowing right from wrong, and disapproval from our parents was worse than a spanking. The 3 of us took care of each other, doing what needed to be done around the house. They’d brought us up that way. Adapt. Adjust. Take care of business and don’t cry. But Mom’s belly was growing. She was tired all the time, and she cried. I, as a typical 14 year old, was happily ensconced in my own social life and didn’t pay a whole lot of notice. Dad would send little gifts home when he could, and he wrote every week. About once a month, he would send a reel-to-reel audio tape home…a day-to-day diary of his experiences in the area they occupied. Stories of waking up with schrapnel in his bed, bouts with malaria, of his unit’s efforts to teach the South Vietnamese how to defend themselves, armed and escorted trips to Saigon, and always in closing, how much he loved us and his country. Mom kept a calendar in the kitchen, marking off each day of his tour and awaiting his safe return home. When the time came for his tour to end, he made a rare phone call home.
“If I agree to extend my tour for 3 more months, I’ll come home with a promotion”. For Mom, there was nothing to consider. He had to come home. He had two children who are now teenagers, and they need their father. And once he heard that, there were no second thoughts for him, either. Ultimately, he knew it was Mom who needed him, and he returned home. What I and my father didn’t know was that Mom was very sick. She had kept it from him so that he wouldn’t be distracted with worry. The day after he got home, she went into surgery to have a football-sized tumor removed from her uterus.
One week later, his entire unit and the town it occupied were blown to oblivion. There were no survivors. His unwitting savior…”Mother”.
He would go back, one more time. Always grateful for the chance to serve his country. Always the patriot. And as always, I was not allowed to see him off.
The years have passed and he has mellowed. They have been married for 52 years. No longer the hard-drinking, sarcastic soldier, he retired and he and Mom share their comfortable dream home right outside the gates of the Army base. She dotes on him and cooks his favorite dishes. He putters around the garage and tends to the vegetable garden. Dad’s closest friend of 25 years lives just a few doors away. Barney is a retired colonel who loves this old soldier more than he loves his own brother, and they sit in the garage in the afternoons, drinking a beer and sharing stories. Buddy moves slowly now and his breathing is somewhat labored. He stands at the living room window every morning and says “Mother, I never dreamed we’d have a life this good.” While still gentle and gracious, she now has hardened from a life filled with change and necessary adjustment. They go everywhere together. She lets him drive. Together, they have raised a son and a daughter who are hard-working, honest and do the right thing. Life IS good.
He’s gone now. He knew he’d been ill for a long time and didn’t tell us because he didn’t want us to be distracted with worry. He never sought treatment, nor did he seek disability payment from his country. It had already given him more than he could repay, and he had already lived the dream. The doctors and nurses in the hospital room couldn’t save him, and when it was clear he was gone, Mom, my little brother, and I were called in. And in that tiny room a pulse, barely palpable by the loving hands that desperately felt for it, faded away.
We made the long and quiet ride home from the hospital. Even today, we don’t remember much of that trip. We do remember that upon arriving at the home she and Buddy shared, the flag on the 20 foot flagpole was flying at half-mast, and in the garage, a large American flag was draped over his favorite chair. Barney was there waiting to pay his respects and honor Buddy as the patriot he was. And he was there to grieve.
The funeral service was short and simple, as he would have wanted. No pomp and circumstance. No color guard. A folded flag, his Army medals and awards are modestly displayed on a pedestal near the box containing his ashes. I want to stand up and tell everyone what an incredible man he was. I want to tell them about the boy in the logging camp, about a 16-year old boy supporting a family, about the love between a man and a woman, about his devotion to his country and a debt now paid. And how proud I am to be his daughter. But I can’t. I hesitate, and the words are caught in my throat.
That was 6 years ago. There’s no one to raise the flag anymore. Barney still visits the home that Mom now lives in alone. She keeps a small refrigerator in the garage stocked with beer for him. He thinks about Buddy every day, and when he begins a story about one of their hunting expeditions, the tears begin to well and he stops. He and his wife still bring food to the house nearly every day. They, and my brother and I, are taking care of Mom. She’s strong, and life is good.
Today, I boxed up some old clothing to take to Goodwill. Reluctantly, I placed Dad’s old coat with the furry collar into the car. A long time ago, he gave it to me to wear because it had gotten chilly, and I never had the chance to return it to him. Music playing on the radio, and with windows open to the warm summer air, I drove to the Goodwill donation center to drop off the clothing. Two men came out to meet me – one young, and the other an older man with an accent. They helped to unload everything, until only the coat was left. I brought out the old coat and hugged it, stroking the fur collar and I think. Then, on handing it to the older gentleman, I looked in his eyes.
“This….is my father’s coat. He’s gone now. He meant the world to me.”
Through damp eyes, I saw him drape the coat gently over his arm. “I understand. This coat will bring happiness to someone.”
And I know you understand, Dad. We’re taking care of Mom and life is good. I’m stong and I think about you every day. I just didn’t want you to see me cry.
Thank you for the August Beanie Award, YNB! It was fun trying to figure out which body parts belong to whom, and frankly it was pure luck that I guessed as many as I did. Well, luck…and the fact that I CAN SEE ALL OF YOU from over here with Google’s new Google Blogger Monitor. That’s right. So Tannerleah, quit watching porn, or at least turn up the volume so I can hear. And Delicate Flower, tell Joe to feel you up when he’s out of range of the laptop please? Thank you.
And kudos again to Two Yorks and a Bean for her fun, interactive blog. You rule, girl 
I’ll wear my Beanie with pride.
p.s. I want ta-tas like YNB’s when I grow up.
Daddy’s little girl thought she wanted to be a ballerina. When she was 7, she would twirl around the house and walk on her tippy toes. He couldn’t afford ballet lessons for her back then, but she was his little ballerina nonetheless. By the time she turned 12, she had become a chronic twist-a-holic. He would applaud for her at the twist contest every Sunday at the NCO club at Camp De Loge, France. Yet more twisting at her school talent shows, and with Chubby Checkers and Elvis Presley tunes playing on the old portable phonograh that she’d set up in the backyard, she and her girlfriends would dance away many warm Saturday afternoons on the patio. A dancing fool.
Well, I’m a little older now, but the old girl’s still got the rhythm and wants to get up and dance when she hears a good beat, soooooooo…..
Tomorrow is Friday! It’s time to shrug off the stress of the week! Move that furniture, folks! Put the kids to bed, put the cat outside, secure all loose baggage, crank up the volume and let ‘er rip! I’m gonna dance with myself, because I don’t think anyone could keep up with me…
Last night, I sent a dear friend the link to a strange YouTube video. Their comment to me was:
“8 p.m. on a Saturday, and this is what I’m doing. Watching this.”
Which is ironic, because in that brief statement, he summarized some thoughts that have been occupying my mind over the past couple of years. On two fronts. The first is probably the obvious – not having a regular “significant other” and therefore being an “I”, rather than a “we”. The second concern is living what might appear to be a boring life.
I don’t know why some of us live a large part of our lives alone, and others seem to move out of one relationship and into another with barely a breath in between. Is one any better than the other? There are needy and desperate people out there, and we’ve all known a few. The ones who, after having shared only a couple of meals, want to pull you into their family and give you a starring role in their life story. Or the ones I refer to as “jello” - they easily fit into any mold you give them because, by golly, they are your soulmate. You just don’t know it yet. Most of the people I’ve known who fit in that category are women, and I HATE that about my sister girls. Confession: I did it once – 33 years ago, and to those out there who make that same mistake over and over? You need a beat-down.
What’s probably become apparent is that yours truly is now spending her time alone, and there are a lot of us doing just that. For me, maybe it’s 75% choice, and it’s the unregrettable and right choice for now, for many reasons. If you want to break that down, one might say I’m satisifed 75% of the time, which is also true. Hey, there aren’t that many women who remain single for 15 years after a divorce. The mysterious number that remains – the 25 – represents those moments when one feels alone, and wonders – about a lot of things – the what ifs, the should I’s, the I wants and the I deserves, and the possible negative consequences of her choices. I’ve found the best way avoid those moments is to get naked and slip between the sheets with a good, thick vibrator book. Or make that booty call. Just kidding. Maybe.
Anyway, I’ve spent way too much time redirecting the traffic between the brain and fingers to push this post out. It’s like straining on the toilet. You know it’s going to come out eventually, but jesus, why is it taking so long? So, to sum up my beliefs about what’s boring and what isn’t, I guess it’s all relative, isnt it? If I told you I spent the morning on the sun porch, watching the rainstorm roll in, admiring the gold finch on the birdfeeder, and swatting at this goddamned pet dove because all she wants to do is perch on my head (an unwelcome distraction from the aforementioned straining), is that boring? Or would someone say they wish they’d had a morning when their biggest concern was whether a bird was going to poop on their head?
This solitary writer’s eventful morning:
One forkful of tomatoes and feta cheese drenched in olive oil and vinegar.
A singular lemon-colored finch on the birdfeeder.
The crisp white sheets on the bed are crumpled now. I’ll make a big deal out of making the bed again – just so – with the down comforter layered between 2 freshly-laundered sheets. Fluff the pillows and smooth out the wrinkles on the coverlet.
A brilliant emerald-hued hummingbird, finally visiting the feeder I’ve set out for months.
The way my kid said “good morning” in that flat, dull way he says it every morning. And I’m grateful because I know one day he’ll move away and I’ll miss those morning mutterings.
The relief at finally completing this post, without being shit on.
And I challenge anybody to top that.
Confucious say, “Beware of woman carrying lip gloss and tape measure. Noodle may not measure up.”
Spank me. Please. I stepped away from this blog at the worst time ever – smack in the middle of a series, for crying out loud. Where are my manners? I deserve harsh punishment.
So…..now that the self-flagellation is over, it’s time for some bondage, latex and Crisco. Tell me what a bad girl I’ve been. What? Oh….right. Another time…
We’re ending this series of “Show me your Purse” pictures with a snapshot submitted by none other than Two Yorks and a Bean! I love this gal’s blog. She has a talent for finding cool ways to get her fans to interact with one another, and it’s a fun place to visit. Hers is one of the few blogs I’ve checked many times during my hiatus because it seems to be the place where everyone stops in to comment regularly. Kinda like walking into the local coffee shop on the way to work!
So, Ms. YNB, do not leave your purse unattended if I’m around, because I think I’d have to steal borrow it for like, an extended period of time. Like a swag bag on steroids, it’s chock full of girly stuff AND a Stanley tape measure AND a thumb drive AND the perfect shade of lip gloss. What more could a woman want?
Thank you, YNB, for submitting your girly stuff for our collective scrutiny! And thank all of you for participating in this series. It’s been great fun, and I promise to be a good girl and not shun my blogging duties from now on. Much. (Fluttering eyelashes)
Photo credit: Two Yorks and a Bean
We’re nearing the end of our pocket picking expedition! Thanks to all of you who sent in pictures of your pocket or purse junk! Tonight we get to take a peek into Barelyknittogether’s purse, and in a few days we’ll see what Two Yorks and a Bean is toting around!
Without a doubt, Barelyknittogether is among the most talented people I’ve had the pleasure of “meeting” here. Frankly, I don’t know how she finds the time to crank out her thought-provoking posts and morsels of creative writing. She’s incredible in my book, and anyone who disagrees with me is wrong!
While she admits that she considered staging her purse contents to look more interesting, and then decided against it, I gotta ask…what is THIS?? Girl, I dunno what you would have added to make this more curious, other than, oh..a handful of earthworms and a parachute.
Photo credit: Barelyknittogether
For Cletus.
Your friend always, Sweats Model
I’m going to borrow some space here to explain my brief hiatus from blog world. I’ve been busy! Yeah, yeah. I see you rolling your eyeballs. Though I’m at a loss to tell you what’s been taking up my time or what was accomplished, it FEELS like there hasn’t been much time to come here, or when there was, I spent it in the sunroom overlooking the yard, drinking iced lattes and smoking my brains out. Or assuming a horizontal position in front of the t.v. until the right side of my face takes on the texture of the sofa upholstery. Anyway…
Truth is, we’re implementing a new web-based HR and Payroll Information System at work, and since my department is small (moi and my very sweet but technically unsavvy assistant…and forget the Finance Department, the short-sighted, reclusive cubicle slugs, as the implementation requires a huge time commitment, data extraction and actual INTERACTION WITH OTHER HUMAN BEINGS ), the success of the project rests solely on yours truly. So the last thing I’ve wanted to do is to strain the last remaining brain cells to come up with something to write about. Forgive me. I’ve missed you folks and will make a better effort to come by over the next few weeks. Mmmmkay?
AND NOW I’d like to continue with our pocket and purse analysis…voyeurs that we are! Woman in Black, whom I absolutely adore, has offered up this picture of her purse contents. If you haven’t already visited her blog, please do it now. You won’t regret it. WIB is a newspaper columnist in the UK with a killer (as in incredibly funny…not murderous) and caustic style that I love. The junk in her purse fittingly suggests a complex Woman in Black, don’t you think? It feels as though the missing object is a small (and very sharp) dagger…
Photo credit: Woman in Black
It’s only fitting that while the digs of our favorite convict and former convenience store owner, Ram Venkatararam, are featured here this week on Fundamental Jelly’s blog, we should also get a peek into his pockets. This was not easy to accomplish by any means, considering the fact that he’s in a maximum security penitentiary, and pockets are not an element of prison couture. Since his personal possessions were sealed in an 8 X 10 brown kraft envelope and locked in a strong box at Gravel Bay Maximum Security Penitentiary on the day he checked in for his 20-year stay, I can’t wait to hear how our friend was able to get past Warden Kelly to take this picture.
I’m a huge fan of Ram, and if you haven’t already checked out his blog, please pay him a visit. He’s a sweet, gentle man. Who just ran into some back luck. 20 years of it. So hang in there, Ram. We’ll wait for you! Me and little Jamie, Johnny, Arnell, Darnell, Fontell, Marijuan, Loqueesha, Bumqueesha and Mortimer (His daddy meant nothing to me!).
Photo credit: Ram Venkatararam, using contraband camera
This evening’s pocket-picking expedition is compliments of Alantru of Sick Days, where he chronicles life at the ficticious Hamish Industries with some whacky characters who could have been modeled after some of my co-workers. Maybe some of yours, too? Anyway, some of the comment threads on his posts are epic in length, and just as entertaining as his blog entries. Plus he’s a cute corporate puppy-head. Kind of makes you want to take him home, doesn’t it?
Here are the the goodies that fell out of Al’s (can I call you Al?) briefcase. My uncorrected vision saw a hotel room key, until Al deciphered the fob for me…”10 Downing Street. A pretty nice hotel!” Thank you, Alan!
Photo credit: Alantru
Delicate Flower over at Delicacies has agreed to let us pick through the contents of her purse, and while she admits that the weight of her personal cargo was recently trimmed for a trip to the west coast , it’s still a respectable load of woman-junk!
I recently became acquainted with Delicate Flower and her intimate blog through a mutual friend. DF is a divorced 50-something professional who openly writes about her experiences with online dating, aging, sex – you name it. She has even asked for help in naming her hoohoo! So check her out here, especially you manly-men. I’m sure she’d appreciate your opinions!
Photo credit: Delicate Flower
This is the first in a series of pocket-picking ventures. Many of you emptied your pockets and purses, snapped a picture of the stuff you’re carrying around and sent them in to me. Thank you!
Tonight we’re featuring the curious stash of a fine fellow who was one of the first to leave a comment on my blog and welcome me to this cursed addiction comfy place – our dear narcoleptic friend Fundamental Jelly. When he’s not in the desert leaving his DNA on jagged rocks and counting blunt-nosed lizards, he’s taking some pretty awesome photos, ducking proctologists and kidnapping harried housewives.
I’ll turn the comments section over to FJ. You’ve got some ’splainin’ to do!
Photo credit: Fundamental Jelly
So far, 3 readers have answered my request! Two men (one of whom wishes to remain anonymous, for reasons which will become apparent!) and one brave woman sent in pictures of the contents of their pockets or purse and I’m really looking forward to posting their photos and turning the comments section over to the owners of these bizarre collections.
I had planned to post the first incriminating picture of pocket goodies tonight, that of our friend Fundamental Jelly, but FJ is out in the desert tagging bearded plovers, collecting semen from wide-nostriled skinks, kidnapping innocent mothers or some such until Friday evening. So we’ll have to postpone it until Friday at the earliest.
(FJ, if you’re reading this, I hope you heard the collective “Awwwwww!” over the sounds of Alpo and BKT pillaging your collection of petrified monkey poop. To borrow from Crowded House…You’d better be home soon.)
During this brief intermission, I’m making a final plea for pictures, folks! See this face? This is my ‘pretty please’ face. If you don’t send in a pic, I may have to resort to blueberry wine for consolation. Or maybe blueberry wine. So email ‘em to Chessicatt@aol.com.
It’s a gorgeous Saturday afternoon here, and I’ve got the wanderlust….so I’ll dust off Brunhilde and head south. I wish we could follow some winding roads down to South Carolina, but I haven’t the time for that today. Still, a couple hundred miles along the backroads lined with honeysuckle sounds just fine.
So here’s a little John Hiatt driving music for you. Drive south, baby…
One of my favorite people in blog-world, Fundamental Jelly, had a great idea this week, inviting his readers to send him a picture of their home office or workspace, and each day he’ll give all of us a glimpse at the creative space of one of his readers.
Since I’m still in a writing slump and desperate for material, I thought I’d borrow the idea from FJ.
Here’s the preface:
It’s laundry night. The night you might unexpectedly find a 5 dollar bill in the dryer, or a limp and faded grocery list and some loose change in the washing machine.
Tonight held no such surprises for me, and while emptying the back pockets of a pair of my shorts all I found was a fishing hook and a 6″ rubber worm. Ok the worm is a little funny. The hook? Not so much.
So empty your pockets. Take a picture, crop or Photoshop the incriminating items out if you want, and send them to me (The pictures. Not the incriminating items. Unless it’s really good stuff). Tell us what’s there and why you have it. And girls, if you’re feeling brave, go ahead and empty your purse! If yours is anything like mine, you might need a wide angle lens.
Afterthought: It occurs to me an email address might be required (doh!) Chessicatt@aol.com
What was almost the newest body piercing.
Thinking back to what my idea of ‘fun’ was back in my early 2o’s. Illegal substances. Spending my last dollar on a beer. Sleeping in the parking lot. Looking out for the fuzz. Being broke. Making the 2 hour drive home, getting 1 hour of sleep, going to work and doing it all over the next weekend.
And oh, the beach trips. I used to make the drive every weekend from Memorial Day to Labor Day. Every weekend. No beach bag or lounge chair. Very little gas, and even less money, but who cared? We were gypsies then. What little we needed fit into one little shoulder pouch. And there was always room in the back seat for stoned-out Larry. He’d supply the weed if we gave him a ride to the beach, so off we’d go. Windows open, Pink Floyd and Led Zepplin playing on the 8-track, and Larry rolling joints in the back seat.
So now, some 30 years later, I’m chuckling at how things have changed. Well, in actuality, nothing has changed, really. Except us, right?
Just for laughs, I thought I’d let you folks in on a typical checklist for a beach trip in the early 70’s, and then compare it to the checklist for yesterday’s trip.
The 70’s list:
- String bikini. Is my nipple showing? No? How about now?
- Hey, I brought *my* beer money.
- Baby oil
- 1 beach towel
- 1 hairbrush
- Driver’s license or fake ID
- Set the towel down next to the good-lookin guys.
- Slather on the baby oil. Wink and smile. “Hey, there”.
The new list:
- Modest 2-piece bathing suit. It’s not like I’ll see anyone I know. Put that camera down, smartass!
- How far down is that raw bar? I’m not leaving here until I have a piece of their key lime pie. Or two.
- I think I put some SPF 70 in here. Is that umbrella heavy? Oh buck up. We’re almost there.
- Excuse me. Are those your sandy feet on the blanket?
- Did you bring an extra hat?
- F*ck. I forgot my reading glasses.
- Let’s move closer to the bathrooms. And away from these wet, sandy, squealing children.
- ”Hey, I tried to go before we left. But you rushed me”.
So when I’m 80, I hope I’ll turn to a friend and say, “Remember when we’d load our things into the sedan and drive those 2 long hours to the beach, before the morning constitutional? We were crazy then, weren’t we?”
Yes, we were.
I don’t know whether it’s other priorities or a general feeling of malaise, but yours truly can’t seem to bang out a full paragraph to save her ever lovin life lately. So to entertain you during this (hopefully short) intermission, here’s a tune I’m lovin.
I’d never heard of Meg Hutchinson until I caught her on the Coffee House channel of Sirius radio…which is the 1 thing I love most about XM and Sirius - you’re introduced to artists who typically receive little, if any, airtime on your local FM stations. Creepy thing about satellite though: If you listen to it enough (like I do) the lack of commercials and local info eventually makes you feel as though you’ve been living in solitary confinement or a bomb shelter, hungering for news from the outside. Or forced to sit in a dark theater for weeks on end, watching all of your favorite movies. Yeah it might be fun. At least until your skin turns pasty, your eyeballs sink back into your skull and your hair falls out.
Oh! One last thing. I went to a cookout last weekend and was introduced to the game “cornhole”. It’s a lawn game and despite what you’re thinking, no one’s naked or on their knees. Disappointed? Yeah, I was too. Anyway, it was a blast! So here’s a pic of me, cornholing. Yeah, baby.
Here, we illustrate how 3 hot dogs, a hamburger, cole slaw and fudge cake can settle in one's backside.
Oh…one more last thing. Tell me what you folks do to break out of these effing blahs. Or send me your chicken soup, mojo, voodoo chants, money, offers of meaningless sex, whatever. Or I may just call Liam. He owes me. And I’m not above calling in favors.
Dear Mr. Boring,
Are we absolutely sure you understand why I dumped you? You didn’t have much to say other than “Ok”. “Ok”. “Ok.” when I called tonight hissing and snarling, so I take that to mean…um…”ok”. I realize you may have been caught off guard since it’s unusual for me to call you, so just to make sure you really GET it this time, I’m going to tell you a little story. Bear with me here.
The scene is my kitchen, years ago when I was still married to a swarthy mediterranean. The ex is cooking, and I’ve entered the room. Here we go:
“An aromatic blend of rice and seasoned tomato sauce? Smells good…I think I can catch a whiff of cinnamon in there too! Mmmmm. I’m hungry! Sure I’ll have some! What’s that? You used fresh tomatoes? Awesome! I love fresh tomatoes!”
“Wait. Hold on. What is that mixed in with the rice? No, no. Over there. THAT thing. YOU KNOW WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT! WHAT IS THAT? (pointing) What did you say? Did you say octopus? Awwwwwwwwww naw. You did not tell me you were putting that sh*t in there. Oh hell no. Pick the octopus bits out of there! No??? What do you MEAN it’s good for me? I don’t give a sh*t! Look, did one of the tentacles just wiggle? Forget it. YOU eat it.”
You see, while I appreciated the effort my ex put into these dishes, I refused to eat them. I said “no”. Why, you ask? Does it even matter? Remember “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”? I’m sure there’s a scene where YiaYia pops some roasted lamb eyeballs in her mouth and does a little dance around the table, swinging yards of seasoned intestines while Nick sucks the brains out of Baa-Baa Blacksheep’s skull. Yum. Good for them and their barbaric tastes. But me? I’m just not into roasted intestines, slimey tentacles, or food that looks back at me. It doesn’t matter whether it’s “healthy food” or not, and no, I don’t care how fresh it is. If I do not like the looks and feel of it, it is absolutely not going in my mouth.
B
ut this isn’t really about greeks or their food. It’s about my fantasy of having my naked body smeared with rice and aromatic sauce and presenting myself, buffet-style, to a half dozen hard and hungry men. Just kidding. Here’s what I’m getting at, and what really frosts my still remarkably firm ass, Mr. Boring. Are you still with me here? Good. It’s people who ignore me when I say “No thank you”. Or who think I’m kidding when I emphatically say “I only want the rice part…NOT the whole octopus”. People who believe all I need is a little taste of the disgusting dish and then I’ll start snorting it, or worst of all, people who hope I’m so hungry or weak that I might be tempted to eat anything, if you’re just patient enough. People exactly like you.
So please understand that you are to consider yourself dumped. Actually it’s pre-dumped, since no relationship was ever going to materialize here. Plus I love the word “dump”. Don’t you?
The end.
Great story, huh? Well I thought so. Was that another weak “Ok”? Good! Now have a lovely evening.
Signed,
SweatsModel
In the building where I work, there are notes posted everywhere by anonymous employees.
In the copier room:
“Please remove your copies from the machine.” I can’t tell you how many times this little reminder has kept me from walking out with a stapler, or a hole punch and 6 pencils instead of the copies I came for.
In the lunch room:
“If you pour the last cup of coffee, please MAKE A FRESH POT” and “Please do not leave your dirty dishes in the sink for someone else to wash!” What gripes me about this one is that it’s my unwashed bowl in the sink every morning, but someone else used it. Really.
On the door of the refrigerator, an irritated employee taped a note,
“BEFORE YOU TAKE ANY FOOD FROM THE REFRIGERATOR, ASK YOURSELF, DID YOU PAY FOR IT??” Someone really ATE that thing? That’s sad, because whatever it was had developed mandibles and opposing thumbs, and was starting to consume the other fermenting crap in there.
On the door of the supply room:
“If you take the last of any item, PLEASE let the receptionist know so that she can restock.” And if you’re planning to resell those 12 printer cartridges, her cut is a reasonable 25%!
Finally, this one is taped to the mirror in the ladies room:
“Ladies, PLEASE check the toilet to make sure you didn’t leave something behind!” Dead serious. And that’s just nasty, girls!
Warning: This isn’t my typical post. If reading about someone’s experience in dealing with a loved one’s mental illness creeps you out, I recommend you move on.
“Barefoot boy with cheek of tan”.
I think of that line from John Greenleaf Whittier’s poem every time I look at this picture of my son, Ricky (not his real name). In the picture it’s a beautiful spring day – his hair is the color of hay and his eyes are bright and shining – he is turned toward the camera and grinning widely as he raises a sudsy sponge because he’s helping mommy wash the car. It’s 19 years ago, and he’s 5 years old.
I find myself looking for pictures of Ricky smiling. There aren’t that many. It seems his smile faded as he entered his teens and frankly, there wasn’t much to laugh about. My once sweet cheerful child had grown into a disrespectful and troubled young man, scorning the love of his mother and preferring instead his new friends – hard liquour and any kind of illegal drug he could get his hands on. We fought. A lot. And no amount of punishment, reasoning or counselling had any effect.
We didn’t know Ricky was self-medicating. A diagnosis of bipolar and schizoaffective disorder finally confirmed it for us. He drinks and uses drugs to escape the voices he hears – voices of the numerous personalities that emerge to taunt him and frighten him. Characters that control his hands and compel him to write cryptic nonsense on his bedroom walls and on reams of paper that he burns on the lawn at night. (I highly recommend the movie “A Beautiful Mind”) But Ricky is 21 years old when diagnosed, and if you’ve ever tried to cajole a young child into taking his medication, try doing that with an adult who fervently denies that he’s ill. Who believes the voices are real. Who is suspicious of anyone who can’t hear the voices, too, and who still prefers his own brand of poison. read more…
Stop trying reach conclusions about person’s personality by analyzing their dog or the car they drive for chrissakes. You buy into every enlightened stoner’s observation? It’s time to put down the crack pipe.
To put that worn out theory to rest, a well-known psychologist conducted a study and concluded:
“When we tested the dog owners’ personalities, we found no strong links between any particular personality trait and choice of dog breed, so any shared qualities are only skin deep.”
So there you have it. It’s bongwater, dude.
That is not my DNA in the seminal stain!
What carpet stain?
Realizing it may be difficult for you to let go of your deeply-ingrained beliefs, please consider this:
I’m sorry to be such a buzzkill, but dude, I see no similarities whatsoever.
I bet one embittered co-worker to your estranged spouse that media coverage of real decapitations, fathers and mothers killing their children, children killing their parents, and gun-toting lunatics picking off victims in locked buildings, is having a negative impact on this segment of the film industry.
But who cares, really? Because holy hockey mask! I’m getting live feeds of seat-grabbing murder and mayhem on my big screen tv for free! In the old days, before going to a movie I’d have to hit up my source (The Dollar Store) to load up on contraband (milk duds, snowcaps and chips). $9 admission and $8 popcorn my ass. Sure it was always touch and go. It took stealth to get past those stash-sniffing ticket takers with my goodies undetected, but I found they can easily be foiled by not looking them straight in the eye. read more…
And the cougars are on the prowl! Here’s our anthem. Enjoy…
