Have I Told You Lately ...

But Soft! What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks?

2011-10-19T12:22:00.003-04:00

It is the East, and Mango is the ... incredible new and massive software update for Windows Phone.

[No, not Apple. Seriously, why must we give our technology fruit names? Is it because we typically believe that it's "sweet" but, like food, it is already beginning to stale and decompose by the time we get it? Ooh, deep.]

At 7:55 p.m. on October 18, 2011, I began the now daily process of connecting my HTC Trophy to my netbook, clicking "Check for Updates," and crossing my fingers (and legs, and toes, and hair, all sorts of body parts). At times, I would also attempt the "force" Mango trick I've seen both suggested in a comment here and elsewhere on the web. Invariably, I would curse my apparent lack of timing skills for failing to "force" Mango. Additional cursing would ensue and then chocolate would be required.

Last night, however, oh, last night, I ended up staring dumbly at the screen for several seconds trying to process the "An Update is Available for Your Phone" message in front of me.

Reeeeeeallly? An update for me?

I'll admit it - there was laughter, there was a jumping up and down, and ... an immediate nervousness. I had read of several individuals with "brick" problems following step "8" in the update. Being rather tech-challenged, I'm not familiar with this "brick" terminology but it evokes an image of throwing one's phone through a window like you, I mean, others .... other bad bad people ... would a brick.

A phone rendered useless. *shudder*

[That isn't to say that a brick is useless. Obviously, bricks are literally building blocks and were an important part of my childhood home but ... I digress. You should be used to that by now.]

And so, I entered into the update process, eager but cautious. Steps one through nine took only 20 minutes and I cheered (again, literally, and I'm sorry neighbors but, hey, when my night terror SCREAMS don't apparently bother you enough to check on my safety, I think you'll live through an occasional happy "Yay!").

Oh, wait, it wants me to look for updates again and ... oh, okay, another one is available? Cool. No problem. [Actually, at this point I was uber nervous and worried about entering into some perpetual update cycle.]

Nine more steps. Wow, this time is taking way longer than that first quickie (as so often is the case). The download alone, oye, maybe 40 minutes or so? The transfer and installation was also longer. I lifted weights, checked the update, did some crunches, checked the update, did some push-ups, checked the update. [In retrospect, an update a day would do my body good.]

In total, it took just over 2 hours for the entire process. Step 8 - restarting the phone - seemed to take forever but I think that was just me being paranoid.

Whew ... she was up and running and Mango-ized.

I handled her gingerly (good phones, like good cars, are always female), and started the Mango discovery process. The live tiles are even more alive and animated. The People hub now includes groups so my family and close friends are just a touch away rather than several websites away. My "Me" live tile allows me to post on social media, check in, set my chat status, see my social notifications and profile - all in one spot. The camera has a quick fix for photos (although I still like the Photo Enhancer app), and sharing is easier. And ringtones - OH JOY AND RAPTURE! - ringtones!! I downloaded the 99 cent easyRing app, which allows you to search through a ton of free mp3 ringtones from Amazon.com and Mobiles24.com and am happily set.

[In other words, I'll again recognize my Dad calling by hearing the theme to Smoky and the Bandit.]

I'm still very much in the discovery process with Mango but I'm LOVING what I've seen so far.

I'm am officially a Windows Phone 7.5.

Yep, Mango is the Sun.

Life Is Good!

2011-10-14T12:52:00.000-04:00

Long, long ago in an internet far far away …

...

Back before Facebook was both a noun and verb, before I had even heard the word Twitter, back over five years ago, I met a group of misfits on an American Idol public message board.

I had started watching the show and was searching for information online when I came across an MSN public message board dedicated to American Idol. It was season five – the year of Taylor Hicks, and the shocking upset when Chris Daughtry failed to make it to the final two. The year of Ace, Bucky, Katherine, Kellie, Mandisa, Elliott, Paris and Kevin. It remains the only year I religiously watched the show and the board was a huge part of the experience. The message board was hysterical, including people from all over the world in one spot sharing their views about the show and the contestants and, essentially, living out a true Peyton Place drama of their own. There were fights, love-fests, taunts, and attacks. Smaller groups of closer friends formed, flourished, fought, and failed.

We began only knowing each others' screen names. Looking back, that was when I became Justacogitating online. We began as anonymous strangers who slowly came to know more and more about each other and, even more slowly, came to trust each other. The show ended; however, the message board continued for a substantial amount of time. The same screen names kept popping up under new “threads” devoted to topics ranging from politics (always dangerous) to sports (equally so) to daily threads where now friends would stop by just to say hello. As we grew closer, the level of anonymity lessened yet there is something about a group of people online, a step removed in one way from your daily life that allowed, at times, an even more open discussion of tough issues. Honestly, there are things about me that only my “board” friends know even though they have never met me in person.

A few people eventually opened up private message boards and invited friends to join them in a bit less public setting and our friendships grew even deeper. The drama continued as well. Some private boards lasted only a few months while others, well, technically, others continue yet today. I had no idea back in 2006 that I would still have daily contact with some of those “anonymous strangers” that I met on an American Idol message board – but they form an important and unique part of my circle of friends and family.

Why am I waxing poetic about an American Idol message board?

Yesterday, we lost one of our originals, if you will.

Even the online impression of Pam aka “Wink” was that of a mother hen – at least that was always my impression of her. I believe she was the same online as she ever was at home – an open and caring individual who only wanted the best for those around her. Pam emphasized her belief – her basic belief – that life is good. In fact, at one time, she hosted a board by the same name. She was always quick to encourage and difficult to anger. She strove for the resolution of conflicts between individuals; hence, my mother hen comparison. A beloved wife, mother, and friend, Pam touched many lives and will continue to do so.

Hearing of her death prompted me to reminisce about the wacky group of people I met so long ago. It’s odd … I know my original name and Pam’s but there are so many of those originals whose screen names I have forgotten. I remember Carolina_Girl (but it seems there was "sweet" in there somewhere at one time, right?), Acefan, Sha, BlueEyes, and a few others but it is frustrating not to remember more.

I guess it is the people I remember rather than their screen names and perhaps that is the way it should be.

[That said, if you care to share some of the old names, I’d love to have my memory jogged some more! Seriously ... ]

Life is good!

A lady named Wink told me so.

A Match.com Experiment (Yeah, That's It)

2011-10-13T00:44:00.001-04:00

I've dived into that ever-entertaining world of Match.com ... again.

How is Match comparing to that evil entity eHarmony I tried last year?

In the words of one of my uber-eligible suitors: It is what it is and it ain't what it ain't.

It is entertaining. It ain't necessarily fruitful.

[Side note: Please guys, please please ... avoid profile pictures in which you wear both cap and sunglasses. Not only does it make it impossible to actually see what you look like, it also whispers "serial killer".]

Now, before you decide to lecture me on my bad attitude about the whole process, rest assured that I am well aware that my lack of bubbly "life is glorious, I'm just missing you" optimism works against me, although I have serious doubts that I'd actually be attracted to the guy looking for the above.

Regardless, one of the many things I've noticed while searching for that pansy Prince Charming (other than my increasing - who knew that was possible - cynicsm) is that many of the men on Match.com seek ONLY those women younger than themselves.

Seriously. Not even up to their own age.

Many a Mr. 45 seeks a Ms. 27-40. A Master 55 seeks a Mistress 35-45.

Hmm. Regardless of whether this need for youth stems from the middle-ager suddenly ready for a family or hoping for a trophy wife or both, I've decided that two can (potentially) play that game.

Therefore, gentlemen, the profile has been updated and the search criteria altered. Let the games begin.

In short, the inner cougar needs a good ... stretch.

On the Border of Hoarder

2011-10-08T11:02:00.000-04:00

Most of us have, at one time or another, looked around and recognized that it was time for a good long purging of things, a cleaning out of the home; this traditionally coincides with spring, i.e., spring cleaning. We've hibernated all winter long, snug in our warm homes, and when spring finally (always later than hoped for) shows up, we're ready to open up windows, air out the house, and begin tossing out the old and bringing in the new just as Mother Nature is doing the same.

Yeah, so it's October. I'm a little behind.

I looked around this week and began to calculate how long certain items had been occupying the same space in my home; hence the name of this post. According to the Mayo Clinic, a true hoarder would have the following symptoms:

Cluttered living spaces [Well, now, who doesn't from time to time.]
Inability to discard items [No problem there ... eventually.]
Keeping stacks of newspapers, magazines or junk mail [Wow, it's really time to take that stack of newspapers to the zoo for poo patrol.]
Moving items from one pile to another, without discarding anything [Isn't this called sorting?]
Acquiring unneeded or seemingly useless items, including trash or napkins from a restaurant [Now, come on, why would I toss a perfectly good napkin?]
Difficulty managing daily activities, including procrastination and trouble making decisions [Oh, shit.]
Difficulty organizing items [Again, I do this ... eventually.]
Shame or embarrassment [Of course, no one is allowed here until this mess is cleaned up.]
Excessive attachment to possessions, including discomfort letting others touch or borrow possessions [Hey, I only had a minimal reaction to seeing my old stuffed animals in a garage sale. Yay!]
Limited or no social interactions [Oh, shit.]

Now, before I offend anyone (or probably after), I do not consider myself an actual hoarder and, however popular, the show "Hoarders" disturbs me. If someone you know truly fits within the symptoms above, they need help before they endanger themselves or others.

I'm more in line with the general population who procrastinate unpleasant tasks.

Yep, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

My present mess stems in part from the switching of vehicles (explained here) and the accompanying, frantic emptying of old Red. I'd like to say that I took the time to carefully sort through the items that have lived in my car for some time now but ... well ...

... it just seemed easier at the time to grab some bags and dump everything into them. So that was September 28th - about a week and a half ago.

Of course, this picture was taken about 30 minutes ago. Oops.

I've also been working a lot, gone a bit, and just generally busy. The other picture taken 30 minutes ago was of my bed, shared only because it has never ever ... ever ... been in such a state:

*cringe*

I know, I know. I'll start there.

Ooh, but there is that movie I want to see at Celebration Cinema.

Oh ... it doesn't start for another two hours.

*sigh*

Time to fire up the washer/dryer. And shredder.

You know ... now that I've procrastinated even longer by writing this post.

Nipping the hoarderesque tendencies in the mess.

Yep. That's what I'm doing today.

Right ...

NOW.

O Mango, Mango, Wherefore Art Thou Mango?

2011-10-06T22:52:00.002-04:00

I am a proud owner of an HTC Trophy Windows Phone 7. Yes, I am.

The Trophy is the only Windows Phone currently in the Verizon lineup and when I walked into a local Verizon store in August and noted that I was interested in getting one, the Verizon employee responded, "Why?"

Really, Verizon? Why?

Because my Droid Eris after less than two years was needing a factory reset in order to stop crying "LOW MEMORY" every few minutes. Seriously Eris, haven't you heard of the boy who cried wolf, otherwise known as Taylor Lautner?

[Yep, I did that JUST to lure in a few Twihards to this posting, I'm not proud.]

Because live tiles are just ... cool. Because Skydrive access and Microsoft editing rocks. Because my People Hub has all of my contacts from everywhere in one place, complete with FaceBook updates. Because I loved that Netflix was preloaded. Because I liked the format, the speed, and the memory. Because it was over $100 less than any of the new Droids or iPhones.

Because that Mango update is going to blow things up (not in a terrorist way).

Yep, that Mango update is going to add even more features and fix old annoyances. That Mango update, man, whoa, just wait until you see it.

Just wait.

And ... wait.

I bought my phone in August as news was circulating that the Mango update would be forthcoming in the next month or two. Other Trophy owners have been waiting since the spring. And finally, our Mango is in sight.

Verizon began rolling out the Mango update to Trophy owners on September 27th. Now, the update will be sent out to existing customers in waves, beginning slowly in case there are unexpected issues.

So, here I stand in the quiet cellular ocean waiting for the tide to come in ... the Mango tide ... hit me with a wave, Verizon. I dare ya ... I double dog dare ya. I'm ready to get w.......okay so I should dump that metaphor.

The point is that I'm waiting, Verizon.

My phone is waiting.

My Zune software is waiting.

Waiting for that *ding* and accompanying "Update available" message.

To xB Or Not To xB ... That Is The Question.

2011-09-26T23:33:00.000-04:00

I've had four cars the past 23 years. First up was a baby blue Pontiac T-1000 purchased by my parents for me while I was heading to college (THANKS!). I'll admit that my first inhale of the prior owner's lingering cigarette smoke didn't immediately endear me to the little hatchback but ... when you're under 20 and needing to get up and go, it's really the "go" part of a car that snares you in the end.

She was a good wee car. She just couldn't withstand a cow. Yep, a bovine flew into my windshield, up over the car, hit her again on the way down and sent my car airborne across the road, through a barbed wire fence, and into a corn field. The corn was higher than the car so I guess it was good that Bessie took a bit getting back up in the road because THAT's what caught the oncoming car's attention.

I was cut out of the car with the jaws of life (Remember those S.A.D.D. demonstrations in high school? Yeeeah) and was lucky to come out of the experience with a broken wrist and new nose. [Side lesson - be careful what you pray for 'cause God might just answer that prayer with a Bob Hope scoop nose.] Baby blue was not so lucky.

Next up was a Plymouth Sundance, purchased primarily because I liked the cup holder. Yep. With all of her electrical problems, the Sundance was more Sybil than sunshine but she lasted about six years regardless - until my mechanic was rear-ended while test driving her.

And thus we enter the Cavalier years from 1999 to the present. I'm on my second Chevy. The first was a 1995 sand colored beauty with around 65,000 miles. She stuck around through thick and thin until 2005 when, with 225,000 miles and the beginning of a head gasket leak, she entered the beginning of the end.

I traded her in (Ha - $200) on a 2001 red Chevy Cavalier with just over 92,000 miles. I've put nearly 108,000 miles on her during the past 6 1/2 years with minimal cost. Red's nearing that 200,000 number. Her cruise control has been gone for a couple years and her odometer is blinking. It's time.

Given the amount of time I generally keep my vehicles, purchasing a new one tends to be a bit overly emotional and dramatic. I grow attached. And, this time, for the first time, I'm actually trading in a vehicle that is in good working order - no leaks, no noises - she rocks!

I started looking. I knew this wouldn't be as easy as "where's my next Cavalier" since Chevy stopped making them in 2005. I was never a Cobalt or newer fan. My criteria has been gas mileage coupled with a desire to move up (literally) in the vehicle world, i.e., sit higher, and have the ability to transport my Schwinn Beach Comber (and her big ass seat and basket) among various other and not yet discovered items of all shapes and sizes. I started looking at small SUV's but beyond the fact that I was nearing 100,000 miles on potential used vehicles before I was nearing my price range, I knew that the vehicles would get substantially worse gas mileage than my 27-32 m/p/g Cav.

I started looking at crossover type vehicles or wagons. Enter the Scion xB. The xB, made by Toyota, was introduced in 2004 and kept much the same shape through 2006. Call it the toaster, xbox, or milk truck, the xB was definitely different yet it is in the xB's differences that you find its appeal. [Yes, yes, if you find any appeal at all.] The box shape allows for maximum room within the interior. Sure, you'll snicker when you see one but go a bit further and sit inside and you'll soon discover why someone would consider buying the box. I have never sat in a vehicle that gave driver and passengers so much room, including the back seat passengers. [Yes, Dad, this includes your Tahoe.] Open up the full height hatchback, put down the 60/40 back seat, and an xB owner finds over 43 cubic feet of cargo space. Also, the xB sits the driver/passengers higher than a regular car. An xB driver will find herself level with that Equinox or Rav4 sitting next door at the red light. It doesn't hurt that the xB comes with a six speaker Pioneer stereo/CD/mp3 system. All this comes with a 26-30 m/p/g estimate with many consumers reporting better mileage ~ 32 city and up to 38 highway. Finally, the xB earned Consumer Reports' "Good Bet/Recommended" mark for all these reasons coupled with its reliability.

The downside appears to be the smaller engine, thus less power, which is one of the reasons the gas mileage is so good. This is also a reason that the xB is not a vehicle for the aggressive (Hello, my sisters!) driver. Also, the interior could stand some better sound proofing and side airbags. The xB was redone in 2008. The newer version comes with a larger engine, bigger gas tank, standard side airbags, longer frame, and, sadly, accompanying SUV like gas mileage.

So, to xB or not to xB?

If you haven't guessed already, a used, low mileage, 2006 Scion xB won me over. Multiple test drives followed hours of research. My mechanic looked it over and gave his approval ("THAT's a pretty nice vehicle!") earlier today. Tonight, I walked into the dealership armed with real market values from edmunds.com, similar values from the NADA Blue Book and Kelly Blue Book, information from my mechanic on what he found, and a post-workout look on my face designed to frighten any salesman. [Len from Grand Buick took it all in stride.]

They had their price, I gave my low price, and we met in the middle (albeit nearer MY end than theirs - "neener, neener, neener"). Seriously, though, I recommend Grand Buick. Len helped another coworker several years ago and still remembered it. He focused on my biggest requests and showed me any possible vehicle they had that might fill them. He encouraged me to take the xB on an extended test drive, didn't blink at my request that my mechanic look it over, and managed to do all of this with minimal sales pressure. [I'll of course revisit this recommendation if anything goes wrong but *fingers crossed* I'm optimistic.] My biggest regret is that I'll miss Red's big day, her 200,000 mile milestone. Someone else will get to see that. I hope they appreciate her.

Meanwhile, meet my Wonka Tonka:

She has just under 48,000 miles on her; let's see what we can do about adding a 2 in front of that, shall we?

Why I Buy Organic Eggs (Or Get Them Free).

2011-09-18T14:34:00.000-04:00

What this post is not: any kind of scientific tirade on the musts of buying organic vs non organic eggs. In fact, when I did a quick google search on the same, I discovered completely opposite points of view ranging from studies showing no difference in nutritional value between the two and rather gruesome descriptions of the lives of mass market chickens. See Food, Inc. Seriously. SEE FOOD, INC.

What this post is: one of MY reasons for continuing to purchase organic eggs.

Living alone, I will, at times, buy more food than I can eat within the "safe" time. I will eat eggs after the "best buy" date ... to a point, but I recently threw out a few that just seemed a bit light in the water.

---Side Note---

You can check your eggs by putting them in cold water either in a big bowl or in the sink. If they sink, you're in the pink. If they float, you'd be a dope (to eat them). Apparently, when the egg is going bad, more and more gas is created within the shell and they will begin to float in water.

I do NOT recommend then cracking a floater to double check.

Or, well, yeah ... do that. It might be funny.

---End Side Note ---

It has been quite some time since I purchased non organic eggs in the store. Yes, I'm one of those people who will fork over $1 or more to get the organic eggs over the standard ones. Often, I don't have to because my Dad will pick some up for me from the local Amish down home. Those are by far the best ones I get. I'm betting the fat content is higher but it doesn't matter - they're just better. If I'm out of those, I'll get the organic eggs at the grocery store.

This time, feeling guilty over the tossed eggs, I chose to get the smaller 8 pack Grade A large from Meijer. Awe, just my size.

They seemed fine until I cracked a couple. And I did have to crack a couple because this was my first attempt:

Wow - officially the thinnest shells I have ever crumbled in my hand. Now, I'll be the first to admit that I am as close to being a domestic goddess as Sarah Palin is to the presidency (thank God); however, it has been a while since I completely butchered an egg in the simple attempt to crack it. And see how it just crackled all over? I had no hope of getting that egg into the pan without crunchy additives.

Hence the TWO missing eggs from the 8 pack.

In the end, I'm living dangerously and not throwing out the fresh but anorexic eggs, but I'll be back to my comfortable organic brown hearty eggs the next time I shop.

The Procrastination Files

2011-09-15T23:00:00.002-04:00

[Previously on Have I told You Lately ... Scary movie like return to blogging following short-term turned long-term, self-inflicted life sans cable involving renewed unrequited love of Joss Whedon.]

I pulled the plug on cable services in December 2010 with the expectation that by February 2011 or so [read - tax refund] I would replace my old computer and reconnect. Instead, by February 2011, I had filed my brief in my first ever Michigan Supreme Court case, was playing catch up on regular cases and nervously preparing for oral argument with the Court. Time flew.

----- Side Note -----

My oral argument was on April 5, 2011, a date I will forever remember as the low point (God willing) of my professional career. It was a murder case that we didn't expect to even reach the Supreme Court (I keep telling myself that).

Oral argument began. I introduced myself and did a short opening then waived much of my "free fire" opening statement time explaining that I wanted to address any questions the Court might ask.

They had none.

Okay. So, none? No questions at all? No questions about the second issue either?

Nope.

Okay.

That was even more unexpected than the Court accepting the application in the first place.

I had expected to make most of my argument while answering the Court's questions. Without any, I had several points I needed to make before sitting down. Within about 2-3 sentences, a justice interrupted me ...

And the questions began.

So, wow, if I had any doubt before, the questions quickly evidenced the Court's dislike for our argument. Golly, this is fun.

By the time I sat down, I felt a bit black and blue with shades of pretty green.

My opponent got up and did a short introduction then asked for questions. They had none.

[HA! Feel my pain, comrade.]

He argued his points. They still had none. [Hey!!]

None until I got back up for rebuttal. [Double Hey!!]

Honestly, your Honors, you might be drawing blood soon.

The best part - as I headed into my final point - was a justice wondering aloud whether I was over time yet.

Yep.

So, that was fun. I left Lansing that day and promptly hit the road for a six hour trip to see my newborn nephew and gain some much needed perspective. Defendant? Oh, he ended up pleading guilty to the same charge (for less time).

----- End Side Note -----

Once the summer started, I was volunteering at the zoo, enjoying the sun, and still catching up on other cases. I thought about blogging but figured I would wait until I had the new computer. I thought about another Match.com run but figured I would wait until I had the new computer. I thought about finding a book or movie club to join but figured I would wait until I had the new computer. Time continued to fly and when I needed to decompress, I turned to my DVD collection.

Meanwhile, my Droid Eris was taking a cyber dump requiring a factory reset, my DVD player was beginning to play dead with its mouth (disk door) open, and my blessed wee red car was nearing 200,000 miles. It was officially a massive tech turnover time.

But but but .... what phone to get? A Droid 4G giant? Ooh, an iPhone??

What about the DVD player? Should I get a smart player with streaming Netflix?

And the computer!! Do I go with a Mac? A Sony laptop? A netbook? But I might want to do work (Bahahaha) at times so I should get a laptop, right? Wait. Netbooks can do that, too? Decisions, decisions.

[Ooh, look, my firefly DVD collection beckons].

So, Chevy Equinox? But a small car would get better gas mileage. But Dad says the SUV is safer. But I can afford a newer small car. But ... but ...

[I could stand to watch Season 7 of Buffy again.]

Time continued to fly. Helped nicely along by the wit of Whedon.

And then the procrastination dam broke: within a 48 hour period at the end of August, I spent hundreds of dollars and made several decisions. I went a different route with my phone and got the HTC Trophy - a Windows 7 phone. I. Love. It. Love love and the upcoming Mango update will blow our minds.

I decided on a light netbook but with 3 GB of running memory, a 320 GB hard drive, and an HDMI output. I love every bit of its 11.6

inches.

I ordered basic cable and performance internet. The wireless is set and away I go.

Phone. Check.

Computer. Check!

Cable. Check!!

Book club. Check!!!

[Look at me go!]

DVD player. Eh ... it still basically works.

Car. Hey, my wee red beauty is still going fine. And, really, who needs cruise control or power windows?

Match.com. Well, now, come on, you can't possibly expect me to date until those other things are settled, right?

Right?

I wonder what's on TV.

Wait, the new season starts next week? Brilliant.

I'm Baaaaaaack!!

2011-09-12T20:58:00.000-04:00

Admit it. This is only slightly less terrifying than The Poltergeist moment.

I know. I've been gone a long time due to a 70 year old (aka 7 year old) Dell desktop whose screen had become bluer than my lovely eyes. It sits here even now, over in the corner, mocking me with forgotten files of old resumes, old chats (oh yeah, I kept those), and old pictures (which are the only things keeping me from going all Office Space on its ass...embly). But our time together is nearing an end. YOU HEARD ME, YOU DECREPIT MACHINE. END! I've got a flash drive and I'm not (too horribly) afraid to use it, and then, well, then ...

So, what DOES one do with the old unfaithful computer? I googled some information recommending some particularly brutal wiping programs but, honestly, consider me Josephine Schmo looking to simply rid herself of an eye-sore. I want the minimum "not gonna open it but don't want my files eyed" solution.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Pay someone. I likely will just because I don't want to deal with it. But this conflicts with my natural distrust of ... people.

I've been gone a long time ... almost a year. When the hunka was driving me to tantrums, I finally pulled the plug on the Internet. I wasn't using it anymore and thought, hey, I'll rid myself of a bill until I get my new laptop in a couple (three, NINE) months. So I cancelled Comcast. Yes, people, I lived the dream and said "bah bye" to cable completely. Now, of course, the dream part only lasts until you're off the phone. The nightmare begins when you realize that your building has no outside antenna and that Best Buy piece of shit digital antenna brings you a grainy religious program in the living room OR a brilliant Fox 17 in your bedroom provided you don't move ... ever. So, I've been becoming better acquainted with my DVD collection and, occasionally, the stop/go/freeze DVD collection at the local library (seriously ... it's called CLEANER people!).

The highlight? Discovering the Joss Whedon gem firefly. HOW DID I NOT KNOW ABOUT THIS!!?? A Whedon series with one of my favorites - evil Caleb/Castle Nathan Fillian - set in space with cowboys, prostitutes, and, did I mention, NATHAN FILLIAN?? I have to assume that the network did a piss poor, nonexistent job of promoting this show because nothing else explains the 14 episode sole season. It. Is. Brilliant. And I missed it. Of course, I was ending law school and my marriage but still. MISSED IT. Happily, due to my self-inflicted lack of ANY television, I now own it, watched it, rewatched it, re-rewatched it, and proudly display my firefly Shiny shirt whenever possible. --->

Go get it. Now. I'll wait here.

[More to follow on my return to the cyber world ... now don't hurt yourself clicking refresh every second.]

A Day at the Movies: Lessons Learned

2010-10-24T22:28:00.002-04:00

I woke up Sunday with a choice to make: Do I wisely and dutifully trudge into the office and write about why a judge’s rash decision was, well, not really that bad, or do I blindly hold onto the weekend, shutting out the real world, and head to the cinema to escape for a few more hours?

Or perhaps eight hours.

Yes, I spent an unprecedented (for me) eight hours at Celebration North today indulging in what I coined my Triple Play Day. Three movies; one day.

One absolutely wonderful, deep, entertaining day of learning at the movies.

HEREAFTER

First up: Hereafter directed by Clint Eastwood and starring, among others, Matt Damon. Damon plays George Lonegan, a psychic who has given up “readings” for hard labor in an attempt to live a normal life. Hereafter actually centers on three different characters – George, Marie LeLay, a French journalist who survives a tsunami in a breath-taking opening sequence, and Marcus, a London school boy who loses his twin – and how their lives ultimately meet and mingle all while examining our beliefs about the afterlife. What happens when we die? Your answer to that question may largely depend upon your cultural upbringing. Is it simply lights out? Is it the streets of gold and angels on wing? Or something in between?

I noticed that the vast majority of those around me were age 60 or older. I noted coughing – the deep, disturbing, not-just-a-cold type – and found myself wondering how many of those around me were in the midst of a real-time struggle with their own mortality. I hope they left the movie a tad more uplifted than they entered it. I know I did.

My answer? I believe that when we die, we will know, truly know so much more than we are currently capable of knowing but first and foremost, we will truly know that it will all be alright. Our loved ones, our past, the world … all of it. I believe that most religions are simply different avenues that people have taken in their life-long search for God. I believe that there can be truth in many different religions and that it is when we attempt to force God into a box, book, or temple that we lose sight of truth.

I believe that it will all be alright.

IT'S KIND OF A FUNNY STORY

Next up: It’s Kind of a Funny Story, starring Keir Gilchrist and funny man Zach Galifianakis demonstrating that he is not just the funny man. Gilchrist plays Craig, a sixteen year old stressed and depressed teen who checks himself into a psychiatric ward. Galifianakis is a resident of the ward who takes Craig under his albeit broken wing. This movie has laughs, it has romance, and it has a message of, “Yeah, so you’re a bit screwed up; who isn’t? What are you waiting for? Live!”

For me, a highlight of the movie was also an eye-blinking jolt of déjà vu. Craig is speaking with the ward doctor about how he realizes that he has positives in his life, that his family loves him, that he has so much more than many others, but that life seems just one big ball of struggle and worry. Worry about what? Worry about how one decision or missed opportunity would somehow color the rest of his life and keep him from success, happiness, sex …

The jolt? This was something very similar to what I tried to explain myself recently – that I believe that life is meant to be lived but that sometimes it becomes one big mucky ball of struggle so that “living” begins to equate to “struggling” with too few moments of joy to counteract the crap.

It’s Kind of a Funny Story left me with a renewed energy to fight the muck and “live.” Now, how many movies can say that? You know, other than Predator.

SECRETARIAT

Finally: Secretariat brought up the rear then leaped to the front much like the horse of the same name. Secretariat was the discount movie this week at Celebration Cinema. If you haven’t learned of the discount movies yet, really, where have you been? First-run movies for $3.00 every Sunday makes this one of the best movie values out there. But I digress.

Secretariat tells the true story of housewife Penny Chenery Tweedy, played by Diane Lane, who took over the management of her father’s stables following her mother’s death and father’s decline. Tweedy hired fashion-challenged trainer Lucien Laurin, played by John Malkovich (who also entertained me yesterday in Red); Laurin and Tweedy successfully raise Big Red aka Secretariat, who was the first horse in twenty-five years to win the Triple Crown. Secretariat is a story of fighting for your dreams even when the odds are against you. Perhaps the best praise I can give is that this movie had me biting my nails even knowing the outcome of each race. And it left the audience applauding at the credits … when was the last time you heard that?

Okay, The Goonies during Celebration’s recent Late Night Cult series but, hey, it’s The Goonies after all.

In the end, today included lessons of hope, life, and determination. All at the movies.

I could not have spent my time better.

Now for late night laundry and left-over pizza.

A Needed Visual Smack Upside The Head

2010-08-19T12:09:00.001-04:00

Soooo much more depressing than my June birthday, this sight greeted me in my office this morning:

All my, "No, not THAT birthday!" woes are over, dated and literally deflated. It's time to get back on the blogging horse and leave some road apples in my wake on the way to 2011.

Flying, Fabulous, Fear-Free ..... and Other "F" Words

2010-07-02T01:39:00.001-04:00

Earlier this year, in a fit of "O" birthday fear, I decided it was time to cross an item off my bucket list. My life has taken many twists, turns, and unexpected detours (this last one is horribly long with mislabeled signs and long unmoving lines of irritable travelers), and so I found myself facing f....for ... forward looking at yet another birthday despite the fact that I am no where near the destination I'd envisioned for myself at this age.

What do you do when life isn't quite how you expected, when you're staring down stress, responsibilities, debt, and dipshits on a daily basis? I decided to chuck it all to the wind and literally leap into my next decade ... out of a perfectly functioning albeit tiny airplane.

My decision to skydive made, I then had the tedious task of choosing a reputable skydiving company. Enter Google. Other than a gut feeling, I immediately cut any company that did not post their prices online. Really? Come on, guys, post the prices. What are you hiding? That rule cut out quite a few places.

After that, I went with the gut feeling I got from a company's FAQ page. For example, in response to a question about whether landings are hard, one company promised that you would land "like a fairies fluff." Hmm ... beyond the grammatical problem with that statement and confusion over what the hell a fairy's "fluff" actually is, I just don't believe it.

Enter Premier Skydiving.

Prices? Check.

FAQ page? In response to the question about whether skydiving is dangerous, Premier answered,

Of course it's dangerous. You get out of a plane two miles above the earth. And gravity does work. In fact, it rules supreme. The only thing between a skydiver and "deceleration trauma" is a chunk of nylon about the size of your living room. Which part of not being dangerous was unclear?

Ahh ... my people! After explaining about whether skydiving is safe (the better question), and what would happen if the parachute doesn't open or if the jumper wigs out completely and doesn't pull the rip cord, Premier apparently was asked what would happened if both the main and reserve parachute fail at the same time, and wisely answered, "You're about to have a really bad day."

Thank you! Don't tell me that I'm going to float down on a cloud of fairy dust lightly skipping as I land. That just makes me distrust you (more so than my general ever-present distrust). Give me the real answer in a smartass way and *BAM* I'm signing waivers (guys, guys, waivers don't hold up anymore, do they), handing you a card, and telling my family and friends my jump date.

It was June 26, 2010.

My day began surrounded by computer, TV, and smart phone, all tuned to weather information as I tensely waited to see if the storm would come as predicted (it didn't) or if the clouds would be too low or dense (they weren't). When I finally headed up to Fremont, Michigan, home of Premier Skydiving, I had family members already in Grand Rapids and others on the way. Having my family drive 2, 3, and nearly 7 hours (Linda) to see me fling myself from a plane meant more to me than they probably realize. My sisters (including an in-law sis), parents (original and step), niece and nephew were all present. Precious time was spent teaching my soon-to-be 3 year old niece to say, "Don't jump, Kimmie!!"

I arrived, signed my multi-paged waiver promising that my family would smile and thank Premier if something went wrong, then settled in for training. Our instructor showed us the tandem rigs, explained the main canopy, reserve (rarely used but stringently maintained), and AAD (automatic activation device), what to expect, how to stand, and the most important thing to remember about our first jump ... ARCH!!

I wisely purchased the video package and digital stills (beautiful). As I uploaded this - my very first video to my blog - I realized that it is in several parts so I apologize for the breaks but it also allows me to comment between the fun.

In this first segment, we meet Scott (my instructor) and Deryl (the videographer for the jump) as Scott is securing me in my jumpsuit and gear. We also see my insanely large head, freakishly Gollum-like eyes, and the reason I'm attempting to now break any habits of pursing my lips together or making any of the other faces that occur. Wow. Enjoy.

ARCH!!

Next notice the tiny step outside of the tiny plane. That's where I'll be stepping on the way out. Only four of us and the pilot fit inside. For some reason, I had envisioned some large plane in which all 7 jumpers and their respective instructors would be comfortably strapped into seats awaiting a leap out of a big open door (I've probably seen this on TV or in a movie). No matter. We head up into the air and the higher we get, the younger I get. No, really. You'll see me devolve into my 5-year-old inner child, squealing and clapping in delight.

Ooooh .... here we go!!!! The door is open, we scoot back and over to it, left foot, right foot, cross your arms and ARCH!!! I keep getting questions about the falling feeling. I don't remember any kind of stomach drop, I believe because of the wind. The wind is loud. I knew I could breath but somehow wanted to hold my breath. The view, the feeling, the wind, the earth rushing up ... no wonder my instructor told us not to worry if we didn't pull the rip cord when he instructed us to do so ... it's the brain lock of doing something you'd only dreamed of doing. I remember his pointing to the rip cord and I remember looking down in a stupor of .... 'oh yeah, I'm supposed to ...' before *BAM* he opened it for me.

That was Deryl landing. I'm still up in the air with Scott, listening to him tell me that one cell of the canopy won't open for some unknown reason.

"WHHHAAAA??"

"Oh, we're fine. There's no need for the reserve."

Now, if you know my name, you probably noticed an oopsie on Deryl's part. I was clueless.

High from the flight. Just happy ... and ready to go again.

I jumped out of an airplane at 10,000 feet on Saturday. And I did it with no fear. Only excitement. I can't think of a better way to begin a new decade in life. Do it with no fear, only excitement.

Just let me know when you want to go with me. We'll set a date.

Sometimes Walls Are Needed

2010-06-13T23:45:00.000-04:00

I attended a conference last week. A conference of appellate attorneys - some civil, some rude, I mean, criminal. The topic of the conference was civility and congeniality amongst the bench and bar. Some bits were enlightening, some boring (Eerie, really? REALLY?), and some entertaining, but it was the last morning's session that whacked me over the head. Not the topic, oh no, but my reaction to a comment by one of the panelists. It was a comment that was meant to be funny, and was, but it would not be funny - at all - to the millions of non-attorneys in the world.

Non-attorneys would find it crass, inappropriate, and unfeeling. I find it necessary.

As I chuckled, it hit me what someone outside of my profession would think to hear that chuckle. I've considered this before while we swap stories in the office about one case or another - always amazed, yet not, at the depravity of other human beings who commit some of the crimes we prosecute. Often amazed, yet not, at the stupidity of those committing these crimes. Always disheartened.

If you've ever been a victim, you know that an instance or an hour (or more) can stay with you ... forever. You go on, because you must, and life really does always get better. You live in a world very different from our own. I don't mean to say 'better' - certainly not - I have little if any idea what you go through, have gone through. I simply mean different.

We deal, day in and day out, with the reality of the horrors our fellow man routinely inflicts upon others. We see stories of assault, rape, murder, torture, repeated with a different set of individuals and modified set of facts. Each day. We see domestic violence victims repeatedly, frustratingly, lie to try to cover for the assholes - the cowards - who beat them. [Again, I don't walk in those shoes and hope I never find myself near them.] We hear the stories of children who have no real parents left because what parent they had has somehow decided that their next high or their next affair is more important than keeping their children safe. We hear of the sick bastards out there figuring out the next way in which they can get a small child alone in order to molest them. Each day.

We build walls separating ourselves from these crimes. It is easier for me, an appellate attorney, than for a trial attorney who fights in the trenches of a trial court, listening first hand to a victim's testimony, seeing a victim's family each day, as well as the defendant. I am one step removed - usually - because I must focus on the record below and the law. I read the stories rather than hear them; I write about the stories rather than argue them to a jury. I generally look at my trial attorney coworkers as being made of tougher stock than me in some ways because of the thinner wall they have protecting them. The walls we build - whatever you call them - are necessary for us to continue to face these issues every day. If we did not develop them, if we developed emotional attachments to every case before us, we would crumble early and often. If we did not release some of our stress through humor, some fairly crass and otherwise inappropriate, we would explode when you need us the most. If you hear us sounding crass or laughing at something you don't think is funny, please remember that we're simply building the barriers we need to do the job you need us to do.

Tomorrow, I'm meeting the family of a victim. My wall is about to be battered.

Drum Roll Please ....

2010-06-06T18:12:00.000-04:00

I done did it!

Back in February, I announced my intention to crush this year (I'm so humble) and my intention to rid myself of the monstrosity that was overtaking my bedroom - the king-sized marriage bed. I hemmed, hawed, stared, and cogitated my options to an early grave. I might still be staring at it had my little brother not, upon hearing that I was (oh yes absolutely) getting rid of my old bed, asked me what I was doing with it (uh, hoping someone will haul it away), and whether he could have it for their new guestroom, (uh, for the price of hauling it away). That is how I found myself, on Easter weekend, kingless and sleeping on this:

Yeeeah. Hello, college days, I missed you - just not this part of you.

It is truly a testament to my power of procrastination that I slept on that for a month. MONTH!! [On a side note, who's proud of their 30-something back for withstanding the torment?]

My wish of a new bed aka mattress set was replaced during this time of upheaval with a wish of a new bedroom - a "grown-up" bedroom if you will - one without Target furniture and with an actual bed and not simply a wire frame. [I know, who the HELL do I think I am??] I boldly gave away my stuffed animals (uh, most of 'em) to my 2 year old niece and, finally, in mid-May, I was persuaded to part with some moolah and purchased this:

Eh? Eh? Look at that ACTUAL bed with matching night table! I also bought my first ever big ass dresser with a big ass mirror on top. *nodding* That's right .... big ass furniture.

It only took me, oh, about two more weeks to finally cave and purchase an actual mattress set ... and pad ... and comforter set ... pillows ... sheets. And finally, I was left with *I'm so excited* TA DA:

I know. Damn, I'm good.

Best part? I have to climb UP into the bed. I feel all princessy and shit. Oh, and, of course, uber-mature.

It only took me nearly *cough cough* years.

eHarmony, i.e., Complete Waste of Money

2010-05-10T00:51:00.000-04:00

I just cancelled my eHarmony subscription. Why? Oh, let's see ...

eHarmony was twice as much money as Match.com. TWICE!
Many of the men on there are also on Match.com.
eHarmony doesn't allow you to see any pictures of your matches until you've subscribed.
I've not been matched with anyone I find remotely attractive.
eHarmony doesn't allow you to browse any other men; you are stuck with those with whom it "matches" you.
Half of my initial matches were out of state.
Having a button to click for more matches means diddly squat if the result after waiting a minute is a freakin' computer telling me no more matches exist
Did I mention .... TWICE AS MUCH AS MATCH.COM?!

In short, eHarmony can take its 29 Dimensions of Compatibility and SHOVE EACH AND EVERY ONE UP ITS A....

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Say Hello, Brillo!

2010-05-05T00:00:00.000-04:00

Three years ago, I walked through the John Ball Zoo on a members’ night (on a date no less – I know, it actually happens from time to time) and ran into a fellow attorney standing in the Wallaby exhibit talking to guests and answering questions. It was readily apparent that she was not (simply) an eccentric zoo fan. I asked what she was doing and she explained that she volunteered at the zoo.

Huh. Volunteer at the zoo. Well that just sounds … cool!

I had been contemplating a way to volunteer in the community for a while but kept getting stuck on my firm belief that I should in no way be entrusted with a child’s self esteem given that a remodeling of my own continues (I’m working on the bedroom at the moment). I was hooked. I went through my initial training in the fall/2007 and spring/2008 and found myself smack among wallabies, sting rays, pygmy goats, and budgies during the summer of 2008. I added animal handling training in the fall of 2008. I now handle snakes, bearded dragons, blue-tongued skinks, turtles, chinchillas, opossums, screech owls, etc.

[I do refuse to handle the chickens/roosters, evil beings one and all. Yes, evil. Hey, you be constantly attacked by a rooster during your childhood and then come talk to me.]

Volunteering at the zoo now allows me to have a small impact on the kids who stare slack jawed at the ball python I’m holding or ooh and awwww over our baby pygmy goats all while satisfying (kinda) my desire for the pet who would not fit so well in a one bedroom apartment.

What does this have to do with Brillo?

Last week, I entered a new realm at the John Ball Zoo: the hospital. The zoo recently received a gift of a new hedgehog – Brillo – who, we hope, will be added to those animals taken on travel zoos and handled within the zoo itself. All new animals at the zoo must be quarantined for a certain period of time so Brillo is currently being housed in quarantine at the zoo’s hospital. In order to make sure Brillo becomes accustomed to human handlers, the zoo asked some volunteers to … come handle her.

Hedgehogs are small mammals, covered with 5,000-7,000 quills or spines that form their protection against predators. Two larges muscles on either side of a hedgehog's back allow it to raise and lower its quills and, of course, roll into a ball. A ball of sharp quills isn’t too enticing of a meal to predators – go figure.

Brillo is currently in the same part of the hospital housing the zoo’s baby pygmy goats, who are still being bottle fed each day, and five venomous rattlesnakes – including two diamondbacks. And you think your family is dysfunctional. Pfft.

The keeper handed me Brillo on a blue cloth. She was tightly in her “WHAT'S GOING ON!!” ball and quivering. Awwwwe.

With a little patience and low talking, she gradually began to unroll and check out this new human. Hedgehogs don’t have the best eyesight but her little nose was furiously sniffing.

Every now and again, a sharp noise (those rambunctious pygmies) would induce a hiss and roll but eventually she was relaxed enough to nap during our time together.

<cue sighs and awing>

When I finally left, carefully dipping my shoes in a disinfecting water mixture on my way out (quarantine, remember), Brillo was receiving a treat of crickets (hedgehogs love insects).

Jealous yet? The zoo is always looking for more volunteers.

Meanwhile, if all goes well, look for Brillo later this summer.

The Proof is in the Eggplant

2010-04-26T22:27:00.000-04:00

I cooked tonight. No, really. I can prove it.

I cooked tonight. And not even the type of cooking that requires quotation marks around the word.

I have several cookbooks, usually excellent dust collectors, and tonight I looked up eggplant in Healthy Cooking for Two (or Just for You) ... [I didn't say this story was without pitiful parts] ... and found Roasted Eggplant Parmesan.

Sounds complicated.

Four ingredients. SCORE!

Eggplant, olive oil, marinara sauce, and mozzarella.

I have three of those four things! Sweet! This is destiny given my typically barren food supply. Let's just say, I am not the domestic goddess who keeps "things" on hand in order to "whip" up anything. I am the reason cookbooks with "four ingredients" in the title exist. This can happen. No, this will happen.

So, I just need the eggplant. I can do that. I can totally do that. Meijer must have them. Meijer has everything.

A few minutes later, I'm standing in front of purple weeble-wobbles with wee green hats, pressing, squeezing, generally completely ignorant of how to pick one of these things out. I guess.

I grab some Parmesan just for fun.

Back home, I cut the eggplant into eight pieces, bake 'em for 20 minutes, then layer them in a pan with the sauce and two kinds of cheese (the oil was for the pan) and pop them back in for another 20 minutes.

Bam! I'm eating something remotely healthy and purple.

That I cooked! I used a knife and the oven!!!

I know!

An Arctic breeze must have blown through Hell tonight.

One Helluva Back-up Plan

2010-04-25T21:31:00.000-04:00

[Spoiler Alert - you know - in case you'd be STUNNED to know it works out perfectly.]

Now, I’m used to watching romantic comedies that require the suspension of belief – our modern day fairytales. I get it. You fed us Cinderella, Snow White, and Sleeping Beauty when we were little and, now, as our eyes continue to narrow and the idea of Prince Charming induces an eye-roll as surely as Pavlov’s dog slobbered at the sound of a bell, you think you can simply throw yet another hottie our way and we’ll be mollified.

A hottie named Alex O’Loughlin aka Stan [aka Mick St. John – the hot vampire you tempted us with only to cancel the series Moonlight without warning.]

And representing us in this latest farce? Zoe, owner of a pet store and adorable pooch, played by the hot, happily-married, mother of twins, Jennifer Lopez donning her post-pregnancy body that rivals any 25 year old.

Really?

And, of course, Charming Stan is immediately intrigued with the princess, hunts her down after they meet, pursues her, puts up with … hell … a pregnant-by-someone-else female, who simply could not wait any longer for “the one” so she used some of the money she socked away from her time at an Internet company to buy some sperm … earlier on the day she first met Charming Stan.

Really??

And, hey, score, she gets pregnant with twins on the first try.

<narrowed eyes>

Princess Zoe continually pushes Stan away, having grown to distrust men after her father left when she was little; she’s built walls, this princess. But our Charming Alex, he doesn’t drop her for the ever-present beautiful blond ex-girlfriend who is so obviously still enamored with him. Oh no. He does everything he can think of to convince his love that he is trustworthy; he is long-haul material.

<throws up hands>

REALLY????

Sorry, Jenny. I can only suspend my belief far enough to believe in trainable dragons.

------------------------------------

Oh, BTW, hey you. Yeah ... you ... Evanston. I see you. Every time you visit, every pageload, every click. I see you and your IP address.
Just thought you should know.

HIVES!!!!

2010-03-21T12:45:00.000-04:00

This week has been one of my most stressful weeks at work yet. We're short a person, I'm drowning in appeals, and have been asked to do some new, exciting, but stressful things. By Thursday afternoon, I was riding a nervous adrenaline wave down and should have gingerly walked ashore from freak-out mode; however, my board apparently crashed on hidden rocks.

Instead of an afternoon sigh, I was left with curious red spots on my stomach and redness on my arm.
Eh? And ZOMG, they itch.

I was scheduled to volunteer at a zoo program that Thursday evening so I changed into my uber-sexy tan pants and red zoo fleece before leaving work. The redness on my arm had gathered, grown, swelled, and expanded to include most of my forearm and had weird red edges.

My thought process at this discovery:

Hives?
HIVES!
Are you freakin' kidding me???!!!!
Well, hell.

I continued on to the zoo. As I was waiting for the zoo instructor, I noticed the hives were moving onto my other arm ... and my right knee. After unsuccessfully trying to call for a replacement, I decided I'd be worse sitting at home with only the red evil itchiness on which to dwell so I continued on with the program.

Distraction helped. A little.

I arrived home to find my arms clear of hives *YAY!!*

Oh ... they've moved to my back.
And ass. *insert look of horror*
My ass was officially two large red-rimmed (shut-up) hives.

This was officially a new experience for me. I've had a bad, body-covering rash before (thank you little sister for failing to completely rinse your freshly cleaned bathtub), but never one that seemed alive, moving from bit to bit like an alien just searching for the right spot.

[Yeah, I've probably watched too many sci-fi flicks.]

Enter Google's Health site to the ... really not so much a rescue as an annoying "you'll likely never now for sure the cause" mantra so commonly heard in doctors' offices. Hives result from your body releasing histamine into your blood stream. I'm told this could be from an allergic reaction (hmmm, I've done nothing new, eaten nothing new, tried no new soap or detergent, etc.) or, hey, the golden rule - "Hives can also result from emotional stress." The go-to cause for doctors when they can't find another reason. That's greeeeeat.

Well, what the heck was I supposed to do???

Avoid hot baths or showers. Stay smelly, check.
Avoid irritating the area with tight-fitting clothing. Sleep naked, check.
Take antihistamines. Diphenhydramine is considered the most effective. Whadahoodahuh? It's late at night, man, and I itch and my ass is deformed ... I'm not leaving now, dammit!

Thursday night was largely a sleepless night. I seemed to drift off for a while only to come abruptly back to reality and find the need to remove my watch since the hives had traveled to my hands/wrists and feet/ankles. Each trip to the bathroom revealed old battlefields cleared as the enemy found fresh lands to conquer. Hives were riding my body like a well-paid wh .... well, you get the idea.

I woke the next morning to find most of my body clear other than my shoulder and chest ... and ... is that red on my left cheek .... FACIAL CHEEK????!!!! Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic ....

I called my doctor's office and spoke to a phone nurse. Presumably a phone nurse. I explained my symptoms and concern. She put me on hold. When she returned from asking the Wizard of Oz her suggestions, she told me to take Benadryl and if they continue on through 24 hours of Benadryl bombardment, then I would need to come into the office. Again, this was Friday.

Are you guys open on the weekends?
Um .... noooo, you'd need to go into a clinic.
I'm afraid of these going onto my face ... do hives ever go into eyes or anything like that?
Um .... I don't know.

[I wanted to hurt this woman at this point.]

I got ready for work, purchased my "Wal-dryl" (seriously, when it's the same ingredients, I am not opposed to Walgreen's equivalent for $1 less), gulped the adult dose down in the car, and crossed my fingers. By the end of the day, I cautiously proclaimed myself "hive-free" and -dryl mellow.

*WHEW!!*

I'll likely never know for sure the cause. Yeah, yeah ... stress. Well, then I should just keep a supply of -dryl in the home at all times.

My lingering unease --> I could swear my skin seems slightly darker now where the hives traveled.

Lesson learned: Histamine is one wicked bitch that you don't want to cross. Unfortunately, she often doesn't tell you what you did that pissed her off thereby keeping you constantly wondering when and if she'll strike again.

Ah, see ... I can kinda respect that.

I’ll Take The Night Terrors, Thank You.

2010-03-02T06:38:00.000-05:00

I got to bed last night by 11 p.m., a virtual miracle these days. Boy, was that a mistake.

I just woke up from one of the most terrifying dreams I’ve had in years. The kind after which you stay awake realizing new and horrifying ways in which the dream was worse than you even initially thought.

-----------------------------------------------

From what I can remember, I was at a basketball game in a gym much like the one I remember from high school. There was a band playing and I laughed when I saw that it was my old high school band, complete with red and white uniforms. I was with someone. This person at one point was a guy I liked in school but at another point was someone unknown to me outside the dream. I was happy to be where I was.

When I arrived, I placed my purse on the bleachers but inevitably moved farther and farther away from it. Hey, if this were really my old school, I wasn’t worried. You could go in, place your coats or other personal items anywhere and rest fairly assured that it would be in the same place when you returned. Ah … Amish country.

The dream skipped forward, as dreams are apt to do, and it was suddenly time for me to leave with ….hmmm … now my companion had morphed into a husband … but WOW. My husband from what I can remember was somehow involved in law enforcement … or a doctor … or both. This guy was the guy bad guys feared. He was trustworthy, intelligent, a good badass if you will. He was investigating something horrible, but not tonight. He was investigating murders of some kind, but not right now.

It was time to leave. I looked around for my purse and … huh … where the hell did it go? I look up, up, up into the corner of the gym, at the top of the bleachers, and see that someone has moved it to a ledge. There was a square kind of office up in the corner, all lit up and busy with strangers doing business of some kind, and my purse (in the dream it was an old brown one I used to have – thank GOD that thing is at Goodwill now) was perched above the office somehow. I stupidly thought perhaps it was a lost and found location and trudge up, irritated that anyone had touched it.

I enter the brightly lit office – I have to go through it apparently to reach the spot where my purse is sitting – and see six people behind a glass partition, all busy talking to patrons who have come in to … what …. I have no idea. I recognize one of the workers as a high school classmate who, oh, let’s just say she does not at all care for me (oh greeeeeat) and dread having to explain why I need to go through the office. I do. I point to my purse which is now out a back door to the same office, up and around a corner (the office has no ceiling so we can see this).

[Sorry. Dreams have a way of morphing into big blobs of hard-to-describe, "What Dreams May Come" nonsense; bear with me.]

I hurry out the back door, turn and go up several steps to what I can only describe as a cement walkway above the basketball court but somehow outside so people can get fresh air as they peer down to watch the game. There are people milling about and I see my purse has moved again (but of course in the dream it’s as if this was the first place I saw it when I had looked up from the floor so long ago). My purse is sitting on the top of a column but over a fence placed to keep spectators safe from falling. What. The. Hell.

What jackass … ? Who would … ? I’m perplexed to say the least.

I move around two young men and their giggling female counterparts (seriously, get a life), excuse myself and explain I have to climb up to get my purse. The boys grimace at the interruption but move and I make my way up, grab my purse, set it back on solid ground … and realize that something is very very wrong.

There are thorns, branches, bits of debris sticking out from my purse’s back pocket. I start pulling these things out, cursing, “What the hell is wrong with people!” I’m semi-talking to the young group still standing there. “Someone took my purse and, look, stuck all this crap …. I hate people!” I hear what seems to be maybe a grunt of acknowledgment and continue to investigate the violation of my purse.

I open the flap on top. I can’t describe well what I see … odds and ends of mutilated things. Blood. Disturbing images. And I immediately realize that the person or people my husband is trying to capture did this. I look around frantically and he is there, my husband; I sigh in relief and explain what is happening and we decide we must go immediately. Danger Will Robinson. Evil is lurking.

Ladies and Gentlemen, we have ourselves an old-fashioned nightmare.

My husband is with an older male friend, an ally of some sort, the type of old hard good guy that you think has seen many many things, lived to tell about them, but remains a strong silent type. Good man perhaps past his prime. My husband and his friend maneuver me back to the office door and the dream morphs again. Now the three of us are making our way down a dark spiral staircase that apparently started around the area of the office. My husband is in front, then there's me hurrying to keep up, and finally the strong old friend bringing up the rear. [Hey, even I know the old guy’s toast at this point.]

Down, down, down … I’m flashing back to retrieving the purse and realized with a sudden jolt that I saw them. The young men who were by my purse. The young men who grunted with approval my hatred of people. They did this.

Sudden rapid footsteps coming down the stairs from behind us. Sudden holy-crap-I’m-gonna-die-and-be-cut-up-into-bits-and-stuffed-in-someone’s-purse terror. Super Husband now grabs me and makes a beeline straight down, almost like those guys you see on a ladder who put their feet on the outside and just slide. We zip down fast.

Old guy doesn’t.

We don’t hear the rapid steps anymore. They’ve found some reason … to stop.

----------------------------------------------

And … I wake up. At 5:38 a.m.

I think of Stephen King and how screwed up that guy must be to have worse nightmares in his head all the time and put them all to paper. I wonder why on earth I went to bed so early (for me). And I realize, thinking about the dream, that those two lunatics would have my wallet, my address, my badge, my phone, know all about me.

Well, hell, I’m awake now. Happy freakin’ Tuesday.

A Broken Eggshell Kind of Morning

2010-02-26T08:18:00.000-05:00

Should I be crawling back into bed world? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?

Call it a Murphy’s Law day if you will but when a series of events begin as soon as you rouse yourself in the morning, late, with no thanks to your alarm, which failed to make a dent in your bad dream, a series of events that foretell a not-so-funny-now comedy of errors to come … you ask yourself that question. Should I be crawling back into bed?

I shake off the late start (now compounded because I feel the need to write this RIGHT NOW), and am determined to start the day off right.

I need a fried egg sandwich … or “sammich,” if you will.

Now, I make no secret of the fact – stone cold fact – that I am not a domestic goddess. I boil. I open cans. I perhaps assemble. I do not “cook.” But I can make scrambled eggs and fried eggs. Usually. I swear.

I put my wee I-must-live-alone skillet on the stove, heat until med/med-high, spray a bit o’Pam in the skillet, grab bread for the toaster, an egg, and cheese. Okay. Skillet heated, I crack the egg on the counter. Dammit. Not the greatest job but it will be fine. Right?

I’m trying to crack open this badly cracked egg to reach the innards (still hungry?) and feel a twinge of dismay as two small bits of eggshell hit the hot skillet. Well, hell. Oops, two more hit.

Well, ____!

Do I give up? Do I turn off the stove and go back to bed? My body and brain seem hopeful for second.

I have court this afternoon. *growl*

I meticulously pick out the shell bits with one hand, holding the kinda sorta broken egg in the other, glare inside the skillet for a long moment to make sure all men down have been recovered, and finally get my egg in the skillet with a sizzle. *heavy sigh*

Please tell me that this step-by-step struggle is not going to continue the rest of the day.

Anyway, if you are wandering downtown later today and see a short, suit-clad female screaming, “MULLIGAN!!!” might I suggest you find cover … fast and quietly.

And for God’s sake, do not make eye contact.

Lordy, Lordy, Look Who's ...

2010-02-20T20:00:00.000-05:00

Already freaking out about her birthday this year.

I've been struggling to figure out what I want to do for my big day. A trip? A day spa? Some sleeping pills?

I'm still undecided but I just added a new possibility today. I can't believe I hadn't thought of this before.

I think jumping out of a perfectly good airplane might be the perfect way to celebrate.

Of course, I'm still open to suggestions. I have a few months left before the end.

I mean ... my birthday.

Well That Was ... Anticlimactic

2010-02-20T19:43:00.000-05:00

I did it. I plunked down the moolah for eHarmony.

Yeeeeah.

I recognize a LOT of these guys from other dating sites. Hell, I recognize pictures from other dating sites; pictures that have to be several years old.

The email I tried to send during the "free communication" weekend, the email that set off my "sneaky" eHarmony vibe when they wouldn't allow it to go through? I now know that it would have gone to someone I've already encountered at Match.com. Someone to whom I'm not attracted.

Does this mean I owe them thanks somehow for keeping me from opening that communication again?

Of course, if they allowed individuals to see their matches without paying, I would have recognized him in the first place. So, no, no thanks to you, eHarmony. You're still sneaky.

Then, I saw the "Find New Matches" button. Sweeet! I clicked. I watched with anticipation as the timer ticked down from 60 seconds. And then I read:

"Our matching system was not able to find any new matches for you right now."

Well, isn't that a kick in the ole' ego keister. Now, instead of wandering Grand Rapids wondering where my guy is hiding, I paid way more than I wanted in order to be told by a blinking computer that he doesn't exist.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I realize this is not true and have been recently told that only a very small percentage of people even use these dating sites. But, still ... 'you're unmatchable at the moment' is not a thing anyone wants or needs to hear.

Or read.

Ah, You're Sneaky eHarmony ... Very Sneaky.

2010-02-15T23:30:00.001-05:00

Tonight ends the "free communication" weekend at eHarmony that enticed me to fill out their incredibly long and maddening questionnaire and, thus, throw my singledom at the mercy of 29 "dimensions of compatibility." I have hurried through the "guided communication" with one individual but we're not yet at the email stage.

And, more maddening even, I chose to skip straight to email (supposedly an option) with another match since time is running out and any guy who claims to like Laurell K. Hamilton's Anita Blake series (I believe a rarity among men) deserves to at least have the means of finding my blog. Of course the means of finding my blog could end in him running far far away, screaming, but ... eh ... the faint of heart need not tarry too long. Therefore, I wrote an extremely witty (aren't I humble) email explaining a bit about myself and complimenting him on his reading choice then included information on how to find this site. I clicked send, happy in my decision. I was promptly redirected to the subscription page and a short note informing me that "email" is for subscribers only.

Um ... then don't include the link on my communication page and perhaps inform your newbies that "free communication" weekends mean your slower-than-papaw "guided communication" only.

<narrowed eyes>

I see your game, eHarmony. Lure me with the promise of free communication then purposefully make the process so painfully slow that, in order to actually have true communication with any of my "matches," I must become a paying subscriber. Evil, evil temptress.

Thus, I find myself waffling at the prospect of forking over nearly $140 (yuh-huh, that's what I typed) for three months of services at eHarmony. Match.com is less expensive. True, Match.com has not been successful for me recently (obviously), but spending twice as much in order to even see pictures of my matches gives me pause.

I'm even getting contrary results from the tried and (well, not so much) true methods of divination: the horoscope and uber-eery magic 8 ball. According to today's horoscope for we cancerous crabs:

If you are buying a lot of lottery tickets or engaging in some other kind of against-the-odds ventures, you need to spend your time and your money more wisely. Maybe you have reassured yourself by dwelling on the idea that someone has to win, but that isn't necessarily so. Although what you're going through now might not literally involve the purchase of lottery tickets, you could be taking some kind of risky venture way too seriously. You are a dreamer, Moonchild, but you can also be quite objective and practical. Now's the time to let your more stable side take control. [Emphasis added.]

In contrast, I asked the Magic 8 Ball whether I would find "that special person" during the 3 months at eHarmony if I paid for the subscription. Answer:

Yes.

Oh, the agony at times of having the ability to make my own freakin' decisions!

[Disclaimer: Yes, I realize just how asinine this dilemma is and that there are people in the world, the majority of the world's population in fact, who would relish making it rather than wondering how they will eat or where they will sleep. I am only silly, not hard-hearted.]

So, as the minutes tick away, I sit, sipping wine, and pondering the frivolity of this expenditure.

I highly doubt any decision will be made this night. Suggestions, wisdom, and wisecracks are welcome.

Evil Holiday 2010

2010-02-14T03:04:00.000-05:00

It's a new decade, lady and gents; therefore, I'll be handling this annual forced recognition of my singlehood ... eh, pretty much the same way I've "handled" it in the past. With much growling and gnashing of various inanimate objects, which are incapable of protest or screams.

Except the shredder. Apparently a shredder can scream. Loudly.

So, I was sitting on my loveseat (the purchase of Evil Holiday 2009), comfy and oh-so-classy in my pajamas, red flannel robe (I do not kid, sir), and ... wait for it ... uber-sexy facial mask, and thought, "The time is now."

eHarmony. Yep. [Said while making a big popping sound at the end.]

I just spent two HOURS filling out an eHarmony questionnaire that made me think way too much. And I'm not talking about the typical "what are you looking for" questions of other dating sites. I'm talking questions ranging from how adventurous are you (eh, define adventurous - sue me, I'm an attorney) to how stable are you (and I loved that "somewhat" was a smack-in-the-middle choice). I was asked in at least three different ways how important monogamy was in a serious relationship. Really?? I'm curious to see, just see, the individuals who marked "not at all" to that question.

What are the four attributes my friends would say best describe me? Um ... can I have my friends answer that? Because to say "intelligent" "funny" "loyal" and "caring" myself seems like cheating since it really doesn't cover the "funny girl but can be a pain in the ass" crowd or the "so incredibly sweet even though I've only just met her" newbie who, yeah, really must have just met me.

And the answers to so many questions about the potential match depend on ... the potential match.

How important is your match's educational level? Well, how cute are we talking here?
How often can your match smoke? Well, does that question encompass only cigarettes (NEVER) or does it also include a cigar a few times a year (totally fine).
How important is your match's religious views? Um, something the opposite of zealot but not so cynical as to make fun of others who believe differently. Does that equate to "somewhat"?
Are you open to a match who has young children living at home? Absolutely ... providing we're not talking some kid named Damien with a weird numeric birthmark. Or some mighty brood the likes of which will induce my remaining eggs to shrivel up in some mass eggicide.

See. It depends.

Finally, there did not appear to be any definitive questions about cooking that would allow me to proclaim my anti-Betty status before some poor shmuck comes over expecting homemade cooking made by someone other than my Papa John (he's an excellent Papa ... he'll even deliver).

Ah well, we'll see.

Shouldn't I be more excited about this whole process? Yeah, I thought so, too.

Ah well ... we'll see!

The Terror of the Night

2010-02-10T07:29:00.000-05:00

Have you ever waked to find yourself screaming? Standing? Walking? All while absolutely positive that something or someone was in the room with you?

I have. I have night terrors.

Night terrors are not nightmares. You might wake from a nightmare with a start, but you typically won't wake to find yourself standing on the other side of the bed or walking in your living room, all while completely freaked out and possibly screaming. I thankfully do not have these often but they are memorable. I typically only remember a face, or a shape standing over me, or possible a snake in my bed ... and I am positive at the moment of waking that whatever the terror is at that time, it is real and nearby.

According to the American Academy of Sleep Medicine (and, no, I don't take any), about 6.5% of all children may have been affected by night terrors; however, children generally grow out of it. The number drops to 2.2% of adults. Somehow, that doesn't make me feel special in a good way. I look at the list of potential causes and continually shake my head: no substance abuse issues, no post-traumatic stress disorder (unless dating counts), none of the possible medication complications, etc. I don't know what causes my occasional terror; I only know they occur approximately 4-6 times a year.

Most often, if I have a night terror, I'll wake screaming. [I'd feel a bit sorrier for my neighbors if any of them had EVER come to check on me ... or called the police.] I remember waking during a Disney family vacation and finding myself on my knees in bed, screaming, with my then husband trying to calm me. On rarer occasions, I've found myself standing on the opposite side of the bed in a frantic state. One time, I was circling a chair in my living room as I calmed down and reminded myself that no one was really there.

Why am I even thinking of this quirk of mine right now?

Because my night terror reached a new level last night that will likely cause me to add this to the "Hi, Doc" discussion at my annual physical this year. As is often the case, I have no memory of a dream last night other than KNOWING someone was in my room. I was sleeping on my side and had a pillow between my knees. The difference this time is that my scream wasn't stopped by me waking up and coming to my senses, my scream stopped abruptly when my head hit the dresser ... three feet away from my bed.

My pillow was still between my knees.

Honestly, it was as if I was sucked from the bed Exorcist style, hitting the floor first with my soon-to-be purple booty then the dresser with my head. I have no idea how I did this booty bed jump.

I only know that I have a sore bottom and knocked noggin. And a new topic of discussion for my doctor.

A Late Hello to 2010. I Will Crush You.

2010-02-04T00:04:00.002-05:00

Yes, it's February. January was around here just a second ago but disappeared when I wasn't looking.

2010. A big year for me. Potentially. Hopefully. A purging year, and not in an eating disorder way. [Binging I could probably master given the right kind (any) of ice cream; the purging just wouldn't occur.]

2010. A year I'll rid myself of yet another reminder of old failures: I'm getting a new bed.

*cue chorus of angels*

A small thing to some; a large purchase for me. I've had the same king-sized bed for at least 12 years. YEARS. My relationship with this piece of furniture has now lasted longer than my failed marriage. It has survived a husband, three boyfriends, one particularly unreligious Easter, and, generally, a slew of bad decisions. It has lived in ... wait ... eight (?), yes, EIGHT homes. I, and countless others, have hauled that monstrosity seven times. I, alone, have flipped it through potentially back spasming yet comical maneuvers that always left me feeling oddly powerful.

It's time.

The top contenders at present are a euro-top or a spine align plus queen (made locally in West Michigan). Yes, a queen. A full seems a bit sad; a twin is horribly sad. A queen is big enough for me to sprawl when I feel like sprawling yet also proclaims, "I expect I'll need a two-person bed at some point in the future." Yes, a queen will do quite nicely. And, let's face it: A king is nice, especially when you really don't care to touch the other person, ever, but it tends to take up all the space and is more of a nuisance than a blessing. Huh. Takes up space; more of a nuisance than a blessing. Wow. No wonder they call it a king; it really is a male.

And I wonder why I'm single. Ah well, the ultra-plush, two-person bed will be there if/when I need it.

See *taptaptap* I'm always thinking ahead ...

.....

More 2010 changes to come ...

From the Midst of the Montage

2009-12-04T06:00:00.000-05:00

Have you ever felt as if you’re in the midst of your life-changing montage?

You know what I mean, right?

In movies, we watch our hero/heroine suffer some tragedy, be it the death of a loved one, the loss of a career, or a broken heart, some combination of events that leads them to their lowest of lows, and then …. the montage.

The montage typically consists of 60 seconds or less of quick flashes of scenes showing our hero/heroine (Oh, let’s just go with “she” shall we? What? No reason) taking those necessary steps to pick herself up, dust herself off, and move on with her life. We see glimpses of her at the gym, beginning a new job, meeting new people, throwing out old things, buying new, painting or decorating her home, perhaps physically moving to a new locale. The montage ends, of course, with our heroine shiny, new, and completely physically and emotionally ready to turn the corner and *BAM* run into that love of her life who was just waiting, it seems, for her to get her own together.

Yeeeah.

A good, recent example of this is the movie (500) Days of Summer.

****

[Stop reading if you have plans to see this movie and don’t want spoilers.]

****

We see our hero, Tom, played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt [remember that cute little alien from 3rd Rock from the Sun?] writing greeting cards and falling in love with a girl named Summer. The film jumps around a bit time-wise but we see how Tom views their relationship, his hopes and dreams, and then we see those dreams crushed, revived, and finally obliterated when she finds someone new and he quits his job. Then … the montage. Tom finally takes up architecting again, trashes his apartment but starts drawing on the walls (I know, right?), and starts pounding the pavement looking for his “real” career. He focuses on making his own life better … and getting over lost love. We end with him 1) at an interview for the job he’s likely to finally get and 2) meeting Autumn …. that girl who was just waiting for him to notice her.

Wow, that almost made me gag and I LOVE that movie.

Yeeeah.

Do you know why directors make use of the montage? Because the actual process is long and excruciatingly painful. The actual process takes months or years. The actual process is ripe with setbacks, false starts, minor (and major) horrors, grief, and disillusionment.

The montage doesn’t show you the day-to-day, seemingly never-ending stress, the psychological and physical warfare a person goes through as she recovers from the lowest point in her life.

And, when is the montage over?

When has our heroine “finished” her re-construction to the point that the requisite *BAM* happens?

Is there a checklist out there that someone is hiding from me?

Do I simply need to check off “new car” and *BAM* … or “painted wall” and *BAM*?

Ooh … can I yell “CUT! SCENE!” and start the new scene?

‘Cause I’ll do it. In public if necessary.

"LINE!!!"

It's Really Not About Steve At All!

2009-11-15T18:33:00.001-05:00

I ignored the bad reviews and went to see All About Steve today. I mean, it's got Sandra Bullock so it can’t be all bad, right? Right?

Eh … not all bad. Some bad, oh yes. But, some good as well.

In short, All About Steve isn’t all about the character Steve. It’s all about the lovable yet uber-quirky cruciverbalist [psst … that’s a crossword puzzle maker] Mary Horowitz, played by Bullock, who sets her sights on easy-on-the-eyes camera man Steve, played by Bradley Cooper (in one of his few not-entirely-an-asshole roles this year) in order to be what others want her to be: normal.

Were bits overdone? Well, yes, it seems that is a given in most movies these days (see my take on 2012) with the exception this year of Star Trek (all hail). Were bits unfunny that were supposed to be funny? Well, yes, but I found myself wondering how much of my reaction or non-reaction was because of the expectation of unfunny I had walking into the theater. I had laughs, I got a bit teary, and I left with that happy ending feeling - and that's about all I ask of movies on any given Sunday.

Just promise me this: If you go to see this movie, don’t go expecting a romantic comedy in which the main character gets her guy; she doesn’t.

What she gets is the insight that she’s already perfect ... and perfectly unique.

----

“If you love someone, set him free; if you have to stalk him, he probably wasn’t yours to start with.”
~ Mary Horowitz. Now those are words to live by.

---

A word on Bradley Cooper: Isn’t it about time for this guy to do a movie in which he’s actually the good guy who gets the girl??? I have not seen all of his work but what I have seen this year includes the above movie in which he shuns the seemingly-crazy-but-lovable Mary, The Hangover in which he plays an irresponsible ass of a best friend and husband, and He’s Just Not That Into You in which he plays a cheating bastard. Seriously, be the good guy, Cooper, ‘cause I will learn to disregard the good looks if you keep playing the ass.

What Began As a Tweet-Sized Review of 2012

2009-11-14T20:09:00.002-05:00

On a last minute whim (and a last minute cancellation of the party I was supposed to attend today), I went to see 2012 this afternoon. 2012 – the big disaster movie with John “Better Off Dead” Cusack sans sister Joan but with a wigged out Woody [Harrelson].

Latest, greatest special effects? Check.

Main lovable star in a sad rut ready to turn his luck around? Check.

Adorable kids in serious need of smacking at various points of the movie? Check.

Cynical guy calling the shots who we’re supposed to believe is evil but who seems to me to be the only sensible person in the film? Check.

[I’m with you, Oliver Platt; that probably means I’m going to hell, but I’m with you!]

Instance after instance of excruciatingly drawn-out suspenseful moments? *sigh* Check.

Actually, I could simply say this:

2012 – There are moments for thought-provoking words of feeling and long looks of love … but not when a freakin' tsunami is going to crush you in seconds unless you do that one thing you need to do!!!!!

Who DOES that???!!!!

Apparently, John Cusack, Amanda Peet, Chiwetel Ejiofor (Yeeeah, I have no idea on that one either), "President" Danny Glover, and George Segal, to name just a few.

----------------

Side note: To the two women who needed to change seats after the movie began in order to sit in the row directly behind me, for the love of GOD, WHAT WERE YOU EATING????

*crumple* *slurp* *crunch* *rustle* *cough*

*cough* *cough*

*cough* *giggle* *cough* *cough*

You, dear ladies, deadened completely the beginnings of sympathy I had for the doomed people in the movie. Thank you.

All I Ask ... Is For A Smile!

2009-11-02T20:59:00.000-05:00

Oh, irritation! Oh, lack of customer appreciation!

I bought a few books Saturday at my new Barnes and Noble. One was a new hardback from Charlaine Harris – Grave Secret – a continuation of her Harper Connelly, I-was-struck-by-lightning-and-now-find-dead-bodies heroine (no, seriously, it’s very entertaining), along with another sci-fi book … and a romance book (don’t you judge me).

Standing at the register, making my purchases, I commented to the worker that I thought the Harris book had a members’ coupon available so she looked online for me and the following exchange took place.

“I’m not seeing one.”

“Oh … okay, I thought sure there was one but maybe it was for her other new release.”

“Well, if you buy it today then find the coupon, just bring it back with the receipt and we can take care of that for you.”

“Great!”

The coupon was in my email; I found it the next day. It expired tonight.

So, I made sure that I had the book, still in the bag with the receipt, in my car and headed there tonight after Sadie aka Sadistic-even-though-I-had-a-baby-10-days-ago fitness instructor extraordinaire found new and vicious uses for exercise balls. Finally back at Barnes and Noble, I made my way (gingerly) to the registers and explained to a worker there what was going on … no problem … she just needed a manager to authorize it.

The manager arrived. Here’s where the irritation began:

Hmm … the two were having problems getting the return to go through and the worker asked me if I have another receipt as the Harris book is not listed on the one I gave her.

Eh???

I look at the receipt and then find myself in the awkward, and extremely irritating, position of explaining to them what apparently happened. I bought three books Saturday: The Harris hardback and two paperbacks. The person checking me out rang up one of the paperbacks twice and forgot to ring up the Harris book.

Initial blank looks. Final recognition.

“Sooooo ...” I noted, much to my chagrin, “it seems I’ll probably end up owing you more instead of getting any money back.”

No response as they are returning one of the paperbacks and ringing up the Harris book.

“Well, I guess at least this will help with your inventory.” I chuckle.

No response.

No smile.

Nothing.

Now, I realize that I simply ended up paying for the books I received. I get that. But given the circumstances – that a customer believing she was entitled to money back from a coupon ends up paying more instead because of a mistake of one of their employees – could I have a bit of, oh, I don’t know …. extra kindness at least??

A freakin SMILE perhaps??!!

Honestly, I left feeling as though they thought I had done something WRONG when I can just as easily envision another customer flatly refusing to pay the additional amount because it was an error by one of their employees. It felt as if, because I was honest, I was only penalized.

All I ask … is for a smile while you’re taking MORE money from me. Is that too much?

I don’t think so.

Boo and hiss, Barnes and Noble.

It's Quiet ... But Not Quiet Enough

2009-10-31T20:15:00.000-04:00

Halloween 2008 included friends, handing out candy to cuties, and my red hair with one hell of an afterlife. Actually, that afterlife lasted almost a full year. In short, the red spray did not only get on my hair for a fun spooky night effect but also on my bathroom walls, sink, and, most importantly, the bathroom linoleum. From light tan to pink in one step. Nothing got it out.

A few weeks ago, I sucked up my pride, contacted my apartment complex and finally asked how much it would be to replace that bathroom linoleum. I anticipated that it would come out of my security deposit anyway once I moved out; no one would want an apartment with linoleum that looks like it got a bit too intimate with the Pepto-Bismol. My landlords rock ... not only did they replace it promptly once I asked, they essentially patted me on the head, told me I'm a good tenant, and didn't charge me a dime for it.

*lively linoleum limbo*

Sadly, I now love my bathroom linoleum and hate the perfectly adequate kitchen linoleum. *sigh*

Thus ended the horror of Halloween 2008

---------------------------------

Halloween 2009 includes no friends, no candy, no dress-up. Sad? Pfft.

Halloween 2009 began with a facial (Aaaah, Indigo), continued with a flick (Aaaaah, Clive Owen in The Boys Are Back at Celebration Cinema), included a hot, soft pretzel with cheese and dark chocolate English toffee (Aaaaah, Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory), moved on to new boots (thank you JCPenney), new books (via the new Barnes and Noble), and rounded out nicely with Chicken Bowtie Festival and Tiramisu (care of Carino's).

Not bad for a single person with no plans, right?

Right.

I'm home now, cocooned in my totally cool, black Hogwarts hooded fleece, watching a channel surfer's combination of an NCIS marathon and spooky movies (Halloween 1, 5, 4, who knows). All should be well.

[Note: picture is a year or so old and, although I have been known to enjoy a stogie once in while, I am not doing so tonight. It is the only pic of said fleece I could find.]

And all would be well except for one annoying fact: people keep calling, texting, or otherwise notifying me of their party-dress-candy-fun-family-friends-filled plans for this all hallows' eve. There is nothing quite like seeing pictures of others' beautiful children dressed in horrifically cute costumes, eager faces smiling with bags and pumpkins in hand ready to beg for sweets to remind you of what you lack. Don't misunderstand me, I love seeing the pictures, love hearing about the fun ... just not in the seemingly concentrated two-hour span that just ended.

And not when I'm home alone with no candy and no prospects for kidsters knocking and getting miffed at the oversight of sweetness.

I remember a time when I dressed up to hand out candy while my ex took my stepson around the neighborhood for trick or treating. I LOVE handing out candy. I also love finding glow-in-the-dark makeup and attempting to inspire some nightmares that will later shock the kiddies out of their sugar-induced comas.

I miss that.

So, next year, when you're making your Halloween plans, take a second to think of any of your own single friends, living in apartments, who might like to come help with your candy hand-out. Believe me, even if they have some hot adult party they are attending (please and thank you), they will still appreciate the invitation.

Meanwhile, it's quiet here ... but not quite quiet enough.
Happy Halloween, All Hallows' Eve, Festival of Samhain ....

The Biggby Jinx

2009-10-30T22:57:00.000-04:00

Is my Biggby Coffee jinxing me? I think so.

It's a well known (to me) fact that there seems to be a shortage of hot (to me) professional SINGLE males (HPSM) in my city. Believed to spend much of their days in office buildings, these elusive creatures are rarely seen. Their continued existence is, at times, only confirmed during the summer festival days when groups of females will wander downtown Grand Rapids in a daze with one shared thought:

"Where have you (and you and you and you) been hiding??!!!"

Now, perhaps a less known fact is you can occasionally run into a HPSM at local coffee houses. For example, I was stunned recently when standing in a building lobby outside my local Biggby, talking on my cell phone, to be confronted with not one, but five such individuals walking through the lobby. I continued bravely with my conversation but blaring through my head, reminiscent of a festival day, was, "Where have you (and you and you and you and YOU) been hiding??!!!"

[Answer: apparently in this particular building, the location of which I will take to my grave.]

One would think this phenomenon suggests we should support our local coffee houses thus feeding the addiction that brings the HPSMs out in the open. That's probably true; however, recent events suggest that my local Biggby is actually jinxing me around the HPSM.

Two days ago, I made my way to Biggby for my daily SSML (that's skinny skinny mocha latticino, no whip - oh yeah, I'm one of those people). Leaving with my cup o-chocolate goodness, I began walking through the lobby when a seemingly HPSM rounded the corner walking toward me. Eyes met, smiles were exchanged. He said, "Hello." I said, "Hello."

Jinx #1: Said "Hello" was followed promptly by a stumble worthy of an I Love Lucy episode. Although I managed to keep my ass from hitting the ground and (most of) my coffee from doing the same, my undulations and grunts were really not the stuff of successful first meetings. *horror*

One day ago, I made my way to Biggby for my daily SSML. Leaving with my cup o-chocolate goodness, I made my way through the lobby and was approaching the doors when I heard an elevator *ding* over my left shoulder. Instinctively, I looked toward the sound only to see the same HPSM exiting said elevator and shifting his eyes in my direction. A smirk. A smirk followed by a "Hi." Excellent, right?

Jinx #2: My uncontrollable response to this encounter as a 30-something professional female was to giggle. GIGG-GAAAAL!! I also managed one squeaked, "Hi," worthy of Jr. High but apparently that was not enough ... another giggle escaped on my way out the door. *mortification*

Today, I made my way with a certain amount of trepidation to Biggby for my daily SSML. I did not see the same HPSM today. No. I did see an older specimen encountered three times before but lately thought extinct. I had actually engaged the older specimen (and by older, I only mean that I would not feel quite as puma-ish around this particular HPSM as the other admittedly puppish example) in casual conversation about the daily trivia question, shared laughter, no trippage.

Jinx #3: The older pup entered Biggby with a tall, leggy brunette. *throws up hands and walks away*

I'm beginning to think there's something in that latticino.

Why?

Because, well, because the alternative is that it's just me.

.....

Naaaaaaaah. It's the freakin' coffee.

The Twilight Saga ... Seriously Condensed

2009-10-28T23:06:00.003-04:00

Click *here* ONLY if you've already read all four books.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

I would give proper thanks to the artist but I haven't a clue who that would be ... I can only thank my little sister for a chuckle-filled tweet.

A [Likely Temporary] Epiphany

2009-10-28T19:45:00.016-04:00

Do you remember where you were when you first really recognized your own mortality? You know, that complete realization that you WILL die at some point in the future?

[I know, great cheery topic for my first post in two months but don't fear ... there's a good point.]

Now, logically, we all "know" this from early on, especially if you've watched a Disney movie. Ever. Someone at Disney seems intent on informing kids early and often that their parents might just up and kick it at any moment. Cinderella loses both parents, Snow White as well, Bambi, Simba ... sheesh! But I'm talking about that knock-you-on-your-ass moment of clarity when you truly recognize and accept that you will die.

It happened to me today. I was walking along the Grand River at lunch not listening to my MP3 player (dead battery) and in the midst of some absolutely asinine daydream about nonexistent characters (yes, I'm THAT immature), it hit me.

I believe my exact thought was, "I wonder how I'll die."

*BAM*

I stumbled.

[Granted, this wasn't my first stumble of the day. That happened on my way back from getting my morning coffee. I was walking through the lobby of a downtown office building when I looked up and saw a hot man in downtown Grand Rapids. A rare find indeed and I managed to say "Hello" right before launching into a full-fledged Lucy stumble complete with undulations intent on keeping my ass in air. And to think I'm single. I know, I'm shocked, too. But I digress too long.]

Now, you would think that such a realization would frighten me, but I have to admit, it was somehow liberating. At that moment, the thought that this life is somehow finite, that this life ends, felt freeing. And I don't mean in a depressing way.

Recognizing my own mortality highlighted just how precious a gift we have in living in the first place. We have this incredible opportunity to live ... to have an adventure of literally a lifetime. Why on earth would we ever consider squandering that? It ends, people! This life!!

Regardless of your views on what, if anything, happens after that end, the fact that this is OUR TIME, right now, down here (all hail the Goonies) should mean something. Why hide or sit quietly by while time keeps moving on to that inevitable end? Even if you tried (anything) and failed miserably at it ... it's finite.

Quite simply, there's NO reason not to try to fulfill whatever dreams you have.

Holding on to that feeling is the hard part. My moment of clarity inspired me, yes, but I know too well that similar feelings get smacked down by the day to day responsibilities and drama. I've yet to learn how to keep from blinking another week gone, another month, another year.

If anyone has the answer to that dilemma ... there's oodles of money to be made and Oprah to meet.

Meanwhile, I guess I'll focus on the memory of today's epiphany ... and on not stumbling Lucy-style around hot men. Lofty goals indeed but one must start somewhere.

Again with the Whatifs!

2009-08-25T01:03:00.000-04:00

Whatif ~ Shel Silverstein

Last night, while I lay thinking here,
some Whatifs crawled inside my ear
and pranced and partied all night long
and sang their same old Whatif song:

Whatif I'm dumb in school?
Whatif they've closed the swimming pool?
Whatif I get beat up?
Whatif there's poison in my cup?
Whatif I start to cry?
Whatif I get sick and die?
Whatif I flunk that test?
Whatif green hair grows on my chest?
Whatif nobody likes me?
Whatif a bolt of lightning strikes me?
Whatif I don't grow taller?
Whatif my head starts getting smaller?
Whatif the fish won't bite?
Whatif the wind tears up my kite?
Whatif they start a war?
Whatif my parents get divorced?
Whatif the bus is late?
Whatif my teeth don't grow in straight?
Whatif I tear my pants?
Whatif I never learn to dance?

Everything seems well, and then
the nighttime Whatifs strike again!

------------------------------------------

Oh Shel, Shel ... what an amazing life. So many of us know Shel Silverstein's name from Where the Sidewalk Ends and A Light in the Attic, but did you also know the Shel wrote the song, A Boy Named Sue, and one of my all-time favorites from childhood, Boa Constrictor, both performed by Johnny Cash? Or One's On the Way for you Loretta Lynn fans.

I saw Julie and Julia tonight starring Meryl Streep. [Excellent movie BTW.] Streep sings another of Shel's songs in Postcards From The Edge. I'm Checking Out ends the movie.

What a big life.

I started out wanting to write about the poem ... the whatifs that plague us/me each day. He hits both the minor (Whatif the bus is late) and major (Whatif I get sick and die). I simply never realized the size of his life before. The contributions he made. The lives he touched in so many different formats. What a life.

We worry about so many inconsequential things in our lives. So many whatifs that never happen. So many whatifs that keep us from pursuing our dreams in the first place.

Whatifs never stopped Shel Silverstein. Whatifs never had a chance.

Whatif we could all have as big a life?

Battle for the Butterfly

2009-08-10T21:01:00.009-04:00

The main battle has taken place ... minor skirmishes have followed.

And, no, I don't care if I've set feminism back 2- 50 years; when a friend offered this morning to stop by and man the spray, I took him up on it with the glee of a woman NOT being stung.

I stood not so bravely by the door ... okay ... inside the door ... while he sprayed down the butterfly stone and shot the occasional returning wasp. I thought I'd have to wait a day or so before trying to figure out how to get the nest out but, "what's that you say, do I have a screwdriver? Why yes, YES I do." My friend figured out how to take the bottom off of my solar-powered butterfly and found three nests - a large on on the butterfly and two smaller ones.

More spray, some knocking on wood, and the nests were casualties on the battlefield called my balcony.

*Bruhahahahahaha*

I thanked profusely ... then left the battlefield to let the blood dry before cleanup.

I came back later alone and, feeling quite the victor, stomped on the nests to ensure complete desolation. Yeeeeah ... so ... don't do that. Weird pink gooey stuff does not go well with my tennis shoe or deck. Blech.

I swept the bodies off the battlefield then quickly retreated when more soldier wasps returned home to ... well ... visions of Luke running home then staring idly into the sunset come to mind. Seriously ... this one fellow stood off to the side all contemplative.

Until the evil empire struck again and sprayed his ass. Oh yeah. I killed three more and retreated again. I was feeling all Mel Gibson waving the "watch this" flag in Braveheart when I noticed yet another casualty of the mayhem. But this wasn't right ... not right at all!

It was darkening outside by this time ... but remaining dark on my balcony as well. Alas, stone butterfly remained dark. Was the unleashed stream of killing spray too much for her??!!!!

*sadness*

But wait ... wait ... 20 minutes later - enter R2D2 all fixed and shiny during the victory ceremony!

She's all bright now! My butterfly survived and shines brightly on my abode. WHEEEE!!!

Wasps and Butterflies

2009-08-09T23:34:00.002-04:00

I have wasps. I hate wasps. There are wasps on my balcony impeding my enjoyment of a perfect little chair with color-coordinated cushions and side table ... all waiting for me to sit and ponder shit. But I can't. 'Cause I have wasps on my balcony.

I also have a butterfly. A beautiful solar-powered butterfly ... a stone with a cut-out that lights up at night. I've had this wonder rock for a couple years now and it still shines bright. Kinda bright. It's little light is dimmer now ... BECAUSE I'VE GOT WASPS!!!

Yes, the wasps have made their den of buzzing evil INSIDE my beautiful butterfly. I see them flying into it ... crawling over it. I cringe. I HATE WASPS.

Today I bought Raid Wasp and Hornet spray. Killing spray. It says to use at night or early morning ... you know ... to lessen the chance of the evil wasps yelling charge with their sharp stingers of pain and targeting oh ... I don't know ... MY EYE!! Lessen the chance ... "when insect activity is minimal." Minimal. Not NON-EXISTENT. Minimal. That means little Wilbur the Wasp who drew the straw for night duty will be on guard waiting ... waiting to finally seize the night/early morning ... AND MY EYE!

I'm faced with a dilemma. Do I brave these fears and spray the butterfly den myself with the full knowledge that screaming and bottle tossing off the balcony are very real possibilities? Or do I beg for assistance ... you know ... from those guys. Those guys who are likely to drink too much beer and attempt to pick up a rattlesnake. The same guys who climb up a ladder to try and cut down the beehive. Those guys.

......

Anybody know those guys?

How Much of Life is a Dream Deferred?

2009-07-18T09:02:00.001-04:00

Dream Deferred ~ Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--
And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
Like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
Like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

------------------------------------

How many deferred dreams do we have in our lives? Is that, in part, what defines happiness? The less dreams we must look on ... stuck away in a closet ... dreams we take out every so often and ponder, maybe dust off, shine up, consider ... then slowly pack away for another day ... is the key to happiness whittling away at the number of those stuffed-away dreams?

I still say that we all get older but few mature. I include myself in the 'all get older' group and continually find myself thinking some of the same thoughts and tackling the same insecurities I had at age 18, 23, 30, 34. I grow older but I am as I've always been in many respects. Now, this isn't all a negative ... I might grimace at my faults but, in the end, I like me (as all should in my oh-so-humble opinion).

But damn those packed away dreams!
Those missed opportunities.
Those worn what-ifs.

I need to do some spring (summer) cleaning and dust a few off.
Bounce them around. Stare.

One of these days, I might just keep one or two out. Watch them finally explode into something.

One of these days.

The Yearning for Less Yeahbuts

2009-06-11T21:23:00.015-04:00

"Yeahbuts" = 1) That internal rationalization we sometimes engage in when evaluating a potential date that takes some undesirable trait and deflects the natural tendency to walk away by noting a mildly positive one. 2) The person we date following such a rationalization.

Example 1: He seems to be an alcoholic ... but he's a damn fine kisser.*

Example 2: He seems to have a third testicle aka odd growth ... but he's a damn fine kisser.*

*Yes, damn fine kissing can successfully, if only temporarily, deflect way too many evils.

I want substantially less Yeahbuts in my life. I'm contemplating a safari into the jungle of online dating and am determined to have less Yeahbuts as dates. See, a Yeahbut might seem a quick fix for loneliness but is, in fact, a contributing factor to sad panda syndrome everywhere as Yeahbuts muck up your life, sucking out all time and energy for those elusive creatures with only the positive - "but" factors.

In short, I need more good "buts" in my life.

*hee*

In fact, I enlist my friends as allies in this endeavor: Be on the lookout for Yeahbuts. If I appear to be succumbing even momentarily to a Yeahbut, you have my permission, my plea, to smack me upside the head.

[For those curious ones, yes, examples 1 & 2 stem from the same real person who shall remain a nameless EMT alcoholic ass with Dallas-worthy initials.]

The Shoe Scrape

2009-06-11T20:35:00.018-04:00

Today, I witnessed possibly the most disgusting spectacle I've seen in the last five or more years ... all while walking to the restroom in my office building.

In order to reach said restroom, I had to traverse an interior walkway that, because of a wall of windows from 1st to 4th floor, allows for a full view of the parking lot outside of our building. Crossing as I was, I aimlessly stared outside, wishing for the sun, a walk, and my mp3 player (currently playing Pride and Prejudice and Zombies by Jane Austen and Seth Grahame-Smith).

[Side note: Go buy the book above right now. Any book that begins with "It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains" and includes the five Bennet sisters being skilled in the "deadly arts" is a necessary read for all.]

My eye landed on three patriotically-clad people walking through our parking lot - two men and one woman. I watched with some disinterest as one man and the woman walked a bit ahead of the other man ... until I noticed the lagger step off to one side, farther away from the couple. My mild interest quickly turned to horror as the man then put his hand over his nose and proceeded to attempt a bushman's blow in public.

Now ... a bushman's blow is essentially ... blowing your nose without tissue or Kleenex or other suitable receptacle. Oh yeah ... make that face. It was dis-gus-TING! The attempt was apparently ... uh ... fruitful ... since he then flung the contents of his hand to the ground. Yeeah.

But wait ... there's more.

He stopped a moment, considering his hand. The flinging didn't quite do the job so he then lifted up the back of his shoe and scraped his hand on it.

Another look ... another scrape ... a few steps ... look ... scrape ... step ... look ... scrape ... step. The man's impromptu booger dance continued until he had scraped his hand off about six times.

It may have continued longer but he was then, thankfully, out of my view. Alas, not out of my memory.

I know not where the urban bushman went, I only know this - Watch where you step in downtown Grand Rapids people; between the spitters and the lagging bushman, it's a snotty mess out there.

[And lest anyone misunderstand my use of the term bushman as being racial, I'm talking about the action and nothing else, in fact, the bushman blowing today was Caucasian. Disgusting habits know no color boundary.]

Going Down

2009-06-09T07:11:00.012-04:00

God bless regional and/or familial differences; they keep us on our toes. Or at least wiping the tears away as we nearly get thrown out of a Jeep.

I spent part of this weekend with my little sister, Jenny, in Chicago. Jenny manages a SEE Optical there and is my personal dresser when it comes to my Velma look. So, this weekend found me doing at least two of many things I hate: driving to/from/in Chicago and picking out glasses. Thankfully, the trip also included a trip to the Museum of Science and Industry for the Harry Potter Exhibition, which is there through September 27, 2009. [YOU MUST GO!!!]

It was on the way to said exhibition that Jenny and I were delighted by the following exchange:

Jenny's friend, Beth, was gracious enough to go with us on our adventure and even more awesome by driving. On the way, Jenny was in need of caffeine so we pulled into a Dunkin' Donuts that was blessed with the drive-thru window. Now, I'm generally not a DD customer and, so, wasn't sure what, if anything, I'd want. I noted this as we were pulling in and Beth, rather than go forward to the drive-thru .... stopped in the middle of the parking lot.

"Do you need to go down?"

Um ... must not have heard her right.

"What?"

"Do you need to go down??"

Silence ... whadahuh?

"Do you need to go down?"

Let's go with the safe answer.

"Um ... no."

Jenny finally asked Beth, "Do you mean go 'in'?"

An exasperated, "Yes!" and stunned, "OH!!" later, Jenny and I dissolved into laughter. In the midst of that giggling, a now irritated Beth demanded that Jenny call her cousin to confirm that, yes, people actually DO say "go down" when they mean to go INTO a place.

I googled it. Um ... yeah ... not so much. [BTW, I don't recommend checking my research if you're currently at work. Just sayin'.]

But, yes, it was confirmed in that call that in Beth's family and circle, one meaning of the phrase "go down" is to go inside a place. Fun!

And we can't tease her too much given what our Mom calls the toilet ("stool") or her word for cleaning the floor regardless of its covering ("sweep" - it doesn't matter if you're using a vacuum aka "sweeper" to do it, it is still "sweeping" the floor - although at least dictionary.com backs her up in both of those).

It's a regional/family thing.

What Did You Push??!!

2009-05-25T21:42:00.015-04:00

I spent a large part of this holiday weekend with family in northern Indiana. Saturday night included a bonfire with s'mores, Sunday included juicy grilled chicken, Butterfinger dessert (a concoction so good that it must include an illegal substance), and hillbilly golf (the next 'it' event at the Olympics), and today included two very different trips to the Shipshewana Flea Market.

My sister and I took an early morning trip and whipped through the 900+ vendor flea market in 1 1/2 hours. It was relatively quiet, we parked in the first row, and I purchased a 1985 Goonies character glass with Sloth on it.

That's right; I'm a rock star.

I returned an hour later with my stepmom, a friend visiting from Florida, and her three-year-old daughter to face the largest crowd I've seen at the flea market ... um ... ever. We parked in the back "vendor" parking lot and I nearly maimed several people simply getting to the booths.

Question: Why is it that "Oh, look Edna, isn't that sweet" must be accompanied by said Edna wandering slowly and aimlessly into the center of the row before halting completely to look around with slightly glazed eyes? Or better yet, a family of four or more doing the same. These people move as if their winder is winded and they are destined to grind slowly to a halt ... directly in front of me. Always ... directly in front of me. Oh, except the eerie old man in the white hat who decided to fondle the three-year-old's head as if directing her away from us when he thought we weren't watching! Pappy nearly got knee'd.

The wee one with us managed just several rows before it was clear that she just wasn't going to make it. So, we headed to the produce row for some fruit, jam, and homemade ice cream then crawled in traffic to JoJo's Pretzels downtown in the Davis Mercantile. The pretzels were amazing as usual and my stepmom treated us to blended mochas as well. Ice cream, pretzels, and mochas, oh my! Our sugar level buzzing, we nevertheless headed to the elevator to ride up and see the fully-restored 1906 Carousel on the Mercantile's top floor.

The four of us cram into the elevator with several other people and my stepmom pushes the floor button, the doors close, and the following 30-second Twilight Zone episode then punctuated our midday Shipshewana visit:

[Disembodied voice] "Hello? Hello?!"

We look at each other dumbfounded and see that the phone button in the elevator is blinking.

I immediately accuse my stepmom of a digit mishap: "What did you PUSH!!??"

"I didn't push that!"

[Disembodied voice] "Hello?? Hello????!!?"

I say, "Are you sure?" as I push the 'cancel call' button several times.

[Disembodied voice] "Hello?? Hellooooooo??"

****

I gave up. "Hellooo?"

[Disembodied voice] "Hello. Are the shops in the Mercantile open?"

****

Seriously ...

****

I answer, "Yes, they are."

[Disembodied voice] "Is the whole town open today?"

"Yes, it is."

[Disembodied voice] "Oh good! Thank you!"

*Click*

*Ding* as the doors open.

Theories? How did a customer service call, or ANY call for that matter, get transferred INTO the elevator? And what did the caller think was going on at the other end (our end) of that call?

(260) 768-7300 if you figure out that answer 'cause the Mercantile is looking into it - or if you just have any questions about the shops or special events.

The Glory of Solo Movies and Vexation of the Seat Between

2009-05-22T00:24:00.016-04:00

Going to the movies - a few questions:

Will you go see a movie by yourself or must there always another person with you? I know some individuals who refuse to go to the theater alone. I honestly don't understand the negative. I love going to the movies alone. Why? Well ... let's see ...

I sit wherever I want to sit. Not in the back or middle ... I generally walk in and go one row closer to the front from the walkway. Often there is no one in front of me or, you know, anywhere near me, which, given my general hatred for people (see introduction), is a desirable result.
I eat what I want to eat. NO, I don't want to share a popcorn. I don't eat movie theater popcorn. Give me a hot, soft pretzel with cheese, please. [One exception, Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory's Rocky Pop with white and dark chocolate drizzled over it. I LOVE the fact that Celebration North allows you to take in goodies from the RMCF next door. Oh, sweet goodness thy name is Rocky Pop.]
I arrive before the previews. Pullease. Part of the fun of seeing a movie in the theater is seeing previews on the big screen and that building anticipation for the next great flick. [HP6 is going to be soooooooo sweet!]
And I stay for the credits. Why the hurry? Not only can you answer those nagging questions (why does Spock's mom look so familiar??) but more and more movies have an extra scene at the end. The alcohol will still be there, buddy. Sit your ass down.

Try it! Start out small with a weekday matinee on your next day off. There will be fewer people if your problem is some social phobia about being alone ... which brings me to the next two questions.

Dude, seriously ... I'm the only person currently sitting in the entire theater and you need to sit right in front of/beside/in back of me? Why? Why, why, why, when there is a sea of seats open to you, must you be near me?

Do you honestly believe that sitting next to your buddy makes you gay? I recently went to see Sunshine Cleaning (wonderful movie, highly recommend) and the theater happened to be much busier than usual (curse my decision to wait for the 6:20 showing on a Saturday night). I was there early after shopping and settled in ... exactly where I wanted to be ... one row down and in the middle ... aaaaaah. I yum yummed through my hot pretzel, sipped my D. Coke, and zoned out to the pre-movie trivia and promos. The theater started filling up around me. One couple sat two seats to my left ... another couple sat two seats to my right.

Then I see three guys come down the row in front of me. You know exactly what happened, right? Yep. Homophobe, empty seat, homophobe, empty seat, homophobe. Actually, I shouldn't say homophobe because I doubt these guys were actually worried about catching a sexual preference from each other; more likely they were worried about what others would think of them - more akin to a social phobia than homophobia. Normally, I would just shake my head (silly boys) and enjoy the movie. Not that day. That day it was so crowded that a woman from a group who came in at the END OF THE PREVIEWS tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I could move over a seat.

***

I did. Not doing so seemed bitchy. So, outwardly I was a sweet woman while the real Justabitch was exploding in my head in all directions with thoughts of, "NO, sorry, see, I actually got here before the lights went down and the previews started so that I could sit where I want to sit ... which is right where my ass is going to remain! Suck it up, sit up front, and get here earlier next time!"

***

Under those circumstances, having Darryl, Darryl, and Darryl cautiously acknowledging each others' existence from a seat away really yoinked my happy. Guys, the next time you go to the movies with your buddy, dare to believe that sitting next to them won't 1) result in either of you molesting the other or 2) somehow affect the opinion of anyone about whom you should give a shit.

The Danger of Being a 30-Something Single Daughter

2009-04-20T23:06:00.009-04:00

Do all mothers believe their daughters must be banded, i.e., married, in order to achieve happiness in life? Or is that just mine?

Do all mothers lose consciousness as they get older of the potentially flushed-face embarrassment their actions can inspire in attempting to orchestrate such happiness for their daughters? Or is that just mine?

I cringe as I write this. Still. It happened this weekend and I still cringe.

I visited my Mom this past weekend. Mom is the perpetual newlywed these days. To say she's happily married seems somehow lacking. Brainwashed seems more appropriate. But, you know, in a good way. Suffice it to say my Mom is the happiest I've ever seen her.

The set up for this brief glimpse of my horror is a phone conversation I had with Mom sometime during the past couple weeks. She mentioned that she ran into an old high school friend of my older sister. This friend has a younger brother John who had been in my grade in school and who, the last I had heard, had entered into the military with the intention of becoming a pilot. I remember this classmate - from elementary school in fact - as the annoying little brother of my sister's friend who tripped me as I ran up the stairs at his house and with whom I got in trouble in Mrs. Troyer's 4th grade class because our impromptu contest of who could spell "Mississippi" the fastest got a little on the, um, loud side. So, just smack me for my stupidity, I made the ultimate error in this exchange: I asked Mom if the friend had said how her brother John was doing.

I know. I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW!

The answer was ... oh she had forgotten about him. No, no, she didn't think to ask. Mistake #2: I forgot about the conversation after that.

I know. I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW!

Back to this past weekend. I was inside the door for roughly five minutes before Mom got all excited and said, "Oh, before I forget." The woman then produced a scrap of paper with two phone numbers on it - the friend's home and cell phone number.

I looked at her blankly as she explained that she got those for me so I could call the friend.

My look turned a bit more pale and incredulous as, at my blank look, Mom further explained that I could ask the friend about John.

*cringe*

I tried to explain how odd it would be for me to call this woman up - this woman who had been my SISTER'S friend, not mine - and ask about her brother out of the blue.

My mother's response to this sensible concern? Oh, well, she could call for me.

*CRINGE*

Now my look turned the shade of mortified that keeps creeping up on me each and EVERY time I think of this conversation.

"NOOOOOOOO! Mom ... Mom ... no. Seriously, if you see her again, then sure, asking about him is fine but for God's sake do NOT go out of the way to ... just no. Please ... no."

...

Uh oh ... wait a second ...

...

"Um ... where did you get those numbers?"

"Oh, from a woman that works with her."

*OMGCRINGE*

The woman hunted down contact information like a detective!! It feels as if she turned an offhand question about a childhood friend into a mother's quest for a man for her child. Now, I realize that Mom just wants me to be happy ... but encouragement for me to be happy with my life as it is now is what I need, not the Mom attempt at matchmaking.

In short, I made the rookie mistake of mentioning any male in my mother's presence. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Oh ... and ...

What did my Mom say to secure the friend's home and cell phone numbers from a coworker? I didn't ask. I couldn't ask. I can only hope that the imagined conversation in my head is much worse than reality. But, really, I'm incapable right now of thinking of a version of that conversation that doesn't make me cringe.

The Power of a High-Pitched Yelp

2009-04-17T07:38:00.006-04:00

[Disclaimer: Remember, I work downtown in a building that houses not only the Prosecutor's Office but also the Probation Department, which means it is filled with not just those mentally and emotionally unstable prosecutors, but also angry defendants and probationers meeting with agents as well as taking drug tests, etc. Apparently, there are reasons we must go through a metal detector to get inside the building during the week and must therefore wait until the weekend to bring in our large knives.]

Yesterday was a bright, sunny, happy Thursday in Grand Rapids. I am lucky enough to have assigned parking downtown in a lot right next to the building in which I work. In order to enter, I park in the lot then use a walkway down to Ionia Avenue, where the front entrance to the building is guarded by deputies and a large metal detector.

I was strolling down the walkway yesterday alone when I noticed a large man sporting a doo rag walking towards me. I thought nothing of it until he started to pass me and I heard the following words mumbled in a low, guttural, "I don't even realize I'm talking out loud" kind of way:

"This is bad .... this is bad .... this is bad ...."

The man continued on his way and I, evil as I am, had a moment of chuckle wondering what he did and what part of his probation was causing him angst. About ten seconds later, my adrenaline jumped when I heard the pounding of someone running behind me. I turned to see the same man who had just passed me, running back toward me.

I had two thoughts flash through my mind: 1) No one is going to assault me in broad daylight right outside the Prosecutor's Office; 2) well, except perhaps some wigged out man talking to himself about things being bad ... oh no.

Now, did my years of karate training (my brown belt is in a closet somewhere) leap to the forefront and aid me in my time of panic?

Yeeeah. Instinct took over and I let out a high-pitched squeal and jump. Now, if you know me, you know that had this been a friend or family member (Jenny) trying to scare me, what followed would have entailed many many bad words and possibly violence.

There was no need this time.

The man jumped nearly as high as me and immediately began a litany of "Oh no no no, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry" and I dissolved into an embarrassed "No problem" pool. He continued on his way ... and I have no idea what he'd forgotten or why else he needed to hurry in the other direction but it had nothing to do with attacking the short APA in his way.

I continued weakly into my office building, laughing at myself, and wondering if Sanchin Ryu still has classes in the area. Apparently, I need a refresher.

Oh, Guilt, Shame, Lamentations

2009-04-14T23:11:00.005-04:00

I know, I know ... apparently the aftermath lasts a good month.

Bad BAD Justa!

If it helps, I've spent over half of the past month in an almost tizzy of stress over multiple cases being submitted to the Court of Appeals all in April. I have visions of a clerk somewhere taking glee in wreaking havoc on my mundane life. [Oh yes, I am that vain. Please, I write a blog of me.] To that clerk ... know that a tiny bit of the flames licking at my soul are thanks to you "Oh Reason That I Spent 17 hours at Work on Easter Sunday." Do I earn halo points for doing my part to keep killers behind bars? Let's see, today it was two killers and one nasty husband of 19 years who took advantage of a mentally disabled woman in a sick sad way. Prolonged periods of time with my face stuck inches away from a trial transcript throws logs on the Manns sisters' mantra, "Have I Told You Lately How Much I Hate People?"

Not all people. Just evil people. And annoying people. An occasional stranger.

Just some short notes to jog my brain after this quiet blog time:

Evil little sisters dominate you.
Life can quickly become one giant technological mind-suck.
Tweetdeck could be addictive and I've had it for less than an hour.
People spit ... a lot. Don't look down the next time you stroll in downtown GR.
Owain ... mmmmmmm.
A Blackberry might be a necessity.
It bothers me that I can usually make a better argument for defendants than their attorneys ... but not a lot.
I don't appreciate the length of time it is taking for the mythical unicorn maker to find me.
Most of you won't understand #8 and for that I am glad.

The Aftermath

2009-03-16T19:32:00.004-04:00

I spent much of last week in a NyQuil-induced coma. What started as a rough "like I've been screaming at a concert" throat Tuesday morning quickly disintegrated into a burning throat/chest and desire to remove all of my facial bones by Wednesday. You know, that wonderful feeling where all of your teeth just ... ache?

I parked myself in my doctor's parking lot Thursday morning and begged inside once they opened. [Side note: Really ... I'm already sick ... MUST we include the friggin scale moment on top of the pain?] I was told I had a fever of 101 F. Really? Hmmm ... I should probably purchase one of those thermometer thingamajigs one of these days.

Diagnosis? "You have a sinusitis/bronchitis mixture, could be viral or bacterial, but we like to wait a week before starting antibiotics anyway to see if your own immune system can handle it."

...

Now, just pause and let that immense wisdom ... that comfort and knowledge sink in a moment.

...

It left me with a definite feeling of, "Well, no shit Sherlock ... I'm thinking my immune system had a problem handling it since I'M SICK! Give me my $10 copay back."

Remember the days when you'd go in, a culture was completed, and an antibiotic had you feeling better before you could spell its name? These days, don't bother going into your doctor's office until you've been sick at least a week or you'll likely receive the same line I got.

The one thing you can still count on these days as you could way back when? NyQuil. That green elixir of the gods, that cure-all, only slightly alcoholic so it's okay, wonder liquid that somehow left you opening your eyes to a moment of clear breathing in which you were horribly afraid to move. My days and nights blurred together last week in a -Quil haze punctuated only by bathroom breaks, some soup, and the occasional phone call that always had the same 2nd sentence, "You sound horrible!!"

Well, yes, a quick descent into the Exorcist will do that.

I began to come out of my stupor this past weekend with small successful excursions to the outside world and went back to work this morning feeling 90% better. I'm in the remnant stage. That aftermath where you swear you're back to being well ... and for hours on end you are perfectly fine. My reminder to the contrary are the occasional coughing fits that bend me over and leave my eyes watering before they end. The remnants.

I had two especially special remnant moments today:

While lying nearly naked in a tanning bed at the gym. Oh yes. After noting several particularly attractive men working out at my gym this evening, I made my way into the tanning bed area, stripped, lotioned up, and settled into what I expected to be 15 minutes of relaxing heat. About 45 seconds into this bliss, I blanched at the first tickle at the back of my throat ... and just knew the bliss was at the end already. I coughed until I was afraid I'd throw up .... eyes watering .... covering my mouth as much as possible to stifle the sounds ... unable to run to the bathroom (that nearly naked part). Ugh.
While pumping gas on my way home from the gym. After my fit at the gym, I was again perfectly fine ... in the solitude of my car. As soon as I got out in order to pump gas, the tickle started again ... and I entertained my fellow gas pumpers with a spectacular coughing fit that included that rare but always impressive sneeze DURING a cough.

Now? Oh I'm perfectly fine ... sitting quietly at my computer describing the remnants.

Evil lurking remnants. If only illnesses would leave us as quickly as they come upon us.

For the Love of Delivery!

2009-03-01T20:06:00.042-05:00

I look and laugh at my "my baby gets delivered Thursday" talk below. I purchased my precious loveseat in the "bark" brown color on the evil holiday, it is true. And, it was supposed to be delivered the following Thursday. I left work early, rearranged my living room (resulting in a temporary set-back in the back spasm area ... seriously ... have you ever started to pass out from back pain? I can now claim that experience. Not pretty), and sat nervously awaiting my major purchase of the year.

About a half hour after their two-hour delivery window passed, the door buzzer made me jump and I ran downstairs to greet the delivery men. I was pleasantly surprised that these men seemed belted or otherwise "covered" and show one upstairs to the area waiting for a perfect brown suede-y loveseat.

They had the loveseat at the bottom of the stairs when I suspected there was a problem.

I called down to them, "Um ... what color is that?"

"Red"

"Yeeeah ... I'm supposed to have a brown one."

"Brown?"

"Yeah."

*longer pause than you'd expect*

"Well, uh .... do ya want this one?"

*raised eyebrow*

"Noooooo ... I want my brown one."

After talking to the store, checking and rechecking the label ... as if that would suddenly convince me that a red loveseat is actually a brown loveseat ... they took their "Berry" colored piece and left.

The next available delivery time was Saturday morning, which a cancellation on my part of what, I'm sure, would have been a highly entertaining volunteer trip to the Veteran's Home. I was apparently second on the delivery list and the guys showed up soon after 9 a.m. I was SO excited!!

Until I saw the guy carrying this across the parking lot toward my door:

"Um .... what color is that?"

"Red."

"I'm supposed to get a brown one. That's why this was rescheduled from Thursday."

*delivery guy #1 yelling to delivery guy #2* "It's supposed to be brown."

"Brown?"

"Yeah, brown."

"Oh."

It was after this visit, that I made a call to the salesperson at Art Van who sold me the now mythical loveseat in "bark" brown. Tom was shocked, SHOCKED, at what had happened and meekly added that I should be entitled to some sort of compensation for my trouble.

Some sort of compensation?

"Not some sort of compensation, Tom. Let me tell you what I expect ... I should not be paying for delivery. I said nothing after the first failed attempt because I understand that mistakes happen ... but this is the SAME mistake that once again is taking up my time."

To his credit, Tom called me back in 5 minutes with the authorization from his manager to refund my delivery charge, rescheduled delivery for this past Wednesday, and added that someone would be calling the day before to make certain that the piece loaded on the truck is brown.

Loveseat: $479

Delivery: $0

Color: Bark .... and it's perfect.

Evil Holiday 2009

2009-02-14T22:43:00.002-05:00

It may come as a surprise to you that I hate Valentine's Day ... of course, it being a surprise means that you don't know me very well. Um ... or at all. Actually, it probably means you've somehow stumbled upon this blog for the first (and perhaps last) time through some misguided google search and am now wondering vaguely whether I'm on medication. And ... welcome.

To recap for newcomers then, just a few reasons why February 14th should be wiped from existence:

The years of junior high/high school wondering, trying not to hope too much, that you might ... just might ... be surprised by an actual Valentine. *short pause for laughter*
The first time you ever had a boyfriend on Valentine's Day, he took you out for dinner ... and proceeded to explain to you at said dinner why he needed "space" [this reason should probably have been listed first].
The red/pink commercial overload that begins in early January pushing hearts, flowers, and chocolate in your face each and every time you enter a retail establishment.
After enduring a freezing, dark, depressing winter and hearing yet again that the little fur ball claiming omniscience over the weather has scuttled back into his den for six more weeks of this dismal mess, I do not also need a particular day devoted to reminding me that I'm alone, thank you.
The whole asinine concept that we need to have one particular day for people to tell their special someone that they care ... when that should be in practice all year long.

As far as evil holidays go, this one has been endurable. A friend, in the hope that I would refrain from causing harm either to myself or to members of the opposite sex, surprised me Friday with a lovely card and lovelier box of Hershey's Pot O'Gold chocolates.

There are few things in this world that can't be fixed with chocolate and/or ice cream. Granted, it is probably advisable not to indulge in the entire box of said chocolates in one night, but who doesn't need a good sugar buzz and dive once in a while?

I woke this morning with a headache and sense of purpose ... I had a plan. My plan was to spend money on the one person most likely to secure my happiness. Me.

Happy Evil Holiday!

In preparation for said spending, I went to see Confessions of a Shopaholic with my same chocolate bearing friend, and fell in instant like with Hugh Dancy. Of course, I now hate Claire Danes, his [current] fiancee who has an even smaller chest than me ... but I digress. The movie was cute albeit a predictable story about the ditsy girl in debt who just happens to enchant the successful boy making his own way despite having a well-known and wealthy family. You know, 'cause that actually happens. Ever. Pffft.

Happy Evil Holiday!

I wandered no less than four furniture stores today in what had become a yearly search for a piece of furniture that seats two people. I searched Furniture Row Outlet, American Signature, La-Z-Boy, and Art Van Furniture. I hate furniture shopping. Other than a used car lot, where else can you be scouted as soon as you walk in the door and cornered soon thereafter with offers of assistance and business cards? And which is worse? Being cornered like that and having to pull the "I'm just looking" plea ... or being scouted and found apparently not worth a "hello, can I help you?" at all? [La-Z-Boy can suck it for that reason.]

After much pacing and note taking, I finally found my love seat! The color is called "bark" ... I tend to think I was still a bit intoxicated from the Hershey's chocolate when I picked out the dark chocolate colored, microfiber/suede-y love seat. My baby gets delivered Thursday.

Happy Evil Holiday!

Finally, I took my post-purchase-buyer's-remorse self to Barnes and Noble and picked up an appropriate compilation of stories titled, Dates From Hell.

Perfect.

Thus ended Evil Holiday 2009.

Random Thoughts From a Weekend

2009-02-02T20:31:00.017-05:00

I saw The Day The Earth Stood Still on Saturday. The movie was entertaining ... about midway between "That was awesome!" and "And then I got up and walked out." I did notice fairly early on that my feeling of warmth toward the cute little boy, played by Jaden Smith, had turned into a vague hope that he wouldn't make it. Why is it believed that 70 minutes of hearing a cocky little smartass talk smack to the woman who had stepped in to care for him after the loss of his parents can be completely wiped out by one whispered, "Mom," inserted at the end?

That tyke needed an alien ass-kicking.

----------

I saw Underworld 3: The Rise of the Lycans on Sunday. If you liked the first two, then you'll also like this prequel. Don't let the 32% rating on Rotten Tomatoes deter you. The first two films received 29% and 14% respectively. If I were a slightly more bitter or cynical person (I know, right?), I'd start writing reviews for that website. I swear 80% of the reviewers need to take a freakin happy pill.

I enjoyed the movie enough to want to revisit the first two films. Which brings us to ...

-----------

You know how when you rent a DVD, the clerk will pop open the case to check the disk before scanning it out to you? Ever wonder why they do that? I do now. You'd think that it must be to ensure that the disk is the one you wanted to rent ... right?

Apparently not since after watching the first Underworld and readying myself for Underworld: Evolution, I was a, oh, let's say "tad" irritated when August Rush appeared in the case instead. Sadly, I was not in the appropriate sappy mood to watch Felicity follow the magic music to her long lost, now musical genius, son. Actually, I don't think I'll ever be in that particular mood.

[Hey, perhaps I'm nearer to the Rotten Tomatoes reviewer career than I first thought!]

I returned the sap tonight in exchange for the vampire/werewolf blood fest I desired in the first place.

------------

Finally .. and sadly ... I must also report that the battle of the Christmas tree was lost once again this past weekend. This, of course, means that I am looking at a fully-decorated, 200-light, pre-lit Christmas tree as I type. Yep. A wine-colored ribbon. Ornaments spanning 20 years.

Oh ... and the Christmas cards are still hanging up.

And ... my ceramic table-top Christmas tree, a gift from my Aunt Eula, is still on the table.

I know ... it's sad. I think there's a reason why this is the first time in 5 years that I've had a Christmas tree. I obviously have a Christmas decoration removal issue.

I believe it's called laziness.

SPASM!!!!

2009-01-29T21:50:00.022-05:00

I feel about 80 ... no ... about 73 years old. Specifically, I feel like my 73-year-old aunt with chronic back problems.

The past few weeks, I've been taking advantage of our county employee fitness program. Different classes each night Monday through Thursday. It's been wonderful and I sat in glee last night after realizing just how tight my thighs are becoming. GLEE!

You know that glee you feel when something you've been working hard on begins to show progress. That "Oh yeah, that's right, uh huh" feeling.

Yeah.

The progress hasn't been pain free. Obviously, when you're working out and building and rebuilding muscles, there's some soreness involved. My lower back aches now and then ... it bothered me last night and during the day today. Annoying but no biggie. I thought I'd attend kickboxing tonight but perhaps take it easy on any of the moves that might put extra strain on my lower back. Often, if I have a sore muscle, a bit of exercise loosens it up, makes it feel better.

Yeah.

So, at roughly 4:50 p.m., I dutifully changed into my workout clothes in my office. My last step was to raise up my left leg to put on a sock.

How dare I do such a thing!

Such a simple, every day, BASIC movement. I lifted my leg and, for the first time in my life, actually bellowed in pain and nearly dropped to the floor. In that span of 5 seconds, I went from someone gleeful about tighter thighs ... to my 73-year-old aunt with chronic back problems. At least that was my immediate and likely (hopefully) exaggerated reaction to the pain.

Of course, it didn't help that clearing the snow off my car as I left work brought me to tears.

It didn't help that I had to slowly lower myself into my car with my hands behind my back then use my right arm to pull my left leg inside ... kinda like my 73-year-old aunt with chronic back problems.

It also didn't help that 30 minutes later I was flat on my back on the floor of my apartment with frozen peaches under my back ... at the advice of my 73-year-old aunt with chronic back problems.

According to Dr. Peter F. Ullrich ... Jr. ... lower back pain is one of the most common conditions and reasons for office visits ... and four out of five adults will experience it at some point in their lives. Well, okay ... I suppose that makes me feel less pitiful. At least I'm not by any means alone. But ... the estimate that 90% of patients with such pain will no identifiable reason, i.e., "here, let me actually FIX that for you," is just annoying. It reminds me of going to the doctor and having the amazing diagnosis of stress.

If in doubt, stress caused it.

If the words, "it's likely stress," come out of any professional's mouth tomorrow, I will cause physical harm to another.

...

Meanwhile, I have some peaches to eat.

Kickboxing with Cadets

2009-01-28T12:58:00.003-05:00

My Tuesday night kickboxing class also takes place at the training room for our local firemen/women and last night's class had an added treat ... one of the firemen poked his head in before class and asked our instructor if it would be okay for seven of the cadets (all male) to participate.

Ooh.

Our answer to this request was a hearty "SURE" ... provided that said cadets take the front rows. *evil grin*

This experience taught me several important things:

Never worry about what you look like during a fitness class - believe me - everyone looks like an idiot no matter how hard they attempt to avoid it.
A person's ability to keep a beat is in NO WAY related to their attractiveness.
At some point, every woman should get to watch manly males attempt aerobic exercise to music .... MAKE IT HAPPEN!

Debut of the Doohickie with the Jingly Bits

2009-01-28T12:24:00.006-05:00

Yeah, I should probably learn some belly dancing terminology, eh?

Monday night is belly dancing night in Justacogitating land at the moment. As noted in an earlier entry, the class, taught by Na'imah, takes place at a training room for firemen, which at times leads to awkward wanderers, feelings of silliness, and general sassiness.

I prefer to label myself sassy rather than rude. Anyone disagreeing with that assessment can suck it. *bright grin*

A coworker of mine recently returned from a trip to Egypt with an arm full of belly dancing .... uh ... doohickies with jangly bits ... you know, those wraps with the coins that you ... wrap ... around your bootie before shake shake shaking away. Hmm ... according to the wonderful Wikipedia, the proper term appears to be the ultra-exotic"hip belt" even though it's certainly more of a bootie scarf if you ask me.

My coworker had been determined to haggle the market man down to $5 (quite a bargain) per hip belt and ultimately succeeded by offering to buy everything he had left. The result? I am now the proud owner of two ... TWO doohi ... I mean hip belts ... one a bright light green and one a bright blue.

I tried out the green Monday night, relishing in the jingle/jangle. The belt absolutely adds to the experience and fun. Of course, I also quickly realized you can jingle/jangle the belt right down your derriere, rump, heinie, caboose and/or moneymaker.

I apparently need a sailor to teach me some knots.

Is It Even Possible??

2009-01-22T07:25:00.007-05:00

You know that feeling you get right before a charley horse hits? That feeling of inevitability that leaves you afraid to move lest something be the final trigger that results in you popping up in bed frantically rubbing rubbing rubbing, crying, moaning .... um .... all in a really BAD way ... in the hopes that the painful cramping taking place will subside? Yeeeah. I just had that feeling.

In my left glute aka butt muscle.

That's a first.

I was lucky. I managed to slowly stretch and loosen and avoid the actual charley horse but it left me wondering two things:

1. Who is this Charley and what the heck did he do to his poor horse??

Apparently, the phrase "charley horse" was first used in the 1880s among baseball players! Its true origin is disputed. Some say it began with an actual horse named Charley while others claim that it originally referred to an injured baseball player who limped like one of the elderly draft horses that used to be used to drag the infield. Modern Language Association (MLA):
"charley horse." The American Heritage® Dictionary of Idioms by Christine Ammer. Houghton Mifflin Company. 22 Jan. 2009.

2. Is it even possible to survive a full-fledged, butt-muscle charley horse?

May I never EVER know the answer.

A Belly By Any Other Name ...

2009-01-16T06:51:00.008-05:00

Life lately has made me acutely aware of my sore and/or jiggly bits. Such is life after the beginning of employee fitness classes. Each Tuesday and Thursday include kickboxing after work. The classes are taught either by Tammy, the perpetually in-shape, all-around instructor or Sadie, a young woman appropriately named (it has been suggested this is a shortened form of "Sadistic"). Consequently, this morning I find myself absentmindedly rubbing my bottom, something I should quickly find a way to avoid before heading into work and Court.

Ah, but Mondays .... Mondays are reserved for belly dancing.

I showed up for my first belly dancing class having absolutely no idea what to expect. Taught by Na'imah (not her real name - duh!), the class began with the request to rub our tummies of various sizes and to be happy they exist as those pouches of blubber that never quite go away no matter how many crunches we do are absolutely necessary for belly dancing. [I KNEW there was a reason!!!]

Now, stand with your feet a normal distance apart, i.e., you should not be able to see light through your thighs ("I am SO ready for this class!"), knees slightly bent, and "zip" up your butt.

Huh?

Use your lower abdominal muscles to pull your bottom forward, tucking it. Ziiiiip. Now use your upper abdominal muscles to lift your chest. [Feel ridiculous yet? Oh, just wait.]

Slowing begin to bend one knee further than the other, back and forth, back and forth. Now, double time it ..... okay, double time that .... and faster, and faster .... you are now doing your first shimmy. [For those who are wondering, this is at least four times faster than the potty dance.] Now, if it appears that you've descended into some sort of seizure, you're locking your knees. Never ever EVER lock your knees when belly dancing. Bad things that should only be seen on SNL happen when you lock your knees.

The class progressed and Na'imah eventually directed us to line up on one side of the room for our "attitude" exercise. [Oh, no.] We were then instructed to saunter Beyonce or model style across the room exercising our sexy, confident attitudes.

OH. NO.

Na'imah wonders why I'm shaking my head with a maniacal smile on my face and I blanch at explaining. What do I say? That embarrassment doesn't seem to quite cover the feeling I'm having? That the stupid-ass grin on my face is now sorta semi-permanent? Oye.

Two steps into my nightmare, a side door opens and three firemen wander into the room and begin to mill about. [Did I mention that the classes take place at the training center for GRFD?]

OH. HELL. NO.

I stop. Everyone else, of various shapes and sizes, has continued to saunter, to walk with attitude, across the room except for me. I'm not moving. Huh uh, no way, no how.

Na'imah again wonders at my behavior. This time I know exactly what to say. "Ya'll [pointing to the firemen] need to get the hell out."

There are some brief chuckles.

"I'm serious, I'm not moving while they're in here."

Am I being childish? I don't care.

The men can get in line with the rest of us and show some 'tude, zip and shimmy, or ... they can get the hell out. There is no in between ... there is no try ... there is do ... or do not.

Still chuckling, they left. Whew. And I painfully made my way across the room.

-----

Soon thereafter my first belly dancing class ended. I'd shimmied, gingered, and snapped those hips. I got into my car, patting my belly (or "pooch") and thinking seriously about purchasing one of those doohickeys you wear around your waist with the little jinglies (I probably need to get a better grip on the lingo).

The following class, I'll learn that I give good "frosting" ... oh my. This is going to be fun!

I'm Fantastic!

2009-01-13T17:58:00.005-05:00

Or so I've been told.

Granted, the guy who exclaimed this (twice, no less) was possibly drunk and most definitely distraught but, hey, I'll take the compliments where I find them.

I am also suppose to keep doing what I've been doing.

Now, I tend to wonder at this advice since I'm not really where I want to be at this stage in life and someone, somewhere, presumably more worldly and intelligent, said that the definition of insanity is repeating the same action but expecting a different result.

So then, if I just keep being my incredibly sarcastic, slightly (ha!) bitter self and occasionally speaking without thinking, I will continue to be deemed fantastic by drunk and/or frazzled men?

Alrighty then.

A New Love

2009-01-13T06:57:00.005-05:00

I think I have a relationship. Things started out slow ... I'd see "B" every week then every few days ... we now see each other almost every day. We're Facebook friends, of course. "B" is always happy to see me ... ALWAYS! Do you know just how nice it is to be greeted every day with a smile and sweetness?

"B" bought me a Christmas gift. It was so sweet, the type of gift that tells you someone was thinking about you in particular and the types of things you love before buying it.

And communication! Oh. My. God. It is so nice to know that if "B" and I have a disagreement, a discussion, not an argument, takes place. Just recently, "B" called me at work to let me know that my advise had been heard and was being followed.

So, "B" is always happy to see me, bought me a gift, and listens to what I say. We see each other every day and life would not be as sweet without our time together.

I think I must admit it to myself at the very least ... I'm dating Biggby Coffee (aka always and forever Beaners)!

The Right (Albeit Left) Side

2009-01-12T23:17:00.004-05:00

I few minutes ago, I turned off the TV and light after several entertaining episodes of NCIS (how did I miss this show for so long?), then attempted to turn off my head, and go to sleep. That's when it hit me ... an epiphany of sorts.

This past weekend, I did some cleaning and decided I wanted to move my bed. Now, given my 5'3" (on a good day) frame and the fact that my bed is a king, moving the beast by myself takes some leg work. By leg work I, of course, mean that at several points during the maneuver I was on my ass and pushing with my legs (I have strong legs). I'd managed to lift the mattress up into a standing position and, with a wish that it not fall on me, I pushed and prodded until I'd moved my bed a couple feet. Whee-hoo.

Given the location, I also ended up changing "my side of the bed" from the right to the left. As I was going to sleep tonight, I found myself wondering about how we choose our side of the bed. I found myself looking back in time to when, if ever, I'd slept on the left side of the bed. And it hit me. Like a ton of bricks.

This wasn't the first time I'd switched sides of the bed. I remember that during my first, only, and failed marriage, I slept on the left side. I ended my marriage on the left side, I began and continued single-hood on the left side, and so it might have remained unchanged until I ended up changing my side to please another. Yep, roughly two years ago, I changed sides to please a boyfriend ... and I didn't realize that, hadn't remembered or thought about that, until tonight.

Changing to please a guy hits a particularly tight nerve of mine. I made some massive changes, none good ... NONE GOOD, during my marriage in attempts to please a guy. You would think that the first time I wandered, post-divorce, through a Target and found that I lacked the simple ability to pick out kitchen items without automatically choosing what my ex-husband would have wanted, I would have learned my lesson, but nooooo. When I started dating, I'd find myself constantly wondering and worrying over what the guy was thinking at the time when I should have still been considering whether I even liked him. And so it continued for years.

And so it also entered into my last relationship in various ways ... including my automatically changing "my side" because we were both lefties. No thought, it was automatic. And, long after that guy took off, I remained on the other side.

Now, some other realizations came along with this first one, but I'll save those for myself. The important thing is ... I'm finally back on my side.

And suddenly I'm transported back to junior high ...

2008-12-30T22:53:00.019-05:00

Don't ask me why ... I find myself thinking, "Thunder, thunder, thunder, thundercats ... HO!" Psst... was that simply Lion-O letting Cheetara know what he really thought about her?

I used to watch Thundercats every day after school, along with Linda Carter's Wonder Woman, the Beverly Hillbillies, Scooby Doo, and the occasional Little Rascals. Oh, the wonder of growing up with four channels plus PBS! I'd come home, turn on the TV, and settle down to do homework. I had two blissful hours with the house to myself (provided my little sister Jenny would stay next door with my aunt). I'd eat, study, and watch the normal after school programs. I was temporarily queen of the tattered golden throne (old gold couch).

I would find it funny the next day when I would not only know the answer to Mr. Dodson's question in history but also remember what Wonder Woman was doing at the time that I had read the answer while studying. Nice study tool, yet a tad distracting. Mr. Dodson was quite the character. Mr. Dodson and his yellow hands. Short, round Mr. Dodson in sharp contrast to that tall, thin English teacher ... Keester? [help me out classmates]. Mr. Dodson was to Mr. Keester what the Penguin was to the Joker. Mr. Dodson and his precious pointer that he used to love to smash down onto a student's desk who wasn't really paying attention as required. Mr. Dodson and my vague memory of a story about a Christmas tree and a little girl's underpants [really ... please help me classmates ... cause that one sounds a bit .... wrong].

Isn't it odd how just over a minute of cartoon can completely transport you back to a different time?

God, life was so much simpler then. Of course, I'm sure I didn't think that at the time. Junior high was a highly stressful mishmash of kids from different schools and the necessary shifting of tween power amongst cliques as everyone fought to find their place. Friends became enemies, couples broke up, you had to switch classes EVERY hour and remember a complicated set of numbers and movements to get into your locker. Ooh, and you had just become overly concerned with your looks at the same time that Mrs. Matthews deemed 10 minutes enough time for a girl to shower and dress amongst peers.

......

Nevermind. I take it back. Not simpler.

I Don't Wanna Come Back!!!!

2008-12-29T18:42:00.003-05:00

I just spent two glorious, sunny, warm weeks in Florida with family.

Dad made us breakfast every day, my stepmom cooked all our favorites at other meals, I watched the first four seasons of The Office and, so, can nearly join the rest of the civilized world in tuning in every Thursday night, we went to a couple movies (including my little sister's 12th viewing of Twilight!), visited the Disney Marketplace (where I would live if given the opportunity), and lounged in the sun. The warm wonderful sun. Ooh, we also won the Christmas lights contest in Dad's subdivision (again) ... 'cause we're awesome. That's right ... we kicked some blue-haired, retiree boot-aye!

It was two lazy, sunny, wonderful Florida weeks.

Now I'm back.

I arrived finally this afternoon at 1:30 p.m.

First stop - the post office to pick up my mail from the last two weeks. I love how you can indicate via a click as to whether you want to pick up your mail or have them deliver it on a specified date. I chose to pick up my mail. Yep, that's the box I clicked. That's what the confirmation sheet said ... as well as the sheet bound around my mail once I surgically removed it from my wee 5X5 inch mailbox. Apparently the post office is unable to follow their own directions. Nothing like waiting in a long post office line only to be told that your mail "isn't back there" and to "let them know" if my carrier doesn't deliver it. Why? 'Cause if she doesn't then you'll look harder and find it????

Second stop - my blessed apartment. I smartly turned down my thermostat before I left for vacation so I wouldn't needlessly heat the apartment while away. So, I expected it to be cool and it wasn't until I also noticed my fridge light was out ... oh and the kitchen light ... and the TV .... that I realized that not only was I not in sunny Florida anymore ... I returned just in time to take part in a high wind power outage.

Wonderful.

My last shower had been Saturday night. I spent 16 hours in the car with my older sister Linda driving from Dad's to Dayton yesterday. 16 hours. And at times 5 hours without exiting (as the PO-lice like to say) the vehicle. I slept, woke, and hopped back into the car for another 5 1/2 hour drive this morning. Do not tell me that I can't take a shower!!!

I ended up visiting my gym solely for its hot water this afternoon.

About an hour ago, right after I gave up and buried myself beneath enough blankets to make it difficult to move my legs, a light flickered ... popped (not sure how I feel about that sound) and finally remained on ... the heat turned on ... and I climbed out of my cocoon to, well, bitch about not wanting to come back.

Ah ... normalcy at last.

[I still don't wanna come back though!]

Reason #34 To Go See Twilight

2008-11-23T20:19:00.006-05:00

The longer, better trailer for Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince is shown before it, giving us that wee bit of needed Potter to sustain us until July ... after our multiple viewings of Twilight, of course.

My Twilight Movie Review

2008-11-23T13:04:00.008-05:00

As I'm sure you've all been biting your nails and waiting anxiously to read what I think of Catherine Hardwicke's movie version of the Stephenie Meyer book, I finally sat myself down at 10:35 this morning in sweet anticipation for that one "scene of sensuality" and Robert Pattinson's cornucopia of intense looks.

I have to say I was impressed with the choices of all the secondary characters. The high school kids, Bella's Dad, Jacob (yes, Jacob), Billy, Mike, Jessica, etc., all do a wonderful job of bringing a natural humor to the film. I did find myself chuckling at scenes that were not perhaps intended to be humorous, like when Edward first "smelled" Bella in Biology class. In fact, most of my untimely chuckles were unfortunately based on the expressions of the two main characters. Where most of the actors/actresses seemed comfortable in their roles, it felt a bit like Pattinson and Stewart were told to attempt to cram thousands of emotions into a 3 or 4 second closeup and the result was Stewart's facial features running through about six emotions in painful succession before muttering, "Um, yeah." Or Pattinson morphing from intense stare to angry intense stare, confused intense stare, and/or mildly amused intense stare.

Don't misunderstand, I love the movie, love the casting even, but I hope the director eases up a bit in the future (and yes, there is most definitely a future!) on pushing the actors to put so much emotion into one scene that it seems over the top ... even more over the top than is the norm for a vampire movie. You see glimpses of how well the two actors can be together when the intensity is toned down a notch, as in the scene in Edward's bedroom that ends in a genuine (read, not overly intense) Pattinson grin before he whisks Bella out the window. And, of course, that one "scene of sensuality" could just be put on repeat and most fans would be entertained for days. Oddly, my little sister's description of what she thought was goofy in the movie (a twinkling sound when Edward's sparkles make their appearance) was not at all as distracting or cringe-worthy as I expected. In fact, I found some of the flashbacks a bit more comical. I'm sure I'll think of other particular examples after I've seen the movie again (or a few more times).

We should all expect now that a movie will never be able to tell the complete story, that certain aspects are changed to make things easier in movie land. Two scenes I personally would have loved to have seen were Jasper and Alice coming into Edward's room to suggest the baseball game, when Alice quips that she thought Edward might share Bella (as a snack), and seeing Alice, Jasper, Rosalie, and Emmet dancing at the prom. *sigh* But, overall, Hardwicke does an excellent job sticking with the book, and I think most fans will be pleased with the adaptation.

What about a sequel? It seems the studio was simply waiting to see if the hype of Twilight lived up in monetary terms on the theater screen. The result was the biggest opening for a female director ... ever. And so a New Moon, based on Meyer's second book in the series, will soon be shining (sure to have thousands of females throwing popcorn at the screen and/or growling within the first 20 minutes - if you don't know why then read the book).

After my fear that Hardwicke would Eragon *shudder* this movie, I am highly pleased. If you are a fan of the books, or even of just pretty pretty people, you'll find something to enjoy.

Don't Mess With My Biggby Mocha!!

2008-11-11T17:50:00.008-05:00

Biggby, Biggby, Biggby ... just when you've brainwashed me into calling you that ridiculous name instead of Beaners ... just when you've reclaimed the Monroe Center location from the menace of an evil owner (sorry Ryan) and turned it into the successful, thriving coffee shop it now is (thanks be to Steve, Justin, and crew) ... you do your loyal customers wrong once again.

Biggby is changing their frequency card program. Instead of the paper cards that are stamped with a "B" each time you partake in the java, luring you back for more so that you can obtain the blessed 13th free, Biggby is giving their customers a plastic frequency card to be swiped with each purchase. Cool idea, right? Less waste of paper, one card to worry about instead of five or six, Biggby heading into better technology. But wait. They swiped my card but I got no credit on my account. What happened? A glitch? A problem with the program?

Nope.

See, I used a $1 off grande coupon when purchasing my drink.

Now, I understand that the old cards did say that you get the free beverage after purchasing 12 beverages at full price, but most locations I knew of continued to stamp for purchases made with coupons since, let's face it, if you are a loyal customer, those most likely to use coupons in the first place, local owners/managers WANT to keep you happy. They recognize that their "regulars" still drop a lot of cash in their shops even while using the coupons. And they recognize the importance of keeping "regulars" happy in a business where competition is so high. I walk by at least three local coffee shops on my way to Biggby ... not including the Starbucks that is right across the street from them.

Biggby! Don't piss off your regular customers by lessening the effect that a frequency rewards program has to that all important group!

Hell, you changed your name from Beaners to Biggby in response to a small group of uninformed people upset about a name having nothing at all to do with an alternate derogatory meaning and everything to do with ... gee ... I don't know ... COFFEE BEANS ... and now you're going to change the rewards program in a way that hurts the customers that have remained loyal to you?

Dumb ass move. You know, I hear those Starbucks Frappecinos are yummy.

Score: Halloween Hair Color - 3; Me - 2

2008-11-02T19:50:00.004-05:00

I scored with the bathtub (this tub is clean) and my clothes from that night (also de-pinkified); however, Rotten Red scored so far with my bathroom counter (almost clean but I keep finding more spots), two washclothes destroyed, and my bathroom floor, by far the worst casualty.

Please please please tell me what hope I have when pure bleach holds no power over the pinkness on my bathroom floor!! Anyone? I'm open to suggestions here.

What's In A Name?

2008-11-01T23:22:00.010-04:00

I was searching my PC earlier for old photos I'd already scanned for safekeeping and ran across a series of early shots from my family's B.J. (before Jenny) days. You know ... back when I was the baby of the family ... those blissful, fondly remembered days of old. *sigh*

The shot depicts my sister Linda's birthday during a time when somehow we each got a gift (in this case, totally cool transistor radios in yellow, blue, and red!), helped blow out the candles, and apparently wore matching nightgowns. Beyond relishing just how adorable I was (am), I look at this picture and have to wonder why on earth you'd choose "Uncle Wiggily" for the title of a children's board game. Really? Uncle Wiggily? Perhaps it is only a result of being bombarded daily with criminal cases involving crimes against children at work but to me Uncle Wiggily sounds a bit more like the username for a pedophile on his favorite kiddie porn site.

My only exposure to the rheumatoidal rabbit was through this game; however, apparently Uncle Wiggily Longears (who knew Wiggily was a first name?) is the main character in a whole series of roughly 79 children's books by Howard Roger Garis, who began writing the stories in 1910. The stories included a number of bad guy characters including Woozy Wolf and Bushy Bear and, according to the Wikipedia article, they were all intent on nibbling the "souse" off Uncle Wiggily's ears. Did anyone know what "souse" was without looking it up?

I'm completely grossed out now.

Halloween Aftermath ...

2008-11-01T02:20:00.004-04:00

You know what's fun? Having blazing red hair for a ghoulish Halloween night of candy and multiple spidermen and princesses. How does one get such blinding hair, you ask? Why step right up and gander at the Fright Night Temporary Hair Color in Rotten Red. As noted on the can, "Instantly change your hair color to go with any costume design. Streaks 'N Tips sprays a fine mist of color accents or sparkling glitter. It's the perfect touch for parties, holidays, special occasions, or just for fun!"

You know what's not fun? Trying to figure out how to rid yourself and your surroundings of said "fine mist of color." The directions state, "REMOVAL: Brush hair thoroughly and shampoo and condition as usual. Those with prelightened hair may need to wash hair several times for complete removal."

Somewhere in the land of Fright Night Cosmetics, the cackle of an evil scientist can be heard. You see, there are several things not noted on the can.

"Light mist" = everything within a five foot radius of where you're standing when you administer the spray will be hit, you just won't know it yet.
"Wipe off excess with a damp cloth" = you'll push said mist around on your counter top and bathroom floor (which you stupidly forgot to cover with an old bath towel) trying in vain to wipe any of it actually off these spaces. The thought of turning your bathroom into a Pepto-bismol ad flashes through your mind.
After throwing an old towel onto the now pink floor and removing your now pink socks, you move on to your makeup and file away these troubles until later.
You sport brilliant red hair, give out all the candy except the Heath bars you've discovered you now love as an adult, and generally have a wonderful night with friends.
Later arrives. You pull a brush timidly through your rock hard hair once or twice then scoff at the "brush hair thoroughly" command and stumble into the shower.
"Wash hair several times" = five ... so far.
You step gingerly from the shower and steadfastly refuse to acknowledge your new slightly pink tinge or the light pink streaks across your cream colored bath towel. And, no, not the towel used to dry your hair.
You cover the now pink shower/tub floor with Comet since, come on, if Comet can't cut this color, nothing will.
Nothing will.

I'm going to need a much bigger bath rug.

Happy Halloween!! And Good Luck Beulah!

2008-10-31T17:10:00.005-04:00

I wasn't planning on dressing up for Halloween this year. I'm too busy, too tired, too uninspired (and didn't intend that to rhyme either). But recently, our office was informed that a long time member of our staff has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Her major surgery, to hopefully remove all traces of the tumor and discover that the cancer has NOT spread may be ongoing as I type this. Her request was simple. Dress up for Halloween and take a group picture for me.

This was for Beulah Doyle ... and a reminder to us that life is too short not to act silly sometimes. [Note: The official version of the group shot - on someone else's camera - is better.]

This Makes Me Want To Break Out My Hogwarts Fleece!

2008-10-27T22:32:00.004-04:00

That's right, you heard me (read me). I have a totally awesome, black, hooded fleece with the Hogwarts coat of arms. You're jealous, I know.

But now, watch this ... just when we will have finished watching Twilight for the 27th time, Harry Potter will once again be cause for a midnight show.

God Can Move Mountains, Why Not Obama

2008-10-23T23:42:00.009-04:00

Saturday morning, I received an email from my Mom, one of the nicest, Christian, do-anything-to-help-another persons you could ever meet. The only thing my Mom wrote on the email was this:

"Obama scares me. How do you girls feel? Love, Mom"

Attached to the email was a forwarded email entitled, "God Can Move Mountains." Within that forwarded email was essentially a call to Christian Americans to pray that God delivers us from the evil Obama. Seriously. It used accusations to incite blind fear and hatred, commented on religion and the need to protect our country from becoming "Under Allah," as well as on what it called the anti-white feelings of Michelle Obama. It cried out that Bush has been fighting a "holy war" and urged the reader to pray "to keep a man as suspect as Barak Obama from leading our country to who knows where with his message of 'change.' "

I responded to my Mom. I responded by letting her know that Obama doesn't scare me. The hatred and venom spewed in that email is what scares me. That email was one step away from some nut job reading it and deciding that he/she must take our future into their hands and "do God's will" by ridding us of the evil Obama. By assassinating the leader. That man or woman will likely call themselves Christian and, on that day, if/when such a horrific event happens, I will be ashamed.

If you want to see the email itself, email me at justacogitating@yahoo.com and I'll send it to you.

I don't think my Mom was quite prepared to see just the shade of blue all four of her daughters have become. But, as I told her, it is okay if we disagree, we still love her - that is the kind of Christian upbringing that she gave us - not the ignorant rantings of racist fanatics intent on spreading a message that any difference means you must be evil.

And now for some intelligent, comedic relief! God save Opie!!

See more Ron Howard videos at Funny or Die

Curses Be To Cotton!

2008-10-23T21:46:00.004-04:00

Yes, I know, you deserve more ... but right now my only thought is how annoyed I am that I forgot the load of clothes in my dryer that includes a shirt that demands prompt removal to avoid the dreaded iron.

Have I mentioned what a domestic Goddess I am?

New Record

2008-10-09T22:34:00.004-04:00

Wow ... apparently 10 days of Match.com is all I can take at the moment. I'm already sick of looking. Within those 10 days, at least according to Match.com, my profile was viewed 406 times, I received 20 emails, sent 13 emails, and received 23 winks.

I don't believe I'm supposed to be feeling this disillusioned already, am I?

It's a Match Reunion! [Just a Short Rant.]

2008-10-06T21:45:00.009-04:00

Unbelievable. Two prior "dates" from Match.com years gone past have popped back up to "wink" or email me during my current round.

One of the two firemen I've dated: We went out four or five times, I went on vacation, he decided while I was gone that he didn't see a "romance" in our future. A year later, he contacted me again and asked me out. The day of our scheduled date, he left a message letting me know that he had a sick child and needed a rain check. What happened? Never heard from him again ... until this time around when I got, you guessed it, an email on Match.com from him wishing me the best roughly two years after first meeting him.

The other is even better - the EMT: This was the first man I went out with (or stayed in with) following my divorce. We saw each other for two months the fall of 2004 before he broke things off due to my then weight. Yes, that was the actual reason he gave me. Apparently I was a great girl with whom to "stay in" but not so much with the taking out. I just got a "wink" from him on Match.com tonight.

So, I'm taking opinions. How do you handle men, be they online dates or other, who have popped back up after treating you poorly in the past?

My first thought? You don't.

My second thought involves a transvestite named Destiny who guarantees a Crying Game experience for the right price.

Be True To Yourself

2008-10-04T23:49:00.009-04:00

I have been "viewable" on Match.com for less than a week and have already updated my profile multiple times. How much of yourself should you show on a dating site? I tend to be a tad sarcastic. [I know, it's true! Who knew?] Consequently, my profile came across that way and, according to one advisor, it was too negative.

*cue the death knoll of my dating life*

Thereafter, I substantially cut negatives and sarcasm from my profile. It was much MUCH shorter and sweeter. It was also, according to one friend, "bland and blah."

So, how much should you say about yourself in an online dating profile? How much wit and/or sarcasm can a sarcastic person bestow upon potential dates without completely tainting the lot of them to her? I mean, hell, I've removed the "All Men Suck" mantra ... so I'm good, right?

According to Evan Marc Katz, we should figure out what makes us different and use it to our advantage. Okay, I can go with that and it adds points to my friend's cry of "bland and blah."

*5 minutes of thought about what makes me different. I'm stumped.*

Katz also advises the date seekers to stay consistently positive. *Oh my.*

No spelling mistakes. *Agreed! *

No glaring insecurities. *Define "glaring" please.*

No superficial wish list about looks. *Does that mean I have to remove my reference to Orlando Bloom?*

No giving anyone a reason to say no to you. *WHAT!!??*

Now I have to really draw the line there. I know, I know, mystery is a good thing but, frankly, I'd like a potential date to know that I am not even a distant relative to Betty Crocker or Sara Lee. I know my Papa John's phone number and he knows mine. I would just rather weed out right now those men who find a domestic deficiency to be a deal breaker. Bah Bye. I would also rather someone have a sense of my sense of humor before the phone numbers are exchanged.

I'll stick with Katz's ultimate tip: "If you have fun writing it, the reader will likely have fun reading it." My current profile leans back in my original humorous yet cynical direction. And honestly, if "my guy" is out there anywhere then the wit will be appreciated, accepted, and returned. No wusses allowed!

It's Not March Madness, it's Match Madness

2008-10-01T07:35:00.001-04:00

Updated profile ... approved. Uploaded photos ... approved.

Let the madness begin.

My Descent Back Into The Hell Of Online Dating

2008-09-30T23:01:00.015-04:00

That's right boys and girls, "kimmiesis" is going back on view. *Whimper*

The year following my divorce, I realized I was going to need assistance going out into the dating world. After all, I'd just spent 11 years of my life with one man, *cough* and knew nothing .... NOTHING about dating. I turned to Match.com and my-oh-my have there been some rides on that shiny roller coaster of the dating forlorn during the past few years.

Example: One early date wanted to cook me dinner and, when I arrived at his apartment, I found that I was a few minutes early and he had just arrived home from work. He showed me around his apartment, which turned out to be a tribute to Napoleon that included not only framed artwork but ... an actual bust of the French leader as well. Did I mention that he had laid out his "date clothes" on his bed that morning? Without any of the gory details, the date ended with my standing abruptly, uttering, "I need to leave," and walking out the door. [Ah, hell, there are going to be bad dreams tonight.]

I have been away from the online dating world since the beginning of April. I can only take a couple months at a time of Match.com before I need a break ... am I the only one with this pattern? Anyway, I have successfully updated my profile with a cynicism sure to frighten away 98% of all men and am only anxiously awaiting the approval of my newly uploaded photos before clicking that "show profile now" link. Wish me luck, pray for me, pray for them, throw some salt and knock on wood.

With my apparent love for online dating, you might wonder what has succeeded in dragging me back into the insanity. That's simple. A combination of boredom, curiosity, and a buy 1 month, get 3 free offer for MSN customers.

No, really, I'm that easy.

You Know You Need A Vacation From Life When ...

2008-09-29T18:21:00.005-04:00

You know you need a vacation from life when the realization that you've left your phone at work results in an odd feeling of contentment. Mind you, this is my one and only phone. I have no other means of instant communication (unless the person with whom I want to converse happens to be online at the same time).

Other than a slight uneasiness over my current inability to dial 911 if necessary, I'm good. Great even. And obviously inching ever nearer to my ultimate destination ... hermithood.

Udderly Ridiculous ... or ... "EEEEEWWWWW!!"

2008-09-26T10:11:00.005-04:00

In case any of you missed PETA's newest suggestion, the group has contacted our beloved Ben & Jerry's urging the popular ice cream creators to stop using cow's milk in their product and, instead, use human milk.

That's right, for those of us who mentally cringe at the thought of the possibility that we suckled (Eeeeeew) our mothers' breasts at any point, PETA might just have hit on the one and only way to curb our ice cream cravings .... even my insatiable desire for their pints of Strawberry Cheesecake.

Name a Remake Better Than the Original

2008-09-24T18:39:00.007-04:00

Because it is certainly not the new Knight Rider. Raise your hand if you agree that Val Kilmer's "K.I.T.T." is freakin' creepy.

The series starts tonight ... I doubt it will last longer than the eight episodes of Bionic Woman, now cancelled.

So Sorry Little Lamb

2008-09-24T15:54:00.015-04:00

In a stunning piece of legal literature, the Michigan Court of Appeals has finally answered that question nagging so many sexual predators out there: Is that soft woolly form so beloved on Old McDonald's farm considered an "individual" under Michigan law?

Um ... No.

The opinion, released just yesterday for publication, includes the dictionary definition of "individual" as a "single human being" or "person," along with a claim that the definition of "victim" from the Crime Victims' Rights Act is "an individual" capable of having a spouse or guardian and the panel of three's leap of legal analysis, "Only human beings are able to marry and have spouses." [Note to self: apparently gay men and women are not considered human beings in Michigan either.]

The purpose of this decision? To determine whether a defendant convicted of an “abominable and detestable crime against nature” with a sheep, i.e., bestiality boys and girls, should be required to register as a sex offender. The answer, unfortunately, is also ... No.

Now, I understand the reasoning of the panel and the need to following the law as written; however, the thought that individuals showing such a willingness to harm animals in this way, a way that demonstrates their sexual depravity and violent, sexual predatory natures, are not required to register as sexual offenders rings wrong.

Mary had a little lamb ... run little lamb, RUN!!

To Forks or Not To Forks ...

2008-09-22T10:15:00.006-04:00

That is the question. And apparently the answer for an increasing number is ... YES! YES! To Forks, To Forks!!!

Forks, Washington, the small town depicted in Stephenie Meyer's Twilight craze is going through some delightful, economic, growing pains as fans descend upon the town in the hopes of finding a silver Volvo stalking them.

My own personal descent into a permanent mental age of 15 could only be capped off with a visit.

Little sister? [$5 says she just went all giddy with the thought that I'm actually serious.]

The Public Fart or Why Me/Why Now

2008-09-19T17:16:00.008-04:00

Have you ever found yourself wondering why God, the universe, or karma has worked to place you at a particular place at a particular time?

At roughly 9:30 a.m., I donned my jacket and went in pursuit of my skinny skinny mocha lattecino, first stopping by several offices to see if I could find a cohort (in order to use the weekly coupon), then spying mail in my mailbox, reading the enclosed opinion and order, which led to the need to hunt down a motion, talk to others about the motion, and file a response to said motion, then finally stumbling out to the elevator an hour later ... in pursuit of my blessed SSML once again.

I pressed the "down" button as a large woman came out of a neighboring office and stood quietly beside me. We waited. The elevator "dinged" open and, as I walked by her into the small enclosed space, she looked flustered, stepped inside next to me, and the following exchange took place:

Woman: "Oh, excuse me," in an embarrassed tone.

I turned in the elevator surprised, "What?"

"I farted."

*uncomfortable pause as the elevator doors close*

I added, "I didn't hear anything"

"Oh good. It's just so embarrassing."

"Um, don't worry about it."

She put a hand over her stomach, "It's just that sometimes depending on what I eat, my stomach is unsettled."

*silent prayer for doors to open immediately*

"Yeah ... well ... I hope you feel better."

Her "thanks" came from behind me as I squeezed through the opening doors.

Bounding out into the relatively fresh air of downtown, I found myself wondering: What is the proper response to the public fart? Do you ignore it, hoping no one else noticed? Do you fess up, as this woman did, only to find out that you've exposed yourself needlessly? Do you enter into an expanded discussion of bodily functions with complete strangers?

I have no answer ... other than to pray that I personally never need an answer.

Laugh At A Funeral Kind of Girl

2008-09-14T19:23:00.025-04:00

My Uncle Claude died on September 2, 2008. "Aunt Eula and Uncle Claude's" was a destination commonly stated at home growing up. The names were always uttered together. Aunt Eula, who passed away eight years ago, was a sweet, soft-voiced woman with an affinity for hats and clip-on earrings while Uncle Claude smelled of tobacco, cussed every other breath, and had a cackle of a laugh that defies duplication. They were an important part of childhood in my family.

Uncle Claude was 90 years old when he passed away following a massive stroke. Although he spent his final few months in a nursing home, my Uncle Claude managed to completely elude hospitals in his 90 years, many of which were spent smoking cigars and most of which included the chewing of tobacco. He valued friends and family, loved old stories and older jokes, and didn't expect a damn thing from anyone or anything. Uncle Claude informed the nurses of Miller's Merry Manor (No, seriously, that's the name - as if any nursing home can truly claim to be a source of merriment) that when it was his "time to go" they should not call in a minister but, rather, a bartender because he wanted to leave happy!

"I say, I SAY ... I said I told 'em not to call a minister but call the bartender 'cause I want to leave happy!" [insert indescribable cackle]

Uncle Claude's funeral was a week ago Saturday. I left early Friday to go to his viewing Friday night at the insistence of my sibling and we ran smack into my mother's side of the family in full force. My Mom is the youngest of seven siblings and one of the five remaining. I left the viewing with two observations: 1) I am a lofty lofty 5'3" despite the Mishler blood in my veins and 2) "We're enjoying the view" should never be uttered by an elderly uncle to his niece ... ever.

My sister and I had a mission when we arrived for the funeral the following morning - give my Uncle Claude one last round of Skoal pouches for his journey. My uncle was being buried as he would have wanted in his classic bib overalls and he typically kept his round in his front breast pocket so ... well ... the covert operation went smoothly and Uncle Claude will keep his end of his deal with best buddy Virgil (Virgil is apparently supposed to bring the beer when his time comes).

Why am I a 'laugh at a funeral' type of girl? Perhaps because this was the funeral of a beloved relative who had enjoyed a long happy life with little sickness and a lot of sass. Perhaps because having to unbutton bib overall pockets for the purpose of stashing your uncle's "stash" there makes one feel irreverent. Most likely because the minister began to speak and a clear image of The Princess Bride popped into my and my sisters' heads. In particular, the priest, played by Peter Cook, from the "mawwage" scene of that "bwessed" film.

I dared not look down the row to any of my sisters during that funeral. We all sat together in the second row ... right at the front ... and I just don't know if our shaking shoulders would have been viewed as appropriate crying or not. Add in the minister's low, loud, stage-whispered "Aaaaamen" and we were all very nearly and completely 'laugh at a funeral' kind of girls. In a way, I kind of wish we would have let it loose ... somehow, from somewhere, I bet we would have heard an indescribable cackle added to the giggles.

And I have no doubt, none, that he's cackling heartily today with Eula at his side.

I Hurt.

2008-09-01T09:23:00.011-04:00

Every. *%*#ing. Muscle. Hurts.

The majority of the current damage to my body occurred Saturday while moving my little sister into a new apartment. A new apartment three floors and six flights of stairs up. Without counting the four steps down into the basement and two steps up in the lobby. A new apartment without air conditioning.

[I know I'm writing in fragments - be patient - I'm improving from the single word sentences above.]

Saturday passed in a blur of sweat, pain, and ice-cold, Brita-filtered, water. Then, after a night sleeping on the floor with multiple things piled under my legs in a desperate attempt to curb the lower back spasms, I woke early to several more hours of lifting, bending, stairs, water, and sweating. I will say I am hugely thankful that Jenny's new Indiana-fed pet spider didn't crawl from its cedar chest home to introduce itself while we were transporting said chest up the stairs (he waited until later when she was alone and ready to sleep to announce his presence in the middle of her bed). I'm also thankful that Jenny was the one who fell backwards onto the stairs with the last load (a blessed air conditioner). Nevertheless, every frickin muscle in my body hurts especially my feet, calves, thighs, biceps, back, palms, and, yes, fingers.

So, on this beautiful holiday as I head into work (!!!!), I've been researching how to handle my sore frame. It is amazing how many things pop up with a simple query "what to do about sore muscles" but here is an example. There were many suggestions but I think I'm going to start with lots of water, some protein (for use as my body repairs), easy stretching, and a walk mid-day downtown to keep things moving and hopefully get rid of some of the lactic acid that causes so much of the soreness.

That's my plan. One protein smoothie coming up!

One last thought ... the wikiHow site linked above allows users to edit their answers. I am fairly certain that a 5th step needs to be added to their How to Make Sore Muscles Feel Good answer - "Hire gorgeous, heterosexual, moot, professional masseur for relaxing massage followed by chocolate and/or ice cream."

That Online Lessen We All Need To Learn

2008-09-01T09:11:00.003-04:00

People are CRAZY! Especially, it seems, people from North Carolina.

Labor Day Weekend - Emphasis on Labor

2008-08-28T18:45:00.012-04:00

My Labor Day Holiday will consist of exactly that ... labor.

This weekend I will be helping my little sister move from an apartment in Evanston, which she shared with her now ex boyfriend, to a solo apartment in Chicago.

I envision a day of bending, lifting, sweating, swearing, and the inevitable need to lower a piece of heavy furniture half-way up the stairway because giggle fits have completely depleted our strength. And, have you ever noticed how moving always takes at least 46% more time than you originally planned, part of which is spent puzzling over the exact angle of lifting needed to fit a couch or chair around a corner?

Added to this day of merriment is the location: Chicago. I dislike Chicago for several reasons, one of which is admittedly petty.

There are too many people ... 9.7 million in the Chicago metro area ... and by reading this blog you must know that I generally hate people.

Driving to Chicago takes too damn long ... why?

Because there are too many people

Driving in Chicago sucks big hairy donkey balls ... why?

Because there are too many people

And, finally, Chicago is the city of my exhusband ... thank God there are too many people.

So, as you are sitting around the lake/pool/grill/backyard enjoying this holiday weekend with a burger and ice cold drink, take a moment and add to that enjoyment by picturing me sitting in a car for several hours with my mother fielding the standard questions of whether I'm dating anyone and/or attending church regularly, then fighting to curb my swearing in front of said parent while driving around Chicago, followed by the bending, lifting, and sweating.

Rinse, reverse, and repeat for the return journey.

Yep, I love my little sis ... and that Venti Mocha Light Frappucino she'll have waiting for me.

Invasion of the Bowl-Cuts

2008-08-24T11:37:00.008-04:00

It seems that names like Devon, Doyle, Maynard, and Doris are on the rise across the country! Those of us who grew up in northern Indiana, particularly Shipshewana, Indiana, are accustomed to road apples decorating our roads and losing half of our classmates after 8th grade; however, according to this recent study, the Amish population has nearly doubled in the last 16 years and settlements are spreading across the country.

The article also mentions that more than half the population is under 21. You know what that means, right? More and more of the country is being introduced to J.O.'s - our local Shipshewana slang "jerked over" for our Amish teens who are currently driving cars, wearing jeans, a bit of makeup, and otherwise stretching their freedom before deciding whether to stay with the Amish way of life. The vast majority do stay in the church so be prepared to welcome the bowl-cuts and bonnets coming soon to a town near you. On the plus side, they are generally peaceful and friendly neighbors.

Um ... I do not recommend googling the phrase 'jerked over Amish' ... and noooooooooooo, I did not click on it!!

Speaking about Chianti ...

2008-08-21T21:48:00.019-04:00

About four years ago, while working at an appellate court, I met my 10 year twin.

I was a research attorney, meaning that I would read the briefs submitted in a case by the appellant and appellee, research the issues, and write a report for the panel of three judges who would decide the case (oh so exciting, I know). We occasionally had interns in our department and it was in this way that I met Amy. Now, I've admittedly had many Amy's in my life ... I have my best friend from college and ongoing, all-around, closest of close friends Amy, my 'one good thing that came out of my marriage, wine partner, excellent chef, close friend' Amy, and my 10-year twin Amy.

My 10-year twin Amy interned at our office soon after my divorce was final. What I remember about Amy was that she is a tad eccentric, intelligent, a bird-lover, and exactly ten years younger than me. Amy drew me out and back into fun during a time when I could easily have fallen into a deep dark hole. Amy also introduced me to Chianti.

I am not a wine connoisseur by any stretch of the imagination. I am not a connoisseur of any particular alcoholic beverage. I hate beer. I was, and sometimes still am, that annoying girl at the bar asking if there is a bar menu or giving some sad-assed request for a drink with rum in it. Wine was an acquired taste for me and Amy helped me figure out that I enjoy red wine, particularly Chianti, best. If you have ever been that person waiting very impatiently at the bar behind me ... you owe Amy your thanks.

Chianti, and other varieties of red wine, is generally an alcoholic beverage of choice among those of us acutely aware of calories. It has lower calories per serving than many other drinking options. I like the warmth of red wine and its sometimes spicy, oaky, earthy, taste.

If you are currently one of those annoying, indecisive bar patrons, let me recommend a wine tasting. Take a moment and google wine tastings in your particular city and I have little doubt that you'll find several from which to choose. Typically, for a set price, you and your group of friends can have a relaxing evening trying a variety of wines and learning a bit about them at the same time. It is the perfect way to find out whether you're a fan and have fun doing it.

Thank you, my 10-year twin!

I Know I Hate People But ...

2008-08-21T21:05:00.015-04:00

Every once in a while, you run across a person or persons who shock you in a way that doesn't inspire the desire to maim or kill.

I have a family and a group of friends like that. Friends with whom I've shared my high points ... keeping a convicted killer behind bars with his new best "friend" Bubba (I'm making up the Bubba part, that's just my hope, but you can find out more about the murder this fall on the Discovery Channel), losing an 5th grader in weight and hitting single size digits again, volunteering at the zoo, reclaiming myself ... and my low points ... too many to list and, frankly, you people already have enough ammunition on me.

I am lucky enough to have people in my life who accept me for the warped, funny, sarcastic, bitter, cynical, broken person I am and it amazes me daily. I have recently had occasion to feel ashamed of myself (oh shut-up) and explained why to a few of these friends. The response? Pointing out that I had just described millions of people, that I'm human, and that I'm a good person. Absofuckinglutely amazing.

I truly hope you have people in your life that mirror these inexplicable accepters from mine. They are what keep us honest, keep us humble, and keep us sane.

And I swear that is not just the Chianti talking ... trust me.

Seriously? SERIOUSLY?

2008-08-19T11:33:00.004-04:00

I hate people.

In particular, I hate physically healthy people who nevertheless feel the need to impede my day by getting on the elevator and hitting “2”. Yesterday, I watched as a stunning blond, perfect figure, perfect legs, waited until the elevator door was closing then stuck her tan, toned arm out to stop it and stepped inside smiling as she pressed the “2” button. You know what doesn’t look so stunning, sweetheart? My Beaner’s aka Biggby mocha chill all over that blindingly white top of yours!

Seriously?? It’s one freaking flight of stairs!! I realize that you’re probably one of those over-metabolic freaks who can down a McDonald’s super sized fries every damn day without adding a mere jiggle to your cellulite deficient form but I think the bloody nose from my upward thrust might just mar your dainty face for a day or two.

God, I wish an assault conviction wouldn’t muck up my career.

Why Oh Why Oh Why!!!

2008-08-15T19:33:00.019-04:00

Why is life so hard?

Life has become a jumbled up heap of mangled relationships growing higher and more unstable as we get older. I forget now how old I was when I realized that we never truly grow up, we simply get older, and the cliques we hated in high school simply changed locations to the workplace and church or our other current social groups.

Bridget the perfect cheerleader has been replaced by Bridget the perfect mother, Rob the ultra athlete is now Rob the successful vice president, Ben the slacker/pothead is now .... well, Ben the slacker/pothead.

Do you remember at what point you realized the falsity of "growing up"? I sit here feeling much of the same insecurities, the same fears, the same uncertainties about my life as I did when I was a senior in high school, a senior in college, a law school graduate.

Maybe it is just that I haven't crossed the invisible boundary; is it parenthood?

Maybe we finally "grow up" when forced to attempt to shepherd our own children into and through this life. But, no, that's not necessarily true either. I have been an aunt and even a step mom yet nothing has changed. I still feel the same. And I've certainly witnessed the vast ability of parents to behave as children or even worse than children.

I give up. I might as well accept the fact that I am now and forever will be an adolescent of life living in this adult version of high school. Fine. Then I only have one question.

Who the hell is taking me to prom!!???

Wanted: A Fantasy Football Ringer

2008-08-13T17:38:00.005-04:00

Have I mentioned today how much I hate people?

Just under a week ago, I was banned for the first time in my life from a message board. It's true!! I am such a sweetheart, such a caring, considerate, *cough* completely non-bitch that I can well imagine your shock. In all honestly, I don't believe I've ever felt more hurt and betrayed by this many people at once.

Weeks before receiving that fateful "removal" email, I had been talked into joining a Fantasy Football League by the very people who tossed me with little comment out their cyber door. I only recently remembered the League and promptly removed myself; however, there are now two empty teams sitting there waiting for the draft on September 2nd.

If, by any chance, a reader comes across this blog and deems himself or herself a king or queen of such fantasy games, might I suggest that you go to ESPN's Fantasy Football Homepage and join the Daily Dose League? They need some good competitors and somehow it will not cause me any distress if one or more of you kick some ass there.

Bitter? No, why do you ask?

It's an ABBA Summer!!

2008-08-12T22:10:00.038-04:00

This is my own personal summer of ABBA. [FYI: You SO want to turn down your speakers before clicking on that link!]

Among their many songs, the Swedish group made up of Benny Andersson, Björn Ulvaeus, Anni-Frid Lyngstad (Frida), Agnetha Fältskog gave us Dancing Queen, Waterloo, Winner Takes It All, and my personal current favorite, Take a Chance On Me. And now, the 70's/80's group has invaded my summer of 2008 from three unrelated directions:

1) Mamma Mia, the movie. I highly recommend seeing Mamma Mia, a musical based on the songs of ABBA and starring the fabulous Meryl Streep along with an ensemble cast that includes my Pride and Prejudice boyfriend, Colin Firth. Now ... this post is about ABBA, I know, but really ... could there have been a better Mr. Darcy? I think not. *Sigh* Okay.

Mamma Mia is simply fun ... fun and lively and funny and feel good and, did I mention fun? I was entertained, impressed with most of the singing, and slightly uncomfortable listening to Pierce Brosnan sing S.O.S. Oye! Pierce needs to stick to those "I'm the coolest British [spy, thief, mystery man] you'll ever meet" roles.

2) The Grand Rapids Symphony Picnic Pops - ABBA, The Hits. If you've never attended a Grand Rapids Symphony Picnic Pops concert, you're missing one of the many things that make Grand Rapids a wonderful place in which to live. The concerts take place outside at the Cannonsburg Ski Area. You grab food, drink, friends, and lounge under the stars while the symphony plays. I took my stepmom to the July 31st concert based on ABBA songs. Surrounded by people of all shapes, sizes, and ages, we enjoyed an evening of ABBA songs that began rather mildly yet ended with an all-age MOSH pit for lack of a better description. I cannot begin to describe the level of people watching that these events supply. I had tears in my eyes and smile-pained cheeks by the end of the night.

3) The Murder Trial. Finally, on a more somber yet just as insane note, ABBA again entered my summer through a trial in which a man was convicted of first-degree murder for killing his estranged boyfriend by shooting him five times and beating him with the boyfriend's metal crutch. What caused this man to snap? To lash out in such a vicious way? An unfulfilled promise that the boyfriend would "hold" him after they were intimate.

Defendant claimed that this was a murder committed in the heat of passion and not worthy of a first-degree murder conviction. This man went down to a basement, grabbed a loaded gun, went back upstairs to the bedroom and unloaded that gun into his sleeping boyfriend. He then went back downstairs to reload the gun, went back upstairs, and attempted to shoot the victim again but the gun jammed. Did he then stop? No. He grabbed a crutch when the gun jammed and proceeded to beat the boyfriend until he stopped crawling and the crutch broke. I say that these events took enough time for a reasonable person to think about what they were doing; that's first-degree murder. And, let's face it, the thought of cuddling after sex as a reasonable basis for a murder to be deemed committed in the heat of passion should frighten all men, gay or straight, young or old.

The ABBA connection? After murdering his friend, defendant went into the living room and proceeded to listen to the same ABBA song, "their" song, over and over again for 3 hours before calling anyone to the scene. What song? It is rumored to be Fernando; however, the officers responding to the scene have apparently blocked the specifics of the blaring music out because they are now not certain. So, we only know that it was ABBA.

After all of this, could I help myself digging out my ABBA Gold CD from the depths of my unused CD collection? Of course not. How else can I listen to "my" song over and over again on repeat? Share the insanity. It is the summer of ABBA!

@#$& Cheap Ass Pastic Containers!!

2008-08-10T21:47:00.006-04:00

I sit in my apartment eyeing a large, crecent moon shaped, dark spot on my carpet that hugs one corner. Following my disappointing afternoon at the movies (see below), I dutifully got groceries including a large gallon of spring water from Meijer. My little sister called while I was driving home and, consequently, I found myself balancing my bag o'groceries, a 12-pack of pop, and the gallon of water as I used my key to unlock my door, the opening of which threw off my delicate balancing act.

Picture with me the subsequent and sad attempt at juggling, the slow fall of the gallon jug of water to the nice, cushy, carpeted floor, and then the ensuing string of profanity that followed my realization that the gallon container burst upon impact. Burst! No trickle, no small leak, a gushing ruptured bottom. Do you know how much water is in a gallon? Because it certainly seems like way more than a gallon when soaking down into the carpet. Over three full-sized bath towels ... then I gave up.

Stupid, cheap ass, plastic water containers!

X Files ... I wanted to believe, too.

2008-08-10T20:45:00.009-04:00

I miss the X-Files. I miss Dana Scully and Fox Mulder's chemistry and wit. I miss the freakishly fascinating show about paranormal cases and Mulder's obsession with porn. I miss the smart twists and the swing between alien shows and completely warped non-alien shows. And after paying my $6.50 and watching the new X-Files movie, I still miss all of those things.

We join the pair as Dr. Dana Scully is treating a terminally ill child in a religious hospital and Fox Mulder is playing the hermit he was always meant to be ... until the FBI asks Scully to find Mulder because they need his help with a psychic. The first scene between our beloved Scully and Mulder disturbed me ... dare I say the acting wasn't what you thought it should be? They just had no chemistry anymore. It was awkward watching it. And the movie went down for me from there.

SIDE NOTE: I miss the smoking man, William B. Davis, who, by the way, is a spokesperson for the Canadian Cancer Society and started smoking herbal cigarettes on the show when he realized that his old smoking addiction was coming back simply because of his infrequent appearances on the show. Raise your hand if you, at some point, thought he might be Mulder's real father. No? Was that really only me?

What the Hell am I doing?

2008-08-09T11:09:00.000-04:00

Why, I'm following my little sister, of course.

Is this all because I'm getting older? She's 8 years younger and dragging my slightly sagging ass into new-to-me things like Facebook (never did set up that Myspace page), Twilight (sharing the addiction), and now blogging. Blogging! How did this happen?

My little sister is on Facebook ... I should join. I did. Now words like "flair" and "walls" and "status" have whole new meanings for me. People I haven't heard from since high school, even people I don't believe I ever knew in high school, are becoming friends with me on Facebook, bringing that small town, "everyone knows what everyone is doing" feeling of Shipshewana, Indiana, right back into focus ... which now makes me wonder what the hell I'm thinking.

My little sister hammers me to read a teen book called Twilight by Stephenie Meyer. I fly through that, New Moon, Eclipse, and, finally, Breaking Dawn, deeply offended that I passed through high school totally unaware of the hot vampires and werewolves roaming around. See, I knew there was something odd about those Amish!

And now I'm starting a blog as if I'll have things to write that others will want to read. Ha! I feel slightly ill. Ooh, and I'll have to try and watch my language. Do I write about all one type of thing or just random thoughts? Will my random thoughts just succeed in pissing people off? In painting the banner over my head that states "I hate people"? Hmm ... and is that necessarily a bad thing?

I can't imagine what will be next.