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?
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
How Much of Life is a Dream Deferred?
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.
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.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
The Yearning for Less Yeahbuts
"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.]
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
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.]
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.]
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Going Down
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.
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.
Monday, May 25, 2009
What Did You Push??!!
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.
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.
Friday, May 22, 2009
The Glory of Solo Movies and Vexation of the Seat Between
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 ...
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.
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