HA!

Christmas for Deaux

I thought that I would be noble this year and take on the Christmas shifts so that my co-workers could me with their families here in PA. Oh who am I kidding?! I'm the newest, the pee-on, the low gal on the totem-pole and I did not have a choice in the matter.
That's the shit thing about the newspaper industry — the damn thing keeps on grinding.

There was potential for big headliney Christmas tragedies, but thankfully, my only writing was about natural death - read, obit patrol.

Nothing like keying in death notices to make you feel all warm and fuzzy for the holiday. If anything, the obits reminded me to call my grandparents, so I had that going for me.

In between shifts, I managed to have one of my best Christmases in memory.

It was just Quack and I, and we really made the most out of it. We grilled steaks (sans coats, people!) and cracked a bottle of wine. We ate by candlelight and then exchanged cozy and practical gifts (luggage and cookbooks) near our tree.

The tree, which is a actually a timeline of Quack's youth, is adorned with various photos of a little toothless Quackito and colored macaroni and Popsicle sticks glued into a wreath-like piles.

I came home on Christmas Eve and had a special surprise for the Quackster. In a last minute Christmas miracle I found Leinenkugels (one of the Mid-West's best comfort beers) at a nearby take-out joint.

"I have a special gift for you," I say teasingly.

"I do to," he says with a sly-fox smile.

Me: "Oh."

Q: "Give me you hand."

Me: Gulp.

From his shirt pocket the man pulls a perfectly shaped band….. SWEAT BAND THAT IS!

That effer.

Later in the night, after opening gifts, I curled up on the couch and he played with the iPod I got him. He was bustin' moves a la Tom Cruise in Risky Business (complete with boxers and white T-shirt) all around the apartment. Clearly this last minute gift (bought X-mas Eve, eve with tip cash from the coffee shop) was the money shot.

The night settled down into some good old fashioned anti-humping. I finished up the baby booties I've learned to knit, now that my friends are in the baby-making business, and Quack cracked open the book I got him.

We go home next week for the full X-mas blitz, which I'm looking forward to, but now I know what Mariah Carey was squawking about when she sang, "All I Want For Christmas Is You."

All I Want for Christmas Is Brangelina



This is brilliant!
Ch- ch- ch- ch- ch- a check it out: www.galleryoftheabsurd.com

They pay me to do this?









Photos by John Strickler

PROOF!!
It's a little dated now, but this is a pic of the T-dinner I served for the family.
To be honest, I'm just now getting back to normal after that whole shin-dig. Whew!

I had the awesome opportunity to go to a conference for journos last weekend which discussed how to report on traumatic events.
The editor of the Oklahoma paper that covered the Ok. City bombings gave a great talk (he now lectures for the Dart Center) and the woman who was the superintendent during the Columbine High School shootings also spoke.
But the key topic at hand was the Amish shootings that took place in PA a couple of months ago. Two couples from the Nickle Mines Amish Community were there as representatives and messengers.Two of them were the grandparents of Naomi Rose, one of the victims.
Anyhow, they gave the media people at the conference a critique of how they thought the tragedy was handled. For the most part, they were gracious, but they did say, "the saturation of the community by the press was an excessive, disturbing display of crass capitalism."
Particularly in the covering of the funerals.

Their Stories:
Now that the spot news folks have moved on, they said people are knocking on their doors looking for book deals.
"Now, they are weary," said Naomi, her granddaughter's name-sake. "They (the parents) don't want interviews with people who want to write articles or books. It is time to move on. Now is the time to let the families alone," she said in an accent that sounded like a homemade quilt.
As you can imagine, most of the discussion was heartbreaking, but I was surprised at the humor they delivered as well.
They told a story of a journalist who was dead set on going into one of the funerals. "She wore a pink dress," Naomi said with a smirk, and they all laughed under their wiry beards and soft bonnets.
One of the Amish men there, Levi, said he was running his horse and buggy at about 15 mph and one of the photographers, in an attempt to get a smashing shot, got in his way. "I thought to myself, 'they don't want to move, then pieces are gonna fly.'"
He chuckled at himself so much after that line!

My Observations:
I've always said that my "super power" of choice would be to take a picture in my mind, the then pull the print out of my ear.
On Saturday, this power would've have won me a Pulitzer.
The caterer for the event was pretty fancy. The desserts were more sculptures than treats.
Naomi chose the most incredible dessert - a frozen peach, filled with chocolate and cream, served in a nest of ice cream and topped with additionally decorative cream and chocolate. We're talking Willie Wonka style here people.
Nosey as I am, I watched her choose the dessert. Her eyes lit up in a strange, almost lustful way, and she quickly grabbed the crystal plate away from the modest looking apple pie slices.
She sat at her table and with a look of complete astonishment, dove into the frozen delight. For about two minutes she descended on this thing, licking the chocolate off of her fingers, paying no mind to the dollop of whipped cream on her upper lip, taking nibbles off of the frozen peach - totally in a trance.
And then, at about the third minute of the experience... she stopped. As if a veil had been pulled across her face, she regained her composure and pushed the dessert away.
She dabbed her mouth with the napkin, smoothed her skirt and exhaled fully.
In the end, she probably took three or four bites, but it seemed to me they might have been the most charged bites of her life.
I'll think about her appreciation for the experience next time I have a decadent dessert. I'll also think of her whenever I need to compose myself and assert some more grace.

Book Mingling
For one of my favorite non-trad couples around, their "big day" came when they mingled their books. You know, they squished all their hard and paper backs together in alphabetical order. In fact, I think they may have already been married (an event they informed their family about via post card) but that's a different post.
Anyway, this weekend Quack and I mingled or books - "Rich Dad, Poor Dad" all snuggley with "Lies My Teacher Told Me." Looks strange, feels good.
Going through the books that were once boxed (the folks brought the shelves) I uncovered years of journals, dating back to my early high school years. Man! I used to be a really shitty poet! Not that I'm a good poet now, I just have the good sense not to write poetry anymore.
These journals...
All I ever thought about in high school was boys! Even the little spell of song writing was just a product of my crush on Bob Dylan (don't think about this one too hard, yuck) and the Beatles.
I'd like to take this opportunity to thank all of my gal-pals who put up with my starry-eyed shit.
One of these "boys" was/is Quack. It is so, SO, strange to see the drama of us unfold in my infant handwriting. At that point in my life I was actually trying to re-shape my handwriting so that my "t's" looked, well, exactly how this font types it, with that little curve at the bottom. I was successful at this, but "4's", which I wanted to look like this (4) still have a square and open top.
Point is, I was really trying to make things happen in my life at this time... and it shows in so many different ways.
Other characters enter the pages (Duffy, Hube, the Piano Man, Manimal and the Laundry Guy) - only the closest of the close will be able to decode these names by the by - but the Quackster is the main character.
Here's the thing. I don't know if I put them on the shelf like I always have, or to box them up where he might not feel invited to read.
I don't mind if he does, in fact, there are some things that I think he would love to revisit, it's just that he might not like everything he reads.
Readers...(including Quack, I guess) what do you think?
Does mingling your books mean you need to mingle your journals as well.
WOW! This post is too SJP in SITC for me.... sorry 'bout that.

Fam-Diggity-Damnly
As the fog of family slowly lifts from my apartment (my much better furnished apartment) I am able to better embrace the weekend that was Thanksgiving a la Flauna.
I told the rents (Quack's included) that they could come to Thanksgiving dinner if they brought the table.
Yes, that's right, as fab as the new digs are, they are unfurnished dig. That is until our peeps trailered a tin can full of amenities across the country! Yeah for parents desperate to help their children.
So they showed up with the table, and I supplied the turkey (and an entire menu thanks to the good graces of an outdated copy of Real Simple magazine.)
But wait. Real Simple my ass! I had to keep a notebook by my side the entire time just to make sure what needed chopping was chopped and what needed de-gibletted was de-gibletted.
Thank God the peeps were up for my delegated tasks and before I knew it, I had assigned everyone a side dish. Truly, I couldn't have done it without them.
Quack's primary duties included cleaning up after the messy cooks (he couldn't stop the OCD monster) and keep all the workers in the good graces of one type of alcoholic bevy or another - to which I blame the twice burnt spiced nuts my mom was in charge of.
The first sacrificial burning was the night before the meal, over margaritas. The second burning took place the next morning over Bloody Mary's. Opps! We concluded it was a "bad recipe."
To her credit, my mother single handily arranged and re-arranged my apartment until the over sized furniture we own fit within the walls and doors of the tiny turn-of-the-century frames. She and Dad also bought Quack and I a fab turn-of-the-century, wall-to-wall, antique rug for our dining room. I love it, but the smell makes me think there is a granny hiding somewhere in the house.
As the big meal, and big weekend ended, Quack and I sat out on our front porch and exhaled.
Then, in protest of all things pent-up during a parental visit, we farted until the turkey-bloat subsided.
Whew!

I Don't Get It
I spent last night in the company of our fab upstairs neighbors, T-bag and his Mattingly. They invited us to what I thought was going to be a lovely holiday get-together for T-bag's company. I imagined finger foods, cocktails and wifeys dressed in glittery holiday turtlenecks.
WRONGO!
Turns out this here holiday par-tay was nothing more than an excuse to tie one on, get down a chili dog or nine and take home a little Thanksgiving Eve syphilis.
A full spectrum of moms in tapered jeans and strappy heels touch-stepped to the smooth tunes of a jazz funk band whose Sir Duke horn section was the only thing in the joint that seemed unaffected by the hazy atmosphere.
Everything else was was veiled in smokey low lighting, which I imagine is maintained on purpose so as not to expose what was growing on, or going down, in the corner.
To be honest, I don't know what you call this get-together and I don't really know where it was. I believe one word sums it up, Pennsyltucky.
It was a blast!
The debacle was held in a "banquet hall" and by that they mean big-ass room with a bar that could easily be replaced with a kegerator, b/c no one was drinking the $3 Jack and Cokes when there was free Miller Lite to be had!
A low stakes poker game was tucked in next to the goody table, which featured individually wrapped chili dogs, strange mayo based salads, foot upon foot of hogie sandwich and what can only be described as a MN bar (though that's not what the PA'ers would call them.)
Mattingly promptly pointed out what she coined as a faux-mullet. More than one woman had taken a potentially flattering hair cut and arranged it to look business in the front, party in the back. This truly took it to a new level.
Outside of the aforementioned syphilis, I took part in all that was offered at this shin-dig. I danced inappropriately with a super campy gay man who grabbed my boobs like I had been his hag since we were chubby outcasts in grade school.
Mattingly and I made a point to shake our Miller off a bit, and by doing so, sent the step-touchers back on their fold-out chairs.
The evening came to a close in Quack's and my kitchen. Our drunken ramblings were documented on the door-sized chalk board, which sadly had to be erased before the arrival of the rents today. Rubber Chicken anyone?
I'm not too sure of the rest of the night's details, all I remember is the four of us all on the kitchen floor in red faced laughter.
Seems to me this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Read this:

http://riverbendblog.blogspot.com/

What a cool kid:

Nov. 13, 2006

To those who grant Eagle Scout status:

I am a healthy 24-year-old woman who, clinging to a senseless fear of needles, had never had the courage to give blood until I met M. Sparks.
I met him at one of the four blood drives Sparks had organized for his Eagle Scout project. He came across as an incredibly ambitious 12-year-old who didn't meet the standard idea of an Eagle Scout (as he was young) or a blood donor (as he was light).
But despite these inconsistencies, Sparks was locked into earning the Eagle honor as well as convincing others to donate in his stead.
I was talking with Sparks about his project, interviewing him actually (I am a reporter for a local newspaper) when he revealed to me the difficulty of meeting his goal.
Everyone kept saying no.
His father, L. Sparks, had been a witness to the refusals given to his son time and again — myself included.
As our interview concluded, and he had convincingly delivered his intentions, I turned down at his request for a pint.
"I'm on the clock; I'm not that great with needles; I don't know how I'll react; I have to drive, and so on," I justified to myself
Some of those excuses held water. For example, I know a light-headed, snacking reporter wouldn't be any good during breaking news. However, my relationship with needles was tumultuous and hollow, and could no longer be an excuse.
At one point in my life, it might have been. As a young child, I spent a lot of time in the hospital, with nurses sneaking up on me in the night armed with a silver gleaming needles.
These images, ingrained so deep in my conscience, had prevented me from doing my donor duty.
So in a moment of spontaneity and courage, I re-approached Sparks, asking him when and where I could meet for his next blood drive.
We shook on it, and he gave me a "Donate Blood" bracelet (a la Lance Armstrong) to be worn until I had made right on my word.
I could go on to tell you about the process, the nerves, the finger prick and how I darn near passed out. But, what I'll say instead is that Sparks inspired me to get to the rec-room of that church and once there, motivated me through the whole process.
He was an attentive and funny distraction, particularly during the more tense parts. But more than anything, Sparks encouraged me to be a better person, giving, very literally of myself, for the betterment of others.


With Sincerity —

Flee

Quack's Celebrity Look-Alikes

http://www.myheritage.com

If I look like Mary-Kate, shouldn't I look like Ashley Olsen too?
BTW - I am proudest of Gladys!

Inverted Half Moon Pose (Heated)

I post too often about yoga and coffee. But they are the two things that balance me.
Today I tried a new yoga practise called "Heated Vinyasa." Basically, you go through the motions in a room heated by a mini sauna.
I walked into the room, smelling golden, like warm cedar. I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath. When I opened them and scanned the room for a spot to flop my mat, I was greeted by some of the instructors from my previous health club (since the move we are going to a different branch).
The golden feeling dissipated and it was replaced by steely fear. These women are SVELT! The kind of fit that is all tight abs and fake nails and sportswear that doubles as street wear. I'm clad in some cut-off sweat pants, a floppy t-shirt and my Crocs (of course). I stop dead in my tracks. This is like yoga class for Thoroughbreds, I belong more to the petting zoo variety of yogis.
But it was too late to turn back, so I set up shop and prayed for flexibility.
The instructor looked at me with raised eyebrows and then kindly asked, "Have you done Yoga before?" (Read: You are way out of your league pudge.)
"Oh yeah," I said in true MN fashion.
So we get right into the swing of things, upping and downward dogging, twisting and binding and stretching and posing. I was keeping up pretty well, and the heat didn't appear to be an issue, in fact I think it helped me to limber up a bit.
I was feeling bendy, ambitious, and with the instructors guidance, pushed myself a little further.
The teacher was great in the way she prodded and pushed her students' bodies into the right position. She helped me out on a full back bend, which I haven't done on purpose, or with any comfort, since I was like, 10.
It was all going ducky until I needed to use my calf to stabilize myself. I tipped forward (from a standing position) right foot grounded, left foot raising up behind me (like a seesaw) and as I grasped my cankle (not that I have a cankle just that I was grabbing by calf/ankle area) my hand slid down my leg like a frikin' slip and slide. I was so sweaty, which I was strangely unaware of, that it felt like I'd waded in a pool of KY.
I pitched forward, all balance and confidence lost, doing something that resembled a cartwheel/Karate fall.
Gazing up at the ceiling, my final resting place about four feet from my mat, the yoga instructor peeked her head in to my field of vision.
She didn't have to say anything.
"I'm fine," I said.
And I was, surprisingly. I resaddled and continued on with the session, with a little less candor and a strategically placed sweat towel.
At the end, during the meditation, "Shavasana" - or corpse pose - the teacher knelt at my mat and did a little initiation ceremony by rubbing jasmine oil onto my feet and giving me the best-feeling mini foot rub in the world.
As I walked out of the room, feeling like a rubber band, she said, "You did great. Hope to see you next Tuesday."
I would like to say that the spinal alignment and "third eye" peace of mind carried me the day through, but to be honest, when I picked up a bottle of toothpaste at the grocery store (immediately following the class) I had pain in my back and arm so fierce, it took my breath away.
I think it goes without saying that I can't wait for next week!

Why is it that I can get an exotic bearded dragon or a cheetah printed negligee on a Monday afternoon in this town, but I cannot, I repeat, CANNOT, get a cup of coffee brewed in a decent shop.
My mission this afternoon, which was probably the same mission as thousands of working gals across the state, millions across the country.
Go to the bank and get a cup of coffee on my lunch break.
What is more manageable than this?
Instead, I ended up with a natural high from walking a half-dozen blocks in search of anything that resembled the sweet black nectar of the Gods.
The closest I got was a hot-dog shop, which claims they have the "Very Best" hot dogs, but sadly ends up pedaling coffee that tastes similarly.
Blech.

Espress(o) yourself

Well, it's finally happened. The inevitable second job that accompanies every young writer career as descended upon me.
Finding that my "real" paycheck, was not quite covering my "real" bills, I broke down and got a part-time job doing my default, slinging coffee.
The shop I'm at now it probably the hippest I've worked at. Sure as hell beats the visor-clad days of my college coffee kiosk. Which I subsequently got fired from.
Say what?!
Yeah, you heard me right. I got fired.
I basically called in sick to do an assignment and the be-othch who wanted my mint shift (8 a.m.-12) saw me in the library and ratted me out.
Well I said, take this visor and shove it! I don't need your stinking sludge. Turns out I did. If not for the money for the caffeine.
So I just became a customer instead.
Before the college "coffee cart" as it was called, I worked at a quaint mom and pop operation with some sort of Northwoods feel.
I spent my entire teenage prime steaming up sticky drinks, topping them off with whipped cream and then dunking day-old pastries into them.
It was me, and a bunch of fresh faced chickies basically running the place. The owner would come in much less frequently than the cops and weirdos that came to stare at our T&A.
There was one guy in particular, "Hot Chocolate John" I believe was his name. He was a grown man, probably sneaking away from his mom's house, who would come to the shop everyday and order a sticky bun and a jumbo hot chocolate, piled high with whipped cream. I was young enough not to realize what that perfectly piled whipped cream topping represented for him.
He had a horrible demeanour, like Boy George meets Vanilla Ice meets your black sheep cousin.
He would occasionally leave a rose in the tip jar or scratch out a horrible poem on a used napkin. He creeped us all out, but I distinctly remember all of us vying for who would get to take home the floral tip.
So now that I am at this new shop in the city, there are plenty of cops and crazies, but I am not so intrigued by them as I was in my newly post-pubescent state.
The shop owner is a do-good, fair trade, espresso brewing Nazi.
When I went in to apply for the job, I introduced myself and presented my hand for a shake. She, with holding, said, "I don't shake hands when I'm working."
Yikes!
So now that I'm getting to know her, I realize she has a O.C.D., anxiety, snarky sense of humor thing going on.
For example, the first day on the job (which by the way starts at 6 a.m.) she said to me, "I hired you to be nice to customers, at least nicer than me, and that won't be hard because I'm a bitch."
I think this is HI-larious.
She's had me working the register for three straight weeks, and despite my knowledge of all thing "barista" the closest I've gotten to the drinks is re-stocking the cups.
But all of this will change soon. I have a training session this week in which I will be asked to pull 10 shot is a row, at the perfect brew length of 25 to 30 seconds.
Sweet Jesus.
I think it will be fine, but it I don't hit the mark, I'll just go back to my old ways of drinking Folgers out of a dirty mug, for it's all my writers wage will afford me.

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood



"A neighborly day for a beauty..." (Wait, are those the words, or just my own residual childhood interpretation?)
Well if those are the words, then this guy:
http://www.vitalijkuprij.com
is the beauty in my neighborhood!
Luckily for me, a Euro-artist always finds its way into my life. Be it a male ballerina or a hair-stylist extraordinaire, I can always find fun with these fellows.
Add world renowned concert pianist/ rock n' roll mo-fo to the list baby! And believe me, this man has all the machismo it takes to to carry the title of professional (word that sounds a lot like penis.)
He's no Mr. Rogers... and thank God!

The Squirrel Whisperer

8 a.m. rolled around this morning and I heard what I thought to be someone in the kitchen of my new apartment.
I was expecting my landlady... but not that early.
So I stumble into the kitchen, barely awake, hair akimbo, pajama bottoms still partially jammed into my rear - that's how awake I am.
But upon entering the kitchen, I realize there is no one there.... or was there?
There, just above the window valence, was a squirrel - A SQUIRREL - attempting to hide. Unfortunately for the squirrel, its big poofy-ass tail wouldn't get tucked down far enough - you know like when I child hides its front half, but its ass-end is hanging out.
We make eye contact.
It lays its round little ears back, much like a dog who has just shit on the rug. My ears don't lay back, but I imagine my face looked like the human version of this squirrel's.
Gasping, I duck back around the corner into the hall way.
What am I going to do?!
While formulating a plan, I use the conveniently mirrored switch plate to spy on the swishy, glassy-eyed critter.
I pick up and put on the clothing Quack had on last night, you know, to make sure none of my skin was exposed to the clawing and nibbling the squirrel was bound to afflict on me.
Using a flattened cardboard box as a shield, I approach the kitchen - again using the switch plate.
I finally muster up the courage to walk by the animal, grab some cheese out of the refrigerator, and open up the back door- which is only a foot behind him.
He hasn't moved since I first spotted him (about 15 mins. now) and I see how he got in.
There is a fan, which used to be used to ventilate the kitchen in the old days, that lead to the backyard. That freakin' thing had to be like a circus Welinda to get up to the fan. I can just imagine him springing from a branch, grabbing onto one of the ribbons of a near-by wreath, gaining momentum by swinging, and then, with a somersault, springing vertically into this little shoot - like a effing pinball.
So now the backdoor is open, the fan flap is fully open, and I have created a little trail of cheese leading to its freedom.
I can hear its furry friends click-clicking to it.
But it won't budge.
I am in the back yard, waiting for the damn thing to get the picture, and making sure no other squirrels get a bright idea, when I meet my neighbor for the first time.
She seems like a no-nonsense house mom, who armed with a broom, comes to what I think will be my rescue.
Man was I wrong.
Before I know it, she's swatting at this thing and the once petrified creature is now leaping around the kitchen.
"It's down! It's down!" She screams.
"Ahhhhh" I scream.
Of course the animal doesn't want to be shooed out the wide open door, it wants to go down into the basement.
The dark basement with a million hiding opportunities.
The neighbor chases the squirrel into the basement - broom in hand - and starts poking around.
She does this for a while, then abruptly says, "I have to drive my kid to band now. Good luck."
WTF.
I go upstairs and barricade the basement steps with boxes that we have, thankfully, not unpacked yet.
I open up the cellar door to the basement and try, once again, the trail o' cheese, leading out the door.
I am just about to loose my mind waiting for this freakin' squirrel to reveal itself when my self-described "nutty" landlady comes over.
She tells me some bizarro story about how she had a pet squirrel back in the day, who she would call to and it would eat food from her hand and sit on her shoulder.
She boldly enters the basement click-click-clickin' her tongue in that chattery way that squirrels have.
"Um. Were you raised in the woods?" I ask.
"Ha." she laughs. "No, they just like me because I'm nuts," she puns again.
She tells me to just hold still, so I press myself against the wall, clutching my fists in front of my face with bated breath.
"Click, Click, Clickity, CLICK, CLICK!" she says, prodding gently in corners and rafters with a broom.
After maybe five minutes, would you believe the frickin' squirrel came out from behind the bar(yes, there is bar in our basement!!) in response to the crazy clicking.
She ushered it towards the open cellar door and it was almost out, when it took a frantic detour into a crawl space just to the right of the door.
At this point the landlady and decide to let it be, because the door between the cellar and house was closed, and she said, "It's just scared. When it's ready it will let itself out."
So there may or may not be a squirrel chillin in my cellar. But that's good enough for me because I can avoid that place at all costs... that is until a circuit breaks, and then I will have to face the squirrel again - but this time, in the dark.

Helen: Part II

Remember Helen? The downstairs neighbor at my apartment...
Well, I have been spending my Saturday's with her of late, talking about the "good old days" which according to her are my present days, painting the nails of her gnarled fingers, combating the stink of what I think is halitosis, or dead skin, or time. That's a funny thing about chillin' with the old folks, if they're YOUR old person, then it's just their smell. But if they're not yours, they're just stinky.
So, despite the smell thing. I was beginning to settle in to our routine: Sat. in the a.m., I bring coffee and nail polish, she talks, and talks for hours.
I think we were developing a bit of a friendship, though I think we were also just kind of lonely. This bond, whatever it was, was making me anxious about telling her that Quack and I were moving(which we just did, but more on that later).
Quack and I decided we would tell her together, about a week before the big move.
But before we had the chance to wallow in our guilt ridden abandonment of the Dutch sage, she moved on us.
And not in the "BIG move to the sky" kind of way, but in the "I don't think I'm digging this place and I want to go somewhere else," kind of way. Truthfully, the same reasons we wanted to move.
The circumstances that led up to this move included some back surgery on her part, and then a realization that the assisted living digs were a lot more fun than the empty apartment.
Who needs a neighbor to come and paint your nails when there is an on-site nail tech who specializes in gently manicuring curled fingers, right?
So I really got off the hook, because as it stood, I was locked into a routine of polishing and removing, polishing and removing. I was also going to be bringing the parents down to beet Helen during their Thanksgiving trip to PA.
But as it stands now, I imagine her feeding the fish and singing with the birds in the pet section of the new place all the while playing cards with her friends between group outings to the Wal-Mart.
This is certainly a lot more to look forward to than a visit from a semi stranger/ neighbor who offered little but some nail polish to pick at through the rest of the week.
When her family came to pack up her belongings, they asked if their was anything we wanted, because it was all going to the Goodwill.
We picked out a set of dishes that she must've gotten 50 years ago but can be purchased at Pier One today for hundreds of bucks. They are so heavy and probably can't be used in the microwave (who knows what they're made of?)
But they are a wonderful daily memory of her. Helen, my first friend in PA.

Wary wary BIG sad!



It pains me so to write this, but the set of sweet Swede friends I made last year (Rock and Roll Mom and the Little Blonde One) have disappeared from my life.
Right now, as I write this, my right eye is scrunched up, my brow is furrowed my chest is tight and my nostrils are flared in pain.
Because by proclaiming it, I am finalising it. They moved out of my house and moved out of my life.

The goodbye at the airport was so sincere, so Hallmark, so "For the second time, would the person with the car parked in the drop-off zone move you effing car."
I bawled, they bawled, we bawled, knowing that as shitty and cold as the winter had been, we had made a special home and friendship inside those Central Hillside neighborhood walls.
"I'll see you in Sweden on thirtieth birthday," I said to R.A.R.M.
"Can Seerah sleep in my bed?" said L.B.O.
"Yes darling I will, and I will also be there for your graduation," I said.

I must be delusional.

Because after a few emails that went something like, ("We're home,and sick, and tired but happy)R.A.R.M. severed all communication (and this from a woman who spent six month attached at the hip to her laptop, keeping in touch with her Swedish peeps.)

I sent little emails: "Hi! Miss you!"
inquisitive emails: "Is every thing OK?"
enticing emails: "Do I owe you money?"
nostalgic emails: "Remember this time (insert picture here)"
Nothing, Nada, Zip, Zilch, Intet (that's Swedish for nothing - at least according to an online dictionary.)

I am so sad about this and have made some pretty crazy attempts at contacting them... none of which include making a phone call b/c I don't have her number.
I guess I will just have to bank it in the "friendship flings" category and pretend that it was a lovely dream.

The measure of Eman

O.K. Let's get real here....
It's been way WAY WAY to long since I last posted. For that, I am sorry.
So, since my last post, I've started belly dancing again. But in a ballsy twist (oh, ouch... ballsy twist) I have signed up a the class with one of my co-workers.
What better way to get to know people in the office than to shake your ass with them, right?
That's how I've made all my friends in that past anyhow.
So tonight, was class number two and I am very impressed with the way my co-worker, Ms. Biz, is workin' it.
She's all: hip- POP- hip- POP! Would you believe she did all this with a yard-stick on her head?!
This class is a little different than the last style of belly dance I took. It's more folksy, hence the yard-stick.
Wait, what? Yard-stick does not equal folksy.
The yard-stick is supposed to be a stand-in for a cane - or LATER ON, swords.(Notice the emphasis on LATER ON!)
But no, as I was waiting my turn for the yard stick (hip- POP -hip - POP)
one of the instructer's batty assistants approaches me with a sword she brought from home.
Before I know what's going on she's balancing the damn thing on my head!!!
Now granted, it is not sharpened, but it is metal, with a big-ass handle and pointy tip.
I could've easily turned, or ducked, or simply have said "no thanks," but really, what kind of story would that have made?
She's got me walking forward towards her - coaxing me along saying "don't worry, I'll catch it if it slips."
Out of the corner of my eye I see the gold handle, and I all I can think about is a set of brass knuckles aimed opportunistically at my right temple.
"Now turn in a circle," she says.
As I turn, I learn once the thing starts to spin, peek you eyes in the opposite direction, (ONLY YOUR EYES, NOT YOUR HEAD) and the sword will re-balance. Sweet.
Admittedly, this sword thing was fun.
But I have to say, with this whole belly dancing thing, there is a line that must be drawn by us white gals.
As my old instructor (Eman from Jordan)used to say: "Now zeez next move, you will not be able to do very goot. Because you do not have zee Arab blood in your body. Only zee Arab people really know zeez move."
I think she probably would've said that about the sword situation.
A sword on your head, a jewel in you belly button and some grown-out stringy Caucasian hair does not make you legitimate in the art of "zee belly dance".
I dance to move differently, to hear different beats and to learn a little something about the world beyond me. In no way do I want, or think it's possible, for me to somehow inherit this culture.
I don't think the sword lady embraces this concept very well.
The yard-stick however, I guess I could get down with that. It seems, somehow, fitting.

Please Advise
I went from having a LDR (long dista... oh, if you didn't get it you don't need to know) with one person to having an LDR with all my persons.
So, I need to know opinions on keeping the names, numbers, addresses, blood-types, social-security numbers and fetishes of all my people, electronically or old school?
That said, please email me your current contact info (and any other bits about yourself that you think I ought to know). But only if you are a personal friend and already have my e-dress. No sickos that are out there prowling around on my blog and want me to know their fetishes.

Let me flop in peace

I was the sole reporter in the newsroom over the holiday weekend.
This means that anything that strikes the community I cover, is my story. This creates lots of potential for big stories to fall in my lap. For example, perhaps a cop will hit a child in his car, maybe a feud between brothers will end with gunfire or cops will raid a poultry farm and find lots of pot and illegal immigrants.
Oh wait, those are the things that happen when I'm off.
When I'm on... this is what happens.

(sound of fax machine)

(sound of crickets)

(sound of old-ass T.V. projecting 12 million hours of Phillies baseball)

(sound of my phone NOT ringing)

Needless to say, but as the funny qualifier goes, I will say it anyway,
I WAS GOING CRAZY!

Super compulsive crazy - pick you cuticles and nose until it's all bleeding crazy, surf your bookmarked Web pages until your brain is microwaved crazy, alphabetize post-it notes crazy.

You get the idea....

However, I did find a little peace in the whole experience.
I was able to eat my floppy yogurt without anyone watching.
You know those yogurts that come in a tube? They are mostly marketed towards children, who don't yet have the perverse mind of adults, and have no idea what sick images a long flacid tube with creamy stuff spurting out the top conjures.
The thing is ...I actually prefer to eat my yogurt this way. It requires no spoon and solves the problem of scraping the last bits out of the bottom of a plastic cup that just bulks up your brown bag, often times causing the seams to tear.
But I am just humiliated when I am eating the damn things.
It all started when Look Left brought some leftovers from his kid's lunches to work.
I don't think he had any funny feelings about the floppy yogurt until I, in my seemingly homophobic insecurities, pointed out how weird it looked when he was eating them.
I'd laugh at him and avoid making eye contact, because they really do make me squirm! But the pay off, the satisfaction of getting my much needed calcium in one swift squeeze of the....oh f*cking forget it! I can't even defend them without perversion.
I bought them because they were on sale at the store, and I guess I was... curious.
I started putting them in my lunches, and Quacks, but I think he refuses to eat them at work. He tells me the yogurt makes his stomach hurt, but I think he too, is afraid of the image of the floppy yogurt.
The compulsion to eat the floppy yogurt in the back room, where people keep their lunches, not eat their lunches, was overwhelming. I never did, but always wanted to.
Instead, I just tell whomever is around at lunch time, not to look at me while I'm eating it.
Speaking of lunch time, my nearest neighbor is not at his desk right now! I must spring at the opportunity to eat the flop without shame.

Christmas in July and August and September and....

By no fault of my own (unless you count choosing this newsroom as my place of employment) my co-workers have exposed me to CHRISTMAS SONGS ALL WEEK LONG!!
Look Left came into the newsroom bright-eyed on Monday singing, "It's the Most Wonderful Time of The Year." In his mind, the most wonderful time of the year is when the rugrat goes back to school and Daddy Daycare turns back into Daddy Day Shift. I don't blame him. I can imagine as much as one loves their offspring, there are only so many bike rides and Lego sessions a person can take.
None the less, this song has been in my head, "broken record style" for the last day or so.
The worst part is that I don't really know the song, so I'm all: "It's the most wonderful time of the year. They'll be hot dogs for grilling and everyone telling you be of good cheer. It's the most wonderful time of the year."
Now I know, that there is nothing yule-tide about grilling wieners (these are clearly the wrong lyrics), but there is also nothing yule-tide about August.
Just when I thought the effects might be wearing off, Speakerbox, in the sports department, starts whistling "Frosty the Snowman" and "Jingle Bells".
What the Hell?
Now, I have to say that one of my favorite qualities in a person is that they have a good whistle - I learned this from my great granny - and this fella has a great whistle. Perfectly on tune with little trills and turns; the kind of whistle that makes you want to be a dog owner.
But it's all about the selection, damn it.
I suppose this Christmas compulsion could be linked to this man's inability to have an interior monologue. Hell, for all I know, my subconscious is singing "Silver Bells" right now.
And with that, "Silver Bells, Silver Bells, It's Christmas time in the city."
Hope you enjoy the contagion, bee-otches!

O Mennonite of mine

I have found a workout buddy to meet me at the gym... and while there is a good chance my sports bra will be showing at some point (accidentally of course) my new gym friend will be discreetly covering the crown of her head with a little lace cap.
I met her at a yogalates class this weekend and was instantly impressed with her confidence. Not to mention her ability to avoid piercing the top of her head with the hairpins securing her cap while executing some bizarro inverted pose.
She kept her socks on during the workout. It may have been that she, A. was cold, or B. had ugly feet, but I like to think that she is so devoted to her chaste lifestyle that she did not want to expose her tootsies to the wily eyes of the world.
She told me that she grew up in a darling community called "Honeybrook" where there are more horse and buggies than there are cars.
Now, I know you're wondering: "Flee, how the hell do you expect to carry on with this woman? What the hell are you going to talk about, you uncensored maniac?"
Well, we'll just have to see. I hope to keep it laced up and maybe learn a thing or two about the subtler things in life, while maybe I can electrify her with a few expletives every now and then. You know, be the "bad friend" for once, instead of the "good girl."
If it all falls apart, I can just hit the tred by myself again - my bra straps showing and a messy pony tail being the only thing on the crown of my head - knowing that I was too bad-ass to be reckoned with!

Cari-who? Coffee
The cozy MN coffee shop is totally non-existent in the town I work in. What was once a Jitter's (or Coffee Zone or Caribou or Daily Grind, or any other cutesier coffee name) run, is now a Argento's run.
Argento's, my friends, is a place that advertises, in neon, its strombollis and grinders. Its deli counter culture makes me long for those comfy couches the color and consistency of a Carmel Frap.... and also, at times, containing some carmel frap.
Alternately, this place has very stiff plastic booths and the only thing on the menu that might resemble a creamy coffee drink is the cheese-wiz that is pumped onto the "steaks." The Philly Cheese Steaks that is. You want yours wiz-wit or wiz-wit out?
This post was instigated by my dinner break tonight. I sat and ate salad with chicken that belonged in a bucket and croutons that resembled left over pizza crust. I pulled a book from my purse and began to read a bit. There was a family with a whole herd of children waiting to take home two big-ass pizzas for $10. The kids were racing laps around my center booth, and only stopped once so that one of the kids could look sadly at me and ask his father, "Daddy, is she okay?"
I peeked up over the edge of my book and smiled, but my coffee shop behavior clearly translated as sad and weird.
There is an interesting crew of old retired men that meet at Argento's for their daily dose of banter. Should you go in on your lunch break to try and catch up on a few chapters, you will certainly be drawn in to their conversation, if only by eavesdropping.
It looks like I'm going to have to find some coffee-to-go, and sit in a park somewhere if I really want to find some comfort on my breaks.
A good coffee-to-go option here, so far, is from a bizarro gas station called Wawa... which I may or may not have talked about before.
It is kind of like the Target of the gas station world. You go for one thing, gas, and unless you pay at the pump, you are surely leaving with a whole slew of things you didn't intent to purchase.
For example, fresh brewed coffee in house, dark, vanilla, hazelnut, or Irish cream. With corresponding creams, might I add. A milk shake machine, which allows you to stir one up fresh, a sandwich counter, with more steaks and grinders, a fresh hot pretzel section, a refrigerated section containing fresh fruit bowls , hummus wraps, and veggie trays, not to mention your run-of-the-mill snacks, like cokes and sunflower seeds.
But in order to get to this place you have to jump onto the highway.
As for now... I will probably still stop into Argento's out of desperation. But I need to find out what a grinder is, just to be sure I'm not hanging out in a place of unsavoryness.

Layin' it on

Clearly I didn't use enough sarcasm in my last post. I don't have a muddy mountain bike, camping gear, or Golden Retriever to load and unload from my broke-ass Subaru. Damn computer, sucking the true meaning out of my words.

Why Subi-roo? Why?
My car is making it clear that it has had enough. There is a constant smell of burnyness, the check engine light winks at me every now and again, and the brakes are growling like the king of the Outback.
I think the cross-country road trip is what sealed the deal.
If you know me, you know about my love affair with my car. It is such a humble, fun vehicle. The kind of car that is more a vessel for public radio than anything else. So it is much to my chagrin that it is starting to show its age, er mileage, @ 125,000 (+). Eeek!
The brake thing just started. It went from just fine, to holy shit!, in about 5 miles. The pads are now just a fine layer of dust around my hub-caps and the routers, well, they sound like they resemble a Lay's potato chip, and not the Frisbee they were at their inception.
So I am looking right now for a reliable mechanic in PA. Not an easy task, anywhere really.
My fella keeps insisting that he has buddies that can take care of the job, but I'm afraid that if I wait any longer, I'm going to have to ask those same buddies for a ride to work b/c my car is Ka-Put.
Oh, and to top it all off, the very reason I love the car, the hatch-back, has rusted shut or just plain old rattled itself broken b/c I cannot open it to load and unload my mud splattered mountain bike, camping gear and Golden Retriever.
GRRRRR!

A Portrait of Helen

The woman that lives in the lower unit of our apartment is an 89-year-old woman. Her name is Helen and if she stops you on your way out, just plan on being late.
Today, she did just that, and because it was a beautiful day, I sat with her on the front porch for a bit.
Well, a bit turned into a half an hour and that half an hour made me late for work.
The first time Helen made me late was when I was in PA interviewing for my current job. I was literally on my way out the door to the interview (already running a little later than I planned.) I ended up being an hour late for the interview (thank goodness for the car accident that gave my tardiness legitimacy.)
The weather today was wonderful, and in my jollity I gave her a little squeeze and a cheek kiss. But despite the day's sweet air, the smell of 89-year-old skin, under 25-year-old clothes stuck to me. It wasn't especially foul, but she smelled sad — the way T.V. dinners smell sad.
Helen has been on bed rest this summer because she has an inflamed spine, and they can't do surgery on it until it's healed. I could tell you more, she certainly did, but I'll spare you the full diagnosis until I'm the 89-year-old.
Anyhow, she started reminiscing about how she used to be "a real go-getter." These are her words.
She used to pick up her girlfriends in her car (four of which, including her ability to drive, she has lost this year.)
She ached about how she couldn't sit up long enough for her hairdresser to put a permanent in her hair. Just before she said this, I was actually admiring her hair. In my mind, it looked lovely loose, like plumes of white smoke rising from her head.
I told her it was a nice laid-back summer style and that the color was shining.
It was getting to be "that time," and I started to make a move towards my car. I half sat, half hovered, over the edge of the chair, trying to go.
Her glassy gray eyes begged at me from behind glasses that were starting to be swallowed by the wrinkles at the bridge of her nose. Much like trees that are growing near fences often times just incorporate the fence right into their plight.
Without actually saying it, she said: "Please don't go yet. I am so lonely and scared that I am ignoring your attempts to leave."
I had no other option but to stand up and walk backwards, still talking, towards my car. I promised her that I would stop in, instead of just waiting for her to be on the porch.
As I drove away, I gave the horn of my car a little beep, so as not to startle the fragile one, and I waved at her. I spritzed on some perfume and popped some strong mint gum in my mouth to distract my senses. I couldn't help but think that maybe that was the last conversation she was going to have — and not just with me but with anyone.
When I got home from work, Helen's blinds were drawn, and when I left the next morning, they were open. These, the subtle signs of what's left of her comings and goings, are reminders to me (another self-proclaimed "go getter,") of my own vulnerability.

Pretty Little Things

There is this place (across the from work) called Jean's. I can see her store front from my desk.
Much like Dani's of Duluth, Jean's of Pottstown switches up her window display bi-weekly (well maybe not just like Dani's — Lord knows that broad changes her displays like she changes her pony tail wigs.)
So, I've really been wanting to go in and snoop around on my lunch break.
Wait… did I mention this place is called Jean's Lingerie?
And may I reiterate that I can see it from my desk? And if I can, that means my boss can, and so can every body else in the newsroom!
I will give you a taste of today's window, just so you can get a taste of this boutique. The theme of this display is "pink" with subtle tones of "thigh and nipple exposure." Now don't get me wrong, the candy striper costume is pretty tasteful — and by tasteful I mean I can't see the mannequin's non-existent boobs — which is more than you can say for Dani… I've seen a couple of unfinished products looking pretty lewd in her window.
So today, just around 3 p.m., a giant delivery truck pulled in front of Jean's, blocking the view of the store from the newsroom.
I jumped up like there was some breaking news and made a beeline for the store. I walked past the truck, and in turn, past Jean's. Ithen made a sharp U-turn around the front bumper of the truck putting me face to face with the candy striper.
In the shadowy safety of the truck, I slipped in.
Hello! I have found the only store that caters to granny-boobs and whores alike!
There was an entire section of nippleless and crotchless garments, tucked in next to some flesh colored bras made of stiff Wal-Mart looking lace.
And what's more, Jean offers her selection in sizes XS to 6X. Whoa Momma… it is amazing how a sexy nighty can quickly become something that resembles a pup-tent.
As I was peeking around, Jean herself, with her 65-year-old shelf-like bosome, asked me if I needed any help.
Me: "I just stopped by. I'm new to the area."
Jean: "Well, we do custom fittings. By the way, your shoes are so cute. What size do you wear? Because I have a whole closet full of heels that I can't wear any more. I try to wear them to church, but they make my back hurt."
Me (internally): "Hey lady, you go to church? Also, you might consider the link between your torpedoes and your back pain. And what exactly are you planning on custom fitting me for?"
Me (external): "Oh gosh… I wear size 8."
Jean: "Oh shoot, I wear 9."
On to the costume section…she's got all the classics, French maid (complete with feather duster/tickler), police officer (complete with handcuffs), the infamous candy striper, and the leather-clad dominatrixs.
And last butt (he, he ) not least, the tummy tucking, booty lifting, thigh slimming, meat packing under garments. The kind of things that make you look all, "Oo, La la," when your evening gown in is on, and all "Braulhagphlaug" once you unleash yourself from it later in the night.
Needless to say, I had no idea what I was getting into when I walked in, and will have to return once I am more aware of what my specific needs are.
And for all of you who are still wondering… the truck was gone when I reemerged. What choice did I have but to walk out with my head held high, as if to say, "Damn right I was chillin' with Jean."
I'll tell you what choice I had, I ducked hard to the right as I exited, protecting my identity with some heinously large sunglasses, and pretended to be going to the bank next door.
I will not be the new girl who goes to the smut shop on her lunch break.

I'm Making Friends!

Okay, they're work friends... and I got to know them during a work mixer, but they are quasi-friends none the less.
What a sad ass situation when your social life is reduced to hanging our with the people you are paid sit next to.
Well, whatever. They are not as great as the "missed ones" but they are a good start none the less.

The Silver Lining

I went home this weekend (one month to the day of moving) for my Mom and Dad's 25th wedding anniversary.
The trip was fast and furious (about 48 hours from door to door) but well worth it.
I could write about how much they mean to me, and how good it was to see everyone, but instead I'm just going to list some "snap shot" memories of the party, which I hope will illustrate what I'm trying to get at anyway.

Slow dancing with my G-pa Levell, under the stars, to Willie Nelson's version of "Stardust." We were both singing...
Funny thing about that, G-pa kinda looks like ol' Willie right now, minus the braids, of course. He's got a vagabond hippy thing going on right now, with a necklace of colored wooden beads and a handkerchief bandanna wrapped around his fore heard. I started my relationship with Willie thanks to G-pa.... I was 13, we were road tripping from CO to TX, and every time the wheels started rolling (even after bathroom breaks) he would play on the road again.
I effing hated it.
So that moment, at peace with G-pa and Willie, was perfect.

Watching Mom and Dad re-enact their wedding "get-away" picture in a golf cart with "bride" and "groom" baseball caps. I believe in the original they were in a Model-T, wearing their finest. This time around, mom was wrapped in a white plastic tablecloth, and dad was wearing a sweaty lake shirt. Beautiful! Thank God the light was glistening just right through the trees...

Watching my little cousin Alice, who is as fresh and sweet as a new bag of marshmallows, bopping about in the way 8-year-olds do. She was so witty and smart and sarcastic. We came up with an idea called "cake in lake" in which you eat cake for breakfast, with your hands, and then just jump in the lake to wash up.
Her and I tubed together, which I haven't done in a long time, and I totally screamed way more than she did.
"If you want them to stop, make a motion like you're cutting your head off with your hand," she said.
Oh man!
Later, she and I shared a futon, even though for all intensive purposes we were just getting to know each other again. We made good bed-fellows b/c I like to kick the covers off, and she likes to steal them.Come morning, she was curled into the nook of my torso like a kitten I'd raised from birth.
And to think I was afraid she wouldn't remember me!

I saw my Granny. She told me some pretty gripping stories about her life growing up. She got on a train when she was 17 (from a little town in WY) set for NYC, where she was going to meet her long, lost father... and other such sagas. Not sure how much of it is real, and how much of it is just an exaggerated memory, but none the less... it was great to have "story time" with her again.

I smoked a cigar with my uncles, which was pretty great. I warned them I would probably end up wasting most of it, after the green wave of nausea set in... they were ok with it. We kicked back with those tiny brown Cubans, which reminded me of caterpillars, and exhaled into the night. I was gleefully barfy after 10 minutes of it!

That's a lot to pack into one weekend, and I am certainly feeling the effects of it as I sit here almost nodding off at the computer.
I probably won't be going home again for a while, but those few hours we worth more than their weight in gold.... or should I say silver.

THINGS WE ALMOST PUBLISHED:


This lovely image was taken by a photo intern at a paper I once worked at. It made it all the way to the second-to-last step before our pervy graphics guy pointed it out.
Speaking of pointing it out.... YIKES!

Special Brew and Salty Bits

There are two foods I'm not totally crazy about: sweetened tea and pretzels.
Here, both are a religion.
A religion where entire shrine-like-aisles are set up at the grocery store and people have the same kind of brand loylety that they have for their team.
So I figure, an entire state can't be all wrong, right? Scratch that, Arkansas is indeed, all wrong, right JP?
Anyways, Berks County, the one in which I reside, is the pretzel capital of the world, or something...
There are entire dough-bending factories, where they even bag up their salty bits and sell them for cheap-o. There are other industries in this area where people sell their salty bits for cheap-o, but that's a whole different blog entry.
The hunt for my perfect pretzel has led me to some pretty skankey, sour, lip-sticking snacks (you know how when you bite a pretzel, the part touching your lips, sticks... yeah, I don't dig that.) But, there are some alterna-ingredients, like oat bran and honey wheat, that I really like.
So I got that going for me...
Now for the sweet tea. For those who don't know the the kind of sweet I'm referring to, this shit is sweet like rock candy is sweet.
I've bought a couple of single servings, which by the way can also be bought by the gallon, and have thrown away all of them.
That is until I found the sweetened Oolong tea from Topher's crazy handy-man at work.
Yes, Topher has this cookey janitor-like guy, who is apparently not only compulsively into this tea, but is also into "Radioing" - which I think entails trying to pick up obscure radio stations.(Does anyone know anything about this?)
I've never met the guy, but I have this picture in my head of a man, emptying waste baskets with a tin-foil antenna-hat and a Oolong drip.
So the story goes, this guy makes a special trip to Philly's China Town once a year to buy 25,000 tea bags of this stuff (ok, that may be an exaggeration, but it is in the thousands.)
So Topher, being the friendly, inquisitive guy he is, notes this guy's interest in the tea, and asks him about it.
Next day, there's a frakin' gallon of it on Topher's desk. It's pre-sweetened, from home, in a obviously re-re-re-recycled lemonade Jug.
You can understand my initial suspicion. I'm thinking, maybe this guy likes his tea so much because it's a good way to keep ingesting his crack all day long. Needless to say, the jug went untouched for quite a few days.
But for some reason, I tried it.
DAMN! Now, I can't stop thinking about when I can get some more!
The thing is, the gallon is almost gone, and I can't keep putting in orders to the cookey janitor for tea, right?
I know what you're thinking, just make your own, but I doubt it would be the same.
Besides, where am I going to get the crack

Checking it out

Ok, this is it. I am getting back into this thing even if it means coming down to the Reading Public Library and hanging out with the residentially challenged.
I suppose the library is as good a place as any in describing the subtle differences between MN and PA.
So I come downtown, a bit of a drive, and navigate my way to the Main Reading Public Library.
This library is in a giant stone building, with big front steps, pillars and a stone awning etched with "LIBRARY"
"Ok, good, I'm in the right place.... I've got the stone sign to prove it."
Things are a little trim on the "social" side of life these days, and I am walking up the stairs to this place like I'm walking into Pizza Luce or something.
"Oh the fun to be had inside! Who knows what little gems I will find to take home and call my "friends" - the books not the homeless folks.
So bop up to the counter, all "Ms. Merry MN" (this is what they call me at work by the way) and ask about a library card.
Now it was (STRESS THE WORD WAS) my impression that a library card is a God given right. Or at least one of the constitutional amendments or something (Though Shalt Have A Library Card!) Well someone amended that amendment to read (EXCEPT in PA).
This lady did not care how cute and friendly I thought I was. I did not have proof of a current address (and no my fitness club card would not work) so I would just have to come back another time.
Now you have to understand that at this point, going to the library and coming home with whatever I found was, like, my entire day's plan.
I'm looking around, thinking, "that guy over there told you he lived in a cardboard box on Cherry St. and you gave him a card. That guy over there wrote down his residence as a 1975 Pontiac and you gave him one too."
What gives?
Well anyway, after routing around in my purse for a pay stub or something for about five minutes ( a trick I use to stall until the person gives me what I want), I came up empty handed. Into those empty hands, she put a postcard, which I addressed to myself to prove my place in PA.
She can tell I'm disappointed, angry even.
So I did what all good Minnesotans do, I smiled, said "thanks for your help," with sincerity and defeat and walked away. At this, the librarian gasped a little at my kindness (which most of the gruff east coaster's do) and probably felt like a total BE-OTCH for not giving me the damn card.
Kill 'em with kindness, that's what I always say...
I got that card in the mail today and immediately headed down to the libes to check out a life... even though it's not a social one quite yet. But, for now, I am content to curl up on my my honey's couch and settle in.

Countin' Flowers on the Wall

I have been living the solo life for the past week. Every last one of my roomies (who kept this blog interesting) have moved out. The Swedes to Sweden, Blondie to New Zealand and the Boy back home.
In that time I have learned some funny things I do when no one is looking:
1. I am a closet slob - when the roomies were around, I was "that roommate." You know the one you pickup for because otherwise they would get pissy. But I just recently did the dishes for the first time and all of my "stuff" is sitting around. Some earrings here, a pair of stripped off socks there. The place looks way shittier than when a 6-year-old and two other adults were living there!

2. I talk to myself - a lot. Well it's not to myself exactly... it's to the T.V. and the toilet and the fridge etc....

me: "Ooooo.... I just love Taylor Hicks. He's so endearing!"
T.V.:

me: " Whoa! You're cold!"
toilet:

me: "Damn... there is nothing to eat in here. Guess I'll just have to eat a green bean and cottage cheese sandwich."
fridge: "Are you crazy? Don't eat that crap! Order Erbs& Gerbs!"

3. I like to go to the bathroom with the door open - because if you keep it open and then open the door to Blondie's now vacant room, you have a lake view - from. the. pot. SWEET!!

4. Even though no one is home - I still shut my door when I'm sleeping. You know, to prevent the robbers from finding me.

5. I don't like to sit on my couch alone - it feels too big and empty. Instead I curl up in the chair meant for one butt, so it leaves nothing to be desired.

6. I go to bed earlier - out of boredom I suppose.

7. I wake up earlier - because there is no one in the shower to wait for and thus no excuse to hit the snooze button for the , I don't know... 10th, 11th time.

8. I have developed window/door lock O.C.D - I'm not especially afraid of being there alone. But I guess what keeps the fright at bay is making doubley, tripley, quadrupley sure that the hatches are battened.

In other business.... I am having a garage sale. Well I guess I don't have a garage... so it's more of a yard sale. As I began packing I realized I own way too many knick-knacks that I can't bear to tote around.
Most thing are just pretty little ditties that people will be compelled to buy while they are out and about. It helps that I am located especially close to the bus stop and park. I'm planning on using the same strategy they use in stores where they set up pretty little things by the register while you wait in line. In fact, I suppose that is how I ended up with most of this shit.

So come buy my stuff!! You know you like my taste .... (wink, wink)
Saturday morning at my place (Call for my address if you don't know.)

Lovin' me some Silver Fox!

Admittedly I have been sucked into the marketing machine that is American Idol. I have been a pretty regular watcher since season one... I can still remember that lazy evening , 4 years ago, when I bumped into this show about choir nerds. Being one myself, I was instantly stopped while channel surfing when I saw a young boppy gal doing a big band version of some Ella tune.... I would late learn this lady to be Kelly Clarkson.

I. was. hooked.

So last night, I put off everything. I practically turned off my phone... for this season's final sing-off.
Taylor Hicks (a.k.a The Silver Fox because he is prematurely gray) vs. Catherine McPhee. They are both extraordinary... but I blame my fervor for Taylor on my lust for men with baby-faces and my parent's love for Michael McDonald.
He is soooo goofy and so great and his "whiskey tenor" has always been a weak spot for me. (As many of you know I have run into a number of heartbreaks and mistakes when it comes to the sweet- singing fellas.)

Well some how they have not fully programmed me.... guess who forgot to vote?

Ooops.

Update Version 2.0

What a difference a day makes huh? Well, it's actually been about 10 since my last post, but who's counting?
(Jenny, Latisha... you junkies!)
Ok... this post will update you on all the current happenings in my life. My previous post is entirely outdated and useless.
I am not moving into that quaint one bedroom I painted such a pretty picture of for a number of reasons:
1. I would've had to get a second job (blah) Although on a slightly related note, I did find out this weekend at my friends wedding reception that I have a flair for floral arrangement.

2. On the day I was supposed to sign the lease, I showed up to the place and no one was there to meet me. I called the landlord and he said "Opps... I forgot. I'm at my favorite watering hole. Can we do it later?" If that's not a warning sign, I don't know what is.

3. I might be moving to Pennsylvania.

I KNOW, I KNOW! Make up your damn mind Flee! Well I have found a job that is making up my mind for me.

It is a smashing weekly, in a growing market, an hour north of Philly. They are family owned, with top of the line technology, a full newsroom, correspondents, a rotating column (which I will be contributing to monthly), a bee-boppin' young editor who is into the 'new media' i.e. internet, multi media , Blogs, citizen's journalism. etc....AND I would be their" investigative reporter" — bringing serious issues to light through human interest features!!!

The catch.... I don't have the job yet.

BUT, I had a phone interview (which was the best of my life) and will be hearing back from the editor as soon as possible.

me to editor: "Do you see me fitting into your newsroom?"
editor to me: "unequivocally yes."

The clocks is ticking... 8 days and counting before my lease is up... nothing like living on the wild side , huh?

Home sweet home

Well... I am moving, agian.
To my very first apartment... solo. A lovely one bedroom with exposed brick, mocha walls, a window in every room (including the walk-in pantry) a claw-foot tub and hardwood floors. And as long as the trees remain leaf-less (which isn't much longer) there is a lake view.
I am taking over the place from a dear friend of mine who is venturing north..... WAY north!
For those of you who have been to Duluth, or are living here, the place is one block up from the Rose Gardens .... I will practically be able to eaves-drop on those precious little weddings that take place at the iron-top gazebo!
I am VERY excited... but also a bit scared of flying solo. My other "peopley" friends assure me that they love living alone and are not too bored or lonely.
My roommate was counting how many roomies he's had since college.
I have had 22!!! Count them people! 22 in 5 years!
I guess it's time for a peace.... and that's not to say I haven't enjoyed the chaos!
So, in a few weeks, I'll have to have a bit of an open house... to invite all of my past roomies ( and current friends) to break the place in.
From the looks of it, it's bound to be a pretty big party.... I hope my new landlord is cool with some noise :-)

A severe case of "Mom Butt"

Ok... so pulled a pair of summer capri's from the bottom of the drawer today, slipped them on, and was pleasantly surprised at the fit. There was no need to do squats and lunges with them on (you know... to make some extra room in the suckers?)
Well anyways... from the way they felt, I didn't even bother to look in the mirror.
UNTIL NOW....
I just came back from the bathroom @ work (where I've mad a stupid habit out of checking out my butt in the mirror (I think it's the height of the mirror that beckons me to do this) and I have MOM BUTT IN THESE PANTS!!!
You know... that kinda funny double-wide pancake look with a waste too high and the absence of pockets?
AHHHHH! I don't care how cute the front looks, or how army fatigue the green is....
I AM NEVER WEARING THEM AGAIN!

Sweet

I was walking down Superior Street today, it is fairly nice and so people are out and about. Taking their breaks outside, having that one extra smoke and so on....
As I'm walking I hear someone singing. Just down the block there is a guy with headphones on leaning up against a sunny building, eyes closed... loosing himself in the moment.
I can't quite hear what he's singing, but I can tell he has a sweet voice. A nice tenor....
I get closer... and am finally able to make out the words:
Dude: "I'm in love with a stripper..." he sings.

WHAT!!!!

Is this a song or was I on candid camera or something?

THINGS WE ALMOST PUBLISHED!
This will be a regular installment of pictures, typos and blurbs that could've ended my career.
This pic in particular was part of a larger photo story and managed to slip past three sets of eyes before our perv production guy caught it!!!

Please note that I did not take this pic... but laughed my arse off when I saw it :-)

Training for the one legged hammy

My roommate and I are constantly playing games.
And no, this is not the 6-year-old I'm talking about....
-Dress-up
-Pretend
-Wrestling
-Reading stories out loud

Usually they take place just before I want to go to bed.
"Goodnight," I'll say.
"Wait!" he'll say.
"What?"
"Don't go to bed yet."
Then, before I know it, I am laughing my ass off.... heart rate soaring.... energy through the roof.
And when I say "laughing my ass off" I mean snorting, head thrown back, often times collapsing onto the bed, silent, bouncing, wheezing, 80-year-old-man laugh!
This is not conducive to falling asleep.
One night, laying sick in bed and feeling particularly bored, I called him into my room.
"Try that hat on," I said pointing to a vintage lace pillbox decorating my wall.
This set the man off into a costume parading frenzy!
Not only did he try on every hat on my wall, but every costume in his closet and mine.
He was squirreling away Halloween costumes that he had worn in high school.
I experienced everything from an afro wearing disco dude to a broad donning a green-bobbed wig (and various combos of said characters.)
And all of this from the comfort of my own bed :-)
Last night was a particularly fun game.
We called it being Rod Raymond.
For those of you who live in, or have lived in Duluth, you know the legend that is Rod. The man is a hard-bodied renaissance man who owns some sweet bars and restaurants in town, organizes music festivals and marathons and maintains one of the shaggiest, blondest mops in the city.
As part of his many ventures, he has recently put together a training guide for novice marathoners.
In it, Raymond demonstrates (in as little clothing as possible) the multitude of stretches, poses and strength training positions a runner might want to try .
So my roomie decides I ought to demonstrate many of the exercises since I didn't make it to the gym (and I had just inflated a fit-ball.)
So, with the fit-ball, about 24 inches of space in which to do the moves and limited range of motion (thanks to a recent bout of carpal-tunnel) I attempted to impersonate Raymond.
"Ok. Lay on the ground with you arms at your sides and your knees bend. Now wiggle like a snake. This ought to work your obliques," my roommate said with a giggle.
"Ok. Now lock your toes in back and bend forward. Further. Further. Go to Jerusalem! Perfect, that one is called prayer pose."
Of course I go along with it... laughing hysterically all the while.

Who's being entertained now bee-otch!

I'd say I did a pretty good job over all of "Being Rod Raymond." I think it was especially convincing that my hair looks a lot like Rod's right now.
Who knows what games my roomie and I will come up with next.
I have a feeling some of the hip-scarves from my belly-dancing days may have to make an appearance.

Oooo Saracuda!

So I went to a MN Roller Girls derby with my roomie on Sat. night. Seeing as how she is on exchange from Sweden I thought this might be an awesome opportunity to show her some good old fashioned fun. And by "good old fashioned fun" I mean snarky, fishnet wearing broads, slammin the shimmy out of each other, whilst they spun about the rink with athletic ability that would put any toothless hockey player to shame.
These bee-otches were tough. They were sexy. They were fun. They had pink and green and blue hair.
We went not knowing any of the rules, but left saying:
"Did you see the way that jammer cut through all the blockers when that pivot crashed?"
"Yeah! That was sweet-ass!"
The opportunity was there for us to have a rowdy, beer swillin, good time.... plenty of booze, plenty of boys. But we played it cool and took in the roller-action.
I got to thinking...
"Hmm... what would my roller girl name be?" ( All of the girls have feisty names like "Cupcake" and "Anna Bell Lecter")
"Hmm... I wonder when the next recruitment is?"
"Hmm... could I really kick some roller girl arse in a short skirt, cheeky knickers and a helmet?"
"Why yes. Yes I could."
Sooo.... if I end up in the Twin Cities area (which I very well might in the near future) I think I might try out to be a MN Roller Girl.
The gals were very athletic and despite all of the spills (and a couple all- out bawls) no one seemed to get hurt.
More than anything... the people surrounding the event seemed to be SOOOOOO cool. The skaters and their fans. (This bout - which was the season closer at the Roy Wilkins in St. Paul, their home venue- drew at least a couple thousand people. What other regional female sport draws that kind of spectatorship?)
There is a mildly demeaning tone to the outfits (the skirts are short- think A League of Their Own.) But the program explained that the ladies are taking on a persona... and just b/c they are wearing a skirt doesn't mean they aren't fierce competitors.
Also a lot of the proceeds from the events go to charities (Sat. it was a children's cancer fund). Seeing as how I don't quite have the funds for philanthropy right now, this could be a good alternative.
Not to mention a slammin' good time.
I mean Pabst Blue Ribbon is one of the sponsors for crying out loud!!
If you want to check out the sight I've put a link here:

www.mnrollergirls.com

I ran the idea past my Dad...
He raised his eyebrows and then said,
"What would your name be?"
me: "I don't know?"
Dad: "How about Saracuda?"

And that sealed the deal!

Anybody have any suggestions on how to prevent jammed and broken fingers? I suppose as a writer have to think about protecting my ass (sets) as well!

I am the proud warrior (pose)

Ok, let's face it.
I've been going through some rough crap lately.... none of which I will get into here.
None the less... it is evident. I have been the queen of the "ignore" button on my cell phone for weeks now.
As one friend put it,
"Fleener. You should record your outgoing message saying ' Hi. You've reached Fleener's phone. I don't feel like talking to you, or anyone, right now. But I'll call you back when I do.'"

Touche!

Anywho, I have been sick to top it all off. There has been a bonfire in my throat for the last week and there is not enough tissue in the house to remedy the faucet that has attached itself to my face.
So when I decided to go to yoga class last Wednesday, I prided myself on the self-boot-strap-yanking it took to get me there.
"Are you sure you want to go?" asked my workout buddy. "Downward dog (an upside down pose) might prove to be a little too much for that runnny nose of yours."
But it wasn't the runny nose I was worried about.
I feared that I would reach some relaxed, meditative state and just start blubbering (which my workout buddy also noted would be better to do in yoga than toot.)
I have been trying so hard to hold it together....but there is no place for your "game face" in yoga.
It's all out there in the open.... you finally think about your thoughts (if you know what I mean) and you listen to your body. (By the by, my body is telling me that those high heels I like to wear are kickin' my butt. My feet hurt like WHOA when I really pay attention to them.)
So I'm going through the poses and salutations and stretches and I find that I am not actually the wreck I thought I was. I was especially flexible and strong and balanced.
We moved on to the proud warrior pose, which is supposed to create a sense of stability and solidness.
I pointed one leg and toe towards the lake (my gym overlook s Lake Superior) stretched my arms out wide, breathed deep and leaned into it.

I. felt. like. a. brick. wall.
Like nothing could shake me.
I peered out across my open palm, out the window, across the lake and into the horizon.

"BOO YAH!" my body said to me.

Clearly not the emotion I had anticipated. But a welcome one indeed.
The feeling was so distinct, that when I start to slump towards that ignore button, I think of warrior pose and press the green one instead.

Cheesy post? Why yes.
But true none the less.

Ode to JP

Where to start?
How about the beginning.....
I didn't know it when I met her, that she'd become one of the most fashionable women I know, and one of my best friends.
I didn't know it because she was wearing a reversible orange and black gym shirt with her named scribbled across a built in name tag... this name, well signature actually, still looks the same — a J cleverly laid on a music staff with some insane scribbling across it ment to represent the rest of her name.
I used to write her notes simply addressed to the symbol of a music note:
to: music note
heart symbol: little flower picture
This is clearly not as effective via the web, I just haven't mastered my keyboard enough to recreate a quarter note and a wee flower.
Anywho...
We were sly... we were undetected.... and any juicy junior high gossip we wanted to partake in was incognito!
Pretty sure I still have one or two of those notes tucked away in what used to be my room at my folks' house.
Many things have changed since then... the "music note\ flower thing" being one of them.
Many things have not.
me: "Wait, didn't you wear those pants in the eighth grade?"
JP: "What do you want me to do?" she'd say. " I stopped growing in the fourth grade and these pants are just fine."
That's another thing about her that hasn't changed. Her size and her taste in "bottom wear."
The girl has never worn jeans.
Sparkly things... what started as a bizzaro obsession with hair accessories (packed neatly into a towering rubbermaid shelfy thing on wheels, mind you) has now matured into a hand bag, shoe, jewelry obsession... all things that catch the light and dance. And an occasional hair thing I guess.
Another thing.... her hair.
I have been cutting it off straight across the bottom with a plain kitchen scissors for years now.
Out on the back porch, hill-billy style, bare foot, long black hairs floating into the breeze....
Man! To be the bird that gets to make its nest our of that shiny shit!
I am painting a rather homely picture of a friend, who as I mentioned before, has fierce style.
Picture this:
jet black hair, down to her arse
a widow's peak that gives she soft round face a "don't eff with me twist" (she hates this part...but it is lovely)
a petite gal, but you wouldn't know it cause she walks like the king of the jungle... or maybe it's the heels.
a cultural cocktail of Irish and Vietnamese.... or is it Native American, or Mexican, or Italian, or Czech, or....
one would never know by looking at her.
a distinctly square smile.... hard to describe, you would know what I meant if you saw it
and the loveliest toes in town (next to her mother's of course.)
She is loyal. One time when we were young, I started smoochin' on one of her best friends.
"If you hurt him, I'll kick your ass," she said.
DEAD SERIOUS
Music is her religion of choice, and she pursues it with aggression.
She is a force that I hope to reckon with the rest of my life.

She is my oldest friend... and it is her birthday.

I love you .<

Walgreens Revisited

Went again on Friday... this time for throat losenges.... for me.
damn.

Walgreens Whoopie!

I am the only one in my entire house who is not sick right now.
I have barricaded myself in my room, hooked myself up to an o.j. i.v. and have been sucking on those Airborn tablets like it's my job! (I realize you are supposed to dissolve those things in water, but I just don't have that kind of time!)
Since three out of the four sickies don't have cars (yes, one is 6... your point?) I have been running a 24 hour shuttle to and from Walgreens... every hour, on the hour.
Yesterday's trip was extra fun. Many a character in that silly 24-hour pharmacy.
And while it was fun, it was also extremely dangerous.... why you ask?
Because we had to wait 30 min. for a prescription to be filled and there is nothing more threatening to my pocket book than idle time in a Walgreens.
I started my journey in the cosmetics aisle... naturally.
I had narrowed it down to three bottles of what was really the same color polish. Creamy nude, shiny nude or pinky nude? What to buy.... What to buy?
My pondering was suddenly interrupted by an old couple who wanted to look at the more bold colors of my nail polish display.
The old lady reached down and picked out a pink reserved soley for Barbie's convertible.
"How about this one?" she asked her hubby as she held the magenta bottle to her mouth.
Her lips, and teeth, were smeared with a similar color.
"Nice, but maybe a little darker," he suggested with confident lipstick/ nail polish coordination knowledge. (Say, What?!?!?)
She reached for what she thought was a shade darker (it was actually the same color).
"How's about this one?" she asked.
"Perfect," he said.
And they shuffled on.
I also shuffled on, settling on "sand dollar" polish.
Next aisle to be explored, hair stuff.
I was in the market for curl enhancing hair goo, which I spent a good 10 mins. trying to pick out.
Do I want defined curls or springy curls? Soft curls or voluminous curls?
After much consideration I opted for bouncy, shiny curls... a sophisticated version of JBF hair.
Another little old lady entered my isle hollering for the Aqua Net.
Yikes!
I quickly exited that row.
My roomie caught up with me and told me that it would be another 15-20 mins. before his Rx was filled.
We decided to pass some time together... and where better to do that than in the condom/lube aisle?
What was once a isolated section of Trojan basics and safe KY is now a smorgasbord of colors, consistencies, textures, temperatures , sizes, shapes and flavors! And located right off the main-line aisle...
We pondered over some and giggled over others. We broke into hysterics over the econo-sized lube with a hand pump that was big enough to be sold at Sam's Club.
We also laughed at the "Magnum" sized condoms, which my roommate claimed were his rubber of choice.
"What's that?" he asked pointing to a pink box.
"That's the sponge," I said.
"An actual sponge?" he looked at the box wondering why sex and cleaning products were mingling.
"No, not a sponge, THE sponge. A vaginal sponge," I said. "It sucks up all the little spermies."
"BLHAGRAHBLAHBARFUGHAP," said my roomie.
We were just about to examine the new line of pleasure products "for her" when a little voice peeped, "Excuse me."
We were having so much fun that we had blocked off the rest of the aisle. The poor woman had the misfortune of needing hair color from the same row as our lube buffet.
"We... uh.. we where... uh.... (giggle, giggle) just leaving," we said and exited.
Now hear this, it is one thing to maturely go to the condom section, pick out your goods, by a little of the slippy stuff to slap on there and go about your business. It is quite another to stand there and balk at the goods.... which is what we were doing, hence the giggling.
Next, on to the toy aisle... about 5 mins. and counting before pick up time.
As we were approaching the toys we saw a little girl squatting down like a crab in the middle of the empty row.... looking very strange.... very suspicious.
FFFFFFFFFFFFFFPPPPPPPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTT!
came tearing from the 10-year-olds arse.
We did a double take.
She froze in terror.
We held our breaths( for scent preservation and laughter prevention.)
She turned red, as red as the galoshes on her feet.
She scrambled up frantically and pulled a yellow whoopie cushion from under her rear.
I.lost.it.
"It wasn't me," she yammered. "It was this, this, this ..... thing."
She held the whoopie cushion at an accusatory length, looking at it as if it had actually expelled its bowls all over the Walgreens floor.
"This, this, thing," she said again.
"Sure it was," said my roomie with a smile on his face.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" I said, doubling over with laughter.
She made one final attempt at redemption before she raced out of the toy section....
"This........ thing," she said.
Thankfully, it was time for the sweet, sweet, codine-laced cough syrup to be delivered.
I took the last few moments to learn more about Dr. Scholls, rectal thermometers and belly-button fragrance, compliments of Ms. Jessica Simpson's new cosmetic line.
I escaped the trip with only $12 worth of merchandise... and a side ache from laughter.
Too bad I'm allergic to codine.... I would've made my roomie repay me in spoonfuls.

Things that make you go BERWARRALPHBLAHGARPPWPHBLA!

I had a rock and roll good time with one of my girl friends in Duluth this last weekend. So good in fact, it's taken me the better part of the week to recover and get around to writing about it.
We went to the best little lizard lounge in town on Saturday night and let it all hang out. We've both been feeling the pressures of life lately and decided we were destine to take a cab home that night... so we earned it.
The wine flowed, the champagne bubbled, the martinis shook — and so did we.
By the time the cabbie dropped me off, and I made damn sure he knew I have a special affinity for the Caprice Classic and its bench seat (no I did not make out with the cabbie...) I was spinning. And not in circles gleefully, the room was actually the one doing the spinning.
I was still having fun at this point... the spinning just added to the dance moves I was doing as I walked up my front steps.
A funny thought crossed my mind: I think I might puke.
I ignored this thought... I don't puke from drinking.
I got up to my room, and as all good drunks do, stripped down to my "pajamas."
The thought crossed my mind a second time.
I smiled, actually put my pjs on, and walked to the restroom... just to be safe.
Sitting in front of the toilet, I had pretty much convinced myself that I was going to be just fine.
Then, out of the corner of my eye I saw it. I little black pube wiggling on the shiny white porcelain.
I crossed my eyes, my stomach heaved and before I could say Red Star I was bootin'.
BLUFLAGHRABUPWAHBLAH!
I'm not sure if it was the booze of the pube... but the sight of it flipped a switch inside of me. The purge switch.
Funny thing about drunk pukin': it's not painful, you can't smell it, you can't taste it and it's actually a visually exhilaratingg experience. In fact, it pretty much feels like breathing... or carbomonoxide poisoning. Either way, in the end you're passed out on the floor.
I have to say it was all totally worth it. One of the most memorable nights (what fuzzy, funky parts I can recall) in Duluth. Next to the naked snow angels and the night where we had our way with the absent roomie's camera!

I may have spoken too soon...

Things are looking up on the job front.
For those who need a little back story: I have been applying for two jobs at Minnesota Public Radio in St. Paul... one was temp. one for a year.
Well... I am out for the temp. job but in for the yearly position. I have a station visit in April (code language for 8 hour interview.) But that's OKAY!
So... one congestive problem semi-sutified.

An update....
Things have been super congested for me lately. Almost every aspect of my life has been a question mark for the last week. So I have to shoot out an apology for a number of things.
Sorry for not returing any phone calls
Sorry for not returning any emails
Sorry for not updating Oh Roo!
Sorry (to my roomies especially) for being a crazy woman who doesn't pick up after herself

I am still hopeful that this job thing @ MPR will pan out.... at least then most of my congested life questions will be temporarily answered.