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So they showed up with the table, and I supplied the turkey (and an entire menu thanks to the good graces of an outdated copy of Real Simple magazine.)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!
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Thursday, November 23, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
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
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
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
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!
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!
Monday, November 06, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, October 16, 2006
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!
"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!
Saturday, October 14, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
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!
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!
Monday, August 28, 2006
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!
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!
Thursday, August 24, 2006
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.
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.
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