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.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
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
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.
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.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
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.)
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.)
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, May 22, 2006
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?
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?
Friday, May 05, 2006
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 :-)
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 :-)
Thursday, May 04, 2006
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!
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!
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
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?
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?
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
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 :-)
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.
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.
Monday, April 17, 2006
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!
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!
Friday, April 14, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
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 .<
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 .<
Monday, April 10, 2006
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
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.
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.
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