Month: March 2005 (Page 5 of 5)

Today in Kansas City, we will hit close to 70 degrees. This means a gorgeous, warm, Spring-IS-Coming kind of day. Of course we’ll have at least one more grisly cold spell before Spring is really here, and we know that, but it doesn’t stop us from reveling in the warm sunny joy.

The one thing that can stop the joy? Motorcycle cops. I expect them to be out in droves. Whenever the weather gets really, really nice, for the first time? They are everywhere. Hiding behind trees, parked off side streets, wielding their bulky radar guns like Ghostbuster blasters. It’s like Agent Smith in the Matrix, they just keep coming from everywhere. Just the sight of them pisses me off. Yes, yes, I know. Speed limits are there for a reason. BLAH BLAH BLAH. There are never motorcycle cops when some nutjob is barrelling down Ward Parkway at 55 mph, weaving in and out of the lanes, which to me is Behavior Begging For A Ticket. Instead, say you are boxed in and trying to get around some old man who is waiting for God to punch his ticket and bring him Home, and you accellerate to do so, and then HO NO, there’s one of those damned little scooter cops. And you negotiate for a living, so you say, “Is there any way you can work with me on this?” And Vespa Squad Member #814 says, “This is my job. I write tickets.” And you ALMOST say, “Your mother must be SO PROUD” but you don’t, because anyone who has the authority to arrest you cannot be screwed with directly.

Did you think this was hypothetical? Well, it happened to me, several years ago, my SECOND ticket in my LIFE. And I have yet to forgive him. I did get pulled over in Prairie Village last year (again for the speeding thing…..arrrgh) by the most gorgeous cop ever and he was in a CAR and the fact he was so HOT, I could have sucked that ticket up, but nooooo, I only got a warning, my first ever WARNING in my life. And if he’d been on a scooter? He would have been UGLY UGLY UGLY.

Midday Update!
A co-worker sent me this email, she was out this morning & lives in my area:

Jennifer – I just got back in and they are EVERYWHERE! On Wornall they are sitting just South of Loose Park as well as right after the school around 63rd Street. Then, further down, just across the street from the school at 85th.

Y’all been warned. They are EVERYWHERE. And they’re not pretty.

(Thinking to self…. Now, George Michael in a cop uniform on a motorcycle? THAT could convert me. Maybe.)

Actually, because of the big hooters, I’ve gotten “Ma’am” for longer than I should have, in my opinion. People think big boobs & being bigger-sized means you’re old. Whatever. I don’t worry too much about age and all that, but I confess I still don’t always feel like a “grown-up”.

I had one of those “WHOA, NELLY” moments though, two Christmases ago. James’ bratty cousin is one of those boys you just want to whack upside the head. Sometimes, he’s ok. But he has too many other things going on that bring out the whack factor. And there he went, into the kitchen, got the entire HUGE tin of homemade chex mix out (and Gramma D. makes awesome stuff – cheetos and mixed nuts in addition to the standard mix!) and the little fucker starting picking out the cashews.

Just. The. Cashews.
And eating them!

Now, I am not one to do a lot of overt nose-sticking-into in my husband’s family. When you’re an in-law, you always keep one eye on the foul lines, because you don’t want to even get a toe across that line. That’s how I am, you might be different. So I don’t usually get involved with “the kids”. But this blatant selfish nut-snacker hit my last patience button.

“J.R.!” I shouted.

“Wha?” He vacantly looks up for a milisecond and resumes picking out cashews.

When I get really mad, I feel the hair on the back of my head start to stand up and things get kind of white-hot around my eyes. This was happening. I yelled,

“ABSOLUTELY NOT. YOU STOP PICKING OUT THOSE CASHEWS RIGHT THIS SECOND. IT’S RUDE AND YOU ARE GOING TO STOP IT RIGHT NOW.”

And he did.

I was amazed. I commanded authority and obedience like a bona fide grown-up. Whoa. Nelly.

I am listening (with headphones) to “Patience” by George Michael, and I want to be his friend. I have earned ENOUGH faghag points that I should be able to redeem them by now on a really big prize, and I choose you, George Michael.

I mean, think about how fun that would be. I’m just imagining getting all tipsy on mojitos with him, and after he’s had enough to drink, convincing him to put on those really short shorts he always wore in the Wham videos. And the laughing – OH the laughing we would have at those silly old days. And then, I would confess how foolish I was as young girl, believing he could someday love me like that, before my gaydar became more finely-tuned, and how I look back now and wonder, WHY, HOW I never saw it, because it is so crystal clear, but nevermind, even after I knew you were gay, George Michael, you had to go and do that Fast Love video and then you made it into the sacred circle, of gay men I’d actually sleep with just out lust and affection.

Have a seat right over there, next to Ricky Martin.

Did you know that some foods are inherently “girly”? I made James a salad long ago that involved mandarin oranges and he was non-plussed, to say the least. We were only dating at the time, and he was polite about it, but explained that “fruit in salad is more a girl thing.”

Then, tonight, I was sauteeing asparagus with garlic, olive oil & lemon. James stated that it wasn’t his favorite vegetable, as he considers it more a “girl’s vegetable.” WE-HE-ELL. I was not aware there was a machismo/feminine nature in the world of veggies. More asparagus for me! (After all, I am a girl!)

The ultimate in “feminine” consumables came when I brought home a new tea. “Can I have a cup of your new tea?” he asked. It was fancy lookin’. Here’s a picture:

Lavender & Chamomile Tea (in the blue tin) 

He took a couple sips and looked at me. “This is really girly tea. Flowery. I mean, REALLY girly. Like, ULTRA-GAY GIRLY.”

And this is all coming from a man who only drank Zima and Boone’s Farm when we first met. Mmmhmm. MANLY drinks.

Good thing I don’t make a mandarin orange-asparagus salad, he’d probably grow boobs and get mad for no reason halfway through dinner. ;)

I have been informed my secret pal who has MY name does not live in the U.S. Therefore they could have sent me something and it’s just taking a while to get here. My apologies to my new secret pal, who is probably already internet-mail-ordering me some dog poo and crackers to go with my vintage whine.

However, I still stand by my earlier statements regarding how these things can blow. Blow and burn. And at least now everyone knows not to buy me RESIN FIGURINES.

OK, I should say that for the most part, I’ve had good luck with Secret Santa. But Secret Cupid? Man, the first year they did that at work, my “big present” ended up being a 3″ resin bear holding a honey pot and faux resin honey dripped all over him.

I ask you. What about me makes anyone think such a gift might be appropriate? Yes, I have a lot of tchatchkes. But they are COOL. Like the rubber duckies, or the alien creature from “Toy Story” with three eyes, or Curious George, with handpuppets. Or miniature fashion purses. Or the MooDoo VooDoo doll. Nowhere, anywhere, are drecky crappy dollar store figurines. Or anything out of resin. I digress. But its illustrative usefulness is not lost, I’m sure.

So despite that big searing scar on my secret gift-giving psyche, I still signed up to do a secret pal exchange on one of my knitting lists. Because (lean back in your chair, my ego might hit you through the computer), I am an awesome secret pal. I excel at giving gifts and picking out things for people, and if I could be a highly-paid professional shopper, that’s what I’d do. Again, I digress. After the month of January went by, I wrote our SP organizer, because I had yet to get a gift. She followed up with the person who had my name. Ooops! They have decided they just can’t participate. Well, that chaps my hide, thanks for not volunteering this information until we’re a month IN to the exchange and then only after you’ve been contacted with a query as to your non-participation. So now a new person has my name, for February. Hey, look at the calendar! It’s March 1! And I haven’t gotten anything, AGAIN!

Now, I will interrupt my ego/pity party to note two things. My dear friend Kristin mentioned my situation to a very awesome person who has her own on-line yarn shop, and that individual gave me some store credit, JUST TO PAY IT FORWARD and because she, too, had been burned by the whole Secret Pal thing. The only reason I’m not trumpeting her name/info is because I don’t want her to get more sob stories or anyone looking for a handout (not that YOU would ever do such a thing, but I’m just sayin’, it’s the internet and there are a few crazies out there.) And my friend in St. Louis gave me two skeins of ribbon yarn from her stash as a secret pal present because she, too, is getting the short end of the stick in this exchange. I don’t normally do very well with people feeling sorry for me, but I really appreciated it, because I was feeling really rejected by the whole process.

I resume this story with some observations, because I’m all about the introspection and understanding why we react to things the way we do. And I will do so with a confession. This whole thing made me cry! My feelings got really, really hurt because I took it very personally, that someone who has access to my blog & the opportunity to get to know me through it, decided to not fufill their obligation to the gift exchange, and if there’s an opportunity for me to take something personally, I usually snatch it. (Dur. Something I need to work on, obviously.) But it also hits that whole “this isn’t fair” button, because I’ve spent about $20/month so far on gifts & shipping, and I’m not playing Secret Charity Pal, for someone who has lost everything or is dying here. I’m playing Secret PAL, where the concept of “what comes around, goes around” is in play, and somebody out there is gettin’ and not givin’. And that fries my crackers.

The Karma Bus is comin’. And it’s runnin’ on fried cracker fuel.

I’m trying to assess how many Cool Points I’ll lose if I go and buy the new Jennifer Lopez album. It hasn’t been reviewed at my usual sources (Rolling Stone, Entertainment Weekly), which makes me wonder if it’s one big serving of ear taffy. Of course, that single “Get Right”? Biggest F’n earworm of the year, I spent a weekend hearing that hook go through my brain, just from memory.

I remain undecided. However, this is the week to do it since it’s on sale. And lordy, I do so love a sale. ;)