Month: July 2005 (Page 1 of 4)

OK, this is one of those rare occasions where I’ll allow the use of the nickname Jenny, but only by me. So don’t start thinkin’ it’s cool. The point is, I got a shotgun. A Remington youth Express, 20-gauge pump shotgun, and it wasn’t because I wanted to start hunting with JWo. In fact, I had a lot of angst over the decision, but given what had happened, and more to the point, how I felt at the time, I found the next morning a resolve in me that I would never, ever feel that way again.

A few weeks ago, at 2:30 in the morning, the doorbell rang. James was away on a fishing trip. The dogs went crazy, of course, and I was still asleep enough to just be confused. I went to the bathroom – and then the doorbell rang again. It was as though all the blood in my veins turned to ice. I put on a robe, and went to the original front door to look out & try to see who was at the other front door, and I could see a minivan parked in our driveway – a vehicle I did not recognize. The doorbell rang AGAIN. I went for the phone & called 911. They dispatched an officer, and in the meantime, I paced, out of sight of our main front door (which does not allow you to peek out unseen.) Then I heard a male voice saying my name. A voice I did not recognize. The dogs continued to go CRAZY, renewing their barking each time the doorbell rang. And while they sound ferocious, and Suzy looks intimidating, they’re still black labs – it takes one slim jim or a jerky treat and they’re your BFF. This doorbell-ringing-dogs-barking-name-calling-out thing went on for nearly 15 minutes, and the police still were not there. All our doors were locked, as they always are. I was glad I’d double-checked, though. I was preparing myself to rush out the back, and the operator on the line was NOT particularly comforting or helpful. (Monotone: “Don’t do anything to put your life in danger.” was the reply to any questions about what I should do. That’s another blog in of itself.) In the end, I peeked out again & the van was gone. The operator sounded frustrated and disappointed (she had not wanted to stay on the line with me in the first place), and in my state of mind, made me question whether having the police come now was at all necessary. (“Well, do you still WANT the police officer?” I was like, lady, I’m having a fucking heart attack, I think perhaps YOU should be making this decision!) Since I was not IN a rational state of mind, I told her ok, cancel the officer, they’re gone now. In retrospect, that was stupid, and I would think the entire scenario would have warranted the officer visiting to make sure everything was ok. But that is why it’s called hindsight. In any event, I called James, his cell phone woke up his mom, who had him call back, and I had a mini-nervous breakdown, with dogs racing around me, trying to fix it, too. I told myself to breathe, breathe, breathe, because if I actually HAD a heart attack, it was obviously going to take forever for the response team to get there! I didn’t sleep most of the night, keeping a vigilant watch out the window, and finding that every time I’d try to lie down, the sheer vulnerability of being prone overwhelmed me so much I was compelled to get back up again. I can say, without hesitation, I have never. Ever. been so afraid in my entire life. Nobody called the next day, and we still don’t know who it was. But they knew my name, and that was the creepiest part of all.

And so, the next morning, I decided I needed to learn how to shoot one of the hunting guns we have here in the house. I talked to my closest friends about the conflict within me. I felt like it went in complete opposition to my pacifism. And yet, I never felt so convinced of the need to know, now. And that led to me getting my own shotgun, with the youth model providing a shorter stock & barrel, being easier for me to handle. Not that I’m eager to shoot anyone, stranger, robber, nothing of the sort. I just cannot ever feel so defenseless again – and the police response time probably underlined that feeling, given just how long it took. (The police car did drive by several minutes after we “cancelled” them, with a searchlight. Unfortunately, a minivan drove by in the other direction a few minutes later. Who knows if it was the same one.) I still would want my first option to be flight, and I was prepared to do so, despite my legs shaking like jelly.

The decision about getting a gun was one I made with the utmost of difficulty. I’ve always been around guns, because my father hunts. I was always cautioned mightily against touching them, and I steered clear. I still believe that guns are dangerous, that we have far too many in this country, I see no need for automatic weaponry of any kind, and I’m not particularly fond of handguns, except for target practice. Neither of us wanted a handgun in the house. I feel all of these things, and yet I spent some weekend time on Saturday in the blazing sun, shooting my new shotgun at a couple of milk jugs, feeling the recoil in my shoulder, smelling the black acrid smoke as it came out of the barrel, hearing the clink of the spent casing as it ejected with a pump. I wasn’t a great shot, and I hope the only time I ever have to fire it is on the shooting range. I will always have caution & respect for my gun. I take the responsibility of handling it very seriously. But while it sounds rather dramatic, like a swooning Scarlett O’Hara when I say it: I will never be that afraid again.

My dog, Miss Polly, has had to adjust to the recent marathon of Dog Whisperer viewing in the house, and the resulting behavior change in her human (me). After all, Cesar Millan trains people, too. So I’ve been a bit firmer with her and less permissive, but she still tries to revert back to Happier Times and do what she wants. (I mean, it’s understandable – who doesn’t?)

She does have a “tell” (see, this lingo is the byproduct of having to watch weekends of poker tournaments) when she knows she shouldn’t be doing something. And it’s flat-out adorable, of course. She squints. Like if she almost shuts her eyes, nobody will notice she’s trying to climb up on top of you like a Shi Tzu. I finally realized why JWo thinks Renee Zellweger’s hot. (Except I don’t. Because squinting from a dog is hilarious and cute. Squinting from an adult woman says “I need sunglasses” or “I am a simpering idiot.” I digress. Again.)

So I give you another pic of my sweet squinty Polly, who will undoubtably try to get away with something this weekend, probably in the next 5 minutes….

Everyone has them: those people who, by their mere existence, send all your atoms and neurons and protons and neutrons and all that other stuff I didn’t study, into one discombobulated, frenetic grinding mass of IRRITATION. The human equivalent of fingers on the chalkboard, sand in the vaseline, rough skin and hangnails while knitting with silk. By gum, you just want to stand up, walk over & pick up a 2 x 4, and pound the living shit out of them until the atoms and neurons and protons and neutrons calm the hell down or you pass out, whichever comes first.

It has to be chemical, combined with a strong biological instinct or something. Somewhere, sometime, back in the primoridial ooze or another life, one of those funny-smelling people did something to my ancestor, and imprinted a deep-seated revulsion right on one of my inherited DNA strands. Literally, the P. of her UNDERPANTS is evoking that same revulsion in me, and instead of getting the 2 x 4, instead of lashing out, I am calmly doing nothing. But my atoms and neurons and protons and neutrons are still churning, frothing, shouting, KILL! KILL! SMASH HER UNDERPANTS JUST KILL AND END THE STIMULI.

And don’t get me started on the gnomes. They have to try to herd and wrestle all the churning molecules, and then THEY get pissy, and it’s all I can do to not write scathing emails. So instead? I blog.

Conversation from a couple weeks ago:

Kristin: “Lindsay just wrote me and said that Thai Place was closed.”

Me: (inhaling all available oxygen in my office) “WHAT??????”

Kristin: “She said they tried to go today & they were closed down.”

Me: (gasping like a fish in the bottom of a boat, arms flailing) “WHA? NO! WHA? That can’t be right. I did takeout last night. I have all these gift certificates! What am I supposed to do with – NO!”

Kristin: “I don’t know! That’s what she said!”

Me: “I’m calling them.” (fingers stabbing keypad on phone: 753-THAI. Don’t even laugh that I have it memorized. It’s easier than my own phone number.)

Fast Busy Signal.
Then, that supposedly calm, soothing voice: We’re sorry. The number you have dialed has been disconnected. Please check the number and try again.

I LUNGE at the display on my phone. I have dialed the number. 7.5.3. T. H. A. I.

Me: “OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD! The number is disconnected! That can’t be right!” I stare, dumfounded at the phone. “I’m calling them again.”

(beep beep beep, 753-THAI) This time, normal ringing. Then, like a musical symphony of string instruments and a piccolo, I hear, “Hello, Thai Place.”

Relief floods my body. I decide not to pass along the rumor to this fellow, since he doesn’t have a sweeping command of the English language, anyway. Instead I revert to the tried & true standby: “Hi! How late are you open?”

Him: “We are open right now.”

Me, now unable to stop playing this charade: “No, how late are you open tonight?”

Him: “We are open right now through dinner.”

Me, now completely jammed into a corner and unwilling to be rude, yet, for no apparent reason now feel compelled to establish their closing time before I will hang up: “No, how LATE, WHEN do you CLOSE tonight?”

Him, in heavy accent, mind you: “Ten Forty.”

Me: “Ten Forty?????? Uh, OK. Thank you!”

I then inform Kristin not only are they open, they are open until 10:40. Which is an odd time to close, in my non-restaurateur mind, and then as I’m saying all this outloud, in some kind of post-traumatic stress chatter, like a spider monkey, I realize it was the accent and they probably close at 10:30, and I say all that out loud as well. I hear the I.T. guy on the other side of the wall chuckling at me. I do not care. My pants could have fallen off, and I wouldn’t have noticed.

The point was, they were OPEN. The opposite of CLOSED. Hallelujah, thank you Buddah! White doves flew about my head in a symbolic flutter of peace restored. And my heartbeat could return to its normal resting state. Because grilled mint beef salad is the most amazing dish, ever. I could eat it every day, sometimes twice. 10:40 in the a.m, 10:40 at night. Thai Delight. Breathe in, breathe out. Cancel the Code Blue.

Two nights ago, we finally got a slicing break in the thick, oppressive, smothering heat that has sat over the midwest like a fat man in an outhouse. The break came in the form of a black cloudline with torrential rain, and while it was welcome, it was also the night we had Plans. Plans that included outdoor seating at Starlight to see Singing in the Rain. Oh, don’t worry, the symbolism was not lost upon us. But wonderfully, the rain stopped by the time the show started (around 8:30 p.m.) and it was cool, entertaining, and we had great seats, thanks to my mother-in-law, MommaLinda. The whole family went – James’ brother, our nieces, MommaLinda. But we had another sort of show before we got to the park.

Right after work, we met MommaLinda at the Melting Pot, to enjoy their happy hour – half price cheese & chocolate fondue, along with half-price foo-foo drinks. Godiva martini with a chocolate-dipped rim. MMMmmmmm. And the restaurant is below street level, so it’s dark and cave-like and dimly lit and just a cozy little spot. Quiet, too. But that is what we call foreshadowing. It was not to be quiet that night. For, a couple sat behind me at the last open table, and the woman? The woman? She was the human equivalent of a record needle being dragged laboriously across the biggest record in the universe. SCREEEEEEEEECH.

First of all, every word she said was at the decibel level we could categorize as “Just Below Shouting”. So ignoring her really wasn’t an option. Second of all, she had one of those unattractive whiskey-n-cigarettes voices, and we knew it was cigarettes because (I’m not kidding) she smoked non-stop. Third, she spent the entire time we were there, and presumable the rest of her evening, berating her date. BE.RATING. And you could barely hear him, he was murmuring for the first half hour, really a Bill Milquetoast.

“Bill, you are so grouchy.” (oh, and in the interest of time, and both our sanity levels, I will not type each one out over & over again? But everything was said, OVER AND OVER again. A minimum of 20x.)

“Bill, that is gross. Who puts chocolate on the outside of the martini glass. That is gross.” (Later consults bartender to discover, indeed, the chocolate is there intentionally.)
“I guess I was wrong, but I thought it was gross. I wiped all that chocolate off with my napkin. It was gross.”

“Bill, you are so grouchy.” “Bill, I thought we’d have a good time, don’t you like the rain? But you are so grouchy.” “I will never have sex with you, Bill.”

(insert the sound of tires screeching to a stop)

OK, I almost fell out of my seat & I HAD to see this train wreck, since I was already being forced to listen to it. I had already tried once to turn around and look at this woman, alarming James, because he was certain that just my looking at the BetteDavisWannaBe would have her trying to fight me. So, I got resourceful: I used a mirror to put on some lipstick, and in perfect spy-fashion, maneuvered the mirror so I could see the woman who was half-entertainment/half-annoyance. Good golly, she was maybe in her 40’s? I had the voice pegged at a 57. But I digress. Let’s tune back in, right when she tells Bill that not only is he going to spend the night with one combative bitch, he ain’t gettin’ any, either.

“I’m never going to have sex again Bill. Ever.” [Bill: Murmur, murmur]

Insert 100 more “You are so Grouchies” here. Then she’s comin’ around the track, comin’ around again, but there’s a new point of irritation, a new target on Bill’s bald head she’s going to peck and peck and peck at until he’s covered in his own blood and blinded by it.

“Bill, you only react. You don’t ever experience things, you just REACT, Bill.” “I am out there, living. LIVING, Bill. You just sit back and REACT. I call you to come to dinner. You like the rain, don’t you? But you’re grouchy. You just REACT. You just sit there, you just SIT there.”

And then – then – the most bizarre, plum line of the night, was bellowed:

“BILL, YOU ARE NOT STANLEY KUBRICK. I AM STANLEY KUBRICK. YOU ARE NOT STANLEY KUBRICK.” over and over for ten minutes. I was in tears, laughing. Our waiter came over (Kevin, awesome guy, excellent service & wicked sense of humor to boot) & informed us quietly that HE was actually Stanley Kubrick. So of course, we tipped him accordingly, I mean, my god, Stanley Kubrick! Director of The Shining, and 2001: A Space Odyssey, and A Clockwork Orange! Right here in Kansas City!

Well, the “You just REACT”s and the “YOU ARE NOT STANLEY KUBRICK”s were flying all around my ears, and Bill was trying to defend himself, but never at a volume level I could quite understand. Except I did finally hear him say her name (Chris), so now James & I have reference names for when one of us might think the other’s getting out of hand, there’s a new tickmark on the measurement scale: Well, you think this is bad, I’m no CHRIS!

Or Stanley Kubrick, for that matter.

Well, I know this is like posting that really unflattering picture of your best friend, because you know they will forgive you and mostly because it’s so. damned. funny.

I used the zoom on Suzy a while back & damn if she doesn’t look like she’s been sitting at a bar for 4 hours, bemoaning her lot in life, crying in her beer over the fact she’s spayed, the fact she’s got to share time now with the OTHER dog, the fact that she now looks plus-sized next to that dog, when all she is is big-boned and she is just fine in her skin and who are these dog show judges defining the beauty myth?

For the most part, I’ve always been quite adept at attracting the crazies. There was the candidate for Worst Second Date Ever (the guy who told me the exact date & time he cut his long hair …. I (lightheartedly) said, “Wow, it must have been really memorable!” to which he replied, “It was exactly 24 hours after we put my mother in the ground, and she always wanted me to cut my hair,” and then he began to cry. Hell-O, can you say awkward moment?) There was the date where the hobbit-height man called me “Miss” and informed me he could look up all kinds of information about people from just their license plate number (he was in collections.) I am not sure what chemistry within me makes these people interested in me, but perhaps it is that I’m not overly mean, rude, or judgemental, until the crying or the stalking begins.

So, this brings us to Joe. Joe lived on the same floor of the apartment building and was a lonely little feller. About 4’6″, Joe was a diminutive man with a habit of working his jaw and making smacking noises. He sort of looked like a frog, with big glasses. But what I noticed about Joe was that he had numbers tatooed on his arm, a survivor of the Nazi death camps. Auschwitz. Another woman in the building wore faded blue numbers on her arm as well, and whenever I saw them in the building, I was sobered out of my own pity party & minor inconveniences, reminded of horrors I never had to live. So, being able to converse with a tennis racket, I quite easily struck up a conversation with Joe, and that led to him becoming COMPLETELY ENAMORED WITH ME. He would come down the hall to visit. But Joe didn’t knock, Joe tried the door FIRST. He walked in on James one afternoon, surprising the hell out of Mr.Wo! He invited me down to his apartment. I dragged James with me, because by this time, he was asking for kisses every time he saw me. Big froggy-smack kisses. (I was grateful that my mother had taught me how to turn my cheek quickly, at the last minute, to prevent unwanted liplock.) He appeared surprised when I showed up with JWo. But, he soldiered on. He told us about being a young man in the camps, and how he regained his strength by working in the kitchen at the army base after he was freed. It was amazing, to meet someone who had seen and survived what truly was Hell on Earth. And then he said, in his thick German accent, “So,” pointing at James, “This your brudder?” Oh, Joe’s hopes, dashed again. Nope, my fiance’, sorry Joe!

The last time I spent any time with Joe, he took me to McDonald’s for breakfast. He drove, on his INSISTENCE, and don’t ever let me ride with 70+ year-old men, ever again, mmmkay? Because he drove as though we were in some kind of Amazing Race competition. And then, when we got to McD’s, he insisted on paying. So we sat down, and shortly thereafter, men were coming up and chatting with him. And I realized, I was his ARM CANDY. OMG! He was totally showing off to his Saturday morning breakfast buddies that he still had the MoJoe Magic.

JWo & I got married & moved shortly thereafter, and we still laugh once in a while about Joe, who didn’t have appropriate boundaries & must have fancied himself something of a geriatric Lothario, pursuing an engaged woman half his age! He was harmless & it was kind of amusing to be someone’s arm candy – at a frickin’ McDonald’s no less – despite the age difference. A little bit younger & JWo might’ve gotten a run for his money – except for the fact Joe was slightly crazy. And kissed like a frog.

Actually, I am already on the Not Podding road. I don’t want a piece of technology that when the battery goes out, the item is finito.

So! That leaves me with a lot of options, but not a lot of knowledge and a reluctance to bring another gadget into the home that will go relatively unused. My primary purpose for getting an MP3 player would be to create a mini-jukebox from the existing CD collection, which is quite significant. That means I probably want the highest-level of storage capacity. And a way to hook it into a stereo or surround-sound system. But wait, I want more! I want all the song information to transfer to the gadget, and I want to be able to categorize things. Like, “Party Tunes” or “Dance” or “Folk”, because then, if we have a party, you could select that as the filter and then all the music that would be shuffled would only be songs with those labels on them.

And I realize the whole burning & transfer of music is as exciting as watching paint dry, which is the other reason I am not jazzed or chomping at the bit to do this – but eventually, I’ll be getting a big-screen tv, and upgrading the surround sound system, and a tidy, compact MP3 player with all our music on it would rock the casbah. Hey, I gotta dream.

So if you have knowledge or ideas, float ’em my way. Thanks in advance!

What is UP with Janice Dickinson? She is such a bitch. BEYOTCH. Her diva attitude makes Omarosa look like someone you could almost hang out with. I said almost. What I really hate about Janice is that she keeps QUITTING over the stupidest shit and trumpeting her self-appointed title of World’s First Supermodel, like somehow it gives her license to behave like the world is hers and everyone else is in the way. She needs to be slapped. Hard.

Six Feet Under viewers: WTF? I am so mad at Nate I could clock him. Except he’s already on the floor. And no SCENES for next week?! What is up with that? ARRRRGH!