Month: August 2005 (Page 2 of 4)

When my dad told me he was divorcing my mother (6 years ago or so), I was a huge mixture of things – relief, dismay, shock, and most of all, sadness. I’ve never had much of a relationship with my mother, it’s always been with my dad, and yet that family, such that it was, was all I’d ever known, and its disintegration seemed to challenge the very foundation I stood upon every day. A year or so later, when my father told me he was marrying someone else, I still can see James, sitting on the side of my bed, and as he held me in his arms as I sobbed, telling me that he was my family now, and to let my sadness go. I didn’t quite grasp the significance of what he was saying at the time, because I didn’t understand how to “be family” with anyone but my parents, and really only my dad, if you put it under the microscope.

The past years have opened up my eyes so much more, far beyond what I arrogantly believed I thought I already knew. For all through my “formative years”, I spent many, many significant points in time away from my parents – Christmas, college summers, because we were fighting or because of impending snowstorms, and I told myself throughout all those times, that family was something you could make yourself. I cooked enormous Thanksgiving dinners for friends. I spent Thanksgivings alone. I fancied myself independent, selective, choosing my new family, year-to-year. I ignored the fissures of grief, over the family dynamic I didn’t have, couldn’t create, couldn’t fix. I spent a lot of my younger years in a turmoil I couldn’t even understand. Those pockets are still there, somewhat scarred over, somewhat healed, most of them are now like an inactive volcano. I don’t erupt with grief at everything. Probably because I have such family with James. And I have such excellent, treasures of friendship. Some are closer than others, some drift in and out like the ocean, some are far-flung and sporadic, some are just beginning – and yet all those connections are so deep, they pull focus away from the core that is no longer, they give me strength, they motivate me to keep giving.

I recently helped a friend through a rough break-up, packing the ex’s items & providing distraction & fun. His thanks were so heartfelt, and to that, my reaction was surprise. Surprise that my actions merited such emotional thanks, because they really were done without a second thought – and that surprised me as well. I’m a selfish, selfish, did I mention selfish? – person. I clutch my time like little Charlie Bucket clutched his golden ticket to Wonka’s chocolate factory. People don’t think “giving” when asked for the first word to describe me. (“Loud” is usually a common response.) But I like that I have it within me to give, even if it’s not my second nature. I feel more complete, having given my friendship & support & love to those who really need it, and here is where I show my age & experience: it is now given to those who won’t suck it up and give nothing in return.

I love the notion of fixing things, even though I know I’m not that powerful. Given that, it’s not surprising that I married someone who also wants to fix things. And so, I dedicate this blog to JWo, because whenever I hear the song “Fix You” by Coldplay, I think of him and how he always wants to make my sadness disappear. He is my family, and I love him for that gift. His light guides me home.

There is work being done in the building. What sort of work, you innocently inquire? The sort of work that makes the air smell as though there are a thousand black markers with their caps off, and we are back in college mounting art projects on foam core with the fixative spray. This scent is telling some gland in my body to generate saliva at the back of my tongue, and the saliva tastes like I have been sucking on an old tin can. The gnomes that reside in my brain, they do not like this smell, and several have sat down in the corner. A couple are stomping their feet while shouting, “I don’t like this!” so it also feels a little headachey without being so severe, we find ourselves in the car driving home. One person here thinks it is affecting his nervous system, as he has run into walls several times today. But he could just be klutzy, and personally, I can never use motor skills or lack thereof as a good litmus test, I trip on lo-pile carpet, for heaven’s sake.

In any event? The smell? It must to be stopping now.

Apparently, a few years ago, a dude worked here and he was on a diet. And not any diet, but it was more like Atkins on Crack, from what they’ve told me. The really choice part of his diet was his breakfast, and he would make it here at work. It was a blended smoothie of sorts, made worse because he heated it in the microwave. Nobody was really sure what-all was in it, except it had meat in it, thus the term “meatshake”. And they were RANK. People would literally gag at the smell. As, I’m sure, you’re trying not to do whilst reading this blog. Sorry! Anyhoo, they finally had to have the office manager address his meatshake habit & ask that he no longer consume them in the office. Said dude is no longer here.

I made a joke a couple weeks ago in a meeting, about ‘mmmmm, meatshake’, and after the initial laugh said, “I heard there was a guy here who used to make them!” One of the more senior people here looked at me and said the meatshake maker’s name, but what was really funny was the look in his eyes as he looked at me, gauging whether or not I was going to start making meatshakes because they sounded cool. That look was FEAR. They were that scary. Seriously, can you imagine? Oh, hi, I’m blending up a mandarin-orange-strawberry-chicken smoothie, with bee pollen and ginseng. Wanna taste? Or even better – the SNL classic – MMMMMM! THAT’S GREAT BASS!

I wrote THE BEST blog in my head last night, around 1 a.m. before falling asleep. It was insightful, meaningful, and would have made you really reflect on your life. Well, now that you’re let down & sad and wondering how you’ll get through the day, I should admit I’d also had several amaretto sours & some shots of Hot Damn! prior to going to bed. But that blog, it was awesome! And I didn’t even feel the need to write down some notes to help me today, because it was SO GOOD, I would remember it for sure. Uh, yeah. And then I had crazy-ass dreams about travelling the world by train, and I had ridden the Switzerland-Minneapolis train, but I got separated from JWo on our Minneapolis-Kansas City connection, because a woman on the Switzerland train left her purse & I was trying to turn it in, but those Swiss bitches in Minneapolis could have CARED LESS, and I kept pointing out the woman was of Indian descent, but she spoke fluent English and Italian and she NEEDED to get her purse or she wouldn’t be able to continue her studies back in Switzerland, and finally I threw the purse at those haughty wenches because we were late for the train & we had to run. And the train-entry doors were like the little elevator boxes at Tower of Terror, but only for two people & the door shut before I could get in. But I still made the train by running to the next stop, and then Will Ferrell was behind me, grabbing at me and hitting on me. And of course, I was flattered? But I’m married! So I was all, “Uh, I have to go.” So, I got nothin’ because all I can see in my brain is Will Ferrell and those mean Swiss bitches. And when that’s all you’ve got? You pull out pictures of the dogs. Doesn’t Suzy look scary? She would have come in handy last night at the train station.

I thought I would show you my very horrible breakfast from a workday last week. I don’t eat breakfast from the vending machine too terribly often, but once in a while, lard-based products just sound tasty. Two diet cokes & 32 oz. of water? Why, it’s practically healthy with all that water involved.

A couple years ago, I was very involved in my company picnic, and organized/hosted an eating contest. Each contestant had one minute to finish everything in front of them, and everyone was divided into teams, and you signed up for different competitions. The food contest was hit or miss on what you got (sort of like Survivor – will it be a candy bar? Or the West African dung beetle?) – the “nasties” were pickled pigs feet, pickled quail eggs, spam, and pickled herring. (Not that those are nasty, per se, but just not as common for someone to LIKE.) Surprisingly, people plowed right through them. I was getting a bit worried. Then there were wasabi peas, which people also ate at lightening speed. And then came the finale, the piece-de-resistance: apparently, it’s damn hard to eat a Hostess Cherry Pie in under a minute, and it ended up being the tiebreaker between the teams.

Mmmmm. Lard. And cherries. Slows you down every time. Or in my case, kicks the morning off juuuust riiiiight.

You are interchangeable. Fun, free, and into everything, you’ve got every eventuality covered and every opportunity just has to be taken. Every fiber is wonderful, and every day is a new beginning. You are good at so many things, it’s amazing, but you can easily lose your place and forget to show up. They have row counters for people like you!
What kind of knitting needles are you?brought to you by Quizilla

methinks some of my knitting buds might be the same! ;)

The night of JWo’s birthday celebration, we had lots of laughs & stories, and of course, some time spent talking about various restaurants, and that led to Thai food, and James extolled the virtues of Thai 2000’s Sunday Brunch, and the fact that we are usually the only all-Anglo party when we go, is a sign that we are dining on very authentic food, since nearly all of the other diners are Asian.

I think we all agreed with that, and our friends Ashley & Russell were talking about some similar experiences, going to some places in Houston, where some of Russell’s family lives, and this part of his family is Vietnamese (Russell being half-Vietnamese, half-Caucasian). Ashley turned to Russell, mid-way through a story about going to a Vietnamese restaurant, that was packed with Vietnamese people, and her experience, being Caucasian & in the minority said, “I mean, Russell, you’re not whole-white, you’re half-white, I’m whole-white.” Of course that just sounded so funny, like ancestry & nationality were bread or milk or something, and Russell said, “Ashley, I’m really more ‘IronKids’.”

Dare I say it- they’re Wonder-ful friends? (insert groan here)

Happy, Happy Friday. Happy Half-Day Friday to me! Oh, I’ll still have the whole day, but only half-work, please. With extra sugars.

I’m having a frustrating day. The essence of today can be captured by this: I have a super-sized diet coke sitting here, half-drunk. And my straw? MY FUCKING STRAW? It has a greeeeeeat big split in the middle. So, it was NOT my imagination the past four drinks that I was getting equal parts air & soda. And so I’ve replaced it with one of MY straws (yes, I keep them at my desk), but that straw is too short. Story of my frickin’ life.

Now I’m gonna burp all afternoon.

So, transportation. That will be the theme of my second chapter of my trip to Puerto Vallarta a few years back. The first evening, we decided to go into the city. Our resort was actually in Nuevo Vallarta, and we were informed we could go by taxi or bus. All the taxi drivers wanted far more than our combined busfare, so we decided to wait & take the bus.

Now, I am impossibly gregarious to strangers here in Kansas City. But I was not raised on reading “Cosmo” or “Teen”, I grew up reading “Woman’s Day” and “Family Circle”, with cautionary tales of overdosing on PCP and being kidnapped and sold into slavery and hooligans robbing you blind in foreign lands. Weekly women’s service publications: the true source of all my irrational fears, I’m sure of it. So we get on our bus, which happens to be the main transport for all the employees of the resorts, and we are the only gringos on the bus. I lead us back to a section of open seats, adopting my “in a foreign place” body language and do not say anything to anyone. So you can imagine my horror as Shelley, normally the most reserved one in our trio, is suddenly CHATTING UP A STORM at various natives, asking them if they’re taking the bus into town, and at every stop, inquiring if this is our stop? Is this our stop? Do we get off here now? I am sure we will be kidnapped and sold to a Mexican brothel as soon as we get off the bus because now we have been marked as “NAIVE: KIDNAP FIRST”. After several rounds of her trying to speak to people who did not speak Englilsh, I was clenched-jaw whispering, “SHELLEY. THEY ARE NOT GOING INTO TOWN. QUIT ASKING THEM. I WILL TELL YOU WHEN TO GET OFF THE BUS!!!!!!”

We get to Puerto Vallarta. We disembark. Leading our razzmatazz team of Foreign Voluptuous Ladies (FVL), I stride off towards the heart of the city. I get almost a block, and realize I no longer have Shelley & Meredith behind me. I turn around, fully expecting to see them being pushed into a windowless van, and instead I see them patiently smiling & nodding at some shysters trying to tell them they need to take a Jeep tour with the lure of a FREE MAP. I go back. Again with the dramatic whisper: “COME ON.” They are giggling, and we are marching single file. I begin a lecture, straight from the pages of “Woman’s Day” on How to Behave in a Foriegn Land. Because of my love of the metaphors, I come up with the best: the Blowfish.

You must BE the blowfish. You are puffed out, and nobody can come close. NO STOPPING. You don’t even speak. Look like we come here all the time. You do not care what they think or what they want. Just BE the blowfish. And from that point on, it was a one-word command we all used. Want to buy some silver, lady? BLOWFISH! Maps? Jeep Tour? Lace tablecloth? BLOWFISH!

We took a taxi cab home, and I did think that we might perhaps die, because while the roads in Missouri can be bad? The roads in Mexico are atrocious. And they travel at extremely high speeds, in cars the size of Ford Festivas. But I’ll give our cabbie props for his sense of humor: as we passed a large dirt track that apparently combined racing and bumper cars (for fun!), he elbowed me and pointed, saying: “Driving school!”

I laughed, but I was also making sure we were staying on the same road we’d gone into town on – and weren’t being driven to Tijuana to be used as drug mules for the Mexican Mafia. The Blowfish never lets down her guard.

I was driving home from work yesterday, the Migraine Gnomes doing their darndest to fissure my brain right in two (I believe they were using a combination of ice picks and jackhammers), and I had the windows down & no radio on – just the sounds of other cars & the air flowing through my car. We’ve finally gotten a spate of weather that isn’t torturous, and I wanted to enjoy it.

I was thinking, for some reason, about people to whom I owe an apology. I try not to live with loads of regret, but sometimes random memory strands break off & float around in my brain. Probably released by the Migraine Gnomes. Here’s who’s on the list right now:

1. The Wilsons in my hometown. Granted, they were strange kids in general. But all of a sudden, when they got off the schoolbus, they would stop and peer into a hole in the hill. This somehow got them dubbed “Turtles”. (I guess there was a turtle in the hole.) One night, I was dared to open the window and shout “TURTLES!” at them, and I succumbed to peer pressure, and then subsequently felt horrible. I berated the next person who did it, and the whole thing subsided a bit. But I’m sorry. I was 9? Kids are stupid. You’re not a turtle.

2. The incredibly insecure and self-centered gay friend in St. Louis. You asked me about my weekend and then, without giving me even a chance to inhale to speak, launched into a description of yours. At the end, you looked at me, not asking about me, and I asked you, “What’s it like to live in a bubble, lined with mirrors?” You nervously laughed and ignored the insult. It was really mean of me, but I have to give myself props for such a scathing capture of the situation. In any event, I hope you’re more aware of the world around you, and I’m sorry I was so blunt. But I did drag you out of the closet. Does that balance things out?

3. To all my dear friends that I suck so badly at staying in touch with, for indeed, I am a raccoon, distracted by shiny things off in the ditches, and I wander and lose my way. I am so blessed that you do not hold it against me, and that we allow a timeless nature to preserve our friendship. Your grace is the formaldehyde that sustains & preserves the wonderful connection we have. Thank you & forgive me.

4. To the former boss who tried to fire me and never did any work (BEYOTCH!): I’m sorry that after you gave your month’s notice, that it was me who told everyone you used two people under you to do the research (using company resources) to write your grant-winning business plan, and consequently, you embarassingly were asked to leave immediately, despite having already quit. Yeah, actually? I’m not sorry about that one at all, bitch. How’s the karma bus feel when it backs up over your scrawny ass?

OK, I’m never going to fully lose my mean streak. My upbringing fostered a fast, sharp tongue, and clever slicey observations were rewarded with adoration & praise. I am my harshest critic, though, and that is my punishment. Maybe one of these days, I’ll figure out how to fully forgive myself.