My drive into work was just like any other. Well except that I had to turn the heat on. And I had to stop for gas. And it was 20 minutes later than I usually make the journey. I guess, what I am saying was that my drive into work was different than most mornings.
The usual exit, though, towards work - I climb the hill on the Kellogg exit and am stopped by the light. Sitting there idling, I check the clock. 5 minutes to 9:00am. I better make it to the parking lot before the rates change from bad to atrocious. I know I'll make it. I always do. Waiting at the light a man is guided across the street by the white painted dash lines. He's abiding the crosswalk perimeters but something is funny about this one. What is funny is that he is starring me down with crazy eyes. The 10 feet that it takes to clear my front end he doesn't take his eyes off of me for a second. He even turns as he passes to avoid giving me his back. Walking backwards away from me now.
The 30 seconds it took for him to cross my path, all I could do is stare back and wonder what the hell that guy was thinking. Something crazy, I'm sure. It wasn't the kind of inquisitive look you give if you think you know someone. It surely wasn't the eyes you give to someone you are attracted to. It was the look that says, "What the fuck is happening here?".
It occurred to me as I drove towards my $7/day parking lot that this was the image that crazy eyed man saw:
A figure in a dark hoodie. The hood is pulled up over their head, leaving the face in shadow. Over the sweatshirt is a zipped up, down filled puma vest. The music from the speakers of the vehicle is undoubtedly bleeding into the streets. The driver sits with one arm over the steering wheel, letting their wrist maneuver the car. They sit in a white minivan.
His ass thought I stole my car.
Or he was high and thought I was the smoke monster.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Unknown
Dear Unknown Number,
Next time you dial my number, will you please leave a message? Each time it tells me I missed your call, my stomach turns into nervous knots at the knowledge of who you potentially could be. I promise I won't be mad if you are a telemarketer. In fact, I will kiss you if you are a telemarketer.
Love always (is that an appropriate goodbye for you?),
Mary
Next time you dial my number, will you please leave a message? Each time it tells me I missed your call, my stomach turns into nervous knots at the knowledge of who you potentially could be. I promise I won't be mad if you are a telemarketer. In fact, I will kiss you if you are a telemarketer.
Love always (is that an appropriate goodbye for you?),
Mary
Monday, September 28, 2009
Bi-Yearly Series
I got caught up in a mess tonight. A fun mess.
Came home and thought I'd have a relaxing night by the fire... who knew the wood smoke would make me so productive. I went through 3 months of neglected mail, did some filing, renewed my tabs, started cleaning out the closets, wrote some checks, wrote some thank you cards. The Thank You's is what started the mess.
A doodle gone mad.
Inspiration.
Back to the closet.
Art supplies needed.
Mess to be made.
Someone close to me will be recieving a card with the original of this finished product. You will have to pretend it is a surprise and then hang it on your fridge as if it's worth something.
Visitors in my apartment usually notice the first of these drawings. In fact, it's usually the only piece of my own (among like 20 throughout my apartment [what a narcissist]) that gets complimented. I'll include all three of what has come to be a Bi-Yearly Series.
#1 Simple Hello
So sorry to ignore the ongoing narrative in my head tonight. I was hearing illustrations instead.
Maybe tomorrow I will tell you about how I continue to hike to nowhere in this place called Minnesota and how much I love the sound of crushing acorns with my Keens.
nite time
Came home and thought I'd have a relaxing night by the fire... who knew the wood smoke would make me so productive. I went through 3 months of neglected mail, did some filing, renewed my tabs, started cleaning out the closets, wrote some checks, wrote some thank you cards. The Thank You's is what started the mess.
A doodle gone mad.
Inspiration.
Back to the closet.
Art supplies needed.
Mess to be made.
Someone close to me will be recieving a card with the original of this finished product. You will have to pretend it is a surprise and then hang it on your fridge as if it's worth something.
Visitors in my apartment usually notice the first of these drawings. In fact, it's usually the only piece of my own (among like 20 throughout my apartment [what a narcissist]) that gets complimented. I'll include all three of what has come to be a Bi-Yearly Series.
#1 Simple Hello
#2 Simple Lasso
#3 Simple Hug
Lastly, proof of mess.
So sorry to ignore the ongoing narrative in my head tonight. I was hearing illustrations instead.
Maybe tomorrow I will tell you about how I continue to hike to nowhere in this place called Minnesota and how much I love the sound of crushing acorns with my Keens.
nite time
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Acclaimed Dancer
"Mary is an incredibly hard worker and does her job often with a smile, if not a song or little dance."
Even my boss can’t help but notice my groovin’ movin’. My place of employment isn’t spared from my whistling. I shake the stress away. It’s always been my way. I’d rather dance than worry. And I’d rather make someone laugh with my ridiculous moves than remain still and serious. We did an extensive annual review this year. After three sessions, the quote above was final say on my performance. Ha. That’s going in my permanent file. My boss then forks this written silliness over to her boss, but she doesn’t have a boss right now … so that sentence got handed to our President instead. It is now widely known that I am dancing on company dollars. Awesome.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Brainz
“Everyone wants to be readable in a society doomed by the parable of first impressions.” – Me
How was I smart? I wrote that sentence almost five years ago. Aren’t brains supposed to come with age? At least, that is what all our old liar-faced grannies keep saying.
That sentence came to me today as a string of words on my first read. I had to rewind the language for a minute and hit repeat. I knew I missed something the first time around. I found even more on my third read. Rolling those words over and over again in my brain … seriously, how was I smart? That feels so far away from my writing today.
I am surprised by my own eloquence. I love the play on literary language between ‘readable’ and ‘parable’. That a story is read. That appearances are the first story we tell to a new person, in a new environment, facing a new situation. Even before words are said. All we can hope is people correctly interpret our stories. Huh, that’s deep.
That sentence came out of my institutional years. College. Not mental hospital. I plucked it from a paper for a class I took called Politics of the Body. My essay babbles intelligently on the social status, race, sexuality, religion, etc. worn on our bodies and where that puts us in the world.
If you want to read something intelligent - I’ll send you the paper, but that’s not what I do here. I won’t be pulling those kinds of sentences out of my butt. I don’t even know if my butt has any more of those sentences stored inside. All I can do here is admit that I miss thinking that way. Critically, on assignment, persuasively, logically, structuring thought and presentation. I don’t really have much of a reason these days to talk about how if you look a certain way in our society you are automatically fucked. Wow. Way to dumb it down. Where did my brain go?
How was I smart? I wrote that sentence almost five years ago. Aren’t brains supposed to come with age? At least, that is what all our old liar-faced grannies keep saying.
That sentence came to me today as a string of words on my first read. I had to rewind the language for a minute and hit repeat. I knew I missed something the first time around. I found even more on my third read. Rolling those words over and over again in my brain … seriously, how was I smart? That feels so far away from my writing today.
I am surprised by my own eloquence. I love the play on literary language between ‘readable’ and ‘parable’. That a story is read. That appearances are the first story we tell to a new person, in a new environment, facing a new situation. Even before words are said. All we can hope is people correctly interpret our stories. Huh, that’s deep.
That sentence came out of my institutional years. College. Not mental hospital. I plucked it from a paper for a class I took called Politics of the Body. My essay babbles intelligently on the social status, race, sexuality, religion, etc. worn on our bodies and where that puts us in the world.
If you want to read something intelligent - I’ll send you the paper, but that’s not what I do here. I won’t be pulling those kinds of sentences out of my butt. I don’t even know if my butt has any more of those sentences stored inside. All I can do here is admit that I miss thinking that way. Critically, on assignment, persuasively, logically, structuring thought and presentation. I don’t really have much of a reason these days to talk about how if you look a certain way in our society you are automatically fucked. Wow. Way to dumb it down. Where did my brain go?
Friday, September 25, 2009
Honestly
A few days ago I was told my writing was honest. Honest and hilarious. Well maybe I am exaggerating the second H. Yeah, I definitely am.
Hmmm… maybe I should push that further and bust myself out a little.
Sure, I’ll do that.
The weekend before last I went on a quest to find a waterfall. (If I could properly format a footnote, I would tell you that I have become such a victim to commercial branding that I accidently spelled quest – qwest. Thank goodness for spell-check … that would have been embarrassing).
On that quest (with a u) I found the Hidden Falls. I had my camera with me. I clicked off a round of photos. When it came to writing about that venture … I had reservations about including the picture of the falls themselves. So I’ll do that now:
That was my reward for all that work! A trickle from a storm drain! The writing was still honest. I really did leave happier having found it. The water droplets did not bum me out in the least. I kicked the shit out of that waterfall!
But why didn’t I wear my victory proudly and share the image of conquer? Symbolic like Rosenthal’s image of the American flag rising over Iwo Jima. Ok, not like that. Really, not at all like that. Still, something kept me from posting that photo.
I think it was this:
The language and emotion in that entry hung grandiose and triumphant. I couldn’t follow up my emotional merriment with a picture of a dying waterfall. Maybe I thought it looked like a contradiction in my writing. That my words painted a different picture than the reality of the water. I could have thought people would be unimpressed by my quest. I definitely thought the thing just didn’t photograph well.
I post it now to say … fuck all of you. I’m just a simple girl that can find happiness in a storm drain.
Post Script – Carrying on tradition by accident. Sunday while kayaking with my mom, we paddled alongside a man-made falls. I won’t have time for water play this weekend, but may find myself there on Monday. That’s my wet dream at least.
Hmmm… maybe I should push that further and bust myself out a little.
Sure, I’ll do that.
The weekend before last I went on a quest to find a waterfall. (If I could properly format a footnote, I would tell you that I have become such a victim to commercial branding that I accidently spelled quest – qwest. Thank goodness for spell-check … that would have been embarrassing).
On that quest (with a u) I found the Hidden Falls. I had my camera with me. I clicked off a round of photos. When it came to writing about that venture … I had reservations about including the picture of the falls themselves. So I’ll do that now:
That was my reward for all that work! A trickle from a storm drain! The writing was still honest. I really did leave happier having found it. The water droplets did not bum me out in the least. I kicked the shit out of that waterfall!
But why didn’t I wear my victory proudly and share the image of conquer? Symbolic like Rosenthal’s image of the American flag rising over Iwo Jima. Ok, not like that. Really, not at all like that. Still, something kept me from posting that photo.
I think it was this:
The language and emotion in that entry hung grandiose and triumphant. I couldn’t follow up my emotional merriment with a picture of a dying waterfall. Maybe I thought it looked like a contradiction in my writing. That my words painted a different picture than the reality of the water. I could have thought people would be unimpressed by my quest. I definitely thought the thing just didn’t photograph well.
I post it now to say … fuck all of you. I’m just a simple girl that can find happiness in a storm drain.
Post Script – Carrying on tradition by accident. Sunday while kayaking with my mom, we paddled alongside a man-made falls. I won’t have time for water play this weekend, but may find myself there on Monday. That’s my wet dream at least.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Oh Hair Redux
Two months short of three years ago I wrote this:
Oh hair…
You’ve covered my bed, my couch, and my floors.
You’ve interfered in smooching sessions.
You’ve clogged my drains.
You’ve let one strand fall down my shirt while I’m at work, giving me an agonizing itch and causing embarrassment when I try to stick my hand up my shirt without looking like I’m grabbing my boobs.
And yet … I think I’m going to miss you, hair.
This is our last weekend together. I think we’ll celebrate with a pony tail.
That was hours before going to my pixie cut. I spent the next 34 months sporting a style shorter than most boys care to go.
Or maybe I am just a sucky receiver of generous vocabulary.
But hey, I can almost put my tail in a pony!
Just for shits and giggles.
I think Ms. Jackson said it best….
What have you done for me lately? …
Really?
You’ve covered my bed, my couch, and my floors.
You’ve interfered in smooching sessions.
You’ve clogged my drains.
You’ve let one strand fall down my shirt while I’m at work, giving me an agonizing itch and causing embarrassment when I try to stick my hand up my shirt without looking like I’m grabbing my boobs.
And yet … I think I’m going to miss you, hair.
This is our last weekend together. I think we’ll celebrate with a pony tail.
That was hours before going to my pixie cut. I spent the next 34 months sporting a style shorter than most boys care to go.
Now, I am writing the inversion of that day. Today is a day where yesterday I stood confused in the hair accessory isle for the first time in years.
Accessories?
Hair?
These concepts have become unfamiliar to a point of unknown. What I am learning (or remembering?) is what it is like to have hair again. I am remembering the single strands that dust the bathroom sink. What I wish I had never forgotten is the texture of my locks. I recognize that I kind of like running my fingers through my hair. I am also quickly realizing the day to day struggle with what to do with it this morning.
I write about both of these days under the same light. This hair ‘process’ has given me too much attention. Obviously, chopping off all your hair doesn’t go unnoticed. Surprisingly, growing them back gets just as much recognition, even at its reduced rate. People have been commenting on my long (long meaning not short) hair these days.
The difference between 3 years ago and today is this: Three years ago I wanted to try a look I had never embodied. I had direction. I had an idea. I was confident in my hair wearing and knew why I was doing it. Change, primarily, however superficial that may be. A risk in appearence. When people ask about my hair today … I don’t really know what to say. It’s not change. It’s not something different. People ask if I am growing it out. I haven’t got an answer. Am I growing it out? I mean, I guess it’s doing that on its own. I have no hopes, dreams, aspirations or directions for this head of mine. Am I supposed to? Why and who made that rule? It’s just going somewhere.
Or maybe I am just a sucky receiver of generous vocabulary.
But hey, I can almost put my tail in a pony!
Just for shits and giggles.* Brought to you by a ... oh fuck, I said shits ... nevermind*
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
The Normals
It’s funny how fast normal sets in. Post-Labor Day my work life went to normal fast. This is my normal. It came too quickly.
Within the first 15 minutes I am sweating. It’s 8:15 in the morning. I had just gotten out of the shower at 7:15am. Why do I even bother? People already excuse my clothing choices because of my sweaty profession. A t-shirt and jeans wouldn’t usually fly for the first day back, but when you are lifting weight and crawling around on your knees all day it does. If they already accept my slovenly attire, they should accept the funk as well. I think I just convinced myself to boycott the shower. It’s all for them after all.
As the first hour passes I am already bleeding. What? My skin must have gotten soft over the summer. I have strong feelings of dislike towards band-aids, but to stop my spurting and abide by hygienic standards, I begrudgingly bandage my thumb into unbendability.
The rest of the day goes by with hugs, kisses, welcomes and talk of summer, summer, summer time.
Day two kills the love with 10,000 spoons. I’d rather it be a knife. Tempers are back to normal. Missed family members are just plain family members again. Stress has begun circulating through the ventilating system. A bunch of Chicken Littles thinking the sky is falling. The muscles that had relaxed over the last three months are strung tight once again. That truth is worn by everyone’s posture.
The third day I am working on my day off. How quickly I am asked to give up my free time and how quickly I have no choice but to accept.
By the fourth day I am already rolling my eyes at my workload.
Opening Night fell on my fifth day and I remember what I do this all for.
Day 6 - End of week, I am logging overtime. Breaking the hourly laws.
The seventh day was the longest. My first 12+ hour day of the season. Totaled 13.5 that day.
Somewhere within the 8th or 9th day I gave myself a wicked blood blister. I had to set up my doctor station to drain it. Figured it was better to do self-surgery than to take the risk of ripping it open while working. It is weird that I am used to cutting into my own skin?
On the 10th day I was ten days deep in one of my classic no-day-off-stretches. A trip to Milwaukee should fix that….
Already on day eleven, I am working remotely from another city. I give up a few hours of my first day home to finalize materials that I spend lifetimes waiting for each week.
Huh … I don’t like writing out my normal.
*Brought to you by a Swear-Free America*
Within the first 15 minutes I am sweating. It’s 8:15 in the morning. I had just gotten out of the shower at 7:15am. Why do I even bother? People already excuse my clothing choices because of my sweaty profession. A t-shirt and jeans wouldn’t usually fly for the first day back, but when you are lifting weight and crawling around on your knees all day it does. If they already accept my slovenly attire, they should accept the funk as well. I think I just convinced myself to boycott the shower. It’s all for them after all.
As the first hour passes I am already bleeding. What? My skin must have gotten soft over the summer. I have strong feelings of dislike towards band-aids, but to stop my spurting and abide by hygienic standards, I begrudgingly bandage my thumb into unbendability.
The rest of the day goes by with hugs, kisses, welcomes and talk of summer, summer, summer time.
Day two kills the love with 10,000 spoons. I’d rather it be a knife. Tempers are back to normal. Missed family members are just plain family members again. Stress has begun circulating through the ventilating system. A bunch of Chicken Littles thinking the sky is falling. The muscles that had relaxed over the last three months are strung tight once again. That truth is worn by everyone’s posture.
The third day I am working on my day off. How quickly I am asked to give up my free time and how quickly I have no choice but to accept.
By the fourth day I am already rolling my eyes at my workload.
Opening Night fell on my fifth day and I remember what I do this all for.
Day 6 - End of week, I am logging overtime. Breaking the hourly laws.
The seventh day was the longest. My first 12+ hour day of the season. Totaled 13.5 that day.
Somewhere within the 8th or 9th day I gave myself a wicked blood blister. I had to set up my doctor station to drain it. Figured it was better to do self-surgery than to take the risk of ripping it open while working. It is weird that I am used to cutting into my own skin?
On the 10th day I was ten days deep in one of my classic no-day-off-stretches. A trip to Milwaukee should fix that….
Already on day eleven, I am working remotely from another city. I give up a few hours of my first day home to finalize materials that I spend lifetimes waiting for each week.
Huh … I don’t like writing out my normal.
*Brought to you by a Swear-Free America*
Monday, September 21, 2009
Seen on 94
I've made this drive so many times. I hardly have to watch the road unraveling before me. The minivan's alignment is perfect for hands-free coasting along this barren strip of interstate. There is hardly a site to be seen along this five and half hour journey home.
I don’t know why I always stop in Black River Falls. It’s perpetually my pit-stop of choice. After fueling up my tank, I head through the glass doors of the BP. There is no need for a sweep of the eyes to find the bathroom, I know just where I am going. A woman cuts into my bee-line. A larger woman with a graying mullet. The kind of woman you don’t want to enter a bathroom after. I secretly hope she’s not going my way. When her hand hits the lady’s room door, I think “Damn, this is one fart I don’t need to hear.” Those were four held-breath minutes I really didn’t need in my life.
Lots of construction along the Interstate. A good fifty miles worth of orange barrels. A few years ago someone pointed this bit of info out to me and now I look up at every crane. Off-duty construction sites use cranes as their U-Locks. Any removable equipment gets hoisted in the air to prevent its theft. You’ll often see generators and pneumatic tanks hovering above ground. Bored on the highway, going the reduced 55mph, there’s no place better to be looking than up.
I laugh everytime at the westbound sign for Bosshard Bogs. What am I? Twelve? Bosshard just has a chuckle quality. I think Boss-hard needs to become common day anatomical slang. I know I am always looking for new descriptors for erections. Twelve years old, seriously!
The first hour towards Lake Michigan surprised me with color. Not just that the leaves are starting to change, but they are somehow changing differently. The hues along the highway seem to be bordering unhealthy. The reds are dingy and dried. There is an overbearing presence of brown tracing along trim line. Glucose and the change in photosynthesis may not be the only color changing factors here… these trees are in serious need of that hydrogen + oxygen combination. Dry, dry, dry.
Lots of construction along the Interstate. A good fifty miles worth of orange barrels. A few years ago someone pointed this bit of info out to me and now I look up at every crane. Off-duty construction sites use cranes as their U-Locks. Any removable equipment gets hoisted in the air to prevent its theft. You’ll often see generators and pneumatic tanks hovering above ground. Bored on the highway, going the reduced 55mph, there’s no place better to be looking than up.
I laugh everytime at the westbound sign for Bosshard Bogs. What am I? Twelve? Bosshard just has a chuckle quality. I think Boss-hard needs to become common day anatomical slang. I know I am always looking for new descriptors for erections. Twelve years old, seriously!
Lastly, I refused to make my return trip be a driving day. The sky opened up as I passed three signs. Food. Fuel. State Park. I decide I need all three. I accomplished all three in the order stated. Brought my sandwich up a bluff and took a minute to forget about the confines of my vehicle on a beautiful day.
*Brought to you by a Swear-Free America*
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Today Got Me
I honestly couldn't find any humor in today. It was hiding in the circular clothing racks at department stores like we used to when we were little kids.
There's a good possibility that I was blinded to the humor all around me by the shooting pain I woke up with and proceeded to carry with me all day. I tried the usually tricks - pain meds, food, sugar, pain meds, caffeine, pain meds. Nothing could take this hard edge away from my existence.
My brain simply could not find laughter. My brain lacked its usual witticisms on every day life. The only thing my brain could do is pay attention to my screaming skull.
Not a particularly bad day, just a day when I couldn't function properly. A day where everything was a little off kilter. Even in conversation, I found myself trying to avoid my own voice. When addressed, my hesitancy to respond made my voice come out unfamiliar and then sat in the air for longer than it should. Do you know that voice?
I have probably been walking around with a migraine all day, but my tough-guy nature won't give in. I'll give in when I crawl into bed after loading a truck at 10pm. I hope when I give in, sleep will agree with me.
There's a good possibility that I was blinded to the humor all around me by the shooting pain I woke up with and proceeded to carry with me all day. I tried the usually tricks - pain meds, food, sugar, pain meds, caffeine, pain meds. Nothing could take this hard edge away from my existence.
My brain simply could not find laughter. My brain lacked its usual witticisms on every day life. The only thing my brain could do is pay attention to my screaming skull.
Not a particularly bad day, just a day when I couldn't function properly. A day where everything was a little off kilter. Even in conversation, I found myself trying to avoid my own voice. When addressed, my hesitancy to respond made my voice come out unfamiliar and then sat in the air for longer than it should. Do you know that voice?
I have probably been walking around with a migraine all day, but my tough-guy nature won't give in. I'll give in when I crawl into bed after loading a truck at 10pm. I hope when I give in, sleep will agree with me.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
I caught the Swears
All day at work, a co-worker and I kept telling each other to "Stop fucking swearing!" Our profranity has flown off the wall - out of control. We fuel each other's verbal fire. Swearing is contagious and I caught the bug. I've been spending my days in the company of foul mouth men. So it was inevitable, I've become a bit of a cussin' sailor myself. For some reason, especially in my writing, profanity just feels sooooo good.
After an afternoon at work swapping back and forth "Try Saying..." jokes (started by an E-mail Forward chain and exagerated by our own imaginations....)
Example:
TRY SAYING: She's an aggressive go-getter.
INSTEAD OF: She's a f__king bit__.
TRY SAYING: Perhaps you should check with...
INSTEAD OF: Tell someone who gives a sh__.
TRY SAYING: He's somewhat insensitive.
INSTEAD OF: He's a pr_ck.
Laughing all day at that and this is what I came home to - an e-mail from my mother in response to my post yesterday "Why?Oh NO!". Read below for a mother approved version of my previous post. Editing credit to Mommy Dearest:
*********************************************************************************
To: Mary
Sent: Tuesday, Sep 15, 2009 at 6:14 PM
Subject: RE: [Marymeant] Why? Oh, NO!
Oh boy…be careful at the concert and watch your language….see below for a completely edited revision.
Love
-----Original Message-----
These are the thoughts that keep me up at night.
I really do spend a lot of time thinking about music – What I might find next. When can I buy tickets. Those lyrics to that one song. Album release dates. Shows I’ve seen. Shows I can’t wait to see.
Amid all this excitement there is back-story. Remember the excitement though. Never forget the excitement!
“FUCK!!!!” OMG!!!!!!!!!
My long been forgotten was just remembered!
--
After an afternoon at work swapping back and forth "Try Saying..." jokes (started by an E-mail Forward chain and exagerated by our own imaginations....)
Example:
TRY SAYING: She's an aggressive go-getter.
INSTEAD OF: She's a f__king bit__.
TRY SAYING: Perhaps you should check with...
INSTEAD OF: Tell someone who gives a sh__.
TRY SAYING: He's somewhat insensitive.
INSTEAD OF: He's a pr_ck.
Laughing all day at that and this is what I came home to - an e-mail from my mother in response to my post yesterday "Why?Oh NO!". Read below for a mother approved version of my previous post. Editing credit to Mommy Dearest:
*********************************************************************************
To: Mary
Sent: Tuesday, Sep 15, 2009 at 6:14 PM
Subject: RE: [Marymeant] Why? Oh, NO!
Oh boy…be careful at the concert and watch your language….see below for a completely edited revision.
Love
MOM
-----Original Message-----
Sent: Monday, September 14, 2009 at 7:32 PM
Subject: [Marymeant] Why? Oh, NO!
These are the thoughts that keep me up at night.
Bored with Internet Explorer, 400 Blows, The Weakerthans, and A Dud Avocado, the only other reasonable thing to do was sleep. I crawled into bed around 10:30 thinking of my much needed rest before the 14 work day ahead of me. Lying there, with one knee pulled up to my chin, waiting for sleep… I had the most horrible realization.
Last night, the normal musical excitement was twirling around my brain. I was sooo stoked that one of my favorite bands, Why?, was coming to town again. I bought my single ticket ages ago. I already told work they are going to have to hire a union stage hand to replace me for the night. Life stops for Why?. Period.
Amid all this excitement there is back-story. Remember the excitement though. Never forget the excitement!
(if I had video capabilities I would insert a Wayne’s World Flash Back transition … here)
Early in the year I was set out to meet new people. I joined all these clubs (only to realize I don’t need any more middle aged friends) and succumbed to an online dating site. The listed favorites on people’s profiles were often conversation starters.
For one guy in particular, the contact initiator was the fact that both of us were Why? fans. The guy was nice enough, but a pussy CAT who wouldn’t ask me out and I was too on the fence about him to be the aggressor. E-mails went back and forth and then started to slow with time… and umm... interest... After about a month, I would randomly get e-mails telling me I was the coolest person he knows (we hadn’t met, dude, you have no idea how cool I am!). He repeatedly sent strong language my way that may be flattering if deserved, but this was completely undeserved and, quite honestly, constructed fantasy.
Needless to say … I got totally weirded out. Really fucking amazingly weirded out! The less we talked the more persistent he became. Even after my attempts to sever the conversation, he continued stalking me multiple times a day and sending me e-mails telling me he missed me (I’m not sure how you miss someone you’ve never met?). I ended up blocking his account. This protection method is troublesome. They can stop him from contacting me, but they can’t stop him from visiting my profile and jerking off to my face every night ? doing perverse things to himself. That was graphic and insensitive (YES!!), I apologize, my mom would not approve … she would edit my text. But that's what it felt like ... invasive.
That was months ago and long been forgotten. Fast forward to last night.
These are the thoughts that keep me up at night:
“Yay, I’m going to see Why?”
“It will be so awesome”
“Too bad it’s all ages”
“I am going to dance and dance”
“Maybe there will be eye candy there”
He knew I went to the last show. I know he’s as big of a fan as I am. I hope he doesn't hope to see me there. The Triple Rock is hardly a place for hiding. There’s nowhere to run from a guy that thinks you are the coolest in the world. OH NO!! After all these goings on, I peg him to be the type that would come over if he saw me … especially if I’m there alone! If I’m there alone, he probably won’t ever leave! He’ll think he’s doing me a favor by giving me his company.
SHIT! I can’t watch this show in the ladies room! I CAN’T!
If memory serves me correctly his profile specs put him at a height less than my own. What if he can’t see and wants to sit on my shoulders! This is bad news. Nothing good can come of this!
I’m so bummed! My over the top excitement just climbed piggy-back onto outright terror!
The potential for catastrophe is too great … I gotta find myself a date to this show! RIGHT….DO IT!!!!!!!
Posted By Mary to Marymeant at 9/14/2009 05:18:00 PM AND EDITED BY MOM 9/15 AT 6:10 pm.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Why? Oh, NO!
These are the thoughts that keep me up at night.
Bored with Internet Explorer, 400 Blows, The Weakerthans, and A Dud Avocado, the only other reasonable thing to do was sleep. I crawled into bed around 10:30 thinking of my much needed rest before the 14 hour work day ahead of me. Lying there, with one knee pulled up to my chin, waiting for sleep… I had the most horrible realization.
I really do spend a lot of time thinking about music – What I might find next. When I can buy tickets. Those lyrics to that one song. Album release dates. Shows I’ve seen. Shows I can’t wait to see.
Last night, the normal musical excitement was twirling around my brain. I was sooo stoked that one of my favorite bands, Why?, was coming to town again. I bought my single ticket ages ago. I already told work they are going to have to hire a union stage hand to replace me for the night. Life stops for Why?. Period.
Amid all this excitement there is back-story. Remember the excitement though. Never forget the excitement!
(if I had video capabilities I would insert a Wayne’s World Flash Back transition … here)
Early in the year I was set out to meet new people. I joined all these clubs (only to realize I don’t need any more middle aged friends) and succumbed to an online dating site. The listed favorites on people’s profiles were often conversation starters.
For one guy in particular, the contact initiator was the fact that both of us were Why? fans. The guy was nice enough, but a pussy who wouldn’t ask me out and I was too on the fence about him to be the aggressor. E-mails went back and forth and then started to slow with time… and umm... interest. After about a month, I would randomly get e-mails telling me I was the coolest person he knows (we hadn’t met, dude, you have no idea how cool I am). He repeatedly sent strong language my way that may be flattering if deserved, but this was completely undeserved and, quite honestly, constructed fantasy.
Needless to say … I got totally weirded out. Really fucking weirded out! The less we talked the more persistent he became. Even after my attempts to sever the conversation, he continued stalking me multiple times a day and sending me e-mails telling me he missed me (I’m not sure how you miss someone you’ve never met?). I ended up blocking his account. This protection method is troublesome. They can stop him from contacting me, but they can’t stop him from visiting my profile and jerking off to my face every night? That was graphic and insensitive, I apologize, my mom would not approve. But that's what it felt like ... invasive.
That was months ago and long been forgotten. Fast forward to last night.
These are the thoughts that keep me up at night:
“Yay, I’m going to see Why?”
“It will be so awesome”
“Too bad it’s all ages”
“I am going to dance and dance”
“Maybe there will be eye candy there”
“FUCK!!!!”
My long been forgotten was just remembered!
He knew I went to the last show. I know he’s as big of a fan as I am. I hope he doesn't hope to see me there. The Triple Rock is hardly a place for hiding. There’s nowhere to run from a guy that thinks you are the coolest in the world. OH NO!! After all these goings on, I peg him to be the type that would come over if he saw me … especially if I’m there alone! If I’m there alone, he probably won’t ever leave! He’ll think he’s doing me a favor by giving me his company.
SHIT! I can’t watch this show in the ladies room! I CAN’T!
If memory serves me correctly his profile specs put him at a height less than my own. What if he can’t see and wants to sit on my shoulders! This is bad news. Nothing good can come of this!
I’m so bummed! My over the top excitement just climbed piggy-back onto outright terror!
The potential for catastrophe is too great … I gotta find myself a date to this show! And I'm sorry for whichever lucky bastard gets to be buffer! I'll buy you a drink .. or four...
Bored with Internet Explorer, 400 Blows, The Weakerthans, and A Dud Avocado, the only other reasonable thing to do was sleep. I crawled into bed around 10:30 thinking of my much needed rest before the 14 hour work day ahead of me. Lying there, with one knee pulled up to my chin, waiting for sleep… I had the most horrible realization.
I really do spend a lot of time thinking about music – What I might find next. When I can buy tickets. Those lyrics to that one song. Album release dates. Shows I’ve seen. Shows I can’t wait to see.
Last night, the normal musical excitement was twirling around my brain. I was sooo stoked that one of my favorite bands, Why?, was coming to town again. I bought my single ticket ages ago. I already told work they are going to have to hire a union stage hand to replace me for the night. Life stops for Why?. Period.
Amid all this excitement there is back-story. Remember the excitement though. Never forget the excitement!
(if I had video capabilities I would insert a Wayne’s World Flash Back transition … here)
Early in the year I was set out to meet new people. I joined all these clubs (only to realize I don’t need any more middle aged friends) and succumbed to an online dating site. The listed favorites on people’s profiles were often conversation starters.
For one guy in particular, the contact initiator was the fact that both of us were Why? fans. The guy was nice enough, but a pussy who wouldn’t ask me out and I was too on the fence about him to be the aggressor. E-mails went back and forth and then started to slow with time… and umm... interest. After about a month, I would randomly get e-mails telling me I was the coolest person he knows (we hadn’t met, dude, you have no idea how cool I am). He repeatedly sent strong language my way that may be flattering if deserved, but this was completely undeserved and, quite honestly, constructed fantasy.
Needless to say … I got totally weirded out. Really fucking weirded out! The less we talked the more persistent he became. Even after my attempts to sever the conversation, he continued stalking me multiple times a day and sending me e-mails telling me he missed me (I’m not sure how you miss someone you’ve never met?). I ended up blocking his account. This protection method is troublesome. They can stop him from contacting me, but they can’t stop him from visiting my profile and jerking off to my face every night? That was graphic and insensitive, I apologize, my mom would not approve. But that's what it felt like ... invasive.
That was months ago and long been forgotten. Fast forward to last night.
These are the thoughts that keep me up at night:
“Yay, I’m going to see Why?”
“It will be so awesome”
“Too bad it’s all ages”
“I am going to dance and dance”
“Maybe there will be eye candy there”
“FUCK!!!!”
My long been forgotten was just remembered!
He knew I went to the last show. I know he’s as big of a fan as I am. I hope he doesn't hope to see me there. The Triple Rock is hardly a place for hiding. There’s nowhere to run from a guy that thinks you are the coolest in the world. OH NO!! After all these goings on, I peg him to be the type that would come over if he saw me … especially if I’m there alone! If I’m there alone, he probably won’t ever leave! He’ll think he’s doing me a favor by giving me his company.
SHIT! I can’t watch this show in the ladies room! I CAN’T!
If memory serves me correctly his profile specs put him at a height less than my own. What if he can’t see and wants to sit on my shoulders! This is bad news. Nothing good can come of this!
I’m so bummed! My over the top excitement just climbed piggy-back onto outright terror!
The potential for catastrophe is too great … I gotta find myself a date to this show! And I'm sorry for whichever lucky bastard gets to be buffer! I'll buy you a drink .. or four...
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Waterfall Therapy
This is where I sit as I write this.
Every week that passes has made me a firm believer in a concept I have coined ‘Waterfall Therapy’. The last three weekends I have found myself at the foot of three different waterfalls. Closing out the fourth weekend … who was I to break tradition?
The first was Wisconsin bred along Willow River. The gradual grade made a perfect playground. Wading along with the current pushing hard against my skin, almost in an attempt to rid my presence. The second trip was common ground for me. I picked up my favorite Minneapolis made Vietnamese sandwich and decided it would taste better with a side of cascading water. I ate my curried mock duck at Minnihaha Falls. The water particles seemed to shatter in mid-air. The resulting mist cooled my face in the hot summer sun. Last weekend I huffed past the 2000 foot Bridal Veil Falls while hiking the Cascades.
Sitting there. Hearing the powerful sound of water against rock. Smelling the liquid’s sweetness in the air. Feeling the mist or current against your skin. Sensory overload in the best possible way. How could anyone leave these places harboring even an ounce of negativity?
Each of these days I arrived in a good mood and left in an even better one. My deductive reasoning tells me that a bad mood could easily morph towards positivity in the company of a waterfall. I think Waterfall Therapy has made it to my list of mood moderators. Bad day … find a waterfall.
To carry on tradition, today I decided to play a risky game with the waterfalls of the world. Hidden Falls regional park has bested me before. I spent the day circling, seeking out these hidden falls. To no avail. Today I felt I had waterfall magic on my side and hoped my luck had changed. It didn’t. I made the same circle but this time found a dried up creek bed that may or may not house a small fall in wetter weather.
My substitute is sitting in the sand, under this tree watching fisherman reap the benefits of the Mississippi.
You’ve won this round, Hidden Falls. But I’ll be back, I always come back.
I guess I will have to settle for Ford Dam.
WAIT!!! This story ain’t over! I even fooled myself with that one!
A short distance out of the park, I spot this sign nestled along the bike trail. I pull over to investigate the possibility of another footpath to the falls. The steps from the bike trail open to a familiar sound. I know that sound. I love that sound. I came here for that sound. A huge, rock carved staircase brings me down to the Found Falls.
So this is how my story ends – I leave a little happier than I came and think to myself, “That’s one regional park I am all tied up with.”
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Just to confuse you.
I guess I don't talk about work much.
A few months ago my mom and I had a basic conversation about how my orchestra operates. I've worked there three years. It was the type of discussion that usually follows up "What do you?" coming from a stranger. But ... when I get that question from a stranger I usually sell my profession short. I don't think people understand what I do, probably because I am the person no one is ever supposed to notice in the performance world. At least, I am if I'm doing my job correctly.
See I'm already confusing you.
Let's just say ... I shared my life for three years with a person that never came to an understanding of what I did with my days at work.
I'm not writing to start writing about work. I don't want to write about work. I don't want to talk about work. Work is work. I love what I do and frankly my job is more interesting than 80 percent of the careers out there, but work is one part of my life that doesn't need to intercept my other realities.
With that said ... tonight I remembered why I am amazing at what I do and why I love this business. I haven't felt that feeling in over three months. It was nice to come back to.
I may spend my days sweating. I probably grumble under my breath a little at the amount of stuff I have scheduled to lift. I always wish for more time to pull genius out of my ass. But ... there is a moment when none of that stuff matters - Showtime! For a minute, everything was worth the blood, sweat and, well, not tears. With each show up, I see my own results and that's an amazing feeling. Setting the perfect lighting, smooth sailings with the microphones and getting the artists out of stage ... that's a rewarding night for me.
After two hours of glitz and glory, it's done. That quickly I am undo-ing everything I just worked towards for the last few days. Two hours and I am striking the lighting that I was just putting up four hours ago. The setup and clean up outweigh the production by a long shot - what a weird world I live in - and somehow it's totally worth it.
A few months ago my mom and I had a basic conversation about how my orchestra operates. I've worked there three years. It was the type of discussion that usually follows up "What do you?" coming from a stranger. But ... when I get that question from a stranger I usually sell my profession short. I don't think people understand what I do, probably because I am the person no one is ever supposed to notice in the performance world. At least, I am if I'm doing my job correctly.
See I'm already confusing you.
Let's just say ... I shared my life for three years with a person that never came to an understanding of what I did with my days at work.
I'm not writing to start writing about work. I don't want to write about work. I don't want to talk about work. Work is work. I love what I do and frankly my job is more interesting than 80 percent of the careers out there, but work is one part of my life that doesn't need to intercept my other realities.
With that said ... tonight I remembered why I am amazing at what I do and why I love this business. I haven't felt that feeling in over three months. It was nice to come back to.
I may spend my days sweating. I probably grumble under my breath a little at the amount of stuff I have scheduled to lift. I always wish for more time to pull genius out of my ass. But ... there is a moment when none of that stuff matters - Showtime! For a minute, everything was worth the blood, sweat and, well, not tears. With each show up, I see my own results and that's an amazing feeling. Setting the perfect lighting, smooth sailings with the microphones and getting the artists out of stage ... that's a rewarding night for me.
After two hours of glitz and glory, it's done. That quickly I am undo-ing everything I just worked towards for the last few days. Two hours and I am striking the lighting that I was just putting up four hours ago. The setup and clean up outweigh the production by a long shot - what a weird world I live in - and somehow it's totally worth it.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Independent to a Fault
My work day could have made my night go either way. A mentally and physically exhausting day. By the end of it, I was ready to fight someone. Sharp tongue waiting for it's chance. Part of me wanted to head home and fall asleep at 8:30pm. The other half of me wanted to go out on the town. The later half of me tends to fail. As much as I want to go out with friends.. my independent nature often forgets to go there. I just like hanging out with myself so damn much.
Independent to a fault.
I have a month of single ticket shows to go to. I know I love the band and I know I have to see them live. I don't care what the fuck the rest of the world is doing, I need to be at this concert. I buy a ticket. I never even think to invite someone along. I may mention it to a friend but I never pursue it to avoid the lonely stance at First Ave. So... day of show. I go alone. I shake my ass. I talk to the assholes next to me. I hold beers bigger than my face. After seeing Atmosphere this week, I realized the only part I dislike about going a show alone - the post-concert high becomes an utter buzz kill. I'm all high on adrenline and maybe the second-hand weed. Ready to bounce off the walls from the awesomeness I just witness. And all I get to do is sit in a parking lot alone for 20 minutes before someone lets me back into the pay station line. This is usually when I call home at midnight, waking up my mom to tell her what a great time I had. Ha. My poor mom.
What am I talking about? Right... tonight could have gone either way. When I got home I needed to wash my skin of it's negativity. I showered and dressed myself in a manner too cute for staying in. Skinny jeans aren't for lounging. Couch sitting will undoubtedly lead to numbness in the lower extremities. I needed to go out or go to bed. But I never called anyone. So I made an amazing meal, put on some booty music and opened a bottle of wine. My night in became a night out. Dancing around my apartment. Getting a little tipsy. Every once and a while I would pass a mirror, catch my ass in the reflection and think I should hit on myself.
I'm pretty sure I just listened to Montell Jordan three times. I have a fully choreographed dance and a fantasy about my karaoke appearence.
I had a bottle of wine... I shouldn't be blogging.
Independent to a fault.
I have a month of single ticket shows to go to. I know I love the band and I know I have to see them live. I don't care what the fuck the rest of the world is doing, I need to be at this concert. I buy a ticket. I never even think to invite someone along. I may mention it to a friend but I never pursue it to avoid the lonely stance at First Ave. So... day of show. I go alone. I shake my ass. I talk to the assholes next to me. I hold beers bigger than my face. After seeing Atmosphere this week, I realized the only part I dislike about going a show alone - the post-concert high becomes an utter buzz kill. I'm all high on adrenline and maybe the second-hand weed. Ready to bounce off the walls from the awesomeness I just witness. And all I get to do is sit in a parking lot alone for 20 minutes before someone lets me back into the pay station line. This is usually when I call home at midnight, waking up my mom to tell her what a great time I had. Ha. My poor mom.
What am I talking about? Right... tonight could have gone either way. When I got home I needed to wash my skin of it's negativity. I showered and dressed myself in a manner too cute for staying in. Skinny jeans aren't for lounging. Couch sitting will undoubtedly lead to numbness in the lower extremities. I needed to go out or go to bed. But I never called anyone. So I made an amazing meal, put on some booty music and opened a bottle of wine. My night in became a night out. Dancing around my apartment. Getting a little tipsy. Every once and a while I would pass a mirror, catch my ass in the reflection and think I should hit on myself.
I'm pretty sure I just listened to Montell Jordan three times. I have a fully choreographed dance and a fantasy about my karaoke appearence.
I had a bottle of wine... I shouldn't be blogging.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Testing One, Two, Hey, Hey
I am learning that I miss formatting. I tend to write offline in Word and then publish online and lose all my hard worked formatting. Tonight I am beginning to explore the options of posting into this blog as is. Ideally, I think I need to figure out a way to link to my documents through another server. Today I wanted to play around with file formats. So... You should be able to click on each picture below and it will open into a full sized page. Maybe this is annoying. Yeah, it is probably is annoying.
Intro to what's below - I was reading through some old college papers and realized that I was sorta smart at one point in my life. I've said before that my college education was writing and I loved it. After sitting here day after day at my computer and coming up with musings on poop and music, it was weird to read a critical analysis. I had something intelligent to say. An argument to make. An aim to persuade. I am hardly doing that with all my poop talk. I miss the structure and dissection in this type of writing. It's a very different use of language and purpose.
Yes, what is posted below is a college paper. But it's a college paper about hip hop and guns and penises! I figured it was the only one that people may make it to the second or third page of. I will warn you - there are nearly 162 uses of the word 'masculinity' and some gross generalizations. Even I was a little annoyed at myself by the end of it.
My major was fucking awesome!
Intro to what's below - I was reading through some old college papers and realized that I was sorta smart at one point in my life. I've said before that my college education was writing and I loved it. After sitting here day after day at my computer and coming up with musings on poop and music, it was weird to read a critical analysis. I had something intelligent to say. An argument to make. An aim to persuade. I am hardly doing that with all my poop talk. I miss the structure and dissection in this type of writing. It's a very different use of language and purpose.
Yes, what is posted below is a college paper. But it's a college paper about hip hop and guns and penises! I figured it was the only one that people may make it to the second or third page of. I will warn you - there are nearly 162 uses of the word 'masculinity' and some gross generalizations. Even I was a little annoyed at myself by the end of it.
My major was fucking awesome!
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
An Old Hallow's Eve
October 31, 2006
My holiday cheer…
With no parties to go to. With no pumpkin to carve. My 31st consisted of a nap after work, then at 6:00pm I thought… well damn, I may be home alone but I'm going to have some Halloween fun.
All the last minute candy shoppers must have been more punctual than me, all that was left at the store was the nasty hard gum and Dum-Dums. I went for the Dum-Dums and a child sized witch hat (it was all they had left for impromptu costumes, and no it did not fit my head).
Despite the 25 degree weather, I set out to lure some kids I don't know up to my door step for candy. Apparently, the candles at the end of the sidewalk weren't a clear indication that there were free goodies. After an hour sitting on my cold, cement stoop, my candy bowl was reduced by 9 suckers. The four old ass kids that showed up dressed as teenagers in Minnesota's cold weather carried plastic grocery bags and got two pieces each. The ninth sucker fell out of its wrapper, so I threw that one away.
So my question to you is …. I have 161 suckers, want some??
My holiday cheer…
With no parties to go to. With no pumpkin to carve. My 31st consisted of a nap after work, then at 6:00pm I thought… well damn, I may be home alone but I'm going to have some Halloween fun.
All the last minute candy shoppers must have been more punctual than me, all that was left at the store was the nasty hard gum and Dum-Dums. I went for the Dum-Dums and a child sized witch hat (it was all they had left for impromptu costumes, and no it did not fit my head).
Despite the 25 degree weather, I set out to lure some kids I don't know up to my door step for candy. Apparently, the candles at the end of the sidewalk weren't a clear indication that there were free goodies. After an hour sitting on my cold, cement stoop, my candy bowl was reduced by 9 suckers. The four old ass kids that showed up dressed as teenagers in Minnesota's cold weather carried plastic grocery bags and got two pieces each. The ninth sucker fell out of its wrapper, so I threw that one away.
So my question to you is …. I have 161 suckers, want some??
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Taking Flight
I guess I left on a jet plane and knew when I’d be back again. Yesterday. Flying into the Twin Cities, we swooped in towards the Minneapolis skyline only to bank right towards MSP International. I loved the tourist behind me mapping the city as we flew. Telling the Middle Seat we were flying over St. Paul, when in actuality we were flying over South Minneapolis. I spotted the beach on Lake Nokomis, almost empty. I needed to be there. I landed at noon. By 1pm I was sunbathing on Nokomis sand. Waking up at 4:45am needs its reward.
I love flying. I love airports. There has never been a minute in my life where I was nervous about either. Airports are logical places of order for me. I think it has something to do with the fact that I understand how humans are supposed to read. I use this skill at an airport and I never get lost! Even small planes don’t rattle my bones. There’s nothing like being at a lower elevation on a two seater. I have a friend that was banking hours for flight school who would take me up once and a while. The very first time I flew with him, he hopped the state and picked me up in Milwaukee. I remember walking out onto the airstrip and sizing up the parked air crafts. Looking down the line… I thought “I hope it’s not that one”. It was that one. It always is that one, isn’t it? A tiny single engine Cessna right out of the 1950’s. I had the best time in that tiny plane.
It was late in life for me to actually fly in a passenger plane. I was in high school and on my way to Jamaica. A few years ago I must have been having the “flying experiences” conversation with extended family, because I started to tell a story about how I distinctly remember boarding a plane when I was very, very little. I clearly remember climbing the jetway just to take a seat and eat the complimentary peanuts. I knew, somehow, that I didn’t go anywhere. I went there to eat nuts. That was my memory, which is a strange memory to have. My mom overheard my story and told me I was lying my face off. After a lot of “na uh” and “yah huh” s were exchanged, my mother’s expression suddenly changed into recollection. Apparently, I went to a day care (or preschool?) that took me on really cool field trips. She admitted that a visit to the airport seemed familiar. Memory confirmed and valid. Now I just wonder which of my teacher’s relatives were flying into town that day.
Labor Day 2009 – 4:45am
The 15 minutes I gave myself before leaving were more than enough. My sister and I groggily climbed into her red Toyota that was parked as they do in Seattle, on the curb facing traffic. Headlight to headlight with another car. The drive to stinky Tacoma was a smelly one indeed. I kept thinking my sister’s car smelled like tuna or something else that would gross me out as much as tuna. We said our goodbyes and I headed towards the security line.
I always feel like the TSA would be grateful for my continued good service to their process. I’m always ready with their regulations, swift in line and never hold up the scanning process. Grabbing a bin, I flip my loosely tied boots off with a flick of the wrist. I pile them upside on top of the rest of my stuff. That graceful maneuver came up with disgraceful results.
Dog shit.
Dog shit that was now covering my left hand and still holding steady to the sole of my shoe. I’m glad my shoes had the ending position they did - stuff full of shit would have been a nightmare but a hand full of shit isn’t easy to deal with getting pushed along in line. Suddenly, I was an amputee with only one working arm. The other rendered useless when shat on.
Ok this is my reality… it’s 5am and there is foreign poop all over my fingers. I wasn’t prepared for a poop emergency and racked my brain for what was in my bag that could be of use. Defeated and a little frantic, I tapped an agent on her shoulder with my remaining clean hand. I wanted to ask for help. I knew that poop is a real problem and a busy working woman may actually stop to assist. But when she turned to face me, all that could come out was “Do you have any tissue? I stepped in mud”. I couldn’t admit to my poop! I’m sure my coded language was suspect. She came back immediately with Kleenex and disinfectant wipes. The poop smell was burned into my nostrils for a good hour or two. I kept getting a gross whiff and then being saddened by the realization that it was me.
I ended up paying extra for the emergency row upgrade. Which is something I don’t understand, why I should pay more to save other people’s lives? Talk about buying into heroism. But, I figured I should limit my chances of grossing out my neighbors.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Pedaled Love
My drive home the last few days has driven home something I have long been harboring - I love bicyclist. There’s no sarcasm there. I love all of them.
The Twin Cities has an amazing biking community. Crawling along Summit Avenue around rush hour, I couldn’t even count the number of bike commuters that passed me in speed. Most of them carrying the ‘work clothes’ bag. Some just sweating up their formal wear. Somehow their good deed makes me feel better about myself. You would think I would feel guilty, sitting high in my giant car all alone, but somehow I pretend they are biking for me as much as they are biking for them. So I will let them do just that. Their non-driving counters my driving. World balance, no?
The truth of the matter is I often wish I never got this stupid car. I accumulated my sweet, kid-toting ride after graduating college. Up until that point, all I did was bike. I hated the bus. So I biked. I biked in the rain and the snow. I will take a wet ass over a crazy man any day. I biked after 16 hours of crazy labor filled days at work. My favorite was biking to get my groceries. I’d fill my backpack and carabinered two more large bags to it. I should have had a wide load sticker. I still hit the pedals for leisure frequently, but I gotta say, I miss the commute. Or maybe I miss that biking used to be my best option for travel. Now, I’m pretty sure I need the extra 20 minutes of sleep.
So many drivers get pissed at bicyclists. I love every shade of bikers.
I love the zippy’s in their spandex. Particularly when I am somehow keeping even stride with them on my bike.
I love the 13 year old boys on BMXs that cut in front of me wearing jersey’s and hats with their brims pointing in my direction, only to give me a fully proper hand signal to indicate their turning left. Awesome. I fell in love with those two little glorious bastards today.
I love every dirty boy on a fixie. I wouldn’t rely on that attraction if it were up close and personal, but in flash motion, they are all hot somehow.
I love the obvious non-biker bikers. The ones who you can always see their underwear band peeking out from the fold in their shorts and athletic socks pulled up to their knees.
This is my homage to the bicyclist filling the streets … I fucking love you guys.
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