You may have noticed a shift away from diet topics in my blog. Over these last few weeks I have seriously considered changing the title of my blog to reflect the shift in the working mechanism of my life. Although weight issues and my failing memory, not to mention the slow giving way of all connective tissue that keeps me from becoming a puddle, continue to be major issues in my life, I have decided to focus the thrust of my ravings on the one issue we all face; survival.
For all of you living cash- only in a credit littered world......in a job that fails to pay you enough to make ends meet.....I welcome you to the wonderful world of Lackademia: The Art of Living Below Poverty Level.
Has the world really come to this? Does electric really cost more than a designer dress or an 80 year old bottle of Cognac? Has meat really become a once yearly splurge? Can Ramen noodles be considered a food group? Are fresh vegetables a distant dream? Does On Demand really want to charge me $6.99 to watch Iron Man 2? seriously? For all of my brothers and sisters out there living in the dark with their thermostats set at 60.........I am here to light the way.
We must dig deep and find creative ways to augment our income. I paint doggie portraits to earn a little extra money. Of course I'm not really sure how this actually pans out. I'm waiting for the results of the feasibility study to determine the expense of electric light weighed against the potential income made possible by the extraneous usage of said electric light and its impact on the future purchase of fingerless gloves at Wal-Mart because it's FUCKING COLD IN HERE!!
Chins up kids. Just because our elected officials are sitting in their warm and well lit chambers perusing their latest medical test results that were fully funded by their ultra exclusive health insurance as they try to decide between the lobster or Kobe beef for lunch is no need for hostility or negativity.
Center your chi.
Think positively.
Embrace your creative self.
.......and watch for my next blog; "Dropping dead on the job as a viable alternative to retirement"
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
Road Rage
As we all know, I'm not the most aggressive driver in the world. Hilary is convinced that my driving style exists simply and exclusively to annoy her. I've said it before people.......my most comfortable speed of choice is 50 mph. For me to hit 60.......well.......you can pretty much count on a pronounced lack of blood flow to my fingers as they clutch the wheel in a sweaty panic. It's getting worse as I age. I drive along with my mothers scowl on (sorry Mom...it's true) Mom would frown as she drove, and be utterly oblivious to any and all attempts to wave or otherwise attract her attention. I catch a glimpse of my scowl face in the rear view at times, and try hard not to make it appear to other motorists that I'm having a colonoscopy while driving 50 on Rt 15.
Hilary, on the other hand, is a maestro motorist. She cruises along with a confidence born of her no nonsense, tell it like it is approach to everything in her life. I am in awe of Hilary the driver. So we are coming back from a lovely pedicure and heading to dinner when a driver suddenly speeds up to whip around her to exit the highway. Hilary maintains her cool and glances over at the offending individual with a cold and disapproving eye.
Then it happens again at the next exit...........
Hilary rolls down her window...."REALLY!!? SERIOUSLY!??" she yells across the atmosphere. We continue along having merged in to the left lane to avoid the cluster fuck that is rush hour exiting of the highway. Our exit to the restaurant is coming up. Hilary merges back in the the right hand lane. "THIS IS ME GETTING READY TO EXIT IN PLENTY OF TIME.......WATCH AND LEARN PEOPLE!!!" We are almost to our exit when another car is cut off. Hilary rolls down my window and yells "HONK......AT.......HIM!!!!!!" "HONK.....AT......HIM!!!!" It seems her annoyance at traffic brings out her protective side as well.
I sit quite peacefully in the passenger side........trying not to wear my mothers driving face just in case it happens when I'm riding as well. I trust Hilary completely to get us to a relaxing dinner in one piece. she exits the car without even the slightest residual effect of the treacherous trek we just completed.
I pause and reflect a moment
Were it me driving..........I would have stayed glued in the right hand lane going 45 mph, at least 14 car lengths away from the car in front of me, compromising blood flow to my extremities, all while enjoying a psychic colonoscopy that reads on my face like a jowly jack-o-lantern.
I'm good.
You drive.
Hilary, on the other hand, is a maestro motorist. She cruises along with a confidence born of her no nonsense, tell it like it is approach to everything in her life. I am in awe of Hilary the driver. So we are coming back from a lovely pedicure and heading to dinner when a driver suddenly speeds up to whip around her to exit the highway. Hilary maintains her cool and glances over at the offending individual with a cold and disapproving eye.
Then it happens again at the next exit...........
Hilary rolls down her window...."REALLY!!? SERIOUSLY!??" she yells across the atmosphere. We continue along having merged in to the left lane to avoid the cluster fuck that is rush hour exiting of the highway. Our exit to the restaurant is coming up. Hilary merges back in the the right hand lane. "THIS IS ME GETTING READY TO EXIT IN PLENTY OF TIME.......WATCH AND LEARN PEOPLE!!!" We are almost to our exit when another car is cut off. Hilary rolls down my window and yells "HONK......AT.......HIM!!!!!!" "HONK.....AT......HIM!!!!" It seems her annoyance at traffic brings out her protective side as well.
I sit quite peacefully in the passenger side........trying not to wear my mothers driving face just in case it happens when I'm riding as well. I trust Hilary completely to get us to a relaxing dinner in one piece. she exits the car without even the slightest residual effect of the treacherous trek we just completed.
I pause and reflect a moment
Were it me driving..........I would have stayed glued in the right hand lane going 45 mph, at least 14 car lengths away from the car in front of me, compromising blood flow to my extremities, all while enjoying a psychic colonoscopy that reads on my face like a jowly jack-o-lantern.
I'm good.
You drive.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Dog training for idiots such as myself, part 1
My mother always said "we have bad luck with dogs" We did actually. Frequent moving wreaked havoc on our pets. It seems like very shortly after settling in to a new place, the family dog would end up the hopeless loser in an unfortunate vehicular confrontation. Mom was an absolute genius at hiding doggie damage from Dad. A shrug and a smile would diffuse his anger on the off chance he uncovered one of the secret places. Her smile in combination with her wicked sense of humor never failed to do the trick. Mom was the kind of woman who, upon growing tired of the endless parade of belches emanating from my father and brother on football/beer/peanut Sunday, would quietly sit opposite them with her own beer and belch them in to submission.
Mom was the dog trainer.....and she was good at it. All the basics were achieved. Sit. Down. Stay. She also trained the dogs to potty in one little chicken wired off section of the lawn. No poop hunts for her! No unsightly yellowed and dead patches of grass! "Poor dead dog!" she would say as the cue for Brandy to lay motionless on her side. I think I always took for granted mom's gift with the dogs because many, many years later when I finally had my own dog...........I found the gift not to be inherited.
To benefit those of you who may now, or at some future time, be involved in the training of a dog, here are some tips you might find helpful. Keep in mind that these are all from my own personal experience as a completely idiotic dog trainer.
1) When trying to get your new and inexplicably off-lead dog to come to you because you are now ready to go home because there's a thunderstorm looming and you are running late for an appointment, yelling "HEY FUCK HEAD.....CAN YOU GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE!!? most often fails to be all together effective.
2) Finally resorting to chasing him while waving his lead over your head and bellowing COME COME COME YOU LITTLE ASSHOLE!! also.......not typically a plan that will end with your dog back under your control. Aside from the general mechanics of failure on a purely physical level ( he can run at 20 mph with 4 legs. I can plod like a drunken plow mule on valium. I think I'll try to run him down.........ahhhhh....good plan) there is on the behavioral level, the non existent chance that your dog will actually come to a screaming maniac waving a leash. Would you?
3) When offering a tasty treat for a job well done, keep in mind that your dog has no particular emotional or spiritual attachment to your fingers.....besides....they smell like pupperoni. Yum! Be kind to your fingers, you may have a use for them later. Offer treats with an open hand.
4) potty training is always a challenge. I found that baby talking to your dog; "duh ma mas bay bay wan uh go poo poos?" will only serve to annoy your neighbors and call in to question your competence and ability to live an independent lifestyle. Best to find a non offensive potty word and stick to it. Once again......a word......."Nickolai would you please hurry up and dump so I can go inside!", may just be a tad too wordy for your darling with a brain the size of a walnut.
5)Destructive chewing can be a problem. I have found that when attempting to get an inappropriate item away from your dog, it's always best to offer something of higher value in exchange. Keep in mind that this means a higher value in your dogs eyes. Wrestling your fabulously broken in Nike orthopedic bun lifting tennis shoe away by offering your genuine Prada pumps in exchange, is not generally a good idea. This is a dog.......you could offer him a nice and newly deposited cat tootsie out of the litter box and he will smile inside at his good fortune and gladly release the not-nearly-so-tasty tennis shoe.
So by now I'm sure you are asking yourself "what is the secret to dog training Nancy?" Well kids.......I'm gonna let you in on it. Please feel free to share it with your friends and neighbors. The answer is simply this:
Hotdogs
Dogs will do anything for hotdogs. I am convinced that it was their originally intended purpose. Human consumption had to be way down on the list. I discovered the magic of hotdogs while trying to teach my hopelessly hardheaded Husky to sit. If there was a piece of hotdog in it for him, he would plant his ass with such a fast and enthusiastic "BAM" that the floor shook and pictures hung askew.
It was a breakthrough
If you would like to teach your dog hop on two feet and recite the Gettysburg Address.......just pick up some cheap hotdogs and have a blast! Nickolai has been known to rapidly run through his entire repertoire of behaviors, followed by a snappy little soft shoe routine, if there was a hotdog within 100 yards.
Watch and learn Grasshoppers
Mom was the dog trainer.....and she was good at it. All the basics were achieved. Sit. Down. Stay. She also trained the dogs to potty in one little chicken wired off section of the lawn. No poop hunts for her! No unsightly yellowed and dead patches of grass! "Poor dead dog!" she would say as the cue for Brandy to lay motionless on her side. I think I always took for granted mom's gift with the dogs because many, many years later when I finally had my own dog...........I found the gift not to be inherited.
To benefit those of you who may now, or at some future time, be involved in the training of a dog, here are some tips you might find helpful. Keep in mind that these are all from my own personal experience as a completely idiotic dog trainer.
1) When trying to get your new and inexplicably off-lead dog to come to you because you are now ready to go home because there's a thunderstorm looming and you are running late for an appointment, yelling "HEY FUCK HEAD.....CAN YOU GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE!!? most often fails to be all together effective.
2) Finally resorting to chasing him while waving his lead over your head and bellowing COME COME COME YOU LITTLE ASSHOLE!! also.......not typically a plan that will end with your dog back under your control. Aside from the general mechanics of failure on a purely physical level ( he can run at 20 mph with 4 legs. I can plod like a drunken plow mule on valium. I think I'll try to run him down.........ahhhhh....good plan) there is on the behavioral level, the non existent chance that your dog will actually come to a screaming maniac waving a leash. Would you?
3) When offering a tasty treat for a job well done, keep in mind that your dog has no particular emotional or spiritual attachment to your fingers.....besides....they smell like pupperoni. Yum! Be kind to your fingers, you may have a use for them later. Offer treats with an open hand.
4) potty training is always a challenge. I found that baby talking to your dog; "duh ma mas bay bay wan uh go poo poos?" will only serve to annoy your neighbors and call in to question your competence and ability to live an independent lifestyle. Best to find a non offensive potty word and stick to it. Once again......a word......."Nickolai would you please hurry up and dump so I can go inside!", may just be a tad too wordy for your darling with a brain the size of a walnut.
5)Destructive chewing can be a problem. I have found that when attempting to get an inappropriate item away from your dog, it's always best to offer something of higher value in exchange. Keep in mind that this means a higher value in your dogs eyes. Wrestling your fabulously broken in Nike orthopedic bun lifting tennis shoe away by offering your genuine Prada pumps in exchange, is not generally a good idea. This is a dog.......you could offer him a nice and newly deposited cat tootsie out of the litter box and he will smile inside at his good fortune and gladly release the not-nearly-so-tasty tennis shoe.
So by now I'm sure you are asking yourself "what is the secret to dog training Nancy?" Well kids.......I'm gonna let you in on it. Please feel free to share it with your friends and neighbors. The answer is simply this:
Hotdogs
Dogs will do anything for hotdogs. I am convinced that it was their originally intended purpose. Human consumption had to be way down on the list. I discovered the magic of hotdogs while trying to teach my hopelessly hardheaded Husky to sit. If there was a piece of hotdog in it for him, he would plant his ass with such a fast and enthusiastic "BAM" that the floor shook and pictures hung askew.
It was a breakthrough
If you would like to teach your dog hop on two feet and recite the Gettysburg Address.......just pick up some cheap hotdogs and have a blast! Nickolai has been known to rapidly run through his entire repertoire of behaviors, followed by a snappy little soft shoe routine, if there was a hotdog within 100 yards.
Watch and learn Grasshoppers
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Air painting and the Jay
My life, as it exists in the here and now, is quite a perplexing thing. I am currently credit-less and working on a strictly cash only basis. My only child is newly married and has a different last name than mine, which has left me feeling strangely adrift. I have developed a new fascination with old Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis movies, which causes me to examine the mechanics of my slightly twisted attachment to throwbacks to simpler times......and I'm sorry, paratroopers in metal helmets toe tapping and making Latin arms while singing about jumping out of planes just makes me laugh.........and I found myself doing something last night that I've never done before......air painting.
In the midst of my latest slightly unhealthy need to throw away everything that's not freakin' nailed down, I found myself stopping,,,,,and sitting......and holding an imaginary brush as I laid down the imaginary strokes that would make a painting of Nickolai as he slept in the sunny spot. My only thoughts were color and the direction of my strokes. "Burnt umber and gold ochre......white........ultramarine blue, burnt umber.....white.......a tiny touch of sap green......white" I'm not sure exactly how long this went on before I became aware of the strangeness of my task. OK...so people air guitar and that's not weird right? they pretend to drum with pencils right? yeah........air painting......that's just fucking weird.
All right then.........God has made me an artist. I get it. I might ask why he didn't make me a neuro surgeon or the CEO of Microsoft or some such other lucrative field that precludes the purchase of mini ravioli because it's 89 cents a can.....but I get it. I'm an artist. Not a lot of those on the fortune 500...but I get it. I found myself last week feeling the weight of my lack of fundage....wondering why......to what point and purpose am I called to be the artist that I am. "I need a sign God.......just give me a sign that I'm on the right road!......that there is a reason and a point.......and that I'm not just standing in the "too stupid to be in the right line" line.
I leashed up the dogs and headed to the park for a walk to stave off the looming panic attack. I was rounding the turn back to the car and decided to head off in to the field. Nick loves to scope out that area for squirrels. I stopped to rest a minute and saw the blue fluttering at my feet. directly in my path is a wounded jay fledgling. His tail feathers were messed up and one wing didn't look so good. "Well shit fuck" is honestly and precisely what went through my head at that moment. "now I gotta go back to the fucking car and pull the fuck around and transport a bird along with my 2 dogs back to the clinic and call the wildlife rehabilitator" I made a mental note to be a little more careful when asking for signs from God......he tends to get right on that.
I bundled up the bird in my jacket and headed off to the clinic. I got there just as the doctor needed me to assist in the euthanasia of a sweet old Sheltie. He was by himself when the call came in long after hours. That I showed up just as he needed me was part two of the sign I had requested earlier that evening. We said goodbye as Joey drifted quietly off and I cried as I always do in these cases. Di showed up for the jay...."nice weight to him......yeah, that wing's broken.....maybe that one too.......I'll see what I can do"
I'm on the right road. It may be a road where I drop my coffee in the parking lot...go back to get another only to have the cat knock it off the counter. It may be a road where I lean over the toilet to flush and drop my bifocals in. It may be a road where I discover that Willie regurged on the couch only after I sit in it.......but it's my road....and it's the right one for me.
I called Di yesterday. "How's the jay?" "Oh hes a pain in my ass........hes resisting self feeding, the little bastard likes being hand fed"
Yeah.......that sounds about right
In the midst of my latest slightly unhealthy need to throw away everything that's not freakin' nailed down, I found myself stopping,,,,,and sitting......and holding an imaginary brush as I laid down the imaginary strokes that would make a painting of Nickolai as he slept in the sunny spot. My only thoughts were color and the direction of my strokes. "Burnt umber and gold ochre......white........ultramarine blue, burnt umber.....white.......a tiny touch of sap green......white" I'm not sure exactly how long this went on before I became aware of the strangeness of my task. OK...so people air guitar and that's not weird right? they pretend to drum with pencils right? yeah........air painting......that's just fucking weird.
All right then.........God has made me an artist. I get it. I might ask why he didn't make me a neuro surgeon or the CEO of Microsoft or some such other lucrative field that precludes the purchase of mini ravioli because it's 89 cents a can.....but I get it. I'm an artist. Not a lot of those on the fortune 500...but I get it. I found myself last week feeling the weight of my lack of fundage....wondering why......to what point and purpose am I called to be the artist that I am. "I need a sign God.......just give me a sign that I'm on the right road!......that there is a reason and a point.......and that I'm not just standing in the "too stupid to be in the right line" line.
I leashed up the dogs and headed to the park for a walk to stave off the looming panic attack. I was rounding the turn back to the car and decided to head off in to the field. Nick loves to scope out that area for squirrels. I stopped to rest a minute and saw the blue fluttering at my feet. directly in my path is a wounded jay fledgling. His tail feathers were messed up and one wing didn't look so good. "Well shit fuck" is honestly and precisely what went through my head at that moment. "now I gotta go back to the fucking car and pull the fuck around and transport a bird along with my 2 dogs back to the clinic and call the wildlife rehabilitator" I made a mental note to be a little more careful when asking for signs from God......he tends to get right on that.
I bundled up the bird in my jacket and headed off to the clinic. I got there just as the doctor needed me to assist in the euthanasia of a sweet old Sheltie. He was by himself when the call came in long after hours. That I showed up just as he needed me was part two of the sign I had requested earlier that evening. We said goodbye as Joey drifted quietly off and I cried as I always do in these cases. Di showed up for the jay...."nice weight to him......yeah, that wing's broken.....maybe that one too.......I'll see what I can do"
I'm on the right road. It may be a road where I drop my coffee in the parking lot...go back to get another only to have the cat knock it off the counter. It may be a road where I lean over the toilet to flush and drop my bifocals in. It may be a road where I discover that Willie regurged on the couch only after I sit in it.......but it's my road....and it's the right one for me.
I called Di yesterday. "How's the jay?" "Oh hes a pain in my ass........hes resisting self feeding, the little bastard likes being hand fed"
Yeah.......that sounds about right
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Never blog under the influence of Lorazepam
This I discovered after spending several hours writing a pointed and deeply spiritual blog entry containing lines like "it was real good" and the chorus to a song I was writing simultaneously "la la la la la la-razzz-a-pam", I decided that it might be a good idea to delete the whole mess before someone in the health care profession saw it and scheduled an intervention. Medication and creativity cannot co exist peacefully.....so choose grasshopper.
Yesterday, I chose medication. For someone such as myself who can really pump up the old existential angst when the situation calls for it, meds are a necessity. Trust me when I say that sparing you the long winded, chest-thumping journal entries of being "awash in creative ambition only to be beached on the sands of despair" in favor of popping 2 lorazepam is for your own freakin' good........and mine. I can put in "I Love Lucy"and sleep deeply and peacefully.
The drawback is as I've said......nothing creative can happen for me under the influence. Forget painting. Forget writing. The most ambitious endeavor I will attempt is watching the progress of that stink bug across my windowsill. Oh yeah........I'm done.
Fortunately for all, the same impetus that causes me to falter in the face of my remote controls and fail to set off paper towel dispensers when I want to, and set off toilet flushers when I don't, is the same one that drives the creative bus. At least I can get some decent paintings out of it. It's the days where I feel my compassion faltering and my patience waning that I fore go the creative in favor of the la la la la la-razzz-a-pam.
It's a damned good thing that I'm not the addictive type, although a Jack Daniels neat would really hit the spot right now.
Yesterday, I chose medication. For someone such as myself who can really pump up the old existential angst when the situation calls for it, meds are a necessity. Trust me when I say that sparing you the long winded, chest-thumping journal entries of being "awash in creative ambition only to be beached on the sands of despair" in favor of popping 2 lorazepam is for your own freakin' good........and mine. I can put in "I Love Lucy"and sleep deeply and peacefully.
The drawback is as I've said......nothing creative can happen for me under the influence. Forget painting. Forget writing. The most ambitious endeavor I will attempt is watching the progress of that stink bug across my windowsill. Oh yeah........I'm done.
Fortunately for all, the same impetus that causes me to falter in the face of my remote controls and fail to set off paper towel dispensers when I want to, and set off toilet flushers when I don't, is the same one that drives the creative bus. At least I can get some decent paintings out of it. It's the days where I feel my compassion faltering and my patience waning that I fore go the creative in favor of the la la la la la-razzz-a-pam.
It's a damned good thing that I'm not the addictive type, although a Jack Daniels neat would really hit the spot right now.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
The wedding day.....Liberty resort suffers a sudden loss of water pressure.
So the good news here is that I did not fall down, break glass, belch, fart, faint, or catch anything or anyone on fire. It was a good day. If you were to take away the fact that it was Hilary's wedding day, the above criteria would, in and of itself, constitute a good day. The fact that it was wedding day only means that my beloved and terribly overworked guardian angels were out in full force. "All angel leave is hereby cancelled due to tremendous potential for disaster"
Let me just say that Hilary was beautiful beyond words. She was like Cinderella on speed. Her eyes twinkled and danced, her smile beamed, and her laugh rang through the venue like fine music. There were tears, and looks of love between her and her freshly pronounced husband that brought the house down. The flowers were fabulous, the food was fabulous, the cake was fabulous and even as I type this, Hilary and Justin are honeymooning in fabulous Jamaica.
Let me take you back to wedding day.....10:00 a.m.: Hilary and her bridesmaids assemble in the Nova room. This is where she will spend her day seeing to last minute details and having hair and makeup done by a team of professionals. Bags and suitcases are strewn around the room. All the dresses hang from the curtain rods. Hilary is stressing. By the time I arrive at noon and ask her if she'd spoken to Justin yet today (OK....so am I the only person on the planet that didn't know talking to the groom was taboo too!?!) she looks at me as if I had just pulled a fresh pile of doggie poo from my pocket and flung it at her gown. "Worst question ever!!!" she yells at me. Alrighty then........clearly I need to make a most concerted effort to keep my stinkin' mouth shut. She is an explosion waiting to happen.
Her bridesmaids are seeing to such details as Justin's hair requirements. "go to the room and make sure Justin isn't messing with his hair......don't let him put any crap in it!" Last minute wrinkles are being steamed from her gown. So far so good.......we are right on schedule for a 4:30 p.m. ceremony. The hair and makeup people begin on me. No need for me to say a word.....Hilary has already gone over my look in detail......they know what to do. I sit down as bullet proof makeup is airbrushed on and eyeshadow cemented in place (I never wear shadow) and lip color applied to withstand the beginning stages of post mortem decomposition (I never wear lipstick!) My hair is straightened and styled and sprayed to the point that I can hear the "crackle" when I turn my head. I will have to admit though.......my look lasted all night long without so much as a smuge........and on past two scrubbings in the shower.......and on past 3 lather rinse and repeat cycles........and in one or two little spots, on to the next afternoon.
As the afternoon wore on, Hilary, who had calmed down quite a bit began to get nervous. The bridesmaids were finished hair and makeup and beginning to change in to their dresses and heels. Hilary was finished hair and beginning makeup as the final do of the day for the team. She suggests that now might be a good time for me to begin getting into my spanx....which I had never worn before. Hilary knows me well enough to know that this will not be easy for me.
I retire to the ladies with Spanx in hand and head for the largest stall.......I'm gonna need some room here. I begin to wiggle in to my industrial pantyhose when I realize that my gyrations are repeatedly setting off the automatic toilet flusher. KA WHOOOOSH........KA WHOOSH.........KA WHOOOOSH. I must have set that toilet off 15 or 20 times, so much so that I had visions of a momentary and unexplained drop in the water table in the Fairfield area. I emerged sweating and panting, but with hair and makeup perfectly in place and my flab safely lycra-squeezed. I went to get a paper towel to gently dab away the sweat from my forehead but was for some cosmically unknown reason specific to my ridiculous life, completely unable to set off the automatic towel dispenser. I settled for toilet paper and headed back to ground zero.
We are supposed to have Hilary in her dress by 3:30 for pre ceremony pictures but she is wracked with a case of the "nervous tinkles" and runs repeatedly to the bathroom. She sends her bridesmaids after scope because she doesn't want her breath to smell of sour cream and onion potato chips. She refuses to get into her dress until this is accomplished. It's going on 4:00...the photographer is here. The bridesmaids return with a one time use toothbrush which Hilary complains is "gross" but better than sour cream and onion breath. The rush is on. I'm lacing her gown as quickly as I can. "Make sure they aren't twisted" "Fluff the tulle" "Are there skin gaps?..make sure there are no skin gaps!"
Despite the fact that we have been in preparation for over 6 hours........we are late for the 4:30 ceremony. Wedding coordinators are madly flipping papers on clip boards and the photographer is helping with corsages. We finally make it to the starting point of our walk down the aisle. Hilary waves her hands and breathes deeply..."talk to me mom!!....say anything or I'm gonna start crying" I think a moment and said "Scott stopped to pee the dogs and Nickolai bit him on the hand" "That's good!!!....that's good!!!......tell me again!!!"
I deliver her to her groom who is himself in tears when he sees his beautiful bride. There are no accidents or breakages. The frenzied avalanche of emotions and drama drifts away in to nothingness. All that matters is this one moment. Two people overcome by their love for one another as they take their vows.
There will be time later to explain the sudden loss of water pressure.
Let me just say that Hilary was beautiful beyond words. She was like Cinderella on speed. Her eyes twinkled and danced, her smile beamed, and her laugh rang through the venue like fine music. There were tears, and looks of love between her and her freshly pronounced husband that brought the house down. The flowers were fabulous, the food was fabulous, the cake was fabulous and even as I type this, Hilary and Justin are honeymooning in fabulous Jamaica.
Let me take you back to wedding day.....10:00 a.m.: Hilary and her bridesmaids assemble in the Nova room. This is where she will spend her day seeing to last minute details and having hair and makeup done by a team of professionals. Bags and suitcases are strewn around the room. All the dresses hang from the curtain rods. Hilary is stressing. By the time I arrive at noon and ask her if she'd spoken to Justin yet today (OK....so am I the only person on the planet that didn't know talking to the groom was taboo too!?!) she looks at me as if I had just pulled a fresh pile of doggie poo from my pocket and flung it at her gown. "Worst question ever!!!" she yells at me. Alrighty then........clearly I need to make a most concerted effort to keep my stinkin' mouth shut. She is an explosion waiting to happen.
Her bridesmaids are seeing to such details as Justin's hair requirements. "go to the room and make sure Justin isn't messing with his hair......don't let him put any crap in it!" Last minute wrinkles are being steamed from her gown. So far so good.......we are right on schedule for a 4:30 p.m. ceremony. The hair and makeup people begin on me. No need for me to say a word.....Hilary has already gone over my look in detail......they know what to do. I sit down as bullet proof makeup is airbrushed on and eyeshadow cemented in place (I never wear shadow) and lip color applied to withstand the beginning stages of post mortem decomposition (I never wear lipstick!) My hair is straightened and styled and sprayed to the point that I can hear the "crackle" when I turn my head. I will have to admit though.......my look lasted all night long without so much as a smuge........and on past two scrubbings in the shower.......and on past 3 lather rinse and repeat cycles........and in one or two little spots, on to the next afternoon.
As the afternoon wore on, Hilary, who had calmed down quite a bit began to get nervous. The bridesmaids were finished hair and makeup and beginning to change in to their dresses and heels. Hilary was finished hair and beginning makeup as the final do of the day for the team. She suggests that now might be a good time for me to begin getting into my spanx....which I had never worn before. Hilary knows me well enough to know that this will not be easy for me.
I retire to the ladies with Spanx in hand and head for the largest stall.......I'm gonna need some room here. I begin to wiggle in to my industrial pantyhose when I realize that my gyrations are repeatedly setting off the automatic toilet flusher. KA WHOOOOSH........KA WHOOSH.........KA WHOOOOSH. I must have set that toilet off 15 or 20 times, so much so that I had visions of a momentary and unexplained drop in the water table in the Fairfield area. I emerged sweating and panting, but with hair and makeup perfectly in place and my flab safely lycra-squeezed. I went to get a paper towel to gently dab away the sweat from my forehead but was for some cosmically unknown reason specific to my ridiculous life, completely unable to set off the automatic towel dispenser. I settled for toilet paper and headed back to ground zero.
We are supposed to have Hilary in her dress by 3:30 for pre ceremony pictures but she is wracked with a case of the "nervous tinkles" and runs repeatedly to the bathroom. She sends her bridesmaids after scope because she doesn't want her breath to smell of sour cream and onion potato chips. She refuses to get into her dress until this is accomplished. It's going on 4:00...the photographer is here. The bridesmaids return with a one time use toothbrush which Hilary complains is "gross" but better than sour cream and onion breath. The rush is on. I'm lacing her gown as quickly as I can. "Make sure they aren't twisted" "Fluff the tulle" "Are there skin gaps?..make sure there are no skin gaps!"
Despite the fact that we have been in preparation for over 6 hours........we are late for the 4:30 ceremony. Wedding coordinators are madly flipping papers on clip boards and the photographer is helping with corsages. We finally make it to the starting point of our walk down the aisle. Hilary waves her hands and breathes deeply..."talk to me mom!!....say anything or I'm gonna start crying" I think a moment and said "Scott stopped to pee the dogs and Nickolai bit him on the hand" "That's good!!!....that's good!!!......tell me again!!!"
I deliver her to her groom who is himself in tears when he sees his beautiful bride. There are no accidents or breakages. The frenzied avalanche of emotions and drama drifts away in to nothingness. All that matters is this one moment. Two people overcome by their love for one another as they take their vows.
There will be time later to explain the sudden loss of water pressure.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Where's Willie?
I promised you the story of Willow's foray into the twilight zone so here we go: The fact of the matter is that Willie slipped through a temporal anomaly that ushered her in to a parallel universe completely populated by giant talking bunnies who worship dim-witted white dogs as Gods and...............hold on a minute, let me turn off the television.
What was I saying?
Iddy was in full "Peanut" mode that morning. She is completely intimidated by a 6 pound Chorkie that could easily, albeit not intentionally, get flushed down my toilet if it were flushing properly. I will never understand the methods Peanut uses to keep Iddy so utterly subjugated. She was hanging back during our walk, so as not to be too close to Peanut who tends to scold her for not staying with the pack.
One glance back over my shoulder and she was there, the next glance moments later, she was gone. I didn't panic immediately because this is quite typical of our Willie... aka Wills.... aka Willow.... aka Iddy ......aka widdie-woo......(don't judge!...what do you call your dog?!...be honest now!) It was not until I got back to my car and still saw no sign of her that I began to worry.....but just a little. Williie always pops up out of a ditch or wherever, once she hears the car engine. Two laps around the ponds and no Iddy. It's now that I panic.
I make what seems to be a gazillion trips around the ponds and search the ditch where I had last seen her no less than 7 times. I'm crying, worried, angry, and very aware that my plans for the day are fucked beyond repair. I call for help. Hilary joins the search. Scott and Matt begin searching the woods near the ditch. Hilary calls Animal Control. I call Trish at the clinic. Let me just say here and now that if your dog is ever missing, Trish is the one to call. She has some sort of mega potent doggie finding mojo workin'
It's at this point that the tears and panic subside and I'm beginning to think more clearly. "She had to have gone in the woods" "Where would these woods empty out if you were a dim witted white dog with delusions of God hood in bunny land? (ok...so maybe not completely clearly) I begin driving up and down the road off the property. Hilary is talking to neighboring farmers. I get on the phone to Trish. Here's where the mojo comes in.
Trish is at the reception desk with a client who happens to live in the vicinity of the ponds when my call arrives. Client leaves and Trish hurriedly sends one of the other staffers out to her car with my cell phone number.....just in case she sees Will. client drives home but decides to take a different route that day....shes in no hurry to begin the days chores. Client sees a white dog run between some houses and out to the road. She stops her car and Willie rushes to her and jumps in. Client reaches in her pocket for the scrap of paper with my number on it and calls.
I begin blubbering so loudly that Hilary takes the phone to arrange a meeting place. I get my happy, slightly freakish, bundle of joyfulness dog back and am eternally grateful that the heavens seemed to have orchestrated such an elegant rescue. she may not be perfect....she has issues...medical and otherwise....she eats cat tootsies out of the litter box and then barfs them up on my carpet......she licks my shoes and my bed pillows...and was no help at all when the toilet overflowed......but shes my Willie....and I love her.
What was I saying?
Iddy was in full "Peanut" mode that morning. She is completely intimidated by a 6 pound Chorkie that could easily, albeit not intentionally, get flushed down my toilet if it were flushing properly. I will never understand the methods Peanut uses to keep Iddy so utterly subjugated. She was hanging back during our walk, so as not to be too close to Peanut who tends to scold her for not staying with the pack.
One glance back over my shoulder and she was there, the next glance moments later, she was gone. I didn't panic immediately because this is quite typical of our Willie... aka Wills.... aka Willow.... aka Iddy ......aka widdie-woo......(don't judge!...what do you call your dog?!...be honest now!) It was not until I got back to my car and still saw no sign of her that I began to worry.....but just a little. Williie always pops up out of a ditch or wherever, once she hears the car engine. Two laps around the ponds and no Iddy. It's now that I panic.
I make what seems to be a gazillion trips around the ponds and search the ditch where I had last seen her no less than 7 times. I'm crying, worried, angry, and very aware that my plans for the day are fucked beyond repair. I call for help. Hilary joins the search. Scott and Matt begin searching the woods near the ditch. Hilary calls Animal Control. I call Trish at the clinic. Let me just say here and now that if your dog is ever missing, Trish is the one to call. She has some sort of mega potent doggie finding mojo workin'
It's at this point that the tears and panic subside and I'm beginning to think more clearly. "She had to have gone in the woods" "Where would these woods empty out if you were a dim witted white dog with delusions of God hood in bunny land? (ok...so maybe not completely clearly) I begin driving up and down the road off the property. Hilary is talking to neighboring farmers. I get on the phone to Trish. Here's where the mojo comes in.
Trish is at the reception desk with a client who happens to live in the vicinity of the ponds when my call arrives. Client leaves and Trish hurriedly sends one of the other staffers out to her car with my cell phone number.....just in case she sees Will. client drives home but decides to take a different route that day....shes in no hurry to begin the days chores. Client sees a white dog run between some houses and out to the road. She stops her car and Willie rushes to her and jumps in. Client reaches in her pocket for the scrap of paper with my number on it and calls.
I begin blubbering so loudly that Hilary takes the phone to arrange a meeting place. I get my happy, slightly freakish, bundle of joyfulness dog back and am eternally grateful that the heavens seemed to have orchestrated such an elegant rescue. she may not be perfect....she has issues...medical and otherwise....she eats cat tootsies out of the litter box and then barfs them up on my carpet......she licks my shoes and my bed pillows...and was no help at all when the toilet overflowed......but shes my Willie....and I love her.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
The Bridal Shower
My task was very clearly defined. I was to see to it that Hilary did not arrive at Jennifer's house before 3:00 p.m. I was to bring chips and dip. I was to call when we were a mile or so out and ask if Jennifer needed me to bring anything. This was the signal for all the guests to assemble for the approaching "surprise" My family informed me that I was not to break, sprain, or otherwise damage my person in any way, shape, or form. Knowing my lack of planning abilities and general obliviousness, they felt it best that I not be burdened with anything more.
Now I'd like you to travel back in time with me, approximately 36 hours prior to "surprise!!"
I woke up Friday morning with a clear plan in mind. I'd hope work wasn't too crazy, (a lot to ask on the Friday before a holiday weekend), stop for chips and dip on the way home, and call Vicki to arrange a shopping trip for a gift for the shower....and maybe a nice lunch before meeting Hilary to head off to her bridal shower destiny. Now I'd like you to pause and consider the fact that this is me we're talking about here.
An innocent flush of the toilet Friday morning caused a cascading overflow. I stood dumbfounded and dis believing as the toidy water continued to flow. Once my feet could move, I began gathering towels to throw in to lake Michigan which was rapidly forming on my bathroom floor. A sprint down to the dryer for more towels put me in a prime position to observe the toidy water running down my dining Room light fixture and on to the table. I ran faster to the basement and was doing pretty damned good for the "graceful as an epileptic three-legged Rhinoceros" kinda girl that I am, until I fell on the stairs on the way up. Towels flew, water flowed, and my pinky finger crumpled under the weight of my ill-advised trip.
I sopped, cursed, and 409'd my way through both rooms, threw the nasty towels in the bath tub, and ran out to work with my swollen and purple pinky finger throbbing. Work was no better. A string of holiday emergencies kept us all running. As you all know.....if Rover is gonna have a crisis, it will be late at night or on a holiday weekend. I worked until late in the evening. No chips and dip. I just came home and gathered the toidy towels and mopped and pine-sol'd. I'll stop for chips and dip in the morning on the way to Vicki's.
The next morning, the day of the shower, started innocently enough with a romp at the ponds with the dogs. I got a nice early start. I had a lot to do before the big event. willow is lagging behind a little as usual........then........where's Willie!? I searched and called for an hour before I panicked and called for help. Hilary and several others joined what was turning out to be a full on hard target search for a dim-witted but lovable white dog who had chased a bunny in to the woods and got lost.
The eventual finding of Willie 5 hours later involved a convoluted series of events that simply deserves a blog of it's own. That story will come presently. The point being that I lost 5 hours. No chips,no dip, no gift, broken finger, two exhausted dogs, and a sincere hope that the people who love me can manage to love me anyway.
Hilary had a lovely shower and understood completely her "most likely to lose her car in the parking lot, knocker down of store mannequins, nine workable fingers" mother. She loves me anyway and would rather have my help with the seating chart project and my company during the endless pre-wedding appointments than a crock pot..........thankfully.
I can be nothing other than what I am....even if that happens to be a three legged epileptic rhinoceros with two bad dogs and a faulty toilet.
Now I'd like you to travel back in time with me, approximately 36 hours prior to "surprise!!"
I woke up Friday morning with a clear plan in mind. I'd hope work wasn't too crazy, (a lot to ask on the Friday before a holiday weekend), stop for chips and dip on the way home, and call Vicki to arrange a shopping trip for a gift for the shower....and maybe a nice lunch before meeting Hilary to head off to her bridal shower destiny. Now I'd like you to pause and consider the fact that this is me we're talking about here.
An innocent flush of the toilet Friday morning caused a cascading overflow. I stood dumbfounded and dis believing as the toidy water continued to flow. Once my feet could move, I began gathering towels to throw in to lake Michigan which was rapidly forming on my bathroom floor. A sprint down to the dryer for more towels put me in a prime position to observe the toidy water running down my dining Room light fixture and on to the table. I ran faster to the basement and was doing pretty damned good for the "graceful as an epileptic three-legged Rhinoceros" kinda girl that I am, until I fell on the stairs on the way up. Towels flew, water flowed, and my pinky finger crumpled under the weight of my ill-advised trip.
I sopped, cursed, and 409'd my way through both rooms, threw the nasty towels in the bath tub, and ran out to work with my swollen and purple pinky finger throbbing. Work was no better. A string of holiday emergencies kept us all running. As you all know.....if Rover is gonna have a crisis, it will be late at night or on a holiday weekend. I worked until late in the evening. No chips and dip. I just came home and gathered the toidy towels and mopped and pine-sol'd. I'll stop for chips and dip in the morning on the way to Vicki's.
The next morning, the day of the shower, started innocently enough with a romp at the ponds with the dogs. I got a nice early start. I had a lot to do before the big event. willow is lagging behind a little as usual........then........where's Willie!? I searched and called for an hour before I panicked and called for help. Hilary and several others joined what was turning out to be a full on hard target search for a dim-witted but lovable white dog who had chased a bunny in to the woods and got lost.
The eventual finding of Willie 5 hours later involved a convoluted series of events that simply deserves a blog of it's own. That story will come presently. The point being that I lost 5 hours. No chips,no dip, no gift, broken finger, two exhausted dogs, and a sincere hope that the people who love me can manage to love me anyway.
Hilary had a lovely shower and understood completely her "most likely to lose her car in the parking lot, knocker down of store mannequins, nine workable fingers" mother. She loves me anyway and would rather have my help with the seating chart project and my company during the endless pre-wedding appointments than a crock pot..........thankfully.
I can be nothing other than what I am....even if that happens to be a three legged epileptic rhinoceros with two bad dogs and a faulty toilet.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
A stranger in a strange land
I took a brief pause in blogging to allow for station identification. Actually, the truth is that between the art show and the approaching wedding, I've been ever so slightly distracted. I have discovered that an entire universe of events planning exists that I had absolutely no knowledge of. It includes topics and details ranging from coordinating the arrival of the caterers to mesh with the arrival of the linens and chair covers requiring the tying of decorative sashes. It includes determining what the photographer might like to eat and at what table he might be seated. Let me just tell you that my part consisted of sitting quietly in the office trying not to say anything too inappropriate or have any sudden eruptions of unauthorized intestinal gas. I am a stranger in a strange land.
It has and will take every moment of the yearlong engagement to pull off this wedding. As a gentle reminder to all of who may not know my daughter, the inventor of the "half-birthday" patent pending, the initiator of the "birthday week" whereupon gifts are gladly and graciously accepted, Hilary's wedding is going to be a production to say the least. A two day extravaganza of well coordinated packing and unpacking of boxes containing scentless candles and favors ( with detailed instructions accompanying each box) and flower deliveries and hair and make-up. Her exceptional organizational skills are in full swing.
I am the loose cannon in the equation. The un knowable....the indeterminate faller of down. did I mention that I recently fell down in my own house over a piece of cat furniture that's been in the same location for a millenia. On our recent trip to pick up my doublewide trailer shoes at the bridal boutique, Hilary insisted that I try on the shoes and walk around a while in an effort to gauge my falling down potential. There is also the holding of a lit candle in the general vicinity of heavily hairsprayed bridesmaids causing no small amount of concern. I am a stranger in a strange land...........and I have fire.
My only hope is that my wonderful and brilliantly funny daughter will have the wedding day of her dreams, and that my guardian angels, who were decidedly absent this morning at McDonalds when the drive thru speaker died just as I reached it with no less than 15 cars behind me awaiting my decision to pull around without having placed my order after a few "heeeelloooooo" s thank you very much, will be on full alert and ever watchful that I don't break any bones or ignite any of the wedding party. You guys are still allowing weird shit to happen to me on a regular basis may I just say........Don't hate....I'm just sayin.
I am a stranger in a strange land after all, and I need all the help I can get.
It has and will take every moment of the yearlong engagement to pull off this wedding. As a gentle reminder to all of who may not know my daughter, the inventor of the "half-birthday" patent pending, the initiator of the "birthday week" whereupon gifts are gladly and graciously accepted, Hilary's wedding is going to be a production to say the least. A two day extravaganza of well coordinated packing and unpacking of boxes containing scentless candles and favors ( with detailed instructions accompanying each box) and flower deliveries and hair and make-up. Her exceptional organizational skills are in full swing.
I am the loose cannon in the equation. The un knowable....the indeterminate faller of down. did I mention that I recently fell down in my own house over a piece of cat furniture that's been in the same location for a millenia. On our recent trip to pick up my doublewide trailer shoes at the bridal boutique, Hilary insisted that I try on the shoes and walk around a while in an effort to gauge my falling down potential. There is also the holding of a lit candle in the general vicinity of heavily hairsprayed bridesmaids causing no small amount of concern. I am a stranger in a strange land...........and I have fire.
My only hope is that my wonderful and brilliantly funny daughter will have the wedding day of her dreams, and that my guardian angels, who were decidedly absent this morning at McDonalds when the drive thru speaker died just as I reached it with no less than 15 cars behind me awaiting my decision to pull around without having placed my order after a few "heeeelloooooo" s thank you very much, will be on full alert and ever watchful that I don't break any bones or ignite any of the wedding party. You guys are still allowing weird shit to happen to me on a regular basis may I just say........Don't hate....I'm just sayin.
I am a stranger in a strange land after all, and I need all the help I can get.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
The Art Show
Yesterday, Vicki and I, along with Emily, hung the first show I've done in many years at the regional library. Let me just say that it was an all day event. Vicki always used to say that the best you could shoot for is arranging the paintings in such a way that people didn't notice anything wrong. Vicki and I hung many a show back in the day.....shes amazing at it.
Because this is a relatively new facility, the director of the space, who I'll call "Mark" in an effort to protect his true identity, objected to the hammering of nails and hooks in to his wall like areas. The three of us had to tie the paintings to fishing wire and suspend them from hooks along a rail close to the ceiling. This involved the climbing up and down of a ladder. the good news here is that I didn't fall once. The bad news is that I managed to drop, fumble, and ultimately step on the end of all the lengths of fishing wire that Emily had just cut causing them to dissolve in to a pile of reeeeeeaaaaallllly thin spaghetti behind her. "NANCY!!!!!", "ooops....sorry Emily"
I did my time up on the ladder. I even climbed up carrying a pair of scissors once or twice, which is a clear signal to the Gods that they need to hold their collective breaths and scramble my guardian angels. "Code red, code red!!!...shes climbing with scissors!......repeat...code red!!!" I was amazingly focused in my determination not to crush either one of the ladies on the ground; "step and up......step and up...nice...and....easy.....step and up...I'm glad I shaved my pits.....step and up"
Mark entered and spent some time verbalizing. He did this frequently. I found myself wondering why my brain refused to make any sense out of what he was saying. "Yup.....he's clearly trying to communicate something. Verbal little fella isn't he". Why is his signal not coming in on my station?I am perplexed.....yes....he's difinitely trying to tell me something. I smile and nod a lot. OK.......moving on. Vicki would like to squash him like a bug. I can see it in her eyes. There is nothing hidden with Vicki. I'm genuinely surprised that she hasn't gone up and knocked on his forehead yet and called him annoying.
Gotta pee....so I enter the bathroom labeled "family restroom" I couldn't resist. Is there a salad bar in there or something? I had to know what constitutes a family style group toidy. The room is quite large in order to accommodate out of town relatives and overnight guests I imagine. There is a standard size toilet on one side of the room and a teeny weenie baby toilet on the other side.......like a gnome size toilet. I resisted the urge to use the gnome toidy and headed to the grown-up head......which happened to be situated directly in front of a sink and mirror. No one should ever have this sort of a view of their own parts and functions. I had to take a lorazepem afterwards. Who's brilliant fucking idea was this arrangement. Oh look......there's a little gnome sink too!
A mere 7 hours later and the show was hung, and with no major injuries or fatalities I might add. We looked around the room quite proud of what we had accomplished. I left the venue feeling like I have always felt with my artwork on display....sorta like a '76 lime green Ford Pinto in a Mercedes lot.
This is my life.
I arrived home exhausted and checked my e-mail. There was one from Vicki which read: "you are not a lime green Pinto...just in case you were wondering"
She knows me all too well.
Because this is a relatively new facility, the director of the space, who I'll call "Mark" in an effort to protect his true identity, objected to the hammering of nails and hooks in to his wall like areas. The three of us had to tie the paintings to fishing wire and suspend them from hooks along a rail close to the ceiling. This involved the climbing up and down of a ladder. the good news here is that I didn't fall once. The bad news is that I managed to drop, fumble, and ultimately step on the end of all the lengths of fishing wire that Emily had just cut causing them to dissolve in to a pile of reeeeeeaaaaallllly thin spaghetti behind her. "NANCY!!!!!", "ooops....sorry Emily"
I did my time up on the ladder. I even climbed up carrying a pair of scissors once or twice, which is a clear signal to the Gods that they need to hold their collective breaths and scramble my guardian angels. "Code red, code red!!!...shes climbing with scissors!......repeat...code red!!!" I was amazingly focused in my determination not to crush either one of the ladies on the ground; "step and up......step and up...nice...and....easy.....step and up...I'm glad I shaved my pits.....step and up"
Mark entered and spent some time verbalizing. He did this frequently. I found myself wondering why my brain refused to make any sense out of what he was saying. "Yup.....he's clearly trying to communicate something. Verbal little fella isn't he". Why is his signal not coming in on my station?I am perplexed.....yes....he's difinitely trying to tell me something. I smile and nod a lot. OK.......moving on. Vicki would like to squash him like a bug. I can see it in her eyes. There is nothing hidden with Vicki. I'm genuinely surprised that she hasn't gone up and knocked on his forehead yet and called him annoying.
Gotta pee....so I enter the bathroom labeled "family restroom" I couldn't resist. Is there a salad bar in there or something? I had to know what constitutes a family style group toidy. The room is quite large in order to accommodate out of town relatives and overnight guests I imagine. There is a standard size toilet on one side of the room and a teeny weenie baby toilet on the other side.......like a gnome size toilet. I resisted the urge to use the gnome toidy and headed to the grown-up head......which happened to be situated directly in front of a sink and mirror. No one should ever have this sort of a view of their own parts and functions. I had to take a lorazepem afterwards. Who's brilliant fucking idea was this arrangement. Oh look......there's a little gnome sink too!
A mere 7 hours later and the show was hung, and with no major injuries or fatalities I might add. We looked around the room quite proud of what we had accomplished. I left the venue feeling like I have always felt with my artwork on display....sorta like a '76 lime green Ford Pinto in a Mercedes lot.
This is my life.
I arrived home exhausted and checked my e-mail. There was one from Vicki which read: "you are not a lime green Pinto...just in case you were wondering"
She knows me all too well.
Monday, May 17, 2010
A dress for the wedding.
This week found Hilary and myself finally making a decision on an outfit for me to wear to the wedding. After suffering through those patented gateways to hell commonly known as fitting rooms, we ended up picking out something online. I'm actually grateful that I can see myself as I really am, in my own mirror, instead of in a fitting room mirror........clearly objects of the devil. Thank heavens I don't really look like that. (please allow me my few remaining delusions and refrain from pointing out my denial.....I cling to what little I have left)
Hilary and I communicated online and followed link after link to outfits she liked and ones I liked. I did discover that most, if not all things I thought were nice, Hilary condemned as being "cheap" looking. Hmmmmmm.......I'm sensing a trend here in my taste level, or the apparent lack thereof. To be all honest.....at this point in the process, I would have agreed to ass-less chaps if it's what she wanted. As it was, she found a dress available in my size and she liked it. Done and done.
To ask me if I "love" that dress is like asking a Doberman if he's enjoying the Merlot. I'm sorry...I'm just not wired that way. The list of things that mean nothing to me is growing exponentially as I age. I just don't care about clothes. I admire women who have large collections of clothes and shoes and accessories that they really enjoy pulling together. They exude that love of style and the confidence that goes with it. I have plenty of time to think of this as I'm following behind them in the mall with toilet paper trailing from my Birkenstocks.
My clothing criteria includes pieces that are the least likely to cause me to fall down. This excludes hemlines that hover around my feet, heels any higher than my Crocs (OK....so I have fallen down in my Crocs....whats your point!) and any sort of trailing or dangling accoutrements that could become tangling accoutrements. I also tend toward patterns that will not show food spillage readily. Yep........that's about it. I put ten times the time and consideration in to the purchase of a new paintbrush than I do in to clothing. Sad but true.
So I clicked my way through and ordered the dress. All that matters to me is that it's comfortable and will do it's level best to keep me on my feet. Speaking of my feet......I'm wondering if Hilary is aware of the difficulties awaiting us in the shoe department. There is a reason why Fred Flintstone was always barefoot. I'm thinking Hil is going to make me wear shoes to the wedding.
Hilary and I communicated online and followed link after link to outfits she liked and ones I liked. I did discover that most, if not all things I thought were nice, Hilary condemned as being "cheap" looking. Hmmmmmm.......I'm sensing a trend here in my taste level, or the apparent lack thereof. To be all honest.....at this point in the process, I would have agreed to ass-less chaps if it's what she wanted. As it was, she found a dress available in my size and she liked it. Done and done.
To ask me if I "love" that dress is like asking a Doberman if he's enjoying the Merlot. I'm sorry...I'm just not wired that way. The list of things that mean nothing to me is growing exponentially as I age. I just don't care about clothes. I admire women who have large collections of clothes and shoes and accessories that they really enjoy pulling together. They exude that love of style and the confidence that goes with it. I have plenty of time to think of this as I'm following behind them in the mall with toilet paper trailing from my Birkenstocks.
My clothing criteria includes pieces that are the least likely to cause me to fall down. This excludes hemlines that hover around my feet, heels any higher than my Crocs (OK....so I have fallen down in my Crocs....whats your point!) and any sort of trailing or dangling accoutrements that could become tangling accoutrements. I also tend toward patterns that will not show food spillage readily. Yep........that's about it. I put ten times the time and consideration in to the purchase of a new paintbrush than I do in to clothing. Sad but true.
So I clicked my way through and ordered the dress. All that matters to me is that it's comfortable and will do it's level best to keep me on my feet. Speaking of my feet......I'm wondering if Hilary is aware of the difficulties awaiting us in the shoe department. There is a reason why Fred Flintstone was always barefoot. I'm thinking Hil is going to make me wear shoes to the wedding.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Pedicure virgin
OK....so this past weekend was Mother's Day. Hilary, as always, gave generously of her time and attention, and gave me the most thoughtful gift of a portfolio to show pictures of my paintings and a lovely little pouch to keep my business cards in. She knows me. She knows that cut crystal vases and Limoges are lost on my Fiesta ware and Birkenstock sensibilities. She gave me a gift that supports me in my portrait business and demonstrates her pride in my accomplishments. Somewhere in and amongst her mac and cheese and one pair of sneakers upbringing, I did one or two things right.
On the spur of the moment, she suggested that we get a pedicure. Hmmmmm......never had one of those. My first thought was that my feet were sweating inside my crocs. My second thought concerned my legs. Let me just tell you that I am one of those fastidious ladies that shaves her legs twice a year whether they need it or not. This particular little thought was dismissed rather quickly due to the fact that hair growth on my legs is rather pathetic, patchy and sporadic at best. I'm sure it has something to do with friction and ever diminishing follicle stamina.
We enter the salon which was entirely populated by very tiny Asian people. Hilary enters as if she were born to frequent salons catering to feminine fussing. She walks directly to the nail colors and asks me to pick one. Hmmmmm......three hundred sixty gazillion shades of pinkish red and four hundred and eighty nine bajillion shades of reddish pink.......and a bottle of turquoise. I picked a happy shade of red that Hilary quickly shot down as being "whorehouse red" Really!?!.......you're going to have to explain to me why this particular shade of red amidst all the others in the pink/red category is unacceptable!?? I took her word for it and made a blind grab for one a little on the reddish pink side. For whatever fundamentally mysterious reason.......she approved of this shade.
We were led back to four large chairs with foot baths attached and the tiny Asian lady began filling them with water after adding some blue crystals that had to be some sort of potent antiseptic anti stank potion. A very tiny Asian man directed me to sit in the chair. Hilary was in the back in the soundproof eyebrow waxing vault ( I imagine the screaming of profanities and begging for mercy is not terribly good for business) so I was on my own here. I sat in the chair and put my feet in the water wondering and sort of hoping that the two young women in the chairs to my left, feverishly chatting, texting, and rattling their sparkly rings and bracelets could actually smell my sweaty crocs on the floor in between our chairs.
Hilary returned from the vault with bright red eyebrow skin and took her place in the chair next to me. The small Asian man worked rapidly with his tiny tools and clipped and filed and de cuticled and buffed my old-assed toenails. He kept up a steady dialogue in his native tongue with the small Asian girl working on one of the spray tanned cell phone twins. Mental note: if you are going to have a pedi, it's probably best to shave off the 4 to 6 errant hairs that have a permanent residence on your legs. Salon lighting has a tendency to spotlight them like they were attempting to escape from Alcatraz. I'm surprised alarms didn't sound.
Back to my little Asian man. I swear one of my thighs weighs more than him and his entire family. As I'm sitting there, painfully aware of my hairs, I can't help but wonder what he's saying.
"Get a load of these feet! They are wider than they are long!! ha ha ha ha!!!.....with tiny little piggy toes! They remind me of Fred Flintstone's feet! You know........"Flintsones...meet the Flintstones....they're the modern stone age fa-mi-ly....from the....town of Bed-rock.......
Shes got calves the size of actual calves! ha ha ha ha!!....and get a load of those hairs! I bet she only shaves her legs twice a year!!
I put my little pinkish red toes back in my sweaty crocs and we drove home.
If you are wondering about the weirdness that follows me wherever I go.....not to worry......Hilary's foot bath overflowed all over the floor around her pedi chair causing small Asian people to come running from all directions. She is her mother's daughter.
It was a fabulous day!
On the spur of the moment, she suggested that we get a pedicure. Hmmmmm......never had one of those. My first thought was that my feet were sweating inside my crocs. My second thought concerned my legs. Let me just tell you that I am one of those fastidious ladies that shaves her legs twice a year whether they need it or not. This particular little thought was dismissed rather quickly due to the fact that hair growth on my legs is rather pathetic, patchy and sporadic at best. I'm sure it has something to do with friction and ever diminishing follicle stamina.
We enter the salon which was entirely populated by very tiny Asian people. Hilary enters as if she were born to frequent salons catering to feminine fussing. She walks directly to the nail colors and asks me to pick one. Hmmmmm......three hundred sixty gazillion shades of pinkish red and four hundred and eighty nine bajillion shades of reddish pink.......and a bottle of turquoise. I picked a happy shade of red that Hilary quickly shot down as being "whorehouse red" Really!?!.......you're going to have to explain to me why this particular shade of red amidst all the others in the pink/red category is unacceptable!?? I took her word for it and made a blind grab for one a little on the reddish pink side. For whatever fundamentally mysterious reason.......she approved of this shade.
We were led back to four large chairs with foot baths attached and the tiny Asian lady began filling them with water after adding some blue crystals that had to be some sort of potent antiseptic anti stank potion. A very tiny Asian man directed me to sit in the chair. Hilary was in the back in the soundproof eyebrow waxing vault ( I imagine the screaming of profanities and begging for mercy is not terribly good for business) so I was on my own here. I sat in the chair and put my feet in the water wondering and sort of hoping that the two young women in the chairs to my left, feverishly chatting, texting, and rattling their sparkly rings and bracelets could actually smell my sweaty crocs on the floor in between our chairs.
Hilary returned from the vault with bright red eyebrow skin and took her place in the chair next to me. The small Asian man worked rapidly with his tiny tools and clipped and filed and de cuticled and buffed my old-assed toenails. He kept up a steady dialogue in his native tongue with the small Asian girl working on one of the spray tanned cell phone twins. Mental note: if you are going to have a pedi, it's probably best to shave off the 4 to 6 errant hairs that have a permanent residence on your legs. Salon lighting has a tendency to spotlight them like they were attempting to escape from Alcatraz. I'm surprised alarms didn't sound.
Back to my little Asian man. I swear one of my thighs weighs more than him and his entire family. As I'm sitting there, painfully aware of my hairs, I can't help but wonder what he's saying.
"Get a load of these feet! They are wider than they are long!! ha ha ha ha!!!.....with tiny little piggy toes! They remind me of Fred Flintstone's feet! You know........"Flintsones...meet the Flintstones....they're the modern stone age fa-mi-ly....from the....town of Bed-rock.......
Shes got calves the size of actual calves! ha ha ha ha!!....and get a load of those hairs! I bet she only shaves her legs twice a year!!
I put my little pinkish red toes back in my sweaty crocs and we drove home.
If you are wondering about the weirdness that follows me wherever I go.....not to worry......Hilary's foot bath overflowed all over the floor around her pedi chair causing small Asian people to come running from all directions. She is her mother's daughter.
It was a fabulous day!
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Wedding outing
As we all know, I am the essence if crap-tacularity when it comes to helping my daughter with the endless twists and turns and dramas involved in mounting a wedding these days. If it were not for the fact that she is a compulsive list maker, her wedding day would climax in one giant, blinding spark of static electricity thereby allowing chaos to ensue.
Tonight she called because there is some sort of problem mailing her wedding invitations because they are square. Evidently square envelopes cause the United States Postal Service to have cluster panic attacks that can only be alleviated with an extra 20 cents per piece. If the envelope wont fit properly in the machine due to it's unusual, clearly communist and radical shape........square.........the machine operator will be forced to take a leave of absence where upon he can foam at the mouth and consult his union liaison regarding working conditions.
This is just one of the little hurdles that brides in the 21st century are forced to deal with. There are at least thirty thousand individual decisions that need to be made in order to get to the big day. Poor Justin has reached his decision saturation point and would readily agree to a string quartet of homosexual Romanian dwarfs to play "Having my Baby" during the cake cutting portion of the evening. Yup....he's done. I'm surprised he can still decide what he wants for breakfast at McDonalds.
Hilary soldiers on, picking chair covers and centerpieces and napkin rings, and trying to make everything look cohesive in a venue painted burnt orange. You would think that I could find a way to be some help to her....aside from managing to walk her down the aisle without an ambulance needing to be called. The jury is still out on that one.
This past weekend, I went with her to Joann's fabrics because she needed fabric for.......uuuummmmm.......uuuhhhhhh........ok...so I'm not really sure exactly what she needed it for, but I did help by pointing to various bolts of fabric and saying "that's nice". Just for the record, no....I do not smoke crack. We then went to look at stackable boxes for ........ummmmmmm..eeerrrrr......ok.....so I'm not really sure exactly what they're for, but we did look for paper to cover them, and I did help by pointing to various papers and saying "that's nice". I did answer the crack question, didn't I?
We walked back and forth across the store as Hilary's mind buzzed and hummed like a well oiled wedding machine, looking at papers, and then ribbons, and then more papers, and glue options and silk flowers, all with a finished product goal firmly planted in her head. We left the store an hour later with me having purchased 2 canvases and a bottle of gesso, and Hilary having purchased 4 cardboard boxes and a Twix bar.
....and I only fell down once.
It was a good day.
Tonight she called because there is some sort of problem mailing her wedding invitations because they are square. Evidently square envelopes cause the United States Postal Service to have cluster panic attacks that can only be alleviated with an extra 20 cents per piece. If the envelope wont fit properly in the machine due to it's unusual, clearly communist and radical shape........square.........the machine operator will be forced to take a leave of absence where upon he can foam at the mouth and consult his union liaison regarding working conditions.
This is just one of the little hurdles that brides in the 21st century are forced to deal with. There are at least thirty thousand individual decisions that need to be made in order to get to the big day. Poor Justin has reached his decision saturation point and would readily agree to a string quartet of homosexual Romanian dwarfs to play "Having my Baby" during the cake cutting portion of the evening. Yup....he's done. I'm surprised he can still decide what he wants for breakfast at McDonalds.
Hilary soldiers on, picking chair covers and centerpieces and napkin rings, and trying to make everything look cohesive in a venue painted burnt orange. You would think that I could find a way to be some help to her....aside from managing to walk her down the aisle without an ambulance needing to be called. The jury is still out on that one.
This past weekend, I went with her to Joann's fabrics because she needed fabric for.......uuuummmmm.......uuuhhhhhh........ok...so I'm not really sure exactly what she needed it for, but I did help by pointing to various bolts of fabric and saying "that's nice". Just for the record, no....I do not smoke crack. We then went to look at stackable boxes for ........ummmmmmm..eeerrrrr......ok.....so I'm not really sure exactly what they're for, but we did look for paper to cover them, and I did help by pointing to various papers and saying "that's nice". I did answer the crack question, didn't I?
We walked back and forth across the store as Hilary's mind buzzed and hummed like a well oiled wedding machine, looking at papers, and then ribbons, and then more papers, and glue options and silk flowers, all with a finished product goal firmly planted in her head. We left the store an hour later with me having purchased 2 canvases and a bottle of gesso, and Hilary having purchased 4 cardboard boxes and a Twix bar.
....and I only fell down once.
It was a good day.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
A brave new world.......kinda
The reality here is that I'm just beginning to understand that the world I've grown up accepting as true and stable and undeniable is, in fact, no longer in existence. The world of my father is gone forever. I'm sorry to see it go because in that world....a person signed on to a "parent" company who supported you and cared for you. And when you could no longer function at optimum efficiency....you retired with a pension and took up golf or some such thing.
As old fashioned and obsolete as that world sounds today, it is in my DNA..it's what I know. Here I am in middle age, finally grasping the concept that I need to make my own way......and not just as employee of the month. Even as I'm free-falling, I'm waiting....no....expecting, someone or something to reach out and save me. that's the way it's supposed to be, right? It was only when I was way close to the bottom, that my little internal voice said ....."umm......Sparky?......ya may wanna consider grabbing hold of FUCKING ANYTHING!!!!"
Thank-you little voice
I reached out for creativity and as always, it saved my sorry ass yet again. OK.......so my relationship with Art has not always been without conflict. Well.....it's never been without conflict. I've frequently felt flung forcibly to the ground and asked "do I have your attention yet?" but it has never failed to provide the impetus to improve my circumstance and myself.
So here's how my little internal dialogue goes:
"Um...Nancy...I think it would be in your best interest to look at this and really see it.
"Nope.........uncomfortable......run away run away la la la la la"
"Seriously......a little uncomfortable at first because it's unknown, but much better in the long run"
"hmmmmmm......amazing little things, Funyuns. I wonder what the look like before packaging...like some giant Funyun forest full of funyun trees"
"Nance....a little focus here"
"OUCH...goddamit...I can't believe I just stood here and watched the dog drop a freakin' 5 pound femur bone on my freakin' foot!!
"Heeeelllooooooo"
"What do you mean I still owe $5000.00 on Hilary's education!?!.....I fucking paid that!!! What do you mean I paid it forward!?.......What the fuck??
"Nancy....you're really starting to annoy me a little"
"Four new tires cost What!!??...they're TIRES!!!....yanno.....rubber??"
"OK.....have it your way but just FYI......you're about to walk off a cliff. I strongly suggest that you open your eyes and alter your trajectory"
"WHOOSH............AAAAAAARRRRGGGGG......FALLING!!!!!
"Need a hand there Sparky?"
"yes please"
"Eyes opened?"
"yeah.....alright"
This is my relationship with Art. Those of you who are not afflicted with this particular proclivity may not understand how this is possible. You're gonna have to trust me on this one. Art for me has always been the way and has never been easy or even remotely comfortable. Art is eyes open. Seeing is always better than not seeing but never as easy ....and infinitely safer in the long run.
So here I am.....painting daily and making a little extra money. Improving my skills and turn around time. Do I worry and fret over the meaning?.......nope. Do I doubt my ability to pull off a painting?........nuh uh. I know I can pull off the painting. Confidence comes with eyes open.
Didn't see that one coming.........la la la la la
As old fashioned and obsolete as that world sounds today, it is in my DNA..it's what I know. Here I am in middle age, finally grasping the concept that I need to make my own way......and not just as employee of the month. Even as I'm free-falling, I'm waiting....no....expecting, someone or something to reach out and save me. that's the way it's supposed to be, right? It was only when I was way close to the bottom, that my little internal voice said ....."umm......Sparky?......ya may wanna consider grabbing hold of FUCKING ANYTHING!!!!"
Thank-you little voice
I reached out for creativity and as always, it saved my sorry ass yet again. OK.......so my relationship with Art has not always been without conflict. Well.....it's never been without conflict. I've frequently felt flung forcibly to the ground and asked "do I have your attention yet?" but it has never failed to provide the impetus to improve my circumstance and myself.
So here's how my little internal dialogue goes:
"Um...Nancy...I think it would be in your best interest to look at this and really see it.
"Nope.........uncomfortable......run away run away la la la la la"
"Seriously......a little uncomfortable at first because it's unknown, but much better in the long run"
"hmmmmmm......amazing little things, Funyuns. I wonder what the look like before packaging...like some giant Funyun forest full of funyun trees"
"Nance....a little focus here"
"OUCH...goddamit...I can't believe I just stood here and watched the dog drop a freakin' 5 pound femur bone on my freakin' foot!!
"Heeeelllooooooo"
"What do you mean I still owe $5000.00 on Hilary's education!?!.....I fucking paid that!!! What do you mean I paid it forward!?.......What the fuck??
"Nancy....you're really starting to annoy me a little"
"Four new tires cost What!!??...they're TIRES!!!....yanno.....rubber??"
"OK.....have it your way but just FYI......you're about to walk off a cliff. I strongly suggest that you open your eyes and alter your trajectory"
"WHOOSH............AAAAAAARRRRGGGGG......FALLING!!!!!
"Need a hand there Sparky?"
"yes please"
"Eyes opened?"
"yeah.....alright"
This is my relationship with Art. Those of you who are not afflicted with this particular proclivity may not understand how this is possible. You're gonna have to trust me on this one. Art for me has always been the way and has never been easy or even remotely comfortable. Art is eyes open. Seeing is always better than not seeing but never as easy ....and infinitely safer in the long run.
So here I am.....painting daily and making a little extra money. Improving my skills and turn around time. Do I worry and fret over the meaning?.......nope. Do I doubt my ability to pull off a painting?........nuh uh. I know I can pull off the painting. Confidence comes with eyes open.
Didn't see that one coming.........la la la la la
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Dirt Therapy
OK so here's the story people. When I started this blog, my intention was to make it solely about my weight loss journey. Little did I know then that the Gods don't differentiate when it comes to journeys. "Hey....shes goin' on a journey, might as well be a heroes journey......why fuck around". Ask me if I had even the slightest clue that deciding to get healthy and change my habits would generate a chain reaction shit storm of events that would, for the most part, be a completely suck-tastic experience.......and I will tell you in no uncertain terms, and you may quote me,....."nuh uh"
Not a clue
After much discussion and several panic attacks, my journey has lead me down the path marked "Chapter 7 bankruptcy" Well..........isn't that nice. This is not someplace I'd ever thought I'd find myself. So what does this mean anyway? My first thought was that I seriously needed to get to work on the large scarlet "F" for "failure", to be worn forever across my ever sagging chest area. It needs to be in place for my trip to the island of shame. I cried a lot. Then I discovered the wonders of Dirt therapy.
There is very little in my life right now that has been as satisfying as being in my tiny back yard with the cold wind blowing my newly straightened hair in to the latest Medusa-do, with a little shovel, digging up the dandies from the damp, after the rain, dirt. They made a satisfying little "pop" as they released, and as they did, little pieces of clues began to drop in on my cluelessness.
OK...so the first clue was that I was kneeling in dog poop.....but after that came the realization that my sense of self worth and esteem is simply not allowed to come from my job. I love my job for the most part, but I can no longer allow my life to suck if I've had a crap-tacular day at work. The vet clinic is their dream, and they've made it happen. I cannot hitch my wagon to that dream and expect it to fulfill my own. That's some deep shit........and I think these pants seriously need to go in the trash now.
So what is my dream? I've only ever had one.......ever since I was old enough to brave the terrifying journey down to my grandfather's studio. All I have ever wanted to be is an artist. In and amongst all of this panic and failure and running in small circles with my arms flailing that is the result of being flung rather unceremoniously from my comfort zone, I've been getting portrait work.
OK.......message received......I'm supposed to goddamned paint.......I get it.......but was the dog poop thing really necessary?
The Gods are not without a sense of humor in this, my ridiculous life.
Not a clue
After much discussion and several panic attacks, my journey has lead me down the path marked "Chapter 7 bankruptcy" Well..........isn't that nice. This is not someplace I'd ever thought I'd find myself. So what does this mean anyway? My first thought was that I seriously needed to get to work on the large scarlet "F" for "failure", to be worn forever across my ever sagging chest area. It needs to be in place for my trip to the island of shame. I cried a lot. Then I discovered the wonders of Dirt therapy.
There is very little in my life right now that has been as satisfying as being in my tiny back yard with the cold wind blowing my newly straightened hair in to the latest Medusa-do, with a little shovel, digging up the dandies from the damp, after the rain, dirt. They made a satisfying little "pop" as they released, and as they did, little pieces of clues began to drop in on my cluelessness.
OK...so the first clue was that I was kneeling in dog poop.....but after that came the realization that my sense of self worth and esteem is simply not allowed to come from my job. I love my job for the most part, but I can no longer allow my life to suck if I've had a crap-tacular day at work. The vet clinic is their dream, and they've made it happen. I cannot hitch my wagon to that dream and expect it to fulfill my own. That's some deep shit........and I think these pants seriously need to go in the trash now.
So what is my dream? I've only ever had one.......ever since I was old enough to brave the terrifying journey down to my grandfather's studio. All I have ever wanted to be is an artist. In and amongst all of this panic and failure and running in small circles with my arms flailing that is the result of being flung rather unceremoniously from my comfort zone, I've been getting portrait work.
OK.......message received......I'm supposed to goddamned paint.......I get it.......but was the dog poop thing really necessary?
The Gods are not without a sense of humor in this, my ridiculous life.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
A tiny little almost insignificant weight gain
This week found me brave enough to hop on the scale and assess the damage caused by a slight stress-induced eating binge. You'll be happy to know that I refrained from buying a bag of funyuns. I remain terrified to pop a bag because I can easily picture myself lying in a doorway covered in powdery semi onion type flavored synthetic residue. Terribly sad but true. The damage is 5 pounds. I find at times like these that it is in my best interest to look at it as 5 pounds and NOT 20 sticks of butter. Remember....pounds if they come on......sticks of butter when they come off.
Since I have been unwilling to fall back on any of my old addictions, I've taken to just saying them out loud as if somehow by osmosis, I will become satisfied. "Vanilla ice cream slathered with chunky peanut butter" "fabulously crispy potato chips" "double cheeseburger with onion rings if you please" Amazingly enough it seems to help, although I think my co workers may be planning an intervention of some kind. HEY!!.....I'm just sayin'......... I'm not doin'
My downfall seems to be low fat string cheese and low fat chocolate parfait. (Mmmmmmm.....parfait) The slight problem here is that there is a rather unpleasant side effect to the whole cheese issue that was never a problem with Funyuns. I'm talking about a slight irregularity. Can I just tell you that the world can only rotate smoothly on it's axis if I am able to have a productive trip to the ladies. I'm trying to be delicate here people so shut the fuck up.
The good news is that I have discovered the trick to remedying this particular little "bind". Hilary provided me with the key when she refused to stop in to the book store because "whenever I go in to Border's, I have to poop" Hilary continued contemplating the connection between books and bowel movements and the possibility of airborne laxative sprays while my mind was abuzz with questions. Put to various friends and family members, I have found that there is indeed a palpable intestinal response to being surrounded by books and chai tea lattes.
So there you go ladies. All it takes is a trip to Border's and you'll be regular as clockwork. As for me. I'm off string cheese and am most likely to be found between now and Hilary's wedding, mumbling a steady stream of high fat food items. I've got 5 freakin' pounds to get back off.
I don't have to potty but my stack of books to be read is growing alarmingly high.
Since I have been unwilling to fall back on any of my old addictions, I've taken to just saying them out loud as if somehow by osmosis, I will become satisfied. "Vanilla ice cream slathered with chunky peanut butter" "fabulously crispy potato chips" "double cheeseburger with onion rings if you please" Amazingly enough it seems to help, although I think my co workers may be planning an intervention of some kind. HEY!!.....I'm just sayin'......... I'm not doin'
My downfall seems to be low fat string cheese and low fat chocolate parfait. (Mmmmmmm.....parfait) The slight problem here is that there is a rather unpleasant side effect to the whole cheese issue that was never a problem with Funyuns. I'm talking about a slight irregularity. Can I just tell you that the world can only rotate smoothly on it's axis if I am able to have a productive trip to the ladies. I'm trying to be delicate here people so shut the fuck up.
The good news is that I have discovered the trick to remedying this particular little "bind". Hilary provided me with the key when she refused to stop in to the book store because "whenever I go in to Border's, I have to poop" Hilary continued contemplating the connection between books and bowel movements and the possibility of airborne laxative sprays while my mind was abuzz with questions. Put to various friends and family members, I have found that there is indeed a palpable intestinal response to being surrounded by books and chai tea lattes.
So there you go ladies. All it takes is a trip to Border's and you'll be regular as clockwork. As for me. I'm off string cheese and am most likely to be found between now and Hilary's wedding, mumbling a steady stream of high fat food items. I've got 5 freakin' pounds to get back off.
I don't have to potty but my stack of books to be read is growing alarmingly high.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Mother of the Bride
So this past weekend, I accompanied Hilary to a bridal expo at the resort where her wedding is to be held. We looked at the room and had a little tasting of the food offerings. We got a feel for the venue and how things would most likely come about. Hilary was stressing. She worried about the "ugly" chairs and whether or not they should be covered for an extra $3.00 a piece. She found the food not up to her standard, and her forehead ( a tell tale beacon telegraphing her state of mind) remained fretfully puckered. She was overwhelmed.
It is at times like these that I feel most like apologizing for being her mother. I am a hopeless procrastinator with no sense of personal style and an even more pathetic sense of decor. I don't know what goes with what and I honestly couldn't possibly care any less. It's a chair....and as long as you can sit on it.......well........where exactly is the problem? What I'm trying to say here is that I'm no fucking help at all. If it were to be left to me, she'd be married in a lovely backyard and we'd have a nice barbecue and cook up some ribs and wings....pop a couple bottles of wine and swap embarrassing Hilary stories.
This is not the way with Mother of the brides on this planet. I know because I saw them at the expo. They were wearing designer separates, capri pants and sparkly tops, and matching shoes. They were walking around measuring doorways and windows and feverishly writing said measurements down in large 3 ring binders that held the blueprints to their daughter's wedding. No such overwhelmed look in their eyes, these women had every tiny detail under control like it was the job they were born to do. I felt like walking up to one of these ladies and asking what color underwear the waiters would be wearing on the big day. I'm sure any one of them could flip to the waiter/underwear/protocol section of their binder and tell me in no uncertain terms.
I could only stand and watch in awe and wonder if my daughter wishes she had a mother like that. One that could help her tackle that pesky waiter under garment problem. Instead she has a mother who caught her purse strap on a display easel and scrambled to catch and re set all the airborne parts. The room seemed to turn all attention to the woman who was wearing jeans and crocs and a name tag that said "mother of the Bride" as she did her best Lucy Ricardo with the display easel.
My future son-in-law broke the tension by announcing that everyone should stand back because "Nancy's wreckin' the joint"
.....and my daughter loves me anyway.
I'm really good with that.
It is at times like these that I feel most like apologizing for being her mother. I am a hopeless procrastinator with no sense of personal style and an even more pathetic sense of decor. I don't know what goes with what and I honestly couldn't possibly care any less. It's a chair....and as long as you can sit on it.......well........where exactly is the problem? What I'm trying to say here is that I'm no fucking help at all. If it were to be left to me, she'd be married in a lovely backyard and we'd have a nice barbecue and cook up some ribs and wings....pop a couple bottles of wine and swap embarrassing Hilary stories.
This is not the way with Mother of the brides on this planet. I know because I saw them at the expo. They were wearing designer separates, capri pants and sparkly tops, and matching shoes. They were walking around measuring doorways and windows and feverishly writing said measurements down in large 3 ring binders that held the blueprints to their daughter's wedding. No such overwhelmed look in their eyes, these women had every tiny detail under control like it was the job they were born to do. I felt like walking up to one of these ladies and asking what color underwear the waiters would be wearing on the big day. I'm sure any one of them could flip to the waiter/underwear/protocol section of their binder and tell me in no uncertain terms.
I could only stand and watch in awe and wonder if my daughter wishes she had a mother like that. One that could help her tackle that pesky waiter under garment problem. Instead she has a mother who caught her purse strap on a display easel and scrambled to catch and re set all the airborne parts. The room seemed to turn all attention to the woman who was wearing jeans and crocs and a name tag that said "mother of the Bride" as she did her best Lucy Ricardo with the display easel.
My future son-in-law broke the tension by announcing that everyone should stand back because "Nancy's wreckin' the joint"
.....and my daughter loves me anyway.
I'm really good with that.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Climbing Mount Altamont
So Hilary says that I need to re focus on my weight loss.... blog-wise. "That's what people really want to know about" I'm not really sure about that. I mean the reality is that I'm menopausal and hold water really effectively and have sweaty hot flashes and can loose and re-gain the same 6 pounds during the course of my cycle which may arrive anytime between now and Christmas. Does anyone really want to know that? Sometime in the last 3 months, my body has sagged to all new and un-holy depths. The good news is that my toenails are still growing "out". My best friend Vicki says that it's a little known fact that as you age, your toenails stop growing "out" and start growing "up".
What was I saying?
Hilary and I decided to walk the dogs yesterday. I arrived at her house to pick her up for our drive to the park. She suggested that we walk. I agreed, looking down at the main road, calculating in my "not what it used to be" brain, the distance required to make it to the park on foot. Hilary decided to pick a route most likely to kill me quickly and silently. She suggested Altamont. A name that will live in infamy. My mother used to sled fearlessly down that hill as a child, building speeds hardly thought possible with wood and rail. Knowing that Hilary was determined to push me to my limits, I began the preliminary ascent.
Reaching the ass end of Altamont from Hilary's house required a steep incline roughly equivalent to Everest's final step where the danger lies in scraping your forehead on the pavement as you make the vertical climb. I had brief moments in between attempting to breathe where I was able to contemplate the irony of struggling to reach the cemetery which happens to reside at the apex of Altamont. I made it to the top and had a quick little dance of joy in front of the gravestone of Rosa Belle Lidie. I made it!!!!I cheated slightly by letting Nickolai pull on the lead but I was taking any help I could get.
Hilary and I stood at the top looking down at the shady road bursting with spring blossoms and cool breezes and began our descent to the alley which led to the park. Now I could enjoy the rest of the walk.......my battle had been fought and won. "I'm really proud of you Mama" Hilary said as my lungs returned to normal capacity, "climbing back up will be the hard part" I turned to her and said that Hell would simply have to freeze over before I'd climb this fucker again.
We reached the park where upon we took two laps around with Hilary refusing any and all short cuts along the way. Nickolai dragged Hilary along as he chased after what can only be described as squirrel-a-palooza. Hilary dislocated a shoulder and Nickolai vomited and we headed home.........back up freakin' Altamont. I climbed and I huffed and I puffed and trudged up the beautiful lane from Hell until I again reached the grave site of Rosa Belle Lidie. I paused to catch my breath. No dance of joy this time. Too tired.
I looked down the steep ass end of Altamont that leads back to Hilary's house and wondered how I'd get down without busting my hopelessly clumsy ass. Scraping the back of my head on descent seemed not as worrisome a thought as tumbling head first down that hill as Nickolai joyfully bounded in front of my broken body dragging limply at the other end of the leash. I took it slow and prayed for traction. We made it home intact, and I did something I never would have without Hilary's encouragement. It felt really good, I have to admit.
So even though I can never remember where the car is parked or what entrance we came in at JC Penney's, and I have a tendency to yell in to cell phones, "Mom!!......just because you can't see them doesn't mean they can't hear you!!!!!", and if an extracted tooth is missing at the vet clinic it's most likely stuck to the underside of my forearm where it will ride undiscovered until finally disembarking in the patients record where I paused to record a dosage..........I'm still capable of reaching new heights......namely Altamont, without busting my ass.
What was I saying?
Hilary and I decided to walk the dogs yesterday. I arrived at her house to pick her up for our drive to the park. She suggested that we walk. I agreed, looking down at the main road, calculating in my "not what it used to be" brain, the distance required to make it to the park on foot. Hilary decided to pick a route most likely to kill me quickly and silently. She suggested Altamont. A name that will live in infamy. My mother used to sled fearlessly down that hill as a child, building speeds hardly thought possible with wood and rail. Knowing that Hilary was determined to push me to my limits, I began the preliminary ascent.
Reaching the ass end of Altamont from Hilary's house required a steep incline roughly equivalent to Everest's final step where the danger lies in scraping your forehead on the pavement as you make the vertical climb. I had brief moments in between attempting to breathe where I was able to contemplate the irony of struggling to reach the cemetery which happens to reside at the apex of Altamont. I made it to the top and had a quick little dance of joy in front of the gravestone of Rosa Belle Lidie. I made it!!!!I cheated slightly by letting Nickolai pull on the lead but I was taking any help I could get.
Hilary and I stood at the top looking down at the shady road bursting with spring blossoms and cool breezes and began our descent to the alley which led to the park. Now I could enjoy the rest of the walk.......my battle had been fought and won. "I'm really proud of you Mama" Hilary said as my lungs returned to normal capacity, "climbing back up will be the hard part" I turned to her and said that Hell would simply have to freeze over before I'd climb this fucker again.
We reached the park where upon we took two laps around with Hilary refusing any and all short cuts along the way. Nickolai dragged Hilary along as he chased after what can only be described as squirrel-a-palooza. Hilary dislocated a shoulder and Nickolai vomited and we headed home.........back up freakin' Altamont. I climbed and I huffed and I puffed and trudged up the beautiful lane from Hell until I again reached the grave site of Rosa Belle Lidie. I paused to catch my breath. No dance of joy this time. Too tired.
I looked down the steep ass end of Altamont that leads back to Hilary's house and wondered how I'd get down without busting my hopelessly clumsy ass. Scraping the back of my head on descent seemed not as worrisome a thought as tumbling head first down that hill as Nickolai joyfully bounded in front of my broken body dragging limply at the other end of the leash. I took it slow and prayed for traction. We made it home intact, and I did something I never would have without Hilary's encouragement. It felt really good, I have to admit.
So even though I can never remember where the car is parked or what entrance we came in at JC Penney's, and I have a tendency to yell in to cell phones, "Mom!!......just because you can't see them doesn't mean they can't hear you!!!!!", and if an extracted tooth is missing at the vet clinic it's most likely stuck to the underside of my forearm where it will ride undiscovered until finally disembarking in the patients record where I paused to record a dosage..........I'm still capable of reaching new heights......namely Altamont, without busting my ass.
Monday, March 29, 2010
I just love Lucy
There is something utterly soothing about the black and white universe that is Lucy. It is a world of aprons and house dresses and baggie pants and ties. The pace and tempo of the Lucy world relaxes me and causes me to momentarily put aside my worries and stresses. I can buy a new hat and put on my gloves and visit a charm school so my husband will notice me more at smart dinner parties. You gotta love that!
At the end of a long day of dealing with a stressful job, menopause, and worrying about bills and bankruptcy and selling the next painting, I can escape not into the oblivion that is lorazepam but in to New York City circa 1952. The effect is the same. Lucy never makes me laugh. To be honest, I'm much more interested in the smarmy slick chauvinism that is Ricky. I fast forward past his God-awful singing though. OK...so sometimes I take a lorazepam too but you get my point here.
So here's the deal......bear with me because this is a new awareness. As long as there's a stability, I'm perfectly content to cruise along a la Lucy and worry myself over why my newly purchased socks already have holes in the heals, and how to manage the stink bug problem, and how much I'd love to have new furniture. La la.........yeah........thats about it. I'm not compelled to push forward.
I start dangling over the cliff a little bit and suddenly I'm possessed by ambition and compelled to push myself beyond what I know I'm capable of, and on to what I hope I'm capable of. I'm willing to network and talk and sell and negotiate. I'm willing to risk failure on a grand scale. I really hope this is a good thing because I'd hate to be a poof of dust on the canyon floor like Wile E. Coyote. Now that I think of it.....what the hell.....I'd just get the fuck up again. I can poof. It won't kill me.
No matter what the end result of a long day, there is always Lucy and the gray world of poofy q-tip hair-doos and permanents and large button ear rings to remind me that death and illness and goodbyes, not to mention toilets, penises, farts and that embarrassing feminine itch can all fade momentarily to black in favor of demitasse cups and damask table cloths.
At the end of a long day of dealing with a stressful job, menopause, and worrying about bills and bankruptcy and selling the next painting, I can escape not into the oblivion that is lorazepam but in to New York City circa 1952. The effect is the same. Lucy never makes me laugh. To be honest, I'm much more interested in the smarmy slick chauvinism that is Ricky. I fast forward past his God-awful singing though. OK...so sometimes I take a lorazepam too but you get my point here.
So here's the deal......bear with me because this is a new awareness. As long as there's a stability, I'm perfectly content to cruise along a la Lucy and worry myself over why my newly purchased socks already have holes in the heals, and how to manage the stink bug problem, and how much I'd love to have new furniture. La la.........yeah........thats about it. I'm not compelled to push forward.
I start dangling over the cliff a little bit and suddenly I'm possessed by ambition and compelled to push myself beyond what I know I'm capable of, and on to what I hope I'm capable of. I'm willing to network and talk and sell and negotiate. I'm willing to risk failure on a grand scale. I really hope this is a good thing because I'd hate to be a poof of dust on the canyon floor like Wile E. Coyote. Now that I think of it.....what the hell.....I'd just get the fuck up again. I can poof. It won't kill me.
No matter what the end result of a long day, there is always Lucy and the gray world of poofy q-tip hair-doos and permanents and large button ear rings to remind me that death and illness and goodbyes, not to mention toilets, penises, farts and that embarrassing feminine itch can all fade momentarily to black in favor of demitasse cups and damask table cloths.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
The God's customer service line
As we all know too well by now. There is nothing so stupid that I can do that can ever be done without witnesses. The Gods are determined to hold my feet to the fire and not allow any wiggle room anywhere in that regard. I have a few issues to address with the Gods by the way, but I'll get into that later. For now, I've been keeping the neighbors entertained with my trash habits.
Remember I was telling you about the final bag of remnant leaves I had gathered over the weekend? I set the bag curbside for Monday pick up of yard waste. Yeah........no. There the bag sat in the rain, un picked up for 2 days. When trash day came today, I put the bag in my regular trash can with a big bag of dog poop on top of it. I figured no self respecting trash guy would pick through the poop to pull out the leaf bag right? Wrong.......the bag was waiting for me in my front yard, sans poop, when I got home today. Such is the story of my life. If there is any wool to be pulled over any eyes or any small infraction to be "gotten away with" you can rest assured that I am nowhere in the general vicinity.
OK Gods.......like it's not bad enough that I'm broke and overweight and have all the physical grace and prowess of a three legged beached platypus, must you amuse yourselves at my expense? Setting off the automatic air freshener just as soon as my face passes close by is just un called for! Not having to pee for several hours at work is fine but must my bladder go from comfortably empty to bursting in the time it takes me to get from the car to the front door. do you enjoy watching me clench and lambada while I try in vain to keep a little pee from sneaking out?
Must I receive debt collection calls from freakin' Namibia?! ......"haaaallow.......mey I spik to Namcy Houtomom.......dees ees Narghali calleen far Cheese manhttaman beesa" "Tank yu meese Houtomom.......hab a beery nacen dey" Are there seriously no living people who speak English that would take a job as crappy as a bill collection caller? Hell!!......pay me well enough and I'd do it! "Hi Joe..it's Nancy.....I'm calling about your Visa. You just tell me what you can do honey. How's the wife and kids?........really?? pre-school already??.....nice talkin' to ya Joe" Why can't I get calls like that?
"Thank-you for calling "The God's" customer service line. Your call is very important to us so please listen to all options as our menu has recently changed: If you are lower middle class with an unholy tax burden and can't pay your bills please press 1. We will answer your call in the order it was received: you are currently number one trillion sixty seven gazillion in line. Your approximate wait time is............allowing for the expected oncoming ice age and the shifting of the polar ice caps.........1.6 millenea. If you would like to leave a message, please press 2 and we will return your call as soon as possible. Beeeeeeeep "Yeah....this is Nancy Houston and I want some goddamned answers.....call me back!
"Haaaaaallow........mey I spik to Namcy Houtomom? dees ees Narghali calleen far da gads......
Remember I was telling you about the final bag of remnant leaves I had gathered over the weekend? I set the bag curbside for Monday pick up of yard waste. Yeah........no. There the bag sat in the rain, un picked up for 2 days. When trash day came today, I put the bag in my regular trash can with a big bag of dog poop on top of it. I figured no self respecting trash guy would pick through the poop to pull out the leaf bag right? Wrong.......the bag was waiting for me in my front yard, sans poop, when I got home today. Such is the story of my life. If there is any wool to be pulled over any eyes or any small infraction to be "gotten away with" you can rest assured that I am nowhere in the general vicinity.
OK Gods.......like it's not bad enough that I'm broke and overweight and have all the physical grace and prowess of a three legged beached platypus, must you amuse yourselves at my expense? Setting off the automatic air freshener just as soon as my face passes close by is just un called for! Not having to pee for several hours at work is fine but must my bladder go from comfortably empty to bursting in the time it takes me to get from the car to the front door. do you enjoy watching me clench and lambada while I try in vain to keep a little pee from sneaking out?
Must I receive debt collection calls from freakin' Namibia?! ......"haaaallow.......mey I spik to Namcy Houtomom.......dees ees Narghali calleen far Cheese manhttaman beesa" "Tank yu meese Houtomom.......hab a beery nacen dey" Are there seriously no living people who speak English that would take a job as crappy as a bill collection caller? Hell!!......pay me well enough and I'd do it! "Hi Joe..it's Nancy.....I'm calling about your Visa. You just tell me what you can do honey. How's the wife and kids?........really?? pre-school already??.....nice talkin' to ya Joe" Why can't I get calls like that?
"Thank-you for calling "The God's" customer service line. Your call is very important to us so please listen to all options as our menu has recently changed: If you are lower middle class with an unholy tax burden and can't pay your bills please press 1. We will answer your call in the order it was received: you are currently number one trillion sixty seven gazillion in line. Your approximate wait time is............allowing for the expected oncoming ice age and the shifting of the polar ice caps.........1.6 millenea. If you would like to leave a message, please press 2 and we will return your call as soon as possible. Beeeeeeeep "Yeah....this is Nancy Houston and I want some goddamned answers.....call me back!
"Haaaaaallow........mey I spik to Namcy Houtomom? dees ees Narghali calleen far da gads......
Sunday, March 21, 2010
A beautiful day in the neighborhood
So here we are. Spring has arrived and it's time to shake loose the winter blahs and get some serious work done. Today, I cleaned the debris out of the front yard. I have one little poofy pink blossom tree in my front yard. I don't even know what it's called but every year, my neighbors watch me rake obscene volumes of fallen leaves. That's because my yard is party central for every easily wind blown bit of trash in the neighborhood. It all stops here people. I get your newspapers, bills, love letters, and candy wrappers. I get your cigarette butts and beer cans. And I get your leaves.......all of your leaves. My little ornamental who-haw produces upward of 12 large bags of leaves every year ( she said sarcastically). The bag I removed today was the final remnants of everyone's un raked leaves from shortly before the first snow.
On the positive side; snow melts faster here on the sunny side of the street. So take that shit. There is an evil little aspect of my personality that enjoys watching the snow plow push the snow back in to your parking place. In my mind....it all balances out. It's not that I dislike my neighbors. I will always be as nice as I can be. I may reserve the right to silently speculate as to your seeming aversion to name brand anti-perspirants. I may wonder why you choose to step outside for a smoke without a shirt on. What is it with men and bare chests!? are shirts really that uncomfortable?? I might quietly envy your ability to walk right past the "no pets allowed" sign at the playground and put your dog in there for a romp. If I were to try that with my history of being "ye of perpetual witnesses" I'm sure the local police would arrive along with backup and a camera crew from channel 5.
The truth is that for the most part, I'm entirely too engaged in the train wreck that is my own life to really notice you much at all. I can honestly say without fear of contradiction that police helicopters have flown over head.....arrests have been made......sting operations engaged in and gunshots fired much without me even noticing. I tend to hear about them after the fact from friends and co workers who can't believe that I'm really that oblivious. Believe it folks. In my house......I'm in my own world where I find comfort and peace. I don't even willingly let the mail come in to my burrow. It sits in the box until my very nice postal carrier puts a post-it on my door asking me to empty it. Bad things come in the mail.
My neighbors are mostly nice, hard working blue collar types who happen to occasionally run afoul of the law. Hey!....no neighborhood is perfect after all. In the long run it matters not because my capacity for oblivion far out matches yours for drama. I'm happy to paint and post and watch I Love Lucy while the lawmen conduct a thorough search for that escaped convict. I may or may not notice. Mostly not.
On the positive side; snow melts faster here on the sunny side of the street. So take that shit. There is an evil little aspect of my personality that enjoys watching the snow plow push the snow back in to your parking place. In my mind....it all balances out. It's not that I dislike my neighbors. I will always be as nice as I can be. I may reserve the right to silently speculate as to your seeming aversion to name brand anti-perspirants. I may wonder why you choose to step outside for a smoke without a shirt on. What is it with men and bare chests!? are shirts really that uncomfortable?? I might quietly envy your ability to walk right past the "no pets allowed" sign at the playground and put your dog in there for a romp. If I were to try that with my history of being "ye of perpetual witnesses" I'm sure the local police would arrive along with backup and a camera crew from channel 5.
The truth is that for the most part, I'm entirely too engaged in the train wreck that is my own life to really notice you much at all. I can honestly say without fear of contradiction that police helicopters have flown over head.....arrests have been made......sting operations engaged in and gunshots fired much without me even noticing. I tend to hear about them after the fact from friends and co workers who can't believe that I'm really that oblivious. Believe it folks. In my house......I'm in my own world where I find comfort and peace. I don't even willingly let the mail come in to my burrow. It sits in the box until my very nice postal carrier puts a post-it on my door asking me to empty it. Bad things come in the mail.
My neighbors are mostly nice, hard working blue collar types who happen to occasionally run afoul of the law. Hey!....no neighborhood is perfect after all. In the long run it matters not because my capacity for oblivion far out matches yours for drama. I'm happy to paint and post and watch I Love Lucy while the lawmen conduct a thorough search for that escaped convict. I may or may not notice. Mostly not.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Lunch with the fam
Once weekly, my family gathers for a lunch out. This has become a tradition since my parents passed away. We gather and talk about our week and the events of our lives and our successes and failures and joys and struggles. All are informed of the meeting place and time and those who can come....do so. We support each other and listen and encourage, but more than any one of these wonderful things....................we behave badly. We laugh loudly. And nothing makes us laugh louder than when one of us makes a complete idiot out of him or herself. OK....so mostly it's me, but all of that aside..........yeah........it's mostly me.
Location: Olive Garden. Nancy enters and sits next to Hilary. We are at the big table. There are 9 of us today. Drinks are served and questions are raised about an "optional" 15% gratuity that "will" be applied to every balance. Hmmmmmm....wherein lies the option?? We may be loud but we tip very well. We have a little fun at our waiter's expense regarding his gratuity option being 15% or our standard 25% to 30%. He laughs and promptly forgets to bring us our bread sticks.
Our bread sticks arrive among apologies and I pick up the basket to hand it down the table. Hmmmmmmm......he's only brought one basket. I comment that these should go to the "soup people"meaning those who are currently eating soup. I notice Jennifer red faced and laughing as she points out the second bread basket sitting directly in front of me which I somehow managed not to see. Ted pipes up at this time in a deep booming voice; "I am Darvon of the soup people......your ways are very strange to me" Jennifer is laughing hysterically in to her napkin. "Soup people" is the catch phrase of the day and a source of much loudness and comment. I'm afraid this one will live long past lunch at Olive Garden. It reminds me of the night many years ago when Jennifer commented on the stunning full moon....which turned out upon closer inspection, to be the Burger King sign. To this day, Jennifer cannot pass Burger King without someone saying "My....the Burger King sign is particularly lovely tonight!" these things assume a life of their own in this family.
As the meal ends and the individual contributions are tallied, Nick requests the bill be passed to him for a quick perusal. This is a bad idea because the bill.....and everything else not nailed down on the table is passed or thrown in his direction. Nick quietly studies the bill as napkins and splenda packets land on and around his person.
Hilary is too full. she stands and moans and bends and moans again. "Oh...I ate too much.......oh I'm too full" "Would you please just fart and get it over with!" I say. "I would love to!....does this window open?"she asks.
Annie is driven to distraction by the cockeyed light fixture. She is requesting that every person closest to the offending crooked bulbs please make an effort to straighten them. This seems oddly out of place as objects continue to pile up on Nick and Ted has once again slipped in to his "Darvon of the soup people" character and Hilary has left in search of a good place to loose the offending gas ball making her so uncomfortable.
We all go our separate ways for another week. Olive Garden and humanity are once again safe and secure.......until next Saturday when we may come to your town.
Location: Olive Garden. Nancy enters and sits next to Hilary. We are at the big table. There are 9 of us today. Drinks are served and questions are raised about an "optional" 15% gratuity that "will" be applied to every balance. Hmmmmmm....wherein lies the option?? We may be loud but we tip very well. We have a little fun at our waiter's expense regarding his gratuity option being 15% or our standard 25% to 30%. He laughs and promptly forgets to bring us our bread sticks.
Our bread sticks arrive among apologies and I pick up the basket to hand it down the table. Hmmmmmmm......he's only brought one basket. I comment that these should go to the "soup people"meaning those who are currently eating soup. I notice Jennifer red faced and laughing as she points out the second bread basket sitting directly in front of me which I somehow managed not to see. Ted pipes up at this time in a deep booming voice; "I am Darvon of the soup people......your ways are very strange to me" Jennifer is laughing hysterically in to her napkin. "Soup people" is the catch phrase of the day and a source of much loudness and comment. I'm afraid this one will live long past lunch at Olive Garden. It reminds me of the night many years ago when Jennifer commented on the stunning full moon....which turned out upon closer inspection, to be the Burger King sign. To this day, Jennifer cannot pass Burger King without someone saying "My....the Burger King sign is particularly lovely tonight!" these things assume a life of their own in this family.
As the meal ends and the individual contributions are tallied, Nick requests the bill be passed to him for a quick perusal. This is a bad idea because the bill.....and everything else not nailed down on the table is passed or thrown in his direction. Nick quietly studies the bill as napkins and splenda packets land on and around his person.
Hilary is too full. she stands and moans and bends and moans again. "Oh...I ate too much.......oh I'm too full" "Would you please just fart and get it over with!" I say. "I would love to!....does this window open?"she asks.
Annie is driven to distraction by the cockeyed light fixture. She is requesting that every person closest to the offending crooked bulbs please make an effort to straighten them. This seems oddly out of place as objects continue to pile up on Nick and Ted has once again slipped in to his "Darvon of the soup people" character and Hilary has left in search of a good place to loose the offending gas ball making her so uncomfortable.
We all go our separate ways for another week. Olive Garden and humanity are once again safe and secure.......until next Saturday when we may come to your town.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
The thing about new tires
So here's the deal on tires: nobody really wants to ever have to buy them. In my perfect world, tires are just perpetually rejuvenating entities, as are oil and filter changes, and tax returns. I want to know they're taken care of without ever having to really deal with them. I've often said that if I were independently wealthy, I would have a large staff made up almost entirely of automotive experts and accountants. I actually wouldn't mind a personal trainer I could screw with. You know......tell him I want to pole dance or something and demand that he make it happen. Then I can laugh at his efforts to train the hopelessly uncoordinated.
What was I saying?
Yes.......tires. I recently had to purchase 4 of them. Keep in mind that normal people rotate their tires on a semi regular basis. My plan usually consists of not dealing with something until it becomes critical. Such had become my tires. Smooth as a baby's bottom they were. I had known for quite some time that they were fading like the fall light, but hoped that they would get me through the winter. That was the kiss of death right there. I should have known that I would bring in to existence the worst winter in recorded history. Sorry fellow residents of the Northeast. Yup....it was all me.
So here I am, attempting to get through the snow with bald tires and a panic attack on board. As other neighbors were busting through a 5 or 6 inch plow wake at the end of the driveway, I was scraping away the ice smear flush with the pavement that my poor, rose petal smooth babies simply could not overcome. It was hugely embarrassing. Fortunately for me, my life is such an endless parade of embarassment......well.......quite frankly, I'm freakin' immune.
The time had come to buy new tires. To all of you that always have an emergency stash of money for such completely foreseeable eventualities....please sit down and shut the fuck up. This is me we're talking about here. My brain is much more geared toward wrapping said tires in duct tape in an attempt to prolong their usefulness....so bite me.
.........anyway.......I called around for prices which was all together depressing. I did learn in the process to always go local. Stay away from "jiffy" this, and "express" that. "Well Ma'am...your combobulated hoo haw fluid has become entangled with your auto immune flux capacitor digi-wad and we can fix it for you for $279.00" thanxkbye. Your local neighborhood garage will remember who you are ( who really can forget me anyway.....the duct tape lady?), they will drop off your car at the vet clinic where you work and when you stop back in to pay, aaaallllll the mechanics will come out of the garage to meet the lady with the tires. Stories will be told around camp fires and bar stools for eons to come.
I wish I could say that this is an exaggeration but unfortunately........this is in fact, my ridiculous life. Watch and learn grasshoppers.
What was I saying?
Yes.......tires. I recently had to purchase 4 of them. Keep in mind that normal people rotate their tires on a semi regular basis. My plan usually consists of not dealing with something until it becomes critical. Such had become my tires. Smooth as a baby's bottom they were. I had known for quite some time that they were fading like the fall light, but hoped that they would get me through the winter. That was the kiss of death right there. I should have known that I would bring in to existence the worst winter in recorded history. Sorry fellow residents of the Northeast. Yup....it was all me.
So here I am, attempting to get through the snow with bald tires and a panic attack on board. As other neighbors were busting through a 5 or 6 inch plow wake at the end of the driveway, I was scraping away the ice smear flush with the pavement that my poor, rose petal smooth babies simply could not overcome. It was hugely embarrassing. Fortunately for me, my life is such an endless parade of embarassment......well.......quite frankly, I'm freakin' immune.
The time had come to buy new tires. To all of you that always have an emergency stash of money for such completely foreseeable eventualities....please sit down and shut the fuck up. This is me we're talking about here. My brain is much more geared toward wrapping said tires in duct tape in an attempt to prolong their usefulness....so bite me.
.........anyway.......I called around for prices which was all together depressing. I did learn in the process to always go local. Stay away from "jiffy" this, and "express" that. "Well Ma'am...your combobulated hoo haw fluid has become entangled with your auto immune flux capacitor digi-wad and we can fix it for you for $279.00" thanxkbye. Your local neighborhood garage will remember who you are ( who really can forget me anyway.....the duct tape lady?), they will drop off your car at the vet clinic where you work and when you stop back in to pay, aaaallllll the mechanics will come out of the garage to meet the lady with the tires. Stories will be told around camp fires and bar stools for eons to come.
I wish I could say that this is an exaggeration but unfortunately........this is in fact, my ridiculous life. Watch and learn grasshoppers.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Stress food
Working in a busy veterinary hospital like I do, the days can get a bit.......well.........whooshy. By that I mean, you look up and it's 9:00 a.m. then you look again and it's 4 freakin :30. WHOOSH!! The hours in between that slight whirring sound in your head seem to fly by like maybe at some point you just took a little mental health nap and forgot to wakey wakey. Let me just tell you that forgetting is never a really good idea in the medical field. I would recommend avoiding it.
It is a constant battle for me to remember every little thread that needs to be followed up on. I have taken to continuously writing myself little notes, otherwise......yeah.......gone. When you work for a doctor and he says, "Nancy....blah blah blah blah, and then remind me to blah blah blah.....then e-mail......blah blah....and fill in the rest of the pertinent info before you send it", he's done with it. From that moment on whatever the list of tasks has become yours to chart, follow up on, download and submit for analysis. It's usually best to stop trying to figure out why the chemistry analyzer has decided not to print out the results the doctor is waiting for, and take a moment to write it down, otherwise...........you guessed it.....gone.
To say that I don't forget things would be ever so slightly inaccurate. I forget the stupid shit....the little shit. I forget to do the things that I do a thousand times in a row, then forget to do once. OK....so maybe twice. My point here is that in the medical field, you can rest assured that the little thing you've done a gazillion times and have suddenly missed WILL BE FOUND AND CALLED TO YOUR ATTENTION!!!!! I am convinced that the world would fail to spin on it's axis properly and the moon would fall from orbit if I were to ever in my fucking life manage to do something stupid without witnesses.
I have found the answer to this job related stress. The thing that makes it all bearable some days. The thing that gets myself and Trish, the office manager, through those long brutal shifts full of crisis and emergencies and attempting not to forget something crucial. It's french fries people........hot, crispy, steamy, salty, french fries. Is it on my Goddamned diet?......nope. Do I care?........nope. When we can slip away and unrepentantly nosh on fries......it's a good goddamned day. Most often we are grabbing a bite on the fly ( always carry high quality snacks when working in the veterinary field. You may break for lunch anytime between "whenever" and "never") To actually leave the office and eat french fries without interruption, without ringing phones, and without simultaneously typing with your free hand is simply too super fabulous for words.
So there you have it people.........My name is surgical assistant and I eat fries.
and I try not to forget shit.
It is a constant battle for me to remember every little thread that needs to be followed up on. I have taken to continuously writing myself little notes, otherwise......yeah.......gone. When you work for a doctor and he says, "Nancy....blah blah blah blah, and then remind me to blah blah blah.....then e-mail......blah blah....and fill in the rest of the pertinent info before you send it", he's done with it. From that moment on whatever the list of tasks has become yours to chart, follow up on, download and submit for analysis. It's usually best to stop trying to figure out why the chemistry analyzer has decided not to print out the results the doctor is waiting for, and take a moment to write it down, otherwise...........you guessed it.....gone.
To say that I don't forget things would be ever so slightly inaccurate. I forget the stupid shit....the little shit. I forget to do the things that I do a thousand times in a row, then forget to do once. OK....so maybe twice. My point here is that in the medical field, you can rest assured that the little thing you've done a gazillion times and have suddenly missed WILL BE FOUND AND CALLED TO YOUR ATTENTION!!!!! I am convinced that the world would fail to spin on it's axis properly and the moon would fall from orbit if I were to ever in my fucking life manage to do something stupid without witnesses.
I have found the answer to this job related stress. The thing that makes it all bearable some days. The thing that gets myself and Trish, the office manager, through those long brutal shifts full of crisis and emergencies and attempting not to forget something crucial. It's french fries people........hot, crispy, steamy, salty, french fries. Is it on my Goddamned diet?......nope. Do I care?........nope. When we can slip away and unrepentantly nosh on fries......it's a good goddamned day. Most often we are grabbing a bite on the fly ( always carry high quality snacks when working in the veterinary field. You may break for lunch anytime between "whenever" and "never") To actually leave the office and eat french fries without interruption, without ringing phones, and without simultaneously typing with your free hand is simply too super fabulous for words.
So there you have it people.........My name is surgical assistant and I eat fries.
and I try not to forget shit.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Bonus loss!
I decided that it would probably be a good idea to hop on the scales this morning. I wasn't expecting any great result, in fact, I stepped up and shut my eyes in order to prepare for the worst. After all, I hadn't checked my weight since the last blizzard. I braced myself and looked down. Imagine my surprise at finding a 3 pound weight loss. How in the hell did that happen. You all may have noticed a certain lack of focus on my weight loss lately. Not many sticks of butter being tallied.
Once again, I've discovered something new in this my Goddamned Diet adventure. Somehow along the way...much without me even noticing it.....I seem to have adjusted to my new eating habits and made the change. I no longer try to work myself up to exercising, but actually enjoy the fact that I can take a nice long walk without feeling the need to wheel along an oxygen bottle. I no longer crave McDonalds double cheeseburgers or Funyuns. OK...so honestly, Funyuns I haven't been brave enough to try again. The memory of eating entire bags before bed are too fresh and the danger of relapse looms large.
Do I realize that this makes me an incredibly annoying commodity? Why yes I do. This is not what I would have wanted to hear 7 months ago. "Blah blah blah Oprah bullshit shut the fuck up and pass the chocolate cake" I can't tell you how much I hate testimonials. All of those slouching, miserable looking fat people who tell me how much better their life is since they discovered the grapefruit/ex-lax diet and lost 300 pounds. I can't surf past the channel fast enough. Somewhere along the line, I actually made a "lifestyle change" Didn't see that one coming.
What I did expect was that my life would all fall in to place once I had lost some weight. This is a typical fat girl idea. Yeah.........no. My life still sucks and I'm still broke and someone is still pooping in my shower and I still wake up most mornings feeling like the train pulled out and I somehow forgot to board. We have this idea that thinner people have cornered the market on happiness and if we can just fucking get there..........Sorry ladies. Oh how I wish it were true.
so here it is....35 pounds...that's 140 sticks of butter. I know I could have lost 180 pounds in 6 months on the banana/motor oil diet but I'm good...........really.
Once again, I've discovered something new in this my Goddamned Diet adventure. Somehow along the way...much without me even noticing it.....I seem to have adjusted to my new eating habits and made the change. I no longer try to work myself up to exercising, but actually enjoy the fact that I can take a nice long walk without feeling the need to wheel along an oxygen bottle. I no longer crave McDonalds double cheeseburgers or Funyuns. OK...so honestly, Funyuns I haven't been brave enough to try again. The memory of eating entire bags before bed are too fresh and the danger of relapse looms large.
Do I realize that this makes me an incredibly annoying commodity? Why yes I do. This is not what I would have wanted to hear 7 months ago. "Blah blah blah Oprah bullshit shut the fuck up and pass the chocolate cake" I can't tell you how much I hate testimonials. All of those slouching, miserable looking fat people who tell me how much better their life is since they discovered the grapefruit/ex-lax diet and lost 300 pounds. I can't surf past the channel fast enough. Somewhere along the line, I actually made a "lifestyle change" Didn't see that one coming.
What I did expect was that my life would all fall in to place once I had lost some weight. This is a typical fat girl idea. Yeah.........no. My life still sucks and I'm still broke and someone is still pooping in my shower and I still wake up most mornings feeling like the train pulled out and I somehow forgot to board. We have this idea that thinner people have cornered the market on happiness and if we can just fucking get there..........Sorry ladies. Oh how I wish it were true.
so here it is....35 pounds...that's 140 sticks of butter. I know I could have lost 180 pounds in 6 months on the banana/motor oil diet but I'm good...........really.
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