Aunt M

My friend, MB, said he's a little tired of my cheerful holiday disposition and just when do I think I will turn back into my dark and twisty self?

It's hard to say, as I'm currently hanging out with my niece in Maryland and while she has the propensity to leave fingerprints all over my glasses and spit up cottage cheese on my favorite hooded sweatshirt - she's still about the sweetest thing on the planet and I pretty much smile all day when she's around.

Having said that - I'm not sure I actually want the pleasure of giving birth to a real live human child. Real live human children don't really get cool til about one year old. (okay, 18-years-old) All those freaks who "ooh" and "ahh" over little tiny wrinkly red babies need to find some good anti-psychotic drugs.

Even my sister, who is just the best mom on the planet, is the first one to admit that the entire reason kids are cute and learn how to smile is so you don't feel justified in drowing them. Natural selection nothing - giggling is the secret to the continuation of the human race.

Okay, with all of that - I'm just not sure I'd be a good mother to an infant. My dry sarcastic humor would be totally lost on a baby. My forgetfulness would surely end in the kid sitting in the ol' car carrier on the curb. And let's be honest - one more spin of Raffi in the cd player might turn me into the type of person they wrote the Safe Haven laws for.

Don't get me wrong - I love kids. Kids are very fun and cool and best enjoyed during the holidays, on short trips and never with my remote control hanging out of their mouths.

Unless they smile and then, well, I guess all is forgiven.

Seasons of Love

It's that time of year isn't it? It's that time of year when the snarky me takes a wee nap and tries, for a moment or two at least, to revel in the season.
I'm a sucker for the Salvation Army Bell Ringers. Man, I just love those people. Outside, bitter cold, ringing a bell in hopes of some spare change for those less fortunate. I never have change on me, except this time of year - for just this purpose. Some jackass told me the other day that an amazingly large number of Bell Ringers actually steal the money for themselves. Oh - cheer the fuck up (sorry, some of my family members may not be aware that I swear...a lot) - but come on! Even if there are cases of Bell Ringers gone wild - that is not the spirit of which I speak. They are outside, in the cold, ringing a bell - I love these people.
The infinite patience of store clerks. I cannot imagine the life of the average store clerk - but I would wish a thousand paper cuts before I would wish to be one during the holidays. For all our gift giving - shoppers are the stingiest bastards on the planet. Damn it if we don't get the extra .002% off because we got in line before 6a.m. Each of these people deserves to be driving a Mercedes for all the crap they put up with.
Christmas sweater-wearers. God bless them. Me, well, I'm a jerk and I only wear holiday sweaters to mocking events like the Sweater and Turtleneck party at a local bar. Where, yes, the point is the find the most disgusting sweater and flaunt it. But the true-of-heart Christmas sweater-wearers - they love the holidays, or they were given one by their 3rd grade class or they know they are going to see the great-aunt who knitted it for them. Either way, they will one day earn a place in heaven for their earnest couture.
Which leads me, naturally, to all those who don the Santa cap. Yes, they are horrible hats. But when worn with the true spirit or after six of Uncle Chet's "special" punches - it is endearing and wholesome. What happens after the seventh glass of punch - not so wholesome.
And finally - I am forever enamored by the purchasers of the Chia Pet and The Clapper. There isn't much to say about these individuals except to say - they believe in the power of unwrapping the most unmitigated pile of crap. Crap, when purchased in the spirit of the season, is beautiful and wonderful and not at all identifiable as crap. God bless these innocents and God bless The Clapper!

"Santa. This Saturday. Billions and Billions Served"

On my way home from a fantastically refreshing "Non Holiday" party this weekend in the land of RV's, I saw this on the sign below the Golden Arches of a local McDonalds:

Santa. This Saturday. Billions and Billions Served.

Fine, the "Billions and Billions Served" is there year-around, but the pairing of the two declarations gave me pause. Have we lost the meaning of Christmas?

Growing up, my family wasn't big into church, so we lost some of the no-room-at-the-inn connections. We worshiped santa, reindeer and singing snowmen. And while I like the Mary, Joseph (what a saint!) and Jesus bits - I don't think those cheering for Kris Kringle lost the "meaning of Christmas". And to me, that will always be - Magic. Jesus, wisemen, Santa, flying reindeer - now matter how you package it, it is about magic.

It is about family. Be thankful for those who would wander for ages, just so you could find a place to sleep for the night. When you're together there is no difference between a four-poster bed and a manger.

It is about friendship. It is about finding people you can sing and dance with even when you've been a bah-humbug bastard.

It is about acceptance. So what if someone has a nose that lights up, let him play in your stupid reindeer games and get over yourself.

It is about following that part of you that seeks something precious and meaningful. You don't have to be toting frankincense and myrrh to be searching for something and to persevere until it is found.

It is about believing. Even when you're following a star (and probably feeling kinda stupid about it) - it is about believing that at the end of the journey you'll be glad you took the leap.

So maybe I shouldn't get so grumpy about Santa being at McDonalds, because when some kid sits on his lap and whispers his wildest dreams - there will be more magic in his heart than the world ever thought it could hold.

"The Most Wonderful Time of the Year..."

I have been off my game. The holidays have a way of doing that. Your schedule fills up, you flit from one party to the next and you get the otherwise ridiculous notion that you are a jet setter.

We're not even into heavy holiday party season and I'm already seeking out red sequined tops (only acceptable this time of year) and eating more cheese than can be digested by a single human being.

Gastrointestinal issues aside, I just love this time of year. Dressing up, seeing old friends, making new friends, toasting to just about everything on the planet and all under the glow of twinkling white lights. (Everything is better with white lights).

But tonight I finally got back to my computer, pulled up the ol' blog and realized that all I can do is worship my Pagan tree, listen to holiday music and revel in the "Holiday Me". So just for tonight Christmas is all about me and not the lil tike in the manger.

Don't fret for my eternal soul, I'm an ordained minister and will absolved myself of sin later. Tonight it's white lights, cheerful tunes and the glee of how good I look in red.

Pop Quiz

There is a blog that I check on occasion. All A Twitter.

She has some fun posts and a Wednesday haiku competition that I'm becoming addicted to. Anyway, she had this little quiz on hers today and since I didn't have much to say, I thought I'd give you this...

1. Diamonds or Pearls? See? Right off the bat I'm bitter, as I have neither and want both. I'd go with "and" over "or" on that one.

2. Chocolate or Vanilla? A family credo: If it's not chocolate, it's not dessert.

3. Beatles or Stones? I'm more likely to wax poetic over N*SYNC or Backstreet Boys, Britney or Christina. Only because I like to make fun of them and there isn't much I find humorous about the Beatles and Stones except that some women still find them attractive

4. Steak or Pasta? Am I the only freak who can totally pass on steak? I wish I were a marathon runner, which would make my propensity for eating my weight in pasta much more acceptable.

5. Revolver or Semi-Automatic? Can you tell yet that my dad told me about this blog? If we're talking about doors, I get a little freaked out in revolving doors. If, as I suspect, this is gun talk - I prefer spitballs.

6. Feather or Foam? Foam. Feather beds always stick me with their prickly quills. I'd like to think we've evolved since Little House on the Prairie

7. Republican or Democrat? I'm beginning to think they need a much smarter party if I'm gonna dance

8. Stick or Automatic? I once was lost, but now I'm found. I'd only ever owned sticks and didn't know the luxury of an automatic transmission. I've gone soft, but cruise control gets me over it.

9. Table Service or Buffet? I have high enough blood pressure without fighting a testy geezer for the last egg roll. Cute waiter me.

10. Summer, Winter, Spring or Fall? If a land existed that was Fall year around, I think I'd pack it all in. Naturally their national language would be "Pointing and Grunting"; national food - cheese; national bird - none, because they think birds are unpredictable and frightening too; national pastime - baking and mocking

11. Sailboat or Motorboat? I don't care as long as someone else is at the helm and there are no shark fins peeping out at me

12. Dogs or Cats? This often-debated question is a big DNA (does not apply). I am the proud owner of a colony of dust bunnies. What they lack in cuteness, they also lack in slobber and unexplained trails of feces

13. Beer or Wine? I could no sooner pick a favorite child or star in the heavens. They are both perfect just the way God made them

14. Hugs or kisses? Chocolate is chocolate

15. Cary Grant or Jimmy Stewart? Cary Grant is much too sophisticated for the likes of me (my friends are all nodding in agreement) Jimmy, now Jimmy would call you "dollface", give you a smack on the ass and order you both Gin and Tonics

16. Pie or Cake? Neither? I'd take a cookie over the both of them. Although I make an amazing Pecan Pumpkin Pie and a Peanut Butter Chocolate Cake that has actually made men weep

17. Tea or Coffee? If it's good - coffee, black. If it's so-so - coffee, masking as chocolate milk. If recovering from a hangover - tea, pepperminty

18. Male Friends or Female Friends? I used to be a big "Girls Stink" Girl. They seemed catty, petty and some other -tty word. But then I got me some great girlfriends and you just can beat that with a stick

19. Pool or Beach? Doesn't matter, but there better be that great coconut smell from Super Duper Accelerating Tanning Lotion wafting in the air

20. Hotter or Colder? Beverages? Weather? Come on, hook a girl up with a qualifier. Weather - colder; beverages - both have a time and place; the game - colder makes you feel like a real loser

Something's a-Brewin'

My friend, CT, is a pretty cool chick. (Don't worry, she doesn't mind if I call her "chick" - she's about as kindly and un-offendable as they come.)

We grabbed a drink this weekend (as we some times do) and talked (as we always do) and CT said something that really was quite profound: "some drinks just remind us of certain times and places."

Maybe that's simple, but that doesn't make it any less profound. We were talking about this guy we know who likes Hacker Schoor. He absolutely flips over Hacker Schoor. Myself and CT's BF, MB (dig the acronyms, you can tell I've spent too many years at the Farm) anyway, me and MB think Hacker Schoor tastes like some freakish kind of deli meat, like Mortadella or something equally gag-worthy. Anyway, our friend who likes it takes us on a walk down memory lane every time he orders one, which got me walking down my own lane-o-memories:

Old Speckled Hen: When I went to London (by myself because I just couldn't wait another day to get a stamp in my passport) I made a deal that I would drink whatever was on the handpull. OSH was on the handpull at the bar where I crashed a mason's retirement party and had one of the best nights of my life.

Bell's Oberon: The summer before I moved back to Michigan - I saw this amazing band called Third Coast Something or Other at Bell's Brewery, hung out with my oldest friend, danced like a crazy woman and discovered there was a beer that got you drunk after only two pints.

Merlot: When I was new to the Hartford theater community, I was trying to act so much more mature and grown-up than my (nearly) 21 years. I hadn't had much wine (unless we count 2-liters of Sun Country Wine Cooler) up until then. But drinking wine with these wonderfully creative and smart people made me feel creative and smart too.

Vanilla vodka: My friend, K(H)B. She's my soul sister. I drink vanilla vodka (or even a Diet Dr Pepper Cherry Vanilla soda) and I think of how much I love her.

Old Style: Egads, it's almost the worst beer on earth, but every time I even catch a whiff of it, I think about hanging with my cousin in the smokiest bar in Kalamazoo, MI (rhymes with Preen Mop) and having these insanely funny conversations about our family, our lives and what we had just written on the bulletin board in the Womens bathroom.

Coors Light: Canoeing and Tubing. It doesn't matter if your can gets half-filled with river water, it still tastes the same.

Jack Daniels: an old boyfriend, no matter how hard I try to reassociate. I stopped drinking it all-together.

Guiness: damn the ex-boyfriends.

Tangueray and Lemonade: A delightful afternoon on my father and step-mother's deck. It totally changed my opinion of gin and the cool-factor of hanging out with one's parents.

Dirty Martinis: Hanging with my girlfriends. Even if I was the only one drinking them - I remember eating a bleu cheese-stuffed olive and thinking "We have become Bawdy Women".

Margaritas: For some reason, the most Mountain Manly man I know, KDave, has probably been my most frequent partner in crime around the blender. I'm not sure if over the course of our friendship he's changed or I have or we have, but he's this amazingly intuitive and precious soul. And when the sour and salt meet - I think of him.

Bell's Amber Ale: Shitcan Monday. The day I got "let go" from the best job on the planet. My oldest friend hooked me up with a case at 10 a.m. My friend, Carter and I both got the boot and every time I think of ordering an Amber Ale, I remember his sage and experienced words of how Shitcan Monday would go: "10:30a.m. apply for unemployment. 11a.m. we start drinking. Soon we'll be fielding phone calls from ex-co-workers and family. We will console them and continue drinking. Start making plans of where we will meet up with ex-co-workers. Start a tab at 3pm at our bar of choice. By the time our still-employed friends show up - they will pick up the tab and buy rounds of shots. Tomorrow, start looking at the Want Ads." I no longer drink Amber Ale. That is exclusive to me, Carter and life-altering events.

Okay, I've gone on and on.; I could go on and on some more, but will let you go with this thought, our lives are in the details. Graduations and weddings are captured in pictures, but it is in the odors, smells and tastes of life that lie our true life stories. These are just a few of mine.

A Woman Who Loves a Tiara

I am a woman who loves a tiara. I own two.

Oh no, I've never been crowned any sort of Queen, Princess or royalty of any kind. I just happen to own two tiaras.

One purchased so that I and my two dearest girls could go as the Queens of Ale, Porter and Stout to a local brewery's annual costume gala (okay, it's held in the back room on concrete floors, but our presence raised it to gala level)

The second was most un-Queenly begged for from my sister (also a woman who loves a tiara). It is currently sitting atop my head as I type this entry. And, in my opinion, should be dusted off at least on a weekly basis - even if only to vacuum and mop my floors.

Every woman has a little Cinderella in us. All of us feel woefully underappreciated and just know in our heart of hearts that our size 10's will fit in that glass slipper. (Just hand me a shoe horn and won't I prove it.) And once we're waltzing in our finest crystal we'll never again have to scrub the refrigerator down or clean hair out of the sink drain.

But a tiara's true purpose is to remind us to raise our chins a bit, walk a little taller, to smile a little sweeter and to gently lower our eyes in false modesty. Because we all really are royalty. Me, my sister, my girls - Queens - one and all. Nothing less than beautifully and regally divine.
This is one of those rare moments when I actually feel sorry for men. For what would I do if deprived my tiara?

Well, I would still raise my chin, walk tall, smile sweetly and gently lower my eyes in false modesty - because the royalty is in us, not an adornment.

Martha Stewart Doesn't Live Here Anymore

I’d like to sit down with Miss Martha and ask her what things were like in the Clink.

Specifically, did The Man try to institutionalize the decorating goddess right on out of her? I wonder if they forbid her to knit an afghan for her bunk bed or use flowers indigenous in the prison yard to make swags for her barred windows. I wonder if they said the big “no” if she tried to hang pictures of her previously created meals and spectacularly adorned cocktails. I’d have to assume “no” – which leads me to my current conclusion.

The Cube Farm is worse than prison.

The space I live in is approximately a 5-foot cube, smaller than your standard jail cell, which I guess is fair, since I rarely sleep here (unless I’ve been out drinking with the girls the night before and can somehow manage to cradle my forehead in my hands and look like I’m intently reading “Developing the Extraordinary Organization”).

My main source of decoration is a series of 3” black binders that encircle my cube wall, occasionally broken up by a pile of scrap paper and two very out-of-date phone books. I have a black computer monitor, a beige telephone (almost black from the Ghosts of Grubby Hands Past) and an ergonomically correct keyboard. That’s it. Nothing else. (Ok, there might also be a few empty diet Coke cans and several ill-attended dust bunnies, but that's it).

My dilemma is – I’m a decorating fool. I like having things on my walls and desk that say “a funky, fun woman works here”. My new “workspace” resides in the land of vanilla and there is very little that is deemed “appropriate” in our little hamlet of Blandville.

But last night, I broke down. I decided to take a leap and make my little fabric cell a little homier. I found some great little prints at my most favoritest store (rhymes with Smarget) and brought them in to display. I even came in a little early; to make sure I wasn’t using company time to do frivolous things like make my workspace bearable. They are these great prints (from the 30s or 40s, I think) that are old-time advertisements of Martini and Rossi. They have these funky mime guys on them and one has this awesome “man in the moon” licking his lips. They were fun. They were artsy. They were up for approximately 9 minutes before a manager swung by and most grievously told me that they should come down because of their content (i.e. booze).

Did you all just think “COME ON!”? Because that’s what I thought. I thought it so loud I was sure that my head would explode and decorate my cube walls with bits of brain matter and mucus, which I’m sure is also inappropriate for the Farm.

And no, I wasn’t upset with the poor Manager. It must be hard enforcing rules that you think are ridiculous. No, I think I’m upset with political correctness. Political correctness has run Camp Goodtimes right into the ground. Everything is offensive. Everything is skeptical. Everything is bad and should not be said or shown. Political correctness is a big ol' stick up the corporate ass.

Political correctness sucks the big one. And if Martha bothered to answer any of my phone calls I just know she'd agree.

A few of my favorite things

I can't tell you about all of the many things I am thankful for in life.

Okay, fine - here are a few:

1. Blizzards - when it snows so hard you know you aren't going to have to go into work the next day
2. White lights - on trees, in buildings, year 'round
3. Red wine - especially in the fall and winter, especially with my girlfriends, especially when I remember to take aspirin and drink water before bed
4. "The West Wing" - dear lord if politicians were that honest, that funny, that smart. What a wonderful world this would be...
5. Irish pubs - even when owned by Euro-mutts in the U.S.
6. Jersey-knit sheets - just when you thought sleeping in your softest, most comfortable t-shirt was bliss...try sleeping wrapped up in one
7. My sister's laugh - it's the most perfect sound to my ears
8. Sharpened pencils - mechanical pencils are fine, but a newly-sharpened pencil just writes perfectly
9. Going to an art museum by myself - actually enjoying the art, instead of trying to find something meaningful about the art in order to say something interesting to my companion
10. Karaoke bars - I applaud the bravery and then point, stare and mock (I never said I was a good person)

The list goes on and on and let's be honest, is sure to be continued...

How Words Find Us

I'm not entirely sure how words find us. But I believe it to be true, rather than this idea that we find them. I will not wax poetic on the notion. The man above understood it at a level that I can never dream to. I'll just prop myself up on his genius and hope to be found.

I Heart Canada

I've only been to Canada a few times. Your basic Niagra Falls, or underage drinking roadtrip to Windsor. Low key stuff.

I did go to Toronto once for business and aside from a sketchy travel companion, it was a pretty cool trip. (I stayed in the same hotel as Mario Van Peebles, Charles S. Dutton and one of the Backstreet Boys) I don't know if that makes the trip more or less cool.

Anyway...

I've just returned from the land of Gretsky and let me say this - I freakin' love Canada.

Does free healthcare just make for happier people? Are they more pleasant because even hotel tap water tastes like it came out of a flippin' forest stream? Does their kindness stem from from quaint pronunciations of "about" and "process"?

Don't know. Don't care. But I think I want to live in Canada. This is how I imagined I'd find the people of Montana (ack, still haven't made it there) But unfettered by, what I call, the Entitlement Issue of Americans. Who do we think we are, anyway? We've got it pretty good and yet we keep getting in our own way most days. And boy, are we grumpy for all our freedoms! (Do not lead me down that path this evening)

What I'm getting at is this - "Oh, Canada" really ought to be "Oh! Canada!" (a nod to my friend DG's love of exclamation points)

But to hell with grammar, Canada deserves a few more exclamation points in my humble opinion. I just freakin' heart Canada.

In a land where Hush Puppies are the height of fashion

I'm kidding...sort of.

I'm in Canada for a few days on business. And after a full day of standing around and telling people how to talk, write and act - I realized something very disturbing.

I brought the freakin' wrong pair of shoes. (Well, the first part is disturbing too, as these are grown ass men and women and have functioned in the world so far just fine) Anyway...

It became very clear that before I hit the hotel bar or ordered room service - I needed a new pair of shoes.

The problem is this - cute shoes are not comfortable and comfortable shoes sure as eff ain't cute. So it's the amazing pair of boots that will actually disfigure my feet forever OR the cute Sketcher sneakers that masquerade as grown up shoes, but actually should only be worn by cute co-eds OR the leather work shoe that looks like it's probably all the rage with the ladies whoopin' it up at the retirement home.

I finally managed to find this quite cute soft leather Mary Jane-ish shoe that was uber-comfortable. The sales girl made an extra special deal out of these shoes being Hush Puppies. And all I could think was "if you really want me to buy these, you'll take that back right this second!"

Where the hell was I when Hush Puppies got cool? Sure, back when I was in Third Grade there were dreams of a shiny new pair of red Hush Puppies during Back-to-School shopping, but those went side by side with the dreams that my hair was straight and could be feathered (ala Farrah Fawcett)

Is this a geographical anomaly? Is Canada, in fact, the land of Hush Puppies? Or, and this is easily possible - I fell asleep, missed a few episodes of Fashion TV and missed the announcement that comfortable, soft leather shoes are all the rage with Celebretants like Paris and Nicole. Gosh, I hope so. Cause if comfortable shoes finally went and got cool - my life is just about perfect.

Either that, or I'm moving to Canada.

Confessions of an Ungrateful Bridesmaid: Chapter 2

BRIDAL SHOWERS
And Chinese Water Torture.

Bridal showers were invented by older women who have already lived through their own weddings. Most of them hated every moment of it, as they were beset upon by their minions of relatives who were always ready to lend an opinion. BUT and it’s a big BUT, they have forgotten all this. They forgot what it was like as a younger woman to sit in a big circle of strangers and wrap each other in toilet paper wedding dresses. It has slipped their minds that they didn't care who bought the set of towels or the rattan ottoman. Who the eff does?

The bridal shower is really just a way to torture the bridal party with finger food (that they are trying to avoid just so they can fit into their recently sized dress) and to get lots and lots of free stuff for the bride.

Now, I'm not against free stuff. I LOVE free stuff. But this stuff ain’t free for me. In fact, being in a wedding costs a fortune. A gen-u-ine veritable fortune. (More on that later) It really would make more sense for bridal parties to consist of great-aunts and elderly neighbors, because they’re the ones with the extra cash squirreled away. Most of us who actually don the dress are struggling to make car and house payments, pay off student loans and save up for some plastic surgery, god willing.

But, as they say, life ain’t fair. Not even a little. So…

("So" is like "But" - pretty much everything before it is a waste of time because the truth is up next)

So...suck it up cry baby. Sadly, there is nothing left to do. Take your lumps. Get to the registry early while there are still towels available. Spike the punch. Whatever it takes to muddle through and then do that which must be embedded in the 2nd X chromosome - make your friends do the very same when it's your turn up to bat.

Payback - there are a ton of you suckers on my list - just you wait....

Indiana Discothèques and Other Flights of Fancy

Okay, I don't actually spend every waking moment in a bar, pub or night club. Although the last several posts would suggest otherwise.

Truth is, I finally feel like being back out into the social scene after a relationship ended with a proverbial kick in the nuts. So hey - when the girls say "let's get our groove on" - I say "word."

I had back-to-back dancing frenzies. One at a favorite dancing spot where the girls and I sneak off to and do the shimmy-down next to a great big salad bar in the shape of a row boat. Added bonus, my most favoritest cover band was playing and let me say this - if these folks can't make you dance, nothing can!

Anyway, we bookended that with a trip to see friends in Indiana the next day and scooted to a funny little hot spot in South Bend. Again - I love me a cover band, and these kids were cool too. But my favorite part about this little Indiana Discotheque was it's "we welcome all kinds" attitude. Okay fine, the guy at the door would have you believe you're heading into Studio 54 - but when you walk in it is Melting Pot Central. Cowboys, Hillbillies, Hippies, Preppies (seriously, white jeans and orange polo on a boy), Bikers (seriously, leather vest and Dierks Bently perm) and well, us - probably a mixture of all of the above.

But I tell you this now - nothing brings people together like a little B-52's and Vanilla Ice. If we all took a moment to revel in the genius of Mr. Ice, I think this would be a happier world. A world with fewer crimes, bigger hearts and funnier reality tv shows.

"If there was a problem, Yo, I'll solve it. Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it"

A Brush with Death at The Barking Frog

I've mentioned my affinity for crappy little bars and last night I nearly died in one.

The Barking Frog is a kindly crappy little bar in Battle Creek that I frequented last night with a friend.

For a crappy little bar, it is kind enough to pair up good local mircobrews right next to the Bud Light. I appreciate their sense of irony.

Anyway, as those in the southwest-ish area of Michigan may be aware - there were Tornado Warnings aplenty last night. And while families huddled in their basements around the battery-operated radio, I was sitting with a tall boy of Oberon at The Barking Frog.

I mused over a couple of things:

1. I've come a long way. My mom, sister and I spent some serious time huddled in a basement around a battery-operated radio sweating and fretting over storms and tornados all summer long when I was a kid. I think it's a testiment to progress or evolution or some such thing that I can sit calmly at a bar during treacherous weather and sip a beer.

2. My dad would be so proud if my obituary read:

"Born January 25, 1973 - Died October 17, 2007. Passed away at The Barking Frog."

Don't get crazy my dad doesn't wish me ill, he wishes me an excellent ending to my story. My father, like me, is a collector of stories. Our aim in life is to live well enough to accumulate some pretty good stories we can tell our friends and family (over and over again).

Anyway, last night I had a near-death experience and all I could think was: "Beer, friends, Lynyrd Skynyrd - this wouldn't be such a bad way to go."

I Long For A Mix Tape

I love my iPod, I do. It's nice to peruse one's music collection with the rotation of one's thumb. But I miss Mix Tapes.

I know, there are people who will say - "Put together a Playlist" blah, blah, blah...

It's just not the same. It really isn't.

Sitting cross-legged on your living room floor, cd's strewn about, looking at cover art, checking out who wrote the songs, trying to discern the various stages of Cher's plastic surgery - you can't beat that kind of quality time with a stick.

And if we're really getting to the heart of it - I miss the storytelling capacity of a Mix Tape. How I can go back to Mixes I've made and know exactly who I was dating, who I was obsessing over, who I had just broken up with based on the sappy or sassy soundtrack I'd compiled. Who needs a diary when music really does reflect our lives, exactly as they were at any given moment in our lives?

I can't quite remember which dodgy relationship bookended Josh Groban and Violent Femmes on the same Mix, but I'm sure if I give it one more listen - it'll all come rushing back.

God, how I love a Mix Tape.

Random Musings in the Car

I am in the middle of a trip to visit family out east and began it with a 10 hour car ride with my dad. 10 hours is a lot of time to talk and the topics were varied.

But at one point we got to talking about people and their "issues." I'm pretty sure it was just a lame reference to Grey's Anatomy and how we're so sick of Meredith and her issues. Not that she didn't have it tough (in a fictional character sort of way. Although let's be honest she's no Huck Finn or Oliver Twist) - but (and this was the bulk of our conversation)...

...What really grinds on me who are aware of their issues and refuse to put them to bed. "Oh I have intimacy issues" says the beautiful intern who is hopelessly loved by her hot surgeon boyfriend - and then does nothing to change her present situation.

"They" say that recognizing an issue or problem is 1/2 the battle. Bollocks. That's an eighth, maybe a sixteenth of the battle. The real battle is taking action.

I told my dad that I hope I do not become a collector of issues. That instead I become a zoologist of issues. Identify them, tag them and then set them free in the wild.

In lieu of that, let me become a beautiful intern pursued by a hot neurosurgeon who can't get enough of me and my issues. That wouldn't be so bad either.

Crappy Little Bars

Have I ever mentioned how much I love a crappy little bar?

Crappy little bars aren't pretentious - they don't judge or pontificate on whether or not your wardrobe is apropos. Crappy little bars don't care.

Crappy little bars might not be on the right side of the tracks - although I don't entirely understand what the wrong side looks like. I grew up in a trailer park - tracks are irrelevant.

Crappy little bars know that you are just a person, who wants to have fun. Fun is to be had regardless of whether or not there are signs on the men's and women's bathrooms. Fun is to be had whether or not the taps have been cleaned, the floors mopped or the band practiced.

Crappy little bars don't trouble themselves with details like silverware, candlelight or ambiance.

Crappy little bars remind me of the type of man I'd like to one day meet. Real. Zero judgement. 100% acceptance.

A crappy little bar doesn't care where you bought your jeans or whether your shoes are Nine West or Wal-Mart clearance. Crappy little bars want to know that you are here for the experience, that you are here for the show. And nothing, but nothing else matters.

I love Fall

Fall is just about the best thing ever.

Fall rocks.

Fall is changing leaves, pumpkins, Indian corn and cider.

Fall is crisp leaves being blown down the sidewalk.

Fall is my most favoritest time of year.

Okay, fine, it happens to include another new season of television shows. So sue me.

I love many things.

I love holidays, I love my family. I'm particularly in love with my niece who is turning one-year-old. But dammit, if I don't also love t.v.

I flippin' love it.

I love happy endings. I love possibility and hope. I love love.

And if crisp leaves down empty sidewalks reminds me that love lives. And if fictitional characters say the things that I want to say in the face of love. And if hope lives because I do.

Well, then - I blame it on Fall. On beautiful, perfect, precious Fall.

Confession #3: I am afraid of my own shadow

You know how when you were a little kid, your mom wouldn't let you watch scary shows or movies before bed? I still remember sneaking out to watch "Salem's Lot" on TV one night. I don't think I had a good night's sleep for the following 9 months.

Things spook me. Not normal things like graveyards (see previous blog). But completely abnormal things like creaking floorboards, attics and birds (don't get me started on birds, but while you're judging me - think for a second about how unpredictable birds are and tell me they're the slightest bit trustworthy).

I also am a 34-year-old woman who occasionally checks her closet and behind doors before bed. Not all the time, in fact rarely - except for when I watch a scary movie.

Just the other night I rented "Zodiac" and I had a brief moment where I thought "maybe I should wait until tomorrow at 7pm, rather than 10pm tonight", but I quickly brushed those thoughts aside because I am, after all, a grown woman. And well, Jake Gyllenhaal is hot and not bad to think about at bedtime.

Stupid, stupid me. I am often times amazed at my stupidity. More amazing is my frequent ignorance of said stupidity. Quite simply - I ought to know better.

But I watched the stupid movie (okay, the movie wasn't stupid, but I'm deflecting here) - and come 12:30am I'm checking behind doors, in closets and yes, even under my bed. (Believe me when I tell you that with the 47 rolls of wrapping paper stored there - not even Gary Coleman could fit under my bed, but even that is not a comfort when one has the "creeps").

So, why don't we learn from our mistakes? Why don't we think twice? Why don't we, for the love of god, listen to our mothers?

I don't know. But I'm going to think about that long and hard before I rent my next movie from the "Thriller" section at Blockbuster. Until then, well, one more peek under the bed couldn't hurt, could it?

The Best Thing I've Ever Heard...

...at least in the last 24 hours is this:

"Hope dies last."

It's this "quote" I ran across - though, in a quick google search, it's also a book title, dealing with grief seminar and unsigned indie rock band. So, who knows its true origin. And quite honestly, I don't care.

Because I simply want to breath it in and cherish the thought. Hope is, in my wholly unqualified opinion, the most powerful thing. Take the power of the wind and sun and we're only talking a fraction of the power of Hope.

I depend on it daily, maybe hourly - okay, every few seconds. And it's always there. It is the quiet friend who smacks you in the head, drags you to your feet and says - "There's more - if you want it bad enough."

If I live to be one hundred - let hope live to be one hundred plus one day.

Best Advice Ever

My stepmother also does a little blogging. Her's is generally much more profound and proofread. You should check it out.

Anyway, her latest post was on the best advice she ever received. I thought about that a second and rushed back here to share mine.

My dad is, in my opinion, about one of the smartest guys I know. Book smart, for sure. Jeopardy smart, oh yeah. Smart ass, oh dear lord don't get me started!

But my favorite kind of smart that he is - is the kind of smart that doesn't presume or judge. It's the kind of smart that is so friggin' smart, he doesn't need to be "right" - he'll let you be right until you go ahead and figure things out. And, yeah, realize he's right.

Forgive my aside, the point is - it's some advice from my dad that I think might well be the best advice I've ever been given:

EASE UP ON THE CLUTCH.

Sure, my dad taught me to drive stick (which I think is an invaluable skill), but this is a mantra I apply often to my life.

When I get to the point when I am so strung out on life I need to remind myself to effin' EASE UP ON THE CLUTCH already. Don't push so hard - whether at work or in relationships. Don't get in your own way. Just relax, breath and EASE UP ON THE CLUTCH.

Who knew at fifteen that I was sitting in a dirty brown Pontiac with my own personal Budda?

The Thing About Hotels

What is it about hotels? What is it that makes me just on this side of giddy when I'm in one?

• Is it crisp fresh sheets?


• Is it a pile of towels all for little ol' me?


• Is it an endless supply of ice - and never having to fill the cube trays?


• Is it wake up calls instead of my cranky alarm?


• Is it indoor swimming pools like all the homes featured on E!?


• Is it freezing cold climate control that won't show up on my Consumers bill?


• Is it room service?


• Is it free coffee in the lobby?


• Is all the travel-sized stuff? (It's just so tiny and cute!)

I don't know what the thing about hotels is, except to say that I'm staying in one this week and I'm not just a little bit giddy about it.

Confession #2: No, that's not my butt in picture below

(shoot)

Things I Know

I'm a terrific liar. It's just something I know.

Mostly it's just for fun. Tonight I told a ridiculous lie about growing up in Texas and nearly having an affair with both a 25-year-old and his 50-year-old father. I don't know if it's just about getting away with something or something else all together.

Regardless, I'm a terrific liar.

But what I know about my lies, is that I want to be able to tell the difference between them and the truth. I see people who tell others (and themselves) a lie and think it's the truth. I hope beyond hope that that is never the case with me.

Let my white lies stem from "all in good fun" at the bar. Let my white lies never hurt anyone, especially me. Let my white lies remain white and never steeped in something dark and dangerous.

I'm a terrific liar. Let me use my superpowers for good and not evil.

Confession #1: I work in HR

We all have dirty little secrets and here's one of mine: I work in HR.

While it may hardly set your scalp a tingling - it is, in fact, one of my great horrors. I have always hated HR. In my experience, HR wasn't full of warm fuzzies, it was chock full of nosey people who like being in other people's business. Way up in their business.

HR = Human Resources. Human Resources. Like electricity and water, but human. Stupid humans with stupid feelings need a whole department to babysit them. I wretch at the premise itself.

Here, perhaps, is the kicker. Most HR people have good intentions. They like the idea of working with people. They like the idea of talking to people. They like the idea of forgoing spreadsheets and pie charts and instead put their hands into something extra ooey gooey like people.

That is, until, they actually work and talk with people. That is when it happens. That is when the bile rises and the temples throb and the blood pressure skyrockets. Because people are a nightmare and nobody but nobody knows this like HR.

I had no delusions of grandeur when it came to HR. I needed a job and like a two-bit hooker - I sold my soul for a bi-monthly paycheck. I have no one to blame but myself, my needy greedy self who relishes things like toothpaste and microwave popcorn. I'm a sell out - I confess.

Forgive me Father for I have sinned. I work in HR.

Ghosts of Boyfriends Past

They are everywhere. The spectres of relationships. These ghosts of boyfriends past.

I would say "I can't swing a dead cat without hitting someone I once dated" - except I just hate that expression. What kind of freak coined that phrase?

However unfortunate the phrase, the experience is even worse. And not because these men are mean, hideous or otherwise unacceptable social specimens, but almost entirely because they make me reflect on my life. And there are days when I'm simply not prepared to do that.

So instead - I lift my glass to these men. I drink a toast. (Okay, fine - a giant glass of wine, whatever). And I think - each of these apparitions has made my own soul stronger.

For that, I forgive their trespasses in my memory and okay, my favorite hangouts.

I relinquish my inner-Scrooge and instead favor Tiny Tim on this one.

It's not morbid (well, not entirely)

Truth is - I like cemetaries. Okay, fine - sue me. I don't get the "scary" or "creepy" thing. Cemetaries neither scare me nor creep me. Now digitally animated movie characters - that's an entirely different thing, but we'll speak of that later. (Shut it, RK)

Cemetaries offer an infinate amount of peace - the kind you just don't get unless, well, you're dead. 'Cause really, you think a bunch of dead people have the inclination to give you a hard time? That's what work is for.

Anyway, I guess my point is - there is an other-worldly grace to be found amongst the marble, stone and granite garden. There are stories waiting to be imagined. There are stories that will never be known. And if I am aware of anything - it is that life is fleeting. Not always short, but hardly ever cherished to the level it ought.

I know that life is a gift, not a promise. And maybe that's all cemetaries are for me - a reminder to breath, blink, smile, laugh, dance and dream. Well, that and to cut back on the salt and butter

Precious Metals

This is one of those song lyrics that sticks with you. Or it stuck with me, at least.

"She's becoming gold."

I feel that way. Don't get crazy, I don't feel gold or anything quite so pricey - but I feel my value increase daily.

There is sweat and toil that goes into mining gold. It isn't easy. It isn't even always lucrative. But you dig. You dig deep every day. And it isn't one day hitting the jackpot - it's day after day of searching, hoping, believing...and then magic.

Life IS a mystery and the answers may never unfold. But through living the very questions (thank you Rilke) - each of us is becoming gold.

Art is Everywhere

I am a fortunate person. Sometimes when faced with frizzy hair, cellulite and life at the Cube Farm, it's hard to remember how fortunate I really am.

Spent a few hours with some girlfriends tonight and that will lighten the load of any woman. Okay, fine, we topped off 4 bottles of wine, but still - even un-tipsy, these are felines I'm willing to spend my free time with.

Anyway - art. It is in the silly stories shared. It is in a quick "we have a secret" wink. It is in the intelligence of flip-flops. And sometimes we have friends who have an entirely artful way they look at life. I have many of those friends. This is one.

The point? Art is everywhere. Even in the loud chaos and incoherent chatter. Especially then.

A Kick-ass Writer

I tell you, there are some writers who just speak to me. It's like a foreign language that only some understand. Anne Lamont is one of those writers for me.

Aside from the fact that she constructs a beautiful sentence - she's funny as hell.

I'm partial to Bird by Bird and Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith.

That's the kind of kick-ass writer I hope to be one day.

60 Minutes ticking and other things I dread

It all started when I was in school. Sundays were days spent finishing up homework and science projects and it was all brought to the pinnacle by the sinister ticking of the 60 Minutes stopwatch.

Was there ever a more stomach-dropping sound than that stopwatch? The splendor of Dukes of Hazard and The Love Boat were a distant memory in the tick-tick-tick-tick (times infinity) of that second hand. And it all meant one thing - the weekend was over. Turn in your Fun Passes at the door and settle in for another week of monotonous lesson plans and poorly-written teen drama. (I like my teen drama well-scripted: ala Dawson's Creek or Buffy the Vampire Slayer - real teen angst is ugly and not equipped with snarky, funny and smart banter. Bummer)

Anyway, even in the absence of Algebra II homework and my OCD-ish ability to avoid network TV on Sundays - I'm still left with the Phantom Stopwatch. It's like people who lose a finger or a leg and they still imagine its presence. No matter how old I get, Sunday nights just suck. They suck up one side and down the other. They suck my big fat toe. (Okay, maybe my maturity level is the same, 'cause "suck my big toe" is about as adolescent as I like to go.)

So, what am I getting at? I dunno. Abolishment of Sundays? Death to all stopwatches? Kicking Andy Rooney in the ding ding? None of them seem particularly likely (or fair), so I guess this - maybe a mental realignment. Nobody likes a hater and I'm definitely a Sunday hater.

So let me begin with a meditative mantra: Love your life. Even Sundays.

Afterall, what has Sunday ever done to me?

Self Portrait

Okay, so if the world were black and white, reversed out, backwards and distorted by shadow - this is what I might look like.

Upchuck at the Cineplex

I swear - sometimes I am such an old friggin' lady.

Had this amazingly beautiful day off and headed down to the movie house with my pops. He's retired, which makes him the world's best playmate on days off.

Anyway - we opted to see a film that rhymes with "Corn Shmultimatum" and, I wish I were kidding, I actually threw up a little afterward (yeah, Dad, I know I said "upset stomach" but the orange bathroom got a little spit up action)

And here is why I'm an old lady - it was all of the hand-held camera action of the movie. Honestly, I feel like I got off the Witch's Wheel at the Centerville Fair. Dizzy, headache and a stomach that was wishing it had more than one Boddington's in it at the time.

My fear is this: what else am I too old for? Okay, action movies with bouncy chase sequences - Check. Smokey bars with the bass turned up too loud - Check. ANY bar with a line out the door - Check. I fear the list is substantially longer, but I'm embarrassed to go on.

I guess the point is this - on my next birthday, if you're looking for the perfect gift? Maybe a nice Medic Alert ("I've fallen and I can't get up"). You can send it:

c/o
Old Geezer in Kalamazoo
4356 Crotchety Avenue
Infirmed, MI 49006

Popsicle Philosophizing

Confessions of an Ungrateful Bridesmaid

I have a dear friend who is getting married next weekend. I'll be honest, I've always liked this girl - she's a keeper in my book. But I'll tell you what I just love about her -- she had the kindness of heart to NOT make me a bridesmaid. (Just for that, I owe her a million and one thanks)

But better than one of your friends getting married - is one of your friends getting married to the right guy. (My friend has most definitely found the right guy). But what if your friend meets and marries, the wrong guy? What do you do when your friend's fiancee is a creep? The answer is, quite simply – NOTHING.

Whatever magical spell love weaves upon the unsuspecting, I'd like to bottle it up and sell it in over-priced boutiques all over the country as the first legal, mind-altering drug. I'd be a gagillionaire (that’s a lot of zeroes) and wouldn’t have to pour my blood, sweat and estrogen into corporate strategies!

Love is a goofy thing – especially when it’s lavished upon butt-scratching, nose-picking, sports-obsessing, couch-potatoing, birthday-forgetting men. I've been lured into love’s wicked web my ownself. And yes, on the outside he may look like a perfectly respectable lawyer, electrician, writer, builder, teacher, baker or candlestick maker, but inside – a butt-scratching, nose-picking … you get the idea.

Don’t get me wrong, men have many wonderful qualities too – opening a brand new ketchup bottle or say, diagnosing what’s wrong with your car by the particular ticking, clicking or knocking noise it’s making. When it all comes down to it, you’ve got your good ones and your bad ones. And since Sleeping Beauty, Snow White and that bitch, Cinderella managed to wrangle up three of testosterone’s very best, we’re all left to claw one another’s eyes out over the remaining few.

I realize I've drifted from the point. What I'm getting at is this – there’s a pretty decent chance that your bosom buddies may very well find themselves marrying Prince Charming’s very toad-like younger brother. And since you lack the skills or upper body strength to a.) magically change him into a prince, or at least some semblance of a human being OR b.) knock some much-needed sense into him – you must quietly sit in silence.

All you can really do is a.) be there for her if it falls to pieces and b.) agree with her any time she calls him a self-obsessed shithead.

But, might I suggest forming a mob-like posse with your girlfriends or fellow bridesmaids, cornering said toad prior to the wedding and threatening to strangle him with yards of baby blue taffeta if he does anything less than provide your friend with her very own – happily ever after. I'm pretty sure that’s what Cinderella’s fairy godmother did.

An interesting character

Met one hell of an interesting character tonight at my favorite bistro. Something about Mondays and micro-brews.

Anyway. I laughed a lot tonight. Laughed in a way that lightens the heart. Laughed in a way that made me think (i.e. well, maybe I do call long pants "trousers" and not "slacks"...and why is that anyway?)Laughed in a way that made me remember that spending a day with kind hearts and funny people is exactly how I want to spend my time.

The Cube Farm must die.

Fashion or Function?

It's the age-old question. And is always, always, always answered with: "But don't they look cute?"

I love rainy days

Rainy days are the best excuse in the world for not leaving the house. "Leave the house? Who me? No, sorry, couldn't - raining, don't you know."

Rainy days also prompt treasure hunts in one's closet. Sometimes you find a shirt you loved, but just needed to sew on a button. Sometimes it's a pair of shoes that really kill your feet, but you're willing to give 'em a shot on Monday. Sometimes it's a Rubbermaid tub full of writing. Today's hunt unearthed all three, but it was the latter that has taken up the last five hours of my day.

I've called myself a writer for a long time now. Mainly to friends and family. And I am, I suppose. Except I have a difficult time finishing anything. I've known this truth for some time, but actually having it visualized on a rainy Sunday in the form of a Rubbermaid tub brimming with ideas unrealized, dialogue to stories yet unformulated and pages of first chapters - well, I'm feeling a little less like a writer and a little more like a fraud.

What does it take to finish something (something more than maudlin poetry produced after three glasses of red wine)? I'm not sure.

But I did do some hammering away at one of the book ideas today and maybe that's something. And maybe if tomorrow I can do a little more, well then - maybe that's one step closer to doing more than calling myself a writer.

That's a lot of thinking for a Sunday. I take it back. Rainy days suck.

A Bachelorette Says "What?"

My head is foggy. My legs are wobbily. My fingers lack their dexterity and spryness of yore. I have just returned from a Bachelorette Party.

BP's are fun. BP's are wild. BP's are evenings ending in foggy, wobbily activity.

And yet, it seems perfectly natural to hit the Blog and share a bit of what I've learned in the 5.5 hours since said BP began.

Things I've Learned:

1. Good cameras take good pictures. Bad, disposable cameras are evil and should never have their pictures posted

2. Any girl, if given enough Cosmos and "Emerald City" shots, will dance on a table

3. All fun and frolicing is tripled when encurred around gay men

4. The "Ass Drop", "Downtown Sprinkler", and "Hillbilly Slap" are dances best seen when 3-deep into a bottle of tequila

5. Even water is more fun when drunk (drinken) out of a penis straw

That may well not be all I learned at this evening's BP, but it's all I can remember and all my foggy, wobbily self can manage to extract.

Maybe the main point is this - BP's are never to be taken lightly. There are moments of clairity around every corner.

I glimpsed many among my posse-o-girls this evening and am ever-grateful for their charm, grace, and low-down-dirty ways.

4 Girls Walk into a Bar

To blog or not to blog, that is the question.

Or at least it was the question over several cocktails with some of my girlfriends last night. And after the fifth Italian beer (yes, much to my surprise the Italians DO make beer)- the answer seemed obvious...To blog.

Okay, yes, it became increasing clear once my friend practically double-dog-dared me to, but still once you pinky swear that you'll do something, well you better do it.

So here I sit, hunched over my dilapidated laptop, just trying to get a first posting on here and then we'll get into more about me and this perfectly average life of mine.

I guess the moral of this story is this - when there's drinks and friends and double-dog-dares, you better make sure you're ready to pay the piper. Consider this posting my first installment