The Model T Ford

Old Story for Lori

As I’ve mentioned before it was my life’s ambition as a child to grow up and be a hoodlum. After realizing my physical limitations I later modified it to, “I want a double-wide and my pick of house dresses.” Some of you are thinking, “oh Beth, another one of your stories…” well, so be it.

I’m the kid that got a young Ernie to play Bonnie and Clyde in the schoolyard (I was Bonnie, just for clarification), which I like to remind Ern about. See, if you talk to Ernie about his recollections of his childhood, he was precocious, wise beyond his years and a joy for all adults to be around. He’ll admit though that the one weight dragging him back into some sort of reptilian existence where you do things from the gut and not the brain was me. I was the perfect Bonnie/Mallory to his Socrates. Why life had to interfere with my lofty goals, I’ll never know.

For Lori, here’s a story from my glorious past.

Back in the day when I still lived in Dallas I had a best-friend named Richard Jones (anyone who can find him for me will get big prizes). Now Richard was a lot like Anna in the sense that he had a corner on the mischievous market and as I said before, I’m a great sidekick for this type of personality. I guess AA meetings would label me “an enabler” and I suppose I’m a bit of “an instigator”, too. There are worse things to be. As I told Kendra, my particular knack is helping people realize what they want to do and to encourage them along those lines. Now Richard owned the streets of our cul-de-sac on his bright red Big Wheels with yellow handles and I was usually perched on the back holding onto his shoulders as we’d make our rounds. Typically, we’d head for Julia’s family’s garden (Julia of the water pistol duel fame – my arch nemesis) where we’d leap off the Big Wheels, load the little plastic box on the back with freshly picked baby tomatoes and make for our hideout to enjoy our plunder. We limited our delinquency to ill-gained produce and occasionally breaking into empty duplexes to play around. Back then, if our antics ever got me grounded, I’d just go to my room and wait until Richard appeared at my window. The windows had a crank and I’d just roll them open so we could continue to play. Richard was my partner in crime so to speak and my first younger man – he was a kindergartner while I was a grown-up 1st grader.

Well, one day I guess the weather was just right and I was mixing up a fresh batch of mud pies outside of Julia’s house. Julia wasn’t around, so we were a bit restless when Richard had an idea. He scooped up some mud and slung it at Julia’s grandparent’s Model T Ford (they lived next door to Julia’s family). This was a vintage, working Model T Ford – not something from a kit. Watching Richard cake this car put me in the mind to do the exact same thing. Let me say that in hind site, I’m completely embarrassed – the adult that didn’t grow up to be a thug is completely appalled, but this is an old story. The Model T was covered inside and out. Did I mention it was a convertible?

Richard and I finished our handiwork, which I’m sure in some twisted way was a message to Julia and went about our scheduled business of hitting toy gunpowder strips with rocks, I’m sure. Julia’s grandparents arrive home and are justifiably devastated. The grandmother approaches us, but Richard has a story about some kids who came into the neighborhood. Now a fact about me is I can’t lie. Ask Anna. If I’m confronted face-to-face (which is the key) I cave. So there I am standing next to Richard and I decide to embellish. The kids that came to the neighborhood – well, there were at least 12, all of them tall basketball player kids and my tongue just flies along until Julia’s clever grandmother trips me up with, “Beth, is that true?” and I respond with a big grin, “NOPE!” I’m pretty sure Richard groaned, collapsed in on himself and fired me on the spot.

We spent the next few hours giving that Model T Ford the best cleaning it received in a long time while Julia sat in the front seat and taunted us. (Thus, I should have been allowed to pour my chemistry set into my water gun for our infamous battle.) Julia’s grandmother eventually emerged and told us we did a fine job, that she wanted to give us a party, but her husband wouldn’t allow it. Which, by the way, I rate in my Top 10 Oddest Things People Have Ever Said to Me list. The lesson we walked away with – caking cars in mud is not worth it, but free tomatoes are and Beth can’t lie – it’s a bona fide disability on my part. * sigh *

Anna

Well, it’s time I kill two birds with one stone. I need to tell Lori an old story and I need to goof on one friend who owes me a story. Since Jonathan is off horsing around in some small town in Texas and swears he’s only seen “blah” films so he can’t possibly review anything at the moment, that just leaves me with Anna.

Most of you have heard this one before and to be honest there are a wealth of humorous Anna stories, but maybe she’ll tell those. Anna is by far the most mischievous person I know. When you combine her with Jonathan (you get Meghan, Maddie and Nathan but that’s beside the point and Lord help us when they grow up) you get an unstoppable tag team that will leave you speechless and beet red. Jonathan has a quick mind, a sharp tongue and lightning fast reflexes when it comes to whipping out clever remarks. Anna is similar, but as I said she’s more mischievous. If you see a twinkle in her eye just pray that eye isn’t fixed on you. Another thing you’ll need to know about Anna before I continue is that she’s been signing since around 6th grade and has her degree in deaf education. Just hold onto that thought.

Now at one point Anna lived where I did and we were roommates who did things together like shop, eat out, meet strangers off the internet and go to Six Flags. Who didn’t? There are tons of stories to demonstrate Anna’s special, wicked abilities but I’ll just focus on a few. Sooo… we’re standing at the local Chick-fil-a and I’m trying to order. The cashier gestures down the counter and says “I’ll help you down there.” Off I go to the furthest end, practically in the storage room of the restaurant when the woman has to wave me back “not that far.” Anna explains to her something like, “yes, we just got her out of her special school this week.” The woman gives Anna a courteous giggle understanding Anna is likely goofing on a friend. I place my order and then when I go to pay I have the biggest money explosion across the counter. Anna again smiles sympathetically at me and says, “that’s right Beth, you give the woman the money and she’ll give you back some change.” You can see on the cashier’s face, “oh! The nice girl wasn’t kidding. She’s brought her retarded friend to lunch, what a nice friend and poor girl.” I swear she looked at me with the saddest expression. I couldn’t say anything. I made some sort of throat gurgle, tucked my head down and then ran away with my bag of food. Mungo like sandwich.

We’re at the same mall and Anna needs cash. Out we go to the ATM with their little video camera. Now Anna is an actress or was an actress although I’d challenge anyone to say she isn’t one currently. She knows stage fighting which means you can drag Anna around the room by her hair if she’s prepared and has a firm grip on your wrist. Anyway, I’m standing behind Anna just sort of looking around when all of the sudden my hands are around Anna’s throat and she’s struggling for the camera while trying to make her transaction. I can’t let go. Anna is making all sorts of choking faces and going red while my face is saying, “What the hell?”

Now to the signing. Anna taught me how to sign and I sign well. I can competently ask for squirrel pizza (she didn’t teach me any other kinds of food although I could probably ask for horse pizza), I know most of the chorus to “500 Miles” and I can tell you a bit about a rocket launching and exploding as my heart went up at the same time and fell down. I can also sign “yes” and “no”. Why I’m not an interpreter, I’ll never know.

Anna and I go to the grocery store and I decide to practice my advanced sign language. I probably pointed to something and said “I want” or either Anna pointed at something and I signed “no”. The next thing I know Anna is signing fast and furiously along with using deaf speak. She’s obviously frustrated with me and yelling in sign and of course this scene just happens to coincide with customers walking by. Ugh. The customers shoot me the nastiest looks because it’s now apparent to them that I’m abusing my deaf friend. I’m saying things like “stop it Anna, don’t sign”. Their faces said, “oh so cruel to a deaf girl who is only trying to communicate with the mean girl.” I honestly couldn’t do anything as Anna threw up her hands, covered her eyes and said in a monotone voice with misshapen words, “I’m not listening to you!”

See, why we get along is I’m Anna’s straight man. I’m the sidekick – the Ethel to her Lucy, the Laurel to her Hardy the Laura to her Rob. Now she’s owes us all a story.

BALLLOOOONS!

!!!BALLOONS!!!

Thank you guys!!! You are the best!!!!

For those of you not lucky enough to have friends and family like mine, let me share my day through pictures.

From Charla. :)

... and from Ahnner & Jonathan (forgive the quality, it's from my cell phone - it's all I had at work)

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!! All of you made my day from the e-cards, to the balloons and the e-mails. You guys are hands down the best. You really made my day. I love you... but I'm not going to hug you.

Balloons Revisited

I love deliveries that show up at the office unannounced. I don’t get them, but I love them for other people. I love seeing the flowers, the balloons, the fruit baskets and what not. Of course, I’m the kind of person that gets excited to see a card in the mail or a letter. It usually makes me want to run up and down the street shouting, “Julie’s! Look what I got!!” I’m a bit of a simpleton, too but that’s another story.

Yesterday I got a call that I had a package and it was waiting for me downstairs. After announcing it to all my office mates with a big “I HAVE A PACKAGE!” I raced downstairs to find nothing. I went from guard station to guard station to the switchboard operator and finally to the mail room to discover that I’d made their “watch her, she might be dangerous list”. No one knew anything about a package. Hmph.

I wandered back upstairs now the embarrassment of the office because I was package-less. Towards the end of the day the person called me again, “you have a package”. “Oh SURE! I’ll just bet I’ve got a “package”. Where are you?” Well, it turns out the package went to another building and they wanted to know what I wanted to do. “Can you put it in an envelope and send it here?” “No, there are balloons attached.” BALLOONS! I have the best package EVER. I got off the phone and re-announced that not only did I have a package, I had BALLOONS! There was a balloon mix-up! YAY! It’s probably the best package ever. Then I played the game of “who sent me balloons” with one of my co-workers while ticking off important dates “not my birthday, not Christmas, not my dating anniversary”. I decided to pick them up after work since I didn’t want to be an incredible show off and parade them around. No need to rub my balloon having in the face of those who were balloon-less.

Off I went to pick up the balloons while smiling as big as I could. BALLOONS! For ME! I parked, raced into the building and I saw them. Two horrible little balloons with the bank’s logo and one mylar balloon that read “We pay your first mortgage.” Ugh. My face fell as I forced marched myself to the desk. I’m sure the look on my face let the staff there know, “yeah, these have to be hers”. I snagged them up and tried to tuck them under my arm, which is quite a feat considering the helium but I managed. I then took them to the car, looking around to make sure no one saw me, and I laid as much as I could on their little strings so no one would even see them peeking out of a window. Patooey. Balloons.

I called up Jay, “your bank sent ME balloons. I don’t know why they couldn’t send YOU balloons. I don’t want their stinky balloons. It comes with a coaster and money clip with their logo on it, too. Yippee”

So, I’m going to revamp something I’d said about balloons being helium filled floaty balls of goodness that make everyone happy. Sometimes balloons, despite being balloons, can fall flat. Only my cat thinks these latest additions are cool. Crummy delivery.

Suburban Living

Living where we now do entitles me to an exceptionally large trashcan. Forget metal dumpsters that you have to trundle bags of trash a block or so away to, I have my very own plastic container of waste disposing joy. This trashcan, all dolled up in hunter green with a little black roof, is larger than several places I’ve lived in the past; in other words, it could easily sleep 12 quite comfortably. It’s the grand daddy of all garbage cans.

Like most places in America a large dump truck prowls the streets to help us get rid of our waste on a weekly basis… well, that’s unless you live in my neighborhood. We get waste removal services twice a week. That’s right! Welcome to my suburban utopia – a place where you’re not forced to deal with trash more than 4 days a week (and everyone is named Julie).

Now, I’m completely convinced my neighbors are pigs. I mean that in the nicest way, of course. Twice a week like clockwork the Julie piglets roll out their trash condos and arrange them neatly on the street. I’m sure Jay and I are quite the scandal since we only feel the need to make that particular trek once a week.

By 5pm that afternoon all the trashcans are tucked back away, out of eye site as per the HOA rules. What’s odd is that I see these trashcans more than I see the owners of the homes. The theory I’m working on is that the Julies are too busy creating trash to make it past their doors. How can they be bothered with outdoors when they’ve got a tremendous duty to fill these bottomless plastic tubs? The only flaw with this theory is that all of the neighbor’s lawns are immaculate so some how, some way the lawns are being tended to. Nanobots – it’s the only explanation – they’re tiny and difficult to see with the naked eye. Whoever created the Stepford Julies with their obsession with creating and disposing of trash also created these tiny little robotic yard perfectionists.

Living in the suburbs is hard. I don’t want to be a Julie; however, I could really use some yard nanobots.

My "Nice" Life

Warning: Not humorous

Let’s face it, as a whole we’re a mean group of people. I don’t mean just my friends who are now preening at the mere thought while sharpening their tongues. I mean as a nation. We love failure. Admit it nothing sells a tabloid faster than a fallen idol. Who didn’t get a chortle out of Martha Stewart being hauled off to jail or having to wear a low jack? I’m pretty sure it wasn’t just me. I’m still waiting to see that shawl pattern for the one she got from her fellow inmate. I don’t know this woman, but I’m applauding her descent. Take Michael Jackson, he did it, all of it, you know it and he should be locked away even though I don’t know him, never went to Neverland, never seen him around his kids. We as a culture gobble this stuff up. It doesn’t even have to be celebrities. If we see someone doing well, we cackle gleefully when their lives suddenly go south because in the grand scheme of things they didn’t deserve what they had.

Now normally I love to try and eek out a funny story and I feel ok at that most days, but my true strength is in ranting. I can rant like there’s no tomorrow. In fact, I wish they would invent a job that would let me brandish my unique skill because I dig throwing fits and my pen is truly my sword. For me, it’s like putting on my comfy house shoes and throwing on my robe. What I’m trying to say is that I am without a funny story to post on the Mess and I’m feeling a bit guilty and this is what I have.

Sooner or later you’re going to get someone’s ire – someone feeling whatever you have you shouldn’t have; you don’t deserve it. They feel there’s some great balance in life and that if you’ve had one too many good things happen according to their particular measure then you’re long overdue for something equally nasty to happen. This comes from friends, family, co-workers and the hungry guy standing on the corner watching you waste food. I’d be a hypocrite if I hopped on my soapbox and condemned envy. We’re just an envious sort of people – you see, you covet and then sometimes you wish ill on that person. It’s not pretty but neither is life. Your special job that I’m assigning to each of you is to suck it up. Someone will always have more than you and someone will always have more than the person you’re currently fixated on. If you can’t help but feel your special little feelings, then share it with someone who is sympathetic. That person is rarely the person you’re hoping will be run over by a freight train – that’s just my feeling.

To bring this more to home and help explain why I’m throwing my particular unfunny fit and vomiting it up on the Mess – I had someone tell me today that the accident I had in the new car was long overdue since I had so many nice things happen in my life. I’m wondering when sinking myself into hideous amounts of debt on a house I won’t own until I’m nearly 70 while worrying about hail damage on my roof and finally being forced to give up a car that was literally costing me $1000 in repairs per month, having my teeth fall apart and having the dent I made into my credit card disappear – when was that a big pack of NICE things that happened? Was it when I got to work at my craptastic job for people who think I can’t use a date stamper? Was that the “nice” thing that has been going on? When exactly did I become “deserving” of wrecking my new car and having to send it to the bodyshop? The “nice” thing clearly had to be when my thyroid upchucked and died. I’m just throwing this stuff out there in case someone feels like chiming in and having a discussion of my nice, enviable life. Yeah, wah me.

Reunion Wrap

Well, that’s a wrap on the reunion. I suppose it was a success seeing that I didn’t manage to spontaneously combust. Although, a baby alien did try to birth itself from the side of my skull, but healthy, un-recommended doses of Excedrin kept it at bay for the weekend. Several of you would have been proud as I troopered through being touched and hugged. See, supposedly it’s tacky to wear a big sandwich board that says “Hi, do not touch me” so no one there was forewarned and it was only fair that I suck it up. In fact, my ex-neighbor kept one hand either on my neck or around my shoulders for about 15-20 minutes straight. I’m still twitching from that encounter.

Everybody mostly looked the same – the same in that way that forensic computer animators age pictures of lost children. You end up squinting a lot before finally acknowledging, “Ok, yeah I see it now.” At one point Jason, one of the hosts, looked over at a guy and said, “You remember Beth”. The big tall guy leaned over, hugged me and said “of course I do!” Good for him, because I was at a loss (partly stunned by the touching and my brain rapidly repeating, “get off get off get off”) and finally had to resort to the less than subtle staring at the name tag.

John Kelso made an appearance. Not only did I miss it and will be kicking myself for months on this one, but I missed him coming in and asking “where is Beth?” Me and my timing…

Overall it was about what I expected. I clung to the friends I knew like a tick and refused to make rounds around the room. Thank God for other people who are way more adventurous; I would have never seen them otherwise. Karen admonished me with a, “I haven’t seen these people in 20 years, I’m talking to everyone – not like I’m going to see them again soon.” I loved her attitude and clung to my chair.

I’m really trying to pull a story out of this but am coming up with nothing at the moment. It was a lot like being at a company Christmas party with outdated pictures and mood music provided by Duran Duran. Hopefully, I’ll have pictures soon.

Family Matters

I love my family with all their quirks, shortcomings, long-comings (hey, it’s the opposite of short-comings and I’m making that official as of today), drama, etc., etc. – you have family so you know the adjectives could run on for days and never truly encapsulate a family. Now the way I was raised, you stand up for your family no matter how goofy they get. If my 80 year old aunt wants to wear little hand-painted ceramic toads in her hair while frolicking around in her front yard, dancing in the sprinklers and shouting “I’m a fresh little moonpie” then you’d best join-in because if you make any disparaging remark all bets are off.

Case in point – I was having a conversation with a friend and who knows how it came up but out from their mouth sprang the words, “your Dad wouldn’t make a good looking woman.” WHAT? I was insulted and nearly had to spit at their feet. “My Daddy (I have deep Southern roots so I have a “Daddy”) would make the best looking woman ever!” That was the thought that angrily stomped around in my head. “Don’t you tell me my Daddy wouldn’t be a darn fine looking woman.” It took many long minutes for sanity to regain control, but when it did, it did so begrudgingly, “well… he might not be Miss America when all was said and done but he might look ok in a house coat if he spruced up his hair and splashed on a little make-up.” Mind you all of this went on in my head since my mouth knew better than to step in.

Of course, as a woman I had one fine card to play. It’s not that men can’t play this particular card it’s just they tend to find it “silly”. It’s where you manage to take a statement, any statement, and turn it into an insult about you. The conversation went something like this:
“So, you don’t think I’m an attractive woman?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, I look like my Daddy…”
(big sigh)
Of course, then I had to laugh because at this point I knew I was being silly.

Needless to say, my Daddy would make the best looking woman ever and don’t you say otherwise. If my Mom wants you to see the dead possum as you’re driving by, please pull over. If my aunt has the 2nd largest marijuana farm in Texas, you congratulate her on her entrepreneurial spirit. If my cousin invites you to join a ceremony with his coven, you say thank you and ask, “what shade of black shall I wear?” Whatever you do, I better not see an eyebrow twitch or a grin begin to form.

FWD:

I was reminded this week how much I hate forwarded e-mail. The one I received was the most vile piece of modern day fascist filth to ever be typed and distributed on the internet; it was one of those e-mails that made me see red – the kind that made me want to slap the author and the person who decided I needed to read it. So, with that in mind here’s my personal guide to forwarded e-mails and me:

1) Pictures of puppies, kittens and polar bear cubs – GOOD http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oolong_(rabbit)
2) Pictures of beauty, lines, people, movement, etc – GOOD
3) Prayer angels – BAD
4) Jokes – the funny ones!
5) Jokes/videos involving puppies, kittens and polar bear cubs – GOOD
6) Virus warnings, personal warnings – BAD
7) E-mails discussing religion, politics BAD IF you don’t know my views VERY well
8) WoW PvP battle videos at VR funerals with music – OH SO GOOD! http://www.sploid.com/news/2006/04/slaughter_at_th.php (not for the sensitive)
9) Acrylic PC Cases filled with cooking oil that actually run – GOOD!
10) E-mails explaining that there isn’t a good way for aforementioned PC to get rid of heat – GOOD!
11) Petitions BAD – Anything asking me to help Timmy who is stuck in the well by sending him postcards and e-mails BAD

Ok, so that’s long and I need to wrap it up. First http://www.snopes.com/ is your friend. It’s great source of information when you’re trying to determine if something you’re spreading on the internet is “real”. (April, Marzipan babies were creepy and real… Snopes just got it wrong.)

I leave you with this… (LANGUAGE WARNING!!!)

I am a very sick little boy. My mother is typing this for me, because I can't. She is crying. (Don't cry, Mommy!) Mommy is always sad, but she says it's not my fault. I asked her if it was God's fault, but she didn't answer, and only started crying harder, so I don't ask her that anymore.

The reason she is so sad is that I'm so sick. I was born without a body. It doesn't hurt, except when I go to sleep. The doctors gave me an artificial body. My body is a burlap bag filled with leaves. The doctors said that was the best they could do on account of us havin' no money or insurance. I would like to have a body transplant, but we need more money.

Mommy doesn't work because she said employers don't hire crying people. I said, "Don't cry, Mommy," and she hugged my burlap body. Mommy always gives me hugs, even though she's allergic to burlap, and it chafes her real bad. I hope you will help me.

You can help me if you forward this e-mail. Dr. Van Nostrem from the clinic said if you foward this e-mail then Bill Gates will team up with AOL and do a survey with NASA. Then the astronauts will collect prayers from school children all over America and take them up to space so that the angels can hear them better. Then they will go to the Pope, and he will take up a collection in church and send the money to the doctors. The doctors could help me get better then. Maybe one day I will be able to play baseball. Or maybe just use my lungs and heart, when the doctors make them. The doctors said that every time you forward this letter, the astronauts can take another prayer to the angels.

Please help me. Mommy is so sad, and I want a body. I don't want my leaves to rot before I turn 10. If you don't forward this e-mail, that's OK. Mommy says you're a mean heartless shithead who doesn't care about a poor little boy with only a head. She says that, if you don't stew in the raw pit of your own guilt-ridden stomach, she hopes you die a long slow horrible death so you can burn forever in the tar pits of hell. What kind of goddamned person are you that you can't take five fucking minutes to forward this to all your friends so that they can feel guilt and shame for the rest of their day, and then maybe help a poor, bodiless nine-year-old boy?

Please help me. This really sucks. I try to be happy but it's hard. I wish I had a puppy. I wish I could hold a puppy. One time I had a puppy but he ate my leaves. Thank You. The boy with just a head. And a burlap sack for a body.

In loving memory of Oolong, 2003

Guilty Pleasures

I'm writing this on the fly thanks to the internet magically eating what I had intended to post. Yes, I know any IT person will tell you that the internet doesn't "eat" things and the dorkier ones will give you a run down about the digestive system to boot which will invarably be followed with something trite about "user error" - all amounting to them thinking they've said something pithy but typically leaves you fantasizing about whether there is a "perfect" crime. (God bless the run on sentence.) I used to be the IT gal at work and am a recovering perpetrator. What I'm trying to say, since I am writing it on the fly, I'll be fiddling with the post for awhile as I groan at obnoxious spelling and grammar mistakes. If you find a pet sentence I didn't fix, then that's too bad for you. Groan on and forge ahead.

The previous post was about this past week. I've already typed it and even though it didn't make it here the thoughts have been thought and expressed. Suffice it to say the Neon is gone, Jay has a Kawasaki Ninja and the phrase "thank you" can leave someone on the floor with a dislocated knee - I have proof. Oh, and the obligatory statement about how I hope my brain tumor flares up before I go to the reunion or maybe the reunion is causing my brain tumor to flare up at the thought of me glad handing and feigning interest in people I hope will wilt at my glance. Anyone from my high school who might read this - that isn't in reference to you.

What I'm on about at the moment evolved from a post of a post I saw about women's reading habits that irked me and started a chain of thoughts that lept from "gross generalities" to "what I personally like" and finally resolved itself into "my guilty pleasures". It's a lot like "the list" from last week or the week before or whenever I posted it, but this is a little more specific - not the "I like sunshine days and rainbow giggles." Here are the things I like that I'm completely unapologetic about:

Books
Neil Gaiman's Good Omens, American Gods and Neverwhere
Terry Pratchett's Discworld series
William Gibson - everything - pulp cyberpunk novels - love 'em
J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series - if you haven't read it and feel you have something clever to say, stop yourself from commenting and go back to your DaVinci Code (incidently I have read that and it only caused my brain tumor to flare up again)

Movies
Sex, Lies & Videotape
Clerks
... and since this is "guilty" pleasures...
Something About Mary - makes me laugh every time

TV
Battlestar Galactica - the new series
Firefly (In my world the movie "Serenity" never happened)
Deadwood
Carnivale
24 (First Season)
... right back to guilty pleasures ...
Ghost Hunters
Amazing Race - love the hippies!
Tough Enough - reality based show where you won a WWF contract
Fear - MTV series where young adults scared themselves stupid by walking around in the dark

Food
Cheese
Anything involving a tomato base
... and anything that has cheese and a tomato base - in fact you could pour spaghetti sauce over cheese and I'd be set

Now, I've read the things you're supposed to read, watched the things you're supposed to watch and can drone on about symbolism, protagonists, the rising/falling action in a story, realism, nihilism, and the accute sense of ennui you're currently experiencing as you read this sentence. That, in a nutshell, is dull. I get really tired of reading about what I ought to read or see based on some largely ambiguous set of standards and I tend to think the authors perpetrating that sort of nonsense tend to think of themselves as scholarly, well-informed sorts who would very much like society to conform to their world - a world where they have a little utopian bubble of like-minded souls (and people who continue to write run-on sentences will be shot).

To wrap it all up - that's my guilty pleasure list which evolved from reading a generality about what I as a woman like to read. For the record, most of the authors I like to read are men and if you're looking for a "good" book versus a "guilty pleasure" book I think Anna would be easily with me in recommending: William Faulkner's As I Lay Dying.

Absolute Truths

Absolute Truths –Anyone who has spent more than a week in an introductory philosophy class has been exposed to the notion of Plato’s cave. Philosophers, mathematicians and theologians (which I think should be lumped with philosophers, but what the heck) search for and debate the concept of absolute truths. Lucky for everyone that The Mess is more about personal experiences rather than discourses on philosophical concepts. Just an aside, my degree was in Government with a focus on Government Philosophy – that doesn’t make me an authority on the matter but it will explain why I won’t carry on ad nauseum about the GNP or whip out a paper on why I like parliamentary style governments. (You should, too and yet you wonder why I have the comments turned off.)

To all those people searching for an absolute truth I give you the following:

Anything a cat does during the day that can be deemed “cute” will always be equally annoying at 3am. In fact, I’ll take it further and propose that there is nothing a cat can do at 3am which involves you that is not annoying.

That’s your mini lesson in philosophy for the day. Anyone interested in a pair of cats, please let me know. I’m a dog person.

The Little Things

I’m behind on Mess updates thanks to being without the internet for days on end, so I’ll do my best to make up.

My friend Lynn, the bitter, hostile one, made a list recently called “The Little Things”. http://piecesofravenhex.blogspot.com/2006/05/little-things-list-i-blame-lisa.html
Now, while I find it funny in the sense that Lynn had to write about things she appreciates I also thought it was an interesting idea. (WARNING: Visit the above site only if you’re the type that doesn’t need a lot of hugs and hand holding.) I wanted to add to Lynn’s list so here it is:

Q-Tips – Nothing beats these little cotton swabs of goodness. Of course, this may fall under fetishes for me since I strive to have freaky clean ears. Blame the doctor when I was a kid – a few ear infections followed by some nasty and painful ear flushings and you’ll be a clean ear freak, too.

Cows – Everything about a cow is good. The best things in the world come from cows. Just think about it – food, clothing, furniture, musical instruments, dog chews – they’re perfect! Well, except the one that chased me over the fence, but that taught me a valuable lesson – that when I want to, I can clear a fence. Ok, maybe not today but back in the day. You people are so hostile.

The Internet – From the beginnings with the Arpanet to what we have today. I’ve been around computers since around 1983 or 84 when Dad sold his MGB to purchase an Apple IIe. I had my first e-mail account in 1991 when all I could do was log into a mail system called Pine and access the internet primarily through telnet. Please note that Unix is not on my list of things I appreciate. I’m sure Unix gurus are gasping for breath while comforting their horrible little vi editors.

Music – I don’t think I need to elaborate.

Modern Folklore – Everyone should take a moment and really listen to people’s stories.

“Tell Me a Story” – This is a follow up to folklore and since the list is about little things I appreciate, this is a big one for me. I appreciate anyone who understands that this request is for a personal account and not some “once upon a time” thing that you made up on the spot that is likely going to embarrass you and me – it doesn’t have to be poignant, humorous, involved or over the top – just a story. You can learn a lot about a person through the stories they choose to tell.

Those are the little things in this world that I appreciate.

Oh... and presents. :)

The Move

The move was rather painless, but I’ll try to squeeze out a few highlights. First, let’s start with closing. We walk into the conference room that is set to about 60. Now, I’m a multi-generational Texan – what that means is if the temperature dips below about 82 I’m scrambling for a jacket – it’s called evolution. Through careful selection I am perfectly bred to survive comfortably in this part of the country. So needless to say that come winter, where the temperatures dip into the 30’s, I’m breaking out the parka and snowshoes while wearing at least 3 layers of clothes. Yes, I’ve visited the Northeast in the winter and even seen Quebec in the fall. I know it can be colder, but that’s why I don’t live there – I would die. I’m just not made of the same hearty stuff that forced people to be driven by Manifest Destiny.

Anyway, I’m in this room and it’s at least 60 degrees. Our title company maven with white blonde hair that matches perfectly her white blonde outfit and contrasts with her perma tan skin steps in. She’s fanning up a storm using her documents to whip the air around her. She settles in and turns on a fan – the kind they use on movie sets to simulate windstorms, hurricanes and the like. Needless to say I spent my time hunkered down trying to use all parts of the desk to shield me from the air.

Now this woman was loud and if you know Jay and me we’re a lot like quiet and timid squirrels. If you move too fast or make too much noise we like to scurry under furniture while twitching our tails. Several times our real estate agent would have to lure us out with nuts in the form of quiet explanations of what this former aging mafia princess was barking out. The woman would listen to our agent and there let out a shrill laugh that could peel paint (and is probably what actually stripped her hair of color) and would agree. If she could have reached our agent, I know she would have elbowed her as she said her, “don’t we know it, honey!!” and “isn’t that the truth, Barb!” Instead, she had to resort to winking. For a Monty Python skit, this would have been hysterical – it reality it was irritating.

The closing went as smoothly as possible although we nearly had to beat up a loan agent whom we told to send the cashier’s check over – told him twice actually and he decided we didn’t want that. When we got a hold of him he said “I sent you an e-mail this morning asking but you didn’t respond”. Fool, we didn’t have internet access and we told you yes twice. He’s currently groveling and begging me to apologize to Jay. Of course, he messed something else up and I have to go back to the title company today. To say I’m not amused is an understatement.

The actual move went by quickly. The mover guys were in and out with the stuff at the new house in about 3 hours. In my best moving days that didn’t happen and I had a lot less stuff then.

Now we’re just faced with a sea of boxes and trying to settle in to new home ownership.

We’re a part of a Home Owner’s Association (HOA). I don’t see what the benefits are since we don’t have a greenbelt, pool or anything interesting near as I can tell. I think we just get the joy of ratting out neighbors if we can see their trashcans from the streets. See, a little known fact is that seeing a trashcan could lead to years of psychological trauma. It’s TRUE! We also get to report people for having anything too decorative in their yards. Yard gnomes pushing barrels are out. If I see it, I’m calling you in. Also, don’t get too funky with your house colors; we like all shades of beige. Another fact is that houses that are too colorful can cause hysterical blindness; the HOA is doing its part to prevent that tragedy from visiting YOU. I sure hope we get an SS uniform as part of our benefits. I simply can’t wait for someone to hide a refugee; they’re going down on my watch! I’m now proud to say: Ich komme aus Pflugerville – es ist ueber alles. (Sorry, no umlauts for you.)