Friday, April 29, 2005
Call me Silver Tongue A. Smooth
One of the attorneys I work with has alerted me of a very mindless, yet enjoyable, website. www.playerappreciate.com is the source of all things pimp-like. You can get info about how to do things in pimp fashion, order crunk bling, and...my favorite feature...create your very own pimp name (mine is above). My cat Bridget's new name is Sugartastic Kitty Fresh. How great is that?
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
He was always so nice to the birdies....
Earlier, my friend ambigiously poked her head up over the filing cabinet drawer in such a way that just her nose was protruding over the ledge. The fingers on each hand were wrapped over on either side of her head. I looked over at her at started giggling because it reminded me of the old Ziggy cartoons. (But my friend isn't bald, and doesn't have an exxageratedly large nose. ) Then I got all nostalgic remembering Ziggy and all the profound things he had to say about life. I miss Ziggy.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Healing Powder
The summer of my sophmore year in college, I worked full-time as a camp counselor at Sky Ranch in Van, Texas. My months there revolved completely around a very rigorous schedule of outdoor activities. My normal daily routine of eating, sleeping, studying, and socializing was replaced with swimming, sailing, canoeing, jet-skiing, repelling, belaying, rifle-shooting, softball hitting, horse riding, ladder climbing, and waterslide sliding (and this was just on Tuesdays and Thursdays). Needless to say, my not-so-much-in-shape-but-still-smokin-hot body had it's ass kicked up over its shoulders repeatedly while I was there.
The most painful of the afore-mentioned ass-kickings was shin splints. I developed these about a month into the summer. Having never been what you (or anyone) would call an athlete, I had never experienced such agonizing soreness in my legs. Because we counselors worked 23 hours a day, the only relief I found was in bi-daily trips to the nurse with my campers. Any kids in our cabin that were on meds had to be marched to the far side of the campus twice a day for administration of their Ritalin, Benedryl, Viagra....whatever the case was. Once arriving at the nurse's cabin, we would inevitably have to wait for 10-30 minutes while the other kids had their turns. I took advantage of these waits by putting my feet up and icing my legs with those sea blue gelly freezer pack thingys. It was 15 mintues of pure heaven.
My buddy and fellow counselor, Nate, was often at the nurse with his campers at the same time I was. During the time of my shin splints, he himself was suffering from some ongoing ailment that I can't recall. So, we would keep each other company for the random 20 second intervals when our kids weren't pulling on our hair or asking us to recite the names of all the North American Indian tribes (for which all of our cabins were named).
Most of the guys that worked at Sky Ranch carried bottles of Gold Bond powder around with them at all times. It was a bit of a camp-wide quip. You'd see it sticking out of the back of someone's swim trunks or tucked into a backpack.....flashes of that yellow label were everywhere. At the age of nineteen, I was pretty unfamiliar with the common male uses of Gold Bond. I suppose the reality of it had occurred to me at some point, but, apparently, I hadn't spent much time comtemplating the issue.
It was one day in the nurse's cabin that Nate inquired more intently than normal about my ailing shins. I reported that the ice packs helped temporarily, but I was still in pain most of the time. "Well, have you tried Gold Bond? You know that's good for shin splints, right?"
Now, I wasn't COMPLETELY naive. I was immediately suspicious. But Nate was just so convincing...so innocent and sincere in his offer to let me borrow his precious powder. "Will it really help, Nate, or are you just trying to make me look dumb?" He swore it wasn't a joke....why else would he carry a bottle of the stuff around with him all the time? Desperate for alleviation, I gave in. My legs were damp from the prespiration of the ice packs that had been resting there, and when he poured the powder on, it stuck in uneven, clumped patterns. I tried rubbing it in, to no avail. "Oh, just leave it that way", Nate urged. "It will sink in."
I walked around for the rest of the day covered in what looked like sugar cookie dough. I got some strange looks, and lots of questions, but I responded each time by holding up the bottle that Nate had let me borrow. I was aware that I looked like an idiot, and seriously considered washing off. But the funny thing was, my legs had actually started to feel notably better.
For a couple of days, I continued with Nate's amateur prescription. He finally approached me with a meek smile on his face. "So, how are your legs feeling?" I informed him that they were much better, thank you very much. Gently grabbing me by the elbow, choking back quiet laughter, he whispered in my ear, "Allison, Gold Bond doesn't really help shin splints."
Of course, I defensively explained that I knew the whole time that the treatment was a facade...that I was doing it just to be funny. As to whether or not he believed my guise; who knows. But at least he was kind enough to let me think he did.
Seriously, though......Gold Bond really does help shin spints.
The most painful of the afore-mentioned ass-kickings was shin splints. I developed these about a month into the summer. Having never been what you (or anyone) would call an athlete, I had never experienced such agonizing soreness in my legs. Because we counselors worked 23 hours a day, the only relief I found was in bi-daily trips to the nurse with my campers. Any kids in our cabin that were on meds had to be marched to the far side of the campus twice a day for administration of their Ritalin, Benedryl, Viagra....whatever the case was. Once arriving at the nurse's cabin, we would inevitably have to wait for 10-30 minutes while the other kids had their turns. I took advantage of these waits by putting my feet up and icing my legs with those sea blue gelly freezer pack thingys. It was 15 mintues of pure heaven.
My buddy and fellow counselor, Nate, was often at the nurse with his campers at the same time I was. During the time of my shin splints, he himself was suffering from some ongoing ailment that I can't recall. So, we would keep each other company for the random 20 second intervals when our kids weren't pulling on our hair or asking us to recite the names of all the North American Indian tribes (for which all of our cabins were named).
Most of the guys that worked at Sky Ranch carried bottles of Gold Bond powder around with them at all times. It was a bit of a camp-wide quip. You'd see it sticking out of the back of someone's swim trunks or tucked into a backpack.....flashes of that yellow label were everywhere. At the age of nineteen, I was pretty unfamiliar with the common male uses of Gold Bond. I suppose the reality of it had occurred to me at some point, but, apparently, I hadn't spent much time comtemplating the issue.
It was one day in the nurse's cabin that Nate inquired more intently than normal about my ailing shins. I reported that the ice packs helped temporarily, but I was still in pain most of the time. "Well, have you tried Gold Bond? You know that's good for shin splints, right?"
Now, I wasn't COMPLETELY naive. I was immediately suspicious. But Nate was just so convincing...so innocent and sincere in his offer to let me borrow his precious powder. "Will it really help, Nate, or are you just trying to make me look dumb?" He swore it wasn't a joke....why else would he carry a bottle of the stuff around with him all the time? Desperate for alleviation, I gave in. My legs were damp from the prespiration of the ice packs that had been resting there, and when he poured the powder on, it stuck in uneven, clumped patterns. I tried rubbing it in, to no avail. "Oh, just leave it that way", Nate urged. "It will sink in."
I walked around for the rest of the day covered in what looked like sugar cookie dough. I got some strange looks, and lots of questions, but I responded each time by holding up the bottle that Nate had let me borrow. I was aware that I looked like an idiot, and seriously considered washing off. But the funny thing was, my legs had actually started to feel notably better.
For a couple of days, I continued with Nate's amateur prescription. He finally approached me with a meek smile on his face. "So, how are your legs feeling?" I informed him that they were much better, thank you very much. Gently grabbing me by the elbow, choking back quiet laughter, he whispered in my ear, "Allison, Gold Bond doesn't really help shin splints."
Of course, I defensively explained that I knew the whole time that the treatment was a facade...that I was doing it just to be funny. As to whether or not he believed my guise; who knows. But at least he was kind enough to let me think he did.
Seriously, though......Gold Bond really does help shin spints.
Monday, April 25, 2005
From my day.....
All of the following are quotes I've encountered today. One was slightly inspirational, one was slightly thought provoking, and the other one....not so much of either. I'll let you guess which is which.
"The secret of attraction is to love yourself. Attractive people judge neither themselves nor others. They are open to gestures of love. They think about love, and express their love in every action. They know that love is not a mere sentiment, but the ultimate truth at the heart of the universe." ---Deepak Chopra, printed on the back of my Starbucks cup
"When French people swear, do they say 'Pardon my English'?" ---an email someone sent me
"I like to say that Duran Duran are my boyfriends." ---some chick on the radio
"The secret of attraction is to love yourself. Attractive people judge neither themselves nor others. They are open to gestures of love. They think about love, and express their love in every action. They know that love is not a mere sentiment, but the ultimate truth at the heart of the universe." ---Deepak Chopra, printed on the back of my Starbucks cup
"When French people swear, do they say 'Pardon my English'?" ---an email someone sent me
"I like to say that Duran Duran are my boyfriends." ---some chick on the radio
T.V. Commercials That Disturb Me:
1. The Burger King "King" with the plasticy face and the scary clownish smile. I don't understand why these people are so pleasantly suprised when this 6 foot tall nightmare appears to them first thing in the morning with greasy breakfast offerings.
2. I think this a Snapple commercial, but I can't be sure. A little girl lays on her stomach, and runs her legs in a circle around her body...up over her head. If you haven't seen it, then my description probably does nothing for you. If you have seen it, then you know what I mean. Any very unnatural movement of the human body gives me the creeps. It's exactly why I find movies such as The Ring, The Grudge, and The Exorcist(which I've never wanted to watch more than about 30 seconds of) so terrifying. Girls walking down stairs and up walls on all fours.......Ohmagod!!! I can't handle it. Another example is #3.
3. The beer commercial (can't remember which beer) in iditarod flavor where men are pulling dogsleds through the snow and the dogs are the ones riding. The men are actually running on all fours....the unnaturality thing again.
4. Big, hairy, mammoth-like SUVs.........reminds me of one of the creatures from the original Star Wars trilolgy. This one is an advertisement for driver safety. I must give it a thumbs-up for creativity because it's doubtful that anyone whould pay attention to the traditional 1980's version of encouraging responsibility behind the wheel. But these would capture the awed attention of dangerous speeders and seatbelt ignorers everywhere.
5. Classic Mr. Clean bits have been underestimated when it comes to disturbability. I know he's got the sexy pirate thing going for him, but if I saw his face appear in the bathtub I had just cleaned, I'd be more than a little concerned. It's hard to tell if the women in these commercials are more excited about their cleaning success or by the wink Cleanie gives them when they finish the job. Maybe he's not there at all....maybe they're just high on fumes. They're exasperated by the lack of their husband's appreciation for their housekeeping efforts, and the whole thing is a chemical induced fantasy about a man FINALLY noticing how good they are at what they do. It's less treacherous than having an affair.
6. Snuggle Bear. This kid is almost as creepy as Chucky. His uncontrollable giggles and michevious grin are undeniably suspicious, if you ask me. If you walk into the laundry room and your toddler is hugging a midget-sized talking bear, you should at least ask some questions. Besides...who knows where this bear has been. He rolls around in everyone's fresh laundry, and you know what his woodsy-animal hygiene must be like. I'm thinking ticks and dried mud, at best. Not what I want snuggling with my clean panties. Or my dirty ones, for that matter.
7. The toenail fungus guy on the Lamisil commercial. Everybody knows this one....he jumps under someone's toenail, and then he and all his fungi buddies have a party inside. Imagining intoxicated, gruff voiced fungi-folk dancing to Cool and the Gang and gettin it on under the corroded layers of the nail on my big toe literally makes my spine hurt. I have to change the channel when I see this one come on. If I were crazier and even more obsessive than I already am, I would seriously consider ripping all of my toenails off completey with pliers just to avoid the possibility of such gatherings occuring in the first place.
2. I think this a Snapple commercial, but I can't be sure. A little girl lays on her stomach, and runs her legs in a circle around her body...up over her head. If you haven't seen it, then my description probably does nothing for you. If you have seen it, then you know what I mean. Any very unnatural movement of the human body gives me the creeps. It's exactly why I find movies such as The Ring, The Grudge, and The Exorcist(which I've never wanted to watch more than about 30 seconds of) so terrifying. Girls walking down stairs and up walls on all fours.......Ohmagod!!! I can't handle it. Another example is #3.
3. The beer commercial (can't remember which beer) in iditarod flavor where men are pulling dogsleds through the snow and the dogs are the ones riding. The men are actually running on all fours....the unnaturality thing again.
4. Big, hairy, mammoth-like SUVs.........reminds me of one of the creatures from the original Star Wars trilolgy. This one is an advertisement for driver safety. I must give it a thumbs-up for creativity because it's doubtful that anyone whould pay attention to the traditional 1980's version of encouraging responsibility behind the wheel. But these would capture the awed attention of dangerous speeders and seatbelt ignorers everywhere.
5. Classic Mr. Clean bits have been underestimated when it comes to disturbability. I know he's got the sexy pirate thing going for him, but if I saw his face appear in the bathtub I had just cleaned, I'd be more than a little concerned. It's hard to tell if the women in these commercials are more excited about their cleaning success or by the wink Cleanie gives them when they finish the job. Maybe he's not there at all....maybe they're just high on fumes. They're exasperated by the lack of their husband's appreciation for their housekeeping efforts, and the whole thing is a chemical induced fantasy about a man FINALLY noticing how good they are at what they do. It's less treacherous than having an affair.
6. Snuggle Bear. This kid is almost as creepy as Chucky. His uncontrollable giggles and michevious grin are undeniably suspicious, if you ask me. If you walk into the laundry room and your toddler is hugging a midget-sized talking bear, you should at least ask some questions. Besides...who knows where this bear has been. He rolls around in everyone's fresh laundry, and you know what his woodsy-animal hygiene must be like. I'm thinking ticks and dried mud, at best. Not what I want snuggling with my clean panties. Or my dirty ones, for that matter.
7. The toenail fungus guy on the Lamisil commercial. Everybody knows this one....he jumps under someone's toenail, and then he and all his fungi buddies have a party inside. Imagining intoxicated, gruff voiced fungi-folk dancing to Cool and the Gang and gettin it on under the corroded layers of the nail on my big toe literally makes my spine hurt. I have to change the channel when I see this one come on. If I were crazier and even more obsessive than I already am, I would seriously consider ripping all of my toenails off completey with pliers just to avoid the possibility of such gatherings occuring in the first place.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
A Good Cause
My friends Allison and Laurie Conway are participating in the Breast Cancer 3-Day. This is an organized, fund-raising, 60 mile walk taking place over three days. They are walking in honor of their aunt Judy, a breast cancer survivor, and of my close friend and co-worker, Kristi Kidwell. (Unfortunately, Kristi did not survive her battle. She passed away in December.) I know that many of you have been affected by breast cancer, so I thought you might be interested in hearing more about this event. I have pasted a message from Allison below:
This year, I'll be participating in a very special event called the Breast Cancer 3-Day.
I'll walk 60 miles over the course of three days with thousands of other women and men. The net proceeds will support breast cancer research, education, screening and treatment through the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation and the National Philanthropic Trust Breast Cancer Fund.
I've agreed to raise at least $2,100 in donations. I've set my personal goal at $2,500. So I need your help. Would you please consider making a donation of $60? (That $1 for each mile I'll be walking.) Please take a look at the donation form through the link below and designate the amount that's right for you.
According to the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation, approximately 200,000 American women will be diagnosed with breast cancer this year, and nearly 40,000 will die from the disease. Just a statistic until you put faces and names to it. In the last few years one of those women diagnosed was my Aunt Judy and one of those to die was my roomate's co-worker, Kristi Kidwell. They're why I'm walking so far. To do something bold about breast cancer. I hope that you'll share this incredible adventure with me -- by supporting me in my fundraising efforts.
Thank you in advance for your generosity! Please feel free to forward this to anyone you know who would be interested in donating. Also, if you know anyone in the Dallas area who would like to walk, have them contact me at conway_allison@hotmail.com or join my team using the link below. Thanks again!
Sincerely,
Allison Conway
To visit Allison's donation web-page, and for information about the women they are walking in honor of, click on this link: http://www.the3day.org/faf/r.asp?t=4&i=61807&u=61807-72409230&e=275048095
This year, I'll be participating in a very special event called the Breast Cancer 3-Day.
I'll walk 60 miles over the course of three days with thousands of other women and men. The net proceeds will support breast cancer research, education, screening and treatment through the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation and the National Philanthropic Trust Breast Cancer Fund.
I've agreed to raise at least $2,100 in donations. I've set my personal goal at $2,500. So I need your help. Would you please consider making a donation of $60? (That $1 for each mile I'll be walking.) Please take a look at the donation form through the link below and designate the amount that's right for you.
According to the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation, approximately 200,000 American women will be diagnosed with breast cancer this year, and nearly 40,000 will die from the disease. Just a statistic until you put faces and names to it. In the last few years one of those women diagnosed was my Aunt Judy and one of those to die was my roomate's co-worker, Kristi Kidwell. They're why I'm walking so far. To do something bold about breast cancer. I hope that you'll share this incredible adventure with me -- by supporting me in my fundraising efforts.
Thank you in advance for your generosity! Please feel free to forward this to anyone you know who would be interested in donating. Also, if you know anyone in the Dallas area who would like to walk, have them contact me at conway_allison@hotmail.com or join my team using the link below. Thanks again!
Sincerely,
Allison Conway
To visit Allison's donation web-page, and for information about the women they are walking in honor of, click on this link: http://www.the3day.org/faf/r.asp?t=4&i=61807&u=61807-72409230&e=275048095
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
This all sounded more interesting in my head......
How much of what you consider to be your "identity" is grounded in your relationships? We all seem to be on a grueling quest to find out who we are; and we lose ourselves over and over again in a life-long pilgrimage to a destination that has no description. But, sometimes I wonder if we all try too damn hard. Maybe the real marrow of who we are exists before we can even imagine how to analyze it. Maybe just "being" is all the definition we need. I believe that every person's soul is rooted in its' deliberate creation. The inner-most parts of us are alive; a complex system of spiritual/mental/emotional cogs and wheels that can never be fully examined by another human being. However, I also believe that man was (is) created to connect and interact and serve others. So......the two concepts go hand in hand. But how tightly are they gripped?
I've been a part of various groups (clubs, organizations, camp teams, etc....) where the question has been asked, "What three words describe you best?" or "How do others most often describe you?" My answer to this question has changed and evolved as I've aged; as it would for most people. I'd feel silly sharing how people most often describe me, so I'll leave that to your imagination. I don't always agree with these descriptions, and these particular adjectives don't cover my bad side....but I've pretty much accepted them as soft fact. And, when we accept these projected sketches, we tend to live up to them. By default, they become part of who we are.
I like to call myself "independent". And, in many ways, I am. But I suppose the term is objective. Some people define independence as being totally autonomous....not needing or wanting to be tied to other individuals/institutions/deities, etc. By that definition, I am the antithesis of independence. I thrive on soulfull connections.....and I try to make as many of them as possible. I take relationships (of all kinds) very seriously. And if I care about someone, I truly do value their opinions of me. I remember what people say about me years after they say it. This sounds contradictory to how we are taught to view life. Children are encouraged, for the most part, to ignore what others say about them. But relationships don't exist without some level of exchange (internal or external) of such opinions. In its' essence, that's exactly what a relationship is.
Are you familiar with the riddle "If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there, does it make a sound?"? I guess I see my personhood in a similar way. If people in my life don't observe certain aspects of my personality, do they really exist? Or, if they do exist and nobody sees them, do they matter?
"So-in-so" knows everything that makes me laugh. Someone else has talked me through pathetic tears. One person has seen my heart at its' absolute most generous while another has witnessed my anger...cold and unbarred. A certain friend notices what she calls strength and bravery while a different one seems to be constantly focused on my faults and fears. "He" basks in my unique perspective and "she" is annoyed by my flightiness.
It is through the eyes of others that we sometimes most clearly see ourselves.
I've been a part of various groups (clubs, organizations, camp teams, etc....) where the question has been asked, "What three words describe you best?" or "How do others most often describe you?" My answer to this question has changed and evolved as I've aged; as it would for most people. I'd feel silly sharing how people most often describe me, so I'll leave that to your imagination. I don't always agree with these descriptions, and these particular adjectives don't cover my bad side....but I've pretty much accepted them as soft fact. And, when we accept these projected sketches, we tend to live up to them. By default, they become part of who we are.
I like to call myself "independent". And, in many ways, I am. But I suppose the term is objective. Some people define independence as being totally autonomous....not needing or wanting to be tied to other individuals/institutions/deities, etc. By that definition, I am the antithesis of independence. I thrive on soulfull connections.....and I try to make as many of them as possible. I take relationships (of all kinds) very seriously. And if I care about someone, I truly do value their opinions of me. I remember what people say about me years after they say it. This sounds contradictory to how we are taught to view life. Children are encouraged, for the most part, to ignore what others say about them. But relationships don't exist without some level of exchange (internal or external) of such opinions. In its' essence, that's exactly what a relationship is.
Are you familiar with the riddle "If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there, does it make a sound?"? I guess I see my personhood in a similar way. If people in my life don't observe certain aspects of my personality, do they really exist? Or, if they do exist and nobody sees them, do they matter?
"So-in-so" knows everything that makes me laugh. Someone else has talked me through pathetic tears. One person has seen my heart at its' absolute most generous while another has witnessed my anger...cold and unbarred. A certain friend notices what she calls strength and bravery while a different one seems to be constantly focused on my faults and fears. "He" basks in my unique perspective and "she" is annoyed by my flightiness.
It is through the eyes of others that we sometimes most clearly see ourselves.
Friday, April 15, 2005
A Supplementary Laugh for my Readers
I've decided to post a lazyblog. That's what I'm gonna call it...."lazyblog".
Story-telling and shit-shooting will be put on hold until later.
Check out Unintentionally Sexual Comic Book Covers.
I'm providing the means for a chuckle, so don't say I never gave you anything.
Story-telling and shit-shooting will be put on hold until later.
Check out Unintentionally Sexual Comic Book Covers.
I'm providing the means for a chuckle, so don't say I never gave you anything.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Bleghttttttt........
I'm a creature of routine. I suppose most of us are. When my schedule/lifestyle/activities change drastically; my entire being gets thrown out of whack. Having moved to a new state...new house....doing nothing like I was doing previously on a daily/weekly basis has thrown me so far out of whack that I can't even see the whack anymore. (I can make out a smallish, blurry something that looks a little bit like "uwek"...and that's it.)
This out-of-whack-ed-ness has been apparent in many ways, and one of most prevalent ways it appeared last week was in my eating schedule. I don't know if it was so much that I wasn't hungry, or just that I forgot to eat meals when I normally do. Either way, I went about 5 days without eating anything much at all. Towards the end of week, I realized this and decided that I was, indeed, quite famished. My roomate had a large bag of cheetos in the pantry. They're a neato kind of cheeto that turn your tongue a nasty black color when you eat them. Their shape (supposedly) resembles a mini tornado, or something equally as corny, but they really look like orange dog turds.
Yeah...so I was stuffing my face with these things one night when my appetite rushed back to me. I wasn't stopping to lick the artificial cheese powder off my fingers or anything....just reaching my hand into the bag time after time. For some reason, I eventually paused and looked down. What I saw was one of the most disturbing sights that has ever been before me. I ginormous dead roach, or something resembling a roach, was nestled peacefully among the 'tos. I screeched a multitude of explicitaves, flung the half-empty bag at my roomate's head, and ran out the front door of our house. The only thing that seemed helpful at the time was to jump up and down in the front yard while frantically waving my hands. Helpful.....yes. In fact, I think I'll try that every time I get upset from now on. I'll send out a memo to warn the neighbors.
I managed somehow to not puke, brushed my teeth until my tongue was numb, and then brushed them some more. Visions of roach eggs developing and hatching in my bowels clouded my thoughts and I knew I MUST kill any possible trace of bug in my body. ( Wasn't it in Nightmare on Elm St. Part 27 that the chick from "Just the 10 of Us" turned into a roach? That's an image that still invades my sleep from time to time. I'll have to write about my ever-lasting fear of Freddy Kruegar some time. scary.) PineSol seemed extreme. The pistol I keep in my closet has no bullets. I couldn't quite figure out how to squash bug eggs in my esophagus with a baseball bat. So I resorted to chugging a large whimsically decorated cup of rum. Chugged it like a bottle of Aqua-freakin-fina (which, for the record, I quickly regretted).
The whole event prompted me to wonder about the bug content in all the foods we eat. A week later, I'm still wondering. From the feel of my pants on my butt today, though, it appears this paranoia hasn't kept me from returning to my usual gluttoness routine. Next time I munch the remains of an insect, I certainly hope some long-term good comes from it.
This out-of-whack-ed-ness has been apparent in many ways, and one of most prevalent ways it appeared last week was in my eating schedule. I don't know if it was so much that I wasn't hungry, or just that I forgot to eat meals when I normally do. Either way, I went about 5 days without eating anything much at all. Towards the end of week, I realized this and decided that I was, indeed, quite famished. My roomate had a large bag of cheetos in the pantry. They're a neato kind of cheeto that turn your tongue a nasty black color when you eat them. Their shape (supposedly) resembles a mini tornado, or something equally as corny, but they really look like orange dog turds.
Yeah...so I was stuffing my face with these things one night when my appetite rushed back to me. I wasn't stopping to lick the artificial cheese powder off my fingers or anything....just reaching my hand into the bag time after time. For some reason, I eventually paused and looked down. What I saw was one of the most disturbing sights that has ever been before me. I ginormous dead roach, or something resembling a roach, was nestled peacefully among the 'tos. I screeched a multitude of explicitaves, flung the half-empty bag at my roomate's head, and ran out the front door of our house. The only thing that seemed helpful at the time was to jump up and down in the front yard while frantically waving my hands. Helpful.....yes. In fact, I think I'll try that every time I get upset from now on. I'll send out a memo to warn the neighbors.
I managed somehow to not puke, brushed my teeth until my tongue was numb, and then brushed them some more. Visions of roach eggs developing and hatching in my bowels clouded my thoughts and I knew I MUST kill any possible trace of bug in my body. ( Wasn't it in Nightmare on Elm St. Part 27 that the chick from "Just the 10 of Us" turned into a roach? That's an image that still invades my sleep from time to time. I'll have to write about my ever-lasting fear of Freddy Kruegar some time. scary.) PineSol seemed extreme. The pistol I keep in my closet has no bullets. I couldn't quite figure out how to squash bug eggs in my esophagus with a baseball bat. So I resorted to chugging a large whimsically decorated cup of rum. Chugged it like a bottle of Aqua-freakin-fina (which, for the record, I quickly regretted).
The whole event prompted me to wonder about the bug content in all the foods we eat. A week later, I'm still wondering. From the feel of my pants on my butt today, though, it appears this paranoia hasn't kept me from returning to my usual gluttoness routine. Next time I munch the remains of an insect, I certainly hope some long-term good comes from it.
cardboard fortress fantasies
Out in the hallway there's a large refrigerator-sized box leaning against the wall. I passed it on my way to lunch and immediately thought to myself: "Wow! That box would make a really cool fort."
What does that say about my maturity level?
What does that say about my maturity level?
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
There's a Crouton in the Mashed Potatoes
Have you ever been to one of those "buffet style" restaurants? There are those of the quaint variety....mostly elderly people....a line of workers behind glass shielding help your plate as you make selections. You can start off with the green jello salad before moving on to the corn on the cob and sliced roast beef. Everything looks fairly sanitary and well organized. Everyone is calm. Everything is how it should be. Yeah, those aren't the type I'm referring to. Normally, I try to stay away from these places. My experience the other night at the local Golden Corral reminded me why.
When I was a kid, my dad was a corporate interior designer. One of his many ongoing projects was the Ryan's Steakhouse chain. Apparently, this was one of the first popular buffet joints. It actually was a pretty nice place to go....15-20 years ago. Anyway, I suppose in support of my dad's creative efforts, our family dined there often. To my brothers and I, the smorgasbord set up before us was the epitome of excitement. It was almost too good to be true. My mother always kept us on pretty regimented diets. We weren't allowed to eat fun, kiddy cereals. Only the boring, no sugar kinds. We had balanced meals....vegetables and fruit were always included. And desert was allowed only if we cleared our plates first. But at Ryan's we were allowed to let loose with reckless abandon. There was always a sick contest to see who could make the most trips for seconds; thirds; or even fourths. This contest was never fair, of course. I was no match for the boys.
It was on one particular visit that I set my mind to becoming the Champion All-You-Can-Eat-er. You've all heard the expression "eyes too big for the stomach", right? Sometimes those sayings aren't crap, after all. I had become so focused on the finish line, I didn't stop to evaluate the progression of my fullness. When it finally became clear that I absolutely COULD NOT win, I dropped my fork with a bitter hesitation. I sat in silence as the rest of the family finished their runny ice cream and stale brownies. Slowly, menacingly; with a panther-like stealthness; a rumbling began in my tummy. Before I knew what was happening, I was vomiting onto the cleared plate that sat before me. My parents and brothers, who had obviously stopped eating at this point, stared at me....mid-chew....motionless. When the awful wretching was over, I looked around me and immediately broke into tears. Quickly "shooshing" me, my parents covered the puke with a thin layer of cheap cloth napkins and herded us out of there as if rabid turkeys were attacking nearby tables. Good thing we paid BEFORE we ate. We never returned to that Ryan's, but I've always felt sorry for the bus boy that must have cleared our table after we left. Poor bastard probably turned in his resignation that very night.
So...when I was invited to tag along to Golden Corral the other night, I wasn't very excited. Since the Ryan's incident, I've only gone to restaurants of this type when forced. (i.e. various bus trips in college when buffets would be quickest for the 30-ish people aboard) Upon entering, it became immediately clear to me that I wasn't in the necessary mindset to enjoy the upcoming meal. I sat down at our table with the tray and silverware that had been handed to me; and was almost nervous to begin my food-finding. Nobody else in the restaurant seemed to be experiencing the same feelings. The scene resembled the giant goldfish ponds you see at zoos and parks. You know the kind.......you drop bread in the water, and dozens of fish swim all over each other; all with their big slimy lips opening and closing in unison; all intensely focused on the one morsel of bread; all oblivious to the other fish. It's a sight that disgusts and frightens me, to be perfectly honest.
Even though I am QUITE the sophisticated socialite (and WAY above such establishments), I eventually did dive into the pond, if you will. As I strolled around to check out the available food choices, I was disappointed. Confused. Nothing looked palatable. In fact, not much even looked edible. But people were rushing from one bar to another in a rushed panic. I was bumped about a half dozen times by individuals wanting nothing more in life but another scoop of mashed potatoes or another drizzle of ranch dressing on their wilted salad. I made it back to my table with a small helping of macaroni and cheese and a piece of "roasted" chicken.
As I sat and ate, I was totally distracted by everything around me. There were plates piled high on each table...people were stuffing themselves silly just because they could. I watched as children, adolescents, and adults alike cleared helping after helping of fried okra, cherry pie, buttery rolls, chili covered nachos, and then back for more pie. I noticed that many of the families/couples/etc. weren't even making conversation with one another. They were eating in silence; eyes fixated on their silverware. A large man in Harley t-shirt with the sleeves cut off sat near me. He had two plates of barbecued ribs before him. His wife and little daughter attempted to talk to him, but to no avail. Their heads could have caught fire, and he would have kept on shoveling it in; stopping only to gulp Dr.Pepper from the giant cup that the server refilled every 5 minutes or so. He had barbecue sauce in his beard and on his shirt. Irrationally, I wanted to yell at him, but I wasn't sure why. I forced myself to look in another direction, and spotted a large group of kids clamoring around the salad bar....digging in with their fingers....eating straight off the line and licking their fingers as they went. Nobody seemed to mind this but me. This was the last straw. I could take no more. I apologized sincerely to my dinner-mates and high-tailed it out to my car. My senses were on overload....and not in a good way. Any more stimuli, and I would have been gathering napkins once again.
On my way out, I passed the kids devouring the salad bar. The tallest boy in the group had a mouthful of sesame seeds. Placing my hand on the nape of his neck, I slammed his head against the heat lamp and laughed as the seeds flew out of his mouth and into the peach syrup. It made the whole experience worth while.
When I was a kid, my dad was a corporate interior designer. One of his many ongoing projects was the Ryan's Steakhouse chain. Apparently, this was one of the first popular buffet joints. It actually was a pretty nice place to go....15-20 years ago. Anyway, I suppose in support of my dad's creative efforts, our family dined there often. To my brothers and I, the smorgasbord set up before us was the epitome of excitement. It was almost too good to be true. My mother always kept us on pretty regimented diets. We weren't allowed to eat fun, kiddy cereals. Only the boring, no sugar kinds. We had balanced meals....vegetables and fruit were always included. And desert was allowed only if we cleared our plates first. But at Ryan's we were allowed to let loose with reckless abandon. There was always a sick contest to see who could make the most trips for seconds; thirds; or even fourths. This contest was never fair, of course. I was no match for the boys.
It was on one particular visit that I set my mind to becoming the Champion All-You-Can-Eat-er. You've all heard the expression "eyes too big for the stomach", right? Sometimes those sayings aren't crap, after all. I had become so focused on the finish line, I didn't stop to evaluate the progression of my fullness. When it finally became clear that I absolutely COULD NOT win, I dropped my fork with a bitter hesitation. I sat in silence as the rest of the family finished their runny ice cream and stale brownies. Slowly, menacingly; with a panther-like stealthness; a rumbling began in my tummy. Before I knew what was happening, I was vomiting onto the cleared plate that sat before me. My parents and brothers, who had obviously stopped eating at this point, stared at me....mid-chew....motionless. When the awful wretching was over, I looked around me and immediately broke into tears. Quickly "shooshing" me, my parents covered the puke with a thin layer of cheap cloth napkins and herded us out of there as if rabid turkeys were attacking nearby tables. Good thing we paid BEFORE we ate. We never returned to that Ryan's, but I've always felt sorry for the bus boy that must have cleared our table after we left. Poor bastard probably turned in his resignation that very night.
So...when I was invited to tag along to Golden Corral the other night, I wasn't very excited. Since the Ryan's incident, I've only gone to restaurants of this type when forced. (i.e. various bus trips in college when buffets would be quickest for the 30-ish people aboard) Upon entering, it became immediately clear to me that I wasn't in the necessary mindset to enjoy the upcoming meal. I sat down at our table with the tray and silverware that had been handed to me; and was almost nervous to begin my food-finding. Nobody else in the restaurant seemed to be experiencing the same feelings. The scene resembled the giant goldfish ponds you see at zoos and parks. You know the kind.......you drop bread in the water, and dozens of fish swim all over each other; all with their big slimy lips opening and closing in unison; all intensely focused on the one morsel of bread; all oblivious to the other fish. It's a sight that disgusts and frightens me, to be perfectly honest.
Even though I am QUITE the sophisticated socialite (and WAY above such establishments), I eventually did dive into the pond, if you will. As I strolled around to check out the available food choices, I was disappointed. Confused. Nothing looked palatable. In fact, not much even looked edible. But people were rushing from one bar to another in a rushed panic. I was bumped about a half dozen times by individuals wanting nothing more in life but another scoop of mashed potatoes or another drizzle of ranch dressing on their wilted salad. I made it back to my table with a small helping of macaroni and cheese and a piece of "roasted" chicken.
As I sat and ate, I was totally distracted by everything around me. There were plates piled high on each table...people were stuffing themselves silly just because they could. I watched as children, adolescents, and adults alike cleared helping after helping of fried okra, cherry pie, buttery rolls, chili covered nachos, and then back for more pie. I noticed that many of the families/couples/etc. weren't even making conversation with one another. They were eating in silence; eyes fixated on their silverware. A large man in Harley t-shirt with the sleeves cut off sat near me. He had two plates of barbecued ribs before him. His wife and little daughter attempted to talk to him, but to no avail. Their heads could have caught fire, and he would have kept on shoveling it in; stopping only to gulp Dr.Pepper from the giant cup that the server refilled every 5 minutes or so. He had barbecue sauce in his beard and on his shirt. Irrationally, I wanted to yell at him, but I wasn't sure why. I forced myself to look in another direction, and spotted a large group of kids clamoring around the salad bar....digging in with their fingers....eating straight off the line and licking their fingers as they went. Nobody seemed to mind this but me. This was the last straw. I could take no more. I apologized sincerely to my dinner-mates and high-tailed it out to my car. My senses were on overload....and not in a good way. Any more stimuli, and I would have been gathering napkins once again.
On my way out, I passed the kids devouring the salad bar. The tallest boy in the group had a mouthful of sesame seeds. Placing my hand on the nape of his neck, I slammed his head against the heat lamp and laughed as the seeds flew out of his mouth and into the peach syrup. It made the whole experience worth while.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Migratory Oozing of Vomitous Elaborations
As many of you already know, I have just moved from Dallas to Baton Rouge. If you know me, then you know the reasons for my move. If you don't know me, then such details wouldn't interest you. To put it simply, I've followed the inspirational example of the great Kelly Clarkson to "take a risk, take a chance, make a change, and break away". They're aren't any palm trees around here to sleep under, and I don't plan on getting on a fast train any time soon, but I may try and find a tall building with revolving doors to play in later on today.
I have developed an acronym for MOVE. Migratory Oozing of Vomitous Elaborations. It's a stretch, I know; but it was the best I could come up with. My moving experience hasn't been filled with as many uh-oh moments as a Ben Stiller comedy or anything, but it has had its share of frustrations.
12 friends (all saints) helped me load my crap in Dallas last week. One even drove from Louisiana in order to do so. 6 of the 12 were guys....all teachers, coincidently. It was the making for a new cliche' opener for joke telling. "How many male teachers does it take to......". In this case, it was "How many male teachers does it take to load 2 couches and a bed into a 5'x8' UHaul trailer?" It took all 6, in fact. The whole process took about 2 hours and was more entertaining to watch than a LifeTime movie. There were no murders, kidnappings, or reunion of lovers; but there were minor injuries, team work, and even some furniture humping. Despite everyone's sweat and tears, we couldn't manage to fit all of my belongings into our vehicles. About a 4th of what I own still resides in Dallas. I was haunted by images of accidently leaving all of my underwear behind, thus being forced to cut holes in my pillow cases out of makeshift urgency.
Unfortunately, the very same weekend I chose to move, a monsoon hit the southeast. The drive from Dallas to Baton Rouge normally takes 8 hours. Our journey on Saturday was drawn out to a near mind-numbing 10, however, due to our frequent stops in the rain to repair the plastic tarping over the bed of my friend's truck. We even stopped at grody podunk Family Dollar during a thunderstorm to buy duct tape. We climbed up on top of the truck right in front of the entrance of the store. Everyone stared at the 2 dumbass white kids. I absolutely loved the white-trashiness of it all.
The drive was made even more enjoyable by Bridget, my poor little kitty cat. I loaded her into my car in her pet carrier, but was too heartbroken by her cries to keep her in it for long. As soon as I cleared Dallas traffic, I let her out to sit in my lap. The first 2 hours of the trip were made with her sitting on her hind legs, facing me with her claws dug into the collar of my jacket. After that, Bridget displayed her previously hidden talent of impersonations. The mink collar: her favorite position while I was driving was draped around my shoulders with her nose in my ear. The ostrich: there was a 6" wide hole in the "mountain o' crap" directly behind my seat. It wasn't a space big enough for her entire body, but she found that she could stuff in everything except her booty and back legs. Once she wiggled into position, she'd stay there for a good 10/15 mintues. The mole: when the 6" hole got boring, she would dig a pathway (in the "mountain o' crap") and disappear. The first time she did this, I panicked a little. Okay........I panicked a lot. I pulled over and made my friend unload and rearrange in a gas station parking lot. When we finally found her under a pile of pillows, I couldn't reach her well enough to pull her out, and I couldn't see her face. After feeling her belly, I was convinced that she wasn't breathing. Once I was proven wrong and my overreacting subsided, I ate a hamburger and all was well again. Just like that.
Bridget and I moved into a house that already had 3 animals living in it. 2 dogs, 2 cats, and 3 women is WAY too many for one small house. The situation is the making for a cheesy ABC sitcom. Our show would be narrated by stereotypical (voices matching their personalities) voiceovers for the pets. Darby, the chocolate lab's would the voice of a young man...slow, stupid, meek. Bobby, the pipsqueaky, peacemaking mutt would be an older woman, possibly high pitched, but with Yankee accent. Webber, the hardheaded male cat would be an older man...always sounds inebriated and confused. And Bridget....cutesie young girl's voice....excited and mischevious. In reality, our pets would use lots of profanity, I'm sure; but this fantasy is in prime time. On our show, we'll encounter a multitude of the typical roomate/pet scenarios. My favorite epidsode will be when one roomate comes home drunk and catches the house on fire with a neglected scented candle. In her drunkened state, she passes out, and the animals (whom she previously hated) will drag her body out to safety. The episode will end with soft music, intervention, forgiveness, hugs, and a goofy neighbor making sense of it all with a corny joke.
Anyway.....living in this house is quite an adjustment not only for me, but for Bridget. Her normal "I'm not scared of anything or anybody...I love you, I love you, I love EVERYthing!!!!.....Yay!, your belly is a trampoline!" demeanor had taken a sharp fall the first few days we were here. There were a couple of violent exchanges between she and Webber, and Darby retreats and barks for hours on end after seeing her. I've felt like I've been running a freakin day care all week....and those are memories that I try to stay away from as much as possible. Just like with toddlers, if I turn my back for more than 2 seconds, someone gets hurt and starts cying, something crashes and breaks, or both. At least I'm not having to potty train 12 of them at once. But, alas......the sun is starting to emerge. The cats managed to sit within 10 feet of each other yesterday without fluffing tails, and the dog hasn't drifted into anxious barking nearly as much. And I feel a little bit less crazy being here with them all.
No fears....more updates will come. I must run now because I think I hear another sitcom epidsode developing in the next room, and I want to be a part of it. I must keep creative control....
I have developed an acronym for MOVE. Migratory Oozing of Vomitous Elaborations. It's a stretch, I know; but it was the best I could come up with. My moving experience hasn't been filled with as many uh-oh moments as a Ben Stiller comedy or anything, but it has had its share of frustrations.
12 friends (all saints) helped me load my crap in Dallas last week. One even drove from Louisiana in order to do so. 6 of the 12 were guys....all teachers, coincidently. It was the making for a new cliche' opener for joke telling. "How many male teachers does it take to......". In this case, it was "How many male teachers does it take to load 2 couches and a bed into a 5'x8' UHaul trailer?" It took all 6, in fact. The whole process took about 2 hours and was more entertaining to watch than a LifeTime movie. There were no murders, kidnappings, or reunion of lovers; but there were minor injuries, team work, and even some furniture humping. Despite everyone's sweat and tears, we couldn't manage to fit all of my belongings into our vehicles. About a 4th of what I own still resides in Dallas. I was haunted by images of accidently leaving all of my underwear behind, thus being forced to cut holes in my pillow cases out of makeshift urgency.
Unfortunately, the very same weekend I chose to move, a monsoon hit the southeast. The drive from Dallas to Baton Rouge normally takes 8 hours. Our journey on Saturday was drawn out to a near mind-numbing 10, however, due to our frequent stops in the rain to repair the plastic tarping over the bed of my friend's truck. We even stopped at grody podunk Family Dollar during a thunderstorm to buy duct tape. We climbed up on top of the truck right in front of the entrance of the store. Everyone stared at the 2 dumbass white kids. I absolutely loved the white-trashiness of it all.
The drive was made even more enjoyable by Bridget, my poor little kitty cat. I loaded her into my car in her pet carrier, but was too heartbroken by her cries to keep her in it for long. As soon as I cleared Dallas traffic, I let her out to sit in my lap. The first 2 hours of the trip were made with her sitting on her hind legs, facing me with her claws dug into the collar of my jacket. After that, Bridget displayed her previously hidden talent of impersonations. The mink collar: her favorite position while I was driving was draped around my shoulders with her nose in my ear. The ostrich: there was a 6" wide hole in the "mountain o' crap" directly behind my seat. It wasn't a space big enough for her entire body, but she found that she could stuff in everything except her booty and back legs. Once she wiggled into position, she'd stay there for a good 10/15 mintues. The mole: when the 6" hole got boring, she would dig a pathway (in the "mountain o' crap") and disappear. The first time she did this, I panicked a little. Okay........I panicked a lot. I pulled over and made my friend unload and rearrange in a gas station parking lot. When we finally found her under a pile of pillows, I couldn't reach her well enough to pull her out, and I couldn't see her face. After feeling her belly, I was convinced that she wasn't breathing. Once I was proven wrong and my overreacting subsided, I ate a hamburger and all was well again. Just like that.
Bridget and I moved into a house that already had 3 animals living in it. 2 dogs, 2 cats, and 3 women is WAY too many for one small house. The situation is the making for a cheesy ABC sitcom. Our show would be narrated by stereotypical (voices matching their personalities) voiceovers for the pets. Darby, the chocolate lab's would the voice of a young man...slow, stupid, meek. Bobby, the pipsqueaky, peacemaking mutt would be an older woman, possibly high pitched, but with Yankee accent. Webber, the hardheaded male cat would be an older man...always sounds inebriated and confused. And Bridget....cutesie young girl's voice....excited and mischevious. In reality, our pets would use lots of profanity, I'm sure; but this fantasy is in prime time. On our show, we'll encounter a multitude of the typical roomate/pet scenarios. My favorite epidsode will be when one roomate comes home drunk and catches the house on fire with a neglected scented candle. In her drunkened state, she passes out, and the animals (whom she previously hated) will drag her body out to safety. The episode will end with soft music, intervention, forgiveness, hugs, and a goofy neighbor making sense of it all with a corny joke.
Anyway.....living in this house is quite an adjustment not only for me, but for Bridget. Her normal "I'm not scared of anything or anybody...I love you, I love you, I love EVERYthing!!!!.....Yay!, your belly is a trampoline!" demeanor had taken a sharp fall the first few days we were here. There were a couple of violent exchanges between she and Webber, and Darby retreats and barks for hours on end after seeing her. I've felt like I've been running a freakin day care all week....and those are memories that I try to stay away from as much as possible. Just like with toddlers, if I turn my back for more than 2 seconds, someone gets hurt and starts cying, something crashes and breaks, or both. At least I'm not having to potty train 12 of them at once. But, alas......the sun is starting to emerge. The cats managed to sit within 10 feet of each other yesterday without fluffing tails, and the dog hasn't drifted into anxious barking nearly as much. And I feel a little bit less crazy being here with them all.
No fears....more updates will come. I must run now because I think I hear another sitcom epidsode developing in the next room, and I want to be a part of it. I must keep creative control....
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