Arrest-room

On one of the episodes of "Enter the Chasm"- the podcast I was creating and co-hosting, I discussed one of my biggest pet peeves. Due to technical difficulties, this portion of the show never aired, but I still felt it was an interesting enough topic that I would instead write about it here.

What's my latest pet peeve? Bathroom attendants.

I know, I am horrible, and I apologize to anyone reading this who makes a living doing this job, but I can't stand walking into a bathroom with an attendant there. It's like walking into a coffee shop and having an employee walk you to your table, stand there, and ready to wipe any crumbs from your muffin off your table. And then expecting a tip. I can wipe off my own muffin, thank you very much.

I guess I've gotten particularly annoyed lately because I seem to keep running into them. About a year ago, I went to see a show at Rams Head Live. After dropping dough on parking, getting a ticket to the event, and buying a bottle of beer (Budweiser, for God's sake) I realized my funds were dwindling. I finally had to make a quick trip to the bathroom and as soon as I pop in, there she was. Complete with a big basket of toiletries and fresheners, she stood waiting, soap pump in hand.

I silently groaned, but what could I do? Nature was calling and I was already in her lair. Once inside the stall I sorted through whatever bills I had left- only to discover the smallest I had was a five.

Now I believe I have also made it abundantly clear that I am a rather cheap person. So the thought of forking over a $5 for someone to squirt some soap and hand me a paper towel seemed not only indulgent, but insidious.

Still, I am also a fearful, timid, and guilt-ridden individual, so the thought of trying to quickly squirt my own soap and grab a towel, sheepishly sneaking out without dropping money into her little glass jar made me even sicker to my stomach than my Budweiser.

So, with teeth-clenched, I walked out and let her hurriedly satisfy my sanitation needs. And then, making sure she saw the five spot I was handing over, placed the bill into the jar.

She seemed pretty grateful, so that took some of the bite out.

On another occasion I walked into the bar bathroom and spotted another bathroom attendant. This time, she had put up several signs all around the sinks explaining how she makes next to nothing, except for whatever she gets for tips. God damnit- I sunk another $2.

Finally, on a most recent trip, I walked into the cramped bathroom of a Tex-Mex restaurant down in Power Plant, and again, there was a bathroom attendant. Son-of-a..

All these previous times I had been guilted and prodded to just bite the financial bullet and tip these ladies.

Maybe it was the particular mood I was in; maybe it was the 3 Dos Equis coursing through my veins; or maybe I just felt it was time I took a stand and said "no more".

Or maybe it was just the fact that I had gone to the bathroom without my wallet.

In any event, I allowed the nice lady to squirt my soap and once I had rinsed off, hand me my towel. I dried my hands, tossed the paper towel in the trash, and bolted for the door.

I never looked back.

Peeling the Layers

Since I'm sorta new to the whole "cooking" game, I still find it interesting what I discover about myself and food. Through handling food and preparing it by my own hands, I am able to reveal facets about myself I never knew or thought were impossible. I like cheese- did you know that? Not all kinds yet, and I'm still texture-picky, but by making dishes I have found an unrealized love of cheese.

And I like onions. Onions, however, do not like me. Because every time I meet a fresh onion, I wind up looking like a character from a slasher-film in her final showdown scene- my eyes tearful and hand clutching a knife, trying to eliminate the enemy.

In other words, onions make me cry. Terribly. Painfully. I have realized from recipe to recipe that for some reason, my eyes are highly and helplessly susceptible to the burning sensation the smell of onions gives off.

I first thought it was a novelty. I had always heard that cutting up onions can make people cry, so it wasn't all that shocking when I started tearing up. What I had not factored in was WHY they made people cry.

It buuuurns, it BUUURNS. I remember the first time; proudly leaning over my new cutting board, nice new sharp knife in hand and trying to mimic the quick slicing I had always seen on Food Network, when the board became blurry. My nose began to run. And suddenly I began wincing.

It felt like I had just dumped a whole bottle of soap detergent directly into my eyes; the burning was incredible. I stepped away, trying to rub my face without letting my hands actually my skin. After several moments of blinking so much I looked like I had an odd tick, the burning subsided at last.

From then on, I knew the drill; the second that initial bite hit my eyes, I quickly moved over to the kitchen door and breathed in the fresh air. It worked sometimes- other times I was too focused and stayed in my place, and by the time I stepped away it was too late; my eyes burning so bad I couldn't tell which tears were from the onions or the pain.

So when the recipe for tonight called for chopped red onions, I was ready. As soon as I began peeling and slicing, the painful burn began to penetrate my eyes. In that second I walked away and breathed the fresh air. I had to repeat a few times just to get the onions ready, but it worked! I left them on the cutting board while I made the other parts of the dinner, tears still inside the ducts.

A short while later, I was sitting with Joe at our kitchen table discussing something, when my eyes began to itch. And then water. And then burn.

What the hell? I thought. I chopped those damn things over 10 minutes ago! As I tried to wipe away the tears that were now starting to stream, Joe asked if I was alright.

"Yes!" I said, "it's those damn onions! I haven't touched them in almost 20 minutes! How the hell could they burn my eyes now? And from here!?"

Finally, with a few swipes of my sleeves, the burn subsided. I guess those onions will find a way to get me one way or another. No sense crying about it....

Eye Contacts

Don't you hate it when someone is walking towards you and you don't know how long to hold the eye contact?

I was walking down the hallway at work today and was about to pass a coworker. I glanced up, and rather than doing my usual quiet "hello" and small nod, which I usually employ for people or coworkers I'm not too close with, something possessed me. He's a nice guy and we've hung out in a group for after-work happy hours, so I guess my mind was trying to process something a bit more congenial.

Meanwhile, my eyes were still locked with his. It wasn't until he finally broke in with a "Hey" that the spell was finally broken and I responded with a "hey", too. As we finally passed each other I began cursing myself, imagining what my coworker was thinking of my dumbstruck, open-mouth appearance, as if I was short a few chromosomes.

I do the same kind of eye-contact stand-off every day when I first come into work. I always pass the security desk on my way in, and normally the person behind it is too busy to notice my coming. However, there is a lady security guard who, when not on her phone, usually notices me. If I'm not paying real attention I might keep my head down, kinda diverting any eye contact at all.

But typically, I mindlessly look up and find myself in an another eye-lock. I wait, and wait, and the finally mutter out a "mornin'" when I can't stand the pressure anymore.

Maybe I should just start wearing blinders; anything it takes to escape the minute instances of social discomfort.

The Freedom Tale

I suck. I know. I have been neglecting this blog like the fruitcake at a dessert table.

But I have been waiting for something really good to write about, and thanks to Joe, I now do. And we are both still feeling it.

It all began last Thursday…

“So I’ve been thinking,” Joe said, collapsing next to me. I was relaxing and reading in bed, when he came in with a glint in his eye. I’ve been with him long enough to know that glint.

“How would you feel about going to Boston?”

Before I could register my feelings about what he meant by that he explained how he had been hearing more and more details about what was happening with the Occupy Wall Street protests, and in particular, that things were heating up in Boston.

“I just feel like I really have to be there. I really want to film it, I want to talk to people, and just really document what’s going on.”

He looked ecstatic. I was slightly skeptical. I kept asking questions, like, where we would stay, what would we do with the dog, can we afford it, etc. With every question he had a ready answer: we would find a place to sleep up there, we would take the dog with us, and that he would take care of everything.

I tried to be positive and hopeful, but my nagging pessimism kept at me. After some deliberation and compromise, I finally got on board.

We were to leave Saturday morning at *gulp* 3 a.m. yet I, still being on weekday-mode, found myself still vegging on the couch till around 11 p.m., leaving me only 4 hours of sleep.

I think I paid for that stupid mistake the whole weekend.

The alarm went off after what seemed like only 20 mins. and I stumbled helplessly to my feet like a newborn giraffe.

As we finished packing and at last got on the road, I suddenly got a flush of excitement. We would be witnesses to something so specific to our generation; something we might add to our list of experiences and tell grandkids about if it should ever make the history books.

Six seamless hours later we found ourselves in the financial district of Boston, and smack dab in the middle of a tent city that had been erected by the protesters.

We parked the car and made our way back to where the tents were. After discovering Joe was allowed to film we got to work talking to whoever would be willing to be on camera and had something to say (which was everyone). Joe interviewed all kinds of people- professionals and students, young and old, musicians and lawyers; yet their one unifying strand was that they were all disenfranchised and dissatisfied with the global governments and big businesses.

While Joe filmed, I looked around for some way to make myself useful. I noticed a guy walking around with a box of trash bags shouting for help with the garbage. Without really thinking I raised my hand and grabbed a bag, handing the dog leash off to Joe.

After some garbage picking I walked back to where Joe was, only to notice a crowd gathering. It appeared that a religious anti-homosexuality group had arrived with a bull horn, expounding hateful rhetoric. In response, several protesters began surrounding them and chanting things like “Hate is a Choice, Homosexuality is Not”, and drawing hearts with chalk all around them. I found myself chanting along with them and writing hearts as well.

I realized, standing there with garbage juice on my jeans and sweatshirt, chalk in my hand, and shouting alongside dozens of people, part of something. I wondered if this was what the people of the 60s felt when they were showing their support or discontent with something. It was very unifying, and unmistakingly American.

But, there was more America to experience- particularly the “Freedom Trail” which I pestered Joe about walking along since we were in Boston.

After we toured outside the old city and found the headstones of founding fathers John Hancock, Samuel Adams, and Paul Revere, we started to make our way back to the car and were told we couldn’t go down a certain street.

“Sorry guys, this street’s closed off,” a man with a walkie talkie and ear-piece in his ear explained.

When we asked why he responded, “They’re filming a movie.” And I couldn’t help but ask, “Really? Who’s in it??”

“Ryan Reynolds and Jeff Bridges. But they aren’t on set right now.”

Damnit.

A fine American day spent exercising American rights and walking along early American history could only be topped by crossing paths with great American actors. But we got close enough.

At last we found our car and made it back on the road to find a hotel and then head over to New York. What happened next? Dogs, dilemmas and disappointments…

Macabre Movie Month

Well, it's October and we know what that means: apple-picking, fall festivals, and crisp nights. At least, that’s what October means to all of us, but October has another special meaning to me. It’ll mark our 8th anniversary of being together (yay!). But there is another significance…a dark significance.

Yes, it’s that time again- time for scary movie month.

Ugh.

I feel as uneasy as I do when I’m being pushed along onto a roller coaster (another activity that I try to be a good sport for).

And while I have already gone through all the anxiety I feel in a post last year, I must mention how this year’s scary movie month is going.

Day 1, Movie 1: “Warlock”

Joe scrolled through the Netflix listings and stopped on this one, claiming “it’s a pretty cheesy 80’s movie about a warlock that comes to modern times.”

Cheesy? 80s? How bad could that be?

All in all, it wasn’t terribly scary OR gory, but instead, it was just kinda disturbing (and I don’t care if that makes me a contender for “Biggest Wuss”). Tongues being torn out, eyes being gouged out, children being butchered- yeah, where the hell was the cheese factor- besides the Warlock’s blonde Nelson-like ponytail.

Needless to say, I had a rough time at bedtime because every time I closed my eyes my torturous brain would conjure up one of those more hideous scenes for my reviewing pleasure.

Day 2, Movie 2: “Black Death”

“Black Death”. Similarly to the previous night’s movie, “Warlock”, this one had a religious connotation, which at first intrigued me. And plus the fact that it was based around the Black Plague, and therefore has a historical angle, I figured it wouldn’t be too bad.

I may have escaped ghouls and monsters, but instead I got buckets of realistic gore. I can handle gun shot wounds for the most part. I even handle sword-fighting pretty well.

The two things that make me most queasy are 1.) Guts and 2.) Violence towards women and/or children. And bingo! I got both.

It’s supposed to be centered around the plague that demolished 2/3rds of the European population, but instead it was more about witch-hunting and torture.
I sat there with a pillow over my mouth, and very vocally exclaiming, “no…no..no.no..no.non NO! OOOOH GOD!”

Meanwhile, Joe, content as you please, sat silently watching, unfazed.

I know that I should just be a good sport about it all. I mean, after all, I torture him with the televising shows I love or movies I suggest, so I should muster up enough courage to get through one lousy month of scary movies, right?

Fortunately October is also one of our more busy months, with lots of things to do, so if just happen we miss a day or week or two, he can’t be that mad…..right?

Dance Dance Evolution

Much apologies for my absence, but it was certainly for a good cause, so I hope you don’t mind.

I also hope you won’t mind if I indulge in a little story-telling this week, all of which will revolve around one special person, my cousin, Beck, who this time next week will step away from her rank as a single person and step instead onto the path of married life.

Beck has been in my life as long as I can ever remember, and has also been so amazingly supportive of this blog, that it feels only right to honor her. How? Why with embarrassing tales from our youth, of course!

Now, one of the things that has always bound Beck and I together was our love and taste in music. From as far back as I can recall, we often found ourselves bonding over shared musicians or songs that we loved, no matter who was the first to introduce it to the other. The Sundays, Ben Folds Five, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, Dave Matthews Band, Save Ferris, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young; all were bands that Beck introduced to me and eventually their songs became the soundtrack to my childhood. I will always cherish them, and her, for that.

What we also bonded on was our dancing. Let me rephrase…Beck could (and still can) dance. She’s always been very graceful, even when she walks.

Now, on the other hand, I must quote another one of our favorites, Phil Collins, and profess, “I Can’t Dance”. But that didn’t stop us from trying to coordinate our own moves!

The first attempt at choreography occurred one night when we were about 10, while watching HBO; a channel we were probably not allowed to watch at an hour I’m sure we weren’t supposed to be up for. The feature presentation music began and Beck mentioned how much she LOVED that music.

Feeling silly and goofy, we both got up and tried to dance along with it. I ended up just trying to match what she did- each taking two big steps, followed by two quick steps, crossing our paths, and then doing a jazz-hand/punch combo in a make-believe box. Hard to describe, and probably harder to imagine, but if you ever heard the HBO Feature Presentation music, you’d get the idea. Still can’t see it? Someday you may get the opportunity. I’m talking to you, Paula Abdul- straight up.

Our next attempt was a tad more organized. Instead of getting creative, we merely copied. The Electric Slide? The Macarena? Well, we did learn those, but we focused a bit more energy on a far more relevant and wide-spread hit- the “Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion” Dance.

I’m sure you are WELL acquainted with that masterpiece of a film, but Beck and I always enjoyed it, especially the scene when the two are in a club and seamlessly break into a cool dance to the song “Stayin’ Alive”. Of course, we had to learn it, and did- after surprisingly many attempts. From then on, whenever we were in each other’s company and that song came on, we’d immediately get into place and meet odd glances with our spastic foot kicks.

Sure those were good times. But my favorite memory that involves this trifecta: Becky, Me, and the dance, has to be when we got into our heads that we wanted to be like Riverdance. Remember when that was popular for about 3 months? Didn’t stop us from begging our parents to take us to Irish dancing classes.

Beck managed to get to practice more often, but I only went once- and it was because of that one time, I vowed never again.

Beck’s mom, my aunt, drove us all the way out together one night for our lesson. We walked in, and instead of a one-on-one kind of thing, it was a class with about 7 or 8 other girls. Beck, as I said, had gone a few times, so she knew some of them.

Meanwhile I, in my over-sized pink sweatpants and white socks, tried to act inconspicuous- a difficult thing, considering the ceiling-high mirrors. If standing in tight dance clogs, wearing basically your pajamas, in a small studio with other far more graceful and agile females doesn’t completely scrub away that pesky dignity, putting up giant mirrors so you can stare at your own ass and back sweat should do the trick.

And if that doesn’t work- try to actually dance! You’ll be on your way to a psychiatrist couch with more problems than an 8th grader’s math test.

Still, despite my own neuroses, we shared something in these dance experiences. We started to become the people we would be someday. Me, the overly sensitive and painfully critical smart-ass, and Beck- the dignified and adventurous woman she is today.

I'd Lik to Buy a Bowel - The Search for Poo

So after a sleepless night, trying to not hear Georgia's shivering, Joe and I got up and packed Georgia into Joe's car for her second visit with the vet.

As I saw them off I began getting myself ready for work, yet all I could think about was what the vet would say.

At around 10:30 a.m. I received a call from her.

“So we have Georgia here, and I just don’t like the look of that lump, so I think surgery is going to be necessary.”

My heart sank.

But I quickly agreed with her decision, and then proceeded to feel the onslaught of questions hammer into my brain once again.

Finally, at around 7 p.m., we were able to pick her up and take her home, with orders to bring her back again for a fresh round of fluids and treatment.

The night was rough; Georgia barely let us touch her and she seemed completely out of it. I was nervous not just because I feared hurting her, but I also feared that somehow, when she had gone under the knife, her personality would’ve changed.

The next day, after dropping her off again and another long day of anticipation, my fears were happily abated.

The vet led us back to see her and we were greeted with a super excited, tail-wagging dog. We were given some further instructions, a couple of medications, and, the piece de resistance, a plastic cone to keep her from licking herself.

We were also told to be on the lookout for vomiting or constipation, so for the past few days, we have been following and watching Georgia’s bodily functions. Luckily there was no vomit and in fact, her appetite had become ravenous.

The one thing we still hadn’t seen was her poop. I began to get obsessed. Every time Joe took her out, I’d ask if she pooped. I’d constantly watch her to see if she pooped. I was even hoping to come home to the smell of poop, just so I knew that her bowels were working again.

I was beginning to get sincerely crazy when Joe texted me that, hurray, she pooped!

I haven’t seen the evidence myself, though. So, even tonight, I found myself standing in my pajamas and bathrobe, feet in slippers, standing in my yard at 8:30 at night, watching my lamp-shade wearing dog for the slightest squat. Classy, I know.

Still, it really says something about how my priorities have changed, even just at 27.

I'd Like to Buy a Bowel?

Let's see if I can actually write each day of the week! Wouldn't that be somethin!

The reason for my absence has been mostly because we have been playing nursemaids to a one Miss Georgia B*** (yes, she has my last name and no, I didn’t ask them to give it to her. It was actually weird when I called the vet’s and they asked for her last name…I suggested mine and sure enough, they pulled Georgia B***’s file. Odd, like finding out you have a child)

Anyway, this all began after an innocent day when I arrived home from work. Georgia had vomited on the couch and was shaking helplessly. I tried to console her and ushered her outside in case she had other business to do, but still she would not stop shaking…or vomiting.

As Joe arrived home I related my concern to him, but not wanting to jump to conclusions (or a hefty vet bill) we decided to wait just a little longer to see if she snapped out of it. After one more round of vomiting, we finally agreed to call the vet.

I explained her symptoms and asked if they sounded serious enough to merit a visit.

“Well, that’s up to you, but if it’s a concern, then we can see you around 7 p.m.?” the nurse said.

Not wanting to risk it, we settled on the time and before long we were sitting in the examination room, waiting for the vet’s diagnosis. When she finally came in she looked Georgia over and in only a few seconds felt a golf-ball size lump on her lower belly.

“Have you ever noticed this before?” she asked. Joe and I, both speechless, shook our heads.

“Ok, well, this concerns me a bit so let me take her with me and get some X-rays done.”

Again, we both quietly agreed, and as she and the nurse carried Georgia away, I suddenly began to freak out. All these questions came tumbling into my brain: How had we not seen that? Is it fatal? What if there’s nothing she can do? What if she needs surgery and it’s thousands of dollars?

While I was playing a torturous game of 20 Questions in my head, Joe relentlessly tried to keep me calm. One way was in trying to guess what animal the skeleton in the examination room was supposed to represent. It did help; I am still convinced it was a cat, but Joe assured me it was a dog.

After what seemed like forever, the vet finally came in and told us to follow her to the surgical rooms. She had on her computer screen an X-ray of Georgia’s bowels- or should be. I was still reeling from all the questions and fears commandeering my head that I could barely understand what she was saying. Thankfully Joe was taking it in and later managed to explain to me what was happening.

Essentially, Georgia had gotten a hernia, which had swollen so large that her intestines had somehow managed to become entangled, preventing her poop to move through her. She suggested we try some antibiotics for the night and then the next day we were to bring her back for a follow-up. If the medicines were working and she improved, then she would be fine. However, if things began to look dour, surgery might be necessary.

That night, while petting Georgia and pleading with her to get better, I felt the weight of fear really engulf me. Though she was just a dog, there was so much more. She had been given up on and left in the SPCA, hoping someone would take her. She was still so young, barely out of her puppy years yet. And she was good, despite her occasionally chewing or jumping; she was a good dog.

It was then, as I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, with tears in my eyes, I made the decision that no matter what the cost, no matter the recovery, we would do it. We rescued her before- we would do it again.

Mother Hood and Her Merry Sisters

To put it simply, my mother and her sisters are Robin Hood and the merry (wo)men. Not totally in that "steal from the rich“, but more because they have ways of getting around obstacles set in place that are inherently unjust.

I had always noticed their capers- getting a refund on an expired receipt, or getting the discounted price on an item no longer on sale, etc.

But I have never been more amazed at their undermining than I was on a recent visit to the beach.

I should also mention that my mother and her sisters are glorified sun-goddesses and their temple is the beach. As long as I can remember, summer time excursions to the shore (which wasn’t really too much of an excursion since none of them live further than a few miles away from a coastline) were so commonplace we all practically lived on the beach. And being residents of these beach towns, my mother and aunts were able to enjoy these beaches with little frustration.

Until, that is, “King Join” (as in “join-our-membership-in-order-to-use-what-is-rightfully-yours’) came along.

More and more rules were established by local governments to restrict beach access, causing frustration from the tax-payers who resided there. My mother and her sisters were no exception. But rather than petition and plead to those who would not bother listening, Mother Hood and her band of Merry Sisters took action into their own hands. Their weapons? A loophole and a fishing pole.

They discovered that, by carrying a fishing pole with them when they went to the beach, they were allowed access free of charge. Somehow, somewhere, there was a loophole in the regulations that allowed free access to those who came to fish. And since no one bothered to ask why a group of middle-aged women wearing Ann Taylor sarongs were carrying designer beach bags and NOT tackle boxes instead, they were waved on and a new precedent was set.

From then on as word spread of this tactic, the townspeople, with fishing poles in hand, were once again able to reclaim what belonged to them, thanks to the Mother Hood and her band of Merry Sisters.

Let Them Feel Quakes

There I was, sitting at my desk, feeling the sharp glint of the computer screen piercing my eyes like a toothpick in fresh baked brownies and trying to ignore the dull ache in my hand veins that was perpetually growing- all in all, it was a pretty normal day. So normal. Too normal.

I was about to turn my head to see who was messing with the blinds next to me, when it suddenly got even louder. Before I even had the chance to comment, my computer screen began to shiver and my cubicle started vibrating.

I quickly glanced over to my coworkers and we all began exchanging looks and questions.

“Do you feel that?”

“What the hell…?”

“Is that an earthquake?”

As quickly as we had asked the questions, the rumbling stopped dead. It was then that I decided to spring to my feet and held a pose like Marcel Marceau holding an imaginary giant ball.

“Shouldn’t we head for a doorway?” I squeaked.

Though we had no idea for sure, we felt fairly certain we were in no immediate danger of the building collapsing. Still, everyone was still tense and nervous, waiting for a second round of shaking.

I looked out the window and noticed a small collection of people milling about outside the building. Even farther away I saw an even bigger crowd of people who had moved a considerable distance away from their offices.

My fellow fremps began frantically calling their loved ones. Ironically, of all days, my phone had slipped away from me and was being held by the kind Samaritan who had found it. As I discovered from my coworkers’ several attempts, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. The cell service was immediately clogged so calls weren’t able to get through.

Instead I hit the Refresh button on my computer every 5 seconds trying to see if there was a report up about what happened. On about the 11th time we finally began getting some details.

An earthquake had hit the east coast, an incredible rarity, centered in Virginia and spread upwards towards New England and downwards well past the Mason Dixon line. It was pretty crazy. And certainly scary. But it was actually kinda cool in a messed up way, too. Here I was, thinking that I was going to have just another Tuesday, hoping the time would pass quickly, when something that may never happen again in my lifetime was suddenly foisted into my lap. Life is truly unexpected that way; and that’s pretty cool. I just hope the next time something like that happens I react in a way that is just as cool- rather than impersonating a dead French striped shirt-wearing mime from the 1940s.

The Shift Continues...

...So we made it to Joe's parents' house, and though we had a great weekend, my mind and stomach were in knots, fearing the moment we would have to, once again, get behind the wheel.

When Sunday finally rolled in we gathered up our things (or most of them for me anyway- I was so concerned with the drive I blindly packed and ended up leaving a decent chunk of my toiletries behind- sorry again about that Mr. and Mrs. G!) and headed for our first stop to visit Joe's grandmother.

The drive was fine for a little while, although trying to keep up with Joe was a chore since my car had so little acceleration it felt like I was towing a Boston Whaler behind me.

We arrived at Joe's grandmother's for a visit, and because they could sense my frustration, Dylan and Joe agreed that Dylan would take over driving my car so I could just relax in the passenger seat. I tried to, but even with Dylan's smooth confident handling, I still became a wreck.

We left Joe's grandma's just in time to hit a wall of torrential rain. After I had nearly nibbled my fingertips to the bone and we had gotten clear of the storm, we had a brief respite. I was actually beginning to enjoy the ride when all of a sudden the jerking and surging that we had experienced on the way up returned, and with a vengeance. It continued for the remainder of the drive, and while we wondered if it was safe to continue driving suddenly the “check engine” light lit up.

Once again my anxiety returned, waiting for the car to veer into a guardrail or start smoking. Dylan, being more reasonable, phoned his friend who works on cars to ask him about our situation.

“Yeah, dude, her car is doing this massive acceleration and up shifting-thing, and then it downshifts just as violently, especially when I take my foot off the gas. And the check engine light just went on. Should we be concerned?” he asked, calmly.

Essentially his friend explained that as long as the car was still running, and since we were getting close to home, we ought to just keep going.

With Dylan managing the steering wheel like an expert cowboy on a fussy mustang, and me fretting like an old Southern belle stereotype, we finally managed to roll into Maryland and, at last, right in front of our house.

Sure, I was still freaking out about what the cost would be to repair whatever the hell was wrong with my car (later on I was informed it had something to do with the throttle control and a bad part that was telling the car to accelerate and decelerate a lot faster than it was supposed to), but I was so grateful we had made it home safe I was thanking the car gods all night. And Dylan, too.

Losing my Shift

I hate cars, sometimes. They're expensive. They can kill people. They cost money for EVERYTHING. They give you cramps in your back and butt after a while.

The worst is when you are faced with all of those problems at one time. Like I was on a recent trip to visit Joe's family.

I was excited to get up there- I rarely get the chance to visit with my work schedule, especially in the summer. The one thing I was sorta dreading was the drive.

Now, I have never made claims to be a good solid confident driver. In fact, I often grip the steering wheel like a mountain climber grasps the rock- for dear life.

But, it's a pretty and steady drive, and watching Joe do it so many times, I was certain I would be fine. And since our friend Dylan was going to drive up with me, I felt even better.

The first couple of hours were fine- smooth sailing except for a patch of heavy traffic. Once we passed that, though, the drive was flying by. Until we hit hour 4.

It was nighttime by then, and as Dylan and I quietly conversed, I suddenly noticed my car doing this harsh acceleration and then immediate deceleration. It scared me a few times, but I was trying to not let my fear show to Dylan. But he didn't need to see my face to know something was wrong.

"Wow, is that you doing that or the car?" he asked, innocently.

I then explained how I had had that problem for some time now, but that when I had taken it to the shop they didn't seem to notice it. They had given me a new battery which had helped- up until this moment.


Freaked, but determined to get to Joe's parents' house, we kept going. We finally got to the local roads, and as soon as I rolled to the first stop light, my car stalled. Thankfully she started right back up again, but Dylan and I still exchanged looks (and prayers) that we would make it to the house.


Happily, we did- but the car drama didn't end there...

I'm a Loser, Baby...

How very neglectful of me, blog, to have not paid you a visit in almost a week and a half. But summer fun does take up the time I take writing. Plus, I need those summer adventures so I have something worth writing about. Something like this past weekend...

You know, I love gambling. Well, I should be specific- I love slot machines: the anticipation of seeing the numbers or images line-up, the excitement when you hit a bonus, and the suspense as you wait to see your winnings. I love it.

I also HATE gambling- when I'm losing.

I'm a bit of a sore gambling loser. When I'm playing back and forth, winning back what I lost, the novelty is enjoyable. However, when my luck turns, and I suddenly see my amount dropping lower and lower, my mood does the same. But I'll explain with more detail-

This past Saturday a few friends and I all traveled up to Atlantic City for the night, in celebration of another friend's birthday.

The drive was smooth with the accompaniment of good friends, good music, and good conversation. We arrived and even managed to all have a drink in the SandBar and jump in the ocean before hitting the casino. My mood was as high and bright as the sun in the sky. But oh, it would not last.

We ate dinner and finally began trolling the casino floor. While some split off to hit the tables, I walked around looking for a slot machine that enticed me. I settled on one and began playing. I was doing pretty well at first; won back, and then some, of my original cash. I quickly cashed my ticket, put back my original amount and played with the extra....until that suddenly ran out.

Trying to shrug it off, I could hear the voice that so many gamblers must hear- "eh, I'll win it back," and decided to dip back into my wallet. Almost in the blink of an eye I saw my money dwindling. With every spin I kept expecting to see a sudden jump, a life saver to bring me back. Instead, I watched in horror as my credits disintegrated. I was crestfallen; and it wasn't even 8 p.m. yet.

I looked around at my friends all earning back even more than what they put in. The happier they got, I'm not proud to admit, the grumpier I became. Determined to be a winner also, I broke one of my biggest cardinal rules- I went to the casino ATM. I told myself I just needed a little more in order to win back my losses. Of course, that didn't happen, and I found myself in an even bigger financial hole.

I was in such a rage I stomped outside to the boardwalk, with poor Joe trailing behind me to calm me down. We sat on the beach, watching the dozens of seagulls hovering around the lights of the boardwalk, and breathed in the cool ocean air.

"Don't be so upset," he said, softly. "So that money is gone- so what. Don't let it ruin your time while we are here."

He was right, of course, and I had no right to be mad at him or my friends. I was mad at myself- for my stupidity, weakness, and greed. I also remembered that there were plenty of times I walked out of a casino with cash in my pocket, but that can't ALWAYS be the case. Because sometimes when you are a loser you appreciate more when you ARE a winner.

A/C Hater

There is a battle being waged, and I don't mean overseas. It is happening right in Towson, right on Willow Ave. The battle is between one Joseph Granato and one Kristen Bott. The reason? Air conditioning versus the electric fan.

My sleeping pattern is as follows- on my side, hand under one pillow with the other clutching another pillow. In the summer, I like to have just a portion of the comforter covering me. I love the gentle breeze of a summer night, but since the nights have been just as stagnantly hot as the days, those breezes have to come in the form of our electric fan placed in the window.

Joe, however, requires the constant blast of the A/C on him as well. And there in lies the source of our disagreement.

One of my truly amazing characteristics is my ability to be cold, even in the deathly hollows of summer. I really realized this a few weeks ago, when the war between A/C and fan began.

A few weeks ago while trying to go to sleep, I noticed I was unconsciously pulling the covers over my entire body. I realized I was actually getting chilly from the onslaught of A/C and fan. I mentioned it to Joe the next night.

"But how can you be cold? It's over 80 degrees!" he said, astonished.

"I know, but its just that the constant blast of cold air and the fan is too much. Why don't we just use one or the other?" I said.

He tried to explain that the air won't kick on unless the temp reaches a certain high, but I was still unconvinced. As a means to make a peace treaty, Joe turned off the A/C for the night.

He informed me the next morning how he had woken up several times in the middle of the night, unable to breathe and needing water. He told me this, because I had slept pretty much through the night. I did notice the heat more, and struggled a bit to get to sleep, but once I did I was out.

To be fair, we put the A/C back on the next night, swapping out the fan.

I have to admit that I did stay cooler, but the dry cold air did bother my nose and throat a bit.

So now we are back to trying sneaky tactics. I will often flip the A/C off for a while only to have Joe somehow flip it back on. It's like an I Love Lucy gag. Who will win the battle tonight? We'll have to see.

How I Know I'm Getting Old...

In no particular order- and the fact that I really can't remember if I already did something like this should be number 1 (and if you have some of your own, please do so share)....

1.) I carry tissues with me at all times- either stuffed in pockets or hidden in my purse.

2.) I now listen to more talk radio than I do music.

3.) I worry about things like my gallbladder and colon.

4.) I make the conscious decision to pee before I bother walking all the way downstairs so I don't have to come up again.

5.) I'm starting to hear the words "I don't give an 'f***'" come out of my mouth more than "I hope I don't..."

6.) I'm really starting to not give an 'F***'

7.) I'm starting to know more married people than single.

8.) My college friends are having kids.

9.) Many old friends moved away and I have to re-learn how to make new friends.

10.) I've begun denying any grey hairs on my head (which there are none, thank you)

11.) I refer to anyone a year younger than me or more as "children".

12.) I'm ok with the idea of marriage.

13.) I'm starting to get ok with the idea of kids. Starting to.

14.) I signed up for a 401k plan.

15.) I now understand the simple pleasure of giving and receiving greeting cards.

16.) Things are starting to creak and crack.

17.) All the "youthful" imagery shown on television and in movies are referencing 22 year olds and younger.

18.) 22 seems so young.

19.) My distaste in current music and movies has continuously grown considerably.

20.) The term "old school" for me refers to things from the mid 80s to early 90s.

21.) I can't remember the last time I rode a bike.

22.) I looked at a recent photo of me and realized that's what the "grown-up" me looks like.

23.) I've been able to drink legally longer than I used to sneak it.

24.) I can cook.

25.) I'd like to buy a house.

26.) I am starting to look at makeup that fights and conceals wrinkles.

and lastly...

27.) I make lists.

What makes me still feel young? Simple:

Joe, the music I love, the friends and family I cherish, the passions I keep, writing, and still being able to get drunk off 2 beers.

The Freakin Firkin

Since my choices for television have been re-opened to me, I have found myself falling back into some of my old favorites, specifically, "American Pickers" and "Pawn Stars." I love these shows not just for their "reality" moments, but because they endear me to a small interest I have always held- antiques.

I haven't had many personal experiences when it comes to purchasing antiques, but my parents have. I seem to recall years back while on a family vacation to Maine when I actually saw my first real antique, courtesy of my mother.

My family and several of my mother's sisters and their families all went up to Maine for a week or two in the summer. One day my mom came back to our shared beach house after enjoying a nice afternoon with my aunts, and she carried something big, round, and wooden in her hands.

"What is that?", we all asked.

My mother, with a pleased smile on her face, replied, "It's a firkin!"

Of course, none of us had any idea what a firkin was, but my mom seemed very happy about it. She infomed us that she and her sisters had gone to an estate sale or auction, and had bought this odd heavy wooden bucket-thing. I still didn't understand what exactly it was and since it didn't really have anything to do with my oh-so important life, I shrugged it off and walked away.

My curiosity was still piqued, however, so when we actually got back to our real house I found myself looking it over again. I was able to make out some kind of painted floral and leaf pattern on the front and thought it did look pretty, especially set against the dark brown wood. Ok, so it looked nice, but what the hell was it for?

My mother tried to explain that in the old days it was basically just a utility bucket used in kitchens or around the house- which is exactly what it ended up doing for us. It helped us around the house by first being the deposit spot for firewood. However, as we were very loudly vocally reminded by my mom that it was an ANTIQUE now, and therefore retired from such hard labor, it spent its remaining days sitting on our stair steps collecting old magazines and toys. It was like setting up a assisted-living village in Sesame Place- not a very dignified end to such a magnificent piece.

We always remembered the "freakin firkin", as my father lovingly coined it whenever my mom hassled him about taking care of it. It might have seemed silly at the time, but my mom introduced me to the idea of obtaining a piece of history; of being able to place your hands on something that was once in the hands of someone from long ago. I always appreciated that, and still do.

As to the current whereabouts of the firkin today...I have no freakin idea.

Dog Day of Summer

Joe and I celebrated a very special anniversary this weekend. No, not our 8 years of dating- a year ago this weekend we adopted our plucky little dog, Georgia.

And being the hopeless sentimentalist, I wanted to do something extra special. So we stopped into PetsMart and bought her a nice new feminine (because I'm tired of correcting people when they ask us about "HIM") collar, a new bouncy ball toy, and even a big doggy-cinnamon roll-bone thing (complete with "icing" drizzle).

After that, Joe and I were both itching to get some outdoor exercise that we could include the puppy in, so we decided to go for a nice long walk through the Hunt Valley Trail.

It was more crowded than we expected, particularly with bicyclists. I can't remember the last time I sat on a bike, let alone go for a ride on one. It did look rather inviting. Georgia was fascinated by them as well, and proceeded to lunge at each one that passed by.

We took this as an opportunity to do some training with the "leave it" command. We put her back on a shorter leash and when we a bicyclist approached we gave her a stern command- "Leave it". If she lunged, we pulled her back and told her "No." Eventually, she began to understand that if she simply ignored the bikers, we praised her. I often do that alot in her training. She literally gets rewarded when she does nothing. Nice life, huh?

We were having a nice time when suddenly something else was approaching us- another dog. Joe, wanting to introduce Georgia to as many dogs as possible, was about to let Georgia greet the other dog when it's owner pulled it back and away. I shrugged it off; some people are either hesitant about other dogs or worried about their own dog wil react. Joe I think was a little more indignant.

"Well, that was uncalled for...", he said with a slight hurt look on his face. I patted his back and we kept walking with our socially jilted dog.

On the walk back we found ourselves coming up behind another dog, and again, the owners didn't seem too interested in letting the dogs meet. We kept our steady pace but eventually we caught up right behind them. It was kinda awkward- their dog kepts trying to turn around to see Georgia and Georgia was desperately trying to get ahead to meet it. I tried to purposely slow down so as to give the other people the hint to move along or move aside. Since they seemed uninterested in doing either, I did the only sensible thing....stopped and pretended to look at a flower.

Joe, of course, recognized and poked fun at my obvious action.

We finally got back to car, and after worrying senselessly about whether Georgia was exhausted or too hot, Joe turned around and said casually, "What's that on her head?"

I turned around too and as he looked closer we realized what that was- a tick. I immediately got squeamish but Joe simply hopped into the back, grabbed a tissue and got to work pulling the pest off her little head. It took a few seconds but it at last gave up the fight and Joe dropped the tissue outside.

It was a merry day had by all. Joe was relaxed from the fresh air, Georgia was tuckered from the excitement, and I spent the rest of the drive pulling at my skin and checking every itch to make sure I hadn't taken home a blood-sucking parasite of my own.

Merry Mechanics

My latest faux pas? Tempting a former alcoholic with beer. Yes, I gave away the ending already, but I have a feeling you might still read on.

I don't know if it's just me, but taking my car into a mechanic's is always a heart-pounding and anxiety-ridden event. My legs tingle, my feet twitch, my stomach feels upset...all because of one ostensibly routine chore.

I think it's because, like many of you I assume, I am a complete idiot when it comes to my car. I know how most of the features work (you know, all the key stuff like controlling the windows and sunroof. Other things, like how the 6-CD changer works is still a work in progress.) But when it comes to actual workings of my car, I'm pretty clueless, so if one of the mechanic's tells me my car is on the verge of total destruction because the F-top lubricator core injector thing-a-ma-bob is dented, I'm left standing there mouth agape and dumbly nodding.

But perhaps the even greater cause for my distress is the absolute mystery behind how much things cost to fix. I like to do research when I can about how much some things generally cost, like oil changes or tire rotations, but it always seems that by the time I am inside, the prices teeter-totter.

And being the cheap person I am, this is terrifying because you never REALLY know how much you are going to end up spending.

Fortunately, I have found a great reliable body shop who have always been so helpful and fair, offering me discounts whenever they could and don't make me feel like the "girls with their cars" stereotype. I usually have a conversation with whoever's working that day, and discovered on two accounts that this body shop sometimes accepts beer as a token of appreciation.

Well, I've always been appreciative but never had the beer on hand, so when I made my appointment for the next week to have my car's alignment checked out, I made a point to pick up a 12-pack.

On the day of, I kept going back and forth in my mind whether I ought to do the beer-thing. I had gotten the impression that that would really make their day, but still I worried that I might get in trouble for trying to serve alcohol to people on the job (is that even a law?) or be seen as trying to bribe them (which, in a way, I totally was- bribing them to take care of me and my car without hammering me with a massive bill).

I arrived and noticed the guy behind the counter was one I hadn't yet ever encountered. Plus there were other customers there. I decided to just leave the beer in my car and if I got a good vibe, tell him I'd be right back and present the liquid treasure.

I sat waiting and waiting, until finally they pulled my car inside and I was suddenly hit with anxiety and the onslaught of questions in my head- What if they find something reeeally wrong? What if it costs more than what I have? What if they need it for overnight? What if it's too expensive to fix...

I annoyed and freaked myself out so much that I practically jumped when he came back in.

"They redistributed your tire pressure. One was at only 13 lbs while another was on the brink of popping", he said. All in all, everything else looked good.

I was so relieved that I was going to walk out of there with less money spent than I feared and still getting something fixed that needed it.

I was so relieved in fact that I suddenly blurted out (in no graceful manner), "D'you accept alcoholic beverages as a 'thank you' by any chance?" I waited for a coy smile to appear but instead the man kept his eyes down and said, "As an alcoholic, no."

Crap me...

I apologized profusely but he smiled then and said, "Had you asked me 6 years ago, I would've said yes!"

Oh well, you can't win 'em all.

Crappy to Happy Birthday

Well well well, what a difference a few days make- had a couple of crappy days, then my bday rolled around, and I'm able to watch the ol' boob tube again. Well, kind of anyway.

Truth is, nothing really has changed. Since we don't have cable still, I am still not able to watch network television, with its commercials and continuous stream of content. And since we do have Netflix, I still have all the same shows I had before.

I guess the only difference really, is that I can now allow myself to really engage in the shows that I have been hearing so much about- Modern Family, Spartacus, Game of Thrones, etc.

But then again, some of these shows are not yet available on Netflix.

So, in a way, the challenge continues.

Meanwhile, I have helplessly entered my LATE 20s. I'm sure there will come a day where I will look back at this and yell at my words that I'm an idiot to complain, but until then, I'm still sad and a little upset. No longer can I use the excuse to be kid-like. I think once you hit the later part of your 20s you are expected to start acting like a real grown-up. Which really sucks. I hate being responsible; primarily because I'm not very good at it.

And finally, I was having a few crappy days all in a row last week, leading up to my birthday. Isn't it weird how you can experience a day that isn't the best but by the same standards, when it happens near your birthday, you feel the world is against you. It's like a healthy dose of reality and humility smacking you in the back of the head, saying, "It's not all about you!"

I guess the cornerstone of my bad days was the actual day before my birthday, Wednesday. I was driving up to a light when it turned yellow. Instinctively I stepped on my brake to slow down.

Suddenly I hear a blaring horn sounding off behind me. Some roid-raged freak is honking at me, presumably b/c I didn't choose to gun-it for the light.

Now, being the crappy old-lady driver that I am, I'm sorta used to the occasional honk which I just brush off. However, this guy was choosing to literally lean on his horn for the duration of the red light. My blood to began to boil and I could feel my cheeks reddening as bright as the light itself.

Finally, I hear the man yell out his window, "Where'd you learn how to drive c***!" Followed by another nice loud beep.

That was it. Who the hell did this guy think he was, talking to stranger like that? I could feel the rage in my fingertips and as the light changed I purposely idled at the light for a second, to which he replied by honking AGAIN.

God, even as I type this I have such an urge to find that asshole and smash his mailbox.

He finally dodged around me, and though I gave him the chin-flip off, it didn't nearly release the anger inside of me. And I think I know why-

For one, I can now think of 10 things I would've loved to have said if 1.) I had thought of them an 2.) Actually had the guts to say them. I also hate that people like that get away with acting like that, because they just drop a big pile of bad-day in your face and speed off.

Lastly, it infuriated me because there's no need for that. I would've gotten the message with "Where'd you learn how to drive"? I might have even been alright with a "bitch" placed in there.

But people like that ought to be sterilized. Anyway, if you want to read some of the things I wish I could've said to him, read on...

WARNING- These are things expressed in pure anger and should not be taken as an insult to anyone of you reading this.

1.) "Kiss/blow your boyfriend with that mouth?!"

2.) "I hope you get AIDS!"

3.) "Good luck with the sex change asshole!"

4.) "SORRY ABOUT YOUR DICK!!!"

The Living Year- The Final Countdown

Well, looks like I'm at the home stretch when it comes to this TV challenge of mine. I'm sure there are several friends and family that will be glad I will no longer be chained to my unchaining of television. And I do also realize and admit that in some aspects I might've cheated a touch with the whole Netflix thing (but hey, even addicts sometimes need something to help them wean off).

Still, the basics of the challenge were upheld- I watched no reruns of shows I used to watch obsessively, I watched no network or cable shows currently available, no commercials, and no aimless and pointless hours of just "watching whatever is on." These are things I still hope to not do (or at least do so much) however, there are some things I AM looking forward to once I rejoin the rest of the television viewing world-

1.) Soccer/football: And no, I'm not trying to be pretentious by covering both terms for the same sport. I really mean both soccer and football. Soccer, because I recently discovered my home team (or at least English adopted home team) Norwich City is back in the Premiere English league. They are huge underdogs and I always did enjoy catching a game or two, so now that they are in the major league I'll have an easier time of finding a place to watch their games.

Though I doubt I'll ever be what you call a "hard-core" fan of football, I still couldn't help getting all jazzed and excited when football season was abound, even without seeing any of the games. The attitude of the city seems so much more positive, especially when the Ravens do so well, and I really can't wait to join in the cheering and comradery, even if I don't know what's going on.

2.) Movie previews: This is one that I'm sure might be short-lived, but I can't help but miss seeing the newest movie trailers. Joe and I have been so cut-off that anytime we want to go to the movies we are really going in with absolutely no preconceived notions. I know after a while of seeing the same damn trailers I'll be glad to take another year off of TV, but for now, bring on all the Super 8 previews!

3.) Breaking news stories: I'm sure this could be said about all years, but this year really felt to be such a big news year and I was unable to see any of it in video form. Though I have garnered a new appreciation for the written and spoken word, there is still something to be said about the instance amazement provided by video clips. From the miners to Bin Laden and all the weather and natural disasters- it's been a year of words.

I'm sure there are other things that I will be glad to welcome back into my life, just as long as those things aren't Golden Girls and Friends marathons anymore.

Over the Wal-mart and Through the Depot...

So Memorial Day has passed, and all in all, it was a good one. Joe and I had some people over for a BBQ and we christened our new fire pit. And it really wasn't even a ton of work to put together...once we had everything we needed.

There was one little detail we had forgotten until the very day of the party- firewood. In order to actually use the fire pit we needed firewood, and of course, the quest to purchase some was fraught with hassle.

As I was cleaning things up Joe went out to get his last few grocery items and the firewood. He is gone for a good while and then returns saying the Home Depot was out. We really needed it, since the fire pit was one of the featured events for our party, but since he looked tired and sweaty (and since I needed a few more things anyway) I offered to drive up to our big mega-Walmart that also has a big gardening section while he continued to get things set up.

I drove up and, not shockingly, noticed the parking lot (which usually extends practically into the next town) was packed pretty well. Figures. But I was armed with my list and a fair idea of where everything should be. No problem.

I tried to see if I could find firewood on my own, but to no avail. So, I try to ask a helpful Wal-mart employee.

Now, at this point, I must make a plea to all Wal-mart employees- I am sorry if you don't like your job. I'm sorry if you are hungover and don't feel like being there. But for the love of God and the sake of civility, can you NOT run away every time I (or really, any customer, b/c I noticed this was an issue for other people as well) just want to ask a brief question about where something is. The store is the freaking size of an air craft carrier, and I'm bumbling around just looking for some Off!.

Anyway, I finally snag some help from a willing employee who explains they simply don't have it.

I then rush out to the Home Depot down the street, hopeful that this location will have the firewood. I barely walk in the door when I see the store greeter and immediately ask about the firewood.

"You know, I'm not sure we do, but let's find out." So she walks me over and after asking some of her fellow Home Depotcrats they inform me that they are also out.

I am about to walk out the door when the woman who initally greeted me pulled me aside and explained how she would be able to hook me up.

"Just take some from my house," she said, in a hushed tone, like she was selling me contraband.

I was very tempted. It was free and I'd be able to get it right away. However, my hopes were dashed as she began explaining all the hoops I'd have to jump through to get it.

"Go to Thornton Ave, and look for the last house on the left. You'll see some construction going on. Go up to the house. My daughter should be there. Her name is Cassie. Explain who you are and tell her I sent you. My name is Linda. Then go around the corner through my neighbor's yard, over the valley, through the woods, answer the bridge master's 3 questions, slay the Hydra..."

I thanked her for her help, but in the end I simply went to Valley View Farms and found a few bundles and paid for them. It was kind of her to offer, but in this instance, my laziness outweighed my cheapness. Besides, if I'm going to venture into stranger's yards, I better be drunk first.