My family's Thanksgiving was Saturday. So I cooked for two days straight and at 5:30 on Saturday evening, finally sat down in front of my plate.
And went "ick." Since I'd spent so much time working the turkey and whipping the potatoes and buttering everything that didn't move, I was suddenly so OVER it.
I'm thankful for many things: my loving family, my friends, my Miles and my home. But more than anything, I'm DAMN thankful I don't have to do that again for another year.
11.27.2006
11.22.2006
Happy Thanksgiving
Now go get stuffed.
Just to let you know, I was planning some posts but in case I don't get to them, I'll leave with you with my wishes for a great holiday weekend.
Just to let you know, I was planning some posts but in case I don't get to them, I'll leave with you with my wishes for a great holiday weekend.
11.20.2006
TomKat Kaption Kontest
Those krazy kids got married! And this is my favorite picture from the wedding album.
Go for it.
Go for it.
11.18.2006
The littlest update
Everything's fine, except for one thing: I just watched the carafe from my coffeemaker shatter all over my kitchen floor.
Until now, I never realized how much I love my coffee.
Until now, I never realized how much I love my coffee.
11.09.2006
The Night I Mocked God
One evening last spring, Miles and I wanted to play tennis. It’s not like we’re spectacular at tennis (Miles is and I’m not, which drops our collective spectacular level to below-average). We wanted to run around a bit and whack something, though, because it was a weeknight and working all day makes most people want to whack something.
So Miles picked me up at 6:30 and we took a short drive to the tennis courts by my son’s school. There’s a set of two, and one is usually free. Like normal, one court was open – the other had a load of people on it, though. Miles and I walked through the gate, set our stuff on the bench, got the rackets out of the covers, opened the balls and were in position when one of the people from the other court came over.
“You can’t play here tonight.”
I blinked at him. The other court was still full of people, but none of them had seemed interested in the free court.
“Why not, the court’s open.” Miles spoke up because I was still processing.
“No it isn’t. The City has these courts tonight to teach a class.”
I may have blinked again. Miles, sensing my uselessness, tried to reason with this guy on his own. “But you’re only using one.”
The guy acted as if we should have understood why this didn’t matter. “Sorry.”
“But . . .” I was catching up now, “but you’re not USING this one.” The guy swiveled his blond head to squint at me.
“I know,” he said, speaking slowly, “but the CITY has RESERVED them BOTH for a CLASS.”
“So you’re not using this one, but since the CITY has RESERVED it, we can’t play here?”
“Right.”
“Then WHY,” Miles replied, “didn’t you TELL us that BEFORE we UNPACKED our STUFF?”
Blondie stepped back a pace. Miles was much bigger than him and had lifted his racket to emphasize his point. In fact, I wondered for a moment if Miles wasn’t considering bipping Blondie’s golden head with a nice, snappy flick of the wrist. I wouldn’t have minded. The guy had a smarmy, officious sort of attitude. Because at that moment, Blondie had the weight of the whole City of Las Vegas behind him.
“Sorry, but that’s the RULES.”
The rules made no sense, but it would have made even less sense to point that out. So we grumbled and left.
It was still early, so we drove to the next closest set of tennis courts. They were empty. We pulled into a parking spot, got all our stuff together and went to the gates. They were chained shut and padlocked with a setup that would have restrained an elephant. Miles and I looked at each other.
“I know where we can go,” I said.
Two miles later, we checked out the new tennis complex. It was packed. Not an open square of green surface in sight. Miles and I looked at each other.
“Let’s go home,” he said.
I was too stubborn to give up. “No. There’s another one.”
By now, it didn’t matter that I sucked at tennis. I wanted to play and we were driving to frickin’ Reno as long as we found an open court. We got back in the car.
Five miles later, we pulled up to another park . . . and didn’t even bother parking. People were playing doubles on these courts. All ten of them. Miles and I looked at each other.
He shrugged. “Maybe God doesn’t want us to play tennis.”
I raised an eyebrow at him and scowled. Must have looked really pretty. “Like God doesn’t have bigger things to worry about than whether or not we get to play tennis tonight.”
Miles looked a little uncomfortable. “It’s getting late, besides.”
“God doesn’t care if we play tennis. We’ll check out the courts by the house on the way home. Maybe the CLASS is gone.”
The whole way there, I was inwardly scoffing. God doesn’t want us to play tennis. Ha ha ha. God’s taking time off from listening to the prayers of the poor and the sick. Right before God pulls Africa out of the shitter He’d better make sure we don’t play tennis tonight. God’s gonna do a little Divine Intervention in the Middle East but first, he’s gonna keep me off the tennis courts. Ha ha HA.
The class was gone. Two guys were on one court, but the other was free. Really, truly free. I grinned at Miles.
“See? God seems to be perfectly okay with us playing tennis.”
So we parked again. We unpacked again. We were in position – again – and ready to go. It may have taken an hour and a half, but we were ready to go.
Miles served. I hit it back. He hit it to me. I hit it back. Miles’ next shot went off to my right and I ran after it.
And then my feet suddenly stopped working. I tripped, stumbled and went down like a wet sack of raw chicken. I felt my racket bounce and slam into my ribcage, knocking me breathless as I hit the ground, knees first, where I skidded on both forearms and came to a stop easily fifteen feet from where I first lost my balance.
I lay there, nose-down on the green paint, my racket crushed beneath me, and gulped air. When I exhaled, I was very close to sobbing. I still don’t know if it was because I really hurt, I was scared, or if I was plainly humiliated. Probably a bit of all three.
As I rolled onto my back, Miles jogged over. When I saw the concern on his face, I sat up and let a sob go. Just one.
Okay. Two.
“Are you okay, Hon? What happened?” He crouched beside me.
“I fell on my racket,” I whined, holding out the offending sporting good. Somehow, my hand was still clutching the grip. He took it from me and put it aside.
“You’re bleeding,” he noted.
So I was, from a few places. Both knees had silver-dollar-sized scrapes, my right elbow had a five-inch-long wound and my left forearm had one that was shorter, but deeper. And somehow, I’d also scuffed the palm of my left hand. My arms and knees, in effect, had road rash. Once I assimilated all this, my knees began to seize up. I stretched out my legs.
“It’s not bad,” I said. “I can still play if you want.”
Miles looked, for a moment, as if he’d gladly bip ME upside the head. Then he stood and offered his hand. “Let’s go home.”
Finally, I agreed.
When we were in the car, I sagged. “I mocked God and look what happened.”
“What?”
“I mocked God. I said He couldn’t possibly care whether or not we played tennis.”
Miles paused. “Do you really think that’s why you fell?”
“Yeah.”
He sighed.
Road rash doesn’t REALLY hurt until the shower hits it. My knees and arms cramped again as the water ran over them. I had to buy very large band-aids and Neosporin. When my co-workers asked about the bandages, I told them what happened. And everyone I told had the same reaction: they laughed.
“That’s what you get” was a close second.
You don’t have to believe that my mocking had anything to do with falling on my face, embarrassing myself and scraping skin off every limb. But I do. Somehow, in some way, I asked for it.
I have faith that I was touched by the finger of God. Really hard, and right in the center of my back.
So Miles picked me up at 6:30 and we took a short drive to the tennis courts by my son’s school. There’s a set of two, and one is usually free. Like normal, one court was open – the other had a load of people on it, though. Miles and I walked through the gate, set our stuff on the bench, got the rackets out of the covers, opened the balls and were in position when one of the people from the other court came over.
“You can’t play here tonight.”
I blinked at him. The other court was still full of people, but none of them had seemed interested in the free court.
“Why not, the court’s open.” Miles spoke up because I was still processing.
“No it isn’t. The City has these courts tonight to teach a class.”
I may have blinked again. Miles, sensing my uselessness, tried to reason with this guy on his own. “But you’re only using one.”
The guy acted as if we should have understood why this didn’t matter. “Sorry.”
“But . . .” I was catching up now, “but you’re not USING this one.” The guy swiveled his blond head to squint at me.
“I know,” he said, speaking slowly, “but the CITY has RESERVED them BOTH for a CLASS.”
“So you’re not using this one, but since the CITY has RESERVED it, we can’t play here?”
“Right.”
“Then WHY,” Miles replied, “didn’t you TELL us that BEFORE we UNPACKED our STUFF?”
Blondie stepped back a pace. Miles was much bigger than him and had lifted his racket to emphasize his point. In fact, I wondered for a moment if Miles wasn’t considering bipping Blondie’s golden head with a nice, snappy flick of the wrist. I wouldn’t have minded. The guy had a smarmy, officious sort of attitude. Because at that moment, Blondie had the weight of the whole City of Las Vegas behind him.
“Sorry, but that’s the RULES.”
The rules made no sense, but it would have made even less sense to point that out. So we grumbled and left.
It was still early, so we drove to the next closest set of tennis courts. They were empty. We pulled into a parking spot, got all our stuff together and went to the gates. They were chained shut and padlocked with a setup that would have restrained an elephant. Miles and I looked at each other.
“I know where we can go,” I said.
Two miles later, we checked out the new tennis complex. It was packed. Not an open square of green surface in sight. Miles and I looked at each other.
“Let’s go home,” he said.
I was too stubborn to give up. “No. There’s another one.”
By now, it didn’t matter that I sucked at tennis. I wanted to play and we were driving to frickin’ Reno as long as we found an open court. We got back in the car.
Five miles later, we pulled up to another park . . . and didn’t even bother parking. People were playing doubles on these courts. All ten of them. Miles and I looked at each other.
He shrugged. “Maybe God doesn’t want us to play tennis.”
I raised an eyebrow at him and scowled. Must have looked really pretty. “Like God doesn’t have bigger things to worry about than whether or not we get to play tennis tonight.”
Miles looked a little uncomfortable. “It’s getting late, besides.”
“God doesn’t care if we play tennis. We’ll check out the courts by the house on the way home. Maybe the CLASS is gone.”
The whole way there, I was inwardly scoffing. God doesn’t want us to play tennis. Ha ha ha. God’s taking time off from listening to the prayers of the poor and the sick. Right before God pulls Africa out of the shitter He’d better make sure we don’t play tennis tonight. God’s gonna do a little Divine Intervention in the Middle East but first, he’s gonna keep me off the tennis courts. Ha ha HA.
The class was gone. Two guys were on one court, but the other was free. Really, truly free. I grinned at Miles.
“See? God seems to be perfectly okay with us playing tennis.”
So we parked again. We unpacked again. We were in position – again – and ready to go. It may have taken an hour and a half, but we were ready to go.
Miles served. I hit it back. He hit it to me. I hit it back. Miles’ next shot went off to my right and I ran after it.
And then my feet suddenly stopped working. I tripped, stumbled and went down like a wet sack of raw chicken. I felt my racket bounce and slam into my ribcage, knocking me breathless as I hit the ground, knees first, where I skidded on both forearms and came to a stop easily fifteen feet from where I first lost my balance.
I lay there, nose-down on the green paint, my racket crushed beneath me, and gulped air. When I exhaled, I was very close to sobbing. I still don’t know if it was because I really hurt, I was scared, or if I was plainly humiliated. Probably a bit of all three.
As I rolled onto my back, Miles jogged over. When I saw the concern on his face, I sat up and let a sob go. Just one.
Okay. Two.
“Are you okay, Hon? What happened?” He crouched beside me.
“I fell on my racket,” I whined, holding out the offending sporting good. Somehow, my hand was still clutching the grip. He took it from me and put it aside.
“You’re bleeding,” he noted.
So I was, from a few places. Both knees had silver-dollar-sized scrapes, my right elbow had a five-inch-long wound and my left forearm had one that was shorter, but deeper. And somehow, I’d also scuffed the palm of my left hand. My arms and knees, in effect, had road rash. Once I assimilated all this, my knees began to seize up. I stretched out my legs.
“It’s not bad,” I said. “I can still play if you want.”
Miles looked, for a moment, as if he’d gladly bip ME upside the head. Then he stood and offered his hand. “Let’s go home.”
Finally, I agreed.
When we were in the car, I sagged. “I mocked God and look what happened.”
“What?”
“I mocked God. I said He couldn’t possibly care whether or not we played tennis.”
Miles paused. “Do you really think that’s why you fell?”
“Yeah.”
He sighed.
Road rash doesn’t REALLY hurt until the shower hits it. My knees and arms cramped again as the water ran over them. I had to buy very large band-aids and Neosporin. When my co-workers asked about the bandages, I told them what happened. And everyone I told had the same reaction: they laughed.
“That’s what you get” was a close second.
You don’t have to believe that my mocking had anything to do with falling on my face, embarrassing myself and scraping skin off every limb. But I do. Somehow, in some way, I asked for it.
I have faith that I was touched by the finger of God. Really hard, and right in the center of my back.
11.08.2006
11.07.2006
Sunday. Funny Sunday.
On Sunday, I did my puppeteering/voiceover thingy for my friend's movie. His impressions are here.
Things I learned from the experience:
1) Puppets are REALLY creepy.
2) It's hard to act when you're stuffed under a desk.
3) When you're stuffed under said desk and you're holding your puppet above the edge of the desk, your hand falls asleep. A lot.
4) The insides of puppets smell really weird.
5) It's hard to get that smell off your hand.
After we wrapped, Francis (a local French photographer and the owner of the studio we shot at) said to me, "I know many of ze puppeteers. You are goot."
Then, he asked a question that struck me as very funny:
"You do ze puppet long?"
Maybe I think it's funny because my mind is always hovering around the gutter.
Things I learned from the experience:
1) Puppets are REALLY creepy.
2) It's hard to act when you're stuffed under a desk.
3) When you're stuffed under said desk and you're holding your puppet above the edge of the desk, your hand falls asleep. A lot.
4) The insides of puppets smell really weird.
5) It's hard to get that smell off your hand.
After we wrapped, Francis (a local French photographer and the owner of the studio we shot at) said to me, "I know many of ze puppeteers. You are goot."
Then, he asked a question that struck me as very funny:
"You do ze puppet long?"
Maybe I think it's funny because my mind is always hovering around the gutter.
11.02.2006
The Winding Way of the Meme
The Great Freakin' Music Meme, via Shannon via Cullen
IF YOUR LIFE WAS A MOVIE, WHAT WOULD THE SOUNDTRACK BE?
So, here's how it works:
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't lie and try to pretend you're cool... and alot of the songs fit with the setting.
Opening Credits:
Waking Up: El Amor De Mi Vida • Warren Zevon
First Day At School: Red Light Fever • Liz Phair (giggle)
Falling In Love: Across The Universe • Rufus Wainright
Fight Song: She's Too Good for Me • Sting
Breaking Up: Anna's Sweater • Two Gallants
Prom: Don't Walk Away • ELO
Life: Love and Peace or Else • U2
Mental Breakdown: The Whole World Lost Its Head • The Go-Go's (I can't make this shit up)
Driving: Some Other Spring • Billie Holiday
Flashback: When the Music Stops • Eminem
Getting back together: Black Is the Color Of My True Love's Hair • Nina Simone
Wedding: Two Little Feet • Karen Savoca
Birth of Child: Rest Of The Day Off • Neil Finn
Final Battle: Entering Deadwood • Michael Brook
Death Scene: Murder, Tonight, In The Trailer Park • Cowboy Junkies (Wow. Now that's weird.)
Funeral Song: Bamboleo • Gipsy Kings
End Credits: High Highs • Viva Voce
I absolutely have to have "Bamboleo" played at my funeral. That would be funny.
"BAM-BO-LAAAAAAAAY-O!"
IF YOUR LIFE WAS A MOVIE, WHAT WOULD THE SOUNDTRACK BE?
So, here's how it works:
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't lie and try to pretend you're cool... and alot of the songs fit with the setting.
Opening Credits:
Waking Up: El Amor De Mi Vida • Warren Zevon
First Day At School: Red Light Fever • Liz Phair (giggle)
Falling In Love: Across The Universe • Rufus Wainright
Fight Song: She's Too Good for Me • Sting
Breaking Up: Anna's Sweater • Two Gallants
Prom: Don't Walk Away • ELO
Life: Love and Peace or Else • U2
Mental Breakdown: The Whole World Lost Its Head • The Go-Go's (I can't make this shit up)
Driving: Some Other Spring • Billie Holiday
Flashback: When the Music Stops • Eminem
Getting back together: Black Is the Color Of My True Love's Hair • Nina Simone
Wedding: Two Little Feet • Karen Savoca
Birth of Child: Rest Of The Day Off • Neil Finn
Final Battle: Entering Deadwood • Michael Brook
Death Scene: Murder, Tonight, In The Trailer Park • Cowboy Junkies (Wow. Now that's weird.)
Funeral Song: Bamboleo • Gipsy Kings
End Credits: High Highs • Viva Voce
I absolutely have to have "Bamboleo" played at my funeral. That would be funny.
"BAM-BO-LAAAAAAAAY-O!"
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