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Wednesday, March 31, 2004

I Thought I Was Getting Old Before, But Now I Know I'm Old

Well, I did it. I had my hair dyed like this. I love that hair. I love those colors. I love being different from the rest of the crowd. So, why am I freaking out about the change? I mean he liked it enough to have it for longer than any other hairstyle he's ever had. He even had it again in the late 1990's.

Part of the whole freaking-out business has to do with the husband, who has yet to see it, and who told me he wouldn't like it. Well, that's never stopped me before, in any relationship. I don't know, maybe 'cause I actually love this guy, but . . . damn, I still gotta be me (or not me as the case may be), don't I? I told him that when he started wearing his hair the way I want him to (he doesn't), I will wear mind the way he wants me to. I mean, fair's fair, right?

I used to have my hair this color years ago. Actually, I used to have my hair bright pink years ago, too. This is the first time I've ever done anything like this for the fun of it and sat and thought, "Oh, my, it's drastic. What will people think?" I HATE that. I should not be thinking that. I'm too young. I'm too much of a free spirit. I'm just too non-conformist to be thinking like that.

The only thing that gives me any type of peace about this issue is the fact that I know if I lived in NYC or Philly, or even Asheville for God's sake, I wouldn't be worried at all. I think my surroundings are wearing me down. Next thing you know, I'll be selling Mary Kay and reading Southern Living. If you love me, you'll shoot me if you see that shit happen. I've gotta get out of this place, I suppose. If it's the last thing I ever do. (Sorry, couldn't resist.)

Monday, March 29, 2004

The Thief Of Flowers

This is one of the best foreign films I've seen in a long time . . . no, wait. It just sounds like the title of some Italian or Spanish film. I'm actually talking about myself, ages 4 - 6.

See, when I was a child there were no children to speak of in my neighborhood. Eric didn't move in until I was 8, so I spent an awful lot of time by myself. This was when it was still safe to let your children roam all about the town alone and have no worry about what might happen to them. So, I wandered everywhere.

When I was walking the dogs tonight I noticed that it's one of my favorite times of the year, the time when virtually every yard has flowers of some sort or another blooming in sprays of color through the still-brown grass. I love flowers, especially the kind that smell good, and I always have. Seeing all of the blooms this evening, I was reminded that I used to be a thief, albeit a tiny one.

See, I was never one of those kids who stole candy or comic books or whatever. I was a very worrisome, nervous child. Okay, neurotic. I was neurotic, and I couldn't stand the thought of stealing something and then getting caught. It's funny how I didn't worry about having any guilt or anything, just the fear of getting caught.

One time when I was 16 and in Europe, where very teenager was getting a 'five-finger discount', I stole a trial-size, fluorescent-purple lipstick from a department store in Austria. I got so paranoid that I ran back and hid on the bus for the next hour until it was time to go. I was definitely not a teenage shoplifter. But when I was very young, like I mentioned, and I had the whole town to roam around in, I would steal flowers out of people's yards and take them home for my mother (awh).

The first time I picked some flowers out of a yard other than my own, the owner came out and said, "Hey! Don't pick those flowers!" So, I had to get slightly sneakier in my approach. Everyday after school I sent myself on a different 'stealth mission' to recover the coveted blossoms. I would hide behind bushes, sheds, what have you, until the moment came when I could snatch a bud with relative ease and safety. I would sometimes even crawl on my belly, like the snake I was.

My mom loved all the flowers I brought home. As she loves flowers almost as much as I do, she didn't let her mind think about where I might have gotten them; that is, until the day I brought home about a dozen long-stemmed tulips and about 6 hyacinths, which also brought a phone call from a neighbor who had seem me in another neighbor's yard picking his entire flowerbed's cache.

As all good things do, my career as a flower thief was cut short. However, I have been known to walk the dogs at night when the wysteria is in bloom just to snag some from the family's yard down the street. Oh, and this other neighbor literally has about 30 hyancinths blooming right now. I mean, who needs 30? Surely she won't miss one or two, now will she?

Saturday, March 27, 2004

Believe It Or Not, But There Was Once Someone Even Cooler Than Your's Truly

On a road trip today to watch the niece play field hockey, the husband and I were listening to the Ramones, 'Wart Hog' to be more specific. Let me just say that the Ramones aren't brilliant composers but, gosh, they can be fun. At first, I was excited because I haven't listened to this tape in years, and that song was always a favorite. But slowly, this strange feeling overcame me, a feeling of jealousy, actually, which is a feeling I hate and don't allow myself to have very often. I soon realized where this emotion was coming from.

When I was 18, there was a punk club in King Of Prussia, PA that was really something to behold on Saturday nights. People would actually drive up from Philly to come to this particular club sometimes, even though there were plenty o' punk clubs in Philly. The crowd was 85% male, spiked in every way possible, and very, very sweaty.

I would arrive in my dad's WWII Army Air Corps waist-length jacket, black leggings with skulls and crossbones printed on them purchased at Zipperhead on South Street in Philly and, of course, my Doc Martin's. My hair was dyed red, and I do mean RED, and gel-ed into a porcupine-like mass of spikes. I thought I was the punk-girl bomb.

But there was one other that was cooler than I. She had cooler clothes, cooler hair, a much cooler boyfriend, and -- this is the worst part -- when the guys would beat each other senseless during a thrash number, she was the only girl that was allowed to stay in the circle of violence. I mean, it seems stupid now, like most jealousies after years have gone by, but I actually wanted those guys to allow me to get the crap beaten out of me; I wanted to put up a good fight, maybe throw a contusion-inducing slam or two of my own and hobble out bloodied, but happy, with a huge smile across my face. But, no. Only she was allowed that luxury, dammit. Some women have all the luck.


Bonus: Less than 6 months ago, I made a prediction (see the 17th) that has come to pass. Yeah, I know why they're saying it happened, but we all know the truth, don't we?

Friday, March 26, 2004

Okay, I'm Back Again

Wow, my readers are loyal. They actually worry about me when I don't blog for a while. Okay, my one reader sent me an email this morning wondering where the hell I'd been. But, hey, at least he's loyal.

Wait a minute -- perhaps we stumbled upon the answer for all of those senior citizens living alone in this world -- they need to blog. See, if they haven't blogged in a while, then DSS or whomever would go and check up on them. The seniors in that position would probably just be glad to stop getting the crappy food from Meals On Wheels anyway, which is really just a way to check in on those folks anyhow.

Okay, this is the story of my week or so since I got back from the trip: I got some kind of nasty stomach virus from the husband and his mother. At least it's great to know that mothers-in-law are good for something other than telling stories about having night after night of insomnia due to the violence in The Passion. Then said virus became a chest/head kind of thing. Then I had the one of the worst euphemisms-for-menstruation* ever.

On top of all of the physical crap, I had to work four days this week. Okay, stop laughing. It may not seem like a lot to you, but when you have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and you aren't used to working four days in a row, it nearly kills you. Plus, I was, like, working at strange offices in Mooresville and shit. Needless to say, I was exhausted and didn't feel like blogging, AT ALL.

But now I'm back, and my one loyal reader is oh-so-glad, not because of the writing, per se, but because he'll no longer have to wonder whether or not I'm dead.

*From the June 21, 2001 Onion:

Top Euphemisms For Menstruation

1. Ridin' the cotton pony
2. Checking into the Red Roof Inn
3. Kate Bush-ing
4. Falling to the Communists
5. A visit from Cap'n Bloodsnatch
6. Walking along the beach in soft focus
7. "Red Skelton dropped by"
8. Gettin' down with the O.B.
9. "It's 'that time of the month' where 'I'm not at my best' because 'my vagina is bleeding'"

Thursday, March 18, 2004

Cultural Confusion

On the return flight from Manchester, I was sitting next to a British man who is moving to the US shortly. His wife, who is a textile chemist, discovered a way to weave a new material that can withstand direct flames for four whole hours, so they are working with our government, as the British government isn't interested, if you can believe that.

We (he, mainly) talked a lot of the 6 hour trip back home. At one point, we were discussing how awful USAir is, and they are. They suck. They treat you as if they are doing you a favor by being on board the plane, not like you might have actually paid to be there or something.

Anyway, I was telling him about my last overseas flight and how awful it was. When the dinner cart came around, the airline offered a choice of chicken or something else that I can't remember right now. I asked the attendant what kind of chicken it was -- it could have be baked, broiled, fried, fricasseed, a la king, stewed, whatever. Her answer was, "It's got sauce on it."

Wanting just a little more elaboration, I dared venture, "What kind of sauce?"

Her answer was, "Red." Okay, well, that still really doesn't tell me anything. I mean, was it tomato sauce, bar-b-que sauce, curry sauce? Her answer was, "I don't know. It's red." This conversation, while leaving me completely dumbfounded at the time, eventually made me laugh because it's so ridiculous.

After I gave this example, one of many we were dishing back and forth, the British guy said, simply, "Oh, my. Please don't embarrass me when they bring the cart around." Ihoped he was joking but, alas, he was not. I think he missed the point. I mean, are Americans just so used to eating the worst crap in the world that they don't even want to know what kind of chicken it is that they've paid for and now will have to eat? Probably.

But even stranger than that was the Brit who would just be too embarrassed to ask to begin with. I guess I really am an American. If I paid for something, there would be no way in hell I'd be too embarrassed to ask exactly what I'm getting.

Wednesday, March 17, 2004

I'm Back, You Wanking Bastards! (Don't Give Me That -- You Know Who You Are)

I just flew in from England, and boy, are my arms tired. No, it's not the lame joke you think it is -- my arms are tired from performing the semaphore version of Wuthering Heights on the moors. One can only signal 'Heathcliff' so many times before one's triceps cramp. See, it was whole different lame joke than what you thought, Smartypants.

Ah, The Motherland. Ah, the rain. Ah, the language that bears a slight resemblance to our own. Ah, England. Ah, and Wales, too, whose language bears almost no resemblance to our own, really.

You know I'm going to be blogging about the trip for days, so just get used to it right now. If you get tired and want to leave, that's okay, too, 'cause you've already registered a hit, and you know how much I like those.

This particular blog is The Best Of, so get ready.

The Best of My Trip to England and Wales

The Best Thing I Realized While Waiting For My Flight To Manchester was how friggin' cute English children are with Cockney accents. There were are bunch of English kids waiting in Philly for the flight, but only two had actual Cockney accents. The last time I heard kids speak Cockney was the time I was forced to watch Oliver! This was much, much better.

The Best Dressed Man I saw was on the flight home from Manchester. He was Japanese, 40-ish, about 6' tall, wearing Ralph Lauren western wear, horn rims, and a very over-the-top, red silk ascot. He was eccentric, to say the least. I just knew he'd be sitting in first class.

The Best Thing About The Scenery in Derbyshire was the fact that the countryside, villages and moors look exactly as one would expect them to look -- beyond quaint. It was truly beautiful.

The Best Food was at Jill and Jood's house. We had lots of yummy raw dishes prepared lovingly by hand each and every day.

The Best Reason To Murder Someone On A Plane has to be a woman's endless fascination with the fold-down table in front of her, attached to the rear of my seat. In 6 hours, she must have put that thing up and down ... oh, say ... FIVE HUNDRED TIMES. She was over the age of 60, so killing her when she has so little time left to annoy people just didn't seem the correct thing to do. Instead, I perfected my 'Evil Stare of Annoyance" through the back of my seat. She ignored me every time. She was English; she was loud; she was probably mentally challenged. At the very least she had ADD. Isn't it amazing that in one way or another we all revert back to childhood in our Golden Years?


The Best Hike had to have been the six-miler through the Goyt Valley. Breathtaking.

The Best Purchase I Made is a toss-up between a very British, very mod shirt I got for Aaron from a vintage clothing store in Manchester, with orange and blue stripes, or Bowie's Low CD from a small bookstore in Bakewell from a man who acted and looked like he partied with Keith Moon in the '70s.

The Best Story I Overheard came from an Irish bloke who looks like he might have been the result of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. He was talking about his own battle with the drink. (Imagine an almost unintelligible Irish Brogue right about now.)

"Oh, a few years ago, I was completely drunk, and I came home and sat in the kitchen, just trying to collect my thoughts. My wife came in, and out of the blue she stabbed me with a fork!
"Well, a few days later (?!!!?) I asked her why she did such a thing. She said, 'Because I couldn't find a knife!' "

Sunday, March 07, 2004

Bone Voyagie

I'm off to the land of the Eng's for a short visit. I'll be back next Wednesday, the 17th. Be good until then, kids.

Saturday, March 06, 2004

The Wedding Shower

believe it or not, I hosted a wedding shower today. I know I've blogged about how much I usually can't stand girly-girl parties, but this was fantastic, mainly because most of the guests were Southern African-American. We all had a blast. Lots of food, friends, laughs and love to be shared by all.

And, of course, the watermelon-flavored, edible, gummi whip for those fun little S & M moments on the honeymoon came from the most demure looking woman in the room. One definitely cannot judge a book by its cover.

Friday, March 05, 2004

I May Look Like A 25 -- I Mean, 35-Year-Old Woman On The Outside, But At Heart I'm Still A 12-Year-Old Boy

Someone on our block has purchased a rooster, a rooster that crows constantly. This rooster gives me an opportunity to say the word 'cock' many, many times a day, and it's amazing how much fun it can be. I mean, I could go around and just say the word 'cock' as much as I want on any given day -- well, not really because I need to keep my job, but you know what I mean -- because I'm an adult, and adults can say words like that as often as they feel like it.

This rooster, though, gives me a reason to say the word and mean the nasty word, but it sounds like I'm talking about the bird, not the body part, as in: "My that thing is loud. It must be a huge cock." or "Every girl needs to wake up to a big cock in the morning." or "It's about time someone moved to my block with a big cock." or "It's nice to wake up to the sound of a cock rising early in the morning" or ... you get my drift. Then, I just giggle like a young boy who's said something naughty.

I can't wait for Aaron's parents to come over.

Wednesday, March 03, 2004

Bandwagon

I am not one who typically jumps onto bandwagons, per se, unless it's a particularly good band or they're giving away free food or something, but I am whole-heartedly jumping onto the Netflix bandwagon.

Netflix is the greatest thing, let me tell you. All the movies on DVD you want for a flat fee of $20 a month, and there are no late fees because you can keep each movie as long as you want. We're bad about the late fees. We spend $20 a month on late fees alone, I'm sure. You can have up to three movies out at a time, but your list of what you want to rent next can be up to 500 movies long, of which they have a great selection, including TV series, like The Young Ones and the Sopranos. They ship them in a timely manner, and it costs me nothing to ship them back. They are sent with a return envelope. I really should do a commercial for these people.

Here are some of the movies I've watched lately: Last Temptation of Christ (for the second time), Blood Simple, In the Bedroom, Dodsworth, The Cockettes (not porn, I swear), American Splendor, My Man Godfrey (For the 102 time), My Brother's Keeper, You Can't Take It With You (I gotta have a Capra film once in a while), Unzipped, and I have a whole lot more on the way. God, some new-fangled inventions are awesome.

Monday, March 01, 2004

A Big Thank You From Way Down Here In This Hole

Thanks and more thanks to the first person to donate to 'The Fund.'

You will be rewarded with many untold blessings in every area of your life. Okay, maybe not, but I hope so. And it sounds good, anyway.

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