Sisterella
As she stood up in that gazebo holding hands with her soon-to-be husband, it all looked so natural. The strapless white dress was her innocent skin. The veil and the tiara a part of her hair as far back as I could remember. Although the bridesmaids and groomsmen have two, three, or ten inches on the couple in the pictures, that day no two were taller. They fit like they'd always been together at once larger-than-life and tiny perfect puzzle pieces. Smiles shown like sun and stars. My beautiful little sister was growing a family before our eyes and connecting each of us as she did.

The night before at the rehearsal dinner, almost everyone cried, but on this day fewer tears fell. It was quiet, a calm sort, perhaps the sort that only an outdoor wedding not far from the Rockies can have. The earlier rain shower which had elicited some sobs itself, now did seem to bring "good luck" as so many claimed it would. For what better luck than to watch two wonderful kids become one wonderful couple in front of friends and family.

The reception was in the style one would expect of those less accustomed to the grandeur that the ceremony had promised; for ceremonies are about an elegant ideal of love, but receptions are about a crazy little thing called fun. The transition from elegance to fun was a touch rough, but when the crowd finally found its middle-class stride it soared. Through country and R and B that crowd took Backstreets all N'Sync. They swung until they landed right back in the land of elegance, or as close as anyone can get when they take away the whistles. And so,
with all the trappings of a fairy tale, their court cheered as the Mr. and Mrs. kissed and were carried off in a horse drawn carriage.

Wanderlust levels fall to hot pink
It will now take a serious job offer or marriage proposal for me to move immediately.

Hypothetically, how did it go?
Perhaps the expectation level had already risen a tad too high when I returned from her place of employment, flashed my poolside family a thumbs up and then cowered as they erupted in cheers. The whoops were deafening as they bounced off water and tile.

I slept fitfully and no one will ever know if it was because my sister was about to get married or if it was due to the date that may or may not count. Looking back, I'm a little embarrassed that it may have been the latter. A crush that lasted longer than a Metro stop has to be some sort of modern-day record for me. Admittedly, it was probably fueled by the fact that for once I had taken at least some action rather than sitting silently averting my eyes. Or maybe my mule into the Grand Canyon had jarred feeling loose again. Whatever it was, I created a drama that wouldn't unfold, at least not in a night where the eyes were deservedly on my sister and her new husband.

Once seating worked out and the lovely woman was eating dinner beside me, my conversational wizardry was unable to hold her interest for long. I was painfully aware that I was no match for her orthodontist*. When the much anticipated dancing finally arrived, I had already conceded that there was no reason for me to hang around her end of the dance floor and hope like a 7th-grader that maybe we'd dance. I felt a twinge of guilt that soon passed as I managed to find dance partner after dance partner. In a rare move for me, I abandoned "riding the pony" and the infamous "Stayin' Alive Disco manuever" for partner dancing. The moments of silliness were still there and I stepped on more feet than usual, but I had a good time and I have to think that others did too. I rhumba-ed with former neighbors, tango-ed with long lost pals, dipped cousins, do-si-doed Uncles, butt-bounced Aunts, and spun anyone I could, even the beautiful bride.

Lest you think I completely forgot my date, I did squeeze in one, a little swing that made it all worthwhile. Somewhere there while we were spinning to Glenn Miller, I caught that smile- the real genuine fantastic sort of smile that melts yours truly. How did it go? In that instant, with those big brown eyes about to spin away and those fine pearly whites gleaming (my thanks to the orthodonist after all) it went splendidly, thank you.


*That's no metaphor, he was the Maid of Honor's Dad.

Warning: Wanderlust levels very high
I'm about one big reason away from packing up and moving out to Colorado, or other locale with big sky.

Does it count?
Fort Collins, CO- In 2004, I have been challenged to go on a date. It's June. Six months have passed, six months are left. Let's check in.
First, we have to ask, "What is a date?"
Or as my young cousin who I call Tedward would say, "What isn't a date?" He's very helpful that way. A date isn't two friends going to dinner and a party. A date isn't making a dancing buddy while watching a Denver-based band "12 cents for Marvin", no matter what that dancing buddy looks like. That does seem like it's getting closer though, doesn't it?

Here's a hypothetical for you:
Let's just say that two people were going to the same wedding at the end of a week. And let's say that one of them is really cute, gorgeous even, and the other one is me, and all of the good that comes with that. And let's just say that the me one overheard a conversation that involved the gorgeous one trying to decide if she should bring a date to the wedding. And let's say that the me one jumped in and said, "I'll be your date." Moments later the me one realized that perhaps, asking would be a better tactic and amended the previous statement by shouting up the stairs, "K__, will you go to the wedding with me?" And let's say that K__ said, "sure." Then we'll say that my sister chimed in and said, "You can still bring someone if you want." Then after the door was shut the me one might have said sarcastically, "Thanks, alot. As if I don't have enough trouble anyway."

Is it a date, hypothetically of course?

It could be the brewery tour talking
Fort Collins- I went through my old home town of Granby and it brought back a lot of memories. Like the time I walked half a mile to 7-11, just so I could call the stupid phone company and tell them to fix my phone. Or my first visit to the local bar where a 60+ year old local schooled my new friends and I in pool. Or the time my friends stole a golf cart and ended up in prison for Grand Theft Auto. It felt a little like my insides were exploding part of the time. Then again it was nothing like the rampage of this angry Granby resident.

Creepy guy at the mall?
I spent a fair amount of time at the mall this evening. I divided my time between three pursuits: 1. Pants shopping 2. People watching 3. Shake drinking.

1.I am finding it very difficult to find pants that fit at the right price. I am having the same trouble in other areas of my life.

2.I've been noticing heels lately. I don't know if there is an outburst in heel wear, or if I'm suddenly aware of it for different reasons. Are there more summer heels than winter heels? Does ice have anything to do with that? I would like a grant to study heels. I'm not clear what they do exactly. I mean I can see the vertical assistance they provide, but I sense that their appeal goes deeper than that. How much deeper? or how much shallower? I would be interested to compare men's reaction to women in heels vs. women in flats. I'm not sure how I would study this exactly. I then would like to study whether the height of the heel affected perception. This all sounds very foot fetishist, but it isn't.

To prove that I didn't just watch heels, I would also like to mention the middle-schoolers who congregated in front of the bench where I rested. Middle-schoolers are like real people, only smaller and with funny attitudes. Hmm. Amend that to middle-schoolers are like real people, only smaller.

3.Your milkshake might be better than mine, but mine cost 6 bucks. That's highway robbery.

Making up for lost time
I finished Middlesex last night. I slogged through three-fourths of the book, but when I finally hit that last fourth it was great. I can't decide if it was good on its own and I should recommend the last fourth, or if it was good because I battled for so long. All I know is hermaphrodites. I also had a quote from the book I wanted to share, but I can't find it. It was something about men showing their affection by trying to crush women, only it was much better than that.

Imposters
Kate alerted me today of someone carrying on with my name and a mullet. This just won't do. Although, the photo which now decorates the fridge has already received big laughs. Thanks, Kate.

Things that deserve their own posts but have not received them
*My younger sister is getting married next week. It doesn't seem real.
*World War II vets
*Couscous Medley
*The guy that won that Sports Channel Job and went to a familiar university- I've played Ultimate with him. in Texas. without a shirt. Or anything else.
*The price of convenience
*A positive rant. There has to be something...

So this is how it's gonna be
I joined a very low key, come-if-you-want running group at work today. We ran pretty slowly, but having company was really nice. There was one little topic that made me uncomfortable. It's not really their fault, but it went like this.

"So, like, have any of you guys ever run a 4-minute mile?"
At this point we must be churning along at 10 minutes per mile.
We let out a small chorus of nearly scoffed No's.
"Have you been close?"
I kind of mumble, "relatively". I think I was ok with leaving it at that until somebody said "Under 5." I don't know if it was his statement or a question, but I couldn't leave it alone anymore.
"Well, yea, under 5," I said.
"Yea?"
"4:18," I said. I'm proud of the time, don't get me wrong. Those of you that knew me back when, know that's three 100ths slower than I used to say was my best mile time. It's just... I don't know what I'm feeling. And I don't know when it became not ok to be really proud of what I have accomplished.

Look Marathon,
I respect you. I understand that you're 26.2 grueling miles. I used to fear that, but it's not so much the distance I fear anymore. I mean, come on, you let P-diddy and Oprah finish, so given enough time I'm pretty confident that I can finish. It's just that I want to do more than finish. I want to shine. I want people to say, "that was your first? wow."

Here's the thing. The marathon is not a mile. It is not a 5k. I might be able to gut out a marathon, but it won't be pretty that way. So, I've got to plan ahead. I've got to be patient. And, my gosh is that hard. It's what planning a career must be like, or maybe getting married. It's not something that just goes "POOF" (unless you're in Vegas, maybe I should run the Vegas Marathon). I'm not that great at planning ahead or being patient.

So Marathon, if you can help me out a little, keep things interesting, make things fun. I would really appreciate it. That way when I crush you or you crush me, we can still be friends.

Spinning my wheels and shuffling along
Perhaps cross training on the bike was not so wise after the mule ride.

The mule ride?
You know the one.
It descended into the fiery pits of hell.
No. No. NO. Not that mule ride. The one that descended into the Grand Canyon.

Ohhh. Yea. So I've just seen the sun rise over the Grand Canyon. It's pretty neat,though I hear it does that almost every day. It's funny though, when that bright shiny orb becomes fully visible people stop squinting into the sun and start to look around at one another. They don't look directly at each other for fear that they will burn their eyes and go blind, but there is a certain restless wandering of the eyes and body. They, and me for that matter, are starting to wonder exactly when sunRISE ends and becomes just plain sun. It turns out, that's very much a personal decision.

Jack Palance, or his third cousin twice removed, introduces us to the mules and the dangers of the Grand Canyon. "This is not a ride at Disney World" he tells us. 45 minutes of safety dance, er talk, later and he's put the fear in me. One woman nearly backs out. My heart titters a bit, but I steel myself, pump testosterone through my veins, and await my mule assignment.

Randy, the guide, just got out of jail yesterday, Jack's cousin mentions in passing. Randy laughs it off and tells us, "You're going to have a good time if you stick with me. I have a great sense of humor." Sticking with our guide was the gist of the previous 45 minutes; I'll be stickin' I think.

Nora lets me on and we begin our day together. Nora is an ass. Well, not entirely of course, she's also part horse. I spend the first half an hour, taking quick glances at my vast surroundings and long hard stares at my clenched fist on the saddle. Sometimes Nora trips and stumbles a bit. Sometimes Nora thinks the easiest path is also the one that puts my side slightly over the edge of a large precipice. This takes a little getting used to, but eventually I do. I start to look around more. The Grand Canyon is big. I might have guessed from the name. It's really so vast, that I don't think I was ever able to grasp it's size.

We're clomping along when all of the water that I've been drinking from my canteen realizes that in a dry heat, it cannot escape from my pores. So, it wants to escape the other way. It really wants to escape that way. And I'm bouncing along, clomp,clomp, just bouncing and trying to figure out how I'm going to let the water escape. I hate to stop our procession. Maybe I can hold it. Bounce, bounce, bounce. I have to go. BAD. At the next turn, I'll ask our guide to stop. Bounce, bounce, bounce. The next turn, er, the turn after, er, bounce, bounce, bounce. It'll dry quickly if I just let loose. No. That's ridiculous.
"Randy. I need to relieve myself."
"Can you hold it?"
"I've been trying."
"We'll stop up ahead."

This is the most Randy has said. I don't find it funny. When I dismount though, oh man, what a relief. I empty a canteen on the trail. It'll dry soon. I'm serious, I'm pissing like a race horse, or at least a Grand Canyon mule. It's impressive. Not really, but at least I proved that I really had to go. And I proved it to everyone in my group, because I basically just turned and went. Ok, that's enough...

So, there's more canyon and there's more bouncing, but now it's all very vast and beautiful and enjoyable. We get to our stopping point and I tell Randy, "When do I get to hear that sense of humor? It's been pretty subtle so far." I think people who claim they are funny, should have to prove it. Randy makes excuses. Maybe he's having an off day. It turns out, it is his first day back since he got out of jail last week. I'll cut him some slack. I'm sure he kicked the crap out of one of those wimpy park rangers. They're hard on the locals, he tells me. I don't think I offer the necessary sympathy, but he lets it pass. We've come down 3,000 feet. It's 1,400 more to the river. We turn and head back up.

More bouncing, more views. Uphill is easier than down. Or else I've got the hang of this whole thing. It's also like being on a whole different trail. Looking up at the Grand Canyon does not reduce it's Grand effects, but it's different.

My thighs are chafing. The middle of my back is starting to hurt. Nora is starting to drag a bit. I have to use "the motivator" a little more often. The rest of my group is too tired to even use "the motivator". And so they fall farther and farther behind. The view starts to look the same and the whiners start to get louder. I'd like to use "the motivator" on a few of them.

I AM TRYING TO ENJOY A GRAND CANYON EXPERIENCE HERE. PLEASE SHUT YOUR GIANT HOLE SO I CAN ENJOY THIS ONE.

I say nothing. I can understand their pain. It's hot. My back hurts. I'm ready to get off the mule and my ass, but I'm not whining. Geez.

We make it to the top. I say goodbye and thank you to Nora. I graduate as a Master Mule Skinner of the Grand Canyon. It is the greatest honor since the last not great honor I received. I have the certificate to prove it. Better than that, I have an experience. I took a mule part way down the Grand Canyon and I survived. I never could wrap my brain around the size of the G.C., but maybe I'm not supposed to. Maybe that's what makes it a wonder of the world.

Life. Love. Yeah.
This is absolutely beautiful and got my heart pounding. In case you were wondering- there's no way it's me, because I don't know this woman. The thing is, some day for someone it's going to be me. At moments like this, that's just cherry.

At the end of the Spotlights
Unsure of what to do and where to go next, I spotted the universal signal for overhyped event- the dancing spotlights in the sky. I was a moth and the spotlights were, like, um, spotlights...

New Orleans has Bourbon. Austin has Sixth (Texas, because Austin, MN has the SPAM museum). From my limited research it appears that Tempe, AZ has Mill Ave. I fluttered my way through a wide variety of Westerners on Mill. There were middle-schoolers, fully sluttified. There were middle-aged tourists. There were motorcycle enthusiasts and their jealous girlfriends. I saw bicycle cops busting drivers with fortys. I can't confirm it, but I am sure someone must have been cruising. And as to be expected when you line a street with bars, there were 20-somethings. I flew through all of this with only the occasional glance at the bumper crop of plunging necklines and small-of-the-back tatoos. When did the unmarked back become the pleasant surprise?

Drawn to the light, I finally arrived at the source. My pot of gold was another bar. I knew it would be and yet somehow I was disappointed. It had a name like Froggy Frog's or The Beach Bash or something else unmemorable. The music pulsed and the lights flashed. I stood in the courtyard and looked in, wondering what the cover charge would be. Inside hot women gyrated. Don't worry mom, it's a dry heat out there.

I didn't know what to do. What could I do with a pulsing, flashing, gyrating place like that? Feel the same way I feel now, but have paid 10 dollars for it. I thought of the moth and how it circles the light, until it's crashing into it and bouncing off, probably dying before the light even goes out. I didn't want to be the moth. I turned away from the bright lights with one last look at the gyrating and went to get a scoop of ice cream.

Put that in your mobile and smoke it

Dear cell phone (ab)users,

I will grant you two things:
1. Cell phones can be useful in emergencies.
2. Cell phones can be useful for meeting (or not meeting).

Now, I rant.
I am sick and tired of hearing your personal conversations. I don't care what errands you have to run. I know what station we are approaching. I'm terribly sorry that your sister's husband kidnapped his child. I'm even sorrier that I have to hear about it. Please feel free to argue with your boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse/mom/dad in my presence. I don't mind. The more emotional you are the better. It would help me enjoy the soap opera that is Y-O-U even more if you could be physically violent. Pound things, yell, act like we're in your home. It is a small world after all.

I find that when you leave a party, a lunch, or a dinner because you have to answer your phone, it is a reflection on your disinterest in me. It's fair. I'm not that interesting. Neither are you, and you certainly aren't interesting enough for people to need to talk to you RIGHT NOW. They'll leave a message. Get over yourself.

If you decide to make calls in my presence, please have the courtesy to 1. move away from me or 2. let me know you will be placing a call. This way if I start to tell a story I won't be interrupted by the sound of your voice or I won't suddenly drive off the road because you started saying "Hello!" in your professional voice and scared the beejeezus out of me.

If you call me once because you are stuck in traffic and you want to hear my voice or you were thinking of me, it's kind of cute. If you do it often- stop. If you cannot carve out a little time in your busy schedule to talk to me, what you have to say cannot possibly be that important to me. If it is, please write me a letter instead. You keep pens in your car, don't you?

If you are somewhere with people that I love and you just know I would wish I was there; you're probably right. A call, however, from a noisy bar is not the same as being there. It's a lot closer to the opposite. Skip the call and tell me about it later. We can reminisce about those special people and have a moment.

If you are about to lose service, but decide to call me anyway, please realize that when the phone dies I will scream and curse you and you'll have no way to defend yourself.

If I call you and you're really not available to talk, don't pick up the phone. I too can leave a message. Let me give you some possible places where it's ok to let my call go to voicemail. Say you're 1. at a movie. 2. having sex 3. at a movie having sex. 4. At a concert 5. Any other place where you might be unable to hear or talk at this moment. Don't pick it up. Our friendship can survive the extra two hours of not speaking. In fact, if you let it go to voicemail I can pretend you never got the message when you don't call me back. If you talk to me, I'm much harder to ignore.

Cell phones are becoming like cigarettes. If I see one in your hand I feel a little disgusted by you. I know all cell phone users are not bad people, just like all cigarette smokers are not bad people. Second hand cell phone use, like secondhand smoke, is a killer. And when it's not, it's annoying the beejeezus out of me. Keep it up and I'll give you an emergency to call someone about.

Good morning suckers
or I am not on E
Warm and pretty wanes
rising sun
screeching cicadas
The Aliens landed in my backyard.
I remember
walkin' banjos
and talk
more talk
a whirlwind of talk
and then silence
Yellowy green
Salty and sweet
I feel
warm and pretty
tired and close.
My chums,
I think
I love yous.

What have I done?
I don't have Ultimate this weekend. I've "given it up" for Marathon. Is running my lent? How the heck do you spell lint? "Given it up" is in quotes because I am beginning to doubt the wisdom of that decision.

What have I done? I've freed up my Saturdays, so I'll have to plan them better. This one had a little too much lounging and way too much Sex and The City. Tonight, when I go hang out, there is a very good possibility that I won't be exhausted. I'll have to think of new excuses for my social awkwardness. I haven't seen anyone all day. I opened the door once and stuck my head out. What have I done? NOTHING. I don't like it at all. Lucky for me, there's another Saturday coming up next week. Next week I'll do it better.

Just one more, for now
Picture me in a long dark hallway or a cave. You're up close, level with my face and then you pull back and up; it's dark, but you can still see me as you drift away and I scream, "What am I supposed to do with that?"

More questions. Some answers
Why is argyle sexy?
Why is paisely in?
Who's better than Netflix? She is.
Have I been engaged?!? Um. Not that I recall.

Answers not required
Do you ever have moments where your past and future seem to be glued-together velcro slowly being pried apart? Where your heart seems to molt like so many cicadas? Are you afraid that it will only molt once?

Do you ever look back at the pieces of your life and notice the way one thing does seem to lead to another? And that things really are ok? As promised, I remind you.

Does it ever seem like nothing can ever be as good as it was, except for that one thing which will make everything perfect? And aren't you afraid that while you're looking forwards and backwards you'll miss what's perfect right there in front of you? If you stand on the corner and wait until all of the cars from your past have passed and all of the cars of your future have not yet come into view, will you ever cross the street?

And is it just me or is the ticking of the clock getting louder? Are the days getting longer and the ways to waste them, not in the sipping lemonade and reading a book sort of way either, getting more numerous?

Is there a lesson in that?
Mean Girls wasn't very good. Saved! wasn't very good. They both were teen comedies. They both had a moral that boiled down to "Can't we all get along". Mean had Lindsay Lohan. Saved! had Mandy Moore. I no longer like Mandy Moore. I still like Lindsay Lohan. Saved! dealt with teen pregnancy the way most people deal with pimples. Mean dealt with anthropology, sort of.

All of that to tell you that I liked Saved! better. Not because it was good to see the elder Culkin kid working either. Saved! didn't try to be more. It didn't suggest that it had greatness inside, that it could be funnier, more moving, or in anyway better. It was what it was.

Glossing over the teen pregnancy thing did bother me a bit though...

Bright lights, tight pants
I'm so surburban it hurts. We can pretend that I live in the city, one that purports to be edgy and hip, though the Philadelphians may disagree. I don't live in THE city. I live in a suburb. And even if that suburb is hipper and happeninger than anywhere I've ever lived before, it's still SUBurban. The urban areas have night life. The urban areas have people in tight pants mulling. Suburban areas lack the tight pants element even when people mull at all.

That's no excuse. I live close enough that I could get out there and be part of the purported hipness, at least stand on its outskirts instead of just reclining on my couch in the outskirts.

Should I move? Even if I was in the tight pants zone, I'm not sure I would get out. The tight-panted seem to be partaking in some combination of the following: smoking, drinking, conversing. I am not particularly fond of combining those elements. So I would end up in my little city apartment, and if I paid an arm and a leg (more like all of my limbs in this area) perhaps I could poke my head out (since that's all that's left of me anyway) and watch the tight pants and their smoking, drinking, conversing good time. But I wouldn't. Generally, that's not how I have a good time.

So, what's the problem? There are so many women my age out there. And so few in here. I briefly considered converting the house into a speakeasy complete with secret knock, but Spoilsport said they'd only come here to smoke anyway to escape the local ban. So, I'm stuck. I've got nothing to lure the tight pants out of the city and no tight pants of my own (metaphorically speaking).

I'll be sitting in my rocking chair on the front porch if you need me.

The Greatest
In Ultimate, a player may leap from inbounds, grab a flying disc and throw it back into play before he/she hits the ground. If that disc is caught by a teammate the player has completed a "Greatest".

I've never completed a Greatest, but I want to.

Sunday afternoon I had already sweated buckets as I charged back, forth, to, AND fro chasing that 175 gram disc. It was reported from the sidelines that some were questioning whether the guy in the red shirt ever stopped running. I try not to. It's what they pay me for, after all. (They don't pay me.) Hot days are hard on me. The team had been playing well, but we were starting to get tired. I was being covered by a young man they call "Scrapper". A pass went up to our Captain on the home sideline. He snatched it out of the air. While he was turning up field, I faked hard toward him and then propelled myself toward the back corner of the endzone. I had a good two steps on Scrapper. Our captain zipped me one of his trusty lefty backhands. Tired minds and tired muscles can destroy things like trusty lefty backhands. The backhand was going to be reachable, but not before it went out of bounds. I could see the back cone out of the corner of my eye. I planted my foot and leapt out after the disc. As I took off, my calf muscle seized up in a cramp. I grabbed the disc and snapped my wrist to send it flying back into play before I landed on the ground. The disc went up and then trailed away further out of bounds. I watched it flutter away in the wrong direction and then like a baby suddenly realizing that his pacifier is missing, I collapsed to the ground seized by the pain in my calf muscle. The Greatest attempt was now just a pain in my leg.

Everyone is on top of the world, except the miners
Parking garages have somehow managed to become a place of solace for me, and I don't even know what solace is. At night, when everyone has gone home to park in their driveways or use the valets, many a parking garage stands empty or nearly empty. Empty parking garages are almost as lonely as full ones. The wacky thing about parking garages is that they are buildings built up, up, up so that you can park. your. car. Massive structures of steel and concrete and neon are built only to hold our massive steel and plastic vehichles that are made to move. Like so many of us, many garages do their job during the day and sit empty at night.

If I climb to the top of a parking garage I find more than a bunch of parking spaces. I find a new perspective. I can float above the trees and find my home below. If I look carefully through the construction I can see the whole world. I can watch all the little people and the little paths they take. I don't have the patience to linger in the home of so many spaces, but for a moment I can be right when I think, "I'm above this."

This is my fictionalized version of Rob’s version of his recent business trip.


The Rob Show heads south
We join Rob cruising south down I-95 in the left lane. He’s at the wheel of a big white van, gummi worms in his pocket and a handful of Runts in his mouth. Some men his age would not be comfortable at the wheel of a van, but Rob has been driving vans since they dominated the soccer mom scene. When soccer moms left for SUVs, Rob stayed with the van, so he’s no stranger to this mode of family transportation. Instead of a family, today Rob has coworker Shelly riding shotgun. Shelly is the Mary Tyler Moore to Rob’s Lou Grant, except in this sitcom Lou is the title character.

Four lanes, a white van, the rising sun, Rob and Shelly heading south to Raleigh, North Carolina. Four lanes, a white van, a black cat streaking across their path on this morning run to Raleigh. An omen of things to come? Rob and Shelly exchange nervous glances. Rob grabs a handful of gummi worms and mixes them with leftover Runts. He gulps them down, then washes it all down with a nice hit off his 44 oz. Mountain Dew. Ah, mornings. “Nothing to worry about,” he tells Shelly. “Gummi Worm?”

Shelly politely declines and the white van hurtles on. In less than 2 hours they’ll be in Raleigh and ready to join forces with other workers who are setting the stage for the Bike-across-part-of-NC or some other worthy cause. Even Rob isn’t sure what he does, but he does it well and that’s why they send him to places like Altoona, North Carolina.

“I thought we were going to Raleigh,” Shelly says to Rob.

“We were, but the signals got crossed and the event actually starts in Altoona. It’s only 45 more minutes off the highway.”

One lane, gravel road, Shelly and Rob bumping their way to Altoona.

Less than 2 hours turns into less than 5 hours. Eventually the van pulls into Altoona. Rob is famished as he is wont to be. There’s no time for him to eat. The local events coordinator needs his assistance. It should only take an hour. They just need to put up some signs for tomorrow’s Bike Ride for the Children, so the riders know where to go- then Rob can eat, no problem.

Small problem; an hour turns into 3 and by this time its midnight, which means Rob and Shelly have not only endured a hell of a day, but they also seemed to have lost like 6 hours of the day with no explanation. Finally they get the signs up and now all of the bike riders will know exactly where to go during their Ride to Stop War. Rob and Shelly are weak with hunger. They venture into Altoona and after circling both streets repeatedly they realize that there is nowhere to eat. Rob pulls out the last of the gummi worms and they share those while they search for the hotel that will supply their beds for the next few hours. Don’t forget they have to be up for the “Ride to Prevent Scioraisis” by 5 am, because they need to work the registration tents. Rob and Shelly haven’t forgotten. That night Rob sleeps like any loyal husband away from his wife. Shelly will claim she heard tears, but Rob will deny it.

Up at 5 am, the white van heads to the local high school track where they are to set up the tents. One small problem- the sun is not up yet. There’s no light pollution in Altoona. It’s black as that cat they saw on I-95. A crafty events veteran pulls his Chevy Malibu onto the infield and turns on the headlights. Rob leads the troops as they fight to the back of the trucks to remove the tables that have to be set up first.

“Who packed this?” Rob mumbles to himself. Eventually, the registration tents get set up, despite the Mailbu’s tendency to automatically turn off its lights repeatedly. The sun rises and the first of the Bikers to Save the Whales arrives chomping at the bit to start the event.

Rob’s troops have to turn away the early risers.
“The event starts at 7:30,” he calmly explains.

The early risers hem and haw, desperate to start so that they can reach the end sooner and Protect the Forests faster.

Shelly explains the course and the riders head off, just as God turns on the showers. Rain. And lots of it. Bikers, hundreds of them, are getting soaked by the downpour. Rob and Shelly don’t have time to worry. They hop in the white van and head to the first tricky check point. Their responsibility is to make sure that the riders who want to ride 100 miles go to the left and the riders who want to ride 60 miles go to the right.

It takes them 35 minutes of winding through the nonexistent suburbs of Altoona and the pouring rain of North Carolina Spring time before they make it to their check point. Standing drenched in the rain they direct the riders who haven’t already passed. The weary looking get “Go Right. RIGHT!” The speedy, and those with especially attractive calves are directed to the left. The rain pours on.
More than one Southern Gentleman stops to ask if Rob and Shelly need a lift. When they decline, the gentlemen turn gruff and peel away, angry that they don’t get to use their Southern charm and manners to save a few Northern fools standing out in the rain.

Finally, the last of the riders have been set on their course. Back to the white van the two wet coworkers head for that evening’s camp. They wind through North Carolina. Shelly works the maps and Rob coaxes the van to the next town. And through the next town. And through every small town in North Carolina. When they finally arrive, Rob figures they have an hour to rest before the riders pull in. He parks the van and notices a pack of riders coming up the hill. So much for that hour. He then walks to the camp and realizes that pack is the last half of the riders. The big guns have beaten them to the camp.

Dinner would be the ideal task, but instead Rob, Shelly, and the NC crew have to figure out how to cram 400 bikes into a gymnasium that could easily fit 200. Eventually they manage to balance the bikes against walls, against chairs, against lockers, and in locker room showers until all 400 are protected from the elements.

The rain stops.

Rob and Shelly could stay with the riders for a big Spaghetti dinner, but instead choose to take the van to the nearest greasy spoon. After some searching they do manage to get food, but just barely.

They squeeze in to Charlie’s or Fred’s or Derek’s at 10:25. The doors close at 10:30. The host already had his tennis shoes on. The waitress is none to happy to see them.
She no more than hands them the menus then asks, “Do you know what you want?”

Rob wonders where the Southern hospitality is now. The waitress grabs the menus and asks again, “Do you know what you want?”

“Trout” Rob says.

“And to drink?”

“Sam Adams?”

The menus and the waitress leave. Shelly ordered, but she’s not the main character here. Her scene is coming. Relax.

Another waitress comes back with the beers. She slams them on the table, peanut shells scatter and she says gruffly, “That’s last call.” They never see that waitress again.

Rob’s trout arrives. If it wasn’t hot, he would’ve wondered if it had been cooked at all. The head is intact, the fish skin is intact. Looks delicious, he thinks, if you’re a cat.

Rob and Shelly survive dinner and head to a local motel.
They see “No Vacancy” after “No Vacancy”. Finally when they arrive at the Eager Beaver Lodge or Muskrat Love Motel or the Flying Crow Hotel they have found a place with some rooms. While securing their rooms, Rob asks, “What’s going on in town?”

“Why, it’s the Putt-Putt tournament, honey,” the woman behind the desk explains as she points out the window. Rob looks and sees a crowd brandishing their putters up on the hill. No one knows why they were on the hill with clubs in the air at that hour. Somethings just don’t get asked. Other things do.

“You mean mini-golf?”
“Sure. Now, here’s what your room will look like,” she says as she opens a door nearby.

Rob should’ve been tipped off by this strange display, but the room looked normal and he was exhausted.

The kind woman leads them around back to their rooms as she explains that she and her husband had just bought the place and had it cleaned, so everything should be in great shape. She is altogether too pleased with herself, but again Rob is too tired to care.

“Your rooms,” she says as she gestures a bit too majestically for a woman with a hairnet. The woman looks in her hand at the keys and suddenly crosses her arms, handing Shelly what logically would’ve been Rob’s key and handing Rob what had seemed to be Shelly’s.

Odd, very odd, Rob thinks. He soon finds out why-- his room has the unmistakable smell of urine. Shelly says her room is ok.

Sitting out on the sidewalk between the rooms, Rob and Shelly fight off a few bugs and lament the unbelievable weekend they are having.

Rob’s keen eye spots a strange object over by the dumpster. He stands up, walks over, and has a look. A snake!

“Shelly, I think there’s a snake by the dumpster.”

Shelly comes over to confirm the snake’s presence. Neither can confirm whether the snake is still breathing, so they leave it alone by the dumpster and return to the concrete between their rooms. Not 3 minutes go by before several small toads hop up next to Shelly. She stands up in a huff, says, “I’m going to bed,” slams her door and leaves Rob out on the concrete alone.

He soon follows suit, choosing the bed that smells the least like urine and falls into a slightly satisfying slumber.

The next morning comes quickly. The pair head back to the camp to help extract 400 bikes from a gymnasium. The worker bees are up before the riders and they begin removing bikes as fast as they can. Bikes spill out onto the lawn, placed haphazardly wherever there is space.

“Whatever happened to kickstands?” Rob wonders aloud.

The Bikers for United Way wake to find their high-dollar two wheel machines scattered in the grass. They are visibly and verbally upset. “Why didn’t you put them up on trees?” they whine.

Rob looks at the 3 trees within 100 meters. He looks at the hundreds of bikes. He smiles apologetically but says nothing. He didn’t get this far by being a moron.

The riders settle down and head out on their way. Within ten minutes, the rain starts up again.

“You bastard,” they curse at Rob, God, and each other. “If only you hadn’t made us care so much about diabetes and bike riding.”

Wet and weary, the riders carry on. Meanwhile Rob and Shelly realize they have descended even further into the depths of North Carolina. Even if the Carolinas had decent highways, it would take them 7 hours to get home. Realizing this fact, Rob and Shelly manage to sweet-talk the other workers and head out.

“I’m never going on another business trip,” Shelly says as they near home.

Coming Soon
Look for the director’s cut at Candy and Monsters

The hand of fate
won't carry me now. I, and my esteemed Smithmates, will be running in the Marine Corps Marathon come this fall. Dust off the running shoes and put the disc down, because it's about time to get serious. This guy who doesn't plan for the weekend is now looking to create a plan that lasts until Halloween. Holy Commitment Batman!

Misty black and white hued memories
My VCR is on its last legs. It has taken to playing everything in black and white, when it plays at all. Black and white TV always reminds me of black and white TV. When I was just a wee lad, we had a black and white TV in the basement. Day time television posed a challenge for my mother and me. I wanted to watch "Sesame Street" and she wanted to watch "All my Children". Neither of us wanted to watch the other, so we took turns watching our show without color in the basement. I don't remember having a problem with that. I can't remember how the seating arrangement worked down there, but I can imagine that I plopped down on the "Sit 'N Spin" or bounced around on that big yellow ball with a horse head and handles while I watched that big black and white bird and his neighbors. For some reason I also remember grilled cheese sandwiches. They were in color.

Growing Pains
Last week I may have suggested that there hasn't been much growth in the last 10 years. My lack of growth might be an exaggeration. I've learned a trick or two. Why, I can make grocery store brownies without help from my mom. And while 10 years is longer than I've known most of my readership, I'd like to think I've learned a few things since I met you. Maybe not a whole lot, but a little. Sure, there are lots of things the same. Yes, I may not be "growing up"(yesterday's post)as fast as some of you, but I'm not stagnant.

As a friend of mine, I trust that you'll call me out when you think I'm not being true to myself, but by the same token I trust that you won't always see me the same way, that you'll give me a chance to change. I might be slow, but I can be better.

Pants, or the lack thereof
I'm very sad that I missed NO PANTS DAY! I've been known to celebrate in short intervals, but never for a full day. Maybe next year we can celebrate together.

Out wit' da boyz
I've these little homies who just like to chill like ice cold milk. Me and 'bout 9 of them hooked up tonight and did some serious couch cruising. Keep it real, E.L. Fudge.

Fufu
Wasn't there a bunny that went by this name? I had fufu as a side dish for dinner. It was kind of potato-like, but also a lot like mushed- together bread.

Subpar expectations
Expectations seem to be playing far too dominant a role in my everyday experiences. If I expect a movie to be good I hold it to a higher standard. Movies that shouldn't be good end up being pleasant surprises, and movies that should be good end up as crap. This goes beyond movies. Let's look at weekends. Somewhere along the line weekends have become an expectation fest. First thing at work on Monday, everyone is asking "What did you do this weekend?" Isn't part of the joy of some weekends that you didn't do nothing? Or Ultimate. I now expect to catch everything. I make a nice catch and I barely pat myself on the back, but if I drop it- I'm extremely disappointed. It can even taint my enjoyment.

Maybe it's time to expect a little less. How's that for a new motto?

Is there anything left to say?
The finale has been disected, discussed, and destroyed everywhere I look. It's probably all been said, but just in case I thought I'd add:
-I thought the skirt-boot combination that Rachel wore was killer.
-Remind me again why Ross couldn't give up his life and move to Paris?
-I just wanted to cry. Why couldn't you make me cry? Stupid TV and its uselessness as a substitute for real connections and emotions.

I'm awesome. Don't make fun
Ten years ago yesterday I drove to and from piano lessons with my pink learner's permit folded up in my pocket. I didn't "kill" the manual transmission on either trip and I was very proud.

Ten years ago I was just starting to run. I didn't even know what Ultimate was. The previous winter I went on my first ski trip.
Ten years ago I was a debater. My friends stayed over and we played video games. We took standardized tests. We mowed lawns for money. Ten years ago I was in Health class and I hated it, but Ace Ventura was brand new and I loved him. I had a friend called "Tequila Styrofoam" when I was "Chocolate Cellophane." Ten years ago, summer vacation was just around the corner, once I survived finals. I was headed to Science and Math Camp, Iowa, and the Megamall in Minnesota. Ten years ago the world was driving, running, and women in that order. Look how far I've come.

At least I got the driving thing down pretty well.

Work- it's not just for the dimwitted anymore

"I'm thinking of renaming the 'My Documents' folder in your honor, sort of a memorial."

"But, I'm not dead."

"I know. That's why I've named it 'The Big Jar' for now. So when someone asks me for something I can say, 'hold on, let me look in the big jar.'"

Good mooorning Mr. Orkut
Before I block this memory out too, I wanted to mention a question from Orkut that I found particularly insightful.
Orkut sez, "What have you learned from past relationships?"
And I sez, "Don't be an idiot."

Again I lie, since I'm still an idiot.

Thanks Universe
“Tell me a story,” she said. I blanked. Suddenly the only thing that had ever happened in my life was happening right now. I’d never been hit by a chair lift. I’d never lived in a house with so little heat that we lounged in our stocking caps. I’d never pretended to have frostbite, or run away from home, or laughed, or cried, or even been outside this Tex-Mex restaurant. For 25 years, I had worn this Hawaiian shirt and sat in this booth and looked into those sharp confident eyes and seen that bright white smile widen as I searched the empty recesses of my mind. The flower in her hair didn’t know my history. The chips and salsa offerered no help at all. I was caught completely without a story.

The Universe (where time is not linear, I remind you) seized the opportunity to give me a story. I wouldn’t know it for another 20 or 30 minutes, but the Universe had set its many gears in motion. “This poor young man needs a story,” bellowed the Universe, “and we’re just the ones to give it to him.”

Give it to me they did.

As Diana(she’s the "she" of that soon-to-be-fateful request) and I returned to where I had parked my trusty Saturn, I discovered that it was missing. I stared across the street where it had been parked some hours ago.

“My car seems to be missing.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. It’s missing.”
I stared some more. It was not reappearing. It wasn’t hidden by the only other vehichle in the lot.
“This is a very elaborate prank?”
“No.”
More staring. Little to no reappearing.
My mind now began to process some things.
“There’s a BMW dealer down the street, so who would steal a ‘92 Saturn?”
“You’re not kidding.”
“No.”

Closer examination reveals a towing sign with a phone number. I make the necessary call, get the good news that my car was not in fact jacked, only towed. Meanwhile, Diana is going to get her car so we can retrieve mine. She returns on foot and asks, “What kind of mood are you in right now?”

I’ve been towed before. I’ve just been told that the release fee is just under $100. That’s the cheapest fee I’ve ever heard. This is Northern Virginia. The tap water costs just under $100, yea, so I’m calm.
“I’m pretty calm.”

“Then you might think this is funny.”
My mind races (yea, I know, I know, blank when I need a story, but racing now). “Your car is gone?” “No.” “Your car won’t start?” “No.” “You don’t own a car? What?!”

“My keys are locked in the apartment.”

“Now, I’ve got a story.”

Conversation is not an art
It's a war. I thought I was a conversational sniper in that war, but I'm not adept enough to be a sniper. I'd say I'm more of a guerilla soldier. One or more armies are marching along to do battle or are already engaged in battle, when I leap from behind the trees and fire off some shots. Maybe I hit. Maybe I miss. Usually I don't know since I'm scurrying back into the trees to hide out until my next opportunity arises.

My superpower
When I first saw a poster of ScissorFight, which is a cherry band name, I said, "Are they from Nebraska?"

For a day I thought I had discovered my calling. I could look at people and determine what state they were from. Then I found out ScissorFight was from New Hampshire. That wasn't supposed to happen. Maybe if I'd seen the lead singer's beard--it's so totally Manchester. What was I thinking? The bass player's John Deere cap distracted me. The song lyrics "Getting down, up in the country" would've helped too, but then it wouldn't be the same, would it?

'tis true, I'm a liar
Now that Daimon mentions it, I do recall a very brief stint with Friendster that involved signing up and shutting down. "I did not have relations with Friendster."

Daimon does bring to light a bigger issue. In the style of Blair, or that USA Today guy, or Pete Rose, or Mark W. from 5th grade, I'm a liar and a cheat, especially in this venue.

Here are three of the more recent indiscretions:
*Reuben and I missed the Squirtle like 25 times before we were able to knock it from its perch for the third time.

*The Easter Egg Hunt that involved moving furniture, never happened.

*I'm not too frugal to buy my own camera, I'm just not moved to do so.

I'm not sorry. Deal with that. If I can't lie here, I can't tell the truth.

Orkutyerheartout
A friend of mine, we'll call him Adrian because that's his name, invited me to join orkut. Orkut, at first glance appears to be much as I imagined Friendster to be. I never joined Friendster, because no one ever invited me. I assumed this meant I had no "ter" because I still maintain that I had and have friends.

These Friendster/Orkut type places seem to be about networking socially and professionally and longitudinally or something. I am not an avid networker. One, if one was so inclined, might call me borderline miserable at networking. Seemingly, a site which would allow me to network from the safety of my own computer would make for an excellent resource. That is until I realized that Orkut SCARED THE CRAP OUT OF ME. Don't believe me? When I terminated my account (after asking Kristin and Reuben to be my friends, no less) the Ork people had a little exit interview that asked why I terminated my account. My response, and I quote, "This scares the crap out of me." See?

My first question after "Why did this scare the crap out of me?" was, "What's the difference between a blog and a networking site?" I struggled with this question for a little while. Here, you have to come up with some of the answers on your own. I don't just tell you that I'm a decent fellow, it is required that you infer it from my tales and my one liners. (I'm a decent fellow.) I don't think I like being in list format, even for my friends of my friends to see. I'm not comfortable with the picture that presents. If you want a fairly accurate picture of me I suppose you could read all the archives at Do Topia and figure things out, but that requires some effort and again requires your perceptions of me, more than my perceptions of me, though the two can't ever really be truly separate, especially in an environment like this. (Another way to get an accurate picture of me is to mail $19.95 to P.O. Box ... ) Then is it merely volume that gives me privacy? I'm not sure.

What I do know is that networking sites are not for me. I'm more than a list and if I really need to meet a friend of a friend, I hope you'll introduce us.

It's a draw in the Squirtle Shoot Out
When my housemate offered up a giant rubberband, I couldn't fight the urge to shoot something. I pulled the band back and then slowly spun around the kitchen. Everything looked fragile, like a picture frame or extremely resistant to rubberband damage, like a refrigerator. Noticing my desperation, the Sandwich removed the picture frame and replaced it with a Squirtle (it's part turtle and part plush.)

I took aim at the poor Squirtle and fired that rubberband right through his plush skull. When I say through I meant off. The poor Squirtle tumbled off the speaker and fell to his first death. Squirtles may be related to cats, because this one came back for more. The Sandwich and I repeatedly took aim at the Squirtle and we sent a volley of rubberbands in his direction, but after that early hit the Squirtle had gained a certain skill at dodging the rubberband fire. After spinning the Squirtle around with one particularly close shot, the Sandwich was able to again knock the Squirtle from his speaker perch. Still the Squirtle battled back to his position of high ground. It reminded me of the War of 1812, or at least that song on the record my dad had about the War of 1812. You know the one, "We fired our guns and the British kept a coming." Sing it! "We fired once more and they began a-runnin' down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico." Only the Squirtle wasn't going anywhere. And we were missing badly. Then we looked at each other and declared that the next one to decimate the Squirtle would be declared the victor. We took aim together and fired those rubberbands. The Squirtle took my band in the chest and as he was reeling from that one, the Sandwich's band finished him off with a brutal blow to the head. We had defeated the Squirtle together and the carriage house would live to see another day of fighting those with severe disadvantages! (Insert Battle Cry) And Singing! WE FIRED OUR GUNS AND THE BRITISH KEPT A-COMING. WE FIRED ONCE MORE AND THEY BEGAN A-RUNNING, DOWN THE MISSISSIPPI TO THE GULF OF MEXICO.

Make mine Supreme
They're real! They're real! They aren't just in history books or in big white buildings that I can't identify. They aren't just fictional characters checking and balancing with those other branches. They're real, and I heard them on the radio.

Sandra Day O'Connor didn't sound like I thought she would.

This is not a euphemism*
What is it about Beef Stroganoff that causes such a negative reaction? Is it the name? Surely not.

It can't be the taste. Have you ever had a bad batch of Beef Stroganoff? In the spectrum of Stroganoff you can go from Mom's Stroganoff to Cafeteria Stroganoff in the blink of an eye. People just don't F up Stroganoff. I mean you've got your noodles and your beef and some magical gravy -not a liquid not a solid- substance and VOILA (that's French for "Ta Da" which is actually magician for "Whoomp. There it is" which is rapper for "BOOM" which is John Madden for... I've run out of synonyms) you have Beef Stroganoff and it's as tasty as tasty can be.

Yet, everyone I meet cringes at Stroganoff. Do people have bad Beef Stroganoff memories or are they just confusing it with something like mystery meat?

*This post has been edited from earlier versions because the poor Stroganoff humor was a distraction from the real message.
The real message, as a reminder is: "Why don't people like Beef Stroganoff?"

I'm a 25 year-old curmudgeon
*I holler at cell phones. I want to talk back when I overhear questions.

*I spit when I see Hummers, and snarl at other SUVs.

*I grumble about my impatience and the impatience of my generation.

*I am becoming increasingly convinced that "Big Brother" will be watching in no time. My own hypocrisy as a blogger at this concern is laughable.

*I have the sense that the more "we" improve the more "we" screw things up. I throw out fast food as my current prime example.

*Darn you meddling kids. I would've gotten away with it, too.

Mosquito
"I am a Mosquito and you are a Bug Zapper," I told her. She loved it. I knew she would. She likes to be bright and attractive and she chooses not to focus on her more devastating qualities.

And like a mosquito I am drawn to the Bug Zapper. I find the constant hum and glow to be soothing. I circle her broadening energy field losing focus as I am overcome by her brightness. I circle ever closer both lulled by the hum and thrilled by the light she emits. Intoxicated by my luck at finding something so spectacular I choose to land, to try and stay near the bug zapper. Then ZZZAP! ZAP! Z!


Nothing is as simple as a metaphor makes it.

Do all good people pass through the Midwest?
I don't know what it is about Midwesterners, or people that went to school in the Midwest, but I find that I like a lot of them. I would be remiss if I said I hadn't found others I liked, but after meeting 9 more good people from that locale, I have to wonder what it is that causes the 20-something crowd so much difficulty in finding good (good=compatible, interested in friendship, sharing some sense of basic morality, etc.) people after they leave the college set. Either post-college experiences kill off good people (and I know too many good people for that to be true), or the good people are in hiding. So, good people come out and play. I know you have your routines and your jobs and your lives to contend with, but it seems like a charming person like you would want to share with the world.

I'll be out there waiting for you. I'll be holding a disc in case you decide not to show, or in case you'd like to throw.

Yes, I'm still a freshman
or Do you think this will work?

You're hot. I'm sweaty. Should we get together?

In the box
I'm starting to feel confined by this little blogger box. It reminds me of my cubicle the way sometimes it seems to stifle my creativity and distract me by imposing these unnecessary boundaries.

Poetry and gravity
The difference between throwing and catching a disc and throwing and catching a baseball seems like it would be pretty subtle. It's throwing and catching, right? The disc floats and it's like poetry to watch. The baseball, due partially to my ineptitude and primarily to the forces of gravity, plummets to the ground. There's poetry there, but it's not my kind.

Fantasyland
I mentioned earlier, which you'll probably read later, that I went to the Josh Ritter concert last night. I don't completely understand concerts, especially encores. If everybody knows you're coming back, why leave?
My favorite nonmusical part of the concert was watching the women (HEY. LET ME FINISH!) fall in love, or confirm their love for Josh. When he first took the stage and started to sing, and then later whenever he closed his eyes tightly and moved his lips close to the mic, a far off look would start in her eyes and slowly descend through her whole body like she was being transported to a far off place, probably one with happy endings.

Cooking with bachelors
This house churns out brownies like we're having a bake sale. I actually have a little brownie following at work. I've got brownie groupies asking, "When are you bringing in brownies again?" Relax, people. It's a mix. It costs $2.00.

Blame it on the train
It occurs to me that the reason I feel so horrible on my commute home is because I'm surrounded by negative energy. It then takes 2/3 of my walk to shake all that junk off.

Going places that aren't here
While Josh Ritter made me want to move out West. (He's got a song called Lawrence, KS; it's even better live I found out last night. The song that is, not Lawrence.) I'm still pretty happy giving sad excuses for tours and taking bad pictures at home. Clare'll show you, because I'm also too frugal to buy my own camera.

Thanks, Clare.

It looks like I'm an Administrative Professional
and all the glory that goes with it.

It looks like I'm a runner again
and all the crap that goes with it.

and vice versa

The dangers of spring
More squirrels? Nay.

I fell in love 5 times today.

Her rich brown eyes look right past my morning glance. A
plunging neckline to lift the midday spirits.
Some witty self-effacing prose.
A brand new flick, a study in backhand grips,
and drums. I didn't even know drums could be sexy.

She's too old and she's too young.
She's too unapproachable and she's too engaged.
She's too unknown.

I never fell in love today.
I carried myself away
on the breeze of spring,
and then dashed my own hopes
against the rocks of fear.

No Delaware for Clare
I had intended to introduce Clare to Delaware this weekend, but it was not to be. Diana proved to be too great an adversary. I was willing to overlook our late start, my broken down jalopy, and even Clare's now surfacing doubts, but when Diana threw out that Clare had never been to D.C. before, I caved.

So, while there was no Delaware, I got to spend a splendid afternoon with two lovely ladies hitting the tourist spots. I hadn't spent that much time with Clare since our trip to the Columbia carnival. We almost died in the teacup ride there, but thankfully we survived. I hadn't spent that much time with Diana ever. It could have something to do with the fact that I was scared of her in college. I am happy to report that I now have one less fear.

Today may have been a loss (albeit temporary one) for Delaware, but I'd say it was another victory for blogs and their communication power. 2.5 cheers for blogs! Hip, Hip, Hooray! Hip, Hip Hooray! Hip Hip

The dance of death
Sometimes in the hallways there is an awkward moment when two people want to take the same path. They'll shift left as I shift right. I'll shift right as they shift left. Then we stop and smile and say, "Pleasure dancing with you," or something equally banal as one of us nods the other past.

Today I did that same dance with a squirrel. Only I was a giant hurtling along at speeds of up to 45 mph and the poor squirrel was pissing his squirrel pants in fear. It was not a pleasure dancing with the squirrel. I hope the squirrel is now dancing with all the lady squirrels in squirrel heaven. Sorry, squirrel.

Dude. Who was that?
I chuckled when Randy shed his email identity. How can you be attached to an address? Silly man.

Who is laughing now? With the lease on my AOL account up it isn't me. At first I felt like I was sending a little piece of me off to the electric chair. It'd be gone forever. No one would write. No one would call. (I realize that my email address does not affect Carriage House call volume, but I have noticed that when no one writes, she also calls.) I was that unpronounceable string of letters followed by @aol.com for almost 8 years. In 8 years I've grown. a. beard. And some other stuff and my online identity was there the whole time. Was I an extension of it or it an extension of me? (I have this same trouble with hobbies. I'm working on it.)

I did it though. I created a new identity, more powerful and more pronounceable than the last. I emailed everyone I knew, half of their addresses were no longer valid, meaning I know half the people I thought...

Already I have seen astounding results. Neighbors from freshman year of college are stopping in to say hello. My father has mocked me. It's all quite telling really. It tells me what I used to do before I was blogging (a big concern of mine last week). I was emailing individuals.

Which means in 8 years I've become increasingly distant... You're lucky I shared any of that...

Geez, you're nosey.

In the garden of fireworks
There are these white flowering trees at my Metro stop that were in bloom last week. I think they are done now and they are shedding everywhere. It looks like someone has raided a fireworks store and used "Snaps" all up and down the sidewalks. Wouldn't it be fantastic if Snaps grew on trees? Think of the madness when the Snaps fell off the trees. At first you'd hear little clicks every now and then, but when things really got cooking there would be Snaps going off at all hours of the day and night. Then again for those who choose to make their living by farming the Snaps tree, a Snaps harvest would probably be quite a chore. You'd either have to pick them off one at a time or you'd have to shake the tree and let them fall into some sort of giant soft sack. What a pain. That's why if I were living off the fat of the fireworks farm, I would stick to the bottle rocket harvest. You can rip those suckers right out of the ground and they're easy to take care of. Bumper crop, I tell you.

My Fortune cookies
"The start of an October Marathon begins on the couch in April"

"Love is easily attained, especially when renamed Lust"

"Everything does not remind you of her. She reminds you of everything."

"Your past and your future are always on a collision course."

"The cleaner the toilet, the cleaner the conscience."

"Your next decision is the first of many."

"A watch that tells no time is merely a bracelet."

"A great hat is not one which covers, but one which uncovers."

"Do not let activity define you, instead define activity."

"Do not let go of all the old ways, for without them there could be no new ways."

"Slow down while you speed up. You'll get there in time."

Oh, George
I just caught the tale end of Mr. President and his Q&A. I'm no political thinker. I don't have any insights to offer. I just know that whenever W speaks, my heart and head fill with dread. I can offer you no more than my gut reaction to the "leader of the free world". Dread.

After dinner sense
Before dinner I am baffled and furious by my lack of physical prowess, my unbelievable stupidity, the worthlessness of my very existence, and the horror that is junk mail.

After dinner, not so much.

The ring of self-esteem
I imagine you like me, or pretend to like me, for one of these 5 reasons.
1.You like that I'll tell you the truth if you ask, at least some truth. What is truth anyway?
2. I'm usually up for it, if it's cheap and legal or should be cheap and legal.
3. Like any retired circus monkey, I'm amusing to have around.
4. I'm here. You can't seem to lose me. It's not that you haven't tried.
5. Some other reason that isn't reason one through five.
6. Except that now five includes itself, creating this unending loop of reasons why you like me. Aw. That's sweet.

The greatest banjo player in the world
For a second there I was Bill Monroe, or Earl Flatt, or Lester Scruggs (actually that's Earl Scruggs or Lester Flatt, but then you knew that) or one of those other famous banjo players that nobody has heard of. For a second, it felt like I wasn't faking it, like I wasn't in a Matchbox 20 video. I was the greatest banjo player in the world and with no one listening no one could disagree. Then the second passed. Even if I never get back to it again, even if I am unable to ascend to the dizzying heights of banjo superiority, to climb that metaphorical mountain and raise my banjo at the pinnacle, I'll know, and now you'll know, that for one second I was the greatest.

And now I'm past my prime. Curses.

What Easter Monday means to me.
What am I? From North Carolina?
Go roll an egg.

What Easter means to me
I dropped a piece of egg-shaped candy behind the couch. I rifled through the games and blankets below the couch, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. I moved the couch out away from the wall and poked through everything again. I tossed the couch cushions aside, but nothing. I gave up, put everything back where it belonged, and then noticed the little candy sitting under the end table.
“Jesus Christ,” I said.

Weather report
The winds of change are blowing. At the moment it's just breezy and swirling.
Expect minimal precipitation, low barometric pressure, and a general cooling until right before the storm hits.
Stay tuned.

Postal report
Black jelly beans and Russell Stovers eggs have just arrived by Express Bunny. The kicker is the miniature rubber chicken. It smells funny, but it cracks me up.

Art news
The first attempt at framing my dirty laundry has resulted in an off-center effort. Further attempts to follow.

In politics
Since no one is here to stop me, I have elected myself Grand Master of Ice Cream and All Things Sweet. No one can usurp my power, except perhaps the ADA.

In sports
Mall walkers have taken to the streets because they like Spring.

Local news
The recycling and trash are on the curb. Rest easy citizens.

Lost in Transition
I lost a coworker today. Well, she's not lost because for two more weeks she'll be in the same cubicle and after that she'll be on some other floor in the building. So, lost may be a bit strong, but lost she is. It's too bad to. After 9 months in neighboring cubicles we've developed a pretty good understanding of one another. She pretends to listen when I begin my 2 o'clock rants about whatever might be on my mind at that moment- the department use of exclamation points, my favorite quote, the cell phone ringing on the other side of the cube wall; she has mastered the art of listening just enough to justify my words without actually having to respond. Probably quite like the way you feel right now.

And me, I've developed an understanding of her facial expressions. That's angry. Oh and that one is pissed off. That one is ticked. That's upset, wait, no, homicidal. So it's good for her that she's getting a new job. It's sad for the department though. And it's sad for me. Despite our apparent lack of anything other than being twenty-somethings in our first office job in common, we have shared lunch together for the better part of those 9 months. You might remember her from the good night punch. Once I knew where I stood, things got much better and much less emotional. We bonded as our cubicles were invaded by the "CRISIS" that always exists. And somewhere along the line I think maybe we became friends. I'm not sure what will happen when she's not on the other side of my bay window. And that's ok.

There's a quote that I've been searching my brain for that applies here. It's something about walking along with people. I'm pretty sure the quote was on the column outside the girls' restroom in FARC. (It was co-ed and the restrooms were by the lounge, so please don't get any additional funny ideas about where I spent my time in college.) The gist of the quote was that some people are around for most of your journey and others for only a small portion, but we gain a little something with each encounter. And of that, I have no doubt. Cheers to her.

Blogging about blogs and fear
Modpodge is shutting down. Temporary wisdom is already gone. Just like Therapy and Candy and Monsters haven't posted in so long I'm near giving up. Is the blog fad coming to an end? Scary. Especially considering no one was able to remind me what I did before blogs.

Scarier though is the thought of attending the DC area "blogorama". It's a get together of DC bloggers on Thursday at the Rendezvous Lounge, 7 pm. Meet people? Formerly faceless people whose thoughts I might've read? I'm not sure I'm ready for that. It's not the meeting that I mind, it's the talking after the meeting.

Remind me again
What did I do before blogs?
The fast is broken while I check a few blogs to see who updated after I hit the hay. I'm chompin' at the bit waiting for my PBJ when I stop to check a few more to see who updated while I was busy working. Slackers.
Soup's on for din-din, but I'm making the full rounds wondering who updated since lunch? or since March 4th if you're a particularly under-achieving blog friend of mine.

I'll throw in some comments throughout the day if it seems worth it. I'll try to think of a post for myself and my loyal readers. Check some blogs to see if I missed anything. Post. Call it a night. Drink some whiskey.* Curl up with my little pillow mashed down on the top of my head and try to sleep. Get up and check a couple more blogs in case anyone posted while I was tossing and turning. Back to bed. Dream about blogs in another language-like Canadian. Wake up. Repeat.

*All the facts contained in this blog have not been checked. And sometimes the author has a tendency to embellish, like the time he said that water was whiskey. That dirty rotten liar.

I just can't do it
I either want to write about how being scrappy applies to all my life or I want to write about Hellboy being a piss-poor romantic comedy and a slightly below average movie-going experience. Or maybe I want to write about Lost in Translation currently vying to knock Swingers off the top of my favorite movies list. Instead I'm going to type a bunch of letters as fast as I can and then go to bed akf;hasfjidsajg;sfgklsajdghs;lkfjg;asjf;dsklf

Like guns
It's not that cell phones are inherently bad, (unless they cause cancer, but forget that for a moment) it's that some people just shouldn't have regular access to them.

It's not that I'm afraid
There are a few things that have given me pause lately.

1. It's a little intimidating knowing that Kristin's mom is reading this thing while on vacation. What if I let her down? What if I turn her vacation sour? What if she is using this as a cure for insomnia and I accidentally slip something entertaining in? Then what? I know. I KNOW!

2. It's a little intimidating knowing that at least 3 professional copy editors and numerous (like at least 6) other real smart folk read this thing.

3. It's a little awkward when a coworker announces her pregnancy and everyone has to feign full-fledged joy, when what they really feel is that mix of joy and dread.

4. It's a little awkward when a coworker mentions that your sense of humor is not so broad today, but seems shocked when you agree.

5. A disgusting weekend of Ultimate is still better than a disgusting ball of pus and mucus.

Tale of a failed metaphor
They tore down a house at the end of my street except for two walls. One of those walls has a door and a window. It's not difficult to picture a couch and a TV in what could have been the living room. Look through the house and the whole world is right outside the door and the window. Walk around. Look inside the house and the whole world is right there in the living room.
There's a metaphor there and it's just struggling to get out.

We interrupt this struggle to say, "Watch Wonderfalls." We now return you to your regularly scheduled struggle.

Is the whole world inside the house? outside the house? What does it all mean?

The simple pleasures
Cherry blossoms- yer perdy.
Reflecting pool- yer empty.
Stew- yer tasty.
Clutch- yer loud.
Smile- yer welcome.

Cheers
For every friend's email address, we'll give you...
If you could just put your name and address here...
To win, we'll just need your phone number...

They all want my statistics. My age. My name. My occupation. My place of residence. They want it for their databases, for their credit cards, for their demographics. Usually I feed them. Have my name and email address so I can win a trip to New Zealand. Take my phone number and salary range so I can have get a trial subscription. Here's my address, now let me use your slot machines. They've all got it now. They can trade me like baseball cards, though some of them swear they won't. And mostly what I get in return is a chance, a hope...and more marketing asking me for more personal information. Are they trying to build a robot of me?

More often than not, I'm tired of it. It's not worth it anymore. Can't they just share with each other? I don't have the energy to fill out the little boxes. Free isn't free, 20 dollars isn't 20 dollars.

I had a 20 dollar Gap gift certificate, a gift from my mother, a Gap card holder. The certificate was in my hand and so were some designer skivvies, when I realized that I was going to have to fill out an application for a Gap card. With my new Gap card I could get 15% off and I could use the "$20" in my hand. I picked up an application and internally I sighed, the exasperated sigh brought on by marketing efforts. I asked the woman in front of me if she would be using her Gap card today. She eyed me suspiciously and said, "no. I don't want a Gap card."

"I don't either," I told her as she turned away trying to avoid whatever sales pitch I didn't have. I asked the woman in front of her the same question and she just glared at me. So I gave up, returned the skivvies, and left the Gap.

I was heading toward a mall exit when I realized that this "free money" was going to end up in a landfill. Surely someone could use $20 at the Gap, but for the life of me I couldn't think of anyone else who had a Gap card. I turned on my heels and marched back to the Gap. The smartly dressed young man (are there any other kind at the Gap?) at the counter beckoned me forward with a flip of his hand. I walked up and pulled out my certificate and handed it to him.

"I don't have a Gap card," I explained as he got that frightened look that accompanies the fear of both not knowing the answer and not knowing how the customer is going to react. "I don't really want a Gap card," I continued. He turned the certificate over and slightly shrugged his shoulders ready to say something sing-songy along the lines of "We're sorry. This offer is only for card holders, blah blah, blah, blah."

"So if you could just give it to the next person who uses their Gap card? Can you do that for me?"

"Sure," he said, quite unsure.

After I left, I imagine the two cashiers looked at each other and said, "Who was that?"

At least they'll never know.

Long live ZANY
I don't travel that much with Ultimate teams anymore, having settled down to this adult film...er... just adult lifestyle. I would travel, but I can get Ultimate once a week (or 5 times a week) right here, just a magical Metro ride away. So I see the same people a lot. There are so many of them that it may not really look like the same people, but in terms of Ultimate they are same. This city has made them so. I am thankful for the heartiness and the volume of Ultimate here, but where OH WHERE are the characters?

It's been a long time since I've seen anyone's bits and pieces, kilt on or kiltless. I can't even remember the last Roshambo or Bear-Ninja-Cowboy (rock-paper-scissors games used in making decisions). There was a time in my life that I assumed all major decisions were made by Roshambo. Steak n' Shake or Wendy's? Bed or Floor? To be or not to be? 1-2-3-scissors... When was the last Ultimate game where someone offered me a grab box filled with surprises in return for the right to pull? Or where my team exchanged an Afro pick for the highly-coveted pink parachute man? I don't know either.

It's the conservatives. They don't sing. They don't do limericks or haikus or even more than a handshake. They're taking over the hippy sport and the hippies are just letting them. It's like they don't even care. They won't even fight to save the game. The hippies won't fight!

It's a travel issue. The community has too much inbreeding. Where are the Canadians, with their Spirit-of-the-Game ideals? Where are the Peters with their, um, well peters flapping in the wind? Where are the Mikeys laying out and cracking jokes(on ESPN as it turns out)? The Arts with the man bringing them down? The Marks with capes for every occasion? The Houli's doing what Houlis do? The Lybrads growing to 10x their original size? Where are the Richards living the Tequila and nudity mantra? The Footes monster hucks? The Scaduto parking lot pasta nights? Or how about Joey's famous new throw? And all the rest?

Yes. It's a travel issue. A time travel issue. If I must admit it, I would say those things I'm missing were leaving even as I was. Ultimate is changing before our eyes, (fine. My eyes. But it's not my fault that you're not watching). It's getting more competitive, more organized, and more mainstream. It's a great game, some might argue the Ultimate game, but it's a game rooted in wackiness.

There's a special place in my heart for wackiness. Time travel or no, it would be a tragedy to let the wackiness go out. If you're headed to a Fool's Fest this weekend, do me a favor. Put your wacky foot forward. These are our roots. And to let them fade away would make us fools.

Bowling for Giants
All those faux-muscle types who go bowling and use the eight-pound ball so they can spin the heck out of it, should head to Maryland for some Duckpin bowling. Three pound balls with five-inch diameters can be spun like heck at the short stocky pins. Duckpin bowling is 101 years old and was born just up the street in Baltimore. It was said that when the pins were knocked down they looked just like a flock of ducks. I prefer to think that the balls were so small that angry bowling patrons starting throwing them at one another and screaming "DUCK!"
That would've been fun until someone got hurt.

Duckpin bowling, like its more traditional parental unit is frustrating. I found that it hurt me in different ways- more in the forearm rather than the wrist. Duckpin has the late Saturday night Cosmic effect that now comes with every bowling alley. Exactly when did everything become better with loud music, flashing lights and fog? The 1970's if I had to wager a guess.

Duckpin bowling, as you may have guessed, is not the sport of champions, but man you can spin the heck out of that little ball.

How hot am I?
Wait. Don't answer that.

Yesterday I had not one, but two, rather unusual but entirely mundane exchanges with the opposite sex. One involved trying to make change for a dollar and the other involved a wave. Is spring bringing out this friendliness? Does the safari hat serve to negate the otherwise intimidating look the beard and buzz seems to create? Or is my hotness and charm oozing from my every pore?

Wait. Don't answer that either, because I'll tell you. At 74 degrees, hotness and charm are oozing from my every pore and just for today we're going to call them perspiration.

Oh, you said Death Metal
I do not have an electric guitar, but tonight I would like one. It's hard to be angry with a banjo. You cannot jam your frustrations away. You can pick some sad songs (and when I play them I bring a whole new dimension of sad), but you cannot ROCK. And if you can't rock, how can you rebel? How can you roll? How can you take your day and wad it up into a little ball and then blow it the #$@% out the speakers while you scream at the top of your lungs "DIE DIE DIE YOU FILTHY THURSDAY."

You can't.

Talk about mean
I know Mean Girls is old news, but as a later early screener, I feel the need to spread my version of the "buzz". I offer my opinions with a distinct feeling that "I can't win". This movie isn't aimed at me, but here I go anyway.

I like Lindsay Lohan. This isn't some dirty old man crush, it's just that I like her. I liked her in Parent Trap, I liked her in Freaky Friday. She plays well on the screen.

I like Tina Fey. This might be a dirty young man crush, but I have to get some credit because at least part of this crush is cerebral, right?

I like the rest of the supporting cast- the janitor from Scrubs, the high schoolers, etc. etc.

I'm glad the movie was free. It wasn't the cast, obviously. The movie just didn't have enough laughs to be funny. It was still too Hollywood to sell its moral. So, I felt like I ended up very much in high school. The immediate conclusion is that I must have been traumitized by H.S. I don't think I was. It wasn't my own pain I was feeling in the theater. It was the pain of friends and acquaintances. And it seemed all too real. It made me feel awkward and uncomfortable.

Perhaps, I've been reading too much Bitch magazine, but the way women (girls) treated each other in the movie was horrible. (That was the point, I know.) And the way they tied things up in a pretty bow at the end wasn't deep enough to satisfy me. It was sweet, but if a filmmaker is going to put a real message out there, then why not sell it all the way? Because it won't sell all the way like that. Which makes me sad, too.

But Dave, it's Mean Girls with Lindsay Lohan for crying out loud, what did you expect? Exactly. I expected a sappy high school/teen comedy. I'm saying give me the teen comedy, with a superficial "Let's all be friends" message or give me a movie with a real message of "Look at how we treat women", but if you give me both, I'm not going to be happy.

This may be Bitch talking again, but I thought feminism was tougher than that.

I may have a new hero

Check out this "Indie Rocker" in the Washington Post. I've never heard his work, but his life sounds copasetic.

It's one of those annoying logins, I recommend you lie to them, nay encourage you to lie to them. I apologize to marketers, but enough is enough. Be like me. I'm a CEO who does mostly administrative work. I think I also make truckloads of money, never read the Post, have more than 4 children, and live in Granby, CO. And that's just one of my identities.

Free haircuts are priceless
Whenever I cut my hair, I think about my grandpa. It’s probably because we have the same haircut, his a leftover buzz cut from WWII, mine a lazy buzz reaction to balding and high priced hair cutteries.

Today my hair past the comfortable buzz length into that silly stage. Grandpa’s used to do the same thing. I remember his big smile under that funny German nose, little patches of hair sticking up, accentuated by the hair that wasn’t there.

When I was quite a bit younger, one of our favorite games was “Trap me, Grandpa.” He’d sit in his La-Z-boy pretending to read, or just smiling mischeviously, and I’d crawl up to the edge of his chair with a sly grin of my own. I’d stare at him while he pretended to be interested in the newspaper and then suddenly SNAP his legs would close around me and I’d be trapped. I’d struggle to break free, grabbing at his shoes or his ankles until he released his grip just slightly. I’d see my opening and break for it, when SNAP his legs would come back together and we’d go through the whole struggle again. As soon as I did manage to get free, or looking back, probably as soon as he let me get free, I’d crawl back to the edge of the chair with that sly grin and say, “Trap me”.

Sometimes he would, but other times he’d just say “Settle down”, or he’d make me go wash up for dinner. Grandpa and the bathroom we washed up in always smelled like a combination of three things: lawn mowers, Lava soap, and Listerine. Once I bought some black soap just to play a trick on him. He came in from working on the lawn mowers ready to wash up for lunch and my grandma said, “Try this new soap we got you,” with a wink in my direction. He took that black soap, the kind that turns your hands black, and he lathered away. He lathered and rinsed and lathered some more, but he didn’t notice the blackness a bit. His hands were already so covered in grease that even black soap was a step in the right direction. He probably would’ve washed all afternoon if we hadn’t told him the joke. It wasn’t much of a joke anyway. I can’t remember if he laughed, but I bet he smiled. He did that a lot.

I remember getting up early in the morning when I stayed over and he’d be drinking his coffee halfway through a crossword puzzle. He’d smile as he offered me breakfast and the sports section of the paper. It didn’t matter if I could read or not, he’d still offer.

He was a big baseball fan, and a Royals fan. He’s the reason I can never truly hate baseball even after the strikes, the steroids, the scandals break my heart, I’ll never forget my grandpa and the Royals. I’m sure I’d heard that he had played semi-pro, but all I really understood was that he loved the game and he knew it better than anyone in my world. When we’d go to the Royals games, he’d buy a scorecard and we’d keep score. He always knew what was going to happen next and as far as I can remember he was always right.

I played baseball for a little while and he was my biggest fan. I bet it saddened him when I tossed aside the mitt after just a few years. He never complained though. And he cheered just as hard when I ran in Cross Country meets.

At his funeral, that first week after my freshman year of college, a recorded trumpet played “Take me out to the ballgame”. It was as beautiful as it was sad. Those that spoke at his funeral said wonderful admirable things about this man and his life, about his spirtuality and his personality, and about baseball. So much of it I never knew. The bits that I did get- the smells, and the smiles, the baseball and the love; those things are with me forever.

You can’t get that with a $20 haircut.

Cursed block
I chase her through the lines.
She winks and blinks and
eludes.
The more I chase, the farther
she goes.
With no return,
she doesn't leave.
She doesn't enter
From beginning to end
she pauses and ponders,
always escaping
Down
Down
Down
she goes,
when she'll rest my mind knows, but on and on she seems to go to the end of the line then below.
The winking
The blinking
Eluding my strokes.
I chase her
like the crafty cursor
she invokes.

He's a man, baby
I do manly things. I (tried to) work on my bikes to get them suitable for riding. I dive around and fiercely compete for a (flat)ball. I burp out loud, (once and a while.) I don't put down the seat (all the time). I stare at women. I have been known to drink from the container (only to finish it). I walk around my house with my shirt off. I don't iron well, if at all. I eat SPAM. My hands aren't soft.

Now you're thinking, you didn't bring me here to list the "sort of" manly things you do. I'd like to point out that I didn't bring you here at all. You came of your own free will.

Then I'd admit, that you were right. I bought silk flowers today. I'm having a little trouble coping. I didn't set out to buy silk flowers. I was in search of elastic for my duct tape skirt. So you can see how the dramatic turn to silk flowers could embarrass me.

On a bookshelf in the carriage house we have a vase. It's a pale marbley vase. It's very nice. That vase has been empty since we moved in. I was at a certain arts and crafts store in search of elastic and they had tons of silk flowers. A good friend of mine had mentioned that we could put silk flowers in the vase when I mentioned that once and a while I considered buying flowers from the florist to put in the vase. I scoffed, a manly scoff at her suggestion. Tons of flowers, and I was starting to look at them because there was no elastic. No elastic?! I know; but tons of fake flowers. I didn't want anything too bright and springy, because it isn't my vase and its owner has certain tastes. Bright and springy, those tastes are not. I found some pale silk hydrangeas or something and I was feeling pretty good about it. I knew it wasn't enough. So I searched a little longer until I found a nice sprig?, twig?, something maroon and spiky to compliment it. And I bought them knowing they would look good in the vase.

When I got home, bruised and scratched from a manly game of Ultimate, I revealed the flowers to my unsuspecting roommate. Up to this point I was confident in my silk flower buying decision. It would be a nice decorative touch to put some silk flowers in that vase. I folded up the stems and placed the flowers in the vase. And they looked good. I dare say even "real good." And that's when I started to be embarrassed.

My room may smell like man, but outside my door there are silk flowers in a vase and I know they look real good.

In a few days I'll get over my embarrassment and it's quite likely that I'll do it without any tears. Because I'm a man, baby. Just barely.

Even I don't want to do what I want to do
There are times when I complain, "Nobody wants to do what I want to do." While that might be true, I'm afraid that there are just as many times when I'm perfectly happy that nobody does want to do what I want to do. Somehow my ideas seem to collapse under their own weight. I'm struggling with why the source of an idea or a plan seems to have almost as much effect on me as the actual plan. I know I'm not alone in this. I've seen parties planned and then cancelled due to exigent circumstances that were neither exigent nor circumstances. I myself have responded to the same idea in exactly opposite ways.

An example: Person A says, "let's go paint pottery. Wouldn't that be fun?" I say, "no".

One week passes and Person B says, "let's go paint pottery for so and so's birthday." I say, "Ok. That sounds like fun."

Person A is understandably baffled by this behavior. So am I.