Although we were not allowed to wear costumes to school on Halloween, the annual Lynnhurst Community Center Halloween party took place immediately after school. Year after year I competed in the costume contest, each time convinced that THIS! THIS would be the year I would take home the big prize.
(Last year's Tom the Cat might have sucked rocks, but Wonder Woman will be my ticket to victory!)
Again and again, I came home empty handed. Around the fifth grade, another contestant was kind enough to enlighten me to the fact that the vinyl, pre-made costumes that came in a box with a plastic mask were never going to win the costume contest.
Mom worked full time and had four kids. Home-made costumes were not an option.
Of course, the prospect of a pillow case full of candy—candy that was all for ME and that I would not have to share with any of my three younger sisters—generally made me forget my disappointment in short order. In addition to which, Halloween was an extra-special day, because it was one of the few days each year when my father would bring out his old friend Herkimer.
Herkimer, you see, is the human skull my Dad keeps in his closet. To this day, on Halloween, Herkimer enjoys a place of honor in the front window of our house, flanked by candles, for all the trick-or-treaters to see.
Dad acquired Herkimer while he was working as a medical salesman. The name is actually not quite right, since, according to Dad, Herkimer was female when she was alive. The skull still has the logo of the company my Dad worked for stamped on the side of her, er, head. Where she came from before that, I don’t know. I don’t really want to know.
She has all of her teeth, her jaw is hinged with springs so that it can open and close (we thought it was hilarious when Dad would make Herkimer "talk"), and tiny hooks on either side of the skull unlatch so that the top comes right off, revealing the cavity where Herkimer’s brain used to be. Fascinating.
I felt like a real celebrity on the handful of occasions when Dad allowed me to bring Herkimer to school for show-and-tell.
Yeah. I said show-and-tell.
Can you imagine the dinner conversation at my classmates’ houses on those nights? "EverydaySuperGoddess brought a skull to school today. She said her dad keeps it in his closet."
It's a wonder I had any friends at all.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Friday, October 28, 2005
Mirror, Mirror, On The Wall…
Who is the Phairest of them all?
Why, that would be the original Average Everyday Sane Psycho Supergoddess, of course, the human supernova, the pit bull in a basement, the one and only exile from Guyville, Liz Phair, whom I saw at Minneapolis’s famed First Avenue last night. (And no, there was no funk shrieking.)
I am humbled by her coolness. I covet her lyrical gifts. She makes me wish I had blown off college and become a rock star. And I would give my left eyeball to look that good in a miniskirt.
Which brings me to this week’s Friday haiku:
If I were taller
I could have seen what shoes she
was wearing onstage.
Why, that would be the original Average Everyday Sane Psycho Supergoddess, of course, the human supernova, the pit bull in a basement, the one and only exile from Guyville, Liz Phair, whom I saw at Minneapolis’s famed First Avenue last night. (And no, there was no funk shrieking.)
I am humbled by her coolness. I covet her lyrical gifts. She makes me wish I had blown off college and become a rock star. And I would give my left eyeball to look that good in a miniskirt.
Which brings me to this week’s Friday haiku:
If I were taller
I could have seen what shoes she
was wearing onstage.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Well, Well, Well.
The party’s over. The Sox won it all. I can be a grownup and offer them congratulations, even if I’m screaming on the inside.
I experienced a severe moral dilemma during this series. For months, I have been pulling for whatever team was playing against Chicago. One after another, first the Twins, then Cleveland, then Boston, and finally the Angels, they all failed me. So, until Tuesday night, in spite of my suspicions regarding anything that comes out of Texas, I was totally rooting for the Astros…
...until I saw George and Barbara Bush in the stands in Houston. I spent the rest of Tuesday night’s game trying to decide who I hold more animosity in my heart toward—the White Sox or the Republicans. In the end, I decided that, as much as I loathe the Sox, I cannot root for any team that the Bush family is behind. So there you go. Go Sox. I very much underestimated you, and I’m a big enough Goddess to admit it. (Bleh.)
In addition to which, watching the Astros put men on base with no outs, and then squander every opportunity to score… well, that was all too familiar a heartbreak, as any Twins fan will tell you. (Double bleh.)
Appropriately, My Ho and I watched the last out together, just as we watched the first pitch of the 2005 season together. I couldn’t help feeling a little sad, partly because it’s going to be another long winter before pitchers and catchers report to spring training again, and partly because watching My Ho keep score during games used to be very exciting for me. But then Fox showed Barbara Bush marking her scorecard during the game last night, and that pretty much ruined that.
Damn Republicans.
I experienced a severe moral dilemma during this series. For months, I have been pulling for whatever team was playing against Chicago. One after another, first the Twins, then Cleveland, then Boston, and finally the Angels, they all failed me. So, until Tuesday night, in spite of my suspicions regarding anything that comes out of Texas, I was totally rooting for the Astros…
...until I saw George and Barbara Bush in the stands in Houston. I spent the rest of Tuesday night’s game trying to decide who I hold more animosity in my heart toward—the White Sox or the Republicans. In the end, I decided that, as much as I loathe the Sox, I cannot root for any team that the Bush family is behind. So there you go. Go Sox. I very much underestimated you, and I’m a big enough Goddess to admit it. (Bleh.)
In addition to which, watching the Astros put men on base with no outs, and then squander every opportunity to score… well, that was all too familiar a heartbreak, as any Twins fan will tell you. (Double bleh.)
Appropriately, My Ho and I watched the last out together, just as we watched the first pitch of the 2005 season together. I couldn’t help feeling a little sad, partly because it’s going to be another long winter before pitchers and catchers report to spring training again, and partly because watching My Ho keep score during games used to be very exciting for me. But then Fox showed Barbara Bush marking her scorecard during the game last night, and that pretty much ruined that.
Damn Republicans.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
I’ve Done My Time In Fast Food Hell
The Arby’s restaurant where I worked during my high school and college years is now a great big greasy hole in the ground. It was recently demolished to make way for some kind of development in the business district of one of the first-ring Minneapolis suburbs.
I worked part-time at that restaurant for five years all together. I can still tell you how many ounces of “meat” went on a regular size roast beef sandwich, and I could probably still build a chicken club sandwich with my eyes closed. Sometimes I have nightmares that I still work there, and usually, in those nightmares, I’m pissed.
My current place of employment is the corporate headquarters of one of the larger fast food chains (which will remain nameless… don’t wanna get Dooced). The corporate office building has a training restaurant where new restaurant managers come to learn the ropes. Corporate employees are sometimes invited to help out in exchange for free food, and when they got around to asking if I would be interested, I declined politely. On the inside I was thinking, it’ll be a COLD DAY IN HELL before I start serving up French fries again.
A lot of life-changing shit went down during my fast food tenure. I met my ex during the breakfast shift at Arby’s. He was the cook, and grilled up croissant sandwiches while I stayed in the back and assembled the day’s salads. We didn’t start dating until a few years later, long after he quit working there. But even so, a word of advice to all you unattached gals: Don’t marry a guy you met in a fast food restaurant. Trust me on this one.
I had moved up from salad girl to night manager when my mom’s brother was diagnosed with cancer. I was working the night he died, and a few days later, I couldn’t go to the wake because nobody would cover my shift that night. Mom still hasn’t forgiven me for that one.
Then my relationship with my mother was strained to the breaking point by my out-of-wedlock, still-in-college and most-definitely-unplanned pregnancy. Long months of spectacularly fun drama ensued, much of which went down, you guessed it, at Arby’s. Allow me to amend my advice for you gals: Don’t accidentally get pregnant by and then marry a guy you met in a fast food restaurant. Seriously.
Shortly after Demigoddess the Elder was born, I took a job with a magazine publisher—a job with a desk and a computer and not one single heat lamp or meat slicer anywhere—and my days of peddling fast food were over. Well, mostly.
I guess I still do peddle fast food indirectly, but at least I don’t come home from work smelling like “roast beef” any more.
Last week, when I saw that big ‘ole hole where the Arby’s used to be, it seemed like I should feel sad, or pensive, or something. But in reality, it was more like the way I felt after cleaning out all the closets in my house during the year after my divorce. Something more like unfettered. Unencumbered.
Released.
I worked part-time at that restaurant for five years all together. I can still tell you how many ounces of “meat” went on a regular size roast beef sandwich, and I could probably still build a chicken club sandwich with my eyes closed. Sometimes I have nightmares that I still work there, and usually, in those nightmares, I’m pissed.
My current place of employment is the corporate headquarters of one of the larger fast food chains (which will remain nameless… don’t wanna get Dooced). The corporate office building has a training restaurant where new restaurant managers come to learn the ropes. Corporate employees are sometimes invited to help out in exchange for free food, and when they got around to asking if I would be interested, I declined politely. On the inside I was thinking, it’ll be a COLD DAY IN HELL before I start serving up French fries again.
A lot of life-changing shit went down during my fast food tenure. I met my ex during the breakfast shift at Arby’s. He was the cook, and grilled up croissant sandwiches while I stayed in the back and assembled the day’s salads. We didn’t start dating until a few years later, long after he quit working there. But even so, a word of advice to all you unattached gals: Don’t marry a guy you met in a fast food restaurant. Trust me on this one.
I had moved up from salad girl to night manager when my mom’s brother was diagnosed with cancer. I was working the night he died, and a few days later, I couldn’t go to the wake because nobody would cover my shift that night. Mom still hasn’t forgiven me for that one.
Then my relationship with my mother was strained to the breaking point by my out-of-wedlock, still-in-college and most-definitely-unplanned pregnancy. Long months of spectacularly fun drama ensued, much of which went down, you guessed it, at Arby’s. Allow me to amend my advice for you gals: Don’t accidentally get pregnant by and then marry a guy you met in a fast food restaurant. Seriously.
Shortly after Demigoddess the Elder was born, I took a job with a magazine publisher—a job with a desk and a computer and not one single heat lamp or meat slicer anywhere—and my days of peddling fast food were over. Well, mostly.
I guess I still do peddle fast food indirectly, but at least I don’t come home from work smelling like “roast beef” any more.
Last week, when I saw that big ‘ole hole where the Arby’s used to be, it seemed like I should feel sad, or pensive, or something. But in reality, it was more like the way I felt after cleaning out all the closets in my house during the year after my divorce. Something more like unfettered. Unencumbered.
Released.
Monday, October 24, 2005
They're Baaaaaaaack
My Weekend of Debauchery Inventory:
Rated R Movies, Seen In Theaters, 4. All four contained the “F” word at least once. Three had frontal nudity.
Red Wine, Bottles Consumed, 1.5. With help from sister Meghan.
Restaurant (With Menus and Table Service) Meals Eaten, 3. Two were healthy. One involved bacon and hot fudge.
Indian Take Out Meals Eaten, 1. Also with help from sister Meghan.
Afternoon Naps, 1.
12-Step Meetings Attended, 1.
New Shoes, Pairs Tried On, 20 (Approximately).
New Shoes, Pairs Purchased, 0 (Exactly).
Computer Games, Time Spent Playing, 1.5 Hours.
The Fact That the Damnable White Sox are Playing in the Freaking World Series and That is Just Freaking WRONG, Time Spent Lamenting, 30 minutes. Maybe 45.
Public Displays of Affection Participated In, Many.
Laughs with Various Friends and Family Members, Too Numerous to Count.
I never did get around to the cleaning, but I think, all in all, it was a good weekend.
Rated R Movies, Seen In Theaters, 4. All four contained the “F” word at least once. Three had frontal nudity.
Red Wine, Bottles Consumed, 1.5. With help from sister Meghan.
Restaurant (With Menus and Table Service) Meals Eaten, 3. Two were healthy. One involved bacon and hot fudge.
Indian Take Out Meals Eaten, 1. Also with help from sister Meghan.
Afternoon Naps, 1.
12-Step Meetings Attended, 1.
New Shoes, Pairs Tried On, 20 (Approximately).
New Shoes, Pairs Purchased, 0 (Exactly).
Computer Games, Time Spent Playing, 1.5 Hours.
The Fact That the Damnable White Sox are Playing in the Freaking World Series and That is Just Freaking WRONG, Time Spent Lamenting, 30 minutes. Maybe 45.
Public Displays of Affection Participated In, Many.
Laughs with Various Friends and Family Members, Too Numerous to Count.
I never did get around to the cleaning, but I think, all in all, it was a good weekend.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
My Ass is Killing Me
There is a pretty little lake a couple of miles from where I work, and I often walk around it over my lunch hour. It’s ringed by lots of cottonwood, oak, and maple trees, which are now in full fall color, and there is a charming little waterfall at one end of the lake. I almost always see several woolly caterpillars creeping along the path, ducks and geese bobbing near the shoreline, and today there was even some kind of a white heron or crane or something. Whatever it was, it was darn pretty.
A sign on the walking path says it’s two miles around this little lake, and it usually takes me about thirty minutes to walk the whole thing.
Most days.
Today I got back to my car, all energized and grateful for a sunny day, for brilliantly colored trees, for the crisp smell of autumn and the simple pleasure of crunching through fallen leaves. My good cheer quickly faded, however, as I realized that somewhere along the way I had dropped my car key.
It was not in the parking lot or anywhere near the car.
So, my choices were to a) give up and walk the two miles back to work, and then figure out a way to get the spare set of car keys from home, or b) walk around the lake again and hope I would find the lost key.
Pride has led to many a downfall, it’s true. Hoping in vain to avoid involving anyone else in my predicament, I walked all the damn way around that damn lake a second time.
Of course, I did not find the key.
So then I hoofed my sorry ass, which was good and draggin' by this point, another couple of miles back to work, making my nice little two-mile lunch hour walk into something more like six miles and two hours.
My Ho was kind enough not to laugh when I called him. He will be bringing my spare keys later.
I am SO not doing Pilates tonight.
A sign on the walking path says it’s two miles around this little lake, and it usually takes me about thirty minutes to walk the whole thing.
Most days.
Today I got back to my car, all energized and grateful for a sunny day, for brilliantly colored trees, for the crisp smell of autumn and the simple pleasure of crunching through fallen leaves. My good cheer quickly faded, however, as I realized that somewhere along the way I had dropped my car key.
It was not in the parking lot or anywhere near the car.
So, my choices were to a) give up and walk the two miles back to work, and then figure out a way to get the spare set of car keys from home, or b) walk around the lake again and hope I would find the lost key.
Pride has led to many a downfall, it’s true. Hoping in vain to avoid involving anyone else in my predicament, I walked all the damn way around that damn lake a second time.
Of course, I did not find the key.
So then I hoofed my sorry ass, which was good and draggin' by this point, another couple of miles back to work, making my nice little two-mile lunch hour walk into something more like six miles and two hours.
My Ho was kind enough not to laugh when I called him. He will be bringing my spare keys later.
I am SO not doing Pilates tonight.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Please Excuse the Exclamation Points, I’m Understandably a Little Wound Up
The children are going to Chicago! The children are going to Chicago!!
My lovely and generous and kind ex-mother-in-law is taking the Demigoddesses to Chicago tonight. The Demis have a long weekend off from school, so they will be visiting their uncle and aunt who live in Chicago until Sunday morning.
Did you catch that? I said SUNDAY MORNING!!
I have tonight, all day tomorrow, all day Friday and all day Saturday to do WHATEVER I WANT!
I can watch rated R DVDs! I can spend hours and hours reading! I can drink alcohol! I can have the whole couch! And the remote! And eat all the popcorn, all by myself! I can watch Sex and the City with the volume turned up REALLY LOUD! I can spend three days in bed! I can have a leisurely stroll through Target, and not buy anything for anyone but ME!!! I may even start smoking, just for the weekend, because—WHATEVER I WANT!!
I am taking a vacation day on Friday, to maximize the basking in my complete and total lack of responsibility.
But first, I am going to clean my house, so that I can be responsibility-free AND have three consecutive days of cleanliness!
WOO!! HOOO!!!
My lovely and generous and kind ex-mother-in-law is taking the Demigoddesses to Chicago tonight. The Demis have a long weekend off from school, so they will be visiting their uncle and aunt who live in Chicago until Sunday morning.
Did you catch that? I said SUNDAY MORNING!!
I have tonight, all day tomorrow, all day Friday and all day Saturday to do WHATEVER I WANT!
I can watch rated R DVDs! I can spend hours and hours reading! I can drink alcohol! I can have the whole couch! And the remote! And eat all the popcorn, all by myself! I can watch Sex and the City with the volume turned up REALLY LOUD! I can spend three days in bed! I can have a leisurely stroll through Target, and not buy anything for anyone but ME!!! I may even start smoking, just for the weekend, because—WHATEVER I WANT!!
I am taking a vacation day on Friday, to maximize the basking in my complete and total lack of responsibility.
But first, I am going to clean my house, so that I can be responsibility-free AND have three consecutive days of cleanliness!
WOO!! HOOO!!!
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Confessions of a Junkie
I’ve heard recovering alcoholics say that one of the manifestations of their disease is that they are constantly, obsessively aware of alcohol. They know the locations of every bar and liquor store in town, and can tell you which ones are the closest to any given point in the city. At parties, they notice who is drinking, what they’re drinking, and how much. And what really drives them crazy is when they see a person slooooowly nurse a drink, and then set it down half-finished… and forget about it. Even alcoholics who have been sober for a number of years cannot understand how it is possible for a person to do that.
I am not an alcoholic. I sincerely believe that there aspects of addiction that one can never understand without having been there firsthand. But I have found that I have a very similar obsessive awareness when it comes to food.
Whenever I leave the house to run an errand, I often find running through my mind an inventory of the restaurants or drive-through windows or bakeries that are on the way to or from that particular destination. It just happens. I had a food junkie recovery of sorts a few years ago, and so I don’t actually stop at them very often any more, but still, it happens.
One time, in the early days of that food junkie recovery, I went to heat up my carefully planned, calories-counted lunch in the office microwave, and found that someone had placed a tray of doughnuts on top of it. I stood there for a long time, staring at those doughnuts. Then I prayed to God to get me away from the one with the frosting and the sprinkles, because I knew I was about to fall off the wagon and, left to my own devices, would be powerless to stop myself. It worked.
I still notice how many times people have gone through the potluck line. And if I should see a person set down a half-finished piece of cake and forget about it? You guessed it. Crazy.
Right this minute, around the corner from my desk, is a spread of cookies that the winner of last weekend’s football pool brought in this morning. I haven’t eaten any personally, but I can tell you that there are four kinds—peanut butter with chocolate, M&M’s cookies, toffee, and frosted pumpkin with raisins. I can’t see them as I’m typing, but I can give you a pretty close guess as to how many of each kind there were this morning, and how many there are right now, because I just passed them on the way back to my desk from a meeting and did a quick mental count without even realizing I was doing it.
Today, for the first time in the seven years since I started my current job, it occurred to me to wonder if the fact that I work at the corporate headquarters of a large-ish fast-food chain is some kind of demented self torture. The floor I work on is plastered with promotional posters for all manner of diet-busting deep-fried, greasy and/or sugary delights.
Although, to be fair, office doughnuts and cookies would happen no matter where I worked. And, like alcoholism, my food obsession will probably never disappear completely. For today, I left the cookies alone. And that’s something.
I am not an alcoholic. I sincerely believe that there aspects of addiction that one can never understand without having been there firsthand. But I have found that I have a very similar obsessive awareness when it comes to food.
Whenever I leave the house to run an errand, I often find running through my mind an inventory of the restaurants or drive-through windows or bakeries that are on the way to or from that particular destination. It just happens. I had a food junkie recovery of sorts a few years ago, and so I don’t actually stop at them very often any more, but still, it happens.
One time, in the early days of that food junkie recovery, I went to heat up my carefully planned, calories-counted lunch in the office microwave, and found that someone had placed a tray of doughnuts on top of it. I stood there for a long time, staring at those doughnuts. Then I prayed to God to get me away from the one with the frosting and the sprinkles, because I knew I was about to fall off the wagon and, left to my own devices, would be powerless to stop myself. It worked.
I still notice how many times people have gone through the potluck line. And if I should see a person set down a half-finished piece of cake and forget about it? You guessed it. Crazy.
Right this minute, around the corner from my desk, is a spread of cookies that the winner of last weekend’s football pool brought in this morning. I haven’t eaten any personally, but I can tell you that there are four kinds—peanut butter with chocolate, M&M’s cookies, toffee, and frosted pumpkin with raisins. I can’t see them as I’m typing, but I can give you a pretty close guess as to how many of each kind there were this morning, and how many there are right now, because I just passed them on the way back to my desk from a meeting and did a quick mental count without even realizing I was doing it.
Today, for the first time in the seven years since I started my current job, it occurred to me to wonder if the fact that I work at the corporate headquarters of a large-ish fast-food chain is some kind of demented self torture. The floor I work on is plastered with promotional posters for all manner of diet-busting deep-fried, greasy and/or sugary delights.
Although, to be fair, office doughnuts and cookies would happen no matter where I worked. And, like alcoholism, my food obsession will probably never disappear completely. For today, I left the cookies alone. And that’s something.
Monday, October 17, 2005
I Wish I Had An Estate to Bequeath Upon Her Loveliness
I know a mother is never supposed to say it, at least not out loud, and certainly not into the blogosphere, but...
Demigoddess the Elder opted to have a "birthday on ice" party at our local skating rink instead of her usual sleepover birthday party.
And that is why she is my favorite child.
Demigoddess the Elder opted to have a "birthday on ice" party at our local skating rink instead of her usual sleepover birthday party.
And that is why she is my favorite child.
Friday, October 14, 2005
¡Felíz cumpleaños!
Demigoddess the Elder has come a long way in fourteen years.
She is no longer obsessed with the Muppet Movie or Corduroy the Bear, and her interest in Britney Spears was mercifully short. But she has retained her wacky sense of humor, amazing creative streak, and a smile that knocks me out.
These early teen years can be brutal on a girl's self-esteem, especially for very smart girls with sensitive souls like hers. But I'm still hoping that one of these days she will start believing me again when I tell her how beautiful she is.
To my debate-winning, A-in-math-earning, politically savvy eighth grader, who speaks fluent Spanish with an uncanny accent, is the only one in the family besides Grandpa who can talk like Donald Duck, and who is a genuine badass with a glue gun, I say,
¡Centenares de besos y de abrazos para tú! ¡Te amo con toda mi corazon!
She is no longer obsessed with the Muppet Movie or Corduroy the Bear, and her interest in Britney Spears was mercifully short. But she has retained her wacky sense of humor, amazing creative streak, and a smile that knocks me out.
These early teen years can be brutal on a girl's self-esteem, especially for very smart girls with sensitive souls like hers. But I'm still hoping that one of these days she will start believing me again when I tell her how beautiful she is.
To my debate-winning, A-in-math-earning, politically savvy eighth grader, who speaks fluent Spanish with an uncanny accent, is the only one in the family besides Grandpa who can talk like Donald Duck, and who is a genuine badass with a glue gun, I say,
¡Centenares de besos y de abrazos para tú! ¡Te amo con toda mi corazon!
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Happy Day of Atonements
Yesterday there were cupcakes and pretty little mini-cakes for sale in the office lobby where I work to raise money for a children’s charity. I bought cupcakes for the Demigoddesses, and was tempted to buy one of the mini-cakes for My Ho as a “Happy Yom Kippur” treat, since he’s Jewish and I knew he was planning to attend a service last night. But then I remembered that Yom Kippur is supposed to include fasting, and that would have made the smiley face that the mini-cake was decorated with seem more mocking and mean than cute and cheerful. So I didn’t.
When My Ho called me last night, I told him about the mini-cake. He said I could have bought it for him anyway, because he’d already eaten a bowl of cereal after sundown.
“But that’s cheating!”
“God will put an asterisk by my name in the repentance book,” he said.
“Great,” I said. “You’ll be the Roger Maris of repentance.”
There’s a lot I don’t know about the Jewish faith. One thing I recently learned is that in Judaism, a person can atone for their sins to God, but when they’ve wronged another person, they still have to reconcile with that person directly. That agrees with what I already knew about the 12-steps, in which making direct amends to people you’ve harmed is an important part of the process. I've found a lot more spiritual truth in the 12 steps than I ever did in growing up Catholic. The confession and absolution thing always seemed a little too convenient to me.
Another thing I recently learned is that loaner yarmulkes are available for men to wear during services (which I have to make a conscious effort not to refer to as "mass"). Apparently My Ho doesn’t have a yarmulke any more, and wore one that was provided at yesterday’s service as he repented*.
That’s a nice idea, in theory. But… eew. Ever since I was in the fifth grade and my youngest sister brought home a nasty case of head lice from daycare I have had a phobia about hat-sharing of any kind. My Ho assured me that the loaners get washed in between uses, but still. Eew.
So, the good news is, now I know what to get him for Christmas.
When My Ho called me last night, I told him about the mini-cake. He said I could have bought it for him anyway, because he’d already eaten a bowl of cereal after sundown.
“But that’s cheating!”
“God will put an asterisk by my name in the repentance book,” he said.
“Great,” I said. “You’ll be the Roger Maris of repentance.”
There’s a lot I don’t know about the Jewish faith. One thing I recently learned is that in Judaism, a person can atone for their sins to God, but when they’ve wronged another person, they still have to reconcile with that person directly. That agrees with what I already knew about the 12-steps, in which making direct amends to people you’ve harmed is an important part of the process. I've found a lot more spiritual truth in the 12 steps than I ever did in growing up Catholic. The confession and absolution thing always seemed a little too convenient to me.
Another thing I recently learned is that loaner yarmulkes are available for men to wear during services (which I have to make a conscious effort not to refer to as "mass"). Apparently My Ho doesn’t have a yarmulke any more, and wore one that was provided at yesterday’s service as he repented*.
That’s a nice idea, in theory. But… eew. Ever since I was in the fifth grade and my youngest sister brought home a nasty case of head lice from daycare I have had a phobia about hat-sharing of any kind. My Ho assured me that the loaners get washed in between uses, but still. Eew.
So, the good news is, now I know what to get him for Christmas.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Malfunctioning
Registering for NaNoWriMo has caused the right half of my brain to cease functioning so completely that I can’t even string together three original sentences, not to mention compose a blog post or… gack… some kind of plot outline for a great-jumping-monkeys NOVEL.
I have paralyzed myself with writing intimidation.
Dammit.
I have paralyzed myself with writing intimidation.
Dammit.
Monday, October 10, 2005
My God, What Have I Done?
A few weeks ago, I received an e-mail with a subject line that read, “Do This!”
It was from my knitting, writing, and blogging friend and frequent “I Want a Cookie” commenter Amy, who was talking about National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). The idea is to write a 50,000-word novel in a month. Amy will be participating for the third time in November.
My initial reaction was, “Are you kidding? I can barely manage a blog post every day! What the hell would I write a NOVEL about??”
While I love the idea of having written a novel, the actual writing of one troubles me. E-mail has ruined me for any kind of REAL writing. But that’s only part of the problem.
I’ve heard writers talk about novels they have written, writers who felt like the stories and characters came through them from some unknown place. I’ve heard them talk about characters who speak to them, even when they don’t want to hear what those characters have to say. I’ve heard them talk about the NEED to write.
I’ve always imagined that before a person writes a novel, they can feel it. Like a persistent itch, demanding action with increasing volume until a person has no choice but to scratch. Or like being pregnant, feeling that little something moving around inside, feeling it growing until it wants out with such insistence that there’s nothing to do but push it out.
I’ve thought that there simply isn’t a novel IN me, because I don’t feel any of that. No itching, no contractions, no voices, no stories. Nothing. Just the overwhelming feeling that I could list a thousand valid, highly reasonable, perfectly understandable reasons why I really, really don’t want to even try.
And I might have been able to leave it at that, if not for the nagging memory of having felt that way before. In the early months of 2003, when my sister, Meghan, suggested that I sign up to run a half marathon, I felt the same way. Every ounce of me said I wouldn’t be able to do it, and I was crazy to even try. That, at the time, was exactly the reason I knew I had to do it. I signed up, and six months later, in spite of myself, I ran the whole thing. I even survived to tell the tale. I can still walk! Who knew?
And there's no denying the fact that I know a hell of a lot more about writing right now than I ever did about running.
According to the NaNoWriMo website, this event is an informal, casual, supposed-to-be-fun sort of thing. It’s okay if the novel sucks. It’s SUPPOSED to suck. Cheating to achieve the 50,000-word count is encouraged. Equal measures of silliness and support are available on the website’s forums pages. The idea isn’t to get published (although that could, and sometimes does, happen), it is to prove to yourself that you can do it.
So today, I went to the NaNoWriMo website and registered.
Of course, I had six months to train for the half marathon. In this case, I’ll have 30 days. And… I have no idea where or how to start, or even what my novel (my novel! oy!) will be about.
Suggestions, please!
It was from my knitting, writing, and blogging friend and frequent “I Want a Cookie” commenter Amy, who was talking about National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). The idea is to write a 50,000-word novel in a month. Amy will be participating for the third time in November.
My initial reaction was, “Are you kidding? I can barely manage a blog post every day! What the hell would I write a NOVEL about??”
While I love the idea of having written a novel, the actual writing of one troubles me. E-mail has ruined me for any kind of REAL writing. But that’s only part of the problem.
I’ve heard writers talk about novels they have written, writers who felt like the stories and characters came through them from some unknown place. I’ve heard them talk about characters who speak to them, even when they don’t want to hear what those characters have to say. I’ve heard them talk about the NEED to write.
I’ve always imagined that before a person writes a novel, they can feel it. Like a persistent itch, demanding action with increasing volume until a person has no choice but to scratch. Or like being pregnant, feeling that little something moving around inside, feeling it growing until it wants out with such insistence that there’s nothing to do but push it out.
I’ve thought that there simply isn’t a novel IN me, because I don’t feel any of that. No itching, no contractions, no voices, no stories. Nothing. Just the overwhelming feeling that I could list a thousand valid, highly reasonable, perfectly understandable reasons why I really, really don’t want to even try.
And I might have been able to leave it at that, if not for the nagging memory of having felt that way before. In the early months of 2003, when my sister, Meghan, suggested that I sign up to run a half marathon, I felt the same way. Every ounce of me said I wouldn’t be able to do it, and I was crazy to even try. That, at the time, was exactly the reason I knew I had to do it. I signed up, and six months later, in spite of myself, I ran the whole thing. I even survived to tell the tale. I can still walk! Who knew?
And there's no denying the fact that I know a hell of a lot more about writing right now than I ever did about running.
According to the NaNoWriMo website, this event is an informal, casual, supposed-to-be-fun sort of thing. It’s okay if the novel sucks. It’s SUPPOSED to suck. Cheating to achieve the 50,000-word count is encouraged. Equal measures of silliness and support are available on the website’s forums pages. The idea isn’t to get published (although that could, and sometimes does, happen), it is to prove to yourself that you can do it.
So today, I went to the NaNoWriMo website and registered.
Of course, I had six months to train for the half marathon. In this case, I’ll have 30 days. And… I have no idea where or how to start, or even what my novel (my novel! oy!) will be about.
Suggestions, please!
Friday, October 07, 2005
Another Haiku for Friday
With a little planning, and a little luck, a person can squeeze an amazing number of errands into a single lunch hour.
From work to home, to the bank, to the mall, and finally, on the way back to work, the drive-thru, where I picked up the inspiraton for today's Friday Haiku:
Wendy’s Frostys are
so good, but so very hard
to eat while driving.
From work to home, to the bank, to the mall, and finally, on the way back to work, the drive-thru, where I picked up the inspiraton for today's Friday Haiku:
Wendy’s Frostys are
so good, but so very hard
to eat while driving.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
The Joys of Homeownership
My house was built in 1940. What it lacks in size, it makes up for in “character.” It has a dining room and a fireplace. It has oak floors and six-paneled doors. It has coved ceilings. And it leaks.
Specifically, the skylights in the ceiling of the sunroom, which was added onto the house by its previous owner, leak. They leak such that when the metro area experienced a downpour of apocalyptic proportions on Tuesday night, a stain developed on the ceiling below the skylight, and the sky blue paint that I lovingly applied to the sunroom walls last summer sort of blistered and bubbled underneath the skylight, and the floor at the base of the wall got all… squishy.
Yesterday as I was inspecting all of this, I poked at one of the wall bubbles and my finger poked a hole right through the soggy drywall. I’m thinking that’s not good.
Of course, my first impulse was to completely freak out, and I spent much of yesterday first hysterical and then mopey because my house is falling down around my ears and I have no idea what to do about it, and why did I ever buy a house in the first place when clearly I am ignorant and stupid, in addition to which I do not exactly have a generous emergency fund (or any emergency fund at all, for that matter), further solidifying my status as an overall failure as a human being.
But I also understood that hysteria and moping were not going to get my house fixed, and that pretty much ruined all the fun of being hysterical and mopey. So I sucked it up and managed to do one useful thing, which was call my insurance company. They gave me a list of contractors to call (ding!) and assured me that the repairs will be covered (ding ding!!).
Today I am only slightly less hysterical and mopey, but nevertheless sucked it up a little more and called contractors—two from the insurance company’s list and one that I found online through Angie’s List.
The contractors are all very, very busy (apparently LOTS of people had trouble during the downpour of apocalyptic proportions), but I did manage to make a couple of appointments.
And now I have reached today’s responsible grownup behavior maximum and I am going to go lie down.
Specifically, the skylights in the ceiling of the sunroom, which was added onto the house by its previous owner, leak. They leak such that when the metro area experienced a downpour of apocalyptic proportions on Tuesday night, a stain developed on the ceiling below the skylight, and the sky blue paint that I lovingly applied to the sunroom walls last summer sort of blistered and bubbled underneath the skylight, and the floor at the base of the wall got all… squishy.
Yesterday as I was inspecting all of this, I poked at one of the wall bubbles and my finger poked a hole right through the soggy drywall. I’m thinking that’s not good.
Of course, my first impulse was to completely freak out, and I spent much of yesterday first hysterical and then mopey because my house is falling down around my ears and I have no idea what to do about it, and why did I ever buy a house in the first place when clearly I am ignorant and stupid, in addition to which I do not exactly have a generous emergency fund (or any emergency fund at all, for that matter), further solidifying my status as an overall failure as a human being.
But I also understood that hysteria and moping were not going to get my house fixed, and that pretty much ruined all the fun of being hysterical and mopey. So I sucked it up and managed to do one useful thing, which was call my insurance company. They gave me a list of contractors to call (ding!) and assured me that the repairs will be covered (ding ding!!).
Today I am only slightly less hysterical and mopey, but nevertheless sucked it up a little more and called contractors—two from the insurance company’s list and one that I found online through Angie’s List.
The contractors are all very, very busy (apparently LOTS of people had trouble during the downpour of apocalyptic proportions), but I did manage to make a couple of appointments.
And now I have reached today’s responsible grownup behavior maximum and I am going to go lie down.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Happy Bulldog-versary
One year ago today, the Twins were in New York to face the hated Yankees in game one of the American League Division Championship.
All day long, I was a twitching, festering nerve ending, jonesing on adrenaline and totally useless in terms of work. Finally, around 5:30, I went to the Bulldog Bar and Grill in Minneapolis, to meet up with Batgirl and a gang of other "Batlings" to watch the game.
The Demigoddesses were with me. The guy I had been dating was not, because that guy was not interested in watching baseball, with me or with anyone else, and I had plans to break up with him very soon for that very reason (and a few others, which I can’t seem to remember at the moment).
After a while, a very tall guy arrived. He had a shaggy beard and hair that needed cutting. And he was limping along on a walking cast, which combined with an overall droopiness to give the impression that this guy had dragged the weight of the world into the Bulldog with him. Batgirl, who was obviously pleased to see him, got up from her seat to give him a hug. Then she introduced him to me. I said hi. He said hi. We shook hands. Everyone sat back down. And then, the game began.
The following is Batgirl’s own post-game recap of what happened in New York that night:
“There was no peace tonight. There were leadoff base hits and there was Hideki Matsui and every time you looked Gary Sheffield was coming up to bat, and I mean, is that fair? Is that really fair? Every inning, there were Yankees on base, and they're not supposed to be on base, I mean, what are they doing on base? GET OFF THE BASES! I mean, no, no, not like that. Not like a homer or something, that would be really bad and I know you could hit a homer at any moment, which is why I currently have my hands pressed over my eyes, because if you did hit a homer, I would be very sad. I don't want to be sad, I want to be happy. I want to dance around and sing and watch Jacque Jones hit a homerun.
Oh, how beautiful that was. Jones wasn't even supposed to start today, they were going to start Kubel, which seemed to be a fine idea because Jones + Mussina usually equals Jones on bench. Hello, bench, my old friend. I've come to sit on you again. Because a fastball softly si-nking, has left my eyes rapidly bli-nking; And the whiffing that echoes in my brain still remains. With the sound of strikeouts…
But, oh, Jones took that Moose pitch and rode it all the way to the leftfield porch, and then he danced and sang all around the basepaths while Batgirl danced and sang too, and Jacque Jones pointed up to the heavens where his father lives now and Batgirl pointed up, too, and said, that one's for you, Papa Jones. You got a good kid.”
You see, Jacque Jones’ father had passed away a few days earlier, and nobody expected Jacque to play that night. And when he hit the game-winning dinger, he did, in fact, point toward the heavens as he rounded the bases. But Batgirl did not really dance and sing. I know, because I saw her cry when it happened. She is soft-hearted like that, and it was one of those sweet, sentimental moments that are one of the many reasons I love baseball.
The following day, the Minneapolis Star Tribune ran an article about Jacque and his dad and the homerun and the pointing, an article that that also made ME cry, and I posted a comment to that effect on Batgirl’s blog.
A little later that morning, I received this e-mail:
From: My Ho
Sent: Wednesday, October 06, 2004 2:02 PM
To: EverydaySuperGoddess
Hi,
I was sitting behind Batgirl last night at the Batgathering, and wanted to tell you I had the same reaction as you when I read that story in the Strib this morning. "Pointing Jacque" is on my desktop and still is bringing me to a stop when I look at it.
And that’s how it all began.
That limping, shaggy, very tall friend of Batgirl’s at the Bulldog turned out to be My Ho.
He’s decidedly less droopy now than he was a year ago. But the bouquet of three dozen miniature roses that just arrived at my desk are proof enough that he is just as sweet and sentimental as he ever was.
All day long, I was a twitching, festering nerve ending, jonesing on adrenaline and totally useless in terms of work. Finally, around 5:30, I went to the Bulldog Bar and Grill in Minneapolis, to meet up with Batgirl and a gang of other "Batlings" to watch the game.
The Demigoddesses were with me. The guy I had been dating was not, because that guy was not interested in watching baseball, with me or with anyone else, and I had plans to break up with him very soon for that very reason (and a few others, which I can’t seem to remember at the moment).
After a while, a very tall guy arrived. He had a shaggy beard and hair that needed cutting. And he was limping along on a walking cast, which combined with an overall droopiness to give the impression that this guy had dragged the weight of the world into the Bulldog with him. Batgirl, who was obviously pleased to see him, got up from her seat to give him a hug. Then she introduced him to me. I said hi. He said hi. We shook hands. Everyone sat back down. And then, the game began.
The following is Batgirl’s own post-game recap of what happened in New York that night:
“There was no peace tonight. There were leadoff base hits and there was Hideki Matsui and every time you looked Gary Sheffield was coming up to bat, and I mean, is that fair? Is that really fair? Every inning, there were Yankees on base, and they're not supposed to be on base, I mean, what are they doing on base? GET OFF THE BASES! I mean, no, no, not like that. Not like a homer or something, that would be really bad and I know you could hit a homer at any moment, which is why I currently have my hands pressed over my eyes, because if you did hit a homer, I would be very sad. I don't want to be sad, I want to be happy. I want to dance around and sing and watch Jacque Jones hit a homerun.
Oh, how beautiful that was. Jones wasn't even supposed to start today, they were going to start Kubel, which seemed to be a fine idea because Jones + Mussina usually equals Jones on bench. Hello, bench, my old friend. I've come to sit on you again. Because a fastball softly si-nking, has left my eyes rapidly bli-nking; And the whiffing that echoes in my brain still remains. With the sound of strikeouts…
But, oh, Jones took that Moose pitch and rode it all the way to the leftfield porch, and then he danced and sang all around the basepaths while Batgirl danced and sang too, and Jacque Jones pointed up to the heavens where his father lives now and Batgirl pointed up, too, and said, that one's for you, Papa Jones. You got a good kid.”
You see, Jacque Jones’ father had passed away a few days earlier, and nobody expected Jacque to play that night. And when he hit the game-winning dinger, he did, in fact, point toward the heavens as he rounded the bases. But Batgirl did not really dance and sing. I know, because I saw her cry when it happened. She is soft-hearted like that, and it was one of those sweet, sentimental moments that are one of the many reasons I love baseball.
The following day, the Minneapolis Star Tribune ran an article about Jacque and his dad and the homerun and the pointing, an article that that also made ME cry, and I posted a comment to that effect on Batgirl’s blog.
A little later that morning, I received this e-mail:
From: My Ho
Sent: Wednesday, October 06, 2004 2:02 PM
To: EverydaySuperGoddess
Hi,
I was sitting behind Batgirl last night at the Batgathering, and wanted to tell you I had the same reaction as you when I read that story in the Strib this morning. "Pointing Jacque" is on my desktop and still is bringing me to a stop when I look at it.
And that’s how it all began.
That limping, shaggy, very tall friend of Batgirl’s at the Bulldog turned out to be My Ho.
He’s decidedly less droopy now than he was a year ago. But the bouquet of three dozen miniature roses that just arrived at my desk are proof enough that he is just as sweet and sentimental as he ever was.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
The Great Dork Off
Part I
From: CombatGirl
To: EverydaySuperGoddess
Sent: Monday, October 03, 2005
Subject: I am a dork
Yup, I am...do you have any words of wisdom (i.e. meditations, pithy sayings) to address general feelings of dorkiness?
From: EverydaySuperGoddess
To: CombatGirl
Subject: RE: I am a dork
If you're a dork, I'm an even bigger one.
Does that help?
From: CombatGirl
To: EverydaySuperGoddess
Subject: RE: I am a dork
Highlights of dorkiness:
1) After a very uncomfortable couple of hours with (most recent boyfriend) this weekend I've (finally) determined that there's just too much of a disconnect in some of our shared values to keep hanging out. The dorkiness is that I know I'm not the easiest person for someone to be with, but is there anyone out there even close to sharing a page with me, or am I just a total freak?
2) On that note, I spoke with Guy I Have A Crush On a few minutes ago, and gave him a brief outline of my crisis, and I think HE was looking at me like, "You are a total dork. Plus, you're insane." Not quite the effect I was going for. Dork-dom, for sure.
I do not believe you are dorkier than me. I don't think that's possible, for anyone. If there were a Queen of the Dorks, I'd wear the crown, Sister.
From: EverydaySuperGoddess
To: CombatGirl
Subject: RE: I am a dork
You're not a freak. It just didn't work out. That doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you, or with him. It just wasn't the right fit for either one of you right now.
As for Crush Guy, if he didn't actually speak, it's hard to really know what's happening in his head.
Highlights of MY dorkiness:
My Ho and I toured three alpaca farms last weekend, and I'm positively dying with longing to own one of my own so that I can have piles and piles of yarn from my own alpaca to knit with. I'll probably drag my kids to another one this weekend.
The queen of the dorks would be ME.
From: CombatGirl
To: EverydaySuperGoddess
Subject: RE: I am a dork
No, I think the Queen (or King?) of the Dorks would be whoever decided to call the alpaca website AlpacaNation. ALPACANATION! Sounds a little too Sandinista-ish for a bunch of farmers.
I rescind my earlier opinion... You ARE approaching dorkiness. But maybe, in the bigger sense, it's merely a matter of perspective: to the Alpaca Nation, you are becoming cooler by the minute.
From: EverydaySuperGoddess
To: CombatGirl
Subject: RE: I am a dork
Toldja.
From: CombatGirl
To: EverydaySuperGoddess
Subject: RE: I am a dork
To sum up: we may be dorky... and there are those in the world who love us, not in spite of, but because of our dorkiness, and, further, who love us precisely because of our precise dorkiness. THAT's what I'm looking for.
If buying an alpaca would bring you great joy, I say go for it.
From: EverydaySuperGoddess
To: CombatGirl
Subject: RE: I am a dork
It would, but realistically, I need to buy a new computer and braces for Demigoddess the Elder first. So I haven't completely lost my mind.
My Ho insists that he is finding all of this very endearing, so I guess that proves your point.
Part II
From: CombatGirl
Sent: Tuesday, October 04, 2005
To: EverydaySuperGoddess
Subject: Dork No Longer!
Guy I Have A Crush On called me this morning--he said he was going to call me last night but that he didn't want to bug me so he didn't (in other words, was aware he could potentially appear dorky, I guess). Apparently, at least some of my dorkiness is only in my head. Good to know.
However, if I come up with anything better than alpaca farming, I'll let you know. I thought I had the world-at-large trumped on dorkiness with my proclivity for scrapbooking, but... now it's big business. Had a friend in high school (guy) who was into muzzle-loading, which could beat the alpaca thing. Or, if you were one of those guys who likes to dress up as though you were in the Civil War and reenact it, that might be the ultimate.
From: EverydaySuperGoddess
To: Combat Girl
Subject: RE: Dork No Longer!
Right. And I have never camped out overnight to purchase movie tickets of any kind. Nor have I ever dressed in a costume to attend a movie. Not even Rocky Horror.
Technically, I wouldn't be alpaca "farming," I'd be "agisting," which means I'd be paying someone to keep it at their farm for me...
From: CombatGirl
To: EverydaySuperGoddess
Subject: RE: Dork No Longer!
Didn't dress up for Rocky Horror, but boy, did I ever throw toast. And cover my head w/newspaper during the rain scenes, etc.
"Agisting". Hmm. Dorkier than farmer.
From: EverydaySuperGoddess
To: CombatGirl
Subject: RE: Dork No Longer!
Yep. See? I totally win.
From: CombatGirl
To: EverydaySuperGoddess
Sent: Monday, October 03, 2005
Subject: I am a dork
Yup, I am...do you have any words of wisdom (i.e. meditations, pithy sayings) to address general feelings of dorkiness?
From: EverydaySuperGoddess
To: CombatGirl
Subject: RE: I am a dork
If you're a dork, I'm an even bigger one.
Does that help?
From: CombatGirl
To: EverydaySuperGoddess
Subject: RE: I am a dork
Highlights of dorkiness:
1) After a very uncomfortable couple of hours with (most recent boyfriend) this weekend I've (finally) determined that there's just too much of a disconnect in some of our shared values to keep hanging out. The dorkiness is that I know I'm not the easiest person for someone to be with, but is there anyone out there even close to sharing a page with me, or am I just a total freak?
2) On that note, I spoke with Guy I Have A Crush On a few minutes ago, and gave him a brief outline of my crisis, and I think HE was looking at me like, "You are a total dork. Plus, you're insane." Not quite the effect I was going for. Dork-dom, for sure.
I do not believe you are dorkier than me. I don't think that's possible, for anyone. If there were a Queen of the Dorks, I'd wear the crown, Sister.
From: EverydaySuperGoddess
To: CombatGirl
Subject: RE: I am a dork
You're not a freak. It just didn't work out. That doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you, or with him. It just wasn't the right fit for either one of you right now.
As for Crush Guy, if he didn't actually speak, it's hard to really know what's happening in his head.
Highlights of MY dorkiness:
My Ho and I toured three alpaca farms last weekend, and I'm positively dying with longing to own one of my own so that I can have piles and piles of yarn from my own alpaca to knit with. I'll probably drag my kids to another one this weekend.
The queen of the dorks would be ME.
From: CombatGirl
To: EverydaySuperGoddess
Subject: RE: I am a dork
No, I think the Queen (or King?) of the Dorks would be whoever decided to call the alpaca website AlpacaNation. ALPACANATION! Sounds a little too Sandinista-ish for a bunch of farmers.
I rescind my earlier opinion... You ARE approaching dorkiness. But maybe, in the bigger sense, it's merely a matter of perspective: to the Alpaca Nation, you are becoming cooler by the minute.
From: EverydaySuperGoddess
To: CombatGirl
Subject: RE: I am a dork
Toldja.
From: CombatGirl
To: EverydaySuperGoddess
Subject: RE: I am a dork
To sum up: we may be dorky... and there are those in the world who love us, not in spite of, but because of our dorkiness, and, further, who love us precisely because of our precise dorkiness. THAT's what I'm looking for.
If buying an alpaca would bring you great joy, I say go for it.
From: EverydaySuperGoddess
To: CombatGirl
Subject: RE: I am a dork
It would, but realistically, I need to buy a new computer and braces for Demigoddess the Elder first. So I haven't completely lost my mind.
My Ho insists that he is finding all of this very endearing, so I guess that proves your point.
Part II
From: CombatGirl
Sent: Tuesday, October 04, 2005
To: EverydaySuperGoddess
Subject: Dork No Longer!
Guy I Have A Crush On called me this morning--he said he was going to call me last night but that he didn't want to bug me so he didn't (in other words, was aware he could potentially appear dorky, I guess). Apparently, at least some of my dorkiness is only in my head. Good to know.
However, if I come up with anything better than alpaca farming, I'll let you know. I thought I had the world-at-large trumped on dorkiness with my proclivity for scrapbooking, but... now it's big business. Had a friend in high school (guy) who was into muzzle-loading, which could beat the alpaca thing. Or, if you were one of those guys who likes to dress up as though you were in the Civil War and reenact it, that might be the ultimate.
From: EverydaySuperGoddess
To: Combat Girl
Subject: RE: Dork No Longer!
Right. And I have never camped out overnight to purchase movie tickets of any kind. Nor have I ever dressed in a costume to attend a movie. Not even Rocky Horror.
Technically, I wouldn't be alpaca "farming," I'd be "agisting," which means I'd be paying someone to keep it at their farm for me...
From: CombatGirl
To: EverydaySuperGoddess
Subject: RE: Dork No Longer!
Didn't dress up for Rocky Horror, but boy, did I ever throw toast. And cover my head w/newspaper during the rain scenes, etc.
"Agisting". Hmm. Dorkier than farmer.
From: EverydaySuperGoddess
To: CombatGirl
Subject: RE: Dork No Longer!
Yep. See? I totally win.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Wait ‘Till Next Year
Well, it’s all over. The final Minnesota Twins game of the year was yesterday.
I already did most of my grieving over the 2005 baseball season—over the squandered potential and the lost opportunities, over the death of my starry-eyed optimism and the destruction of Torii Hunter’s ankle, over anything remotely related to Bret fargin' Boone's very existence, over the never-ending ass-battery and all of those bloody blasted double freaking plays.
I did my mourning already, but nevertheless, I’m still feeling a little sad today.
There were some good times.
There was “Oh Five! A Batgirl Musical.”
There was the day I was wearing my “Lew Ford is My Boyfriend” T-shirt when I ran into the REAL Mrs. Ford at the Dome.
There was Johan’s butt waggle...
...and Joe Mauer’s batting average.
There were Lew’s three-run homers...
...and a Ron Gardenhire ejection that was truly spectacular, even on the radio.
There was Justin Morneau’s first Major League grand slam...
...and there were little Nicky Punto’s beautiful bunts and head-first slides, which were silly and dangerous but also immensely entertaining.
There were Jacque Jones dingers...
...and there were all things Torii Hunter...
There was hanging with Gardy in the bar at Ruth’s Chris, and riding the hotel elevator with Juan Rincon in Seattle.
And, perhaps best of all, there was the happy discovery, five months after we started dating (when I already thought he was the bee’s knees), that going to baseball games with my Ho is better than just about anything.
So... I will try to remember the good bits, and forget about the stinky ones. Even though there were kind of a lot of stinky ones, and some of them were seriously stinky.
I still love you guys. See you in April.
I already did most of my grieving over the 2005 baseball season—over the squandered potential and the lost opportunities, over the death of my starry-eyed optimism and the destruction of Torii Hunter’s ankle, over anything remotely related to Bret fargin' Boone's very existence, over the never-ending ass-battery and all of those bloody blasted double freaking plays.
I did my mourning already, but nevertheless, I’m still feeling a little sad today.
There were some good times.
There was “Oh Five! A Batgirl Musical.”
There was the day I was wearing my “Lew Ford is My Boyfriend” T-shirt when I ran into the REAL Mrs. Ford at the Dome.
There was Johan’s butt waggle...
...and Joe Mauer’s batting average.
There were Lew’s three-run homers...
...and a Ron Gardenhire ejection that was truly spectacular, even on the radio.
There was Justin Morneau’s first Major League grand slam...
...and there were little Nicky Punto’s beautiful bunts and head-first slides, which were silly and dangerous but also immensely entertaining.
There were Jacque Jones dingers...
...and there were all things Torii Hunter...
There was hanging with Gardy in the bar at Ruth’s Chris, and riding the hotel elevator with Juan Rincon in Seattle.
And, perhaps best of all, there was the happy discovery, five months after we started dating (when I already thought he was the bee’s knees), that going to baseball games with my Ho is better than just about anything.
So... I will try to remember the good bits, and forget about the stinky ones. Even though there were kind of a lot of stinky ones, and some of them were seriously stinky.
I still love you guys. See you in April.
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