Monday, January 31, 2011

Mondays are hard.

Mondays are sometimes very hard.  At least I brought my A game this morning - I called to check on our newest driver as soon as I got to my office.  Good thing, because he was not in Atlanta, as he was supposed to be, but was instead just getting in the shower at his house here in Louisville, and then was going to come in to talk to me.  Awesome.  So I called that customer, then called the customer expecting the pickup this afternoon on the backhaul, then spent the next 4 hours rearranging my schedule and begging other locations to send me their drivers so I could get some shit delivered.  I think it's all worked out, for now, but man, I'm exhausted.  And now I can begin my regular work.  And start trying to find another driver.  But it could've been much worse; if I hadn't checked on the guy at 8 a.m., I wouldn't have known about the problem for another3 hours or so and by then there would've been a disaster in the making.  Instead of letting the shitty parts of the morning ruin my Monday, and therefore start my week off on the wrong foot, I'm going to focus on what went right and move forward and assume things will get easier as the week progresses.  I'm lying to myself, but that's okay.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Sunday Morning.

I tried to find 15 minutes yesterday to get my write on, and I totally had the time, I just really had nothing to say and it turns out I'm not so good at forcing myself to write for 15 minutes as I am at say, forcing myself to walk for 20 minutes.  Baby steps, right?  I can't expect to go from no will power to tons of will power in a week.

Another reason I didn't do much writing yesterday is that I was still upset about Friday night.  I really got my feelings hurt.  I allowed my feelings to be hurt.  People I don't interact with, people I don't even know, people who don't know me, I gave them power over me and permission to hurt my feelings and make me cry.  I'm working on trying not to let that happen so often (ever).  I'm grateful for the Buddhist lessons Jimi has taught me over the years that allowed me to recognize the situation and my reaction for what it was; it allowed me to get over it much more quickly that I could've done on my own even a few years back.  But don't misunderstand, it still hurts.  Words are cruel sometimes and hurt even if you don't want to let them.

Enough about that.

I slept until 2 in the afternoon yesterday, after going to bed around midnight Friday night.  I'm not sure why I slept for 14 hours, but I guess I was tired.  I've not done that in a good long while, and it was pretty nice to get the sleep, I guess, but I felt like I'd wasted the day by the time I crawled out of bed, and I was tired and groggy for hours even after I'd taken the dog for a 35 minute walk through the neighborhood in an effort to get the blood flowing and some of that rare sunshine on my face.

We'd had plans to go to Indianapolis for the Winterfest beer-tasting event, but there was an issue with the tickets and so our plans were cancelled.  :(  But, the backup plan involved hanging out at Rick's with him and Kim and drinking some Browning's Black Ale and watching a new-to-me episode of Showtime's Shameless (which, by the way, is fantastic and brilliant and completely hilarious).  Eventually, we needed food, and Kim and I had been craving pizza for days and Danny Mac's was right up the road.  And it just so happened to be Saturday night, and there were Mojo people there, and Karaoke.  We didn't leave the guys with much of a choice.

The pizza was good, the booze was cheap, the company was pleasant, and the entertainment was vast.  And can I take a moment to mention how much I love it when people comment on how good or cute or adorable Jimi and I are together?  It makes my freakin' day, every time.  Because it's taken 4 years of compromise and love and laughter and we are good and cute and adorable together and I like it when people notice.  Anyhow, so we're having a great time - I sang Hotel California, Kim and I did Blind Melon's No Rain together, we're drinking and talking and laughing and having a grand ol' time.  And I started jonesin' for a cigarette so bad I couldn't hardly stand it.  I begged Kim to go outside and smoke one and just let me have a puff, just a PUFF. She refused, because she is a good friend and she loves me, even though she was fiendin' pretty bad herself.  (She's a once-in-a-blue moon sort of smoker - I think a pack lasts her like six months or something ridiculous like that.)  Everyone kept saying "Don't do it! Don't do it!" and I wanted to not, but I want to so much worse. My first test of being at a bar as a non-smoker and if I'd had someone willing to give me a cigarette I would've smoked it without hesitation.  But no one would give me one.

Until we took Terry home.  Terry passed me a smoke from the back seat and said "Now, I'm not encouraging this, but I understand..." and he gave me one of his nasty menthol cancer sticks and I smoked it and it was so delicious and disgusting and gross and good.  And the head rush was so much better than I remembered it.  Oh, smoking I miss you so bad.  But it was gross by the time it was done, and I could smell it on me, and taste it on my tongue and my breath and I felt guilty and ashamed for breaking my longest non-smoking streak ever.  I'm not one to beat myself up for long, though, and I had forgiven myself for my lapse well before we were pulling into our driveway 10 minutes later.  And I don't have any urge or desire to smoke now; I wanted it then, and that was more than enough to remind me of why I'm not a smoker anymore.

I told you I'd tell on myself.

And now it's Sunday morning.  I think Sunday mornings are my favorite; there's a certain feel to a Sunday that a Saturday, even with its promise of no work the next day, can't compete with.  When I lived in El Paso, I'd get up real early on Sunday mornings, fix a pot of coffee, then go out to the concrete patio in the back yard and watch the sun come up and paint the mountains orange and red and yellow and brown and purple.  Sometimes I'd call my mom and talk to her across the miles until I was more homesick than I'd been to start with, picturing her at the snackbar in the kitchen, putting on her makeup and drinking her third cup of joe.  Then the ex would be awake and I'd hurry inside to be a good wife catering to her man's every need, and we'd watch Sunday Morning on CBS and I'd picture my Daddy at home in his recliner, watching the same program while he ate his biscuits and gravy or maybe manicured his fingernails while breakfast was cooking.

Sunday mornings for a long time were each measured against those of my childhood, where I watched my parents dance that same dance over and over; Sunday Morning and Star Trek on the television; sausage or bacon sizzling away in the pan on the stove, drippings destined to be a milk gravy in the style of Granny, but never quite as good as Granny's; biscuits in the oven (Bisquick drop biscuits if fate was smiling on me, but canned ones were more common and just fine, too); the smell of coffee competing with smell of the meat; and everyone generally in a good mood and loving each other.  My childhood was so happy, and the memories of those mornings are like everything about why it was so happy and good, all rolled up into one easy example.  I had a family full of people who loved me, no matter what, and who loved each other.  How blessed am I.

I guess that's why I tried so hard during my marriage to recreate Sundays from when I was little; everyone was happy and glad.  In my marriage, especially in El Paso there at the end, that was not the case.

I haven't watched Sunday Morning regularly since I lived in Texas.  Even if I'm up early enough, which I often am, I don't think to turn on the television or to look for the show.  And if Jimi gets up before me, well, there are cartoons that are on TV all the time, did you know that?  And apparently there's a rule of some sort in Jimiland that says if a cartoon is on, and it's in the morning, you have to watch the cartoon.  It's just the way of the world.  It works out just as well, though; I'm not trying to find happiness through the recreation of childhood events anymore - Jimi and I, we make our own happy way.  We don't have any traditions or habits even for this most-tradition/habit-laden day of the week; we just do what we feel like doing whenever we get up and get doing things.  Probably that will change, along with the rest of the universe, if we have a child, but for now, these unconventional, random days we have are still filled with the same happy and joy that I remember from when I was little; somehow, we manage to make happy even without coffee and biscuits and gravy.

Friday, January 28, 2011

More Chick-fil-A, More Boycotting (and now a protest, too!)

I skipped writing yesterday.  Some days, even I run out of things to say.  I'm back now, though.

I started a protest event against Chick-fil-A on Facebook today.  National Gay Up Chick-fil-A Day was born when Kim sent me this link, which basically reasserts the fact that the bigotry I talked about here was not as isolated as I was lead to believe when I posted this.  I posted this on my Facebook page:

I want to gay up Chick-fil-A so hard. I need more friends who like to dress in drag - I want to get 50 of my closest cross-dressing friends together and love-bomb the Jesus Chicken Stores. I want to get my favorite gay couples together to have a big fat party in the middle of the Chick-fil-A dining rooms. And I want us to all order only water, because I'll never give those bigots another dime of my money.

"They're a business run based on Christian values, what do you expect?"  A more Christ-like example, perhaps?  Christ loved everyone.  He turned to the lepers and the poor to help them; he didn't turn away from them or try to marginalize them.  You want to be a true Christian to your fellow man?  Invite the gay couple across the street over for dinner; yes, even when your kids are home.  Invite them into your home and get to know them as human beings, not as lesbians or faggots.  Realize that they have the same worries and fears about money and crime and what the future will be like for their children.  Realize that their homosexuality is something God ingrained in them, and that no amount or prayer or therapy or shame is going to change that fact.  Love them because Christ loved them, and because they too are your brothers and sisters.  Love them because they are just like you; they are you.  Want for them the things you want for your children and your friends and your family.  That's what Jesus would do, and I'm pretty sure his part in the Bible came after that old book that banned homosexuality, shellfish, and women speaking in public.

I honestly, deep in my soul, feel that their donations to organizations whose mission statements center around denying equal rights to people based on their sexual orientation is exactly the same as if they were donating to the Ku Klux Klan in an effort to limit the rights of Non-White Americans.  I can't understand why every American isn't standing up and shouting "Separation of Church and State, Bitches!"  If marriage was governed by religious organizations, I could see the objections to same-sex marriage being sustained, but last I checked, you've got to go through the State to get a marriage license, and discrimination against American citizens on the basis of religious objections seems contrary to the First Amendment.  

Of course, like everything else I do, this event was put together hastily and without any forethought or organization or plan, and of course, as is always the case, people are picking it apart.  Of course, this makes me feel like that's some sort of statement against me personally, against my views, my opinions, my beliefs, my general standing as a person.  Because it's all about me, right?  Even this, which really isn't about me in any way, shape, or form, I can turn around to be about me.  Sarcasm and haughty laughter stings, but when you get down to the nitty gritty of what I'm feeling when I read that crap, it's just flat-out disappointment that so many people can just stand by and watch as the rights of their fellow Americans are denied or revoked.  It makes me sad.

  • First they came for the communists,
    and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a communist.

    Then they came for the trade unionists,
    and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a trade unionist.

    Then they came for the Jews,
    and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Jew.

    Then they came for me
    and there was no one left to speak out for me.

    - Pastor Martin Niemoller

    Edit:  I cancelled the event because the more I thought about it, the more reaction I got, the more I came to realize the title, the premise behind it, was motivated by a passionate gut-reaction and probably wouldn't end up being anything close to what I pictured when I went off half-cocked and suggested it.  And honestly?  I can't handle criticism and direct hate in reaction to something I feel so strongly about.  So I'll be like everyone else; Maybe someone else gets what I was trying to say.  Maybe someone else will do something about it.  Maybe they're right - maybe this isn't my battle to try to fight.  

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Fifteen minutes of free-writing.

That's what I decided last night I'd start doing daily, as a form of meditation.  Forgive me if I ramble.  I mean, I do that anyhow, so you should be used to it by now, but this may end up being one giant run-on sentence.  Probably not, because I love punctuation marks.  I keep stopping to watch TV.  There's some show called Hot In Cleveland on; and I watch entirely too much television.

Jimi says he can take a frozen chicken breast filet and put it in a 400 degree oven in a pre-heated panini pan and that it will cook evenly and deliciously.  I'm trusting him because he typically is a culinary genius, but I have serious doubts about this particular plan.  Everything I know about cooking tells me you have to thaw chicken before you cook it.  Maybe I'm wrong.  We shall see.

I want a cigarette something fierce.  Three and a half weeks.  Whoa.  That's like forever.  I'd love to stand outside on the front porch, freezing my ass off and shivering, sucking in lungfuls of that dry white smoke, holding it, then exhaling as the nicotine buzz rushes through my head.  Feeling dizzy.  Tasting that yuck.  Coughing.  Another puff, and another, until it's gone, then throwing it down in the snow and coming inside, instantly self-concious about the stink surrounding me.  I like to smell good.  It's only recently, like in the last year or so, that I've started to smell/notice/realize the odor that lingers around a smoker, especially when coming in from the cold outside.  Truck drivers stand in the window of my office and I can smell them from behind my desk; the sharp stench of recently burned Pall Malls and Kools.  And it lingers.  And I ask my boss "Did I used to smell like that?" and I'm mortified at the idea, though he swears I never did.

I don't know if I've ever kept up a habit that's this good for me for this long.  And if I walk tonight, I'll have kept up the 20-minutes-of-exercise-every-day thing for a full week.  Who is this new Natalie who sticks to goals and shit?  I'm not sure we've met.

The snow was just finally all gone from our yard, and then again this morning there was more, making the roads slick and the schools closed and the world a little softer on the edges through the lens of a Honda Civic windshield.  I love the snow.  I get why other people dislike it, but I love it, and I can't make myself feel bad for that.  At work this afternoon, I suggested that we have a plant-wide snowball fight the next time we get a few inches; most people poo-poo'd my idea, saying they hate the snow, and I think one guy suggested that if they all hit me with snow balls at the same time i'd fall down and they could have sexy time with me.  I tried to pretend that part of the conversation didn't happen, and so did the other guys in the room.

I didn't set a timer so I have no idea how long I've been writing.  I keep getting up to get another drink or to play with the dog or to pee.  Tonight it's Smirnoff Blueberry Lemonade and Red Stripe Jamaican Lager.  Jimi loves the lemonades, much to the surprise of us both.  Lance just called him - I'm going to end up ordering pizza for dinner.  He'll be on the phone with Lance for an hour, and then he's got to call Steve, and then his brother.  I kinda want pizza anyhow.  God, I love pizza.

I was in the zone there for a minute, and then I lost it.  I started listening to Jimi's conversation and all writing thoughts went right out of my head.  But here I am.  Still at it; still plucking away.

I'm trying to write my way out of writer's block, is what I'm doing.  I'm giving myself permission to write bullshit and post it because I just need to be writing; the best way to write is to write, right?  Maybe something will come of it; maybe I'll stumble upon something worth writing about in my random ramblings.  Maybe not.  I'm giving myself permission to not care, so long as I'm making words into sentences and thoughts into words.

I made a new page on my blog, the "Today I'm Grateful For..." page.  And you know what?  It's hard as fuck to not just list "jimi jimi jimi jimi jimi" every day.  He's like my sun.  I recognize that this is not necessarily healthy, but it's probably pretty normal for a woman in love, and even if it's not, I don't care because it is what it is and I can't help it and he loves me back the same so it's totally fine.  Oh, and I put a thing over there on the right where you can follow my blog on Facebook.  I promise when I get to 50 Facebook Followers, I'll stop posting links to my shit on Facebook.  So follow me and stuff.  Because you know you want to read more of this.

And he's off the phone and we've got to figure out dinner so I'll be back to ramble at you fine folks again tomorrow, same Nat-time, same boring Nat-place.  Happy Hump Day! (Night)!

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Apparently, I'm a moron.

"On next, The State of the Union Address and the Republican Response...,"  says the TV.

"The Republican Response?," I thought, ears perked up.  I looked up, unsure of the channel we were watching - we'd just been watching some network station, and this sounded, to my ignorant ears, like something else.

"What channel is this on?," I asked Jimi, who was standing in the doorway across the room, watching the dramatic introduction along with me.

"Every channel," he said, thinking I meant the program rather than the station itself, I guess.

I was still confused.  "What's this Republican Response thing?  What's that about?"

"They always do that, allow the opposing party to have a chance to speak, a rebuttal, if you will."  I can hear the "duh" in his voice.

I'm even more confused.  "Wha...?  How have I lived 30 years and never heard about this?  What the hell?"

He's still using his "duh" voice, "Have you ever watched a State of the Union Address?"   Duh.

"I thought I had..."  I'm remembering my 4 years of MCJROTC, where watching the State of the Union Address earned me extra credit 4 years running.  I'm remembering listening to Bush in his first term, when I was still a registered Republican who loved my President and believed Iraq and Saddam had weapons of mass destruction.  I admit, I skipped the second term Addresses, mostly, with maybe the exception of the first 15 minutes or so (that was all I could tolerate), but still, I'm a pretty intelligent person, and I'm not ignorant when it comes to politics.

How have I never heard of this?

I'm oblivious.  I live in my own little world.  This proves I need my own island nation.  All this politics shit is hard - I just want to live my life.   Duh.

Monday, January 24, 2011

Naw, Kitty! That's MY Green Pen!

I can't NOT blog this.

I have serious doubts about the wisdom of sharing this on the internet.  I'm scared it's going to bite me in the ass.

I'm going to do it anyhow.

Okay, we (as in, my work family) have recently added a new member to our fold - for the 8th time in 3 years, in fact.  Our administrative assistant position has seen a LOT of turnover in the last few years.  There are a few reasons for this, but the main reason is that the position doesn't pay well, is part time, and there are no benefits offered.  It is a small percentage of the population that can afford to work such a job, and even with a 10% unemployment rate in town, it's been hard to keep anyone's butt in that chair for more than 6 or so months at a time.  I'm frickin' sick of it, to be honest with you.  I've changed up my interviewing process a bit to try to narrow down my viable candidates, in an effort to find the right fit and maybe not have to do this again for another year or two.  I thought I'd hit pay dirt with the last girl, but she ended up with an offer she couldn't refuse from a company willing to pay for her education and I can't even begin to compete with that, so I recently found myself interviewing again.  Fuck.

But D reminds me of me.  In the interview, one of my first questions was "tell me about you". Her answer started with, "Well, I'm married...".  She said a lot of other things that were super relevant to the job, but that first part cracked me up - it was the first way I described myself for the 4 years it was true.  But I've not met a lot of other women who do that.  Maybe there are plenty of us out there, but I sensed a kindred soul.  It made me giggle.  She also described herself as "quirky", and I think I've told you about my history with this company and being quirky.  It was like it was meant to be.

She's been a hell of a great addition, too.  She's smart and eager and funny and polite and a quick learner.  So imagine my surprise today when I hear this story:

D wrote a note or some such thing on some document of some sort that ended up on the desk of a co-worker, we'll call her C.  D's note was written in green ink, from a pen that happens to be the same make, model, and color that C prefers.  C approaches D and says something along the lines of, "I don't mean to pull rank, but I use the green pens and you can't" and she takes the green pen away from D.  (!!!)  I don't know if D realized the pen was taken immediately or not, but a few minutes later she approaches C, saying "Can I have my green pen back" and C says "No!  I use the green pens around here" and D says "That's cool, but that's MY green pen; I brought it from home" and C's all "oh, my bad, here's your pen, just don't use it here".  (!!!)

Dude.  Do I even have to say anything?  I mean, really?  And C, if you read this and get mad, I'm sorry, but DUDE!!!  I've replaced this position 8 times in 3 years, and for the first time we've got a chick in that desk who is smart and eager and funny and polite and a quick learner AND she's wanting to get us organized AND she's got a husband who's her main line of support while she's in school so she can work this miserably-compensated position and you're going to fucking take her pen away from her?!  Are you fucking serious?

I was floored.  I just can't believe the conversation happened in the first place, much less the TAKING OF THE PEN.  I mean, what the fuck?!  Since when do we have assigned pen colors up in this bitch?  Since when is the work of the admin. assistant (who, by the way, has DRASTICALLY different handwriting from C) in danger of being mistaken for the work of the operations manager?  If that's a real fear, well, something more than ink color needs to be addressed around these parts.

I desperately wanted to be the one to tell the story to my boss, even though I heard it like seventh-hand.  I love talking about crazy shit with him.  This qualifies as crazy shit.  But Kim beat me to the punch - my fault for leaving "early" today, I guess.  I learned of my failure when the following email showed up on my Blackberry:

From: Boss
To: Natalie ; Kim 
Sent: Mon Jan 24 14:24:56 2011
Subject: Pen Policy

I find it necessary to bring to your attention the unwritten yet understood however unenforced up to this point pen policy. Be it known from this point forward that blue ink pens are off limits to all employees. I think that you are all fully aware that blue pens are my chosen color. It is necessary for everyone to be aware so there will not be any confusion if someone happens to use say black, that it is in no way associated with any of my work. Additionally, I do occasionally utilize a black fine point Sharpie®, but the penalty for use of this instrument will not be as swift in light of the infrequency of use.

If you are found to be in violation of the “No Blue Pen” policy, unfortunate but extreme disciplinary actions will be taken. Please do not put yourself or me in the uncomfortable position of having to have any further discussions on this pressing matter. Please remember that I am the one who controls your livelihood and happiness.

Your Boss and the top person in control in the location,

Boss's Name
Boss's Big Fancy Title

Needless to say, I cried real tears.

This is why I put up with 5:18 a.m. phone calls on Sunday mornings.  No one else has a boss this cool.

Oh, and I'm going to start using green pens exclusively.  Because I'm a passive-aggressive biotch like that; that's just how I roll.

(oh, and the title should be read in the voice of Cartman, from South Park, when he says "Naw Kitty, that's MY pot pie!!!"  If you don't get the joke, I'm sorry.)

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Weekend Update

Can you read it?
I ♥ Jimi

On our way to Rick's Friday night, we had this great view of the moon just coming up behind some steam stacks over by UofL, so we pulled into the parking lot of this corner/liquor store to try to get a picture or two.  The moon pictures didn't come out so good (I still haven't read my manual or used the CD that came with the camera, so I still don't know how to use it too good), but I thought this panoramic shot of my high-school-flashback snow art was pretty cool.  

(The least crappy two of the 50 or so moon photos we attempted.)  

Yesterday, I picked up Megan and we met Melinda and Gary at Iceland for part of Gary's birthday weekend celebration.  Ice skating is so much fun, but OMG it's so hard.  My toes were numb almost immediately upon lacing my skates, but I figured it was from the cold and dealt with it.  It's not like I expected a trip to the ice rink for the first time in ?a half dozen? years to be painless.  I did pretty good on the ice - I only fell once, and that was when I was showing off my ~sometimes/sorta~ ability to spin around fast in a really sloppy version of that finishing move you see the professionals make look easy, so I deserved the bruised knees.  We skated for an hour or so, and I counted that as my exercise for Friday and Saturday, as I did nothing remotely physical on Friday.  Here's a picture of my butt:

I thought the numbness in my toes was from the cold, but within moments of unlacing and removing my skates, pins and needles were coursing through the outsides of my feet - the parts that had been numb, not from cold, it appears, but because the skate was too effing tight.  My socks were too thick.  Or the skate needed to be a bigger size.  Or my feet have gotten super wide, when they've always been super narrow.  Or I have developed diabetes.  (I shouldn't joke about that.  I'm pretty sure it's in the cards for my future.)

This morning we woke up early and went into cleaning mode, Jimi in the kitchen, me in the TV room - the bedroom was mostly done once the laundry was carted to the basement.  (My laundry room is still picked up and stuff - promise.  We're doing a good job keeping up with the washing, and things are getting folded/hung up as soon as it comes from the dryer.  Simple things, I know, but it's an improvement in our world.  :)  )  After the largest portion of our chores had been knocked out, we went out for lunch and to pick up necessities at the Sam's Club.  I got some fancy mixed nuts with no peanuts.  That makes me happy.  

I've kept up with the exercising for a few days now, and it's not much, but it's better than normal, and that's a good start.  It feels good.  It's easy to breathe.  I like the way my skin looks after I've been sweating and exerting myself.  I watched my feet as I ran on the treadmill tonight, and I couldn't help getting a good look at my belly.  It is what kept me going even after I started to get tired and knew I could stop five minutes short, or when I started thinking I could skip that part at the end where I took Finn outside for a short jaunt.  I'm going to lose this shit, and the next time I see my stomach sticking out like that better be because there's a baby in there.  I'm just sayin'.  Oh, and I'm not wearing that bright pink fleece to exercise in anymore until i lose the fat - it works like an effing highlighter on my pudge.  

With that said, we're having fried chicken for dinner tonight.  I've obviously not put myself on a diet, and for now, I won't.  I'm trying to make healthier choices more often, and to add more fruits and vegetables to my diet (like the edamame that will accompany my keel tonight), but I haven't gotten to the point where I'm willing to count calories or deny myself things too terribly often.  I understand that the Natalie in this paragraph sounds different from the Natalie in that last one, but hey, welcome to my world!  At least I exercised.  

I'm talking about food because I'm starving.  Jimi has to go get the dinner, though, and he's watching Afro Samurai.  I'm not sure of the full gist of the story, but this dude has a sword and kills a whole bunch of people and smokes dope and it's got foul language and lots of gore - basically, it's not my sort of thing at all, and I pretty much hate it.  But, household rule is whoever doesn't have the computer controls the remote, so we watch a lot of crazy shit that I'd never know exists if it weren't for that dear sweet man of mine.  

That's all I've got.  Have a great night, and I hope your week doesn't suck.  

Saturday, January 22, 2011

The big boss of my company is Mormon.  I discovered this fact while perusing the company website - he got his undergrad degree at BYU.  It was a few months before I was able to confirm that yes, he is, in fact, a big fat Mormon.  It took a while because I couldn't exactly go up and ask him - we don't have that sort of relationship; hell, my boss doesn't have that sort of relationship with him.  But with the right questions in the right places, I got the confirmation I was looking for and now I want to talk to him about it.  I even wore my CTR ring to work there for a month or so, hoping he'd see it and strike up a conversation.  I don't know why I want to talk to my big boss about his religion.  My fascination is more of a sickness, I think.

We went out last night to drop off the money for Winterfest with Rick, and then to Waffle House for dinner.  I tipped the waitress $20.  When we got to the car, Jimi said, "It was because she was pregnant, wasn't it?"

"Of course it was because she was pregnant."  I thought for a moment.  "Well, it was because she's pregnant, and she's working at Waffle House at 11:30 on a Friday night and she's about to pop and her feet must be killing her and her poor back and..."

He finished my sentence with me, "...and she remembered your milk."

She did remember my milk. No one ever remembers my milk.

I'm going ice skating now.  Have a great Saturday!

Friday, January 21, 2011

My doors froze. How'd that happen?

I have money in my bank account today that isn't earmarked to go to someone else, so I celebrated by treating myself to my favorite lunch - lobster bisque and a rosemary ham and goat cheese sandwich on ciabatta bread.  Just typing that makes my mouth water, and I'm still in the middle of eating.

We didn't get any more snow last night, but the temperature dropped down to single digits and when I went to start my car this morning, I experienced something that apparently everyone on the planet has experienced before, but it was my first time - my doors were frozen shut.  I was confused at first, and figured I must've locked the doors last night when I got home, so I stuck the key in and turned and pulled on the handle...and still nothing.  I thought "The doors are frozen", followed immediately by "no effing way".  I lived in Michigan for three years, and my doors never froze on me.  After trying all the others, I finally managed to get the back passenger door to open, but I wasn't about to climb into the front from the back, not with my feet covered in snowy boots.  So I moved the back of the passenger seat forward, and stretched in Go-Go-Gadget style and got the key in the ignition and the defroster turned all the way up.  I went inside to finish getting ready, and 15 minutes later, I was standing outside my drivers' side again, dumbfounded, because even though the ice was gone from the windows, the door still wouldn't open.  After a few hip bumps, I got the passenger front door open and was able to lean across and open the driver door from the inside.  Finally.  And I was 10 minutes late to work.  You bet your ass I told the whole drawn-out story to my boss, too, when he playfully started to give me shit for being late. 

Work has been hard this week.  There's so much to do, and not nearly enough hours or interest to get it done.  Which frustrates me and makes me feel overwhelmed, when I really should just buckle down and start at the top of my list and work my way down.  Everything feels like the top of the list, though. 

And now I've finished my lunch and I really want a nap. 

TGIF, baby.  TGIF.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Sometimes I hate that satellite imaging takes the surprise out of snow days.

When I was 13, I woke up one morning to Momma telling me we had almost 2 feet of snow and that school was cancelled.  I immediately assumed she was playing some cruel joke, but she insisted.  I stumbled out of bed and into the kitchen - and sure enough, the snow was piled high against the sliding glass door leading to the backyard.  We didn't have electricity for days, and I think we were out of school for a week or more.  I remember cooking Rice-A-Roni on a skillet on top of the kerosene heater in the family room; I spilled some rice on the carpet, but I don't think anyone saw me.

Things like that don't happen anymore.  I've seen the satellite pictures; we're not getting anymore snow tonight, and no matter how much I hope, I won't wake up to 18 inches of fluffy white on the ground.

Just as well, i suppose.  Snow days are for kids, not grownups.  I'd still have to go to work, or I'd be scrambling to try to do my work from here.  And apparently most people hate the snow.  And I know no one knows how to drive in it, not around here, at least.  And I don't want anyone to freeze to death or anything.

Adulthood sucks the fun out of everything good, doesn't it?

Edit:  Well, not EVERYTHING good...

Abortion is still a dirty word, and no one wants it to be normal.

I was invited by a friend to attend this event.  It's titled "SPEAKOUT to normalize abortion".  The thumbnail image associated with the event is a photo of a keychain that reads "I had an abortion...and I don't regret it."  It sounds like the purpose is to give women a safe place to share their experiences and stories.  I think they really need a new PR rep, because the title and the image are freaking me out. 

I am pro-choice.  I believe every woman has the right to make her own educated, informed decisions regarding her reproductive health.  I would prefer, of course, that women make those educated, informed decisions well enough in advance to avoid an unwanted pregnancy, but as the old saying goes, wish in one get the picture.  Women and girls get pregnant, unexpectedly, all the time.  It happens.  And the circumstances surrounding every single one of those conceptions are different from the last and the next.  That's why I'm pro-choice; because we don't all fit into the same boxes.

The title of this event bothers me, though.  "normalize abortion"?  I guess I know what they're trying to say - that "abortion" shouldn't be a dirty word, that there shouldn't be so much stigma attached to it, that women have abortions for all different reasons and that they shouldn't be ashamed.  Still, the title makes me go, "uhm...I don't want to live in a world where abortion is the status quo".  And the thumbnail picture?  Who'd carry a keychain like that?  I mean, seriously. 

I have a few friends who have confided in me that they've had abortions; I'm sure I know several more women who have and haven't told.  Surprisingly, none of the friends who've made this confession fit into the mold I'd imagined in my head - none of them look the way I'd imagined a woman who'd abort a baby would look,  and none of them made the choice they made because they were young, single, or failed to take adequate precautions to prevent pregnancy.  All were in their mid-twenties or later, all were in relationships, all were victims of some form of abuse, all were making use of birth control.  And all found themselves unexpectedly expecting, in a situation where they honestly felt that abortion was the best choice they could make - not only for themselves, but also for the child they were unintentionally carrying.  I know, I know - so many people want to adopt, I hear you.  But sometimes, fear or inability to raise a child is not the reason this choice is made - sometimes the choice is made because a woman fears she wouldn't survive the pregnancy, and I'm not talking because of pregnancy complications here.  Again, we don't all fit into the same boxes. 

My friends who've undergone this procedure, for the most part, don't regret their decisions.  But I don't think I'll ever see them carrying a keyfob that announces the choice they made, either, and not only because of the stigma attached.  What a horribly painful, personal decision!  I simply cannot fathom the emotional weight such a choice would carry, and I imagine it's not something that goes away once the bleeding has stopped and your hormones are back to normal.  My miscarriage threatened to send me into a tailspin of "OMG this is all my fault and I'm a terrible person" - I can't imagine the loneliness and sadness and fear of having to choose that for myself.  A keychain advertisement is tacky, at the very least. 

I follow a blog called Every Saturday Morning.  It's written by volunteers who every week stand in front of Kentucky's only clinic that provides abortions, escorting clinic patients safely through the mob that shows up every week to protest the rights of those patients to have a legal medical procedure.  On their Facebook page once, they posted a video of a man confronting these protestors - he used his cell phone to confront the elderly Catholic women who'd been spewing hate and vitriol in his direction as he'd led his wife into the clinic.  He told the women that the child his wife was carrying had died and needed to be removed - that is why they were at the "abortion" clinic. 

Every person you meet is fighting a battle you can't see. 

Facts are facts; abortion is not something anyone wants normalized.  No one wants to see a day when a woman gets pregnant and automatically thinks "Hmm - do I go to a prenatal exam, or should I just have an abortion?"  When you use words like "normalize abortion", that's the world I imagine.  "SPEAKOUT to Destigmatize a Woman's Choice" perhaps would've been a better title, or "SPEAKOUT to End the Silence" or something.  I see and understand the reason and need for the event; I just don't like the title and image they're using to spread the word - something about it seems flip; not appropriate for the gravity of the conversation.   I don't like it a lot. 

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Give me a pat on the back and I'll tell you more about my crazy.

Kimmie and I made a pact that we'll do at least 20 minutes of cardio each day.  I did 30 minutes on the treadmill tonight, after dinner, while doing little arm exercises with my 2 lb. weights, and I ran at least 10 of those minutes.  I'm so proud of me!

Stop laughing at me.  Baby steps, dammit.

It felt good.  Like, really good.  I got in a zone; no music or TV or book, just me, the weights, the conveyor beneath my feet, and that spot over there on the wall.  Breathing was easy, even when I was running - I could FEEL 2 weeks of no cigarettes, and it felt good.

Baby steps.

When my 30 minutes was up, before I showered (because I got sweaty!), I took a good, long, hard look at my naked self in the mirror.

Holy crap, when did I let myself get this way?

I'm tempted to take a picture, once a week or so, to chart my progress, but then what if the computer got stolen and someone hacked into it and found the pictures and it turned out the person who stole it was someone who knew me and secretly hated me and so they posted all the pictures all over the internet and then everyone had seen my shame and OMG the HORROR!!!  Of course, if I did go through with taking the pics, I'd totally intend to post them in the internet eventually, with all the naked lady bits covered by a big black bar, of course, but only after I had worked out like a madwoman for months and had a crazy-awesome AFTER picture to put up right there next to the embarrassing BEFORE (now) one.  Realistically, you should be thankful I've got an unnatural fear of being burglarized.

That's another thing that contributes to my crazy - I'm always afraid someone's going to break in and steal our shit.  The second year we were living in Shelby Park (a used-to-be-way-ghetto-but-now-it's-coming-around-thanks-to-church-folk-moving-in neighborhood on the outskirts of Old Louisville), on the Monday before Thanksgiving, I came home for lunch in the early afternoon and found that some lovely soul had thrown a brick through our kitchen window.  The thief stole a couple of computers and cell phones, Jimi's Dad's shotgun, and my sense of security and safety in my own home.  Until we moved from that house, I never again came home without thinking "I wonder if someone's broken in again?"  Our buddy Steve had moved in just a block and a half away, and his home was broken into nearly half a dozen times in as many weeks.  I didn't like leaving the house much after all that.  I don't worry about it so much since we've moved, but it's still there, in the back of my mind, like a little tickle.

Jimi's watching some jacked up movie about genetically modified vampire cows that are self-impregnating while still in the womb.  Netflix has opened up a whole new world for us.

I fear for the fate of my treadmill.  As I've mentioned, the thing is ancient, but it works.  It started to smell toward the end of my workout tonight - a burning belt-like smell.  I told Jimi I'll be glad if it just gets me through the winter - get me to Spring-time, when I can run in the warm in the park.  If it goes out, I'll be forced to either brave the cold or utilize that gym membership Jimi's been carrying for me for 2 years now - the one I've never used, not even once.  I have a feeling that I'm going to end up at the gym.

I haven't had my camera out in days.  I'm hoping to wake up to a foot and a half of snow on the ground, or that maybe that much will at least fall over the course of the next few days - that would give me plenty to photograph.  Of course, that's wishful thinking and reality will probably bring us only a light dusting, but that will do, also; I can accept a dusting, if I must - I'll take pictures of it too.

Seriously, this movie is ridiculous.  Monster vag-eating slimy fetus cow creatures.  Isolation, is what this thing is called.  It's whack, yo.  I can't believe I'm watching this crap before bed - I'm going to have awesome dreams.

On that note, sleep tight, my friends, and don't let the cow fetuses bite.  :)

Wanna hear about how crazy I am?

Writer's block is hard.  I want to write something good, something worth reading, but in my head, there is only crap.  A bunch of yada yada yada, blah blah blah.  I had this epiphany last night that you can't give good blog if you're not out living a good, full life.  Perhaps this is my problem.  I don't do anything.

Last night, Jimi and I folded some clothes together.  Then Steve came over.  Then the menfolk went to the store to buy dinner stuffs, and then we had hot dogs and french fries.  See what I mean?  That's the most exciting shit I've done in days.

I've got some things on the horizon, though.  Jimi and Steve are brewing this weekend, it appears, and it will be fun to try to take pictures of that.  The last Saturday of the month, we're going to Indianapolis for Winterfest with Rick & Jeff Tours.  A beer-tasting event, with transportation and food included?  What's that?  And there will be beer on the bus on the way to Indianapolis?  Yes please!  Kimmie's birthday is the following Wednesday, and she'll be going on this trip to kick off her birthday week.  (She's turning 40 this year; she's totally allowed to have a whole week.)  She's got a full schedule of events planned, so I'll at least be able to make true that resolution to be more social.  (Did I have a "be more social" resolution?  If not, I meant to.  I think I did.)  Anyhow, so yes, even if Winterfest is the almost last day of January, I'll still count it as something social for the first month of the year.  And Kimmie's birthday fun will count for February.

It's fucked up that I'm experiencing this thought process at all, isn't it?  Are social things this hard for anyone else?

I joke a lot that I'm becoming agoraphobic.  I shouldn't joke - I've never had a panic attack, and from what I hear, that shit ain't funny.  But I really don't like leaving my house.  Just thinking about going shopping or to the grocery or to a bar or even to my parents' house - it makes me get all uncomfortable and antsy and I instantly start calculating how long I'll have to stay there before I can go back home, always looking for the shortest route that will get me back home quickly, but also allows me to spend adequate time doing whatever thing it is I have to do that requires me to leave the house.

Normal people don't think that way, do they?

I wasn't always like this.  I used to do whatever I could to get out of the house as often as possible.  I was out at bars or friends' homes at least 5 nights a week.  Then, when Jimi and I moved in together, our home felt like the safest place in the world, a place where nothing outside could hurt me or him, and I was content to get the majority of my socialization from inviting friends over.  And since we've moved, we haven't had nearly as many gatherings as we used to - I get home and all I want to do is sit in the quiet.  It's almost like I forget that there are people outside of my work family, my immediate family, and Jimi.

I sound crazy.

I'll be more social, though.  I'll fix it.  I don't need no shrink.  I'm fine.

Monday, January 17, 2011

Monday, you're not always an asshole.

I don't know why I set myself up for failure.  I knew when I was typing my resolutions that I wasn't going to follow through with all of them.  Two weeks later and I've not finished making a budget (and I'm broke - surprise!), I've not exercised, I've not taken a picture every day.  But I've also not smoked, which, I'll be honest, shocks me more than all failures combined.  I want to, I do, but I don't dare bum - I've gotten this far, you know?

I've been talking about digging the treadmill out from its grave of boxes for days.  Talking, not doing.  Just like everything else.

Glennon at Momastery did it again; she wrote something that stirred my soul.  It's called Namaste.  "The Divinity within me perceives and adores the Divinity within you."  What a concept.  So I tried it today - taking a breath before every interaction, remembering that everyone I meet is fighting a battle I can't see, speaking kindly, the Divinity in me, to the Divinity in them.  And you know what?  I had a good day.  On a Monday.

Of course, on my way home, I realized that since today is Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, probably a lot of my customers were closed and maybe that's why the phone didn't ring off the hook like it normally does, meaning I had time to get some things accomplished and caught up and I didn't get frustrated or overwhelmed.

But maybe it was because I approached the day, and everyone in it, with a different attitude than on most days.  I need to remember this.  I need to practice this.  We all should.

I keep almost typing "I'm going to clear off the treadmill for sure tonight", but then I'm all "STFU, Natalie.  You're all talk.  Save it for later, when you can say 'I cleared off the treadmill and walked 2 miles tonight', biotch".  And speaking of walking miles...Jimi's employer has some sort of competition going on wherein employees (broken into teams) are rewarded for walking X miles each week.  So MistaJimi himself walked a mile after work this afternoon - Jimi, my Jimi, who often refuses to to walk with me because "walking is boring".  He originally told me he was going to be walking with Barb, and I was all "WTF?  You'll walk with your work-wife, but not with me?!" and I was going to give him all sorts of shit.  Then, ....

Okay, since I put that comma there, I got up to hug that boy, got motivated, and we together cleared off the treadmill and rearranged things and now I have a place to walk that is not outside and cold.  YAY!  

I have told you where the treadmill came from?  The people who sold us the house left it here.  Along with a washer and dryer and a dresser and a big ol' deep iron sink that I can't imagine what we'll ever find use for.  So yeah, the treadmill came with the house.  It's not fancy or anything - it's about a million years old - but it works, and really, that's all that matters, right?  I won't be able to measure calories burned or miles walked, but I'll be able to walk and maybe even run on it.  And Jimi's moving the television down there so I can watch things while I walk.

Skinny me, here I come.  Well.  That might be pushing it.  Skinnier than I am right now me, here I come.  That's more like it.


Oh, and Jimi taught me how to correctly pronounce Namaste, so today has been quite a day indeed.

And now I'm going to go read that Stephen King book I borrowed from Stacy while I walk on the treadmill for a few chapters.  And drink another beer.  Not bad for a Monday...not bad at all.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

So. Many. Words.

I logged onto my retirement account last night and learned that I've made $1600 in the last 3 months.  Woot!  For the entire first year I'd been contributing to my 401k, my funds were stagnant in the general trust account - the plan administrator had never allocated the money into the stocks and funds I'd selected upon enrollment.  It wasn't until I received my 4th quarterly statement with no real change that I realized my money was not working for me.  I did some digging, learned of the error, and immediately got online to move some shit around.  Looks like I've done good - I wish I'd paid more attention sooner.

We've had a good weekend, full of happy and love and relaxation.  Friday night we split tacos and chicken nachos at the Mexican joint up the road, then, in an unusual burst of trying-to-be-a-good-girlfriend-ness, we spent an hour walking around Big Lots.  (Jimi loves to shop.  I love to sit on my ass - which is why this counts as a random act of kindness.) Baby bought me a Wahl personal trimmer.  I'm the one that picked it up and said I'd like to have it, but I still feel like his insistence that he pay for it means he thinks I need it. And I do, but still - I don't want him to imply it.  You know what I mean, don't you?  This is why men say we're crazy.

Last night we had dinner and a ridiculous amount of dessert at Stacy & Jessie's.  Stacy made an amazing dinner of filets with an onion/garlic/cream/wine pan sauce, and then followed it up with chocolate and white chocolate dipped strawberries, bananas, oranges, was out of this world.  Jimi and I had taken the fixings for marshmallow treats made with Chocolate Cheerios...which we topped with the chocolate left over after all the fruit had been dipped.  We didn't head for home until after 1 a.m. - and considering all the chocolate we ate, it's no wonder we didn't make it to bed until after 3.

It's been a weekend of good breakfasts.  I made biscuits, bacon, and fried apples with butter and cinnamon this morning.  Yesterday, Jimi broke in our new waffle iron with a from-scratch recipe that required beating egg whites into stiff peaks before they were folded into the batter - I guess to make the waffles fluffy and light.  Jimi, it seems, had never before beaten egg whites into stiff peaks, and thus did not understand that using a mixing bowl and a fork was not the preferred method - but not until he'd been beating the egg whites with a fork for seven or so minutes.  And thought his shoulder was maybe going to fall off.  My first reaction to his request that I take over was "Baby what are you doing?  That's why God made immersion blenders!" and then I took over the mixing bowl and fork until I thought maybe my shoulder was going to fall off and we said "good enough" and folded the nearly-stiff peaks into the batter.  The results were delicious:

Now Jimi's in there making some sort of awesome stew/pot roast thing with onions and garlic and butter and tomatoes and a rump roast his sister gave us - it'll be delicious.  Oh!  And somehow I'd forgotten, but we made cherry-rum-vanilla ice cream yesterday.  That will be a nice follow-up to the meat.  

I sure do talk about food a lot.  

Something I think about almost as often as I think about food is babies, and what fate has in store for me, and my desire to have one.  And I've also been thinking a lot about things that I wasn't thinking about so much a month ago - things like money, and how much babies cost, and how much I don't have.  I admit, I lost site of that fact there for a minute or month or so.  And I'm still the most selfish person I know.  And I'm not completely sure I want to give that up 100%.  I'm such a flake.  

I want a baby, I do.  I want an amazing, beautiful, perfect little miracle made with love that has Jimi's kindness and spirit and my optimism and lightheartedness.  I want to grow and nurture that baby into a curious, imaginative child full of questions and a new view of the world.  I want to teach and watch our child grow to be a good person, a responsible person.  But, honestly, I don't want to try.  I don't want to chart my ovulation or temperature every month.  I don't want to take the spontaneity and fun out of sex - I don't want to feel like our romantic gestures need to center around a certain date on the calendar.  I don't want to feel anxious if we're too tired or guilty if we both feel sexiest a few days too early or too late to hit that little target.  I don't want to set myself up for failure - I said it before and I'll say it again - I'm not emotionally strong enough to try for months and months and months and have no success and then to follow that road to a point where I'd have a new adjective to add to my blog title and labels.  I can't face infertility right now, and if it is in fact my reality, I'd rather ignore it and just not know.  

And I keep reminding myself that one miscarriage does not mean I'm infertile.  Hell, if nothing else, it should assure me that I can, at the very least, get knocked up.  But I fear the worst, and so my mind goes to the worst place immediately, and living with that fear in my heart, day after day, is something I just can't do.  It's too hard, it's too scary, it's too sad.  

So here's what we're going to do:  We, Jimi and I, are going to live our lives the way we lived our lives before September 2010; before the positive pregnancy test, before the miscarriage, before my hormones sent me into a biological clock tailspin.  We're going to fuck when we're feeling frisky, calendars and ovulation calculators and luteal phases be damned.  And yeah, maybe I'll pay a little more attention in the middle of my cycle to try to make sure my legs are smooth and my personal trimmer has been put to good use and that I'm extra nice to my man, and that I remind him of how sexy I think he is.  And if a baby is something we're meant to have, eventually, we will.  And if we don't, I'll stay focused on all the things I love about my life, without a baby, and remind myself every now and again that I already have so much happy in my life.

And I'm sorry I lured you in with talk of food and then threw that on ya.  My bad.  

I'm unsure of the etiquette for handling circumstances such as these.

Perhaps a letter is best.

Dear Kold_Kadavr_flatliner,

Your comment freaked me out.  In case you were drunk and don't remember what you said, allow me to remind you:

I promise on earth, but in Heaven Above? Whoa. We will weep. The gloriousness of what I'm propos'n to you here is beyond gorgeousness. Lemme asketh of thee a favour, a favour in the Great Beyond. Not here, not now, of course. But, yet, would you allow SIX things in Heaven just between us? Feeding you delicious baklava? Giving you a looong backrub? Brush'n your hair? Kissing your adorable feet which brot you to the Great Beyond? Holding your hands and being one with you? I’d love that and I think you would, too. Think about that. Get back to me Upstairs, girl. God bless.

I hate to break it to you, but if Heaven and the requirements for entrance are anything like what I've been taught, there's a chance I might not make it there.  I'm holding out hope that the rules for getting in are a bit more lax and that I'll get to be one of the cool kids just because I try hard to be a good person, but we'll see.  That said, I don't like baklava.  I don't want a back rub, my hair brushed, my feet kissed or for you to hold my hand.  I don't want you to be one with me.  I would not love that.  I've thought about it.  I don't believe in leading men on, so I'm letting you know my feelings on the topic here and now.  No need to discuss it further, now or at a later date.

And if I ever change my mind about Heaven or baklava or back rubs or hair brushing or feet kissing or hand holding, I'm sorry to inform you that the position has been filled and I won't be interviewing any additional candidates.  Thank you for your interest, and I wish you luck in your future endeavors.  

And your name (cold cadaver flatliner?  WTF?) scares me and makes me glad you don't live closer.  I'm desperately trying to remember every post I've made that alluded to my home and where I live and hoping that I've not inadvertently given you directions.  If I have, please disregard that oversight on my part.

With that said, thanks for the follow!  Please don't kill me!



Saturday, January 15, 2011

Megan is Awesome...and a bunch of stuff about me.

That's really the only way I can title this.  

I wrote this post the other night, in a fit of self-obsession and narcissism.  Megan left me the most awesome comment - something she's making a habit of doing lately, actually.  She's so good for my ego!  ;)  

Megan, thanks for making me feel super special and awesome and cool.  :)  

How did you meet Jimi?  
We were vague acquaintances.  I sat across from him at a bar, at a table full of mutual friends, and he looked at me and said, "I'm still prettier than you."  I was all "WTF?!"  Apparently, we'd met at that same bar, at that same table, a week before, and had quite the debate about which of us was the prettier one.  I'd insisted that I was a pretty princess, and he had agreed, like any gentleman would, but gently, unbendingly, remained firm in his conviction and declaration that he was, by his very nature, simply a very pretty man - so pretty, in fact, that no one was as pretty as him.  Somehow, some way, I have no recollection whatsoever of that conversation; I can recite it for you only because it is one that Jimi and I have had many, many times since, and one that we had again that first night that I count as our first REAL meeting.  He kept saying "that's exactly what you said last week - but I'm still prettier," which frustrated and amused and intrigued the shit out of me.  
I don't think he was intending to flirt with me that night - he was just being Jimi.  But I liked him instantly, so I did what any girl would do - I followed him around the bar like a puppy dog for the rest of the night, got fucked up on vodka shots, convinced myself that I was being just the right amount of flirty.  Then I got really bold and told him he had great lips.  And that he was probably a great kisser.  Then, while we were sitting right there at the bar, I kissed him.  Not a bullshit kiss, either.  
And then we went out to his truck, which was parked in the attached parking garage, and we made out in the front seats for the next three and a half hours.  Maybe I would've slept with him, if either of us had been carrying a condom, but we weren't, so we just made out.  For three and a half hours.  And then he drove me home.  

What's your favorite thing about Jimi?
He's an incredibly good man.  He helps me strive to be a better person.  

If you had to eat one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?
Ice cream.

What's your favorite cereal? (This it the first question I usually ask people when I first meet them. I don't know why)
When I was a kid, it was Cap't Crunch with Crunch Berries or Cookie Crisp.  Then in my early 20s, it was Basic 4 - I really like the fruit/nut element.  These days I'm loving some Special K with Strawberries and Frosted Mini Wheats.

If you could be any animal what would you be?
I want to be a monkey.  All the swinging and the climbing and mischief and poo-flinging and the bananas - it'd be a charmed life.  

What about an inanimate object? 
I wouldn't like that at all.  Do I have to?  

When you look in the mirror, what is the one thing that you look at the most?
Bathroom mirror - my I have any boogers?
Full-length mirror - my belly ..."okay, so i have to remember to hold my posture and suck in just this much..."

What is your favorite physical feature of yourself?
I don't know.  Probably my eyes.  With makeup.

What is your greatest strength?
I'm really really good at finding the silver lining.

What is the best song you've ever heard?
I don't know how I'd begin to try to pick one best - I have too much love for too many. 

What are your hidden talents? (For example, I can chirp like a cricket)
I don't know if I have any hidden talents.  I asked Jimi, and he said "If you do, you've been hiding them from me."

When you grow old, what kind of old lady do you want to be?
OMG, I want to be the sort of old lady who tells it like it is with no fear, who will still drink a beer or smoke a bowl, who wears funky socks and crazy hats and tells true stories that no one believes could be true because they're so crazy.  

What's your favorite item of clothing?
My footie pajamas.  I wish they were considered acceptable clothing in public.

When you think about your life, what is one thing that makes you laugh, no matter what?
The unpredictability of it; how nothing has turned out the way I thought it would - nothing at all - yet I still feel like I'm exactly where I belong.  Life is funny.  

If you could meet anyone in the entire world alive or dead, who would it be?
Meet, or hang out and have a nice long discussion with?  Cause if we only get a "hey, how ya doin'?", I don't know who I'd pick.  If we get to sit down and have a talk, I'd totally pick Jesus.  I want the truth, straight from the source.  I think he could probably clear some things up for me.  

When the Zombie Apocalypse comes, what will be your weapon of choice?
Ideally, some sort of firearm.  A handgun with an extended clip would be nice, but I'd settle for a rifle with a couple belts of ammo.  :) 

What's your biggest fear?
Death.  Dying before I've done the things I want to do, or having to bury those I love.  Fuck death. 

What are your pet peeves?
Incorrect usage of their, there, they're, you're, your.  
Bad customer service.
Drivers who don't share the road.

What would your dream date be?
Hmm...can a week in Thailand, spent in a hut on the beach, count as a date?   

What's the strangest name you've ever given a pet?
I named my first dog Susie Q Kay Sims.  Susie Q because the CCR song came on as Daddy was driving us home from the shelter where we'd picked her out, and then I gave her my middle and last names because she was mine.  It's always been about me.  :)

List five things you want to do before you die.
make, birth, and raise a child to become a productive member of society
publish a book
travel - a lot
earn a college degree
Plant and harvest a garden large enough to provide almost all of our vegetables for an entire year

What's the first thing you think about most mornings?
Work.  :(  



Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...