Wednesday, December 27, 2006

The Sexual Revolution: In Its Infancy.

I am an empowered woman. I am an independent woman. The shoes on my feet? Yeah, I bought them. I like to look at the world through "Kate Colored Glasses" where people really are not homophobic, racist or sexist. That is absurd! How 1950's!

Today I embarked on a solo mission to the Home Depot. I was feeling empowered, confidant and ready to pick out the various hardware items I needed. A couple of gallons of paint, check. A big, two-gallon bucket of primer, check. Now I was in need of three pieces of wood, 1 1/2 inch by 1 1/2 inch. A task I found rather daunting, but hey! I am a strong, independent, professional, thirty year old woman! I not only "ROAR!", I follow it up with a "WHOOT WHOOT!" and a sassy, "HOLLA!"

I could totally do this.

As I left the safety of the paint aisle, an aisle consisting of many of my female compatriots, which was comforting and non-threatening, I followed the main aisle to the, dark and scary land, also known as the lumber aisle. The lighting became grey and ominous, as I clutched onto the note card relaying my careful instructions. I felt a lump, deep in the pit of my belly, as I made a left turn into the dreaded, " Den of the Contractors".

I chanted to myself as I chugged cautiously down the aisle...."I think I can, I think I can, I know I can, I KNOW I CAN!

The independent construction-contractor, a person most likely of the male persuasion.Not just a male, but a redneck, Alpha Male.*shudder*

I walked tentatively up the aisle, looking at all the lumber, (which may as well have been ancient, Egyptian Hieroglyphics, because I was not comprehending what I was looking at, at all), as I was approached by two, very scary, and very dirty contractors. "Hey pretty", I smiled and turned away as fast as I could. " I am Helen Keller.......... I see no one, I hear no one. I am lumber, I am an inanimate object, I have no senses."

But seriously, what the hell are men thinking? Think about guys, are you really going to "pick up a chick" in the lumber department of the Home Depot? Especially, with your super sexy, super dirty coveralls? I mean, nothing is HOTTER to me, than I man with fingernails as dark as tar and with a scent of turpentine and Camel Filters. You don't see women in the tampon aisle trying to lure that one member of the opposite sex who has made a wrong turn into the menstrual-dome, do you? Come on!

As I stood there, still as stone, I looked out of the corner of my eye to make sure they were at a safe distance, so I could high tale it the hell to the next aisle! As I turned in the next aisle, relief set in. I was sure I found what I was looking for! The heavens opened, the heavenly light poured down from the rafters, and I even heard Christmas Muzak! I had found my wood (natch). I was headed for the promised-land of the check-out aisle.

I felt relieved. I felt amazing. I felt like Gloria Steinem. I had faced the oppressor, and I had fucking, survived! I walked out of the exit of the Home Depot, trying to look graceful and confidant, as I struggled to maneuver the 500 lb cart with three, 15 ft., pieces of wood in it. In order to regain control of my cart, I had to circle around the truck lane where, *GASP*! The contractors loaded up! GOD NO!

As I fumbled with the cart, trying to put my sunglasses on, because these men were not going to see the FEAR IN MY EYES, though they could sense it... They are just like dogs, those contractors.... As I struggled to keep my confidence, I heard the most, ridiculously, absurd statement, I have heard:

"LOOK! It's a girl! She can't even push the cart!BAWAHAHAHAHAHA!

I was mortified, horrified, embarrassed and frightened. I tripped over my feet, and was thrusted into oncoming traffic. I was almost hit by a car. After regaining my composure, I then found my vehicle, loaded up, and got the hell out of there.

When I arrived home, I was proud to have accomplished my task, and relieved to have made it out of there alive and un-groped.

As I sat down to relax by way of Cafe Vienna instant international coffee, for the ex-pat in all of us, the Little Honey broke the bad news.

I picked out the wrong wood.

Thursday, December 21, 2006

Out Of My Way, Sister.

Since the early 1990's, this country has been in the grips of a coffee drink epidemic. I have never paid much mind to this, being the "all American girl" that I am. But as I become older, albeit, wiser, I am more conscious of our societal ills and ways to cure them.

I am not undertaking the battle of Starbucks vs. Independent Coffee Houses, I really could care less, plus Starbucks has good coffee. They never burn the beans, the espresso, or the milk, nor do they run too much water through their grounds. ( I AM LOOKING AT YOU, K-HOLE!) Also, being that I worked at one of the first, established coffee houses in my city, I know that this does not entitle me to act like a pretentious, twat, and give bad service to people I deem as "Yuppie Scum". (I AM LOOKING AT YOU, SITWELLS LESBIAN BARISTAS! DON'T MAKE ME TAKE OUT MY EARRINGS!)

The epidemic consists of the late teens, college, working, whatever girl, with the cheap, low rise, jeans, acrylic nails, and glitter encased cell phone. (Oh, you know who you are bitches) These ladies have watched one too many Jennifer Love Michelle Gellar Lohan Duff Hilton, movies and are now embarking on the world of coffee drinks, by way of the Frappucino, at 7:30 in the morning, much to my dismay.

Here is the deal, toots. You don't want coffee. You don't like coffee. You want people to perceive you have one ounce of intelluctual integrity, by way of carting around a to go coffee cup. What ruins this ruse for you, is when you plop down and start licking the whip cream off of the top of your drink. You look ridiculous, plus it is just bad manners. What you want, is a piece of chocolate cake, with a glass of milk. For the love of all that is holy, get out of my COFFEE line and hit the nearest bakery.

I need coffee. I especially need it at 7:30 am. I don't take coffee regular, i.e. two sugars and one cream ( oh the nostalgia that term stirs up for me. When coffee came in a bottomless pots, and sorority chicks stuck to diet coke, like GOD intended.) I drink it black. I like the taste, though I know it does not taste "good", that is not why I am fucking drinking it. I am drinking it for the buzz, the buzz that I need, so I don't chase these chicks out of the coffee shop and smack them silly. The buzz I need, so I don't see my first client, and proceed to tell them what a giant TURD I think they are and how they have a face only a mother can love. I NEED COFFEE FOR THE SAKE OF MY FELLOW MAN.

What I don't need, is to be stuck in line, behind you, having to hide behind sunglasses because the glare from your *giggle* OMG SPARKLE PHONE!!@!@, is blinding me, your cheap perfume is making me sick, while listening to your innane conersation that motivates me to move to the country, never ever to see another soul again. All of this, while you ask for a shot of mocha, a double shot of vanilla, a shot of caramel, extra whip and sprinkles, grande, DECAF frappucino. (Just typing that makes my blood pressure rise to dangerous numbers.)

Seriously, this is a problem of epidemic proportions, America. I believe the dye contained in fruppucino sprinkles has dumbed down the average, young, American intellect (not like it was high before!), making it socially acceptable to say "LOL" in real life conversations, for LaLohan movies to be critically acclaimed and for Paris Hilton to have some societal redeeming value. I believe this can all be traced back to the Frappucino, AKA, Public Enemy Number One.

Only we, the people, can curb this gross epidemic, plaguing our society. We must take action and not sit back idly, while these women keep polluting our coffee lines in the morning, on the way to their casting calls for "Blind Date" or "Flava of Love". We must knock them down when we see them coming, and stick a chocolate chip cookie in their mouth, while screaming "BEAT IT" in their make-up caked, faces! We must lure them away from away from the Starbucks with supplies of Diet Cokes and Three Musketeer Bars. IT MUST BE DONE.

It can be done.

You can help.

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Getting to Know Me

Thursday, February 02, 2006
Four Things Category: Quiz/Survey
I stole this from, a blog of a woman I don't know and her blogger friends that crack me up....Just slightly stalker-ish.
Four jobs I’ve had
1. Taco Bell Chilito maker. I lasted at this for about four hours. Then they had me take out the trash, so I did. Then, I got in my car and NEVER went back. I still have the uniform. For the memories.
2. Childrens' Rides Operator @ Paramounts Kings Island. This is where I learned that children are not the annoying problems, their parents are the annoying problems.
3. Landscape Maintenance Crew Lady for my mom's landscaping company. That was the first time I ever awoke for work at 5 am and the last. I also have never been asked out on more dates in my life and NO I am NOT bragging. This was around the time Billy Ray Cyrus was Achy Breaking my ear drums.
4. Cupboard Girl. Nothing like working at a Head Shop with the Bongs and Dongs. We got some really great obscene phone calls there. I also loved risking my life by pissing off crack dealers daily.
Four movies I can watch over and over
1.Sixteen Candles
2.Some Kind Of Wonderful
3. Better Off Dead
4. The Lord Of the Rings Triology.
Four places I have lived
1. London Ohio, on the farm where I wrestled guinea pigs, went craw dad fishing and drove a tractor by age eight. My parents were quite safety conscience.
2. Columbus Ohio in the Bexley Area. This where I learned to HATE bagels.
3. Cincinnati Ohio. Where the magic began.
4. Covington Kentucky. Where I really learned what ugly people looked like.
Four TV shows I love
1. Arrested Development (RIP)
2.Saturday Night Live
3. Taradise
4. Wife Swap.
Four places I’ve vacationed
1. Destin, Florida
2. Paris France
3. Hanalai Bay, Kuaui Hawaii
4. St. Simon's Island
Four of my favorite dishes
1. Salmon Sashimi
2. Dragon Rolls from TEAK
3. Thai Basil from Bangkok Bistro
4. Chicken Makhani from AMBAR!
Four sites I visit daily
1. MySpace
Four places I would rather be right now
1. Sitting on the banks of the Seinne with Hotbuns and some wine.
2. In a rowboat on the pond at Versailles with Hotbuns.
3. On the back deck of our house having a beach party with the Toddler Mayhem.
4. Nestled next to Hotbuns on the beach by the Pacific, staring at the ocean and Puff the magic dragon.

Former Position

Monday, March 27, 2006
They are so lucky. Current mood: amused Category: Jobs, Work, Careers
That AT&T has not come up with a way for me to reach through the phone and ring someone's neck.
I am so over leasing this space next to Urban Outfitters.
And now we return to: Stupid People Should Be Sent To Their Own Island and Sterilized.
***Phone ringing
Me: "This Is Cheapshot Von Picklebottom Hotbuns"
Caller: "Yes I was calling about the church for lease in Clifton."
Me: "Well the former Coldstone Creamery, 1243 s.f is available for $45 per s.f. NET at a five year term."
Caller: "How big is 1243 square feet?"
Me: "Um, well, 1243 square ft.. What?"
Caller: "Is it the whole church?"
Me: "Oh no. Urban Outfitters has about 8000 of the total there and Clifton Heights Community Improvement has about, 2000."
Caller: "So, are those businesses?"
Me: "Um, yup...?"
Caller: "But it is a church?"
Me: "Um, yeah, it used to be, then we bought the structure and re-habbed it, then we leased it out as retail.." ****getting really curious at to just where this is going to go****
Caller: "Do you feel that is right?"
Me: "Do I feel what's right? I don't understand?"
Caller: "To desicrate a house of the Lord?"
Me:"Oh, I see....Well, we here at JRARE joined a Satanic Cult about 9 years ago in summer of 1997. In the practices and teachings of the almighty Beelzabub, we have learned that the best way to smite the Holy Father and his son JC, is with hip Urban Wear, Kicky Suede Sneakers, Kitsch and Designer Jeans.....It pleases the Dark Lord....Any other questions?"



Monday, April 24, 2006
Frank the Cat. Current mood: sad Category: Life
What a weekend, the weather was beautiful. I finished digging out, and edging my new flower beds, now I just have to lay the topsoil and do the rock walls.

It was a very sad weekend for us, at the Goldschmidt /Schadler Geln Parker compound.
A few months ago, our dear neighbors, the Goldschmidts, their cat, Frank was hit by a car. It was really bad and he had to have very extensive, life saving surgery. It was really touch and go for awhile and we were not sure if he was going to make it. He did make it through, though his right leg was messed up with torn ligaments and muscles, and, would most likely, never be the same again.

Here is the deal about Frank. Frank is the meanest cat I have ever met. When Buffy found him, he was three weeks old. She had to bottle feed him and wipe his butt, to get him to expel. I guess when you do this to kitties to get them to survive, they grow up to be Satan. Although he is so mean, we all love him so much! I box Frank ("box" meaning, I try to pet him and he slashes my hands with his claws) and we all sing to him. I love looking back into our woods, and seeing Frankles McAnkles, running around, terrorizing the fauna.

Franks is Josh's buddy. Josh is the only human being that Frank does not try to destroy. Every night, Josh screams out the back door, "C'MON FRANK!" Then you see Frankles, run up to him, to go in for cuddle time.

On Saturday night, we had our first official compound grill out, drinking fest. Good times were had, lots of beer was consumed. Around 11 pm, we noticed Frank was missing. He ended up not coming home that night.

Buffy found him Sunday morning, on top of the neighboring apartment buildings' parking deck. We don't know what happened to him, but he had passed away sometime during the night. He was only two, but we think with all of the trauma that he had endured from the accident, ( maybe he passed a clot or had an aneurism, there were no signs of struggle, or outside injuries) had taken him
It was one of the saddest days I have had in awhile. Frank was buried on the compound grounds, Goldschmidt side, in between the Hemlocks, where he loved to sunbathe. Though Frank was a spawn of Satan, we all love him very much, and we will miss him terribly.

Your neighbors

Monday, December 11, 2006

The Quit

Day One: (Actually, Day Three, but who's counting? I am.)

Today is February 17, 2006. I turned 30 years old last January 26. I started smoking in December of 1988, which means I have been a smoker more than half of my life. This week I was stricken with a respiratory virus and have declared my ship a "non-smoking vessel."

I am complying with this, my own declaration.... Reluctantly complying.

While focusing on my compliance to abstain from smoking cigarettes, I had the most fantastic revelation! I should probably quit. Luckily, due to this virus and ensuing cough, my throat is so sore; having a drag right now would be akin to drinking a can of hydrochloric acid. Thank goodness for God's little gifts, I suppose. So, as I try to get myself on "the mend", why not take advantage and begin to change my life for the better? It's easy! Right?


I know I need to quit them, I know they are extremely unhealthy....Though I fool myself into thinking I smoke "healthy" cigarettes; no additives. Hey , I like my cancer, pure and clean; just like God intended! The problem with "clean cigarettes", they are 30% higher in price than the dirty,and though in my mind they are healthier, "there are no safe cigarettes". Well, we can put a man on the moon, we can map the genome, but we can't make a healthy cigarette? I call bullshit.

Surely there must be a way to inhale smoke safely into your lungs?

Being thirty puts me smack into the middle of adulthood, I have no "I can save it until I am 30" procrastination shenanigans to fall back on. I should be mature and "lady like" enough to turn my nose up at this dirty, filthy, disgusting habit. I should be using my money and health on more important matters, like adopting shoes. I could adopt all kinds of shoes, from all over the world! I could be the Angelina Jolie of shoes! (I bet she does not smoke).

So, here I sit, A raw throated, pajama clad, nicotine gum chewing, last season's shoe wearing, thirty something, embarking on "THE QUIT".

God help us all.

I know people who have quit successfully, and all were heavier smokers than I. I know all of the different methods, support groups and pills that are available. Also, if you even mutter under your breath that you are thinking about quitting, many people will start flying out of the woodwork to give you unsolicited advice.

A girlfriend of mine researched all of the negative affects that smoking and nicotine have on your body about two months before she quit. She also researched all of the side effects that happen to your body as it begins detoxing from your nicotine addiction. This way, as she started to experience the feelings and reactions, she was aware that they were normal and part of the process.

I commend my friend on her dedication and admire her wherewithal to see her quit through....... But, I decided to fore go graduate school, so therefore, research and homework, just isn't really happening for me..... Unless there are Cliff's Notes available, then maybe..... Plus, if I were to embark on "homework-like" activities and revert back to my college days, I would feel the urge to smoke. I used to kill half a pack during one research paper, so any new research efforts, may tug on my smoking triggers like Republicans at firing range.

Another friend swears by the patch. This stirs up a lot of negative emotions for me. Number One: Aren't patches for quilts, torn jeans, and Girl Scout sashes? Number Two: I think of pirates.. I just can't see myslef wearing a puffy shirt with a parrot on my shoulder, screaming "ARGGH!" Number 3: What if it clashes with my outfit?

One fellow I talked to gave me this advice from when he quit "the habit": "I decided if I do not do five things, I will not smoke." The five things in question are as follows:
I will not buy a pack.
I will not open a pack.
I will not hold a cigarette.
I will not put a cigarette in my mouth.
I will not light and inhale a cigarette.

God bless his heart, but he's a fucking asshole, pardon my French.

My mother, who is also a fellow smoker, (whaddya know?) and I always toy with the idea of going to a hypnotist to help us break the addiction, without getting really heavy as a result of the quit. My rear end is big enough; a few more inches on this bad boy could cause cataclysmic results on my already stretched wardrobe.

The problem I am having with the thought of a Hypnotist is that, I fancy myself far too mentally superior to succumb to such non-sense. (Eye rolls all around.) Plus, I am a cheapskate. The last time I checked, Hypnotists were pretty pricey and I have not seen any coupons for hypno-therapy in the Penny Saver, lately.

I initially thought that I would learn how to knit, not only to keep my hands occupied, but to also launch my line of custom made penis warmers. (Fine, puppy sweaters, but that is not as funny.) Well, so far it has taken me three weeks to learn how to cast on, and when I finally did, I knitted myself to the afghan on my lap. So, needless, or shall I say, "needleless" to say, knitting is not an option.

I have decided that my method to kick this nasty habbit will result in brilliance. Nicotine gum, exercise and a journal to detail my habit, my companion, and the relationship I have been carrying on for the past seventeen years. Think about it; If my addiction were a teenager, it would be driving by now.

When I was eight years old, I lived on farm about three miles outside of the very small town I was born in, London, Ohio. (We are talking a population of 7,000 small.) Most would say living out in the boonies would be a pretty boring existence, but I loved it. We lived on a 32 acre farm, complete with woods, hay stack barns, livestock and a creek, (pronounced "crick"). This environment presented plenty of positive and healthy things for a third grader to do...

Being from a small town, that incidentally my ancestors help settle, you tend to know everyone, or at least they tend to know you. Also, in farm country, the locals have a tendency to celebrate the seemingly smallest occasions with a festival and a parade. Some little towns have the "Bean Festival", the "Apple Festival" or even a "Pumpkin Festival." In my town, we celebrated the "Steam Thresher Festival", complete with a parade, of course.

You may be wondering, "What in the world is a steam thresher?" A steam thresher is the ancestor to the combine, used to harvest crops, or something of the ilk. It was also powered by STEAM, instead of oil and gasoline..
!t all makes sense now, doesn't it?
To mark this momentous occasion held for our bread and butter, the Steam Thresher; these magnificent machines were paraded down main street, along with marching bands, beauty queens, and budding politicians. They would chug, hiss and toot their way to the fairgrounds to be displayed for all to see. The parade was also the pre-cursor to our county fair, which in this town, was as exciting as fashion week in Paris, France.