Recently on a forum I frequent, a young man brought up death and how it scares him. Many posters responded that the older you get, the less afraid you become of the unavoidable, and that it is totally natural to be afraid of something so unknown and permanent when you are young. There was also a consensus that you start to appreciate life more as you age; you value your days more the older you become.
This made me think.................
THEN WHAT THE HECK IS WRONG WITH ME?
I am 32 years old.
Just typing that makes my skin crawl. I hate getting older, HATE IT.
I work for the University, so I am constantly surrounded by young, vibrant, energetic, hopeful, optimistic, 20 YEAR OLD, students. I watch them walk the halls, talking on their cell phones, laughing, smiling, planning........ I watch and my soul fills with envy and vileness... I feel like a Gollum.. Creeping in the dark corners of the college, observing, obsessing, coveting their youth and happiness..... I just want to jump on their childlike backs and suck out all of their joie de vivre, like some Dick Clark-esque, soul vampire.
I'm PATHETIC.
I lay in bed at night, surrounded by quiet and stillness, gazing out of the window, at the moon and stars and their peaceful light............and I fret. I worry about wrinkles, thinning hair, fat asses, DYING........ Where do we go? Will I see my old dog again? If you get to the edge of the Universe, is there a sign? An Over-look? A camp ground or picnic area? Will Jesus really be a black man? Will there be snacks? What is holding the universe up? Was Clouds in My Coffee really about Warren Beatty?
I lay there, quietly in my bed, the soft touch of the down comforter, the comforting snore of my beloved by my side, and I obsess myself to sleep. When I finally succumb to slumber, I am assaulted via REM with dreams of doom and gloom, and life without Botox.
I know I am ridiculous. I am only 32. I am a young woman, still. I have my entire life ahead of me and I am wasting precious moments and time by obsessing over my own mortality.
I do try to stop, I do! I become very mindful of what I am doing and the self talk begins. ("Self Talk" is the term your therapist gives you to make it okay when you talk to yourself. When you are "Self Talking" and people look at you strangely, every therapist in America agrees that it is okay to tell them to go fuck a rusty nozzle.) So, as I self talk, I start to realize that I am spending precious moments of my life, wasting these moments, on lecturing myself to appreciate these moments more. It's my very own never ending cycle of ridiculousness. Try not to be too jealous.
I feel like I am slipping down a shame spiral, that my quest to be more appreciative and present, is really just a guise to trick myself into feeding my OCD. I have not been taking any medications for over a year now, and slowly I see myself slipping into these bad habits. It's hard to explain and hard for many to understand. When I tell the man who loves me that there was a point in my life, when I could not leave the house until I cleaned the entire house, including, but not limited to, behind every large appliance, window sill, woodwork, and bathroom tile crevices, he looks at me like "Hey, if you were still cray cray, our house would be a lot CLEANER."
Though he understands that I walk a thin line of being somewhat normal and becoming a prisoner to my neurosis, I don't think anyone can really understand what I am going through, unless they are as unfortunate as I am to be afflicted with this disease.
I hope one day, I will be able to not fret and obsess over things I can't control without the aid of medication. Until then, the only answer I can come up with about death is this: "I don't have time to fear dying, right now I am too busy fearing living to even care."
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Monday, October 20, 2008
Copy Kitty Katy Kat
I stole this from my buddy, John at Round is Funny.
What is your favorite word?
Fantastic.
It feels good to say it.
What is your least favorite word?
Right now, socialist. Why? Because all of the maroons out there flapping their gums about it are using it incorrectly.
What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
Food. I love to cook. It's a way for me to be creative and to feel in touch with my mother and grandmothers who left me amazing recipes and talent, and I feel fantastic when I make some one's tummy happy.
What turns you off creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
Egos.
What sound or noise do you love?
Rainy spring and fall mornings.
What sound or noise do you hate?
People who abuse the horn on their car on my street at 12 a.m.
What is your favorite curse word?
I have so many it's hard to choose one.
I'll go with fuckstain.
What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
A princess firefighter.
What profession would you not like to do?
Bean counter.
If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
Hello Gorgeous!
What is your favorite word?
Fantastic.
It feels good to say it.
What is your least favorite word?
Right now, socialist. Why? Because all of the maroons out there flapping their gums about it are using it incorrectly.
What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
Food. I love to cook. It's a way for me to be creative and to feel in touch with my mother and grandmothers who left me amazing recipes and talent, and I feel fantastic when I make some one's tummy happy.
What turns you off creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
Egos.
What sound or noise do you love?
Rainy spring and fall mornings.
What sound or noise do you hate?
People who abuse the horn on their car on my street at 12 a.m.
What is your favorite curse word?
I have so many it's hard to choose one.
I'll go with fuckstain.
What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
A princess firefighter.
What profession would you not like to do?
Bean counter.
If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
Hello Gorgeous!
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Dear Urban Outfitters,
We need to talk.
When we first made eye contact in 1998, I was smitten. It was love at first site, instant attraction and chemistry; I was sure you were "The One." Your style was just like mine, I felt like I was finally a united Gemini, I was whole. I mean, come on! A black cowl-neck sweater, with special THUMB HOLES on the extra long sleeves? I usually have to rip thumb holes in my sweater to accommodate and warm my opposing digits. But you, with your infinite style wisdom, had taken the extra step to bring comfort and warmth to the body part that separates humans from animals. WELL DONE.
It was the beginning of an incredibly, beautiful, friendship.
Through the years I have depended on your sales rack in times of trouble and despair. I have exulted in the arrival of your catalog and down right laid on the ground and cried tears of elated joy at the grand opening of your store in my town, located down the street from my house. LESS THAN A MILE AWAY.
WE WERE PRACTICALLY NEIGHBORS!
We were reunited and it felt so, so, good.
Housewares, underwear, shoes, sundresses and giant sunglasses, OH MY! I was in heaven.
Fast forward five years and the world has changed, but do I still feel the same? I still get that little rush of excitement when I see the "UO" symbol sticking out in my pile of mail, yet that rush is soon followed by an empty feeling of indifference. The bees of excitement that would go crazy in my belly have been replaced by a regular, squishy feeling. The thrill of the first scent of commerce upon walking through your doors used to make me giddy and now makes me feel nothing.
It's over.
This conclusion was not an easy one to come to. I came to this conclusion after much denial and personal anguish.
I have outgrown you.
I know, I can't believe it either.
I was born in 1976, and though I was only in "short pants" when 1980 rolled around, I remember the Eighties quite well. I also remember what people were wearing whether fashionable, or questionable. There are many trends in the Eighties that I liked, and still think are flattering and beautiful.
HOWEVER, there are many trends from the Eighties that should be erased from our memories, vaulted in a nuclear bomb shelter, never to be remembered again. Unfortunately, these trends make up about 88% of your summer and fall line for 2008.
The truth in my outgrowing our relationship, is evident in the old adage, "If you remember a trend the first time around, you are too old to wear it the second time."
Such infinite wisdom from such clichés, I know.
BUT..........
Your line is seriously fugly, completely unflattering, and the materials you are using are egregiously cheap.
Pardon my French, but where the fuck do you get off? In order to wear any of these shapeless frocks without looking like a hippo in a mu mu, a young woman must only weigh about 90 pounds. Young women like to be "hip" and "cute" many, who have healthy, beautiful, bodies, don these garments and they look like shapeless, blobs with no waists, curves or butts. Not a good look for 90% of American women.
Also, let's talk about that hemline. Did Patsy Darling finally snap her fingers to raise hemlines so high that we are all now aspiring gynocologists? I am down with a "mini", I am not down with being able to spy a strangers dungarees in the event of a cool breeze.
Also, what is up with the banded bottom?
Anyone who tries to wear this dress that has even the slightest shape in their hips and thighs, ends up looking like a bubble sack. In fact, the last time I saw someone wearing an outfit like this was when Blanche Devereaux pranced around the shuffleboard deck on the Swinging Seniors cruise she, Dorothy and Rose took to Mexico.
NOT A GOOD LOOK.
And finally, may I present the most damning of evidence that you, Urban Outfitters, are perpetuating the "fugly".
You cannot be serious. Please, please, please tell me this is a joke!
HEAVY METAL MOCCASINS?
The only people who should ever adorn their feet with these abominations are those terminally lost in the crowd at a Tesla concert in 1987, Native Americans during a peyote ritual, or trailer park Satan Worshippers/Renaissance Fair actors.
They are just WRONG.
Based on all of this damning evidence, I have come to the conclusion that it is time to sever all ties with you and not just because I have outgrown you, but because your beauty has worn off, the looks have faded and you are a shell of your former self. I hate to be harsh, but I have to be strong.
I will miss you and the times we had together. I may reunite with you in the future for brief flings with drastically-reduced-in- price picture frames and bedroom quilts, but our apparel days are over.
It was good while it lasted, but now, it is time to bid "adieu."
Take care of yourself and tell your sister, Anthropologie, I said "s'up."
The Confused Dildo
When we first made eye contact in 1998, I was smitten. It was love at first site, instant attraction and chemistry; I was sure you were "The One." Your style was just like mine, I felt like I was finally a united Gemini, I was whole. I mean, come on! A black cowl-neck sweater, with special THUMB HOLES on the extra long sleeves? I usually have to rip thumb holes in my sweater to accommodate and warm my opposing digits. But you, with your infinite style wisdom, had taken the extra step to bring comfort and warmth to the body part that separates humans from animals. WELL DONE.
It was the beginning of an incredibly, beautiful, friendship.
Through the years I have depended on your sales rack in times of trouble and despair. I have exulted in the arrival of your catalog and down right laid on the ground and cried tears of elated joy at the grand opening of your store in my town, located down the street from my house. LESS THAN A MILE AWAY.
WE WERE PRACTICALLY NEIGHBORS!
We were reunited and it felt so, so, good.
Housewares, underwear, shoes, sundresses and giant sunglasses, OH MY! I was in heaven.
Fast forward five years and the world has changed, but do I still feel the same? I still get that little rush of excitement when I see the "UO" symbol sticking out in my pile of mail, yet that rush is soon followed by an empty feeling of indifference. The bees of excitement that would go crazy in my belly have been replaced by a regular, squishy feeling. The thrill of the first scent of commerce upon walking through your doors used to make me giddy and now makes me feel nothing.
It's over.
This conclusion was not an easy one to come to. I came to this conclusion after much denial and personal anguish.
I have outgrown you.
I know, I can't believe it either.
I was born in 1976, and though I was only in "short pants" when 1980 rolled around, I remember the Eighties quite well. I also remember what people were wearing whether fashionable, or questionable. There are many trends in the Eighties that I liked, and still think are flattering and beautiful.
HOWEVER, there are many trends from the Eighties that should be erased from our memories, vaulted in a nuclear bomb shelter, never to be remembered again. Unfortunately, these trends make up about 88% of your summer and fall line for 2008.
The truth in my outgrowing our relationship, is evident in the old adage, "If you remember a trend the first time around, you are too old to wear it the second time."
Such infinite wisdom from such clichés, I know.
BUT..........
Your line is seriously fugly, completely unflattering, and the materials you are using are egregiously cheap.
Pardon my French, but where the fuck do you get off? In order to wear any of these shapeless frocks without looking like a hippo in a mu mu, a young woman must only weigh about 90 pounds. Young women like to be "hip" and "cute" many, who have healthy, beautiful, bodies, don these garments and they look like shapeless, blobs with no waists, curves or butts. Not a good look for 90% of American women.
Also, let's talk about that hemline. Did Patsy Darling finally snap her fingers to raise hemlines so high that we are all now aspiring gynocologists? I am down with a "mini", I am not down with being able to spy a strangers dungarees in the event of a cool breeze.
Also, what is up with the banded bottom?
Anyone who tries to wear this dress that has even the slightest shape in their hips and thighs, ends up looking like a bubble sack. In fact, the last time I saw someone wearing an outfit like this was when Blanche Devereaux pranced around the shuffleboard deck on the Swinging Seniors cruise she, Dorothy and Rose took to Mexico.
NOT A GOOD LOOK.
And finally, may I present the most damning of evidence that you, Urban Outfitters, are perpetuating the "fugly".
You cannot be serious. Please, please, please tell me this is a joke!
HEAVY METAL MOCCASINS?
The only people who should ever adorn their feet with these abominations are those terminally lost in the crowd at a Tesla concert in 1987, Native Americans during a peyote ritual, or trailer park Satan Worshippers/Renaissance Fair actors.
They are just WRONG.
Based on all of this damning evidence, I have come to the conclusion that it is time to sever all ties with you and not just because I have outgrown you, but because your beauty has worn off, the looks have faded and you are a shell of your former self. I hate to be harsh, but I have to be strong.
I will miss you and the times we had together. I may reunite with you in the future for brief flings with drastically-reduced-in- price picture frames and bedroom quilts, but our apparel days are over.
It was good while it lasted, but now, it is time to bid "adieu."
Take care of yourself and tell your sister, Anthropologie, I said "s'up."
The Confused Dildo
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Men in Cars
Dear Men in Cars,
When I am running down the street, wearing a jogging suit and headphones without a Ben And Jerry's delivery truck in front of me or a heard of elephants chasing me, it is safe to assume that I am doing it on purpose.
So, I don't need a ride, thanks.
Now, I know gas is expensive these days and you just circled around the block three times to "make sure" I didn't need a ride, (thanks for your concern and diligence, by the way), but I really don't want a ride. I know that sometimes when you are being generous and your random act of kindness is rejected, it can be frustrating! However, it is probably better for you to quell your disappointment, lest you say something unnecessarily MEAN.
You see, the reason I am running down the street is because I am aware of the fact that my ass if fat. Maybe you were pointing that out for my benefit, in case I was not aware? If so, thank you for your concern, I know I have a big, fat ass, running usually alleviates this condition.
Now, when I suit up to run, I wash the make up off of my face and throw my hair back, haphazardly, in order to keep it out of my face, as well as keep the sweat out of my pores. I will admit, I don't look so hot. When you add this to the fact that my blood is pumping and my smokey, "pool hall", poor excuses for lungs, are in overdrive to get oxygen to my blood cells; the tendency is that my face is usually a disturbing shade of fuscia, or puce, if you will.
Not the best look, I know, but I am aware of it. When you pointedly informed me that I was an "ugly bitch", thanks for the information, but the proper authorities had already been notified and appropriate measures were being implemented, i.e. the firing squad was lining up in my backyard getting ready to humanely put me out of my misery.
So, men in cars, I want to express my deepest gratitude for your concern for my well being and for the offer of the ride. I know that these gestures are coming from a place of love and concern, and God is smiling down upon you and your deep concern for society not having to be exposed to my "Fat Ass Ugliness". Your determination and powers of persuasion (i.e. driving around the block three times to try to get me into your vehicle) were not unnoticed. Thank you for taking the time and for the environmentally harmful emissions expelled from your car on behalf of little (well not so much, due to my big fat ass), old me and my welfare. Thank you, thank you, thank you, men in cars, but may I leave you with some words of wisdom? If I am ever in need of a ride within the city I live, I will take the bus.
Kindest Regards,
Me.
When I am running down the street, wearing a jogging suit and headphones without a Ben And Jerry's delivery truck in front of me or a heard of elephants chasing me, it is safe to assume that I am doing it on purpose.
So, I don't need a ride, thanks.
Now, I know gas is expensive these days and you just circled around the block three times to "make sure" I didn't need a ride, (thanks for your concern and diligence, by the way), but I really don't want a ride. I know that sometimes when you are being generous and your random act of kindness is rejected, it can be frustrating! However, it is probably better for you to quell your disappointment, lest you say something unnecessarily MEAN.
You see, the reason I am running down the street is because I am aware of the fact that my ass if fat. Maybe you were pointing that out for my benefit, in case I was not aware? If so, thank you for your concern, I know I have a big, fat ass, running usually alleviates this condition.
Now, when I suit up to run, I wash the make up off of my face and throw my hair back, haphazardly, in order to keep it out of my face, as well as keep the sweat out of my pores. I will admit, I don't look so hot. When you add this to the fact that my blood is pumping and my smokey, "pool hall", poor excuses for lungs, are in overdrive to get oxygen to my blood cells; the tendency is that my face is usually a disturbing shade of fuscia, or puce, if you will.
Not the best look, I know, but I am aware of it. When you pointedly informed me that I was an "ugly bitch", thanks for the information, but the proper authorities had already been notified and appropriate measures were being implemented, i.e. the firing squad was lining up in my backyard getting ready to humanely put me out of my misery.
So, men in cars, I want to express my deepest gratitude for your concern for my well being and for the offer of the ride. I know that these gestures are coming from a place of love and concern, and God is smiling down upon you and your deep concern for society not having to be exposed to my "Fat Ass Ugliness". Your determination and powers of persuasion (i.e. driving around the block three times to try to get me into your vehicle) were not unnoticed. Thank you for taking the time and for the environmentally harmful emissions expelled from your car on behalf of little (well not so much, due to my big fat ass), old me and my welfare. Thank you, thank you, thank you, men in cars, but may I leave you with some words of wisdom? If I am ever in need of a ride within the city I live, I will take the bus.
Kindest Regards,
Me.
Friday, March 21, 2008
GANGLAND
Our house is located in the middle of one of the oldest, "old growth-forests" in Cincinnati, Parker Woods. I have lived in my house for four years and I have never seen head nor "hoot" of an owl near our house. I knew they had to be there, in fact, I had heard them in the distant corners of the woods, but had not seen nor heard any in our backyard.
Well, NOT ANYMORE.
Apparently our little corner of the woods has become some sort of "den of vice" for owls looking to procreate, or maybe to engage in more nefarious shenanigans?
The owls, oh boy, the owls! They are loud and they sound scary! Especially if you have never been five feet away from two owls having some sort of "discussion."
The first night I heard the chaos was last Sunday while Mr. Hotbuns was still out of town and the little ones were at their mom's house. I was all ALONE in my very dark bedroom.... by myself....TOTALLY ALONE....Except for the cat. I was awakened by this very loud "OOH OOH OOH!" and then the sound of very large, very powerful, wings flapping right out side the window. (Though at the time it seemed like this was going on right in front of my face.) This disturbing ruckus made me think there was a Ring Wraith outside of my window on a flying dragon.
Then I heard ""OOH OOH OOH!!!!!!!""" again followed by a high pitched, Fozzy Bear, "WAKKA WAKKA WAKKA WAKKA!" and then some more, pretty serious, flapping noises.
It sounded like a duel between two cracked out unicorns.
The thought running through my mind?
"Yo' ass is grass, Frodo Baggins."
After I was done crapping the bed, I grew baby balls, big enough to come out from under the covers and look out of the window. As soon as I peered out towards the yard, two, GIANT OWLS flew right in front of my window! I could detail their feathers, they were so close.... I jumped back, fearing I was going to get "winged" in the face, they were so close.... Which, in turn, sent me back under the bed.
After I self talked myself out of my panic, I finally came out from under the bed, on a mission to figure out what the hell just happened. I approached the window, trying to remain brave, I could see the perpetrators on top of our shed sharing a tender moment... or so I thought was a tender moment.
I felt a wave of relief and crawled back under the covers. I mean, I had THE ENTIRE BED to myself, I needed to enjoy it. As I awoke the next morning, I had pretty much forgotten about the incident and went about my day. I chose to look at the bright side, I have owls humping in my backyard....This only means baby owls and I am a sucker for "baby" anything.
Well last night as I laid in bed, feeling total relaxation setting into my entire body, my mellow was totally crashed by the sound of Mr. Hotbuns running up the stairs calling for me:
"There is something really fucking weird going on! Oh My God!"
I sat up startled thinking that our house was possibly being taken over by the band of Mormon missionaries who live up the street, or that our drunken, crazy, neighbor set his hair on fire again, when I heard:
"WAKKA WAKKA WAKKA!"
Oh fantastic! The horny owls were back, fucking the night away on my shed. I prayed they would just freaking get it over with and be off smoking cigarettes somewhere, commenting on how great each other were before midnight. After some more furios flapping and beak clacking, they both took flight to finish the dance of night someplace else.
After the two love birds made their get away, Mr. Hotbuns and I started to discuss what had just happened and how tonight was NOTHING compared to the boisterous love making of the night before.
However, we were both kind of stricken with a sense that there was no love between these two creatures of the night, unless owls, unlike what we had been under the impression of before, really liked it rough.
What do you do when you are in doubt? Well, I don't know what you do, but I certainly turn to "Google" when I am in a knowledge pickle.
Unfortunately, after some extensive Googling and Wikipedia-ing, we were faced with a very harsh realization: What we mistakenly thought were owls caught in the throes of love, were actually owls in the middle of a turf war.
Perfect.
We were living in the South Central of the nocturnal world and my house is located right on Crenshaw.
Totally awesome.
Well, NOT ANYMORE.
Apparently our little corner of the woods has become some sort of "den of vice" for owls looking to procreate, or maybe to engage in more nefarious shenanigans?
The owls, oh boy, the owls! They are loud and they sound scary! Especially if you have never been five feet away from two owls having some sort of "discussion."
The first night I heard the chaos was last Sunday while Mr. Hotbuns was still out of town and the little ones were at their mom's house. I was all ALONE in my very dark bedroom.... by myself....TOTALLY ALONE....Except for the cat. I was awakened by this very loud "OOH OOH OOH!" and then the sound of very large, very powerful, wings flapping right out side the window. (Though at the time it seemed like this was going on right in front of my face.) This disturbing ruckus made me think there was a Ring Wraith outside of my window on a flying dragon.
Then I heard ""OOH OOH OOH!!!!!!!""" again followed by a high pitched, Fozzy Bear, "WAKKA WAKKA WAKKA WAKKA!" and then some more, pretty serious, flapping noises.
It sounded like a duel between two cracked out unicorns.
The thought running through my mind?
"Yo' ass is grass, Frodo Baggins."
After I was done crapping the bed, I grew baby balls, big enough to come out from under the covers and look out of the window. As soon as I peered out towards the yard, two, GIANT OWLS flew right in front of my window! I could detail their feathers, they were so close.... I jumped back, fearing I was going to get "winged" in the face, they were so close.... Which, in turn, sent me back under the bed.
After I self talked myself out of my panic, I finally came out from under the bed, on a mission to figure out what the hell just happened. I approached the window, trying to remain brave, I could see the perpetrators on top of our shed sharing a tender moment... or so I thought was a tender moment.
I felt a wave of relief and crawled back under the covers. I mean, I had THE ENTIRE BED to myself, I needed to enjoy it. As I awoke the next morning, I had pretty much forgotten about the incident and went about my day. I chose to look at the bright side, I have owls humping in my backyard....This only means baby owls and I am a sucker for "baby" anything.
Well last night as I laid in bed, feeling total relaxation setting into my entire body, my mellow was totally crashed by the sound of Mr. Hotbuns running up the stairs calling for me:
"There is something really fucking weird going on! Oh My God!"
I sat up startled thinking that our house was possibly being taken over by the band of Mormon missionaries who live up the street, or that our drunken, crazy, neighbor set his hair on fire again, when I heard:
"WAKKA WAKKA WAKKA!"
Oh fantastic! The horny owls were back, fucking the night away on my shed. I prayed they would just freaking get it over with and be off smoking cigarettes somewhere, commenting on how great each other were before midnight. After some more furios flapping and beak clacking, they both took flight to finish the dance of night someplace else.
After the two love birds made their get away, Mr. Hotbuns and I started to discuss what had just happened and how tonight was NOTHING compared to the boisterous love making of the night before.
However, we were both kind of stricken with a sense that there was no love between these two creatures of the night, unless owls, unlike what we had been under the impression of before, really liked it rough.
What do you do when you are in doubt? Well, I don't know what you do, but I certainly turn to "Google" when I am in a knowledge pickle.
Unfortunately, after some extensive Googling and Wikipedia-ing, we were faced with a very harsh realization: What we mistakenly thought were owls caught in the throes of love, were actually owls in the middle of a turf war.
Perfect.
We were living in the South Central of the nocturnal world and my house is located right on Crenshaw.
Totally awesome.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Will They Reminisce Over You?
Being employed by a company who excels at micro managing, every day is rigorously scheduled. You may unchain yourself from your desk at 10:15 to piss and smoke and by 10:12, my co-workers and I get quite antsy, anticipating the fifteen minutes of freedom so close on the horizon. I imagine myself as Andy Dufrane, queerly giddy, watching my comrades drink beer in the warm, spring sun, as we make our way to the corporate patio, feeling, if just for a few minutes, free.
This morning during our break, oddly, there were a group of young boys, (around 8 or 9 years of age) crowded on the shores of the office park pond, hurling rocks onto the weak, thin, cover of ice. We struck up a conversation about why those boys were doing that? Is that fun? I thought about the kids in my life and how Young Son will sit out in the woods in our back yard and slap a tree stump with a stick for hours on end, so yes, I can see how tossing rocks onto thin ice for hours at a time can be amusing.
This got me reminiscing my own childhood, growing up in the country and the weird shit we used to do. We lived on about 50 acres of farmland which consisted of pastures, woods and about a dozen dilapidated barns. My parents were not farmers, but we did lease the land out to a cattle rancher in town who had exceeded his own land, so there was plenty of livestock to chase and harass. Mr. Murray (the rancher) was really nice. Thanks to himself and his farm hands, I learned how to cuss like a pro, as well as dip by age seven.
My brother and sister and I are very lucky people. Not only because growing up on the farm kind of rules the school for little kids, not to mention the added bonus that we were NOT farmers, so there were no ass busting chores we had to embark on at day break, but, because we are alive today. There were so many “games” we played that could have killed us. The only casualties to ever happen were some broken arms and a few stitches here and there.
We had a hay stack (can I get a HELL YEAH!?), where we would pile the bales on top of each other until we could get to the rafters. We then would un-string a hay bale and use the STRING to tie to the rafters to swing across the barn. SAFETY FIRST! Amazingly enough, only one time did I bust the string while in mid-swing. It wasn’t too damaging to me, as there was a big pile of hay to break my fall, though I did find the needle in the haystack that day. It was sticking out of my butt crack.
Way back in the cow pasture, near our property line, there were a bunch of stone foundations from, what we referred to as “old pioneer homes” and barns. Out of all of the structures, only one was still in tact; a small shed that had a spigot from a natural spring that flowed into a rusty old tub, so there was always “fresh water”. We played “house” back there all of the time and DRANK from the rusty old tub. God made rust, too.
One game we liked to play was “Make the cows mad!” This consisted of us grabbing some sticks and rocks, the casing the pasture until we found where the herd was hanging out. Then we, along with the dogs would run up screaming, throwing rocks and slapping them with sticks to get them to “stampede”. We were obsessed with cowboys, so we did this to try to lasso them and play “rodeo”. None of us were ever really close to being trampled, though if it had happened, we would have totally deserved it. We also liked to run through the feed troughs when they were eating. We were dicks.
One game that was always a pleasure was finding petrified cow patties to throw at one another. Good times.
We had quite the groundhog problem on this farm. Every spring, the farmhands would drive up to the fence around our pasture with long-range rifles and cases of beer. They would sit there for hours looking through the scopes on the rifles, waiting for a groundhog to pop up, then they would shoot it. I LOVED hanging with them when they did this,(hence the cussing and dipping) and I shot my first animal, (a vile groundhog) with help from Roy (the main hand) at age 8. After they would shoot a few, they would drive into the pasture to pickup the carcasses and fill in the holes.
Ground hog holes are dangerous for livestock. Livestock animals are stupid. They don’t watch where they are going and fall into the holes, breaking their legs and dying. Livestock animals are also incredibly expensive, so one dying in the night due to a fall, was a huge net loss, therefore there needed to be as much damage control as possible to prevent these situations.
I also fucking hated the damn things. They were vicious assholes that would chase you and if they got a hold of you, very likely might maul you to death. Luckily we had Beauregard J Puppy dog, defender of small children and ground hog assassinator, who saved me from numerous ground hog maulings. Beau was a bad ass and quite the killer. Unfortunately, we had a couple of other dogs and cats that perished at the fangs of the dreaded groundhog. One puppy, Bouncer, got his jaw ripped off by one of these nefarious creatures. He limped up to the porch and the jaw bone was dangling from his face by a thread of flesh. My mom had to hold his torn jaw to his face, tie a bandage around his head, and drive him to the large animal vet down the road to have him put down.
The day I shot that damn ground hog, I did it for Bouncer, man.
One day, my sister and I were walking through the pastures, looking for some cows to bully and we found a rotting ground hog carcass. After inspecting it thoroughly, WITH OUR BARE HANDS, we yanked its jaw out, then started unhinging its teeth to fashion a tooth necklace for Bouncers Revenge. I don’t recall ever seeing a movie where someone did this, so I think this is proof that savagery and revenge are inherent human emotions. We then headed inside to have dinner and I doubt we washed our hands, though Mom did not let us keep the groundhog teeth to make our necklaces. Le Sigh.
My friend J grew up on a farm, too. We like to swap stories on whose upbringing was grosser and who had the least supervision. I think I beat her on the supervision part, as my parents NEVER knew what we were up to, but, she beat me on gross with this doozy. Her daddy was a pig farmer and in the spring they had to slaughter. After the pigs were slaughtered, gutted and parted, they would toss the remains behind the barn before the disposed correctly of them. Well, the remains became bouncy and J and her siblings liked to jump on them, for they were quite springy and soft. Her parents hated this and finally bargained with the kids that if they bought them a trampoline, the kids would stop jumping on the pig remains. J, to this day swears it was more fun to jump on the dead pigs, but never did again out of respect for her parents.
So, there you have it. Kids do really dumb and gross things to entertain themselves. I wish I was back there on that farm, sitting on the fence, contemplating my next move, rather than tied to this desk, at this soul sucking job. My only pleasure was remembering all of this for you all.
Happy Holidays.
This morning during our break, oddly, there were a group of young boys, (around 8 or 9 years of age) crowded on the shores of the office park pond, hurling rocks onto the weak, thin, cover of ice. We struck up a conversation about why those boys were doing that? Is that fun? I thought about the kids in my life and how Young Son will sit out in the woods in our back yard and slap a tree stump with a stick for hours on end, so yes, I can see how tossing rocks onto thin ice for hours at a time can be amusing.
This got me reminiscing my own childhood, growing up in the country and the weird shit we used to do. We lived on about 50 acres of farmland which consisted of pastures, woods and about a dozen dilapidated barns. My parents were not farmers, but we did lease the land out to a cattle rancher in town who had exceeded his own land, so there was plenty of livestock to chase and harass. Mr. Murray (the rancher) was really nice. Thanks to himself and his farm hands, I learned how to cuss like a pro, as well as dip by age seven.
My brother and sister and I are very lucky people. Not only because growing up on the farm kind of rules the school for little kids, not to mention the added bonus that we were NOT farmers, so there were no ass busting chores we had to embark on at day break, but, because we are alive today. There were so many “games” we played that could have killed us. The only casualties to ever happen were some broken arms and a few stitches here and there.
We had a hay stack (can I get a HELL YEAH!?), where we would pile the bales on top of each other until we could get to the rafters. We then would un-string a hay bale and use the STRING to tie to the rafters to swing across the barn. SAFETY FIRST! Amazingly enough, only one time did I bust the string while in mid-swing. It wasn’t too damaging to me, as there was a big pile of hay to break my fall, though I did find the needle in the haystack that day. It was sticking out of my butt crack.
Way back in the cow pasture, near our property line, there were a bunch of stone foundations from, what we referred to as “old pioneer homes” and barns. Out of all of the structures, only one was still in tact; a small shed that had a spigot from a natural spring that flowed into a rusty old tub, so there was always “fresh water”. We played “house” back there all of the time and DRANK from the rusty old tub. God made rust, too.
One game we liked to play was “Make the cows mad!” This consisted of us grabbing some sticks and rocks, the casing the pasture until we found where the herd was hanging out. Then we, along with the dogs would run up screaming, throwing rocks and slapping them with sticks to get them to “stampede”. We were obsessed with cowboys, so we did this to try to lasso them and play “rodeo”. None of us were ever really close to being trampled, though if it had happened, we would have totally deserved it. We also liked to run through the feed troughs when they were eating. We were dicks.
One game that was always a pleasure was finding petrified cow patties to throw at one another. Good times.
We had quite the groundhog problem on this farm. Every spring, the farmhands would drive up to the fence around our pasture with long-range rifles and cases of beer. They would sit there for hours looking through the scopes on the rifles, waiting for a groundhog to pop up, then they would shoot it. I LOVED hanging with them when they did this,(hence the cussing and dipping) and I shot my first animal, (a vile groundhog) with help from Roy (the main hand) at age 8. After they would shoot a few, they would drive into the pasture to pickup the carcasses and fill in the holes.
Ground hog holes are dangerous for livestock. Livestock animals are stupid. They don’t watch where they are going and fall into the holes, breaking their legs and dying. Livestock animals are also incredibly expensive, so one dying in the night due to a fall, was a huge net loss, therefore there needed to be as much damage control as possible to prevent these situations.
I also fucking hated the damn things. They were vicious assholes that would chase you and if they got a hold of you, very likely might maul you to death. Luckily we had Beauregard J Puppy dog, defender of small children and ground hog assassinator, who saved me from numerous ground hog maulings. Beau was a bad ass and quite the killer. Unfortunately, we had a couple of other dogs and cats that perished at the fangs of the dreaded groundhog. One puppy, Bouncer, got his jaw ripped off by one of these nefarious creatures. He limped up to the porch and the jaw bone was dangling from his face by a thread of flesh. My mom had to hold his torn jaw to his face, tie a bandage around his head, and drive him to the large animal vet down the road to have him put down.
The day I shot that damn ground hog, I did it for Bouncer, man.
One day, my sister and I were walking through the pastures, looking for some cows to bully and we found a rotting ground hog carcass. After inspecting it thoroughly, WITH OUR BARE HANDS, we yanked its jaw out, then started unhinging its teeth to fashion a tooth necklace for Bouncers Revenge. I don’t recall ever seeing a movie where someone did this, so I think this is proof that savagery and revenge are inherent human emotions. We then headed inside to have dinner and I doubt we washed our hands, though Mom did not let us keep the groundhog teeth to make our necklaces. Le Sigh.
My friend J grew up on a farm, too. We like to swap stories on whose upbringing was grosser and who had the least supervision. I think I beat her on the supervision part, as my parents NEVER knew what we were up to, but, she beat me on gross with this doozy. Her daddy was a pig farmer and in the spring they had to slaughter. After the pigs were slaughtered, gutted and parted, they would toss the remains behind the barn before the disposed correctly of them. Well, the remains became bouncy and J and her siblings liked to jump on them, for they were quite springy and soft. Her parents hated this and finally bargained with the kids that if they bought them a trampoline, the kids would stop jumping on the pig remains. J, to this day swears it was more fun to jump on the dead pigs, but never did again out of respect for her parents.
So, there you have it. Kids do really dumb and gross things to entertain themselves. I wish I was back there on that farm, sitting on the fence, contemplating my next move, rather than tied to this desk, at this soul sucking job. My only pleasure was remembering all of this for you all.
Happy Holidays.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
What's Driving You Crazy Today, Kate?
What isn't driving me crazy?
I cannot believe that the end of times are upon us. I thought there were at least two more weeks before the pain, torture and hangovers of the Holidays ensued. But, alas, Thanksgiving is next week. That sucks major dong.
These are driving me crazy.
There is nothing more confusing to me than the kiosk ponytail. I can understand the desire for luscious, thick, shiny hair. I too, covet Gisele Bunchen's seemingly silky, luxurious locks, and envy each layer of perfectly healthy, non-splitting, Rapunzelesque hair. I get it. I want it. I would do almost anything to have it. ALMOST.
Here is a lesson for the ladies: You can't purchase hair at the mall for $14.99 at the Kiosk next to the festively painted hermit crabs and mood rings.You just can't. You are not fooling anyone.
Underpants, jeans, shoes, vibrating chairs, as well as many other wonderful items are available at the mall for your procurement. You can even buy creams, lards and diamond dusts that promise, PROMISE, to turn your hair from split and flat, to bouncy and phat.
Here is the deal, if you are under the impression that a pony tail with the same make up and DNA of Barbie's (Barbie the PLASTIC doll) is going to wow the masses and inspire envy to all of those who lay their eyes on your luscious locks of deceit, you are wrong.
And for pete's sake, if it falls out on the street after a fierce and crushing cat fight, (especially if this takes place on my street, you little bitches) PICK THE DAMN THING UP.
I am sooooooooo tired of driving up my street after a hard day, dreaming about lounging in my bed, gazing at the latest saga of Elizabeth, Lucky and Jason in General Hospital on the DVR, while dining on chicken Thai basil; to be cruelly thrust back into reality when I spot something furry and animal looking in the middle of the street.
My stomach tightens and my palms get all clammy, thinking that maybe, this time, it is an animal,or more importantly, one my furry friends, who has met their maker in the cold, cold street.... As I approach the fuzzy mass, the gross realization sets in that your $14.99 promise of hair envy, has been ripped off of your dumb and delusional head, and is now littering my street. What seems obvious to me is, if this piece of $14.99 heaven isn't even worth you picking it up after it is violently ripped from your head, why waste money on it?
Just stop it. I am tired of the adrenaline rush of terror, then anger, to see that it is just another rotting corpse in the battle of teenage angst, purchased at the mall.
I cannot believe that the end of times are upon us. I thought there were at least two more weeks before the pain, torture and hangovers of the Holidays ensued. But, alas, Thanksgiving is next week. That sucks major dong.
These are driving me crazy.
There is nothing more confusing to me than the kiosk ponytail. I can understand the desire for luscious, thick, shiny hair. I too, covet Gisele Bunchen's seemingly silky, luxurious locks, and envy each layer of perfectly healthy, non-splitting, Rapunzelesque hair. I get it. I want it. I would do almost anything to have it. ALMOST.
Here is a lesson for the ladies: You can't purchase hair at the mall for $14.99 at the Kiosk next to the festively painted hermit crabs and mood rings.You just can't. You are not fooling anyone.
Underpants, jeans, shoes, vibrating chairs, as well as many other wonderful items are available at the mall for your procurement. You can even buy creams, lards and diamond dusts that promise, PROMISE, to turn your hair from split and flat, to bouncy and phat.
Here is the deal, if you are under the impression that a pony tail with the same make up and DNA of Barbie's (Barbie the PLASTIC doll) is going to wow the masses and inspire envy to all of those who lay their eyes on your luscious locks of deceit, you are wrong.
And for pete's sake, if it falls out on the street after a fierce and crushing cat fight, (especially if this takes place on my street, you little bitches) PICK THE DAMN THING UP.
I am sooooooooo tired of driving up my street after a hard day, dreaming about lounging in my bed, gazing at the latest saga of Elizabeth, Lucky and Jason in General Hospital on the DVR, while dining on chicken Thai basil; to be cruelly thrust back into reality when I spot something furry and animal looking in the middle of the street.
My stomach tightens and my palms get all clammy, thinking that maybe, this time, it is an animal,or more importantly, one my furry friends, who has met their maker in the cold, cold street.... As I approach the fuzzy mass, the gross realization sets in that your $14.99 promise of hair envy, has been ripped off of your dumb and delusional head, and is now littering my street. What seems obvious to me is, if this piece of $14.99 heaven isn't even worth you picking it up after it is violently ripped from your head, why waste money on it?
Just stop it. I am tired of the adrenaline rush of terror, then anger, to see that it is just another rotting corpse in the battle of teenage angst, purchased at the mall.
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