PRELIMINARIES . . .
On the drive home from my evening revelries, I began to feel stressed out from the sensory overload of the night. So I turned off the radio -- no classic rock for tonight's drive -- and decided to soak in some silence instead. But it's at these moments of quiet thoughtfulness when the mind and the eyes pick up on the strangest things and dwell on them, for better or for worse.
Tonight, it was lane markers.
During the day, crews must have come through the local streets leading to my neighborhood and repainted the double yellow lines in the middle of the roads. By the gleam of my headlights, they blared a bright neon yellow, catching and holding my attention all the way home. I couldn't look away, they were so straight and clean and neat. I love clean and neat things. Like newly-painted double yellow lane markers. I was so sad when they ended inside my neighborhood and I was back to staring at plain black pavement.
***
BUCKET SEATS . . .
Let it be said that the back seat of a tiny BMW convertible is not the most comfortable place in which I've ever settled myself. The Who's "Tommy" only slightly improved the experience, but with my lingering weepies, a liquid lunch-induced malaise and C incessantly droning on about my allegedly abnormally large head and other increasingly sensitive topics, I wouldn't exactly say that the 40-minute ride from the courthouse into the city was a pleasure cruise. Remember, where one or more (men) are gathered, filter-lessness prevails . . . I would like to note for the record, however, that my head is not abnormally large, no matter C's protestations to the contrary.
***
DEFLATION, ROUND TWO . . .
C, JW and I arrive at Cornell Hospital to see our beloved M, only to discover to our greatest dismay that she's being held hostage for ANOTHER FOUR WEEKS. Now, we all know that this is for the Noodles' (and M's) benefit. We all know that pushing out two fat, healthy and adorable babies in five months and no sooner is the ultimate goal. We all know that we, at least, have to keep our chins up and our spirits rallying so M can get through this hostage crisis. But if I had been alone at the moment, I would've just knelt and cried until I could cry no more.
Why should I be so upset? M and I are not best friends, having grown up sharing each other's every pain and joy. I'm not the one lying in the hospital bed, not allowed to get out for anything but a quick pee and an even quicker shower. I'm not the one bearing two of the most precious Noodles ever to have been borne by any woman ever. I'm not the husband fighting off loneliness and daily trying to muster up enough good cheer to share with everyone. No, I'm none of these things. But these omissions don't prevent me from loving M and C and the Noodles any less, and wishing for all the small and great happinesses and reliefs they wish for, and wanting M to be home with her family. Bleh . . . four more weeks. A mere four weeks. Simply four weeks. Four whole weeks.
***
HANDS OFF . . .
I was touchy today. I tried to be nice to C on the ride to Firebird, given Deflation Round Two, but he was just really pushing my buttons all day, from the first morning message to nearly the last sip of my post-dinner coffee. I normally hate breaking out The Silent Treatment -- it's so manipulative and guilt-inducing and absolutely gets the "I'm pissed at you, you jerk" message across, yet accomplishes nothing by way of improving the friendship/relationship or accurately conveying the parameters of my upset-edness. But I busted it out in the car anyway. Poor JW. By his mere affiliation with C, The Silent Treatment hit him too.
On the other hand, since becoming one of C's newest accomplices in The 2003 Plot to Tease Me Until I Scream or Cry, JW's worthiness of The Silent Treatment has increased a bit. Still, I must try to reign in this futile weapon and behave myself. These are not my boyfriends or my parents or even my brother, and I should not be making them babysit my emotions, EVEN THOUGH THEY ARE FILTER-LESS AND NAUGHTY.
***
RITSY-TITSY RUSSIAN . . .
Firebird is lovely. As Zagat's says, it is indeed a "jewel-box" of a restaurant. But indulge me when I say: all fancy food tastes and looks the same everywhere. Chicken is chicken; salmon is salmon; duck is duck. It's all placed in a pretentious pile in the middle of an enormous plate rimmed with a vegetable or beef stock-based sauce, and placed before you with a warning: "the plate is hot, madam." Which of course only makes me want to touch the plate to see exactly how hot it is . . .
But it was fun. C is incorrigible. His accomplice JW is getting there. Cheech, along for the ride to play with the big kids, ate it all up. And he behaved himself! More on that later, but suffice to say my heart is brimming with joy because of Cheech right now . . .
So, it wasn't that horrific and disastrous to have ten loud, hilarious, fun, outspoken folks sitting in the cute little "jewel-box." No one came over and told us to pipe down a bit when we were guffawing about Dr.G's Mech-Assault addiction (don't ask). No one clucked their tongues and told us to behave with decorum when we passed our plates around to share food and moan about how delicious it was. The food was delicious, the bill was exorbitant, the staff was gracious, and the banquette = comfy. A pretty darn nice meal, after all . . .
***
to be continued . . .
Wednesday, July 2
IT'S RAINING MEN . . .
***
I love men. I really do. I love them platonically, romantically, and any other way there is to love them. But sometimes, they are INSUFFERABLE. It's like they were all made missing that tiny 1/8"-square filter in their brains that tells them to back off when necessary, or to throw in a kind word when necessary, or to look up and catch a glance and feel the undercurrent when necessary. Or maybe the filter is in there and they have all figured out a way to deactivate it, thereby nullifying its positive effects. And the filter-less effect is horrifically and exponentially magnified the more men that are gathered. God forbid you protest the filter-lessness, for you will simply be spurring the exponential growth of boorish behavior, and opening yourself up to "Can't you take a joke?" I hate men.
***
Well, it turns out that Mr. Fab-U-Lous is not so fab-u-lous after all. Mrs.G's brother "does not approve because he is a player." Now, if a girl says a guy is a player, people assume -- accurately or not -- that she is (1) bitter at not having been played by this particular Player; or (2) generally assigning the term to any single guy who has many female friends or has many females dogging him. But if a guy labels his own friend a player, you know he's right. Guys know each other, and they can pretty securely gauge each others' mojo. I have never met Mrs.G's brother, but I trust her when she says he is a good and fair judge of character. So goodbye, Mr. No-Longer-Fab-U-Lous; I hardly knew ye. But that's okay -- I've never really relished the role of Playee anyway. . .
***
I feel like crying today. Not because anything has or has not happened. Not because I'm feeling sad or angry or any other strong emotion. Just once in a while, thoughts and feelings and memories and experiences come together in a cosmically emotional knot that settles in the bottom of my throat and can only be released through my eyes, resulting in that truly unsexy, slightly bloated, red-rimmed look that was so the rage on the catwalk two or three European spring seasons ago. Thank goodness I'm at work where Hooch will simply grin benignly at me, encourage my de-knotting and tell me I need a snifter of something strong. Imagine if I were with the Filter-less?!
***
I love men. I really do. I love them platonically, romantically, and any other way there is to love them. But sometimes, they are INSUFFERABLE. It's like they were all made missing that tiny 1/8"-square filter in their brains that tells them to back off when necessary, or to throw in a kind word when necessary, or to look up and catch a glance and feel the undercurrent when necessary. Or maybe the filter is in there and they have all figured out a way to deactivate it, thereby nullifying its positive effects. And the filter-less effect is horrifically and exponentially magnified the more men that are gathered. God forbid you protest the filter-lessness, for you will simply be spurring the exponential growth of boorish behavior, and opening yourself up to "Can't you take a joke?" I hate men.
***
Well, it turns out that Mr. Fab-U-Lous is not so fab-u-lous after all. Mrs.G's brother "does not approve because he is a player." Now, if a girl says a guy is a player, people assume -- accurately or not -- that she is (1) bitter at not having been played by this particular Player; or (2) generally assigning the term to any single guy who has many female friends or has many females dogging him. But if a guy labels his own friend a player, you know he's right. Guys know each other, and they can pretty securely gauge each others' mojo. I have never met Mrs.G's brother, but I trust her when she says he is a good and fair judge of character. So goodbye, Mr. No-Longer-Fab-U-Lous; I hardly knew ye. But that's okay -- I've never really relished the role of Playee anyway. . .
***
I feel like crying today. Not because anything has or has not happened. Not because I'm feeling sad or angry or any other strong emotion. Just once in a while, thoughts and feelings and memories and experiences come together in a cosmically emotional knot that settles in the bottom of my throat and can only be released through my eyes, resulting in that truly unsexy, slightly bloated, red-rimmed look that was so the rage on the catwalk two or three European spring seasons ago. Thank goodness I'm at work where Hooch will simply grin benignly at me, encourage my de-knotting and tell me I need a snifter of something strong. Imagine if I were with the Filter-less?!
Tuesday, July 1
THANK YOU, HOOCH . . .
Often, Hooch is my wiser half. When I have freak-outs about stupid things like not having enough lunch money, Hooch is the one that calmly (and somewhat sarcastically) reassures me: "You can borrow money from me, you know." Oh yeah.
Such was the case not ten minutes ago, when I was spiralling into the depths of stomach-knotting despair over my impending entry into the ranks of the convicted (traffic offenders). Hooch suggested that I call the Town Clerk to see if they would accept payment by check or credit card, and to ask what exactly I should expect tonight.
Now, I HATE talking on the phone. I don't like to talk on the phone with my friends, much less strangers, and far much less strangers who seek my conviction and my money. But more often than not, Hooch is spot-on, so I made the call anyway.
And now, of course, I'm glad I did.
There will be no shame-faced court appearance for me this evening, my friends!!! As I have already sent in my ticket with my vehement plea of "NOT GUILTY" and received my trial date (set for an atrocious three months from now), my presence in court is not necessary, and no points shall accrue on my as-yet spotless driving record until after my trial. Or so I was just informed by the lovely Court Clerk.
You heard it here first. So if I'm arrested for absconding and becoming a traffic-violation-fugitive, the proof is here, in my blog. Back me up . . .
Often, Hooch is my wiser half. When I have freak-outs about stupid things like not having enough lunch money, Hooch is the one that calmly (and somewhat sarcastically) reassures me: "You can borrow money from me, you know." Oh yeah.
Such was the case not ten minutes ago, when I was spiralling into the depths of stomach-knotting despair over my impending entry into the ranks of the convicted (traffic offenders). Hooch suggested that I call the Town Clerk to see if they would accept payment by check or credit card, and to ask what exactly I should expect tonight.
Now, I HATE talking on the phone. I don't like to talk on the phone with my friends, much less strangers, and far much less strangers who seek my conviction and my money. But more often than not, Hooch is spot-on, so I made the call anyway.
And now, of course, I'm glad I did.
There will be no shame-faced court appearance for me this evening, my friends!!! As I have already sent in my ticket with my vehement plea of "NOT GUILTY" and received my trial date (set for an atrocious three months from now), my presence in court is not necessary, and no points shall accrue on my as-yet spotless driving record until after my trial. Or so I was just informed by the lovely Court Clerk.
You heard it here first. So if I'm arrested for absconding and becoming a traffic-violation-fugitive, the proof is here, in my blog. Back me up . . .
TESTICULARATIONS . . .
One of the greatest perks of this job is that I get to laugh a lot. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I'm laughing at particular people and things, but sometimes, a pro se party -- one representing him or herself, for whatever reason -- submits a set of papers that is simply worthy of a healthy guffaw.
The following sentence, only slightly modified by Hooch and myself, is an actual sentence that appeared in one such submission, and elicited more than just one guffaw. In fact, Hooch and I recite this line to each other at least four times a week, and the ensuing laughter alone has given me a set of flat six-pack abs. You can't make this stuff up:
"Moreoverly, he fondled me in the regionality of my testical."
One of the greatest perks of this job is that I get to laugh a lot. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I'm laughing at particular people and things, but sometimes, a pro se party -- one representing him or herself, for whatever reason -- submits a set of papers that is simply worthy of a healthy guffaw.
The following sentence, only slightly modified by Hooch and myself, is an actual sentence that appeared in one such submission, and elicited more than just one guffaw. In fact, Hooch and I recite this line to each other at least four times a week, and the ensuing laughter alone has given me a set of flat six-pack abs. You can't make this stuff up:
"Moreoverly, he fondled me in the regionality of my testical."
BLEAH . . .
That's the only sound I feel like making right now. My body is experiencing a wretched combination of:
- lamb bloat (like sheep bloat, but lesser on the bloat)
- chest congestion
- low-grade fever
- swollen glands and sinuses
- sore throat
- slight chills and major aches
- sleepiness
- pulled right thigh muscle
- strained left back muscle
- overload of Ranch-1 french fries
- pre-groveling-in-traffic-court anxiety
Bleah.
That's the only sound I feel like making right now. My body is experiencing a wretched combination of:
- lamb bloat (like sheep bloat, but lesser on the bloat)
- chest congestion
- low-grade fever
- swollen glands and sinuses
- sore throat
- slight chills and major aches
- sleepiness
- pulled right thigh muscle
- strained left back muscle
- overload of Ranch-1 french fries
- pre-groveling-in-traffic-court anxiety
Bleah.
LEARNING HUMILITY . . . EVEN IF IT'S FAKED . . .
This evening, I enter the world of the criminally accused. The People of the State of New York v. Me. Sigh. I never thought it would ever happen to me. I am a law-abiding citizen! I always throw my garbage into the provided receptacles! I don't steal or murder or pillage! I use my blinkers even in the middle of the night, in my own secluded neighborhood, with no other vehicles around to observe my left turn signal! I don't watch boot-legged movies! But alas. If I don't go and protest my innocence (as if) of driving 22 miles above the posted speed limit tonight in Town Court, I will be slapped with a painfully onerous SIX points on my driving record.
So, throughout today, I shall practice my groveling:
"Officer, I was just stupid."
"Officer, you know I have a spotless driving record -- this was just a stupid aberration."
"Officer, I would really appreciate anything you could do to help me out here."
"Officer, I'm appealing to your good graces, please."
Oh, I'm gagging.
I'm just glad no one will be there to witness my debasement. It would really destroy my mega-bitch image . . .
This evening, I enter the world of the criminally accused. The People of the State of New York v. Me. Sigh. I never thought it would ever happen to me. I am a law-abiding citizen! I always throw my garbage into the provided receptacles! I don't steal or murder or pillage! I use my blinkers even in the middle of the night, in my own secluded neighborhood, with no other vehicles around to observe my left turn signal! I don't watch boot-legged movies! But alas. If I don't go and protest my innocence (as if) of driving 22 miles above the posted speed limit tonight in Town Court, I will be slapped with a painfully onerous SIX points on my driving record.
So, throughout today, I shall practice my groveling:
"Officer, I was just stupid."
"Officer, you know I have a spotless driving record -- this was just a stupid aberration."
"Officer, I would really appreciate anything you could do to help me out here."
"Officer, I'm appealing to your good graces, please."
Oh, I'm gagging.
I'm just glad no one will be there to witness my debasement. It would really destroy my mega-bitch image . . .
WHO'S A BIG GEEK? . . .
I adore Linda Greenhouse, the NY Times' resident Supreme Court guru. She provides a lovely and coherent wrap-up of the past term, so read up . . .
I adore Linda Greenhouse, the NY Times' resident Supreme Court guru. She provides a lovely and coherent wrap-up of the past term, so read up . . .
Monday, June 30
THE RANDOMIZER STRIKES AGAIN . . .
Parting thoughts before Uncle Sam lets me go for the evening . . .
. . . I miss M. I wish she were out of the hospital and back to strolling around with a grin on her face at NHF, accepting everyone's well-wishes. I wish she could come out for dinner with us. I wish we could kidnap her and whisk her away to the Bahamas. I wish she was at JKo's wedding so she could join us in laughing at our guys leaping and jumping at "Shook Me All Night Long." I wish it were November, so I could go over and babysit and give M some much-needed rest and a long-awaited date night with C. C'mon, Noodles! Shape up!
. . . Patria tonight was supposed to be a 6-lady affair, but it has dwindled to 3. Surprisingly, I'm not disappointed. Sometimes, a conversation split 6 ways between 6 very outspoken, funny, witty, interesting women can rapidly become overwhelming. Too many stories to tell, to hear, to laugh at, to absorb. Too much gossip to share. Too much sympathizing to be done. And the two women I shall be dining with tonight are certainly two that I want to draw closer to, to bring into my family as I have done with other gal-pals. So tonight, we chow, and dish and bond over a wee splash of sangria and I can't wait.
. . . JW told me on Saturday that I need to relax. What does that mean?! I AM relaxed!!! Can't you tell?!?!? Actually, I think at that point -- while I was vehemently protesting Michelle Branch's vocal stylings (she unnecessarily drops almost all of her phrases in an annoyingly breathy way) -- I was so cracked out on insufficient sleep and a malnutritious (not a word, I don't think) diet, that I would have pontificated loudly on any subject, from the price of Asian cabbage to the existence of institutional racism (oh my gawd, I know someone who thinks it doesn't exist anymore, and I'm related to him by marriage!!! HELP!). That was also a day after I e-screamed at him about men and women and sports trivia (see prior entry). But seriously, do I need to relax? And if I did, wouldn't I be --gasp! -- BORING and IRRELEVANT?! The horror . . .
Parting thoughts before Uncle Sam lets me go for the evening . . .
. . . I miss M. I wish she were out of the hospital and back to strolling around with a grin on her face at NHF, accepting everyone's well-wishes. I wish she could come out for dinner with us. I wish we could kidnap her and whisk her away to the Bahamas. I wish she was at JKo's wedding so she could join us in laughing at our guys leaping and jumping at "Shook Me All Night Long." I wish it were November, so I could go over and babysit and give M some much-needed rest and a long-awaited date night with C. C'mon, Noodles! Shape up!
. . . Patria tonight was supposed to be a 6-lady affair, but it has dwindled to 3. Surprisingly, I'm not disappointed. Sometimes, a conversation split 6 ways between 6 very outspoken, funny, witty, interesting women can rapidly become overwhelming. Too many stories to tell, to hear, to laugh at, to absorb. Too much gossip to share. Too much sympathizing to be done. And the two women I shall be dining with tonight are certainly two that I want to draw closer to, to bring into my family as I have done with other gal-pals. So tonight, we chow, and dish and bond over a wee splash of sangria and I can't wait.
. . . JW told me on Saturday that I need to relax. What does that mean?! I AM relaxed!!! Can't you tell?!?!? Actually, I think at that point -- while I was vehemently protesting Michelle Branch's vocal stylings (she unnecessarily drops almost all of her phrases in an annoyingly breathy way) -- I was so cracked out on insufficient sleep and a malnutritious (not a word, I don't think) diet, that I would have pontificated loudly on any subject, from the price of Asian cabbage to the existence of institutional racism (oh my gawd, I know someone who thinks it doesn't exist anymore, and I'm related to him by marriage!!! HELP!). That was also a day after I e-screamed at him about men and women and sports trivia (see prior entry). But seriously, do I need to relax? And if I did, wouldn't I be --gasp! -- BORING and IRRELEVANT?! The horror . . .
WAY TO PISS ME OFF . . .
For the second time in three days, a man has attempted to test me on my knowledge (or lack thereof) of baseball and/or Yankees trivia. THIS PISSES ME OFF. God for-f*cking-bid that a woman express interest in a sport or team and not know everything there is to know about the sport or team, because then that is proof that the woman is not a true fan, right?! Why the f*ck does The Penis insist upon quizzing me to make sure that I am worthy company for a baseball game? Why can't I just enjoy myself and my many boyfriends on the New York Yankees?! So, to all the men in my life, BACK THE F*CK OFF, or else you'll make me really angry, and then I'll cry, and then you'll feel really bad and I will take advantage of your groveling to get back into my good graces. Smirk.
***
SUPER-HEROES . . .
I just discovered that Mrs.G has been referring to me as Wonder Woman in her blog. This, of course, pleases me immensely, because you know I ran around as a child wearing red panties with aluminum foil wrapped around my wrists and a headband strapped to my forehead, insisting that my family defer to my super bullet-deflecting powers. Granted, my mother refused to buy me a star-spangled leotard, so I was basically topless the whole time, but I was five years old!
Anyway, Mrs.G would love for me to be The One for her other pal Superman, a/k/a Mr. Fab-U-Lous (according to Hooch and myself). Bless her heart for trying -- she's one of the few people I trust to intuit my true nature well enough to be looking for The One for me. There are tons of generous people out there who throw their brothers, sons, nephews, brothers-of-friends-of-their-second-cousin-from-Milwaukee at me, but Mrs.G and her ilk -- perceptive, caring, sincere, down-to-earth, lacking ulterior motives -- are few and far between . . .
***
GO DO SOMETHING ELSE, PLEASE . . .
So, JW and I finished watching the first season of "Dawson's Creek" on DVD. I've resigned myself to conceding that I quite enjoyed it. The characters use many big words, and there's so much angst that I never experienced as an adolescent, so I feel quite okay immersing myself in that fantasy world for a few hours a week, to see what it might have been like to have been an abnormally well-spoken and heartbreak-ridden 15-year-old girl.
Then, we watched "Sex & the City." I can never do that again -- watch "Sex & the City" with a guy, much less a guy I'm friends with. It's like watching a whole series of tampon commercials with my brother = WEIRD. I'm creeped out and embarrassed just thinking about that half-hour right now. I need to move on to another topic.
On the other hand, I ate very much watermelon and very many guacamole-flavored potato chips (they are green and actually taste like sour cream & onion). Tasty. Being friends with JW is like having another brother. No, actually, it's like being a twin, because he's older and taller than Cheech, and generally more on the same wavelength as me, due to the lesser age difference. Also, we often unintentionally dress alike (not when I'm wearing a skirt, though, thankfully). Really, only with family can you count how many times they go to the bathroom in 30 minutes. Jeez.
***
LIFE CHANGES . . .
The painters need to be done with our house. NOW.
My mom needs to finish menopause. NOW.
I need to move out, move on, grow up. NOW.
***
LAST FRIDAY'S FIVE . . .
I got scolded for being delinquent, so here it is, albeit three days late:
1. How are you planning to spend the summer? Outdoor barbecues, Yankee games, beach trips, a week in L.A., rooting for the church softball team on Sundays, being kidnapped for ice cream, expanding my library, watching it's-so-bad-it's-good television, sticking my head in a watermelon until October.
2. What was your first summer job? Being a mother's helper to my high school Russian teacher after she adopted her son. He was tiny and plump and very fun. I learned to make strawberry jam and how to set a table American-style.
3. If you could go anywhere this summer, where would you go? Too many places: London, Wales, Spain, Italy, Provence, New Mexico, Vancouver, Alaska, Bar Harbor, the Vineyard, and of course, Red Mountain Spa in St. George, Utah.
4. What was your worst vacation ever? Wildwood, New Jersey with the family, several years ago. Don't go on family vacations to the Jersey shore when both the women in the family are PMS-ing and it's raining the whole week. Just don't do it.
5. What was your best vacation ever? My post-Bar exam trip to Red Mountain Spa and L.A. provided much-needed rest and recovery from a summer of Bar prep, the actual Bar exam, and a heartwrenching breakup. Nothing like the LOLs (or at least two of them), dry desert heat, morning hikes, healthy food, massages and body scrubs, and my sister Ha with her awesome family and her super-California-healthy neighborhood to get me back on track . . .
For the second time in three days, a man has attempted to test me on my knowledge (or lack thereof) of baseball and/or Yankees trivia. THIS PISSES ME OFF. God for-f*cking-bid that a woman express interest in a sport or team and not know everything there is to know about the sport or team, because then that is proof that the woman is not a true fan, right?! Why the f*ck does The Penis insist upon quizzing me to make sure that I am worthy company for a baseball game? Why can't I just enjoy myself and my many boyfriends on the New York Yankees?! So, to all the men in my life, BACK THE F*CK OFF, or else you'll make me really angry, and then I'll cry, and then you'll feel really bad and I will take advantage of your groveling to get back into my good graces. Smirk.
***
SUPER-HEROES . . .
I just discovered that Mrs.G has been referring to me as Wonder Woman in her blog. This, of course, pleases me immensely, because you know I ran around as a child wearing red panties with aluminum foil wrapped around my wrists and a headband strapped to my forehead, insisting that my family defer to my super bullet-deflecting powers. Granted, my mother refused to buy me a star-spangled leotard, so I was basically topless the whole time, but I was five years old!
Anyway, Mrs.G would love for me to be The One for her other pal Superman, a/k/a Mr. Fab-U-Lous (according to Hooch and myself). Bless her heart for trying -- she's one of the few people I trust to intuit my true nature well enough to be looking for The One for me. There are tons of generous people out there who throw their brothers, sons, nephews, brothers-of-friends-of-their-second-cousin-from-Milwaukee at me, but Mrs.G and her ilk -- perceptive, caring, sincere, down-to-earth, lacking ulterior motives -- are few and far between . . .
***
GO DO SOMETHING ELSE, PLEASE . . .
So, JW and I finished watching the first season of "Dawson's Creek" on DVD. I've resigned myself to conceding that I quite enjoyed it. The characters use many big words, and there's so much angst that I never experienced as an adolescent, so I feel quite okay immersing myself in that fantasy world for a few hours a week, to see what it might have been like to have been an abnormally well-spoken and heartbreak-ridden 15-year-old girl.
Then, we watched "Sex & the City." I can never do that again -- watch "Sex & the City" with a guy, much less a guy I'm friends with. It's like watching a whole series of tampon commercials with my brother = WEIRD. I'm creeped out and embarrassed just thinking about that half-hour right now. I need to move on to another topic.
On the other hand, I ate very much watermelon and very many guacamole-flavored potato chips (they are green and actually taste like sour cream & onion). Tasty. Being friends with JW is like having another brother. No, actually, it's like being a twin, because he's older and taller than Cheech, and generally more on the same wavelength as me, due to the lesser age difference. Also, we often unintentionally dress alike (not when I'm wearing a skirt, though, thankfully). Really, only with family can you count how many times they go to the bathroom in 30 minutes. Jeez.
***
LIFE CHANGES . . .
The painters need to be done with our house. NOW.
My mom needs to finish menopause. NOW.
I need to move out, move on, grow up. NOW.
***
LAST FRIDAY'S FIVE . . .
I got scolded for being delinquent, so here it is, albeit three days late:
1. How are you planning to spend the summer? Outdoor barbecues, Yankee games, beach trips, a week in L.A., rooting for the church softball team on Sundays, being kidnapped for ice cream, expanding my library, watching it's-so-bad-it's-good television, sticking my head in a watermelon until October.
2. What was your first summer job? Being a mother's helper to my high school Russian teacher after she adopted her son. He was tiny and plump and very fun. I learned to make strawberry jam and how to set a table American-style.
3. If you could go anywhere this summer, where would you go? Too many places: London, Wales, Spain, Italy, Provence, New Mexico, Vancouver, Alaska, Bar Harbor, the Vineyard, and of course, Red Mountain Spa in St. George, Utah.
4. What was your worst vacation ever? Wildwood, New Jersey with the family, several years ago. Don't go on family vacations to the Jersey shore when both the women in the family are PMS-ing and it's raining the whole week. Just don't do it.
5. What was your best vacation ever? My post-Bar exam trip to Red Mountain Spa and L.A. provided much-needed rest and recovery from a summer of Bar prep, the actual Bar exam, and a heartwrenching breakup. Nothing like the LOLs (or at least two of them), dry desert heat, morning hikes, healthy food, massages and body scrubs, and my sister Ha with her awesome family and her super-California-healthy neighborhood to get me back on track . . .
Thursday, June 26
AND COUNTERPOINT . . .
***
My Top-10 Least Favorite Songs of All Time, in no particular order because I detest them all equally:
Escape (The Pina Colada Song) (Rupert Holmes)
I Just Can't Stop Loving You (Michael Jackson)
Bette Davis Eyes (Kim Carnes)
Tell It To My Heart (Taylor Dayne)
Do That To Me One More Time (Captain & Tenille)
The Thong Song (Sisquo)
Hungry Eyes (Eric Carmen)
Lady in Red (Chris deBurgh)
Anything by Nelly Furtado (why does she have a record deal and I don't?!)
Anything by Rod Stewart
***
And Hooch's Top-10 Hated Tunes of All Time:
It's My Life (Bon Jovi)
Nothing Compares To U (Sinead O'Connor)
Paradise By the Dashboard Light (Meatloaf)
Elvira (Oak Ridge Boys)
Picture (Kid Rock & Sheryl Crow)
Only Time (Enya)
Celebration (Kool & the Gang)
Mickey (Toni Basil)
Saturday Night (Bay City Rollers)
The CHICKEN DANCE
***
Thank you.
(And yes, we do work around here!)
***
My Top-10 Least Favorite Songs of All Time, in no particular order because I detest them all equally:
Escape (The Pina Colada Song) (Rupert Holmes)
I Just Can't Stop Loving You (Michael Jackson)
Bette Davis Eyes (Kim Carnes)
Tell It To My Heart (Taylor Dayne)
Do That To Me One More Time (Captain & Tenille)
The Thong Song (Sisquo)
Hungry Eyes (Eric Carmen)
Lady in Red (Chris deBurgh)
Anything by Nelly Furtado (why does she have a record deal and I don't?!)
Anything by Rod Stewart
***
And Hooch's Top-10 Hated Tunes of All Time:
It's My Life (Bon Jovi)
Nothing Compares To U (Sinead O'Connor)
Paradise By the Dashboard Light (Meatloaf)
Elvira (Oak Ridge Boys)
Picture (Kid Rock & Sheryl Crow)
Only Time (Enya)
Celebration (Kool & the Gang)
Mickey (Toni Basil)
Saturday Night (Bay City Rollers)
The CHICKEN DANCE
***
Thank you.
(And yes, we do work around here!)
PONDERATIONS . . .
(Yes, I know that's not a word.)
Squirrels
Every day for the last month or so, a whole gaggle of squirrels has been gathering on my front lawn, about 15 feet from my window. They are there morning, noon and night. They chatter and scamper and chew on something on the ground. They play with each other. They just sit there, or lie there, or stand there and look around. They hardly budge anymore when I open the door in the morning to leave for work, or when my car rolls into the driveway as I arrive home. They stare at me balefully when I clap my hands at them, or say hi, or yell at them to shoo. I can't imagine why they have suddenly started gathering on that one spot on our lawn. Has someone planted squirrel-marijuana there? Squirrel-nip? Are there particularly tasted bugs in residence? Do squirrels even eat bugs? Whatever it is, it is most mysterious. And hilarious -- the other day, I rolled into my driveway and was greeted by a particularly plump squirrel, loping his way across the pavement in front of my car, turning his head as if to nod a hello. He was so plump, his little squirrel belly scraped the ground as he loped. And he really did lope, because he was just too plump to do anything else. Weird. Should I be concerned about these squirrels? Are they going to get all jacked up one day and attack me as I walk to my car? Stranger things have happened . . .
Bugs
I recently watched a little bug with many legs take a stroll around a large carpeted room, back and forth, using the same path often, not really going anywhere. It occurred to me that had the bug possessed normal-vision eyes and a thought process comparable to humans, it would have been really freaked out. As I sat there watching the bug, I envisioned myself being that tiny, surrounded by gigantic chairs with seemingly insurmountable legs, dodging the always-unexpected humongous footfall, crawling for a perceived eternity only to come face-to-face with a wall, a desk, a planter that I would now have to find my way around, panting and sweating and laboriously overcoming each strand of the carpet and trying not to fall into the cracks between the fibers. And so I concluded that being a bug must be truly difficult. People want to kill you, spray dangerous chemicals on you, pull off your legs, smoosh you. They chase you out of any environment you step into, or, alternatively, run shrieking from your very presence. I would expect that bugs have very high blood pressure and a strong propensity for heart attacks . . . had they any blood pressure or propensity for cardiac conditions at all.
Bloody Murder
Once in a while, we get a few criminal cases in the courthouse that are just incomprehensible. They involve horrid things like billions of dollars' worth of hard drugs, sawed-off shotguns sharing bedroom space with young children, and messy bloody retaliatory murder. The perp is almost always on the young side, at an age that I should be able to relate to . . . but of course I can't. The questions I always ask as I check out the early-20-something-year-old defendant sitting in court are "How could this happen? How can people live like this? How can you live with yourself after killing another person for nothing? What kind of society have we become where your environment can create such a person?" I know the answers that have all been researched and presumed: socio-economic factors, single-parent homes, the oppressed minority, substandard housing and education, lack of motivation and/or hope, numbed feelings and consciences, blah blah blah. But hearing these answers doesn't make me feel less like crying over the reality that stupid bloody murder happens and there's nothing I can do about it.
(Yes, I know that's not a word.)
Squirrels
Every day for the last month or so, a whole gaggle of squirrels has been gathering on my front lawn, about 15 feet from my window. They are there morning, noon and night. They chatter and scamper and chew on something on the ground. They play with each other. They just sit there, or lie there, or stand there and look around. They hardly budge anymore when I open the door in the morning to leave for work, or when my car rolls into the driveway as I arrive home. They stare at me balefully when I clap my hands at them, or say hi, or yell at them to shoo. I can't imagine why they have suddenly started gathering on that one spot on our lawn. Has someone planted squirrel-marijuana there? Squirrel-nip? Are there particularly tasted bugs in residence? Do squirrels even eat bugs? Whatever it is, it is most mysterious. And hilarious -- the other day, I rolled into my driveway and was greeted by a particularly plump squirrel, loping his way across the pavement in front of my car, turning his head as if to nod a hello. He was so plump, his little squirrel belly scraped the ground as he loped. And he really did lope, because he was just too plump to do anything else. Weird. Should I be concerned about these squirrels? Are they going to get all jacked up one day and attack me as I walk to my car? Stranger things have happened . . .
Bugs
I recently watched a little bug with many legs take a stroll around a large carpeted room, back and forth, using the same path often, not really going anywhere. It occurred to me that had the bug possessed normal-vision eyes and a thought process comparable to humans, it would have been really freaked out. As I sat there watching the bug, I envisioned myself being that tiny, surrounded by gigantic chairs with seemingly insurmountable legs, dodging the always-unexpected humongous footfall, crawling for a perceived eternity only to come face-to-face with a wall, a desk, a planter that I would now have to find my way around, panting and sweating and laboriously overcoming each strand of the carpet and trying not to fall into the cracks between the fibers. And so I concluded that being a bug must be truly difficult. People want to kill you, spray dangerous chemicals on you, pull off your legs, smoosh you. They chase you out of any environment you step into, or, alternatively, run shrieking from your very presence. I would expect that bugs have very high blood pressure and a strong propensity for heart attacks . . . had they any blood pressure or propensity for cardiac conditions at all.
Bloody Murder
Once in a while, we get a few criminal cases in the courthouse that are just incomprehensible. They involve horrid things like billions of dollars' worth of hard drugs, sawed-off shotguns sharing bedroom space with young children, and messy bloody retaliatory murder. The perp is almost always on the young side, at an age that I should be able to relate to . . . but of course I can't. The questions I always ask as I check out the early-20-something-year-old defendant sitting in court are "How could this happen? How can people live like this? How can you live with yourself after killing another person for nothing? What kind of society have we become where your environment can create such a person?" I know the answers that have all been researched and presumed: socio-economic factors, single-parent homes, the oppressed minority, substandard housing and education, lack of motivation and/or hope, numbed feelings and consciences, blah blah blah. But hearing these answers doesn't make me feel less like crying over the reality that stupid bloody murder happens and there's nothing I can do about it.
Wednesday, June 25
I can't figure out how or why I would be drawn to a story about Lester Maddox, the ex-Governor of Georgia and a staunch segregationist until his death today at age 87.
I think it's because I just can't understand him (or people like him) and his deep-seated convictions and beliefs. He is the exact opposite of everything my parents raised me to be, everything my church cultivated in me, everything my teachers taught me to be, everything my friends and colleagues and acquaintances encourage me to keep on being. I don't understand how he (or anyone) could believe that blacks are inferior to whites, that segregation is justified by the Christian Scriptures, that civil rights workers are bad, that the Ku Klux Klan is so great. I don't understand how this man got elected governor of an American state. It doesn't surprise me; I just don't understand it. I don't understand how and why he then hired and promoted blacks in his government. I don't yet completely understand his statement: "I think forced segregation is illegal and wrong. I think forced racial integration is illegal and wrong. I believe both of them to be unconstitutional." Still working on parsing out that one . . .
But like most things that I don't understand -- including quantum physics, the human body, black holes, the Supreme Court, reality shows, my friend C -- I am utterly fascinated . . .
I think it's because I just can't understand him (or people like him) and his deep-seated convictions and beliefs. He is the exact opposite of everything my parents raised me to be, everything my church cultivated in me, everything my teachers taught me to be, everything my friends and colleagues and acquaintances encourage me to keep on being. I don't understand how he (or anyone) could believe that blacks are inferior to whites, that segregation is justified by the Christian Scriptures, that civil rights workers are bad, that the Ku Klux Klan is so great. I don't understand how this man got elected governor of an American state. It doesn't surprise me; I just don't understand it. I don't understand how and why he then hired and promoted blacks in his government. I don't yet completely understand his statement: "I think forced segregation is illegal and wrong. I think forced racial integration is illegal and wrong. I believe both of them to be unconstitutional." Still working on parsing out that one . . .
But like most things that I don't understand -- including quantum physics, the human body, black holes, the Supreme Court, reality shows, my friend C -- I am utterly fascinated . . .
LA, LA, LA . . .
(Speaking of: 29 days until L.A.!)
Yesterday, I challenged Hooch to compile a list of her Top-10 Favorite Songs of All Time, never thinking she would turn the challenge around on me. Here's her list . . .
Fragile (Sting)
What Would You Say (Dave Matthews Band)
Steppin Out (Joe Jackson)
Landslide (Stevie Nicks)
Peg (Steely Dan)
Fire & Rain (James Taylor)
1983 (John Mayer)
Who Can It Be Now (Men at Work)
Dude Looks Like A Lady (Aerosmith)
Golden Lady (Stevie Wonder)
And produced under duress and much agonizing, here's my list, in no particular order:
Landslide (Stevie Nicks)
Man in the Mirror (Michael Jackson)
Brown-Eyed Girl (Van Morrison)
Hammer and a Nail (Indigo Girls)
Verdi Cries (10,000 Maniacs)
Pride (In the Name of Love) (U2)
Superstition (Stevie Wonder)
Say Goodbye (Dave Matthews Band)
Live to Tell (Madonna)
Nightswimming (R.E.M.)
I reserve the right to change this list at any time, given that I have 33 back-up favorite songs of all time . . .
Reading: Cold Mountain, by Charles Frazier
Listening to: Waiting For My Rocket to Come, Jason Mraz
(Speaking of: 29 days until L.A.!)
Yesterday, I challenged Hooch to compile a list of her Top-10 Favorite Songs of All Time, never thinking she would turn the challenge around on me. Here's her list . . .
Fragile (Sting)
What Would You Say (Dave Matthews Band)
Steppin Out (Joe Jackson)
Landslide (Stevie Nicks)
Peg (Steely Dan)
Fire & Rain (James Taylor)
1983 (John Mayer)
Who Can It Be Now (Men at Work)
Dude Looks Like A Lady (Aerosmith)
Golden Lady (Stevie Wonder)
And produced under duress and much agonizing, here's my list, in no particular order:
Landslide (Stevie Nicks)
Man in the Mirror (Michael Jackson)
Brown-Eyed Girl (Van Morrison)
Hammer and a Nail (Indigo Girls)
Verdi Cries (10,000 Maniacs)
Pride (In the Name of Love) (U2)
Superstition (Stevie Wonder)
Say Goodbye (Dave Matthews Band)
Live to Tell (Madonna)
Nightswimming (R.E.M.)
I reserve the right to change this list at any time, given that I have 33 back-up favorite songs of all time . . .
Reading: Cold Mountain, by Charles Frazier
Listening to: Waiting For My Rocket to Come, Jason Mraz
Tuesday, June 24
LAST RUSH BEFORE VACATION . . .
The Supreme Court has been busy lately, so keep up:
In U.S. v. American Library Assn, the Justices upheld a federal law -- the Children's Internet Protection Act -- which requires public libraries to install pornography filters on all computers which provide Internet access, as a condition of continuing to receive federal subsidies and grants. They all agreed that restricting children's access to pornography didn't by itself pose a constitutional issue. Rather, the issue was the extent to which over-blocking would infringe upon the First Amendment rights of adult library users. Check out the decision.
In Grutter v. Bollinger and Gratz v. Bollinger, the High Court upheld -- by a 5-4 vote -- the affirmative action policy at U. Michigan's Law School, but invalidated -- by a 6-3 vote -- the affirmative action policy used at U. Michigan's undergraduate school, in which applicants are selected according to the number of points they accrue in the application process, with black, Hispanic and American-Indian applicants automatically receiving 20 points from the get-go (fixed amounts of points are also automatically awarded for things like alumni connections). Check out the Law School and undergraduate decisions.
The Supreme Court has been busy lately, so keep up:
In U.S. v. American Library Assn, the Justices upheld a federal law -- the Children's Internet Protection Act -- which requires public libraries to install pornography filters on all computers which provide Internet access, as a condition of continuing to receive federal subsidies and grants. They all agreed that restricting children's access to pornography didn't by itself pose a constitutional issue. Rather, the issue was the extent to which over-blocking would infringe upon the First Amendment rights of adult library users. Check out the decision.
In Grutter v. Bollinger and Gratz v. Bollinger, the High Court upheld -- by a 5-4 vote -- the affirmative action policy at U. Michigan's Law School, but invalidated -- by a 6-3 vote -- the affirmative action policy used at U. Michigan's undergraduate school, in which applicants are selected according to the number of points they accrue in the application process, with black, Hispanic and American-Indian applicants automatically receiving 20 points from the get-go (fixed amounts of points are also automatically awarded for things like alumni connections). Check out the Law School and undergraduate decisions.
I have no news for you so far today, other than:
1. I had dinner at Chicama (18th and Broadway) yesterday evening. Quite delicious. I highly recommend, although my dessert was so sugary-sweet, I had the shakes all night. Doesn't anyone serve potato chips for dessert around here?
2. I have sheep bloat again this morning. I don't know what's causing it. I'm going to drink multiple cups of coffee to see if I can't . . . well, DO something about it. TMI?
1. I had dinner at Chicama (18th and Broadway) yesterday evening. Quite delicious. I highly recommend, although my dessert was so sugary-sweet, I had the shakes all night. Doesn't anyone serve potato chips for dessert around here?
2. I have sheep bloat again this morning. I don't know what's causing it. I'm going to drink multiple cups of coffee to see if I can't . . . well, DO something about it. TMI?
Monday, June 23
DEFLATION . . .
M, who's already been in the hospital for a week, is being kept for another week, and has been threatened with being held hospital hostage for the next five months, until her Noodles are born.
Sigh.
What she and C must be feeling and struggling with, I have no idea. C says he's deflated and just wants some hope that his wife will be home soon and that she and the Noodles will be healthy, even if they're not being guarded at the hospital.
M is bored and stir-crazy. They won't let C smuggle in their pup. They won't let her stroll around (for obvious reasons), and they are just barely allowing her to take a shower. She has to rent her hospital television -- thank God for technological advancement, because their laptops, i-Pods, DVDs, BlackBerries and cell phones are coming in awfully handy these days. But really, how much Web-surfing can a girl do? Actually, I'm probably the wrong one to ask . . .
The only thing that sustains them is concern for the ultimate well-being of the Noodles, and that is as it should be. It's just that there's a lot of uncertainty right now, a lot of waiting, a lot of just-sitting-there-flipping-through-magazines, a lot of wishing for this or that or the other thing, and a lot of simply wanting to go home.
So we continue to pray for M and C and the Noodles, for Boy Noodle to stop pressing on his ma in places he shouldn't be pressing on, for fat healthy Noodle development, for warding off moroseness and dullness of spirit, for wise medical attention, and for sustained high hopes and an abundance of faith and an offering of gratitude for the gifts being nurtured right now . . .
M, who's already been in the hospital for a week, is being kept for another week, and has been threatened with being held hospital hostage for the next five months, until her Noodles are born.
Sigh.
What she and C must be feeling and struggling with, I have no idea. C says he's deflated and just wants some hope that his wife will be home soon and that she and the Noodles will be healthy, even if they're not being guarded at the hospital.
M is bored and stir-crazy. They won't let C smuggle in their pup. They won't let her stroll around (for obvious reasons), and they are just barely allowing her to take a shower. She has to rent her hospital television -- thank God for technological advancement, because their laptops, i-Pods, DVDs, BlackBerries and cell phones are coming in awfully handy these days. But really, how much Web-surfing can a girl do? Actually, I'm probably the wrong one to ask . . .
The only thing that sustains them is concern for the ultimate well-being of the Noodles, and that is as it should be. It's just that there's a lot of uncertainty right now, a lot of waiting, a lot of just-sitting-there-flipping-through-magazines, a lot of wishing for this or that or the other thing, and a lot of simply wanting to go home.
So we continue to pray for M and C and the Noodles, for Boy Noodle to stop pressing on his ma in places he shouldn't be pressing on, for fat healthy Noodle development, for warding off moroseness and dullness of spirit, for wise medical attention, and for sustained high hopes and an abundance of faith and an offering of gratitude for the gifts being nurtured right now . . .
I'M A LITTLE BIT O' COUNTRY . . .
Highlights from the Dixie Chicks, MSG, Sat. 8pm:
. . . finding our seats -- in section 403 -- way up high -- at the top of the Garden = dizzying . . .
. . . JW and I settling down with beers (and drinking it from straws) and watching JJ sip at a Coke in a cup the size of her torso = dorky . . .
. . . wondering how to control JW and JK's drooling over Michelle Branch = embarrassing . . .
. . . having to pee really badly at 8:30pm, but deciding to hold it because I knew the Chicks would be on soon = tense . . .
. . . still having to pee really badly at 8:45pm, but deciding to hold it because I knew the Chicks would be on soon = painful . . .
. . . developing a UTI at 8:55pm, but deciding to deal with it because I knew the Chicks would be on soon = numb . . .
. . . deciding to run for the bathroom at 9:00pm, getting on the line stretching down the corridor (naturally), then changing my mind and running back to my seat just in time for the Chicks to come on = typically me . . .
. . . "Goodbye, Earl," then going to pee. Finally. = refreshing . . .
. . . overhearing JK, a non-fan, occasionally state "Oh, I think I've heard this song before," then watching him bop his head most enthusiastically = hilarious . . .
Good show. Nay, GREAT show!! Those Chicks know what they're doing and they're so cool about how they do it! Makes me want to learn to fiddle, sing and walk at the same time . . .
***
Highlights from post-concert karaoke, Jappas 55, Sat. 11pm:
. . . 3 very strong Black Russians with Grey Goose, one fried dumpling and two pieces of teriyaki chicken = dinner . . .
. . . JJ's friend giving his all on MJ's "Don't Stop Till You Get Enough" = impressive and very high-pitched . . .
. . . asking C's friend if he is gay, and being solicited in return to prove that he's not = YIKES . . .
. . . "You Gotta Fight For Your Right (to Party)" becoming the theme of the night = loud and testosterone-y . . .
. . . getting home at 4am = not in my conscious memory . . .
***
Highlights from a sleepy Sunday evening, NYMC, 5-10pm:
. . . five hours of the first season of "Dawson's Creek" = self-explanatorily weird . . .
***
And so another week begins . . .
Highlights from the Dixie Chicks, MSG, Sat. 8pm:
. . . finding our seats -- in section 403 -- way up high -- at the top of the Garden = dizzying . . .
. . . JW and I settling down with beers (and drinking it from straws) and watching JJ sip at a Coke in a cup the size of her torso = dorky . . .
. . . wondering how to control JW and JK's drooling over Michelle Branch = embarrassing . . .
. . . having to pee really badly at 8:30pm, but deciding to hold it because I knew the Chicks would be on soon = tense . . .
. . . still having to pee really badly at 8:45pm, but deciding to hold it because I knew the Chicks would be on soon = painful . . .
. . . developing a UTI at 8:55pm, but deciding to deal with it because I knew the Chicks would be on soon = numb . . .
. . . deciding to run for the bathroom at 9:00pm, getting on the line stretching down the corridor (naturally), then changing my mind and running back to my seat just in time for the Chicks to come on = typically me . . .
. . . "Goodbye, Earl," then going to pee. Finally. = refreshing . . .
. . . overhearing JK, a non-fan, occasionally state "Oh, I think I've heard this song before," then watching him bop his head most enthusiastically = hilarious . . .
Good show. Nay, GREAT show!! Those Chicks know what they're doing and they're so cool about how they do it! Makes me want to learn to fiddle, sing and walk at the same time . . .
***
Highlights from post-concert karaoke, Jappas 55, Sat. 11pm:
. . . 3 very strong Black Russians with Grey Goose, one fried dumpling and two pieces of teriyaki chicken = dinner . . .
. . . JJ's friend giving his all on MJ's "Don't Stop Till You Get Enough" = impressive and very high-pitched . . .
. . . asking C's friend if he is gay, and being solicited in return to prove that he's not = YIKES . . .
. . . "You Gotta Fight For Your Right (to Party)" becoming the theme of the night = loud and testosterone-y . . .
. . . getting home at 4am = not in my conscious memory . . .
***
Highlights from a sleepy Sunday evening, NYMC, 5-10pm:
. . . five hours of the first season of "Dawson's Creek" = self-explanatorily weird . . .
***
And so another week begins . . .
Friday, June 20
HEAVY ON MY HEART TODAY . . .
. . . my parents, always with work to do, always running on high, warding off overwhelming stress with a simply sweet day on the links . . .
. . . my favorite super-couple, Soy&Jaime, tired and exhausted, working late hours, running around always doing things for their friends before themselves, patiently forbearing a parent's desire for grandchildren . . .
. . . my other brother JW, sick -- but not with cholera (see, again funny) -- and sleepy, taking his hardest mini-board and gearing up for that precious one week off to just rest and restore himself . . .
. . . my bolt of lightning and pure glee, JKo, fighting off exhaustion and an ill-timed cold, preparing for a new life ahead, not quite knowing what to do with her old life behind . . .
. . . my partner in crime Hooch, pukey without knowing why she's pukey, but hating it every step of the way, fighting off the achies, yet still so much her lightning-quick punny self that I can barely keep up through the giggles . . .
. . . my favorite blast from the past, road-raging JC, with so much running just beneath the surface, just needing a listening ear and a friendly outlet, and a straight and narrow path to travel . . .
. . . my newbie JL, so goofy with the confused questions, but so prepared and bravely willing to travel, preach, teach and heal . . .
. . . my one and only Cheech, always looking inwards before looking outwards, always seeking to better himself and to grow, always trying to be more of everything that is right and good . . .
. . . my beloved M&C&Noodles, hanging in there through the tedium, the drama, the bad hospital food, the emotional super-coaster, all in preparation and care for the two loves that will make them complete . . .
. . . my more-than-just-a-neighbor Mr. J., fighting the breathing tube because he can TALK, SEE, UNDERSTAND, MOVE, struggling through the excruciating headache just to show us he can . . .
. . . my dear little Y, having found his way through a tougher youth than he deserved, still struggling to do right by his family and to grow up himself . . .
. . . my rock star Wonger, persevering, changing, growing, mourning, coming to know joy . . .
. . . my West-Coast sister, striving to be the best mom, the best wife, the best friend, the best daughter, and succeeding, by faith alone, on all of those counts . . .
They are my treasures. I carry their weight on my heart willingly and happily.
. . . my parents, always with work to do, always running on high, warding off overwhelming stress with a simply sweet day on the links . . .
. . . my favorite super-couple, Soy&Jaime, tired and exhausted, working late hours, running around always doing things for their friends before themselves, patiently forbearing a parent's desire for grandchildren . . .
. . . my other brother JW, sick -- but not with cholera (see, again funny) -- and sleepy, taking his hardest mini-board and gearing up for that precious one week off to just rest and restore himself . . .
. . . my bolt of lightning and pure glee, JKo, fighting off exhaustion and an ill-timed cold, preparing for a new life ahead, not quite knowing what to do with her old life behind . . .
. . . my partner in crime Hooch, pukey without knowing why she's pukey, but hating it every step of the way, fighting off the achies, yet still so much her lightning-quick punny self that I can barely keep up through the giggles . . .
. . . my favorite blast from the past, road-raging JC, with so much running just beneath the surface, just needing a listening ear and a friendly outlet, and a straight and narrow path to travel . . .
. . . my newbie JL, so goofy with the confused questions, but so prepared and bravely willing to travel, preach, teach and heal . . .
. . . my one and only Cheech, always looking inwards before looking outwards, always seeking to better himself and to grow, always trying to be more of everything that is right and good . . .
. . . my beloved M&C&Noodles, hanging in there through the tedium, the drama, the bad hospital food, the emotional super-coaster, all in preparation and care for the two loves that will make them complete . . .
. . . my more-than-just-a-neighbor Mr. J., fighting the breathing tube because he can TALK, SEE, UNDERSTAND, MOVE, struggling through the excruciating headache just to show us he can . . .
. . . my dear little Y, having found his way through a tougher youth than he deserved, still struggling to do right by his family and to grow up himself . . .
. . . my rock star Wonger, persevering, changing, growing, mourning, coming to know joy . . .
. . . my West-Coast sister, striving to be the best mom, the best wife, the best friend, the best daughter, and succeeding, by faith alone, on all of those counts . . .
They are my treasures. I carry their weight on my heart willingly and happily.