Friday, September 14, 2012
it's friday?
i shaved only one leg today. wait, i take that back. i shaved 3/4 of my legs today. one full leg and one thigh. i wish this came with a biscuit.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Memoires
In conversation tonight I was relating a story to my roommate about getting in trouble for dropping the F bomb. Probably at the age of 4 or so. I realized as I was telling her this story, that this is most likely my first memory. There are a few others up for contention.
One contender, I had a dream once that I was walking down our long driveway at night. There were small signs along our walkway that said, "Witch Poker". (sidebar: people have told me repeatedly that you can't read in your dreams. BS.) The signs weren't ominous. Not that I knew anything about the VFW then, but it'd be like walking up to a VFW with bingo signs. So I went in my house, and there were witches, sitting around tables playing poker. An odd concept for a 3-5 year old.
Another potential memory, that later in life (maybe age 12?) I thought that I probably just read in a book. Which was the day my dad drove away for real. Not for real forever, he only moved just down the street; but the first day he drove away from my house after the seperation. And I watched him go up the driveway from the upstairs window. Or I didn't and a book superimposed the memory.
One time we went to a store, my mom, my stepdad, and I. Or maybe he was just the dude my mom was banging at that time. Anyway, there were these heart shaped rhinestones in a bowl at the cash register. You've seen them, you can buy them in little plastic baggies at Wal-Mart near the buttons. I put some in my pocket. When I got home, my mom found me playing with them and asked where I got them from. I think I said that my dad bought them. But she clearly recognized them from the store. She called my dad. Then she told me that I was going to jail. She said that one time she stole something and her dad told the store owner, and they locked her up in a jail cell in the back of the store over night. This all sounds a bit far fetched now, and maybe over the years it's embellished itself in my memory, but my mom is nuts, so it's plausible that she told me this.
Memories are pouring out now.
One time I took my moms round brush and tried to curl my hair with it. I thought that was how you did it. It got stuck. REALLY stuck. So I loudly threw myself on the floor and told my mom that I fell on the hair brush and that's how it got stuck.
I asked my mom one day, why I had a waterbed. I didn't want one, so why did she give me one? I didn't understand what a waterbed was. Either me or my doll, or both, had wet the bed.
My mom had a picture of herself at about age 13, dressed as a hula girl, on her desk (narcissistic?). It looked just like me. I could never figure out how my mom got a picture of me from the future.
I used to walk around with an old polaroid making "Chk Chk" sounds everywhere.
I desperately wanted to be a cowboy. Then Ms. Kitty. Then a spy.
My dad lived in a duplex near the woods. A neighbor girl older than me told me that a witch lived in the house behind my dad, and that she ate men. I don't think I ever told my dad that, but I was terrified. Also, I remember the little girls mom telling me not to chew with my mouth open. For some reason, I never did again. Or at least worked on it after that.
When I was little, I had a habit of saying "Shucks". Yes, I actually said that. I learned how to read, or sound out words anyway, fairly early. One day my dad took me fishing. There was a bridge going over the river. A concrete bridge. Someone had put some graffiti on it. Nobody needed to tell me what it said. I could read it. I don't know that I knew what it meant. But when my dad brought me home, and my mom wouldn't let me do something I wanted to do, I decided to use my new word. I mean, I think it was pretty smart of me to read and realize it rhymed with my favorite word of annoyance. But my mom didn't think her 3-5 year old daughter, loudly exclaiming, "Fucks!" was very smart at all.
One contender, I had a dream once that I was walking down our long driveway at night. There were small signs along our walkway that said, "Witch Poker". (sidebar: people have told me repeatedly that you can't read in your dreams. BS.) The signs weren't ominous. Not that I knew anything about the VFW then, but it'd be like walking up to a VFW with bingo signs. So I went in my house, and there were witches, sitting around tables playing poker. An odd concept for a 3-5 year old.
Another potential memory, that later in life (maybe age 12?) I thought that I probably just read in a book. Which was the day my dad drove away for real. Not for real forever, he only moved just down the street; but the first day he drove away from my house after the seperation. And I watched him go up the driveway from the upstairs window. Or I didn't and a book superimposed the memory.
One time we went to a store, my mom, my stepdad, and I. Or maybe he was just the dude my mom was banging at that time. Anyway, there were these heart shaped rhinestones in a bowl at the cash register. You've seen them, you can buy them in little plastic baggies at Wal-Mart near the buttons. I put some in my pocket. When I got home, my mom found me playing with them and asked where I got them from. I think I said that my dad bought them. But she clearly recognized them from the store. She called my dad. Then she told me that I was going to jail. She said that one time she stole something and her dad told the store owner, and they locked her up in a jail cell in the back of the store over night. This all sounds a bit far fetched now, and maybe over the years it's embellished itself in my memory, but my mom is nuts, so it's plausible that she told me this.
Memories are pouring out now.
One time I took my moms round brush and tried to curl my hair with it. I thought that was how you did it. It got stuck. REALLY stuck. So I loudly threw myself on the floor and told my mom that I fell on the hair brush and that's how it got stuck.
I asked my mom one day, why I had a waterbed. I didn't want one, so why did she give me one? I didn't understand what a waterbed was. Either me or my doll, or both, had wet the bed.
My mom had a picture of herself at about age 13, dressed as a hula girl, on her desk (narcissistic?). It looked just like me. I could never figure out how my mom got a picture of me from the future.
I used to walk around with an old polaroid making "Chk Chk" sounds everywhere.
I desperately wanted to be a cowboy. Then Ms. Kitty. Then a spy.
My dad lived in a duplex near the woods. A neighbor girl older than me told me that a witch lived in the house behind my dad, and that she ate men. I don't think I ever told my dad that, but I was terrified. Also, I remember the little girls mom telling me not to chew with my mouth open. For some reason, I never did again. Or at least worked on it after that.
When I was little, I had a habit of saying "Shucks". Yes, I actually said that. I learned how to read, or sound out words anyway, fairly early. One day my dad took me fishing. There was a bridge going over the river. A concrete bridge. Someone had put some graffiti on it. Nobody needed to tell me what it said. I could read it. I don't know that I knew what it meant. But when my dad brought me home, and my mom wouldn't let me do something I wanted to do, I decided to use my new word. I mean, I think it was pretty smart of me to read and realize it rhymed with my favorite word of annoyance. But my mom didn't think her 3-5 year old daughter, loudly exclaiming, "Fucks!" was very smart at all.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Do you ever walk outside and smell something, or the sky is just right, or the temperature combined with the sounds around you is just right? And you're instantly transported somewhere far away that you maybe haven't thought of in years? And then you're sick. I guess this is what homesickness feels like. I've never been homesick. I've never really understood it. Now I think I do.
It's such a beautiful day outside, and I'm now thoroughly depressed. I thought maybe it was reverse seasonal affect disorder, but there are times in the dark and cold that I've been transported to my first days arriving in Russia, and it's a similar feeling. Though that one is longing mixed with fear.
I suppose if I didn't have work, I'd go make a new memory. Back to the work.
.
It's such a beautiful day outside, and I'm now thoroughly depressed. I thought maybe it was reverse seasonal affect disorder, but there are times in the dark and cold that I've been transported to my first days arriving in Russia, and it's a similar feeling. Though that one is longing mixed with fear.
I suppose if I didn't have work, I'd go make a new memory. Back to the work.
.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Monday, January 23, 2012
Nothing to see here
Just a wish list. I won't call it a bucket list. Maybe I should call it a Happen List. Because it will...happen.
North Korea.
Antarctica.
Alaska (like Antarctica, but with less death and more recreation, but without penguins...i think).
El Camino de Santiago.
Transiberian Railway.
Gluttonous all-inclusive resort.
**While "Gluttonous" can be "Glutinous"...they are different words.
North Korea.
Antarctica.
Alaska (like Antarctica, but with less death and more recreation, but without penguins...i think).
El Camino de Santiago.
Transiberian Railway.
Gluttonous all-inclusive resort.
**While "Gluttonous" can be "Glutinous"...they are different words.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Thursday, December 1, 2011
5,4,2,1
When I was little, I thought there was a set amount of time that existed between closing your eyes, and falling asleep. As such, any opening of the eyes functioned like a reset button. Even as a child I loved sleep, because I can remember doing my damnedest to not open my eyes and "restart" the countdown.
Sometimes I still think this way.
Sometimes I still think this way.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Super
I should post super phenomenal things on here (as if my below funeral preparations aren't super phenomenal...)
Here's your super phenomena today:
Here's your super phenomena today:
Post: post. Post.
They say every little girl dreams about her wedding. And every bride wants her dream wedding. Well if my wedding day ever comes, mine is all planned out. But that's a big "if", not an eventuality.
More of an eventuality is your funeral. Well, your death for sure. If you die a bitter old hag with no friends, the funeral may not occur.
Let's assume I don't die a bitter old hag with no friends. Let's just assume I die bitter...
I'm not obsessed with death. It's not something I enjoy thinking about. If you think too much about it, you're liable to become religious... (side note, is that the appropriate use of "liable"? is this just some hillbilly phrase that really makes no sense?)
What I have spent time pondering, is my funeral.
One conundrum I have: Is the funeral for me, or for those in attendance? Should the funeral be planned according to my wishes, or what is most comforting to the "grievers"? I mean, I'm gone after all. They're still here; left with the heart wrenching sorrow of knowing they'll never get to see my cynical ass again...
I'm going to operate on the assumption that the funeral is for me.
Aurora, you are the current holder of my life insurance policy, so take note (although I've expressed most of this already).
Request one - The funeral should be open casket. Regardless of the condition of my body.
Exhibit A:
The funeral for the charred remains of Soviet Cosmonaut, Vladimir Komarov.
I think it helps with closure. People should at least be given the opportunity to see the body. If I died in a horrible accident, feel free to warn people before they enter the space. I do think we are all attracted to the macabre and grotesque and I have no problem with my last act being a grotesque freak show.
Request two - There should be booze and food present at the funeral.
Ideally, there will be rocks glasses, personalized with my name, dates, and perhaps my photo and a Mark Twain quote.
These will be handed out as you enter the space. There should be a bartender serving Whiskey (Bourbon, Scotch, and Irish), coffee/espresso, and water.
There should be a grilled cheese sandwich station.
Request three - The bible will not be involved.
I have little to no respect for that book and want it in no way involved. If spirituality should be needed, Rumi should suffice.
Readings from Twain and Hunter S. Thompson would be nice.
Request four - Open mic.
Anyone who wishes to speak may. There should be someone running this show that starts things off with an off-colour story to make sure people feel comfortable saying whatever they wish. The only person they could possibly offend is my mother and a few uncles, and I hope they do. Though I'd rather my mother not be in attendance assuming she outlives me. I realize this could prove uncomfortable and difficult, so I won't insist she be forced out. I will insist she has nothing to do with the planning.
Request five - The space.
It should be obvious, I don't want this to happen in a church. Let's just go ahead and have it inside to avoid weather related problems. I can't think of a good location at the moment, so for now, I'll leave that up to the responsible parties when I kick off.
Request six - Attire.
I won't say that people shouldn't wear black, as some people just prefer to wear black regardless, but I would like to encourage people to dress...fun? Not party attire, not business attire. Not funeral or wedding attire. That one outfit that you always want to wear, but never seem to have the place? My funeral is that place. If that means a little black dress, do it. If that means that ape costume you got at a really good deal, but just never found the occasion, do it.
As for me? Well, make sure my hair and makeup are good. Maybe put a hat on me. I look good in hats. Just make sure I look good, and I look like me. Don't put me in some Amish frilly dress. And if I am just charred remains...you can definitely still put a hat on that.
Request seven - balloons.
I think this will be...cathartic? Whatever, I want balloons. As people are dismissed, they should be handed a balloon, printed with maybe my face? Or maybe just a few words, "Bye!" or "Thanks!" or "Poop!". And then everyone stands together and lets them go.
Is this good for the environment? No. But I do my part every day, give me this one time. And if you can find eco-friendly balloons, then go for it. But if not, I really don't care.
Request eight - There will be...more...booze
Obviously after the funeral, there will be a great drinking session. Please take care to make sure everyone gets home safely so that there are no funerals caused by my funeral.
Request nine - Cremation
Obviously I am following no order here. Make sure I'm cremated. Where do the ashes go? Well I have this romantic notion that my heart be cremated separately and given to my...husband? But really, that just puts too much pressure on a person to not move on, so don't do that (but feel free to write that into a book or movie...)
Back to the ashes.... Well, somebody take a trip somewhere that I haven't made it to yet, and scatter em somewhere. I don't care.
And now that I think about it, if there is a better use of my body, feel free to do that. Body farm, etc. Just make sure I'm not buried.
Request ten - Slideshow!
Yeah! Goddamn slideshow! All those damn pictures I take. Mostly of my travels, but feel free to throw in social pics as well. Run that through the whole service, might help jog people's memory for stories they want to share.
Request eleven - Music.
I have no ideas here really. A 21 banjo salute? I'm not even sure what that entails, but it might be nice during the balloon release.
I'm really perplexed by this, as obviously music should be a big part of this thing. Maybe I'll start working on a playlist for my funeral.
Well, eleven seems like a good stopping point. Perhaps I'll add more here. In the event of internet melt down, it may behoove some of you to print this out.
Thanks for reading!
More of an eventuality is your funeral. Well, your death for sure. If you die a bitter old hag with no friends, the funeral may not occur.
Let's assume I don't die a bitter old hag with no friends. Let's just assume I die bitter...
I'm not obsessed with death. It's not something I enjoy thinking about. If you think too much about it, you're liable to become religious... (side note, is that the appropriate use of "liable"? is this just some hillbilly phrase that really makes no sense?)
What I have spent time pondering, is my funeral.
One conundrum I have: Is the funeral for me, or for those in attendance? Should the funeral be planned according to my wishes, or what is most comforting to the "grievers"? I mean, I'm gone after all. They're still here; left with the heart wrenching sorrow of knowing they'll never get to see my cynical ass again...
I'm going to operate on the assumption that the funeral is for me.
Aurora, you are the current holder of my life insurance policy, so take note (although I've expressed most of this already).
Request one - The funeral should be open casket. Regardless of the condition of my body.
Exhibit A:
The funeral for the charred remains of Soviet Cosmonaut, Vladimir Komarov.
I think it helps with closure. People should at least be given the opportunity to see the body. If I died in a horrible accident, feel free to warn people before they enter the space. I do think we are all attracted to the macabre and grotesque and I have no problem with my last act being a grotesque freak show.
Request two - There should be booze and food present at the funeral.
Ideally, there will be rocks glasses, personalized with my name, dates, and perhaps my photo and a Mark Twain quote.
These will be handed out as you enter the space. There should be a bartender serving Whiskey (Bourbon, Scotch, and Irish), coffee/espresso, and water.
There should be a grilled cheese sandwich station.
Request three - The bible will not be involved.
I have little to no respect for that book and want it in no way involved. If spirituality should be needed, Rumi should suffice.
Readings from Twain and Hunter S. Thompson would be nice.
Request four - Open mic.
Anyone who wishes to speak may. There should be someone running this show that starts things off with an off-colour story to make sure people feel comfortable saying whatever they wish. The only person they could possibly offend is my mother and a few uncles, and I hope they do. Though I'd rather my mother not be in attendance assuming she outlives me. I realize this could prove uncomfortable and difficult, so I won't insist she be forced out. I will insist she has nothing to do with the planning.
Request five - The space.
It should be obvious, I don't want this to happen in a church. Let's just go ahead and have it inside to avoid weather related problems. I can't think of a good location at the moment, so for now, I'll leave that up to the responsible parties when I kick off.
Request six - Attire.
I won't say that people shouldn't wear black, as some people just prefer to wear black regardless, but I would like to encourage people to dress...fun? Not party attire, not business attire. Not funeral or wedding attire. That one outfit that you always want to wear, but never seem to have the place? My funeral is that place. If that means a little black dress, do it. If that means that ape costume you got at a really good deal, but just never found the occasion, do it.
As for me? Well, make sure my hair and makeup are good. Maybe put a hat on me. I look good in hats. Just make sure I look good, and I look like me. Don't put me in some Amish frilly dress. And if I am just charred remains...you can definitely still put a hat on that.
Request seven - balloons.
I think this will be...cathartic? Whatever, I want balloons. As people are dismissed, they should be handed a balloon, printed with maybe my face? Or maybe just a few words, "Bye!" or "Thanks!" or "Poop!". And then everyone stands together and lets them go.
Is this good for the environment? No. But I do my part every day, give me this one time. And if you can find eco-friendly balloons, then go for it. But if not, I really don't care.
Request eight - There will be...more...booze
Obviously after the funeral, there will be a great drinking session. Please take care to make sure everyone gets home safely so that there are no funerals caused by my funeral.
Request nine - Cremation
Obviously I am following no order here. Make sure I'm cremated. Where do the ashes go? Well I have this romantic notion that my heart be cremated separately and given to my...husband? But really, that just puts too much pressure on a person to not move on, so don't do that (but feel free to write that into a book or movie...)
Back to the ashes.... Well, somebody take a trip somewhere that I haven't made it to yet, and scatter em somewhere. I don't care.
And now that I think about it, if there is a better use of my body, feel free to do that. Body farm, etc. Just make sure I'm not buried.
Request ten - Slideshow!
Yeah! Goddamn slideshow! All those damn pictures I take. Mostly of my travels, but feel free to throw in social pics as well. Run that through the whole service, might help jog people's memory for stories they want to share.
Request eleven - Music.
I have no ideas here really. A 21 banjo salute? I'm not even sure what that entails, but it might be nice during the balloon release.
I'm really perplexed by this, as obviously music should be a big part of this thing. Maybe I'll start working on a playlist for my funeral.
Well, eleven seems like a good stopping point. Perhaps I'll add more here. In the event of internet melt down, it may behoove some of you to print this out.
Thanks for reading!
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
9/11 thoughts
So I addressed the "Where were you when" subject on my other blog. This is not that blog. This is the blog for sometimes offensive banter.
It makes me angry every time I hear someone say "I missed my bus that morning, God was really looking out for me." or "If I had stayed that extra minute to chat to my boss, it would have been me. God has a plan for me."
So, that leads to the logical conclusion that the person who caught the wrong bus and ended up at the World Trade Center at the wrong time, or switched flights and ended up on Flight 93, or maybe just checked their watch an extra time before crossing the street in Nebraska which placed them directly in line to be hit by a drunk driver; all of these people God has forsaken right? God has no plan for them, and really just doesn't give a shit. Or maybe they were all bad people?
Maybe that's it. All the people that narrowly escaped death are good people, and will go to cure cancer. And all the people that died were murderers and rapists.
Wait, that doesn't make sense does it?
Right, and God wasn't specially looking out for you. But hey, if that forces you to go be a better person and help others, more power to you, but if you choose to believe it's because God was looking out for you, be prepared to also accept that God purposefully knocked off that woman who only changed her flight so that she could spend the day with her husband on his birthday.
It makes me angry every time I hear someone say "I missed my bus that morning, God was really looking out for me." or "If I had stayed that extra minute to chat to my boss, it would have been me. God has a plan for me."
So, that leads to the logical conclusion that the person who caught the wrong bus and ended up at the World Trade Center at the wrong time, or switched flights and ended up on Flight 93, or maybe just checked their watch an extra time before crossing the street in Nebraska which placed them directly in line to be hit by a drunk driver; all of these people God has forsaken right? God has no plan for them, and really just doesn't give a shit. Or maybe they were all bad people?
Maybe that's it. All the people that narrowly escaped death are good people, and will go to cure cancer. And all the people that died were murderers and rapists.
Wait, that doesn't make sense does it?
Right, and God wasn't specially looking out for you. But hey, if that forces you to go be a better person and help others, more power to you, but if you choose to believe it's because God was looking out for you, be prepared to also accept that God purposefully knocked off that woman who only changed her flight so that she could spend the day with her husband on his birthday.
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