STICK A FORK IN ME . . .

I'M DONE!

Although many of my posts left something to be desired, and I had the near miss back on November 2nd when Blogger was working against me and I had to post on Ning instead of this here page, I managed to pull through.

Drinking now.

Good Day

Some days, things just come together nicely.

Upon arriving at the office, my boss came in to see me. After the disaster which was my annual review (and nervous breakdown), I wasn't expecting anything fantastic from him. However, he informed me that he was able to give me a raise and it will be retroactive to my anniversary date (in July, at which time this year was when I started hemorrhaging cash . . . bad).

Then I was invited to three parties. All quite suddenly my anti-social ass has a social agenda. One of these parties is a Truly Horrible Holiday Sweater party. Since I am all about style and class, I don't own such a sweater.

On my way home from work, I went by my local thrift store to find such a beast and I found a horrible holiday sweater, but not a TRULY horrible holiday sweater. I won't be winning any awards for that. The good news is that I found four really gorgeous wool sweaters and two brand new cast iron pots (a small dutch oven and a large wok shaped pan) without a shadow of rust. Yippee!! I love new cookware!

I have not yet decided whether I will unravel to recycle the yarn or keep the sweaters as they are. Oh and each for $5.50 a throw. I feel rich. (even though I failed at getting an appropriately hideous sweater for the party)

On top of all that good fortune, two fellows in my office were having their birthdays. There was cake! Uh-huh! Cake! I even got accused of talking dirty while eating cake (which I was). So I asked, "Doesn't everyone talk dirty when eating cake? Isn't it the most natural thing you can do?" Yes, they also accused me of being a wacky Californian (which I am).

The Shrink

Confession: I have daddy issues.

Most of my adult life has been spent self-righteously gloating at my friends who are saddled with daddy issues. Apparently, that was a premature gloating because since I started masochistic hell therapy last week, it has become abundantly clear that daddy planted some seeds in my psyche that . . . Just. Won't. Freaking. Die . . . Yet.

So therapy is fun. All the creative stories I've told myself over the years, just don't hold up in the court of a perfect stranger sitting across from me, taking notes and throwing out the occasional, "Uh-huh, and how did that make you feel?" as he nods empathetically. OK, he doesn't really say that, but he does take notes. Is it wrong that I get paranoid about some potentially undiscovered neurosis or another every time he starts fervently scribbling notes as I pour some little tidbit of my soul out to him? Apparently my predilection for S&M is consistent with my intimacy, trust and commitment issues. Heh! Didn't see that one coming!

This will be an interesting adventure. Perhaps I'll come out the other side of this a nicer person. If so, what a shame to waste all this rich surliness.

DUMBO

Have you ever had the experience where you write something truly inspired and brilliant? And for some reason, some ridiculous reason that would baffle the mind, you type it directly into the Blogger post page. And then, when you go to post said brilliant piece of prose, Blogger asks for your login and password. So you think, I’m going to hit the back button and save that brilliant piece of word smithery to another document so as not to lose it. And when you go to the previous page, it is gone. GONE! Gone forever, Clementine. Has that ever happened to you? Me neither.

That was the start of this day. I tried to re-construct it, but it was all in vain. The magic was gone.

Since I don’t have anything more interesting, and apropos of nothing other than I just like it, I’ll give you this picture of the Manhattan Bridge as seen from a park in DUMBO.




For those of you who don’t know, DUMBO is an acronym for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. It is a formerly industrial, presently mid-gentrification, artsy neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York. One of my good friends and fellow Thanksgiving revelers is the manager of a bar/restaurant/nightclub there.

On my first trip to DUMBO, we took this picture one middle of the night after attempting to drink all the wine in the cellar. The other highlight of the evening was convincing a group of not so smart Triple A League baseball players that my sister was a man, now living as a woman. If you ever saw my sister, there is really not a question in a thousand years what her gender is. She is stacked with cartoon Wonder Woman curves.

My sister was talking to them and I was talking to the bartender. One of them got my attention I heard my sister say, “No, I am not a man. If you don’t believe me, go ahead and ask Fresh Hell, she’s my sister and she would know.”

So the not so smart baseball boy asked, “Hey, she is a man, isn’t she?”

Not knowing the full context of their conversation, beyond my sister indicating that I was indeed her sister and that she is unencumbered by a Y-chromosome, I looked him square in the eye and said, “Of course she’s a man.” And by some act of bacchanalian Voodoo, I managed to keep a straight face as my sister’s distorted in disbelief. Eventually I fessed up and told them the truth, but at that point they were convinced otherwise.

She is a tall lady (5’10”) with very large hands, but seriously, she is all woman.

Anyhow, it was amusing and I like bridges, so there you have it.

Something about steel girders.

Ooooooooooooommmmmmmmmm . . .

Yesterday my sister dragged me to the Sunday morning yoga class that she teaches. While I was bending and contorting in the yoga sort of way for the first time since well before I had surgery on my knee, it occurred to me that I am not as strong as I was just a few months ago, the compensation for a lame knee has hit the whole of my body and left it off kilter, and my flexibility leaves a lot to be desired. This morning, there are very few bits of me that are not experiencing soreness as a result.

My teeth and scalp for example . . . they are not sore.

Yoga is a dear friend. Sure there is pain involved, but it soothes my mind, sculpts biceps that are fun to look at, promotes strength and flexibility that leaves the fellas awestruck, and facilitates an exciting sex life. Now . . . all I have to do is get the fella to strike with awe and I'll be all set. Well, that and spend some time getting my yoga game face back on so I will have the wherewithal to pitch out some awe inspiring contortions.

For all of you fellas, who have not yet taken a yoga class, there are benefits worth consideration that many a man overlooks.

• It isn't just for girls.
  
• Just because you do yoga, doesn't mean you have to become a snively vegetarian and there is no need to start wearing hippy clothing and odious freaking patchouli oil.
  
• Every guy I know who does yoga regularly has a superior body in shape and tone to those who do no yoga. In fact, the guys I know who do yoga exclusively for fitness, foregoing weights and aerobic activities, have better bodies than most other athletes I have known.
  
• The whole relaxation bit is tremendous; all of life's woes do evaporate for a spell.
  
• It makes for the sleep of an angel.
  
• And one must not overlook the class itself, which is largely populated by flexible women in tight clothing.

The "yoga crowd" gets the . . . peace, love, unity, happiness, 'balance' . . . wtf? Balance? That is where the boat sets sail without them. They tend to overlook giving equal energy to war, hatred, discordance, sadness, anger, and so forth. The results of which are a bunch of self-indulgent assholes that spend all their time focused on their own personal inner peace, love, unity, happiness. Only the pretty thoughts and feelings shall enter their "beings". However, all you have to do is glare and spit at them and they slink away just like street proselytizers do.

It Has Been Suggested . . .

Dear Dive has suggested that the time has come for me to say, "Okay, Dive. You were right about NaBloPoMo."

First and foremost: Thanks, Dive! I was at a loss for what to say today that would have the appearance of a post, but patently is not.

To an extent, he is right about NaBloPoMo, and to an extent, not so much. I have barely tapped the tall tales I wanted to share with you good people, but for lack of time in this God forsaken month (Second only in that category to next freaking month!), I have scarcely had a moment to pull a few thoughts together. This month I went out of town twice (6 days, and 4 days) to attend a wedding and for the gluttons feast holiday, and written a closure report on a project that spanned 7 years of remedial work, and entered therapy to address my moody blues . . . again. Zowie, this has been a humbdinger of a month. NaBloPoMo couldn't have come at a more inconvenient time. The good news is that I do have quite an arsenal of words to share. The bad news is that it is taking me forever to find a moment to sit down and crank those words out. Hold steady, friends. My time to shine is yet to come.

Submittal From The Genius Parade

I have nothing intelligent to say.

I've been looking at the screen while watching DVDs of NCIS in the background. Usually inspiration will rear its head while watching interesting shows, but I've got absolutely nothing for all y'all today. I was going to collect some alone time and get my head into shape for constructing something worth reading. However, the prospect of parting ways from my sister this afternoon was too much to bear so she came back to my place with me and we are having quality girlie time together. Just the two of us. It is fantastic.

Moral of the lack of story is: I'm sorry to waste your time. Come back soon and eventually I'll have something interesting to say.

xooxoox

Jackass!

I just got finished watching Jackass Two. It is amazing how funny a bunch of guys with no shame and high pain thresholds can be. I laughed hysterically and occasionally was so revolted that I had to look away.

I highly recommend it.

Now, about leftover pie . . .

Blood Sugar Overload

My belly is full of starch and pie. The thing about Thanksgiving that I like the least is the forced binge factor. I love to eat. A lot. But this is just ridiculous. I fear that my belly is too full to drink any more wine. I’m strong, therefore, I’ll endure.
Ali Blah Blah tagged me on a meme. Thank God! I mean, in the past I’ve lambasted them, but I am relieved that I don’t have to come up with something straight out of my food addled brain. Yay!

The goal of this meme, consistent with the theme of the day, is to divulge seven things that I’m thankful for. And so . . .

1) Quite thankful that that I did not run over the deer that ambled out onto the highway this morning as I was clipping along at 80 miles an hour. It actually stopped smack dab in the middle of my lane, and looked dumbly at me. I slammed on the brakes and it slowly continued on. After passing it and leaving it unharmed, in my rear view mirror three of his buddies also walked across the highway with the same dumb look in their eyes.

2) I’m thankful for bleached blond boys. The friends I’m sharing the holiday with have a son who has a freshly bleached mop. He is 12 years old, very clever and gives me hope for the future.

3) There is a small feline friend of mine who climbs all over me in my sleep and though she’s two years old, she still has not learned how to meow like a real cat. She just squeaks like a kitten . . . still. I’m thankful for that.

4) On my 29th birthday, my mother presented me with a strand of Mikimoto pearls. I cried like I’d won the lottery. I’m thankful to have those.

5) My brother was in the Army, was taught to speak Arabic, was deployed to Iraq in the Special Forces, and came home safely. Thankful doesn’t quite cover it.

6) I’m thankful for strapping young men. Occasionally, when I see these creatures on the street, I will just thank them. I won’t tell them what I’m thanking them for, I’ll just say, “Thank you.”

7) November is nearly over, for which I am truly thankful. The barrel is being scraped. I still have plenty to post about, but I have been so damned busy this month that I haven’t had a chance to actually put much of it to words. The good news is I may have some upcoming posts that aren’t quite this lame. The bad news is I do not know how long this so damned busy situation will go on. NaBloPoMo burnout . . . uh-huh.

If you want to share with the blogworld what you are thankful for, consider yourself tagged. I yearn for wine and sleep. Perhaps not in that order.

Going Green

Yeah, I'm recycling.

In the background Frank Black is singing:

Where is my mind,
Where is my mind,
Where is my mind,
Way out in the water,
See it swimmin.

So. Very. Tired.

Last year on I posted the following photo that was taken during my Thanksgiving festivities.

I am not a fan of the holidays.

I'm driving across the state in a few minutes, so this is all you get for now. xo

SNOW!!!

Upon pulling into my office's parking lot this morning, snow started flurrying down upon my car. Looking out the window now, it is actually snowing, there is accumulation, and everything. I have but one thing to say about this:

FINALLY!!!!

The weather Gods have smiled down upon New England and the odious lingering breath of summer is abated.

It will make for an interesting drive out to Northampton, for the Tegan and Sara concert tonight, but I'm up for it. Small effort in the name of rock and roll. Coming back will be the big test, but I love driving in the snow.

Make It Sting Just A Little More

Ok, so I totally poached the following quiz from Leigh's blog, but I couldn't resist . . . especially when I got the results and scored as a total slave to BDSM. Heh! I'm kinky as they come, and apparently as I come as well.

Ahem . . .

How are you in bed created with QuizFarm.com

You scored as A Slave To BDSM Admit it, you like being tied up and being told you've been very naughty. You like teasing your partner and making them squirm, and not letting them be able to do anything about it. Some people think what you do is sick and disgusting, but you know it's all in good fun. A Slave To BDSM 90% Sex God 70% A Romantic 53% Virgin 28%

Chocolate To Make You Cry Out In The Night

There are three types of people in the world:

People who burn for chocolate, any chocolate
People who couldn’t be bothered with chocolate . . . at all
People who can only choke it down if it’s fine, divine chocolate fit only for royalty and humans of inhumanly superior virtue.

I fall into the latter category and tend toward the middle category.

As chocolate goes, I can take it or leave it, and usually leave it. Rarely, if ever do I crave it. When choosing a flavor of cake, I usually go straight for pie, fruit pie, NEVER CUSTARD OR PUDDING.

Ahh rhubarb, how do I love thee, let me count the ways . . .

I like my sweets to be a step above chocolate in their perfection.

So.

I have found the exception to the rule. Actually, my totally clever and beautiful sister found the exception to the rule. There is a chocolatier in Vermont who makes a chocolate bar that is so freaking good; I do not want to know a world without it. These awesome folks run Laughing Moon Chocolates. I don’t know anything of their products beyond their Chipotle & Cinnamon Dark Chocolate bar. Do yourself a favor and order one, no matter what the cost to ship it to the far corners of this blue planet. When it arrives, open a lovely Merlot, have a bit of both, and wait to be overtaken by a bliss that words are too ham-fisted to describe. Seriously, it rivals dirty, filthy, sex that leaves you gasping and moaning out loud in public with the memory of it the next day.

You are welcome.

P.P.S.

I've been meaning to get cought up with comments. That will be one of my Sunday adventures. With any luck, I'll be able to post something of greater substance than the past few days.

Here's hoping.

P.S.

I nearly forgot to post today . . . Oh, the horror!

Gratuitous Confession

Confession: I loves me some country music. NEVER pop country! However, I can't get enough of some fine ol' honkey tonkin' goodness. There, I've said it. Don't judge me!

Will This Week Ever End???

Confession: I need a drink. Is half past ten in the morning too early?

GAH!!

Instead of regaling y'all with tall tales of my misadventures I'll show you this:

Method 1 Excedances for VOCs - one or more of:

1,1-dichloroethane, 1,2,4-trichlorobenzene, 1,2-dichlorobenzene, 1,3-dichlorobenzene, 1,4-dichlorobenzene, 2-butanone (MEK), acetone, benzene, bromomethane, chlorobenzene, ethyl benzene, naphthalene[1], toluene, trans-1,2-dichloroetene, trichloroethene, xylene, [1,1,1,2-tetrachloroethane, 1,1,2,2-tetrachloroethane, 1,1,2-trichloroethene, 1,1-dichloroethene, 1,2-dichloroethane, 1,2-dichloropropane, bromodichloromethane, bromoform, carbon tetrachloride, chloroform, cis-1,2-dichloroethene, dibromochloromethane, dichloromethane, ethylene dibromide, hexachlorobutadiene, methyl isobutyl ketone (MIBK), styrene, tetrachloroethene, vinyl chloride]*

* ½ detection limit exceeds standard

[1] 1,2,4 trichlorobenzene, 1,2,3 trichlorobenzene, naphthalene, and several other SVOCs are all standard analytes under the EPA VOC Method 8260b. Although both EPA Method 8260b and EPA Method 8270c report valid results for these chemicals, they are discussed as VOCs in this report to avoid redundancy.

When I'm not in the business of regaling, the above is what I write. I bet you all want to dust off your resumes and get a job doing what I do for slowly killing my soul a living.

Slipping Into Madness. . .

This has been one of those days when I just want to quit. Freaking everything. I'm already fantasizing about the beautiful sleep I'll be getting on my Simmons Beautyrest Enchantment Plush Pillow Top. It is my new bed, it is my new buoy.

A bunch of stuff I set up at the office to get done so that everything would be on track upon my return were supremely fucked up by:

a) my analytical lab

b) FedEx

c) one of my drilling subcontractors

d) a property owner of a site I manage

e) the demanding God damned nature of my boss (Umm, Fresh, that project I gave you the middle of last week is not progressing as quickly as I'd like it to . . . Umm, I was out of town since then, Fucker!) . Lovely to have that off my chest.

As promised, a collection from the Great Tejas Adventure of November 2007.

Speaking of chest, remember how Miss M mentioned that hers was HUGE? Here's proof:



Sista is busty!

And as I'm sure you were all waiting to see . . . I'm coming out to you, my loves. I sang at the top of my lungs, and this is what it looked like:



I couldn't tell if the red-eye reducer made me more scary looking than the red eyes were to begin with.

And singing from the bottom of my lungs:

The next day wasn't nearly as pretty. I'm sure you're surprised.

This guy was crocked too, and a totally fantastic dancer with an exceptional sense of style.

He also was on the barfing merry-go-round come morning. It was funny to watch. Especially since I wasn't the morning after barfing girl.

I'll finish with a little of what we gazed at on the drive home:

Yeah, Texas gives good sky.

Never Leave Home

Because you may come back to chaos and floods.

Upon return to my humble abode:

1) The key to the front entry way to my apartment building no longer works.

2) My front door is locked, but the lock on my front door to which I have a key no longer exists. (The back door lock still works . . . phwew!)

3) The apartment above mine had a catastrophic leak and water came cascading down from the light fixture in my bedroom directly on to my bed and soaking through to the downstairs apartment. My bed is gone.

Shortly, my landlord will be coming over to take me to pick out a brand new bed. I should be furious, but I can not seem to stop laughing about it.

Will get Texas pictures up soon.

Morning Pork

I'd like to introduce you to my post nuptial hangover . . .

Hey Y'all.

I got to nurse a drunk scientist who had interminable hiccups. Miss M saw that she executed the pre-emptive strike . . . thus, emptying her stomach. She's all about paying it forward.

There was an open bar that had a seemingly endless river of bourbon, the headwaters of which I was trying to discover. (unwise errand, thanks for asking)

The DJ played inexcusible things like "You Shook Me" by AC/DC. I told him I'd dance if he got his shit together and played "I Want You to Want Me" by Cheap trick. It took him a while, but he got it together and I did some dancing while singing at the top of my lungs: feelin' all alone without a friend, you know you feel like dyin'. Oh didn't I didn't I didn't I see you cryin'! There are pictures. The redneck yayhoo busted out some Prince as well which as always makes it impossible to do anything but dance.

Miss M here - It's going to be a loooooooooooooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng post-IHOP drive this morning. Lucky for us an the rest of the world, we're not amateur drinkers anymore. Things could be a lot worse. Where'd we leave the car again? Fresh Hell encouraged me to wear my little black dress. Good thinking since I was all foxy in that get up. However, my sha-na-na-knockers were pretty much out there for the world (read conservative suburban Dallas types) to see. I am forever immortalized as 'that loose canon with the big knockers' in a variety of candid AC/DC-dancing photos. I hate her.

I'm so gonna have a side of bacon.

Tyler, Texas

This is the sad product of me forgetting to bring along my camera to Ginny's Little Longhorn Saloon. Camera phones are just not any good for taking indoor/night pictures. The fleeting 30 second video clip I recorded on the camera phone was not much better.


We spent far too long on the road today. Instead of heading over to the saloon for Chickenshit Bingo tonight, we will be jumping in the shower to wash the road scum off us and put our sauciest outfits for the wedding. Yes, we shall be showering together. It will put a subtle air of naughtiness on us for the ceremony. Won't that be festive?

Miss M here - Said blog authtress is full of it. I am far too much of a woman for her and furthermore she is not my type AT ALL. Aside from scrubbibg too hard with the wash cloth , er, rag, she's become an east coast erudite, which is tragic and nauseating. Talking all about the North End and all *blek*. Sure, I'll probably get way too drunk and go ahead and stick my tongue down her throat later, but that will be merely a testemonial to the bottomless glass and the booze that fills it - y'all!

SUPERCHICKEN!

Last night we made it out for a night on the town in Austin. The martinis were lovely, followed up with a decadent Indian dinner, ending up at Ginny's Little Longhorn Saloon. Home of Chicken Shit Bingo on Sundays, alas, we cannot go as the mutherfreakingwedding situation (and for those who don't know what that means, there is a chicken in a cage with a bingo card at the bottom and you bet on which number the chicken is going to shit on . . . Fantastic!). Ginny's is a true and real honkey tonk saloon. The Dance hall Cowboys were playing and all their songs started with those three violin cords. You know the ones . . . They go dun dun duuuuun (insert fiddle here). As the music starts you imagine a dance floor filled with cowboy hats and blue jeans. The dancers start moving around in the boot scootin' honkey tonk shufflin' sort of way. We drank Budweiser and Pabst Blue Ribbon out of cans as a better prepared older crowd ordered sodas and ice to add liquor from flasks they had handy by with them.

Today, we're slower. We started the day with coffee . . . then a beer . . . then we ate at a superfantastic joint where the Mexicans eat . . . then we shopped for TX kitsch and smokin' hot boots at Justin's Westernwear. Goddammit, smokin' hot boots are spendy.

Swell day, eighty degrees and all. We had happy hour by the lake and some good eats at at Casa de Miss M.

Tomorrow . . . driving, etc. (and by etc. we mean a muthershratchinwedding . . .) Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu . . .

"Breasts Like Martinis"

I ran across this poem at Slate several weeks ago and I thought it was just swell. If you'd like to hear the author (who is an awfully swell gal) read it, click here.

Me, when I write poetry it is nothing short of crappy and self-indulgent, and I am disinclined to submit you to it. That is, unless I find the poems I wrote as a final project for my 9th grade writing class.

I was in a pickle because I hadn't done anything for the final project and we were to either write an extensive essay on lord knows what, or submit a collection of 11 poems we had written over the term. I brewed myself I pot of coffee, sat down at the typewriter, and stayed up all night long and wrote a collection that I could turn in. I received an 'A' and laughed like a maniac. These poems are too embarrassing not to share. Alas, I know not where they are. My suspicions are that they now reside in a box somewhere in my mother's garage in California. If I find them, though, y'all will be the first to know.

There will be martinis tonight!

Breasts Like Martinis
by Jill McDonough

The bartender at Caesar's tells jokes we've heard a hundred times.
A shoelace walks into a bar, for example. I whisper
Sarah Evers told me that joke in sixth grade and Josey says
My brother Steve, 1982. A whore, a midget, a Chinaman,
nothing we haven't heard. Then a customer asks
Why are breasts like martinis? and they both start laughing.
They know this one, everybody knows this one, except
us. They don't even bother with the punch line. The bartender just says
Yeah, but I always said there should be a third one, on the back,
for dancing, dancing with the woman-shaped air behind the bar, his hand
on the breast on her back. So we figure three is too many,
one's not enough. Okay; we can do better than that. I like my breasts
like I like my martinis, we say: Small and bruised or big and dry. Perfect.
Overflowing. Reeking of juniper, spilling all over the bar.
When I have a migraine and she reaches for me, I say
Josey, my breasts are like martinis. She nods, solemn:
People should keep their goddamn hands off yours. How
could we tell these jokes to the bartender? We can't. He'll never know.
I say it after scrubbing the kitchen cabinets, and she gets it:
dirty and wet. Walking in the wind, Josey says My breasts
are like martinis and I hail a cab, know she means shaking, ice cold.

Slap My Ass and Call Me Sally

To say that I am not a morning person grossly underestimates how challenging the first light of day is for me. I am a good sleeper. Once I lay my wary head to rest, I slip into a deep and far away slumber that is rarely disturbed by little things like alarms, loud noises, shaking . . . you get the point. A well placed appendage will usually rouse me, but if you do manage to wake me, and don't have the appendage at the ready, my condolences to you, as I can be downright unpleasant.

I had the crazy early flight this morning. More than one person had doubts that I would be able to haul my arse out of bed to make it in time. I worked very late last night and had to clean up the digs (because I hate coming home from a trip to Casa de Chaos), do laundry and pack. Knowing that if I went to sleep, there would be no waking me, I took the trusty approach of staying up all night. My apartment hasn't been so clean in a very long time.

I am fortunate that I am one of those folks who can sleep on planes. Yet still, I'm about four hours short of rested.

After arriving and collecting my bag, I went to the auto rental desk to pick up my "mid size Taurus or similar" vehicle. The lovely Henrietta, who was helping me said, "Would a Mustang be OK?"

As I came to realize that I was being upgraded to a "sporty" car, I said, "Somehow, I'll muddle through with it."

Off I skipped to claim my shiny blue pony.

Generally speaking, Ford vehicles and I are in a fight. Dear Esmeralda has been an expensive lady to keep happy. Though when she's happy, she's swell enough. But as mentioned before, I will not be purchasing another Ford for myself.

The Mustang has a nice rumble under the hood. And it takes a mere tickling from the toe to her long skinny pedal on the right for her rumble to jump to a roar. Probably not the best thing for me to have in my sleep deficit state. Fun though.

From the Inbox

It's 8:20 and I'm still at the office. My flight to Texas leaves at 5:50 AM and I still have not done laundry nor packed. I don't foresee much sleep before I'm airborne. The friend who I'm visiting is not optimistic about me making the flight. Right now, I'm not too optimistic about it either.

So. Instead of writing something, I am once again tossing up something somewhat interesting and amusing that landed in my inbox. Whether any of it is true, I'm sure Snopes.com could tell you.

Enjoy.

If you yelled for 8 years, 7 months and 6 days you would have produced enough sound energy to heat one cup of coffee. (Hardly seems worth it.)

If you farted consistently for 6 years and 9 months, enough gas is produced to create the energy of an atomic bomb. (Now that's more like it!)

The human heart creates enough pressure when it pumps out to the body to squirt blood 30 feet. (O.M.G.!)

A pig's orgasm lasts 30 minutes. (In my next life, I want to be a pig.)

A cockroach will live nine days without its head before it starves to death.
(Creepy.) (I'm still not over the pig.)

Banging your head against a wall uses 150 calories a hour (Don't try this at home, maybe at work)

The male praying mantis cannot copulate while its head is attached to its body. The female initiates sex by ripping the male's head off. (Honey, I'm home. What the...?!)

The flea can jump 350 times its body length. It's like a human jumping the length of a football field. (30 minutes...lucky pig! Can you imagine?)

The catfish has over 27,000 taste buds. (What could be so tasty on the bottom of a pond?)

Some lions mate over 50 times a day. (I still want to be a pig in my next life...quality over quantity)

Butterflies taste with their feet. (Something I always wanted to know.)

The strongest muscle in the body is the tongue. (Hmmmmmm.....)

Right-handed people live, on average, nine years longer than left-handed people. (If you're ambidextrous, do you split the difference?)

Elephants are the only animals that cannot jump. (Okay, so that would be a good thing)

A cat's urine glows under a black light. (I wonder who was paid to figure that out?)

An ostrich's eye is bigger than its brain. (I know some people like that.)

Starfish have no brains (I know some people like that too.)

Polar bears are left-handed. (If they switch, they'll live a lot longer)

Humans and dolphins are the only species that have sex for pleasure.
(What about that pig??)

If You Remember the 60’s . . .

Confession: I don’t get the 60’s. Of course there is music from the 60’s that works for me, and there is the mighty automotive theme of yesterday’s post, but as a decade, I’ve never really gained the pop-culture appreciation that most people of my era have. I realize that I’ll be raising hackles on many people, but I don’t see it as a magical time. And truth be told, I wasn’t there. I was born in February of 1970, so my only real experience with the 60’s was conception and gestation. So clearly, I’m talking out of my bootie on this one.

I think feminism has done as much bad as good. Not that feminism was created in the 60’s, but great strides were made during that time.

Yes, I appreciate being able to wear trousers without sidelong glances or presumption that I’m a lesbian. Yes, it’s great that women can go without the constraints of a brassiere. [As a side note: I’m very pro-brassiere. I’m 37 years old and still have high and firm titties. It works for me. I know plenty of women who don’t enjoy such a fate and even rue casting aside their bras as their udders sail to lower and lower latitudes of their anatomy. Having said that, I haven’t borne children either, so my bosoms have mostly been used as modes of seduction and toys for boys. I’m a giver.] Yes, a lady can work in a man’s field. I do. It has ups and downs.

The downside of feminism is that it has bred a climate of political correctness, especially in fields that have any crossover with academia, which disallows fun and off-color joking. Shameful. People seem to be constantly censoring themselves out of saying the fun and amusing things that would make them much more interesting. One of the saddest results of this feminist movement is men who have had the backbone bullied out of them.

The whole free love, hippie peacenik thing: it tends to overlook balance in favor of happy, pretty, peace. Peace is flat without some complimentary aggression. Balance, friends, it soothes my soul.

To give fair credit, lots of good came from the 60’s. Music, writing, sex, tolerance, and surely a bunch of political stuff that I know virtually nothing about because I’m admittedly horrible about paying attention to history. And that makes up the theme of this post: in the end, I may not know what I’m talking about, and I wasn’t there.

The Gentle Purr of a Barracuda

Confession: I once dated a boy on the merit of the sound of his voice. He was decent enough looking, tall, and an interesting guy, but his voice is what really sold me. He is also one of the boys who I deflowered. Yet another younger man situation. He was a tender 19 to my worldly 23 years of age. He also drove a black 1966 Barracuda, which I didn’t know when I fell for his voice. To say that the sound of a Barracuda engine rumbling is exciting is putting it gently.

Doesn’t it just make your heart skip a beat?

The late 1960’s is an era of muscle cars and hotrods that really speak to me. That is the bulk of my affections for the 60’s. Which will bring me to a confession for tomorrow (see how I am milking two posts out of this!).

Tejas

Once again, I am going to a wedding. Thankfully, not mine. This time around, I will be travelling to a little country north of the Mexican border commonly known to people in the know as Tejas. A State the rest of the world knows as Texas. A very good friend of mine, who is probably the smartest person I know (she got her Ph.D. in atmospheric sciences because she though it would be fun to figure stuff out using non-linear math, for the love of Einstein!) , is getting married to a native son of Texas. The good news is that she is of the "unconventional bride" mindset. She is also absolutely wacky-doodle about Star Wars so I am hoping that some non-traditional thematic undertones will present themselves at the reception.

This is the first wedding in years that I have not been dreading. There will be lots of brainiacs and geeks in attendance, and her family is a total kick in the seat so I anticipate that it will be thoroughly entertaining.

The other slice of good news about this whole affair is that I will be flying into Austin, Texas where I will have some quality time with my best friend, Miss M. Can I tell y'all that this lady feeds my soul? She does. She's also the subject of this post. To say that we are intimate friends, puts it gently. We shall laugh, we shall cry, we shall drink red wine by the cowboy hat full, and we shall likely smoke cigarettes like bad girls. Self-destructive, sure, but that is what being reunited with good friends is all about.

The bad news is that I must post to this here blog every day. That, dear friends, will be challenging. Don't get me wrong, I am up to it. Just don't expect any miraculous feats of authorship to cross your screen. Though tall tales from Tejas may be entertaining and littered with alliteration.

Artsy Fartsy Saturday

There are artists studios housed in old industrial warehouses along the Charles River in Waltham, Massachusetts, the town I now call home. Every year during the first weekend in November, the studios are opened to the public so that one may venture in and see the work as it is created and have a voyeuristic view into the loft life of a bunch of artists. This being the first week of November, the Waltham Mills Artist Association shindig is on.

While a goodly portion of New England is sniveling and whining because it's raining, I'm thrilled and have taken it as a glorious opportunity to get out of the house and enjoy this place for one of the driving reasons I moved here from sunny California. The icing on the cake about the weather is that the studios were not too crowded. I’m not a fan of crowds, especially when perusing art.

I like art to be pretty, or disturbing in a provocative way, but not a contrived way. Having the artists on hand to pick their brains as pieces are encountered is particularly cool. Unless upon walking into their studio, you realize that their art is horrid and you want to get out without having to talk to them. Some sad little worlds are not even worth trying to understand. I make a lousy patron of the arts.

While popping from studio to studio all afternoon, I came across several artists whose work appealed greatly to me. There is a photographer (Sam Laundon) who does interesting work with digitally coloring photographs. I came across an oil artist (Emilia Carbone) whose paintings are a divine mix of pretty and sordid. She does great things with light and is clearly very influenced by Edward Hopper. Oddly, I like Edward Hopper, but he does not really send me over the moon. Kind of like the Beatles and Bruce Springsteen: I like them, but I greatly prefer to listen to bands that are influenced by them than to have to listen to them any more.

What effected me more than anything was this piece by Michael B. Wilson:

I think there is something that is going on between the beautiful delicate nature of the rose and the beautiful robust nature of the train. Both with a distinctly appealing aesthetic, both with the potential for great power, yet each with distinctly different morphologies. I liked it so much that I offered to hand knit a sweater for it because I seriously can not afford the painting. He didn’t fall for it. A girl can try, though.

There were several other artists who had incredible work and I didn’t even make it to all the studios. Looking at art is exhausting. I think I have to go back tomorrow for another dose.

I don’t understand how people go on big museum tours and hit one after another cramming all sorts of art down their throats at breakneck speed. I’ve always liked digestion time. I was fortunate to have grown up in Santa Barbara because there is a huge art scene there. From the Santa Barbara Museum of Art (which is phenomenal for the size of the town) to the grass roots artisans, there was always a gallery to go to, and usually for free. As a kid, I would kill time just getting lost in an installation at the museum or one of the many galleries at the public library. Without even realizing it, I developed an awareness of and appreciation for art.

Let’s hope that I’m done being deep for the month.

Fucking Hell

After unsuccessfully trying to sign in to Bolgger . . . All. Day. Long. Yesterday. I went with the back up plan of posting on my NaBloPoMo Ning page so I could maintain compliance with posting every day of November. Even got a comment there (Thanks Aliblahblah!) so I'm still in the running to complete the daily blogging shenanigans. Phew! Anyhow, the following is what was posted yesterday.

As A Backup Plan

Fucking Blogger!

Since Blogger is not letting me post . . . so far . . . I'm going to post here because I am nothing if not a follow through girl.

And pardon the crappy factor of this post. I'm desperate and busy and the wheels are already coming off the bus with the blog every day effort. Dammitt!!

My day started with having to be at an EPA laboratory at 8 AM. Now, you see, I am not by any stretch of the imagination a morning person. In fact, I'm a lucky if I can make it to the office by 10 AM person. So, having a 45 minute drive before touring an EPA facility first thing in the morning was less than superfantastic.

Neither here nor there . . . The reason I was touring this building is because it features "green design and construction". I'm environmentally conscious. I'm even an environmental consultant by profession. However, I'm not much of a drum banger for the cause. It's not that I don't care, it's more that it bores me. Sure, everything is wrecked environmentally and things need to be done to make it better, but to me, the subject matter is about as tedious as watching news reports about another Goddamned car bombing in the Middle East. And to me, that spells out extremely tedious. And honestly, sea level rising resulting in Florida becoming largely submerged does not break my heart. At all. (Many apologies to the lovely people of the Sunshine State)

So, the building I toured this morning was the EPA's New England Regional Laboratory Green Building. Which, I'll have you know, is very cool. It's recieved a boatload of awards for being so freaking green and it touts a net 30% savings on energy expenditure all around as a result of how damned green it is. Some of it's features include: energy efficiency, water efficiency, solar power, green power, landscape design (xeriscaping), waste handling, and utilization of environmentally preferable materials. Check out the brochure. You know you want to, you don't really have anything better to do with your time.

The long and short of it is that although energy efficiency and green construction isn't the most scintillating subject to muse over, but my apathetic ass was able to see that there is much that can be done that makes a positive impact on the environment and the wallet without too much effort on my end. Much of it seems to be as simple as thinking things through before you take a trip to the hardware or garden shop. Blah blah blah.

I've not seen An Inconvenient Truth. I hear it's great, but I'd rather watch something that is fun and interesting. I usually get into arguments with people who are patently 'green'. I see their point and I get it, often moreso than they do. I just can not resist the role of Devil's advocate. Plus, imagine Florida being a thing of the past . . .

Still . . . the whole of it bores me, but it's worth thinking through. Thus endith my contradiction stew. I've come 'round and banged the drum. Don't expect to hear any more from me on the environment.

Show Me Yer Neck

Confession: I love the feel of a kiss on the neck. It takes my breath away. For that matter, I love having a hand around my neck. I like pretty much anything on my neck with the exception of turtlenecks. Which I don’t like at all. I especially like pearls on my neck. Diamonds are cute too, but they have lost their appeal at the ham hands of the bling bling crowd.

And about turtle necks . . .

People who live in cold climates really seem to like them, but they look so horrible and feel so stifling, I don’t understand how anyone can bear it. They are kind of like shorts in that very few people look good in them, yet so many insist upon wearing them. It seems that warmth can be effectively achieved with a scarf and layers. And guess what: with layers, when you go indoors, you can remove them according to conditions and let the skin on your neck and chest breathe.

Imagine.

For those who think that turtlenecks are real swell, you can have them. All of them. Just try to avoid wearing them in public, because they are even difficult to look at. Not as bad as seeing someone walking down the street with their zipper down, of course, but close.

Guess who woke up surly.