Another Bell Christmas

Another holiday with the Bell clan has come and gone and not without a mad moment in the slightest. Suffice it to say the week in Arkansas didn't fall short of my expectations and offered up any number of perverted pranks, a constant six dog pile-up, rubber chickens (just in general), an expected but nonetheless rekindled love interest, Neil Diamond, Nazi-like sewing lessons, pie gates and countless holiday beverages by the fire. Silent Night, Holy Night, I think not.

I'll touch on the high points...

The First Morning

I was awoken to two [Methodist] golden retrievers placing slobber-garnished rubber chickens on my face. Fair enough. They wanted to know why somebody was asleep in this bed that was always empty and wanted to offer this newcomer a welcoming token. So, I received their friendly welcome by jumping up and screaming at the top of my lungs. And off they shot out of my room, but not before snatching up the prized chickens that had fallen at their feet from my abrupt jolt from bed.

Pleased, I let my body fall back into my warm bed (thank you, electric blanket). What I didn't know at the time, was that two of those monsters would soon be joined by four other slobber-capable canines in a matter of hours: two english bulldogs, one chow mix and one mutt, creating a six dog pile-up that I, in general, spent the rest of my time in Eureka trying to avoid.

Christmas Day

As the whole gang sat in the living room opening presents, one by one in order of age, a determined knock at the front door interrupted the charade. Beau jumped up to answer the knock while three of the six dogs darted off into the darkness. He came back, smirking, with a large package in his hands and handed it over to Dad. The package was addressed, "Emergency: To be delivered to the residents of 699 CR 140." Dad wearily unadhered the weathered tape and then ripped the mysterious box open. Inside lied a note, a zipped-tight mini body bag and dirtied clothing. As the room went silent, Dad slowly tugged open the dark mini bag to find the infamous Jerry Mahoney, dressed in ripped up rags and dirtied clothing. The note accompanying Jerry read as follows:

"To whom it may concern: As I was driving my truck along I-40, I came across this young man nearly unconscious and weak from exhaustion. I hope you are not Chuck or Suzie because the only thing he was able to mumble seemed to be, 'don't take me to Suzie or Chuck, presentation is not everything...' I did manage to look in his pocket and find this address, so I brought him here. Please help him, he may not make it. Signed, A friendly truck driver."

A ROAR of laughter erupted and my mother was on her feet, arms outstretched to Jerry, guilty smirk displayed. As she took Jerry, placed him in the chair she was previously sitting in and went for the lone present under the tree, I took a moment to wonder just how subnormal each family was supposed to be. Sure, everyone's family is weird. But this...the doll saga of Jerry Mahoney, I am beginning to think it beyond the normal oddities the everyday family posesses.

However, weirdness is relative. For entertainment purposes, I prefer the craziness. But that should be obvious to anyone who has met me even once. Which means, yes, I like the drama.

The Pie Gate

Yes, the pie gate saga continued this year, and my mother paraded the items (created by Pampered Chef to gate ones pie in place once a slice has been removed) each holiday. This year, April did receive one in her stocking. As I saw her horror and subsequently my mother's delight, I cautiously reached to the bottom of my stocking in fear of the same shame. To my immense delight, I am still a proud pie-gate free individual. HA. Yeah!

So, the holiday season remained no more odd or less dramatic than the others, which was just the way I wanted it. Perfection.

As I flew back into the Valley of the Sun, it felt good to be home (which is odd to say 'home' about a place that's still relatively new to me). And then, just as I come back, off I go again. VEGAS HERE WE COME.

i reign in a city with no rain

The past few weeks have been a foggy and dizzy blur. I will attempt to recap.

Denver was a fantastic, fantastic addition to my November. A one hour direct flight - Phoenix to Denver, one bloody mary and wa lah. Miss Mollie was there to get me and we were Longmont bound. Bound to complete the trio with our bride to be, Miss Canadian, Tuque wearing Ashley Clayton.

And that's where we spent most of the weekend, Longmont, Colorado. Alas! The three meatballs reunited after nearly five years. And the phenominal thing is that we never skipped a beat. We truly didn't. Five years of emailing, texting and brief phone calls of life updates might as well have been five days, because we were right where we left off. The three of us stayed up until the wee hours of each morning catching up, drinking rum and coke and subsequently piling into one large basement bed. It was SO refreshing to see these gals. And, although it may have been financially straining to do so that month, it brought to surface an important lesson: maintaining these relationships, those that enrich my life so emmensely, and those withstand the distance of Phoenix to Colorado to Czar, Alberta, are of such substance and importance to me. Investing in them, are worth every cent.

I flew back into Phoenix Sunday afternoon, grabbed a $40 cab to my nearby condo and launched directly into my seven mile run scheduled for the day. Surprisingly, not as bad as I had anticipated, expecially considering I had a bloody mary on the flight home. The first mile or two were not the most direct routes.

And then magically, it was Monday. And then, in the blink of an eye, thanksgiving. Yet another quick, direct flight. Phoenix to Memphis, only this time, sans alcoholic beverages of any sort.

As I deplaned and said farewell to my new Army friend Tyler, I entered the barbeque aroma-ed and scrub-until-you-die and it'll still be dirty Memphis airport. There ahead, I could see my anxious Uncle waiting at my gate. Huge smiling Uncle Girl, dressed in his worn jeans, boots and working-man's jacket, slumped over. And yet, he was beaming. The thing about Uncle Girl is, he's rarely awake past 9:00 p.m. And yet, there he was, at nearly midnight. It felt so good to be in the presence of family. I scampered full-speed to give him a hug and we walked arm in arm to the truck and rode back through the darkness to Jonesboro. Even through the shadows, it was odd to see trees and pastures of what appeared to be green vegetation.

And I blinked my brown eyes and thanksgiving had vanished. I had found myself, again, at the Memphis airport. Upon landing in Phoenix-town, my jolly roomate Kate swooped me up in her shiny silver Honda Accord, and off we sped. The landscape was back to the desert, but it felt like home.

Condo. Change of clothes. $5 dollar Chinese lunch. Christmas Tree/Decoration Shopping. Peppermint Schnapps, Manheim Steam Roller and Cocoa. Bed.

And then, like it always creeps up on me - Sunday. Out of thin air! After an eight mile run, I dragged my near-dead corpse to the 1st Annual Battle of the Bloody Marys at my girl Meggie's house. And yes, I was a competitor and a fearless one at that. Many would not be stopped in their tracks to learn that the "shit talking" was at a high.

After six grueling rounds against my first competitor, Mike (Meggie's dad, an urban and seasoned drinker originally from Illionis), the judges casted their votes. And I, "Arkansas," took him DOWN. Thus, I advanced to the second round. The competition was steeper. "Illinois #2" and I battled it out for 30 minutes, getting judged on the likes of spiciness, drinkability, presentation, incorporation of secret ingredient (maraschino cherries), you name it. At one point I felt so confident, I actually said, "Keep shaking and stirring Illinois, but you can't beat a bloody mary from the dirty south." I was living in the competitive moment. And then, the time came to announce the judges' final selection.

Once again - I took Illinois DOWN, making me, "Arkansas," the reigning champion of the 1st Annual Battle of the Bloody Marys. WHAT WHAT!

I'm such a rockstar.

Upcoming areas of focus include kicking ass (finishing) in January's PF Chang 1/2 marathon, planning New Year's Mexico trip, investigating further into my close relationship with the former President of Panama (I always knew I was royalty), and listening to more Annie Lenox, Ray LaMontagne and George Harrison (I've got my mind set oooon you).

Christmas will be here before we know it.

when your antivirus software is sending you threats, it's time to heave home

And I quote, "Your subscription has expired! Expiration date: Thursday, June 12, 2008. You can no longer download security updates. Your computer may begin to perform more slowly and erratically as malicious software begins to infest the hard drive and memory.

Renew your subscription now to restore your protection!"


Wait a minute. Did that subscription reminder just THREATEN me? Not only will I not renew - I'm launching a full on WAR. Let me just say, that I don't enjoy getting threatened from A POP UP (or hack copywriter, which I imagine is the source). AND, after a not so enjoyable day.

And thus, I imagine they will not enjoy getting complaints from me. By complaints, I mean - watch out.

A Story About the Body, Robert Hass

The young composer, working that summer at an artist's colony, had watched her for a week. She was Japanese, a painter, almost sixty, and he thought he was in love with her. He loved her work, and her work was like the way she moved her body, used her hands, looked at him directly when she made amused or considered answers to his questions. One night, walking back from a concert, they came to her door and she turned to him and said, "I think you would like to have me. I would like that too, but I must tell you I have had a double mastectomy," and when he didn't understand, "I've lost both my breasts." the radiance that he had carried around in his belly and chest cavity--like music--withered, very quickly, and he made himself look at her when he said, "I'm sorry. I don't think I could." He walked back to his own cabin through the pines, and in the morning he found a small blue bowl on the porch outside his door. It looked to be full of rose petals, but he found when he picked it up that the rose petals were on top; the rest of the bowl--she must have swept them from the corners of her studio--was full of dead bees.

The Irrevocable Uniting of Eggs and Flour: Ari and Timothy, November 15, 2008

This past weekend, I was honored to serve as a bridesmaid for a rockin' and fantastic gal who I very much admire, the former Miss Ariel Gillcoatt.

And it was this weekend, serving as a lovely bridesmaid, that I realized that it's approaching that time in my life. The time that weddings completely take over. In fact, it may not be approaching. Could it be that it's HERE? I think - yes.

Weddings always give me a bittersweet feeling. My very cynical side wants everyone to just WAIT. Stop. Because I don't think it will last. AND, mostly...because I'M waiting. Can't these people see? Stop being such stupids. Hold up.

But at precisely the same time...why would they wait? If you think you know that you want to spend the rest of your being with somebody, why don't you start right now? That makes sense. But still - the negative inevitably beats up the meager positive. And mostly, I end up asking why. Mostly.

Fortunately for all parties involved, this particular wedding was no such case. This marriage was one that I not only didn't doubt, but was and am fully behind. This one will be rock solid. Fo' sho.

The ceremony was held at the Anthem Country Club, a city just north of Phoenix with a panoramic view of the Valley and a feeling of serenity and nature. Keeping to their shared passions, the wedding was held outside. "The joining of egg and flour," the officiary said, "to create pancakes." And so, they did.

Other than one pain-in-my-ass-bridesmaid (and believe me, she nearly ruined me), the whole deal was simply delightful. The air was thick with hope and love and a feeling of celebration, the weather was more perfect than we could have dreamed, the bride and groom couldn't have been more in love, more dazzling or more ready to devote themselves to one another, and of equal importance...the alcohol was flowing.
And it flowed. After the traditional celebratory dancing to "Shout," "Brick House" and a variety of slow dances (which I participated with Meggie in), we were red-faced and quite tipsy.

Two shots of tequilla fizz later, Meggie and I headed home... shortly after Ari and Timothy's profanity-garnished vehicle pulled away to the Arizona Biltmore for an evening we all know they've both been waiting entirely too long for (ahem, Timothy - 29 years).

As the rattling of the tin cans behind their love-mobile quieted the farther they pulled away, it made me think. Ari is pulling away. To go on a honeymoon. To come back and live in a house. With a BOY. And to share a closet with him. Share her bathroom, her milk. Wait a minute. Never again would she just be Ari. And it was at that moment that it set in. Up came the bittersweet feeling that always erupts, and so frequently sets into my stomach when I think of weddings: uncontrollable happiness... and deep sadness that things are changing.

November 15, 2008 - Ari and Timothy Borg. Two more pancakes join the rest.

This weekend, I'm heading up to Denver to help one of my long-time friends shop for her wedding dress.

I mean seriously - it just doesn't stop.

Which again, just goes to show, a girl can't get a break.

The Weekend Word

"You Don't Tell a Girl to be CALM when she's already calm." Meggie Roberts

Scream It Off

It's been too frequent lately that I've had to stop myself from screaming out loud (at work, in the middle of dinner, cleaning the house, at work, in traffic, at work, working out, at work, at work, at work)...

Last night was the first time in a while that I simply didn't hold back, and it was when I heard on the radio that Obama had just won the election against my most feared opponent, McCain and Palin. Obama had won the presidency! I let loose.

I screamed as I was driving...so loud, that my foot pressed harder on the gas and I could feel the relief spreading through my body. I screamed the entire way home.

And it felt so good. It felt so so incredible. Everything has been so bottled up lately with the election, and the shape of the economy and the proper-ness of the day job. Sometimes, screaming can be so sensational.

Recommendation: TRY IT

It's interesting to see the way we change throughout the course of one year. It doesn't seem like long, but when it's in your 20's, it might as well be a decade - hair styles, life goals, political preference, hell, even sexual preference can all change significantly in the course of a year. I'm no exception to this theory.

Activity of choice to blow off steam - check
Hair Change - um, check
Life Goals - good god, check, check
Willingness to take a [flu] shot - check

In fact, my arm is sore. Apparently I demand flu shots, in direct contrast to before, when I would run a million miles before succombing to that process. AND oddly enough, I run a million miles to train for a half marathon, that I'm actually paying for. I think I've gone mad.

I have to get back to work. Bleh.

OCD, I has it

Those that know me well (and those that don't, frankly) would be quick to point out my quickness to become obsessed with a variety of things. Things that scare me, things that are completely unknown to me and things that I find odd or amusing.

Off the top of my head, the below list is a collective compilation of recent obsessions:

1. Possums
2. Southern Flea Markets
3. Skunks
4. Running
5. FBI's Top 10 Most Wanted Fugitives
6. Idioms

My most recent obsession being, idioms. Why is it that the history of certain phrases that we use each day are so damn interesting? Let me shed some light on my most recent idioms of choice:

1. Clean your clock (I plan to single-handedly bring this one back. Although it has, and I assume still is, in use in the Bell household, I have a hunch, that's its sole use).
2. Go fly a kite
3. He's planted his last potato (Swedish idiom meaning "he's had it")

I plan to research more about the backgrounds of these, and many others tomorrow, likely at work.

Other equally important occurances tomorrow: the election and the arrival of Dan and Suz. Speaking of obsessions, there's another one: I can't invite or have guests in my home if it's not completely spotless. SO, I'm off to clean.

Memories. Of the Way We Were.

It's been a while since I've posted, but when the computer's perpetually in the shop (I like how it sounds like a garage-shop), it makes it impossible. 

By the way, it's still getting fixed, but I've managed to pry Kate away from her computer for an hour this morning and sneak in a post. We'll see how long this lasts. 

Alas!! The weather is cooling to a comfortable temperature. It's mid-October and we've finally turned our air off and opened those windows in our condo. The noise of the fountain outside our window floats back in, having been muffled an entire season (being now in the second season of two that Phoenix boasts) and I feel like we're closer to nature than we actually are. It's as if our towering condo complex baking in the middle of a desert lot is now our little stream-side cabin, shaded, personal and quaint. Sure, the week did sneak in one day of 90s (it just doesn't want to let go of that summer), but in general, the mornings feel crisp, and the evenings pleasant and calm. Lingering at a comfortable 75 or 80, I can only imagine this "winter" is going to be quite nice. 

Today will be full of errands and productivity (I'm starting out ambitious), because the previous two days have been anything but. Friday night was spent dining with an old friend and then out in Scottsdale with some pals for a fake bachelorette party. The imposter bachelorette? Me. Free shots and an evening of loud screaming "bridesmaids" ensued. 

Saturday was a loungy day with Kate followed by a night-o-cooking of artichoke stuffed portabella mushrooms and bread salad, good wine and "The Way We Were." Clearly, we were feeling the old romance-type movie (of which is my belief, simply doesn't exist any longer. nor does meaningful love for any significant amount of time, but hey I could be in a biased stage). The movie was talked about in Sex and the City, so clearly it was a need-see. Final opinion: Barbra Streisand was surprisingly beautiful, and ultimately, we were satisfied with our movie selection. We didn't get to the other movie we rented, Abre Los Ojos (Open Your Eyes)- supposed to be what Vanilla Sky was based off of. Maybe we'll make time for it this evening.  

After the movie, two little bed bugs wandered in (Meri and Caroline) followed shortly by two crazy wedding girls dressed to the nines (Whit and Glo) offering stories of a white-trash evening, at which they didn't fit in.  Nearing midnight, everyone started calling it a night and I was ready to sleep too. For the first time in a while, I was able to just pass out. Hit the sheets and that was it.   

Words I'm currently bringing back: ralph (as in vomit)

Insults I'm currently loving: fascist and imposter

Now for those Sunday errands...

"Ok, go ahead"

According to Imraan Ismail, Phoenix is known for its comedy scene. He sees the likes of Jerry Seinfeld, Jimmy Fallon and Chris Rock "broadcasting live" from the Valley of the Sun frequently on Comedy Central. So, we decided to see what all the fuss is all about this past Saturday, put on our comedy friendly get-up and headed to "The Comedy Spot," (my very first comedy show and unequivocally not my last). 

I don't know that I've been on many double dates in my life. The whole idea seems quite lame. As I think of it, last night may have been the first double-date-ish evening. But, it certainly didn't let me down - not the company, (Imraan, Kate and Bub) nor the evening's activities. Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves. There was one disappointment (ahem, "testicles nickname" comedian), but that was it.

When I think of comedy clubs, I think of an obnoxious but charmingly vulgar comedian who picks out several audience deviants or those audience members radiating innocence. Or racially ambiguous members. Really, anyone who might be an easy target to ridicule (fat women, lady with an obnoxious laugh (counterintuitive?), old people in general, etc.) . And essentially, feeds them to the crowd, pointing out any obvious flaw or screaming insecurity that might entice an uproar. 

I know some people dislike comedy clubs for this very reason. But for me, it was exactly the opposite. That was the entire reason I was going. So, to my immense delight, last night was no exception to this preconceived notion of spontaneous ridicule. The loud-mouthed tables got spotlighted (literally - spotlighted. New discovery about comedy clubs: everything is pitch black except the stage. I mean black.), and the three tables in the very front, (the only ones the comedian could see from the stage) got it the worst. Primarily, the older married couple seated front and center. The gentleman was ethnic--and, he was deemed racially ambiguous. His khakis were snug, and, his "camel toe" was spotlighted. If there's one thing I learned, it's to attend more comedy shows, and to sit in the second row.

The night consisted of five acts, two being average, one pretty good, one outlandishly offensive (cue "testicles nickname" comedian), and one - phenominal. The phenominal one belonged to the headliner comedian, Mark Pitta, a seasoned comedian from San Francisco, whose comfort level of being on stage was uncanny, and whose Celebrity GPS impersonations were better than the actors themselves. By the end of the evening, I was truly, spitting out my whiskey, and fighting back the tears. Awesome simply doesn't do him justice, that Mark Pitta.

Later on, upon safely arriving home, (thanks to my personal designated driver) we all hopped onto YouTube to see other acts Mark Pitta had done (after all, the guy's a legend, having appeared on The Today Show, Jay Leno, SNL - you name it). Here's where the madness ensued. There he was, our Mark Pitta, performing in San Diego, in Boston, in LA, delivering the same punchlines, in the same tone, with the same pause between jokes. Wait a minute. WAIT A DAMN MINUTE HERE. What is this? Is he a phony, a fraud... gay? Is this how all comedians trick us? How can they get away with doing the same act over and over--in exactly the same way?

I was livid. And felt taken advantage of. How could this be? But - as usual, I was quickly grounded by my counterpart. He explained to me that that's how the good comedians get to be funny, and that they perfect and refine the delivery this way. And then I thought, it's not too different than a musician, singing the same songs on tour, is it?

Maybe I'm just so new to this comedy world that this came as such a harsh shock to me. Maybe it's wrong to assume comedians will come up with a completely fresh and brand new act each show. So now I'm here--from an intense high upon leaving the show last night to a sickening low when I learned the acts are the same, to a pleasant hue and perception of Mr. Mark Pitta, impressionist galore, experienced maverick and on-the-market cutie. Well done my friend. Awesome evening and GREAT first time.

Those Sneaky Saturdays...

Yesterday was a whirlwind of a Saturday, of which I am still coming down from. It's one of those days that no fancy granola can give me the "lift" I need to function adequately with society the day after. Quick recap:  

By 8:45 a.m., my roommate and I were out the door and retirement-community bound. If it wasn't for the desert detours, our normally 30 minute drive wouldn't have taken over an hour. But, as it would be, it did. 

So, in we walked to our old home in Sun City at 10:00 a.m. to find the familiar faces of Grandma Marian, Meri and Linda (mom) - all members of the Orseth/Pirkl clan. It was only six months ago that we spent each night for the better part of six months in this place, and yet it felt like a very strange and unfamiliar place. 

New appliances replaced the familiar vintage ones. The sun room that once served as Kate and I's room, was completely different. The air that had once filled that home - of hope, sadness and dire exhaustion, was completely gone. And of course, there were three important additions that were now absent, only one of which, can ever be brought back. What was left of that place, I didn't really recognize. 

Nonetheless, we managed to enjoy a home-cooked lunch, nearly finish Friday's crossword and trim (with oversized trimmers. Think Edward Scissorhands) the overgrown red flower bush in Grandma Marian's back yard. Mexican worker-esque and all, the job got done. 

Shortly after eating turtle ice-cream (which I only observed and did not partake in) and seeing the time tick past 3:00 p.m., the whole crew sans G-Ma departed our beloved retirement community, and headed back to town to get ready for a Diamondbacks game.    

The Diamondbacks played the Colorado Rockies. Things I forget I love about major league baseball games: huge beers, singing in unison for your team, doing the wave, and in general - acting like an idiot and cheering for players you just discovered via the free postcards given to us upon entering the stadium. The only thing that proved negative at the game was getting called a Sarah Palin look-alike, at which point, I promptly removed my glasses and watched the remainder of the game in a blur. 

The Diamondbacks ended up beating those Rockies--and we celebrated all the way to Oreganos for dinner. At which point, we talked about moving in with boyfriends, post-graduate test scores and I enjoyed two whole beers. 

By the time we got home, it was nearly 11:00 p.m. and we all piled in Kate's freakishly-comfortable bed, and talked for a bit.  In true Rebekah form, I snuck off without telling anyone and jumped into bed. I was quite drunk at that point, and luckily, falling asleep was not an issue. Within nearly 15 seconds of curling up in bed, I was out. Saturday - gone. 

And so, before I can say "onomatopoeia," the weekend seems to have slipped past me like the sneaky bastard that it is. Here it is, Sunday afternoon. And I don't know of almost anything that goes quicker than a Sunday afternoon.  

But - I refuse to waste it. Still to come : Desperate Housewives season premiere, therapy cleaning of the apartment, a shower, some sort of beverage (or two) and insightful conversation with whomever will listen. 

Playing in my head - Cat Power "Living Proof" 

Finding My Niche

Each crevice my feet finds in my newly washed sheets feels like boiling water. The breeze from my fan feels cool on my arms and chest, but it's too cool. I can't take it. I'm freezing and my feet, ankles, legs - they're all sweltering.

I can't sleep. Extremely odd, because the number of times in my life that I've had trouble getting to sleep could be easily counted on my left hand. 

My feet feel around for new, at the moment cooler crevices. Within nearly two seconds, the new digs are too hot. 

Which keeps me searching. And will keep me searching until - well, until I'm asleep. Here's to hopelessly tending to two opposite feelings in search of one solution. Here's hoping I can find it.

Changing Seasons and Bloody Marys

As the weather starts to cool to 95, and the sun sets over the desert horizon a little earlier each day, I become more and more anxious...

About being able to walk outside and not disintegrate into a pool of sweat

About being able to hike again with my roomate

About the light rail opening in a few months

About drinking peppery bloody marys and hitting up sweet estate sales in Sun City

About what the crazy future holds for me

The weeks lately have started to fly by. And the weekends - they flash before my eyes for only an instant, and then they're gone. It's when you live your life in a state of waiting - for your boy to come into town, for a chance to fly and see far away friends, to get a raise, to know my next step - well, it's no surprise that it's all passing me by like a blur.

Note to Self: Live in the moment, not on the side-lines of your own life.