My Christmas Combo

A portrait of my winter reading list, compliments of my friends and family this Christmas - each of which, I'm unreasonably eager to dive into. Evidently, I possess a wide spectrum of interests. I also have friends and family who know me eerily well.

:)

Flapper Speak

Hats off to the ladies of Stuff Mom Never Told You; they've done it yet again with this week's podcast on the history of flappers. As they recount, there's a lot more to flappers than cigarettes and fringe. Most amusing for me - their language. The vernacular used during the 1920's, I've discovered, is not merely ingenious and impossible to decipher. It's also, somehow, still very much ingrained in my vocabulary. Behold...

applesauce: flattery, nonsense
bank's closed: no kissing or making out
beercat: a hot-blooded or fiery girl
berries: (1) perfect (2) money
cake-eater: a lady's man
cat's meow: great or cool
dewdropper: a young man who sleeps all day and doesn't have a job
dogs: feet
ducky: very good
egg: a person who lives the big life
fag: a cigarette
floorflusher: an insatiable dancer
futz: a euphanism for the f-bomb
giggle water: booze
handcuff: engagement ring
hope chest: a pack of cigarettes
joint: an establishment
juice joint: a speakeasy
mind your potatoes: mind your own business
nookie: sex
on a toot: a drinking binge
quiff: a slut or cheap prostitute
rag-a-muffin: a dirty or disheveled individual
razz: to make fun of
rhatz!: how disappointing!
rub: a student dance party
rummy: a drunken bum
splifficated: drunk
stilts: legs
sugar daddy: older boyfriend who showers girl with money/gifts in exchange for sex
swanky: good or elegant
tomato: a 'ripe' female
torpedo: a hired thug or hitman
vamp: a seducer of men
zozzled: drunk

I'd like to grab some giggle water - the beercat that I am - and go on a toot. Mind your potatoes! I'm not looking for any handcuffs, especially from these dewdroppers about town. I'm looking for the joint that doesn't mind a good floorflusher and a zozzled tomato.

Allow the reintroduction of flapper speak to begin. Call me an egg, and meet me at the juice joint.

A Toast to Hardcore

I'm not gonna lie, I like to think of myself as fairly hardcore. We're not talking monster truck driving, chick fighting, porn star hardcore. I'm more of an obsessive compulsive perfectionist with a lot of energy and an addictive personality. Which... easily lends itself to goals achieved only through extreme commitment. And I must say, as I look back on the past month, the badge of hardcore honor goes to me.

Sixty-hour work weeks feel like cake walks, and multiple trips to Last Chance each week have become customary to round out my extensive Christmas list. (For those of you who aren't familiar with Last Chance - it's a warehouse discount clothing store in which shoving, kicking, aggressive shopping and stalking of staff are essential in order to get the good stuff. There's also an underground barter system among the "regulars" and I'm getting closer and closer to becoming a member of the club) Six mile runs are now short, and don't limit me from going out the night prior with girlfriends to local blues bars and dancing until the wee hours of the morning. December 25 calls for a 10 mile run, and even in the snowy land of Ohio (where you'll find me come Christmas), I'm really looking forward to it.

Also, I finished my holiday shopping on time. Self proclaimed as hardcore, and no less proud to boot. A Celebration Ale is in order.

High Speed Chases Are a Girl's Best Friend

Disclaimer: Mom, dad and otherwise concerned citizens might stop here. Post contains recount of stalker material and a generally disturbing narrative.

Let's be honest - I'm no stranger to stalkers. Give me a perverted elderly man in a wheelchair, or an Iranian college drop out (who ultimately... was deported from the country and somehow snuck back in), and I'd shrug and say, "been there, done that." But it's been a while. And so, just when I got to trusting human kind again, in enters the mustang stalker.

I've been training for the half marathon by myself this year. The concern has never really been safety, but whether or not I'm competent to physically push and challenge myself to train faster, harder, etc. Entering into week five of a 12 week training schedule, so far it's proved to be fine, and on this particular afternoon I was pacing faster than I had on any previous runs this year. I was feeling unstoppable. My Pandora station was set to the angry-girl music I've grown accustomed to tuning into lately, and after an insane day in the office, the sheer awareness of running as fast as I could had never felt more divine. I was in the zone - a personally challenging destination for me to arrive. 

Rounding out mile four, I noticed a vehicle creeping alongside me. You're running alongside a lake RB. Maybe the guy's looking at the ducks. Not losing my focus. The Cranberries queued up on the station, and I pressed on. Except... my left peripheral detected the car was continuing to pace with me, and as I looked left to confirm, I noticed a gentleman rolling down the window of his orange mustang and looking directly at me, smiling from ear to ear. He didn't try to duck behind a barrier or pretend to look away when I made note of him either. Gross. Not sure what's more disturbing - his decision to drive an orange mustang or the Cheshire Cat grin he was offering up. 

No matter. Today's run was a personal record, and I wasn't going to let some orange mustang-driving cheese ball slow me down. He noticed my disregard, and pulled into the nearest parking spot ahead. Before he could exit, I had flown past him, and he was in the dust. Bye bye, orange creepy.

I powered through the remainder of the run, successfully achieving my PR for the year, only to find the creeper parked directly across from my car. How did he know which car was mine? It's OK. There are plenty of people around and you're probably being paranoid. He leaned casually against the side of his car, middle-aged, medium build, Indian or some Middle Eastern descent, and sporting an offensively matching orange top. He was openly staring at me now. Unlucky for him, there was a gentleman stretching adjacent to my car and for whatever reason, he it was clear he wasn't approaching with him present. I cooled off, keeping one eye on orange creep, and the other on my stretching savior. No more than a few seconds, the stretching man hopped up, and Mr. Orange moved in.

"So... are you tired?" he shouted across the way.

I was perched on the trunk of my car, and I practically fell on my face jumping down and running around to the driver's side. "In a hurry - bye!" I shouted, slamming the door shut. There was no disguising the interaction and I wasn't going to play coy. Doors locked. I glanced in my rear view mirror and found Mr Orange sprinting back to his car. I realized what was happening, and simultaneously accepted the challenge at hand. It was almost like I had been waiting for this challenge my whole life. He was going to chase me and I had to engage in losing him. Peeling out of the parking lot he followed a bit back. First mistake, Mr. Two quick turns, swerves and flooring thrills through yellow lights and he was gone. Well... that didn't take much.

I sped most of the way home just in case. And now I find myself a little bit on edge, but nothing crazy. Maybe this is for the good. No harm done, and a dangerous high speed chase under my belt. WIN.

Perhaps time to choose another running trail, and possibly even a high powered pepper spray. #BewareSuspiciousLookingMenofAZ

The Middle Seat Traveler - Meet Crummy

There's a reason people have love/hate relationships with air travel. This particular tale happens to be one of hatred, as on my most recent cross-country journey, I found myself seated aside one of, if not the world's most repulsive individuals. Allow me to elaborate.

She looked normal upon approach, of course, else I would have persisted in my search for the best possible seat (open seating is certainly another airline offering that poses as a curse and a blessing, but that's one for another day). I zeroed in on this woman and gave her the universally recognized eye contact and nod that we all know on airplanes communicates, "I'm going to be sharing a row with you. Please accept my proposal and stand up to let me in." The woman obliged, and I settled into my only option in this particular row - a middle seat. (It's becoming clear that middle seats are bad, bad, bad to me -  "The Middle Seat Traveler - 21B").  No more than a few minutes after I was seated, I realized the astronomic mistake I had just made.

This woman, let's call her Crummy, thought it a good idea to bring along a little snack for the flight. Once I was settled in and therefore, committed and stuck, Crummy decided she'd start eating. Slowly, as if to not disturb a plane full of sleeping babies, she delicately pulled open the seat pocket in front of her. Peering down into it, she retrieved an unidentified brown paper bag. Ever so gingerly, she set it atop her lap and slowly and carefully, Crummy opened the sac and lowered her overly wide hand down into it. Slowly still, her hand emerged from the bag with a small fragment of an egg sandwich. Odd. This coming too, from a fellow egg lover. As the morsel made contact with her lips, a shower of flaky crumbs were released into thin air, most of which landed on Crummy's chest and belly, but copious amounts of which also ended up in my lap. She released a satisfied moan, which startled me at first and then frankly, pissed me off. I leaned forward and looked directly at her - yet another universal symbol for "what you're doing is disturbing me" - and simultaneously, began brushing her egg crumbs off of my lap in aggressive and dramatic motions. Crummy didn't waver. Instead, she began to brush the crumbs from her bosom in my direction, causing even more to land on my undeserving lap, and then, to actually grab hold of the fabric on her blouse and do a sort of fan flick action several times, sending the remaining chunks flying. My best horrified face and most noticeable sweeping gesture was no match. I knew that if ever a time to truly master the art of unspoken body language and gestures was needed, it was now. I produced one last really mad face, craning my neck to stare her in the face. She needed to know how badly I thought her behavior. Crummy noticed my glare, smiled big and reached forward for the brown bag.

I gave up. She couldn't be bothered. She was in some sort of trance or possibly was heavily medicated. The latter, actually making the most sense.

Crummy continued this charade for the better part of an hour - the same slow and careful process, each bite emerging from the brown sac tinier than the prior and each time releasing a sigh of delight and a mist of egg flake - at which point she had finally consumed all that there was of this vile egg sandwich. She retreated back into her chair as if to take a siesta from all the hard work, but not before one final victory catapult of egg morsels into my now stained and completely beaten-down lap.

It was the worst recorded air travel account to date. And despite my trepidation, here's to getting ready to hop on the flight back home. For the love of God, I will be avoiding the middle seat.

A Little State Government Satire

Passing thoughts as I breezed past this hanging in the back hall of my office building today...

1. Our office complex offers Weight Management Classes? They don't seem to be working. Perhaps that's why they've begun.
2. Why wasn't I invited? What else am I not being told about? I came upon a fry bread sale the other day, and they were sold out by the time I hit up enough colleagues for change.
3. Given that the time period in which this was posted (lunch hour), I'm highly skeptical of its success.
4. I deem the fourth floor to be quite the wise selection. Had they chosen the eleventh, it'd have been a moot point and they may as well have kept it on the first since everybody would have taken the elevator. But the fourth... the fourth is within stair travel reach.

And, against all odds...

5. Finally, state government (even if in this single instance) has started to think a bit like me. A little bit of proactive + a little bit of twisted irony.
 

Desert Catclaw Bush - 1. RB - 0.

Behold the frightening aftereffects of this weekend's hike in Northern Arizona. A group of us ventured to a section of the Arizona Trail to complete a project put on for the Arizona Centennial. The goal was to get groups to hike the entire Arizona Trail (which spans from Mexico to Utah), and clearly... our section was the most dangerous. As if hiking nearly 17 miles in elevation  at 90 degrees isn't strenuous enough, the desert "catclaw" acacia was sure to leave its mark on any hiker to cross its path, including me.














It looks... like I've been tortured, whipped, human trafficked and yet somehow, miraculously made it out alive. These plants produce quarter-inch thorns that curve back in the shape of a cat's claw and upon contact - mean serious business. And if photo evidence doesn't prove it already, all reports I've found on this psycho desert plant report the shrub's tendencies to grip onto anything that comes into contact with it, and essentially not let go. Other common names include the "devil's claw" and "wait-a-minute tree," since individuals are advised to pause and - wait a minute - after being struck to remove the thorns from your flesh.

Yep... sounds about right.

Stay away from the catclaw, people. Stay far away.

Oh, and by the way - we finished our 17 mile hike in 8 hours (take that, catclaw), built some pretty sweet cairns (a welcome new term to my vocabulary), and managed to get sun burned only on the backside of our necks. Actually, I got burned on the backside of my neck, making me... that's right... a redneck. I guess you can't hide it forever.

Weekend Edition Sunday (NPR is taking over my life)

This week has been full of liveliness, "firsts" and in proper downtown Phoenix fashion, full of some serious insanity. In between it all, I've been plugged into every show NPR has to offer, tuned into my lady podcasters (Stuff Mom Never Told You. If you haven't listened, give it a go here), and of course... to the brilliant and talented Delilah (she has a new app, people). This week's roundup:

• I've moved beyond just drinking wine, to actually racing for it. A few of my fellow coworkers and I participated in a 5K near Sedona called the "Great Arizona Wine Stomp." Not only was I duped into wearing all purple - "It'll be fun, we can be the 'grape' team" they told me - but it also turned out, we didn't actually get to stomp grapes. A fun time nonetheless, and also the first formal run I actually raced instead of just attempting to finish. 
• Two shiny new obsessions have presented themselves. The first, a song called "Home" which makes actual mention to my home and seems to be hand crafted for the whistler in us all. The second, the movie "Bridesmaids," which makes no mention to Arkansas, but which is just so priceless. Don't let the name fool you.
• The war against the mouse persists, and I continue to insist upon entering rooms in the house only after first announcing my presence loudly (typically by launching my keys into the room, or stomping, knocking, or clapping. The scene itself would prove plenty to give fright to any rodent.). Perhaps due to my eccentric behavior, or the piles of poison placed in each corner, or the sheer feeling of being so blatantly unwelcome, there's been no sight of the little guy. I did, however, come upon a mouse-looking bug while mopping the floor on my hands and knees. Suspicious indeed. 
• Keeping to my regular dosage of patio time, I was witness to the first bizarre behavior since the Untimely Men in Black. See previous post. It was a quiet day on the street and a homeless-looking man on bicycle crept into my line of sight, stopping upon a blossoming flower bush across the street. I expected him to smell it, or maybe shrug and then keep on his way, but instead, he looked angrily at the flowers, and proceeded to pluck each of them violently with his filthy hands from their proper stem. When he was finished his Edward Scissor Hands act, his feet and clothing adorned with red and purple petals, he advanced to the next bush and performed the exact same act. By the time he had successfully deflowered the entire lot, he saddled back on his bicycle, and rode away into the desert sunset. Perplexed, terrified and intrigued by the entire scenario, I said nothing.
• The door has officially been opened to books on tape. Well, books on iPhone. I'm not entirely sure if "The Red Queen" - a semi-historical account of the life of Lady Margaret Beaufort, mother of King Henry VII - is the best way to get my feet wet, but thus far, it's earning massive multitasking points for accompanying me on several runs, errands and household chores thus far.
• Turns out, work is much more enjoyable when an angry she-devil doesn't work there anymore. Shwing!
• I also received one of the most entertaining videos, courtesy of mom and dad which sums up the week quite nicely. Kids, do not try this at home - must be an Arkansas redneck to partake in:
  
  

The Girl Who Cried Mouse

As a girl from the sticks, I'm well accustomed to the occasional encounter of some form of wildlife: deer, raccoon, ticks, snakes, possums and rodents are par for the course. But as with everything else in life, we assimilate to our environments, and in the few years I've lived in my desert metropolis, I've become what's commonly referred to as a sissy. A wuss. A drama queen. I don't like bugs. I get annoyed when my flip flops get dirty when I'm watering my flowers each morning. Pet my boyfriend's dog? Has he had a bath in the past week? And rodents... that's something that's become unthinkable.

Except... when it's a reality. For the second time.

I guess it comes with the territory when your taste seems to always land on historic homes. They're not built to keep outside what I've defined as "outside life." There're holes, cracks and access points in which no matter how OCD you maintain a household (cue a handful of q-tips and windex when a bottle of tequilla has been shattered on the patio), the outside life inevitably finds its way in. And so, the second sighting of a mouse since we've resided in our palace of a downtown Phoenix abode has reared its ugly head. The news of the sighting has me more than freaked out.

Actually sleeping in the house is not an option (haven't you seen those shows where the rats scurry into your hair when you sleep?). And when I am in the house - the mandatory changing of clothes and bathing routine - my brain doesn't seem to throw me a bone:

Are they in my drawers? I can do without a bra today.
The kitchen... do you really need it? I guess I can do without breakfast.
Blowdrying your hair is much more fun perched upon your dresser.


Suppose one would suggest things could be worse. What's worse? A rapist could be actually living in your closet - fair. The mice could be attracted to my alcohol supply - that would be troublesome. They could have AIDS, tapeworm or be pregnant mice - traumatizing to even think. But is there really anything worse than living amongst the thing you fear the most?

Maybe people do it everyday. But I... I refuse to be one of those people. The minefield has been set - no inhumane method was overlooked - and the outcome doesn't look to be in the favor of the vermin. Ladies and gentleman, the case of the drama queen vs the rodent invaders has begun. Let the games begin.

Hello, fall

Some might still consider this hot, but when you no longer see 100 in the forecast, and actual rain is predicted more than once, you know you're a hop, skip and a desert jump away from lovely weather. Football season is here, the public market vendors have come out of hibernation, the hiking trails are abuzz with activity, and Sampson has been taken-in for his tune up.

I think this is the beginning of a beautiful fall.

Go, Razorbacks!

Bad Parenting 101

I'm the first to jump onboard for a good, offensive joke, but this... this disturbed me.


And keep your Wal-Mart bags inside the car, psycho.

Ted Bundy = Al Bundy, Often

A new brain association defect occurred to me last night as I braved the 116 degree heat advisory and plopped myself on the patio to take on a crossword. (In hindsight, it could have been the heat, but I'll admit, this isn't the first time this has happened.) Crossword Clue: Mythical cowboy Bill - 5 letters. Who was that folklore character with the blue ox? Was it Al Bundy? No... Ted Bundy. No... Paul Bunyan! I had completely derailed, as the answer turned out to be Bill Pecos, but that's beside the point. I placed these three very different gentleman in one association cortex of my brain. In fact, as I write and think of the three, it's hard to distinguish. It got me to thinking of the mysterious characters that live as one in the wonderful world that is my mind. To name a few..

Susan Sarandon = Sally Field

 

 

Michelle Branch = Vanessa Carlton 

Paul Bunyan = Ted Bundy = Al Bundy

Not sure there's a cure for this type of abnormality. Feedback from the speech pathologist, and dream weaver of the family welcome.

Let's Hear It For the Bells

I snapped a few unexpected photos at our last family trip to the beach. 

Is it supposed to be this carefree after 40 years?
 
Actually, yes it is.

August 20, 1971- the world was forever changed. Happy Anniversary to a pair that still holds each others' hands and who doesn't fail to celebrate the blessing that is one another after 40... long... years. :)

Sleep Habits: Right, Left, or Otherwise.

This morning, after a much needed lock-in with my girls this weekend (Spare me on lock-ins being only acceptable for teens, because they're not. They're awesome.), I found myself pondering the sides of the bed we choose to sleep on. We had all woken up, and subsequently piled into one bed to recap the evening. I asked my newly married friend which side was hers. Up front, it seemed like a quick surface-level, left/right force of habit or toilet paper over/under debate, but once I started thinking back, I realized I had always... always, always, always slept on the left. Searching back into memories of old apartments, dorm rooms, even quick vacations- I was always on the left. This seemed to apply both to the times when the left happened to be the furthest path from the door, and the most direct.

Anecdotes from my conversation this morning proved one of the other gals to be a right-side sleeper, and the other a lefty, like me. None of the ladies were switch hitters. We all had a side, and for as long back as we recalled, always stuck to it - subconsciously or otherwise. 

Why is this so curious to me? Is there some sort of history, or psychology to why we habitually select one side over the other? And are there those that sleep on both sides? Or (gasp), the middle?

Or perhaps it's coincidence that the three of us had solid left/right history. In any case... I will be getting to the bottom of this.

My mom will be happy to know at least one of her children is a lefty. Er, sorta.

BBQ & Mildew

Driving to get Starbucks this morning...

"I roll in BBQ, you roll around in mildew" escaped my radio. Turning it up to see what kind of prank freestyle they were playing on the morning mix, the second idiot line presented itself, "I roll around higher than gas prices, and I don't even have a driver's license."

OMG.

And apparently, it wasn't a joke. Baby Bash was serious. See for yourself (skip to :58)

#stoptheinsanity

The Underworld: Office Noshers

A continuation to the underworld series, a new sect of this freaky group of society has presented itself: The Elusive Office Noshers. We all know them. Well, we don't know for certain who they are, but we suspect and label who might be responsible. Every office has one. The person who walks by the plate of doughnuts, or bucket of bagels, and like a wild primal being, tears a piece off with their bare hands, shoves it into their mouth, and leaves the scene of the crime completely unfazed. I've seen my fair share of savagery among Office Noshers, but this... this might have taken the cake.

What we have here, is a classic case of an Office Nosher actually putting their mouth to the community treat, and then upon replacing the doughnut into the box they found it in, retreating to their work station. I came upon this particular abomination a little after 3pm this afternoon, and in an act of true revulsion, decided to try and pin the criminal in their tracks. Here's what we knew: Suspect - one of twenty tourism professionals, likely with powdered sugar remains on their clothing. Possible afternoon crash taking place and in need of sugar and sustenance. Upon closer inspection, it appears the Nosher has a slight under bite, and possible dental work on the lower left teeth. Missing teeth in the lower left could be a factor as well.

A quick scan of the office, and no powdered sugar trail to boot. Four o'clock rolled around and as suspects began to take off, I got side tracked on another project.  Not to worry - I'll be finding the convict tomorrow - no doubt. I'll leave the group with a second picture more closely depicting the sugary evidence.

Stay tuned, San Diego.

The Haboob Made Me Do It

When the mighty haboob of 2011 took over Metropolitan Phoenix last week, the only logical thing for my roommate and I to do was to situate ourselves on the front patio (white wine in hand), and sit back and enjoy the show. Haboob neophyte as I might be, this was quite the show. A shot of the haboob onset from our front patio for your viewing pleasure:

After the haboob rolled out of town (the fifty mile- wide monster that it was), the only logical thing to do, was head to the car wash. Except all of Arizona seemed to have the same idea, and I'm not one for waiting in line in 115 degree weather for something that's not life threatening.

And, I remembered I had this mountain of quarters from an office lunch run (seriously people - who gives you SIX dollars in quarters for a sandwich. Whatever), which led me to entertaining an idea I never thought I'd consider. Maybe I was feeling a little deranged on this particular day, but for whatever reason, I began to turn over the idea of the self service car wash on my block. Allow me to set the scene before I get the haters and nay-sayers. This is the self service gas station from hell. Somehow, despite residing in one of the sunniest and most dry climates in the county, it's dark, damp and sinister-like. It's on the corner of homeless and homelesser, adjacent to a foot trafficked taco stand called "El Norteno" (which I will admit, I have patronized a time before), and butts up against a narrow alley which is a gang graffiti hot spot. It's so old and run-down, I don't even think it has a name. Keep in mind this is on my block, but that's just how downtown Phoenix is. I like to call it "urban."

I needed some assurance.

"Do you think I'd be safe taking Sam through the car wash on the corner?" I asked my roommate who was starting to become one with the couch.

"Yeah, just expect a few homeless men to approach you, and if they do, spray them with the squirter. It has high pressure," he barked.

"Do you think there're rats in there?" I asked.

Without skipping a beat, "No...but probably cockroaches. Make sure you spray off the car first with water, then scrub with the brush 'cause that dust isn't gonna come off with just the sprayer..."

"Oh ok..." I was wavering. Could I really do this and survive? I laced up my running shoes, snatched the pile of quarters, and headed out the front door before I could convince myself otherwise. Creeping through the alley, I made a left at the corner and shot into one of the dark slots. Swinging my legs out, I screamed as I nearly stepped on a black wet glove. Gross. Timidly, I carried my quarters to the machine and $1.25 later, I was up and running. $3.25 and 7 minutes later, I was pulling out with a sparkling clean Sam and an accomplished feeling that I may had just uncovered a hidden gem.

Mighty Haboob - you may have instilled in me a love for self service car washes. We'll see...

Google Search: Why not?

It's almost like getting a feel for the community you live within, knowing how they search. Key in a few search terms and you might find yourself amazed what Google suggests. Note - this data populates on a regional level, so results vary.

Ways to...
... make money
... ask a girl to prom
... save money
... lose weight
... say I love you

Fair enough here. No huge surprises, but I'm just getting started.

How big...
... is an acre
... is Japan
... is the Universe
... is the Sun
... is a queen sized bed

Japan? This seems very odd.

Kill...
... bill
... some time
... team
... your boss
... Justin Bieber

Your boss!?

Find...
... a grave
... people
... my iPhone
... chuck norris
... my phone

I'll be the first to admit, finding a grave does sound enticing, but wonder why it's so much so, it's the first search term. And Chuck Norris? Come on, people. Why is "a job" not one of the options? Or "my dog/cat."

When to grab...
... deals
... for ice climbers chain
... cat by neck
... a domain
... in ssbb

How to see through...
... clothes
... walls
... clothes in photoshop
... clothing shooting in bright sunlight
... clothes with a gimp

I'm starting to get really creeped out. Time to stop and brave the 117 degree weather. Sigh.

**For those of you non-Google saavy readers, the first term is what was typed into the Google search bar. The five items that follow are the most popular searched items after the initial keyword. Again, these are populated by region, so results may, and do tend to vary.

The Battle of the Clashing Nightmares

I like to talk about dreams - Pick them apart, question the objects and people on the sidelines, and examine all recalled details in an attempt to pair it up with a situation that the dreamer might be experiencing in their life. I'll admit... sometimes it's a stretch. Dreams can always be interpreted multiple ways. But, more often than not, I find our dreams to be fairly clear representations of our everyday struggles. What's not amazing about that? It's like a trap door, or a secret cave in your own house. Shwing! 

But one thing I don't often talk about in the dream world - is nightmares. This is actually surprising since due to the paranoid and crime-obsessed individual that I am, nightmares are frequent house guests of mine. Curious how many adults are like me and experience nightmares? According to WebMD, one out of every two adults has nightmares on occasion. And between 2% and 8% of the adult population is plagued by nightmares.

The topic is relevant and fresh on my mind this morning since not only did I experience a nightmare last night, but I had two. And even more disturbing - they seemed to be two opposite nightmares: one which somebody unwelcome was trying to break in, and one which a group of unwelcomes were trying not to let me out. This causes my dream weaver analysis blood to boil, as no matter the answer I draw, it cancels out the other.

A brief snapshot, for those that choose to help a sister out:

1. It was night, and I was asleep. I awoke and instantly knew somebody was trying to break into the house. I heard him rustling around in the backyard, and then... the crash of broken glass. Itule leaped up and ran towards the noise. As he approached the glass door leading to the back yard, the scoundrel stood peering in, his nose almost pressed to the glass. We both got a good look at him before he ran off and jumped over the fence. And even though he had left, we knew he'd return.

2. I was at a house party and a group of people busted in with guns. Immediately, I put my hands up hostage-style and they carefully swept the room, pointing guns in our faces and examining each of us. It was silent - so silent. The tension was palatable, and their footsteps resonated on the wood floors. Without moving, my eyes scanned the room for the rest of my friends, and I located them in the corner not far from where I stood. As the gunmen looked away for a second, I made a break to join them. Success. They turned the corner, and slowly, we began to scoot backwards towards our exit. 

Survey says: Am I in... or am I out? 

For My Constant and Evolving Papita

This year, it seemed my parents took to their diet even more than in years past. It's not a diet per se, but rather a healthier way of eating. More protein, fruits and veggies, less carbohydrates. In an effort to further cut carbs, my dad pledged to stop drinking beer during the work week, something he's always enjoyed around suppertime or after a good workout. Instead, he has margaritas.


When my dad told me this, it made me laugh. Margaritas in place of beer? But as I thought of it later over a pale ale of my own, it felt odd. Beer had been a staple in the Bell household for as long as I could remember. A tenet, if you will, had fluctuated, and I started to wonder if it was the end of an era.

Which got me thinking of other changes over the past year. Obviously, this beverage shift wasn't the only shift I saw take place with my father.

For one, he joined the twenty-first century and purchased an iPhone. And severely technologically challenged as he certainly is, he figured out how to play Words With Friends, an online version of Scrabble, and has been relentlessly combatting me ever since. So far, no wins. Sorry, Papita.

And as his Words With Friends screen-name (marcusgpa) suggests, he also became a grandfather and simultaneously earned himself a new nickname - The Baby Stealer. It's a never-ending battle when spending time with the newest addition to our family, Mr Marcus, but often, it's dad who ends up with the 21 lb, 8 oz prize. We'll catch him sneaking out the back door with Marcus to spend time with only him. Or he'll come home one day with a stuffed toy toolset he thought Marcus would enjoy even though my father despises shopping. He told me two weeks back, "honey, there are few things in life more special than your kids' kids." Enough said, which explains why this particular change in my father has been the most dramatic.

And of course there are other small things. He's been running less, and is notably more cautious in the things he does everyday. While in Arizona visiting, this realization set-in as we climbed Camelback Mountain. That day, watching him take extra care to secure his footing felt like quite the departure from the dad that once taught his kids that STOP meant skid tires on pavement.

But thinking about it now, it seems he's not changing, but evolving. Maybe not enough that a local ECHO volunteer or long-time patient would notice, but I have. And I suppose the only reason these evolutions even hit me in the first place, is that mostly - it's the constants that represent my dad best. In fact, there are many, many more tried-and-trues when speaking of Dan Bell.

There's the country music he claims teaches life lessons; His raggedy, mismatched socks that somehow prevail over countless stocking stuffers of brand new pairs; His sheer ferocity on water skis (I guess that's one thing he doesn't proceed with caution on); An honest appreciation and respect for the simple things in life. On my last visit, he admired the hay barrels' ability to add texture to the Arkansas countryside as he drove me to the airport; His unshakable dedication to his wife, still whisking her off to dinner dates, and pulling off epic surprise parties; His role in the community as a respected and devoted family doctor; And a sense of humor that fabricates diseases and has a propensity to repeat old jokes. He knows not to take things too seriously.

And these are just a few. As his daughter, the most notable constant in my life is his being a great role model, teacher, friend and daddy all these years. I look forward to seeing how he continues to evolve into the best dad and grandfather possible. End of the era? No, not exactly.

Happy Father's Day!

 - ILYR

Meet Sampson

Ever since I relocated to downtown Phoenix, I've had a keen eye out for a vintage cruiser - something that would carry me to and fro in style around my urban neighborhood. Six months of scouring the local Craigslist offerings and finally, I struck gold. His name... is Sampson, a 26" 1980 Schwinn World Cruiser with a basket perfectly sized for a 6-pack.

We went for a 'get to know you' spin around the park nearest my house yesterday morning. This is a favored spot to the homeless population, and as I swerved to avoid suspicious looking puddles left on the sidewalk, it became painfully obvious this wasn't the best trial run course. It had been at least ten years since I'd been on a bike, and after a less than elegant veer off the sidewalk into the grass, I realized the danger I was presenting to the bums. They were alarmed, and for good reason.

Somehow, I managed to make it back unscathed. And despite the poor performance of my first joy ride, I found myself looking for excuses throughout the rest of the day that I could take Sampson out again. We rode to the ATM in the afternoon, purse in the front basket and wind in my hair. Somehow, this ride was much different, and I was cruising block after block, rounding corners and dodging pedestrians with ease. My Cheshire Cat smile grew in width as I rode on, and after a while I was actually laughing as I weaved through the quiet downtown neighborhoods. Every crosswalk light was green the entire way, as if the streets of Phoenix had opened up just for our ride. Other bikers acknowledged my passing with a nod, construction workers took pause as I whizzed by, and leisurely joggers admired my speed. The feeling of envy they all possessed towards Sampson was evident, which made the ride that much more enjoyable.  

As I rode back to the house, I was bubbling. There was something liberating about that cruise, something I've yet to identify, but that I know is just the beginning. The adventures of Sampson and RB... this should be something for the books. Oh yeah.

The Flat Suzie Project

Your only mother turns 60 but once. So as we began to formulate ideas for the occasion early this year, we knew it had to be different, well thought out - offensive, even - but certainly high impact and as Dr. Oz put it in a segment on ECHO, it needed to be "high touch."

Thus, Flat Suzie was born. Based off of a children's education movement called the Flat Stanley Project, the plan was simply to send our Flat Suzie doll to family and friends, asking them to remit a photo of themselves with Flat Suzie. We planned to assemble the photos into a book of some sort, and if they wanted to include accompanying birthday notes, even better.

Three months, over 200 photos, five continents and nine countries later, Flat Suzie's journey was complete, and unbeknownst to the real Suzie, the family was en route to Arkansas for her surprise bash. Dad had surprised us in his ability to organize a top notch soiree. Single-handedly, the man firmed up the venue, catering, floral arrangements, live music and invitations (nevermind his impressive Microsoft Word skills in which the invitation headlines read "Microsoft Party Invitation Template."). Mainly, he was able to lure skeptical Suzie to the scene, which was no small task.

Let it be known that on Sunday, May 29th at approximately 6:25pm, the feisty, spy-like, never-once-been-had Suzie Bell was taken by storm, and surprised to tears.

The sight of the room flush with her close friends brought on some real emotion, but it wasn't until she rested eyes upon her red-headed grandchild that she produced a most terrifying wail and allowed the emotion to fully pour out of her body. It was that exuberant scream that began the celebration that lasted many hours into the night. The official presentation of the Flat Suzie book, slide shows, amazing food, local live music, and of course... a roast. We may have gotten more than we paid for (ahem, actually burning your bras in the 70's), but the evening couldn't have been more fitting. "High touch" with high comedy.

Here's to 60 years of life to a mother who still slaloms like a maniac, has the [crazy] enthusiasm of a kid in junior high, curiosity and creativity that only seems to increase every day, and the heart of something much greater. I'm glad we were there to celebrate with you on your birthday (and miss our flight, only to celebrate the official birthday!). Here's to many, many more years being your fabulous self, and to many, many, many years of positivity - never giving up on the hope that one day, you'll beat me in WWF. :)

California Dreaming, Part 2

A very belated post on the Easter weekend travels that rounded-out my California journeys for the month of April. 

I was Laguna Beach bound, and not only that, headed in the direction of a holiday weekend with my boyfriend's family. You could say I felt a little anxiety, but nothing crazy. Mostly I was just excited about getting to see a place never visited before, and more than that, seeing a place that was like a second home to Itule. 

My plane was 45 minutes late to depart, which was the first time in my life I was thankful for it. I was running an hour behind at the office and would have almost assuredly missed the flight on my own doing. Note: taking a 6pm flight on a Thursday - not a brilliant idea. 

By the time I touched down in Laguna, everything was dark, but it was just breezy enough I could smell the beach. We arrived at our hotel, and immediately ventured out in search of food options still available at 10pm, only to discover Jack in the Box was our only option. We walked along the PCH back to our room, food in hand, and with the utmost caution I placed each foot securely on the sidewalk. The last time I eagerly carried Jack in the Box, the results weren't so good. 

Happily full of cheap chicken nuggets, we cracked open our ocean window and drifted off to the rhythm of the waves. The California air felt a lot different than the desert nights I was used to, and the next morning I woke up ready to take in Southern California.

And take in Southern California we did. Breakfast at a dive cafe owned by a penguin-obsessed hippie led to a most leisurely jog along the PCH, a rooftop lunch offering panoramic views of the Pacific (whales and dolphins, no big deal), a fancy French dinner with the whole family and night out at the Sandpiper. And the locals that grazed this lazy beach bar were anything but lazy. One gentleman in particular, dubbed The Running Man, made his place in the corner of the dance floor and at the sound of the drums, sprinted in place the duration of the evening. If it was a song he really liked, he'd flip his head side to side, sweat flinging in each direction instead of trickling straight down to expand the damp circular area that already surrounded the man. It was like a Laguna Beach version of a snow angel. A sweaty, hippie, beach sweat circle snowman.

Our final day fell on Easter, and at 8:15 am, I found myself outside a small Catholic church. It had been over 10 years since I'd attended a Catholic service, and I was actually looking forward to it. We arrived almost 45 minutes early, and the previous service was still taking place. They let out, and we beelined it inside to find our seat. Filling almost an entire pew, it was a good thing we arrived so early. Ten minutes til nine, there were Catholics lining the walls of this little church.

The sanctuary wasn't huge and daunting, but rather had it's own quirky character, which I liked. The service began with the homily. I was trying to follow, but I felt like the Catholics along the walls were beginning to stare. I wondered, should I stand up and give them our seats? No, they didn't plan ahead, that's not our problem. Back to the homily, which the priest was now bringing home. He spoke about some sort of bloody hike, and before I knew it, I was fixated on the family directly in front of me. The youngest of this beachy surf family would not leave his mother alone. This little boy was tugging on, of all things, the earlobes of his mom. Nonchalantly, she'd cup her hand around her right ear to thwart his odd efforts, and he'd snake around to the left to massage the other lobe. This started to weird me out. Why was he rubbing ear lobes?

Back to the service. Homily - done. It was time for the next hymnal. The music director rose and with the grace and posture I would expect from a prima ballerina, slowly extended her hand outward and into the air. I guessed that to be a gesture for us to sing. Odd, that she was conducting us. As we started in on the first verse of How Great Thou Art, I took note of her seriousness, the way in which she enunciated each note, and the library spectacles rested upon the tip of her nose. Her hair was red, tussled and tied back. She was probably mid-40's, and something about the way her cardigan was unbuttoned just so made me wonder. It was like she was playing the part of the good Catholic music director, miming what she had seen on TV perhaps. And was that a pencil holding her hair up?

Service let out before I knew it, and I'd successfully scoped out and determined the life story of pretty much everybody in the congregation, including the wallflowers who didn't plan ahead (Which played into their stories, obviously.) It was safe to say I thoroughly enjoyed that Easter service.

Our last supper was done up, and we gathered for Easter brunch at one of Laguna's oldest establishments, Las Brisas. Being Easter, we were greeted by a large bunny costume. This of course, caused me to panic, and like a child, I hid behind Itule. The freaky rabbit, of course, noted my fear and decided to enjoy himself, tapping me on the shoulder and nearly sending me into cardiac arrest. The duration of our champagne-filled brunch was spent on guard, and with one eye on that rabbit at all times. I'm still quite traumatized, come to think about it.

So, was it an Easter to write home about? I believe that's exactly what I'm doing. The town of Laguna Beach gets five gold stars for being completely down to earth and beautiful. And for that matter, so does the company I was graced with.

A Post for Momma

Happy Mother's Day - To the woman who asserts a Pampered Chef pie gate is a necessity; the mom who blasts Neil Diamond, Rod Stewart and Amy Grant; to the mother who fought for one more child when one girl and one boy was enough to satisfy dad; to the mother who proves the notion small but mighty; to the mom that keeps the phrase "presentation is everything" in her back pocket for use in any context; the mother who will go toe-to-toe with any ignoramus to prove women can do anything a man can do; to the mom who makes a pristine home and gourmet cooking seem like the norm; to the competitive mother who produces a mean humming attempt accompanied by an even meaner dance number in a game of Cranium; to the woman who'll terrorize you out of a peaceful slumber with a homemade Vacation Bible School jingle; to the woman who ran the Boston Marathon while pregnant; to the woman that is my mother, a godmother and now a proud grandmother.

I hope you know how much you are loved, appreciated and cherished! Happy Mother's Day.

ILYR

Passive Aggressive Office Notes - a handwritten inscription

That's what he/she said!

"Disgusting habits..."

California Dreaming, Part 1

There’s almost too much to recount, so I’ll shoot to hit the main highlights.

It was the first time I’d visited San Francisco, although the idea of it had been a frequent topic in my mind for many years prior. And I was sure I knew what it was all about. There were the cable cars, the insane hills, row houses (ahem, Full House intro), and Alcatraz. I knew I would love San Francisco before I had set foot in the state of California, which was back in 1993.

So when I finally arrived in early 2011, stepping onto the curb and storming to the front of the cab line, you can only imagine my anxiety and excitement to finally have arrived. And it wasn’t until the cab driver’s martial arts fight scene music was increased to a volume level so offensive other motorists on the interstate were hovering next to us with intense puzzlement, that I realized just how appropriate of an entrance I was making after all this time. It was the type of background music you’d place in a less mainstream, independent version of Kill Bill. Something similar to this.

It was my birthday weekend, and let it be known that the boyfriend did it up. As we checked into our five-star hotel room, I was greeted by a dozen roses. Exquisite dinners occupied each evening; we even received a personal tour of one of the country’s oldest breweries – Anchor Steam Brewery. We paid homage to the history and craftsmanship by drinking our fair share of the beverages the remainder of the visit.

Most notable for me, not surprisingly, was Alcatraz. Even somebody not obscenely curious in prisons and creepy dark subject matter like myself would leave this tour in awe. And, it didn’t hurt that we received yet another private tour. This time, of a quarter of the prison that tour groups haven’t been allowed for over 10 years.  We were granted access into this area thanks to an elderly volunteer named Sean, who replied to my “Sir, where is the recreation area” inquiry with a sly unhinging of a roped-off area and an invite to “see something much more interesting.” Al Capone, Robert ‘The Birdman’ Strauss and many other high profile inmates were kept in this space. And fun fact, the movie “The Rock” was filmed primarily in this less-traveled area of the prison. It really was something spectacular.

But perhaps something a bit more unexpected that proved to be a chart-topper... was Chinatown. Saturday morning, we ventured in search of the famed Chinatown markets. After being patently lost and then utterly misunderstood by a number of Chinese storekeepers, we stumbled upon Stockton Street, where all the Chinese action was. Markets lined the street with buckets of live toads waiting to be selected for dinner, live crabs squirming in clear baggies in the hands of their new proud owners, fruit and other produce so large you would think they’d been raised with some sort of steroid soil, and a vibrant and unique culture that was not at all happy to see us that morning. Was it the ninja kicks, or the “turning Japaneesa” tune implanted in my head that I continued to allow to slip out from time to time? It really didn’t matter. It was an experience all its own, equally fascinating as it was repulsive. Would I return for the Saturday morning market action? You’re damn skippy I would.

The flight home was quick, but not altogether painless; I’m still trying to get over sore muscles I didn’t know existed from all those hills. I was sad to leave the city that I had waited so long to get acquainted with, and sad to be leaving a place that had me aquainted even more with a guy who couldn’t be more wonderful.

I'm not one to promote California tourism, but I'm just saying. I will... be back. 

From No Cal to So Cal...

... the walks of life are similar, and oh so different. I'll offer a glimpse of San Fran from the happiest place on earth (duh, Alcatraz) from last weekend. And Laguna Beach (coming soon) has proven to have its own stories to tell as well.

Brace yourself for some F U N. To be continued...

Diary of a Backyard Conspiracy

I must say, I have quite the love-hate relationship with my backyard. Instead of the lush lawn the front yard boasts, this xeriscaped quarter-of-an-acre backyard is a fenced-in desert paradise boasting its own oleander, bougainvillea, agave and saguaro cacti. And just for good measure, it produces aloe vera plants because, well, it gets hot here. The likelihood of one getting a sunburn is less a likelihood and more a guarantee.

But despite the love and aspiration I have for my backyard, I'm beginning to get more and more creeped out by select findings over the course of six months.

It all started with a couple threatening magnets.

What the two refrigerator magnets "death" and "skin" were doing lodged into the earth of my backyard was beyond me. Despite my trepidation, I proceeded to make as much light of the situation as possible and took the magnets inside with me, adorning them safely to my refrigerator.

One month later, I was troubled to uncover this...


What we have here, is a murder weapon perceivably as old as the 1914 home. While this may seem ancient, don't be fooled. Tools were made much more durable in the early 1900's, and is still very much an functional axe. Note: this was discovered alongside a shovel, rake and a hoe. To me though, does it make you feel any more safe that this is even available? 


And while murder was fresh on the brain, it wasn't even a few weeks that I uncovered this casualty.

It was this point that I started to get considerably unsettled.

It had been several months after the bird massacre, and no backyard activity. Things started to seem in order again, which as in most cases, is when the "baseball" strikes.

That brings us to last week. Admittedly, a baseball isn't the most obscure item to be found in one's backyard. What should be noted, however, is the percentage of children that live in my neighborhood (zero) and the likelihood that any of my current neighbors would toss a baseball around (less than zero). Which means, we're looking at a failed attempt to break a window, a "left behind" of somebody who had trespassed over the fence and is now hiding in the crawl-space of the home, some sort of poisonous or explosive decoy, or a camera disguised as a baseball. And what are the squiggles?

I'm on my guard, people. Good thing I have an axe.

A cigarette, a beer, a bucket and a hose

It was a glorious, breezy Spring afternoon in the desert. Overnight, everything morphed into full bloom (including the unforgiving bermuda weeds in my back yard), and the temperature lingered in the mid-80's. In my peripheral, my determined roommate paced back and forth in his worn jeans, clutching his cigarette and beer in one hand, and an orange bucket full of soapy water and the garden hose in the other. Seemingly, he was determined to include his beer in his car washing festivities, and who would blame him? It's Sundays like these that you really want to make the most of them. Which, also explains the mason drink dispenser full of Lipton brew he'd carefully placed in the sunny spot of our sidewalk.

Making the most of my Sunday included taking some time to recap on my eye-opening visit from my one-year old nephew, Mr. Marcus Deacon. It was a week of firsts for me, and also a week of a learned respect I now have for a little thing called raising a child. There's a solid reason it takes two individuals to produce a child.

As I was counting down the days until his arrival, my excitement could be easily paralleled to a young child awaiting Christmas morning. I had the borrowed pack-n-play set up in the corner of my bedroom, pink stroller and car seat installed and ready to go. The rented high chair was en route. I couldn't have felt more prepared. It had been about three months since I spent time with Marcus, and given his volatile age, I knew he'd be such a different little person.

And, he was. The babbling had advanced, and his mobility was shocking. The red hair was still intact, in fact, it even seemed more radiant. But he started to develop some characteristics of a person. He smiled a lot, laughed, coughed, frowned, clutched his fists... and he slapped. And let me tell you - he knew how to properly slap.

The first night, I thought it best to alleviate my sister and take the night shift. After a few hours of blissful slumber, he awoke at midnight, wailing and choking between sobs on his congestion. Swooping him up, I warmed his milk in my best single person container - a pilsner glass - and as he fussed and fidgeted, we explored the phenomenon of pushing aside curtains and seeing what lied beyond the dark windows. When the milk was warm, he sucked it down and was asleep in an instant. This was simple, I thought.

At 4:00 am, he was up again. And the smell that burned my nose was alarming. As I lifted him from his crib to my hip, I could feel the moisture settling into my clothing, and it became suddenly clear that he'd had a serious accident. We ventured into my bathroom to access the damage, and as soon s the onesie was unbuttoned, the damage was evident. Brown liquid was crusted to his legs, lower back and entire diaper. I was hesitant to remove the barrier, but when I did, became acquainted with the exact culprit for his screams. No wonder he was so pissed. He had a blowout only comparable to some sort of nuclear explosion. With watering eyes and a search inside myself so deep I hadn't realized fathomable, I removed the diaper and began to baby-wipe the ruins. When the morsel had been attended to, we went outside together to the trash, and dropped it off, hands clean and accomplished.

We warmed some milk and attempted some shuteye. After an hour of refusal, April woke up and worked her magic. Around 5:30am, Mr. Marcus passed out in the bed with both April and I, and it wasn't until 6:00am when my alarm went off that I realized how sleep deprived I really was. As I dragged myself into work, and the knowing parents addressed my bloodshot eyes with a knowing smile, I started to acknowledge that this was really what parenting was about.

The ensuing week brought similar episodes, including near-panic attacks brought on by Marcus' mealtimes, additional "accidents" on my comforter, multiple "sprays" in the face, and one notable freak-out by my sister when I refused to change Marcus' diaper one gorgeous afternoon after a day in the sun.

A few things occurred to me from this experience: the first being how fundamentally demanding child rearing is, how selfless the job itself makes sure of, the unexpected things you see, hear and smell, prevalence of nursery rhymes you get ironed to your brain, and true lack of sleep parenting guarantees.  But mostly, despite the exhaustion, there was nothing else than this little being. He was the center of what mattered, what ever should matter, and what became undeniably clear, was the precise reason that parents endure the effort. It's worth it.

As I said goodbye at the airport, I was heartbroken. Not surprisingly, I was ready for a break, but I knew that when I got home from work that afternoon, the house would seem quiet, in order, and that I would be longing for that noise - albeit demanding some sort of attention - and feel a little bit empty without it.  

And now, I find myself counting down the days, the months until I see Marcus Deacon again. I guess that's how it goes. Being an Aunt isn't always glamourous, but it's also not a job that stops. I'm anxious for the things that come in the short term, and can't wait for those things that continue to come as my nephew and I grow together as the dynamic duo. Mr Marcus - you rock, and I plan to show you just how cool life is.

The Chip Smile

It took me almost 60 seconds in this pose for Focker to look up from across the table. At which point, she nearly spit out her margarita.

Totally worth it.

To Sing or Not to Sing?

My entire life, I have regarded traditional church hymns as unnecessarily strenuous and taxing. Reminiscing on the days of my Arkansas childhood, the most unpleasant part of every Sunday was exactly that - the part of worship that required me to take on yet another impossible melody. As it turned out, I was an atrocious singer (which as a side note, is precisely why I'm such an accomplished whistler. I had to be good at something musical). Yet somehow, it wasn't until the early United Methodist days that I came to that realization. Most Sundays, I'd get the look from those seated nearby - mostly children with their brutally honest, unable-to-produce-a-poker-face-innocence, but sometimes mothers and even elderly men (hearing aids not withstanding) - and I understood what it meant. Just what exactly is that noise? Make it stop. Oh, it's you. You sound awful. Shh! And so I would. I would stop actually singing, and transition into mouthing the words. A few in the congregation seemed onto my new trick, I knew it, and with this, it became a game, a hobby of sorts, and there was only one thing to do: master it. Each song brought on an unknown challenge, involving anticipated lip synched pauses, breaths, and of course, the notes themselves. It took years of practice, and I'm not afraid to gloat. At the green age of six, I made lip synching my bitch.  

Nearly twenty years later, I found myself put to the test. I was attending a funeral for my boyfriend (he didn't die; I was there for support), and to my horror, opened up the program to find many traditional hymns slated for this very service. I don't think I need to mention that I was sitting in a pew with his entire family and also surrounded in front, and behind, his extended family. But this situation seemed different. I wasn't at church as an elementary school child, I was at a memorial service for somebody. A service that honors the individual's life, and comforts those that are still living. The right thing to do, is to sing.

The piano struck the first chord of "Amazing Grace," I took a deep breath, and we all joined in. My voice was shaky, but it sounded tolerable. I pressed onward. Then, blindsided by an unexpected high note, the looks from the nearby family commenced. Rather than completely abort mission, I merely toned down the racket while simultaneously lowering my chin as to only be heard by myself. This stunt drew the attention from the boyfriend, during which I slipped one step further to that familiar place of lip synching. And that's exactly where I finished out the duration of his great grandmother's memorial. Better this way, than to be forever known as the deaf girl.

Perhaps I'll try whistling the hymn next time. Not sure how that would go over.

Nonetheless, the question remains: to sing, or not to sing: that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the outrageous cacophony, or to take arms against the sea of temptation and remain mute. Until the faire has gone settled, I bid thee well, my good men and good ladies.