A Random Image

Archive for August, 2001

|| August 18, 2001 || 12:19 am || Comments (0) ||

“Men occasionally stumble over the truth, but most of them pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing has happened.” –Winston Churchill

“It’s not like you to say ‘I’m sorry’ ” –Nickelback

“There are things that I am more sure of as time passes; one thing I know is that no one can torture me as well as I torture myself.” –Jett Superior

Did you know that 80 percent of stigmatics are female? (And you can kindly leave the menstrual jokes at the door on that one..)

|| August 15, 2001 || 11:02 pm || Comments (0) ||

It was late December, and I was doing a Christmas return. I remember that it was exceptionally cold that year, even for Alaska.

Once I arrived at Fifth Avenue Mall, I parked in the garage, on the same floor as the mall’s covered entrance to expedite my mission. It was a weekday around opening time and hardly anyone was there, so I managed to get a spot within 20 yards of the covered (and mercifully heated) hallway that connected the parking structure to the mall.

I went in, did my exchange, browsed for a bit and was out in roughly 45 minutes. I returned to the parking lot to find it still essentially empty, but was not at all surprised to see someone parked next to the driver’s side of my truck. It was another truck, but very large and very worn-in. As I neared the two vehicles, I was astounded to see that Mr. Grandiose Pickup Driver had parked roughly a FOOT from my own truck, a pretty little Isuzu 4×4 that was loaded and customized for my vanity’s sake.

Now, normally, this would have been a minor annoyance; I would have called Mr. Grandiose Pickup Driver some Very Ugly Names and then unlocked my passenger door and crawled across the seat. Hell, the stick shift might have even given me a minor thrill, but alas, ’twas not to be so. I had noticed the week before that I could not unlock the passenger-side door with my keys. I called the dealership where I had obtained my lovely little piece of 4-wheelin’ joy, but apparently they did not find my little door problem critical, so I was given an appointment nearly three weeks away. No amount of sweet talking and cajoling could score me an earlier date for repair. And jeez Louise, you don’t normally want to start being a shithead to the dealership before they fix your vehicle, no matter how seemingly minor the repair actually is.

So you can sort of empathize with my rising frustration at this inconsiderate person being parked so…..effing…..close. Did I mention that there were no cars at all in the two spots next to him/her? Did I also mention that it was cold? Now you’re getting the picture.

Did I mention that I was eight-and-a-half months pregnant? NOW you’re getting the taste of my rage.

I stood there, furious and frustrated in turns. There was no guard to call, this was an unmanned parking lot. Do I go into the mall attempting to find this worthless pile of skin? That would take FOREVER. I was MAD, and I wanted results NOW.

Fortunately, I only paced furiously for about fifteen minutes before an old lady with small child in tow happened by. Cautiously I approached her, not wanting to spook her. I guess the desperation in my voice and my tenseness of face allayed any misspent paranoia she may have had, because after my first three words to her, her posture loosened, her face relaxed. I proposed to climb up into the bed of Mr. Grandiose Pickup Driver’s truck, lean over and unlock my driver’s door. Then she could send along Little Mister Four-Year-Old to climb into the itty-bitty space and rescue the Preggo Damsel by unlocking Unruly Passenger Door so that she could climb her gestating, buffalo-sized frame across the seat and drive the fuck home to do some nesting and shit.

**has anyone else noticed the pure rage that I seem to still be carrying over this nearly decade-old event?? a bit unsettling, no?**

The Nice Middle-Aged Lady did me one better: SHE climbed herself on up into that truck bed and unlocked the door so that her grandson could crawl in and perform said task. After it was said and done, I insisted on giving Little Mister Four-Year-Old all the one dollar bills in my posession, which amounted to three or four. Nice Middle-Aged Lady said no way, but I was insistent and she finally let the boy take two of my dollars.

After they went on their merry way, I struggled across the seat, which is not easy in Sorel boots and your eighth-almost-ninth month.

By the time I got settled in and got my keys into the ignition, I was red-faced and fit to be tied AGAIN….so I blame my bad judgment and behavior on hormones and the thought of impending labor.

I backed out of the space, reached behind my bench seat for the ‘tar arn’ (southern colloquialism for the part of a jack that triple-times it as a jack lifter, a bolt loosener and a weapon) and quite quickly and efficiently caved in the passenger-side window of this incredibly rude, thoughtless person’s vehicle. And if they weren’t thoughtless? If the parking job was done intentionally (which was possible, as this was around the “Line Drawn In The Sand” time and fury at any and all foreign imports–especially vehicles–was high amongst the ‘down-home patriotic types’), so much the better.

The impact was delicious; I have always loved the sound of shattering glass.

I beat a rapid, clipped retreat and headed home. And before you send me hate mail telling me how irresponsible and childish of me it was to do this, I’ll tell you that I don’t disagree, but I don’t entirely agree either; I can’t say that in the same time and place I would do anything differently.

Take solace in the fact that karma is alive and well and I’m sure that I suffered my share of ass-bitings for this one, but boy did it feel goooood.

|| August 15, 2001 || 3:03 pm || Comments (0) ||

FINALLY. Rob deigns to post something. Even if it IS just to tell me that I am wallowing in obscurity, I ‘m glaaaaad.

|| August 15, 2001 || 11:35 am || Comments (0) ||


It is after noon (seventeen minutes after, to be exact) and I am still in my bathrobe. Not the beautiful black silk one emblazoned with rich jeweltones, the frumpy white terry cloth one with the mint green and yellow pastel stripes. The comfy one.

I don’t care that I’m still in my bathrobe, either. I am still sick (aren’t you glad that you came here to read about it for the THIRD day in a row??) and am feeling very run-down and basically blah. I rarely fall ill, and when I do, it hits me hard.

In short, I am a heretic in the face of my father’s rigid standards for personal appearance and decorum. He never slouches, not one bit. He is the epitome of organization and hip togetherness. He is infuriating.

When he gets sick, there is this air of disgusting martyrness about him. He trudges on bravely. No downtime, even in the face of death.

He’s one of those people that rolls out of bed in the morning (4:30 ay emm, to be exact) looking already perfectly-pressed and groomed in his heavy black hooded robe. Even the one cowlick he owns looks as if it were part of the overall plan. He leans coolly against the kitchen counter while pulling at his coffee, black with double cream. He does this for fifteen minutes or so before sashaying on into his huge walk-in closet. He then emerges awash in crisp pleats to charge into the day, guns a-blazin’.

There is never a wasted moment. There is a list for everything. When one list is depleted with ruler-straight cross-outs, another is created.

On more than one occasion I have thought, “And I am a product of this man’s sperm??” I mean, I am a listmaker as well, but I do lists because of a stroke I suffered when I was twenty. My short-term memory sucks ass. The packets of information don’t always get stuck in the proper hole, so I have to remind myself. My life and surroundings are definitely ordered, but not made-to-order. I am ‘messily organized’, because it leaves room for the unexpected. My system IS in fact a system and is logical to me if no one else. In fact, I prefer that it makes sense to no one else, because then it can’t be fucked with or altered in any way. So maybe I am just as bad as my father, in a way.

But still, he infuriates me, and if he were reading this now I would say,
“Dad, it is after noon and I am still in my bathrobe and I am quite aware that equals out to ‘loser’ in your eyes and I don’t really fucking CARE.” And I might even stick out my tongue.

|| August 14, 2001 || 10:56 pm || Comments (0) ||

And oh yeah…
I haven’t smoked a cigarette in THREE WHOLE DAYS. Only one Dew has been consumed in that time, as well. That’s how you know you’re really sick. You haven’t even got the desire to pollute yourself because you are already so full of ickies. Life sucks. Hope I can sleep tonight.

|| August 14, 2001 || 10:19 pm || Comments (0) ||

I feel swollen swell. Just swell as all hell. I shouldn’t even be here. Not like dead. I mean I shouldn’t be sitting in front of this monitor, but I am nonetheless. But that’s obvious, duh. I just feel compelled to be writing something, anything, without one whit of care as to who’s reading it or when or why.

I babble, therefore I am??

I have been grappling lately with kismet, perhaps swollen eyelids and pumpkin-like lungs are the facilitator for this. Well, noooo, not really (who am I kidding?), but forced downtime leaves my hands free enough to cross stitch and my head loose enough to wrap around all the stuff that has been bouncing back and forth from my soul as of late.

Seth, you should really e-mail me. Something has been tugging, been telling me that we have lots to talk about. LOTS. Okay then.

I have bunches to say; I am just illness-ridden and don’t have the energy to say it with any clarity. I am fever-bright and none too lucid at the moment. I feel as if I am undergoing some strange ancient cleansing ritual and I will emerge baby bird-like in a few days, shaky and weak but fresh and brand new. *cheep!*

Random quotes are pinging through my head, but only a word or two or three emerges before bleeding into the next quote and then the first quote careens drunkenly back out of the second again. It’s making for some very interesting internal soundbites, lemme tell ya. Quite frankly, Robert Frost and Walt Whitman are having a spirited argument. cummings throws a jab once in a while, but mostly he sits disgruntled in the corner, glaring at everyone. Byron is swinging from the nearest lamp post and howling at the moon. There are others, and maybe I will have faculties enough to capture it for you in a few days, if I even remember.

|| August 12, 2001 || 10:52 am || Comments (0) ||

Ohhhhh, the agony. I have a raging head cold. Summer colds are the worst, and this is the worst of the worst. I don’t want to do anything but sleep, and sleep I cannot. *twitchtwitch* I have a ton of shit to get done today and no motivation or energy.

In a nutshell, I hate the world and want everyone to go away.

Even you.