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Archive for October, 2006

 
|| October 30, 2006 || 10:09 pm || Comments (1) ||

blurb

I wanna write songs like Leonard Cohen, that gorgeous-tongued gift to mankind.

Has it really been five days since I posted last? And here we all were thinking I was getting better. *tch, tch*

 
|| October 25, 2006 || 11:45 pm || Comments (2) ||

Brad Pitt in a skirt:

Kinda creepy.

 
|| October 24, 2006 || 8:53 pm || Comments (1) ||

It only took what, seven years?

Good LORD, I see that my boyfriend Christian Bale (he needs a fetching nick, like ‘Babydaddy Bale’ or something. don’t you think?)


is playing yet another complete lunatic. Crazy looks good on you, Christian. Sooooooo good.

Since the dawn of man I’ve wanted to meet a blogger. No, really. Before there was an interwebnets, Al Gore, He Of The Respectable Pudge


Chatmonkey3000
: If I were Al Gore I could probably fuck Martha Stewart

Jett: gack. You’d wanna hit that?

Chatmonkey3000: if I was Al Fucking Gore I sure as hell would

Jett: MARTHA?? STEWART ??

Chatmonkey3000: fuck yeah. those two would be like the perfect couple

Jett: okay, explain that.

Chatmonkey3000: well

Jett: make with the crazytalk

Chatmonkey3000: they’ve both got that subtle plumpness going on

Jett: ‘vitality’ heh

Chatmonkey3000: the plumpness that can be viewed as respectable, at that age and they’re both fairly wordy

Jett: ?? that’s all you got, innit?

Chatmonkey3000: so you see how I come to this conclusion

sat down with me to determine the parameters for this Internet Thingy (as he used to call it). I told him, “Al Gore, I could give two shits about what you do. I just wanna, you know, meet complete strangers in a more unconventional manner.”

Al Gore clapped his hands, shot out lightning-wrapped words from betwixt his orator’s lips and a whole new dimension (or is it a universe in here?) was sallied forth to fuck society up further. AMEN!

So, that was the first part of the plan to come to fruition. The second came last Saturday, when I found myself in Birmingham on some contract work. I had a couple of hours to kill early-on, and I just so happened to sense that somebody needed CHEERING UP.

“Hellooooo?” he croaked upon answering my eight ay emm call.

“Hey champy, I got some time to kill. Wanna go catch some breakfast or somethin’?”

“Mpfibehofinsfrrfrrrfrf.”

Which, speaking hangover, I knew to mean, “Damn, that is the most fabulous idea, you smashing woman you.”

“How’s Cracker Barrel work for you?” he asked in a more lucid moment.

“Works fine. I’m about to gnaw off somebody’s face, I need protein so bad.”

…and we were off to the races!

If the races had poor navigational officers, that is. In a nutshell: I followed Skillzy’s directions to a ‘t’ and then called him to ask, “Umm, am I supposed to be in front of The Summit?” whereupon he began to upbraid me for my inadequate interpretations of his directions. It was kind of a “I SAID ‘go right‘, but I was actually beaming ‘go left‘ straight into your brain; didn’t you get the transmission?” moment. HAHAHA, YOU ASS is what I got to tell him.

Upon arrival we had to wait for a table, so Skillzy cleverly put us down as “Jett, party of two!” and we went off amidst the dry goods to talk for a bit. I kind of looked like ass, hair up and wearing yoga pants, but that was just a test to see if this bloggery person might be my friend No Matter What. Which is another way entirely of saying that I do impulsive things sometimes, like Calling Up Strangers From The Internet (a.k.a. ‘Bloggers’) at the last minute to go and dine on grits some random Saturday.

When they paged us, there were two other parties paged, as well: Shipp and Cary.
It came out like (ARE YOU READY, OH YE MUFFINASSES??)

“Ship carry jet.”

Of course, I –being simpleminded and all– derived a great deal of glee from that. It was as if they somehow knew a wordnerd was in their midst.

We were seated, we ordered, we had jazzy conversation (in which we bagged on spoke lovingly of all the rest of you, losery Cyberia People I May Meet In The Future) and a few laughs. At one point I mentioned hitting a rock the day before and how, subsequently, the ball of my foot was very tender. Here, you just listen in on your own:

Skillzy: You’re lucky you didn’t jack your ankle up.

Jett: OH, HEYYYY. You wanna see my ankle scars??

Skillzy: No.

I didn’t know this, dear readership, but I seem to have a problem with the offering up of body parts as show-and-tell; what strategies do you employ in getting acquainted with others? There was something about showing my breasts, to which my patient fellow dork with a keyboard responded,

“For crapsakes, Jett, we’re in a Cracker Barrel.”

OKAY THEN. OKAY.

We shopped a sidewalk sale, I bought impulse crap, Skillzy waited patiently while I checked out and said, “I cannot believe you called me on the one day out of the year when I am hung. OHverrr.” I shrugged, because that’s what clever people do. We hugged and parted ways, promising to Do It Again.*

I got about a half a mile down the road when I realized my rudeness, so I picked up the phone. “Skillzy, thanks for breakfast. And thanks for not bein’ a serial killer or nothin’.”

*but this time, it will be in the CBGB’s Of The South and I will be wearing things like makeup and dignity and tall boots

 
|| October 23, 2006 || 9:39 pm || Comments (2) ||

synergy and cynicism

So I have these two friends that I absolutely adore. They live in Jersey and have been known to make a whirlwind trip to see a Memphis Girl Stuck In Bama on more than one occasion. I love the both of them very much. I have an individual history with each: There are inside jokes, goofy memories, letters and photos.

Imagine my surprise when JB calls me up out of the blue last week to say, “You know how we’ve talked the last couple of years about finding Bob? Welp, I have someone here who wants to speak to you.” Come to find out, they are now a couple. She found him (he’d dropped off of both of our radars for a while), they reunited and now there is talk of marriage and babies in the air.

“I can’t believe we’ve wasted ten years not being together. What dumbasses.”

And there is all this euphoria, the sense of a comfortable, exciting newness.

“I love this girl. Love her. You’ve always known that.”

“Yep,” and all I could do was girl-squeal a little and grin wide and silly.

What was obvious to the rest of us, she’d never realized, despite her own powerful feelings on the matter. I was upbraided a bit for not informing her.

“Shit, JB, if you’re standing in front of a champagne fountain and don’t stick your head under, it’s rude of me to shove it there.”

And I am happy; I am a sentimental, fairy-tale-loving sap who loves to be able to witness when things come full circle. Sometimes it means that I get to dance at a wedding. Despite all my lovedork tendencies, though, I could not help but be overtaken by big whoops of laughter when I read a comment that Bob’s sister left on his website:

Who the hell are you “in a relationship” with now. She better be “normal” and “nice” and “cute” and not “bald” or “crazy” or “16″.

 
|| October 22, 2006 || 12:53 am || Comments (2) ||

Where I am

To be such a big ole vibrant world, it sure is lonely and small sometimes.

This one time, I was working the case of a soul-carved, hollow-faced junkie. She had been clean for six weeks when I first met her, but looked for all intents and purposes like she’d climbed up on the wagon not ten hours earlier. The pull, God bless, was that strong for her.

As we drove through her forlorn, small mountain community, it was like stepping back in time. The only grocery was a general store; the local drug store advertised ice cream floats and popcorn at a soda counter. Everything felt sepia-washed and incredibly slow.

We conversed, getting a feel for one another and after one very pointed question, she let out about the longest sigh I’ve ever heard a body expell.

“Sometimes I just wish that I could go on vacation and leave my head at home.

“You know?”

Yeah, I know….because that’s where I am tonight.

 
|| October 21, 2006 || 1:29 pm || Comments (1) ||

Blasphemy will not be tolerated.

Piper just mocked (MOCKED!!) Van Morrison.

I’ll let you people know in what manner I deemed it best to dispose of her flaming little heretical body.

 
|| October 20, 2006 || 1:07 pm || Comments (2) ||

Like hell you say!

There is this Skittles commercial that’s aired here: In it there are three cats (two guys, one girl?) sitting atop a rainbow, munching on mountain oysters Skittles Candies. One guy on the left turns to the other two and says, “Hey, what if this rainbow really doesn’t exist?”

PLONK.

A trapdoor suddenly opens under the dummy’s fellow’s backend and he’s cleanly removed from the rainbow, then freefalls out of screen. There’s a whole big discussion on this and biblical parallel creeping around the back of my head, but for brevity’s sake I’ll just tell you what I turned and said to Maxim:

“It was because he doubted, he lost. You’ve gotta live in the Belief.” And I shook my noggin, gears already creaking to life, putting this together up there.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

I got off of work a little early today, effectively allowing me a head start on dinner. I got rice in the pot, stir-fry sauce and chicken ready in another and it occurred to me that I was dying to get out of the house and run. I’d leave that much of the dinner simmering while I ran, then add veggies and heat eggrolls when I came back.

Plan. Gotta love it.

On a whim I asked Mathias The Skinny Seven if he’d like to go with me. He was beyond excited at this notion (I don’t know if it was the thought of running or the thought of getting alone time with mom that enticed him, but that kid got crazy lit up about some jogging) and I directed him to change his denim shorts to athletic ones and to put on some sneakers. I went to change; I love this time of year and the crazy dressing it entails. Shorts? Yes. Big-assed hoodie. Of course, yes! Let us awaaaaaay!

Part of me quietly questioned whether running with a seven-year-old was just sheer lunacy, but as with all of my other finer reality-slippage moments, I proceeded boldly.

First I taught him some basic stretches, because I don’t give two shits what anyone else says, you have a better time overall if you’ve warmed up some. Then we walked to the end of our driveway, talking. It was decided that I would decide the first turn and Mathias would decide our direction thereafter. I chose right, and we started up the street, where we made a left. I told him the basics, run with the traffic, stay as far to the right as possible when there is no sidewalk. And, “for jeezpete, no sudden stops in front of mommy.”

We pounded away, gaits very different. For such a knobby kid, Mathias sure makes a powerful bit of noise. I tend to run on my toes a bit. I think that’s from running track and playing soccer all those years. Mathias seems to be doing it flatfooted, literally slapping one foot in front of the other. I tried to keep the pace easy, but he was having not a bit of it.

“Mathias, if you get tuckered, let me know and we can walk for a little bit.”

“Okay, mom.”

We ran, passing one block, then another, then another. A historical building, stately trees, stop sign and stop sign and stop sign, us jogging in place patiently if cars were coming. About halfway in, Mathias slowed it to a quick walk before picking up the pace a tenth of a mile later. We were coming up the back side of our block when Mathias said, “I hear Baxter.”

Baxter was having none of this business involving shadowy figures running down the next block. We made a left, then a left again, and there was our drive. It merited a sprint, whereupon I bent to hug –then high-five– my son.

“Thanks for the run. Go on in and get your shower; I’ll be in in a minute.”

I walked in small circles, looping about the drive. When sufficiently slowed on my insides as well as my out, I raised my head. I stared hard up at the night sky, bangs shocked out wildly from my hood, before saying, “Oh my God, thank you.”

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Back in May of last year I had an accident. I don’t think I’ve told the full story of that day yet (I was pretty doped up for a while, then pretty busy playing catch-up on life), but it’s kinda damned amazing that I am sitting here, much less sitting here with all my bits and (a few extra hand-crafted and skillfully applied) parts.

You see, the extent of my injuries was one Pretty Impressively Fucked Up ankle, right side. This meant some serious surgeries. That meant that there was to be no driving (no job, natch), no jumping about, no getting up off of your elevated-leg-having ass. There was a boring morass of humid, television-filled days ahead. Thank God for the oversized ottoman, because it was one bulky pleasure in a sea of discomfort and discontent. When I was first in the hospital, they had me maximum high. I know this because I remember thinking, “Oh, this isn’t so very bad,” when it came time for me to haul up out of bed and get to the bathroom. Also because I made lofty plans: I Will Use This Time To Be A Prolific Writer. Drug-addled pronouncements are just so dang cute. Cute in the same way that five-year-old pronoucements are: “I know everfang. Just axe me.”

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Apparently the wise and wonderful doctorman told Maxim early on that I’d not ever have full function from that foot-and-leg combo again. There would be loss of range, as well as a decent limp. Maxim did not tell me this. About six weeks into my recovery (ass-end still fixed to the couch) I heard this in a roundabout way. I pursed my lips and filed a burning question right in the forefront of my recollection. When I went back to the orthopaedist, I made sure to shoot it at him –full-bore and flaming– straight into his face. I wanted to hear it directly from him; his mouth to my innards.

I shook my head at him and momentarily dispelled our very congenial relationship to Speak My Piece.

The hell you say.”

There were a lot of dreams and visions during this time, some horrifying, some consoling, and I wrote several of them down. There were some that I didn’t have to capture and quantify with words, however. There were all of me, running along, hair flying back from my face, feeling the same sort of excited freedom I used to feel while doing it.

Running for the sake of running. Running because it felt good to do so. Running for running’s sake.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

I used to be consumed with athletic endeavors. Basketball, cheer, track, softball, soccer; I did it all, sometimes concurrently. I loved to compete, I loved to get up and move, I loved to exert myself. There were times that I pushed myself beyond my physical means and ended up puking like a new frat boy at a ten-tapper.

At some point, I allowed extreme exertion to become rote and planned. It started, I think, when I was preparing for boot camp. Several days a week, I’d go out to MCAS Kaneohe and, in full gear, run up a hellishly steep hill. After I conditioned myself physically, I requested mental conditioning. This consisted of The Young Marine and three of his buddies running with me. Only they didn’t have an alice pack on, and they were having a great deal of fun heckling me. Two would run behind while two ran alongside, sometimes circling me, screaming their fool heads off. After a bit, those of the yelling persuasion would fall back and then the other two would pick up where things left off. The idea was to train me to train, to be as streamlined and focused and ready to absorb as I could possibly be when I hit Parris Island. Shit, I wanted to be Molly Marine.

‘Crazy but effective’, I need that on a tee-shirt.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

For the better part of seventeen months now, I’ve woken up with some sort of pain or stiffness in my ankle that radiates up the front of my leg and peters out about halfway to my knee. My husband thinks I came out of my brace too early. I think if I was still relying on that brace, I’d Officially Be Fucked. It’s not the first thing we’ve ever agreed to disagree on, and it won’t be the last.

Long about month ten I began to think that, since I could now walk fourteen feet without my leg screaming fire, it might be time to get back into the gym…I used to be a regular and just kind of let life get in front of me. My boss immediately put me on his membership, along with one of the other girls in the office. She and I had/have similar theories and beliefs with regard to working out, so we became partners in the effort.

I do not deal well with appearing weak to others. That being said, the first few weeks going to the gym entailed a lot of humility, as I could barely even get up a hill on the outside track without sweating bullets marked ‘hurt’ and ‘@$#&%!’. It was embarrassing to be someone that started out okay and limped, panting with pain, after twenty feet of fast walking.

I ate like a horse the first week, and went on the nods a lot during slow moments. The full mile of track was indeed kicking mine arse. But after just that first week, I began to see progress. My ankle would swell up to softball size after working out, but within hours would be smaller than it had started out fresh from a night in bed. I was limbering the tightly-bunched parts in there. Getting the lymph flowing, busting up some calcifications that had formed.

After the first six weeks, I recalled my promise to an earlier version of self:

“When I get both of my feet back, I’m going to start running once again.

“Whether or not anyone is chasing me.”

and I started doing so, five feet at a time. It seemed like it took forever before I could run open, flat (if curvy) stretches of track. Hills? Running? Out of the question for some time, but I kept at it. “I am stronger today than I was yesterday,” was my mantra, chanted to myself over and over in moments of ‘just quittitude’.

“I can do this,” I would encourage myself; “I can do this,” I’d spit at myself. The tone of voice utilized depended on the outlook of the day. It worked. The first day I ran a hill –down, across a wooden bridge, and up sharply again– I dropped to my knees on the ground next to the track, placed my forehead to the grass and just breathed, quiet and thankful.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

These days I have no noticeable limp unless I’m wearing especially tall heels (something which, by the way, required its own training…wacky) or I’m very, very fatigued. Even then, it just looks as if I’m merely employing a sort of shambly walk. Pain is intermittent now, and mostly evidences itself as an occasional throbbing or dull ache.

Two weeks ago marks my first solid mile since I began lifting and running. I was ecstatic on that day, and ever since then, running has not seemed such drudgery. I’m returning to a place where to run means I’m free, I’m fluid, I’m triumphant: The feeling in my dreams, where running felt like soaring. My injuries taught me a lesson about taking my body and things in general to do with it for granted. It gave me a better understanding of what it might mean to live disabled and/or with chronic pain. It made me thankful for what I have, my capabilities, the ability to work back to where I once was. Hell, maybe at some point, I’ll be even better than I previously could claim.

And that, bless it, was the reason I stood in the cool night air, face toward the stars and thanked My Creator for his infinite grace, mercy and healing.