The whole "tagged" thing got me thinking, I really could brag on my baby way more than myself. And it's somewhat acceptable in American culture to brag about your children, so here goes;
1. She's nearly 2 and 1/2, but still gets the syllables in two-syllable words mixed up. My favorite is "chicken" for "kitchen." Now we've taken to calling the kitchen, the chicken. For some reason I don't have a problem with this adult infantalizing of our language, when I do indeed have problems with parents who talk to their kids constantly in baby-jabber e.g. "Does Emma-wee want to weah her wed waincoat today? Does she? Oh, mommy wuvs dat waincoat!" And then are surprised when, in preschool, their kids are diagnosed with speech impediments and need hours of expensive therapy to correct a problem that they have created. JUST SPEAK LIKE FRIGGIN' ADULTS PEOPLE! PLEASE! gads.
Actually the aforementioned problem makes me laugh my ass off because it usually happens to over-indulgent yuppie parents, and they get what they deserve. :)
As long as 'ella pronounces both "chicken" and "kitchen" correctly, we're fine.
2. Speaking of cute language things, she also came up with saying "Weeeee" in place what I think should be "very" or "way". We have also taken to using this, adverb, shall we say, in our own speech, especially around her. Example: 'ella and Daddy Bruce have a nighttime ritual, which helps her go night-night, where they walk around the house and turn all the lights off, and say "night-night kitchen/chicken" "night-night bathroom" etc. Once, she realized her sippy cup was still in the kitchen after they'd turned off the lights, so she ran to get it and immediately exclaimed, "ooo, it weee dark in the chicken!!" Still cracks me up. We imagine it is very dark, indeed, inside the chicken.
3. Have I mentioned 'ella goes to a Jewish temple preschool? Well, she does. We're not Jews, but one of my grandmothers was and we like the educational /enrichment aspects of it, plus the warm fuzzy care they give and the added bonus of having around 20 surrogate Jewish mothers, blah blah blah. Right now they're on Passover Break. Before Passover break, as you might imagine, they were gearing up with all sorts of songs, art projects featuring Baby Moses, etc. A couple mornings before vacation, she woke up and spontaneously told her father, "Let my people Go!" We think she wanted out of her crib. Again, we are still laughing about this.
4. As another sign of her brilliance, she already has imaginary friends. They are fairie-sized, near as we can tell, they like to hang out near lamps, and they are named Coco, Bobo, and Plunk-o, near as we can tell. She catches "Coco" in her hands like a firefly, gives him a smooch and sends him off to school. (this happens a lot at bedtime- so apparently her fairie-friends live in a different space-time-zone).
5. She tries to kiss our devil-cat Hazel on the butt, even though we've repeatedly advised against that.
6. The actual cuteness- well, I'm extremely paranoid about pedophiles and stalkers, for reasons I may elaborate on later, so I refuse to post photos of her- but suffice it to say, she's cuter than a bug's ear. She is just starting to get hair, so she still looks somewhat baby-like, and the hair she is getting in? That's right, it's a mullet.
7. Maybe it's because she's 2, but she wants everything in twos now. This is either really cute, or it drives me crazy. She has to have TWO sippies, not just one. One with juice, one with milk. Or both with milk. She doesn't care that it's the same substance in different bottles - she wants TWO. She's our two-fisted wonder.
8. She's also a dancing fool, and has been ever since she could move. Maybe I'm just a doting parent, but ever since she was TINY she's been able to pick out music from the general noise-stream going on around her- and soon as she hears it, she would either go stock-still, or start bopping around like she was on SoulTrain. One day she came home from daycare, heard some jingle music on the TV, and said "shake your booty mommy!" and stuck her butt out and started shakin' it. I did not teach her this. It's clearly natural talent.
9. This goes under the more disturbing traits- a little background- I haven't spoken to my parents in 8 years because they were abusive (unprintable). She has never met them and never will. My dad was a heavy-equipment broker and had "yellow-iron fever" as my mom put it. In short, Ella LOVES heavy equipment. Bulldozers, backhoes, D-10s, hot asphalt plants, huge earthmovers, whatever. To her, they all go by the beloved name, "Truck!" While I encourage the tomboy-ness of this, I know that God is laughing at me.
10. She puts pajamas on her stuffed Sneetch and calls him/her "Nietzsche!" At least that's what it sounds like. nuff said!
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Thursday, March 6, 2008
SYSTEM OF A SMACKDOWN
ORIGINALLY POSTED ON MYSPACE, AUGUST 2007:
There's a sign on the hostess stand of one of my favorite breakfast restaurants in Denver, where they do an extremely popular "Petticoat Bruncheon" on weekends, (wherein all the waiters are dressed in drag- yes, it's hysterical, especially when you're hungover or just plain tired and in need of some strong coffee and belly laughs) that reads, in happy, hand-lettered Crayola prose, "Don't Seat Yourself or You Might Get Bitch-Slapped by Some Drag Queen."
After a few months of careful thought, teeth gnashing, stewing and brewing, I've decided I need a similar sign. This blog post right here will be that sign. Now, I'm no drag queen (que lastima), but I can deliver a bitch-slap to the legions of the over-entitled who routinely tromp over posted boundaries, like nobody's bidness. If that makes me a self-righteous bitch, so be it. Sue me. Whatevah, at this ripe old age of 37, I seriously don't give a shit what anyone thinks of me personally. Plus, and this is the crucial point, I do feel entitled to my righteous anger because as one of my heroines Margaret Cho put it, I've been through it, whereas the person who pissed me off royally most recently HAS NOT. At least, not that I'm aware of- but I think if he had, he wouldn't be writing the sexist bullshit that he is.
And what is that, you may well arsk? OY VEY. At the risk of generating more buzz or god forbid, "fame" for this clown, I'll tell you quickly. It's this guy I went to high school with, in the class one year ahead of me, given name: Nate Warren. However, his nome de blog is (gag) Colonel Hector Bravado, and he spews every so often for this rather amusing website based here in Denver called Elitist Hipster Snob. (Oh yes, they drip with irony. Most of the time they are mildly entertaining without being outright offensive, but apparently they are self-edited or rather their editing policy is somewhere along the lines of "oh, you wanna write for us? Can you spell? Cool.") In high school he wrote roughly the same quality of crapola, but he had shades of brilliance occasionally, if he would just give up on the "angry white male" thing which we all fully expected he would grow out of in due time….. but, alas. The blog in question is a 17-years too-late "album review" of sorts for a gangsta rap group that I had never heard of, but it matters little, cuz our friend the over-privileged white boy was basically celebrating the "message" of their music which was is in a nutshell, smack down the bitches, kill the bitches, your gun is an extension of your penis, your gang is only family you need, etc. etc. woohoo! Drink some brews and you better(direct quote here) "hide your little sisters from me after I listen to this album, or they'll wake up with a lil' Colonel in they bellies, and the rest of me dried up on they faces."
As Dave Barry would say, I am not making this up.
Now, you may say I'm overreacting and by doing so, giving him too much power. But the only woman I know who would put up with dried cum on her face is either dead, or a totally whacked out crack whore. AND, may I remind everyone that the writer of this tripe is white, male, and grew up in the suburbs. Yes, he was raised by a single mom, but I KNEW his mom, and she was a little nutty, but a total feminist. Plus, most mens I know who was raised by the single mommies (including my husband) are MORE sensitive to woman's plight in this world, not LESS. I was actually looking for his mom when I found him- she was a noted columnist for the Denver Post for many years, Jill Jacobs Scott. You'd think she'd raise her kids up not to spew this hateful shite, que no? And aside from that, I don't think his dad was a deadbeat so… at any rate, didn't we all agree like 15 years ago that there's no excuse for this shit, not even among the so-called gangsta rappers who have supposedly "had it hard?" None! Nope, sorry, 'hijito, take your punk-ass little baby whining somewhere else. No, in fact, shut up altogether. No one needs to hear that shit, except the other crazy-ass voices in your head where an internal censor or critic should be. Don't even try off-loading your toxic waste that passes for writing in this day and age on some sorry-ass 3rd World Country- I can't think of a country sorry enough to accept it- not even illiterate rice farmers in Bangladesh. ESPECIALLY not them.
Now, if I were one of our mutual teachers from 20 years ago, who would no doubt be as profoundly disappointed in him as I am, I might just sigh, shake my head, and pinch the bridge of my nose while muttering, "Nate, nate, nate… we had such high hopes for you. Didn't you go to Colorado College? Didn't I write you a goddamned letter of recommendation????" Whereas, my immediate response to this drivel was admittedly knee-jerk. I ripped him a new asshole on his blog page, and bluntly asked him why he thinks that spewing sexist, misogynist bullshit is any better than the racist bullshit that was routinely spewed, oh a generation ago, by the likes of the KKK and most members of all-white country clubs.
E.g. Biff: "Hey Thad, I was thinking of organizing a little nigger hunt this weekend. You in?"
Thad: "Capital idea! I'll get the shotguns and the Vaseline!"
Sadly, our homeboy doesn't see the comparison as relevant at all- oh no, he thinks an ocean of impenetrable "cool" lies between him and the ugly, racist ravings of insecure white men half a century ago (or, now).
So, I've put off writing, reacting, or responding to this particular issue for almost 3 months now for several reasons (chief among them, I have a life/better shit to do) Now, instead of just a teething toddler gnawing on my breasts all night, I've got this damned subject gnawing at me. It won't go away by focusing on the positive. It doesn't go away even when I go to my happy place (fyi, it's Joann's Rancho Casados in Espanola, NM). It comes with. It orders the enchiladas and leers at me from across the room. Yes, in that most sacred of spaces, JOANN'S it dares to trespass!!
So here's my sign: IF YOU SPEW RACIST, SEXIST BULLSHIT ANYWHERE, ANYTIME, IN ANY FORM NEAR ME, YOU WILL GET THE SMACKDOWN.
IF YOU WILLFULLY AND ROUTINELY DENY YOUR PRIVILEGE AND ENTITLEMENTS WHILE SIMULTANEOUSLY DRAPING YOURSELF IN THE "COOL" CACHET OF THE ARTFORMS OR LIFESTYLES OF THE UNDERPRIVILEGED, YOU WILL GET THE SMACKDOWN.
Other reasons for getting the smackdown will be posted here as I see fit.
What's the smackdown? Let's just say I'm skilled in the arts of verbal emasculation. And the other kind too. I grew up with older brothers, and lived to tell about it. Nuff said?
Think of it as a forced Come to Jesus. Jesus whips out the Smackdown. Jesus wins.
* oh, and in case you think I should be duly punished for "flaming" someone on the internets, I already have. My creepy, psychotic old prom date who was a good friend of Nate's in high school sent me a message because he saw my message on Nate's blog. Friggin great. This is the guy, speaking of rape, who very nearly forced me to have sex with him after the prom because, as he so charmingly put it, "It's expected." Niiiccce…….
There's a sign on the hostess stand of one of my favorite breakfast restaurants in Denver, where they do an extremely popular "Petticoat Bruncheon" on weekends, (wherein all the waiters are dressed in drag- yes, it's hysterical, especially when you're hungover or just plain tired and in need of some strong coffee and belly laughs) that reads, in happy, hand-lettered Crayola prose, "Don't Seat Yourself or You Might Get Bitch-Slapped by Some Drag Queen."
After a few months of careful thought, teeth gnashing, stewing and brewing, I've decided I need a similar sign. This blog post right here will be that sign. Now, I'm no drag queen (que lastima), but I can deliver a bitch-slap to the legions of the over-entitled who routinely tromp over posted boundaries, like nobody's bidness. If that makes me a self-righteous bitch, so be it. Sue me. Whatevah, at this ripe old age of 37, I seriously don't give a shit what anyone thinks of me personally. Plus, and this is the crucial point, I do feel entitled to my righteous anger because as one of my heroines Margaret Cho put it, I've been through it, whereas the person who pissed me off royally most recently HAS NOT. At least, not that I'm aware of- but I think if he had, he wouldn't be writing the sexist bullshit that he is.
And what is that, you may well arsk? OY VEY. At the risk of generating more buzz or god forbid, "fame" for this clown, I'll tell you quickly. It's this guy I went to high school with, in the class one year ahead of me, given name: Nate Warren. However, his nome de blog is (gag) Colonel Hector Bravado, and he spews every so often for this rather amusing website based here in Denver called Elitist Hipster Snob. (Oh yes, they drip with irony. Most of the time they are mildly entertaining without being outright offensive, but apparently they are self-edited or rather their editing policy is somewhere along the lines of "oh, you wanna write for us? Can you spell? Cool.") In high school he wrote roughly the same quality of crapola, but he had shades of brilliance occasionally, if he would just give up on the "angry white male" thing which we all fully expected he would grow out of in due time….. but, alas. The blog in question is a 17-years too-late "album review" of sorts for a gangsta rap group that I had never heard of, but it matters little, cuz our friend the over-privileged white boy was basically celebrating the "message" of their music which was is in a nutshell, smack down the bitches, kill the bitches, your gun is an extension of your penis, your gang is only family you need, etc. etc. woohoo! Drink some brews and you better(direct quote here) "hide your little sisters from me after I listen to this album, or they'll wake up with a lil' Colonel in they bellies, and the rest of me dried up on they faces."
As Dave Barry would say, I am not making this up.
Now, you may say I'm overreacting and by doing so, giving him too much power. But the only woman I know who would put up with dried cum on her face is either dead, or a totally whacked out crack whore. AND, may I remind everyone that the writer of this tripe is white, male, and grew up in the suburbs. Yes, he was raised by a single mom, but I KNEW his mom, and she was a little nutty, but a total feminist. Plus, most mens I know who was raised by the single mommies (including my husband) are MORE sensitive to woman's plight in this world, not LESS. I was actually looking for his mom when I found him- she was a noted columnist for the Denver Post for many years, Jill Jacobs Scott. You'd think she'd raise her kids up not to spew this hateful shite, que no? And aside from that, I don't think his dad was a deadbeat so… at any rate, didn't we all agree like 15 years ago that there's no excuse for this shit, not even among the so-called gangsta rappers who have supposedly "had it hard?" None! Nope, sorry, 'hijito, take your punk-ass little baby whining somewhere else. No, in fact, shut up altogether. No one needs to hear that shit, except the other crazy-ass voices in your head where an internal censor or critic should be. Don't even try off-loading your toxic waste that passes for writing in this day and age on some sorry-ass 3rd World Country- I can't think of a country sorry enough to accept it- not even illiterate rice farmers in Bangladesh. ESPECIALLY not them.
Now, if I were one of our mutual teachers from 20 years ago, who would no doubt be as profoundly disappointed in him as I am, I might just sigh, shake my head, and pinch the bridge of my nose while muttering, "Nate, nate, nate… we had such high hopes for you. Didn't you go to Colorado College? Didn't I write you a goddamned letter of recommendation????" Whereas, my immediate response to this drivel was admittedly knee-jerk. I ripped him a new asshole on his blog page, and bluntly asked him why he thinks that spewing sexist, misogynist bullshit is any better than the racist bullshit that was routinely spewed, oh a generation ago, by the likes of the KKK and most members of all-white country clubs.
E.g. Biff: "Hey Thad, I was thinking of organizing a little nigger hunt this weekend. You in?"
Thad: "Capital idea! I'll get the shotguns and the Vaseline!"
Sadly, our homeboy doesn't see the comparison as relevant at all- oh no, he thinks an ocean of impenetrable "cool" lies between him and the ugly, racist ravings of insecure white men half a century ago (or, now).
So, I've put off writing, reacting, or responding to this particular issue for almost 3 months now for several reasons (chief among them, I have a life/better shit to do) Now, instead of just a teething toddler gnawing on my breasts all night, I've got this damned subject gnawing at me. It won't go away by focusing on the positive. It doesn't go away even when I go to my happy place (fyi, it's Joann's Rancho Casados in Espanola, NM). It comes with. It orders the enchiladas and leers at me from across the room. Yes, in that most sacred of spaces, JOANN'S it dares to trespass!!
So here's my sign: IF YOU SPEW RACIST, SEXIST BULLSHIT ANYWHERE, ANYTIME, IN ANY FORM NEAR ME, YOU WILL GET THE SMACKDOWN.
IF YOU WILLFULLY AND ROUTINELY DENY YOUR PRIVILEGE AND ENTITLEMENTS WHILE SIMULTANEOUSLY DRAPING YOURSELF IN THE "COOL" CACHET OF THE ARTFORMS OR LIFESTYLES OF THE UNDERPRIVILEGED, YOU WILL GET THE SMACKDOWN.
Other reasons for getting the smackdown will be posted here as I see fit.
What's the smackdown? Let's just say I'm skilled in the arts of verbal emasculation. And the other kind too. I grew up with older brothers, and lived to tell about it. Nuff said?
Think of it as a forced Come to Jesus. Jesus whips out the Smackdown. Jesus wins.
* oh, and in case you think I should be duly punished for "flaming" someone on the internets, I already have. My creepy, psychotic old prom date who was a good friend of Nate's in high school sent me a message because he saw my message on Nate's blog. Friggin great. This is the guy, speaking of rape, who very nearly forced me to have sex with him after the prom because, as he so charmingly put it, "It's expected." Niiiccce…….
Monday, February 25, 2008
THERE'S ABOUT TO BE A DORA-CIDE
Lord knows I don't want to turn into one of those dreaded "mommy-bloggers" but my brain is about to explode and I'm afraid i'm going to throw a sharp knife at my spouse as soon as he walks thru the door rather than greet him with a sweet kiss after leaving me alone for 3 days straight with a sick toddler, if I dont' write. Said Toddler is so cranky, and understandably so, from her fever, diarrhea, runny nose and cough that ALL she wants to do is watch the Dora portion of this Nick Jr. videotape we got from a friend/babysitter whose VCR broke. I don't know whether to thank her or throttle her. Normally little girl loves Blues Clues, which follows Dora on the tape, but lately she's decided it's "scary" - her new favorite word.
So I'm subjected not only to horrendously stinky poopy diapers, crankiness, non-napping, and worrying about her fever, but in addition, I have to watch this goddamned video apparently, 25 or so times today alone. Nothing else will do. This episode involves Dora and freaky monkey friend saving their stupid bull friend by patching his leaky hot-air balloon with the magical "STICKY TAPE! STICKY TAPE! STICKY TAPE!" Repite por favor, boys and girls. "STICKY TAPE!!!" it's highly likely that this is what I will scream at Bruce right before I throw the kitchen knife at his head when he walks in that door. There will be drool coming out of my mouth and my clothes and hair, as usual, will be in disarray. The difference between me and the other homicidal, drooling, driven mad with too-much-kidshit-overload "mommy bloggers" is that i'm not some whiny stay-at-home mom who just needs a break but other than that has no real stress, because hello, if you can afford to stay at home, than obviously you can pay the heating bill and buy groceries without taking a calculator with you to the store. Nope, I gots me a full-time job just like 90% of my sisthren, and though spouse has also just started a full-time job, he doesn't accrue any PTO til like 2 months from now, which blows. However, since one or all of us has been sick since November, it seems like, I am now totally out of sick time and making a pretty big dent in my vacation.
My point is, the spousal unit is staying home with little girl tomorrow if she's still running a temperature, not me. Given my current mental state, I think this is fair. We're also in the Final Stage of the BIg Project I was hired to complete at work, code red, damn the torpedoes until March 30th, and every second counts. And since I've had so many sick days, needless to ssay I'm behind. Stressed? me?
The other point of this venting blog is that clearly, somehow, someway, I've got to find a way to write more regularly and turn this into something real, or my brain will REALLY explode, and not even the magical sticky tape will be able to fix it. (Come to think of it, i need some of that stuff. Dora fixed her backpack strap, a bird's nest that had fallen out of a tree, made her shoes sticky enough to get over Slippery Rock, some rips in a sailboat, and yes, that accursed hotair balloon with their dumb friend in it. I needs me some of that.
So I'm subjected not only to horrendously stinky poopy diapers, crankiness, non-napping, and worrying about her fever, but in addition, I have to watch this goddamned video apparently, 25 or so times today alone. Nothing else will do. This episode involves Dora and freaky monkey friend saving their stupid bull friend by patching his leaky hot-air balloon with the magical "STICKY TAPE! STICKY TAPE! STICKY TAPE!" Repite por favor, boys and girls. "STICKY TAPE!!!" it's highly likely that this is what I will scream at Bruce right before I throw the kitchen knife at his head when he walks in that door. There will be drool coming out of my mouth and my clothes and hair, as usual, will be in disarray. The difference between me and the other homicidal, drooling, driven mad with too-much-kidshit-overload "mommy bloggers" is that i'm not some whiny stay-at-home mom who just needs a break but other than that has no real stress, because hello, if you can afford to stay at home, than obviously you can pay the heating bill and buy groceries without taking a calculator with you to the store. Nope, I gots me a full-time job just like 90% of my sisthren, and though spouse has also just started a full-time job, he doesn't accrue any PTO til like 2 months from now, which blows. However, since one or all of us has been sick since November, it seems like, I am now totally out of sick time and making a pretty big dent in my vacation.
My point is, the spousal unit is staying home with little girl tomorrow if she's still running a temperature, not me. Given my current mental state, I think this is fair. We're also in the Final Stage of the BIg Project I was hired to complete at work, code red, damn the torpedoes until March 30th, and every second counts. And since I've had so many sick days, needless to ssay I'm behind. Stressed? me?
The other point of this venting blog is that clearly, somehow, someway, I've got to find a way to write more regularly and turn this into something real, or my brain will REALLY explode, and not even the magical sticky tape will be able to fix it. (Come to think of it, i need some of that stuff. Dora fixed her backpack strap, a bird's nest that had fallen out of a tree, made her shoes sticky enough to get over Slippery Rock, some rips in a sailboat, and yes, that accursed hotair balloon with their dumb friend in it. I needs me some of that.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
What were you doing 15 years ago?
Originally posted on Myspace December 18, 2007:
WARNING: LOOOOONNNNNNGGGGGG
Yesterday evening-ish time I was processing a survey report, likes I always do, and noticed that the date of the report was the same as yesterday- December 18th- except it was 15 years prior. This got me to thinkin', so I sent off the following epistle to my fren' Peeps.
December 18, 1992. A small group of contract archaeologists were writing up their reports from the field season and decided against formally recording the 47 IFS ("Isolated" Finds) they ran across in one survey, in one relatively small area. Apparently they also decided against 2nd guessing their own crappy work and maybe taking a look at their own damn maps and thinking, "hmm, all these IFS occur in a relatively concentrated area….. maybe it's a site? Maybe we should go back and try to actually record it? Naaahhhh… Christmas is coming! I have shopping to do! Let the SHPO deal with it!"
December 18, 2007. Bitter desk archaeologist at the SHPO processes crap-tastic 15 year old report and attempts to formally record 47 IFS that are 400 miles away and buried under 2 feet of snow not to mention years of paperwork, and subsequent overlapping surveys.
I feel old.
________________________________________
Then I just couldn't stop thinking. Darn you, monkey – mind! Put down the pipe!
What else was going on though? In my personal life, I had just helped the train wreck posing as my parents move from the house I had grown up into temporary digs in a nearby town-home, that belonged to the people who had just bought their house (long story- too bad reality TV didn't exist back then- we could have done "House Swap!" Right before the Holidays! Watch the action! )what reeked of their chain-smoking and bad, greasy food. They were from Ohio. The woman's name was Arlene (not making that up), her common-law husband's name was John, and he had a 16 year-old's spiky new wave mullet haircut on top of his 35-year-old head. They had a one-year-old baby boy that they hadn't gotten around to naming yet, so they called him "Boy" jokingly. The other candidate for a name was "John, Junior." Very creative. The poor kid was strapped into some kind of baby-bouncer-chair every time I saw him, his eyes glazed over because of their constant chain - smoking, and he probably already had asthma. He was the latest in their collection of children from either of their previous relationships, ranging in age from 8 to 17. They were so excited about moving into our house because they would finally have enough room to house all of their children, who were scattered around various parts of the country (I'm assuming, in foster care). But they couldn't sell their town-home in time to move, so they needed to rent it out, and whaddya know, my parents needed a place for them and all their crap to stay for about 4 months until their brand-spanking-new mini-mansion was completed. So a deal was struck.
In the myopic, co-dependent misery that was my life prior to divorcing my parents (if someone knows of a better word for it, notify me) I remember thinking that they deserved the mini-mansion with all the trimmings, despite the fact that only days earlier, and with much fake hand-wringing and crocodile tears they had both told me that, much as they wanted to, there was no possible way they could help me with college, so I was on my own. I distinctly remember my mother shaking her head and scoffing at me after yet another fruitless phone call to the UNM financial aid office; "Well you'd better get a scholarship or something, otherwise you won't be able to go. Honestly S--- I don't think you plan for anything." At the same time, her pride and joy, the first-born, baby-boy and prince of the family, aka my brother, was petitioning to the get into Nebraska's School of Architecture because he didn't make the cut on the first or second rounds, his grades weren't good enough. So he had to present his projects and applications to a 7-person jury of Architecture professors and basically plead his case and beg them to take him, because despite failing Calculus twice and taking more than 6 years to complete a 2-year prerequisite program, he really did show promise, etc. etc. So he was on the phone to us every 10 minutes giving us/them updates on what the verdict would be. I also distinctly remember, during one such phone call, fraught with all the drama and tension of a spoiled little prince going up against the judges and jury of the Real World for the first time, my dad getting on the phone and declaring that if poor widdle Jeeemy DID manage to get into Architecture School, they would pay his rent for the rest of college so he could concentrate on his classes and finish. About 2 minutes later, they both turned to me and told me that'd I'd better get down to New Mexico early and get a couple jobs lined up before classes even started, because work-study and financial aid probably wouldn't cover my living expenses. But, clueless as I was 15 years ago, I took their peculiar brand of bullshit at face value.
On that bright note-- So there I was- about to head off for my 3rd try at a Bachelor's degree, starting Spring semester, January 1993 at UNM in Albuquerque. Bill Clinton had just been elected. I had voted for Ross Perot because he was a 3rd party candidate, but I wasn't bitter that he lost, I was happy that he got a third of the vote. Overall, we felt hopeful that the country, and the economy, was about to take a turn for the better. In spite of the blind-siding WHACK upside the head we (here in Colorado) also received on Election night- that a nascent hate group down in Colorado Springs (which would later become Focus On the Family) had stealthily managed to shove through legislation through subterfuge and flat-out lying, which specifically took away equal rights for gays. It was called Amendment 2, and it was struck down 2 weeks later as unconstitutional, but no matter, the damage was done.
For anyone reading this who is not from Colorado, but likes to judge us as a bunch of ignorant, gun-toting rednecks who hate them there gays, let me just tell you that the majority of us (who are nothing like the aforementioned stereotype) were totally like, DUDE, WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED??????
I mean, we were all well aware that Colorado Springs, and El Paso County in general, is so saturated with military installations and right-wing churches (they seem to go hand-in-hand) and rich retirees originally hailing from East Coast military installations, that essentially, the place has its head so far up its own ass it can't tell night from day. But still, DENYING BASIC HUMAN RIGHTS TO GAYS BASED ON SOME MISINTERPRETATION OF BIBLICAL RHETORIC AND YOUR OWN HOMOPHOBIC REPRESSED NEUROSES???? COME ON!!
They had gone too far. And while New York-based groups made a big deal over canceling their scheduled conventions at our brand-spanking-new Convention Center in Downtown Denver in protest, and we were scratching our heads trying to figure out how this all happened without our knowing it, a few of us secretly admitted to ourselves that this here cloud might have a silver lining. I mean, uh, not to sound just as hateful as the anti-gay freaks down south, but um, anything that keeps a bunch of nastyass, no-manners east coasters out of our fair state can't be all bad, right? Anyway, that's what we were secretly and not-so secretly thinking. It's funny because, in 1992 the "flood" of immigrants from the East Coast, West Coast, and everywhere in between was barely a trickle, but man, you wouldn't know it from all the bellyachin' we did about them taking our jobs, driving up housing prices, polluting our air and wasting our water.
Wooo! If we had only known then the true inundation that was to occur as the '90's roared into the 21st Century! Weee, doggies! as us rednecks like to holler. My attitude towards newcomers has tempered since then, but only slightly. (sorry, Peeps.) My friends in Montana have a similar philosophy. They were overjoyed when Ted Kaczynski (the Unabomber) and that crazy militia dude were arrested in Montana within weeks of each other. E.g. "Woohoo!! Now the whole country will think we're a bunch of psychotic, gun-toting red necks, and maybe they'll stop moving here!!" You get the picture.
Anyhoo, the other reason I've been thinking about this 15-year thing is that, you guessed it, we're gluttons for punishment, and we just moved into a new place…. Right before the holidays, with all the associated stressors, yada yada. Except that, it's my own little family what moved, whom I happen to love very much, and not my abusive moon-bat-crap crazy parental-unit birth family and their associated junk that they value more than personal relationships, so really, it wasn't that bad. I'm tired, but stressed? Nah, it's nothing like 15 years ago, thank God.
For those of you (probably girls, I'm guessing) waiting with baited breath to hear the outcome of my brother's fate, yes he DID make it into Architecture school, and today he is a successful architect along with his lovely wife, who is a partner in her own firm and makes way more money than him (see? Karma does exist), and they have two adorable children, and they both make about 14 times as much coin-ola as Bruce and I combined. And although he has pulled his head about halfway out of his arse regarding our parents, he still fails to see the connection between their favored treatment of him and his relative success. And he probably never will. :) But hey, he doesn't get the rare privilege of being an Archaeologist for the great State of Colorado and fixing crappy-ass 15 year old reports, now does he?
(* for those of you snickering at my musical choice, below, let me say I was specifically thinking of the Judy Collins' song, "Who knows where the time goes?"
Plus, she went to East High School, what I lived across from for almost 8 years, but, no more!
Currently listening :
The Very Best of Judy Collins
By Judy Collins
Release date: By 21 August, 2001
WARNING: LOOOOONNNNNNGGGGGG
Yesterday evening-ish time I was processing a survey report, likes I always do, and noticed that the date of the report was the same as yesterday- December 18th- except it was 15 years prior. This got me to thinkin', so I sent off the following epistle to my fren' Peeps.
December 18, 1992. A small group of contract archaeologists were writing up their reports from the field season and decided against formally recording the 47 IFS ("Isolated" Finds) they ran across in one survey, in one relatively small area. Apparently they also decided against 2nd guessing their own crappy work and maybe taking a look at their own damn maps and thinking, "hmm, all these IFS occur in a relatively concentrated area….. maybe it's a site? Maybe we should go back and try to actually record it? Naaahhhh… Christmas is coming! I have shopping to do! Let the SHPO deal with it!"
December 18, 2007. Bitter desk archaeologist at the SHPO processes crap-tastic 15 year old report and attempts to formally record 47 IFS that are 400 miles away and buried under 2 feet of snow not to mention years of paperwork, and subsequent overlapping surveys.
I feel old.
________________________________________
Then I just couldn't stop thinking. Darn you, monkey – mind! Put down the pipe!
What else was going on though? In my personal life, I had just helped the train wreck posing as my parents move from the house I had grown up into temporary digs in a nearby town-home, that belonged to the people who had just bought their house (long story- too bad reality TV didn't exist back then- we could have done "House Swap!" Right before the Holidays! Watch the action! )what reeked of their chain-smoking and bad, greasy food. They were from Ohio. The woman's name was Arlene (not making that up), her common-law husband's name was John, and he had a 16 year-old's spiky new wave mullet haircut on top of his 35-year-old head. They had a one-year-old baby boy that they hadn't gotten around to naming yet, so they called him "Boy" jokingly. The other candidate for a name was "John, Junior." Very creative. The poor kid was strapped into some kind of baby-bouncer-chair every time I saw him, his eyes glazed over because of their constant chain - smoking, and he probably already had asthma. He was the latest in their collection of children from either of their previous relationships, ranging in age from 8 to 17. They were so excited about moving into our house because they would finally have enough room to house all of their children, who were scattered around various parts of the country (I'm assuming, in foster care). But they couldn't sell their town-home in time to move, so they needed to rent it out, and whaddya know, my parents needed a place for them and all their crap to stay for about 4 months until their brand-spanking-new mini-mansion was completed. So a deal was struck.
In the myopic, co-dependent misery that was my life prior to divorcing my parents (if someone knows of a better word for it, notify me) I remember thinking that they deserved the mini-mansion with all the trimmings, despite the fact that only days earlier, and with much fake hand-wringing and crocodile tears they had both told me that, much as they wanted to, there was no possible way they could help me with college, so I was on my own. I distinctly remember my mother shaking her head and scoffing at me after yet another fruitless phone call to the UNM financial aid office; "Well you'd better get a scholarship or something, otherwise you won't be able to go. Honestly S--- I don't think you plan for anything." At the same time, her pride and joy, the first-born, baby-boy and prince of the family, aka my brother, was petitioning to the get into Nebraska's School of Architecture because he didn't make the cut on the first or second rounds, his grades weren't good enough. So he had to present his projects and applications to a 7-person jury of Architecture professors and basically plead his case and beg them to take him, because despite failing Calculus twice and taking more than 6 years to complete a 2-year prerequisite program, he really did show promise, etc. etc. So he was on the phone to us every 10 minutes giving us/them updates on what the verdict would be. I also distinctly remember, during one such phone call, fraught with all the drama and tension of a spoiled little prince going up against the judges and jury of the Real World for the first time, my dad getting on the phone and declaring that if poor widdle Jeeemy DID manage to get into Architecture School, they would pay his rent for the rest of college so he could concentrate on his classes and finish. About 2 minutes later, they both turned to me and told me that'd I'd better get down to New Mexico early and get a couple jobs lined up before classes even started, because work-study and financial aid probably wouldn't cover my living expenses. But, clueless as I was 15 years ago, I took their peculiar brand of bullshit at face value.
On that bright note-- So there I was- about to head off for my 3rd try at a Bachelor's degree, starting Spring semester, January 1993 at UNM in Albuquerque. Bill Clinton had just been elected. I had voted for Ross Perot because he was a 3rd party candidate, but I wasn't bitter that he lost, I was happy that he got a third of the vote. Overall, we felt hopeful that the country, and the economy, was about to take a turn for the better. In spite of the blind-siding WHACK upside the head we (here in Colorado) also received on Election night- that a nascent hate group down in Colorado Springs (which would later become Focus On the Family) had stealthily managed to shove through legislation through subterfuge and flat-out lying, which specifically took away equal rights for gays. It was called Amendment 2, and it was struck down 2 weeks later as unconstitutional, but no matter, the damage was done.
For anyone reading this who is not from Colorado, but likes to judge us as a bunch of ignorant, gun-toting rednecks who hate them there gays, let me just tell you that the majority of us (who are nothing like the aforementioned stereotype) were totally like, DUDE, WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED??????
I mean, we were all well aware that Colorado Springs, and El Paso County in general, is so saturated with military installations and right-wing churches (they seem to go hand-in-hand) and rich retirees originally hailing from East Coast military installations, that essentially, the place has its head so far up its own ass it can't tell night from day. But still, DENYING BASIC HUMAN RIGHTS TO GAYS BASED ON SOME MISINTERPRETATION OF BIBLICAL RHETORIC AND YOUR OWN HOMOPHOBIC REPRESSED NEUROSES???? COME ON!!
They had gone too far. And while New York-based groups made a big deal over canceling their scheduled conventions at our brand-spanking-new Convention Center in Downtown Denver in protest, and we were scratching our heads trying to figure out how this all happened without our knowing it, a few of us secretly admitted to ourselves that this here cloud might have a silver lining. I mean, uh, not to sound just as hateful as the anti-gay freaks down south, but um, anything that keeps a bunch of nastyass, no-manners east coasters out of our fair state can't be all bad, right? Anyway, that's what we were secretly and not-so secretly thinking. It's funny because, in 1992 the "flood" of immigrants from the East Coast, West Coast, and everywhere in between was barely a trickle, but man, you wouldn't know it from all the bellyachin' we did about them taking our jobs, driving up housing prices, polluting our air and wasting our water.
Wooo! If we had only known then the true inundation that was to occur as the '90's roared into the 21st Century! Weee, doggies! as us rednecks like to holler. My attitude towards newcomers has tempered since then, but only slightly. (sorry, Peeps.) My friends in Montana have a similar philosophy. They were overjoyed when Ted Kaczynski (the Unabomber) and that crazy militia dude were arrested in Montana within weeks of each other. E.g. "Woohoo!! Now the whole country will think we're a bunch of psychotic, gun-toting red necks, and maybe they'll stop moving here!!" You get the picture.
Anyhoo, the other reason I've been thinking about this 15-year thing is that, you guessed it, we're gluttons for punishment, and we just moved into a new place…. Right before the holidays, with all the associated stressors, yada yada. Except that, it's my own little family what moved, whom I happen to love very much, and not my abusive moon-bat-crap crazy parental-unit birth family and their associated junk that they value more than personal relationships, so really, it wasn't that bad. I'm tired, but stressed? Nah, it's nothing like 15 years ago, thank God.
For those of you (probably girls, I'm guessing) waiting with baited breath to hear the outcome of my brother's fate, yes he DID make it into Architecture school, and today he is a successful architect along with his lovely wife, who is a partner in her own firm and makes way more money than him (see? Karma does exist), and they have two adorable children, and they both make about 14 times as much coin-ola as Bruce and I combined. And although he has pulled his head about halfway out of his arse regarding our parents, he still fails to see the connection between their favored treatment of him and his relative success. And he probably never will. :) But hey, he doesn't get the rare privilege of being an Archaeologist for the great State of Colorado and fixing crappy-ass 15 year old reports, now does he?
(* for those of you snickering at my musical choice, below, let me say I was specifically thinking of the Judy Collins' song, "Who knows where the time goes?"
Plus, she went to East High School, what I lived across from for almost 8 years, but, no more!
Currently listening :
The Very Best of Judy Collins
By Judy Collins
Release date: By 21 August, 2001
LANDLORDHOOD
It's official- for those who don't already know, today is the day we officially enter into landlord-hood, and that adjacent fantasy get-rich-quick (not) realm of "real estate investing." Or rather, we tried to sell our house for 3 years and for various reasons couldn't, and little girl isn't getting any smaller, so measures had to be taken.
We did most of the final clean-up this morning on my way to work, and tomorrow we'll do the walk-through and handing over of keys to our new, superstar tenants and kick off the new year in style.
I'm going to focus on what amazing luck we've had in finding these great tenants, at the price we wanted, rather than the glitches encountered along the way, like the fact the flooring guys were supposed to be completely done the Friday before Christmas but instead RIGHT NOW, AS I TYPE THIS are finally applying the last coat of varnish/sealer/ whatever the fuck it is I don't care if it's toxic waste, I don't live there anymore!!!
Also an amazing bit of luck that our tenants took their time getting out here and are now staying with friends in Boulder for the night, because their furniture won't get here til tomorrow anyway... which gives the varnish time to dry, and PHEWW we dodge the whole inevitable-neighbors-throwing-their-New-Year's-Rockin-Eve party-the-first-night-our-nice-tenants-get-into-town-perhaps-prompting-them-to-change-their minds - and-move-out-immediately-bullet.
Phew. That was close.
But anyway, before I get started on another rant, I wanted to post this link to a clip of Will Farrell's daughter as his landlord- she's about the same age as 'ella in this clip, and so , inspired by this , we're pretty sure we're going to leave any rent collection/ confrontative type issues up to her from now on. :)
http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/74
We did most of the final clean-up this morning on my way to work, and tomorrow we'll do the walk-through and handing over of keys to our new, superstar tenants and kick off the new year in style.
I'm going to focus on what amazing luck we've had in finding these great tenants, at the price we wanted, rather than the glitches encountered along the way, like the fact the flooring guys were supposed to be completely done the Friday before Christmas but instead RIGHT NOW, AS I TYPE THIS are finally applying the last coat of varnish/sealer/ whatever the fuck it is I don't care if it's toxic waste, I don't live there anymore!!!
Also an amazing bit of luck that our tenants took their time getting out here and are now staying with friends in Boulder for the night, because their furniture won't get here til tomorrow anyway... which gives the varnish time to dry, and PHEWW we dodge the whole inevitable-neighbors-throwing-their-New-Year's-Rockin-Eve party-the-first-night-our-nice-tenants-get-into-town-perhaps-prompting-them-to-change-their minds - and-move-out-immediately-bullet.
Phew. That was close.
But anyway, before I get started on another rant, I wanted to post this link to a clip of Will Farrell's daughter as his landlord- she's about the same age as 'ella in this clip, and so , inspired by this , we're pretty sure we're going to leave any rent collection/ confrontative type issues up to her from now on. :)
http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/74
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
COME TO JESUS, SISTHREN & BRETHREN
OK FOLKS- You read the headline, here's the deal. I've been wanting to hold some kind of forum online for people of privilege, specifically, to come forward and fess up to the fact that all of their entitlements, adventures, wealth, good things in general are due to their wealth and privilege and NOT due to any specialness that they have themselves created. Then I thought, wow, won't that be a dead forum. THe blog equivalent of crickets chirping, essentially. Plus, just a wee bit negative on my part since I do tend to rail about trustfunders and how they drive me absolutely bonkers (perhaps because my beloved home state of Colorado is OVERRUN with them.)
Also, it's just a little bit narrow.
Really, all of us have things we need to Come to Jesus about. Coming to Jesus, for those unfamiliar with the phrase, is about giving up your grand illusions/delusions about yourself or something/someone dear to you, and receiving the sweet embrace of forgiveness in the arms of the "lord", or in my mind, the bosom of the Virgin Mary. (She's the mythical unconditionally-loving mother to all who will always hold a distraught child to her breast to comfort them, no matter what stupid accident they've just caused or crawled out of- more on that later). In the Baptist American tradition, it's the term for when congregants literally crawl on their knees up to the pulpit, weeping and sometimes rending garments, asking the preacher but more importantly their co-religionists to forgive them for ______________. Usually, some version of "living a falsehood." For example, perhaps you are unemployed, and desperately broke, but for some reason are still holding out for that $100k a year job, rather than facing reality or "coming to Jesus" and getting some sort of temp job so that you can pay your bills and put food on the table.
Yes, it generally involves giving up on a small dream, or more accurately, fantasy, and although I would NEVEr tell anyone to give up their dreams, I do encourage people to place their dreams within reality, not outside of it.
If you've ever "Come to Jesus" about anything, you know there's a profound sense of relief that washes over you when you finally do.
Here's a small example of some folks that need to Come to Jesus.
http://denver.craigslist.org/fur/321282370.html
I'm sorry, but honey, your PLASTIC PATIO FURNITURE CIRCA 1984 IS NOT WORTH $100!!!
Come on now, Come to Jesus. Rest your tear-stained, weary head on his forgiving chest, and admit it. You'll be lucky to get $20 for that stuff.
Seriously man. The world would be a better place if more people came to Jesus on a regular basis.
That's it for now- i'll figger out a way to make this a more accessible, regular forum so that more people can use it as an online sort of confessional. :)
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
VISUALIZE A NEW HOUSE
FOR US. Suffice it to say, we need to move. The sagging market has prevented us from selling our place the last two summers, but third time's a charm, right? Since I want to keep this blog positive, I will refrain from complaining about our atrocious duplex neighbor who is driving this urgent need to move (that might appear on my Myspace blog) but for here...
picture a snug, cute, peaceful house... surrounded by a fairly large yard, with either a garage or basement for storage... close to a park, with great neighbors on either side, and friends just blocks away. it's on a safe street, where my baby girl can learn to ride a bike someday and not worry about high school kids drag racing et.al.
and where if our future dog gets out, she won't be almost instantly killed by traffic.
There's some stuff planted in the gardens, but not so much as to present a huge "removal" problem. the back yard is enough of a blank slate for us to build an addition without guilt, and for me to play around with xeriscaping and do my little plant experiments.
Maybe I should draw a picture.
thanks in advance for all your good thoughts.
picture a snug, cute, peaceful house... surrounded by a fairly large yard, with either a garage or basement for storage... close to a park, with great neighbors on either side, and friends just blocks away. it's on a safe street, where my baby girl can learn to ride a bike someday and not worry about high school kids drag racing et.al.
and where if our future dog gets out, she won't be almost instantly killed by traffic.
There's some stuff planted in the gardens, but not so much as to present a huge "removal" problem. the back yard is enough of a blank slate for us to build an addition without guilt, and for me to play around with xeriscaping and do my little plant experiments.
Maybe I should draw a picture.
thanks in advance for all your good thoughts.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
-
About a week ago, before we turned that corner into 2012, we were doing our nightly "gratitude" round at the dinner table, and whe... -
Here's a little story that will either warm the cockles of your heart, or make you laugh, or both. It involves approximately 20 bored a...
-
Yesterday was shit and today wasn't much better. Death sucks. Don't let anyone tell you it doesn't. At the end of yesterday I f...
