Note To A Guilty Pleasure

Dear Brittney,

Leave the douchebag already. The kid is cute. Find him a new daddy with a stroller.
M'Kay?

xoxooxoox

Stream of Blah BlahTotal Bullshit

I have been inundating myself with information lately. Most of it is garbage.
By most I mean, like, 98% of it.

Hi. My name is Jen.
I'm addicted to celebrity gossip.

It's true. I just cannot help myself.

I know more than any self-respecting human should about this whole TomKat/Suri/Bride of Scientology business. I have studied pictures of Bradgelina looking for even a remote crack in that facade of happy, golden couple. I even drove out to the house Vaughinston bought in the burbs.

I'm kidding about that last one. I don't have a driver's license.

My immense wealth of absolutely useless knowledge is not limited to American celebrities. Oh no. Do you know Jordan? No, not THAT Jordan. The famous Jordan. The British one, with the ginormous boobs? THAT Jordan. No? You don't know her? Well, neither do I. But I do know she has a huge rack. She is also married to some ridiculous Ken doll of a guy and one of her kids is...um...Yeah I'm not sure but the Brits sure do love Harvey.

Can someone tell me why?
NO! Don't tell me.
I don't want to know.
I don't need to know.
Really. I am better off not knowing. Maybe there is a chance I can fit something useful into my brain if I don't learn that fact.

I had a friend in Junior High with a theory that every time you sneeze you make room in your brain to learn something new. It seems really stupid but man, I sort of wish I could do that. I would force a couple of sneezes before a party and then cram in a pile of interesting, useful knowledge. Politics would be handy these days. Like a second language, political discourse requires homework and careful study. Because if you lose track of that conversation it is totally like taking those verbal exams where you're sweating in a chair across from the teacher. And she's speaking in French, REALLY FAST, and all you can do is quietly conjugate irregular verbs under your breath and pray (Notre Pere qui es au cieux/Que ton nom soit sancitfie)

And the thing about political discussions is that they aren't really discussions. Most of the time it seems as though it's each person, taking turns, trying to convince the other (or others) that their opinion is right. Or The Right.

Not THE Right...just right...as in correct...but I was trying to put some reverential importance on it...with the capital...No? OK then, moving on.

Back to my problem.

It's not really my fault. I am not solely responsible for the paparazzi. Or for any of the ridiculous things celebrities are caught doing. (Kiefer, I am looking at you dude.) It is everywhere though. Everywhere. There are entire television channels dedicated to celebrity news. Why are celebrities news? Why do I care so much? And it's not so much that I care what they do or who they do it with or what they are wearing when they do it. The fact is I don't care. I don't care so much I have to go look at pictures of them to prove to them I don't care.

See, that doesn't even make sense. I am sick. It's an illness. I'm trying to rationalize my obsession with celebrity gossip. This is what it has come to. Gah.

Of course, if I were chipping out a meger living putting together a hot, celebrity blog or some dishy website I'd be very proud of myself right now. Alas, just a couple of steps behind the trend and the technology. I'm not jumping on that bandwagon now. The market, she is saturated. Unless I come up with something really cool, like this, I think it might be too late.

Not that I am giving up the whole Dream. I've still got The Dream. It's in here. I am just constantly needing to revise The Dream. Mackerel is now totally out of The Dream. Which is a shame.

No. Not really.

25 Reasons Not To Be Thin

1. Fried dough, in all of its many guises.

2. Body Thetans.

3. Maintaining a constant level of moral outrage takes a lot of fuel.

4. They are closing the gym in the basement of my office building and expect me to walk EIGHT WHOLE BLOCKS to the closest Ballys.

5. Comfy new queen sized mattress.

6. Fear of death-by-car prevents bike riding or having moving parts strapped to my feet.

7. Scientific fascination with the chemical properties of the chocolate-peanut-butter compound.

8. Bacon.

9. Pizza.

10. Bacon on pizza.

11. Deep appreciation for the art of Peter Paul Rubens.

12. The only available lunch option that costs less than $5 is McDonalds.

13. No matter how hard I try, a piece of fruit just isn't dessert.

14. Sometimes I just can't get the Popeye's Chicken jingle out of my head.

15. My chef...er, boyfriend...favors a down home southern style of cooking. Who am I to argue?

16. I'm sold on the platform of "cheese makes everything better."

17. Weakness for pancakes.

18. 50 Cent wasn't around to care about childhood obesity when I was growing up.

19. Exercise at home proves difficult with only very heavy books to use as weights.

20. My clothes would look really silly on a skinny person.

21. Muffin tops are always the best part.

22. There's still 3/4 of a cheesecake in my freezer. Someone has to eat it.

23. Rolling the exercise ball at the cats is way more fun than doing sit-ups on it.

24. Fear of bird flu prevents me from eating light.

25. I'm afraid that if I don't do what he says the Burger King will show up in my bedroom.

We've Come A Long Way From Boxed Wine, Baby.

It probably comes as no surprise to anyone but myself that after my year of weddings (which you could really stretch out into a five year span of time that pretty much everyone I know has become engaged, wed or with child.) I have found myself a bit awash in memories as of late.

The other night I had a dream that I was back in High School, except it looked like a summer camp I attended when I was in grade school. And the student population was comprised mostly of people I went to college with. The only real memory I have of this dream (aside from the pack of house cats that chased us as if through and episode of Scooby-Doo) is of my asking Seth "Does this mean we have to go to college again too?"
To which he answered with a sly grin and a ruffle of my hair - as he was so wont to do during college (what? really? no.) And say "Well, yes. But only for a little while Jen."
In my dream I was comforted by this. That Seth would be there too. That we would all be there again.

And before you start with your "Aw, Jen's missing her glory days." Let me assure you that there was very little actual glory involved in those days. Mostly, it seems in retrospect, illusions of glory. We all thought things were VERY important back then. "Back then," by which I mean you know, before adulthood. BA. Bah. Who am I trying to kid? I'm still not really an adult but compared to...say 10 years ago...I am a hell of a lot closer these days.

Remember how important every party was? How imperative it seemed that so-and-so thought you were cute? Or handsome? Or at least talked to you once, just once? Remember all of those nights, trying to figure out where to go with no place to go? The seawall, the park, the streets of lower Manhattan? Into the mountains, out into the fields, gulping down pixie stix sludge and running in circles for a couple of hours?

Over the last few years, I have seen many of the people I shared these adolescent pleasures with achive some really adult milestones. Do people "achive" milestones or do they just stumble upon them in the road? I don't know. Probably about 50/50 depending on the size of it, I suppose.
Attending weddings, watching babies be bathed, going out for drinks in a fancy, hotel bar: sharing these relatively brief events with people really makes me nostaligic. Not so much for an age, or a period of time. It makes me nostalgic for the presence of these people in my life. I wonder, what would it be like to be an adult with these people?
Now that we have our own incomes, no longer dependent on an allowance or a curfew or worried about getting kicked out of places we really shouldn't be, what would it be like to spend time with these people?

In my day to day life, with the adults I know...And, uh yeah I know it seems like I am giving us A LOT of credit using that word, guys. But you know, chronologically speaking, we certainly fit the criteria.

Anyway, as I was saying: In my day to day nothing terribly exciting happens. There are occasional dinners out, shows to see, movies to watch, sporting events to rally around. We, for sure, throw a vicious party every now and again. I am not under any expectation that anyone I originally took "The Purity Test" with is doing anything they consider terribly exciting. It's just the change of dynamic I am really interested in.

Now that we are no longer preoccupied by fake IDs, adolescent dramas and insecurities, how much has spending time with these people changed? How much have our dramas and insecurities changed? Me? Mine just don't seem so dramatic anymore. Thank god. Of course, I'm not married. Nor do I have any children. My big drama last month was the cat maybe being sick. And how were we going to take her to the vet and still afford to buy the queen sized bed we had been planning for.
See? Not even NEARLY as dramatic.

It figures now that I feel better equipped to deal with the sort of drama and insecurities there were in high school and college I just don't have them anymore. I have different ones. Ones I maybe never even dreamed of "back then." So I wonder how we would cope.

Remember how important it was that everyone liked your girlfriend? No, I mean YOUR girlfriend. Do you remember how bitchy and obnoxious it was possible for us to be when we didn't like her? Yeah, it's a little different now. We're a lot more subtle with that shit.

Most of the time.

Remember how important it was that every party we threw was The social event of the year? Or how upsetting it was not to be invited to The social event of the year? These days, if there's a grill and a beer it's a good party. No one passes out in the bushes anymore. No one is caught making out with someone else's boyfriend. No one even gets handcuffed to armchairs anymore. Are we still having a good time? Hells yeah! Does it take me two days to fully recover from a good party now? Hells yeah! Do I still know how to party like a rock star? You better believe it. Do I still dance like one? Not on these knees I don't.

A better question: Would I still enjoy spending four hours in a Jones Beach parking lot without tickets to the show, just enjoying the ambiance of the crowd? No, not so much. But we can actually afford tickets to the show now! Even if our parents don't like the group! It's an awesome power.

That's it I think. Adulthood, it IS an awesome power. Making our adulthoods everything we ever dreamed they would be, I don't know if that's possible. I guess that's what the new drama is. Our ideas of pleasure and happiness are more complex now. More sophisticated, if you will. After all of those years feeling and thinking we were adult and sophisticated, I wonder what it would be like to actually be adult and sophisticated with those people.

As long as, you know, it doesn't interfer with The Simpsons.

The Most Powerful Couch Jumper Of All Time

So, apparently Tom Cruise, voted Craziest Man Alive 2005 by...um...me, has welded his star power for the forces of evil once again.

Not content with merely maligning women suffering from post-partum depression, haranguing morning show reporters or keeping a virtual child bride (FREE KATIE!) under lock and key, he has resorted to corporate blackmail to get his way.

Still pouting over the "Trapped In The Closet" episode of South Park that orginially aired back in November he told Comedy Central's parent corporation, Viacom, that he would boycott their press junkets for Mission Impossible 3 unless they prevented the episode from airing again.

If I were Matt and Trey this might make me write MORE episodes lampooning this moron.

Alas, I am neither Matt, nor Trey.

But I have an idea.

I think we should boycott MI3. All of us.

First of all, it can't be THAT good. MI2 was pushing it, if you ask me.

Second of all, the entire world seems to bow down at the feet of this little man. How did this happen? You do realize where this is leading right?

Someday, probably about a week before the offspring gets sprung The Church of Scientology (God, I cannot believe I just capitalized those words) is going to announce the breathtaking discovery that Tom Cruise is indeed the long awaited reincarnation of L. Ron Hubbard.

The baby will be born - we already know from the gossip rags they are expecting a son - and will have some pretentious name thrust upon his wee tiny babiness.

Flash forward 17 years when BabyXCruise, after years of home schooling and vacations on Scientology ranches working out his Thetans, finally meets up with his archnemesis... Kal-El Coppola Cage.

In a meeting more epic than when X-Factor and X-Men battled each other, it will be up to Kal-El Coppola Cage to defeat this meglomaniacal social demi-god. Bearing his mother's pert nose and his father's ego BabyXCruise MIGHT put up a tough fight.

I'm guessing he's going to have a glass jaw or a heel made of spun sugar.

Kal-El Coppola Cage - our future rests in your hands. You will be our last, and best, defense against the impending tyranny of Scientology and Couchjumper Cruise.

So, yeah - Boycott MI3 people. The fight begins here. And now... Or, well May 5th when the movie is released.

Save yourselves. Save our celebrities. Save our celebrity lampooners. Save our world.

Say NO to MI3.

She II - Morning

She watched the remains of her coffee meander down the drain, staining the steel the color of sunset. Unemployment was beginning to weigh heavy on her soul. As she rinsed the mug and wiped it clean it occured to her that after this - breakfast, cup of coffee, crossword puzzle - there was nothing to do.
She had no money. So, despite the beauty of the late summer day, there was nowhere for her to go.
She had no job. No where to rush off to and no real desire to spend another day walking The Loop from one employment agency to another. Yesterday she had worn herself out bringing her resume around. Lake and Michigan, Jackson and LaSalle, Riverside Plaza. In every elevator she had reapplied powder to mask the sweat from the walk. In every waiting room she drank whatever free beverage they were offering and snacked on whatever candy was in the dish at the reception desk. If she had time, she made a visit to the bathroom and blotted face, underarms and neck with a damp towel before the interview.
It was hot again today. There was no air conditioner in the window. Instead she opened it wide and sat on the sill. It was only 10am. When you have no job and no money there's no reason to stay up late. You wind up waking up as if you were going to work anyway. Now the whole of this long, hot day stretched out before her.
Even if she could go somewhere, had money to take the bus to the beach, had $3 to spend two hours in the second run movie theater's air conditioning or cash enough to do a couple of loads of laundry it would mean leaving the phone. She wanted to be there in case something panned out from the day before. It was an off chance. She had already spent too many days tethered to the phone.
If she had any money she would get herself a cell phone like every other person in the world. If she could just find a job she would ditch the land line and shell out for a nice, simple cell phone plan.
She could spend the whole day sitting in the window, thinking about mightbes and maybes. She could write up on the walls the list of items she needed to get her life in order properly. There was no real point though. She should focus her energy on getting a job.
There was that one interview yesterday. The scary woman with the portraits of herself on various motorcycles on the walls. She had been overwhelmingly serious about finding a position for her. What was her name again?
She pulled her messanger bag up from the floor and into her lap and extracted one of the business cards from the many she had collected over the last month.

Lucille Waters - The Waters Employment Group

Maybe Lucille would come through for her. Somehow, when Lucille had looked into her eyes across the desk, she had believed her when she said "We're going to find a job for you."

She

She walks through life with music in her head.
Emitting random squeaks and whistles on her inner up beats.
Her soundtrack is boundless, she makes her own music when left to her own devices.

And even songs she has never heard before are comprised of familiar rhythms and harmonies.

She tends towards easy distraction - both cause and affect - and will find herself afloat in the middle of a conversation without an oar.

She has never been good at summarizing. The big picture has never really been her scene. Minutiae makes her more comfortable.

Life is like a syllogism if you let it.

if good music is meant to be danced to. and this song makes her want to dance. it must be good.
even if only for dancing.

She will not dance to Cher.
Well, maybe just a little. But only in her chair. Or, with just one foot.

And she only sings along to Billy Joel with irony in her throat.

Everything else is pretty fair game.
She is like her mother in this respect. She knows she will grow up to embarrass her own children on road trips with the radio on.

But what is a life on the road without songs to sing along to? The open road is made for music.
Her penchant for speeding has a direct correlation to the practice of this theory.

Notes From Taos, A Post Script

Christmas Week 2005. Taos, NM








Belated Birthday Poem For A Fearless Wanderer

I would take you to New Mexico,
where we would walk your dogs along the edge of Volcanitos!
Race breathless up El Pilar to view infinite Earth
from sacred earth.







Old Northern New Mexico

A wilderness of trailer homes, rusted trucks and busted fences.
Barbed into the ashram, ostriches strut on languid legs.
They seem out of place here among these lazy, sprawling dogs.
Good wine may not grow in this desert. But casinos do. And roadside shrines.
And graveyards.
Elaborate crusifixes scattered across the landscape.





One State Over

I tried to call you from the top of Pilar.
But my phone had No Service.
And, although I can see clear to Colorado from here,
I cannot phone to tell you.










Moderate To First Marker

Las Minas Trail.
The first snow we've seen.
Following deer tracks, and signs of other creatures
... further east into the hills.
There should be a mine on Las Minas Trail

Mica. Micaceous. Metamorphic. aluminum silicate Mineral.

I dawdle behind Bird's black leather jacket
collecting rocks and other, Shiny, objects in the pockets of my ratty blue jeans.



Magpies
Damn Birds!
Spend their mornings flitting from woodshed to river
while I run myself ragged.
Chase them from tree to tree with my camera.
Just one shot - blue white wings extended in flight -
before you disappear into the brush.
"They are shy," She tells me.
"They don't like their pictures taken," he agrees.
They nod wisely from the front seat of the car.
Happy with just a glimpse of magpies.









He is

A tall man in a Hobbiton world.
He is a punkrocker.

He is
In hippie hell.

He lumbers through this casita.
He amuses himself at the wood burning stove
in lieu of TV.

I consume books like black grapes
savoring sweet silence.
And then I miss TV too.

A Week's Worth of Thirty

A lot of people freak out when they turn thirty. I've been thirty for a whole week now and so far, so good.
Well, there has been some snow, and a couple of hangovers. But it IS December and it IS my birthday...better a hangover than an almost-mid-life crisis I always say.

Thirty isn't old. It sounded old when I was, like, twelve. But, the farther I got into my twenties the more the reality of the situation set in. Life is just starting. I look at my twenties as something of a decade long theatrical experiment in movement, ambient sound and varying degrees of stasis.Things feel different now.

It seems facile to credit the rotation of the earth around the sun with knowledge gained but that's what it boils down to. Time passes and while it's rushing by, if you're lucky, you pick up a few nuggets of wisdom. In thirty years you can rack up a lot of mistakes to learn from. You learn some things about yourself, about the nature of people and what it really is that makes the world work.

Before anyone starts breathing down my neck about blah-dee-blah claiming omnipotence I'm not saying I have answers. I'm saying that you learn some stuff. I don't really think there are any definite answers. The world is an eerily subjective place. That's one of the things I've learned. I'm still working on objectivity. I'm not so good with that yet. But hey, I'm only thirty. And in an age where people are still walking the earth at the age of 104 I have plenty of time to learn more, live more and love more. Chances are I'll work in a few more hangovers before I truly get tired of those too.

I guess the real question about getting older is what are we supposed to do with all of this stuff we've learned. Your brain can be full of all sorts of good things - art, science, recipes, iambic pentameter, whatever - but if you don't do anything with it....well, there's not much of a point then is there?

Of course, I don't know that I'm really one to talk. The most fruitful thing my brain has produced recently (excluding any clever answers for Loaded Questions) is this blog and even that is a chore sometimes. To wit, it took me a week and two days to write about being thirty. But I'm doing something. And I guess I'll continue trying to do something forever. Even when I have done "something" who knows if that will be enough. I don't think it will. I don't think there is ever enough. There is always more to do and see and feel....this world, this universe, it's a big place friends. There's plenty of room, plenty of light and plenty of experiences for all of us...and then some.

As an example here are some fine folks who share my birthday and some interesting things that have occured on December 4th throughout history.

1875 Rainer Maria Rilke
1934 Wink Martindale, TV host (Tic-Tac-Dough, Can You Top This)
1971 Terrence Wisdom guard/center New York Jets
1619 America's 1st Thanksgiving Day in Virginia
1945 Senate approves US participation in UN
1964 Beatles release "Beatles For Sale" album

That's all. A bit rambly...but it's hard for me to keep track in my old age. I'm going to go back to enjoying my "sick day" now - Little House On The Prairie is on!

The Tradition Continues

In no particular order, I present to you my as-yet-to-be-quantified List Of Things That Make Me Thankful. It's Thanksgiving and the cats woke me up at 5:30 this morning anyway. I figured I should do something besides drink coffee.

1. TNT's Movies We Love Marathon. Of course, there are only two movies that can even come close to being movies I love but Critters at 6am and Ghostbusters at 8? I am good to go.

21. Mmh, bagels.

45. Weddings and babies and all new beginnings

16. Wedges of ripe orange at breakfast.

5. My The Boyfriend. He rocks. 'Nuff said.

999. My family. They are why I am. In all conjugations of the verb.

65. Brand new blue jeans.

93. Designer lables at discount prices.

80. My friends. But more than just some people I know. I mean My Friends, those whose lives mine mingles with intimately. My brothers and sisters in heart and soul. You know who you are.

3. The quiet hour after I wake up and before The Boyfriend gets out of bed.

76. A really good book.

18. Rekindling old friendships.

2. In no way desiring or intending to go shopping tomorrow .

36. A well made mojito.

72. Personal freedoms.

54. 10 days til 30.

321. Sunshine on my shoulders.

9. Laundry on premises.

85. Digital cameras and online photosharing.

10. David Bowie.

678. Cute fuzzy kitties that don't wake me up at the ass-crack of dawn.

4. Coffee.

125. Knowing enough obscure movie quotes to keep up with cousin Jordan.

9654. iTunes.

73. Good job with an adult salary.

14. Every breath of every moment of every minute of every hour of every day.

Commentary

Fuck is it cold out today.

The Most Horrible Story Ever Told

Verbatim, straight from the horse's mouth - except she's very pretty and not horsey-like at all.

The following account was taken during a phone interview. Names have been changed to protect…Oh, screw that. I’m only changing the names slightly.

As many of you know, my husband and I got married this past July. It was a beautiful day, everyone was happy, the weather was amazing, the food, the venue, etc. All of our planning really paid off. We had friends and families fly in from all over the country, including my paternal grandparents along with my dad’s brother ‘Rick’ and his wife, my Aunt ‘Rianne’. I hadn’t seen them in ages and they all looked wonderful, if a little overwhelmed as they hail from tiny, tiny town Montana. My cousins were missing from the picture as the youngest one, Rary, was preparing for her own nuptials. We were going to be absent from her wedding as it was just after ours and we couldn’t afford the time or $ to get out there. Boy, would that I could travel back in time to see this with my own eyes.
Sit back, relax and enjoy, “The Bucolic Bride and the Groom with One Hand”. And may God forgive me.

For those of you from a rural area, perhaps this won’t be very shocking. It may even be commonplace. Granted, I was born in Montana, both of my parents grew up there, but we managed to escape when I was around two. I must say this about this side of my family; they know how to entertain. I’ve childhood memories of my grandparents having tons of relatives over for the holidays, eating, snacking, laughing, etc. They are not without humor, but are certainly what I would consider socially conservative, which is what makes this tale that much funnier. While, they are all big fans of the Budweiser, they maintain themselves. Yes, there is some letting lose, but nothing drastic, and nothing ever dramatic, unless it involves my Uncle “Rick” who, I must say, has such a sack full of issues that even his tractor couldn’t pull it. I have to give props to his saint of a wife, she is one of the nicest ladies I’ve ever known. And I must also offer this disclaimer, these people are college educated and small town and but not white trash.
It seems though; Uncle Rick has some competition on the dramatic front from his oldest daughter “Richelle”. Annoying since infanthood (my brother and I once deliberately bumped her from a golf cart), married to a saint of a man, mother of two little kids and wears her eating disorder like a badge of honor. Richael, the middle brother is not so much a key player in this story, so I’m just going to say that he looks a lot like his dad.

Cut to the morning of the wedding. It’s a very hot, very sunny day. My dad is the only one in a suit. (That is very typical in Montana). They arrive there in time to watch the groomsman, et al march in to the church sporting white tuxedos with black shirts, and suffer through a mass with no air conditioning. The ceremony itself was “unremarkable”, as reported my reliable source.
Post ceremony, my dad and Susie (dear stepmother) go back to the hotel to dress down, why should they suffer in suits and hose when no one else is? Besides they had a good four hours before the reception at the rodeo grounds. Most people I know have a hard time with that ceremony reception lag time. What the hell do you do? Especially, in rural Montana? Well, what you do is start drinking. Granted it’s about 1:00pm, but it’s a wedding celebration after all. So, Uncle Rick, and the grooms dad (let’s call him Vinnie) had decided to invite everyone to the venue though the reception wasn’t set to begin. It’s a nice consideration for all of the out-of-towners, many who are older relatives of mine. So, when people start arriving at the venue, they are pleased to see that the bar was already open. There was, however, no food in site. So, let’s do the math. Up at 9:00am, maybe you had a muffin or coffee, go to wedding, wedding done at 1:00p, don’t have lunch, head to venue, and start drinking.

I have to mention that the groom is part Hispanic, so Vinnie and Rick had ordered cases of Patron tequila for the reception. Before you could say Salud, the bottles get broken open and the wedding party, including Vinnie and Rick start taking tequila shots. I mentioned earlier that my family was big fans of Budweiser. They can drink it all day long and not get drunk. Booze is an entirely different beast. It lies dormant in our genes until provoked and once it is woken up, you can’t get it back to sleep. You must ride out its wrath and perhaps piss a few people off in the process.

Cut to 4:00pm, reception time. You can imagine how drunk the wedding party was at this point. And, because no one wanted to mess with their buzz, the food remained untouched by those that needed it most. Most of the other guests, including tried to enjoy the food and ignore the fact that there were slobbering, loud, sweaty people walking around with tequila bottles trying to get people to do shots. Half of those bottles poured out onto the floor as those carrying the bottles around when there motor skills were not really up to task of carrying anything full of liquid. Not to mention that the floor was fairly littered with trash because, well you try making a basket in to the can when you’re half in the bag.

It was getting to be a little much for Susie to handle so she went outside and was watching cousin Richelle’s two little one’s as Richelle was busy on the phone with her therapist having a hysterical crying fit about not being able to handle giving the toast or being at the wedding, or something just that ridiculous. Where’s a golf cart when you need it? No, seriously, she was doing this right in front of many, many people while her for-sure-to-be-messed up kids were in Susie’s care. Eventually she calmed down enough to make her way back inside to give her toast.
So, inside, it’s half loud, rowdy and drunken and half polite chatter. Unfortunately, no one was really eating and a ton of food was going to waste. Cousin Richelle (this was not even an eating disorder joke, just serendipity) got on the mike and announced that “She had to outdo the toast her sister had given her on her wedding.” (It was a poem that she’d written.) Richelle, hell bent on topping the sisterly poem, decided to take a popular song and write alternate lyrics and sing along to the back up music. Well, whatever heartfelt sentiment penned in the song was overshadowed by choking sobs and heartfelt (misguided) emoting. I have to say this, she has, to my knowledge, always been a terrible singer. I recall in 1982 at a family reunion, she getting up in front of the entire clan and singing a song about this dinosaur (which she made me listen to over and over and then told me how cute it was going to be.) It wasn’t .It sucked. I imagine this was like the dinosaur song but a million times worse because, she’s not 4 anymore and she’s a flied out loon. There was not a comfortable person in the house.

But, yay, now it’s time for the first dance. This can be a pressure filled moment for some couples, but not these two, Rary and Ravis. No, they were feelin’ fine. So fine in fact, that when they fell down drunk on top of each other during this one and only first dance, they just laughed it off. Now, there’s a couple who can get through anything.

Typically, the rest of the guests would begin dancing after this. Unfortunately, no one did. The music, while pleasing the bride and groom, did not really take into the consideration the population of big banders that made up 70% of the guest list. Just as well I suppose, what with all the tequila spill, trash, condom wrappers, and vomit, great aunt so and so could have taken a nasty spill. I know that the wedding is about the bride and the groom, but even Marie Antoinette told the people to eat cake. These poor people didn’t even get cake because the hosts were too drunk to cut it, or they just forgot.

It was at this point when my dad, Susie and my brother decided to leave. Susie went outside to track down some family to say goodbye. Just as she walked out the front door she sees a shirtless man sitting on a bench next to a pile of what appeared to be his own vomit. She confirmed that it was his vomit as she saw what remained on his face. Turns out it was Vinnie, the father of the groom. Not wanting to embarrass or deal with him, Susie goes back inside, mortified, and noticed the back door open and Uncle Rick just outside of it vomiting his guts out too. Well, that’s just perfect. Both my dad and Susie were, I believe pretty ticked about the whole thing. Flying to Montana is hella expensive. Though they may’ve gotten their money’s worth had they stuck around for the grand finale.

Drum roll, please…..in honor of the wedding celebration, Rary had purchased fireworks to light off in the parking lot. (Give them a break, its Montana, sometimes there’s nothing left to do but blow stuff up.) As the reception is ending, Rary begs Ravis to light off the fireworks. Ravis was against the idea and they had a big drunken fight. But because it was “MYYYYYYYY WEDDING!!!!!!!!!!!” Rary got her way and the wedding party proceeded to the parking lot with bottle rockets in hand.

Ravis, who I can only assume was not a novice blower upper, held the rocket in his hand by that stand like part at the bottom. He then lights it as everyone waits for the magic. No one was disappointed because the bottle rocket magically blew up and magically blew apart Ravis’ hand. The drunken ass wedding party races to the ER where Ravis goes into emergency surgery. Because they were so drunk and disruptive, the wedding party was kicked out of the hospital.
The next morning, my dad and Susie awake to this story of the blown up hand. Being the nice people that they are, they go visit the hospital. Apparently, they couldn’t use anesthesia on poor Ravis as his blood alcohol level was sky high. More frightening, his future as a chiropractor may be in question. Post hospital, my dad and Susie, go to the venue to help clean up.
Seriously. I can’t believe them. I think they felt bad for my aunt and my grandparents, who were probably mortified. So, my dad is mopping up the floor, of what I can only picture is like post Motley Crue concert 1987. My aunt is on her hands and knees scraping up vomit with a putty knife. They won’t get their deposit back unless the place is clean. Oh, and if anyone was hungry all the food was left out from the night before including the uncut cake, which had melted into a pile of sugary daisies.

The centerpieces, meant to reflect the chosen theme of “Golf and the Beach” met a sad end. A bunch of straw and grass, with glued on golf tees, surrounded a beer mug with gold fish. The children of Richelle, anxious to take one home as a pet, were horrified to see each and every little fish belly up in their beer mug homes. Uncle Rick, was no use to anyone following his Patron orgy the night before laid on the floor that my dad was mopping and passed out. Oh, little brothers.

While, I felt bad for the majority of the guests who traveled and spent money to be part of this day, there was a part of me that found great glee in this. It wasn’t even because our wedding was better; it was mostly because I’ve been fairly removed from that side of my family. There’s always been a sense of resentment toward my father, who wanted more out of life than small town living. We still saw everyone on visits and my brother and I loved going there as children because they had a jar of candy corn, mini cereal boxes and cans of grape juice. My mother and I found the small town, decades behind the time lifestyle absolutely hilarious and a great source for endless mocking of polyester fashions. Ashton Kuchter would’ve have killed for Uncle Rillie’s trucker hat that said “Official Hangover Hat”. Pettiness aside, we did all have a good time there.
Though, when my parents divorced and my dad moved away, my mother wrote my grandparents and told them that she’d do everything she could to make sure we saw them and didn’t get out of touch. Well, as it is in small town existence, everything you need is right there and if it isn’t there, you don’t need it. So it seems. Since then, we write and exchange gifts on holidays and birthdays. I see them once every five years or so. I’m not as resentful as I once was, and regret not having an adequate amount of time to spend with them at my wedding, but then again, I didn’t have time for anyone really. On the opposite end of the spectrum, Uncle Rick, Rianne, Richelle, Richael and Rary live nearby the grandparents have daily communication and are extremely close. About as opposite as the relationship they have with me and my brother. That nasty, petty, resentful part of me felt a sense of sweet justice that my wedding was so much better than the grandkids of Do No Wrong, Montana.

Meeeeeeooooowwww. Slap me cuz I’m bad.

I hope you’ve all enjoyed reading this tale, and I hope that any of you who plan on having a wedding have learned a little something.

So What's The Deal?

you know, when you - purely by coincidence - track down an ex on a site like myspace or friendster?

are you supposed to avoid them? can you taunt them? haunt them? track their every online move?

i am sorely tempted to send some sort of communication but i can't guarantee it's going to be a NICE communication...is that "wrong?"

opinions welcome.

Best. Entrance. Ever.

The last wedding of 2005. Hallelujiah. Praise be to all Saints in Heaven.
As an event, it has had a momentous build up over this year.
It did not disappoint.
In fact, it was quite the wild brouhaha.

Thirteen groomsmen, not including the four-year-old ring bearer, accompanied the groom. They secluded themselves in a dark-wood paneled conference room.

Three doors down; the bride, three bridesmaids, two junior bridesmaids and a flower girl.

As one of the ambassadors between these two rooms, the bathroom and the hall where the congregation was gathering I can tell you that the South Shore Cultural Center is huge and that excitement was palpable throughout.

Everyone looked perfect. Storybook even. All fourteen of these men oozed adjectives. Debonair, dashing, sophisticated even. It was a bit of a shock really. All of them all in one place, looking their best. Not just well dressed but on best behavior too. These are all boys I've known going on five years now. Slept on their couches, shared our psychoses, neuroses and melodramas over coffee, assorted liquors and games of Risk. Currently truly, madly deeply for one of them. And here they were, as so many of my favorite boys have been this year in ceremonies all across the country, looking so handsome I had to catch my breath.

The bride, my sister Wonderwoman, was ravishing. Every bride I've seen this year has been beautiful and perfect. Wonderwoman was the happiest I've ever seen her. Radiant and blushing, she ran down the hallway just for the joy of watching her dress billow out behind her. A princess at her very own ball, surrounded by her gorgeous ladies-in-waiting.

The officiator, uncle to the groom (and a dead ringer for The Boyfriend's father) was kind and infused with a generous sense of humor. Some of the groomsmen and I were discussing the signal system set up for the ceremony. When all of the men were in place around the alter, Howard (the priest) was to signal Wonderwoman for her entrance. None of us had the heart to explain that she had asked him to flash her the devil's horn. You know, the whole index finger- pinky salute made popular by metal-heads and punk rockers around the world. Yeah, THAT was the signal. We let him continue thinking it was the Texas Longhorns team symbol. Safer that way.

The groom led his personal procession in to bagpipes. Followed by the pairs of bridesmaids and the three men standing up with the groom. Or, standing closer to the groom as the thirteen attendants stood in a semi-circle around the couple.

When the flower girl and ring bearer had found their places in the crowd at the front of the room, every thing went silent for a moment. And then the thunderous strains of Slash's solo, the opening chords of Sweet Child O' Mine, roared through the hall. The crowd was on it's feet. The groomsmen hollering, the congregation whistling and cheering as Wonderwoman and her father walked down the aisle.
Genius. Brilliant. Magnificent.
The tone of the evening was now set in place.
By the end of the night we had all partied like we were in high school again, drank the open bar out of a number of items and fell in love with love watching the bride and groom dance each other around the room.

The end of my official Year of Weddings. It went out with a bang, that's for sure.

The one main idea I have come away with from this year of travel, ceremony, caterers photographers, music and love is that a wedding is anything you want it to be. I think I have seen it all this year. Classical, religious weddings on sprawling lawns and gardens. Rock and Roll parties, bohemian ceremonies overlooking oceans. Fancy dress up prom night soirees and castles overlooking scenic, urban vistas. A wedding is anything and everything.

When I was younger, the idea of wedding thrilled and frightened me. It implied, in my mind, being the uncomfortable center of attention. Dancing stiffly to songs my parents would approve of and having to be a gracious, rushed host. Well, it ain't necessarily so folks. This year has inspired my faith and hope that whatever sort of wedding I eventually end up having, no matter where, no matter when. And no matter how many things seem to go wrong, if it's a good time to me it will be a good time to everyone. I have seen how friends and family truly do come together for celebration in a majestic sort of way. It doesn't have to be anything special, the nature of the occasion makes it so.

In a Thorton Wilder sort of way, the witnessing of a marriage has the power to restore faith, mend wounds time seems to have forgotten and bring us all together for a brief moment (geologically speaking) united under the spell cast by true love.

So, that's what I have to say about that. And, despite my earlier warning, I already have three weddings I know of to attend next year. Not a single one of them within cabbing distance of my apartment. But, after this year and all of the good times I have shared in, I cannot complain. I can only look forward to more adventures.

Next Time: A guest contributor recounts the tale of the most disastrous wedding I've ever heard of. Thankful I wasn't required to attend it. But I can't let the story go untold.

Somehow This Got Posted Without A Title

Currently I am supposed to be cleaning the house. I got off to a valiant start by putting away the detrius from last night's mad dash of costuming. I also put away the last of the clean laundry (that was washed on Tuesday.) And I've even vacuumed most of the bedroom. It's a big bedroom. In an effort to put off the rest of the cleaning, yet still be doing something productive, here I am at the computer.
Maybe if I continue to set up projects for myself to accomplish I'll get more writing done. I'm an excellent procrastinator, after all. Maybe if I come home every night intending to clean the house I will find myself trying to write in order to avoid it.
God knows when I am supposed to be writing I find all sorts of stupid ways to avoid sitting down and writing. My favorite excuse is research. "Oh, I have to read up more on that subject before I can actually write about it."
Bushwah.
I've been "researching" one, specific project since 1997. Eight years to the month exactly. I have books and artwork, piles and piles of them, all related to this project I have not yet written. I have stacks of starts and even more stops. Random pages of dialogue and bits from journals dating back to college all on this one topic. Yet it remains trapped in my brain, buried as if beneath an avalanche. There has not yet been a shovel big enough to dig it out.
I think sometimes if I got a new computer, or if I set up a new schedule for myself. This blog began as a way to get myself writing daily again. You all see how well that worked out. Once I thought that if I only had a few months when I didn't have to work that I would have the energy and the desire to spend more time writing. Then I got fired and had all the time in the world. I spent most of that time worrying about being unemployed.
I look at my friends - taking acting classes, improv classes, illustration classes, writing music, putting together bands and starting theater companies and I don't know what to do with myself.
Writing is such a solitary pursuit, I actually heard Michael J. Fox express it best on Inside The Actors' Studio. "With other arts, you wake up every day and you are stepping into a flowing river. With writing, you wake up and step into a stagnant pond. It's up to you to work to get across it."
It's the work I guess. When I was younger - full of piss and vinegar for the most part - I could stay up late writing. I could sit down in the morning with a cup of coffee and a smoke and pound out some poetry or part of a short story. I could spend hours sitting infront of my refridgerator playing with poetry magnets.
Now, after eight hours at work sitting infront of a computer listening to music, when I get home all I want to do is watch TV and eat and then go to bed. Days like today, a quiet Sunday, partially overcast. The weather has been dropping and I can hear the wind whipping around the eves of the building. There's nothing but sub-par horror on TV, (can I get an oh-yay for Halloween programming?) And, I am supposed to be cleaning. The perfect components for an afternoon writing session.
I have a few ideas in my head. They are all very old ideas but are constantly being tweaked and upgraded in my brain. I am always playing them out in different ways even if I am not writing them down.

One of them is about the Garden of Eden. It's about Adam and Eve and the first wife, Lilith. It is all symbolism and feminist theory and lush greenery. It is mostly still just images and not so many words. It is alternately in a forests garden clearing or somewhere in the dust of Texas. It is poetry and it is dance and there are masks and primitive music - drums and large wind instruments. Sometimes it is rock and roll and purple haired waitresses. It is always vast, clear blue skies and crisp. But sometimes even then it is dripping wet, with dew, or thunderous rain fall. A large number of the random objects I own are related to this project. Goddess necklaces, pieces of art work I have hidden in folders or up on the wall. My glow-in-the-dark Virgin Mary statuette. Most of this stuff winds back around steeply into this project that hangs around my desk.

The other idea floating through my head is contemporary, at best, and nothing substantial at all. Just a story. The type of story that people have been writing forever and ever amen. An outsider looking for a home. Not a house and not a family, but a home. You know, where the heart is? A story about outsiders looking in and insiders running out and in the end there's a happily ever after that brings all the pieces together nicely. Ages old and nothing I think would be exciting but far more personal and far less impressionistic. Grounded more in reality and less in poetic license. Although I do believe that every life lived is poetry, you don't always want to portray it that way.
Every time I look at pictures from ten years ago, or think about friends I've had and lost or found again, this story comes to mind. Every time I think about where I am going to be in ten years or ten weeks and who will be there with me and who will be lost, this story comes to mind. Reading books like February House and The Fervent Years brings to mind this story. I have no protagonist. At least, not one I am comfortable presenting publicly. I have no real plot points, nor do I know exactly when, where or in what "now" this story occurs. It's stuck in there really well right now and it's not going anyway for a while.

But I have to finish vacuuming. Really, I do. And then I have to clean the bathroom because it's gross. So, I spent some time writing about writing. That's one step closer to the actual writing. It must be a good sign.

Wasn't This About a Sandwich?

So, does it count as salad if it's on two pieces of toast, with bacon and mayo?

'Cause I think it's should.

Though really, I hate mayonnaise. I put it on the sandwich anyway.

The problem was I really had my heart set on baking cookies. Then I realized I didn't have any eggs. I couldn't figure out what to do with myself. I had spoken to KristaBeth earlier in the day and SHE was baking cookies. So I had been thinking about cookies for about four hours by the time I realized I only had one egg.

At this point, I could have gone to the store.

Have you ever had one of those days though, when you vow to yourself as you wake up that you are not, under any circumstances, leaving the house that day? In fact, if you can manage it, you will not even get out of your pajamas? I was having one of those days. And lack of eggs for cookies was just not enough to make me walk the three blocks to 7-11.

Lazy, it's true. I know.

So there I was, faced with a kitchen full of ingredients and not a single recipe in my brain. Well no. I have tons of recipes in my brain. And even more recipes on the shelves of the little cabinet next to the fridge. I just didn't have any I felt like making.

Actually, I've had something with corn and black beans in it, on my mind as of late. I even bought a bunch of cilantro yesterday. I just don't have black beans. Or corn for that matter. But I bet, whatever it is, will be good. Whenever I figure out what it's going to be. I had some black bean soup at a diner the other day. Disappointed by it's thinness, I feel like I can do better. Or perhaps some sort of casserole.

It's casserole weather. Crisp and clear. Wind whipping up the leaves and carrying the scents from a million hipster-restaurants up to my third floor windows. It makes me want to saute and stir and mix and bake and eat.

Mostly eating.

Eating soft, squishy, spiced dishes with complicated, yet comforting flavors. Something to dunk bread into. Or something to spread on top of bread. Things cooked in crusts, or until the edges crisp around the corningware. Eating things that leave a lingering aroma. That's what I feel like eating.

I could make all of these things. I have the capacity to create these luxurious dishes. There are just a few obstacles complicating my desires.

First of all, there's the cost of tasty good ingredients for all of these things. Food is expensive. And the better the food, the more expensive it is. Cuts of meat, fresh vegetables - not cheap. Potato chips and bags of semi-prepared, sodium laden pastas - those are.

Secondly, there's the time and energy it takes to make all of these things are so few hours in a day and so many projects to accomplish. By the time I am hungry enough to start thinking about cooking something all I want is for food to appear before me. What I really need to do is dedicate an entire day to making some big dishes that can be eaten off of for a few days. Only curling up on the couch in front of the cable is so much easier. And sleeping, sleeping is also easier. It takes much less energy.

The other part of the problem is that if I really started cooking all of this good food, all of the time and have it around whenever I just wanted it, I would be a big, fat, balloon of a whale-girl before my birthday.

My 30th birthday.

And that, my friends, is a topic for another time.

And Lobster Thermadore

OK, can anyone tell me how and why I end up with some other yahoo's ADVERTISING in my comments? Who are these "people?" Where do they come from? And isn't there some sort of LAW or something?
Spam. Boooooo.

One More Thing About New York

Admission To Flushing Meadow Park Zoo: $5
Mr Softee vanilla ice cream cone w/ rainbow sprinkles: $3.50
Llama feed: $.50

Getting that llama feed spit back in your face: Priceless.


Special thank yous to Deeva, Hack n' Jess, Amy, and Krista Beth for hospitality. And an extra special shout out to Heather, Herb and Sarno whom I didn't get to see.

Coast To Coast Weddingpalooza

OK, it's Sunday. The Boyfriend is off to work. I've had my french toast and coffee. I am ready to rock the blog.

Backtrack: Last month I attended two weddings. One on the 18th in San Francisco and one on the 24th in NYC. In case you weren't there.
The beauty of two weddings so close together is...Well OK it's really more a pain in the ass than anything but there was no way I was going to miss either of these nuptials. So, jet-lag be damned, it was a coast to coast tour.

The left coast wedding was not only a chance to share a celebration with two dear friends, it also afforded me the opportunity to catch up with some of the most important people in my adopted family. Four years, it's a long time to live with people. You begin to share the same skin. These are the people with whom I have shared some of the most intimate moments of our lives. Going away to college, being away from actual family, you create a new family. Not a family better than your actual. Just different, based on mutual interests, distaste for the same professors and the necessity to trade points at the dining hall for hard cash. Safety in numbers, and all that jazz. You put together your safety net a little more carefully in college than you might have in high school, if you ever had one.

And then "poof." It's graduation day and time to go your separate ways. And never again will it be quite the same as it was when you were all under one roof - or at least one zip code. So yay weddings for bringing us all back together again.

These really are the weddings that make me weep. This is the second of my "brothers" to get married and it's THE STRANGEST THING EVER. I don't mean any disrespect in my disbelief but everyone has to understand that I remember when these guys were...Boys really. I remember when all of the girls in the Theater Department had crushes on my enigmatic, english major roommates. I remember lessons learned, like "don't cook bacon naked." And arguments over whether to brown the garlic first or add it last when making our world renowned Super Deluxe Mac N' Cheese.

Now my Fave Dish is married with daughter and Seth is a trained chef (studied in Paris and everything.) Things change but they will always be the same. Seth is still a bit of a weeper - endearing him even more to me. And Dave pays more attention to his daughter than I ever saw him pay to...Well any girl ever. It's cute and it's strange. It's lovely and disturbing all at the same time. They have both married well and with love to wonderful women.

Sunday, the 18th of September found us all gathered on a parapet (thanks for the new word Brahmani) overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The wind whipped through the gathering, carrying away the vows but I have never seen either bride or groom say something so earnestly before. They looked into each others eyes and spoke from their hearts the secret words of love. And then we all drank champagne and hugged each other. It was simple and elegant.

Of course, there was then much partying like rock stars in our fancy dress up clothes. The boys and I seem to have only one tradition (unless I'm not the only one still cooking up our mac n' cheese.) The day of our graduation party, back in 1998, there was a picture taken of the three of us. Me in the middle, Seth on my left and Dave on my right. Since then we have only seen each other at weddings really. So we are much better dressed in the proceeding pictures - one at Dave's wedding and now one at Seth's. And no matter how often I look at the picture of us from Dave's wedding, taken now some four years ago, my mind still superimposes upon it the original. Taken on a spring day in New Paltz, New York after we had been celebrating all ready for hours in the warm sun. A little sweaty. A little drunk, a little high on the feeling that the world was open at our feet.

Last month there wasn't nearly enough time to sit around with each other. I went away from that wedding understanding a little better how far we have all come as people in this world but with no greater understanding of any of our places in it. It's always good though, to go home again. And seeing this little family of mine made me anxious and nervous about the next wedding, in New York, where my flesh and blood family would be gathered all in one fancy mansion/castle in the heart of Manhattan.

Wedding New York Style...This is the one my aunt has been waiting for...hee hee.

It, by the way, amuses me to no end that my family reads this blog regularly. I've been writing since I could hold a pen and I've finally found a public enough medium for everyone to tune in. Huzzah!

Ahem, anyway...The Wedding. Right. So, not only do I not see my extended family all that often, this wedding marked the first occasion of my The Boyfriend interacting with my family on a grand scale. I was probably more nervous than he was really. What does he have to worry about? He doesn't even know these people. I know them but don't really remember some of them all that well. Not for nuthin but it's been a looooong time since the old days of waking up on Christmas morning in my aunt and uncle's house with all the kids and all the toys and all the food. Good times, good times. So, some of these people I really haven't seen since either the last family wedding or when I left NY about seven years ago.

And it's not so much that any of them look different or act different. I would recognize the members of my family anywhere. Their names and actual relations to me are a completely separate matter though. Two minutes after walking into the wedding I started thinking long and hard about making everyone who attends my wedding (if and when, no one get too excited just yet OK?) wear nametags. Perhaps a little flowchart on a wall somewhere showing how everyone knows everyone else. Something, I don't know.

So, yeah this wedding...oooh this wedding. This was maybe the fanciest wedding I have ever been to. Seriously it was in a mansion. Not that the mansion belonged to anyone in the family, but still - a mansion, directly across the street from Central Park and just down the street from "Museum Row." So, you know...faaaaancy. Which is weird for my family I feel. Not that we don't clean up really well as a group but in my brain the strongest memories of these people are from when I was very young, and so were they. In my memories we are at various barbecues, outdoor concerts, the beach, little league games, choir recitals - we are eating sandy sandwiches or sundaes from Friendly's or fishing for dinner. When I think about my family I do not think about them in tuxedos or sparkly dresses. I don't think about them at banquet tables or making toasts, I think about us all squished in around a dining room table. I think about us arguing with my grandmother about how we should use a new plate for our salads so we don't end up with spaghetti sauce mixed into the salad dressing. It's an interesting new perspective, all of these family weddings. First of all, the plate argument is solved by the armies of "cater waiters" serving at these functions. There's a new plate for every course, I think Grandma would be happy about that.

That's the other thing about these fantastical family weddings. It brings to focus, even for fleeting moments, the people we are missing. The people, however long it has been since they were lost to us, who are still fresh in our hearts and minds and present at every occasion as long as we keep them so. It's not hard to miss them. It's so easy, in fact, that you spend most of the night expecting to see them on the dance floor...Ahhhh, this is too maudlin and I can no longer continue with this train of thought without delving off the tracks and getting lost in a million memories.

So, let's talk about the hors d'oevres. They were fantastic! Nothing like mingling with the family over glasses of wine and champagne and tasty treats on crackers. Only those of us married and with families have graduated from "the kids' table." But "the kids" are a lot older now and far more interesting than when we were actual children. We're a lot less messy now as well and eat most of our vegetables voluntarily. We grow, we change, we stay the same forever and always. It's the nature of people. It's the nature of families. There will always be a "children's table," even when the children are entering their thirties.

It probably works out best for all involved. As we get older it gets harder to distinguish the "adults" from the "kids." Lines blur, and as long as we can stick close to the folks we remember best from youth we can all be as young as we want for the evening. We can all dance and have a good time, drink a little too much, stay up a little too late and say the things we need to say to each other. Things that every family, blood or otherwise, must say, especially when you don't see each other nearly often enough:

I love you.
I miss you.
I am so proud of you.

Issues Inherent In The System

See, the trouble with having a job that puts you in front of a computer all day, and then wanting to actually have FUN on a computer when you are done with work is that...well you just can't do it.
Or, at least I just can't do it.
8 hours infront of a computer is way more than enough for me. So, at the end of the day I have a real hard time sitting down at the home station to blog.

Bare with me Aunt Flo, I promise to get to the weddings this weekend.