Transformation; Or Jodie Got Happy

I have heard that the mid-thirties is an important time for women. It's a peak time for women for certain things. I won't mention this because my mom might read this. I am 36, and I find myself viewing life quite differently as of late. I know not what to attribute this to, but I embrace it as I look back on my journey here.

Most who know me well consider me a bit cynical and negative. These are people who have known me for years. My negative attitude, occasional rants and complaints and sarcastic tirades were always just a part of me. They made me recognizable and unique. My friends joked about it. I accepted it. When did this part change? I can't be sure, but my new place of work has definitely had something to do with it.

While teaching at my first school (oh, how I miss it there), I was never one to hide the pessimism. I tried a few times to shake it. I know some will recall the lunch table conversation during which I demanded we all say something we were grateful for then say at least one nice thing about each person at the table. This was on a day during which I was feeling much appreciation for my place in the world. I don't recall what I said about my fellow educators who shared my table (oh, how I miss them), but I can likely say some sarcasm seeped out. I do remember what I gave thanks for in my life. "I am happy I have two working legs, and I can use them to go anywhere." I found some happiness in that. Was this the only thing I could muster? It seems a tad weak; however, I recall truly being glad I could walk or run, if I so chose.

Surely my students saw some of these negative moments. Some were certainly the target of my sarcastic rants. I can't go into details here because I am still teaching, and I dare not incriminate myself. Sorry, kids. It made you all better people though. The only students exempt were my students during the school year of 2002-2003, what I call "The Most Glorious Year of My Life." I worked only 4/5 due to the addition of little Maddie. I left school each day at noon, graded papers (of which I had many due to my seniors in Writing for College and World Literature) in the afternoon and found myself freed from most English teacher constraints. This allowed for much play time with Maddie. I have video to prove it. I also have plenty of great memories. During that year, I recall my students telling me I was so happy every single day. They loved coming to class because I was always in a good mood. I shared this with my fellow teachers who looked at me with skeptical eyes. Nevertheless, I was a joyful teacher. Instead of essays that year, we deemed them "happy papers." Wow, what a year that was. I remember so many of these students and smile. Good kids. Good times.

I have found my true happy again. I have it right now where I work because I love my job. I enjoy most of the people I work with. The students are wonderful. The circumstances, of course, make all of the difference. Perhaps it is my age and my maturing and acceptance. Or maybe it's just because the people I work with are cool. I can only speculate.

Although I can't say exactly what caused this transformation or when it clicked, I can certainly own it. I recognize it and am grateful for it. Gratitude is powerful. Perhaps I was just too busy complaining to see the good before. Perhaps I didn't have what I needed then. I can wonder, and I do. I accept it now and declare that I will keep loving life.

For those of you who think I need to be miserable to make funny. Don't worry, I don't need that. I promise the next post will include laughs where this one possibly elicited smiles. Smiles are pretty good, too.

Pink is for Pepto-Bismol

October is such a lovely time of year. The football season is in full swing, the World Series sometimes results in an interesting match. The NBA usually starts at the end of the month. Usually. Idiots. For those of you who live in regions with climate change, the season brings falling leaves in appealing hues of orange, yellow and red. In those same areas, the weather starts to get crisp, producing chilled mornings.

Those are things I used to associate with October. I don't know what seasonal changes are anymore, so that's out. Football is still pretty interesting. The World Series is boring (I lost baseball interest long ago when I didn't have three extra hours each day to watch games). I might never see the Suns play again. No matter. These things mean nothing anymore. October, after all, means only one thing: Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

A few of you will relate to this blog, and most of you will likely call me some bad names and buy something pink to make up for my hateful attitude. I am ready for the consequences. This entry has been building, and the time has come for me to voice these frustrations.

Everything I see, buy or use is pink, right now, only in the month of October. The worst offenders are the football teams. Can I please watch a game without seeing a ridiculous pink addition to a team's hat that should never, ever have pink anywhere near the color combination? The cheerleaders at the high school football game last Friday night had pink pom poms. Pink clashes with orange and blue, by the way. I bought a pair of underwear the other day, and the tag had the pink ribbon on it. If I wanted to, I could buy toilet paper with the pink ribbon, so I could wipe my butt and help the cause. We have reached overkill. It's not cute anymore. It goes way beyond the idea of drumming up interest and getting donations. Now it's just a ridiculously marketed bandwagon that people jump right on.

I have a few concerns. Primarily, I am not a big pink fan. I do not enjoy seeing it plastered everywhere. I think it's an ugly color. It makes me think of Pepto-Bismol and the one time I puked it up on my olive green shag carpet in my bedroom when I was about 10. I also find the color too feminine. I don't even know what that means, but I feel it. I don't need my hot dog buns to have pink splashed on the plastic. I don't want my yogurt to have a pink seal. I am not going to buy a pink hair straightener when I already own one. Yes, it's green. Further, I am at the point now where I will choose the product that is pink-free.

One of the biggest reasons I swing the other direction here is because I understand how marketing works. Not all of the companies reveal how much they donate to the cause. They just make their crap pink to appeal to the helpers of the world. Guess what? We can be helpers of the world without buying the crap. We can donate DIRECTLY to the National Breast Cancer Foundation. If we want to support the research, we have other, more effective ways to give. We don't need to buy pink scissors, pink pens, pink water bottles and pink shoelaces in order to make a difference. If you feel the need to advertise that you, in fact, gave to help, get a sticker or something. That's pitiful anyway. Just feel good about donating.

Why is this a single-month issue? Why October? Why can't we hate breast cancer all year? "During September, I am pretty much all right with lumps in boobs. When October rolls around though, no way. That's when I suit up in my pink, put my game face on and swear to take no prisoners as I spend a crapload of money on pink stuff I do not need. I'm a fighter, and I'm fighting . . . for the cause."

The other issue that I can't leave alone here is the numerous other foundations and causes that need just as much funding and assistance. Why don't all of the sports leagues promote all of the organizations? I have never seen a Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation tennis shoe logo on a football helmet. I don't see socks with puzzle pieces on them with proceeds going to the Autism Research Institute. Hell, I don't even know what color represents the Colon Cancer Foundation. I think brown would be appropriate, but I can't recall seeing the color plastered all over during a special month when we should care. This is fine with me because if I want to give to that foundation, I will do it without having a color or a product pushed at my face.

Having purchased a few pinked-out items in the last few days, either inadvertently or due to lack of options, I realize now that I have given my share to the cause. Super. I find no need for me to donate anything else. I already gave. I am good. Boy, did I help out. I am so awesome, thinking of others.

I am not a hateful person. I just want football back. And October. Pink makes me puke.

Just Get Rid of the Hair There

I don't think many women enjoy shaving their legs and armpits. Consequently, I don't think men enjoy shaving that much either. It doesn't produce joy. The act is not exciting. In fact, it can lead to injury.

Shaving is a tedious task that we should not even have to complete. If the hair does not need to be there, should not be there, why is it there? This is just another confusing part of being a species that can think. No one is ever going to witness a platypus squatting in front of a mirror wondering how he can tone down the excessive fur on his body. An African Grey Parrot, an intelligent species, will not preen in his cage, use a little body shear and trim his feathers to a more manageable, attractive size. I realize his using the shears would be difficult, perhaps impossible, but you understand that the point is he doesn't need to. Further, he doesn't want to.

We humans find the need and the desire to shave, to look better. Of course, we all don't necessarily buy into this. I could be a person who stands my ground and says, "God put the hair there for a reason, so I am keeping it." That's ridiculous talk. I am not that natural. Plus, everyone else is shaving. I don't want to look like a freak.

My first foray into shaving was when I was much younger. I have no idea how old I was. I am thinking it was around 12. I simply know that my legs were hairy, and it looked like other girls were getting rid of their unwanted, ill-placed hairs. After much contemplation, and questions to no one, especially my mother, I decided I would give it a try. My mother had not discussed the issue with me, and I certainly did not want to address the situation. We just didn't mention these types of things. It may sound like this was the 1960s, but I am not that old. We're talking 1987 here. I had no earthly idea how to shave, but I found some disposable razors in the hall closet. I knew I wanted to do it in the privacy of my own room, not the bathroom we all shared. I had some logic, obviously, so I knew I needed to apply something to my legs before shaving. In a bedroom, without a sink or water, what could I use? Jergen's Lotion seemed pretty reasonable. Yep, that's what I used. It did not work that well, oddly. The razor kept getting clogged up with hair and pink lotion. I had to move the operation into the bathroom where I used water. Had I never heard of shaving cream? Never seen a commercial for the product? I have no idea.

I eventually discovered shaving cream and now use it all of the time. No need for any royalty payments for me since I didn't name a brand. I don't use a particular brand because I am cheap. I buy whatever is on sale or cheapest. Thus, this idea began this morning as I was using my Target brand shaving cream in the shower and looked at the fragrance. I was expecting to see Perfectly Peach or Luscious Lavender or some other "clever" name. Nope. This is sexy shaving cream, for the sexy, erotic job of shaving. It's called Ooooh Baby. This is such an appropriate name. How did the marketing geniuses arrive at this? I can only guess.

"Ouch, That Hurts. How about that? Or maybe Oops, I Nicked It Again? Wait. We're getting there. Let's go with Slather Up, Shave Down."

"Nope. Nope. These ideas are not cutting it. Jim, what do you got?"

"Oooooh Baby." Doesn't that appeal to the lady in the shower, getting rid of that unsightly stubble so she doesn't have to look like a freak and feel like a lazy, hairy loser? It's the perfect balance of 'this is sexy' and 'I am looking good after I don't have unnecessary hair.' Right?"

"Yep, Jim. We've got our fragrance. Great work."

Yes, I am being sexist. I don't believe a woman named this women's shaving cream Oooooh Baby. Evidently, Jim does do some great work. It's an entirely irrelevant name that reveals nothing about the actual smell. What the hell does Oooooh Baby even smell like?

The next time I shop for shaving cream, I am going to look at the fragrances much closer. I want something that tells it like it is and lets me know what the smell in the shower will be. That's what I want - something that smells good and gets the job done. I am hoping for Let's Get This Over With Lilac or No Nicks Nestle's Quick. C'mon people, let's quit creating weirdness where none should be, so we can keep getting rid of the hairs where none should be.

Feature Films Feature Freaks

While talking with friends about a recent movie-going experience, I realized that watching movies in the theater often yields some type of uncomfortably strange situation for me. Some of the people in the conversation each had a single story about unusual events involving them in movie theaters. After they exhausted their tales, I had plenty to continue sharing. This is a bit bizarre because I do not go to the theater that often. Having young children makes it difficult to get out to the "R" rated pictures. Maybe my stories are aplenty because I remember these weird instances more than others. Or, it just may be that I attract the odd. Maybe it's because I am odd. I don't know.

Experience #1 (most can understand and have experienced as well):
Last week I went to see "50/50" while in Denver with my friend, Amy. After touring a number of Denver malls in the sleeting, snowing, ridiculously cold for a Phoenix girl weather (should I hyphenate that?), I was happy to have a seat in a comfortable theater during which I would attempt to warm up my chilled feet. Thin socks and Converse do not insulate well. Although plenty of other seats remained open, two women in their 50s sat beside me. Right next to me, avoiding the "keep one seat open between parties rule." They began their chit-chatting . . . loudly. Annoyed, I remained quiet assuming their mouths would become silent after the previews. During the opening scene, the main character jogs down the street at a seemingly decent pace. A woman quickly surpasses him. The idiot next to me remarked, "That's what it looks like when I jog!"

This I could not abide. I turned to the right and asked, "Could you guys please be quiet?" The woman returned my death stare. We had a short death staring contest, which I won. Obviously, I did not pay $10 to hear Debbie Dumbass make funny during what turned out to be a great flick.

Experience #2 (perhaps this has happened to you):
While watching "Jarhead," a gruesomely bloody movie about war, a family of five sat behind us. This appeared to be parents and their children. This was a curious family film, considering the burning bodies, masturbating and vulgar language. Oh, but I don't judge. Where this went wrong was when little Jimmy (not his real name) began to cry. Apparently this toughened five-year-old wasn't ready for the images of war. He continued to cry and sob in fear. All the while, his family ignored him as they enjoyed their refreshments and Jake Gyllenhaal's performance. This occurred six years ago. I am sad to say I did nothing at the time. I am happy to say that if this happens again, I will not keep my mouth shut.

Experience #3 (relating to this is somewhat doubtful):
We were in the theater to watch "Zombieland," a movie I was excited to see. Arriving early, we sat close to the end of a row. During the previews, a family of three sat one seat away from me. Parents and a child of about seven unwrapped their snacks, poured popcorn down their throats and sucked down pop. Of course, I was disgusted that such a young boy would be watching this movie. The opening scene depicts zombies eating people, breaking bones and chomping on human flesh. The language is definitively "R." Nevertheless, I cannot dictate parenting techniques to others, so I lost myself in the film. We were about 30 minutes in, and I was enjoying the entertainment when I heard a large amount of liquid letting loose toward the bald man's head in front of the boy two seats away from me. It seems his 32 ounce soda wasn't sitting well with him. This resulted in projectile vomiting, made all the more powerful due the high content of liquid. My feet went up on my seat, and I clutched my purse next to me. How would these stellar parents respond? Dad yelled, "Fuck." Mom did nothing. Dad made a big scene and was ANGRY at his son. They were missing out on this awesome movie, after all. Both parents annoyingly ushered the son by us to the stairs where the little guy puked again. After about 10 minutes, a movie worker, with little booties on his feet and a penlight in his hand, approached the area to clean up both floor and stairs. Yes, the puke smell lingered.

Experience #4 (I bet this hasn't happened to you):
"Castaway" was one of those talked-about movies. I had read about its amazing scenes and wonder, so we decided to go. I want you to remember that movie if you have seen it. I mean really think about it. Tom Hanks' character is alone on an island with his friend the volleyball, Wilson. The dialog is next to none. The music is little to none as well. What viewers can hear is ocean waves, rain and the natural sounds of the island. I bring this up so you will appreciate how extremely peculiar it was that a blind man was sitting right in front of me at this movie. I think the time spent on the island is close to an hour. Nearly an hour of very little for this guy to hear. Well, it would have been very little if he had not had his buddy, The Movie Narrator sitting next to him.

"Ok. Now he's putting some palm fronds together. Weaving them to make something. We're not sure yet, but it's likely some sort of shelter."

"All right. You hear the rain, right? It's really raining. He looks very cold. He must be so depressed at this point. He doesn't know if he'll survive."

"The Wilson he is speaking to is a ball, a volleyball. He has given it hair and a face, so it's like he's actually talking to another person. It's all he's got right now."

This concludes the tales of my life at the movies. I have left out the story of the Loud Napkin Guy, The Family of Stair Runners and others. Luckily, I will go to the movie again, and something just might happen that elicits another story. We do plan to go see "Moneyball" today because the children are away, far away, with Grandpa and Grandma. You'll be the first to know if I make an addition.

Keeping Quiet

You know what's really loud when everyone else in the house is sleeping? The answer, of course, is everything. For example, ripping out the perforated center of a fresh, new Kleenex box equates to slamming a door, dropping a large wooden bowl to the floor and screaming at a high decibel level. This is what I hear, in my head, right now, when I have 4 ounces of extra snot in my sinuses. I truthfully don't know what the regular level of snot is for said cavities, but my vast knowledge of this from Advanced Biology with Mr. Bowen during my junior year of high school puts it at about 4 ounces less than what I must have now. I just thought I should explain how I arrived at that number. Quite scientifically, obviously.

We have company visiting from out of town, so all of the rooms of refuge for nights like these are unavailable. The presence of these guests also amplifies the distracting performance of noise I was sharing with the household before I had a smart idea. I am unsure why it took me over an hour to realize this, but I did discover I could just take my sniffling, nose-blowing self outside.

Here I sit, at 4:30 in the morning, finally finding the time to post a blog on a site which I claimed I would update more frequently. That was in June. Good intentions sometimes don't go very far, for all sorts of reasons.

Oct. 1 has brought a chilly 80 degree morning, and I was enjoying the peaceful sounds of the neighbor's pool, which must have some type of running water feature. And now the air conditioner just kicked on, taking over all serenity with its loud whirring motor. The short-lived Zen moment that didn't fully develop is now complete. Plus, I forgot my Kleenex box inside. Also, a mosquito just bit me. Good, I certainly wasn't expecting any special favors.

Oh, Urgent Care, oh, Urgent Care, open your doors for me.

Misty 'n' Mild

What to do on a 113 degree day in Phoenix? Visit the local water park, of course!

The 3-1/2 hour trip was full of valuable blog-worthy experiences. I could very likely record them all but would possibly lose reader attention after 10 paragraphs, so I will stick with the highlights.

Observation #1: Wet 'n' Wild's workers seem to lack proper training. Paying for parking was difficult even with three people in the booth. I can't say why because I could not see inside. I can simply say the person helping us was ill-equipped in her money-handling and people skills. The ticket person was of the same ilk. We had season passes purchased online, and we asked to get them converted into permanent passes and upgrade one. After 10 minutes, the ticket-booth worker returned our paper passes and one upgraded gold pass ticket which said we should take it to the ticket booth to turn it into a permanent one. We tried the other side of the ticket booth, where the better-trained worker informed us a printer malfunction prevented them from giving us the permanent passes. The other person either couldn't tell us this or decided not to. Further evidence of low quality training was obvious in the Boogie Board Beach play area for the small kids. The lifeguards spend more time flirting and much time ignoring the children, avoiding any direct eye contact when signalling to the 5-year-olds that yes, they can go down the slide now.

Observation #2: Water rides make people puke much like roller coasters. Luckily, the teen boy was courteous enough to lose his lunch off to the side, in the rocks. He had obviously been attempting to stay very hydrated considering the large portion of clear liquid within the puke.

Observation #3: A large number of people have tattoos and like to share them with the world, even if they should probably remain covered on those body parts that should likely remain covered for reasons unrelated to the colorful body art. Combined with this observation is the fact that many park attendees wore bathing suits that were a bit too revealing for them. The tattoos do make these people easily identifiable, without any awkward introductions or actual talking. I will forever remember standing next to Tweeti (tattooed on her ankle) and listening to her discuss her children. I know that the guy with the lion silhouette enjoys the Transformer movies, having shared all detailed plot points with those in line around him. People with recent tattoos do not let that prevent them from having water fun. They just cover them up with band-aids. Due to that coverage I can only wonder what the red-headed woman had hidden under what looked like suspender bandages. Perhaps next time they will be ready for open air.

Observation #4: I can and will bribe my daughter to go on slides she is afraid of attempting. I was not going to let this be Matterhorn Redux. I still have resentment about the fact that I could not talk her into going on that ride with me at Disneyland. I pushed and pushed for Maddie to agree to go with me on the Tornado. I offered McDonald's for lunch as incentive. She smiled but quickly said no. After another hour or so, she approached me and said she was ready for the Tornado. As we walked to get in the line, she said, "You remember our deal right? That's not the only reason I'm doing it though. I decided I should face my fears." As I predicted, she enjoyed it even though she did clench my hand throughout our entire line wait.

Side note to Observation #4: At all costs, while you're in line for a ride that is making your child nervous and a touch anxious, do not allow her to view the action of the lifeguards tending to the woman who apparently hit her head while on the ride you are waiting for. Having your child see a man whose tattoos declare he was "Forgiven" on the front and "Blessed" on the back carry said woman to a lounge chair might prove damaging. Watching the lifeguard quickly remove his Gilligan hat, run to the bottom of a slide to wet the hat and return to apply the cold "compress" to the ailing woman would not be a good experience for the worrisome child. Facing your child the opposite direction while you captivatingly witness the medical treatment is an effective method, which allows you to keep your eyes on the action.

Final Observation: Due to the line wait, which is partially due to the inefficient and poorly-trained employees at some slides, the park name should be Misty 'n' Mild. I spent very little time fully soaked and out of control and much more time very dry in lines. I found my time to be neither wet nor wild. I understand marketing and promotion, etc.; still, I am a realist and would rather just have the truth up front.

I am now glad to be back at home, a place I like to call Calm 'n' Cool. I find it to be relaxing and operated by decently-trained individuals. It's free of lots of tattoos and puke, which I also appreciate.

Things Puzzle Me, Namely This

Some people think my name is Donna.

This has occurred in the past, and I have recently had three people refer to me as Donna. If this happens, once or twice, a person can easily dismiss it and move on. More than four times prompt me to truly consider why this would continue.

I introduce myself as Jodie Donner. Most of these people have seen my name in print and/or have emailed me. Even so, they call me Donna. This might make some sense if I approached someone and said, "My name is Donner, Jodie Donner. Nice to meet you." Since this is atypical and totally outside social norms, I don't do this.

Often times, people shorten last names into nicknames. Bob Murphy might simply become Murph to friends. Some people might even implement the surname with a twist and call Mike Gordan Gordie. This is not what's happening. These are not good friends of mine who put a little twist on my last name and decide Donna is a cute and clever moniker.

Is this a unique occurrence with my name? Do other people find themselves answering to awkwardly truncated versions of their last names? Does Laurie Jensen become Jenny to others? Do colleagues refer to Michelle Patterson as Patty?

Thinking about my maiden name, Boeckel, in which the "o" is silent, it just hit me that people sometimes called me Becky. Is Jodie just not good enough for a first name? Maybe it simply doesn't work for some in that capacity. Becky and Donna must sound better.

If I only had a surname that would shorten to a masculine name, I am sure this would quit happening. Then again, I could be Jodie Richardson and people would call me Dick.

Resurrection

Forgive me Internet, for it has been nearly six years since my last post. I am not even going to address the hiatus except to say life and lack of confidence got in the way.

This formerly private, infrequently updated blog is now going live for all the world to see. Sometimes those limited status updates on Facebook just do not provide me with enough space to convey what I must convey. Due to that and the inspiration from Uzi Gelfand, I will return and post a little here and there.

Until a new post appears, those interested can read the archives, mostly unseen until this point.

Babies in China Need Homes

Pregnancy . . . it's a wonderful thing. A time to excitedly prepare for the baby's arrival, a time to pick the perfect name, a time to glow. Oh, and it's a time to throw up in your trash can next to your desk at work.

I don't want to puke anymore. I don't want to feel my stomach churning every day. I don't want to eat something every 2-3 hours to try to prevent puking. I want to lose weight, not gain a ridiculous number of pounds per month. I simply want to feel normal again.

Pregnancy is not for me in any way, shape or form. Having a child that genetically, physically and mentally resembles my husband and me is overrated.

After all, orphan babies all over the world await adoption. What the hell was I thinking?

Hiatus

How many months does it take to get me to blog again?

Apparently the answer is four.

What can I say, crap got in the way. Life got busy. I have had a few interesting experiences in the last four months - some even worthy of documentation. Yet, I didn't take the time to put fingers to keyboard and get that info. out. Pity. I guess. Maybe not. Maybe the world is better off not knowing.

For those interested, I will give a short list. The imporant stuff, if you will.

Highlights July 26 - November 17

• School started.
• Confirmed pregnancy.
• Celebrated 10th wedding anniversary.
• Husband had surgery (A-OK).
• Saw Weezer and Foo Fighters (excellent, worth every penny and more).
• Won title of faculty homecoming queen at school (so proud).
• Threw up a lot - pretty much every morning (seems to be subsiding).
• Ate a lot to prevent nausea (ongoing).
• Gained weight (ongoing).
• Celebrated daughter's 3rd birthday.
• Trick or treated with Harmony Bear (still trying to eat the crapload of candy).
• Got deathly ill with devil virus (not the medical name). Lost 3 days of life.
• Had a garage sale (made $145).
• Purchased iPod because it was totally necessary. 60 GB should be enough. Yes, it plays video. Want to watch?

I think that sums it up pretty well. Currently I am trying to decide if my habit of putting commentary in parentheses after each statement is cute or annoying. Not an easy decision. I will need to spend further time in contemplation. As I continue that, I think I will switch on the ol' iPod for inspiration.

Who's into Porn?

My taste in movies does not necessarily match that of my friends and family. I often seek out the lesser known, independent films. I give them a try. Sometimes they're great, and I am glad I discovered something worth watching. Other times I see a few not-so-good ones. Since my viewing preferences don't usually fit those of my brothers, I really should quit trying to pass on my eccentric movie tastes to them. I continue to recommend films to them anway, hoping they will see one and actually like it. So many great films are out there - I just want to share the good movies with people I love. Why can't they see that?

It started when I told my brother to watch Fargo. C'mon, it's a good flick. He hated it and told me so. I figured he would love Swingers. Again, he informed me it sucked. I recommended Memento to both of my siblings. They didn't like that either, but they never actually started at the beginning and watched it all the way through - kind of a problem with that movie. I made them both watch Frailty and The Salton Sea in my company. The smartass remarks went on for days. Now it's just a family joke that whatever I say is good probably isn't, especially if my brothers have never heard of it. So uncultured. So un pop-cultured. Poor souls.

So tonight I was telling my brother about Wonderland, which is based on a true story. I am so a sucker for that. For some reason I truly love stories that have truth in them, even if it is only a little bit. One of my recent book purchases describes the truth and myth behind 100 movies. So I brought up the movie, and my brother said he hadn't ever heard the title. He said, "It's probably like that other one - The Salton Sea." After reminding him that that was a very good film, I described Wonderland which is about four people bludgeoned to death in California in 1981, a case that involved John Holmes who was a famous porn star. I didn't know anything about this guy and his films before watching the movie.

My brother said, "Oh, like I haven't heard of that guy."

I replied, "Have you?"

Laughing, he said, "Yeah. Haven't you?"

I said, "No."

"Well, I guess you're not as into porn as I am," he said.

"I guess not."

Aside from the fact that my brother's trivial knowledge of porn stars is disgusting, I realize something else. I have solid evidence now. I have always wondered why my very own brother wouldn't enjoy the same types of movies as I. It's because he likes different movies, a totally different type of movies.

That's just gross.

I Need to File a Claim

The Happy Train crashed. I should be in the hospital with severe injuries considering the extent of the crash. Since it was all just a metaphor, I am not. Instead, I am sitting here eating peanut butter off of a spoon at 4:52 in the afternoon knowing full well I will be eating my evening meal soon. I call it supper even though some of you assholes out there call it dinner.

Even worse, I have almost made a conscious decision to just eat whatever the hell I want. I say almost because I then think of how I cute I actually looked when I was trying on the new school clothes I bought yesterday. Yes, teachers go school clothes shopping. Anyway, I do not want to gain five pounds before school starts. Ok. I guess I am back to eating better . . . for now.

So, damn life. Damn the depressing parts of it. Damn the little things that set me off and pissed me off. I am sorry, folks. The Happy Train travels no more. Find your own good time transportation. It's official. I am in no condition to offer people companionship or direction on the road of positivity.

Oops. I screwed up.

30

So what you're telling me then is that I'm old?

All right. Ok. I think I can wrap my mind around that.

Yep. Old. Thirty. I know it's true because that's what my profile says. I see it right there on the screen, in print.

30.

I don't care much because today is DAY 6 of my new positive me. I have to tell you, I am doing well with it. I am not just saying that to come off good or make myself feel better. Less complaining, no depressing thoughts, more looking at what's good in life. Happiness abounds in my house and in my mind. I am working to keep it that way too.

Hey now, c'mon, jump on the Happy Train with me. It will be fun. I have no idea where the hell it's going, but you can come along. I promise good times (I really have no way of promising anything, but it sounds nice and adds a whole new level to the sales pitch).

Does the Thermometer Go That High?

We bought a handy-dandy indoor/outdoor thermometer that provides us with the temperature in and out (duh), the humidity, the moon phases (why?) and a 10-24 hour forecast (shown with a little picture at the top). Man, this sucker is really cool. Reasons this is a necessary item in Phoenix:

1. You get to see the forecast without watching the irritating weather people (no offense, meteorologists of the world).
2. Blazing sun graphic (said forecast) reminds you what the next day will bring.
3. You just might see a negative humidity reading. What?
   -3%?
4. You see that the thermometer really does register 119.3.
5. Daily you can call yourself a dumb ass for moving here (or staying here).

So, you see, it's really a good purchase after all. Can I have my $45 back, please?

Yes, We're Packing

One of my bestest friends and I went out shootin' (as they say out there) at the shooting range. We went out for Thursday, Ladies' Night and had a kick-ass time.

I should say that my friend and I are similar but different. Wow, that sounds very stupid. Let me explain. She is more risk-taking than I. She doesn't care what other people think. I try to impress and hate to disappoint. She does what she wants and what makes her happy. I do what I want sometimes but usually try to make other people happy. We balance each other out very well because we meet in the middle. Also, we influence each other just enough to help one another see the other side.

Having said that, I should have expected we would have an interesting night, but I went in figuring we would go out, get our firearms, set up targets, perfect our stances, take aim and target shoot. After all, that's what I did when I went out for the orientation by myself. Instead, she loaded her magazine, held the gun with one hand, turned her head toward me (not the target) and fired off the 10 rounds as fast as possible. Under duress, I, too, fired away with lightning speed. Then I returned to my watchful, careful stance.

We were having a great time. She was firing like crazy while I was carefully aiming to hit the bullseye. She then said, "Ok. Now we're going to hold it like this (picture gangsta movie style) like we're shooting out of a car window."

"No way," I said. I was worried they were going to kick our asses out of there. Afterall, we were using their guns and had promised to take firearm safety seriously as we were ushered into the Annie Oakley Sure Shots.

"Hold it with your left hand and shoot like we're criminals stealing a car," she demanded.

Peer pressure is alive and well - even at age 29 (almost 30, damn it). I finally agreed to hold the gun with my left hand and shoot (but I refused to hold it sideways). It made me nervous though. Hey, I don't do anything with my left hand, let alone shoot a gun.

Our night at the range proceeded from there to Grand Theft Auto and then a little later, Grand Theft Auto: Spanish Version.

I admit, it was fun as hell. We were laughing our asses off. We were at a shooting range in 110 degree heat with safety glasses and ear protection pretending we were gangstas firing our 9s. Pretty damn funny. That's what she's good for - making me relax and forget what other people think. I need that. I need that a lot.

It Builds Up

All right, I am just going to say it - I hate cleaning the shower. I have always disliked it because it is a job that lacks enjoyment. The task is difficult. I realize I make it more difficult because I allow too much time to pass in between cleanings. Even so, it sucks.

I never really can get all the soap scum off the fiberblass walls and floor. Isn't that material supposed to be easier to maintain versus other products? Well, it's not. I rinse. I squeege. I have tried the clean shower after spray. The ineffectiveness of that is not worth the cost and effort. I have purchased soaps that produce less scum - yes, they make them. I have waxed the walls. I have done all I can to try to make the job of keeping it clean an easy one. However, I have failed. It's not easy. In fact, it's impossible.

The soap builds up and the interior gets a little dull and dingy. I can't prevent it. As I cleaned it today, I really wondered why I bother. I couldn't get it sparkling. It will just get crappy again. Showering in it with soap makes it so. Some really smart chemist or cleaning agent engineer needs to invent a body soap that also works as a shower cleaner - not too weak, not too harsh. I am sure they can do it. I have bought all the other crap. I will gladly buy that.

Until the magic cleaner comes on the market, I think I will just continue to let it build up and shower in the scum. After all, it is soap. It can't be that bad.

An Open Letter to the Makers of Sensodyne

Your extra-whitening version of the wonderful Sensodyne is a magnificent product. I am writing this just so you know how much your company, GlaxoSmithKline, has helped me make it through a difficult time in my life.

My mouth has caused me pain for nearly one month now. I have returned to the dentist twice and finally feel I am on the road to recovery. This is certainly due to the drilling away of the irritatant filling but also, more importantly, to the wonders of your toothpaste for those of us who suffer through the sensitivity. Hot, cold, sweets - no matter - Sensodyne tackles them. Of course, it doesn't work immediately. But in time, I have noticed a splendid difference. If a drop of a cold beverage or, heaven forbid, ice cream lands upon my tooth, I can now handle the temporary pain. I quickly remove the culprit and my mouth returns to its semi-normal state.

The extra whitening aspect will surely make my pearly whites more presentable. Again, it's not immediate. I must wait for the results. I didn't think I necessarily needed the "extra whitening" but I could not find the "whitening" product, so I will make do.

Surely a large number of people also take advantage of the benefits of your toothpaste. I am sure none will mind if I thank you on their behalf and mine. Thank you, makers of Sensodyne. You make my life worth living. For that I am grateful.

Date with Death - Stood Up -

My maker and I just slightly missed out on the opportunity to share an afternoon cup of coffee.

That’s right, I could have died today. The death car, as I like to call it, came speeding and sliding around a blind corner north of my neighborhood. I was heading north, on my way to the evil Wal-Mart, when I thought I was going to die. The 1997-99 Pontiac Grand Am was red in color, quite fitting considering my blood could have blanketed the asphalt. Oh the symbolism. The two bastard teenage boys nearly ran off the road, regained control then sped past me as I desperately hugged the shoulder, slowing down to about 10.

Obviously I lived. They missed me by about 100 feet. This turned out to be one of those “what if” situations. What if I had been driving the normal 10 over the speed limit? For some reason I consciously adhered to the 25 mph residential speed limit. What if I had left the house 30 seconds earlier? I could be dead.

This was serious. The reason I know this is because I actually worried first about my life and not the damage the car may have sustained. That’s a tell-tale sign for me.

Gals with Guns

For a little recreation last night, I took part in Ladies' Night. No, it wasn't at a local watering hole. Rather, a group of us got together out at the shooting range.

No, I am not kidding. Each Thursday is Ladies' Night, specifically for Annie Oakley Sure Shots at the shooting range north of Phoenix. I attended a one hour introduction to firearm safety with about nine other women. Then we hit the range where they gave us 50 rounds of .22 ammo and our pick of revolvers, semi-automatics or rifles. I chose the semi-automatic Ruger. I did pretty well. I hadn't shot a gun since I went out shooting in the woods with my brother in Georgia. Of course, I don't think the targets were more than 10 yards away, so I should have done all right.

Now that I am a member of the Sure Shots (a firearm program for women, by women), I can shoot free Thursday nights from 7-9. I can use their guns, but I am thinking about getting my own piece. I have to do some shopping around though.

The interesting group of volunteer women out there who help make the program possible range from older, mature women who looked fairly normal to one woman who possibly had received a gunshot wound to the head in 1986 which left her stuck with feathered hair, thick green eyeliner, tight jeans, sequined top and a lacy scarf tied around her waist. Odd group, those gals. Helpful though - I have to give them that. Debbie, from the 80s, even let her newbies shoot her "baby Eagle." I have no idea what it is, but it's loud.

The coaches gave us information on upcoming special sessions at the range. They offer a pistol class and a rifle class and some other programs. I laughed when one woman mentioned the machine gun class. She didn't crack a smile. I swear as she was listing the types she said something about an "Israeli made" machine gun. Why? Why would we need this? I have no idea, but it's likely a rare experience. I may look into it.

Guess I will report back after next Thursday. I do plan to go back. Guns are fun.

Self-diagnosis

I think I speak for a few of us when I say we have a tendency to fall into the self-diagnosis trap. We read about some ailment, see the symptoms, compare them to our situations and realize we are afflicted. Most of us don't do this everyday (those people are hypochondriacs for crying out loud), but some of us run across a plausible disease, and we sometimes see a link.

I don't usually fully diagnose myself as having the problem at that moment. Instead, I see the warning signs and realize I will likely contract the disease before too long. I go into this long description because I am telling you all right now, before it even happens, I will catch MRSA. What the hell is it, you all gasp. Oh, just a little infection that is resistant to most antibiotics and can take on a flesh-eating form.

Actually, I am pretty safe when it comes to this because I wash my hands, bathe, use soap, don't share towels, etc. I made it almost all the way through the People article (a damn reputable source for medical advice) without fear or worry. I scoffed at the poor, dirty souls who became infected. Then I read the quote from a Dad whose sons both contracted it. Al said, "If your kid has a painful pimple, see a doctor. Don't wait, because MRSA won't."

I put the magazine down and thought to myself, "I've had painful pimples. Hell, I have one right now" - the kind that develop deep under the surface, turn red and swell a little.

Life can just be so damn miserable. Not only am I a 29- (soon-to-be-30) year-old with constant bouts of acne, but I am going to die from it. I write this not as a sad mourning of my life but a warning for those of you out there with pimples that hurt. Good luck and good riddance.