Thursday, June 24, 2004
Zoot LURVES me
'cuz I gots me a GMAIL account. Neener neener neeeeeeee-neeeeeerrrrrr. Yay!
Somewhere between Bell's Palsy and death
Since we’re on the subject …
The purse incident isn't the only time I thought Dad came to visit. For awhile after he died, for example, my TV, which has hit-or-miss reception anyway, would get these clearly electrical diagonal lines in it, but the picture would be perfectly clear otherwise, and while that was happening, the light would flicker, or if I was talking to Kaffy, I would get this huge electrical charge through the phone. (She remembers, because I would tell her about it as we were talking.) And sure, it could be coincidence, but my one best friend Laura, who lost her mom a little more than a year before Dad, used to talk about the same types of things happening to her and her sisters. In fact, it was Laura who pointed out that when I was giving my eulogy at Dad's funeral, the lights dimmed considerably. I didn't notice, of course, but I was hysterical at the time. And sometimes, he shows up in my dreams, but it's never a cathartic gesture as happens with some people -- at least not that I can remember, anyway. Maybe that's because we made our peace before he died.
I'm SURE he's around when I'm in the car, because of my idiot driving habits. A couple months after he died, my friend Poppy (not her real name) and I went out for the first time in, like, five years, and the short version? Two or three beers and three or four Flaming Dr Peppers later -- you know, the one where you set a shot of I-forget-what on fire and then drop it into a beer, which makes it taste like Dr Pepper -- I was FUCKED. UP. I mean, as in BAD fucked-up, like it was a miracle that I didn't kill myself/someone else/a telephone pole or tree/get pulled over for DWI. And the only way that could've happened was if Dad was co-piloting. I'm sure of it. But not one to ever miss out on teaching me a lesson in the process, the next day while I was driving Mother to get lunch, I had to pull over on the side of the road from the wave of nausea that coursed through my body, and then explain to Mother why I had to pull over. It was a toss-up as to which one was worse.
I'm SURE he's around when I'm in the car, because of my idiot driving habits. A couple months after he died, my friend Poppy (not her real name) and I went out for the first time in, like, five years, and the short version? Two or three beers and three or four Flaming Dr Peppers later -- you know, the one where you set a shot of I-forget-what on fire and then drop it into a beer, which makes it taste like Dr Pepper -- I was FUCKED. UP. I mean, as in BAD fucked-up, like it was a miracle that I didn't kill myself/someone else/a telephone pole or tree/get pulled over for DWI. And the only way that could've happened was if Dad was co-piloting. I'm sure of it. But not one to ever miss out on teaching me a lesson in the process, the next day while I was driving Mother to get lunch, I had to pull over on the side of the road from the wave of nausea that coursed through my body, and then explain to Mother why I had to pull over. It was a toss-up as to which one was worse.
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Stop talking about me
Again, I haven't been blowing the Dad thing off; what I wanted to do was scan in the picture of Dad for Father's Day on Sunday and post that as my tribute. I don't have a scanner, however, and neither do any of my friends. So anyway, to the dads in the hizzie, happy happy, yo. (Pete, Og, Rock's dad, etc.)
Not sure how y'all feel about the afterlife and God and whatnot, but since I haven't talked about belief system -- or maybe I have and I just can't remember -- I'll tell you: Nonpracticing Catholic who believes in God but doesn't really buy into the whole organized religion thing. I'm also a huge believer in ghosts and spirits. Case in point? The Sunday after Dad died.
Not sure how y'all feel about the afterlife and God and whatnot, but since I haven't talked about belief system -- or maybe I have and I just can't remember -- I'll tell you: Nonpracticing Catholic who believes in God but doesn't really buy into the whole organized religion thing. I'm also a huge believer in ghosts and spirits. Case in point? The Sunday after Dad died.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
Just because … nuthin’!
You know how I was all geeked up about seeing Perry Farrell and then finding out he was going to answer my questions? Well, I get around to doing the article I promised the magazine I used to work for on it, and guess what? Lollapalooza 2004? CANCELLED AS OF THIS MORNING, to which my former boss says, "Wow. That's just wacky."
I'm pretty sure we'll just take a new angle, but ... crap. And that was, like, the pinnacle of my career.
I'm pretty sure we'll just take a new angle, but ... crap. And that was, like, the pinnacle of my career.
Making the WRONG decision
More stuff to cheer Kaffy up, because she's still having a craptastic week: Lookit
Saturday, June 19, 2004
I remember when …
So I e-mailed the one guy last night, asking him why we don't talk much anymore. Because we don't.
Friday, June 18, 2004
No. Get out. Imagine my surprise.
Al Qaeda strikes again. [Courtesy of USA Today]
Yo! Crackhead!
I horked this from Mac, formerly of Go Fish and now at Pesky Apostrophe, because it's damn funny, and I forgot how much I like the term "crackhead." So, if you see me calling everything and everyone "crackhead," it's her fault.
Made it to 200
Thanks to all y'all who've been digging the Dad vignettes; I'm sure he's tickled by the attention, even though he'd never admit it.
Dad was always pretty modest except when it came to his teaching accolades, and teaching at the college level fed into that jones for him really nicely. I'm pretty sure a lot of colleges do it, but we were supposed to fill out evaluation forms at the end of the semester on whether we dug the professor, and it never failed that Dad, who taught at my alma mater for 10 years would come home with 98 percent stellar evaluations and maybe 2 percent neutral ones; if there was a bad evaluation, I don't remember it. The first time he was ever evaluated, he brought the manila envelope home and whipped them all out, reading each one to Mother and me. You couldn't wipe the grin off his face.
Those good evalautions saved his ass, too, once. The first year he taught, I was the editor-in-chief of the college paper and hung out with my news editor, who was younger and at the time basically idolized me. (Now she hates me and bashes me to mutual acquaintances, which I really don't get, but whatever.) Well, she was always gazzed that, because I was technically considered "staff," I had a staff pass that allowed me to park in premium staff parking. So at one point, she'd sprained her ankle or something, and she asked me to get Dad's staff pass, and she'd pay for it if he would go get another one saying he lost his first one. And all was well until she got busted and admitted to one school cop who turned into a huge dick that she had it. He turned Dad in, and Dad had to go in front of the Arts & Sciences Dean to plead his case. Armed with his excellent evaluations, he went in there, and the Dean was impressed.
Oh, oh, oh, even more impressive? Every year, the school holds an essay contest in freshman composition, which is what Dad taught. In 1988, I won the Fall competition. In the 1998-99 school year? All the winners? Were Dad's students.
Dad was always pretty modest except when it came to his teaching accolades, and teaching at the college level fed into that jones for him really nicely. I'm pretty sure a lot of colleges do it, but we were supposed to fill out evaluation forms at the end of the semester on whether we dug the professor, and it never failed that Dad, who taught at my alma mater for 10 years would come home with 98 percent stellar evaluations and maybe 2 percent neutral ones; if there was a bad evaluation, I don't remember it. The first time he was ever evaluated, he brought the manila envelope home and whipped them all out, reading each one to Mother and me. You couldn't wipe the grin off his face.
Those good evalautions saved his ass, too, once. The first year he taught, I was the editor-in-chief of the college paper and hung out with my news editor, who was younger and at the time basically idolized me. (Now she hates me and bashes me to mutual acquaintances, which I really don't get, but whatever.) Well, she was always gazzed that, because I was technically considered "staff," I had a staff pass that allowed me to park in premium staff parking. So at one point, she'd sprained her ankle or something, and she asked me to get Dad's staff pass, and she'd pay for it if he would go get another one saying he lost his first one. And all was well until she got busted and admitted to one school cop who turned into a huge dick that she had it. He turned Dad in, and Dad had to go in front of the Arts & Sciences Dean to plead his case. Armed with his excellent evaluations, he went in there, and the Dean was impressed.
Oh, oh, oh, even more impressive? Every year, the school holds an essay contest in freshman composition, which is what Dad taught. In 1988, I won the Fall competition. In the 1998-99 school year? All the winners? Were Dad's students.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Gyros, though tasty, might be out of the question, too
Now I'm thinking if your search for the perfect woman includes donkey punching and anal sex, you're going to want to know about her diet. Namely, is she big into curry?
-- My little friend Kate on one of her fiance's idiot friends, June 17, 2004
Took him out to the ballgame
Three years ago today, it was Father's Day, and Dad and I spent together what would be the last good time he would have.
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
It’s name? is Pimp
Since everyone wants to see the new ride, and MT is still won't let me download photos, here's a link to them: Lookit.
If you have problems getting into it, lemeno, and I'll mail you the linky.
[UPDATE: That link won't let you get to them, so give me a holla and I'll e-mail the album to you.]
If you have problems getting into it, lemeno, and I'll mail you the linky.
[UPDATE: That link won't let you get to them, so give me a holla and I'll e-mail the album to you.]
I’ll take a bottle of Pepto and glazed doughnut. To go.
I'm not sure if I mentioned this yet, but did I tell y'all that I bought a car? Yeah? Well, the reality of said purchase is sinking in, and anxiety sucks. I mean, I have a car payment again, for Chrissake. And my insurance went up by $100. And my excise tax I'm sure is going to suck, too. Oof. All this money thought is making me itch. At least the one story I wrote today that I freaked out about didn't suck as bad as I thought it would, compared with the competition's: I've already written about the high-speed rail coming to Northwest Indiana. There were some points I missed, but overall, I think I focused on the bigger part of the story, which is that lawmakers are slowly coming on board. Still, I hate stressing over my work, especially when I need it now more than ever. And if I haven't made it abundantly clear? Anxiety sucks.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Nerves sufficiently pinched
It's a big, sexy ... 2001 Mazda 626, yo. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know we thought it was going to be the Camry, but Mother and I took the 626 for a test drive, and not only was it pretty sweet, but it's just a better-looking car. It really does look like a Mercedes, so I'm feeling pretty damn hot, even if it IS stupid white and tan. I can't wait until Hooks downstairs sees it. Up your ass, Hooks! Heh.
Of course, I'm not even going to go into the nightmare that was getting the damn car, except to say that I'm 34 years-old, and MOTHER HAD TO CO-SIGN THE FREAKIN' LOAN -- whimper -- and that the sales associate, although incredibly hot and really very sweet, was DUMBER THAN CRAP, and what should've taken an hour-ish ended up taking FOUR HOURS TO GET DONE AND BRING THE CAR HOME FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. (bangs head on desk) And of course, Mother trying to tell him about Dad's death, because, you know, he cares and shit. Oh, and not to mention the fact that I gave up the Snowball, which is making me sad.
Speaking of Dad, their wedding anniversary is today; they would've been married 41 years. And to think he didn't kill her. But you know that episode of "ER" when Greene's mother breaks her leg and is diagnosed with dementia? I cried watching it last night, because the familial rapport between Greene and his parents? So, SO real and so, SO well acted. The awkwardness, the frustration, the secrets, the everything. Sure, Dad's and my relationship wasn't nearly as contentious as the two Greene men, but ... it gives me chills just thinking about it. Well done.
Of course, I'm not even going to go into the nightmare that was getting the damn car, except to say that I'm 34 years-old, and MOTHER HAD TO CO-SIGN THE FREAKIN' LOAN -- whimper -- and that the sales associate, although incredibly hot and really very sweet, was DUMBER THAN CRAP, and what should've taken an hour-ish ended up taking FOUR HOURS TO GET DONE AND BRING THE CAR HOME FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. (bangs head on desk) And of course, Mother trying to tell him about Dad's death, because, you know, he cares and shit. Oh, and not to mention the fact that I gave up the Snowball, which is making me sad.
Speaking of Dad, their wedding anniversary is today; they would've been married 41 years. And to think he didn't kill her. But you know that episode of "ER" when Greene's mother breaks her leg and is diagnosed with dementia? I cried watching it last night, because the familial rapport between Greene and his parents? So, SO real and so, SO well acted. The awkwardness, the frustration, the secrets, the everything. Sure, Dad's and my relationship wasn't nearly as contentious as the two Greene men, but ... it gives me chills just thinking about it. Well done.
It is the job of a good person to be honest. To be self-aware. To deliberately explore the fault lines of your character and try desperately to not inflict suffering in this strange, ghost-ridden world of worked and fabricated objects. Sometimes the jobs of writer and good person coincide. But more often they don’t. There are way more writers in the world than there are good people.
100 things
Info meme #1
Typelogic says I'm an INFP.
Check my weekly astrological groove here.
Give it to me, baby.
Pssst ... My birthday's Feb. 3, and I want this, and this, and this ...
The Make-Believe Oral Cancer Foundation (M-BOCF) is now accepting donations on my behalf. Won't you please help those of us who jump to hideous conclusions regarding our oral health and help me get a root canal or two!??:
100 things
Info meme #1
Typelogic says I'm an INFP.
Check my weekly astrological groove here.
Give it to me, baby.
Pssst ... My birthday's Feb. 3, and I want this, and this, and this ...
The Make-Believe Oral Cancer Foundation (M-BOCF) is now accepting donations on my behalf. Won't you please help those of us who jump to hideous conclusions regarding our oral health and help me get a root canal or two!??:
/> Wanna make a bunch of money doing what you're doing right now?
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Broad said: Like I said, my feelings are complicated on the matter, so ... I’m interested, however, in Her Highness’ thoughts on… ...[go].
Caterina said: ARGH!!! Not to deny you your goddess-given right of reflections and wishing what might-have-beens, but this guy was straight up… ...[go].
Wholovesya? said: By the by, guess who was most nasty about the charitable giving? The frigging church. My church and my mom’s… ...[go].
Wholovesya? said: By the by, I’m not the only one I know. I have friends who work at soup kitchens because they’re… ...[go].
Wholovesya? said: As you know, I was a voyeur to the beginning of this, and I was loving your comment! I have… ...[go].
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EE Core
script assistance by
scriptygoddess
hosted by
wiredhub
This explains that large bit of type at the top.
Tagline by Ben F'in Mollin, talking about those times you wake up still drunk from the night before.
<< chicago blogs >>
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.
online