the sloppy copy

Last week, I was having a shit day at work so on my first break I went and filled my pockets with small landscaping stones and walked to a remote part of the parking lot and threw them at the trees. I wanted nothing more than to hit a tree trunk with a satisfying thunk but ended up just tossing them all into a small ravine instead. Sorta satisfying, I guess.

Then I came back inside and apologized to everyone who had the displeasure of speaking to me for the previous three hours and explained how I’d just released my anger and frustration, all the while realizing just how much of a nut I probably sounded like.

Today I had a moderately-shit day at work and did the same. Sort of. This time I took a handful of rocks (no pockets today, grrr) and kicked them across a mostly-empty parking lot. The decorative rocks used at my place of work are smooth – some perfectly round – and they roll quite well when forcefully kicked. They also land with a satisfying thud when kicked into decorative patches of ivy.

As I got my rocks off kicked, I ran into (almost literally) a coworker who also shared my frustrations. “Fuck this day,” he said, and I responded by kicking a particularly roll-y rock into a patch of decorative vine-y shit.

Far more satisfying than throwing rocks at trees and missing. In fact, I could have kicked those rocks all day. I wonder how long it would have taken for them to notice I was gone….

Maybe you’re having a rough day. Maybe you’re having even a good day. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Because here’s the thing: stick it out. The best part might be to come. Hypothetically, this might not even happen until 2:00 am. But it might just make your entire rough day worth it, or even make the goodness of a good day pale in comparison. Either way: let the chips fall and don’t cash out early. A lot can happen in a very short amount of time.

I’m not being intentionally esoteric. I just had what started as great day, but it dropped off sharply. Then, just as I figured I was out, I was all in again.

So there ya go.

I’m attempting to make these today:

image courtesy of http://www.dipitinchocolate.net

It’s a chocolate chip cookie WITH A S’MORE INSIDE.

I’m baking them by request of a coworker, and today we’re having a work meeting that requires everyone to come in early. So…

I have not even started. I only have four hours, so I’m basically screwed. I know there are people out there who can bake a fucking batch of cookies in less than 4 hours, but these are people who don’t usually mess up the first 7 batches.

Scratch that, I just realized I have less time than that because of the aforementioned work meeting.

Gotta go! Bye!

EDIT: The cookies disappeared quickly, and to rave reviews. I personally didn’t care for them,  but I did try one and it was good. Just… whoa. Too much going on. I anticipated that and tried to make them as small as I could, but seeing as there is AN ENTIRE FRICKIN’ S’MORE INSIDE EACH ONE it was a bit difficult. 🙂

I bought a couple of cheap shirts awhile back that came with Very Explicit laundering instructions.* Apparently they NEEDED to be laundered whilst inside-out. Okay, directions, whatever. My clothes are usually inside-out by the time I wrestle them off of my person, anyway.

But it made me wonder: which side of the shirt is actually more in need of washing? Is it the inside, the side the makes constant contact with one’s sweaty, gross self? Or is it the outside, the side that’s exposed to all the elements? I’m talking on a normal day here – no heavy laboring or exercising or working outdoors or trying to feed rice cereal to multiple infants. I’m actually inclined to believe that the inside gets the dirtiest.

Random thought.

*Not that kind of explicit, though hoo boy! Wouldn’t that be funny?

Rule 1:
it must not be too hot. If there is even a chance of it being even slightly too warm, there must be a fan. Or air conditioning, but I’m trying not to be too much of a princess here.

Rule 2:
the attire must be appropriate. In most instances, this will include socks. Dire heat negates the desire (not need) for socks, but this point is moot if we are following Rule 1.
Rule 2.1:
Absolutely no toe socks.

Rule 3: 
pillows are to be grouped as follows:

• no more than 1 (one) of appropriate density beneath the head
• no more than 1 (one) of slightly more squishy density around the foot/leg area, to be used beneath or between the knees, depending on Sleeping Position
• auxiliary pillows may be be placed to the left or right of the head, but are not necessary
• auxiliary pillow may be placed behind (not beneath!) the head as a precaution against accidental concussive contact between wall/head

Rule 4:
sheets and blankets are to never be tucked underneath the mattress while in use; rather – blankets are to be tucked around the user, burrito-style, for maximum comfort

Rule 5:
the blanket must be of appropriate mass; it cannot be too lightweight nor can it be suffocating. In instances when one blanket is too thin, and does not provide comfortable cover, a second blanket or sheet may be added. If a sheet is added, it does not need to be the first layer of cover. It is allowable to be layered atop the first blanket, as it is being used merely as ballast.

Rule 6:
clock is to be clearly visible, even when one is not wearing her glasses

Rule 7:
sleeper reserves the right to modify / delete / add to these rules as she deems necessary.

In 8th grade, I had to name my favorite song and artist for a yearbook-memory-book-thing that some super-involved parents were putting together for all of us for graduation. I thought long and hard about this, and eventually decided that this was my favorite song (and artist):

Like, for real.

Why? Cool Runnings, duh.

If the Internet had been a thing when I was 13, I wonder how my music tastes would have developed differently…

I got a bike for my twelfth birthday.

I’ve always fucking loved birthdays, and while I understand others’ reasons for disliking them, I have never EVER EVER been one of those people. Any occasion to celebrate is a great goddamn day in my book.

Anyway, the day I turned twelve, I got off the schoolbus and a bike was waiting for me on the sidewalk in front of our house.

BEST.

DAY.

EVER.

I rode up and down the street until I was reminded that, um hello? It’s your birthday, and there’s cake and ice cream waiting inside.

Did I mention this was the best day ever?

Fast forward.

One day, almost 13 years later, I got off the city bus and came home to find my bike – that very same bike, still trusty after all those years! – had been destroyed.

It had been raining, so I’d taken the bus to work. As I walked back to my apartment from the stop, I noticed that it looked like my bike had fallen over in the bike rack. Eh, it happens. I was usually better at locking it up than that, but I could have been in a hurry. So I detoured, and went over to right it.

As I approached, I gasped.

The tires had been slashed. The front wheel was completely bent, spokes busted, just fucking mangled. Parts of the frame itself were dented. The handlebars were bent and twisted. It seriously looked like someone had beaten it with a crowbar. It was still locked to the rack, so I assumed someone had tried to steal it.

Until I saw the seat.

It, too, had been slashed. It was covered with multiple thin cuts, like from a razor blade.

Really?! Really?

A random and senseless act of vandalism against a bike that was, for all intents and purposes, a piece of shit. But a well-loved piece of shit. A piece of shit I relied on to transport me to and from work and school and every-damn-where-else.

At the time, I’d been having a rough go at it and had found myself in low place, mentally. And this bike thing was just the icing on an entirely different type of cake. Though I certainly wouldn’t call that day the worst ever, I couldn’t help but think back to my birthday a dozen-plus years prior and reflect on how my current reality was essentially the polar opposite of that day years ago. It was a reminder of how things change. Even the things that had been constant for years and years.

Like a hot pink-and-purple 10 speed.

Sigh. I still miss you, bike.

I would have thrown you one hell of a quinceanera.

Awhile back my friends were talking about a contest held by the Rams – if you can guess their entire 2014 schedule exactly right you win $100,000. Of course the odds of winning this are unfathomable. But the question was posed: what would you do with 100K?

My first answer is “I have no fucking idea.” My debts are manageable. I work to provide for no one but myself. I live a small, selfish life.

But that said, if someone handed me that kind of money, I wouldn’t let it sit and collect dust.

Boringly, I’d stash a pretty good chunk of it in savings. Or something smarter than that, I guess. An investment something-or-another. Even if it’s just me for the rest of my life, I’ll need want to quit working immediately eventually. So sure: I’d put some away for retirement, or what-have-you.

Slightly less boringly (though not quite venturing into the “fun” category), I’d buy a car. Nothing fancy, and it don’t have to be pretty. Just some piece of shit that still runs reliably enough to get me to work. The ability to drive it legally is something I’d have to work on too, but that’s not really a problem solved by money.

More altruistically, I’d help out some friends and family. Just little gifts here and there. Maybe buy my brother and his girl a couple plane tickets so they can come visit. Or take care of their bills for a month.

I don’t imagine I’d have much left after all that, but if I did – if I had even “just” a few hundred to throw around for fun, I’d throw a party. An awesome party with all my friends and family. Nothing fancy; we’d just take over a park somewhere and grill and drink beer and play washers and that, really, is all I want. A car, an IRA – none of these things are important. I’ve gotten by for 32 years without either of those things, but I couldn’t have gotten by without my family and friends.

I always liked Joe Cocker’s version better, for whatever it’s worth. No hate to the Beatles, but this is the version that speaks to me.

While I never loathed Mondays with the stereotypical passion of a sitcom cliche, I never particularly enjoyed them. But then I got a job doing something I like to do with people whose company I enjoy. On Mondays, everyone is scheduled to work and we usually go out afterwards.

I look forward to coming in and seeing everyone. Truly. While Mondays can be either soul-crushingly busy or mind-numbingly slow, the work to be done is secondary to the company with whom I’m doing it. And for now at least, my attention is focused on the here-and-now. I haven’t done any alternate job-searching, even half-assedly, for almost a year.

Am I growing up and slowly leaving behind my nomadic ways?

It’s strange to think that this might be it for me. That I’ve officially put down roots back in my hometown. That I might not move anywhere else. The permanency is a little anxiety-inducing.

We’ll see, I guess.

*Simon and Garfunkel, 1967

Confidential to BFFF: I wrote this post before you commented on my previous one. 😦

I wrote this about a week ago. I’m going to preface this post by saying I have absolutely no idea where I’m going with this one. It might end up having a point, it might end up just being a brain dump. I almost added a “if I offend anyone, I’m sorry,” but that’s not entirely true. If I offend anyone, well, no one’s putting a gun to your head and telling you to read this. Wait, someone did? Who? What a great friend they are! Tell them thank you! Aw, you guys!

Yesterday, a kid I’ve known since he was 5 years old became a priest in the Catholic church. Okay, so I guess he’s not still technically a kid, but he grew up with my brother and to me my brother will perpetually be about 18 years old, max. Anyway, this morning I went to church with my folks to see him celebrate his first Mass.

I was raised Catholic and attended Catholic school for 13 years. In college, I was part of a smallish group of Catholic students on a predominantly Protestant campus. We didn’t have a Newman Center or anything, but I was basically part of what would be its equivalent. Then a series of things started clicking in my brain and I sort of…stopped. I stopped being Catholic. I stopped being Christian. I stopped being anything. 

I could go into detail the deep conversations I’ve had with myself in the intervening years, but I’ll just leave it at this for now: I’m still figuring it out (I think that’s kind of the point, right? But I digress). No way do I consider myself Catholic, and I’m only sort of testing out the “Christian” thing again. So fast forward to this morning. I find myself in the church where I basically grew up, watching a man who I watched grow up, and the whole thing was very moving…and thought-provoking…on so many levels.

Juanita, thankfully, didn’t press the church issue during my most hard-core atheist days. She did, however, make it a point to say she was lighting candles on my behalf when she went each week. Ouch, Mom. She still casually asks if I’d like to join her every once in awhile, in that half-joking-but-not-really-joking way and I half-jokingly-but-not-really-jokingly say no. But for once, when I heard about D’s Mass (dude, am I going to have to start calling him Father So-and-So? No. Freaking. Way), I asked if she was going, and asked if I could come.

I’m certain she stroked out, right there, but God love ‘er, she hid her reaction well.

Honestly, I half-expected some sort of Great Epiphany when I walked inside that church – like I would suddenly be overwhelmed with a feeling of Home and Belonging. Wouldn’t that be poetic? But that didn’t happen. Instead, I superficially participated – but with reverence, of course – and spent a fair amount of time wondering how to gracefully not go up for Communion (a few years ago, I attended a friend’s wedding – we were close during my Super-Duper Catholic years – and I accidentally caused sort of a scene when I didn’t go up and everyone thought I was, like, ill or something). But the time came, and I sort of slipped away, and that was that.

That was that. It was strange participating on a sort of anthropological-observer level in something in which I used to find so much… meaning? importance? comfort? I don’t know the correct word, because I can’t quite recall the feeling.

Like I said, I’m still figuring it out, and I’m honestly enjoying the process and learning a lot of stuff about a lot of stuff. In some ways, it’s good that I went to that Mass. As much as it might kill Juanita, it helped me realize that – at this point in my life – it’s just not what I want. Or maybe even what I need.

*Billy Joel (1977)