Something that stayed with me, and a post script, just in case you didn't already know.

So I woke up Saturday morning, September 15, foggy and maybe just a little bit hungover.  I might have been a little bit drunk still.  It was mid-JoyceFest, and I was sleeping in a tent.  The truth of the matter is I woke up no less than five times that night and stumbled to the bathroom, mostly in the dark.  Mostly.  The second the sun started peeking out over whatever the hell kind of trees they have in Wisconsin Dells, however, all over the campground, children were unleashed from their tethers and released into gen pop.

I don't really care for kids.  Let me rephrase that:  I don't like kids at all.  I can say that, just like you can say "I don't like Alka Seltzer" or "I don't like broccoli".  I'm in the clear, because I never had any (there are a lot of people out there that can't really say the same).  Every now and again you run into a few that are okay, but in general, not a fan.  Here's a few of the myriad of reasons why I don't like them:  they scream, they yell, they play really loud, and they don't have any consideration of others.  I suppose at three, four, maybe even eight years of age, they can get away with all this, because they have parents.  Parents that SHOULD have some consideration of others.  Others that happen to be trying to sleep off Day Three of a four day binge.  In a tent.  Made of nylon.  Held together with a hair clip.

Okay, you're in a campground in a family-friendly resort town in the Midwest.  You have to put up with this sort of thing.  Fine.  Here's my bitch:  They are so FLIPPING LOUD.  I mean, seriously?  It occurred to me as I lay there with the sleeping bag over my head, fighting dawn, that we are raising a society of completely selfish, self-centered attention mongers (well, I'M not..).  Who can scream the loudest?  Who can get the most attention?  Me!  ME!  MEEEEEE!!  These are the same little brats that can't sit through a signing without interrupting constantly, banging toys against the walls, climbing onto their parents lap while they are trying to secure their future.  These are the cherubs that throw fits in the supermarket or at a restaurant because their parents are paying attention to something else.  The same kids that try to get your attention when you are clearly ignoring them.  It's time to get something straight, kiddies:  You are about to enter a world where nobody gives two shits about your needs because they are too intent on their own.  Learn NOW how to make an impact without being obnoxious.  It will serve you well in the future, if you make it that far.

The post script?  I'll be brief.  If you haven't figured it out already, I'm a Duck fan.  Been one my whole life.  I think it's pretty clear.  For reasons beyond the obvious (see:  "I'm a Duck fan" fifteen words ago), I don't like the Beavers.  At all.  Actually even more than I don't like kids.  Here's how it goes in my Duck fandom - I'm going to root for anybody who is playing the Beavers (except the Huskies - when that game happens I just don't have an opinion).  So when I post on a particularly popular social media site "Go Badgers" or "Go whoever is playing OSU", don't give me any lectures.  I honestly cannot give a red hot shit about why you're a fan.  Or THAT you're a fan.  You have your fandom, I have mine.  I acknowledge your posts about your beloved rats and I don't make a comment.  Because you have your gig.  This is mine.  Rib me playfully if you feel you must - I probably won't bite, simply because the program speaks for itself (and I can't be bothered, since, you  know, it's SATURDAY and I'm WATCHING FOOTBALL), but don't lecture me.  You can kiss my motherfucking ass if you think that, because they are an "Oregon team" I should want them to do well.  I don't.  I absolutely never will.  If you don't like how I feel, guess what?  I'm not one of those screaming kids in the playground that give a fuck whether you pay attention to me or not.  "Unfriend" me.  Fuck if I care.  I'm a Duck.  This is how it always has been and always will be.  ALWAYS.   Don't try to give me a lesson on how I am supposed to act or feel.  Shove your touchy-feely, "we're all Oregon teams" bullshit agenda up your ass.  It has nothing to do with me.

And now that THAT'S done, I'm going to go take a shower and go buy some pants.

How I spent my September vacation

Yeah, I know.  June.  Whatever.

So I went to Wisconsin last week.  Remember Wisconsin?  Those of you still hanging on by the thread I leave you will remember a party I went to back in (God I keep forgetting) 2007?  2008?  That trip lasted three long blog posts.  But mostly because the plane almost crashed and I rode across the state with a stranger and was dropped off on a freeway exit at around 2am.  And a whole bunch of other stuff.  Well, this trip has probably a thousand more stories, but I'm guessing by my current blogging track record that if I don't finish the wrap up this morning it's never going to be finished.

So I flew to Chicago, rented a car, made it to Fond du Lac by 7:03pm on the 12th of September (which is EXACTLY my estimated time of arrival as predicted to Dave while barreling down I-294 West), went to dinner with Marita and Dave, drank some drinks, sang some karaoke (good Lord), and proceeded to drink my weight AND Dave's in Jagermeister.  Poor Marita got up the next morning for work to find 72 dirty glasses all over the kitchen and a screen door laying in the middle of the family room.  I'd give you details, but, yeah.. I can't.

Thursday was my birthday so Dave and I got some food, drove to Waupun (what's a Wisconsin trip without driving to Waupun?) (am I even spelling it right?), then came back to pack a bag for the rest of the weekend.    Later that afternoon we drove over to the village of Oregon (that's right.) to meet up with (Naked) Steve and Sue in their fabulous home and neighborhood.  I don't know how much I have written about those two, but they are also remnants of my Cancun past (remember in December how I said I'm never going back to Cancun?  Pay attention.), and they are a kick in the ass.  It's a dangerous combination, those four.  Seriously.  We had some wine and cheese and crackers and pretended to be adults for a little while, laughing about the presents I got (seriously, I got a ton of presents.  I'm 47.  I expect nothing.  My bag weighed 14 pounds more leaving than it did coming.  I have awesome friends and a whole bunch of new sweatshirts, glasses and tshirts), when the limo arrived (I don't care where you live, who you are, how old you are, or what you do for fun, but it's ALWAYS awesome when I limo drives up and it's for you) (unless you're Dave and the heat gets stuck on high and you are sitting backward and you're really hungover and you know there is no where to vomit but the middle of the limo and somebody pulls out more wine).  First stop was a supper club (Oregon people:  there is no describing this.  I was thinking cabaret or dinner show, but really, it's more like Elks Lodge.  Awesome) and old fashioneds (hey, I spelled that right..), and then we were off to a bevy of local bars that you can ONLY find in the midwest - basements of homes, bowling alleys, holes in the wall off the beaten track where everyone is a Packer fan but VERY open to the gentle persuasion that, despite the fact that Oregon beat Wisconsin in the Rose Bowl, they truly ARE Duck fans.  They are.  They wrote it on my autograph dog.  Oh yeah.  I got an autograph dog.

We ended up in a bar where I wanted to make out with this recent Milwaukee transplant but I really wasn't getting the positive nod from the group, and where Steve gave me a lap dance (it's a pretty funny picture), and the number of cream-based birthday shots was too high to count, then landed back at our hosts' home and crashed for a few hours.

Friday we went to Madison, where my phone died briefly and we lunched and walked and toured and were actually somewhat civilized, important to add only because later that day we were off to the Wisconsin Dells for the weekend showcase, Wo-Zha-Wa (known in 2012 as "JoyceFest", and I spelled it right because I have the custom mouse pad and coffee mug in front of me to prove it).

Wo-Zha-Wa is a fest.  It's the end of the Summer season for the resort town, or some God damned thing, but there were tents and rides and it was packed and there were brats and penny-pitching and crap for sale on sidewalk tables and people people people.  We camped.  It's involved, but I had my own tent (that I had to close with a hair clip, which is actually kind of inventive of me considering how drunk I was both nights), and I hope I never ever have to share a shower with those two beetles again.  They were dead but I still think of them.

The rest of the weekend, frankly, was a blur of beer, shots, sand, gin, gin, gin, JoyceFest t-shirts, bad pop songs (bad pop SONG.  BAD.), taxi cab bruises (still very present), a Duck win, bad behavior (that I didn't instigate, let me just go on record by saying), dancing (not me), flashing (again, not me), screaming children (you know what, I am going to write a totally separate post about THAT), and above all, LAUGHING.  Oh my hell.  It was a BLAST.

By Sunday I was dressing to camouflage my liver, so back to Fond du Lac we went, just Marita, Dave and I, while Steve and Sue went back to Oregon (the village), toward a small amount of normalcy - frozen custard and napping.  Monday I drove back to Chicago, had lunch with my sister-in-law Lisette, and boarded the bumpy plane back to Oregon (the state).

My liver is still wet, but my laundry has been done for days, my cats are over their anxiety, and I'm almost late for coffee with Gay Neighbor Geoff.  The Wisconsin faction is in Cancun right now, doing it all again.  I could NEVER have done that (well, maybe...) again, but one never knows what next year could bring..

Truly a fabulous way to spend the 47th.  I hope that I have the opportunity to host them here (though not in my tiny apartment) but I'm not sure I could replicate the experience.  Easily one of the greatest highlights of my life.  Wisconsin makes some pretty awesome people.

Are you my mother?

*Disclaimer:  This is about real life.  Get over it.

So since I've been on my period for pretty much the last two months, I decided to finally do something about it and make an appointment at the doctor.  Not a sham appointment, the kind I do every few months when Kaiser calls me and says Oh hey we see you haven't had an annual in something like fifteen years, you need to schedule, just to get them off the phone and then cancel it a few days out of courtesy to someone who really needs a gyno appointment at the last minute; a real one.  Where, like, I'm the one phoning in.  And I realized the day that I phoned that these things don't take a couple of minutes to do.  You don't just phone Kaiser and say, Hey, I need a gyno appointment, hook me up.  You have to hit buttons and explain things and get redirected and then disconnected a couple of times and then change your story or forget the one you told the last time and complain at how far out your appointment is and then call back and find someone who finally says, What?  You've been bleeding for the last two months?  Yeah, you should probably get in sooner.  Because my first appointment was for July 28.  And my response to that was, Okay, I'll try to phone you if I have to cancel, but if this keeps up, I'll probably be dead.  Oddly enough that wasn't enough to make her try to find me a better option.

Anyway, it's tomorrow.  And I'm not looking forward to it, because 9am is too early to start drinking and I'm WAY better at this kind of stuff after a couple of cocktails.  The doctor is a woman, though, so I guess it would be a bit inappropriate anyway.  I was never one to care about having a male gyno; actually, I preferred it.  But now with this whole situation I have going on here I figure I'm probably better served with someone who can relate.  To the fact that it's a pain in the ass and really inconvenient to bleed for two months.  

I'm forty-six.  I get it.  I'm probably starting "the change".  In fact, I'm sure I am.  But from what I've read, the beginning part of "the change" can last like eight years and I'm not down with that kind of a time frame.

So I was having coffee with Gay Neighbor Geoff this morning and thinking about the way this kind of appointment is perceived at age twenty-six and age forty-six.  Twenty-six went to the Planned Parenthood because she was too cheap to pay for a real doctor and gyno visits were not covered on her horrific health insurance plan.  Plus if you told the Planned Parenthood you were a full time student you got your birth control for free.  Twenty-six didn't care about the results of the exam, twenty-six just wanted the free birth control.

Forty-six is looking at other options.  Forty-six has been asking for the last twelve years what her uterus has ever done for her.  Forty-six just wants that motherfucker out so she can stop paying $10 for a box of Tampax every month.  Forty-six doesn't want to worry about wearing white or beige or ruining any more of her dainties because that shit isn't cheap and frankly she'd much rather spend that money on Eileen Fisher and trips to Mexico.  Forty-six is sick to death of the whole thing and curses Eve every four weeks and then every three and then every two and then fuck it every DAY when the irony of it all isn't lost on the girl that never ever wanted kids.  Well, except for that one drunk night in Louisville Kentucky back in 1994.  But only that one night.  

So tomorrow forty-six will get to work early and then leave at 8:30 so she can spend an hour convincing a doctor to remove all the icky useless used up malfunctioning parts to preserve her sanity and social life.  Then she'll return to work with a bit of news, who knows what it will be, and a handbag full of Tampax until something is decided and/or scheduled and then she'll come back here and give you her OTHER thoughts about the similarities and differences between having an abortion at twenty-eight and having a hysterectomy at forty-seven.  I'm sure there's something there.

Oh, and this IS real life.  What you believe in or don't believe in doesn't mean it isn't out there.

I'm good, thanks.

Recently I woke up to a message on FB from someone I don't speak with a ton anymore.  It was sharing a quote that was something like Everything is going to be all right, maybe not today but someday.  It was to me and another person who has been going through a rough patch.  That other person responded with something like, oh that's a great one, I'm going to put that in my "think your way out of this mess" book, thanks, or some dang thing.  I responded with nothing.  Because everything IS all right in my world right now.  

Okay a) I don't really talk to you guys anymore, so b) you don't know what's going on with me, though c) I know what's going on with YOU, because d) for some reason you told me.  Oh, wait, you didn't tell me because we were friends once, you told me because you needed something from me.  And of course I did it, because I cared at one point in my life, and I think you're an idiot, and even though I haven't heard from you since, it really doesn't surprise me, since I figured out a long time ago that you're one of those people who take and don't give.

Which is why a random quote about everything being okay at a later date (as opposed to right now) makes you all warm and fuzzy inside.

I'm pretty sure that if you didn't make a career out of jacking people all the time you wouldn't be in the lousy position you are in right now.  Sure, bad things happen to good people, but, mostly, bad things happen to selfish, self-centered, self-righteous (="bad") people.  So maybe you should put THAT in your book and consider a lifestyle change.  Baby steps.  Right?

Inspiration is a good thing and we all go through shit, but I guess the lesson to be learned here, perhaps, is that if you don't want to wind up in TtheD don't include me in things that just don't have anything to do with me.  Not trying to be smug or anything, but the beauty of being in your mid 40s is that life has presented you with much opportunity to learn how to be a good person.  

Plus I think there's something wrong with my big toe because it suddenly started hurting yesterday afternoon and it still does now, and I'm developing arthritis in my pinkie.  Okay.  Maybe I DO need a little inspriration..

Ketchup

Finishing "The Stand" for me is like moving to a different city.  Not the arrived at part, but the leaving part.  I always feel a little bit sad when I'm done with it.  I finished it this morning on the elliptical at the gym, and still had like five minutes to go.  It's too dramatic of a novel to just move on to the next one, so I pretty much put my head down and grieved a little bit.  Seriously.  I bet people thought I was tired.  I wasn't that tired.

I've read "The Stand" roughly ten times over the years, but it's been a while since I'd read it last; it hasn't changed.  The only thing I will say is that back when I used to read it, I liked (loved) each and every one of the characters (the good guys anyway; the bad guys I felt pity for) as if I'd known them forever.  This time around, after about ten years, I have to say that if I met Frannie now, we wouldn't be friends.  She whines.  And the crying!  I mean, I realize you're pregnant with a baby that may or may not be immune to the plague that killed 99% of the population, leaving you to fend for yourself while you follow a dream character that becomes the figurehead for all that is good and God-like while you essentially WALK from Maine to Colorado, but come on.  Lighten up a little bit.  That damsel-in-distress gig may have worked on 34-year-old me, but it's not working on 46-year-old me.  At all.

Anyway, grieving done, I moved on to the new John Irving, which, after reading a couple of reviews (seriously, my attention span is getting shorter and shorter when it comes to things like that) kind of seems like it isn't a me kind of book.  But then I have to remember that I really do love John Irving and I'm not being true to my author favor by not reading it.  So I started it this afternoon while trying to work up a nap that didn't take.

I was almost talked in to reading that whole "Fifty Shades" situation but decided, upon reading a review, against it, and here's why:  The reviewer didn't like it because it sounded like it was written by a teenager.  I can handle a lot of things, but I cannot handle bad writing.  And if I read what everyone else on the planet seems to be reading and raving about, and the writing was bad, well, nobody wants to hear me rant and rave about the education levels in the United States again.  I powered through the "Twilight" crap and "The Hunger Games", yes, but at least the WRITING was okay.  Content is nothing if the writing is bad.  I won't subject myself to that.  So don't try to talk me into fifty shades of anything.

I've had the last week off, went to Ontario from Saturday to Tuesday, had a fabulous homecoming, and then proceeded to shop every single day for the rest of the week.  I am pretty sure I'm broke now.  But I have some fun stuff.. It'll be good to go back to work, back to routine, back to structure.

Oh and I quit smoking.

Surprise!

If Blogger hadn't changed their format on me a couple of posts ago, and if I had a bit more motivation to look for where they put the "edit posts" area now, I could tell you how long it's been since I've blogged.  I gotta tell you, it's a pain in the ass now.  For me anyway.  And since I haven't been blogging very much lately (...), I forget how and where and shit.  Plus too I'm still using Internet Explorer, and apparently Blogger isn't digging that, so I have to start up Chrome to blog, and yeah, I know it's only a couple of additional clicks, but still, pain in the ass.

This is not to say that TtheD is dead.  It can't be.  There is still plenty more T and D ahead of me.  But until I get used to it, or have a shit load of time to convert it to another situation (like WordPress or something, I obviously don't know the names of these things), this is just going to be the way it is.

And again, THOUSANDS of things come up where I think, wow, total blog material.  I've even taken to writing little notes on my iPhone to remind me, but, as is the case this morning, I'm updating my iPhone right now and can't get to the notes.  Of course.  So I'm muddling through and now you know why it's been so long since you've been blessed with a new post.

A post, I might add, that I actually had in mind before I started explaining why it's such a pain in the ass anymore to blog.  Because this wasn't supposed to be it.  Hm.  What was it.

Well, my notes are now available, so here are a couple of the ideas - one has to do with hating one's job and how that turns into hating people (that's a generality, by the way).  Another (okay, THE other, there's only two) has to do with petty people and the inexplicable reasons why a person would try to make another person feel like shit about something they just told you.

Cryptic.  And blogworthy, don't get me wrong.  But I'm not feeling either of those topics right now.  I have a vacation coming up soon, maybe I'll convert the blog and THEN write about it.

Have I told you how I feel like I live in the 'hood?  I live in a nice area, actually, and my complex is quiet and  clean and all that, but I live off Murray Boulevard (I always want to just abbreviate that word, but it looks grammatically incorrect when I do), and, seriously, there are sirens ALL the TIME.  I can't tell the difference between ambulances, firetrucks and the po-po, but any way you slice it, always with the sirens (as a matter of fact, that's what I say.  Any time I hear one I turn into a Jewish woman from Long Island and sigh "Always with the sirens..".).  I don't know what it is about a 45mph four lane suburban street (boulevard.  No, blvd) (no.) that inspires people to drive 90mph, but that's Murray.  Last winter some kid was doing about 85, lost control (of course), hit one of those little tree islands they have there for looks or whatever, flipped, sailed into the yard of a house across the street, and managed to survive (his passenger, however, did not, and the memorial for her is still wrapped around the little tree there).  It was like 8pm or something.  Where's the fire?  If you were looking to impress her it kind of went about as far south as it could go.  I'm pretty sure he's in jail now, so there's two lives lost.  Anyway, my point is, either people are speeding (more so than me, I probably only get up to about 52 and that's at 4am), having a heart attack or bursting into flames, but it's all up in my 'hood and makes me kinda feel like I live in the ghetto.

Sooo, that being said, there isn't that much new REALLY, I mean, there's some stuff, but nothing you want to hear about, and I'm alright with that.  It's been sunny, a plus, and it stays light really late (another plus, except I go to bed at 9pm - broad daylight.  You know that's what I'm saying when I'm wrapping up the house before bed every night - "Broad daylight."), and it is my sole directive today to get a pedicure, because at this point my toe nails are so long I could pretty much hang upside down from a tree, and in theory I'm going to the Beaverton Farmers' Market this morning too, and tanning, and then whatever.

But at least I feel good that I surprised you with this.
_______________________
Editor's note:  A) I published and now I can see that it's been since April 26 and also where the flipping "edit posts" area went and B) I totally just remembered what I was going to blog about this morning.  It was kind of good, too.

Ten minutes

I got up way earlier than I normally would on a non-gym day and now I find myself with ten minutes more than normal.  So why not blog?  (the answers to that are far too numerous to count, but I'll forge ahead)

It's been a busy week, especially since I'm in LT, which I lovingly refer to as the circus (though, to be truthful, it hasn't been very circus-like in recent months, not sure why that is, unless I'M the reason it's the circus and they're getting tired of me..), but I have managed to have some fun, which is important.  Going to bed at 9pm and getting up at 3:45am sort of sucks the life out of the whole gig, but I manage.  To some degree.  I can't wait to go home tonight so I can just sit in front of the TV for longer than forty minutes.  I haven't done that in a while.

I got my hair cut last week, and it's shorter than it's been, and looks a little madman-ish, but I can pull that off.  Plus I got a little hammered over the weekend and lost my favorite ring.  Which sucks.  Luckily the suckyness was offset by some much needed stress-release and a banging good time (take that however you want) so I'm not all beat up about it.  Sometimes you have to take the bad with the fabulous, I've learned.

Also did something completely out of character and drove to the east side spontaneously (spontaneity is quickly losing its grip in my reality these days) to meet a friend and THAT was completely and totally worth every second (every second remains with me and will for a long time, so it's the spontaneous gift that keeps on giving).

I bought three sweaters (Sping/Summer weight) since last we spoke, as well as all the other mundane things I do on a normal basis, tan, gym, lackluster attempts at cleaning.. but I also got TWO presents at work, presented three, and there is a strong possibility there will be cake today.

So it's been a good run this last week and a half, and I'm hoping it, like the somewhat Spring-like weather, lasts.  Good attitude is all it takes, right?  I'm going to run with it.  It seems to be working.