Mojave Desert From Speeding Car
Thought it was pretty cool that Dax had oranges (clementines?) growing in his yard.
We arrived in LA on a rainy day.
This handy "tracking device" in my plane was kind of neat.
Free umbrellas at the Getty? Score!
This toilet gave me the option for a big flush and a small flush. I did both.
Carl's Jr in Barstow. A little empty.Jet Blue just can't catch a break.*
In defense of Jet Blue, I enjoyed my round trip with this beleaguered airline, except for the following two things:
Had a great time in Los Angeles and Vegas. Finally got to meet a cyber friend in person, which was mildly awkward for about one evening. By the end of the four days, though, I was drunkenly hugging her and declaring my love, so I suppose we're good from here on out. Loved the weather- my God, how I loved the weather. The weather alone is a good reason to migrate out there. Ferozan and I drove the coast around Malibu, and it was so freaking beautiful that I felt almost blinded. The Cheese and I drove through Rancho Palos Verde, which also filled me with envy. In fact, there was a lot of driving this weekend. Whizzing through the Mojave towards Vegas was pretty cool, except for when I felt compelled to lecture Chris on his speeding.
So many different thoughts, impressions, things that I want to see and do next time. But, before I go, seeing The Dicktastics at The Viper Room was an awesome time. Great music, great bar, great blood alcohol content.
Do you really think that the best revenge is a life well-lived? Humiliation in the national press would be a better choice, or a car bomb. I think the person who came up with this best revenge nonsense was just lazy. Good revenge requires creativity and effort and something devastating on a grander scale than just one lousy life lived well. Anybody can live a decent life. But not just anybody can systematically destroy another person's job/family/political campaign/knee cap. And if somebody tells you that they'd never resort to that kind of thing- that's just their excuse for not having a good idea, or not wanting to get off the couch.
The last time I went to Vegas was four years ago. We stayed in a friend's timeshare way down Tropicana, and it was a bitch to get anywhere. One of the days was spent at an outlet mall forty minutes away, which was ridiculous. We had to take two buses to get there. Two! And we spent another evening at a karaoke contest because my friend had been told (the FIRST night we did karaoke, arghhh), that she had talent and a talent scout would be there. No talent scout, and we were in that karaoke bar for freaking ever. No amount of alcohol made it bearable. Also, I got violently ill from the Mega Dog. I wore new boots which made my feet sore, and I couldn't do anything with the cute boys we met from Seattle because I had a boyfriend. That boyfriend also discovered my blog (different blog) while I was away in Vegas, and when he told me this, I was pretty sure we'd break up. I didn't represent myself in a very good light in the other blog- an even worse light than I'm currently standing in, if that's at all possible. But he didn't dump me. So that was nice.
The only picture I still have from that trip is one of a bread-seller at Paris giving me a big hug. He told me I was cute. It's one of the only pictures in the existence of Jackie that includes a genuinely happy grin. Of course, I was also plowed.
This morning at breakfast with Chris' family, conversation somehow turned to the other blog that I write for Beep. Chris' aunt said something nice about the entry I wrote in which I explained how, at one point, Chris only had six dollars to his name.
Chris' Grandma: He only had six dollars?
Chris: That's an exaggeration. I had, like, ten.
Grandma: You know, Jackie, that's why I married Chris' grandfather. Because I felt sorry for him.
Me: That's not what I.... Wow.
Grandma: I married him because I pitied him.
(Uncomfortable laughter.)
Yikes, that came out of nowhere. Granted, she's kind of a nutty old lady, and most of what she says rolls off my back, but that was almost uncalled for. Who casually admits that they married out of pity over plates of eggs and bacon? Characters in my upcoming movie "Inappropriate Confessions From People I Know Only Through Marriage," that's who!
I took my second annual trip to the Caring Hearts gala this weekend, once again donating my time in exchange for a free meal and an open bar. Some of my "volunteer work" is such a joke. I show up, slap on a badge that identifies me as someone who may possibly know what's going on, then belly up to the bar and proceed to spend the evening slumped over a bottomless glass of wine. I wore the same dress I wore to last year's event, and my partner in crime, Di, wore the same outfit that she wore last year as well. It was like being caught in a time warp. The food was the exact same as well, but instead of Billy Williams as the guest of honor, we had Tom Waddle. I'd heard Tom Waddle's name before, but never really knew anything about him until last night. I guess he was some mildly successful Bears player back in the day. Either way, his welcome speech was very entertaining. Some of my friends got to touch his collarbone, which I guess is all messed up and full of holes (?) due to various injuries. I, of course, had no reason to approach him since I didn't necessarily have anything to say to him. After I heard that they got to touch his freaky-deaky collarbone, though, I almost changed my mind.
There was also an auction last night. The two biggest things being auctioned off were:
a two night stay at a Wisconsin dude ranch, and
a one week stay at a Mexican resort.
These sounded like awful things to bid on. Who wants to go to a Wisconsin dude ranch? I mean, honestly. And the one week stay at a Mexican resort. There were no other details in the auction booklet, the resort was "undisclosed," and while I don't have anything against the great land of Mexico and its people, it seems to me that if you're going to commit to spending a week sleeping there, you'd better damn know what you're getting into. At least know where in Mexico this place is. A picture or two might be helpful, maybe some kind of short blurb that touts its superb plumbing. I don't know.
There was also a silent auction, of which one of the biddable items was a trip to Maine. Ooh, Maine. Where were the trips to Hawaii or the Florida Keys or New York or anywhere? Yeah, those auctions sucked.
Things I Like Right Now:
Obama's website. It's like MySpace for political nerds. You can meet other supporters near you (love connection, anyone?), maintain your own blog and profile, and "network" with friends. Also, if you happen to die, your Obama profile will be yet another place for people to leave tributes and messages for you. (Sidenote: The MySpace accounts of the recently departed really freak me out, and I'll thank you not to leave messages like "see ya soon!" on my own MySpace after I bite it.)
Casimir Pulaski Day. The song, not the holiday. Also, Sufjan Stevens' lofty goal to write one album for each of the fifty states. Can't wait to hear what he has to say about Delaware.
I think I'm a few months behind this breaking story, but Betty and Veronica are getting make-overs. Look how hot they are now! I can't, however, seem to find any articles about the rest of the Riverdale gang getting made-over as well. How fucked up is it going to look if only Betty and Veronica get re-done? That's like waxing your bikini line but forgetting to do your legs and moustache. You know? PS, I don't have a moustache, I'm just trying to make a point.
Berocca. My friend Georgette orders them from overseas, and she gave me a tube of these effervescent vitamin tablets yesterday, whilst I was in the midst of feeling crappy. First of all, they taste great when dissolved in some water, kind of like orange soda, but not as sticky sweet, and, second of all, I felt instantly better. What a pick me up! It's not available in the US, which is a shame and which also totally figures, considering that it has also been touted as a powerful hangover antidote- and lord knows, it would be nice to have a powerful hangover antidote readily available. Don't you think?
My airline of choice for our upcoming trip in five days (L.A. and Vegas!) is experiencing major problems.
JetBlue Apologizes After Passengers Stranded
They're cancelling a ton of flights this weekend, and the message currently up on their website is practically begging people to reschedule their travel plans for, like, May. This is unacceptable. I know they've got five days (or is it four days? Do I count today?) to get their act together, but I'm pretty certain, since I'm really looking forward to this trip, that my flight is going to be cancelled, and I'm going to be stuck sitting at O'Hare for fifteen hours waiting to get on another flight.
Alas. Chris doesn't like it when I worry about things I have no control over, especially when these things are four to five days away. I think he calls this "crazy."
Unfortunately, I also have a cold. Either that, or I've developed allergies, because I can simply not stop sneezing. I must have sneezed fifty times yesterday. Sometimes I sneezed into a tissue, sometimes I sneezed into my arm, and other times I just sneezed into the air, as I generally hold nothing but contempt for those around me and don't give a damn if they get sick as well. Nonetheless, nobody told me to go home from work. Perhaps next time, I'll sneeze directly into somebody's coffee. Then I'm bound to get a sick day out of the whole thing.
Chris lost his wedding ring a week and a half ago. I didn't even notice until a few days ago when I was putting on my own ring after a few weeks of not wearing it (I can't wear gloves and a ring) and asked Chris to wear his as well. At first he played dumb ("What ring?"), but then he hung his head and told me that it was gone, that he'd lost it, that he'd looked everywhere, and that he was sick over it.
I'm not very angry or upset about it. I do think it's kind of rotten that he didn't even have it for a full year, that he's going to have to buy a replacement, and that he will never again wear the very symbol of love that I put on his finger in the church on the most important day in the history of our relationship. But, hey, whatever. He does feel genuinely bad about it, so all's mostly forgiven.
Also, I'm secretly glad that he lost his ring before I lost mine. But, again, it's hard to lose something when you don't wear it very often, and Chris wore his every day. I think I've worn my ring three, maybe four times in the last few months. I'd have been so much happier with a wedding necklace instead of a wedding ring; things on my fingers aggravate me.
I think, since Chris was feeling so bad about losing the ring, that he's gone out of his way to make the past few days special. Flowers and a balloon that says "I love you!" on Monday night. Which is nice, but also to be expected considering what today is. Yesterday, however- jeez louise! It snowed like the dickens, the roads were hazardous and completely unplowed, and if I didn't have to brave the weather to get to work, I would have spent the whole day under my covers praying for June. Chris was off work, and he could have very easily stayed inside the whole day, playing computer games and leaving his tell-tale trail of Doritos around the house. However, he got in his car and drove all the way to the Japanese grocery store to pick up food for dinner. Damn near got killed out there, the fool. But he did it to suprise me, and when I finally got home after work (after only six panic attacks as I inched my way home down the four laned streets reduced to only one set of slushy tire tracks on each side), he was making me dinner. A symbolic dinner- yakisoba, which is the first meal that he ever made for me. Yakisoba, miso soup, mochi ice cream, and some Japanese drink that looks like watery mayonnaise and tastes like a cloud.
Did I just use the phrase "tastes like a cloud?" Lord.
So, on this Valentine's Day, instead of dwelling on the fact that my husband lost his wedding ring, I'm going to dwell on the fact that he risked his life to make me a special dinner. And I'm going to try not to feel bad about the fact that I wouldn't have driven in that weather for him.
It's nothing personal. I'm just not a good snow-driver.
Chris' cousin D. is fighting in Iraq. Normally, he lives in Florida, and I've only met him once before, but that was at the wedding, and the only thing I could really recall about him was how handsome he looked in his uniform. He was back in the states for his two weeks of "rest & relaxation" before returning to battlegrounds, and he and Chris' other two cousins flew up to Chicago for the weekend, basically on a whim. Why anybody would fly to Chicago from Florida on the coldest weekend of the year is beyond me. These sad sacks were wearing thin jackets that offered essentially zero protection from the elements, but they were also complaining a whole lot less than I was, and, being the native, I suppose I should be used to the weather. I do, however, love to complain.
We talked a bit about Iraq, but the only thing that really stuck with me was how the Iraqi civilians go to the American bases in order to sell cigarettes to the soldiers. FYI, smoking an Iraqi cigarette is apparently not a pleasant experience. I can't imagine that what they put into those bad boys is exactly "regulated." The Iraqis show up, they get searched, and then they're escorted around the base where they can sell their smokes. This puts a certain spin on the war that we don't necessarily see in the news. Like, "Hey, you're trying to kill my brothers, but I'm more than happy to stop in for a visit, sell you some cigarettes, maybe exchange a smile or two." I guess it's more about making a buck though, than extending the olive branch.
We drank pretty heavily on Saturday night. I was slurring my words after only an hour or two, and the pictures that I found on my camera the next morning started out as clear, in-focus shots, and then quickly deteriorated into blurry, non-sensical images, some of which seemed to be taken in the bathroom. However, the first picture I took of the night was the one of our soldier. Our soldier and eight beers.
Nothing like watching an army man attempting to stay healthy and in shape.
Of all the relevant adsense ads that could have been posted on my blog (cheese, tranquilizers, douche bags), I get stuck with the dental ones. Perhaps I shouldn't have blogged so excessively about my oral problems. I don't want the theme of this blog to go down in history as "something to do with teeth," you know?
I don't actually expect to make any money of the adsense ads. I do, however, expect to find a better dentist.
We went to my parents' house last week for the superbowl. My aunt and uncle were there, which is the reason we went down instead of going to the party we had planned on attending. My uncle was diagnosed with lymphoma, and it's stage 4 and has spread. He's starting an aggressive chemo treatment very shortly, and I wanted to see him before he becomes somebody else, before he turns into a sick, tired man.
I didn't know if I was going to acknowledge the disease, and when we got there, I knew I couldn't. The lymph nodes on his neck were swollen to the size of peaches, and it was difficult for me to look at him. But I did, and I pretended like nothing was out of the ordinary. I don't know what I would want if I were in that situation. Which would make me feel better- my friends and family treating me like the asshole that I normally am or slathering on the empathy, pity, well-wishes, and hope? It's a tough call. But if I opened my mouth, I was afraid that I would start crying, and then I would have ruined yet another superbowl party.
During halftime, my uncle, Chris, Mark, and my dad went downstairs. Upstairs, it was me, my mother, Marcia, and my aunt. We talked a little about my uncle, but it was all very superficial, and it was easy to imagine that we were talking about a neighbor or the bus driver. Then my aunt opened her purse and whipped out those rubber cancer bracelets. I have to be honest here- the widespread popularity of these bracelets really irritates the fuck out of me. I know I'm mostly alone in this, as they're all the rage, but they strike me as a fashion accessory for those with something to prove. Plus, they've lost any meaning that they may have ever had, what with Captain Morgan and The Cubs issuing their own rubber bracelets. From cancer to rum and baseball before you even have time to burp. Nonetheless, my aunt said that she'd bought them at the mall (I can't help but wonder if any of the proceeds went to any kind of charity) and she'd really like if we could all wear one.
"Of course," I said. "It's a sign of... solidarity."
"Yes, that's exactly what it is. Solidarity." My aunt passed one bracelet to each of us, and Marcia and I exchanged glances. The bracelets were all different colors. Weren't they all supposed to be the same color? It was my understanding that each color stood for a different disease (or type of rum), so I was mildly confused. How could I say anything, though? Clearly my aunt wasn't fully grasping the concept behind these piece of crap bracelets, and I wasn't going to be the one to break the news to her.
Instead, I excused myself and logged on to the internet to see what the colors stood for. It turns out that my dark green bracelet was in support of the American Academy of Audiology Foundation and Marcia's blue one stood for anti-bullying and the Crohn's and Colitis Foundation of America. And we all know that colitis is diarrhea, so that's pretty awesome for Marcia.
When I came back into the room, my aunt was talking about how she was going to have to take a leave of absence from work to take care of my uncle, and how things were going to be tight financially. And my mother- in a truly altruistic burst- said, "Don't worry about money, we'll help you with whatever you need." My head just about fell off my neck; this is from a woman who steals toilet paper from fast food restaurants because she's too cheap to buy her own.
I was proud of her.
Downstairs, my uncle had lit up a joint and attempted to pass it around. My dad said no, and Chris and Mark said no, mainly because my dad had said no. It's interesting to think that my dad might have said no only because Chris and Mark were present- when my dad excused himself to go put his sixties protest music on the CD player, there was a quick conversation about how things might have been different if my dad weren't present. And my uncle said something to the effect of, "You really don't know him at all, do you?" It's nice to think of your parents letting loose and being irresponsible. Although, now with Chris and Mark in the picture, I often see my dad initiating shots. "Let's have a shot before dinner," my dad might say, getting out the vodka. Or, "Chris, Jackie's driving. Shot for the road?" Or, "Chris, you don't have to drive for another hour or so. Shot?"
I digress.
So I didn't say anything about anything. The Bears lost, which I tried not to take as some grand sign, and then we were getting ready to go. I said nothing but good-bye, giving my aunt and uncle extra tight hugs. Then I heard Chris talking to my uncle, and I looked away. Chris told him about how we're here for him and how we hope everything will be okay. My uncle tried to interrupt him a few times, and he brushed everything off with a simple, "I'll be fine." He said this a few times. I'll be fine. And I don't know why a statement so positive made me feel sad, but it did, and I had to busy myself with my coat and gloves as to avoid making eye contact with anybody.
When I thought about him this week, whenever I looked at my American Academy of Audiology Foundation bracelet, all I could picture was him in my parents' basement, casually lighting a joint and offering it around. For whatever reason, this cheers me up immensely. However, when I think of the hopeful manner in which my aunt passed out the bracelets, I lose a bit of that cheeriness and instead feel like we're all so lost, and nobody really knows anything.
Chris and I watched "Idiocracy" last night, a movie that had a 2006 release like a silent fart in a room full of elderly men. It only hit 125 theaters in seven cities (three of which are in Texas) with not a single supporting piece of marketing to back this sucker up. Wikipedia expounds on two theories that may explain the lack of advertising:
In a New York Times article, Dan Mitchell has argued that Fox might be shying away from a cautionary tale about low-intelligence dysgenics. John Patterson of The Guardian suggests it is a result of the film's anti-corporate message, noting that in the film Starbucks now delivers handjobs, Fuddruckers' name has been changed to "Buttfuckers," and the motto of Carl's Jr. has devolved to "Fuck You! I'm Eating!"
Anna Nicole Smith died yesterday, and my friend from another office called to tell me. "Have you guys heard anything over there?" she asked, and it was as if we were talking about the death of a colleague rather than a celebrity. As if the source of information was the rumor mill and not MSNBC, and that maybe Jan in Accounting had some first hand knowledge while Phil in Ad Sales used to sleep with Anna and was privy to a whole ton of secret information.
But that's how it is with the lives of celebrities. We start to believe that they're not just strangers on the television but that they're more like our friends. I was guilty of it yesterday as well when I told somebody that I wished I could smack some sense into Katie Holmes. What do I care if Katie Holmes has gone batty and married a freak? She's not my buddy, she's the actress who badly portrayed a journalist on "Thank You For Smoking." She's not a relative that I can "smack some sense into." She has no bearing on my life whatsoever, unless I'm standing in line at the grocery store and her picture happens to be staring up at me from the cover of "Star World Weekly," or whatever the crap that magazine is called.
Nonetheless, Anna Nicole was the topic of many a conversation yesterday afternoon. Also, we all agreed that we wouldn't be trying Trim-Spa any time soon.
Wait a minute- Obama's a smoker?
He's trying to kick the habit since America apparently doesn't want a president who smokes. At least not nowadays.
Americans haven't elected an open and unabashed cigarette-smoking president since Franklin Roosevelt, though others such as Lyndon Johnson smoked on occasion. The rules seem also to extend to political spouses such as First Lady Laura Bush, who found it necessary to quash her habit, or at least take it underground.
George's Super Nintendo is officially broken, which is going to make for an embarrassing moment when I have to give it back to him some time soon. I hope he doesn't make me pay for it, considering it wasn't in top condition when he gave it to me in the first place. I think I dealt the final blow by utilizing the sheer power of awesome when I finally got to the end of The Legend of Zelda: A Link To The Past. What a game. What a high.
It's killer cold outside, which makes it hard for me to leave the house unless work or drinking is involved. I finished reading Flowers For Algernon this weekend, of which I think I may have read snippets during junior high. Considering that was fifteen years ago, I hardly remembered a thing about it, except that it was about some retard that got smart. About that word, "retard," they sure didn't bat an eyelash at it back in the sixties. Today you can only use that word if you're casually making fun of your friends, much like we once used the word "gay." Chris, that shirt makes you look gay. Chris, those pants make you look like a retard. When did everybody get so uptight?
It was a good book, once again confirming the theory that with intelligence comes unhappiness. The more you know, the more there is to fuck you up.
Speaking of books, the author of The Book of Bright Ideas, which I blogged about a few weeks ago, sent me a copy of her other book Carry Me Home. See, she found my blog after I'd written about enjoying Bright Ideas, and thanked me for my entry. (Note: Her comment on my blog was lost in The Great Template Conversion of 2007.) She then told me to send her my mailing address so she could thank me properly with a copy of Carry Me Home. So I did, and today I received the book.
Thank you, Sandra Kring! Who said blogging is a thankless venture?
Seriously, I think that's very cool that she found me and sent me the book. The whole thing made me feel like maybe I shouldn't have bad-mouthed John Irving (John, I loved all of your books except for The Fourth Hand), because who knows what HE might have sent me!
Here is a list of what I'd like other people to send me:
I have the same mailman for my office and my home. This has created an awkward dynamic, seeing as I sometimes run into him twice in the same day- three times if I happen to be buying a Red Bull at the Dominicks' service counter at the precise time he happens to be delivering their mail. This makes me very uncomfortable, as I am rapidly running out of mail-related small talk. Then:
"Jackie, I saw you driving the other day."
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah. You were on 14 heading east a little after two. I honked and waved, but I guess you didn't see me."
"Huh. Guess not."
So he also knows my car, and can easily recognize it on busy four-laned streets. That's pretty normal, right? Then there's the fact that he's taken to bringing my work mail directly to my desk, which is all well and fine except for the fact that he just dumps everybody else's mail on the credenza. He did this the other day, offering a comment about the state of affairs of the snow drifts in my driveway, and then he left with a very postal wave of the hand. I turned around and said to Andy, "Dude, the mailman knows where I live."
Puzzled look. "Of course he knows where you live. How else would you get your mail?"
"No, I don't think you understand. I may have to move. And buy a new car."
Shake of the head. "Things have sure changed since when I was growing up. The man who used to deliver the milk...."
I stopped listening, too hung up on actually knowing somebody who'd employed the services of a milk guy. I don't like strangers knowing too much about me, which is somewhat ironic considering I maintain this blog and all. But this is information that I am in control of. I can post when and what I want. But having the mailman able to match my home and my work and the kinds of mail I receive at both locations and the exact car that I drive- the man has enough information to kill me, hide the body, and never ever get caught.
During the big snow storm earlier in the season, I was able to drive to work but then had to turn around due to the snow-blocked entrance of the parking lot. At home, I managed to wedge my car into a snow drift not too far from my garage, and when I got out, my neighbor smiled at me. I uttered the first words I had ever spoken to him, seeing his face clearly for the first time as well. "Fucking weather!!"
"Oh, is [insert name of my company] closed today?"
"Nah, I just couldn't get into the lot." I went inside, and it was about twelve hours later when I was overcome by an icy shudder. How the hell did my neighbor know where I worked? For crying out loud, this is a suburb of 80,000 people, surrounded closely by other suburbs containing at least the same in a metropolitan area of something like ten million people- why don't I have any anonymity?
I write this blog entry in the hopes that it will one day be used as evidence in my own murder case. Of course, I have no reason to think these two men want to kill me other than the fact that they "recognize" me. They probably just want to sleep with me. And can you blame them?
The big news in the Tribune all week has been The Bears and The Superbowl. Today I log on, and there are no less than twenty Bears-related headlines plastered across the top of the page. And the game is over thirty hours away. Meanwhile, the following headlines also exist on the page, but they are smaller and definitely obscured:
I find out tonight that my uncle has cancer, and I call my cousin for support. At the same time, we both ask, "Are you smoking, too?" Yes. We're puffing madly away while discussing this horrid disease that has spread and graduated from stage one to two to three to four. It's funny, and we giggle. But we don't stop smoking, we just keep on giggling. We giggle until we cry, and then we swap optimistic outcomes and a bit of small talk before quietly hanging up on each other.
