One more has passed, another anniversary of the day Momma and I got married. Little did either of us know what all we were in for even given the couple of years before that.
We didn't celebrate, though I did joke about it in passing. We actually both worked. I'm finally being given Saturday a.m. shifts and arrived this lovely morning at nine-ish and dove straight into the work. I quickly had the line set back up having put up so many of these items a mere ten hours earlier.
I opted not to do a prep list as I waited for the boss to come in. Whatever time I spent doing it would be wasted as he would just redo it anyway, so I began making bread. I know this has to be done, and I know it's one of the main things a day shift has to focus on here.
Meanwhile, later in the evening, I've agreed to help work a catering event, an event I was offered days earlier. After a barely frantic couple of texts, I had secured the services of a friend and her kid, a most lovely pair. There was most of a day wait in between the request for services and the actual agreement, a wait I felt each interminable moment of.
There was some amount of rushing around between the two halves of my working day, mostly to purchase frozen pizzas for the babysitter to feed the kids and of course home to shower and change. I rushed back downtown to pick up food then headed east to the event.
I missed the ceremony, and I don't know what the couple whose celebration I helped cater prefer to call it, but for all intents and purposes and as close as we can get right now a lesbian couple got married, and I fed them pasta. Did they know they had even more gay at their wedding/union/pairing/swearing thingy than they bargained for? Of the two male bartenders plying their trade I would bet that one of them is also gay. We have discussed my broken garday I'm sure, so I can never be too certain.
My night ended back at work, with the same person with whom I'd so recently been catering, bent over the triple sink scrubbing dishes. It so shouldn't have been our job, and I was two beers into my needing to go home, and I had my nice clothes on, and my shoes are still dirty, but thankfully the shadows are being nice right now, because I just looked, and it kind of feels better that I can't see it. But some of the dishes were ours from the event, even though we basically bailed the dishwasher out of his own self imposed dilemma.
I ended up making the agreed upon amount for my services as well as an extra tip that was half as much as what we knew we were making. I gave it all to the babysitter, especially considering the bad habit of coming home late again.
The evening ended with some perusal of the internets. It was its ever lame thing, the glow in the night that drags us to it, that constant drip of water that no amount of attention ever seems to stop, those internets.
And now it's a day later. I'm sore from toting food and dishes and from falling on slick tiles and hurting my hip. I'm tired just because I am. I'm just generally in a mood anyway lately, so there's always that.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
whaddaya hidin'
According to Sean Braisted at Nashville for the 21st Century, Nashville's Metro Council has a bill that would require restaurants to post nutritional information for their food. As is to be expected, restuarants and their flunkies are fighting the bill, arguing that it would be too unwieldy and/or expensive and/or . . .
I've worked in restaurants for years and expect I will continue to do so, and I've considered this issue before. I don't really dwell on the idea, but I am sometimes surprised that more people don't seem interested in nutrition data in restaurants. Sure, if there's an actual need, allergies for example, they will ask appropriate questions, but people don't very often ask beyond that.
Fighting this sort of bill is a lose/lose situation for restaurants in my opinion. As restaurateurs we should have nothing to hide, and we should be willing to admit what we've done to your food. As people we should be willing to share the information because it's the right thing to do.
But there are considerations, things that should not give our representatives and lobbyists reason to fight the bill but should give us all a reason to work together. You don't want an extra fifteen feet of drive through signage, and you don't want to look for the walking fingers on the front of your suddenly book thick menu.
I would personally want the information available if I owned or managed a restaurant, but I don't know how I'd post it. How big would a menu need to be to contain all the info the customers should be privy to? How would you put that on a drive through menu? Would it be good enough to have this info available online, or could we just have printouts for customers?
So, I'm a cook, and Metro Council bill or not I'll tell you what I put in your food. Of course considering what the politicians from my end of the state cook up on a regular basis, nutrition info is only so important here in the east. We're more likely to get bills that ban things that make the menu sound gay or potentially gay.
I've worked in restaurants for years and expect I will continue to do so, and I've considered this issue before. I don't really dwell on the idea, but I am sometimes surprised that more people don't seem interested in nutrition data in restaurants. Sure, if there's an actual need, allergies for example, they will ask appropriate questions, but people don't very often ask beyond that.
Fighting this sort of bill is a lose/lose situation for restaurants in my opinion. As restaurateurs we should have nothing to hide, and we should be willing to admit what we've done to your food. As people we should be willing to share the information because it's the right thing to do.
But there are considerations, things that should not give our representatives and lobbyists reason to fight the bill but should give us all a reason to work together. You don't want an extra fifteen feet of drive through signage, and you don't want to look for the walking fingers on the front of your suddenly book thick menu.
I would personally want the information available if I owned or managed a restaurant, but I don't know how I'd post it. How big would a menu need to be to contain all the info the customers should be privy to? How would you put that on a drive through menu? Would it be good enough to have this info available online, or could we just have printouts for customers?
So, I'm a cook, and Metro Council bill or not I'll tell you what I put in your food. Of course considering what the politicians from my end of the state cook up on a regular basis, nutrition info is only so important here in the east. We're more likely to get bills that ban things that make the menu sound gay or potentially gay.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
omg five things that somethinged
Of the cars I've driven more than a few times, or semi regularly, over the years I'd have to say I probably owned as many as not. One of these cars was a certain green thing that certain friends or family might well remember.
Of the people I think of as friends there is really only one person I knew from this time with whom I'm still friends. I'm still related to most of the people I was related to then, but there are a shit ton more than then, but that isn't the point. I'm as friends with my relatives as I am, and the less said about that this moment the better, in a good way, seriously.
That one friend will remember this car, and there's a good chance that we were in it the first time I told someone that I thought I was gay. He was cool then, and he's cool today. Another guy I knew very briefly who gave me my first beginning to end, all the way blow job, the kind with no expectation at the moment of reciprocation, might also remember the car. So began my love of the blow job, but again, that's so not the point.
The point is the car, this particular thing that was in my family for a number of years. The last car my grandmother owned, the car I took over when she passed it on when she could no longer drive, the car that my oldest sister in law learned as a young adult to drive to work in, was a singular car in my mind. It boasted all the electrical amenities available in the very late seventies, was large and American made. There was an extra pillowy layer of cushion on top of the seat cushions that made it extra soft.
I hadn't thought of the dirty story from above for a number of years, but the damn Facebook did me in. Anyone there has seen the five cars quiz going around. If you know me there you may well have wasted some small amount of time looking at tiny pictures that fail to accurately represent what these cars truly represent for me. One could even imagine them as little time capsules of memories of times. This car certainly represents a certain time for me.
As mentioned a couple of fairly gay moments came to me in this car. What's gayer than coming out and sucking dick? And again, I hadn't really considered this car in a number of years till that damn Facebook quiz. I saw a friend had done it, and it looked cool. I've come close enough to owning the cars or had some share of ownership in them.
And then one of my brothers did the same quiz, and there among his five cars he's owned is the same car. The car in the picture is so far from the same color, but just seeing that shape and imaging that car, the nonsense and fun of being young, I was taken back in time to a moment so long ago. Such young, carefree days as only happen when we are too young to know better.
And years later, remembering this car, the trickle of ownership it saw for such a long time. Grandchildren rode in this car to eat at the cafeteria, then young gay man explores sexuality in a strip mall parking lot, while years later a young wife and mother goes about her day, all the above in style and luxury.
Don't get me started on the sofa in the garage that was left by a different grandparent in the house in which I currently reside. It was only recently that the sofa reached the garage, replaced by another sofa from my mother in law. Don't get me started on that sofa either.
Of the people I think of as friends there is really only one person I knew from this time with whom I'm still friends. I'm still related to most of the people I was related to then, but there are a shit ton more than then, but that isn't the point. I'm as friends with my relatives as I am, and the less said about that this moment the better, in a good way, seriously.
That one friend will remember this car, and there's a good chance that we were in it the first time I told someone that I thought I was gay. He was cool then, and he's cool today. Another guy I knew very briefly who gave me my first beginning to end, all the way blow job, the kind with no expectation at the moment of reciprocation, might also remember the car. So began my love of the blow job, but again, that's so not the point.
The point is the car, this particular thing that was in my family for a number of years. The last car my grandmother owned, the car I took over when she passed it on when she could no longer drive, the car that my oldest sister in law learned as a young adult to drive to work in, was a singular car in my mind. It boasted all the electrical amenities available in the very late seventies, was large and American made. There was an extra pillowy layer of cushion on top of the seat cushions that made it extra soft.
I hadn't thought of the dirty story from above for a number of years, but the damn Facebook did me in. Anyone there has seen the five cars quiz going around. If you know me there you may well have wasted some small amount of time looking at tiny pictures that fail to accurately represent what these cars truly represent for me. One could even imagine them as little time capsules of memories of times. This car certainly represents a certain time for me.
As mentioned a couple of fairly gay moments came to me in this car. What's gayer than coming out and sucking dick? And again, I hadn't really considered this car in a number of years till that damn Facebook quiz. I saw a friend had done it, and it looked cool. I've come close enough to owning the cars or had some share of ownership in them.
And then one of my brothers did the same quiz, and there among his five cars he's owned is the same car. The car in the picture is so far from the same color, but just seeing that shape and imaging that car, the nonsense and fun of being young, I was taken back in time to a moment so long ago. Such young, carefree days as only happen when we are too young to know better.
And years later, remembering this car, the trickle of ownership it saw for such a long time. Grandchildren rode in this car to eat at the cafeteria, then young gay man explores sexuality in a strip mall parking lot, while years later a young wife and mother goes about her day, all the above in style and luxury.
Don't get me started on the sofa in the garage that was left by a different grandparent in the house in which I currently reside. It was only recently that the sofa reached the garage, replaced by another sofa from my mother in law. Don't get me started on that sofa either.
Monday, April 13, 2009
can't take the mess
This house has been one of America's top ten biggest residential messes for what seems like months now. I'd take a picture, but that would be too depressing to show anyone.
I have made a start in making a dent in the mess.
Keep in mind that it's ninety percent toys, and I seriously doubt I had a hand in making this toy mess. I have now put up a few, mostly just retaping the bottom of the Cootie box and putting the Cootie parts back in it, and I also picked up all the Battleship pegs that had gotten dumped out of both the red and the blue game boards, or whatever you call them. Battlegrounds maybe?
My next offer of help came in the form of separating toys by type or end location, meaning putting all the Legos in a pile and all the Transformers in a pile and . . .
I've done this in both the playroom and living room. It all happened yesterday, and magically the piles are still mostly separate and distinct.
Now I just need to motivate two boys to finish the job. I won't mention their bedroom, but the floor is invisible beneath a sea of Legos and Littlest Pet Shop and Playmobile. I sound like a really crappy ad for all these toys right now.
And it also just shows how we aren't hippy parents with primary colored, peaceful toys. We don't have large chunks of wood sitting around inviting imagination, and we don't have anything made out of foodstuffs that was both experiment and play. There's nothing wrong with any of that, but it's just not us. We have light sabers and toys that do unending battle with evil. We have monsters and pirates. We also have two naked Raggedy Andys, but that's neither here nor there.
Of course there is a pile for books, everyone from James Patterson to Richard Scarry to Bionicle instructions. I currently have a book pile in the bathroom, but we aren't worried about my tiny mess just now. It's the kids we're worried about.
And that's my day. I keep mentioning cleaning and how I've made it too easy, but we have as of yet failed to do any cleaning. I need to do one or two loads of laundry and put up some clothes I folded last night. I've emptied the dishwasher and need to reload it. I have beer cans to stomp for recycling and a few new ones to rinse. I also need a shower and to be at work by four. Maybe I'll remember to take my knife and sharpen it on the stone at work.
If nothing else gets done I'll definitely work. It's a Monday, and the weather report I checked last night indicated rain, and the sky outside looks as if it's promising a good dousing, but so far it isn't the one hundred percent chance of rain that NOAA suggested. That means I won't have a whole hell of a lot of work to do at work, but it is the one inescapable component of my day.
So, now my plan truly comes to fruition. I will now finish blogging and go find the boys. I'll share with them the news that I need a shower and remind them that video games are a good diversion for them while I'm in the shower. They will be offered the trade of picking up small piles of toys for video games. The older will take the bait quite readily, but the younger, still not able to quite put together the concept of future reward versus current dislike of work, may take some prodding.
And in the end the house will be less not clean. I'll be able to see more of the wretched carpet and will be reminded of the need to vaccuum. I'll put it off for a couple of days while the blanket of toys reforms throughout the house.
And then I've got my week planned.
I have made a start in making a dent in the mess.
Keep in mind that it's ninety percent toys, and I seriously doubt I had a hand in making this toy mess. I have now put up a few, mostly just retaping the bottom of the Cootie box and putting the Cootie parts back in it, and I also picked up all the Battleship pegs that had gotten dumped out of both the red and the blue game boards, or whatever you call them. Battlegrounds maybe?
My next offer of help came in the form of separating toys by type or end location, meaning putting all the Legos in a pile and all the Transformers in a pile and . . .
I've done this in both the playroom and living room. It all happened yesterday, and magically the piles are still mostly separate and distinct.
Now I just need to motivate two boys to finish the job. I won't mention their bedroom, but the floor is invisible beneath a sea of Legos and Littlest Pet Shop and Playmobile. I sound like a really crappy ad for all these toys right now.
And it also just shows how we aren't hippy parents with primary colored, peaceful toys. We don't have large chunks of wood sitting around inviting imagination, and we don't have anything made out of foodstuffs that was both experiment and play. There's nothing wrong with any of that, but it's just not us. We have light sabers and toys that do unending battle with evil. We have monsters and pirates. We also have two naked Raggedy Andys, but that's neither here nor there.
Of course there is a pile for books, everyone from James Patterson to Richard Scarry to Bionicle instructions. I currently have a book pile in the bathroom, but we aren't worried about my tiny mess just now. It's the kids we're worried about.
And that's my day. I keep mentioning cleaning and how I've made it too easy, but we have as of yet failed to do any cleaning. I need to do one or two loads of laundry and put up some clothes I folded last night. I've emptied the dishwasher and need to reload it. I have beer cans to stomp for recycling and a few new ones to rinse. I also need a shower and to be at work by four. Maybe I'll remember to take my knife and sharpen it on the stone at work.
If nothing else gets done I'll definitely work. It's a Monday, and the weather report I checked last night indicated rain, and the sky outside looks as if it's promising a good dousing, but so far it isn't the one hundred percent chance of rain that NOAA suggested. That means I won't have a whole hell of a lot of work to do at work, but it is the one inescapable component of my day.
So, now my plan truly comes to fruition. I will now finish blogging and go find the boys. I'll share with them the news that I need a shower and remind them that video games are a good diversion for them while I'm in the shower. They will be offered the trade of picking up small piles of toys for video games. The older will take the bait quite readily, but the younger, still not able to quite put together the concept of future reward versus current dislike of work, may take some prodding.
And in the end the house will be less not clean. I'll be able to see more of the wretched carpet and will be reminded of the need to vaccuum. I'll put it off for a couple of days while the blanket of toys reforms throughout the house.
And then I've got my week planned.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
not really parallels
Something came up in my reader in one of the blogs that I've only recently discovered, The Bygone Bureau. It has absolutely nothing to do with the German homeschool whatever, but it is about aspects of German education as seen by an American living in Germany and teaching.
If you aren't a homeschooler or into home education news then you may well have no idea why I even mention Germany and homeschooling together, but if you are aware of this particular not a news story then you can imagine I thought of it when I saw an article about Germany and education. I'm only aware of the story because as homeschoolers we can't help but at least know it exists as a story.
Unlike my usual m.o. I offer no opinion. I found the article interesting, but then this writer, Locke McKenzie and the particular blog The Rambling American were what coaxed me to look further at The Bygone Bureau in the first place.
If you aren't a homeschooler or into home education news then you may well have no idea why I even mention Germany and homeschooling together, but if you are aware of this particular not a news story then you can imagine I thought of it when I saw an article about Germany and education. I'm only aware of the story because as homeschoolers we can't help but at least know it exists as a story.
Unlike my usual m.o. I offer no opinion. I found the article interesting, but then this writer, Locke McKenzie and the particular blog The Rambling American were what coaxed me to look further at The Bygone Bureau in the first place.
Thursday, April 09, 2009
driven to the brink
Via advocate.com today I read the story of an eleven year old boy committing suicide. According to his mother he was tired of being teased and bullied and called gay. The article doesn't tell us whether or not the child was or was not gay, but I don't really think it matters.
According to the mother she attempted to work with the school and tried to get them to stop the bullying, and according to her the school was entirely unresponsive.
And now for my anger.
1) what is so hard about not allowing school children to use discriminatory language? Are the kids also allowed to use racially based words to insult each other? Are they allowed to use religious based words to insult each other? When will it no longer be okay to use words that belittle based on an assumption of sexual orientation?
2) why would a parent continue to put their child in situations where they are terrorized in such a way? Why not stop sending the child to a place, even if it is school, where they are going to be antagonized and hurt on a daily basis?
I don't want to think about this story, because honestly I have enough on my mind. I can depress myself quite easily. And if I think about this poor little boy, this child so close in age to my oldest son, if I think about it I'm going to cry, and I'm going to be angry, and I'm going to wonder about the children who drove this child to take his own life. I'm going to wonder about the type of parents who raise children to treat others like this.
As long as there are people in this world willing to demonize me and other gay people then we are going to continue to see this sort of fallout. We are going to continue to see children taking their lives, and we are all poorer for having these hate mongering monsters still alive, still walking around, still screaming their homophobic epithets and claiming victim status when we demand they stop. The real victim is gone. He wrapped an extension cord around his neck and said, "no more." Why was this the only way to stop his hurt?
According to the mother she attempted to work with the school and tried to get them to stop the bullying, and according to her the school was entirely unresponsive.
And now for my anger.
1) what is so hard about not allowing school children to use discriminatory language? Are the kids also allowed to use racially based words to insult each other? Are they allowed to use religious based words to insult each other? When will it no longer be okay to use words that belittle based on an assumption of sexual orientation?
2) why would a parent continue to put their child in situations where they are terrorized in such a way? Why not stop sending the child to a place, even if it is school, where they are going to be antagonized and hurt on a daily basis?
I don't want to think about this story, because honestly I have enough on my mind. I can depress myself quite easily. And if I think about this poor little boy, this child so close in age to my oldest son, if I think about it I'm going to cry, and I'm going to be angry, and I'm going to wonder about the children who drove this child to take his own life. I'm going to wonder about the type of parents who raise children to treat others like this.
As long as there are people in this world willing to demonize me and other gay people then we are going to continue to see this sort of fallout. We are going to continue to see children taking their lives, and we are all poorer for having these hate mongering monsters still alive, still walking around, still screaming their homophobic epithets and claiming victim status when we demand they stop. The real victim is gone. He wrapped an extension cord around his neck and said, "no more." Why was this the only way to stop his hurt?
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
we have plenty in the freezer
In the distance, slowly approaching, I hear it, the ice cream van.
I hate the ice cream van. It's not just the obnoxious music or the even more annoying "HELLO" that sounds so full of attitude.
More than anything it's probably my cheapness coupled with my lack of funds. I get tired of telling the boys no. I want to buy them ice cream, and I'd love to buy the ice cream based novelties sold out of the annoying van. The boys some days want so much to get ice cream from the van.
But I hate the van. I hate hearing it blocks away and never knowing exactly where it is. I hate people marketing to my children, especially getting up in our faces pretty much in our home. Television commercials are one thing, providing fuel for a steady diet of "I want that." But they are commercials, and I think that, from a fairly young age, most of us grow immune to the near constant deluge and are able to shut out the ads.
Not so with the damned ice cream van. Even inside the house the sound worms its way in, and there it is "HELLO" amidst the horrors of music that could only be worse were it a midi file, though that may actually help, but given the two options it's sort of like the difference between wiping your ass with sand paper or just slapping it clean with the binder of a spiral notebook.
I hate the ice cream van. It's not just the obnoxious music or the even more annoying "HELLO" that sounds so full of attitude.
More than anything it's probably my cheapness coupled with my lack of funds. I get tired of telling the boys no. I want to buy them ice cream, and I'd love to buy the ice cream based novelties sold out of the annoying van. The boys some days want so much to get ice cream from the van.
But I hate the van. I hate hearing it blocks away and never knowing exactly where it is. I hate people marketing to my children, especially getting up in our faces pretty much in our home. Television commercials are one thing, providing fuel for a steady diet of "I want that." But they are commercials, and I think that, from a fairly young age, most of us grow immune to the near constant deluge and are able to shut out the ads.
Not so with the damned ice cream van. Even inside the house the sound worms its way in, and there it is "HELLO" amidst the horrors of music that could only be worse were it a midi file, though that may actually help, but given the two options it's sort of like the difference between wiping your ass with sand paper or just slapping it clean with the binder of a spiral notebook.
oh so tired
I did not sleep for shit last night. I didn't drink much, and I really don't want that to be the reason I couldn't sleep, but considering I spent the night in the bed of someone I don't actually know doesn't really sound like the greatest reason either.
After getting off work last night I carried my shift beer up the square to the pub only to decide that I wouldn't be spending any time there due to the horrid nature of the music. I went to the little honky tonk bar for a beer only to learn that there was no one there I wanted to hang out with. A quick beer there, and I left for the gay bar.
I didn't expect much there, not much more than a beer. I knew there was a really good chance that I'd run into the last two guys I let pick me up, and I did.
One of those two didn't see me at first, though I saw him. I wasn't actively avoiding him, and I'd be willing to spend more time with him, but I'm not sure what he's looking for any more than I can pinpoint exactly what it is I'm looking for. He gave me the old "did you lose my number?" routine which I served right back. His phone is no more one way than mine. Of course now I'm debating whether to text him and start our conversation up again. I'd kind of like to see him, but I just don't know. He had to have seen me leaving with the guy I left with, especially considering he was sitting next to me at the bar when I left.
One of the bartenders was off and hanging out. He's young, really hot, and dating someone. He approached me at one point to say Hi and that he had a friend he wanted to set me up with, a friend he claimed needed a boyfriend. I was open to meet someone.
And then suddenly there was someone else sitting next to me at the bar, a fairly young looking and fairly hot someone, a guy giving me this look and telling me that he thought I was hot. I can't say that I went there with the intent of hooking up with someone, but I have to admit that some amount of going to the gay bar involves some amount of at least willingness to hook up.
And I didn't sleep for shit. It's been a while since I had one of those doze for a minute wake for a minute nights, and last night was one of them. I'm not unhappy with any of what happened, but again, given my two options of why I didn't sleep, I can't say either of them make me proud. Either I'm a drunk or a slut, both labels I'm okay with wearing for the moment but not the place I want to be.
After getting off work last night I carried my shift beer up the square to the pub only to decide that I wouldn't be spending any time there due to the horrid nature of the music. I went to the little honky tonk bar for a beer only to learn that there was no one there I wanted to hang out with. A quick beer there, and I left for the gay bar.
I didn't expect much there, not much more than a beer. I knew there was a really good chance that I'd run into the last two guys I let pick me up, and I did.
One of those two didn't see me at first, though I saw him. I wasn't actively avoiding him, and I'd be willing to spend more time with him, but I'm not sure what he's looking for any more than I can pinpoint exactly what it is I'm looking for. He gave me the old "did you lose my number?" routine which I served right back. His phone is no more one way than mine. Of course now I'm debating whether to text him and start our conversation up again. I'd kind of like to see him, but I just don't know. He had to have seen me leaving with the guy I left with, especially considering he was sitting next to me at the bar when I left.
One of the bartenders was off and hanging out. He's young, really hot, and dating someone. He approached me at one point to say Hi and that he had a friend he wanted to set me up with, a friend he claimed needed a boyfriend. I was open to meet someone.
And then suddenly there was someone else sitting next to me at the bar, a fairly young looking and fairly hot someone, a guy giving me this look and telling me that he thought I was hot. I can't say that I went there with the intent of hooking up with someone, but I have to admit that some amount of going to the gay bar involves some amount of at least willingness to hook up.
And I didn't sleep for shit. It's been a while since I had one of those doze for a minute wake for a minute nights, and last night was one of them. I'm not unhappy with any of what happened, but again, given my two options of why I didn't sleep, I can't say either of them make me proud. Either I'm a drunk or a slut, both labels I'm okay with wearing for the moment but not the place I want to be.
Monday, April 06, 2009
dear friend
I know that you think your boyfriend is hot. He does seem to have a nice enough body under his overalls, and believe me when I say I don't have anything against overalls.
Yes, the hillbilly mohawk is kind of cute(ish) on him as is the chinhawk(not really) and yes he is amazing on the pedal steel.
It's probably a very good thing that you are so attracted to him, and honestly, why else would you have initially gotten together were it not for a mutual sexual attraction? That's pretty much how we humans seem to find ourselves in these sorts of things.
I don't find your boyfriend unattractive, but really, do you need your gay friend to agree with your opinion of your boyfriend's hotness? Do I really have to tell you what you want to hear?
So, really, let it go already. I'm not going to pretend he's hot, so you can stop pretending to be so damn offended. We'll still be friends, and I'll still not want him, and that's okay. I've got enough issues with straight guys that I don't need yours added on.
Thanks!
Yes, the hillbilly mohawk is kind of cute(ish) on him as is the chinhawk(not really) and yes he is amazing on the pedal steel.
It's probably a very good thing that you are so attracted to him, and honestly, why else would you have initially gotten together were it not for a mutual sexual attraction? That's pretty much how we humans seem to find ourselves in these sorts of things.
I don't find your boyfriend unattractive, but really, do you need your gay friend to agree with your opinion of your boyfriend's hotness? Do I really have to tell you what you want to hear?
So, really, let it go already. I'm not going to pretend he's hot, so you can stop pretending to be so damn offended. We'll still be friends, and I'll still not want him, and that's okay. I've got enough issues with straight guys that I don't need yours added on.
Thanks!
allowed
"God is allowing me to go back to school." So reads a message from a "friend" posted on Facebook. Other friends have commented back, generally congratulating this person on their utter helplessness in the face of the absolutely mundane thing he has allowed god to do, a thing that millions of people do all on their own with no need to thank an interstellar being.
I'm amazed at this sort of thing, though I should be used to it, as it's the sort of mindset that I grew up with. It's as if we are just mindless automatons that can't think or do for ourselves without the guiding hand of space grandpa providing his willingness to allow.
I'll admit that I haven't made the best decisions in life, and I'm likely to make some bad decisions in the future. I let myself down much more often than I should, but I'm willing to admit this and own my mistakes. I don't need someone of questionable existence to accept all the blame or all the credit for what I do.
I guess I just don't get it. Of course these are the people who see an accidental pregnancy as the payment you must accept, along with the next eighteen years of child rearing, as a just punishment for a sexual indiscretion, so I think we can accept that their reason is often a bit skewed.
But seriously? God allowed you to get into school? And I bet he spoke in the ear of the person reviewing the different applications? Did he secretly rubber stamp the application when the office wasn't looking? Did he make the other applications illegible?
I'm ending up so far from any point I thought I was going to make and have ended up too close to crazy wing nut rant land. I can't think clearly when it comes to this sort of thing. I think I'll turn the rant off for now.
I'm amazed at this sort of thing, though I should be used to it, as it's the sort of mindset that I grew up with. It's as if we are just mindless automatons that can't think or do for ourselves without the guiding hand of space grandpa providing his willingness to allow.
I'll admit that I haven't made the best decisions in life, and I'm likely to make some bad decisions in the future. I let myself down much more often than I should, but I'm willing to admit this and own my mistakes. I don't need someone of questionable existence to accept all the blame or all the credit for what I do.
I guess I just don't get it. Of course these are the people who see an accidental pregnancy as the payment you must accept, along with the next eighteen years of child rearing, as a just punishment for a sexual indiscretion, so I think we can accept that their reason is often a bit skewed.
But seriously? God allowed you to get into school? And I bet he spoke in the ear of the person reviewing the different applications? Did he secretly rubber stamp the application when the office wasn't looking? Did he make the other applications illegible?
I'm ending up so far from any point I thought I was going to make and have ended up too close to crazy wing nut rant land. I can't think clearly when it comes to this sort of thing. I think I'll turn the rant off for now.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
oops, I seem to have . . .
Yes, I did it again. I saw it coming, and I didn't do anything about it. I suppose there's nothing I can do about it, and I kind of hate it, but at the same time I doubt there's much I can do about it.
I have a crush on a straight boy.
He's the roommate of a guy I work with who isn't not hot in his own way, but he isn't the sort of guy who I have to assume is my type. I'm sure there's a point at which the line that represents "my type" corresponds with hot enough, but we aren't graphing that particular concern at the moment, and we won't likely visit it in another post, so we're left to ponder.
The roommate however seems to fall into a category that I've been recognizing as "my type." He's roughly my size/height, but he has really dark hair/eyes, and there's a certain charm, a bit of something I can't name. I like him.
And he likes girls.
I've sort of hung out with him here and there, and the moment I saw him I was a little smitten, so the having hung out only seems to add to the problem. I hung out with him a bit tonight, and the whole time I was torn between knowing I have no chance with him and continuing to enjoy his company in a way that makes me want him even more.
And it's not just that he's hot, though he certainly is. I can't claim to know him too horribly well. Like I said, I've sort of hung out with him here and there, though the here as well as the there are either the place I work or the bar a few doors down.
He is really more a symptom than the problem. I should even admit that it isn't that it's even such a huge problem. I'd wager it is an ongoing concern among gay men in general, so it isn't even an issue common only to me. It does get annoying at times.
He does of course have to get in line. There are at least two other straight guys that I know and am somewhat friends with for whom I seem to harbor some desirous feelings. No amount of Jedi mind trickery is going to make any of them suddenly gay, though I won't pretend I'm not trying. I guess for now I'll just keep my imagination oiled and ready, waiting, ready for that moment.
I have a crush on a straight boy.
He's the roommate of a guy I work with who isn't not hot in his own way, but he isn't the sort of guy who I have to assume is my type. I'm sure there's a point at which the line that represents "my type" corresponds with hot enough, but we aren't graphing that particular concern at the moment, and we won't likely visit it in another post, so we're left to ponder.
The roommate however seems to fall into a category that I've been recognizing as "my type." He's roughly my size/height, but he has really dark hair/eyes, and there's a certain charm, a bit of something I can't name. I like him.
And he likes girls.
I've sort of hung out with him here and there, and the moment I saw him I was a little smitten, so the having hung out only seems to add to the problem. I hung out with him a bit tonight, and the whole time I was torn between knowing I have no chance with him and continuing to enjoy his company in a way that makes me want him even more.
And it's not just that he's hot, though he certainly is. I can't claim to know him too horribly well. Like I said, I've sort of hung out with him here and there, though the here as well as the there are either the place I work or the bar a few doors down.
He is really more a symptom than the problem. I should even admit that it isn't that it's even such a huge problem. I'd wager it is an ongoing concern among gay men in general, so it isn't even an issue common only to me. It does get annoying at times.
He does of course have to get in line. There are at least two other straight guys that I know and am somewhat friends with for whom I seem to harbor some desirous feelings. No amount of Jedi mind trickery is going to make any of them suddenly gay, though I won't pretend I'm not trying. I guess for now I'll just keep my imagination oiled and ready, waiting, ready for that moment.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
hating patience, well, not hating it, just having to be it
This is one of those moments when I feel I have absolutely nothing to say, but I feel compelled anyway. So out with it.
My right hand hurts like hell. It isn't a constant thing, but certain movements are really unpleasant. I can't think of any specific thing I did, but I'm fairly certain there was at least one whanging with the back of the hand some part of the car in my attempts to fix the car.
In the end I gave up on my attempt at car repair. It was breaking the 3/8 to quarter inch adapter that finally did me in. You may remember the 6+2(3) inch adapter that was going to allow me access to the bolts on the exhaust pipe that I couldn't reach, and here too was the demise of the 3/8 to quarter inch adapter. It was a borrowed tool, but it's Craftsman, so it's replaceable.
I did in fact take the car to a shop and have it fixed for a sum more than I'd intended but less than that which I could have paid. I did bring my own oil pan and gasket, so that was money saved, and they found the bottle of oil I had (just in case) and added that in with what they put in.
And I'm ever so happy to have my car back. This feeling of my car is still somewhat new. Momma has had her own car for a short time, and then suddenly my car was leaking entirely too much oil, and as it sat parked for much of the time, not to mention on jackstands two different times, I've driven Momma's car a good bit, and we've had to continue the running each other to and from work that having two cars would have, and will, fix. So I'm back to having a car that is all my own.
I don't have to adjust the seat or the mirror suddenly. They're always right where I left them. It's nice not hitting my knee as I get in and realize the seat is too close to the steering wheel. I may even spill less coffee this way.
I just got a phone call from Momma. She believes my phone is not accepting texts from, claims that she's texted me four times. I don't have any new texts from her, and her phone is the one that's sadly and slowly (or not so slowly) dying. I don't know what to say to that.
And the US MNT beat Trinidad and Tobago in Nashville tonight with Jozey Altidore scoring all the goals in a 3-0 match.
My right hand hurts like hell. It isn't a constant thing, but certain movements are really unpleasant. I can't think of any specific thing I did, but I'm fairly certain there was at least one whanging with the back of the hand some part of the car in my attempts to fix the car.
In the end I gave up on my attempt at car repair. It was breaking the 3/8 to quarter inch adapter that finally did me in. You may remember the 6+2(3) inch adapter that was going to allow me access to the bolts on the exhaust pipe that I couldn't reach, and here too was the demise of the 3/8 to quarter inch adapter. It was a borrowed tool, but it's Craftsman, so it's replaceable.
I did in fact take the car to a shop and have it fixed for a sum more than I'd intended but less than that which I could have paid. I did bring my own oil pan and gasket, so that was money saved, and they found the bottle of oil I had (just in case) and added that in with what they put in.
And I'm ever so happy to have my car back. This feeling of my car is still somewhat new. Momma has had her own car for a short time, and then suddenly my car was leaking entirely too much oil, and as it sat parked for much of the time, not to mention on jackstands two different times, I've driven Momma's car a good bit, and we've had to continue the running each other to and from work that having two cars would have, and will, fix. So I'm back to having a car that is all my own.
I don't have to adjust the seat or the mirror suddenly. They're always right where I left them. It's nice not hitting my knee as I get in and realize the seat is too close to the steering wheel. I may even spill less coffee this way.
I just got a phone call from Momma. She believes my phone is not accepting texts from, claims that she's texted me four times. I don't have any new texts from her, and her phone is the one that's sadly and slowly (or not so slowly) dying. I don't know what to say to that.
And the US MNT beat Trinidad and Tobago in Nashville tonight with Jozey Altidore scoring all the goals in a 3-0 match.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
frustrated update
In addition to the cross member that I finally did have to move I'm now faced with more parts removal to access the part that I actually need to remove and replace.
The little bit of exhaust pipe that runs under the oil pan must also come out. I was fairly certain I'd be able to work around it, but such is not the case.
Did I mention my growing frustration with this repair? I'm certain I may have at some point.
I'm about to leave the house to visit a friend. I'm going to borrow two three inch socket extensions to add to my new six inch and hope that I actually get twelve inches that will allow me to remove three bolts out of eight that I need to pull to get the exhaust pipe out of the way.
Also, it's raining again, and I can see out the window the small pile of cat litter that is supposed to be soaking up the oil in the driveway. Did I mention having accidentally stepped in it earlier? The rain is turning it into an especially delightful and disgusting mud.
The little bit of exhaust pipe that runs under the oil pan must also come out. I was fairly certain I'd be able to work around it, but such is not the case.
Did I mention my growing frustration with this repair? I'm certain I may have at some point.
I'm about to leave the house to visit a friend. I'm going to borrow two three inch socket extensions to add to my new six inch and hope that I actually get twelve inches that will allow me to remove three bolts out of eight that I need to pull to get the exhaust pipe out of the way.
Also, it's raining again, and I can see out the window the small pile of cat litter that is supposed to be soaking up the oil in the driveway. Did I mention having accidentally stepped in it earlier? The rain is turning it into an especially delightful and disgusting mud.
laid out flat
The front end of my poor car is off the ground yet again. The job is slightly harder than I'd hoped and involves moving a support arm that I'd hoped to be able to work around. The socket extension that I borrowed from Momma's boyfriend was already on its way to broken, and I finished breaking it before I finished needing it. Rather than finish the job yesterday I finished that part of my day with a trip to Sears. Momma's boyfriend and I now own our very own six inch, 3/8 inch socket extension.
I'm off work today and should have the entire day to finish fixing my car. Today it's raining just enough to keep the ground wet and keep me out from under the car.
That's only one thing that's messing with my head today. The frustration that completing this one simple car repair task has become is starting to get to me. My weekend that I could have worked on this car was spent driving to, attending and returning from a roller derby bout in Cincinnati. It was a trip we'd planned, and I don't at all regret going, but sitting here now, frustrated about my car, it just seems like time added to the time I've not fixed the car.
There are other issues dancing around inside my head, things I won't go into just now. And it isn't that these other things are so big or are new or . . . It's just a dogpile of irritation and frustration, and I'm not doing the greatest job of fixing any of my issues. I keep finding myself in the moment frustrated and exasperated and feeling somewhat helpless that this moment there is nothing I can do.
Dr. Seuss called it the waiting place. I'm sure it's come up here before.
Bleah! This isn't the post I wanted to write today, and I actually did have some things I was thinking. If the rain continues to keep me from lying on my back on the asphalt under a few hundred pounds of Honda then maybe I can get to it.
I've also agreed to write a bout recap from Cincinnati, so I need to get to that before the day is over. I've tended to have a bad habit of putting those off in the past, and I find my recaps are better the sooner following the bout I write them. And The Boy has just informed me that he's hungry. My answer of "good for you" won't really help him get anything to eat, so I suppose that's my cue.
I'm off work today and should have the entire day to finish fixing my car. Today it's raining just enough to keep the ground wet and keep me out from under the car.
That's only one thing that's messing with my head today. The frustration that completing this one simple car repair task has become is starting to get to me. My weekend that I could have worked on this car was spent driving to, attending and returning from a roller derby bout in Cincinnati. It was a trip we'd planned, and I don't at all regret going, but sitting here now, frustrated about my car, it just seems like time added to the time I've not fixed the car.
There are other issues dancing around inside my head, things I won't go into just now. And it isn't that these other things are so big or are new or . . . It's just a dogpile of irritation and frustration, and I'm not doing the greatest job of fixing any of my issues. I keep finding myself in the moment frustrated and exasperated and feeling somewhat helpless that this moment there is nothing I can do.
Dr. Seuss called it the waiting place. I'm sure it's come up here before.
Bleah! This isn't the post I wanted to write today, and I actually did have some things I was thinking. If the rain continues to keep me from lying on my back on the asphalt under a few hundred pounds of Honda then maybe I can get to it.
I've also agreed to write a bout recap from Cincinnati, so I need to get to that before the day is over. I've tended to have a bad habit of putting those off in the past, and I find my recaps are better the sooner following the bout I write them. And The Boy has just informed me that he's hungry. My answer of "good for you" won't really help him get anything to eat, so I suppose that's my cue.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
oil slicks
So, did I tell you about my car? It's been leaking a god awful amount of oil for too long, and I finally had the time and weather to prop the bitch up and look underneath.
I really hoped it would be the gasket on the oil pan, and I did get a new gasket as well as plenty of new oil and a filter. It's a bit past oil change time, so we'll do them all together.
The car sits on jack stands in the back driveway, a drain pan beneath the dripping. We have a long and obnoxious oil slick running down the driveway because I never thought to kick a pan under the car when it was parked. I did think of it yesterday, but that's several days and most of a dollar short.
Whether or not the gasket is good is of no consequence at this point. I crawled under the car and soon realized the real problem. Somehow or other the oil pan is cracked. I hate even admitting it, but either Momma or I has had an accident that went unmentioned. It obviously didn't have to have been much, and I could guess it might have been something that didn't seem, at the time, to have been so bad.
It doesn't really matter how or by whom, so I won't dwell on it. I also won't dwell on ninety bucks for a new oil pan. I called a couple of places and checked a couple places online. In the end it's Eddie's up the road a bit. They've got a hill full of old cars to pick from and can find me a used one.
The boys and I, in Momma's car (thanks Momma!) took a drive north today. The place sort of sneaks up on you as things can do on this highway. The road runs over and around and through a series of ridges, so it's quite easy for something to be sitting out in the valley below you or hidden behind a wide curve.
I talked to the nice lady and confirmed my need for an oil pan with a cash deposit. Our recent rain is making their job harder as they drive the tractor to find the car from which to pull the part, so I'm expecting a call tomorrow that my oil pan is ready for me to come pick up. With any luck it will be early enough in the day that I can fix my car in time for work.
And that's the story up to this point. I do so hope that the repair doesn't bring to light any further destruction or needs. I want this (and the brake light) to be the last thing I have to fix for a while. I also put two tires on it this week, the day that I went for my oil change supplies, so for the moment, I'm about car repaired out.
I really hoped it would be the gasket on the oil pan, and I did get a new gasket as well as plenty of new oil and a filter. It's a bit past oil change time, so we'll do them all together.
The car sits on jack stands in the back driveway, a drain pan beneath the dripping. We have a long and obnoxious oil slick running down the driveway because I never thought to kick a pan under the car when it was parked. I did think of it yesterday, but that's several days and most of a dollar short.
Whether or not the gasket is good is of no consequence at this point. I crawled under the car and soon realized the real problem. Somehow or other the oil pan is cracked. I hate even admitting it, but either Momma or I has had an accident that went unmentioned. It obviously didn't have to have been much, and I could guess it might have been something that didn't seem, at the time, to have been so bad.
It doesn't really matter how or by whom, so I won't dwell on it. I also won't dwell on ninety bucks for a new oil pan. I called a couple of places and checked a couple places online. In the end it's Eddie's up the road a bit. They've got a hill full of old cars to pick from and can find me a used one.
The boys and I, in Momma's car (thanks Momma!) took a drive north today. The place sort of sneaks up on you as things can do on this highway. The road runs over and around and through a series of ridges, so it's quite easy for something to be sitting out in the valley below you or hidden behind a wide curve.
I talked to the nice lady and confirmed my need for an oil pan with a cash deposit. Our recent rain is making their job harder as they drive the tractor to find the car from which to pull the part, so I'm expecting a call tomorrow that my oil pan is ready for me to come pick up. With any luck it will be early enough in the day that I can fix my car in time for work.
And that's the story up to this point. I do so hope that the repair doesn't bring to light any further destruction or needs. I want this (and the brake light) to be the last thing I have to fix for a while. I also put two tires on it this week, the day that I went for my oil change supplies, so for the moment, I'm about car repaired out.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
looked at
I went to look at a house yesterday. I liked it, but the person with whom I've agreed to be a roommate has not yet seen it. I should think she'd like it, but I can't know that without her seeing it and agreeing.
The house is a good deal and in a location I love. I'll admit that it puts me in easy walking distance of two bars I tend to frequent occasionally, but it's even less of a walk to a playground and small park.
I know and am friends with the person renting the upstairs of this house, and that proximity to this person and people around her would be good for me.
The house itself is beautiful, over a hundred years old, full of wood and mantels and huge doors and a claw foot bathtub.
I'm pretty sure I could move in almost immediately. I met the owner yesterday, and he and I seemed to get along well enough, the forty year age difference not seeming to play any part at all. We ended up wasting the better part of an hour wandering through the house more times than we needed to, commenting on the beauty in the architectural features, admiring his work in hanging blinds and working around the more than a century gap between those windows and modern windows, and they don't make curtains that long anymore.
Not rushing into a deal of course sounds like a good idea, but I want to give the proper amount of credence it deserves, no more and no less. Because I really want this space, but I don't want to be an idiot about it. Am I overlooking cons in favor of the pros? Am I intentionally ignoring anything I know should be a deal breaker? I really don't think so.
So the problem is aligning potential landlord with potential roommate. I only know what she tells me, and I'm not sure how antsy she is to move compared with how antsy she claims. I know she just moved into a place and has no lease and wants to get back closer to town rather than being in some other county that I couldn't place though I am familiar with its existence.
And that's where I am as of right now. I can't stop thinking about this house, and I really want to move, like now. I feel sometimes as if I've put this off much too long, but I also fear the next big cut, the moving out, the total separation that comes with actually starting life not somewhat attached to this woman I've . . . actually, I don't know that this is the post for that conversation. Yes, there's still a weirdness attached to this whole thing. I guess it's just one of those situations where a good thing sort of feels like a bad thing in the here and now.
The house is a good deal and in a location I love. I'll admit that it puts me in easy walking distance of two bars I tend to frequent occasionally, but it's even less of a walk to a playground and small park.
I know and am friends with the person renting the upstairs of this house, and that proximity to this person and people around her would be good for me.
The house itself is beautiful, over a hundred years old, full of wood and mantels and huge doors and a claw foot bathtub.
I'm pretty sure I could move in almost immediately. I met the owner yesterday, and he and I seemed to get along well enough, the forty year age difference not seeming to play any part at all. We ended up wasting the better part of an hour wandering through the house more times than we needed to, commenting on the beauty in the architectural features, admiring his work in hanging blinds and working around the more than a century gap between those windows and modern windows, and they don't make curtains that long anymore.
Not rushing into a deal of course sounds like a good idea, but I want to give the proper amount of credence it deserves, no more and no less. Because I really want this space, but I don't want to be an idiot about it. Am I overlooking cons in favor of the pros? Am I intentionally ignoring anything I know should be a deal breaker? I really don't think so.
So the problem is aligning potential landlord with potential roommate. I only know what she tells me, and I'm not sure how antsy she is to move compared with how antsy she claims. I know she just moved into a place and has no lease and wants to get back closer to town rather than being in some other county that I couldn't place though I am familiar with its existence.
And that's where I am as of right now. I can't stop thinking about this house, and I really want to move, like now. I feel sometimes as if I've put this off much too long, but I also fear the next big cut, the moving out, the total separation that comes with actually starting life not somewhat attached to this woman I've . . . actually, I don't know that this is the post for that conversation. Yes, there's still a weirdness attached to this whole thing. I guess it's just one of those situations where a good thing sort of feels like a bad thing in the here and now.
things I don't do
Nothing much happened this past week, or so it seems, but then quite a bit happened as well. Momma got a car, and I finally looked at a place to live other than the one I am now in. I didn't hang out outside the square very much other than the night I went to the bar that has all too often proved unsafe for me, and I didn't dance.
As we all should know by now, I don't dance. I accept that there is a point I could find at which I may feel okay about dancing, but as the social function it is on a packed dance floor with too loud music that I don't actually like is a recipe for too much for me.
Other people do not have any issue with dancing, and for them I can accept that it's none of the ways I think about it. It isn't an unpleasant place for them but is in fact an enjoyable portion of their evening out.
Too often though people don't get or just won't accept that I don't dance. They want me to, and they tell me all the good things that will come of dancing. I was even offered the chance to meet all of a particular friend's "gay boys" if I would just come with her. To make matters worse for me was that this group of people were at the farthest point in the dancing throng that one could get. I really wasn't wading through that to get to them.
I suppose I sort of do wonder if getting over it and dancing might not be good for me, but I also hate that I should have to. I don't get why anyone would act as though they need me to dance. I don't need their presence next to me to sit at the bar and drink beer and talk to people.
And sitting here thinking about it, what I most prefer is moving around, running into people I know, just hanging out. So, next time we hang out, remember that. I don't dance, but don't I don't care if you do. Go! Have fun.
Oh, and you aren't yet getting the story just now about this particular bar at which I seem never to have a good time. I've collected a couple of stories about this place from other people. Some are similar to mine while others are just messed up in relation to mine and those like it.
So, yeah, mysterious foreshadowing what?
As we all should know by now, I don't dance. I accept that there is a point I could find at which I may feel okay about dancing, but as the social function it is on a packed dance floor with too loud music that I don't actually like is a recipe for too much for me.
Other people do not have any issue with dancing, and for them I can accept that it's none of the ways I think about it. It isn't an unpleasant place for them but is in fact an enjoyable portion of their evening out.
Too often though people don't get or just won't accept that I don't dance. They want me to, and they tell me all the good things that will come of dancing. I was even offered the chance to meet all of a particular friend's "gay boys" if I would just come with her. To make matters worse for me was that this group of people were at the farthest point in the dancing throng that one could get. I really wasn't wading through that to get to them.
I suppose I sort of do wonder if getting over it and dancing might not be good for me, but I also hate that I should have to. I don't get why anyone would act as though they need me to dance. I don't need their presence next to me to sit at the bar and drink beer and talk to people.
And sitting here thinking about it, what I most prefer is moving around, running into people I know, just hanging out. So, next time we hang out, remember that. I don't dance, but don't I don't care if you do. Go! Have fun.
Oh, and you aren't yet getting the story just now about this particular bar at which I seem never to have a good time. I've collected a couple of stories about this place from other people. Some are similar to mine while others are just messed up in relation to mine and those like it.
So, yeah, mysterious foreshadowing what?
Thursday, March 12, 2009
motorcycles
First I should point out that I haven't ridden a lot of motorcycles over the course of my short life. I never had access to them in general. There was a family with whom my family were friends, and we visited them often over the years that we knew them. They had daughters the age of two of my older brothers and a son around the age of me and my next youngest brother. This kid did have a motorcycle or two, and a couple of times he actually took me riding.
Years later my next older brother bought a giant beast of a Honda Gold Wing, a bike I would never in my life imagine wanting to actually have. I have a whole other style when it comes to bikes, and it's a style that I never really allowed myself to think about till very recently.
I'm now going to make a connection that may seem a bit of a stretch, but in my mind it's sort of part of something similar. Do I start now with the disclaimer? I'm not into the gay fetishism of bikes and leather and the sort of things that go with that, but my interest in motorcycles is something that I feel I closeted like my being gay. It's something that I knew was there, but for whatever reasons I never allowed myself to consider.
It's always been there. I've always had to notice bikes wherever they are in relation to me. Even when they aren't the style or type that I would prefer I look and watch as long as I can see them. Even when it's a huge cruiser holding a pair of retirees who opted for the training wheels package I stop and look.
And now they're everywhere, now that I've allowed myself to accept that, somewhere deep inside me, there's a kid who never got a motorcycle but always wanted one. It reminds me of coming out, when I finally admitted and accepted that I like boys and not girls, boys were everywhere. It doesn't hurt that spring is trying to peep its first blossoms of warmth into the blue east Tennessee skies, because this town is a bike town, and they are everywhere.
If you want to see the sort of bike that forms a bulge in my pants then click HERE. It's an old Triumph and is so beautiful. I want one.
So, with some patience and hopefully some common sense, I'm going to get some more important things out of the way, things like finding a place to live and getting back to paying off the school loans, but there's a bug that's bitten me and an itch I'm going to have to scratch. I'm sticking some money in tiny increments somewhere no one but me will find it. I'm going to start looking for something probably oldish and beat up a little bit. I'm going to figure this thing out and make it happen.
Years later my next older brother bought a giant beast of a Honda Gold Wing, a bike I would never in my life imagine wanting to actually have. I have a whole other style when it comes to bikes, and it's a style that I never really allowed myself to think about till very recently.
I'm now going to make a connection that may seem a bit of a stretch, but in my mind it's sort of part of something similar. Do I start now with the disclaimer? I'm not into the gay fetishism of bikes and leather and the sort of things that go with that, but my interest in motorcycles is something that I feel I closeted like my being gay. It's something that I knew was there, but for whatever reasons I never allowed myself to consider.
It's always been there. I've always had to notice bikes wherever they are in relation to me. Even when they aren't the style or type that I would prefer I look and watch as long as I can see them. Even when it's a huge cruiser holding a pair of retirees who opted for the training wheels package I stop and look.
And now they're everywhere, now that I've allowed myself to accept that, somewhere deep inside me, there's a kid who never got a motorcycle but always wanted one. It reminds me of coming out, when I finally admitted and accepted that I like boys and not girls, boys were everywhere. It doesn't hurt that spring is trying to peep its first blossoms of warmth into the blue east Tennessee skies, because this town is a bike town, and they are everywhere.
If you want to see the sort of bike that forms a bulge in my pants then click HERE. It's an old Triumph and is so beautiful. I want one.
So, with some patience and hopefully some common sense, I'm going to get some more important things out of the way, things like finding a place to live and getting back to paying off the school loans, but there's a bug that's bitten me and an itch I'm going to have to scratch. I'm sticking some money in tiny increments somewhere no one but me will find it. I'm going to start looking for something probably oldish and beat up a little bit. I'm going to figure this thing out and make it happen.
new phone
At some point in the past I'm sure I bitched about my phone. It was dying a slow death. Now it lies forlorn and abandoned. I got a new phone.
I love texting, not in the way that a teenage girl does, but in the way that I hate making phone calls but often want to let people have access to a particular thought process that involves them.
This is technically the third phone I've had, though the first was technically a work phone. After some people misused their phones they were quickly taken away. My next phone was a few years later, and as of mother's day that phone will be four years old.
All of this to say that I'm on my third phone, though considering the work phone wasn't my primary phone, it could also be seen as only my second.
I took care of the Razr for the years I've had it. I never really used it that much in the beginning, but lately it's seen more and more use. It really has been time to replace it, so I finally did.
I think I got a decent deal, and considering the phones AT&T had to offer, it was the exact one I wanted. Sure there are fancier phones, but this one is a pretty green and has a qwerty keyboard, and the camera seems to take good pictures, and the actual phone works better than the old phone, or at least I think it does. Maybe I'm still high from new/pretty/fancy phone vapors.
So while the Blackberrys are neat and cool looking, and the iPhone is like, an iPhone duh, I like my Samsung. As mentioned it's pretty, and I actually enjoy getting to type out my little messages. I'm anal retentive about not using u when I mean you, and the t9 shit isn't going to do it for me. It's too much. I don't like it.
But my new phone? I love it, though not quite as much as a baby loves it when you push their knees toward their chest and help them get that fart out.
I love texting, not in the way that a teenage girl does, but in the way that I hate making phone calls but often want to let people have access to a particular thought process that involves them.
This is technically the third phone I've had, though the first was technically a work phone. After some people misused their phones they were quickly taken away. My next phone was a few years later, and as of mother's day that phone will be four years old.
All of this to say that I'm on my third phone, though considering the work phone wasn't my primary phone, it could also be seen as only my second.
I took care of the Razr for the years I've had it. I never really used it that much in the beginning, but lately it's seen more and more use. It really has been time to replace it, so I finally did.
I think I got a decent deal, and considering the phones AT&T had to offer, it was the exact one I wanted. Sure there are fancier phones, but this one is a pretty green and has a qwerty keyboard, and the camera seems to take good pictures, and the actual phone works better than the old phone, or at least I think it does. Maybe I'm still high from new/pretty/fancy phone vapors.
So while the Blackberrys are neat and cool looking, and the iPhone is like, an iPhone duh, I like my Samsung. As mentioned it's pretty, and I actually enjoy getting to type out my little messages. I'm anal retentive about not using u when I mean you, and the t9 shit isn't going to do it for me. It's too much. I don't like it.
But my new phone? I love it, though not quite as much as a baby loves it when you push their knees toward their chest and help them get that fart out.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
upgrade
My phone is a piece of shit. Actually, my phone is just getting old, though it seems there was a time when nearly four years wasn't such a long time to have a phone.
But it does feel to me as if I'm carrying around a piece of shit phone because of the issues it has developed fairly recently.
Roughly twice a day I have to turn the phone off, open the back and move the sim card around a tiny little bit. I realized within the past week that I have to use it on speaker phone to actually hear all of the conversation I'm attempting to have when attempting to have a conversation. There is a piece in the hinge that gets loose and can actually fall out sometimes. When closed the two halves are a bit wobbly. The back, beneath which is the battery and sim card, fits but could easily be pulled of if it were to snag on something.
So, very soon, I'm going to the dreaded mall to the AT&T store. I thought about ordering a phone online, but Momma suggested checking out the different phones to make sure I like the one I've planned on ordering. That makes sense, and I can probably also get the phone then and there and not have to wait.
Now I just need a pair of children to finish brushing their teeth. I can hear them playing in the bathroom, so I'm guessing I need to stomp back there and yell and waggle my finger at them.
Party on, Garth.
But it does feel to me as if I'm carrying around a piece of shit phone because of the issues it has developed fairly recently.
Roughly twice a day I have to turn the phone off, open the back and move the sim card around a tiny little bit. I realized within the past week that I have to use it on speaker phone to actually hear all of the conversation I'm attempting to have when attempting to have a conversation. There is a piece in the hinge that gets loose and can actually fall out sometimes. When closed the two halves are a bit wobbly. The back, beneath which is the battery and sim card, fits but could easily be pulled of if it were to snag on something.
So, very soon, I'm going to the dreaded mall to the AT&T store. I thought about ordering a phone online, but Momma suggested checking out the different phones to make sure I like the one I've planned on ordering. That makes sense, and I can probably also get the phone then and there and not have to wait.
Now I just need a pair of children to finish brushing their teeth. I can hear them playing in the bathroom, so I'm guessing I need to stomp back there and yell and waggle my finger at them.
Party on, Garth.
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