Diary of an Office Maven

Singing

2010-09-08T17:16:00.000-07:00

Dither, dither, dither
Rot, rot, rot

When life drops something in your lap but what you really want more than anything is an unknown factor beyond your grasp...

Goodbye to Rosie the Queen of Corona*

2009-09-03T14:30:00.000-07:00

I know I said that I wasn't going to sing on this blog but it turns out I lied. Singing badly is so much a part of who I am, I can't leave it out of something that's supposed to represent me in all my craziness. Please forgive me, I know not what I do.**

The mama pajama rolled out of bed
And she ran to the police station
When the papa found out he began to shout
And he started the investigation
Its against the law
It was against the law
What the mama saw
It was against the law

The mama looked down and spit on the ground
Everytime my name gets mentioned
The papa said oy if I get that boy
I'm gonna stick him in the house of detention
Well I'm on my way
I don't know where I'm going
I'm on my way

I'm taking my time
But I don't know where
Goodbye to Rosie the Queen of Corona
See you, me and Julio
Down by the schoolyard
See you, me and Julio
Down by the schoolyard
Me and Julio down by the schoolyard

In a couple of days they come and take me away
But the press let the story leak
And when the radical priest
Come to get me released
We was all on the cover of newsweek
And I'm on my way
I don't know where I'm going
I'm on my way

I'm taking my time
But I don't know where
Goodbye to Rosie the Queen of Corona
See you, me and Julio
Down by the schoolyard
See you, me and Julio
Down by the schoolyard
Me and Julio down by the schoolyard

* I know that's not the title of the song but I like that line. Yeah, I'm weird. So sue me.

** This is a complete and total lie.

Also, I wanted to work something in about Running Scared (the 1986 movie, not that piece of crap 2006 movie) because Jimmy Smits' character is named Julio and I totally associate the name Julio with Running Scared. Anyhow, the quote I wanted to use doesn't actually have anything to do with Julio and its comedic value is entirely dependent upon how Billy Crystal says it so it really doesn't translate to a written blog entry at all. That said, I loved Running Scared and think it's really a funny movie. Lastly, I miss Gregory Hines.

That is all.

Tired

2009-09-01T21:57:00.000-07:00

This past month or two I've been riding this goddamned rocking horse for all I'm worth but these walls, they're still whispering at me.

For the past year or so, the walls have been quiet, leaving me to finally rest after deafening me for most of my life. But when it rains, it fucking pours man. Car repair bills, a nephew wanting to test for his green belt (those tests are not cheap - and he passed! Next is green with a brown stripe), dogs needing vet visits, showers deciding to stop working, blah, blah, blah. Same old shit but we got forcibly relocated to Bandini mountain and I'm just about done in.

Le sigh. Thank for listening. It'll be all right - I can see the light at the end of the tunnel we've bored through the fertilizer. I only wish my horse'd rock forward faster. :-)

Sentimental Claptrap

2009-08-28T10:14:00.000-07:00

This was written around 1 a.m. this morning when I couldn't sleep because it's been too damned hot here lately. It's insomnia and heat induced melancholia that I'm not completely proud of but when I started writing this blog, and have reasserted to myself many times over the years, I vowed (yes, vowed) to represent all of me here, not just the funniest, most intelligent and coherent parts, but the dumbassed and ridiculous parts as well. So forgive the adolescent seriousness of this post but I wanted to put it out here, 'cause I'm masochistic that way...

The song plays and my thoughts turn to you, as they always do. So many years gone by. Do you remember? Do I occur to you at odd moments, when some random recollection fits itself into the grooves of your brain and dislodges thoughts of so many hours spent writing, talking, hoping, longing. I think of you, wonder how you are as your voice floats through the landscape of my memory. I decide to seek you out, to see if you are within reach. A click here, a search there and you are in front of me. A small smile lifts the corner of my mouth, random memories shuffling through forgotten pathways. Should I try? Dare I send the offer out into the ether to possibly be cast aside? I’m overthinking, as I always do, and so a trivial message is written, the request is sent, electronic pulses traveling across the miles to you. The wonders of this age bring your acceptance so quickly. I eagerly drink up the moments of your life to which I am now privy and I see that you are indeed well. As my hungry eyes pass over your pages, I realize there are many later models of me leaving you their own messages, making their own commentary. Where we began with pen and paper, you now have electronic versions of me casting their bottles onto your shore. My unrealistic, and frankly silly, expectations, as ill-defined as they were, flutter to the floor like dust motes settling onto the forgotten surfaces of an abandoned house. Reality doesn’t always crash into our existence. Sometimes it slyly eases into being, waiting with infinite patience for its true form to be recognized. Reality has cast its harsh light on the foolish ideas of an overly sentimental woman.

Chalk Writing

2009-08-27T10:03:00.000-07:00

Every morning when I finally drag my ass out of bed, I take out The Tofunator. Whilst I wait for her to complete her morning micturition (I just found that on Thesaurus.com - I so love vocabulary and the internet), I generally try to wake myself up or fall asleep standing up, whichever works best.

The other morning was a "trying to struggle out of a coma" morning and while walking around in a circle and slapping myself upside the head, I observed some writing in chalk on the concrete pad in the backyard. This in itself is not a strange occurrence as living with a 3-year old lends itself to chalk drawings and such on every conceivable outside writing surface in the vicinity of the house. However, on this particular occasion it appeared that her 14-year old brother had been engaged in the aforementioned chalk writing activity with her. I didn't get a picture (I don't own a camera and my cell phone is all but dead) but here is what I saw:

The Nephew's Name
The Niece's Name
{squiggly drawing}
antidisestablishmentarianism

As I had not yet quite managed to fully regain consciousness (I am so not a morning person), I had to blink a few times, look away and then look back to fully absorb that my nephew had chosen to write the longest word in the English language while playing outside with his sister. Not something you see every day.

Free TACOS!

2009-08-10T15:38:00.001-07:00

If you're broke (like me) or you just like Jack in the Box tacos (also like me) or both (yep, like me), they're giving away free tacos tomorrow. Here's the link for the coupon:

http://coupon.jackinthebox.com/

Enjoy!

Bon Appetit!

2009-07-24T12:06:00.000-07:00

When I was about 8 years old, my grandmother (who was also my after school babysitter) was admitted to a nursing home. Thus began my latch-keydom. Luckily I was a well-behaved child (aka a goody-goody) and so I would always walk straight home after school, make the requisite call to mom to let her know I'd walked straight home from school and then I'd do my homework. Once that was done, I'd have time to kill until Mom got off work. It was during this time that Julia Child became my babysitter.

Now, she wasn't physically in my home, taking care of me and making sure I didn't drink the Drano but I would watch television, as children left to their own devices are occasionally wont to do, and her show just so happened to be on PBS at the right time. I became addicted to watching her cook, to her wonderfully milky voice and her genuine enthusiasm for whatever dish she happened to be preparing during each show. That was where my love for cooking shows began. Julia Child has always held a special place in my childhood memories.

So when my friend and hair stylist guru asked me if I'd like to attend an advance screening of Julie and Julia (he's got a friend at Sony who hooks him up with tickets from time to time), I of course enthusiastically said yes. Last night The Nephew and I went and saw the movie and it was absolutely wonderful. I took The Nephew because he loves cooking and watches Food Network a fair bit so I figured he'd enjoy it. He really liked it and said it's now one of his favorite movies.

It's not surprising that the best part of the movie is the storyline involving Meryl Streep and Stanley Tucci as Julia and Paul Child. Meryl Streep truly becomes Julia and her voice is dead-on. It was interesting to see the various ways that Meryl (who is 5' 6" tall) was made to appear as tall as Julia had been (6' 2"). But honestly, the way Julia and Paul were portrayed and the incredible support and love they had for each other was truly wonderful to behold. Nora Ephron is a master at this kind of feel good human comedy and she was certainly in her element in this film.

The Amy Adams and Chris Messina storyline was okay but not nearly so engaging. It seemed to me that at times, Amy's portrayal embodied a little too much Meg Ryan at her prime. Many of her gestures, her voice and even her hairstyle are incredibly reminiscient of Meg Ryan. Perhaps it's an unfair comparison seeing as Meg has been in several Nora Ephron movies but I really didn't expect to see the similarities so it was a bit of a surprise.

At any rate, for a beautifully done feel good comedy that doesn't hit you over the head with the romantic parts but instead lets them weave throughout the story of these two couples, definitely check Julie and Julia out when it's in wide release. That said, I haven't been able to stop seeing Julia's Paris whenever I close my eyes.

Politically Correct

2009-07-22T14:20:00.000-07:00

Did you roll your eyes when you saw those two words "politically correct"? I know that's my knee-jerk reaction when I see something referred to as politically correct (pc - not to be confused with personal computer - I know some of you are techno-geeks out there ). More often than not, a politically correct term is some moron exercising their ability to run off at the mouth and spew nonsense. Despite my cynicism that simmers constantly beneath the surface of my brain, there are some pc terms that actually have some merit. No way!, you exclaim. Yes way!, I reply.

In fact, I will go so far as to say that if someone is willing to take the time to explain to me why a pc term is valid and their explanation comes from passion and conviction, I will whole heartedly adopt said term. It is a shocking truth that there is some validity in certain pc terms. You can see it coming, can't you? Oh yes, I am going to enlighten you a pc terms that is near and dear to me. So get your coffee, soda, latte, whiskey, cigarette, or whatever your poison of choice is to get you through.

Before I get into the passion and conviction part of this educational essay, let me give you some history about the term harelip. This comes from a wonderful website that now seems to be defunct, which is a terrible shame. From widesmiles.org:

In the 16th century, it was a French Doctor who, when discussing a patient with a cleft, first coined the phrase that would be translated, "Lip of the Hare". In English it was more comfortably shortened to "HareLip". It was an unfortunate pairing of similes. The good doctor was only reflecting that the lip was split, as is the lip of a Hare (and every other rodent). But unfortunately for those who were born with a cleft, the hare had also long been associated with witchcraft!

It was believed throughout the dark ages and even to relatively recent times that a witch would often take the shape of a hare. And if a hare were to frighten a pregnant woman, she would give birth to a child bearing the mark.

In the 17th century the hysteria surrounding witchcraft rose to a new and frightening level. And it was during that time that the hare had become a symbol of Satan himself. A woman bearing a child with the mark of the hare, or a harelip, at that time,was thought to have had to have had relations with Satan. And thus, the cleft-affected child born of a woman, say, in Salem Massachusetts during the mid 17th century, in the midst of witchcraft hysteria would have condemned his mother to a violent end. That baby would have constituted "irrefutable evidence" of his mother's unnatural liaison with Satan.

Fast forward now to the 20th Century. Many people still use the term, "HareLip" when they mean to say, "Cleft Lip". Do they associate our children with Satanism and witchcraft? No, surely they don't. But it is nonetheless a term that has persevered in our language, long after a more accurate, more appropriate term has been coined.

At the very least, the term, "HareLip" likens our children to a common field rodent. It is not a soft, fluffy bunny. It is just a rodent. At the very most it harkens back to a darker past. A past that would never have happened were it not for massive hysteria on the part of a superstitious and almost militantly religious population. A past that condemned our children as the Devil's Seed, and condemned their mothers to death.

Wide Smiles was a support organization for parents of children with cleft lips and/or palates. Why would these people need a support group? Because their children will end up going through multiple surgeries in their lifetimes. How do I know?

Many of you who know me can already know how I know. This is the person responsible for my education:

That's The Nephew's baby picture. He was born with a unilateral cleft lip and palate. He's had 6 surgeries so far, the first before he was a year old. The first 2 were to close the cleft in his lip. None of them took particularly well. The surgeries healed badly and the scar tissue caused his lip to pull up. Then through Shannon's amazing advocacy, he went to a major university hospital that has special craniofacial teams and they smoothed out his upper lip. The next to last surgery he had was to do the majority of the closure work on his palate.

Today, The Nephew is a gorgeous 14-year old but he's always been a beautiful boy. In fact, after his first surgery, he looked strange to me. I was used to his wonderful open smile. He didn't look like The Nephew with his lip made more "normal". Of course, we all got used to the new lip. The Nephew only has one or two more surgeries to go. The last one was a few years ago and was a bone graft from his hip to completely close the cleft in his palate. The other surgeries he'll have will involve plastic surgery to make his nose more even, more work on his lip, things like that and will only happen if he chooses to undergo them.

Memories of The Nephew with tongue depressors wrapped in foam tape around his arms to keep him from touching his face, sitting up nights with him to help him sleep right after he got home from the hospital, the amazing strength and perserverance this little guy has shown - those are the reasons why I have a problem with the word harelip. It may be said in ignorance these days but it was born out of hatred and fear. To me, it's vile. I am one of those annoying people who will speak to you if you use that word in my presence. But you will hear the passion and the conviction in my voice. I will do my best not to be sanctimonious. You will see pictures of the most amazing little boy to walk the face of this earth. We will part ways smiling and shaking hands. I educate out of love.

*I wrote this in 2004. I've updated it a smidge here and there but left it intact for the most part. It's still relevant today so I didn't want to bury it by posting it under the date it was originally written.

Three Pill Bugs Walk Into A Bar..

2009-06-25T08:50:00.000-07:00

About a month or so ago, The Niece and I were playing in the backyard and I thought it'd be cool to introduce her to the grand childhood pasttime of making a pill bug curl up into a mini-armadillo ball. We hunkered down and peered into the grass in search of pill bugs.

In short order, one of those little insects was crawling toward us. I gently touched it's back and we watched as its survival instincts kicked in and it became a little pill bug ball. The Niece was fascinated by this and had to touch it herself. It was a close call but she didn't actually succeed in making pill bug paste.

It was then she decided that this particular pill bug's name was Harry. Nothing like anthropomorphizing itty bitty bugs, right?

After being rolled around the cement pad outside our back door, Harry figured out that he need to get the hell out of Dodge and trundled himself back to the grass. The Niece now had to find more pill bugs.

This is when we met Raspberry. And I'll have you know that I did not influence The Niece's choice of name for this bug at all. She must already associate blue with raspberry on her own (the blue raspberry Icees/candy/other things that are bad for you I've bought her on occasion I'm sure have nothing to do with it). Raspberry was a bit smarter than Harry and stayed in the grass where she (The Niece insisted Raspberry was a she) was safe(r) from poking and prodding. I had never seen a bright blue pill bug before so this was a new experience for both of us.

The Niece was in full pill bug mode by now. She found another one and proclaimed that its(her) name was Lipstick. Yes, Lipstick. The Niece is a girly-girl 3-year old who loves lipstick, all forms of make-up and all the glitteriness that goes with it. Hence, there is now a pill bug living in the backyard with the moniker Lipstick. Lipstick, however, is a shy pill bug and stayed in the safe zone in between the concrete pad and the yard. She dug herself under some loose grass and when encouraged (read: poked with a twig), just burrowed in deeper. You might say she's a tad anti-social.

We've since visited the pill bug enclave several times and added baby Owie to the fold. There's even been a pill bug family reunion at Nojoqui Falls a couple weeks ago. Considering my love of bugs (please note intense sarcasm), I am so thrilled that I fostered this love of pill bugs in my niece.

Photos courtesy of: http://www.dkimages.com/discover/previews/911/55045568.JPG and http://images.whatsthatbug.com/images/blue_pillbug.jpg

Back Off, Jackoff

2009-06-18T14:30:00.000-07:00

After my dad died, I developed this pervasive need to make sure the people I love know that I love them. Not too hard to figure out, right? This compulsion has metastasized into letting people know if they're doing a good job or they look good on a particular day or basically anything that might make someone's day a little brighter or cause them to feel that they matter.

Real life example - Shannon took The Niece to get her ears pierced the other weekend. We'd gone to see "Up" and stopped at Claire's after leaving the theater. The girl there was handling the busy store by herself. She was incredibly nice and professional, competently handling the many different customers and their requests with aplomb. So I told her I was impressed with her ability in running the store. I don't know if it made her day or if she's used to being complimented on her work efforts but I felt better for having said something and acknowledging her.

It's as though if I don't seize that one particular ephemeral opportunity to say a nice thing or let a person know I care, I'll never get that chance again. I have to reach out and grasp it, add my spin and then release it into the neverwhere, hoping that I've made the impact my heart so desperately needs to achieve. Perhaps my motivation is truly selfish in that regard. I do these things because they make me feel better about myself.

All I know is whenever I don't give in to this compulsive need, I flagellate myself with "what if" and "why didn't you say something". These repeated affirmations of love and caring have to be annoying to the people closest to me. To paraphrase James Taylor, "smother the people you love with love/show them the way that you feel". It's okay, Lil, we know you care now just back the fuck off!

Eh. I've totally lost control of this post and have no idea how to compose/re-arrange/detonate it so that it makes sense. These thoughts were tumbling around my brain and spewed themselves out into a blog entry. It is what it is, I suppose.

Random

2009-06-15T13:53:00.001-07:00

Over the weekend, The Nephew, The Niece and I took our two dogs for a walk. The dogs' names are Tofu and Betsey. The Nephew pushed The Niece in her stroller and I walked the two dogs.

Tofu is an older, more mature (at least when not in the presence of food or when you haven't been out of her sight for more than two nanoseconds) dog. Betsey is still in puppyhood, being only about two years old. Betsey kept trying to run around The 'Fu and would get their leashes entwined.

While separating their leashes for the trillionth time, I say to The Nephew, "you know that Bob Dylan song, 'Tangled Up in Blue'?"

He cautiously replies, "Yeah".

I then say (you can hear it already, can't you?), "Well, Betsey's song would be 'Tangled Up with 'Fu'".

Oddly enough, The Nephew didn't laugh but chose to look at me like I was mentally deranged. I mean really, that was pretty darned funny.

Okay, so at least I crack myself up, right? I've gotta make someone laugh.

Work Stream of Consciousness

2009-06-12T11:50:00.000-07:00

Before I begin this well thought out and enlightening bullet list (which is not a cop out for a blog entry in any way, shape or form), I have to wonder if I spelled consciousness correctly. Excuse me while I consult spell check...okay, good on me. I hate when I look at a word and think, that's got to be wrong. Now, for the main event (which makes me think of the Barbara Streisand movie and I now hear Enough is Enough in my head, the duet she did with Donna Summer but oddly is not on The Main Event soundtrack - this is how my brain works):

We have a client whose first name is Tom and last name sort of but not really sounds like Dooley. Whenever I type him a letter or e-mail, the song Tom Dooley goes through my head -

Hang down your head, Tom Dooley
Hang down your head and cry
Hang down
your head, Tom Dooley
Poor boy, you're bound to die

Not exactly a lighthearted thing to have going through one's brain but it is what it is.

While this is not universal, I am coming to the conclusion that extreme wealth is directly related to extreme arrogance, particularly in attorneys.
I am so freaking grateful to have secure, full-time employment. I really wish I could help those friends who don't.
Also, I'm beyond grateful to have big bosses at both jobs who are nice, friendly and appreciative. This is a rarity, in my experience, and it's those Big Bad Bosses who make me so appreciative now.
Thanks to my 2nd job, I now type "ok" as "okay" since most clients want it spelled out in that manner. This is not conducive to Twitter, however, and their 140 character limit.
I have so much filing to do, I'm thinking of arranging the towering stacks of file folders so that they at least have some aesthetic purpose as opposed to stressing me out, as they are now.
Still haven't put away the office supply order yet. Is it the 15th yet? Damn quarterly estimates. #!*%&@*$"#!*%
The phone will not stop ringing. I may end up speaking permanently in my telephone voice.
Is it 5 o'clock yet?

It's really not so bad (evidenced by there being time for me to squeeze out this lame-ass excuse of a blog entry) but this has been my day so far for what it's worth.

Heaven Isn't Too Far Away

2009-06-09T14:05:00.000-07:00

The office supply order came in today. To evidence how much of a geek I am, it always feels like Christmas to me when I open that delivery box and can unpack all of the goodies we’ve received.

I have always loved ordering office supplies. It was when I was working as an office manager at a brand-new-yet-to-be-opened nursing home that I experienced office supply nirvana. I was tasked with ordering all of the office supplies to get the facility set up. We had a contract with Viking Office Supplies (now owned by Office Depot) and since I didn’t have a catalog yet, I got to spend gloriously fun filled hours (yes, more than one hour) ordering the office supplies with the poor customer service person, telling him what I needed to order and him looking up the information in their database. While that in itself was nearly pure bliss, it didn’t hold a candle to the day the order arrived. My entire office was filled with boxes. Cardboard encased Valhalla. It was one of the single best moments of my professional life.

Currently there are no less than two drawers, three bags and a couple plastic storage containers full of office supplies at my house. Not just the usual stuff like sticky notes or pens but also stationery type things such as cool postcards or funky stationery. Going to an office supply store causes me to experience a contact high from all the paper products and cool scissors and rainbow hued pens. I am truly a geek of the lowest order.

While I’m perfectly content at the mega-stores like Staples, it is the small local stationery store where I am happiest. They always have the interesting office supplies like colored staples, strangely patterned paper and oddball greeting cards.

Alas, these stores have been slowly going by the wayside under the onslaught of the aforementioned mega-stores. It’s become increasingly difficult to find a smaller stationery store anymore. Time and time again, I am bereft when I drive by places where I used to find the most fascinating things only to see the signs changed or the doors shuttered. But I shall persevere. Someone has to seek out unique office supplies and keep office supply geekdom alive. Might as well be me.

Why Here?

2009-06-04T16:43:00.000-07:00

It will be six years this July that I’ve been blogging. I started writing at Xanga back in July of 2003 because a friend of mine on a message board told me about it. It was like coming home. I had somewhere to write where I got feedback and was able to form friendships with so many of the other writers over there. It’s really more of an insular community, these people who know me there and whose blogs I’ve been reading for so long. The majority of people at Xanga now are much younger than I, a lot of times incapable of writing a coherent sentence or spelling words correctly (not that any of those things are mutually inclusive). I wrote there regularly for about three years and then life spun me into a 180 and I stopped writing for two years. Once I got my shit back together, I wandered back into my blog and lo and behold, many of my friends were still there. I’d checked in from time to time but not on any kind of regular basis. It’s a testament to our close-knit little community that many of them were still subscribed to me, even though I had been absent for so long. That’s the way it is with us there. We’ll stay subscribed to people who haven’t written in ages on the off chance they show up again. I’ve reconnected with a few people that way or found my way to their new digs elsewhere on the internet. I’m sure that’s not endemic to Xanga but it’s what I’ve known up until now.

So why am I starting a blog here at Blogger? I started using Google Reader last year because I found out there’s a whole lot of fascinating blogs outside of Xangaworld. As I’ve read these blogs over this past year and have now gotten confident enough to comment on some of them (it’s a big world out here and can be kind of intimidating at times), it’s just become something I wanted to do. My Xanga account has a content block on it so if you’re not a Xanga member, you can’t access my blog. That’s well and good for certain entries I write but it makes it difficult when I want to share my writing with the rest of the internet at large. Hence, this blog. I’m moving some of my older entries here that aren’t horrifically annoying (I’m leaving out the memes, the Andy Gibb photo essays, stuff like that).

My extremely well thought out plan (read: half-assed effort) is to cross post most of the entries I write both here and at Xanga. Anything else that’s goofy or stupid or basically acceptable only to those who know me (i.e., singing songs – which I do a LOT, writing bad haikus, work related ranting, etc), I think I’ll just keep over there. We’ll see how it goes. So for now, here’s me and the shit that floats around the toilet of my brain. Oooh, that was really bad imagery. Sorry.

Morning Musical Musings

2009-05-07T08:23:00.000-07:00

Violator by Depeche Mode was a great album.
I love that Dave Gahan sings with an English accent because if he pronounced laughing any differently in Blasphemous Rumours, it just wouldn't be the same song.
I know Blasphemous Rumours wasn't on Violator.
Admission of Guilt: I LIKE ZZ Top. There, I said it.
In Hot for Teacher, Van Halen totally ripped of the drum part of ZZ Top's La Grange to the point that hopefully they gave them credit on the album.
I always wanted ZZ Top's car in those videos they did where they were fairy god-musicians and made the lives of the geeky guy and downtrodden girl so much better by giving them the way cool ZZ Top key chain.

That is all. Oh wait, just to scare the crap out of you:

It's me! Hadn't posted an updated picture of me in ages so, me being the kind person that I am, am posting this picture taken the day I got my hair done. Rest assured, it has not looked anything like this since.

Transcription Ick

2009-05-06T10:02:00.000-07:00

I do typing for a local company as a second job. I just finished doing a transcription of a polygraph interview/test for a rape case.I’ve never done a polygraph transcription before and to say this was extremely difficult would be a severe understatement. From a technical standpoint, the player on which I had to listen to the video was simplistic to a fault and very hard to rewind if I missed something. The actual quality of the audio was not a problem so that at least wasn’t a trial.

The interview was with the alleged rapist and he had to go into detail about his relationship with the girl he’s being accused of attacking.What I find most bothersome is that he’s so clueless. He very well may have raped the girl but if he did, he has no idea that’s what happened. To his mind, he was engaging in consensual sex. She never said no, stop or don’t. But what’s sticking with me, and believe me I wish it wasn’t, is that I got this insight and extremely graphic re-telling of this couple’s sexual encounter, which was at the very least unsatisfying for either of them and terribly awkward.

He also was questioned about his past sexual behaviors and habits as well as previous relationships. I know way more about this guy than I would ever want to or even have any business knowing. He actually seems like he might be a decent individual on some level but for the fact that he has no idea how to communicate with a woman, on anything, and he’s utterly clueless as to non-verbal cues as to how a woman is feeling. He sincerely seems to want to understand and love someone and be loved in return.It’s just that he’s completely incapable, seemingly because he’s emotionally that stupid. It’s sad and pathetic and I could really do without ever having typed up the interview.

To add salt to the wound, I didn’t get the entire file finished.I got all but the last 20 minutes or so done (2 hour and 20 minute total file length). I’ve got a cold that’s settled in my ear and add to that the problems with the video player program (I tried to find an alternate player program but it seems that sheriff station security camera files only work on certain players) along with the general discomfort and unease the subject matter gave me and just plain working around my regular work schedule, technical difficulties resulting in deletion of a about half of the Word file necessitating me to listen to the interview again and vital time spent with my wonderful nephew and niece, it took me almost a week to get as far as I did. I was up until 3:30 a.m. this morning trying to get it done but in the end just couldn’t do it. I hate that. I hate turning in shoddy work. I cut my hour count down but wouldn’t even argue if the lady I do this contract work for decided not to pay me at all. I’m that glad to be shut of the file.

I feel like I need an internal psychological shower complete with loofah scrubdown of my brain.

Thank you for listening. I needed to get this out somehow.

You're Lucky

2009-04-13T09:08:00.000-07:00

I just wanted to let you know that in the depths of tax return letter typing despair yesterday, I felt compelled to write tax related haikus to express my, well, despair.

In a rare moment of sanity, I deleted them and did not share them here.

This is what my brain has been reduced to, writing tax return letter related haikus.

Then I began re-writing some dumb song that I now can't remember and inserting tax letter typing related lyrics. But luckily for you, I didn't write any of it down and now I can't remember (see aforementioned memory loss).

Please withhold your pity as I am not the accountant in this office (actually I'm not either of them seeing as there are two) and they are working far more and harder than I. However, they also get paid far more than I but they certainly earn it.

Also, please take my complaining as what it is - half-assed venting. I am beyond grateful to have a stable job working with nice people. Thank you employment gods. Amen.

And with that, I return to my self-imposed typing prison. Only 4 more days. Yay! And I don't have to work tomorrow (it is Easter, after all).

My Niece Has Lycanthropy

2009-01-29T12:59:00.000-08:00

Over the past few weeks, the moon has not been visible in our part of the world (lovely OC, CA). This has bothered my 2 1/2 year old niece, The Niece, greatly. She is very attuned to "my moon" and is deeply troubled when she can't see it. When she first noticed it wasn't in sight, she asked me where it was. Figuring we were in a new moon, I told her it was sleeping. She's 2 1/2, ok? While she's exceptionally intelligent (not biased AT ALL), I don't particularly think she'll fully understand that the earth is blocking the light from the sun and so we can't see the moon, blah, blah, blah. Sleeping is a much more toddler friendly explanation.

Well the weeks have gone by and still no moon. I've even considered Googling "Why can't I see the moon" but then realized I'd get search results along the lines of "it's on the other side of the world, dumbass", which would cause irreperable damage to my already fragile psyche. Can't have that. So last night, when the inevitable questions arose about the absence of the moon, thank goodness it was cloudy so I could say the moon was hiding because for the moon to be sleeping this long would indicate death in all likelihood, which would not be a good thing. Nope, not at all.

Anyway, my point is that given The Niece is so freaking obsessed with the moon, I'm figuring she must be a werewolf. Yep, she's contracted lycanthropy. It must have been that little girl in The Niece's pre-school class who's bitten The Niece at least twice in the past. It's the only time I can remember where The Niece has been bitten by something other than an insect. I mean, I've never heard of a lycanthropic mosquito, have you?

Now there's an idea....mosquitoes turning into werewolves. Hmmm....

But I digress. I am convinced this must be the answer. I am also in no way influenced by the fact that the new Underworld: Rise of the Lycans movie came out today and that I really want to see it so I have werewolves on the brain.

There is also the possibility that I'm a looney.

LUNAR UPDATE: Last night the moon made a reappearance just above the urban horizon (aka right above all the houses) and The Niece was, well, over the moon about it. She howled in glee and was appropriately thrilled as to the moon's presence, as all who share her condition (please see the aforementioned lycanthropy) do. Well, she may not have howled so much as giggled and said "my moon back" repeatedly. Either way, it was pretty damn cute.

Forgotten Brilliance

2008-12-31T15:22:00.001-08:00

On the way home from work last night, I began composing a brilliant blog entry about U2 and my love affair with their music that lasted up through Rattle and Hum. My brain wove magnificent textural tapestries about how U2 and I grew apart with the arrival of Achtung Baby but how vital they and their music had been to my existence up until that time. How their songs and message inspired me to begin writing letters for Amnesty International and to try listening to Billie Holiday, something for which I will forever be grateful. Poignant memories of listening to the Joshua Tree while in the depths of depression following my father's death and how the music would lift my soul so that I could survive to cry another day drifted through my cerebrum. In particular I waxed rhapsodic about the impact of one scene in Rattle and Hum when Bono is singing In the Name of Love and he entreaties the audience to sing the words and when they do, en masse and perfectly, the look of awe and amazement on his face truly captivated what I loved so much about this band at that particular moment in time. The narrative wound its way through my grey matter with coherence and continuity, sentences supporting my thoughts and opinions with incredible clarity.

Alas, I didn't write any of that Pulitzer Prize worthy post down and it's all gone up in a puff of smoke and scattered into the ether, never to coalesce accurately again. *sigh* [Please visualize Kevin Spacey in The Usual Suspects when he says "and poof, he was gone." I cannot find a screen shot of that to save my life. Thank you.]

Edited to Add: Tim is great! He made this screen capture for me! This is what I was talking about - Kevin Spacey wonderfullness. Yay!!

This is why I have taken to carrying around a little notebook so that I can write down such wonderful thoughts as they occur. However, this is not so useful a method for capturing such musically inspired brilliance when one is driving approximately 65 miles per hour down the freeway. Yep. I put safety first and look where it got me - a really dorky blog entry.

But then, what else is new?

Perspective

2008-11-26T11:51:00.000-08:00

Last night I was doing some 2nd job typing work and while sitting at the computer, I had the television on. Luckily for me, Pretty in Pink was showing on HBO. As you may or may not know, this is my absolute favorite John Hughes movie. I've seen it more times than I can remember. It was from this movie that my love of Andrew McCarthy was born.

I've always identified with Andie (Molly Ringworm's character). She was a bright, personable outcast with a unique fashion sense. While I was smart, I wasn't particularly personable (too shy and insecure) and I did have a unique (read bizarre and strange) fashion sense. Regardless, I LOVE this movie and have ever since it came out all through the years and even as I begin the downhill slide toward middle age (have I mentioned I'm going to be 40 next year?!?).

I do have a point to this post (honest, I do!) and here it is - while watching the Ringworm last night, I noticed how incredible her make-up was in this movie. I mean, it's beautifully understated and tasteful. The most amazing thing, however, was how perfectly they did her undereye make-up. No shadows, no bags, nothing. Granted she was a teenager/young adult when she made this movie but even so, the make-up was masterful! When I was that age, I had bags and shadows that necessitated regular applications of concealer. We won't go into how much worse those bags and shadows have gotten as the years have mercilessly gone by.

What I'm trying to say is, I never noticed how perfect her undereye make-up was before. I always gloried in the Ringworm's quirky clothes, pink car, Andrew McCarthy's cuteness and Annie Potts' craziness. Now that I'm older, my perspective has changed. I want to be able to hide my undereye issues like that! I wonder if I can find a site that lists what make-up techniques they used for that movie. Hmmmm....

Yes, I ponder these important, vital issues so you don't have to. Isn't that nice of me?

Phobias

2008-11-19T10:50:00.000-08:00

Everyone has stuff they're illogically scared shitless of, I'm sure. I'm not talking about normal fears like harm befalling a loved one or death or even taxes. Of course those things are scary and well they should be. I'm talking about stuff that if you were to think clearly and logically about it, they really shouldn't scare you to the point of being a blubbering idiot. For me, it's heights. I'm scared of heights. Not abnormal, really. Many people suffer from this phobia. My particular iteration of this phobia doesn't make sense even within the illogicality of it to begin with (that really didn't make any sense but I'm going to move forward anyway).

For instance, I can't drive over a really tall bridge or freeway transition or things of that sort. Well, I can if I HAVE to but I get sweaty palms and my heart starts knocking a thousand miles a minute in my chest, etc. However, I'm fine being the passenger in said car. No worries there. I can even enjoy the view.

Tall buildings, me no likey if I'm near the windows. Inside where I can't see the tremendous number of feet high that I'm up in the air, I'm fine.

Flying I'm generally okay after take-off. I don't like take-off. And I don't like turbulence. I pray a lot when I fly and I'm not even particular which God I pray to. Jesus, Shiva, Mother Mary, Jack Nicholson - they're all equal in my eyes when I'm fearing the screaming descent of a plane plummeting to its imminent (and consequently my) demise.

Roller coasters are not fun for me either. Little coasters like Space Mountain at Disneyland or Gold Rush at Six Flags Magic Mountain are fine. I can handle those. They're nice little diversions with no real perceived possibility of careening off of the tracks and hurtling to a fiery death. I can even ride The Mummy at Universal Studios. But the time I tried Montezuma's Revenge about 15 years ago left me a crying mess with a nauseated tummy. That's the scariest roller coaster I've ever been on. As you might imagine, I've not gone on too many because of this fear.

Why do I bring this up, you ask? Well, my best friend Shannon works for a local police department. As such, she receives various perks and benefits, one of which is free admittance for her and a guest to Knotts Berry Farm over the course of a month between Thanksgiving and Christmas. In addition to the free tickets, she gets 6 seriously discounted tickets. Pretty sweet, huh? She's asked me if I'd like to go. She's also been bugging me to try some of the roller coasters there and has even accused me of being a fuddy duddy for not wanting to ride said roller coasters.

To explain a bit here, I've not ridden many roller coasters primarily because the idea of them scares me. I'm not a thrill seeker and honestly do gravitate towards being a fuddy duddy. Now herein lies my dilemma. Since I've not really tried many roller coasters, do I go and try them and if I still don't like them, at least I've tried? How can I be so scared of something I've not really given an adequate chance? My mom never forced me to try any of those scarier rides to at least see if I'd like them, primarily because she didn't like them either and was fine with me not pushing it. Shannon, however, has taken the approach with The Nephew of making him ride scarier rides at least once and if he didn't like it, fine. At least he'd given it a fair shot before coming to a definitive conclusion. Truthfully, I wish as a child I'd been told to at least try it once before deciding those stupid coasters scare me to death. (Consequently, The Nephew now loves roller coasters - mainly because he gave them a fair shot). It's much easier to suffer through a death-defying experience when you're a kid and have been told you have to than when you're a scaredy-cat adult who makes her own decisions.

Honestly, it's not logical that I'm so terrified of them because they take massive safety precautions to ensure that you're not hurt when you go on these rides. People have been going on and enjoying roller coasters for years and it's been fine. So why do I get myself so worked up in this fear of something I really shouldn't be so afraid of? It really makes no sense while I calmly think about it while miles away from the aforementioned (there's that word again) coasters. It's just when I get there and I see these roller coaster cars going so fast and upside down and etc that my stomach gets queasy and my pulse rate speeds up and feels like a drum roll. I don't know so I'm agonizing over this stupid question of do I force myself to try a couple coasters at least once and see if they're really so horrible. Bah.

Open Letter to my Hemoglobin

2008-11-08T15:11:00.000-08:00

November 8, 2008

Hemo Globin
My Blood
My Body, USA

Dear Ms. Globin:

I would like to take this opportunity to express my extreme displeasure with your inadequate presence in my bloodstream today. An appointment for this afternoon had been made by me with the American Red Cross for the express purpose of donating my platelets. This appointment was made with the understanding that the hemoglobin levels in my blood would be such that my donation would be acceptable. However, upon my arrival at the Red Cross donation center, I was informed that your numbers were not sufficient to allow my platelets to be removed from my person, as I had hoped.

I am unsure whether this was a deliberate act on your part. Perhaps this was a conspiracy brought about by those crafty platelets as they did not wish to be forcibly taken from my bloodstream. What did they offer you, Hemo Globin?! What diabolical extortion did they exert upon you to force you to abandon me in such a disheartening way? I should have known those platelets would turn against me. Why do you think I need to get rid of them?! How could you do this to me when you've always been plentiful and supportive to me in the past?

I shall be filing suit with the proper authorities on the next business day. This defection shall not be taken lightly!

Sincerely yours,

Lillian

P.S. Save FERROUS!

The management would like to apologize for this breakdown on the part of the this blog's primary writing source. We shall return tomorrow for our regularly scheduled blog, after ingesting some leafy green vegetables. Thank you for your patience.

Is the Election Over Yet?

2008-10-27T14:06:00.000-07:00

Ack! I'm the lone liberal in a sea of ultra-conservatives! Orange County is about as red as the ink on the national budget which leaves little ol' me as the lone blue spot in this office.

I'm trying to be good natured while keeping my opinions to myself. While the bosses are very nice and accepting of differing viewpoints, some of the other people who end up passing through this office are not.

Deadlines

2008-10-01T12:37:00.000-07:00

Before coming to work at an accountant's office, I was under the misguided perception that April was the only time of year that an accountant was overwhelmingly busy. Oh how naive I was in the ways of taxation and its merciless deadlines. Turns out if you get an extension on your taxes in April, they then are due in October. Add to that the corporate extended deadline which was September 15th and it gets pretty darned busy here in the accounting world. Granted, my workload is nowhere near what it is for my two bosses (both CPAs) as all I do is type the letters that ask clients for their information as well as the cover letters that go out with the returns, as well as my various other clerical duties. But even just the typing is enough because the people who get the extensions are generally those who have the more involved returns (at least the clients here anyway) and those returns have lots and lots of questions that need to be answered before they can be completed. Enter Lil the Wonder Typist and many, many, many 4 and 5 page letters full of questions and requests for documentation/information.

The-e-e-e-n, as if that weren't enough, I've had pretty steady work from the 2nd job. Now trust me, I'm not complaining. It's good to be busy and secure. I'm liking it, really. It just doesn't leave a whole lot of extra time for blogging and etc. However, I feel I'm being neglectful so I'm writing this short update on my lunch break for you perusal, enjoyment, opportunity-to-mock, etc.

Tough Guys

2008-09-09T10:17:00.000-07:00

I was never into sports growing up. My grandma loved baseball and the Dodgers were her team but that's as involved as I was in sports. I never followed any team, never really thought much about sports in more than a peripheral way.

In 1993, I chanced to catch a hockey game on tv and I was hooked. I was a passionate hockey fan for many, many years. My first loyalty to any sport was a game that not only cherished the tough guy but expected it. This is a sport where if a player sustains an injury, not only does he want to play anyway, he is generally expected to and to be stoic about it. And that's just during the regular season. During playoffs, a player could be near death and still not only be expected to play but they'd WANT to play. In no other professional sport have I observed such dedication and love for their game as I've seen in hockey. Granted, I'm no expert but this is just what I've seen. This dedication and zealotry became my reference against which all other professional athletes were to be judged.

While I'm not such the die-hard hockey fan anymore, I still can appreciate a hockey player's dedication and desire, actually more like NEED, to play. I still love the sport and think it's the most fun game to watch but I've become more of a baseball fan of late, specifically the Angels. I find I need to have a team to get behind that actually wins once in awhile. I'm totally a sunshine fan and the Kings just couldn't/can't win. No matter who they have as a coach or what players they sign, they're perpetually at the bottom of the standings. I couldn't do it anymore. I need some happiness from the team I'm watching and I just cannot be a fan of a hockey team (see tough guy stuff above) that calls itself the Mighty Ducks. Yeah, sure, they're just the Ducks now but it's still a way stupid name for a freaking HOCKEY team.

But I digress. We've established that hockey players are way tough and that's what I'd come to see as the norm for a professional athlete. Now I'm watching baseball and I really admire the finesse aspects of the game, the logic and planning that goes into building and maintaining a winning team. Mike Scioscia is great at this and his Angels' place at the top of the American League West is evidence to support his management style. Anyway, long story short (too late) is that I was reading the recap of the Angels 12-1 victory over the Yankees last night and saw that Jered Weaver isn't pitching tonight, as he'd been scheduled to do, because he has cuts on his hand. (Before I get a good head of steam going, let me just say that I like Jered Weaver and think he's a pretty darn good pitcher and that I also have no idea of the exact severity of the aforementioned cuts on his hand and therefore reserve the right to be completely unjustified in the ensuing rant).

What? Cuts on his hand? What kind of weak-ass excuse is that?!? Sure, he's a pitcher but come on! If a hockey player tried to get out of a game because he'd cut his hand, he'd be ridiculed and practically kicked off his freaking team - and that'd be the least of his worries. Besides, no self-respecting hockey player would EVER even DREAM of not playing just because he cut his hand. And it's actually quite the apt comparison because both pitchers and hockey players wear gloves and truthfully, a hockey player uses his hands much more than a baseball pitcher does.

I just had to rant about that for a bit. It just seems to me that most professional non-hockey playing athletes are a bunch of wusses when it comes to injuries. Stuff that a hockey player wouldn't even think twice about playing with are causes for ending a season in other sports. I guess it comes down to more of a passion for your sport kind of thing. That's the best thing about hockey - these guys play not for the money (although I'm sure they like that), they play because hockey is in their blood and is as necessary to their survival as oxygen. I mean, these are people who routinely played without contracts and at one point only stopped playing when the owners locked them out. It's more about love of the game for a hockey player than anything else.

I know I'm not the most informed sports fan in the world and most of what I say is generally full of crap but I figure this is my blog and if I want to sound like an uninformed girly girl, I can do that. Thanks for reading.

Idiot's Guide to Lil

2008-09-05T13:48:00.000-07:00

I figure this might be a good idea seeing as I refer to most of these people on a fairly regular basis. I'll link it on the side so you can all have it handy for future reference ('cause I know you're all so fascinated by my life ). The idea for this was born from someone asking who The Nephew is. I realized that if you're new to me, of course you wouldn't know who The Nephew is.

Shannon - Shannon is my best friend. We've known each other for over 20 years. We met in high school when we were in the same English class. She's been my closest friend ever since. She's family more so than my biological family - I consider her my sister. In fact, her family is more so my family than my biological family. They've always accepted me as I am - a complete dork - and have loved me unconditionally. I can't say the same for a few of my biological relatives.

David - Shannon's husband (married in early 2008) and also a friend I've had since high school. I actually had a crush on David for about 2 weeks or so before he and Shannon discovered each other. Their story is really disgusting in a Harry Met Sally movie kind of way. They dated for 3 years way back when and then broke up. They were apart for 13 years during which they both got married to other people, had a kid each, and then split up with their respective spouses. I remained close friends with Shannon during that time but lost touch with David. Then a couple years ago, Shannon finds David on Classmates.com. She e-mails him. They got back together almost instantly and have been together ever since. Isn't that just so gross?!

Adam - David's son who is 12 years old and is pretty much David's mini-me. I swear - they look exactly alike! He now lives in Florida with his mom and stepfather and seems to be very happy there.

The Nephew - Shannon's son whom I consider my vicarious child. I've been around him since he was conceived, basically. You've all heard about him and his many exploits as well as his cleft palate and the many surgeries he's gone through. He's an amazing kid and I call him my nephew because that's easier than saying "my best friend's, who's pretty much family because we've known each other so long, son" over and over again. I talk about him more than Adam because I'm closer to him, having been a part of his life for so much longer.

The Niece - Shannon and David's daughter who was born in 2006. She's freaking adorable and has the best personality already at just 2 years old. She is currently obsessed with happy faces and the Backyardigans (damn their insanely catchy musical hides).

Tofu - the cutest doggie alive today - she was given to The Nephew by his great-aunt Carol for his birthday in 2003.

Shasta - the most kick-ass independent beautiful kitty alive today. Shannon and I have had her since we moved out of our respective parents' houses in 1993. Sadly, Shasta died a few years ago (she was 13 years old). I still miss her.

Vigilantes - the group of people I've come to know through the Vartypants' Vigilantes Love Lounge message board, which I co-own. I've been hanging out there since November of 2002, when I was a fan of Michael Vartan, an actor on the tv show Alias. The show has since become a piece of shit and I no longer fancy Varty but the people I've met through the board are some of the greatest psychotics on this planet. I recently met two of them in real life in Toronto. The Vartypants Vigilante site has been shut down for some time now. I really miss the message board and the people I met through there but it lived a good life and died at the right time, I think. I'm horrible at keeping in touch with people and am ashamed to have let these relationships lapse. One of these days I'll have to do something about that.

Work - I work in a small CPA firm in Southern Orange County. There are only two other people working here - the owner and my immediate supervisor. Both very nice people. I also have a second job doing transcription/general typing work for a local secretarial firm. My boss there is also incredibly nice. I'm seriously lucky.

WCIL - this is a past job, where I worked for a little over 7 years (from 1997-2004, which is when I moved to Orange County, CA). I made a lot of friends there and miss them very much. Luckily, they're not too far away and I talk to most of them a few times a week. Please see aforementioned comment about how I'm awful at keeping in touch with people. I recently connected with a couple WCIL people on Plaxo and one of them said "you're still alive!" *hangs head in shame* Also, this is a very worthwhile non-profit organization. WCIL helps people with disabilities to live independently in the community as opposed to being institutionalized. I firmly believe in what they do there and have gone from being an employee to a donor. There are independent living centers (ILCs) all over the country and they all do the same good work so if you're looking for a good cause to support, this definitely qualifies. To find the independent living center near you, go to http://www.ilru.org. They've got a list of ILCs in every state and also in Canada. </plug> I left there in 2004 to move to Orange County. This was the singular best place of work in my life. The pay was crappy but the people and the workplace were wonderful and inspiring. My amazing boss, Mary Ann, died just this year (2008) from pneumonia and I miss her terribly.

So that's it. Those are the people I'll mention the most around here. If I talk about someone and don't explain who they are, just ask me. If I end up talking about them a lot, I'll probably add them here.

Goal Revision

2008-08-26T16:22:00.000-07:00

When I was younger, I had these grand ideas of going out and changing the world. You know, travel to far off lands, solve world hunger & end poverty, bring equality and fairness to all people, etc, etc.

Then reality set in and I starting working full-time and got caught up in all the minutiae that life entails. Changing the world faded to the background and I settled for changing minor things here and there. I revised my far-reaching goals and tried to make the bit of world around me a little better for me being in it. I have no idea if I've succeeded or not but I keep at it.

Because now, my goals are much less grandiose. I just want to be able to be safe, secure and comfortable for the rest of my life. I no longer need to be a world leader or a saint or an insanely rich captain of industry or anything like that. I figure if I can manage to keep a roof over my head (and the heads of those I love), food in my belly (and in the bellies of those I love), and still do my minuscule bit to make the world around me a better place, that's good enough for me.

There are people out there who are ready, willing and able to change the world, who either have the means or find ways to create the means to effect global change. I admire the hell out of them. They manage to satisfy buckets upon huge ol' buckets of need with their intelligence, drive, and caring.

Me? I use my little eye dropper and put my drips in whenever I can. And my soul is happy with that.

Voices

2008-08-04T10:07:00.000-07:00

I don't know about any of you, but I have a thing for voices. I don't just mean a quiver factor, either. That's a separate category really and is different for everybody. For me, the quiver factor is maxed out when the voice is male (that's just how I'm wired), deep and gravelly. There doesn't have to be an eye candy factor because it's all about the experience of the voice. Favorites of mine are Michael Wincott, Lance Henriksen and Will Arnett. None of these men fit any kind of societal measure of attractiveness but their voices - whoa mama. Throw an accent in there and I'm all aquiver. Favorite accents for me would be Irish, South African, and southern U.S. (particularly cajun/New Orleans area).

But quiver factor aside, there is another category of voices that are just plain glorious to listen to. They make your ears sigh in bliss for their passing through on their way into your brain. These are voices that could be saying anything and it wouldn't matter, within reason, because the sheer joy of experiencing them is far more important than the message being conveyed. Voices that fall into this category for me would be Susan Sarandon and my all time favorite, Morgan Freeman. He has the most incredible voice and his delivery just makes the experience rapturous. I could listen to him read the dictionary for hours upon hours and enjoy every second of it. He's just that amazing. There's a good reason he provides the narration on any of his movies when it's required

Shake, Shake, Shake

2008-07-29T12:00:00.000-07:00

We just had a 5.8 earthquake. It was centered not too far from me and it lasted a good 30 seconds or so. Long, in earthquake standards. It was a shaker as opposed the a roller. The rolling quakes are actually kinda fun, barring being involved in any kind of injury or damage (I've lived in So Cal my whole life so one must get used to earthquakes and the view of them gets skewed a bit). Shaker quakes are scarier but this one wasn't too bad where I'm at. What gets me is the stupid people whom I can hear going down the stairs to get out of the building - WHILE THE QUAKE IS STILL GOING. Hello?!? Dumbasses, just move away from the windows and be ready to hide under your desk if stuff starts falling but walking down stairs while the building is moving? Stupid, stupid people. Let's see if we can fall down and hurt ourselves when we would have been perfectly safe had we stayed put. Yeah, that sounds like fun.

Random Typist Blog

2008-06-05T16:59:00.000-07:00

Proofing sucks. Well, at least for me it does. After I've just spent hours typing a document (or documents) or transcribing something for the 2nd job, the last thing I want to do is painstakingly go through the file and make sure I didn't screw anything up. Do I do it anyway? Yes, I do because I want to keep getting more work and won't be able to if I turn in crap. Also, I have this stupid thing called pride in my work. I hate it when I goof up.

I even play this little game with myself with my primary job work. Whenever I type a letter or anything going to a client, my immediate boss always proofs it before it gets sent out. I have no problem with this as I'm human - I miss things, I make typos. She always makes the corrections on the draft copy in red pen - just like school, right? Well, anytime I get the draft copy back without any red marks, I celebrate (quietly, mostly, to myself) be it either with a smile or a silent "hehehe" (complete with correlative enthusiastic head movement - think "Night at the Roxbury"). It's a dorky incentive to myself to do the best job I can when typing something. Sometimes I'll even proof it before I give her the draft.

I'm actually finding I hate the painstakingness of proofing things. I tend to want to do cursory comparisons between the original and the typed draft, trying to focus on major points instead of reading through word by word. It becomes a war between wanting to make sure I did a good job and just getting it over with already. Damn my lazy ass.

Exciting work, typing. Oh yeah.

On a completely unrelated note, partners in law firms make insane, obscene amounts of money. No wonder you lawyerly types want to make partner as a career goal. Wow. I mean, really.

Wow.

That is all.

Awww

2008-05-23T22:44:00.000-07:00

Scene: The kitchen at Lil's house

Time: This evening

The Nephew walks up to where his Aunt Lil is cooking her dinner at the stove

The Nephew: Can I have a hug?

Lil: Sure.

The Nephew hugs Lil

The Nephew: Thank you.

Lil (quizzically): For what?

The Nephew: For being here.

Awwwww.

Lil: Love you, buddy.

The Nephew: Love you, too.

This is how The Nephew manages to stay alive while being 13. He's really such a good kid.

Bless Prison Inmates

2008-05-23T08:54:00.000-07:00

Before I get to the meat of this blog entry, I want it to be clear that pedophilia is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. In no way should it EVER be excusable, acceptable or in any form ok. Have I made this clear enough? Bad, bad, bad pedophiles. Be reviled and ostracized oh practicers of the pedophilia for you shall never be accepted anywhere and rightfully so. Even prison inmates hate the kiddie porn pushers - how's that for a final say on the matter?

Which brings me to the blog seed that was sowed in my brain by a news item I heard on the way home from work the other day. They were reporting that a group of prison inmates had beaten a fellow inmate to death (said fellow inmate was a convicted pedophile). It's common knowledge that if you're into kiddie porn or are an active pedophile in any way and you are sent to prison, you're going to know a world of hurt. In true old testament fashion, I'm actually glad of this. If there is one thing that I find more reprehensible than any other crime in the universe, it's preying upon those who are unable to defend themselves. This is what pedophiles do. However, as I was ruminating upon this, my thoughts went down a different path.

What if pedophilia is a sexual orientation? As far as sexual orientation goes, I believe that this is something that is innate from birth. Either you're attracted to men, women or both. That's it. You don't really have a choice in the matter, it just is what it is. There's nothing wrong with any of the aforementioned options. Love/sex between consenting adults is wonderful no matter what the formation. However, what if pedophiles don't have a choice in who they're attracted to? Maybe they just can't help themselves - they are only sexually excited by children.

Now before anyone gets all upset, hear me out. I'm not positing this so as to engender sympathy for pedophiles. Quite the opposite. If they can't help themselves in being attracted to children and then acting upon those impulses, then perhaps there isn't any way to "fix" them or make it so they don't harm children. Perhaps their sexual interest in children is an innate behavior for a pedophile, something that is not within their control. In that case, I think prison inmates are nature's way of getting rid of a horrible, vile, unacceptable force of nature.

It's like in the awful remake of Godzilla (the one starring Matthew Broderick). Godzilla isn't a bad creature, it is merely unable to function within the real world. It is just too damn big and thus doesn't have a way to lead its radioactively huge lizard life without causing harm to millions of tiny humans. In the same way, pedophiles can't exist within the confines of normal society without inflicting significant harm upon those who are unable to protect themselves. However, unlike our friend Godzilla, they are bad guys. Maybe the only way to handle pedophiles is to get rid of them. I'm a firm believer in capital punishment. I think the only reason it doesn't work is that it isn't enforced sufficiently. I'm of the opinion that there are just some people who can't function in the world without hurting others and there is truly no hope for them. I think perhaps pedophiles fall into this category. However, let us not be diverted onto the death penalty and who is fit to decide who dies and who doesn't discussion. That's a whole other can of infected, writhing, pustule-riddled worms.

Disclaimer: This isn't a call for the death penalty for the crime of pedophilia nor is it suggesting vigilante justice is the way to go. I'm merely thinking out loud and possibly providing an impetus for discussion. I am fully aware that such hot button topics like pedophilia are never black and white - there are many, many layers of gray. As such, these opinions are just that - opinions, to be agreed or disagreed with according to your own ideas...which I'd love to hear, by the way.

Generational Interspace - a Short Play in One Act

2008-04-24T11:24:00.000-07:00

Setting: In Lil's car on the way home from the park

Time: The other day

Players: Lil (38-year old auntie extraoidinaire, sitting in the driver's seat), The Nephew (13-year old nephew extraoridinaire, reclining in the passenger seat)

Atmosphere: "Slow Ride" by Foghat begins playing on the radio

The Nephew: Hey! It's Slow Ride. (begins playing air Guitar Hero guitar)

Lil: Yes, that it is.

The Nephew: It sounds just like in Guitar Hero III (continues playing air Guitar Hero guitar and now adds rock n' roll guitar player scrunchy faces)

Lil: (Perplexedly) That's because the song in Guitar Hero is the actual song.

The Nephew: Yeah, but it sounds JUST like it! (throws in wild air Guitar Hero guitar movements in addition to air guitar playing and rock n' roll scrunchy faces)

Lil: (Pauses for a moment) Well, this version does have the guitar playing throughout the whole song while during Guitar Hero, there are parts where there isn't any guitar..you know when you miss a note and the guitar part cuts out.

The Nephew: (Stops playing air Guitar Hero guitar long enough to glare at Lil)

Lil: (Smiles)

Sucker Punched by the Force MDs

2008-04-07T09:53:00.000-07:00

This morning, I was tooling along down the freeway on my way to work. As I drove, I flipped through the radio stations, as is my wont to do (gotta love those radio controls set into the steering wheel). Flip, flip, flip. I end up on a station with the traffic report so I pause long enough to see if there is any impact on my drive time. After the announcer is finished with her report, a song starts to play. Tender Love by the Force MD's. Blast from the past, right? For me, that song isn't about a love gone awry or anything romantically related. I'm sure that I've mentioned it previously but the instrumental version of this song is what I listened to almost non-stop the week after my father died in 19-ought-86. He'd died on Sunday March 23rd and I left for Hawaii for a chorus competition the next day. The instrumental version was the B-side to the actual song. I owned this on a 45. (Excuse me while I take my Geritol) Anyway, I'd recorded it onto a cassette tape (oops, wait, gotta rub some Ben-Gay on the arthritic fingers here) because I liked the piano part more than the actual single with all the formulaic R & B singing. For some reason, my 16-year old grief addled self felt comforted by the repetitive piano part of that song. As you might guess, for that reason Tender Love has a very strong emotional connotation for me. I haven't listened to it in over 20 years.

So hearing those opening piano notes this morning out of the blue was like being t-boned by a mack truck you didn't see speeding toward you. Tears immediately started spilling from my eyes. I was a bit shocked at first. Honestly, you'd think after 22 years I'd have some distance to at least keep from crying out of the blue like that. Luckily I didn't start all out bawling - just a few hastily wiped away tears that didn't even ruin my make-up.

Just shows to go you that while you may move on, even come to terms with the loss of someone important in your life, the grief and pain never fully goes away. While I know this to be a fact, it loses its impact until the Force MDs come out of nowhere and throw that left hook into your gut.

Update Blog - Part 1

2008-04-01T13:19:00.000-07:00

A long time ago, in a county far far away….

Truthfully, it isn’t actually that far away, it’s about 40 miles which takes about ½ hour to 45 minutes to drive and, well, you get the picture.

When I left WCIL back in 1997 and moved to Orange County, I was hopeful and excited to be entering a new field that logically seemed as though it would always be around. No longer would I feel threatened by the State of California’s annual budget wars. Everyone would always need a house, right?

I’ve worked at three different jobs since leaving Los Angeles County. Two of them were in the mortgage industry. I left the first because it was wearing me down, body and soul. Endless hours of work, not enough help and way too little acknowledgment.

Second job was only slightly better. I was working with friends, which made it more tolerable but, for me, it was not good for my self-confidence and self-esteem to be trying so very hard to learn a job and do it well but not succeed in any fashion. For so many years, I was the queen of the Office – I knew how to do every office job and was able to do it well. Not so much with the loan processing.

It would have been better if I was able to multi-task under immense pressure but I’m not. That, in a nutshell, is what loan processing is all about. One has to keep track of innumerable details all while wheedling with underwriters to approve the loan, begging doc drawers to send out the loan docs before the borrower’s go out of the country (because what better time to travel than when you’re buying a house) and prostrating oneself to funders to please, please, please fund this loan. Then add to that the loan officers needing this, wanting you to call that person, and WHY HASN’T THE LOAN FUNDED YET!!!!! It’s an incredibly difficult job and not one that I was meant to do. This has been a very difficult realization to come to. I tried for 2 ½ years to get it right and to be completely honest, the only reason I stayed so long was this little girl:

I was working as Shannon’s assistant and after she had her baby (in May of 2006 - please see above photo) due to HIGH child care costs, The Niece would come to work with us. Trying to make it as a loan processor while helping to juggle a baby (albeit an adorable, sweet, even-tempered one) is a disaster. With the housing market imploding into oblivion and mortgage companies going under left and right, the number of loans went into a decline. This was offset, however, by all of the lending rules changing and becoming more conservative. These changes required a great deal of creativity (completely legal creativity, that is) to get loans approved and funded, which often meant submitting a loan to multiple lenders. One person could not take care of a growing baby and do this job – hell, two people had a hard time with it.

The workload got to the point where Shannon would not have needed an assistant had The Niece not been going to work with her. Had we continued to be able to close the high number of loans possible prior to the mortgage meltdown, Shannon’s income stream would have allowed for day care much sooner than it actually happened. However, mortgage rules tightened, numbers of fundings decreased, and as a result, the company we worked for was not doing so well. Add into that an owner who is not so good at managing his finances and you may see where this is all going. For much of the second half of last year, our paychecks would suffer cuts that we didn’t know about until we actually got the check. Or we wouldn’t get a check at all. There were other financially creative measures on the part of my former boss that I won’t go into but suffice it to say, I made just about as much from unemployment when I was finally laid off in December as I was getting paid the last six months of last year.

I’d been looking for a different job from about October on but I’d really shot myself in the foot by going into the mortgage industry. People didn’t want to hire someone without recent administrative assistant experience. It didn’t matter that my skills were still good or that I’d been doing much of the same office work that an administrative assistant does. It was only through a contact known by one of the loan officers I’d worked with that I was able to be signed up with a temp agency and they in turn found me my current job.

I’m only now finally getting my shit back together, both financially and in regard to my self-confidence. By no means am I out of the woods completely but I can see the tree line from here. Perhaps it’s a sad reflection on me that so much of my self-image is related to being good at what I do for a living. If that is the case, then so be it. I’m finally feeling better about me and having a steady, reliable paycheck, even if it is a wee bit smaller, is worth its weight in gold.

I’ll have to save the rest of my update for the next entry. My lunch break is almost up and I have to get back to work. It’s April and I work for an accountant – ‘nuff said.

Paul Cubed

2004-04-01T00:17:00.000-08:00

Paul.

Paul, Paul, Paul.

There's something about that name. The planets align and cause major life shifts to happen when I encounter any man named Paul.

Let us begin with my first Paul. The only man, a boy really when I knew him, who has evoked feelings in me that held the potential for me to fall in love. Do you know what I'm talking about? When you're attracted to someone and it's powerful and consuming and it has this shine to it, this shimmering effervescence that has the possibility of becoming something cataclysmic. Where your body and your heart are teetering on the edge of the love abyss and all it takes is getting to know that person intimately, physically and emotionally, and love gravity takes hold and pulls you down until you're hopelessly lost. And you don't mind in the slightest. Completely different from love is this in love business. Strong emotions both, but as different as night and day. Maybe this first Paul has made me partial to that name. Perhaps.

Then there is our very own Paul, aka Coujeaux. A man who has become an incredible friend to me. I discovered where the other half of my brain has been hiding all these years - he had possession of it and the bastard didn't even have the decency to tell me. Talking to Paul is like putting on an old favorite flannel shirt that's been worn until it fits only you. It's comfortable and familiar and you never want to give it up, no matter how many holes or tears it gets through the years. Good friends like that don't happen all the time. Another thunderbolt of an entirely different kind.

This latest Paul is the man with whom I had a job interview today. My reaction to him was purely physical. He lit up every sexual neuron I have. Tall, gorgeous - but in an accessible way, floppy black hair, intelligent eyes, intensity, very dry wit, sexy smile, and great hands. Wow. Of course, as my luck would have it, he's happily married with children. If I get this job he will be one of my superiors. Please, just kill me now. *insert dramatic rolling of the eyes here*

Three different Pauls. All of them special. Each of them meaningful to me in different ways - love, friendship, and physical attraction, respectively. Merely because they share the same first name? It could be. There could be something floating around out there in the karmic cosmos that has destined me to encounter incredible men named Paul and have them be significant to me. Perhaps somewhere there is a new Paul waiting for me. A Paul who will evoke those wonderful, aching shimmering feelings and he'll bring me to the precipice where I will happily fall down, head over heels.

There really is no way of knowing. All I can say is this: any time I come in contact with a man named Paul - my internal radar starts going crazy. Be it conditioning or fate, the advantage is yours should you be blessed with the name of Paul.

Choose One and Be It

2004-03-30T12:39:00.000-08:00

I started smoking when I was 12 years old. It was all due to seeing the movie Grease and being impressed with how cool they all looked with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths. It was Rizzo's fault most of all. She was my favorite of the Pink Ladies. All that attitude and sass.

My cousin Beth was living with my mother and me at the time. She was from North Carolina, beautiful, and she had a convertible (the style of car that is my favorite to this day). She smoked and there was always an ashtray on the dining room table with half smoked cigarette butts in it. This is from where I got my first taste of stinkweed. Now you always see these people coughing up a lung when they try cigarettes for the first time. Not me. I took to it like a duck to water. I worked my way up from puffing to full inhaling in no time. I would sneak the cigarette butts when I was latch-keying it before my mom and Beth got home from work.

Flash forward a few years and I'm working part-time after school at the nursing home. Patients who smoked would have cartons of cigarettes that my mom, who was the Activity Director, held for them. It was nothing to sneak a pack every once in a while. I had no definite habit, just a smoke on occasion whenever I felt like it. I was into Marlboro Reds at the time (hack, hack) but would take whatever I could get my dishonest little hands on.

At 16, my dad died. While on that sabbatical week in Hawaii, I would sit on the balcony of my hotel room smoking cigarette after cigarette while contemplating the pigeons on the roof of the ABC Mart across the street. How I kept from hacking up a lung on those Reds is still a mystery to me.

A year or so later, I went on a trip to Monterey with my friend and idol, Jane. She was 20 years older than me but treated me as an equal. I looked up to her immensely. She was the funniest person I'd ever met and she took me under her wing. And yes, you're right, she smoked. Her poison was Benson and Hedges (she called them Benches and Hedges) Menthols. While on this trip, she let me smoke to my heart's content. I felt so cool and sophisticated, let me tell you. It was this trip that converted me to menthols for the rest of my smoking life.

I'd quit smoking and then take it up throughout the years. I finally fell into an actual habit when I was 22. I worked my way up to a pack a day of Marlboro Menthol 100s. I didn't like the Kings because they burned up too fast. The hard pack was also preferable since it didn't get smashed up in my purse. Marvin the Martian was a smoker too. I smoked up a storm while I was working at the 2nd nursing home. Constant smoke breaks. I don't like who I was becoming then. Not due to the smoking but due to my incredible lack of work ethic. While I may fart around here at this job, I get my work done. There is never anything lacking because of whatever time I spend goofing off. Back then, the work suffered. I was addicted to cigarettes and to really great sex with a man who was so not good for me.

The January after I turned 23 and a couple weeks after I'd ended things with the Martian, I quit smoking as a new year's resolution. I initially tried to quit smoking and stop drinking caffeine in an insane attempt at better health. HA! Worst headaches I've ever had in my life. Obviously, I took up drinking caffeine again. I stayed off the cigarettes though. Quit cold turkey and it stuck. I've smoked every once in awhile since then, primarily in times of great stress. And I admit, there are days when that need for nicotine sings along my blood. Sometimes I give in. I'll usually smoke one or two cigarettes out of a pack and end up throwing the rest of it away. Considering the cost of those little sticks of tobacco, it's not something I do very often.

There was a line in the movie Dead Again that really verbalized what I think of smokers. Robin Williams to Kenneth Branagh (paraphrasing) "You're either a smoker or you're not. Choose one and be it." I truly believe this. Some people are smokers, others aren't. I am a smoker who chooses not to smoke. Simple as that.

But even when I'm not smoking, there are times I'll be sitting in my car with the windows rolled down and I'll catch a whiff of a freshly lit cigarette and I find myself turning toward the window in order to fully enjoy that smell. I love that first drift of smoke that comes from a newly ignited cancer stick. Even before I began smoking, whenever Jane would light up, I'd turn my nose to the scent of her cigarette. I imagine that's something only a fellow smoker can appreciate

There Are Hot Guys At Church

2004-03-28T10:25:00.000-08:00

Oh it's been fun so far this morning. Not only was it fucking 83 degrees already at 9:30 a.m., I forgot my goddamned keys this morning. Allow me to tell you the entire story....

It's 8:20 a.m. I've had my shower, gotten dressed, and now I'm putting on my shoes. {Back story fact: I'm going to have to get a new car. My car sucks donkeys and can't seem to get enough of those damned beasts of burden so it's going to have to go.} Shannon's been looking through car websites for me 'cause this kind of thing she massively kicks ass at. Anyway, she says "Hey Lil. Come look at this." So of course I do. I spend the next 20 minutes looking at beautiful PT Cruisers, seeing what's in dealer's inventories, etc. I look at the clock. SHIT! It normally takes me about 1/2 hour at the very least to get here. So off I go, running out the door. Did I remember to check to ensure I had my keys with me? You guessed it. I sure didn't.

Anyway, I didn't realize this slightly important fact until I got here. I park my car, reach into my purse to get my office keys and lo & behold they're not there. Fucking great. So I figure, ok, the sales manager goes to the church next door to this office. I'll go find him and ask him to let me in. I walk over there and all these nice church type people are milling around the coffee klatch doo-hickey before the service starts. Is the sales manager drinking coffee this morning? Of course not. It's then that I realize I'll have to do the unthinkable. I'm going to have to go into the sanctuary. AAAARRRGGGHHH!!!!! I just know I'll be struck down the minute I set foot in there but I have to risk it. I haven't been inside a church since April of last year when I went while I was in North Carolina. And that was because it meant a lot to my mother.

Ok, so I manage to get into the sanctuary area without lightning bolts from God being sent in my direction. I look around but is the dude there? Say it with me now: Of course not. My skin is crawling from all the organized religion concentrated in one area. I've got millions of religious hell-fire ants marching along my arms and in my hair. See what I endure to get to work? Am I dedicated or what? Especially considering I'm cursing to myself the entire time I'm looking for the nice sales manager.

"Shit! Fuck! Where the hell are you, dude? Oooh, that guy's hot. Dammit!"

Yes, these are the things going through my mind. Add to the mix that my body's sitting up and saying "Lil, you seriously need to get laid. You're finding church dudes hot. Oh look at that guy." Yeah. Needless to say (but I'm going to say it anyway), I high-tailed it out of there. I decided I'd rather try to break into work than stay in church.

Right. When I figured out I didn't have the proper tools for surreptitious breaking and entering, I went out to my car to see if maybe by some kind act of fate, my keys were on the floor or something equally ridiculous. Lucky for me I did because right then, one of the agents pulled into the parking garage and was kind enough to let me in.

And thus began my morning. I'm safely ensconced in this nice air-conditioned non-religious office, listening to Incubus, and answering the phone. Big collective sigh of relief.
Hope you're all having equally interesting mornings.

Edited at 10:40 a.m. to add: A fire truck just pulled up in front of the church. See! I knew I shouldn't have gone in there. If I see any demons emerging, I'll let you all know.

This Space Intentionally Left Blank

2004-03-23T18:49:00.000-08:00

One of the people I'm very glad to have "met" through this blogging thing, Miss Paz, asked some good questions in one of her comments to me. Therefore, I am answering them in their own entry:

How do you feel about your father's alcoholism? Does/did that affect how you think about yourself?

Basically, for me, the answers to those questions are inter-related. At first, it made me terrified. I didn't want to ever drink for fear of becoming an alcoholic myself. That's not to say that I completely stopped drinking. I do drink alcohol on occasion. There was a period of a couple years where I didn't drink at all. I'd gotten really sloshed on one horrifically memorable Halloween and blacked out. That had never happened to me before. Yeah, so I was a tee-totaler there for awhile. Now alcohol really doesn't have much appeal for me. I'll drink the occasional Diet Coke with Absolut Vanilla or a Corona with lime and even that is rare.

When it comes to men, I'm skittish about them drinking. Marvin the Martian - the one man I've loved in a romantic sense - was a raging alcoholic. I understand my predisposition to becoming involved with alcoholics and I try not to. I find myself analyzing their behaviors and drinking habits. I'm hyper-sensitive to their drunken behavior.

I've read a couple books about alcoholism - is it an illness or a behavioral issue - that whole debate. Personally, I think children of alcoholics are more likely to become alcoholics themselves. Now is that genetic or is it a learned behavior? I really don't know. Honestly, it doesn't matter. Just so long as I don't become an alcoholic myself. That's what matters. His need for alcohol caused so much pain. I never want to put anyone through what he put the people who cared about him through. I'm not merely referring to the dying part. He was 49 years old when he died. I have no idea how old he was when he started drinking but suffice it to say, there were plenty of years where his drinking affected his life and those around him, including my mother. Including me.

His alcoholism is still an integral part of who I am. It always will be. I don't know if that answered your questions Paz, but I gave it a shot. (Pun intended, of course)

18 Years

2004-03-23T11:29:00.000-08:00

I've been writing this blog in my head for the past few days. These sentences that will follow aren't in the same format or even in the same order as the ones that have been swimming through the grooves of my brain. But they'll do.

Today marks 18 years since my father died. I was 16. He was an alcoholic and the years upon years of drinking had torn up his insides. He had been bleeding internally for months but hadn't done anything about it. Finally, something drastic happened and my grandparents took him to the hospital. I don't really remember what the impetus for their calling the paramedics was. They called my mother late Friday March 21, 1986, and told her that my father was in the hospital. We went to go see him Saturday morning.

He looked so small in his hospital gown with the sheets all tangled up around him. He had tubes going in everywhere but I mostly remember the large red one that went down his nose into his stomach. Obviously bandages can't be used on one's insides so they were pumping air into his stomach in an effort to stop the bleeding. He was conscious so he was able to see me break down into tears. I remember that my hair was being held back with two bobby pins, that I was wearing an old blue sweatshirt, and that I didn't say much of anything to my father. All I could do is try to keep myself from crying. (I hate that his last memory of me was of me in tears. But I didn't have much strength then, you see. I still had to earn it.) My mom is the one who spoke with him. Little did I know this was the last time I would ever see him alive.
I didn't tell him I loved him.

That haunted me for a very, very long time.

The next day I was at choir rehearsal. It was Sunday March 23, 1986 at around 6:30 p.m. or so. I was worried about my father but I hadn't gone to see him that morning. I was in Chamber Singers at school and we were due to leave the next day for a competition in Hawaii. My mom came in to the rehearsal room and with one look at her face, I knew.

I still went to Hawaii. I spent the entire week by myself. Everyone left me alone. I sat out on the balcony of the hotel room smoking Marlboro Reds and staring at the ABC Mart across the street. I took pictures of my view to commemorate the occasion. Mechanically, I did my part, I sang the songs but I wasn't really there. I could have stayed home but truly, what reason was there? So I could go to a funeral with a bunch of people who were acting like they actually gave a damn about my father but didn't really? I don't regret going to Hawaii.
I regret not having told my father I loved him.

I got back from Hawaii and went on with the business of living. It was very difficult the first few months. Those truly were the hardest. I would cry myself to sleep and wake up sad with puffy eyes and a headache. There were no happy moments. I eventually got so tired of being sad that I considered suicide. I made a half-assed attempt at it by taking a few muscle relaxers I had but it truly was the stereotypical cry for help. I wouldn't have gone through with it. I went into counseling after that.

I grieved. I screamed at the ceiling of my dining room with tears coursing down my face. Yelling at my father for dying, yelling at God for allowing this to happen.

I wrote. I wrote poetry, I wrote a letter to my father telling him how fucking angry he'd made me.

I dealt with it. I became distant, closed off, cynical. If I allowed no one into my heart, they didn't have the power to hurt me.

I realized that wasn't the answer. I'm more cautious now than I used to be when letting people in. There are really only a few people who truly know me. Whom I trust with my deepest love. This was a very hard lesson to learn. I love easily. I also let people go more easily now. I can care about you deeply but losing you won't come anywhere near to killing me. There are only two people in this world whose loss would cause me debilitating pain, whose deaths would hold the power to destroy me.

So many memories flash before my eyes as I think about the time since my father died. Locking myself into the practice room in the chorus classroom during lunch breaks so I could curl into a fetal position and cry. My grandmother (his mother) becoming ill a few months after he was gone. Seeing her in the hospital with my grandfather leaning over her bed sobbing, begging her not to leave him. The rhythmic rise and fall of her chest and the sound of her breathing as congestive heart failure stole her life. Visiting the cemetary the Christmas after they died and being thrown into a vicious rage at the stupid, inane, hideous decorations strewn about over his and my grandmother's graves. Kicking plastic santas off of his grave. Allowing only a single red rose to remain as the testament to my love.

Some years March 23rd would kick me in the gut like my father's death had just happened. Some years I don't even realize the 23rd has gone by until much later. This year I remember but I don't feel sadness. I've come to terms with his death. I've learned lessons that will be with me until I'm dead and have become a pile of so much ash.

I've learned that telling those you love how much they mean to you is one of the, if not the most important things in the world. I've realized that my life is better, that I'm a better person, because of my father's death. That lesson hurt. Can you imagine what it would be like to know that the greatest gift your parent ever gave you was their death?

He doesn't know that of course. He didn't die for me. He killed himself. It was a passive form of suicide but he knew he was dying, he knew his body was in trouble.

Yet he did nothing. Maybe somewhere in his heart he knew my life would be better without him. Maybe I didn't factor into any of it at all. Of course I'd like to think that I did but I doubt it. His greatest love in life was in the bottles of Jack Daniels I found in his room when I was helping my grandparents clean up his belongings. In fact, my primary memory of him before he and my mother divorced when I was 4 is of the six packs of Coors he'd buy. They were the cans with the wide silver band around the bottom. Vivid memories of those cans.

He was the first person I was close to who died. He hasn't been the last. Years later, I joke about being the expert at death. I can grieve with my eyes closed. So many people I care about gone forever.

Thanks to my father, I can handle it. I can suffer loss and come through fine on the other side.

2004-03-19T16:01:00.000-08:00

My heart aches. Not for anyone specifically but more for the absence of someone.
Each resonating heart beat echoes in the emptiness of my chest.
Lonliness folds upon itself exponentially, crushing me.
I need a sun to shine upon the inside my soul.

Shiftless

2004-03-01T15:20:00.000-08:00

I feel shiftless, a piece of flotsam floating along the current.
There's some thing, some part of myself that is missing and I can almost see it. I can feel it against my fingertips but I can't grasp it.
It's there, on the tip of my tongue but I can't quite taste it.
It's there, taunting me. Leaving me wanting and incomplete.
It's there, frustrating me with its absence.
It's there, and I can't have it yet.

there...

Crushes

2004-02-21T22:58:00.000-08:00

Lately I've felt as though I warped back in time and I'm once again in high school. I find myself gazing out the window, moonily staring at nothing but with my head full of silly notions. Flowers, hand-holding, long talks possess my thoughts during the daylight hours. It's the thoughts that take over at night that are much more fun but so much more frustrating. Do we ever outgrow crushes? They're so adolescent in their purity and innocence but incredibly maddening when you know nothing is going to come of it.

As adults, there are myriad reasons why we fall victim to unrequited admiration. Sometimes the object of our hormones is spoken for or they're out of our league in some way or another or we encounter them online and the distance quashes any possibility of the natural progression of attraction. Oh but they can be so enjoyable for awhile.

And if a person is ever so fortunate as to have their crush show reciprocal feelings. That's better than any drug - it has to be. I've had that happen one time that I know of. It was amazing. That was with Marvin the Martian so many years ago. I can still remember the feeling in the pit of my stomach when I opened my apartment door and there he stood, the man I'd been fantasizing about for weeks. The heat that soared in my blood the first time I realized he wanted to kiss me as much as I wanted to kiss him. God I miss that. Not him, necessarily. Just that feeling, that realization, that awareness.

Insert longing sigh here. Intellectually, I know I won't be alone forever. There will be more men in my life. I'm crushing on a few different guys at this point in time but reality has a way of putting a damper on things. It's interesting, isn't it - how distances are measured in more than mere miles.

An Ode to Blood

2004-02-14T13:58:00.000-08:00

If men could menstruate … clearly, menstruation would become an enviable, boast-worthy, masculine event: Men would brag about how long and how much. … Sanitary supplies would be federally funded and free. Of course, some men would still pay for the prestige of such commercial brands as Paul Newman Tampons, Muhammad Ali's Rope-a-Dope Pads, John Wayne Maxi Pads, and Joe Namath Jock Shields-"For Those Light Bachelor Days." - Gloria Steinem

This remarkable piece of artwork came from this blog. "On the Rag and Proud of It: Celebrating Menstruation!!" A very interesting piece about Aunt Flo.

Some random menstrual facts:

According to the Hebrew Talmud, if at the beginning of her period a woman passes between two men, she kills one of them. If she goes between them towards the end of her period, she only causes them to quarrel violently.
The average woman has approximately 500 periods in her lifetime.
She’ll also eat about 35,000 cookies.
The length of the vagina will increase by as much as 50% by the time a girl has fully matured.
The eye and the vagina are the only self-cleaning organs.
The vagina is approximately 10 cm long.
Other things approximately 10cm long
- a small banana
- Cell phone
Estrogen hormone levels can increase by seven times during the normal menstrual cycle.
PMS is caused by these hormone changes.
Chocolate is the #1 food craved by women during PMS.
Chocolate contains phenylethylamine -- the same chemical your brain produces when you fall in love.
White chocolate isn’t really chocolate.
A woman's body temperature rises by .5 to 1 degree every month after ovulation.
A calorie is the energy needed to raise 1 gram of water 1 degree Celsius
Number of Calories in a chicken burrito- 286
In a beef taco- 369
In 2 slices of frozen pepperoni pizza- 534
Approximately 1 out of 5 women can feel themselves ovulate or ovulation's immediate effects.
1 out of 4 Americans has appeared on television.
1 out of 3 dog owners has talked to their pet on the phone.
1 out of 2 billion people will live to 116.
Women have used tampons for thousands of years- no one knows who came up with the idea of internal feminine protection. Tampax, the first commercially successful tampon, has been around for over 60 years.

"Midol" Parody by Mikerz

"Lucky" Based on the performance by Britney Spears

Author's Note: When reading (or singing) this parody to the tune of "Lucky", it is imperative that the reader clearly understands and pronounces each syllable, especially if it's a four-syllable word in place of four, one-syllable words. Some words you may need help pronouncing correctly: Menstruation - Men·stru·a·tion, Irritable - Ir·ri·ta·ble, and Menopausal - Men·o·paus·al. If you don't pronounce the words correctly, the timing will seem off, and I work extremely hard on perfecting my timing. The only reason I bring these points up is because I found myself, the writer of this parody, saying the aforementioned words incorrectly, more often than not, by combining syllables.

This is a story about why girls need Midol...

Major cramping, bloating too
Pound, pound, pounding headache
Excedrin Migraine, two capsules
Is all it takes to feel great
They go...
"Isn't she grouchy, when PMS strikes?"
And they say…

She needs Midol, she's a bitch
And she scream, scream, screams when her jeans don't fit, pleading
I need tampons, any brand will do
Menstruation please be through soon

Hot and cold flashes, swollen feet
Not to mention she's irritable
And her head feels queasy, her stomach's uneasy
She can't wait to be menopausal
They go...
"Isn't she grouchy, when PMS strikes?"
And they say…

She needs Midol, she's a bitch
And she scream, scream, screams when her jeans don't fit, pleading
I need tampons, any brand will do
Menstruation please be through soon

"Best relief, and the winner is . . . Midol!"
"I'm a woman standing inside a drugstore fighting over the last box of Midol"
"Stupid bitch . . . give me that!"

"Isn't she grouchy, when PMS strikes?"

She needs some Midol, and boy does she scream
I need some tampons, any brand will do
Menstruation be through
And they say...

She needs Midol, she's a bitch
And she scream, scream, screams when her jeans don't fit, pleading
I need tampons, any brand will do
Menstruation please be through soon

This entry brought to you by....

Realization

2004-02-01T11:23:00.000-08:00

Well today I figured I'd blog about this thought that's been chewing up the inside of my brain for the past few months. I have a tendency to place people whom I initially find impressive up on a sort of pedestal. A honeymoon period, if you will. During this time, everything is shiny, new, and intoxicating. Pleasure is derived simply from being in the person's presence. I can't wait to see what they have to say or what they've been doing because it's a joyous learning experience for me to be privy to them.

And is often the case with marriages, after the honeymoon period comes the reality check. The shiny exterior begins to tarnish. I see actions, hear words that show people as the imperfect entities they are. The pedestal crumbles and suddenly I'm eye to eye with the object of my esteem. Sometimes this is fine. Their imperfections bring them to my level, make them real and I'm able to get to know them in an entirely different way. Other times, seeing what their choices or actions or words reveal about them comes with disappointment. I don't want to know that this person who I've held in such high regard has flaws. I want to keep them perfect in an air-tight container so I can continue to be entertained by them, continue to marvel at their magnificence.

But that's not how life works. That's not how humanity works. We're all imperfect. We all do stupid things, hurtful things, cruel things - whether they are intentional or not - this is the reality. Normally I glory in those imperfections because often times they are what makes life interesting. Growth and maturity are born out of the horrible, stupid things we do.

I've learned to reconcile that bite of disappointment in finding out my idols aren't all they seem to be. Because honestly, would I really want to learn from someone who's never screwed up? Someone who's never known what it's like to hurt another person and feel the remorse and sadness that inherently follows? How else would we know not to be cruel, indifferent and do all those other terrible things we do to each other without having done them before and feeling what it's like?

Because you can't take someone's word for that. Your parents, your elders, your friends can all tell you that being mean isn't good but until you're mean to someone you care about, you won't get it. When you're a child and you break your friend's toy just because you're pissed off that the toy isn't yours, that brief joy you feel in his or her pain quickly turns to guilt and sadness when you see their tears. When you judge someone based on the color of their skin or on their place in society and feel the sting of embarrassment of being so stupid, you know that's something you don't want to ever feel again.

Does any of this stop me from admiring and idolizing others? Not really. Why else would I lust after famous actors whose physical appearance embodies my ideal of perfection? Why else would I moon over other people I encounter because they have personality traits that amaze the hell out of me? That disappointment at finding out a person's true colors is why I'd rather not ever meet Kiefer Sutherland or hang out with Johnny Depp. I don't want my idealized versions of them to be destroyed. I want to be able to keep them all shiny and wonderful in my mind.

In fact, there are some people here on Xanga that given the opportunity to meet them, I'd probably pass. Because how well can you get to know someone merely by reading their blog? Truthfully, not that well. You see the person they want you to see. As honest and revealing as their writing may be, you're still not getting the entire picture. You're not seeing for yourself how they act when they pass a homeless person on the street. You're not truly seeing the reaction in their eyes when they meet a person with some kind of disfigurement. You don't see if they've got their closet compulsively organized by color, type of clothing, every item wrapped in plastic. You don't see if they pick their teeth with their fingernails after a meal. Things that would completely change your view of them, or at least annoy the hell out of you.

The thing of it is, I need to have idols. I need to have people who embody traits I want to have. It's helped me enormously seeing people who act ways, do things, feel things, say words that I want to emulate. To have an example on which to base aspects of myself. Throughout my life, there have been people, some famous - some not, whom I admired and who profoundly affected me and helped to shape who I am today.

I suppose the point of all this nonsense is that sometimes it's good and it's ok to leave idols all shiny in their plastic wrap. I don't need to eviscerate the inner workings of everyone I admire and fumble around in their innards. I can see their goodness and wisdom and glean what I need from that. That when I have a choice, occasionally it's better to leave the pedestal intact.

The Invisible Man

2004-01-17T10:41:00.000-08:00

I sit here in this corporate institution, surrounded by glass and brick. I can hear him but I can't see him. My homeless friend is yelling again. Incoherent rantings of his private rage. He stays out of site, hidden in the breezeway, standing behind the concrete and brick pillar but still he yells.

Suddenly he comes into view, wearing a different jacket this time. Navy blue with white piping and a large white Nike swoosh on the back. I wonder where he got the jacket. Did someone throw it away? Did one of his fellow homeless give it to him? Or was it merely hidden under his army jacket from a few weeks ago?

He wanders down the street, peering into each garbage can he passes, searching for some hidden treasure. A bounty of a half-full coffee cup or partially eaten piece of food.

I wonder if I went and set a couple of my pop tarts on the edge of the trash can right outside my office if he'd eat them. They're the good kind, chocolate fudge. If I still smoked, I'd leave some cigarettes out there for him. He seems to cherish cigarettes most of all.

He's sitting across the street now, his back against the pharmacy wall. Joggers run by without so much as a glance, ignoring the proof that there is another level of humanity outside their own.
Ralph Ellison had it right. Invisible men do exist.

Nursing Home Ramblings

2004-01-15T12:22:00.000-08:00

Until just before I turned 24, I spent a great deal of time in a nursing home. As a child, I was there with my mother either at my choice or because she had no one else to watch me during the weekends and school-less summer days. My mother was an Activity Director at the nursing home where my aunt was the Administrator and part owner. It was more or less a family business.

I remember early mornings driving from El Segundo to the Mar Vista section of Los Angeles, the sun usually only having been up for a short while. Stopping by Jack in the Box for breakfast, if I was lucky, before going to my second home. For that's what it was for me, a second home. I would roam up and down the hallways, visiting with the patients, sneaking rides in empty wheelchairs, or talking the ears off any nurses who would listen to me.

Most of the time, I would help my mom with her activities. In the morning we'd do armchair aerobics. Mom and I would sit in chairs facing the patients and they'd do the best they could to stretch their arms over their heads or lift their legs as the voice on the cassette tape instructed. If I close my eyes and it's quiet, I can still hear the lady's voice from the tape and the cheesy background music.

The afternoons would bring either Bingo or music from some volunteer group or if it was a special day, a birthday party. If the patients had been able to, though, they'd have played Bingo every day of the week. Mom was always stuck between a rock and a hard place with this as she was required by law to have variety in her activities. Whenever the health inspectors would visit, they would review her calendar of events to ensure there were different kinds of activities scheduled. Those poor patients, wanting all Bingo all the time and the mean old health department not caring one bit. My mom would have mercy on them though and substitute Bingo every once in a while for whatever the scheduled activity was.

At 5 or 6 or 7 p.m., we'd head home. The time we left would depend on if enough nurse's aides had shown up for the 3-11 p.m. shift and if help was needed serving the dinner trays. Since mom and I were family, we'd get tapped to help out. I remember one time we were at home on a weekend and my aunt Florence called saying she needed us to come in to help serve the dinner trays. I was so angry. I was a teenager by that time. It was her presumptuousness that drove me nuts. But we'd go in and help, as always. The patients came first with Florence, no matter what. For that reason, that nursing home was consistently one of the best in California.

I had an entirely different blog thought out for today until I started going through my SIR list. TooOldForThis' entry for today got me thinking about my nursing home roots. I only hope she can forgive me for sticking my nose where it didn't belong and giving her a presumptuous suggestion. It was born out of my past experiences and out of concern for a grandmother I've never met. I hope she understands that.

2004-01-08T11:12:00.000-08:00

What is it about computer technicians that makes them so hot? I was at the office of our computer guys today having them look at a computer. I was already down that way to have a chest x-ray as part of my physical from a couple weeks ago (yes, it took me that long to go into the lab-place) so I figured I'd save us the travel charge and cart the CPU down there. Besides, they're way funny and 2 out of 3 of them are cute so why not? (Note on the 3rd guy: While I don't consider him hot, he's still very cute in a younger brother kind of way and he's extremely sweet.)

Anyhow, it got me to wondering about these computer guys. Are they like UPS deliverymen or firemen and they're required to be massively hot in order to get their jobs? Is this phenomena only happening in my world or do you party people find that your computer techie guys/UPS deliverymen/firemen are way hot too?

Maybe I could get a grant to research this....

Silly Little Things

2004-01-02T11:20:00.000-08:00

Growing up I didn't have a proper door on my bedroom. Over the years, I had a pink, clear, and lavender beaded curtain type thing, a cheap wood-grain vinyl folding door thing, or nothing at all. Why my mother didn't just go buy a door and put it on there is beyond my comprehension and/or recollection. Why I didn't just go buy a door and put it on there once I started working and earning my own money is also something that makes me go "what the...?!". Anywho, when I finally moved into my own place, the first thing I did was go into my bedroom and shut. My. DOOR. I was stoked that I had a door on my bedroom. I'd stand in my bedroom doorway and open & shut my door over and over again. Shannon (who of course was my roommate) would just stand there and laugh at me. She understood why I was thrilled to have a door but she still laughed at me.

My first two cars were a 1974 Volvo which I had for around 2 years and then a 1988 Toyota pick-up truck. Neither car had cupholders nor did they have intermittent windshield wipers. I had my truck for 12 years, drove to Seattle and back during the month of January one year - in the rain and snow - without intermmittent wipers. When I bought the car I currently have in 2000, I was delighted to find it had both cupholders and intermittent wipers. I glory when I have to drive in the rain because I can recklessly switch between all kinds of different wiper speeds. I love going through the drive-thru and buying a drink because I have a cupholder in which to put it.

Silly little things but appreciated beyond belief by yours truly because of their absence in my life before they came along. It's the not having of things, feelings, relationships that makes them all the more appreciated and loved when I finally do have them.

Kinda like this internet message board/Xanga blog thing. I lived just fine without them before they came along. But in November of 2002, I stumbled across the Vartypants' Vigilantes' Love Lounge. I was an Alias/Michael Vartan fan at the time. I began posting messages on that message board because the people there were incredibly funny. I now have some really good friends because of that. Through my adopted little sister, Liz, I found Xanga when I decided to try out this blog doo-hickey. In the past 5 months, I've been interacting with some more incredible people and gotten to know my Vigilante friends even better than I did before. For me, the internet is a way to meet new friends and socialize. I'm not a barfly, even though I did my bar hanging out time when I was younger. I don't like going to clubs. But here, I meet people, get to know people, who have the same interests I do, who express themselves much in the same way I do. It's invaluable to me.

Thank you to all of you for being my friends. I appreciate you more than I could ever adequately express.

About Moi

2004-01-01T21:59:00.000-08:00

Whenever I hear moi, I instantly think of Miss Piggy. Maybe that tells you what you really need to know about what I'm like. My name is Lillian but I also go by Lil. I'm a 39 year old woman living in Southern California in what I refer to as The Commune. I live in a house with my best friend since high school, her husband who I've also known since high school, their daughter (The Niece) and her son (The Nephew) by her first husband. It's unorthodox but it works, kind of like me.

I'm coming up blank with what to write so this is going to sound like a really bad personal ad. I don't like pina coladas but I love getting caught in the rain, singing badly, using writing as catharsis, reading, hoarding office supplies and drinking too much Diet Coke, among other things. Words I'd use to describe me are kind, weird, loud, loyal, caring, occasionally idiotic and generally fiscally irresponsible but trying to do better.

Yeah, so that's me in a nutshell - and it's a damn big nutshell too. Like nuclear big.

Paul

2003-08-28T13:15:00.000-07:00

Paul. Let me take you back to 6th grade at my elementary school. We didn't have a junior high at that point in time. I was in a combined 6th/7th grade class at Richmond Street Elementary School. Paul was in 7th grade. He was my first and so far only thunderbolt.

Of course, I'd had crushes on guys before. There were the requisite celebrity puppy love things with the Fonz, Donny Osmond, Shaun Cassidy, the list goes on. Fellow kids-wise, there was Mike and Robert in 3rd grade (at different times, mind you). In 4th grade I liked this red-headed boy but I'll be damned if I can remember his name. 5th grade was Jason. All of them ephemeral whiffs of hormones gone wild.

Then there was Paul. I remember passing out Christmas cards that year and making sure I gave him the nicest one. Silly things we do with our adolescent crushes.

There were a bunch of us who used to hang out after school playing tag in the park at the library across the street. I was inordinately pleased by the fact that he would pay attention to me while we were all chasing each other around. In retrospect, he was simply a nice boy playing a game with his friends but it meant so much to me at the time.

Next school year rolled around and Paul was off to the high school (part of a 4-year experimental thing that had our high school hosting grades 8-12 - my class was the last one to do that). I soon stopped obsessing about Paul and moved on to a long-legged guy named Jim who played basketball.

Again, another school year rolled around and here I was over at the high school. I can vividly recall sitting in my first year Spanish class one day and hearing someone mention Paul's name as being in another one of the 1st year Spanish classes and having aced a test. My ears pricked up just like a cat who has heard the can opener. Paul. My thunderbolt - all over again. He was not to be the only recipient of my adoration that year, however. Another boy named Eric, who was in my Social Studies class, and Bruce Springsteen were also chosen ones.

Moving right along to junior year of school. I'd had other crushes during my 9th and 10th grade years but Paul had always been there. A constant on my romantic radar. Junior year I'm in Spanish 3. Guess who I ended up sitting behind? That's right. For the first time, I began speaking to Paul. Getting to know him. It was heaven. My crush turned into full-blown like. Was I courageous to do anything about it? Hell no! Besides, he ended up going out with my friend JoAnn for the rest of his time in high school. Figures, huh?

He graduated that year and there was no more Paul in my life. I moved on, had boyfriends. Sex. All those wonderful things people do. Paul's always been there, though. In the back of my mind, swimming through my subconscious. He'd pop up now and then when I'd see something we'd talked about or he'd wander through my dreams. On one prophetic occasion, I dreamt that he told me to stop thinking about him. I didn't obsess about him or try to find him with any great degree of effort. He's just always been with me.

I've seen him once since high school. At his 10-year reunion. I was working at a real estate agency at the time and was in a superficial phase. I ended up being mildly bitchy and not having the guts to talk to him. Still kicking myself for that to this day.

The point to this little story? Some months ago, my best friend (who was in high school with me and has endured the Paul obsession with me) saw his name at Classmates.com. Holy shit! Yep, that was my reaction. I finally managed to scrape up the cash to pay for the Gold membership thing and did further scraping to come up with enough nerve to send him a "hey how's it going?" e-mail last night. I heard back from him this morning. He's got a girlfriend and 2 kids. Am I disappointed? Yeah, a bit. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't. Here's the thing though. When I first found out he was within reach via this e-mail deal, I decided that should I not be fortunate enough to experience a romantic epiphany type situation, I'd be fine with having him in my life as a friend than not at all. Maybe that's all Paul and I are meant to have. Who knows? All I know for sure is that way back when, he was an amazing guy who I liked a lot. Worst case scenario at this point, I've renewed a friendship. Works for me! We can use all the friends we can get in this world. It's been a freeing experience. I feel like I can finally tell my subconscious to take dream Paul's advice and stop thinking about him as he used to be.