Thursday, December 20, 2007

Some Christmas Cheer. Just a Little, Tiny Bit.

Heading to Utah tonight. Yes, that's right. I'll be at my mom's tonight. Crazy, isn't it? I think so.

It's been hectic. But I think everything will be ok. We got a security system before we left, a cat-sitter, and put up more drywall. Cool. Bless the cats while I'm away, that they don't miss me too much and that nothing bad happens to them. I'm like this lady:

VERO BEACH, FL–Annette Davrian, a 45-year-old Cedar Rapids, IA, bank teller, is spending her vacation time in a delusional haze this week, somehow managing to convince herself that her cats actually miss her. (Rest of article)

Pathetic. But true. Anyway, Merry Christmas. Later.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

A Rowan Atkinson Classic

A few years ago I saw this Rowan Atkinson skit with a friend. It was hilarious and I've always wanted to see it again, but the last time I checked, Atkinson's stand up stuff was only available on vhs. It's out of print and cost a million dollars. So, I bless YouTube. For once.

I think the tights are priceless. For more, see Welcome to Hell, Mr. Invisible, and Invisible Drum Kit.

More Excuses Not to Climb. But Wanting to Climb....Sort of.

Last night I painted the ceiling in one of the upstairs rooms. It has slanty walls because it used to be the attic, so it wasn't very difficult because the ceiling is only like four feet wide. The hardest part was tilting my head back to look up. I've been putting this project off for almost a month now. I bought all the paint in November and I had originally planned to get it done before Stoker's parents came out for Thanksgiving.

So my back hurt like crazy last night. Stoker slapped some Icy Hot on it, bless his heart, and I think that helped. I also took about fifty ibuprofen before I went to bed. Then, when I was laying in bed not sleeping because of the muscle pain, I realized the knot causing all the pain is my climbing knot! Old friend, I said to it, I haven't seen or heard from you in so long! We embraced and there were tears on my cheeks, and tears on the knot's cheeks. It was a Kleenex commercial.

I've already written about the climbing gym in Nashville so there's no need for me to explain why I don't go there. And because I don't climb at the gym, it's also unnecessary for me to expound on the reasons why I don't have any climbing friends in Nashville. Mike D. (climbing friend in Salt Lake) seems to think that if I just hang out at the gym long enough, I'd make a few friends.

Of course, I explain that because I'm not married, single people have no reason to strike up friendships. There's nothing in it for them, and really, not much in it for me. Even if these potential friends are all female. Single people like to travel in groups and a married person is a real downer in single people groups. I'm not saying this is gospel, I'm just saying that's what I've observed having been both single and married.

Raise your hand if you have NOT been to a party where there are both single people and married people. Probably a lot of you raised your hands. I went to a party like this once when I was single (not a cocktail party, those weren't the kind of circles I ran in back in the day). It was at sweet ol' Jason Campbell's house. His married friends all sat around the dining table and talked and pretty much ignored the single people, who were all gathered around the kitchen counter and the humongous TV, ignoring the married people (they made us uncomfortable). It was a very interesting atmosphere.

In any case, all I'm whining about is that for me it has been more difficult to make friends as a married person. I've never been one to rush into friendships. And since my climbing skills have been out of use, I'm sure to suck. So that makes it even more uncomfortable to be at the climbing gym. I told Mike D. that I want to build a small climbing wall in the garage. Stoker is down with that and if you saw our garage, you would note that it's perfect for a bouldering wall. The knot in my back even thinks so. But Mike D. says all I need is a hang board. Then I slapped Mike D. and said hang board a bear's ass.

The problem is, how will a hang board help me if I have no strength to hang? It's not fun to just hang there. I wouldn't hang enough to build any strength, so the proposed hang board is a terrible idea. It would be a waste. The bouldering wall is probably a terrible idea too. I probably wouldn't even use it.

What you're saying and thinking to me right now, I can feel it (the knot doubles as a brain wave receptor), is that I'm just making excuses for myself. You're thinking that IF I really wanted to boulder/climb, IF it was REALLY that important to me, I wouldn't be making EXCUSES, I would just do it. What you're really saying is that I'm lazy. Jerk.

Honestly. The hang board might be an okay idea. I just did a quick search and found that Metolius makes a more elaborate hang board than I'm used to seeing. Back in the day, son, these hang boards were just a piece of wood, a 2 x 4 screwed to the wall. On the other hand, Metolius's description makes it sound like EVERYONE is climbing at home. I hate being part of a trend. I'm a trend bucker. Buck that bucking trend (the second buck is a substitute for a word that rhymes with buck. That's right. Clever). Screw climbing. I'm going to start balancing on the edges of skyscrapers to get my thrills. No protection. Just me and the gargoyles. Oh damn. Both Batman and Spiderman have already done that. Crap.

Thursday, December 06, 2007

Happy Birthday Sally

You like to say things are beastly when you feel strongly that they're disagreeable. Such as the cold weather or a fierce snow storm. Or even if there's a slight chill in the air, "It's beastly cold out." This is an endearing thing about you. Your sense of exaggeration. I miss it when you're not around.

Sometimes you say that you have "no earthly idea" about something. Usually it's regarding why or how someone could believe something so stupid, or how they could NOT know that the word is pronounced "filthy" with an /f/ sound and not a /th/ sound at the beginning. Often you're amazed at pronunciation flaws. It kills me. And once I read a poem someone had written about a person who said, "I have no earthly idea" a lot. I assumed it was about their mother. It made me think of you. I fell in love with the poet, though I can't for the life of me remember who they were. Sometimes you say that too, "I can't for the life of me . . . ."

Every night after you get home, you feed the cats (Yum Yum and Koko) a bit of tuna fish. Then you put your pajamas on. Perhaps you eat some tomatoes and a peanut butter sandwich. You read on the couch with the plate of food in your lap, snacking lightly as you turn the pages of your book. Sometimes it's a comic book, Walt Disney -- Donald Duck, Mickey Mouse, or (my favorite) Uncle Scrooge.

Even though I'm way out here in Nashville and you are there, snuggled in your home beneath the Wasatch Front in Utah, I know you're somewhere in the world, reading on the couch. And I feel close to home.

Bursting at the Seams. Running Out of Time. Climbing up the Walls.

Is it just me, or am I running out of time? Today I feel like I'm about to burst out of my skin over this sense of urgency to get things done. Maybe it's a caffeine rush on an otherwise empty stomach, maybe it's the guilt over having wasted hours and hours playing Morrowind. Maybe it's because the year is nearly over, or because in four months I'm going to be 30. It may be because today my mother is turning 60 and in less than five months my grandmother will be 90. There's a nice triangular pattern there, don't you think? Beautiful.

I feel like I need to do a billion things or else I'm going to die or, worse, regret a billion things. Death is preferable to regret. I guess. I mean, why would I say it if it wasn't true? As I once told Stoker (when he told me that he felt fat), if you feel it, then it must be true (Stoker is anything but fat -- that's what I should have said, but I'm a moron sometimes). Great logic there. I know, I know.

Also, my dad is dying. Slowly. This agonizingly slow death. And I feel like I need to write him a letter telling him that I'm sorry I didn't invite him to my wedding and that I'm sorry I didn't speak to him for a year or two, that I love him, but I resented him for essentially going crazy and being a bad father (but, could he help it? He was crazy. I guess it depends on what you believe about mental illness). I feel like I'm mature enough to have known better. Maybe I need to forgive myself for that. In any case, he's dying and being cared for in a relatively nice assisted living home in Utah, and I feel this other pressure to hurry up and get his life story before he dies. To record it so that I will always have it . . . so that I know where I came from, I guess.

And I feel like I need to get more of my grandmother's story, before she dies. Because hell if she's not TRYING to die. Last I heard she was trying not to drink water because then she has to use the bathroom and she's tired of using the bathroom. What a woman. What a woman. Yeah, so she's been getting sick from not drinking water. She's very stubborn.

So, anyway. I'm about to burst.