Creeper from the Black Lagoon

Okay. I'm sorry, but this has got to be one of the creepiest scenes ever filmed. I am  HUGE fan of old-timey horror flicks, and this one is one of the best. This scene is so iconic!

Hot August Nights

One thing that I really love about my hometown is all the events that go on thru the Summer. My favorite by far is Hot August Nights, which I used to think was a nation-wide, week-long holiday when I was a kid.

When I was little my mom used to dress my sisters and me up in poodle skirts, button-down blouses and bobby socks, and my Papa Dan would come by and pick us up in his old-fashioned blue convertible. I remember running out to him; out the front door and down the cracked concrete steps, thru the chain link fence and into his arms.  He had a laugh that came from his belly and blue eyes that truly sparkled when he was pleased. He was always pleased to see me.

He’d load my five thousand siblings into the old convertible and we’d head off into town, usually to Victorian Ave where we’d drive around and wave at everyone like beauty queens who’d just won a pageant, then we’d stop at A&W and Papa Dan would treat us to burgers, french fries and root beer floats, and when we were done we’d find a place along the sidelines and watch all the other retro-mobiles roar by. A few hours later Papa would return us to our mother, generally sleepy and sticky from root beer spilled down our chins.

It occurs to me as I write this that I have not gone back to Victorian Ave during Hot August Nights since Papa died. And that was eleven years ago, now.  Every year (that I’ve been in my hometown) during August, I see the Hot Rods cruise by and I always intend to go downtown, I guess I just never have. Next year, next year; I’ll have more time/money/reason to go check it out.

Well, I tell you what. I’m going to Hot August Nights this year, come hell or high water! I’ll get a buddy or a group of buddies together and we’ll wander around and have a margarita and breathe in the exhaust fumes and laugh and be happy. Time to make new memories. Time to seize the day; tomorrow might not actually happen.

Thinking Out Loud

Okay- this one REALLY is me just thinking out loud. I don’t know where this is going. So really, I advise you not to read it. It will be kind of dumb, most likely. But here I go.

They say that cats have seven lives. Wait, is it seven? I think actually it’s nine. Let’s go with nine because nine is more than seven, and we could all use more lives. My cat sure could use more lives right now because if I catch her claws in my screen door just one more time, ima kill her.

(Oh hey- good news for readers of my blog; my boss seems to have disabled facebook on the company computer, so now I’ll be blogging instead of stalking. Darn Boss. At least that’s what I’m hoping happened, otherwise someone has hacked in and done something fishy. What are cookies, exactly?)

Anyhow. Lives. Yeah.

I think that some people have nine lives, too. Or five, or seven or some only have maybe two, but I think that we all have multiple lives. I’d say I’m on about life four. My happy darling childhood of yore was one, my wholly miserable pre-teen years into my unhappy early twenties were the second, followed by my missionary years as the third, and here I find myself at my fourth. And you know, I can tell you day that I morphed from one to the other. The events compiling which caused the evolution are long and staggered, but the day of the change I can pinpoint.

From one to two it was one of the first days in fourth grade, when I came home with my first ‘D’. It was on a math test. Multiplication. I couldn’t handle those 7s and 8s. I remember my mom frustratedly smacking my arm with a ruler.

“Seven times three is twenty-one! Why can’t you remember!? Are you stupid!? Seven times three is twenty-one!”

The transition from the second to the third was two days before I went into the MTC. I was worried to death, but also at peace with it. I felt something warm and peaceful wash over me and it stayed inside of me for the entirety of my mission.  I liked who I was then. I felt like the Mother Teresa.

The next one is as follows: I was up at Badger Creek, and I broke the heart of Jack from Nebraska. And then, in turn, someone else returned the favor to me, if not quite so badly, I think. Then one day, sitting in the Temple, I had an epiphany (more on that in a minute).  I would feel more, I don’t know….. feminine?... if I could say that they broke my heart and the devastation changed me.  But that wouldn’t actually be true. I know I broke Jack’s heart and I’ll never forgive myself for it (neither will my mother) altho I knew then as I know now it had to be done. And I did everything to win the other guy’s heart; I was as perfect as June Cleaver. But ‘the day’ was actually the epiphany-in-the-temple day. I was sitting there and as I prayed for God to soften my heart, to bend me to his will, to show me the way, I looked up and looked around, and it was suddenly so obvious, so clear; I did not belong there. The temple, the religion, was rejecting me the way that I had rejected Jack and the way that the other guy rejected me. Staying in it would be like staying in a bad, unhappy relationship.

So I left the cold, harsh light of that life and blundered around in the dark warmth of the new world I had chosen.  Right about now my eyes are starting to adjust.

Geez, my tummy hurts. (Yes, Chad, I’ve eaten today) I want some Taco Bell. I don’t know why, but I am on a TACO BELL RAMPAGE. I have eaten Taco Bell almost every day for two weeks. Shoot, what I wouldn’t do for a Taco right now. D:!!!

Stinkin’ Boss. Why’d you have to go blocking FB like that?

Dagnab it.

Darling-ness

I like to wear headbands. They are fun and cute and they hide greasy hair, which is a HUGE plus for me, since I have been washing my hair only every 2-3 days because I really need it to grow.  (As a little tip for those ladies out there whose hair refuses to grow, stop washing it. It has been growing really well now. Also stop curling it/straightening it/dyeing it/blow-drying it. Pretty much you’ll have to look like a flippin hippie for a few months, but at least your hair will grow, for the love of God.) The only trouble that I have with headbands is that they squeeze the freak outta my head, especially in that sensitive spot right behind your ears. I get a WICKED headache after a while. With metal headbands I can usually just bend them a little to make them wider and thus less likely to crush my skull. But plastic ones are such a pain in the rear because if you try to bend them they just break!! Gah!!  And who the heck put TEETH on these things? Maybe a few teeth up around the top to hold it in place, but why are they necessary all the way down? THEY AREN’T! And then if you conk your head you have those TEETH digging into your cranium. It’s bad news.

That’s a big problem for me: conking my head. When I was a kid I was the WORST. I conked my dang head on EVERYTHING. AND! I slept on the top bunk which I fell off of several times and that hurts like mad.  Have you ever fallen off of the top bunk? It’s a long fall! Especially when you are a kid! Everything is bigger when you are four feet tall.

You know? Sometimes I wish I was four feet tall again, even with all the head-conking. Not four feet tall like, Larissa Tanner < J >, but I mean be a kid again. I have compiled a list of reasons that I should be allowed to go back into my childhood; somewhere 4-6 years old. 

1.       I was darling. I was. Most kids are cute, a few unfortunate are not, but I was the class above cute; I was DAR-LING. I had enormous blue eyes and dimples, and curled strawberry blonde hair. I was a mischievous but very affectionate little doll, and I had a lisp that made my ‘r’s into ‘w’s and ‘s’s into ‘th’s. In general, I brought joy to the human race. I was like Jesus. With a lot less controversy.

2.       I was skinny as heck. I used to get into trouble for eating cubes of butter and spoonfulls of Crisco. And still I was a twig! It was like I had a fat deprivation.  It made me happy and made America look good.

3.       I got to eat a ton of way more delicious food. Chicken nuggets and Mac&Cheese and Spaghettios… But back then if you were served okra or peaches or spinach you HAD TO had to eat it or DIE. Nowadays you can just say, “Umm, nope. I don’t like that crap, and I’m not gonna eat it. Ain’t gonna happen!”  So actually, I take that one back.

4.       Actually that’s all I’ve got. And #2 is kinda sketch, so really we’ll just go back to #1. I was darling.

Who am I kidding? I still am darling. I wear headbands. I’m like Zooey Deschanel.

Boy, I will be your sexy silk.

I have great respect for the gym. I just joined a gym, hrmmmm, three-ish weeks ago. Just ‘Anytime Fitness’ nothing super swank or whatever. I love it. I have lost a few pounds already, and I know I am getting buff because I have my iPod on my arm, and I had to loosen the band because it has gotten a little too tight. Which is good, because in Wyoming the wranglers told me I have frog arms. 

Oh God! Wrong picture wrong picture, sorry....

Okay, that's better. Yeah, so as you can see, 'Frog Arms' is probably not a compliment. 

The gym is my haven. My favorite is when the boxing instructor is there because I love to punch stuff, I discover. I also love to check out sweaty guys over at the weights station. (Weights station? I’m sure that’s not the right name. Stations are what we rotated around in Kindergarten.) Don’t worry! I am super sneaky and ogle them by looking in the mirror.  Besides, they’re totally doing the same thing to me, so phooey! I’ll ogle sweaty dudes all I please, thank you. 

Oh dear.

Wow. I started that paragraph with the intention of saying something deep and meaningful. That was super successful.

While I’m on the subject of sweat, however…… some sweaty guys are, shall we say, less desirable than others.

This article is really not going according to plan. I’m trying hard to tell you about the plaque I saw in the gym that said “Happyness is not a destination. It is a way of life.” (Yes, it’s actually ‘happiness’, not ‘happyness’, but I like it better that way)  And I was kinda hit by that. It true. You can be knocked off your feet by a freight train that came out of F*$%ING NOWHERE, but as soon as the feeling returns to your limbs, get up and RUN LIKE HELL. Be happy and don't let anyone try to stop you. So, that’s what I really wanted to say. We can now return to being shallow.

I am actually all gross and sweaty from the gym myself right now, so ima go take a shower. Peace.

I'll leave you with that image. You're welcome. 

The Dog Days Are Over

Happiness hit her like a train on a track
Coming towards her stuck still no turning back
She hid around corners and she hid under beds
She killed it with kisses and from it she fled
With every bubble she sank with her drink
And washed it away down the kitchen sink

The dog days are over
The dog days are done
The horses are coming
So you better run

Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father
Run for your children, for your sisters and brothers
Leave all your love and your longing behind
You can't carry it with you if you want to survive

The dog days are over
The dog days are done
Can you hear the horses?
'Cause here they come

And I never wanted anything from you
Except everything you had and what was left after that too, oh
Happiness hit her like a bullet in the back
Struck from a great height by someone who should know better than that

The dog days are over
The dog days are done
Can you hear the horses?
'Cause here they come

Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father
Run for your children, for your sisters and brothers
Leave all your love and your longing behind
You can't carry it with you if you want to survive

The dog days are over
The dog days are done
Can you hear the horses?
'Cause here they come

The dog days are over
The dog days are done
The horses are coming
So you better run

I Really Don't Think I Can Do That Again

I really don’t think I can do that again.

So, as many people know, I suffer from a really painful disorder called Endometriosis, but which I refer to as ‘Metrie’ the same way that people with Cystic Fibrosis call it ‘Sixty-Five Roses’.  Makes it sound nicer; maybe now it’ll act nicer. No? Oh, well, dammit.

In a nutshell, about every month it flares up, usually not too bad, and can be fixed with ungodly amounts of around 6 ibuprofen, 4 naproxen and usually a few diphenhydramine because really, you think I wanna be conscious thru that? No.  Massive crippling pelvic pain, sometimes extending up to my ribs and down to my knees, horrific sensitivity to light, heat, touch, smell and sound, and PAIN PAIN PAIN that often results in vomiting and delirium. It’s so great. Today it was so bad that I could not crawl to get the phone to call for someone to take me to the hospital for about an hour, couldn’t stand to reach the pills in my medicine cabinet,  and I lay on the linoleum of my kitchenette, rolling in pain and shaking, until my t-shirt and hair were both DRIPPING wet from perspiration.  The worst part is that the pain won’t let you push it to the back of your mind- you can’t really distract yourself from it. You are perfectly, totally aware of every single body-wrenching twist, every time.  Today might’ve been the worst I have ever had it, maybe the second worst. No, no I take that back; the other time I actually made it to the hospital where I got lots and lots of morphine, which was really nice. This time I got the whole 3 hour party. 3 hours seems like 5 hours, I swear. It was so fun. That was this morning from about Noon until 3 o’clock. It is now 11:30pm and my arms and legs are still very weak and shaking.

Anyhow, as I lay on the couch, semi-comatose about 4 this afternoon, I thought to myself; “I don’t think I can do that again.” I was so tired I could hardly move, and even talking was laborious. I had taken  a small handful of pills, on which I blame the temporary loss of feeling in my fingers, lips, forehead and toes. I didn’t mind. Hell, I didn’t want to feel ANYTHING right then.

So tomorrow I am getting an appointment with Dr. (probably Johnson, maybe Rafael) to get some f’vicodin or some f’oxycotin or some f’weed! I don’t care, but this can’t keep happening. God, that was such Hell.

Sorry for burdening everyone with that, but getting it over my lips seems to help. Or over the keyboard. Same thing. J