I Was Born Old

Seriously, if you haven't read this book it will make you want to kill yourself.

I’m sure you’ve been on tenterhooks waiting to see when I would post again. “Why hasn’t she updated her blog in days?!” You’ve wondered aloud at night, alone in your bed, wringing your hands in agony. Fear not my fellow old-before-their-time readers, I’ve just been in a bit of a literary funk.

I made a big decision recently. For many years, I’ve gone back and forth between careers in the helping industry and the writing industry. On the one hand I really enjoy helping people get what they need (in the altruistic sense, not in the $20 for a quickie sense), on the other hand I really love writing. So, after a year of staying home with my kiddo and examining my inner workings in-depth I knew I needed more training to get into a career where I would have some semblance of control. I had to decide: get a Masters in Social Work? Or a Masters in Fine Arts in Creative Writing? For a long time (three months is a long time for me!) I was going with option number two. Idealism! Using my god given talent! Recognition! Fame! All within my reach. Then I realized, writers need a day job and getting an MFA didn’t guarantee me (not even close to it) any kind of day job beyond the one I have now and am super bored with. So I reexamined, decided I could write at night and use my other god given talent during the day and have a lot more control over my career.

Courtesy Flickr Commons by koalazymonkey.

But it’s difficult since then. What’s the big freaking deal about your career, you’re asking me?  Unfortunately, be it the influence of my damned workaholic mother, the alignment of the stars at my birth (Fun Fact: I’m a Capricorn) or some other mysterious universal force a career is not just a career for me. It has to be a calling, a passion, a thing I want to do and must do. Helping people is one of the two things I must do in this life, this is true. But am I wasting a golden opportunity? Am I throwing away my talent?

Probably not, if I manage to balance work, home and writing. This is doable for me. I think I’ll be fine. But it’s taken many dark nights alone with a glass of wine watching the Real Housewives bicker endlessly for me to get to this place. Really, it was less watching outward, and more looking inward–trying to find some sense  of control. I want to control the chaos in my life, but I know I don’t.

This is my heart of darkness. I have absolutely no control over this world or the things that happen to me, only the way I choose to respond to them. A terrifying reality check for me, but one I need often.

Did you the Capricorn's card in the tarot deck is the Devil? Fun Fact! Courtesy Flickr Commons by verseguru.

What thing is at the heart of your fears?

Having a morning commute that goes right into rush hour traffic is the reason my blood pressure has spiked recently. Luckily, with the advent of Going to Grad. School in a month, I’ll only have to make the commute once a week. But for right now, I really start to wake up in the car when my blood starts to simmer in pure rage at the assholery on the streets. Almost no one does the hand raise to signal a “thank you” when you slow down to let them in anymore. Turn signals? Psh, for LOSERS apparently. When you do use one the person behind you in the next lane speeds up so you can’t get in.

There’s a scene in “Shoot ‘Em Up,” one of the worst movies of our time (I only went because I had free passes), where Clive Owen’s character is driving. Someone changes lanes in front of him without using a turn signal, and that’s when he goes BATSHIT INSANE and I’m all FUCKING YES.

Why hello there...

Because, just like Clive Owen, I want to ram the shit out of every car that cuts me off, fails to use a turn signal, doesn’t say thank you, uses the shoulder as a passing lane…you get the picture. I’ve been tempted to flip off people who don’t thank me when I slow down to let them. In case you couldn’t tell, it really annoys me when people don’t THANK ME. Argh! It all stems from my constant need to be praised. Thank my parents for that one. Don’t ask.

In fact, I came up with a genius marketing plan to stop people from driving like idiots. Are you ready? Here’s an illustration:

That'll get their attention.

Basically, here’s the plan. I dress up in a giant pink bunny suit, because who would not look at that? Then I stand on the street corner right next to my building where I am almost killed everyday by someone cutting me off to get into my lane at the last possible moment and hold this sign.

In your dream world, how would you tell other drivers to please stop driving like school children on a bumper car ride?

This is part two of the story of Sir Gareth, a daring knight from the court of King Arthur. Find part one here.

Lady Lyoness is all, “I can’t be with you for another year!” Then she has someone go steal Sir Gareth’s dwarf who tells her the knight who rescued her is actually a knight who’s been knighted by Sir Lancelot (the pimp daddy mac of knights). By now we’re thinking, “couldn’t he have just told her to start with?” But no, Sir Gareth wanted to be all mysterious. He’s surprisingly not very angry with his dwarf though when he come back to rescue him.

All that killing for nothing!

Sir Gareth gets down on one knee and asks Lady Lyoness if she’ll pledge herself to him. Obviously she says YES I’VE BEEN WAITING ALL MY LIFE FOR THIS. Really, this means they can, um, snuggle because they’re going to be husband and wife. These medieval people have no problem with premarital snuggling as long as they’re pledged to each other. They also have no problem with loping off their wife’s head, but that’s a story for another time.

Anywho, they’re pledged to each other and they ride out to stay at some guys castle. Sir Gareth asks sheepishly to sleep in the Great Hall. He asks sheepishly because “Great Hall” is code for “I’d like to snuggle with my woman.” She comes down and they get in bed together. They are JUST SNUGGLING OKAY. But then every time they go to snuggle this knight shows up and tries to kill Sir Gareth who is not in his armor because he’s snuggling for the love of god!

They're talking about what the lyrics to "Champagne Supernova." Really!

Sir Gareth kills this guy a couple times, but Lady Lyonet (Lady Lyoness’ sister) runs out every time and puts this ointment on him that makes him regenerate. Apparently this isn’t cause for asking her what the hell is going on since Sir Gareth and Lady Lyoness just keep trying to snuggle. Just let them snuggle JEEZUS. Anyway we never do find out why Lady Lyonet is so hell-bent on not letting Sir Gareth and Lady Lyoness snuggle.

And then some other stuff happens at another jousting tournament and really, Jesus Christ, this story is so damn long.

A happy ending for all. Except Sir Gareth's dwarf.

The End

I really try to push myself in the literary sense (also in the drinking sense and in the winning arguments with my husband sense). I’ve always enjoyed reading and it’s a goal of mine to read as many works of classic (however you define it) literature as possible. Lately, I’ve been plowing through Le Morte d’Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory, which is fantastic. It’s one of the original western tales of adventure and bravery. Also, it’s hilarious the things these knights put themselves through.

First of all, they are always riding off into the forest in search of adventure. Literally, they say they are searching for adventure. Like, “excuse me Mr. Peasant, can you tell me where I might find an adventure?” “Oh yes! Right around the bend in the path there you’ll find three lovely ladies on a well who will give you a quest!” Pretty awesome. Also, they have to do anything a lady tells them to because that’s what Queen Gwynevere (spelling that’s in my copy of the book) told them to do. Finally they can never sit down to their damn feasts until someone comes with a quest or some boon (aka, favor) to ask of King Arthur. Lots of food getting cold waiting for that shit.

So, just for you, here’s a retelling of the first part of the tale of Sir Gareth retold by Paint and me.

Once up a time, there was a brave man who went to King Arthur’s court who wouldn’t tell anyone his name. Oh yeah and he had a dwarf. It was HIS dwarf.

I know it's not PC, but this is what the book says. The dwarf was definitely HIS dwarf.

So this guy, who was Sir Gareth son of King Lot and Queen Mawgawse (or something like that), brother of Sir Gawain (who didn’t know Sir Gareth was his brother, but felt feelings of kinship towards him) went to King Arthur’s court and asked Arthur to give him food for a year. Arthur was like, “ok, no problem.” But Sir Kay was an ass to Sir Gareth because he didn’t know he was of noble lineage, so he made him his kitchen bitch boy. Lots of taunting about bacon and being stinky ensues.

Anyway, the next year the Pentecost feast rolls around and everyone is standing around waiting for something awesome to happen.

I'm pretty sure they made this rule so they didn't have to make so much damn food. One or two poor saps miss dinner while they quest for glory, the rest FEAST! Also, there's a lot of "Thank Jesu," going on in this story.

Anyway, Sir Gareth asks to be the person to help out the poor woman and she’s like, “But you’re not even a knight stinky kitchen boy!” And he’s like “I must help a lady in need!” Then he goes outside and jousts with Sir Kay and Sir Lancelot before he’ll even leave and steals Sir Kay’s sword and shield because he’s a bad-ass like that. Then he tells Sir Lancelot who he is and gets knighted. Off he and Lady Lynet go to kill the Red Knight and get back the Lady’s sister, Lady Lyonet (or something like that).

Weeks on the road pass and he jousts with tons of people while Lady Lynet is a total bitch to him. He kills or gains the loyalty of the Blue Knight, the Green Knight (not pictured, forgot about him), the Puce Knight and the Indigo Knight.

They ran out of colors. Apparently there's no purple or yellow knights.

Lady Lynet has a sudden change of heart after Sir Gareth almost kills the Indigo Knight, but doesn’t because he begs for mercy and Lady Lynet tells him not to kill the poor guy. Anyway, she suddenly thinks he really is a knight like he’s said he is and that he has noble blood, which is very important if one wants to be able to fight well. Then they get to the Red Knight’s castle. There are 40 corpses of other Knights strung up in the trees and Sir Gareth espies the enchanting Lady Lyonet in the window and immediately falls in love. He bangs on a pot out front to call out the Red Knight.

There was a pot out front specifically so knights who wanted to challenge the Red Knight could bang on it. The Red Knight is a badass like that.

Will Sir Gareth win the fight? Will he kill the Red Knight or just make him beg for mercy at the tip of his lance? Will he win beautiful Lady Lyonet’s heart? Stay tuned for the second (and hopefully final) edition of The Tale of Sir Gareth as Told by Paint.

My parents have always loved to listen to music any chance they get. In the car, decorating the Christmas tree, cooking dinner–it doesn’t matter what time it is, it’s always time for some good music. Their musical tastes have also rubbed off on me. Whenever there’s a family gathering we are all rocking out to Queen, The Beatles or some good ol’ Lynard Skynard. And they crank it up.

Scaramouche, scaramouche, will you do the fandango?

In fact, my father taught me the best lesson about listening to music in my teenage years. Since my uncle was a dentist he would do my orthodontic work for whatever the insurance gave him. However, he and my aunt live two hours away from us. Since my aunt is my father’s sister (does that make sense?), he would drive me the two hours down and back once a month or so. Neither my dad nor I are big talkers, so we’d listen to the classic rock station the entire drive down there. Occasionally he would get really excited about a song and CRANK IT UP. One time I tried to turn it down a little because it was so damn loud. My dad turned the music all the way down and without looking at me said, “If it’s too loud, you’re too old!”

Now my poor daughter has HER hearing ruined (fun fact: I have a hearing problem. Probably from all that loud music) by my favorite British bands. Namely:

I would divorce my husband in a second if Chris Martin would promise to sing to me everyday. Sorry sweetie! Courtesy Flickr Commons.

What’s your favorite saying or platitude your parents taught you?

Courtesy Flickr Commons.

My pregnancy was, oh let’s say, difficult emotionally. In addition to an unexpected pregnancy in my senior year of college while working full-time, there were marital difficulties.  So to combat my depression, I would go to the gym every morning at 6 am and swim.

Swimming helped the endorphins flow and let me pretend like the water was my husband’s face. Every morning I’d have a cup of coffee, then get into the pool and pound the water like “oh yeah asshole? Well I hate you! Argh!” It really helped me get my rage out.

Just in case you didn’t know though, 6 am is also when all the old people are at the gym. The literally old people. There were only four lanes in the pool, so if I didn’t arrive right 6 I’d have to share with someone, which is a giant pain in the ass when you’re swimming at 6 months pregnant and need to stop after every two laps.

Anyway, one morning I show up at 6:15 and lo and behold, all the lanes are taken up. Imagine me waddling into the pool area, hoping to god everyone knows I’m pregnant and not just really, really fat. I spot the only lane with a woman swimming in it and go sit on the edge of the lane to ask permission to share. I’m hoping none of my hairs from ahem down there are poking out because I haven’t even seen them for three months. God knows how they look to other people.

This old lady stops and looks up at me and I give her my brightest smile, “Hi!” I say cheerily, “Mind if I share your lane?” She looks me up and down and wrinkles her tiny old lady nose a little and says, “No, I’m timing myself.” I’d have thought an old lady would understand the pain of being pregnant and in a swimming suit. Bitch. She is lucky I didn’t strangle her right there.

Luckily at that moment, the old man in the lane next to her got out. So you know what I did? Got in his lane and timed that old lady myself. And you know what? She was slow as fuck. And she was swimming like a frog, legs akimbo in the water. I swam on a team from 3rd to 7th grade and while I was never fast, everyone praised my technique. Every time I swam past her in my lane I made a point of really elongating my body, perfectly bending my elbows and timing my kicks just right. I also made sure to swim as fast as I possibly could.

You want to mess with a six month pregnant woman? I'll write about you on my blog someday! Courtesy Flickr Commons.

I fantasized about stopping her at the wall and offering tips on swimming faster like “Kick with straight legs,” and “Try moving your arms faster.” Real mature stuff like that. I timed that bitch and she was only swimming two laps every 4 minutes. This is ridiculously slow for someone who claimed to be timing themselves.

But you know what? My husband’s face got a break from being punched repeatedly in my imagination that day.

The original English major: Garrison Keillor. That scowl, those hands!

 Courtesy Flickr Commons by usembassylondon.

My love affair with Garrison Keillor started early. My first year in college, I worked two jobs. By day I was a Girl Scout leader for low-income troops in my hometown. Yes, there is a program where you actually get paid to be a Girl Scout leader. Loved. That. Job. And those girls.

By night, I was a delivery driver for Papa John’s. Sweet christ, was that job so mundane. Yeah, I learned every back road to anywhere in my town (where I had previously not known which way was north or south. True story: geography is not my forte). I came home smelling like pizza every night, which my boyfriend at the time loved (yes, I moved in with my now-husband at 18, who’s asking?). And yes, I was even invited several times to drink mouthwash in the walk-in with the other guys who worked there. Below is my Paint portrait of said exchange:

Seriously. Wow.

I hated getting orders, hated my boss for making me stay an hour later than my scheduled time every night and hated that we delivered to the hinterlands of my hometown. One Saturday night, I was scanning desperately through the radio stations trying to find something I could sing to, for the love of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, when I miraculously stumbled upon a broadcast of A Prairie Home Companion. I hadn’t even known such a thing as a radio variety show existed anymore.

I laughed, giggled, roared and truly enjoyed the musical guests. I cursed every person who ordered pizza, made me get out of the car and miss part of the show. When the show that night ended, I was unfortunately delivering a pizza and missed what the broadcast was titled. In fact, I didn’t know for several weeks what it was I had listened to.

Garrison Keillor probably stopped me from committing murder against my boss that year. Even though APHC was only on one night of the week, the promise of stories on Saturday about Lake Woebegone and Guy Noire kept me going even when my car smelled like mushrooms and anchovies. My legal husband hates the show, which is reason number 467 why I think he doesn’t know the first thing about humor (that and his abhorrence of Monty Python. Really?), but my daughter loves the board book of poems Garrison wrote for his daughter.

Today, I found out A Prairie Home Companion is coming to Kansas City August 31st; guess what I’ll be asking for as a third anniversary present? Now I just need to find someone to go with me. Anyone else in the Garrison Keillor fan club?

Courtesy Flickr Commons by whiteoakart.

Our family has been lucky enough to find one of the most fabulous, amazing daycare providers on the face of planet earth. The first day I dropped my little bug off at her new daycare (after a whole year of staying home and learning to stifle my gag reflex whilst taking shots of tequila and bonding), I could jump for joy knowing that she was in good hands.

The only unfortunate part of this arrangement is that our provider, let’s call her Glinda, lives on a street of duplexes which all look almost the same. By the end of my days spent at the office browsing the internet working very hard, I’m almost too exhausted to tell the difference between houses (checking my Google feed reader every five minutes is very difficult).

The ONLY difference between Glinda and her neighbor’s house if that Glinda and has hanging flower pots on her stair rail.

Just pretend like these are duplexes and there are stair rails and those purple and green things are flowers.

A few weeks ago, I went to pick up Little Bug from daycare and pulled on to the curb in front of Glinda’s house. The two children at the top of the stairs gawked as I walked past them to go inside. Oh well, I shrugged, Glinda is always watching her neighbor’s kids after school. Kids usually gawk at unknown adults. Whatev’s, right?

I pull open the front door and walk inside and here’s where the real confusion takes place. The living room doesn’t look like Glinda’s living room at all, and there’s a strange lady sitting on her couch.

Ok, whatever, I think. She must have redecorated this weekend. My husband takes Little Bug to daycare in the morning, so I wouldn’t have known until Monday afternoon. I’m looking around more and wow, Glinda REALLY redecorated and it’s FUGLY. But I’m not going to tell her that.

I start to cross the living room to walk down to the basement where the kids are usually playing. Ok, I mean, it’s really quiet, but maybe they’re reading.

Out of  the corner of my eye I see the lady on the couch jump up and yell, “Who the FUCK ARE YOU?” I’m like, whoa, WTF? Why is another parent talking to me like this? I give her a withering look—or at least what I hope is withering. I have a black thumb, so maybe I can also kills people with my eyes. Maybe?

Then I stop. I really look around. There are no toys in the living room. No computer in the corner of the dining room. This place doesn’t have that unique daycare aroma of macaroni and poop. No, where the fuck am I? And yeah, who the fuck am I? What the FUCK did I do?

“Um, this isn’t Glinda’s house?” I ask what I hope is politely.

“NO!”

Ack, ok, plan B. Act really confused. I do this when faced with conflict. When in doubt, do the human equivalent of possum, pretend I am really, really dumb.

“Oooooh my gosh, I am SO sorry! I’m so tired. All these houses look the same! So, so sorry!”

I run back outside, past the still gawking kids who I now can’t look in the eyes, and to the correct house next door.

My shame is still too great to look at that lady’s  house.

This is a real conversation Mr. J and I had last night as we lay in bed falling asleep discussing Harry Potter (be still my beating heart!):

Mr. J: Guess who Emma Watson had a crush on during the first few movies?

Me: Um, Alan Rickman?

Courtesy jastrow75 via Flickr Commons.

Mr. J: No, but you’re close.

Me: God, I would totally do Alan Rickman. Ok, um, the guy who plays Dumbledore? The new one, not the old one.

Mr. J: No!

Me: Voldemort? He looks good out of his makeup.

Courtesy G.6sou via Flickr Commons.

Mr. J: No. Christ!

Me: Lupin, right? No! Gary Oldman! Oh my god, his hair, his mustache….

Courtesy Google Images

Mr. J: For godssake, she was like, 11! What is wrong with you?

Me: Oh right, ok…..Draco Malfoy!

Mr. J: Yes. My god, I am never letting you near a retirement home.