Escape From New York

This weekend I went with three of the funniest people I know to New York City. It was fantabulous. We saw the sights, window shopped, and stepped on fake mustaches.

Yes. An actual fake mustache. It stuck so well to the shoe that we wondered how in the world it ever fell off of someone's face. There is a very disappointed upper lip somewhere in Manhattan. 

But as you know, all good things must come to an end. We hailed a taxi, rode back to our hotel, un-checked  our bags, got back in the taxi and asked to be taken to the Port Authority Bus Terminal. And that is where things started to go downhill. 

What Could Possibly Go Wrong (a statement, not a question): 

1. A Columbus Day Parade breaks out going down 5th Avenue. The Avenue that separates you from the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

2. Your cabby dumps you out as close as he can, but you're still a few blocks away with minimal baggage to haul. 

3. It's raining. (Yay!) 

4. You have to wait in the rain with your bags to cross the parade. (Wave at the grumpy tourists, kids!) 

5. You walk to the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

6. You walk to the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

7. Still walking to the Port Authority Bus Terminal. 

8. Where the heck is the Port Authority Bus Terminal? Your friend stops to ask a random stranger. While she's getting an answer, a bus moves and you spot the Port Authority Bus Terminal. 

I think it's important to stop this particular list here and begin a new one called:

 "Reasons Why I Hate The Port Authority Bus Terminal and Am Pretty Sure It Was Designed By Hitler"

1. The doors barely open. They weigh 1,000lbs. They open just enough to wedge yourself in. Don't even bother trying to hold it open for the guy behind you, you'll get a hernia.

2. It's run by phantom employees. You walk inside and see a sign that says "Information" with an arrow pointing to the right. So you turn right. You find nothing. No kiosk, no information booth, no map that says YOU ARE HERE. You can't find anyone to ask. You expect to at least see a sign saying "HA HA, Just Kidding! No Information Here! Keep Looking!" There is no one around but the voice on the loud speaker that announces things quickly in a muffled voice with an accent. It would be impossible for anyone on this planet to know what they are saying.  

3. You give up finding information and try to find a rest room.  The sign that would normally say "You Are Here" lists restrooms but doesn't tell you where you are so you can't find them anyhow. You're doomed to wander. Eventually you blunder upon a restroom on your own.

4. There is no master list centrally located to tell you what buses go to which gates. This is not a user friendly terminal. You try to figure out what gate you are to go to in order to catch your bus. But ha ha! You can't because there are no real life employees ANYWHERE to ask. (They're all out watching the Columbus Day Parade apparently.) You walk from area to area reading the bus schedules, trying in vain to find the one you need. There is no where to tell you where to go. There is no one to ask. 

5. This place gives you false hope of escaping. You think you've found it. You check your watch and see that the bus (which leaves every half hour) is due to leave in three minutes. You race up the stairs, screaming at your companions to RUN RUN!! One of your companions is in line trading in her winning lotto ticket. You decide to cut and run. Whoever is not on the bus is going to have to take the next one. You've been wondering around in this purgatory for 45 minutes and you're really really sick of it. Plus you're pregnant and haven't eaten since 8:30am and it is 1:40pm. Sweaty and flustered you arrive at the gate. Whew! Close one! Then you look through the glass window and see the bus you wanted to be on pulling away from the other side of the terminal. CURSE YOU, VILE PORT AUTHORITY BUS TERMINAL!!! 

6. Here at the Port Authority Bus Terminal, you are helped and supported solely by non-employees/fellow travelers.  A bystander sees that you are in need of a Xanax and consoles you with the fact that the gate you are at will indeed take you where you want to go. More waiting. As you loudly lament your dissatisfaction about the whole situation, a new guy shows up behind you and asks if you remembered to get a ticket.  

7. A TICKET??!!! #$@!%&!!!  After the nuclear mushroom cloud dissipates from the area where you are standing, he tells you that you have to go back downstairs to get a ticket from a ticket dispenser thingy. In an act of desperation, two of you stand guard over the luggage while the other two go scampering after tickets. Count down to lift off is 9 minutes. This truly is purgatory as Webster defines it: A place to do temporary punishment or suffering. It feels more permanent than temporary and I'm definitely suffering. 

8. Time is weird in purgatory. When you want it to go fast, it goes slow, and when you need it to go slow, it speeds up. Four minutes pass, then five. Your red, angry, frustrated eyes keep watching the clock.Your companions come through and show up with four tickets. They are to the correct destination. You are pretty sure you are still standing at the correct place but you're not 100% because the tickets don't even tell you what gate you should be at - there is no way to crack this gate code. The bus comes and you get on. And it is the correct bus. 

13. But the bus ride lasts over an hour. 

I hate the Port Authority Bus Terminal. 

To My Husband on Our Anniversary- Here's to another year's worth of eternity!

Today is our anniversary. My poor husband has been putting up with me and my silliness now for 14 years. He still loves me even though I when I put my jammies on at night I'll take my shirt halfway off, turning it inside out over my head with my arms sticking out in front of me and then swing them around like a zombie. He shakes his head in disgust but he loves me anyhow.

He lets me get huge items that I never take care of- like the swimming pool- knowing that he'll have to do all the work while I lounge around on my raft watching the algae grow. And he loves me anyhow.

He lets me get sheepdogs even though he not-so-secretly hates them. Because he loves me.

He furrows his brow in disapproval when I find sticks in the yard to poke him with. (He really hates that game.) But it makes me laugh like a hyena so he puts up with it.

When I climb on the mechanical pony at Walmart and scream "BUT YOU SAID IN THE CAR I COULD RIDE IT!!" he doesn't divorce me. He just walks away pretending he doesn't know me.

And I love him even though he will always hang a folded wet wash cloth over a previously folded wet wash cloth until they make a Babel tower of moldy stinky washcloths. (I finally asked him why he does this the other day. His answer was "I don't want them to get lonely." 10 points to Gryffindor.)

And even though I complain from time to time on Facebook that I want to strangle him, I never do. Because he is my only weakness. So I'm forced to do my complaining on Facebook because I'd rather cut off my fingers than confront him face to face and hurt his feelings. So I tell the rest of the world and they confront him for me. I'm sneaky that way.

He can talk me into all kinds of dumb ideas. And I will always fall for it. That's how I ended up pregnant, I'm pretty sure.

He makes me laugh.

He fashioned these glasses so he could sleep during the next

mandated OSHA meeting at the mill where he works. 

Occasionally he feeds me. He buys me outrageously priced Christmas presents when the cheap version would have made me just as happy. He buys me cards and doesn't sign them. He gets Fat Gladys wound up and then laughs and points at me when she ambushes me and bites my meaty ankles.
He doesn't care if I look like crap all day and I let him wear ugly sweaters out in public. (If that's what he chooses to wear I'm ok with it. I will just have to remember to hide them better for next year...)

Together we're like two unattended 8 year olds living alone in a big house. We talk in movie monologues. We can relate everything that happens in life to a Seinfeld episode, and we quote it. We have light saber wars every Christmas with the empty cardboard wrapping paper tubes. We play air instruments furiously in the car when a good song comes on. We both appreciate the value of a good nap.

We like to look at other people like THEY'RE the weird ones. We're our own version of normal. We've had crappy times and happy times, poverty stricken times and times of prosperity. We've been sick, we've been healthy. I would have totally killed and buried a lesser man in the back yard by now. I've seen what's out there and I'm pretty of it. So yeah. He's stuck with me forever cause he's the only one I really like. And if he leaves me, I'll just stalk him.

Happy Anniversary!

Forget It. Consider it done.

I've waited a long time to have kids. Partly because I tend to gravitate more towards animals when it comes to nurturing (I call it misplaced maternal instincts) and partly because I really wanted to avoid all the symptoms that come with pregnancy.

Morning sickness, labor, having to pee all the time, constipation, labor, hand & foot swelling, heartburn, labor, stretchmarks, gaining 100lbs, the resulting baby, and have I mentioned labor? For years I've had to listen to my friends yap about every thing pregnancy related under the sun. There wasn't a horrible thing I hadn't heard of that I didn't in some way wish to avoid. But there was one thing no one warned me about. The absentmindedness. Well, maybe they did and I forgot.

Of all the things I have experienced so far, none of them have been a bother at all except for this last little detail that no one has ever bothered to stress. I can't remember crap.

I have driven to work in the morning, and by the time I left in the afternoon/evening, I've forgotten how I got there. (Road construction, different place every day.) I've left my clipboard full of asphalt tickets laying on the paving machine overnight because I forgot to give them to the supervisor. I've gone to the Dollar Store with the intent to buy Press-N-Seal FOR A MONTH and forgot to get it every time.

I've even forgotten names of people I've known for years. The other day I wanted to remember my friend's name but couldn't think of it. I knew it started with a vowel, was three or four letters long and ended in "a". Ana? Aida? Etta? No, none of those sounded right. I bounced this dilemma off of my best friend, (who's name I luckily could still remember) who began right away to help me think.  "Ida?" YEP! That's it! Duh.

I forget what day it is. I even have to think sometimes what YEAR it is. I forget who the vice president is too but probably because he's a forgettable kind of guy anyways. I don't think I ever knew what his wife's name is. I forget how old Gladys (bossy cat extraordinaire) is. I don't remember how old I am and have to ask my husband. Someone (I forget who) asked me when I was due and I wasn't even sure about that. "Um, January....24th? No, no! 21'st? No, wait, I think they told me January 20th. That sounds right..." Another question that makes me put on my thinking cap: How far along are you? I just started saying "about half way" cause keeping track of all these weeks is making my head uncomfortable.

Today I stopped at my dad's to pick up some frozen chicken out of his freezer. He wasn't home so I threw them in my car & decided to stop & visit Gram who lives close to Dad's house. After a nice hour and a half visit we walked out to my car where I was thoroughly surprised about having frozen poultry in the back seat.

As I was driving home I saw a fellow in the distance walking two dogs. Saint Bernards. Wow, I thought, you don't see those every day. Then I thought: the Barton's have Saint Bernards. (The Barton's are the parents of one of our friends, who I really only see on rare occasions and why I remembered they have Saint Bernards is beyond me because I've never met said dogs, and don't even remember why I know they have that specific kind.) Turns out, it WAS Mr. Barton, out for an evening stroll with the canines. HA!

And then I wasn't sure if I should be impressed or horrified. Why did I remember that they have Saint Bernards when I couldn't remember that I had chicken in my backseat? As I was typing this, just now, my skull bones behind my ears started to throb. I put my hand up to rub it & discovered that I was wearing a headband. (I normally don't. I don't know why I'm wearing one now.) See what I'm talking about??

Partial Sci-Fi Movie Review

The other night I couldn't sleep so I turned on my favorite, the Sci Fi channel, to see what sort of cheesy movie laughs they could provide me with. Once again, they did not fail to amuse. I was immediately riveted by "Jersey Shore Shark Attack."

I'm not sure if it was meant to be a comedy spoof or a chiller. Pushing my "info" button to the Directv remote did not supply me with any clues. All it would tell me was "searching for description" which was not to be found.

Unfortunately, I tuned in about halfway through, but here is what I saw:  to sum it up neatly- confusion. The characters seemed to be largely based on MTV's Jersey Shore cast which were played by other people. There was a girl who looked like Snooki, one who seemed to be the J-Wow, and a Deena/or Sammi. There was also a guy named Vinny (how coincidental!), a Situation, and a Pauly D.

When I tuned in, they were just finding pieces of Vinny stuck in some rocks by the bank. Then somehow the Snooki girl fell in and landed about 30 yards from shore. (Cause THAT'S realistic right? I mean, every time I slip & fall in the water I always end up in the middle of the bay instead of within a reasonable distance of land-HA!) There she splashed and swam pitifully until the last minute, slipping and falling while the others tried to help her out of the water as the sharks were bearing down on her with uncommonly slow speed for an ocean predator. (The sharks may have been robots. I'm not sure if that was part of the movie or if they were just victims of a made-for-tv-movie budget.)

Once the guidos and guidettes were safely away from the water they decided it was their personal mission to blow up the sharks. So they tried to steal a boat but they ended up accidentally blowing it up when their bag of fireworks that they were planning to kill the sharks with, caught fire and exploded. They never even left the dock. The sharks were giggling maniacally as they cut to commercial. So was I. And while the commercial break was happening, I fell asleep and missed the rest of this wonderfully horrible movie.

The question still remains- was this supposed to be a serious movie or was it a comedy? I plan to watch the whole thing next time it's on and find out. If you've watched it, don't tell me, I like cheesy surprises.

The Most Boring Job In the World

Flagging is most likely very high on the list of miserable jobs. You know what a flagger is. They're the person with the Stop/Slow paddle that you swear at under your breath when you see them standing there. It's involuntary, I understand. They're also the person with the most boring job in the world.

Sometimes I have the misfortune to be that person. Stranded out there. Far away from the other workers. Not knowing how the job is progressing or if anyone is still even there. For all I know, they could have all gone home and forgotten about me. Once they stick you out there, you're on your own. Just you and the guy/girl at the other end of the radio. God forbid your batteries go dead. Which they usually do at some point in the day, leaving you screaming frantically into your radio. ("THE LAST CAR IS A RED CAMRY!! DO YOU COPY??? A REDDDDD CAMMMRRYYYY!!!"  HELLLOOO???" DON'T SEND TILL YOU GET THE RED CAMRY!!!")

Busy roads are good. Pokey back roads, not so much. These are the worst. There are just enough cars to be annoying but not enough to amount to anything. And there's nothing to do. You just stand there. One hand on the radio, one hand on the Stop/Slow. There is no sitting. Break time - ha ha! There's no break time in flagger world. Break time means just enough time to run to a bathroom (the porta-john or the wild outdoors) while someone takes over for you. Then you go back immediately. You don't sit down for five minutes, you don't take 15 and play on your cell phone. When it's time to eat you get to stand there with your sign & radio and eat while the guy waiting in the beat up silver Honda that you have stopped makes kissy signs at you. Not cool man.

I spend quite a bit of my boring flagging day imagining. Like...what if all these millipedes crossing the road are really baby aliens that have been placed here to test whether Earth is habitable? How would I react if a bear, or possibly a big crazy buck, came out of the forest and started attacking me? If a pack of coyotes came along, would they eat me or adopt me as one of their own?  I also play games with myself like How Far Can I Throw This Rock? How Many Squats & Lunges Can I Do Before the Next Car Gets Here? Can I Make a Rope Out of These Weeds? Can I Make a Tiny Paper Airplane Out of My Gum Wrapper? Will It Fly?

I even have a pet rock in my lunch box. His name is Stony Jr. You can liken him to Wilson on Cast Away. I would never throw Stony Jr. or leave him behind. We have lengthy conversations on what we're gonna be when we grow up. (The answer is never "Be a flagger!" I'm going to be the person who parks cars inside the mall at night and Stony would like to get ordained over the internet or be a motivational speaker.) We think solitary confinement in prison is probably better than being a flagger. At least you can lay down & take a nap in solitary.

This is Stony Jr. He's my pal.

So if you ever think you have the most boring job ever, I want you to go to the nearest closet, go inside, shut the door and just stand there without sitting down and with no entertainment whatsoever for 12 hours. Then you'll understand why I talk to rocks.

Castleville Rant of the Day

I have a sick affinity to play Castleville on Facebook. I can't help it. That being said, I have a bone to pick with the useless characters dwelling within my kingdom.

Meet the cast:

Raphael:  He's the dark complected Michael Kelso of the group. He sort of bumbles around looking good but never really contributes anything. He's always asking me for bubbly grog, grape juice, logs, etc. I don't know what he does with any of these things. He's like that friend that borrows stuff and never gives it back or tries to reimburse you for losing it. 

Yvette: (played by Dianna Agron when she had long hair) Yvette is a tree hugger. She's always making me go on senseless quests to save the gloom rats (the bad guys, you're supposed to kill them) or rehabilitate them into pets or something. I expect she'll be making me build a recycling plant in my medieval kingdom sometime in the future. All she does is stand around the courtyard all day. You'd think she'd at least feed my cows or chickens now and then. 

Sonja:  Sonja is Raphael's girl. Ok, not really. Raphael is madly in love with her but she's indifferent to the situation. She doesn't even try to mingle. She mainly stands in the forest playing the part of the mysterious sultry woods temptress. Again, she contributes nothing. 

Kathleen: Her part will be played by Michelle Williams when they finally do a Castleville movie. Kathleen just appeared one day and demanded that I build a royal inn. I don't know why I listen to these people. I built her the inn hoping she'd disappear but instead she saw how much fun it was to stand around and be a slacker so she's still there. Doing nothing. Maybe someday a roving band of gypsies will show up and she'll run away with them. 

Alastair & the Duke:  These are the only potentially useful guest living in my fake fantasy world. Alastair floats about looking wise and his quests are usually for the good of the kingdom as are the Duke's.

Other than "rewarding" me for the ridiculous quests they send me on (I say that scathingly as if I hate the game, when in fact, I may or may not be addicted to it) all these subjects don't help me at all. There are six of them and one of me and a limited amount of energy. So how about it guys, feed a peacock, collect some taxes, clean the chateau, chop some wood or fish the pond for me once in awhile, ok? 

Stuck on "Loop"

My dad called me yesterday with an assignment (we're like that show Charlie's Angels- he calls and deals out orders, I go take care of them with well placed roundhouse kicks.) My assignment yesterday was to "Go look at your Pap's cd/dvd player, he says it says "no disc."

O....K.... I guess... I'm really not electronically minded so he'd probably have better luck getting my eight year old nephew to fix it.   But since I have occasion to drive past Pap's more than my other relatives I decided to swing by and take a looksee while I was out running errands.

Pap wasn't home at the time so I plopped down in front of his tv to investigate. As it turns out, my prognosis is that the sensor eye (or whatever that thingy is called) that reads the discs was only recognizing them now and then. Mostly he was right, it would just say "no disc." But every now and then I would get one to work.

So I left a note explaining that to the best of my abilities and told him to call me if he has questions.
Later on in the evening he did.

Me: Hey Pap, how's it going?

Pap: I can't get this thing to work. It says no disc.

Me: Yeah, I know, it only works sometimes.

Pap: Well I have a disc in it.

Me: I know, it was doing that for me too.

Pap: Well how's it supposed to work if it says no disc?

Me: I don't know. I think the sensor is bad in it.

Pap: Well I have the wires hooked up.

Me: I know. It's inside your machine, not the wires.

Pap: Well why isn't it working?

Me: Because the sensor thingy isn't reading the disc.

Pap: Yeah, it says no disc. What buttons did you push to make it play?

Me: Um the same ones you do?

Pap: How did you get it to work?

Me: Luck?

Pap: Well it's not working now. Why isn't it working now?

Me: Pap, it has Alzheimer's. It only works sometimes, when it feels like it. I don't know how it knows when it wants to work and when it doesn't.

Pap: Tell me what button to push.

Me: You're probably pushing the right buttons. It's not your fault, your machine is just going nutty.

Pap: Wait! It says loading.... HEY- there it is, it's playing!!

Me: Yay! See I told you it would work for me sometimes.

Pap: Let me try another one.....Ok, it says "loading."  HA- now it says no disc! How's it supposed to play if it says no disc?

Me: sigh....

An Evening At My House

A typical evening goes something like this:

1. I let the puppy up from the basement to socialize with me and play with his toys. 

2. I put in an exercise DVD and workout while the puppy plays.

3. The puppy remembers that we have a cat.

4. The puppy barks at the cat.

5. I keep exercising.

6. The cat hisses at the puppy. I ignore both of them and keep on working out.

7. The puppy starts chasing the cat.

8. The cat runs into the living room and hides under the couch. This would be a spectacular hiding place if she'd shut up and quit growling and spitting while she's under there. (She's awful at hide & seek.) 

9. I keep exercising.

10. The dog runs into the living room and barks at the couch, which has hissing sounds coming from underneath it. 

11. The cat runs out of the room.

12. The puppy chases her.

13. Repeat steps 4-12 about six more times.

14. I finally get sick of hearing the hissing, growling and barking so I separate them. The puppy gets yelled at.

15. I go back to exercising. 

16. The puppy is somewhere being quiet and this makes me and the cat happy.

17. The puppy runs into the room wagging his tail.

18. The puppy gives me a big fat kiss. 

19. Aw, I think, that was nice. And then I smell it. Cat poop. He was eating cat poop and now he's licked me and my face smells like cat poop. 

20. I scream and try not to barf as I run upstairs to scrub my face with bleach.

21. The puppy spends the rest of his evening playing outside. 

22. The cat sits smugly at the top of the stairs. She has prevailed again. 

$1 Death Meal

I've always prided myself on being a hearty un-picky eater. I like food. There is nary a food I will not try. That isn't to say that I LIKE Brussels sprouts but I will eat them without complaining. For a long time, hot dogs were the only thing I couldn't eat. I got dogged out as a little kid and just lost my taste for them. But for the past several years I've been eating bites of them here and there in an effort to build up my hot dog tolerance and I'm happy to announce that I can now eat them without throwing up if there is nothing else to eat. But just like the sprouts, I would not naturally gravitate towards them if there were other foods available.

Yes, the wonderful world of food offers many delights and I enjoy them all. I eat calamari, sushi, Mexican foods, Chinese food, Japanese food, sea food, raw food, cooked food, expired food. On cruises my favorite meal of the week is when I get to have escargot in garlic butter. (Snails, people.) When I watch Andrew Zimmern I get jealous when he's shoveling bar-be-qued scorpions into his mouth. As long as the meal is not moving and is prepared in some way, it looks good to me. I'd try it. 

That is why I was so shocked yesterday when I couldn't eat the cheap frozen dinner my husband bought for me. (He was eating one too and he is the world's pickiest eater. Ever.) It was a "BBQ Ribs" meal but the meat thing clearly wasn't anywhere close to being the real deal. I'm not even sure it was originally a pork product. It smelled fine, looked gross. Far be it from me to judge a food based on looks so I eagerly cut off a bite and shoveled it in. Even as it was entering my mouth, the little guys in my brain in charge of food intake were screaming "NO! NO! RED ALERT!! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DON'T EAT THAT!!" But it was too late, it had already hit my tongue. I did manage to chew and swallow that bite without gagging but the rest of the mystery patty had to stay in the plastic tray. The sad part of this story is that I was starving (not really, but at lunch time, if you try to keep me away from food, I get really aggressive. And if you ever get in front of me at a buffet line, don't dilly-dally or I will ram your tray right out of your hands.) I looked down the break room at Jimmy who was slurping down spaghetti he brought from home complete with buttered bread and seriously considered beating him up for his lunch. Instead I had to make a PB & J out of the questionable ingredients I found in the break room. 

I can't believe I found a food that defeated me.

What was that?

In an effort to keep my legs from exploding out of their jeans (this is where Gram says "Oh Kelly, your legs are not going to explode out of your jeans, why do you talk like that?" And I say "Gram, have you tried on jeans lately, they're not made of 100% cotton anymore like in the old days, now they're like 90% spandex so although they are stretchy, there is a maximum stretching point.") But back to the point- in an effort to fight off the evil cellulite gnomes that sneak into my room at night, I started going to Zumba.

Zumba is a fun filled hour of gasping for air and trying not to accidentally pummel the person beside you with your flailing limbs. I like it. Most of the time when I'm not gasping or flailing, I'm doubled over from laughing at my own uncoordination. At the end of the hour, I am drenched with sweat. Some ladies there can do the whole workout in a sweatshirt and their hair is still fluffy and perfect. When I am done, my head is soaked, my face is red and the sweat is wicking out of my pony tail and dripping onto my back. In order to keep my sweat contained to just my area of the floor, I take with me a hand towel to mop my head off with between songs.

Last week after class, I draped the towel over my head, put on my coat and left. When I put the car in reverse to back up, I realized that the towel was sort of blocking my peripheral vision so I tucked the front of it on either side behind my ears. I suppose I could have just taken it off my head altogether but I was sweaty and it was freezing outside and the car was cold so I just tucked it and left it up there.

On my way home, I encountered a car who had missed the road and ended up in a ditch. There were two guys standing there with their hands in their pockets pondering the situation. As I drove away I felt sort of bad for not stopping and asking if they needed help so I turned around & went back.

I rolled down the window & asked if they needed help. They both looked at me & Shirley (my car) and said they didn't think my little car would be of any use to pull them out. Then they went back to looking at the ditched car with their hands in their pockets which I figured was my cue to drive away so I did.

As I was pulling into the driveway, I realized that my towel was still on my head tucked behind my ears, which  in the dark, and only seeing my head by the glow of the dashboard lights, would have made me look like a weird sweaty nun. No wonder they didn't want my help.