Thursday, February 26, 2009
Watch This!
For some reason, imbedding is disabled. I love this, though!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LoGYx35ypus
(same as above--wasn't sure it would post)
The comments are ridiculous, as usual. While the spiel is funny, there's a real seriousness here, too, but clearly it's not about going back to the Good Old Days as much as about how people are so spoiled, cynical and blind to all the incredible wonders at our disposal that we NEED to have them yanked out from under us so that we (The Spoiled) can appreciate it all.
I'm so with him on the air flight, especially!!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LoGYx35ypus
(same as above--wasn't sure it would post)
The comments are ridiculous, as usual. While the spiel is funny, there's a real seriousness here, too, but clearly it's not about going back to the Good Old Days as much as about how people are so spoiled, cynical and blind to all the incredible wonders at our disposal that we NEED to have them yanked out from under us so that we (The Spoiled) can appreciate it all.
I'm so with him on the air flight, especially!!
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
I need something. Not sure what it is, though.
Will I know it if I see it?
* *
Is anyone out there thinking these Academy Awards are fascinating? Because they are not.
I'm embarrassed for everyone who was roped into being involved in one of these absurd dances. Who choreographed? St. Vitus?
* *
I had a busy weekend that had not an iota to do with a blog. Well.
Here's a retrospect: The Weekend in Cats
Cubby contemplates the incredible catness of being
........or not.
Cheeebs notes cat toys afloor:
"Say..... wot? New toys? More crap from Kroger and McHappyMeals?"
"I'll pose with and feign niceties."
Cat toys spike in value when other cats express interest...
Pinkerton, a few minutes ago.
My IT assistant.
Friday, February 20, 2009
CONTEST ANNOUNCEMENT!
If you can find a more mismatched crew than the one shown in the photo above, you win.I think I'm pretty safe, though, when I say THIS IS IT.
Bonus: which of these young turks is my buddy?
(PS Buddy is disqualified from answering)
Thursday, February 19, 2009
25
1. I'm a much simpler and kinder person than most people think I am.
2. Secrets feel clean and pure to me. Confession feels dirty. It seems merely to burden the confessors well as the confessee. So I tend to keep my secrets to myself. They're called secrets for a reason! Ironically, I don't have very many.
3. I really can't abide Florida or its beaches. Nor can I entirely explain this aversion. The whole state feels tawdry, plastic and lonely to me. Sorry, Florida.
4. I never by choice have music playing in the background while doing something else. When I listen to music, I do so wholly, completely. But I have to remind myself that I'm in the minority on this matter, that other people like music going on all the time. It's not that I can't multitask; I just think music deserves attention. The same goes for conversation. So many seem almost terrified of a situation that might require an extended exchange of ideas with another person without the distraction of TV, radio, cell phones
5. What saved me: Poetry. Music. My sense of humor. Love.
6. The list of things that annoy me is seemingly endless. I HATE this about myself.
7. The first aspiration I had was to be an architect. I pored over house plan books for hours as a child and filled pages with my own house plan drawings. When I was 15, my dad and I drew up plans, with the assistance of a professional architect, for a house to be built though the building never happened because of the day the land was surveyed in preparation for clearing the land for laying the foundation, it was discovered that my parents had bought the land from an insane old lady who did not actually OWN the land for which my parents paid. They had actually bought a tract of far inferior land a couple of miles away. A lawsuit ensued, natch.
8. For as long as I can remember, I have been at odds--quietly at odds, but odds nonetheless--with other people and the times in which I live. I understand very little of what so many people seem to like: (as above)The need for constant noise. Reality TV shows. Sports. Dogs. Drinking into oblivion. Talking on the phone about nothing for long periods of time. I mean it when I say I'm not judging. I just simply don't get the draw. Well, okay, maybe judging a little :)
9. In high school, I wrote letters to my future self to be opened in 5, 10, 15, and 20 years. I found them at about the 14 year mark and opened them all.
10. I wasn't even slightly a wild teen. When people say "payback is hell," I'm thinking, "Payback for WHAT?" (I had my day, but not in my teens).
11. The older I get, the less sure I am of anything. I didn't think this was the way it worked! I'm pretty surprised, actually. The adults I knew when I was a kid seemed to know everything. I don't even pretend.
12. I've had three favorite meals in my life that were so good I barely knew my name: a) dinner at La Jardin, New Orleans b) mid afternoon late lunch, Indian Restaurant, Amsterdam-- was the only on in the place, and was beyond starved, not having eaten in about 28 hours, having arrived from Berlin after an emotional free-for-all with a traveling companion, whom I shed upon my Netherlands arrival. I think the Indian proprietor was actually frightened at the amount of food I ate, or at least he stood aside, looking awed and reverent, and c) the meal in the hospital I had after giving birth to my daughter. I've no idea what the meal was, just that it was indescribably delicious.
13. For someone who lives a quiet and extremely unassuming life, I get involved/caught up in/sucked into more crazy shit than anyone I know. Or that you know. I can almost guarantee it.
14. I have really early memories, starting at 14 months.
15. I find incredible comfort in settling down with a brand new super-hard crossword puzzle book.
16. I am the Queen of Late Fees-Repeat Offender. I could probably buy a vacation home on the French Riviera with what I've spend in various late fees. A true recidivist like myself will never learn. If reform is what the late fees are about, I'm not falling into that sorry trap, no sirree! If, however, the late fees are simply put into place to punish/generate income, then I'm their gal!
17. I really love to drive. To be driven? Not so much.
18. I'm not sure I fully understand the sentiment behind undergoing persecution or dying for one's beliefs. I believe that what I believe, while dear and important to me, very simple stems from happenstance, from mere circumstance: I am who I am due to my being born in a certain town of certain parents at a certain time in history. Were these circumstances to change, my beliefs would change as well. We hang our hats on the rack nearby. Should the circumstances of my life change, my beliefs would be replaced by others that I would surely find as equally dear and important. Those who claim to be convinced in the absolute nature of their beliefs and worse that they themselves are somehow superior due to their beliefs seem terribly arrogant to me. Would you be a Christian in ninth-century Mongolia? How many of your friends are Whigs? Zoroastrians? slaves? castratos? What? None?
19. I think some of the vilest creatures on earth are those who use religion as an excuse to judge others whose beliefs and/or lifestyles are different than their own. Perhaps pointing out potential "wrongs" of others' beliefs somehow blinds them to their own glaring guilt? They've got to live with themselves somehow; I guess that's how. If they'd get a little busier doing good, maybe they'd have less time for hate mongering. Work in a soup kitchen. Adopt a special needs child. Visit the sick. Read to the blind. Go grocery shopping for the elderly. But shut your yapping droning maw about Other People's Sins.
20. Ah,the half-empty/half-full glass conundrum: Doesn't it depend on the starting point and the situation? If the glass is empty and you or someone fills it half-way, you'd probably call it half-full. Unless you WANTED it full really badly and feel shorted with a less than full glass; then it's probably half-empty. If, however, the glass starts full but, say, evaporation reduces the amount, most would call it half-empty then, too. But let's say you simply happen upon a glass of water in a vacuum, a glass whose content level reaches the half-way point; it STILL depends on how you perceive the purpose of the glass. Generally, I think the majority of people use the term "half-full" even if they are pessimists because we tend to see the presence of a thing more readily than noting its absence.
21. I've been described as "too analytical."
22. I absolutely adore cats.
23. I don't like to sleep and don't do much of it. Chances are probably around 90% certain that I sleep about half what you do.
24. For as long as I can remember, I've been in love with words--their sounds, their meanings, their etymologies, their juxtapositions to one another, their power, even their spellings. I especially love words words that have unexpected pronunciations: respite. boatswain. Samuel Pepys.
25. My most prized possessions?
my baby grand piano
letter my daughter wrote me
a perfume flask my husband gave me
my battered copy of the Poetry of John Keats
my grandfather's violin
the snippets of books and poems that run through my mind unbidden and set a fire inside my head.
,
2. Secrets feel clean and pure to me. Confession feels dirty. It seems merely to burden the confessors well as the confessee. So I tend to keep my secrets to myself. They're called secrets for a reason! Ironically, I don't have very many.
3. I really can't abide Florida or its beaches. Nor can I entirely explain this aversion. The whole state feels tawdry, plastic and lonely to me. Sorry, Florida.
4. I never by choice have music playing in the background while doing something else. When I listen to music, I do so wholly, completely. But I have to remind myself that I'm in the minority on this matter, that other people like music going on all the time. It's not that I can't multitask; I just think music deserves attention. The same goes for conversation. So many seem almost terrified of a situation that might require an extended exchange of ideas with another person without the distraction of TV, radio, cell phones
5. What saved me: Poetry. Music. My sense of humor. Love.
6. The list of things that annoy me is seemingly endless. I HATE this about myself.
7. The first aspiration I had was to be an architect. I pored over house plan books for hours as a child and filled pages with my own house plan drawings. When I was 15, my dad and I drew up plans, with the assistance of a professional architect, for a house to be built though the building never happened because of the day the land was surveyed in preparation for clearing the land for laying the foundation, it was discovered that my parents had bought the land from an insane old lady who did not actually OWN the land for which my parents paid. They had actually bought a tract of far inferior land a couple of miles away. A lawsuit ensued, natch.
8. For as long as I can remember, I have been at odds--quietly at odds, but odds nonetheless--with other people and the times in which I live. I understand very little of what so many people seem to like: (as above)The need for constant noise. Reality TV shows. Sports. Dogs. Drinking into oblivion. Talking on the phone about nothing for long periods of time. I mean it when I say I'm not judging. I just simply don't get the draw. Well, okay, maybe judging a little :)
9. In high school, I wrote letters to my future self to be opened in 5, 10, 15, and 20 years. I found them at about the 14 year mark and opened them all.
10. I wasn't even slightly a wild teen. When people say "payback is hell," I'm thinking, "Payback for WHAT?" (I had my day, but not in my teens).
11. The older I get, the less sure I am of anything. I didn't think this was the way it worked! I'm pretty surprised, actually. The adults I knew when I was a kid seemed to know everything. I don't even pretend.
12. I've had three favorite meals in my life that were so good I barely knew my name: a) dinner at La Jardin, New Orleans b) mid afternoon late lunch, Indian Restaurant, Amsterdam-- was the only on in the place, and was beyond starved, not having eaten in about 28 hours, having arrived from Berlin after an emotional free-for-all with a traveling companion, whom I shed upon my Netherlands arrival. I think the Indian proprietor was actually frightened at the amount of food I ate, or at least he stood aside, looking awed and reverent, and c) the meal in the hospital I had after giving birth to my daughter. I've no idea what the meal was, just that it was indescribably delicious.
13. For someone who lives a quiet and extremely unassuming life, I get involved/caught up in/sucked into more crazy shit than anyone I know. Or that you know. I can almost guarantee it.
14. I have really early memories, starting at 14 months.
15. I find incredible comfort in settling down with a brand new super-hard crossword puzzle book.
16. I am the Queen of Late Fees-Repeat Offender. I could probably buy a vacation home on the French Riviera with what I've spend in various late fees. A true recidivist like myself will never learn. If reform is what the late fees are about, I'm not falling into that sorry trap, no sirree! If, however, the late fees are simply put into place to punish/generate income, then I'm their gal!
17. I really love to drive. To be driven? Not so much.
18. I'm not sure I fully understand the sentiment behind undergoing persecution or dying for one's beliefs. I believe that what I believe, while dear and important to me, very simple stems from happenstance, from mere circumstance: I am who I am due to my being born in a certain town of certain parents at a certain time in history. Were these circumstances to change, my beliefs would change as well. We hang our hats on the rack nearby. Should the circumstances of my life change, my beliefs would be replaced by others that I would surely find as equally dear and important. Those who claim to be convinced in the absolute nature of their beliefs and worse that they themselves are somehow superior due to their beliefs seem terribly arrogant to me. Would you be a Christian in ninth-century Mongolia? How many of your friends are Whigs? Zoroastrians? slaves? castratos? What? None?
19. I think some of the vilest creatures on earth are those who use religion as an excuse to judge others whose beliefs and/or lifestyles are different than their own. Perhaps pointing out potential "wrongs" of others' beliefs somehow blinds them to their own glaring guilt? They've got to live with themselves somehow; I guess that's how. If they'd get a little busier doing good, maybe they'd have less time for hate mongering. Work in a soup kitchen. Adopt a special needs child. Visit the sick. Read to the blind. Go grocery shopping for the elderly. But shut your yapping droning maw about Other People's Sins.
20. Ah,the half-empty/half-full glass conundrum: Doesn't it depend on the starting point and the situation? If the glass is empty and you or someone fills it half-way, you'd probably call it half-full. Unless you WANTED it full really badly and feel shorted with a less than full glass; then it's probably half-empty. If, however, the glass starts full but, say, evaporation reduces the amount, most would call it half-empty then, too. But let's say you simply happen upon a glass of water in a vacuum, a glass whose content level reaches the half-way point; it STILL depends on how you perceive the purpose of the glass. Generally, I think the majority of people use the term "half-full" even if they are pessimists because we tend to see the presence of a thing more readily than noting its absence.
21. I've been described as "too analytical."
22. I absolutely adore cats.
23. I don't like to sleep and don't do much of it. Chances are probably around 90% certain that I sleep about half what you do.
24. For as long as I can remember, I've been in love with words--their sounds, their meanings, their etymologies, their juxtapositions to one another, their power, even their spellings. I especially love words words that have unexpected pronunciations: respite. boatswain. Samuel Pepys.
25. My most prized possessions?
my baby grand piano
letter my daughter wrote me
a perfume flask my husband gave me
my battered copy of the Poetry of John Keats
my grandfather's violin
the snippets of books and poems that run through my mind unbidden and set a fire inside my head.
,
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Coming up!
I've decided to give in and write that damn list of 25 Things, the one that's all the rage on Facebook. I'm nearly finished with it (and fatigued! as I taught this morning then graded TOEFL essays online from 1 to 9:30). But it is on its merry way.
First I couldn't think of 25. Now I have so many mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
ha! I'm going to let that stand! That's where I fell asleep in mid-sentence!
Anyway once I got to about 20, I kept thinking of more and more and more and was throwing tidbits in the trash as soon as they emerged from the womb of the mind.
Oh, that's a VILE metaphor!
First I couldn't think of 25. Now I have so many mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
ha! I'm going to let that stand! That's where I fell asleep in mid-sentence!
Anyway once I got to about 20, I kept thinking of more and more and more and was throwing tidbits in the trash as soon as they emerged from the womb of the mind.
Oh, that's a VILE metaphor!
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Phoning it in
Epiphany: blogging every day is HARD WORK.
Also: finding stock photos that I can steal without appearing to steal (an important aspect of theft!) is becoming increasingly difficult.
Nicole Kidman might be an airhead. Any thoughts on this matter? How weird is it to be a ditz but play intelligent roles? Same goes for Gwyneth Paltrow. In interviews I've seen, she seems to be missing a few cells. But the BIGGEST dissapointment has been Anthony Hopkins. You mean, he's not the urbane, well-read gentleman and scholar he usually plays? Is he just ACTING like he's that way?
By the way, what's so great about Stanley Kubrick? I don't see it. Peace, love, and understanding--likewise.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Stellar, stellar find
My BlogHoAtlanta has sent a photo of an absolutely priceless painting that he found in an antique shop in north Georgia this weekend. Apparently it's called "The Storm" and, as you can see, it depicts Jesus pointing the way for a uniformed gentleman in a badly-listing truck. Perhaps along with the tempest, our driver is in grave danger of losing an axle. Thankfully, Jesus had the day off from answering prayers for new eye color and was able to step to the rescue of this unfortunate man.
Oh, and price? $59
Oh, and price? $59It May Interest You To Know.....
.....or not.....or perhaps you're part of the horsey set, and already DO know, but, according to The Dictionary of Cultural Literacy, the origin of the phrase "just under the wire" is thus:
"Just in time: 'Nancy mailed off her application, and it got in just under the wire.' From horse racing, in which the wire marks the finish line."
I was on the very periphery of the horsey set once. Miss Snap rode horses as a child. She was a very busy kid, in fact, and I, by proxy, a very busy mother. At one time, she had ballet on Monday, art classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, soccer practice on Wednesdays (or maybe soccer was twice a week and art one? Prove me wrong...), and horseback riding for three hours on Saturday morning. If we rank these activities by the obnoxious-level of the parentage, soccer might run way on up there, but as far as sheer aggressive snoot, the Horseback Rider's Parent won hands down.
And by the way!
from Ask Yahoo! what "hands down" means:
"Just about all the etymological sites we came across agreed that the term dates back to the mid-19th century and the genteel world of British horse racing. Back then, a jockey who found himself way ahead as he approached the finish line would relax his grip on the reins and drop his hands. Not as confrontational as a spiked football, but still a bit of gestural in-your-face-ness. By the late 19th century, the idiom had been extended to non-racing contexts, and it remains in frequent use today."
I HAD NO IDEA when I typed that phrase that it involved horse-racing! And snooty (viz. genteel world) at that! But perhaps you knew that already.
Anyway, at riding shows/competitions, some of these kids would show up in full regalia....
(is that horsey too??)
[nah, that one I can figure: dressed fully in the royal dress?]
....wearing little jodhpurs, coat, blouse, and Dorado riding boots, the whole nine yards. Oop! There's another! *
I recall one little girl, before a show, had been switched from English style to Western, and her mother had a FIT. Total meltdown on the spot. Apparently, English is way snottier than Western. Who knew?
Well, maybe you.
*the whole nine yards is apparently under the aegis of "Raging Debate." Theories range from something to do with concrete pouring to the number of rounds of artillery to football to garment making.
I've no photos scanned of riding shows, but here's Snap trying to curry favor with one of the horses before a lesson (note marked absence of $300 jodhpurs).
I found this one in my photos also. Snap was too young for riding lessons at this time, but we DID rent a farmhouse in the middle of a 70 acre horse farm for a few years. We'd walk down to the pond through these gorgeous rolling green fields and she could pet the "neighs," as she called them.
"Just in time: 'Nancy mailed off her application, and it got in just under the wire.' From horse racing, in which the wire marks the finish line."
I was on the very periphery of the horsey set once. Miss Snap rode horses as a child. She was a very busy kid, in fact, and I, by proxy, a very busy mother. At one time, she had ballet on Monday, art classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, soccer practice on Wednesdays (or maybe soccer was twice a week and art one? Prove me wrong...), and horseback riding for three hours on Saturday morning. If we rank these activities by the obnoxious-level of the parentage, soccer might run way on up there, but as far as sheer aggressive snoot, the Horseback Rider's Parent won hands down.
And by the way!
from Ask Yahoo! what "hands down" means:
"Just about all the etymological sites we came across agreed that the term dates back to the mid-19th century and the genteel world of British horse racing. Back then, a jockey who found himself way ahead as he approached the finish line would relax his grip on the reins and drop his hands. Not as confrontational as a spiked football, but still a bit of gestural in-your-face-ness. By the late 19th century, the idiom had been extended to non-racing contexts, and it remains in frequent use today."
I HAD NO IDEA when I typed that phrase that it involved horse-racing! And snooty (viz. genteel world) at that! But perhaps you knew that already.
Anyway, at riding shows/competitions, some of these kids would show up in full regalia....
(is that horsey too??)
[nah, that one I can figure: dressed fully in the royal dress?]
....wearing little jodhpurs, coat, blouse, and Dorado riding boots, the whole nine yards. Oop! There's another! *
I recall one little girl, before a show, had been switched from English style to Western, and her mother had a FIT. Total meltdown on the spot. Apparently, English is way snottier than Western. Who knew?
Well, maybe you.
*the whole nine yards is apparently under the aegis of "Raging Debate." Theories range from something to do with concrete pouring to the number of rounds of artillery to football to garment making.
I've no photos scanned of riding shows, but here's Snap trying to curry favor with one of the horses before a lesson (note marked absence of $300 jodhpurs).
I found this one in my photos also. Snap was too young for riding lessons at this time, but we DID rent a farmhouse in the middle of a 70 acre horse farm for a few years. We'd walk down to the pond through these gorgeous rolling green fields and she could pet the "neighs," as she called them.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Barely Under the Wire
No time to make this int'resting !
I gotta write it fast;
When I blog from Alabama
My connection might not last.
My neighbor's gotta router
I've been riding on it free.
But this visit's pretty different.
I've a minute, maybe three.
I've been insanely busy
I've packed and wrapped and stuff.
I came with Snap and Velcro*
But tomorrow's when it's tough.
We're stuffing full the big truck
And rollin' down the road.
I hope we get it squashed all in
Cuz we've got a great big load.
okay, that's the fastest and worst poem I ever wrote. You heard it hear first, folks.
Ciao!
*impromptu thematic "fastener" moniker for Snap's sometime-beau, Dusty.
I gotta write it fast;
When I blog from Alabama
My connection might not last.
My neighbor's gotta router
I've been riding on it free.
But this visit's pretty different.
I've a minute, maybe three.
I've been insanely busy
I've packed and wrapped and stuff.
I came with Snap and Velcro*
But tomorrow's when it's tough.
We're stuffing full the big truck
And rollin' down the road.
I hope we get it squashed all in
Cuz we've got a great big load.
okay, that's the fastest and worst poem I ever wrote. You heard it hear first, folks.
Ciao!
*impromptu thematic "fastener" moniker for Snap's sometime-beau, Dusty.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
1 mo yard tale
Ron's comment regarding the transfer of dog poop from dog to his yard to [possibly] dog's owner's yard reminded me of another funny tale.
One morning I'm getting in the car to go to work, and I notice this dude walking his Dalmatian through my yard. Spots is stopping to pinch off a load about every 10 feet, swear to god. No, the dog was walking with its back all arched like they do when they "go," laying down a steady line of poo. And they weren't just KINDA in my yard; they were walking through it as I would, just as casual as you please. In other words, Dog didn't just get excited and drag Master into the yard a few feet. It's a strange thing to just see someone wandering around your yard.
So I walk down the hill and say, "Why are you in my yard?"
He (the dog owner) looked surprised and said, "Oh! Is this YOUR yard??"
I knew where he lived.....several houses away on an intersecting street! What a STUPID question!
I mean, does it matter WHOSE yard you're in? The only question you really need to ask yourself is "Is this MY yard?"
If the answer is no, you and your poopin pooch should stay on the street. ha!
If you've world enough and time, you might like this essay on how ownership can work its wiles on the soul:
http://grammar.about.com/od/classicessays/a/fortermywood08.htm
One morning I'm getting in the car to go to work, and I notice this dude walking his Dalmatian through my yard. Spots is stopping to pinch off a load about every 10 feet, swear to god. No, the dog was walking with its back all arched like they do when they "go," laying down a steady line of poo. And they weren't just KINDA in my yard; they were walking through it as I would, just as casual as you please. In other words, Dog didn't just get excited and drag Master into the yard a few feet. It's a strange thing to just see someone wandering around your yard.
So I walk down the hill and say, "Why are you in my yard?"
He (the dog owner) looked surprised and said, "Oh! Is this YOUR yard??"
I knew where he lived.....several houses away on an intersecting street! What a STUPID question!
I mean, does it matter WHOSE yard you're in? The only question you really need to ask yourself is "Is this MY yard?"
If the answer is no, you and your poopin pooch should stay on the street. ha!
If you've world enough and time, you might like this essay on how ownership can work its wiles on the soul:
http://grammar.about.com/od/classicessays/a/fortermywood08.htm
Ellie Mae Update
When I was a kid, many times, after I'd watched a TV show or a movie, I'd pretend to be one of the actresses. (Same was true for books, too, though I'd pretend a certain character was me as I was reading rather than afterward). One such actress I liked to pretend to be was Ellie Mae Clampitt on The Beverly Hillbillies. It's important to note, though, that I concocted my OWN plots rather than merely recreate ones I'd watched.
I was, in fact, so taken by Ellie Mae that I insisted on being CALLED Ellie Mae for a while. But I was Ellie Mae "when she was a little girl," not the age of the actress on the show. Plus I LOVED the name "Ellie Mae" and wanted to grow my short, straight red little bob out long so I could curl it, dye it blonde and gather it up in a side ponytail. I mean, what could be prettier than THAT? I remember once my grandmother was visiting and called me "Lisa." When I gave no indication of having heard, my grandmother addressed me in a louder voice, at which time my mom sighed and said, "That's Ellie Mae. When she was a little girl." I remember her rolling her eyes, which I resented. Can't a girl recreate herself??
Well, I've not thought of Ellie Mae in years, frankly, until I clicked on that annoying "Memba Them??" that the highly-reputable news source TMZ sports. I didn't even know if she were still alive. Or I guess she is. You decide. If NOTHING else, I'll say girl, it is TIME for a NEW DO!!
Apparently thunder, wind, and rain raged all over the eastern US last night. My little forest of a yard was not exempt from the tumult, and this morning I joyously went forth into the beautiful sunshine -- the clean bright newness that I love that often marks a morning after a storm. I truly do adore picking up fallen limbs in the yard. I put the majority by the street to be picked up once a month. In addition, there are two stick piles at opposite edges of the yard. One is in a small clearing that goes through to one neighbor's yard, a neighbor who happens to be pathologically obsessed with yard work. Her husband died last year; he was a retired horticulture professor so you might imagine that their yard looks great, true. But he was constantly on the riding mower, sometimes just riding around the yard (get a Rascal! it's quieter!) or just idling, staring over our way. (Understandable, as we are FASCINATING people. Sometimes we sit in the swing and read, or I'll water the garden or plant, or best of all, we'll talk to the cats in our CatVoicez. So yeah, who wants to miss a moment?). In addition, these neighbors had noise going nearly CONSTANTLY: leaf blowers, tree trimmers, you name it. If it made a sound, it was cranked up in their yard. They even rented a chipper several times a year. Talk about cacaphonous pollution.
Anyway, they don't put many limbs out by the road, but when they do, the pile is on the very very edge of their yard on our side. That's fine. Who cares? So one day i was on that side of the yard (my yard is 3 acres, so it's large), I had a couple of medium limbs and instead of dragging to the regular street pile, I just lay them atop the neighbor street pile. Within half a day, those two limbs had been tossed a few feet over into my yard.
uh, WOW. Okay. I see how it is, mmhmm.
I noted a couple of days ago, being outside in this spate of 70+-degree weather, that the widow-woman had noise galore with tree trimmings and the what not.
So today as I was taking a large limb that had unfortunately fallen and damaged a fence over to the side-stick pile nearest the widow's yard, I noted that the pile, large anyway, was SUBSTANTIALLY higher than usual. I have a weird memory. I sort of have, in fact, a little photo in my head of what I last lay on the pile, and this photo did NOT include cleanly-hewn still-green shrubbery! I put two and two together, and I was spitting mad! Angry at my own pettiness, and at the arrogance that would lead the widow or her yard minions to feel that she can dump her shit in my yard!
I used this surge of adrenaline to grab all this crap and haul it over the demarcation line (stakes up, complements of recent survey, $450, effort mine) into her yard. The odd thing is that I have to haul it through some vines hanging down and not a few brambles, meaning that whoever PUT it there did so with some effort.
She can't help but see it.
But the point of this story: after I calmed down and wiped my sweaty brow, I immediately felt BAD for throwing it back into her yard, and by no means all of it, just enough to make a point. This sort of thing happens to me all the time. Even though I feel that I'm technically well within my right to "give it back," I feel such guilt about it. And I almost feel like GOING BACK AND GETTING IT! And I also hate the passive-aggression of my actions. Would it not have been better to knock on her door and say, at least, that I'm concerned over her dumping unwanted yard detritus into my yard? I think doing so, whether she herself or those who work for her, indicates a really nasty attitude and a disregard for one's neighbor. It says, You. Are. Nothing.
Is that going too far out on a limb?
In short, this kind of thing happens to me often. Even if I had spoken to her directly, I know that I would later regret it. Yet if I do nothing, I will stew about it for far too long.
Welcome to my life. Sigh.
Anyway, they don't put many limbs out by the road, but when they do, the pile is on the very very edge of their yard on our side. That's fine. Who cares? So one day i was on that side of the yard (my yard is 3 acres, so it's large), I had a couple of medium limbs and instead of dragging to the regular street pile, I just lay them atop the neighbor street pile. Within half a day, those two limbs had been tossed a few feet over into my yard.
uh, WOW. Okay. I see how it is, mmhmm.
I noted a couple of days ago, being outside in this spate of 70+-degree weather, that the widow-woman had noise galore with tree trimmings and the what not.
So today as I was taking a large limb that had unfortunately fallen and damaged a fence over to the side-stick pile nearest the widow's yard, I noted that the pile, large anyway, was SUBSTANTIALLY higher than usual. I have a weird memory. I sort of have, in fact, a little photo in my head of what I last lay on the pile, and this photo did NOT include cleanly-hewn still-green shrubbery! I put two and two together, and I was spitting mad! Angry at my own pettiness, and at the arrogance that would lead the widow or her yard minions to feel that she can dump her shit in my yard!
I used this surge of adrenaline to grab all this crap and haul it over the demarcation line (stakes up, complements of recent survey, $450, effort mine) into her yard. The odd thing is that I have to haul it through some vines hanging down and not a few brambles, meaning that whoever PUT it there did so with some effort.
She can't help but see it.
But the point of this story: after I calmed down and wiped my sweaty brow, I immediately felt BAD for throwing it back into her yard, and by no means all of it, just enough to make a point. This sort of thing happens to me all the time. Even though I feel that I'm technically well within my right to "give it back," I feel such guilt about it. And I almost feel like GOING BACK AND GETTING IT! And I also hate the passive-aggression of my actions. Would it not have been better to knock on her door and say, at least, that I'm concerned over her dumping unwanted yard detritus into my yard? I think doing so, whether she herself or those who work for her, indicates a really nasty attitude and a disregard for one's neighbor. It says, You. Are. Nothing.
Is that going too far out on a limb?
In short, this kind of thing happens to me often. Even if I had spoken to her directly, I know that I would later regret it. Yet if I do nothing, I will stew about it for far too long.
Welcome to my life. Sigh.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
What IS it with the explosion in numbers of these little helium-voiced girls these days???? It's a goddamned epidemic! Few sounds grate on my nerves worse that a so-ho squeaking and piping about her dumb shit life in that itty-bitty high voice!! When I was in high school and college, NO ONE talked like that!
In addition, I see he's posted a few pics of the kids and several of the wife with the red-hair-the-exact-hue-of-which-will-occur-nowhere-anywhere-in-nature-ever. But these murals, y'all! They DOMINATED the web site. I just scrolled on and on and on through these Bible-stories-on-the-wall these cracked-out church ladies drew!
Here's Goliath looking pretty darned pissed right before the spitwad splatters on his left shoulder. I do have this story straight, right? Actually, maybe Goliath isn't feeling so much pissed as pitying. I'd like to think I see something reminiscent of George Clooney around the brow. And is that a mullet he's rockin'?
And with that, our journey ends as mysteriously and suddenly as it began.
But if we work together, we can stop this shit trend, folks. If you hear one of these voices in your vicinity, shoot wildly in its general direction. Do your part! Be the answer you want to ask!
Frankly, I've been on something of a misanthropic kick for the last few days.
NO ONE IS EXEMPT.
Don't think I can't find something about you to hate. I will.
Last night--taking a break from grading dumb shit essays--I was reading a few blogs, enumerating to myself what was wrong about them, how they displeased me in this small way or that large--and accidentally clicked on my high school reunion web site (saved under my "Favorites"....as there was no "Sites I'd Like to Blow Sky High with a Ton of Dynamite" tab) and I noted idly that a classmate of mine (next to whom I sat in American Government our senior year.....he was funny, friendly) had "updated his profile." Help me lord, I prayed fervently. This is never good. But usually worth a laugh, a groan, or a wince, not to mention a chance for me to feel intellectually and morally superior, so I clicked 'view'. I believe I'm so accurately able to predict a new profile's heavy entertainment value because only a certain 'type' tends to update regularly with photos.
Okay well, what's a profile for but to allow your fellow alumni a peekaboo into what you've been up to as the years have rolled by and, apparently in some cases, over you? And what better way to say "THIS IS ME" than posting 97 photos of some fucking-ass-crap MURALS that the ladies of the women's Bible-study class painted on the walls of the "education building" at the local Church of Christ where you're "sometimes allowed to preach"??
I offer you but a small sampling here of Randy's profile.
First, meet the dog in the SeaDoo. Okay. Fair enough. I wonder if he gets to preach.
In addition, I see he's posted a few pics of the kids and several of the wife with the red-hair-the-exact-hue-of-which-will-occur-nowhere-anywhere-in-nature-ever. But these murals, y'all! They DOMINATED the web site. I just scrolled on and on and on through these Bible-stories-on-the-wall these cracked-out church ladies drew!
But enough hype. Let's go. Here we arrive at the entrance of our journey. Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate.
Here's Goliath looking pretty darned pissed right before the spitwad splatters on his left shoulder. I do have this story straight, right? Actually, maybe Goliath isn't feeling so much pissed as pitying. I'd like to think I see something reminiscent of George Clooney around the brow. And is that a mullet he's rockin'?
Ah, yes, here's Moses and the smoldering bush of pink carnations. Few know that the simmering potpourri got its start right here on Mt. Sinai. Don't miss the studied-nonchalance in the ovine. So typical.
No thousand-mile Bible journey would be possible without those first steps taken in the Garden of Eden. And nothing lets classmates catch up on your life quite like a wall-mural of Adam, Eve, and that chimp from BJ and the Bear.
And DAMN! on that strategically-placed palm, RIGHT?
Well, somehow I guess I thought the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil would look maybe...fuller? Well, something besides that lone, stark, dead trunk with the 75 foot healthy fruit-laden branch shooting inexplicably from the top of the deadwood. Are those nectarines? Pimiento-ready albino olives? Yum. Pass the fruit, Eve; don't feed it all to the chimp!
And with that, our journey ends as mysteriously and suddenly as it began.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
d'oh!
1. "BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH"= me, just tired and bored with myself
2. "THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP"= my few remaining readers, dropping like fruit flies into a humming cyclotron and being ejected onto a mattress that some kid has smeared with grape jam and some other unidentifiable gooky substance. . . but one reader was heard to declare, as I drove out of sight, "Yeah, it's gross, but it's better than her godawful blog."
I'll do better, I promise.
2. "THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP"= my few remaining readers, dropping like fruit flies into a humming cyclotron and being ejected onto a mattress that some kid has smeared with grape jam and some other unidentifiable gooky substance. . . but one reader was heard to declare, as I drove out of sight, "Yeah, it's gross, but it's better than her godawful blog."
I'll do better, I promise.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Let us go, then, you and I
Damn. Who's up for a trip here? Blue Lagoon, off Comino, MaltaI'm watching Youth without Youth. Hence, the Malta GoogleEarth lookup.
I'll let you know how 'twas. http://www.ywyfilm.com/
Saturday, February 07, 2009
today. not at all good. no.
so.
i took my camera and got in my car.
i drove.
drove drove drove.
during such driving i decided to drive to one of the covered bridges in the area.
life is so huge.
on the way home. some of these pictures look as if from an ice storm.
it was 70 degrees today.
these horses actually live on my street.
i think this is one of the best photos i've ever taken.
Friday, February 06, 2009
Next Night's Then
Tonight, Mary Ann and I pretty much owned Athens. We dined on tapas at Mia Casa, then showed up at Trapeze for a bit, forsaking that locale to walk around downtown. Passing by a "tobacco" shop, I couldn't help but notice this smoking apparatus. Now THIS is a BONG, no? Nota bene the fish therein! Could this not be a case for DFCS (Dept of Fish and Cannabis Services)?? Love the chess set next to. As if one will be set for any serious cognition after hitting this monster, right??
Here's Mary Ann posing by some of the Lesser Bongs:
Soon, we found ourselves on top of the parking deck overlooking city hall. It was very pretty, and was the first decently temperatured evening in quite some time. Well, a week or two, but when you aren't used to tundra-ready temps, the cold gets really old really quickly! Unfortunately, camphones aren't made for crisp night shots.....
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Tonight's Now
Greetings from the Button Estate!! Snap is on the phone. I'm listening in to her side of the dialogue, or, perhaps, a monologue with pauses while she holds a phone to her ear. And I am participating in her conversation in my own lovable way. She's staying here because a. it's colder than twelve witch's tits b. we've food (though not to her absolute satisfaction) c. she's commandeered my new bed and crazy comfy new mattress and d. she's nuts for the 'rents. I'll take a pic of her right now and put it right here. Hang, k?
Okay, done. Thanks for waiting. She screeched, "DO NOT PUT THAT PICTURE ON YOUR BLOG!"
Cuz I told her I was putting part of her phone convo up for my public to peruse.
She was relating a tale into the phone about her roommate sitting on her bed. She has a queen bed with ample room for herself, a dog, and apparently a variety of other items that the roomie found himself surprised to find himself sitting on. In fact, he made an inventory list of what he found under her covers. To wit:
She was relating a tale into the phone about her roommate sitting on her bed. She has a queen bed with ample room for herself, a dog, and apparently a variety of other items that the roomie found himself surprised to find himself sitting on. In fact, he made an inventory list of what he found under her covers. To wit:
a pair of tweezers
a big bottle of lotion
her laptop (!!!!!!!!!)
three books
yogurt
an unopened bottle of Jaeger
two Sharpies
a sack of clothes (??)
a dead midget
the color orange
an old ice tray
a stringless yoyo
two naked Barbies
Ed McMahon
half-full bottle of transmission fluid
the OED
sixteen half-pairs of socks
all right all right. you're right. Busted! Starting with the midget, Mr. B took over the list, perfecting its quirks. Though the OED, the orange and the socks were mine. But you must admit; most peeps wouldn't find the first eight items on the list under their covers, either!!
----------------
ah, mice. ah, men. ah, best laid plans.
why didn't I knock out some of those damned papers today I have stacked up and awaiting my remarks, remarks, in fact, that will be sure to transform the stumbling, halting prattle of my freshmen into polished, insightful prose, oh why?
~~
Because I didn't want to, that's why.
~~
And you can't make me.
You're not the boss of me.
~~
and ps I didn't ask to be born.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Most boldest shirt
At 45 minutes, this video is WAAAAAY too long. But watch the first few minutes anyway. You will learn that masturbation is a sin on the level of three-somes. I had no idea! Everyone knows how evil three-somes are. It's like transferring the three men in a tub to a handbasket and sending them you know where. And even worse if it's three men! (note ex-homosexual t-shirt availability).
VI-CARRY-US TRAVEL
Ken Day is in Hong Kong for a two-week business trip and posted photos on FaceBook that I feel forced to share. In fact, I'd like to think of them as my own, if I might beg everyone's leave to do so. Despite Ken's [my] sang-froid attitude about international travel (!!!) and though he'd [I'd] be loathe to admit it, I believe he's [I'm] having a good time. Clearly, we are not terribly taken with the cuisine, though. A sampling of our food shot captions reveals that we are being served "decorated shit particles served in oyster shit shells," "shit wrapped in shit leaves," and "a basket of shit." I especially loved this bill of fare:
Obviously, "pudding" is a base for.......well, whatever one might find within reach. We silly Westerners associate pudding with words like "vanilla," "chocolate," "banana." But the good citizens of Hong Kong would surely find our viewpoint delimiting. Check out the "Chinese Fish Shaped Coconut Pudding" at the bottom of the list. I assume it contains no actual fish but sports a fish SHAPE. But how does one "shape" pudding? I think of pudding as rather amorphous, or at least conforming to the shape of its container. Surely, though, truth in advertising would dictate a disclaimer of "in fish-shaped container"? How naive. On the other hand, perhaps the coconut itself is fish-shaped? I'll admit most of the coconuts I've seen have had a roundish shape; then again, maybe the fish is a blowfish, like this guy!
Tho' I hope not! Remember that Simpsons episode in which Homer had 24 hours to live after eating the blowfish? That was scary!
Well, here I am overlooking Hong Kong and Kowloon Harbor!
Wish you were here!
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
NEW FEATURE: Meal-o-Blog. Jan 09
At the end of every month, I'll post what is sure to be a FASCINATING series of photos of Those With Whom I've Had Meals. Meals with Just Family at home will be excluded. I'm a bit late this time, as my adventure took precedent.
above: Jan 2
Above: Jan 10
Above: Jan 12
Below: Jan 15
Below: Jan 21
Below: Jan 29
Below: Jan 31
His eventual arrival around 2:45 found him, alas, in a less than photo-op mood.....
below: Jan 1
Snap asked friends over to eat our traditional pinto/collards/plus feast.
L-R: Kearney (allergic to everything). Sarah (sings like a canary). Snap (my first and last born).
Tommy/aka T-Dawg (MUCH brighter than he looks). Dusty (something of a fixture).
above: Jan 2Mr. Button and I have lunch at the appropriately-dubbed Fatz Cafe.
He is not amenable to being photographed.
Above: Jan 10Mary Ann and I meet Snap and Ben at the Melting Point to hear a
Tom Petty cover band. Not actually a meal but we did have a
cheese plate later that evening.
Sue me.
Above: Jan 12I dine with Snap and Ben Provost, in town from Colorado,
at Shokitini downtown.
Below: Jan 13
Ron and I go to the Grit for dinner.
Doesn't he look nice?
Below:
Ron again. I touched up this photo to make him look funny. Don't laugh! It's not nice.
Below: Jan 15
Snap and I have lunch at Lumpkin Cafe. Yum.
Accidental omission: Jan 17. Breakfast at the Grille with Mr. Button. Not a loving couple that morning, so just as well.
Below: Jan 21
Snap and Ben (still in town from CO)
lunch at the Grit
Oops again! Jan 25. Breakfast with Mr. B at IHOP. Loving couple this time.
Below: Jan 29
Lunch at Hilltop Grille with the Snapper
Below: Jan 31Plans for lunch with Mr. Button at EastWest Bistro downtown.
I arrive 1:20. ETA for Mr. B: 1:30
Phone call 1:20: Mr. B caught at work. leaving "now."
I go ahead and order a Bloody Mary, thanks, and what the heck, a bowl of chicken coconut soup.
Phone call: 1:50 Mr. B caught on phone at work while walking out door. leaving "now."
Sometimes an absence tells more truth than a presence, no?
Here's Mr. B's empty chair and the patiently-awaiting menus:
His eventual arrival around 2:45 found him, alas, in a less than photo-op mood..... So I'm sure pretty much everyone's hot and bothered to make my Meal-o-Blog after seeing just what kinda fun is in store. You: let me know your dates of availability; I: will go to mad extremes to work you in! But hurry! Space is limited!
Monday, February 02, 2009
GrumbleHog Day
"Oh, weather-schmeather! I get noticed one day a year, and even THEN, if I don't watch out, I'll get roped into being involved with some lame-o-ass project, like here! Serving as a post on a blog called "Buttonhole"! How much insult is a fellow expected to take? Thank God for hibernation, is all I can say!"Sunday, February 01, 2009
Just Another Friday Night; or My Lil Adventure
Friday night around 11:30 I'd offered to give my little Snap a ride to a friend's house after work. I dropped some movies off at the vid store on the way back home.
The street on which I live is off a long, curvy road, about 3.5 miles from the nearest business. Off this long road are mostly small subdivisions; at the "civilization" end of the road you'll find an Episcopal church, a public elementary school, and a Montessori school. Past those, though, it's pretty rural with lots of obviously depressed, suicidal deer awaiting their chance to walk right out in front of oncoming vehicles. I'm the only one in my family who's not yet hit a deer (on this road, anyway).
But no, this post isn't about a deer-hit, nor is brevity the soul of my wit.
The speed limit on this long road is 40 for about a mile, then increases to 50.
In the 40 mph zone, on this particular evening around which my story revolves, I am vaguely aware of being behind a red car whose speed is hovering around 40. Fair enough. As the driver approaches the 50 zone, though, he begins to slow down. This is not at all unusual as there are several streets to subdivisions right past the schools. I just figure he's turning. But he keeps getting slower and slower....45, 40, 35, 30 until he's just creeping along at about 25. Which is REALLY slow. I know the only real passing zone is coming up. I'm not tailgating or flashing my lights or anything. When I can pass, I do so. He's almost at a stop at that point. Maybe he's having car trouble, I think, but since he was making his car buck at bit by putting on the brakes quickly, I'm thinking he's fucking with me. I have given him no reason to do so.
So I pass. I'm annoyed, just wanting to get home, and I'm doing 55 or so in a few seconds. And then I notice that this driver has zoomed up behind me, revving his engine, weaving back and forth behind me, so close that I can barely see its headlights.
The last complete thought I remember having before he bumped from behind me was "what. the. fuck?" I'm not sure of the proper response to this, so I speed up, but I'm trying to watch for deer. Then I think this fucker is trying to pass me, so I slow a bit to let him by. Not because I'm such a polite driver, but I know now that I'm dealing with someone outside the normal behavior box. And also because I want his tag number!
But no, he has no interest in passing me. He's trying to run me off the road. This chase went on for 1.9 miles (I measured later) at, I think, maybe 75 mph. I was fumbling in my purse for my cell phone, not realizing it was in the drink holder between the seats, but I couldn't use the phone and hold the car in the road at the same time, anyway. When I', less than a mile from my street, I realize I can't turn down it and have him follow me to my house. I have no idea if he has a gun. But he was showing no signs of tiring of this situation. The road I was on went on for another couple of miles before it T-ed into another road--and it was a LONG way to anywhere with a red light, people, or anything that might cause him to back off. What was particularly horrible is that he was right beside me on some really sharp curves; if a car had been coming, I guarantee everyone in all three cars would be dead. If I slowed, he slowed. I was aware that I could move to the right and hit him to stop all this, but would it? Would he shoot me? And we were going SO fast; I've never sideswiped anyone period but especially not at that speed. And that familiar road had never seemed so dark and curvy. The air seemed full of electricity. When I think back on it, the darkness in the car with me seemed full of sparkles that made sounds like cats hissing.
At that point, though, when I was wondering how this all would end, the driver came over and hit my back driver's side panel with his passenger front, and at the sound of the crunch and the tinkling sound of the tail-light breaking, all bets were off. We'd officially wrecked, and I hit the brakes. I don't know WHY his hitting me changed the whole dynamic, but it did. Yes, he'd been bumping my bumper, but this was clear and present damage.
I came to a complete stop in the road, and so did he, but much farther back, maybe 200 feet or so. We sat like that for maybe 5 seconds and he did a 3 point turn to head in the opposite direction. I was right by a street so I was able to do a smooth u-turn. But this fucker took off like a bat out of hell. All I wanted was the tag number, and knew I could get it at the red light about three miles up the road, or probably sooner if he got behind some poor unsuspecting fucker like myself. I was in a Buick LeSabre, and yes, the car could have kept up with him. But I knew if a deer came out or if I didn't make a curve, I was most likely dead. When I realized he had to be doing close to a 100, I backed off but I could see him. I finally had my cell phone in hand and dialed 911.
I'm not sure I made total sense, but I think I said, "Yeah, a car just hit me, he was chasing me, but he took off after he hit me. I'm trying to get his tag number."
OP: where are you? are you following him?
I tell her where I am but I can't think of the names of ANY streets I'm passing. At least I knew the main one.
Then he goes around a curve at the top of the hill; when I get there a few seconds later, he's nowhere in sight. There were three streets he could have turned down, and I wasn't going into a subdivision to find him. I tell the 911 op that I've lost him. She asks if I want to meet with an officer. I deliberate over this because what's the use? I pull into the church parking lot where I have a clear way out and watch for him to pass though I'm quite sure he was somewhere watching ME or had at least seen me pass by. Anyway, I decide that I do want to meet with an officer for insurance purposes, and I say I'll be waiting in the school lot. The car never passes back by.
I file a report with an officer, who says that it sounded like the driver was probably drunk. He said that by hitting the back of my car, he was trying to make me spin around and wreck, and that if I hadn't been in such a heavy car, I could have wrecked badly. He said he would ride around in the area and keep an eye peeled. All I could tell the cop is that the car was "red." I don't know types of cars well, especially from the back. I knew I had that tag number in my head somewhere, but I couldn't retrieve it then for anything (numbers stick with me in strange ways....but not under such strenuous circumstances). I was so bummed that this dumb fuck got away with this!! The officer insisted on following me home. About a half-mile from my street, though, I saw him whip around behind me and take off the other way. I was very vaguely aware of a red car passing me. You know how you don't actually register SEEING something, but a few seconds later, it's like you can rewind your brain and be aware of its presence? I seriously was tempted to turn around. But I figured no, the officer just got another call and had to bolt.
I get home and I'm telling Mr. Button the story (though I'd called him as I was waiting on the cop). After about 10-15 minutes, the more I calmed down, the more I could remember about the car. It's so strange, how we know more than we know we know.....how all these impressions are in our heads, but we rarely need to retrieve the images that hit our retinas, so they all just get sent to the trash bin in the brain. First I could make out vague letters on the back of the car, as if they were really fuzzy, but then they slowly came into focus and spelled a word: Dodge. And I could see the tag was not the regular sequence of letters and numbers that Georgia generally uses, but a tag that one pays extra for, like "Save the Wildlife" or such. Mr. Button said that I should call the officer back and tell him what I remembered. When I picked up the phone to do so, it rang in my hand. A woman at the police station tells me that the officer had stopped someone in a red car and wanted me to come identify it! WOW. Within about 15 minutes!
So Mr. Button and I drove down (near the elementary school where I'd met with the officer) and pulled in behind the demon car. Yep, that's it, I confirmed. The officer asked if I'd seen him turn around. He said when he did, the driver took off again, trying to outrun him. How low can you go on the stupid scale???? He said he clocked him doing 115. REALLY, you're coming up on a busier section of this road, a cop is behind you with siren and lights, what are your chances? I totally regret not turning around because I would have LOVED to've seen this capture. Officer P said that when he hit the school zone, there was a wreck already up ahead and he knew the gig was up.
All I found out that night was that he was 20 and had his girlfriend in the car with him. I looked on the "bookings in the last 24 hours page" of the jail (by the time of arrest and age.....this ain't THAT big of a town) and he'd been arrested for leaving scene of accident, attempt to flee, no license, etc. Of course, when I got the police report yesterday, more info was available. I went to the girlfriend's MySpace page; she apparently has many thuggish friends. In fact, the driver I believe is in some Hispanic street gang; his page was set to private, but I could see his comments on hers and pictures of him on her page. He's very into cars (gasp) and racing.....street racing. There's even a VIDEO of a police cruiser chasing some souped-up ghetto ride. I'm glad he got to live this out in real time.
In looking at the MySpace page, though, I realized, chillingly, that I was just someone they'd chosen. He slowed down to get me to pass him so that he could fuck with me.
Most of us realize that there are people out there, in the Big Wide World, who really don't give much of a damn whether you live or die. That's why we avoid "bad" areas of town, of course.
But to come face....er, car to car with one of those people, who sees your life as nothing but a pawn for a quick little diversion, is very sobering.
The street on which I live is off a long, curvy road, about 3.5 miles from the nearest business. Off this long road are mostly small subdivisions; at the "civilization" end of the road you'll find an Episcopal church, a public elementary school, and a Montessori school. Past those, though, it's pretty rural with lots of obviously depressed, suicidal deer awaiting their chance to walk right out in front of oncoming vehicles. I'm the only one in my family who's not yet hit a deer (on this road, anyway).
But no, this post isn't about a deer-hit, nor is brevity the soul of my wit.
The speed limit on this long road is 40 for about a mile, then increases to 50.
In the 40 mph zone, on this particular evening around which my story revolves, I am vaguely aware of being behind a red car whose speed is hovering around 40. Fair enough. As the driver approaches the 50 zone, though, he begins to slow down. This is not at all unusual as there are several streets to subdivisions right past the schools. I just figure he's turning. But he keeps getting slower and slower....45, 40, 35, 30 until he's just creeping along at about 25. Which is REALLY slow. I know the only real passing zone is coming up. I'm not tailgating or flashing my lights or anything. When I can pass, I do so. He's almost at a stop at that point. Maybe he's having car trouble, I think, but since he was making his car buck at bit by putting on the brakes quickly, I'm thinking he's fucking with me. I have given him no reason to do so.
So I pass. I'm annoyed, just wanting to get home, and I'm doing 55 or so in a few seconds. And then I notice that this driver has zoomed up behind me, revving his engine, weaving back and forth behind me, so close that I can barely see its headlights.
The last complete thought I remember having before he bumped from behind me was "what. the. fuck?" I'm not sure of the proper response to this, so I speed up, but I'm trying to watch for deer. Then I think this fucker is trying to pass me, so I slow a bit to let him by. Not because I'm such a polite driver, but I know now that I'm dealing with someone outside the normal behavior box. And also because I want his tag number!
But no, he has no interest in passing me. He's trying to run me off the road. This chase went on for 1.9 miles (I measured later) at, I think, maybe 75 mph. I was fumbling in my purse for my cell phone, not realizing it was in the drink holder between the seats, but I couldn't use the phone and hold the car in the road at the same time, anyway. When I', less than a mile from my street, I realize I can't turn down it and have him follow me to my house. I have no idea if he has a gun. But he was showing no signs of tiring of this situation. The road I was on went on for another couple of miles before it T-ed into another road--and it was a LONG way to anywhere with a red light, people, or anything that might cause him to back off. What was particularly horrible is that he was right beside me on some really sharp curves; if a car had been coming, I guarantee everyone in all three cars would be dead. If I slowed, he slowed. I was aware that I could move to the right and hit him to stop all this, but would it? Would he shoot me? And we were going SO fast; I've never sideswiped anyone period but especially not at that speed. And that familiar road had never seemed so dark and curvy. The air seemed full of electricity. When I think back on it, the darkness in the car with me seemed full of sparkles that made sounds like cats hissing.
At that point, though, when I was wondering how this all would end, the driver came over and hit my back driver's side panel with his passenger front, and at the sound of the crunch and the tinkling sound of the tail-light breaking, all bets were off. We'd officially wrecked, and I hit the brakes. I don't know WHY his hitting me changed the whole dynamic, but it did. Yes, he'd been bumping my bumper, but this was clear and present damage.
I came to a complete stop in the road, and so did he, but much farther back, maybe 200 feet or so. We sat like that for maybe 5 seconds and he did a 3 point turn to head in the opposite direction. I was right by a street so I was able to do a smooth u-turn. But this fucker took off like a bat out of hell. All I wanted was the tag number, and knew I could get it at the red light about three miles up the road, or probably sooner if he got behind some poor unsuspecting fucker like myself. I was in a Buick LeSabre, and yes, the car could have kept up with him. But I knew if a deer came out or if I didn't make a curve, I was most likely dead. When I realized he had to be doing close to a 100, I backed off but I could see him. I finally had my cell phone in hand and dialed 911.
I'm not sure I made total sense, but I think I said, "Yeah, a car just hit me, he was chasing me, but he took off after he hit me. I'm trying to get his tag number."
OP: where are you? are you following him?
I tell her where I am but I can't think of the names of ANY streets I'm passing. At least I knew the main one.
Then he goes around a curve at the top of the hill; when I get there a few seconds later, he's nowhere in sight. There were three streets he could have turned down, and I wasn't going into a subdivision to find him. I tell the 911 op that I've lost him. She asks if I want to meet with an officer. I deliberate over this because what's the use? I pull into the church parking lot where I have a clear way out and watch for him to pass though I'm quite sure he was somewhere watching ME or had at least seen me pass by. Anyway, I decide that I do want to meet with an officer for insurance purposes, and I say I'll be waiting in the school lot. The car never passes back by.
I file a report with an officer, who says that it sounded like the driver was probably drunk. He said that by hitting the back of my car, he was trying to make me spin around and wreck, and that if I hadn't been in such a heavy car, I could have wrecked badly. He said he would ride around in the area and keep an eye peeled. All I could tell the cop is that the car was "red." I don't know types of cars well, especially from the back. I knew I had that tag number in my head somewhere, but I couldn't retrieve it then for anything (numbers stick with me in strange ways....but not under such strenuous circumstances). I was so bummed that this dumb fuck got away with this!! The officer insisted on following me home. About a half-mile from my street, though, I saw him whip around behind me and take off the other way. I was very vaguely aware of a red car passing me. You know how you don't actually register SEEING something, but a few seconds later, it's like you can rewind your brain and be aware of its presence? I seriously was tempted to turn around. But I figured no, the officer just got another call and had to bolt.
I get home and I'm telling Mr. Button the story (though I'd called him as I was waiting on the cop). After about 10-15 minutes, the more I calmed down, the more I could remember about the car. It's so strange, how we know more than we know we know.....how all these impressions are in our heads, but we rarely need to retrieve the images that hit our retinas, so they all just get sent to the trash bin in the brain. First I could make out vague letters on the back of the car, as if they were really fuzzy, but then they slowly came into focus and spelled a word: Dodge. And I could see the tag was not the regular sequence of letters and numbers that Georgia generally uses, but a tag that one pays extra for, like "Save the Wildlife" or such. Mr. Button said that I should call the officer back and tell him what I remembered. When I picked up the phone to do so, it rang in my hand. A woman at the police station tells me that the officer had stopped someone in a red car and wanted me to come identify it! WOW. Within about 15 minutes!
So Mr. Button and I drove down (near the elementary school where I'd met with the officer) and pulled in behind the demon car. Yep, that's it, I confirmed. The officer asked if I'd seen him turn around. He said when he did, the driver took off again, trying to outrun him. How low can you go on the stupid scale???? He said he clocked him doing 115. REALLY, you're coming up on a busier section of this road, a cop is behind you with siren and lights, what are your chances? I totally regret not turning around because I would have LOVED to've seen this capture. Officer P said that when he hit the school zone, there was a wreck already up ahead and he knew the gig was up.
All I found out that night was that he was 20 and had his girlfriend in the car with him. I looked on the "bookings in the last 24 hours page" of the jail (by the time of arrest and age.....this ain't THAT big of a town) and he'd been arrested for leaving scene of accident, attempt to flee, no license, etc. Of course, when I got the police report yesterday, more info was available. I went to the girlfriend's MySpace page; she apparently has many thuggish friends. In fact, the driver I believe is in some Hispanic street gang; his page was set to private, but I could see his comments on hers and pictures of him on her page. He's very into cars (gasp) and racing.....street racing. There's even a VIDEO of a police cruiser chasing some souped-up ghetto ride. I'm glad he got to live this out in real time.
In looking at the MySpace page, though, I realized, chillingly, that I was just someone they'd chosen. He slowed down to get me to pass him so that he could fuck with me.
Most of us realize that there are people out there, in the Big Wide World, who really don't give much of a damn whether you live or die. That's why we avoid "bad" areas of town, of course.
But to come face....er, car to car with one of those people, who sees your life as nothing but a pawn for a quick little diversion, is very sobering.
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