Love, American Motors Style

i love my jeep.  unconditionally and without reservation.

It’s a 1983, CJ-7.  Inline 6, bored out 0.30 over, with a high torque cam.  30″ tires.  T-5 tranny.  Fiberglass tub, impenetrable to the metallic skin cancer that afflicts most vehicles in this part of the world.  Frame off rebuild in 1996, she’s been mine and mine alone since the day she became roadworthy.

After rehearsals on Thursday nights, my adorable young cast mate, AU, and i have developed the habit of wandering across the street from the theater to a hole-in-the-wall biker bar.  Thursday night is “Dollar Night” and you can get Bud Light in a can for a buck.  Or a few beers for a few bucks. 

Tonight was a complete run through of the show, which opens 18 September, and she and i are both realizing that the show will be good.  But not great.  High hopes dashed, we wandered down to the tavern for a quick beer.  Sipping our cold cans, smoking a few butts, and commiserating over the bitch slap realization that we’re staring down the barrel of seven weeks effort for the ultimate outcome of “Meh…”. 

Heading out and calling it an early night, we were stunned to leave the bar and find torrential rains, lightning and winds blowing horizontal water.  Oh.  Shit.  Well.  Since i drove the jeep, and she never wears a top in the summer, we decided to wait out the storm and kill another beer. 

Texting a friend for a weather radar update, he suggested that things would clear after another beer.  So we chilled for another half hour… And found even worse weather after killing round two.  So we went back to the bar.  The bartender, learning of our plight, plopped the TV over to the local news, and we figured it was about one more beers worth of storm.

Wandering back to the theater, i snagged a trusty towel from the console, placed it on the seat, and hopped in my baby.  The accelerator was under water.  Hmmm.  Grabbing a waterlogged pen from the console, i unplugged the drain holes in the floor.  Yes.  Drain holes.  You see, my baby likes the rain, and this wasn’t the first time we’d been caught unawares by a summer thunderstorm.  i drilled the holes several years ago, but they have a tendency to plug up with dirt, sticks and other road shrapnel that tends to collect in a naked tub.

Lightning still decorating the sky, but no rain.  Deciding not to wait for the water to drain, i just hit the road.  With every incline, every corner, gallons of water were sloshing over my feet.  Made me laugh like a complete moonbat as i squished my way homeward.  Delighted – as always – to find that even soaked in standing water the dimmer switch on the floor still popped on the high beams with no trouble.

She’s in the driveway at the moment.  i’m letting the water drain a little bit before i put her back in the garage tonight.  Reliable.  Rugged.  Steadfast.  Strong.  Sexy.  She’ll be pretty dry by morning.

Sometimes i truly wonder if i’m capable of love.  i’m pretty dead inside, having built fortresses around the brick enclosures that protect my kevlar encrusted heart.  But it is without reservation that i can say i love my jeep.

Feedback time

Once again, an opportunity to hear from the management on how i’m doing on the job.  i look forward to these moments just as i would look forward to putting cigarettes out in my eyeballs, as there are opportunities to learn and improve with every insightful nugget. 

In addition to my regular mid-term feedback session with my boss in a couple weeks, we did a rather extensive “360 degree review“.  A highly structured opportunity to receive an assessment on your performance from above, below and from the side – and this is then compared with a self-assessment.

Prior to the session with the boss, we were asked to get our results from the organizational development specialist.  i met with her on Friday.  She went over the process, and discussed the opportunity to identify both hidden strengths as well as blind spots.  Then we dove into my results.

Throughout the survey, i rated myself lower than all others.  i was quite proud of the fact that i rated myself a “2″ (on a scale of 1-5) for “dresses professionally”.  She noted that others had me rated around at an average of  ”4″.  She used this as an extreme example of me being my own worst critic.

Organizational Development Lady (ODL):  You are clearly very hard on yourself.

daisyfae: [giggling and trying not to say "hur, hur, hur... you said 'hard on'..."] No one can accuse me of a lack of self-awareness.

ODL:  But do you really think you dress unprofessionally?  i’ve seen you give seminars and presentations and you always dress appropriately…

daisyfae [wearing jeans, a low cut tank top, and a baggy, belted sweater that has seen better days]:  ummm…. right…. (pointing at partially exposed tits)

Then it was time to review the comments from the reviewers.  Of the eight responses from folks who took the time to write a few strengths and weaknesses down, there was a fairly consistent thread.  Six of the eight responses included the words “Burnt Out”.  One nicely suggested a sabbatical…

My favorite weakness, however, was the following:  “daisyfae doesn’t respond well to ‘idiots’…”. 

Since when is that a weakness?

i have patterned my professional career after the teachings at despair.com

Geek Chic

i easily fit the category of “expert traveler”.  Logging at least 100,000 miles (mostly domestic) and spending at least 90 nights a year in a rent-a-bed, it isn’t often that a travel experience knocks me over with unexpected goodness.

The recent trip to Seattle?  Woo-hoo!  It was a geek fest, held at the Hotel1000 – a fun, boutique hotel.  The amenities at this place had me alternately giggling and snorting – and feeling like a rock star.

Even had sketches of nekkid people on the wall!

For starters? The room itself was delicious.  The bed/desk/minibar were fairly typical, but it was the bathroom that had me just awash* in silliness!  It took me a full five minutes to locate the toilet – which was hidden behind a clever frosted glass door next to the shower.

party tub

The bath? Ridiculously decadent!  Gigantic free-standing tub – orgy-sized!  i rooted around upon arrival, thinking that it might be a jacuzzi tub – but alas, it was just a 4-person modern marvel. Best of all?  The faucet was in the fucking ceiling!

spigot. in. the. fucking. ceiling.

This kept me amused for no less than an hour. After cleansing* my toilet-related curiousity, i checked out the rest of the room – and discovered that the HDTV on the wall was playing a serene movie – boats, waterfalls, beaches… Farting around a bit with the remote, i learned that there were about 10 different choices – essentially allowing me to customize the wall art in the room!  Did i say ”WOO HOO!”?

Geek chic boutique...

Scrumptious bathrobe, in-room french press coffee maker, ubiquitous Starbucks fresh ground coffee available in massive quantities.  The bed?  The only thing that could have improved it would have been an in-room cabana boy… A tall, blonde Swedish masseur, named Sven, with no vocal cords, perhaps…

But my favorite moment of the week involved the hotel catering services.  Typically at any workshop or meeting, refreshments are provided – maybe fruit and bagels in the morning, with brownies or cookies for an afternoon snack.  The Hotel1000 set a new standard, in my opinion, with the afternoon break refreshments on the second day of the meeting.

Cupcakes.  Beautifully decorated cupcakes.  Gleaming pink frosting, with raspberries.  Neon green frosting, with shaved chocolate.  Sumptuous ivory cream frosting, with chopped almonds.

i returned from my extended lunch adventure with silverstar to find a beautiful spread of cupcakes outside the meeting room!  As we reconvened following the break, i was delighted to sit in the meeting room, and watch some of the worlds best scientific minds debate the nuances of transformational optics – while enthusiastically licking brightly colored frosting from their cupcakes!

Oh, if we’d only been allowed to pull out mats and have a communal afternoon nap on the floor…

* yes.  I DID just do that….

Special Edition T-Shirt Friday

With a meeting in Seattle this week, i have had an opportunity to hang out with the coolest powerchair-babe on the internet!  Ms. Silverstar has been a fabulous host/tour guide, showing me the sights of the Seattle waterfront for lunch yesterday!

Since the lights in the blogosphere are still dimmed, with nursemyra off the grid due to a house-move, silverstar suggested a T-Shirt swap Friday!  She got me a great Seattle T — carefully selected to be Mr. Pickles Brown!  And with her anti-establishment bent?  i thought “Alcatraz” might be a good fit!

Hangin' with Silverstar

From there?  Lunch at Ivar’s!  Despite a short battle with a misdirected hunk of bread, we had a lovely lunch on the waterfront where i got to indulge my scallop-lust.  No.  Not like that…  Making a quick visit to the waterfront arcade, i also got to indulge a little carousel-lust!

Pretty pony - jewels, amazing mane...

In a race? My money's on Silverstar and The Scarlet Pimp! Heigh-ho, Scarlet Pimp - Awaaaaaay!

And for even more fun, i got to meet Ms. Friday, the wonder pup!  She is the most well-behaved diva ever! 

Adorable working-pup! Hear that, Mr. Pickles? This dog has a JOB!

Speaking of Divas?  i was hanging with the traveling nerd herd in the lobby of our hipster-cool boutique hotel for happy hour, and was a bit surprised to see none other than Miss Britney Spears being escorted across the lobby.  Being good Trailer Park Rabble, i whipped it out – the camera, you perverts – and snapped a few pics!  Only random thought?  She’s tiny.  Teeny-tiny…

Loves me some hangover sunglasses...

Despite the unexpected celebrity sighting, the highlight of my week – in fact, the highlight of all my recent roadtrips – was a chance to meet silverstar in person!  She’s delightful!  And i really can’t wait for another day of extended lunch-hour hookey!  Today?  She’s taking me to Pikes Place Market and i’m going to do everything i can to get hit in the head with a fish!

“Do you like movies about gladiators?”

When i was a kid, we watched “Big Time Wrestling“.  We knew it was fake, and we didn’t care… The current incarnation of this form of entertainment is the Ultimate Fighting Championships, UFC.  The Boy and his friends enjoy this, and i enjoy tormenting them about the obvious homo-eroticism of this particular style of “fighting”.

A quick google image search provides much supporting evidence. 

Exhibit A: Nope. Nothing homo-erotic going on here...

Exhibit B: Nothing but manly men pounding each other silly here...

But this one?  i’m thinking there’s something a little different going on here…  unfortunately i don’t have the whiteboard handy to diagram this to figure out what that something might be…

Exhibit C: Insert Tab A into Slot B. Repeat as necessary...

Which brings us to a conversation i had with The Boy last night… Due to a temporary malfunction of my home theater/audio system, i am down to one incoming cable TV signal.  So whatever is playing on the tv tube in the theater room, is on the tv tube in my bedroom.  And vice versa.  This has led to some fun between the kids and i – after i accidentally left the channel on a “Born Again Revival” one Sunday morning while The Boy was attempting to sleep in, it’s become a game. 

The Boy was watching a UFC event in the theater room with a friend.  i was preparing to go to bed, and told him i’d be changing the channel shortly… He explained that the match was almost over, so i agreed to tough it out a few minutes.  Couldn’t resist jabbing him, though.  i helpfully pointed out to them both that there was, indeed, an overtly homoerotic tone to this particular “sport”.  Much like the movie “Gladiator” and of course “300“…. This got a visceral response, with both young men saying “Hey, hey, hey there lady – don’t trash talk “300″… That’s an AMAZING movie”.  At which point i simply smiled and said “i rest my case…”

Off they went.  As i’m tucked into bed, i’m watching this moronic ass-grabbing.  The following text-session transpired shortly therafter…

daisyfae:  U.F.C. = G.A.Y.

The Boy:   Tell Frank Shamrock* that…

daisyfae:  The name “Shamrock” is pretty girlie… i tell you, these guys are going to go play the meat trumpet in the locker room…

The Boy:  “Shamrock” sounds Irish to me.  Are all Irishmen** gay?

daisyfae:  Believe that if you want.  Especially if it saves me the cost of therapy…

The Boy:  Yeah.  I knew as I hit send that I didn’t really want the answer to that.

_________________________

* Frank Shamrock, undefeated champ of the UFC “Bootlicker” weight class, was getting an atomic wedgie at that moment…

** daisyfae is dating a gentleman from Ireland… and both children are still getting used to mom being “out there” again.  Many “hands over the ears” moments as i explore new ways to mess with their little heads…

Puffin Away

This is a love story.  Strange… Unexpected… Hideous and inexplicable in many ways.  But a love story nonetheless.

It started with my trip to Iceland in 2007.  Short notice (as are many of my international jaunts, it seems), i went for a long weekend with a friend.  What’s cool about Iceland?  Well, besides being momentarily bankrupt, they are a bit of a magical society – energy independent due to the stores of geothermal energy that can turn that island into so much volcanic dust in a heartbeat.  Certainly a case of making the best of a potentially really bad situation.

Oh, and even better?  Hot springs!  All that volcanic energy does not go to waste, that’s for sure!  The Blue Lagoon* is spectacular.  Speaking of spectacular… The women?  Stunningly gorgeous.  The men?  Umm… lucky to live on an island with the aforementioned ladies…

This, however, is about none of that.  This is a love story.  Indirectly about sheep.  Icelandic sheep.  Luscious and decadent of pelt.  And this renewable resource is the font of a famous Icelandic industry – wool.  Oh, yes… Icelandic wool is exquisite, and warm beyond belief.  And when i was not being thrown from a demonic Icelandic pony**, or trying to find the exact house where Bjork lives, i was smitten with a particularly ugly item, crafted of this sumptuous wool.

A hat, to be specific.  My initial thought was that it might be something that The Girl would like.  But within moments i realized she had more class and style than that… so i unapologetically bought if for myself.  Creamy ivory wool, accented by an ice blue border – with intricately woven Puffins along the base.  And ear flaps.  i mean, what the hell good is a winter hat without ear flaps?

There it was - homely yet practical.  All at the same time.  Just like me!  Screaming my name.  Loudly.  It was almost embarrassing… i had to buy it just to keep the noise down.

It’s been bloody cold this year, so  i’ve been wearing it.  Driven as much by necessity, there’s just something mesmerizing about this hat.  i am ruthlessly taunted by colleagues.  It is beyond “un-sexy”, it’s downright “anti-sexy” – and i believe it has shrivelled male reproductive organs from as far away as 30 feet. 

The first time i lost it, i was heartbroken – but since i knew exactly where i’d last seen it, a lunchtime trip to The Pub was all it took to recover my baby.

daisyfae: Did someone leave a really ugly hat here?

pub hostess: [walks to hostess stand, opens cabinet, extracts my hat from the bottom of a huge pile of hats] This one?

Last week it was another story.  The hat was missing as i left the office at the end of the day.  Knowing i’d had it when i arrived that morning, i mentally retraced my steps through the day – and came to the conclusion that i’d either dropped as i got out of my car, or someone had stolen it…

Frantically scouring the parking lots, i came up empty handed.  It had snowed a bit, and it was possible that the hat had been scraped into a pile of muck-encrusted briny snow by the maintenance brigade.  For the rest of the week, i kept my eyes peeled – checking hallway bulletin boards where lost items sometimes appear, even asking at our visitors desk if anyone had turned in a really ugly hat. 

Paranoia strikes deep.  i began to wonder if perhaps my friends were playing a cruel trick on me.  Maybe – possibly in the interest of preserving organizational aesthetics – they’d swiped my hat.   i decided that the only proper thing to do would be to craft a “Missing” poster.  In my paranoiac frenzy, i planned to warn the thieves that i have even UGLIER headgear should this be a malicious act… i’d also bought a pig-tailed ear-band.  Orange, brown and blue stripes – suitable for wear…. um… suitable for wear in the dark, perhaps.   Could i “counter” such an act of terrorism with even greater hideosity?  The mind wanders when deeply distressed…

i worked my way through several stages of grief – and it was a grieving process, mind you.  i wore a different hat every day.  Recklessly wearing any hat i could get my hands on!  Sometimes (and this is shameful), wearing two hats at once.  i didn’t care where they’d been.  i was lashing out.  But by the end of the week i was approaching grim acceptance.  Puffin Hat was gone.  Long live Puffin Hat.  [sniff, sniff...]

Friday, on the way out for the evening, a friend arrived to pick me up… He was behaving strangely.***  Entering my condo, he stood outside the door of my bedroom, with a devilish look on his face.  Thinking he’d gone completely whack, i was assessing the distance to my phone should i need to call for backup.  He simply said “I want to be in the right position to make it easy for you to thank me properly…” and he proceeded to pull Puffin Hat from his coat.  Executing a standing leap of perhaps 10 feet, i was on him within seconds – rescuing Puffin Hat! 

We’d had lunch together that day, and on a lark, he’d stopped by the restaurant on the way over.  Asking after “lost and found” items, he located my wayward hat, and brought baby home to momma!

And all was truly right with the world… Much like Ralphie, from A Christmas Story, i slept with Puffin Hat that night… as the snow fell on a magical landscape, gentle music played, and there was a lovely fade to black…

Reunited and it feels so good...

* The mineral spa.  NOT the roach-feces encrusted poor excuse for a film with a marginally clad barely post-pubescent Brooke Shields.

** The fucking thing was posessed – a demon pony.  It had BLUE EYES.  No one else would ride it… but that’s a story for a different day…

*** Even for one of my friends…

Hope…

i’m not much on ‘glurge’.  and i’m not much on ’sports glurge’ in particular…

but this one got me…  maybe it’s the bottle of wine i consumed with a pal tonight.  maybe it’s the christmas spirit.  hell, maybe it’s just the fact that i don’t want to leave a post about dog poo up for christmas…

redemptive nuggets of humanity are out there… and sometimes, you can find* them in the sports pages…

Hope.  It’s not all that hard when you think about it. 

Best. Gift. Ever.

yes**. another puppy. that's the ticket...

* i found it here.  cool guy… has a cow…

** image sourced here.  mesmerizing…

Sort of getting there…

Spending a few days with the kidlets helped.  Having a nice drama scuff up with the family definitely brought back the emo-memory*.  But it has been the time in the kitchen that’s really started to do the trick.  Spent an entire day yesterday baking.  Some cookies, some biscotti and assorted bits and tasty things to give to friends…

Mr. Pickles decided to help.  i’m pretty sure i washed my hands after i petted him with flour all over me… it’s ok.  Dog fur adds fiber…

you know you wanna give me the chocolate, lady

Oh, and the decorations.  The neighbors have done it up right.  i just don’t have stuff on hand to decorate outdoors.  So i found some mini-ornaments and hung them on the dead chrysanthemums still on my front porch.  i think it’s lovely… perhaps some lights?

they'll resurrect themselves for easter

* like muscle memory, only emotional.  they can poke at me with a word or gesture, and dredge up decades of annoyance and frustration.  only family….

Slack-attack

Today was that magical wondrous day where i had my annual performance review.  i have a good boss – provides tough, well-crafted challenges, honest feedback, and doesn’t wait until “annual review” time to provide guidance.  Here’s the Condensed Version:

boss:  Your year was excellent.

daisyfae: LOL – seriously, i sucked.  out loud.  and frequently from home.

boss:  You did a great job.  We love you.

daisyfae:  FFS – i phoned it in.  i wasn’t even trying.  i’ve lost the fire…

boss:  You rock.  Here’s a little more money.

daisyfae: [shaking head guiltily]  ok.

Granted, there was more to it than that – some key areas for improvement*.  And i’ve maxed out – unless i change jobs, or take on some ridiculous or herculean amazonian task, i’m flat-lined.  Which is a good thing.  The goal in my world is to hit “Max Pay” as young as you can.  i’m good. 

There’s a bit of guilt, though… A few weeks ago, as i was stumbling into the office about 45 minutes after my official “start” time, i saw a woman in the parking lot who is a well-documented slacker**.  i remember thinking to myself “Damn.  Hope i’m never that big of a parasite.”  Invariably, as i was leaving early that afternoon to run errands?  There she was headed to her car…

i’m just having a “blue period”.  My motivation will return.  i’ll get my geek-a-rific groove back on.  But in the mean time?  Here’s a current favorite tune*** from The Slackers.

Drool on the keyboard has killed my laptop. Again...

* “Stop tormenting the intellectually challenged and the emotionally unstable”  wasn’t first on the list, but it definitely came up during the discussions.

** i work from home.  she doesn’t.  i’m “on call” 24/7/365 – and will respond to urgent calls from wherever i am, and whatever i’m doing (except *that*).  doubt she does – um, responds, or does *that*.  oh, and i am a helluva lot funnier and dress better.  Fur-lined rubber mukluks with a skirt/suit is NOT a good look for the office.

*** video sucks.  tough to find this one…

Behind the Powder Room Door

Once again i shall post a warning to any readers, male or otherwise, who simply do not care to look behind the Powder Room Door, under the estro-curtain, and peek under the sink into the musty warren of - female plumbing.

WARNING:  Some de-mystification of female hydro-genitalia may occur.  Proceed with caution.  You can’t un-read this after the fact…

Several months back i embarked on a pleasant gynecological holiday, into the inner-workings of my girly bits.  In a quest to keep my OEM hormone generation parts, avoiding primitive evisceration hysterectomy, i settled on an intermediate option to meet my needs*.  Endometrial ablation.

It’s pretty much what it sounds like.  Unlike an ultrasound, this probe doesn’t vibrate – it has a mesh heating element.  Doc pulls vacuum (10E-3 torr for any geeks still reading) on my uterus, turns on the juice, and it’s done.  In and out (so to speak) just like an Indy pit stop.  At the hospital at 6:00**, general anesthesia by 7:15, awake in recovery by 8:30, and on my way home by 9:00.  Total preparation time: 2 1/4 hour.  Bake time: 45 minutes.

Hey, Mom!  What’s For Supper!

Now with STEM CELLS!

Special treat tonight, kids!  It’s Uterus Helper***!

Pardon me.  Did i mention there are painkillers involved.  More on that shortly… 

As always, my way of dealing with hospitals and medical issues is pretty simple.  i behave like a 6 year old boy, telling jokes, being silly and trying to completely minimize the amount of hassle - for me, and anyone else involved. 

Had a friend drop me off.  He offered to stay and wait, but i encouraged him to kick me out at the curb and go to work – sort of a “Medical FedEx”.  He was nice, and stopped the car… After surgery, i called him when they pulled the IV.  Thought it would be fun to be picked up “drive-by” style.  Couldn’t get enough leverage from the wheelchair to dive in the open window…

The Anesthesiologist, and Nurse Anesthetist, were pretty sprightly considering the early hour.  They do get the best drugs…  They asked me to stick out my tongue, so of course i did so in the style of a small child, complete with both hands behind my ears, fingers splayed and wagging. 

i asked to see the menu, enquiring about something mildly hallucinogenic, with perhaps just a hint of nutmeg.  Rather than have amnesia upon recovery, i wanted funky animals and trippy colors.  Maybe space flight. 

And so it went.  We had fun.  When the Anesthetist said he’d give me something to relax me?  i winked at him and said “Confident young fella, ain’t ya?”.  The Anaesthesiologist suggested they also give me something to make the jokes better…

With the “instructions for discharge”****, there was some good news and some bad news.  The bad news?  No sex for three weeks.  My reaction: “WHAT?  Doc didn’t tell me THAT?!?!?”  He’s being a big stinkin’ baby.  Was probably afraid i’d hit him.  i’ll have to improvise.  Or get a silver bullet.  To bite. 

The good news?  Darvocet.  Oh, yeah… so maybe i won’t care that i’m not getting laid?

________

* My needs?  When i asked my doctor about options for ending my monthly annoyance, he assumed that it was primarily due to “usual” problems.  My reply: “Umm… not really.  I’m recently single, with a menopause time bomb hanging over my ovaries.  Won’t be able to use hormones due to breast cancer – so i’m not wasting a minute… Short answer, Doc?  i don’t like being on the bench one week a month”.  My nerdly little doctor turned various shades of bluish-purple, and hasn’t asked again… sort of averts his eyes and blushes whenever he sees me.  Poor dear…

** i had to have a pregnancy test.  yeah, i know, legalities and all.  but my tubes were cut, tied, cauterized, super-glued, clamped and duct-taped shut in 1999.  i told the nurse if i’m pregnant, we’re calling the little fucker “Houdini”.

*** Surprisingly, i couldn’t find an image for “Uterus Helper”.  But there was this yummy treat – from an old Saturday Night Live skit…  Mmmmmm, good!

**** discharge FROM THE HOSPITAL.  Ewww… you guys….  yuk….