Since the tasty and easily digestible jimmy bastard is having a scuffle with none other than Bill Gates, he has thrown a lifeline across the Atlantic, and has asked for my assistance…

For those of you who may be unfamiliar with Mr. Bastard, he is a raconteur of magnificent* proportions.  Writing in dialect, he tells stories of his past.  Of the people fortunate to have crossed his path, or unfortunate to have crossed him.  Of a nose flattened with pride as a fighter.  Of laughter and companionship over a few scoops.  Of grief… The worst kind. 

Tales of ‘getting out’.  Which is why i’ll keep reading…. i’m not sure either one of us fully comprehends how we did it.  But we are both refugees from our early environments. 

The challenge he published – which has since been eaten by a microsoft product – was for us to guess the identity of a mysterious woman from his past.  He wrote a heart-wrenching and elegant post - which is now a virtual ball of pulp in Bill Gates ether-colon – telling the tale of The Missing Star of Glasgow. 

They met as children, lives entwined for decades, until she moved to London.  He wove a tale of intimacy, unconsummated but magical and mystical.  Made us ladies swoon into our teacups, it did.  But poof.  Gone.  Right down into the ol’ exit port of Mr. Gates.  

Jimmy had left a few clues along the way, mostly via his comments section, so it was fairly easy to guess.  And i was simply the first… there were others to solve the mystery.  The answer?  Just a click away…

* Get yer minds out of the gutter!  i have not seen the goods…  Sheesh… Buncha stinkin’ perverts…

Not that i would have actually listened, mind you… but a stumble into dearme triggered the thought exercise.  Exactly what would i have told myself at 16 that might possibly have made a difference?  Who knows…  here’s my best guess after a couple glasses of bourbon.

Dear 16-year-old daisyfae,

Christ.  Where do i start?  First off, lose the flannel shirts and owl glasses, ok?  You bear a frightening resemblance to Neil Young.  While you take some solace in this, and it may feed the deeply buried socialist songwriter hiding underneath that case of Oreos you snarfed down in your bedroom last night?  It’s not particularly attractive.

Those glasses. Seriously. What the fuck were you people thinking?

Off the top of my head:

- You are an athlete and a dancer, despite the fact that the mirror tells you otherwise.  Somewhere in your 30’s you’re going to figure this out, but it will be a tad late to start formal training.  Join the fucking swim team.  You are built for it, and are a natural.  Take some dance lessons now.  So much easier than trying to find a “tap dancing” class for 40-somethings…

- Settling for a generic state university is a reasonable safety net, and will work out just fine.  However, those recruiters from MIT, Carnegie Mellon and the US Military Service Academies that come to visit you next year aren’t just being nice to you. Regarding the military academies?  You can do the push ups.  Trust me.   There will come a point in your career where you work with some folks who chased those dreams.  You will kick their ass.  It will annoy you that they’ve got the pedigree…

- He’s gay.  He never gets “un-gay”.  In fact, he’s going to wander off, and you’ll lose touch in a few years, despite the promises you’ve made to be best friends forever.  It’s not going to end well for him.  You didn’t make him gay.  He was wired that way from the start.  Stop using his gayness as an excuse as to why you’re inherently unlovable.  There are other reasons for that…

- Your sister, T?  She’s kind of a bitch.  The nastiness she throws your way?  Trying to keep the fact that she’s a lesbitarian under cover from the rest of the high school gang.  Once you busted her, she was terrified that you’d tell everyone at school.  You’ve got a long road ahead of you, helping keep her level… on the bright side?  She takes you to Bangkok and you get to see your first Thai drag queens with her…. and you successfully resist the urge to strangle her and throw her in a canal 10,000 miles from home. 

- That whole 18th birthday thing?  Probably the low point.  If you can avoid that roadtrip to northern Indiana?  Do it.  Things get better.  And not much worse… you’ll write about it someday, people will be stunned and wonder how the hell such an alignment of dark bullshit could hit a kid on her 18th… On the bright side?  You weren’t found dead in a landfill a month later…

- You escape the Trailer Park.  Seriously.  You get out of it.  Unfortunately, however, it doesn’t quite leave you.  There will be moments when you are choking down the urge to punch someone in a public place.  You will dance on tables.  The phrase “What are you lookin’ at, shithead?” may be enough to enrage you.  Trailer Park’s got long arms, and you make a promise that will be difficult to keep…  but you will.  i hope.

- Marriage?  Surprise!  You’re going to meet him in about 3 years… and believe it or not, you’ll be pretty damn ready to settle down!  That first year of university?  U-G-L-Y.  After hanging out for a week, you’ll move in and stick around for about 25 years.  He’s a good guy, you’re not really in love, but that’s ok.  He’s the only reason you survive undergrad, make it through grad school and don’t burn out in flames by the time you’re 20. 

- Children?  Get this – you have two, and they’re a riot!  Despite your complete allergy to babies, they survive the first few years, and you discover you actually like them as human beings.  Teaching them how to make “jello shots” may not win you any parenting awards, but bonding is bonding…

There’s a lot more, but it’ll be better as a surprise.  You end up having more fun than you expect.  You eventually learn to smile. Probably sold yourself short too many times, but chasing all those pesky dreams would have been work.  Fucking off.  It’s underrated.  Go with your strengths…

Yours,

47-year-old daisyfae

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

post inspired by sweary at coddlepot…

Jesus is pissed off at me.  And i’ve got the “boo boos” to prove it. 

The Sunday bike ride took me 15 miles east of the homestead, to a quaint little town located conveniently along the bike path.  C-town is home to a small christian college, and not much else.  It is also the whitest, up-tightest and superficially politest burg in the region. 

On the weekends we head toward C-town, my bike buddy and i often grab lunch at a coffee shop, where we can play board games while waiting for our food. 

The last time we were there, i had to bite my tongue to avoid saying “MOTHERFUCK” every time the Yahtzee dice failed me…. to keep from offending the sensibilities of the nice bible students quietly immersed in… ummm…. i dunno… some sort of really pure, selfless thoughts i guess.  i sure as fuck wouldn’t know….

Needless to say, i failed, but managed to keep the decibel level reasonably low.    It was a dice game, for fuckssake…

Last Sunday, however, we’d made a pagan miscalculation.  The restaurant was closed.  As was every other good christian-run restaurant in town.  Sunday afternoon?  Family time!  Well, that got another loud “MOTHERFUCK” out of me… we headed up to the local chain sub shop for sandwiches.

Freezing our sweaty asses off in the chilled restaurant environment, it was tough to get back on the bikes in 50 degree weather without shivering.  Being a rabid multi-tasker, i was pulling my gloves out of my zippered pockets, while tooling along at an easy 10 miles an hour when Jesus got even…

Rolled my bike.  He did.  Tossed me on the ground and certainly had a good laugh as i bounced along the road like a sweaty ping pong ball lacking fashion sense…  Shredded my left knee and elbow, and left a nice divot on my right shin. 

“MOTHERFUCK!” 

Yeah.  i said it again.  Nothing to lose at that point….

image found here…

Dad wasn’t around much when we were growing up, yet he managed to have a tremendous influence on me.  Mom was the logistical foundation for my childhood, but had far less influence on the person i am today…

On a typical day, we’d have an hour with him – at most.  Early mornings were chaos.  Six of us in a small, three bedroom house, with one bathroom.  Four children attempting to get ready for school, and every one of us jockeying to get to the toilet before Dad went in for his morning constitutional.

There was no ventilation.  As the youngest?  Guess who often got the short straw.  This is the closest i came to child abuse…

Forty five minutes of that hour was spent at dinner, which was a raucous multi-party shouted conversation, held amidst food being passed, thrown, and snuck under the table to the dog when Mom wasn’t looking.  Dinner was more about words than food*.

That was when he ‘held court’ with us.  Some nights he clearly just wanted to decompress from his work day, but others?  He’d sit down and bait us with a conversation starter – “Is there life after high school?” directed at my elder siblings, or “Why is MAD Magazine** so funny?” directed at the lot of us…

After dinner, he’d wander off to his bedroom with the evening newspaper.  Listening to a ball game, or talk radio, he’d pretty much stay there most nights.  Summer evenings would find him outside, doing yard work, or reading a book in his redwood chair… 

During my junior high years, my sister T and i played softball in a local recreational league.  While Mom handled the carpooling arrangements with the other Moms to get us to the park on time, Dad never missed a game.  Showing up, watching.  Tracking our success and failures on the field.  He’d leave after the games, letting us head off with our friends until it was time for the pick up.  Unobtrusive, but clearly paying attention.

In hindsight, i think it was that “paying attention” part that paid the dividends.  He watched all of us.  Met us where we were developmentally.  Working patiently as my sister, S, learned to play saxophone.  Lending guidance to my brother as he bashed his way through his latest HeathKit electronics project.  Coaching my sister, T, through trigonometry.  Teaching me to use woodworking tools in the garage after i’d sliced a good part of my finger off with a planer…

As he was dying, he retained a deep understanding of where we were developmentally.  The conversations i had with him were completely different than those held with my siblings***.  He was not confused about his purpose in life, and felt he had succeeded.  Rescuing Mom and her two young children from nasty circumstances, he didn’t hesitate to tell me that T and i were ‘bonus’ purpose. 

Musician, philosopher, engineer, teacher… He was truly a renaissance man before his time.  But of all the things he was?  i think he put “Father” at the top of his list.  He was a natural…

It took me a few decades to figure all that out.  The pixels of his life were slow in coming together.  There’s more, and i’m resolved to get it written down.  This blog – for all the faffing about and silliness – is really about him.  He’s the only reason i got out of the trailer park.  And the only reason i keep checking in to look after the residents…

~~~~~~~~~~~

* Thankful for the words since Mom wasn’t much of a cook.  “Shake and Bake” pork chops with applesauce and corn, Mrs. Paul’s fish sticks with Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and peas were weekly meals.  She burned dinner rolls so badly once, we went in the yard and played baseball with them after dinner.  She was kinda pissed about that, but they were inedible…

** Dad frequented bookstores on the weekends, and once a month brought home the latest MAD Magazine, which we fought over like rabid dogs.   i later found out it was a deliberate attempt to teach us the joy of satire, and train us to put popular media in its proper place…  My ex-husband and i later passed this along to our children, via weekly family time watching The Simpson’s…

***  He told me that i was the only one who would listen as he talked about death.  He was ready for it, they weren’t. 

On the way back from salsa dancing last Wednesday night, my dance partner and i realized that we needed some additional supplies for a Friday night Halloween party.  Stopping by one of the seasonal Halloween costume stores on the way home, i was a little concerned that i’d look out of place in the store.

One of the things that gets me jazzed up for salsa is wearing a flippy skirt with heels and my “snap on” hair*.  Last week, i was also wearing a funky new top that i’d found on sale somewhere.  Hot pink, with just the right amount of “skank” to make it fun!

Slightly self-conscious about my get up – especially for a woman close to fifty years old - we went in and wandered the crowded aisles looking for the necessary costume bits for the Friday night gig.  Finding most of what was needed, we headed up to the check out line.

The young woman working at the register was a bit on the ‘goth side’.  She  was very tall, weighed perhaps 85 pounds, and had long straight black hair.  She went through the check out process and was bagging up my purchases…

goth clerk:  That’s a great top!  Where did you get that?

daisyfae:  Found it on-line.  It was marked down.  i think i only paid about twenty bucks for it…

goth clerk:  It’s just really different.  The styling is just great…

daisyfae [enjoying the attention]:  Thank you!  We go salsa dancing on Wednesdays, so this seemed perfect…

goth clerk:  That’s just something I really think my Mom would like…

daisyfae:  [nearly audible pop, deflating] Ummm…. right…. thanks!

As soon as we’re out the door…

daisyfae:  Fuck you, Stick Girl!  Shouldn’t you be at home listening to “Dashboard Confessional” and cutting yourself?

~~~~~~~~~~~

* Which also adds to the fun on the dance floor, as i can whack my dance partner in the face with a slug of polyester curls on the fast turns!  Keeps him on his toes!

It’s been an unpleasant and slow slog, but i’ve managed to evaporate about 35 pounds since January.  On average, a pound a week.  Not great, not terrible.  But i’ve “plateaued” for a few weeks, and have been trying hard to jump start the weight loss again with lots of exercise and careful attention to diet.

That means no fucking cookies.

Having The Girl living with me again has had some benefits.  i haven’t had to go to the grocery in about two months.  She gets food.  She prepares it and leaves tasty vegetarian scraps in the refrigerator.  Much like Christmas morning, i am often delighted with the yummy green and crunchy* things wrapped in cellophane in the fridge some mornings…

The downside is that she also bakes, or brings home, sweets on occasion.  i have no willpower.   i eat them.  They don’t put up a fight.

Last night, she got home rather late, and i’d just finished my crunching and push-ups workout and was getting ready for bed.  i heard the crackling of the packaging before i smelled them… Oatmeal Chocolate Chips Ahoy!  Not a favorite, but definitely something that would serve as a tasty bedtime snack!

Keeping it to just two small cookies, when i could easily gnaw my way through the entire package in a few short minutes, i instructed her to get them out of sight by morning.

daisyfae:  Hide them!  The last thing i need is to wake up and find these on the counter in the morning…

Upon waking up, and successfully scratching my bits, i found myself in the kitchen.  The debris from her late night dinner was evident, as there were a few pots and pans and other assorted cooking crap piled in the sink, and some clutter and mess on the counter.  Still asleep, but attempting to make tea, i reached for the pile of paper towels left in front of the microwave – and realized just then what a brilliant young woman she’s become…

Upon closer inspection…

Ahhh…. the old “hide in plain sight” trick.  Not exactly what i had in mind…  They survived the morning, but probably only because i’m battling the headcoldfromhell and with 5 pounds of lugubrious secretions inside my head, i couldn’t even taste the damn things. 

Need to get her a spot on the UN Weapons Inspection Team.  Bet they’d never get anything past her…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

* Not to be confused with the “green and slimy” things that tend to set up residence in the fridge when i’m left on my own for a few months…

Somewhere in a past life, i must have tortured puppies.  The cutest ones.  Slowly.  With dull, rusty implements….

In fact, i’ve done some pretty nasty things in this life, but nothing i’ve done has earned me the karmic punishment du jour.

Another “required training opportunity”.  This time?  It’s the ugly 10 day “systems engineering lip service” class that i’ve cleverly kicked down the road for about 7 years.  It has sproinged into life and latched it’s rabid jaws firmly on to my professional ass.  This is the last one required.  At least i hope so - or i’ll end up on the evening news amidst a bloodbath.

The last one was painful, but only five days.  The latest?  Ten days.  At the two day point, i’ve already chewed the insides of my cheeks bloody.  My credo is simple…

Stay awake.  Smile.  Be respectful to the instructors and my classmates.  Don’t shoot Bambi*.  Remember the course is “pass/fail” – there are no bonus points for over-achievement.  Do the minimum required/expected.  Leave the room in an efficient manner.  Don’t fuck over my team mates.  Repeat all of the above as necessary.

Usually i can spot him by the third day.  The crusty ‘elder professional’ who decides that the course will be significantly enhanced by endless contributions of war stories.   Oh, no… we have an over-achiever this time.  Rearing his head mid-day during the FIRSTFUCKINGDAY of a TENDAYCOURSE he regaled us with his vast knowledge of nothing anyone cared one micro-fraction of a nanofuck about….

On the first day?  We were fifteen minutes late for lunch because he just couldn’t contain his excitement about a cost/schedule over-run from 1987.  i could not make this shit up.  19-fucking-87.

On the bright side?  The two tag-team instructors are with us.  They have already promised us that if we behave, and stay on track, we can finish up the course requirements in a mere nine days, giving us all a magical three day weekend!  Woo-diddly-hoo!  Instructors who are just as interested in “checking the fucking box” as we are… this is a “win-win”!

If Mr. Elderfuckly Crustacean McYaptard doesn’t get with the program by tomorrow?  He’s going to find himself encased in a body cast of Post-it Notes, and stuffed unceremoniously in the supply closet with a broom for a butt-buddy for the remainder of the course….

Trust me, motherfucker, you DO NOT want to know what i've apparently done in prior lives...

* “Bambi”.  Standard callsign for the young, sweet and naieve engineers in attendance.  If they want to pipe up with some inane but marginally relevant tidbit from their personal experience, i will not roll my eyes and start pantomiming a game of Russian Roulette with my dry erase marker… They are cute.  They aren’t dangerously burnt out yet.  Like me…

For the past twelve years, i’ve observed an annual ritual that marks the beginning of winter… It has nothing to do with the calendar, digging out cold-weather gear, the phase of the moon or the location of leaves with respect to the ground. 

It takes about 15-20 minutes, depending on how warm it is outside.  But when it’s done, i am ready.  My mental register is reset and my body prepared for cold. 

Waiting as long as possible, hoping for just one more warm day where i can eek out that last moment before giving up til spring.  Watching the skies.  Adjusting my plans to push the envelope as far into the year as possible.  Me and the true love of my life… On the road.  Basking in an October blue sky and sucking down the cool, dry air.

Today was the day.  Some years i can make it til early November, but my gut told me today was it.  Returning home from an afternoon bike ride, i set the wheels in motion.  Literally.  Grabbing the dog, we hit it…

In the Jeep.  She is my one and only.  And today was likely to be the last day of true Indian Summer.  We scooted off to the dog park, taking back roads and hitting every bump in the road with joy.   As the sun got lower, the chill set in, and we had to head home…

Before we left, i’d taken the hose to the doors and top, and left them on the warm concrete driveway to dry and soften* in the sun.  We pulled into the garage, and i unloaded the mutt back into the house.  And the ritual began…

Untie the bungees and straps, reset the frame, snap the top to the swing frame bar.  Standing on the seats, facing rearward, pull the top forward.  Doing gymnastics that could get me arrested in parts of Utah, i pull the front of the top into the groove above the windshield.  While standing on the hood. 

Climbing off, i tuck the flanges on the back of the top into the grooves.  Climbing inside, i then begin the brute force portion of the event – thwacking the support bars until the top is stretched and the cross beams are locked in place.  Re-stretching and aligning the velcro supports around the door frames.  Hanging the doors and making sure all’s well with the alignment.  The final maneuver? Release a gigantic sigh and call it a summer…

Winter.  Bring it…

My childhood was idyllic.  Perhaps because life was actually good, or perhaps because i didn’t know there could be anything different.  My only view of other realities was through books, television and movies.  And other than “Swiss Family Robinson“, i never found a childhood situation i liked better.

In the end, it didn’t matter.  Until my hormones shipped me off to the realm of teen angst, i was a happy kid.

Dad worked, Mom was home.  In the late 1960’s suburbs in the midwestern United States, that was how things were.  Very few working Moms in the neighborhood.  Reading recent discussions on “the mommy wars” over at Anniegirl1138, got me reflecting on my own childhood.

Mom was responsible for all logistics at the homestead, was chauffeur for car-pooling operations, maintained order and was Chief Justice of the Family Supreme Court.  Did she hover?  Help us with homework?  Anguish over our choices of classes at school?  Insert herself into every aspect of our extra-curricular lives?  Not exactly…

Summer mornings were all pretty much the same.  My sister and i would wake up and forage in the kitchen for breakfast*, scratch our bits in front of the television for maybe a half hour, and were then expected to get our sorry asses outside.  For the entire day.  Mom had work to do**. Fortunately, there were dozens of children our age – the golden years were between 7 and 12 for me – so there was always someone to tag up with for adventures.

What did we do?  Nothing and everything.  No structured sports, summer camps or organized activities.  We filled the days with pick-up games of wiffle ball, kick ball, football, pickle or just random shit we’d make up.  Climbed trees.  Construction materials were stolen from building sites and turned into tree houses and forts.  Pylons (also stolen) set up in the largest driveways for bike rodeos.  We put on summer carnivals***.  We played “Capture the Flag” in the soybean field behind our house, against the older boys down the street….

Did our mothers have any fucking idea what we were doing?  Nope.  We’d stumble home around lunch time, grab something to eat, then it was back outside again.  We played Army.  We were spies, keeping notes on the activities of people in the neighborhood.  We’d become characters from TV shows… Brady Bunch, Gilligan’s Island, F-Troop****, Partridge Family, Lost In Space - and my personal favorite, Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea. 

Barbies?  Absolutely!  Intricate societal games with the collective Barbie Arsenal – trundled to someone’s garage in an armada of busted American Tourister suitcases that doubled as our Barbie houses.  These games would last an entire day… we’d build cities, create “soap opera” situations, work through adult problems as only children can do… At the end of the day, we’d often retrieve the Ken dolls from a corner of the garage, tied up with dirty shoelaces and abandoned.  On occasion, there were Barbie mutilations and sacrifice. 

Were there Moms watching this?  Nope.  Sometimes they’d wander by and offer Kool-Aid, but in general, we were on our own until dinner time.  Oh, we could run home mid-afternoon, but we had to make damn sure we didn’t wake up Mom, as she snored in front of “The Guiding Light”.  Much like awakening a hibernating grizzly, we knew better…

So long as we were home for dinner?  No one really gave a shit what we’d been doing all afternoon.  My first beer, my first cigarette, and my fist look at the soft-focus porn in Playboy magazines all happened before 5:00 pm on sunny summer days.

After dinner, and washing dishes, it was back outside.  Sometimes the older brothers and sisters in the neighborhood would join up for pick-up sports, set off fireworks or – joy of joys - to take us for rides on motorcycles and dirt bikes.  Helmets?  Huh?

One of my fondest memories is of something we christened “Twilight Call”.  Summer nights, dusk.   The parents would call their children home… Voices wafting through the warm summer air.  Each voice distinct, not just by the name being called… “Taaaaaaaa-meeeeeeee!  TAAAAAAAAAA-meeeeee!” came the tiny bird-like voice of Tammy’s mom.  If Tammy ignored it?  We all knew that it would be followed in a few minutes by the gruff, angry voice of her father – who scared the collective crap out of us.  “TAMMY!  TAMMY!”  At the first staccato burst transmission, we’d generally get Tammy’s ass moving on her way before he came out looking for her…

We knew our boundaries.  We worked within them.  We had to stay within vocal range.  Simple, and universally understood by parents and children alike.  

Were there injuries?  Of course… Every summer one of us broke an extremity on the cable swing down by the pond.  Salt-pellet buckshot in the ass for stealing apples.  Walking barefoot through a construction site, scavenging plywood for the walls of a fort-in-progress, i managed to step on a nail in a 2″x4″, which went through my foot.  Tetanus shot and a pressure bandage and i was on my way…

Given such happy memories of my childhood, did i afford my own children the same latitude?  Not entirely, but we attempted to preserve elements of it for them.  We chose our family home partly because it was in a landlocked neighborhood, with low traffic, allowing kids to ride bikes in the street.  Oh, and there was a creek running through it.  Crawdads.  Frogs.  Turtles.  Oh, hell yeah!  

My son was fortunate enough to have a pack of boys to run with, but the girl situation was limited – so there were lots of ‘girl parties’ and sleepovers with school friends.  Since both of us worked, the kids were in after school care until The Girl was eleven and The Boy was nine.  After that they had fairly strict operational constraints as latch key kids. 

For three summers, i took a month off – without pay – and was damn lucky my profession/employer allowed the option.  Just to let them hang out and be bored.  Not to have to get them up early every morning and bundle them off to ‘day camp’.  They at least had a taste of it…

It was a balance that worked well for our family.  Perfect?  Hardly.  But allowing children a chance to live a little “Lord of the Flies” style may be the best way to prepare them for the big bad world…

Much nicer than anything we ever constructed - and probably a few less rusty nails sticking out at face level...

* Quisp and Quake were favorites — WITH SPOONFULS OF SUGAR ON TOP.  Seriously. We put sugar on top of cereal.  Pop Tarts were another staple… Fruit?  Whazzat?

** And she worked her ass off.  Three loads of laundry a day.  She ironed sheets, shirts and Dad’s damn handkerchiefs.  Ironed. Handkerchiefs.  Yeah.  That’s what i said, even as a kid.  “But he’s just gonna blow his nose on them?!?!”  Food, cleaning, basic home maintenance. 

*** This is a topic for a future post, but basically, our gang of kids put on a successful summer carnival — autonomously — every summer for five years.  Raised money for charity.  Virtually NO parental involvement.

**** Which turned out to be fine training for my future stint as a supervisor…

i must be out of touch with a lot of things… my evenings are precious and full.  As i continue to battle the weight (down 35 pounds, a pesky 15 pounds to go…), exercise is at the top of the list. 

My job doesn’t afford a psychologically healthy opportunity for lunch-hour workout*, and any attempt to exercise in the morning is met with a violent uprising from my own body.  To the point where my brain has been told in no uncertain terms by parts of my body — “if you put on the running shoes, the bitch gets it!”

That leaves the short window of time after work.  i try to get in an hour or two of cardio.  Since i despise going to gyms, i prefer this to be outside, which is increasingly difficult as autumn settles in…  Often i will later work with weights or do pushups and crunches at home until i can’t move. 

i build my weeknight evenings around this routine.

From the time i get home (5:00 pm-5:30 pm) until the time i go to bed (midnight), i’m generally doing something… Once the exercise is covered, i’m paying bills, reading my favorite blogs, hoarking up the contents of my brain onto the ‘trailer park’, meeting up with friends for my Tuesday night pubbery, running errands before stores close, working on projects around the house…

Life maintenance and decompression.

What’s missing?  Apparently television… This seems to be what a lot of people do in the evening.  Scanning the facebook status listings after my workout tonight, i noticed a frightening number of references to “Thursday night television”.  Apparently?  It’s the best…  Gray’s Anatomy, The Office, Survivor…  Huh?  Can’t you catch The Office on reruns?  Don’t the other two suck?

Last week, i had a down night, completely to myself.  The Girl had a movie in the BluRay thingie and suggested that it might be worth my time to spend 90 minutes watching Coraline.  Curling up on the couch with the big brown smelly dog-like-object, i watched an entire movie.

Loved it.  Want to watch it in 3D.  Henry Selick, who directed “Nightmare Before Christmas”, put together a darkly comic and stunningly gorgeous flick about the evil underbelly of greener grass.  Unfortunately it sort of degraded into a video game somewhere in the middle, but it was still a beautiful film. 

When i moved into the Barbie Dream Condo last year, i had the home theater/digital audio system installed before i even had furniture in the living room.  Just over a year later, this was one of the first times i’ve actually put that big damn wall-mounted HDTV to use…. 

i may never get the television thing completely, but i think there are some movies to be watched this winter… methinks i’m in some need of a little more downtime… Suggestions welcomed!

* There is a fitness facility on-site.  During lunch hour it is infested with young hardbodied idiots, who piss me off for being alive.  i used to play basketball there, but am no longer competitive with the aggressive, tattooed pituitary cases that dribble full-court during the precious lunch hour.   Fuck ‘em….