Taming the waters…

Rome. August 2004.  En route to an international conference in Bologna i managed to work in a day in Rome on my own.  Snagging a cheap hotel near the rail station, i dropped my luggage and ventured out for a day of sight seeing.  It was lovely… Walking, walking, walking.  Breathing in the sweaty, humidity-soaked air as i dodged scooters.  And tourists.  The overfed, newly-wed, nearly dead…

After seeing as much as i could during the day, i still wanted to wander a bit, but had been counseled by the hotel clerk that it was ill-advised for me to go out at night on my own.  i hooked up with an evening tour.  St. Peter’s, The Vatican… and the Trevi fountain.  The legendary fountain of wishes…

Off on my own to think a little, i took the fable to heart.  Modern legend is that it is lucky to throw three coins with one’s right hand over one’s left shoulder into the Trevi Fountain.  But what to wish for?  The theme of the sculpture is “taming of the waters”.  My waters definitely needed some taming…

At the time, i was still married.  My husband had mostly relocated to our vacation home three hours to the north, and i was in effect a single parent of two teenaged children.  Feeling trapped.  Knowing my children would leave home soon.  Aching for a fresh start.  Sitting at the edge of the fountain, three coins in hand, i tried my damndest to conjure a meaningful wish.  Asking myself the deceptively simple question “What do i want?”

The only thing that came to mind was a single word.  “Out”.  And so i wished…  “Out” [Plunk].  “Out” [Plunk].  “Out” [Plunk].

Fast forward five years.  i’m out.  Generally very happy, enjoying life.  Looking forward to the future.  But it’s time to ask that question again… “What do i want?”  A fuzzy vision has started to form… it involves a collision of my professional and personal life.  Some financial planning.  My retirement in the works – eight years and nine days from this moment.  

Changing jobs was a step in the right direction.  Helping Mom get settled in a stable care-giving situation is also part of it… A few days wandering the streets of Washington, DC this week – where i lived for a year – added more substance to the vision.  It’s starting to jellify.

But it was the long conversation with an old friend*, while we killed a bottle of delicious French Pinot Noir by an outdoor fountain that helped thicken the vision for “what’s next”.  Almost actionable.  i’m thinking a trip back to Rome may be in my future…

plunk.  plunk.  plunk....

plunk. plunk. plunk....

* Thank you, MS.  And so very sorry for the “inconsequential” misfire….

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A glimpse…

i’ve written quite a bit about life amidst science folk.  i talk about Geek Nation… And my conferencing.  The seemingly endless smorgasboard of research and scientific meetings i am subjected to attend.  To provide some enlightenment for those of you not of this community, i did something bad.  Something that guarantees my spot in a toasty alcove in Hell.  But i couldn’t help it…

At the nerd-extravaganza this week, i was pulled off into a side discussion with some of my own folks.  The never-ending and unresolved battle i’ve been in for several years to re-direct a substantial part of our research activities.  In fact, part of the reason i’ve accepted a position in another organization is that i’m simply tired of having the same conversation with the same people for at least the past six years.  They won.  i’m leaving….

For my parting shot, here’s a little cell phone photo, snapped during our side discussions – taken while i was trying to distract myself, and keep from shouting obscenities in a public hotel lobby.  That would be a very senior scientist wearing those man-pri’s.  The one that threw a tantrum a few months back.  Fortunately, i was wearing shades, or i’d still be suffering retinal burn from the whiteness of those legs…

At least his trousers were zipped.  This time...
At least his trousers were zipped. This time…

Yes.  i know i’m evil and Hell-bound.  But first, i’m leaving these bags of fossilized dinosaur turds behind me.  Not sure quite why i feel just a little guilty about this… These people are like family, and as such, a little abuse from time to time seems appropriate!  At least i didn’t take a photo of him tromping down the hallway to the men’s room, a daily happening at 0900, carrying his dog-eared copy of “Physics Today”.

Blunt Force Trauma

 Another week, another nerd-fest on the road.  Surveying the room — 200+ members of Geek Nation in attendance — i was sitting with my friend SR, a proud member of the Dawg Boyz*.  He noticed my new hair cut…

SR:  You’re looking good!  Nice do..

daisyfae:  i swiped the idea from that hot stripper your wife** hooked me up with on our last adventure in Fort Myers…

SR:  I thought it looked familiar.

We caught up on happenings over the past few months.  He wanted an update on my current crop of boy toys gentlemen friends.  After providing the latest scores and highlights, i mentioned the perpetual restlessness that marks my state of mind.  Scanning the room, i said “Hypothetically, let’s say i wanted to get laid at this meeting…  What do you see?”

SR:  I see that you’ve made a terrible career choice!  Holy shit, that would be like me with a terminal boner in a room full of toothless hags!

He helpfully pointed out a few attractive young post-doctoral research types.  “Naaaaah.  Too young.  i’m looking for a recently divorced professor, a little broken and bitter.  Looking for trouble, not romance!”

SR:  Holy FUCK!  That was me ten years ago!  Where were you then?  We missed the window!

We continued to talk shit and horse around during a particularly off-the-wall presentation.  After the talk, a colleague of SR’s walked up to our table in the back of the room, with the intention to throw a few jabs at the prior presentation.  SR introduced me to this unexpectedly non-dorky gent.

SR:  daisyfae?  Have you met Alex?  Alex?  This is daisyfae.  She’s trying to get laid…

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

* This is a small, but enthusiastic, troupe of drunken yabs who lead our little corner of the technical community in drinkin’ and whorin’ excursions.

** SR’s wife, GR, is the only other female member of the Dawg Boyz.  She can hold her own.  The last excursion – which she led – was a mere two months after she shelled out twins.  i bow down at her altar….

Pecked off…

Saturday morning in my world means a bike ride to the local artisans/farmers market.  This is pleasant, and allows me to pretend – just for a couple hours – that i live somewhere urban and upscale.  As it involves a modicum of physical exertion (25 miles of ass-pedaling), it also allows me to eat with reduced guilt.

The food-selection ritual involves walking slowly along the food vendor stalls, eyeing the daily specials, sniffing for things that tickle my tummy, and making sure i’ve evaluated all possible options before selecting the chosen one – My Saturday Brunch.  This weekend, it was the creperie that made my nostrils flare, pulling my body in a nearly erotic pirouette…

It was crowded, and there was a line.  In quick negotiations with my biking buddy, we agreed to split two crepes – a veggie and a raspberry/nutella dessert crepe…  He was dispatched to procure coffee, and i held the place in line.  Nice view of the crepe-making action, gorgeous morning, and all was pretty damn fine with the world.

[bump from behind] “Excuse me, are you in line?”

Nodding affirmation, i went back to watching crepe fabrication ballet.  [another bump from behind].  i turned my head, eyes partially closed, deploying the universal body language suggesting “back the fuck off”, and noticed the gaggle of suburban hens crowding my personal space.  The one who’d thwacked me with her purse said “oh, i just want to see what they’re doing“.

Sighing, i attempted to return to my zen-like trance, watching a family of crepe-making acrobats perform a flying circus of culinary contortions.  Scrape the griddle, pour the goo, swirl it with a delicate flourish, fold, fill, fold again…  Each crepe creation made my mouth water in anticipation of the foodgasm to come…

But.  Instead of getting into my happy place, i was subjected to incessant Color Commentary of the Obvious.  From three linear inches behind my right ear:  “Ooooh, look!  What’s he doing?  Did you see that?  He poured the batter out and made a perfect circle!  Is that fish?  What is that?  Is it cream cheese with some sort of fish?  It looks like fish.  Do you think it’s fish? I think it’s fish.  Maybe salmon….” 

Simulcast, from three linear inches behind my left ear: “Those are raspberries!  Oh, I hope they don’t run out!  Those look good!  What’s he spreading on the side?  Is that butter?  I think that’s some kind of ham.  Probably not fish.  Look!  He’s putting Nutella* on the raspberries!  I hope they don’t run out…”

There was a third party.  She was a Greek Chorus, echoing the cacaphony of insipid comments.  i continued to be bumped as they strained to get a better view.  i planted my feet firmly.  Stood erect and pushed my shoulders out to full width.  Did not give an inch when the line moved forward by one human body.  They were really getting on my tits…

Realizing that the “fish” was, in fact, prosciutto, and the “cream cheese” was a combination of feta and bleu cheese, i decided to call an audible at the line of scrimmage, and regardless of whether my companion returned in time, i was swapping out the veggie crepe for the prosciutto variety.  And DEFINITELY going to get raspberries.  And hope that i got the last fucking berry…

The “yap and bump” action continued.  i held my ground.  My companion returned.  Sensed my stressed out state of mind.  And without much prompting, quickly realized that it was the incessant chirping and bumping that had me grated.  Finally reaching the serving window, i ordered the prosciutto and cheese… and then slowly and deliberately asked for the raspberry nutella crepe**.

The young man said: “I’m sorry, we’re out of raspberries…” and before i could turn to my companion to coordinate our alternate selection, the hen party broke into simultaneous cacklage “Did you hear that they’re out of raspberries I just knew it well that girl said the other crepe place had run out too oh, I guess I can try the blueberry I had my heart set on raspberries do you think there are raspberries in the mixed berries? I could get the banana…..”.  It was so loud that i damn near had to use semaphore to check to see if the mixed berry option would be acceptable to my friend.

Once they settled down, i asked my friend – none too quietly – a favor.  “If i EVER turn into one of these, you must promise to just fucking shoot me!”

stfu

* Pronounced “nuh-TEL-la”, right?  Unless you are a functionally retarded hen, in which case you’ll call it “NEW-tel-la”.  About a hundred and fifty fucking times….

** “Oh, skip the cream cheese, i’m on a diet!” Bwa-ha-ha-haaaa!

Fear and loathing

Conversation with Mom this week, while taking her to the cardiologist.

Mom:  You’re looking thinner.  Are you eating?

daisyfae:  Yep.  Good stuff.  i’ve just been hitting the workouts harder.  Took the bike out for an hour last night after work and pounded it pretty hard…

Mom:  Do you ride alone?

daisyfae [knowing where she’s going with this]:  Sometimes.  But it’s safe – tons of people out, i carry my phone, populated areas near the trail.  Besides, i ride with a .44 Magnum in my bike shorts…

Mom:  What?

daisyfae:  Just kidding.  That’s S*…

Mom:  Well, you know there was a woman attacked down here a few weeks ago.  She was out jogging, and just nodded to a man running the other way.  He turned around and followed her, hit her in the head with a stick, dragged her off in the woods and raped her…

daisyfae:  i’m careful, Mom.  i maintain good situational awareness, have common sense and besides… i ride pretty fast these days!

Mom:  Well, i just worry about you.  A woman living alone has to be careful…

daisyfae:  i’m fine!  i sleep with a baseball bat under my bed, and have a 24″ blade under my night stand.

Mom:  Is that a knife?  Wouldn’t that only be good at close range?  They say most people are afraid to use knives when attacked…

daisyfae:  If there’s someone in my bedroom that i don’t want in my bedroom, i am quite certain that i’d have no trouble making some cuts…

Mom:  I just worry about you.  All alone…

daisyfae:  i won’t spend my life locked in a bunker, vibrating with fear, waiting for a troupe of psycho-rapists to skin me and wear my junk as a ‘girl suit’!  Mom, a life lived in fear is not a life lived.  [pauses to let it theoretically sink in]  Have i mentioned that i’m going to Mexico next month to do some drift diving off the coast?

I think i left the stove on...

I think i left the stove on...

* My oldest sister, S, has a concealed carry permit.  So do many people in my state.  They may feel safer… but the knowledge that a people in my neighborhood (let alone my family) who may not be all that bright are packin’ heat makes ME afraid.

Dated

Last weekend, i dropped in on a rather festive event… Following the premiere of a locally produced film, the after-party was held at a club downtown.  My friend, joey london (engineer, artist, DJ and eclectician extraordinaire) invited me to join the mash up.  Seems the best dance DJ in the area had planned a special treat, and joey guaranteed it’d be worth the trip.

It was a combination DJ (house/techno), live horn and percussion section on stage, and members of the local contemporary dance company joining forces for a massive throw down!  i went solo, figuring i’d meet up with friendly faces at the club.  The performance?  A complete marvel… the dancers were athletic, creative and gorgeous!  The music?  i couldn’t sit still!

At the end of the show, the dancers dragged us onto the floor for an ‘all skate’, and i hit it hard!  Danced my way through the crowd, hip-hopping with the hip-hoppers and going pogo-rific with the punks!  Fifteen minutes of sheer physical joy before the set finished and the stage was cleared for the next band.

As i stumbled off the dance floor, mopping the sweat from my head, i heard “Damn, woman!  You’ve got some energy!” and turned to see a nice looking young man grinning at me.  He offered to buy me a beer, and joined me at my table.  By way of honest declaration, i let him know that i’m damn near 50.  He didn’t budge… He’s mid-30’s, good looking and athletic.

We talked, and much to my surprise, he was clearly interested in chatting me up.  Asked about a boyfriend… i explained that i’m a bit of a ‘free range chicken’.  He then surprised me with the following question:  “Do you date black men?”  i’m not sure why it surprised me.  i’d accepted a beer, had offered to let him join me at my table…

He looked a little anxious as i slowly formulated my answer: “i date people.  It’s not an issue.” 

We continued to chat, agreed to maybe meet up for reggae, i gave him my number, and headed home.  Post-processing the conversation, i was still a little befuddled by the question.  i guess it makes sense.  Figuring he just wanted to get it out there and save himself a potential headache if it wasn’t in the realm of the plausible.  And i guess there are plenty of women who accept a beer from someone they clearly have no interest in talking to again*… 

i dunno.  i thought we were past this… i was a little put off by his relative youth.  Not his skin color…  Weird…

it's like invisible ink...

it's like invisible ink...

* i’ve refused drink offers in bars if it’s simply someone i don’t want to talk to.  i think that’s the right thing to do.  A friend of mine lives by the credo that “I should drink for free!” and is generally successful…  i’ve seen her let all manner of aliens and toothless briars buy her beer.  This shit is still a bit of a mystery to me.  i suck at dating….

Promises were made…

May 19th, 1984. 

i was such a hippie-goob.  Bad perm, owl glasses.  Wearing this dorky long white satin-esque dress that had belonged to my maternal grandmother.  He was wearing his only best suit – the Brooks Brothers rig his parents bought for him when he graduated from college in 1976.   Brown.  Soft plaid.  We weren’t ‘retro’.  Just dorks, and really fucking cheap.

Holy. Shit.

The wedding pictures are just precious*.  i was 22, he was 29.  Nerds?  You bet!  We’d been living together since i was 19, bought our first house a year later in 1983, and fought like animal rights activists in a medical school laboratory to keep the wedding tiny.  Much to the annoyance of my Mom, who wanted a big wedding** for SOMEONE.  i was pretty much her last hope, and she fought to make it bigger… while i fought to simplify.

We refused to send invitations.  Only announcements to most people – after the fact.  We’d purchased a house, and wanted to discourage gifts.  Some of the announcements actually said “daisyfae and EJR announce the change in tax filing status from ‘single’ to ‘joint’, with an estimated annual tax savings of $1,475.”  We were paying for the wedding, which took away much of Mom’s ability to influence.  But she was resourceful and tenacious as a pit bull.

My favorite example of the passive-aggressive battle?  Mom thought it would be nice to have a “Unity Candle” ceremony in the church.  This is where the Mother of the Bride and the Mother of the Groom bring lit candles to the Bride and Groom, who then light their own candles from the symbolic maternal flame.  And together, the sappy couple attempt to avoid holy conflagration and light a single candle together. 

Awwww…. So symbolic.  So fucking stupid.  i drew a line in the worn church carpet and said “NO!”  arguing that we’d be too nervous, and burn down the historic chapel and that would suck loudly.  She sulked.  i won.

Our guest list was drawn up via the following criteria:  “Who will never speak to us again if they aren’t invited?”  Total guest list was about 30 – all family except for three of our friends.  For our reception, we wanted to just go out to eat at a decent restaurant.  Figuring that our families might never get together again unless we dropped dead…. and even then?  Maybe not.

Arriving at the restaurant, i was quite annoyed to find that Mom had brought a plastic-flower encrusted styrofoam block.  She’d spray painted the styrofoam forest green.  Mounted upon it were a bunch of fucking candles.  Yep.  She got me on a technicality – “You said you didn’t want to do it at church…”.  Sneaky, sneaky little snake-mother, wasn’t she?

And so it went…  But it was a good party.  i got really drunk with my new sister-in-law.  DQ, then 12 years old, caught the bouquet.  The marriage was generally ok – he was, and is, a good human.  We eventually sucked as a couple.   Our genetic products are delightful. 

And 25 years ago today?  i really meant it when i promised “til death do us part”.  Maybe what i meant was the figurative death of “us”, rather than the actual heart-stoppage of either body***. 

Taking a page from Mom’s playbook…. a technicality?

 Shit happens.  Or sometimes, it doesn't...

*yes. there are candidate photos for the “awkward family photos” site  – sadly.  no. i won’t scan them in.  i respect him too much…

** Mom eloped the first time.  And the second time.  And it was a little shotgun event with the justice of the peace when she married Dad.  Oldest sister, S?  Ran away at 18.  My brother, T?  Pretty much the same thing.  And my other sister, T?  Lesbitarian.  Although she did manage to marry a Palestinian taxi driver at the height of the Persian Gulf War…. that was later.  A story for another time…

*** Paraphrased from “The Big Chill”:  “Rationalization is more important than sex.  Have you ever gone a week without a rationalization?”

End games, revisited…

A short conversation with Mom last week in the car recounted events from seven years ago.  Seems to me that we have this conversation every year*, and it doesn’t change.  Just like the events from April, 2002 aren’t going to change either.  In the end – just as we did seven years ago – we agree to disagree.

Dad didn’t die of colon cancer.  It was multiple organ failure, compounded by sepsis.  Started with a botched lithotripsy for kidney stones in January.  He experienced excessive bleeding, and a massive urinary tract infection – missed by the urologist who performed a cursory and dismissive follow up. 

Dad became weak, and fell, tearing his Achilles tendon.  This landed him in the hospital, and then a rehab facility where he was stuck on his back for a month.  During this time – after a direct accusation of malpractice from one daisyfae – the urologist got off his ass and prescribed antibiotics for the infection.

While Dad was flat on his back doing some rehab three times a day, a fluid-convention began in his lungs.  Then, after perhaps too many days of Keflex, he developed a serious bacterial infection.  But by then, he’d been admitted to the hospital to deal with the fluid in the lungs.  i noticed one day an unusual red “biohazard” sign on his door.  Off to the nurses station.  We learned that the bacterial infection was pretty damn serious, and we probably should have been scrubbing in and out of the room… Nice of them to inform us.

Dad was augering in pretty quick.  The doctors recommended thoracentisis, a palliative treatment to fuse the lining of the lung and prevent further fluid accumulation.  The last conversation i had with my Dad alone was the night before the procedure.  He was lucid and clear-headed when the thoracic surgeon came by late in the evening.  After the doctor left, Dad said “I’m tired”.  i knew what he meant… His wishes had been consistent.  No heroic measures.  He didn’t want to linger.  He didn’t want to suffer.  His living will said “do it!”

After the procedure the next day, Dad never fully regained consciousness.  In and out of a semi-comatose state in the Intensive Care Unit.  We took shifts – Mom in the morning, me in the afternoon, and my sister, S, or niece, DQ, in the evening.  The doctors wouldn’t offer advice, nor could they predict the future – “we’ve adjusted his fluids” or “his kidneys are shutting down”.  They only stated facts.

i grilled them daily: “His organs are failing.  Is this reversible?”  “Have you ever seen recovery from a similar state?”  “Have you exhausted all options?”.  They clearly hated these questions.  Mom was dead set against hospice care**.  We had to aggressively seek pain management.  He’d be tossing and tugging with discomfort and we’d run for a nurse to jack up the morphine.

After four days of this, Mom still hadn’t signed a “do not resusitate” (DNR) order.  This meant that if Dad went into cardiac arrest, they’d have to slap the paddles on him, burning his chest.  My niece and i had tried to bring Mom to the logical conclusion.  That night as my niece and i sat with Dad in ICU, he showed up one more time.  He opened his eyes, pulled at the restraints.  Looking first at me, then her – unable to speak because of the tubes – he shook his head “no”.  Unmistakable direction.  He tired, closed his eyes, but was still thrashing in the bed.

We got the nurse, she upped the morphine, and he went back to sleep.  It was 11:00 pm when we got to Mom’s and told her to sign the fucking DNR.  She did the next day.  He was still on full life support.  And could linger a very long time in that state…  The doctors said “we’ve done all we can do”, and when pressed by aggressive questioning “he is suffering multiple, and irreversible, multiple organ failure”.

It was another five fucking days before Mom made the call to stop life support.  The rest of us told her that we were comfortable with the decision, but she waited.  Knowing his wishes.  Understanding the medical situation.  Waited.  For what?  i’ll never understand.

So we went through it all again in the car last Sunday.  She thinks we did it too early.  i think we could have done it sooner.  And we disagree***.  Same conversation, same time next year… My personal “Groundhog Day“.

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

* It may be part and parcel of a ‘standard’ grieving process to go over the events leading up to the death of a loved one.  Mom starts this in January every year, recounting each section of track being laid as Dad rode the “Gonna Be Dead Soon” Train.  i listen.  i encourage her to talk.  It doesn’t make him less dead, but maybe somehow it makes her feel better…

** It was a Catholic hospital.  i  found out much later that one of the nurses had told Mom that if you go to hospice, you have to sign over all of your assets, including your house.  Seriously.  She wouldn’t even let me look into it.  Dad had wanted to die at home, and because Mom had misinformation lodged in her head, we weren’t able to follow leads to make that happen… i’d like a few minutes alone with that nurse… and maybe a sock full of quarters.

*** Mom’s desire is to hang on a long time.  She and Dad saw this very differently.  She is terrified of being let go too soon… Which has led to some funny moments along the way. 

Dancin’ in the dark

The past two weeks have been a bit blurry… not any particular thing, just a lot of everything.  The good stuff and the “i’ll take a rain check, thanks” stuff, swirled in a turgid* life-slurry.  Marginal amounts of sleep, list-making during meetings, frantic stops at the grocery for necessities, napping on airplanes. 

Late nights, laughing and drinking and emoting with good friends.  Watching my mother eat like a human termite.  Getting a ‘disconnection’ notice on my sewer and water for failure to pay (HUH? i’ve paid it monthly? What the fuck?) and not having time this week to call to get it sorted.

Plunging through a massive bureaucratic butt-plug and finally getting a start date for a new assignment.  Eventually convincing my boss that the best thing for the organization is for me to go away… Taking my first cartload of ancient reports and files to the shredder bins.  Shuffling my feet in a happy dance to the music in my head as i pushed the empty cart back to my office.

Having visitors for seven straight days.  Four days with Mom – tense at first, but unexpectedly pleasant.  Three days with a great friend who was in town – warmth, late nights and the traditional “groping of the breastages”….

Friday night – finally!   My plans for the evening disintegrated – a calenderically-challenged DJ / dance buddy had gotten the date wrong for a performance event.  That’d be for tomorrow night… oops.

Home.  Alone.  Quiet.  Munching over my options…

Hopped in the jeep and dragged my mutt to the dog park for some butt sniffing (him), ball chasing (also him) and mindless drooling (both of us…).  Gorgeous night.  Painfully blue skies.  Yips and squeals of the kids on the playground punctuating the start of summer.  On the drive home, being splattered with dog spit as Mr. Pickles recovered in the breeze, i decided that a ‘down night’ was in order.

Settling in to catch up on work e-mail, i queued up the audio tracks**.  Decided to try a different channel… something new.   Found one with a rather stupid name “AM Radio Hits”.  Thinking that i was susceptible to a slide back into the dark places i’ve been scouting lately, this seemed an upbeat, mindless soundtrack to have rolling in the background.

First song?  “Get Up Offa That Thing“***, James Brown.  As i wandered into the kitchen, shakin’ my ass as if my life depended on it, i decided that it would be perfectly ok to finish half a bottle of wine while eating cinnamon bagels for dinner.  My toaster was toasting away, cinammony goodness wafting into my brain and the next song began: “I Think I Love You“, Partridge Family.  ISHITYOUNOT.  Partridge.  Fucking. Family.

Within seconds i reverted to the socially retarded 10 year old girl with a drool-festooned crush on David Cassidy.  i’m dancing in the kitchen.  Show-choir style.  Jazz hands, bitches!  Checking my form in the reflection of the microwave oven.  “I’m afraid that i’m not sure of, a love there is no cure for……” [screaming while striking a pose] “I THINK I LOVE YOU!”

From there?  “Joy To The World“, Three Dog Night, “I Second That Emotion“, The Miracles and “Low Rider“, War.   But then this happened.  Within seconds, i was literally jumping on my furniture, sproinging merrily around my living room.  “Bright Side of The Road“, Van Morrison. 

Joy.  Experienced with the person i’m going to spend the rest of my life with… She’s ok sometimes.  She doesn’t dance nearly as well as she thinks she does, and her voice is a bit strained at the high end.  But she’s a good fucking time…

My dog?  Thinks i’m batshit…

* “turgid” is my favorite word in the english language.  especially when paired with “loins”….

** Rhapsody.  Streaming on-line digital audio for about $12/month.  Anything i want.  Whenever i want it…  About a bazillion channels, with names like “Acoustic Dawn”, “Big Classic Rock” and “Alternative Hits”… i also make up mood/activity driven playlists.  Like a big-ass iPod, wired throughout the Barbie Dream Condo.  Sometimes it makes me so happy to have a soundtrack anywhere i am at home that i just want to pee my pants.

*** If you do not at least do a little head boppin’ when listening to this song?  You are dead.  Seriously fucking dead…. or seriously fucking white….

Inside the Executive Washroom

“My name is daisyfae.  And I Am A Manager”.

There.  i said it out loud.  This is the first step to overcoming any affliction… 

i was amused today by a brief e-mail exchange.  One of my co-managing consorts was stuck at a medical appointment, and asked me to sit in on a program review, to be conducted by The Ninjaneer.

JB:  daisyfae — Would you please abuse The Ninjaneer during his program review?  I won’t be back by 1330.

Ninjaneer:  You. Are. A. Turd.

daisyfae:  My pleasure!  i worship at the excrement altar…

JB:  Teamwork.  It’s a beautiful thing!

Ninjaneer:  May you both fall in a pile of Shared Leadership.

Why, Yes!  i HAVE been promoted beyond my capabilities!

Why, Yes! i HAVE been promoted beyond my capabilities!