Thursday, July 15, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
My Temazcal - 6/1/2007
First, a little background:
This all occurred during my trip to Mexico City. I had been working in Mexico and during a vacation, a group of co-workers and I decided to see the sights. We had friends, also co-workers, who lived in DF (Distrito Federal) who were willing to put us up during the week vacation. This was the same vacation where I saw some crazy zoo critters. The night previous to this adventure, we had gone out partying. Hard. I may post about that some day.
It's an early rise when you're going to Indian Igloo, as it's called where I was. An early rise that smelled like I jumped in a bottle of vodka and felt like a jackhammer in my head. Nonetheless, I donned my sunglasses and went along for the ride as a good guest would.
Upon arrival, I am left in the sitting area while the friend that I stayed with and his mother went somewhere. I had no idea where at the time as I was concentrating on not sharing all of last night's alcohol with them. A lady came to me with a glass of some sort of fluid and told me that I had to drink it all. It looked like OJ so I was quite content to chug it down. Unfortunately, it wasn't just OJ. It had kind of a funny taste to it that I couldn't place. Considerably after the fact, I found out that my OJ had been spiked with garlic. The funny thing is that it didn't taste that bad, or at least not bad enough that I wouldn't drink it. After a while, my friend showed up and showed me a room to go into to change into my bathing suit. Traditionally, you would go into the Igloo naked, but I'm not tight with them like that.
So now I'm all changed and ready to go. A small ceremony is performed outside the Igloo before we go in. We enter one at a time and get situated on the floor. It is hotter than the seventh level of hell in this little place and it doesn't help that it's pitch black inside and there are about 3 or 4 other people in there with us. My friend makes sure I'm all situated and then we lay. Quietly.
Some folks believe that if you clear your mind and allow it to come, in the Igloo, you will see your spirit guide. Having some Native American blood running through me, I was open to this idea. Other folks might say that they make it so hot in there that you hallucinate, which might not be that far off either.
I believe that my body pushed out all of the previous evening's vodka and I got everyone in the Igloo drunk but I like to belive crazy things. After a while, a tin of water was passed around for us to have a little sip. Shortly after that, a piece of cloth was passed around. I'm not sure what was on it, but I was told to rub it all over myself. I obliged since I figured it couldn't be anything that would hurt me since I'm not allergic to much of anything.
More time passed by and just as I was able to ignore the heat and sweat enough to think that I might reach spiritual enlightenment, my friend tells me that I have to leave the Igloo. I don't know why I have to leave, but rather than disturb everyone else, I just head towards the door best I can. Outside, the lady who gave me juice is waiting for me. The change of light and temperature momentarily stunned me and I allowed myself to be led to a chair. Subconsciously I may have wondered why there was an outside chair inside but my main concern was sitting down before I passed out. I sat quietly, inspecting myself, wondering what the heck was all over me, when I realized that it was a kind of muddy clay that must have been on the cloth from earlier.
What happened next was inexplicable. The juice lady returned rather stealthily and without warning, proceeded to throw a rather large bucket of ice cold water on me. I'm pretty sure I screamed right before my heart stopped. I don't know if you've ever had your body temperature raised to about 1000 degrees and then dropped to just under 30 degrees, but it isn't pleasant. She didn't speak English and my Spanish is poor at best so she just stood there and smiled at me like this was a normal procedure. I think it was after the stupified glazed look left my face, she felt it safe to usher me back into the Igloo.
I would imagine that we sat in the Igloo for about another half an hour before a mutual decision to leave. At that point, I was escorted into a place where I could shower. I received soap and a towel and instructions to clean up and then go into the room across the hall to relax but don't dress. I was getting a massage. Awesome!
When your body is that hot, your muscles loosen up which makes the massage 800 times better. I passed out. It was wonderful. After I was all clean and relaxed, there was another bonus: lunch! You'll have to understand that I loves me some Mexican cuisine. To this day, I don't know what we had, but I do know that it was delicious.
We all (my friend, his mom, and the other folks that were in the Igloo) sat down at the table to eat. There was a lot of chatter at the table, but I wasn't really listening as I was still in my massaged state. Slowly but surely, that jackhammer fired up again. As I tried to focus on making it go away and enjoying the scrumptiousness in front of me, my friend told me that the woman in charge wanted to know if I still had a headache. Now, I know that I probably looked a little rough when we came in, but I never mentioned, not even to him, that I had a headache. Naturally, I asked if he told her that and he said that he didn't. So I asked how she knew. He said that she sees auras. Well, that's pretty damn cool if you ask me. I told him that yes, my head was still exploding.
Our hostess was kind enough to come over and provide me with additional massage at this point. I'm a sucker for it, so I wasn't going to complain. While this is happening, she's chatting with my friend. Again, I'm not really listening because it's in Spanish and it requires too much thinking for me to understand it. The next thing I know, she decided to crack my neck. Now, I DO NOT LIKE THIS. I don't like when the chiropractor does it and I certainly didn't appreciate it when she did it. The look on my face must have been classic because my friend immediately told me that he said to her that I would not like that. The best part is that there was so much tension or whatever built up in there, that when it did crack, it was so loud that all conversation at the table stopped. In retrospect, quite funny but then not so much. She tried to get the other side, but I was already on guard. She still managed to get me.
After all was said and done, we thanked our hostess and went back to the house. It was a tremendous experience and if you ever have the chance, I highly suggest it. :-)
From my "Weird Files" - 5/7/2007
I take an herbal supplement twice daily. I have a very difficult time taking pills, so it's an ordeal. I thought that this particular capsule had gone down rather easily. I chucked it back and drowned it in water and thought that everything was okay. I thought.
But then I burped, which, in and of itself isn't odd, but the cloud that came out of my mouth was very odd. I'm not talking about cartoon cloud of smelly burp, I'm talking literal cloud of dust came out. I thought that I was seeing things or going crazy. That may have been better. Somehow, the little guy that lives in my throat managed to get his grubby little hands on the capsule and he broke it open in my freaking throat.
There's a reason that stuff is in a capsule. It tastes TERRIBLE! Five glasses of water later, all was back to normal, but that incident surely did nothing but make my pill-taking issue even worse.
Busting my stage cherry - 4/16/2007
This is the story of my first time on stage in front of about 300 people.
When the concept of working at Club Med was first explained to me, I thought it to be interesting and fun, if not a little odd. I mean really, who pays you to do what you enjoy doing, learn to do new stuff, show off your new stuff on stage and to talk to random strangers who end up being your friend 6 days later? Well, Club Med does basically, or that was my understanding of it.
I like to dance. Mind you, I am a terrible dancer. An embarassment to anyone with rhythm actually. I can headbang with the best of them, although I'm getting off track. I have a tendency to be very active behind the bar (I think I left out the fact that I was a bartender), and therefore, I tend to be remembered if not noticed. Our choreographer, who came in for coffee every morning, was dying to get me in a show.
The problem was scheduling. You see, as a bartender, I was working during many of the rehearsal times and no rehearsal equals no show. Fortunately, in my first season working at CM, my co-workers in the bar really enjoyed drinking more than I did and were not the least bit interested in getting up early. Me, on the other hand, I would prefer to be up early and get my work done so that I can relax in the evenings. In the end, my boss gave in and let me take over all of the morning shifts so that I would have evenings free for rehearsals and shows.
These are not Broadway productions people. These were a bunch of folks whose talents lie elsewhere that were coerced into a show. A lot of rehearsals consisted of more yelling than dancing. I was behind in the learning curve since most people had already been doing rehearsals for a while before I got there, but I do learn quickly.
Here's the thing about CM: if you're asked to do something and you say yes, you'd better be ready to do it in a very short amount of time. I'm pretty sure I had about one week of practice before the choreographer decided that I was ready for the stage. How excited was I?!?! I told my co-workers and my boss about my pending big debut and all was happy across the land.
As the big night approached, I had no worries. How difficult could this be? That was not the correct attitude. I headed backstage before showtime and found my newly named cubby. It had my three costumes and my shoes. Whee!!! I made sure of the order of the show and pulled out my first costume and that's when it struck.
Stage fright.
Possibly the worst case ever known to man. Okay, probably not, but my God, I couldn't even get my shoes on. Mimi, who had the cubby next to mine, noticed that I was a bit on the nervous side.
"Sunshine, how are you doing?"
"Well, I have all my costumes, I think I remember the steps."
"That's good. Oh wait, you have that on backwards."
"Ugh! This is terrible. I'm shaking like a leaf!"
"Oh, yes, this is your first show, right?"
"Sure is. I hope I don't screw up."
"Look, have you had a drink?"
Seriously, she asked me if I was drinking. I will not stand on a soap box and say I didn't consider it, but I decided against it being the noob.
"Um, no."
"Well, girl, go get one! Geez, you work in the bar, you drink for free, and you're not having anything? Go get yourself a drink, and bring me one too."
I'm pretty sure that I looked at her as if she had 3 heads before she told me to get a move on. There was a corridor that connected backstage with the back area of the bar and I made good use of it. I went back, got us drinks, had a shot of Jaegermeister for good luck and then headed backstage again where Mimi and I toasted my first show.
Did you know that alcohol kills butterflies? No scientific study needed. Proof positive. I went out on stage and busted a choreographed move. Not only in the first number where you couldn't see any of our faces anyways, but in the second number and in the finale where I was in the front row!
As we changed back into our regular clothes after the show, I received congratulatory praises on my first performance. Even my boss pulled me to the side and said that I was right to fight for what I wanted to do. It was a great experience that lead to soooo many more nights on stage. After a couple years of performing, people started asking me if I'd had any experience on stage before because it always looked like I was having so much fun up there. A few people suggested that I should try a career in stage. HA! I laugh at them. I'm smiling and laughing because a)we do talk to each other up there even though you can't hear it in the audience and b) give me a shot of Jaeger and I'll smile at anything.
I've retired my stage shoes, they've been collecting dust for about 3 years now. That doesn't mean I don't get the urge to dance every now and again because I do. I just have to suppress these desires and be the mom/girlfriend/admin/web designer/soon-to-be business owner that we all know and love.
Back in the day - 4/13/2007
Oh, and the end is gross.
Way, way, way back in the day when I was about 8 (before
Sidebar: We were having watermelon. I think this story is the cause of my distaste for watermelon to this day.
We were, err, I was being silly, as an 8 year old child typically is. What made this day special was that my dad was being silly too. You just have to understand that he wasn't a silly guy. My mom had already gotten up from the table, and in a rare moment of solidarity, my brother, father and I refused to allow her to turn the channel. Why? Because midget wrestling was on, of course.
I'm not sure that you understand how funny midget wrestling is to an 8 year old, so I'll tell you.
We laughed. We laughed hard. My mother warned me to stop. I couldn't. It was midgets wrestling for pete's sake. My dad was egging us on. My mom said I was going to get sick. I didn't care. It was hilarious and my dad was on our side. Side-splitting laughter kept occurring. I'm pretty sure one wrestler went up to the top rope. Do you know how high that is? That was it. By far the funniest thing an 8 year old has seen. Another warning came from my mother. I should have listened.
The next minute is burned in my mind forever. I was laughing hysterically as I shoved watermelon down my throat and the inevitable happened. My stomach decided that I should either laugh or eat, but not both. My brain was laughing too loud to hear my stomach, just as I was laughing too loud to hear my mom. I would say that there was no warning, but I'm sure there was for my gut erupted and the watermelon returned to the table. I can't remember what I had for lunch yesterday but I remember that I had a paper plate sitting in a wicker plate holder.
After the initial shock that I had thrown up, to the disgust of my mother, we kept laughing. That was a great day in Burkes history.
5 word challenge - Listo - 4/12/2007
Yesterday, I sat on the board, gazing out over the meadow where our trapeze stands. A gentle breeze rustles the palm fronds as the waves caress the sand where the ocean and beach meet. It's beautiful. A complete feeling of peace and calm has overtaken me. The world looks different from 24 feet in the air, you know?
A little girl runs by. I recognize her from earlier in the day. She was all nice and clean then. Now, she has paint all over her dress and her face as she proudly carries the vase she painted. It has one flower in it. Probably for her mom.
"Hi Allie," I yell down.
"Hi, Sunny," she replies, squinting into the sun to see me. "See my vase? It's for my mom!"
"It's beautiful," I tell her because it is. There's paint outside the lines and it looks like abstract art, but she's 8.
"Are you going to do a trick?" inquiring minds want to know.
"Not right now, kiddo, but if you come back tomorrow, I'll teach you a new one!"
"Cool!! I'll see you tomorrow."
I've been here a while. The people change but the routine stays the same. It's amazing how people are impressed with the way we are so "intuitive". When you see the same things day in and day out for months on end, you just know.
I really can't sit still for much longer. The sun is baking me an even more golden brown as it turns the ends of my locs the most wonderful copper color. I wish I could get it all that color, but the sun just doesn't work that fast. My mind starts racing with thoughts only found in the chalk and tape-encrusted back corners of the head of a circus GO.
It's just a quickie.
No one is here yet.
So what if someone sees you, you work here.
It isn't showing off.
You need the practice.
Stop being a wussy!
You see, I've been working my way up to this moment. I've got the static trapeze down pat. It doesn't move, hence the name, and the ease in which I picked it up. I'm a madwoman under the tent. Upside-down, right-side up, forwards, backwards, flip, spin, twist. No problem. It's only 6 feet off of the ground with a 18 inch crash mat underneath. It might hurt if I fall, but I won't get hurt.
Ever since the last mid-air collision, I've been hesitant to try again. Hesitation is not for circus GOs. We are the few, the proud, but not the Marines. People vacation here just to train with us. There's no time to be a baby. We are invincible.
It's getting late and the others will be here soon. It's now or never. They know that I've stepped it down a notch. They're disappointed and they try not to let it show, but I can see it. I've had that same look in my eye.
I know that it's time to (up)rise to the occasion. I stand and try to collect my thoughts. I walk(fly) through the trick in my mind. My hands are shaking and sweaty. As I reach into the chalk bag, I tell myself that I can do it. I didn't go through all of this waiting and torture to not be able to do this.
I can do it.
I can do it.
I can do it.
Swing the bar.
I can do it.
I can do it.
Grab the bar.
I can do it.
Cowboy the riser.
I can do it.
I'm listo.
Ready. Hep.
Nowhere else on earth does seven seconds take this long.
I drive my legs back in an effort to create velocity. Don't bend your knees. As I bring them forward and drive them up, I think about getting my feet into the clouds. Feet in front! Another drive backwards in the back end of my swing. I'm back near the board and closing in on the moment of truth.
I try my best to 'float' myself up onto the bar and while I make it, I don't float. I've always been a power flyer, but never a very graceful one. I have less than two seconds to make my move. It's go time.
I bend myself in half over the bar and I launch myself up and over in a little ball. I've surprised myself. I open from the ball, spot the net, and half-turn safely into it, landing on my back.
I truly am invincible! It's such a rush that I climb right up and do it again. I've become so engrossed in my flying that I don't even notice that people are watching. (And why should I care if they are? They get a show on Wednesday night anyways.) More importantly, I don't notice that my teammates have arrived. They sit quietly and watch me work out my issues. You might think they should offer up commentary, but they know what's best. I throw my forward over twice more before I get tired. The adrenaline rush is massive. I'm estatic. I'm throwing this in the show. I love my job.
PS. I know that most of you won't know what the heck this was about so there's a video. It isn't me but I can't post mine from work. I'll replace it later.
Update: Now it's me.
5 word challenge - Splatter - 3/29/2007
Nothing peculiar about the day. Mom and Dad went to work. My brother and I stayed home. We had unwritten and unspoken understandings kindled by the fear of the belt. Of course, we were still kids, so we had our differences.
We were never really a 'sit down at the dining room table for dinner' type of family. I can only remember one time that wasn't a holiday. It was a weekday.....(insert flashback music here)
"Will you two just behave?" my father asked less than patiently.
I tried to keep quiet. I tried to keep my cool and be the older, wiser sibling, but what do you really want from a 10 year old?
"But he jabbed me with his fork!" I cried.
The glare I received told me that there would be no more discussion on the matter. I slouched back in my chair and gave up. Better to eat my dinner and be able to sit down than to make my point and have a sore bottom. Don't talk back was always rule number one.
I used to really put away the food when I was little. It's amazing that I'm the size I am instead of 2 or 3 of me. As I dug into my plate, I realized that ketchup would make everything better. It was, after all, my favorite condiment. I got up from the table to retrieve my red savior. Unfortunately, my brother decided that it would be the perfect time to continue pestering me.
I tried. I tried as hard as a 10 year old can try to ignore the squealing that was my brother. It was incessant. he wouldn't stop. He followed me to the fridge. He kept at it. Would. Not. Stop.
Sidebar: If you've ever played the game Killer Instinct, I compare myself to Timberwolf. He takes it and takes it and takes it until he just snaps and goes nuts on someone.
I stood at the door to the fridge trying to keep my composure. I was an uptight child. But he got to me. I don't remember now what he did or said to push me into KI mode, but without thinking, I grabbed the ketchup bottle (it was plastic) and swung it at the closest thing, which happened to be my brother's head.
SPLADOW!!!
Ketchup everywhere. The walls, the ceiling, the floor, my brother's face, my shirt. And then the real squealing began. To this day, I don't know if he was in pain, shock, or taking the Academy Award for Best Youth Actor in a Kitchen Drama, but he started screaming like I had lopped off his hand. My father's immediate reaction was one of "girl I'm going to kill you" until he realized that my brother wasn't in fact bleeding, just covered in ketchup. Upon this realization, he promptly ordered us to clean up the mess that we had made and then retire to our rooms. I'm sure there was punishment, but that part is never as fun as smacking your kid brother with a ketchup bottle.
I reminisce about that moment every time I pick up the ketchup. :-)
The five-assed monkey lives! - 3/21/2007
Some time back, I had the opportunity to go to the zoo. This isn't just any zoo, mind you, it's the Mexico City zoo. Yup, D.F. I really loved my time in Mexico, but I digress.
You see, I was under the impression that the five-assed monkey only lived at the top of the hill in the crazy genetic scientist's lab. He may even have been just a figment of someone's deluded imagination, but I was wrong. He lives in the zoo in Mexico City. I even got a picture of him.
I hope that you can see him well in all of his glory. He's a beautiful five-assed specimen.
Sure the zoo has other critters too, you know, lions and tigers, and bears, oh my. Bears. It was bear feeding time when we got to the bears. So adorable the pandas eating their lettuce and apples. The koalas and a couple other random bears. All hanging out, having a little party, a luncheon if you will. So cute, until you see that one poor bear was left out of the party.
Poor guy, all alone, no one to bear talk to, no one to give a bear hug. Poor black bear. Whatchya havin for lunch buddy? Apples, lettuce, carrots? No? So what do you have there? What? Really? They gave you that?
So what do you think the black bear was eating all by his lonesome? And really, I couldn't just make this up. One black bear, separate from the other bears, eating watermelon. I kid you not. I'm sure that I nearly busted a gut laughing at this. Since when do bears know about segregation and stereotypes?!?!
This capped off a wonderful day at the zoo. I got a great tiger picture too.
Mexico City rules! Don't let anyone tell you otherwise and if you go, make sure to stop by Litros where all the drinks, no matter what they are, come in a one litre container. That's a whole different post though. :-)
If I Did It - 2/18/2007
Last night, we went out for dinner and a show. Dinner was tasty and not the point of the blog. We went afterwards to the Improv in the Grove to see Tommy Davidson. I've been a fan of Tommy since back in the day so I was super excited for the show. It got off to a rocky start as they say they had some sort of 'computer glitch' that kept us from getting in on time. Typically not a problem, but we're in the middle of our 'cold snap' and my blood has thinned so I did get a little chilled.
Anyways, after a 35 minute wait, we finally got in and got seated. We were early enough in line to get to pick where we wanted to sit - off to the side and on the second level. Perfect. The opening comedian was decent, a local guy. We lucked out that there was only one, usually there are two. Just meant more TommyTime.
Yay! Time for Tommy! And to our screams and whistles, out he came. This is the first time that I've seen Tommy in person. I never realized that he was quite so thin. But on a plus side, he has the cutest mischevious sparkle in his eyes. As expected, he was hysterical. He did some politics, some family, some current events and some not so current events. He started talking a little smack about a time that he went somewhere with OJ Simpson. Little did we realize that OJ was in the audience!
We were sitting on the opposite side of the club, but could just make him out. Kinda funny. When the show was over, we had to walk down this skinny hallway. And lo and behold, who's standing in the hallway but OJ. He was hammered appeared to be three sheets to the wind enjoying his evening. He's also proof that stress will age you. He wasn't looking at his TV best.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
A car is not a toy. - 2/15/2007
Look, I know we're all (or most some a few) adults here and we don't need to be lectured about what to do or not to do while driving. We heard it when we first started, some of it stuck, some of it didn't. Fair enough. But when I learned to drive, the only distraction was the radio. I wasn't putting on makeup or changing a CD or talking on my cell phone. I don't long for those days, but I think that some people need them.
Not even an hour ago, I went to pick my daughter up from gymnastics. On the way back home, we stopped at Publix (grocery store for those who don't have them) for a few items. All was well. As we were walking back to the car, my daughter was telling me a story. Now, living in Miami, nothing ever gets your full attention, not even driving, and I realize this as I'm guilty of it myself. So, what I'm trying to say is I was only listening to her with one ear. (And if you have a teenage child, you know you really only need one ear to listen to them as most stories repeat.) We weren't, as some people do, walking down the middle of the isle. We were to the right, close to the parked cars. On the opposite side, there was a Jetta backing out. To this, I don't pay spectacular attention because the Jetta has plenty of room.
Apparently, Jettas are now roughly the size of 18 wheelers judging by how far this driver had to back up. This is not social commentary on said driver's driving skills though. Well, yes it is. The Jetta continues to back up, and not at a rate of speed that is suitable in a grocery store parking lot. You really don't realize how long 3 seconds is until you are about to be hit by a car. I had my purse and keys in one hand and a twelver of Heiney Light in the other therefore, I wasn't able to produce my initial reaction of slamming my hand into the trunk of her car. (Yes, it was a woman driver. Go ahead. I've heard it all before.) Instead, I used what I had left. My big-ass mouth.
As she continued to back up, I yelled out "Hey!". Oh how I wish I could've done more. I am pretty sure, however, that I was vocal enough for her to hear me. Either that or she had backed out enough for a double-wide to get out. At any rate, this is when I notice that she was on the friggin telephone. This only irritated me more. So I continued to yell at her through her closed windows.
"What the hell are you doing?!?! Get the hell off the phone!! You almost hit us!!"
I guess the reaction I was looking for was an apology. Instead, I think I scared the crap out of Miss I'm-so-much-better-than-everyone-that-I-can-back-out-without-regard-to-any-pedestrians-that-may-happen-to-be-around. I'm not sure if she was scared because she almost hit us (and I KNOW she heard me) or if it was because I think my eyes were popping out of my head at that very moment and I probably looked ready to kill. Either way, she was scared and I guess that'll have to be good enough because that's what my daughter and I were. Scared.
So, the moral of the story here folks is please pay attention when you're in crowded places. With pedestrians. Tell your friends. The life you save could be your own. No wait, that's blood donors. But seriously, be careful!
PS. I go to that Publix all the time Ms. Jetta. I know your car, your tag and what you look like. The next time you almost hit someone (especially me or mine), there will be repercussions. 40 acres and a mule!
Sunday, July 11, 2010
It's Like Riding A Bike - 1/31/2007
Many moons ago when I was about 8 or 9 I guess (I was a late bike learner), my cousin Gene used to come visit us for several weeks each summer. Gene was my hero. He lived in another state, he was older, he knew everything. I like to think that he deserves some credit for who I've become, but I digress.
Gene had a bicycle that I desparately wanted to ride, but I didn't know how. Let me mention that at this time, I can't be much more than 4 feet tall if that whereas Gene had to be over 5 feet by then. I didn't have my own bicycle to learn, and my parents weren't really interested in buying me one right away. And despite their disinterest, they forbade me from riding Gene's bike. In retrospect, a grand idea as the bike was way too big for me. Then, I just thought they were evil.
As young ones do when everyone is at work all day, I went behind their backs and asked Gene to teach me to ride a bicycle. Unaware of my not having permission, Gene proceeded to try to instruct me in the nuances of balancing and pedaling. We would start at the top of the yard and go to the bottom of the yard (it was a gentle slope). Oddly enough, the lessons didn't include how to stop and that, my friends, is a recipe for disaster.
Disaster had a new name, and it's name sounded a heck of a lot like mine. As I cruised through the yard, gaining momentum, I got away from Gene and I headed toward the street. I didn't know how to stop. I started to panic. I vaguely remember hearing him yell, but what was more important to me was the fact that I was heading straight for a car that was coming up the road.
Time really has a way of slowing down right before you crash your bicycle into a car. Fortunately, though, the car contained one of our neighbors, who had likely seen me riding against my parents' wishes earlier in the day and was able to stop before he crushed me and Gene's bike under his car. I got off lucky. A scrape on my elbow and no damage (major anyways) to Gene's bike. The neighbor went about his business like it didn't happen and never told my parents that I know of. I was quite the tomboy so any new scrapes that weren't bleeding profusely were no cause for alarm from my parents.
Gene and I came to a mutual agreement that I shouldn't ride his bike anymore. I did eventually get my own bike though, and I rode it everywhere. Except into the path of cars.
It could only come from a grandparent - 1/26/2007
Growing up, we were a pretty tightly knit community. My parents had the standard 2.2 kids (myself, my brother, and a half-brother that we never saw....until one day....and I didn't know...but that's another story), a decent house, they worked, we played. We had a ton of neighbors (which made it so terribly difficult to throw a secret party) of which happened to include my grandparents.
I loved my grandparents and I still do even though they've passed on. They provided me with all the love and attention a little kid could stand. My mother tells me that when I was about 3 or 4, yes I was a precocious little bugger, I packed a plastic bag with my stuffed animals and proceeded to walk out the door. She asked where I was going and I told her that I was running away. And at the ripe old age of 4, I told her, "And you be good!" and off I went to my Gram's house.
Ah, Gram's house. So much packed into a little place. So many memories, so many stories. A book has got to be forthcoming. Working title: Adventures of a Younger Me. I digress.
My grandparents were characters. Gram was very church oriented with Sunday School every week, choir practice, and the like. Pop, on the other hand, no church for him thank you very much. Except holidays when Gram made him go of course. Pop had a ritual that he followed just about daily and through the years, I got to see different parts of it. The best thing though, hands down, about Gram and Pop, were the things they did and said. These people who had lived through World Wars, being born in 1910 and 1912, lived through so many race issues, kids, grandkids, so much life!
And lively they were. Once, I walked into the house to find Gram sitting at the kitchen table with some friends from church drinking beer! To me, that was a huge deal. And the topper was that just as I was walking in, someone at that grey-haired, little old lady table ripped the hugest belch I had ever heard. At the time, I was stunned. Looking back on it makes me laugh hysterically. I mean, come on (Timmy), 5 or 6 little old ladies (I'd say they all had to be in their late 60s by then) drinking beer. No bibles, just beer. Wonderful!
Pop, well, I could go on for days about Pop, but if you really wanna know, keep bugging me to get the book finished. But, I will share this one story with you.
My father, may he rest in peace, was born in 1945. So, in his teens and early 20s, black people and their hair were going through a revolution. The young folk were getting their hair "conked", meaning straightened more or less, evidenced by the late, great Godfather of Soul, James Brown.
That hair looks shiny, even in black and white, for a reason. It was more often than not, just plain greasy.
Now, Pop, being a traditionalist and not much for the fads of the day, didn't care much for my dad having his hair in such a manner, but he apparently held that in for years and years and years until he could share that sentiment with me one day. When that day arrived, he said to me in no uncertain terms that,
"Back in the day, your dad had a greasy mess on his head. He had his hair conked. There was so much grease in his hair, that a fly would need chains to land on it."
Flat out hysterical. If you come from a warmer climate and aren't familliar with the reference, when it's cold and snowy, sometimes you put chains on your tires to get a better grip on the road.
Maybe you had to be there. Maybe you'd just have had to have known him. But maybe, maybe you don't.
I heard it on a ski lift.... - 1/8/2007
I have recently returned from a WONDERFUL, albeit minimally snowy vacation to Tennessee. Our group contained myself, an African American, my daughter, half AA, half German, my boyfriend, Cuban, our former roommate, half Cuban, half Mexican, and his girlfriend, Honduran. Why do I go through the ethnicities? Read on.
Please, put aside your preconcieved notions that all of our southern states are places only for WASPs, for that is not true. Even a small town like Gatlinburg, a resort town, found its fair share of culturally diverse crowds. We ran into many people who spoke Spanish, French, German, and even Russian (we think). There were even quite a few black folks out trying out this snowboarding sensation. (Keep at it! Don't leave me out there alone!)
All this and more I tell you only to relive the funniest thing I heard all week. It's funny in a sad sort of way, but I laughed as did all in my group when I relayed the story, which in turn, allows you to laugh too.
Skiing/snowboarding is quite the social sport. Either that, or I must have a sign on that only other people can see that says "I want you, a compete stranger, to tell me everything about yourself and ask you everything there is to know about me." Long sign, I know, but I must be wearing it. At any rate, I've been off riding by myself for a while as my daughter is in a lesson and my poor baby is home sick on the first day of our trip. I've made fast friends with 2 girls from TN that just love me for some reason (am I Token?), as well as several other kids. I guess it could be that I look younger than I am and act nowhere near my age, but I digress.
On one particular lift ride, I had the opportunity to ride up with a southern gentleman and his son. I can say southern with absolute certainty because not only did the accent give it away, but he flat out told me that he was from TN. The conversation started as most do on a lift ride. Hellos, weather, first time, etc. Something like this:
Him: How y'all doing today?
Me: (Wondering if I've multiplied) Fine thanks, you?
Him: We're doing great! Great day of skiing.
Mind you, his son says nothing this entire ride.
Me: Good to hear.
Him: So where ya from?
Me: (Because I've told this story many times today, and many times at Club Med) Pittsburgh originally, but now I live in Miami.
Him: Oh yeah? What do you do down there?
Me: I'm an Administrative Assistant.
Him: Oh? Where at?
I think that's one too many personal questions at this point, but....
Me: A property management company.
Him: You been down there long?
Me: (Is this ride over yet?!?!) About 3 years now.
And now, the moment you've been waiting for.....
Him: You gotta learn to speak mexican to live down there, huh?
Me: (Blank stare.) Guffaw!
First off, I didn't capitalize Mexican to accentuate the way in which it was said. If nothing else, I do know punctuation and capitalization (as I hit spell check). Secondly, the brunt of the Hispanic population in Miami proper is Cuban although we do boast a large Mexican population. Third, my newly made redneck friend, if you're going to be stereotypical, at least get it right, because learning to speak SPANISH goes a long way here.
He didn't say much after I giggled in his face and thankfully, the ride was over shortly thereafter. By the way, southern gentleman, where did you get that gaiter? It's such a lovely shade. Oh, wait, that's your neck.
Death to Iggy(s)! - 1/8/2007
I have a friend, we'll call her H. H is very low-maintenance. Always there when I need her. Haven't had a problem with her since we met in September of 2005. Some may say that I'm not the best friend to H. I've left her alone in the rain and at times, I've driven her harder than she prefers, but overall, things aren't so bad between us. (In case you hadn't figured it, H is my car.)
H has, what I at first believed to be, quite a cushy parking spot. She's out of the direct sunlight most of the time, shaded by either our house, or the great mango tree in the front. She used to be happy there and I used to be happy she was there. Now, things have changed.
Iggy (and his wife/life partner) have moved in. There was no warning, no moving van, no "Hi, we're the new neighbors". The only way that I know that the Iggys are around is that they've taken to leaving presents for, or I should say on, H.
The Iggys have made a residence in the mango tree. For the most part, they're quiet neighbors and you wouldn't even know they're there except for one glaring huge middle iguana finger thrust at me on a daily basis....
THEY SHIT ON MY CAR!
I will soon wash the paint off of H because of the daily washing that she needs because the Iggys are disgusting pigs. If you weren't aware, iguanas poop in much the same way as birds. LARGE birds! Every morning I go out to my car, half asleep, to find the present of the day. Today, it looked as though the Iggys put in a joint effort. There's a large section of my back window that I cannot see out of. It's gross. It's annoying. It's offending. Some folks want to call someone to take them away, but as I believe that the Iggy family are all either spies or CIA agents, or Jack Bauers in training, they are never seen.
Now, I am angry. Do not look for me, do not call me, for I will not be around. I am becoming one with the Iggy family. I will hold vigil in my front yard with the necessary equipment to remove the crapmakers. I will think like them, I will look like them, I will eat like them, and I will kill them. Hopefully before I poop on someone else's car.
Sliding into home (part 2) - 12/5/2006
Part 2 insinuates a continuation from the first part, but that is not what this is.
I grew up in the late 70s - early 80s, child of sports fans. Many a summer evening was spent in Three Rivers Stadium watching the Pirates beat up on whomever was in town. As such, we knew of the greats (at least Pittsburgh greats) Willie Stargell, Dave Parker, and later the outfield to die for of Bonilla, Bonds, and Van Slyke.
My brother, try though he might, could never quite keep Stargell and Parker straight and would end up yelling "Willie Parker!" as he slid into any base. (Who knew he was calling out to a current Steeler?) In case you weren't alive then, little kids shorts then looked something like this:
Maybe a little more loose in the leg, but you can get the idea. At any rate, the three musketeers were doing their daily musketeer things like running around, yelling, jumping off of the highest thing possible, etc. We were headed to the bottom of the hill when my brother took it upon himself to scream out "Willie Parker!" and perform his best slide into home. Herein lies the problem. You see, this quiet and gentle boy just didn't happen to put on any underwear on this particular day and as he slid down the hill with one leg outstretched in the classic slide position, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a small brown penis, oh dear oh dear.
Yup, it popped right out. I don't remember exactly, but I'm gonna guess he was about 6 at the time, 7 at the oldest. Young enough for him not to be embarrassed (at least until he reads this post) and young enough for us not to make a big deal of it. But, out and out hysterical every time I think about it now. We continued on with our day as if nothing ever happened because, to us, nothing did happen. Do you know why? Because the family jewels are sacred!
Sliding into Home - 12/5/2006
Back in the day, the three musketeers were inseparable. My cousin Melanie, my brother and I. All separated by one year, all birthdays in December. The unified front against our cousins in Monessen. While Mel lived about 40 minutes away (in a slightly more upscale neighborhood), we always managed to spend a ridiculous amount of time together. Summers were especially awesome. We lived in a very rural area where the days were very long and filled with fun times. Our yard was huge as our grandparents lived right next door. (Great for escaping the house, terrible for sneaking out or sneaking people in.) They had a dog that was as big as a house, and being the Sagittarius that I am, I had a bond with that dog like no other. They tell me that I used to ride around on her back like she was a horse.
I recall one early Saturday afternoon in particular. I knew that Mel was coming to the house and I couldn't wait. I had friends around the house, but then, family was way more important. (Unfortunately, the musketeers, or at least one of them, went their separate ways and forgot how important family was and is.) I waited oh so impatiently to see my aunt's car come down our street.
Finally! They're here!
I ran out of our house like the proverbial bat out of hell. Full speed ahead down through our yard and into my grandparents yard. I was cute, I was graceful, I was small, and I was muscular. I was excited. I was covered in dog shit on my entire right side because in my haste, I didn't notice that the dog had dropped a bomb in my path. I was running full speed and planted a foot directly in poop and then tried to turn a corner. I was a running back on wet turf, tackled by number 2, Doo Doo Brown.
And this, this is the beautiful thing about family. There was no embarrassment. There was no mean laughing. We all laughed together as badly as I smelled. I took a shower, changed clothes, and play resumed like it never even happened. I guess that's how you know someone is family. They still love you no matter how much shit you're in. :-)
DDT! - 12/5/2006
No, not the chemical, the wrestling move.
My job used to be very physical. I taught little kiddies (and big kiddies too) how to fly through the air with the greatest of ease with the least amount of pain possible. Don't get me wrong. It isn't painful if you just listen to what you're told, so don't use this as an excuse to not try it out. I used to be pretty buff. I handed out tickets to the gun show every time I pointed. I didn't get hurt often, but when I did, I reverted to just being a girl.
In an attempt to keep the peace in a class (on the ground) and to make sure that everyone got a turn, I assisted a little girl (who was not so little) on the static trapeze. Said child had a tendency to not listen. Of course, she slipped right off of the trapeze. It isn't high. It was about 4 feet. Because it was my job, I saved her from splitting her skull and spilling brains all over my mat. Unfortunately, in the process, the child decided to freak out while almost in my arms and somehow managed to bend my thumb backwards...to about my elbow.
I refrained from throwing her as far as I could onto her head. I placed her gently on the floor, feet first even, and then snuck into the back where I could curse this child and her firstborn. I don't know if you've ever been on a trapeze, but suffice it to say that YOU NEED BOTH THUMBS! A part of my job included putting on several shows a week, many of which involved me using my thumbs so this little booger machine put a hurting on me.
Skip ahead about two days. All of the shows for the week have been completed and it's time to go out and party Carlos n' Charlies style. The alcohol was flowing rather freely, as it did on most nights there. I'll be the first to admit that I had my fair share (and your fair share, and hers, and his), so I was feeling no pain. Until...
Brynn (a girl I worked with) decided that it was a good time to have a little fight. I'd venture to say that Brynn and I were the toughest girls around at that time and there was a play fight or two just to see who was tougher. We both knew it was jokes, never took it seriously or personal. Mind you, I was more than half in the bag, but I think it went a little something like this:
B approached me in the manner of play fighting. I responded. All was fun and games. B happened to grab the hand with the bent-back thumb and bent it back again. At this point, everything ceased to exist except the pain in my thumb. I now know what is meant by blind rage. Everything literally went white and all I could focus on was retaliation. Unfortunately, B just didn't know what she did. Before Carlos, Charlie, our co-workers, and half of Ixtapa, I blindly grabbed her head and I gave her a DDT. On the floor. The dirty, dirty floor. At Carlos n' Charlies.
Have you ever been in a nightclub and it just got quiet? I have.
Brynn was twitching just a bit as she lay on the floor. People just stood looking from her to me and back again. Don't worry, she was only slightly stunned. She got up, brushed herself off, and we kept drinking. This is the stuff that legends are made of. I spent another 4 months in that place and it took at least 2 before people stopped talking about the time Sunshine DDT'ed Brynn in CnCs. Ahh, good times.
Miss ya Brynn!!
Speaking English in Miami - 12/14/2006
It's lunchtime. I brought my lunch today but every once in a while, I just need to step outside of the office. For a little while, I want to not breathe the recycled, recirculated, germ-laden air in our office. I want to see the sun, feel a breeze. (I work in the South Beach area, which means I'm breathing the urine-scented, probably even MORE germ-laden air, but I digress.)
I step outside into the nice warm air that is a million times warmer than the refrigerated air that is pumped into our office via a vent directly over my head. I contemplate crossing the street but I don't want to walk to the corner and a Miami Beach officer just pulled up and it would be just my luck that he'd harass me for jaywalking. (On a side note, do police still do that?)
SIDEBAR: If you haven't had the
pleasure, opportunity,bad luck to venture down Washington Ave during the day, here's what you're missing: real homeless people asking for money, pseudo-homeless people asking for money (the fake ones are way too clean and tend to have new sneakers on), sorry to be so un-PC, but crazy people, talking to themselves and bumming smokes, driving on the sidewalk (bikes, boards, skates), walking in the streets, and about every half block, someone trying to give you a flyer for something be it a club, religion, new music, whatever. Get on a plane! This can't stay here forever!
I think that I've made it through steps 1 through 6 and am about to take step 7 outside the building when I am approached by a flyer guy. It went a little something like this:
FG: Aaaaaay, mami, you peaki pani?
Translation: Pardon me miss, do you speak Spanish?
Me: rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr (while squeezing my eyes shut and shaking my head like a dog that just got sprayed with the hose)
FG: Uhhhh. (walks away quickly)
I am one of the few people in Miami that doesn't speak Spanish, apparently. Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against the language or the people. I lived in Mexico for almost 2 years (and yes, I still don't speak Spanish) and the love of my life is of Cuban decent. It's such a melting pot here, but I can't quite understand why people automatically think that I speak Spanish. Granted, I don't look like Buffy from the country club (African-American, loc-ed hair, sadly, no ghetto booty -- why am I the only black girl on earth with no ass??), but why not shoot for English first? Honestly, if I'm in Mexico, I shoot for Spanish when I ask questions. In France, I'd give French a shot, but give up quickly and head on home for some Freedom Fries from McDonalds. So why, in the US, can we not go for English first?
By the way, it isn't just Spanish that people assume I speak. I think that I get mistaken for Dominican and that's where it comes from, but I also get mistaken for Haitian because often enough, someone will start going on in Creole until I start giving them the dog spray.
I'm not going the way of the lunatic from Colorado who thinks that Miami is a "third world country", far from it. I hope. I certainly don't want to be seen as "that girl". I just want people to respect our country and our language just like they would any other country or its language. Is that so wrong? Talk amongst yourselves.
Get out of my lane, Miami! - 10/20/2006
I am, what most would call a good driver. In my 16 years of driving, I've been pulled over about 5 times and ticketed about twice. I've wrecked twice. One completely my fault where I was late for work, driving too fast, and tapped the lady in front of me at about 5 mph. (Of course this did not stop her from trying to get $10,000 from my insurance company for damages to her person and her car. Just for future reference, lady, they take pictures of the cars. My car didn't have as much as a scratch on it and neither did yours so quit trying to SCAM!) The second wreck involved only me, my car, a rainy day, and a freshly oiled stretch of pavement. (Yes, in PA, they OIL the roads. Oil + water = skid, slide, BANG!)
Last month, I got a ticket for failing to come to a complete stop before making a right on red. Again, I was in a hurry. So much of a hurry that I completely missed seeing the cop. Oh well. I took it like a man. Or at least as much of a man that's possible as I'm not a man. Did I aggravate the officer? Probably. Did his question, the ever popular, "Do you know why I pulled you over?" deserve to be answered with "Because I cut you off?", probably not. At least he didn't nail me for not having my seat belt on.
This was my first ticket in FL and lucky for me (NOT), the most expensive one outside of speeding. DON'T RUN A RED IN FLORIDA PEOPLE! Anyways, $200 later, I figure I'd better take the traffic class so that the points aren't added to my license and therefore jacking up my insurance rate. As I've been going through this class online, I finally came to a part that everyone who gets on the ramp to 836 east off of NW 27th Ave northbound between 7:20 and 7:30 am should know about:
Drivers should be advised that highway on-ramps are for entrance to and preparation for highway driving. Drivers must no longer travel at the drastically reduced speeds suitable for city driving. Drivers are called upon to increase speeds to that of the highway traffic and use the on-ramp and subsequent merging lanes as a means to get into the flow of highway traffic. The driver is called on to signal, increase speed, and merge safely into traffic.
Do you understand what this means, people? Just in case you don't, let me break it down for you. We have a few hundred feet of space to get up to the SAME speed as everyone else that is late for work. Said late folks are NOT going to slow down so that you can creep, grandma-style into traffic. You are going to cause a major accident. In case that wasn't clear enough, let me elaborate. Everyone else is going between 65 and 150 mph. I use this ramp to have my Ricky Bobby moment for the day, wherein I blow out all the dirt that's hanging out in my injectors by redlining it in first through about third till I get up to speed. Now, what do you think happens when you, turtle shell, are in front of me?
- I am deprived of my Ricky Bobby moment for the day.
- My baby Honda must choke on dirt for an extra day.
- You PISS OFF everyone within a half mile radius of your car.
- Quite often, you cause an accident.
You may not think that numbers one and two are important, but ask any 6 year old how important number one and number two are, and even they will know the answer.
So please, Mr/Ms. Honey-I'm-So-Scared-To-Drive-Here-Because-Everyone-Is-Going-So-Fast, either get on the track or stay in the pit!
Sights of Miami - 10/27/2006
South Beach and Miami in general has a ton of homeless people. Some of them are war vets, some drug addicts or alcoholics, and some are literally flat out crazy. I often wonder how one gets to this point and then I feel so blessed to not have gotten anywhere near that point. I don't typically give homeless folks money, simply because I know it isn't going to go to good use, but I never hesitate to buy anyone that's hungry some food, providing I have the capability.
(I know I jump around a lot and I'm working to make that better.)
A couple of days ago, when driving home from work, I broke my personal rule about not handing out money. On the corner of NW 12th and the off ramp, there's a traffic light. And with that traffic light, comes a variety of homeless men (and on occasion a woman) with their signs asking for money. Typically, I keep my windows up on that corner, because, let's face it, I'm not a big girl and someone who's strung out has the capability to possess super-human strength. This day, I had my window open and some cash on me (which I also don't usually do since I have a tendency to lose money) and there was a gentleman coming towards my car. His sign wasn't anything out of the ordinary: Homeless, hungry, veteran, please help. But what got me is "Freedom isn't free". With so much going on in the world, that really struck me. That's not what got me reaching in my purse though.
Quite often, I see homeless people that I just don't believe are homeless. I think they're scam artists. I don't say that to be mean and I understand that there are shelters where people can get clean and get clean clothes, but sometimes, they're just dressed a little too well with sneakers that are too nice. Not this man though. He wasn't overly dirty or overly clean, but he was genuine, that much I felt. He also had his veteran badge on from the VA hospital and it had his picture, so I know at least that part was the real deal.
As he came by the car, he almost didn't make eye contact with me, as if he was thinking that I was just another young person that didn't care, but I surprised him. I got him over to the car and gave him a 5, it was all I had, but more importantly, I thanked him for serving our country. I think he wanted to hug me, not for the money, but for the thanks, and if it were in a different situation, maybe I would have, but the light turned, and it's Miami, and if you don't move your car within a half second of the light turning, you might get killed.
I kept on with my drive home and I felt good. Good that my little bit might help, good that my words were probably more valuable to that man than my money, and good that my little part of the world is safe and sound with a roof over my head, food in the fridge, and love in my heart.
Announcing....
My apologies for the repeats if you are/were a Vox neighbor with my in your Reader.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Back in the day
Coming up in SW PA, you better know football. I've got that covered. You should probably know hockey. Got that covered. And you should at least be familiar with baseball. Got it. Also coming up in SW PA, it's most likely that you've been to many baseball games, possibly a hockey game, and if you're lucky (or know someone), you may have been to a football game or two.
We went to a LOT of baseball games. Most years on the fourth of July with some other random games sprinkled in between. We always sat in the peanut (or nosebleed) section and it was always a great time. We even got a ball once. A lot of good family memories revolve around baseball, but I digress.
I learned to love the game. And as I grew older, the players became more than "the guy on that base", more than "the third baseman", they started to be come Andy, Bobby, and Barry. They were real people, not just guys you see on TV. People like us. But maybe that's just a Pittsburgh thing.
In the early 90s, sitting around the house with my dad watching the Buccos, I came to have this tremendous crush on Kevin Young. One night while we were watching a game and Kevin made one of his (if not they should be) trademark split stretches to make a play. I'm still jealous. I can't split like that. I looked over at my dad and said, "I'm gonna meet him one day." To which my dad mumbled something along the lines of "Uh huh, yeah right, okay, good luck."
Fast forward this story about 5 years. I'm still following the Pirates and now I'm managing a restaurant in the Pittsburgh area.
Mind you, this is a memory of approximately 15 years old, so I might not get every detail right. :-)
It was a Friday or Saturday early evening in the restaurant. I know this because it was a little busy but not overly yet and I had on a really cute outfit. I only pulled those out on weekends, lol. I must've been the bar manager that night. Otherwise I would've noticed before someone pointed out our guest. One of the waitstaff came to me and said, "Who's the guy at table 71?" I didn't know so, rather than do a walk-by, I went upstairs so I could take a look.
I looked over and immediately thought that he looked familiar but I just couldn't place him. I didn't think I had gotten to the point of staring, but apparently I did as our guest looked up at me and busted me. Were I the blushing sort, I would've been stop light red. Knowing I had to go speak but being extremely embarrassed, I put on my big girl shoes and went downstairs.
With all the courage I could muster, I walked up to the table and apologized for staring. And drooling. Mildly. Oh, yeah, and that hey you look familiar but I can't quite place you. He looked at me and asked me if he had to tell me. Yeah, that threw me off a bit from my usual snappy, smartass answers. I think I mumbled something about he didn't have to but I would appreciate it and I think I started to slink away when he said...
I'm Kevin Young.
*facepalm*
15 years later, I'm still not sure what happened right after that. I'm hoping that I didn't make a big fool of myself. Pretty sure I didn't since Kevin came back to the restaurant and didn't make fun of me. At least not for that, lol. But the best part, was getting to go home to share this story with my dad. I don't know that he got to meet a lot of Pittsburgh athletes, but I got to bring him stories of my run-ins and I know he enjoyed them.