I Got My Mojo Runnin'

Sometimes I feel so terrible for my little Mojo, because I know he's totally confused by his new surroundings. I wonder if he remembers the old neighborhood in St. Louis. Does he miss his dog buddies in the old apartment building? His best friend Sierra is this adorable husky whose parents were both med students. Sierra's daddy rode a little yellow crotch rocket that was parked right next to my cruiser in the garage. Playtime for Sierra and Mojo meant shop talk for this guy and I. Which leads me to another sweet old dog named Harley. She was a slow moving brown lab-type dog and Mojo loved her and was always gentle with her. Harley's mom was a cute, eccentric, very pale girl with a little pixie hair cut that made me smile. I thought maybe she rode bikes due to Harley's name, and I asked her. "No," she said, "I don't ride a motorcycle, but she just looks like a biker chick, don't you think?" Grinning like the big cheeseball that I am, I noticed that Mojo's harness was the same pattern as Harley's collar, and I was seconds from offering Harley's mom a ride on my bike before, like a dumbass, I stopped myself. I still don't know why for the life of me I never asked that girl out.

Aside from the apartment, Mojo had tons of friends in the dog park down the street. How could he forget his boxer playmate Boston, whose daddy was a huge Red Sox fan? Boston's daddy and I would shoot the shit about baseball while the little men rough housed. If we were lucky, a this pug named Brewster and his very beautiful mommy would stroll up to spend time in the park too. Brewster's mom had these amazing tattoo's on her arms and neck, and I was always afraid of making her uncomfortable by staring at the scales on this wild detailed pattern just under her hairline on the back of her neck. It was one of those that could almost make you cross-eyed. Boston's dad and I also loved to chat about the soccer moms. There was a group of women that showed up at the park precisely at 4:45 and stayed until 5:30, no later. They came with their dogs, almost all black labs, go figure, and often human type babies strapped to their frontsides. They rarely engaged us in conversation, but they did allow our dogs to socialize. Boston's dad and I often chewed over whether or not any of those women were getting happily laid on a regular basis. We decided no ... haha!

Mojo had sooo many friends, he's bound to be missing them, even the ones he never really got to play with. Like Yoshi, a little speck of a thing that did more yapping than anything else. Yoshi's mom was way too sophisticated to let any other dogs approach her. I mean, god forbid their matching outfits would get dirty. I think Mojo was puzzled by that. That little shit sure could have used a beatdown from a dog or two ... just kidding, I don't condone puppy violence. Mojo would never have beat her down anyway. He would possibly have licked her to death, but Mojo is no pummeler. Oh and I almost forgot about The Impostor. There was this other husky in the neighborhood that Mojo ALWAYS thought was Sierra and would crouch into play-stance as it approached. The only difference was that The Impostor's mommy wasn't a nice lady. So I always had to tell Mojo, no no that's The Impostor so he would back down.

Mojo and I found a great dog park here in Syracuse. Onondaga Lake Dog Park is a huge enclosed spot with two areas, one for the big guys and one for the puppies and littler dogs. Mojo, being a nice mid-sized guy is comfortable on either side. This park, though, is so big and there are so many dogs during certain hours, I think Mojo just gets overwhelmed. He starts foaming at the mouth like a rabid monster and all the other owners look at me funny. Last weekend I thought about foaming at the mouth myself just to freak people out. However, it would be a sad day if I were ever banned from a dog park. So I sucked it up, kept my mouth foam free, and brought Mojo, slobbery mouth and all, to the park so he could frolic and spread gooey love all over the pant legs of the other dog owners.

Peeling Back the Layers ... just another weak day in a retarded sea of many

So not too long ago, I was sitting at my favorite bar for another round at Happy Hour. I go there when I'm bored, thoughtful, or whatever. The regular rowdy crowd of red-cheeked bar goers surrounded me as I shot the shit with the bartenders. FYI, I am a firm believer in not "breaking the seal" until it is absolutely necessary. If you don't know what I mean, then this story is lost on you. Whatever, pints a plenty filled and emptied in front of me before I decided it was time to break the seal. I also find it to be a good sobriety check to go to the washroom. If my reflection in the mirror appears to be less than a 75 degree angle to the counter, it's a good indication that I am not going to drive anywhere. So there I am, ready to get up from my seat at the bar. I always leave a half pint at my stool, so no wise guy decides he or she can take my seat. Now, if you know me, you know damn well my feet ALWAYS dangle from a bar stool no matter what sort of footing is available. I'm just short like that. One other important note, if you happen to have read any of my other posts, you may be familar with my amazing ability to make a complete fool of myself in public. This day is no exception. In one fell swoop, I had my elbows off the bar, swung my dangling legs around the stool, stood upright, attempted a step forward ... oh damn. No step forward, why? You guessed it, my pants are at my ankles *facepalm* Seriously, I am lucky that my counter angle was only at about 85 degrees, otherwise my relatively graceful bend to yank my pants back up would have probably failed. I'm not 100% sure when I'll have the kahones to go back to that bar.

I suppose I can be thankful, in a way, for moments like that to distract me from the reason I found myself at the bar in the first place. It would be total denial to think that I actually go to the bar alone when I'm happy about anything. My brain gears twist a million miles a minute on stuff it shouldn't. What makes certain life events so very incredibly hard to get over? Is it a time thing? Can I put a number on the years needed to cleanse? Years of wasted affection and energy yielded layers created by the co-dependancy that I am slowly peeling away to recover the woman that was strong before the failed relationship. Sometimes I'm afraid I was never strong to begin with. I can only ride so many miles on my motorcycle thinking that it's theraputic for this broken soul. Somedays the smiles are masks. Most days the smiles are chemically induced. I want legit smiles. I want anything legit. I swear, Happy Hour is falsely named. How many times do I have to drop trow before I go bananas?!

Counter angle check during this post = 90 degrees ...

Brooklyn, Baby!

I finally got the kahones to take Daimon into the big city. Really, what's 250 miles? I knew the ride was gonna be beautiful and fun. It wasn't the first 245 miles that scared me. I can't even describe the feeling as I exited the Holland Tunnel and spilled right out into the madness and mayhem that was Canal Street. It was a rush like no other I'd had on the bike. Feeling so small made the experience so big. At any second, I knew I could've become the filling in an automobile sandwich as I maneuvered in between traffic. Shit, if a guy on a freakin 10-speed could do it, I sure as hell was gonna try with 1200cc's between my legs. I wanted to take it all in as best I could, so I lifted the visor of my helmet and took a deep breath. Honestly, it smelled so bad I almost wanted to vomit a little, but all I had to do was get to the Manhattan Bridge and into Brooklyn only a handful of miles before arriving at my destination. Even though I was completely focused on the road and the cars around me, I could feel the weight of the city and the density of the crowds scavenging through cheap sidewalk knock-offs and gawking at sign after sign cluttered with characters I only wish I could read too. I'd been to the NYC many a time, but never like this. There were cops at almost every intersection attempting to direct traffic, and just about every one of them gave me a respectable nod as I cruised along my own personal lane marked by the dashed line that cars are intended to be governed by. I'm not gonna say I was going much faster than 10 miles an hour, but the truth is I did manage to take out a couple of rearview mirrors that protruded into my lane. It's a damn good thing those were designed to fold back.

Finally, I had the Manhattan Bridge in my sights and the intensity of the traffic became a little more bearable. Okay let me just say first, there's this thing I do every time I cross a state line. It's something sort of like a battle cry, but more like a vocal expression of joy and accomplishment. I think I can describe it as something between a "Yee-haw" and a "Woo-Pig" (for those readers from Arkansas, you may be able to understand completely). Anyway, the very moment that my front wheel went past the first bridge support, I just belted out a huge holler, bigger than any single state line crossing battle cry I'd ever allowed to escape my lungs. It felt incredible! And suddenly the cars around me were insignificant to me and my own experience. I wanna say my shout lasted about a quarter of the way along the bridge, and I remember looking around at the city thinking "Damn, I did it!" Now it's important to note that my usual battle cries are never really heard by anyone but me, seeing as how they generally happen on state highways. This time, being in traffic on a warm day in New York City didn't make my screams of joy quite so private. And it wasn't until I looked at the car on my right, that I realized just how loud it must have been. I must say though that there is something extremely poetic about being a newbie biker in the big apple getting a thumb's up from a very large man literally stuffed in the driver's seat of a mini-cooper. At least his carbon footprint was small :)

Driving through New York City on a motorcycle really is as intense as a phat breakbeat!

Time Flies When You Uproot Your Life and Start Anew

Wow, so it's been a good couple of months since I've felt the need for therapy via blog in the form of brain spew. Maybe it's this new sense of peace I've gained. Maybe it's this new flowering love interest ... pfft, yeah I wish. No, maybe it's the fact that the last couple of months has been full of fun in the sun, hundreds of cardboard boxes, and a 1000 mile solo motorcycle trip.

Yes, it's true. I FINALLY got my ass out of the oppressive arms of conservative St. Louis and the corporate office, and into the throws of not so oppressive upstate New York and the union labor environment!
You know what time it is? LIST TIME!

The Lou vs. The 'Cuse from the Perspective of a Big Brown Lesbian Biker:

• Weather – It’s still summertime, so I’m gonna table this comparison until my tropical-by-nature ass is waist deep in snow. At least brown is a good contrast to snowy white, yes?
  
• Vroom Vroom – In the Lou, I know I have more actual riding days overall in a year. But in the ‘Cuse, I can go in any direction and see some beautiful windy roads that are far from the flatness that is the Midwest . Note: It was a hard decision to make, but Nietzsche did NOT make the 1000 mile trip from the Lou to the ‘Cuse with me. Why you ask? It isn’t because he didn’t want to, it’s because I am a true American in every materialist sense of the word. I desired a bigger bike! I tried to keep Nietzsche in the family, attempting to convince my little brother that he needed to learn to ride a bike and that I would sell him one for a sick low price. That didn’t work, so I went to Gateway Harley Davidson, found Daimon (a 1200C that was love at first sight, by the way), rang the Freedom Bell (more on that in another blog entry I promise), and rode out of there with Nietzsche in my rearview mirror. We’ll always have Memphis , my sweet Nietzsche! *sniffles*
  
• Friends – I left a number of good friends in The Lou. They are farther away, but close to my heart. Really, it’s a damn good thing I have friends all over this fine country and across so many state lines, because being in NY has put me in closer proximity to many other friends that I used to have to fly to see. Who loves ya’ Toronto , Pittsburgh , the NYC, etc. etc.
  
• Dating – Again, I probably need to table this comparison until I get my feet wet in the scene here. So far, it seems small. I'm sure you all will get dirt soon ... or shit, I hope so *sigh*
  
• Work -- I couldn't be happier with my situation here. First of all, I'm closer to the beer. Being in the brewery is sooooo much more fun than sitting in a cube farm. Everything from the smells of the brews to the sights of large scale production is really pretty exciting. I most definitely feel more comfortable in a hardhat and boots as opposed to business casual. But I didn't have to tell you guys that, right.
  
• Bars -- Other than the obvious change in the price of a beer, I've already found some spots I like around here. My favorite is The Dinosaur. It's a biker bar/bbq joint. However, being from Arkansas, I know my damn BBQ and I'm picky about it at that. Just as any good Arkansan would tell you, don't joke about the smoke, and you better cook my hog like you make love in the summertime, nice and slow. I drool just thinking about BBQ back home, but The Dinosaur will have to do. It's really the feel of the place that I like, and plus I get to play a tough leather biker chick when I go and pull Daimon up next to the big boys ... hee hee, it's so fun! I could totally walk there because I live so close to it, but what's the fun in that??!!
  

Ah, and so it goes! Jen has made it out of the midwest, huzzah! It's been about 3 weeks now, and my ass has healed fully from the ride. It's time to see what else Syracuse has to offer me.

Wine Date with an Animal Hide Soul on the Telephone

I think I can count on one hand the number of tried and true souls that I can run to when the shit really hits the fan. I'm talking about those fantastic individuals that you can go months without even speaking to, and when you finally do manage to wrangle them onto the other end of the phone, it's like you pick up right where you left off in that conversation months ago as if it had been only a day or two. People like this are so key in my life, and you know who you are, that is if you even read this. I'm willing to bet that over half of them don't read my occasional ethernet spew, but no matter, because I know they are always on my side of the court.


So in the different layers of souls and energies that I keep in the fabric around me, the "dial my number when shit hits the fan" friends are like my base layers. They aren't always visible, but they are certainly essential. Over my base layers are naturally several other layers of light and dark that make up my little bit of daily radiation. Now, besides all the immediate and more permanently close weaves of lives and loves, I like to think that everyone I have ever encountered in my life makes up this wild stash of blankets that I can pull over onto myself from time to time. It's like I've learned a lot of really good and bad things from people who have come and gone in my life, and those things never get thrown out. I try to keep them folded away for later recall and extra warmth if need be.


So where the hell am I going with this damn stoner analogy? Oh yeah, my wine/phone date! I've lately been making a ton of reconnections with people I've not been in contact with for a long time. And one in particular has been an incredible comfort and inspiration. Let's see if this makes any sense. The blanket that this woman's soul weaved for me was really more like a tough animal hide. Back when I hung out with her, she was always someone I looked up to from a self-confidence point of view. Yo, basically, this bitch was, and still is in my opinion, quite the bad ass! From what I remembered of her, she was a strong, bold, take no bullshit, give no bullshit, kind of woman. And on top of that, she was just down right gorgeous. Anytime her name would come up over the years, I would always couple that with this memory of a beautiful hardcore woman that could probably kick your ass. So there is no way her blanket would have been wool or any sort of typical fibrous weave. Chick is definitely a leather throw!

Okay, so here is an interesting tidbit of information about my leather blanket woman. And I suppose my attempts at keeping her anonymous are probably fucked up because some people are sure to figure out who she is from this story, but I can't possibly leave this goody out of the blog. At one point, I actually worked for her. She was working at a temp agency, and I was living a rather unstable life at the time. Without going into too much detail, it's easy enough to say that most nights my head rested on more couch cushions and upholstered car seats than it did on pillows or mattresses. "Home" was hard to define as I spent time in various states to fulfill, um ... legal obligations ... enough about that. Anyway, I asked her to please not place me anywhere that business or business casual attire was necessary, because I just didn't have it, nor was I quite ready to part with all the damn metal in my face (yes, I went through a ridiculously pierced phase). So I was given assignments that were more manual labor intense, which I had no problem with. One day, she calls me up with an address and contact person to go see for work. I arrive at a Kinko's Copy Center and ask for the manager. Apparently, my job for that day was to clean out all the air ceiling vents in the store. Again, I had no problem doing this work, but I didn't exactly have the right supplies for the job. I guess he was expecting an individual armed with cleaning supplies. All he got was a thuggish sneaker clad young lady without even a bucket or a sponge. After making it clear that I would use whatever he had for me to clean with, he hands me a folding chair and a canister vacuum. Soooo, the ceilings in the Kinko's had to be, oh, at least a good 15 feet high. I am 5'4", and the folding chair he gave me was a standard couple of feet to the seat. You don't have to be Asian to do the math here. Luckily, I wasn't afraid of possible limb breakage of any sort, because used Kinko's giant formatting tables to put the damn chair on top of to reach the vents with enough angle to clean them appropriately. At the time, I could have cared less how stupid it was because I needed moolah.


The day went on, and as I approached my final vent, the manager came over to chat with me just as I was balancing the canister vacuum on the back of the folding chair. I don't know for sure if he just knew I really needed the money or if I was just the first person he asked, but he told me of another opportunity to make money for Kinko's. That coming weekend, there was a conference at the convention center being held by the local Chamber of Commerce. Kinko's needed a representative to advertise for them. Now, maybe I did look like a monkey climbing all over the shit in his store to clean some air ducts, but a gorilla? Yes, the Kinko's representative they were looking for was an individual who would don the Kinko's gorilla costume and wander the convention with a giant Kinko's sign. I have never been "above" any job in my lifetime as long as there was a paycheck attached to it. So I agreed.

The next day, I went back to the store to pick up the gorilla costume. The thing looked hot, and I'm NOT talking about, "Damn, that's hot!". I'm talking about "Shit, I'm gonna sweat balls in that thing!" I brought it back to my girlfriend's apartment to try it on. Much to my dismay, the thing fit ... well, not just fit ... but the damn thing FIT PERFECTLY. It fit so well, in fact, it was like my naked ass body was covered in fur. I stood there in front my roommates, furry as hell, ready for the comments from the peanut gallery. I'm sure my eat shit and die face didn't help the situation, but the laughter that filled that room was enough to drown out the grunts that escaped from under my breath. Dude, that damn suit was so form-fitting that if I had had any more than my gym shorts and a t-shirt on underneath, I would have never been able to zip it up. Never mind the fact that it was so tight that fucking Johnny Cochran could surely have gotten me out of a murder conviction. I was just damn lucky that there was a gorilla head to go with this costume.

The next morning was the convention day, and sliding into the furry body suit wasn't any less disconcerting. Therefore, in an attempt to ease my anxiety of facing the city in fuzzy nakedness, I decided to smoke up. Let's just say it loosened me up enough to get me comfortable and into character. So there I am, in the convention center, Kinko's sign in hand, prancing around lanyard-sporting tourists with a gorilla's gait. Naturally, it got very warm in this suit very quickly. Luckily, there was a spot where I could rest, have water, and remove the gorilla head without being seen by the masses. Here's where the "damnit, Jen, why did you have to go and get high before this job" question hits me. I had no choice but take numerous breaks throughout the day. It was scheduled as a 7 to 7 gig for Christ's sake! For anyone who has read any of my other posts, you already know that I am quite used to a daily dose of humiliation, and this day was no exception. It must have been sometime in the early afternoon right after a water break. I was recharged and ready to monkey-it-up for the crowd. So I grabbed my sign and headed out from around the curtain that made up my break room. Keep in mind that I was asked not to speak and simply ham it up for the convention-goers. I have no problem doing this, as I generally embrace being the center of attention. Anyway, there I am, all up in my naked fuzziness, channeling the posture of our ape-like ancestors, mouthing grunts, beating my chest, swinging my arms to and fro, scratching my fake gorilla head ... oh, wait ... that felt like my soft and silky straight black Asian hair ... FUCK MY LIFE! Just as I realized that I did NOT in fact remember to put on the head of the costume, I was already wrapped around some guy's leg, performing what I thought was my best monkey show ever. If you have never seen how animated I can be when I blush, wait until you can catch me blushing on top of being stoned in a fur suit while trying to peel myself off of an innocent man's leg. The sound was familiar, almost exactly the same as the sound I heard in my girlfriend's living room the day before ... only much, MUCH louder. The second I was upright, I looked around at my smiling audience, took a graceful bow, and ran like a bat out of hell back to my curtained retreat to fetch the only part of my costume that served to maintain any sort of anonymity. After collecting myself a bit "backstage", I trotted back out to finish my job only to be greeted by a flashbulb from the local newspaper's cameraman ... Thank fucking Jeebus I had the head back on! Suddenly, I didn't feel so naked anymore.

Okay okay, back to my leather blanket woman. So, as luck would have it, after about 10 years of not having spoken to her, I find myself on the phone with her last week. Being on the phone for almost 2 hours, one would think most of the time would have been spent reminiscing, but this wasn't so with her. It was mostly spent attempting to provide summaries of our lives and what they had been like over the last 10 years. Here is exactly why I was not wrong in my analogy of how I remembered her. I've been in touch with many of my old acquaintances over the years, and the majority of them have created a wonderful life and place in the world for themselves, all of which I am very happy for. I don't want to say anyone has lost their passion, because that's really not the case, but I will say that many of them have changed or focused their passion in a different direction. I think the Steve's would agree (wink wink -- points the reader in the direction of a previous blog entry). So here is this strong hardcore woman, telling me of the rows she has hoed over last decade or so, and I could not pinpoint a single redirection of passion or drive. Hell, if anything, she's going harder and stronger than I can even remember! So I sat to take in all that she decided to share with me, and I made a comment to her. It was something along the lines of, "Dude, you were always so self-confident and strong, and I always admired you for that." I wouldn't have been surprised if her next story was one about her single-handedly wrestling a bull to the ground. But I was wrong, our conversation took a turn about our own vulnerabilities and weaknesses, and we began to relate on a more real and open level. This tough leather blanket suddenly felt like one of the softest polartec fleeces I'd ever wrapped myself up with. It was so nice to have an open and interested ear on the phone, and it was even more comforting to catch up with a really cool old friend that has lived up to and even gone beyond the initial impression she made on me over a decade ago. What's more is that learning more about her than I ever knew before managed to morph my fabric layer analogy of her. Oh no, bitch is STILL leather for sure! But she is no blanket anymore. I'd like to think of her more like a motorcycle vest with a soft fuzzy lining. So thank you, my dear. You know who you are.

Oh, and yes, every single person I have ever met provides some layer of warmth to me. However, I'm not so sure I would think of anyone in the category of fuzzy body suit. Yo, that's just a little too close for my comfort ;-)

I Just Had a WTF???! Moment in the Office Today

You know, I've been spouting off line after line, day after day, on and on, about how I don't belong in the job I'm in ... how miserable it is ... blah blah blah. The truth is, I am grateful to be working, first and foremost, especially during this time when so many people and families are spreading word of lost jobs and hard times. I don't want to sound like I'm trivializing anybody's struggle by constantly complaining about my job. But every so often, I look around the cube farm I am currently located and wonder why the hell I'm still here.

Granted, A-B is, always has been, and probably always will be despite the purchase by InBev a "Good Ole Boy" company. I see the same thing day in and day out. Lines of caucasian men, almost in-step, wearing the same khaki pants and button down dress shirts of slightly different pastel colors trot proudly to their respective spaces made so by 4 foot modular walls. They appear to be quite content with this humdrum routine, and I would never want to diminish the fact that they find their happiness in this existence. I kind of envy the fact that these men can smile everyday, carrying in lunch bags prepared by their wives, driving into work with family friendly sedans, discussing things like their new lawn mowers and their kids' soccer games they watched over the weekend. It's not their fault that I find this cookie cutter lifestyle boring and in many ways elitist. It's not their fault that I sit in my psuedo-walled bunker, not talking about my life, scared to be out and blackballed because of it. And yes, we have moved to a more casual environment, being able to wear blue jeans everyday. But for some reason, these same men still seem to look alike to me.

Okay, so I always think to myself, "Jen, damnit, stop putting these people in a box. It's just as bad to assume they are a certain way because of the way they carry themselves at work. Get over yourself and your 'boo-hoo, I'm so out of place' attitude! People are people, and just because you are too chicken shit to be out at work doesn't always mean that you will be discriminated against or treated any differently if they knew. So just hush and do your job!" Yes, this is what I have to tell myself occassionally to make sure I don't walk around with a big chip on my shoulder. Well, telling myself things like that works some of the time. Other times, I just have to hang my head based on the kind of things that I see on days like today.

Event number 1 happened in a small meeting I had with my boss and another coworker of mine. I'm used to the BS and small talk that occurs before getting down to actually discussing business, but I don't think some people think before they speak (I am often guilty of this myself). We openly discuss what pleasant holiday weekends we had, and then my boss begins to grill the other guy about church. I was amazed at how he was getting on his case about not going to mass yesterday. I finally opened my mouth and said, "Joe, you do know that not everybody goes to church right? And you do know that it is okay if he chooses not to? And you do know that this isn't even appropriate to talk about here at work, regardless of the fact that you are both attendees of the same parish?" I was so perturbed. *sigh*

Event number 2 happened just as I was walking back to my cube after this meeting. This is actually pretty funny and "Office Space" movie-esque. I saw two gentlemen greet each other about 15 yards in front of me. Check out the dialogue.

"Hey there, Steve-O!"
"Well, how's it going, Steve?"
"Fine and dandy," Steve #1 replies as he pats Steve #2 firmly on the shoulder.
"So have you talked to Steve *****?" (last name respectfully not included on my part)
"Nope. Last I heard, Steve was taking some time off. Having problems with his boy."
"That's an understatement! His boy's been kind of a fruit lately," Steve #2 says with laugh.
"You got that right, Steve. I think he took him to Johnny's to make sure he turns out right," Steve #1 states seriously.

Now let me first say this, yes, the number of Steve's is hilarious and true. While walking behind them, I had to hold in my laughter. I imagined the third Steve looking just like these two with the same haircut and all. But the humor of the situation quickly turned to disdain for their ignorance. Let me explain. Johnny's is a local lunch spot here in St. Louis that generally has a male client base. The reason being is that the waitresses are all dressed in lingerie. I have no problem with businesses such as this existing. They make money legally and there is no reason I can't go elsewhere for lunch. It doesn't bother me that some people choose to go there. It only bothers me when Steve #3 feels like the only way to have his son "turn out right" is to take him to nudey lunch spots. And it REALLY upsets me that Steve's #1 and #2 feel like it's totally appropriate to discuss this shit at work, and that Steve #3 is doing the right thing by showing his "fruit" of a son that this objectification of women may be just the thing to make him straight. *double sigh*

So, yep, I'm gonna sit right here in my cube still and quiet, doing my job as per usual. I'll even continue to try to convince myself that not everyone here is a Steve (because surely they aren't all the same).

Spring Is Here! Crank it Up!

My co-workers look at me like I'm crazy ... yes, everyday that's true ... but they stare with more animated expressions on frigid days as I lift my leg over off of Nietzsche and begin the disrobing of motorcycle regalia from the helmet to the balaclava (which I learned is not the same as baklava) at 8 am in the parking lot. One fine gentleman came up behind me as I was removing my gloves and said, "Jen, you look like a ninja!" as he mouthed the stereotypical Bruce Lee type whaaaaaaaa noises. My childhood instincts almost got the best of me, because for a split second I went into defense mode sensing some sort of racial slur. But of course, I realized quickly it had nothing to do with my Asian-ness, and everything to do with my gear. So rather than retort with a smartass remark, I simply smiled and enjoyed a little giggle with him.


I applaud myself for not having to put a cover over my bike for the winter. Below 20 degree temperatures did not stop me from mounting up in the mornings. However, it did make for a different experience. I found out about the importance of mobility in motorcycle gear. When it's freezing ass cold outside and you plan on riding a bike to work, you can't exactly bundle up like Ralphie's little brother in A Christmas Story. Believe me, I tried. I could barely get my hands comfortably onto the handlebars, let alone turn my head to change lanes. So after a visit to REI, and a sizable purchase of base layers and middle layers and outer layers and outer-outer layers, my winter riding gear with mobility in mind was complete.


But now I can put all that crap away and get back to normal layers because SPRING IS HERE!! You know what this means? Weekend road trips and bottles of Allegra!

I'm Not Even Superstitious

What can I say about Friday the 13th? I am not a superstitious individual, BUT, it seems that yesterday was just a horrible day. Jeebus, where do I start? Woot for another list:

• Let's start with my morning. I woke up late for work. Already, that's bad.
• At work, I got the come to Jesus lecture from my boss. That was expected.
• At noon, I hopped on my bike to go to lunch. Upon arriving at my lunch destination, I realized that I left my wallet at the office. Hence, I had no lunch.
• The afternoon was already a disaster, so I left work a little early to get something to eat and begin my weekend. Again, I hop onto my bike. There I am, stopped at a red light, and I pull into the intersection to make a right turn. Apparently, there was a pile of fine dirt there and so my rear tire skid and my rear brake locked up, causing Nietzsche to leave me. I laid there staring at asphalt, helpless as Nietzsche left a trail of chrome scrapping in his wake. Several people stopped to help me, but I was able-bodied enough to lift the bike off the street and be on my way home.
• I was supposed to go out last night, but after my mishap, I wasn't in the mood to go out. So I logged into The World of Warcraft to hang out with online friends. I thought I could have one night online with no drama. WRONG! I got into an argument with someone over something stupid, and then logged out. I decided my night was to best spent with the TV and a 12-pack.
• So this morning, I log back into the game to make amends with my friend. Hmm, what's this? I can't log into my account? Son-of-a-bitch, my account has been hacked and my password was changed on me. Some damn hacker went into the game, took all of my characters' money and stripped them all of their armor and weapons. This may seem ridiculous to most of you, but for those who play, you understand how devastating this feels. Oh well, I'll have to wait for the investigation to finish before I get to play again.
• The icing on the cake is my damn 32 year old body. Apparently, the pain from my mishap with Nietzsche delayed itself until today. Yes, folks, I'm a sore mess. Go on, I know you all want to lecture me on how stupid I am, and maybe you are all right.

Oh, and have I said happy Valentine's Day yet? Well, obviously I didn't, because I HATE Valentine's Day. It's a stupid day to remind me that I am alone ... still. Anyway, all my single friends, let's raise the roof in hopes that this weekend isn't totally miserable for all of us. And all my non-single friends, I apologize for my bah-humbuggedness of a post (I totally like my made up word, LoL). Enjoy your weekends with your significant others.

Damn You, Depeche Mode ...

A death in the family always triggers a flood of emotions. My Uncle Honey passed on Sunday, just minutes after his son walked into the hospital room. My Uncle Honey was like a grandfather to me. He and his wife, who I call Gramma Myrtie, lived in "the country" southwest of Little Rock. They are the perfect example of what good country air can do for longevity. Myrt makes the BEST pies, and Uncle Honey was the reason I could never eat a meringue as it was he who convinced me at an impressionable age that the fluffy white stuff was nothing but cow cud. Thanks, Uncle Honey. My heart goes out to Gramma Myrtie.

Memories of July 4th fireworks out in their field and "shooting pool" with Jeannie in their basement come to mind. All the good feelings from those times return. Feelings like that are, of course, followed by sadness that Uncle Honey won't be around to give us his words of wisdom. He was everything I could imagine growing up with a grandfather could be like. Extended family was always a mysterious concept to me. All my other blood relatives, except for an aunt and uncle in Chicago, were in the Philippines. Close friends of the family always stepped in to fill those roles in my life, and Uncle Honey was all I knew of a grandfather. He will be missed, that's for sure.

It's hard not to think about his last moments. He had to have been hanging on, just long enough to get a good glimpse of his son to say farewell. Good god, I know that this is my greatest fear. I wonder, if in my last moments, will I have someone to hang on for? Will there be a loving partner at my side, holding my hand through it all? Crap, what a horrible thought. Nevermind, I'm done thinking about that right now.

Depeche Mode is in my ears. The song "Somebody" off of which Album I can't remember is most appropriate at the moment.

To My Unsatisfied Reader

It has been brought to my attention by an "anonymous" reader that I failed to mention one of my nicknames in my first post "Welcome to the Freakshow". Please allow me to remedy this omission. Well, my sweet little "anonymous" reader who happens to love the band The Schwag, stands about three apples high, and has an incredible talent at hoola-hoopin' ... not because I know who you are or anything ... *wink wink* ... This post goes out to you, my tiny little hippy girl (oops, did I give it away).

Ah well, let's go back in time, say about 18 years ago. Crap! My fellow Henderson Junior High alumni throw your Hawks up!! I can recall what HJH meant to me. I had just escaped the clutches of the parochial school system and fell into the life saving arms of the Little Rock public school family. So as not to get too wordy (ya right) I'll list the things I recall most about my experience of switching to public school.

• I had no idea that kids didn't carry their bibles and rosaries to class with them. I probably looked like a total freak.


• It was IMPOSSIBLE for me to foul out of a basketball game. Awww, yeah! Now this is basketball! A whole new world of athletics just opened up to me. I no longer had to worry about the whining of an opponent about how I played "too rough". Granted, my coach was a rather tough white woman with the unfortunate monogram KKK (I'm serious people). Regardless, public school ball knew how to get down!


• Lockers that actually locked?? What the ....? Search me? What for?


• We didn't have to talk to Jeebus before lunch, or before the Pledge of Allegiance, or ever for that matter. Methinks my knees (church pews with kneelers are a bitch on the knees) will be better maintained at a school where mass attendance isn't mandatory ... or hell, isn't offered!


• Damn, I have to think about what to wear to class. Uniforms, though ugly and boring, had their perks at the Catholic schools.


• Woo Hoo! The Dance Team / Cheerleaders can do routines to Rob Base and BBD rather than be forced to display spirit hands to the likes of lyricless poppy techno of the decade.


• Security guards and Vice Principals with walkie-talkies waving metal detector wands were a new concept to me as well. I remember thinking my handy dandy compass was at risk of confiscation. Did you know that taking away an Asian kid's math paraphernalia can potentially cause panic and a mild seizure? I swear to god, if they took my TI-81, I might have hyperventilated.


• I see BROWN people! Am I in heaven? Is this what the real world is like? Oh My God! I'm not the only Asian in Little Rock!!!!

Okay, back to the nickname, after all this was supposed to be a post for the unsatisfied reader, not just a rehashing of my "awakening". So there I sat in English class in front of a Patrick Swayze obsessed teacher who talked to her plants ... or was it algebra class in front of a pleasantly plump teacher with overactive sweat glands ... no, wait, maybe it was civics class in front of a very tall nicotine-addicted teacher with those glasses that make your eyes look itty bitty. Dude, this WAS 18 years ago, I'm allowed to have forgotten some things. Besides, the specific class and quirky teacher who commanded it are unnecessary details anyway.

Damn, there I go meandering again. I was never diagnosed with A.D.D., though I often wonder. Soooooooooooooo ..... there I sat, the innocent (shush, this is my blog) little private school doe, and behind me sat the "Unsatisfied Reader" to whom this blog is directed. We became friends because she was one of the most genuine and kindest people I had met at the school. We shared similar interests, including TV programs. Does anyone remember the show Dinosaurs? It was a puppeteered sitcom on ABC about a dinosaur family. I would liken it to the Flintstones or the Honeymooners. At any rate, there was a baby dino named Baby Sinclair whose tag line, "Not the Mama!!" was heard every time Baby Sinclair smacked his dad over the head with a frying pan. I don't remember for sure if it was a physical similarity between ole Baby Sinclair and I, or if it was my distinct loud cackle of a laugh much like the baby that caused my three-apple high hippy friend to begin calling me simply "Not the Mama!!". Ah yes, hats off to you, my "anonymous" reader, for reminding me of yet another fine nickname and another trip down memory lane. Peace.

Isn't it appropriate that in my ears right now is the album "Eat A Peach" by the Allman Brothers. Cheers, to all you hippies and deadheads out there who can appreciate the genre that encompasses classic southern rock jam bands!