Tuesday, February 01, 2005

MSN Archives

So THAT explains it...
Since I arrived on the scene too late for the messiest/new spokesman for OCD-desk, I'd like to offer this, my refrigerator:

feb.jpg

You can't see it, but the produce drawer is FILLED with cheese (shredded, colbyjack, munster, etc), the butter section has various bottles of nailpolish and the Guinness is hidden next to the Bud Light. And the reason I have an EX-husband? Seems the idiot didn't know labels all face FRONT, sheesh!

The big question of the day: who snuck that non-alcoholic diet pepsi in there??


Puppy love, drumsticks and a broken heart

Sure, Valentine's Day, first love, roses, love lost...here's Jon:

I was tall and awkward (all legs and arms - I would kill for that metabolism today!) - a blonde teenager that was going to spend my 15th summer living with my dad. I had just gotten my braces off, excited about getting my driver's license and had no real experience with boys...just a few crushes. I walked the two blocks to work every day and would see Jon outside, washing cars. He would stare at me as I walked by - I would pretend not to notice. I continually wore shorter shorts as that summer went by...

He was 17, with jet-black hair, a great physique and the whitest teeth I think I'd ever seen...and HIS! OWN! CAR! After about a month of "walk-by's", he got the courage to talk to me. I still remember those butterflies, though...is he going to talk to me, is he going to notice me?

By mid-July, he managed to ask a group of us to go out for pizza with him (2 friends in town I had met). He stared at me the entire time, talked to me, and pretty much ignored the other two...I found it romantic, they probably thought it was rude. We went to his house afterwards and he played the drums for us - he played along to the Police album Synchronicity and some Toto album I had never heard. He gave each of us a quick drum lesson, then let us try playing (we didn't have to worry about the noise because his mom was a nurse and worked night shift, which would come in VERY HANDY the rest of the summer).

He started writing poems for me, and would give them to me as I walked by each morning...sweet, flowery stuff (I prefer the dark and macabre, but...we were young). I'd sneak out my window every night since my curfew was 9 p.m. and we would walk around town, or drive down to the lake and sit on the beach. It was all very chaste at first - he didn't kiss me until a few weeks after that first date...on the swings at the beach, actually...and he ASKED ME FIRST! (well, duh...JUST DO IT!)

After that, we would make out for HOURS...laying on his bed listening to records ("Sailing...take me away to where I've always heard it could be..."). To this day, I'm amazed I never got busted for sneaking back into my window at around 4 a.m. every morning!

At the end of the summer, I had to move back downstate to live with my mom and start school. We packed my suitcases in her car, drove off, and Jon followed behind us for at least an hour, crying and waving. It was the sweetest puppy love imaginable, and I played my albums that reminded me of him NON-STOP (ask my mom). He had given me a set of his drumsticks, which I proudly hung on my wall and hauled around with me for years afterwards...

We kept in touch after I went to college, through letters and phone calls. He moved to the Virgin Islands and always wanted me to visit, but I had another boyfriend by then, so I never went. I heard later that Jon was gay, and living with a man...


Blogshares Ho

Blogshares depresses me.

I sign in every hour, right BEFORE I check out Ameritrade (which is stupid: hello...pretend money vs. REAL money!) to see how my site is progressing. You'd think I could stop torturing myself, there's nothing to gain or lose, no competition, it's not a popularity contest...why does it bother me so much to see my value flatlined?

I don't understand all the numbers, indexes, equations involved in giving me a "value"...why can't I just be judged according to honest-to-goodness shallow factors such as looks? Or bra size...is that not relevant?? Even the Miss America contestant is judged on personality and talent (yeah, right: ever see a talented flute player with a cottage cheese ass win? Didn't think so)...there need to be more factors involved in this!

In the meantime, you know where to find me...wonder if the blogshare guys are up for a little bribe? And I DO play a mean game of strip poker...


All Things Must Pass

When I was a teenager, I wanted to be George Harrison...not his wife, his manager or psycho fan club president, but the man himself . In the bylaws of reincarnation, there was a way we could both share the talented body and sensitive mind of the youngest, quietest Beatle.

  • For 24 years now, I have celebrated George Harrison's birthday every February 25th.
  • I had two cats, George and Ringo, when I was a teen, so technically we've shared a bed.
  • The Beatles song Long, Long, Long is my earliest musical memory.

  • I forged his signature perfectly and did so on all my parental permission slips in high school.

  • I taped and watched his interview on VHI 2 or 3...or 47 times (an interesting sidenote: Ravi Shankar's daughter is Norah Jones).

When he died, in 2001, I didn't leave my house for 3 days. I mourned the loss of this talented songwriter...a man whose voice could make me cry...a man who would rather garden and jam with his friends...a man whose wife left him for his best friend (Eric Clapton) and they STAYED friends! His ashes may be in the Ganges River...and Kasey Kasum isn't around, but I have a long distance dedication: play Something, Here Comes the Sun, While My guitar Gently Weeps, My Sweet Lord...and absorb some GEORGE.

P.S. If you're curious, the Beatles song Long, Long, Long will fit 23 times in a row on a cd-r.


Higher Mathematics

Hypothesis: the number of blog comments is in inverse proportion to the length of the blog (the harder I try, the less feedback I receive...kind of like with men).

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When my son was about 2 years old, we lived up in Northern Michigan. Every time he would see a chipmunk (or squirrel), he would yell, at the top his lungs: "MOTHERFUNK!"

Try explaining that to the neighbors...