at first, a butterfly. a flutter. a first kiss. like that feeling when you first drop off the tall part of a roller coaster, but this time the feeling is so brief you wonder if it's just an odd gas bubble or an effect from yesterday's yoga class. but then it happens again, and you can recognize that it's different.
later, a twitch. like when your eyelid starts twitching and you can't stop it and it sort of tickles.
then a thump. like when the dentist has your mouth all numbed up but the anesthetic is starting to wear off and you can feel pressure, so you flick your cheek with your middle finger to make sure it's still attached. it's like that.
later, a jab. most people say, "oh, she's kicking." she does kick, i suppose, but how am i supposed to know if it's a kick or a slap or a kiss with a fist? so, it's a jab. i'm not sure what body parts are moving which ways, but all of a sudden there will be a pretty decent knock to the belly wall coming from the inside. this one's hard to explain because i don't think there's anything like it. but, you can feel it on the outside by now.
sometimes, a strum. imagine if your ab muscles were stretched to tension, like guitar strings. and then a little tiny foot or hand or knee moved quickly across one of them, catching just slightly so that if it was an instrument it would produce a loud, clear note. it's not comfortable, but not painful. she's quite the musician on my insides.
lately, a bucket of lizards or snakes or eels or other slithery reptiles who are wrapped up in a knot like those snakes on that one Indiana Jones movie that they tried to serve for dinner. imagine what that big snake felt like with all those baby snakes writhing around inside. across the belly to the left, and then a flip or a spin, sliding all about. and you can see it and feel it from the outside. to dan it feels like a flutter, to me it feels like a zoo.
lately, a constant combination.
and i still have three months left.
thanks, El Jefe, for reminding me to write this stuff down.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
redneck riviera or "You punched me in the face, Kyle."
it has been almost nine years since I last visited the state of Florida. after two weeks of wonder, I'm glad to see that nothing much has changed down in the panhandle.
my time here during the summer of 2003 inspired me to begin blogging before blogging even existed.
i was a waitress working the day shift at The Reef, a combination biker bar and fish restaurant, where, because I had no children at the geriatric age of 23, the others asked if I was barren. where the "fresh coconut shrimp" was frozen and the cocktail sauce was often stirred up in a five-gallon bucket by the busboy, using his bare arm. where Linda, the chain-smoking bartender told stories about her 10 children - one in jail for grand theft auto, one a fry cook at Hog Heaven (a BBQ joint down the beach), one pregnant, one in the marching band, one in diapers...and it went on.
but it wasn't just the reef - it was the stock car races where beer came in buckets, the greyhound track where t-shirts read things like "How 'bout a nice warm glass of shutcha mouth," and the everyplace where no respectable mullet was shorter than shoulder length. the long days on the beach, the long nights at the Flora-Bama, and the idea that paradise means something different to everyone, and everyone can find his paradise, were inspiring and hilarious from my Oregon perspective. i began sending choice emails to friends and family chronicling my time here - primitive blogs.
well, i'm back, and here is my choice email after two weeks of sunny Panama City Beach:
Day 1: I don't give a shit if you're driving straight-through, 26 hours from Maine with your "Disneyworld or Bust" finger paintings all over every window of your damn Dodge Caravan, please move the f*ck OVER on the I-95 when you see me coming up behind you. There are two lanes for a reason - not fast and slow as people think - but passing and cruising. I'm passing. You're just an asshole.
Day 2: With 669 miles of sandy beaches in the state, why is Henry only legally allowed on 669 feet of them? Seriously, my dog is cleaner than half of the cigarette flicking Alabama tourists, and I follow him around with an arsenal of plastic bags to scoop his poo. He doesn't swim much, and he can't catch any wildlife unless it's almost dead (or already dead, as we'll find out tomorrow). He's harmless, so get us some bigger dog beaches, Florida. Or ban the other animals, too.
Day 3: When Henry disappears behind a large dumpster near the ocean, bad things are probably going to happen approximately three hours later. Bad, smelly, horrible things on the hotel room couch. (Unrelated side note: Try Marco's Pizza, it's delicious.)
Day 4: Pregnant people lying on sunny, sandy beaches are sad when their husbands are doing the same, but the husbands are enjoying ice-cold Corona.
Day 5: I'm starting to doubt people who favor dogs over cats. Lizzie slept the entire 12 hour car journey not begging me for a walk, using a designated toilet area, avoiding getting wet and rolling in sand, and tossing her cookies in our 150-square-foot hotel room exactly zero times to Henrys' three. Lesson: Sharing a hotel room with your cat is decidedly less stinky and sandy than sharing it with your canine. (Unrelated side note: Try Sweet Racks, it's delicious.)
Day 6:
Day 7: I am dangerously close to failing the prescribed one-pound-per-week weight gain recommended by the M.D. Missing: Vegetables. Oh, there they are! In the deep-fat fryer.
Day 8: Nine summers ago, Dan took me on a lazy-float canoe adventure on the Blackwater River. Halfway downstream, we moored on a sandy beach for a romantic picnic where he presented me with a diamond ring and an invitation to be his person forever. As I accepted enthusiastically, our celebration was punctuated by the almost immediate opening of the heavens in a torrential, violent Florida downpour. Between the lightning and the thunder, I asked, "Is this a sign?" Almost a decade later, I believe it certainly was a sign. (Insert appropriate song lyric/sentimental quote re: weathering storms and/or metaphor re: life as river, here).
Day 9: I recently noticed that we've been packing around some of the same old junk for nearly a decade. Things we acquired in Florida '02 that we are using on our vay-stay-cay in '12 - two beach towels, one Coleman water jug, one Coleman wheelie cooler, two University of Florida jersey coozies. Some cheap junk is actually built to last.
Day 10: I love the word "housekeeping" when it refers to someone else doing it.
Day 11: Florida fact - If you order ice cream sundaes and eat them while walking, the net calorie gain is zero. The pace and distance of the walk is irrelevant.
Day 12: I have never visited the ocean without somehow returning home with a new collection of seashells. Note: I don't collect seashells; I don't "collect," in general. I will, however, diligently protect and display Dan's treasure and try really, really hard not to "accidentally" misplace or crush any of them.
Day 13: We decided to end our summer vacation with a final glorious day on the nearly empty stretch of dog-friendly beach that we discovered mid-stay. During our three-hours in the sand and surf there were three torrential downpours, one dog that insisted on drinking stagnant tidal pool salt water and then swimming in it, and a vicious and day-ending attack of biting flies. Best laid plans.
Day 14: Please add Savannah, Georgia, to the "places I would rather live" list.
i was a waitress working the day shift at The Reef, a combination biker bar and fish restaurant, where, because I had no children at the geriatric age of 23, the others asked if I was barren. where the "fresh coconut shrimp" was frozen and the cocktail sauce was often stirred up in a five-gallon bucket by the busboy, using his bare arm. where Linda, the chain-smoking bartender told stories about her 10 children - one in jail for grand theft auto, one a fry cook at Hog Heaven (a BBQ joint down the beach), one pregnant, one in the marching band, one in diapers...and it went on.
but it wasn't just the reef - it was the stock car races where beer came in buckets, the greyhound track where t-shirts read things like "How 'bout a nice warm glass of shutcha mouth," and the everyplace where no respectable mullet was shorter than shoulder length. the long days on the beach, the long nights at the Flora-Bama, and the idea that paradise means something different to everyone, and everyone can find his paradise, were inspiring and hilarious from my Oregon perspective. i began sending choice emails to friends and family chronicling my time here - primitive blogs.
well, i'm back, and here is my choice email after two weeks of sunny Panama City Beach:
Day 1: I don't give a shit if you're driving straight-through, 26 hours from Maine with your "Disneyworld or Bust" finger paintings all over every window of your damn Dodge Caravan, please move the f*ck OVER on the I-95 when you see me coming up behind you. There are two lanes for a reason - not fast and slow as people think - but passing and cruising. I'm passing. You're just an asshole.
Day 2: With 669 miles of sandy beaches in the state, why is Henry only legally allowed on 669 feet of them? Seriously, my dog is cleaner than half of the cigarette flicking Alabama tourists, and I follow him around with an arsenal of plastic bags to scoop his poo. He doesn't swim much, and he can't catch any wildlife unless it's almost dead (or already dead, as we'll find out tomorrow). He's harmless, so get us some bigger dog beaches, Florida. Or ban the other animals, too.
Day 3: When Henry disappears behind a large dumpster near the ocean, bad things are probably going to happen approximately three hours later. Bad, smelly, horrible things on the hotel room couch. (Unrelated side note: Try Marco's Pizza, it's delicious.)Day 4: Pregnant people lying on sunny, sandy beaches are sad when their husbands are doing the same, but the husbands are enjoying ice-cold Corona.
Day 5: I'm starting to doubt people who favor dogs over cats. Lizzie slept the entire 12 hour car journey not begging me for a walk, using a designated toilet area, avoiding getting wet and rolling in sand, and tossing her cookies in our 150-square-foot hotel room exactly zero times to Henrys' three. Lesson: Sharing a hotel room with your cat is decidedly less stinky and sandy than sharing it with your canine. (Unrelated side note: Try Sweet Racks, it's delicious.)
Day 6:
The scene - 10 p.m. in a crowded La Quinta parking lot, cicadas buzzing in the jungle nearby. Man 1, sitting on prone Man 2's chest on the asphalt. Man 3 nearby with can of beer. Two women, southern accents, yelling. Two pit bull dogs. Drunkenness is obvious.
Man 1: "You punched me in the face, Kyle."
Man 2 (Kyle): "You're sitting on me."
All people: Expletives
Man 1: "All this over a damn girl!"
Action: Kyle, struggles to get up. Women outraged. Dogs passive and bored.
Enter stage left: Bay County Sheriff cruiser.
All people: Expletives.
Exit stage left: Me
Fin
Day 7: I am dangerously close to failing the prescribed one-pound-per-week weight gain recommended by the M.D. Missing: Vegetables. Oh, there they are! In the deep-fat fryer. Day 8: Nine summers ago, Dan took me on a lazy-float canoe adventure on the Blackwater River. Halfway downstream, we moored on a sandy beach for a romantic picnic where he presented me with a diamond ring and an invitation to be his person forever. As I accepted enthusiastically, our celebration was punctuated by the almost immediate opening of the heavens in a torrential, violent Florida downpour. Between the lightning and the thunder, I asked, "Is this a sign?" Almost a decade later, I believe it certainly was a sign. (Insert appropriate song lyric/sentimental quote re: weathering storms and/or metaphor re: life as river, here).
Day 9: I recently noticed that we've been packing around some of the same old junk for nearly a decade. Things we acquired in Florida '02 that we are using on our vay-stay-cay in '12 - two beach towels, one Coleman water jug, one Coleman wheelie cooler, two University of Florida jersey coozies. Some cheap junk is actually built to last.
Day 10: I love the word "housekeeping" when it refers to someone else doing it.
Day 11: Florida fact - If you order ice cream sundaes and eat them while walking, the net calorie gain is zero. The pace and distance of the walk is irrelevant.
Day 12: I have never visited the ocean without somehow returning home with a new collection of seashells. Note: I don't collect seashells; I don't "collect," in general. I will, however, diligently protect and display Dan's treasure and try really, really hard not to "accidentally" misplace or crush any of them.
Day 13: We decided to end our summer vacation with a final glorious day on the nearly empty stretch of dog-friendly beach that we discovered mid-stay. During our three-hours in the sand and surf there were three torrential downpours, one dog that insisted on drinking stagnant tidal pool salt water and then swimming in it, and a vicious and day-ending attack of biting flies. Best laid plans.
Day 14: Please add Savannah, Georgia, to the "places I would rather live" list.
Monday, February 13, 2012
valley girl
every time someone lets me out of Goldsboro, i get lifestyle envy. all of the people eating at sidewalk cafes after hot yoga and before valet parking at the tapas bar for dinner...oh, why isn't any of that stuff in my town?
but southern california is a bit of a stretch - it's nice and shiny and full of (suddenly dead) celebrities (RIP W.H.), but it is way out of my normal.
Goldsboro: parking as far away from other cars as possible to avoid idiot drivers when shopping at Carlie's IGA for multiple types of pork products (rinds, chitlins, souse, skins, bacon, chops, etc.)
Southern California: sitting on the patio at Whole Foods watching two matching white Range Rovers fight over a parking space while eating an organic banana and reading the Jewish Journal
Goldsboro: a recent hepatitis B outbreak at Tootie Frootie, a sketchy new frozen yogurt establishment next to a Mexican restaurant that doesn't serve Corona (blasphemy!)
Southern California: eating a lavender-lemon gourmet popsicle at a popsicle-only establishment called "Suck It" in a town called "Studio City."
Goldsboro: hoping my dog doesn't eat a dead turtle in the backyard and get sick on my Turkish carpet (again)
Southern California: driving down a single street with two doggie day cares, a 24-hour veterinarian, a U-Wash-Doggie laundropet, two organic dog food stores, and a hound hotel (four diamonds, i'm sure)
Goldsboro: Wal-Marts - 2
Southern California: Wal-Marts - 0
Goldsboro: normal house price - $180K
Southern California (for same house): $1.8 million
nice for a visit, but not sure i could swing it long-term. but, if it gets me out of G-boro, I could give it a try.
but southern california is a bit of a stretch - it's nice and shiny and full of (suddenly dead) celebrities (RIP W.H.), but it is way out of my normal.
Goldsboro: parking as far away from other cars as possible to avoid idiot drivers when shopping at Carlie's IGA for multiple types of pork products (rinds, chitlins, souse, skins, bacon, chops, etc.)
Southern California: sitting on the patio at Whole Foods watching two matching white Range Rovers fight over a parking space while eating an organic banana and reading the Jewish Journal
Goldsboro: a recent hepatitis B outbreak at Tootie Frootie, a sketchy new frozen yogurt establishment next to a Mexican restaurant that doesn't serve Corona (blasphemy!)
Southern California: eating a lavender-lemon gourmet popsicle at a popsicle-only establishment called "Suck It" in a town called "Studio City."
Goldsboro: hoping my dog doesn't eat a dead turtle in the backyard and get sick on my Turkish carpet (again)
Southern California: driving down a single street with two doggie day cares, a 24-hour veterinarian, a U-Wash-Doggie laundropet, two organic dog food stores, and a hound hotel (four diamonds, i'm sure)
Goldsboro: Wal-Marts - 2
Southern California: Wal-Marts - 0
Goldsboro: normal house price - $180K
Southern California (for same house): $1.8 million
nice for a visit, but not sure i could swing it long-term. but, if it gets me out of G-boro, I could give it a try.
Lifestyle envy: The painful and resentful awareness that others, outside of one's current geographic location, enjoy life advantages that may include Wal-mart free grocery shopping, sidewalks/cycling paths (possibly with cafes/other cyclists), non-Jesus-based bookstores, and cultural events not centered solely around the cooking of pork products. This awareness is joined with a strong desire to possess the advantages of those others.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
daddy complex
i hate Dan's jeep.
it's a bit out of character since i do love a big engine. pretty sure my soft spot for high horsepower originated with trips to the city dump alongside D in his 1960-something black Chevy when I was too little to see over the dash. or it could
be those visits to the railroad yard to visit D on those rare occasions that he could take time from conducting the train to show us around. a soft rumble, hinting of danger and courage and smelling like metal and oil, there is nothing quite like a string of idling 3,000-horsepower diesel locomotives in the morning.
it seems fitting, then, that Dan is cruising around the skies in his own twin-engine war machine. i've lost that loving feeling? get me within 100-yards of a fired-up strike eagle and I'm practically sliding off my chair. whoop!
but I still hate the damn jeep. it's a paycheck guzzling petrol-aholic with a mess of mechanical issues and inexplicable rattling noises that rival the mini for their frequency and mystery. not only that, but it spent the entire summer at Randy's Good-Ol-Boy Garage getting wrenched and greased to the tune of you-don't-even-want-to-know.
thanks to Randy, i didn't even get to enjoy the summer jeep-owner perk of looking cool while riding around Goldsboro topless (the jeep, not me) in my daisy dukes catching the eye of the locals. (on second thought, i live in Goldsboro and no one over 21 should be wearing daisy dukes, especially me. you get my point.)
my distaste of the big, loud 1984 CJ-7 with a rebuilt Chevy 350 is reminiscent of my own mom's dislike of D's 1972 Chevy K5 Blazer with its 350. she was constantly nagging D to sell the thing after it diverted funds from the family budget or sat idle for a winter or more. as I neared my Sweet 16, I joined the nag-fest because I began to see the Blaze King as the only thing standing between me and something silver and zippy with a big red bow (and we all know how that dream turned out).
but history does repeat itself.
it's a bit out of character since i do love a big engine. pretty sure my soft spot for high horsepower originated with trips to the city dump alongside D in his 1960-something black Chevy when I was too little to see over the dash. or it could
be those visits to the railroad yard to visit D on those rare occasions that he could take time from conducting the train to show us around. a soft rumble, hinting of danger and courage and smelling like metal and oil, there is nothing quite like a string of idling 3,000-horsepower diesel locomotives in the morning.it seems fitting, then, that Dan is cruising around the skies in his own twin-engine war machine. i've lost that loving feeling? get me within 100-yards of a fired-up strike eagle and I'm practically sliding off my chair. whoop!
but I still hate the damn jeep. it's a paycheck guzzling petrol-aholic with a mess of mechanical issues and inexplicable rattling noises that rival the mini for their frequency and mystery. not only that, but it spent the entire summer at Randy's Good-Ol-Boy Garage getting wrenched and greased to the tune of you-don't-even-want-to-know.
thanks to Randy, i didn't even get to enjoy the summer jeep-owner perk of looking cool while riding around Goldsboro topless (the jeep, not me) in my daisy dukes catching the eye of the locals.
my distaste of the big, loud 1984 CJ-7 with a rebuilt Chevy 350 is reminiscent of my own mom's dislike of D's 1972 Chevy K5 Blazer with its 350. she was constantly nagging D to sell the thing after it diverted funds from the family budget or sat idle for a winter or more. as I neared my Sweet 16, I joined the nag-fest because I began to see the Blaze King as the only thing standing between me and something silver and zippy with a big red bow (and we all know how that dream turned out).
but history does repeat itself.
Dan took a page out of D's old playbook to alter my position.
It's so simple: They just let me drive.
This season, Renegade is the new black.
It's so simple: They just let me drive.
This season, Renegade is the new black.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
here's hoping...again
I graduated from the University of Oregon in 2002. It was an epic football year marred by a single loss to Stanford at home at the very end of the season. (Sound familiar to anyone?) It was made even better because I was a marketing intern for the athletic department and on the sidelines for every home game - cueing the team on the field, getting run over in the end zone, rubbing elbows with the coaches at the after party.
Gang Green. It got in my blood.
Oregon went on to win the Fiesta Bowl decisively that year - it was before the stupid BCS had its own championship game, and those assholes were hogging the Rose Bowl. (Oh, and WE should have been in the championship that year anyway. Ugh. BCS.) I digress.
Since the the 2002 Fiesta Bowl, the Ducks have played in eight bowl games. And they've only won two of them, including a 13-point loss to Auburn in last year's national championship - a game I never thought any Oregon team would ever be in. Ever.
Gang Green. It got in my blood.
Oregon went on to win the Fiesta Bowl decisively that year - it was before the stupid BCS had its own championship game, and those assholes were hogging the Rose Bowl. (Oh, and WE should have been in the championship that year anyway. Ugh. BCS.) I digress.
Since the the 2002 Fiesta Bowl, the Ducks have played in eight bowl games. And they've only won two of them, including a 13-point loss to Auburn in last year's national championship - a game I never thought any Oregon team would ever be in. Ever.
In fact, the Ducks are just 9-15 in the postseason, and our record against big-time, non-conference opponents is dismal as well. See also: LSU (2011), a 1-6 all-time performance vs. the Sooners, and an embarrassing o-8 record facing the Buckeyes. I could go on.
It seems like every year I get excited for the football season, only to have it end in the extinguishing of my candle of hope by the cruel fate of college football. The Ducks reeled me in before I was aware of the breadth and depth of their crushing historical performance. Sadly, it's too late.
After a particularly embarrassing loss to BYU in the 2006 Las Vegas Bowl, I was crying into my beer at the local pub in Boise and ran into another Duck.
He told me this heartwarming story:
Now we face another try at the big stage. It's not the natty, but it is the granddaddy of them all, once again.
Oh, old class of '57 Duck fan of wisdom and experience, my candle of hope is again burning for the Ducks and an end to their complete self-destruction on the big stage. As I know yours is, too.
Despite our better judgement, we remain hopeful....again.
Go Ducks. Win the damn Rose Bowl.
It seems like every year I get excited for the football season, only to have it end in the extinguishing of my candle of hope by the cruel fate of college football. The Ducks reeled me in before I was aware of the breadth and depth of their crushing historical performance. Sadly, it's too late.
After a particularly embarrassing loss to BYU in the 2006 Las Vegas Bowl, I was crying into my beer at the local pub in Boise and ran into another Duck.
He told me this heartwarming story:
I graduated from Oregon in 1994. It was a great football season and the campus was alive with Rose Bowl dreams. One day before one of the last home games of the season, when we knew we could make it to Pasadena, my friends and I ended up in a seedy bar in Springfield. It was dark and smoky, and there were just a few old men at the bar drinking together. My buddies and I somehow got started on the Ducks, and one of the old men said, "I graduated from Oregon in 1957, the last time we made it to the Rose Bowl. We lost to the Buckeyes that year. I've been a fan my whole life, and there's one thing you always have to remember: The Ducks are always gonna let you down."Ever since Idaho Duck told me that story, it has haunted me. The old alum had almost a half century of Duck fandom under his belt at the time, and these were his inspirational words on the eve of the '95 Rose Bowl? (Of course they lost the '95 Rose Bowl to Penn State.) So, that's it? Is my own fandom futile? Should I have defected to Florida when i had the chance?
Now we face another try at the big stage. It's not the natty, but it is the granddaddy of them all, once again.
We are healthy. We are fast. We have LaMichael and Black Mamba. We aren't prone to punching opponents in the face anymore. We have plenty of options for outfits. We won't have the unnaturally large and dazzling teeth of the opponent's quarterback blinding our defense (we only lost by two scores, BTW). We are in our home territory.
Could THIS be our year for the big bi-decade bowl victory?
Oh, old class of '57 Duck fan of wisdom and experience, my candle of hope is again burning for the Ducks and an end to their complete self-destruction on the big stage. As I know yours is, too.
Despite our better judgement, we remain hopeful....again.
Go Ducks. Win the damn Rose Bowl.
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