sometimes it's just easier to make brownies out of a box

'high maintenance' can be divided into two camps; the 'i need a coach purse for my birthday/valentines'/christmas/halloween/pancake day' kind (which was the reassuring "good god, not me" mantra in the early stages of any relationship), versus the; 'i don't need expensive things, i'm simple/easygoing/thrifty/don't believe your credit card bill should reflect your commitment, instead i want you to pay attention to the tiny nuances of my personality and make something or do something that resonates with that so i will become more giddy than girl-with-brown-on-beige-accessory'.

aka; a lot of work.

and so my request for the first anniversary, was to go camping. and take the mountain bikes. and kayak. with both dogs.

why the hell anyone would want to leave their own, already paid for, climate controlled environment with all of the key amenities, for an over-priced permanently 70/21 degree room- even if it has a five star restaurant/bar/jacuzzi, when there are whole patches of dirt, zip up windows and metal toilets that require shoes to commute to at 3 in the morning is beyond me.



the 'totally-not-high-maintenance' control issues kicked in, in preparation for a weekend in the woods. thank god for amazon.com and 'how to camp with your canine' books, coleman's selection of clip on, magnetic tent lights, the arbitrary 'tree trolley' for wayward and disobedient pooches, and a made-out-of-ballistic-material 'modular hauler' to organize, by colour code, the campsite electrics, french press, canine accoutrements, and assortment of bungee cords. preparation and anticipation, as with most things in the life of an obsessive-compulsive, is key. i even called ahead to make sure that the camp site was "dog friendly".



we were effectively 'tailgating'-- overnight. it must be a cultural thing, but this was a new york city tenement of camp sites, minus the protest. as a child of the 80's, pitching a tent in the middle east meant there were no neighbours except the ones your parents brought for 'booze backup'. camping in dog friendly northern maine is all about sharing 100 square feet of dirt with homesteaders and their monogrammed bird baths.

it's a bayyyyyyy-beeeeeeeeeeee!

look! a baby! she's even my pseudo mini-me, and the most difficult and uncomfortable thing i had to do was shell out for a transatlantic plane ticket.

i got to spend a week 'job shadowing' my sister-in-law and 8 week old niece-- minus the breastfeeding and nappy changing. kind of like my brother, i'm still; "building up to it".

and so we all surfaced from our beds (at different times, mind you) to a groundhog day of; feeding, burping, cuddling, jiggling, changing, napping; feeding, burping, cuddling, jiggling, changing, napping;...drinking wine.

in addition to learning the ins and outs of the labour, hearing a great story about projectile poo flying out of her bottom (baby, not s-i-l) across the changing table, i got loads of practice doing the infant macarena; sway, sway, lunge, lunge, grand plie in second, repeat until lactic fatigue. yep. it's a lot of work, and there really is no per diem option.

"you'd be a great mummy/you're a natural/look how at ease you are with her". sure, you can take one look at a kenyan and know he's going to set records, win medals and suddenly obtain U.S. citizenship. i'm just not convinced that this means you can cherrypick a winning breeder.

i suppose one of the handy things about having a sibling is that can they can act as the proverbial canary in a mine shaft-- fortunately after seven days, i hadn't keeled over in my bird cage.

dialogueing for the diagnostically opposed

- have you seen my wallet?

- no.

- but i had it in one of the bags when i brought in the stuff from the supermarket- which YOU unpacked.

- who puts their wallet in a shopping bag?

- well what did you do with it when you put away the food?

- i don't know, i don't remember seeing it (WHO puts their wallet in a shopping bag?)

- you must have thrown it away.

- why would i throw your wallet away? (WHY would you put your wallet in a shopping bag?)

[much rifling through the rubbish bin]

- it might behoove you to identify one location for your sunglasses/watch/wallet/keys, besides the roof of the car/anywhere the labrador's jaws can reach/ in the pocket of something that goes into the laundry bin and subsequently the washing machine...

- ha! i found it. you did throw it out with the bags.

- WHO PUTS THEIR WALLET IN A SHOPPING BAG?

- this is why you shouldn't be so obsessed with tidying.

- (...!...).

"get a grip!"

was the terse instruction issued from 'my brother the pilot' in response to his sister's perseverative thoughts on airbus versus boeing disasters, shattering pelvises upon impacting the atlantic ocean, and how to break into a cockpit in order to administer CPR to an arresting crew member.

and so i did.



however, i don't know if the richter scale turbulence while transitioning from US to canadian airspace was quite as traumatic as the 45 minute connector's aisle side view of an ambulatory and verbal child, in possession of at least his incisors, latched to his mother's mammary. not a surprise then, to overhear that they were ultimately, seattle bound.

to keep the laws of crappy airline travel in perfect alignment, the return journey, while relatively turbulence (and therefore bruise) free, was equally trying. kennedy airport has obviously been laid out with the same design aplomb that you would expect from a 5 year old with a bucket of lego. and may also be the only employer that is currently over staffed, albeit with 28 year old soporific "teenagers" whose pace, and overall demeanour are clearly not congruent with even a low level customer service experience.

you are what you eat

it's very important to get the food right at an intervention.

during this current period of financial non-denominational "rapture", it is now becoming more urgent for the start-up-former-herbal-candle-making-entrepeneur to recognize the stressors that are patently spilling over into the general populus' over-taxed interpersonal relationships-- and consequently expand (exploit?) the relevant skill set, in order to meet the need of a new demographic of diagnostic consumer.

confronting anyone party to a domestic violence situation, should only be accented with fare that is soft, cold and non-acidic. the ethiopian food genre maintains an overall theme promoting pacifism for any such gathering, being that it is both malleable and lacking in any crockery. however, should picky eaters, the allergy prone, or a nutritional neophyte be in attendance, hummus, brownie batter (no nuts or chips), and jello pudding/jello salad/jello sundaes/jello corn dogs are typically more marketable sustenance to the less discerning McPalate. * additionally, preparation is key; cooked (and chilled) asparagus is acceptable, grilled or blanched is not. unfortunately, a long time potluck favourite, green bean casserole is cuisine non grata due to the walmart made in china, china and it's volcanic temperatures upon presentation. neither is chili a viable option. or kebabs. or fondue. in fact anything requiring chopsticks is potentially more hazardous than serving pigs in unleavened blankets at a bar mitzvah. finally, pineapple, avacados and peaches should be left for the clinically depressed and obsessive compulsives; pits leave bruises.






* catering for the sex addict's hopeful 'wake-up moment' is more limiting than a kosher-vegan diet; no hot dogs, baguettes, pies, pumpkins, or even a benign tureen of oatmeal-- and definitely no pesto. cornflakes and toast are about as experimental as things should get.

snow baptism

while saudi arabia is the home of Mecca, it is not the one replete with pilgrims sporting north face and other overpriced, but super trendy, outdoor paraphernalia. and so the GPS was pointed north; to sunday river ski resort- what better way to celebrate VD than bruises and plenty of the white, flakey stuff.

i quickly learned that i display an aptitude for clipping into and out of skis- must be the transfer of skills from the bike cleats and pedals- unfortunately, that was the only positive transfer; falling over and crappy co-ordination are obviously areas in which i excel in all sports.

a group of 20 and 30 somethings can look fairly nimble and athletic in the ski boot fitting room, but on a segregated patch of nursery slope- neonatal flat may be a more accurate descriptor- looked more like the local nursing home's day out for the arthritic alcoholic.

prior to hitting the powder, the prospect of riding the chair lift was exciting (disembarking it, not so much), fortunately, our patient instructor determined that we would be better off riding the "magic carpet" to the apex of our molehill. an airport conveyor belt buried into the snow transported our posse of neophytes up the gradient, while we obediantly assumed the "squat and crap in the middle of the woods" position.

learning to ski also means being quite comfortable with touching/grabbing/anchoring on random stranger's body parts, and having other beginner's grope at your own for leverage, or to brake with. by the end of 3 hours of intensive "no. stop! turn both skis towards the hill", my self-esteem was elevated- until a 3 year old in their "i'm so tiny and cute" l.l. bean puffy outfit, ripped by, without poles.

the apres ski is where i am focusing my energies, unfortunately, this also leads to repeated tripping and falling.

helpless lady driver seeks competent chauffeur for winter commute

i would rather pay $90 for a colonic irrigation that cleanses my rectum with tabasco sauce, than to go out and drive in the snow again.

already traumatized from subjecting the dog to her: "she needs to have all vaccinations updated before we will board her while you do your abandoning and bugger off to the other side of the planet for a couple of weeks", the journey back from the animal hospital did little to ameliorate my heightened state of anxiety; i lost traction; just outside the car park; halfway back up the hill. i incorrectly assumed that i would be impervious to mother nature as i had chosen to take the "winter friendly" VW, as opposed to my own "purchased in southern california" automobile- which lacks the relevant vehicular features appropriate for frozen tundra. ironically, as i am less familiar with this car, i was unable to locate the rear wiper, temperature control, or even passenger air blower button. however, both mine and the dog's bums were nice and toasty despite our lack of visibility or forward mobility.

unlike previous experience in sandy terrain, we were not sinking and stuck; gravitational movement was very much evident in a downhill direction. to distract myself from the imminent probability of damsel tears, i panic dialed a friend in; "somewhere-it-snows-a-lot-michigan", to be coached through my distress and shock that this all wheel weather beast was giving a sub par performance (other cars were pulling around me).

"did you press the AWD button?"

"button?" [like knight rider? what if i press the wrong button and reilly is launched into the cold, white abyss?].

"it's no different than starting to ride your mountain bike up the middle of a hill". [you mean, aside from the deductible on my car insurance tripling after i skid off into a ditch or a volvo station wagon?].

fortunately a pick up truck with one of those ginormous shovel thingies attached to the front bumper (and red cape hanging off the back) stopped and offered assistance.

"i'm using first gear"..."just moved here"..."all wheel drive"............................
..."i grew up in saudi arabia".

"luke" commandeered the wheel and wanted to know which button would stop the arctic wind blasting through the vent [did he not see the blonde hair when he pulled over?]. mute, i shook it at him again; saudi arabia explained my inability to operate in snow, hair pigment (and plummy accent) should be sufficient enough reason for anything else he might need to know. he turned us around and plotted a flatter, non-GPS calculated course, back to my destination. unfortunately this wasn't an "A to B, stop signs not included" route (i haven't got to the chapter on 'how to brake in snow' yet). fortunately this car has a little graphic of a skid marks that illuminates (no shit), to let me know when i am, in fact, preparing to become more mechanically intimate with the school bus in front. might i suggest an "oh shit" light for the '09 model?

thankfully, motorist, dog, and vehicle made it back to the driveway physically unscathed.

(not after being overtaken by a freshly permed grandma, manning a subaru).

coffee, tea or a tranquilizer?

15 hours at 37,000 feet, divided by 115lbs of shaking, quivering nerves, equals how many valium? flying time for the annual christmas pilgrimage to the middle east is in excess of 7 hours overtime for the average 8 hour work day (pilots get tired too, even after several hours of watching computers do all the work). while i realize the wonderful learning opportunity available to overcome my fear of crashing, i tend to see it as more time to perfect a seamless finish, stripping the skin from my cuticles up to the armpit.

i have never flown the abu dhabi based airline, etihad, so i referred to: my-brother-the-pilot for safety record information, seat configuration, and the inevitable 'never matured from how to most agitate my sibling'. he was able to confirm through narrative and the above image of airbus engineers running the engines, and breaking the plane from it's chocks; "but this was before airbus sold the A340 to etihad, don't worry".

due to the large number of christmas presents i will be hauling with me, i did check etihad's luggage allowance, and was a little disappointed that traveling economy- or "coral" class, means that my parents will not get their matching his 'n hers gift set this year.
• 1 falcon per guest (per seat) is permitted. Charge for one falcon (which is considered 3 kilos) is 3 times the normal excess baggage rate of the journey.
• 1 additional falcon can be carried when an extra seat is purchased within same class. No excess baggage charges for the additional falcon will apply.

as a final act of younger brotherly reassurance, he also sent me an image of the carcass of an air france A340, noting; "all crew and passengers survived".

jet puffed

i suppose when the cashier no longer asks for ID while ringing up a bottle of yellow tail shiraz, it is time to acknowledge that mid-life is more of an "epic", than a "phase", and that "proper" grown-ups really shouldn't be swigging down the $9.99 McCabernet anyway. rather like acquiring pubic hair, the long queue for god's inevitable waiting room, creeps up unnoticed, until one day admission is granted, and you look down thinking; "shit, when did THAT happen- and why are there moths flying out of my underpants, surely it hasn't been THAT long?".

while there are many boca burger eating folks with a passion for patchouli, advocating for equal rights of displaced, cross dressing koala bears, no one is without some form of "ism"-- whether it relates to the shade of blush/foundation palette at the clinique counter, a preference for women in plaid rather than playboy, or sunglasses that are larger than the dog you choose to carry around when running out to buy a gallon of milk.

despite a chronic compulsion towards carbohydrates, my biggest fear is not that i will tip the scales at "obese", or even just run-of-the-mill "fat"- this would take far more committment than even my malted milk ball dependency can compete against. rather, the concern is that the next dress size up will be discreetly tapped on the shoulder, and asked if there is room for one more, because the current one is leaving red marks accross the stomach/upper arm/up and down the thighs.

i do not want to become "puffy". for a more complete definition of this term, please log into your facebook account and view your friends list (the ones you knew from taekwondo, ballet, and swimming lessons when you were 10 years old). this is the category of individual who knows they need to lose "the little extra", but does not feel the sense of urgency to pull on their 'kiwanis 2003 charity 5k' cotton t-shirt and head to the gym, because they don't meet "contestant on the biggest loser" criteria (yet).

middle age and marriage, according to recent sightings at weddings/the park/local supermarket, would indicate that the puffy probability is set to: "all signs point to yes". the down ward spiral of sporting muffin tops over a pair of nike workout capris, ends with a singular and seamless bundt cake hanging over soft pink, velour sweat pants with "diva" stitched onto the backside.

sit back, relax, and enjoy the fright

until i go to flight school, aeronautical engineering college, or complete a rotation in psychiatry in order to prescribe myself a bevy of percocet and it's anxiolytic cousins, flying in an aeroplane will never be an experience where i do not lose a couple of layers of skin around my cuticles (if cold cabin air didn't warrant closed toed shoes i would definitely move on to my feet).

i love it when people dispense advice, obviously things i have never possibly considered in my 32 years of commuting via jet plane.

"go to sleep": presumably, the idea being that i would sleep through turbulence. do these people never experience that terrible tripping/falling sensation as they are about to fall into a deep slumber? it is extremely distressing to go from a state of complete relaxation to one of panic. i feel a more efficient use of my time is to maintain a baseline of elevated anxiety that can move directly to panic within the space of 5,000 feet.

"watch a movie": this is fine if it's a romantic comedy with kate hudson or drew barrymore. however, anything featuring genetically engineered sharks trying to hunt down l.l. cool j, or tom hanks being fired at from behind enemy lines only serves to escalate my terror. and how am i supposed to detect changes in aeroplane noises if it is drowned out by bruce willis leaping out of an exploding building?

"listen to your ipod": i run to my music, i am not about to associate 80's madonna, jack johnson, or chumbawumba with a near miss plane collision.

"read a book, you love to read": reading requires concentration and focus, i cannot concentrate on keeping the plane up in the air/watch for dodgey looking passengers up to no good/fully engage my olfactory senses to detect any burning odours/obsess about lightning storms/birds flying into the engines/wings malfunctioning/pilots malfunctioning, if i am immersed in j.k. rowling's latest offering. air travel means catering to the attention requirements of alice in wonderland, where trashy magazines, featuring pictures of celebrity cellulite are the only option.

in addition to a sound aircraft, i have specific expectations from the pilot and first officer. while a clean mental health record and no "one for the road" martini habit is a given, i also need them to prepare me the way one does when transitioning a small child, or grown adult with a cognitive disability. prior to departure, the forecasted weather patterns and air pressure should be translated into if/when/how much turbulence is expected. i also need to be reassuringly notified with more than just a "ping" of the seatbelt sign coming on. if turbulence does continue, then i require a time estimate and accompanying pledge that my trusty flighy crew are ascending to try and find some "smoother air". i do not need the captain to be the great and silent wizard behind the curtain, or bullet proof/terrorist repelling door.

i used to be able to distract myself with in-flight cabin service, however this has now dwindled to no pretzels, and drinks having to be solicited via the call button. in lieu of not having friends or family that i have not given permanent bruising to their forearms, i typically require a narcissistic and highly sociable seatmate with negligible oral hygiene, who is willing to tell me fascinating stories about their life, for up to 5 hours at a time.

seat 23b confessional

while i detest the lack of control, aeroplanes are integral to my life. i find the process unpleasant (turbulence is a reminder there are no safety cords), however, if the ultimate goal is to get to a wonderful new destination, then it is worth the clutching of some random passenger's forearm when the captain has turned on the 'fasten seat belt' sign. and a rather obvious metaphor for relationships.

i typically sit next to the non verbal neanderthals with excess body fat and very little awareness of their body space spilling over onto my shared arm rest (middle seat syndrome). however, i found myself wedged between two characters this past weekend on a flight back to louisville.

to my right was practicing lawyer, avoiding retirement. he was divorced, had children who were a joy, and a love for golf. he shared stories of a friend who lived outside phoenix where there were "garages" for light aircraft, and residents "drove" their planes down the widened streets to the local airfield.

to my left was a 71 year old retired physician and grandfather from persia. he told me he had escaped iran during the shah's reign to come to america for "a better life". he found himself living in the derelict war zone of the bronx, and questioned the sanity of his decision. he has survived prostate cancer and had open heart surgery in recent years. he now spends his time frequenting various casinos every month and makes his living as a "professional gambler" (he showed me his member's ID card).

unlike a hairdresser, or therapist, these people are unpaid and will never be seen again. their stories can be inspiring, grounding and humbling. releasing my own story at 30,000 feet and leaving it there will keep me braving the turbulence each time. and yes, another obvious metaphor for relationships.

mine!

the possessive greeting of early childhood. where social skills are discovered in the sandpit, and conflict management begins, but typically ends, with sand (and tears) in the eyes.

the power struggle is born. "only" children are often labeled as being delayed in the area of sharing, however even those of us who had a sibling to bicker with over who used the milk last and was therefore responsible for walking the 2 feet to put it back in the fridge, continue to have trouble giving up and in.

as adults, some of the less emotionally evolved specimens continue to metaphorically pee all over their egocentric worlds. my teddy/truck/cookie "matures" into; my shopping trolley without the missing wheel and all the flyers in it, my trophy wife with the boobs i paid for, my career, my identity, my body, my choice, my freedom, my parking space nearest to the exit, my side of the arm rest on the aisle seat, my way of driving to the airport, my personal hole punch, my leftovers in the break room fridge, my doctor/lawyer husband who will be paying me alimony if you come anywhere near him, my side of the bed, my right to leave the toilet seat up, my hard earned money, my inability of going to any petrol station except the one i usually go to (even if it's "not on the way"), my crazy friends/family/pet, my borders addiction debt, my so-called life, my refusal to ask for help and yet compulsion to remain helpless, my habit of announcing every name and number on the caller id at work, my responsibility, my precious time, my name, my space (not the perving perps website), my inability to operate a dvd remote control, my irrational neuroses, my opinion on monotheism and the after life, my way of making tea, my $25 bottle of shampoo that glosses/nourishes/rebuilds my hair from the root, my rules for multiple "draw two's" in uno, my good idea (your bad one).

territorialism and ownership run rampant over the relevant noun.

mine (-control) + yours = ours

i have never been able to get my brain around the basic concepts, let alone master, algebra. obviously some of us have not yet made it out of the sandpit.

further thoughts on pooing

my neglected muse; the bodily function. to poo, or not to poo? (at work). lunch table polling (what better time to discuss turds than over tacos) resulted in the obvious gender divide. where the daytime chronically constipated are also the people who support the makers of pocket hand sanitizer. these anally retentive germaphobes' sphincters constrict with horror at the contamination possibilities of a public toilet.

however, the primary variables posited (by the female sample) were the individual room versus the communal, individual stall. both noise and smell were cited as issues for either layout. the quandary lies in that closing a bathroom door hides the immediate deed to passers by, but it also seals in odour. with nowhere to disperse stagnant fumes, the next visitor is trapped (and invariably saw your hurried exit).

skid tracks are another problem if there is no guarantee of a brush (multiple flushes are an obvious giveaway). undoubtedly, the ultimate nightmare is clogging- although perhaps a troupe of ladies stamping around in wooden shoes would provide good noise and/or a diversion. generally employers do not provide a target "michael graves" plunger in each stall, and dry cleaning coathangers are the make shift "shit shifters" of the domicile.

former 80's pop singers with flammable hair aside, we all go into the bathroom to practice a very limited skill set. but many want to deny the collective common denominator (although my brother can truly do some unique and creative things making letters of the alphabet). my uptight personality can probably best be highlighted in the preadolescent refusal to carry the 'far too big for a plastic bag' bumper pack of toilet paper from the supermarket to the car. people might see; then they might think i actually used this stuff to wipe my bum; and then they would know that i took big stinky dumps.

as my taste buds have matured, so has my ego. giant burritos for dinner have forced me to overcome my fear of defecating at work the following day. however, i will contract my muscles for the entire 8 hours it takes to fly across the atlantic. supersonic toilet bowl air is not powerful enough to eradicate skid tracks.

organic mountain biking

asheville; where the parking garages look like subaru dealerships and even the homeless are a north face wearing eco-friendly bunch asking for your restaurant leftovers instead of cash. this past weekend i drove down to the carolinas to ride the issaqueena trails (clemson) with another skorted friend (and former evacuee of louisville). we resumed our natural riding patterns; me upfront collecting cobwebs with my face, she listening to me spit and gag from behind. unfortunately being first also means navigating (have i mentioned that i have directional dyslexia?).

we got rather lost.

while i did remember the "hotel-with-purple-sign-by-the-traffic-lights-at-the-bottom-of-the-hill-on-the-strip-with-all-the-apartment-buildings-leading-up-to-the-park", my brain became flatulent upon entering the trail. unfortunately these trails were not "colour coded for idiots", nor were they nicely taped and marked "for my conveniance" as they had been when i rode the course prior to a mountain bike race several years ago. fortunately there were many equestrians depositing steamy trail markers for us to follow. however, these rugged, ruddy, outdoorsy folk also yielded and greeted, and did not throw cigarettes, cans of bud light, or flip their mullets at us, as i have experienced with some of their kentucky counterparts. the trail really is shared.

the trails were (as i remembered) fun, fast, singletracky switchbacks with many, many moments of "oh god, oh god, dont look down, dont look to the right, ignore the abyss 2 centimetres to the left where i could potentially tumble, uninterrupted, until i baptize myself and the bike in the lake, at which point nessy, with incisors of steel, will come and chew on my limp, twitching form".

unfortunately the weekend drew to a close and i was asked to leave; i do not drive a subaru.

65 miles...on a bicycle built for two

so, i've been on a road bike all of two times, and ridden a whopping total of 10 miles on aforementioned device. this past weekend i went blazing (perhaps that is a stretch on the verb) through the cornfields and country roads of southern indiana. on a tandem. for 65 miles. voluntarily. the ultimate test for someone who has chronic control issues.

my job was to pedal, and bring up the rear; behind a "proper roadie", who rides for a local team sponsored by papa john's (pizza and cycling; what an obvious combination). the "captain" dragged himself, me, and the bike up many (many) rolling hills. fortunately my inner control freak was seduced by the very simple, concrete, 2-step directives issued forth; "pedal" and "pedal harder". i am a closet uni-tasker. conveniantly, lactic acid was mostly ignored with the distraction of incredible views of louisville.

there were no decisions to be made (by me at least) about gears, braking, or steering. where all of the cuticle tearing views downhill, or "this chick needs a defibrillator" uphills, were obstructed by a mass of red, white and black spandex (which incidentally provided a great barrier for "bugs in my face"). a tandem may just be my new metaphor for life. as long as my legs were turning over i could have been doing the sunday crossword back there. instead, i chose to indulge my autistic like tendencies by keeping tally on how many statues of the virgin mary (sequestered in bath tub looking structures) were displayed on front lawns (final count: 15). other popular lawn art genres were represented in the form of knackered out, rusty pick up trucks on blocks, or statues of bambi's extended family. the true prize of the day however, was a lavender bath tub housing a concrete owl (and why not?). the miles slipped away as conversation shifted from work, to inseminating livestock, and proper tandem etiquette; number one being that the person in front is absolutely, under no circumstances, allowed to fart.

finally (in addition to sore muscles and "bike short tan lines"), i came away with an experience where i was able to give up control (sort of), and allow someone else to take charge and do the grunt work for a change. of course i still felt a great sense of responsibility that short legs, slow twitch muscle fibres, puny quads, and lack of time on a road bike would be a burden to someone who was obviously professional enough to shave their legs to ride on two wheels. codependency transcends all modes of transportation.

great expectations

i heard in church (the "no fire and brimstone" service for recovering alcoholics and drug addicts at the local homeless shelter) on friday, how to play "who are you in the story?" during the sermon (it was something about people at a synagogue not wanting to help and heal a decrepit and diseased woman because it was the sabbath).

anyway.

i had a conversation with a friend tonight, about dickens' semi-autobiographical novel. my immediate response was not wanting to end up like the crotchety and bitter miss havisham; admiring her cobweb collection, both on her candelabras and within her spirit. what a dreadful life sentence. until death.

estella; she's pretty, but what a cold, and controlling, fish.

dickens' protagonist, young pip. besotted, hopeful, but seemingly help-less.

each character detaches and/or chooses a situation that perpetuates this detachment.

and they all lived (.....)-ily ever after.

land o' lakes; where the trails were like buh-dder

i have not been camping, or to lbl (land between the lakes recreation area, ky), or camping at lbl. in quite a few underwear changes (2 years if memory serves..?). this weekend saw the mass exodus of social service professionals, various significant others, and canines for some QT under the stars and canvas. the ultimate goal was to escape (histrionic co-workers, and violent 7 year olds) and confront (our past selves; several were packing some excess baggage in their memory chests that desperately needed unloading). aside from that, the agenda was "all american" (except for me). there were s'mores, BEER, and a floating dock (i'd never heard of such a thing) to lie back on, look at stars, and inhale maggie's farts and stagnant lake water.

the fear of going hungry 10 minutes from "civilization" was a strong one for all in our troop, where the most sought after/ valued item (aside from alcohol, pop tarts, and bug spray) was an oven mitt. other wilderness "necessities" included a box of hair removal gunk, nothing better with the humidity and mosquitoes in august like hot wax. it was not broken out the entire weekend. unfortunately that was not the only thing that was not broken out this weekend. while the campsite had incredible bathrooms, at least 50% of the party's colon had shut down. no amount of hammering around on bumpy trails, force feeding of clif bars, or coffee seemed to shift things.

we rode the 20 (ish?) mile canal loop, stopping for kodak moments by the lake, and not so memorable slow motion snapshots of melinda picking herself up off the trail (following a graceful dismount, by way of impaling her womanly bits). some returned to apply ice and beer to both bruised "bits" and egos. the rest of the dehydrated idiots pressed on for more singletrack and switchbacky fun. fortunately trail and mechanical ptsd was minimal. the last time i rode at lbl my chain disappeared somewhere into the derailleur, and i walked, wept, and growled at my companion, the entire mile of searing blacktop, back to the car. the trails were very hot and dry this past weekend, so between the baptism of dust and spider webs, i had all kinds of good stuff to pick out of my nose upon returning (and succumbing to gravity and lactic acid).

after most of our party had showered (or jumped in the lake) we huddled around the campfire (it was 95 degrees) to keep warm (no toes had to be removed the entire trip). as there was no email to check, or blogs to write, we spent time conversing with each other about those very things. bumper stickers were borne: "i used to have time on my hands, then i got a blog" to the more bizarre: "if you were an ameoba, none of your friends would have boundaries". this climaxed into a friendly game of "calling you out on your shit" around the campfire. unfortunately my earlier rant about pregnant women refusing to do anything more taxing than picking up a tissue, or other women refusing to pay their own way if there was a male with a wallet nearby became: "so disa, it sounds like women who are weak really push some buttons for you, what does this bring up around your own issues of feeling weak?"

finally, for those individuals who insist on looking incredulously down their noses at the mention of "kentucky", please feel obliged to go and jump in a lake (preferably full of pirhanas, nessies, or discarded and broken washing machines). lbl has something for everyone (especially if you are rich enough to own a sailing boat). the trails are beautiful, there is plenty of interesting wildlife (for the record bambi is alive and living near the hillman ferry campground), and the omnipresent drunken rednecks, on a bachelorette weekend, in the campsite adjacent to ours. it was hot, sweaty, bug-y, and smelly. no one got much sleep between the humidity, insects and flatulence, however everyone agreed to commit to another weekend (away from their blogs) later in the year.

leaving on a jet plane

i was recently asked what is permanent in life; "personality disorders". those bastards aren't ever changing; "no way! no how, not me, i'm fine, youre the one with the problem". aside from that, everything else is temporary. (cognitive distortion #1)

in the great airport lounge that i will call my life (up until now), (oh yes, its going to be one of THOSE narcissistic essays) it is easier to stay or "be" somewhere or with someone when there is a valid boarding pass with assigned seating tucked inside the back pocket. waiting to leave can make staying more enjoyable, where "goodbye" associated anxiety is much easier to tolerate- not that my cuticles are anything to go by.

many years ago i struggled to like an ex boyfriend's mother, she was loud and in the habit of picking her teeth after the meal at the kinds of restaurants where waiters come by and comb the crumbs/adjust your napkin for you. i panicked at the potential intrusions i envisaged on future domestic bliss, grandchildren, or any social gathering involving corn. of course once i broke up with him, i relaxed and liked her. we went hiking, to the movies...essentially i broke up with him so i could start dating his mother.

i really hate flying.

its my territory and i'll pee all over it if i want to (and other wacky co-workers)

"i need to talk to you" is a phrase that induces the 5 year old "oh no i've disappointed the big people" or "uh oh, mum found the stash of broken doll's house toys under my bed and now im going to be in even BIGGER trouble for not owning up when i first broke the car/rocking chair/bed" feeling somewhere in my upper intestine. it is not a good sign when i feel chronic and situational "indigestion" around a staff person that i supervise.

"i would have pulled rank on you if i had to" (a program supervisor who's self-esteem issues are commensurate in size to that of her obsessive love towards her cat), i am aware that my hair is sometimes blonde, but i dont recall signing up for the military? although it would have made the whole morning 'what-to-wear?' routine so much simpler. the differences between she and i are manifested in how we sublimate our same low sense of self (although i really am the better supervisor). i do not feel the need to linguistically "piss" all over people by constantly using possessive pronouns to refer to "my" staff. however, perhaps i need to throw a leash around my own labrador personality (please, please, please like me) and get a little pit bull when i feel some indigestion coming on.

my solution is to dye my hair grey, bake some wrinkles into my skin, and eat bon bons until a nicely shaped "mom butt" develops. at which point i will start wearing pink floral skirts with elastic waistbands, and perhaps then i will be recognized as an "authority", or mistaken for an elementary school teacher. of course i did run into community based services' art therapist in the clearance section at target. she was buying pyjamas. to wear to work. everyone LOVES her.

how big is your fishbowl?

i would kill myself if i were a fish (a pet 'won at a local fair by throwing rings at things' fish, not the 'roaming in the big blue murk' fish) although the options are fairly limited as you cant drown/hang/shoot yourself- maybe impalement by castle turret or knocked unconcious by repeatedly butting into the treasure chest? i am obviously projecting the hell out of this by ruminating on my own fear of being trapped in a 'fish tank' with no way out. its not like i can book a flight on expedia and take a visit to another glass prison.

thank god for the internet and credit cards.