It's all just a big old circle, perhaps.
I think in a former life I must have done something really mean to birds, because they don't seem to like me now.
I went to New York City after graduating from high school, and in one afternoon, I was the only person in our group of half a dozen or so to be crapped on by a pigeon. Correction: I was crapped on TWICE by pigeons.
I can't wash the car without a bird abruptly stymying my efforts at vehicular cleanliness.
I'm glad we don't have vultures in Minnesota.
Truth be told, I don't think karma is a real thing, but I do try my darndest to honor the "do unto others" principle as best I can. It's hard sometimes. Really hard. Especially during PMS week.
I figure that it may not always pay to be nice, but it will eventually cost you if you are an asshole. People will see it, and you will be regarded accordingly.
I once stood in a parking lot, eyeing a truck with a bumper sticker that read something like "Learn to speak English or leave!". The occupants of the truck were exiting, pulling items from the cab and exclaiming about how they didn't "have nothing to eat 'cuz nobody got no groceries last night."
I'm sure the irony was lost on them.
I pass a particular car on the freeway with a fair degree of frequency. It boasts one of those intelligently crafted male icon + female icon = marriage bumper stickers.
The vehicle is always driven by a man that is about as physically attractive as a full-face canker sore.
In my perfect karmic afterlife, the Grammar Gang would spend eternity in English Comp., writing and re-writing research papers on the global water supply.
Mr. Homophobe would invest his other-worldly days drawing nude portraits of same-sex lovers entwined in passionate embraces.
Everybody else? They get a lifetime supply of cookie dough ice cream and a slip-n-slide amusement park in their backyard.
That's the way it oughtta be.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
The Fear of Death vs. the Fear of Dying Embarrassingly.
I will admit it. I'm maybe a little, eensy bit over-concerned about my physical self-maintenance. Yeah- that's basically a wordy way of evading the use of the term "vain".
The thought has crossed my mind more than once that while I may be wearing close-toed shoes, if I die and "they" have to put a tag on my toe, it would be really embarrassing if those corpse-toes were poorly manicured.
For real.
Death is a natural process. It's the end to all of our beginnings. It's inevitable.
Sometimes it's a long-awaited respite from suffering; other times it's a horrifically premature tragedy. While I'd rather not know how or when I'll die, I'd at least like to know that I won't die in a manner that makes people snort/chuckle and then slap their hand over their mouth.
I don't want to be remembered as The Woman Who Died Because She Fell Asleep on the Toilet, Tipped Over, and Hit Her Head on the Bathtub Spout (or something like that.)
I once suffered a concussion by passing out and hitting my head on a cash register.
I also suffered a concussion by hitting my head with a tree.
On more than one occasion, I have managed to slam my head in between a car door and the frame.
I cried the first time it happened. The second time I did it I just got very mad at myself.
I have fallen down every set of stairs in my house. That's five, including the outside ones. I've also fallen off the edge of my deck upon forgetting that there were no stairs there.
I either strained or sprained my left ankle by tripping over my big toe.
I had to have my foot X-rayed for broken bones after stabbing it with the end of a prop cane during a performance of "Appointment With Death" in high school. I would like to note that it was an excruciating blow, but I totally did not break character.
I'm pretty certain that I came perilously close to drowning when I tried to use a neti pot last week.
I was nearly strangled by an automatic seat belt in a Ford Tempo during a camping trip in junior high. For this reason, I no longer go camping.
I once lit the wrong end of a cigarette and took a huge drag off of it. It tasted like something that really should have killed me.
I've had moments in my life where things seemed unbearably bad.
I walked through days feeling as though my chest was a fist, clenched so tightly that one-more-bad-thing would cause it to crush itself and crumble.
In a place like that, it feels like you'll die. But you don't. You just to learn to laugh at everything you can, because it loosens the fist.
So maybe if I die from inhaling and choking on a green water balloon, it'll make people laugh when they're terribly sad. That might not be so awful.
If I do pass in such a manner, some distant day, please make certain that my obituary reads: "Lara died in her home. She had impeccably manicured toes."
The thought has crossed my mind more than once that while I may be wearing close-toed shoes, if I die and "they" have to put a tag on my toe, it would be really embarrassing if those corpse-toes were poorly manicured.
For real.
Death is a natural process. It's the end to all of our beginnings. It's inevitable.
Sometimes it's a long-awaited respite from suffering; other times it's a horrifically premature tragedy. While I'd rather not know how or when I'll die, I'd at least like to know that I won't die in a manner that makes people snort/chuckle and then slap their hand over their mouth.
I don't want to be remembered as The Woman Who Died Because She Fell Asleep on the Toilet, Tipped Over, and Hit Her Head on the Bathtub Spout (or something like that.)
I once suffered a concussion by passing out and hitting my head on a cash register.
I also suffered a concussion by hitting my head with a tree.
On more than one occasion, I have managed to slam my head in between a car door and the frame.
I cried the first time it happened. The second time I did it I just got very mad at myself.
I have fallen down every set of stairs in my house. That's five, including the outside ones. I've also fallen off the edge of my deck upon forgetting that there were no stairs there.
I either strained or sprained my left ankle by tripping over my big toe.
I had to have my foot X-rayed for broken bones after stabbing it with the end of a prop cane during a performance of "Appointment With Death" in high school. I would like to note that it was an excruciating blow, but I totally did not break character.
I'm pretty certain that I came perilously close to drowning when I tried to use a neti pot last week.
I was nearly strangled by an automatic seat belt in a Ford Tempo during a camping trip in junior high. For this reason, I no longer go camping.
I once lit the wrong end of a cigarette and took a huge drag off of it. It tasted like something that really should have killed me.
I've had moments in my life where things seemed unbearably bad.
I walked through days feeling as though my chest was a fist, clenched so tightly that one-more-bad-thing would cause it to crush itself and crumble.
In a place like that, it feels like you'll die. But you don't. You just to learn to laugh at everything you can, because it loosens the fist.
So maybe if I die from inhaling and choking on a green water balloon, it'll make people laugh when they're terribly sad. That might not be so awful.
If I do pass in such a manner, some distant day, please make certain that my obituary reads: "Lara died in her home. She had impeccably manicured toes."
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Five Minutes of a Glorious Afternoon.
It was a hot one. A relative scorcher for early May in Minnesota. The sun beat down turning car interiors into saunas and baking the spring sog out of turning lawns.
Jack was reveling in the day. He stood before the spouting stream, took a sip, and stepped back. He moved in again, testing his cold water chops a bit longer before abruptly darting outward. One more venture forth, and he tipped his whole chest into the sparkling, babbling water. The front of his black tee shirt soaked, he ripped it off and flung it to the heavens. He threw his six-year-old body to the ground, reveling in his own half-naked abandon.
The other patients sitting in nearby chairs at the dermatologist’s office looked a mixture of amused and perplexed.
We hadn’t even managed to register yet, and the drinking fountain had already prompted this much trouble. It didn’t improve considerably from that point on- particularly when he burst into another patient's exam room during their consultation, before the nurse or I could catch him...
Jack was reveling in the day. He stood before the spouting stream, took a sip, and stepped back. He moved in again, testing his cold water chops a bit longer before abruptly darting outward. One more venture forth, and he tipped his whole chest into the sparkling, babbling water. The front of his black tee shirt soaked, he ripped it off and flung it to the heavens. He threw his six-year-old body to the ground, reveling in his own half-naked abandon.
The other patients sitting in nearby chairs at the dermatologist’s office looked a mixture of amused and perplexed.
We hadn’t even managed to register yet, and the drinking fountain had already prompted this much trouble. It didn’t improve considerably from that point on- particularly when he burst into another patient's exam room during their consultation, before the nurse or I could catch him...
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
The Epic Fail Annals: Lara Grills.
I have a picture I'd like to share with you. It's on my phone. It's a picture of my grill all fabulously aflame. You probably won't see it because I can't figure out how to get the image from my phone to my computer. I don't have great technical skills. I don't have great skills where grilling is concerned either.
Some backstory: we have a gas grill that Nathaniel uses with regularity. He's pretty good at whipping up steaks for himself and the kids, and my requisite portion of white meat chicken. I once attempted to "get the grill ready" for Nathaniel while he was en route to the house. I even had his phone presence to guide me through the process. My efforts resulted in a disaster that left Nathaniel with temporary facial alopecia. I swore I would never use the gas grill again. He did not argue against my pronouncement.
Fast-forward to today. I wanted to grill. Nathaniel had to work late. I figured I'd be ambitious and haul out the old weber grill. I was pretty certain I'd used it successfully some years ago, and it was safer than that gas-powered bastard.
I was making hot dogs. I had Match Lite charcoal and a lighter. It seemed a relatively foolproof endeavor. Ha. Ha. HAAA.
I pulled the grill a safe distance from the house. I opened the bag of charcoal and stacked
the briquettes in an admirably delicate pyramid. I realized, smartly, that I probably shouldn't directly light the charcoal with the cigarette lighter I had as a catalyst for flame, so I looked around for something dry and brittle to use as tinder.
I found a stick. It wouldn't light. It would burn, but it wouldn't flame. I tried another. Same thing. I found some paper in the yard. It melted. It did not light. I tried a crispy leaf. I burnt my hand, but my grill remained virginally cool. A husky stem from one of last year's mammoth cosmos. No. Nothing. Complete failure. I began to wonder how anyone even started a forest fire in the first place. Ten minutes elapsed and I had failed to light the freaking Match Light charcoal.
I angrily announced to the kids:
"If you are ever lost in the woods with me, we will ALL DIE!"
Noel snickered.
Finally, the grill was lit. I admired the tall, lapping flames. It should be smoothing sailing from there on out, I thought.
Something didn't look right.
There was nowhere to put the food.
After a moment of puzzlement, I realized I had piled and lit the charcoal on the top grate.
I figured I could just pull the grate out quickly, like the old tablecloth trick, without even disturbing the pyramid.
No.
I pulled the grate away, sparks and ash plumed upward, and the entire pile of briquettes tumbled to one side of the bottom grate.
"Okay, I thought, I just need to grab my tongs and tidy the pile."
The tongs weren't long enough to evade the tall flames still dancing up from their ashy pillows.
I looked around, wondering what I could use, and spotted my large garden shovel. I picked it up and proceeded to rearrange the coals, while Noel shouted that I was NOT "supposed to do that with Dad's shovel!"
The coal situation under control, I proceeded to attempt to replace the top grate and accompanying hot dogs. As I lifted the grate, the dogs began to swing from one end of their querulous platform to another, as if executing some sort of cruel, taunting log roll. One fell onto the ground and I cursed it audibly. I replaced the grill cover and went into the house to let the remaining Hebrew Nationals cook.
Ten-or-so minutes later, I returned to check on the hot dogs. They were not even REMOTELY done. Somehow the opening on the grill cover had gotten knocked closed and the whole apparatus had subsequently cooled down. I pushed the hot dogs around rapidly as though that would somehow help the not-really-cooking process along, loudly dropped some derivation of the F-bomb, looked up to realize an elderly pedestrian was staring at me, and then darted into the house.
I did eventually manage to heat them to an acceptable temperature, but the hot dogs did not develop crispy skins or juicy middles, and by the time they were "done", Noel had begun asking if we could just have beans for dinner.
Long story short: Lara can't grill, but she can screw up the process like no one else. It's good to be exceptional.
Some backstory: we have a gas grill that Nathaniel uses with regularity. He's pretty good at whipping up steaks for himself and the kids, and my requisite portion of white meat chicken. I once attempted to "get the grill ready" for Nathaniel while he was en route to the house. I even had his phone presence to guide me through the process. My efforts resulted in a disaster that left Nathaniel with temporary facial alopecia. I swore I would never use the gas grill again. He did not argue against my pronouncement.
Fast-forward to today. I wanted to grill. Nathaniel had to work late. I figured I'd be ambitious and haul out the old weber grill. I was pretty certain I'd used it successfully some years ago, and it was safer than that gas-powered bastard.
I was making hot dogs. I had Match Lite charcoal and a lighter. It seemed a relatively foolproof endeavor. Ha. Ha. HAAA.
I pulled the grill a safe distance from the house. I opened the bag of charcoal and stacked
the briquettes in an admirably delicate pyramid. I realized, smartly, that I probably shouldn't directly light the charcoal with the cigarette lighter I had as a catalyst for flame, so I looked around for something dry and brittle to use as tinder.
I found a stick. It wouldn't light. It would burn, but it wouldn't flame. I tried another. Same thing. I found some paper in the yard. It melted. It did not light. I tried a crispy leaf. I burnt my hand, but my grill remained virginally cool. A husky stem from one of last year's mammoth cosmos. No. Nothing. Complete failure. I began to wonder how anyone even started a forest fire in the first place. Ten minutes elapsed and I had failed to light the freaking Match Light charcoal.
I angrily announced to the kids:
"If you are ever lost in the woods with me, we will ALL DIE!"
Noel snickered.
Finally, the grill was lit. I admired the tall, lapping flames. It should be smoothing sailing from there on out, I thought.
Something didn't look right.
There was nowhere to put the food.
After a moment of puzzlement, I realized I had piled and lit the charcoal on the top grate.
I figured I could just pull the grate out quickly, like the old tablecloth trick, without even disturbing the pyramid.
No.
I pulled the grate away, sparks and ash plumed upward, and the entire pile of briquettes tumbled to one side of the bottom grate.
"Okay, I thought, I just need to grab my tongs and tidy the pile."
The tongs weren't long enough to evade the tall flames still dancing up from their ashy pillows.
I looked around, wondering what I could use, and spotted my large garden shovel. I picked it up and proceeded to rearrange the coals, while Noel shouted that I was NOT "supposed to do that with Dad's shovel!"
The coal situation under control, I proceeded to attempt to replace the top grate and accompanying hot dogs. As I lifted the grate, the dogs began to swing from one end of their querulous platform to another, as if executing some sort of cruel, taunting log roll. One fell onto the ground and I cursed it audibly. I replaced the grill cover and went into the house to let the remaining Hebrew Nationals cook.
Ten-or-so minutes later, I returned to check on the hot dogs. They were not even REMOTELY done. Somehow the opening on the grill cover had gotten knocked closed and the whole apparatus had subsequently cooled down. I pushed the hot dogs around rapidly as though that would somehow help the not-really-cooking process along, loudly dropped some derivation of the F-bomb, looked up to realize an elderly pedestrian was staring at me, and then darted into the house.
I did eventually manage to heat them to an acceptable temperature, but the hot dogs did not develop crispy skins or juicy middles, and by the time they were "done", Noel had begun asking if we could just have beans for dinner.
Long story short: Lara can't grill, but she can screw up the process like no one else. It's good to be exceptional.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
The Top Ten Reasons I will Never Be a "Hipster"...
....for better or worse.
10. I get far too excited over coupons. I recently responded to a snail mail consumer survey which promised some particularly exceptional ones in return for my efforts and opinions. I eventually received a coupon for a large sum of change off the purchase of a box of Dulcolax. As I hadn't indicated any issues with constipation, I'm uncertain why I was targeted for this particular offer of savings. Or maybe that's the jig...
9. I don't eat sushi, but I do eat fruit roll-ups. Apparently this isn't a parallel distinction of sophistication. Whatever. The strawberry ones are still as good now as they were when I was seven. Not many things in life are like that.
8. I don't have any skinny jeans and I've an insufficient store of angst. I might be able to consume a significant quantity of wine and work myself into a frenzy over U.S.-Cuba relations, air pollution, and my lack of spirituality, in order to simulate some degree of existentialist drama.
7. The only country outside the U.S. that I've visited is Canada, and my cultural exposure there was limited to my experiences with other patrons of the Thunder Bay Mall and the guests and staff at my hotel.
6. I do not play or have knowledge of a trendy instrument. I can perform a vague rendition of "Little Drummer Boy" on a keyboard or "Smells Like Teen Spirit" on a viola, but that is about the extent of my musical aptitude. I should note that I am above average at whistling.
5. I don't own any ironic t-shirts. Since the Republicans are predominantly out of office, I don't even own any politically offensive ones anymore. I really should work out a Bachmann tee, but she's almost so easy to mock that it takes some of the fun out of it. If I did make one, it would be screen-printed with a houndstooth pattern.
4. I am woefully ill-informed on a broad range of "underground" bands. I had time to keep up with this type of info when I was a teenager and divided my efforts between learning stuff, working at the drug store, and smoking, but now I have to sleep and work and clean up children's puke all the time. Sorry uber-cool punk bands- I'd love to know ya'.
3. I have begun to talk at length about my and others' present or previous health afflictions. I thought you weren't supposed to be inclined to do that until at least your mid-forties.
"Thirty is the new twenty", my ass.*
2. During the recent salmonella scare, I did not run to whole foods and buy organic peanut butter. That not only makes me insufficient material for hipster-dom, but a horrible human being in general. If you don't have to stir your peanut butter, you are probably trying to kill everyone in your household. Even Michelle Bachmann knows that.
1. I have not posted an anti-mass media diatribe anywhere on the internet in at least two months. I have, however, mocked several television news personalities in the presence of some acquaintances. Some (possibly most) of the mocking had to do with "Stupid Al Roker and his Smuckers jam," so it wasn't necessarily legitimate, hard-core criticism, but I think it should count for something.
*Get off my lawn.
10. I get far too excited over coupons. I recently responded to a snail mail consumer survey which promised some particularly exceptional ones in return for my efforts and opinions. I eventually received a coupon for a large sum of change off the purchase of a box of Dulcolax. As I hadn't indicated any issues with constipation, I'm uncertain why I was targeted for this particular offer of savings. Or maybe that's the jig...
9. I don't eat sushi, but I do eat fruit roll-ups. Apparently this isn't a parallel distinction of sophistication. Whatever. The strawberry ones are still as good now as they were when I was seven. Not many things in life are like that.
8. I don't have any skinny jeans and I've an insufficient store of angst. I might be able to consume a significant quantity of wine and work myself into a frenzy over U.S.-Cuba relations, air pollution, and my lack of spirituality, in order to simulate some degree of existentialist drama.
7. The only country outside the U.S. that I've visited is Canada, and my cultural exposure there was limited to my experiences with other patrons of the Thunder Bay Mall and the guests and staff at my hotel.
6. I do not play or have knowledge of a trendy instrument. I can perform a vague rendition of "Little Drummer Boy" on a keyboard or "Smells Like Teen Spirit" on a viola, but that is about the extent of my musical aptitude. I should note that I am above average at whistling.
5. I don't own any ironic t-shirts. Since the Republicans are predominantly out of office, I don't even own any politically offensive ones anymore. I really should work out a Bachmann tee, but she's almost so easy to mock that it takes some of the fun out of it. If I did make one, it would be screen-printed with a houndstooth pattern.
4. I am woefully ill-informed on a broad range of "underground" bands. I had time to keep up with this type of info when I was a teenager and divided my efforts between learning stuff, working at the drug store, and smoking, but now I have to sleep and work and clean up children's puke all the time. Sorry uber-cool punk bands- I'd love to know ya'.
3. I have begun to talk at length about my and others' present or previous health afflictions. I thought you weren't supposed to be inclined to do that until at least your mid-forties.
"Thirty is the new twenty", my ass.*
2. During the recent salmonella scare, I did not run to whole foods and buy organic peanut butter. That not only makes me insufficient material for hipster-dom, but a horrible human being in general. If you don't have to stir your peanut butter, you are probably trying to kill everyone in your household. Even Michelle Bachmann knows that.
1. I have not posted an anti-mass media diatribe anywhere on the internet in at least two months. I have, however, mocked several television news personalities in the presence of some acquaintances. Some (possibly most) of the mocking had to do with "Stupid Al Roker and his Smuckers jam," so it wasn't necessarily legitimate, hard-core criticism, but I think it should count for something.
*Get off my lawn.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
He won't call me mama, but he sniffs my hair.
Sometimes the realizations of Jack's innermost thoughts and feelings are manifest in ways that require some really creative translation.
He missed me today and I could tell, because the first thing he did after body slamming me when he got off the bus was to grab a tangled wad of my curls, press it against his face, and inhale deeply. I suppose comfort smells like Pantene to him.
Sophie told me I'm a very "'telligent Mom", and Noel didn't entirely roll his eyes at the comment, so I'll take that as a double compliment.
Were it not for the fact that I fell off the deck trying to step onto a folding chair, absent-mindedly put on a shirt that had deodorant marks all over the sides, went outside in it, and did yardwork for half an hour, and am pretty certain the neighbors saw me riding my seven-year-old's very small "princess" bike up the alley because I was too lazy to walk it back to the garage, I could almost feel like a real winner...
He missed me today and I could tell, because the first thing he did after body slamming me when he got off the bus was to grab a tangled wad of my curls, press it against his face, and inhale deeply. I suppose comfort smells like Pantene to him.
Sophie told me I'm a very "'telligent Mom", and Noel didn't entirely roll his eyes at the comment, so I'll take that as a double compliment.
Were it not for the fact that I fell off the deck trying to step onto a folding chair, absent-mindedly put on a shirt that had deodorant marks all over the sides, went outside in it, and did yardwork for half an hour, and am pretty certain the neighbors saw me riding my seven-year-old's very small "princess" bike up the alley because I was too lazy to walk it back to the garage, I could almost feel like a real winner...
Thursday, April 16, 2009
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