Random Roadside Signs

I am so grateful to the person who invented those make-your-own sign kits for stores and restaurants, as I find them endlessly entertaining ...

I have this fantastic mental image of Holly trying

 to suck a cheese curd through a straw.

Do you suppose the Milk Gal looks like the St. Pauli Girl, 

except she's carrying two jugs of milk?

(And WTF happened to the price of gas?!)

I view the world through the lens of

Free to Be You and Me,

so my ethnic pejorative knee-jerk reaction is flaring up.

I hear the sandwich's a tasty one, though. 

If I were the manager, the sign would say:

We're Bringin' Mexi Back!

Stranger in a Strange Land

The part of the city where I work is not the part where I live, and sometimes I feel like I don't quite fit with the locals in that neck of the woods. 

For example ...

At 3:22 today I was about six blocks from work, in the left-turn lane, waiting for that blasted little arrow to turn green. I noticed that the car ahead of me had a decal in the rear window. 

It read: Badass Girlz Drive Badass Toys. 

The car? A Toyota Corolla. Yep. I know. Totally badass.

As the light was taking forever to change, I had some free time on my hands to ponder the situation. 

My Thoughts:

•  Shouldn't it read Badass Girlz Drive Badass Toyz  (or Badass Girls Drive Badass Toys)? Seriously, if you're gonna eschew tradition and signify the plural form of a noun with a z instead of an s, you should consistently adhere to your own rule, no? You don't hear Elmer Fudd correctly pronouncing his r's from time to time; no, it's "Wascal Wabbit" every damn time. No exceptions. That guy's as dedicated as De Niro, and we all respect him for that. 

•  I'm all for gender equity, but this decal is so obviously a rip-off of the more commonly seen Badass Boyz Drive Badass Toyz, without the inherent charm of its predecessor's rhyming couplet format. Sequels are never as good as the original (exception: The Empire Strikes Back), and, Ladies, we deserve better than a shoddy sequel of a window cling. Dammit, if I want to tout my car's badassness to the masses, I deserve to do so in rhyme too. And in an original rhyme at that. I am shocked to find myself so blatantly discriminated against in this day and age. Things would be SO different right now if Hillary had won. 

•  Again, badass? On a Corolla? Is that supposed to be ironic or something?

The green arrow appeared - fleetingly. It only lit up long enough for the cars in line ahead of Badass Corolla and me, so we were stuck there together through another cycle. I was pretty well tapped out on judgmental thoughts about her, but, being where I was, another show pulled in line behind me. And this one had audio.

Actually, I felt the presence of the car behind me before I was even aware that I was hearing anything. It was some non-descript Chevy sedan, driven by a teenage boy who had, apparently, discovered the secret location of the volume and bass controls on his stereo. It was all bass. Entirely bass. Treble need not apply. Only bass. 

I sensed an odd fluttering in my lungs and bowels as the Chevy pulled up behind me. My eardrums started pushing in and out with each pulse of the bass, and I wished I had some gum to chew to help them pop. 

I assume what Mr. Big Audio Dynamite was playing was music, but with only the bass audible, it really just seemed like a series of low-frequency pulses being sent down through the earth. Perhaps he was calling out to a herd of far-off elephants. Or searching for oil deposits. I duuno. I was just trying to get home from work. 

I've always taken issue with the whole play-the-car-stereo-excessively-loud thing. It demonstrates such an odd combination of not giving a crap what other people think while simultaneously seeking their attention. Desperately. 

I could see Mr. Big Audio Dynamite in my rearview mirror, and he had that smug expression on his face. He was stickin' it to all of us and our stoopid rules. He'd had to behave at school the whole damn day, and now he was showing the world who was boss.  

And everyone at the intersection - the elderly couple in the car next to me, the middle school girls crossing at the light, the dog tied up in the neighbor's backyard  - had the same expression on their faces - the one that says: That is just so sad. 

Finally, the arrow lit up green again, and we all went on our way.

You don't suppose Badass Corolla and Big Audio Dynamite are out there somewhere, blogging about that judgmental-looking woman listening to MPR in her practical German sedan, do you?

Double Time

At the exact same spot on the road - where I turn off Sunset Drive and onto 109th - during my drive to work this morning and then again on the way home, the same song played on the radio: "Bad Day", and, though I did sing along with great emotion both times, I would by no means describe this particular day as having been a bad one.

I Feel Giddy. Oh, So Giddy.

Even though my day started out a bit rough (stomach flu, day two - the pain is gone, but the malaise lingers ..), and I spent most of the morning hours sitting comatose on the sofa, two things happened later in the day that gave me a nice hit of giddiness, which was just what the doctor ordered.

Moment Of Giddiness #1: When I finally did snap out of my funk, I was overcome with the desire to engage in a bit 'o my favorite flavor of spring cleaning - the windows. It's not that I enjoy the process of cleaning them per se (though seeing all that grime on the paper towel is oddly satisfying), it is the end product that fills me with delight. 

Oh, how I love a clean window. 

I get this primal pleasure out of seeing not a single doggie nose smudge, toddler hand print, or rain splotch sullying the sparkly perfection of the glass. Few things in life are cooler to me than that moment when the light comes pouring in and seems so much brighter and happier. I know that I have accomplished something. I know that I have made the world a better place. Yes, all things are possible when my windows are clean. 

Moment of Giddiness #2: Ice out. Two simple little words that say so, so much. 

I have been ready to kick winter to the curb for some time now, and having a couple square miles of ice sheet in close proximity to my home has been a nagging reminder that winter still hadn't gotten the message, packed up its CD's, and stopped calling me already.

This afternoon, as I drove by the lake, I saw it: water, water everywhere! I literally felt a surge of happiness in my heart. Seriously, the joy I felt at seeing that ice-free lake was palpable. I sat up straighter and thought for a moment that my chest just might burst open, shooting little pink soap bubbles and glitter confetti all over the damn place. It was like falling in love. Or having the first bite of a really good cheeseburger. 

Ah, the wonderful optimism that is spring, when a little sunshine, clean windows, and an ice-free lake are all it takes to reassure me that great things are not only possible, but waiting just around the corner.

The Little Things Mean a Lot

Let it be noted that at 9:00 PM on Sunday, I toyed with the idea of calling in for a Monday sub just 'cause I felt like I needed "a day". I didn't do it. But the pile of little things that grew into a big stack of baggage on my shoulders after that made me wish - over and over again - that I had.

Sunday, 9:45 PM, Thing #1 appears:  According to the Self magazine online quiz, I am overweight. Only by three pounds, mind you, but still. Ouch.

Monday, 6:00 AM, Thing #2 rears its ugly head:  In a fit of industriousness, I moved the fridge and cleaned under it Sunday afternoon. Felt fine at the time, but this morning the folly of my actions became evident. Large doses of Tylenol were required. And I mean kidney-damagingly large.

Monday, 7:02 AM, Here comes thing #3, Folks: I nearly ran over my neighbor and his dog as I pulled out of the driveway this morning. I was looking down the street for oncoming cars instead of directly behind me, which is where they were. Now I feel dumb. And potentially dangerous. Worst part: He's one of those chatty older guys who will probably go all paternal and use the tone on me next time our paths cross. And I'll have to fake maturity and comfort while politely acknowledging my mistake. I suck at that. (Granted, it would be worse to confront a jury of my peers had I actually run the guy over, but that's not really my point here.)

Monday, 11:55 AM, Ladies and Gentlemen, meet thing #4:  My para is in Vegas for the week, and her sub is about 150 years old. I'm in no mood to talk to anyone, which explains my day's lesson plan, but feel enormous pressure to entertain this woman. Unfortunately, I got plenty 'o nothin', so the hour ends with me feeling like a bad hostess. I didn't even offer her a beverage. And she's coming back tomorrow. 

Monday, 1:48 PM, A priest, a rabbi, and thing #5 walk into a bar:  A colleague made a crack about how I don't understand the importance of schlepping my kid to the Sears Portrait Studio every three months because I adopted a toddler. "Oh, well, when they're BABIES, they change so fast." Yes, I never had the baby experience - doesn't mean I'm not a real mom. Doesn't mean my child doesn't grow and change in amazing ways every day. And maybe I wouldn't have chosen to buy into the portraiture cult in any case, since I think they're overpriced and unnecessary. And kinda tacky. Of course, I say none of this. I grin. I bear it. I curse my parents for raising me to be so damed polite.

Monday, 2:11 PM, Wow, thing #6 sure got here in a hurry: I can't even write the details here, but, those of you who know me, ask me about it in person. Use the code word darkness to ask. I will look around furtively to see if the coast's clear before I divulge the information. It involves another colleague. And it's both infuriating and AWK-ward!

Monday, 3:44 PM, And then there's thing #7: I'm driving home in a complete funk. It's cloudy and grey for the fifteenth day in a row. I am fat, crabby, and a bit misanthropic, so I decide to turn on the radio. There he is: Beck, and he's singing just for me, "In the time of chimpanzees, I was a monkey ...." I brace myself for the inevitable lyrics, "Sooooy un perdedor. I'm a loser, baby, so why don't you kill me?" I decide to smile and sing along. Real loud-like.

New Emoticon Discovered

So, what should we name it?

Those Beans Don't Scan, Sheila!

I needed to go on a decongestant and low-fat ice cream run during work hours today and, since the nearest place that stocks both these items is CVS, I ended up there. 

Driving time from work to CVS: 2 minutes

Picking out items time: 3 minutes

Standing in line while the one person ahead of me was paying time: 7 minutes!

Listening to cursing under breath from old guy behind me in line time: 4 minutes

Wondering why it took seven minutes long for one person to check out? 

Let me walk you through it.

The lady in front of me was buying six small bags of jelly beans. (Why she didn't just buy one big, inexpensive bag of jelly beans and divvy it up at home, I have no idea. That's her biz.) Anyhow, the cashier couldn't get the scanner to "read" the jelly beans. After fumbling around at it a bit, the cashier got on the PA, "Sheila to the front, please." 

"Thank God. Sheila's on her way. Sheila'll make it all better," I think to myself. (Who else would I be thinking to?)

Sheila, the Honcho on Premises, waddles up to the check out, and the cashier tells her, "I can only get one of them to scan."

What??!!

So, I'm waiting for Honcho Sheila to go crazy on the cashier (whose name I never did catch) and tell her to just push the damn buttons for "times six", since the lady's buying six of the same item.

No dice.

Honcho Sheila makes some attempts at scanning the jelly beans and, when she finds it ain't working, she stomps off. The cashier and customer just stand there, as do I - wondering if there are any other clerks working and if they could pu-leeze open another register so Mr. Swears-Like-A-Sailor and I can get on with our day.

Honcho Sheila comes back with MORE of the un-scannable jelly beans and proceeds to try scanning them. 

"Dammit, Sheila! Those beans don't scan! Go to Plan B! You have keys to the register, don't you?! Use 'em, Sheila! Shit, Girl, that's what they're for!!" I'm screaming in my head, trying to look calm on the outside, as if I'm one of those people who is heavily into yoga or meditation or just really digs hearing "Endless Love" on the piped-in music or something.

Suddenly, Sheila gets one of the bags to scan.

It's an Easter candy miracle!

Two down, four to go, ladies!

We're on our way!

Now, I am getting a wee bit impatient about standing there, swinging my basket of decongestant and low-fat ice cream so it bumps my knees in rhythm to "The Pleasure Principle", which is only barely drowning out the string of cuss words coming from Popeye the Sailor Man behind me, but, I have to admit that I'm also getting a little sucked into the drama of it all. Will Sheila and the cashier lady EVER succeed in scanning six bags of jelly beans? After having invested six minutes into this story, it becomes oddly compelling. 

I was actually a little disappointed when another cashier appeared out of thin air and signaled me over. She rang up my order in about ten seconds. I had the cash in hand. She gave me my change and receipt. No dramatic tension. No story arc. Ho hum.

As I walked through the doors and back out into the world, I glanced over at the first register. Honcho Sheila, the cashier lady, and the customer were all still there, plugging away on the old Scan the Jelly Beans Project. I'll never know how for sure how their story ended, but I hope it ended well. They deserve it after all they've been through.

I committed a moving violation to bring you this picture, 

which isn't even integral to understanding the story 

now that I think of it. 

The F Word

We had a big wind storm go through our neighborhood last fall, and some people who live by the lake had their stone chimney damaged by a branch from a big oak tree that grows right up next to their garage. It took the whole top off the chimney, and, as I drove by the house this winter, I'd notice the blue tarp that had been put over the damaged part until it was warm enough out to fix it.

Well, the warm weather has come, and the homeowners are making some improvements to the property along with getting the chimney fixed.  What is somewhat surprising is what they've done to the tree. Or rather, what they haven't done. Instead of cutting it down because it's in the way of their expansion (or because it thunked one of its big branches down on their chimney - and has plenty more where that came from to toss at them in another storm), they decided to build a new section of their garage and patio AROUND the tree - so it pops up through a specially-built hole in the roof's overhang. This is, in my opinion, a rather impressive act of forgiveness. 

Seeing their willingness to not only forgive but embrace that which has "done-them-wrong" got me thinking about my own ability to forgive. 

My self-assessment upon reflection: I am not a particularly forgiving person. 

I harbor anger, resentment, and petty jealousy about far too many infractions - real and imagined on my part - by friends, family, colleagues, et cetera - to be doing myself any good. And most of what I'm clinging to says more about my own failings than anyone else's.

This can't be healthy. 

I gotta let some stuff go.

So, I'm going to do a little spring cleaning of the soul, and you get to come along for the ride.

I'm not going to name any names, but my hope is that by committing to writing my intentions to forgive these folks - on the internet, no less, where everything is true and real - that I will be better at following through on forgiveness than I have managed to be in the past. 

Here it goes.

I forgive you for talking shit about me. I never heard your exact words, only the interpretations of others long after you'd said them. I'm going to assume that you were coming from a place of concern for me rather than intentionally trying to be mean. I hope you can forgive me for gossiping about you in an extremely seventh-grade moment of retaliation. That was small of me, and even though we're no longer really friends, you deserved better than that.

I forgive you for not being able to read my mind and know exactly what I want/need from you. You're on the mark more often than not, and I need to be better about appreciating that. For someone who doesn't actually live inside my head, you do a mighty fine job. I hope you can forgive my occasional lack of patience. 

I forgive you for succeeding at the things I still struggle with. Rather than feeling resentful of your accomplishments, I should be inspired and motivated by them to improve myself and tackle the tough stuff I've been avoiding. You are a wonderful person. I am proud of you; it just gets buried under far less-appealing feelings sometimes. 

Are there more I need to forgive? Of course. 

But there's only so much mental clutter I can carry to the curb at one time. 

For today, I'm making progress. 

And I forgive myself for not being able to get it all done at once.