test test test
That may be my favorite title to date.
When I was eighteen my friend Carter had written a bunch of poems at his high school. He went to a fancy prep school where they fostered and encouraged creativity. I went to a Catholic school. Enough said.
Carter was not in the drama club, didn’t own a black piece of clothing, and would be described as “very masculine.” I went through his poems. They were damned good.
I nearly died today.
Okay – that’s a little dramatic. No, it’s actually very dramatic.
But I did almost injure myself.
I was getting ready for work which entails me putting on my workout clothes, packing my business suit in the pannier, strapping it to the bike, grabbing my dog, putting her sweater on and placing her in the dog backpack, loading the backpack on my back, setting my phone in the armband holder, tightening the seal on my earbuds, and donning the bike helmet and sunglasses. It’s a whole thing.
Bacon is the most delicious food on the planet, but causes mild hallucinations.
I woke up on Sunday and tried to figure out what to do with my day. Should I break my eighteen year streak of not making church service? As a true competitor I have a record to maintain. Look, it’s true that when I get to church (read: going to somebody’s wedding) I do feel better. But you know what also makes me feel better? Meet the Press and an omelette.
For the past year (abouts) I’ve been blogging regularly. I’d like to talk about what has changed for me. Please indulge.
This time last year I attended a party thrown by my friend for his girlfriend Kelly. She’s an actress and was heading off to NYC to try to do the professional acting thing. Her plan was to give it a year. I wrote about anger yesterday and it reminded me that at that party I felt a low-level anger toward Kelly.
I made both a strategic and tactical error recently.
The interesting part of both of these mistakes is that they were accidental and unnoticed. The first instance happened at the grocery this weekend. Like a mother of four I now take weekly trips to the supermarket. Mostly to get more yogurt. Instead of buying only five at a time, I should purchase thirty. This is akin my desire to own thirty pairs of boxer briefs. It’s just good planning.
If you’re not familiar with BlogHer it’s the largest female blogging conference in the country. Over five thousand birds (I love to call women “birds”) made their way to NYC for the three-day event. Aside from over a hundred speakers, we had the President do an address, Martha Stewart, Katie Couric, and Soledad O’Brien. It was kind of a big deal blogging weekend.
I realized I haven’t done one of these in over eight months!
If you’re not familiar with my series “Paris-Ochial,†these are tales of my time at a Catholic high school as a Protestant.
I think maybe twice during high school they made us go to confession. This was a new concept for me. Sure I had seen confessions in action movies, but it was always the protagonist confessing a sin to a shadowed priest in a darkened booth with that sliding cheese grater wall thing. But then the priest would say something, and the hero would recognize the voice. It was the bad guy trying to kill him! A shootout would happen next and holy water would spill.
My sister and I passed a whorehouse on the way to Peoria.
It’s called Uncle Bernie’s Special House of Massage and we saw a huge billboard for it on the side of the highway.
Note – I removed the actual name as to not give them any publicity or chance to send a nasty legal threat.
I remember a handful of times going to fried chicken restaurants as a child. Over the years I had it at birthday parties and other friends’ houses. The thing is – I don’t remember liking it all that much. The drumsticks are great, but every other part of the fried chicken experience is a five to me.
I'll never give this child another cigarette, pinky swears!
