2010: Year ender

2010 Year-ender

We’re going to be shifting the focus here, folks.  I can only wait so long for idiots to be idiots and pour out their moogly into the mostly yellow media something noteworthy of my blogging time, yet in the meantime, a girl’s gotta write.  So this blog (along with many upcoming) will just be that till I can get my act together and put together a different blog (linked here, of course) that can keep my random thoughts separate from those media debacles that I surmise deserve your attention.  *Prepares to enter in her own thoughts, ideas, commentary on whatever the hell she feels like writing about here.* 

Read at your own risk, I say.  You may be amused.  Or may be irritated.  Or may be even perplexed.  But hopefully, at least after I get my footing, you won’t be bored…

As I sit here sipping my Jai Alai (beer found only here in the Tampa area…sorry, Swedish folk who wanted some…it’s all mine now because I’m smart enough not to live in the frozen lands where you can’t get any), waiting not-so-patiently for a world-famous, Eric-made espresso martini (apparently he’s taking a little nap-break…or at least that’s what we’re calling it now), I realize a rather important fact about the year 2010. 

This year kind of sucked.

-Watched a sibling die of cancer…brain cancer, no less.  You really don’t know fun until you have to introduce yourself to your eldest brother, only to find out that while he may not know your name, somehow in his head, he has turned you into his savior from the hospice.  Your visits facilitate his packing of his very meager belongings (as well as the belongings of many other residents, nursing staff, etc) so that “we can get outta here as quick as possible”.  Telling that sib that he isn’t going anywhere evoked a rather…negative response, which in turn resulted in a new style of driving—the sob and speed. 

It’s painful to struggle through the aftermath of each visit, hoping that next time he will A) remember who the fuck you really are, B) realize the only way he is leaving is at the end of his game, and C) know how to spell his own name so you don’t have to spell it for him so that he can find his own room and not want to move to the “Soviet Room North”. (Never did figure out where the Soviet Room South was.)  None of the alphabet ever came to fruition, though eventually, the tumors took over enough of his brain that he lacked consciousness, which meant that A, B, and C were a moot point anyway…a curse and a blessing.  (I remembered getting into a serious panic because I couldn’t remember what color his eyes were, knowing full well I would never know at least not from looking into them ever again.  Tough.)

In the end, it was my sister and myself, flanked in recliners, listening to and counting the seconds between each wheeze, until the count overcame the breaths enough to call in the staff to pronounce him gone.  I guess in this way, his little sister did help him exit the hospice, at least in some profound, spiritual way.  This occurred in June, though the consumption of my life from his death, at least for me, lasted for many months afterwards.  Perhaps it always will.

-The job had its sucky, dreadful moments, too (in fact, both my mate and I had our share of struggles).  Good thing we have a fantastic collective sense of humor.  It was what got us through the year.  I’d like fairness and decorum to be brought back with the economy.

-Didn’t do much writing this year.  I get that I don’t get a choice now though.  I get that the Universe isn’t letting me off the hook that easy.  But I also get that I don’t have a vision, a mission, or the inner sense of the quest.  I’m not giving up yet.  I guess.  Stay tuned.

But all things said and done, as sucky as this year was and challenging and lacking in amusement, I still have to say I’m thankful.  No.  Not just thankful.  That’s such a weak word.  Grateful.  Deeply so.  Here’s why…

I am married to my best friend.  Lord knows, we’ve had our challenges, but that friendship has kept us together all these years and will continue to do so until we check out of this Hotel California, skipping hand in hand in a tandem diving event in our not-so-near future.

I have, hands down, the best family ever.  My daughter is the most thoughtful, fun, loving, family-oriented, devoted loyal person on the planet, and my son is my Zen, the mellow to my freaking out, the guy that can talk me off just about any ledge (and believe me, if there’s a ledge on the planet, I’ve found it this year!)  I have a new bestest friend I call my sister, and her family has become some of the most beloved people I have ever know.  My surviving brother has completely re-engaged our family, and we’re all finding out what an incredible guy he has become over the years.  My parents are working hard to stay connected, to remind me that I am loved and that I matter, that we all matter.  Extended family—I’m with cousins and aunt and uncle right now in Florida—who embrace me like their own.  (They all do, actually, not just the Florida folks.)  I have always been made to feel like part of them all.

            Sidebar:  I love a typical discussion that goes like this:

            Nicole: Hey, Rochelle, it’s only going to be 65 tomorrow in Tallahassee.

            Me:  It’s only going to be 65?

            Nicole: Yeah, only 65.

I need to move here.  Pronto.  *Writes note to self—Make plan to move to Florida before the next winter season.*

I have very few friends, but those few that I have are G O L D E N.  I could not live without them.  I could not exist without them.  You know who you are, and you know that I breathe everyday because of your love, kindness, and devotion.  You are as much my family as if you had been born of the same blood.  Know that I am lucky you have chosen me.  And I am forever marveled and humbled that you have allowed me to choose you.

I have a job.  In an economy where people are struggling, I have a day job.  My hubby has a day job.  We don’t have to be madly in love with what we do to know that our jobs allow us to do what we are in love with doing.  We are fortunate.  I know this and am extremely grateful.

So while this year really sucked, and believe me, it did, it was only a year of my life; and I can do anything for a year…a year that ends tonight at twelve bells (EST for me).  Tomorrow, I start anew.  I start by setting the goals for the year.  And barring anything idiotic happening here in Tampa before I write tomorrow’s Moos Report, you—my dearest reader—will be the first to know what those are.  Because everyone knows the only way you make sure that you maintain your focus and drive is through telling everyone you know and allowing them to hold you accountable.  *gulp*

So, yes.  While sucky, I’m very okay with being grateful for 2010.  Next year, though, watch out.  This girl is motivated to move mountains.  It’s gonna be a big ole “M” year.

Happy New Year, kiddies.  May 2011 be as fantastic for you as I just know it will for me.  See you in the morning, after I’ve “polar plunged” into the Gulf…

Put Your Right Foot In...

News has been rather quiet lately.  Oh, some of you know that last week I’d been obsessed with being charged with felony mayhem after having read the bit about the woman who bit off her poor husband’s tongue when he tried to give her a goodnight kiss.  http://www.sheboyganpress.com/article/20101207/SHE0101/101207006/Karen-Lueders-of-Sheboygan-charged-with-biting-husband-s-tongue-off   (My hubby’s expressed his concern over my little obsession, assuring me that if I don’t want a kiss goodnight—or good morning, for that matter—I simply have to say so.  I promised that I would use my words, not my teeth, and I think he’s feeling better about all of it.) 

Anyway, I had this whole picture of me, dressed in my suburbanite turtleneck and mom jeans, sitting next to the babe in bloodied, hardcore biker leather in conversation:

“Whatcha in for,” I’d ask her.

“Murder.  First degree.  Mutherfucker had it comin’.  You?”  She’d respond all second-nature like.  I'd nod my head in acknowledgement.

“Felony Mayhem.”  I’d say with a nonchalant confidence.  And then there’d be some divine light that would shine down from above with a host of heavenly voices singing, and all the hardened criminals would stop what they were doing and bow to me.  You see, it takes a special kind of crazy and some big cahoonies to maim someone.  Especially with your teeth.  (Was that the sound of one of you male readers shuddering?  Sorry, man.  Just breathe.  It’s only a blog.  Well, unless you’re that guy in Sheboygan who has to learn sign language in order to express himself now.  Thank goodness they were only kissing, eh?)  Anyhoo, all those babes with their guns and knives would have a new respect for the woman in the corner with the $125 hairdo and the midline to midline teeth.  I’d henceforth be the nutty bitch you just leave alone in the corner conversing with herself.  Perfect scenario.

Yeah, I was totally consumed with the thought until I realized to actually be charged, I’d have to do the deed, which is out of the question.  I have TMJ issues.  Ripping into someone’s flesh with these choppers ain’t gonna happen.  Most days I’m lucky if I can fit a fork with some food on it in my yap, which means I really can’t open wide enough to do anything worse that one of those yorkie ankle-biter grips (which, I understand, can sting quite a bit, but could hardly be considered a maiming blow—well, unless we’re talking lopping off a finger…but I digress…)

What can I say?  When I realized that the whole felony mayhem charge was out, I got a little depressed.  Too depressed to write about it, that’s for sure.

Then to my excitement (and my good fortune), another news tidbit hit the local wires.  http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1338767/Wisconsin-postman-rounds-nude-cheer-woman-arrested.html  Showing up naked to deliver the mail?  To bring some seasonal cheer to a neighbor?  Lewd and lascivious?  Genius.

Okay, I know what you’re saying.  Krissy, honey, you don’t work for the post office.  No.  No, I don’t.  But it is the family business so there’s a good chance I could weasel myself in somehow.  This little detail wouldn’t be what would stop me from a fun little jail term (and story to tell at Christmas parties once I was finally sprung).

No, much to my own chagrin I realized my hang up would be two-fold.

First, it’s fucking cold out, and we all know that I can’t handle this weather fully bundled in 32 layers.  But no worries; I was determined that this wouldn't stop me.  I can be patient woman when I have to be; it occurred to me that summer will come to the frozen tundra…eventually.  This little kink could be easily ironed out with one scorching, sunny, summer day.

It was my second problem, however, that put the kibosh on my criminally-masterminded plan.  You see, this issue was far too difficult to maneuver and overcome (resulting in the vetoing blow). 

My bod ain’t what it used to be.  Boobs that can be tucked into one’s pants (as if there were even room in there with the voluptuous belly that already resides in the space) cannot be considered the kind of view that supports the idea of “seasonal cheer” (even if the season is a Fourth of July soaked in Miller Lite).  And even though there’re a lot of creative things you can do with duct tape to "spruce things up" a bit (or so I hear), removal of said tape is supposedly quite…excruciating…

AUGH, back to the drawing board...and to waiting for some stoopidhead to do some wacky, noteworthy trick caught on tape.  Hmph…

However, in a sincere effort to shake my little emotional downturn, instead of commenting today on some lame news item, I thought I would put out a public service announcement instead.

You know how you’re driving along and you always see that one shoe sitting at the side/in the middle of the road/highway?  You.  You know who you are.  If you keep your laces tight and pull your right leg out of the open window and put in back on the floor of the car, your shoe can’t get blown off your foot and become fodder for all of us folks wondering how that one shoe got there.  It’s a distraction to proper driving.  Be considerate of those of us who keep both shoes on, please.  Thank you.  This public service announcement is brought to you by Moos at Eleven…

Okay, newsworthy cuckoos…waiting for your next moooooove.

Perking Up my Morning

http://www.ottawacitizen.com/life/Porn/3864694/story.html

I’m going to step out onto the proverbial ledge and say that if you’ve had enough caffeine to consider the beverage you’re drinking to be “porn in a cup” it’s time to say when.

What the heck does that mean anyway?  “Porn in a cup”?  When (IF) you get through ten shots of espresso, is there some naked pic waiting for you?  Or is it that after those ten shots you only hallucinate the nudie at the bottom of the cup?

And what’s the story with the age limit?  Clearly this guy hasn’t met a bonafide professional java drinker.  My 79 year-old, full-blooded Swede father could drink this 37 year-old douche under the table with hardly an effort…at 11:00pm…with a tennis game scheduled for 7:00 the next morning...that he’d be a half-hour early for...(Okay, that last part is a lie.  My father will be late for his own funeral, but that has nothing to do with the coffee he drank the night before and everything to do with his apparent need to be perpetually late everywhere he goes.)

Here’s the thing.  I’m not against espresso porn.  *holds up right hand, placing left hand on pile* I swear on a stack of happy, wrestling puppies.  (Hey, I say whatever floats your cup.)  But while I like my coffee as much as my Swedish heritage dictates, I will admit a tremendous weakness when it comes to over-caffeination.  Too much gives me the quivers...

Oooooooohhhhh…

Now, I get it.

Hmm.  Gotta run and get to bed now so I can get up a few minutes earlier.  I think I hear Alterra calling me to make a stop on the way into work tomorrow morning.  Hey!  I'm a scientist at heart, and any good science nerd will tell you that empirical evidence is god.  Let you know how things go…

maybe…

or not.

Don't Shoot the Messenger

Dude, I didn’t like her dancing either.  But I did learn object permanence as a child.  Shoot your TV and all that happens (among other things, say, arrest and a major adjustment of your bipolar meds) is that you break your TV.  Probably permanently.  Bristol the Pistol Palin will still exist and will still be cutting a rug in the finals of “Dancing with the Stars”.

Look, I completely agree with you, man.  Bristol Palin can’t dance.  At all.  She doesn’t even look like she’s trying or that she remotely likes what she’s doing.  (Although in her defense, who likes doing something they suck at?)  And those making the argument that she’s improved over the season is like saying that as Castro has aged he’s become kinder (course in terms of dictatorship, unlike Palin and dancing, Fidel is a diabolical master so perhaps this isn’t the best of analogies…my apologies).  

Regardless, when your mama is the queen of folksy rhetoric, you betcha don’t need no dancing feet, kiddo.  You can bank on your last name, the fact that you’re being a “good girl” (now, anyway, well, minus the stilted, albeit dirty, naughtiness you’ve been attempting to portray in the skimpy outfits on the show), and just know your mama's political following will keep you in the running. 

And not to bring up a sore subject for The Pistol, but I've got to wonder if there’s a real reason for her extra poundage as the season progressed (when all the other dancers have actually lost weight)?  No.  No, no, no, that can’t be right.  She’s pledged abstinence.  And we know she’s as great at keeping her knees together as she is at dancing so...

The fact is it’s a moot point anyway.  Talent doesn’t matter in a popularity contest, Mr. Cowen.  The people ditched Brandy, a far more skillful dancer, in favor of a stiffer, clearly more uncomfortable Palin, which no doubt was greatly upsetting to you as you probably misunderstood and thought this was a dancing competition.  Who could blame you for taking out your own television?

So curiosity gets the best of me here.  Were you trying to take out Palin?  Huh.  If so, which one?  Mama Palin (ooo, confusing) with her perfectly plasticized coif (clearer?) who had her butt firmly planted in an audience chair?  Or Mama Palin (keeping with the theme) with her perfectly plasticized coif (yeah, not so much clearer), who pretended she had a clue about dancing?  Either way, apparently you’re not into tea…

Here’s a tip, in the event the police release you before next week’s season finale, my friend.  Find yourself a K-4 instructor to help you work with the idea that just because your TV goes away, doesn’t mean the girl on the set does.  I’d hate for you to take out the big screen in your local bar in an attempt to stop Bristol from winning the whole damned thing.  Wrecks the bar experience for your fellow patrons, not to mention that they’ll put you away for a very long time for that kind of crazy shit.

Yeah, right now I’m feeling mighty proud to be from the same great state of Wisconsin as you, Steve.  Oh, and can you please remember, your meds only work if you take them properly...

http://www.radaronline.com/exclusives/2010/11/new-details-man-upset-with-bristol-palins-dancing-shoots-tv-leading-swat-standoff