In this time of impending VD and on this, my second day of being thirty-eight, I have decided to reach back into the annals of 2010 and share a story with you. It's not quite a tale of love unrequited. Heretofore untold because, well, it's hard to fit everything in when you only blog twice a month.
It happened on a Thursday morn. I specifically remember that because the night before had been a Wednesday, and I haven't slept through an entire day since the 90's. As I trudged out to the car, my mindless morning routine was interrupted when I noticed a piece of paper on my windshield.
Quickly unfolding the loosened leaf, I read the words written in blue ink. It began, "Saw you at Kroger last night." Then came the three words every guy wants to hear (well, besides "you are hilarious"):
"You are hot."
That was followed by a phone number.
Call me old-fashioned, but is this what we've come to now? Leaving notes on cars? Whatever happened to traditional methods of meeting people, like picking up a girl in a chat room, or filling out a two-hour questionnaire and paying a monthly fee to join a dating site? Next thing you know, people will be just bumping into each other in public and striking up a conversation. And I can assure you, I am so not ready for that.
But seriously. I'm not sure what your impression of me as a love conquistador is, nor do I probably want to know. But things like this do not happen to me every day. Perhaps when I was younger. OK, so not very often then either. The closest thing I can remember was walking across the mall parking lot towards Taco Bell one day when some girls rode by and yelled, "Hubba hubba!" I wasn't sure what that meant, but I took it as a compliment and had a chicken MexiMelt.
And so a smile broke across my face as I tried to recall the previous evening at Kroger and who could have possibly left the note. I distinctly remembered an attractive girl in the sandwich meats. She was at the checkout as I was walking out, so I gave her the glance-and-smile. Of course, there was also a guy in a red shirt with a carry-cart who I oddly seemed to run into on every aisle.
I must have encountered ten or fifteen customers that evening, not to mention the employees. There was no way to know which of them had apparently waited for me in the parking lot, followed me home, then came back after I went inside and left a note on my windshield. What? It's only stalking if she's not hot and/or she's crazy.
Almost as quickly, it occurred to me that this might all be a joke. Maybe someone I knew had seen me at Kroger, tried to get my attention but I didn't see them, so they decided to have a little fun.
There was only one way to find out -- ask everyone I know who could possibly have seen me at Kroger that night. Or call the number. OK, so two ways.
I contacted everyone I could think of who both know where I live and might have been in the area. None of them had done it. Heck, half of them thought I was joking.
From there, my thoughts on who might have left the note pretty much ran the gamut. What if it turned out to be a really young girl who thought I was much younger than I am? What an awkward call that would be. Or what if it was a much older woman? There's no way that's gonna work. Do you have any idea how immature I am? Don't answer that.
The next couple of times I went to Kroger, I would look into the faces of the people I passed to see if any of them looked familiar, but none did. With each semi-attractive female I encountered, there was a feeling of "could that be her?" I think over time, my mind decided to fill in the blanks and convinced itself that sandwich-meat-girl was the one who had left the note. I thought of her often during those late October days. And then, not as much.
I even had someone offer to call the number for me just to see who answered, but I declined. If our paths were meant to cross again, I would leave it entirely up to fate.
That's been about four months ago now. So I think we can safely deduce that it was most likely not a joke.
I'm also willing to allow that it's possible I rely on serendipity a tad too much.
"May have lost this battle. Live to fight another day. Don't be fallin' in love as she's walking away..."
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Thursday, February 03, 2011
Guitar hero?
I pulled into the parking lot, got my guitar out of the back seat, and started walking towards the door in the rain. It felt like a scene out of a movie, about some drifter, playing the honky-tonk scene, who ruins his relationship with the only girl who will ever love him by drinking too much.
And in that instant, I was a guitarist.
Of course, in reality, I'm not (yet) a guitarist, I've never played a honky-tonk, I'm not really much of a drifter, and I don't (yet) drink too much. But the rest is totally me.
Otherwise, there wasn't anything too scintillating about my first guitar lesson on Tuesday. So instead, I've decided to just make some stuff up. I mean, this could have happened, theoretically. And may have happened in an alternate universe. Who can really say? Scott Bakula, maybe.
Instructor: "Good afternoon, Bone."
Bone: "Good afternoon, sensei."
Instructor: "Have a seat."
Bone (takes seat, looks around): "Thanks. Uh, where are all the bonsai?"
Instructor: "The what?"
Bone: "You know, the tiny trees."
Instructor: "Tiny trees?"
Bone: "Never mind."
Instructor: "Shall we begin?"
Bone: "Let's turn this mutha out."
Instructor: "I want to start by asking, where do you hope to be when you're done with these lessons?"
Bone: "Do the words Back To The Future and Johnny B. Goode mean anything to you?"
Instructor: "Uhhh.."
Bone: "Or how about being able to play behind my head?"
Instructor: "How about let's just see what you can do."
(Bone plays a few licks.)
Instructor: "Are you left-handed?"
Bone: "I don't think so."
Instructor: "Then here, you might want to turn this around."
Bone: "Oh. Thanks."
Instructor: "You're a little obtuse, aren't you?"
Bone: "What? No... maybe a little. But I've lost three pounds since New Year's."
Instructor: "Do you play any instruments?"
Bone: "The kazoo, naturally. And at one time or another I've owned a harmonica, guitar, set of drums and a recorder."
Instructor: "Was there a picture of Mickey Mouse on any of these instruments?"
Bone: "No... OK, the recorder... and the drums."
Instructor: "Ever taken any music classes before?"
Bone: "Oh, yes! Third grade. We learned Wheels On The Bus and Magalena Pagalena."
Instructor: "Do you have any musical talent whatsoever?"
Bone: "You know, I really thought I would be the one asking the questions."
Instructor: "Alright, well we usually begin with a few simple chords."
Bone: "Groovy!"
Instructor: "Did you just say groovy?"
Bone: "I said groovy. I meant far out."
On the way out of the lesson, Bone encounters a girl. Using skills honed through years of encountering girls yet rarely speaking to them, he determines her to be a guitar shop groupie. Cute, but clingy. And if there's one thing this drifter doesn't need--.
"Are you a guitarist?" She giggles.
"Well... ideally," Bone replies. Girls love musicians. He had been warned of this, repeatedly.
"You know, you don't have to carry your guitar with both arms. There is a handle. It's right there on the case."
"Oh... far out."
Meanwhile, back over in this space-time continuum, here's how my first lesson really went...
Five minutes learning the strings.
Ten minutes listening to instructor yammer on and on about his glory days and teaching methods.
Fifteen minutes learning how to tune the guitar.
"Alright, we're done."
I give him a what-you-talkin'-bout-Willis look.
He gives me a you-know-that-show's-been-off-the-air-twenty-five-years-look.
"All we do the first day is learn to tune it."
Well, that's a little disappointing.
I guess learning to play behind my head will come next week.
"He never ever learned to read or write so well. But he could play a guitar just like ringin' a bell..."
And in that instant, I was a guitarist.
Of course, in reality, I'm not (yet) a guitarist, I've never played a honky-tonk, I'm not really much of a drifter, and I don't (yet) drink too much. But the rest is totally me.
Otherwise, there wasn't anything too scintillating about my first guitar lesson on Tuesday. So instead, I've decided to just make some stuff up. I mean, this could have happened, theoretically. And may have happened in an alternate universe. Who can really say? Scott Bakula, maybe.
Instructor: "Good afternoon, Bone."
Bone: "Good afternoon, sensei."
Instructor: "Have a seat."
Bone (takes seat, looks around): "Thanks. Uh, where are all the bonsai?"
Instructor: "The what?"
Bone: "You know, the tiny trees."
Instructor: "Tiny trees?"
Bone: "Never mind."
Instructor: "Shall we begin?"
Bone: "Let's turn this mutha out."
Instructor: "I want to start by asking, where do you hope to be when you're done with these lessons?"
Bone: "Do the words Back To The Future and Johnny B. Goode mean anything to you?"
Instructor: "Uhhh.."
Bone: "Or how about being able to play behind my head?"
Instructor: "How about let's just see what you can do."
(Bone plays a few licks.)
Instructor: "Are you left-handed?"
Bone: "I don't think so."
Instructor: "Then here, you might want to turn this around."
Bone: "Oh. Thanks."
Instructor: "You're a little obtuse, aren't you?"
Bone: "What? No... maybe a little. But I've lost three pounds since New Year's."
Instructor: "Do you play any instruments?"
Bone: "The kazoo, naturally. And at one time or another I've owned a harmonica, guitar, set of drums and a recorder."
Instructor: "Was there a picture of Mickey Mouse on any of these instruments?"
Bone: "No... OK, the recorder... and the drums."
Instructor: "Ever taken any music classes before?"
Bone: "Oh, yes! Third grade. We learned Wheels On The Bus and Magalena Pagalena."
Instructor: "Do you have any musical talent whatsoever?"
Bone: "You know, I really thought I would be the one asking the questions."
Instructor: "Alright, well we usually begin with a few simple chords."
Bone: "Groovy!"
Instructor: "Did you just say groovy?"
Bone: "I said groovy. I meant far out."
On the way out of the lesson, Bone encounters a girl. Using skills honed through years of encountering girls yet rarely speaking to them, he determines her to be a guitar shop groupie. Cute, but clingy. And if there's one thing this drifter doesn't need--.
"Are you a guitarist?" She giggles.
"Well... ideally," Bone replies. Girls love musicians. He had been warned of this, repeatedly.
"You know, you don't have to carry your guitar with both arms. There is a handle. It's right there on the case."
"Oh... far out."
Meanwhile, back over in this space-time continuum, here's how my first lesson really went...
Five minutes learning the strings.
Ten minutes listening to instructor yammer on and on about his glory days and teaching methods.
Fifteen minutes learning how to tune the guitar.
"Alright, we're done."
I give him a what-you-talkin'-bout-Willis look.
He gives me a you-know-that-show's-been-off-the-air-twenty-five-years-look.
"All we do the first day is learn to tune it."
Well, that's a little disappointing.
I guess learning to play behind my head will come next week.
"He never ever learned to read or write so well. But he could play a guitar just like ringin' a bell..."
Monday, January 31, 2011
Here comes the sun
(Congratulations to my friend, Pia, from Courting Destiny. She is now blogging for Psychology Today. And you can read her first post here. It makes me proud to see a former Roast-A-Bone host going on to bigger things.)
The sun came out Saturday. It was 72 degrees here. And just like that -- although the calendar wouldn't agree for three more days -- for me, January was over. Thus ending what in a hundred years will more than likely be referred to as my blue period, which basically amounted to two posts.
I don't know why I let the season come and conquer me. But it's all right now. There's not spring, but there's the promise of spring, and that's enough.
This weekend was my long-awaited-though-sometimes-uncertain return to the land of the living. I did things this weekend I thought I'd forgotten how to do, like shower on a Saturday.
Sister Bone, Nephew Bone and I went to the Bama basketball game Saturday night. Bama is not exactly known as a basketball school, but the team is having a pretty good season, so it was nice to see the game was sold out. They won the game comfortably, 70-46, over LSU. For me, any night's a good night in Tuscaloosa -- the atmosphere, the history, the Taco Casa! Just knowing that for one night you are in the same city as Nick Saban somehow makes everything right with the world.
I believe it was the wise King Solomon who wrote, "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it." At supper, Nephew Bone pointed to the "A" on the Taco Casa cup and said, "Bama." It's nice to know the hours I spent repeating "Roll Tide" and "Bama" to him while everyone else was trying to get him to say "mama" and "dada" paid off.
I golfed with the Darryls on Sunday afternoon. That was a dream come true. Literally. Except that we did get to finish the round. We golfed horribly, but who really cares. Balls and clubs can be replaced. Pride can be restored, theoretically. And as I like to say, 'tis better to have golfed and failed than to never have golfed at all.
In one final bit of big news, I start guitar lessons tomorrow! I'm kind of excited. Dad has been trying to get me to learn to play for, oh, the past twenty years or so. I figure I may as well give it a shot. Also, he said he would pay for the lessons. Not that you should think my parents still pay for everything, or give me a weekly allowance. Because they don't. And they haven't since I turned 35.
Beyond that, Wednesday is National Signing Day. I'm contemplating taking off of work for that. And of course Sunday, as most everyone aware I'm sure, is the highlight of the year for Roman Numerals.
Then comes the roughly six-week long period of time I like to refer to as sports purgatory. But we'll fall into that deep, yawning chasm when we come to it.
"And I'm looking to the sky to save me, looking for a sign of life..."
The sun came out Saturday. It was 72 degrees here. And just like that -- although the calendar wouldn't agree for three more days -- for me, January was over. Thus ending what in a hundred years will more than likely be referred to as my blue period, which basically amounted to two posts.
I don't know why I let the season come and conquer me. But it's all right now. There's not spring, but there's the promise of spring, and that's enough.
This weekend was my long-awaited-though-sometimes-uncertain return to the land of the living. I did things this weekend I thought I'd forgotten how to do, like shower on a Saturday.
Sister Bone, Nephew Bone and I went to the Bama basketball game Saturday night. Bama is not exactly known as a basketball school, but the team is having a pretty good season, so it was nice to see the game was sold out. They won the game comfortably, 70-46, over LSU. For me, any night's a good night in Tuscaloosa -- the atmosphere, the history, the Taco Casa! Just knowing that for one night you are in the same city as Nick Saban somehow makes everything right with the world.
I believe it was the wise King Solomon who wrote, "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it." At supper, Nephew Bone pointed to the "A" on the Taco Casa cup and said, "Bama." It's nice to know the hours I spent repeating "Roll Tide" and "Bama" to him while everyone else was trying to get him to say "mama" and "dada" paid off.
I golfed with the Darryls on Sunday afternoon. That was a dream come true. Literally. Except that we did get to finish the round. We golfed horribly, but who really cares. Balls and clubs can be replaced. Pride can be restored, theoretically. And as I like to say, 'tis better to have golfed and failed than to never have golfed at all.
In one final bit of big news, I start guitar lessons tomorrow! I'm kind of excited. Dad has been trying to get me to learn to play for, oh, the past twenty years or so. I figure I may as well give it a shot. Also, he said he would pay for the lessons. Not that you should think my parents still pay for everything, or give me a weekly allowance. Because they don't. And they haven't since I turned 35.
Beyond that, Wednesday is National Signing Day. I'm contemplating taking off of work for that. And of course Sunday, as most everyone aware I'm sure, is the highlight of the year for Roman Numerals.
Then comes the roughly six-week long period of time I like to refer to as sports purgatory. But we'll fall into that deep, yawning chasm when we come to it.
"And I'm looking to the sky to save me, looking for a sign of life..."
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Dreaming in color, living in black and white
To say I'm not doing much these days would be a gross understatement. Or should it be overstatement? Whichever, it's definitely gross. The Januarys are in full force around here. I do feel inspired sometimes. But if I wait an hour, it usually passes.
Meanwhile, I've been having wildly vivid dreams lately. One of my very recurring dreams is that I'm golfing but I can never quite get the ball teed up just right. It's too close to me, then too far away, then it falls off the tee, and on and on. It's extremely frustrating.
So then I try and think what am I frustrated about. Life? Love? Writing? That Matchbox Twenty won't put out a new album? Probably the last one.
I have been thinking a bit about turning thirty-eight next month. And I have decided I'm going to go ahead and do it. I mean, when I considered the other options, the choice was pretty clear.
Seriously though, at first glance, thirty-eight seems so benign. Then I think about the whole thirty-nine-and-holding thing, and suddenly thirty-eight feels like the last year of... something. But I am fairly certain no one wants me to get into any sort of deep self-analysis on these feelings, least of all me.
Meanwhile, the wildly vivid dreams continue -- about golf, ex-girlfriends, even Family Feud, though not all in the same dream. In the Family Feud dream, the entire facade of the house across the street was one gigantic Family Feud board. And the guy who lives there was asking me survey questions. Unfortunately, Richard Dawson wasn't in the dream, so that was a little disappointing as you might expect.
A couple of nights ago I had a bit of a different golf dream. The Darryls and I were three holes from the end of our round when one of the course workers rode up on a golf cart and said all the carts had to be in immediately because they were going home for the evening. After much discussion, I finally convinced him to take my cart and my bag and just let me keep 3 or 4 clubs out so I could finish the round, and I would pick up my bag at his house later.
However, the Darryls had continued playing and were now a couple of holes ahead of me. And when I started trying to play again, I was back to the recurring dream situation and couldn't get my ball to stay on the tee.
OK, so they weren't very wild, but they were vivid, darn it! I'm open to interpretation. And interpretations. Other than I suck at golf and play way too much Family Feud online. I already know this.
I have surmised that my subconscious self is living the life my January conscious self can't. Well, note to subconscious Bone: Enjoy it while you can, buddy boy. February's coming, and conscious me will be back to normal, whatever that is.
I may even attempt to socialize with the other humans.
"Don't tell me how to be, 'cause I like some suffering. Don't ask me what I need. I'm just fine here finding me..."
Meanwhile, I've been having wildly vivid dreams lately. One of my very recurring dreams is that I'm golfing but I can never quite get the ball teed up just right. It's too close to me, then too far away, then it falls off the tee, and on and on. It's extremely frustrating.
So then I try and think what am I frustrated about. Life? Love? Writing? That Matchbox Twenty won't put out a new album? Probably the last one.
I have been thinking a bit about turning thirty-eight next month. And I have decided I'm going to go ahead and do it. I mean, when I considered the other options, the choice was pretty clear.
Seriously though, at first glance, thirty-eight seems so benign. Then I think about the whole thirty-nine-and-holding thing, and suddenly thirty-eight feels like the last year of... something. But I am fairly certain no one wants me to get into any sort of deep self-analysis on these feelings, least of all me.
Meanwhile, the wildly vivid dreams continue -- about golf, ex-girlfriends, even Family Feud, though not all in the same dream. In the Family Feud dream, the entire facade of the house across the street was one gigantic Family Feud board. And the guy who lives there was asking me survey questions. Unfortunately, Richard Dawson wasn't in the dream, so that was a little disappointing as you might expect.
A couple of nights ago I had a bit of a different golf dream. The Darryls and I were three holes from the end of our round when one of the course workers rode up on a golf cart and said all the carts had to be in immediately because they were going home for the evening. After much discussion, I finally convinced him to take my cart and my bag and just let me keep 3 or 4 clubs out so I could finish the round, and I would pick up my bag at his house later.
However, the Darryls had continued playing and were now a couple of holes ahead of me. And when I started trying to play again, I was back to the recurring dream situation and couldn't get my ball to stay on the tee.
OK, so they weren't very wild, but they were vivid, darn it! I'm open to interpretation. And interpretations. Other than I suck at golf and play way too much Family Feud online. I already know this.
I have surmised that my subconscious self is living the life my January conscious self can't. Well, note to subconscious Bone: Enjoy it while you can, buddy boy. February's coming, and conscious me will be back to normal, whatever that is.
I may even attempt to socialize with the other humans.
"Don't tell me how to be, 'cause I like some suffering. Don't ask me what I need. I'm just fine here finding me..."
Monday, January 17, 2011
Ode to Monday?
Monday
Why must you be so Monday
I dread you all day long on Sunday
So because of you half my weekend is basically shot
Monday
Why must you be so doggone Monday
Every week you're the same no fun day
What, suddenly I'm the Bangles now? Susanna Hoffs is kinda hot
Monday
I spend fourteen-point-two-eight-five-seven-one-four infinity percent of my life on you, Monday
And that's just wrong
Monday
The Mamas and the Papas sang about you, Monday
I'm running out of things to rhyme with Monday
Only you could make Tuesday not seem all that bad
Monday
They even gave you Monday Night Football and still you suck, Monday
Just thought of a rhyme so I'll put it here: runway
Like at an airport or a fashion show, OK I'm getting off track
Monday
Why must you be so cotton-pickin' Monday
Whatever Norse god you're named for must be pissed, Monday
If it were me, I know I would be highly displeased
Monday
Completely out of things now to rhyme with Monday
In Office Space they got a case of you, Monday
Which, if you didn't catch that, means you're like a disease
Monday
This song seems to go on forever like you do, Monday
The coach of the Orlando Magic is Stan Van Gundy
And I bet he hates himself because his name kinda rhymes with you
Monday
At this point I'm unashamedly using a rhyming dictionary, Monday
You make me want to crash my Hyundai
At a very high rate of speed into a large bed of kudzu
Monday
Still can't believe I spend fourteen-point-two-eight-five percent of my life on you, Monday
No seriously, it's really starting to depress me now, Monday
I wish there were eight days a week so it would only be twelve-point-five
Monday
In the history of the Gregorian calendar you've always been, Monday
I used to like Married With Children with Al Bundy
(Couldn't think of a line here that ended with live, or chive, or connive)
Monday
Why must you be so doggone Monday
I just googled "calculate the day of the week for any date in history" and realized I was born on a Monday...
Well... I suppose you're not all bad
"I was dreamin' when I wrote this. Forgive me if it goes astray..."
Why must you be so Monday
I dread you all day long on Sunday
So because of you half my weekend is basically shot
Monday
Why must you be so doggone Monday
Every week you're the same no fun day
What, suddenly I'm the Bangles now? Susanna Hoffs is kinda hot
Monday
I spend fourteen-point-two-eight-five-seven-one-four infinity percent of my life on you, Monday
And that's just wrong
Monday
The Mamas and the Papas sang about you, Monday
I'm running out of things to rhyme with Monday
Only you could make Tuesday not seem all that bad
Monday
They even gave you Monday Night Football and still you suck, Monday
Just thought of a rhyme so I'll put it here: runway
Like at an airport or a fashion show, OK I'm getting off track
Monday
Why must you be so cotton-pickin' Monday
Whatever Norse god you're named for must be pissed, Monday
If it were me, I know I would be highly displeased
Monday
Completely out of things now to rhyme with Monday
In Office Space they got a case of you, Monday
Which, if you didn't catch that, means you're like a disease
Monday
This song seems to go on forever like you do, Monday
The coach of the Orlando Magic is Stan Van Gundy
And I bet he hates himself because his name kinda rhymes with you
Monday
At this point I'm unashamedly using a rhyming dictionary, Monday
You make me want to crash my Hyundai
At a very high rate of speed into a large bed of kudzu
Monday
Still can't believe I spend fourteen-point-two-eight-five percent of my life on you, Monday
No seriously, it's really starting to depress me now, Monday
I wish there were eight days a week so it would only be twelve-point-five
Monday
In the history of the Gregorian calendar you've always been, Monday
I used to like Married With Children with Al Bundy
(Couldn't think of a line here that ended with live, or chive, or connive)
Monday
Why must you be so doggone Monday
I just googled "calculate the day of the week for any date in history" and realized I was born on a Monday...
Well... I suppose you're not all bad
"I was dreamin' when I wrote this. Forgive me if it goes astray..."
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
These are the great snows of my life
Another week, another blizzard.
Sunday night brought eight inches of snow to our sleepy town. I feel like I'm getting used to the snow -- like this is the new norm. Monday morning, I drove into work for half a day. There were literally only two other cars on the road. I thought I did fairly well considering my limited previous experience (which includes both a 270-degree spin as well as the mailbox incident). I suppose I have to credit my new-found snowy-road driving skills to the DK Summit Course on Mario Kart.
I've made snow creme, a snowman (aka "got my Frosty on), and a snow angel, thrown snow balls, had hot chocolate, and attempted to go sledding on a knee board (didn't work). I'm not sure what more I can do, aside from building a cozy fire. And the last time I tried that the landlord seemed a little perturbed.
Do you have any idea how rare it is for us to have two snowman-able snows in one winter? It hasn't happened in over four thousand years. OK, maybe not that long, but I can't recall it ever happening. Of course, I also can't recall what I had for supper last night, so take that as you will.
It has gotten me to thinking about significant snows of the past that I've experienced. The first one that came to mind was the ice storm of '85.
I'm pretty sure it was a Thursday or Friday morning in late January or early February. I was eleven and still living with my parents at the time. The power went out very early. I remember lying in bed and hearing these thunderous, window-rattling booms and seeing what looked like green lightning through the windows. I thought it must literally be thunder, but Dad said that the transformers were exploding.
Dad had to go to work regardless. They had a generator where he worked, and since we had no power or heat, he loaded us all in the car -- Mom, my sister and me -- and off we went. We didn't get far.
What looked like six or seven inches of peaceful, unblemished snow turned out to be several inches of snow covered with a thick, solid sheet of ice. Dad must not have known that because as soon as he backed out of the carport, the old Monte Carlo hit the ice and skidded straight into the ditch. A cop with tire chains pulled us out, I think, and carried Dad on into work. Fortunately, that's the only time I ever saw Dad carried away in a patrol car.
I don't remember how long we were without power, but I don't think more than a day. Of course, living in town we were among the first to get power back. Others went without it for days. I do distinctly remember the power coming back on before the cable did and playing Combat on the Atari 2600 for hours. The rest of that extended weekend was spent playing in the snow and ice. It was so slick you could have about sledded uphill.
I fully expected to be out of school for a couple of days -- by the end of the weekend, most everything had melted -- but then we wound up being out of school for at least two more days the next week, too. Counting Saturday and Sunday, we were out of school for five or six days straight. Talk about hitting the snow-day lottery.
It is true that the South completely shuts down with even an inch or two of snow. But never in my life were things shut down for as long as they were during the ice storm of '85. I've never seen anything like it before or since.
"I wonder if she thinks about Jackson Hole. Nights beside the fire and angels in the snow..."
Sunday night brought eight inches of snow to our sleepy town. I feel like I'm getting used to the snow -- like this is the new norm. Monday morning, I drove into work for half a day. There were literally only two other cars on the road. I thought I did fairly well considering my limited previous experience (which includes both a 270-degree spin as well as the mailbox incident). I suppose I have to credit my new-found snowy-road driving skills to the DK Summit Course on Mario Kart.
I've made snow creme, a snowman (aka "got my Frosty on), and a snow angel, thrown snow balls, had hot chocolate, and attempted to go sledding on a knee board (didn't work). I'm not sure what more I can do, aside from building a cozy fire. And the last time I tried that the landlord seemed a little perturbed.
Do you have any idea how rare it is for us to have two snowman-able snows in one winter? It hasn't happened in over four thousand years. OK, maybe not that long, but I can't recall it ever happening. Of course, I also can't recall what I had for supper last night, so take that as you will.
It has gotten me to thinking about significant snows of the past that I've experienced. The first one that came to mind was the ice storm of '85.
I'm pretty sure it was a Thursday or Friday morning in late January or early February. I was eleven and still living with my parents at the time. The power went out very early. I remember lying in bed and hearing these thunderous, window-rattling booms and seeing what looked like green lightning through the windows. I thought it must literally be thunder, but Dad said that the transformers were exploding.
Dad had to go to work regardless. They had a generator where he worked, and since we had no power or heat, he loaded us all in the car -- Mom, my sister and me -- and off we went. We didn't get far.
What looked like six or seven inches of peaceful, unblemished snow turned out to be several inches of snow covered with a thick, solid sheet of ice. Dad must not have known that because as soon as he backed out of the carport, the old Monte Carlo hit the ice and skidded straight into the ditch. A cop with tire chains pulled us out, I think, and carried Dad on into work. Fortunately, that's the only time I ever saw Dad carried away in a patrol car.
I don't remember how long we were without power, but I don't think more than a day. Of course, living in town we were among the first to get power back. Others went without it for days. I do distinctly remember the power coming back on before the cable did and playing Combat on the Atari 2600 for hours. The rest of that extended weekend was spent playing in the snow and ice. It was so slick you could have about sledded uphill.
I fully expected to be out of school for a couple of days -- by the end of the weekend, most everything had melted -- but then we wound up being out of school for at least two more days the next week, too. Counting Saturday and Sunday, we were out of school for five or six days straight. Talk about hitting the snow-day lottery.
It is true that the South completely shuts down with even an inch or two of snow. But never in my life were things shut down for as long as they were during the ice storm of '85. I've never seen anything like it before or since.
"I wonder if she thinks about Jackson Hole. Nights beside the fire and angels in the snow..."
Wednesday, January 05, 2011
My one chance to meet Larry Bird and I blew it
Please pardon my (lack of) progress. I've been trying to decide whether to blog about the end of last year or look ahead to the new year. Took me five days to decide: enough dwelling on the past, I'm looking to the future.
Therefore today, I do hereby resolve to be even less productive, less ambitious, to sleep even more and care even less in 2011. That's right, folks. Bone is mailing it in! You cannot possibly underestimate my plans for the new year.
This means the only way I can disappoint myself is by accomplishing too much. My only fear is productivity. After all, if this 2012 Mayan stuff is true, this is most likely the last year any of us are gonna be on the Earth anyway. No sense stressing myself out.
At first glance, it might appear that I have been slacking, or not slacking as the case may be. I've managed to clean up all the Christmas gifts from downstairs. But worry not. I only moved them upstairs where they are still waiting for me to put them away. Also, I took the tree down Sunday. But I noticed Monday that I'd left the wreath on the door. Then I looked across the street and saw that the neighbors still had their wreath up so I didn't feel so bad. Some men look to others to find inspiration. I look to others to not make me feel so bad about myself.
Not that I don't have dreams. I do. Just last night, for instance, I dreamt of Larry Bird. The Celtics were getting ready to play the Lakers and Robert Parish had apparently been traded to the Lakers. So as the Celtics came onto the court, I reached out and patted Larry on the back and said, "Torch 'em, LB" or something lame like that. I have no idea what the dream meant, but today at work I realized I was wearing a Celtic-green t-shirt.
Speaking of dreams, for Christmas this year, I got the best present any 37-year-old kid could ever hope for -- a white Christmas! I had been dreaming of one of those for some years now. I awakened to 2-3 inches of snow on Christmas morn, the first white Christmas we've had here since I was but a teen. In other words, a long, long time.
OK, so I guess I am looking back, just a bit. In other noteworthy events which have occurred over the past 300 hours or so...
Festivus was a success-tivus. An overflow crowd of fourteen attended this year, narrowly missing the all-time record of fifteen, set the previous year. (Evidently, I feel it necessary to document each Festivus in writing in case Guinness Book ever comes calling. And by "comes calling," I mean, "answers any of my many inquiries.")
For the first time in the history of Festivus, there were more female attendees than male. And it wasn't even really close -- 8 to 6! I've racked my brain trying to decide what could be drawing all these females to Festivus, and here's what I've come up with: I think girls really enjoy airing their grievances. I know, I know, I have a hard time believing it even as I'm typing it, but they truly seemed to relish the chance to gripe, er, grieve.
And... well, that's pretty much all that's happened. Besides, this is already the most work I've done all year.
H to the N to the Y! (Oh, I'm also working on my street lingo for 2011.)
"You're the best girl that I ever did see. The great Larry Bird, jersey 33. When you take a sip you buzz like a hornet. Billy Shakespeare wrote a whole bunch of sonnets..."
Therefore today, I do hereby resolve to be even less productive, less ambitious, to sleep even more and care even less in 2011. That's right, folks. Bone is mailing it in! You cannot possibly underestimate my plans for the new year.
This means the only way I can disappoint myself is by accomplishing too much. My only fear is productivity. After all, if this 2012 Mayan stuff is true, this is most likely the last year any of us are gonna be on the Earth anyway. No sense stressing myself out.
At first glance, it might appear that I have been slacking, or not slacking as the case may be. I've managed to clean up all the Christmas gifts from downstairs. But worry not. I only moved them upstairs where they are still waiting for me to put them away. Also, I took the tree down Sunday. But I noticed Monday that I'd left the wreath on the door. Then I looked across the street and saw that the neighbors still had their wreath up so I didn't feel so bad. Some men look to others to find inspiration. I look to others to not make me feel so bad about myself.
Not that I don't have dreams. I do. Just last night, for instance, I dreamt of Larry Bird. The Celtics were getting ready to play the Lakers and Robert Parish had apparently been traded to the Lakers. So as the Celtics came onto the court, I reached out and patted Larry on the back and said, "Torch 'em, LB" or something lame like that. I have no idea what the dream meant, but today at work I realized I was wearing a Celtic-green t-shirt.
Speaking of dreams, for Christmas this year, I got the best present any 37-year-old kid could ever hope for -- a white Christmas! I had been dreaming of one of those for some years now. I awakened to 2-3 inches of snow on Christmas morn, the first white Christmas we've had here since I was but a teen. In other words, a long, long time.
OK, so I guess I am looking back, just a bit. In other noteworthy events which have occurred over the past 300 hours or so...
Festivus was a success-tivus. An overflow crowd of fourteen attended this year, narrowly missing the all-time record of fifteen, set the previous year. (Evidently, I feel it necessary to document each Festivus in writing in case Guinness Book ever comes calling. And by "comes calling," I mean, "answers any of my many inquiries.")
For the first time in the history of Festivus, there were more female attendees than male. And it wasn't even really close -- 8 to 6! I've racked my brain trying to decide what could be drawing all these females to Festivus, and here's what I've come up with: I think girls really enjoy airing their grievances. I know, I know, I have a hard time believing it even as I'm typing it, but they truly seemed to relish the chance to gripe, er, grieve.
And... well, that's pretty much all that's happened. Besides, this is already the most work I've done all year.
H to the N to the Y! (Oh, I'm also working on my street lingo for 2011.)
"You're the best girl that I ever did see. The great Larry Bird, jersey 33. When you take a sip you buzz like a hornet. Billy Shakespeare wrote a whole bunch of sonnets..."
Friday, December 24, 2010
Christmas Eve, 1985
Christmas has come too fast again. Not that I'm not ready for it to get here. I'm just not ready for it to be gone. I still remember when it didn't come very fast at all...
In 1985, I was twelve and time was slow. Thirty seemed light years away and forty had never crossed my mind. It was impossible to imagine myself as an adult. Though some might tell you it still is.
In 1985, both of my grandmothers were still alive. But oh, how I took that for granted back then. Dad would go and get his mother and bring her to the house on Christmas Eve day. She would have gifts for us -- and they would be really bad gifts like tube socks with big red stripes around them. But it shouldn't have mattered because she had picked them out for us when Dad took her shopping solely for that purpose. I hope I thanked her for whatever bad gifts she got me that year, and I hope I acted like I liked them, because that was the last Christmas we ever got to spend with her.
In 1985, Mom and Dad were still young, and still together. And if I could have picked one of those to never change, I'm not sure which I'd choose.
In 1985, my sister was five. She hadn't yet become the major annoyance she soon would be. Little did I know we would someday become actual friends. And the thought of her being a mother, well that was as far from my mind as a thing could be.
In 1985, fave cousin was seven. War was a game we played with toy guns or plastic soldiers. And Afghanistan was a place I had never even heard of, much less ever thought he would someday go.
In 1985, I was pretty sure no matter how good or bad I may have been that I was getting toys. But there was that tiny one-percent part of me that was still afraid I might wake up to a bag of switches beneath the tree.
In 1985, however fast or slow the rest of the year passed, the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas seemed like a year unto itself.
In 1985, tonight -- Christmas Eve -- would be the longest night of the year. I would toss and turn and do my best to keep my ears open for any sound of Santa and his reindeer. But of course, it's the first great catch-22 of life -- you want to stay awake until he comes but he won't come until he knows you're sleeping. And he always knew.
In 1985, I must have closed my eyes, and though I could swear it was only for an instant, twenty-five years came and went.
"If heaven was a town it would be my town, on a summer day in nineteen-eighty-five. And everything I wanted was out there waiting. And everyone I loved was still alive..."
In 1985, I was twelve and time was slow. Thirty seemed light years away and forty had never crossed my mind. It was impossible to imagine myself as an adult. Though some might tell you it still is.
In 1985, both of my grandmothers were still alive. But oh, how I took that for granted back then. Dad would go and get his mother and bring her to the house on Christmas Eve day. She would have gifts for us -- and they would be really bad gifts like tube socks with big red stripes around them. But it shouldn't have mattered because she had picked them out for us when Dad took her shopping solely for that purpose. I hope I thanked her for whatever bad gifts she got me that year, and I hope I acted like I liked them, because that was the last Christmas we ever got to spend with her.
In 1985, Mom and Dad were still young, and still together. And if I could have picked one of those to never change, I'm not sure which I'd choose.
In 1985, my sister was five. She hadn't yet become the major annoyance she soon would be. Little did I know we would someday become actual friends. And the thought of her being a mother, well that was as far from my mind as a thing could be.
In 1985, fave cousin was seven. War was a game we played with toy guns or plastic soldiers. And Afghanistan was a place I had never even heard of, much less ever thought he would someday go.
In 1985, I was pretty sure no matter how good or bad I may have been that I was getting toys. But there was that tiny one-percent part of me that was still afraid I might wake up to a bag of switches beneath the tree.
In 1985, however fast or slow the rest of the year passed, the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas seemed like a year unto itself.
In 1985, tonight -- Christmas Eve -- would be the longest night of the year. I would toss and turn and do my best to keep my ears open for any sound of Santa and his reindeer. But of course, it's the first great catch-22 of life -- you want to stay awake until he comes but he won't come until he knows you're sleeping. And he always knew.
In 1985, I must have closed my eyes, and though I could swear it was only for an instant, twenty-five years came and went.
"If heaven was a town it would be my town, on a summer day in nineteen-eighty-five. And everything I wanted was out there waiting. And everyone I loved was still alive..."
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