¡Viva La Revolución -- Resist the Ballast!

Last night I was eating a delicious. Waffle and I decided it would be advantageous to call my. Very wise friend who I adore more than most things including. Delicious waffles. And so I did.

My very wise friend works very. Long hours at multiple jobs and I have lost the ability to. Count the number. This of course means that more often than not when I call. He is sleeping or working or sleeping while. Working which could prove. Dangerous indeed.

Despite his insane. Schedule our conversations are always. Random and delightful and after speaking with him I always adore him more than I did. Before our conversation began which is quite impressive after ten years of kooky but. Wonderful friendship.

So last night we discussed voltage regulators and after additional. Research today I discovered that what he was referring to was a. Ballast resistor. I like the word. Ballast. And I am guessing that it is important to resist the Ballast. Perhaps I will design a bumper. Sticker that simply states: Resist the Ballast. But I already have far too many. Projects in various stages of completion so I may very well put this particular. Idea on my list of things to do which is so long that I cannot even find. Thing to do number twenty three anymore.

Although I have a fairly good idea what. Thing to do number twenty three might be and I am quite certain that there is a. Subsection "a" and subsection "b" but that is another matter entirely.

And in this moment I find myself. Entranced by words not merely. Ballast or. Resistor but the ways in which language can simultaneously mean and. Not mean and my. Love of the melody that words create when strung together specifically and. Alliterated in such a manner as to create something more than mere definition might provide. And I should not divulge, but will nevertheless that I would most. Certainly fall in love with an individual able to paint such melody with Words highlighting the beauty of language and when I fall in love under such circumstances. One should most certainly be quite careful indeed.

But such confessions are not the. Purpose of this post and perhaps hiding such a confession in the middle will enable me to determine how. Attentive you are to words and meaning and not meaning.

In earlier conversations I have. Told Very Wise that when he is no longer. Tattooing grapefruit which I am so proud of him for. Tattooing grapefruit because it is one more step. Forward and also because I happen to enjoy grapefruit that. When he is no longer inking fruit and when he eventually decides to. Develop his own non-fruit inking establishment that I would be most interested in. Running said establishment of the non-fruit inking variety. And it isn't that we would discriminated against. Grapefruit or any other fruit but simply that they. Probably do not meet the legal age requirement.

And I do not know if he knows that I am. One hundred percent serious because I am often not serious and we often speak of. Silly things but. I would love to run such an. Establishment and perhaps combine it with an. Art gallery of sorts. Perhaps when and if this ever occurs Very Wise will be twice as old as me.

It could happen. The twice as old thing that is. For once I was twice as old as Very Wise because I am hip to some. Crazy mathematics.

And so it seems that I have been pondering a great many things as of late as I. Often am pondering a great many things. And as of late said ponderings have included such. Things as the intricacies of the. Back seat of my vehicle and wondering if my boss truly does have. Audio or video recording equipment in his office. Perhaps I should have. Sex on his desk one evening and determine if this is so. And let me be clear that I do not have any desire to have. Sex with my boss but merely to determine whether or not he is truly paranoid enough to record the comings and goings in his. Office no pun intended.

I would wager that. He has the entire office audio and. Video recorded reviewing the footage on. Weekends with popcorn and a bottle of. Red wine except for the fact that he seems to. Have a rather full social calendar.

But as I often do I. Digress and do not want to imply that I have pondered only that which I have. Referenced above for my. Ponderings have extended to a great many ideas as they often do including but not limited to. Secret projects and artistic collectives and collaborations. Seemingly silly notions of running off to unfamiliar territories for undisclosed periods of time and. Yams. Delicious yams.

As of late I feel as though I have lived my. Life in a very safe and responsible manner with the exception of. Tumultuous teenage years which I do not believe count for much. And so I wonder how I might be able to tip the. Scale so that I might ponder. Less and enact said ponderings. More but in this moment I have only random thoughts suspended in. Lime Jell-O so if you have suggestions please drop them in. The box.

And that is all for. This moment until the next moment which. Could be soonish. Indeed. But most likely not before. I procure a. Ballast resistor.

Grrrl Makes Committment -- Film at Eleven

The truth is. I fear committment. And it isn't easy being commitment phobic. Because people tend to think you're weird. And it's not that I generally mind people thinking that I'm weird. Truthfully I am a bit on the weird side. And I wouldn't have it any other way. But this is a different kind of weird that people are thinking. What I am referring to is a weird that causes people to look at you as if you have some deep dark aspect of your personality that has yet to surface. Something that will shock and horrify those around you. Perhaps something serial killer-esque. And so people begin to wonder what I must be hiding.

I don't have any dark secrets. Simply this semi-irritating fear of commitment. Clearly not a secret or even secret-esque. At least...not anymore.

But something changed recently. And I'm not sure when or how exactly. But it did. Changed. And then something happened.

I committed.

Let me reiterate that if I may. I made a commitment. And I have shocked myself by doing so. One long conversation later and I had agreed to commit. The words just seemed to spill from my lips. I do not quite recall how it happened. As I began to travel home following said conversation and subsequent agreement I had time to sit with myself in silence.

And then I lost it.

It was full blown panic. Certain that I had made a mistake. Worried that everything would fall apart. Fucked up kind of freakin' out. Some time after the panic had become full blown my dear friend Soy was forced to witness said panic. And he did his best to reassure me. Kind soul that he is. Despite his efforts I continue to freak the fuck out. Because I had committed. And I couldn't actually believe that such a thing could have happened. To me no less.

I began to "what if" the committment up and down. Left and right. Forward and backward. And then I played a game of "Worst Case Scenario" with myself -- because I have a stellar imagination. I thought about ways to get out of my committment without making a complete and utter mess of the situation. I couldn't think of any viable options.

Then I realized something. Or perhaps I should say that I remembered something. Life is an adventure. We must be willing to take a risk in order to learn and grow and live a full existance. And then my freak out made perfect sense. It was clear that I has was afraid. And my fear of commitment was simply fear of failure...and success.

So I guess I am pretty fucked up. But hell, who isn't? So I stopped trying to make excuses. And I didn't do anything to sabotage myself -- one of my stronger skills. I am looking forward to the road that I am about to travel upon.

Well...as soon as I get the damn title transferred which has proven to be more challenging than originally anticipated. But more on my hatred of Department of Licensing at a later time.

So yeah...I bought a car. What the hell did you think I was talking about?

Seeking One Good Deal for a Box on Wheels

As you all know I have been contemplating getting another box on wheels. It has been a long time since I have owned one of these contraptions. And you all know that I don't typically make any decision with any sort of quickness. Once a scientist. Always a scientist. I suppose.

At any rate. In my perusal of boxes on wheels I have noticed something that I do not quite understand. And perhaps it is me. Maybe I am somehow missing something. But nevertheless. I need to know.

Why does everyone want to sell their piece of shit box on wheels for way more than it's worth.

I mean seriously dude.

Well I suppose because they think they can. Maybe their particular box on wheels has some sort of sentimental value. And they really don't want to part with it. But they have to for some inexplicable reason. Perhaps their partner has informed them that they will no longer tolerate the piece of shit box on wheels and either it goes or they go.

I think that seems rather harsh. But I have discovered life is strange and unusual. So I suppose anything is possible.

So they go through the motions. But secretly they are hoping no one will really buy their box on wheels. And then they can explain to said one-foot-out-the-door partner that they have tried to unload said piece of shit box on wheels but they have had no luck to date.

And let me say this. I'm no stranger to the box on wheels sentimentality. I had a box on wheels once. In fact. And this is another surprising little detail about me. I have only ever owned one box on wheels. And I loved my little box on wheels. I drove it through more states than I can possible count. And I would like to think that I have a reasonably sufficient intelligence quotient.

My little box on wheels was faithfully devoted to me. She was with me for a very long time. She saw me through the best of times and the worst of times. She was old, but still had spunk. And she would still be here today, despite the minor leak causing a small pond to form in the trunk every winter. If it wasn't for the evil SUV that decided to crunch her (and me) beyond repair.

Sometimes I wonder if I am in fact, beyond repair.

And then things happened. And years passed. And I am still sans box on wheels.

Some time ago I decided that it might be time to get another box on wheels. I have thought about this before. However it became clear to me after freaking out in a box on wheels while a technologically obsessed individual I was riding with began sending a text message while driving. After the hyperventilating ceased I came to the realization that I might still be a little bit freaked on the road and the only way I think I will be able to get over this fear might very well be to get another box on wheels. And start driving again. And I should probably do this before I develop a full blown case of post-traumatic stress disorder.

I started looking. And then I threw up my hands in despair. I consider myself to be a reasonably intelligent human bean. People purchase boxes on wheel every day. Yet I was experiencing severe challenges.

The point is that I am now thinking again about boxes and wheels and such. And I really think I'd like to get an old box on wheels. Something with personality. Character. Staying power. Something cool.

Something cheap.

And it's the cheap part that has proved problematic. So I've come around full circle now. I have made an observation. For some individuals who are selling their box on wheels, old = classic. And classic = rare. And rare = way more cheddar than it's really worth. I find this to be especially laughable when the "classic" box on wheels is a piece of utter crap. Rust. Oil leaks. Mysterious clanking. Transmission problems. No freakin' interior whatsoever. No freakin' exterior whatsoever. No freakin' ENGINE. I shit you not. Each and every example originals from an actual individual attempting to sell an actual box on wheels.

At least they all had wheels.

I mean really people. I know you love your little box on wheels You probably have fond memories of it. Beautiful memories of adventures far and wide. But let's be realistic. Your box of wheels ain't worth crap.

And obtaining a box on wheels involves a great deal. It's a big decision. No. It is. Remember. I said I have only ever owned one box on wheels. And that whole scientist thing. Every decision becomes an insane research project. Except when it doesn't. But that is not the point.

I was on the verge of torturing and then killing and then mutilating another human bean. So I gave up. Took a break. Got some calm. Then decided I would give it another shot.

So I've been looking. Again. But little has changed.

And just so you know I am not making this shit up, here is a portion of the reply I received today when inquiring about a 1975 Volvo. Color = orange. I expected the individual to quote me a figure higher than what he actually wanted for the box. But I was not prepared for this:

"The Volvo is still available. I need to get $7,500 for it. I have $9,000 invested in the car and drive train work. Had a freak thing happen with a valve so rebuilt the top end of the engine. They were able to look inside the lower part of the engine and said it looked great. The car is like new except for a spot on the drivers seat that has worn through. Two mechanics have looked at it and given it an A+. I have owned it @one year. Before that it was owned by one family that we know. I bought the car for my son for driving around Seattle, where he lives. He has gotten into a commuting situation for which the car is not appropriate. Thanks for the interest. Mark"

I thought perhaps he accidentally included an extra zero. Then I realized he was not joking. And what exactly does "a commuting situation for which the car is not appropriate" mean?

I really wanted to tell Mark that he could go fuck himself. That no one was going to pay $7500 for his vehicle. It's a fucking VOLVO people. Not a one of a kind classic. However I decided that I didn't need to tell Mark that I thought he was mentally ill and that I should stick a fork in his eye. He would be stuck with the box and I would move on.

So I keep looking. Far and wide. Wide and far.

And I have this dream. I have a dream that I will meet an eighty-seven year old woman who bought her 1960-ish very cool box on wheels new and only drove to the grocery store and to her hairdresser once a week. In my dream, I am standing in line at the grocery store. And it turns out that she has forgotten her REDACTED grocery store savings care. And so I offer the use of my REDACTED grocery store savings card so that she can get the extra savings on thirty cans of cat food and a quart of whole milk. And then I help her out to her car. Because I'm nice like that. And I like old people. And we are walking. Slow baby steps. And she speaks to me of many things. And I listen.

And then I see it. It's beautiful. And I almost shed a tear. And then Mildred or Prudence or Dorothy tells me that she's really getting too old to be driving anymore. And out of the kindness of her heart she offers to give me her car. Because no one has listened to a word she has said for at least fifteen years. Until she met me.

Hey. Stop laughing. I said it was a dream, didn't I. It could happen. You don't have to shit all over my parade with your skepticism. That's just plain rude. Geesh.

So if anyone has a grandmother that is looking to get rid of her very cool old box on wheels. Or if she is about to die any time soon. Let me know.

Ding Dong the Witch Will Wed

It's lost. And I don't know when. Or where or. How or why but it's. Lost. And in case your wondering whether I am speaking of house keys or my green stripy sock or my camera lens or my mind. Let me assure you that. None of those things are lost.

Well...I'm not certain about the mind. But aside from that everything else is where it should be. The lost item that I speak of is my ability to bullshit anyone anytime anywhere. I realize this is shocking. You might be afraid. Please do not delay. Send your love and support in the form of a new or slightly used cash donation.

Seriously. No wait. I WAS being serious. So yeah. I need your help. Your help. You. Over there. Get up off your ass. Help me damnit!

Let me explain.

So. I'm going to be in a wedding.

Yes.

Me.

In a wedding.

Stop laughing.

I said stop.

One of my oldest friends is getting married. We have known each other for almost twenty years. Since freshman year high school Spanish. My friend continues to reside in the town I grew up in. The town I have not visited in many many years. And my dear friend has decided to get married in July. July in Connecticut.

When she first told me of this decision I was not at all pleased. "October is lovely" I encouraged. But July it would be. And I decided that it couldn't possibly be that bad. I would find something presentable to wear. Don my combat boots and trek east for what is bound to be the most chaotic dramatic Guinea-Dirty White Boy Chicken wedding in the history of weddings. Her side of the family is crazy. His side is certifiable. I would attend said event with the appropriate accoutrements and delight in the amusement of it all. Even thought I would surely melt in the process.

But then something happened. Something unexpected. My dear friend who I thought for sure loved me like family...scratch that. My dear friend who I thought loved me like someone else's family asked me to be in her wedding. No semi cool dress. No combat boots. No watching from the shadows. Fuck!

I am not the "being in a wedding type" of grrrl. Until recently my hair was the color of a fire engine. My lips are usually donned with an almost black smear of paint. And now my friend is asking me to don something that will no doubt be pastel in color and girly in nature and ask me to walk a straight line which I cannot even do sober and there is no way I could maintain any sense of sobriety for this event. Fuck me!

But wait. All was not lost. I had a plan.

I would find a way to get out of it. So I sent this lovely email to said friend telling her how much I love and support her and explaining all of the very good reasons why I would not make a good bridesmaid. I tried to convince my dear friend that she did not want me to be a bridesmaid. I tried to convince her that I would be the worst bridesmaid in the history of bridesmaids.

For example. My hair could return to its former fire engine red state. Or perhaps blue. Maybe green. I might very well be tattooed from head to toe by July. I could have multiple facial piercings.

And no I will not discuss the nose piercing incident of 1994.

Seriously. The families would freak and that would cause my dear friend unnecessary stress and I want her wedding to be as stress free as possible which seems rather unlikely given the circumstances as they currently exist. I explained that I could love and support her without being a member of the bridal party.

And really. Why do they call it a party. When I think of bridal party I think of scary drunk clowns.

I told my friend that I was merely looking out for her interests. I could trip and fall and take down the entire bridal party with me. See above comment regarding my coordination or lackthereof. I might almost faint like I almost fainted during my friend's LEEP procedure. I could have a relapse of THE WHOOPING COUGH and vomit on myself and the other bridesmaids.

I am a time bomb waiting to explode.

I explained all of this and more.

She didn't buy it.

Basically she said something to the effect of:

FUCK YOU BITCH IF I HAVE TO SUFFER THROUGH THIS SHIT SO DO YOU

Well...she didn't exactly say that. But that is basically how I interpreted her response.

So uh. Your humble narrator will in fact be donning a real dress with real shoes and participating in the very real wedding of my dear friend of twenty years. Did I mention that said wedding will be taking place in Connecticut...in July? Yes. Connecticut in July. If you have never been to Connecticut in July let me explain what I must endure in addition to the above.

First. It will be hot. The average temperature in Connecticut in July is twice as hot as the average temperature in hell when Satan is only relatively pissed off. That my friends is shitdamnmotherfucking hot.

Second. It will be humid. This means that although the average temperature will be twice as hot as the average temperature in hell when Satan is only relatively pissed off. It will feel as if it is ten times as hot as the hellish average or twice as hot as hell on a day in which Satan is particularly pissed.

Third. Where there is heat and humidity there are bugs. Bugs that like to eat people. I am a people.

To recap in the event that you passed out or fell asleep or got distracted or weren't paying attention. I will be in Connecticut in July sweating and scratching in some sort of shimmery fabric dress and probably heels. Some friend huh!

My friend has lived her entire life in Connecticut. So I had to ask. Why July? You will be happy to know that the reason she will not be having her wedding in October when Connecticut is absolutely delightful is that my dear friend has decided July is most appropriate in order for the bride and groom to remember when exactly they got hitched. Seven days after his birthday. Seven days before her birthday. No. I am not kidding.

So I'm stuck. Committed. And you must be painfully aware of how serious my commitment issues are by now. Seriously dudes I mean my longest committed relationship is about...uh...nevermind. Back to our story. So. Given that I am now about to be a bridesmaid which I am most certain has far too many sexist origins than I could ever handle I might as well have fun with it.

I'm already thinking about ways in which to spike the punch!