Testosterone....

I went to a double-header at the movies today and saw "Mummy III: Tomb of the Dragon King" & "Death Race."

Gaaawwwddddd I needed that. Explosions. Muscles. Nasty death. Mangled metal and flesh. Tattoos. Loud death metal rockin' the soundtrack. Did I mention explosions? Big, gorgeous fireballs of flying glass and reinforced sheet metal. And it even had a plot, sort of.

I loved the first two Mummy movies, and this one was OK, but without the real Evie (Rachel Weisz) it just wasn't quite right. And the mummy (Jet Li) just wasn't as scary as Imhotep. Son Alex is all grown up in this one, which is a good plot twist, and struggling to get out from under his parent's overprotective wings and falling in love with the first chick who can kick his ass. Entirely too much time is spent on the first car/carriage chase through the streets of Shang-hai, which is a lot like the car chase in Mummy II on the double-decker bus. But that chase was waaaayyy better, because Oded Fehr was on that bus, and besides being one of the hottest men on the planet, he had the best line, all breathless and with a little boy smile clutching his tommy gun, "This was... my first bus ride." Heartbreaker, that one. Brendan Fraser is his usual charming self, despite having a replacement wife.

But the movie I really went out to see on my day off was "Death Race." For some unknown reason, I love a really good knock-down drag out fight movie. Hands down, "Death Race" is the better movie. I wasn't bored once. And I have developed a serious crush on the mega-hot, ultra-serious, super-bad boy that is Jason Statham. I don't know if the man is typecast, or what, but I've only ever seen him in action flicks that require superior driving skills. And the truth is, I don't want to know who he is or where he came from. He works just fine as a fantasy just the way he is. (And just so you know, J, the guy I had the crush on at work looks not unlike Statham. Not twins, exactly, but you get the general idea.)

At about 2 pm today, I suddenly just needed a solid hit of testosterone. In the worst way. So I take a look-see what's playing at the movies, and discover to my joy that my buddy Jason has a new movie out. Puuuurrrrfect. Blood and cars and explosions are exactly what I wanted today. I think it made me a little high, because driving home was a real kick. I drive a fucking Escort, and I was zipping through traffic like I had a high-powered engine and stop-on-a-dime traction, or something.

Yeah, yeah. You're laughing at me. I know you are, so don't deny it. You're probably also wondering how a fairly liberal, highly intelligent peace-monger like myself can be so low-brow in her movie choices. I mean, talk about appealing to the lowest common denominator, right?

Sorry, my friend. I am a sucker for intense eyes, brooaaaddd shoulders, lots of muscles, the ability to put the beat-down on the bad guys, and complex inner conflict. A few tats don't hurt, either. Can't explain why, but body art on guys is hot. Which is another reason that I don't care how much make-up they have to put on Johnny Depp when he takes his shirt off. Have you seen his chest? Art...

Anyway, that's how I spent my Tuesday. Locked in the dark with some really hot guys, fighting to the death to save the world. Or at least their little corner of it.

I was hoping I could use them as inspiration.

Even though I don't have any money to spare, I'm thinking of taking a road trip this weekend. I have a full three days off, because Monday is Labor Day, and Tuesday is temporarily my other day off during the week, and I never have to work Sunday. So that means that at 4-ish pm on Saturday, I have the opportunity to leave for several days, if I want.

Ohhhh, I want. I have no idea where I'd go, and I should probably have the car checked out before I hit the road, but I want.

I went to the library between movies, since I had a couple hours to kill, and found myself picking out books-on-tape that would make good road companions. It's like my subconscious has already decided that ready-or-not, we're getting the hell out of dodge for a few days. Hell, it's been over a year since I went on my last road trip to see my brother in Kalamazoo. Maybe I'll go to Chicago... I've never been to Chicago before. Not really. Drove past it really fast, both ways, on the toll-way.

Hmmm...

Jinx 

When was the last time a TV show actually made me cry?

If you haven't seen Flashpoint, yet, you're missing out.

What made this episode so emotional?

A young man, who grew up suffering from abuse and protecting his younger brother from getting the worst of it, returns home from the military school he'd been sent to in lieu of prison. He's only stopping by home to pick up his younger brother, basically a rescue mission. As the show goes on, you see him start to fall apart at the seams, an absolutely stellar performance because I believed every step of the way that this young man was on the edge, and even knew why. 

Meanwhile, his younger brother has been living in that house, his father a very powerful lawyer with a penchant for using whatever weapon is closest to hand (belt, fist, stick, words) whose main goal in life seems to be to protect the "family image" at all costs. His mother, a useless alcoholic either unwilling or unable to stand up to her husband or protect her boys, who have had to be eachother's foundation.

All this would have been a fairly common tale, without destroying the surprise of how the story plays out, because as sad as it is crap like this happens every day in homes all across the country. Just without the soundtrack.

No, what made this story so powerful was the small sidestory surrounding one of the cops. Sam is a recently retired Marine who just got back from Afghanistan. At the beginning of the show, he's reading a newspaper, and sees a death notice for one of his fellow soldiers, one of three who will be returning in a funeral cavalcade from the airport that afternoon. Tradition says that those who care congregate on an overpass just outside the airport to pay their respects. Only Sam finds out from one of his friends, who is still enlisted and will be returning to the sand box in a week, that his fellow soldier didn't die in combat, but took his own life in his tent.

Sam tells one of his new colleagues that, no, he won't be going to the overpass that day, because the soldiers he served with all made a pact that if one of them gave up like that, knowing that all their buddies were counting on them to watch their backs, that they would cease to exist and be refused the final respect of a fallen comrade. The words Sam used in the show to explain this view were a little more raw than that, but you get the idea.

Of course, it isn't until the end of the show that you realize that the two story lines are the same. They both tell a tale of battle weary soldiers, one tired of death and bullets and fear, the other tired of fists and neglect and fear. Both young men put their lives on the line to protect the people they cared about, despite being betrayed or abandoned by the very people who should have been there to support them. And both suffered from PTSD, nightmares stealing precious sleep, flashbacks pushing at least one of the two into drug use, just to stop the pain and get some rest. We never hear for sure about the fallen soldier, Sam's friend, but if he wasn't using yet, he probably would have started.

The end of the show is a heartbreaker. The two brothers, separated by a locked door, desperate with the need to hold each other, can only touch through a pane of glass.

And Sam, he was there at the overpass to greet his fallen comrades. Three long black hearses with an honor guard of police vehicles slowly coming around a bend in the road, appearing from behind a stand of trees. A lovely bit of cinematography that is not ineffective. And that's the part that even now has tears in my eyes, because I cannot stand the thought that this happens every day. Every day. Another soldier, another family, destroyed or damaged forced to fight in a war that should never have begun.

I am so proud of our military, for having the courage to do what I would never do. For fighting for my right to believe wholeheartedly that war is never the answer. At the same time, I am so angry at my government, my president especially, for that very reason. God, my fingers itch with the need to slap that man, then slap him again, for what he has put this country through, and not feeling sorry for it. Or even understanding that he should be sorry.

I can forgive many things, but carelessness, thoughtlessness, a willfull disregard for the welfare and feelings of others...

The things I feel most guilty about in my own life are those times when I acted that way, which is one of the reasons I try very hard never to let anyone down. I hate knowing that something I did or didn't do, something I said, hurt someone else. How can anyone stand to feel this way? How can the president? How can he look in the eyes of all our military families and tell them that their sacrifice was in a just cause?

True, some of the conflicts our soldiers have fought in over the last decade have been worthy causes. But they have mostly been so badly managed that the eventual outcome is almost worse than the situation pre-engagement. 

Anyway, I wasn't expecting to feel so much at the end of a TV show tonight. Maybe it snuck up on me. Or maybe I just needed a reason to cry. Too much stress that I tend to deal with as if I were your typical guy, keeping it inside, never letting anyone see. 

It isn't healthy, I know. But I can't stop. 

I have this mental and emotional belief that if I show people what I'm really feeling that they'll think less of me, think I'm crazy or unbalanced or just wrong. And the truth is, I've never gotten good feedback when I have let my inner demons out. 

The inner me is an opinionated, passionate little know-it-all. She's pissed off a lot of the time, sometimes rightfully so, but mostly that anger just gets her in trouble. It's really hard to fight yourself when your other half is louder, meaner, and she's insisting she's right. That inner rage is stuck halfway up my throat most of the time, choking me into silence because if I let it out I'm afraid I'll never stop screaming.

"Calm down." 

I heard that again the other day. Yeah, maybe I was getting a little over-excited about something fairly inconsequential. I was at work, after all. And no, you don't really want to know what about, because it isn't worth the time it would take to explain it and you wouldn't understand anyway. Work stuff, you know? 

The point is, I hear that very thing almost every time I get excited/angry/ passionate about something. 

"Calm down."

God forbid I express an opinion or an honest, heartfelt emotion. Something about me must be awfully frightening when I get emotional, because people spend a lot of time making sure that doesn't happen. Even over little stupid things.

I am so tired of being calm. 

No. No, that's not it. 

I am so tired of being calmed down. 

I want the right to rage. I want the courage to let the rage out, let it go, so the screaming in my heart will stop.

For weeks now the tears have been threatening, building, seeking a crack in the emotional dam I keep building, brick by delusional brick. 

Go figure that it would be the death of one soldier, the tears of another, and a funeral procession, even a fictional one, that would crack it wide open. I've always been a sucker for a good hero.

It's late. I've been staying up too late for weeks now. Pushing myself to test the limits of my own fortitude. Probably subconsciously trying to get myself to this point. Too tired to fight it off anymore. 

I know why I didn't cry when J was here. Not his fault. But he would have seen me lose it big time if he'd stayed just one more minute. You do not send your hero away with tears in your eyes. You do not let the last image they have of you be one of crushing sorrow. Be it soldier or best friend, husband, wife or parent, a hero deserves nothing less than the very best you can give them. And since anyone who can rightfully claim the title of hero is also someone who wants the best for you, they need to know that you will be able to take care of yourself even when they can't be there by your side.

So even if your pillow is damp every night for weeks, even if your heart is breaking, even if you fear that this will be the last time you see them, you do not send them away on a flood of salty tears. Even if your hero would tell you not to be an idiot, and to cry anyway because they're better out than in.

It's still late, and I need to go to bed. I have to get up and go to work tomorrow. For the first time ever, I am going to be the only showrrom assistant on the floor on a Saturday. I get to feel both pride at the responsibility, and put upon for having to do everything myself. How very human of me, to feel such conflicting things all at the same time.

Idiot, indeed.

Jinx

I spent most of today watching Star Wars.

Why?

It calls to me, sometimes. A good dose of Han Solo and the Millenium Falcon, whole different worlds, a galaxy full of people and planets and moons all fighting the good fight against the ultimate evil. A view of religion that so closely resembles my own skewed version, though that isn't why I loved it so as a teenager.

I won't say it still has the same impact it did back then. What could, after all, when you've seen it dozens of times? Though truthfully it's probably been three years since I last watched all three together.

Then, after dinner, I watched the first and last episode of "I Survived a Japanese Game Show." Can you say "Crazy?" Well, apparently, crazy in Japanese is "Majide."

But seriously, they're not kidding. The Japanese are absolutely nuts. With a capitol LUNATIC.

I mean, really, when you come up with games called "Squishy Squishy" and "You Look Funny Going Splat on the Wall" and "Super Chicken Butt Race," no one could accuse you of having all your ducks in a twist.

Anyway, I wasn't interested enough to watch all 8 episodes, but the first and the last were doable. Meet all the contestants, then find out who wins. 

Of course, right off my favorite was the super cute kid, age 24, height 6'2", from Trussville, Alabama, Justin. And yeah! He won the jack pot, a cool quarter million dollars. Honestly, I couldn't care less that he won, really, so much as the fact that because he won, he got more air time, and every once in awhile they'd show him with his shirt off. Mmmmm...

Did I mention the Japanese are crazy? And I have a feeling they were laughing more at the American contestants as a national joke, than with them as serious contenders. Who knows what all the Japanese characters dancing across the screen really said?

Anyway, that's what I did with my day off.

Jinx 

The Renaissance Festival starts next weekend, and this is the first time in nearly 20 years I'm actually considering not going.

Which is seriously weird, considering how much I love the place. If I don't go, I'll miss it. I know I will.

And not going would also mean missing my weekend with my girls. Usually I take them and two of their friends with me.

I don't know. Maybe I'm just getting tired of giving and getting nothing much back. Yeah, they're kids, teenagers with their own lives and a deeply self-centered view of the universe. I get that. I used to be one, after all.

But I get the feeling they don't find the Ren Fest as much fun as I do, considering how hard I have to work to get them to participate in things like The Joust. Even though it's all about really big horses and hot sweaty guys dressed in shiny armor battling it out with big swords, I have to practically beg them to cheer for our knight, much less participate in the crowd banter.

Well, maybe I'm being selfish myself, but just once I want to go with someone who doesn't think I'm crazy. Who gets how sexy I think all that is, since I was clearly born in the wrong century.

Still, my girls will only be girls a little while longer. It's probably getting a little late to be scheduling one more thing into their weekends now. School starts soon, and they'll be very busy in September. Busier than I ever was in high school, that's for sure.

Em is captain of her flag team, student body president, on the speech team, and I don't know what all else. Can you say "over-achiever?" She makes me tired just thinking about all that pressure. I was never interested in doing all that.

Mads is going to be on the swim team, and will be staring her first year of high school. One more year, and Em will be off to college somewhere, leaving Mads alone for most of the next three years after that.

All that makes me wonder if it's a mistake not to take them all just one more time, despite the fact that I'm pretty sure they don't think it's as much fun as I do. I know if I ask, they'll go.

I also know that if I ask them what they'd rather do, instead, they'll just say the usual. "I don't know."

Then again, maybe a year off isn't such a bad thing. And I still have a month to decide, one way or another.

One year with no Joust, no rowdy character actors, no new dragon for my collection, no being stuck between two separate pairs of girls more interested in talking to each other than to me, no romantic fantasy world.

Tough call.

Want to come with me?

Jinx 

Around and around and around, the same kind of crap just keeps happening to me, and I know it's because I fail to heed the lessons properly from the last time (or two) that it happened.

I'm a coaster, a go-with-the-flow-er, if you will. A sit back and wait to see what happens kind of girl. I sometimes wish I were an adrenaline junkie, but then I remember how much I dislike roller coasters, and I go back to the library where I can find thousands of books about imaginary people who are adrenaline junkies.

Anyway, I guess my point is, should I choose to change that basic character trait, or at the very least modify it to normal proportions, it's going to take a lot of focused effort. And I know me well enough to know that I have trouble doing the right thing for myself without considerable prodding and support from outside.

I know I need help. But I will never willingly ask for it. Too fucking proud, you know? Which of course is one more thing I need help with. Sigh.

On the one hand, there is so much I want.

On the other, I don't really want anything.

And somewhere deep inside is me, screaming.

Do you ever imagine going out, out, deep into the wilderness, until you're surrounded by trees so dense that it seems like twilight in the middle of the day, so far away from civilization that you could be the only person on the whole planet, where the only proof of your existence at all is the ragged, soul-cleansing sound of your own primal screams?

Last week, I almost did that. I was in my new little Ford Escort, "Elvira," running a couple errands (like going to the DMV to pay the title transfer fees), and I got this sudden urge to just start driving until I was out of the city. I got on the highway and just kept driving. I wanted to go somewhere. Anywhere. Away. But all I really did was go in one giant loop around Minneapolis and St. Paul. 100 miles of highway driving, listening to 89.3 "The Current" on NPR. Wasting gas, wasting time, wishing I could outrun my own damn self.

I stopped by Schneiderman's Furniture in Plymouth on my travels, because I'd heard they were hiring, and I wanted to see if it was the type of place I could stand working. First of all, the place is huge, which means I'd probably get stuck working in one particular portion of it all damn day. Two, it was the middle of the week, and therefore devoid of any real customers, which is death for people who work on commission, but who have to be there anyway, just in case. Three, I deliberately chose not to go back to Slumberland after I quit my last job because I couldn't stand the thought of spending another hour doing nothing at all and not getting paid for it. By the time I finished walking all the way around the store, after the intial joy of being surrounded by beautiful furniture, the smells of new leather, and listening to piped in lite muzak from the 90s, the words "stultifyingly boring" had irrevocably worked their way back into my mind. 

The truth is, I want to be on the other side of that sales wall. I don't want to sell furniture, I want to buy it, for people, to make their homes pretty. 

That would be: Thing I want number one. 

While I would prefer to learn the very tough business of interior design from someone who has already gone through starting and running their own business, I want to someday do just that. Own my own business.

Thing I want number two.

And while I'm on a roll, I'd really, really like to have someone to share all my dreams and disappointments with. And yes, J, I am absolutely positive that someone should be a guy. A really tall guy with broad shoulders and a big smile and a really big... pair of feet.

Thing I want number three (and maybe four, five and six).

But in the end, all I really want is to know how to get myself to go out and get what I want. I could have it all. Nothing I want is unreasonable or outrageous or even original. I know how short life is, how transient and unguaranteed each day.

I am never surprised when the clock rolls past 12 am. It occurs to me that I might be a night owl because of just how aware I am of the passing minutes. And for some reason, the seconds and hours after the sun sets are my favorite time of day. As hard as it is for me to get up in the morning (soooooo not a morning person), I am frequently reluctant to let go of the day, wanting to eke just one more second, one more minute, usually one more paragraph, one more chapter. Even now, there is a book waiting for me to finish here so I can delve into a whole other world.

Some of my restlessness is likely nothing more than a deep-seated impatience, with waiting, with my financial situation, with being who I am, yeah, with myself more than anything. My rational head will tell me I should be doing one thing, but my stubborn self will refuse to listen and do whatever the hell she wants, instead.

I am impatient, easily irritated, the work "snarky" might often apply to my attitude more and more often, of late.

J always asks how I am when he calls, and for some reason I always say "I'm Fine." And it's the truth, as far as it goes. The second I hear his voice, I'm fine. The world is a happy place again. Even if I'd been wishing minutes before that he would call so I could tell him whatever stupid thing had run through my head. But I am always reluctant to use our very short conversations to air my own petty grievances. I can do all that shit here, after all. So, "I'm Fine" will have to do until I get brave enough to say all this out loud without sounding like the whining bitch I feel like when I say it out loud to myself. Or, until he comes up with a more creative question than "How are you?"

Well, the lure of the readable written word is calling me, and she's a very strong task master, so I'm afraid I must abandon you here.

Night

Jinx

So, I got home from work tonight, and guess what I did?

Yep.

I polished my resume & CV.

Fuck it. Yeah, I like the people I work with, but not the guy I work for. The asshole had the audacity to give me a 4% raise. That's right. 4-fucking-%!!! I do more than two jobs, and I do them well. I had to take a god-damned 12 page essay test about company policy, which you know I fucking aced because I may not be a good little corporate bunny, but I know my shit.

I cannot believe my manager had the balls (even though she's a woman) to sit there and tell me that even though I clearly know what I'm talking about when I answer questions, and that my confidence in my knowledge base is a good thing in her opinion, I should try not to come off like a "know-it-all." I cannot help it if my boss doesn't know jack shit and couldn't answer half the questions I get on a daily basis, thereby making him feel like a prick when I do know the answer.

Yeah, I can be a bit of a smart ass, I'll admit it. It's a character flaw I'm well aware of. 

But this does not change the fact that I am worth A LOT more than I get paid working there. I was waiting to see if they would recognize just how valuable I am, and pay me accordingly. Stupidly, I now realize. Dare I say it, naively? Lazily? Lack-a-daisically? Hopefully? Wistfully? 

If wishes were horses, I'd be in deep shit. Oh wait, I am in deep shit! Guess we know what that means! Better watch out the next time you're looking into the night sky and waiting for that first star to appear... you never know what might hit you in the eye.

Grrrrr....

Jinx  

Do I really want to write today?

The weird feeling in my gut says there's definitely something my head wants to get out. And there are about a million little random thoughts swirling around in there, each one insisting that it's their turn to be heard. My problem, I guess, is that I'm having trouble picking the ones I want to give credence to.

Words have power. I know this. It's why I love to read so much. It's why I'm not much of a talker, either. Say something aloud, and the universe might take it and use it against you. Or, just as likely, for you. It's sort of an equal opportunity, quantum leap, kind of thing.

Am I being too careful? Should I kick my superstitions to the curb and say whatever I want, regardless of any potential cosmic consequences?

Stream of consciousness. It's worked before, when a thought just won't gel properly.

I went for a walk, yesterday and today. The weather is just about perfect for it. Long, long rambles through my green, lush neighborhood with all it's beautiful old houses and brownstone apartments and weird people and bunny rabbits and friendly cats. I'm always walking alone, and sometimes I'm brave and turn down streets toward people, and sometimes my head is so ugly I purposely turn away so I don't have to walk past anybody.

Every time I start a walk, I'm always thinking about the same thing. I may not finish te walk thinking the same thing, but at the start, it's always the same.

Heroes. Within the space of a block or two, I swing wildly from wishing I was the type of woman who attracts strong, alpha males with the strength to stand beside me, to knowing that until I am strong enough to be my own hero, I will never be that woman.

See what I mean? Words like that, vicious circles of despair and hope, dream and reality, are virtually guaranteed to cancel eachother out in the universal scheme of things.

I am so godamned tired of being lonely. I don't mind being alone. I can always amuse myself. But it would be nice to have someone to count on, to laugh with, share with, be needed by. And yeah, that's what my heart wanted me to say today.

Short, sweet, and right to the bitter point of life. Connect, or perish.

But that also explains why I was so hesitant to write it down. Admissions like that are painful, even if brutally honest and nearly anonymous. Also, ridiculously trite. After all, who doesn't want that kind of relationship in their life?

Still, apparently it had to be said.

Jinx 

I officially have a new sister. !!!

In-Law, that is.

But it's all good, because I like her a lot. She's always laughing, and she loves my brother, and my neices like her, which is good because now she's their step mother.

It was a lovely day for an outdoor ceremony, thankfully, which was held on board the only working Paddle Boat on Lake Pepin, The Pearl of the Lake.

But the wedding isn't really what I want to talk about today. Nope.

I went down to Rochester a day early to drop of my dying car and pick up the new one, but also to spend part of the day with my brother Mike, who I only get to see a couple times a year. He lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan right now. Not an easy distance, so its special when he does get to come for a visit.

Growing up, I was always closer to Mike than the other two boys. Mostly because we were the closest in age and spent most of our school years one grade apart. He's funny and smart, and fairly easy to talk to. Or, he used to be.

Now, I spend most of my time around him feeling judged or lacking in some way. Which pisses me off. He has this way of saying crap that sounds like good advice, but is really designed to make me feel stupid. So fucking passive-aggressive of him.

Somehow, we got on the topic of what he should get the girls for their bithday presents. Which is a reasonable request. What 30-year-old doctor really has any clue what to get a teenage girl, that she'd actually like? I told him I-Tunes gift cards, or perhaps gift cards for a cool clothing store, so they can pick out what they want themselves.

I couldn't give him a specific store to choose from, because I really don't know what stores teenagers shop at these days, myself. I laughed, and said even when I was a 17-year-old, I didn't shop at the cool stores, either. Most of my wardrobe came from thrift stores and garage sales. That was just fine with me, most of the time. I've never needed fancy things to be happy, unlike my youngest brother who has to have the best of everything. We call him the Yuppy for a reason. But the fact remained that my wardrobe definitely lacked a cetain panache that seemed to come easily to others.   

And Mike has the audacity to say, "You know it didn't have to be that way, right?"

How can I explain what he meant?

He was telling me that if I had been a different person, if I had gone out and gotten an after-school job to earn my own money, if I'd known then what I know now as a 32-year-old woman, I could have had the fanciest wardrobe on the planet.

He said it like I don't have the right to remember what life was like in that house when I was in high school. As if I should rewrite history to suit the way things are today.

The truth is, I don't really remember much about my childhood. I left it behind. I had to walk away, and literally put it all behind me.

But I do remember a few things. Like how much energy my brothers expended keeping my parent's attention. They didn't do it on purpose, like a conscious decision to keep me away from them. Of course they didn't. They were just kids, too, after all, and had every right to expect their parents to be there for them. But there was rarely anything left for me, emotionally. And while this wound isn't really about clothes, at all, being boys, they didn't really have to pay attention to fashion standards. Though I know Kip did, and to give him credit, he did earn his own money and pay for most of his own clothes. 

As for me, I was quiet. I didn't make waves, tried to be good so no one would get mad at me. I was almost painfully shy, most of the time. I probably had a huge sign over my head that said Keep Away! I was the walking wounded, after all. On rare occasions, I shocked myself by doing something outrageous. Like asking a strange foreign kid to go to the movies with me... But mostly, I was the invisible girl, even at home. And who would spend good money on clothes for a girl who never went anywhere? Heck, by senior year, I was making most of my own clothes. By choice. Yeah, how cool was that? I suspect that if I had ever been asked to a dance of any kind, I would have been taken to every thrift store in town looking for a dress, because who pays full price for something you're going to wear once?     

So for Mike to tell me that it didn't have to be that way...

Either he's right, and I just haven't been able to see the truth. Or he's an asshole who grew up in a completely different family than I did.

I know he did. But I'll never be able to explain the difference to him. He just wouldn't understand.

So, even today, family gatherings are hard for me. No matter what I do, it's never as cool as what my brothers are doing. Better to just keep quiet, listen, watch, blend into the background, and don't talk about the past, because it hurts too much to be told that it didn't have to be that way.

Jinx

Hey Kids!

My friend Sandy and I went to the Science Museum of MN today to see the Star Wars: Science Behind the Magic exhibit. It was pretty cool, I must admit. I was this close to Han Solo's costume!!! Was it wrong to check and see if you can tell which way he likes to hang the boys?

I had the worst crush on Harrison Ford when I was in high school. Now, he's sexy in the way Sean Connery is sexy. In that "mature, confident in his own skin, devil-may-care kind of man's man" way that will have women dropping in their paths from instant (multiple) orgasms until the day they die.

Anyway, Han Solo has always been one of my favorite bad boy fantasies. I believe he may have been one of the main reasons for my never-ending fascination with Star Wars. Without a character like him in it, the movies just wouldn't have had the same ooomph, you know?

I won't say it was a perfect exhibit. I would have done several things differently. But then, I have a trained designer's eye, and am therefore not really a "civilian." That said, it was set up to work best for the short attention span of their target audience of 12 to 18 year old boys. Quick snippets, and sometimes longer videos, of information about models and costumes and worlds and robots and future technologies all relating to the Star Wars universe and it's impact on the real world.

I always find it amazing how the camera can fool us into believing we see one thing, when really it's something completely different. There are millions of hidden details, secrets, in every frame of a really good blockbuster epic. But it's only with Star Wars that I find enjoyment in knowing all the little oddities. Most DVDs today come with behind the scenes footage and documentaries giving away all the secrets, but I never watch them if I can help it. I just don't want to know. I like movie magic, I like that they can create a whole, completely believable world, and it makes me sad when someone pulls away that curtain and takes away my ability to live in that world with the characters.

But Star Wars I love. From the story to the characters to the movie history it made.

So, I bought a coffee mug with an original poster of SW: A New Hope on it. I wanted to get a mug for all three original movies, but they cost too much. I've decided to start collecting coffee mugs, and get rid of the ones I have. They don't hold enough, and they're boring. This way, I'll have a different mug for all my different moods. It pleases me that the first in my collection is Star Wars.

Jinx   

WTF, as they say.

To all and sundry, please disregard the last blog (in part, anyway). I am soon to be the proud owner of a practically new 1997 Ford Escort, in a light metallic green, that my dad has apparently owned for the last year. This one I get to pay $3,000 for. Phew!!!

I didn't know he owned a '97 Escort, in any color. It seems my mother, who probably heard the panic lacing my voice when I told them to buy the Focus, talked my dad into selling me his little treasure. He uses it to get around town, rather than his big truck. Saves on gas milage. It was previously owned by an old man who had to go into a nursing home, and won't be needing a car of any kind. Sad, but it means I'm getting an eleven year old car that's almost brand new. It only has 23,000 miles on it. That averages to just over 2,000 miles a year. Which is practically like having it parked for a decade. Sweet! 

No, I don't really have $3,000 just lying around, but I am waaaaaayyyyy more comfortable with that number. So, cosmically speaking, I am now $8,000 to the good. Heartbeat normal, blood pressure even, sound sleep guaranteed.

I feel so much better now.

Jinx