If there was a doubt that The Man is a suitable lifetime mate for yours truly, I have photographic evidence that should put any remaining fears to rest:
The Lord and Lady will be legally wed on 6/6/9. Hopefully the ground cover will be a bit less snowy…so the ice king and queen can look a bit less frigid!
Five days, if you count today and the wedding day. Three, if you leave off the “crusts.” If I said I wasn’t nervous, I’d be lying. Honestly, though, I’m not worried that I’m doing the right thing. I mean, seriously– how could I NOT spend my life with the happy flower man and the pooch with glowing, alien eyes:
Now I get to throw my useless nervous energy into the weather. The prediction for Saturday is rain and 50-something degrees. Fabulous. Let’s just hope those weather men went to “we’re pulling your leg” school.
It feels like a big step. It IS a big step. I just hope I’ll be warm enough to take it in my sandals!
My house was built in the 60’s. We tiled the bathroom and kitchen with vintage British tile from, yes you guessed it. Now meet the latest addition to the retro family:
As you can see, furniture makers were producing some pretty sweet designs with barrels and Naugahyde back in the Summer of Love.
In addition to cracking me up whenever I walk into the room, I have to say that my house is utterly transformed by the addition of…seating. We didn’t have a single chair in the house, before. Diner booths, we have. But being able to SIT and TALK without feeling like we’re supposed to drop a quarter in the juke box–now that’s just so civilized!
Give me a week and the couch’ll turn into yet another place to store discarded clothing. But for now, I’m all about the conversation nook. Even if the conversation is all about how ridiculous the furniture is.
This afternoon, while on my daily, draining five-mile run, I happened upon an iconic fantasy: a young woman washing her car in a white tank top. The teenage boy in me got excited. I flashed to the movie Wild Things.
Then she turned around.
This woman looked nothing like Denise Richards! Not only was there a dearth of suds, there was no female friend to help her lather up in just the right places. Worse: she simply didn’t have the goods. Until today, I couldn’t imagine a universe in which ANY female wouldn’t be worth a second glance in a wet, white tank top.
Friends, that universe is Sheridan, WY.
Naturally, this is far from my first experience with a movie/real life disconnect. For starters, my senior prom was no final scene in Sixteen Candles. Nobody has ever played a boom box outside my window like Lloyd Dobler. And I’m still waiting for some hot Dracula to bite me on the neck and turn me into a sexy whore of a vampiress. Truly, I am. But today’s car wash was disappointing on a whole other level. The fantasy seemed so lifelike.
Now I’m going to be forced to re-examine even my seemingly “realistic” fantasies. Such as: making the audience fall in love with me one karaoke evening. Or being able to afford a maid. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know vampires don’t exist. But hot chicks with hoses and sponges? Is that really too much to ask?
…don’t answer that!
Apparently, some drivers in Sheridan, WY can’t distinguish between “dry road” and “wet cement.”
So that’s what those BRIGHT ORANGE SAFETY CONES are for!
Just imagine the expression of the road crew members who have to jackhammer her out….
Is there a dumbass award for soccer moms? (Or is the white mini van enough of a gimme?)
Thanks to Mark Taylor for the photos.
Well, now I’ve seen everything:
“Winner gets meat, hide and head.” Wow. Just–wow.
Well, it looks like Wilbur has had his revenge! If you buy into the fear machine, “the other white meat” is poised to eradicate humanity from the globe.
Personally, I find it strange that the State Department has been trying to keep Americans above the border, issuing travel restrictions, instilling fears about the drug trade and now–suddenly– there’s a major health threat coming from Mexico.
Hmm.
Conspiracies can be quite fun when theyevolve to the level of pandemic! At least this one isn’t killing people at the rate of the CIA’s AIDS. Swine flu is fairly minor, all things considered. But to make up for its lack of actual toxicity, we have plenty of soundbites warning of the disease’s dire return this fall–ie, the time most Americans would want to go back down to Mexico–once the summer heatwave burns off.
As you can see, rural Wyoming isn’t terribly concerned about the source of the sickness. The man and I visited the Johnson County fairgrounds yesterday and discovered their exhibit hall–hilariously behind the times.
I don’t sleep well. More specifically, I wake up a lot in the middle of the night. Yesterday, I casually mentioned my sleep “issues” to a friend. The context was caffeine. In my mind, the conversation went something like this:
Me: I quit caffeine for awhile. (Shudders.) I don’t sleep well. I need it to wake up.
Friend: I needed it, too. Once.
Me: Well, good for you! I really need it.
Friend: No, you don’t. Quit now, you caffeine junkie! Do you know how much money you could save without those two cups of needless coffee each morning??
OK, that’s not how it went down at all. In fact, I think she just nodded sympathetically. I supplied the subtext-as-dialogue in my own mind. Because I feel guilty about consuming just about anything, lately.
There’s something about parsing down my diet–and my lifestyle in general–that greatly appeals to me. If someone tells me they can fit their entire apartment into the backseat of a VW bug, I’m jealous. I don’t think “Wow, no furniture? And you’re forty years old?” I go straight to “How cool, you can move in the middle of the night!” And then I go and buy myself another pair of jeans I will probably not fit into by next next week.
I don’t know if it’s the global economy, several stalled attempts to pay off credit cards, my desire to fit into tiny sizes, or, a combination of all three. But I like the shrinking process. Shrink my debt, my needs. If I could hook myself up to an IV and skip eating entirely, by gum, I’d do it. Maybe I could get a virtual yard–then I could save time (watching my husband) mow. Or a wig that never needs combing. Or a colostomy bag….
By the way, the recommendation I really did receive for poor sleep was to take a shower with alternating hot/cold bursts. It’s supposed to be rather effective, actually. I believe it. Sounds like torture. Freezing cold water? The body processes any sleep it gets as a fabulous alternative!
Yesterday started off with a fast. There was a medical reason for it: another test. A gastric emptying study.
I was paying for the pleasure of eating some unknown breakfast-type food laced with some unknown radioactive-type substance (barium?) and then lying down inside a scary-looking machine which recorded how quickly/slowly/if ever I digested it.
Of course, I brought my own breakfast.
Yes, I called the hospital in advance to ask what they were serving. When I heard “a packet of Quaker oatmeal and toast,” I cringed in horror. The sugar! The wheat! Then when I arrived, the tech changed course and asked me if I’m allergic to eggs. Well, no…not technically. Mixed into brownies, eggs can be delicious food glue. Left to their own gloopy devices, though, I would certainly wind up puking up a barium eggy substance all over the million dollar machine.
So I brought plain oats. And rice toast. And ate them both, coated in radioactivity. While I chewed (or merely swallowed, in the oatmeal’s case) I noticed that the hospital employee list was posted neatly at eye level. CONFIDENTIAL was typed on the top left, right above the doctor’s home addresses and phone numbers. Classy.
By now, I had no confidence in the nuclear med department whatsoever.
After eating, I was told to lie down in the machine. Reading was impossible, as the machine came up to my chin. But I did have a remote control. As well as a pillow and a blankie. My first question was: “Can I sleep?” This was answered in the affirmative. In reality, though, it was impractical. At least with Tech Big Foot. She stomped around, slammed doors, spoke on the phone in loud tones and otherwise disturbed my much-needed beauty rest. So I did what any other pop-culture obsessed woman with radioactive oatmeal in her gut would: I watched Desperate Housewives.
The test results were normal. Apparently, I digest my food properly. That may be the only thing I do “correctly” with regards to food.
I wonder how they would deal with Sheridan Memorial on Wisteria Lane….
I’ve lived in Wyoming long enough to notice some patterns. One of the most recognizable is in the way the state likes to present itself. Yes, the state as a whole has a persona. Most do, I suppose; we just don’t think about the smaller ones all that much. But picture New York, California or Florida: Did you see guidos, beach blondes and blue hair in your mind’s eye? Maybe it’s just me….
The west feeds off of its cowboy image. There’s ruggedness, independence and history in that archetype. Picture the Marlboro Man, minus the lung cancer. Lately, though, the western hero has been redefinied on the airwaves. If you will allow me to use Sheridan as a microcosm of the whole, here goes. Within five minutes of tuning into any of our local radio stations, you are guaranteed to hear one of the following pop artists, none of which fits the old west image:
1. Pink. The punk/pop princess is the new independent spirit of the west. Or something. Her song “Sober” is on just about every hour. Does this mean WYO has a desire not to drink? I doubt it. But they certainly have no problem with a liberated woman on the radio. Score one for the Equality state.
2. “Paralyzer.” Finger Eleven’s purported club song, if clubs were made up of, say, all white people. Maybe Sheridan really wants to stay up late and p-a-r-t-y? Unlikely, as we don’t have a place to dance within 200 miles. OK, I’m not counting Scores, the bar at the Holiday Inn. I will never be able to accept locals going to a hotel in their own town on a Saturday night. Never. I went there once, three years ago, and still feel ill from the sight of fat white people trying to grind on the dance floor. But maybe that’s because clubs weren’t intended to be strictly Caucasian. Nice try, but minus one for WYO.
3. The Plain White T’s. Admittedly, I’m naive about radio’s source of revenue. But my theory is that in Sheridan, every dollar is presently coming from the Plain White T’s label, manager and possibly the band members themselves. They’re on CONSTANTLY. And they only have two singles! Now, the music itself is sweet, charming, catchy and cute. So there we have it, the new musical archetype of the new west: harmless.
Personally, I would prefer to go back to something that sounds the way Jack Palance looked. Grizzled, full of wisdom, tobacco and beef. Now what that sounds like, I have no idea. But I’ll know it when I hear it.
And knowing Sheridan, I’ll hear it over and over and over….