bandick

CLICK ME! CLICK ME! CLICK ME!

2005-05-17T11:21:00.000-07:00

http://www.bandick.com/wpblog/

I'm really not interested...what time should we meet?

2005-05-17T10:23:00.000-07:00

Last week I had two fairly forgettable dates.

The first date of the week was my much delayed second date with Gilly. As it turns out, Gilly is slightly rude with a streak of pure evil. I feel fairly confident that I will not be seeing him again. Unless he asks. Because I have little ability to say no to someone who is asking me on a date. Even if I already know them to be slightly rude with a streak of pure evil.

The second date was with The Energizer. As previously acknowledged, my nervous energy often translates into incessant chatter. But even I couldn't hold a candle to this guy. By the end of the evening my neck was stiff from all of the courtesy nodding I had done. He went into great detail about a camping trip he had taken...six years ago. He explained his job in such detail that I believe I am now technically certified in the field. And his family will be added to my Christmas card list. They may not know me but I know them.

The best part of my date with The Energizer was the end. And not because of him but because of me. We were almost to my car when I began the key search, only to realize that I was not only carrying my left-overs but also the dinner bill and all of the cash. When leaving the restaurant I had apparently just picked up everything on my side of the table. It was not until I go home that I found the salt shaker and steak knife in my back pocket.

So, yes, I will be seeing The Energizer again.
Not because there is any chemistry between us but because he asked.

Bandick on the run!

2005-05-12T20:58:00.000-07:00

you will be redirected in 5 seconds to the home of Bandick's musings. If you are not redirected you can get there via this link, please remember to update your bookmarks.

Thanks,
MGMT

Norman Blake: Depressing children since 1972

2005-05-12T10:48:00.000-07:00

From a very early age I have been one of the people who are emotionally susceptible to music. Certain songs can elicit extreme joy or heart breaking sorrow.

My first memory of such a song is "You Are My Sunshine". I had a music box that played the song and as a young girl, I would wind it up and the melody would lead me to weeping quietly under my covers in the dark. Even without lyrics the song had the power to move me to tears. As a child I thought I was nuts. But as an adult I realize that this song (that has has been learned by each new generation of children over the past 30 years, in essence making it a children's song) is seriously depressing. And, for some unknown reason, parents love teaching their children this fucked up, reality's a bitch, so learn to deal, children's song.

Do you know this song? I mean really know it? Many people my age, unaware that there is more to the song, know the chorus:
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,
You make me happy when skies are gray,
You'll never know dear, how much I love you,
Please don't take my sunshine away

How sweet.

Here are the verses with which you may not be familiar:
The other night dear, as I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms
But when I awoke, dear, I was mistaken
And So I hung my head and I cried.

I'll always love you and make you happy,
If you will only say the same.
But if you leave me and love another,
You'll regret it all some day

You told me once, dear, you really loved me
And no one else could come between.
But not you've left me to love another;
You have shattered all of my dreams

In all my dreams, dear, you seem to leave me
When I awake my poor heart pains.
So when you come back and make me happy
I'll forgive you dear, I'll take all the blame.

Welcome to the world, kids. Life is pain.

Interpret this...

2005-05-09T10:18:00.000-07:00

I went into the spa on my day off for a service. Maybe a facial but since they asked me to put on a robe it was more likely a massage. I walked down the hallway trying to find the room to which I had been directed but somehow found myself in the laundry room.

For some reason, it struck me that my appointment must have been delayed so I decided to help out and do a little laundry while I waited. The laundry room was very busy with the comings and goings of people who apparently did not recognize me but at the same time did not seem to mind that I was doing the laundry. And they also didn't seem to mind that, while sorting the laundry, my robe kept slipping off. I was not simply a stranger doing laundry; I was a naked stranger doing laundry.

At some point, I decided that my appointment must have been canceled and they had forgotten to tell me. Since I'd had enough of doing the laundry in the nude, I walked out to the parking lot and climbed into my car to leave. My car. The one with the license plate which read "Ass Tower One".

After waking, I questioned many aspects of the dream but none more than the "One" portion of the plate. Was "Ass Tower" already taken?

Can you handle this?

2005-05-06T14:11:00.000-07:00

Why is it that guys seem so fascinated by a woman who can drive stick shift?

Everytime a guy finds out that I drive stick he gets a giddy look in his eyes and mumbles something about how cool that is.

Translation?
How cool what is?
That a WOMAN can handle a stick?

Or that a woman can handle a STICK...

Happy Cinco de Myla!

2005-05-05T14:37:00.000-07:00

My friend "Shockner" is, today, a proud papa. He and his lovely wife welcomed their first child, daughter Myla, to this strange planet today at 1:00 pm CST.

Due to mama's health conditions, this was an arranged c-section. It looks like Shockner got his way with the whole Cinco de Myla thing. But he didn't get his other wish...her middle name is not Minute.

Happy first day, Myla!

You don't know anyone

2005-05-04T08:43:00.000-07:00

That has been my catch phrase since I saw the movie Auto Focus. Did you see the movie? DID YOU SEE THE MOVIE? Bob Crane: 50's lifestyle Disney-esque family man, married to his high school sweetheart; turned sex-crazed, freaky-deeky, murder victim. You don't know anyone.

I will never again say, "he could never do something like that" or "it's just not in her character to behave that way". He could do something like that. It may very well be in her character. You don't know anyone.

Most days, I hear stories that leave me shaking my head, muttering, "you don't know anyone" because they are so scary or bizarre. Or simply unexpected.

You don't know anyone.
You don't know anyone.
You don't know anyone.

You simply know as much as people will HONESTLY share with you. I don't want to make it seem as though I am untrusting. I do trust others. I have always trust willingly until given reason not to do so.

But now I dish out that trust with an ounce of expectation for disappointment.

Fucking Bob Crane.

Why are you slurring your words?

2005-05-03T13:03:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I had my first spa treatment at the establishment where I play the role of salon girl. I adore the esthitician I was with so I was not uncomfortable with the thought of the naked touching and slathering on of numerous products. And I felt confident that I would be able to relax. But since I was merely having a skin treatment, and not some intense massage, I had not prepared myself to become as relaxed as I did.

By the end of the hour all of the blood in my body had pooled into my eyes. When I peeled my face out of the massage table frame, my vision and state of mind sent my memory screaming back to the nightly events at the bar in my previous life as a lush. I dressed, staggered to the reception desk to pay, and stumbled out to my car, embarking on a slightly hairy drive home.

I have learned a valuable lesson. From this point forward, I will feel obligated to ask bleary-eyed, facially indented, massage clients if they are okay to drive before allowing them to leave the spa.

There is a man, a certain man...

2005-05-02T14:12:00.000-07:00

I recently met a man. A man who gave me hope. This is exactly the kind of man I needed to meet after The Heartbreaker.

This is THE good man. The kind of man who reminded me that not all men are drama kings. That some men are fun and easy. And committed. The kind of man who filled the breaks in conversation by informing his audience of his wife's beauty and the ease with which he fell in love. This is the man who had me snorting with laughter one minute and reaching for my hankie the next.

And this is the man who reminded me that there IS real, unselfish love. I will not settle for less.

To this man, I say "Thank you, thank you, thank you...And, I totally DO know The Jam. I bought the "The Sound of The Jam" cd and, of course, I know half of the songs. I guess they are just one of those 'who sings this song?' bands in my life."

What's your excuse?

2005-05-02T09:28:00.000-07:00

Is "my mother is ill" the equivalent of "my dog ate my homework" in the dating game? I have now had two potential dates bow out due to sick mothers in the past month.

Was there a recent memo that went out stating that this in not only a way to excuse yourself from a date but to do it in such a way that the dumpee may actually express sympathy for the dumpor?

Well, not from me. No sympathy until I see a medical record.

Growing pains

2005-04-28T10:05:00.000-07:00

Thanks, urp. I had an excellent birthday, urp. One filled, and I stress filled, with food. Urp.

I started the day with my normal SlimFast drink and rounded it off with two very large meals in which I ate approximately six pigs, two chickens and half a cow. And let's not forget the three, count them, three desserts.

Thank you all for the birthday greetings, although I'd expected at least one wicked remark about my age. What a missed opportunity.

All in all, the day was practically perfect in every way. Urp.

On this day, I was born

2005-04-27T07:30:00.000-07:00

Today's Taurus Horoscope
Nothing but the best -- that's what your pleasure-loving little heart and soul crave. Fortunately, you've been blessed with the ability to get what you want in such a charming fashion that no one minds. In fact, it makes them happy to give it to you. That goes double for right now, so go ahead and do what you do best. Send out a subtle signal, via a glance or a carefully placed phrase. You perfected the technique -- it's only fair that you put it to use.

Hurling for sanity

2005-04-26T13:13:00.000-07:00

After the first break-up, the therapist told me to journal. Emotional release and all. Don't hold back. So, I started blogging away. And it really was an excellent release. But I let it slip and now my family and friends are reading what should be my emotional vomits.

And so the blog has turned from vomitous* to a more dry-heave kind of thing. I'm holding back. I find myself wanting to protect the people who know me by not showing them the muck that sometimes flows around my brain. And I want to keep all of the things that make me and, by extension them, vulnerable. But I either need to push past this mental barrier and return to the real release offered by this blog or I need to start another, secret, blog. I am far too lazy for that noise.

I received a Tibetan "love" charm bracelet from The Heartbreaker yesterday. He couldn't have sent an appropriate friend gift like a book or a door stop. Or even the "protection" charm bracelet. While I haven't decided yet if I am willing, or able, to do the friend thing with The Heartbreaker, I am not willing to try to hide these things from others to try to protect them in some way.

Dear Loved Ones,
Take this in the loving spirit with which it is intended...
Love and support me in spite of knowing the things I might not normally share or find yourselves another fucking blog. Kisses.

*on a side note, it turns out that vomitous is an unword and, even after all of my bitching about people using unwords, I'm not willing to part with this one.

Suggestion to internet daters

2005-04-25T15:52:00.000-07:00

While you may be impressed by your ability to drink while upside-down, trying to woo women with a picture of you doing a keg stand may not be the way to go; particularly for those of you past the age of 25.

There's a poodle in the parking lot

2005-04-25T10:51:00.000-07:00

My desk at work (daytime marketing girl gig, not nighttime salon girl gig) faces the window. I am on the fifth floor and my scenery includes a couple of parking lots, including ours, and four roads that are part of a very weird little one-way system. When I first moved to this desk, I thought I had drawn the low card. I hated the idea of looking at the parking lot. That was then. Now I realize that I pulled the Ace.

I increase my typing ability daily because I am no longer able to look at my computer's monitor. A flurry of vehicular activity has taken control of my visual attention. There is a hotel next door and apparently many guests do not realize that they are in a one-way system. This is particularly entertaining. Lots of horn honking and u-turns. Also, the police have taken to setting up a speed trap on one of the sections over which I look. The speed limit is only 30 miles per hour but the roads are curvy and people, me included, find it slightly difficult not to indulge in the occasional zoomy turn. Although I may be betraying some brother(sister)hood of young people, it is mildly entertaining to see people being pulled over. And, it appears that one out of every five drivers has no idea how to exit our parking lot. For some reason they think that the parking lot is part of the one-way system so that when they stopped, waiting to pull out, they are blocking incoming traffic. It's interesting how you can read the irritation of driver from 500 feet away.

The wildlife is equally interesting. There are aggressive geese nesting in one of the planters and, while she sits on the eggs, he patrols the parking lot yelling at people and taking on cars. One day there was a crazy deer strolling the grassy knoll across the lot. I think he must have taken a bus into the neighborhood because we are well surrounded by freeways and busy roads. And just a couple of minutes ago, there was a standard poodle wearing a bright red bow being led to a car in the lot. Why was this dog here? This is not the kind of place I would expect to see a dog, let alone a large and freakish glamour dog.

I love my job and it is largely due to the wonderful distraction they have provided for me.

The well has run dry

2005-04-22T08:36:00.000-07:00

One of the issues with my overly dramatic personality is the ease with which I cry. Well, that used to be one of the problems. Not so much anymore. Noticeably. Confusingly. Disturbingly. I haven't cried since I said goodbye to The Heartbreaker and boarded the plane. As soon as I touched down in Minneapolis, my tear ducts went on strike.

Before the strike, the occasional crying jag was a semi-regular occurrence. Driving often became dangerous as tears pooled in response to a song on the radio. Soup and tissue commercials tugged the cheese ball section of heartstrings. Movies, books, and conversations with friends; all could send me into fits of weepy, snotty sorrow. But it was fine. It was great. Crying really IS cleansing. For a non-drinker, there are few better stress relievers than a good five minute breakdown.

Although, over the past two months I have come close to “success” on a couple of occasions, I would ultimately consider this a rare dry spell. I have actually tried to get the tears flowing. Thinking about orphaned children or hungry puppies. Poking myself with a stick. Anything for that salty flow of emotion. But I'm tapped.

Could it be possible that I've burned through my allotted lifetime ration of tears in the first 32 years? I'm so screwed.

Goodbye, dear plant, we hardly knew ye

2005-04-21T14:39:00.000-07:00

When my sister-in-law's father passed away, I sent a cedar seedling in a vase which is engraved with the words "In Memory".

The cedar seedling has now also passed.

Does etiquette require sending an "In Memory" plant in memory of the "In Memory" plant?

Carl Sagan never mentioned Ohio

2005-04-20T13:14:00.000-07:00

For 31 years, Ohio was merely the random answer on a game show or the residence of a distant relative. It was a state never visited and rarely considered. This all changed with The Heartbreaker. And even though he's gone, I can't shake Ohio.

I am now aware that this is because Ohio is the dark center of the universe. I cannot escape random connections to the state. I hear "Ohio" spoken hourly and meet people from Ohio daily. Television, radio, and movies. There is no escape. Ohio, Ohio, Ohio.

And I have tested myself to make sure that this isn't simply hypersensitivity due to my recent awareness of Ohio. Mississippi, Delaware, and West Virginia. These are states that maintain their status of being no more than geographical challenges for me. Only Ohio bounces off of my frontal lobe on a regular basis.

Chrissie Hynde went back to Ohio. I probably won't...but it's okay because it won't leave me.

File this under "H"

2005-04-19T12:51:00.000-07:00

Another fun fact about bandick: I'm a chronic hoarder. I have mentioned that I can be a bit obsessive but my theory is that this character tic is just an element of my Minnesota mentality: be prepared for a blizzard at all times.

I can't prepare my lunch without grabbing 25 napkins. After I've used the one needed for the meal, I stash the remaining 24 in my bottom desk drawer. This happens daily and I could now fashion a lovely white evening gown decorated with small flowers and ribbed edges. Soft but not suitable for wet weather.

I also cannot pass by a dish of candy without grabbing a handful...or two. I rarely eat more than one piece a day so my top desk drawer has acquired a vending machine quality, without the need to scratch together spare change.

All of this occurred to me when I went to the office supplies room to get a new pad of pop-up Post-it notes and returned to my desk with two pads of pop-up Post-it notes, one pad of paper, four pens, a mechanical pencil, two highlighters, and a handful of envelopes. I only needed the Post-it notes.

The remaining items were promptly placed into hoarding storage in my middle desk drawer.

I'm back, baby!

2005-04-19T09:34:00.000-07:00

Fantastic trip. Really. Perfect weather, great events, and one totally crushable guy.

I think that makes a trip like this complete. Someone to crush on and have pretend dates with so you feel a bit less like a third wheel when hanging out with a couple. So, thanks, crushable boy. I've crushed on you before and I look forward to crushing again.

I shopped in Pasadena, ate at the Disney Studios, and saw Kung Fu Hustle in Hollywood.

Perfect.

Face it, people are weird

2005-04-15T22:45:00.000-07:00

As I boarded my flight I noticed the man in black. Not Johnny Cash but a younger, tattooed man with shaggy hair who was slumped over a book in his lap. It was difficult to determine whether he was passed out or reading the back cover of the book.

Looking at him, I could feel myself make a reflex face. It was a "hmm, weird guy" face. When I looked up I realized that there was a guy a few rows back who saw me make the reflex face because he was giving me the "yeah, I saw him too" face. So, I made the "busted making the weird guy reflex face" face. He replied to this with a smile that I thought was a "that was funny, have a nice flight" face. It was not.

It was a "now I have an airplane friend, I will continue to stare and give you this face until you find your seat, and then I may come over to your seat mid-flight to check in with you, so if you don't want to talk, keep the headphones on and keep writing because I'll be craning my head throughout the flight waiting for my window, oh, and you might want to consider using the bathrooms in the back of the plane for your eight potty breaks" face.

Another reason I choose to avoid eye contact as much as possible.

Hang in there...

2005-04-12T16:33:00.000-07:00

I'll be back.

I'm just going to Los Angeles for a bit to see Faris and Mrs. Blog.

While I'm gone, think on this...http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4586805

They'll knock on your door when you're alive and on heaven's door when you're dead.

If you touch me, I will crush you

2005-04-11T08:59:00.000-07:00

From the first time a boy gave me tingly feelings, I have been the queen of the crush. If I were a superhero, I would be "Crush". I would admire the evil villains from afar until their brains melted due to the crush vibrations.

I will not go into detail about the crush I had on someone for more than a decade because, with that one exception, my crushes are frequent and short-lived. And they generally begin with an act of goodwill performed by the future crushee.

Examples:

The boy in high school who saved me from humiliation by giving me his sweatshirt to wrap around my waist after I'd sat on a candy bar at lunch
The guy in college who gave me a ride home when I couldn't get my car started
The man at work who pointed out fifteen times (I counted) that I had done all of the research for his presentation that was receiving such rave reviews

I have put much consideration into the source of this extreme ability to crush. I always thought that maybe my melodramatic side yearned for something big, like unrequited love. But more recently I have begun to consider that maybe it has more to do with my general cowardice of men. In a crush, I get to have some of those exciting feelings without risking myself emotionally.

Of course it's not fulfilling, but it's still a little fun; much like fat-free ice cream.

Dear hyperanxious co-worker,

2005-04-08T14:55:00.000-07:00

Who in the hell were you expecting? You work in an office with 350+ other people; you should anticipate that when you are approaching a door on one side, someone else might be approaching on the other.

Be present so that when you see me, your instant reaction isn't to jump back and strike some sort of movie kung-fu pose. You know me. I won't hurt you. Unless you fuck with my snacks.

Willy Wonka meets Rowdy Roddy Piper

2005-04-08T11:58:00.000-07:00

There has only been one time in my life that I could have officially declared myself a bad-ass. Not surprisingly, there was a direct correlation between this unusually aggressive behavior and candy. Sugar is crack for 10-year old kids and it makes them do crazy things. I was no exception.

By the age of 10, Saboylovegg and I had been best friends for four years and had developed a weekly ritual of mind-numbing, tooth-rotting happiness. We would walk to the store every Saturday morning, armed with any money we might have stumbled across through the week and our mental "must-haves" shopping list. These were the glory days when I was the tall, skinny kid who was actually trying to gain weight to alleviate ridicule from classmates. What better method than a weekly sugar binge while watching Saturday morning cartoons with my closest companion?

One Saturday, Saboylovegg and I had decided that it would be a good idea to invite a neighbor to join us. Mistake. Never invite a third into a happy twosome, particularly when you know nothing about the third's snacking habits.

As it turns out, she was a candy novice who had no "must-haves" list and therefore simply bought the same items as her expert shopping guides. Saboylovegg and I were the Sherpas of the candy aisle. "No, no. You don't want that. It's too crumbly and relatively unsatisfying. Try this. It lasts for ages and your teeth tingle with sugary pain by the time you’re finished. It's amazing." So, it was no coincidence that the third and I both arrived at Saboylovegg's house, prepared to snack our morning away, with Fun Dip. Oh, the marvel of Fun Dip. Who was the genius that decided the best way to eat flavored powdered sugar was with a stick made of hardened sugar?

The primary dilemma with Fun Dip was finishing the sticks. Or so I’ve heard. This was never a problem for me. In fact, I could often be seen pouring the sugar packets directly into my mouth because I had prematurely devoured my sticks. So, it was a surprise to me when I received a call from Saboylovegg on Sunday morning yelling at me about the wet dipping stick that had been left on her counter, attracting all of the ants in the neighborhood. And she had it on good authority, from this bitch-ass of a third snacker, that it was I who had been unable to consume my entire packet of sweet goodness.

Once I had reminded Saboylovegg of my ability to ravage mass amounts of ANY type of food, with sugary items topping the list, and she had regained her senses, we determined that payback was in order. We had welcomed the third and she had betrayed the trust of two sugar-smacking, cartoon watching 10-year old bad-asses. And she was, as it turns out, the cause of the one and only fight we have had in 26 years of friendship.

The following Saturday, we invited her to partake in our secret ritual once again. We had judged her actions and decided her punishment. A good punch to her sugar-laden belly would be fitting enough. So, with full-intention and little emotion, once the cartoons had finished Saboylovegg took the third by the arms and I punched her once, with all of my scrawny might. And, I’m sorry to say but that punch was almost as sweet as the pack of candy cigarettes I had rolled up in my t-shirt sleeve.

I believe that the moral of this story is to always eat sugar alone, or with a trusted partner, in a safe environment. And perhaps keep the weekend television watching limited to Saturday morning cartoons and skip the Sunday morning wrestling.

Competition breeds winners...and neurotics

2005-04-07T10:36:00.000-07:00

Lately, I have found myself reading the blogs of several women with whom I feel a real connection. This is a sisterhood of intelligent, witty, attractive, and single women, of which I humbly consider myself a member. They have had similar experiences, similar dreams, similar heartaches. And I have recently been looking to these women for inspiration.

But it just it struck me...these are not women to be admired; these are women to be feared. This is the competition. And if I think these women are great, so will the six remaining eligible bachelors in my age category. It doesn't matter that these women live in New York, Chicago, Miami, and San Francisco. Hell, I was willing to travel to Cleveland to be with The Heartbreaker. What would stop them from coming to Minneapolis?

Maybe I should just stop looking to the internet for inspiration and start surfing porn like normal people.

Read any good movies lately?

2005-04-05T10:45:00.000-07:00

x: "I'm reading the DaVinci Code on CD."
bandick: "You mean you're listening to the DaVinci Code on CD."
x: "No. It's a book. It's on CD. I'm reading a book on CD."
bandick: "When a book is made into a movie, you are watching a movie, not reading a book on film."
x: "I'm reading the DaVinci Code on CD."
bandick: "So, when someone asks if you've read a good book lately, you will tell them, 'Yes. The DaVinci Code.'?"
x: "Don't think I won't."

Dead woman walking

2005-04-04T13:15:00.000-07:00

Salon girl #1: So, bandick, how old are you?
bandick: 32. Well, 32 at the end of the month.
Salon girl #2 (Salon girl #1 has fainted): REALLY? I can't believe it. Really? Wow.
bandick: Well, you know, it just sort of happens.
Salon girl #2: So, what's it like to be that old?
bandick: Kind of cool. You know, senior discount and all.
Salon girl #1 (after the smelling salts): Neat. Do you still feel like you get around okay? Not too much pain or hassles carrying loads of medications?
Salon girl #2: Do you still have any of your own teeth?
Salon girl #1: Was it devastating when you realized you'd missed your chance to find love and have babies? Is that when you got cats?
Salon girl #2: Are you upset at the prospect of dying alone only to have those same cats, that you got for companionship, eat you after you've died?
bandick: Umm. Yeah. If you'll excuse me, I think it's time for my mid-day nap.

This is loosely based on a conversation I had with the salon girls yesterday. Overall, it really was a good conversation because I am assuming that their initial shock at my actual age means that I am using the right products and, for now, I do not need Botox.

bandick...she's everywhere you want to be.

2005-04-04T07:35:00.000-07:00

Here are more ways in which my blog is wasting people's time:

#1 result on yahoo for search string "location of the heart"
http://search.yahoo.com/search?p=location%20of%20the%20heart&ei=UTF-8&fr=FP-tab-web-t&fl=0&x=wrt
This is how I am wasting the time of future doctors.

#6 result on yahoo for search string "ox bile kills"
http://search.yahoo.com/search?p=ox%20bile%20kills&ei=UTF-8&fr=FP-tab-web-t&fl=0&x=wrt
This is how I am wasting the time of farmers and environmentalists.

#8 result on yahoo for search string "I'm crying crocodile tears song"
http://search.yahoo.com/search?p=I%27m%20crying%20crocodile%20tears%20song&fr=FP-tab-web-t&toggle=1&ei=UTF-8
This is how I am wasting the time of all the broken hearted who are seeking song lyrics that speak to their pain.

Make-up won't hide my secrets

2005-04-02T17:47:00.000-08:00

They'll figure me out. I'm a poser. I don't belong there and I know it; I think they know it too. But the desire is too strong. I cannot stay away.

I started a part-time job, evenings and weekends, at my new favorite salon/spa today. I work with salon girls. I am NOT a salon girl. I think they know this. They sense it. They may not realize exactly what yet but they know that something is off.

Just like the cool girls in high school. They knew it from the beginning and eventually they discovered my secret...I hated 90210 and loved The Simpsons. And the salon girls will inevitably realize that I hate clutch purses and love comfortable shoes.

Here's a whole nother thing that pisses me off alot

2005-04-01T10:27:00.000-08:00

I read the following on another blog today:
"AND...I always thought "alot" was a judgment call thing."
WHAT?!

But how are people to know any better when it has become apparent to me that the folks at Merriam-Webster, and certainly other dictionary publishing companies, have decided, "Fuck it. Let's just add shit because people have taken to saying it."

To clarify, I'm not opposed to new words being added. Evolution breeds change; evolution IS change. I'm simply opposed to this type of thing:
www.m-w.com One entry found for nother.
Main Entry: noth·er Variant(s): or 'noth·er /'n&-[th]&r/Function: adjective Etymology: alteration (from misdivision of another) of other, adjective: OTHER -- used especially in the phrase a whole nother; used chiefly in speech or informal prose

NOTHER? Nother is now a word? What the fuck? I will not be at all surprised when I check the dictionary for "alot" and there it is, alongside a note that reads, "It's kind of a judgment call thing."

Another attractive feature

2005-04-01T10:03:00.000-08:00

I don't know how it happened, or when, but it's bad. And possibly getting worse. All day I click away at my keyboard. Clickity, clickity, ha-hemmm, clickity, ha-hemmm, clickity, clickity, clickity, haaa-hemmmmm, HA-HEMMMMMMMMMMM.

I've become a chronic throat-clearer. In essence, I've become your Uncle Sal.
Climb up on my knee and let me tell you what it was like in ought-four, when things were good. When there was no phlegm.

Why have I not noticed this until now? Do I do it all day long? I live alone so there's no one to tell me how incessant my phlegm-moving has become. And phlegm-moving is really all it is. It's never productive behavior, I never have anything to show for it in the end. It's done without intent or reward.

I just really need to stop before I find myself wearing cardigans and sucking on toothpicks all day.

Some co-workers don't suck

2005-04-01T07:07:00.000-08:00

To my left, on the other side of a 5 1/2' cube wall, sits "Nora". She's so cute and little, I could keep her in my pocket. And there are three reasons that I think she's great.

She laughs at all of my stupid jokes, even the puns
She brings me Nutty Bars when I'm blue
She says "Gesundheit" whenever I sneeze

I realized yesterday that she says "bless you" to everyone else. But she says "Gesundheit" to me, because it's what I say when someone else sneezes.

Shhh....I'm trying to concentrate

2005-03-30T08:13:00.000-08:00

I had waited too long. Now things were urgent. Desperate.

I ran to get there. I was thrilled to find that no one else was around. I was happy to have a moment alone. It is moments like these that I hope for every time I go, only to be disappointed at the number of people mulling about once I arrive.

I smiled, exhaled a sigh of relief and locked myself into the first stall. My joy was shattered as someone walked in a heartbeat behind me. She simultaneously entered the bathroom and my sense of personal space. There were five stalls, all empty with the exception of one, and she felt it necessary to use the one directly next to mine. In the part of my mind that controls my shy bladder it wouldn't have been worse if she had kicked down my stall door and climbed onto my lap.

I had to resort to mind games in an effort to soothe my bladder's sense of panic. I stuck my fingers in my ears and squeezed my eyelids hard together. I took several deep breaths. I started to mentally hum the theme song from Sanford and Son. It was working. Things were relaxing. I knew I would be in business if I could just remain in this state of calm.

But, of course, my neighbor made a very loud and very lewd noise. She was now not only testing my bladder reflexes but also my gag reflexes. And every muscle in my body instantly became clenched again.

Ultimately, I had to wait her out. Blowing my nose, clearing my throat, and fucking with the roll of toilet paper. All of the obvious things that people do to make it appear as though they have a legitimate non-potty related reason to spend so much time in the stall.

The most peculiar aspect to my shy bladder is that it is not constant. I have no problems when I'm with people I know well or with complete strangers. It's the people I know in passing, like random co-workers, that give me trouble. Perhaps it's a fear that if I were to accidentally test their gag reflexes that they would run to their computers to blog about it for the world to read.

Hedgehog now available for adoption

2005-03-29T14:57:00.001-08:00

My ex, from several years back, and I had once written a short comedic skit:

Scene - DJ spinning records in a club
Music - a variation on "You Down With OPP?", now "You Down With OCD?"
Funny hook - DJ washing hands feverishly between every song

This was extremely funny to us both because we're both self-diagnosed Obsessive Compulsives. "Closed, off, and locked." This is my morning mantra. Walk to the bathroom, "Closed, off, and locked." Bedroom, ""Closed, off, and locked." On the way out the backdoor, "Closed, off, and locked." Pulling out of the driveway, craning my neck to see the garage door until the very last second, "Closed, off, and locked."

And, now there is one more obsessive compulsive behavior. I check The Heartbreaker's blog every day. He only posted three times ever, and hasn't posted anything since November, so I never really expect to see a change. But every day I feel compelled to check.

The problem is that his last post was about me. I hate that it's all schmoopie and just sitting out there like an abandoned hedgehog (I could have gone with puppy but that's so run-of-the-mill).
This post appears unloved but it has always been special to me. Someone took the time to write about me. And it was sweet. And genuine. And unusual. Like a hedgehog.

But the time has come; someone either needs to adopt the post or have it euthanized.

Biting old ladies

2005-03-28T12:23:00.000-08:00

My folks brought our 15 year old Cocker Spaniel, with us this weekend while visiting relatives. Sadie hates to leave the house but we enjoy all of the shaking and panting she does in the car. Good road entertainment. Who needs license plate games when you can wager on how often the dog will pass out?

My cousin and his wife also brought their new dog. A dog of unknown age and breed but there is no questioning her cuteness. Grace is energetic and loving and, for the most part, well behaved.

So it was a shock to everyone when Grace tried to eat my dog. I think she was attempting the crocodile method of just gagging Sadie down because she twice tried to inhale her head first. Sadie is not only 15 but she is also deaf and has a glass eye. She was simply oblivious to the fact that Grace was trying to establish some sort of doggy rank in the house. Sadie was far more interested in the possibility of finding some random crumb in a remote corner.

But dogs will be dogs. Or crocodiles. And I think everyone is simply happy to be home, where they know their place.

Dinner from Hell

2005-03-27T09:47:00.000-08:00

Penguin, originally uploaded by bandick.

I am out of state this weekend visiting relatives. On Friday night, we stumbled across the two most feared things at any restaurant: the "touchy" waiter and an evil penguin.

The waiter was a toucher. A sweaty-palmed, all up in your face, toucher. I tried bobbing. I weaved like Rocky. But he still got me. He was grabby like a nervous prom date. At one point, when he was across the table from me and I felt it safe to request a glass of water, he actually put down his tray, walked around the table, and said "Sure, no problem" as he TOUCHED ME ON THE SHOULDER.

Listen, toucher. This isn't a game of duck, duck, goose. I don't need your constant reassurance that I am going to have a safe restaurant experience. And you are an 18 year old college kid. I really have NO idea where those hands have been.

On the other hand, it could be that he was trying to keep us pacified since we were sitting in the shadow of the dark lord. The stained glass image of an evil penguin hovered just feet away from us. There is not much to say about this terrifying experience that you can't imagine from looking into his eyes. But don't stare too long. I've not ruled out mind control as every day that passes, my craving for herring increases.

Wonder of wonders

2005-03-25T07:48:00.000-08:00

Was he on the same date? Was his laughter genuine and not just a nervous "laugh along or she might kill you" defense?

I guess the date didn't go as poorly as I had thought because he just asked for a second date. I'll be going in the hopes that I can redeem my self-image and put the "World's Worst Dater" title to rest.

note to self - no caffeine prior to date
2nd note to self - no car talk on date
3rd note to self - drink lots of booze during date
4th note to self - scratch note 3 due to whole "former lush" thing
5th note to self - show lots of cleavage. try the boobs everywhere technique. then it doesn't matter what you say or how spastic you are.

Who left this child to fend for herself?

2005-03-24T11:33:00.000-08:00

Lunch:
Alphabet soup, Hooters Hot Wings potato chips, Dr. Pepper and three Girl Scout Thin Mints.

After meal residue:
Soup on pants, chips in hair, Dr. Pepper talk-back and cookies packed into molars.

I eat like a ten year old, both in the decisions I make and in the performance of the act.

Is this thing on?

2005-03-24T08:16:00.000-08:00

Last night was more evidence that I am the world's WORST dater.

I went to the restaurant feeling pretty good but a little shaky from having consumed great quantities of caffeine throughout the afternoon. I settled in at the bar, hoping for a few minutes to try to relax a bit. He was early. No guy in my life has ever even been on time for anything and this guy's early.

No time to relax translated into hyperactivity. Humor hyperactivity. I was acting as though it were an audition at the local comedy club. All I needed were some props and a laugh track. And I couldn't stop. This was my first out-of-body experience. I hovered over myself yelling, "Just stop talking, you twit. Stop. You know you need to stop. STOP!"

I did not stop and the pain in my throat this morning is my punishment for my uncontrollable need to speak, loudly and continuously, all evening.

I hold little hope for a second date. There were no hints dropped that there might be a second date. Not even any of the white lies men tell to end a date on the right note. No, "I'll call you" or "We should do this again". Nothing. There was a firm handshake and "It was nice meeting you" in the parking lot, as I babbled about Mona and he tried to make his escape.

I think that he was not thoroughly convinced of my claim of "Not Crazy".

I'm not terribly upset by this because, although he was a very nice and funny guy, there was simply no physical chemistry. It's only...I wonder about those people who manage to have a friendship first. Did the physical part evolve as they became acquainted or was it always there? Should I date someone I'm not immediately attracted to physically in the hopes that something might develop? Because I know lots of guys I'm not attracted to...
Should I start making calls?

I'm not mad...I'm crazy!

2005-03-23T09:43:00.000-08:00

Suddenly, everyone I know has an eligible bachelor I have to meet.

Tonight is the first date with bachelor #1. I'll call him Gilly. This may change because if I meet him and he actually has gills this nickname will have to go. If he has gills, I'll call him Evo.

I may not have the need to assign a second nickname though. The following string of emails are submitted as evidence to the assumption that he thinks I'm mental:
Gilly: I can be there at 6:15 if that doesn't mess with your schedule. I haven't been to this restaurant. Do you want to meet in the bar or lobby? What would work for you? Let me know.
bandick: Great. I'll meet you at the bar because I'll probably get there a little before 6:15. Don't rush, I'm a pro at entertaining myself. FYI, I think my mom gave your sister a picture of me. My hair is more blonde now. And it will probably be kind of curly. You'll know me because I'll be the one talking to herself and giggling.
Gilly: The bar sounds good. Talking to yourself and giggling????
bandick: Because I can so easily entertain myself. Not cause I'm crazy. Really. I have certification from the psychiatric unit upon my release that states "Not Crazy".
Gilly: Can you bring that letter?

I am currently looking through Microsoft's templates for psychiatric release letter templates.

Buyer beware

2005-03-22T11:29:00.000-08:00

I love this. People are commenting and the blog is becoming interactive. There are even "regulars" now...NORM!

One nice comment was that I was "something between 'bridget jones' and 'sex & the city'". Flattering. But there is no sex. There's hardly even a city. Which makes it difficult. You know, to find the sex. I'm beginning to think that they are kind of a combo deal.

I just want you all to be clear on what you are getting. I don't want you getting all invested because you were somehow tricked into thinking that I have some sort of exciting life. I don't wear my kicky Manolo's while walking to the bodega. I wear my Nine West's while driving to Super Target. I don't go to parties with beautiful singles. I go to birthday parties for my married friend's kids.

But I do eat a lot of Chinese take-out. And I usually eat it with chop sticks. So, there's that.

Consider yourself warned.

Got your ears on?*

2005-03-21T07:39:00.001-08:00

Sitting at my desk this morning, I watched several LARGE trucks trying to squeeze into small spaces. There is apparently a new company moving into the building which is resulting in much madness in the parking lot.

Seeing so many LARGE trucks made me flash to the days of my "Convoy" obsession.

Rubber Duck, a.k.a. Kris Kristofferson, taught me everything I know about the open road and standing up to the man. Which isn't much. On either front. Nope. Never spent time on the big road. And I'm a single white female. I've probably never even met the man.

Okay, so strike those two lessons. I guess the only lesson I really took away from "Convoy" is the importance of a really good nickname.

My two favorite from "Convoy"? Why, 'Big Nasty' and 'Lizard Tongue', of course.

*side note - Since I'm down with truckers, I threw in a little lingo. "Got your ears on?" means, "Are you listening?"

From the court to the course

2005-03-17T14:09:00.001-08:00

blake, originally uploaded by bandick.

New reality television concept:

"Golfing with a Vengeance"

Robert Blake joins forces on the courses with OJ Simpson as the two attempt to track down those responsible for murdering their wives.

Guest appearances by Kato Kaelin as "The Caddy".

Happiness is the single life

2005-03-16T14:32:00.001-08:00

Robert Blake.

Scott Peterson.

Don't forget The Juice.

From devotee to divorcée

2005-03-14T14:58:00.000-08:00

I have spent the past week in the eating phase of my break-up recovery. I knew that after several weeks of not eating I could expect a week of craving only foods that have an unreasonably small serving size so that the actual total calorie and fat count are not quickly realized.

For example, the Girl Scout cookie. Peanut butter patties - serving size = 2. Calories = 150. Fat grams = 8. Hmm. Not so bad, save the fact that I have never eaten "one serving" of Girl Scout cookies at a time. THEY ARE TOO DAMN SMALL FOR THAT.

Add another thorn to my side about the Girl Scout organization. At least now they are only trying to make me fat. When I was a child, they tried to kill me.

Picture sweet little bandick; Brownie extraordinaire. With dreams of growing into the world's greatest Girl Scout. I did all of the things expected of a Brownie. I sold the cookies. I made the crafts. And I attended Girl Scout camp.

I pictured Utopia when I was told of a land where Girl Scouts ruled. And then they told me about the horses. Girl Scouts AND horses? Not possible. How could this have gotten any better? The only possible way would be if I could stay for a week. "WHAT? I get to stay for a week?"

Unfortunately, this was no paradise. Far from it. FAR from it.

What the brochure didn't state was the fact that I wasn't going to get "My Little Pony" to love and hug. No. I was going to get a bitch-ass angry, pregnant horse. Super pregnant. The phase of pregnant where a horse would EAT a small girl trying to climb onto her back.

There was also no mention of the lack of hot water. This must be where Girl Scouts develop their ability to be "courageous and strong". Or perhaps that comes from the food poisoning portion of the stay. Yes. There was even food poisoning. Because I wasn't have enough fun already.

The weirdest thing was that even as I lay on the cot in the nurses cabin, a heap of sobbing, vomitous Brownie mush, they were considering not sending me home. That was when I used my highly developed Brownie ability to "use resources wisely". I held my thermometer to the light bulb and was home by the end of the day.

I say, "Screw the Girl Scouts and the horses they rode in on."
But do you have any extra cookies? I only bought six boxes.

Now I really AM fancy

2005-03-14T10:33:00.000-08:00

Fancy and blonde.

I wear my new blondness with pride because it was earned.

My appointment on Saturday morning was for a full foil. If you are not sure what that means, it is the aluminum head procedure. Not the one where there are a few pieces of tin meshed into your hair but the one where you start tuning in radio stations from Australia.

It took an hour to get all of the metal woven through the six hairs that did not get bleached. The colorist then told me that sometimes there are issues of brassiness with this type of coloring so she was going to give me a toner afterward that would make the highlights a little more caramel.

She took me to the sink and was raving about how good the highlights were looking already. She rinsed and smooshed all of the toner goop in while I pictured myself having all of the fun that blondes apparently have.

She returned moments later. Literally TWO minutes later. As she rinsed my hair she told me that the toner had taken. "Great!" I said. "I can't wait to see it." But I didn't understand. This was not a good thing. The toner had taken. Taken to the highlights. And turned them caramel. And the rest of my head. Caramel. Like one big candy. No blonde. No different tones in the hair. Just caramel.

The good news is that I went back yesterday and had the whole thing redone. Yes, I was very nervous as she smooshed the toner goop into my hair but since she had used a different type of toner goop, nothing took. No taking of anything. Including my money, so although 3 hours of my life was spent turning blonde, we'll call it a wash. A goopy toner wash.

Fancy? Or pretentious?

2005-03-11T09:40:00.000-08:00

Sandusky diner, originally uploaded by bandick.

This picture was taken in greasy spoon diner by a waitress who had more impact on my life than she will ever realize.

Two weeks after meeting The Heartbreaker, we spent a weekend in the small town of Sandusky, Ohio. This was our first weekend together and we quickly identified our mutual love of the "greasy spoon " breakfast. Oddly enough, the greasy spoon was a little tough to find in Sandusky because everyone we asked recommended the big breakfast chain restaurants, obviously missing the point of a $3 breakfast that you taste all day.

We decided that in a town the size of Sandusky we would stumble across a greasy spoon if one existed. It did and we did. This was the kind of diner where, literally, everyone stops talking and looks at the door when someone enters. When they realized we were unfamiliar faces, they did the full body scan before returning to their newspapers and cigarettes.

We sat at the counter, which is really the only proper way to enjoy the diner experience. Our waitress, who I believe was the wife of the cook and the mother of the other waitress, was the stereotypical diner waitress; friendly with a smart-assed remark at the ready.

It was at this breakfast that I was "outed" in an event that apparently defined who I was in the mind of The Heartbreaker.

Waitress: “What can I get for you, hun?”
bandick: “Could I get you to soft boil an egg for me?”
Waitress: (Insert quizzical expression here) “No. We don’t do soft boiled eggs.”
bandick: “Okay. I’ll have two poached eggs with whole wheat toast.”
Waitress: “Anything to drink?”
bandick: “A glass of skim milk would be good.”
Waitress: “Oh, hun. If it ain’t whole, it ain’t here.”

Waitress to Heartbreaker: “She’s fancy, isn’t she?”

Fancy. Fancy. Soft boiled eggs and skim milk make a person fancy?

The Heartbreaker held onto that comment like it was some sort of certified insight into my character. Fancy. And he would periodically pull it out in conversation. "My girl's fancy." In the beginning it felt like a complement each time he referred to me as fancy. I even started to feel a little fancy. But by the end of our relationship it felt more that when the word fancy was used it was in place of the word pretentious.

Am I fancy? Am I pretentious? Or am I just a girl who likes soft boiled eggs and skim milk?

Either way, if these are the things that make one fancy, I've decided to embrace the fancy.

For the love of the game

2005-03-09T14:41:00.000-08:00

I emailed my first boyfriend the other day and have since been recalling some of the experiences of our short-lived romantic, but long-lived platonic, relationship.

I met "Call-bird" (this was what my best friend called him) when I was 18. We had a true whirlwind romance as it was occurring while he was busy traveling the country. We spent time together a few times when he was traveling through Phoenix and then he came to stay in Minneapolis for a couple of months after I'd moved back.

He really couldn't have come to Minneapolis at a worse time. The year was 1991 and that autumn, Minnesota experienced two historical occurrences: 1) the Halloween blizzard, in which the state accumulated between 29 and 37 inches of snow, and 2) the Twins were entering their second World Series in 5 years.

Call-bird was not a snow bird. Nor was he a baseball fan. And although outwardly he seemed to take my baseball obsession in stride, he was actually quite passive aggressive.

"Go, the Braves. Go, the Braves." Insert Tomahawk chop here. "Go, the Braves."

Cheering for the opposing team. Poorly. I tried to coax him into chanting "Go, Braves" but he insisted on keeping "the" in the stream. Curious that a Brit won't say "I have to go to THE hospital" but he'll say "Go, THE Braves".

All in all, he was a great sport - even going to the World Series Champs parade in downtown Minneapolis when he had no winter coat.

But, if he's reading...It hardly snows at all in Minnesota these days. And the Twins haven't been to the World Series since. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?

Happy Birthday, Heartbreaker

2005-03-09T06:54:00.000-08:00

Here's your fishy thought for the day:
PISCES (Feb. 19-March 20). There's much going in your favor, but your need for introspection may cause you not to see it like everyone around you does. No matter. As Carl Jung said: "Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes."

Which are you?

2005-03-08T14:51:00.000-08:00

My best friend's brother holds the theory that people either look like a bird, cat, or dog.

I must add two categories. Fish and rodent.

I have nothing against the ding-a-ling

2005-03-07T14:26:00.000-08:00

I am REALLY surprised that I've been blogging for 6 months and this is the first time I've had to address the name of the blog.

I know that it looks like Ban Dick. Like I'm opposed to the peen. Or the Cheney. NO to the first, YES to the second.

Bandick is my middle name. It's a family name. It was my grandmother's maiden name.

Don't fret. I am still a fan of the wee-waw.

So, what's your story?

2005-03-07T09:02:00.000-08:00

I watched I Heart Huckabees on Friday. In the film, one of the characters was confronted with the fact that he tries to impress people by telling a certain funny story. Repeatedly. He has told the story so often that every word, inflection, pause for reaction, and facial gesture is identical with each telling.

On Saturday, while having lunch with my mother, I had a "memorized story" encounter. The man sitting to my right was enjoying a muffin while casually chatting with a friend on his cell phone. During the phone call, it became apparent that this man had a Huckabees story of his own. He became quite excited while recalling a trip to Amsterdam and Paris. The point of the story seemed to be that at some time during the trip there was apparently a man with the tour company who spoke very little English and that he repeated one phrase - "Meat or cheese?".

"Meat or cheese? Meat or cheese? That's all he would ever say. He wouldn't say 'good morning' or 'hello' or 'welcome' or 'sir'. It was only ever - meat or cheese? MEAT OR CHEESE?"

And as the man told this story to his friend, he wore the memorized facial expressions. The pattern surely flowed the same way it always did. Perhaps the only adjustment was in his hand gestures, due to the cell phone.

The thing is, the story wasn't funny. It wasn't ironic or witty or sad or frightening. But it was his story. The story that he had chosen. Why? It must be that the story that had, at some point in time, given him momentary fame. It must have been received well and he has decided to use it until he can no longer speak the words "Meat or cheese?".

I, on the other hand, am too ADD to put that much effort into one story.

NAKED TIME!

2005-03-04T11:49:00.000-08:00

I just stumbled across a blog wherein the 50+ year old author wrote "Sometimes it feels like my life is just a series of mistakes; the only variable is the length of time between mistakes."

Wow. This was a little like a scared-straight moment.

I'm very sorry to the author who seems to be struggling. But, while my thoughts have generally not been this extreme, this was a little like a glimpse at my possible future. Negative thoughts can become very powerful and very real.

So, here's the deal. Yes. I have made mistakes. Some you might even call MISTAKES. But my life is great.

And here are some reasons why:

Naked time. I love naked time.
My godson calls me grandma. I'm 31.
Potato Buds. Add a stick of butter or two and you're all set.
I have an oversized two-car garage. And a one-car garage. And a shed. Some man is going to jump all over that!
My car refuses to die. Water pours in through the windshield in the car wash and she moans like a whore but she knows I need her to keep going.
Non-alcoholic beer. All of the calories, none of the fun - but still the perfect answer to a sunny Spring day.

My life is a series of mistakes, unbelievably good times, and all of the mundane shit in between.

Free like me

2005-03-04T09:23:00.000-08:00

Here are the terms of Martha's house arrest:
She can leave only to go to work and she can work 48 hours a week. The other exceptions are that she can leave to go to church, to go see the doctor or the dentist, or to go to the grocery store.

It struck me this morning that I am on house arrest.

So, I've got that going for me, which is nice.

2005-03-03T15:39:00.000-08:00

I'm having a serious shitty mental health day so I'm going to do something that's not really in my nature. I need to have a Stuart Smalley moment; good enough, smart enough type stuff.

Here are ten reasons why I rock (gosh darnit, people like you):

I'm determined. Some people may view this quality as stubbornness but I really think of it as a positive attribute. Besides, as a Taurus born in the year of the Ox, I don't have much choice in the matter.
I am loyal. Sometimes I may be a bit too loyal. But either way, I got your back.
I'm tall. I rarely need help reaching things.
I have really clear eyes. My mom always points out that my eyes are never red or irritated looking. No need for Visine, so I save a few bucks.
I'm smart. I don't need to go into a rant about how people tell me I am or what kind of grades I got. And there's no need to compare myself to others. I just know that I'm smart.
I have nice nails. They are like weeds but the nice kind of weeds that really just look like flowers. They grow and grow and they require very little maintenance.
I drive stick. Which is good because it means that I can drive just about any car, anywhere in the world. So, now I just have to go somewhere to get some use out of that one.
I smell good. In general, no stinky feet, pits or ass.
I'm funny. But only because I have a faulty brain-to-mouth filter so I say whatever I think will get a laugh. Very often I get the laugh. Very often I get the hairy eyeball.
I have an ENORMOUS capacity to love. And the next guy will realize that he's hit the lottery.

My new favorite thing

2005-03-03T12:46:00.000-08:00

The Current - 89.3, a Minnesota Public Radio Station...
http://minnesota.publicradio.org/radio/services/thecurrent/

I have huge crushes on all of the dj's, because they are so damn cool, with an especially large girl-crush on Mary Lucia. I aspire to her level of coolness. I haven't heard her for a while so the station gets extra high ratings just for that alone.

Here's a sample of what they've played recently (without any advertising interruptions):
Valet - Manifesto
Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds - Spell
Little Walter - Key to the Highway
Low - California, Seu Jorge - Five Years
G. Love and Special Sauce - Blues Music
Bessie Smith - Need a little sugar in my bowl
Idaho - Trip Over
Matt Sweeney & Bonnie Pr - What Are You
Air - Cherry Blossom Girl
Pretenders - Brass In Pocket
Ani DiFranco - Studying Stones
Streets - Could Well Be In
The Cure - The Caterpillar
Le Tigre - TKO
The Postal Service - We Will Become Silhouettes (Matthew Dear's Not Scared Mix)
Garbage - Only Happy When It Rains
Boom Bip - Eyelashings
Marah - Freedom Park
Ohio Players - Fire
Booker T and the MG's - Mo' Onions
Death Cab for Cutie - Tiny Vessels
Earlimart - A Bell And A Whistle
Loretta Lynn - This Old House
Old 97's - Won't Be Home
Iron and Wine - My Lady's House
Steve Earle - Comin' Around
The Thrills - Whatever Happened to Corey Haim
Jem - Just a Ride
The Frames - Finally
Prince - Call My Name
Ben Harper - Satisfied Mind
Guru - The Traveler
Muddy Waters - Hoochie Coochie Man
Frou Frou - Breathe In, Thievery Corporation - The Revolution Solution
Tommy Stinson - Motivation

How many parts equal a whole?

2005-03-03T12:14:00.000-08:00

"The worst part about this whole thing is..."

"The hardest part about this whole thing is..."

"The most confusing part about this whole thing is..."

"The most IRONIC part about this whole thing is..."

These have recently become some of my most commonly used sentences. And there are at least ten ways to complete almost all of them. There are dozens of worst parts. Hundreds of hardest parts. Too many confusing parts to try to count.

But there is really only one "ironic part about this whole thing". Mother. Fucking. Addiction.

It feels like a big karmic slap in the face to fall in love with an addict who still has "demons to exorcise" after struggling for so long to exorcise my own. If I were still a lush we'd be together. How fucked is that? I'm being punished for getting straight.

And I feel like people are waiting for me to be pissed at The Heartbreaker. But I'm not. And it's not just because I love him so much. It's because I've been him.

That's the saddest part of this whole thing...

Say what?

2005-03-02T14:08:00.000-08:00

Before I begin, I would like to mention that I discussed this with my boss to avoid any possibility of being Dooced and she thought it was a must that I share these discussions with the world.

I have a new co-worker, "Austin". She is great. Really motivated, really smart.

And she has a really interesting take on life in general.

Here's an excerpt from a conversation we had yesterday:
A: "Why would anyone want to have kids if they couldn't afford it? And if you can't afford a nanny, you can't afford it."
b: "There's really a difference between 'affording something' and 'affording the extras'.
A: "Well, it's okay. At the rate I'm going, I'll be 35 before I have kids and if I'm not earning 6-figures by then I'll be really pissed."
b: "You realize you're talking to someone who is dangerously close to 35 and is nowhere near earning 6-figures?"
A: "Yeah. But that's different; we want different things out of life."
b: "You're right. I have no interest in earning loads of money. Because I'm a hut person who will enjoy eating cat food in her retirement."

A little inspiration

2005-03-01T07:08:00.000-08:00

I have been reading Digital Catharsis for several months now and I feel compelled to spread the word of The Mighty Jimbo.

He has left behind the corporate life for six months to travel the world, for the second time.

His photos remind me that I have two good cameras that still aren't being used as intended.

Time for a change

2005-02-28T14:46:00.000-08:00

KS 04, originally uploaded by bandick.

The last time the Heartbreaker and I split, I cut 6" off of my hair. It's like a physical response to rejection...change your appearance. This time I've been thinking of going blonde.

Above is a sample of me as a blonde. I don't have those shades anymore but you get the idea.

Sending a plea to the Fates

2005-02-23T05:52:00.000-08:00

I am beginning to feel that when it was time to plan my love life, the Fates took a smoke break.

I pretty much feel like most of my life is under control. I needed to quit drinking so I quit drinking. I wanted to finish college so I finished college. I wanted to buy a house so I bought a house.

Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way with romance. Fucking free-will. It's probably the feeling of helplessness in this break-up that pisses me off the most.

So, I have to be able to feel like that, perhaps, since I have no control over this aspect of my life, maybe someone(/thing) else does. And all I can figure is that they skipped this part because they had a nic fit. Or something good came on karmic television. Or they had an urgent need to smite someone. Do the fates have smiting powers? Or maybe they have Adult Goddess ADD.

Whatever the reason, the problem needs to be rectified. Does anyone have an email address for them?

Rip or peel?

2005-02-21T12:34:00.000-08:00

Should relationships be ended by ripping the bandage off? Or by slowly peeling it back, in order to examine every inch as it is uncovered?

We chose to peel. It was painful. Just as the rippers of the world would argue. There were 4-1/2 days of peeling. Sometimes we would stumble across a patch that was green and pussy. And we would cry and try to figure out exactly what was causing the puss. But then we would find areas that were pink and healthy, where newness was growing. Those areas would bring us closer together, until the next oozy section was revealed.

Some days were chock-full of bandage peeling while others were filled with distractions. We watched movies and ate junk food and spent time with his friends. And we comforted each other.
I am 100% convinced that my taking the trip was the right thing to do. I understand much more clearly the reasons behind the split. He can try to convince me, and himself, of his reasons but I know him too well. I see him too clearly. And he has too many pussy wounds of his own to try to nurture anything or anyone else right now.

The most important realization of the weekend is that, while I will never be able to let him go, I will eventually be able to move on. And when that day comes, I will make a real effort not to write about green or oozing puss wounds anymore.

Time away

2005-02-15T10:34:00.000-08:00

Okay. So, I'm going on this trip.

The Heartbreaker couldn't have been from somewhere exotic. Or warm. No, he's from Cleveland. I'm going to Cleveland again. We broke up and I'm STILL going to Cleveland.

Just please don't ask me why. I really DON'T know.

Recent graduate

2005-02-14T14:37:00.000-08:00

KS 03, originally uploaded by bandick.

I just changed my blog format. I thought it looked a little dull so here's a picture of me with my dad in 197...mff...garble...garble.

This will you give you an idea of how I looked when I graduated in December at the age of thirty...mff.garble...garble.

On passing the open windows

2005-02-14T12:42:00.000-08:00

Do you remember the scene in "A Christmas Story" where Ralphie imagines the pain and anguish his parents will be burdened with once he develops soap poisoning? They will be riddled with guilt because they were directly responsible for the devastation.

I've been having Ralphie-esque daydreams. While driving, I imagine my car going off the road and what type of reaction would come from The Heartbreaker. DON'T OVERREACT. This is not a cry for help. This is a vivid imagination that is working its way through every possible scenario of how to get inside his head. The car thing always results in his coming to my side to profess his love; to admit that he is just too afraid of being alone to continue a long-distance relationship.

There are different daydreams and all end with this admission. And then as quickly as they come they are gone and I pass another open window.

She knows not what she asks

2005-02-14T09:38:00.000-08:00

My mother, in her own subtle way, is trying to get me to write about new topics. Basically, she wants me to write about anything but The Heartbreaker.

So, she made a request. She informed me that she wants to hear some of the stories from my days in Flagstaff. I'm not sure that she really put much thought into that. I'm guessing it was a "can't think of anything, blurt out first thought" sort of request.

Really, mom? REALLY?

You really want me to share all of the sex, drugs and alcohol stories from Flagstaff. Because, honestly, there are very few stories that don't relate to one or all of those vices.

Except the fire. The "smolder" might be a bit more accurate.

I had returned home from a date (there was an unusual absence of at least two of the vices on this particular night) to find my male roommate sitting on the front steps with my neighbor. We all chatted outside for about 30 minutes before my roommate and I decided we could not possibly sleep without watching Star Trek II. Ricardo Montalban's shiny bare chest was a freakish curiosity to me.

We had been smelling smoke the whole time we were outside and had concluded that the neighbors behind us were roasting marshmallows or burning a couch or something. They enjoyed the burning of things so this was not a new smell. What was new was the intensity of the smoke smell once we'd entered the apartment. It took me about 15 seconds to realize we had a fire upstairs. It took my roommate considerably longer. We had been participating in differing vices that night.

We woke our two female roommates who had now been sucking in the mystery smoke for a questionable period of time. They were dazed and confused and so were their cats. The fire had started in my lovable male roommate's room as a result of a towel being hung to dry over a floor lamp with no shade. What kind of crazy ass nuclear bulb did he have burning in that thing? It apparently lit the towel on fire while hanging on the wall. The towel then did some sort of amazing acrobatic leap off of the wall and stuck its landing on the bed. This is the kind of bed you want though because the thing never went up in flames. It just smoldered and smoldered and smoldered. It melted and charcoaled the room.

So, mom, there's the story. The end. Except that I forgot to mention the hot firemen. And the fact that one of my roommates ran out in her underwear while the other practically dismantled her entire computer. Differing levels of panic.

Honestly, this is probably not the most exciting thing that happened to me in my time in Flagstaff but, with the absence of at least two of the three listed vices that night, it is the only one that I clearly recall.

Peanut butter is comfort food. And comfort music.

2005-02-11T10:44:00.000-08:00

People need to have reliable, easily accessible sources of feel good entertainment.

Here's mine: http://www.albinoblacksheep.com/flash/banana.php

This has made me smile every time I've watched it for the past couple of years.
Even now.

I know in my heart, that as long as there are poorly animated bananas singing about peanut butter, the prospect of another day is not so bleak.

This will definitely qualify as "TMI"

2005-02-11T06:38:00.000-08:00

You know what happens to you when you eat asparagus? You know...what happens?

Same thing with SlimFast shakes.

The vultures of the dating world

2005-02-09T19:30:00.000-08:00

I love that the ads here are now for online dating services. Swooping in to pick clean the bones of my romantic relationship.

Can't the web crawler peruse the archives and do their homework by reading about "ointment boy", "the high-fiver", and "the whiffer"?

Yeah. I'm really excited by the prospect of going down that road again.

Life changing moments

2005-02-09T13:21:00.000-08:00

I cannot guarantee that this will last but right now I feel pretty good. I had a light bulb moment wherein I really started to internalize the whole "it's not me" thing.

It's NOT me. It's him. 100%. I absolutely don't want to use this blog as a platform for heartbreaker bashing. I love him. I don't want to try to put him down in any way. But I do sort of have a rockin' life. Right now his life isn't so rockin'. And when I really step back and get the bigger picture of his actions over the past four months I see someone who is grasping after happiness. I tried with all I had to throw him happiness life-preservers but it won't work because he's not trying to swim. Heartbreaker, PLEASE. Kick your damn legs already. Flail your arms. JUST DO SOMETHING.

So, even though I saw it coming, we slipped back into Telemundo soap opera mode and I got caught up in the over-the-top drama of it all. He's just damn lucky I didn't push him down a flight of stairs.

Of course, I haven't seen him yet.

This blog has come full circle

2005-02-09T11:36:00.000-08:00

This blog was started as a way to deal with the pain of losing the heartbreaker the first time. Here we are again.

What would become of this blog if I were ever able to get my love-life in order? Would I be as motivated to write about the nice cup of coffee I'd recently had with my boyfriend as I am to write about the searing pain in my eyes from tear ducts which are nearing an untimely demise due to overuse? Would a nice walk around a lake inspire me the way a hurtful phone call does? I've only recently become aware of the enjoyment that can be found in writing. It's just unfortunate that pain is my muse.

The heartbreaker started his blog after reading mine. I was very excited about this as he had just recently re-entered my life and I thought it was going to be an excellent way to read his heart. He's posted only three times since he started it in October. The most painful part about that is that his most recent post is about me. Terribly schmoopie stuff. And now it haunts me because I check his blog obsessively to see if he's opened his window any further.

But he never writes, which leaves me wondering whether pain isn't a motivator for him or if he's just not feeling any.

And the oozing puss wound was heard proclaiming...

2005-02-08T19:05:00.000-08:00

"YES! I'm back, baby."

It's over. Again. I'm heartbroken. Again.

And PJ McFuzzybottom steps aside for the resurrection of The Heartbreaker.

I am the woman who trusts to willingly. Who loves too openly. Who gives too much of herself so that when love leaves there is little left in its wake.

As predicted, there have been crying jags. And plenty of snot. How can one little head contain so many fluids?

Here's the worst part. I'm going to see him next week. I booked my flight weeks ago and he still wants me to visit. He wants it so that he can feel better about himself. So that he doesn't have to feel like the bad guy. I'm still trying to figure out what my true motivation is for wanting to go. Part of me thinks that maybe what was missing last time was the closure of a face-to-face ending. Part of me wants to keep him in my life because I'm too scared to go back to what it was like when he was not. And, honestly, part of me just wants him to remember. To remember how good it always was, when we were together. Not to try to save the relationship but to show him that it is not what was missing between us but what is missing within him.

I know that I may be setting myself up for more pain.

But I may be setting myself up to walk away a stronger person than I thought I could be.

Bets?

And further more...

2005-02-07T13:06:00.000-08:00

How does someone move on once they have found the person they know they were meant to spend their life with?

How do I date other men knowing that I have already found my family?

It just hit me that ending this relationship means that the relationship will have ended. ENDED.

I've had other relationships end. Obviously. But I've never felt so much grief associated with the break-up. I think that part of the reason that I haven't ended it already is because I so vividly remember what it felt like the first time. Remember those posts? They included discussions on chronic gas, spastic colon, and oozing puss wounds. How can I go back to that?

And what if this really is just my karmic lesson in patience? Patience for him to find himself again. Patience for us both to find some mental peace. Patience for things to get to the good place again.

One thing I do know is that this has been a test in patience for those who love me. And I thank you. So, suck it up and help me get through it with your blind support. The way I would help you. This is why we are in each others lives. To enjoy the laughs and to help remove the snot when the crying jags occur.

The power of love

2005-02-07T07:01:00.000-08:00

As I have previously admitted, this love with PJ McFuzzybottom is a first. Since it's a first, I had all sorts of ideas of how the power of this love was going to allow me to make things happen. I thought I could love him happy again. I thought I could love the disappearing acts away. I thought I could love the motivation right into him.

I thought that my love was the equivalent of Samantha Stevens' twitching nose.

It's not.

So here we are again. At an apparent ending rather than a beginning. I can't love him into a place in his life where he can handle the kind of commitment the long distance thing requires. But I also can't turn off what power this love actually does have. And while one part of me knows that it's not working the rest of my intuition is SCREAMING to not let go.

It's like watching a movie that is so frustrating because you know that the characters are SO right for each other but they just can't get it together. If this were a movie, I'd leave the theater.

I'm SO the boss of you

2005-02-03T15:09:00.000-08:00

How do you get the person that you are in a relationship with to realize that they now belong to you and are required to do whatever is necessary to keep you happy?

PJ McFuzzybottom is a magician. The amazing disappearing man.

He is not very good at dealing with his emotions right now so he disappears. He gets stuck in the mud of his brain and instead of looking for tools or people to help him dig out, he begins to smear it all over his body until he has disappeared completely. After a few days, the mud hardens, cracks, and blows away. And he's back.

I'm a communicator. An OVER communicator. I don't know how to deal with someone who shuts down.

This is the part where I need to figure out how to make him react to his life the way I want him to react. Okay. Maybe this is the part where I figure out how to handle my own emotions when the mud bath begins. Maybe I should realize that some people pay enormous amounts of money to be covered in mud. And maybe, I should let go a little with the understanding that no matter how badly I want to, I cannot solve his emotional problems.

It is possible that the bigger issue here is why I have such a hard time when we don't talk for a day or two.

OVER COMMUNICATOR.

Hockey is a contact sport, part II

2005-01-29T23:06:00.000-08:00

As mentioned in part I, my best friend, Saboylavegg, and I love going to Wild hockey games. One of the reasons that we have come to love it is the very strange woman who is a season ticket holder in our row. She wears suede skirts and a great deal of make-up and perfume while most others are wearing sweatshirts and baseball caps. But that's not what makes her stand out; there are other overly done women at sporting events.

She stands out because of her interesting hockey game habits. She brings wet paper towels and cleans the entire pane of glass in front of her seat, before the start of each period. She yells out obscure nicknames at the players, like Rob Schneider might do. She is rarely happy with their performance and loses herself, thinking she is on the coaching staff, and yells and yells and yells.

If everyone enters your life for a reason it is often difficult to understand that reason. But I think I know her purpose in my life. Before she came into my life, I was hesitant to fully embrace the idea of Karma. There is no longer any doubt in my mind.

At the first game that Saboylavegg and I attended we were witness to a moment of astonishing interaction between strangers. A woman from another row on the other side of the aisle was returning with, what looked like, drinks for her entire section. She missteped and poured a portion of her beverage booty all over the neurotic. Understandably, the woman on the receiving end was upset. But to our surprise, she was not willing to take the woman’s apology and attempt to help her towel off. Instead of trying to resolve the problem, she began a blitzkrieg of profanity. She acted as though the woman had intentionally poured an entire bottle of red wine over her head. Saboylavegg and I spent the rest of the game laughing to ourselves and watching our backs, as this woman was obviously on the verge of snapping.

We realized that the woman was a season ticket holder when she arrived, Windex in hand, at the next game that we attended. We were nervous. We recalled the incident from the previous game and secretly wished that we could witness another outburst. Wish granted. An overzealous hockey fan, seated directly behind her, lost control of his beverage while cheering and spilled beer down her back. Again, the apologies came quickly but the enraged reaction came faster.

It is my opinion that this woman will continue to receive hockey game showers until she is able to accept a stranger's apology.

Karma.

Junior hockey fan

2005-01-26T13:16:00.000-08:00

JP 02, originally uploaded by bandick.

As a follow-up to the previous post, here is the next generation of hockey fans.

This is my godson. He is also the son of the bruiser that took the puck to the head.

He is 3 1/2 now and a bruiser in his own right.

Hockey is a contact sport

2005-01-18T14:42:00.000-08:00

Puck 1, originally uploaded by bandick.

I love hockey. I was thrilled, like most Minnesotans, to see hockey return to the state in 2000. This year without hockey has me crazed. All I can do is hold on to old hockey memories until the Wild return next year. There are two hockey memories that will forever be etched in my mind; The "Miracle on Ice" and the Friday the 13th Bloody Valentine's Day.

For the past several years, I have been buying the company seats to several Wild games each season. I attend at least one of these games with my best friend, Saboylavegg. We love it. Although, there is now the problem of post-traumatic stress disorder associated with a live game.

Friday, February 13, 2004:
I had asked Saboylavegg to attend the game with me to help me forget that the man I was dating (pre-PJ McFuzzybottom) had chosen to go to Holland apparently in an effort to not have to spend the holiday with me. Although it was a schmoopie time of year, I was fully aware that it was not as much a Valentine's Day event as it was a Friday the 13th event and I mentioned this fact several times throughout the day. I had jokingly discussed my certainty of the night ending with my taking a puck to the head with several co-workers who gave me the courtesy laugh while making a mental note that I was a nutter.

When we got to the game, Saboylavegg considerately asked if I would like to switch seats as we had developed an unspoken rut of always sitting in the same seats. I told her that I was fine where I was with the underlying truth being that my lazy ass was already in the seat and would not move again until the period ended.

The slap-shot heard 'round the world happened half-way through the second period. When you are viewing a game from the corner of the rink there are certain sections of the rink that become difficult to see. In my memory, while the action was stalled in one of these dead zones, I people browsed to my right and Saboylavegg looked down to shake the ice in her cup into perfect consumption position. Suddenly, there was a great roar and then a gasp from our section. I turned around and noticed that the woman behind me had a shocked and pained expression on her face. I knew immediately; puck to the head! Then I realized that she was staring...at Saboylavegg.

Yes. Saboylavegg had taken a puck to the head. My puck. The puck that I had been anticipating all day. The puck that I would have taken if I weren't such a lazy fuck. The puck that caused the damage seen in this picture and resulted in eight staples to the head. The puck that could have been sticking out of her eyeball if she hadn't been an ice-eater.

We still have no idea how the puck was hit that could have caused it to nail someone in the second row, right behind the section where the high glass meets the low glass. It was baffling and frightening but has become one of my favorite memories of the past 25+ years of friendship.

And now it is the first picture ever posted on bandick.

Appendix oozing puss

2005-01-14T11:50:00.000-08:00

Periodically Dooce will let readers know when she makes the #1 spot in a web-browser search. I have found much humor in the search strings of which she's topped the ranks.

Now, it is my honor to be able to claim that I am currently the #1 return for "appendix oozing puss" on Yahoo.

It's no "poop in my ass" but it's a start.

Hot Italian Sausage

2005-01-14T07:25:00.000-08:00

I'm nervous.

As things progress with PJ McFuzzybottom, inevitable events occur.

Like meeting his family.

Meeting mom, which I did in November. Piece of cake. Of course this was a tremendous relief and I was extremely nervous prior to the meeting. Luckily, PJ McF didn't let me know we were going to her house until we were practically walking out of the hotel room that morning.

Meeting cousins. Check. Did that two weeks ago. Again, no problem. They were great and we had a great time in Tampa. My favorite memory going something like this:
Cousin K asking- "So, PJ McF, how did you and bandick meet?"
Cousin K's eight-year old daughter instantly replying - "He's trying to forget."
Hilarity at its finest. There was no malice. Just a remarkably witty kid who knew that the line would get a good laugh. And it did. It still does. Every time I remember it I seriously laugh out loud. I hope any future children of mine are that quick.

But now comes the big test. The Big Fat Italian Test. Dad and Step-mom. Mr. and Mrs. Italian Parents. They will feed me sauce with neck bone and eggs. I'm sure I'll love it. But what if they don't love me? Is it possible that there will be a problem with my not being the slightest bit Italian nor ever having been even remotely related to a Catholic? His last girlfriend was both. I'm sure she was loved and adored by his family. Now here comes the big new Clydesdale of a German girlfriend who will certainly find some way to injure herself while trying to impress (see the post titled "Voted "Most Likely to Get Run Over by a Semi-Truck" to understand the effect stress has on me).

So, I have two days to let PJ McF calm me down and keep me safe from accidentally harming myself. Big Italian dinner on Sunday night. But the important aspect is not what they think of me; it is that PJ McF is ready, after eight months, to let me into the inner fold. There's even talk of meeting siblings.

Oh man, I can feel the bruises forming already.

Side effects may include nausea and vomiting

2005-01-10T11:23:00.000-08:00

I've been sick recently. Sick enough to send me to the doctor who gave me some anti-nausea/vomiting medicine. I am not crazy about taking medicine in general but I was desperate. Because I am not crazy about medicine in general, I always read the list of possible side effects.

SIDE EFFECTS, that may go away during treatment, include drowsiness, dizziness, nasal congestion, blurred vision, dry mouth, or constipation.

Okay. I could live with those. Nothing huge or unusual there. Continue reading.

CHECK WITH YOUR DOCTOR AS SOON AS POSSIBLE if you experience changes in vision; changes in breasts; changes in menstrual period; prolonged or painful erection; sore throat; inability to move eyes; muscle spasms of face, neck, or back; difficulty swallowing; mask-like face; tremors of hands; restlessness; tension in legs; shuffling walk or stiff arms or legs; puffing of cheeks; lip smacking or puckering; twitching or twisting movements; or weakness of arms or legs.

This drug is marketed under the name "The geriatric-maker". Their claim is that they'll take you from 30-80 in under ten seconds.

Thank you. Bring on the nausea and vomiting.

The best part was when the pharmacy called to say they had accidentally doubled the prescribed dosage.

My sympathies are with you...

2005-01-04T14:56:00.000-08:00

Mrs. Blog and Nonamouse.

I'm so sorry for your loss.

I LOVE YOU BOTH.

What have I done?

2005-01-04T14:27:00.000-08:00

I left 79 and sunny for 13 and dreary.

I also left behind drive-in churches and people who say "muck" in place of "fuck".

It was a great trip. Very casual. Naps on demand.

Smoked turkey and collared greens with black-eyed peas. And, my new favorite, blue crab omelet.

Eating, sleeping and talking about pooping. I can't wait to go back.

Terrorscope

2004-12-30T13:55:00.000-08:00

You could be traveling today. Whether it's a short hop or a longer journey, you won't have any trouble with snarled traffic or interminable flight delays. You have high hopes for this trip, either from a personal or professional standpoint, and the beginning is both pleasant and auspicious. Listen to a good book or tape to relax you and help shorten your perception of the travel time.

This is my horoscope for today. I was too scared to look at tomorrow's because I feel quite confident that it would read, "If you're traveling today, you're fucked. You'll be stranded in Chicago, will not be able to catch a flight to Tampa or home, and you'll wind up renting a car to drive back to Minnesota." I think it's just better not to know.

I'm also a little curious about the part that reads, "You have high hopes for this trip, either from a personal or professional standpoint, and the beginning is both pleasant and auspicious." What the hell is the end like? It's that bad that the writer couldn't even put it into print? Hmmm. I'm REALLY looking forward to this weekend now.

I need a lesson in weather phenomena

2004-12-30T11:38:00.000-08:00

Explain freezing rain to me. Seriously. Why isn't it snow? If it's cold enough to instantly freeze to the pavement, why isn't it cold enough to make the damned rain drops into snowflakes? There's nothing I hate more about winter in Minnesota than the freezing rain. It makes driving extra nerve-wracking and by the time I get into work I'm one big tense muscle with cramped hands.

That's why I'm going to Tampa. It's just a brief respite but a little warmth and sun is better than a little frozen rain. PJ McFuzzybottom and I are meeting in Tampa tomorrow night. I get in just in time for him to whisk me off to some New Year's bash. Then it's horizontal by a pool or on a beach for the rest of the weekend.

If I decide to return to the ice world of Hoth I will be back online on Tuesday. If not, please forward all inquiries to bandick c/o Tampa Youth Hostile.

HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL!

A flurry of excitement

2004-12-30T07:43:00.000-08:00

While sitting at my desk, legs cramping from inactivity, I am somehow continually able to block out the fact that my job is incredibly dull. Day after day. Poor ergonomics and mind-numbing tedium. But I am generally unaware of how severe it really is. The only thing that brings this to light is the occasional rare moment of unusual happenstance.

Today, we had a water leak. A humdrum, run of the mill water leak. I had heard a strange noise when it was happening but had no idea that it would lead to such EXCITEMENT. Suddenly, the office was a buzz with crazed workers awaking from their monotony comas. "Did you hear?" "There's a leak." "I was there." "I saw it happen." "Water. There was water. And it was leaking." And then there was the panicked office manager; "Is the equipment okay? What about the invoices? PEOPLE! WHAT ABOUT THE INVOICES?"

After about 20 minutes of chattering about the amazing water leak of ought-four, people settled back into their rythms.

They are remodeling the floor above us and now, in addition to the perpetual pounding of hammers, they are pouring water on our heads. But I don't care because ultimately they are providing apparently much-needed entertainment for my co-workers who, in turn, are providing certainly much-needed entertainment for me.

Morning glory

2004-12-28T07:24:00.000-08:00

While sitting down for my morning SlimFast, I received the following email from my lovely mother...

Pet peeve of the day: there is someone who does a major poo first thing every morning (always before 8:00). It's the same toidy, the same residue. What is really irksome is that she could get rid of it with a couple of more flushes. I want to put a sign in the stall that says: Spare us all and take a look at your flush for the "all clear" indicator! You see, it is not just cube land that irks me.

I feel your pain, mom. I know how annoying it is to realize that some co-workers do not understand, or care, about the importance of toilet etiquette.

Just one question. Why do you keep going to the toidy you know will inevitably disappoint you?

The new Christmas debate

2004-12-27T08:19:00.000-08:00

As I re-discover every year, there are two schools of Santa gifting. The wrappers and the non-wrappers. The wrappers do not understand how someone could give a child an unwrapped gift. And the non-wrappers do not understand how people can think that a child really cares about the wrap at all.

I personally came from a non-wrapping family. Every Christmas morning I would bound down the stairs and to the fireplace to see my bounty in all its glory. The right side of the hearth was my side. The girl side. With dolls and dresses and books about horses. Every lovely thing a girl might desire. The left side was boy country with GI Joe and Star Wars and books about astronomy. And both sides looked like a department store display that we were actually allowed to ravish. We would rip into packaging and try everything out. Touch, shake, pry, rattle, bash, hug, and cherish. Eventually, already bored with our own spoils, we would cross the invisible hearth boundary to test drive the other's gifts. One morning a year we were transported to Nirvana because we couldn't imagine it getting any better.

But were we missing something? Was there a lack of anticipation? Would it have been better to extend the Christmas morning experience by having each present individually wrapped?

My parents explained the unwrapped presents with the logical explanation of Santa's tight budget. There just weren't the dollars to pay extra elves to wrap the presents. Santa is a fiscally responsible kind of guy who probably has to report to a board of directors and shareholders. The frivolous extras, like wrapping, were just not feasible. Actually, my parents may have held time constraints to be the primary reason but I've got all of these management classes muddling my memories.

Whatever the motivation, the non-wrapping tradition was the best method, in my opinion. I hope that my parents realize how very special every Christmas was because of the little things, like not wrapping. And I hope that they know that even when we thought it was Santa, we still appreciated their efforts. But mostly, I hope with the time they saved by not wrapping they were able to enjoy each other a little more, wink-wink, nudge-nudge.

Next year we will tackle the question of when presents should be opened...Christmas Eve or Christmas Day.

I think you can tell how I lean.

Merry x-mas to my mom...

2004-12-23T07:09:00.000-08:00

Look what I found mommacita! The Rake has a blog.

Enjoy!

Personal censorship

2004-12-23T06:50:00.000-08:00

I deleted my last post.

It was a post that I only really wanted PJ McFuzzybottom to read but then I changed my mind and decided that I didn't even want him to read it.

It was the wrong approach from the start. It is a conversation that he and I need to have in person. Possibly while sitting on a beach in Florida next weekend.

But maybe not.

Back in 5 minutes

2004-12-15T08:45:00.000-08:00

Or 5 days.

I'll be on hiatus until next week while I celebrate an event 13 years in the making...my graduation from college! In keeping with the new family tradition, I will be graduating at the age of 31. As did my father. And my brother. And my cousin. And the guy I dated prior to PJ McFuzzybottom but that's where the similarities end with him.

So, PJ McFB lands in a couple of hours and we're going to play and sleep and eat and make fun of people on TV for five days.

And since I'm a smartie now, I'll leave you with a smartie-type word for the day: Floccinaucinihilipilification

Of the several things to do with grass, I don't recommend chewing it

2004-12-13T12:20:00.000-08:00

My best friend and I were like any other adolescent pairing. We were constantly striving to out-do the other's cool factor. This usually lead to a lot of big talking.

Bragging. Boasting. Bullshitting.

On the way home from school one day we started talking about smoking. I'm pretty sure that it started out with us recalling the times we'd seen others smoke but it soon became a rant about how we, ourselves, were practically pack-a-dayers. I don't remember who was the first to claim that they'd smoked but I know that we were both lying. We were ten but that's not the only reason I know we were lying. I know we were lying because neither of us tried something for the first time without the other. Until sex but that's sort of a "best friend-free" right of passage - for most.

Before I could say "Punky Brewster" we were at Kenny's Market buying a pack of cigarettes. In 1983 at ten-year-old could still get away with the "they're for my mom" line. We headed straight for Taft Park and started working away at the pack. I don't remember how many we had and I don't remember if either of us were inhaling (unlikely). But I do remember the panic that set in when I realized that we were starting to REALLY smell funky. And my mouth tasted weird.

And I also remember thinking that I had the coolest best friend who knew all the tricks of the cool trade when she told me that chewing grass would freshen our breath. There we were; a couple of little pre-pubey girls who were already nauseated chewing mouthfuls of grass before heading home to their olfactory-verdicts.

I walked home for dinner, confident that my parents would neither notice the smell nor my grass-stained teeth. I ate my dinner with an inner glee that matched my heightened feeling of coolness. It was all shattered when my father, while driving me to my flute lesson, clued me in; chewing grass does not, in fact, cover up cigarette breath.

I'm comin' down hard

2004-12-10T11:47:00.000-08:00

No school work.

It's still a bit surreal.

I'm having all of the fun of blowing off school work, with none of the guilt.

A scarier monster lurks within

2004-12-03T11:27:00.000-08:00

What if the guy didn't have an alien baby in his belly?

What if, as he was enjoying his meal with the beautiful Sigourney, the guy's spastic colon came bursting from his abdomen?

And then, it turns out that the colon was so pissed that it killed everyone in the cafeteria before taking command of the ship.

But the guy didn't die. No. Instead, the colon made him his bitch and they traveled through space in agony until the end of time.

That alternate scenario is about to play out here and now...but replace: 1) guy with me (female type); 2) beautiful Sigourney with loud-talking co-workers; 3) space ship with very small cubicle.

With stresses coming from work, my final term paper, and PJ McFuzzybottom, my internal organs may not make it to graduation while actually remaining internal.

These are the people in your neighborhood

2004-12-03T07:28:00.000-08:00

For the past couple of weeks I've been noticing two people on a balcony taking, presumably, a smoke break every time I drive past a bank in my neighborhood on my way home.

EVERY time.

I've been wondering, "How do these people accomplish anything? They are ALWAYS smoking."

Last night, there was no traffic behind me so I slowed down to stalker speed and I put on my night vision goggles. Well, I don't actually have night vision goggles but I did squint.

These are no ordinary smokers.

It's Jesus and mama Mary.

I bet Mary smokes non-filters.

Voted "Most Likely to Get Run Over by a Semi-Truck"

2004-12-01T08:02:00.000-08:00

I have a knack for self-inflicted injury. Bumps, bruises, and cuts. These are the norm.

Particularly in times of stress. Like now.

And like when I was 16 and going to "fun" summer camp. When I was a kid, I went to a total immersion German language camp and, when I was old enough, I attended the month long sessions for which I earned high school credit. The last year that I did the credit session I decided to take the new language AND history program because it meant double the credit. I don't know how I overlooked the fact that it meant double the work.

I was not a particularly strong student and my study habits were very erratic. I wasn't really motivated by the learning.

I was motivated by 28 days of spätzle and wienerschnitzle. They served bread AT EVERY MEAL.

I was also motivated by the appearance of learning that I could present to my friends. I'd wrap my head in handkerchiefs and cram pens behind my ears. I'd wear glasses that probably made my vision worse and I slammed cups of sugar and cream with a touch of coffee. I loved bonding over text books with my stressed out friends.

And, damnit, I was motivated by the opportunity to watch Top Gun in German.

But that final year, something got into me. I cared. I didn't want to slide through. I wanted to learn the material and I wanted to do well. It may have been the competitive nature of my relationship with a girl who had rubbed me the wrong way for the previous four years of camp and was now one of the six in my advanced group. Or it may have been a need to impress my teacher who was 1) extremely cute, 2) a translator at the UN and fluent in seven languages, and 3) engaged to a REAL princess. It may actually have been a whole "prove to myself that I'm capable" blah, blah, blah thing.

It doesn't really matter why I felt the need; I was studying. Long, hard nights of actual studying. I went to the study groups that lasted past midnight. I got by on four hours sleep every night. I carbo loaded on spätzle and bread.

By final exams, I was a mess. Handkerchief askew. Pens coming out of everywhere. Broken, taped glasses. And I was so strung out on sugar and cream with a touch of coffee that people were visibly frightened by me.

At last, the day arrived and I took my finals.

As I walked out of the testing area, I felt such a sense of relief. I felt ten pounds lighter. I felt the air around me clear. And I felt the first six layers of skin peel off of my body as I fell face first down a very long, very splintery, flight of stairs. Hence the title of this post. I was awarded the honorary award of "Most Likely to Get Run Over by a Semi-Truck".

And, I am.

We did get to "chicken dance" a bit...

2004-11-28T13:30:00.000-08:00

There are many very happy memories of the heartbreaker that I hold onto when things are "icky". I held onto these memories when we were apart for two months and I hold onto them now with the understanding that there may not be more to come. My favorite memory is from the night that we found ourselves dancing to no music -- straight out of a teen romance film.

The heartbreaker is my best friend's former roommate. They lived together in California before she moved back to Minnesota. Then, a couple of years later he moved back to Ohio, because no one is "from" California. Except my dad. Who lives in Minnesota. The combination of several stories and a very cute picture of him and my best friend's niece had piqued my interest in a "I'll never meet him so it's okay to have a little non-crush crush on him" way. Last May came the reality of meeting him. But I'd recently sworn off guys after a brief but entirely too fucked up relationship so I didn't have to worry about the fact that I knew I'd like him. Plus, he was coming up for my best friend's wedding, in which I was the maid of honor, so I knew I'd be busy.

Our first meeting was the night of the groom's dinner. He came to the house and we chatted in the living room while people moved about in a flurry of activity around us. I was smitten. There was no getting out of this one. I needed a plan. Luckily, there was a very attractive groomsmen who I decided would be my distraction. I absolutely could not get involved with someone who lived 600 miles away.

I was so disappointed to find that this attractive LOCAL groomsmen did not have one ounce of the personality or appeal that the heartbreaker possessed. Still, I threw myself into swing dancing with the dud rather than let myself get swept up in the connection that was growing stronger with every brief conversation and glance. Who am I kidding? I passed glances and went right into stalker-like staring from dark corners.

I still don't know how it happened that at the end of the night the person I was whispering to was not the dud but the heartbreaker. He'd mentioned that he was sorry to not have danced with me so he brought me to the dance floor and, as he held me for the first time, I told him that I had been trying to avoid him all night because I knew that I would be in trouble if I didn't.

That was the first time that I would be completely honest with him, with the knowledge that he had the power to break my heart. And it would happen, more than once.

But now he needs a new code name because the heartbreaker cannot break my heart one more time and, although I don't think he reads this blog, it does not seem fair to him to keep referring to him as something that he's done rather than who he really is.

So, I'm kicking around a few new ideas:

Jammer - this is a name I tried for myself but for some reason it didn't take. He's much more of a "Jammer" personality than I.
Go-go - only he would really appreciate this one but, as with Jammer, it is very much tied to his life force.
PJ McFuzzybottom - there's not really a reason behind this one other than it's ridiculous to not have a PJ McFuzzybottom in your life if at all possible.

Thoughts?

Up all night

2004-11-27T20:33:00.000-08:00

Dread. I face the night with dread. I cannot sleep because when I do I dream of him and I feel rejected yet again. I am trying with all my might to put the rejection out of my mind because I still hope that it is was simply his feelings of darkness and despair that led him to push me away again. But I am only able to hold onto that hope when I am alert and aware of my thoughts. It is as I drift off to sleep that the doubt creeps in. What if he'd meant everything he said? What if I am holding onto false hope? What if he gets healthy and happy and it turns out he really just DOESN'T want me? Can I own that reality? How do I handle losing him again?

I have so many questions racing through my mind. I want to ask these questions of him and not stop until he answers every last one. But I cannot do that to him now. He needs to focus on fixing his heart without worrying that he's broken mine. So, I call him everyday and give him a proverb or affirmation. Anything I can do to let him know that I will never stop supporting him. And we talk about snowblowers and dead mice. Any topic other than that of us. For now, that will have to do. I have to be stronger than I ever thought I could be. He needs that from me and that is what I will deliver.

And so, night falls and the dread creeps in. Once I have struggled through the fears and have actually managed to fall asleep the battle to remain asleep ensues. Most nights I find myself waking every couple of hours with a wave of dread that jolts me upright. And I find myself at the beginning again, fighting to shut out the fear and loneliness in order to allow myself to sleep.

I will not let this pass without learning from it though. I believe the lesson in this is that no one who does not have cable should be involved in a relationship that could end in gut-wrenching pain. Or that person will find herself awake at 3:00 in the morning watching "Glitter" and thinking, "wow...who knew Mariah was such a good actress?" WHOA. It's time to try a sleep aid.