I remember everything about September 11, 2001. The four planes were still burning and smoking when my company sent us home to be with our families. Mom had called and asked that I please come to her work (she was a cancer nurse at Shady Side Hospital at the time). Although the hospital was completely in the wrong direction, the sound of her voice made me immediately say yes. Traffic wasn’t bad yet because Pittsburgh didn’t officially give the evacuate order until a bit later so I arrived quickly in Shady Side. Mom threw her arms around me and burst into tears, relieved that her only baby was safe after she witnessed such horrific events. It was like she only believed it when she finally saw me. I stayed in the cancer center until the end of the day, following Mom home and spending the evening / night with her (Reilly and Ludo hadn’t come into my life yet so there was no need for me to go home).
Mom turned the television on as soon as we were in her home. The news kept showing planes crashing into the Twin Towers. I felt sick. But the part that made me feel the most anger, true and pure white hot rage, was when the cameras would show people in the streets celebrating. Dancing. Clapping. Smiling. I couldn’t grasp how someone could feel joy at the same actions that caused me such overwhelming sadness. My brain couldn’t think straight and I started trying to figure out where those folks were. If they were in Philly I was going to drive five hours at top speed and not stop as I plowed straight into their celebration. I wanted to then put it in reverse and drive my little 1986 tank Volvo over anyone I missed. Over and over again. But then the announcer told me that the celebration was happening in a foreign land, a place where awful people hated us. A place where my little car couldn’t take me to ruin their celebration.
Almost ten years later a local DJ announced on Twitter (hi, @fsmikey!) that our President would hold a press conference around 10:30. At night. On a Sunday. Everyone knew it would be a big announcement. The POTUS doesn’t just make speeches late at night on Sundays. I stayed glued to Twitter. I watched as speculation was thrown around on television. And then I saw President Obama officially declare that Osama bin Laden was dead. I felt relief. Huge relief. While I knew that it didn’t mean the war was over, I felt proud of our troops and Military Intelligence for finding bin Laden. Pure relief that finally he felt the wrath of our country.
Twitter didn’t seem to show relief. It exploded with joy and jokes and happiness. Political statements were thrown around a bunch. Some folks were wonderful enough to thank our troops, some reflected on how much we have lost in the past ten years, but my stream was mostly filled with celebrations. Even couch burning celebrations (way to go, WV).
This morning television, radio and Twitter were filled with the merriment, with joy. Yet I can’t join in the party. I still feel great relief that the leader of al Qaeda, his son and couriers/confidants are no longer breathing, but I can’t dance. War is ugly and this victory is fantastic. But to dance and party in the streets? Seems all too similar to the celebrations I witnessed on September 11th. Those revelers were happy to hurt the enemy. To them we deserved it. And now we party because they deserve it for being our enemy.
Just doesn’t seem right.
I want to hug our military. I want our troops to know how grateful I am for their sacrifice, their willingness to witness and perform terrible acts, their living in conditions I can’t fathom, their service to our country. I want the families of those who serve to know that I am thankful for their sacrifice as well.
But I don’t want to celebrate.
The other day I posted a poem that I first read in high school. It has been on my mind a bit since then, mostly because of the one line:
Did you look for a rose
Or just gather a weed?
I can’t stop thinking about the fact that I do, in fact, gather weeds. But not the way the poem makes them out to be negative things. Quite the contrary, I find certain weeds incredibly positive. Specifically dandelions.
Yes, dandelions. I think they are beautiful. Simple and pretty. Yet just because they are hearty and desire to grow anywhere people hate them. If they were fragile and rare, people would lovingly care for them in greenhouses. Instead the dandelion is sprayed with poison and cursed.
When I first bought my little house I did what I thought was the right thing and hired a company to come spread chemicals on my grass in order to make it green and lush. Towards the end of the first year of monthly chemicals my grass was gorgeous. I called the company to make a payment over the phone and I happened to mention to the lady on the phone that my “boys” (boys = dogs) were already out rolling around and playing on the grass. She got very nervous and asked if they were wearing shoes. Of course I could honestly answer no and I was immediately told that I shouldn’t let my children play shoeless on the grass.
Well what the fuck? I can’t put shoes on my dogs. And what about my beloved robins…those happy little hunters who were eating worms right out of my gorgeous grass? Was I accidentally poisoning my dogs and favorite birds? Fuck that. I canceled that company’s services right there on the spot. Keep your fucking chemicals, bring on the brown spots and weeds.
It was a little while after that when I realized that I actually prefer my yard to have dandelions. Dandelions are welcome at my home. They remind me to be tenacious, to bloom wherever the hell I want, regardless of what others think. Some might call dandelions weeds, but I call them flowers. I have a collection of small bud vases and in the summer I will actually pick dandelions from my yard and bring their sunshiney happiness inside, just the way I did as a child, before someone told me they were weeds and pests.
Actually, I have a little of their brightness inside all year long. This watercolor hangs in my kitchen, on the door:
So do me a favor. Next time before you get angry when you see a dandelion in your yard, ask yourself why it bothers you so. Ask yourself what is so wrong with a small flower fighting to survive and show you the color of the sun. Try to see the beauty in the simpleness of the dandelion.
I just ask that you pause to consider beauty in a manner that is slightly nontraditional. After you take that moment, I won’t be terribly upset if you don’t see my sweet little sunshine in the same way I do, but I will truly appreciate that you gave the dandelion a chance.
Tuesday after work I went on a photo hunt. Through OLD albums. See, a wonderful invisible internet friend, Kristy, started a fun little site called Promtacular! and she’s eagerly accepting everyone’s prom pictures. Of course I found a massive amount of non-prom pictures, but only two that were taken on prom night and neither is with my actual date. (So yeah, sorry that you have to wait a little longer, Kristy. I’ll find em, dammit.) Regardless, if you have those fantastic prom pictures that you wanna share with the internet, please upload them to the site. Also? Check out Promtacular! (Some funny stuff.)
But back to me. I started thinking about high school and all the angst, drama and hormones. Even dealing with it all I remember being a fairly happy individual. Sure there were days that the parents did something parental that I didn’t agree with (translation: I didn’t get my way) and I cried as though I lost my favorite puppy, but for the most part my days were filled with happiness. Going through those photos a piece of paper slipped out. I am pretty sure Zwehla wrote the wonderful little poem out for me, but it might have been Lia. (Let’s be honest, I have killed *many* a brain cell over the years and does it really matter who did the scribing?) There is no name written down on the paper so I have no clue who the actual author is.
Somehow I have managed to keep this well over 20 years. The paper isn’t as white as it used to be, but I love it all the same. Hope you enjoy…
Have you made someone happy
Or made someone sad
What have you done with the day that you had?
God gave it to you
To do what you would
Did you do what was wicked
Or do something good?
Did you hand out a smile
Or just give a frown
Did you lift someone up
Or push someone down?
Did you lighten some load
Or some progress impede
Did you look for a rose
Or just gather a weed?
What did you do with your Beautiful day
God gave it to you
Did you throw it away?
The words came rushing back and I practically spoke them out loud from memory, yet I was reading a paper I haven’t seen in years. And tonight that simple little scrap of paper made me smile knowing that even in high school I was trying to look for the good in the situation. I don’t always succeed, but yay for reminding myself to lift someone up instead of pushing them down.
Happy Wednesday, internet. Hope your day is tremendous.
I usually carry a Swiss Army knife in my purse. Another is in my makeup bag (such a joke since I rarely wear make up, but that doesn’t stop me from packing up that fucker and schlepping it along when I travel). My SUV’s glove box has one hell of a utility knife.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not into cutting or bleeding or whatever people do to harm themselves. I just like to have a knife handy. Whether a box needs to be opened, fake tattoos simply must be cut apart, my Volvo’s air compressor belt must be immediately removed because I’m alone in bumper to bumper traffic and the fucking compressor seized up causing my little car to smoke while bouncing and bucking, a package of those Cheese on Wheat cracker thingies simply must be opened without braking a fingernail and opened right the fuck now, whatever…it is just so often handy to have a sharp knife around.
Especially if the knife is cute. While Christmas shopping in 2008 I found the cutest little knife made out of a bullet. Just a little thirty-aught-six (.30-06) with a single small blade that folds out. Cute, unique and only like $11 or something equally budget friendly considering it was a Christmas present from me, to me. It travels with me in my make up case and has really come in handy when I am in a hotel room and need a sharp object. Look, sometimes I just don’t want to break a nail and a knife opens things quickly. I realize these are not personal protection devices, I just find them helpful. And cute.
Seriously. How cute is this: 
Adorable!
ANYhow, back in January I was in an adorable little shop, the very same one where I bought the bullet knife actually, when I found an equally affordable lipstick knife. Oh yes, a small blade concealed in a lipstick container. (And get this…the blade twists up like lipstick would. Awesome!) Perfect for me since I don’t wear lipstick and won’t confuse it in a dark movie theater or anything. Thing is, everyone who sees it thinks I am crazy for owning it and even crazier for carrying it. Like somehow I am double crazy because of this little thing:
Wait, here it is opened: 
Dammit, that was all kinds of blurry. Let’s try that again:
Fuck it, I’ll never get the hang of my little Nikon CoolPix P4. And honestly, the images aren’t the point of this post. The point is I am wondering if you guys think I am crazy because I carry this little thing in my purse. So, do ya?
P.S. I just realized that in the link to Dave2′s site I’m also wearing red nail polish. Let’s not make fun of me for only wearing red nail polish, k? Especially since in his photo I was wearing “I’m Not Really a Waitress” and in all of these here I have on “An Affair in Red Square” (both by OPI, but completely different colors. No, really they are.). Maybe I shouldn’t put this post script and no one would even notice the nails but me. Hmmmm. Ah, fuck it…it is already typed.
Well, first things first. Do those of you not from the Pittsburgh area know what nebby means? (Basically nebbing means that someone is snooping in your business.)
OK, on to my question. I need to know when yinz tell people that you have a blog. And by people I mean new people you meet. New friends.
And go…
OK. Clearly I lied seeing as how I am posting TWO WHOLE DAYS in a row. But I had a little time. So…whaaala…
As I mentioned yesterday, I’m going to Lexington to party with the other lunatics at Liz and Brad’s place in less than two weeks. Since the last two times I have been there I have at some point found myself at a tattoo parlor and I figure this time should be no different, I wanted to share with you the new artwork that I am looking forward to getting. Please tell me your honest opinion as to whether or not you like the design and where you think I should place the piece. And yes, you can even tell me not to get any more any thing (* waving at Adam *).
It should be noted that I would like to place this female tree (a version of the Tree of Life) on my left shoulder. The Strong Woman is on my right shoulder and the turtle with the Hawaiian islands is on my left upper butt cheek/waist band area. Eventually the mermaid riding the dolphin will be in the lower center of my back. Also there will be a frog of some sort somewhere and a quote from The Little Prince somewhere.
Here is the female tree:
Sorry the photo sucketh. The finished product will be awesome, though.
When I first saw the Zombie Chicken Award, I thought it was one of the coolest concepts I had seen in a long while. I mean, who the fuck thinks of chickens and zombies together? Maybe it is common for some folks, but I have never had that kind of thought cross my mind! (I know, I know…sometimes I live under a rock.) Shiny called it the apoultrylypse and I about peed my pants.
ANYwho, the other day the wicked smart and insanely funny (not to mention gorgeous) Faiqa gifted me with the Zombie Chicken Award. Coming from someone of her caliber, I was honored and shocked and thrilled, topped with a little giddy. Especially since I post pictures of my boobs on this site. And she is adorably modest.
Faiqa also gifted Wonder Woman herself, my incredible friend Sybil Law. Sure, Faiqa and Sybil have a lesbian blog wife thing going between them, but Sybil is still near and dear to my heart. To see Sybil turn right around and present me with the Award…well, I’ll be honest, I did the happy girl wiggle. Just as I am surprised that Faiqa gave my boob flashing self the Award, I think Sybil gave it to me because I post boobage. hehe
Then on Thursday Ren was over here commenting and told me he left an award for me. Are you fucking kidding me? REN was asking me to come see the Award he gave me? I felt as though I was a freshman in high school, being asked to the prom by the captain of the hockey team (dude, our football team suuuuuuuuuuuuucked…hockey was where it was at!). I mean, DAMN! Flattered!
So some of you might not know what this award is all about. Well, lemme tell you what the rules of the Zombie Chicken have to say…
The blogger who receives this award believes in the Tao of the Zombie Chicken – excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. As a recipient of this world-renowned award, you now have the task of passing it on to at least 5 other worthy bloggers. Do not risk the wrath of the zombie chickens by choosing unwisely or not choosing at all…
Oh I will choose my friend, I will choose. BUT, and this won’t be easy, I am going to try my hardest to NOT gift the Zombie Chicken Award to folks who have already posted that they have received it. A lot of us run in the same circles so we tend to love the same bloggers. I’d like to give my Zombie Chickens to folks who may not have seen it yet. So, without further ado, my picks:
Gwen. This bitch is funny. Love me some Gwen. As with so many of the internet women that I have fallen in love with, she is smart, funny and pretty. I mentioned funny, right? She mailed me a hand painted card that said “I love the way you fingerbang me.” I don’t fingerbang her. See? Funny.
Britt’s Mom. Don’t even know how to adequately convey to you how spectacular this woman is. She is back in school for her Masters, nursing full time, being a newlywed and living in a town still rebuilding from a terrible tornado…all with a sense of humor. When I read her writings she often brings tears to my eyes because I know it is precisely something my Mom would have written. She has enough hippie in her to make her a terrific nurturer and I absolutely adore her. One of these days I will hug her in person instead of through her (phenomenal) daughter.
Liz and Killer. While they haven’t posted on a regular basis in quite some time, I just love them. He is a male nurse who will travel anywhere for several months to make the big bucks, she is an executive in the deep, deep South. Although I have never heard her voice, I know it is that accented smoker’s sexy rasp. I just know it. Regardless, when they were posting all the time, I wouldn’t miss it.
Finn’s Photos. Megan has a terrific photographic eye and is incredibly generous with her camera knowledge. Instead of wanting to keep herself looking awesome compared to the suckatude that are my photos, she offers gentle guidance and encouragement. The fact that she posts awesome pictures daily just rocks my socks off. (I would have linked to her regular blog, but someone already did. And I know she won’t pass along the Zombie Chicken Award, but I am cool with her risking the wrath. And? I’ve got her back.)
Clown. You’ll notice that I didn’t link to him. I don’t think he wants a large audience. The man is fucking funny. Pulls blatant lies outta his ass and delivers them with a face so honest he could be talking to his momma. And that face is so sweet, so innocent, so cute. Yet he lies. And I love it! The fact that he even told me his blog URL made my damn day…I am not about to fuck up that trust by posting the address. Just know that he deserves this award. Although if he turns around and gives it to Rosie O’Donnell he will be dead to me…fed to Zombie Chickens!
I will be avoiding most of the World Wide Internets today, my least favorite day of the year.
For the most part I try to never wish away days and time because life is just too damn short.
Today I make the exception.
Stupid fucking April Fool’s Day.
Bring back Steak and a Blow Job Day.
When you put on deodorant, do you use your right hand to apply the product under your left arm and then switch hands, using your left hand to apply the deodorant under your right arm OR do you use your dominate hand to apply the deodorant under both pits? (Someone who I am vacationing in Chicago with uses the same hand and looks like she is doing the Funky Chicken when she applies her Dove. I can’t quit laughing.)
On a different note, it was wonderful to see Crystal last night. She is funny and smart…plus she loves Thai food…so of course I was a happy girl to be in her presence. I’ll share photos when I have a moment, I promise.
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