Where have YOU been?!

Coming at you from MacKenzie-King, y’all. (That totally sounded like some late night jazz station deejay. Lame.) Right, so before we jump into the life that finds us in Montreal…here are some notes I jotted down while blazing across the good ole US of A.

Thursday, August 27, 2009 (Maybe…and we were past Salt Lake City, Utah)
Ezra doesn’t seem to grasp how swinging his days-old toes in front of the air vent does not for sweet air make.

Of Nevada I can only say: sad. Seriously. For all those ‘tards who claim that certain vices are only out of hand because they’re illegal (which is to say millions of people have an irrational and self-destructive case of you’re-not-the-boss-of-me, or Oppositional Defiance Disorder)… gambling and prostitution are legal in Nevada. Which has resulted in there being a casino on all four sides of a freeway exit. And trucker stops that make me not want to inhale for fear of getting VD.

Casinos, much?

On the whole, Phineas has been perfectly fine, though it gets a tad too hot on the floor what with the center console housing part of the engine or something. He has however refused to eat more than a bite of food when we stop. So. The vet was “impressed” with how fit he is for a beagle. I’m alarmed, personally, because I know he’s actually an anorexic bulimic. Well, he hasn’t vomited in a while, even when he eats bones. STILL.

I don’t know how low I had to have felt yesterday for the following to be true (and I kid; I don’t think this had anything to do with it) but this drive has been quite surprisingly nice. Which is due in large part to (a) being seated so closely together – to which I’d been looking forward; (b) the fact that we are stocked entirely with food and drink and have five movies in the cab and the rest in the back, easily accessible. The comforts of home in an intimate cab! (c) Mom bought Ezra a neck pillow which he doesn’t like and uses the regular pillow I brought. This thing. Has changed my life. I have actually been FALLING. ASLEEP. 0_0 Bless.

Holy crap. My son clearly needs to bm. These smells in a somewhat warm setting are toxic. I’m not joking. We’re probably inhaling poison right now.

Two more things: there’s a live grasshopper in our windshield wipers. There’s also a dead dragonfly. Hitch a ride at your own risk.

9:17pm
Been in Wyoming for like ever. I have to say that I am thoroughly impressed by how clean these freakin’ stops are. Haven’t found one that reminds me of that 20/20 expose.

Shout-out to my warrior girl, Cheyenne, as we head that way.

11ish
Ever heard a Black girl loudly praise Jesus name for Nebraska? Ya just did.

Friday, August 28th 2009?
10:35 – although I think it’s supposed to be 11:35?
Anyway! Nebraska is definitely the victor as far as places I was repeatedly praising. It was lush and green and the buildings and homes and apartments where we last stopped were so pretty. Huge windows on corporate buildings (like the PayPal headquarters) to reflect the green is beautiful. However, what was not awe-inspiring came from the lovely greenage where I took Phin to relieve himself. As we got close, I didn’t quite know where the sound (like loud wilderness sound effects) was coming from. When I got right up on it and the brush was actually moving and it sounded like every cricket and beetle from California was localized in this one area, I promptly headed back to the truck. Nightmares, my friends. They’re coming.

Now if only I could remember in what state I happened upon the blown open carcass of an antelope (whatever, it was larger than the deer in Santa Cruz). Its legs were…destroyed. Its exposed chest cavity? Why, staring right at me as though with an invitation to come in!! I actually got so grossed out – and I’m driving by the way – that I started involuntarily burping and dry heaving. YUM!

So, thus far we’ve watched Lilo & Stitch, Monsters Inc, Series of Unfortunate Events, Emperor’s New Groove, I Am Sam… is that it?

I should probably take pictures of the corn. Because you have no idea what corn looks like. What does it look like in Iowa? Saturation.

7:18pm
I’m at Aunt Patsy’s. I’ve had a shower. My contacts are out. I’m … not wearing a bra. Well. You can’t have it all, I guess.

(More pics later!)

 

Get Confident, Stupid! (RELOAD)

It’s 2:59 in the morning and I have a barrel of giggle-inducing title ideas… and no idea what to write after them. Not sure how I even thought of this Troy McClure-introduces-Brad-Goodman quote…before which, I considered – Bethany’s Guide To Prosperity. Step One. Quit. …Yes, all of that. Mostly because I’ve been putting off writing the Montreal/Disneyland/Sister Visit blog as though when I finish experiencing all of this pre-move whirlwind, I will actually consider writing about each phase in some sort of detail. HAH. “He fool he self!” That’s. Not going to happen. And not just because I don’t remember anything before this afternoon.

And now it’s 11:58pm. I am magic. At procrastination. So I need to get my head in the game. AWESOME UNINTENTIONAL HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL REFERENCE. I was totally meaning I need to buckle down and write this dang vacay-summary blog but that I can’t right this minute because I’m thinking about Zac Efron because I just watched HSM 3 finally and in trying to express that it came out as “getcha head in the game”! FTW! I’m … sorrymovingon. *shuffles papers*

OKAY! So the only possible way I can do this in a timely fashion is to choose one memory from each segment (and hopefully go off on tangents, bien sur) to summarize. With pictures, you know so people can have an unwarranted peek into my life and not let time do its diminish-relevancy job. Okay, belated disclaimer: I am totally going stream of consciousness here, y’all. Strap in.

Montreal

So, it seemed like a good idea to take a weekend trollup to Montreal. Of course, I live on the west coast. So. Doing that whole stand-by cuz my cousin’s a pilot thing kinda wasn’t everything I hoped for. It’s kinda like committing suicide off the Golden Gate Bridge. Actually, it’s EXACTLY like that. Two-thirds of the way into the transit (attempts), I wished I’d never started. Now, I eventually got there. After praying more than I ever have on a plane, excluding that time we were in an electrical storm, and admittedly enjoying having on-demand entertainment if I had to be flying with one of those pilots who is totally bored with his constant SFO-JFK route and has ceased to be concerned with my personal perceptions of safety. I 100% felt like that airline’s tagline should have been changed to: “Calm down, baby, I got us there.”  And in the picture, the pilot’s leaning to the side with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. Plus his hat’s all tilted. And his shirt is unbuttoned and there’s liquor stains on his undershirt. And he’s not wearing pants, but is wearing dress shoes. That’s pretty much how I can guarantee you he looked. If he was even there and wasn’t instead replaced with an autistic monkey. THE FLIGHT WAS BAD. And then, once @ JFK, I had to be reminded that the city of New York uniformly finds something confusing about my face. I know this because the staring is less like people watching and more like I’m a freakin’ zoo animal. WTF, New York. Anyway, so we didn’t make it onto the first Montreal flight and had to wait for like half a day to get on the next one. Aaaaand shame is gone and I’m laying on the ground with my head covered trying to sleep. There are pictures but they’re on Auntie-Mom’s phone. (And now, here.)

SO! Okay, notes to myself: When we first get to Montreal this time…don’t go straight to Chinatown at dusk and wander around until we find a restaurant that turns out to be a galdarn TROUGH feeding a round-up of about three hundred tourist-immigrants. It’s a little much for the sense, my friend. I am not joking. Secondly, dispel all knowledge of personal space and elbow-courtesy. It is gone. It will not return for the duration. Even small children will throw ‘bows and getting in fights is inevitable unless you relinquish rights to your person ahead of time. Thirdly, do not yell “VRAIMENT?!” when confounded in a francophone country. It does not have the same effect. Fourthly, accept that even if you still had a grasp of French, it would do you no good here. They’re…speaking something else. And none of the immigrants have altered their native pentameter or accent. You will not understand them. Ever. I’m not a pessimist. But never. Fifthly, remember that time you lived outside of California and people smoked everywhere and your clothes itched and your eyes swelled? We’re doing that again. Sixthly, jump up and down on busy streets because you’re in Montreal!!!!!! Oh and the icing on that cake is that not thirty minutes in, you actually overheard someone use “hein?” in conversation! #epicwin

Aaaand we’ll talk about Disneyland later. OMG, after I tell you about the coolest commercial I saw while there. African woman. Driving convertible through what resembles southwest USA. Wearing cowboy hat. Singing in French. AWESOMESAUCE. Might have been some animal in the car with her. It was for some casino? Right.

 

Never Say Never. Again.

Horrid as it sounds, she must have been a suburban girl, though she’d only ever imagined the choice being between the city and the country. But of course there was something of a middle ground, central because of its mildness, not its hybridity.

The fact was that despite her love of densely populated cities – their skylines, their stone and steel, new and old – she always had to reconfigure her senses. So that the clutter, the unpredictable smells, the signs of unleashed life did not, at first, offend her. In truth, the pristine, the tailored, the manicured and intentional fulfilled her automatic desire, was immediately welcoming for its uniformity, if not for its character.

It seemed strange, loving the chaotic city as she did, that she did have to remind herself not to let the first moments of reintroduction thoroughly tire her.

 

In Between

I got back from Montreal @ 1am – counting the drive from SFO – and I’m now packed (mostly due to Josh, bien sur) and on my way to Disneyland. Somewhere in there, I’ll post for real, rest assured. There is much. To discuss. In the meantime, take solace in this. I was in Montreal. And now I’m going to Disneyland. *pats your back*

Part of the view from my hotel room

It’s like salve on your wounds, is it not?

 

When It Don’t Come Easy

(I figured since so many of my hits come from my culture references – lines from movies, song lyrics, etc – I’d keep that alive. If you haven’t heard this Patty Griffin song. Clearly I don’t know you. Cuz it plays on my computer constantly. Speaking of search terms, people looking for WoW Draenei p*rn… please leave your mom’s basement and get a life.) Time is running out. This weekend, I’m making an unexpected but super awesome preliminary trip to Montreal with (who else) the God-Mama-Auntie! If I can get my lovely car sold (which makes me sad), I’ll be able to open a bank account while I’m there testing out the subway and hopefully signing on a dotted line for an apartment. If I get back home on the scheduled day, I have a matter of hours before the family piles into the car for our pilgrimage to the promised land. Disneyland. Whatever. And then I’ve got like four days to work before my sister, JenJen, arrives! And then she’s gone and – assuming we’ve received our CAQ in the mail, which we need to get the study permit at the Canadian border – we’ll spend one day saying goodbye before piling into a u-haul and driving across the country, stopping in Wisconsin to see family (yes, you heard me right – I suppose after seven years of marriage, we’ve made them wait long enough… I only hope that Black mailman I heard so much about is still around!!).

This all makes me rather happy that two of my three big projects are off and mailed. What I love about these endeavors (literary, of course) is that I found them in the order of impending deadline, each more exciting (and daunting) than the last. So, as I began work on the next one, the feasibility of coming out victorious in the now-complete one increased. Of course, I’m referring only to my mental processing of said feasibility. And, with the magazine contest and the California Writers Exchange Contest being submitted, I have only the major, kindred-spirit Bellwether which requires me to do in less than two months what I have previously done at my leisure. And I mean those last three words in the most literal and indulgent sense possible. Aside from which, there are eligibility concerns so that simultaneous to working on a tall order in terms of the manuscript to be submitted, I also have other little (big) worms burrowing around in my brain to which I must attend.

And at the tail end of last month – which ZOMIGOD is actually over – I went to San Fran for the day to have an on-camera interview with my mentor, Marco. Which of course was tons of fun and not just because I’m sitting in front of a camera being interviewed for like three hours. But yes, that. I’m hoping to send him some still pictures and …

For the last twenty minutes, I’ve been creating a folder of pictures to send him. So. I’ll. Be back. Prolly not though.

 

The Burlington Factory of Coats

Gather round, children, and I shall tell you a tale. It begins in a magical kingdom called Citrus Heights. You see, the nobles would have you think the kingdom looked of this:

Aw, how quaint and lovely!

But the townspeople – they know she looks of this!

What vile treachery is this!

Verily.

So, is there a chance that Burlington might have looked different were it not stationed in the abominable crosshairs of Greenback and San Juan? Perchance, yet truly methinks not. (I’ve seen the commercials. They can’t even get a spokesperson who isn’t animated to tie his or her name and reputation to the horrors therewithin.)

Though we knew that cover of darkness would make the musk and vapor more vile and ripe with demonic aura, twas truly nearing dusk when we did arrive. And on our walk towards the ruins, two wenches did approach and cast their horrific curses upon us. “Do you wear perfume  or cologne?” they did chant. Eyes forward, as a warrior passing Medusa,we hearkened on. “Don’t you wanna smell good?” one snarled. “We got that new Juicy,” the other beast spat. Quickly, we crossed the threshold, and yet our relief was short-lived. Once inside, a ghastly wilderness of gnarled and horrid patterns, of materials as threadbare as a spider’s web did hurl its curling fingertips at us as a witch would snatch her infant prey.

Up, up, up the mystic staircase we did ascend. Until we were delivered to a landing overflowing in filth, in ragged swatches of excrement. These, the fools called “coats”. And my senses. Escaped me. There, I threw one zippered garbage bag and that way, I cast another. Lost in a maddening maze of knock-offs and third-world quality, I cried out for mercy. Across the expanse, I thought mine eye did see my beloved, an unearthly garment upon his back!

Okay, TIRED. (Sorry for the abort but I’ve been through a traumatic ordeal.)  Long story short, I became “irrationally” upset and “paranoid”, simply because I could taste a sweet, pungency on the air and deduced that it was probably some sort of biochemical agent lacing the air being pumped into the store and that perhaps this was one of those Resident Evil locations where people are killed with an airborne poison. O_O

So, I called my son to me and promptly descended to the ground level, rushing back out to the car to regain sanity. (Before we were truly gone, we were approached by two more perfume girls-who-probably-were-”you-know-whats”-on-the-side. I’d check Craigslist for their likeness, but this would bear too much fruit.)

The End.

 

A Big Bag Of Whatthedoodle.

Right, so that needs no explanation. But, you know what does? An ABC Family Movie called “Legally Blondes” in which the train wreck that began as a campy, tolerable movie with that Moon character from old-school McDonalds commercials culminates in a movie with TWO bottle blonds holding tiny chihuahuas going straight to TV (after a stint on BROADWAY with such timeless songs as “Blood In The Water” and … Legally Blonde ON STAGE, as if that’s not enough). Explain that. If you’re still here and have understood the previous sentence. In the immortal words of Matheson: “Getcho hands off me!”

Just tears.

There may be more later. Right now, I need to soak my brain.

 

Short and Bitter

We are on Day Three (of Three), here at Morrow Birthday Bonanza Week. Of course, the only one we care about is Ezzie’s birthday. And though there was mourning (from me) and calmness (from Ezra, which helped my depression over his becoming a young man instead of my babyfacedbabyheadedlovalump, not at all!) – there was also a rather alarming amount of time spent at the mall. Which – when one takes into account the photo sitting and dairy queen and carousel – I guess makes a semblance of sense. And now. A snapshot of snapshots that made yesterday bearable.

The Wake Held For Ezra's Babyhood

Though it was divinity watching the godsiblings defy logic and be better behaved for a sitting when the other was present (and most of that goes for my little girl who apparently has made a mockery of modeling on past attempts to capture her beauty), I do hate time and its passage. “Get yo’ hands off me!”

 

A PC a day keeps the Apple away.

HOMG. So let’s skip the pleasantries and just get into it, shall we? Seeing as sweat is truly glistenin’ all ovah mah bahdy. O_O

Today, Joshua decided to come over to Daddy’s house and clean The Garage. I say The Garage because. It is an entity all its own. Throughout my life, it has been clean three times if we can count the state we’re leaving in tonight. Once Ana had to clean it out to store her things while she went to Sicily and once Dad cleaned it. Now, I haven’t lived her for over nine years so maybe perchance there were more instances. But I’d bet my writing hand there aren’t. That’s. How certain I am. So aside from the fact that Josh’s powers of persuasion must have hit Pusher-style levels (um, did anyone else see that movie “Push” with Dakota Fanning?) – as in he said, “I’m going to clean Daddy’s garage” and somehow…Ana and I ended up sweating to moldies right there with him all day – how about. The man. Across the street – on the street perpendicular and on the left … cuz you care – who mowed his lawn. All. DAY. KWAT?! He actually came back outside a moment ago and started again. O_O We officially have a situation, frere.

So, I never told you about that time I ventured to the Apple store, did I? Sit. Do. So one day I foolishly walked into the Apple store to let them know that the iPod Touch I got for my birthday last year has on several occasions abandoned its function and decided rather to entertain me with colorful lines against a stark white background. I’ve rebooted it to default settings a few times (and also went five months with it on my dresser because, come on, I don’t really need it) and am now tired of that. So in I went! Forward! To progress! Except not. First of all: WHO IS TOO GOOD FOR REGISTERS?! @#$%! Come. On. So I’m idling around like a tool – which is what they want you to look like, btw – until some overzealous person who – woohoo. – has a job comes over to me and directs me to the receptionist. I go, but wonder, “Why don’t I just go to the register and return it?” Right. So once there, he nods and goes, “Right, well, actually, you can’t do that. You actually have to see a Genius and they’ll make sure it’s under warranty and replace it or fix it.” Oh. Okay. Unnecessary. Where’s the Genius. *snort* “Well, actually, you need to make an appointment to see them.” Right. So I’ll just return it. Where’s the register. “Actually a Genius has to handle the return. So I can get you in tomorrow at 1?” *Eyes half-mast* We book the meeting with the GENIUS BECAUSE MAC NEEDS TO CALL THEIR CUSTOMER SERVICE SLAVES GENIUSES BECAUSE THEY GOT A TOUCH OF TRAINING HIP HIP HAZZAH. EXTRA. Anyway, so on the day of my meeting with the GENIUS. I get there a tad after. Nine minutes is how long they hold the appointment. Now, I have no problem with the fact that I was late and they went on to the next person. The part where I started yanking arrows from my quiver came when the girl tried to reschedule me for another day.

Did you TRULY think I was going to spend a THIRD day’s gas money to drive back to the store to RETURN A BROKEN ITEM? Coonery.

So, after raising my eyebrow and speaking really clearly or whatever, I got her to understand that wasn’t an option. After about thirty minutes of someone telling me they were right on it, the guy just opens another one, hands it to me and has me sign something. Wow. Glad I made an appointment and junk. GENIUS. I coulda done that, were it not for laws against shoplifting. But no, thank you for that.

Oh, did I mention he didn’t replace the film thingies I’d gotten to preserve the touch pad/screen? Yeah, he didn’t.

 

Time The *$%^ OUT!

What Andy did to the donkeys, I had to do to the duck-lipped, flesh rail of VD. I can’t even say her name lest the vultures return. And I won’t even disgust you with the latest search engine terms that have been apparently bringing people here. Like, are you not embarrassed that – though I may not know who got here by searching for “p*ssing, sh*tting, sc*t, p**p” – you do?! Seriously. How do you live with yourselves?