Alright. So this story may not be as funny as my "Hotter than hell" day I had in NY, but I definitely feel as though I had to write up a quick blog about this.
The Dinklemobile is sick. She's been acting funny since before I got back-- but moreso now that its gotten colder. Shaking, sputtering, loss of power during acceleration: an all out inconvenience in a city that requires EVERYONE to have a car. I called AAA and asked them to point me in the direction of the closest diagnostic center; a automobile's doctor's office.
The place wasn't far, just about a half-mile down Ponce from my house. I dropped it off this morning, checked her in, and waited around for another twenty minutes for the Courtesy Shuttle to pick me up and take me to the Marta.
For some reason, I DON'T miss riding the train.
The shuttle dropped me off at the North Ave. station and I grabbed my baggage and headed for the ticketing machine. I stood there in blind stupor trying to figure out what meant who and what the heck a "Breeze Card" is. (Note: Breeze Card = Metro Card). The local cop came up and stood behind me, asking me if I needed any help. Trying to sound as uncertain as I could, I said "Um... no... I...uh... think... I..." trailing my voice off to sound more convincing. Before I can turn around, my so-called shirpa bounded off to help another person. Jerk.
So, looking as tourist-y as possible, I finger the railway map, making sure I needed to go northbound instead of southbound. I take the stairs down, and wait for a few minutes for The Silver Bullet to approach.
Getting on the train, I felt like I was stepping back onto the 4, to casually find my spot standing holding the pole at the opposite door. I quickly realized that everyone was sitting, and that there were actually a few available seats. I quickly decided to remain standing: I look cute today. Everyone's just going to have to stare at me. I find my Gazing Spot... you know, that spot you find on the train to stare at to avoid eye contact from everyone around you. Remember: I'm standing. I don't have a whole lot of places I can look. I see something flicker out of the corner of my eye and see a small television embedded into the panel. Praise Moses! Entertainment Bliss! I've found my Gazing Spot!
Four stops later and I get off the train, and THOUGHT I'd end up one place but ended up someplace completely different. CRAP. Instead of walking one-and-a-half blocks north and one block west, I ended up having to walk an entire six blocks west.
Ladies and Gents: its KUHOLD outside today. I'm talking Des Moines Winter quality cold. Its 19 degrees with a windchill of 2, and the wind is blowing NNW at 21 MPH. I wouldn't even lock enemies outside in this.
I start the journey (uphill, mind you) to work. The icy wind hitting my face, my eyes begin to water, nose starts to run and I have nowhere to turn to hide. A gym bag and a bookbag strapped to my back, I mentally kicked myself for actually WANTING to work out today.
Two blocks down... four more to go.
My legs begin to tingle and itch from my blood trying to circulate under freezing skin. The wind whipps past my butt to remind me how open and vulnerable I am. I shift my gym bag backwards to help cover the cold cheeks. Although it did help a little, a small shock of wind would find its way between me and the bag whenever I took a step. Friggin' hips.
Four blocks down... two to go.
This is at the very busy (and WIDE) intersection of Lenox and Peachtree. The opposite cross light isn't functioning properly-- of course I didn't realize this until four rounds of straight north-south, straight east-west, turn, turn cycles were executed. I decided to take a chance: I'd officially lost all feeling in my hands and the tears from my eyes were officially frozen to my face.
I double-dutched my way across the street, avoiding delivery trucks and angry cab drivers. Making it safely across, I gazed back at my accomplishment of safely passing through the most dangerous intersection in Atlanta.
I can see the office building in the horizon and my legs are really starting to complain. The itching and tingling intensified, it took everything in me to keep from clawing my jeans off and scratching right then and there. But since I was in public and still outside, I refrained. But the idea made me smile a little.
I rounded the final curve and entered the office building. The security guard looked at me in shock as I came in sniffing and wide-eyed... not even so much as a good morning. I passed by a reflective spot on the elevator doors and finally saw what he was so agape about. My bangs had flown straight up despite the excessive application of hairspray, my ponytail looked like a cat got a hold of it. My eye makeup had mosey'd its way up near my forehead and I'd actually lost an earring. The tears were still frozen to my face and now starting to melt and my entire face and hands were as red as a newly-spanked butt. I blinked, wiped my nose and got on the next elevator.
Ahh... its good to be warm.
Saturday, December 9, 2006
Monday, November 27, 2006
Country Boys
This past Thanksgiving weekend I had the wonderful opportunity to go home and visit with the honey's family. Such a good time. If you've ever been anywhere outside of Atlanta, GA you will know and realize that it is all country.
Sandersville, GA is a small town (more like community) about two hours south east of Atlanta. After driving down, we pulled up to this tiny little house that was packed full with so many memories... and so much love.
Friday night, Washington County High had a game against their arch-rivals and The Watts Brothers would have to be in attendance. We rolled in about six-deep (of course to meet others there) and casually strolled up and around the stands to find our seats on the Home side of the field. People shouted their hellos and exchanged glances as we walked by-- seeming in slow motion the entire time.
Sitting on the clad metal seat I looked out at the field, watching the black and gold boys of WaCo High plan out their next play. The hot steam from their breath hit the cold night hair with rhythmic pumps as they stood there, paced, strolled and spoke to each other in hushed voices.
As I looked out at them I thought back to what it was like for me when I was decked in black and gold, with HCHS emblazoned across my chest, down my leg and across my forehead. Forgetting and not knowing what lies outside these gates but everything in me focusing on what's happening right now. Watching your fellow classmates and the guy you have a crush on squat down into formation with the goal of making another mark on the turf where so many others had played before-- hoping, wanting and willing to make it.
Time slowed as the quarterback caught the ball and took two giant glides back, and I thought of the flourescent lights in the halls at HCHS. As the cracking sound of helments hitting pads and bodies thudding into one another, I thought of running to class after getting a note from a friend... waiting for that bell to go to lunch... and scrambling to get homework done on the bus before school.
The Touchdown Cannon blasted and the sound reverberated in my chilled bones. These boys just don't know what life has in store for them today, tomorrow or next week. All they know is now. And they dwell and cherish every single minute of it.
Maybe I need to take a note from these boys.
Sandersville, GA is a small town (more like community) about two hours south east of Atlanta. After driving down, we pulled up to this tiny little house that was packed full with so many memories... and so much love.
Friday night, Washington County High had a game against their arch-rivals and The Watts Brothers would have to be in attendance. We rolled in about six-deep (of course to meet others there) and casually strolled up and around the stands to find our seats on the Home side of the field. People shouted their hellos and exchanged glances as we walked by-- seeming in slow motion the entire time.
Sitting on the clad metal seat I looked out at the field, watching the black and gold boys of WaCo High plan out their next play. The hot steam from their breath hit the cold night hair with rhythmic pumps as they stood there, paced, strolled and spoke to each other in hushed voices.
As I looked out at them I thought back to what it was like for me when I was decked in black and gold, with HCHS emblazoned across my chest, down my leg and across my forehead. Forgetting and not knowing what lies outside these gates but everything in me focusing on what's happening right now. Watching your fellow classmates and the guy you have a crush on squat down into formation with the goal of making another mark on the turf where so many others had played before-- hoping, wanting and willing to make it.
Time slowed as the quarterback caught the ball and took two giant glides back, and I thought of the flourescent lights in the halls at HCHS. As the cracking sound of helments hitting pads and bodies thudding into one another, I thought of running to class after getting a note from a friend... waiting for that bell to go to lunch... and scrambling to get homework done on the bus before school.
The Touchdown Cannon blasted and the sound reverberated in my chilled bones. These boys just don't know what life has in store for them today, tomorrow or next week. All they know is now. And they dwell and cherish every single minute of it.
Maybe I need to take a note from these boys.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Double-Click
Sometimes when you get older in not necessarily age but more so maturity, its really weird to look back on something that just happened a few weeks or a few months back. Its kind of strange that we are so zealous in living in NOW that we oftentimes completely disregard the possibility of the future.
Forgive my vagueness, please, and consider this: the mind is a machine. A computer, to be more specific. See, if you look at your desktop on your PC or MAC, doesn't matter, there are files and directories that are the gateways to numerous other files and directories. Ever consider, that when you look up from your book and across the room you see a set of eyes and a smile you can't resist, or when you extend your hand in a fellow greeting, and right when your palms touch in magnetic desire that person creates a folder in your mind? Its almost as if by the time you complete the sentence "Nice to meet you," and looking at an object of desire through dilated pupils, your mind makes a directory of this person in your head that stores information, news, events, happenings and general misc. items about them.
So, say, you develop a genuine crush on this person. The file is marked red-hot and it gets more clicks than myspace in your mind. You think about them, constantly reviewing their information on why they are just so fucking wonderful. You scan documents of previous conversations, browse picture files of memories of what they were wearing and how great their smile was.
But what happens when you have to delete the file? When they've pissed you off for the last time, or finally reveal to you that they don't feel the same way you do? What then? As you hang up, storm off, slam the door or drive off, you clutch your fingers to white knuckles and try desperately to drag their file over to the trash can. "Are you sure you want to delete file?" flashes across your mind and depending on how angry you are determines how long you hesitate to click "HELL YEAH". You click and you sit in angst as you watch the files slowly melt away to the trash, trying to repeatedly convince yourself that you did the right thing.
The file is never deleted.
Its stored on your hard drive as long as your hard drive remains in tact. Even though its deleted from your immediate desktop, it still looms around in your system, creeping up on you in the recent documents menu and default settings. You try to dig and search to find the originals to erase them but you'll never find them. Your search gets prioritized with other hot jobs, of course, and more often than not, its forgotten, but not lost.
And sometimes a familiar smell, a random phone call or an over-heard conversation can double-click on the file and open it again. Thing is, its your decision whether you browse through it or not.
Forgive my vagueness, please, and consider this: the mind is a machine. A computer, to be more specific. See, if you look at your desktop on your PC or MAC, doesn't matter, there are files and directories that are the gateways to numerous other files and directories. Ever consider, that when you look up from your book and across the room you see a set of eyes and a smile you can't resist, or when you extend your hand in a fellow greeting, and right when your palms touch in magnetic desire that person creates a folder in your mind? Its almost as if by the time you complete the sentence "Nice to meet you," and looking at an object of desire through dilated pupils, your mind makes a directory of this person in your head that stores information, news, events, happenings and general misc. items about them.
So, say, you develop a genuine crush on this person. The file is marked red-hot and it gets more clicks than myspace in your mind. You think about them, constantly reviewing their information on why they are just so fucking wonderful. You scan documents of previous conversations, browse picture files of memories of what they were wearing and how great their smile was.
But what happens when you have to delete the file? When they've pissed you off for the last time, or finally reveal to you that they don't feel the same way you do? What then? As you hang up, storm off, slam the door or drive off, you clutch your fingers to white knuckles and try desperately to drag their file over to the trash can. "Are you sure you want to delete file?" flashes across your mind and depending on how angry you are determines how long you hesitate to click "HELL YEAH". You click and you sit in angst as you watch the files slowly melt away to the trash, trying to repeatedly convince yourself that you did the right thing.
The file is never deleted.
Its stored on your hard drive as long as your hard drive remains in tact. Even though its deleted from your immediate desktop, it still looms around in your system, creeping up on you in the recent documents menu and default settings. You try to dig and search to find the originals to erase them but you'll never find them. Your search gets prioritized with other hot jobs, of course, and more often than not, its forgotten, but not lost.
And sometimes a familiar smell, a random phone call or an over-heard conversation can double-click on the file and open it again. Thing is, its your decision whether you browse through it or not.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
The New Accessory
I really didn't notice it so much in other cities than I have here.
Instead of a foppish handbag, over rated strands of beads from the distant shores of Lake Titikaka or a belt made from the skin of the rare Nepos Ardvark, the newest accessory for Atlanta women is none other than...
Fruit.
I've seen so many women toting around in their plastic containers (clear, flip-top, mind you) chunks of fresh, pre-cut fruit. More often than not, its a cornicopia of red grapes, apple chunks, unsweeted honeydew or skin-tone cantelope and if she's feeling REALLY saucy, a crooked morsel of pineapple.
Why do these women do it? Are they trying to portray this doting, wholesome facade that they are healthy eaters? And with that aura, are they secretly shunning the rest of us who eat entire meals that consist of nothing but the color brown?
Normally, I can see such a situation in/on/around an eating area or cafe. But in parking garages, bathrooms, hell, even walking their dogs? Did I miss that column in Cosmo or am I just more partial to the Vegetable party?
Go get 'em, broccoli florets!
Instead of a foppish handbag, over rated strands of beads from the distant shores of Lake Titikaka or a belt made from the skin of the rare Nepos Ardvark, the newest accessory for Atlanta women is none other than...
Fruit.
I've seen so many women toting around in their plastic containers (clear, flip-top, mind you) chunks of fresh, pre-cut fruit. More often than not, its a cornicopia of red grapes, apple chunks, unsweeted honeydew or skin-tone cantelope and if she's feeling REALLY saucy, a crooked morsel of pineapple.
Why do these women do it? Are they trying to portray this doting, wholesome facade that they are healthy eaters? And with that aura, are they secretly shunning the rest of us who eat entire meals that consist of nothing but the color brown?
Normally, I can see such a situation in/on/around an eating area or cafe. But in parking garages, bathrooms, hell, even walking their dogs? Did I miss that column in Cosmo or am I just more partial to the Vegetable party?
Go get 'em, broccoli florets!
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