It's MY party! And you can't make me cry.

This post is not being written for pity. I honestly don't want to talk about it, but still feel the need to get this off my chest. This has been weighing on me and writing about it seems the best way to acknowledge it without having to acknowledge it.

I suppose it's true that I did NOT in fact have The Worst Christmas Ever. After all, I am alive unlike Gerald Ford or James Brown.

However, my holiday was spent in its entirety at work. Alone on a sad, dreary Christmas day. An even more lonely Christmas Eve had me crying in the dark hoping for a call, text or IM from family or friends. And me, being a silly Super, feigning sentiments of enjoying the time alone.

Never before have I had a problem being alone. Hell, it still does not bother me. And for the record, I have never enjoyed the Christmas holiday. I have proudly been called a grinch. However, there is something about being alone on Christmas that emphasizes the feeling: an empty, desolate, sinking feeling deep in my chest. Being alone on Christmas places a giant exclamation mark right after the word. ALONE!

I did not call anybody for fear of bringing others down. Why should I ruin somebody else's day?

As I said, my day was spent at work from 2pm until 10pm. A fat, sweaty kid who rubs scoal (obviously this kid is single, right?) cancelled his shift at the last minute and it came down to me or a woman who has a one-year-old baby. What monster would make a mommy work on Christmas? I was originally scheduled to work from 6am-2pm, thus allowing me an entire afternoon and evening with The Mister's family. Not the greatest prospect, and yet, a festive gathering nonetheless.

The Mister had stayed over Christmas Eve at his mother's (EMIL) house to help her prepare. I stayed home alone knowing if I had been at EMIL's house, I would not have slept and been a disaster for work. The Mister's mother is horrible when it comes to Christmas Procrastination and on Christmas day, while I was at work, he must have called me no less than thirty times not including texts. Each time he would tell me he was 'fed up' or 'over this crap'. Each time I would think, "At least you aren't alone" and then I would talk him back from the edge by urging him to have another eggnog (a vile concoction at that, but with enough bourbon...I still think it's awful).

Every time The Mister called he never asked if I was doing okay. It never occurred to him the day might be a little rough on me as well. He kept telling me about his mother's self-absorption.

Frankly, I don't care about gifts but somehow, I wonder if a new tote -a fancy new tote- might make me feel a little cheerier. A gift for myself, if you will. It would be nice, but I don't have the leeway for frivolity. Maybe I should wrap something for myself. Ah, hell. This feeling will surely pass along with the need for a fancy new tote bag.

Post Script:
I wrote this post three days ago. Although my feelings of sadness have gone -POOF!- I still think I would like a fancy new tote bag!

Life Lessons: Ode to Computers and Coffee.

Eventually, I will be 'staying elsewhere' as part of The Separation of The Mister and The Super. Neither of us is sure when this will happen, or -truth be told- if it actually will happen. If we really take a close looksie, I've nowhere else to go at the moment!

However, we have both been trying to prepare me a little for being on my own. First, we purchased a cute little macbook to help me along with my portability as I will be traveling. The Mister has been trying to talk me into one for quite some time now, and I've finally given in. I'm quite happy with the purchase as I, an audio person, am a long time mac user. The portability thing is certainly helpful and frankly, I hold the opinion all things should be as travel-friendly as myself. Lest we forget, I'm a pretty darn teeny person: Portable, if you will.

I am 'Actual Size'.

The next bit of preparation was extremely necessary and I am embarrassed to admit my ignorance in the subject. The Mister has taught me how to make coffee. I know! How on earth did I make it this far without that nugget of information?

I have always been a hot tea drinker, not just because I enjoy it more, but because I had no idea how dried up beans became a steamy, delicious, hot beverage.

Last Saturday he dragged a sleepy Super into the kitchen and showed me all about everything that is coffee. We began with beans, a nifty little grinder and a fabulously cute coffee press. God help us all if I ever have to use one of those fancy machines. On Monday, rather than making coffee for himself (or me, for that matter), he left a little cheat sheet. The Mister knows full well that Monday means "COFFEE, NOW!" upon waking.

I must admit, my first pot was a little on the light side and frankly this Super likes her coffee black and strong. After four days of practice, I have made the coffee press my bitch and receive it's contents with satisfaction. YUMMY. (And to be totally honest...I like the coffee I make far better than what The Mister produces!)

Wednesday. Another Super Quirk.

I fucking hate Wednesdays and the only thing good about them is Thursday comes next.

Thursday has always been my favorite day of the week. This could partially be due to the fact I have no problem dealing with a hangover on a Friday. Seriously, I don't mind being tired or hung over on a Friday because the end of the week is in sight. For me, Thursday is really the beginning of the weekend. Thursday is my own personal Friday. Thursday says, "C'mon Super, let's rock!".

Thursday is also (in my humble opinion) the best sounding day of the week. Say them all aloud and tell me it doesn't sound the nicest! I'm an audio girl and to me, these things matter.

In the meantime, I hate Wednesday. It's not even easy to spell.

Wednesday, you suck!

Workin' Girl. Yearning for regular hours and a cocktail.

Most of you know, I work part-time at a radio station. It's the same radio station that brought me from the MidWest to the land of Taxation Without Representation seven years ago. As a part-timer going through rough times at home, I begged and pleaded for any and all hours to possibly be thrown my way.

Nobody wants to work at holiday time and boy-howdy have I picked up hours! This week I'll be working 2:00pm to 10:00pm every day, and though I love the work, the schedule has me a little wonky... You see, around 4 o'clock every afternoon, I get a hankering for a cocktail. Just one, but a necessary cocktail nonetheless.

I'm pretty sure that a singular daily cocktail does not constitute a Problem, but knowing at 4:30, that mama won't have her medicine until 10:30 (maybe even -gasp!- 11:00pm) makes my heart weary. Don't get me wrong, I've always dreamed of having drinks with Jim Vance, but not while watching him on the news. He would, however, still be dressed as dashing and dapper as I have come to expect; we would simply be in a lounge somewhere with a jazz trio playing sweetly in the background.

Aahhh... I got lost there for a moment. Oh yes! My cocktail. I miss my cocktail. Alas, I need the money more and getting out of the house is a minor miracle as well. Therefore, the cocktails will have to wait. I'm pretty sure they miss me, too.

In honor of strange hours, please have a properly timed cocktail for me tonight. Cheers!

Coming clean... It's "Stop the Lies" Monday!

As you have probably noticed my blogging has been sporadic at best. I've alluded to things not being so great on the western front. And finally the time has come for me to spill it all. Beans everywhere!

The Mister and I are separating. I hadn't told any friends because The Mister had not come to terms with telling his mother. My family has known for almost a month now, but understandably, The Mister's family is not as easy to talk to. However, I must give props to all of them for rising up and supporting us as shocked as they may have been. My dad went as far as to go on a tirade about how much he loves The Mister and even if I have a problem with it, he still wants to be his friend.

Oh, Daddy! It seems to be a bit difficult for my family to understand that The Mister and I do not fight, argue and have no animosity towards one another. My parents divorced when I was about one-year-old; it was bitter and nasty. The Mister and I are the best of friends and in many ways I can not figure out if this is the smartest or stupidest thing we have ever done. We are still living together, but apart. We are helping each other however we can and still hanging out as friends do. Honestly, our therapist called us "a breath of fresh air". Still, it is very sad. And for me, I feel very embarrassed. What if this is just dumb? What if The Mister is the best thing that will ever happen to me? What if we are both being selfish?

"What if?" is my nemesis.

We still love and adore each other, but it seems we may be better friends than anything else. Working this out is our goal, of course. Some time apart may lend the perspective needed to really take a look.

The Mister has a big snowboarding trip in Canada planned and I will be going to Europe to check out a couple of schools. (Frankly, I must note: The Mister has never gone snowboarding before. He is going to Whistler, BC and I am convinced he is going to die. This is the place the 2010 Winter Olympics are to be held. Truth be told, I think he is a little convinced his death is imminent, as well. He's working out a lot... maybe that will help...?)

Wish us luck and keep us in your thoughts. I will try to blog more, now that I don't feel like I'm hiding a big ol' secret.

Don't get your tits in the zipper.

A couple of friends from West Virginia dropped by today. By "dropped by" I mean to say, they went to the Redskins game, got fed up, left at halftime and decided to knock on the doors of any and all they knew in the neighborhood.
It just so happened The Mister was going to drop me off at our apartment and continue -bravely- on to Target. As the chariot pulled up I said, "Hey that looks like..." and together we both exclaimed, "Romney!"
A quick glance at The Mister and he said, "I'm already parking."
Romney is a good friend through Aunt Jane and he always brings a great attitude and even better schwag from the lovely land of all that is West-by-God-Virginia.
He also had a friend in tow who turned out to be just as much fun and today, I heard something I must permanently add to my vocabulary:
"Don't get your tits in the zipper." Meaning, don't get worked up over something. It's very close to "don't get your dick in the zipper" but with a slight twang, it is far better!

I also must note that Romney's friend was a handful and told a lovely story about deer hunting. Apparently, the Department of Natural Resources is testing deer shot in a certain area of West Virginia for signs of pollution. In order to do this, they must remove the lymph glands of the killed deer, but before doing so the officer asked, "Will you be mounting this deer?"
Romney's friend shouted, "Hell no! I already fucked in the woods. Want a beer?"

Slip of the tongue.

Again the inspiration from fellow bloggers. Today I was reading MappyB's Confessions of a Cartographer blog about sticking your foot in your mouth.
We know this is quite the regular occurrence for me and although, not so much the super thing to do, often it leads to a damn super belly laugh.
I remember the summer before The Mister and I got married. The Mister and his housemate, Jersey, decided to make dinner for me and The Mister's Mother, EMIL (evil-mother-in-law).
The Mister and Jersey had always joked about their three houseboys: Patio, Lettuce and Fallujo. They were common words, but the boys pronounced them: "pay' shee oh", "luh too' chay", and "fuh loo' joh". Say those out loud and you'll understand how the mortification ensued.
Dinner was lovely but please do remember this woman, EMIL, hated me from the get-go and to say the least I was nervous. The boys had outdone themselves and topped it off with a made-from-scratch pumpkin pie. They roasted a freakin' pumpkin, people. Damn shame they didn't throw that witch of woman in the oven, too. But I digress...
There may have been wine involved, but I had limited myself to one, lonesome, glass in order to keep my wits about me, Captain. Try as I might to keep myself from actually giving this woman an actual reason for her misplaced hatred, I tripped, stumbled and fell on my face in a blaze of glory.
As the boys began to clear the plates, I joked, "Oh, just leave those! The houseboy, Fellatio, will be around to collect them."

The end? Ah, hell, I don't know...

Dear Readers,
I must apologize for a couple of things. First, my sporadic postings are inexcusable and I understand that. Second, I have not exactly been honest with you.
Things have not been so Super for awhile and currently the State of the Union is up in the air.
Although I do not want to go into details, this is a very sad and unsure time. With a determined uncertainty, I will face what comes my way. (Check out that oxymoron! "Determined uncertainty"! Still, it makes sense for what my life has become as of late.)
The frequency of which I continue to blog is also uncertain. I just do not know what I can share and as I have generally tried to publish entertaining pieces, well... Smokey Robinson told us even clowns cry.
For now, I am wondering if I need to turn in my cape or simply adjust it. Will I ever fly again? I just do not have the answers.
Take care of Your Selves.
~Super

Rise over Run, mofo!

I wrote this a couple of weeks ago and must have forgotten to publish the fucker!
Have at it, dear readers...

I have little feet. That's not to say there is a semi-known classic rock band hanging out in my backyard; the statement illustrates the tiny-ness of my tootsies.
I wear a women's size five shoe or a kids size four. The children's section is a cheap girl's haven and the downward spiral of little girls dressing like hookers has opened up my options even more.
Today, my feet are in shambles. I went in for my jury duty wearing 2 1/2 inch heels. Of course, my outfit said "Super hot!", but after traipsing around downtown, my feet look like remnants of war. Truth be told, I don't know what they look like because I am afraid to take off my socks.
If we really want to break down the issue at hand, it is simply to say manufactures should think first before making size 5 shoes with 2 1/2 inch heels. Have they never taken Algebra? It is ridiculous to think I (or any other tiny-footed woman, or tiny-footed-free-thinking man, I suppose) could actually walk in anything bigger.
Of course, I take full responsibility for wearing heels to jury duty, HOWEVER, in my defense, yesterday was spent firmly on my ass in the juror's lounge. Today we were given 1 hour and 45 minutes for lunch so I decided to take the metro to Union Station and do a little shopping. Shopping is not my forte' but I have a wedding in a couple of weeks for which I would like to look -excuse me- fucking hot as all get out.
So I tromped all over Union Station (for those who don't know, it's not just an Amtrak Station and a Metro Station, it is also a mall) looking for hotness.
My poor little feet are so mad at me. They are still socked and asking, "Why, why, why? You've never treated us this way before, do you hate us?" And I can look at them lovingly, "I'm so sorry my little trotters! I had no idea those bad shoes were capable of such atrocities. Please, forgive me!!"
Mama needs champagne to dull the pain. "Cham" must mean "dull"... strange the instructor never mentioned that in my wine class...

The Many Forms of Appreciation.

It's been a crazy week and tomorrow afternoon will find me in Key West for a bit of quiet time. I've got an empty journal, a bikini and no agenda.

Of all the drama from the past month, it must be noted somewhere in there I made a friend of great proportions. Arrogant Dutchman (again, I mean that in the best way possible) is a Beautiful Person and The Mister and I could not have been luckier to have made such a friend. We will be visiting our new friend shortly and it doesn't hurt he lives in a city at the top of our travel list: Amsterdam.

For now, my travels will whisk me away to sunnier locals for time to sort it all out. Hopefully I'll figure out how to save the world, but a little personal direction is something for which I'd settle.

I am eternally grateful for the generosity of the friends I have, the friend I made and The Mister for understanding my heart.
My soul is bursting with gratitude and rejuvenation.
Thank you...

Inspiration aka How I Lost My Eyesight

After reading Oxymoron Hipster Dork's blog about his parent's scromping, I've been inspired to write about a time -a very dark time- in which I, too, felt the compulsion to burn out my eyes. Although I've tried very hard to erase the memory, obviously my attempts have been futile.
I have no other way to describe this but to tell the whole story in the disjointed terrorizing way it happened.
It was Christmas day 1999. I was home for holiday break and as with every Christmas day, around 8:00pm my friends would start calling. We would get together, hang out, probably smoke something and recover from a day full of overextending relatives. Not realizing we would end up at a bar, I had not taken my identification. Upon figuring out my lack of necessity, I sped back home to collect the goods. In my cup holder, there was a large orange juice and I decided to take it inside (this fact may seem innocuous, but is important). It was almost 8:30, very dark outside, the porch light had been turned off and I'd only been gone for 15 minutes. I opened the screen door letting it whack me in the butt, put my key in the lock and pushed the door open.
On the couch were my mother and father.
I distinctly remember skin, rapid movement and multiple shouts of "Oh my god!" from every party involved.
I grabbed the doorknob and yanked it back so hard it hit my arm with the large orange juice spilling it down the front of me and then stepped backwards into something horribly squishy while the screen door caught my other arm in the door jam. I screamed.
A minute later my mother opened the door to usher me in and found me covered in orange juice and shame. She flipped on the porch light and screamed. Her screaming made me scream again, but I had no idea why she was screaming. Then I looked down and saw a horrifying mess of what can only be described as entrails.
Apparently, the cat had decided to get in on the gift-giving business of Christmas and had left a dead rabbit at the door. The leavings were what I'd stepped in after my eyes had been burned out.
I took off my shoes, ran inside, changed clothes, grabbed my I.D. and ran back out.

When I arrived back at my friend's house it was noticed that not only had I changed clothes, but I had a somewhat shell-shocked look upon my mug.
All I could mutter was, "I need a drink and then I will tell you the story of The Worst Christmas Ever."

Purple haze.

It has come to my attention I need a moment to straighten my cape and regain focus. I've lost track of where my head is; lost track of who I want to be. Lost track of Me. Where I am and how I got here are beyond my grasping, but I still have yet to be convinced that is a bad thing. Perhaps it is just a different thing than that which I had envisioned.
Time. Reflection. Anonymity. Breath.
I suppose I also need Laughter (but anybody who truly knows me, knows laughter is my closest friend).
Red and Ray have set off to Key West for a month while Red's house is under construction. They have very graciously offered me a place to stay and their warmth, smiles and beauty are surely to be an inspiration. They are beautiful people who are the embodiment of great friends.
Lord knows I need to get my head secured atop my shoulders lest it fall off for good.
I leave Monday and return in 10 days time. Pretty quick on the uptake, but the very nature of Life is best not missed.

I've kept you waiting, but for a great cause!

It's been a couple of weeks since my last confession and before that it had been a little sporadic at best. I've been a bad, bad blogger, but all in the name of Purpose.
A little over a month ago, I received a call from a woman I'd worked with on the Kerry campaign. She said, "Super, I need you." And I had to tell her I had jury duty. Two weeks of jury duty, a heart stopping "the trial will last at least 14 weeks" and finally being dismissed led me to Ohio for the democrats once again. I stayed with Dads but never really saw him for the two weeks I was there. Campaign work is NEVER EVER finished and late-nights and early-mornings are the name of the game. Who needs sleep? There's always the day after the election. What I did not realize is we would win. I've worked on a few campaigns and had never before won. This time around the candidates were great and it was exciting to see people genuinely interested in their choices without having a 'lesser of two evils' attitude. Although during this campaign, I actually had --key point here-- HOPE, it never occurred to me that winning would inspire a two day debacle of which only Bacchus could be proud. Woo-hoo Senator Elect Sherrod Brown, Governor Elect Ted Strickland and Congressman Elect Charlie Wilson!!!!
Today is a week later and I'm finally alone. During my time with the campaign a very nice guy (I'll call him Arrogant Dutch, but I mean that in a good way) from The Netherlands who had been in Ohio volunteering for two months was sent to our county by the Sherrod Brown campaign. We worked really well together with our Regional Director and made fast friends. I feel like I found a long-lost brother (which is never out of the realm of possibility knowing my dad's history). Arrogant Dutch has another week in the US and has been staying with The Mister and me. We've visited a couple of art museums and met up in the evenings with The Mister and other friends. He's taking a couple of days to visit -gasp!- a republican (I told him if she breaks his heart it's his own damn fault: he should know better) and wow. WOW. Am I ever enjoying the solitude. Don't get me wrong, I love people, but I've been in a crowd for a month straight. It all ends Friday though because not only is Arrogant Dutch coming back for a couple days, but Moms, Stepdads and sister, Talent, will be in DC for the weekend as well.
No, no, please, let me entertain you. I live for being a tour guide.
After they leave, I may head off to Key West for a couple of weeks. Red and her sister Ray (of Marietta) have rented a house for a month and asked me to come visit. I think I could use a vacation with warm weather, a notepad, pen and of course, sunscreen. Quiet and beauty are things I just might be able to tolerate! I'll let you know if I go, because I do not think I'll have internet.
The past few weeks have taught me so much about myself and I have a bundle to sort through. Most of you know, I spent a bit of time writing a book. It seems I'd like to take it to a quiet place and burn it. No, no, no, I'm kidding. I want to re-work it and see if I deem it worthy of actually doing something with it. On top of that, I'm considering going back to school and definitely wondering if DC is really the place for me to make that happen.

Let's take it back!

Apologies all around... After being dismissed from jury duty, I made the last minute decision to answer the call from Ohio to help out my Democratic friends. It was pretty apparent just how 'last minute' it was seeing as how I forgot to pack a bundle of things, and may or may not have even packed up dirty laundry.
It's hard to turn down the plea, "Super, we need you." It is especially difficult to turn my back on a state that means so much (again).
So here I am sleeping in my yellow flowered childhood bedroom and trying to stay afloat in a makeshift office with far more work than workers.
Honestly, I was SERIOUSLY surprised at the title and task to which I've been assigned. And a quick case of the joint makes me wonder who they would have had do this...because there aren't many people around. My task at hand is daunting.
WISH ME LUCK.
With an optimistic heart, I believe we can take it back.
p.s. I don't know if/when I'll be able to update postings...

Testing one, two, three... Have I lost my mind?

I'm starting to think my email isn't working.
Why else would nobody respond to my emails containing direct questions and queries?
Half of my readers -you know, all four of you who read this because you are my friends- are thinking, "Oh my goodness, she's writing about me!"
The joke is on you because I've written so many emails this week and gotten no fucking responses that I truly think my email is not working properly.
For instance, two days ago I was chatting with The Mister and told him I'd just sent an email to him. Twenty minutes later, the email still had not reached him... lost, floating around our heads in Email-Land, scared, frightened and simply wanting to be clicked upon.
So here I am wondering, "Is this thing on? Pft, pft pft! Check one, two! Is this thing on?" Or maybe, everybody got together and y'all are just fucking with me. Dude, I've really gone over the edge this time.

ps. My boobs are huge today so I took the time to look up the phases of the moon. Car crashes and big boobs are to be expected during full moons, right? Honestly, that's about the only way my boobs will ever seem big, and if the pull of the moon can make the tide rise, I suppose my ta-tas might be influenced as well.
Just type in "moon schedule" into google, click on a few links and see what you find. After perusing some of those sites, I take it back; I'm so not crazy: it's simply the influence of my big boobs.

My life in limbo.

I don't know if I'll be writing tomorrow. The jury is still out (ha!) on if I am chosen for the jury panel.
Today has been horrible. I can deal with waiting in a jury lounge all day; I can not deal with waiting consumed by my thoughts in a jury lounge all day. I spent the entire day trying to read a book to take my mind off of all that is going on.
And I still don't fucking know. All 64 of us have to go back tomorrow. Not one decision was made.
Will I go to Ohio and work with the dems? Will they still need me if I can't tell them for another couple of days? I'm filled with guilt that I can't say "yes" or "no"; mostly because I know I am a good resource for what they need. And, of course, I want to help!
Again, don't get me wrong... blah blah blah... I take the jury... blah... seriously. Even if they really did waste 64 people's day, and even if they apologized profusely, it still made me no closer to an answer. I go back in tomorrow morning.

I don't have anything clever today. Leave me alone.

I wish I had something more to write about today but jury duty is consuming my mind. I got called back in for this afternoon and *hopefully* will find out if I'm a civic minded hostage for the next three months or if I am to be released back into the world of unaware citizens.
At this point, I might be a little bit offended if I'm not chosen. I'm pretty super, you know. Using my powers for good instead of evil is always the right path to choose even if I often lose my way. I have a great sense of direction although, I sometimes turn off the GPS to see which way the wind blows.
Here I go straying down the wrong path again and admitting things I shouldn't...
I lied. Jury duty is not the problem pressing most firmly on my chest. Mostly I'm upset about my hair. I get my hair cut and colored in Ohio where my stylist rocks and is super cheap by DC standards. I'm in need of hair fixin' and don't know when I'll be able to see her. I would much rather coordinate my family visits as hair visits than shell out five times (no exaggeration) the price she charges and go through the anxiety of a new person handling my hair. If I go to Ohio this weekend, I get to dress up all fun Halloween like, see my niece and nephews, but my stylist is out of town.
FREAKIN' HUGE DILEMMA.
However, if I am chosen for the jury, I may need to stay home and tie up some loose ends anyhow, before dedicating my powers to all that is federal.
In that case, I may go to Ohio next weekend, but my niece and nephew won't be there.
GAH!! My heart is pounding.

Civic duties and consolation prizes...?

Argh. That just about sums up what I'm going through. Jury duty is causing me a bit of stress. Although I am excited about my civic duty and being a part of The Process, I have to say it is causing a chink in my chain.
This past Friday I received a call from a lovely woman with whom I met while working the Kerry campaign in Southeastern Ohio.
The first words out of her mouth were, "Super, I need you. Talk to your husband and ask your dad if you can stay at his house... We need you to come do what you did two years ago."
It wrecked me to have to say, "Dads and The Mister have nothing to do with it, I have jury duty." She only needs me for the last week and a half before the election, meaning I would travel to Ohio this weekend and stay there through November seventh.
Today I was called back in for the questioning portion of the jury selection process. I had to sit in the witness box and answer whatever was thrown at me. I may have gotten a little sweaty what with the microphone and hoopla. However, my charm was on and I definitely got a laugh with one of my answers... it really is all about the delivery because my answer was very serious, indeed. Aside from that, they told me I had made the cut (depending on how you look at it) and would have to call in for further reporting instructions. The lady told me things looked good for a panel and they hoped to get everybody (me included) back in tomorrow afternoon. It was a little unclear, but I believe there is a chance I could still be dismissed.
If you don't remember, this case is projected to last well into January.
Essentially, I'm at odds between my civic duty and my need to change the world. Which is more important? Each begets the other, so really... sigh.

On the other end of the spectrum, The Mister has decided if I am chosen on the jury, then I (obviously, he says) need a MacBook. Yes, there is a ton of waiting during jury duty, but I am pretty sure this is a big, fat, roundabout excuse. It's adorable that he seems to think I'm not on to his ruse. Oh, he's a cutie and if he wants to buy me a MacBook, who am I to stand in his way?
Personally, I would rather have this, but I am happy to wait another 335 days. Oh to saddle me with another dilemma... diamonds or MacBooks, civic duty or saving the world...
What the fuck is a Super to do?

Obsession Monday!

Ten things that keep this girl's boat afloat, in no particular order:

Champagne - Mama loves me some champagne and those little bubbles go straight to my head in a way that makes life a little more sparkly. Drop in a dash of orange juice and I'm on my way to a Good Day; add a shot of lychee juice and you couldn't wipe the smile off my face with a Brillo pad.

Julia Child - Yes, she has gone to the pastry shop in the sky, but PBS loves me. They provide me with at least one program a week. Every Saturday at 3:00pm I can be found dancing along to the theme song and ending with a big ol' "Bon Appetite!"

Rubber Gloves and Clorox - Back home we call it "going on a tear" (that's 'tear' like 'rip' not 'cry'). I have my methods of motivation and when I get going, look out.

Vanilla Wafers - The Mister calls me "Nilla" for a reason. In college I would carry a box in my backpack. Who needs a math book if the wafers won't fit?

Rollerball and felt-tip pens - I have a slight obsession with nice pens and I despise all that is ballpoint. This is totally justifiable because I write a lot. (see below)

Pretty paper - The bottom drawer of my nightstand is filled with nothing but pretty paper. I have to make a difficult and concerted effort to stay out of stationery stores. Websites like this and this do not help the situation. (see above)

The Mister - I didn't want to get all sappy too early in the post, but yeah, I'm kinda ass over teacup for him.

Sleeping through the night - It is a rare occasion but when I sleep through the night I am unstoppable. Everybody knows about my insomnia and how it makes me all loopy; still you have to admit, it's a little cute and quirky how I forget names and seem drunk-giddy when I'm straight as an arrow. Okay, maybe I *hope* it is cute and quirky. Last night I was so exhausted I don't remember The Mister dragging my ass to tuck me in bed. When I write "last night", I mean 8:30. And of course I woke up at 11:45pm with no hope of going back to sleep. Still, when it happens... nirvana.

Weather.com - It used to be The Weather Channel, but without cable, weather.com will have to do. Officially, I have become my grandfather and that's okay with me.

Little Guys (aka miniature dachshunds) - Mini-weenie dogs (again, I accidentally typed 'gods' instead of 'dogs') make my heart soar with glee. Their little tails must have motors attached and their ears are like spun silk. Mini-weenies, oh how I love thee.

You're a good man, Charlie Brown.

Bezerkeley is a very lucky place. My best to you, Double OO! *waves at screen*

Matchmaker, matchmaker make me a match...

This is probably none of my business, but I'm going there anyhow. Besides, I won't be seeing either of these people for quite awhile so I'm safely out of harm's way and only at email and phone distance.

Dear Could & Should,
I would like to know why the two of you have not gotten together. It makes no sense to me because you are so good together. There is obvious chemistry between you and it is not worth trying to deny.
I'm sure you could give me a list of reasons why, but if it is anything along the lines of religion or ethnicity the suck it up and get over yourselves. I've got "Happy Chrismahaunakwanzica" napkins you can borrow. And thinking long-term like with children, pull a Madonna Jolie-Pitt and adopt a kid from Africa who will want to worship a cow upon his 14th birthday anyway. Problem solved.
What I'm trying to say is, if The Mister and I can get past our inherent differences, you can, too. Of course, I'm making HUGE assumptions as to WHY you aren't together. Most importantly, if you can get past it, the people who love you as individuals will follow suit.
Have a wonderful day and call each other!
Super

From New Orleans...

Bread pudding and a tasty beverage called "Devil's Brew" at Arnaud's in New Orleans.

Gonna ramble on, sing my song...

In the past month, I have begun a new job, gone out of town three times, started jury duty (who knows how long this might persist?) and took a final exam in my wine class. This is why my blogging has been a bit on the spotty side.
*Before I go on, let me thank all of you who scoffed at my class. Alright, maybe it was just one person who scoffed aloud and to my face, but you know who you are. You are a jerk and the class was difficult even if I did "only take it for fun". Screw you and your little dog, too. No, it was not just "standing around drinking wines"; it was biology, geography and freakin' chemical composition.
Piss up a rope, jackass.*
My apartment is a disaster and although I want to blame it on the craziness of the life that surrounds me, I really can not truly blame anyone save for myself. There is so much to do by way of dishes, cleaning the refrigerator and the stove, vacuuming and dusting everything, scrubbing all that is left, and changing the shower curtain. This final task is daunting as I am a shortie who may or may not have fallen into the tub and bruised my entire left side the last time it was attempted. You could argue that I leave the curtain currently hanging, however, it is a Spring/Summer curtain and I have a lovely Fall/Winter curtain who's time has approached. Besides, I like the other one better despite the season.
In the meantime, The Mister has been having long, difficult days at work. I try my best to make things comfortable and easy on him, but with all that I have had going on, I fell off the wagon a bit. I've tried, but it really is hard to comfort somebody else when you, yourself, need a little comforting. It hurt me deeply on my first full day of work being turned loose in the studio with nobody else there, when I was anxious and nervous, he did not wish me "Good luck" or even acknowledge what I was about to do. It is true he was up to his eyeballs in a stressful week of work, but it hurt nonetheless.
(Before anybody thinks anything badly of The Mister, please know this is an extremely rare showing. The Mister is The. Best. Ever. and I absolutely adore him. He's never really dropped the ball like this before, but if he wanted to make it up to me with gifts (shiny ones, of course) I would not be upset. We all make mistakes and if this is the worst I can think of, then I am the luckiest girl in the world. Well, I think that anyway, but you know what I mean.)
The whole thing made me think of what people must think of my life: Easy, smooth sailing, fun, etc. In many ways, those things are very true and I do not take it for granted. I get up early, write everyday, keep life tidy and I set my own schedule. Originally, when I set out writing, I had my designs on being published. Now that I have a complete work (well, mostly complete... I keep adding and revising and scrapping), I do not think I want to attempt publication. Personally, the Doing It was the important part. There is also the fact I do not think my work is good enough! And I write that with a giggle because I think it's funny in an ironic sort of way. Y'know... look at all this time I've wasted... Frankly, I haven't found it to be wasteful because it has given me the time to look inside My Self and also to cultivate a great marriage with The Mister. At first I had tried to work on my relationship with his family, but I gave up on that endeavor. Fucking impossible, people. I will never be what they had envisioned and they can kiss my patoot if that isn't good enough. The Mister is happy; what more could they want? If it means I stay home or just work part-time to keep things in balance, then this is what I should do.

Gah!! Here I was going to keep this short because I've got a bazillion things to clean and I've rambled on and somehow started bitching about my mother-in-law again. Go figure.
Have a spectacular day and enjoy the sunshiny warmth while it lasts! (approximately two days according to Bob Ryan)

A magical place.

If you read this blog with any regularity, you know how often I go to the state that is round on both sides and high in the middle. That's right, OHIO!
In the Southeastern corner, where the Muskingum meets the Ohio River lies a magical place called Marietta. I have travelled all over and never found a place quite like it. It is a small town with a fabulous mix of people. You see, Marietta is close enough to large cities that many people can be quite trendy but not homogeneous. This is because the town is far enough away from it all that you still have the character and flavor of those who have never gotten the heck outta Dodge and are still living in 1995, 1985 and even 1975.
They are river people and as Credence crooned, "People on the river are happy to give." These are people who work hard and when the whistle blows, they are ready to play. Friends come easy and when you walk down the street you will most likely get a nod and a smile.
Any 'bustle' you may find is located mostly on Front Street where you can find one of a kind boutique shops like Twisted Sister and Rossi Pasta. There are places like The Brewery and Austyn's (though it was The Bistro when I was in college) where I can honestly say, I grew up. I found my Self there and fell into step with who I am and who I want to be. During the day, they were quiet and I wrote many papers there; later I would return to celebrate after getting my grades.
I must mention the wealth of local talent. From musicians to potters to jewelry makers, all are people with incredible gifts who love Marietta so much they refuse to leave for greener pastures. Ask them and they will tell you, this is the greener pasture.
This is where I was born. My mama took us away when I was just one and I grew up in West Virginia. Daddy and his family have always lived there, although they are a little more spread out now. When it came time, I returned to my birthplace and attended Marietta College, a tiny liberal arts school. Not until I graduated and moved to DC did I realize this little college earns quite a bit of recognition. When you're there, in the middle of it all, it's easy to lose sight of the outside world.
Oddly enough, my truest friends stayed in Marietta. Drinky was actually born and raised there. We met in concert choir and not until we had known each other for three years did we figure out our fathers grew up together. Drinky's father, Daddy Drank, actually has some crazy tales about one of my aunts... at least I come by it honestly!
Capitall and I met in the college theatre and helped establish The Arts and Humanities House. Many coffeehouses and open mic nights later, here we are: still friends -closer now than we ever thought we'd be.
Thank goodness Drinky and Capitall married people I love and adore! And the way they have taken to The Mister is just incredible. He loves them, too.
I have to wonder, "Is it the town or the people I hold so dear?" I have to believe it is both because without one the other would not exist.

Have an amazing weekend... I intend to!

All that glitters...

I'm young. Quite frankly, I'm young and quirky which gives me great pleasure in the possibility of Strangeness That Is Surely To Come. I totally want to be that out-there (y'know, somewhere waaaaay over there) woman who answers to "Aunt Super" by any and all children I may meet along the way.
In my wake, I want to leave smiles on the faces of children and a buzz in the heads of adults. I want to be sparkly and bright and carry a rhinestone covered flask.
I want friends to count on me for laughs, sincerity, honesty and The Bold Truth which should lead to laughs, of course.
I want a big, curly, pink wig that defies gravity, but my real hair underneath should be super-funky, too. I want to be comfortable with My Self and My Body and I want to impart that upon all those around me.
I want to wear a giant tiara upon my pink wig.
I want to wear cocktail dresses with my pink wig and tiara, and the same wig and tiara will look simply divine with my dungarees and gardening apron. I may or may not garden, but I will definitely sip martinis on a chaise in my well-manicured back yard complete with twinkly lights and azaleas.
When people drop by for an unexpected visit, I want them to stay for dinner and linger over spiked coffee.
I want people to visit and stay awhile. And until I have a guest room, my aerobed will have to do. Just know, I made it up with love and if you're 'not sleeping on the damn floor, air mattress of not', I'll help you find a hotel.
I just hope my sparkly night-clothes and pink wig (of course I'll sleep in it!) don't blind you when I bring you a cup of coffee in the morning.

The day I became a stalker.

My obsession reached an all time high (or low depending on how you look at it) today when Hunglish called.
"Super, get your shoes on and walk up to Calvert! Quick there's a lady with two weenie puppies."
Struggling to get my flops on the right feet and straighten my cape, "I'm on my way! Which direction?"
And I was out the door. Ten minutes later, I still had not seen the Little Guys, but had definitely hauled ass all over the possible radius of the puppies. As Hunglish said, they were only four months old and walking them probably is a quick little jaunt. Baby Little Guys tucker out quickly.
That won't stop me, though, I've got a new pair of shoes and I'll keep the pavement hot with my bionic eyes scoping the 'hood for the newest addition of Little Guys.

Super to the Rescue.

Awhile ago I wrote a post titled: Mouth Noise Homicide. A response from DoubleOO got my full attention as he asked -somewhat desperately- for advice.

DoubleOO said...

It's been a while since I've read the superpages. A few comments:
Finally: I CAN NOT STAND PEOPLE CHEWING WITH THEIR MOUTH OPEN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It makes me fill with fire and rage. It is not helping the fact that the person I am currently seeing does this seemingly all the time. I think it wasn't until a few meals together into the whole thing that I noticed it, and now (like Brunch Bird), I can not focus on anything else when dining. I think "chewing with the mouth half-open is OK, right?" or "maybe I was just hearing things" and then crunchslopchewslurp.....NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!
So after you posted that, besides the other two responses, do you have any suggestions for how to deal with this, when I have kept a "closed-mouth" about this with this person for waaaaay too long?????

DoubleOO, I feel your pain and as a fellow sufferer of all that is mouth noise, this is the best I can offer: Do not set the table with knives; forks and spoons are all that is necessary. Otherwise, homicide is surely in the future of your relationship with this person.
Actually, I do have some real advice.
1. If this person is mannerly in most other situations, then s/he would possibly like to know of the offending behaviour. In order to prevent public embarrassment, it would need to be handled delicately and certainly when it was just the two of you. It really is a matter of how comfortable you are with this person and I have just the test!
If you can float a biscuit, ie toot, in front of this person, then by all means, you should not hold back with this bit of information, "I'm not sure how to say this, but I have this strange aversion. I'm sorry to ask, but could you possibly chew with your mouth closed?" (You may not need to, but personally, I qualify just about everything and by qualify I mean I mitigate what I say.)
2. My second piece of advice is to always have dinner music. My mother had the rule of no noise at the dinner table. By "noise" she meant radio or television and as soon as I was out of her house, every meal had accompaniment. This has become my source of sanity.

Good luck, DoubleOO. May the force be with you.

Whoosh...

My apologies for not writing for the past few days; things have been truly, almost overwhelmingly, busy. In fact, I only have a few minutes before flinging myself into the throes of the day.
Things are good, just far too busy. If all goes well, I hope to write more later.
This weekend is another one off to Ohio and The Mister and I are super excited. It was poor planning on our part because we'll be going back there for Halloween. We are dressing up for the first time together and our costumes are SUPER FUN and TOP SECRET. Well, as TOP SECRET as I can be with all my excitement. I guess you could call the costumes DECLASSIFIED at this point because I keep telling people, "You'll never guess..." then I dump beans everywhere.
Ah well, at the very least it will be fun for ME.

Announcement Wednesday.

Yesterday evening The Mister and I went to the home of Really Good People for dinner with our friends.
The evening was filled with smiles, laughter and big announcements. I even held a couple of babies, a newborn and a one-year-old. Both are great little girls and it made me miss Drinky, Red and Baby Sip -aka Grumperina.
It seems the Double OO will be leaving the District for greener pastures. OO has believed in all that is Green for a long time now and has landed himself a job with such a company he has confidence in. Like he said, "I'll be doing the same thing, just now I'll be doing it for a place I can stand behind." Props to you, Double OO, for making a difference and doing what you believe in. We're all very proud. And we are sooo coming to visit you in your little Berkeley cottage!
On top of that big news, our host and hostess dropped it down that baby number two is on the way! Wowie! What's funny is, I wondered if Hostess was preggers a couple of weeks ago when we were there for another get-together. Not because she looked like it, but because of a funny feeling I had. Of course I didn't say anything -I don't know her THAT well and good grief that is not a mistake I want to make (again).
It was an amazing night full of wonderful people with exciting news.

Someday, I want to have all of these people to our place for a big dinner. Alas, I don't think our apartment affords us the space. But...if I can get The Mister to bring THIS home, perhaps I'll be two seats closer! The next step after that is a full size oven that actually works. Oh, yeah... our landlady sucks and the chance of that is about as good as the Republicans keeping the House.

Confession of the year.

I've recently been trying to come to terms with the fact I have suffered with depression for many years. It is probably a bit shocking to most who know me, because for the most part, I'm pretty darn happy-go-lucky.
Well, much of that is a big fat lie. I have been this way as long as I can remember. Even as a very little kid I had night terrors, insomnia and I would get so scared at night I would wet the bed because I was paralyzed with fear.
My depression is unpredictable and comes at the most random times. Some days I can't get out of bed, many nights I can't go to bed. As an adult, I think I've found a good balance for myself. However, deep dark times still strike me when I least expect it, but usually I just press on and push through. Those bad times are quite occasional now, and I owe much to my amazing husband. His understanding and love are more than I ever knew to ask for.
I don't take any medicine for my problems and I should see a therapist, I'm sure. I was soured on the thought when The Mister and I had to have "couples counseling" before getting married as part of the deal with the dude who hitched us. The man we went to was a nut job psychiatrist who told us to cut all ties with The Mister's family. Although that prospect was tempting at the time, it did not seem like reasonable or intelligent advice. And I haven't seen anybody since then.
Sometimes I wish I wasn't so scared all the time. Pittsburgh came over last night and when we told him about my jury duty he got very serious. He had genuine concern I may get a grizzly case.

Maybe I'm not fooling anybody.

For so many years I have felt like hiding...from my friends, family and the World in general. This is not a subject I want to talk about, not even with my best friend. I've often thought it unfair, "I'm too damn funny for depression!" Perhaps writing this -even without going into details- will help me get to a point where I feel no shame. All I ask is: If you know me in real life, please, don't pity me; treat me no differently; and above all, leave the light on.

From the mouths of babes.

A friend of mine said, "Super, we can always count on you to say something inappropriate but not offensive enough to do anything but make us laugh."

Uhm. Thanks. And don't you think that you may have taken my place with that statement?

Every time I have gathered with The Boys and Girls for an evening meal, I've said something seriously stupid. The first time, we all sat at the table and I innocuously said, "This scene makes me feel like we're supposed to say grace or something."
I was not suggesting as I'm not big on prayer; I was just making an observation. Then I was told, "We're Jewish." and THEN I had to have it explained to me, because I am ignorant.
Second dinner, upon which somebody says something awful about a bar that "smelled like AIDS, what does AIDS smell like anyway?" I have no clue why I responded but I definitely said, "It makes me think of bandaids." For a moment, everybody looked at ME as if I was the one who had said the original horrific statement. I was trying to say the statement made me think of 'sterile' smells. Perhaps "hospital" would have been a better choice.
And the third dinner when I kept calling everybody the wrong name (similar to last Friday), but a few of these people don't know me well enough to know how terrible I am with names.
Tomorrow is another of these gatherings and even I am curious as to what moronic thing might squeeze past my lips. Mostly, I get excited about these, but a little part of me is dreading this. Maybe I'll try to stay 100% sober... then again, that would leave me with no excuse.

Mouth Noise Homicide

When I was 11 years old, I threw a ceramic bowl of oatmeal squarely and surely at my brother's head. There is still a round dent in the wall of my mom's dining room.
To this day, I do not feel an ounce of remorse or accountability. You see, my brother made squishy noises when he ate oatmeal and Mouth Noises make me certifiably insane.
In no way have I been prepared to deal with a squish, crunch, slurp or smack.

Sweet baby jesus forbid somebody from eating with their mouth open in my presence. I would surely turn homicidal.

Here's the question of the day:
If somebody chews with their mouth open in my presence, is it rude of me to ask, "Would you please try chewing with your mouth closed?" (Especially if it prevented me from ripping their face off?)

Jello shots were made by Satan and last night I was possesed.

Hunglish rocks even if he did try to kill me last night. It's 1:30, I missed my girls lunch date and still am a bit on the woozy side of life. About an hour ago I thought I heard Death knock-knock-knocking on my door when I sneezed.
Hunglish is so sweet he tried not to charge The Mister for trying to kill me. How precious! Of course, I take full responsibility for actually drinking everything within reach; I also take responsibility for the ridiculous things I may or may not have said. You should know, though, I probably don't remember those words and maybe everybody else should forget right along with me.

Excuse me, I have to go rinse out my liver.

Rent raisin' and jury duty.

Before I get to Part 2 of my New Orleans recap, I had to tell everybody what atrocities I received in the mail yesterday. There were two offenders and I just don't even know what to think.

1. Our rent was raised. Eh, this I can deal with like a kick in the pants: maybe it'll bruise a little, but eventually I'll forget all about it.

2. A summons for jury duty. This being Washington, DC and like clockwork every two years I expect it. However, my summons was not the ordinary kind... Oh, no, I've never been privileged to have the ordinary summons. (Last time I was selected for a three week trial about a previously convicted felon with a weapon and I had nightmares for a month. No details, I'm sorry. It scares me.)
This summons is for jury selection in which they make no bones about telling me, "if selected this trial will take at least 14 weeks after the selection process". Oh. Sweet. Jehoshaphat. AT LEAST FOURTEEN WEEKS? After the selection, that would leave THE REST OF THE YEAR. The summons does say if chosen you get some time off at the holidays.

Don't get me wrong; I've always loved the idea of Jury Duty. It is our right as citizens to a fair and speedy (what about 14 weeks is speedy?) trial and a trial by our peers. The process is part of what makes our country great, and I am like a bee to honey about The Process. I am just terrified it is some gruesome, scary, Law & Order type mess. If that is true, then I will Never. Ever. Sleep. Again.
You'll know where to find me, though. I'll be hiding in the bathtub with a baseball bat.

NOLA, Part 1: Some Spirits Can Not Be Broken.

I don't want to bring the mood down, but it is important to address the city of New Orleans's recovery since Hurricane Katrina. I've decided to write about the different aspects of this city's resurrection in a few parts. My frame of reference is very skewed as I had never before visited New Orleans. However, the devastation was apparent. While the French Quarter was relatively unscathed, the surrounding areas are still under a cloud of desperation. It must be noted that many businesses have taken this time to make improvements by way of construction and many businesses have yet to reopen. The city is in serious need for workers in all fields, especially in the construction and service industries. Most of all, though, I think they need your money. If you are thinking about a trip, go to New Orleans. The people are happy to see you and will welcome you with all the hospitality you could possibly desire. Contrary to some beliefs, it is not under water, it is not a dump (yes, it is a 'dirty' city; but it has never been known for it's clean streets, quite frankly people who Party make messes), and if you are a little forgiving, the French Quarter has much for you to do. In five days we could not accomplish everything we had thought we would. We never made it into the cathedral or to the aquarium or French Market.
The shops, boutiques and bars are all ready for you to come in and never once did I feel pressure to buy anything. I simply felt welcome.
The people of New Orleans are unlike any I have ever met. Their resilience and passion for life is infectious. Their spirits, though many bruised, are not broken. They remain alive with strength to carry on. Often those who were there for the worst -during and after the storm- are surprisingly willing to bring the subject to the table. It was much the same each time...
A bartender brings a drink and asks, "Where ya' from and what brings y'all to town?" We answer politely saying "Washington, DC; it's our anniversary." He looks us up and down, smiles big and says it's good to have people back in his city. He's lived here all his life. Then, his words trail off as his eyes glaze over in remembrance of something horrible. He wants to talk but perhaps his words fail him or he doesn't want to spoil our time. I can sense his anguish. His head shakes bringing him back to the present. I send him kind thoughts and he opens up a little. This man has seen things; horrifying, unspeakable, tragic things that no man should ever witness. And yet, he came back to a city he -quite understandably- loves so dearly.
Please don't take this post as an indicator we had a solemn time in New Orleans; quite the contrary. The Mister and I whooped it up with the best of them. There was music everywhere and when the Saints came marching in along with a few hundred thousand fans on Friday night, we got to see NOLA in all her glory. New Orleans will be fine but it will take patience. Just please don't forget about her; she needs us.

One step closer to clones and a Nola Preview:

Last night I saw a new Macy's commercial about how they are opening stores all over the country. Surely we all know by now, Macy's bought out the May Company Department Stores (including Hecht's and Marshall Fields).
Great. We'll all look the same in approximately one season.
Here in DC, we just took it in stride with a bit of nostalgia, but not so in Chicago. They threw a hissy with protests; my favorite protest quote, "Macy's Is Just Wal-Mart with Pretension".

I'm back from New Orleans, but just about to dash off to work. I've got so much to tell, but must organize my thoughts first. My system of organization revolves around the meals I ate which says a lot about my trip. Here's a taste of what's to come:
*The Mister wandering around happily telling me "It's my turn to be drunk!" (buddy, mission accomplished).
*A downpour on the way into a football game that left me soaked through to my underoos.
*Trying to get dressed for dinner and passing out, face down, on the bed; waking up four hours later and asking where we had gone to eat.

NOLA!

The Mister and I are off to New Orleans and we'll return next Monday.
Tomorrow marks four amazing years of marriage and I still feel like the luckiest girl in the world because he picked me.

There should be lots to tell upon our return, and right now, I've got a little packing to do.

Before I go, here's a question: Is it fair that I get allotted a mere one third of our suitcase because (as The Mister says) my clothes are so much smaller?

A witness to kindness...and a whole lotta luck.

What you are about to read is absolutely true. The Mister and I decided to make this anniversary a week-long celebration beginning last night with an outing to see the Black Crowes at the 9:30 Club. Tomorrow we leave for New Orleans and if the events of the past evening are an indication of how things are going to roll, then I am ready to go.
Last night may have been the luckiest of my life. Those who read this blog have probably never thought of me as being "lucky", and for most of my life, that has been true. I made up for a life full of lucklessness in one fell swoop.
All day he wasn't sure if it was going to happen, but The Mister left work on time in order to make it to the Black Crowes show. We snagged a cab and the poor driver had only been in the city a week. Helping him get to the 9:30 Club was not a problem, but then he tried to figure out how many zones and proceeded to ask for too little fare. The Mister could have paid the cabbie what was asked, but being the sweetheart he is, gave him the proper amount and tip.
We strolled right in, walked up to the bar and got ourselves a round of drinks. After scoping out the few people there, we decided to fight the pending squish and take a spot up front. Because we were relatively early, we just stood behind the single row of people that had formed in front of the stage. As people began filling in behind us, I began talking to the ladies around me. The Mister went for another round of drinks and I felt something tickle my sandal-clad foot. Looking down, it first seemed to be a peeled off beer label; further inspection revealed it was a crisp, new twenty dollar bill.
I blinked hard and asked myself what beer had a label that looked like money. Picking it up, I asked my new friends if they had dropped it.
"No. Put that in your pocket. Stop asking and put it in your pocket!" Explaining that I couldn't do that, I asked everybody around me; each said, "It's yours, put it in your pocket." Uncomfortably, I put it in my pocket saying, "If anybody hears somebody..."
Then out come the Black Crowes. I've kept up with the unfortunate drama plaguing the band as they set out on tour a week ago and hoped for the best. With a relatively new keyboardist and a last-minute-new guy on guitar
the Crowes delivered with all the grungy goodness I have come to love over the past sixteen years. The band had snagged Paul Stacey on guitar and although he hasn't played with them in years, he nailed it. Aside from the stellar set list, my heart was warmed by the way the band really worked together. Rich Robinson is an amazing band leader and it was so nice to see him call the changes to Stacey and smile at the magic that ensued.
Halfway through 'Bad Luck Blue Eyes Goodbye', I felt something on my foot again. This time it was solid. Another hard blink, because no-fucking-way that is NOT what I think it is. But, yes! It was a small stash box. This I picked up and you can't find a stash box without trying to locate the owner. I enjoyed the rest of the song and began tapping shoulders, "Uh, does this belong to you?" My new-found girl friends firmly told me to put it in my pocket. After asking all of the people around me, I reached behind The Mister and slid it into his back pocket. Coincidence this is my favorite Black Crowes song? Coincidence that the recording begins with "B and B with a little weed"?
Coincidence? I think not.
After a few beverages, I made a trip to the ladies room. It was empty save for one poor girl who heard me come in and shouted, "Is somebody out there? Did somebody come in? Could you please give me some toilet paper?" Always willing to help a sister in need, I passed a roll under the stall door. As we were washing our hands, she stumbled all over herself with thanks. Then this lovely lady looked at me and said, "I hope this doesn't offend you, but maybe you'd like to smoke a little? It's the least I can do."
Does this happen to real people? I felt like the planets had aligned and my ship had come in. Luck be a lady tonight and I, dear readers, was that lady!

**I'd like to apologize for my substandard writing this morning. My luck apparently ran out at midnight and instead of turning into a pumpkin, I woke up with a hangover.

Radio love.

It's my first day back and it feels great. I want more.
Of all my past forays, the job I miss the most is anything having to do with Radio. I love Radio, the truest form of media. When all else fails, there is radio.
I won't go into a spiel about how Clear Channel has ruined radio and left us with nothing more than skim milk: a watered down version of the real stuff.
What I will say is "good things come to those who wait." I waited and was ready as hell when an amazing woman called on me for some fill-in hours at my old radio stomping grounds. It's just fill-in craptastic work, but at the very least I get to breathe the musty, dank air of all that is Radio.
I'm truly excited!

To Do Today: 1. Wake Up; 2. Get Job

Two out of two ain't too bad.
I got up this morning with no real plans.
Somehow, in the process of my non-plan, I got a bit of a job.
It's a shock to me, too! I'll write about it later; right now I need to get myself together and go pick up The Mister.

"No, he get's his drugs like everybody else: from the guy on the corner."

I finally fell asleep around 6am this morning and was well into a bizarre dream when the phone rang. The dream was vivid, complete with color and background music.
... ... ...
The Mister and I had gotten roped into inviting my Evil-Sister-In-Law and her family (my bro-in-law and their two kids) out to my parent's cabin in rural West Virginia. They had worked it out so The Mister would drive the kids and I would be stuck driving the Evil SIL and BIL.
At first, I couldn't find the keys and was completely preoccupied with how we were going on a boat and I hadn't shaved my legs. Not to mention how I couldn't believe I was going to be stuck in a car with these wretched people.
After finding the keys, we squashed into my chariot and were off. I had Radiohead's OK Computer blasting in my stereo and left it that way even though ESIL and BIL both jumped out of their skins when I started the car. "Let 'em sweat" I thought.
About a half-hour into the drive I really started freaking out because it had become clear their mission was to convert me to Republican. They kept calling it an "intervention" and they were only doing it "because we love The Mister and can't stand to see you keep him on the dark side." Things were getting heavy with my explanations of how The Mister (and their Mother!) was Democrat before I ever met him, when ESIL asked, "Are you giving him drugs?"
... ... ...
You won't hear me say this very often, but thank goodness the phone rang to wake me. This bizarro dream was well on its way to a nightmare. Just the thought of being in a car with my ESIL and BIL is enough to keep me awake for the next three years, but throw in a political conversion and I will never sleep again.
The question, "Are you giving him drugs?" was not a far stretch though. Right before we got married, ESIL yelled at me I had to be The Mister's "drug dealer because that's the only way he would stay with you!" She topped it off with, "I was a teacher, we are taught how to look for these things!"
Crazy people. What's even more disturbing is ESIL thinks we're the nutjobs.

When there's no one else, complain to the blog.

I've had some insane pain in my shoulder/neck area for the past three days. Pain that makes your finger tingle and causes nausea is probably bad.
Mostly I don't want to mention this to The Mister because he worries so much.
And he won't be home this week. The Mister is working on another long-form-movie program and he'll be working quite late every day.
Normally I would say something and he would work the kinks out; or if The Mister wasn't around I'd go visit Aunt Jane who would rub my shoulder with some wacky concoction. Aunt Jane is in Hawaii and The Mister is MIA. Instead, I've been popping ibuprofen like they're tic-tacs. Interesting how they're a little sweet, huh?

Anybody want to come over and help a girl out?

Five years later and this is the best I can do...

I have tried so hard to write a post about the passing of five years and the anniversary of September 11th. Everything I have begun and erased has been disjointed and disconnected; much like my thoughts. I think I will just have to leave it this way. The thing is, all this time later and I still have a very difficult time talking about it. The events of that day changed all of our lives forever.
I was working at a local DC radio station and didn't have to be at work until 11am. The news was on; I had just gotten out of the shower. As soon as the first plane hit, I grabbed my shoes and went straight to work. I lived in Virginia at the time and I heard a strange noise on my way in. When I arrived at the station, I learned the Pentagon had been hit. I knew that day would change our nonessential entertainment jobs to that of much more importance. I was very aware that the show I worked for had flown up the night before to broadcast from our New York sister station. My roommate, also a staff member of the show, had flown up that morning. I started calling her cell phone right away. I didn't know her flight number and I was scared -terrified- but strangely calm. My cell phone wouldn't work. My apartment was less than a mile from the station; I arrived to "Thank goodness you're here, nothing is working right, see if you can get in touch with New York."
I ran to my office where I found the phones would not work but somehow, I had left my Instant Messenger on overnight. It was still working. There were only three computers in the station that still had internet access and our phones to NY were jammed.
I shouted that I had IM contact with our NY sister station and my office flooded with people. My roommate was okay as were the rest of the staff.
We decided to go on the air right then -if we could get a link between our stations. The amazing engineers rigged a way to broadcast from our NY station and we were On.
Our shock-jock show became a news and information broadcast. We were, of course, commercial free and giving out information as any of us could get it. We could get local incoming-only calls at our DC station, I would relay the information to the NY station, and if a listener with information would come through, we would put that person on the air. We did the best with what we had, and I am proud of the news and information we provided. Over the next few days, we simply took calls and let people talk and share their experiences. We had people calling, giving their name and begging other listeners to tell their families they were still alive but couldn't get through. People called to share their stories, their love, hurt, anger, fear and every other emotion we have all endured since this time.
I still don't know how I feel.

That first night, when the Station Manager finally told me to go home, I was afraid to stay by myself. I didn't want to leave the station; it was very late and I was very scared. My mom finally got through to me on my cell phone and told me to go stay with The Mister. The Mister and I had only met two short months before but mom didn't want me to be alone and Aunt Jane was out of town, stuck in Connecticut.
I went to The Mister's where a couple of friends had come by and I finally broke down. There are things about that night I've never told anybody because I couldn't bear to have them trivialized. Maybe someday, when I'm very old, I will be able to share them. Today, though, it is still too fresh.
Everything seemed so finite. So uncertain. It still does.
I pray that the lives and souls affected by these events can somehow find peace.
Five years. It seems so long ago but just like yesterday.

The sweetest thing...

Most often when the insomnia strikes, I leave the bedroom. Years of lying awake have taught me a bed is for sleeping, and at any rate that is what I hope my brain gets tricked into believing. And it sure makes certain activities a bit more interesting.
Last night was a little different. As I started rolling out of bed to head off into the living room, The Mister sweetly reached for me in his sleep. Now how could I possibly leave that?
I scooted in close and kissed him. His eyebrows fluttered with a slight smile of recognition and a lovely, "Mmmmm..." was murmured.
In the dark, I watched awhile as he fell deeper into sleep and I kissed him again. This time, he turned his head as if he was looking for more. Such sleepy sweetness.

Super Sternwheel.

My weekend was nothing short of amazing. The Mister and I boarded the chariot and drove to Ohio for the Ohio River Sternwheel Festival in Marietta, Ohio. Think of a festival with scores of Sternwheelers, a profusion of people, countless classic cars, a myriad of music and more funnel cake and fair food than you could shake a french fry at.
We arrived late Friday evening and drove straight to Capitall and Wino's abode for a good old fashioned drunken' marshmallow roast. Booze, fire, sticks and marshmallows always make for a good time. That is, until The Mister seriously burns himself with a marshmallow he didn't realize was just a tiny bit on fire. Put to lips, sticks to lips, sizzle. Poor guy didn't say a word; he just went inside, cleaned off the stickiness and came back out to the party.
We awoke five hours after the party on Saturday morning and I wasn't aware he had burned himself until I saw the blister with my bleary eyes. The Mister said it didn't hurt and we rolled out of bed to meet Drinky, Red and baby Sip at the farmer's market. Baby Sip is still the best baby ever and it was fun to tote her around the market. Drinky introduced me to their Heirloom tomato farmer friends. They grow all sorts of other things, too, but...
Oh. Sweet. Tomatoes. From. Heaven.Not to leave out the best grapes I have ever eaten; so good The Mister calls it "Grape Candy". We loaded up on local produce, honey and cheese, then headed to The Harmar Tavern for breakfast and beverages (aka "antiseptic for the burn victim"). A greasy spoon breakfast topped off with a Red Eye is one helluva way to get the day started.
Saturday evening, we hit the town to get fully tanked before the bombs bursted in air. You can see it worked, matey. Crooked Hook Super; mess with my drink and I'll gouge your eyes. I'm not even trying to explain this; just know, it was as hysterical as it looks. I left the decision making to The Mister as he seemed well equipped to make judgement calls (see picture) and it was his first Sternwheel festival. We decided to ride up to Red's parent's house to watch the fireworks. Mommy and Daddy Red are amazing people and I feel privileged to know them. Their home sits atop Harmar Hill and overlooks the city lights. They say they bought a view with a house and someday, The Mister and I are determined to become their neighbors. A good ways above the display, the show was phenomenal. It may be a small town in Ohio, but the fireworks display is -I swear, no exaggeration- first rate.The Mister was in a little bit of shock as he's seen the Fourth of July fireworks in DC since he was a little kid. However, a snob he is not and he freely admitted it to be "fucking amazing!" and stated, "I had no idea... certainly did not expect that."
We lingered a few hours just chatting and bonding and I can only hope that at some point in every person's life, they feel friendship like this.
It would stand to reason that on Sunday we would have packed up and driven home. Oh no; after an early brunch with my family, The Mister and I met up again with Wino and Capital for "a cup of coffee before heading out of town."
Coffee somehow turned into a trip out to the Dranks castle (I'm really not joking when I use the word 'castle'. It's huge, stone and complete with a fireman's pole and cave for escaping out the wine cellar.) Yours truly may have ended up stripping down to her underoos in a hot tub with Capitall, Mommy Drank and a tasty friend called Bloody Mary. So much for a cup of coffee.
The drive back was a little sad as it was such an incredible weekend. I knew I was in the right place though, because as I was pulling my bag from the backseat, The Mister whispered, "Super...look." I turned my head in time to see a little mini-weenie puppy prancing past.
My gasp got her attention and she came right over with a little tail waggle "Hello." We introduced ourselves and little Dee let me pet and fawn all over her. We said our goodbyes and as I turned to The Mister he whispered, "Super, I think this weekend you touched a few dreams."

No, no, no. NOT the horse tranquilizer.

I totally woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning and was feeling quite the crank in my pants until I opened an email from Drinky.
I was munching on my cereal when I read his signature "Pip Pip and all that jazz". It made me snarf my Special K.
Special K is such a great cereal and when I was young my parents would tell me it was made Just. For. Me. For those who don't know, contrary to what I wrote yesterday, Super is not my real name. My name actually begins with a K, so it wasn't a far stretch for a little girl to believe a cereal with a big bold K and Special was made just for her. Add to that I was the Middle Child and wanted to latch onto anything making me a little more sparkly and you've got a recipe for a very special breakfast.
To this day, I flinch when The Mister reaches for MY cereal. It's involuntary that my first thoughts are, "Don't you be touchin' that! Does that box look like it's got your name on it? I don't think so; reach over there and have yourself a bowl of Fruit Loops 'cause you're crazy to think you can have MY cereal." Then reality reigns me in and realize I have to -EEK!- share.

Super Super bo Buper, Bananafana fo Fuper...

It's the old John vs Johnny, Joe vs Joey, Jen vs Jenny, Rebecka vs Becky thing...
My name has been a bit of an issue for the past 9 years. You know me as my alter-ego, Super, but outside of bloggerland, I am Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious**. (Fine. Fine. FINE. Super is not my real name, but as I've been told, "You can't nickname yourself." It's my blog and I'll call myself whatever I damn well please.)
I grew up as Superie. My whole family with the exception of a few members of my step family called me Superie. In college, I was dubbed Little-Superie because my next-dorm neighbor was a 6-footer also named Superie (what are the chances?!). Many of my college friends still call me Little-Superie.
Then I got a job at the top 40 radio station during my sophomore year. It was my major, after all, and I (along with the Station Manager) decided Super was more 'radio friendly'. Super is more radio friendly; it is concise, easy to understand and has a more professional feel. From that day forward, professionally, I became Super.
Then I moved to DC for a radio job and as my coworkers became friends, the lines began to blur. They all knew me as Super instead of Superie. At parties, I'd be introduced as Super. I was with a coworker when The Mister picked me up at a bar. He met me as Super, but now he calls me Superie. It's endearing and frankly, I like it better.
My email is Superblahblah@blah, but that is simply because one day -you never know- maybe I'll have the need to be professional again. Anything is possible.
Regardless, in an informal setting I prefer Superie. Super makes me feel a little buttoned up; Superie makes me smile.
Most likely though, I'll answer to just about anything. Hell, I have college friends who drop the actual part of my name and simply call me Little.
It would be awesome if people called me Super in real life, though... Dude that would kick a little bit of ass. However, that wouldn't be quite fair to The Mister since he was the original Super. I kinda stole it, but Little Super doesn't sound nearly as... well, Super.

**Would you believe that Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious is actually in the blogger spellcheck?

As if I'm a 5 month old baby, "YAY! I SLEPT THROUGH THE NIGHT!"

I think I died a little last night. Those who read regularly probably have figured out I'm a bit of an insomniac. The past two weeks have been no exception and The Mister had gotten tired of waking up in the middle of the night to find an empty space where I should have been. I started feeling wonky and pseudo-Tyler Durden without the violence and aggression... that I know of at least.
It had gotten to the point my (doctor recommended) sleep-aid was simply making me woozy instead of sleepy. I would take the stuff and go to bed when I got tired, only to awaken two hours later in a punch-drunk half-stupor unable to drift back into Sleepyland. It's a new version of "lights on nobody home" because although my eyes wouldn't close and my mind was racing, my thoughts were disjointed and erratic.
Last night remedied all that plagued me and I slept. The Slumber came and stayed overnight. This new bedfellow can stay every night as far as I'm concerned. I don't even think The Mister will mind sharing me with The Slumber. It makes The Mister's life a bit easier as I'm not a wandering dazed crazy woman when The Slumber stays over.

Well, I'm off to enjoy the day: Awake, alive and fully conscious!

Compliments. I know this is going to come off the wrong way, but...

It's a strange phenomena, these women who can't take a compliment. Yes, there is something to be said for being modest, but there is also something to be said for graciousness. I had never encountered it before coming to the area, and now, occasionally, I find myself slipping into the wrong. Just take the damn compliment, ladies; don't point out flaws or shrug it off. Take it.
This phenomena is how I stumbled upon the realization of why I adore my Ohio friends so much. This is, of course, not the sole reason I love them; not even close.
With a wink and a smile, I'll tell you one reason they are so great: They tell me I'm beautiful, pretty, hot, sexy, whatever and it's genuine.
Yes, it sounds very self-absorbed, but we all shell out these compliments. There's nothing fake about it; nor is it trite. It is not the simply the compliments themselves; it's the authentic generous nature of these wonderful people that these accolades represent.
Let me give an example.

The Mister and I walk into a bar searching for the couple we are meeting. The man of the couple jumps off his bar stool, gives me a great embrace and says with a big smile, "You look gorgeous."
This is where things anywhere else might get hinky, as this man's wife is on the other stool. However, not here. This woman will jump off her chair, have a similar exchange with my husband while I'm receiving my hug, then she and I will fawn all over each other. Genuinely. "That dress was made for you! You're radiant!"
In the meantime, the men are exchanging handshake hugs they way good man-friends do.

The exchange is sincere with nothing phony about it.
We really love each other and want each other to know how wonderful, amazing and foxy the other is. I've never met men so eager to pay a compliment and women so confident they don't mind if the compliment is for somebody else.

I love these women. There is no cattiness, no backbiting and no jealousy. We want each other to be Great. Don't be suspicious or down on yourself; just take the damn compliment.

Age 250?? Just another beta test...

Mostly I'm just testing this new Beta Blogger out again...

I just noticed that somehow the age in my profile is 250.
Although there are occasions where I may feel like a corpse, last I checked all body functions were fairly normal. And just because I've recently become obsessed with the crow's feet around my eyes, there isn't a shit-ton I can do: They run in my family! There's no amount of eye cream to stop it. And there's no way blogger would know I was having an internal wrinkle crisis.
Yes, somehow blogger changed my birth year to 1756. Well, the correct year does, in fact, begin with a "1"; however the rest is super wrong.
Stop fucking with me blogger!
Although it's odd, I'm leaving it. Unless tomorrow I think it's just stupid. Then I'll change it back.

A call from heaven.

Drinky called me from Ohio this morning to ask when The Mister and I would be arriving this coming weekend.
He said they have been scrounging down the heirlooms like they're going out of style and wanted to take us to the farmer's market where a they had befriended a local heirloom tomato farmer.
I believe there is drool dripping down my chin in delicious anticipation.
I've got lots to write about from this past weekend, but The Mister is home so it will keep until he goes back to work tomorrow. Today is about recovery and relaxing.

If you've got the day off, enjoy it!

Bender weekend.

"All things in moderation." I don't mind a really hot day every once in awhile, nor do I mind a wind-blowing drencher... every once in awhile. In fact, the inconsistency makes me smile. We all have moods, why not afford that to Mother Nature?
I say, "Bring it on, bitch!"
Sure, it may put a damper on some long-weekend plans, but c'mon people, break out the creativity and eek out a great time anyhow.
Here are five examples of making the best of a rain doused weekend:

1. Call your friends, whip out the board games and adult beverages.

2. Get sexy with your significant other, fuck buddy or make your move on that girl/boy you've had your eye on. Go ahead, give 'em a call and see if their weekend is a washout as well.

3. Visit the remaining exhibits at the American History Museum. It's not the full spectacle, but with it being closed for the next two years, why not?

4. Although I am not a Shopper, snagging an umbrella and hitting Georgetown could make for an interesting time. When I worked in retail the rain kept Shoppers away as if somebody had shouted "Anthrax!" in the Senate. I predict small crowds and, as far as I am concerned, a better shopping experience. Take a go-cup.

5. Throw down. Along the same lines of #1, call everybody you know, send out an email, whatever. Make Hurricanes and Dark & Stormy's. Rally your friends for an impromptu, casual bender.

These may not be the most creative, but for a wash-out weekend, not too bad.
Any more ideas? I'd love to know what y'all have up the sleeves of your raincoat...

Against better judgement, Super hits 'Publish'

Although somewhat 'high-strung', there are few things that make me insane with enthusiasm. We all know how much I appreciate the Tomato, but I thought a list of things about which I am truly obsessive might help you understand a bit more of all that is Super* about me.
*You can probably replace the word "Super" with Fanatical, Zealous, Strange, Excitable, etc.

These are a few of the things to which I am addicted like crack.

1. Hand-me-ups from my younger sister. Sis is 16 and super-artsy-hip. She wears cool clothes that aren't wacky but in no way boring. She's just funky and as she grows, her clothes become mine. Funk me up, little sis.

2. Drinking in the afternoon. It's not everyday, but usually, around 4:00 I like to have a bit of a nip before The Mister gets home. And quite frankly, Momma likes to take her medicine after lunch.

3. People who make me laugh. I laugh a lot. Maybe too much. However, it's usually me who makes me laugh. Not because I am funny to anybody else; I just make myself laugh. If a person can make me laugh, they're gold in my book. And then I obsess. I LOVE TO LAUGH. MAKE ME LAUGH, MEATBALL. I try to finagle myself into the presence of whomever makes me laugh. Often I set myself up for disappointment, but that makes me laugh in hindsight.

4. Brushing my teeth. I brush my teeth too much and too hard. My receding gums are proof, but so is the fact I've never had a cavity.

5. And finally, I like to have my butt rubbed. In the morning when I'm all snugly in bed, The Mister has stopped to rub the under-the-covers-bump that is my derriere. I think this is the best thing in the world and can only liken it to scratching a dog behind its ears.

Naps make me cranky. I hate naps.

Usually I'm pretty great at entertaining myself. This particular Tuesday evening finds me so bored I actually dozed off around 5:45 until The Mister called at 6:20. Naps always make me feel worse than before. As far as I'm concerned, naps suck.
Have you ever felt so stagnant nothing sounds interesting?
I've got a tinge of a headache, am a little depressed about the day's events (thoughts of my friends, remembering Katrina, etc.), and top that off with crazy hormonal tendencies pushing me towards "I'm a big fat blob of human". *
It's one of those twice a year urges where I actually might like to watch television and my most appealing option is 'Celebrity Duets'.
How 'bout, "No."?
I think I'm on the brink of a bender. Momma wants her medicine.

*Telling me to "Go do some yoga or take a walk" will get you a size 5 foot squarely in your ass. I'm hormonal. Leave me to cry about my big fat ass in peace. Let me wallow in my irrational thoughts of enormity.

Reeling

This Sunday a couple of our friends are getting married. They are an awesome pair and we could not be happier for them.
But, and this is a big BUT, we couldn't feel more sad for them either. The Groom's mom has been sick as long as I've known him which is not quite five years. We first met through The Mister long ago when The Mister was The Soon To Be.
It doesn't look like The Groom's mom is going to make it through the day and it's just devastating. I can't imagine the helplessness they are feeling. The roller-coaster of emotions must be staggering. I saw The Bride on Saturday and she was holding up nicely; everything was prepared for the wedding. It's unsure if they will have the wedding or postpone -they were crossing that bridge as it came to them.
The scenario itself could break your heart, but to actually know and love these people... And not know how or what -if anything- you can do for them. All anybody can do is be there when they need you.
That's what being a friend is all about. Just being there.

Wonky.

Wonky is one of my favorite words. It's a general term meaning "not quite right" or "curl don't quite make it all the way around" or "a couple bolts shy of a bicycle".
You know...wonky.

That's how I feel today. I'd been on this big kick to head out to Ohio this week for a couple of days. I had a few things on my agenda: hair cut and some color; discuss planning a Scotland trip with Capitall & Wino; do some research for said Scotland trip; and I wanted to pick The Dranks brains about The Mister's & my quickly approaching New Orleans vacation.

(We're going to NOLA for four days around our anniversary in September. It was a tough decision, but in the end, we wanted to put our money into a local economy that could really use it.)

Back to my Ohio jaunt. I've been waffling for 3 days and this morning I dropped The Mister off while saying goodbye as if I were leaving him for a week. A half hour later, I called to tell him I wasn't going anywhere. And I'm still not sure. HA!
Think you can force me into a decision? You don't have a chance. Or maybe you do.

How do you mend a broken heart? Part II

I have continued reading the letters and journal entries I wrote while off in tolerant Ohio and found a bit of foreshadowing in the first letter I posted.
It wasn't something I realized until reading the letter I had sent that a mere week later, I would actually have an altercation regarding my Kerry/Edwards button.
Believe it or not, wearing a tiny little campaign button was a bit nerve-wracking during my time in Ohio. I never wore a shirt or anything obtrusive professing my ideals; I simply attached a small Kerry/Edwards button to my shoulder bag. It was the most I was comfortable with considering the vandalism going on in the typically uneventful town. People would periodically stroll into our makeshift downtown office, red-in-the-face, to let us know how very wrong we were.

In the letter dated October 14th, I wrote:
Sometimes people are so hostile I'm almost afraid to wear my Kerry/Edwards button out in town. But I tell myself, "Those meanies are all talk and nobody would ever do anything to my face."

It struck a memory chord while I was typing, but I'd forgotten (probably on purpose) the incident that occurred a week later. That is, forgotten until I read my journal entry... This wasn't something I openly shared with The Mister because I didn't want him to worry. I was having dinner with Capitall when out of the blue... A very nasty man began having an argument, for the most part, with himself (it should be noted, neither Capitall or I wanted any part of this man's aggression).
It made my heart pound with fear, anger and confusion. By the time he left, I was shaking and yes, even a few tears may have slipped through the cracks.
Since the incident, I have forgiven the offender and the town, but, as you will read, I was VERY angry and hurt by the events that conspired.
Here is my immediate reaction upon leaving the restaurant:

10.21.2004
And so it seems that we are not out of the woods. Perhaps the forest is even more dense than I thought. Surely, but naively, I believed I was immune to prejudice. Surely, but naively, I was wrong.
It isn't clear to me how wearing a button would invite hostility, but I apparently don't think these things through when I get dressed in the morning. Jeans, t-shirt, warm sweater and a small button to support my presidential candidate. After all, the reason I'm in Ohio in the first place is because I want to support the campaign. I just never expected such a nice, sweet, charming town to be so cruel.
My opinion of Marietta, Ohio has always been good - wonderful, even. My husband and I even came back here to get married. He'd only visited twice, but he too was charmed by its beauty and people. I never expected a button to bring out the worst in people.
The "Kerry/Edwards" button has brought me more than just dirty looks. I've now actually had people approach me to challenge me for daring to wear such a statement.
Tonight the worst came when, while dining in a restaurant with [Capitall], a man invited himself to our dinner table to ask me "a few friendly questions."
I tried to politely decline, as did [Capitall]. Buying us a round of drinks does not make you an ally, nor does it give you leeway to badger somebody about their beliefs. My wearing a button did NOT give this person any right to challenge me or yell at me while trying to have dinner.
Thankfully, the manager (a friend, no doubt), came to run interference which settled the offender a bit. However, it was not until [Capitall's] husband, [Wino], and his imposing voice and form arrived the man would leave us alone.
Discrimination comes in all forms. I am ashamed to have been born in Marietta. Never did I expect to be treated so poorly or cruelly based on my beliefs. This town has made me understand 'politics' and 'discrimination' more than I ever expected. I've always loved Marietta; that is why I came back. Now I realize we all make mistakes and mine was coming here.
--end of entry--

It is almost embarrassing that I wrote that about a place I -obviously, from other posts- love so dearly. Hell, The Mister and I would love to live there. At the time of that journal entry, I was so mad my handwriting was a bit hard to decipher.
And honestly...? Honestly, I've never really said or written this, somewhere in my heart -call it woman's intuition, if you must- I knew we wouldn't win.
It did not change how hard I worked or the hope and desperation I had to make a difference in my country.
In reality, it feels like the break-up of a relationship you tried everything to save, but in the end, it was the end.