Random topics
Well, it is now 12:30 in the morning, and if I were sane, I'd be in bed. But I have an itch to write. Not sure what about, so I'll just blather on. If we're lucky, I'll say something at least mildly amusing and/or thought provoking. Though I'd settle for just amusing.
All growns up
I remember being a kid. Not all of it. Of course, there are certain elements of being a kid that are lost forever once you're out of the experience. A certain part of being a kid is inextricably bound with being a kid. To look back and think about them requires us to try to strip ourselves of our adult mind, and that really isn't possible, without a good amount of alcohol at least.
One of the things I remember about being a kid is how I thought about growing up. There are several things I mean by this.
First, there is how I thought about grown-ups.
Do you remember in childhood, looking at those older than you and thinking about how old they were? And, really, looking back at who you were looking at that way, don't you marvel at how naive you were? I remember looking at my 14 year-old baby-sitter, Ron, when I was 7 or so, and thinking about how adult he was. This was the same guy who's idea of fun was to torment me by utilizing my fear of the dark to sucker me into crying aloud, or who slipped me some garlic-flavored salt-water taffy just to induce me to rinse my mouth out with cranberry juice in a dribble glass. He was, obviously, a juvenile delinquent, but at the time he was old as Methuselah to me, and represented what it meant to be a mature adult. I remember being in 6th grade and thinking that the high school seniors had their act together. I remember being in 9th grade and looking forward to the maturity of the college-aged. I remember being in college and thinking 30 was ancient.
Now I'm 30 and I think of myself as not quite young, but certainly not old. At the same time, I look at the aged differently now, I think, than I did as a child.
And this goes into the second way I thought of aging. I thought of certain experiences as defining adulthood.
When I was a kid, I looked at being able to smoke, to drink, to drive, to vote as signs that one had arrived. By high school, I was well aware that all of those didn't really signify adulthood. Having been raised in a sheltered home (and I'm thankful for that), I decided sex was the end-all, be-all of existence.
On a side-note, I was convinced (as I'm sure most young Christian males are) that I would never, ever get to have sex. Most Christians who go to church regularly are taught that Jesus is coming again, and that it could be at any moment. I still believe that to be the case (though, thanks to JLowe, I always ponder what probably must take place before He does, and, satisfied none of it has happened yet, feel free to live on in relative security that, if I commit to lunch next week, I'll make it there...). When I was able to get married and actually have sex, I was quite shocked. Not only that I actually had to have it, but that it really wasn't the end-all, be-all of existence.
So now I look at those around me who are older, and I try to figure out what makes an adult. Is it home-ownership? Well, I have a house now, and don't feel any older than I did last month (just more trapped in this financial rubric of debt that I'm trapped in). Is it parenthood? Well, we'll probably jump into that next year, and I suspect I'll still struggle with the same juvenile impulses I feel right now.
I look at those who have gone farther down life's road than me, and I see that while we're always maturing, we're never mature. My mom is still trying to figure out who she is. My father died trying to stop indulging his need to drink, but never overcoming it. My grandmother struggles with the immature need to be the center of attention. I will, I'm convinced, always find the word "poop" to be hilarious, and will always snicker to myself (and JLowe, if he's nearby) when a speaker accidentally strings two "do"'s together in a sentence.
So I no longer see the old as being old. I'm starting to see clearly that, though they are more experienced, often more fragile, sometimes more selfish, and often more wise, they are just like me, wondering where the time has gone and why they haven't achieved the level of fundamental change that they expected sheer time would bring when they were young.
Halloween Eve
So, we're throwing a big shin-dig on Halloween Eve. It's a house-warming/Halloween party designed to appease our friends and cement our status as socially relevant people within our many circles.
The theme? Pimps and Hos.
We aren't the first to have a Pimp and Ho party. Don't expect we'll be the last. In fact, our friends Zakk and the Sun Goddess held a Pimp and Ho party a couple of years ago, and it provided the inspiration for our little shin-dig. Actually, we were pushing to get a home by Halloween in the hopes that we could host just such an event.
At the last Pimp and Ho party, my wife was the Pimp (which consisted of dressing like Austin Powers) and I was the Ho (which consisted of dressing in really inappropriate and very unflattering clothing). My wife and her friend Brown Baby (more on her in a bit) assisted me in assembling the most disgusting array of clothing ever to grace the male form. Fish-nets, a mini-skirt (way to mini for anyone's good, in fact) a brassiere (which, embarrassingly, my fat-man boobs filled a little to well for my liking) and a wig provided the basis for my costume.
I remember preparing for the party, and getting ready to leave. I had, to that point, successfully evaded the specter of make-up. As I was getting the door, my wife beckoned me.
"You need make-up. Come here."
"No, I don't. I'm not wearing it."
"Yes you are. Come here."
"Look, I'm already wearing this God-awful outfit. I will not wear make-up. Now let's go."
"It's no fun if you don't wear make-up."
"Yes it is. Let's go. We're gonna be late."
"If you don't wear make-up, I'm not going to have any fun. I don't want to go any more."
And so on. All you married guys know how this ends. Ten minutes of fighting later, and an additional ten minutes of application time, and out the door we went, with me trying to hurry down the apartment hallway and into the dark night before any of our neighbors saw me.
Needless to say, I was a hit.
This time around, I get to be the Pimp. Unfortunately that entails purchasing a new costume. I'm actually considering just pulling out the old Ho outfit again, for no other reason than that I'm a cheap-skate. And, secretly, I kinda crave the opportunity to shock my friends from work.
We'll see what happens.
Brown Baby
Last, but not least, the sad tale of Brown Baby.
The Missus went to nursing school here in Portland. While there, she met a delightful array of people. The Little Dutch Boy, Schnack-Fu, Lady Lowe, the Sun Goddess, and more. Most of the more is Brown Baby, who is more personality than most of us can handle on most days, but the personality is good, so none of us complain too much.
Brown Baby is from Hong Kong. She is of Sri Lankan descent, which makes her very brown indeed. And before you accuse me of being racist in my nickname-picking, you are hereby advised that Brown Baby named herself. So there.
Brown Baby is hilarious. She drinks to excess, farts to excess, swears to excess, but always manages to get a laugh. You can get mad at her, but not for long. She means well, and she laughs a lot, and even when she's bad, she's good.
After graduating, she managed to stay on a visa by getting a job in her field. She worked in a home for the developmentally challenged, whom she affectionately called her "Tards." We always told her that was horrible, but she clearly loved her job, and loved the people she worked with, so it was obviously a term of endearment, even if it was a horrible, disgusting one.
Brown Baby found out recently that she was in our country illegally, as she had (inexplicably) not taken care of whatever details one must in order to stay. And so, now, she's back in Hong Kong, plotting her return and missing my party.
If you're reading this, Brown Baby, we miss you. Hope to see you soon. Next time, read the fine print.
The Crash
Last, but not least, the crash.
I was in an accident last week. Tuesday, after work, I was driving from the Gresham Police Department (where my office is) to finish up the afore-mentioned, and as-yet untold, top secret work-related mission that I was on that day. And, near an intersection, I was rear-ended.
Now, don't worry too much about me. It was a very low-speed crash. I'd guess the guy who rear-ended me wasn't going any faster than 5 mph.
However, as time has passed, I've been feeling things. An occasional twinge in my back. A stiffness in my neck. Morning head-aches.
And it pisses me off.
I consider myself a tough guy. I work out. I wrestled in high school, played intramural flag football in college (where, against other fraternities, it often resembled tackle football). I fell down the stairs three weeks ago and didn't sustain any injuries.
Then, this light little bump, it causes me pain? This is unconscionable.
As I was explaining to my wife (who yawned and rolled her eyes as I blathered on) and JLowe (who was, I believe, listening just to be polite), it makes one silly to have to complain to anyone about injuries sustained from what amounts to a booty-bump from another person. Really, getting pushed by a friend into a wall during a game of hoops doesn't hurt, but this does? That's just plain stupid.
So, I will grin and bear it, embarrassed in my pain and committed to just toughing it out until I feel better. Because, really, shouldn't a guy feel a little bit guilty for being this wimpy?
Well, enough then. I need to sleep. Early morning ahead, and all. So I guess I'll
Catch ya later.
All growns up
I remember being a kid. Not all of it. Of course, there are certain elements of being a kid that are lost forever once you're out of the experience. A certain part of being a kid is inextricably bound with being a kid. To look back and think about them requires us to try to strip ourselves of our adult mind, and that really isn't possible, without a good amount of alcohol at least.
One of the things I remember about being a kid is how I thought about growing up. There are several things I mean by this.
First, there is how I thought about grown-ups.
Do you remember in childhood, looking at those older than you and thinking about how old they were? And, really, looking back at who you were looking at that way, don't you marvel at how naive you were? I remember looking at my 14 year-old baby-sitter, Ron, when I was 7 or so, and thinking about how adult he was. This was the same guy who's idea of fun was to torment me by utilizing my fear of the dark to sucker me into crying aloud, or who slipped me some garlic-flavored salt-water taffy just to induce me to rinse my mouth out with cranberry juice in a dribble glass. He was, obviously, a juvenile delinquent, but at the time he was old as Methuselah to me, and represented what it meant to be a mature adult. I remember being in 6th grade and thinking that the high school seniors had their act together. I remember being in 9th grade and looking forward to the maturity of the college-aged. I remember being in college and thinking 30 was ancient.
Now I'm 30 and I think of myself as not quite young, but certainly not old. At the same time, I look at the aged differently now, I think, than I did as a child.
And this goes into the second way I thought of aging. I thought of certain experiences as defining adulthood.
When I was a kid, I looked at being able to smoke, to drink, to drive, to vote as signs that one had arrived. By high school, I was well aware that all of those didn't really signify adulthood. Having been raised in a sheltered home (and I'm thankful for that), I decided sex was the end-all, be-all of existence.
On a side-note, I was convinced (as I'm sure most young Christian males are) that I would never, ever get to have sex. Most Christians who go to church regularly are taught that Jesus is coming again, and that it could be at any moment. I still believe that to be the case (though, thanks to JLowe, I always ponder what probably must take place before He does, and, satisfied none of it has happened yet, feel free to live on in relative security that, if I commit to lunch next week, I'll make it there...). When I was able to get married and actually have sex, I was quite shocked. Not only that I actually had to have it, but that it really wasn't the end-all, be-all of existence.
So now I look at those around me who are older, and I try to figure out what makes an adult. Is it home-ownership? Well, I have a house now, and don't feel any older than I did last month (just more trapped in this financial rubric of debt that I'm trapped in). Is it parenthood? Well, we'll probably jump into that next year, and I suspect I'll still struggle with the same juvenile impulses I feel right now.
I look at those who have gone farther down life's road than me, and I see that while we're always maturing, we're never mature. My mom is still trying to figure out who she is. My father died trying to stop indulging his need to drink, but never overcoming it. My grandmother struggles with the immature need to be the center of attention. I will, I'm convinced, always find the word "poop" to be hilarious, and will always snicker to myself (and JLowe, if he's nearby) when a speaker accidentally strings two "do"'s together in a sentence.
So I no longer see the old as being old. I'm starting to see clearly that, though they are more experienced, often more fragile, sometimes more selfish, and often more wise, they are just like me, wondering where the time has gone and why they haven't achieved the level of fundamental change that they expected sheer time would bring when they were young.
Halloween Eve
So, we're throwing a big shin-dig on Halloween Eve. It's a house-warming/Halloween party designed to appease our friends and cement our status as socially relevant people within our many circles.
The theme? Pimps and Hos.
We aren't the first to have a Pimp and Ho party. Don't expect we'll be the last. In fact, our friends Zakk and the Sun Goddess held a Pimp and Ho party a couple of years ago, and it provided the inspiration for our little shin-dig. Actually, we were pushing to get a home by Halloween in the hopes that we could host just such an event.
At the last Pimp and Ho party, my wife was the Pimp (which consisted of dressing like Austin Powers) and I was the Ho (which consisted of dressing in really inappropriate and very unflattering clothing). My wife and her friend Brown Baby (more on her in a bit) assisted me in assembling the most disgusting array of clothing ever to grace the male form. Fish-nets, a mini-skirt (way to mini for anyone's good, in fact) a brassiere (which, embarrassingly, my fat-man boobs filled a little to well for my liking) and a wig provided the basis for my costume.
I remember preparing for the party, and getting ready to leave. I had, to that point, successfully evaded the specter of make-up. As I was getting the door, my wife beckoned me.
"You need make-up. Come here."
"No, I don't. I'm not wearing it."
"Yes you are. Come here."
"Look, I'm already wearing this God-awful outfit. I will not wear make-up. Now let's go."
"It's no fun if you don't wear make-up."
"Yes it is. Let's go. We're gonna be late."
"If you don't wear make-up, I'm not going to have any fun. I don't want to go any more."
And so on. All you married guys know how this ends. Ten minutes of fighting later, and an additional ten minutes of application time, and out the door we went, with me trying to hurry down the apartment hallway and into the dark night before any of our neighbors saw me.
Needless to say, I was a hit.
This time around, I get to be the Pimp. Unfortunately that entails purchasing a new costume. I'm actually considering just pulling out the old Ho outfit again, for no other reason than that I'm a cheap-skate. And, secretly, I kinda crave the opportunity to shock my friends from work.
We'll see what happens.
Brown Baby
Last, but not least, the sad tale of Brown Baby.
The Missus went to nursing school here in Portland. While there, she met a delightful array of people. The Little Dutch Boy, Schnack-Fu, Lady Lowe, the Sun Goddess, and more. Most of the more is Brown Baby, who is more personality than most of us can handle on most days, but the personality is good, so none of us complain too much.
Brown Baby is from Hong Kong. She is of Sri Lankan descent, which makes her very brown indeed. And before you accuse me of being racist in my nickname-picking, you are hereby advised that Brown Baby named herself. So there.
Brown Baby is hilarious. She drinks to excess, farts to excess, swears to excess, but always manages to get a laugh. You can get mad at her, but not for long. She means well, and she laughs a lot, and even when she's bad, she's good.
After graduating, she managed to stay on a visa by getting a job in her field. She worked in a home for the developmentally challenged, whom she affectionately called her "Tards." We always told her that was horrible, but she clearly loved her job, and loved the people she worked with, so it was obviously a term of endearment, even if it was a horrible, disgusting one.
Brown Baby found out recently that she was in our country illegally, as she had (inexplicably) not taken care of whatever details one must in order to stay. And so, now, she's back in Hong Kong, plotting her return and missing my party.
If you're reading this, Brown Baby, we miss you. Hope to see you soon. Next time, read the fine print.
The Crash
Last, but not least, the crash.
I was in an accident last week. Tuesday, after work, I was driving from the Gresham Police Department (where my office is) to finish up the afore-mentioned, and as-yet untold, top secret work-related mission that I was on that day. And, near an intersection, I was rear-ended.
Now, don't worry too much about me. It was a very low-speed crash. I'd guess the guy who rear-ended me wasn't going any faster than 5 mph.
However, as time has passed, I've been feeling things. An occasional twinge in my back. A stiffness in my neck. Morning head-aches.
And it pisses me off.
I consider myself a tough guy. I work out. I wrestled in high school, played intramural flag football in college (where, against other fraternities, it often resembled tackle football). I fell down the stairs three weeks ago and didn't sustain any injuries.
Then, this light little bump, it causes me pain? This is unconscionable.
As I was explaining to my wife (who yawned and rolled her eyes as I blathered on) and JLowe (who was, I believe, listening just to be polite), it makes one silly to have to complain to anyone about injuries sustained from what amounts to a booty-bump from another person. Really, getting pushed by a friend into a wall during a game of hoops doesn't hurt, but this does? That's just plain stupid.
So, I will grin and bear it, embarrassed in my pain and committed to just toughing it out until I feel better. Because, really, shouldn't a guy feel a little bit guilty for being this wimpy?
Well, enough then. I need to sleep. Early morning ahead, and all. So I guess I'll
Catch ya later.
posted by Rusty at 1:13 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home