Back when I lived in Chicago, you would frequently see me in my ‘work uniform’: a nicely-fitted shirt with my black pencil skirt and a pair of black heels. In the winter, substitute knee-high boots for the sling-backs. When headed for an evening out, I might exchange the skirt for a pair of designer jeans. But really, things stayed about the same. I had that whole sexy librarian thing going on.
To put it mildly, my lifestyle there was a bit more glam than it is now.
My social activities here are more home-oriented: dinner at a friend’s house, BBQs by my pool, lots of time near the lake. With Mission: Six Pack, things have changed there too: minimal booze drinking, plenty of fresh eating, lots of time spent lifting heavy things and running near the above-mentioned lake.
I live a much more settled life, and it’s a good thing for who I am now and what I enjoy doing. Add to it that HOLY CRAP! I’M WEARING THE JEANS I WORE WHEN I WAS SUPER SKINNY AND TWENTY-FOUR YEARS OLD!!!!
There I was, cleaning out my closet, when I rearranged some purses and caught a glimpse of my skinny jeans. My first pair of designer jeans, these are the ones used as a benchmark to make me feel like crap for no longer looking like I looked when I was in my younger years.
Every so often I shimmy my way into the denim, stand in front of a mirror, look at my squeezed-in thighs, and wonder how the heck I’m going to de-sardine myself out of them.
But no more!
With my meanest cowboy face (oh man, my months of blog neglect make that joke so not work…), I reached for the jeans, took a deep breath, and slid them on as I exhaled.
Lo and behold, not only did I not have to hold my breath for fear that I’d pop the button, I also turned around and checked out my butt in a mirror without recoiling in near-30-year-old terror.
There’s no better feeling, even if it involves giving up booze, eating carbs after 5 p.m., and running miles and miles in the Texas evening heat.
Remember back in the day when 101 in 1001 lists were all that? I tabled mine long ago because I found about a year and a half into it that I wasn’t quite the ding-dong I was when I wrote the list. I found myself older, wiser, and completely unwilling to even attempt throwing a back handspring.
Even though I abandoned the list, it’s not like I haven’t been goal-centric or open to trying new things. Not in the least! Heck, my past six months have shown that to not be the case. But now I figure with my life all a-changin’, there’s no time like the present to think of some things I want to knock out in the next few years.
Even if 31-year-old Jo thinks that 29-year-old Jo is a ding-dong, there’s no back handspring anywhere on this list.
In alphabetical order, now:
(001) Fall in love.
(002) File my 2007 taxes. Whoops.
(003) File my 2008 taxes. Whoops, again.
(004) Find a local cause to become involved with.
(005) Finish a crossword puzzle.
(006) Finish a NaNoWriMo.
(007) Finish writing one of the books I’ve started writing.
(008) Fly in for Chicago’s Pride weekend (2009).
(009) Frame Bit’s cowboy boots photo.
(010) Get and keep a tan. Seriously.
(011) Get my hair cut in an actual style. (Bangs don’t count.)
(012) Get prescription sunglasses.
(013) Give a shampoo mohawk.
(014) Give advice to myself in the past.
(015) Give blood.
(016) Go ahead and cancel that stupid MySpace account.
(017) Go on a dress-up date.
(018) Go skinny dipping.
(019) Go snorkeling.
(020) Help a stranger.
(021) Help someone else make fitness a priority.
(022) Host a swap.
(023) Kiss someone under mistletoe.
(024) Learn how to surf.
(025) Learn how to swim for real.
(026) Learn to drive a motorcycle.
(027) Learn to drive a stick shift with some proficiency.
(028) Learn to play golf.
(029) Live out of the country for at least a month.
(030) Mail a secret to Post Secret.
(031) Make a career change.
(032) Make it into the news. (Nothing scandalous.)
(033) Make my maa accept her birthday present.
(034) Make S’mores.
(035) Move into non-temporary housing/do something to not feel so displaced.
(036) Move my homes into a trust, and do some legit estate planning.
(037) Move my parents’ homes into a trust also.
(038) Muscle up: 10 unassisted dips.
(039) Muscle up: 10 unassisted pullups/chinups.
(040) Muscle up: 100 pounds bench press.
(041) Muscle up: 100 pushups.
(042) Order a singing telegram for a friend.
(043) Organize my childhood photos.
(044) Overdose on blackberries.
(045) Own a car I actually like.
(046) Paint a room purple.
(047) Pet a friendly dog, and make a real effort to not be afraid of him or her. Ollie and I stopped to pet puppies outside PetSmart. Whould could be afraid of this pup?
(048) Purchase myself some real jewelry.
(049) Purchase one of those hammered silver Mexican art pieces.
(050) Query Oxygen, Fitness, and Shape magazines for freelance work.
(051) Read 10,000 pages in one year.
(052) Read a book on US history.
(053) Refinance my Chicago condo.
(054) Remain a CGMC donor.
(055) Remove people from my phone and address book who no longer need to be there.
(056) Restart my science blog.
(057) Ride a helicopter.
(058) Ride a zipline.
(059) Run an 8-minute mile.
(060) Run another race with Catie.
(061) Run my last marathon.
(062) Run with the Olympic torch.
(063) Scare the crap out of myself.
(064) See a volcano.
(065) Send a friend a gift for no reason.
(066) Send a package to a soldier.
(067) Send someone flowers. 06/05/2009 — Catie got some ‘Happy Friday’ flowers.
(068) Serve on the board of directors somewhere.
(069) Shoot a gun.
(070) Spend New Year’s Eve somewhere exotic.
(071) Spend the day at Barton Springs.
(072) Stand under a waterfall.
(073) Start a book club. (It’s really a drinking club. Just don’t tell anyone’s husbands!)
(074) Straighten my teeth. 06/10/2009 — I got a retainer to straighten up my front four teeth. And insurance covered 80% of it! Yahoo!
(075) Take a last-minute vacation.
(076) Take a photo in front of the Alamo. 06/06/2009 — Amber, Martin, Grace, Ollie, and I trekked out there.
(077) Take a really tourist-heavy tour in my own city.
(078) Take a self-defense class.
(079) Take a writing workshop.
(080) Take an ASL class.
(081) Take my nephew on vacation.
(082) Take my niece on vacation.
(083) Take my niece and nephew somewhere they want to go that I have no interest in.
(084) Take photos in a photo booth. 06/09/2009 — I took the kids to Amy’s for ice cream, and they had a booth. We made scary faces, Boy got too close to the camera, I squished their heads together, and we smiled.
(085) Teach GED math classes again.
(086) Teach gymnastics again.
(087) Throw a kick-ass backyard BBQ.
(088) Throw/give away 101 things that are taking up space.
(089) Try out for a dance team/company.
(090) Try rock climbing.
(091) Vacation with Uncle Pete and Aunt April.
(092) Visit a winery.
(093) Visit Catalina Island.
(094) Visit San Francisco.
(095) Visit the Caribbean again.
(096) Visit the Grand Canyon.
(097) Visit Washington DC.
(098) Watch Kyle play baseball.
(099) Wear jeans one size smaller than what I’m in now.
(100) Write a fan letter.
(101) Write a letter to a teacher from before college.
Start date: Friday, June 5, 2009
End date: Thursday, March 2, 2012
For those not hip to the Facebook, your main page lists these ‘feeds’. Feeds contain your friends’ user-defined statuses (“Jo has the neighborhood kid out there mowing her lawn. Totally worth $20.”), any site activity you’ve taken recently (Jo has joined the group “Not turned on by 18-yr-olds who mow your lawn for cut-rate prices.”), and any posted links (Jo suggests “match.com for dates, not trolling the younguns in the neighborhood.”).
As said above, I’m fascinated by them. Because I have more than ten friends, each time I log onto Facebook, there’s something new.
Of my eleven friends, I have a good number from my high school. Like many small Texas towns, many people from here love Jesus. Sure, Sure. Lots of people in all sorts of places love Jesus. Blah blah blah. But these people REALLY love Jesus. As in, they exclaim everything is a product of Jesus’ doing, live in their little church bubbles where everyone agrees with that way, and don’t see how anything about their behavior differs from much of the population.
Now, before I get into the meat of this, I’ll go ahead and say that I don’t care if you love Jesus. I know plenty of nice people who do. However, my Jesus-loving friends do nice things because doing nice things is the right thing to do. These Jesus-loving Facebook friends do nice things because they want to make Jesus happy. I see just as much wrong with this as I do with Dick Cheney talking about torture.
READ: Torture is wrong because it’s wrong; not because it’s not always effective.
That being said, I’m especially drawn to the Jesus-y exclamations on these feeds.
One comment was about a child was turning one, and his mother exclaimed, “Praise the Lord!”
How about, “Happy birthday!” instead? I mean, sure, it’s great you managed not to lose the kid for twelve entire months. But really? You needed Jesus to not screw that up?
Another wrote a blog about how she wants to be more Christ-like. Her primary focus: not kissing strangers.
I cannot make this shit up.
And another was dealing with sick kids who kept re-infecting each other. Instead of shaking her first at viruses and vowing to have her family wash their damn hands, she says, “Satan leave us alone.”
I damn near had a coronary at the absudity.
A friend and I were chatting on IM the other day and discussing what I’d noticed. It reminded me of ‘bible dipping’ from Running with Scissors.
Bible dipping is basically the magic eight ball of divine prophecy. You think of a question, seek guidance from above, and then land your finger on a random page and passage to help answer your inquiry.
The friend was looking for an example, and my pointing yielded interesting results.
Me: Does Matthew smell like cheese?
Me: “and his skin, and his dung”
Me: WOW
Me: This thing really works
Matthew: wow.
Matthew: wow.
Matthew: really wow.
Although uncanny, I’m pretty sure Jesus had nothing to do with this.
I’ve only recently started reading the forums over at OKCupid. Time and time again, I hear men whining about ‘bitches’ who don’t write them back.
If you view my profile, it has a banner saying that I respond “very selectively”. In my two years on OKCupid, I can truthfully say that I’ve corresponded regularly with only three people.
These aren’t exactly good numbers on my part, so I decided to examine just why I reply to messages so infrequently that I’ve been deemed someone to not even bother with.
My scientist ex once told me that to be statistically significant, there needs to be 30 subjects in the sample. I didn’t feel like doing this any longer than a week, so my 25 messages will have to do.
Here we go with my exact answers for not writing back. All of these opinions have to do with the quality of the messages, not with any information I gleaned from reading their profiles.
Totally understand your outlook. Nightshift at my job is what keeps me going – i just can’t do the 9 to 5. I would like to know more of your thoughts on anything – you have stirred my curiosity.
There’s one small section in my profile about how I’m investing in real estate and doing some forex trading, so props to the guy that he actually read my profile. However, he fails to deliver on a follow-up query. My “thoughts on anything” make him curious to hear more, but it doesn’t make me curious enough to respond.
i see that your a libra… if you dont mind, when is your birthday (i’m a libra too)
Both the pointless question and the bad spelling and grammar completely turn me off. Add to it that my profile states that astrology is pointless, and he’s got three strikes and needs to head back to the dugout.
Hi, how are you?
Not compelled to write you.
Hi i was looking at you profile and you seem like a really interesting girl, i know I ama little younger than you, but I would love to have a good time with you and share different experiences and emotions. what do you think? i am really honest and discret.
The punctuation might have given me a slight aneurysm, so don’t mind any twitching on my end. That being said, sharing experiences? emotions?
Is there really any reason to be ‘discret’ about that sort of thing?
Either way, to answer what I think, I think I’m going to pop a Soma to stop the twitching.
I like your smile. It makes you look very jovial yet mischievous at the same time.
Generally flattery gets you everywhere with me. And, yes, it’s better to compliment my smile rather than my rack. But throwing out a generic compliment isn’t enough to get me to bite.
Hey, just saw your profile and thought I’d say hi. Let’s argue about politics and religion!!!! I don’t have anyone to argue with these days!
This guy pulled something from my profile, so good job on his part. However, it would have been a whole lot more interesting if he’d have said something like, “So, what do you think about XYZ? I’d love to hear your opinion and tell you why you’re wrong over coffee.”
You seem like a pretty cool person, and intelligent too. I would love to chat sometime.
He didn’t read my profile, but he’s hoping I’ll take his compliments, peek at his profile, and have something of substance to say.
Very Beautiful..I love your hair.
Again, flattery. Again, not about my rack. Again, too little for me to care to respond.
I completely enjoyed your profile and wanted to say hello. You seem very interesting, fun and kind. And I just had to say hello. So, if you are interested, say hello back. I wouldn’t mind one bit….
Another instance of someone who didn’t read my profile and who is hoping I’ll get the ball rolling.
Take another look. You may have missed the best things about me!!!!!! lOl……
Totally. Please come skewer me with your love sword.
Ear-resistible? I would go van gogh for you.
I don’t even know what the fuck this means. The guy wants to bite off my ear?
Do I need a restraining order?
And since I’m writing, I figured to pad the email and relate a lil more on me… So let’s see; I’m a second generation lonestar. Grew up in small towns along the Texas gulf coast, mostly doing the kinds of things that I imagine people do when they live somewhere else. Feel most like me when outside, but spend the longest part of my working days in the house I’ve been buying for the last many years. I’m older brother to a lil red-headed sister. She’s one of my favorite people. I drive a VW diesel — it’s green and economical. sorta. My dentist tells me I have great teeth. (He’s really very complimentary so I’m starting to think I’ve got something).. I try to do the right thing. I know stuff. My name’s Brian. So please, look me over and if you’re up to it, write back!
“Here’s a whole lot about me. I didn’t feel like reading your profile to see what we have in common, so I’m hoping you’ll find something in my mini introduction that makes you want to say hi to me.”
Twas an odd hour at night
And feeling quite right
Until I happened upon a phrase
that I try as I might
did not seem correct…
“People who use big words to sound smarter.” And those of us who know all them big hard words due to standardize testing forcing us to learn them.
While my lexicon is quite verbose
perhaps more so then most
I wish it to be known
I do not use it just so my intelligence will be shown.
or Yo what is up you foxy lady.
What. In. The. Fuck?
You wrote articles for gay mens’ magazines? What type of article is that? Normal run of the mill stuff?
I wrote this guy back. Even though he wrote mens’ instead of men’s.
Dinner somewhere you’ve never been and recreational arguing?! Sweet!
Tabling the fact that we don’t know each other (for the moment), that sounds like a pretty damn happening way to spend an evening, and making new friends is always good. Plus, in a town with such good Taiwanese, Ethiopian, Modern English and Nouvelle Indian places, there’s surely a decent opportunity for culinary misadventures…
Loved your profile – mine trends verbose (I’m not really my own best editor), but take a gander and give a holler if anything in there intrigues.
I’m a little busy at work right now, so I saved this message to write him back. He pulled a couple things from my profile, threw in some enthusiasm, and sounds like an interesting dinner companion. Bravo!
I have been trying to think of something witty and creative to say and figured that “hi” might just be the best one. Mainly because it’s simple and I figured perhaps you would like my fresh spin on something normal. So were caught in the great flood of the day? Hope all is well ; )
Another guy who didn’t read anything. Meh.
See, it’s after reading a profile like yours that I end up thinking this whole dating site thing isn’t the way to do it. If I’d met you in person, it would be easy for me to decide if I wanted to get to know you better or not, but instead, after reading your profile, I’m left thinking, “She seems fun, with a bit of funny… Interesting, successful at what she pursues… But maybe a bit frenetic for my taste? I can’t really tell! She may be rapid-fire to the point that I’d just find her tiresome, even as I may like her…”
So how about it? If you had to pick one or the other, would you describe yourself as “laid-back”, or “go go go”?
Oh, I get it. Throw out a semi-insult, then ask the woman to defend herself. This is actually one of my tricks on a particular demographic of men, so I can’t knock the guy for using it. If I thought he was the sort to use different approaches with different types of women, I might even maybe a little flattered to be lumped in that demographic. Alas, I’m not interested enough to write back.
I just read it and im already tired. Jeez you do a whole lot. I dont fit your type but that doesnt mean i cant message you can compliment you on your corporate climb, all the articles you have written, and generally all your sucess. One thing, you sure you got time for online dating or online friends?
This guy seems harmless. If he lived in my part of town and I was looking for someone firmly in the ‘Just Friends’ category, I’d consider spending a day riding roller coasters with him.
Ok so I don’t speak Spanish, but I thought it might pass any language filters you might have set. I notice some similarities in our profile format, I hope I didn’t kill any copyright law. Needless to say, I’m enchanted. (Is that appropriate fodder?)
This guy rewrote his profile to match my rather unique format. Someone who goes through the effort to change his profile to that degree is… well, sad. That’s too much time spent making something that should reflect him, match me.
Also, it kinda ticks me off that he took my concept and put it on his page. Other women will read it, think he’s quite clever, and then give him props he doesn’t deserve.
I enjoyed reading your profile and seeing your photos. Check mine out, and if you’re interested, feel free to email me back.
This guy also doesn’t read profiles.
You’re cute.
And you’re lazy.
…how the hell does this thing figure you’re only a 1% enemy? I wonder what question out of the 2500 you’ve answered that didn’t line up. It’s kind of unfortunate that out of all the people on here within a 7 year age range, you’re the only one that seems to give a shit about not being a chunky butt. What’s up with that? Anyway, I’m Austen. Nice to meet you!
He had me up to ‘chunky butt’.
so you were in my quiver thingy…and thought i should say hello… …so…hello
Goodbye.
I think I cut my ego on your profile. Don’t hurt em, hammer.
This one gave me a laugh. I saved it just for some later lols.
i think you are very attractive and would love to get to know you, if you feel the same message back and see where it goes from there…
Read: Your photos were hot enough, and that’s enough for me. Now please take the time to read my profile, figure out if we have anything in common, and then write me a thought-out message to start some conversation.
********
There you have it: a typical week for me on this site. All that, and I’d still rather IM Jesse until I significantly surpass the 10 p.m. rule.
I really and truly keep trying to update my blog, only to write something about how much I hate being in transition, not really knowing where things are gonna go. I’m not about to emo out on anyone (bad poetry isn’t my style), so I’ve decided to dedicate this entry to telling you what you’re missing by not following me on Twitter.
Weighed in at the gym: 14 pounds down. I don’t see a difference, but I’ll take it.
As mentioned in the entry from the other day, all I do is work and work out. As further paragraphs in this blog entry will prove, it’s not entirely true; but I do work out on most evenings. Since I haven’t really done anything intentional to lose weight, it’s proving that consistency is key to seeing a change.
Go figure.
In truth, I don’t see that change. But my jeans are telling me it’s true. And my shirts. And my gym clothes. Any my gaping bras, DAMMIT.
When I get down a bit more I’ll consider a large-scale shopping excursion. Until then, I need to find a local, fashionable friend to tell me what to buy. Since leaving Chicago, I’ve resorted back to nothing but plain-colored shirts. At least I’m now wearing them with cute skirts, wedge sandals, and awesome jewelry instead of plain jeans and chunky-heeled boots with silver studs.
Happiness is “Men in Black” on TNT.
I so rarely watch movies (despite what this entry will have you assume), but there are a few that feel like home.
We all know that “Amelie” is every girl’s favorite movie. I found it so absolutely delightful that I left the Dobie theater and walked straight to the record store on the Drag and bought the album. And though I deem it charming and love the story, acting, and soundtrack, my favorite movies are still those with karate and explosions.
Particularly, “Rush Hour” and “Rush Hour 2”.
My TV watching is also along those lines, but it’s not as embarrassing to say that “Burn Notice” is my favorite show.
For the record, I’m looking for a boyfriend with TiVo since “Burn Notice” starts at the beginning of June.
Rascall Flatts and ‘mutton bustin’ were worth my AmEx points.
Right before I moved, I checked my AmEx points and saw that I had roughly a gazillion of them. I planned on getting myself an iPod since everyone else seems to really like theirs. I even went so far to find a faux-boyfriend to load it with music so I wouldn’t have to invest in hard drive space for MP3s or install iTunes.
I loaded up the points page, browsed through the selection, browsed some more, and then hit the browse button even harder, like I meant it. Alas, all they had was a stupid silver iPod. Silver is not purple, so I defiantly didn’t get one.
So instead of buying an iPod to listen to music I don’t even really like, I accumulated even more points.
Then I found myself in Houston and remembered that the rodeo exists and that I love me some boot-scootin’, and I blew all of my points on tickets for my family.
My maa, Jenna, and I saw Rascal Flatts. We liquored my mom up, danced in the aisles, and had an all-around good time — despite the woman next to us smelling like she sprayed herself with every available perfume in Walgreens. With so many rhinestones and big hairdos around, I vowed to amp it up a notch the following week.
The following Wednesday, I took the entire Keena clan (minus my oh-so-studious brother) to see Reba. Forgetting about my broken foot (Did I mention that? No? So, I broke my foot. All is fine now. The end.), I wore boots. Other than the crippling pain, we had a great time. We took the kids to the carnival first, watched the cowboys and cowgirls so their things, then settled in for Reba’s show. For about 20 minutes of the show, my niece and nephew dropped it like it was hot. Then the boy announced he had growing pains in his shins, and the girl was tired. So we left. And went to the carnival again because they apparently weren’t *that* tired. All in all, it was a fantastic night.
A week later, Jenna and I took off by ourselves for Keith Urban. Despite not particularly caring for music, I’ve been to my fair share of shows. Of everything I’ve ever seen, this was the best show I’ve been to. Keith Urban was ah-may-zing. If you ever have the chance to see him, DO IT. It was so much fun.
After that show, Jenna and I got our IDs out and went to the big tent on the other side of the fairgrounds for an adults-only show and dancing. We made friendly with another group of women and danced until they shut the place down.
Besides all the family stuff and partaking in some great entertainment, there was also something called mutton bustin’. My descriptions can’t do it justice, so I’ll leave this topic with this video:
Not only is Boy cuter than the other kids, he’s better at t-ball too.
My time in Houston primarily revolves around my family. After my sister got herself a couple kids, the dynamic at our get-togethers really changed. I actually *gasp* like these people I’m related to.
That being said, I spend A LOT of time with my niece and nephew. I regularly find reason to pick them up in the early evening, take them to run my errands, and stop for dinner before dropping them back at home.
Despite a Facebook page full of reminders that people have similarly-to-my-sister squatted out children since I left this sleepy little town 15 years ago, I’m still shocked when I see someone I previously knew at tee ball practice with their very own 5-yr-olds.
So odd.
But as this area’s header says, my nephew is better than your kid. The end.
Happiness is a half-off diet cherry limeaid.
Do I really need to explain that Sonic has happy hour from 2 until 4 every single day?
Was reminded tonight of just how impeccable a southern man’s manners are.
I have a man friend who whips between being a special someone and a not-so-special someone. It’s one of those things where things could potentially work out really well for smoochin’ and whatnot, but neither of us is willing to move to make it happen. And since neither is willing to do anything, nothing ever happens.
But when the sweet pea comes into town for work, I’m always reminded why my long-standing crush continues.
We have one of those relationships where we can be talking about nothing in particular, then it jumps into way more truth-telling than I’m comfortable doing with anyone else, and then jumps back into safe territory without me even taking a blink.
He touches my inner gooey parts, even if he doesn’t get to touch the outer, more fun gooey parts.
Drunk and at my high school nemesis’ house. She is fucking awesome.
There was a time where I had a very bad boyfriend who did very bad things because he’s a very bad person who should be hurt very badly. One of the things he did was turn me against someone I was acquainted with, and she against me.
Fast-forward 15 years, and I received a Facebook message from her. With a little hesitation, we met up at her house for Indian food and to catch up.
Lo and behold, she’s really, really awesome.
3.5 bottles of wine, some Wii bowling, and whole lot of laughs later, I have a for-real friend.
Grapefruit overload!
My dad came across a foreclosure not too far from their wiped-out house and wanted me to take a look at it with him. He told me about a grapefruit tree in the backyard, so we first stopped at the busted-up house to fashion a PVP pipe for some orb-picking. We walked away with better knowledge about the house’s pier and beam damage and two grocery bags full of the best grapefruit I’ve ever put into my mouth.
The grapefruit were so good, I *might* have gone back for another sack full of breakfast.
In striving to continue to expand my real estate business, I’ve been eyeing Galveston for a good, long while now and have made several trips out to that dirty little island. It’s by no mean one of those beautiful white sand beaches where the blue waves lap at the shoreline, but I’m a little in love with the place.
If I ever settle down there (a distinct possibility), I’ll have to put a grapefruit tree in the yard.
Newsweek: Stress is good for you. Screw you, Newsweek.
For the past several weeks, I’ve been packing for a move to an unknown location. My thoughts on where to land vacillate quite frequently. I’ve finalized my location to Austin’s Hyde Park neighborhood (and will be signing a short-term lease this weekend), but for a while it switched between that, Galveston, Phoenix, a nicer part of Houston, and my ever-present dream of Hawaii.
With exception to Hawaii, those are great places to do the above-mentioned real-estating. I figure if I can land somewhere for a couple months, I can see what there is to see for properties.
That, and there’s a man in Austin who I need to hammer things out with and figure out if it’s a Go or a No-go. But we’re not going to talk about that right now since I don’t mention smoochin’ unless it’s a Go. Do note that I’ve kept my mouth shut for years now.
That being said, there’s been a significant amount of stress in my life. And I don’t care what Newsweek says, I prefer my life stress-free.
Even better: Renters approved, and they want most of my stuff. In Chicago soon-ish to clean things out.
After some donkey in my Chicago building listed her similar unit $50k below market in an attempt to sell it quickly, I put mine on the rental market and got renters immediately. That meant I had to hustle up to Chicago to clean out my place for them to move in.
My very first post-flight encounter with another human was in line to buy a CTA card to ride the train into the city. There was a single line for two machines. Being second in line, when the lady in front of me didn’t have her money out and was fiddling with her purse, I announced that I was going since I sufficiently had my shit together prior to being at the front of the line.
The old bat didn’t like this, exclaimed that she had her money ready, and insisted that I not go before her.
“Fine, you go.”
Under normal circumstances, I’d not be such a sack of crap. In my defense, my flight was at an ungodly hour. And, really, the lady had more than enough time to pull $2.25 out of her purse and position it in-hand to keep others from waiting any longer in the line.
She shuffled forward, putting her first dollar bill in. Then her second. Then she hit vend.
Again, under normal circumstances, I might have said something. Ya know, like, “Note the eye-level signs, lady. The train no longer costs $2. You need to put in another quarter.”
But since she was so insistent that she was ready to roll, I let it go and smirked to myself about how pissed she was about to be when she’d have to stand in line again to add a quarter to her card.
I was done with my transaction just in time to witness her smack her stomach on the turnstile and be told by a not-so-friendly CTA employee that she needed to learn to read signs.
Buuuuuuurn!
The rest of my weekend went pretty well. A friend kept me constant company while I packed everything up. My not-boyfriend and I coordinated his movers to facilitate a mass move with both our items. I had dinner with the gays and learned a new game that’s worth remembering. I had brunch with a couple friends and shared girly talk. I had dinner with the regulars. I had another dinner with another set of regulars. The movers pulled up to take the last of my stuff as I was literally on my way out the door to go to the airport, and it was kinda zen to say goodbye to Chicago.
Miracle of miracles, $62 and no diabetes.
And in final news, the cat indeed doesn’t have diabetes. He’s back to his normal self, and I’m not spending $200 a week in getting him poked and prodded.
Well, apparently Jesse’s started telling the story of Jesse and Jo. If we were Hollywood types, they’d call us Josse.
Alas, we’re not Hollywood types. But his sister and I are. They call us Mo and Jo, and they even have a yogurt chain in Phoenix named after us. Or at least that’s what we’re pretending while holding hands and skipping into a field of daisies while Jesse and her boyfriend “Anew” are holding our abandoned purses.
On that note, this revitalization of my blog comes because Jesse’s tens of readers are clicking over here, and it’s a little sad that the top entry is months old with photos of my oh-so-many purses.
Sidenote: The light blue Kate Spade had to be retired, and I’ve since replaced with a no-name blue-green bag with a zipper, two outer pockets, an inner pocket, and a buckle. *And* I just found a Coach bag in a local consignment store that makes me wiggle my fingers and chant, “I want, I want, I want,” like it’s a really cute baby who’s old enough to sleep through the night and laugh, yet young enough to think I’m it’s momma and love me forever and ever.
Sub-sidenote: Yeah, yeah. I’m a 29-year-old woman. Babies are getting cuter. Got any comments about my change of heart? Kindly keep them to yourself. Thankyouverymuch, jerks.
I’ll let him continue with the story about how we met online, how we met in real life, and how I fulfilled expectations for being a pain in the ass to the exact amount that people (READ: he) will still put up with it because I say enough funny things to make up for it.
All that being said, I truthfully don’t have much else to say. Life in Houston doesn’t give me much to say. I know I’m leaving in the not-too-distant future, so I haven’t been particularly motivated to meet people or do things outside of family matters. All I really do is work out, and I’ve subsequently lost 14 pounds.
Working and working out don’t make for good blog entries.
That, or I want little evidence of my few months spent here.
Either way, that’ll have to do for now. This is at least something to get the purses off the top of the page. More to come later.
Poor Hambone was acting weirdly two days ago, so I called my parents at work to compare notes. Mom noticed he hadn’t been eating his usual amount. Dad noticed he needed help getting onto his sleeping chair. I noticed he was walking funny and sleeping significantly more than the usual 18 hours per day.
One person noticing any of the symptoms wouldn’t necessarily put together that something’s wrong. However, all three notes combined had me rushing to find a vet in the area with availability that day.
For those of you who have had the pleasure of meeting The Bone, he’s not a passive animal. He’s a strong-willed being who doesn’t seem to understand that he’s about a tenth the size of a human. When taking him to well-cat visits, entry into The Rage Cage (a.k.a. his carrier) is an event that requires physical strength and mental agility on my part. Have a plan, expect the unexpected, and react accordingly and swiftly when plans A, B, and C fail. Usually I end up wrapping him in a towel to confuse him, dump him into the cage, and then apologize profusely as I zip and Velcro everything up.
Two days ago he allowed me to put him into The Rage Cage, barely sighing as I lifted him into the car. My heart broke a little that he really wasn’t feeling well. Then it broke a little more when he started getting motion sickness in the car and I couldn’t explain to him what was going on due to his lack of comprehending the English language. The situation was all-around sucky.
However, things got a bit better than I pulled into the vet’s office and there was a big banner stating this was voted the clinic of the year. Now, I know voting on these sorts of things isn’t fool-proof. After all, Chicago’s CitySearch site lists Excalibur as the best dance club, neglecting to mention that NO ONE in the city uses CitySearch, so it’s tourists casting their votes based off of one night spent at a cheesy club in the heart of Chicago’s hotel row. But I digress. The banner put me at ease nonetheless.
The staff and vet were swift to take us into a room, check him out, draw a bunch of blood for $200 in tests, and tell me what they thought was up. His glucose levels were high, so more blood was drawn for more tests. Repeat the process of everything above the next day, and today I have a diabetic cat with an infection, two weeks of antibiotics, an appetite stimulant, another $200 vet bill, and an appointment for next Tuesday evening to run some more tests before deciding when to start him on insulin.
This morning I awoke to him begging for food — something he hasn’t done in days. And then he also reacted with a little curiosity and urgency to a bird on the porch. So although he’s napping excessively, he’s already improving.
Here’s to hoping all is good in Hambone-land soon.
Both parents are here tonight and sleeping, and my brother’s dog is in the kitchen (thankfully no longer itching after getting six different salves at the vet yesterday). I’m in the middle of cleaning out one of the bedrooms right now, and something from earlier was floating through my brain.
Everyone was over earlier today, so the driveway was looking like a used car lot. Harley, CLK, big Ford truck, Camry, Civic, GrandAm. There was so many cars, my sister and I pulled in sideways with our cars’ noses partially in the yard. After my sister left and I loaded up the GrandAm with stuff for transporting the smelly dog back to my brother tomorrow, my dad and I crossed paths at the front door. I asked where he was headed with the Civic’s keys, and he said he was going to turn the car around since my mom doesn’t like backing out of the driveway.
It kinda struck me that he took this small action out of consideration for her. Would she even notice that he moved the car around? Probably not, since I was the last one to drive it. He wasn’t doing it for recognition or appreciation or any greatest-husband-ever awards, though. It was just something he saw that could make her morning a little easier.
My parents haven’t always been this nice to each other. There were years, actually, where they housed out-right disdain for the other. But in the past several years, something switched, and they started enjoying each other’s company. My two months here have given me an opportunity to know their relationship in a whole other way than I’ve ever seen it before. The more I think about it now, the more I see how each of them considers the other in little ways here and there. And really, isn’t that kinda what it’s all about?
There aren’t many days that I can point back on and say they were exceptional. It’s part of the magic for when one of those days occurs.
That one time a few years ago when my dad played hooky from work, and we wandered Whole Foods, ate a lunch of tidbits from the store, and then continued our wandering at Houston’s science museum. Truly exceptional.
Today joins the list.
The day began early this morning, where I awoke to a five-year-old in my bed. The alarm went off, and he groaned, “Nuggle me, Jo.” I wrapped my arm around his little bird ribs, gave him a squeeze, and hit the snooze button. Nine minutes later, I was up and at ‘em and convincing him to do the same. After all, we had a busy day ahead of us.
Many moons ago in an absolute fit of feeling like an out-of-shape lump, I encouraged a friend to sign up for a marathon with me. After watching Chicago and remembering how miserable running a marathon feels, I promptly got the notion of a race in February out of my head. Alas, I forgot to tell my friend of my change in intentions.
Bad friend. Bad, bad friend.
So after he’s logged his miles dutifully for several weeks, he inquired about my progress. Then the crickets chirped, and he shook his fist at me from afar.
Today was finally the day that the race was to occur. In exchange for not having to take my brother’s dog to the vet, I agreed to babysit my sister’s kids. Keeping to my word (that time, anyway), I showed up to her house early to get the girl dressed, pack a bag of sand toys, and get on the road.
With only a quick stop for donut holes, we high-tailed it the two hours to the Texas coast. As we grew nearer to our destination, the darker the sky grew. As we pulled into the parking lot, the sky opened. We sat in car for a bit for a good amount of the rain to pass, and then we huddled together under hooded jackets and a huge umbrella the previous owner left in the trunk. We ran across the street and into a tent set up for the race. A quick glance at the timer told me I was about two hours early.
Once the rain cleared, those two hours were quite fun. I pulled out a lawn chair and book for myself, and the kids got their toys and my digital camera for their entertainment. All was going well for about an hour and a half, when the sky opened again. I grabbed the babies, stashed them under something, and ran to the car to toss everything into the trunk. We again headed to the tent, where the kids pet on some friendly dogs to pass the time.
Someone gave us tickets for free smoothies, so I nourished the kids. Then, glancing behind us, I saw my friend’s dad also in line. We joined he and his wife for some fun in the last 30 minutes before our beloved runner came through. In the distance, we finally saw a black shirt with blue shorts. We lined up along the finish area and cheered him in.
It now being late for lunch, we bid our goodbyes. Halfway to the car, the girl announced she needed to pee. I’m not about to let my impatience lead to pee in my car, so we walked back to the portapotties. Apparently she’d never encountered portapotties, since she leaned in and asked me to please flush.
Once she tinkled, we headed back toward the car. Only now, the boy announced that he needed to poop. I groaned a little since we were just there, but again, I’d rather not have poop in my car.
He apparently had never encountered a portapotty either, since he was also shocked by the audacity that some people have to let their poop just sit in a hole. One by one, he went through the available pots, checking out the holes and what exactly was in them. When we got to the last stall, he realized the futility in his quest, had me wipe the seat down, and finally let his poop commingle with others’ poops.
With both kids sufficiently emptied, we finally made our way to the car. Now, I don’t have a fancy car by any means. I’m borrowing something from my dad’s friend, and my family refers to it as The Donkey because of its (ahem) lovely shade of brown. However, I refuse to treat any vehicle the way this one’s been treated.
After the two rains we ran through and a couple hours playing in the dirt, the kids were covered in sand and muck. I’m not about to get that in my car, so I stripped both of them down to their undies and the shirt under their hoodies.
As I’m stripping the boy (and he of his dignity), a man walked by and told me that he’s been watching me with my kids and that they’re adorable, truly ‘the American dream’. Who am I to argue with the man that my children (by proxy) are beautiful and wonderful and all that other gushy stuff that people seem to think when someone in the family sprouts them from her loins? As far as kids go (and I’ve changed my thoughts on this topic a lot lately), these kids are rad.
In minimal clothes and buckled into car seats (them, not me, on both counts), we stopped through McDonald’s, and drove the two hours home. I deposited them with their mother at the meet-up spot, and she clothed them appropriately for her plans. I headed back home to rest my bones.
After cleaning the fast food out of the car, I was coming into the house and noticed a plastic-wrapped box beside the door. For a moment I thought my dad sent my mom flowers, but I did the mouse clicks on that transaction and know where and when they were sent. With a little confusion, I saw they were addressed to me.
My Internet friend recently held a flower-giving contest on his blog, and he surprised me with a bouquet. I was neither nominated nor did any nominating, so I was truly surprised to see his card with a poem about how awesome we are. They’re now in my bedroom, giving the room a much-needed adult-like feel.
I’m admittedly a sucker for things like flowers and jewelry. You do nothing but enjoy how pretty both are; yet in that lies their actual purposes. Both gifts say, “You cannot eat these, use them as a mode of transportation, or recognize them as reusable assets. They are completely pointless except that they are pretty and remind you that I think you’re cool enough to buy something useless that makes you smile.”
And now I have some in my room.
Soon after my flowers got watered and displayed, my dad’s truck pulled up. I came outside to give my parents a hand with whatever they needed carried in, only to find that my dad was alone and shoveling gravel into a few holes in the driveway.
Where’s Maa? She bought a car. Where is she? Driving the really fast car really slowly.
30 minutes later, Maa pulled up in an absolutely dream boat car, tossed me the keys, and was like, “Go. Have fun.”
And “go” I went.
I don’t want to go into the specs here, but Oh. My. I drove it like a 16-year-old boy. Only instead of driving a five-speed Datsun like it’s a Mercedes CLK320, I drove the friggin’ CLK.
The Donkey can rest with my dad’s coworker once more.
See. El. Kay.
Now, it’s not mine-all-mine. But my mom’s telling me that she’d rather drive the quite-new, good-on-gas Civic (my car now, since I just wrote a check for it) to commute to work. So during the day, it’s mine, mine, mine.
And, really, if I pick up a few good weeks of Forex trades, I might go ahead and write a bigger check to make it officially mine, mine, mine. After all, I so see my mom as more the C230 type. I just have to convince her of that — ha.
Now, if my day wasn’t already going spectacularly, I got a Facebook e-mail from a friend I hadn’t talked with in ages. She and I were really good friends when I first moved to Chicago, only to lose touch when the group severed and she moved across the country for grad school. Lo and behold, she was asking my opinion about moving to Austin.
[insert geeking out noises]
Last week I spent the weekend there, re-exploring the city and seeing what all has changed for the better since I left. There’s a lot there I want to continue to explore, and I decided this week that a move needs to be made. Living in Houston has brought the family closeness I’ve been hoping for; however, I don’t need quite this much closeness to love the heck out of everyone in my bloodline. Add to it that I do need the things Austin can provide: a nearby BFF, an active social life with great people, outdoorsy things to do, (admittedly) a hint of romance, and now this friend who is one of the most amazing women I’ve ever known for reasons galore.
In sum, as the clock finally ticks past midnight, I’d like to give a huge high-five to February 14, 2009. You were an awesome day.
You seem very interesting, fun and kind. And I just had to say hello. So, if you are interested, say hello back. I wouldn’t mind one bit…. 
