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egyptian days

today is an Egyptian Day.

according to  Nigel Pennick’s research, today (June 22) is a somewhat unlucky day.  don’t worry, he lists a good many of them in his book, so it’s not a SPECIAL unlucky day, just a regular one.

but i started off today feeling rather wonky.  out of body.  swirly.  my sister said i needed to go hold a stone, so i climbed the stairs, sat on my bed, and held a large crystal rock i was given.  i had visions.  and journeys.  and hunger pains, so i went down and ate some Cheerios.  but i did feel better.

then i went to work.  now, this is what Nigel is saying in his book: if you can at all, don’t do that.  don’t go to work on an Egyptian Day.  or, you know, win the LOTTO the day  before so you don’t have to.  but i didn’t.  win the LOTTO that is, so i DID have to go in to work.  and while i was there the computer’s crashed so that customers couldn’t help themselves and had to wait in line for us, and we had to do everything old school style:  sans online software.  whew.  not ideal.

but then, to add more excitement to the picture, i rolled over the top of my friend’s foot with the chair and potentially broke her toe.  to this she exclaimed in true French fashion.  so i ran to get ice.  but of course, there was no quick-break-ice-pack in the medic box, so i had to go up 4 flights.  and that doesn’t sound bad, except that the speed of our elevator is sort of like my Grandma when she was leaving church with her walker that she called “Ethel”…slow .  but finally i did get to the floor i needed, and still no ice bags.  so then i had to crack open ice from the ice trays and fill a baggie (which of course i couldn’t find in the first four drawers).

but finally – friend in ice and computers coming back from hibernation – i saw a cute patron and all seemed like it might right itself.  but wait!  the day is still not over!  the final ‘guest’ of the day runs in to pick up something and gets into a lengthy conversation with a co-worker, while the other workers are breathing like dragons down my neck and security is turning all the lights off.  and by now i’ve been twitchy for several hours (feeling the need to shift personalities) and i’m hungry and dreaming of liquid beverages you can’t get in a vending machine.

which i consumed upon coming home.

(after i drove around for 1/2 an hour trying to get a pizza, getting cash, avoiding people going to a baseball game, avoiding the three cop cars hanging around the middle of the street and the two on the corner whose occupants were wrestling a drug addict on the ground spouting blood from his face)

so yeah, next time just stay home.

accidental happiness ~ first day of the new year

so today has been a fabulous kick off to 2012.

first we started off with a movie at midnight.  and margaritas.

then we watched football all day today, along with some Twilight Zone marathon

We also had fun with my friend’s new Facebook page.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/30-Day-Classic-TV-Challenge/213301222081272

this was fun to ponder all day.  along with enjoying more margaritas and some pizza.  today’s question was “Favorite All Time Classic TV Show”, which was easy for me, as i am obsessed with The Twilight Zone.  but Mark (my friend) has listed all the questions that you should answer each day, so we sat and tried to figure out what our answers will be this month.  very fun, very old school, very couch potato.  and fun to read everyone else’s answers.

if you have a Facebook account, hop on the page, or go to his other old school TV discussion page,

http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Marks-Classic-TV-Guide/152892888086161

confessions of a Taurean woman

last night before going to see the fabulous final episode of Harry Potter, i got to go to McAlister’s Deli for dinner.  having never been there, i wasn’t certain what to expect. 

http://www.mcalistersdeli.com/

i certainly wasn’t prepared for the taste explosion that awaited me, in the form of taco salad (waaaahhhh!  so delish!!)  and some kind of sweet sandwich they had.  ridiculously delicious.

now, for those interested viewers who don’t know, i am a taurus.  growing up, i had no idea i was a foodie.  we were poor, ate a lot of stuff like frozen pizza, pork-n-beans, and hamburger helper, and went out to MacDonald’s    i didn’t grow up with a sophisticated palette.

then there were my 20’s, when i was obssessed with how i looked, paranoid about being overweight (i wanted to be an actress, overweight doesn’t fly real well in hollywood), and fond of punishing myself with rules like no ice cream ever, moderate consumption of pizza, and no alcohol.  WTF???  so my taste buds were resigned to live a life enjoying salads with dry toasted sesame sticks and frozen yogurt with granola toppings.  very good, actually, but somewhat limiting in both scope and nutritional requirements.

finally i discovered my true calling:  food enthusiast.

now, i’m not a porker, but i do represent well.  i am the typical aging Taurus woman, with a juicy center like some kind of well filled doughnut.  not ridiculously huge, just extra to hold onto in the cold Michigan nights.  so finding McAlister’s was a happy treat, and is rightfully going into my restaurant journal as “superior taste experience”!

 

accidental happiness; stardate 04-14-2011

the last two days at work have kicked my butt.  busy hours full of non-stop activity and frenetic energy.  Wednesday night is usually a fun night at work because of the crew i’m with, yet this Wednesday was tense and exhausting.  there was something looming in the air and i felt myself anticipating a fight in the lobby, a fire in the building, or at the very least a momentary lapse of server time on Facebook, which would make the customers and clients uber pissy.  my friend and i both felt like long tailed cats in a room full of rocking chairs with fat people on them in the middle of a thunder storm.  sketchy…

today was much the same; go, go, go.  see denelle.  denelle works hard.  see denelle work hard.  see denelle roll her eyes at the annoying customer in the lobby.  go away, customer.  see denelle whisper go away behind the customer’s back.  bad denelle.  you shouldn’t do that.  see denelle flip the bird at whoever tells her she shouldn’t do that.  now see denelle head home, excited about her favorite after school snack.  can you say MARGARITA? 

the accidental happiness part of today was after picking up my sis from work, and when we stopped to get gas.  see, by then i’d used up all the rational juices in my brain and was working strictly off of the nine-year-old juices i have in storage.  in other words; i got real little.  too much people, too little sleep – suddenly i couldn’t drive anymore and was talking like a drunk elementary school child.  Bodhi took the wheel.  whew.

and while she was putting the pump hose into the car, i went in to pay for the gas.  now, you know how gas stations usually are.  unless you live in a hippy city where you all use bikes and group public transportation like trolleys.  or Amigos.  but most gas stations smell like this:  gas.  burnt hotdogs that are on some heat rotator.  gross slices of greasy crap that is supposed to be pizza.  old nacho cheese.  bad coffee.  whino.  cigarette.  if you’re lucky Kevin Smith.  but not this station.  as soon as you walk into this station, you take a deep whiff and smile.  why?  ‘cause they have giant monstrously sized incense sticks at their counter, 3/1.00!  ‘butterfly garden’. ‘nag champa’. ‘vanilla’.  loads of yummy flavors that infuse the whole building with a headshop vibe while you fill your car with expensive oils from dead, extinct animals at an outrageous economy killing price.  awesome!

but getting to pick out three yummy flavors made me skip and dance (i was still about nine at this point you know) and i felt like i’d just picked flowers (this because they were so long and tall, and cause i was still about nine) and my little inside was so happy…well, when was the last time spending one dollar made you dance around and sing?  yeah.  so there’s my a.happy moment. 

i wonder what the clerks were thinking?

fantasizing…

I’m waiting for my pizza.

There is a restaurant here in my town that serves the most divine pizza.  Granted, it’s not the old world pizza that is flat, and has a small amount of fresh, delicious ingredients, like fresh tomatoes, basil and olive oil from the region.  This is straight up American, with thick, carbohydrate-rich crust, and about seven pounds of cheese.   Slices so heavy you have to have a rub down after dinner.

The atmosphere at the restaurant is almost as surprising as the low prices.  Located next to a scrap metal dump, this restaurant sits unassumingly, pulled back from the street, almost daring passersby to notice it.  Not that you could miss the delicious aroma.   Wafting through the streets, traveling the airspace to your nostrils, you would HAVE to stop and ask yourself, “am I starving to death all of a sudden?  I believe I’m going to pass out if I don’t get some delicious Italian food right this instant!”  Don’t worry.  It happens all the time.   Finding a parking space on a Friday is a rarity, though, so if the sudden hunger hits you on the weekend, best get there early or the wait is astronomical.  Coming into the restaurant you will notice that the dimly lit ambiance isn’t as much romantic as it is homey.  This is a local favorite, and families come together for laughter, the breaking of bread, maybe a little booze.  Adding to the flavor of the familial atmosphere is the ghost in the bathroom, who runs in and out of stalls, waving the doors.  Maybe no one else has noticed but me.  It’s like a customer loved the food so much, they never wanted to leave.  And who could blame her?  Perfectly proportioned toppings, with that homemade crust, so hot and delicious, and melting like perfection on your taste buds.

I’m anticipating the ranch dressing.  A trick I learned working at a pizza bar, when you have decent ranch, dip that thing in and it’s like heaven in your mouth.  I don’t always do this, because of course the pizza is perfect enough as is.  But the ranch dressing here is so good people come in just to pick up a tub.  It’s good enough to eat by itself.  By the spoonful.  My mouth is watering.  I want my pizza now.  I want my mouth full of ecstasy now, please.  NOW.

Of course, the pizza that I’m waiting for isn’t coming until Friday.  Or Saturday.  And here it’s only Thursday.  And I’m not getting DeLuca’s this weekend.  I have a frozen pizza in the freezer, waiting to ‘self-rise’ in my oven. 

Sigh.

Hey, I can still anticipate.

mpd for dinner

having multiple personality disorder goes something like this:

let’s say you are a female, and you have twelve kids to feed at dinner time.

  1. one of the kids has stomach issues and can’t have anything too spicy
  2. one is allergic to everything
  3. one hates spaghetti because it made her throw up once
  4. one only ever wants to eat cereal
  5. one is afraid of eating anything that has gone past the expiration date printed on its container, and this means that she questions everything that comes out of the refrigerator trying to determine if you have checked the date or not, so she does not die of food poisoning
  6. one is on a hunger strike
  7. one doesn’t like the way you make the macaroni
  8. one is already in the kitchen working on dinner, because she thought you’d need a head start because you had a long day at work, so she’s already got things going, although she did manage to break a dish while she was at it
  9. one is planning on running away and having pizza for dinner anyway
  10. 10.  one is skipping straight to the ice cream course
  11. 11.  one can’t remember where the kitchen is and is afraid that everyone will eat without her and she will starve to death because she was forgotten
  12. 12.  one thinks this whole thing is a big drama and is just going to bed

whackadaisical

 

today may have been the hardest day of my adult life.

i don’t know, there have been some pretty hard ones…narrowing it down to which one is the worst may be overly ambitious of me. still, this one ranks right up there. it’s at least the hardest day i’ve had in a very, very long while.

my condition – the DID – makes life…shall i say, interesting.

my sister – the angel i live with – puts up with a lot, and i don’t envy her. i guess my memory is rather spotty. maybe if i just sat around trying to remember what my favorite childhood tv show was (TWILIGHT ZONE) or favorite book (I Never Promised You a Rose Garden) or other childhood favorites, well maybe a spotty memory wouldn’t be so bad.

i like to be witty. i like to have a funny comeback, or a sassy antidote. i like to write blogs that are interesting, or curious, or whacky, that will make someone laugh or wonder how i got to be such a silly person.

but today is not like that.

today is a punched-in-the-gut day.

today there isn’t much bravado left in me, so i guess i have to be brutally honest for a change.

today was horrible.

i’ve had a lot of jobs. i’ve been a janitor, a teacher’s aid, a cashier. i’ve worked at bookstores, health clubs, pizza parlours and day camps. i’ve worked for theological seminaries, colleges, insurance companies and health food stores. and i’ve never really looked at that. i know several people where i work right now that have only worked one job, their whole life, in the same building for 20, 30 years. i don’t mind that i’ve traveled and changed and lived. but today it stared me straight in the face, and the question was…why do i have to keep moving?

i had a job review recently, and it didn’t make me happy. usually my job reviews are good; often they are great. i meet expectations or i greatly exceed them. i’ve always been something of a workhorse, and people have regularly noticed that i’m a hard worker. but this time i got a mixed review. feedback from my supervisor was that i was inconsistent, and she felt i should be remembering my job better than i am. and only being in this position for a little while didn’t seem to matter. she is frustrated with me.

the thing is; i don’t remember.

i don’t know what things i’m not doing right. and she didn’t tell me, though i kept asking. but that’s the thing…several people might have had conversations with me, and it’s true, i may not remember them. this is what my sister deals with all the time. she tells me something in passing, and i say “what are you talking about?” then she’ll say, you know … we talked about it yesterday. and no, i have no idea what she’s talking about. she’s gotten so used to it that now she’ll just look at me and say “well i talked to one of you the other day”. this has made me feel embarrassed a lot of the time, and i’ve sometimes gotten mad and been like “stop saying that. it’s all me” but some of the me’s don’t have any idea what we’re talking about.

and now, apparently, this is happening at work.

back in the day – when i worked at all these other places – none of my other personalities came out at work. or if they did, the worker person somehow managed to keep them in the background. i was basically always functioning in one mode back then. but now i have people out all the time that may not fully understand their job situation.

so today i had to tell my boss i have MPD. and it sucked. i cried like a baby, because i’ve tried so very hard for so very long to fit into the “normal” world and look and act just like everyone else. i haven’t wanted to rouse suspicion, lest someone find out my darkest secret. and now it’s out of the bag! and my secret is more public than i’d planned on going. and i’m scared.

i’m afraid of being fired.

i’m afraid of losing my friends.

i’m afraid of people thinking i’m an idiot.

i’m afraid of making people angry at me for being this way.

i’m afraid of not being cared for and loved.

i know i’m totally fucked up. i know that. but i’ve been alone with that knowledge my whole life. and now my sister supports me. but the more i open my fucking heart to people, the more i care, the more i end up needing to explain my whackadaisical behaviors….and i’m worried.

because not everyone will be able to love me.

and i desperately need love.

Sports and the Single Girl

 

The World Cup started this week, which is always enjoyable. My sister (I’ll call her Bodie on here, one of my nicknames for her) and I always love to watch sports. We love to get involved in the game, and cheer our voices gone, and jump up and down if we get so excited, or curse like sailors when our people suck and mess up the whole thing. We aren’t terribly picky about what we watch, though we certainly have favorites.

Over the years we’ve watched more football than anything, my favorite sport and one of her favorites. But we enjoy watching all sorts of games: the XGames is a definite favorite, beach volleyball, soccer, tennis. I almost had a meltdown when I discovered rugby – my other favorite sport – because not only are the outfits adorable, the men are supersized, with big meaty thighs, burly physiques, and round juicy bottoms. These men are warriors out on the field, sporting bloody facial expressions within minutes of play. Rugby is a sport a horny girl can get into. But I also enjoy curling. And watching billiards. And water polo, the Olympics, motocross, and martial arts competitions.

I don’t know for sure what it is about sports that we both love so much. When we got Dish Network, the guy installing it told us we had too much testosterone. He was telling us about all the cool channels we would be getting, now that we had the Dish, and I said, “Yeah, but we get Football Network, right?” The channel was brand new at the time, and he didn’t seem to understand why we weren’t as excited about the Home Shopping Network.

I think my sister and I have always been this way. At eight or nine, I watched football at home by myself, or on Sundays with my uncle, who taught me the game. I knew early on to hate the Cowboys for the sheer principle of it (my uncle’s conviction, and we DID live in Los Angeles), to honor the Steelers and cheer the Rams, and on my own I selected the Chicago Bears and the Saints as early favorites, whom I am still loyal to today. Although I’ve also added the Seahawks, Ravens and several other teams to my roster of favorites. I also watched roller derby as a kid, and had a yellow legal pad full of the names of my team’s players, and their arch rivals. I sat in front of the television set every Saturday morning and berated the opposing team, calling them doodie pants and weenie heads.

And while I started off with a healthy interest in sports, my appreciation may have increased when I finally started dating some athletes. There is something about athletes….

I’ve dated artists and musicians, architects and money moguls, mechanics, fire fighters, gamblers and sommeliers. And I don’t think I’ve dated any professional athletes, at least they weren’t at the time I dated them, but I have gone out with basketball players, football players, tennis players, baseball players, swimmers, and I had a great chance to date a foreign exchange water polo player, from France, I think, and I completely blew that one. Oh well. That wouldn’t have lasted long anyway, because I was virginal at the time, or thought I was, so was maintaining a strict “No Go” philosophy on all things sex.

Still, with all my appreciation of the sport and the sporter, I’m always surprised that when I do find someone to date, I am often the one that is more interested in competition. Maybe I didn’t realize early enough that I was into athletes, and spent all that time dithering away on the architects and poets and dramatic thinky types. Maybe when I have dated athletically minded men, I haven’t been in a place where I’m paying much attention to anything, and didn’t notice them cheering on a good tennis match, or placing bets on a football game. (oh, wait a minute, that sounds familiar)

I do remember lots of nights spent with my fabulous sister, on the couch screaming, cheering, and getting drunk. I do remember fun nights out at the pub with my sis, wearing colored wigs, gaudy ‘mardi gras’ necklaces, face tattoos and getting drunk. Attending games with my sis, where we stand in the bleachers, asses in pain because those seats are so uncomfortable, cursing at the coach, or the team, or the lousy season ahead, and getting drunk.

So World Cup is another bonding time with my sis. One of these days I hope to find a man I can love for my very own, who also happens to like sports. I’m hoping he will go to some roller derby games with me, and stop at a park and watch random games of softball and soccer, even if we don’t know anyone on the teams. This is something I enjoyed doing when I lived on my own, and had nothing better to do on a random day. I’m hoping I’ll find a guy who will play volleyball with me, or maybe try to get me to take up golf, which I can’t really imagine liking, unless my job is just driving the cute cart and getting us more beers. And I will probably always be watching sports with my sis…but I’m also hoping I’ll find a guy that can finally see the light. A unique man that will finally appreciate all the things that I love, like pizza and beer and sex and sports. A man that won’t constantly nag me to clean the house or take out the cat litter. A man that can sit down and play video games with me once in a while, or sit on the porch and smoke my hookah with me. A man who will finally see the truth that no other man has ever grasped; I am the perfect woman.

Monty Python Destroys the World (film at 11:00)

 

So yeah, Monty Python ruins everything for me.

Don’t get me wrong, I love MP. The clutches of Monty Python go far and deep into my life. As a kid, when I spent the night or weekend at my uncle’s apartment, he would get a “Me -n-  Ed’s” pizza, stay up late to watch Johnny Carson, and then even later, to catch an episode of The Flying Circus. At my high school “prom” (in parenthesis because i didn’t really go to prom. my junior and senior years were spent at a private parochial school, and dancing leads to fornication, so there was a banquet. because food leads to overindulgence, sloth and obesity, but not the dreaded pre-marital naughtieness) my date and another boy at my table spent the entire evening reciting lines from Search for the Holy Grail. Our table had the most fun, it seemed, out of the whole group present that night. And though we raised not a few eyebrows with our hearty infectious laughter, we weren’t dancing, naked, or making out, so they really couldn’t do anything to punish us that evening.

By my early twenties, I was developing a settled fondness for the Python. Back when VCR’s weren’t archaic dinosaur remnants, I bought the tape of Search for the Holy Grail, and watched it on a regular basis. I sometimes watched it with friends, or when I was bored or lonely. I often had it on in the background while I was washing the dishes, or doing housework. I’d be scrubbing a bowl and hear a line in the kitchen, and just chime in where I was, “How do you know whether she is a witch?” The random quoting of Monty Python became a fun little game for me and my sister. Actually we quoted from The Grail, because that’s the one tape I had, that we watched so often. I need to get more of the episodes and movies so my quotations have more variety to them. For now we are limited to “You could call me Dennis” and “Have at you” and the like.

And there lies the rub. As much as it is fun to randomly throw out a “Bring out yer dead”, these lines are sometimes troublesome, as well as funny. While watching Lord of the Rings, in a very high energy, nervousy and tense part, Gandalf rides a horse up a mountain to rescue someone or save the day, I can’t remember…because I just kept thinking, “How do you know he’s King?” “Because he hasn’t got shit all over him”.

I’m a fiend for anything from the late 1800’s (serious interest in the Ripper, for all the awful goriness) so when we watch period movies, we are forever making the cat noise, when the old woman is “cleaning her cat” like she is dusting a rug. Or quoting the old man, “I’m not dead yet”.  The spontaneous quoting happens a lot with movies, and can ruin a whole scene, which later then becomes a humorous memory my sister and I laugh over. But it comes up in “real life” as well (as though life is any more real than the movies; it’s all the same playing field to me)

Still, I guess there are worse things than occasionally spouting out “Bring me a shrubbery”, or “WHAT is your favorite color?” I guess if I were a more learned, educated and sophisticated woman I would be quoting The Bard. Or Edna St. Vincent Millay. Or some great work, instead of a bunch of silly Englishmen. Well, one day maybe. For now, it is a cursed thing to be addled with so much strange humor in my head, but I’ll make my way. It’s far worse to have too little humor in one’s life, than too much.