Church of the Big Sky

Ups, Downs, and the Joy of Action Figures

2009-11-30T23:00:00.006-05:00

Maybe having a smartphone of some sort isn't such a bad thing.

I had a doctor's appointment this afternoon, and was Internet-free for several hours. Of course - OF COURSE - I miss an e-mail from Imogen Heap that she'd sweetly put me on the guest list for her sold-out show tonight at the historic 6th & I Synagogue (a building with super sweet acoustics that was, as I understand it, largely saved from destruction by the late, generous Abe Pollin.) As I looked at the clock and realized that the concert was likely wrapping up when I discovered the e-mail in my in-box, I just sat here and muttered a few choice obscenities. It's not often that I'm on anyone's guest list, and I bet this was a great gig.

I'll ponder my apology to the lovely Ms. Heap over a glass of warm milk in a few minutes.

Now, the happy yang to my unhappy yin: along with the missed opportunity, my in-box included a set of photos from my sister, the social worker. She had procured a 12" WASP WWII pilot action figure a few months ago when I found them for sale online. And, a few weeks later, she came across a 12" Indiana Jones action figure at a garage sale. Now, my mom had a thing for Harrison Ford. (What warm-blooded woman didn't? At least before he started dating skeletons and visiting Kansas City strip clubs and getting earrings with guys from 60 Minutes, that is.)

My sister took the time to take some action shots of "Mom" and Harrison. Enjoy:

Ahhh, vintage action figure romance!

We can do it!

Know what this is, Harrison? It's a brain eater.
And you know what it's doin'? STARVING!

I think Mom would have approved. And laughed. At the very least, it made me laugh tonight. Now, where's that glass of milk and words to apologize for missing the concert???

When Black Friday comes...

2009-11-25T19:42:00.004-05:00

I'll be safely at home, not even pondering entering that terrifying frenzy and fray of commercial madness and vehicular hell. No thanks, no way, no how.

However, in honor of the day, a little Steely Dan:

Is it me, or does Donald Fagen increasingly look like some sort of keyboard vampire?

Happy Turkey Day, friends, wherever you are. And seriously, stay home on Friday. Let the nut patrol unleash hell without you. No HDTV or discount iPod is worth living through the Suburban Bataan Death March.

Peace, y'all.

And hand turkeys for everyone!!

Hey, Subway Sandwich People!

2009-11-24T20:12:00.010-05:00

Or, Five Dollar Fur-Long.

(Please see UPDATE at end of post.)

After running a few errands tonight, I figured I'd do the Jared thing and get a healthy sub at the new Subway shop at White Flint Plaza on Nicholson Lane in North Bethesda. Get a five-dollah footlong with lots of veggie-tastic goodness, and have lunch set for tomorrow, too.

Except when I walked into the very, very small shop, there was a woman with a poofy Pomeranian type dog (except bulkier, bigger) on one of the few tables in the shop, just a few feet from the meats, cheeses, fixin's, and such. Gross.

Sincere regrets to any of my friends who think it's perfectly fine to bring pooches into restaurants. I'm *really* pretty firm on this one. You bring a long-haired dog into a tiny deli and have it up on the table in spitting distance of the food? That's nasty. Dogs don't always cotton to strangers, and they don't always have perfect control of their excretory processes, either.

Let's be very clear - this was not a seeing eye dog. Not an assistance dog. This was a ball of hair getting "wuzzy wuzzy woo woo" kisses from the woman holding onto it. And one that made a nasty, aggressive, yappy bark as customers walked in. Uncool.

Look, I love critters. But I don't think I need to encounter anyone else's pet when I'm buying human food. Hell, I saw some Juicy-butted woman in slippers take her dog into Harris Teeter the other day. She got the big hairy eyeball from a manager and departed. (Hooray, management with cojones!) I may be an uptight frump, but the tiny indoor dining & food preparatin area of a Subway shop in suburban Maryland ain't an outdoor cafe in Paris. And I don't know about you, but I don't care for Pomeranian fur in my sammich.

I asked the male clerk why there was a dog in Subway. He shrugged. "I dunno. I don't care." I told him it wasn't sanitary to have a dog up on a dining table a few feet from where the sandwich components were laid out in the open air. Could he ask the patron to take the dog outside? He wouldn't look up at me. Instead, he pointed at the food and said, "The dog isn't right here. It doesn't matter."

Bubba, it does matter. It matters when a customer points out an unsanitary situation four feet from the cash register. (And it makes you wonder what the rest of their standards are.) The customer ahead of me nodded and smiled, but didn't say anything. (Of course, leave it to me to be the one to say something.) The clerk blew me off completely at that point and just asked the other customer what sub he wanted.

I know it may be stupid, but this Subway - a pretty new location, by the way - just lost me as a customer. I told them this as I left. And I also stopped at the table with the dog and said, "Hey, that's really unsanitary that you have your dog in here. Especially up on a table where other customers will be eating."

She had the good grace to take her dog outside at that point. But I should NOT have been the one to tell her. There were at least THREE staff members in this little Subway, and none of them had the balls to tell this woman - who wasn't even eating there (her husband and kid were - each one took his/her own table) - to take her fluffy baby outside.

Now, I know I will piss off a handful of folks who see their dogs as children and believe they should be allowed everywhere. I'm not one of those folks. We took our dog, the late, great Termite all over creation in the car, but we didn't take her inside places that generally require opposable thumbs, the use of a napkin, and the ability to indicate "no tomatoes, please."

I'm going to check with the county tomorrow about non-assistance pets in restaurants in MoCo. And I'm calling Subway's consumer hotline. Theoretically, it operates 24/7. Of course, when I called, I got a message telling me there is a "system error." That's a convenient way to avoid taking calls, no?

Yours,

The cranky biyotch who ended up with chili and a baked potato from Wendy's. (Yeah, I got attacked by a squirrel at that Wendy's, but I was in the parking lot and clearly on that squirrel's turf.)

UPDATE: A call to the Subway corporate number this morning yielded a fast response. My complaint was forwarded to the regional management and the store owner. Store owner verified my story with his store staff and then with me by phone. He was pissed that his staff not only didn't do anything, but also ignored me. He's instituting some changes, some education, and putting up a NO PETS sign on the door.

Well done.

Childhood Memories of a Weirdness Magnet

2009-11-22T16:49:00.006-05:00

Installment #1 in a series of posts to prove my talent for attracting strangeness is not a recent development. Exhibit A:

This is me, circa 1978-ish, returning a runaway lion cub to the neighbors across the street from my parents' house. The lioness at our local zoo (Niabi Zoo) had three cubs and she rejected them. Teske's, the local seed and feed (now a "pet and garden center") offered to keep the cubs until Jim "Wild Kingdom" Fowler could come to pick them up for resettlement in another zoo.

One of our neighbors worked at Teske's and she was assigned to bring one of the cubs home when the store was closed, so it could be fed and tended to properly. Except this was one fast little sucker, and he escaped. I remember looking out our front window and saying, "Hey, Mom, there's a lion in the yard." Mom, knowing me to be a total BS artist who liked to prank her with silly stuff, completely ignored me and continued to read a copy of Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine.

Until I went outside and returned with a lion cub that I plopped down in her lap. He was very happy to have a cozy lap and a fireplace. Mom was thrilled until he decided to relax by stretching his limbs and extending his massive kitten claws into all parts of her body.

That photo was snapped by our neighbor when I brought the runaway back home. I enjoy the composition of this photo, btw, wherein I appear to be growing a very large tree from the top of my cranium.

Ah, memories!

Сегодня, я - ударница!

2009-11-16T00:09:00.006-05:00

Back in the heyday of the Soviet Union, an "udarnik"* (or "shock worker") was the ultimate proletarian factory dude who overfilled his quotas. He was, quite simply, the uber-worker. "Udarnitsa" is the cute feminine version of that work.

And right now, my friends, I'm definitely in udarnitsa territory. I worked all weekend, much to my spine's dismay, and now, I can't sleep. Slept like crap last night (a few minutes here and there) and now I'm overtired.

Have to be up at 6 to go to physical therapy. Then, it's Hell Week for me until 5 p.m. on Thursday, the deadline for submitting a small, but frustrating pile of hefty guv'ment grant proposals. Now, I don't mind working without a day off every once in a while, but with the back right now, it's not a good deal.

I regret that I am humorless, evil, and gimpy.

I'm looking forward to smiling again Friday.

*Believe it or not, "udarnik" was one of the very first Russian words I learned in college. First sentence of the Russian textbook we used at Macalester? "Как живут ударники? Ударники живут очень хорошо." ("How do shockworkers live? Shockworkers live very well.") I swear to god.

Some night are just this way

2009-11-13T21:56:00.003-05:00

I know intense back pain brings on depression. It messes with your head. I've been unbearably cranky and generally unpleasant to be around. (And I'm sorry if you've had to cross paths with me in recent days.)

And to cap it off, I had one of those really lousy, stinking, awful moments just now. Something crossed my mind and I thought, "I need to call Mom and tell her about that."

Crap.

Just... crap.

I'd say things would be better in the morning, but I have to work all weekend. I'm going to play music at a high volume in the office. Just a heads-up for anyone else planning on being in my corridor tomorrow.

Hoping you are spending this Friday evening with someone you love tonight, be it a partner or child or a parent or just a wonderful friend.

Veteran's Day

2009-11-10T23:26:00.005-05:00

Mom, Avenger Field, Sweetwater, Texas, 1943.

Thank you to all those who have served, and to those who serve today to protect and defend this nation. Thank you so very much.

A handful of lay-cation photos

2009-11-08T21:50:00.025-05:00

So, I took a brief vacation this past week. With the help of a dear friend, I reserved a cabin out in the wilds of West Virginia, just past the small town of Petersburg, right on the North Fork of the South Branch of the Potomac River. The North Fork is a relatively modest stream, stocked with the locally-raised "golden trout." I never saw one of these critters the whole time I was there, but there is a fishery nearby I'd planned on visiting and snapping fishy photos.

I had a lot of plans for the week -- most of them involved brisk walking in the Spruce Knob National Recreation Area (using my spiffy Nordic walking poles!), shooting some arrows at a local archery range, and writing. Lots and lots of writing.

However, a few days before leaving for the cabin, while recovering from bronchitis, I coughed or sneezed and utterly screwed up something in my lower back, still unhealed from June's car accident. Overnight I went from Relatively Mobile Merujo to Weeping, Gasping, Crippled Merujo (also known by my Native American name, She Who Walks and Grunts Like Yoda.) My physical therapy doc told me I shouldn't be traveling ANYWHERE and handed me a Disability Certificate for work, with the box for "Totally Incapacitated" checked. Ugh. Not good.

But I was committed to going away for a few days, and I refused to let the spine get in the way of an escape from DC. You have to understand, I haven't taken any vacation since 1997 that wasn't connected to a family illness, death, or had at least one sibling in tow. (And I loved the trips with siblings -- I just needed Alone Time in a big way.)

The Sasquatch loaned me a tripod for this trip, so I could try to take some non-wobbly nature photos with my point-and-shoot camera. Alas, my back radiated so much agony, I couldn't have picked up the tripod from the car to set up the whole damn week. Most of the week was a "lay-cation." Not a stay-cation, since I did travel a whole three hours away from This Nation's Capital. But there sure was a lot of lying around like a big, mellow slug in front of a fireplace, watching DVDs of "Battlestar Galactica" and drinking wine.

Courtesy of being remarkably crippled with pain, the only photos I have to share with you are almost all taken from the relative comfort and safety of a parked car or from the porch or sofa in the cabin. The full story of the week? That will have to wait a bit. It may take a different form, in a different venue. More on that as developments happen.

Right now, I have to keep my online time to work hours and a few minutes here and there, stolen from the sofa. It's hard to blog from the laptop when you are curled up like a human pretzel. So, for now, I'll leave you with these images, fuzzy and shaky - much like the photographer...

One of the wonderful Arts & Crafts style lanterns at the entrance to the cabin property...

A quiet spot on the North Fork, just as you enter the cabin property...

The bridge over the North Fork out to the remote cabins where I stayed...

Home Sweet Temporary Home: Cabin 11...

The fire circle outside the cabin, overlooking the North Fork...

Trout? I don't see no stinkin' trout!
(But I did see a lot of fisherman in waders!)

Me, chewing on my lower lip, trying not to grimace
after my one and only nature walk all week.
Those are my Nordic walking poles in my hand.
They work great. As long as you can walk...

The view from the sofa...

The sun dropping from the sky over the North Fork...

The cabin is located in the Monongahela National Forest.
I love the font they use to spell out "National Forest."
I've asked a web guy at the Forest Service to tell me what the font is called.
It immediately takes me back to camping with my family as a kid...

Just some mailboxes across the road from the Ranger Station...

Ah, paintball. At least it's not bullet holes, eh?

Smoke Hole Caverns
Just a couple of miles down the road from the cabin.
It retains that fabulous 1960s/1970s feel with the signage. Love it!

UPDATE: Very sadly, only four days after I took these photos, a fire has destroyed the gift shop/restaurant at the caverns on 11/10/09. I'm glad I got to see at least the exterior in all its wonderful kitschy glory. Fire officials call the blaze suspicious. Not good.

The gift shop at the caverns has everything you expect from one of these spots.
I didn't go in, but I bet they had stick candy and jackalope piggy banks.
(This is the building that burned down.) :(

Even the caverns had golden trout, somewhere behind this decaying fence.
I'm pretty sure there's no coral occurring naturally in the Monongahela Forest...

Old barn across the road from the cabin property,
at the start of the road up to Dolly Sods...

Small cemetery in Petersburg. The town was founded in 1745,
and there are some lovely old headstones...

Sallie here died in 1859. Hers was the oldest headstone I could read.
The bottom text is the Psalm 73:26...

This interesting roofing style is found throughout the town of Petersburg.
Not sure of the significance, but it's lovely...

Outside the local grocery store. I saw these posters all over the place.
"After all - if you're gun's loaded, shouldn't you be, too?"

Still only twenty-five cents! Ride 'em, cowboy!!

I like how it looks as if he's racing his own shadow...

A view of a raging autumn mountainside in Dolly Sods...

That same hillside, only 30 seconds later, as the sun dropped suddenly from the sky.
Seriously, the sun doesn't set out here, it plummets!

Whooooooo!
I made it down the cabin steps without screaming in agony!
Hallelujah!

Country Roads

2009-11-07T14:33:00.006-05:00

Just got back to suburbia yesterday afternoon, after a few much-needed days off in rural West Virginia. I'll write about it later, but here's a little visual taste of the week:

Off to celebrate a friend's birthday. More words and better pictures later...

44

2009-10-31T22:52:00.007-04:00

So, I turn 44 in a few hours. Whooooo.

My mother was 44 years old when I was born. I'm so damn tired most days, I have no idea how the hell she dealt with a newborn *and* eight other children at the same time. Okay, so my oldest sister was 20 by then, so maybe you can discount her as a "child" at that point, but still...

Hard to believe I've made it this far with so little to show for it. No marriage or children. No house. A (recent) series of crashed cars and nasty spinal injuries. A job at a place I love, but with the same career trajectory as the little mountain climber in the Price Is Right "Cliffhangers" game.

Figure 1: Merujo

Figure 2: Merujo's career path

Okay, I'm exaggerating, but I honestly thought I'd be a little higher on the food chain by now.

*Sigh*

Then again, don't we all? I mean, here I am TWENTY years ago:

Me, on the steps of the Lenin Library, near Red Square, Moscow

Now, that girl was going places! Of course, I killed so many brain cells on cheap vodka and champagne over the course of four years in Mutha Russia, I probably derailed the My Brilliant Career gravy train without ever noticing.

BTW, here is a short list of jobs I've turned down over the years:

1. Moving company manager for all of Mutha Russia (too many foreign business folks found dead in ditches back then to make it attractive)
2. Russian heavy metal lyric translator in London (seriously - that job was offered to me at the bar in the Hard Rock Cafe on my 21st birthday in 1986 by a producer from Island Records - should have taken it, but I think my mother would have killed me for not finishing my college degree)
3. Hooker. (That was in Central Asia. And I'm still not sure if the offer was to really be a hooker or just a third wife or something similiar...)

Ah well. All water under the bridge. (Or flooding it, crushing it, and dragging it down river.) I may not have a very upwardly mobile job these days, but I work with some seriously awesome people at a really amazing place. And we have our own theme music. By Elmer Bernstein, no less! (And yeah, that music still gives me chills like it did when I was a little kid.)

And so, here I am. Still alive. Still kickin'. Kinda. If you count limping and screaming "OW OW OW" as you go "kickin'"...

I'm hoping for a very good birthday tomorrow. No party. No cake. But I am going off the grid for a few days. No Facebook beyond sending a few birthday greetings of my own in the morning, no rampant Twittering. It's Alone Time for Merujo. Hopefully, by the end of the week, I'll have tapped out a good number of words, some of which may lead down a very intriguing path. One I'll tell you about later, if it pans out.

And, if my back (which has caused me a lot of pain and tears this week) decides to cooperate, maybe I'll do a little hiking and archery.

Yes, archery.

Me, with sharp, pointy sticks. Alert the media. And the police. And the paramedics.

Later, gators. See you in a week, more or less.

Mama needs to find some airfare to travel this flat earth...

2009-10-21T21:03:00.004-04:00

Okay, kids - I need suggestions. I just don't think turning tricks at 14th & K is going to cut it. See, there's this thing coming up in the UK in February of next year, and damn, I'd kill to go. I know my name's on the guest list, if only I could find the moolah to go.

So, short of specialty acts of prostitution or building my own meth lab, how does a girl with a job with quirky deadlines that precludes weekends working the register at Kohl's find a few hundred bucks?

Mama needs a seat on a plane to her old home, London town. I haven't left this country in years, which feels really weird, and I need to commune with my music and my city.

All reasonable suggestions entertained.

Attention, World Bank Employees!

2009-10-13T21:03:00.011-04:00

Hello, gentle scholars and economists,

I'm sure you do a lot of good during the workday, fighting corruption, improving infrastructure, and eradicating poverty, one nanny tax payment at a time. You guys have big brains. I know this to be true.

But can you tell me, dear men and women of high education and lofty goals, why you insist on walking through Pennsylvania Avenue against the light, often through the middle of traffic, at the end of the day? Are your beautiful minds simply so overwhelmed with Great Thoughts that the colors red and green lose all meaning? Have you somehow been brainwashed to believe that the big red palm on the traffic light pole means "come forward, my children, no one shall strike you?"

Or, more to the point, are you really that dumb?

Why on earth do you risk not only your lives, but those of the drivers who have to dodge you as you break the laws of DC (and common sense)?

Honestly, if you don't care that much for your own health and safety, at least be courteous enough to think about the rest of us. I *really* don't want to be in a decade of therapy because I accidentally mowed down an errant Ph.D. doing the headless chicken stroll in the fast-falling autumn darkness.

(Insert your own "why did the economist cross the road" joke here.)

Admittedly, it's not only World Bank peeps who pull this crap in downtown DC. And everyone who pulls crap like this is an arrogant menace. But since I have to go through the intersection of Pennsylvania & 18th just about every evening, it's y'all, with your World Bank ID badges fluttering in the breeze, that annoy me the most.

Tonight, I almost killed one of you guys.

This dude was yammering on a cell, mindlessly bolting partway into, partway back, partway into Pennsylvania Avenue, dressed in black, after sunset, in the middle of the damn block. And when I had to slam on my brakes and honk at him, as he continued to chat away with great self-importance and very little self-awareness, he did at least stop momentarily to give me a rude gesture very recognizable to this former Moscow dweller. And, in return, I called him something colorfully naughty in Russian*

Now, what I yelled wasn't very nice, but neither was his gesture - or his efforts to needlessly make himself a moving target in the center of the bloody street! (I do appreciate that he noticed my effort to make a culturally- and linguistically-appropriate response to his stupidity.)

Here are some handy hints (that you are ALL old enough to already know):

1. Walk with the light - this is not brain surgery. If you decide to stroll out into traffic when a Hummer is five feet away from you, the Hummer will win. Without even trying. Or wanting to win.
2. Once you've mastered that red/green shift, cross in the damn crosswalk. They went to the trouble to paint lines for you, the least you can do is use them.
2. If you are Crackberry-addicted, take a break from the pipe. Stop texting long enough to look up and make sure you're walking with the light, Carol Anne.
3. Treat drivers and bicyclists with the same respect you want for yourself - follow the rules small children are taught about crossing the street, eh?**

Now, I believe most World Bank folk to be people with common sense and an awareness of their surroundings. Heck, I count World Bank people among my dearest friends. But to the Penn & 18th dorks I say this: you are smart people. Don't be tools. Knock off the dumb and dangerous stuff.

And stop crossing on the red at H & 18th, too. It's uncool, okay?

*I shall refrain from sharing my crude Russian obscenity of choice here, but it was a goodie, trust me...

**Although I think World Bank employees are exempt from holding hands when crossing the street...

Breathe in, breathe out, scream loudly

2009-10-11T15:49:00.007-04:00

Oh, my god, the pain.

The excruciatingly horrible pain.

The pain that makes you wonder just what the hell *really* is deeply wrong with dungeon-dwelling masochists. The pain that makes you want to bolt and run for the door.

But, you don't because, you know, this is goooood for you.

Right?

Riiiiight.

Plus, you can't get up. No, really. You can't get up.

Welcome to Foot Massage Hell.

I've had reflexology before. Many times. My preferred foot-rubbing spot? Elaj Aveda Day Spa in King Farm, up in Rockville. There is a wonderful massage therapist there by the name of Christine, and she is amazing. I don't know what deal she made with otherworldly powers to get those healing hands, but the woman has a gift.

Unfortunately, I can't really afford her services very often. Let's just say this: it's not cheap, and the likelihood I'll be snagging myself a sweet sugar daddy anytime soon (or ever) is somewhere between zero and nil.

So, I save my pennies and go once every blue moon for 30 minutes of pedi-rapture.

Until today.

I cheated on my massage therapist.

The local coupon clipper circular came in the mail, and there was a discount screaming my name. Big bucks off reflexology in a spot just a hop, skip, and a jump from Chez Merde! And let's face it, Ms. Empty Pockets cannot pass up a bargain - especially a bargain that promised happy tootsies and a general sense of well-being.

I mean, after all, that's the feeling I always had leaving my regular-when-I-can-afford-it foot fiesta.

Oh my.

I guess the truth is, I've never really had serious, bad-ass, Chinese sports trainer-style reflexology before. My spa massages were, well, spa-like. Mellow. Gentle.

Screw that today.

My reflexologist met me at the door, and before he'd even ushered me to the big comfy recliner, he'd offered to come do any future appointments at my home. "You take a hot shower, you stretch out, we do full body massage and reflexology. Then, you sleep." I just smiled and made one of those noncommittal mumbles we all do when faced with friendly uncertainty and the desire to not be openly rude. ("Oh, Merujo, we just love your company! I'm making a headcheese coffee cake next Saturday. Never had one? Oh, well you'll adore it! You *must* come!" Mumble smile mumble.)

Today was just gonna be a shake down cruise. We'd see how the first session went. The price could not be beat, that much was certain.

The lights were turned off, and just the ambient light filtered through the windows. Chinese pan flute muzak played from a small boombox - I couldn't tell after a while if it was just one continuous track or actual separate songs. Soon, though, you'll understand why I couldn't give a crap.

He started by massaging my face. I told him I had pain in my shoulder and wrist from a car accident, but I think he didn't understand me. What he got out of what I said was, apparently, please dig your fingers deep into my left shoulder and right wrist until I shriek in agony.

Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.

He managed to dip his thumb directly into the hollow of my right wrist, just at the point where the bone had snapped and, despite the high loft ceilings, I made one hell of a leap toward the rafters.

Holyshitfuckohfuckohshitohcrapohstopohgod
jesuschristinachickenbasketSTOP!

That hurt. A lot.

Small tears drifted down my face.

"It's good, yeah? How you feeling?"

"I think that's enough on my hands and shoulders, thank you," I told him, gulping for air. "Please, you must be gentle. Car accident injuries." Then I pointed out the rusty nail injury to my left foot, the result of a No Good Deed Goes Unpunished moment when I stepped onto a remarkably long, rusty nail while on a healthy morning walk a few weeks ago. "You have to work around that," I said. "Don't touch that area, please!"

HAHAHAHAHA.

What the hell was I thinking?

What proceeded to happen was thirty minutes of paralyzing pain, percussive hits to feet, legs, and knees (yes, god, knees!), and something that went far beyond deep tissue massage into the realm of instrument-free surgery. My legs had locked up and my glutes were clenched like I'd been trapped in some Rube Goldberg mix of bear trap and ThighMaster. Literally, I couldn't catch my breath enough to complain.

I had started out with my deep breathing work before his hands hit my body, but soon, those deep breaths would turn ragged, and eventually turn into something rhythmic that would make any Lamaze instructor proud. Seriously, I went from "deep cleansing breaths" to "hee hee hooo, hee hee hooooooo" and thoughts ran through my head that this was probably fairly close to what labor felt like, just a few inches to the north.

It's kinda, sorta funny now, but then the words "women go through labor every day all around the planet, I can hack this" went through my skull over and over and over again, all while that goddamn Zamfir-meets-Crouching-Tiger bullshit calming music played like a sick joke in the background. I was nearing some sort of out of body state when I suddenly realized he had stopped the assault on my limbs and had started clipping my toenails.

WTF?

"What are you doing?!?" I wheezed at him.

"Pedicure now?" He smiled from what felt like a thousand miles away.

"Jesus, no," I panted. "No pedicure. We're done, right?"

He stopped and said, "Okay, how you feeling?"

I didn't have words. I mean, literally, I didn't have words. And, for the love of Pete, all of you know that's about as rare as an albino panda.

I just wanted the room to stop spinning, my hand to stop throbbing, and the linguini that used to be my legs and feet to regain solidity.

As I regained my senses, the guy told me in broken English that he had been a trainer with a national sports team in China. And before that, he was a doctor.

A doctor.

Jesus.

And yet, here he was, sitting at the feet of some random fat broad in the DC suburbs, downstairs from a nail salon.

He did this to support his daughter and her dreams in America. That's dedication. And love. And, despite the pain he'd just unloaded on me, inspiring.

But, dear lord, I wish he and I could have understood each other a little better. My right wrist is still screaming at me 12 hours later, my left shoulder would leave town if it could, and my previously rusty-nail injured foot has won Most Likely to Keep Merujo Awake Tonight.

Will I go back for more? Oh, hell no! Right now, I need gentle. Nothing world-class. Just something soothing, please. When my penny pile rises to the level that I can visit my sweet-handed masseuse in Rockville, I'll be there.

Now, here's the deal: had I known I would be getting pretty much an Olympic-class sports massage, I would have been mentally prepared for it. When I traveled in Central Asia on business, I often stopped at the national sports stadiums in the capital cities. Many of the trainers had previously worked for various Soviet Olympic teams, and they were thrown to the wolves when the Soviet Union collapsed. For a ridiculously low fee (but one that was more than a month's salary there), you could get a fantastic sports massage designed for a world class athlete.

But this morning, all Ms. Wimptastica wanted was a gentle, toxin-cleansing foot rub. I was not mentally prepared to be twisted into a bloated pretzel in an overstuffed armchair.

If any of you are looking for a really fierce, skin-twisting massage (or you're just into pain), let me know, and I'll give you the specifics of this morning's location. But you won't find me there, gorked out on a bizarre high of some shaman-ish elemental pain.

I'll be drinking tea and listening to seagulls at the spa, thanks.

Can I get that "Biggie" size?

2009-10-10T20:40:00.008-04:00

It never fails. I know better than to linger in a Wendy's parking lot.

You may remember my previous encounters: chili-crazed squirrel attack, hot steamy Latin luvin', the rat perched on the ordering screen...

Yeah, you know I know better.

All I wanted was a Coke Zero. A big, icy cold cup of (probably) kidney-killing diet crack. And I wanted to read over the ads in the Sunday Washington Post. (I read the Post online, but I buy the big Sunday bundle for coupons and to read Date Lab. Oh, and Date Lab? That requires a whole blog post unto itself. As in, what should you think when a co-worker appears in Date Lab and expresses a dislike for people who look like you? As in, how do you interact with someone who has given a "no fat chicks" statement to a newspaper he has to know most of the Metro area is going to see? Like I said, that requires a lot more words than a mere parenthetical aside.)

So, there I was, diggin' the sweet, sweet breeze in the Wendy's lot, sippin' on my Zero, flipping through the Target circular, lovin' autumn, when a spoileriffic Honda zips in a couple of spaces down from me. The lot was completely empty, by the way, when I pulled in. The Fast-and-Furious, pimped out, street racer-ish Honda just had to Tokyo drift itself into the only row with anyone in it.

Of course.

As the car doors opened, I noticed the driver was Ed Hardy-garbed from head to toe - a young Latino guy sporting the Jon "early middle-age crisis" Gosselin look - and the chica who slid from passenger seat was in jeans painted on so tightly, I was astounded she could move (or had circulation in) her legs. A couple of minutes passed as I glossed through the opinion section of the paper (was the Nobel Prize selection committee smoking crack? did they bring enough to share?) and I realized the Honda duo hadn't managed to leave the lot. They were caught in up a passionate clinch that had apparently bypassed G, PG, and most of R on the way to letters way up in the alphabet.

Whatever.

The breeze had picked up. Maybe they'd just found a good way to raise internal body temperatures.

There was much giggling, and then it seemed they were leaving. And the Hardy Boy was letting the little lady get behind the wheel.

Putting down the Style Section after a few minutes, I realized the couple hadn't left. Both the driver and passenger doors were open, and the dude lolled back in the passenger seat, one leg stretched out to the ground.

But the chiquita? She was driving, all right. And apparently, she knew how to drive manual.

Really well.

She was, uh, working the stick.

Polishing the gear shift knob.

Upsizing his combo.

Getting him a triple beef patty.

With everything on it.

And I really, really, REALLY didn't need to see the beef in question.

But I did.

And it will be the stuff of nightmares for many nights to come.

Guys, seriously - hand jobs, blow jobs, and just about any other job of an intimate nature in a fast food parking lot at 4 in the afternoon? {{{shudder}}} JUST. SAY. NOOOOOOOOO!

All I can say is this - I think I'll be avoiding any beef products at Wendy's for a while.

Somebody, hand me the TUMS...

Farragut North. Wednesday, 6:30 p.m.

2009-09-17T20:03:00.008-04:00

Ah, Metro.

Ahhh, Farragut North.

I will admit, it's convenient to work and there is adequate seating for gimps like me. But the surface elevator is a constant swirl of urine and B.O. (no, seriously), and most of the commuters would rather have bamboo shivs run through their eye sockets that interact with the rest of the humans littering the platform.

I wait through lines of sardine-tinned six-car trains, hoping to win a seat in the eight-car lottery. I usually end up planting myself on a Shady Grove-bound train under a panel dripping some H1N1/West Nile-ish substance. Gee, no wonder no one else claimed this spot! The reluctance of many to sit in the last car on the train can grant some peace at the end of the day. If you're willing to spin the Big Wheel of Metro Safety, that is.

While I wait for a ride that isn't packed like a Tokyo commuter special, I sit and observe the patterns. Not the human ones. They have no order at the end of a long day. When there is Human Habitrail chaos around you, and the air is thick and sweaty enough to be a tangible miasma, there is a measure of calm in the geometry of the concrete. Cool and orderly.

And even a little photogenic.

Ahh.

Selling domain names - any advice?

2009-09-15T07:05:00.000-04:00

I'm looking to sell my two domains (askcrc.com and crstudios.com) from my old days as a consultant and a failed crafty-type businessperson.

Any readers with any advice or recommendations for venues or techniques for selling a domain?

Muchas gracias,

Merujo

Neon Mojo

2009-09-05T23:48:00.010-04:00

My neon mojo seems to be on vacation right now. I got a lot of blurry and crappy shots tonight. Maybe I'm just rusty. Or maybe I just should cut myself a little slack. I haven't shot any neon in months, I'm rusty, a little tired, and my eyes hurt from trying to get used to my new eyeglasses today. Also, I shot all of these from inside my Enterprise $9.99/day weekend cheapy rental car. Everywhere I went there were freaky people, and I really didn't want to engage with them.

Oh, excuses, excuses.

Well, it was short trip tonight, but I'm still taking baby steps coming back...

This was a jewelry store in a really crappy strip mall in Gaithersburg,
next to a place called "Starvin' Marvin Pizza." This sign reads "Importers."
Even without my shaky hand, you can barely read it.

Love the neon, but the entryway debris doesn't really encourage me
to buy my next bouquet from them...

Ah, what would a Maryland Saturday night be without a keg and some keno?

This dentist's sign totally cracks me up.
The tooth has lips, but no teeth of its own.
Ponder that one, kids.

I know this sign says "A and S Salon."
But every single time I drive past this place, I misread the ampersand.
It will always be the ASS SALON to me.

These are just the hanging lamps at a Jerry's Subs & Pizza.
I kinda dig how they came out, a little blurred.
Nice, warm colors and soft shapes.

Okay, enough for tonight. I promise, I will try harder next time. I saw a sign for a hookah bar and a cactus wearing a sombrero, advertising fajitas, so I *haveta* go back out and try again.

G'night, kids!

I Suck at Poetry: the Autumn is A-Comin' Edition

2009-08-30T23:55:00.008-04:00

Yes, I know I suck at poetry. But ever since I was a kid, I've had these moments where words well up in my brain, but make no sense in narrative prose. And so, even though I do suck at it, I write verse. Free verse. If you can tolerate reading this, you'll see it's... uh... very free verse. No form, no rhyme, a little reason.

(And in the darkness, some aging dude with a bandanna wrapped around his forehead flicks open his Zippo, holds it to the sky and cries, "Play free verse!")

In my head, it started out as a cheerful burst of autumn tribute. Then, it kinda went all Stephen King-y. Go figure. Like I said, I suck at poetry.

summer steam
and swelter
dried and crushed
under heel

that first crisp night
of autumn

it’s here.

that ray bradbury time
when youth turns sour
and age grows painful

the midways close
the fairs leave town
their carnival wake scented, cloying
with fried sugar dough
and animal musk

they leave deep furrows
in the brow of the soil and
crime scene trails of
sno-cone debris

paper cups stained blue
with summer’s blood
that turn and drag in the wind

the wind

the wind that’s
a little cooler
than the day
before

as summer gasps
and school returns
and childhood dies a little bit
each time the leaves run riot
in orange
gold and red

the air smells of leaf fires
baked goods and pumpkins
and elmer’s glue
stuck between
short, fat fingers and
construction paper

small-town cheerleaders shine in
a bonnie bell bonfire glow
while the football players leer
from a homecoming float

corn-fed pulchritude

firm and young and ripe
for the picking
for the harvest

before the snap
and the chill

and winter
comes

One of those dry heave moments

2009-08-23T02:14:00.006-04:00

Okay, so the insomnia monster is eating my brain again tonight. It's nowhere near as bad as the summer of 2005 (also known as the "Summer of the Axe" or the "Summer of Someday I'll Look Back on All This and Laugh. Maybe.") That said, the not sleeping at night thing blows.

And here I am, surfing the 'Net. I should be working on the final pieces of a big personal project, but I don't want to get my brain even more revved up than it already is at 2:15 in the blessed a.m. So, I opt for something brainless - the Bubble Spinner game over at eBaum's World. Addictive, mindless, perfect.

Except, tonight (well, this morning, actually) there's an ad on the side of the page.

An ad featuring a body part.

An ad that morphs into another image of said body part.

And I'm not wearing my glasses, and in that first split second, I mistake the body part shown for... well... another body part.

You'll have to cut me some slack - remember my depth perception is shot, and that plus no eyeglasses = horror.

I was so grossed out by what I thought I saw, it actually made me dry heave. I hope that the advertisers - Old Spice - didn't intend for anyone to make the same error.

Because, frankly, a hoo-hah this unkempt would be astounding gross. An unkempt hoo-hah that "rains popcorn"? Even more disgusting:

Enlarge image at your own peril...

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. It's an armpit, Merujo, you blind moron! Now that I have my eyeglasses on, I'm painfully well aware that it's an armpit. And yes, had it been the body part I thought it was, it would be terribly misshapen. (And braidable.) And yes, isn't it wonderful that Old Spice is making a product that will save a hairy pit from lots of creepy residue?

Still gross. Still looks like it's raining popcorn.

And honestly, none of your body parts should be doing that.

Happy nightmares, everyone! And if you think of this next time you're at a movie theatre concession stand, you can thank me for saving you a chunk of money and a belly full of carbs.

Creeping back into the sunlight

2009-08-15T23:07:00.005-04:00

Hello, friends.

It's been a while, no?

Things just weren't all that great for yours truly. June and July swirled together into one miserable, feverish blur - one I'd rather forget.

After a considerable sabbatical, my sense of humor is slowly returning. I'm still a little hesitant to write much here. To be honest, my plate away from the blog is pretty full right now. More on that later. But, tonight, I wanted to make some baby steps back into the groove.

So, consider this Baby Step #1.

For the first time in months, I took some photos today. I was out with the Sasquatch and the Atomic Editor, and while they did a little bit of geekly male bonding in a comics shop, I sat outside and tried to remember how to use my little camera.

These aren't very good photos. I'm not a very good photographer.

That said, I'd like to think there's perhaps something a little metaphorical here, or at the very least symbolic, of my slow return at the height of summer.

Or that could just be a load of pretentious BS.

Eh, BS or not, the plants were pretty:

It's a start, right?

I don't know if anyone is still stopping by anymore, but just in case, thanks. Good to be back.

Just checking in

2009-06-25T23:31:00.002-04:00

Hi folks.

I can't type much right now, so this will be very short. I was in a car accident a week ago Tuesday. Don't really want to talk about it. Makes me very upset, for a variety of reasons. Not sure that I'll write any more than this about the event.

My right wrist is broken, but I had five grant proposal deadlines (all were due today) and I haven't really been able to rest the hand at all. Can't lie. I'm very depressed right now. I'll be back here when I'm feeling less crappy and have a little more hope in my heart.

Thanks to all my lovely friends who have written or called. I am grateful. Please consider this a universal hug to you all. Please know that I'll contact you when I'm feeling a little better.

Merujo

Once more, with (incredibly painful) feeling!

2009-06-11T22:41:00.006-04:00

My bad eye decided to act up over the weekend. I've had to use drops that muck up my vision, and I've been sitting in my office this week with shades and headphones, looking like Stevie Wonder's less-talented, white cousin.

Problem with the eye is that my depth perception is even more nonexistent right now, and yesterday morning, navigating that dangerous three-inch drop from the sidewalk to the street by my car, I took a major header, full speed, into the cement. Landed on my knees, full force. Caught myself with my hands before my head could hit the pavement. I would like to blame this incident on the ferocious nature of the "Attack Pavement" in my 'hood, but, alas, it can only be blamed on me, my mucked up eye, and my general clumsiness.

I'm really glad none of the neighbors saw me face down in the road. That's just not the image you want burned into everyone's mind.

To paraphrase the narrator from "A Christmas Story", I lay there like a slug. A slug in smart work attire, clutching a bottle of raspberry seltzer water. (That bottle would be put to good use as a temporary ice pack.) A slug wishing that she hadn't just fallen off a THREE-INCH curb.

Seriously, shoot me now.

My entire body started to throb. My damn tailbone hurt! How the heck does your tailbone hurt when you've faceplanted yourself? Referred pain is, especially in this case, a serious pain in the butt!

Now, at this point, a sane person would have just crawled back to the apartment rather than go in to the office.

But when's the last time someone described me as sane?

Right.

When I got downtown, it took me five minutes to get out of my car at the parking garage. I think the valets wanted to kill me as I held up their rush hour parking work, but I just couldn't move. (Sorry, guys!) After gimping to the office, one of my colleagues noticed I was incredibly pale. When I rather ungracefully pulled up a trouser leg and showed her my ginormous, shiny knee, she almost heaved in the hallway. I hope she'd had breakfast already!

I had to get myself psyched to make the hobble down to our Med Unit in the basement of the building. Our office was in the midst of the annual Explorers Symposium, so there really wasn't anyone I could bug to go downstairs on my behalf. I was very appreciative that the Med Unit nurse had a bunch of crushable single-use ice packs for me to apply throughout the day.

I was bummed to miss the Symposium - there were a lot of cool presentations. At least I got a good amount of work done in my cone of silence, with the door closed and ice packs shifting all over the place. But, by about 4 p.m., my entire left leg had turned into an unhappy, throbbing, mottled tree trunk, and I had to take off my watch to accommodate my left hand, which was rapidly turning into a Macy's parade balloon. Yes, it was very pretty.

By the time I got home, I was a ball of misery. Took me twenty minutes to get brave enough to step out of the car onto my left foot. My knee was going in and out, and I had this horror of falling down again in the exact same spot.

Long story short (I know, too late for that) after a trip to the doc and the ER this morning: I sprained both ankles, my left knee, my left wrist and my left shoulder, and tore a ligament in the left knee.

I spent the day today at home. Not working from home. Just at home. Sleeping, icing various body parts, grumbling. I'm up now, since I need more water and the computer chair is currently conveniently located between the sofa and the kitchen.

Warning to coworkers: my sense of humor may be greatly impaired tomorrow. I will try to keep my tooth-grinding crankiness to myself.

Do they make full-body ice packs? Not sure one large enough for my person would even fit in my freezer!

Oy vey.

Huzzah for the Sasquatch!

2009-06-07T20:37:00.012-04:00

This has been quite the eventful couple of weeks for my dear friend, the Sasquatch. After three years of balancing a full-time job and a graduate education, the shy arboreal creature received his MFA in Graphic Design from the Savannah College of Art & Design. I'm very proud of him. I think it's a remarkable achievement to graduate with academic honors while pulling down a 40+ hour week in a hectic, demanding workplace.

While I could not be down in Georgia to see him be honored in person, I was able to watch the events unfold on the SCAD website. That was very cool. I was even able to snap a screen capture of the moment of the diploma handshake. However, since the Sasquatch is a modest sort, I will not share the image here. Instead, enjoy this artist's rendering of his graduation:

With a sense of purpose and determination, the Sasquatch lumbers across the stage at the civic center in Savannah, gnarled (but talented) hand outstretched to accept his well-deserved SCAD MFA diploma...

Fine work, Sasquatch, my friend. Fine work, indeed. You rawk!

This weekend brought his birthday, and, as part of the celebration, we headed to Wolftrap last night to catch DeVotchKa and David Byrne. Truth be told, we were really there to hear DeVotchKa play. David Byrne, despite being the headliner, was an afterthought.

We discovered DeVotchKa one night on the car radio, and we were so captivated, we just sat in my jalopy for half an hour, listening and listening. The music is a blend of gypsy and Mexican, Eastern European and Latin, sung in whatever language is most appropriate. The musicians are all multiple threats, each playing at least two instruments, from mandolins and guitars to trumpets and sousaphone to standing bass and theremin. Yep, theremin. I highly recomment their CD "How It Ends" as a way to begin.

Here's a track from that recording, called "The Enemy Guns", performed live on KCRW's "Morning Becomes Eclectic" show:

Dig it? I bet you did.

We brought a blanket and a tarp for the saturated hillside of the Wolftrap lawn, and cold fried chicken and Amish salads for our bellies. The Sasquatch raced ahead of me to stake out a spot on the grass. He did exceptionally well. On a night where the lawn would become clogged with happy punters, we had a fabulous view of the stage. We also had, by chance, plopped down one blanket away from the ever-kind and cool Frank Warren of PostSecret fame. It was a real pleasure to see Frank, as always. He's a real sweetheart, utterly mellow, and we were pleased to give him scoop on DeVotchKa, whose music he didn't know.

A rare, non-blurry photograph of the Sasquatch.
He can be slowed down and recorded only when tempted
with chilled, dark-meat KFC and the promise of remarkable music.

We ate, we rocked out to the band we were excited to see (DeVotchKa got a standing O from the audience - how often do you see that for an opening act?!?), and we really enjoyed David Byrne, too. The Sasquatch would do more justice to describing the wonderfully simple, but effective design of the show (performers all in white, with revolving panels of color behind), so I'll just say it was quite good. Heck, it even had choreography!

All in all, it was a good night. There were points when I just lay down on the grass (well, on my wonderfully cheesy Moline Maroons blanket) and looked up at the heavens, watching the stars slowly come into view over the Filene Center. For a little while, the world was as small as that hillside. No back pain, no worries. Just good music and a good friend.

I wish, as grown-ups, we could have more evenings like that. Music. Friends. Cold fried chicken. It's a little piece of bliss.

Thank you, Sasquatch, for letting me be part of your birthday. And congratulations to you for your admirable academic achievement. The world is your oyster, my friend. Time for you to belly up to the graphic design raw bar!

(It made sense in my head.)

Sometimes PostSecret hits too close to home

2009-05-31T20:27:00.010-04:00

I'm very late today in getting my weekly PostSecret fix. I've been taking it easy most of the weekend because the spine has been hurting so very badly. There's been a lot of extra power lounging the past two days, despite me having a good amount of stuff to get through. Finally did laundry today (and I'm sure my coworkers will be happy to know that) and got the dishes done. I still have a bag of cherries in the fridge, dying to be turned into another clafoutis, and we'll see if I have the oomph to get one done this evening.

But, as usual, I digress...

I went to visit PostSecret, and among the postcards Frank put up today was this one:

I actually said "awww, no" out loud and then, I nearly cried. With a little editing, that could have been me writing the card.

Longtime readers of my blog know that I had a very... challenging... relationship with my father. Put simply, he didn't like me much. When I left for college, I was sad to leave my mother behind, but relieved to no longer be living with my father, someone who disliked my presence quite a bit. Even though it probably wasn't possible, I still wanted this man to - if not love me - at least like me. It left me with a lingering, almost perverse, desire to please people - a desire I'm still fighting to leave behind today. Approval, affection... things I craved as a child and still wish for today.

My first semester in college I heard about an Irish import store near downtown St. Paul, Minnesota. My father was mildly obsessed with his Irish and Scottish heritage and listened to Celtic music all the time. He even had a multi-LP set of bagpipe music. Who buys a SET of bagpipe LPs? My father did.

Now, my arrival at college coincided with the popularity of the music of Clannad hitting American shores. As soon as you heard the ethereal sound of Maire Brennan (Enya's sister), you knew eventually you'd be hearing the group on "A Prairie Home Companion" and seeing them in concert on years and years of PBS fundraising drives. And my father really dug the first cassette of theirs he'd found in a local music shop. At this point, my hometown of Moline, Illinois wasn't exactly a music mecca (it didn't have the Mark of the Quad Cities - now known as the "i wireless Center", apparently - back then) and you had to special order more obscure music that wasn't on Casey Kasem's radar or being played on our local NPR station. I can't think of a single used music store in the area back then, come to think of it.

Yeah, in the 70s and 80s, I lived under a rock.

So, when I got to the Twin Cities in 1984, I felt like I'd reached musical Nirvana. I nearly lived at the Cheapo's record store down the street from Macalester. I went from, if not zero, ten to sixty in a very short time. It helped that I had friends whose musical boundaries were already much wider than mine. Seriously, I came to college with a cassette of Alan Parsons Project's "Turn of a Friendly Card" (store-bought) and another of Thomas Dolby's "Golden Age of Wireless" with some Michael Praetorius on the flip side (taped for me from LP by my friend HoyaMeb).

Michael Praetorius. (Not Thomas Dolby.)

So, when I heard there was this little Irish gift shop down Grand Avenue a few bus stops from the college, I decided I should take a trek there and see if they had any other Clannad music to send back home. Yet another step on my flat-footed journey to fatherly approval.

I was thrilled to death to find they had two Clannad cassettes my father didn't own. They looked pretty crappy in a "our band produced these in the basement of the family home in County Donegal and our cousin made the cover inserts on a color copier" way - these recordings clearly pre-dated Clannad's success, riding the crest of the Irish music wave in the 'States. I bought them both and took them back to my dorm room. I remember agonizing over the letter I wrote with the two cassettes. I hoped Dad would enjoy them. Maybe Dad would call me and let me know what he thought. Maybe I could go see the Chieftans with Dad if they were playing in town the next time I came home.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

I rubberbanded my letter around the two cassettes and sent off the little parcel.

I never heard from him.

Mom said the package had arrived.

But that was it.

A few years later, after Dad died, I was going through a junk box in the basement. In the middle of some flood damaged papers I found the parcel I'd sent to my father. The letter was still rubberbanded to the cassettes. It had never been taken out of its envelope. I broke off the yellowed, brittle band and saw that the cassettes were still wrapped in their factory cellophane. He'd never listened to them. Never opened the letter. Just tossed it aside.

I threw it all out.

I wonder if he would have tossed it aside had I handed to him in person. Would he have given it back to me, unopened, like the girl in today's PostSecret?

I don't know.

But I know that familiar feeling of loss. That familiar belief that I'm not worthy. When I think of my father, I often hear a song in my head. It's Morrissey, singing "I know I'm unloveable. You don't have to tell me." It's hard to not feel that way - as a little girl, as a teenager, as an adult woman - when the first man in your life, your father, finds you so unpleasant.

It would be good to feel loveable in this life. I'm still looking for someone who sees me that way. Someone who will tell me that.

I don't have much in my life. But take it, it's yours.

I hope that girl found someone who took that mix tape and listened to it.

We all need someone like that.

Yum.

2009-05-25T21:00:00.002-04:00