Something odd that happens to me from time to time has just come up again.
I cannot STAND to be talked to.
I feel I should elaborate, because it probably seems conceited or something. I'm sitting in my office, working on stuff, and one of my best friends stopped by for a visit, but I couldn't listen to anything he said. And Dustin is here today, and I haven't seen him in ages and who knows when I will again, and I can't stand it. It's not that I don't want to see either of them, I would just rather enjoy their company by sitting in silence with them. Like maybe presence is enough, and anything else is TOO much.
Seriously, anyone in the world could show up today...John Cusack, Corey Feldman, Jesus....and I would not be able to listen to them talking because I really just want solitude, though it could easily be with someone else in the room. Does that make sense? No, it doesn't.
On days such as this, I should leave my phone at home, lock my work door, and wear some sort of sign that says, " I have a bizarre pathology and anything you say to me today will not stick in any fashion because even though I am looking at you, smiling and nodding, I am really just waiting for you to go away and leave me alone. In fact, I hate you for speaking right now. "
However, I don't want to be alone. I want to be in public, I just don't want to be PART of it. I don't wish to be addressed, nor do I wish to talk, though I am enjoying very much being around people. Which is why it is a good Benson day. He takes the spotlight off of whomever is around him, and every once in a while, it's nice to be part of someone's entourage instead of maintaining an individual identity.
On days like today, the only person I can stand is Kevin. He gets it and we cover for each other when either one of us experiences this odd emotional phenomenon. How do you get people to not take it personally that you can't stand to listen to them? I mean, if someone said to me, "Look, Bridge, it's not that I don't value what you're saying, I just absolutely cannot stand anyone today and your voice is like giant picky spiders crawling up my back," I might could get offended by that, yeah? Hmm.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
And then there's Maude...
For some reason, I woke up this morning with the theme song from Maude in my head, but it was the Family Guy version, and I don't know the words at all, so basically, I am just walking around the office today saying, "And then there's Maude, dammit!"
My life as if it were a game of Jeopardy!:
Alex Trebek: Five thousand dollars.
Me: What is the price to fix my basement! Yes!!
Alex Trebek: Correct.
Me: I'll take Bad News For My Entire Future Career, please.
Alex: Cumulus took a giant hit in the market and is laying off countless people in countless markets, as well as instituting a hiring freeze corporation-wide.
Me: What is the reason I am not getting the job in Green Bay, Alex?
Alex: Correct!
Me: Whoo!!
Alex: Bridgette, choose again. You have Moles That Look Like They Might Be Skin Cancer, The Most Difficult Part of Quitting Smoking Is Still Ahead of You, or The Bed Is Broken, There's a Terrific Pain in Your Foot, and Other Minor Problems That Seem Insurmountable Today.
Me: Ooh. Let's see...I'll go with the Minor Problems, I think.
Alex: Good Choice. Here's your answer: Homeless, penniless, alone, and without food or needed medication.
Me: I got it! How I'm Gonna Die?!
Alex: Oh, I'm sorry. The question is actually 'December'. 'December' is the question.
Me: That's not a question, it's a month.
Alex: That month is fully IN question for you.
Me: Oh. Okay. Thanks?
I just feel bleak and blah today. And whining, for some reason, is making me feel better. My lungs will not give up the damn infection despite Day #5 of Levaquin, I am out of asthma juice, my basement is f.o.u.l., I loathe my job, I have to bartend tonight until the end of time, I didn't get to my advising appointment today in Iron Mountain, and I am a crabby, crabby girl from nicotine withdrawals.
On the good side, I am Monty-confident today. Kells and I went to get the carpet tubes which will soon be steam pipes running up and down my brilliant set design, and when I stopped by her new house, I saw a very grizzlied-up Mark in a nightdress (I hestitate to label it a gown, as it was mostly a fitted blanket with sleeves and a collar), and for some reason, seeing a normal guy that I know sitting around in an outfit like that, with bedhead and bedbeard reaffirmed my faith in men. Why? No idea. It was just nice to see, I guess.
As for Hween costumes, the Benson is resplendent in his Michael Phelps outfit, and as much as I absolutely love him for his Hween creativity, I just canNOT get into it much in the past few years. I was thinking on a tshirt that says, "I'm a PC and I don't wear costumes", but now I think I might just wear a tshirt that says 'Liberal' on it and then pierce a doll's head with an arrow, bloody up the whole thing and be a 'baby-killing Liberal'.
It seems a little angry, though.
Maybe I'll just be a Liberal. No matter what else, I am definitely going to take a nap. Right now.
My life as if it were a game of Jeopardy!:
Alex Trebek: Five thousand dollars.
Me: What is the price to fix my basement! Yes!!
Alex Trebek: Correct.
Me: I'll take Bad News For My Entire Future Career, please.
Alex: Cumulus took a giant hit in the market and is laying off countless people in countless markets, as well as instituting a hiring freeze corporation-wide.
Me: What is the reason I am not getting the job in Green Bay, Alex?
Alex: Correct!
Me: Whoo!!
Alex: Bridgette, choose again. You have Moles That Look Like They Might Be Skin Cancer, The Most Difficult Part of Quitting Smoking Is Still Ahead of You, or The Bed Is Broken, There's a Terrific Pain in Your Foot, and Other Minor Problems That Seem Insurmountable Today.
Me: Ooh. Let's see...I'll go with the Minor Problems, I think.
Alex: Good Choice. Here's your answer: Homeless, penniless, alone, and without food or needed medication.
Me: I got it! How I'm Gonna Die?!
Alex: Oh, I'm sorry. The question is actually 'December'. 'December' is the question.
Me: That's not a question, it's a month.
Alex: That month is fully IN question for you.
Me: Oh. Okay. Thanks?
I just feel bleak and blah today. And whining, for some reason, is making me feel better. My lungs will not give up the damn infection despite Day #5 of Levaquin, I am out of asthma juice, my basement is f.o.u.l., I loathe my job, I have to bartend tonight until the end of time, I didn't get to my advising appointment today in Iron Mountain, and I am a crabby, crabby girl from nicotine withdrawals.
On the good side, I am Monty-confident today. Kells and I went to get the carpet tubes which will soon be steam pipes running up and down my brilliant set design, and when I stopped by her new house, I saw a very grizzlied-up Mark in a nightdress (I hestitate to label it a gown, as it was mostly a fitted blanket with sleeves and a collar), and for some reason, seeing a normal guy that I know sitting around in an outfit like that, with bedhead and bedbeard reaffirmed my faith in men. Why? No idea. It was just nice to see, I guess.
As for Hween costumes, the Benson is resplendent in his Michael Phelps outfit, and as much as I absolutely love him for his Hween creativity, I just canNOT get into it much in the past few years. I was thinking on a tshirt that says, "I'm a PC and I don't wear costumes", but now I think I might just wear a tshirt that says 'Liberal' on it and then pierce a doll's head with an arrow, bloody up the whole thing and be a 'baby-killing Liberal'.
It seems a little angry, though.
Maybe I'll just be a Liberal. No matter what else, I am definitely going to take a nap. Right now.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Average Tuesday Shenanigans
Lawd hep me, I hate doing the sales. Yuck. I am HORRIBLE with rejection. Horrible. This one time, about three months ago, I stopped going to my newly-found, much-appreciated, humanist, awesome, god-free church because I had told this boy that goes there, too, that I liked him and he showed up at the Delft with this wretched thing called 'Alison' two days later and the rejection was so off-putting that I stopped with the church and anything else which maybe would have caused me to face said rejection and accompanying embarassment. It's okay now...I can have a delightful conversation with him, but he's still with this 'Alison' and whenever they are together, I am again mired in my psychological rejection quicksand. Fortunately, he likes to go for drives and celebrate Proposal 1, so that gets us some quiet, 'Alison'-free time.
On to my first point today. I had some good luck with sales today, and it's made me unsually chipper and hopeful. Granted, it's in support of our 30 Days of Christmas Promotion, which is the coolest annual thing we do, quite frankly, and you'd be an absolute idiot of a business owner to NOT do it if you have any faith in advertising whatsoever. I sold three days of it, and perhaps four to five, which is WAY above and beyond what I normally try to do. I'm happy and proud and emboldened, but here comes point #2:
Bill is the most worthless effer who's ever walked the earth. He's SUPPOSED to be our sales guy. We fired the greatest Sales Manager in our history in order to give him a shot, and he shows up maybe two hours a day, maybe three days a week. He has the bulk of the accounts, the bulk of the commission, and has folded under the responsiblility like an accordian in a trash compactor. The reason I am busting MY ass to sell this thing is because Bill is not. A list of his multiple work failures, alphabetically for convenience:
*Chronic, unexcused absenteeism
*Complaints from clients (many, many complaints)
*Creation of a hostile work environment
*Disrespect of co-workers
*Excessive use of work time for personal matters
*Foul language in front of clients
*Ignorance of company mores, practices, policies and procedure
*Insubordination
*Misappropriation of funds
*Misuse of company property
*Poor job performance
*Repeated disregard for chain of command
*Unprofessional attitude, dress, and demeanor
Now, let's make a list of reasons why he hasn't been fired yet:
*His dad owns the radio station
And....that's it. Tah-dah!
Any successes we're having are in SPITE of him, and any problems we're experiencing are BECAUSE of him, either because he's NOT selling and making us money, he's effing up the stuff we have already, or his grossness is alienating potential advertisers, not to mention what he does to morale around here. Jesus. We should pay him to stay home!! Oh, wait...we do.
Issue #3
Filing a Homeowner's Claim
Sucks ass. Here's what happened: for a few weeks, I noticed a distinct and advancing 'gurgle' in the pipes. Thinking it was the wet ground and etc from the autumnal advent, I ignored it. The drains were draining, the water was running, the toilette (french accent for fanciness) was flushing, and with the exception of the candle I accidentally melted and with which clogged up the whole of the dishwasher workings, all was good with my wastewater disposal mechanisms. Until last week.
I got out of the shower and noticed that my slow drain was at a dead stop. No tinkling of soap and skin-y water down the old cast iron intestines was heard at all. So, being a maverick of home maintenance, I plunged.
Terrible, terrible mistake.
The pressure of the plunging on top of the completely backlogged (though I didn't know that THEN, did I?) pipes caused the main drain off of the shower to DISENGAGE from the shower itself, and gravity pulled my shower water down onto the wall of the basement and made a sort of grody plywood cascade down there. The only reason I knew that was because the floor is rotting out behind the shower itself and I am somewhere in the process of turning that space into a linen closet, so from the hole in the floor that looks down into the basement next to the shower, I could HEAR said waterfall. I ran down to the basement and lo and behold, not only was there a waterfall, it was practically an entire park down there, with a wave pool, bog, and (I think) a critter or two. The pipes had been blocked for...oh, say...three or so weeks, and all of the excess, plus the weather water, was flooding my basement. I couldn't step down into it, in fact, from the bottom step of the basement stairs, because it was up to the top of the bottom step. Gah-ross-ah.
Being the me that I am, I hoped it would heal and babied it for a few days. I didn't run unnecessary water, didn't flush every time (ick.), but did shower freely, since that was just running down the wall anyway. Well, Sunday came the reckoning. I started the dishwasher, and shortly thereafter had a piece of beet come up in the bathroom sink. Then even more foul came up in the kitchen, and I stood at the ready with latex gloves, old towels, shopvac and mop in hand in case the toilette decided to vex me as well. Thankfully, it did not, but I did realize that my house's digestive tract was not about to heal, and that someone needed to root out the polyps in the system. Where the eff is THAT money going to come from?
"Oh, ho! Insurance!! Insurance will SAVE me! This is what it's for!" And I called Cindy, the Savior Insurance Lady, who calls you two days before you're cancelled and covers your payment if you need to post-date your check, and left a message. Well, as great as Cindy is, she is only my agent, and the independent adjuster hired by Hastings Mutual is not as prompt, courteous, or sympathetic as Cindy, and here it is Tuesday and I am just having the drains rooted out today. Then the adjuster comes tonight, tells me what the deal is, and I can file my claim. I still have to pay for the drain cleaner, but now can have the basement sanitized, the water removed, and the plywood wall replaced, but the detached pipe, aforementioned rooting, and any other charges are mine. Does that seem fair? So here I interject the celebrity part of my blog title and charm my way into impromptu commercials for the drain-rooting fella in hopes that he will charge me less and my insurance company more.
Wish me luck. Otherwise, it's poop-rink ice skating in my basement this winter. Yay!
On to my first point today. I had some good luck with sales today, and it's made me unsually chipper and hopeful. Granted, it's in support of our 30 Days of Christmas Promotion, which is the coolest annual thing we do, quite frankly, and you'd be an absolute idiot of a business owner to NOT do it if you have any faith in advertising whatsoever. I sold three days of it, and perhaps four to five, which is WAY above and beyond what I normally try to do. I'm happy and proud and emboldened, but here comes point #2:
Bill is the most worthless effer who's ever walked the earth. He's SUPPOSED to be our sales guy. We fired the greatest Sales Manager in our history in order to give him a shot, and he shows up maybe two hours a day, maybe three days a week. He has the bulk of the accounts, the bulk of the commission, and has folded under the responsiblility like an accordian in a trash compactor. The reason I am busting MY ass to sell this thing is because Bill is not. A list of his multiple work failures, alphabetically for convenience:
*Chronic, unexcused absenteeism
*Complaints from clients (many, many complaints)
*Creation of a hostile work environment
*Disrespect of co-workers
*Excessive use of work time for personal matters
*Foul language in front of clients
*Ignorance of company mores, practices, policies and procedure
*Insubordination
*Misappropriation of funds
*Misuse of company property
*Poor job performance
*Repeated disregard for chain of command
*Unprofessional attitude, dress, and demeanor
Now, let's make a list of reasons why he hasn't been fired yet:
*His dad owns the radio station
And....that's it. Tah-dah!
Any successes we're having are in SPITE of him, and any problems we're experiencing are BECAUSE of him, either because he's NOT selling and making us money, he's effing up the stuff we have already, or his grossness is alienating potential advertisers, not to mention what he does to morale around here. Jesus. We should pay him to stay home!! Oh, wait...we do.
Issue #3
Filing a Homeowner's Claim
Sucks ass. Here's what happened: for a few weeks, I noticed a distinct and advancing 'gurgle' in the pipes. Thinking it was the wet ground and etc from the autumnal advent, I ignored it. The drains were draining, the water was running, the toilette (french accent for fanciness) was flushing, and with the exception of the candle I accidentally melted and with which clogged up the whole of the dishwasher workings, all was good with my wastewater disposal mechanisms. Until last week.
I got out of the shower and noticed that my slow drain was at a dead stop. No tinkling of soap and skin-y water down the old cast iron intestines was heard at all. So, being a maverick of home maintenance, I plunged.
Terrible, terrible mistake.
The pressure of the plunging on top of the completely backlogged (though I didn't know that THEN, did I?) pipes caused the main drain off of the shower to DISENGAGE from the shower itself, and gravity pulled my shower water down onto the wall of the basement and made a sort of grody plywood cascade down there. The only reason I knew that was because the floor is rotting out behind the shower itself and I am somewhere in the process of turning that space into a linen closet, so from the hole in the floor that looks down into the basement next to the shower, I could HEAR said waterfall. I ran down to the basement and lo and behold, not only was there a waterfall, it was practically an entire park down there, with a wave pool, bog, and (I think) a critter or two. The pipes had been blocked for...oh, say...three or so weeks, and all of the excess, plus the weather water, was flooding my basement. I couldn't step down into it, in fact, from the bottom step of the basement stairs, because it was up to the top of the bottom step. Gah-ross-ah.
Being the me that I am, I hoped it would heal and babied it for a few days. I didn't run unnecessary water, didn't flush every time (ick.), but did shower freely, since that was just running down the wall anyway. Well, Sunday came the reckoning. I started the dishwasher, and shortly thereafter had a piece of beet come up in the bathroom sink. Then even more foul came up in the kitchen, and I stood at the ready with latex gloves, old towels, shopvac and mop in hand in case the toilette decided to vex me as well. Thankfully, it did not, but I did realize that my house's digestive tract was not about to heal, and that someone needed to root out the polyps in the system. Where the eff is THAT money going to come from?
"Oh, ho! Insurance!! Insurance will SAVE me! This is what it's for!" And I called Cindy, the Savior Insurance Lady, who calls you two days before you're cancelled and covers your payment if you need to post-date your check, and left a message. Well, as great as Cindy is, she is only my agent, and the independent adjuster hired by Hastings Mutual is not as prompt, courteous, or sympathetic as Cindy, and here it is Tuesday and I am just having the drains rooted out today. Then the adjuster comes tonight, tells me what the deal is, and I can file my claim. I still have to pay for the drain cleaner, but now can have the basement sanitized, the water removed, and the plywood wall replaced, but the detached pipe, aforementioned rooting, and any other charges are mine. Does that seem fair? So here I interject the celebrity part of my blog title and charm my way into impromptu commercials for the drain-rooting fella in hopes that he will charge me less and my insurance company more.
Wish me luck. Otherwise, it's poop-rink ice skating in my basement this winter. Yay!
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Everything is bright and gaywads....
I'm sitting in my office editing The Superior Radio Hour. I've got 8000 things I should be doing that are NOT this, but I promised it by the end of the week and lo, it is very nearly the end of the week.
It's been strange, too. I had sex, which is unusual, and kind of brings me to the topic of my blog today. I was expounding upon it in an email to Steph earlier today, and it makes me want to confess things to random strangers who may stumble upon it.
I think I'm weird about sex. I also assume that most people feel that way about themselves. I mean, really, what points of reference do you have? Am I a porn star? No, not at all, but that's the most sex I've seen outside of soap operas and David Lynch films, so when I DO have sex, that's what I think of as normal, although that's not at all what makes me happy. So, I usually put on a big show, have a terrible time, and then leave (or ask him to), disappointed. If I am comfortable enough to be myself, I feel like I am horrifically odd about the whole thing, as I usually feel that I am horrifically odd about everything else, and that the poor fella is gonna be like, "You want me to say WHAT?" or "Holy christ, how do I get out of here?"
So then, what do have for comparison, judgement, or a control model? Pretty much just your partner's comments, right? The first few guys were very complimentary (though the very first one was also overwhelmed by it being HIS very first one), and I took that to mean that I was, in fact, a phenomenal lay and that all of my research and reading and movie watching had made me a new but expert practitioner of the sexual arts. However, when I realized that most of the sex I'd had had been relatively bad, and that I had told each and every one of those men that they were really quite good at it, it occurred to me that they had probably said complimentary things about me so that I wouldn't feel bad, much as I had done to them. That left me COMPLETELY flummoxed as to my ability to provide good and satisfactory sex, so I got really good at cooking.
Bringing me to this week. I've had sex a grand total of six times this YEAR with two people. I was reading a report on MSN about how we are having a sex crisis overall in our country due to stress, obesity, busyness, and etc, and it made me feel better for a second. I was a raving skank for a year when I was 27 and since then, it's pretty much been a straight draught with the exception of a little here and there. March 30th was the last time, and that was pretty good, but the guy ended up being icky, so I went into this one excited about the potential, but cautious.
I think part of the problem is that the attraction was completely ripe about three weeks ago, and if it could have happened THEN, it might have been okay. I waited too long, though, and it felt like payment on an obligation more than anything. I had to get drunk and other to do it at all, and in the very brief moment that I let myself get, you know, caught up in the moment, he freaked out about the fact that wanted some commentary on how I was doing, and that made me shut right up and shut right down. And now I feel like I have unacceptable needs and am just generally not good at it.
I'm still novice enough to get excited about it. EVERY time. I think, "OMG, really? I get to have sex right now? Awesome!" and then we get started and then I think, "Oh, shit. I have no idea what I'm doing." When I'm not having it, I can't think about much else, and when I am starting to have it, I am a nervous wreck, and there have only been two times in my life where I got past the nervous wreck stage, and then it turned out that the guy was either a lazy, no-job-having douchebag or a lazy, no-job-having douchebag who found me physically repulsive when it came right down to it. So, what is a girl to think?
Suffice it to say that this was definitely a one-shot deal with this week's fella, since I can't imagine I could even look him in the eye again. What I'm most bummed about is the tremendous blow to my confidence this has left..I mean, I'm already freaked out about it, and now I'm freaked out and sure that I'm the worst ever. Maybe I'll pick up some sort of idiot and get one under my belt before I attempt a serious try again.
Or maybe I'll become a secular nun.
It's been strange, too. I had sex, which is unusual, and kind of brings me to the topic of my blog today. I was expounding upon it in an email to Steph earlier today, and it makes me want to confess things to random strangers who may stumble upon it.
I think I'm weird about sex. I also assume that most people feel that way about themselves. I mean, really, what points of reference do you have? Am I a porn star? No, not at all, but that's the most sex I've seen outside of soap operas and David Lynch films, so when I DO have sex, that's what I think of as normal, although that's not at all what makes me happy. So, I usually put on a big show, have a terrible time, and then leave (or ask him to), disappointed. If I am comfortable enough to be myself, I feel like I am horrifically odd about the whole thing, as I usually feel that I am horrifically odd about everything else, and that the poor fella is gonna be like, "You want me to say WHAT?" or "Holy christ, how do I get out of here?"
So then, what do have for comparison, judgement, or a control model? Pretty much just your partner's comments, right? The first few guys were very complimentary (though the very first one was also overwhelmed by it being HIS very first one), and I took that to mean that I was, in fact, a phenomenal lay and that all of my research and reading and movie watching had made me a new but expert practitioner of the sexual arts. However, when I realized that most of the sex I'd had had been relatively bad, and that I had told each and every one of those men that they were really quite good at it, it occurred to me that they had probably said complimentary things about me so that I wouldn't feel bad, much as I had done to them. That left me COMPLETELY flummoxed as to my ability to provide good and satisfactory sex, so I got really good at cooking.
Bringing me to this week. I've had sex a grand total of six times this YEAR with two people. I was reading a report on MSN about how we are having a sex crisis overall in our country due to stress, obesity, busyness, and etc, and it made me feel better for a second. I was a raving skank for a year when I was 27 and since then, it's pretty much been a straight draught with the exception of a little here and there. March 30th was the last time, and that was pretty good, but the guy ended up being icky, so I went into this one excited about the potential, but cautious.
I think part of the problem is that the attraction was completely ripe about three weeks ago, and if it could have happened THEN, it might have been okay. I waited too long, though, and it felt like payment on an obligation more than anything. I had to get drunk and other to do it at all, and in the very brief moment that I let myself get, you know, caught up in the moment, he freaked out about the fact that wanted some commentary on how I was doing, and that made me shut right up and shut right down. And now I feel like I have unacceptable needs and am just generally not good at it.
I'm still novice enough to get excited about it. EVERY time. I think, "OMG, really? I get to have sex right now? Awesome!" and then we get started and then I think, "Oh, shit. I have no idea what I'm doing." When I'm not having it, I can't think about much else, and when I am starting to have it, I am a nervous wreck, and there have only been two times in my life where I got past the nervous wreck stage, and then it turned out that the guy was either a lazy, no-job-having douchebag or a lazy, no-job-having douchebag who found me physically repulsive when it came right down to it. So, what is a girl to think?
Suffice it to say that this was definitely a one-shot deal with this week's fella, since I can't imagine I could even look him in the eye again. What I'm most bummed about is the tremendous blow to my confidence this has left..I mean, I'm already freaked out about it, and now I'm freaked out and sure that I'm the worst ever. Maybe I'll pick up some sort of idiot and get one under my belt before I attempt a serious try again.
Or maybe I'll become a secular nun.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Decisions, decisions
What the eff is going on with me? Last week, on Friday, I interviewed Senator Carl Levin. I was struck near-dumb in his presence; anyone shouldering a burden like he does on behalf of the American People is an amazing person, in my book. The interview was marvelous and he left me a chocolate peanut butter cupcake for it.
Then Bart Stupak shows up all of a sudden and needs a new tag for his ads. Whom did he come to see for it? Me. I was feeling darn good about myself and my ability to make radio. THEN, I'm online, registering for my first semester of Nursing classes, when all of a sudden Dan from Green Bay calls and says, "Hey, Bridge, my morning guy has decided to retire in December. Are you still interested in our morning show?"
Am I? My own show in GB with the largest broadcasting company in America? And a boss who believes in me and my show idea and the notion that I could syndicate it from Chicago within five years?
COME THE FUCK ON.
Could it be more divinely obvious that I've got to make a decision and a giant leap of faith soon? Which way do I go?
To further muddy the sitch, I got a call yesterday from a certain station in Marquette. THEIR morning guy doesn't want to do it anymore and am I interested in going home and 'facing' (being the flagship personality) that radio station to my hometown? My hometown, to which my dad has just moved, which features a Target, two vegetarian friendly restaurants, an organic grocery store, a relatively free house, a liberal attitude, and an entirely different run at it than I used to have. It's tempting. However, this is the same group of stations whose management I have been criticizing for the choices they made here in Escanaba.
I'm going for an interview with them tomorrow. We'll see.
I figure, full-throttle all of it. Register for classes, apply in GB, meet with the guy in Marquette and try to impress the shit out of everyone I meet on the way to wherever I end up.
Thank you, unnamed Deity, for being so blatantly obvious. It's a delightful kick in the pants.
Then Bart Stupak shows up all of a sudden and needs a new tag for his ads. Whom did he come to see for it? Me. I was feeling darn good about myself and my ability to make radio. THEN, I'm online, registering for my first semester of Nursing classes, when all of a sudden Dan from Green Bay calls and says, "Hey, Bridge, my morning guy has decided to retire in December. Are you still interested in our morning show?"
Am I? My own show in GB with the largest broadcasting company in America? And a boss who believes in me and my show idea and the notion that I could syndicate it from Chicago within five years?
COME THE FUCK ON.
Could it be more divinely obvious that I've got to make a decision and a giant leap of faith soon? Which way do I go?
To further muddy the sitch, I got a call yesterday from a certain station in Marquette. THEIR morning guy doesn't want to do it anymore and am I interested in going home and 'facing' (being the flagship personality) that radio station to my hometown? My hometown, to which my dad has just moved, which features a Target, two vegetarian friendly restaurants, an organic grocery store, a relatively free house, a liberal attitude, and an entirely different run at it than I used to have. It's tempting. However, this is the same group of stations whose management I have been criticizing for the choices they made here in Escanaba.
I'm going for an interview with them tomorrow. We'll see.
I figure, full-throttle all of it. Register for classes, apply in GB, meet with the guy in Marquette and try to impress the shit out of everyone I meet on the way to wherever I end up.
Thank you, unnamed Deity, for being so blatantly obvious. It's a delightful kick in the pants.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Enough with the melodrama, already.
Alright. Enough is enough. I am a funny girl and I really feel like being funny for a change.
So, topic today is a list of what makes me a stunning Yooper Girl:
1. In the past three weeks, I have amassed what can only be referred to as a 'shit-load' of firewood. I have decided, given gas prices, the state of my home, and the fact that I can have a Two Dog Night* anytime I choose, I'm gonna go ahead and move into the converted-garage-of-a-back-room in my house for the winter. I mean, aside from the leaky roof, the cement floor, and the fact that it's usually the dog's playroom, it's in fine shape. Additionally, there's plenty of space and I can heat the whole thing for about 10 smallish-logs a day. I currently have about two to three weeks worth of firewood, so that gives me two to three weeks to amass the other three months I should need. My favorite uncle, Al, has logged off the bass wood on his property and has offered me 'the tops' and use of his chainsaw to clear the brush.
Two things about this: one, I don't know anything about the various breeds and varietals of wood and its by-products. I know that heavy wood burns hotter because it is more dense and that lighter wood is good for starting fires. I know this because it is logical, not because I attended any seminars or anything. Bass wood (or is it just basswood?) is very fucking heavy. It is so heavy that a branch that is as tall as I am is almost impossible for me to carry. And after carrying, like TWENTY of them out of the wilderness and putting them into the back of my big sapphy Ford Ranger, I am tired. Until now, I have been hand selecting the more carry-able logs and then driving them home, plopping them up on my big sapphy chop saw, and having my bladed way with them. Now, these big bass/wood logs have to be lifted and cut in half first, since there is no conceivable way to hold on to the end, run the saw, and ensure the resulting 8 inch segment does not crush my dainty foot. So, chop in half, move blade quickly so the log does not knock it off the worktable in it's rush to the floor after being cleft in twain, simultaneously move dainty foot in a ladylike manner, catch the piece I'm holding, and hope for the best. I'm sure it looks absolutely hilarious, but I have thus far employed this method to create a very pretty wood stack in that room. Dare I say, I'm proud of myself for it.
Two, the chainsaw. While I have never discussed it in mixed company, my recent escapades with creative home heating have led me to wonder just how many of my lady friends would feel comfortable with/admit to being proficient in chainsaw technique and etiquette. "Ooh, Ladies. This wine is delicious. Say, are you a Stihl girl or do you prefer the more commercial Husqvarna line? And where do you prefer your chain tensioner set?" I am somewhat..nay, quite...confident that I am alone in this skillset amongst my peers. Being as I can no longer fit the remaining woodland detritus in the back of said Ford, I have to attack it in its native environs with a chainsaw. So, this coming weekend, I can be found in the backwoods of Hannahville, wearing big steel-toed boots, layered waffleknits and flannels, big-ass work gloves, a jaunty cap of some sort, and perhaps even safety goggles. I will wield the chainsaw through countless brush piles and haul the segmented product from the wilderness to my home, where it will provide me a necessity for the winter months. My nose will run, I will pee in the leaves, and the fresh air will clear my lungs.
I know it sounds kind of goofy. I mean, I could always turn up the thermostat instead of doing all this stuff. But for some reason, WORKING to provide myself heat, preparing myself and my home for the inevitable, and making solid plans for the future makes me feel shocking self-reliant and is boosting my confidence like I never imagined, though I must add here that wearing that uniform of stereotypical lesbian flair kind of knocks my confidence back some. Would a man look at that and say, "Damn! There is a woman who can provide and take care of her own needs. I should look into that", or would he rather say, "That dyke sure can work a saw!"?
2. The making of soup. As I mentioned previously, before I got my funny back, I have been cooking like a mf of late. Soup is the greatest thing ever. You can't really eff it up much, but properly done, it is a thing of beauty, and the longer it sits, the better it gets. I generally prefer a 'garbage' approach to soup-making, throwing in this and that, what's in the fridge and what's on sale, until you get a big, hot bowl of produce and grains. No two bowls are the same, ever. Not that soup is a uniquely U.P. thing, but something about our weather and the frugality of it makes me feel proprietary towards soup in general.
3. Scarves. I'm collecting them. I've realized that wearing a scarf makes me feel better, even when I am not feeling badly. It's practical in so many ways. A fresh scarf makes yesterday's shirt new and clean. It makes hickeys practically imperceptible. It really ties the room together, so to speak. Your fully warmed vocal chords are always primed for yelling at your slack-ass co-workers. And you can wear one all day, keeping your neck protected from vampires and viruses, and no one thinks twice about indoor outerwear. So, if you're looking to give me a gift for any reason, I would like a scarf.
4. Persistence. I am getting up everyday. I am coming to work. I survive it, and then I go home.
5. I am starting to consider taking a husband for strictly utilitarian purposes. At the rate I'm going, someone's gonna have to gut the fish and mend up my showshoes. And give me silky longjohns for Christmas.
6. I am indulging loudness within myself. Seriously. I'm as loud as I can be as often as possible. My laughing is hearty, my doors are slammed, everyone knows what I'm listening to, and it's a good time to shout Liberal propaganda from a rooftop microphone. I will be heard right now, for some reason.
I guess, since it looks like I'll be staying a while longer, I'm embracing my roots and celebrating that from which I came. It's not so bad, to be honest, and I don't know which of those revelations surprises me more.
*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Three_Dog_Night
So, topic today is a list of what makes me a stunning Yooper Girl:
1. In the past three weeks, I have amassed what can only be referred to as a 'shit-load' of firewood. I have decided, given gas prices, the state of my home, and the fact that I can have a Two Dog Night* anytime I choose, I'm gonna go ahead and move into the converted-garage-of-a-back-room in my house for the winter. I mean, aside from the leaky roof, the cement floor, and the fact that it's usually the dog's playroom, it's in fine shape. Additionally, there's plenty of space and I can heat the whole thing for about 10 smallish-logs a day. I currently have about two to three weeks worth of firewood, so that gives me two to three weeks to amass the other three months I should need. My favorite uncle, Al, has logged off the bass wood on his property and has offered me 'the tops' and use of his chainsaw to clear the brush.
Two things about this: one, I don't know anything about the various breeds and varietals of wood and its by-products. I know that heavy wood burns hotter because it is more dense and that lighter wood is good for starting fires. I know this because it is logical, not because I attended any seminars or anything. Bass wood (or is it just basswood?) is very fucking heavy. It is so heavy that a branch that is as tall as I am is almost impossible for me to carry. And after carrying, like TWENTY of them out of the wilderness and putting them into the back of my big sapphy Ford Ranger, I am tired. Until now, I have been hand selecting the more carry-able logs and then driving them home, plopping them up on my big sapphy chop saw, and having my bladed way with them. Now, these big bass/wood logs have to be lifted and cut in half first, since there is no conceivable way to hold on to the end, run the saw, and ensure the resulting 8 inch segment does not crush my dainty foot. So, chop in half, move blade quickly so the log does not knock it off the worktable in it's rush to the floor after being cleft in twain, simultaneously move dainty foot in a ladylike manner, catch the piece I'm holding, and hope for the best. I'm sure it looks absolutely hilarious, but I have thus far employed this method to create a very pretty wood stack in that room. Dare I say, I'm proud of myself for it.
Two, the chainsaw. While I have never discussed it in mixed company, my recent escapades with creative home heating have led me to wonder just how many of my lady friends would feel comfortable with/admit to being proficient in chainsaw technique and etiquette. "Ooh, Ladies. This wine is delicious. Say, are you a Stihl girl or do you prefer the more commercial Husqvarna line? And where do you prefer your chain tensioner set?" I am somewhat..nay, quite...confident that I am alone in this skillset amongst my peers. Being as I can no longer fit the remaining woodland detritus in the back of said Ford, I have to attack it in its native environs with a chainsaw. So, this coming weekend, I can be found in the backwoods of Hannahville, wearing big steel-toed boots, layered waffleknits and flannels, big-ass work gloves, a jaunty cap of some sort, and perhaps even safety goggles. I will wield the chainsaw through countless brush piles and haul the segmented product from the wilderness to my home, where it will provide me a necessity for the winter months. My nose will run, I will pee in the leaves, and the fresh air will clear my lungs.
I know it sounds kind of goofy. I mean, I could always turn up the thermostat instead of doing all this stuff. But for some reason, WORKING to provide myself heat, preparing myself and my home for the inevitable, and making solid plans for the future makes me feel shocking self-reliant and is boosting my confidence like I never imagined, though I must add here that wearing that uniform of stereotypical lesbian flair kind of knocks my confidence back some. Would a man look at that and say, "Damn! There is a woman who can provide and take care of her own needs. I should look into that", or would he rather say, "That dyke sure can work a saw!"?
2. The making of soup. As I mentioned previously, before I got my funny back, I have been cooking like a mf of late. Soup is the greatest thing ever. You can't really eff it up much, but properly done, it is a thing of beauty, and the longer it sits, the better it gets. I generally prefer a 'garbage' approach to soup-making, throwing in this and that, what's in the fridge and what's on sale, until you get a big, hot bowl of produce and grains. No two bowls are the same, ever. Not that soup is a uniquely U.P. thing, but something about our weather and the frugality of it makes me feel proprietary towards soup in general.
3. Scarves. I'm collecting them. I've realized that wearing a scarf makes me feel better, even when I am not feeling badly. It's practical in so many ways. A fresh scarf makes yesterday's shirt new and clean. It makes hickeys practically imperceptible. It really ties the room together, so to speak. Your fully warmed vocal chords are always primed for yelling at your slack-ass co-workers. And you can wear one all day, keeping your neck protected from vampires and viruses, and no one thinks twice about indoor outerwear. So, if you're looking to give me a gift for any reason, I would like a scarf.
4. Persistence. I am getting up everyday. I am coming to work. I survive it, and then I go home.
5. I am starting to consider taking a husband for strictly utilitarian purposes. At the rate I'm going, someone's gonna have to gut the fish and mend up my showshoes. And give me silky longjohns for Christmas.
6. I am indulging loudness within myself. Seriously. I'm as loud as I can be as often as possible. My laughing is hearty, my doors are slammed, everyone knows what I'm listening to, and it's a good time to shout Liberal propaganda from a rooftop microphone. I will be heard right now, for some reason.
I guess, since it looks like I'll be staying a while longer, I'm embracing my roots and celebrating that from which I came. It's not so bad, to be honest, and I don't know which of those revelations surprises me more.
*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Three_Dog_Night
Monday, October 6, 2008
Everything's coming up Ziggy
Seriously, I feel like every minute of this day has a Ziggy punchline to it. And I fucking HATE Ziggy.
Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Again.
See? Can't you just see that little bald asshole in a field with a lost balloon or something? I'm reduced to Hallmark stereotypes today, which belie the cynicism, anger, disappointment and rage that course right under my skin. Which brings me to my topic and raison d'angst....
IMPATIENCE
I can't wait for the coffee to finish brewing. I can't wait for the dogs to finish pooping before I get them back into the house (that leads to supergross messes, by the way), I can't wait for the station to fold, to start school, to pack and move, to move on, to get on with it, to just DO something else. Whenever I know a change is coming, it makes me crazy anxious to change everything else. The only thing that calms me to down to rational thought is cooking. I have made, in the past week, three pots of soup, two new butternut squash recipes (vegan risotto and vegetarian gratin...both keepers), bread, two pies, a cake, cookies, and macaroni and cheese that I simply made to occupy myself and then fed to the dogs.
I have to cook in order to stop racing. The attention needed to chop, mix, and properly make things slows me down so that I can think about things one at a time while engaged in the cooking process. The thing is, I don't need all that food myself, so I just keep bringing it places, giving it away, or stuffing the dogs silly with it. Which seems to me that it must look like some kind of flag to people...a neurotically food-gifting Bridgette has got to signal SOME sort of psychological crisis, right? Thankfully, the food is good, so no one calls me on it.
Some of this is borne from the fact that for the first time in ages, or maybe ever, I have a plan for my life. I have a set set of events and circumstances which will get me somewhere I'd like to be. More money, more free time, less Escanaba. Maybe babies, maybe husband, whatever...but it's a plan, and I just have to WAIT for it to start. It's awful. Nothing is good enough and I am rushing everything I touch, which is why I am grateful for this delicious and quick pie:
Cheap, processed Key Lime Pie, which is made with packaged stuff but is nonetheless delicious.
Oven 350
1 premade graham cracker crust
1 14 oz can of sweetened, condensed milk
3 egg yolks
3 Tbs of water
1/2 cup of lime juice (or just squeeze the whole plastic lime in there)
Take a fork and beat the shit out of the yolks. Open the can of nasty milk and pour it into the eggs, and then whisk the shit out of that. Then add the water and the lime juice and just whip it all together. Throw it into the crust, bake it for 25 minutes, and then put some whipped cream on it when it's cool, and it's fucking delicious. Except for the baking, it takes, like, three minutes to make this pie.
To make it better, make your own crust, squeeze some fresh limes, and try to top it with meringue. But this works just fine.
Alright. That's enough for today.
Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Again.
See? Can't you just see that little bald asshole in a field with a lost balloon or something? I'm reduced to Hallmark stereotypes today, which belie the cynicism, anger, disappointment and rage that course right under my skin. Which brings me to my topic and raison d'angst....
IMPATIENCE
I can't wait for the coffee to finish brewing. I can't wait for the dogs to finish pooping before I get them back into the house (that leads to supergross messes, by the way), I can't wait for the station to fold, to start school, to pack and move, to move on, to get on with it, to just DO something else. Whenever I know a change is coming, it makes me crazy anxious to change everything else. The only thing that calms me to down to rational thought is cooking. I have made, in the past week, three pots of soup, two new butternut squash recipes (vegan risotto and vegetarian gratin...both keepers), bread, two pies, a cake, cookies, and macaroni and cheese that I simply made to occupy myself and then fed to the dogs.
I have to cook in order to stop racing. The attention needed to chop, mix, and properly make things slows me down so that I can think about things one at a time while engaged in the cooking process. The thing is, I don't need all that food myself, so I just keep bringing it places, giving it away, or stuffing the dogs silly with it. Which seems to me that it must look like some kind of flag to people...a neurotically food-gifting Bridgette has got to signal SOME sort of psychological crisis, right? Thankfully, the food is good, so no one calls me on it.
Some of this is borne from the fact that for the first time in ages, or maybe ever, I have a plan for my life. I have a set set of events and circumstances which will get me somewhere I'd like to be. More money, more free time, less Escanaba. Maybe babies, maybe husband, whatever...but it's a plan, and I just have to WAIT for it to start. It's awful. Nothing is good enough and I am rushing everything I touch, which is why I am grateful for this delicious and quick pie:
Cheap, processed Key Lime Pie, which is made with packaged stuff but is nonetheless delicious.
Oven 350
1 premade graham cracker crust
1 14 oz can of sweetened, condensed milk
3 egg yolks
3 Tbs of water
1/2 cup of lime juice (or just squeeze the whole plastic lime in there)
Take a fork and beat the shit out of the yolks. Open the can of nasty milk and pour it into the eggs, and then whisk the shit out of that. Then add the water and the lime juice and just whip it all together. Throw it into the crust, bake it for 25 minutes, and then put some whipped cream on it when it's cool, and it's fucking delicious. Except for the baking, it takes, like, three minutes to make this pie.
To make it better, make your own crust, squeeze some fresh limes, and try to top it with meringue. But this works just fine.
Alright. That's enough for today.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Confessions of a Closet Follower.
Hiya. Rachel has a blog, Steph has a blog, Jeremy has a blog.
I have a blog.
I am a follower.
****************************************************************************
As for a topic today, I have tons to gush at the moment, but no proper vessel of humanity in which to pour it, so I'm just gonna write until I find myself spent of it and then I will quit writing. First of all, the issue of:
GRANDMOTHERS
I just lost my last one. She died on Sunday. She was THE grandma. She took me in when my parents decided that they needed some time for themselves. She made all my clothes, saw me through all the teenage rebellions (though mine were limited to being a vegetarian, hating God, and getting Bs on my tests), and loved me. Good heavens, she really, really loved me. I was unabashedly her favorite and she was mine.
My grandma was Jeanne Louise Quilliam Jaakola. She lived to the ripe and beautiful age of 91. She outlived a brother and a sister, a granddaughter, and almost my dad, too. Her last three years were plagued with Alzheimer's, but she never did leave us entirely with it. The last time we really spoke in person was around Christmas, and we had the same conversation three times in an hour. However, when your sweet grandma is smiling at you and telling you how very happy she is to see you, you don't mind hearing it a few times extra. I had her full attention for just a few minutes that day, and I was moved by some sort of premonition to tell her thank you. I've said it a gazillion times for passing the salt, buying diet Faygo instead of regular, sewing up the holes in my underwear...all the casual things for which you thank someone. That last time though, it was a soul-borne thank you. She never had to do anything like that for me. She didn't HAVE to be a mother at 70 years old, but she did. And I have never said thank you for it before. So, I did. And she got it.
"Anytime," she said.
Anytime.
So, when I got a call on Saturday morning saying I 'may want to think about driving up to Ishpeming because it looks like this is it', I put everything else aside, including the dread of running into the rest of that family (I am estranged from them, though that word is stupid) and drove to Ishpeming, with stern warnings that she maybe wouldn't recognize me, that I should be prepared for her to be comatose, etc. I knew, though, that Grandma would recognize me. With all the cruelties in the world, that's one I just wouldn't be made to suffer. That's just the worst thing that could happen.
I walked in and came face to face with the Demon Monster of my Estrangement (really...stupidest word for what it is, but there's none other close to it), hugged her briefly to belay any looming animosity, and turned to look at the tiny, shrunken, twisted little version of my gram in bed. She slept, and I didn't want to wake her, so I cried as quietly as I am capable and held her hands while I spoke to the DME about how fantastically HER children are doing, how they are free from liberalism, feminism, narcotics, alcohol, agnosticism, general life struggles and the burden of personality. I looked around to see all the pictures of said children and their children, all shiny, smiling, vacationing, and etc. How they are not featured in pictures of fathers with wheelchairs, stroke-victim speech impediments, poverty, and the like. I noticed the COUNTLESS pictures of those people, and the one small old picture of me in a giant collage frame with extended family and long-exhausted sunsets. The conversation in my head went like this:
"I'm her favorite, you know, and even though you've kept her from me, you can bet your ass that I'm the one she's most happy to see. A hundred pictures won't make her forget me, and you're the worst hypocritical Christian that's ever lived for thinking she'd forget me, you vicious, f**king c***."
I never said it, though. I talked about work and The Full Monty and my dogs. After all that was done, I figured we'd be heading into fight territory, and Gram was in and out, so I decided to go. Gram had this wretched bed sore from lying there, and when the CENA came in to move her around, she gasped an 'ouch' a couple of times, so I helped move her a little more gently, and then moved around the other side of her bed to say goodbye.
She woke right up. She was right there. And the DME couldn't do anything about it. My Gram knew I was there to say goodbye to her and nothing was going to stop that.
Jeanne Louise Quilliam Jaakola, after who's mother I am named, reached out her arms to me, smiled, and said, "Bridgette! Hello!" but her voice failed her, so her mouth said it. I hugged her and kissed her hands and fell right the fuck apart. All I could say was thank you. And all I could do was say it over and over and over again. She touched my face and I looked at her, and she winked. She winked and smiled and patted my hand. I took her face in my hands and kissed her on the cheek and we both whispered I love you. I stood there looking at her gorgeous old face until her eyes closed and she fell back asleep.
It was the most beautiful goodbye I have ever had. She died the next day.
I loved her so, so much.
Charity and I wore giant obnoxious hats to Grandma's funeral. Well, to the reception anyway. We dressed like proper ladies (thanks to Players de Noc) for the actual service, Charity in her Katherine Hepburn-inspired wool slacks and sweater and I in my actual 1940's era vintage funeral dress. We had proper smart caps for that part, pinned on and with hair coiffed appropriately beneath, and then we put on the flashiest things we could find; Charity in a pink feathered number and my head bedecked in mock blue and green feathers in an almost Russian Ushanka-style thing. Everyone that knew Gram knew why we were wearing those hats, and we had nods and smiles and thumbs up and she would have LOVED it. She would have rolled her eyes at us and said, "Girls, that is wildly inappropriate for a funeral in church. Bridgette Michelle, you should be ashamed."
And then she would have winked.
Issue #2
THICK YOOPER ACCENTS
Ross, my new gentleman friend, has lived outside of the U.P. for 28 years, yet still has a pea soup and cornstarch accent about him that I cannot ignore. Now, because I have great feelings of lust toward the fellow, I forgive it in him, but normally, I would have discounted his entire being for it. I've discovered, in fact, that I am far more forgiving of that accent in general of late, and in some cases, find it downright charming and hilarious.
My Uncle Al has this friend who goes my the name Iron Mike, and the first time I heard him speak, I thought he was foreign. When everyone laughed at something he'd said, though, I listened more closely and realized that he has the thickest, muddiest, beer-and-venision soaked dialect I have ever heard in my entire life. So thick is it, in fact, that it's FASCINATING. Allow me to translate one sentence:
Normal: "We were out at camp shooting deer with our twenty-twos and that son-of-a-bitch shot out of the woods and I thought we were going to die."
Mike: "We's was oot comp shoating deers wit oor twenny-t'hoos anat sunbutch shut oot da wuds annai taught we's was gwon diy."
Seriously. Read it out loud and you'll hear it.
It's marvelous. Maybe I'll allow myself a 'yous' now and then.
If I do, though, someone shoot me.
I have a blog.
I am a follower.
****************************************************************************
As for a topic today, I have tons to gush at the moment, but no proper vessel of humanity in which to pour it, so I'm just gonna write until I find myself spent of it and then I will quit writing. First of all, the issue of:
GRANDMOTHERS
I just lost my last one. She died on Sunday. She was THE grandma. She took me in when my parents decided that they needed some time for themselves. She made all my clothes, saw me through all the teenage rebellions (though mine were limited to being a vegetarian, hating God, and getting Bs on my tests), and loved me. Good heavens, she really, really loved me. I was unabashedly her favorite and she was mine.
My grandma was Jeanne Louise Quilliam Jaakola. She lived to the ripe and beautiful age of 91. She outlived a brother and a sister, a granddaughter, and almost my dad, too. Her last three years were plagued with Alzheimer's, but she never did leave us entirely with it. The last time we really spoke in person was around Christmas, and we had the same conversation three times in an hour. However, when your sweet grandma is smiling at you and telling you how very happy she is to see you, you don't mind hearing it a few times extra. I had her full attention for just a few minutes that day, and I was moved by some sort of premonition to tell her thank you. I've said it a gazillion times for passing the salt, buying diet Faygo instead of regular, sewing up the holes in my underwear...all the casual things for which you thank someone. That last time though, it was a soul-borne thank you. She never had to do anything like that for me. She didn't HAVE to be a mother at 70 years old, but she did. And I have never said thank you for it before. So, I did. And she got it.
"Anytime," she said.
Anytime.
So, when I got a call on Saturday morning saying I 'may want to think about driving up to Ishpeming because it looks like this is it', I put everything else aside, including the dread of running into the rest of that family (I am estranged from them, though that word is stupid) and drove to Ishpeming, with stern warnings that she maybe wouldn't recognize me, that I should be prepared for her to be comatose, etc. I knew, though, that Grandma would recognize me. With all the cruelties in the world, that's one I just wouldn't be made to suffer. That's just the worst thing that could happen.
I walked in and came face to face with the Demon Monster of my Estrangement (really...stupidest word for what it is, but there's none other close to it), hugged her briefly to belay any looming animosity, and turned to look at the tiny, shrunken, twisted little version of my gram in bed. She slept, and I didn't want to wake her, so I cried as quietly as I am capable and held her hands while I spoke to the DME about how fantastically HER children are doing, how they are free from liberalism, feminism, narcotics, alcohol, agnosticism, general life struggles and the burden of personality. I looked around to see all the pictures of said children and their children, all shiny, smiling, vacationing, and etc. How they are not featured in pictures of fathers with wheelchairs, stroke-victim speech impediments, poverty, and the like. I noticed the COUNTLESS pictures of those people, and the one small old picture of me in a giant collage frame with extended family and long-exhausted sunsets. The conversation in my head went like this:
"I'm her favorite, you know, and even though you've kept her from me, you can bet your ass that I'm the one she's most happy to see. A hundred pictures won't make her forget me, and you're the worst hypocritical Christian that's ever lived for thinking she'd forget me, you vicious, f**king c***."
I never said it, though. I talked about work and The Full Monty and my dogs. After all that was done, I figured we'd be heading into fight territory, and Gram was in and out, so I decided to go. Gram had this wretched bed sore from lying there, and when the CENA came in to move her around, she gasped an 'ouch' a couple of times, so I helped move her a little more gently, and then moved around the other side of her bed to say goodbye.
She woke right up. She was right there. And the DME couldn't do anything about it. My Gram knew I was there to say goodbye to her and nothing was going to stop that.
Jeanne Louise Quilliam Jaakola, after who's mother I am named, reached out her arms to me, smiled, and said, "Bridgette! Hello!" but her voice failed her, so her mouth said it. I hugged her and kissed her hands and fell right the fuck apart. All I could say was thank you. And all I could do was say it over and over and over again. She touched my face and I looked at her, and she winked. She winked and smiled and patted my hand. I took her face in my hands and kissed her on the cheek and we both whispered I love you. I stood there looking at her gorgeous old face until her eyes closed and she fell back asleep.
It was the most beautiful goodbye I have ever had. She died the next day.
I loved her so, so much.
Charity and I wore giant obnoxious hats to Grandma's funeral. Well, to the reception anyway. We dressed like proper ladies (thanks to Players de Noc) for the actual service, Charity in her Katherine Hepburn-inspired wool slacks and sweater and I in my actual 1940's era vintage funeral dress. We had proper smart caps for that part, pinned on and with hair coiffed appropriately beneath, and then we put on the flashiest things we could find; Charity in a pink feathered number and my head bedecked in mock blue and green feathers in an almost Russian Ushanka-style thing. Everyone that knew Gram knew why we were wearing those hats, and we had nods and smiles and thumbs up and she would have LOVED it. She would have rolled her eyes at us and said, "Girls, that is wildly inappropriate for a funeral in church. Bridgette Michelle, you should be ashamed."
And then she would have winked.
Issue #2
THICK YOOPER ACCENTS
Ross, my new gentleman friend, has lived outside of the U.P. for 28 years, yet still has a pea soup and cornstarch accent about him that I cannot ignore. Now, because I have great feelings of lust toward the fellow, I forgive it in him, but normally, I would have discounted his entire being for it. I've discovered, in fact, that I am far more forgiving of that accent in general of late, and in some cases, find it downright charming and hilarious.
My Uncle Al has this friend who goes my the name Iron Mike, and the first time I heard him speak, I thought he was foreign. When everyone laughed at something he'd said, though, I listened more closely and realized that he has the thickest, muddiest, beer-and-venision soaked dialect I have ever heard in my entire life. So thick is it, in fact, that it's FASCINATING. Allow me to translate one sentence:
Normal: "We were out at camp shooting deer with our twenty-twos and that son-of-a-bitch shot out of the woods and I thought we were going to die."
Mike: "We's was oot comp shoating deers wit oor twenny-t'hoos anat sunbutch shut oot da wuds annai taught we's was gwon diy."
Seriously. Read it out loud and you'll hear it.
It's marvelous. Maybe I'll allow myself a 'yous' now and then.
If I do, though, someone shoot me.
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