Trash Day

shit, people. i don't even have the juice or the attention span to do a trash day.
gah.

7th grade is junior high hell.
The only good thing, is hearing 'hiiii, mama' when they walk in. Only a couple of my passive aggressive females call me Dr. Err...and I ain't got many of them. And one little turd insists on calling me Mrs. Err... Wrong answer little man, try again.
I REALLY need to quit listening to old TuPac and WuTang clan on the way to work. Makes me have a serious attitude when I go in. JayZ gives me road rage.... Also not a good thing. Can't you just see me tellin' a kid my first period of the day, "shitchoassdown"
Heh.

I need to go transplant some day lillies and pick some tomatoes.
WD will no doubt be loads of help....

Wordsmith's Challenge

He pulled a crumpled soft pack of camels out of his coat pocket. Damn. It was coat weather. At least at night it was. Soon it would be time to order pumpkin pie with The Kid instead of apple. Or hell, maybe he was just getting old. Sure as hell felt that way. He looked at his watch. 7:55. Three minutes to suck down his weed before the kid got here and gave him hell about smoking it. She’d give him hell for smoking anyway. She always did. He certainly didn’t raise her to let shit go.
He took a deep light up drag. Better be quick about it. He didn’t raise that girl to be late, either.
He watched the blonde at the table ahead of him. She was surely waiting on a date. He’d lay money on it. She was smoothing and patting her napkin, then her dress, then the cuffs on her sweater. Then back to her napkin. She’d not even taken her purse off from her shoulder. He coughed and nearly chuckled audibly as he exhaled, scratching his chin with the back of his thumb, smoke curling around his hand and face. It was like watching some strange damn dance. Or good luck ritual. Must be a first date. Or a break up date. He wondered how her father had raised her to be so unsure of herself.
The Kid would pick up on that, no doubt about it. She’d nod the blonde’s way and roll her eyes. AT the very least she would roll her eyes. Last Thursday, on Pie Date Day, they had seen a young woman in a dress that had surely come from “Hookers R Us.” The Kid had thanked him right then and there for raising her not to show her ass out in public like that. All the tables around them had snickered. Maybe he should have raised her to be a little more discreet. It would be a hell of a lot less fun, though. And after all, he’d clearly not raised her to show her ass.
7:57. He flipped his butt out into the street. The restaurant was known for its hero sandwiches, but the pie was damn good, too. Coffee tasted like bitter highway mud though. 7:58. The Kid should be here now. Always early that kid. He asked the pert young server for a slice of apple pie for himself and peach for the kid and a cup of unleaded coffee for each of them. It was the same every week unless pumpkin pie was the seasonal favorite. Then they both had pumpkin. Almost time for pumpkin, it was.
As the waitress dropped off two cups of coffee promising pie soon, he noticed that the blonde in front of him had stopped smoothing everything in sight. Indeed as she looked towards the door she looked horrified. He looked at his watch and became a bit horrified himself. It was 8:01.

I'm Not Afraid of the Wind...But I Don't Like Flying Monkeys

I’ve talked before in previous blogs (where I neglected to regularly put on my Clarkett Kent blogospehere glasses) about duality of my youth. I think lots of kids who grew up with a dad who was in the military and then worked on the Trans Alaska Pipeline had that. And yeah… there are way more kids like that than you think. When you’re the kid of a tattooed maintenance man who makes 6 figures, that’s just the beginning of an interesting childhood. When I feel nostalgic, there are very few stories of the time Pinky got caught on the top of the slide and they had to call the fire department for me. I’ve got, however, no less than three stories of the time that guy got jerked out of his car through the window stories.

Yesterday, the weather took me on a trip in the way back machine to a time when I lived in a place where the earth was constantly trying to kick your ass. Things tend to be intense in Alaska. Everything is just harder there than it is in the lower 48. Shoveling a foot of snow off from your car with a 6 inch scraper and your coat sleeve after a movie, walking on ice that Chinook winds have left smooth and with a half inch of water on top, bears that also utilize the local bike path, and frozen nose hairs at the bus stop. Maybe, that was the worst. Ok. It is all beautiful and majestic and stuff…but whatever… so is where I live now, so is North Carolina, so is Seattle. Most places are beautiful if you slow down enough to look. For my money, the beauty of where I live now, coupled with real cities that aren’t a 3 hour plane ride away, and more than one road in and out of town is totally better than what I had in Alaska. And plus… my hometown isn’t regularly trying to whoop my ass.

Well. Yesterday, it gave it the good old college try. There were gusts up to 75 mile an hour winds. That’s a breezy Tuesday in the 907. However, apparently, down here this is a pretty big deal. The trees are bigger here than in Alaska and they’re built closer to homes etc. The buildings are solid, but not meant to withstand 8 feet of snow, earthquakes and 100 mile an hour mountain winds. On my Sunday afternoon out, TB insisted that we go home NOW when the power went out at TJ MAXX. I got a lecture on how it was a horrible day out. He began ranting about the danger of house parts and trees flying around like a game of Mario Cart on the way home. And I suppose he was right to some extent, because apparently, in the heartland, 75 mile an hour winds are enough to peel the very roof off the 84 Lumber. That was an interesting bit of scenery on the way home ….

*giggle*

I like to think that I am a product of my hometown. Not Alaska, despite 19 years there. The way I talk, the work I do, the way I relate to people and the people I relate to have always been a direct result of the other half of my upbringing. I like to think that my time in Alaska really only gave me the need to sleep outside occasionally and the need to strap a board to my feet and slide down a mountain every now and again. But clearly, it gave me a total indifference to dangerous weather. Even watching the roof roll up and blow off the 84 Lumber and blow away didn’t freak me out. I am not impressed with a roof unless it blows off a house. And even then, you don’t have to worry until it slams into your 2nd floor windows.

Until yesterday, I’d damn near lost that childhood memory beneath all the car window ass beating memories. I was 3. Maybe 4. And the Chinook winds had blown through Anchorage making the whole town feel like the beginning of The Wizard of Oz. My poor mom, who’d been jerked out of a big city into what was in the late 70’s still very much the wilds of Alaska was freaking the hell out. We had the standard issue Alaska home. Chalet style (all that snow needs a steep roof to slide off from…), deck across the front, and a basement that wasn’t totally a basement, there were maybe four feet above ground and windows across that area. We had a neighbor who had a 90 some percent wolf hybrid dog with gold eyes who used to come and peer at us down there. They were good sized windows, maybe 3 feet tall.

My dad had just started working for the pipeline service company. This means that while he was working in the state, he was some where near a thousand miles away from home. My mom was convinced the roof was going to blow off. She told him that when he called to check in for the evening (something he did every single night, no matter how tight money was for nearly 25 years). He chuckled, thinking that my very imaginative and still adjusting to Alaska city girl mom was totally over reacting. She was mad at his being so tickled by the fact that the roof might very well blow off (wonder where I get it?). So we did what you always did in Alaska… we went to bed and waited for the weather to get normal.

At some point in the middle of the night there was a horrendous crash. It was the kind of crash that made you wish it was just an intruder. It sounded like our house had been hit by a freight train. Clearly, that was impossible. So naturally, when we got up to see what the commotion must have been, we realized it wasn’t a train, but instead the roof from the house across the street. And it was in our basement. Over the 25 years that my dad worked on the ‘pipeline, my mom called him at work 3 times. Twice she called for deaths in the family. The other time was this night. I don’t remember much else but nailing rugs over the broken glass and my mom being very animated saying, “I TOLD you!!!!”

I don’t remember how we got the roof out of the basement, but we did. I also remember having to have our roof fixed. It didn’t blow into anyone’s basement, but it did lift over and inch and a half off the rest of the house.

Today, it is Monday. It is 9:37. I am in bed with my laptop and my 2nd cup of coffee. TB is still asleep. It was a snow day. Or a wind day, I guess. All the schools in the area are closed due to debris and I’m not really sure what. There comes a point, folks, where you don’t much care why you get a surprise day off. I’ll relax a little, and go start some clean up. My gardens are totally decimated. Cosmos and Cleome lying flat, I hate to see what has happened to my peppers and tomatoes. My compost bin is in the middle of my yard and WD is still hesitant to go out. But my neighbor’s roof seems to still be on her house where it belongs and I’m glad about that. And while I don’t really understand why I have a day off (school got canceled in Anchorage once for 2 days after a volcano blew and dumped several feet of ash on the ground, but that’s about it) I am not complaining any either. Being a candy ass…is kind of nice.

*sort*

TB is gone and I can't work the TV in the bedroom....

Dr. Err, my ass.

Indulge me for a second, will ya?

Most days, I am up by 5 a.m. I stumble outta bed, let WD (wonder dog) out to pee while I empty the dishwasher. Then I put on my shoes and head down to the mill for a couple-a-three miles. I would much rather run outside, but I prefer to run in the morning and right now, its dark as shit at 5:15. I get off the mill and stretch out. Recently, WD has started to howl at me when I finish running while I stretch. Not sure about that… I am sure, however that I hate to stretch. I’m not naturally bendy. Tall women are usually not. I have to work at it. I do yoga to try and help me. I suck. It’s the only gym class I’ve ever not been good at. It is typically easy for me to skip my stretch as time is valuable, but I am becoming increasingly aware that it will be what keeps me from hurting myself again. I have blown both hips out. The first time, I was rehabbing it for almost a year and a half. I was told I wouldn’t run again. I certainly don’t run nearly as well as I once did (hell, I don’t walk as well), but I am running. That is the hip with the Rosie the Riveter tattoo. The second time, it wasn’t as bad, I had a good doctor and while my miles are still low, I’m getting in 8 miles or so a week and so I am back to trying to build my base.
Last week I took a day off because my calf (on the side where I have PF) was so tight I couldn’t flex it. More stretching. Some icing. By yesterday, after an hour of walking with WD and a 2 mile shortie run, it felt pretty ok. My hip however, is sore.
I asked TB if I should take the day off.
I didn’t ask because I needed permission or he knows any more about running than I do. I checked with him, because I worry about using excuses and slacking. Don’t get me wrong. I love to run. I love how it makes me feel, the time being sweaty and physical. I love what I know it is doing for my body. How my doctors comment on my low heart rate. However, its hard damn work.
My mileage is not so much hard. Yet. 2 miles is easy. 10….much harder. But the getting up at 5 to run, then walking WD for an hour, doing chores and THEN leaving for work…only to come home, like I did yesterday, walk WD some more, and trim the hell out of my holly bushes out front. That’s another story, folks. That is difficult, sometimes.
And as tired as I am now….once those Saturday runs get up around ten miles or so, I’m wondering where the energy will come from.
But at the same time, I tend to over do. I’m not some exercise junkie gym whore, don’t get me wrong. I would describe my life as active, however. I’ve been in rehab a million times for hips, PF, etc. If I can physically do something at the time, I tend to think, “what the hell…go for it” And then something hurts. So I spend a lot of time wondering… am I slacking or being smart? And really, I don’t know.
What I do know is that I’ve decided to move from my 5 day training program to every other day for the month of September. I’ll still try to increase my mileage (beginning tomorrow with a 3 mile LR….yeah, I said long run and 3 miles n the same sentence…buzzoffaboutitimbuilding….). Come October, I’ll re evaluate. Until then, I’ll continue to increase my stretching time and my other cross training to make the rest of me stronger (cuz I don’t enjoy my current HM2PT- half marathon to physical therapy- training plan).
I don’t usually write about my running (um, because what’s funny, touching, thought provoking about my thick ass jiggling its way around my neighborhood for several miles?). But I am still concerned about the possibility of me being a slacker. And writing what I’m doing makes it feel more like a plan (not a slack). And that makes me feel better.
And since blogs really are some self indulgent little interweb suckers, it feels appropriate.

Inside the real Dr. Err's house

I have, maybe, a slight furniture addiction. You have shoes, or electronic gadgets or earings…soshuddupaboutit. I only have a few pieces that aren’t old. Functional shit that I had to have, like my book cases. But they, at least, look old. Almost all of my furniture is what they call, ‘farmhouse primitives.’ Which is real damn funny when you consider that I’ve never so much as set foot in a farm house. Most of what I live with was constructed not by a company, but more likely by some farmer/carpenter/handyman just prior to the Civil War. There are all kinds of ways that you can tell, but you didn’t on purpose click on a history of furniture blog, did you?

I like the clean lines, the worn areas, the rough areas and the cool technologies of the time (like keeping doors of cabinets shut by turning the knobs to the side). I like how it feels to live with old things. Knowing that your pie safe or dry sink has seen countless wars, families, good times and bad times is somehow reassuring. It reminds you that time rolls on. I feel like these things are special. I feel privileged to get to be the keeper of them for a time. I have collected slowly since I was young and I find myself attached to most of my pieces. That said, I don’t buy new whatever usually. I just move stuff. Dry sinks in the hall way, dressers in the kitchen, a pie safe in the living room.

I also feel like it’s a more green way to go about my life. I’m recycling old furniture instead of filling landfills with trends that have ended. Really, though, I’m sure that’s a stretch and no doubt you’ll read in my blog someday about how I’ve recently started glowing in the dark or some damn thing because of led paint from my furniture.

It’s no secret I tend to lean toward the old from my mom, who got it from her grandmother who despite being very seriously economically fragile had a lovely house. I thought until I was near twenty that they were wealthy. Until I did the math that pointed out how no one with any serious jack lived in a triple in a neighborhood that I like to describe as, “one that is on the news a lot.” On top of that, WM has a shop that is a kind of a cross between Crate and Barrel, Restoration Hardware and a back East antique shop. She’s been in the business since I was around 12. That’s twenty years I’ve been hustling antiques with her. I remember being in 6th grade and getting a treadle sewing machine for Christmas. IRL friends....its the one that the old record player sits on under the MLK picture. I can’t even count the times I’ve sat in a crowded car with some damn thing jammed in my ear or on my lap or under my feet. Or more recently driving a loaded down truck that makes me look like Fred Sanford himself. WM and I regularly hum the theme song during these times. And folks, you can’t lean to the side enough to compensate for looking like the Beverly Hillbillies when you’re driving through Buckeye Fried Chicken ….

One of the times that we loaded a truck down like this was soon after moving back to our home state when I was about 19. My mom had bought a beautiful pie safe at a farm auction with blue milk paint. It was larger than most, over 5 feet tall and almost 4 feet wide. It weighed roughly 90 million pounds. So naturally, WP (wonder Pop) and I had to carry it across a farm and into a ditch. As we straddled the ditch (me whimpering not because of the heavy thing or splinters, but because there had to be snakes in there…DADDY!!!!!) we somehow broke the back leg the rest of the way off (many of these pieces had been chewed on by rats or in homes that had flooded). WM was pissed at the both of us. It took up all the room in their Explorer. Thinking back, I don’t know how in the holy hell it fit in there in the first place, but I knew that riding home with one pissed off WM in my lap for an hour was step 1.

It was one of the first pieces she put in the original building of her new shop after closing the one we had left across the country. I loved it. It was a caliber of farm house primitive that I’d only seen in Country Living. Needing storage she decided to mark it NFS (not for sale). Over the years many people tried to buy the piece. As I became an adult with an adult job, a married person, and then a homeowner, I coveted the piece even more. Particularly because I worked part time in WM’s shop and opened it lovingly every day to pull stock. Every time she would comment on how someone had made a generous offer, I would remind her that if she ever were to sell it… I wanted first dibs.

Eventually, she moved into a 4,000 square foot new shop with a whole storage room and shelves and new fangled things like work tables (I’d priced for ten years in my lap). The blue cupboard stayed behind in storage in the old shop. I reminded WM that someday, if she didn’t want it, I would buy it and that I called ‘dibs.’ She told me, that she wouldn’t sell it to me. It was a particularly horrible time in becoming Dr. Err. It was a time when I didn’t know if I was cut out to be Dr. Err, if I could do it, or if I even wanted to. She told me, very matter-of-factly that when I became Dr. Err, I could have it.

Don’t look too shabby, do it?

Music Soul Child?

I love music. I really do. I'm not one of those people who knows a whole helluva lot about it or anything. Like my best-friend-in-law (yeah. that's a 'nuther blog.) writes blogs on music, and one of my UPNORTH buddies is an entertainment editor, and some people know band members names and band organizations and.... stuff I don't even know. I just like to sing along (and very likely I'm using the wrong words when I do). But that doesn't detract from my love of music.

I don't play an instrument or sing. I mean I sing. I'm sure you've heard me if you know me in real life. And while my tune-age might not be stellar...I got a lot of soul. And no one has ever laughed at my singing. But its not anything I've got any desire to do outside of walking down High Street singing the end hook to Posion with you. I might- when on an airplane try to remind you of that Ralph Tresvant song that goes I've been thinking lately 'bout be-ing single...or just alone...., And no lie, in the shower is where I channel my inner Aretha.

I'm also not one of those people who likes everything. I can boil my musical taste down pretty clearly. With the exception of the few Rock bands I like, and the odd ball Fiona Apple-esq artist and Jeff Woodell (who I also just love both musically and personally) I pretty much just like Soul music.. do you like good music? that sweet soul music? I like Motown, Rap, R&B, the blues (like BB King and KoKO Taylor...notsomuch Stevie Ray Vaugh) I like old jazz, I like new jazz. I always tell people my mother raised me right.

Music speaks to me. I can hear a particular lyric and find myself teared up and unable to pull my shit together. Which is kind of a big deal if you know me.... The Game has a song out right now called My Life. Weezie has a line in it that goes, Dear Lord, you’ve done took so many of my people but I’m just wonderin’ why You haven’t taken (my life? x3)Like what the hell am I (doing right?) . That hit me like an arrow through the heart. Almost ran off the end of my treadmill. When I was becoming Dr. Err, any song about being a hustler, staying on your grind, etc was my anthem. Angry rock songs always get played twice in a row on my IPOD on a particularly difficult run. Or on a drive when I'm pissed about something. The music...it moves me.

But mostly, as I get older and now have a huge list of songs I love. After all, I inherited all of the ones WM loves, some that TB has shared, and even some that I picked up from WM's father. If nothing else, I am grateful to him for taking me to my city's jazz festival when I was four. I remember thinking, "wow....this is what cool is...."

I remember singing Wilson Pickett, Sam and Dave, the Commodores, the Temptations, Four Tops and always Smokey Robinson in the car with my mom when I was too little to remember much of anything. I don't love you....but I need you..... Like my mom sang it to me, I sang it to my God daughter on my back porch when she was about 6 months old on a freakishly warm spring night. She tried to sing along with me going, 'AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH' as loud as she could.

In high school, I couldn't walk down the hall without someone singing Poison at least once during the day. Never trust a big butt and smile..... I can hear the music we danced to as kids (and my men were always dancers, people...Color Me Badd hair or high top fades and Cross Colors all of 'em) and still feel what it was like to be 'out.' To be dancing close with some boy who was slightly sweaty in his rayon shirt of many patterns and dress slacks and wearing way too much Drakkar. You'd come home smelling like him and wonder if he was smelling like Chanel no 5. Was he at home, now, smelling his shirt and thinking of you? Even then I doubted it. The boys I ran with still wouldn't have been home at curfew. Instead, one of my boys would have likely been smelling like me in a 7-11 parking lot, listening to NWA, telling his boys how I had booty for days and how he might call me.

But the New Jack Swing formed so much of what I was as a teenager. All of us girls from Around the Way still talk about it. The songs were all about how fine a woman was and her worth. I knew I deserved a man with sensitivity. And that if I ever chose to leave a man, I was worth a song like Boys II Men's Please Don't Go Away From Me. I wanted to be the girl who would make a man say, "your love makes my head spin 'round n 'round n a daze...". BBD's When will I see You Smile Again made me cry every damn time. How some stupid Eric Clapton song was my junior prom theme song when Jodeci had just dropped Forever My Lady is beyond me. And don't even get me started on Troop's I Will Always Love You.

Not that some songs weren't just about getting some ass. Keith Sweat's Make you Sweat is still one of my favorites. When I saw New Edition a couple of years ago (yes, Johnny Gill made me cry...) SILK opened for them and naturally they played, Freak Me. I told TB that if I had a dollar for every hood who sang that in my ear while we danced, I'd have like eight bucks or something. And I still can't help but grin as I write that even 15 years later.

I still dance. My tail feathers are older, but still got to get their shake on, occasionally and my friends still tease me about, 'thats yo song, gurrrlll' every time a song about trunks full of junk are played by a DJ. And it still embarrasses me. However, I very seldom slow dance as TB is the single no dancing boy in my history, and there are few boys who are allowed to dance with me. But, hoods still slide up behind me on occasion and I still wish that the DJ would throw on It Takes Two so we could really get down. I still listed to the same station I always have. Its the same format of my city's "best rap and r&b." But now, overwhelmingly, every song is about a stripper. I wonder what the girls I teach think their role in a man's life will be... For the record, I am over hearing about strippers. Though, I have some of it on my IPOD. But when its set on random, the occasional New Edition, or TuPac, or someone else from my musical memory slips in. And damned if every time I don't feel just a little bit younger. Although, now when the Humpty Dance plays, I don't have to turn it down so my mom doesn't hear the lyrics....