Celebrity Crush Time

Clive Owen in The International

Hugh Jackman & Liev Schreiber in Origins: Wolverine

Liev Schreiber in Defiance

Robert Downey Jr in The Soloist

I think I have a type... but that's ok, all of these movies look amazing!

Holy Sunday Batman!

So, I'm home with a cold today. In the cold, with a cold, it's kinda the same. Kinda.

And so, this morning, in my sweats, awaiting eagerly the start of the Steeler game, I was online, and I met a guy who thinks he's the Pope. No, I'm not visiting ReligiousFanaticSingles.net again, c'mon guys! I was playing Ticket To Ride. Bringing Eurotrash to a home near you.

Anyways, a conversation struck up between this guy, Mike, who I thought lived in Minneapolis, and myself, about Michael Jackson. The Beer Hunter, not the pedophile. We were talking about beer, football and all kinds of good stuff, when all of a sudden, this other player, Johannes IV pipes in, and says "I'm the Holy Father". Yeah, cuz that wasn't random.

So, in my newfound Minnesota niceness, I respond, "Oh, you mean your name means 'Holy Father'?" Nuh-uh. This freak thought he was the Pope. He really did. What is it with me and the religious freaks? No seriously. Those of you who know about my recent Ghost Hunter blind date, well, you're feelin' me.

Anyways, back to the Pope. I gave him another chance to 'splain himself Lucy. But he held his own, and said he was the Holy Father, His Holiness, the Pope, Johannes IV. It was all downhill from there - the beer conversation turned into "wine into water" jokes, and no matter how many religious references I threw at him, he maintained he was the Pope, without actually responding knowledgeably to my witty quips.

Hmmmm.... Then, my laptop battery died. And it shut down. The first words that came to mind were nothing I'd repeat in church. I was so pissed - Mike and I were just getting on a roll of religious jokes. Then I missed it. - how it ended.... what did Mike tell him? What did the Pope say back? Were there any miracles.... did he really bless the crappy tickets I had, or was he able to pull a miracle from out of his sleeve and get me to Athina with only four red trains? Dang it! Guess my Sunday watching football wasn't so blessed after all..... well, maybe we'll get a Holy Mary in the game.

In other news, but speaking of Europe (I kinda was) - I'm my own new hero. I made homemade, with love, from scratch, knock your winter socks off Irish Cream home brew. Oh yeah! This was my Christmas present to friends this year, a small bottle of that, and some homemade hot cocoa. The cocoa could've been dried, ground turd in a bag for all anyone cared. It was the Irish Cream that stole the show.

And I do admit, it is daaaaaaaaaamn good. Better than Baileys. Better than that Carolina's crap. Chock full o' Jameson's and strong enough to put bright red hair on the chest of your favorite Leprechaun. And as I sit here writing about it, I realize it might be just what I need to knock this cold out of my system. I'd get up and get a glass, if it weren't for the fact that I'm holding the cord to my battery pack between my knees in the hopes that if I don't move it will not short out and I'll shut down again. What I need now, is a miracle..... Oh Johannes IV??????

Life Is Good

Oooh, the news! So much has been going on lately, that makes me smile quietly to myself, and yet so much has also been going on that causes me to cry myself to sleep at night. Kind of an accurate picture of life I guess. Here's a brief glimpse into what's new with me:

I was writing to a friend today, an old friend. Literally the oldest friend I have. We're not talking age here either - as much as longevity. For someone who left her entire life behind more than a decade ago, and chose to say goodbye to everyone she new for the sake of the cross, it's nothing short of miraculous that I can reconnect with an old friend, from my childhood. It's crazy to think that we haven't talked in over 12 years, but that through the magic of technology (*que music Napoleon*), we've reconnected, and it's just like no time has passed. I'm proud of her, as I learn about the woman she's become in the last decade, and the choices she's made and just as I wonder how hard it must've been to say "Hi" and break the ice. I'm so very excited to get to know her again.

Speaking of breaking the ice.... (random ADD moment here), I did it this week, with Operation Uncle, and to limited, nah, nonexistant success. Yeah, after accidentally stumbling across him online, and realizing two things (#1, it's a small, small world & #2 he really is looking), I thought it couldn't hurt to, as my friend Krista put it, "grow a pair" and email him and ask him out. Let's just say I'm still waiting.

Ok, back to my long lost friend - because this is a subject that brings great joy to my heart: So, this is someone that I literally grew up with. Whenever I was in trouble, she wasn't far behind. And the memories I have of the laughs, oh the laughs!! Getting in trouble was sooo much fun. I'll never forget some of those crazy times! She was my style inspiration, and the one person who taught me class and good taste growing up. I'm forever indebted. To think that she now lives within road trip distance, hasn't changed all that much (the cats!), that despite growing apart for so long, we are still so alike and that we can reconnect fills me with nostalgia and gratitude.

Gratitude is a big one for me this week, as I settle in with my MN family. I love them so very, very much, and am totally blessed to have them love me back. Every day when I leave for work, Peggy has a commuter mug of coffee waiting for me, and walks me to the door with well wishes for the day. I have never felt that taken care of, or loved, in a familial sense.... well not since my stint in the Herdles basement at least. Family is the most important thing to me, and I just cherish it up like ice cream on a crabby day. Even though we don't share the same blood - they are my dearest, darling MN family, and I can only say "Thanks!" to them, and God, for this kind of love and acceptance and googly feelings of warmth.

On another note - Just 3 days till Wicked! And I can't get Defying Gravity out of my head. It's literally the soundtrack to my weekend, and I shiver with anticipation at hearing Elphaba hit that high note at the end, as the citizens of the Emerald City look on, declaring her wicked. Ok, I'm totally obsessed. Yikes-a-roo! I know that when I get there, in my adorable new black strapless dress, and green shoes (YES! GREEN SHOES!!!), it will be everything I can muster to not pee in my chair with excitement. At the very least there will be some major toe tapping and humming along goin' down. Wow oh wow... I'm stoked.

All in all life is good. There are challenges, yeah; I'm so tired of being alone! I'm even more tired of being rejected. Wait, maybe I didn't say that clearly enough - I'm soooo tired of being rejected by guys. Tired enough to stop trying even. I'm kind of wondering if God has got it out for me, and is like "You're just meant to be alone, Trin, get used to it, and stop trying to change it" But even if that's the message I'm hearing, I know that life is good and I have no right to complain. And I won't. Because in the end there is so much to be excited for. Breakthroughs of epic proportions! Puddles of joy waiting to be jumped in! Puppies and babies and shoes, oh my! Puppies, and babies and shoes, oh my! Just keep chanting that, skipping along in my ruby red Target Mary Janes, down the yellow cement parkway, and hope for the best!

SuperQuickFabuMangaUpdateY'all!!

This is going to be quick.  They don't let you stay online long here at the Women's Penitentiary..... J/K!  Nothing like a little prison humor to say "I'm baaaack!"

So, lately:

• I love my job - I've been there over a year.  I get to be on fun committees & everyone thinks I'm tres witty & stylish.  I'll stay.

• I love Ugly Betty.  I can't say how much, but it's a grand old lot!  Ugly Betty is my new bestie.

• I love my friends - new ones, old ones who haven't given up  on me, imaginary ones - they're all great.  I miss the kiddos though.  Sad.

• I'm back in the dating field, with two new prospects.... Operation U.N.C.L.E, and Operation Skywalker.  Saw Operation U.N.C.L.E tonight, and he's gonna take some time.  We're both shy, oh how cute.  Operation Skywalker goes down Friday night, as he and I and another couple do the blind/double date thing at Maggianos.  Should be interesting - but I'll just say this - he's ben to Pennyarcade Expo in the last year, has low standards and is tall.  Match made in heaven!!!!  I love men with low standards, I feel so wanted.

• I am yet, always, the dork.  I fell over the other day for no apparent reason.  Was just standing there, watching some boats on the dock.  Perfectly still.  Then boom, I crumpled and bit it.  Took a big old digger in Wisconsin.  Yeah me!!  I have the bruises to prove it too. 

• I'm looking for housing - my current living situation is less than ideal and highly overpriced.  Now that I've got wheels, I can commute a little more than I had planned when I moved in there.  So, keep me posted, if you know of anything.  

• I'm learning gaming.  We're talking like Xbox, PS3, Wii gaming.  Don't ask. 
  

Other than that, not much else is new.  Life is good, the Lord is gooder.  Till our next "out of your cell time" over & out.  

I'm Still Here! I'm Still Alive!

I can't imagine that any of you readers out there are coming back often to check things here anymore. But if you are, I'm still alive, I'm still ok, I'm still here. I'm just busy. And they blocked all blog sites at work. And since I'm cheap & broke I haven't replaced my laptop in over a year. Anyways. I'm still ok, here and alive, and will blog if I get a chance. But don't expect too terribly much. Honestly, my life is boring. Thanks, Trin

Too Much Ticky Tacky?

Hey all you faithful readers, those few of you who still come to this site, hoping for updates, only to be disappointed with a whole lot of nothingness. To those of you, and you know who you are, I can only say thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I have updates - housing, love life, political affiliations, favorite tv shows, new books, new shoes, news in general, y'know, updates.

So, I did it! I made it, made the move to Eden Prairie and am now living away from mice, away from squirrels, away from all things urban and downtown, smack dab in the middle of suburbia. This is a bittersweet move for me, as I'm discovering how much I really loved being in the middle of the downtown Minneapolis scene. Being urban overtook me much like a carbon dioxide leak, I never saw it coming. I didn't know how much I appreciated the cityscene till I was gone from it, literally stuck in the middle, of what feels like nowhere. There are some things I really miss, like getting anywhere on a $5 cab ride, that great two story Target I frequented at least three times a week, that even greater Marshall Fields (oh, excuse me, Macys) that carries Izzies ice cream and has a bookstore, the ease of public transportation from the middle of a hub, Pizza Luce via delivery on speed dial, feeling so urbane sophisticate ala Mary Tyler Moore as I'd walk down Nicollet Mall on the way home, the busy, bustling way it buzzed with people (who me, like alliteration? Surely not!). There are other things, however, I'm oh so glad to leave behind, like said taxi cab drivers when I'm on my bike, malnourished, crazy-eyed squirrels who will stab you as soon as look at you (or rather, die in your kitchen), mice that scurry every time you turn on a light, and even when you don't, the warm welcome I never received from my "spiritually superior" neighbors, such close to proximity to the bad memories of a certain church and the lack of anything green, pretty, safe or quiet.

I love my new digs - please don't get me wrong. Everytime I walk into my new living room, bright, clean and pretty, I am amazed at the night & day transformation of my space. I don't think I realized how pitifully dusty, dark and dirty my old apartment really was. Ew. I'm an idealist, an optimist, the kind of person who's Mary Sunshine outlook strives to make anything work, no matter how bad, and who's doe eyed Bambi-esque naivete will fail to see something wrong with a situation while I still hold out hope for making it better. I can see, clearly now that the cobwebs are cleared, just how rose colored my glasses were at this last place. It really was a dump!

But the new digs - well let me just say I've never seen a prettier backyard, what with our shaded, sprawling lawn, perfectly manicured garden and pink plastic flamingos. Yesterday, as I was grilling turkey brats (ala suburbia in my Gap linen pants, tank top, cashmere cardi & overpriced J.Crew flip flops), I realized that our grill totally faces the wrong direction - it needs to face out into the yard, instead of looking at the house (though the house aint that bad either). I woke up late (ahhhh, Saturdays) and rode my bike along the shaded trails that run alongside all the roads in our development (which I've appropriately dubbed Wee Britain). On my ride, I stopped at not one, not even two, but six garage sales. I bought books, and a new bookshelf, and a puzzle, all for about $20, and chatted with the neighbors, shook hands and kissed babies. It's like I was running for president of our own little slice of Eden Prairie heaven. Then I came home and baked pies.

Oh, I'm happy where I'm at. I'm getting settled in, unpacking, putting things in their place, wondering where to hang the Birawer, or how I'm going to fit my clothes in my closet (even if I had a Hollywood Hills Crib straight out of In Style, that would be a problem). All in all, the new digs are great. Lovely, suburban, and great.

On to more and better news - I'm in love with the West Wing. The TV Show, not the actual White House Office (having never been there). A while back a friend loaned me season one, saying it was the best show she's ever watched. Pretty tall order if you ask me. Now, four seasons in, two celebrity crushes later, a wave of patriotism has overtaken me and I am in flippin love with this show. It's intelligent, well written, the characters have depth and are developed with a panache that draws you into their stories gradually, building a foundation upon their roles and then frosting that with their personal lives & stories. It is funny without being slapstick or nonsensical, it's loaded with nuances, references and tidbits of American trivia and pop culture that are just enough to keep you on your toes, or at least keep the subtitles on. It makes you think, makes me cry, and has inspired me to once again believe that we can have a strong, moral, intellectual, capable and yet human leader in the White House who will lead this country in all things good and holy. I'm not exactly holding out great hope for our next Presidential Election, but watching the West Wing has at least inspired me enough to cast off my cynicism and tired, beaten attitude regarding politics and investigate who these staunchly partisanal candidates are in front of the American people right now. If they're all we have, at this moment, I better learn who they are, what they believe and where they stand, because there is no excuse for not casting my vote just because the pickings are slim. Indeed, all this, just from a canceled NBC drama. Let's see Friends do that.

Let's see, on to next: Love life. Nonexistent really. And sadly lacking any potential on the horizon either. Having dumped the UCE, then having made the grossly unladylike mistake of drunk dialing him two weekends later, I am back to holding radio silence where he is concerned. He's finally respecting my wishes and not initiating contact either. Yet a day doesn't go by where I don't think of him, oddly. Here's the thing - we were never really that close. He never told me he loved me, or even came close to feeling such affection for me. I don't love him, and never did. So, why, why, why do I miss him?

Well I think the answer lies in not so much missing him, as much as missing the thought of him. The thought of having a guy around, someone who liked me, who wanted to kiss me and who would on occasion, take me to go do fun things like dinner or a movie. In retrospect, though, all but the kissing wasn't that great (and even there, it takes two to tango, so, maybe it was all me!). We never did fun date-like things, like museums, or games, or bike rides or picnics. It was like pulling teeth to get him to spend time with me at all, much less to do anything other than stay home & watch a movie (and as I'm sharing all this now, I'm realizing how humiliatingly sad and pathetic it's making me look).

So, really, what was there to miss? Well, I guess the thought of maybe, possibly, kind of having someone around. I need to remind myself of this, everytime I think of him. I don't miss him, I miss the potential that he could be around. But sadly, he never was and he's still not, so c'est le vie, life goes on.

And a good life it is. One in which I'm thankful for so many things. That spring has finally sprung. That summer will soon be here. That I have the prettiest, greenest, most parklike trails in which to ride my bike to work. That at the end of the week, I still have a job. That the Lord loves me, even though I refuse to fit into the American Christian woman mold that so many women find their identities and solidarity in. That he loves me even when I find that mold irritating and annoying and rebel against what that kind of woman is supposed to look like, and try to forge my own way to share Him, know Him and love Him without giving in to listening to Point of Grace or KTIS or reading books with the words Purpose, Praying Woman, or Bless in the titles. That He loves me even when I accidentally drop the F-Bomb or sneak a cigarette while out with girlfriends. I'm thankful that I have a great mom, of whom I'm proud for all her hard work raising a creative, wacky little autistic guy. And that I have a great Minnesota mom, who reminds me all the time that I'm loved and am part of a family! That I have funny, quirky little kids around me whose eyes are filled with wonder and whose hearts are filled with silliness and whose feet love to dance and run and skip and jump. That I have friends who listen, laugh, support and moderately tolerate me. That I have a voracious appetite for books, and God has seen fit to bless it through Amazon's Super Saver Shipping program, of which I'm a bountiful partaker. Or something like that.

There are so many things to be happy for, and to be thankful for, and (without sounding too Christianese) I really do lead a blessed life. As I ponder and think on all these things, I think I, and we all, really, ought to remember the Chinese, and their loss, of parents and children and homes. We ought to remember those in Myanmar, and ask God to heal them, physically, emotionally, fiscally and their land as well. I want to never forget the faces of Darfur orphans, only now learning what it is to be read to, or held, after months of severe, death causing neglect and ostracism. These are all people that need our prayers, and our support. We have so much, in this land of ticky-tacky suburbanism and wealth. I can see that, even now, in my big-ass backyard, with dinner grilling behind me on the bbq, and my nice tv in my nice living room waiting for me downstairs. May I always be grateful for what God has given me and never be so tied to it that I couldn't part with it at the drop of a hat, and may it never cloud my mind from remembering those with less, or loving on them at any opportunity I get.

Till later, sionara from the EP. Trin

Shameless Plug

There is no funnier show than the misguidedly canceled Arrested Development! I got hooked on this show about a year and a half ago, when a friend force fed me at least six episodes of season one, thereby hooking me like a baby mama on crack. Dear Lord I love this show! And since I'm in the middle of introducing another new friend to some of the best moments (Maggie Lizer, Bland, Sally Sitwell, Barry Zuckercorn, they're all their), I will keep this super brief.

Trust me on this one people - watch this show!

Relevance In A Faithless World ....

... aka There's A Kangaroo In My Kitchen, Can I Pray It Away?

So, I had dinner with some old friends the other day. These are friends who were there for me in a big way, during one of the hardest times of my life, and whom I hadn't seen since that time. I knew it was going to be a night of surprises, since we hadn't really "caught up" in about a year, but even I couldn't have prepared for the spiritual surprises that were in store for me that night.

You know, we did the same old "so what's new with you?" bit, and I talked about work and life, and guys (the non-existent love life), and they talked about finding jobs and married life (yeah, they're a married couple, and I still want to be friends with them). Then, we started talking about my apartment. Now, I used to love my apartment. USED TO. Till I got invaded by rodents of every shape, color and size. A slight exaggeration? Yeah, probably. But for a woman who's never had a pet rat, never lived on a farm, and is city-fied and civilized through and through, even a tiny, little brown mouse is the size of a pookah to me.

Well, as I was telling them that I was thinking about moving, closer to work, to somewhere where I don't share my living space with vermin, they got real serious, and asked me if I had ever prayed about the mice. I guess I hadn't. I don't know why, except that I thought, somewhere deep down inside, that God has better things to deal with (Darfur's orphans, Breast cancer, the salvation of billions of people, etc) than my little brown mice problem. So, halfheartedly, I shrugged off their suggestion, and went back to my apartment search conversation.

That's when Chris, the husband got quite serious, and looked at me in all earnestness and said "Trinette, don't you remember that man has been given authority, at creation, over all the animals?". I guess I hadn't remembered that, but yes, he was right. It is man's God-given right to rule the earth and that includes it's less than human inhabitants, from great big grey elephants (loyal as they are), to the little brown mice in my kitchen. So, right then and there, at one of the nicest restaurants in Minnetonka, we stopped and they grabbed my hands, and we prayed that the mice would leave, in the name and power and authority of Jesus Christ.

Now, for all y'all who might be thinking they're some sort of religious wacko-fanatics in chambray overalls and straw hats, ala a Mormon version of Fraulein Maria, you couldn't be more wrong. I mean, yeah, they are definitely what I, in my blinder wearing conservatism would call more Liberal, Charismatic Christians, but these two embody love and sincerity and loyalty in a way that most people take for granted in this sad, cynical, faithless world. And that, to me, makes them painfully relevant and authentic, all wacky faith-healing talk aside.

Anyway, as the evening progressed, and we talked about their faith, and my own life, and the shape my faith takes in it (so different than even a year ago), the subject of relevance in this world kept coming back to me. I was sharing with them that, after a long hard struggle to find my place and my "mission field", I felt that my job, my lovely little crazy job, was exactly where God wanted me, and where I was so happy and content to be. I found my place in this world, and it's not glamorous, and it's not the picture of bible-thumping evangelism that a lot of people I know identify with, but it's where I am supposed to be, and I can see the blessings and the fruit of that in ways that gladden and warm my heart.

Relevance, however, seemed to be the theme, because as we talked about faith, and about my place in a secular job, versus ministry, I kept thinking back to the idea of light, and being a light to those around me. How can I not shine so brightly that I blind and wound those I surround, while still shining sweetly and brightly enough to illuminate and lead them? How can I be relevant in my workplace, showing God's love through my actions & faith to those I work with, without alienating them, or causing them to assume I'm a right-wing, name-it-and-claim-it Tammy Faye Baker wannabe?


Well, my friends' answer was so much more radical than I could have imagined. In listening to it, I was reminded well and hard of how much time we had spent apart in the last year, and just how much each of us had grown and changed, in ways that made us different, even as we traveled on parallel lines.

Their answer to my question was an example, a story of a recent healing they had heard about: A group of people were at a restaurant eating, and talking about healing, and during the meal, according to the story, the Holy Spirit led one man to get up and walk over to another table and lay hands on a woman, and spontaneously heal her illness (severe Carpal Tunnel, if I remember right), without even knowing the person he was healing. The same man then came back to the table and spoke to the waitress (whom he had not really conversed with before this time), words about her relationship with her mom, to which the waitress cried and admitted that she had been having these problems with her mom and was grateful for the input. According to the story, lives were changed that night, because one person decided to listen to the voice of Holy Spirit leading them to do things that I thought were so out of the ordinary that I had to hide my incredulity at this story.

At first this story baffled me. This was not an answer to my question about relevance in this world, this was an example of exactly the kind of thing this world shys away from. Crazy, Healing Miracle Christians, who do things spontaneously and call it the Lord. But then, after a second or two, the sweet simplicity of it all started to coalesce, like a man walking towards me through the misty fog. The relevance, my friends gladly pointed out, was that lives were changed that night. Someone was physically healed, relationships were changed, what's more relevant to people's lives than that?

The rest of the night passed with me sitting slack-jawed, listening to them share more stories of healing, and crazy forward approaches that I would consider an encroachment of personal space, but that obviously God was using. After dinner & dessert we sat in the lobby, the three of us scrunched into a little sofa, praying together, and looking through a book of European Castles, talking about our dreams and desires. They shared their heart for bringing this kind of luminescent spotlight into more peoples lives, and I shared my heart for just making it through the day sometimes, amidst the weight of thinking about moving, guy troubles and a job that leaves me underpaid though emotionally satisfied. At the end of the night, as we were huddled in the lobby praying, Chris repeated his prayer for the mice in my apartment. I was kind of surprised that he remembered, and touched as well. We parted ways, and I was glad we'd spent the evening together, even if it left me with more questions than answers.

The next night, I came home from work, tired, and hungry, and I sat down to watch yet another episode of The West Wing, my most favoritest show ever in the history of television. Sitting there, in a TV/Take-out coma, I was startled back to attention by the sound of something the size of a kangaroo coming from my kitchen. I could hear it rustling, moving in a paper bag (that my dinner came in, which was on the counter). This was no little brown mouse we're talking about. This thing had weight, girth, sheer inhuman strength, to be making that kind of a ruckus. Not twenty feet away, I was flipping out. What the hell was it? What the hell was in my kitchen?? Not a mouse? Not a squirrel?? A kangaroo? Was it possible?

Freaking out, I reached for the closest, non-breakable item handy, a water bottle, and threw it in the kitchen, yelling "GO AWAAAAAAAAY", but nothing replied back but more rustling, movement and the sound of paper being shredded, the cabinets shaking. So, I reached onto the coffee table, being sure all other appendages were tucked securely underneath me, in case this thing decided to attack, and found a bottle of nail polish remover from the previous night's pedicure, and threw that into the kitchen, only to be greeted with more rustling and movement in the bag. After minutes of whining, curling up into the fetal position and rocking back and forth like a little autistic kid, I finally got up all my courage, and walked, slowly, towards the kitchen, banging on the walls as I went. Standing in the doorway, between living room and the Varmint's home, in my loudest, most authoritative voice ever, I prayed in the authority of Jesus Christ, and the blood He shed for my measly life, that this thing had to obey me, and get out of my kitchen right now, and never, ever, ever come back. Then I walked back to the living room, sat down, and pressed play, on with the West Wing we go.

I've not heard it since. A few days later, I saw my little housemate, the brown mouse, but he scurried away at the sight of me, and I was barely afraid. The kangaroo, however, has found somewhere else to live. And so have I. In two weeks I'll be moving closer to work, to Eden Prairie. Closer to work, close enough to ride my bike in every day. Close to my friend Amy & her adorable little son, and close to my friend's Josh & Krista, and close enough to work to have people over for bbq's on Friday night. I'm thrilled. It's a clean, big, brand spanking new house, of which I'll be taking the lower level. It's reportedly mouse free, and as I undertake the grueling task of packing, I hope to keep it that way.

Relevance, I've found, is a relative word. I'm still not quite sure how to accomplish it, but I know this, I have found more courage and authority in my standing in Christ, these last few weeks, then I ever imagined I had. I have realized that I can love the liberals, my darling, dearest, gung-ho Christian friends, and not have to subscribe to their views of how to be relevant through faith healing strangers at the mall. And I know that as I just try to be a good friend to those around me, loving on them, treating them like Christ treated me, praying for them daily, that the notion of relevance will fade into obscurity, being as unimportant and invisible as the kangaroo in my kitchen.

So Long, Farewell, Auf Weidersehn, Well You Get The Picture

I just did it. I just sent the note I should've sent months ago. I just sent the note that said "We can't be friends, and you don't love me, so let's just say goodbye".

It seems to be a trend with me lately.

What am I doing, thinking, cutting out these relationships that don't feed or nurture or even love or support me? I said goodbye (and frankly good riddance) to a church that offered me no support or friendship or care, lately. And how liberating was that? A true breath of fresh air! And now I've said goodbye to him. To the UnChivalrous Ex.

I will miss him, I know. I will miss a lot of things about him, but sadly, I'll probably mostly miss the way he made me feel, that maybe someone out there liked me. Then again, who was I kidding? He kept reminding me lately that despite thinking I'm a real peach of a woman, he saw no future with me and that I wasn't the girl for him.

So why stay "friends" then? I have great friends. Friends who love me, and care about me, somehow manage to think I'm funny, see me for who I am and don't wish I was different, and don't remind me at every turn that I make them feel like they're walking on eggshells. Do I need to pretend in a friendship with someone who's holding me back? Does he need me to be his friend, as if he needed one more? I'm not like his friends - cool, funny, smart and worldly. I am all those things, but not in the way his friends are, so he doesn't need me.

Do I really think he'll miss me? I don't know. I doubt it. I mean, he's so far away, and we never see each other anyways. How can you miss someone you never see or interact with? How can you miss someone you never let in anyways?

I hope I didn't hurt him. That's the last thing I want. I really liked this guy. I went to bat for him. I defended him to friends, to coworkers, to my mom. I forgave him when he hurt my feelings and apologized to him (rather unhealthily) when I called him on his actions, and made him feel bad.

I'm a good woman. I might be naive, a little more Giselle from Enchanted than Giselle Bundchen. But I like me. And someone out there is bound to like me too. Probably some boring, balding, computer geek type who hasn't talked to a woman in over 6 months, but hey, I'm all for stepping stones. Just kidding.

I know I did the right thing. I want him to find happiness, but some old cliche about horses and water pops into my head when I say that. I want to find happiness, and even if dumping him was only an exercise in asserting proper boundaries and making good decisions for myself, that's good enough for me. And really, that's all I want. What's good enough for me.

498 Reasons To Endorse Celibacy!

This is going to be one of those posts that showcases my randomness at its best. As I write it, I'm babysitting Ana & Josiah, my favorite 3 & 5 year old, and I can make that claim even after a whole weekend of being with them. Maybe I don't know as many 3 & 5 year olds as I thought.

In any case, I realized this morning that one of the fundamental sacrifices of parenthood is the ability to sleep in. Dear Lord, did I do that to my parents too, once upon a time? It wasn't even light out this morning when their icy little feet came and crawled in with me on the makeshift beanbag bed I had constructed in the basement. "Tooo eaaarrly....... must sleeeeep!" was all I could croak out, despite an unusually sore throat and stuffy head (maybe the reason I never get sick is I don't have kids to spread their germs on me like little Outbreak monkeys). Nevertheless, in bed, we all three crammed and in bed we stayed for a good five minutes, till their miniscule attention spans caused them to search for toys, mess with the TV and play "Pink Baby Puppies" on me. Literally. On me.

I love these kids though, and love them I should, since they remind me of the reasons why I don't have my own (the whole sleep factor being the primary one that comes to mind). We've had a fun weekend. An unusual weekend (well for me at least, being happy hour/nap/shopping free), but a fun one. We played every game you can think of under the sun, that involves princesses, pirates or Spiderman. We went & saw Horton Hears A Who - which was so suprisingly lovely and well done that I could go back and see it in the presence of adults and enjoy it all over again. We went to Har-Mar, the second most ghetto strip mall in the Twin Cities, to get LL Bean bags at 50% off, from their outlet, only to find them closed. Which, suprisingly enough, did not deter Josiah from sticking his hands through the security gate and yelling "Hey, is anyone in there? We need backpacks out here!" I was quite dissapointed about missing the last day of their sale, having lost my duffle bag recently, and now resorting to using a giant, blue, crinkly Ikea bag for an overnighter. The epitomy of class!

Ok, I'm back. I just had to mediate a fight over a $2 bill. This morning the plan consists of

1. Wishing I was back in my own bed, under the influence of Tylenol PM, Nyquil & some Baileys
2. Getting them to stop yelling at each other long enough to pick up toys, get dressed for church & out the door.
3. Me grabbing at Starbucks & making a last minute Trader Joe's run before church.
4. Slowing the car down to about 15MPH and letting them get out for church, before I go find a bar open at this hour. Shouldn't be hard to do in North Minneapolis.

Or something like that.

I should run. For now. In the meantime, I wholeheartedly recommend Horton HEars A Who & will have a glowing review of it in the near future. If I make it that far.

Update

So, I had warned before that blogging for me, at least right now, is taking a not-so-daily backseat. I'm saddened by that, since every morning I wake up and can think of at least 3 things to blog about that day. You always want what you can't have. But, since my main access to online life has been drastically cut back, I find that I'm not blogging as much, and that's, well, ok I think.

Except that now that I'm here, I can't think of a word to say.

Lots has been going on lately, including the death of yet another loved one, a guy who I was crrrrrazy about basically doing the whole "I think of you like a friend" thing, and a major faith crisis in which God, as always has shown infinite mercy, and grace and has gifted me with two new friends. All in all though, I'm doing really well, embracing the coolness of spring, wishing I was scrapbooking again and really into Chai Teas.

Random.

To steal a phrase from a friend "more better later" as I think I'm inspired to sit down & collect my thoughts before putting them here.

A Long, Long Time

I'm sad and sorry to admit that I haven't been blogging much lately, but even saddier and sorrier to say I don't think it's going to change much. I am saddest and sorriest after the compliment so dearly paid to me by a friend recently that she loves my blog enough to think I should have my own newspaper column. Carrie Bradshaw aspirations dance like sugarplums in my head. Maybe if I could get on my blog during the week things would change. But for now, it might be a long, long time. Don't give up on me friends??

Things I Miss

The kiddos

The holidays

The warmth of sun melting, relaxing, soothing me

Sun Dresses & Sandals

BLT's

The sound of rain pitter-pattering on the rooftops outside my windows

The way my (used to be) long hair would spread out all around me on the white pillows, so much contrast of dark on light.

Jed

Late summer night walks along the Stone Arch bridge.

Beers on St. Anthony Main, Pracna's late night happy hour.

Kaya's chipmunk voice.

That Which Does Not Kill Me Makes Me Even Crabbier!

I'm CRAAAABBY today. And I don't need a reason. I'm a woman.

I do have a reason, in any case, but I don't need to share it. I'm a woman, and if I want to be crabby, no one should insist that I have a reason why, much less question me on what it is.

My reason anyway? The worlds most killer migraine ever in a million and a half years ever on earth. Yeah, that'd do it.

Even things that usually make me smile can't touch this mood today. Like the BoDeans coming on the radio, and singing along (albeit quieter than normal). Or a Cinnamon Dolce Latte. Instead of these little things bringing me joy like they usually do, they're leading to some minor annoyances. Like having to repeat my drink order ten times to the Somalian girl behind the counter at Starbucks. "TRIPLE. VENTI. SIX PUMP. CINNAMON...no, Venti, not Grande. SIX PUMP. Yes, Triple, that's an extra shot. CINNAMON. DOLCE. LATTE. Yes, Cinnamon Dolce. Six pumps of it. Yes, an extra shot. No, skim!"

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!

John Mayer can't even cheer me up today. Vince Vaughan holding a Chipotle burrito couldn't cheer me up right now. I'm reveling in the gloriousness poutiness of being crabby, and I don't care who knows it or what they think.

The thing is, nothing is really wrong circumstantially. Other than my head feels like a vice is wrapped around it, the light streaming in from the windows is burning my eyes out of my head like sharks with frickin' laser beams on their heads and the sound of my fingers rhythmically hitting the keyboard sounds like a U-boat is dropping bombs in rapid succession in the underwater fog that is my brain today.

I'm not trying to be dramatic. I just seriously believe this might be the worst migraine I've ever had. Which, accompanied by the lightheaded and dizzy feeling I was experiencing earlier, either means I should lay off the A&W chili dogs at 10 at night, or go see a doctor. Probably a little bit of both.

What was I doing eating A&W chili dogs at 10 o'clock at night, you ask? You asked, trust me. YOU ASKED! Well, I went last night with a friend, shopping for shoes for the Winter Gala next weekend. And though I wasn't going to buy a dress, since I have a perfectly good one at home, I couldn't resist, and bought both shoes and a dress, all for under $50. C'mon, it was so worth it. The new dress is a very flattering shade of midnight blue, with subtle sparkly action and a halter style that was demure enough for me to feel comfortable standing in front of my coworkers and announcing who just won the $25 Olive Garden gift card. The shoes, well, they're adorable. Midnight blue matte satin, with a little bow and cute little jewely thingy, and well, you get the picture.

So, in my blinded excitement last night, I engaged in some much forbidden gluten consumption, specifically of the A&W variety. Including a Coney Island Cheese Dog (what can I say, I'm a weak, weak person) and cheese curds and a tall, cold Root Beer. It was so pleasurable, while it lasted.

This morning though, I woke up to the clamorous guffawing of a murder of crows outside my window. Yes, a murder of crows, which is apparently what a buttload of crows is officially called. As opposed to a sleuth of bears or a smack of jellyfish. Speaking of murder, the noise of their caw-cawing was enough to make me want to murder someone, therefore the etymology of that phrase makes perfect sense.

These crows are not strangers to my neighborhood. No, as a matter of fact about two years ago, at the time when Hope was putting together the portraits for their first Church Directory, the crows appeared. Coincidence? I think not.

At that time, there was such an overwhelming proliferation of these crows that not a car in the lot was safe. Babies were being pooped on (Isaiah E. I believe), it was totally out of control. The noise was deafening, the sight creepy and frightening, and there seemed no reasonable solution in sight. Short of a pastor with a shot-gun, which unfortunately did not work. Time passed and the birds moved on.

Two years later, they're back in my neighborhood, and in such overwhelming quantities that their Hitchcockian presence thoroughly freaked me out last night when I arrived home. Infesting about six trees on my block, they clutter together so thickly, and in such large numbers that even the barest of branches looks full-leaved and blossoming with their darkness. As one entire treeful took to flight, they blackened the skies like a dark cloud, blocking out the moonlight, and squawking, cawing and carrying on quite unnecessarily.

I hate them. Cawcaw, cawcaw.

In any case, this morning, roundabout 4 am (a little later than midnight dreary), I was roused from my sleep (weak and weary) like Poe to his door, by their boisterous calls, (not quite a whisper of "Lenore", more like a ginormous, group effort "CAWCAW CAWCAW"). To which I responded,

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted

On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore

Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!

'Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Or something like that.

That kind of rude awakening, coupled by the fact that I was bussing it this morning, was enough to put me in a foul mood, at least foul enough till the migraine set in, and then in fact, the mood became quite justified. And there I've been ever since.

Now, what's the flipside of all this birdbrain crabbiness? There is some light at the end of the tunnel. Light, thy name is Baileys. Tonight, I have a bottle of Baileys at home with my name on it. A spot on the sofa, with my name on it, and yes, a book, an engrossing book, with, you guessed it, my name on it. Well, sort of....it's more inside the cover, on an adorable leopard print bookplate, but you get the idea.

I am an optimistic person. Even when I'm crabby. And I can only hope that tomorrow, I will have accustomed myself to the cawing of my new neighbors, have shed all signs of a migraine with a good night's sleep, and be back to my normal, cheery, chipper, happy self.

Even if I'm not, I'm a woman. I can be crabby if I want to.

Things I'm Just Not Good At

About 6 months ago I wrote a lovely little post on why elephants submit, and why I just can’t seem to. In it I posted this gem of an ad, from the 1970’s, likening women like me (ummm, spirited?) to a foreign model Pinto lookalike. Niiiiice.

Today I’d like to post this other nostalgic bit from decades past, letting women know just how to act. That is if you're a moron, or a Stepford wife. Or a fundie. Oh, by the way.....the underlining, that was NOT me.

Upon review, I don’t think I’m getting this right. (Oh yeah, for a closer look, just click on the pic).

Why I hate Chinese food, fancy dresses & William Shatner!

I'm frustrated. I can't seem to figure out how to load, oh wait nevermind, oh no, ok, I can not seem to figure out how to load the pictures from my digital camera into my computer, so I can post them. Not that they're all that attractive or entertaining. They consist mostly of some awesome shots I got of Pikes Place Market this summer and my Friday night spent celebrating Leah's birthday over the most expensive martini ever known to man. And that's not a run on sentence, really.

The highlight of my weekend was definitely watching as my little sister from another mister celebrated her birthday in Fondue style, at the Melting Pot. Although I watched from afar, afar being another table (the fun table, as I saw it), I think she had a good time. I know I did. Even if I did spend my entertainment budget for the entire week on a Chocolate Funtini & some chocolate fondue. Yeah. The hilarious thing about the pictures is that one can document, quite clearly, my rapid descent from attractive and sober to quite unphotogenic & sporting a nice little sugar/alcohol buzz. As Kurt said, we were all going to die of a diabetic coma that night.

Instead of the probably peaceful diabetic coma, the low point of my weekend was food poisoning. Big, bad, old food poisoning of the Chinese take-out variety. We’re talking cold sweats, fever, nothing staying down or in, weird nightmares (always happens when I’m sick), cramps, aching, generally, wanting to die, and more importantly, wanting to kill an entire family of Chinese restaurant owners for daring to produce such crappy quality, vomit inducing, pardon the expression, shit.

Sorry.

I hate them though. These ignorant people who think they can charge up the wazoo for Chinese food that has no vegetables (therefore, in my opinion, little nutritional value), is disgusting tasting and makes people sick. I was more than disappointed, I was literally sick in both spirit (thoroughly disappointed) and health. And if I could’ve gone down there in person and told them what I really thought, trust me I would’ve. Maybe it’s God grace towards them that I’m car-less right now. No wonder the Asian sense of retribution and culture of vengeance is so strong and violent – with this kind of food poisoning it totally makes sense. (BTW, I’m reading a great book, by one of my favorite non-Asian writers who likes to write about China – Lisa See. It’s called Flower Net, and unlike her previous forays into the world of Chinese literature, this is a dramatic murder mystery set in Beijing & Los Angeles that is not at all girly or Amy Tan-like.)

I’m still angry about the FP though.

So, Sunday, instead of going to church and then participating in Super Bowl festivities as I planned, I spent the day curled up in a knot on my sofa, praying that the rabbit ears would hold out and/or watching the game in the mirror on the bathroom door, which reflects nicely into the living room, by the way. Everybody’s got to have a system.

Today I don’t feel that much better. I’m hungry, since I haven’t been able to keep any food in since Saturday night. But my stomach is literally in a knot. Tight, tense, cramped up like snail quickly retreating into its shell. The thought of food is both appealing and repulsive, at the same time. Interesting. I have often prayed for a miserable case of the flu, so I could drop 20 pounds in like a week, but now that I’m facing the closest I’ll ever get, I am kicking myself for it.

Indeed, if the food poisoning could just hold out till the Winter Gala on the 16th, I might actually be happy. I have pulled out my best cocktail dress from my closet, having decided I won’t buy a new dress, but I might splurge on new shoes and/or jewelry. That is if I can find EXACTLY what I want (high maintenance strikes again) – which is pictured nowhere but in my dreams, and is impractically turning out to be neither accessible nor affordable. I wish I could load a picture of this dress – it is very, well, very wow. Classy, demure, yet sexy, unique…..it’s so not me it’s hilarious, but I hope I can pull it off. Without spilling, without tripping, without snorting while I laugh, while somewhat resembling a lady.

It’s black, as are most good cocktail dresses. But this one is of the one-shoulder Grecian variety, with a little matte gold square ring (not an oxymoron), up at the shoulder for the fabric to drape through. It drapes down and has a tie around the waist, and a slightly flared out A-line, to the knee skirt. The picture of simplicity, you really have to be able to pull it off, since it basically wears you, instead of the other way around. I’m nervous. There’s no way I’m going to feel confident in it. I’d like to be one of those women who can put on something this amazing and act like they were born in it, walking back straight, head high, smiling, laughing, chatting, not fixing, pulling, tugging, fidgeting, or shrinking because they’re shy & feel like they’ve been caught playing dress up in mummy’s finest and everyone knows they’re just faking.

Put me in a pair of jeans, ballet flats or flip flops & a zip-up hoodie (preferably cashmere) and I can do that act quite naturally. A dress of this magnitude, maybe with a little practice, but I’m still not quite sure.

Well, this is a lot of girly rambling, I admit. To my few male readers out there, and I know who you are, all two of you, I apologize! Thank you for your continued readership, and please bear with me as I ramble on about subjects such as these.

Now, I’m trying to think of something interesting and non-girly to write about, and I’m at a loss.

I’m back on a Dennis Leary kick, having also watched a lot of Rescue Me this weekend (Food Poisoning people. Food. Poisoning!). I had forgotten how entertaining I found his brand of Irish, I could give a rat’s ass kind of humor. Though the show is quite a different strain of Leary comedy, I still enjoy the little bit he injects in, and the shows writing in general, which I find smarter, actually, than his stand up. Watching this, and then coming in to find my 365-Day “1001 Places To See Before You Die” calendar documenting the finer points of James Joyce, Guinness Stout & Dublin in general have given me a wanderlust tic like you wouldn’t believe to see Ireland this summer.

It was my great hope to see Washington DC on Independence Day, with the BFF, who lives out there now. But I found out she won’t even be on that coast this summer (back in MN), and even if she was it is apparently “a swamp” in July. I’m not quite sure if that phrase refers to the abundance of tourists or the general humid climate.

With DC out of the question, my second choice, Boston came to mind, but was quickly overshadowed by Ireland. Rolling green pastures, quaint little pubs, flowing with beer and drinking and singing……..

…….WAIT! I can’t go to Ireland!! I can’t drink beer! Dang it!!!! Oh, man. I can’t believe that one is shot to hell too! I really wanted to go to Ireland, and see the sights and drink the sweet nectar of stout and sing endless strains of Danny Boy with ivory sweatered, kindly locals. But how can you go to Ireland and not drink beer?? It’s not just impossible, it’s positively unappealing.

Ok, back to the drawing board….Maybe Mexico? I hate Corona (weak pee in a bottle), so it could work.

In any case, I’m trying to figure out where I want to go for my birthday this year, and now that both DC & Ireland are out of the mix, I’m at a loss, though completely open to suggestions. Three years later, I can look back semi-fondly at my last birthday trip, to Chicago. Ahhh, yes. The Blues, and the blues. In more ways than one. That was the last birthday trip I took, and I think I’m about due. I don’t care who I go with or even really where we go, I just want to go celebrate my birthday in a city or locale I’ve never seen before. I want to use it as a lame excuse to travel!

For Christmas this year, I received a subscription to both National Geographic Traveler, and National Geographic Adventurer magazines. They are dangerous. Wanderlust dangerous. Wanderlust is a subject I need no acquainting with, nor encouragement for. I’m a born escapee. I crave nothing more than leaving present surroundings for the thrill and excitement and potential of the unknown. I want to travel. I want to roadtrip. I want to backpack. I want to go.

I am wired for it, and use it as my lame excuse and cover up for a huge fear of commitment to relationships.

In any case, I am shopping for a place to go this summer, and am enjoying the process almost as much as I’m sure I’ll enjoy the actual trip (though if I have to stare at William Shatner’s overbloated, aged face again on Priceline.com I’m going to spit on the computer monitor. Blame it on the FP). Domestic or international matter not to me (though price is always a factor). My only requirement is a complete lack of agenda, freedom to just wander and roam at will and at my own pace and someone fun, equally relaxed and enjoy the new place with. Someone equally fascinated by the concept of “slow travel”, as I am. Someone who does not feel the overwhelming need to wake up at the butt-crack of dawn to see every sight, who is willing to venture off the beaten path and have adventures.

Speaking of adventures….what about Istanbul? Maybe Morocco…..hmmm……I’ll keep y’all posted. Till then, thanks for reading! TK

TBT's

Three Beautiful Things:

1. The bass line in With Or Without You (by U2)

2. The way Ana asked me the other day "Aunt Twinette, do you want to play Ticket To Wide?"

3. The text message last night that said "....wanted you to know I'm thinking of you today". Urr!

My Inner Dork

My inner dork....

.....loves to do puzzles
......does the pumping fist in the air motion while saying "Yeeessss!"
....snorts when she laughs
.....is a closet Terminator fan
.....can be a little gassy, when she thinks no one is around
.....doesn't know half as many movie lines as she pretends to
.....listens to James Taylor & rues the day he & Carly Simon ever seperated
....wore Elvis Costello glasses all through Junior High School. And thought they were cool.
.......practices good penmanship
......breaks everything she touches
........drops everything she eats on herself
.......cries at Hallmark commercials & the theme to Oklahoma
.....would rather stay home most nights, with a book, then hit the bars/clubs/downtown scene
......gets really stinkin' tipsy after just two drinks
.....sings to herself all the time
....is worried she's such a nerd people will see right through the facade and not like her. Oh well.

RIP Sean Preston (the car, not the kid)

I'm mourning my last car - Sean Preston. It took it's last breath Thursday morning, in the -15 degree cold, as I was on my way to work, driving down 35W South. The death throes were the speedometer whizzing back and forth (really, I know I wasn't doing 90), and the clanging that was something more than the permanent injury of it's muffler. In it's last moment, these telltale signs gave me warning that it was about to pass on to better pastures than the frigid cold of Minneapolis traffic. I was saddened and scared all at once. Thankfully we made it to an offramp and it spent it's last minutes on the corner of 46th & the Frontage Road along the highway.

In the wake of Sean Preston's shortlived life (I only got it back in October/November), I am trying to find the best way to handle it's clean & tidy disposal. And the only thing I have to say about that is: I'm a girly girl. I shouldn't have to be doing this. I'm a girly girl - I HATE doing this.

Sometimes the Lord stretches us in ways we can appreciate. We see the growth, we are happy. Other times, He puts challenges in our paths that serve as lessons, and they just suck. They go against our nature as human beings and cause us to do things we didn't know possible. This is one of those times for me.

I know I should be proud of myself when I do things I didn't think I'd be able to handle. Stuff that, under traditional gender roles, would be considered a "man's job". Like fixing things, or car stuff. But I can't help but thinking that I shouldn't have to do them. That's what guys are for. Look, I know this is wrong, but there is a really, really girly part of me that wants to scream that out, right or wrong or in between. In any case, there are no men in my life, so I have to do these things for myself, whether I like it or not. Lesson learned Lord - You will not give me more than I can handle, personally, and You will equip me to do whatever it is You are asking. Whether I like it or not.

So, this weekend, I made some phone calls, and was able to find someone to pronounce the final rites. Yep, it's heart gave out. It's very heart - the motor, just died out on me. Fortunately, it wasn't in any pain (save the humiliation of a missing bumper, almost like a hole in the back of your pants). Ok, good job Trin - you made the calls & got the prognosis, now what?

Well, unlike the tradition of the Griswold family, I can't just leave my car on the front porch, like Aunt Edna, curlers sticking out from under a blanket. So, I made even more phone calls, to see if someone could come tow it, and at least give me some of the money I've invested into poor little Sean Preston. Yeah, what a joke. Here's where things get hairy, and if I had a boyfriend/husband/brother/father, they would be handling this instead of me. Because the thing is, sometimes mechanic guys can be just rude. They hear a woman on the other end, and instead of dealing with her patiently and with detail, they snap off their information as if you're supposed to know just what they're referring to. Who knows, maybe they do this to other men too, but for all I know, it's just us weaker sexed individuals that they seem to pick on.

All this to say, that a few hours, a few phone calls and a few tears later, I have found someone to come pick up the last remains of my car. In about 12 hours I will be officially carless again. Which, I don't mind so much, really (except when it comes time to go grocery shopping, which is near impossible on a bicycle).

May you rest in peace Sean Preston. You were good while you lasted.

The Last Straw

I'm not sure I can do this much longer. I woke up this morning to more poop and puke. And a cat who I caught redhandded peeing in my favorite bra. My favorite one. After I briefly contemplated murder, and started my third load of laundry since Sunday, I threw myself down on my bed, face down in my cat hair covered pillow (ew.), and cried. I don't know what to do. Short of the murder option. Anyone want a cat??

A Sensitive Subject: A Truly Serious Post.

It seems odd for me to be writing about this subject today. It is something I have never blogged about, and yet I am not one to ever shrink from a taboo subject. Yet, somehow, in this space, this blog, it seems a bit out of place. Yet, something must be said, and I feel I must be the one to do it.

I need to express my utter disappointment, frustration and general hard feelings about the NY Giants/Green Bay Packers game last night. What the heck??? Who do these NY Giants think they are? "Ooooh, I'm Eli Manning, I'm so fancy, I have a brother in the NFL...ooohhh!!" WHO CARES?? Don't you know that my dream this post-season was to see Brett Favre take on the 19-0 Patriots in the Super Bowl & defeat them in a neck-in-neck game, giving them their only loss this season and securing his place as the greatest man alive, on his way out of this glorious game, for this glorious team? Didn't they know that??? How could they win?? Those JERKS!!

My dreams for a wonderful Green Bay Packers Super Bowl party are crushed. My plans for dressing up in all green & yellow, painting my face and eating cheese and drinking beer & eating sausage and wearing a big green parka, and acting like a Green Bay fool - all dashed upon the rocks in a bloody, tear-stained mess. All of it, just ruined. I could cry. Brett Favre. In the Super Bowl. It's been 12 years since the Packers went to the Super Bowl. 12 years. Cut them some slack! It was -23 out there at Lambeau yesterday - don't those men DESERVE to go to Arizona just based on temperature??


I am so disappointed. So crushed. So saddened. And so willing to take on anyone who challenges this post with anything about the Vikings, or the Giants, because, oh yeah, I will! I don't want to hear it about the Giants, or any other team. Keep your comments to yourself, unless they are wonderful sweet praises for the team of teams, the Green Bay Packers! Then, you can write all you want.


So, that being said - here's what else shaped my weekend. I had no heat in my apartment all weekend. That was fun. I started working on a puzzle. That actually was fun. Saw the UCE - realized it's over - kind of saddened. Talked to my favorite chipmunk, Kaya and understood only about, hmmm, maybe four words she said. Held my favorite baby, Salad and watched football with him (actually he slept, content in my arms, but I imagined we were bonding over the Patriots win). Realized I hate my cats, as they pooped all over everything I own.


Oh, yeah, this is a different story altogether. Henry, that little freaking, furry little freak of nature, he pooped on yet another rug. I hate him. I hate his poop. Why does he poop everywhere? Why? Until this weekend it was only my suspicion that he was the pooper between the two. Nigel keeps to himself, he isn't an attention whore, like Henry. I knew, deep down, he couldn't be the pooper.


Then, Saturday night I arrived home, from a long day at work & running errands, to the coldest apartment ever. I plugged in my space heater, sat down to eat my salad (dinner) and realized, oh, I haven't fed the cats. So, I got up, and in a burst of generosity, decided to give them wet food, along with their daily dry food. Aren't I kind?


So, I put out a little bowl of some smelly tuna weird thing that cats eat. And like the attention craving little man-whore that he is, Henry pushed Nigel out of the way and proceeded to devour the whole bowl, in like two breaths.


A few minutes later, I saw him sniffing over near the litter box, but instead of going in, he was sniffing around near where I have the scooper/sifter thing. I kind of watched him, knowing his devious, oddball ways, and curious as to what he was going to do. All of a sudden, he squats down, and before I knew what he was doing, he let out the most ginormous, disgusting, smelly, foul cat fart I'd ever witnessed (actually, it's the only cat fart I've ever witnessed, but that does not diminish it's unprecedented grotesqueness).


I realized, OMG, he's about to poop, so I hurried and found my squirt gun/cat trainer and begin to yell "No Henry No!" and squirt him mercilessly with the, I must imagine, cold water, right in the kisser! He didn't stop, and I could tell he was ready & determined to just drop one right there, so I yelled again "NO HENRY NOOOO!!!!" and I stomped my foot on the ground, and squirted him simultaneously, which frightened him out of his anus-relieving ways, and caused him to run off into the living room, while I stood there disgusted and confused.

Sidenote: Urgh, at this point, I'm just at a loss, as to how to proceed with this foul, gassy, beast. I really am not a cat person, really I'm not. Why is it that a dog can fart, and somehow it's hilarious, and totally apropos, because that's what dogs do? But cats? There's like, a higher standard there somehow. Totally unfair, yes, I realize. But present nonetheless.


Anyway, at this point, I reached for my brand-new can of Lysol Air Freshener and sprayed the heck out of the kitty litter area, and then went back to the living room, trying to put the image out of my mind. I sat down, and just as I did, my mom called. So, of course I answered the phone, and began to relate to her this disgusting tale of pet ownership.


As I'm pacing the living room, salad yet untouched, carrying on about how gross Henry can be, I look over in the corner, to where he has wadded up my favorite rug into a ball, and is standing atop it, dancing. I watch him, amused, as my mom talks, listening to her relate stories of my silly nephew, while eyeing Henry's strange ritual. He stands atop the mounded rug and as he stands there, he moves his front paws in a sweeping motion back towards his body, exactly one time each paw. Then he rotates about a quarter turn and repeats this strange dance. He keeps doing this, and I wonder just what he's up to. Is there catnip on that rug, that he's pawing at? Is it his favorite sleeping spot and he's trying to adjust it? Hmmm, what curious behavior.


So I step in a bit closer, and as I do, the stench of tuna laden cat poop hits my nose like napalm in the morning. But even before my mind had the opportunity to process the situation (smell of poop=poop), I see it. A big, gross, painful to look at, even worse to smell, cat turd. On my favorite rug. Right in the middle of it, matter of fact. I look over at Henry, as he nonchalantly continues his ritualistic little pagan cat dance. He is totally unaware that I am watching him, much less that what he has done is wrong, completely, utterly, in every single way wrong!


Another sidenote: When I agreed to take these cats, I specifically asked their previous guardian if they were housebroken, or if they foresaw any weird poop incidents. I was assured that no, they had never pooped in weird locations before, and were very much housebroken. I'm sure that this person was stating the truth, as was best known to her, since they actually weren't her cats, but an aunts. Still, in my own defense, I inquired about the poop factor. I tried to find out before I took them, and yes, it would've made a difference in my choice.


Back to the poop incident. At this point, my jaw dropped wide open (in part to breathe through my mouth in an effort to not be ill, and because I was just in shock at the blatant disregard for litter box etiquette). I stood there, listening to my mom yapping on and on, and was just speechless. Then, rising up within me, like a hurricane force coming out of nowhere, like a swarm of angry bees ascending from their hive-prison, this yell escaped my throat "HENRY NOOOOOOO!!!!!". Which barely caught his sleepy-eyed, dumb-cat attention.


Sidenote: Back to the whole dog/cat thing. Dogs are supposed to be kind of stupid. That's what makes them charming, and lovable, and doglike. Aren't cats supposed to be smart? What about those Siamese cats from Lady & The Tramp? They weren't just intelligent, they were downright manipulative. Cat's aren't supposed to be stupid, yet I swear, as Henry looked up at me, he had the blank look of a stoner. I swear I could see right into the open, vapid void of his head, and it was EMPTY!


Not knowing what more I could do to prevent further cat-astrophe, and being a day late & a dollar short, I just swatted him away from the rug-poop mess, and groaned to myself, which barely elicited a response from my mom, who was still chattering away. Afraid that Henry might continue to poop randomly around the house and yet having nowhere to lock him up, I just stared at him, and tried to hold back the tears welling up in my eyes.

Here's the thing - I want to love my cat. With the same earnestness that I wanted the Packers to win, I want to love my cat, and be a good owner to him. I want to be able to love on this little creature that God has entrusted to me. But I find it really hard to not want to through him out on the highway when he poops on everything (this IS rug #3), or when he doesn't leave his bad pooping ways behind and immediately seeks affection in the wake of his pooping. As I'm writing this, it should be noted, the song on the radio is James Taylor (geek alert - I LOVE James Taylor!!) crooning in his oh-so-soothing voice about showering the people you love with love. But he said people. People, not cats.

How do you love something that, unwittingly, unknowingly, and yet just as irritatingly, poops all over. It's not Henry's fault, and all that jazz...blah, blah, blah. I know that. I know he doesn't know what he's doing, and that he's probably just reacting to blah, blah, blah. Just like with the Packers loss, I don't want to hear all the PETA supporting reasons that anyone might spout off. I know that they're probably right, but I just don't want to hear it. All I want to hear right about now is "Oh, Trin, it's a sad, sad day when the Packers lose & your cat poops on your rug". You hearin' me?

Anyways, for those of you with a weaker stomach than my own, I apologize (thank your lucky stars you weren't there, whooooeee baby!). On to bigger, better things.

My car battery is dead this afternoon. I left on my lights this morning accidentally. So, I'm asking God for forgiveness for my ill will towards my cat right about now, and hoping He'll heal my battery with a quick and easy jump. Please God! No matter how hard I try, the warped theology of "If I am good, God will bless me" lingers despite knowledge of the truth. As does the equally erroneous "I must've done something bad, because it feels like God is punishing me through the cat poop/Packers loss/dead car battery".

I can be ignorant, and ask "where do these lies come from?" or I can just acknowledge that the enemy easily tricks our feeble, pragmatic minds with what seems like simple logic. Tit for tat. Grace is anything but feeble or pragmatic - the beauty that lies at it's core is that it is mysterious, mystical and unfathomable, and that without reciprocation or equity of any kind, we can partake in goodness, forgiveness and blessings. That makes no sense to me most of the time, and yet I know I can recognize it when I see it. After all, maybe it is God's grace that my car battery died this morning, since one of our accountants just got back from lunch and said he saw three accidents amidst the slippery, slick road conditions.

Well, that's all for today folks. It's a lot, but there it is. Before I go, let me just say how thrilled I am that new readers are coming to this blog everyday. I try to make it enjoyable, and keep the posts interesting, quirky (noo!), uplifting and honest. I'm anything if not too forthright, so forgive me if sometimes it's mildly offensive....anyone who knows me personally knows my penchant for being mildly offensive (Dennis Leary & Sarah Silverman being two of my my "Guilty Pleasure" comedic heroes), though I do try to keep it in check. And thanks for everyone's comments too. Keep 'em coming, I read them all, publish the ones that aren't death threats, and try to take seriously the suggestions. Till later, that's all folks!

Ten Things That Bring Me Joy

They're not all nice, just a warning!

1. Hot Dogs & LOTS, lots, lots of mustard.

I had a great one for lunch, and I should've ordered two, they were that good. Everytime I have a good hot dog I forget how much they really are one of my favorite foods. Lips, butts, squirrel anus, nitrates, I don't care! I like a good hot dog!

2. Getting packages.

I got a gift card from a friend for Christmas, from Nordstrom, in the mail
(thrill #1). Usually it's hard to choose, when I want to buy something from Nordstrom, because I could go shoe/makeup/perfume/clothing crazy in
there. But once I saw this sweater, I knew I had found a winner. Too bad I couldn't get it, and the bottle of Coco Mademoiselle I was so longingly
desiring. Instead I chose the sweater, and had it shipped (since they were down to Xtra-Smalls in store). I can't wait for it to get here. I really wanted it to get here by tomorrow, so I could wear it to Frost Fest with Josiah, Ana & Leah. Sigh.

Frenchi® Double Breasted Cardigan - This distinctively designed sweater has a double-breasted button front and Empire-waist seaming. The ribbed collar can be buttoned down or worn up for a different look. Subtle gathers below waist. Ribbed cuffs.

3. Hazy Shade Of Winter, the song.

Back in junior high school, when I was decidedly against the Bangles (c'mon, everyone knows the Go-Go's rocked that genre), this was their only song I liked. Heck, I loved this song, and taped (with our VCR) the video off MTV. Released on the Less Than Zero soundtrack, this is a souped up version of a Simon & Garfunkle classic, complete with rock-heavy guitar riffs and Susannah Hoffs melodic voice. In 1987 it surprisingly made it to #2 on the charts. Today, driving back from lunch, in a car with a temperamental thermostat, it came on the radio, and never was it more appropriate or appreciated. Thank you girl band the Bangles.

4. Britney's a Trainwreck

I know it's horrible to laugh at other people's misfortune, but after even more ridiculous antics by this scuzzed-out, bus station skank, former pop
princess ("That pregnancy test wasn't for me, y'all, I swear. My
family, weez believe in birf control y'all".) I can't help it. In a recent article in the Sports
section of MSNBC, Britney is claimed to have gone-a-beggin' to the NFL, to appear in their commercial promoting the NFL network, only to have met with
rejection. Yep, according to their sources, "She's too much of a train wreck. Besides, we already have Paris Hilton,". Anyone else here picking up on the irony?

5. Hyacinths & their sultry, spring smell.

Our CEO brought in some the other day, and you can smell them across the
building. They're bright, beautiful, and quite fragrant. And today, they're dead. Curse you winter! When will spring arrive?

6. Hot chocolate from scratch - made with finely chopped Scharfenberger chocolate, and sugar and whole milk, and Tahitian vanilla. In a big mug. Need I say more?

7. Beauty: A Retelling of Beauty & The Beast, by Robin McKinley

The first time I read this book was in junior high school, and I liked it
so much that I never turned the book back in to the school library. 20 years later I still have it, though it's cover has gone missing somewhere in between. It still resonates with me even as an adult. Robin McKinley's prose like storytelling, complete with colorful details of the Beast's palace and gardens, detailed descriptions of Beauty's life pre-Beast, charming and sympathetic characters and and uniquely sympathetic character development is so engrossing, that I could read it 20 times more before I die and it would still be new to me.

8. Coco Mademoiselle -

Again, a throw back to years gone by, I first started wearing this amazing scent
in 2001, after it had just been released to critical applaud. Never a fan of the
traditional, powdery Chanel #5, this spicy, younger scent quickly became my
"signature" fragrance, till I forgot about after moving to Minnesota and actually having to watch my money. With Top notes including orange, bergamot and
grapefruit; middle notes of lychee, rose and Italian jasmine, and top notes of
Indonesian patchouli, Bourbon vanilla and white musk, this is by far my favorite, most timeless fragrance, and one that I will be saving till June to purchase (happy birthday to me!)

9. Cream Puffs - Ummmm....they're so easy, and yet such a big, puffy, creamy pay off. I may have to make some this weekend, since I doubt I'll be going out much in the sub-zero cold.


10. Family Time With The Kiddos

Tomorrow night I get to watch my favorite kiddos. Ana Grace & the ever
charming Josiah Parker Coulon. We're going to meet Leah at Frost Fest at Pearl
Park. Sounds like it's a winter festival of some sort, which I'm fine with. What
matters to me most is spending time with three of my favorite people in the
whole wide world. I'm so excited. Now if only my sweater had come in time, I
could wear it!

Well that's it. There were a few other things that crossed my mind, including the fact that I'm getting used to the cats, my new haircut, being done with a huge work project, how it's getting darker later lately & snuggling up in my blanket reading in bed. But, since there's a ten item limit, there you have it!

Tonight It's Kind of Boring - Just a warning, people.

I hate when I'm reminded that people actually read this thing, because then I feel the pressure to make it entertaining, or worse yet, be funny, and I'm inclined not to write. Although, I am flattered that anyone reads it at all. In any case, I'm just a girl, and I can't be funny all the time, though my coworker Stacey has gone from thinking I'm funny, to hilarious, to darn right adorable, all in a week. Whats with my fan club at work?? I think she means it in the way that people say when they're stumped that I can be that clumsy/goofy/brazen/naive. Not necessarily a compliment.

Tonight I'm working late again though, and I'm taking a break, as I know I'll be here at least till 9 or 10. Last night I worked till 9, then the elevator near my desk starting making weird noises, and fears of being raped and killed in the industrial park drove me to fearfully walk out to my cold car and leave, in quite a rush. Tonight I decided I will let no such fears overcome my ability to work ridiculously long hours, in the pursuit of finishing invitations for our company's Annual Gala.

I've never been married. I've been close, like two weeks away close, but by the grace of God I escaped the hell-hole of Jehovah's Witness brainwashing that would've been. Sadly enough, I have trouble even getting a date, much less being married. Hey, I have cats, who needs men. HAHAHAHAAH. I hate women who say crap like that. Anyway, if I ever do get married, I am now convinced, we are splurging on invitations. None of this "I'll do it myself and save lots of money" crap. Nuh-uh. Invitations will not be done by me, at home, by hand, no way, no how, nuh-uh, never again. So for all of you great friends out there that keep thinking "I should set Trinette up on a blind date with so-and-so, seeing's how her blog is so funny & entertaining", just keep in mind that if he's a cheapskate, it probably won't work, so save yourself the energy & him the humiliation.

You see, this week I had three days to get out 170 invitations, all made by hand, addressed the same, etc. And they're nice, they really are. Completely classy & all pretty & what not. But I have been feeling the pressure, and if there's one thing this commitment-phobe hates, it's pressure. 170 in three days, complete with RSVP cards, dinner selections, map, envelopes, etc. It's a preeeeetty tall order, if you're asking me.

Speaking of tall.....You know what I do like, however? Coffee (as in, "I'll take a tall double skinny cap, wet). And this week I am also on a coffee strike, to see just how much money I could save if I didn't buy coffee for an entire week. So my last overpriced espresso drink was on Sunday, and I'm missing it just a little. I find myself doing random drive by's of Starbucks late at night, cruising past in the parking lot, slowing down, sighing, and driving on. That's ok, I have Diet Coke to fill it's void. Here at work, it's free. I love perks.

Well, dinner is good & gone (Green Chili & Cheese tamales, from when I made them the last time & froze a whole bunch & a Diet Coke, third of the day), and it's back to work for me. My red swingline stapler is-a-callin', and I must answer.