Friday, April 29, 2011

Things I have no patience for

Stupidity annoys me on an average day. Nothing makes me throb with anger more than stupid people boarding planes. Especially Alaska residents. We fly more than anybody.

1. Not knowing which is the aisle seat vs the window seat. The diagram is right there and invariably people sit in the wron seat and look confused when you point this out. This has happened literally every flight I have ever been on. I haven't called the offenders morons...yet.

2. Sitting in the wrong row. It's printed on the ticker and the wall. Last time I checked 11 looks nothing like 13.

3. Invading my personal area. I agree that the armrest is Alsace and we can fight over it, but please, don't put your elbow on my side. I paid for my little three-dimensional space and I want it. You are already closer than I like strangers to be.

4. Reading over my shoulder. I am embarrassed enough by the trash I read on planes. Dont further shame me by looking at the torrid prose then back at me.

Bleah. I need a frajillion dollars so I can always have an empty seat next to me.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011


I never realize that I am half a person when not in the woods. Anytime I am in the deep dark I feel myself swell. Like my soul inflates and I am a whole person again. Yeah, I live in a rural town surrounded by the same woods that lift me up. But it's not the same.

Remoteness. No cell service. Working long hours. I feel more alive there than pretty much anywhere. Except for fishing. The siren's call of fishing and the ocean is a constant. I was built for labor. No two ways about it. I need to feel my body scream and ache with work. I need to be physically tired every evening. I want bruised forearms and scraped knuckles.

I need the woods. But they don't need me.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Spring and other hardships

It's trite, I know. Going though the piles of memories and reliving several stages of your life all at once. This weekend is free dump time in my fair burg and in an unusual pique of cleanliness I am purging several years of junk. And mending things I have crammed in a mending box. And listening to music from Muskeg Harpy-- the college years.

The croonings of Lauryn Hill return me to my total shit apartment sophomore year. I happened to also be fixing my first ever reusable grocery bag. (I got it in Germany on a visit to my best friend when I was 15. It features a frog and a turtle kissing under a rainbow. Google image search failed.) Two of my 5 senses were fully immersed in the past that I was like, "whoa."

I remembered my first time at a disco in my super trendy outfit I bought I Rome. I saw, again, la Pieta and David and the early works of Van Gogh. I laughed, once more, at my mother's inability it understand train directions in Frankfurt. My belly prickled with heat against the stupid money belt that was too bulky to hide under my clothes on my thin hips. I remember how much I hated that damn belt.

My mending pile includes a bunch of t-shirts I can't bear to part with. From university, from high school, from tDF. There is a quilt in the future, if I ever get around to it. Maybe if my sewing machine doesn't have to live on the kitchen table during projects. My best intentions will go back into storage along with those memories of Week Of Welcome and how cute my the-boyfriend-now-husband looked in his blue camo shirt.

The dump will be the final resting place of the smoker my dad bought in 1974. There is no redemption for it anymore. Not after it gave tDF food poisoning last year. Most of our wrecked xtratuffs will go too. Each pair smells like mushroomy forest with undertones of salmon slime. They probably have more than 500 miles on each of them, between walks to work, work in the woods, hikes on the weekends, and treks down the boat ramp. I have never thrown a pair away. I have like 6 pairs stashed here and there. It's time. No, I will not make them into a planter or some other decorative item. I do have some standards.

Yesterday, I took the computer that I had in school to the e-waste recycling. My 1998 e-machine that I wrote every lab report, my senior project, and angry emails to various ex-boyfriends. It felt good to be rid of the clutter that I hadn't turned on in more than 4 years. But a piece of me was on there. I don't really know her anymore, so I can't bring her back. She'll surface at some point. When I least suspect it and am vulnerable. The way memories do.

Saturday, April 2, 2011


I am no stranger to sucky jobs. There is sort of a grim satisfaction from taking in an unpalatable task and seeing it through. This is why I like the challenge and pain of splitting our firewood with a 1-pound maul. My shoulders scream but I have a tidy pile of kindling and wood to burn later. I think this is my fine, eastern European blood talking.

It's spring and I am slowly working my way through all the spring-related tasks. Taxes. Cleaning the yard. Changing all the batteries in the thermostats and smoke detectors. Changing the fluids on my truck. ( Note that I said my truck. It actually is our only truck but I lover her so much that I have taken over sole ownership and care.)

Today I changed then oil on my Toyota. It was not fun. I used to change the oil in my little ford about 4 times a year. It was a 20 minute task since the engine was pretty simple--no ac, no power steering, manual transmission made it a dream to troubleshoot and maintain. This Toyota is then premium version which means there are wires, hoses, and manifolds filling up the entire engine compartment. It would be a clusterf*ck if it didn't run so well. To get at the oil drain plug and filter a person has to remove the skid plates. It's not too terrible of a big deal except that the driveway is gravel and the bolts were ratcheted down by someone more burly than me.

I scooted on my back on the sharp rocks under a filthy undercarriage that rained down dust in my eyes as I reefed on rusty bolts. They all came free with the only casualty of one bloody knuckle. The oil change went off without a hitch after that. It took an hour and a half. Thank goodness we only need to change oil only once or twice a year here. No roads=not much driving.

Not that I finished up that little chore, it's off to do the taxes! You know it's a good day when changing your oil counts as the fun task.

FYI. Don't google image search bloody knuckles. Urk.