The neighborhood eyesore

Our neighborhood eyesore (eyesoar? eh, fuck it) isn't the normal eye sore. It isn't someone who leaves abandoned cars in their front yard. It isn't someone who does mow their yard. It isn't even some weird cat lady that has decorated her house in Cambell's soup labels.

Our neighborhood eye sore shows up around the first nice day of the year and ends when it becomes jacket weather.

Yes, our neighborhood eye sore is a 350 pound man who thinks he is just sooooooooo sexy.

He wears these little short-shorts which were probably popular when he was a teenager-I'm guessing the 70's, since he is around 50 years old now. Of course these atrocious shorts are not adorned with any other piece of clothing.

He also retired last year, and works in his yard constantly. He gives off that dirty old man vibe-like he is staring at your breasts the entire time you talk to him.

This man really thinks he's hot, even with his beer belly that pretty much covers the entire front of his 70's short shorts. I just looked outside and I believe I'm going to be blind for a couple of minutes, as he was bending over putting some elaborate flag decoration up in his yard.

God, please get me through this summer...

Road trip!

So this weekend was our annual road trip with my cousin, the professional poker player.

The cirlce of soul mates and I took off for jolly old Tunica MS to get the royal treatment, have fun, drink, party, gamble, eat, and just about any other decadent thing that we could do.

It's a good thing that we didn't go to Vegas this year, because as you know, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. What happens in Tunica is written about in my blog for all to hear....

It never ceases to amaze me how some people live their lives. I say this because my cousin is treated real, real well by these casino establishments, because of the amount of money he gambles. Hell, it isn't his money. He gets investors and he gambles their money.

I don't know about you, but at my school "professional gambler" was not on the list during career day...

So we stayed in a couple of rooms that were bigger then my house. We had facials and steams and pedicures and facials and manicures and massages. All for free. They sent up big baskets of fruit and wine and cheese and pretty much anything our little hearts desired-for free.

Why do they give rich people all the free shit? That is REALLY what I would like to know. I'm not a real materialistic person, but damn could I get used to living like that...

We had a wonderful time, didn't get in any trouble which either means it's the seventh sign, or we are growing up. I prefer to think it is the seventh sign!

Attention Freaky Linky Lovers

Just a quick note...I have gotten several requests to be added to my blog roll. I haven't forgotten about you all, and it should be updated in the next couple of days...

That is all.

Rock it like a Porn Star

This post is about something near and dear to me. It has always been there for me when I was feeling down, when I was feeling not quite good enough.

My hair.

You see, I have always had good hair. Well, at the risk of sounding arrogant, good doesn't quite cut it. I have great hair.

It is thick, with a natural wave, which means I can have straight or curly hair without harsh styling products, which equals no split ends.

I'm very anal about my hair. I get it cut every 4 weeks so that I do not get the aforementioned split ends. I also get highlights added so that it doesn't look ho blonde. To add more good to the already great, my hair grows like a freakin' weed, sometimes up to two inches a month.

I was voted best hair my senior year for my Julia Robert's Pretty Woman hair. I had the Brenda, the Rachel, Pamela Anderson hair, and hair that looked like Brittany's when she was all wrapped up in that snake and shocked the shit out of everyone. All without extensions or a horrible amount of work. I have some good hair, oh yes I do.

Since it grows so fast I can change up my style often and not really care. Right now my hair is kind of Nicole Ritchie-esk I suppose, a couple of inches down my back, layered, and fluffy.

Where is all of this going you may ask? Let me tell ya...

So I was eating lunch with the union boys at work the other day, and this young'in came up and asked if he could talk to me a minute. I'd guestamate him at about 22 years old? After much nervousness he asked me out. Awww, it was so cute.

Not wanting to tear down his self esteem, I kindly told him I never date people from work. The guys all gave me a ribbing about it. I told them I didn't understand why only these young guys keep asking me out.

So one asshole, and I do mean asshole, said, "Well, you do look really young yourself. Maybe you could get a more age appropriate style for your hair and people wouldn't think you are still in your 20's."

Age appropriate? WTF?? "I mean, you're going to be 35 this year, right?" he continued.

I'm 34, thank you very much.

Now I know a big reason why he said this is because he wanted to get under my skin (which unfortunately worked), because he is that kind of person.

But it also got me thinking...

I always swore I would never be one of those women stuck in a decade or one that tried to look way younger then they really are. I don't wear belly shirts even though I could get away with it. I don't wear little catholic girl outfits unless it is St. Patrick's Day.

Am I getting caught up in the I'm gonna look young no matter how ridiculous it looks merry-go-round? Maybe this is the first step in the downward spiral that is wearing mini skirts after 60.

Naw...I'm gonna rock my hair like a porn star until my face catches up with my age...

What is age appropriate for the early (ok, ok, almost mid) 30's? Short? June Cleaver? I nice boring bob?

Fuck that...

Damn Distractions....

So it's been like really nice here. Like really, really nice. This weekend it was upwards into the high 70's....

My favorite thing in the world is about to bloom. My Bradford Pear tree. It only happens for a little bit, and I cherish every second it is in bloom because of it's beauty.

I remember a couple of years ago when I decided I was going to finally finish my degree, I was taking 16 credit hours along with what most of you know is a rather hectic work schedule. I had also always had a 4.0 in college, and my anal retentive self couldn't bear to screw it up at the end.

So I definitely had my work cut out for me. I was away from my house at a minimum of 18 hours a day, 6 days a week. Sunday I didn't have school, but if I didn't work I would pretty much do homework or sleep all freaking day because I was so exhausted.

I came home from school one night, got out of my truck, and was walking up the path to my house. I dropped my keys, and as I was searching for them I noticed little petals all over the ground. I looked up and my beautiful Bradford Pear tree was covered in leaves. The blooms were gone, and I had missed it.

So I sat down on my sidewalk in the middle of all those leaves and cried. I cried not only for missing my favorite tree in all it's glory, but for what I could only imagine I had missed besides that in the last year.

My Bradford Pear tree is about ready to bloom-and I won't miss it this time...

Where in the World is kj?

So yeah, I suck. I can admit it, and being able to admit a problem is the first step in solving it or whatever, right?

So what exactly has been keeping me from this little blog of mine and all you readers that I dearly love (or like, some of you I just like, sorry)?

Life. I hate when that happens. It always seems like when it rains, it pours. Work went completely cRaZy. You long time readers know that I write my posts while on lunch at work and then post them when I get home. Lunch? Eating? Hell, I barely had time to breathe while at work. All I've had time wise at work is the amount of time it takes to snarf down my Yuppy Meals on Wheels.

I must confess that I have had time for other things, like reading a book by a fellow blogger. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. It will make you laugh your ass off. Great story, and it really appealed to me because I could visually see the action that was taking place while reading. I heart books like that...

More on that book later, as it certainly deserves it's own post. Also, I've found myself addicted to my TIVO now that I actually know how to work it. I can record junk from the History channel and Animal Planet and all that jazz. Yes, I am a sucky TV watcher. I hate all things reality except for my beloved Project Greenlight, which I am totally addicted to also.

I'm really diggin' that show Medium too. I like spooky-freaky things though, thanks to my tree-huggin' new age-y type parents.

Oh, and one more thing before I go out and enjoy this wonderful weekend, which I DON'T have to work: I promise ya Duckie that next week I'll explain the whole my grandpa thinks Gen X is the next greatest generation thing. Sorry, that one fell in the cracks.

Enjoy your weekends everyone! Don't do anything I wouldn't do, which pretty much means you can do almost anything!



http://piratesofpensacola.com/

I'm alive..I swear

I'm not abandoning ship folks. Life or something like it has reared it's ugly head, and I've been quite busy. I've gotten quite a few emails asking if I'm ok, and everything is fine. It is just daily mundane things getting in the way of my blogging, as the spring time is a very busy time for me at work and personally.

I've decided starting next week I'm going to try and do at least 2 posts during the week, and one on the weekend. Thank you to all of you that were worried about me, and to all of you that have stuck around this crazy ass blog waiting for my return. I truly appreciate it.

Shamrock my Ass...

Ok, so it really was a shamrock on my ass.

Besides being a rather popular Irish holiday, St. Patrick's Day holds something else for me.

Every year for the last couple of years, I get bombarded with calls asking me if I have my shamrock silk panties on.

Yes, you read that right. I had about 5 messages on my cell phone, and spoke personally to about 4 more about the status of my panties. Lord only knows how many of these messages are on my home phone, as I decided to blog for you, my dear readers, instead of checking it.

I'm sure you are all probably wondering why the hell all these people are interested in my panties, right?

Here we go. So for work I do a lot of community service type stuff. Part of this is being in some of the parades in Chi-town and the like.

I'm pretty sure the more clever of you can see where this is heading.

St Pat's is a big deal in Chi-town. Huge parade (actually two), they die the Chicago river green, and we all get drunk. Good times.

So a couple of years ago I was getting ready for the annual St. Pat's parade, the main one that goes downtown, not the cool real St. Pat's parade on the south side. Anyway, my niece was going with me, and she talked me into wearing my lil Irish Catholic girl skirt, as she had one to and wanted to wear it.

What did I wear under it? Ok, everybody all together now. SHAMROCK PANTIES!!

So we jump on the train to head to where our float is. A group of mid-twenty-ish guys were already drinking their fair share of green beer, and they shouted, "Look! Cheerleaders! Cool!!!" I just gave them my best cool blonde stare and said, "We are Irish Catholic Girls, you putz." "Look Irish Catholic Girls! Cool!" I should have known then just what kind of day I was in for.

We get to the float, and the parade is about to start. They needed people to pass out these nice little chocolate bars wrapped in our company logo, and my niece and I were nominated. "You are in better shape then us," one of the guys explained.

What the fuck did that matter? The parade isn't that long. I soon learned that it mattered a lot, seeing how we were one of the first people in the parade.

You see, when you aren't behind any of the bands or performers, it goes really, really fast. They also don't allow you to throw candy, so you have to actually hand it to people. Chicago's finest were lining the streets to be sure of this, and I really didn't think my work would appreciate it if I was arrested, especially since the parade is televised.

Yes, televised. I'm sure you can really see where this is going now, eh?

So I'm trying to hand out candy to people and keep up with our float that seems like it is going about 100 miles an hour. I heard one of the guys yelling my name, and it sounded really far away. It was really far away, the float that is. I began to run to try and catch up.

My niece was also hauling ass on the other side, all the while people screaming at us for candy. Fuck the candy, the parade was rounding the last stretch, and we'd be left behind if we didn't jump on the float.

So we are running, and as we pass the judging stand, a nice little Chi-town breeze (i.e. tornado like gust) lifted up the back of my skirt.

No biggie right? A few people might have seen my cute little shamrock panties, but with the excitement of the parade and everything that was going on most people wouldn't have noticed. We got to our float just in time to truck down Michigan Ave.

Oh to be wrong on so many levels sucks really bad. As we were settling in to have our first green beer, my cell phone rang. It was The Mystery Man. "Nice shamrocks sweetie!"

What the hell? He was in California. I looked around to see if maybe he had come to Chi-town to surprise me. No, that didn't make sense as he'd never do something so public. "What are you talking about??" I asked him.

"I was watching the parade on W-G-N. The camera man has good taste. He had the camera on you while you were running by, and kind of got a nice shot of your ass as your skirt blew up."

No fucking way. But yes, way.

My handy dandy cell phone rang a couple of other times, one time was just my brother laughing hysterically.

In fact, my best friend's hubby actually taped the fucking thing, and he has edited the tape of me running with the whole skirt blowing up to "Chariots of Fire."

At least I wasn't wearing my shamrock thong....Boy am I glad I work out...It could have been a lot worse I suppose. :)

Equal Time

Realizing that it is St. Patrick's Day today (Happy St. P by the way!), I pretty much thought that my Maternal Grandmother would be rolling over in her grave if I didn't give a proper shout to that side of my family on this wonderful Irish holiday.

My Grandma was 100% Irish. Her parents had migrated to this country from Ireland in the 1800's. The Pride on that side of the family is immense.

Being that they were Irish Catholics, they found the environment in Ireland a bit stifling at the time, to say the least. My Grandma used to tell us about how bad they had it, and how they wanted better for their children. They saw America as a land where anything was possible, and they wanted that for their children.

I can't imagine the courage it takes to pick up and move to a country where you don't even speak the language. My Grandma was the first person born in this country on her side. She took this land of opportunity for everything that it was worth.

I've discussed on here before about how progressive she was. She owned her own businesses, refusing to be thrown back into the kitchen after WW II. Beautiful and intoxicating, she never met anyone who wasn't a friend.

She also partied like a rock star despite being diabetic, which led her to an early grave. She is the only Grandparent that didn't make it to the 90's, and in fact died at the tender age of 54, when I was 7 years old.

The only thing that makes up for the fact that she died so young is that she truly lived every single second of her life. Even those last couple of months, when she was pretty much bed ridden, she'd have these huge parties in her bedroom, playing poker, laughing, listening to music. You could hear her laugh from a mile away...

Her husband, my Grandpa, or Pappou (it's Greek for grandpa. we are not Greek. My sister started that, and the only explanation I have is she must have been Greek in a past life.) is probably the Grandparent I know the best, because he is still kicking. My Dad's parents died when I was in my mid-teens, and they lived rather far away.

He is half Irish, half English. His Father was Irish, and one of the meanest bastards ever to walk the Earth. I may well be the only human being that man ever adored, and it was probably because even at a young age I wouldn't put up with his shit and asked him ten million questions until he'd talk to me.

My Pappou learned from the past, and he is a very kind and gentle man. He was very proud of his wife, and never let what society say rule his manhood or how she should behave.

My Great Grandpa had it bad, real bad, when he came to America. He had it pretty bad over there in Ireland too, and it always amazes me that here I am, just two generations away, living in such comfort and security.

I know having it bad doesn't really give an excuse for being a bastard, but it was a different time, with different social mores. My Mom told me that when she was growing up, if they were bad my Grandpa would take them to the basement, hit a pole with his belt, and tell them to scream so that my Grandma thought they were being punished.

He said he would never, ever hit his kids like he was beat.

All these different genes, all these struggles, all these hardships all come down to my generation. My sister, brother, and I have never went hungry. We have always had a nice place to live, always had electricity and running water.

Our Great Grandparents and Grandparents gave us the world by the balls through all their hardships, courage, and struggles. They dreamed that their children would do better, and I like to think that they are smiling now, knowing everything they went through was worth it.

May the road rise to meet you,

May the wind be always at your back,

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

The rains fall soft upon your fields and,

Until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

You raised the road for us, your offspring, and I hope we never forget where we came from or the sacrifices made to give us these blessings.

Going Home

So the Original Party People (my parents) have once again conned me into going down south for the holiday.

Does your DNA mutate when you become a parent giving you some kind of super sonic guilt trip gene?

Technically Mississippi is not my home, as I was raised in a small Indiana town outside of Chicago. All my Father's family is down there though, and I spent a good part of my summers down there.

I hate the fucking south. I always have. Even when I was a kid I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs at everything that went on down there.

Before any of you southern readers get upset with me, hear me out. It's not the people, just the way of life. Southern people are some of the kindest, sincerest people I have ever met.

If only they could get off their asses and move at more then a snails pace, I'd be ok.... :)

You see, my Father, being 3/4 Native American, thought it was important for us to be in touch with those Native American roots. There weren't a hell of a lot of Indians running around a state ironically called Indiana, so my parents would ship us off to Mississippi to be with the paternal Grandparents for a month or two in the summer.

This also was the perfect opportunity for us to become farm hands, as my grandparents were farmers.

I fucking hate farming.

My Dad always wanted us to know what it truly meant to work, as we had it much easier then he did. This may well be the understatement of the year, as people that get two meals a day and had indoor plumbing had it easier then him.

What the hell would I tell my kids about my hardships growing up? That we didn't get cable until I was 11? That we had to cook shit on the stove until I was 12 because my Dad was certain microwaves were dangerous? That if we wanted to steal music we had to actually go to the store and physically steal it instead of downloading it???

I'm tangenting (is that a word?) Another post, another time....

Anyway...So we were shipped off to be cheap child labor for my Grandparents.

I'm thinking that I know why they are so slow down there. That farming shit is hard work. It's also hotter then hell, there are weird bugs that fly that really shouldn't be flying, and snakes that will kill you if they bite you.

When they finally stop working and stressing over all the scary shit they just shutdown? It could be a theory...

So my Granpda, who was proud as hell of his tractor, would climb up on that bad boy and drive it. We'd walk behind it with these big burlap sack thingies picking up potatoes, all the while dodging any kind of snake that may have been uprooted in the process.

Usually after about 20 minutes of this I was riding on the tractor with my Grandpa because I was a hysterical wreck after seeing my first snake. Like my Dad, Mel Looney (that's what we called him, and no I don't know why except that he was a bit eccentric) couldn't bear to see me upset.

I heart men...

So my brother and sister would walk behind doing their work and mine. Being the baby is a good thing, let me tell you.

He'd make up for it though, by giving me barn duty or something of the like. I got rather attached to a bull that I named George, and one summer was rather traumatized when I realized that the nice juicy burger that I was eating was in fact my sweet bull George (a shout out to my brother who told me, you know, after I had a couple of bites), causing me to not eat beef for about oh, 15 years or so.

I'm still not over it.

Our reward for being good little sweat shop workers wasn't exactly what I would call a reward. We were allowed to go down to the creek (pronounced Krik down there) to swim.

Now this was much different then swimming in my pool back at home. I believe I only did it once, and it was for about all of 30 seconds. You see, there are other things swimming with you as you swim around.

Things like water moccasins.

No fucking thanks.

The first time we went down there it was with our cousins. That was one of my favorite parts of going down south, having cousins. Up here it was just our little family, with not much in the way of an extended family.

That was until I found out my cousins were crazy fuckers.

We get to the creek, and jump in. Oh, it felt so good considering most days down there are like 100 degrees AND humid. This was until I saw a water moccasin swim by me, which prompted my sister, brother, and I to swim/run our way out of there screaming at the top of our lungs.

Our cousin's response? "They won't bother you if you don't bother them."

What the fuck??? Who would bother them? Who would knowingly swim with poisonous snakes?

My crazy fucker cousins, that's who. We held a united front and proclaimed we would never go into the creek again.

This caused much shame to my Grandparents, who labeled us white breaded Yankees.

A couple of weeks later we redeemed ourselves because after a family fishing trip we all knew how to clean fish and the crazy fucker cousins didn't.

Thank you maternal Grandpa, for showing us how to clean fish and clearing our good names.

So as you can tell, many things about the south and me just don't gel all that well.

I do cherish the memories of going down there, as I learned so much about my family history. I heard stories of my family walking the trail of tears. I heard about my Grandparents leaving the reservation because everyone was starving.

It really kind of cleared a lot of things up for me. We seem to have this ambition gene thing going in my family, and I never understood why my Grandparents didn't try to do better. They never particularity cared to own their own land. They would hunt for fur when things got really bad and they didn't have food.

Why didn't they do that all the time? My Dad had told me before that a couple of good Fox hides sometimes was more profitable then their intake from farming for the year.

It was because in their mind they were doing good. They had shelter, food (most of the time), and their family. In their culture, that was all they needed.

My Grandpa was a proud man. Big and strong, even in his 90's. He had a twinkle in his eyes, and a wicked sense of humor. A guitar was one of his best friends, and he would play music for hours for us, while my Grandma sang along with a voice that would put Aretha Franklin to shame.

Or maybe it was just because she was my Grandma. She was big too, not as in fat, but tall. She was 6' tall, with long, solid white hair. Even in her 90's, she was still gorgeous.

It was like she could see through you and feel all your pain. She was the most compassionate person I have ever met in my life. My Grandma could make anything ok.

My Grandma was diagnosed with leukemia at age 96, and acquired HIV through a blood transfusion. She had full blown AIDS by 98, and passed on soon after. My Grandfather was in perfect health at age 99, but as soon as her casket was lowered into the ground he completely lost his mind. He didn't know who we were, who he was, anything.

He died a month later. I suppose if you are married to someone for 79 years, it is a bit tough to live without them.

Soul mates they were my friends...

Being a late in life child, and my Father being a late in life child, didn't give me much time with them. I am so grateful for every second spent with them, and proud of my heritage and ancestors.

Where was I? Oh yes, I hate the fucking south. I suppose the rest of that will have to wait until tomorrow....

Greenlight me baby!

AAAAAaaaaaaaah yes, it's that time of year again. Project Greenlight debuts on Bravo tonight, and I simply cannot wait.

Project Greenlight, the Internet contest started by Matt Damon and Ben Affleck, holds a special place in my heart.

I'm a graduate of the Project Greenlight school of writing. Well, not really, but their old website used to have incredible message boards with some really great people that taught me a bunch about writing scripts. I also found many other great resources there, and they have helped me considerably in my writing endeavors.

The boards are non-existant now, as with most Internet things it kind of got out of hand over there, but I will still always be greatful for the things I learned. I'm dedicated to watching this show for this reason, as I've always had that whole loyalty thing in truck loads.

That, and it's so freakin' addictive. I am NOT a reality show fan, but I get seriously addicted to PG. That, and I think I have a serious crush on Chris Moore, Matt and Ben's partner in thier LivePlanet production company.

I loves me some Chris Moore...

I missed the first contest and season of this show. I didn't have a TV then, and hadn't really heard about this. By the time the second season rolled around I found their website while searching for some script help. The contest was over, but the message boards were alive. The show was also about to start airing, so I got HBO to watch it.

Hooked. It was like crack going through the air waves.

Now this contest, the one that is going to start airing tonight, I had every intention of entering. I was polishing up my first script, was all set to enter it, and then they announced they were looking for a horror script about 6 weeks before the contest.

What the fuck??

Mine was a Romantic Comedy, which some people I'm sure find horrifying. I decided it needed a good rewrite, so I didn't enter it. I also didn't have much luck writing a horror script in 6 weeks, so I didn't participate in this years contest.

I did judge scripts though, and I did try and be involved in the process.

So tonight we get to see how you make a horror film. I think this is going to make really great TV....

Bad kj...Baaaaaad kj...

I know I haven't been around much, and to all of my readers out there I am truly sorry. Lots of life stuff going on, and I promise I shall be writing regularily again very soon...