On Indecision… and Teleportation.

My heart is confused. It doesn’t know what it wants, or where in the world it wants to be. Seems to change its mind just about every day. Man, I feel like I’m 18 again, in a not-so-awesome way.

Does there ever come a point in life where we don’t periodically desire something completely different than what we’ve previously chosen? Or is that just me? I envy people who just know what they want, and pursue it, and are satisfied when they get it. I can’t make up my damn mind. I want everything, and nothing. It’s really hard to pursue a dream or goal when that dream or goal keeps morphing into something else, often totally unrelated. I want everything… and nothing.

I guess what I really want is to be able to teleport. That would solve most of my problems quite efficiently, I think. That’s the only way I can think of that I could have it all and not have to choose. I hate choosing between multiple things that I like…


It’s About… Um… Twitter.

I’ve been “live-tweeting” my road trip from Key West to Martha’s Vineyard.

(I know, I just used that hyphenated word in a sentence. I feel like a betrayer of language.)

But seriously, it’s been an interesting trip. Check it out:

If you’re not down with experiencing the journey backwards, scroll down to the post that says “The Crime Van has just entered the land of the Giant Jesus Billboard,” and read upwards. I think it’s several pages back.

It’s shit like this that makes it worth having an iPhone. It’s a lot easier to keep up than travel journaling!


Heckle and Jekyll Visit Crazy Town

I have two friends, former coworkers at a disorganized nightmare of a restaurant, visiting me this week in Key West.

In the past five days, we have:

Gone sailing
Stayed out until four a.m. almost every night
Worn a pink wig and a corset (me)
Found two sets of mannequin parts on the street, left out for the trash collector (the first set was stolen)
Broken, thrown and lost flip-flops (all John, the same night)
Pushed over a stove left out for trash collection (John)
Spraypainted said stove with neon-pink spray paint (Me and Dan)
Eaten homemade traditional South African food
Re-named mine and my roommate’s apartment Planet Simonton (sim-on-ton)
Puked on Duval Street (Dan, and not from drunkenness, oddly enough)
Become much better friends (the four of us–Dan, Me, John, and my roommate Jon) than we already were
Gotten very mildly sunburned

and oh so much more

New friends are great, but the old ones are so much easier to hang out with.

I’m looking forward to the perpetual Northern Invasion. Three weeks or so: Darcie. Crazy happy artist freak. So excited.


I’m Sorry I Stole Your Tapes But It Was Worth It.

Musings On My Parents Part 2

It’s hard to go through the holidays without thinking of my parents. The absence of one or both of them has been a defining part of Christmas for me since I was twelve (when my mom died).

Tonight, it’s music. I love music because of my parents–because they loved music. My mom was a hippie/rock n’ roll gal; my dad was a blues guy.

As I sit here listening to “Peace Frog” for the seventh time in two days, I’m reminded of the times I stole cassette tapes of The Crusaders and B.B. King & Bobby Blue Bland out of my dad’s glove compartment to play in the Walkman my mother had given me (metal, with two headphone jacks). I’m reminded of my mother, taping blues and jazz programs off of WGBH, the public radio station out of Boston. I can picture her cassette rack (which I also raided), full of Janis Joplin, Stevie Wonder, and Michael Jackson.

I remember sitting in front of the stereo in my mother’s living room when I was seven or eight, asking her to rewind the tape so I could hear The Black Freighter again (Nina Simone’s version of “Pirate Jenny”).

I remember sitting with my dad when I was a teenager and we didn’t really get along, listening to Big Joe Turner on my boombox, which I’d dragged out to the living room so we could both listen. I remember going on missions to big record stores for my dad when I was in my twenties, because he didn’t want to deal with the crowds but he needed the music. And the concerts… B.B. King, Buddy Guy, Jonny Lang, John Lee Hooker, Jonny Lang, Bobby Blue Bland– Dad, I’m grateful. I can’t thank you enough.

My parents gave me, along with so many other things, music.

Recently I was talking with a friend who at 28 said that she’s only recently getting into music. We were listening to Janis Joplin’s Kozmic Blues album, and she said, “Who is this?” I nearly fell out of my chair. I’m going to raid my music library, put my CD burner to use, and give her a musical education for Christmas. Somebody has to, right?

Thanks, Mom and Dad, for giving me a musical education early. Not every five-year-old thinks B.B. King is cool, or even knows who he is.

I’m sorry I stole your tapes, but it was worth it.


Musings On My Parents: Part One

The more I begin to know my parents–through memories and the things they left behind–the more I begin to understand their relationship. Why it happened. What went wrong. Why there was never another woman for my dad. Why my mother moved on to men who were in many ways a lot like my father, and one who even looked just like my father only older.

My mother had a type, I’ve discovered. First of all, her men had to be brilliant craftsmen of one sort or another.

One boyfriend from her college days was a talented painter who now owns a successful gallery in Provincetown (yes, he’s gay, but according to him they made wild love in the sixties). Her first husband is a photographer, an eloquent and frequent letter-writer, and a surprisingly good Christmas present-wrapper. My father was an expert welder and metal fabricator, a good carpenter, a good mechanic, a great teacher, a human road atlas, and he had an impeccable driving record in both cars and 18-wheelers. The man after him was a metal worker as well, a passionate chef who made his own pasta, a motorcycle-rider, and a green thumb, particularly when growing hot peppers. The next (and I think last) one was a finish carpenter who made and collected boomerangs, played the saxophone, cooked with a wok like he was Asian, and introduced me to the concept of sarcasm (and a lot of weird jazz music).

My mother’s lovers were very different men, with many very different interests and a few common ones. The thread that connected them all, from her college days until she became too sick to really have relationships anymore, was talent. Not just the ability to do something, but the innate gift of doing it well. Doing it better. Doing it with an identifiable style. She liked men who were already so good at what they did that they couldn’t help but teach other people.

She, too, was that talented.

My mother was a silversmith, a goldsmith and a blacksmith. She worked with leather, wrote poetry, drew compulsively, and cooked without recipes. She played the guitar, the oboe, the flute, and the piano. She sewed her own clothes, and clothes for me. She grew exotic tulips and tomatillos in the garden, taped music off of public radio, and loved to sail. She wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty; in fact she loved getting her hands dirty. It was what she lived for.

She was my father’s type, to a tee.

My father had no patience for incompetence, and by his standards nearly everyone was incompetent. He respected people who worked hard to be the best at what they did. He was so tough himself, he probably would have laughed at a woman who was too squeamish to gut a fish. He loved to have long conversations, and would have quickly become bored with a woman who couldn’t challenge him and occasionally win. He detested what he called “cookie cutter” women, and always encouraged me to have my own personal style.

My mother had style. Hers was part carpenter, part hippie, part Jackie O., and part Isadora Duncan. She wore gorgeous silk scarves with jeans, handmade leather sandals and giant movie-star sunglasses. She drove a black MG with red leather interior, smoked marijuana, and drank Kahlua and cream out of the same thumbprint glass goblet every night. She had diamond-paned windows in her house, and named her cat in French.

I know she had no problem matching my father in conversation or argument. She’d never let a man bait her hook, or complain that her nice clothes might get dirty.

Of course they were so much alike, it’s no wonder they didn’t get along…


I Always Miss Somebody

Perhaps I need to become a flight attendant. Or hook up with someone who works for an airline.

‘Cause I’ve tried to teleport, and failed. Over and over again.

But I don’t think I’ll ever be satisfied in one place if my friends are elsewhere–and many of them always will be. So I need to find a way to fly all the time for very little money (or become rich).

Otherwise I might never stop moving.


An Open Letter To Dumbfuckistan

Dear Tea Party America:

I’ve tried to talk to you, but you just won’t listen. When I speak calmly, you shout as if I haven’t spoken at all. When I raise my voice to be heard, because what I want to tell you is important, you shove a misspelled sign with an unclever slogan on it in my face and tell me I’m a moron–or better yet, an “infiltrator.”

The thing is, I’m not just talking to be contrary. I’ve been trying to teach you. You say you want to get rid of taxes altogether? Well, that’s ridiculous. If America got rid of all its taxes, we’d end up living like Haiti, or Somalia, where the diseases that have been out of our American lexicon of worry for decades are emerging and wreaking havoc as we speak. We’d lose the quality of our highways, our drinking water, our public schools (which are already far below par–your signs are testament to that), our sanitation (do you WANT shit running down the streets?!). And if the rich got further tax breaks, which your favored candidates would undoubtedly put through, the gap between rich and poor would widen, leaving YOU further down towards the bottom.

But you won’t listen. If it doesn’t fit on a picket sign or a T-shirt, you’re not interested.

“Obama’s a fascist!” “Health Care Is Stuped!” “Down With Broun Peple and Fags!” “Jesus Haits Educashun!” “Lame-stream Media Is Corrupt!” “Sex Ed Teeches Kids To Be Slutty!” “Why Should I Have 2 Press 1 For English?!”

Listen, you fucking dolt. The reason people like ME are fighting and voting for higher education spending is so that the country can help people like YOU to get better jobs, instead of working at Wal-Mart your entire life. And so YOUR kids can have the opportunity to go to college. Don’t you WANT that for them?! I’ve seen you, Tea Party America. You’re NOT rich. You DON’T have the kind of money to send your kids to college without the government’s help. And you DON’T have the kind of money to pay for private health insurance, either.

The reason our president created the bill you so spitefully refer to as “Obamacare” is so that the countless sniveling, ignorant wretches at your feet don’t have to go without medical care if the screw factory you work in gets shut down because the Republican who owns it ships the work off to Malaysia without a second’s thought for YOU and your brats. And it’s so I, who have worked every day since I was twelve (no handouts here) and have NEVER been able to afford private insurance (restaurants often don’t offer insurance), can finally afford to go to the doctor if I’m sick or hurt. Thankfully for me, I haven’t gotten hurt or sick much in the past eighteen years. But I’m getting older, and I WORRY about stuff like that now.

The reason the Brown People (and the other immigrants, many of whom are white) you detest so much have come to this country is because they want to improve their station in life. They are NOT satisfied with living in poverty, and wanting for basic services. And they’re willing to risk their lives to get here, and WORK THEIR ASSES OFF for that chance. I don’t see YOUR asshole teenagers working their asses off at anything. The reason there are so many immigrants here is because there is a demand in this country for unskilled labor, and AMERICAN TEENAGERS can’t be bothered. American PEOPLE can’t be bothered. They don’t want to scrub toilets, or change bed linens or pick up other people’s condoms in hotel rooms. They don’t want to slop garbage in the landfill, or clean the grease trap in the friolator at McDonald’s. As long as those jobs exist, there will be a demand for immigrant labor (and if you’d studied history, you’d know that those jobs have almost always been done by immigrants or minorities, for the entire history of this country). Should they be filled by illegals? NO. Should the immigrants learn to speak English? YES. Should they be required to be fluent the moment they get here? NO, you asshat. You aren’t even fluent, and it’s your native language.

Should they be able to conduct their banking business, or request telephone customer service in their native language? YES. Even confident speakers of English as a second language can miss nuances in language that would cause them to misunderstand, get confused, or make mistakes. I took five years of Spanish, and I would not do my banking in that language. Does it make a difference to YOU if they are helped by a robot that speaks English or Spanish or Swahili? NO AGAIN. In fact, it’s far cheaper to have the robot speak six languages than to hire six separate translators to help them in person.

Furthermore, you fuck-tard, this country was settled by people from multiple nations, not just the English. In fact, I’m willing to bet one or more of YOUR ancestors were immigrants who didn’t speak English. Some of them may even have been illegal. If they’d been deported for speaking the wrong language, YOU WOULDN’T BE AMERICAN, jackass. Unless you’re full-blooded Native American, which barely exists anymore if it does at all, YOUR ancestors were immigrants. So why don’t you get off your high, redneck horse and shut the fuck up about it, you hypocrite. And if you’re worried about jobs, I’d be worried more about the immigrants who DO speak English than the ones who don’t, if I were you. Bet you hadn’t thought that far…

Yes, immigration has to be fixed. But it’s not the immigrant’s fault that the system has made it possible for so many illegal immigrants to come here and stay. It’s the government’s fault, for making it so expensive and difficult to go about emigrating the legal way, and for not enforcing the immigration laws that exist. It’s the fault of the employers who still hire illegal immigrants because they want to save a buck. It’s the fault of big American corporations who have shipped all of their manufacturing work overseas (companies run by Republicans, no doubt), eliminating thousands if not millions of unskilled-labor jobs, and laying off thousands if not millions of Americans. It’s the fault of the lazy, arrogant American, who thinks that working hard (or dirty) for a living is beneath them. It’s the fault of parents, who let their kids stay at home until they’re 25 without making them get JOBS. When I was 16, all the cashiers at the grocery store were high school kids. Now they’re all foreign. Why?! Because the high school kids are at the fucking MALL, with YOUR credit card, or playing with their Playstation or Wii in YOUR living room.

And don’t even get me started on your religious hogwash.

Jesus hates fags? I doubt it. Everything I ever learned about Jesus told me that he was accepting, altruistic, and compassionate. Not a bigoted, ignorant fuck like you. As a matter of fact, you’d probably be the person Jesus was protecting others from. What the hell does it matter to YOU if a gay person gets married? Or has children? And who do you think gay couples are adopting? Unwanted children that straight people had! If you think same-sex relationships are wrong, DON’T GET INTO ONE. It’s as simple as that. Homosexuality has been around as long as human society… which means that God created fags… and you’re trying to tell me he hates them? Bullshit. You hate them, because you’re ignorant, and have some twisted idea in your head that a gay guy or gal might want to hit on YOU. Well, they don’t. They want to stay as far away from you as humanly possible, I promise.

Oh, and the predator thing? That crap you have in your head about gays being predatory, or being a threat to children? Also hogwash. Most sex crimes are committed by straight people, including child molestation. I’d be more worried about your pastor than the fruits who live down the street.

And as far as birth control, sex education and abortion, are you so absolutely oblivious that you don’t see that it’s uneducated people having unprotected sex that leads to unwanted pregnancies? Are you aware that Texas, the land of Abstinence-Only education, has the highest teen pregnancy rate in the country? Have YOU given your kids the kind of comprehensive understanding of the human reproductive system and the consequences of unprotected sex that they would have gotten in a school health class? Are YOU prepared to raise their kids when they DO have sex (and they will), or watch them live with a horrible disease or die of AIDS? Are you willing to watch them sink into a quagmire of debt and hopelessness because their future was over at 18 when they started popping out babies and their opportunities for education were over? Are YOU willing to take in all of the unwanted kids who are already in the system, as well as all the ones who were aborted because their parents knew they couldn’t care for them properly and didn’t WANT them?! If you got RAPED, would you want to carry that child for nine months, and look at the product of that rape for the rest of your life? Would you LOVE that child the way it deserved to be loved?

Oh, and another thing–returning to the subject of Brown People. Do you actually know ANYTHING about Islam? Have you studied the religion, or have you simply planted yourself in front of your TV and complacently ingested every bit of anti-Muslim propaganda that Glenn Beck and Bill O’Reilly spat out at you? Do you realize that there are hundreds of thousands of Muslims in this country who have NO DESIRE to commit acts of violence, and NO hatred or ill will towards Christians, but want simply to live their lives and practice their religion peacefully without you protesting every time they want to build a community center, or hurling racial slurs at them as they walk down the street? How would YOU feel if the Atheists protested and called you evil every time you wanted to build a church, or start a youth group? Because I think YOUR beliefs are naught more than twisted mythology… but I think you should have the RIGHT to practice them as you wish, as long as you’re not HARMING anyone else.

The terrorists who committed the atrocities of 9/11 were FUNDAMENTALISTS, who belonged to an extremely violent terrorist organization. They were a TINY, EXTREME faction. There are MILLIONS of Muslims who are not violent, and think, as we do, that 9/11 was HORRIBLE. The operative, and terrifying word in the above paragraph is “fundamentalist.” Fundamentalist CHRISTIANS have bombed numerous abortion clinics and killed doctors and innocent patients. Fundamentalist CHRISTIANS have started cults that have ended in bloodbaths. The only difference is that the Al Qaeda terrorists were more organized, more numerous, and more willing to die for their completely fucked-up cause. But how would YOU feel, as a Christian, if you were judged based on the actions of David Koresh


50 Things Your Waitress Wants You To Know

1. I only make $3 an hour. 20% is a standard tip for good service, whether it’s at the bar or at a table. A dollar a drink is acceptable. A dollar a round is not. More than 20% will make me do a little happy dance.

2. If you don’t tip me, I can’t pay my rent.

3. My job requires remembering fifty things in my head at once. If one of them slips occasionally (like your third glass of water), it’s only human. Don’t be an asshole about it. If I forget everything, go ahead and be a jerk, I deserve it.

4. If you’re incredibly thirsty, ask for a pitcher of water. Don’t make me run for water six times– water is free. Which means every second I spend going to get it is time I’m not getting paid for.

5. If you go to the bar and then sit in my section, you’re taking away my ability to make money on that table. Pay your bar tab, and I’ll be glad to wait on you, but if you continue going to the bar and taking up a table in my section, I’m going to curse you until you leave.

6. If you only plan to have a soda, or a glass of water, please get it at the bar, or tip me a dollar for every glass I bring you (which is what I’d probably be making if you ordered a drink).

7. If you decide you’d like to move to another area or table in the restaurant, please tell me first so I don’t have a panic attack and think that I’m going to have to pay your dinner bill out of my tips.

8. If you don’t pay your tab, I will have to. Walking on a tab is probably the shittiest thing you can do in a restaurant. It shows that you have no class whatsoever. You might as well jump me and steal my apron. Either way, it’s robbery. **If you leave a credit card and get drunk and forget to close your tab, that’s ok. I won’t have to buy your drinks. You can tip me when you come back tomorrow to retrieve it.**

9. If the menu says “No Substitutions” and you try to make a substitution anyway, I will get yelled at, glared at, and possibly called a moron by the kitchen. You may not end up getting your substitution anyway. If you don’t, it’s not my fault, so please don’t take out your anger on my tip. **If what you want is not on the menu, YOU CAN’T HAVE IT.**

10. Chances are, most of the cooks in my restaurant don’t speak English very well, if at all. If you mess with a dish too much, they won’t know what the hell I’m talking about.

11. When it’s really busy, every time I have to explain your order to the chef, we’re both losing money. And if he doesn’t speak English, he might screw it up anyway. Hell, he might do it out of spite.

12. If you make me stand at the table while you decide what you want, it’s not only awkward for all involved (except you), it also costs me money. Tell me you need a minute, and I’ll be back when you’re ready.

13. When a restaurant is busy, it’s like a war in which the servers are pitted against everyone else on the staff. Bartenders hate pain-in-the-ass drink tickets; cooks hate pain-in-the-ass food tickets; managers hate fixing pain-in-the-ass mistakes and answering pain-in-the-ass questions. Order as simply as possible, and I’ll love you, and everyone I work with with love me.

14. If you don’t like your food or your drinks, there’s no reason to be rude to me. I didn’t make them (unless I’m bartending, in which case I’ll gladly make you something else). Giving your waitress a bad tip because you didn’t like what you had is insulting and tacky. **If you ate every bit of it, I don’t care whether or not you liked it; you should pay for it**.

15. Never, ever, ever, whistle to get my attention. I’m not a dog.

16. If you want to buy me a shot and I tell you I can’t, it’s because if I do I’ll get fired. Don’t take it personally, I’d love to do a shot with you.

17. Everything in a restaurant takes time. If your food/drinks/sides/extra sauce/water/refill/special request doesn’t get to you immediately, it’s because you are not the only customer in the restaurant, and food doesn’t cook instantaneously.

18. If you order a burger well done, it’s gonna take a while, pal.

19. If you order a steak well done, WHY DON’T YOU LIKE FOOD?!

20. If you have a bus/boat/train/plane/concert/etc. to catch, GET TAKEOUT.

21. The answers to most of the questions you have are printed right on the menu.

22. “Excuse me” means “You’re in my way.”
“Excuse me please!” means “Get the hell out of my way.”
“EXCUSE ME PLEASE!” means, “If you don’t move your drunken/fat/oblivious/skanky ass out of my way, I’m going to kick you in the shins.”

23. If you flail around like a freak when you’re dancing, dance at home. If you knock out a tray of drinks (or one of my teeth) because you’re oblivious to where your own limbs are, I’ll hate you. And no, I don’t want to dance. I suck at it, and furthermore, I don’t know you.

24. If your friend says “I don’t want any more,” and you try to order them a drink, I’m not going to bring it. If someone shuts themselves off, it’s because they’re being responsible, and I respect that. You, on the other hand, are probably being obnoxious.

25. If you treat me like a stripper, I’m going to spit in your food, or punch you in the face. You pick.

26. If the bartender in your hometown made up a drink that you really, really love… we don’t know how to make it. But if you know what’s in it, we’ll try. If it has more than four ingredients, wait to have another one until you get home.

27. If you’re order a round of mixed shots and every one of them is different, you are an asshole, and so are all of your friends.

28. If you were wondering what I’m doing after work, the answer is “Not you.”

29. I graduated in the top of my class at a prestigious university. I wait tables and bartend because I like to travel and prefer to have low-obligation employment, not because I’m a moron. If you talk to me like I’m a kindergartner or a retard, I’ll talk to you in exactly the same way.

30. I’m sure that tipping isn’t common in your country. But I’m willing to bet that you know that it’s custom here.

31. If you can’t afford to leave a good tip on the meal/drink you want, order something cheaper or eat at home. I can’t afford to eat out, either. .

32. Your black Amex card means that you’re rich, not that you’re special. Don’t wave the damn thing around. I’m not impressed. I’ve seen dozens of them, in the hands of people far more important than you.

33. If you say, “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you,” I’m going to start worrying. Most people who say that seem to think a 15% tip is “taking care” of your server. It’s not.

34. I don’t get to keep the whole tip you give me. I have to give a percentage of it to the bar, a percentage of it to the kitchen, and a chunk of it to the government. Keep that in mind before you shave off a few percent to save money.

35. I’m not flirting with your fat/ ugly/ old/ toothless/ drunk/ sleazy/ obnoxious husband/ boyfriend. I promise.

36. If I card you and you’re over 30, take it as a compliment (the older you are, the bigger the compliment). If I card you and you’re under 25, don’t pitch a hissy fit, and DON’T tell me you’re “old.” I’m only doing my job. If you intend to drink in a bar, bring your ID and expect to get carded. It’s as simple as that.

37. If I card you and you’re under 21, don’t try to convince me you left it at home/your wallet got stolen/the other bartender knows you’re of age/you’ve been drinking in this bar for years. I may be blonde, but I wasn’t born yesterday.

38. If you’re borrowing your friend’s ID to get into a bar, DON’T GO DRINKING WITH THAT FRIEND, MORON. We do look at the pictures and read the names.

40. If your kid makes a mess, you should clean it up. It’s only common courtesy.

41. If your kid is a flailing, shrieking monster who throws french fries and finger-paints with ketchup, leave the brat at home.

42. If you’re on your cell phone, either hang up and order, or I can come back when you’re finished. I’m not going to come running when you flag me down so I can stand awkwardly and listen to you have a one-sided conversation.

44. If you haven’t ordered anything in half an hour and you don’t plan to, it’s probably time to get your check and go home. If I’ve asked you already whether you’d like dessert, coffee or another drink and you’ve said “no” to all three, you’re done. If you want to keep chatting with your date, move to the bar so I can turn the table again and make rent.

45. I have a thing about answering questions about myself. If you ask more than three in a row, it starts to feel like the Spanish inquisition. If I seem to be trying to change the subject, it’s because I don’t want to answer you.

46. If it looks like I’m not smiling, it’s because I have fifty things to remember and I’m concentrating–or it’s because you/another customer/the kitchen/the bartenders/the managers have just done something that screwed everything up for me. Telling me to smile is obnoxious. Nobody smiles all the time, not even flight attendants. And if I look a little flustered, it’s probably because I’ve had to pee for three hours and I’m starving.

47. If you make a bet with me and you lose, pay up. A bet is a bet, even if your opponent is a waitress and a nerd.

48. If you can’t keep your hands off each other/tongues in your own mouths/clothes on, it’s time to take the night’s adventures elsewhere. If for some disgusting reason you feel the need to consummate your love in the restaurant/bar bathroom, please be quick and quiet, throw the condom in the trash, and take your underwear with you.

49. If I cut you off and don’t throw you out, I’m being nice. If you’re a jerk about it, there’s a big tattooed angry guy in the corner who will be coming to talk to you in just a moment. We’re pals.

50. When the music is turned off and the lights go up, PAY YOUR TAB, TIP ME, and go home. If you’re going home with me or one of my coworkers, stick around but stay out of the way. If I want you to have another drink, I’ll offer you one.



It has been brought to my attention that I talk entirely too much, and have a tendency to dominate conversations. Also to repeat myself and not realize I’ve done so.

Sorry, world. I don’t think you’re stupid, or not worth listening to, or anything like that, I promise. And I don’t think I’m that cool, either.

Guess I need to do more talking on paper and less of it out loud. I’ll be workin’ on that.


The Present From Hawaii…

…contained two pairs of Chinese slippers and a box of chocolate covered Macadamia nuts.

I love birthdays. And anyone who sends me gifts from Hawaii.