Wintry Mix

I refuse to comment on the election results. Check out CrewsClues; he put it much more eloquently than I ever could. At this point, part of me is just relieved that I will never have to hear the words "pregnant chad" ever again.

I have spent the last two hours watching the Doppler radar readout, watching the first official winter storm of the season move in. As I type this, it looks like a big blue spin art project, with Cincinnati as the center.

In other words, the weather sucks. Snow, sleet, and freezing rain. A commuter's nightmare.

I'm not big on cold or winter. Well, snow is fine as long as I have nowhere to go. If it's a weekend and I have nowhere to go, I love looking out the window while a small drift forms on my balcony. I love it when the branches on the trees are encased in ice and the whole world looks like it's coated in confectioner's sugar. I have no problems with that...as long as it's melted by the time I have to go to work on Monday.

I guess the big reason for this is because it's such a pain to get in and out of my apartment complex during inclement weather. My street dead ends into my apartment parking lot, at the bottom of a rather steep hill with a 90-degree turn thrown in for good measure. Miss that turn and you go careening down into a steeply graded copse of trees, with little hope of correcting your mistake on the way down. In the five years I've lived here, I've yet to make the fatal mistake, but there have been times when I've not been able to get up the hill in the morning. There have been times when the streets are so iced over that I went down that hill five inches at a time. (Yes, I drive like an old lady in the snow. Deal with it.) There was one year it snowed so much I wasn't quite sure which snow-covered lump in the parking lot belonged to me.

People in Cincinnati don't deal with wintry weather very well. If the weatherman predicts flurries, people are buying groceries and supplies to last them a month, preparing for the Great White Death.

Other than that, snow isn't such a bad thing. Somewhere over the course of the winter I will nail someone I know with a snowball, and run like hell. I love the crunchy sound my boots make as I tromp through a deep snowbank. I smile to myself when ever I drive past a snowman standing proudly in someone's front yard. (The fraternity houses near my apartment always take advantage of the snow to create a Frosty, usually holding an empty Budweiser. Goofy and immature, yes. I still laugh every year.) Last year, after a blizzard ruined a decent Saturday night's business at the bar, my boss and I went to breakfast at First Watch and came back to do donuts in the empty parking lot. You haven't lived til you've seen an incredibly tense 37 year old man skid his CRX around a deserted parking lot in the middle of the 'hood, grinning like an idiot the entire time.

Maybe I'd enjoy winter more if I knew how to ski. It's always been on my list of things to do before I die, but the closest I ever came was about ten years ago, when the guy I was dating suggested we give it a shot. The friend that offered to give us pointers broke his leg, and we decided it was a sign from God. (I did go sled-riding with him though. I wiped out halfway down the hill, and another group of friends barrelled over the top of me. I threw my back out, and spent the rest of the day sitting at the bottom of the hill demanding Advil and hot chocolate.) Despite this setback, I still would like to attempt to ski...as long as I have health insurance.

One thing that has been crossed off my list of things to do before I die, however, is rockclimbing. Roger Mexico and I went to see Vertical Limit, and I think it suffices to say that I won't be conquering the K2 any time soon. The movie itself is not as bad as I had expected, but was certainly not one I would have picked if given free rein at the theater. ("Oh no! Am I making you see a movie you're going to hate?" Roger Mexico asked as we drove to the show.) The scenery is breathtaking, and there's a lot of near death breath-holding action. Some of the effects are a little icky, for you squeamish kids out there. Let's just say that frostbite is a nasty thing, and pulmonary edema is not a pretty way to die.

Got excited during the coming attractions for about 5 seconds because I thought we were getting a trailer for Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Then I realized it was Miss Poutylips (Angelina Jolie) and we were getting a preview of Tomb Raider instead. Bummer. I was personally freaked out because the trailer ws obviously done by the same company that put together the one for Gone in 60 Seconds. Same fast cuts, same sultry female voiceovers. What the hell?

We did get to see the trailer for Finding Forrester, which looks promising. Three words. Sir Sean Connery. In a Gus Van Sant movie! (Welcome back, Gus! We forgive you for the Psycho debacle.)

As we were leaving the theater, "Same Auld Lang Syne" (you know, that sappy 70's holiday song by Dan Fogelberg, King of the Wussies) was being piped in on the Muzak, and a thought occurred to me....

WHY IS THE SUPERMARKET A POPULAR PLACE TO RUN INTO EXES IN HOLIDAY SONGS?

I mean, Dan and his ex run into each other in the frozen foods aisle and spend the rest of the song catching up and getting tanked in her car because all the bars are closed. And in "Christmas Wrapping" by the Waitresses (one of my personal favorite holiday songs), our heroine tells the tale of how she met this fabulous guy at the beginning of the year and spent the following months trying to get together with him to no avail, only to run into him at the supermarket on Christmas Eve. (They had both decided to spend Christmas by themselves, and both neglected to pick up cranberries to go with their respective turkey dinners. Awww. How romantic.)

I can relate to the telephone tag and broken dates part of the song, but I can't say that I've ever run into an ex in a supermarket, and definitely not on a major holiday. Maybe it's because I don't like cranberries. Therein lies the sole reason for my singlehood.

OK, I'm outta here. Hopefully the snowplows and salt trucks have visited my neighborhood, and I'll make it home alive. Go outside and play in the snow, all of you.

Open Letter to the Big Guy

Dear Santa,

I guess you're probably a little surprised to be receiving this letter from me. After all, I haven't written you in over 20 years. But I think we should just let bygones be bygones and move on, OK? Let's just pretend that I never had that conversation with my mom all those years ago. I believe in you. I want to believe. I need to believe.

I wish I could say that I've been good all year, but both you and I know that's a big pile of reindeer poop. I've tried to be nice, but sometimes I've been naughty. My intentions were good, though. Can sheer intent change my status?

I told the woman in the coffee shop that she undercharged me this morning. That's got to count for something.

Some of my requests (Ok, almost all of my requests) this year are a bit massive. I know you can handle them, though. You've got all the right connections, and I figure Christmas is the season of miracles, right? Let me re-emphasize, I believe in you. You didn't let me down when I asked for the Sunshine Family when I was little. And if you could bring me those poor hippie Barbie relatives, then this stuff shouldn't be much more difficult or outlandish.

Here goes. This year, for Christmas I would like:

A vacation. A real vacation. One that requires a plane ticket or a very long drive to get to. One that requires a hotel or overnight stay somewhere. I haven't had a real vacation since I went to New York with Rosencrantz and Mike Dangers five years ago. My vacation last year on Roger Mexico's cruise ship fell through. If possible, I'd like this vacation to include sun, swimming, possible sightseeing, eating too much, travelling companions that I can get into trouble with at night, and no worries about what's going on in the real world.

A new computer for my home. I know you've seen that mentally challenged thing I have currently, and we both know that it isn't ready for all that I want to use it for. I'm tired of getting firewalled at work on stupid things (latest victim: Squishy) and it would be so much easier to do this journal from home. I'd like a set-up with all the bells and whistles - super fast modem, scanner, color printer, CD burner (so I can make my own mix CDs since all the ones I buy have at least one crappy song on them). I promise I won't use it for Napster. Not much. Really. You believe me, don't you?

A big box of computer know-how so I can actually use the abovementioned computer. I'd like to learn more than what I've gleaned from peeking over JohnnyB's and Roger Mexico's shoulders. I'm tired of looking like a moron when I try to do something relatively simple. Come on...even my mother has some computer savvy, and I panic when I have to do something more complex than post via Blogger or send e-mail. I'm tired of being the idiot savant. Gift certificates to MicroCenter will be graciously accepted.

My very own domain so I can get off Blogspot. It's a nice place to be for the price I pay (i.e. not a red cent), but I cannot continue with my plans of world domination on a text only site. Somewhere I can call home. Somewhere I can print on T-shirts and coffee mugs when I start shamelessly marketing myself.

A big bottomless box of motivation, which seems to be in short supply lately. I feel bad telling people I have an online journal, and then only posting once a week. That's rather pathetic of me.

A peace treaty between me and the Muses, because I've apparently done something to piss them off and they're not stopping by to play as often as they used to. I know I've got at least one novel in me, possibly a few decent short stories, and who knows how many poems, but I can't count how many times I find myself staring at a blank computer screen or notebook trying to think of where to start. Roger Mexico mentioned the other night that he'd like my input on lyrics and I didn't have the heart to tell him that I've misplaced my inspiration. (Yeah, like I could write lyrics. I don't rhyme, and meter has always been a foreign concept to me.)

Once the Muses have started playing ball again and I actually start getting some stuff down on paper, I'd like more poetry gigs this year for the group. I love doing them, and the shows have been too far and few between this year. (This is probably on Diamond Doug's list as well, so you'd be killing two birds with one stone.)

While we're on that subject, a big swig of confidence so I don't get nervous onstage would be nice too.

A job that I actually like. Yes, this one pays the bills and the benefit package is great and all, but I'm tired of the daily struggle to actually get motivated enough to get up and go every morning. You saw how jealous I got the other night at Roger Mexico's birthday gathering. You remember. He and his work friends were talking about how even after all those years, theater work wasn't just a job, and how it was still all about the show. This job doesn't really do that for me, but I still haven't found a calling that does.

Heck, while we're on that note, I might as well ask for financial stability for all of my friends, so we can quit doing the stupid non-fulfilling jobs that pay the bills, and start doing what we really love.

Cable television. Yeah, I know that television is the tool of evil and cable would just provide me with (to paraphrase Bruce Springsteen) 57 channels of nothing on, but after all these years of just 6 channels with nothing on, it would be nice. And now that JohnnyB's out of town, I'm missing my Powerpuff Girls fix. And my South Park fix. I even miss Crocodile Hunter.

Real hair. I mean, this is a joke, right? I know I should just get it cut and be done with it, but part of me likes the idea of being able to actually have hair long enough to flip and pull back and put cute little clippies in. I know that every woman in the world with hair longer than a pixie cut doesn't spend 2 hours in the bathroom trying to look presentable.

And on a similar topic, enough with the skin breakouts. I'm 32 years old, and I get more zits now than I did when I was a teenager. And don't give me that whole hormone arguement. I don't see any near-middle-aged women in those Stridex commercials.

A better mood. I know a lot of it is because I'm dissatisfied with the way my life is going (career/creativity/relationship-wise), but I also know that JohnnyB and Roger Mexico are tired of bailing me out emotionally every time I crash and burn. I'm tired of being whiny. I'm tired of being moody. I'm tired of being monumentally depressed. (I'm sure some of my readers concur.) Can I have a freakin' good day, please? A week? A month?

A new car. I love my car, but she's no spring chicken, and she's starting to scare the neighbors.

A better birthday than last year. One of my friends passed away right before my birthday this year, and I spent my natal day standing in the rain at a memorial service. That sounds so selfish of me. I mean, last year Larry came in for a visit, and that was great and all, but I'm sure I would have enjoyed his company a heckuva lot more if I hadn't been a big overemotional sobbing mess.

A big huge gigantic radio tower with a super-powerful signal for 97X so I can listen to it at work. WEBN is eating my brain, and I'd like to take home the stash of CDs in my desk drawer.

Speaking of CDs, could I have my own copy of Movement in Still Life by BT? I'm sure Nash would like his back sooner or later.

A season pass to every amusement park known to man.

A membership to every zoo known to man.

Time to use said passes and memberships.

A tuner peg to replace the broken one on my bass guitar so I can actually learn to play the damn thing. Oh yeah, and time and ability to actually play it reasonably well. Yeah, I still want to be a rock star. And chick bass players are cool.

Something to distract my cat Elvis so he doesn't try to escape every time I leave the apartment.

Infinite patience (for both me and Elvis) if I decide to get the new kitten I've got my eye on. And a lint brush.

A bunch of devoted readers who think I'm brilliant. (Sorry. Now I'm just getting greedy, aren't I?)

Rather than leave out milk and cookies, I'll leave you a beer in the fridge. (Milk has a tendency to go bad in my apartment, and cookies don't usually last very long because I tend them all.) Good beer, too. No Bud Light for jolly ol' Saint Nick. I'll have to limit you to one, though. The last thing I want is for you to get pulled over for reckless operation of a sleigh while intoxicated.

Hugs and kisses to the missus and all the elves. Tell Rudolph I said hi.

Love,

myopic