I Want to Be in Playboy

I was at work the other day sitting in the swivel chair, putting painter's tape over the naughty bits in March's issue of Playboy.

Not because I have some sort of repressed sexuality or am a feminazi but as a joke to send to my friend Kelly. However, I'm not especially interested at casually looking at naked pictures of women because, well, I have what they have and can just look down my shirt or pants or get in the shower or whatever. If I want to get really elaborate, I can put on some lingerie and roll around on my bed. I'm a photographer I can take pictures of myself and look at them and still get the same reaction. Well, not the same. I would actually be creeped out that I just did that and then looked at them, trying to turn myself on by looking at pornographic pictures of myself. You get the point. These girls don't have anything I don't see everyday except some help from a team of makeup artists, an airbrush, the most expensive camera system ever and let's not forget the power of Photoshop. Yeah, I have that too. Tits, hips, vagina, beautiful hair, Photoshop. All beautiful things.

But I digress.

It took me my whole shift to put the tape on the girlies when I could have done it in like an hour (we get customers in there who like to paw things and then leave, saying they'll come back. If I were more sensitive I would cry that they didn't buy the $450 vaporizer, but mostly I just turn on my cynicism there and save my cupcake sweetness for when I'm out the door) because I really was reading the articles. I got sucked in. Just like when you are packing to move and you're wrapping your dishes in newspaper and you start reading the comics or old articles and it takes you hours to pack your kitchen.

I have decided two things. 1) I am going to consider subscribing to Playboy and then reading the articles. Once I am done I will give the magazine to my guy friends, rotating fairly amongst them. Or just giving it to whomever I deem deserves it the most. OR pitting them against each other. Although if they really wanted it, they could just buy it and possibly they already have a subscription but I know my neighbors like my Rolling Stone that I hate so I would just give it to them. They are down the hall and plus it would be fun to roll it up and leave it between the jam and the doorknob. Ahh porn in public. Either way, I would pass on the nudity to someone who would love it more than I. 2) I am definitely going to find a way to weasel my way into getting my writing into Playboy. This is one of my new goals. It joins the old goals of finding a pair of yellow galoshes, eating fish and chips on a waterfront in England, meeting Andrew Bird, feeding a tangerine to a crow and drinking milk directly from a chrome milk truck.

I have unconciously developed a habit of taking pictures at concerts I go to lately and then posting them on the bands' Myspace. Mostly they are abstract unless I get a really good one of the band, which is hard because of the damn crowd and you know, security who gets pissed. I'm trying to be grassroots and I think if I go these odd routes I will find my foot in some surprising door. I'm starting to get into galleries and I'm a medium fish in a fairly small pond right now, which I'm very proud of. If you'd told me a year ago this is what I would be doing now, I would have told you to stop drinking so much rubbing alcohol. However, as I danced my ass off one night in a fake mustache, I realized that, sure I've got some things going on that need to be dealt with, but for the most part I'm the happiest I've ever been. The other things that still need to come along like yellow galoshes and my own big time gallery show, well, they'll show up when they are supposed to.

For now, I want to be in Playboy.

Interview with my Amazing Mom Edition I

Annie, as she is known to her friends, or Mom, Zom, Zorm, Zimbo, Zimbot, Zelnorm, or whatever variation I feel like of the letter Z on Mom on a given day, is 62 but looks twenty years younger. Mainly due to her hyberbaric chamber. Oh, and her penchant for Salvatore Ferragamo glasses which she inadvertently buys and has become a damn hipster. But she looks good! She isn't retarded in the traditional or politically incorrect sense of the word, but I torture her with Borat references constantly and if you have seen the movie, you'll remember the scene where a man says to Borat that he is retired and Borat thinks he says he is retarded. So now, the joke around our little world is that my Mom is retarded. Which is okay because most the time either one or both of us act like we need a helmet anyway.



One of the many interesting things about her is that well, she was alive before like, iPods, television, copy machines, ranch dressing, before burritos were popular with Americans, cell phones, email, dial phones, dial-up, Myspace, rolling luggage, Starbucks, any lighter other than Zippo brand, Tom Hanks, underground sprinklers, before women could wear pants and not get sent to a nunnery, pantyhose, Target, before Hummers were compensations for small genitalia and only used for military purposes, electric knives, couples on television slept in the same bed or couples of the same sex were allowed on television, Disneyland, Disneyworld, EuroDisney (are they STILL there?) and YOU. Basically, a lot of stuff. Which means she's seen some shit.

Being her daughter and someone who is around her a lot, I've noticed a certain quality which I find charming. In conversation, she tends to pop off with random odd stories within normal everyday chit chat say about what to have for lunch or songs on the radio. I don't know what triggers them but I always relish them when they appear. So I thought I would give you a taste of what I get to enjoy on an almost daily basis. Just don't ask if you can buy a sack of tomatoes. She'll never, never remember that conversation.

Mom, let's start off with a greeting to the readers.

Huzzah!

Ok. Thank you. So, you used to be a hippie. A real one. What do you think the kids today who think they are hippies should call themselves?

The wannabes? They wouldn't know a hippie if it blew smoke in their face. I'm the real deal. A hippie can never be again. The heart of a hippie is always "being." To imitate hippies is nonsense. Being a hippie is in your heart it's not in what you wear or what you look like, it's in your heart and in your spirit. It's also comfortable clothes that flow and airy sandals. A flower in your hair might help, too.

I remember when I was in high school you were arrested. Tell us about that because that helped form some of my ideals. In a good way.

(Laughter) Let's see, initially I was pulled over for a broken tail light. This is the beginning of a lot of people's sagas with the Law. It's the old "tail light" trick. After a discussion about the validity of my insurance and me, of course, wondering why, in fact, insurance, was needed for tail lights, the visibly peeved officer suggested I might be more serious or something like that about my plight. Later on, after my meeting with the judge in court, I was assigned community service to atone for my infraction against society. I, however, did not feel a tail light deemed it necessary that I clean chicken coops nor would stacking the wood of an old fart farmer help my insurance situation. I adamantly felt the need to protest the whole situation so I did not show up for the golf course raking. Thus, I was summoned to court again and told I would be a guest in the county gray bar hotel for five days to atone for my decision to protest the situation. But that's another show.

I have an Uncle Marshall who you are very close to in age and heart. As children you got up to quite the shenanigans. What was your favorite memory of mischief, if you can manage to pick one?

Taping my Mother's Bridge club! (This is a new one to me! See what I mean!) We had a primitive tape recorder that my brother Marshall horked from school so that we could record the gossip we were certain would come out from the ladies at the Bridge party which would be about three tables worth. Thus, allowing us to write a newspaper. We hid the tape recorder under one of the tables where we were certain to get some juicy bits. Then we hid around the corner in the kitchen, supposedly eating cookies and milk. As it turned out, our efforts were wasted. All we heard were rumblings of feminine voices with the horrendous sounds of the cards being shuffled. We couldn't believe our ears! (My Mom is making the sound effect right now. It's pretty horrendous)

When did you see your first burrito?

In Salt Lake City, Utah when I was 19. It was at Bill & Nada's Cafe. Don't ask me who they were but it was a good hang out spot. Since I hadn't anticipated the importance of the burrito, it didn't have a premiere or anything, I just thought it was something different to eat besides chiliburgers. Kind of like navajo tacos. I still don't know what the hell that is. I don't think the burritos were very authentic. Not at that place. They still had Elvis tunes on the flip juke boxes at the tables. They weren't served with salsa. Just Wolf brand chili.

What was the first thing you watched on television?

A Tums commercial. That was the day we got our television after spending three hours on the roof trying to put up the antenna. I'm surprised we got any television out in the middle of anywhere in an oil camp (Rangely, CO).

What did you think of pants when you got to wear them?

Oh I thought they were wonderful! They facilitated the end of the girdle and stockings. Yay! Woo-ha!

You were once kidnapped. Do tell!

Oh my God. My friend and co-worker, Deanne, decided to take a vacation from Utah to visit her parents in Los Angeles. Anticipation was high. We took Deanne's blue Corvair, therefore we set off across the Nevada desert toward California. Outside of St. George, Utah, the aforementioned Corvair overheated to the point of not moving forward anymore. Oh shit. Anticipation was low. Along came a large truck big enough to hold the Corvair driven by a tall blonde guy from St. George whom we assumed was a nice Mormon boy sworn to help gals in need lest he be thrown from the Temple by Joseph Smith in a flaming opiate hallucination. Wrong.

First, he "helped" us situate the Corvair on a low railroad overpass and pushed the car into the back of his truck and offered to carry us and his truck to Deanne's parents house, our destination by the ocean. Sidenote: He was going there because he had to pick up some bees from his grandfather to take back to St. George.

Three of us in the cab of his truck had a merry trip to L.A., even being let out for bathroom breaks and snacks. He was hatching his plot as we drove west. When we hit the city, we told him where we needed to go. He said, "I'm sorry, I'm not letting you out of the truck until you agree to come with me to (some) Club." He wouldn't stop. He wouldn't let us out. We threatened to throw ourselves into traffic on the freeway in L.A. Plus he had our car! We kept casting aspersions on his breath and whatever. He wasn't smart he just wouldn't stop. This is after three hours of driving in L.A. in seedy neighborhoods to boot. He wasn't mean, he just wouldn't stop. So finally we hatched a scheme to meet him at the seedy club later if he would give us our car and drop us in the parking lot and we would consume beers with him later *wink wink* and he thought we were reliable so he agreed...har har snort snort. So he agreed to put the car down in Ralph's Supermarket at a high point and gave us the address of the club. We assured him we would be there. We waved him off into the sunset, ran like hell to the nearest pay phone and called her parents to come pick us up. We never told them the true story.

How did it come to be that I was named Wendy and not Becky?

Because your Dad overruled me and I liked Wendy better. It fit you. It must have made sense. At the end of the day I thought it was a beautiful name.

You studied French for 6 years. Tell us how to curse in French.

Alons enfant du la parie le jour et arrive

Mom, I don't think my French speaking friends would appreciate you using the French National anthem as a cursing reference. But since I suspect you just may have not remembered any good curse words and happen to know you like marching bands and stirring music, I'll let it pass.

Since your attention is waning and you're getting your boring authors mixed up and acting drunk, we'll try to keep this short. Who do you think would have won in a fight against a kangaroo? Granddad or Grandberta?

Probably Grandberta. Both could have but I would say her first. I wonder if they really box? I'd really like to see that.

How long did it take for you to learn how to turn a computer on?

Well...after about fifteen minutes I asked my boss how. And I remember, now what's a C prompt probably forty times.

You've come a long way and seen technology pretty much be born. What's your favorite piece of technology?

I don't enjoy using it but my cell phone. It's wonderful not having to have an answering machine. I like the accesibility and it's one of the more understandable ones to me. I do like my computer though. The internet. The email. Being able to order books and Fiesta Ware. Except that Pet Groomer from television that put me in touch with thousands of people from India who tell me I've won prizes and make me pound the phone on the table.

Have you ever stolen anything? Don't lie. I know the truth.

Yes. But it wasn't in the spirit of stealing. I borrowed. After a drunken revelry at Wally's Restaurant (in our hometown) (my mom is not a thief, she happened to be married to a jerkoff who thought it was funny to do stupid shit on a regular basis. she has since divorced his ass and he is alone and will most likely die that way), walking out the backdoor to go home, my ex-husband spied a small bag of groceries sitting outside on the ground. He thought it would be funny to steal it and take it home. We opened it up and it was not even food we liked our would ever use. The contents were as follows:

*One loaf of Wonder Bread

*One small jar of Evil Sandwich Spread whose base is Miracle Whip and tired pickles

*One package bologna (generic)

*One box Mac n Cheese (generic)

To this day I rue the day I was a part of that act of theft. Mea Culpa.

I forgive you, Mom. I verbally beat you that night so you're good. One last question. How cool is it that my brother not only makes beautiful saddles and has done so for most of his life but now he also works at Costco and we have free memberships and can snack on the wonderland of samples until we puke? Basically, how proud are you of my brother?

Oh, where can I start? I love my kids so much! I remember he started with a leather project at 4-H and never stopped creating. I am so proud of his accomplishments. It IS wonderful that he works at Costco. He enjoys his job and his company. He enjoys his life in general, has many friends and a special lady.I love the person he has become. I'm proud of him. I agree! He's much improved since the days when he lassoed me and gave me the Butthook of the Year Award, which he claims not to remember fashioning out of a piece of wood shaped like a butt and putting a fishing hook, which all know he had on him, into the butt part and presenting to me by the stream where the beavers lived. I don't know why I remember the part about the beavers. He seemed to always be talking about them chewing on the wood. I think that's where he got the wood. He's pretty handy with a pocket knife, especially when not using it for evil. I love him! PS. One of his best projects ever, even better than his saddles was a leather Superman that I made him move around (fly) the wall when I was 2 years old! To this day, this is his masterpiece. Besides teaching me to walk. Good job, hoser, I'm a klutz!

Thank you for your cooperation, Mom. That applies to my entire life. I love you.

The Electric Hat's 48 Hours Out

Today is the day of the rest of my life. Wait. No. Strike that. I'm sure that's true but it doesn't apply here. I was thinking about some poster I saw about quitting smoking in my doctor's office. I don't smoke so of course I thought longer about it and wondered how they actually knew this and wasn't it a bit presumptious? I could get hit by a bus on the way out, even if I smoked.

What does apply here is that today is the day I had 24 electrodes super-glued to my head with an air compressor gun. Hopefully not for the rest of my life. They tell me I get them taken off on the 26th in the morning! It took an hour and basically felt like I was getting 24 tiny noogies on my head. I've had similar EEG's before so I knew the drill or the glue gun rather. When I was thirteen, I had this same type of EEG done for 24 hours. I don't remember anything about it though. No on really talked to me about it or the results. A few years ago, I had a week long EEG done at Swedish Hospital in Denver. Basically it's the same thing but I was tethered to a five foot radius because the electrode leads were hooked into the wall. I looked a lot like John Travolta in that Scientology movie. The problem with this is that it's not my daily routine to be denied medication and chill in a hospital bed watching TNT and the Cartoon Network or walk around in a 5 foot area. This one was a total waste of time, not to mention my Mom's time because she came up everyday to see me. They didn't catch much to write home about because, again, I don't normally tie myself with a 5 five foot lead to a wall/bed and watch bazillions of reruns of Law and Order, read the meal menu carefully and deliberate what I want for the next day, carefully circling my choices, and lean my head out the door of the bathroom while I pee because the loo was barely out of the five foot radius and had to rely on my camping bathrooming skills to make it through. No, normally I do this all with much more of a radius to work with.

The 48 hour ambulatory EEG, or my Electric Hat, has worked well so far. They let me wear my beloved Eddie Bauer sun hat on top (I just have to record in my journal in which I keep track of my activities every half hour that I am wearing my hat so they know why there is pressure on my head instead of guessing--small child? Laundry basket? Bowling ball? Panini press? Oh. It's just a hat) so when I go out on public the staring is kept to a minimum. I find old women, who one would expect good manners from, have the worst manners in the respect of those with large amounts of rainbow colored cords coming from underneath their hats and attaching to what appears to be a ginormous square fanny pack.



Sidenote: I don't know how I managed to make this look awesome. But I really did. I'm going to email the Epilepsy Foundation and ask if they want a spokesperson.



One lady at the Cracker Barrel, where the old women were staring, named Shauna, (an employee), came up to me and was having a delightful conversation about my Electric Hat. At one point she said, "Well! At least you're still here!" To which I responded, "Yeah, I love the Cracker Barrel! I haven't even made it to the vintage toy part of the gift shop!" She laughed and said, "I like your sense of humor!" She later demonstrated the Weasel Ball for my Mom because I couldn't figure out how to turn it on for her and I insisted she had to see it go nuts. Mom bought me a Gumby action figure for being awesome at the Sleep Clinic. I also ate an egg that looked really happy!



The big rule with this whole thing, besides playing "Capture the Seizure," was that I was not allowed to be left alone. It was basically decided between my Mom and I that I would camp out at her house for the duration. While she was taking care of her little German lady from 5-7, my friend Ryan agreed to hang out with me. The first night of the EEG, he came over and technically his girlfriend Amy was on that shift but was stuck in Denver so he was the pinch hitter. Well, I already had a miniature tea set out our friend Darcie gave me for my birthday that you paint and bake to seal for that night's activity. When Ryan walked in, I told him to grab a paint brush. Being a painter himself, I thought he would be into it, but he was very reticent. In fact, he shook his head and said, in response to my comment that he was a painter, "I don't do that." Eventually he painted two teacups.

Later, our friend Kristen arrived and by then only the sugar jar needed painted so she jumped in and fashioned a unicorn upon it. Or Tea-Corn. It went very nice with the cow patterned creamer. Then Amy finally arrived! By then it was a full on awesome party. Ryan and I had been watching reruns of "Dukes of Hazzard" before everyone arrived. As people drifted in, things just got better with "The Wonder Years," and "Who's the Boss." Then my Mom ordered pizza when she got home from Irma, the German lady's house. A big pot of coffee was made and it was the coolest pizza party ever. We baked the tea set and everyone was excited to see it turn out. After forty minutes, I set it back out on the coffee table for all to admire their handiwork. All in all, after a day of running errands, a pizza party and getting used to not being able to blink, I was pretty tuckered.

I still hadn't had any seizures yet, though. However, I knew one thing. Usually when I stay up late and fall asleep sitting up, I will have seizures in my sleep that wake me up. Especially if I am working on my writing. So I did exactly that. I would be damned if I was going through all this and not capturing seizures.

It worked. More than I thought it would. I had more than what I call my "alarm clock" seizures which just are you're basic limb jerking "wake up" seizures. I had two full on, "earthquake" seizures where I have found if I hold on to a bookcase, I can shake the entire piece of furniture and its contents and my teeth chatter. These are the types where I tense my teeth and bear down and stare straight ahead while my body shakes, apparently emitting a strong tremor. The only time I've figured out the strength of the tremor was when I happened to grab a bookcase to steady myself and ended up being scared as shit when I realized I couldn't tell the difference between a major earthquake and the tremors I was feeding this inanimate object. Literally. Not Figuratively. Literally. That is, had I not known better.
The second day, after we went to the EEG/Sleep Clinic to adjust my electrodes and leads and all that, we stopped off at Borders so I could get some books and a copy of The Big Lebowski. They had a bargain table outside and it was hotter than Hades out. I stood outside for about five minutes in the heat and chose two books. After I went outside, I went to the restroom and nearly had a major seizure in there because of being so easily overheated. It irritates me that I can't stand outside for five or ten minutes and look at books without this sort of thing happening. I had to click my little button three times in two minutes that marks on the EEG that I was having an "event" because I was having auras which are tiny seizures that warn you of an oncoming larger seizure. I stayed in the restroom, splashing cold water on my face and fanning myself, counting by threes and describing everything around me until finally, fifteen minutes later I felt well enough to go sit on the bench by my Mom in front of the magazine section where she was looking at house decoration magazines. I paced back and forth for a bit in front of a rack of writing references nearby and then settled down for a few minutes. We captured five seizures already so I wasn't too worried about additional specimens.
Although I was to have one more the next morning when I woke up, things went well for the rest of the EEG and I didn't have any more "earthquakes."

We're almost done getting the Superglue out of my hair. I've had my hair soaked in conditioner for a half hour at a time and then picked through with a fine tooth comb like I have lice. My hair is very soft right now, though! There's a light at the end of the tunnel...things are getting normal again.

Even better, this is one small step for, well it's not even a small step, it's one big step toward getting my robot part! Before you know it, I'll have funnel boobs and a sexy silver lame skirt to match my knee high moon boots!

My Russian Cleaning Lady is More Productive in a Blizzard Than I Am

Once again, I am in amazement at the habits and ambitions of Lilia, my Russian cleaning lady.

What I was doing during the Holiday Blizzard of 2006:

I was snowed in at my friend Ryan's house with friends Amy and Anthony, watching superhero movies, almost setting my face on fire and actually setting a few of my hairs on fire (they curled up just even a little more!) by doing a trick one of the other showed me (holding down the lever on a lighter and sucking in the butane, letting it go, holding the butane in your mouth, lighting the lighter, then blowing. It's harder than it sounds to get some fire. Also you might blow your face off and/or catch a few hairs on fire. If you're lucky. I have banned myself from this trick. Other activities included getting into an argument over my bean soup which, despite being shoveled down at a fast pace, was touted as "warmed up salsa" (not true at all!), getting drunk off of the rest of my Glenlivet (which Amy and I hiked through the snow with Christmas presents like tiny reindeer when it was still barely hikeable)that equaled out to about six shots that went down like melted butter, making lists of things that really seemed important to rank as important in the universe, eating wheat pancakes, playing "Caps" which I am somehow really good at. This game, if you've never heard of it is basically forming two teams and each team has one or two glasses of beer in front of them. The point is to sink your bottle caps into the beer. You get two tries per turn. If you sink the bottle cap, they have to drink the whole beer. These guys scare me because they don't remove the caps before they drink and Ryan has a story about this guy he used to know who got a cap stuck in his throat and he was the one who ended up getting it out or something while everyone else just watched. Or this was something that happened to his friend Jon I think. I think this would have scared the shit out of Ryan enough to take the damn cap out of his beer if it had happened to him.

At one point, 24 hours later, the guys decide to form a two-man brigade to go dig out all of our cars by Anthony's because, at the time, his was not running and had not been for quite awhile. Some time passes and Amy and I are hanging out talking about stuff and all that when we get a phone call from Ryan.

Instructions: Get our shoes or boots on, meet him at the end of the alley because whilst digging his car out, they met up with Gabe and Chris from our favorite hangout, Roma's, who were digging other people's cars out and while Roma's was obviously closed, we've been invited to go have a beer there anyway with the Car Dig-out Crew which later turned out was close to the entire staff.

Amy and I slide down the alley, giggling scarves flying behind us, holding hands like a couple of schoolgirls so we don't fall and pile into the car. Ryan slowly makes his way down the street to Roma's where he finds some spot to park. I can't remember where. It was a decent spot. When we go inside Roma's, we find a game of King's Cup in progress. Yet another drinking game to add to our Blizzard repertoir. This time, though, it's high stakes because, at Roma's, it's not cans of PBR. It's approximately 32 oz of Easy Street Wheat and when you have to do a Waterfall, well...oh God. The beer was disappearing pretty fast and that's a lot of beer. Once again, I was pretty drunk. Plus they were making weird pizzas. But I was happy. Friends were around and my feet were dry, thanks to my forethought in buying the most amazing snow boots ever.

Love was all around.

At some point, we made it back to Ryan's. This part was a little hazy. That night, I was starting to get the cabin fever. I was drunk but coming off the "Love is all around" thing and I was starting to stink. I hadn't showered since the day before, not knowing I would be quarantined. My hair looked like a mental patient styled it and I was really wanting to sleep in my own bed.

By this time the roads were at a point where if you had a military vehicle or some equivalent you could probably make it somewhere. Somehow one of our other friends made it over and was ready to party, despite Amy now having developed a toothache, Ryan being drunk and tired and my being, drunk, tired and crabby and Anthony out playing touch football in the damn snow. Word arrived our friend Darcie was showing up with her sister. I was not into a party but was always glad to see Darcie. I would hunker down and just nod off if need be but I was getting the Fear that I would never make it back out of the alley again.

Darcie sure did show up with her sister and her sister drove a crazy Jeep that could bitch slap the roads. I hopped in that thing so fast and pointed toward my apartment I was a blur with hair like a Brillo pad. I didn't care that I was tossed around the back seat so hard I wanted to cry because I was a sissy and I was going to have bruises on my sit upon the next morning. I was going home! I was going to shower! I was going to change clothes! I was not going to eat warmed up salsa (it really isn't!)!

What Lilia Did During the Holiday Blizzard of 2006:

What you're looking at here is the Queen Tower sold at Playful Pet Products, the side business thought up during the blizzard by Lilia and her husband.

This tower is actually standing in my living room right now. I would show you my picture of my cats on it but my memory card is again, having technical difficulties. It's a little over 6 feet tall.

You should check it out for yourself.

There's even a story in there about the blizzard and how they came up with the idea and then just built one. Why not? I read it and was like if I didn't have some things going for me, I'd staple my face to the carpet. I did read it and think back to the time she told me out of the blue how she wanted to own an airplane.

I really don't doubt she will.

She has the drive of ten thousand Ferraris.

I Love Thee Sidewok Cafe

I love driving in new places and seeing the businesses that line the streets. It's one of the best parts of getting out of town. A lot of them can be really creative, especially in small towns. However, my favorite one as of late happens to exist in a suburb of Denver, Lakewood. When I first saw it, I was also trying to navigate directionally and so I was looking to turn left on Sheridan off of Colfax (notorious for being one of the longest streets in America...although the hookers aren't as obvious as people like to the say they are. In fact local favorites like the Denver Diner and other such post concert and last stop, after late night drinking, eateries also populate its lineup. However it's also lined with oddly named hotels and "saunas" and there are normal things like car dealerships and liquor stores too. So it's not all seedy) and almost wrecked my car laughing when I saw none other than the Sidewok Cafe.



Upon arriving to my location, I swore up and down that the Shuffle Inn was located directly across the street from it. I was informed, to my dismay, the Shuffle Inn was actually just down the street and was actually a bar, not a seedy by the hour motel and has been closed for some time. When I left Lakewood, I realized this was true. It was still a little cool though that the Sidewok Cafe was by the Shuffle Inn. I still wanted it to be a seedy motel across the street from my beloved Sidewok Cafe. If it had been, I would have definitely made someone take a series of pictures of me "shuffling" into the Sidewok Cafe from the Shuffle Inn.

Not that there isn't a string of priceless no tell motels along this part of Colfax or any part of Colfax. They are hilarious. The decor is great too. Seriously. If I wasn't afraid of getting poked in the ass with a used needle or finding a hooker sewn into a mattress or the fact that I know of the existence of Luminol and occasionally think of it and what it reveals when I stay away from home, I might stay in one of these places on a lark and go eat at the Sidewok Cafe. Also they are all just around the corner from a perfectly clean place to stay that is home to a Sleep Number mattress which I delight in clicking down to a five on one side so it practically dumps you out onto the floor. There certainly is an ass crater in the morning and I tend to slide down to the bottom of the bed so I'm thinking of upping the number. There's a reason they have that commercial with the couple who likes to experiment though. You have to figure these things out. Rome wasn't built in a day and neither was your sleep number. I'm also pretty sure I haven't heard any hookers screaming as I mess with the remote and squash the shit out of the mattress.

The Sidewok Cafe is a source of fascination for me. I pass by it constantly and I'm disappointed they don't have breakfast or just a snack bar. It's always bad timing. I admit I kind of want to put my hand out the window and reach my hand out and reach toward it in an effort to connect in some way. Does it know how loved it is? I'm a little nervous people don't appreciate it like I do. I've never even eaten there but I just know it's fantastic. It's most certainly dim and weird. All the Myspace surveys I've taken invariably ask if I believe in love in first sight. I always say no, that it takes time to cultivate love. In this case I have to recant my answer. I loved the Sidewoke Cafe from the moment I nearly swerved into oncoming traffic at the sight of it.

I'm damn well making a point to eat there next week the night before I leave for the mountains.

Sidewok Cafe, it won't be long before you and I are together. Stay strong.

Sketched Out Etch-a-Sketch: Meet Estephanie!

Originally I had a picture above to illustrate what I was describing below. Since I'm just learning how to put pictures in blogs and ripped off the original picture illustrating the ensuing actions from a fellow blogger, Corn is Delicious (do check out his blog), I'm still working out glitches and it just left some red dot of a blog zit and not the uber cool picture. You can catch the cool picture under his blog entitled "For Shame." Just click "Corn is Delicious" under my friends...somewhere. Or in the zillion comments he's left for me to gather joy from. Who knows what I did wrong with the original picture. Maybe this picture of a Muppet type thing in a cornfield will suffice. Let's try that.


I'm super excited. Apparently some dude with a full tank of gas and a heart full of unicorns let the cops chase him through this particular corn field until he either ran out of gas or was satisfied with the cool ass pattern he made.

Now, I'm not a proponent of coke. Unless it's icy cold in a bottle. However, I have to admire this guy's style. Look at that pattern. Can you imagine how fun it was freewheeling through that field like you were in the world's biggest Etch-a Sketch? Man, I want to feel that! Sans the coke. Well, I would have a cooler full of Coke in glass bottles, tipping them back and shrieking, "This is how you live!" I might possibly be telling the plants to fuck off. Normally I don't do that because I love plants but when you're driving like a bat out of hell in crazy patterns in a field and are all hopped up on a) coke or b) Coke, you're out of your mind on how beautiful life is. At that moment, you're doing something most people would never dare get out of their LA-Z-Boy to do. No, they wouldn't push themselves back from the table and say, "That's enough meatloaf for me, ma! I'm 29 and it's time I go buckwild in a field with my car, knock back some ice cold Coca-Cola and then go make some sweet sweet love. Because who won't want to make sweet, sweet love to me once I do the thing that makes me the one person in a fifty mile radius that chooses to LIVE, man, LIVE?!"

It's this kind of stuff I love. Not the cocaine. But the fact that this guy chose to whiz around a cornfield instead of just sit on his couch and say weird shit to his cats. Sure, he was on coke, but he went out and did something that made him feel like life was awesome, with the wind in his hair and the world in the palm of his hand. I'm sure he'll have to pay some hefty reparations but that's what comes with life being beautiful sometimes. You have to accept that. I'm sure whoever owns that field isn't going to see his philosophy or admire it, especially since it was coke induced. You never know though.

This world is a crazy ass place and I love it.

Oh wait!

Here is the picture of what actually happened!! Woweee!

Squatters' Rights

Happy July 4th.

Every year, Greeley has the distinct privilege of holding the Greeley Independence Stampede, which includes the craptacular carnival of fried shit (there's something new in the stamped down grassy area that doubles as the food court's repertoire every year. My friends who, this year, oddly went twice, told me it was Oreos this year. So now they can do candy bars, Oreos, rattlesnake (?) and other various items I'm sure I've missed since I last went eons ago), rides smelling of urine and hoodlums cruising around with their pants under their asses, mysteriously staying up while they ogle future or freshly initiated thirteen year old gang members with caked on makeup cracking under their smarmy sneers and the worst carousel ever that plays....rap music. Last time I went I rode the mechanical bull they have every year. So I've done the only cool thing I think I can do there. The rest I've done, including the fried Snickers and really it grosses me out after thirteen years of residence and knowing I'm moving to Denver several months from now just makes me want to stay as far away as possible.

However, here in Greeley, on the actual day of the 4th, the highlight of the whole shebang, or should I say the orgasm, is the parade. Even Denver's leading news team makes it down every year to broadcast the majority of it for shut-ins, people who are fans of air conditioning or people who enjoy watching the president when he is on every channel. I happen to live on the parade route which, around here is like owning all the utilities or railroads in Monopoly. People want to sit on your lawn. The thing is they aren't allowed to stake out their spots with blankets on your lawn or put up tents or throw down tarps with rocks a week ahead of time. They have to stick to the public grass along the sidewalks. There's some sort of honor system around here that miraculously works like some sort of homesteader race. "Oh no, Hon, there's a quilt there. We'll have to look further." It's kind of cool. My friend Bernadette and I were actually marveling at it as we drove down 10^th Avenue, said parade route, yesterday and thought it was nice how people didn't steal each others' blankets or resort to Anarchy.

That is, until you are sitting on your lawn and the honor system fails and Anarchy takes over. Apparently people start failing to realize that your lawn is not open game for their entire fucking family to sit on. It was not accidentally overlooked in the Great Race for good spots. No. It's private property. The tenants who live in the building pay rent there and part of the perks of being a tenant there is that you get to yawn and get out of bed when you hear the crowd start warming up, grab your camp chair and set up your spot with your water and your bowl of cereal or bagel or whatever and enjoy the parade. If you would like this same damn privilege than move into the fucking building or buy or lease a house on the damn parade route. Don't assume that you can stroll onto the damn lawn and set up camp with your sixty children who are throwing their plastic ball at my head and then look confused when I say that this area is for tenants only. As far as I know there is not some sort of "Grapes of Wrath" parade clause where squatters' rights are invoked.

What you're doing is called trespassing.

I wish I had the addresses of these jerks. I would go and take my camp chair and at about 7:30 in the morning, with my cooler, my big foam finger and a ridiculous hat, set up my crap on their lawn. Yup. Heard there was going to be a parade. Oh, I can't sit here? Why not? I do it every year. Oh? This is YOUR lawn? You OWN this property? You PAY to live here? Well I just...you know, no one is here yet. If there isn't enough room when the parade starts, I'll move over to um...let me look in my notebook...yes, the Andersons'. Their lawn is bigger. OH! Look! The parade is starting! Here comes a blue car!! Look at that windshield! Mmmm mmm mmm mm. Rush hour should be starting pretty soon. Yes sir. It doesn't get better tha- what? The police? Well when you were on my lawn the police didn't care that you and your jerk wad kids sat there. We asked, remember? They even sat on the corner of my lawn, too, eating ice cream. They won't mind! Hell, I have another chair! Tell them to bring some beer! Yeah! Hey, tell them to pick up a half gallon of Ginger Bee from the Crabtree Brewery. That would be great!

Yes I would love to do that. By the time the parade started, there was nothing I could do. Jerk wads everywhere on my lawn. If there is any trash on my lawn when I return home from work, I'm calling my landlords and the city. I will complain that Officer Lazy and Officer Ice Cream Wrapper didn't observe the fact that the other people in my building maybe wanted to have some room to sit on their lawn they pay for the privilege to sit on. The first lady I politely explained trespassing to immediately threw a fit and said, "You know, I'm done! I'm done! Every house up and down the street does this! So people from out of town can't sit there and enjoy the parade!" Her husband obviously thinking back to his wedding day when his best man said, "Are you REALLY sure? Because she's back there bitching out the caterer for putting too much mustard on the table..." is creeping between us as I am just listening with my eyebrows raised and then glancing at her children who all have their hand crossed across their heads, a habit developed I'm sure to block out the constant screaming. When she is done, I reply, "Well, I understand what you're saying, but you are trespassing you know and there are people who live in this building who pay for the right to use this area. It's kind of one of the perks of living on the parade route. Also the reason this happens all up and down the street is because people own those houses and well, they get to do whatever they want with their property. It's kind of how it works when you own something." To which she screeches, "Do you live here???!!!" I pause, wondering how insane I would be to try to throw her off a lawn I didn't belong to and then answered, "Yes I do. So-" Then she screeched "Well we'll just go ask the officers over there!" I sighed...

I wasn't sure if she was thinking of asking the officers if I lived there or what but I was pretty sure trespassing was illegal. I didn't want to be in a fight and was trying to be calm about the whole thing but she had started screeching like a howler monkey as soon as I opened my mouth. Really, though part of the honor system and more importantly, the law is you don't camp out on other peoples' lawn. I'm sure she would love it if I came and stretched out on her lawn. Honestly if she had maybe asked politely like some of the other people it wouldn't have irritated me so much. Courtesy goes a long way with me. I'm a hospitable person. However, this, as we came to call her, bitcharoo, acted like she was the owner of the entire parade. For some time I actually thought the cops told her and her Odd Squad to relocate because as I was quietly applying some sun block, so as not to have my pasty skin burst into flames, she strolled by and threw her arms up in the air in some sort of "bring it" gesture. I was a little confused as I was not agitating her that I knew of. Did she want my sun block as well? It wouldn't have surprised me as she seemed to think she was entitled to and owed everything everyone else had. I just turned to my Mom and laughed really hard. What an odd thing to do. A few moments it was even odder because I noticed no one had made her move. So why was she so upset? She was settled into my damn grass pretty comfortably it appeared. If I were her, I would be happy as a clam, enjoying some ice cream from the Zacatecas vendor. I know I was. I love their rice milk bars sprinkled with cinnamon. We just laughed and wished her husband luck with being chained to her for the rest of his life. The poor guy looked horribly disconcerted.

When the fire trucks came along finally, announcing the end of the parade, there was a family lunching near the front steps of my apartment building and I just sighed.

It's not that I don't like sharing, it's just that I wish people would somehow have some courtesy and not just automatically think it's okay to trespass. I mean I saw some people from my building come out; appearing to want to watch the parade on the property they live on, see the Woodstock-esque crowd that had formed on our lawn and take off across the street. This is what I mean. This is their place to live, which includes watching the parade. I feel that since they pay rent they should get first dibs. After that, the jackasses could ask politely if they may sit down.

One of my friends spotted me and asked if he could use my bathroom instead of waiting a zillion hours in line. I said sure and tossed him the keys to my apartment. When he came back, he told me he was talking to someone the other day about my building, which is in the historical district (we have a plaque!) and the person he was speaking to said the building used to be a whore house.

I almost wet myself laughing.

The more things change, the more they stay the same