Deez Nuts

I am not one for decorating the outside of my home for the holidays, let alone rake my leaves or water flowers. I grew up in the country, which meant that very rarely would a person even see my home. The coyotes and cows don’t really care about twinkling lights. Children would not venture the five miles of unlit dirt road to our house; otherwise, my parents might mistake them for furry predators and accidentally shoot them. We didn’t even have a neighbor to marvel or envy any celebratory acts of the holidays. The closest neighbor was two miles away which, according to my brother, is great for peeing off the side of the deck.

I have taken on the family tradition of not participating in holiday decorations. My roommates would often complain that I was just plain evil in this respect. Somehow I just don’t enjoy straddling rooftops in twenty degree weather, let alone singing carols with frostbitten fingers. That’s just not for me…bah humbug. Maybe one day, a starving child filled with hope and optimism may change my mind. But I work in philanthropy, so maybe feeding a third-world family for a year makes me feel better than twinkling lights and carols. (Although I enjoy the spiked cider during any occasion.)

The one decoration that I use every year is the pumpkin. It’s easy. It costs under three bucks. It requires no strategic placement. It works from Halloween to Thanksgiving. It’s orange. But every year since I’ve lived in Indiana, my pumpkin does not make it to Thanksgiving due to its ultimate defacement. At first, I thought that my scarred pumpkins were the result of some strange prankster who chose to slowly carve out its innards as opposed to smashing them on the front lawn. But last year, I caught the bastard. Damned squirrels. I would take pictures but you wouldn’t believe me…these rotund little balls of menace curled up inside my now-hollowed out pumpkins.

This perhaps is a nice little segue into squirrels and Indianapolis. How, do you ask, can I find a reason to make Indiana a target of every complaint? According to Toombsday, I’m a hater, by nature. I swear there is an ounce of love and hope in every message. But perhaps I will get to that later. I just explained that I moved here from the backwoods of Oklahoma, didn’t I? That I have consumed moonshine, can race barefoot on gravel, and showered in thunderstorms. (This, by the way, makes Herbal Essence’s orgasmic level look like a wet firecracker.) Or in the words of Unfrozen Caveman, “Your world frightens and confuses me! Sometimes the honking horns of your traffic make me want to get out of my BMW and run off into the hills.”

So this was a tangent, no? Back to the subject at hand…Squirrels! Toombsday’s mother visited Indy for a football game when she noticed the squirrels, “They’re just so…fat.” Yes, they are a bit round. Their sqabowolly legs slow them down a bit. They are fair game for cats and cars. If they were in Oklahoma, we would stop hunting deer and opossum for dinner. But I decided to investigate. And I learned there is a direct correlation between disappearing trees and fat squirrels.

Abstract:
There are two types of squirrels: gray and red squirrels. Or skinny and fat ones respectively. The gray squirrels are spry, but they are absentminded. They bury their acorns and forget where they hid them…kind of like a pothead and his weed. Eventually, these will sprout into trees, then forests…get the picture? But the red ones, oh these little bitches who destroy my pumpkins, will take them to one place where the seeds “suffocate,” are rendered infertile, and die (sort of like a workaholic woman, no?). But instead of adopting cute little Chinese babies, their habits are counteractive to forests. And they’re too damned lazy to bury the important seeds deep enough to propagate trees. Hence, they become the freeloaders of the rodent world, chitter chattering about the weather and staring at me like they expect some sunflower seeds. This system has blossomed in Indiana to the point that gray squirrels are practically nonexistent and red squirrels dominate. Some forest rangers claim that we still have gray squirrels, but I have not seen one to reinforce their claims.

Best served cold

“Oh, is that a piece from the Betsey Johnson line? I do say it bears some resemblance. Notice the shredded tulle, the gracefully distressed silk accessory, the organic tones? This must be the product of her new eco-fashion line.”

“What’s that? You’re right. I think that is a homeless person. Good thing you said something. I was about to ask her who her agent was. Well with her gaunt figure and chiseled, sunken jaw line…I’m famished. We need to find a croissant or something before Mui Mui...”

Or a ginormous tofu pie to the face. When Editor Wintour refused to run PETA ads in her magazine, PETA members launched an editor’s worst enemy, public humiliation. I don’t want to include too many political, religious, or feminist ideas in my blurbs, but this was too good. C'mon, it's like hearing your Alexander Pope-praising English teacher fart in class or witnessing Bobo the Insult Clown slam your lame date.

NaDruWriNi finale

3:24 a.m. evan williams bourbon, 7 years aged, on the rocks. and my morning jacket playing.

so where am i now? this is the point where i could ask you what is in your cd player. or how you found yourself right here, right now. or i might try to start a fight with a shrubbery. or i might try to DDT you.

hmmm...it's storming right now. and the weather forecasters are exclaiming that "wind gusts are up to 44 miles per hour!" and, unfortunately, they are not playing "roadhouse" starring patrick swayze on tbs. which is usually playing at this hour on a saturday eve. no, alas, it is chuck norris starring in "delta force."

this week for the first time in a long time i was invited to participate in philanthropic activities and galas and benefits and such. it is during this gala that i learned that accumulating multiple degrees and titles and experience is really just an excuse to eat with your mouth open in front of influential people sitting at a dinner table. and that i am a token indian in indiana. which you would think that they would have indians in indiana. they have mascots representing indians. and indian museums. but don't let that fool you: they do not have indians in indiana.

hmmm...and i think that is about it for my ranting this evening. because i am now listening to gillian welch doing radiohead covers. and sleep calls to a time where i wake up and slap my forehead tomorrow for saying such idiotic things. buenos noches. bon soir.

NaDruWriNi , part deux

2:31 a.m. rosemount shiraz, 2002. Third glass. so...this is usually my cut off limit. where i can usually go home without reasonably taking out innocent pedestrians. This is also a good time to convince me to just take a shot of bourbon and take a cab home.

My living-in-sin boyfriend asked my why i don't get dancing on the bar drunk. well, it's simple. there was this time. a time that dave attell would consider time traveling. that i drank an entire bottle of red wine, a gift from my orthodontist to my parents, at my then boyfriend's birthday party (one of the three men i dated who later decided to bat for a different team). within a span of a couple of hours, the following things happened:

1. time travel: kissing a man whom i have never met in front of said gay boyfriend
2. time travel: wake up in a closet of sorts
3. time travel: cursing gay boyfriend's best friend in french in a bathroom
4. time travel: puking red wine on white carpet
'nuff said.

so, i'm having a good buzz at the moment. wondering how long i can keep this up. i have stopped capitilizing my sentences. so that's a good indication, i think.

nadruwrini 2005, beyotch

12:46 a.m. Rosemount Shiraz 2002, an old college favorite. Recommended by a b&n cohort/photographer. This coupled with a John Coltrane would make an art girl swoon. Too bad I am not that pretentious, or French, or male.

So...I just finished watching Jarhead. It was a marvelous film, which cinematically explores the hopeless and blinding situation that was begat (begotten?) in Kuwait. Both mental and physical boundaries are shattered as the futility of trained killers ... did I mention you get to see Jake Gyllenhaal and his new body?

Let's see...I also unintentionally annihilated an entire colony of ladybugs. They were congregating in my shower this morning, warming themselves in the sun magnified by glass blocks, when they were killed with the shower's blast. Let's pray that they are in a better place, where the sun warms them in all seasons. Or something.

Well, this is only one glass. Check you later.

Driving Tip for Hoosiers

If you must change lanes due to an obstruction in current lane, (i.e. large loading truck with flashing lights, invincible gangsta gots da wiggles and doesn’t look both ways before crossing the street, or a suburban mom’s GPS or front dash DVD player malfunctions), it is determined that if you have indicated your intention by turn signal and noticed a W I D E gap in which you can navigate your car into desired lane FOR THE LOVE OF GOD please take that opportunity to move into that lane.

I am polite for I am Southern…this is indicated by my willingness to apply slight pressure to the brake in order to assist your need, but GOD HELP YOU if you force me to stop because of your inability to understand this gesture. Kiss your euchre charms that I don’t get all Texan on you. This technique is strikingly defined in which the person who must change lanes could care less about turn signals let alone checking for openings and abruptly jerks into desired lane whether there is a car, person, puppy, or infant child in the road.

People, even our retired community drives with better common sense. Sheesh.

But I will give you some props: your roads are so pristine in the winter. Yes, they may be punctuated with plum-sized globs of molasses that melt away the horrific ice and snow. But after shoveling away two feet of snow and warming up my car for thirty minutes, your roads are so navigable.

Don't Stop Believin'

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Originally uploaded by toombsday.

Reminiscing about Halloween, I'm attempting to recall the elementary school embarrassments that were my costumes. My mother -- part Wonder Woman, part seamstress -- designed a majority of these outfits. When her hand was involved, these whimsical concoctions were spun with enough glitter and sequins to put Liza Minnelli to shame.
1. Kindergarten: The tooth fairy. Not very creative on my parents' part: my father was a dentist. But what a damned proud bucktoothed tooth fairy I was.

2. Second Grade: Pocahontas. My ancestors sharpened their tomahawks for my scalping as I attempted to recreate Disney’s sham of an interpretation, complete with faux suede and plastic beads.

3. Fourth Grade: The California Raisin a.k.a. aspiring writer. I actually learned a little Marvin Gaye so I could twirl my gloved hands and spin for a treat. My garment was basically a garbage bag filled with wads of newspaper over purple tights. Mom always encouraged me to follow my heart. Who knew this costume would foreshadow my current ambitions?

4. Fifth Grade: The Statue of Liberty. The outfit was complete with green-gray face paint and torch made of quilted fabric. I don't know what possessed me to choose this symbol of liberty. Maybe it was my attempt of being patriotic in the face of Operation Desert Storm. No way was I going to let Saddam Hussein take away my ten-year-old freedom of playing Nintendo Super Mario Brothers.

5. College: Jackson Five member. A last minute idea of desperation complete with an afro wig and my own polyester threads. I think the aforementioned afro was lost during a keg stand.

6. 2005: Dynasty character, a little of both Alexis and Chrystal. My mother would be proud of this snazzy sequined number. I had enough mascara on to make Tammy Faye Baker blush. I mean, really blush, like underneath her three inches of wax. By the end of the night, I was Liza Minnelli channeling Judy Garland alcoholism. Note to those who know me: I have never done karaoke in my life...ever.