squirrella: (wistful)
Life was touch and go yesterday when our Internets went out inexpicably for about 10 hours. HOW DID WE LIVE BEFORE THE INTERNETS???? We survived, though: his office in the AM, Ikea for some craft-y room shelving, then North Wales where we fondled Fenders and Martins and mandolins before plunking down $19 on a capo and splitting. Over, then, to Iron Hill for a lunch of nachos (note to intestines--no more fajita chicken. KTHNX.), and then up to Barnes and Noble for some birthday shopping. We hit Performance and stocked up on odd size tubes for his Campagnolos and then trotted over to Whole Foods where people existed wholly unaware of each other. How many times can you ram my ankles with your yuppy cart? Once is more than enough. Home and we started laundry, lamented the Internets, tried to steal our Swedish neighbor's connection, and then finally went to the Bala Theatre to see Juno, a decently done movie that I'd watch again. Michael Cera is funny, and I'm once again reminded that we need to somehow get Arrested Development, either through Netflix or Best Buy. We watched the series once-through and loved it.

The rest of the weekend was spent driving back and forth to Elmer, NJ. As of Friday morning, his father had also been admitted to the hospital (can't remember if I divulged that). And while the two of them are being released today, I still don't know what either one of them had. The trickle-down word was pneumonia, but her symptoms were: dizzy, dehydrated, diarrhea (they had to throw away the couch because she shat it up), and she was pretty much unable to move. His symptoms were: passed out/asleep in the ICU waiting room, unable to stand on his own, and OH, HE HADN'T EATEN IN A DAY OR SO, SO HIS SUGAR WAS OVER 300. Did I mention he's diabetic? Nevertheless, I've got beau coup daughter-in-law points, since I dropped practically everything and rushed to their bedside while their daughter went off skiing. Mike will tell you, she's a whore.

I'm finally seeing the end of the Green Ick, though I'm back on sleep-inducing medicine. I am now on a single dose of NyQuil at bedtime, as opposed to the 9 pm dose and the 1 am dose. I am sleeping in sexy poses: mouth agape, drooling, the occasional nasal whistle. I think I'll really kick this shit out once I get back to spinning--I haven't spun since last Tuesday! That's a LONG TIME for me since I typically spin every night.
squirrella: (photoboothing)
For as long as I can remember, I've held on to the belief that I am primarily Norwegian and English, with a bit of Irish and Cherokee thrown in. It explains my height, fairly decent complexion, and my dark hair. I spent a lot of my youth focusing on the English aspect of my heritage, obsessing about all things British before growing tired of it all. Don't get me wrong--I'm still proud of being English, but I just don't get excited about fish and chips and Minding the Gap and writing favouite instead of favorite. For me, it got to be a bit put on. Still, I willingly explored that portion of my heritage deeper than any other. This is partially enabled by the fact that my paternal grandmother is still alive (she's the Brit) and also because I've been to see the family twice (I was a bridesmaid in a second-cousin's wedding the second time). Even when an even furtherly-distant cousin compiled a family history of the Thompson clan (little more detail on that coming up), I simply chose to hold on to the English roots, discarding all others.

In the last few years, I've latched on to my maternal heritage: my mother's mother was (so I thought) from Norway; her father's family hailed from Ireland. I entertained all sorts of fantasies of how an Irish fellow might court a younger Norwegian lass, and got lost in those thoughts. Imagine my disappointment when, over Christmas, my mother told me how she and her sister and brother had spent an evening going through their parents' papers (their mother outlived her husband by a few years and died in late 1993) and found out that we aren't half-blooded Norwegians. We're Dutch. And Norwegian. And, my great-grandparents met in Philadelphia and married at Christ Church. There's some story about how Great Granddad de Vries ran away from home at 12 and joined the Norwegian navy, before eventually making port in Philadelphia and never going back east. It involves plank-walking and pirate-knives, and seems far-fetched, but it's fantastic all the same. I recovered from my initial disappointment and started thinking about trips to Netherlands and Norway (ha!). I mean, my mother and her siblings have addresses of where grandparents and family once lived. It might be interesting to travel over there and wander around the streets.

And I was all for pursuing this idea of researching my family history until my redneck past caught up to me. My father sent me a video with the explanation that his father's people hailed from Arkadelphia. As in Arkansas. As in: Does Not Want. And I had to admit that I knew this all along--that Arwillie Thompson, some relation or another to Leonard, my paternal grandfather, had, in fact, labored over the Thompson family tree, tracing our roots through the Midwest and South all the way back some centuries earlier to a Baron von Something-or-other in Germany.

While that all doesn't seem to be too big of a deal, you haven't yet seen the video. And the video? It's about a woman that gives CPR to a chicken. And that woman? She represents Arkadelphia, AR. I watched the video and immediately emailed my father and mother begging for them to confess I was adopted. Or, at the very least, LIE and tell me I was adopted. Because that gene pool? That gene pool is a large part of why I do not want children.

Or chickens.

Watch the video here. The quality's not the best, save for the shot of BooBoo on the beach, but then again, that's Arkadelphia.
squirrella: (neener)
Best graffiti seen from the train to Boston: Suck my stump. We used it liberally for the rest of that day.

Best singing in the park: when some dude from NPR with a NitroJoe recorder and microphone asked the three of us to sing the theme from Cheers. Right across the street from the "original" Cheers bar. And near the statue that Mike and I posed under a few years ago:


Best non-road rage phrase used on the way up: Shut your trapezoid. My mother. Don't ask.

Best place to spend money: LUSH. OMG, I smell like a ROCKSTAR today. Also, Ocean Salt scrub is made with vodka...

Best way to assemble Ikea furniture: with never-ending margaritas followed by vodka tonics (because the margaritas *did* end...). We three assembled two end tables, an entertainment center, a shelving unit, a Poang and footstool all within 3 hours. Holy cam lock!

Best stitch learned in class: FRENCH FUCKING KNOTS! These little fuckers are now my bitch. I've seriously mastered the French knot and it only took two tries and about 30 seconds. I now cannot believe that I ever had a problem with this petty and pretty little stitch before.

Many photos to upload: Thai lunch, NPR guy, flowers, mom, sis, and more.

Oh, and my garage is EMPTY. Who let the car out? Why, Mike did!!! The Ghia is at the body shop and we should be getting an estimate this week. I'm scared and hopeful and nervous. BUT, I've had two Very Good fortunes in the last two weeks plus, I've picked up several lucky pennies, and I have a good feeling.
squirrella: (commute)
Phone calls that start out with "I'm okay, but..." are never good.

Mike was in a bike accident. His one bike, the only bike he had left, is probably trashed. I'm nearing the end of my tolerance for all this fan-shitting.
squirrella: (car lust)
Tomorrow's going to be one hella-busy Saturday, and really, I need a Saturday where I can sleep in a little, or at least not have to be shitted, showered, and shaved before 8am.

All Saturday morning, the following is happening: Mom's coming up to visit/help with some things that are in need of getting done, the plastererererer guy is coming to put on another coat of plaster (this'll be the fourth or fifth coat; he should be painting by next week!), a towing company should be coming to pick up the Subaru and whisk it away to Donation Heaven (more on that later, perhaps), our new refrigerator should be delivered and our old moldy one hauled away. Hopefully, the dryer repairman will FINALLY show up and replace the *other* coil so that we can once again have a dryer that works. Without a car, I won't be able to run 6 loads of laundry down to the laundromat and back. At least, I won't be able to do that and keep the task under 2 hours.

My plans for Sunday are still up in the air, and at this point, I'd just as soon not do anything. It's been an unbelievably difficult month for us...
squirrella: (Default)
On the way up, a man in his mid-30s passes us on the right. He's full-leather motorcycling it, his HD Sportster crammed between his thighs. He gives us a look to the left, a look that is leering and ogling, a look that says, "Helllllloooooo Ladies". My mom, punchy since we're nearly HALF WAY THERE, looks back at the man and says, "Oh, baby. Wait, too young... Do you have a father?" Laughter ensues as the heathen takes the exit and rides off into the distance.

Later, we talk about the movers. At this point, on Friday early afternoon, the movers are still god-like for us. They moved Amy's shit! At least, to their truck. But, none of the movers were native-speaking Americans. I imagined the ethnicity of each: one was Croatian (he had the Luka look), one was of Iranian descent, and the leader of the pack was Armenian. The Armenian had the thickest accent, and as pack-leader, did the most talking. He spoke in odd sentences, leaving out articles, nouns, and verbs at whim. Pointing to the TV, he asked, "You take in car? We load, no?" Pointing to the stack of boxes in one corner, "Need tape? Have tape! We tape!" It was Maisy meets Dr. Suess: simple, yet everything sounded so complicated. After our near-rendezvous with the motorcycle man, "Do you have a father?" became our answer to any and everything. In a stroke of genius, I proposed that once we got to Amy's place, we drink drink drink, and as the moving men move her in, we, in our drunken state, would say to the Armenian, "Do you have tape? Do you have father?" It was so ridiculously stupid, and yet it had us laughing the entire weekend. And, for the record, our fantasies were not to be realized: the Armenian got off the moving caravan somewhere in Bayonne, NJ, leaving us girls with the slim, silent Croatian and a strange Buckwheat-lookalike man.

What would a road trip be without a sprinkling or so of road construction? We saw one of these things on the side of the road and my mother made the universal sign for penis-in-vagina and said, "That thing's going to have sex with the ground!"

Another construction zone, this one guarded by a patrol car. As the patrol car was backing up along the left shoulder, my mom yelled out to him, "You need a back-up booper beeper!" No sooner had she said that (windows up, thankfully) then the next construction vehicle started backing up, complete with it's "Beee-oop, beee-oop, beee-oop"-ing. When I looked at her in disbelief, she said, "YOU KNOW, the beep-up backer booper--I mean the boop-beep backer-upper--I MEAN... NEVERMIND!" Laughing, again. HA HA HA HA HA.

ETA: Some people have to pay extra for blinkers. This was something mom said SEVERAL times on the trip. Most of the time, it went like this, "Oh, blinkers were extra, weren't they, DICK BREATH." Dick breath. My mom. Breath of dick.

Also, my mom has a theory about driving and it goes like this: stay the course. Don't change lanes, unless absolutely necessary. And every time she'd jockey for position, she'd yell at herself, "STAY THE COURSE, ROBIN. STAY THE COURSE. If you'd just stay the course!" And the same would be yelled at people that tried to weve in and out of traffic, thinking a car length or two would get them to their destination faster. As we'd inch closer and then pass the fidgety car, she'd just say in that mom-voice, "People, just stay the course. It's my theory and it works!" A few times, when impatient drivers tried to finagle their way into the other lanes in an effort to pass everyone that was stuck in traffic because OBVIOUSLY we all had a mental problem if we were just going to sit there when there was CLEARLY squeezing room, she said, "Blinkers an add-on option you couldn't afford on the Lexus, sweetie? STAY THE FUCKING COURSE, DICK BREATH!"

My mom and I together are never in dry pants for long.


squirrella: (Default)

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