The Powers of Sex

Jeni tries to work a deal, and it goes it a little something like this:

Me: "Hey, you're going to have to buy one of those phones with the camera, or I won't have anyone to trade pictures with."

R: "No, I'm not getting one those phones."

Me: "But, if you did, we could have wireless internet phone sex."

R: "Wow! That's like the closest you've ever come to putting out. You do know how get me...for you, maybe."


Can you hang?

They say life is a series of experiences. Okay, I don't really know what they say about life or who "they" are; however [raising a finger to proclaim], I do know that there are few moments or experiences you only get once in a lifetime. (And I'm sure you know where this is leading.) Today--technically yesterday by the time I finish this post--for me, was one of those days.

Though the background isn't so important to my day, I will expound on it briefly because my brain and memory deteriorate on a daily basis. (It's always nice to remind yourself of your constant decline or downward spiral as my boss calls it.) Yesterday, as I was going through my morning ritual to be presentable for the day, I correctly identified a snippet of a song played backwards on the radio. My prize was to get to fly in the Red Baron biplane. And when I say Red Baron, I'm sure you ask, "As in pizza?" and the answer to that question would be, "Yes, as in the pizza." There is an airshow planned for the weekend here at our airforce base. So, in preparation for the show and good advertising, Red Baron is a sponsor for the show and came up with the great mini trip.

So, I was stoked. I mean, a chance to fly is always great for me. I immediately looked up the capabilities of a biplane. I wanted to ensure I could loopty-loop (isn't that the technical term for it) and perform all sorts of equilibrium-spinning stunts. What chick wouldn't?

Fast forward to today. I'm at the airforce base. I spy two little red biplanes. Please keep in mind, I grew up with a father who flies for a living, and oddly enough, I work in the aviaiton business. It should also be said, I'm a little bit of a grease monkey, but in a very "I have manicured nails" kind of way. I want to paint the picture accurately. So, I slap my hair up in a ponytail fully prepared to revisit the butterscotch shake, McDonald's cheeseburger, and few Pringles I inhaled about two hours prior. My tummy is feeling a little anxious. There's some pressure for it--my tummy, to stomach this ride (pun completely intended).

The morning DJ is joining me on this once-in-a-lifetime experience. Isn't it queer how listening to someone every morning & then meeting them is always awkward? Okay, maybe that one is just me. Anyway, I've seen the boy around town. He has a form of a mullet. He's a little pudgey but in a cute way, and I love to hear him laugh on the radio. It always makes me smile. Well, as the pilot is telling me how to step in the plane, I glance over at the DJ who seems to be way ahead of me. He has removed his baseball cap, which caused me to do a double-take. The man is nearly bald! How on earth does he sport a mullet? I was so distracted, I couldn't pay attention to what the pilot was saying. I was then even more alarmed watching the DJ put on a little cap with goggles. My worst fear was coming true. Let it be noted that I'm not a fan of "public" equipment. Unless unsaid item has emerged from fresh packaging, I will probably grimace.

So, back to the pilot. He tells be how to climb into the aircraft. I'm only allowed to climb the wing in a specified area that has tracking on it. Picture black sandpaper or roof shingles. I'm certain I gave him a splendid view of my ass on the way up. I wedge myself into the cockpit. He proceeds to strap on a parachute, a harness, and the dreaded cap, goggles, and headset. At this point, I'm thinking my second round of perfume and body splash were a great idea. He and I are very acquainted as he buckles straps betwixt my thighs and breasts. I'm certain most men envy his job right about now. So, all I'm missing is the scarf that the Red Baron pizza guy & Amelia Earhart have made so famous. He then runs down the "Bail out! Bail out! Bail out!" protocol should we run into trouble. Keep in mind, he must utter "Bail out!" three times before action takes place. He directs me that I'm not supposed to jump out the plane or do anything until he does. Always good to know. He tells me where to hang on inside the cockpit and what not to touch. Lucky for me, I've flown a Cessna once in my life. I'm vaguely familiar with what operates what.

So we taxi out. I can't see anything in front of me besides the inside of the cockpit. I take notes. I'm in a 1941 Boeing aircraft. My Pratt & Whitney engines have 450 horsepower. We're cleared for 14,000 feet without oxygen masks. Our cruising speed is 140 mph, and we can max at 186 mph. I have my specs down, though I never spied our N-number. Before we even get off the ground, the pilot has managed to make me a little more queasy. Instead of driving in a relatively straight line, we're swiving back and forth. I'm recalling driving the Cessna with the two rutter pedals on the floor. I'm remembering what a pain in the ass it was to drive straight. My father definitely made that look easier than it was. I managed to make all the other passengers pretty sick when I attempted to control anything inside the aircraft. So, I'm wondering if this is the appropriate way to taxi...with an experienced pilot. I'm definitely ready for takeoff.

Flash past about ten minutes. I'm still excited to be in the air, but thinking to myself I'm not getting to loopty-loop. Even though I was promised, I thought that I perhaps missed the sarcasm in the answer. Right then, my pilot inquires if I'm ready to do some loopty-loops. I say, "Bring it on." He tells me we will first try a loop, I believe he called it. He tells me to look to my left at the ground. Puzzled, I ignore him thinking I'm experienced roller-coaster-rider. I remember injuring my neck by looking down at those fearful moments. My wise father told me to look up, which definitely takes the pressure off the neck and also seems to slow down the movement. After a small dive, we do a gradual loop similar to the roller coaster. He then inquires if I'd like to do a barrel roll. I'm picturing Top Gun action where the aircraft spirals away from live fire by enemy aircraft. I ask if we are doing one roll or a series. (My tummy needs to be privy.) He says just one, and instructs me to look to my left. It's not bad. I think I attempted to take a picture at this point. Please keep in mind I can hardly move due to all the strappings and the G-force. I probably got pictures of the cockpit rather than the ground. Our next stunt is called a hammer head, I believe. Later, I was informed there is an engine stalling involved. That much, I did not notice. I'm not sure what it was, but it went sideways and upside down. It's a little rougher, but my tummy didn't speak up, so I'm okay. I send in another request for the loop. (I'd neglected to fire a shot with the camera the first time.) Feeling greedy, I ask if we can barrel roll quicker thinking the plane may not be able to, or perhaps, he was taking it easy for me. He says we can indeed go faster, asking if I'd like to do so. I say sure, let's go a little faster. We glide through it perfectly, and I let out an excited scream, which I might have been doing all along. I'm really feeling it now. He says, "Hey want to try a snap roll?" So, I'm like "Yeah! What is it?" (Dummy! Greed is a deadly sin for a reason, but I figure, once-in-a-lifetime, and I need to make papa proud.) So, we roll to the right this time. And suddenly, my tummy starts talking--loudly. After each manuever, the pilot's been asking how I am. So far, I've had nothing to offer but a bunch of cool's in my girly, high-pitched excitement. He inquires this time. "Um, yeah, I think that did me in." He's immediately apologetic, telling me to keep my eyes on the horizon. I'm starting to look in the cockpit for a place to toss my butterscotch and Pringles. My choices are limited. I have my lap, my lap, or my lap. Leaning outside the aircraft isn't really an option. Between the angle I'm sitting at and the harness holding me in, I realize I'm doomed.

Side bar: I have severe flashbacks of the vicious spider ride at the Mid-South Fair when I was in 5th grade. I had downed a coke because I was dying of thirst. My sister and I hopped on the ride. After a few seconds, I was PLEADING for the evil fair workers to stop the ride because my coke was resurfacing. I gave up, and lauched spew all down my outfit as my sister shrieks. The ride didn't end early, though my day did. They hosed out our bucket, and said "Neeeext." My fair experience ended with my father carrying me back to the car. My sister is still a little bitter.

Now, I'm concentrating on not getting sick. It's strange that when you plead with your body that everything is okay, it constantly sends you messages that everything is most certainly not okay. The organs in my body are having an all out war. I'm hoping to give credence to the cliche mind over matter. At this point, it's not looking good, but we are heading to the runway now.

Finally, I'm back on the ground. As a non-sweater, I'm soaked in sweat. I'm a little shakey, but otherwise happy. My tummy is still thinking we're doing some snap rolls, but other than that, I have survived. My pilot gives me a hug, probably because I made it without puking on him. So, the whole car ride home, I'm hunched over still thinking my tummy wants revenge. I have this very nostalgic stinch as well. I immediately recognize the scent of my father returning from work in his flight suit. My mother tells me it's "jet fuel." I return to the house with my father eagerly saying "So, how did it go?" then realizing I'm still a little white errr green. I had to take a nap to rid myself of the need to purge all my insides.

When I came back downstairs, my dad wanted the full story. He looked pretty excited for me. I told him about all the acrobatics we did and the final roll that led to my demise. He laughed at me, but assured me that was a hard one to get used to. I was disappointed I got so sick so quickly. I asked him if this is something hard to conquer. He said that when he flew in the marine corps, it's easier if you're the one controlling the aircraft--that I might not have gotten sick if I would have rolled the plane. I'm really still wondering how fighter pilots manage to spin the aircraft. He said most of the Top Gun I was imagining wasn't quite like that. (Damn Hollywood.) He seems proud of me regardless.

I might be adding some pictures from today. I shall see if anything came of all the loopty-loops and rolls. It's probably just blurs of the cockpit and greens if I managed to get the lens focused remotely in the right direction. When it's all said and done, I'm glad I got the opportunity, and I will try not to beat myself up too bad for getting so woozy. I can kick most chicks' ass.


Cousin Heather

The world is too, too small.

My mentor introduced me to another's weblog. And holy schlarb, she's from my high school! Though she was a senior when I was a freshman, I'm still amazed. We're practically family.


That picture was taken by Heather, which is kind of obvious from the camera reflection, and I just kind of borrowed it from her website, which may result in some hate mail, but hopefully not.
Love in Vegas

I got a phone call last night from a very dear friend. Oddly enough, we went to high school together, but never actually "met" until some years down the road. He's a very bright, gifted, and admirable friend. The guy who I'd never imagine settling down has finally cooled his engines with a great girl...in sin city, also known as Las Vegas. I'm envious of his happiness but in a good way. He's managed to extract what he wants from life, and that is certainly a precious gift.

We met tonight for dinner with another couple, one of which also attended high school with me. I miss so many people from those days. And the few people I get the chance to catch up with are always more endearing than I ever remembered. I hope I'm unexpectedly better than others remember. I think that would be a good thing.

I'm up past my bed time, but it was most definitely worth it.

A side note. My mother left the paper out for me. It seems Pringles potato chips are suffering a shortage due to the tornadoes hitting their only plant in Jackson, TN. I think I just found another reason to love my own state. I, probably the best (note I didn't say biggest) supporter of Pringles Light ever, am wishing the plant a very speedy recovery. If Pringles continually experience a shortage, I will most certainly drop a few pounds. In my world, Pringles are a staple product--up there with toilet paper and soap, only a bit more edible, of course. So, if you see a girl lugging about ten of the silver cans to her car and you're wondering why, you'll know two things. First, you'll know it's me, and secondly, you'll know that I finally have a good excuse to be buying such a large quantity.

One more note, and then I'm done. I think someone gave my cat speed while I was out.


Envy with Inspiration

I've been giving it some thought. The "it" of course being designing my own web page. I'm tired of saying I want one and being frustrated at myself for not making it happen. I want a good one too. I won't settle for some text boxes with a few pictures, which will probably be my downfall. I don't really like to learn things one step at a time. I jump in wanting the end result on the first day. I have a feeling this drive will deplete my next couple of paychecks with a new need for some fancy software. It's just a hunch.

I hope this turns out to be one of those things I was falsely intimidated by. I'm trying out the power of positive thinking. It's never really been me. I'm the "realist." So, add it to the list.

[Crossing all my body parts for good luck 'til I look like a twisty pretzel.]


The Ring

I am forlorn, deeply so. I hate that I judge other people on what they do and do not deserve, secretly cursing their excitement all because I don't have it for myself. It makes me feel like a bad person. Jealousy has never been a welcomed feeling in my cosmos. This week has been a let down in many ways. I'm trying to conjure up the happiness of getting a nearly free pair of shoes from Banana (though they are killing my feet) and finding an extra $25 bucks from being way too organized, but monetary gain is dulling, and reflection isn't my strong suit. I should be, no, I need to be capable of happiness for others. I think my emotive self was never properly nutured as a child, and as a result, may not exist. Let's face it. I'm not your bubbly personality girl. Neglected nuturing is really a cop-out. I have probably always lacked empathy, or maybe it was eroded with all my feelings one punch at a time. I kind of left the ring black and blue. One more punch doesn't mean much to an experienced fighter. You get used to it. You keep your muscles flexed, and you cower closer to the ground. You watch your back a little more. When you finally catch another hook, you realize you've felt it before, and the stun has been dulled. I feel like I'm sitting on my ass in the corner of the ring. I'm jealous of those who eagerly want to be in the ring fighting. They end up leaving without one glove colliding into their body, and then they murmur about and scrutinize the game, leaving me envious and full of disdain. You see why I have problems with empathy.


Red Flagged

So, I just returned from an unexpected evening. A good friend of mine has been taking dance lessons (the ballroom type) for his grandmother, which is actually pretty noble. He invited me along to see him in action. Keep in mind this is where he was dubbed "swivel hips." I couldn't pass up such an opportunity. He warned me that there would be a sales pitch; however, he failed to paint the picture accurately. I was accosted, ever so jubilantly, and asked to dance. I tried to be polite with many no thank you's, which eventually turned into what kind of girl I was for not wanting to dance. I kept picturing myself on the dance floor colliding with other dancers. I then winced at the thought of smashing some poor guy's toes with my Asian wedge sandals. Every scenario in my head ended with someone getting an injury. They had a showcase of "exhibitionists" who would dance for everyone. At one point, the woman did a kick. I again pictured myself knocking off someone's head. I was later handed a bright orange sticker baring block letters "G-u-e-s-t." I asked if I had been red flagged. They laughed and assured me that wasn't the case. Though I wasn't the only guest, I was the only one with a bright sticker on my chest. And it should also be noted that I was the only one not willing to whirl around the dance floor. Think they lied to me? Maybe they were trying to spare my feelings. I'm certain after that point I wasn't asked to dance anymore. The guys would just walk by me with feigned rejection. One girl mentioned how pitiful one of the guys looked. I agreed, but it said it looked a bit rehearsed. He furrowed at me and then quickly dispersed.

On a more historical note, I spied the lunar eclipse.



I have purported to hate reading, but alas, I have a new book under my nose. It's raising all sorts of questions about me. I can tell. Not only am I reading, but the subject is probably a little taboo, at least to be so proudly sporting it in my arms. The first day I brought it with me to work, I kept looking at the passenger seat in my car with anticipation. I finally gave into the whim like a kid goes for candy. It actually made my drive to work less anxious--anxious in the sense that I have to book it (no pun intended) because I'm late. There was a guy blantantly checking me out, and though normally I would have returned the favor, the book was distracting me. I tried to just read the back, but I quickly started scanning the jacket cover, which led to the introduction of the book. It felt like cheating. It really did, and there was a large part of me that was worried someone would glance over at a stoplight and see the cover featuring a cadaver's feet with a toe tag, perhaps passing judgment on me. It might have been more alarming due to the huge smile across my face.

My book is about the life of cadavers. I spied an excerpt on a website that I often read. They featured a chapter about the body farm, which is actually here in Tennessee. The body farm is a place where researchers study the decay of human composition and metabolic changes with numerous variables (e.g., weather, clothing, etc.). My co-workers and I have had lengthy discussions about the farm, so I was naturally curious. The author writes this book with such wit that it removes the macabre feeling associated with death. In fact, when I had my friends over for dinner, I made one of them read a chapter aloud. I sat on the couch giddy as a school girl barely able to contain my excitement. I kept saying "Oh, a good, funny part is coming up! Listen!" They laughed with me and partly at me.

I've learned some very interesting things. For example, if you're in a plane crash and happen to be over water, you want to go feet first. As for the rest of the tips, I'm keeping those to myself. I would hate to know I gave up my life because some stranger read my journal and muscled me to safety. In these types of situations, it's every man, or woman in this case, for himself.


Call Me Martha

I've had a long day, and though most of it I dreaded, its passing was quite good. I got a few extra hours at work, which means a few extra dollars to my nest egg. I even made dinner for two friends, which says a lot because my culinary talents are limited (probably because my tastes are too). The company was good, and the laughter was frequent.


John Boy II

*My high school hottie has returned. I sometimes wish I could read thoughts because I would certainly love to read his. I proped our door open the other day to (hopefully) expel some of the chilly air that seems to flood our department from the adjacent office. As I was coming back from an errand, I saw him run SMACK into the door. He paused and gave the door a funny once over and peered into the office, looking for me, I believe. For some reason, I didn't bust out laughing, but he quickly realized that I saw him. He asked me why we left the door proped open. Out of breath from carrying up food & climbing stairs in high heels, I explained that when the two departments were redone, the air conditioning from one side still dumps to our department, so much so, that our air conditioning doesn't typically run.

I proped the door open again today. Though I have a heating pad on my lap with a wool jacket in the middle of summer, I'm still numb. I've had my nose buried in a book all day, and I heard what sounded like the smack of a hand (with a ring) on our door. I peered up to see him smiling at me. He has a boyish charm about him. He wants to do things that make you smile. He was very much like that in high school. Though most of his antics were incredibly immature, I think he just wanted the attention. He borders on being the so-good-looking-you-can't-look-him-in-the-eye type. And speaking of eyes, he has those crystal blue eyes that seem glassy or Siberian. I think it's been awhile since any boy tried to make me laugh. I like him more than I did in high school, even if he competes for some attention.

*Please note he doesn't actually belong to me and never did.


There Goes Twenty-Four

Yesterday proved to be a good day to turn 25. Despite some of Memphis' best humidity, the rain didn't disrupt my special day, and it only slightly added some natural waive to my flat-ironed hair. I received a fabulous Miss Muff'n cake, calla lillies, and a Grisanti's dinner. (I'm trying not be bitter that my mother's presence was sorely missed.) My father treated me, my sis, and her husband. It was probably one of the nicest times we've ever had. I received complimentary tiramisu from the chef with a glowing birthday candle. I tried to reflect if that had ever happened to me before, and I don't think it had.

On the drive home, my father and I were talking about how I was as a child. He said I kept to myself a lot and often hummed. Sometimes, I would try to keep up with my sister, but for the most part, I was in my "own world." Things had to be my idea. He said you could ask me for a kiss and I'd reply "No." If you persisted, I'd say, "I'll have to make some." Then he said I wouldn't make them, or I'd wait. Strangely, I can actually remember opening my mouth wide and using my finger to stir up a batch of those kisses.

My grandmother sent me a card with two pictures enclosed. I think I'm about three or four in both photos. One displays me polishing off a bowl of ice-cream with my grandfather--one of his best-known pastimes, and the other shows me sporting my Dorothy Hamill haircut. I'm still jealous that my locks used to be naturally straight and high-lighted.

By the way, I'm still sore from bowling. Is this just part of the maturing process?


So Much for Winning

My friends took me out tonight, and it was absolutely fabulous. They all suffered through a round of glow-in-dark putt-putt and cosmic bowling to celebrate my birthday. Apparently, they truly love me, for those kinds of events are only fun when you gather a group. So, someone was actually listening to all my whinning of "let's do ----" sometime. That makes me happy. I managed to pick up the dinner tab, which pleased me. I was glad they all made it out to see me. It's rare when all your loved ones can get together these days.

I did try to explain the rules for the game playing. It is important that the birthday girl wins, and it's also important that you don't demonstrate you are letting her win. The second rule was never applied due to the first not being followed. We only kept score bowling. I managed to finish my first game with a 99, and both the boys beat me by 20; however, EVERYONE beat me on the second game. I was injured by my second turn. I managed to break my thumb nail at least five times. I'm now left with a nub, which is rather sore. And to think I administered a manicure before the big event.

I'm now the proud owner of a guitar stand & The Godfather boxed set. So, hows about that....



Please note my fidgety feeling is rapidly fading into sleep deprivation.

Sometimes doing your job well is rewarded in ways besides monetary compensation. I figured out how to save a customer several hundred dollars. Much to my chagrin, he has been extremely thankful and continues to say things that put these hairline fractures in my icy heart. Our e-mails have been been mostly platonic, with occasional good wit interspersed. He attached a tender note to one of his payments with the words "Thanks so much...I owe you something." Little does he know, his benign words have been plenty rewarding.

When people do a good job, you should tell them so.
All that I Believe

I feel very fidgety today. I can't really get to the "why" of how I feel. I usually have things to do or places to go, but right now I have nothing hanging over my head. I think that just leaves me restless and wondering about what it is that I've forgotten. And strangely, for the past two days, I've been wanting to give love. There are few times when I miss having a boyfriend. I think relationships typically knot my stomach up...in a not so good way. So, again, it's rare that I even miss the physicalities. I used to think of myself as a loving person, but as time wears on me, I feel like that aspect of me has been chiseled away. That's probably a sad thing to say, really, and it definitely flies in the face of those that say people don't change. I'm living proof that you do, even when you may not necessarily seek the mutation.

Life happens around every moment of every day, and sometimes experiences shake your beliefs in people, the world, and yourself. Foundations can crumble, and you find yourself starting all over again. You realize you're never as sure-footed as what you thought, and that's okay. You may have fallen on your ass, but once you realize everyone has or will at some point, you find your foundation again. The good thing about life is that it's all that you believe it to be. Nothing less and nothing more.