Saturday, April 29, 2006

travis afb omfs

the other day i made a delivery to the firehouse on mcchord, and something about the way the chief let everyone know that there was pizza, and others pitching in to help pay for it reminded me vividly of dr berry walking up to the front desk, slapping down about 50 dollars, and saying, "the doctors want to get the techs pizza and sodas for lunch today."

travis afb, 1994. my "career" in the air force was on the skids because i had chewed out a captain within earshot of both our supervisors, coworkers, and patients. hey, she had it coming. she was a real twat. still, i should've found a better way.

anyways, i was in desperate need of new start. one of my friends had moved to oral maxillo facial surgery, and loved the job, and thought if they could get me up there, it might be just what i was looking for.

omfs was seperate from the main dental clinic, and was treated like the bastard stepchild of the 60th dental squadron. the workers actually embraced their cast-off feel, and were a tight-knit crew. right up my alley.

every day was a near-battle between life and death. that seems melodramatic, but it was true. we were no longer talking a silver filling. we were talking patients who could pass out, quit breathing, and die. we had to be johnny-on-the-spot. we were experts in our field, and the doctors talked to us as equals. we knew our shit, and it was alot of shit to know. i assisted tooth extractions, nose jobs, chin jobs, scrubbed into the or, spent all day on my feet. every single patient was a different story, and the day never got boring.

we were a team. we didn't all necessarily get along. we didn't hang out after work. but once we stepped into those linoleum hallways, we were thick as theives. i knew that if i yelled out "i need a runner now!" someone who wasn't busy was going to appear at my doorway within seconds. we made sure everyone got lunches, got out when they needed to, and were taken care of.

we worked hard, and we played hard. i remember tossing a plastic lid from a yogurt cup up and down the hall like a frisbee. rousing games of spoons in the break room at lunch. someone always seemed to end up on the floor trying to get the last spoon. getting a hot female patient and discreetly flagging down the other male techs to pass by the room or "pop in for a spare pair of east/wests". slinging mud in the stone room on wednesday mornings with nirvana or the beastie boys thumping out of the ratty stereo that i still have and that still works.

a year-and-half of being the best. of being part of a well-oiled team that i could count on, and who could count on me. of feeling like what i did was noticed and appreciated. the memory of dr berry's pizza and soda lunch was not an isolated incident, it happened at least once a month as the doctors' way of saying thank you for all we did.

after that, i pcs'ed to eielson afb, alaska, and still had that team mentality. unfortunately, no one else did, and i got out of the military four years later.

but this one goes out to those everywhere who do what they do, and love doing it, and do it well, and keep the faith, and don't get the recognition they should.

darth sardonic

Friday, April 28, 2006

more about demon-lady

so, naturally, demon-lady was the topic of discussion at work yesterday. and not just because she had lost it so bad in front of so many people, but because she was supposed to work last night.

of course, she didn't. she called off. she said it was because her pants still weren't clean yet.

now, here's the thing. when i got this job, i ran out and bought a couple pairs of khaki pants so i would have a few. i've added a few to my collection since. even if i only had one pair, if it was the source of so much aggravation that i had completely lost it at work over a fucking stain (and let me add in here that february was a horrible month, my stepfather died, and so much other stuff was going on, and i thought my life might be falling apart, and there were nights where every moment i was in my car was spent in tears, but i never cried in front of any of my coworkers), i would go straight home and start washing them immediately.

she had that evening (they sent her home at like 8) and the entire next fucking day to either get more pants or wash the ones she had, and she didn't. now, i imagine she had to wash the stink of brimstone off of herself as well, but still. she just called in instead and said her pants still weren't clean.

her fucking pants still weren't fucking clean! jesus h fucking christ! what kinda fucking dipshit excuse is that?!? i would've loved to call up yesterday (it was an absolutely gorgeous day) and say, "yeah, i'm not gonna be in, cause my pants aren't clean." what the fuck!

then the rest of us got skullfucked because she wasn't there, and it got insanely busy, and i ended up being there late, all as a result of the crazy demon-lady.

i'm betting she quits today. gotta bulk up the tattoo fund.

darth sardonic

Thursday, April 27, 2006

it was only a matter of time...

the food industry, and, it seems to me, the creation, cooking, and transportation of round breadstuffs covered in tomato sauce and sundry toppings and the cast-offs of cow baby food, seems to attract a certain element of insanity.

there are different levels of this insanity (and yes, c, i know you are cracking up right now). for example, there are the overall nice guys like myself, who are good workers, though maybe a bit off-center. then you have the people who are insane because they have done this job for so long now that they know nothing else and making the numbers look good in the computer is their sole reason for existing.

then, occasionally, you have one walk through the door that you peg right off as the kind to not sell automatic weapons to. the kind that you should never allow to slice green peppers or anything else that involves sharp objects. the kind that is a ticking bomb.

we hired one of these kind about a month ago. i tagged her right off as not being right. this one is gonna snap.

now, i wish i had started an office pool for when the snapping was going to occur, because i would've given her a month, and i would've been pretty fucking close to dead on. could've bulked up my tattoo fund beautifully.

the back story: while i was off delivering pizzas, apparently they asked her to get sauce. the sauce was spilt, getting quite a bit on her shoes, and some on the cuffs of her pants. not hugely noticeable. apparently, according to eyewitness accounts, she came to our manager in tears and said she couldn't work like that. (like fucking what?!? i think, since we are all coated in a thin layer of something at any given moment.)

the manager calmed her down, and routed her on some pizzas. an easy delivery. i come back from my runs, get routed on some more, and while i'm gathering up my pies, she comes in, red-cheeked, wild-eyed.

the manager asks her what's wrong, and she says she couldn't find the address. the manager says, "darth's here, he can show you where it is."

and, o beloved non-existant reader, said driver's head splits down the middle, and a giant onyx-black dragon comes out and she bursts into flame. or at least that was what it felt like happened as i pondered it later.

cause she went from slightly off delivery driver to linda blair, is-thy-name-legion?, i need an old priest and a young priest in the snap of fingers. "i can't go out like THISSSS!" (and i didn't know the back story, so i was standing there, eyebrow on full tilt, wondering wtf she was talking about. i decided she meant with skin on and not burning with an unholy yellow flame)

the manager yells back, and her voice reaches some level only dogs can hear. and of course, my droogs and only friends, i'm finishing the bagging of my runs and getting the sweet cherry fuckstain outta there, cause i will be frigged with a bargepole before i'm gonna help lucifer find some fucking address.

when i come back, she is gone, though the hint of sulfur still hangs in the air. the manager says he thought about giving her the whole week off. which proves he's insane cause i would've had some holy man in there casting her out and telling her never to return.

my only question was, "did someone start a pool for when she was gonna lose it?"

darth sardonic

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

zuzu's petals

i sure hope silly voices, crazy dances, and overall goofiness counts for alot with my kids in the long run. i think it might, which makes me think maybe there is hope for me as a dad after all.

just typing that simple, stupid line has gotten me a little choked up. have i always been this easily influenced emotionally? let's see, charlotte's web made me cry. every year. three times, once when charlotte dies, once when the baby spiders leave, and once when the smallest baby spiders stay behind with wilbur. yep, guess i have always been an emotional wreck.

a word on pizzas: or shall i call this the world of pizzas according to darth? six of one, i guess. anyways, the outfit for which i work offers a line of "pizzas" with spinach alfredo sauce instead of the normal marinara. that is not a pizza. adding chicken and tomatoes to it only enhances the travesty. you really wanna fuck the whole thing up, i'll take the finished pizza out to the parking lot and back my car over it. it honestly couldn't get much worse. a salad is a salad. a pizza is a pizza. ne'er the twain shall meet.

and if you're calling a pizza place and thinking, "you know what would really hit the spot right now? some spinach alfredo." get up off your ass and drag yourself to olive garden, for fuck's sake.

and we also have an option for no cheese. no cheese. that's right, no fucking cheese!! if you ask for a no-cheese pizza, the option should automatically kick up a note so that the burliest delivery driver brings you your pizza and a wallop to the head. order fucking breadsticks. then buy olives or whatever dumb topping you want, add it to the breadsticks, and the breadsticks come with marinara dipping sauce. jesus christ. and it's cheaper to do it that way.

and yes, i have delivered a small one-topping pizza to someone living three blocks from the store. yes, they did tip me. well, as a matter of fact. just further proof we'll take convenience over any thing else any day.

i have also delivered pizzas to hookers and their johns. but that is probably a story for another day, beloved reader.

the car that i drive when delivering has been in the shop for a few days. i never realized how much i love driving a stick until i drove the other car for a few. nothing like zipping through the gears, feeling that instant response. also makes me feel more connected to the car, the road. more alert. yep, i love a clutch. not that you cared. but it makes me wonder about these kids these days who all learn on automatics. do they know what they are missing?

in a related story, my tattoo fund is again depleted. anyone wanting to make charitable donations should make checks payable to...

ha ha ha, i fucking crack meself up.

ty for sticking through it with me.

darth sardonic

Monday, April 24, 2006

sun day

the sun was up yesterday, and it was warm, and the lawn needed mowing and the cars washing.

so i venture out, pale and shirtless to tackle the mower. a few months ago, when we were moving off base, and i desperately needed to get the lawn mowed that day to pass our inspection and get authorized, i borrowed my mom's mower (cause ours had gone tits up due to strategically-placed old cigarette butts in the gas tank--no. 1 is without a doubt an evil genius).

i spent a half-hour yanking and pulling to get that hunk of shit started. damn near pulled my arm out of socket. cried, cursed, i think i may have even kicked the thing in frustration. ended up asking the fella that was cleaning the house if he could do the yard as well, and paid him to get it done.

well, our yard is a rainforest, and desperately needs to be mowed, so i am going to need to figure out why the thing isn't working.

fires right up. first try. coughs out blue smoke for a few minutes, sputters, settles into a rythm. ready to go.

i just stare at it. in amazement at first, and then with growing, glowering disgust. "you bitch." i hiss at it. "you fucking benedict arnold." it stares back as if to say, "eh." and shrugs shoulders that don't exist, picks something from its teeth, and says, blase, "fuck off. let's do this, shall we?"

so the lawn is mowed. the rest of the clan is out washing cars. no. 1 snags the hose and attempts to water anyone that crosses his path, laughing maniacally, as if he has just brought a man made of dead parts back to life with lightning. birds chirp, the sun shines, water droplets glint like tiny bottled rainbows, we laugh.

the cars get clean, we get wet, one of the daughters of the familia latina across the street comes out to talk on the phone and ogle p. they are always ogling p. d and i agree that as long as p is around, no one is ogling us. i ogle my wife.

we spend the majority of the day in the sun, soaking it up and reveling in a cloud-free day, the most beautiful thing we could imagine after months of grey skies and drizzle.

later on, my wife and i are a little pink around the shoulders. p, who is half-mexican, is rock lobster red on all exposed skin. i can't help but ask him how the fuck he ended up so baked, since he is half-mexican. he just laughs and admits that he doesn't know.

we jam, i toss my bass on the floor and stomp on it (a little annoyed with how work went) and break a couple of keepers on the knobs. luckily, i have replacements. my wife accuses me of trying to break my bass so i can get a new one. i tell her, had i wanted to break it, it would be in pieces right now. (i usually toss my bass so it lands flat out, with minimal damage to sensitive parts. in this case, i think the stomping was the culprit for the broken keepers. our band room is carpet laid over cement, as opposed to your usual wood/pad/thick carpet combo, so that might have had alot to do with it too. not that you care.) we jam some more, duly impressing the little mina that has come over to hang out, and spends the entire half-hour jam watching p and little else.

in the end, a fun time was had by all.

darth sardonic

Friday, April 21, 2006

a word on that "special thing"

soon, dear and beloved non-existant readers, i hope to download some clips of the new anti-zen lineup doing what we do best to this wasted little desert corner of cyberspace.

i would've already, cept i am certainly not the technically savvy member of this operation.

but we have a new drummer: give a hearty non-existant reader welcome to d, the newest addition to the anti-zen fold, and the replacement of the asshole drummer who shall heretofore remain nameless.

p and i have long cottoned to the fact that he and i have that "special thing" that allows us to play together and read off of each other, and, quite often, improv sensational bits of musical anarchy for others' amazement and enjoyment. the asshole nameless drummer did not have that.

d does. oh my sweet jesus on a bicycle backwards on sunday through redlights, my droogs and only friends, does he ever.

we were practicing last night. at some point just past the moment where i had completely destroyed my hands, forearms, shoulders, and knees (on certain songs, i do a crapload of jumping), and just before my brain became aware of this fact, i launched into the bassline of ministry's so what. (now, of course you know, if my brain had clued into the fact that my body was turning to jello around it, i wouldn't have launched into an eleven-minute, angry, bass-driven song, but hey!)

p has heard the song once, and did a fair bit of coming up with suitable guitar to follow along. d made me smile by picking up the fucking exact drum line, and kicking it in like a crazy motherfucker at just the right parts.

so when my arms fell off, and the song petered out as a result, i said to d, "you know that fucking song!"

he replied, "what were we playing?"

o, yes, dear, sweet, beloved non-existant reader, we are going to do great things. and i'm completely unconceited when i say that.

darth sardonic

Thursday, April 20, 2006

more things from the dusty storage closet of my mind

when i lived on base, and also with the pizza delivery job, i drive through the gates alot. since 9/11, security has been increased, and private security has been hired to help check everyone who enters the installation.

one of these guards in particular creeps me out. lanky, porno stache, pocked face. he always seemed way too excited when i would come through the gates. when we were moving from base to the place we're in now, i made frequent trips back and forth to take loads of crap to the house while the kids were at school. so one morning, i got a later start with that. as he checked my id, he actually said, "we were wondering if you were going to be coming through this morning."

dear sweet lord. but still, i thought, it's probably just me. maybe he's just gay, and thinks i'm cute. who knows?

until me and e came through the gate with the u-haul truck. he smiled that yellowed, crooked-toothed smile at me and said he needed me to open the back. when i climbed back into the cab, e says, "that guy is kinda scary."

i said, "yeah, i thought it was me. but he definitely creeps me out. maybe he is just gay and thinks i'm cute?"

e: "no, it's more than that."

yes, exactly, dear reader. it's like he would like to see me naked. in pieces. in black plastic bags.

which brings up my next question: what's with people and a collection of stuffed animals in the back window of their car? i'm not talking about a couple, or people with kids, i'm talking middle-aged, tubby ladies. what, you may ask, the fuck does that have to do with anything? well, i'll tell you, cause that's the kinda guy i am. i bet if we did a study, we'd find that at least 80% of the people with a large collection of stuffed animals in their car have a crawlspace full of bodies. it just has to be. the two have to be connected.

and speaking of middle-aged tubby ladies, what is the deal with no. 2's teachers at school? let me draw you a picture. imagine, if you will (and if you won't, then fuck off), a disheveled, flustered father with dark circles under his eyes, and bed head. he is a tug-of-war rope between a clear-eyed, energetic four-year-old in a hurry to get to class, and a plodding, eyes-on-everything-but-the-road-in-front-of-him three-year-old. now, no. 1's teacher will take him from me, and drag him with her to get the kids off of the school bus, and he digs that. but no. 2's teacher won't even look in my direction as she heads out to gather up anklebites. so i must wait in the empty classroom with no. 2 while she gathers up the other kids. recently, she asked me if i could also pick him up from the classroom at the end of school, as it was too much work for her to bring him out 20 feet to me, apparently. come fucking on, lady, fielding these two kids is like fielding two soccer balls full of hamsters on meth. this is your damn job, i don't say, "hey, you know what, can you meet me half way to pick up your pizza? i got alot of deliveries and it would just be easier if you could meet me in the parking lot of walgreens."

i wonder if she has a collection of stuffed animals in her car?

darth sardonic

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

someday i suppose

there was a verse/that i was sposed to write/i haven't yet/but there's still a chance i might

the alarm goes off this morning, it's that fucking adam corolla show that the end (of all that is good and holy in music) has replaced the morning music and dj no name with. don't get me wrong, i like adam corolla. i just want music in the am to help me start my fucking day, not some yammering fucking idiocy.

anyways, this morning i am tired, and slow to roll over and hit the snooze, and as a result, i hear something about dicky barrett. the way they said his name, i thought he was dead.

now, you, the beloved and, most likely, ofttimes exasperated reader, have absolutely no idea just how much i love the mighty mighty bosstones, and here's a few reasons why: their music is absolutely stunningly cool, political without being over the top, friendly, funny, clever, danceable. the bosstones have 8 band members. 8. you know what one of the guy's job is in the band? dance. yeah, dance. he doesn't sing backup, he doesn't even play the fucking tambourine in even one song. you know they were like, "how do we get our pal ben in the band? he doesn't play shit." "hey, ben, could you dance for three hours nonstop? in a suit? in the heat?" they hang around after concerts at a table outside the venue that they set up themselves so that fans can get autographs and ask them questions. talk to them. they fucking hang about after the concert so fans can hang out with them. god knows how many bands they've helped to get started who have turned out to be bigger than the bosstones ever were. every interview i have ever seen with them, they strike me not only as great friends themselves, but the kind of people i could hang and have drinks with, and who might read this particular post in this dumb blog and be flattered that i am waxing lyrical over their band.

so turns out, dicky is not dead. thank god. he's actually on the show, talking in that slightly raspy voice with that haahd boston accent and just cracking my ass up. but he more or less said that the bosstones are kind of taking it down a bit. you know, that it's been like a 15-year run and that it is getting haahd to be on the road as much as they need to be to keep it going. dicky is doing great, has several jobs as voice talent for a few different shows (that i might start watching just to see the man in action, and see how much his quick wit translates over).

but it leaves me a little melancholic to think about the end of what, for me at least, can only be described as an era.

so raise your glasses, pals, and lets have a toast, "to the greatest fucking horn section" and "737 almost every day".

thanks guys.

darth sardonic

Monday, April 17, 2006


it yawns open, like a wound.

i squirm in, wormlike, bombarded by the sickly-sweet stench of death and stale earth.

across sewer pipes and sharp rocks, to the water leak that needs fixing. the dim flashlight makes this womb feel like a cave, a secret hiding hole into which i bury myself with my feelings of inadequacy and sadness.

three more trips are made before the proper tools for the job are amassed. on the 2nd trip out, i discover the recently deceased body of a mouse, who has chosen my particular path of attack as his final resting place. in the poorly-lit netherworld, i have crawled across him at least twice, and when i leave my dungeon to venture out to lowe's, i will drag with me the reek of decaying flesh and emptiness.

the job is done. my fingers are cut, my shoulders feel like spaghetti that someone has thrust a fork into and twisted tight. i am covered in dust, cobwebs, and despair.

i burst forth into the light of the sun, pink flowers, chirping birds. i almost wish to return to the crawlspace, feeling like the spring day is a lie that ignores the way i feel.

darth sardonic

Sunday, April 16, 2006

how'd you get that shiner?

so the other night i was shuttling pies around, as i am wont to do. wont is another word we should reintroduce to the vernacular, in my humble opinion.

anyways, i'm toddling along at a clean 40 mph when some dippy bastard who couldn't afford the optional blinkers on his sorry pos decides he wants to occupy the same space that i am.

i say, "oh, shit" and lean on the horn like my life depends on it (it does), but nothing happens. no sound.

fuck, i am pushing on the airbag. straight into my head pops the inner monologue with: "lucky thing you were pressing on the brakes as hard as the airbag, or you would've punched yourself in the face at 300 mph."

"holy shit, how'd you get that shiner?"

"punched meself in the face."

(though that would afford an interesting opportunity to inject a bit of the surreal in anyone that asks' life)

by the time i find the button for the horn, and press it, the guy is in my lane, in front of me, though still decidedly close to my front bumper, but i have missed my opportunity to make him shit his pants by scaring the sweet cherry fuckstain out of him.

driving pizzas around the greater lakewood area, i should be alotted hazardous duty pay. if i had an extra buck for every near-accicent i got into, i could produce porn movies. but only on the sunny, happy days, eh, kids?

darth sardonic

Saturday, April 15, 2006

bring out the dancing horses...

eat a slice of devil's food cake and a slice of angel food cake. tell me who wins.

repeat the same with a weight-gainer 2000 and a slim fast.

i like to drink several glasses of water followed by getting in the car for a long road trip and drink a liter of dr pepper while driving, preferably on a road without rest stops. then see how long i can go before i have to pull over on the side of the road.

do not float over me while i am dying in the abyss!--dane cook

i'd get these posts done faster if i didn't keep getting interrupted!

no. 1 has developed a new york accent just out of the blue. dog is dwag, cards is cwards, gone is gwone. it cracks us up, but we're not sure where it has come from.

and a very special thanks to anais nin.

if you're not at least a little confused, you should be.

darth sardonic

Friday, April 14, 2006

commit kind acts of randomness

why is it on the days when i wouldn't care, no cars come dangerously close to running me over, but on the days when i'm loving life and everything, i nearly get in three ugly accidents?

i mean, it can be raining, i could be hunched over the wheel, eyes gummy with unshed tears, fucking begging for god to bitchslap me, and not a swerving semi in sight.

but the sunny day when i sit up straight, smile, whistle the horn section to the impression that i get, and every fucker that crosses my path wants his bumper strategically placed in organs i kinda need for the quality of life to which i've grown accustomed.

and everyone wonders why i'm so wry.

i am a superhero to my kids. they think i can fix anything, that i make fish crackers magically appear with the snap of a finger, and i do the little "yay, buddy" jig when they get a gold star from school. however, any one of these things not come through, and i am a prick as fast as you can remove a pair of black, horn-rimmed glasses.

no. 2 has the coolest physical therapist. today she busted out a whoopie cushion for him to stomp on, getting him to stand on one leg while doing so. hilarity ensued. boy, does she have my kids pegged or what?

does anyone remember the star wars spoof, hardware wars? my kids have found my copy and watch it incessantly. it's only 20 minutes long. it was funny the first 8

hundred times i watched it!

the pizza place i work for has this kind of propaganda-ish thing they do. when the driver is leaving the store, he/she says, "driver out" followed by the time it took for the pizza to go from a hunger pang to out the door. everyone in the shop is supposed to call back, "buckle up and drive safe" i guess the idea is that if i hear this five thousand times in three hours, it will somehow come true. some of my responses have been:

yeah, if a car doesn't mow me down in the parking lot.

geez, i never thought you guys cared.

they love me, they really love me!

no way, fast, crazy, and unbuckled for me!

if you guys insist, followed by heavy sigh.

the word you're searching for, o my droogies, is anyWAAAAAYZ.

darth sardonic

Thursday, April 13, 2006

friends come and go...

our friend e is leaving for florida today. this is a job hazard of being in the military, people move in and out all the time.

most of the time, it doesn't matter. most of the time i could care less.

but e is one of those rare friends who is a real friend. who appreciates the things that one does for him, and goes out of his way to pay them back.

so there we are, in different states of dress this morning, hugs good bye and all that. and no matter how much time i spend in a military lifestyle, there are those occasional friends that are hard to see go.

on top of that, i am tired (which is, i should add, my own fucking fault, and no, i am most definitely not complaining). so i am on the verge of tears this morning, o beloved nonexistant reader. why fight it, right? so i pop leuko in the stereo, and play velocity, and when the song kicks in in that special way that it does, my droogs and only friends, it's there.

that feeling of being one. one with everything. one with my wife, who's already having a crappy day. one with mother hoodlum, who's going through some shit. one with e, who gave us a grill as a way of saying thank you for all the meals. one with c, who is currently fighting her own battles as well. one with nos. 1 and 2 who are cute as fuck and who sometimes i think i don't deserve. one with everyone and everything.

and yes, i cry, but it's a good cry.

darth sardonic

Wednesday, April 12, 2006


ok, so i was just fucking around with my friend, c, lest you, the beloved nonexistant reader, think i am a rat bastard (i mean, i am a rat bastard, we all know), and she was already hip to what i was going to post, so just so's ya know.

and she's a real sweetie who's in need of a good laugh right now, so that was the point.

really, it's neither here nor there, but there you go.

darth sardonic

a special note for my friend c

c has been bugging the shite out of me to update, so here goes:

just a quick line to tell you sod off, lolol

darth sardonic

Sunday, April 09, 2006

bit player

sometimes i feel like i am a bit player in my own life, and that the role to which i've been assigned is the asshole. this usually occurs when i haven't been given the whole script, but maybe a page or two, and i am supposed to play off of others' reactions with the misinformation that i have been given.

and of course, i do something colossally stupid, but i think that what i did was justified, until suddenly i am given the entire story, at which point i feel like the meanest or dumbest shite who ever tread.

am i the only one who does this? does it fucking matter really whether i am or not?

darth sardonic

Friday, April 07, 2006

back in the land of the super mall

so the rest of the vacation to the frozen north pretty much passed without incident.

and now we're back home. i'm having a bit of the downers that seem to follow hard and fast (wow, doing a whole beevis & butt-head thing at those two words, hahaha) upon returning home from a vacation. tired, combined with the sad realization that everything is returning to "normal" and i will soon be back at work and fighting the daily with my kids.

but i did come up with a list of new names for nos. 1 and 2 that i will leave you with by way of making up for other grumpiness.

these are my kids, piss and moan.

oops, sorry, i mean, my kids, push and shove.

err, whine and cry.

haha, how silly of me, weep and wail.

i mean, knees and elbows. (this one after spending a night in the same bed with both of em)

sorry, my kids, yelling and screaming.

dammit, search and destroy.

umm, bait and switch.

that is, my kids, wear and tear.

fuck, crash and burn.

feel free to come up with your own (who am i kidding? you won't and if you do, you won't post em in the comments section. who am i kidding really? no one reads this who doesn't already live in the same house with me.)

darth sardonic

Monday, April 03, 2006

news from the cold front

live, from wasilla, alaska, between the hot water heater and the furnace:

a brief synopsis of our trip to alaska so far (and you know better, o beloved nonexistant reader, than to ask me for explanations, just make up your own):

got nipple-bit by a stripper named trouble.

drove 8 hours in a white-out in which the sky and the ground were the same color, divided by a small line of hazy bob ross trees, behind a semi truck that i knew was there but couldn't see. i knew i was on the road, but was unsure as to what part of the road exactly i was on. the word you're looking for is "unnerving".

was completely amazed at the amount of energy a three-year-old and a four-year-old can have after an 8-hour drive. the energy they had amplified by the complete exhaustion i felt after having arrived safely in fairbanks.

had forgotten what it is like to wake up to 14 degree weather. mind you, i am not talking about 5 in the morning, i am talking about 930.

a much more relaxing 6 hour trip back, with mostly sunny skies and clear roads.

the tripod still hasn't fallen through the ice yet, in case you care.

as an aside, alaska is the only place where the weather forecast made me crack up: the fact that a dj can say the following line with a straight face is beyond my ability to grasp: "with an expected low today of -55, and a high of -48." why don't they just say, "the low is going to be -48, and the lower is going to be -55"?

i'm sure that alaska will afford me more humorous anecdotes before we get home, but in the meantime, have fun, be good to each other out there, my friend j would tell you to enjoy every moment like it's your last. lucky for her she still gets a few more moments. and, man, i hate ending on a downer, but you know what, life is just like that sometimes.

darth sardonic