Monday, November 8, 2010
Monday, November 1, 2010
Adventures with the Rage Monster
Late August, I wrote a blog entitled “Meet the Rage Monster.” Today after I spent 45 minutes crying while lying in my bed in the fetal position with the covers over my head. Tempted to stay that way all day I was not sure what action to take. I opted no action. Well, not exactly…I showered, blew my hair dry and went an applied for a J-O-B. Perhaps, I need to get out of the house more often? Maybe I am hormonal? I am just happy to recognize it before I do too much damage.*
As for the Rage Monster, she has not yet subsided. I will lay low until I no longer want to destroy the person who hurt my feelings. My answer: delve into volunteering for Muskegon Civic Theatre.
* I took some initial action in the grips of my upset.
As for the Rage Monster, she has not yet subsided. I will lay low until I no longer want to destroy the person who hurt my feelings. My answer: delve into volunteering for Muskegon Civic Theatre.
* I took some initial action in the grips of my upset.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Adventures in Passport Photos
Earlier this week, I wrote of my thwarted attempts at obtaining a Michigan Drivers License with the end goal being a passport so I can participate in the Bud Light Port Paradise III in December.
My sister and I left West Michigan early Friday morning, driving to the Passport Office in downtown Detroit. Those of you not familiar with Michigan culture, we might have well been visiting another country.
Without any struggle and in awe of the congeniality of everyone we interacted with we go to Greek Town for lunch. Literally we wonder if they do drugs in the back room? We figure it must be payday and they are happy to have jobs in Detroit. My representative even told me he was going to Google me and read AD/OC.
As the waitress delivers the pizza to our table, my phone rings flashing a 313 area code. Recognizing the incoming call is from the Detroit area I answer. The male on the other end informs me that I need a different picture, as you cannot see my eyes in the one I submitted. He requests, if I am still in the Detroit area, a new photograph.
Problem: I was actually happy with my initial print. I even applied mascara, concealer and powder prior to taking said picture. These days, I am rarely bothered to wear pants with buttons let alone make-up.* As we were speaking about the problems I might encounter using said image I thought (luckily to myself) “I am going on a Booze Cruise it’s not like I am going to Yemen.” Unbeknownst to me there is some sort of Fed Ex terror threat involving said country currently occurring in the real world.
Luckily, in the main floor of the building is a shop that provides passport photos while you wait guaranteed. ** After gorging myself on Stuffed Chicago Style Pizza, we drive back to 211 West Fort Street.
As I am getting out of the car I ask Rachel how I look. Her response, “You could look worse.”
The sign on the door says, “Be Back in Five Minutes.” After waiting for ten minutes—with an expanding assortment of people—a clerk begins his shift. I pay $12.50 and return back to the second floor to deliver the new picture.
Bigger Problem: In the retake I opened my eyes really wide hence the new image could be confused for Ramona Singer’s Mug Shot. Crazy Eyes all the way. If I knew how to use Photoshop, I would have some fun with my Facebook Profile avatar.
As I hand them to the earlier clerk, he apologizes informing me that the approval for photo’s in subjective. Thankfully, I keep my smart-ass mouth in check about Yemen or terrorists.
Rachel and I are en route to the Coach Outlet in Howell when she starts to laugh and says, “You just look so insane in your picture.”
Nice. I am second guessing inviting you to join me in the Bahamas.
Coach is having a big sale and I get a purse for an additional seventy percent off the ticket price.*** Better yet, I find a purple passport case for twenty percent off; given purple is my favorite color I must have it.
As we head home, I start to laugh out loud asking Rachel, “Do you think the Coach Case will make me seem less insane in my picture.
“Probably Not.”
Fed Ex delivered the book this morning. I disagree the holder makes me look a teensy weensy bit more sane. Or maybe just less embarrassed. My likeness is contained in a purple Designer case. Whoever wants to mock me can kiss my ass.
For you enjoyment I have included both photos****. Again, please refer to the last sentence of the paragraph above….
Smooches!
*Except lipstick.
**Really not sure what the guaranteed part means but they had in italics in three different signs so it bears mentioning.
***The Dutch Girl in me delights at such bargains thus must purchase.
****They were taken less than a week apart so no I did not suddenly develop a pumpkin head in honor of Halloween.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
In my Opinion
OK, so my dad and I just watched Shit My Dad Says…he is way funnier and has agreed to let me pimp him out if I take care of him in his twilight years. Given his eating habits I am getting the better end of the deal. And given the decades of absolute embarrassment he owes me!!!
We are approaching the election so every ad—regardless of candidate or party—my dad makes fun of the media by saying things such as “Whore,” “He kills puppies,” “She should be hung,” or “they should hang that bastard.” When the good candidate appears he states, “the new hope,” or “she likes puppies.”
I just asked how to spell election and he responded, "Did you know you have a spell check in Microsoft Word?"
Followed by him asking if I was registered to vote in time for this election, I responded no and as I do not know enough about the Michigan candidates it's ok. He said, "that's easy you just vote for who I tell you to."
Um, no.
We are approaching the election so every ad—regardless of candidate or party—my dad makes fun of the media by saying things such as “Whore,” “He kills puppies,” “She should be hung,” or “they should hang that bastard.” When the good candidate appears he states, “the new hope,” or “she likes puppies.”
I just asked how to spell election and he responded, "Did you know you have a spell check in Microsoft Word?"
Followed by him asking if I was registered to vote in time for this election, I responded no and as I do not know enough about the Michigan candidates it's ok. He said, "that's easy you just vote for who I tell you to."
Um, no.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Mercury in Retrograde????
Recently, I won a booze cruise to the Bahamas.* Overall, a happy occurrence; however, a passport is required to board. On the surface that seems like an easy enough endeavor; yet, I am not certain if Mercury is Retrograde in Alyssaland but everything that can go wrong has gone wrong this far this week.
Oh did I mention I won the drawing on 10/17/10 but my guest and I must supply our information by 11/1/10? Yep, on Friday we will be driving to Detroit to secure expedited licenses to travel abroad. Prior to said appointment I need to get a birth certificate and a Michigan Driver’s License.
Yesterday, opting not to travel in what was predicted to be Armageddon, we ventured to the Secretary of State (SOS) in Grand Haven to acquire my Driver’s License. Armed with the information required in Illinois, I am informed I need to prove I have a Social Security Number (W-2, pay stub or government issued card), my identity (birth certificate or Passport), I am who I say I am with a photo idea (my Illinois license or a High School Yearbook**) and residence (utility bills, insurance certificate or a lease). I guess they do not trust that other states are doing their due diligence. Also, are there that many people longing to live in Michigan that they will lie about it such that two proofs of residence are necessary?
Luckily, the weather reports greatly exaggerated the rain portion of the doom and gloom therefore we later drove to the booming metropolis of Grand Rapids where I obtained two copies of my certificate.
First thing this morning I returned to the Grand Heven SOS armed with a pay stub, my valid out of state drivers license and two bills addressed to my parents as I could legally prove a family relationship given the birth certificate. Except, that branch doesn’t open until 11:00 on Wednesdays. Crap. After this ass ache I am going to need a booze cruise.
Having a doctor’s appointment later, I opt to go to the office in Muskegon—a lower caliber of clientele***—as it is nearby.
Did I mention that we have wind gusts of up to 50 miles per hour and I fear the clown car—the Red 1999 Ford Escort—will get swept into the sky and I will land in Oz?
No surprise, I enter the doctor’s office to be told I didn’t need to have the test after all. Um, maybe you could have mentioned that yesterday when you called to confirm the appointment?
I am in and out of the SOS within 20 minutes. I would have been out quicker but the clerk initially entered all my information for an ID Card as, “No one can qualify for licenses anymore.” Said another way Mollie spends a large portion of her day issuing photo identification for people whom, for whatever reason, the justice system of Muskegon have dubbed unfit to drive. Furthermore, she does that more than issue documentation allowing one to do so.
Soon, I will write a blog about Muskegon Drivers….till then I need to say I thought they allowed any moron to operate a motor vehical.
Friday, my sister and I head to D-town for Passports. I pray after all this effort they offer something other than Bud Light.
Later today, I rushed to the post office to mail something before 5:00. After flying by the Fruitport Branch twice, I entered the building to discover they close at 4:00. Nice.
I attended yoga tonight. I usually have no issue empting my day and being present. The sum total of the events from today annihilated my mellow and the relaxation came as a blessing.
Do you ever have days like mine? If so share with me. If you know of anyone who can relate pass this on to them.
* Bud Light you are good for something. When life is good in Alyssaland When bad it is...well read this blog.
** They didn’t put a timeline on this and I was tempted to bring in my 1992 North Muskegon High School Yearbook.
*** Fortunately for me the only thing I witnessed was the woman who locked her and her toddler daughter out her car. How do you even accomplish that this day in age?
http://www.sos.state.mi.us/drlic/proof.html
Oh did I mention I won the drawing on 10/17/10 but my guest and I must supply our information by 11/1/10? Yep, on Friday we will be driving to Detroit to secure expedited licenses to travel abroad. Prior to said appointment I need to get a birth certificate and a Michigan Driver’s License.
Yesterday, opting not to travel in what was predicted to be Armageddon, we ventured to the Secretary of State (SOS) in Grand Haven to acquire my Driver’s License. Armed with the information required in Illinois, I am informed I need to prove I have a Social Security Number (W-2, pay stub or government issued card), my identity (birth certificate or Passport), I am who I say I am with a photo idea (my Illinois license or a High School Yearbook**) and residence (utility bills, insurance certificate or a lease). I guess they do not trust that other states are doing their due diligence. Also, are there that many people longing to live in Michigan that they will lie about it such that two proofs of residence are necessary?
Luckily, the weather reports greatly exaggerated the rain portion of the doom and gloom therefore we later drove to the booming metropolis of Grand Rapids where I obtained two copies of my certificate.
First thing this morning I returned to the Grand Heven SOS armed with a pay stub, my valid out of state drivers license and two bills addressed to my parents as I could legally prove a family relationship given the birth certificate. Except, that branch doesn’t open until 11:00 on Wednesdays. Crap. After this ass ache I am going to need a booze cruise.
Having a doctor’s appointment later, I opt to go to the office in Muskegon—a lower caliber of clientele***—as it is nearby.
Did I mention that we have wind gusts of up to 50 miles per hour and I fear the clown car—the Red 1999 Ford Escort—will get swept into the sky and I will land in Oz?
No surprise, I enter the doctor’s office to be told I didn’t need to have the test after all. Um, maybe you could have mentioned that yesterday when you called to confirm the appointment?
I am in and out of the SOS within 20 minutes. I would have been out quicker but the clerk initially entered all my information for an ID Card as, “No one can qualify for licenses anymore.” Said another way Mollie spends a large portion of her day issuing photo identification for people whom, for whatever reason, the justice system of Muskegon have dubbed unfit to drive. Furthermore, she does that more than issue documentation allowing one to do so.
Soon, I will write a blog about Muskegon Drivers….till then I need to say I thought they allowed any moron to operate a motor vehical.
Friday, my sister and I head to D-town for Passports. I pray after all this effort they offer something other than Bud Light.
Later today, I rushed to the post office to mail something before 5:00. After flying by the Fruitport Branch twice, I entered the building to discover they close at 4:00. Nice.
I attended yoga tonight. I usually have no issue empting my day and being present. The sum total of the events from today annihilated my mellow and the relaxation came as a blessing.
Do you ever have days like mine? If so share with me. If you know of anyone who can relate pass this on to them.
* Bud Light you are good for something. When life is good in Alyssaland When bad it is...well read this blog.
** They didn’t put a timeline on this and I was tempted to bring in my 1992 North Muskegon High School Yearbook.
*** Fortunately for me the only thing I witnessed was the woman who locked her and her toddler daughter out her car. How do you even accomplish that this day in age?
http://www.sos.state.mi.us/drlic/proof.html
Monday, October 25, 2010
Drugs and Me
Over twenty years ago I first encountered my frennemy codeine; indeed time had washed away the bad influence he had on me. Perhaps I was so under his spell that I do not fully recall the detrimental effects he has on me. Sure, I remember being high as kite as my mom drove me from oral surgery as well as hours later laying in my own puke of blood in my our beige bathroom. I also remember attending the museum with my family only to get disoriented. Later the same day, I visited a friend forgetting I rode my bike to her house. After Wisdom Teeth Extraction (all four) I have very few memoriores of the following days except I was often confused.
Pills/drugs have never been a good idea for me. Actifed = Acifried. I become the poster child Nancy Regan’s anti-drug program. In fact after taking the innocent allergy tablet I have been forbade to drive. Once I inadvertently took said medication and I recall meeting a friend to usher for Cabaret in New York. When we met and I said, “Hi,” he smiled and said, “I think you are.”
Last week I went to an Urgent Care Facilty and left armed with more prescriptions than my 60 plus father. One of which was cough syrup with codeine. He was far kinder this rekindling of our relationship. Perhaps gentler due to the fact that he was mixed with cough syrup and not a narcotic painkiller. One will never know.
I am like Helen Keller, as words cannot describe my experience. I was a blob of flesh for whom language was insuccient. Given my control issues, I avoid most drugs as a rule. My only fore being pot in college, which was over a decade ago.
Last week melting into the couch I am sleeping on given the bed fiasco, I bonded with my Frennemy. Pretty sure I hallucinated, if not I encountered dream so vivid, I repeatedly woke myself up with my verbal, and at times physical, response. During the night, not quite asleep and not conscious I found myself in a conversation with myself.
Certainly, I can understand the draw to this drug; hence I am running as fast as I can. As for Alyssaland, It is a nice place to visit; you might want to live there.
Let me know your thoughts.
Pills/drugs have never been a good idea for me. Actifed = Acifried. I become the poster child Nancy Regan’s anti-drug program. In fact after taking the innocent allergy tablet I have been forbade to drive. Once I inadvertently took said medication and I recall meeting a friend to usher for Cabaret in New York. When we met and I said, “Hi,” he smiled and said, “I think you are.”
Last week I went to an Urgent Care Facilty and left armed with more prescriptions than my 60 plus father. One of which was cough syrup with codeine. He was far kinder this rekindling of our relationship. Perhaps gentler due to the fact that he was mixed with cough syrup and not a narcotic painkiller. One will never know.
I am like Helen Keller, as words cannot describe my experience. I was a blob of flesh for whom language was insuccient. Given my control issues, I avoid most drugs as a rule. My only fore being pot in college, which was over a decade ago.
Last week melting into the couch I am sleeping on given the bed fiasco, I bonded with my Frennemy. Pretty sure I hallucinated, if not I encountered dream so vivid, I repeatedly woke myself up with my verbal, and at times physical, response. During the night, not quite asleep and not conscious I found myself in a conversation with myself.
Certainly, I can understand the draw to this drug; hence I am running as fast as I can. As for Alyssaland, It is a nice place to visit; you might want to live there.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
On Politics and Writing
I am not political yet last night I tonight I found myself watching O’Reilly due to the fall out of Juan Williams. As for that situation, the state of society scares me because I do not want them (government) to tell me where I can smoke, eat, dry-clean or what I can say.
Admittedly, I am ignorant about most of politics—I do not know who George Soros is or why he is so evil. In Alyssaland, life works without getting worked up about such issues. Likewise, as a reaction to ALL politicians involved in the current Michigan election—the jobs that have left the state for China or wherever ARE NOT coming back. You are beating a dead horse. Think of how to create new jobs and I will pay attention to you. KNOCK KNOCK the 1980’s called they want their platform back.
Basically, my view is same shit different election and what is going to happen is going to happen.....
Most frightening to me, as a writer, is when Glenn Beck stated that his new book employed alliteration because it was written in three parts. Huh? My understanding is this tool--one of my favorite when I give a damn to edit--is the repeated use a letter starting words in a sentence and/or paragraph. I listen, thinking perhaps the names of the parts employed said literary device. Later in the show, someone asked Mr. O’Reilly about “Talking Points” wherein he responded it is a literary device taught in High School. Again, huh? I do not remember learning talking points but I sure remember learning the poetic device defined as:
In language, alliteration refers to repetition of a particular sound in the first syllables of a series of words and/or phrases. Alliteration has historically developed largely though poetry, in which it more narrowly refers to the repetition of a consonant in any syllables that, according to the poem's meter, are stressed, as in James Thomson's verse "Come…dragging the lazy languid Line along" [1]
Education and test scores being what they are in this country we cannot afford such misinformation from any outlet. Mr. Beck please learn your tools before you use them and Mr. O’Reilly, I fully support making fun of the lack of basic knowledge about reading, writing and arthritic. Perhaps you shouldn’t let a blatant error take place before your condemn another for not knowing.
Talk amongst yourselves....and let me know what you think.
Admittedly, I am ignorant about most of politics—I do not know who George Soros is or why he is so evil. In Alyssaland, life works without getting worked up about such issues. Likewise, as a reaction to ALL politicians involved in the current Michigan election—the jobs that have left the state for China or wherever ARE NOT coming back. You are beating a dead horse. Think of how to create new jobs and I will pay attention to you. KNOCK KNOCK the 1980’s called they want their platform back.
Basically, my view is same shit different election and what is going to happen is going to happen.....
Most frightening to me, as a writer, is when Glenn Beck stated that his new book employed alliteration because it was written in three parts. Huh? My understanding is this tool--one of my favorite when I give a damn to edit--is the repeated use a letter starting words in a sentence and/or paragraph. I listen, thinking perhaps the names of the parts employed said literary device. Later in the show, someone asked Mr. O’Reilly about “Talking Points” wherein he responded it is a literary device taught in High School. Again, huh? I do not remember learning talking points but I sure remember learning the poetic device defined as:
In language, alliteration refers to repetition of a particular sound in the first syllables of a series of words and/or phrases. Alliteration has historically developed largely though poetry, in which it more narrowly refers to the repetition of a consonant in any syllables that, according to the poem's meter, are stressed, as in James Thomson's verse "Come…dragging the lazy languid Line along" [1]
Education and test scores being what they are in this country we cannot afford such misinformation from any outlet. Mr. Beck please learn your tools before you use them and Mr. O’Reilly, I fully support making fun of the lack of basic knowledge about reading, writing and arthritic. Perhaps you shouldn’t let a blatant error take place before your condemn another for not knowing.
Talk amongst yourselves....and let me know what you think.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Couch Surfing not for Me......
I have been absent from the sphere for 6 days. I hope I have been missed. Rest assured it has been wild in Alyssaland. Early last week I wrote about the long awaited arrival of my belongings. I later posted on Facebook I was so excited I might roll around naked in my shoes.
I must have been smoking crack if I thought it was going to be that easy. I mentioned that I was waiting for 4 pallets equaling 2562 pounds. Unfortunately, I did not employ the proper intellectual effort to consider each pallet would be over 500 pounds. Indeed the deliveryman arrived and deposited boxes that were about 8 feet (three of them were too tall for the garage) by 6 feet. I spent the remainder of Wednesday with cordless drill unscrewing boxes that are bigger than some New York City Apartments bringing down to stairs whatever I could carry which turned out to be very little—one pallet.
I had hired movers yet, being Dutch, as a general rule I try to save money whenever possible which means as paying for as little time as possible.
Thursday, I receive a call from Two Men and a Truck stating the movers would arrive in 15 minutes. At 1:15, almost forty-five minutes later, I get a call that the movers are lost. When I called earlier in the week to schedule, they inquired, “Are you near Seminal.” “Uh, no. Off Sternberg.” Turns out those were wasted words, as the movers were sent to Fairview Street in Norton Shores, not Fairview Court in Fruitport. An hour after the original heads up, Papa and Junior arrive.
Things are clipping along until the final pallet containing the couch. After much struggle the Expert and Novice maneuver the couch down the stairs when fifteen minutes later the Mini Mover called me downstairs. They cannot get the couch in the storage room as I had instructed. After consulting with my dad--and him calling my mom at work--I reluctantly resolve the couch must go in my room. After said directive the movers get it stuck in two doors.
Thwarted and flummoxed, I don’t see a way to have the couch and a full or queen size bed in the room as well. As cool as I am about living in my parent’s house I do not want to sleep in a twin bed at age 36. I might as well get a bed-in-a-bag marketed towards college bound students.
Disappointed to not be replacing the white and taupe quilt with my plumb down comforter. I unpacked on Friday resigned that the multiple pillows would remain on the storage side of the basement.
Did I mention that I am a not only an adult but a bed hog hence a twin bed will not work? Moreover, let me remind you I am cheap thus not wanting to by a bed that would excite a potty trained three year old.
Still uncertain what route to take, the whole operation was further complicated by the fact that yesterday, feeling like an ass inflamed with hemorrhoids, I went to the doctor to find out I had Strep, Bronchitis, and a sinus infection. I wanted to lie in my bed and moan all day and alas, the couch is not the same. Further, strung out on cough syrup with codeine last night I forgot where I was and almost turned over onto the floor. The hard cement floor covered with carpet.
Today, feeling about 50 percent better, I took matters into my own hands. First I laid down the frame of my full bed then compared it to the queen bed. Luckily both fit without feeling as cramped as a clown car. I then dragged the box spring in waiting for my mom to get home from work to assist me with the mattress during which time I washed my linens.
Clean sheet are usually enough to make me happy however a mattress and my comforter please me even more.
I expect tomorrow, after a good nights rest in a proper bed, I will be feeling close to 100 percent. Stay tuned for updates about my adventures with codeine as well as winning a trip to the Bahamas.
I must have been smoking crack if I thought it was going to be that easy. I mentioned that I was waiting for 4 pallets equaling 2562 pounds. Unfortunately, I did not employ the proper intellectual effort to consider each pallet would be over 500 pounds. Indeed the deliveryman arrived and deposited boxes that were about 8 feet (three of them were too tall for the garage) by 6 feet. I spent the remainder of Wednesday with cordless drill unscrewing boxes that are bigger than some New York City Apartments bringing down to stairs whatever I could carry which turned out to be very little—one pallet.
I had hired movers yet, being Dutch, as a general rule I try to save money whenever possible which means as paying for as little time as possible.
Thursday, I receive a call from Two Men and a Truck stating the movers would arrive in 15 minutes. At 1:15, almost forty-five minutes later, I get a call that the movers are lost. When I called earlier in the week to schedule, they inquired, “Are you near Seminal.” “Uh, no. Off Sternberg.” Turns out those were wasted words, as the movers were sent to Fairview Street in Norton Shores, not Fairview Court in Fruitport. An hour after the original heads up, Papa and Junior arrive.
Things are clipping along until the final pallet containing the couch. After much struggle the Expert and Novice maneuver the couch down the stairs when fifteen minutes later the Mini Mover called me downstairs. They cannot get the couch in the storage room as I had instructed. After consulting with my dad--and him calling my mom at work--I reluctantly resolve the couch must go in my room. After said directive the movers get it stuck in two doors.
Thwarted and flummoxed, I don’t see a way to have the couch and a full or queen size bed in the room as well. As cool as I am about living in my parent’s house I do not want to sleep in a twin bed at age 36. I might as well get a bed-in-a-bag marketed towards college bound students.
Disappointed to not be replacing the white and taupe quilt with my plumb down comforter. I unpacked on Friday resigned that the multiple pillows would remain on the storage side of the basement.
Did I mention that I am a not only an adult but a bed hog hence a twin bed will not work? Moreover, let me remind you I am cheap thus not wanting to by a bed that would excite a potty trained three year old.
Still uncertain what route to take, the whole operation was further complicated by the fact that yesterday, feeling like an ass inflamed with hemorrhoids, I went to the doctor to find out I had Strep, Bronchitis, and a sinus infection. I wanted to lie in my bed and moan all day and alas, the couch is not the same. Further, strung out on cough syrup with codeine last night I forgot where I was and almost turned over onto the floor. The hard cement floor covered with carpet.
Today, feeling about 50 percent better, I took matters into my own hands. First I laid down the frame of my full bed then compared it to the queen bed. Luckily both fit without feeling as cramped as a clown car. I then dragged the box spring in waiting for my mom to get home from work to assist me with the mattress during which time I washed my linens.
Clean sheet are usually enough to make me happy however a mattress and my comforter please me even more.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Illegal, at the Very Least Unethical
I have been waiting for a delivery from Barnes and Noble. Today I got a Collection Notice from my former apartment building, Newport Village Apartments. Not the same. On October 8, 2010, The Southwest Collection Service, Inc in Orange California sent a communication informing me that I had been turned over owing $685.37 plus $7.14 in interest. Yet, I have never received a bill from either Newport Village or the parent company Norman Jacobson Realty. Which left me with the question, how can I be in collection for money I did not know I owe?
Befuddled, I phoned the office. After looking through my file, the woman who answers the phone lists the variety of ways they nickel and dimes away my security deposit. $150 for carpet cleaning, $10 for blind cleaning and so on and so forth. After being put on hold twice she informed me she would have to call me back.
Twenty minutes later, my phone rang. She now had an explanation of the collection notice. I owed money.
I have two issues with this. First, how can I already be turned over to collection on October 8, 2010 when I moved out on September 11, 2010 for a debt of which I wasn’t aware? Second, why are they charging me for “normal wear and tear” repairs and cleaning that they would do regardless of the state of my apartment.
When I inquired into issue number one, I was informed that I should have known I owed but they do not send bills. Never, not even when I returned my keys, did anyone inform me that I would owe money.
As for question number two, she claimed that the security deposit was supposed to go towards normal wear and tear. I asked if I had the carpet cleaned before I move would they still have had them cleaned. She said, “If it were not professionally cleaned.” Which I took as an unequivocal yes.
Finally, I spoke with her manager. She informed me that the same day she, Newport Village Apartments, reports the debt to the collection agency is the same day she send the information of amount owed to the corporate office, Norman Jacobson Realty so they can send a bill. Huh? You turn me over to collections before an invoice can even be printed. She is certain, as it is California law they sent me a bill however if I “received it is another question.” Seems illegal, at the very least unethical.
Granted, once it gets sorted out I will pay without any impact on my credit score; however the approach seems a bit, well, drastic.
Can they do this? Anyone in the know, please advice. If you know someone who might know please forward. Anyone else, pipe in.
http://normanjacobsonrealty.com/contactUs
Befuddled, I phoned the office. After looking through my file, the woman who answers the phone lists the variety of ways they nickel and dimes away my security deposit. $150 for carpet cleaning, $10 for blind cleaning and so on and so forth. After being put on hold twice she informed me she would have to call me back.
Twenty minutes later, my phone rang. She now had an explanation of the collection notice. I owed money.
I have two issues with this. First, how can I already be turned over to collection on October 8, 2010 when I moved out on September 11, 2010 for a debt of which I wasn’t aware? Second, why are they charging me for “normal wear and tear” repairs and cleaning that they would do regardless of the state of my apartment.
When I inquired into issue number one, I was informed that I should have known I owed but they do not send bills. Never, not even when I returned my keys, did anyone inform me that I would owe money.
As for question number two, she claimed that the security deposit was supposed to go towards normal wear and tear. I asked if I had the carpet cleaned before I move would they still have had them cleaned. She said, “If it were not professionally cleaned.” Which I took as an unequivocal yes.
Finally, I spoke with her manager. She informed me that the same day she, Newport Village Apartments, reports the debt to the collection agency is the same day she send the information of amount owed to the corporate office, Norman Jacobson Realty so they can send a bill. Huh? You turn me over to collections before an invoice can even be printed. She is certain, as it is California law they sent me a bill however if I “received it is another question.” Seems illegal, at the very least unethical.
Granted, once it gets sorted out I will pay without any impact on my credit score; however the approach seems a bit, well, drastic.
Can they do this? Anyone in the know, please advice. If you know someone who might know please forward. Anyone else, pipe in.
http://normanjacobsonrealty.com/contactUs
On Moving
Rachel: So here’s the deal for tonite: Shorty’s is a t-shirt jeans and sneaks place. No hooker heals. We r staying @ jamies. I will call when I know what time but prob picking you up @ 8ish. If I get there & you look prissy you aren’t coming.
Me: My hooker heels and prissy clothes have yet to arrive.
I left California over a month ago and the moving truck is scheduled to arrive tomorrow. Granted when I moved out west I was separated from my stuff for 3 months. I will be glad to be reunited with my belongings as being surrounded by them allows me to truly settle into my parents pad. Tomorrow may be as exciting for me as Christmas is for Children. I get giddy thinking of opening each box and discovering the contents.
I look forward to replacing the taupe and white quilt with my plumb comforter, to filling the empty walk-in closet with my clothes, to retiring to my room to watch TV, and, mostly, to not feeling like a house guest. Please note it is not so much about the stuff as it is about creating an environment, a space, and a sanctuary.
When I fled OC, I gave away or sold anything I no longer needed or wanted. Pots and pans, glasses, kitchen utensils, bath towels—you name it. I invited neighbors to come loot my apartment as if the Lakers had just won the title. I sit here today certain that every item contained on the moving truck—all 2562 pounds—are objects I cherish yet if something were to happen to the cargo I would simply mourn the loss of the sentimental stuff and go shopping. I am not my belongings but my belongings are me.
The upside of moving across the country and back in less than two years and spending a grand total of four months with little more than the clothes you are wearing is the death of material attachment. A freedom that allows me to cruise around town in a 1999 Red Ford Escort.*
So I went to Shorty’s sans hooker heels** donning a white T-shirt I bought at Sam’s Club, Jeans and Sneakers.
What is your relationship to material items.
*I used to fancy myself a BMW, Mercedes or, at worst, VW type of girl. Now I just care that it runs and gets good gas millage.
**I have so many that it might account for half of the cross-country cargo. Even the moving men commented on how nice my collection was when he packed them up.
Me: My hooker heels and prissy clothes have yet to arrive.
I left California over a month ago and the moving truck is scheduled to arrive tomorrow. Granted when I moved out west I was separated from my stuff for 3 months. I will be glad to be reunited with my belongings as being surrounded by them allows me to truly settle into my parents pad. Tomorrow may be as exciting for me as Christmas is for Children. I get giddy thinking of opening each box and discovering the contents.
I look forward to replacing the taupe and white quilt with my plumb comforter, to filling the empty walk-in closet with my clothes, to retiring to my room to watch TV, and, mostly, to not feeling like a house guest. Please note it is not so much about the stuff as it is about creating an environment, a space, and a sanctuary.
When I fled OC, I gave away or sold anything I no longer needed or wanted. Pots and pans, glasses, kitchen utensils, bath towels—you name it. I invited neighbors to come loot my apartment as if the Lakers had just won the title. I sit here today certain that every item contained on the moving truck—all 2562 pounds—are objects I cherish yet if something were to happen to the cargo I would simply mourn the loss of the sentimental stuff and go shopping. I am not my belongings but my belongings are me.
The upside of moving across the country and back in less than two years and spending a grand total of four months with little more than the clothes you are wearing is the death of material attachment. A freedom that allows me to cruise around town in a 1999 Red Ford Escort.*
So I went to Shorty’s sans hooker heels** donning a white T-shirt I bought at Sam’s Club, Jeans and Sneakers.
What is your relationship to material items.
*I used to fancy myself a BMW, Mercedes or, at worst, VW type of girl. Now I just care that it runs and gets good gas millage.
**I have so many that it might account for half of the cross-country cargo. Even the moving men commented on how nice my collection was when he packed them up.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Alyssaland
I am engaged in an intense course of study called FUNDAMENTALS OF TRANSACTION offered by INFLUENCE ECOLOGY. At the midway point of the six-month endeavor we are shifting from gathering knowledge to applying it in our offerings. When the FOT began I did not have an offering. A month in, after reading Fernando Flores and Michael Graves “Notes for Ontology of Career,” I hesitantly declared myself a writer. I then enlisted a person to hold me accountable to actually sit down and work as I was suffering from creative resistance.
Influenced by Jennifer Lancaster’s Bitter is the New Black, Valerie Frankel’s Thin is the New Pretty, Steve Dublanica’s Waiter Rant and Are you There, Vodka? It’s me. Chelsea I choose the popular genre of memoir with a chick lit flair.
Monday through Friday from 10-12:30 I sit at my laptop and do the work of writing. Sometimes it flows and sometimes it is torture. Five weeks into the process—having given up my attachment to the story I want to tell and embracing the story that demands to be told—I am getting into a groove.
Yesterday, inspired, I decided on a title.
Adventures in Alyssaland
Countless times I have rehashed an occurrence to my mom and her only response is, “only you.” Often she relays my adventures and exploits to her co-workers who respond with, “only Alyssa.” In fact, I had a coworker who would entertain her mother with “Alyssa Stories.”
Once, I was meeting a few friends at a gay bar called Big Chicks on the Northside of Chicago. After driving up and down Clark Street, I went into another establishment flying the rainbow flag—The Eagle--to ask for directions. It was a bathhouse.
Another time, two days before my college graduation, on my way to pay my phone bill a man randomly punched me in the face and I ended up in the ER. Upon my release I went to work at the Barnes and Noble at Webster Place. My roommate found me high on Motrin wandering Lincoln Park in a summer thunderstorm.
In many ways I am crazy, my life is crazy. Welcome to Alyssaland. Such a nice place to visit you just might wanna stay.
One of the homework questions in FUNDAMENTALS OF TRANSACTION inquires, “If you had to describe yourself as a “brand” how would you express it?” The definition of brand being “A singular idea or concept that you own inside the mind of the prospect" - Al Ries. I still don’t have the answer but I am thinking Alyssaland is something I can own. Let me know your thoughts or any alternative answers to the question. Also, how would you express yourself as a brand?
http://www.influenceecology.com/
Influenced by Jennifer Lancaster’s Bitter is the New Black, Valerie Frankel’s Thin is the New Pretty, Steve Dublanica’s Waiter Rant and Are you There, Vodka? It’s me. Chelsea I choose the popular genre of memoir with a chick lit flair.
Monday through Friday from 10-12:30 I sit at my laptop and do the work of writing. Sometimes it flows and sometimes it is torture. Five weeks into the process—having given up my attachment to the story I want to tell and embracing the story that demands to be told—I am getting into a groove.
Yesterday, inspired, I decided on a title.
Adventures in Alyssaland
Countless times I have rehashed an occurrence to my mom and her only response is, “only you.” Often she relays my adventures and exploits to her co-workers who respond with, “only Alyssa.” In fact, I had a coworker who would entertain her mother with “Alyssa Stories.”
Once, I was meeting a few friends at a gay bar called Big Chicks on the Northside of Chicago. After driving up and down Clark Street, I went into another establishment flying the rainbow flag—The Eagle--to ask for directions. It was a bathhouse.
Another time, two days before my college graduation, on my way to pay my phone bill a man randomly punched me in the face and I ended up in the ER. Upon my release I went to work at the Barnes and Noble at Webster Place. My roommate found me high on Motrin wandering Lincoln Park in a summer thunderstorm.
In many ways I am crazy, my life is crazy. Welcome to Alyssaland. Such a nice place to visit you just might wanna stay.
One of the homework questions in FUNDAMENTALS OF TRANSACTION inquires, “If you had to describe yourself as a “brand” how would you express it?” The definition of brand being “A singular idea or concept that you own inside the mind of the prospect" - Al Ries. I still don’t have the answer but I am thinking Alyssaland is something I can own. Let me know your thoughts or any alternative answers to the question. Also, how would you express yourself as a brand?
http://www.influenceecology.com/
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Tick Tock Not
The other day I reconnected with a friend from High School. I went to her house in the afternoon with the agreement to come back for dinner. I entered her house a few hours later as she was preparing a meal for her three children.
“What did you do when you went home?” She asked.
“Um, took a nap,” I smiled sheepishly.
She rolled her eyes.
This morning I posted on Facebook “Cooler weather + Warm Bed = 9 hours of sleep.” One of my mom friends commented, “= Lucky.”
I have been a babysitter all my life. Children are usually drawn to me and I can always, at worst, tolerate them. Over the summer, I spent time watching my neighbor kids--Liana (10) and Aubrey (7). Given that they like to spend their days the same as I—at the pool—this was really an easy task for me. In fact, we invented a game where they would “captain” my raft and spritz me with water. We called it the Queen Game. During this time, it became clear to me that though I love kids, I have no desire to sire my own. Said another way, I have no biological clock.
This dawned on me a few weeks before I left California when I took a workshop with Alison Armstrong called Understanding Women: Unlock the Mystery. She was talking about motherhood and the biological clock and how nutty women get around 35. At age 36 a single woman with a internal timepiece goes crazy trying to find a husband before it is too late. That is not my experience.
Until the course, I felt like I “should” children. Moreover, there was something very wrong with me that I don’t, and most likely, won’t. Over the summer I confessed to someone that I didn’t think the whole kids thing was for me. Their concern was who would take care of me when I got older. I think spawning offspring based on a fear of being alone in your golden years is a one of the worst reasons to get knocked up. *
I was on the phone with a friend, “You know…I don’t think I have the any hormonal or biological desire to have babies.”
Apparently this was already evident to him, “You, hell no. You like to play with them and give them back. You are practicing to be the world’s best aunt. Besides if you think of the top three things you enjoy—Cocktailing, Smoking and the Pool—none of those scream motherhood”
True, I drink like an Irishman, swear like a sailor and tan like a homeless person.
Yet, I had to think of my parents. What if I never have children AND my sister never has children. Then we would deny them the privilege of being grandparents. After everything they have provided—and continue to provide—don’t I owe them a little bundle to spoil and send back when done?
I am starting to experience the other effects of a dwindling shelf life for reproductive eggs; yet, they are more a physical annoyance than a call to action. In speaking with my mother two weeks ago I summoned up the courage to tell her what I discovered.
Her response was, “Well some people don’t.”
I then asked her, “But what about you and Daddy?** What if you never have grand kids?”
“One should not become a parent simply to give their parents grand children.” After she said it, I saw that would also be a really bad motive to procreate.
*Even I am not that selfish.
**Yes, I call him Daddy.
“What did you do when you went home?” She asked.
“Um, took a nap,” I smiled sheepishly.
She rolled her eyes.
This morning I posted on Facebook “Cooler weather + Warm Bed = 9 hours of sleep.” One of my mom friends commented, “= Lucky.”
I have been a babysitter all my life. Children are usually drawn to me and I can always, at worst, tolerate them. Over the summer, I spent time watching my neighbor kids--Liana (10) and Aubrey (7). Given that they like to spend their days the same as I—at the pool—this was really an easy task for me. In fact, we invented a game where they would “captain” my raft and spritz me with water. We called it the Queen Game. During this time, it became clear to me that though I love kids, I have no desire to sire my own. Said another way, I have no biological clock.
This dawned on me a few weeks before I left California when I took a workshop with Alison Armstrong called Understanding Women: Unlock the Mystery. She was talking about motherhood and the biological clock and how nutty women get around 35. At age 36 a single woman with a internal timepiece goes crazy trying to find a husband before it is too late. That is not my experience.
Until the course, I felt like I “should” children. Moreover, there was something very wrong with me that I don’t, and most likely, won’t. Over the summer I confessed to someone that I didn’t think the whole kids thing was for me. Their concern was who would take care of me when I got older. I think spawning offspring based on a fear of being alone in your golden years is a one of the worst reasons to get knocked up. *
I was on the phone with a friend, “You know…I don’t think I have the any hormonal or biological desire to have babies.”
Apparently this was already evident to him, “You, hell no. You like to play with them and give them back. You are practicing to be the world’s best aunt. Besides if you think of the top three things you enjoy—Cocktailing, Smoking and the Pool—none of those scream motherhood”
True, I drink like an Irishman, swear like a sailor and tan like a homeless person.
Yet, I had to think of my parents. What if I never have children AND my sister never has children. Then we would deny them the privilege of being grandparents. After everything they have provided—and continue to provide—don’t I owe them a little bundle to spoil and send back when done?
I am starting to experience the other effects of a dwindling shelf life for reproductive eggs; yet, they are more a physical annoyance than a call to action. In speaking with my mother two weeks ago I summoned up the courage to tell her what I discovered.
Her response was, “Well some people don’t.”
I then asked her, “But what about you and Daddy?** What if you never have grand kids?”
“One should not become a parent simply to give their parents grand children.” After she said it, I saw that would also be a really bad motive to procreate.
*Even I am not that selfish.
**Yes, I call him Daddy.
Monday, October 4, 2010
On Getting Lost
The day we drove to get my loaner car* from Ruth and Bob, my father would not let me stop at Starbucks stating, “No need to complicate driving with Coffee.” Granted I had not driven a car in years. Also, my parents moved in 2005 and I do not know the town very well. All that coupled with my history of getting lost he may have had a point.
For a brief period I had a car while I lived in Chicago and you could bet money I would get lost if I ventured to the suburbs. In fact, once my sister and I were driving to sell my car in Joliet. The plan was simple; we would drop the car off and take the Metra home. I had taken in the 1988 Gold Honda Accord to have something done and the person buying the car told me not to pay to have the thingy** that secures the hood fixed as he could do that himself. . While we are en route on The Stevenson the hood flies into the windshield. Bam! I pull over and phone my boss.
“How do you get to Joliet of the back roads?”
“Why?”
“My hood just flew into my windshield on the highway.”
“How about I give you the directions to get to my house on the back roads and we will have my husband look at the car.”
Her husband is a semi-retired theater producer and set designer and the master of gerry rigging things and his garage houses all the supplies to do so.
We enter their house, immediately greeted by Pasta. They are Italian and if you enter their house you must eat. Meanwhile her husband finds some cord used on Airplanes and ties the hood down. We are off to Joliet***.
With no illusions of having an internal compass, I am armed with the directions from Mapquest.
Two hours later, driving lost in the rain; I swear I will never use Mapquest again.
We finally drop the car off; however, we missed the last train back to the city. Oh, now would be a good time to mention that my sister and I have a 10:00 AM flight to New York tomorrow. Staying in Joliet is not an option.
Wait, I have a brilliant idea! Go to the Casino surely they have a shuttle bus back to the city. We enter the Riverboat and head straight to the concierge.
“Do you have a shuttle back to the city?” I ask.
She directs me, in as many words, to the Red Phone, which is a direct line to Joliet Taxi. I am informed that the flat rate to get back to the city is $100.00. I whip out my cell and call my boss again.
“We are trapped at the Joliet Casino.”
“How did you end up there?”
I briefly retell the events since I had left her house 3 hours ago.
“Well, you have to get home. You cannot miss your flight tomorrow.”
“I know.”
She turns and bats her eyes to husband who agrees to drive from his house to pick us up at the Joliet Casino then drive us back to the city. We got home at 12:30.
A word about the people who patronize said establishment late Thursday nights. We saw one man with a disheveled mullet wearing a wife beater heading like a zombie through the doors. We joked that he woke up, realized his direct deposit was in his account and thought, “Gamble. I must gamble now.”
That said I understand my parents hesitation about me driving. In fact, if I open my trunk I double-check the latch to avoid any variation of a repeat on US 31. Google Maps is my friend.
When my parents take me on the back roads—surface streets—it often involves a quiz on which way to turn to get home. I wish they had been this concerned about my absolute lack of direction when I was in Mr. Bee’s Drivers Ed Class.
I did get lost coming back from the Dermatologist last week. Embarrassingly, I have been to that office 3 times. I have been taking Sternberg (the main street which 1.5 miles away from the condo offers every shopping option one could dream of in the sleepy berg of Muskegon County) to almost everything. Emboldened in my new comfort level with driving I thought I would take Mt. Garfield home. I turned left out of the doctors’ office and then left on what I thought was Mt. Garfield. When I drove past one of the elementary Schools I knew something was wrong. Eventually I hit Downtown Fruitport and found my way back to Sternberg. On the plus side, I now know how to get Downtown ****
*A 1999 Red Ford Escort.
** A technical term.
***A town best know for having a Casino and Prison.
***Should I ever have an intense craving for Burger Crest I am able to fulfill it. Did I mention that Fruitport is right next to Ferrysberg?
Friday, October 1, 2010
Adventures in Recycling
Our garage resembling a fraternity house after Rush Week rather than that of an upstanding resident of Still Water Spring Condominiums; I took the bottles back to Meijer the other day. I thought it would be a simple task. When I lived in Michigan before you would bring in your bottles, some teenager would count them and give you cash money. *
1:15 on Tuesday I enter the bottle return room. The no taste having mullets** returning their Schlitz Cans are waiting for the Aluminum and Plastic machines to open up. The machine—the ONLY machine—that accepts glass in available. Uncertain of how this works, I insert the empty Bells Amber Ale. I get a notification “Bottle Not Big Enough.” Huh? It’s bottle sized. I try again. This time the machine turns and scans the bottle and throws it down a shoot similar to the drive through thingy*** at the bank. With each bottle you can hear the glass break when it reunites with the others. To the right of me is a box for general recycling—to discard the bottles yielding the message “product not sold” or “unauthorized bottle” as well as the cardboard materials that housed the bottles. I turn to discard the Bells Box and am obstructed by a woman who is digging through said box. Digging, like a bum rummaging though the trash. As she obliviously stands in my way I watch with annoyance—she is slowing me down--and awe. Who goes searching for empties at the bottle return? I am tempted to take my 7 rejected items home to spite her. Finally I can discard my rubbish. $9.10 (91 bottles) later I move to an available Aluminum and Plastic machine to add another $1.10 to my pocket.
I must be getting old because I miss the days of pushing a cart of bottles--in those days cans of Goebel****--to the rear of the store and interacting with some student. The new system is an ass ache for customers and means one less minimum wage job for some kid's gas fund. I suspect the only entity that benefits is Meijer....
My Mom detests going in there hence avoids it by any means. I think she, as usual, has the right idea.
Reporting live from the Skee.
*Used immediately after for a hangover breakfast at Denny's.
**A term my father uses to describe Rednecks
***Technical Term.
****Pronounced JoeBell (the French Beer). $9.99 got ya a 36 of cans.
I must be getting old because I miss the days of pushing a cart of bottles--in those days cans of Goebel****--to the rear of the store and interacting with some student. The new system is an ass ache for customers and means one less minimum wage job for some kid's gas fund. I suspect the only entity that benefits is Meijer....
My Mom detests going in there hence avoids it by any means. I think she, as usual, has the right idea.
Reporting live from the Skee.
*Used immediately after for a hangover breakfast at Denny's.
**A term my father uses to describe Rednecks
***Technical Term.
****Pronounced JoeBell (the French Beer). $9.99 got ya a 36 of cans.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Accidents and Anxiety Meet
I am walking to the park on Bear Street about a half mile from my house. In my blue Eddie Bauer back pack I am carrying my roller blades and wrist guards. * I have not been on the blades since 2007 when I had a fall free trip up the lake shore in Chicago.
I blade around the park a few times…it is smaller than it appeared when I walked by it on my way home from the Nordstrom Rack. I am getting a little bored with going in circles. Maybe I should blade home? Maybe I shouldn't. Remember that time your were with Bernice and she fell...she had PT for like 6 months? I am doing pretty well. I have never fallen before. Plus, I have medical insurance. ** So, I head down Bear when I reach one problem I had not factored in when I reasoned to roll home…an intersection. Stopping has never really been forte. Crap. Ok, I can do this.
Bam! My legs slip from underneath me and fly into the air. I am falling. I am falling on my ass at the intersection of Bear and Paularino. Instinctively, I employ my guarded wrists to save me from further physical injury—the mental damage of landing on my butt and knowing that passersby are laughing at me cannot be undone. Hell, I would laugh too—falling is funny.
One car, one, at the intersection inquires if I am okay. I say yes but in truth my butt and wrists really ache. Shaken, I remove the blades and the guards and I walk home.
“Mom, I fell on my butt at an intersection on my roller blades.”
“You fell?” She asks. I think I hear her concealing a giggle—again, falling is funny.
“Yep, full on classic legs in the air ass on the ground fall.”
“Are you ok?”
“Well, my tailbone*** hurts and I think I sprained my wrist.”
“Did you have wrist guards?”
“Yes, thank God, otherwise I would be in serious trouble.”
“Where was your helmet?”
“I don’t have a helmet.”
“You need a helmet. Daddy fell on a bike ride and the last thing he remembers is the sound of his helmet skidding on the pavement.”
Always a ray of sunshine, she was right. What if it had been my head and not my ass that hit the ground first?
Truth be told, given that I am sorta injury prone I have no right rolling down a busy street. I used to blade all the time in my twenties with no thought about the dangers. No concern of harming myself.
A few months ago, I was walking down the stairs at my office and making a telephone call when my 3 inch heal caught on the step forcing me forward. I used the handrails to catch myself and re-assembled my blackberry.
That near trip had two outcomes. First, I cannot walk down the stairs and talk on the phone at the same time. Second, I am afraid of falling.
I watch children run up and down stairs—sometimes two or three at a time—free of any concern. I was like that as a child too. When did falling become scary? Given my natural low-grade anxiety, I now approach each stair with precision.
Reading Anne Marie Schlekeway’s blog Kiss My ALS this morning brought my whole anxiety into perspective. She wrote of a recent fall:
So I walked into my home and with in 5 minutes did a face plant into the carpet! Complete with rug burns on my face, under my left eye. UGH.
I felt my neck crack as I hit the ground …I hit the floor with my right knee and left cheekbone and temple and for the 1st time thought, “I wonder if it’s time for life alert?” I had had my phone in my hand so it was near me, and as I did a mental checklist feeling my body from the inside out to see if there was a serious injury…
I am blessed to have a strong, healthy body, which it would behoove me to take care of and enjoy. So I will still approach stairs with caution—just a smart thing to do—but I will not let the worry grip me in my daily activities.
Since I moved, I started a yoga class and have been researching cross-country skiing****. I might even buckle up those roller blades and tackle the safe confines of Still Water Creek Condominiums—where the smooth streets are wide and the speed limit is 20 MPH.*****
*A big shout out to Mrs. McLaughlin for buying them for me as a gift after she saw me rolling down Moulton Avenue sans wrist guards in 1994.
**The new rule of thumb is stay away from activities where that consideration is a deal breaker.
***I broke my tailbone in High School and for three months had to carry a powder blue, inflatable donut for anal discomfort. I might as well have been the annoying girl who starts her stories with, “One time at band camp….”
****Choosing that over leaning to Luge....let's not push it.
*****I will buy a helmet to be on the safe side.
I blade around the park a few times…it is smaller than it appeared when I walked by it on my way home from the Nordstrom Rack. I am getting a little bored with going in circles. Maybe I should blade home? Maybe I shouldn't. Remember that time your were with Bernice and she fell...she had PT for like 6 months? I am doing pretty well. I have never fallen before. Plus, I have medical insurance. ** So, I head down Bear when I reach one problem I had not factored in when I reasoned to roll home…an intersection. Stopping has never really been forte. Crap. Ok, I can do this.
Bam! My legs slip from underneath me and fly into the air. I am falling. I am falling on my ass at the intersection of Bear and Paularino. Instinctively, I employ my guarded wrists to save me from further physical injury—the mental damage of landing on my butt and knowing that passersby are laughing at me cannot be undone. Hell, I would laugh too—falling is funny.
One car, one, at the intersection inquires if I am okay. I say yes but in truth my butt and wrists really ache. Shaken, I remove the blades and the guards and I walk home.
“Mom, I fell on my butt at an intersection on my roller blades.”
“You fell?” She asks. I think I hear her concealing a giggle—again, falling is funny.
“Yep, full on classic legs in the air ass on the ground fall.”
“Are you ok?”
“Well, my tailbone*** hurts and I think I sprained my wrist.”
“Did you have wrist guards?”
“Yes, thank God, otherwise I would be in serious trouble.”
“Where was your helmet?”
“I don’t have a helmet.”
“You need a helmet. Daddy fell on a bike ride and the last thing he remembers is the sound of his helmet skidding on the pavement.”
Always a ray of sunshine, she was right. What if it had been my head and not my ass that hit the ground first?
Truth be told, given that I am sorta injury prone I have no right rolling down a busy street. I used to blade all the time in my twenties with no thought about the dangers. No concern of harming myself.
A few months ago, I was walking down the stairs at my office and making a telephone call when my 3 inch heal caught on the step forcing me forward. I used the handrails to catch myself and re-assembled my blackberry.
That near trip had two outcomes. First, I cannot walk down the stairs and talk on the phone at the same time. Second, I am afraid of falling.
I watch children run up and down stairs—sometimes two or three at a time—free of any concern. I was like that as a child too. When did falling become scary? Given my natural low-grade anxiety, I now approach each stair with precision.
Reading Anne Marie Schlekeway’s blog Kiss My ALS this morning brought my whole anxiety into perspective. She wrote of a recent fall:
So I walked into my home and with in 5 minutes did a face plant into the carpet! Complete with rug burns on my face, under my left eye. UGH.
I felt my neck crack as I hit the ground …I hit the floor with my right knee and left cheekbone and temple and for the 1st time thought, “I wonder if it’s time for life alert?” I had had my phone in my hand so it was near me, and as I did a mental checklist feeling my body from the inside out to see if there was a serious injury…
I am blessed to have a strong, healthy body, which it would behoove me to take care of and enjoy. So I will still approach stairs with caution—just a smart thing to do—but I will not let the worry grip me in my daily activities.
Since I moved, I started a yoga class and have been researching cross-country skiing****. I might even buckle up those roller blades and tackle the safe confines of Still Water Creek Condominiums—where the smooth streets are wide and the speed limit is 20 MPH.*****
*A big shout out to Mrs. McLaughlin for buying them for me as a gift after she saw me rolling down Moulton Avenue sans wrist guards in 1994.
**The new rule of thumb is stay away from activities where that consideration is a deal breaker.
***I broke my tailbone in High School and for three months had to carry a powder blue, inflatable donut for anal discomfort. I might as well have been the annoying girl who starts her stories with, “One time at band camp….”
****Choosing that over leaning to Luge....let's not push it.
*****I will buy a helmet to be on the safe side.
Monday, September 27, 2010
The Crown That Wasn't
When I was 15 years old I wore a hat to school. During 2nd period I was called into the principle’s office. He asked me to remove my hat and when I refused due to ”hat head” I was sent home to take care of my hair. I was never certain what caused his aversion to hats.
Years later, my sister was called into the same said principle’s office regarding the patches on her blue jeans. Denim with holes was condemned yet decorations were okay. My smart-ass sister, Rachel chose a peach (sorta flesh colored) fabric. She was accused of trying to make it look like her underwear. *
Last spring, a school district in the same county, made half a dozen (or more) students donning a shirt stating, “Save the Ta Ta’s” turn their shirts inside out as the school deemed the shirt inappropriate. These students were trying to raise awareness to Breast Cancer as one of the participants mothers had been diagnosed.** Mona Shores High School went under attack.
More recently, as in the last two weeks, the school has been in the news twice. First, they were victims of a Ponzi scheme when they—among other schools--gave an unknown, out of town investor, 3.5 Million and he disappeared. However, one cannot overlook the magnitude of their latest media related frenzy. Yep, at this moment they are receiving international attention for not letting the fore-runner in the election of Homecoming King receive his crown due to the fact that he is a transgender student.
According to the school, the students get to vote for one male and one female and his documents list him as female. Never mind that the teachers and students refer to him by male pronouns, or that at graduation he will be donning a blue (male) gown, or that he has worn a Tux to school sponsored events. In this incident he is a she.
Mona Shores, with a little forethought this could have been beneficial for you. National—if not Global—media attention for how progressive and open you are with your students. Instead, you are being lambasted on an Worldwide level. Soon you will soon be up to your eyeballs with lawsuits.
You will really miss the 3.5 million you gave to some snake oil salesman, as it will not begin to cover your legal fees.
Ta Ta girls I suggest you weigh in as your rights were also violated. I suggest you research a case called Cohen V California. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cohen_v._California
or Tinker Versus the Des Moines Independent School District http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tinker_v._Des_Moines_Independent_Community_School_District
And Oak, I too have been discriminated against about things which I have no control. I will not compare your plight to mine but I sympathize. I empathize with feeling like who—or what—you are in bad and wrong. Your story hits close to home in light of experience and geography. I also have a handful on transgender acquaintances.
Lastly, Mona Shores—and all schools—stop trying to suppress free speech—that will only lead to trouble.
Support Oak: http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=103699403028170&ref=ts#!/group.php?gid=103699403028170&ref=ts
Also, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that the school district is being sued for constraining a three-year-old autistic child.
Let me know what you thing of this blog…
*She argues vehemently that is was not meant to look like underwear.
** Until you have a parent diagnosed with the big C—you have no idea what it is like.
Years later, my sister was called into the same said principle’s office regarding the patches on her blue jeans. Denim with holes was condemned yet decorations were okay. My smart-ass sister, Rachel chose a peach (sorta flesh colored) fabric. She was accused of trying to make it look like her underwear. *
Last spring, a school district in the same county, made half a dozen (or more) students donning a shirt stating, “Save the Ta Ta’s” turn their shirts inside out as the school deemed the shirt inappropriate. These students were trying to raise awareness to Breast Cancer as one of the participants mothers had been diagnosed.** Mona Shores High School went under attack.
More recently, as in the last two weeks, the school has been in the news twice. First, they were victims of a Ponzi scheme when they—among other schools--gave an unknown, out of town investor, 3.5 Million and he disappeared. However, one cannot overlook the magnitude of their latest media related frenzy. Yep, at this moment they are receiving international attention for not letting the fore-runner in the election of Homecoming King receive his crown due to the fact that he is a transgender student.
According to the school, the students get to vote for one male and one female and his documents list him as female. Never mind that the teachers and students refer to him by male pronouns, or that at graduation he will be donning a blue (male) gown, or that he has worn a Tux to school sponsored events. In this incident he is a she.
Mona Shores, with a little forethought this could have been beneficial for you. National—if not Global—media attention for how progressive and open you are with your students. Instead, you are being lambasted on an Worldwide level. Soon you will soon be up to your eyeballs with lawsuits.
You will really miss the 3.5 million you gave to some snake oil salesman, as it will not begin to cover your legal fees.
Ta Ta girls I suggest you weigh in as your rights were also violated. I suggest you research a case called Cohen V California. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cohen_v._California
or Tinker Versus the Des Moines Independent School District http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tinker_v._Des_Moines_Independent_Community_School_District
And Oak, I too have been discriminated against about things which I have no control. I will not compare your plight to mine but I sympathize. I empathize with feeling like who—or what—you are in bad and wrong. Your story hits close to home in light of experience and geography. I also have a handful on transgender acquaintances.
Lastly, Mona Shores—and all schools—stop trying to suppress free speech—that will only lead to trouble.
Support Oak: http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=103699403028170&ref=ts#!/group.php?gid=103699403028170&ref=ts
Also, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that the school district is being sued for constraining a three-year-old autistic child.
Let me know what you thing of this blog…
*She argues vehemently that is was not meant to look like underwear.
** Until you have a parent diagnosed with the big C—you have no idea what it is like.
There are no Accidents....
Earlier today I was chatting with a friend about the immense changes—transformations—I have had in the past three years and the incidents that allowed for them occur. Some good and some bad, yet nevertheless experiences I would not alter for anything.
Without these transformations, I would be a resigned, bitter, neurotic woman. *
I sit at my computer comfortable in my own skin. Present to life working around me. I am as happy as an Irishman in a pub.
The conversation got me reflecting on my journey in life. The very path that has me sitting at my parents’ dining room table while writing with a Red 1999 Ford Escort parked in the driveway.
People often say, “In life there are no accidents.” I believe that to be true.
In 1991, while a senior at North Muskegon High School, I entered a mentor program to work with a professional in a chosen field. I opted for theater and was assigned to Rich Oman, a professor at Muskegon Community College. I studied an array of areas and interviewed working professionals. One person was Neil Rosen, the Owner and Producer of Cherry County Playhouse. I not only learned about his job but also scheduled an interview that would lead to MY first paying theater job. ** I am certain that time I spent working at CCP during the summer of 1992 (and 4 subsequent years) shaped the course of my whole life. I went on to study theater at DePaul University, founded as the Goodman School of Drama and work at Broadway In Chicago. While employed at BIC, I met some people who facilitated my next—non-theater—career; which landed me in Orange County, California.
Rich Oman opened doors that led to my fun, exciting, sexy and incredible life
Last week, I met with Rich for lunch at Main Street Pub and Eatery in North Muskegon. The day before I had, unknowingly, sent an email to his new wife--she is the editor of a local publication where I was inquiring about being a contributing writer. The following day he sent me an email informing me that The Muskegon Chronicle is looking for theater reviewers and I should pursue that as well. I emailed the Arts Editor and she is going to give me a shot.
Victories, failures, love and heartbreak have brought me to this moment. The person I am is the sum total of all those events. At 36 years old, I have no regrets or resentments. Opportunities abound and I am unabashedly seizing them. I encourage you to do the same. Every relationship, every interaction presents a possibility.
To everyone who has contributed to me in my journey, thank you. I promise, things will only get better from here.
Can you see the road map of your life? What was the incident that put it in action? Who was the person?
*Feel free to use your imagination for the last word of that sentence.
**$100.00 a week for 40-50 hours.
Without these transformations, I would be a resigned, bitter, neurotic woman. *
I sit at my computer comfortable in my own skin. Present to life working around me. I am as happy as an Irishman in a pub.
The conversation got me reflecting on my journey in life. The very path that has me sitting at my parents’ dining room table while writing with a Red 1999 Ford Escort parked in the driveway.
People often say, “In life there are no accidents.” I believe that to be true.
In 1991, while a senior at North Muskegon High School, I entered a mentor program to work with a professional in a chosen field. I opted for theater and was assigned to Rich Oman, a professor at Muskegon Community College. I studied an array of areas and interviewed working professionals. One person was Neil Rosen, the Owner and Producer of Cherry County Playhouse. I not only learned about his job but also scheduled an interview that would lead to MY first paying theater job. ** I am certain that time I spent working at CCP during the summer of 1992 (and 4 subsequent years) shaped the course of my whole life. I went on to study theater at DePaul University, founded as the Goodman School of Drama and work at Broadway In Chicago. While employed at BIC, I met some people who facilitated my next—non-theater—career; which landed me in Orange County, California.
Rich Oman opened doors that led to my fun, exciting, sexy and incredible life
Last week, I met with Rich for lunch at Main Street Pub and Eatery in North Muskegon. The day before I had, unknowingly, sent an email to his new wife--she is the editor of a local publication where I was inquiring about being a contributing writer. The following day he sent me an email informing me that The Muskegon Chronicle is looking for theater reviewers and I should pursue that as well. I emailed the Arts Editor and she is going to give me a shot.
Victories, failures, love and heartbreak have brought me to this moment. The person I am is the sum total of all those events. At 36 years old, I have no regrets or resentments. Opportunities abound and I am unabashedly seizing them. I encourage you to do the same. Every relationship, every interaction presents a possibility.
To everyone who has contributed to me in my journey, thank you. I promise, things will only get better from here.
Can you see the road map of your life? What was the incident that put it in action? Who was the person?
*Feel free to use your imagination for the last word of that sentence.
**$100.00 a week for 40-50 hours.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Peace out OC
I am about two weeks late writing this blog but, alas, better late than never. As I write this I am sitting in my parents condo—currently my home.
Peace out OC….
Leaving you is bitter sweet. I dwelled behind the Orange Curtain for One year and 298 days; most of the time feeling like a stranger in a strange land. I never embraced your ways or gave you my heart fully. When my plane took off on November 15, 2008, I had no intention of making you home. You were a means to an end in forwarding my career and a pathway to a promotion back to the Midwest.
Try as I might to hide my heart from you; somehow, a piece of it remains in So Cal. True, I abandoned my Peggy Sawyer* like optimism and advancement ambitions. Yet, the moment that I stopped pursing that which drove me to Coast Mesa is the moment our courtship began. I not only no longer loathed you but also began to like you. My disgust dissipated and an adventure began.
I spent months exploring your charms in Old Town San Diego, The Huntington Library, the Sprekles Organ, the Tide Swells in Laguna Beach and Hotel Del. I, gasp, made friends with your inhabitants. People I am certain will be in my life, if only through the occasional Facebook interaction, forever.
Not only did I explore your state…I explored myself. What did I want to do next? Where did I want to do it? If I am not my job, who am I? I participated in Pax Courses and inquired into my best feminine self.
I had fun, found peace and was happy.
People would ask, “You are such a California Girl now, how can you go back to the Midwest.” I am not a West Coast, Midwest or East Coast Girl. I am me, Alyssa Dyksterhouse.
On my way to my Doctors appointment this morning I heard my summer theme song—Katy Perry’s California Gurls. My sun kissed skin is still so hot it will melt your Popsicle. I am undeniable. I am fine, fresh and fierce—I got in on lock.
One week into my relocation, I am more certain that I made the best choice for me. I am creating opportunities and building on what I started in California.
Peace out OC….you bought me peace.
* The lead Character in the Musical 42nd Street--a nervous but enthusiastic new chorus girl from out of town
Peace out OC….
Leaving you is bitter sweet. I dwelled behind the Orange Curtain for One year and 298 days; most of the time feeling like a stranger in a strange land. I never embraced your ways or gave you my heart fully. When my plane took off on November 15, 2008, I had no intention of making you home. You were a means to an end in forwarding my career and a pathway to a promotion back to the Midwest.
Try as I might to hide my heart from you; somehow, a piece of it remains in So Cal. True, I abandoned my Peggy Sawyer* like optimism and advancement ambitions. Yet, the moment that I stopped pursing that which drove me to Coast Mesa is the moment our courtship began. I not only no longer loathed you but also began to like you. My disgust dissipated and an adventure began.
I spent months exploring your charms in Old Town San Diego, The Huntington Library, the Sprekles Organ, the Tide Swells in Laguna Beach and Hotel Del. I, gasp, made friends with your inhabitants. People I am certain will be in my life, if only through the occasional Facebook interaction, forever.
Not only did I explore your state…I explored myself. What did I want to do next? Where did I want to do it? If I am not my job, who am I? I participated in Pax Courses and inquired into my best feminine self.
I had fun, found peace and was happy.
People would ask, “You are such a California Girl now, how can you go back to the Midwest.” I am not a West Coast, Midwest or East Coast Girl. I am me, Alyssa Dyksterhouse.
On my way to my Doctors appointment this morning I heard my summer theme song—Katy Perry’s California Gurls. My sun kissed skin is still so hot it will melt your Popsicle. I am undeniable. I am fine, fresh and fierce—I got in on lock.
One week into my relocation, I am more certain that I made the best choice for me. I am creating opportunities and building on what I started in California.
Peace out OC….you bought me peace.
* The lead Character in the Musical 42nd Street--a nervous but enthusiastic new chorus girl from out of town
Monday, September 20, 2010
The Tenth Circle of Hell
According to Wikipedia:
Allegorically, the Inferno represents the Christian soul seeing sin for what it really is, and the three beasts represent three types of sin: the self-indulgent, the violent, and the malicious.[12] These three types of sin also provide the three main divisions of Dante's Hell: Upper Hell (the first 5 Circles) for the self-indulgent sins; Circles 6 and 7 for the violent sins; and Circles 8 and 9 for the malicious sins.
I am certain if Dante were to be living in modern times he would have included a 10th circle—Meijer in Fruitport on a Saturday afternoon.
Meijer, founded in Grand Rapids, Michigan in 1934, is a regional superstore thought to be the original big box. In fact, at one point it’s official name was Meijer Thrifty Acres. Indeed, at 2:00 in the morning one can purchase a live lobster, jumper cables, a DVD and some Swedish Fish in bulk. I have spent many hours entertaining myself in aisles of that store.
Saturday afternoon, I ventured out to do some grocery shopping. Soon after I entered the store I began to wonder if my mom didn’t warn me as some sort of punishment.
Three words sum up the experience. Hell on Earth.
I now understand why there is a waiting period for Guns as I may have gone to the hunting aisle, purchased one and opened fire.
People seem to think grocery shopping is a group activity. In almost every aisle a family of four would stop—in such a manner than no one can get around—and have a debate on what kind of potato chips to buy.
I suggest steel toe boots if one must go to the Fruitport Meijer on a Saturday. The store is full of people who are asleep at the cart.
I found it easier to navigate my way through the aisles with healthier or ethnic food as they were like ghost towns while the soda and cookie aisle should be avoided at all costs. Really, I think the town of Fruitport keeps the soft drink industry in business. The produce aisle is pretty open too.
If at all possible limit the items you purchase as 75% of all the shoppers had enough items in their cart to feed a small Asian family for a month.
Before I exited the store, I stopped at the Chase Bank to open an account. When I told the banker to be sure to attach a savings account he replied, “You clearly are not from around here. No one here saves.”
Signing out on my first blog from Fruitport. Sorry no pictures but I was in the trenches.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meijers
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Thievery on the Southwest Chief
I am en route from California to Michigan via Amtrak. An avid train rider I am used to the delays encountered on riding the Pere Marquette from Chicago to Holland. One could bet that train will be late for any number of reasons. My favorite was the time we clipped the tail end of a garbage truck. Heading back the day after Christmas, I had to call my boss to let him know I was going to be late while we waited for the trash to be taken of the tracks.
The Southwest Chief, Train Number Four, is running right on time despite the 20 minutes we spent last night filling a police report in Needles, California. Around 12:45 AM I went to the bathroom; upon return to my seat I saw a young man scanning the overhead bins with the light of his cell phone. I looked down to discover my laptop was missing. As I passed from car 13 to car 12 I found two more individuals who were missing items. A woman then informed me that she saw the punk riffling through her bag as well as investigating my red bag (my ultra heavy cooler).
We headed from car 12 to car 11 to car 10 looking for an Amtrak employ. We locate two sitting in the employee quarters in car 1.
“There is a thief on the train.”
“How do you know?”
“He stole my backpack with my laptop, my girlfriends camera and her—pointing to me--laptop. He has been walking back and forth all night.”
“I don’t know what we can do about it?”
“Find him and ask him questions.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“The kid with all the tattoos.
“And piercings?”
“Yes, that is him.”
“He is getting off at the Needles stop. That is in ten minutes. The best we can do is to watch and see what he takes off the train with him.”
I might want to mention that one of the kids who was with me, a 19-year-old, apologized for bothering them.
Taking matters into our own hands we set out to search high and low for our missing items.*
I went back to ask the staff to turn the lights on so we could look, they declined as to not wake up all the passengers. My retort, “I know this does not happen often but you are not handling this sufficiently.
I pass the suspect who stops me and says, “Did someone steal something from you because someone stole my laptop and my camera and they think I did it.”
“You have been wondering up and down the train all night.”
By this time another passenger is missing his video camera and laptop.
I head back through the train. The conductors have located a few of the items but not my laptop. I follow one of the Amtrak “police” and the perp to the bathroom. He opens his hard cased mustard yellow suitcase and I see it. I see my laptop.
“There it is.”
He maneuvers his belongings to hide it.
“Your laptop is not in my bag.”
“It is under your clothes.”
The conductor leans down and hands me my computer and I look him in the eye and say, “You are a Mother Fucker.”
Mr. Amtrak adds, “You are in big trouble.”
The train arrives to Needles and the delinquent runs to his Grandma, “They are saying I stole things but I am being framed.” To us, “I swear on my brother’s life…on my dead cousin’s life. I didn’t do this. You gotta believe me.”
One girl cannot find her camera so we ask him to open his suitcase again. He opens the suitcase. After five minutes, WHILE WE ARE WAITING FOR THE COPS, he and his Grandma start walking off. We follow.
His Grandma turns around, “There isn’t anything in his bag.”
Ok, so that statement is telling. If she thought he was innocent she would have said, “My grandson is not a thief.” Basically she is saying, “You cannot prove anything.”
Luckily, Needles finest arrived at that moment.
I need to interrupt this story to tell you about the crowd at the Needles Train Depot at 1:00 AM. One word, COPS. I wanted to ask Needles Finest if they filmed COPS here.
Also, a word about Jessie James. He was wearing a slightly slanted “Yo” hat and we think uses either Crystal Meth or Heroin.
The officer gets out of his car when dickwad says, “There were two black dudes going up and down the aisle, maybe they framed me.” Oh, yeah blame it on the African Americans, douche bag.
Grandma pipes in, again, “He doesn’t have anything in his bag.”
The police sent us away put him in the car and took are reports.
This is actually the reader’s digest version of the story.
Happily, after the last camera was dug out of the bathroom trash, all items are returned in to the proper owners.
*I was smart enough to buy traveler's insurance.
The Southwest Chief, Train Number Four, is running right on time despite the 20 minutes we spent last night filling a police report in Needles, California. Around 12:45 AM I went to the bathroom; upon return to my seat I saw a young man scanning the overhead bins with the light of his cell phone. I looked down to discover my laptop was missing. As I passed from car 13 to car 12 I found two more individuals who were missing items. A woman then informed me that she saw the punk riffling through her bag as well as investigating my red bag (my ultra heavy cooler).
We headed from car 12 to car 11 to car 10 looking for an Amtrak employ. We locate two sitting in the employee quarters in car 1.
“There is a thief on the train.”
“How do you know?”
“He stole my backpack with my laptop, my girlfriends camera and her—pointing to me--laptop. He has been walking back and forth all night.”
“I don’t know what we can do about it?”
“Find him and ask him questions.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“The kid with all the tattoos.
“And piercings?”
“Yes, that is him.”
“He is getting off at the Needles stop. That is in ten minutes. The best we can do is to watch and see what he takes off the train with him.”
I might want to mention that one of the kids who was with me, a 19-year-old, apologized for bothering them.
Taking matters into our own hands we set out to search high and low for our missing items.*
I went back to ask the staff to turn the lights on so we could look, they declined as to not wake up all the passengers. My retort, “I know this does not happen often but you are not handling this sufficiently.
I pass the suspect who stops me and says, “Did someone steal something from you because someone stole my laptop and my camera and they think I did it.”
“You have been wondering up and down the train all night.”
By this time another passenger is missing his video camera and laptop.
I head back through the train. The conductors have located a few of the items but not my laptop. I follow one of the Amtrak “police” and the perp to the bathroom. He opens his hard cased mustard yellow suitcase and I see it. I see my laptop.
“There it is.”
He maneuvers his belongings to hide it.
“Your laptop is not in my bag.”
“It is under your clothes.”
The conductor leans down and hands me my computer and I look him in the eye and say, “You are a Mother Fucker.”
Mr. Amtrak adds, “You are in big trouble.”
The train arrives to Needles and the delinquent runs to his Grandma, “They are saying I stole things but I am being framed.” To us, “I swear on my brother’s life…on my dead cousin’s life. I didn’t do this. You gotta believe me.”
One girl cannot find her camera so we ask him to open his suitcase again. He opens the suitcase. After five minutes, WHILE WE ARE WAITING FOR THE COPS, he and his Grandma start walking off. We follow.
His Grandma turns around, “There isn’t anything in his bag.”
Ok, so that statement is telling. If she thought he was innocent she would have said, “My grandson is not a thief.” Basically she is saying, “You cannot prove anything.”
Luckily, Needles finest arrived at that moment.
I need to interrupt this story to tell you about the crowd at the Needles Train Depot at 1:00 AM. One word, COPS. I wanted to ask Needles Finest if they filmed COPS here.
Also, a word about Jessie James. He was wearing a slightly slanted “Yo” hat and we think uses either Crystal Meth or Heroin.
The officer gets out of his car when dickwad says, “There were two black dudes going up and down the aisle, maybe they framed me.” Oh, yeah blame it on the African Americans, douche bag.
Grandma pipes in, again, “He doesn’t have anything in his bag.”
The police sent us away put him in the car and took are reports.
This is actually the reader’s digest version of the story.
Happily, after the last camera was dug out of the bathroom trash, all items are returned in to the proper owners.
*I was smart enough to buy traveler's insurance.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Fruitport, Which is Right next to Ferrysberg
A few weeks ago I went on an impromptu trip to Chicago. Staying with my friend Kate on the Northside in Portage Park, I took the Milwaukee bus downtown. Passing through Wicker Park I started nostalgically thinking about my 14 years living in Chicago. During that time I had 100 lifetimes being a student, a receptionist, a student worker, which led me to the question, “What is my newest life in Chicago going to look like? Is it possible to go home again?”
The person who boarded American Airlines to SNA on November 15, 2008 is not returning to Chicago. The entitled, superior, perfect Alyssa no longer exists. Moving to California where I knew no one was the first step in a self-discovery. Leaving my job in March, about the same time I began this blog, a drive into the pool of the unknown. In the early days I was lost as to what to do next and how to do it? Nothing was the same.
In the past five months, I have traveled, made friends, tried new things, taken courses and for the first time in a long time everything about my life works. Concerned to interrupt anything with a gnawing fear that moving to Chicago wasn’t a good idea I have been putting off moving. I miss my people terribly but am more committed to my life working and the difference I can make for others when it does.
I even considered, at the suggestion of my Illinois dwelling boyfriend, staying in California. Smart enough to know that it might just be something I am doing because I feel I should and concerned about my happiness. In the end I chose to move, as the distance is too much—I hate missing weddings and funerals and birthday celebrations.
After my visit, I was no more certain—and perhaps less—that moving back to Chicago was the best idea. The cost of living is high especially given that I do not have a job. They have a water bottle tax! I want to focus on writing a book and the city has many distractions. Even my visit to my former neighborhood pub proved bankrupt.
My future in Chicago is predictable…I will be so worried about survival that my anxiety will drive me to some job at which I am underemployed hence my life will stop working and I will cease writing.
Therefore, I am moving home. Muskegon County. The Skee. I will be living in my parents basement bedroom suit in Fruitport Michigan—that is right next to Ferrysburg, no joke. I a 36 years old and I think this is the most adult thing I can do. I will be able to save money and focus on the things I would do if not anxious about, and scared of, being homeless and hungry.
Those of you concerned about fodder for my blog, you have never been to The Skee. When I was 32 years old, a grocery store clerk once questioned if she could sell me Rolling Rock because my license was from Illinois and she wasn’t sure if they “accepted” out of state ID. My mom frequently drops her wine in the check out lane at Meijers. Don’t worry I never blog about people I like without their permission. Fruitport, which is right next to Ferrysburg.
Those of you concerned about my “pool time” one of my BFFs from high school has a pool and lives on a lake (yes, you can see across it). She has offered to be my sidekick and wear a cape. Be the Glinda to my Elphaba….ok, maybe more like the Wonder Twins.
Those of you concerned about the title of this blog….it is also a play on OCD and ADD which I will have regardless of what county I reside.
Moving back to a town I couldn’t wait to get away from gives me great peace of mind. What would have been an indication of failure as an adult is now a blessing.
Would you ever move home? What do you think about a roommate, your dad, who cooks for you?
Oh and Mom, we need to work out the caf/decaf issue on the Painted Black.
The person who boarded American Airlines to SNA on November 15, 2008 is not returning to Chicago. The entitled, superior, perfect Alyssa no longer exists. Moving to California where I knew no one was the first step in a self-discovery. Leaving my job in March, about the same time I began this blog, a drive into the pool of the unknown. In the early days I was lost as to what to do next and how to do it? Nothing was the same.
In the past five months, I have traveled, made friends, tried new things, taken courses and for the first time in a long time everything about my life works. Concerned to interrupt anything with a gnawing fear that moving to Chicago wasn’t a good idea I have been putting off moving. I miss my people terribly but am more committed to my life working and the difference I can make for others when it does.
I even considered, at the suggestion of my Illinois dwelling boyfriend, staying in California. Smart enough to know that it might just be something I am doing because I feel I should and concerned about my happiness. In the end I chose to move, as the distance is too much—I hate missing weddings and funerals and birthday celebrations.
After my visit, I was no more certain—and perhaps less—that moving back to Chicago was the best idea. The cost of living is high especially given that I do not have a job. They have a water bottle tax! I want to focus on writing a book and the city has many distractions. Even my visit to my former neighborhood pub proved bankrupt.
My future in Chicago is predictable…I will be so worried about survival that my anxiety will drive me to some job at which I am underemployed hence my life will stop working and I will cease writing.
Therefore, I am moving home. Muskegon County. The Skee. I will be living in my parents basement bedroom suit in Fruitport Michigan—that is right next to Ferrysburg, no joke. I a 36 years old and I think this is the most adult thing I can do. I will be able to save money and focus on the things I would do if not anxious about, and scared of, being homeless and hungry.
Those of you concerned about fodder for my blog, you have never been to The Skee. When I was 32 years old, a grocery store clerk once questioned if she could sell me Rolling Rock because my license was from Illinois and she wasn’t sure if they “accepted” out of state ID. My mom frequently drops her wine in the check out lane at Meijers. Don’t worry I never blog about people I like without their permission. Fruitport, which is right next to Ferrysburg.
Those of you concerned about my “pool time” one of my BFFs from high school has a pool and lives on a lake (yes, you can see across it). She has offered to be my sidekick and wear a cape. Be the Glinda to my Elphaba….ok, maybe more like the Wonder Twins.
Those of you concerned about the title of this blog….it is also a play on OCD and ADD which I will have regardless of what county I reside.
Moving back to a town I couldn’t wait to get away from gives me great peace of mind. What would have been an indication of failure as an adult is now a blessing.
Would you ever move home? What do you think about a roommate, your dad, who cooks for you?
Oh and Mom, we need to work out the caf/decaf issue on the Painted Black.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
A Rant....
Someone recently commented on my inclusion of pictures in my blog. I ignored my knee jerk reaction to fire back a terse comment because I hate it when anyone questions my writing or me. Instead I thought about the inquiry. Am I crossing the line? Am I violating people’s privacy? Are the pictures wrong?
When I started this blog I did not intend to poke fun at my neighbors or include pictures. However, the more I witnessed the characters in my community the fodder they provided could not be ignored. In the following weeks various people requested I include pictures and video of these people about whom I was writing.
I did not rashly decide to post photos. First I made certain I was not violating any laws. In the California, a person does not have a right to expect privacy in a public area including photos, video and voice recordings.
Many of my neighbors know that I blog of the crazy goings on in our friendly confines; in fact, we have agreements about who and what can be documented in this blog. In reality, --out of loyalty and integrity--many blog worthy incidents go undocumented.
While I am not violating any law or relationship, a question still lingers in my brain? Are the pictures wrong? I started this blog as a self-expression and images have grown to be a large part of my voice. Moreover, private individuals are becoming public people. Is it okay to document the bad behavior of Charlie Sheen but not the jackass by the pool? With Facebook, Twitter, Cell Phone Cameras and everything else it happens.
So all of this has been a pre-amble to my rant. If you do not want to be known for bad behavior do not partake of it in public. If you do not want the world to know you a drug dealer—or any sort of criminal—it would be best not to brag about it. If you do not want your sex tape on the Internet don’t hit record. In my past I have done cringe-worthy things; which I stopped when I asked myself would I be embarrassed if my parents, boss or co-workers knew about this. Our economy is in shambles due to the fact that we tolerate shit. How many times do you say, or hear someone say, “Hey, pay your mortgage.” Hey, don’t spend more than you make.”? Rarely. So as far as I am concerned all unscrupulous acts—including mine—are fair game. Is it nice? No. Is it needed? Maybe. Is niceness what got us into the societal and economic problems we are facing? Yes. Is it time to try something new? Yes.
Don’t be an idiot in public and stop making bullshit ok.
Let me know your thoughts.
Thanks @ Zen, for the thought provoking post and the subsequent rant. I love you and who you are.
When I started this blog I did not intend to poke fun at my neighbors or include pictures. However, the more I witnessed the characters in my community the fodder they provided could not be ignored. In the following weeks various people requested I include pictures and video of these people about whom I was writing.
I did not rashly decide to post photos. First I made certain I was not violating any laws. In the California, a person does not have a right to expect privacy in a public area including photos, video and voice recordings.
Many of my neighbors know that I blog of the crazy goings on in our friendly confines; in fact, we have agreements about who and what can be documented in this blog. In reality, --out of loyalty and integrity--many blog worthy incidents go undocumented.
While I am not violating any law or relationship, a question still lingers in my brain? Are the pictures wrong? I started this blog as a self-expression and images have grown to be a large part of my voice. Moreover, private individuals are becoming public people. Is it okay to document the bad behavior of Charlie Sheen but not the jackass by the pool? With Facebook, Twitter, Cell Phone Cameras and everything else it happens.
So all of this has been a pre-amble to my rant. If you do not want to be known for bad behavior do not partake of it in public. If you do not want the world to know you a drug dealer—or any sort of criminal—it would be best not to brag about it. If you do not want your sex tape on the Internet don’t hit record. In my past I have done cringe-worthy things; which I stopped when I asked myself would I be embarrassed if my parents, boss or co-workers knew about this. Our economy is in shambles due to the fact that we tolerate shit. How many times do you say, or hear someone say, “Hey, pay your mortgage.” Hey, don’t spend more than you make.”? Rarely. So as far as I am concerned all unscrupulous acts—including mine—are fair game. Is it nice? No. Is it needed? Maybe. Is niceness what got us into the societal and economic problems we are facing? Yes. Is it time to try something new? Yes.
Don’t be an idiot in public and stop making bullshit ok.
Let me know your thoughts.
Thanks @ Zen, for the thought provoking post and the subsequent rant. I love you and who you are.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Meet "Rage Monster"
This weekend I attended a course called UNDERSTANDING WOMAN—UNLOCKING THE MYSTERY. One might wonder why I took a course to learn how to understand myself. I even questioned it. Thankfully, I ignored my arrogant ego telling me I know my gender and myself. In April, I wrote a blog called “I am not the Better Man….Now What?” This weekend I answered that question. To quote Alison Armstrong, who led the course and created PAX Programs, “You’re not crazy; you’re a woman.”
I have always exhibited impulsive behavior; which in moments of clarity seem insane even to me. Upon being hurt I would lash out and attempt to destroy the person or people who hurt me—sometimes anyone who was in my path. I would say and do things that seemed irrational at best. My mom called this being a “needling Bitch.” Yep, life is going along then someone—a parent, my sister, my friends, my boyfriends and even my bosses—would say or do something that hurt me and I would start to exhibit unstable behavior such as telling my mom that “I never felt loved” and all the evidence I had since I was born. Instead of charming, adorable Alyssa a demon took over my body. I could not stop.
The aftermath of this detrimental behavior was distance in my relationships and immense shame. Committing to never have it happen again, I would go to work on myself and could go weeks or months until it happened again. I thought there was something very wrong with me.
This weekend Alison introduced me to “Rage Monster.” And every woman has one.
Something happens. Something is said or not said. Something is done or not done. Women figure out what it means from their feminine perspective that is really to say, “what would it mean if it did this?” The answer always results in hurt feelings. Emotional hurting, for a woman, is a physical experience: effecting breathing, posture and ability to make eye contact. We curl up in a ball or lay straight in our bed and “Rage Monster” takes over. The first thing that occurs after the possession is it access the “past offence file.” Thoughts become dominated by “On June 25th when I was wearing the Red Dress you (assaulting party) did ___________.” “Oh, and five years ago on September 1, at that Labor Day party _____________ happened.”
The “past offence file” exists of things which, when sane, didn’t upset us at the time but get automatically saved so “Rage Monster” has ammunition. When they happened we were not upset.
“Rage Monster” exists for a sole purpose—total destruction of the person who hurt me. A dialogue plays in our heads and it takes the raw material and edits for the most injurious attack.” Like it says, “Pause. No we can do better. Take the Labor Day Party and lead with that followed by….”
You might feel compelled to fight with the “Rage Monster.” Not a good idea. At all. At. All. It thrives on the opponent’s energy. You engaging in an argument excites it. Saying things like, “I didn’t hurt your feelings I just___________” is fuel.
“Rage Monster” possesses our bodies and we have very little control. The real authentic us is in a very tiny place in the back of our brain but unable to intervene in the situation. Yet, a small part of us knows, as we say what we say, how idiotic the content is.
Given the laughter of recognition from the men and women in the course; the rage monster is not unique to only me. After about 30 years to know this is common to many women is liberating. I am not crazy and I am not the only one allowing the shame and fear melted away. Now, I have the opportunity to understand, apologize for, and combat “Rage Monster.”
Ladies and Gentleman, I am interested in finding out about your experiences of “Rage Monster.” Also, if you are interested in finding out how to effectively combat it please visit www.understandmen.com and sign up for the course, as it will change your life.
I have always exhibited impulsive behavior; which in moments of clarity seem insane even to me. Upon being hurt I would lash out and attempt to destroy the person or people who hurt me—sometimes anyone who was in my path. I would say and do things that seemed irrational at best. My mom called this being a “needling Bitch.” Yep, life is going along then someone—a parent, my sister, my friends, my boyfriends and even my bosses—would say or do something that hurt me and I would start to exhibit unstable behavior such as telling my mom that “I never felt loved” and all the evidence I had since I was born. Instead of charming, adorable Alyssa a demon took over my body. I could not stop.
The aftermath of this detrimental behavior was distance in my relationships and immense shame. Committing to never have it happen again, I would go to work on myself and could go weeks or months until it happened again. I thought there was something very wrong with me.
This weekend Alison introduced me to “Rage Monster.” And every woman has one.
Something happens. Something is said or not said. Something is done or not done. Women figure out what it means from their feminine perspective that is really to say, “what would it mean if it did this?” The answer always results in hurt feelings. Emotional hurting, for a woman, is a physical experience: effecting breathing, posture and ability to make eye contact. We curl up in a ball or lay straight in our bed and “Rage Monster” takes over. The first thing that occurs after the possession is it access the “past offence file.” Thoughts become dominated by “On June 25th when I was wearing the Red Dress you (assaulting party) did ___________.” “Oh, and five years ago on September 1, at that Labor Day party _____________ happened.”
The “past offence file” exists of things which, when sane, didn’t upset us at the time but get automatically saved so “Rage Monster” has ammunition. When they happened we were not upset.
“Rage Monster” exists for a sole purpose—total destruction of the person who hurt me. A dialogue plays in our heads and it takes the raw material and edits for the most injurious attack.” Like it says, “Pause. No we can do better. Take the Labor Day Party and lead with that followed by….”
You might feel compelled to fight with the “Rage Monster.” Not a good idea. At all. At. All. It thrives on the opponent’s energy. You engaging in an argument excites it. Saying things like, “I didn’t hurt your feelings I just___________” is fuel.
“Rage Monster” possesses our bodies and we have very little control. The real authentic us is in a very tiny place in the back of our brain but unable to intervene in the situation. Yet, a small part of us knows, as we say what we say, how idiotic the content is.
Given the laughter of recognition from the men and women in the course; the rage monster is not unique to only me. After about 30 years to know this is common to many women is liberating. I am not crazy and I am not the only one allowing the shame and fear melted away. Now, I have the opportunity to understand, apologize for, and combat “Rage Monster.”
Ladies and Gentleman, I am interested in finding out about your experiences of “Rage Monster.” Also, if you are interested in finding out how to effectively combat it please visit www.understandmen.com and sign up for the course, as it will change your life.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Meet Baby Huey
We have a new resident at Newport Village Apartments and all I can tell you is just when things couldn’t get any odder this freak show moved in. I have met him on three separate occasions the second of which he was in the Jacuzzi flashing his Moobs in full glory and evidently needs to do laundry so—instead of swim trunks—was donning his underwear. They may have been boxer briefs at one point in time. He exited the pool area carrying his clothes with his fat rolls hanging over his black elastic band. An hour later Jay—that is his name—returned wearing a Wrigley Field T-Shirt.
“Have you been inside the friendly confines?”
“Huh?”
“Your shirt?”
“Oh, uh, this was a gift.”
“It’s one of the best tourist attractions to party at.”
“Wait, it’s a baseball field right”
Warned about Baby Huey living in the complex, no one accurately described him. His source of income is to drive his Prius to various bars in Newport Beach and Irvine and offer drunken people a ride for a small fee. He prides himself on being cheaper than a Cab. The only problem, he doesn’t have a license and apparently some bouncers are “out to get him” despite the community service he provides. You may wanna re-read that sentence. Don’t worry he is going to set a trap for them and videotape it.
Oh, but it pays better than a day job.
I won’t begin to explore the sanity of a his “fares.”
He recently tried Heroin, as Pot no longer “does anything for him.” Again, you may need to re-read that sentence so that it can sink in. In my opinion, anyone who tries Heroin expecting to be that one person who doesn’t get hooked is a moron.
The first time I encountered him he kept talking about his Daddy (who bought him the Prius) taking care of this and getting him that. I looked to my neighbor for permission. Then stated, “It must be hard being a spoiled rich kid.” He retorted, “I am not a kid. I am 22 and I am not spoiled.” Really? Then start paying your own way in life and pick up the phone and call TicketMaster yourself.
Last weekend his tires were slashed; which is a first for Newport Village. Quick to rush to judgment, Jay pointed the finger at some other residents. I am willing to guess that people are lining up to get even with him.
That’s my report of oddballs for the week.
>
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Topless in Costa Mesa
The other day, I concluded I was bored with the pool. First of all, it has been too hot to really enjoy any time in the sun. Second of all, the crowd has been disappointedly lame. However, I have been tending to my neighbor’s girls and they have not grown discontent from the pool. So today I begrudgingly escorted them for their daily swim. Upon entering I witnessed a woman whom heretofore occurred as a benevolent. I took my usual seat while the girls frolicked about the water. Eventually, the previously tame woman was talking to Aubrey and Liana. Keeping my eye on them it becomes evident that this lady, in addition to chatting with the kids, is engaging in a full conversation with herself. Finally, I send Liana to my apartment to get my raft and play in the deep end—far away from recently erratic woman.
Upon my relegating them to the deep end, she attempted to start a conversation with me. Asking me to come over to talk to her and other things she declares, loud enough that the kids hear, “My boobs are bigger than yours will ever be.” This statement offers so many problems. Obviously, there is no certainty in the statement, as medical advancement being what it is, I can always buy bigger breasts should I desire. Also, just because they are big doesn’t equate to them being admired or coveted.
Apparently, she wanted to prove her statement because the next time I looked over she was unholstered with her left tit and nipple resting in her armpit. Ok, now I alerted the management office where they were already aware of the incident but uncertain how to proceed plus concerned that she was passed out. A few minutes later the Manager came out and, assumedly, told her to pull up her bathing suit and go home. She sat for a good 10 minutes with her one piece around her waist cupping her breasts. The Manager spoke to her again and another 10 minutes later she pulled her top to cover herself and promptly passed out in her lawn chair.
Forty minutes later a member of the Costa Mesa Police Department arrived to wake her up and escort her home.
“Ma'am, pull you swim suit up.” “Can you please tie your swim suit?”
He then requested the Manager to assist him in walking her home as well as getting her dressed. The woman struggled to tie her black and white suit till someone came to her aid.
Eventually she managed to pull herself together to be escorted back to her second floor apartment.
This all happened before 4:00.
To quote 10-year old Liana, “That was better than a movie.”
I have been drunk, I have even passed out in a lawn chair; yet, the police have never escorted me home from the pool in my apartment complex. Has anyone ever witnessed anything like this?
Given my proclivity to document things on my cell camera, I was able to provide a brief photo essay of the whole event. Enjoy!
Also, this whole day made me appreciate Moobs
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Musings on Moobs
Recently I visited with a friend of mine who has been involved in a rigorous weight loss and workout regime resulting in well-defined pectoral muscles. I made the mistake of referring to them as man boobs (moobs); which, resulted in him taking offence followed by schooling me on the difference between pecks and moobs.
The first way to tell the difference is paying attention to shape. Moobs are round while pecks are square. Think of the Golden Fat Buddha versus Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Secondly, pay attention to form. Moobs, being comprised of fat, jiggle like Jello whereas as well formed peck, consisting of muscle, rest firmly on a man’s chest like implants of on a stripper. Again think about Fat Buddha versus our esteemed California Governor.
Given my recent obsession with Moobs, I find this to be useful information and armed with the distinction between the two I still see way too many Moobs. People seem to enjoy my observations about Moobs and I would like to hear from you. Moreover, I am creating a contest. Anyone who visits my Facebook page knows I have been snapping pictures of men’s chests on my cell phone all over Southern California. The contest is to take a picture of the man boobs without out the subject knowing and post them on my Facebook fan page. Then vote of your favorite. The winner will be the subject of this blog and receive a lifetime of my adoration.
AD/OC….The Real Alyssa of Orange County.
http://www.facebook.com/?ref=logo#!/pages/ADOCThe-Real-Alyssa-of-Orange-County/112972295384970?ref=ts
Sunday, August 15, 2010
On Plastic Surgery....
I have been remiss in addressing a hot topic in Orange County—Plastic Surgery. Many times I have sat at the computer wanting to write about it; yet, everything I had to say was cliché and malicious.
When I first moved to OC, I joked with the guy I was seeing about getting some “work” done—boob job, butt implants, tummy tuck—his response was to not mess with perfection.
Later, I found out you can finance anything that is not covered by insurance. During my first trip to my Primary Care Physician, I discovered that in addition to the ordinary Internist things she also offered reconstructive procedures. Following that I went to my OB/GYN who offers Laser Body Sculpting. I was left with the question, “Is there any doctor who just practices what they went to medical school to do?” In fact, one day while sitting in the waiting room I overheard the nurse say, “Maybe he can throw in a tummy tuck during your C-Section.” I guess it makes sense, with a pregnancy wrecked body you might turn to the person who delivered your baby to restore your physique.
This weekend as I participated in a course called Celebrating Men and Sex, it struck me how much unnecessary and uniformed effort women put into their appearance. Many topics were addressed including what men find attractive about women, one of which is curves. Men like that we have curves.
Ironically, I spent most of my life avoiding having or covering up my curves. My late teens and early twenties were spent trying to be as thin as possible; which is the anti-thesis of curves. My friends and I went to great lengths to avoid hips or butt including, for some, eating disorders. Looking back years later, our vanity drove us to look like boys with bumps on our chests. Additionally I wore baggy clothes covering up any possible shape I had while accentuating my best asset—my legs.
Even recently, I gained five pounds and was lamenting my hips and butt getting bigger. For whatever reason, my ideal body is straight rather than round: flat not curvy. Hence the thought of ass implants seems incomprehensible to me.
As for my breast, they are small but perky. Also, most men I speak with dislike fake boobs; hence, I have never had a desire or need to augment them.
Today, a panel of men came in to the course to answer various questions. One question addressed “What do you love most about a women’s body?” The answer surprised me. They said things about vibrant smiles, caring eyes and posture. Each man claiming he was not an ass, leg or boob man till finally one said—and all others agreed—“I am a leg man because that is the one body part you cannot get plastic surgery on.”
They just want the natural us. Consider you are not getting “work” done for men but for other woman. Men do not care that much. They love us the way we are. For men it is not the breasts, ass and the like which attracts men. They crave our curves and our confidence.
On a personal note, I think plastic surgery looks silly. Tits too large for your frame look stupid. Nose jobs coupled with collagen in your lips makes you look like an alien. I am not opposed to reconstructive surgery or, maybe, a little botox; however, there is such a thing as too much work. Just know that men will love and desire you are you are: curves and all. Confidence goes a long way.
http://www.understandmen.com/
When I first moved to OC, I joked with the guy I was seeing about getting some “work” done—boob job, butt implants, tummy tuck—his response was to not mess with perfection.
Later, I found out you can finance anything that is not covered by insurance. During my first trip to my Primary Care Physician, I discovered that in addition to the ordinary Internist things she also offered reconstructive procedures. Following that I went to my OB/GYN who offers Laser Body Sculpting. I was left with the question, “Is there any doctor who just practices what they went to medical school to do?” In fact, one day while sitting in the waiting room I overheard the nurse say, “Maybe he can throw in a tummy tuck during your C-Section.” I guess it makes sense, with a pregnancy wrecked body you might turn to the person who delivered your baby to restore your physique.
This weekend as I participated in a course called Celebrating Men and Sex, it struck me how much unnecessary and uniformed effort women put into their appearance. Many topics were addressed including what men find attractive about women, one of which is curves. Men like that we have curves.
Ironically, I spent most of my life avoiding having or covering up my curves. My late teens and early twenties were spent trying to be as thin as possible; which is the anti-thesis of curves. My friends and I went to great lengths to avoid hips or butt including, for some, eating disorders. Looking back years later, our vanity drove us to look like boys with bumps on our chests. Additionally I wore baggy clothes covering up any possible shape I had while accentuating my best asset—my legs.
Even recently, I gained five pounds and was lamenting my hips and butt getting bigger. For whatever reason, my ideal body is straight rather than round: flat not curvy. Hence the thought of ass implants seems incomprehensible to me.
As for my breast, they are small but perky. Also, most men I speak with dislike fake boobs; hence, I have never had a desire or need to augment them.
Today, a panel of men came in to the course to answer various questions. One question addressed “What do you love most about a women’s body?” The answer surprised me. They said things about vibrant smiles, caring eyes and posture. Each man claiming he was not an ass, leg or boob man till finally one said—and all others agreed—“I am a leg man because that is the one body part you cannot get plastic surgery on.”
They just want the natural us. Consider you are not getting “work” done for men but for other woman. Men do not care that much. They love us the way we are. For men it is not the breasts, ass and the like which attracts men. They crave our curves and our confidence.
On a personal note, I think plastic surgery looks silly. Tits too large for your frame look stupid. Nose jobs coupled with collagen in your lips makes you look like an alien. I am not opposed to reconstructive surgery or, maybe, a little botox; however, there is such a thing as too much work. Just know that men will love and desire you are you are: curves and all. Confidence goes a long way.
http://www.understandmen.com/
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