My Diet Coke has a nifty new label on it - if you're judging by the fact that previous cans I've gotten out of the singular and particular vending machine located at the Brevard Music Festival Camp(us) have had Christmas themes. (As you may have noted, it's June 22nd).
It says, simply: "Live Positively".
Well, technically, first there is a picture of a cup of Coke. Followed by a man in the midst of a mad dash, presumably - for that Coke. Last, a bottle of Coke is depicted - well, we're assuming now, it could be a bottle of anything - followed by the slogan, and the Coca Cola logo. However, there it is - a brief message from your friendly Coca Cola company, telling you to Live Positively.
Honey, there are a lot of things you can be "positive" about, and not all of them are fun to er... live with.
... let's pretend that I didn't make an STD/AIDs reference, shall we?
In any case, take last Wednesday night - there was a small lump under my right eye for a few weeks, and I had no idea what it was. It really didn't draw any attention as it was nothing more than a... lump... and I just assumed that someone had, oh, punched me in the eye a while back and I just hadn't noticed. However, just to be sure, I brought my mom on the case.
Cue concern and indignation that I had not addressed this issue days, weeks, months, YEARS ago. (How could I not have predicted this and alerted her and other medical personnel in advance? [grin]) Next thing we know, she's on her laptop, looking up symptoms and asking if I had any STD's, because, well, she's "positive" that it's no ordinary, hot-compress-can-take-it-away lump.
... and... I'm positive that I really don't want to see a doctor about a seemingly trivial lump the day before I head down South for the summer, but that's exactly what I did.
Move to Thursday afternoon, I'm in the eye doctor's examination chair, and after about 2 seconds, he's positive that it's a sty. (ain't Google fun?) And... not only that... he's positive that it's the biggest sty that they - the men and women of the optometrists' world - have seen in a long time.
Well, three cheers and a cupcake for that!
... which leads us to his dictation of my options: I can either "try" to use hot compresses to break it down (he's positive that won't do a darned thing), or they can just, oh, cut it out, right then and there.
.... EEEEHHHH?!
Cue my automatic panic response: "Can... we... call... my ... mom... and... ask... her...?!"
Dr. L is a concise man, and barely 30 seconds into the conversation with my mom, having explained the situation quite nicely, and having her blessing to stick a few needles and a scalpel into my eye, he wraps up the conversation before she can ask to talk to me and assure me that after 10 seconds of me shaking and freaking out silently, I won't be able to feel a thing and the rest of the procedure will just be honky-dorry.
... at this point, watching him hang up, I am *positive* that I want nothing more than to run like a mad man out of that room and away from those needles. I've never really had a phobia about the pointy things, but there is holding-your-mom's-hand-during-your-checkup-scared, and then there is positively-out-of-my-mind-all-alone-you-have-three-needles-poised-for-entry-in-your-hand-OH-MY-GOOD-SWEET-MOTHER-OF-GOD-scared.
Let us just say that there are nail marks in that chair's arm-rests that will not be coming out any time soon.
Live positively, Diet Coke? ... Choose your answer wisely.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Lobster Thighs, thanks to Mahler Licks
Beach = Sun + Sand + Salty Sea Brine... everything that I want out of a two day vacation (time is limited in the Meier Household, if that wasn't quite clear), plus a parting gift.
... see... ghostly, glowing skin - redolent of hard work shredding licks and runs in the dark, cool caves of the music school practice rooms... while it helps light a way home on those dark nights... apparently does not take well to a sudden exposure to the nuclear blast that is the closest star to our planet. Especially at hours at a time. Without, erm, sunscreen...
[wince]
Don't be too hard on me - I wasn't intentionally tanning, I was just trying to give my legs a chance to see some of the outside world. My previous shorts tan was/ is the protective parent of shorts tans.... it ... never... goes... AWAY. Who am I to deny the Sun's chance to corrupt that creamy goodness?!
... well... the Sun has a wicked sense of humor. Did my thighs crisp faster than bacon in the oven? Heck yes. Do I have a more prominent red line than the start of the South? Oh yes.
... did I still get a shorts tan?
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
I don't know how, I wore a bathing suit for more than 5 hours, I cast aside my soccer shorts in favor of a more human-looking color layout, AND I STILL MANAGED TO BURN ALONG THE GOD-DARN SHORTS TAN. THE PALENESS OF MY QUADS HAS ACTUALLY BECOME STRONG ENOUGH TO REPEL THE RAYS OF THE SUN. The Sun came down, asked politely if it could bestow perhaps a light sheen of pink or brown, and my shorts tan said, "Back off, Woman! We've been here for 20 years, and Dani doesn't look normal if *we* have anything to say about it!"
..... [grumble grumble grumble]
North Carolina tomorrow - tihme tooo get maaah twaaaaaaang back on. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!
... see... ghostly, glowing skin - redolent of hard work shredding licks and runs in the dark, cool caves of the music school practice rooms... while it helps light a way home on those dark nights... apparently does not take well to a sudden exposure to the nuclear blast that is the closest star to our planet. Especially at hours at a time. Without, erm, sunscreen...
[wince]
Don't be too hard on me - I wasn't intentionally tanning, I was just trying to give my legs a chance to see some of the outside world. My previous shorts tan was/ is the protective parent of shorts tans.... it ... never... goes... AWAY. Who am I to deny the Sun's chance to corrupt that creamy goodness?!
... well... the Sun has a wicked sense of humor. Did my thighs crisp faster than bacon in the oven? Heck yes. Do I have a more prominent red line than the start of the South? Oh yes.
... did I still get a shorts tan?
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
I don't know how, I wore a bathing suit for more than 5 hours, I cast aside my soccer shorts in favor of a more human-looking color layout, AND I STILL MANAGED TO BURN ALONG THE GOD-DARN SHORTS TAN. THE PALENESS OF MY QUADS HAS ACTUALLY BECOME STRONG ENOUGH TO REPEL THE RAYS OF THE SUN. The Sun came down, asked politely if it could bestow perhaps a light sheen of pink or brown, and my shorts tan said, "Back off, Woman! We've been here for 20 years, and Dani doesn't look normal if *we* have anything to say about it!"
..... [grumble grumble grumble]
North Carolina tomorrow - tihme tooo get maaah twaaaaaaang back on. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!
Thursday, June 12, 2008
I was once the lucky recipient of a Hand-Me-Down Thong.
*IT* was leopard-print. And had fuzzy fringe. *AND*. Not just leopard-print, not just fuzzy... both.
... a catastrophe of massive proportions that only the fashion industry could call its own.
Now, I won't tell you who gave it to me because I'm still praying that it was an (*twitch twitch*) accident on their part. Honestly, what person in their right mind would intentionally put the above-mentioned object in a sack full of deliciously chic (albeit far too small) h-m-d skirts and sweaters? Give such an atrocity freely to a person who considers thongs to be naught but strings sewed into a loop and called "appropriate underwear" by a designer with a satanic sense of humor? Freely pass on something they found while raiding Tarzan's closet?!
... only someone in my family.
I haven't blushed this much since I went underwear shopping with my Grandmother and, while contemplating which pair of nice sensible bloomers would work for her, Enter Saleswoman:
"If you look over here - (points to rack of colorful pastels, snappy prints, and outrageous patterns) - you might find something a little more interesting."
GM and I: "We're plain drawers people, thanks."
SW: "But you never know who's going to see it!!"
....
Happy 85th Birthday, Babci. Enjoy that light baby blue we bought you.
... a catastrophe of massive proportions that only the fashion industry could call its own.
Now, I won't tell you who gave it to me because I'm still praying that it was an (*twitch twitch*) accident on their part. Honestly, what person in their right mind would intentionally put the above-mentioned object in a sack full of deliciously chic (albeit far too small) h-m-d skirts and sweaters? Give such an atrocity freely to a person who considers thongs to be naught but strings sewed into a loop and called "appropriate underwear" by a designer with a satanic sense of humor? Freely pass on something they found while raiding Tarzan's closet?!
... only someone in my family.
I haven't blushed this much since I went underwear shopping with my Grandmother and, while contemplating which pair of nice sensible bloomers would work for her, Enter Saleswoman:
"If you look over here - (points to rack of colorful pastels, snappy prints, and outrageous patterns) - you might find something a little more interesting."
GM and I: "We're plain drawers people, thanks."
SW: "But you never know who's going to see it!!"
....
Happy 85th Birthday, Babci. Enjoy that light baby blue we bought you.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
What does it mean to be a "professional?"
... that's a good question, Hutton Honors College. There's a distinct possibility that a lot of people out there wake up one morning, realize that they've been at the same job or working so hard at a singular hobby / activity / ritual / sacrifice / fetish, that, goshdarnit, they've *got* to be a professional. Or, even - why not call yourself one? Just for fun?
(Rhyming not intended. Usually unexpected.)
What I'm trying to say, HHC, is that defining "professionalism" really depends on the person who's doing the talking... or the walking, if you will.
What? You want *my* opinion? Well, I'm so glad you asked!
A professional is someone ... or something... that's been working to not only accomplish something by getting through the task at hand with an acceptable - or better - outcome, but also managing to repair and nullify any screwups... er... mistakes... made along the way.
(Hey... that wasn't funny at all!)
I always find that the bit about making mistakes is the hairiest part of the whole shebang. It almost seems that, to achieve the sacred title of "professional", you're not allowed to err. Humanity is heavily and with much an amusing facial expression, frowned upon. It's the Kung Fu Master of titles - if you can screw up (or be beaten by the callow youths in your dojo), you don't deserve the consideration.
... I disagree. Even Mr. Miyagi probably took a few falls and punches in the Karate Kid. ("Wax on, wax off" gets harder with age.) The way that I'd like to be remembered as a "professional" musician ... if I ever get there ... is as someone who made a few thousand mistakes working her way slowly, note by note, measure by measure, wax on by wax off, to each new audition / performance... and then rocked the houses' socks off. David Baker, all around cool cat and jazz legend (I'm speaking lightly, mind - trying to find words to describe the type of musician - hell, *person*, that Dr. Baker is would require the invention of a new phrase. He radiates love.) once said that, "if you're in the practice room and you sound *perfect*... you're not practicing right." At the least, you're not working on what you *should* be. Sounding awful for prolongated periods of time is... 99% of the time... a sign that you're taking what you're worst at, facing it down, and refusing to give up on it until your ears stop bleeding.
That... slightly reduced to "experienced enough to accept, learn from, and repair mistakes... not-yet-jaded to the point where you don't care anymore"... is what I call a true professional.
... and if worse comes to worse, you can always be a Professional Screw-up. I've been told it could be one of my future vocations.... [grin]
(Rhyming not intended. Usually unexpected.)
What I'm trying to say, HHC, is that defining "professionalism" really depends on the person who's doing the talking... or the walking, if you will.
What? You want *my* opinion? Well, I'm so glad you asked!
A professional is someone ... or something... that's been working to not only accomplish something by getting through the task at hand with an acceptable - or better - outcome, but also managing to repair and nullify any screwups... er... mistakes... made along the way.
(Hey... that wasn't funny at all!)
I always find that the bit about making mistakes is the hairiest part of the whole shebang. It almost seems that, to achieve the sacred title of "professional", you're not allowed to err. Humanity is heavily and with much an amusing facial expression, frowned upon. It's the Kung Fu Master of titles - if you can screw up (or be beaten by the callow youths in your dojo), you don't deserve the consideration.
... I disagree. Even Mr. Miyagi probably took a few falls and punches in the Karate Kid. ("Wax on, wax off" gets harder with age.) The way that I'd like to be remembered as a "professional" musician ... if I ever get there ... is as someone who made a few thousand mistakes working her way slowly, note by note, measure by measure, wax on by wax off, to each new audition / performance... and then rocked the houses' socks off. David Baker, all around cool cat and jazz legend (I'm speaking lightly, mind - trying to find words to describe the type of musician - hell, *person*, that Dr. Baker is would require the invention of a new phrase. He radiates love.) once said that, "if you're in the practice room and you sound *perfect*... you're not practicing right." At the least, you're not working on what you *should* be. Sounding awful for prolongated periods of time is... 99% of the time... a sign that you're taking what you're worst at, facing it down, and refusing to give up on it until your ears stop bleeding.
That... slightly reduced to "experienced enough to accept, learn from, and repair mistakes... not-yet-jaded to the point where you don't care anymore"... is what I call a true professional.
... and if worse comes to worse, you can always be a Professional Screw-up. I've been told it could be one of my future vocations.... [grin]
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Hello, Mr. Bond... and welcome to my Dark Lab of Blogging.
Mwa hahahahaha.
er... *cough* *cough* Hey there!
So... taking a break from dancing around in my boxers and old pj t-shirts to "Call on Me" to update whoever (ifever) is out there on the past ... week? or so? Perchance?
It matters not! Onward, brave souls!
... bear with me, I just finished my second mug of coffee. Note I didn't use the word "cup" - measurement of my daily intake would either cause a national crisis ("there'll be none left for the rest of us!!") or send Starbucks et co rushing and banging down my door, and it's far too early for both.
I am still in college - 9 30 ish can still be considered "early". Mais oui, moving on...
In summation: Dashing, muscle-y older brother has escaped academic and military prison known as the United States Military Academy. (two claps). Family - including self - all extraordinarily proud of the big guy, albeit walking around a "post" built entirely out of steep hills in heels and a dress severely tried both my patience and any secret, minute desire I may have or have had to start getting in touch with my feminine side.
(to be serious, though I doubt Fezz reads this, I really am proud of him. I just, ya know, can't let him know. Aren't siblings fun?!)
On the side, at the "hop" - an old fashioned, formal dance the night before graduation, discovered that even if my dad and I can't dance like normal human beings together (i.e find the goddamn beat), it's still entertaining, and goodness knows I enjoyed the experience. Now, I just have to get married for the *rest* of you to enjoy that particular spectacle! [grin]
oh, and little black dress plus *huge* white heels apparently do not equal fashion success. Whoops. Where's the Indiana Music School wind section when you need fashion advice?
(oh that was meaner than I intended it... sorry, Fruitcake, but I was as lost as a jock at a D+D convention.)
... SCORE!
... wait... nah. Other embarassing self-realizations will be revealed over the World Wide Web at other, more opportune moments.
Also, little sister Muffin officially finished with her Junior year. Dear Entity, what in tarnation happened to her being that itty bitty freshman that carried the field hockey team's equipment?! Not only has she taken my car, but she probably drives it better than me. (but cut me some slack, I'm rusty.) Slight perk, though - while merging onto the NJ Turnpike to get back home from USMA, was very useful in checking my blindspots on the right side.
... *%&#$@! minivan!
*please hold while "writer" thinks of what she herself has been doing for the undetermined period of time.*
Oh, right - eating all the fruit in the house, running and biking around town so much that it looks like I don't have a job (i don't, as you might recall), rereading all of my old books - Superfudge, by the way, never gets old. I'll be singing "Toot Toot Tootsie Goodbye!" until someone beats it out of me.
(that's not a request)
And before I forget, I've been practicing bass. I figure I should since... that's... my.... career... and... well....
well, it helps that I'm pretty enamoured with the darned thing. Too bad it's been labeled as the Drag Queen of contrabass.
Und... last but certainly not least... I have been continuing to get my old lady on. Love it. Golden girls marathons, here I come.
one final note - before you scoff ("Golden Girls?! Has she lost her mind?!"), yesterday's episode was about a guy running for office that... was... previously... a.... woman.
Take that, politically correct conventionalism!
And with that, it's 10 am, and I've got to get my Dorothy, Rose, Blanche, and Sofia on. (While, I, ya know, clean up the kitchen for my dear, sweet Mama. It's good to be home. *grin*)
er... *cough* *cough* Hey there!
So... taking a break from dancing around in my boxers and old pj t-shirts to "Call on Me" to update whoever (ifever) is out there on the past ... week? or so? Perchance?
It matters not! Onward, brave souls!
... bear with me, I just finished my second mug of coffee. Note I didn't use the word "cup" - measurement of my daily intake would either cause a national crisis ("there'll be none left for the rest of us!!") or send Starbucks et co rushing and banging down my door, and it's far too early for both.
I am still in college - 9 30 ish can still be considered "early". Mais oui, moving on...
In summation: Dashing, muscle-y older brother has escaped academic and military prison known as the United States Military Academy. (two claps). Family - including self - all extraordinarily proud of the big guy, albeit walking around a "post" built entirely out of steep hills in heels and a dress severely tried both my patience and any secret, minute desire I may have or have had to start getting in touch with my feminine side.
(to be serious, though I doubt Fezz reads this, I really am proud of him. I just, ya know, can't let him know. Aren't siblings fun?!)
On the side, at the "hop" - an old fashioned, formal dance the night before graduation, discovered that even if my dad and I can't dance like normal human beings together (i.e find the goddamn beat), it's still entertaining, and goodness knows I enjoyed the experience. Now, I just have to get married for the *rest* of you to enjoy that particular spectacle! [grin]
oh, and little black dress plus *huge* white heels apparently do not equal fashion success. Whoops. Where's the Indiana Music School wind section when you need fashion advice?
(oh that was meaner than I intended it... sorry, Fruitcake, but I was as lost as a jock at a D+D convention.)
... SCORE!
... wait... nah. Other embarassing self-realizations will be revealed over the World Wide Web at other, more opportune moments.
Also, little sister Muffin officially finished with her Junior year. Dear Entity, what in tarnation happened to her being that itty bitty freshman that carried the field hockey team's equipment?! Not only has she taken my car, but she probably drives it better than me. (but cut me some slack, I'm rusty.) Slight perk, though - while merging onto the NJ Turnpike to get back home from USMA, was very useful in checking my blindspots on the right side.
... *%&#$@! minivan!
*please hold while "writer" thinks of what she herself has been doing for the undetermined period of time.*
Oh, right - eating all the fruit in the house, running and biking around town so much that it looks like I don't have a job (i don't, as you might recall), rereading all of my old books - Superfudge, by the way, never gets old. I'll be singing "Toot Toot Tootsie Goodbye!" until someone beats it out of me.
(that's not a request)
And before I forget, I've been practicing bass. I figure I should since... that's... my.... career... and... well....
well, it helps that I'm pretty enamoured with the darned thing. Too bad it's been labeled as the Drag Queen of contrabass.
Und... last but certainly not least... I have been continuing to get my old lady on. Love it. Golden girls marathons, here I come.
one final note - before you scoff ("Golden Girls?! Has she lost her mind?!"), yesterday's episode was about a guy running for office that... was... previously... a.... woman.
Take that, politically correct conventionalism!
And with that, it's 10 am, and I've got to get my Dorothy, Rose, Blanche, and Sofia on. (While, I, ya know, clean up the kitchen for my dear, sweet Mama. It's good to be home. *grin*)
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