OiRuby’s Weblog

I’ve barricaded myself in the house today after 41.5 hours of OT last week to catch up on a few chores and of course I’m making zero progress. Unless progress includes cleaning up my itunes and coming across some fantastic old photos. The photo above is a particular fave. It was taken at Candlewood Lake in CT at my aunt and uncle’s house–clearly in the 80s. I’d like to say, “Nice Charlie’s Angels doo mom,” but with the wall of lopsided bangs beginning from apparently the back of my head, I really don’t have much room to comment. Hard to believe I was ever so blonde and wore that belt at will.

What I love about this photo is the fact that it is quite obvious that I’m about to get busted for something, but that first my mom has to give my little brother (who is outside the left of the frame) the “Don’t you even think of going near that lake, not right now,” evil eye. And I have that smirky mixed expression of “I’m ready for it, I will NOT cry, and do I ever have a brilliant little retort ready to throw back at ya” look on my face. I’m waiting mom…

So, I’m stuck at home working on a stoopid proposal for a client on a Saturday night…which totally blows. The client is a big company that makes space crafts and other future space junk. I know I should be impressed by them and what they produce, but I’m just not that into it…space just really doesn’t do it for me at all. I think it’s a generational thing, most of the folks that work there were kids when we first landed on the moon—so they are mesmerized by the wonder of space. But for me, my first space memory is being in elementary school and watching the tragic Challenger take-off—not exactly something that pushed space exploration to the top of my list.

Anyhoo, the best part of working on the contract is a little place I like to refer to as Santa’s Workshop. Smack in the middle of the Communication Services building there is a model shop where they make scale models of all the space crafts. They are made out of the same materials that are launched into orbit—and they are completely sweet. While space doesn’t mesmerize me, these tiny models just rock my world.

The highlight of the model shop is that apparently an application requirement to work there is that you must be male, under 5′7″, in your late 50s or 60s, have a bushy gray beard and wear an apron. You must also have a hankering for obscure, 60’s acoustic guitar music.

I “heart” the model shop elves. Every time I send a document to the printer, I intentionally select the printer on the opposite side of the building just so I can stroll Santa’s Workshop for a little zen time. I think the only thing that would make the model shop better is if it actually smelled like Christmas. I think I’ll buy a little pine tree shaped air freshener or some sprigs of cinnamon and stash them in the model shop and see if anyone notices…

No, not mini acid tabs on sheets you silly little rabbits, this is B-town, not D-town.

The beauty and pure innocence of school yard sports. Monday night in Boulder is kickball night, as it should be in most places. Everyone needs to start the week kicking some balls before they get their ass kicked by the cube.

Tonight we played “Rowdy Roddy Piper” a fantastic wrestling themed team (they played last season as “Hacksaw Jim Duggan” the vintage 2×4 wielding wrestler) that we could not be matched with more perfectly. Whatta game and whatta way to start the week.

It was an exhilarating night of back and forth, perfectly even play that makes you earn it the whole night long, victory tastes better that way. Not to wax nostalgic or get too Hallmark on you, but we had that late spring rainstorm that kept threatening, but the cloud coverage that keeps it warm and just right outside.

We had fabulous team plays and some rock star catches, props to Mer for the outfield rally!!! And Stryker for the class act of the night MVPstyle—shows some good schoolin’ and nuts to run to the outfield and high-five the guy that dove headfirst to catch your fly ball.

And once again, props to the Pipers this week and thank you for letting the Chotchkies start the week off right. Woohoo!!!!

Check us out, ‘cuz it sure feels good to be a gangster!

http://www.myspace.com/chotchkieskickball

You know how when you have a list of things to do that is so long that it is overwhelming that you just don’t know where to start–so it’s like physically and mentally impossible to start any of the tasks and you just feel further behind? That’s where I am.

Sort of like running, once upon a time ago I used to run and nearly crossed into the category of “runner” but again that was a long time ago. So, I started running again and it is killing me–not necessarily in the physical sense but in the mental sense of I used to be able to just walk out the door and go, now I’m huffing at a mile.

I sort of feel the same way about the blog, I used to post regularly and then I got busy and I then I sort of forgot about and then I just end up feeling so far behind and guilty to start posting again–which I know is an even lamer excuse. And the kicker is there have been so many great things going on in all areas of my life, although when work is going great it makes sense that I’m not motivated to write more–how much can a girl put-out, really? I guess I need to cross-train and get back in both the running and writing saddle.

OK – so tonight I learned that I have devoted readers and have inspired another to start blogging, so I’m here to promise new posts by Sunday (We do have my birthday to recount, meeting with The Fergel and I’m waiting for The Housemate to do something really stoopid…trust me it’ll be soon) and to promote the fabulous new blog: cuskibum.blogspot.com/.

PS to CU Ski Bum, I did graduate from Catholic School with honors–so when it comes to Signage Liberation, I’m a pro…

Cheers all, and get ready for some supa posts, it’s nearly kickball season after all.

I’ve been trying to justify any TV watching time lately by multi-tasking and either sorting through some old files that have pile up or working on something crafty. The crafty projects have been winning. This weekend while working my way though my last 6 Lost episodes to prepare for it’s long awaited return tonight (WOOHOO!!!!), I pulled out a box labeled “Embroidery” to sort through.

And of course before being able to do anything “productive” I got totally side-tracked by sorting through the random odds and ends in the box. Glad to know that this form of procrastination is not only work specific for me. While on writing assignments I can somehow go from looking up on a word online at Merriam-Webster to reading Zach Braff’s IMDB profile to a Wikipedia page on the history of the Ruby Red Slippers in the Wizard of Oz…all the while mentally justifying the time spent in some way or another.

In the box was a HUGE tangled pile of embroidery floss that was easily two feet by two feet, bigger then pet ferret sized and just smaller then 30 pound alley cat size. I started to unwind it and sort it to see if there was anything usable in there and maybe inspire me to stitch something. I’ve just come across www.subversivecrossstitch.com and I am addicted to finding the perfect project to start. Which in all truth I will spend 4 times the amount of time looking for a project then I will actually completing the project.

Anyways, a few hours and 4 Lost episodes later the string reminded me of a poetry class that I got dragged too years ago. The class had the standard lonely female divorcees writing angry poems and a handful of very odd men trying to create mid-word rhymes. This left just two of us in the class to compete over the grand prize of pithiest lines of verse, bordering on limericks. And I got heinously beat out of the smart-ass, clever-chair one evening when my competitor wrote a poem about realizing that she knew what it meant to be old when she came across a shoe box on her Grandma’s craft shelf labeled, “String to Small to Save.”

String to Small to Save – for years I’ve wondered, “What made the pieces too small to toss too?” By this point, I was wrapping episode 5 and on the home stretch. I had several freshly wound spools, labeled and sorted in one box and a Ziploc bag of some random pieces that I begin to label, yes: “String to Small to Save.” I can’t decide if the bag of small pieces to save made sense. I could use them for all those mending projects I don’t ever do, or for little accents on projects I never finish here and there. But in all honesty, am I just actually justifying my pack-rat nature here or is it more a subconscious way of noting, “Whoa, I’m getting REALLY old?”

Now the news headline on the WB has evolved too “Attacked by Diaper Wearing Astronaut!”
You can’t beat that for sheer entertainment

But will of course bestow upon you…

In accordance with my unofficial New Year’s goal to become “unliterate” I have started sampling the different news programs as I make coffee in the morning and prepare for the day. Big topic of discussion today was the NASA astronaut, Lisa Nowak that is being charged with attempted kidnapping and murder. Apparently she is involved in a love triangle and tried to kidnap The Other Woman using pepper spray, a BB gun and steel mallet. OK, I don’t have any Navy training and I’m not an astronaut—but a BB gun, wtf? Military intelligence once again I guess.

But here is what I didn’t need to know. She was in such a rush to drive from Texas to Florida to launch her kidnapping scheme that she wore a DIAPER! And apparently it is standard protocol for astronauts to wear diapers during launch and re-entry. Two things I really didn’t need to know, especially before my morning coffee was even done brewing. Unliterate is better than ignorant in my book.

This afternoon I had to meet with an editor for a magazine piece and I had an errand to run up at the University, so I suggested that we meet somewhere on “The Hill” which is the local campus strip complete with coffee shops, Laguna Beach cast wannabes, a handful of intellectuals and some fading hipsters. One of my guilty passions is getting coffee up on The Hill and just walking around campus, daydreaming about the day Tenure and the title of Professor is bestowed on me…oh the things these kids could learn from me…

In daydream mode there is a definitely a tendency to wander aimlessly, incidents of staring without intending too and just the euphoria of being lost in thought. So, the ring/vibrate combo of my cellphone startled me out of my little heaven in my head to find myself with one foot off the curb about to step into traffic and the other foot in a 3 inch deep puddle of snow melt as I was about to put an electronic device in close proximity to my brain.

The call was from a client trying to recruit me for a long-term writing contract that would require me to slum it onsite and actually leave my house on a regular basis. The reason for the call was to ask in case of emergency or accident, what hospital would I like listed in my file to be taken too.

Normally, this would seem like a bizarre question to ask a writer, but I guess the client also has some manufacturing onsite so it sort of makes a little sense, although I am going to re-read the job description now… Anyways, I’ve lived here off an on for almost 12 years and only been to the hospital once, so I had to stop and concentrate to think of the name of the local hospital. But as I ungracefully leapt from the puddle and away from traffic to knock twice on the wood of the nearest phone pole, the question actually seemed quite logical. But, I do wonder what my references said about me and my klutzy nature… I walked home with extreme caution obeying all crosswalks. I am so jinxed now.

I am a complete football neophyte, with an immigrant father I was raised primarily watching soccer and baseball (my New Yorker mom’s influence). Also, growing up in Arizona there were no pro teams until I was in at least high school, so I wasn’t brought up as a fan with a “my team” loyalty. For me sports were something played and not watched, unless it was grainy Tele-Mundo futbol broadcasts (“GOOOOOAAAAAAL!!!!”) or attending spring training baseball games that were usually followed by double-header concerts with The Beach Boys or The Monkees and free foam fingers for those of us under 10. They gave free bats away once…just once though, who thought of that horrible idea?!?

But working in advertising and a die-hard pop-culture student I have come to love the Super Bowl if just for the commercials and half-time shows. So, yesterday armed with enough knitting and White Russians to keep me on the couch for four full hours I settled in to watch THE game. The annoying level of “super-fan” cheering over the coin-toss was enough to tempt me to check the On-Demand guide…as there was a marathon of The Closer on TNT that had some serious pull for me…but no, I was determined to sit, watch and try and understand all the pull of this event.

My housemate finally migrated downstairs to watch the game and explain some of the finer points of play to me, and from what I understand it was a pretty great game. I’ll even admit to setting down my knitting and watching about 60% of the game—that is pretty huge progress for me…

Since, I was displaying some interest in the game and actually actively watching my housemate thoughtfully participated in my favorite task of discussing the commercials and then the pop-culture holy grail of the half-time show. The half-time performer is always an interesting choice, something to appeal to middle-America, well known enough to be a household name and hopefully not a has-been. To this day I still don’t know how Miss Jackson managed to slip through the cracks.

Our votes for half-time fell more along the lines of the good-old American performers like Springsteen or Bob Seger, maybe CCR and a little harmonizing with Britney or Christina to keep the younger set interested. Prince to my housemate held no merit what-so-over. Which surprised me, for his job as a ski coach he has clocked more highway and Top 40 radio hours then the average bear. You can’t have listened to Top 40 radio for that long and not have a soft-spot for Prince.

He: “I can’t even name one Prince song.”

Me: “Yes, you can. Hello. Pretty Woman singing along in the bath tub to Kiss. How about Little Niki, or Red Corvette, Raspberry Beret, Purple Rain, I Would Die 4 U…”

He: “OK, OK so I guess I kind of know one or two of them.

Me: “One or two!!! And anyway now he’s more of a producer, he just got a lifetime achievement award. He probably wrote or mixed most of the songs you know the words too.”

He: “Like who?”

Me: “Umm…” Why or why does the mind go blank at these points in debates?

He: “OK, I can name his best contribution ever, he made Carmen Electric”

Me: “Fair enough”

He: “But still, don’t you think the half-time performer should be someone all American and corn-fed from like Minnesota.”

Me: “He’s from Minneapolis…”

Then suddenly on the rain-soaked half-time stage our debate was interrupted by the launching of a huge condom-like white parachute in front of Prince. The camera was showing an illuminated silhouette of Prince wailing away on his guitar that was in the shape of his “The Artist Formally Known as Prince” symbol…but when he turned the guitar side-ways it was clearly a huge penis, illuminated behind a HUGE phallic shroud.

Why is no one talking about this today?

On headline news they commented on Prince’s classy performance and the thoughtful nod of wearing aqua and orange in a tribute to the Dolphin Stadium…how did this little man who once wore purple lace assless chaps for an MTV performance slip this HUGE phallic symbol past America? Weren’t we all watching and hoping for something naughty?

I even googled Prince and Super Bowl. Nada. Then I googled Prince and phallic—which I don’t recommend trying, especially at work.

I feel dirty? Is my household the only one with their thoughts of the half-time show steaming up from the gutter? “I’m sorry Miss Jackson…” but you’ve ruined us or at least our expectations.