Ode to my Mother and Father

I have a confession . . . I'm an introvert.

I know, it's shocking.

How can someone, who's idea of a good evening is drinking a good glass of Kentucky bourbon and watching bad horror and sci-fi flicks and blogging to all five readers, consider herself an introvert?

My mother definitely didn't raise me that way. My mother can connect with people as easily as breathing. All she has to do is sit on a park bench and random strangers sit next to her and sing their lives to her.

My folks visited me and Hun last week and New Yorkers fell in love with my mother. At the end of a dinner in an Italian restaurant in Albany, she made bosom friends with the waiter and finding out all the best eateries in The City. All she has to do is ask the score of the Rockies game. (My father giggled and pointed with me when we were abandoned at our table by my mother to find out the score. Hun joined her later, and bent the ear of the waiter as well.)

It was practically a repeat performance the following evening at Avenue A with neighboring diners looking over our dishes and vice-versa. My mother's attitude: it doesn't hurt to ask or comment, and you get to hear really interesting things that you wouldn't have heard about before.

The City couldn't be more friendly in the Fall. Two women approached us unsolicited about the hidden beauties of Brooklyn as we exited the subway station. They told us the local history. How a neighbor painted signs directing visitors to the footpath to the Brooklyn Bridge before The City replaced them out of embarrassment. How a couple of blocks down was a breathtaking view of Manhattan and the Statue of Liberty (we checked it out--it was). How Prizzi's Honor was shot in the neighborhood and we could see the house if we walked a little farther down the promenade, and a couple of great places to eat besides . . .

Our waitress at breakfast discussed the best in the City was the Polish section of town, where people were friendly and all the Polish immigrants lived. She practically hugged Hun (who's half Polish) and my mother on the way out the door.

Is it the Fall, or is it my mother? My money is on the latter. The woman is charming, she can tickle a conversation out of almost anyone. People trust her and tell her secrets, seek solace, and share jokes.

My dad comments on my mom's charisma, but Hun follows every word my father says and they talk heatedly about physics and research projects. My dad watches people and shares his observations: foreign tourist's awe at seeing The City and compares it to their trip to Europe, a grandmother teaching her granddaughter to rollerblade. He is more quiet, but just as much of the party as my boisterous mother.

When growing up, my friends seemed to gravitate to my mother and father as second parents, a home away from home. They felt safe and assured. Sometimes I got jealous I wasn't the main reason why my friends spent sleepovers at my house. I didn't have cool video games or toys--all I had to entice them over was the warmth of my parents. Now I realize--especially with my job--how blessed I was.

I know this post sounds a bit glurgey, but I can't help it. My parents were awesome--they still are.

I love you, Mom and Dad.

The Situation

From a narrow twisted alley on a planet much like our own . . .

. . . comes the Glenn Slingerland Situation, a local television show that airs every Sunday

There's a local television show that airs every Sunday night at 11:00 pm. The show features women dressed in black, passing kiwis to each other in various unexotic locales. All the while, light jazz is playing in the background.

It's random, it's weird, it's a hoot.

Check it out.

h

The Zen of Jack Bauer

I have a little confession . . .

Hun and I are addicted to 24. We buy all the DVDs of the past seasons. It's great escapism on the surface. But if you look closely enough, you can see a deeper philosophy we can all aspire to--the Zen of Jack Bauer . . .

Jack Bauer Teaching #1: Whenever asking a question, you are more likely to get honest answers by maintaining strong eye contact--through the scope of your your firearm.

Jack Bauer Teaching #2: In many societies, a task is assigned to a youth as a sacred right to adulthood. At CTU, it's getting tortured or killing a terrorist. That's how you get your balls to drop.

Jack Bauer Teaching #3: High-ranking members of the U.S. Presidential Cabinet have executive powers. For instance, Secretary of Defense James Heller need not aim his gun when he shoots. The bullets track the terrorists and pierce their cold, evil hearts.

Jack Bauer Teaching #4: Only allow yourself to be captured if there is no hope of escape, and if terrorists plan on torturing you until you die. That way, when you are resuscitated from the brink of death, you will have them right where you want them--crying like babies and spilling their guts (both literally and figuratively).

Jack Bauer Teaching #5: Like Buddhist monks being forbidden to touch women, Jack Bauer must not maintain eye contact while speaking to women. Bauer's masculinity is such a powerful force, he can impregnate them with a probing glance.

Jack Bauer Teaching #6: Throughout the ages, each epic hero has his sacred prayer he repeats to summon his strength from his Divine Mother. Jack Bauer's is "Damn it!" and "Son of a bitch!". Any time he repeats his sacred oath, y'all better clear out 'cause a big ol' can of whoop-ass is headed your way. As an aside: Jack Bauer has no mortal mother. He clawed his way out of the depths of the Earth.

Jack Bauer Teaching #7: Age teaches wisdom and a sense of duty. When Jack Bauer was a youth, he was the head of a vampiric motorcycle gang and feasted on the blood of his enemies. Now, he is the head of a gang of anti-terrorists and feasts on the blood of the enemies of the United States.

This is an incomplete list of teachings. Perhaps you can share some of the lessons learned through Zen Master Jack Bauer.

Cinamon Rolls and Black Coffee

It's the first day of fall--my favorite season. I have all my sweaters thrown around the apartment, and I decide I am tired of them all. I found a decent thrift store yesterday and I bought two sweaters and some matching hand-painted teacups and saucers. I noticed a decent piece of furniture to refinish, and art-deco dresser and mirror, but the asking price is too steep for the bother of hauling it home and baptizing it in stripper, sand paper, and varnish.

I show off my finds to Hun. He looks unimpressed with them all. He asks me if I plan on washing the sweaters before I wear them. He reminds me we have plenty of teacups and mugs bursting forth from our cabinets. I explain I plan to decorate with them, not drink with them.

I make birthday lasagna for Hun in the kitchen. He comes to kiss me and investigate my progress.

While the lasagna is baking, I wallop Hun at backgammon. Thunder crashes and rain pours down from the sky.

We rush outside and test Hun's new rain gear. He is in awe of the GorTex contraption, playing with all the little gadgets. He is in heaven.

Although my jacket keeps my torso relatively dry, my jeans are soaked.

We return to our apartment. Hun still praises the virtues of his new raincoat. I peel off my soaked jeans. Hun points out the only dry spot on my jeans is the area around my butt. He snickers and I roll my eyes--but I smile anyway.

Hun takes out the lasagna to cool. He wallops me at backgammon.

We eat lasagna and watch Jack Bauer save the world yet again on 24.

I make cinnamon rolls and black coffee this morning . . . mmmm . . . I love fall.

The Joys of SOCMOB

"I was just standin' on the corna, mindin' my own bizness, when I . . ."

. . . get knifed in the chest, accosted by two gentlemen who shove crack cocaine in my pockets, impregnate a woman just by looking at her, get struck by lightning. Take your pick. I have a kid on my caseload whose life is a Madlib set of excuses.

Yeehaw.

I also have two files to be audited tomorrow. I found out this morning.

Yeehaw.

I cringe at hearing about a former friend wishing her life were more glam and rich in a letter to herself.

Yeehaw.

I wish I had time to watch T.V.

Get over it.

Will write more later, while I'm working this weekend.

Betty

The Simple Life

This morning I woke up and made cinnamon rolls for breakfast.

I drove around town to find a "huge yard sale" by Santa Maria College. It was a huge disappointment instead--the yard sale was across the street.

I'm at Hun's school, pirating computer time because my ancient PC decided not to turn on yesterday morning. I guess I should donate her to the Met as an archaeological artifact.

Now we are debating about getting a new-ish computer to replace my old one. Hun looked up Palm Trios that have as much juice as my now-dead computer had in its prime.

I have yet to write one thank-you note for wedding gifts, etc. I will be doing that Sunday, since it is a day of thanks and rest, I guess.

Last weekend, Hun taped back on my side mirror. I need to desperately get an oil change, and have a mechanic peek under the hood to tell me how much I will need to invest in Norma Jean (my car) to pass a NY safety inspection.

A Touch of Fall

It's 11 pm and it finally started to rain. The weather has been threatening all day.

This morning started with the humidity pressing against me as I woke up with my on-call cell blaring the cha-cha, alerting my ass to get out of bed. It was a foster parent, demanding to know why the office was locked up when a CPR class was scheduled this morning. I tell her the class doesn't start in an hour and her overzealous desire for the world conform to her schedule doesn't constitute an on-call emergency. Peachy crazy.

I brew a pot of coffee. Hun pours half the pot as he runs out the door to study in the air-conditioned school. He has a big test next week and wants to do well.

I stare at the television and sip my coffee. I ponder at the idea of straitening the living room, but my telekinesis skills are a little rusty. My skin is coated with a layer of sweat. My hair drips. I fondly recall wearing a sweater to work on Monday.

I gather enough motivation to walk three steps and turn on the television. I pop in Ghost Ship and work a couple of sudoku puzzles. I lie on the couch and concentrate on napping but it's too hot. Instead, I obsess about the great work what-ifs and related crapola.

To say I had a tough week is putting it mildly. It's been one of those times I'm sorely tempted to sell my soul to the Devil of Capitalism. Screw fighting the good fight--good things rarely come from it. But those rare, good things keep my job worthwhile. My boss and my coworkers have been very supportive.

Sweat drips off my nose and I've had enough. I throw my saline-crusted hair in a bun and head to the mall for some cool relief. When I open the door to Border's, I sigh. My pores close and my glasses fog. What a joy central air can be.

I roam from store to store, just enjoying the air, not looking at anything in particular. My hair is a frizzy knot on top of my head, and I can't stand it anymore. I look on the mall directory, and I find a hair salon. I give them a picture I've been carrying around for the occasion of a short, sassy hairstyle. A half hour later, I am wearing a bob. It's fine on me--but not what I wanted.

I pick up Hun from school on the way back. He looks surprised at my new look. I melt down. I look heinous, I am having my period, I am sweaty, and I had a shitty week at work. We have sandwiches. We watch an episode of 24. I cry some. He hugs me and says he still finds me attractive. I calm down and tell him he needs to study again.

He leaves. Lightning flashes. It rains.

Relief.