Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Seize the Day, unless it's a Wednesday

In June, I was able to take a wonderful vacation to California wine country with one of my very best friends.  I haven’t been on vacation for five years, so you can imagine that I was especially excited. Due to my unbridled anticipation, I spent a shitload of time searching and pinning every single winery and bar I wanted to visit in both Napa and Sonoma valley.  I then sent all of these pins to my friend, making her seriously reconsider vacationing with me. 

All that wine looks like fun: Wrong!
One of the bars I found during my insane pinning sessions was Carpe Diem of downtown Napa. I am assuming you’re aware that carpe diem is popularly translated from Latin as “seize the day.”* As I celebrated my birthday while on vacation, I thought this bar would be a perfect place to seize my special day.  It looked oh so hip and cool online -- not to mention all that wonderful wine!  

Once again, however, images on Pinterest had deceived me, just like the time I thought slow cooker meatloaf was a good idea (yikes!).  No one was seizing the day at Carpe Diem.  A few older customers just sat around sipping on expensive wines.  To its benefit, the bar did play great music.  While deciding on my beverage from their expansive wine list, I heard The Head and the Heart, She and Him, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and Metric.  I shared my approval of the music selection with the bartender and requested that he turn it up a little bit.

Upon my request, I was condescendingly asked in return, “You do know it’s a Wednesday, right?”

“Yes,” I replied, but then pleading, “… but it’s my birthday.”  I would have liked to add, “But it’s my mother fucking birthday, so let’s seize the day bitches!” I didn’t add that though; I smiled politely and tried my best to be cute and convincing. 

I apparently failed at my attempt because he continued, “No one comes here to listen to the music or dance, you know.  People come here just to sit and conversate.”
I did not speak with him any further, as he turned to attend to another customer, but inside I was screaming, “Conversate is not even a word you fucking asshole! It’s converse, dumb fucker, so fuck you! Fuck you too, PInterest!”

I wasn’t able to make the most of my birthday at Carpe Diem as apparently one does not seize the day on Wednesdays.  However, I still enjoyed my birthday because I had a great dress, great dinner, and a great date.  You usually can’t go wrong with good friends and good food, even if you run into a few misspoken pretentious pricks along the way. 
I still  found fun on my birthday, like playing in this downtown
fountain ... on a WEDNESDAY!!

*NOTE:  'Carpe diem' is usually translated from the Latin as 'seize the day'. However, 'carpe' translates literally as 'pluck', with particular reference to the picking of fruit, so a more accurate rendition is 'enjoy the day, pluck the day when it is ripe'. The extended version of the phrase 'carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero' translates as 'pluck the day, trusting as little as possible in the future'.

Friday, August 16, 2013

My Husband Doesn't Support My Good Ideas

Currently, I don’t work during the summers.  Therefore, I am always looking for ways to keep myself and my children engaged.  In general, these are appropriate and child-friendly activities.  This summer, I have taken my children to amusement parks, lakes, library sing-alongs, and zoos.  One other activity that one generally can’t pass up during the summer is the county fair – all those tempting deep-fried foods, rides, entertainment, animals, vendors, and more.  However, I had a slightly different reason for desiring fair attendance this year.

Recently, my husband and I were traveling together in the car when I suggested, “We should go to the Wisconsin Valley Fair this week.”

“Well,” he said, not even feigning enthusiasm for my suggestion, “You can take the kids during the week while I’m at work if you really want to.  You know, I don’t think they should even go because it’s so busy and they are too little for most of the rides.”

“No,” I replied, “Not with the kids.  You and I should go because Bret Michaels is performing this week.”

“What?” he now asked, with evident aversion and perplexity. “You want to see Bret Michaels? Why?”  
Bret Michaels -- Hilarious and Really Gross Lay

“I want to fuck him after his set,” I answered, with a very serious and determined tone, “I think that would be hilarious.”  
 “What is wrong with you?” my husband asked.  I believe this question was rhetorical because everyone knows there is not enough time in the world for me to accurately respond.
“C’mon,” I tried to impassion my husband to my proposal, “it would be funny.  I would come home with some really great stories.”
This conversation continued, with my husband offering several reasons not to fuck Bret Michaels, both of us carrying on as though this would be an easily actualized goal for me. I should note that  I’m an overweight thirty-something who buys her apparel from Coldwater Creek, as opposed to the women who typically accompany Bret -- anorexic, alcoholic twenty-two year olds who shop at Hot Topic.
At any rate, after announcing that fucking Bret Michaels would be worth it just for the great tales I would come home with, my husband crushed my splendid plan by stating, “Some strange story wouldn’t be the only thing you would come with, Angela.   You better expect to come home with VD if you plan on sleeping with that dude.  I’m not interested in a wife with VD.”
I then spoke in Bret’s defense, “There’s a remote possibility he’s clean, you know.”  
“Oh, c’mon!” my husband chuckled, “Have you seen the menagerie of whores he fucked on Rock of Love?  You gotta get a grip, Angela.”
I got a grip, and we didn’t go the fair.  I didn’t ride the tilt-a-whirl or enjoy a monkey tail or elephant ear, and, most importantly, I never attempted to seduce Bret Michaels that week.  One can only imagine the magnificent anecdotes I would have had to share here if I had, right? Why doesn’t my husband support my brilliant ideas? Damn him; I could be a more accomplished and celebrated writer today if only he had let me fuck Bret Michaels.  How else is a woman to keep herself occupied during the summer? 


Friday, August 2, 2013

I Need Supervision

I sat in the small room on a black plastic chair staring at white walls and irritating motivational framed art.  I patiently awaited the doctor as I looked away from the words about leadership and glanced down at my swollen ankle.  I shook my head in shame of how I had incurred such an injury. 

My current bruised and swollen ankle was nearly as comical as the bloody and scabbed knee I had from two weeks earlier when I fell off the merry-go-round while playing at the park with my sister and our two daughters.  I had argued with my sister about who would sit on the merry-go-round with the girls, and who would run and push.  I told her I would be the better runner because my shoes were more sensical.  She was wearing flip-flops and I felt certain she would fall face first in the wood chips surrounding the play area, still a bit damp and muddy from the rain the day before.  She argued that she had been in Cross Country so she should run because she would be able to push faster.  I persisted and I was the one who ended up running and pushing the girls while she rode next to them. 

My persistence that day led to a pair of muddy jeans and a bloody knee.  When I tried to jump up to join them, I landed in those same damp wood chips I was concerned my sister would meet.  She did not seem to share similar concern as she let out a hysterical roar of laughter and pointed at me.  “Ha! Look at your jeans, you idiot! They’re all muddy! I told you I should push!”  She laughed so hard that my niece and own daughter joined in, and their laughs roared to a fever pitch when I declared, “God damn-it! I’m bleeding too!” 

My knee, bloodied nearly two weeks ago, still bore a few scabs to accompany the now swollen ankle that currently concerned me.  I pushed my embarrassment down and smiled as the young male doctor entered the room, introduced himself, and shook my hand. 

He sat behind the small desk near me and placed his tablet on the surface.  “Well,” he said, “what brings you here today?”

“I have a playground injury,” I announced.

“Excuse me?” he said, “what did you say?”

“A playground injury,” I reaffirmed, offering no further explanation.

“What?” he inquired once more.

“I fell off the slide when I was playing with my daughter and I twisted my ankle.  I think it might be sprained.”

“Is your daughter okay?” he asked, “How old is she?”

“Yes, she’s perfectly fine,” I replied. “She’s two.”  If my daughter were injured, don’t you think she would be here with me? I wondered to myself, feeling the embarrassment I had tried to push away rise right back up in me.

“Well, okay,” he said, “Let’s have a look at it.”  He didn’t seem very enthusiastic about checking out my silly playground injury, but I’m telling you now that my fucking ankle hurt. 

He held out his hand and made a motion indicating that I lift my leg to him.  He took my foot in his hand and turned it, confirming “Yes, it is indeed swollen.”  He then flexed my foot back and forth to determine my pain tolerance and range of movement.
“So, you fell off the slide, huh?” he said, smiling and chuckling at me as he twisted my foot back and forth.

“Yep,” I replied, now with great self-effacing charm, “Would you also like to see my scabbed knee from when I fell off the merry-go-round earlier?”

“Hmm …” he nodded, as I pulled up my jeans to display my battle scars.  He placed my foot back on the floor and then announced, “I think your ankle might be sprained, yes, but can you walk on it?”

I nodded in the affirmative as he then offered the following professional advice, “Well, then, I think you just suck it up and stay off the playground for a while.  It appears your daughter may be fine on her own and you require the supervision.”

Thank you Dr. Smartass; thank you.