Wow.

Last night I spent 17 minutes trying to find the perfect place to put two pacifiers (with accompanying pacifier clips) in my almost-born, baby boy's nursery (in which he won't even be sleeping).

I also spent about 49 minutes folding and unfolding different "onesies" according to size and warmth level and then placing them in various piles, only to move the pile once I found a better place to put the pile.

I categorized baby soap into two sections:

1. Baby soap to be used at first presence of baby.
2. Baby soap to be used at a later time.

I stacked diapers into disposable and cloth drawers with corresponding disposable and cloth wipes. (Disposable for newborn if he can't fit into the cloth, yet.)

I coordinated all breastfeeding/pumping supplies into one, large drawer...with corresponding instructions that slightly freak me out. I tested out the manual pump because I didn't believe that it would have enough suction after I placed my hand on it. Note: placing a breast pump on your hand and pumping it is totally incomparable to placing it on your breast. I will not be "testing" its strength again until Grey arrives.

I researched pre-washing BumGenius 3.0 cloth diapers for 36 minutes. I analyzed each new instruction for about 7 minutes each.

This is how I spent last night.

I obviously have nothing interesting to say at the present time.

I want a cigarette and a glass of red wine.

I'm going to have both directly after giving birth to my child.

Hell, I may have them both right before...during?

I can't decide.

Things I Will Try to Not Do Ever

1. I have decided that I am going to try to not do team-building exercises ever again. Seeing as I have no job or connection to the world outside of my own brain, this should not be hard to accomplish. You never know, though. I could volunteer for something, and they could have some sort of get-to-know-each-other-type-game, and then I'll need to quietly excuse myself from the situation.

*side note: I will also try to not do any sort of group project. I never like those. In school, I would just end up completely frustrated with everyone else's lack of perfectionism and just do it all myself, all the while lamenting on how no one would help me do the project. I don't like working with groups of 3 or more people. They don't know how to do it right. I do.

2. I have decided that I will try to not run. Running is strange. When I see someone running down the road I think, "That person is running, and there isn't even a bear chasing them!" I am actually quite sure that you're not supposed to run from a bear, but who wouldn't? That is everyone's first instinct. Large, brown, furry mammal with claws and teeth that's roaring. RUN! And, yet, even in that situation...you're supposed to curl in a ball and act like you're dead. See? God wants us to stay still in all situations. That's how we preserve life. Whatever the guy's name is that ran from wherever to Marathon back in the day (3 years of Latin and no recollection of his name) DIED when he got there. Now people run the same distance and say, "I'm going to run that same amount of miles and NOT die!" Some make it. Sadly, some do not listen to God who, as previously stated, does not want us to run...and they die.

3. I am going to not have a cup of hot tea again. No matter how many times I try to enjoy a hot cup of tea, I'm let down. Every time. I realize that entire nations plan their daily schedule around this particular beverage, but I just can't get into it. It bores me. I imagine that conversation trails along the same line of whatever drink you're consuming. As in:

Beer Conversation:

"Man, I could really go for a bratwurst right now. And, I really like girls with big boobs."
"Yeah, man, me too."

(Granted, that may not seem interesting to most people, but hot dogs and boobs are pretty entertaining subjects of conversation and can lead to other even MORE entertaining conversations.)

(Red) Wine Conversation:

"The earth seemed a bit off-kilter yesterday, don't you think?"
"Yes, yes I do. A bit...askew, one might say?"
"Do you think this has to do with a revolution in the bowels of society?"
"I do. Cigarette?"
"Why, yes. Don' t mind if I do."
"Let's go see the Renoir exhibit tomorrow."
"Brunch first, of course!"
"But, of course. As if we would dream of viewing a master's work without enjoying brunch first!"

(I have no idea what I just wrote. That is just what some might say while having a glass of Pinot. Of course, I haven't had an effing glass of wine in 5 months, so my memory may be slightly off.)

Coffee Conversation:

"Dude, Kerouac is an effing genius."
"Are you kidding, man? Salinger. Salinger's where it's at. And, he's like...a recluse."
"Let's go try to find him. I heard he lives in Connecticut. Dude, we'd be legends in our own time. The only two dudes to ever drive up to Connecticut and meet J.D. Salinger."
"It'd be like On the Road."
"Man, that's Kerouac. Get off of Kerouac."
"Alright. We're doing it. We're driving to Connecticut to find Salinger."

(Bell rings. Announcements come on: "Will all Seniors with last names starting with "A" through "L" please report to the Student Center for Chess Club pictures."

"Damn it. Man, this school just continues to bring us down."
"I know, dude. It's all a game that's perpetuated by the rules of ancient man."
"You mean, THE man."
"Yeah, man. THE man."

(I'm pretty sure I had this actual conversation in high school. Change "Chess Club" to "Madrigal" and I'm right there in the middle of it.)

Tea Conversation:

"Would you like some tea?"
"Sure."

(That's all. They are so overwhelmed by the boredom of what they're consuming that they have nothing else to say, and life ceases to make sense, therefore plummeting them into a sea of sips and doldrums.)

**I've only thought of these three things that I'm not going to do ever again. When I think of another, I'll be sure to let everyone know. Cut my own hair? Probably will. Give up a part of myself for someone else? Yeah, that will most likely happen again at some point. Use newspaper to wrap presents with because I'm too lazy to buy the real wrapping paper and try to pass it off as fun, creative and good for the environment? Sure.

But, by gosh, I'll be damned if I ever do a team-building exercise, run or drink a cup of hot tea ever again! MARK MY WORDS!

Gray Hair, Marching and Stupid People

A couple days ago, while shopping in the baby section at Marshall's (which might just be my new fave discount store), I noticed an idiot woman. She had a child. He was 2. He wanted to play with baby toys. She told him that they were "not for big boys" but for "babies." He still wanted to play with them and was fascinated by whatever little colors and sounds were coming out of the damn toy. She scolded him again. Then, he walked through the clothes racks, and clothes came tumbling to the ground. She got really mad, then. She had promised him a "big boy" Spiderman toy and promptly told him that he wasn't getting it anymore as she picked up the clothes. I couldn't handle any more of this situation, so I moved onto looking at wallets. When I had progressed to shoes, I saw, or rather, heard the mother and child exiting the store rather quickly. The little boy was screaming and crying, "But I am a good boy, Mama! I am!" She was dragging him out of the store.

1. If you would've let your BABY son just play with the BABY toys that he was TOTALLY immersed in, this never would've happened. The BABY (he's 2, remember?) was stimulated by whatever the hell was going on with the toys. You drug him away, he got bored looking at the stupid Spiderman toy that you picked out, and decided to crawl under the clothes. I still want to hide in the clothes, lady. What did you expect?

2. Your brain is where creativity goes to die.

3. I don't like you. At all. No one thinks, "Oh, god...that poor woman and what she has to deal with." NO ONE THINKS THAT.

Onto bigger and brighter, rainbow-y type things:

I spent last weekend in Washington, D.C., visiting my sister (yay!) and attending the National Equality March (yay!)...actually, I should say something like (fabulous!). I have to say, after much speculation that there would be low attendance, that is wasn't the right "time" to have a National March, that it was a waste of time and money that could be spent in Maine, etc., from some members of the LGBT community....it was a total success. There were tens of thousands of people in attendance. Young, old, black, white, gay, straight...it was pretty f-ing amazing. At one point my sister and I stopped to have snacks in front of the White House. We had been standing for hours, waiting for the march to start, and I was tired and hungry. As I munched on cheese and crackers, staring at the White House, knowing the President was inside (he really was...he walked to church that morning with his family), and seeing this amazing number of people who felt and thought like me, I realized something:

"Oh, this must be what it's like to live in a blue state." Actually, I didn't think that. I thought, "Is this what church is like for normal people? This feeling of connectedness?" Then I got distracted because chocolate chip cookies were waiting patiently in line at the entrance of my mouth. Needless to say (which I think is a dumb term...if it's needless to say, then why am I saying it?) it was a pretty wonderful experience...not to mention that rainbow flags are beautiful and make me happy. Oh, one more thing: "Hey! Obama! Let mama marry mama!" is the best march chant EVER.

But, seriously, Obama. Let's put some action to those words, mmkay? Greeeaaaat.

Quick list of stuff that I need to get off my chest:

1. Balloon boy, you so crazy!

2. Northwest/Delta...two hours on the tarmac? Really? REALLY?!?!

3. Everyone is extra nice to a crying, pregnant girl...even airport security. If you want to have the best flight experience of your life, full of upgrades, extra snacks and freely offered-up seats from other passengers...get pregnant.

4. I highly recommend taking those open-air, double decker bus tours. I am past the point of caring if people on the ground think they are touristy or cheesy. They are. They are also extremely fun and informative. Just make sure you get on the right bus at the beginning so that you don't have to sneak off of it and get onto the actual bus line from which you bought your ticket. :)

5. Our nation's capital is absolutely breathtaking. I had forgotten how beautiful it is. It reminds me of why I was so obsessed with Presidents in 3rd grade. Seriously. Go visit. So beautiful.

6. I am currently working on 3 craft projects: a painting, knitting a baby blanket, and a cross-stitch. I have also decided that I'd like to be one of those women that makes little loaves of pumpkin bread and hands them out to people around the holidays.

I used to drink heavily, do drugs, smoke cigarettes and sing and travel in a band.
Last night I spent 1 hour and 43 minutes looking up the best recipe for zucchini bread..."3 eggs or 4? No, no...this recipe won't do!"

7. I recently discovered that I am not the only one in my family that likes to do algebraic equations for fun. Thanks for fessing up, Abbey! Smart blondes...gotta love 'em.

8. Speaking of blondes: I can no longer sit and watch my hair look ridiculous. I tried to see what my natural color was, I really, really did. It's a stupid color, I've decided. It's a stupid, brownish ashy gray color. Well, it's "riddled" with gray. As in, 50% gray. I'm not kidding. My mom didn't believe me until she looked at the top of my head while standing above me. Her exact words were, "WOW! You really DO have a lot of gray hair!" Thanks, Mom. I've been telling you this for years. So, now I must go get my hair did somewhere. I made an appointment at a random place. I'm going to pretend like the fumes of hair color are really good for my unborn child. Then, as the color penetrates my scalp, I'll just think, "It's like special vitamins. It's like special vitamins," over and over and then my thoughts will become things (just like the Secret!) and everything will be fine. I just don't want to get to that "skank" point with my roots. Right now I'm at "pretty cool-ish-like-when-Madonna-does-that-show-her-roots-thing," but I'm teetering on the edge of roots disaster.

9. All I wanted to eat in DC was a half-smoke from Ben's Chili Bowl. This was going to be a fairly easy task since my sister lives 2 blocks away from Ben's. Then Ben dies on Thursday. I get there on Friday. Line out the door for days...you get the picture. No half-smoke for me. Nobody cares if you're pregnant at Ben's. It's every man for themself.

10. As I was boarding my flight in Memphis, I was revelling in the fact that I had just been surrounded by wonderful, supportive, liberal people. I really was. I was just sitting there, smiling. Then I get a text from Beau. It reads: "There are anti-gay protesters at the PAC tonight with signs that say, "Die f*gs!" and "God hates you!" Good ol' Oklahoma!"

He was going to see David Sedaris, so we thought they were there for that. Turns out they were there to protest the 10-year anniversary of "The Laramie Project." Even better! You know...Matthew Shepherd. A young man gets tied up and strewn upon a fence and battered and tortured for his beliefs (sound familiar in ANY way, Christians?), and then they kill him. Exactly what can you protest about that? Pretty Christ-like of you, protesters. Pretty FUCKING Christ-like. Sar.cas.m.

Boy, was I glad to be back!

11. Tom Coburn has serious mental problems.

12. I want the entire Sedaris family to please come over for drinks.

13. The leaves are turning. Stare at one for a while. A long while. One turning leaf can change a lot of things.

Braggin'...

Just to let you know...

My husband has some pretty hilarious things to talk/write about on his blog:

http://beauadams.blogspot.com

Chiggity-check it out if you have time! Pretty damn funny.

Some News!

I know that all that everyone cares about right now is that Khloe Kardashian got married to Lamar Odom in a quickie ceremony in LA, but I have some other news. (For those of you that don't know me, that last sentence was laced with so much sarcasm that, well, if we rolled up the sentence in a joint, and say...sarcasm was a lethal drug...well, we'd be dead or something like that. I also like to explain my sarcasm to the point of it not being funny anymore.)

ANYwho...

Beau and I had every intention of not finding out the sex of our baby. Okay, actually Beau had every intention of not finding out the sex of our baby. I'm one of those people that searches for all of their Christmas presents weeks before Christmas Day so that I'm adequately prepared for what I'm opening on the special day. If I can't find the Christmas presents, then I open the already wrapped presents while no one is home, and then I re-wrap them perfectly as to not alert anyone that I'm a complete whack-job. I know, I know. It's horrible. I've been like this since I was a child. I really think that I should be either a private investigator or in some sort of all-day, intense research facility.

Example as to why: On Saturday, my mother-in-law pointed out an infestation of caterpillars in her yard. They were black. They are everywhere. She asked me to look them up on the internet. Actually, looking back, she didn't ask me. I willingly and happily offered to look them up on the internet. I typed in every, single thing I could think of to find those damn caterpillars:

"Black caterpillar"
"Black caterpillar with white stripes"
"Caterpillars in yard"
"Caterpillar infestation Oklahoma yard black"
"Caterpillar identification"

As more and more sites and pictures appeared that didn't match the damn caterpillars, (and after about 30 minutes of this) my search entries started looking more like this:

"Stupid fucking caterpillars"
"Dumbass black caterpillars in the fucking lawn"
"The dumbest caterpillars in the whole world"

After I had this little fit, I realized that I could not give up. I was also completely immersed in the research. People tried to talk to me about football, steak, what was for dessert...nothing phased me. For me to not respond to statements about sugar cookies, while pregnant on top of that, is quite telling about how much I love doing research.

At once, after I gave up my vulgarity-tinged search options, I started looking at the whole picture.

"Ahhhh...that tree is completely void of leaves. That is a Catalpa tree. I looked up "Catalpa tree" once when I was listening to an album by Jolie Holland called...what else...'Catalpa.' I wonder if those damn caterpillars ate all those leaves and then fell to the grass instead of just originating from the grass?" (This is my life now that I can't have wine or cigarettes.)

My search turned into:

"Catalpa tree no leaves stupid caterpillar probably ate them"

BAM! Effing "Catalpa Sphinx Caterpillar" popped up. Right in front of my face. There it was with it's alarmingly cute, fat black body, staring back at me.

"I found it! It's a stupid Catalpa Sphinx Caterpillar! They only eat Catalpa tree leaves! They turn into moths! GROSS!"

I was draped and clothed in so much praise...I felt like I had just discovered the cure for psoriasis. You'd think that I would say "the cure for cancer" wouldn't you? Nope. Psoriasis.

(Now is the point where I scroll back up to the top of this piece of writing to see where the hell I was going with this story.)

Oh, yeah...I have to know everything at all times...like researching...I remember now. Wow. That was a long trip around a pointless story to get to what I was trying to announce.

I looked on the ultrasound and confirmed with the ultrasound lady (it wasn't hard to confirm, by the way), and then I teased and mocked Beau that he didn't know the sex until he finally gave up and asked what the baby "is," and even though we've both had a feeling that it was "this" for the entire pregnancy...

It's...a...BOY!

p.s. I'm naming him Grey Matthew Adams.

1. Grey because I just like it, and it's unusual.
2. Matthew after my brother and it's Beau's middle name.
3. The British spelling of "Grey" sounds suave, and I'm only going to dress him in sportcoats with little leather patches on the elbows and a little fake pipe for him to smoke. I'm going to take him to the "thee-a-tah."
4. Who wouldn't want a boyfriend named Grey? How fucking mysterious is that? It's like a foggy day...or some mist coming off of a pond...it has just the right amount of pretention to it. Just kidding. :)

Science is Hard

This morning I was looking at new pictures from the Hubble Space Telescope. The new photo was labeled "Butterfly Nebulous," which immediately sparked my attention. It is found in the Scorpius constellation.

I looked at the picture. The article then said this:

"The gas is tearing across space at more than 600,000 miles an hour -- fast enough to travel from Earth to the moon in 24 minutes," NASA's Web site says. The "butterfly" is more than 2 light-years across.

I don't understand. Two light-years across? Miles? Yes...I understand that. Light years? I still have no concept of what that means. I mean, I know what it means...I just don't know what it means. Light years are like telephone wires or microwaves. They are there and they happen, but I have no understanding of them at all. I also don't care that I don't know. I once read Stephen Hawking's "A Brief History of Time."

I read the words. That's about all that happened. There was no absoption of information. It's almost as if I read a book that said:

"Me are the ones of conventry pageant. Simple time is creates a dog bowl!" That's about as much sense as I could make of it. Why must astronomers be so brill? (I used "brill" to show that I am not "brill." Get it?) All I've ever wanted to do in my life is float through space, and yet, I was cursed with an easily nauseated stomach and a complete inability to comprehend the space/time continuum. Poop on that.

I'd also like to thank blogger.com for only allowing me to type in italics today. Thank you.

Back to my story:

If I could type the caption below the butterfly nebula, it would say:

This is called a butterfly nebula. It looks pretty. See the pretty colors? Parts of it look like they're spreading out into space! Neat, huh? Some of the nebula...wait...scratch that...parts of the bug sparkles look squishy, don't they? Do you like sparkles? I like sparkles! Maybe when you die, stuff looks like this! Wouldn't that be neat?

Anyway...that's what I'd put. I like to be asked questions like a 4 year-old and then reassured that my answers are okay.

One more thing: I would like to thank blogger.com for only allowing me to type in BOLD, italics now. What the hell?

Go Pokes.

Papa (February 26, 1917-August 24, 2009)

In death, Papa's hands were exactly the same as in life. They were rough and wrinkled and strong. They were soft and frail. They embodied all that his life and experience had taught him, and no amount of formaldehyde could take that away. I tried not to look at his face. It looked oddly familiar. He was wearing his glasses, which I found to be quite strange. He looked like a wax statue. He looked like a model on a movie set. But, his hands...they were the same ones I had held a few months prior. They were the hands I watched fix tractors, shift the gears in the combine, shoot pool in the basement, turn the pages of a newspaper, cradle his great-grandchildren, sift through harvested wheat...lift a coffee-filled, brown stoneware mug from its saucer every, single morning...

He always sat in the same chair at the dinner table. Always. That was Papa's chair. He always had Certs nearby. He never sped. He always watched Johnny Carson (when he was on) before he went to bed. We always had to get permission from him to open Christmas presents. He always made us wait. He always had a $20 bill to give to Matt, Shelley and me. He always used to run behind our car and pretend to push it as we left his farm in Enid. I distinctly remember thinking that he was the only force pushing our car along. I thought he was the strongest man I had ever known.

As I grew, he became human. Ten years ago, when my grandma passed, we wept in each other's arms. It was a defining moment in my life. I had never seen this mostly stoic, German man cry. Ever. But, he did then. And, he did it in front of me. And I loved him for it. It was my turn to comfort him. The "I love yous" came a lot easier and faster from him after Grandma died.

When he was put in the hospital on multiple occasions (mostly for just getting older), I would drive to Enid and see him. He would always, without a doubt say, "You drove all this way to see an old man?" And I would respond, "But you're my Papa, Papa," and he would smile in disbelief that I (and the rest of his grandchildren, for that matter...which was a grand total of four) loved him so much. I think that's the thing...I don't think he ever realized how wonderful he was. I really don't. He had a constant look of confusion as to why we would want to "stick around" for as long as we did on visits...why we would want to just sit and listen to him talk for hours if we could. He may have struggled and made huge mistakes with his own children, but he certainly learned how to do it right with us. He was our Papa. And he was really good at it.

Not long after I moved out of my not-yet-ex-husband's house, Thanksgiving came. I was depressed. I was sad. I was incredibly scared to tell Papa that I was getting a divorce. He came from the thought (as did I until my own divorce occurred) that when you get married, you stayed married. I knew that if I didn't tell him, someone else would. He was in the hospital again, and I decided to forgo turkey and stuffing and spend the day with him. I told him as quickly as I could through tears rolling down my face. He looked heartbroken. But, it was a different kind of heartbreak that I wasn't really expecting. He wasn't heartbroken that I had shamed the family or that I had failed tremendously in some way. It was sincere heartbreak for the pain of his granddaughter. I saw it in his eyes. "I am so sorry. I am so glad you came and told me."

He held my hands with his strong, yet aging, hands and we cried together...again. I told him that I didn't feel up to going to any of the family dinners that day. I told him I wanted to clean his house. He couldn't understand why. I just needed to be around something/someplace that had only loving and familiar feelings associated with it.

He finally said...in all seriousness, "Well, when you go to the farm, don't go down to the barn and play in it. It's falling apart, and I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you while you were playing in the barn."

I was twenty-seven years old.

My "playing in the barn" days were long over. But, not to Papa. I was always six to him. I would forever be picking burrs off of my jeans or running out to the tractor to ride with him. I would be eating single packages of cereal in the morning. I would be swimming in cattle tanks or riding on the back of the 3-wheeler through the creek. I'm glad his mind worked like that. I sometimes wish I could still be doing all of those things...especially this week.

Later on, when it came time for him to move into an assisted living/nursing home, I was worried and struggling with the decision, even though it wasn't mine to make. I called him and told him that I would be completely willing to move out to the farm and take care of him so that he didn't have to live there. He said, "Let me think about it."

About a week later, he called. He said:

"Cari, I think it's wonderful that you would want to help me like that, but you have a life to live. You can't spend years of your life as a young woman taking care of an old man. You have your own family to make and raise."

"But, I want to take care of you. I want to live on the farm."

I was slightly heartbroken because I had nothing else to do. I didn't have a family. I was still depressed at this point, living above a garage with my dog. I wanted to retreat in the safety of that farmhouse. I wanted to have someone else depend on me. I needed to be needed.

But I think, in some strange way...he knew I was trying to hide. He knew I was trying to escape from actually dealing with life. Although I would've been happy to have taken care of him so that he could stay at the farm...he knew it wasn't the right thing to do. The last thing he said to me about this, and I'll remember it until the day I die, was:

"I know you want to do this, but I won't let you. You can't live your life for someone else."

It makes me cry thinking of it at this very moment. He saved me, in a way. In the kindest way possible, he said, "Get your shit together, stop wallowing in that tiny apartment, go out and find your life, and stop trying to hide by taking care of other people."

I got it, Papa. I really did.

Along with the occasional visit, I wrote him letters while he was at Greenbriar Nursing home. Once, he tried to make me think that he was forgetting who everyone was (one thing he always had was a wicked sense of humor).

"Cari wrote me a letter the other day," Papa said to me.

"Oh, yeah?" I said with terror in my voice. This can't be happening. How can he not know who I am? His mind is like steel.

"Yep. Do you know who Cari is?" he asked.

"Um...yeah...uh..." was all I could say.

"It's YOU, silly! You're Cari!"

I could have killed him, but instead I laughed my ass off.

There was once a "Walker Race" at the nursing home. It's pretty self-explanatory. Anyone who used a walker or a cane (he had a cane...sometimes) was eligible to enter. The contestants (Papa included) were to start at the lobby, proceed down the hall, around corner, back down another hall and round a corner back to the lobby.

Upon seeing his "Walker Race" medal one day, he proudly informed me that he had won the race. I wasn't surprised. He honestly could walk without any effort at all at this point. But, what he said next was...well...I was going to say "the surprising part," but I have to admit...I'm really not at all surprised by what came out of his mouth next.

"I won the race. Want to know what I did?"

"Sure," I responded.

"Well, you see...I pretended to use my walker and go really slowly with all of the other residents while the nurses could still see us. Then, as I rounded the corner and was out of eyesight, I carried my walker and ran as fast I could. Then, I slowed down at the last turn where they could see me again and pretended to go slow." A smile and that familiar, mischievous glint in his eye appeared.

Endless laughter. Papa had cheated...against people who literally couldn't speak or think or see straight anymore. He ran.

"Um, wow...I'm really proud of you?" was all I could think to say. But, I was...because he was still going strong in a situation that would make others cry with self-pity.

There were about four "scares" before the final call came. They were usually months apart, and everyone rushed to go see him, and he always bounced back. Always. Every, single time we would get a call that said, "You should really go see Papa. He's not doing well. They think this may be the end." My brother, sister and I (or some combination of those of us who could make it) would show up and he'd be up in bed, smiling and talking.

I think I honestly thought he was invincible at one point.

But, then, two Fridays ago, he said, "I don't think I want to do this anymore." He was in quite a bit of pain. He had never said anything like that before. It was always, "Oh, I'll be fine. Let's try such-and-such medication," and he would always end up just fine. But, not this time. He had finally allowed himself to give up. He was in a lot of pain. His bones were extremely brittle, and he was...tired. I don't blame him one bit.

Three days later, on August 24th, 2009 (what would have been his 68th wedding anniversary), Papa passed away. Fortunately, I got to tell him everything I wanted to tell him...just not this time. I told him all of the "goodbye" stuff about 6 months ago when one of the "scares" was happening. Thinking back, he was probably lying there, half-asleep, thinking, "I'll show her." This time I didn't get to do that, but it's okay. He knew how much I loved him.

I got a call on Monday morning at 7:00am. The screen on my cell phone said, "Dad." I knew. I picked up the phone and said, "Papa died, didn't he?" I didn't even say hello. Then I cried. A lot.

So, Papa...

Thank you one last time. Thank you for wheat fields and sunsets that never seemed to end. Thank you for two-week harvests and cold jugs of water on the hottest summer day. Thanks for having black (and then gray) caterpillar eyebrows. Thanks for being strong and taking care of our family. Thanks for being weak and taking care of yourself. Thanks for telling me no when I needed to hear it. Thank you for showing me the strongest work ethic I have ever seen. Thank you for feeding millions of families. Thank you for being "just a farmer." Thank you for openly talking about the struggles and hardships of your childhood. Thank you for making my childhood so special...when you didn't even get to have one.

I asked my dad if I could have a set or two of those brown stoneware mug and saucer sets you used to drink out of every, single morning. He swiped them from the house. Matt wanted one, too, which I thought was pretty interesting. I think that goes to show that you did a fine job of raising your own son to raise us well, too. Thinking of all of the things we could've asked for...jewelry, furniture, money...I could honestly give a shit.

I just wanted one of those mugs. I'm drinking my morning coffee out of one of them right this very second.

So, Papa, traditions continue. You're right: family is the most important thing we have.

And now that I have this mug, the memory of the hands that built this family are never far from my heart.

p.s. Matt and Shelley and I really wanted to run behind the hearse and push it as it drove away. We should've done it. You would've loved that.

p.p.s. If this little one on the way has anything close to your (or my dad's) sense of humor, I'm in big, big trouble...but in the best possible way.

p.p.p.s. Love. You. Forever.

Are You There, Katie? It's Me, Idiot.

(Everyone who is not Katie Hull Rathkey...please disregard)

Katie,

I'm an idiot. I've been reading your blog forever, and now I can't find the stupid link to it. I have no idea how this happened. You'd think that I'd just send you an email or contact you on Facebook or Myspace to find out this information, wouldn't you?

But, since I'm a dork, I deleted all social networking accounts. I have NO idea why I don't have your email address. This is literally my only way of contacting you. I have to write a blog to try to get your attention. DO YOU HEAR ME, KATIE!?!?

CAN...YOOOUUU...HEEEAAARRR...MEEEE?!?!?!

Tonight, as I went to happily read the tales of your life...I realized that I can no longer read the tales of your life. If you would be so kind as to post your blog link in a comment on MY blog (God, this is so dumb), I would really appreciate it.

I feel lost and alone without access to Katie's World. I swear I tried every single combination of your maiden/married names along with "blog" and "Katie's World," etc. Nothing worked!

I MUST READ YOUR BLOG! And so must others!

Yours bloggily,

Cari

All I Wanna Do is POW-POW-POW-POW...

This morning I was instant messaging with a friend about Obama's Health Care Plan, listening to M.I.A.'s "Paper Planes" (a rap with gun shots and a cash register sound), looking at newborn baby clothes, eating jumbo cashews, writing this blog entry, pretending like my hand was the gun that makes the gun "sound" in the song I'm listening to and cursing up a storm while reading about Obama's blantant neglect of the Gay Rights Movement. I get it, Obama. You're focusing on Health Care...you should. Next, please make all people equal. Thanks.

This shall be a well-rounded child.

Today, I'm getting a washer and dryer. They're fancy and white and shiny and stackable and digital and they play a little song when the cycle is over and I haven't had a washer and dryer in years and I'm about to die.

I get excited about rap, Obama and washer and dryer sets.

The other day, my father-in-law was coming back from football practice in Stillwater. He has a daily radio show on the Sports Animal, so he went to the practice at OSU to check out the team. When he walked in the door, I really wanted to say, "Coach, this is the year, right??!?! I can FEEL it!" but I didn't...because I didn't want to know the real answer.

But, seriously....THIS IS THE YEAR!

Spoken like a true Pokes fan,

Cari

Dreams As Therapy

I continue to have dreams that contain one key player from my past. I tell myself that this is a "purging" of my brain and soul, preparing myself for a clean slate and the arrival of the most important person I will ever meet.

Slowly but surely, the dreams have evolved from brutally graphic and horrifying to...well...simple and healing, maybe?

Last night I listened to him. He calmly told me what happened. I understood. I explained my side. He "got it."

Sometimes when there are no answers in "real" life, you have to make up your own while dreaming.

I also don't recommend quitting therapy after 7 sessions because you don't want to deal with what's happening.

I also don't recommend jumping into a horribly toxic relationship at your first chance.

I do recommend taking 2 years to be by yourself so you can meet a Beau-like someone.

I'm ready for the dreams to go away now. I will never get an answer. I will never get that phone call. I will never hear why. I will never get an apology.

But, in my dream last night I did...and, I suppose that will have to be enough.

The Letting Go...maybe this act of the play can be close to over now, and I can quit holding that pain so close in the back of my mind.

Besides...someone is coming. Someone who puts all of my past to shame. Someone that makes all of that look like a horribly written and directed community theater production.

Horribly written and directed community theater productions are funny.

I will learn to laugh at the audacity of this key player. The audacity that he thought he could be the one to put on "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" while simultaneously playing every role.

No, no, no. He could never pull off George. George is too funny.

And, by the way...this new little person on it's way...

they don't need to put on "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?"

...they are Virginia Woolf...

hopefully without the whole rocks-in-pockets-in-river aspect.

I Cry About Dumb Things Now.

A quick list of slightly ridiculous things, events or happenings that have made me cry in the past week. Thanks, hormones!

1. My brother, sister and I recently purchased tickets for the Durango/Silverton steam train for my dad and step-mom. His 65th birthday is coming up, and we wanted to do something special. He has always, always wanted to go on this steam train trip, and now he gets to! Did I cry when we gave him the tickets? No. Here is when I cried:

I decided to watch a video on YouTube of the steam train, winding its way through the mountains. I started to cry. Was I crying because I was excited that my dad finally gets to go on this amazing trip? No. I was crying for the loss of the "Old West."

Seriously. I seriously started crying because the Old West is gone. That's how dumb my brain is now.

2. Last week, while driving through Stillwater, I noticed the new Stillwater High School football stadium. It is amazing. It's huge. It's colossal. With "pregnant brain," I am at a loss for words. I don't know why I like it so much. As I drove down Boomer, past the high school parking lot, I took a gander at the many "jocks" probably heading to practice on a July morning. I started to cry. Was I crying because I was so happy for the "jocks" that they have a new stadium? No. Here is why I cried:

I cried for my lost youth. I just kept thinking, "I will never be that free ever again. I will never have that sense of irresponsibility EVER AGAIN. I can never borrow money from my parents EVER AGAIN. I can never drive around Stillwater, smoking cigarettes with Sarah and Morgan in my '82 Honda Prelude, talking about the Smashing Pumpkins and boys we like EVER AGAIN. I can never have that back. It's gone. Forever. I cried and cried. The nostalgia was too much to handle. I decided to turn my nostalgia into anger, a feeling I'm much more familiar with. "Stupid ass stadium! Think WE could've had a nice stadium? Why do THEY get a kick-ass stadium!?" I drove away, huffing about how WE went to the State Semi-Finals...WE could've used a nice stadium....WE would've completely appreciated a stadium. Don't even get me started on the Performing Arts Center...

3. I know that pigeons are "flying rats" that harbor disease, but I like them. They make me happy. They make me think of Italy and New York City and my grandpa. You see, my grandpa raised racing pigeons. Some of the only memories I have of him before his stroke include going out to the coop, listening to pigeons "coo," and watching/listening to my grandpa pet and talk to them. Pigeons sounds have always been extremely comforting to me...until I moved into my new 90 year-old house. This house was for sale for well over a year. It has large eaves and nooks in which pigeons love to "roost."I don't know why I just put roost in quotations. I'm having a problem with the overuse of quotations right now. When we bought the house, I looked up at the roof and said, "Oh, my god! Look at all those pigeons! How cool!" Beau was not so keen on the idea of having our own "coop" on the roof. Apparently, pigeon droppings ruin your roof. Their poop is like acid, or something like that. Everyone in our neighborhood hates pigeons. They even shoot them. Once a neighbor came over with some sort of bb/pellet gun to loan to us for our "pigeon problem." The gun was sitting in the corner when I came home. I shot Beau a look.

"What the hell is that gun doing in our house?" (You see, I am a "as far to the left" pacifist as you can get.)

"Oh, Giles brought that over to help with the pigeons."

"We're SHOOTING the pigeons now?"

"Well, he was just wanting to help."

"Did you kill any? We do not kill things that soar in this family. Get rid of the gun."

Anyhoo...the other day I saw a dead pigeon on our roof, right outside of my window. I have no idea who killed it, but I do not appreciate them, and I intend to slap them very hard some day. Then, when they say, "OW! Why did you do that?!?" I'll be like, "That's how a pigeon feels when you shoot it with a BB gun, except for THEY DIE." Back to my story: I then witnessed one of the weirdest, saddest things I've ever seen. After an incessant "cooing" by a certain pigeon, (which I promised myself I wouldn't name because it will probably be murdered tomorrow), I looked outside to see the aforementioned dead pigeon. The cooing pigeon then proceeded to poke at the dead pigeon with its beak. It then stepped and hopped all over it, as to say, "Wake up! Are you okay?!?" I then started bawling. I raced to the computer and knew what I had to discover...there was no getting around it....I hurriedly typed in "pigeons mate for life" into Google. Yep. They do. That one cooing pigeon was mourning the loss of its one true love. On my roof. The only "safe" roof in the neighborhood. It was probably even my grandpa, come back to Earth as a pigeon...only to be shot and killed, mercilessly, by the hands of gentrified yuppies, reclaiming their right to live near downtown because it's getting "cool" again. They killed my grandpigeon. So, I cried about that.

4. I don't know how Beau puts up with me. The other day, I cried and cried, uncontrollably because my first husband left me. That's right, people...let's type that out again, with more emphasis on the dumb parts this time:

I cried and cried to my new husband, whom I love with all of my heart and more than anyone else in the entire world...about how my ex-husband left me and never called me once to check on me.

The fact that Beau didn't leave at that very moment still amazes me. In my head it was a perfectly rational experience to be having. It was like I was crying to a girlfriend. I think I even said things like, "But WHY did he leave me? WHY? What did I do to HIM?!" as tears streamed down my face and I got snot all over his nice, buttond0wn work shirt.

He just hugged and held me and said, "I don't know, Cari. He's an idiot. He's a total idiot, and you have every right to be upset. He didn't want to 'work' anymore."

I would respond with, "But, he never called me ONE TIME after our divorce! He never said he was sorry without me asking him to say it!!! WAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!"

"I know, I know. He's ridiculous. I'm so sorry that happened to you."

This. This is what the father of my unborn child said to me while I selfishly cried about my ex-husband.

This, my friends...this is what real love is.

I Promise I Have Other Things to Talk About, But...

When a human is growing inside of you, you pretty much focus on that. Which brings me to what's been annoying me this week. Actually, what I'm about to write about has been annoying me for 12 weeks. Here we go:

Did you know that you're not supposed to eat deli meat when you're pregnant? DELI MEAT. Like, cold cuts. Ham. Turkey. WTF, people? And, if you so choose to eat deli meat, you're supposed to heat it up in the microwave until it's steaming hot. That's sick.

I think this is all complete bullshit. I think a lot of things that I read about pregnancy "dos and don'ts" are complete bullshit. I think they are scare tactics used by doctors and the FDA that make us freak out and not trust our own bodies. I refuse to follow these rules.

No sushi. Too much Mercury. No caffeine. Possible miscarriage. No alcohol. Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. No deli meat. Listeriosis. No hot dogs, undercooked steak (uh, who eats steak WELL DONE???), some recommend no peanuts, no brie, feta or camembert, no shellfish, no raw oysters, very little fish...the list goes on and on.

What am I supposed to eat, people? Bread? Can I only have bread? These rules are completely ridiculous, and I find myself grabbing handfuls of sliced turkey and shoving them into my mouth, just to prove my point. If it comes to having peanut-filled sushi, smeared with brie and a cup of coffee to wash it down...I'll do it, just to prove my point.

If I didn't have my midwives, I would be going insane right now. Do you know what they said? Here it is:

"You can have 1-2 cups of coffee in the morning. It's not going to hurt anything. If the baby is going to miscarry, it's going to miscarry, and there's nothing you can do about it. It's not the coffee's fault, unless you're drinking a pot or two every single day. The coffee will actually help your sloth-like movements and will aid in the help of constipation." (Too much information? Wait until I get to the "mucus plug" stage...and, they didn't really say "sloth-like" movements, even though I wouldn't put it past them, the psychic "Witches of Brookside" that they are!)

They also told me that I could enjoy a glass of wine or a beer on special occasions. They also have special "ladies' nights" for their pregnant clients, and there is wine waiting for them. I haven't been able to enjoy this little luxury because of nausea, but HELLO?!? WINE!!!! YES!!!!

I honestly don't know if I'll be able to bring myself to enjoy a glass of wine while pregnant, though. I know that women do this all over the world all the time, but my mind has been so programmed to associate a sip of wine with fetal alcohol syndrome that I can't fathom doing it...even though I know it's a LIE WE'VE BEEN TOLD. One glass of wine, even once a week, after the 1st trimester is over is not going to do any damage. I know this. And, yet...can't bring myself to do it.

I have also come across some idiots that like to tell me that my choice of having the baby at home, without drugs, in my bedroom with Brian Eno playing is a bad idea and that "what if something goes wrong" and "how will you clean up the mess?" (that was my favorite question...how will I clean up the mess? Are you actually asking this question?) and "You'll really want that epidural." That last statement came from a man. He also called me a hippie and said that I'd been "reading too much" after I explained to him that the American Health/Hospital system has one of the highest infant mortality rates in the world. It's true. Then, I proceeded to get into an argument about where my baby would sleep and that all of the points he was making were outdated and found to be false. So, when he said, "You've been reading too much," I was at my breaking point and responded with, "And, you've obviously read nothing."

Seriously, dude. Don't fuck with my baby plans. I'll rip your balls off with my expert knowledge.

And seriously, though...really, MALE? You really know I'll want that epidural? Did you recently have a large pumpkin come out of your penis? Do you know the kind of pain I can handle when it comes to this shit? (Man, my mouth is getting dirtier and dirtier. I'm going to be a great mom.)

I supposed what I'm trying to covey is that people (especially people who have penises) probably shouldn't tell a pregnant woman what to expect during labor. And, they probably shouldn't tell a woman how much pain she can handle.

My cousin and best friend, Lindsey, had her little baby Luca on Monday. She was going the all-natural way at home with a midwife. She stayed at 9 centimeters for FIVE HOURS, until she couldn't take it anymore. She's 5'2" and tiny. Luca was 21 inches long and 8lbs. 6 oz.

So, MAN WITHOUT VAGINA, you probably shouldn't tell any more women what that feels like, okay? Great. Nice discussing this with you, passive aggressively, through blog writing.

p.s. I hope to not have every blog sound so sarcastic. So far, sarcasm and annoyance are the main two "mood groups" I have right now. People will have to deal.

Okay, So I'm Not the Mother of God, But...

Wow. It's been an extremely long time since I've written anything. I actually have a reason this time! In the past couple of months I have:

1. Quit my job.
2. Moved.
3. Begun renovating a 90 year-old house.
4. Got knocked up.

That's right, folks. Ol' fun, drinking, smoking Cari is out the window. I am 10 weeks and 5 days along in this little "miracle" called "creating life."

And, now for the honesty that we have all come to know and love about me:

This sucks. It's really hard. I feel sick. I feel insane.

I have already read four books about pregnancy. The only one that even came CLOSE to describing what I've been feeling is a book called "Belly Laughs" by Jenny McCarthy. Yes, I can relate to a former Playboy Playmate better than a doctor.

Here are a list of things "they," meaning EVERYONE IN THE WHOLE WORLD, don't tell you before you get pregnant:

1. Not every woman is ecstatic by the sight of her positive pregnancy test. In fact, I think that I screamed, "This CANNOT be right! Are you fucking kidding me?" A wave of slight excitement came later. It was slight. We weren't trying. We weren't NOT trying (nice double negative). But, I had been painting a 90 year-old house with the windows closed, stripping a fireplace, smoking and losing weight for the past two weeks...not to mention I had more than a couple drinks at Mayfest. Not really the "ideal" time to get pregnant. (Fortunately, I was later told that latex paint is okay, and I immediately quit smoking the instant I found out.)

2. You will be filled with a rage unlike any you've ever felt from about Week 6 to about....oh, I don't even know when that will stop. It is not a constant rage. But, it is a dangerous one. Annoyed is not the word. Infuriated is. Hormones are evil, evil little things. I wouldn't wish a bad hormonal imbalance on my worst enemy. My poor, poor husband. We have made a pact that there will be no "unprovoked conversation" any time soon on his part. The other night, his breathing annoyed me so badly that I had to leave the room.

3. You will have feelings about your husband that are irrational, senseless, cruel, mean and absolutely ridiculous, and you will have no control over it. You will literally think, "I can't stand you. Get the hell away from me. Wait, that's not how I feel. But, it is. I hate him. But, I don't! I love him the MOST! But, I DO! GET AWAY and NEVER TOUCH ME AGAIN! But, wait...don't leave me. Don't leave me here alone...but, seriously...FUCKING get OUT of my FACE!"

You will. You will have those thoughts, and you will cry long and hard about them until you can finally look back on these early weeks and laugh. NOT fun, my friends. NOT FUN.

4. The whole "don't touch me" thing lasts longer than anyone should ever have to deal with. It sucks.

5. Apathetic is the only word I can find to describe how I feel about this pregnancy. I'm trying to be extremely honest here, because no one was with me. I felt complete and total apathy until about 2 days ago...a slight sense of attachment came, but it was only slight. At one point of rage/Crazy Bitch/Cari-the-Crier/freak out-mode, I actually said these words, and I repeat them now so that any woman who ever goes through this knows she's not alone:

"I don't care about this anymore. I want it to go back to the way it was. I want a fucking beer and a cigarette and to not feel sick and to want to have sex and for all of this to go away."

This statement was then followed by waves of guilt. But, you know what? It's how I felt, and I am soooo tired of reading things written by pregnant women that say, "Oh, it's a glorious time! I can't believe how anyone would complain about any of it! It's such a gift! The nausea can be a pain, but it gets better!" Uh, people? It's a bit different than that, mmmkay?

I never felt like this was a glorious time even once. I'm sure I will someday. But, as of now, I'd like to stab some people, throw some things, feel absolutely wonderful again for just ONE day, not gain weight without my consent, be able to make it through one day without crying and not want to throw up if I even see the word barbecue. (I craved barbecue for two weeks straight. I would have fantasies about drinking an entire bottle of barbecue sauce. I hated barbecue before this. I hate it again. See? How can you be rational about pregnancy when THIS shit happens?)

6. You will have such intense cravings for certain foods that you honestly might revert back to childhood fits if you don't get what you want. This weekend I required TWO trips to a baked potato bar. Two. I literally had to leave my home in 100+ degree weather to get baked potatoes on TWO separate occasions. It was ridiculous and so, SO good. I slathered them with butter, sour cream and melty cheese. God, I could eat another one right now.

7. No one will talk to you about anything besides being pregnant, the baby, things they're going to buy for the baby, how often they want to see the baby, where they're going to take the baby, and "how you're feeling" if they know of the pregnancy. If I had known this fact, I would've waited until 38 weeks to tell some people. I could just explain away the stomach with a malnutrition lie or something like that. But, honestly...your brain is not interesting anymore. Only the tiny, kumquat-sized being inside of you (that you haven't even emotionally connected with, mind you) is important now. Only that. Please don't try to talk to anyone about world events or the recent article you read in the New Yorker. They don't care. They only care about the baby. Now, here's the weird part:

Even though you haven't emotionally connected with the baby, you are still extremely protective, not unlike a mother bear, when people try to tell you how they're going to spend time with the baby or what the baby will wear, or what the baby will sleep in, or how the baby will be birthed, etc. That is when all maternal instinct kicks in, and you smile politely, but INSIDE, you're thinking,

"I will fucking kill you if you think for ONE SECOND you have ANY SAY in how this baby will be RAISED, what it will DO, how it will SLEEP, what it will be NAMED, how long you can watch it, etc. You have to run it by me to even BREATHE by this baby. This is MY baby. This is my HUSBAND'S baby. Touch my baby OR my belly without asking and it will be your last move on this Earth."

These thoughts made/make me smile because I was starting to feel guilty about the apathy. Nice to know that I would kill someone if they got too "handsy."

8. I'm really making this out to sound really wonderful, huh? Did I mention the tiredness? No?

9. Your energy will be that of a sloth. A sloth that is trying its hardest to make the simple movement of reaching for a leaf. And, yet...it cannot.

10. Some days you will say, "I don't want to talk about the baby." And, that's okay.

11. Don't tell anyone what you're naming the baby (unless you really, really trust them) until it's born. Ever. It's none of their damn business, and in your fragile emotional state, you don't need their disapproving glances. It will just make you sad and turn into the Mama Bear woman that I described above.

12. You will love a certain name for about 3 days and then think, "I can't believe I was ever going to name my child that. That's the dumbest name EVER."

13. You will freak out and wonder if you will lose your entire sense of being due to this little kumquat thing inside of you. You will wonder if you'll ever be "cool" again. You will actually say to your friends, "But, tell me if I'm not being cool, okay? Tell me if I'm turning into one of those moms." They will agree to watch out for tapered jeans with elastic waists that suddenly appear in your closet, or any sign of sentences such as, "Little Johnny just has so much going on that I never get a moment to myself! Soccer, karate, tap dancing...it just takes up my whole day!" This sentence will never happen in my household. Little Johnny will have to sit and read or draw, patiently, while mommy finishes her painting or drinks a glass of wine. Little Johnny's life does not become all that is my life. Biggest fear. Written out. For all to see.

14. Everything will start to get better in about 2 weeks. Everyone says it will. You have to believe them. You have to.

15. Your back will hurt and cause you to have to stop writing blogs in mid-sentence because you're too

Hail Cari, Full of Grace...

Did you know that I'm the Mother of God? Apparently, I am. I was informed of this interesting fact this morning at about 7:47a.m. by a man I shall now refer to as: Medical Mike.

Here we go:

About a month ago, while sitting on my balcony (by the way, my balcony has come to represent the porthole to all things "f-ing weird"), I noticed a strange man lurking about my apartment building. He was "strange" because of the following attributes:

1. He talks to himself...a lot.
2. He never changes his clothes.
3. He "lurks," as in, he paces back and forth in front of entrances.
4. He sometimes decides to sing his version of some sort of Gregorian Chant.
5. He pokes the air with his fingers.
6. He talks to himself...a lot.

Being that I am out on my balcony quite often, I noticed a pattern. The pattern went like this:

1. Lurk.
2. Poke things in the air.
3. Lurk some more.

I decided to tell Beau that we had a visitor among us. Beau reiterated that he had also seen him poking and lurking. At my vantage point on the balcony, I could easily watch him without him seeing me. And, from my bedroom window, I could watch him whenever I felt the need because of the direct view of the alley, or "lane" as my southern husband likes to call it. ("Lane" sounds more civilized than "alley," I am told.)

Many days of poking and lurking went by, and I finally had an epiphany.

"Beau! That crazy guy is trying to figure out the code on the door. That's what he's doing. He's a freakin' GENIUS! He's sitting there, poking the air over and over in as many sequences as he can think of. He's going to figure it out."

The next day, "That Crazy Guy" (his nickname wasn't "Medical Mike," yet) was in our building. I saw him get off the elevator. Since I am a Scorpio, and I love to investigate, I kept an eye on this guy. He sometimes gets in the side door. He sometimes props the back, basement door open with a tiny piece of wood. He waits outside of the front "secure" door, as well. He waits in the vestibule until someone comes out, and then he goes in. He leaves cigarette butts standing on their ends on counters. He smokes inside the building. He drinks beer occasionally. He drinks "Vault" every so often and leaves the cans in a nice, little row.

Now, I am not one to be upset by crazy people. I actually worked with mentally unstable children and teens that threw chairs at me. I know how to handle these situations. But, my dis-ease came with the fact that he is actually crazy and he's in my supposedly "secure" building, and I don't feel safe here, and I can't go to the basement to do my laundry, and what is he doing here and how did he get in and I'd like for him to not be wandering in my halls, talking to himself and smoking.

Then, I went through a thorough range of guilt feelings. "This man is mentally unstable. This man needs help. Do I call the police? Do I call the building manager? Ahhh! I'll call the building manager."

My building manager never answers his phone and never returns my calls. Ever. So, of course, being the nice tenant that I am, I promptly left a message that said, "Hey, John. I live in your apartment building. There is a mentally unstable man that has somehow gotten into the building. I just wanted to let you know because I saw that some children recently moved in. Also, the building isn't secure, and I don't really feel safe going to the basement to do laundry, since he sometimes gets in through there."

Nice message, right? Extremely polite, caring, "I don't want to cause any problems" type message, right? Yes.

Did John call me back? No. Does John EVER call me back? Even when there's a fire next door? No. No, John, building manager at the Blair Apartments does NOT call me back. EVER.

BUT, something did happen. "That Crazy Guy" was no where to be found for about two weeks. It was wonderful. Laundry was laundered, dogs were walked...life was simply grand. That is...until last night.

Gus is a wonderful, special dog, but sometimes he cries and cries and cries, and you have to take him out one more time or else he'll drive you crazy with crying. Well, last night was one of those nights. He had gone out just 3 hours before, and then came the crying. So, being a good mother and wife, I told Beau that I would take him out again. Beau was relieved and went to bed.

Everything was going along just swimmingly. I took Gus outside, he peed for 2 minutes straight (guess he really had to go), and then I noticed a cop pulling over a woman for running a red light. I continued to let Gus roam and sniff in the grass for a bit, while I watched the cop and the woman.

And, then...

"That Crazy Guy" comes running out of our building (he got in, of course) at full speed, towards me screaming, "MEDICAL! MEDICAL!" Now, you know from where the nickname comes.

In a state of disbelief and shock, I have no idea how to respond. This is where Gus comes in. Medical Mike, having not seen that I was trying to walk my dog, continues running towards me screaming "Medical! I'm a medical officer!"

Gus freaked the eff out on him. He barked his LOUDEST. He snarled and hated. It was the best thing I've ever seen in my entire life. Well, needless to say, Medical Mike did not like this. It scared the shit out of him, actually, and he proceeded to trip and fall (while running towards me). I had to hold back Gus and all of his 75 pounds with all of my might. Medical Mike then screamed, "Sorry! Sorry. I'm a medical officer."

Uh, riiiiigggghhhht. I'm sure you are, Medical Mike.

Then, Medical Mike decides to get the hell out of there because he sees the police. The police only say, "Are you okay?" to Medical Mike. Medical Mike says, "Yeah, I'm sorry, I was trying to help that woman. I'm a medical officer." The police say, "Okay." I'm all like, "Thanks, police. Thanks a lot. Medical Mike was running at me at full speed, and all you do is ask him if he's okay?" Wonderful.

Of course, I was in a complete state of shock at this point, and all I could think about was getting the hell back inside. Gus was still barking and growling as we walked back into the wonderfully secure apartment building, and Medical Mike was long gone.

When I got back to my apartment, I told Beau all about my little journey. I was laughing the entire time...I think it was one of those "laughing out of shock" moments. The famous last words of the night were, "I think Gus scared the shit out of Medical Mike. I don't think we'll see him again anytime soon."

Uh...riiiiiiiggghhhttt.

Now, our story comes to this lovely morning. Once again, I have to take Gus out. Beau came with me this time because he had to go to work. It goes like this every morning. I take Gus out and walk with Beau to his car. Gus does his business, and we happily trot back up to the apartment to start our morning with coffee that Beau has prepared as I sleep.

On this particular morning, everything went as planned. No Medical Mike in sight. No problems. Sunny, chipper morning. As I am going back into the building, I turn to go up the stairs to the 2nd floor, as usual. Who do I see waiting for me at the top of the 2nd floor?

That's right, everyone...Medical Mike. Medical Mike is now staring at me from the exact place I need to go. I think, "Just go. Just go up the stairs and walk past him." So, that's what I do. Gus, at this point, is not barking. He doesn't bark as much when we're inside. He kind of tried to bark, but it was early in the morning, and I didn't want him to wake anyone up. Anywhoo...back to the story:

So, Medical Mike says, "Hi."
I say, "Hi."
Medical Mike says, "Uh, pardon me," as I pass him.
I don't say anything, hoping that he'll leave me alone and not do something insane. As, I make my way down the long, long emerald green, carpeted hallway, I hear him say something. Want to know what Medical Mike says?

"You are not above God...and, you're going to hell." I keep thinking, "Just get to the apartment. Just go inside. Just get in. He now knows where you live, but just get the fuck inside." As I open my door to my apartment, I take one look back at Medical Mike. He's standing at the end of the hallway, staring at me. The light from the windows upstairs are pouring in all over him. He looks like an evil angel, and he repeats, "You're going to hell."

Thanks, Mike. That was a nice way to start my morning. Hey, Mike? Did you know that I absolutely hate any movie that has to do with scary, psychological events? Did you know that I hate long hallways in movies or anything that has to do with religious/scariness/stalkers? So, basically, Mike, you've hit the nail on the head with this last installment of your craziness. Way to freak me out for the rest of my life, Mike. Great job on that one.

But, wait! It doesn't end there!

I get inside and instantly lock my door. I try to call Beau 8 million times, but something is wrong with his phone. I literally have no idea what to do. Do I call the police? What if they get here, and he's gone? Do I call the building manager? He NEVER calls me back or fixes anything. Well, no need to worry about what to do next, people, because Medical Mike was not done fucking with me, today.

Medical Mike then proceeds to come directly in front of my door and says these things to me:

"You are the Mother of God. And, I have an eye as well as you. We all see the light of God, and you are Mary. OOOOHHHHH....AHHHHHHHH (that's the Gregorian Chant part)."

Are you kidding me, Medical Mike? Seriously? This is what I get to deal with now?

Look, I love Mary and collect candles, post cards, necklaces...pretty much anything that has little Mary "icons" on them. But, I really don't need you standing at my door and telling me that I'm her. That kind of fucks with my brain, Mike. Because, unlike others, things like that start getting in my head, and I can't stop thinking thoughts like, "What if crazy people really see things? What if crazy people know more than we think they know? What if they see 'real life,' and we don't?"

I have a very open-minded brain (redundant, I know), Medical Mike. You have now filled it with thoughts that I am Mary, the Mother of God. I do not appreciate this as I eat my Weight Watchers breakfast quesadilla. Now, all I can think is, "What would Mary do? Would Mary be on Weight Watchers? Would Mary use her allowance points for two beers, or would she splurge on a piece of cake? Mary probably wouldn't even USE her allowance points! That bitch! God, Mary would probably lose, like, 20 pounds in the first week."

Also, does this mean that Gus is God...I mean, since I'm Mary?

Also, why do "crazy" people always tell you that you're going to hell/spout off scripture? This makes me think that religion is for crazy people.

Ah, thank you for that realization Medical Mike. You're fucking crazy, and so is organized religion. Got it.

Happy Wednesday, everyone! Don't forget to go to mass tonight!

What to DO?!

What to do when you don't get the (2nd) house you really, REALLY want:

1. Put on your new, silly apron that you bought at Food Pyramid. It's pink and green with flowers. It was the only one they had. You bought it, anyway. You secretly love and love it. It makes you want to be a gourmet cook. You're kind of becoming one, just because of the damn, silly apron.

2. Cook chicken saute with pine nuts and fresh asparagus. For some reason, you now know how to do this. For some reason, cooking has become a relaxing experience that you relish...pun intended.

3. Eat chicken saute with pine nuts and fresh asparagus with someone you love more than anyone else in the whole world (in a boy way).

4. Pour yourself a glass of wine that someone you love more than anyone else (in a boy way) brought home for you.

5. Consume wine.

6. Dance with the aforementioned boy and laugh at the "defeat" that happened this morning.

7. Realize that the most important things in the entire world are holding you and staring up at you from the floor (Boy, Gus, Sylvester, respectively).

8. Realize that the "perfect neighborhood" means absolutely nothing to you.

9. Realize that the "perfect house" means absolutely nothing to you.

10. Realize that all material things mean absolutely nothing to you.

11. Realize that this could all go away tomorrow.

12. Be thankful for this very moment. Be thankful that you don't care about neighborhoods or school districts or houses. Be thankful that you kind of forgot that you don't care about that stuff, and God gave you a big slap in the face today. Be thankful. Be thankful you have everything you could ever want or need staring you back in the face.

13. Be thankful you're alive.

My Tornado is Resting

It's snowing. It's March in Oklahoma. Since it's almost Spring Break...it snows...every year.

I am quite tired of cold weather. I really don't have the stamina for it. The piling on of clothes, extra layers, bulky sweaters, snowdrops on roses and cabin fever kittens...these are a few of my least favorite things.

BUT!

One of my favorite Minnesotans turned me on to the most wonderful radio station ever created. The program is called "Wonderground," and you can find it at:

http://minnesota.publicradio.org/radio/services/wonderground/

The premise behind it is that it's a station that you can listen to with your kids without going insane. The tagline is: "Non-commercial music for kids...and their grownups." I'm in love with it. I've been listening for the past two hours. In those two hours, I have been treated to: Van Morrison, The Kinks, The Impressions, They Might Be Giants, Bob Marley, The Muppets, The Shins, Kimya Dawson....um...Minnesota? Why must you be so progressive? WHY!?!?

Now, with all of this snow falling outside my window, all I can think about is having a little boy or girl, laying on the hardwood floors, coloring away and asking me questions about life and music, as I make a snack in the kitchen and this station plays.

I have many "fantasies" about my life. They always seem to include hardwood floors for some reason. Every happy fantasy I have about my future includes hardwood floors. Every, single one.

This brings me to my next topic. If anyone even reads this, you might know that I have deleted all of my "social networking" sites. I erased my Facebook page. I erased my Myspace page. (Have to pause to tell you that David Bowie just came on...uh...best "kids" station EVER.) Okay, back to my story...

So, I got tired of them. I got tired of refreshing the pages and seeing that "Christine is enjoying a lollipop" and "Marla can't believe it's Friday!" I mean, Marla...really? You really can't believe it's Friday? It happens every week, darlin'. EVERY WEEK. I think that the constant updating of statuses (stati?) is what got me. I don't care that you're doing laundry. I don't care that you finally hooked up the new Wii. Now, this goes for myself, as well. As I would update my status, I would always think, "Who the f*** cares about this?" NO ONE. NO ONE cares that I'm finally gonna get my s*** together. No one cares that I have to drive to Stillwater. This is dumb.

I will miss my constant Word Twist games. I got really, really good at Word Twist. But, I'm sure that I can find Word Twist somewhere else. Or, maybe I could start a line of games that I've come up with in my own mind and sell them to the public for tons of money. I think that Facebook and Myspace are stealing our creativity, or at least, they're stealing mine.

Yesterday, a friend sent me an email about the same, doldrumist feelings about "social networking." I think she ended her email with, "I want to plant a garden and tend to it with my hands and mix food in giant wooden bowls and hang my clothes up to dry." Completely. I completely understand this.

I watched Wall-E the other day. It scared the s*** out of me. Watching the blob people stare at screens and drink "meals" out of paper cups...the trash everywhere...the complete and total disconnect from anything human and connected and soulful completely freaked me out.

So, yes. I blame Wall-E for making me delete my accounts. I also have come to know my personality very well over the years. I get addicted to things very quickly. Food, cigarettes, alcohol, abusive relationships, Facebook. HAHA!! But, seriously. I have a problem. When something catches my attention, I think, "I will do this constantly for the next 3 hours. I don't want to do this constantly for the next 3 hours, but I will...because that's what I do."

In closing (which is the worst way to close a piece of writing, I was once told by a former English teacher), I'm killing all of those things that make me sick.

Plus, when people say, "Oh, my God! Why did you delete your Facebook page?" I like to respond with, "Oh? Facebooks? I don't like Facebooks anymore." Beau, you are a genius for always putting an "s" on the end of things. It makes it all the more funny. It makes Facebook seem like a joke. Thank you for that.

I have come to the place where I finally realized that if something "big" happens with one of my friends, I will not miss out on it. They will call me, which is how we all communicated before the "internets" took over in the first place.

My next blog will address QUITE the important issue: Adult Men Who Ignore. I think I'll call it, "Really? REALLY?! Still ignoring? Mature, very mature."

Love you all. Call me sometime.

Oh, yeah...I have a blahg.

More than a month has passed since I last graced you with my writing presence. I have no idea why. I've had many, many things to write about. A friend recently said to me, "It's a bit ironic that the last blog entry you wrote was about writing, even when you couldn't think of anything to write about."

Yes, indeed, my friend. Quite ironic.

So, now...on February 16th, 2009. I dust off the ol' laptop and hash something out. As I was trying to decide on a topic for tonight's blog, I kept thinking about something that the aforementioned friend had said earlier. She said, "I observe everything." I have thought about this statement for weeks now. It creeps into my mind when I'm staring out my window on the hour drive to Stillwater, three days a week. Each time I drive, I make a point to look completely to my left and right, forgetting the road and what's ahead of me. I tell myself, "No one notices the distance to the right and left side of them when they drive...only what's in front of or behind them. I am different. So, I will look out my side windows." Usually, what I see is a beautiful old barn that I hadn't noticed or a plane, spreading fertilizer or a single, brown cow staring back at me. These things make me happy.

As I was contemplating the phrase, "I observe everything," I started to realize that I think this about myself, as well...except I observe everything that's weird.

It's true. Over the past month, I've seen/noticed quite a few odd happenings. The first in this long line of strange occurrences was a squirrel that fell. I was sitting on the balcony of my apartment, and I watched a squirrel climb up the side of the building. It was climbing on the bricks, and I kept thinking, "I don't think I've ever seen a squirrel climb up a building before. Ever." Then, it fell three floors down, smacked on the ground, shook its little, dizzy squirrel head, and ran away. My first thought was, "I will most likely never see that happen again."

Number two in my list was during the ice storm. Once again, I was out on my balcony. (I spend a lot of time out there because, sadly, I still smoke. Don't hate. I'm working on it. Leave me alone about it.) Anyhoo...I'm sitting on my balcony, and I see a woman, scooting on all fours along the ice. Her husband was just a few steps ahead of her. At one point, he looked back at her, paused, and then just walked cautiously and easily to the car. Instant anger filled me.

"Why are you not helping her? Just reach out your hand and help her! That is so rude!" is all I could think. Then I noticed his arm, flapping in the wind. Wait. Strike that. Then I noticed his sleeve flapping in the wind. Yes, this man that I had so harshly judged, had only one arm. No wonder he couldn't lend a hand. I then proceeded to laugh hysterically because my sense of humor is morbid.

About 3 weeks ago, in the bitter cold, I walked past a homeless man at QuikTrip. There are quite a few homeless people in Tulsa, Oklahoma...more than you would imagine. I also live Downtown, and all of the homeless services are down here, so I see just how many people there are without homes on a daily basis. This man had a tube coming out of his nose. He had obviously been in the hospital at one point during the day. I gave him $25.00. The way he said, "Oh, my God," after I gave it to him will haunt me for the rest of my life. This, "Oh, my God," to anyone else, would be the type of, "Oh, my God," you would say if you saw your grandfather, back from the dead. The kind of "Oh, my God," you would say if you stumbled upon gold bars. But, it was just $25. I walked in, bought some chips and a Diet Coke, came back outside, and started to walk to my car. He yelled after me, but his voice was tired and weak. He said, "God loves you!" I walked right back up to him, crouched down to his level (he was sitting on the ground), grabbed his hand and said, "God loves you. Try to stay warm. It's too cold out here." He said, "I have a place to stay, but I can't go until midnight, and it costs five dollars." It was 17 degrees outside. It was 7:15pm.

I went home and cried for 2 hours.

Yesterday, I thought about why I like astronomy so much. Then I thought about the Hubble Space Telescope pictures and how they make me so incredibly happy...like, those are pictures of "home" and this life is something that happens before I get to back to my nebulous of colorful, sparkly things. For some strange reason, I keep telling myself that I'll do such-and-such when such-and-such happens. I give myself time lines and labels and judgements and so very many "ifs" and "maybes whens." I let doubt and fear make a mockery of my talents. I, at one point, think about the randomness of it all, and another, the complete and total connectedness.

I think about the woman scooting on the ground on all fours. I think about the squirrel falling from the building. I think about looking out my window, 90 degrees to the east and west so that I can notice things that other people don't notice. I think about the homeless man and my friend's gall bladder surgery and coffee and plane crashes and on and on and on...and, I realize:

This stuff happens if I notice it or not. Then, I get really confused. Because once, someone told me, "Life is really easy if you remember these two very important things: You are not the center of the Universe, and you ARE the center of the Universe."

The balance of that statement is what I aim for. The balance of that statement is why I'm trying to actually do something that I love and not worry about the naysayers.

The balance of that statement is why I'm trying to not step on people on my way to the top. I am not the center of the Universe, but I AM the center of the Universe, so it's about damn time I step up and do something.

Life is so very short. I don't understand it sometimes. But, I do know what I want to do. I want to make more art. And, I want to care more.

Stay tuned for more on my plan for my own little world domination. And by "my own little world domination," I mean, "Doing what I know I can do and love to do without fear."

Change the Sheets, Change Your Life

Cari: "Hey, I can't think of anything to write today."

Beau: "You don't have to write something every day. Are you okay?"

Cari: "Yeah."

Beau: "Are you sure? Promise me you're okay."

Cari: "I'm okay. I just can't think of anything to write about, and it's driving me crazy."

Beau: "What are you drinking?"

Cari: "Beer."

Beau: "You're drinking Coors Light in a fancy glass at 4:33?"

Beau: "Yeah."

(he laughs)

Cari: "What?!"

Beau: "Nothing. It's just funny."

Cari: "I said that I would write something on my blog every day. I can't think of anything. Why can't I think of anything?"

Beau: "I don't know."

Cari: "Well, give me an idea. What do I talk about a lot?"

Beau: "Buttholes."

Cari: "Jesus, Beau. Nice. Thank you for that little bit of inspiration."

Beau: "Why don't you talk about how hard it is to live with me?"

Cari: "Because that would take too long."

Beau: "Jack London said you don't have to wait for inspiration, you have to go after it with a club."

Cari: "See? I'm supposed to write something. I'm supposed to go after inspiration. That's what I was trying to say."

Beau: "But, of course he became a terrible alcoholic and went crazy, and he was reduced to buying plot lines from lesser novelists in an attempt to being an author again. He eventually died alone and penniless. But, they did make a nice monument in a square in San Francisco for him. It's really pretty. I saw it once."

Cari: "Thanks. Think I just got the idea for my next blog...freak."

(The conversation above was had while Beau made the bed. He seems to think that all of life's problems can be removed or made better by hospital corners and regularly changing your sheets. I could not disagree more. I don't think I've ever argued more with one person in my entire life. I know I've never been more in love with another person in my entire life. As I type this, he is purposefully trying to annoy me by wiggling/dancing in front of me, just so you know what I have to put up with. Now, he's narrating what he's doing in the kitchen. "I'm going to have a piece of cheese. No, Sylvester, you can't have any. It's mine. This is my cheese. F-you, Sylvester.")

Maybe he's right. I should make the bed more.

Sweet Potatoes, Pokes and Purge-a-tory

I live in a 1920's, renovated brick apartment building. Sounds nice, huh? That's what I thought. Given the fact that the inside of my apartment is pretty much the most beautiful place EVER, thanks to a certain "God-given decorating ability" God-brother, you would think that every moment spent here would be lovely, wouldn't you?

I have completely interesting neighbors that I rarely see. They are:

The Recluse: I've seen this man one time. Two nights ago, a strange smell was coming from his apartment. It was a mixture of something burning combined with rotten eggs. Of course, being the recluse that he is, I instantly thought that he had died in some breakfast-related fire, but the smell went away. The stench was so bad that it woke me from a deep sleep. I should probably knock on his door to see if he's okay, but I love eggs so much. I don't want eggs to be forever ruined in my mind. You know, just in case he's lying on the floor, dead, with a frying pan full of eggs at his side.

The Admiral: I know that I just said that my apartment is the most beautifully decorated apartment in the entire building, but I lied. The admiral has a doorknocker that is in the shape of an anchor. This has intrigued me since day one of my apartment life. Why? Why does he have an anchor doorknocker? He must have had it specially installed because no one else has a beautiful anchor doorknocker. He is also extremely well-dressed at all times, and he gets the Tulsa World delivered to his doorstep every single day. Yes, the Admiral is well informed on the day's events. Once, the Admiral left his door opened for a short bit. I was happily cruising by with Gus and was promptly stopped dead in my tracks. Inside, I saw a scene straight from Dwell magazine. Architectural Digest has nothing on this man's apartment. Plush linens, hanging plants, streamlined furniture...it was all too much. I wanted to scream, "Admiral! Who knew!?" But, then I thought, "He doesn't know that I call him 'Admiral,' and that would be confusing." As Beau and I were getting into the car one evening, I looked up, and saw the most wonderfully lit apartment. We said in unison, "Oh, my God! Look at that apartment! Who do you think..." we both realized at the same time, and, dejected and shamed at our own question, whispered, "The Admiral...of course." I pumped my fist in the air, as if to say, "One day, Admiral! One of these days!" Beau's favorite joke is to say, "Permission to come aboard, Admiral!" every time we walk by his door. It's funny every single time.

Down the hall a bit is Big Burly. Big Burly is, well, big and burly. He looks like a cross between a sea-faring pirate, Santa Claus, and a Vietnam vet (like one that opposes war, nowadays, seeing what he saw in Nam, and all). Big Burly likes to be "in the know" about everything that's happening in the apartment building. Unfortunately, he's rarely right about anything that's happening in the apartment building because he never leaves his apartment. Once, there was a fire right next door to us. Big Burly took action, immediately. This action included walking around in the smoke-filled halls while asking everyone what was going on. He also ONLY takes the elevator. We live on the 2nd floor. I guess Big Burly has done enough moving about in his lifetime. He now lives on Easy Street.

Then, there's the office, where I like to leave notes that say, "Hey, apartment manager! Maybe you could tell us the next time there's a fire. Maybe I could find out from the apartment manager that turning on the heat could be a hazard instead of hearing it from the firemen at my door. Maybe you could also lock the gates once in a while. We recently had three very expensive bicycles stolen, and it's your fault." He never calls or writes back. What a great guy.

Last, but certainly, certainly not least there is OSU. She's my favorite. She has two dogs and a cat in one, tiny apartment. She lovingly calls the dogs, "Girls." Most of the time, "girls" is said like this, "GIRLS! Stop it! GIRLS, CALM DOWN! GIRLS! GIRLS!" Of course, now whenever Beau and I hear the dogs barking, we have to chime in with, "Girls! GIRLS!"

The reason behind the name, "OSU," is because, well, she loves OSU. Thank God she loves OSU, or else I would have to puke every single day (remember this part because this theme will return). OSU only wears OSU clothing. I'm not kidding. Every, single day, she wears some sort of OSU-themed clothing. If not a hat, then some pants. If not a scarf, then a shirt. You get the point. On game days, you can hear screaming at all of the same times that Beau and I are screaming. This is more than comforting to me. She drapes OSU blankets, of which I have counted three, across her balcony, weekly. I want to go inside of her apartment so badly. I really think that it could be an oasis of OSU memorabilia in there. Now, about the puking...

Why do I love OSU so much? WHY? They aren't good. I'm sorry, but they're just not. I would like to take this moment to blame my grandfather for this unabashed love of a mediocre team. My grandpa coached football for OSU. He was also a strict Catholic, and so, of course, he loved Notre Dame. Once, I asked him, "Grandpa, who do you think would win if Notre Dame and OSU played?" He couldn't answer. His love for both teams wouldn't let him decide. This made my little 7 year-old brain churn. My brain worked like this: If Grandpa loves Notre Dame, and GOD loves Notre Dame the most out of every team, and God loves Grandpa because he prays to him all of the time, and Grandpa can't decide if OSU or Notre Dame would win in a football game against each other, then that means that God loves OSU just as much as Notre Dame.

It was kind of like one of those, "If a+b=c, then b and c..." moments. It was probably the only moment when I actually understood and liked math. (No thanks to YOU, Mr. "Worst Geometry Teacher of All Time" Tipps!) I would like to take this moment to blame Mr. Tipps for ruining all of my chances and dreams of ever becoming an astronomer. Thank you. Now, back to the story.

Anywho, the realization that God loved OSU more than any other team led to countless unanswered prayers, down-trodden thoughts and utter despair when it came to my coveted Cowboys.

But, here's the worst, most psychotic part of it all. I still love and believe in them. It's like I'm a battered wife with horrible self-esteem. I just keep going back. I just keep thinking, "Maybe this time it will be different. Maybe they'll change. They say they're going to change. They even have a nice, new home to play in now. Maybe, just maybe..."

It's engrained in me. They're a part of me.

A couple weeks ago, I got a stomach virus at a pub. I was chomping away on sweet potato fries, and all of a sudden, I knew I was about to vomit. I ran to the bathroom, amidst a large crowd of people and proceeded to make it to the restroom, just in time. The sweet potato fries were orange, of course. They came up orange, as well. As I sat there on the bathroom floor of McNellie's Pub, sweating and nauseous and white as a sheet, with women outside of the door saying, "Are you okay in there? Is everything alright?" I looked down at what was previously in my stomach and whispered, without hesitation...


"Go Pokes."