It's not easy to admit that I've cried in some strange places for a myriad of reasons. Though I am proud to admit that it hasn't been often as of late. With the exception of tonight.
Add yet another bar. A bar ill equipped to handle an emotional outpour with a best friend. A PBR Irish bar.
Fucking Cancer. Fucking absent Kleenex. God Damn dog.
I am not one to cry in front of people. I hate it. It makes me feel weak and vulnerable - two things I just don't put up with in myself. Yet I'm not naive to think that it hasn't happened, won't happen....I just can't stand it when it does.
My best friend starts Chemo next week.
Fucking Cancer. I'd like to go two rounds with you in a ring. Two rounds. First round I get surprised by how dirty you fight and the next round I KICK YOUR ASS.
But it's like boxing smoke. Elusive and coy...one minute right in your face and the next not even a shadow on the mat. So instead, I pour my weakness into something constructive. A benefit for her. Something that can provide comfort to her and her husband. Selfishly it makes me feel good for contributing.
But there are nights that we sit and laugh until we cry - and then cry until we laugh. Tonight we started laughing over PBR and Chardonnay and bar pizzas. Then we started to talk about the benefit and the crying started - the, "I can't believe the amount of support and love that is out there" kind of crying. So we paid the bill at the PRR bar and decided to call it a night.
Unfortunately (or is it fortunate) that our train stop is literally twenty paces from a gay bar called Scot's. How do two girls sharing laughs and tears in a straight bar pass up a drink at the gay bar?! Moments after arriving we were bought a martini and shots. Gay men just aren't scared off by the prospect of crying; they are drawn to it like moths to flame.
So for those of you that I sent texts to that seemed odd or out of left center, I don't apologize but I offer the explanation of PBR draft beers, gay men and a dog named Wilson. If you'd been there with me in person you'd have appreciated the fact that Gay bars have Kleenex readily available.
Here's to you Crescent Prah. I will bring the Kleenex, kick Cancer's ass, and cry anywhere, anytime as long as it's with you. Just promise that someday it can be my dog that we take pictures of in a bar.
January 13, 2010
January 11, 2010
Boom! Rubber Band
Here's a weird thing....rubber bands.
Tell me, when was the last time you remember purchasing a rubber band? Go ahead, think about it. I'll wait.
Waiting. ...............................................................still waiting.................give up? Yeah don't feel bad, I can't either. But I knew that (this is my topic after all) I just wanted to see how long you'd try. Even though you can't recall when you acquired a rubber band I bet you could walk to your kitchen or your desk and find a handful of these rascals scattered in the drawer. Rubber bands are like those dryer sheets that sometimes hide out in the crotch of your pants until at the most inopportune moment, say like when you are in line at the bank , it decides to make a break for it and shimmy down the pant leg and escape by sneaking past the sock. FREE AT LAST.
(What in the hell does a used dryer sheet have in store for itself after preventing static cling? I doubt roller coasters and pony rides are on the agenda. Maybe a sort of lining for a bird's nest possibly?)
I think about rubber bands all the time. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I "collect" bands (that's more than a little fishy) but I do know when and where I get them from. You can walk around my house and find a few bands hanging on random door knobs or cupboard knobs -- always handy -- and even one hanging in my shower, but that's a special one. These get used in a myriad of ways from long term to quick fixes. You just never know when you'll need one, a good band is hard to find.
(Get it? Good band....like man........wow, I've been away too long. Either I'm rusty or you've forgotten my sense of humor. Let's get it together people!)
Postal workers are NOTORIOUS for dropping bands all down the sidewalks of their routes in Chicago, like Hansel and Gretel and the breadcrumbs. All I have to do is walk two blocks out of my way and have enough bands to last the next couple months. I like to remind myself not only am I being frugal, I'm also doing a good deed by collecting these off the ground so some yippy little dog doesn't choke to death when he decides a chewy rubber band is a good afternoon snack.
(Only yippy dogs. Big dogs wouldn't bother with anything smaller than a fan belt.)
When I was growing up my parents owned a grocery store and my mom was the Non-Foods Manager. That meant on days when the stock came in we would have to help replenish the shelves. Boxes of Tylenol held together with a rubber band, bottles of cough syrup clinging together inside a rubber band -- container after container of the same. By the end of it you'd have rubber bands lined up from wrist to elbow. Enough rubber bands to last a lifetime. It was a bitch and a half to get those Mothers off your arm. Usually leaving a hairless forearm as proof of a job well done.
I venture to guess that after reading this you will catch yourself noticing the existence of rubber bands more. And, if you want yet more excitement, you can do what an old acquaintance of mine started doing. Every time he'd see a rubber band on the floor or sidewalk he'd yell, "BOOM! Rubber band" and pick it up.
I bet his forearm is hairless.
Tell me, when was the last time you remember purchasing a rubber band? Go ahead, think about it. I'll wait.
Waiting. ...............................................................still waiting.................give up? Yeah don't feel bad, I can't either. But I knew that (this is my topic after all) I just wanted to see how long you'd try. Even though you can't recall when you acquired a rubber band I bet you could walk to your kitchen or your desk and find a handful of these rascals scattered in the drawer. Rubber bands are like those dryer sheets that sometimes hide out in the crotch of your pants until at the most inopportune moment, say like when you are in line at the bank , it decides to make a break for it and shimmy down the pant leg and escape by sneaking past the sock. FREE AT LAST.
(What in the hell does a used dryer sheet have in store for itself after preventing static cling? I doubt roller coasters and pony rides are on the agenda. Maybe a sort of lining for a bird's nest possibly?)
I think about rubber bands all the time. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I "collect" bands (that's more than a little fishy) but I do know when and where I get them from. You can walk around my house and find a few bands hanging on random door knobs or cupboard knobs -- always handy -- and even one hanging in my shower, but that's a special one. These get used in a myriad of ways from long term to quick fixes. You just never know when you'll need one, a good band is hard to find.
(Get it? Good band....like man........wow, I've been away too long. Either I'm rusty or you've forgotten my sense of humor. Let's get it together people!)
Postal workers are NOTORIOUS for dropping bands all down the sidewalks of their routes in Chicago, like Hansel and Gretel and the breadcrumbs. All I have to do is walk two blocks out of my way and have enough bands to last the next couple months. I like to remind myself not only am I being frugal, I'm also doing a good deed by collecting these off the ground so some yippy little dog doesn't choke to death when he decides a chewy rubber band is a good afternoon snack.
(Only yippy dogs. Big dogs wouldn't bother with anything smaller than a fan belt.)
When I was growing up my parents owned a grocery store and my mom was the Non-Foods Manager. That meant on days when the stock came in we would have to help replenish the shelves. Boxes of Tylenol held together with a rubber band, bottles of cough syrup clinging together inside a rubber band -- container after container of the same. By the end of it you'd have rubber bands lined up from wrist to elbow. Enough rubber bands to last a lifetime. It was a bitch and a half to get those Mothers off your arm. Usually leaving a hairless forearm as proof of a job well done.
I venture to guess that after reading this you will catch yourself noticing the existence of rubber bands more. And, if you want yet more excitement, you can do what an old acquaintance of mine started doing. Every time he'd see a rubber band on the floor or sidewalk he'd yell, "BOOM! Rubber band" and pick it up.
I bet his forearm is hairless.
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