Done

Today, I am done with college. Eight long ass years, of mind changing, and utter lack of motivation, has finally paid off. I am Ebucated!!

The People We Meet

I went to lunch with my friend yesterday. I love going to lunch when the weather gets nice. We were sitting out on the patio having a normal conversation when two guys walked by. Here is where the conversation went from there…

Her: Can you whistle?

Me: Only sucking in.

Her: That’s funny. You whistle backwards

Me: I do a lot of things backwards.

Her: I once met a bird that could only fly backwards.

I love her for this. Anyone else would say, I once saw a bird… Not her though… she insists she “Met” him.

love

Tonight my boyfriend told me, that he would fold all the laundry if I put it away.

I fell in love with him all over again, and came up with yet another reason I will marry him!

Tonight

Tonight I peed my pants in a bar… only I wasn't drunk!

I left a puddle on the floor!

My momma always told me that’s what I would get for holding it all these years!

Listen

I take my dog to the groomer and say things like “Don’t shave his face” Then she shaves his face.

I like it when people listen to me.

WATCH OUT SUPER LONG

I thought I would add one of my recent papers I wrote for class. The topic was to pick a "place" and write about it. I think the professor had something in mind, like a mountain, or a place in the woods, but none the less, I chose my own path to write about the bar;)

There’s a little place nestled in south-east Denver that I would like to call my own. However, this little place I would like to call my own belongs to so many it could never be mine. I am just a straggling character in the history of the place that perhaps makes up the tiniest portion of its personality. Located between a 7-Eleven, and a very unsanitary liquor store sits this place. The parking is terrible with the spots slanting in such away that no matter which entrance you use it always seems as if you are driving the wrong way. The parking is rarely an issue as the fifteen spaces are rarely half full, even on a busy night. The name of this so called place will remain unnamed in part to protect its anonymity and in part because I don’t know the name. There are two names outside of the bar and another on the inside. So I will just refer to it as “The Place I Would Like to Call My Own.”

I pull into the parking lot and have my choice of fifteen spaces. I pick the same one located between the bar and the liquor store. I could do this by now with my eyes closed. It’s the same thing every time. Somehow I have it timed perfectly that I always seem, regardless of my day, where I’m coming from or what I did, to smoke my last cigarette on the way there. I go into the liquor store first for a pack of cigarettes. The man who owns it is no where in site and as usual I have to muster up some fake cough noises to get him to hear me and come out of the back. He sells me my over-priced cigarettes and makes a comment about the weather. If he says “wow is awfully hot outside” I reply with, “ugh I know, I hate hot weather.” And, if he says “its awful cold outside” I reply with, “ugh I know, I hate cold weather.” It has become a game of sorts to me, and I often wonder if he has caught on yet.

I enter the bar through the first door this time, sometimes I use the second one, as to make this mundane activity a little more exciting. It is apparent this place has been sitting there long before I was old enough to frequent. This I know is true based on the decor that perhaps at some point was considered fashionable, but now out-dated and has the dust to prove it. The pictures on the walls show younger versions of the owners who now are old enough and grumpy enough to be my grandparents.

This place I must tell you is not very welcoming and the staff has the personality of Janet Reno on her dullest of days. This place I would like to call my own is certainly no cheers where “everybody knows your name.” In fact after four years of frequenting this place, I think it would be safe to say one person knows my name. They always pretend not to remember what I drink, even though I am usually one of only five customers they will see all day, and I’ve been ordering the same thing for four years. Every time I enter this bar, they pretend as if it’s the first time they’ve laid eyes on me. Its sort of the beauty of it. They leave you alone.

I grab a seat at the bar, and I am lucky to get one. Not because it is ever crowded but because “Sleepy McSleeperson” isn’t in today. Sleepy is a man that sits or shall I say sleeps at this bar on many occasions. I’m sure Sleepy has a real name like Larry or Ray, or maybe Steve, but we just call him Sleepy McSleeperson for obvious reasons. See, he always seems to choose the middle bar stool in a bar with very few stools. He kinda sprawls out his lanky legs and stares at the T.V. as if to appear he is watching rather than sleeping. I’m not sure if we dodge the seats next to him, because he’s creepy, or because it is in fact almost peaceful to see someone who could sleep in such a place and we don’t want to wake him. Mostly though I think I don’t because I’m always afraid he’s actually dead, and if I get just a bit to close he’s going to fall out of his chair and well, be dead! Today, however, Sleepy must be slumbering somewhere else so I get the seat at the bar. I grab the Westword in part to catch up on Denver happenings and in part because it’s the only thing there to read, short of the specials board at the front of the second door. I peek into the back room and notice the blue collar pool players have yet to arrive. It’s usually the same two guys after work playing pool under a chalk board labeled “me” and “you”, will tally marks to show who’s won which games. “You” seems to be a much better pool player than “Me”.

I am greeted by Sandy the daytime bartender. Its unfortunate as Sandy seems to be trapped in an 80’s time warp. Her jeans are sand washed, tapered legged, and I bet, I just bet her husband has a handle bar moustache. She asks what I would like to drink. I want to laugh at her, or yell at her and explain that every time I come I drink one thing and my friend drinks another and some things just never change. I wonder though, if this is her game with me, like my weather game with the liquor store guy. So I order. Today though she shocks me, and asks if my friend is coming. It’s as if after four years she decided to show a hint of acknowledgement that perhaps, single handedly we pay half her mortgage.

I try to read the paper as I wait for my friend. Somehow we always leave at the same time, and I always seem to beat her. I chuckle to myself and make a mental note to point out a paper handmade sign to my friend when she arrives just before we get involved in what always ends up to be a five hour conversation, of interrupting ourselves, and each other to tell stories, as if it’s the first time we have seen each other in years, when it has never been more than a day. The sign is promoting a piano player coming later that weekend. The funny part is the piano player is the owner, and the sign is written by him I presume, acting as though he is doing a newspaper review on himself. I laugh because I picture the personalities of this place sitting around singing along to Billy Joel’s, "Piano Man" over and over again. I wonder if Sleepy McSleeperson will wake up for this.

My friend arrives and my glass is already half empty, or perhaps half full. Today I think it’s a little bit of both, tomorrow I hope it will be half full. I go to the bathroom while she plays her version of the ordering game with Sandy. I say bathroom and not restroom, because restroom is a proper word and this place, and this bathroom is anything but proper. I enter and remember I should have brought my coat. Even if this place was packed wall to wall with people they wouldn’t need more than this one bathroom. Its always so cold there is no room for diddyling around. You do what you need to do and get out. However, there is always a moment of time that elapses while you decide to wash your hands or not. See the bathroom lacks paper towels, or even that hot air dryer, it still contains one of those truck stop towel things that circulates through, and supposedly sanitizes. I think these were outlawed against health codes long before I was born. Lucky for me today I am wearing jeans, so I wash and dry on my pants.

When I return to my friend we begin to discuss class and our plans for writing essays. “He wants us to pick a place,” she says. I can tell by the look on her face, she’s picked her place which makes her one giant step ahead of me. We talk about the places I could pick. See some of my places I don’t want to share, and some of my places, well I’m not going to share. I tell her I think I’ll pick my car. But she says my car is stupid and smells weird. She suggests I pick where we're at. She suggests I pick my place to be the BAR! At first it feels liberating, almost rebellious. Certainly when he suggested we pick a place he was looking for something deeper than the bar, something more life like, or life affirming. We laugh it off, and order another. And somewhere between number two and three I start to think about this bar idea again. Where in the world could be more life like? Where else could show life like this dirty little bar? Nowhere else I can think of is a more mini version of the world, where the blue collar pool players, the college girls, and Sleepy McSleeperson co-exist in the same place. Never talking to each other, never acknowledging each other, just co-existing. Where else could one person’s glass be half full and another’s half empty when they both hold the same amount of liquid? What other place in my life, have I laughed, cried, bitched, moaned and celebrated? Well, I guess my car, but as we already stated it sucks, and it smells weird. I start to think about the four years of college this bar got me through. Not the liquor as much as the bar, I could drink anywhere but for some reason we kept coming back to this dirty unwelcoming bar that I would like to call my own.

Perhaps the bar is more symbolic of the ever lasting friendship that was formed there. A friendship that without I never would have made it through these four years. My relationship with this bar will end when I finish school and move on. The friendship however that was created here, will go on. Things will change, and real life will start. I look at my friend, and I silently hope that from this day forward her glass will always be half full. And when she moves on, and finds a new bar it will have paper towels in the bathroom and will be nice enough to call a restroom.

I decide I will write about the bar, only not to be funny or even rebellious. I will write about the bar because although this might not be his place, or anything he had in mind of a place, this is MY place, and HER place, and Sleepy McSleeperson’s place.

tonight

Tonight I became so incredibly inspired to write something I was dreading writing… more to come…

Wondering...

I am writing a paper for an essay class and the professor asked that we write an essay on what makes good writing good. This is something I have a hard time putting into words and am seeking the opinion of anyone who comes along this post. Be it an answer in one word, or an answer in two sentences, or a paragraph. To YOU, what makes writing good? I find this a rather interesting topic and would love to hear your replies.

Wedding Schmeding, Bullshit Mullshit!!

Good LORD!!!! I wanted to plan a simple wedding not throw myself overboard off a ship. People are crazy, these websites are crazy! I must have gotten on the wrong mailing list because my mailbox is now full of shit from photographers, to cake decorators. That part I can deal with, but does anyone else see anything wrong with a minister who advertises? I mean wholly shit aren’t I suppose to find you, and ask you to marry me, and you reject me because I haven’t been in “God’s House” (Church) in over five years? Or because I pleasure myself from time to time, or because I’ve had pre-marital sex? One time in high school I even laughed at a deaf girl! Damn I am so not the chick to be begging to marry, you better check with God first on this one before you start mailing me priced package plans.

In fact last time I went to church a fire alarm went off and I told my old boyfriends mothers it was “God telling me to get the fuck out of his house.”

An Open Letter to My Friend Ben, On My Inability to Execute Self Control

“Happy hour is a specially scheduled period of time — usually an hour or two in the late afternoon — during which some restaurants and bars give discounts for drinks, especially alcoholic drinks.”

Please take notice it states “usually an hour or two” not eight hours in the hippy bar drinking “two for ones”, and then continuing until the “two for ones” are over and still going. From now on lets no longer kid ourselves with this stupid talk of “meeting for happy hour.” Lets just say “hey want to meet when the specials start and then continue to get drunk enough we bring up past embarrassing memories, and I get smashed enough to to do the air spank to anyone who might be in my vicinity” Or “hey lets meet and get shit faced until I play the same song over and over in the juke box so they whole places wants to kick me out… I mean who doesn’t love a little Paul Simon, Me and Juilo?” Or perhaps you can call me and say “lets get you drunk enough to dance, but keep you sober enough to remember it in the morning”

…Because lets face it Ben we have proved we are far from capable of this thing they call “happy hour”