we have a yellow flag!

Some of the reasons I like the Indy 500:

The gut roaring rumble and expectant excitement that starts after the sentence, "Drivers start your engines."

Obviously, the speed. I mean 221 mph? 0 to 100 in 3 seconds. Now THAT is HOT. I really wanna feel that some day and not get a ride in a police car for it.

The hilarity of the ridiculous obsession of the earrings worn by the wives

The preshow stories of the drivers—it's a virtual buffet of accents nearly as hot as the speed

Jim Nabors singing back home in Indiana

The closing of the visor, like a knight preparing to joust

Tire scrubbing in the Brickyard...come on, that just looks fun

The power of an open wheel car--clean, no waste.

Did I mention the fabulous foreign accents?

The danger—yes, I can understand belonging to the car.

Oh hell, yes, I romanticize it. But, sometimes when I'm taking a turn on the outside and I can feel the edge of the tire just gripping… just gripping… I feel a long forgotten memory reaching for the surface. But who's memory is it?

these feet are made for walking?

I've been putting off a stop at Wal-Mart (the DeathStar) to fill a prescription. Instead, I've joyfully had my rump expanding in an office chair as I rack up the overtime. I decided that last night would be the night—I'd walk there.

I walk a lot, but lately, a run around my office in an effort to keep awake is about all I want to squeeze into my day. The Wal-Mart is a pretty good distance, maybe 3 miles round trip? Really, that isn't much, but when you've been sedentary for a few weeks, taking the pillows off the bed is exercise.

So, I took a deep breath, grabbed my iPod and boldly headed out into my neighborhood. Let's discuss what I learned.

1. Walking is a grounding experience. It reminded me that I am connected to a really large ball of mud and stuff and that even adults can be too attached to the computer.

2. A fantastic little coffee shop with books just opened a block away…OMG. It's called the Stone Spiral and you should support your local coffee house! Story about the Stone Spiral

3. My neighborhood has some really unassumingly awesome architecture. However, one building I thought was an office building turned out to be a perfectly shameful apartment building.

4. I'm painfully close to the Kingdom of Slushies—7-11!

5. The apartment complex that I lived in twenty years ago has very pristine landscaping, but still has that more-than-slightly sleazy feel. Walking past caused the Twilight Zone music to kick on in my head.

6. Men on mopeds need to be noticed by women walking down the street. They will not be denied and will pass, slow down, pass, slow down until you nod.

7. iPods are made for walking, especially when you can play the Juno soundtrack and visualize yourself walking through a cartoon-illustrated neighborhood.

8. Pedestrians are growing in number and friendly as heck. I was anything but alone… and some folks were down right chatty!

9. Wal-Mart is by far the most incredibly awful place for the eyes and ears. However, the people watching cannot be beat.

10. When you carry what you buy, you buy less.

OMG the trauma!

Monday morning, tah dah, paper on the door announcing the yearly bug killing fest.

They sprayed our apartment building for bugs today. Pull out everything under the sinks and from the lower cabinets... check... checkity... check... if you have a cat, remove it or cage it. whah? That was at the bottom of the flyer and I didn't read that part until 11 pm last night. Max? Take him to work? That wouldn't work.

Cage him? ummm. okay. I'll come back at lunch and let him out. That cat carrier is reaallly small. He'll be howling all day.

Later that night.... my neighbors were up fighting their genius little heads off. HE (the mystery man from hell) screamed at my poor, ever so ditsy neighbor all night. "You're F'n crazy (insert name). At 2 am. 4 am. 8 a.m. I laid in bed thinking, no shit, Dumbass. Have you met the woman you're co-habiting with? So, compound the crazy lady and her man's "let's live together in a closet issues" with my anxiety over my cat and the fact that I had an appointment for my car, too, which I now had to cancel..... on and on in my head. Turn it off!

At 8:30 this morning I covered Wagner. Dude, you'll be fine. This stuff won't hurt animals... they say. Okay, Max. It's your turn. I set the carrier next to the doors for full sun, put a bowl of water in the back of the carrier, scrunched up a soft old t-shirt and picked 5 giant sprigs of catnip. Here kitty, kitty....

He followed the catnip in and click... I promise I'll be back. Please be a good stoned little kitty.

Work, work, work. Anxiety ensues. I must check on my cat. He's probably wailing at the top of his crazy little lungs. Work, work, work. Anxiety. umm, I have to go.

No I can't stay for lunch. I must free Max.

That's when my ever-so-level-headed co-workers orchestrated an intervention.

"My cat stayed in a carrier for hours. He'll be fine."

"Duke went his whole first day by himself yesterday and didn't pee in his cage."

What if Max pees on me in the middle of the night again? That was unpleasant.

"He's fine, I'm sure."

"My cat is often asleep in the same spot when I get home as when I left her in the morning. He's asleep."

But what if he's howling?

"And wake up the crazy lady and her guy who are now sleeping after keeping you up all night, REALLY?"

Okay, pass the potato salad.

And so I slinked in at 5:30. "How's my little man?"

mew. mew. MEOOOOOOOOOW.

stop the ick!

dear gawd, whose idea was it to leave the mcdonalds open at one am???

first of all, somebody must have been drunk and confused, because they turned off the jack in the box sign and that is SUPPOSED to be on! i'm supposed to be able to kill myself with fifty cent deep-fry-me-a-mystery-meat taco at one in the morning. those are my "your night sucks and you need to do some emotional eating" snack.

but, instead i ended up at mcdonalds. you'd think that would be okay, unless you know me. i don't eat fast food. so when i do, i expect to suffer, usually by sticking my head under the faucet to get the water faster. and mcdonald's is a salt lick.

however, i've introduced a daily med to my life and let me assure you that it has an absolutely violent reaction to that delectable fast food oil... lard... kill juice that makes french fries the wonder drug for the emotionally spent. i woke up this morning with a food hangover and spent the brighter part of the morning wishing i could just reach in and remove my tummy.

i'm guessing this is a good thing. emotional eating will now focus on celery with light cream cheese. or perhaps those alfalfa sprouts growing in my fridge. cuz we know we aren't going through this again. at least not until i pass kfc with an open window and a heartache.

i was a wilco virgin

I went to see Wilco last night and now I get what all the fuss is about.

When my friend, Chris, ended up with a spare ticket, she tossed it my way. I'd heard of Wilco because Chris' husband, Gary, makes fantastic compilation cds and almost always includes a Wilco cut. I also knew that there was some distant connection to Uncle Tupelo. Plus, it was at the Pageant and I'd never been, so why not!

I checked the Pageant site to see who was opening—not a band I knew. But, more importantly, I saw that Wilco was here for three nights and sold out every one. Very impressive. I had a feeling I was about to link into something big.

When I met up with my friends, I found out that our mission after the show was to meet the band so that Gary could get a picture with Jeff, whoever that was. But, judging from Gary's excitement this was a big deal.

Before I forget, the Pageant is awesome. I know you all know that, but it must be said. And the opening act? They took themselves way too seriously and sounded awfully angsty.

I was highly entertained by the fans. There was the blonde duo, doing the blonde dance, and the drunk girls doing the "when I'm drunk I'm such a good dancer" dance. An amazing amount of men were dancing—some doing the man dance, some playing air drums… one even had a little tush shimmy that Chris pointed out.

I'd never seen a band that I didn't recognize a single song, but every other person in the room knew every single word. I felt like I was the new person at an evangelical revival.

The band was, in short, incredible. They had entertaining lyrics, were very tight and damn, that Jeff guy has a lot of guitars. I even remembered a couple of songs this morning, which for me says a great deal since I have the memory of a gnat.

After the show, we did indeed get to meet the band. Gary's brother gets kudos for pulling that together. Gary got his picture with Jeff, who turned out to be a perfectly charming, regular guy. Thanks to Gary, I had a brief moment of contact with Glenn Klotche, the drummer—a moment that may rank in one of my top ten.

The absolutely splendid thing about being an outsider and meeting a band that generates such intense devotion, was that I could calmly observe and just meet a bunch of guys that were really, really good at what they do. Well, with the exception of the drummer. That was one of those flat line moments you aren't expecting.

The end result was a very high wow factor and I woke this morning wanting more.

Now, I see what all the fun is about.

conversations are two people talking

hi! have we met? have you met max? no? well, meet my cat. he'd love to chat.

what? what's that din? oh that's max. he isn't finished talking to you. i'll leave you two alone.

i'm sorry, what? no, i can't hear you over the cat. wine? no, i don't have any. what? oh no, he isn't whining. he is talking to you.

yes, you have to stand still, put your hands on your hips and look intently into his eyes. because he wants make sure you're listening, that's why.

yes, please. yes, yes, max we hear you. what? oh he'd like you to follow him out onto the balcony for a bit of catnip.

oh yes, very cute. and yes, quite vocal. oh no, people never believe me. what? i'm sorry. excuse me. max, do you mind? we'd like to have a conversation.

snapshot of a cat lady in the making.

outside the lines

well. that was fun. i learned... a lot? umm how to paint? actually, i did learn a lot. one thing i learned was to let go and not be so AR about every bloody detail. i may have even developed a bit of an attitude.

this was the first class that i've ever gone through that i didn't read every word i was told to. i can't even tell you much of what we were supposed to learn... lots of stuff about contrasting colors and itten and albers.

what i did learn was how to mix and use paint. i learned that no matter how AR or meticulous you are, it's one hell of a feat to recreate a photo with paint. i learned that the right shade of brown can be tricky to get. i also discovered that indeed i, the obsessive compulsive, can indeed splatter my paint and create abstract art. holy crap. a miracle that one.

i also found that i have more confidence in myself and my work than i knew. when i had something that rocked, i said so. when i had something i hated, others taught me the lesson of your best work being the one that you hate. in the end, i was no longer afraid of wasting paint, of getting the wrong color, of painting over, changing the plan entirely. nowhere on the syllabus did it mention this sort of growth.

i discovered that my work doesn't have to look like yours. i discovered that i have a lot to learn, but i've covered some ground already. i've discovered the joy of painting outside the lines. and no offense, your opinion? my day isn't made or broken by it.

it's okay kid...

I met Mike at a poker game. I didn't know how to play poker. I followed a boy to that game. The boy was a mess and I was drawn to him like a moth to flame. It was the beginning of my fascination with fires and it took too many years to stop reaching for the flame.

Regardless, there was Mike. He was holding court and when we were introduced, he called me Kid. I hated being called Kid. I stopped being a kid at nine years old. But, when Mike said it and my friend sucked in her breath expecting the wrath, I just said, "Hey, man, teach me to play?"

Mike never left my side. He held me when I cried again and again over that boy I'd followed to the poker game. He opened the doors for me to every bar and restaurant I entered. Men who harassed me disappeared with Mike and either didn't return or stayed away from me for the rest of the night.

Mike had a girl and a child, but the relationship was a disaster. He often didn't have a job and never had a car. I drove him anywhere that he needed to go and loaned him money that he never failed to repay. I picked him up again and again because Mike was a sensitive guy and his girl knew just where to hit him.

We would drive around for hours and talk. Usually, it was about me trying to understand why the train wreck that I was in love with just didn't understand that I was the right one. But, wishes like that are never granted and the harder you wish the more you cry. Mike would sit next to me and hold my hand. He'd say, "It's okay, Kid. Don't lose hope. You're a good girl and you'll be fine."

It's been just about ten years since Mike hit a bridge driving home drunk. It's been just about twenty years since I talked to Mike. Tonight at the corner of Lindbergh and Manchester I heard a voice say, "It's okay, Kid. Don't lose hope."

I haven't, Mike. And man, I miss you.