Wow, I've been gone awhile, huh?

I know.  I haven't posted regularly in a long while.  Lots of stuff going on here.  Most of it positive.

Regardless, believe me when I say I've been busy.  One liners on Twitter are easier for me than sitting to write a blog post.

So here we are.  And for some reason, just today I thought of my foray into kite making.  "But Trina!  Why the picture of the loaf of bread?" you may be asking yourself.

You're so astute.  Maybe not.  I just love that word, "astute"...

If you're a loyal follower you know by now I'm the oldest of six kids.  And as such?  Not much in the way of green backs.  You know, "dollars" "Cash" "disposable income"...

And every March when the weather in Colorado finally became mild my friends would venture outdoors with their custom kites.  Cool ones.  Ones with evil looking eyes...You could reel them out to the stratosphere...laugh with your friends...watch in amazement as your kite was able to do tricks...flips...dive toward Earth before taking a sudden shot back into the sky...cool stuff like that.  

Me?  No kite.  I mean really...how much are those again?  In 1978 I'm guessing maybe 3 dollars.  Regardless, I think my parents didn't buy me one because it mean 5 other kids needed the same toy.  So it was actually an 18 dollar investment.

I allowed my ingenuity to take hold.  

One day while eating lunch I happened to study the Wonder Bread bag my mom had with a limp loaf of crap bread inside.  For some reason I felt this bag could be made into a kite.  

After convincing my mom the bread would be better off in a Tupperware container, I excitedly ran upstairs to my room and went to work.

I made three holes in the plastic surrounding the opening.  Tied yard from the three holes and added a long piece of twine.  Done.

All I needed now was wind.  And baby I got it!  I went to my backyard and watched as my bread kite miraculously flew.  The wind filled the bag not unlike a modern day windsock.  Sure, it spun wildly, a minor design flaw.  Oh and it only reached an altitude of 4 feet.  That's ok.

Things were great until my dad poked his head out our back door and asked, "Nice kite Trina.  It looks like a flying loaf of bread."

At first I was confused by his comment because I was so focused on the 'kite' part of my design vs. the actual asthetics.  But it was at that moment the reality and stupidity of my idea came to light.

Embarrassed, I reeled in my Wonder Bread kite and wondered how many of my neighbors stood laughing at their back doors saying the exact thing.

Oh well.  That's all I have for now.

Outta here...

Field Day Can Suck It...

I hate field day.  Friggin' races.  The wheelbarrow.  Some dork holding my legs and shoving me along until I nearly get a mouthful of sod when my spindly arms give out.

Oh, or how about the 3-legged race?  I was always paired with the equivalent of Wilma Rudolph.  A sprinter.  Fast.  I tried to keep up thinking my leg would otherwise be torn from my hip.

Potato sack race was really great too.  Minus the chafing on my legs and ensuing rash.

How about the water balloon toss?  Yeah.  Fabulous.  That's an Olympic sport, right?

All that crap for a lousy, "Field Day 1979" Blue Ribbon.  As though I was a champ.

Stupid.

outta here...

GET UP AND GET MOVING!!!

Yeah!  YOU HEARD ME!  Get your ass into those pastel leotards and S-T-R-E-T-C-H it out!  Reach high!  There you go!!!

YOU GOT IT!

YEAH!  IT'S JAZZERCISE!!!




I'm checking into local classes.  This is sweet!



Outta here....

You got a sec to help?

"Hey Trina!  Can you give me a hand down here?"


A question from my dad I remember invoking more terror than being busted doing something bad.

See that picture there?  That is an exact replica of how his saw and workshop looked.  Comfy and calming, right?

I'd let dad call me a time or two as I prayed he'd find my younger brother first.  No.  For some reason I couldn't run quickly or quietly enough.

I think Dad was onto me.  He was in the basement.  Probably heard my rapid footsteps as I scampered to the bathroom to pretend I was taking a dump.  Or running to the garage to grab the plastic dust pan we used to pick up dog poop.

Anything but going down to that basement.

I'd end up begrudgingly going down to his workshop where he'd proceed to explain the project he was working on.

"Trina, today I'm cutting some plywood to start install the subfloor in the bathroom down here...Do you know what a subfloor is?  No?  Ok, I can tell you're miffed you're down here.  Cut the attitude, Trina.  Just hold this." as he handed me what seemed like a 20 ft. by 20 ft. slab of plywood.

"Now I know it's a bit heavy.  Just hold it like this as I make the first cut, ok?  No, keep it upright and straight.  There we go.  Oh, and don't move."

I'd stand there.  Struggling to hold the plywood.  Terrified.  I mean, I wanted to lose bladder control scared.

He'd put on his safety goggles (none for me), and fire that wretched thing up.  That gigantic savagely toothed blade.  Whirling and whirling.  The scream as it made contact with the plywood.  Saw dust everywhere.

Dad was unfazed.  Pleased with his big boy toy.

Scared the living crap out of me.  Especially enjoyable was when I was told I needed to push the wood close to that blade.

Seriously phobic of power tools.  Well, drills are ok.  But I'd sooner watch my arm go numb from using a hand saw than use a power one.

That picture...ew....

Outta here...

Macrame is crap.

Hey guys, ever see one of these growing up?  It's an owl.  I wonder if, in keeping with authenticity, these were put away during the day and only hung at night.  Aren't owls nocturnal or something?  I don't know.

How about one of these?

Artistic right?  Also makes watering plants so convenient as it dangles 3 feet above your head.  And look at the plant itself.  Sunlight anyone?  No wonder it's anemic.  Dumb.


What were people thinking?

See ya'...

Dad's Pants

My dad was never one to let stuff go to waste.  Particularly clothing.

Don't get me wrong.  He dressed nice for his job.  Wore a suit.  Perfectly pressed shirt, and conservative tie.  But when the weekend came?  He completely morphed.

Instead of his contact lenses, dad would wear his horn rimmed glasses from 1964.  He'd also wear an Ohio State sweatshirt.  That in of itself wouldn't be so bad if it had not turned pale pink from 30 years of washing.  The lettering so worn he now appeared to have earned his degree from "--io Stute Inivsty"

We were were always used to dad's routine.  Even laughed with him about it.  Mostly because everyone knew his actions really burned my mom's ass.

Living in the suburbs according to my mom, meant sizing yourself up against your neighbors...right down to what you wore when you did yard work.  I remember so many times watching her look out the window with total disdain as my dad mowed our grass.

Sure he was shirtless wearing dark socks with tan Bruce Jenner sneakers with his shorts.  But really, it's just yard work right?

I'd sit in the kitchen and smirk as my mom would greet my dad at the door.  "Goddamn it you look like a damn bum!  Would it kill you to wear a shirt?  And take off those socks!  For God's sake!  What will the neighbors think?!"

Anyway...Dad also had some pants as pictured above.  Leisure pants from the 70's.  Groovy right? Mom didn't think so.  She finally had enough of my dad wearing his vintage clothing and decided to make a run to our local Salvation Army.

A week or so later Dad came into the house one evening after returning from work.  Seemed a bit perturbed.  He yells up the stairs to my mom, "Hey!  Did you clean out my closet?"  My mom yells from their bedroom, "Yes, I did because I'm sick of seeing you in those crappy clothes!"

Dad replies bluntly, "Yeah, well, I was walking to my office this morning when I ran into a bum begging for change.  I was pretty shocked to notice he was wearing my pants."

Nothing to add here...



See ya...

Confession: I loved Garfield

HAHAHA!  Oh my GOD!  Is he a stitch or WHAT?!  I LOVED Garfield!

That lazy lasagna loving dog hating cat really tickled my funny bone.  I don't remember when exactly my infatuation with Garfield began.  Maybe 7th grade...Lastest through my 8th grade year I think...Yes, yes, 8th grade year...my friends in Colorado threw me a Garfield themed surprise going away party....Scored Odie to add to my Garfield stuffed animal collection.

I know a lot about Garfield.  He had a teddy bear named Pooky, for example...See him there?  Cute right?  I had a stuffed Pooky too.  Every morning I'd make my bed and artfully display my stuffed Garfield family.  Garfield holding Pooky, Odie...I never had the girlfriend cat pictured above in pink.  Maybe it was subliminal jealousy...I don't know.

I'm happy it brought me a sense of joy back in the 13th and 14th years of my life because for the life of me now?  I don't know why I even read the comic.  I mean, I have a pretty dry sense of humor...I'd like to think I'm somewhat funny.  I'm convinced the comedic section of my brain went dormant for 24 months, give or take.

I mean, really...Do you find this funny?

So fucking dumb, right?  And how did he convince the dog he needed his collar?  And you want to tell me animals communicate via telepathy?  What kind of crap is that?  It's bad enough Jim Davis even created Garfield...but it's a comic strip for God's sake.  Just let the animals talk...Like Looney Toons...Why speak in thought?  Stupid!

Oh and this one will really make you spit out your latte:

Hysterical right? (**Straight face...rolls eyes in annoyance.  Scratches rash she just received**)

If I had a time machine I'd go back to my younger self sitting at my parent's table eagerly reading the Sunday Garfield and whisper the following:


"Hey, shit for brainz.  When you're done wiping your tears of laughter reading this comic strip, you may want to think about your future.  This sucks.  You should be ashamed of yourself.  You'll lose dates when they hear about this.  Hell, you may have just pigeon holed yourself into the Geek rung of your social ladder strata.  Wake the hell up...STOP LAUGHING!  IT'S TOTAL SHIT!!! Oh, and take that Goddamn Garfield family off your bed you bag of balls.  There'll be a thing in the future called Ebay.  No one will want him there either."


See ya...