I’m Beautiful And Ugly And Misunderstood

My Grandmother is a gifted writer. A career she should have pursued, but instead went into law after divorcing. I’m confident that if she were to write a novel, it would be on the New York Times Best Sellers list immediately. Her words flow effortlessly, one letter connecting to the next. Her perfect penmanship helps too. She uses her pen as if it were a paintbrush. Her writing is so beautiful! It’s as if the ink lifts itself from the stationary and dances before my eyes. A writer’s waltz. It twirls. It swirls. It swoops and swings. Its art and it’s simply breathtaking to inhale.

I’ve been close with her since the day I was born. As a newborn, she held me in her arms and told me stories, but it wouldn’t be until I was knee-high that I would begin to remember her tales. She is a gifted story teller as well. Silver shimmers in her hair and I can’t help but stare. The scent of her perfume and how her hands feel like paper. Details I remember. Details that hold true to this day. She still tells me stories, but not of fictitious characters with make-believe settings. Today, her stories are made-up of family and theatrical memories that she carries in her heart. So why does she seem to know so little of me when I know so much of her? Is it the lack of my story telling? Is it my failure to openly share every aspect of my soul? Or is it the lack of her wanting to know me? Truly know me. I don’t remember how it came up, but Easter weekend I am sitting beside her on the couch when she asks …

“What is your favorite color?”
“You know my favorite color, Gram. It’s red.”
"Red? Really?"
“Yes, really. It’s red. I’ve always loved red. You knew that, right?”

I wait for her to feel silly and say it slipped her mind and of course she knew, but I don’t get that reaction. Instead I get an “Oh, never knew that. Here all these years I thought it was yellow.” It was never yellow. She wanted me to like yellow, so in her head she made my favorite color be yellow. She did this for both of my sisters too, decided our favorite colors for us. I never understood it, but I accepted it. I pretended to love getting a ridiculous amount of yellow clothing every birthday and Christmas. She made me a walking Big Bird.

It’s not just about my favorite color. It’s about everything. I’m misunderstood. I’m improperly interpreted. I’m wrongly judged. I feel the depth of me is unappreciated. I feel it is my fault because the depth of me has yet to be seen. I fail to show the many layers that lie beneath my skin. Everyone knows my outer shell. Hardly anyone knows my inner core. Sometimes it’s dark and depressing, and for that reason, I burry it down. I keep that part hidden and shielded from outside eyes because nobody likes to view ugly. No one wants to see anger or pain or frustration. Or is that no one wants to see those things in me because they in turn would see those same things in themselves? That would be too overwhelming of a burden for them to bear. So I keep those things to myself, which is where the burden then lies, within me. I permit them to close their eyes, turn their head and walk away. It’s simpler that way. It’s less ugly.

To even my family and closest friends, I sometimes feel that my true identity is obscured. Even the beautiful qualities and talents embedded within me are often overlooked. People don’t even know these parts of me exist because when they are brought to the surface, my eyes are the only windows open to witness.

I feel if I were to share some of the dark and depressing things inside me, that I would hurt my family and friends beyond repair. They would go into denial and lockdown. It’s easier to ignore what you don’t want to see. The pain would be too great and would change the tight unity that we’ve grown into. They wouldn’t look at me the same way. They would question, they would wonder, but they would never ask. They would never approach the subject due to the uncertainty and fear they would feel simply by seeking out the truth. Seeking out what lies deep inside me, by unraveling me down to my inner core. Sadness I won’t even admit to myself, let alone anyone else. It’s not healthy. I know this.

So I do my best to tear down any guarded walls I’ve built around me. Removing one brick at a time, I ease out into the open. I’ll ease them into the reality that is me. To be open. To be understood. To be who I truly am. Beautiful and ugly rolled into one. I’m beautiful and ugly and misunderstood. I’m complex, intriguing and mysterious. I’m probably nothing like you…and at the same time, I’m probably much like you. Or at least I hope someone can identify and relate because it's incredibly lonely being misunderstood.

Caption This

How about something new around the old blog? Instead of me entertaining you with my rambles, how about YOU entertain ME? Write a caption for the photo below and win a prize! Yes, a prize. Perhaps a cookie. Perhaps a million bucks. Just don’t ask what the prize is because I haven’t given it much thought. If I had put more thought into this, then I wouldn’t be posting a peculiar pic as a blog entry, I would actually be writing something of substance. With that said, let’s get on with the “Caption This” contest.

I have no idea how I came across this or why it fascinates me so much. Well, actually how could you not be somewhat fascinated by this? It’s just…well…just see for yourself.

If you’re not exactly sure what you are looking at, you’re not alone. So I did a little research and discovered that this is a female member of Mursi tribe in Southern Ethiopia. Don’t you just love Clinique’s exclusive new line of woodgrain makeup? And where do you find the world’s finest seashell necklaces? Only in the Africa ocean of course. Other accessories include an AK47, an iPod, a 1986 Slinky and a dinner plate. Now go make-up your own story compiled of assumptions, facts, hearsay and scientific conclusions to accompany this photo. It’s time to give it a Caption. Caption this.

My disclaimer – there is none. Also missing are Rule & Regulations, Terms & Conditions or Full Contest Details. You do not need to be 18 to enter and there is no purchase required. However, if you slip me a $20, it will greatly increase your odds of winning. Hmm, go figure.

It’s A Boy! 7lbs 9 ounces

It’s official. I have a son! Yes, as of last Friday, I’ve become a Dad. Since fatherhood has begun, I haven’t had too much time to post to the blog. For that, I apologize. I will do my best to post more often, but you must understand I now have a new responsibility. My life has changed. There is now a new little life that depends on me. Looks to me for guidance. For discipline. For teachings. For fun, friendship and of course love. Oh yeah…and he also depends on me to cleanup his massive dumps.

It’s all good though. In just a few short days, I can almost say he’s potty trained. Who says Bulldogs are dumb? Not this one. He’s a very fast learner. And I think this may be the fastest I’ve ever fallen in love. The only problem, girls might find him cuter than me. Damn it.

Single? It’s All About Location, Location, Location

If you’re single, you will want to read this! Just like real estate, it’s about location when it comes to dating. If you want a wider dating pool to select from, then you better be where the opposite sex gathers. If you’re a woman, you will want to move to sunny California where the single male population greatly outweighs the single female population. And if you’re a guy, you’ll want to become a New Yorker. In NYC, beautiful single girls are in abundance! A ratio of 5 girls to every man! Gentlemen, the odds are stacked in our favor.

click on image to enlarge

Why do you think I heart NY so much? Uh, duh. It’s hard to walk down the street without passing at least one beautiful girl that catches my eye. (Of course you must be careful not to turn your head too much, causing you to get hit by a crazy cabbie.) I’ve compared other large cities to NYC - cities like Los Angeles, DC, etc. And in my personal opinion, I find that the best women are in NYC. Maybe it’s just that they are the type of women I’m attracted to – fashion savvy, career oriented, independent, smart , sexy. It’s the total package to me. For the most part, NY women know what they want and aren’t afraid to go after it. That’s a very attractive quality.

Now just because you live in, or move to, an area that has a dense opposite sex population, that doesn’t necessarily mean it “ups the quality” to choose from. There are losers everywhere out there. So pick wisely. I’m just supplying you with the demographics. It’s up to you to make a match happen. Good luck!

A Dream Come True

The storybook ending. The happily ever after. It’s the dream that really did come true. Was it by fate? By chance? Whatever it was, it seems they were destine to be together, finding one another in the most peculiar way…in a dream. It sounds like a Hollywood script, but this reality actually took place in London. Now for the guys reading, the following story is a little sappy. For the girls reading this, you’ll probably “aww” and have warm fuzzies floating thru your body.

His name is David Brown, age 26. One night while sleeping, a phone number popped into his head. It came to him in a dream. Seven digits. Seven digits that weren’t that much different from his own number. He awoke abruptly, the number planted firmly in the front of his mind. He decided to pick up his phone and send a text message to the number he dreamed about. He wrote...

“Did I meet you last night?”

On the other end, a 22-year-old woman by the name of Michelle Kitson received the message. Although she thought it was strange to receive a text from a complete stranger, she decided to reply. Another message back from David, and Michelle was quickly hooked. Her mother warned her they he could be an axe murder, but Michelle knew there was just “something special” about him. The two exchanged more text messages before meeting. It didn't take long before they fell in love and married. They are currently on their honeymoon and plan on living happily ever after.

Just another reason why my Mom is right when she tells me...“You’ll meet that special someone when you least expect it.” Surprisingly enough, in the past, this has actually been true.

Bulletproof Technology

We may never win the war, but we can defend our lives with tech gadgets. While most US soldiers will probably still prefer reaching for their gun rather than holding up their iPod or laptop during battle, two US soldiers choose gadget over gun. For years now, the tech industry has been rolling out an entire line of rough and tough laptops. Computers marketed toward our military forces. These industrial strong laptops that are cable of withstanding rain, dirt, dropping and even bullets!

In April 2003, a US soldier was carrying a Panasonic CF-M34 Toughbook on his hip in an unarmored Humvee. When the fighting broke out, the soldier held up the laptop to shield himself as a 7.62mm round ripped through the vehicle's door. Thanks to the Toughbook's magnesium casing, the bullet pierced the outer case, cracked through the LCD's glass screen and cratered the left side of the keyboard. The bullet then buried itself in the computer, lodging into the hard drive. Because the bullet didn't make it all the way through, it didn't enter the soldier, thus saving his life!

Just this past week, an Apple iPod took a bullet for another US soldier. This story is a bit more shocking, due to the simple fact that iPods aren’t built “army tough”. Kevin Garrad, of the 3rd Infantry Division, was on street patrol in Iraq. As he rounded the corner of a building, an armed AK-47 insurgent came from the other side. The two men were within just a few feet of each other when they opened fire. The insurgent was killed and Kevin was hit in the chest, on the left, the same spot where his iPod was resting in his chest pocket. The iPod slowed the bullet down enough as to not completely penetrate Kevin’s body armor. Miraculously, he didn’t suffer any wounds.

I wish I could say that no tech gadget was harmed in writing this post, but unfortunately, a laptop and an iPod had to die because of it. RIP.

Puppy Breath

“It’s been a year, don’t you think it’s time?” My sister questioned me as she walked into my kitchen. There, off to the corner of my refrigerator, two stainless steel dog bowls lie. They haven’t moved since last spring. They are now empty, clean and neatly placed side by side. Waiting for…waiting for I don’t know what. There for no reason, other than the simple fact that I can’t let go. Sometimes I’m not good at letting go and this is my worse case of holding on. No matter how many months went by, I couldn’t pick them up. I couldn’t put them away. The thought of not seeing them every day when I come home makes me sadder than the realization that I am never going to come home to the sound of her four pattering paws ever again. It’s been an entire year since I’ve heard a tag jingle, a pant or her tapping toenails on tile. Tick, tick, tick. I use to find that noise so annoying! Now I pine for it.

Over 18 years of her being by my side, that’s a long time. I was just a kid when I got her. An 8 week old pup licked my face. It was love at first sight and the puppy breath sold me. I had to have her. So my father made her mine. Unknown to everyone, except me, this dog would go on to save my life when I was just 12-years-old. A story I’ve never told and probably will never tell. A story that would cause my family and friends great pain, but a story that would clearly show the vast importance and tremendous role a little dog had on a young boy’s life.

My father helped me bury her last spring, on day much like today. It was freezing rain mixed with some snow flurries. Although the calendar read “1st Day Of Spring”, the icy weather seemed rather fitting to be saying a final goodbye to my best friend. It was close to sunset and the ground was still frozen from the recent passing of a cold winter. The thud of the shovel hitting the hard earth, the echo still sticks with me. I stood holding the cardboard box, shielding the wind from whipping over it, as if it mattered. I looked on as my Dad tossed the initial shovelful of dirt by my feet. That single action caused an uncontrollable reaction in me. The grief immediately set in. I began bawling like a little girl and I don’t remember when the tears ever stopped flowing.

Death is a part of life. And so is change. These things I know. However, knowing them doesn’t make it easier. In fact, in some ways it makes it more difficult because we know we must accept, adapt and go on. I’ve accepted. I’m still adapting. And now I must move on. It’s time to fill that void in my life with a new furry friend. I’ve mourned long enough. I want to look at a dog and smile, rather than cry. I don’t want to feel like I’m “cheating” when I pet another dog. I don’t want people to think I’m weird for having dog bowls lying on my kitchen floor when there isn’t a dog in sight. I’m going to find a reason to have those dog bowls and a reason to feel happy when I come home at night. I’m getting a new puppy.

On the 1 year anniversary of my dog’s death, I allowed myself to hold a puppy in my arms once again. Puppy breath. It’s been a long time, but I remember it well. I will be getting a Bulldog pup. He’s too young to be separated from him Mom right now, so as I wait for his arrival into my home, I need to choose a name. Help me name my soon-to-be buddy by selecting the name you like best in the Voting Poll (listed on my sidebar). If you have any other names you would like to suggest for a male Bulldog, leave your suggestion in the comment section. If I had puppy breath, I would lick you with it as a show of thanks. Thanks.

How To Unlock A Car Using A Tennis Ball

Just about everyone these days has keyless entry on their car. A click of a button and you’re in. A click of a button and your ride is locked safely. But what if I told you that not even your “panic button” could keep your car safe from would-be thieves? What if I told you I could break into almost any keyless entry car in just seconds, using only a tennis ball! Don’t believe me? Here, then let me prove it…

Take your standard tennis ball and burn a small hole in the ball. Then simply line up the hole over the outside lock on your car door. Next, squeeze the ball as hard as you can. This will force a gust of air into the locking mechanism, causing it to spring open. Watch the video for a demonstration.

The tennis ball trick does work on all keyless entry cars. They must have a vacuum door lock system. I hear that a similar unlocking method can be done using a toilet bowl plunger. Gee, that wouldn’t look suspicious at all!

I’m not endorsing grand theft auto here. This hack/trick is to be used on your OWN car when you lock your keys inside or lose your keys all together. So I guess if I have to put a disclaimer on this post, I would say I’ve written this for “educational purposes only”. Basically, I’m not going to be held responsible for what you do with this knowledge.

Related post of interest…

• 6/21/06 How To Steal An Anti-Theft Car

WTF?

I do my banking online. I pay all my bills electronically, even my mortgage. I like eliminating the paper and managing my finances digitally. Money transactions are smooth and fast. It cuts out the middle man, the mailman. Fuck envelop licking. And fuck stamps. They keep going up in price, but yet they still taste like shit. Couldn’t 41 cents buy you a hint of mint? Something. I can get a stale bubblegum ball for a quarter. Can’t I get a semi-tasty stamp for 41 cents? Although there is something to say for The United States Postal Service, they have the ability to supply you with anger management tools. Let me explain…

I heart my Razr phone. I couldn’t run my business without my mobile pal. And I’m sure my social life would suffer if I ever left home without her luminescent blue bodied keypad. She’s tucked in my pocket and travels with me from Pittsburgh to NY to DC and occasionally California. I need her. I use her. And apparently I abused her, to the total of $104.12!

I went $50 OVER my Verizon Wireless plan. $50 OVER the normal $50 I already pay monthly. My current balance says I owe OVER $100 for a single month worth or calls! It’s disgusting. Nauseating. I want to smack myself because it’s my own damn fault – talking during peak times, txting to excess, sending photos instead of just using a real camera to snap high quality pics. Stupid boy. What was I thinking?

It’s times like these when I wish my Verizon Wireless bill wouldn’t be just a web link I click on. I want it to be on REAL paper. You know that stuff your parents once used for prehistoric communication. I want to feel the crinkly sheets between my fingertips. I want to crumble and tear all 12 pages (yes, 12 long pages) worth of calls listed on my latest bill statement. I want to rip them into tiny pieces and stomp on the fiber remains. Then light those on fire and let the wind blow the black ash away. Sorry, that sounds like a bit much and a tad violent.

I’m fine, really. I don’t mind paying double for my cell phone bill. I don’t feel the least bit hostile. I’m simply going to print out my bill from this PDF file, glance over it, smile and put it thru my paper shredder. I love the sound of the blades grinding away. Like a monster’s teeth chomping thru its victim’s bones. It’s almost as pleasing to the ear as this little birdie who sings me a springtime melody every morning, at 5AM! FYI to the birdie…it’s still dark out asshole. Go back to sleep!

I’ll pay the f-ing bill, but I don’t have to like it.