Topless Hiking in January?

Well, here I am, "home" once again in P'boig (aka Phillipsburg). One might say that this is a little too much family togetherness. One might be right.

I'm home to take my mother to see a bullriding event in NYC tomorrow. The PBR. Professional Bull Riders. Have you seen these people? It's regulated insanity.

But those boys are nice looking, if you can see past those little crosses most of 'em got stitched on their collars. They sign your program (if you care to stand among the throngs of big-haired "buckle bunnies" there to get themselves a husband) with a flourish: "Jesus Loves You, NAME." Of course, if you're 8 seconds away from death, maybe you really are looking to be saved.

Anyway, in order to get away from the good ole fam, I went for a hike today at my favorite resevoir spot. And hilarity ensued.

Friends of mine know that I'm prone to excessive sweating. My internal thermostat is shot. Which causes a little embarrasment but no real concern at my healthclub where I'm a regular gym rat.

It causes a little more concern when I'm out in the woods. Because today, I was not dressed for the weather.

Correction, I was dressed fine for the expected weather, but NOT for the actual weather.

It hit 72 degrees in the tri-state area today.

So, there I was in a long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and wool socks. Sweating. A lot. And I thought, hmmm - haven't seen people around in awhile. Maybe it would be okay if I just lifted up my shirt a little. Let some air circulate. But then, that felt so good. So maybe it would be okay if I just took my shirt off, just for a second, and got some breeze on my skin.

Not okay.

Because on 70+ degree days in January, lots of people take their kids out for walks on a Saturday. And the one thing they don't want their kids to see is a 30 y/o hiking with only a bra on.

The good news is, I heard them coming and got my shirt on in time. The bad news is, I got so nervous and jumpy when I heard them that I got even sweatier. Seemed like a good idea at the time....

So tomorrow, we're off to the PBR in NYC. And I get on an Acela Express at 6 p.m. and don't have to be "home" again until next Thanksgiving.

The holidays are officially over.

Exhaustion

It's been well over a month since I've posted. And I really have nothing much to say. A lot is going on, but so much so that I feel unable to sum it all up.

Mr. Zips told me today that what I need is a vacation. He's right. But that feels so selfish to say after the holidays. Of course, a week with mom and dad is hardly an actual vacation.

What I think I need more than anything else, is to sit on my couch with all the lights off and stare at my Christmas tree for just one more night. I hate taking it down. I hate saying good bye.

I know, could I be more pathetic?

Rainy Pouring I'm Gonna Go Eat Worms

Bad things come in threes. Here's today's:

• My toilet is broken. Or at least it won't flush. Which is pretty much the same thing.
• My water filter dies. Stopped filtering, starting spraying.
• I got a parking ticket. I thought meters went 'till five. They went 'till six. I still have two quarters in my wallet.

Add to that the fact that I'm upset w/ Mr. Zips for a pretty petty and stupid reason. He can afford to orderChinese food every night and buy sweaters at Eddie Bauer but claims he can't afford to get me a Christmas present. Nice!***

Oh yea, and Peeps is whining non stop at the top of her kitty lungs because she thinks I still have turkey in the fridge and I'm holding out on her. I've shown her the empty fridge, but she still doesn't get it.

The good news is I have a second interview tomorrow. Always good to have offers in your back pocket.

*** Post Script -- Fair play to Mr. Zips. He totally came through on the thoughtful gifts. Makes me feel really bad about this post...

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

One of the things I realized while being "home" is that "home" isn't necessarily always yours. I mean, sure, I remember most of the roads and how to get there from here. But there's no one there I can call on a whim to meet for a drink or a cup of coffee. Even my best friend from years gone by won't return my calls. I may or may not be responsible for that -- I wasn't sober enough to remember.

It's all caused me to wonder what makes a house a home. There's a gas station on the road out of Northampton where they know I don't take meat on my Supreme Omelet morning sandwiches. In Greenfield I like the bookstore that has honest to goodness people that will talk to you about books you like, don't like, and/or might like. I know every twist, turn, and police trap on Rt. 12 in New Hampshire from Ashuelot to Keene.

Are these the things make neighborhoods home? Or are they blips on the radar screen? Is it home when your kitties are comfortable enough to stop having skin rashes? Or knowing that your neighbors have a dog they call by only "Puppy?" How many months or years do you have to be in a place to have it count?

This is a question I would like to find the answer to. Maybe not right here, in this Old Apartment. But maybe. But, I think I'm getting old because I am, indeed, looking to find a home.

Ah the holidays

I'm home for the holidays. That is to say, I'm back in NJ at my parents' house, staying in my old bedroom, living out of a suitcase because most of the drawers in my dresser have storage stuff in them.

And - warning - I am getting highly agitated by my family. More specifically, my mother. My mother who, despite the fact she swears I'm her best friend, has no idea who I am. Or what's important to me. She's spent the whole day preaching about how ridiculous TomKat's wedding was and those religious that don't let people make up their own minds and tell people what they should do and what they should believe in and what's right and what's wrong and ... Oh The Irony. If the Roman Catholics had a Rosie the Riveter it would be my mom. Reenie the Repenter. Or the Converter. Or something. And, me? Hi, Have we met? Card Carrying Pagan.

And then there's the fact that she's been complaining ad nauseum for two days about how much weight she's gained. And for dinner she had two pieces of pie and a carton of coffee ice cream. Let me repeat that - pie and ice cream.

It's like my friend who whines all the time about her money worries ..... And so she goes out and buys a REALLY expensive mattress. Because it's her bed, right, that's keeping her from sleeping. Not her insecurity/unsecurity. Right?

There's a lot of things that drive me nuts. (Try tho I do to espouse lovingkindness.) But one thing that really gets me road raging is when people bitch about their situation while actively working to encourage that exact situation.

It's like complaining about how you hate always being hung over while you're pouring your fifth vodka martini.

So, tomorrow is Thanksgiving and I should be concentrating on gratitude and not being a bitch. But, there you have it, folks. Now you know the real me. Unfortunately, my moods don't follow a calendar.