My funeral playlist

Admit it. At one time or another, you've wondered what songs we'll play at your funeral. I considered my funeral tonight and decided on the playlist I want at mine, with specific instructions in parenthesis for each song. There should also be a karaoke machine there...just in case anyone feels inspired. I think it'd be hilarious.

#1. I will Survive (best if this starts then someone in the front row frantically whispers "THATS THE WRONG CD!" before finally shutting it off after the first chorus).

#2. Gonna Fly Now (at the end of the service. If it's an open casket service I'd appreciate it if someone could come prop my arms up straight in the air for this number).

#3. I like Beer by Tom T. Hall. Wait...that belongs in Dustin's funeral play list. Nevermind.

#4. Convoy (the hearse should play this on a bullhorn while driving to the graveyard). Can my hearse be a chartreuse microbus?

#5. Lord, I Hope This Day Is Good (if I was run over by a bus).

#6. I believe I can fly (if I was in a plane crash). Would that make it "I believed I could fly"?

#7. Standing Outside the Fire (If my house burns down because I left the coffee pot on).

#8. One Way Or Another by Blondie (If I was stabbed in the back by someone I know).

#9. Isn't She Lovely (another for the open casket service...)

Changing My Major

A recent session of coloring mustaches on lawyers while reading the phonebook gave me the great idea of changing my major from nursing to bail bondsman. I've gotta check at the school and find out how long it takes to complete the bail bondsman degree program.
There are actually a lot of similarities between the two jobs. For example, in either case, people will be paying a lot of money for a service they don't HAVE to have but that they would regret not using(on one hand they might die, on the other, chances are they'll get to share their jail cell with a tattooed biker named Cupcake). I'll most likely get to know their families, will get to build a relationship with the client/patient during a stressful time in their life (stress on the one side will be because they got caught driving while plowed and the other would be the result of being caught by a plowed driver).
It was a hard decision to make but then I thought, "Hey, when was the last time I saw a nurse riding a motorcycle in the hospital hallways? Never. But Bail Bondsmen get to ride their motorcycles to the jail whenever they want to." Final similarity between the two professions: This is Farmington. Whichever I become, I'll always have a job.

Moving on...I was extremely happy to find that coloring beards and blackening teeth on people's pictures in the phonebook still cracks me up and I find it to be an extremely hilarious way to pass time (note to self: take phone book to DMV, on airplanes, and to funerals).
While perusing said phone book, I noticed that all lawyers try to wear the same determined expression, gazing determinedly past the camera to show you how determined they are to make lots of money off of you. Some achieve this bulldog-like stare, but most of them just look like constipated bulldogs.
Here's my final career idea for the night: Lawyer Photographer. The only problem would be that while developing the pictures I'd photoshop mustaches on to the women and klingon foreheads on to the men, then I'd get sued for defamation of character and fraud, and then I'd be the one trying to get away from Cupcake and in need of a bail bondsman. I could totally just hire myself.

Living With Old People

I live with old people. Three of them, to be precise. Before you start to tell me, I'll say it for you. I am very blessed to get to live here so I can go to school full time and not have to work a grown up job. I am very grateful. I know millions of people around the world would love to have the opportunities I have and be able to waste time writing blogs instead of doing their chemistry homework. BUT that doesn't erase the fact that I live with three old people whose actions give me endless ways to make fun of them.
For example....Fred keeps a padlock and logging chain on our chicken coop door because someone stole 6 hens last summer, but as I discovered tonight, Fred leaves the garage unlocked at night. The garage is well stocked by the tool departments of Home Depot and Checker Auto Supply. Apparently a half dozen feedstore hens whose main occupation in life consists of pecking each other's tail feathers off are more valuable than nail guns and circular saws.
I can just hear the theif who hits our place then heads to the pawn shop: "Man, you'll never believe the goods I got tonight. Take a look at this!" To which the pawn shop owner would reply "Oh man! Chickens with half eaten butts! Man I've been trying to get my hands on some of these for YEARS!" Then imagine said owner the next day when the local police sergeant makes his rounds.."So where'd you get these birds? What are chickens like these going for these days? You don't see chickens with butts like these very often." "Oh man, these were my Grandma's birds...I swear they were!"
My brother and I have discovered that free entertainment is never far away when interacting with the old people. For example, Mom* (In order to protect her privacy, I'll call her Debbie in this story) likes to draw maps so you don't get lost when you go somewhere far away, like Grocery Warehouse, or the bathroom. All we have to do is say "hhmm...main street...main street...no I'm not seeing it in my mind. Could you draw me a map?" This is guaranteed to be good for at least 30 minutes of drawing, talking with the hands, emphatic enunciations, and being informed of the locations of several landmarks along the way. "Ok, then you're going to take a left into the living room and you'll see THE FRONT DOOR. You want to walk through this..."

I am not making this up. Come to my house and see for yourself. We'll draw you a map - you can't miss it. It's the place with the blinking neon sign on top of the garage that reads "FREE STUFF!"

My "friend"

Today I am going to tell you about my "friend." My friend has not had any coffee today and this has turned her into a rampaging rabid mad cow of death. That sort of sounds like the name of a menopausal girl band.
My friend totally admits that she has an addiction but has no desire to overcome it. We formed a 12 step grop for recovering caffeine addicts but everyone got as far as admitting to having a problem, then realized that if we got over it, we'd be the posers that sit and drink tea in coffee shops. Now we are just a group of caffeine abuse enablers whose motto is "United we stand jumping up and down in place while saying the alphabet backwards ten times fast."

Speaking of the behaviors that can result..my friend has been barred from places like the library, museums, Easter Mass, punk rock concerts, and Hell's Angels Rallies. They all spouted some crud about her "talking to loud", whatever that's supposed to mean. At least she has a good shot at becoming the lead singer for the Rampaging Rabid Mad Cows of Death. I hear they are auditioning.
She really does feel feel bad for people that cross her path of a decaf day. In this part of New Mexico, most folks just think she's a disoriented skin walker that wandered too far from Shiprock. Speaking of geographical locales, I think I know why the suicide rate in Seattle is so much higher than the rest of the country. Everyone blames it on their stinky weather but if you think about it, Seattle is like, the birthplace of overpriced coffee addiction fixes, which means that a higher percentage of the population is addicted, which means that on any given day, some poor soul hasn't had their normal coffee for some reason or another and what is interpreted as suicide (like jumping off of a bridge) was really a moping decaf zombie who just wasn't firing on all eight cylinders that day (causing them to mopishly fall off the bridge).

At any rate, the one person that made her laugh in the middle of her brain melting down and convulsing was a little girl dressed in sparkles and swishy pink material at Sam's Club. This child was running up to complete strangers and yelling " Did you know my birthday is in two days?!?!"

In the midst of her zombie state, my friend decided to adopt this approach as a means to find the happiness denied to her this day. Oddly enough, people shrank away at the sight of a 25 year old woman rushing around the frozen aisles as she proclaimed her birthday. (For an addict, rushing while moping equals a speed somewhat akin to a muppet bouncing across the TV screen).

Some call coffee a stimulant, some call it a depressant, some call it a diuretic, and others call it a carcinogenic substance...I just know it is the medication that regulates my bipolarness that results when I don't drink any. I'm like those hippies out in San Francisco that claim they need prescriptions for marijuana to treat the recurring pain from the back injury they received in '72 when they fell off a ladder because they were stoned from doing marijuana. At least mine is legal in all 50 states. I better get going for now...auditions start soon and my friend left her glitter tiara in the freezer section.

It's only fitting.

Given that I have finally joined the three billion other people who have blogs, and that this is my first blog post, I wanted to "Pack a punch" and really write about something important and relevant to the rest of the world. After a lot of thought, I realized that I have never talked about my coffee house relationships.
I'm not quite sure when spending an ungodly amount of time in cafes became my most serious vice (next to secretly liking one or two Hanson songs for the last 13 years). It started last fall after I went back to school and found myself with a moderate amount of homework each week. Now, you have to understand that I have a hard time actually doing homework at home. It's like my room is filled with the magic poppies from The Wizard of Oz because I pass out like a drunk in the gutter as soon as I sit down.
After repeating this sleeping behavior for a while, I realized that sawing logs for 19 hours a day was detrimental to my grades. This is where my story truly begins.

I started going to this little place called Andrea Kristina's in downtown Farmington. I only went about two days a week. It wasn't serious at first, just a casual relationship, no strings attached. We got to know each other over a few months, and by the time December came around, I was attached, but they never truly had my heart.
FFWD to January 2009. I was taking 17 credit hours. It felt like I was drowning after the first two weeks. I had no choice but to live on coffee. I was still loyal to Andrea Kristina's, but cracks were beginning to show. I should have known it from the start, and deep down, I think I always did. We had different values and beliefs. I had been telling myself all along that we could make it work, but really, the only thing we had in common was that we agreed on local business, organic food, and strong ties with people. I think it was the election that did it. They talked mad crap about Sarah Palin. Started selling merchandise that praised their little savior but demonized my candidate. I realized it was the end as I sat there eating my bowl of soup. There was nothing left to say. I silently packed my books and left, never to return. Sometimes when I drive by, I am tempted to stop and have just one more cup of Pinion Roast, but I know I would regret it later.
Some people are fine by themselves. They brew away in their kitchens and are content. I'm not one of those people. I had to find a new place, and fast. You might think I jumped into the next relationship too quick, that it was a rebound, but I was desperate. It was winter time. The days were long and dark and my homework was the demon that was driving me to exhaustion.
Soon I was finding myself there almost every day. I couldn't stay away. Many snowy evenings were spent at the little table in the back corner by the window overlooking the street. I was happy. It didn't take long for the baristas to know me by sight. I'd walk in and within a minute, there waiting for me on the counter would be a steaming London Fog Tea. From that point on, I was hopelessly hooked and the relationship was serious. People started identifying us as one. They knew where to find me. I was contemplating taking the final step and having my mail forwarded. I'd gotten over the fact that it was part of a corporation. I could sacrifice some of my principles. It felt so right.
Suddenly it was April. School was hitting me like a freight train. I couldn't sleep anymore. And worst of all, Starbucks and I were in a rut. It came on slowly, but it was like the magic was slowly being extinguished from our relationship. Oh sure, I was still completely faithful, but it was starting to feel less like a sparkling slipper and more like a comfortably broken in house slipper that the dog has chewed a few too many times. Little things started to grate on nerves. They played their music too loud. I left eraser shavings all over the tables. Soon I was showing up in cold cream and curlers and they were leaving dirty socks on the floor. I needed more. It felt like we didn't even know each other anymore. It turned into a big lie, but it was easier to stay together than to face the truth.
I'm not saying I'm proud of what I did next. I didn't mean for it to happen. Like I said, I was under a lot of stress from school and work. The day came when I couldn't handle the thought of going home to mediocrity one more time. I was paying the bills. They could have at least asked how my day was going. Then it happened. I found myself sitting in my truck in the Durango Joe's Parking Lot. I felt a stab of guilt as I thought of Starbucks, but then I rememberd how Joey had mopped around me the previous day as if I wasn't even there. To them, I was just another thing in the cafe. I picked up my back pack and walked inside.
The barista greeted me with a smile and asked if I had been there before. She suggested drinks I had never heard of before. She offered fresh baked snickerdoodles. I found a window seat and felt different than I had in a long time. A week later, I was back. There's something about it that feels more at home than other places. Maybe it's that it's a locally owned, conservative leaning, American place...pretty much everything one could want.
By May, things were pretty much over with Starbucks and me, but we're still good friends. I go there maybe twice a week. After all, they know me as only an old lover can. They know how I take my coffee and how much sugar to put in my tea. We didn't have to divide our friends between us. All in all, very amicable.
I'm not saying that things with Durango Joe's have become serious yet, but I think that in time it could. They haven't filed a restraining order against me yet, so it looks promising.