Cont.

I've been compulsively flossing my teeth in an effort to impress my well-adjusted dental hygienist. I've been reading up on American colonialism, discovering that my husband's lineage involves alot of falling into sizeable bodies of water. Note to self: keep floaties on future children (even if adopted) at all times. I've been disturbed/delighted at my shocking resemblance to Sarah Palin. I've co-performed a wedding ceremony. I've learned to replace the spark plugs on my car, only to become too exhausted to change the defective plug wires myself. Thus, my dad has had two simultaneously crying daughters with a 20 some-odd year age difference. I've been helping children make paintings of trees, mountain puppets, and clay restaurants. I've found that planing lumber with my husband is romantic, but this might be misunderstood. We switched sides in our bed to optimize body contact.

I've chain-smoked and quit. Wrote poems about winter's insanity and have been haunted by my grandfather at the grocery store. Made amends with my mother and my false insecurity....kind of. I've run through strangers' lawns and back again. Built muscles and softened them. Helped a man learn MacBeth in German. A girl learn French through Japanese. Met the Southern stereotype that I've been so worried about. I've stopped screaming and hitting. Got a compliment about my smile. I've gone sledding, apple picking, and rock skipping. Bought kitten-heeled shoes. Earned a 1967 Chevy Impala...maybe. I've been called patient, which made me happier than expected. I've found success at stacking firewood through occasional failure.

That's what I remember. I'll try harder to chronicle what comes next.

For lovers.

I have plenty of reasons for why it could affect me so much.

My step-sister's former classmate on the cover of Time magazine. A haunting worry that I [somehow] belong in Virginia. The horror of it all. The tragedy of a kid who managed to have it all wrong.

I'm usually not into this sort of thing. When I do, I usually get hyper-defensive. I start worrying that people just think that people from Va. are gun-toting crazies. That people think that video games will slowly kill us all. Worst of all, that there's no place for grief. So, folks harbor it carefully with no discussion.

I cried about it. Once. And it instantly felt like it was the most selfish thing I could have done.

But I'll get over it.

I cry alot.

Gee golly.

I was going to write about the sexiness
of Mexican racing.

But, I got all silly and nostalgic and ending up reading old e-mails. Specifically, ones to a fellow I never kissed who would later go on to say he hated the word "debauchery." Ah well. Point being: I totally forgot about this girl, even though I remember the sweet smells and aching bones of that spring.

19.Feb.03
I secretly adore the Portland Public Library. The
long walk past parking garages and City Hall. The
businessmen in baseball hats and emo kids ready for
the war against collective heartbreak. The smell of
old books works better than a cup of hazelnut, as I
discovered that I have managed to sit at the
computer center used primarily by the
German-speaking, Somalian communities of Portland
[all of the language configurations are out of
whack, right down to the date being spit out in
pixalated French, and the Google search in Spanish].
And yes, your e-mails make me happy. Make me blush
in public, even though nobody is really looking
[except for the information desk lady, who keep
glancing at her timer]. Your job sounds utterly
fascinating, although I easily recognize/empathize
with your struggles. How does one make math and
science...ahem...fun? I guess it all depends on
levels of interaction with the material being
taught. Kids love to push the buttons, whether they
be literal or figurative in nature.
And I worry about the prospect of being President,
although power is definitely a worthy thing to wrap
a fetish around. I think I'd be better off being the
eccentric old lady with pink flamingos in her yard,
who changes her surrounding community one word of
wisdom at a time. But I stll have a couple of years
until that happens.
Farewell, for the retail slut hour creeps quickly.
- Dianna

11.May.03
I'm mystified with the idea that it's
Sunday. Yes...Dianna has been partaking in much
whiskey and walks along the Eastern Promenade, but,
fear not, for I'm in the good company of
Goddardites. Anywho....blah... I haven't written in
awhile, but do not worry with the concept that this
letter is in conjunction with booze. Aphex Twin is
playing...so lovely. Life has been quietly
wonderful. My semester is going well, if one
considers that I have changed my big scheme fous and
decided to formally embrace my love of writing.
Yah-hoo! I may even work on a book this summer,
while volunteering at the Boston Chinatown
Neighborhood Center (ESL work...blissful). Strange
things reveal themselves as the snow melts and the
trees begin to wave with budding greetings. I don't
think I've even e-mailed you since the beginning of
the war. Needless to say, my opinion can be
precisely assumed with my passive, war-hating
demeanor. I could elaborate at a latter time, with
charming eloquence to boot. Oh....gracious...it IS
Mother's Day. I'll call Mum from work this morning.
Hmmm.....what else? Portland is truly wonderful, in
a quietly charming way. I can't quite bear to leave
it, which contradicts my wandering tendencies.
Regardless, I have hyper-optimistic plans to pay off
my credit card deby and travel to Europe in the fall
(more of a holiday than anything else). Ergh...I
volunteered briefly with the Boston CyberArts
festival. It was swell enough, but I was more
intrigued by the weekly commute to Jamaica Plains
(via bus...then a hop on the T). I adored eating
fried rice and watching 24-hour coverage of the war
with the owner of a rather decent joint that served
Vanilla Coke. The gig, itself though, was passive
and a terrible bore. It would have been nice to meet
up with Bill Viola again though. His films drive me
deliciously mad. The boys are fighting. I may be
impaled with an elbow at any point. Yes, it is
endearing. Perhaps even sincerely nice. I hope
things are well with you. I haven't been some evil
ice princess godess of death...I do have a tendency
to contemplate the world of N while chain smoking
at intersections and listening to college radio. I
fear I could write for eons. It could prove to be a
bore. Ugh...the boys are looking for the BB gun
that's safely hidden in my car's glove compartment.
Chuck will never think to look over my shoulder
though. My lightly tanned, well scrubbed flesh is
protected for now. Right....writing for eons.
Anyhow....seriously...I hope thigns are well.
Perhaps my upcoming once-again commutes to the fair
city of Boston will lead me to stumble upon you for
a brunch of chocolate and my surrealistic French.
Enjoy the sunshine....it warms the creative soul. -
Dianna (^_^)

The last note I received came a week before I got drunk enough to confess to the boy-who-would-be-my-husband that I liked him. A week after having my heart stung lightly by a Viking. A month or so after a crush left me for the entire country of Spain. Now, I lament to my friends about not remembering the life of a single girl...a wild-eyed, heartbroken romantic...

Apparently, it was devastating.

Crafty.

When I was 16, I got pissed off at Martha Stewart for making Rice Crispie Treats. I thought Oprah was far more hardcore.

Times change. Oprah has ruined literary marketing forever. Dare I say, she's the Chairman Mao of daytime television.

Also, her magazine is a bore. Trust me, even coin collecting mags are more compelling.

She did tell me about Egyptian cotton sheets. Ah well.

Meanwhile, Martha Stewart has started to rock it. Maybe she always has. She's a cunning rogue. She doesn't care about you. She doesn't care about her staff. She barely cares about her guests (but she's so impressed that Kanye
West is into design).

She kind of doesn't even care about crafting. Or geography.

...

It's hard to say what she cares about.

And that's what makes her the most dangerous of all.

It's true.

My pesky husband described my skill at playing Red Steel in the following manner:

"...when she had trouble aiming in the beginning she would just run up to someone shooting her and blow them the fuck away..."



What can I say? I'm flirty.

Things.

Best non-racing thing of note: Wii

M, E, and I had to go to Houlton to pick one up at the Wal-Mart midnight sale. Despite the dizzying glare of artificial lighting and the disorienting layout, I managed to race a fat kid for a reserve ticket. Since I was wearing my jacket with the #11 applique on the back, it sort of resembled the last race at Martinsville: I just didn't feel like wrecking that poor kid.

We did what most people do in Houlton: eat large sandwiches, play Big Buck Hunter at the Big Stop, and sing some of the words to "Then He Kissed Me" (Lesley Gore rendition).

I bowled twice. I will play hours of Zelda later this week. It will be awesome.

Other non-racing thing of note: The Rebellion Jardiniere kit at French Touche.

I'm not really sure why I would want to lead a garden rebellion.

...

Oh wait, I remember now.

Best while-not-racing thing of note: Contender Press Conference

I like catching drivers when their defenses are down, and, at times, press conferences can hold gems of charming behavior.

Such as Jr. and DH looking openly bored during the whole thing. I would've been content with being able to see the two of them stare into the rafters, seek out shiny things, and make come hither glances at lady reporters...

...but then it got better.

I admit, I zoned out when Jimmie Johnson was talking about Talledega (maybe he wasn't even talking about Talledega). Thus, I was pleasantly surprised to hear Jr. and DH exhange some sort of whisper-discussion mirroring a conversation between junior high girls about this VNSFW (or most homes, I guess) video:



Again, it could have stopped here and still be plenty awesome, except for three key points: a) Denny's carefree ease at being able to make the press giggle at his Virginian...er...charm b) Jr.'s use of the term "camcordin'", which is almost faux Southern, c) the mutual agreement between Jr. and DH that this would be something that Jimmie Johnson could appreciate...knowing that Jr. fans kind of want him shot.

Camcordin':



Well-executed.

Thinking of Jr. and DH as total BFF is also a perk. Dare I say, it's quietly one of the best things to happen to racing. After watching their mini-battle during the Busch race last night, along with Denny's declaration to the press that his "potential as a race car driver is not nearly at its peak yet", I'd say things are going to be fun to watch.

I have to blink alot as is, since my eyes dry out with excitement. Is that weird?

Non-racing things I will do after the season is over:

1. Learn to properly roast chickens.
2. Read non-racing books, such as 'Thirteen Moons' by Charles Frazier.
3. Learn to properly ventilate a home.
4. Knit mittens.
5. Take walks with my husband in the woods.
6. Celebrate holidays.
7. Write Denny Hamlin fan fiction inspired by the "Young Indiana Jones" television series, where Denny gets to engage in lots of drinking and fist fights with Ernest Hemingway.
8. Cry. A little.

OMG

I really love Carrie Underwood. Her latest song is wicked catchy PLUS she carries a baseball bat around in the video. Awesome. Someone once said that we looked alike, but I think this is a stretch. With a former surname like 'Brooks', I spent much of my youth daydreaming about the prospect of having wealthy country star kinfolk. This type of experience can apply here as well. In short, I would french braid Carrie's hair under an oak tree.

I was incredibly happy to hear of the poor loser spectacle that was Faith Hill.

See also:



In the immortal words of Tony Stewart: Dood.

I'm pretty sure Loretta Lynn would lay a serious smack down for this type of behavior.

See also:



Serious. Smack. Down.