And no, I haven't shaved my legs

I like open letter entries - they're fun to read and they're fun to write. Especially if one is a crappy writer *cough*likeme*cough* and does better with a rant than a narrative.

Anyway, for the past week, I've had a series of open letter entries semi-composed in my head. I sat down to write them out, but then realized they'd be a bit repetitive. Check it out:

Dear Lady in Front of Me on Mopac:

Fuck you.

Sincerely,
Laura

Dear Teenager in Starbucks:

Nice bag. Fuck you.

Sincerely,
Laura

Dear Hair, Big ass, Blister on my Toe, and Back Fat:

Fuck you, you, you and especially YOU.

Sincerely,
Laura

I think you get the point. The Mood over here has been so monumentally bad that I almost wrote one of these to TBFD. Why? Because he lives in Dallas. No other offense.

Then yesterday, it started raining and thundering and lightning and the power went out at Border's before I could check out and as I was leaving I realized that even though I'd have to go back to get my books, I was in a good mood. I was chipper! And cheerful! I still wanted the dude driving down the MIDDLE OF THE LANE in the parking lot to die a festering death, but I muttered my "fuck you, assmunch" CHEERFULLY! With a smile on my face! 'Twould appear that I've moved from getting horrible killer migraines when the barometric pressure shifts to getting grumpy and semi-suicidal. I'm not entirely sure this is an improvement, but it does make life interesting.

(Note to self - stock up on chocolate, wine and fashion magazines before the rainy season starts.)

I've spent today doing pretty much nothing. Let's see, I made the breakfast equivalent of shit on a shingle (mushrooms and sausage in a cream gravy over biscuits - it'll cure what ails ya) and burned my finger in the process.

Yeah - did you know that roux gets really fuckin' hot and that just sticking the end of your finger in it to taste it is really damn dumb??

On another note, I never realized a blister could form that quickly. Heh.

I've also spent just about all damn day reading the archives over at Fussy. Why? I do not know. But I have this weird thing I do, where I start at the very beginning of a site and then read the pages in chronological order (January '02, February '02, etc) but I read them from the top down (Friday, Thursday, Wednesday, etc.) So I'm reading them...inside-out? Upside-down? I dunno. But it kills a slow-ass Sunday.

I'm currently sitting on the floor, back against the couch, legs propped up on one of those seating cube thingies, laptop in my...well, lap. I'm watching a Law & Order re-run and drinking the last bit of one bottle of red. There's Italian sausage defrosted and the last bit of another bottle of wine in the fridge. My kid is up in Round Rock, visiting friends and has been told that somebody else needs to bring her home, since I hauled her and her friends back and forth twice yesterday.

In other words, you people are lucky I took a shower today and a bra ain't touchin' this bod till tomorrow AM.

Hey! Feral Mom, wanna hang with me?? Bring more wine, I'm almost out.

No YOU go fug yourself.

Listen up. I like leggings, OK? I like them on their own, I like them with a giant men's shirt, and I like them under all lengths of skirts. I like them with boots and with flats. I like them in a car, in a bar, underneath the stars.

So this fall/winter, if you see a 5'10" blonde in a skirt and leggings and mary janes and it looks like maybe this girl might have seen leggings the first time and maybe she might be a bit heavier than the recommended legging weight, so by all rights she should be in a pair of jeans? Keep your comments to yourself. Her bad fashion sense isn't hurting you.

Hmph.

Subject Change

Ok, Miz S is now my Official Favorite Reader. The benefits of this honor include me thinking you rock aaaaaaand pretty much nothing else.

Seriously though, that last entry is probably my least favorite writing ever - to me, it ranks below the ones where I wrote "Ugh, am tired, will write later." Miz S - thank you. You are either more insightful than I will ever hope to be or you are incredibly kind. Either way? Rockage.

I didn't write anything yesterday because who the fuck am I to write about September 11th? I'd just be one more person, telling you where I was and how I had no personal investment in it, yet I felt like I did because I'm human and American and Jesus, this world sucks some times.

Whoops.

I was actually a little annoyed by a lot of the 5 year coverage and I'm not sure why. It's not that I don't think we should remember, because duh - I do. I think it's because, well....memorials and all are nice, but so far we've spent billions of dollars on a President's ego trip and have yet to do any God-damn thing about fixing the problems that created this situation in the first place, or catching the bad guys, or or or or. So yeah - forgive me if hearing the victim's names read out loud, AGAIN, leaves me a tad cold.

Subject change.

Today is TBFD's birthday. I went up to Dallas this weekend, since I had to work today. This damn job keeps getting in the way of my personal life, I tellyuwut. Anyway, yeah - weekend visit, some gifts, some hot sex, some Chinese food. I had a good time, he seemed to like his presents, so I guess it was all good.

What did I give him? Wow - that's sort of personal...oh..you mean the presents. ahem. I got him a couple of Threadless shirts ("Fiesta Fiasco" and "Ask me how I became a pirate" (or something like that) I'm entirely too lazy to look up the links) a pair of pajama pants and a couple of goofy little things from my favorite local toy store. And yes, I know that the name of that place totally sounds like a dildo store, but it's not. Toys, plain ol' toys. You want dildos when you come to Austin, you have to go here.

Subject Change

Kiddo has pleased and surprised the shit out of me this year. She's doing her homework, keeping up with her classes, complaining because the girls in her Biology group just want to "talk all goddamn day and not do any damn work!" I'm really impressed. It's not that I don't think she's capable of this sort of thing, it's that junior high was kind of a huge pain in the ass, what with never doing any goddamn work and fighting me every step of the way. This year has been much easier and it's pretty much all because kiddo has taken the initiative. I'm pleased as punch. Of course, we're 3 weeks in and Algebra II is totally kicking her ass, but we'll see what happens with that. I have lots of faith in her.

If she could kick this Plague of Mucus, that is. She and I both came down with a general ick sort of thing - runny nose, congestion, cough, feelings of grossness - about a week apart. I was first, then she got it. We tend to trade colds and such back and forth because HI - we live together, so I figured that was the deal. Well, I'm still sort of phlegmy (sorry) but mine has gradually gotten better. Hers?? Notsomuch. She gets better, then worse, then better, then OHMYGODTHESNOT!!! So I took her to the doctor today.

Let me take a moment here to tell you that having the doctor walk into the office and totally recognizing her as a girl you went to school with sort of sucks. I feel a tad failure-ish tonight. Admittedly, I'm a cute failure who is guaranteed to bring a good bottle of red and a tasty dessert to your next party, but yeah - failure. FEH.

Anyhoooo - the doc suspects it's allergies. So kiddo and I walked out of there with scrips for allergy pills and nasal spray, tralalala. She went to school for Algebra (see, totally working at it!! Tough class!!) and then her dad picked her up for their night, blah blah bleee. She came home with a low-grade fever and swollen glands - like 100% worse than when we saw the doctor. OF COURSE.

GODDAMMIT.

I'm not mad at her - duh. I'm just annoyed that my kid can't seem to get healthy (I feed her once a week just like they tell me to!!) and that she has new symptoms and bleh. This whole parent/adulthood thing sucks major root sometimes, y'all know that??

Ok, I have watched Nip/Tuck, cleaned the kitchen and polished off a bottle of Pinot. I need to throw some clothes in the dryer and then I'm totally going to bed. Really.

I got lost somewhere in the middle

The sound of a ticking clock has never bothered me. If I worked on a bomb squad and had to deal with that cliche time-bomb - you know, with the sticks of dynamite all taped together and the big ol' alarm clock as a timer - I'd probably fall asleep before I could defuse it. My grandparents have always had traditioanl analog clocks with a loud tick, tick, tick. That sound will put me to sleep almost as fast as being in a moving car.

Now y'all know - I'm really just a 5'10" toddler.

There are other strangely comforting sounds from my childhood. The sound of a dishwasher late at night, the "whoooop, whup-whup??" of the big cherry picker trucks from the electric company, the sound of a propane burner going at full blast.

And then there are the sounds I hope to never hear again - the loud beeeeeeeeep of a portable oxygen tank switching on, Amazing Grace, my grandfather's voice, full of tears.

The anniversary of Katrina just passed and I was supposed to call my grandparents, but didn't. What was I going to say? "Hey, so yeah - it's been a year since you lost everything you own, with the exception of a box of pictures and some salt and pepper shakers. How's it feel??"

I'm tired of anniversaries. I'm tired of five years since September 11th, 2 two years since I left my husband, one year since my childhood drowned, six months since my dad died. I'm tired of marking the bad.

I suppose I should view it like the rings in a tree - if you cut me open, you'd see black rings for the bad and what? Blue? Fuschia? Happy jolly pink? for the good.

Perhaps it's my frame of mind or the wine, but right now I can't help think that there are more black lines than blue. I don't remember the first time my grandparent's clock lulled me to sleep, but I can certainly remember the last.

It must be the wine, 'cause I gotta tell you guys, in the interest of blogistic integrity over here - I just cried when I found out that Liz (I'm not linking 'cause the link DON'T WORK) is taking a break and I cheered OUT LOUD for Mrs. Kennedy's turtle.

I don't know, guys. I just don't know. I had a good idea, and it fizzled, so I wandered off for a bit and now all I have for you is turtles.

Surely, there's a lesson or, at the very least, a tired metaphor in that too.

Goodnight.