I may have used this picture before, sue me

Cats, red wine and wireless technology. America, fuck yeah.

Went through orientation at Smiley-Mart today. Seven hours of Smiley-Mart history and various training films including my favorite, what to do in case of a spill.

"There are three types of spills, non-toxic, toxic and unknown."

Um, yeah.

Went to mom's house when I was done and she sent me home with a bunch of super-fresh, organic green stuff from this place. I'm thinking sauteed mushrooms and Swiss chard for supper. If Miles doesn't stop running back and forth from one end of the porch to the other, whining the whole Goddamn time, I may have a report on how apartment-raised feline tastes with Swiss chard and sauteed mushrooms. I have been bemoaning the lack of protein in my diet, after all.

It's only 70 degrees outside right now and I'm freezing in a t-shirt and shorts. Honestly, how do all you mammal-type people do this?? Bleh. I've got the house open because it's lovely out here, and it's finally not raining and I need the fresh air, and I know that in like, 15 minutes we'll all be complaining because it's 150 frillion degrees and our brains are melting, so I'm sort of savoring this little pocket of cool. However, I'm not anemic, I'm not exceptionally thin (Hahhahhahhahhahhaaa...SNORT) I'm not some kind of bizarre hairless Chinese Crested half-breed woman, I do exercise, my blood circulates on its own, so why am I cold all the time? The entire world is comfortable at 70 and I'm reaching for a peacoat. Everybody else is gasping and getting indecent at 78 and I'm finally thawing out. I just feel like some sort of Equatorial freak.

Bleh. Am half lizard. Mom lied to me all those years. She just found a guy who conveniently looked and acted JUST LIKE ME and really got freaky with an iguana 36-ish years ago. That's the truth isn't it, mom???

I'm off to put on a couple of layers and figure out what the hell to do with a kohlrabi.

Doesn't that sound like something you'd see at a bar mitzvah??

"Levi! That dance is amazing! What do you call it??"
"The Electric KohlRabi."

page break

Y'all know how it is - I read a lot of blogs, and a large percentage of those are the "mommyblogs", a term that makes my spleen jump out through my nose in revulsion. While I'm tucking my spleen back in, I wonder at all the illnesses these mommies seem to get from the basics of raising a kid, like changing diapers.

I was just barely 20 when kiddo was born and had changed perhaps 8 diapers in my life before that, all of them attached to the rear-ends of Sport and McBrother, and I managed to make it through 2 years of diapers and potty training without catching any kind of stomach virus or ickiness from my child's diapers. Hell, my child had two eye infections before she was three and I didn't catch those.

Y'all, I am not a germophobe and I am NOT a clean-freak. I didn't carry anti-bacterial wipes or goop with me, man I'm not even sure I washed my hands every time I changed her diaper. So what the fuck? Are they LICKING their children clean or something?? What gives?

Seriously, I've caught more colds off my child since she's hit puberty than while she was a toddler.

[insert clever segue here]

I've mentioned my financial issues before. My little tiny city park train derailment of a financial problem that I'd like to keep from turning into a giant Amtrak disaster. I kind of suck at budgeting - ok, not really, but it's a matter of baby steps and I'm impatient and bleh. The plasma thing got sort of derailed (again with the trains??) by the holidays and I've had a little trouble talking myself into going back. Something about not having a set schedule and sitting there all Matrix-style for an hour, getting my fluids drained for an hour, has been really difficult for me to get back into. When you're too lazy to sell plasma, you know you have issues.

Would you like to know the sad truth? My left arm doesn't bleed. Well, Ok - I'm not half mannequin, so technically it bleeds - just not as well. So they have to stick me in the right arm, which renders it useless the whole time, which means I can't knit, write or type while I'm sitting there getting drained. I can bring a book, but it's surprisingly hard to concentrate on a book with all the beeping and phlebotomist scurrying going on. Yes, I know. They're paying me for my bodily fluids and I'm bitching because I can't figure out a way to distract myself.

Moving on.

I applied to a few places online, because I can't stand doing the whole "hi, are you hiring?" thing and the only one to call me back so far has been a certain big chain store represented by a smiley face. We shall not discuss the ethics of shopping for or working at this store. I have financial goals here, people. Sacrifices must be made. Therefore, sometime in the next couple of weeks, 16-20 hours a week, I shall be spending nights and weekends as a cashier at a Smiley-Mart in south Austin.

If you happen to be in the neighborhood, c'mon by and say hello. Just don't give me no shit, man.

[insert clever segue here]

Kittens!! Don't worry, they were just visiting. I haven't gone off the deep end again.

Mantra

My dad died a year ago today. Before I start talking about it, I'd like to say that I don't really want to talk about it. HEH.

Seriously, I've spent the last couple of weeks in a funk because I knew today was coming. I remember how we spent these weeks a year ago and frankly, it sucked. A year ago today, we spent the day telling him to let go and he finally did. Was it a good day? No, not particularly. But it was better than watching him suffer.

But here's the deal. Let's say you walk into work with a broken arm and in addition to every-goddamn-body asking "Hey, what happened to you??" they all grab your arm and give it a good solid yank. By the end of the day, you'd not only be pretty fucking tired of telling the story, you'd probably be finding a way to avoid people, wouldn't you?? Even the folks that you knew were asking out of concern.

That's kind of how it feels when I anticipate conversations about my dad. I just kind of don't want to be around anybody right now. I stayed home yesterday, justifying it with a comp day (I worked all day Saturday) and a 4-day headache (fucking mold). Fortunately, despite my very best efforts I am not the center of my co-worker's lives (I know! I was shocked when I found that out!!) so the chances of one of them walking up to me, all sympathetic and "It's been a year, hasn't it, how aaare yoooouuu???" Pretty damn slim. Thank Jeebus.

Anyway, the thing is, the only people who'll really remember and think to say anything are my mom, who's probably reading right now (hi mom!) and who knows that it's best to let me bring stuff up in my own time, my grandmother, who has already mentioned she's thinking about me (us) in email and my dad's side of the family and well, I'll call them tonight, because I need to anyway.

So yeah. I don't want to talk about.

I miss him every single day.

squish

I went for a nice, long (for me) (only slightly painful) run yesterday and an interesting comparison popped into my head. You ready?? Here we go - pain, the emotional kind, is like tofu.

Seriously, think about it for a second. In reasonable amounts, both of them are actually kind of good for you, but too much of either are ultimately harmful and can cause mood swings and extra mucus (EW.)

The flavor and texture of both is sort of gross and difficult to describe and in order to make your way through a heaping' helpin' of either you have to use some kind of individualized coping mechanism. Hot pepper, inappropriate jokes, soy sauce, running, tamari, excess wine, whatever. A strategy, you gotta have a strategy.

This, an idea for a Hipster Marathon skit and a recipe for a couscous salad type thing that I realized I can't make because I don't have any couscous all happened in the course of 3 miles.

I can't decide if I should change my running music or add more Baz Luhrman.

treads

I've been restless lately. I'm itchy and my skin doesn't feel like it fits right. My head feels loose and wobbly, disjointed, like if you touched it I'd just sit there and nod like a dashboard dog. Words come up to the top of my brain like fish in a pond and then disappear just as quickly. It's maddening.

Nothing feels right. Running, eating, sleeping, drinking, talking, crying - none of it makes the itchy twitchy feeling go away.

I think I need a road trip.

Gas up the car, check the tires, throw a bag in the back and just go.

I think that's exactly what I need, because I can feel my shoulders relax just thinking about it. Open road - CDs in the passenger seat and sun on my left arm and a styrofoam cup of diet coke getting watery in the console and a map half folded on my dashboard, obscure highways and ranch roads highlighted in lime green.

I need some color. I need wildflowers and barns and mockingbirds. I need to pass by pecan stands and folks selling fudge and church sales. Deer Jerky 2 Miles. Buc-Ee's Fabulous Restrooms. I need to drive and listen to the radio stations fade into one another and sing loud with nobody else listening and sometimes just drive in silence. I need to roll. I need to move.

Spring fever. Jimmy brain.

I'll come back, I promise. I have no desire to stay gone. I just want to get in my car and drive. Drive and sing and think and look around. Stop and take pictures when I want to, stop and buy a stupid keychain when I want.

Or, y'know - not.

Maybe Sunday.

Better than nothing

I'm grumpy, one of my cats keeps peeing on my shoes, another one barfed on my calendar yesterday morning, my right ankle is screwed up from my run the other day and I've had a headache for 3 days straight.

Other than that, the play was great. Smartass.

My vacation was lovely - Jef and I went down to Louisiana in a little zippy rental car, hung out with the grandparents and the brothers and the stepmom, then drove back in the kiddo's truck.

We took one day to go to the French Quarter. Jef had never been and he insisted on referring to me as "the local", which was very sweet if a tad misguided, considering I only know two areas of the town really well and those areas have been thoroughly rearranged, courtesy of Katrina (bitch.) Anyway, while I was able to find every daquiri place in a 2-mile radius, I failed miserably at finding food. Yes, food. In New Orleans. In the Quarter. Shut. Up.

Fortunately, my grandparents' house is only a paltry 45 minutes away (SHUT UP) and the woman cooks as if she's hosting the 82nd Airborne all the damned time. And there were McDonald's on the way. Listen, if I have to tell you to shut up one more time, I'll turn this blog around, young lady.

Anyway. A good time was had by all, despite the frightening alchohol to blood sugar ratio we had going on at one point. We drank, we shopped, we hugged people who moved back to the city, we talked to total strangers (I love this man, y'all. Seriously.), we drank some more. I took him to St. Louis Cathedral and the Moonwalk and Cafe du Monde and Jackson Square and we wandered around and we watched big ships pass each other on the Mississippi and it was lovely, really. Just a lovely, sweet day with my boy.

Sweet baby Jesus, I need a haircut, y'all. Yipes.

Jef impressed the shit out of my grandparents and my stepmom and my brothers. I mean, of course he did, since he is the niftiest thing since sliced bread. I'm not even that big a fan of sliced bread and I think he's pretty cool. Heh.

Before y'all throw up, we don't fart rainbows all the time. We'd been getting on each others nerves before the trip and the whole not feeding him thing led to some issues and being stuck in a pickup truck for 9 hours, knowing that you have to drive another 3 and it's the end of vacation and you're tired and won't get to see each other again for another couple of weeks and you have to go to work the next day? Let's just say tempers can flare.

But we worked through it and the gas is poly-chromatic again and everybody's happy. Yay. Now you can barf. Just not on my calendar, I just got it dried out.

Seriously, y'all - I am the mayor of Split End City.

Kiddo also returned from New York in one piece. She cheered me up by calling me pretty much every day to tell me what she was doing. My favorites were the voicemail I got from her in Little Italy and the "mystery phone call"

"Oh my God, mom, we're in Little Italy, and I got a loaf of some kind of bread (background 'ciabatta') Ciabatta?? OK Ciabatta bread, anyway, for like a dollar and a container of gorgonzola stuffed olives and these mozzarella balls and oh my God, it's all so good and I got it all for like, less than like, 5 bucks. Loveyoubye!"

Hee. My little foodie.

The "mystery phone call" went like this:

"Hey mom - guess where I am?"
"uh...New York?"
"Well, duh, but WHERE in New York??"
"......"
"Ok, it's sparkly and it's mentioned in a Marylin Monroe song."
"TIFFANY'S????"
"Yep!!"

At that point my stepmother got in the discussion and tried to convince kiddo to bring her something back. Alas, I am a mean mommy who only thought to send enough money for my kid to y'know, eat and buy reasonable souvenirs. I know, I know, I'm an ogre.

I'm off to trudge around Town Lake - y'all be good.

Cushion cut

I'm beyond thrilled that I'm going to be in Louisiana next week during all of the South by Southwest hoo-ha. Austin doesn't need anymore damn people dressed all in black.

Saturday at 5 in the (GODDAMN) morning, I drop the kiddo off at the airport, where she meets up with her choir and they all climb on an airplane and fly off to NEW! YORK! CITY! for a week. Whooo!!

They have two performances, but most of the trip is just that - a trip. To New York. OH MY GOD. I'm halfway tempted to conk her in the head and go in her place. I would, if I weren't three inches taller and *cough* pounds heavier than she is. And if I knew the words to the songs.

As a result, I've sort of hemorrhaged cash this month, what with paying for a couple of new outfits (two performances! Not in the choir formal! What the fuck!) and the various odds and ends that come with a trip and then the expenses of my trip to Louisiana, plus dealing with the extra vehicle we'll be bringing back (more on that later) and so yeah, March has been/will be the month of crazy spending.

So April shall be the Month of Financial Recovery. It's March 7th y'all, and I'm already looking at April and saying "daaaaaamn."

Luckily, I like beans and rice.

OK, so, I'm sure I've told y'all this before, but deal with it. - when my dad was (good lord, I hate trying to phrase this so I don't offend people) sick (can I just say "dying?" 'Cause that's what it was. OK?) he stressed about what to leave me and Kayleigh. He had a shed, a storage room, a couple of closets and the floor under a king-sized bed full of guns and tools and car parts, but nothing that he thought he could leave to two girls.

I got a handgun and a drill. Before you go "WHUH??!" you should know that I asked for these two things and I got an extremely NICE handgun in a caliber that I like to shoot (and I do like guns, remember I'm from Louisiana and I live in Texas and this is not an invitation for a debate) and I asked for a drill because I needed one. I think my dad was actually sort of relieved to have something of HIM go to me.

For Kayleigh, he was going to sell his truck and leave the money to her to buy her first car, but she spoke up and said she wanted the truck. So - next week Jef and I are heading down to Louisiana so he can meet my family (gulp) and pick up my kiddo's truck.

So let's explore all the facets of this trip, shall we??

First of all, we have the whole Boyfriend Meeting the Louisiana Family Thing. As I told my mom - it's not that I value their input or opinion more highly than that of my mom, it's just that there's an 8 hour road-trip involved in going to see this side of the family, so y'know, it's a fairly big deal to meet them and they, lord love 'em, tend to be a little more judgey and protective of me. My mom and dad (and stepmom, for that matter) have always been the ones to look at their kids and go "well, they gotta make mistakes," while my grandparents have been the ones to try to prevent us from doing so. So if I'm willing to expose you to my Grandma and Poppa?? It means I'm pretty serious about you and I think you're pretty fucking special and I think they'll like you. Honestly, if I don't think my grandma and poppa will like you, then we probably won't date for very long. I know that sounds strange, coming from someone who was married for 14 years and seems to have only had 2 relationships since then, but consider this - I've gone out on a few dates and have just KNOWN that a second date wasn't even a possibility and one of the reasons why was because I could hear my Poppa saying "You lost your mind???" The other reason usually has to do with bad teeth/staring at my tits/bad laugh/ugly hands/just generally being a jackass.

Second, we have the picking up dad's truck thing. Do I really need to expand on this? No? Good, 'cause I'm not really in the mood.

Third, we have the idea that I'm picking up a truck for my daughter. For my daughter to drive. My daughter. To drive. OW. My brain just cramped.

HM. I think that's it. Wow. Only three facets? I'm a little disappointed.

Anyway, note that in here you do not find anxiety about sending my daughter to New York for a week. I mean, OK, yes it's there - I'm not a chrome-plated harpy. But look, no matter what Law & Order and MSNBC try to hammer into us, if she sticks with her group and does what she's supposed to do, she'll be safe. Her father and I have put out a pretty good sum of money for this trip and in reading through the itinerary, it looks like it's going to be worth every penny. All the little butterflies I feel when I think about it are not fear, they're excitement and a wee bit of jealousy. I hope she has a blast and comes back and chatters my ear off for hours and bores me to tears with her blurry pictures. I'm not worried about airplane travel because statistics are on my side and I'm not worried about anything else because that's just not my nature. The only thing I worry about for her are pick-pockets and/or her losing her cash. Other than that?? Party on, Garth.

Funny, my daughter's going across the country for 5 days with her choir and I'm not worried in the least, but my boyfriend and I are going to Louisiana for the same amount of time and I'm freaking the fuck out about that.

Oh, I know why. Because on my kid's trip, there's NOT A DAMN THING I CAN DO ABOUT IT. The trip is planned, I'm not going and there are other adults in charge. So my worrying is a little like screaming at the quarterbacks on TV. THEY CAN'T HEAR YOU, DILLHOLE!! I love her, she is my universe, but fretting will only screw up my digestion and annoy everyone around me. And I'll let y'all in on a little secret. If I let on that I'm freaked out about her going, she'll worry about me worrying and she won't enjoy herself. Yeah - she's like that. So I'm just cool as a little beatnik cucumber over here.

Meanwhile, Roy's daiquiris in Prairieville, Louisiana should see some booming business next week. HA!!

Ruminating

I love you guys, really I do. To show my love, here are two wildly different links to entertain you.

This chic is hilarious. Seriously. And she makes pretty, PRETTY art that I want to buy and hang in every room of my house.

This is not even remotely safe for work. Seriously - it involves penises - LOTS of them. But oh my shit, is it funny. And a little scary. Scroll down, you'll see what I mean.

I couldn't find the exact quote - but there's a part in "Best In Show" where Sherri Ann Cabot is standing at the snack bar, saying that she's too nervous to go in the auditorium and her brain told her to just stay there, and until she gets another message, she's just gonna stay right there and wait.

When I'm dealing with big decisions, that's sort of what I do. It's not intentional, but whenever I try to sit down and reason out an answer or a solution, it goes a little like this:

"Ok, so I need to - OOOH SHINY!"

So, yeah, the idea of sitting down and reasoning things out and weighing the pros and cons of a situation is just ridiculous for me. The answer to a problem is more likely to come to me at the end of a 3-mile run than at the end of a hour long conversation with a friend. Honestly, by the time I've gotten around to talking with a friend, I've usually made up my mind about the situation - if I can verbalize it, I've decided. I'm weird that way.

Sometimes, the answer comes in a dream (yeah, I know how hippy-trippy that sounds, shut the hell up) and sometimes it comes to me while I'm writing an entry and sometimes it comes to me while I'm having an imaginary conversation with someone who's pissed me off (what? You don't do that?) and sometimes it just slowly dawns on me what I need to do. Sometimes it comes to me when I ask a pain-in-the-ass insightful friend for advice and I see my question or "problem" (note the use of quotes) and I realize how ridiculous I sound and I know exactly what PITAIF is going to say before they say it. Self-awareness can suck the root sometimes.

I think part of why I've been feeling so overwhelmed lately is because I've got some questions brewing in the back room of my brain. But see, the problem with this method is that I don't always know what the questions are either. HEH.

I know part of it is money-related, because it's always money-related. This is the joy of being responsible for my own shit. I still think I prefer this to the old way.

Part of it is my upcoming trip to Louisiana. Jef and I are heading down there around the 12th to visit and pick up the kiddo's truck* and I'm a little leery about this trip. I've already warned Jef that he'll be going on The Tour of Sadness 2007, since we have the whole year anniversary thing and I'd love to show him my childhood home(s) but HEY, they got eaten by a hurricane! And look, my poppa just got one of his knees replaced! And yeah. Just...bleh. I want Jef to meet both sides of my family, (which says quite a bit, actually) but I just wish he could have met them a year ago. I wish he could have met my dad and I wish he could have met my grandparents (on both sides) before Katrina. So, yeah. That's sort of weighing on me a little.

HM....there's more, 'cause I wrote about that and usually when I feel this way and I write, I get this "aha!" feeling and I suddenly feel lighter. Or sometimes I cry. Anyway, none of that has happened yet, so there's something else.

I'll figure it out, and I'll let y'all know. In the meantime, enjoy the links and have a glass of wine on me. Might I recommend the Norton Malbec? Cheap, easily drinkable, cleans out of beige carpet easily. Ahem.

*Not sure if I told y'all this story or not. My dad fretted about what to leave me and Kayleigh because that's just the sort of guy he was. He decided to sell his truck and leave the money to me so I could buy kiddo her first car. She spoke up and said "No, I want the truck." So - she gets her poppa's truck. Which is pretty darn cool, if you think about it.