Monday Night Dumbass

I just spent an hour avoiding the train wreck of "Wife Swap", which is easy for a normal person, but I kept switching the channel over to it, growling in frustration, then going back to my CSI rerun. Dude, seriously? That show? So wrong. Tell me that the folks on it are paid to act like total jackholes, or I'm just gonna go eat some roach bait right now. Feh. Anyway - Behold!! an entry!!!

Where did we last find our heroine?? Ah yes, Halloween. Halloween was fun. Max did a better job as Silent Bob than I did as Jay, but then I think part of that was the general shock surrounding the idea of Max taking on any task that involved the word "silent". One man spent a lot of time hugging me and thanking me for getting Max to be *Silent* Bob. And as he drank more, he thanked and...hugged more. Ok, dude, I get it. My boyfriend talks. A lot. DROP IT NOW BEFORE I HURT YOU BECAUSE YOU'RE TALKING SHIT ABOUT MY BOY. And you're starting to make me a leeetle uncomfortable with all the "maaaaaan, I LOVE you!!" hugginess. We just met. Go.Away.

Little lesson, boys and girls. Never get really really drunk on your balcony and then decide to show your boyfriend a basketball drill, because if you were to do something that moronic, one of your feet just might slip and snag an exposed nail, thus taking out a huge chunk of skin and embedding a half-inch long splinter in the ball of your foot, necessitating drunken tweezer weilding, conversations about tetanus shots and infection, and insuring that your foot will hurt just enough to annoy the crap out of you, but not enough to justify an actual limp.

Porch 1, My foot 0

fuck

So there's that, and there's the phone call I got today from the nurse at The School, telling me that kiddo needs a tetanus booster THIS WEEK, which...um..why didn't the other school nurse ever let me know? Oh, that's right because SHE SUCKS.

History - a couple of years ago, I got a call from The Sucky Nurse, telling me that "hey, kiddo doesn't have anything in here about either receiving a chicken pox vaccine or having the chicken pox, and we kind of need that in there." Ok. I tell her that when Kiddo was about 5, she had the Mildest Case of Chicken Pox Ever. (Seriously, two pocks (pox? pos? poxxi??)) No problem, she says, fax me a note with the general date and I'll put it in her file.

Note written and faxed, hands brushed together with a sense of accomplishment.

A week later, my kiddo starts running a fever. And breaking out in spots. Chicken-like spots. I take her to the doctor, who tells us that, well if she already had Le Pox Poulet, this can't be it (even though I stressed the whole MC of CPE angle several times, because I know you can have them more than once if the first case isn't "enough" to make your body produce the immunities or pox fighting robots or whatever it does) and he (mis)diagnosed it as a word I can't spell, but basically hand and mouth disease from not washing your hands properly. (EEW and OK)

Sooo....we institute some more rigorous hand-washing protocols. (No, we are not nasty motherfuckers, but sometimes it happens, we're human.) The kid is spotted for awhile, and when there are no more new spots and the fever's gone, she goes back to school - healing spots and all. (Yep, we're mean mean parents.)

A week later, the Ex (who was the Current at the time, keep up) gets sick. And starts running a fever. Aaaaaand starts breaking out in spots. Did I mention he hadn't had chicken pox as a child? Or that he was 42 at the time?? Yep.

Fast forward through an Emergency Room Ordeal (Which included chest pains and a 104 fever), a week in the hospital and lots of oatmeal baths, including a really fun middle of the night one, where the poor man literally SOAKED HIS HEAD in Aveeno because he was in so much itchy misery.

"What does this have to do with the school nurse??" I hear you cry in frustration.

Well - when the kiddo first starting getting spots, I called her and said "Hey, so you asked about my kid's vaccination record last week and now she's come down with spots and a fever and I'm just curious - were you going through records because y'all were seeing kids with chicken pox?? 'Cause if that's what's going on, I need to know because my husband's never had them.

Her answer? "Oh, no...nonono - we'd send notes home in that case. I was just going through records and noticed it was missing."

Now, I believe in coincidence, but....um...I call Bullshit.

So yeah, The Sucky Nurse can bite my left one.

Where the fuck was I, when I started that? Oh - the weekend, in all of its drunken, rusty, bacteria-inducing, midnight Neosporin searching, too much fast food eating glory.

There was much alcohol this weekend. I had one of Those Parenting Nights, and I chose the most constructive, healthy way to deal with it. I drank my way through it. Heh. So Sunday found me a bit...wan and pale. And headachey and tired. We all know that the best way to deal with a hangover and an open wound is fast food and naps. So that's what I did all day Sunday. Well - I didn't nap as much as I would have liked to, but I spent the day in as sloth-like a fashion as possible. Just without the tree climbing, or the algae growing on my back, because EW.

There was knitting and football, along with the slothiness. I'm working on a scarf (of course it's a scarf, that's all I know how to make. Duh.) in this pattern. It's coming along nicely, and is very soothing, what with the "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, switch, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5" repetitive thing going on. I have 4 feet of it done so far, and I'm going to do another 4 feet (YES!!) because I'm weird like that. But now...I don't know what to do with the scarf once I'm done with the actual KNITTING of it.
I mean - right now, at 8PM, it's 75 degrees outside. It was 85 during the day. November 7th. 85 degrees. Not scarf weather.

Hey - guess what else happened today. The Ex called!! The kid is on his cell phone plan and racked up $53 in text messaging! Whoo!!

So, Halloween was fun, Laura's an idiot when she drinks, send Band-Aids, I'll be wearing shorts and a tank to Thanksgiving and teenagers suck. This will all be on the test.

Silence of the Max

So this weekend, I did absolutely nothing constructive. Ok, well I sort of did. I made a bunch of progress on a present for a Certain max Somebody max that reads this thing. I spent a bunch of money that I didn't really need to spend and I spent all day Sunday hanging out with my kid.

OH! Kiddo and I found the last bit of Max's Halloween costume. A gently used London Fog trenchcoat that doesn't smell like death or cat pee!! For only 20 bucks!! I love Top Drawer!! Now I just need a knit cap and the ability to say "fuck" every third word and our costumes are complete.

Yes, we're doing a "couples" costume. No, I will not be going to work in the costume (although I wish I could because it'll be the most comfortable costume EVER.) No, I'm not going trick-or-fucking-treating. Yes, we're going to a Halloween party. (Two, actually)

So...hmph. I'm completely justified in dressing up. Now be quiet.

Actually, I'm sort of excited/weirded out about it because my dear, wonderful, over-achieving boyfriend has decided that we're not just dressing as Jay & Silent Bob (oh, by the way - that's our costume, keep up people) we're going as Jay & Silent Bob.

"What's the difference??"
"Well, if we're dressing as them, we're just wearing the outfits, but we still act like ourselves. If we're GOING as them, then we have to act like Jay and Silent Bob all night."
"Going...definitely going. Otherwise, what's the point??"
"O..K. You realize this means I have to curse all night - "
"No problem"
" - yes, but - it also means you have to be SILENT all night."
"....I'll do my best."

So yeah - I get to wear sweats and a t-shirt and curse like a motherfucking sailor all night, whereas Max has to wear a trenchcoat and shut the hell up all night.

Now, let me tell you something about Max. He's, well....he's talkative. He could totally pull off Thoughtful Bob, Quiet Bob, Wow-He-Doesn't-Talk-Much-Does-He Bob...noooo problem. Silent Bob? Um. I think he'll do admirably for a while.

Of course, on my side, the whole Jay act? Oh boy. I'm not a shy flower when it comes to cursing, but a Jay-level of profanity? Um...hm...I'll see what I can do. Of course, the main reason why I'm Jay is because Max is the only one of us that can successfully grow a beard. Otherwise? I'd have no problems being the quiet guy in the overcoat. In fact, that may be next year's costume. I'll be a flasher. Just stalk around in an overcoat and look pervy. Heh.

Also, Max looks kind of like Kevin Smith. Which, I think we can all agree...is hot.

So yeah...Halloween. Fuck.

In that vein - Fucking Halloween - the God.DAMN. candy bowls are out in full force...motherfuckin' shit. Damn chocolate on every damn desk. arg. The Season of Eating is upon us.

Look, co-workers and such, do me a favor. Jolly Ranchers. OK? I can't stand 'em. I only eat them in a pinch. Stop with the chocolate and the mini Heath bars (quiet Jane) and the fun-sized Snickers and...

Motherfucker, now I'm hungry. Dammit.

Dude,I totally sprained something reaching for this entry. And can you believe that the blogger dictionary doesn't have "fuck" in it? What the hell...who put THAT word list together? Have they never READ a journal before?

There are cookies in the fridge calling my name. Y'all have a good night.

Um...

Your Hair Should Be Orange

Expressive, deep, and one of a kind. You pull off "weird" well - hardly anyone notices.

What's Your Funky Inner Hair Color?

Found the link to the quiz on Ms. Laura-Flea's diary. (Hi!!)

And me? With orange hair? Um..no. I have so much yellow in my skin tones that I'd look like a reverse Oompa-Loompa.

Beware of Me

Dear co-workers,
Unless you are carrying a latte, or wearing a shirt cleverly fashioned of ibuprofen and chocolate, do not approach me. I'm not sure I'd even call me if I were you. (that sentence...OW) Send me your requests in e-mail. Just trust me on this one.

I have a headache that feels like an evil gnome is in my head, desperately trying to escape via my right eyeball. I am SO. VERY. SLEEPY. that during the NPR report on narcolepsy this morning, I totally got all hypochondriac on my ass. (For the record, no I am not now, nor have I ever been narcoleptic.) I am in the middle of switching meds and?? I am on the rag.

You people have been warned.

Pass the Tylenol,

Laura

fuck it

BFF was in town for a little while yesterday, and we had lunch and got to do some talking and piddling around town. She asked if I'd been scrapbooking, and of course I answered NO, because I haven't done anything more creative than pair fish with red wine lately. Anyway....she suggested I do a "First Year of Independence" type scrapbook. Which is a grand idea and all, but the idea just depressed me, because I really don't feel as if I've done anything terribly independent and free this year. But I decided to do a little inventory.

Over the past year, I've..I've...cried and drunk a lot of wine. I've let my house get really really messy and then I've cleaned it and then I've let it get messy again. I've found my clutter threshold and I'm currently living way above it, courtesy of my child. I've figured out how to keep my bathrooms clean. I've found out how to get red wine stains out of apartment-beige carpet.

I picked up a guy by stealing a martini glass from a bar. I learned how to brush a guy off without being rude. I got told "the timing is just wrong". I got attached to somebody thoroughly unsuitable. I hooked up with Max.

I threw a housewarming party where I drank entirely too much wine and threw up in front of my mother. I planned a wedding shower. I watched my best friend get married in the most beautiful ceremony ever. I rode in the parade at the Luling Watermelon Thump. I drove to Nebraska and met Jane. I went to a whole lot of live music, including ACL. I fell asleep at a party and then got sung to by two of Max's friends, accompanied by guitar and didgiridoo*.

I stopped reading, and beading and knitting and scrapbooking. I bought my first pack of cigarettes. I drank too much, then didn't drink at all, now I drink a little. I'm working on starting any one of the other things.

I've learned things. I've learned that it can take $150/month to keep a 970 square foot apartment at 83 degrees if it's 102 outside and you have a west-facing window. I've learned that I've forgotten all of my Algebra and Geometry and just can NOT help my daughter with her homework. But that it's OK, because I'm learning that she's smarter than me anyway. I've learned that I really should own a drill. I learned to pay my bills on time and I've sort of learned to budget. Maybe in my second year of independence, I'll learn to save. heh.

I spent last night very unhappy. This post is the tail end of a rant, where I talked about how much pain I've been in lately and how I don't understand why I'm still feeling that way. I didn't post it last night, I'm still not entirely sure why. Instead I saved it and revisited it today, where I copied and pasted and refined what you see above. It's still hard over here and I still don't know why. Something that people don't understand about depression is that reminding yourself of all the good things in your life doesn't automatically make it better. In fact, the perverse nature of the disease means that at times, the reminders can make one feel worse. It's bizarre, but true. So - posting these things didn't automatically solve the problems but maybe I can remind myself that I've made progress over the year and that it's a slow deal. It's an evolution. One day I'll get it right. If I've come this far in one year, just think how far I'll have traveled in five!! Heh. Pour me another glass of Malbec please.

*I have no fucking clue how to spell that.

BWAHAHHAHHAAA

You Should Get a MBA (Masters of Business Administration)

You're a self starter with a drive for success. You'd make a great entrepreneur.

What Advanced Degree Should You Get?

Great googly moogly. Why do people have to keep offices so flarpin' cold? More to the point, why are people in the SOUTH such fucking wimps about the HEAT? Huh? HUH?? I don't get it.

The Anger

How to sum up the past week...something articulate, intelligent, yet not too pretentious...y'know, like a good red wine? Hm...OH, I know! Like this:

GOD-DAMN, COCKSUCKING,MOTHERFUCKING, GOATBLOWING, BABY-CANDY-STEALING, LAST-BEER-DRINKING, BOYFRIEND-FUCKING, INCH-OF-MILK-LEAVING, OTHER-PEOPLE'TH-TACOTH-EATING*, BAD-PANTS-WEARING, STINKY-BREATH-BREATHING, NO-TIP-TIPPING, TAPE-NON-REWINDING, URBAN-LEGEND-FORWARDING, ALL-CAPS-EMAILING DICKWAD, ASSBAG, SHIT!!!!!!!!!!

Needless to say, it has not been a good week. I am filled with the angst and guilt of a thousand Jewish mothers**. I'm having teen issues over here. It may be karma, it may be due to the fact that I'm a giant divorced sinner who dares to have sex (!!!!), or it may be due to the fact that my kid's just a fucking delinquent. Who knows?

What are the stages of grief?? I may have sailed into anger over here, folks. I'm sensing anger...are you sensing anger?? I smell anger. Oddly, it smells like mac & cheese and cheap red wine.

Here's the deal...without going into the specifics over here, my daughter and some friends made a bad choice. They got ratted out and have been sent to the school district's "alternative center". Am I happy about this? No. I'm trying to figure out which part of it I'm least happy about though. Of course, the choice she made horrifies me. (Nobody was injured, lest you think the very worst, but still...arg!) But now I'm trying to figure out if I'm upset about her being sent off to The School because of...the stigma? The idea of her being with "those people"?? (Oh, fuck you, you'd feel the same way about your baby, so close your fucking email client, you fucking hypocrite (oooh....there's The Angry again...sorry)) Is it because I'm making it about me and I feel like I've failed?? ("You think??", Jane)

Of course, I just (like, just - hi REAL TIME BLOGGING) had a conversation with kiddo about it, and (of course today was the first day) she likes it so far - she can't bring anything in and out, which of course means she doesn't HAVE to bring anything in and out - which also means (say it with me folks) not much homework!!!! Uniform dress code means getting ready in the morning is a snap. She got in trouble with her 3 best friends, so gues who got sent to The School with her? That's ri-iiiight. I...I..when this is over with I think I may pack up the cats and move to Goddamn Borneo. Seriously. Is there someplace with child labor camps still??***

And through all of this, where's the Ex? The Ex is on vacation in Mexico. Which means I still get the joy of having The Discussion when he gets back. Who wants to bet a Starbuck's card that he blames me? Huh? HUH? (The Angry, she is lively tonight. I will appease Her with more wine.)

Ok, on Clean House just now, I swear these people had a statue of the Loch Ness Monster. I have some random shit in my house, but dude.....Nessie??

So, Sunday...maybe Monday, GAH!! Sometime in the next few days I get to be told what a horrible mother I am and how it's all my fault that she made a bad choice and the blah and the blah and the blee and you know what...maybe it's The Anger speaking, or maybe I'm at the point where I always got in our arguments discussions - i.e. four days later, where I could think rationally and realize that I was a real person with real thoughts and emotions and could maybe be RIGHT from time to time....good LORD this is a long fucking sentence, will it ever end???

(pant, pant)

The point...I've come to realize in all of this that, duh, I make mistakes because I am human. It happens. I am not a perfect mother, therefore I do not have a perfect child. But beyond that, the behavior of a child is NOT necessarily a reflection of the quality of the adult in the house. My daugher made a bad choice. She knew this was a bad choice when she made it. How did she know it was a bad choice?? Because *I* taught her that. Sometimes, despite everybody else's best intentions, we make stupid choices, and we get nailed for them, and we pay the price, and we learn. I did it, now kiddo's doing it. Does it suck? Why Yes...yes it does. Verily, lo it doth suck. But like everything else that sucks, I expect, hope, believe that we will come out on the other side of this better and stronger.

And I will continue to hold on to this belief....aaaaaallll the way through till she moves out. Heh.

Hey...did I just hit acceptance?


*Hi Max. For the rest of you, it's a long story. But don't worry, it's nothing dirty.
**Don't even try to start with me. Seriously. I won't have it. Send all of your culturally sensitive hate mail to OHgetagrip@OHPLEASE.I'mkidding.com.
***I know there are, and I know they're horrible and yes I'm kidding and shut up. OY. Again, bad week, I'm kidding. Good lord.

On the ledge

How to spend Tuesday on a ledge:

Oversleep - a lot.

Get nothing accomplished at work - not due to to gross incompetence or laziness, but because every project you're working on is in a state of suck at the moment.

Get yet another email from a former fuck-buddy, despite the fact that you've tried to politely blow him off by saying "I have a boyfriend", but he hasn't quite gotten the message.

Have near-miss in parking lot of gym

Listen to your boyfriend describe what his ex-girlfriend did when she orgasmed

Pick up your daughter from the football game early because she was caught smoking by the school relations police dude - realize this means she's lied to you about the whole "only once" thing

Listen to your daughter talk about how she thinks The Ex and his girlfriend should get engaged because "they work really well together."

Find out your daughter failed Reading - READING - something she TAUGHT HERSELF TO DO DO, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.

How to sort of talk yourself off the ledge:

Stop for coffee any-Goddamn-way and enjoy it during the detour to office because they have all of downtown under construction, decide that Austin city planners are all on acid.

Use IM to talk to Jane and mom, pay cable bill, do what can be done and vow to do better tomorrow.

Blow it off, grumble, delete email.

Blow it off, have a really great fucking run once I get in the gym (endorphins rock.)

Blow it off, remember that he's with me now dammit. (DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT)

Talk to kid, find out that whole group was smoking and that she took the blame for the whole group. So yeah, she still lied to me about smoking and yes I'm hurt and yes I let her know and we're working on that, but...in a weird way I'm sort of proud of her for taking the fall for the whole group. Is that wrong??

I..I don't know why, but I can't talk myself off the ledge about this one. It has nothing to do with HIM, it has more to do with it just not being fair. Why does he get to move on before me? My vengeful two year-old says that it's because he needs the help more, and yes I can taste the bitterness in that sentence. Mmmm, red wine and gall, yum. Anyway - final verdict? *stomp* *pout* NOT FAIR NOT FAIR NOT FAIR.

Siiiiigh - she failed reading because she lost her ID and couldn't check out a book on the reading list. So - this was an Home Administration error - one that we talked about getting fixed and was just totally avoidable and correctable and, as I told her, partially my fault. So...bleh.



This whole adulthood thing? It can bite my sack.

Feh

Dear Amazon
What's with the suck?? First you fuck up my daughter's birthday order, only shipping part of it, and now you're not displaying properly. What's the deal?? I defend you, I order books from you even though I really should do more to support my local economy, I go to you first when shopping for just about anything from music to bath products to shoes, and this is how you repay me??
I just want to see when my kid's movies will ship, and when you'll, y'know - CHARGE MY CREDIT CARD. It's a little pecadillo of mine, knowing when somebody's going to take money of my checking account. A little foible. Quaint, I know. Sorry. Forgive me?
Plus, I did order those movies a couple of weeks before her birthday - ordinarily plenty of time. And I didn't order high demand titles here - I ordered "Empire Records" and "Angus" - a movie so obscure* that it's not even available on DVD. I'm not pre-ordering Harry Potter and the Hobbits go to Narnia over here. OK?? Sheesh.
C'mon Amazon - I'm on your side. Stop fucking with me. Fix the website weirdness (which has been going on for a while I've noticed) and ship my kid's movies. (Did I mention they were birthday presents. They were. Thanks Amazon - THANKS A LOT.)
Assholes.

hmph
Laura

*Oh but it should be, because it is so so so so so so so SO good. Go out, find this, rent it and watch it. NOW. NOW!!!! You will not be sorry. If for nothing else, the pure JOY of seeing George C. Scott in a frilly blue tux. Seriously - you! go now!!

Birthday Girl

Happy Birthday Kiddo.

I had an entry in progress, full of neat little things you've said and done throughout your (so far very interesting) 14 years, but I was only on year 4 and it had already gotten pretty damn wordy. So...lemme sum up.

Kiddo is the toddler who started giving out Hallowe'en candy from her own bag when we ran out one year.

Kiddo is the kid who always finds some little gifty for me whenever I let her loose at a street fair/music festival/whatever.

Kiddo will argue any point into the ground.

Kiddo can cook. No, I mean - COOK. She pulled together a shrimp in champagne sauce that could have made the Baby Jesus weep one night.

Kiddo can out-swear you. No...really.

Kiddo mixes a mean vodka tonic.

Kiddo re-designs her t-shirts and sews them back together and gets compliments and where'd-you-get-that's all the time on them.

Kiddo is one of those rare people that understands both Algebra AND Geometry.

Kiddo has an amazing alto voice.

Kiddo is a slob.

Kiddo gives and gives and gives,but you have to be willing to take it all, even the swear words and the sarcasm and the little messes she leaves everywhere.

Kiddo has no interest in being like anybody else, she wants to be her. And somehow, she has managed to figure out this desire and expresses it at 14.

I want to be my daughter when I grow up.

Happy birthday baby. You are the best thing I've ever done.

I love you.

Clarification

Ok, let me clear something up now that I'm sober. While it may appear that I am sitting around, feeling sorry for myself, snacking on earthworms and wine and writing poems about how I am Laura, the Lone Friendless One, that is not true. MmmmK??

I go out. I go to happy hours (probably too many happy hours), I went to ACL last weekend (I owe you guys a recap, as a matter of fact. I can quickly sum it now with fun, loud, hot, dust, beer, tired.) I have a fabulous boyfriend and yes I do have something of a social life. In fact, I spend enough time out of the house that my house is currently a total sty. So there! Wait....

Moving on.....

My social life, at the moment, is completely dependent on Max. On what he is doing with his friends - and yes I will continue to use the phrase "his friends", because I have known most of these wonderful, fabulous people for LESS THAN SIX MONTHS and PRIMARILY THROUGH HIM - call me old-fashioned. I do not know any of his friends well enough to just call them up out of the blue and say "hey, so...wanna grab a slice and a beer?" without him around. Am I a freak? Probably so. Did I ever deny that? Nope. Veeeeeery realistic about that shit. Thing is, I need to go out and earn my own friends. Reason one? I'm 34...I should know how to do this shit. Really, this is just asinine. Honestly. Reason two? I should have somebody other than my boyfriend or my daughter to do stuff with. If you're happy with just that, great! More power to you! I'm not! I'd like a girl buddy! A shopping buddy, somebody! Of my own. MINE MINE MINE (hee) Why of my own??

When I got divorced, I lost my entire social circle. I got married at nineteen, and with one notable exception (BFF) all of my friends were the Ex's friends from high school. All perfectly lovely, wonderful people. Fabulous, loyal, helpful to a fault. Great folks - lovely people, really. But...as I said - they were the Ex's friends from high school. So...when the divorce happened, *whoosh*, they were gone. Was it because they weren't comfortable contacting me, or because I wasn't comfortable contacting them?? Eh - little bit of both, honestly. Either way you work it, I had lost the only society I had. Gone.

So now, we have Max and his wonderful, loyal, helpful to a fault friends who he defends jealously and who he tells me "baby, if anything ever happens, they would call me the asshole and rush to your side." Um...no. I have been to that circus, honey - it doesn't work that way. See, for a long time, the Ex told me that the only reason why his friends came around was because of me and nobody really liked him and if it weren't for me, we wouldn't get invited anywhere and and and. I trust Max implicitly and I believe he believes his words, but....I don't really believe that I have the power to change 20 year-old friendships. And really - I don't want that kind of power. I don't think I'd trust the kind of person that would give up a 20 year friendship.

I'm coming to realize that there are things in this world that I need in order to be whole and healthy. One of them is a relationship or two outside of my romantic one. It has taken me 34 years to get to this point. This is a ridiculously long time for someone to make this realization, and it's going to take me a ridiculous amount of angst to make it happen because somewhere in my brain lives this obnoxious person who tells me constantly that I am not good enough, pretty enough, smart enough, skinny enough, cool enough, whatever enough to be friends with....anybody. I'm tired of listening to this voice and I'm tired of beating myself up over here, folks.

So - I either join a damn reading group and take some damn knitting classes and meet some folks, or I run off and live in a cave. And all my shit won't fit in a cave, so.....I guess I'm stuck. If you live in Austin....wanna go get a cup of coffee??

had to change the damn title

So, see now...here's the deal. I'm not anti-social.* But neither am I, in the words of my darling Max when describing himself, "virulently social". I'm just sort of..y'know...there. I'll talk to strangers sometimes, don't really like being talked to by waitfolks, will compliment strangers on their clothes, get chattier when I'm drinking, that sort of thing. At a party, I don't need to be worried about, Max can go wander off and do his thing and be assured that I won't feel neglected or ignored or pissed off when he returns. Provided I don't find out he's drunk all the beer while I'm not looking, that is.

But, I find myself in this weird kind of place. I ... have no friends. Ok, that's not entirely true. I have BFF, but she lives in Nebraska, so getting together for coffee talk or a movie is a leeeeetle cumbersome. I have Jane, but again - KANSAS! All of Max's friends were also in the BFF/happy hour circle, so I kinda-sorta knew them before, but in a weird way, I just..I...don't feel like I earned them on my own?? Does that make sense?

The bald-assed truth is, when I got divorced, I lost all of my friends. Ok, not all - I got to keep one. (I guess she needs a psuedonym. Um, we'll call her PT - long story.) I mean - it's not like I got drummed out of the corps or anything, but...I wasn't just divorced, I was alone. And the Ex can talk about how nobody "knows" him anymore all he wants, he still had folks around him. I didn't.

Maybe I suck at cultivating friendships. I fully accept that I am lazy and that I just don't know what to do. I ..call? and...um...ask? But it feels like I DO that stuff and ...I get turned down. So then what? This shit is hard enough when I have the possibility of free alcohol and sex involved, but when I don't? Good lord. OK, that's not fair - friendship is far more important and longer lasting and I KNOW THAT, OK??? If I didn't believe that or know that, I WOULDN'T BE WRITING ABOUT IT ON THE INTERNET, GET OFF MY BACK. heh.

feh. I'm just afraid of finding myself all alone again. Whether it was my choice or not, it fucking sucked. In so many ways, I am so happy with my life. I feel better about me, and the decisions I make and the way I function every single day. I love Max - but I need more people in my life than just him. Everybody needs more than just their boy/girl/gerbil-friend in their life in order to be healthy.

Soooo...the point...there is one, I swear. How do I make friends? Seriously, I uh...don't know how to like, y'know..um...meet people. Work contacts are out because they all know I'm insane and I'm sort of isolated from everybody there anyway. Folks at the gym?? Looking up book groups on the internet? Knitting classes? A sandwich board on the side of I-35? I..I um...seriously...don't know. How do folks just like, go out and...MEET people?? I'm not a complete social retard, but I'm apparently a little developmentally delayed. Help?

*I am however just a tad drunk while writing this, so yeah...bear that in mind.

Up Simba!!!!

So y'know - I was gonna write about how I haven't been doing very well, but a few things happened. One, I did some major retail therapy with the kid last night. She needed school clothes, I needed D-Con traps (fucking waterbugs), a vegetable peeler and apparently a cute gray skirt and some black ballet flats...huh, who knew? Target is still reeling. So's my checking account. Ahem.

Two, I had a brownie with lunch. Never understimate the power of chocolate, folks. NE - VER.

Three, I tried to write how I was feeling and besides being reeeeeally overblown and purple prose-y, it was so self-indulgent that I just wanted to scream. So I did. And then I hit the backspace key repeatedly.

Four, I was psycho-analyzed by the most insightful woman on the internet and we figured out that my current state of insanity just *might* have something to do with watching my hometown get destroyed. Huh? You think?? Maybe that might make a person feel a little insecure and weird? hm....

So yeah - I've been wallowing a bit over here and I'm working on NOT doing that.

Ignore the mud puddle, hand me a towel, let's move on.

Kiddo and I were watching some show on VH1 the other day and a commercial for some promotion involving Sidekicks came on and she sighed wistfully and said, "I wish I had a Sidekick."

I looked at her and kind of arched my eyebrow and gave the best "what-on-Earth-do-you-need-a-Sidekick-for-you-little-weirdo" look I could possibly muster. She looked at me and said, "Oh, no - not the phone" and her eyes lit up as she continued, "the person!!"

She still doesn't understand why I fell out of the chair laughing.

Another list of efforts

Bloggers rock, first off.

check it out

The levees broke

Here is a list of places to donate. Or just donate to the Red Cross. Please? The levees broke and I know that my uncle's house and my grandmother's houses are underwater right now. I don't know about my other grandparent's house, I haven't heard any significant reports about that side of the city, except that it's all flooded. My family will be OK. We all have each other and insurance and places and people we can depend on. Right now, they're all safe and dry. We'll all pull together and come back from this, but not everybody who lives in New Orleans is so lucky. Please - take a minute and donate. Thank you.

Laura

two houses, one city

I know the layouts so well, I could navigate them blindfolded, in my sleep, in my dreams, drugged, drunk, through somebody else's eyes, on an overhead layout. I'd recognize the floorplans anywhere. I know these houses better than the back of my hand. I've never stumbled through the back of my hand in the haze of a bad dream to find comfort.

One is a ranch style house, so American, so typical, so suburban. There is a formal living room and dining room that only get used at Christmas and Thanksgiving. There is a den with light wood paneling. There is a huge 50's style kitchen with an obscene lack of counter space. It's obvious that you are meant to entertain in this kitchen, not cook in it. There is a long hallway with three bedrooms. Blue, pink and red. The house has been redecorated a few times, but the colors are pretty much the same, tan for the hallway, red in the master's, blue in the guest, pink in the back bedroom. The back bedroom was my dad's (it probably wasn't pink then) then it was mine. The front bedroom is supposed to be the guest bedroom, but in my mind it is and will always be Grandma Lena's room, even though she died in 1995. I can still remember the first time I came to visit and slept in the blue bedroom - I might as well have been sleeping on the carport, it felt so alien to me.

This house is gumbo and red beans and rice and etouffee and Christmas and Thanksgiving and Mardi Gras and football and crawfish boils. Carrie across the street, standing on the neutral ground yelling, "Hey!! Can you spend the night???" Wednesday night dance lessons, spaghetti and meatballs. My first car. A divot in the corner of the lawn where my Grandma always runs over the grass when she pulls into the driveway in her giant Cadillac. African violets and wandering Jew on the front porch, Creole tomatoes and strawberry plants in the backyard. Saturday morning breakfasts at McDonald's with my Poppa. Slip and slide. Homemade ice cream. Two broken arms, one chipped tooth and countless skinned knees were earned on the sidewalks in front of that house. This house is home.

The other house is a dark green cement block duplex that is almost completely obscured by a giant holly tree. It has the most cramped staircase in the history of cramped staircases. The woman who lives there is one of the smartest, funniest, wordiest, most literate women I've ever met. She's the reason I read. She's the reason I write. She has a cheap cabinet, the kind you put next to your desk to keep your office supplies in, that's covered with bumper stickers from all over the place. She used to have an antique victrola, but got rid of it. I'm OK with that - but I think if anything happens to the bumper sticker cabinet, I'll be bummed. She has a collection of Pogo comic books.

This house is Beatles albums and jazz and books and talking till two AM and the big blue van that we drove everywhere and camping in the Ozarks and going to Nebraska to see my Uncle Mike and cats and crazy dog after crazy dog and horse people learning to live without horses and stories about my nutty relatives and the Depression and World War II and my grandfather who I never really got to know. My bus stop was across the street - cold mornings (cold to me!) that I spent rehearsing my tap dance numbers, a crazy 9-year old girl, tap dancing away in the New Orleans mist, trying to stay warm - a whole busload of kids and a mystified bus driver watching her, trying to figure out what the hell she was doing. Monty Python, Benny Hill, Dr. Who, Fawlty Towers. This house is my friend Blair and the cabinet covered with bumper stickers and the bottle collection and trips to San Antonio. This house is enchilada pie and Mexican meatloaf and snacking on olives out of my grandmother's martini while we waited on our food at a restaurant. This house is home.

The people are safe. One set is at my dad's, driving him insane, but doing it safely. The other is (last I heard) in Birmingham, driving each other crazy, traveling in a tan van with two full-sized dogs. The people, the important part, the good stuff, that is safe. I know this. I know that the houses are just that - houses. I know they are bricks and wood and nails and insulation. I know that the things within them are just things and in the grand scheme of it all, things are incredibly replaceable. It's just a house, it's just a house, it's just a house. I know this to be true. But these houses, these simple contraptions of wood and cement and nails and all the things within them are the things that my grandparents have spent their lives working towards. It's just a house, it's just a house, it's just a house. Please let them just be houses that are still standing when they go back to them.

Home front

So, the kiddo and I were sitting around talking. Ok, that's not really news in and of itself, but she's 13 very very soon to be 27 14 and that's an....interesting age, what with the urges to do awful things to your body and the being surrounded by stupid teenagers and all. A lot of her friends are smoking already, which briefly scandalized me, until I realized that a lot of MY friends smoked at that age and a lot of my parent's friend smoked at that age and my grandparents all started smoking at that age and and and and and....THANKS PHILIP MORRIS, YOU FUCKER. * Anyway....shit freaked, then calmed down by the realization that this was totally normal. So, we talked, she asked how I would feel if I found out that she was smoking. I told her the truth - I'd be upset because it's unhealthy, habit-forming, is a huge factor in what killed her paternal grandfather, paternal grandmother, her great-grandmother, is killing my father...do I need to go on??

"no.....I tried it a couple of times....."
"...OK...and?"
"I don't see what the big deal is."
"So - no smoking for Kiddo?"
"Oh no - I just wanted to see what big damn deal was - still don't get it...won't do it again. Don't tell dad, he'd freak."
"Don't do it again and I won't."
"I told my friends that I told you and they wigged out, all 'ohmygod!! Now she's gonna tell my mom' I said, 'no way man, I trust my mom.'"

"I trust my mom"

Wow. I'm not sure I've ever been paid a higher compliment in my life. She asked if I would tell the other moms and I said no - and I won't. I don't know - maybe that goes against some mom code or something but....my kid just told me that she trusted me, and y'know - I'm sorry if other moms don't have that going on, but..um...not my problem. Also? If it were a case where I suspected immediate bodily harm, then yes I'd be on the phone. As it is, this is little girls sneaking off to stage smoke once or twice a week. Trust me - they'll get busted soon - we all did. Again - normal, necessary. I'm not trying to set myself up as the Cool Mom by not ratting them out. I find them smoking on my back porch, I'll tell them they're not allowed to do that shit at my house ("but Max does!!" Hi, Max is a 35 year-old man...are you??) But neither am I going to set myself up as the bitch by getting on the phone w/ another mom, all "doyouknowwhatyourdaughterhasbeenUPTO???"

Right now, I'm way more interested in having these nice, neutral conversations that my daughter seems to thrive on. Reaction of any kind, positive or negative just makes her dig her heels in. Egads! I'm raising a teenager.


*I know, I know, I just grabbed a tobacco name out of my assa hat.

****BULLETIN****

Listen up...without getting terribly detailed and/or terribly political, I have a little bulletin for some men in the audience. Next time you make a sexist joke, and a woman gets offended, do not, I repeat DO NOT respond that she "just needs to get laid."

We are getting laid. Truuuuuuust me. I, for one, am gettin' laid jes' fine (thanks Max!) and I have a pretty healthy (or sick, depending on how you look at it) sense of humor and I can tell a blue joke with the best of them (see previous post in re: inappropriate remarks about Drew Barrymore.) This does not mean that I have to put up with sexism or misogyny or you being a jackhole. This also does not mean that when I do speak up in my own defense that it's because I need a cock in my life. I have a cock in my life. A very nice one, thanks. Cocks, or the lack thereof, have not a goddamn thing to with whether a woman finds you offensive. You being offensive has everything to do with it.

So dude - stop being an asshole, and maybe we'll all start getting along.

Thanks.

Why Max's friends love me and fear me just a little bit.

Friend: What was that movie, that Drew Barrymore was so hot in.....what was the name of it...?

Me: E.T.??

Friend: I...I..think I love you.

He was KIDDING - this was the end of a fairly sick, drunken conversation we'd been having while my lovely boyfriend was off judging the seafood portion of a BBQ competition. Friend and I got the WILD GAME portion. YES! WILD GAME!!! Whooo. I'm not sure, but I think I may have gotten something that was killed with a Buick on the way to the competition. I know there was some alligator in there (dry, lemony! Dude, BBQ? is not lemony, just sayin')

It was all good though, because the judges are THOROUGHLY lubricated with free beer by the time the competition starts up - hence the really tacky conversation above. So yeah, um...all you folks in Williamson County this Saturday that were scandalized by the guy with the beard and the loud girl in the striped shirt and that other dude with them making really lewd jokes? That uh, that wasn't us. Those were some other rude motherfuckers.

Heh.

getting on with your life????

I got this from Bitch Ph.D. and it just made me so angry, and I started to comment over there. It started out short and sweet, but as I started to write it, I got more and more angry. "Going on with my life"?? What the bloody fuck?

Mr. Bush....You do realize that you are the President of the United States of America, right?? Did you realize when you ran for office that this is a 24 hour a day, 7 day a week, 365 day a year job? That all of your "vacations" are WORKING vacations??? OK - I'm just an IT person, and I can't get lunch w/o running the risk of getting my lunch interrupted - you're running a country in the middle of a war - that you put us into, might I remind you (yes..you did...yeah - ya did) and you wants to "go on with your life"??? NO. nonono. I'm sorry. But no. This is not a job that comes with coffee breaks, or vacation time, or weekends or holidays. This is a job that requires you to work all the damn time, even on your cute little ranch in Crawford. It's a job that means you DON'T get weekends, you don't get time off, you DON'T get to get on with your life. If you don't like the fact that you don't get time off George, you shouldn't have run for office my friend. Plain and simple. Want weekends?? Sell furniture! Or shoes! I bet you'd make a GREAT shoe salesman!!! But dude - Presidents? Don't get weekends. They get ulcers and back problems and stress headaches and marital issues and all sorts of other bad shit, but they don't get weekends. Why do you think so few people REALLY want the job, and why do you think we look askance at the ones that truly want that kind of power?? Yeaaaah...that's why.

George - may I call you George? I will anyway, because it's my damn blog, and you'll never read this - there was a time when the American President could be held accountable to the individual voter. No, really. FDR would actually meet with individuals and talk to them about what was going on in their lives. I know you have different policies than FDR - I'm not going to get into that. But I am saying that now - the individual is declared a "threat to national security" or "dangerous" unless the President likes what they have to say. You have protesters moved out of your sight line. Um....'scuse me? You do realize you are going against one of the very basic rights upon which we built this country?? This, sir is bullshit. And it brings me to Ms. Sheehan. You have ignored, marginalized and shuffled this woman around, hoping that if you just avoid her long enough she'll go away. Wow - what a FABULOUS example as a leader you set. Really. You need to look Cindy Sheehan in the eye and give her some answers. Not some soundbite crap that you think she wants to hear, not some pap designed for the campaign trail, but some answers. This woman has stood out in the Texas heat for a month waiting on you to talk to her. She has handled watching her son go off to war, she has handled the death of her son, and she has handled hearing her son's Commander in Chief say he needs to "go on with [his] life." I think she can probably handle (and deserves) the truth from you. Not some pat apology. Sack up, be a man for once, make it good and real Mr. Bush, and give this woman some answers. All she's asking for is a conversation. Is that really so difficult?? Technically speaking, Mr. President - you do work for HER, not the other way around. This is one of your employers, coming to you, asking for some answers, and you are falling down on your job. If I ignored my boss the way you are currently ignoring yours, I'd be out on the street. Think about that while you get on with your life.

don't call it a drive-by

Dear lady in the HEB -

Your son is adorable. You're pretty cool about the fact that he keeps getting called "she", which is good, since you keep his hair long enough to put up in that cute multi-pig tail look that so many African-American girls sport. And really, for a 2 year-old, he wasn't being especially bad. He was being a pretty typical two year-old boy. You weren't really paying any attention to him, and you let him get out of the cart, which...what's that about? And then you actually let him get out.of.your.sight. at an HEB during the busiest time of the day, right next to an exit door, and you seemed awfully chill about it....but ..um..OK.

I'm not trying to criticize your mothering style...I...well..Ok, fuck that, yes I suppose I am. Look lady, I've had a toddler. It's been a while, I'll admit it, but I've been there. I am not a Nazi about runny noses or socks or tied shoes or any of that - little kids are disgusting little creatures who will fuck with the best laid plans. But see, the basics, no matter what your parenting style, are pretty much the same. To wit: Pay basic attention to their whereabouts, keep them fed, keep them clothed, keep them breathing, keep them from bleeding or making other children bleed, keep them from setting themselves on fire, yelling inappropriate words, eating poop or glass and try not to let them grow up Republican, right?? As long as you keep the basics covered, all the fighting over attachment parenting, extended nursing, co-sleeping, crying it out, hemp slings, formula, organic baby food, immunizations, and any other thing that parents can come up with to criticize each other about is really immaterial. Really. It is. No....really...it is. We can go back and forth on all the other shit and the blah and the blah and the blee, but dude - the basics have to get covered FIRST, because if you don't make sure that your little darling isn't climbing up to the second level of the grocery store and then trying to climb over the rail when you say "come here!!!"???*....well, his emotional development won't really matter a whole lot after that swan dive is all I'm sayin'.

You seemed like a really nice lady, and like I said, your son is just adorable. Unlike the lady behind me, I really don't think you need to "spank that ass". He wasn't being bad - he was being normal. I think you just need to pay some damn attention to him. Maybe start with making him sit back down when he climbs out of the cart, instead of helping him out and letting him scamper off?? Or if you DO let him out, maybe keep your hands on him?? Or...like, watch him?? Because at first it was cute, when I thought he would just stay in the little rocket ship thingy....but then he just Houdini'ed and you didn't seem to mind and that seriously freaked my shit out, lady. Really. Watch your kid. Start now, or one day you'll turn around and he'll be gone permanently.

Sincerely,

Laura

*Yes, he did this. He also climbed to the top of one of the security gate dealies (the things that beep if you try to steal some frozen peas??) and I had to say "um..he might fall...?" before she even noticed that her child was AGAIN a)not anywhere close to her, b)right by the exit door and c)5 feet off the damn ground.

Mushy

I woke up this morning and thought to myself, "self, it's Jane's birthday!! You should write something really funny and great and stirring and wonderful for her." And I wracked my brain all the way in to work (and I dug right down to the bottom of my soul....sorry...) and I tried (and I triiiiied to meeee-eeelt!....dammit!) but I couldn't come up with anything good.

And then I read Jane's entry about how all she wanted was for folks to stop being pretentious twits and so I thought about writing a parody piece - y'know, about how I woke up this morning and checked all my forums and boards and banned a few users just for the fun of it and oh look, there's that silly woman in Kansas bitching again, doesn't she have anything better to do? But honestly? I don't know enough about all that crap to write it convincingly.

hmmm...what to do?? what to do? what to do??

I know - I'll do what I do for all of my other friend's birthdays!! Stress about it inappropriately and then completely gloss over it!! TADA!!

So..yeah..uh - Happy Birthday...whatever dude.

Seriously, Happy Birthday Ms. Jane. You're my bestest internet buddy. Thanks for being my friend, for typing wonderful, funny, sane, insane, crazy, bitchy, loyal, hilarious, fabulous things at me every day. Thanks for making me laugh. Thank you for occasionally making me cry. Thank you for sending me the "Dating for Dummies" book, you fucker. Thank you for being the voice of reason when I freak the fuck out. Thank you for calling me negress. Thank you for taking my side against everybody, even my kid sometimes. Thank you for pointing out when I'm acting like a total nimrod. Thank you for being there during my divorce. Thank you for not recoiling in horror when I showed up in your driveway, exhausted and tried to hug you. Thank you for being my friend from a thousand miles away.

Happy Birthday Jane. Make Paco take you someplace nice. For the love of God - don't go to Red Lobster.

Smooches.

Gary Busey's diet secrets

Watching Celebrity Fit Club and Gary Busey has lost 8 pounds (I have the day off and daytime TV sucks, what can I say??) and they asked him the secret of his success and what he said was "Nutri-system, mango juice, water, something something", but what I heard was "constant diet of crazy crazy crazy wheeeee!!!!!!!!!"

from here to there

I have a confession to make. I, well. I used to scrapbook. *sob* I know!! There you are, thinking I'm just way too cool for that sort of thing....

You can stop laughing now, really it's just not dignified.....hmph.

Seriously - I used to really enjoy scrapbooking. For the record, I am NOT a pink bunnies and hearts kind of person. Yes, I like the stickers, but there's a shocking lack of pink in my scrapbooks, even on the pages involving the birth of my daughter. I would go to scrapbook thingies (yes, they're called "crops", and yes, I would actually use the word "crop" as a noun not referring to an agricultural phenomenon and I'd use it as a verb not referring to chopping something off...shut.up.) and I'd wish I'd brought my CD player and headphones so I could listen to Prodigy or something, because inevitably some woman would start talking about her playgroup or Sunday school or breast-feeding or something and GAH. I can tell a birth story with the best of them (21 hours of labor, yelled at the doctor to "JUST GET IT OUT OF ME", thankyouverymuch) but seriously, I do not need to hear about your placenta AGAIN.

And it's not that there's anything WRONG with those things. OK? I'm a mom, HI! But...it's not ALL that I am. The whole reason why the scrapbooking thing is coming up is because I'd like to get back into it right now. I just ordered some pictures off of Snapfish and I have pictures from the Great Plains Road Trip that I'd like to get printed. But see, the pictures I have are pictures of me and my daughter being silly (one in particular is me flipping my daughter off and grinning like a loon) and me and Jane desperately clutching bottles of beer while watching Elliot light firecrackers by my car, and me and my boyfriend at a party. And I'm sort of wondering how to PhotoShop the wine blush before I print the pictures and if they have Camel Light and Lone Star stickers to properly accessorize the pictures of me and Max standing there, holding plastic cups of keg beer and cigarettes boozily holding each other up at midnight on Friday night. Somehow, I think when the Alpha Mommy of the Crop comes floating through the fellowship hall of St. Whoozit's Methodist up in Round Rock to see what everybody's working on and comes from Beta Mommy's breast-feeding shots to my table and sees what I'm working on, well....I guess I won't have to worry about them bothering me anymore, huh??

This has been part of the whole issue with me and mom-based groups.....and I've noticed it with some other moms on the internet - unfortunately, they seem to live in Chicago and Kansas and well, I suppose they live everywhere. There's this feeling with moms that a)if you don't eat, sleep, breathe, EXUDE your children you must be doing something wrongwrongwrong and b)if you're not doing it in the most frilly, pink, lacy, appliqued way possible, you're wrongwrongwrong.

I have three words for that - fuck. that. noise.

I just don't understand losing myself in my kids. Does that make me a bad mom?? I don't know - it just seems like losing my identity to my children does the children a disservice. If mom doesn't have a strong identity, who suffers? Um - the kids...hello... So - losing your identity, giving up everything you *ARE* for this idea of *SHOULD* for your kids doesn't do them any good.

Does this mean that you should do whatever the fuck you want whenever you want, let your freak flag fly, damn the torpedoes, I'm an individual dammit whooo!! UM no - you have to take some responsibility. But the whole concept of mother = sacrifice and NOTHING ELSE is really starting to frost my wienie over here. Mother = sacrifice, wife = sacrifice, daughter = sacrifice....apparently a woman's job is to give up everything that makes her a person. Um...no...? I refuse to accept that bullshit and I refuse to take that on. And I refuse to figure out how I got here from scrapbooking. *cough* anyway

I don't know - I just get tired of these women that martyr the shit out of themselves - they wonder why they're tired all the damn time, but then they talk about the how they're constantly driving to this, baking, sewing, doing, blah blah blah blahing, and never in there is mentioned anything resembling taking care of themselves. When that's pointed out, they respond "oh, well I'm a mom, that's part of the job." Um...no - part of the job is to set an example of how an adult lives their life, and adults set priorities and take care of themselves, which you're not doing you silly bitch...bah.

Look, I love my daughter. I love her beyond reason. I have baked muffins at midnight when I've needed to. I've gotten up at 5:30 in the morning to drop her off for field trips and I've spent my last dollar on school supplies before. I've also told her NO, I'm not driving you a block away because you have feet, it's a safe neighborhood and it's a pretty day - get to hoofin'. I've told her that she can go talk to the salesclerk herself because I won't always be with her. I've told her that she needs to learn how to make her own damn breakfast because I won't always be there. She makes a better pot of coffee than I do. She also makes a better vodka tonic. Scoff at that if you want to, but this is the child that I can trust at home with her friends. This is the child who charms the pants off of my friends. This is the child who wanted me to call HER when I got home from a party on Saturday night so she knew I was OK. I give her a ration of shit, but I will rip anybody, including her father, a new asshole if they say anything I think is unfair about my daughter.

I don't squash my identity for my child, and I don't expect her to ever squash hers for anybody else, be it a boyfriend, girlfriend, spouse, child, whatever. We may butt heads from time to time, and I can guarantee that she'll butt heads with folks in her future. But she'll be happy and strong in the long run. The folks with the bows and the pink and the schmoopy quotes in their scrapbooks may not understand this type of love. They see the picture of me flipping my child the bird and gasp in horror. They won't know that at the time it was taken, my daughter and I were laughing so hard that I almost had to pull the car to the side of the road. They don't understand how we work. Fuck 'em. They can cling and be so involved in every facet of their child's lives and have no identity of their own. If that is their form of happiness.....then I suppose more power to them. I can't live like that. I have to have MY self, MY time, MY crazy party pictures in the scrapbook. They'll be right after the pictures I take of my daughter sleeping and right before the one of me flipping her off. Heh.

smooches

Max quote of the day

"You know I love you, because most people call those 'voices' schizophrenia."

Quickie

I need, in no particular order, the following:

two new bras (one black, one beige - the wimmins understand)
a milkshake
booze...lots of it
a day off
better time management skills so I can get all of my work done in a normal work day
a lackey to come organize my server area at work, because DAY-UM
someone to come do my laundry for me, because again with the DAY-UM
ok, let's face facts here, I need a mommy
time to actually FINISH one of the eleventy-jabillion books I've started lately
a kiss from my boyfriend (aaaaaw)
some ice for my not-quite-so-iced-anymore-tea
a pedicure (boy howdy do I need one of these)
any word on that milkshake?


Work is currently kicking my ASS, I've had a headache for 2 days - one of the railroad spike to the temple specialties too...loads o'fun, and I'm fighting that runaway car feeling again - you know, that feeling like everything in your life is spiraling out of control and there's not a damn thing you can do about it?

"Make a list."

Um..OK..yeah - I'll get right on that. First item - BREATHE.

So...eh - I don't mean to whine, but it's my journal and dammit I will. In reality, life's fucking peachy right now. Financially, I'm doing OK. I could learn to save money a little bit better, but my bills are getting paid, my kid and my cats are fed and I'm not freaking the fuck out like I was a couple of months ago. I'm not in danger of having to sell my ass or live under a bridge or anything....so...that's good.

Physically, the headache bites goat sack, but I'm OK. I joined a gym and actually WENT and have discovered that I do indeed still have muscles in my legs and ass, because now they all hurt. Goody. I can still run, and I still look like a penguin on meth when I do so. So yeah...that's good.

The kiddo and I aren't seeing a whole lot of each other lately, just 'cause I've got a boyfriend and the aforementioned work-kicked ass and she's doing the summer thing, where teenage girls turn into groups of locusts, moving from house to house, cleaning out the fridge and spending the night, only leaving behind empty Coke cans and the sounds of "ooohmagoodd!" (yes, they still say that.) But when we do see each other, we get along great. Well, Ok...great for a 13 year-old girl and her MOM...granted. I'm taking off next Monday (Hey! I get one of the things on my list! Cool) to hang out and do some girl stuff, so...that's good.

Max...heh..Max and I are doing just fine, thank you. That's very good.

There's tons and tons of stuff I want to talk about here, but I just don't have the time or energy to write it out right now. Feh. So instead, you get this. A list and a bullet update. Sorry guys. But seriously - in the past two weeks I've had server after server go tits up in one fashion or another and it's just been mass hysteria at work, and I've got upgrades coming up and a move at the end of August and AAAAAHHH!!!! So - soon! A rant on the myth of maternal instinct! and I'll tell you about my sex life! And some open letters! Or maybe you'll just see your local newscasters giggling about the chick in Texas who was found on the roof of her office building, mumbling "list list, need a list....list list, need a list..."

Who knows?

Kisses.

Me and the kid, who prefers to remain anonymous...and apparently, ambivalent as well. 

Stranger danger

Question - Does a salad justify fried mozzarella sticks, or do fried mozzarella sticks cancel out the salad?? Discuss.

I've been inhabited lately by this awful woman. Seriously, this bitch is just....foul. She's not mean or vicious. I'm sure she'd make perfectly acceptable dinner company and she could be trusted to watch your children or your cats and maybe even water your plants on a regular basis. If you had her over for dinner, she probably wouldn't drink the last beer or clog the toilets or do anything gross in the flowerboxes. You might even want to go shopping with her. She's a snappy dresser!! If you don't mind flip-flops (see below.) But dude...I wouldn't want to date her, and I'm certainly not enjoying BEING her.

This woman is not me. I do not know who this woman is. I want her gone, evicted, booted out, shit-canned, eighty-sixed, exorcised, outta here. Whatever it takes. An old priest and a young priest? Fine. A diet? Fine. New meds? Fine. A daily exercise regimen? Fine. Give up alcohol? Well....let's not get crazy.

Seriously...I'm hearing the drivel coming out of my mouth and I just want to slap myself. Has this ever happened to you? You hear yourself talk and you just want to step outside of your body and yell at yourself?? Hmm...perhaps we've found part of the problem already.....

In the past two weeks, I've accused my boyfriend of not being attracted to me (Yes! Already! I KNOW!!) I've taken things personally that had NOTHING to do with me, I've cried for no reason, I've gotten mad for no reason, I've woken up angry, I've
gone to bed angry (I've been at home ALONE people!), I've flipped off total strangers for no good reason, I've generally turned into this surly, weepy, insecure, whiny, stompy, angry, grumpy, bitchy woman that I just do NOT WANT TO BE.

BAH.

Max has not done a single damn thing to EVER ever make me believe he doesn't find me interesting in any way. The woman he was attracted to was NOT this insecure, mealy-mouthed little bitch, but I can guaran-damn-tee you the woman he gets annoyed with
will be her. Wow...that was some awkward sentence structure right there....you might need to stretch a little after reading that...ow. But you got the point right? This version of Laura? She's that Nightmare Insecure High Maintenance Girlfriend. She's the woman I have prided myself on NOT BEING for 34 years. Ask my ex-husband, and even HE will tell you that I certainly have my issues, but this? NO, I'm not usually like this. "Do yeeew still loooove meeeee???" "Whaaat are yeew
thiiiinkiiiing???" Glllaaaaarrrgggg. Somebody shoot me! Pleeze.

So yeah - Max? I'm sorry baby. It's not you, it's me. Heh.

The other stuff??? I dunno....just weird stuff, like I've been convinced that the reason why BFF hasn't emailed me on some sort of regular basis (regular according to whom??) is because I've committed some kind of egregious error. I've pissed her
off in some way - by going to happy hours with the Austin crew (??) by taking pictures of the wrong things at the wedding rehearsal (wha?) by drinking two beers at the baseball game when we were in Lincoln (she got me the second one - hell, she
upgraded it!!) It couldn't possibly be that she's newly married, newly pregnant, just moved to a new town and just started a new job. Noooo - it's ALL. ABOUT. ME. See? Narcissism and paranoia - two great tastes that go great together!

Last night I almost got out of my truck and told a trucker to fuck off because I *thought* he honked his horn at me. Wrap your mind fully around this mental image: Me - in a sleeveless top, skirt and sparkly flip-flops (yes, I'm one of those women,
shut.up.) getting out of my car in the DARK on I-35, which has ONE LANE BLOCKED OFF, to go stand at the driver's side of an 18-WHEELER to tell the driver to fuck off, because I THOUGHT he honked at me. UM. Yeah. That's not the first time I had to talk myself down from a ledge over the past couple of weeks, either.

That, and the fatigue, and the obvious lack of focus exhibited in yesterday's entry (I swear, no crack was involved in that, I just got to a certain point and threw up my hands in disgust and hit publish) and I..just..I....I quit.

I had an appointment with the meds doc yesterday (as my entire readership - all 3 of you - breathes a sigh of relief) and she upped the meds I'm on...which is new stuff from what I HAD been on, which...eh...long story. My "issues" are not even comparable to some folks out there - we won't even start that discussion. I could probably deal with the grumpies - sometimes I actually sort of enjoy being in a bad mood. Hee. Stomping around all sort of angrily, projecting this kind of aura of "fuck off" is kind of nice - especially when you're 5'10" and have the physical presence to back it off. I am NOT one of those women that gets told "aw, you're cute when you're angry." I get told something more like, "dude...don't hit me, OK?" So being angry is not really that big of a deal to me. But I don't like walking around feeling defensive all the time, I do NOT like feeling like I'm going to cry all the time, and I most definitely do NOT enjoy being the type of woman who asks her boyfriend "what are you thinking?" when really all he's doing is wondering if he needs to get his oil changed or not.

Any of you folks need a roommate? I'll pay the bitch's first month rent!!! bah!!!

I...don't...know.....

Ok, first?? HA!!!

Second - Yes! I'm still alive! HI!

Last week was The Suck at work. I don't really want to talk too much about work stuff here because HI - I like to eat. Suffice it to say, Suu-uuu-uuu-UCK.

I am tired. I do not know why I am so tired. Every time I say I'm tired at work, I get leered at. Which y'know..if that were why I were so tired, I probably wouldn't be so tired, in a bizarre twist of logic.

Seriously, don't you find that when you get to spend the night before staying up screwing, you're not really *tired* the next day, whereas if you stay up until 3AM drinking, fighting, reading, watching TV, whatevering - you're just exhausted? No....just me? I'm the only....? OK-never-mind-moving-on..

So no - despite the wonderful and insanely talented Max, I am not tired due to a wacky schedule of trapeze sex. Sorry to disappoint. I'm just...tired. I remember feeling this way before I started taking meds. This constant low level fatigue, this feeling of being able to just curl up and take a nap anywhere, anytime. I go over to Max's after work for a visit and it's tempting to just curl up in his bed instead of hanging out. I get home - sleep please. I'm hitting my snooze ....lots. Thing is? I'm not sleeping worth a SHIT at night. So..um..what the?

I remember before I started the AD's that I was tired all the time - that's normal. But I also remember that I could sleep like a mofo. The first couple of questions they ask you in a depression screening are "do you have trouble sleeping?" NO!! And "Do you have problems with your appetite?" um...only if you consider the fact that I EAT LIKE A FUCKING PIG a problem....???

So yeah....this no sleep thing? This is new and weird and entirely unwelcome. I like my sleep. I've always enjoyed the fact that I CAN sleep, that I need very few rituals or special blankets or pillows or any of that. As long as the temperature is reasonable and I'm not sleeping on ground glass, I'm usually good to go for at least the first night. The notable exception is hotels. I can NOT sleep in a hotel (motel, whatever) for the first, like, three nights. Which makes me a cranky bitch on vacation...which yes, Virginia, defies the whole purpose of vacation. This is why I like vacations that involve a surplus of alcohol and a dearth of itineraries. Really - it's best for everyone involved if the closest thing to setting an itinerary on my vacation goes something like this:

"Ok, Laura - we have to be at the airport at noon in 4 days. Can you be sober and packed by then??"

"Absholooodley....had me anudder beer and go 'way."

heh

Actually - I'm a blast to travel with. NO! Really! I fall asleep in the car, unless I'm driving, which I'm totally willing to do. I'm not terribly picky about where I pee or eat on the road. I'm pretty flexible about temperature and music - I'm like a dog! Wait....

I just don't like over-planned trips.

And I digress...a lot...because somehow I got from the fact that my meds need to be either changed or increased to the fact that traveling with me is a lot like traveling with a Jack Russell with a license.

Thus proving my point.....y'all have a good one.

Great Plains Road Trip of '05

HI! Yeah, we went to Kansas and Nebraska, we met Jane, we saw BFF, we're back, that's it.

What? you want more? Oh, fine.

We hit I35, heading north about 8AM on Friday. We drove....for a loooong time. About 45 years later we made it through Oklahoma. Seriously - Oklahoma takes a long time to get through. I'm from Texas, y'all - I KNOW from taking forever to get through a state. Maybe it's because Oklahoma was just sort of in my way the whole time. No offense, Oklahoma - I'm sure you're a lovely state. Actually, driving through, the southern part is just gorgeous. But...I wasn't visiting anything/body there - just trying to get through it. Anyway, Oklahoma - it goes on forever. You probably won't see that on their license plates anytime soon.

Yes, Jane did indeed greet me by pulling a knife on me. Actually, she greeted me with "I don't hug", THEN she pulled a knife on me. But then she offered me a slice of the fresh peach that she was slicing with aforementioned knife, so it was all good. She then proceeded to spend the rest of the visit offering me beer and food - which is the quickest way to my heart. If you're ever in Kansas (or Nebraska - they sell it there too!(I'm sure it's available in other parts of the Midwest, just not Texas, sob!)) there's this Boulevard wheat beer (Jane, help me out here) that's just delicious. Get some, consume, lather, rinse, repeat. One warning - do not consume with food, or you will soon resemble a beached whale. WHEAT BEER. Just sayin'.

The in-law's house is lovely - Paco's dad apparently built it himself, and it is bee-yoo-tee-ful.

Jane is adorable - do not let anything she says about herself in her journal fool you. She also talks EXACTLY how she writes - big words and all. LOVE!!

Paco, Holly and Elliot are all just as beautiful in person as they are in pictures. I know - unbelievable, huh?? Kiddo's remark - "That entire family has beautiful blue eyes - all four of them. It's just disgusting." Hee.

Our visit was entirely too short - made shorter by the fact that I'm a complete dork and didn't pay any attention to the directions given to me by Mapquest, BFF AND my boyfriend. BAH. So yeah - going to Salina, KS?? TAKE 135!!!!! Just a suggestion.

Also? The folks in Kansas? So friendly!! The toll road employees are very nice when you do things like freak out and hysterically tell them that you have taken the wrong exit and need to pull a U-turn in the middle of the toll plaza. They stopped traffic for me! (BTW - that was my exit and totally where I SHOULD have gotten off. HEH) They are also really understanding when you do things like HIT THE TOLL BOOTH (yep) in an effort to get closer (??) and then ask for directions to a bathroom (the kid needed to go!) and then give them a 10 dollar bill for a 75 cent toll. Hee. No wonder Texans have such a bad rep. HI! SORRY KANSAS!! I'm actually really cool! Call me!

So yeah. Kansas - y'all rock. Next time I'll stay longer and try not to dork out quite so much in your state. Oh, and I'll obey the speed limit (thanks for just letting me off with just a warning, Mr. State Trooper Guy - also very friendly!!) and I'll actually spend some money, instead of just using the bathrooms for free. Hee.

The next morning there was coffee and cinnamon rolls and gossip and then we left for Nebraska. Wheee! Our directions to BFF's house involved the phrase "look for the 'Prick of the Prairie'" (the Nebraska capitol building, which is actually quite lovely, but does indeed look like a giant penis. Uncut. Just sayin'.)

BFF and To be named* have a cute little red brick house on the Sout' Siiiide of Lincoln. heh. Seriously. Cuuuute red brick house, garden in the back (with rabbits! who has rabbits in the city limits?? Folks who live in Lincoln, NE, that's who!!)

Oh, the next three days are a blur of food and fireworks. We went to a Saltdogs game, which was! SO! FUN! The Saltdogs kicked ASS, BTW. I don't even LIKE baseball, and I had a blast.

The next day, we went to TBN's parent's house, where there was foooooooood. Oh my GOD, was there food. Fruit salad, fresh pea salad, potato salad, this corn/macaroni and cheese casserole stuff, loose meat sandwiches, Polish dogs, regular hot dogs, sliced tomatoes, pasta salad and four different desserts (home made ice cream w/ home made fudge sauce, brownies with frosting, brownies WITHOUT frosting and some sort of cherry bar thing.)

Admittedly, there were 17 people there - BUT!!! There were LEFTOVERS!!! GAH!!! SO. MUCH. FOOD.

I think I may still be digesting portions of that meal. uuuuuuuh.

And there were fireworks. Good lord, were there fireworks. Apparently the laws about fireworks are a little different in Nebraska than in Texas, in that you can actually, oooh, GET THEM AND SET THEM OFF, so TBN and his brothers (3 of the 5, he also has a sister) had around $200 worth of fireworks, ranging from those black cats, to the little sparkly whirly things that stay on the ground, to the BIG boom! WOW! things that I just don't know the name of. yeah...cooooool. Hours, and I mean that literally, of entertainment.

Now see - that was the THIRD of July. We'd had fireworks on Friday night when we came in to Kansas (thanks Elliot!), on Saturday at the Saltdogs game, on the third at the Named's place, so on the fourth, what did we do?? Why we sat on the front lawn of BFF's house and watched a whole bunch of shows in the distance. Again, lots of fireworks available to just normal folks living in the city limits. Then, we had two professional shows that we could see off in the distance. And then - at 10:00, the good stuff - the Lincoln Country Club started their show. Whooo!! And after that, there was pie. Because the pregnant lady needed pie.

Oh? Did I forget to mention that part?? Heh. BFF is pregnant! WHOO! (Actually, I've known since mid-May, but we've reached the official "it's OK to announce time" so - Hey Internet! My best friend's gonna have a baaaybeeeee!!) So yeah, at one point we were joking around w/ sparklers and somebody mentioned apple pie, and she got that pregnant lady gleam in her eye. Luckily, Village Inn (yum) was open late on the 4th and we scooted in for some 11PM pie. Whee.

The next day, we left. SOB!!! And we drove. And drove. And drove. And drove. And then for kicks, we drove some more. And then we got to Oklahoma, where I gave up and decided to just move to the side of the highway, which is where I'm sitting right now while I write this.

No - seriously - I pulled a marathon driving thing (left Lincoln about 10AM, pulled into Round Rock about 11:30PM) got lectured the next day about how unsafe that was by my mother (thanks mom) and now I'm back.

It was fun. Loads and loads of fun. Next time, I will fly.

Heh.

Smooches!!


*I couldn't think of a pseudonym, so he got that, and I think I like it, so there we go - BFF's husband shall now be referred to as TBN. Don't like it? Start your own journal and give him a name of your own. hmph.

workin' on it

Trip re-cap in progress. But let me just say - Oklahoma?? Takes for-fucking-EVER to get through. GAh!!!!

open letter

Dear Dude at Starbucks,

Ok, first off, an apology is probably in order. You caught me on the first bad mood morning I've had in a long time. And while I wasn't exactly bitchy, I guess I was...curt. But dude....c'mon. First you pick on me about how I pour half of my coffee out. (Actually - I order a smaller size in a larger cup, so that I don't have to pour half of it out - they fucked up.) Then - "Oh - you like it creamy, huh?"

YOU LIKE IT CREAMY?????

Dude...no. Just...NO. I'm sure you weren't trying to be smarmy. In fact, at that point, I think you realized what had just escaped your face and had the self respect to just shut up and move on with your day. Which is cool. Good for you. Again, I've had some exceptional mornings lately, but ask any of my friends - even with this freaky good mood streak I'm on? Pre-9AM + pre-caffeine + "You like it creamy?" You're lucky you still got kneecaps, buddy.

Just for future reference, because you seemed like a really nice guy (see above in re: self-awareness of when foot went into mouth and the brain power to STFU at that point) the morning crowd at a Starbuck's might not be the best place for the critiquing-the-cup-of-coffee-as-the-icebreaker approach. Not to dis your game there, homestack, but - as a hopeless caffeine junkie, I can tell you, even on the best of days, nothing makes me bristle faster than somebody talking smack about how I take my coffee. Us morning coffee girls, we like to get in, get our fix and get on with the day. No chit-chat, hit us with the hard stuff and move along. Most of the time, we're running late - why? BECAUSE WE HAVEN'T HAD OUR COFFEE YET. Sensing a theme here??

So, Mr. Creamy (heh) - polish up your game (I'll say it again - "you like it creamy?" has GOT TO GO) and take it to the afternoon shift. Do NOT let me seeing you sipping anything that ends in 'cino and uses a straw - those are for girls and teenaged boys. But - stick w/ the hot drinks and the occasional manly iced coffee, and you'll see - you'll be knee-deep in some highly caffeinated stuff before Labor Day.

Good luck my friend!!

Laura

Listing

Before I get started, I want to thank you guys for the sweet comments about my dad. Thank you thank you thank you. Hugs and kisses to each and every one of you.

Moving on to the fun stuff ('cause the sad stuff will come hot and heavy in later entries, I fear.)

Road trip!!! Whoooo!!!!

Yes, this Friday, the kiddo and I load up Nelly (my car, and yes I'm one of those freaks who names her cars and NO she is not named after the rapper, she is named in the spirit of "Whoa Nelly". Shut. up.) and we head north to Kansas and then Nebraska! whoo hoo!

I told y'all yesterday that I get to meet Jane - which is true - but that's only the little teensy tip of my trip iceberg. After spending Friday night in Salina, KS partying with Jane and Paco (You know yer jealous) we load back up and drive to Lincoln, Nebraska to visit BFF* and her new husband and in-laws. Whee!!!! Fourth of July in the Mid-west - what's more American than THAT???

BFF said "yeah - come on up, we'll blow shit up and grill things!" I told her it sounded a lot like spending the Fourth in Louisiana, except it's blowing shit up and boiling things down there. heh.

So yes - loooooong stretches of flaaaaat road in my immediate future, punctuated by two of the coolest women I've ever met and have yet to meet. Of course, after all the hard-core partying and fun, I get to spend all damn day driving back on Tuesday.

Twelve hours of I35, y'all. With a 13 year-old. Gak. Send help...and caffeine.

Because I am the MOST organized person in the world (Jane, stop laughing) I'm getting all my travel stuff together NOW, two days before my trip. What? I'm not FLYING....it's not like I have to clear CUSTOMS or anything...damn.

I've got my oil changed, my tires rotated (of course, now my car feels all wonky and out of alignment, fothamucka), directions to BFF's house, Jane's cell number, directions to Salina (get on I35, go north, stop when you see the big "Welcome to Salina sign", moron), and the list-making has started.

Oh, the lists. heh. Max and I sat on his couch last night, he with a cigarette and some W-induced ire (not a Bush man, my boy...not a Bush man at all) I with my lists. He took a moment from ranting to look over.

"Four pages???"

"No...four different lists."

"....?"

"What???"

"NOthin' baby." (scoots over juuuust a bit further)


Yes - four lists. What I'm bringing to wear (no, it does not just say "clothes", smart ass - I'm a girl, it can't possibly be that easy) another of what I'm bringing for other people (I'm a Southern girl, and we are incapable of showing up empty-handed, it's genetic), a third list of things I need to do before I leave and then the fourth list...shit...what's the fourth list...? Hang on. Ha! It's just 3 lists!! I just folded the paper into 4 sections and had scribbled on the fourth section and he just thought it was four, and that completely vindicates me a sane person, right???

SHUT. UP.

Am I the only person in the world who has to squish the urge to go shopping for all new stuff before a trip of any sort?? I have a gafrillion tote bags, a closet full of clothes (that all fit! whoo!) yet, somehow I feel like I need to go get NEW stuff for this trip..what? why? is this a girl thing?? Somebody help me understand this. Because I am stumped. I'm also staying the hell away from Target right now. Because I just KNOW that I'll walk in there, all "OK, buying cotton balls and trash bags" and I'll end up walking out w/ a brand new toiletry case and $50 worth of tank tops. mmmmmm....taaaaaank tooooppssss. wha? sorry. But seriously - why this compulsion to get new stuff?

Hmmmm.....do I admit here that I'm a little nervous about meeting Jane in person?? Discuss.

smooches.

*If y'all remember, BFF=Best Friend Forever - she got married on April 23rd to a wonderful dude who then took her up to the Heartland (Lincoln, Nebraska). Which y'know, yay love and all, but SOB!

bipolar much?

It's only fucking Tuesday. What the? How does it happen that lately I've had these Mondays that last, like, 14 days?? And I wake up on Tuesday morning, thinking "yippee! It's Friday!" Only to realize NO! Alack and alas! It is only fothermucking Tuesday.

I am most displeased.

In other news, I have a headache, and I'm hungry. What else is new??

Ack - I've written about 50 paragraphs and deleted them all, because I just can't quite get the right thing going here. I've got a little rant about depression going, I've got info on the boyfriend, I've got a trip to the heartland coming up! (NO! SLEEP! TILL! SALINA! Heh.) I want to talk about my dad (not good news.) I'm dealing with a lot of shit over here. Plus, I'm a giant perfectionist (HI!) which is what keeps me from writing for months on end...which is just sad. I suppose it's time for some literary vomit over here. I...apologize for that analogy. But you know what I mean. glllaaarrg.

So, um.....The boyfriend. Let's call him Max.* He's a sweetheart of a man, first off. Whenever we head towards a door, he does this little "hm hm hm" thing until I move out of the way, and then he opens it for me. Hee. It's cute - trust me. He's in a very giddy ga-ga (his word) phase right now. I'm pretty goofy over him (it's been two months, we're allowed) but I think I'm in a much more cynical place about relationships than he is. Which y'know, duh. I've been divorced a whopping 6 months - allow me some cynicism here. We're both pretty impatient people, and we're both in sort of strange places in our life, so this relationship has the possibility of some real disaster. But - it also has the possibility of some real magic to it. I'm kind of hoping for the second, just in case you're wondering. I'll keep y'all posted.

He also has the MOST amazing blue eyes I've ever encountered. Seriously..just..wow. And he plays guitar, which...I know I'm 34 and should be over this shit - but there's just something very sweet and romantic about getting serenaded, OK? bite me.

We'll see. I'm trying to sort of lead with my head, but not overthink. HA! Hee...snort.

Dad.....dad is not doing well. I called him for Father's Day and apparently the growths? tumors? tribbles? in his lungs spread during his time off between chemo treatments. He's on treatment again. He also told me, in his usual nonchalant, very practical way - "So...I'm making out my will. Anything you want??"

Heh.

I sort of smarted back that I wasn't sure, not having done a recent inventory of his stuff, did he have anything good?? We laughed - I told him that actually, I would like his diplomas from LSU. I know they don't mean much to him, but they sort of do to me. He said he'd find them. We laughed a bit more about other stuff, said our I love you's and hung up. And then I drove the rest of the way home crying.

And it's just not fucking fair.** I don't fucking want to hear anything about anybody else's dad dying of cancer or anybody's grandmother or anything. This MY dad. This MY FATHER that *I* barely got to fucking know as a kid. This is the man that I didn't get to spend any goddamn time with when I was little, that I finally FINALLY got to know as an adult and GODDAMN MOTHER FUCKING SHIT HE GOT FUCKING CANCER AND IS FUCKING DYING NOW. AND IT FUCKING SUCKS. AND IT'S NOT FUCKING FAIR.

And then the voices kick in, the ones that tell me that I'm over-reacting, that he'll be fine (HA!!), or that he's not dead yet, enjoy the time you have left (UM, OK, thanks for that) or that you never know, some new treatment may come along (ditto) or to shut and stop feeling sorry for myself, lots of people have lost loved ones (fuck you and the horse you rode in on.) The voices are the worst part.

Ok, well ..no - the worst part is hearing my father say "I'm going to die of colon cancer and this was totally preventable." THAT was the worst fucking part. The second worst part was him asking me what I wanted out of his estate......The voices pull a close third.

The voices are just the longest part - they don't quit. The other ones are sharp slaps - they come in, and WHAP, they're gone. They leave handprints behind and they sting and they hurt, but they're done. The voices are..I don't know...I can't think of what they'd be in terms of the physical....the hair pulls from the popular girls?? It's not that they hurt that bad, but you never know when it'll happen or what will provoke it. You never know - one minute everything's fine, the next minute - *yank* "hey, remember, your dad's dying - won't it suck that kiddo will only have one grandparent left soon??" and there you are, sobbing at your desk again.

So yeah - that's how dad's doing.

Which you would think I'd segue this nicely into the depression post, but now I just don't have the energy. And? I'm hungry and need to get my oil changed before my Great Plains Road Trip - which! I will talk about next time!

This weekend?? I get to meet Jane!! OOOOOOOO!!!!!

smooches


*HUGE Peter Max fan and collector - he (Max, not Peter) approved of the pseudonym.
**The other night Max told me that, as sort of a long-range art/grafitti idea he thought about writing "Life is Fair" on any available overpass, bridge, wall, etc that he could. That way, when someone said, "Well, where is it written that life is fair??" the response could be "dude - everywhere!!" See? See why I love this guy??

Dude, at least it's an update

Conversation through a bathroom door with The Boy*

Me: I'm hanging just a wee bit this mornin' baby
Him: Well, we did party like rock stars last night.
Me: Um...I wouldn't say rock stars.
Him: OK, well - we partied like Menudo, how's that?

*Yes, there's a boy, and witness above conversation as to why I'm with him.

Euphemisms

Have you ever noticed that the things that we're not totally comfortable with in life have the most cute little nicknames?? Death, for example - the big sleep, the dirt nap, pushing up daisies, buying the farm, pushing up daisies, kicking the bucket, passing away. Barfing is the Technicolor yawn, ralphing, praying to the porcelain gods and my personal favorite, calling Ralph on the big white phone.

Then there's all the fun names for what happens when your brain and your emotional circuits just have a little more than they can handle. Your cheese slips off your cracker, you drop your basket, you hit the wall, you lose your marbles, you go 'round the bend, etc etc, ad nauseum.

I believe my cheese may be in the process of slipping. I don't know that I'm completely gone - I'm still functional...I think. Maybe I have highly dramatic ideas of what a nervous breakdown looks like. I always picture graceful slides down walls while crying and laughing at the same time, mascara artfully dripping down cheeks, hidden wine bottles, piles of pills, the back of the head bloody from rocking rocking rocking into the wall.

I don't picture this feeling of weight, of malice and intent and anxiety sitting on my chest, keeping me from taking me a full breath all the time. I don't picture being one syllable away from tears at all times. I don't picture the desire to smash bash break boom bang fragile glass just to hear it break, just to know that I've hurt and destroyed something, just to know that I've gotten this feeling OUT of MY body somehow.

What do I do with this emotion? What do I do when I start to think and I start to feel the anger build up and I can taste it and feel it in the back of my throat? Where do I put it?? Do I scream? Do I punch? Do I yell, push, kick, punch jab poke boom bash kapow crunch whack??? What do I do with it?? Where do I put it?? Right now it's sitting in a hole in my rib cage, somewhere between my solar plexus and my trachea and I tell you it makes it hard to swallow, hard to breath.

The breathing is important - it's so important right now. It's hard to breathe when you're running from a giant cloud of fear. Flap flap flap like a bird, then it goes silent and I think everything's OK, and for just a little while I can relax but then I see it, sitting next to me, waiting to pounce and I start running again. It flies behind me, chanting "vehicle inspection, no child support, dumbass should have gotten a lawyer stupid bitch, why didn't you get a lawyer, is the rent due? there aren't any groceries in the house, god you're a shitty mother you stupid whore, he was right, without him you're just gonna fall flat on your fucking face you stupid, irresponsible idiot. slut whore dumbass spineless bitch. do you even know when the electric bill is due? no. you're going to be everything you hate- borrowing money from your parents, fucking up your credit, floating checks, living hand-to-mouth, no retirement fund, bag lady, kiddo will hate you in 20 years, no clean laundry - she'll remember this you know, she'll remember and she'll hate hate hate hate hate hate you hate you hate you you have fucked up fucked fucked fucked fucked up up up up"

I have to grab the crazy - I have to wrestle this fucker to the ground, but first I have to give it a shape and a face and parts. What should it look like? Should it be a dragon? Or is that just the cheesiest thing ever? Should it be a bat? Or a man? How about a big man? That way I can fulfill those Wonder woman fantasies and kick the ass of some 6'3" man. But first I have to flesh it out so I can find a spot to grab it and drag it to the ground and then I can sit on it and then I can dismantle it.

Because right now all I'm doing is running from it. I'm running and running and I'm running out of breath and places to go. I feel like I have two options - I can sit down and let this thing eat me, or I can grab it and take it apart. I just need help.

Help. I've hit the wall.