lazy ass bitch

-3 names I go by:
Laura
Lolly
Mama

-3 screen names I have:
lollylb
momolade
beerandcarnations

-3 physical things I like about myself:
My legs
My boobs
My eyes

-3 physical things I dislike about myself:
My stretchmarks
My ass
My high-waistedness

-3 parts of my heritage:
Cajun
French (yes, there is a difference)
German

-3 of my everyday essentials:
Coffee
Chapstick
talking to my kiddo

-3 of my favorite musicians:
Red Hot Chili Peppers (I know - it's a group - shaddup)
Joni Mitchell
Dave Grohl (Ok, that's mostly because he's smokin' hot - but I do like The Foo Fighters and his style, so again? shaddup)

-3 of my favorite songs:
The "Family Guy" theme song
"Twisted" by Joni Mitchell
"Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend" the Marilyn Monroe version

-3 things that scare me:
giant bugs (roaches obviously, but moths?? freak me right the fuck out)
my dad dying before I get to visit him "one last time"
losing my kiddo

-3 things I want in a relationship:
the ability to argue about stuff without it turning into argument
individuality on both parts without resentment
hot smokin' sex wouldn't suck

-3 lies I tell:
"Oh, I'm fine"
"I'll get up early and do that in the morning."
"I don't get *that* many headaches"

-3 physical things about the opposite sex that appeal to me:
shoulders
fuzzy chests
Uh, well - cocks. HELLO

-3 of my hobbies:
knitting
I want to say reading, because I love it, but I haven't read anything other than a BLOG in so long that it feels dishonest, but fuck it - reading
Food

-3 things I really want to do right now with a special someone:
take a wandering road trip
snuggle up and watch movies all day (again)
go meandering down South Congress and Guadalupe and poke around in all the shops

-3 careers I've considered:
nurse
teacher
self-employed artisan-type

-3 places I'd like to go on vacation:
Italy
New York City
some wonderfully deserted (yet still staffed with cheap alcohol and thoughtful bartenders) beach

-3 kids names I like:
Tallulah
Maisey
Sophie
(I like odd names for girls and traditonal names (Mark, Paul, William) for boys. hm)

-3 things I'd like to do before I die:
Have another baby (I'm sick, I know)
Go to Europe
make a will - heh

-3 ways I'm a stereotypical guy:
I girl-watch
I love sports, especially football
I can make dinner out of a six pack, a block of cheese and some corn chips

-3 ways I'm a stereotypical girl:
I have a purse addiction
I like arts and crafts and all the supply shopping that it entails
See above in re:baby fever

OOOh, you better watch out!

Because I'm 12 and a complete brat, I have a really long Christmas list. I mean, there's obvious stuff like this and this, stuff from here or here and ooh! that in an XXL and these that I'd love to find under the tree. Do I really expect anybody to spring $150 for some DVD's and/or $70 for a sweater for me? Uh, NO. But that's what internet window shopping is for, right? Anyway - there are also all the totally unattainable things like world peace, a cure for cancer*, better time management skills and more self-confidence that are on list, but we all know how that works.

Santa: Sorry kiddo - the elves still haven't figured out how to make self-esteem out of pine. Maybe next year.

Then there's all the in-between stuff. I'd love it, but it's not the normal sort of thing one expects to find wrapped up under the tree. Or that one expects to be asked for. In fact, some of it's also intangible, so that would be awfully difficult to wrap. heh. Here goes.

1)New bras. Actually, I'm perfectly capable of getting my own damn bras, thank you - so what I'd really like is for someone to show up at my front door with a handful of comfy,cute, perfectly fitted bras without me having to so much as shift in position on my couch. I LOATHE bra shopping. I will wear bras until they disintegrate off of my body. Right now, all of my bras have the pokey exposed underwire thing going on (all on the right side. Is my right breast more powerful? Is it going to secede? What's up with that?) and they all provide the same support that a set of Band-Aids over the nipples would. So yeah - a Bra Fairy would just rock.

2)Car maintenance. I'm OK with the oil changes and I just got a brand new set of tires (forgot to tell you that part of the Louisiana trip, didn't I? Don't worry - nothing traumatic, just every male relative in my family looking at the state of my tires and tsk'ing at me. Heh.) and I don't run out of gas or any of that. But - I need somebody to install the new wiper blades I bought, and my car IS at 60,000 miles, which means it probably needs fluids filled or changed or drained or the gerbils in the engine need fresh cedar shavings, fuck I don't know. Plus, I sort of backed into a car a few months ago (SHUT.UP.) AND some little fuckwit decided to draw a chinese symbol or something on my car, so it could use some buffing. And we won't EEEVUN talk about the inside. So - I don't know - somebody to take my car in and say "60,000 mile checkup, wash it wax it, buff that crap out of the rear bumper and dude - run a vacuum over the inside, wouldja?" Oh...and it would be nice if he/she picked up the tab too. heh.

3)Kitty litter. No, seriously - I'm always out of this stuff, and let's just say that "hiding" the catbox in the little hallway hamper is a great idea - until it gets to a Certain Point. Ugh.

4)Laundry baskets. Good lord. What am I, 18 and living in a dorm that I have to ask for laundry baskets for Christmas? Oy.

5)On the same note - a Swiffer. I have approximately 20 square feet of tile in my apartment, but it's all in the kitchen, bathrooms and right by the front door. I have 2 cats, I have a kid and I? drop things. Lots of things. My hard-surface floors need help. I look at the Swiffers, then go "nnaaaaah" because of the price. But do I turn around and buy a regular (read: cheap) mop. No. No I do not, because I am a lazy git. Sue me. But first, buy me a Swiffer.

6)A work mommy. See - I'm perfecly capable of stocking my pantry at home, but when it comes to work? I'm the one who has to go beg for a Kleenex or hand lotion and always eats out because she never remembers to bring lunch or snacks. So - could someone just come to my office with a bag of food and some basic supplies once a month and set me up? Hell - I'd even pay for that service. Hm....business idea??

7)A reprieve from stupid drivers. I...it..GAH!! It gets worse around the holidays, I know, but lately the driving antics have been making me crazy. OK, now - I'm not the world's greatest driver (see above in re: backing into a parked car) BUT!!! If I'm driving through a parking lot, I do NOT vulture for spots. I drive until I find an empty one - not a close one, an empty one. I put my car in the empty spot and I carry on. I do not follow people to their spots. I do not sit and wait for folks to put groceries in the trunk, get in, start the car and go so I can get a spot 6 feet closer to the door. I do, however, sit behind these people and fume while they do this. I do stop for someone who is already in their car and in the process of backing up, because THAT'S POLITE. I also try to stop for pedestrians in grocery store crosswalks and not block intersections and let folks out of driveways when traffic is backed up and just generally try to be a nice person**. I know how to enter a highway and put on my turn signal and not follow too closely (sometimes I mess up on that..heh) and just try not to be an asshole. It would be nice if others would do the same thing.

8)A haircut. Again - I'll pay for this, I just want somebody else to take the time to schedule it, then come pick me up and take me to it, and to maybe help me figure out what I need to get done. This is why my hair always looks like shit. Not because I'm too lazy to do anything with it (well, I am actually) but more because the whole booking an appointment thing is just overwhelming. Good lord - I'm crazy as hell, aren't I??

9)A Band-aid, because I just cut my thumb. Ow. Sad thing is? I own 42 quafrillion travel first-aid kits. I know exactly where they all are too! Under my bathroom sink. *cough*

10)My damn hair to grow already. I know - #8 is a haircut - that's purely so that my hair doesn't look like complete ASS while I grow it out. But part of the reason why it looks like ass?? Because it's decided to stop growing at this awful, just-hits-the-shoulders frump length. Bah. While I'm sure this length looks lovely on YOU, on me?? Assety Ass McAss Ass. Bah.

So - there it is. Upon review, I find that I'm not terribly selfish - I mean - I said I didn't really expect (or want, c'mon) anybody to shell out $150 so I can watch Carrie and her friends drink Cosmos for hours on end. But, I do think that maybe? I'm just a little crazy.

Max, Jane, and the entire internet: "Well, DU-UH!!"

*Actually - I'm still wishing for this one.
**Except when I drive on campus, because if you're a Nice Person on campus, you will never, ever get anywhere. UT students are apparently told that the cars on campus are made of granola or Peeps or something, because they just blithely walk in front of cars without even looking. The trick on campus is to wait for a little tiny break and then start edging into it - if you go too fast, you WILL take somebody out, but if you start slow, they'll look up from their reverie and stop for you. Usually with this surprised look on their face, like "dude..did you see that? That giant Peep almost hit me!!"

Hot air doubloons

I said I'd finish the travelogue of my adventures in Louisiana, but I lied! Bwahahhahhahhaa!!!

I will tell you this much - as of Sunday 11/27/05 I am inheriting 18 binders full of doubloons when my dad dies. See, now, somehow my father ended up with The Doubloon Collection*. It's Fuck-only-knows how many years and parades worth of doubloons, all catalogued and organized into coin-collection type binders. Eighteen binders. Did I mention there are 18 (eighteen) of the things? Yeah - there are. Anyway, the current joke is that whichever (it's a word, fuck you) child annoys my dad the most gets The Doubloons when he dies.**

"Laura! You bitch! You live 500 miles way and yet managed to annoy your ailing father enough to inherit The Doubloons?? Jeezus!!"

Don't blame me - blame my mom. See, according to my dad, while he and my mom were married (30 damn years ago) she would assert that the HerLastNames came over on the Mayflower, thus she was of pure pilgrim stock or some such shit.

Now, as we all know, Thanksgiving is a celebration of the pilgrims landing on Plymouth Rock, dying off in droves during that first winter and then planning a large dinner between the survivors and the Indians, from whom they had managed to swindle a bunch of food, thus creating a meal that bears pretty much NO resemblance to what we eat now. But, I, as usual, digress in fabulous run-on, over comma'ed fashion.

My dad, for the past (at least) 5 years has said, "next year, I'm going to a damn restaurant." This is all due to my dad not really wanting a house full of people, the fact that my grandmother insists on baking a turkey,*** despite the fact that none of us really like it, and the fact that as he's gotten older my dad has turned into a cranky old man. A cranky old man with one wicked sense of humor who wil totally kick your ass at Scrabble,**** but a cranky old man nonetheless.

Ok, now - work with me here. Dad is annoyed by Thanksgiving, but we celebrate it anyway because of those stupid pilgrims, my mom's family came over on the Mayflower, thus Thanksgiving is my fault and TADA!! I get The Doubloons*5&6.

I tried to convince him to send them directly to my mom and just leave me the hell out of it, but he was not to be swayed. Fucker*7.

On re-reading this, I'm not sure the writing of the Doubloon Incident is as funny as it was while we were kidding around about it. Very few private jokes are. But that's OK. I got to spend almost 4 full days with my dad, a lot of it just hanging out and watching the tube. It was fucking great, man. He's got a rather dark sense of humor and makes a lot of jokes about his death and his illness and if you didn't know him better, you'd think he was taking the whole Cancer Thing awfully lightly. He's not - that's just how he (and I) deal with the difficult - through thoroughly inappropriate jokes. I didn't get to spend a lot of time with my dad as a kid, so now I cherish*8 the time I do get to spend with him. I'm jealous of the relationship my little brothers have with him, but I'll take what I have now - an interesting sort of friendship. I know that he has regrets about things that happened during my childhood and so do I and well...y'know - water under the bridge, etc etc. I'll take what I have now and savor it.


*Yes, these fucking things get the capital treatment.
**Lest you think my family thrives on the macabre - first off, we kind of do and we all have sort of twisted senses of humor. Second, a few months ago (it was when I called him for Father's Day, to be exact) my dad let me know that he was writing up his will and hey - did I want anything in particular?? So the subject of his death is something that we've all sort of learned to deal with and view as inevitable in our own way. My dad's way is to threaten his children with the looming inheritance of albatross-like possessions. Hey man - whatever keeps him laughing, right??
***My dad has been frying his Thanksgiving and Christmas turkeys (and other miscellaneous objects) for about 20 years now - waaaay before it got trendy and they sold special kits for it and all that hooha. So HA! Cajuns are trendsetters!! Kiss my (coon) ass!!!! But yeah, due to the presence of the fried turkey and my grandmother's stubbornness in all matters poultry, we end up with 2 turkeys for,like, 6 people. It's madness. And?? She makes stewed corn, which, I...just..I ..aug!!
****I only have the reports of other people who've played him and my own knowledge that my dad is one of the absolute smartest people I've ever met. I have never actually played Scrabble with my dad and I live with the fear that I will never get the chance. Dammit - next trip down there, we're playing Scrabble instead of cards. Y'all remind me please.
*5 I actually have no idea who wil end up with The Doubloons. There's a really good chance that when my dad dies, Stepmom will gesture to the bookcase where they sit and say "so, uh - y'all want those??" But to tell the truth? If I end up with them? I will laugh and laugh and laugh at the reading of his will, and then take them home and put them on a recently cleared shelf.
*6 I totally stole the multiple footnote format and the *5, etc thing from flea, who rocks.
*7 Yes, I just called my dad a fucker. I probably wouldn't call him a fucker to his face, because while my family curses like truck drivers in training, the F-bomb happens really, REALLY rarely. I still remember the first time my dad told me a (pretty lame) joke involving the F-word. It was then that I knew I was officially an adult. But - I would (and have) call him a jerk, an asshole and "0h, you big dork!!" Heh.
*8 I typed "cher" and stopped myself, wondering if that word was too precious, too cloying. But then I realized that I'd been sort of just typing for a while by then, not really thinking about what was coming out on the screen and "cherish" had just jumped out there with the rest of the text. So - it stayed.

Travelogue, part one

Ok, before I write anything else, I have to give you this. It is the funniest birth story ever. Seriously. Funny funny funny. Go read it, laugh your ass off, then come back here and read my (by comparison) obituary column of a blog.

Ok, so...Louisiana - wheee. Kiddo, Max, Uncle and I headed out Wednesday A.M. about an hour behind schedule*. The trip was fairly uneventful - we dropped Max off in Houston, went to Bennigan's for lunch (without Max - now I owe him a Monte Cristo), and then Uncle took the wheel. gah.

See, Uncle used to be an excellent driver. Uncle has driven everything from Corvairs to Semis. Uncle is a great guy. However. Uncle has a habit of surging - y'know - hitting the accelarator really hard, then letting go of it suddenly, then hitting it hard, then letting it go. Ad nauseum - literally. As if the roads of East Texas and Louisiana (yes, the whole state) aren't bad enough, we got seasick on top of it.

We dropped Uncle off at his girlfriend's house on the western edge of New Orleans - and here is where I tell you that I'm so so so glad that it was night, and I could only see the big damage. Like, the high-rise Motel 6 (yes, there is such a beast) on the side of I-10 that had plastic covering a huge section of missing wall all the way from top floor to ground. Or like the buildings on the sides of I-10 that had been completely demolished. Or like the fact that there was not one single intact sign anywhere to be seen. I could only see the big stuff. I was spared from seeing the brown water line on every building, and seeing how here it was at the 3 foot mark, and here the 8, but it was still here, there, everywhere. I was happy for the dark.

Kiddo and I headed back to my dad's - which means we had to backtrack some, but this time I was driving, so I didn't have time to look again.

I did have time to discover why you should not re-use a Starbuck's cup. See - Uncle brewed me a pot of coffee and packaged some up for me in a venti cup he found in my car. Other than the hygeine concerns (how long have the holiday red cups been out?? Yeah - this was a white cup - aug) there's also the fact that the glue? It does not like such treatment. In fact, it resents it deeply and will just fucking dissolve about a block away from your kind coffee-brewer's house.

"I have a leak here, hand me a nap - OH SHIT, IT'S A BIG LEAK, WINDOW! WINDOW! ROLL DOWN YOUR WINDOW! AAAAUGH"

Newly christened with Community In-Between, we continued our journey.

We got to my dad's about 45 minutes later.**

Sport, my dad's youngest (yet my middle brother - I'll draw a chart later) was there. I hate to admit it, but Sport is my favorite brother. He's six foot two of Cajun good ol' boy and just cute as a fuckin' bug. He claims that 30 and 40 year old women hit on him all the time, and I believe it. I warned him to be careful with that shit, because a 35 year old woman with a 19 year old baseball player?? She will HURT him. I fully expect to hear a story about him getting chased by a jealous husband one day -- "She didn't tell me she was married!!!!"

Anyhoo - I just click with Sport in a fun sister-brother way that I just don't seem to have with McBrother (the oldest) or Spud (my mom's son). So does kiddo. They're 5 years apart, and due to the kind of strange dynamics in my family, they function more like sister and brother than uncle and niece. Good LORD, they pick on each other and give each other a ration of shit. But last time she and I went down there, kiddo's "boyfriend"*** called and Sport got on the phone and apparently intimidated the crap out of the kid. I know that if anybody messed with kiddo?? Sport would rip 'em a new orifice. And what's cool is that it goes the other way too - you do NOT mess with Uncle Sport, lest you face the wrath of kiddo.

So yeah, I got to hang with him and my stepmom and my dad for a bit before Thanksgiving actually started.

OK, I'm gonna have to divide this shit up, because I am so fuckin' wordy. I'm also hungry and the tamales**** are heated up and the chili's about done. So after I finish the footnotes (goddamn wordy bitch) I'll post this and ..blah blah BOOM!!! my head exploded.

Let's see

*OK, if we ever travel together, I'll tell you that I plan on leaving a X o'clock, fully knowing that I'm a lameass who never leaves on time and that I won't really leave until Y o'clock. Well, on Wednesday we left at Z o'clock. To the untrained eye, that looks like 2 hours behind, but nonono!! With Laura Math, it's only an hour! Whoo!
**Dad lives on the east side of Baton Rouge, Uncle's on the west side of New Orleans, and I drive like a bat out of hell.
***A 13 year-old's boyfriend?? Consists of programming each other's names in their phones and talking until a parent opens the door and says "For the love of God, GO TO BED."
****Aug. I checked my bank account this A.M., and the Ex popped up in AIM, thinking I was the kid. After I clarified that, he said he had some homemade tamales for us. OK, dude....I am NOT going to turn down homemade tamales. It's entirely possible I'd have lunch with Hitler for homemade tamales. Ok, maybe not, but really - tamales = love.

no coherency aqui

Hey - I have a journal, perhaps I should update it!

My kiddo is currently watching one of her favorite movies - "Some Like It Hot".

Q: How, much do I love my kid, and how cool is she? A:Lots and very.

Max's birthday went well. Wednesday night he came up to the house and we ordered a pizza and split a six-pack of Shiner and watched "The Blues Brothers." ("It's my birthday, and we'll watch what I want to watch - step AWAY FROM THE REMOTE.") Saturday night, we had a little party at a friend's house and then on Sunday, we went to see the latest Harry Potter.

I liked Goblet of Fire. There, I said it. Hmph.

I also brought my knitting and sat there working on a scarf the whole time, but I've gotten to the point where I can do a straight knit stitch w/o looking, so all it really did is satisfy the fidget urge. I have problems just...sitting there. I'm the reason they sell munchies at theaters. I mean - we saw the movie at The Drafthouse and ordered hamburgers and I STILL had to break out the scarf. Sad, just sad.

(Jane: "See, I told you you're twitchy.")

Speaking of scarves. That's what the Super Secret Knitting Project was - a scarf. I made a green, purple and blue diagonally striped scarf. It's about 7 feet long and was actually pretty fun to make. Max said all kinds of nice things about it and two of his friends complimented it, thus my ego is appeased. Heh.

I also got him that controversial Bob Dylan CD that's only available at Starbuck's and a book (He's reading the whole series, that's the next one.) And, like I said, there was a party at a friend's house and the friend mad some BAD ASS chili and there was beer (oh my GOD, the beer) and other presents (lots of music, as I remember - did I mention all the beer??) and cupcakes. He says he had a good time, so again? My ego, she is appeased. Because you know - The birthday is all about me. Heh.

(Max: "I knew it!!")

Did you know that if you have a horrifying headache and someone offers you a Vicodin, because they have it from - - somewhere?? And you take it with a couple of heavy duty German beers,not only will knitting get really REALLY difficult, you will also pass the fuck out, and then you will also have some very very strange dreams during your passed-outness???

NO? Well, um, yeah - you will. So I've heard.

I'm not going to bore you with the dreams, because I know the Blog Rules On Dreams and Periods, HOWEVER!! There was Max's ex-girlfriend, (about whom I seem to have some issues, despite never meeting her and only seeing ONE picture of her and SWEET JESUS, I'm crazy) an in/outdoor bathroom that happened to HAVE NO WALLS, a creepy guy with a boat (who actually exists - remind me to tell you) and lots of other strange Parade of Sub-Consciousness type hoo-ha.

I just can't decide if I liked it or not. Hmm

Any-hooooo

On Wednesday, we leave for Louisiana. (Stalkers beware - my mom is checking on my place and even when she's not around, it's guarded by some FIERCE tabbies, who shed. A lot. So - yeah. Take that.) Usually, We = Me + Kiddo. This time, things are different. My uncle (mom's big bro) has been doing all the heavy lifting in New Orleans for the past couple of months. He's been in charge of cleaning out Spotty's (my maternal grandmother) house, his own house*, trying to get his business back up and running and dealing with insurance and FEMA and such. Fun, huh?

He's bringing Spotty's van up to Austin, along with a load of stuff, and will need a ride back to New Orleans. Tada.

Max is going to Houston for Thanksgiving and carpooling is good for the environment. Plus, it's an extra 3 hours with mememe!!! Plus, I get to listen to him and the kid argue about who plays DJ. (Just kidding baby - DJ Duties fall to whoever rides shotgun unless a)the driver vetoes or b)everybody's asleep. Except the driver, that is.)

So - for the first 3 hours, I have 3 passengers. Then for the next 6 - 7 hours, I have two passengers, then for an hour I just have ONE passenger. (Anybody else flashing back to Algebra I? Just me?) Then I get to spend 3 days eating and watching football and being very sad because I'm visiting my grandparents in an apartment in Baton Rouge, instead of in the house they worked for for 40 years. Then I go home.

Oh - yeah - we'll be picking Max up in Houston. Heh.

(Max: "Note to self - call crazy-ass girlfriend Sunday morning and make sure she remembers to pick me up")

All right gang, I'm tired, my glass is empty and I'm running out of material. When you work with a margin this thin?? It happens quickly.

(Internet: Material?? Did you see any material??)

AHEM, my POINT would BE, I'm sitting on the edge of the couch over here, and since I still can't seem to sleep in my own bed right now, I'm gonna post this piece of shit thing, turn off the light and lay on the couch until I pass out in front of the TV.

Whoo!! I love adulthood!! (grumblegrumblerassenfrassensunufabitch)

*Ack!! I put a footnote in here and now I don't remeber what - OH yeah. Uncle lived right next door to Spotty, in the Lakeview area of New Orleans. If you were following any of the Katrina coverage, you know that Lakeview got hit really hard. In fact, their houses are (were?) about a mile away from one of the levee breaches. They had nine feet of water in their houses. Spotty's house was a two-story, so everything on the second floor (including the cat - have I told y'all that part??) survived. Uncle, on the other hand, lived in a very cute litte one-story. Nine feet of water in a one story house, sitting for almost two weeks? He lost everything. I (only partially) jokingly called him our war correspondent one day. I think it's way more truthful than any of us really want to admit. I also think I may need to buy that man a drink.

Happy Birthday Max!!

I promise, there will be an entry of substance - or what passes for substance around here - later. But first! This bulletin!!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAX!!!!!

Fuckin' Wife Swap

I will take a moment to apologize for any spelling/syntax/grammar errors. Oh, and timeline errors in the show. Red, red wii-iiine!!!

OK, it's not actually "Wife Swap", it's "Trading Spuses". Which I guess could explain why it's on a different channel. Heh.

So, for some reason I started recapping this show and I was trying to weave it into my entry, but I realized that it sucked for so so so so many reasons, the most important one being that I started watching 10 minutes in and?? The recap was poorly written. HEH. But seriously, it's hard to watch and write at the same time. Remind me to get TiVo or start taping stuff before I try to get a job with TWOP. (BWA!!) The point is, we have Heathen Hippie Mom (HHM), who has switched with Crazy Christian Mom (CCM). (Heathen Hippie Dad was wearing a thumb ring and there was a wall full of mandalas and they believed in astrology, so - Heathen Hippies, right?? Right.) Recap below - I've polished off a bottle of red, so...caveat emptorum (readorum? blogorum?? whateverum.)

Ok, now we're seeing Heathen Hippie Mom (HHM), and she's driving one of the swap daughters to the dance studio just so she can see her dance, and that's pretty damn cool. Wow - this little girl is good. Of course, they're doing the thing that drives me C-R-A-Z-Y in shooting, which is to not really SHOW the dancing, but rather cut back and forth and make it impossible to see what's going on.

Oh goody - Crazy Christian Mom. She has gone to each child to "talk...nothing heavy..so - what do you think about God??" The kids all return the Teenage Stare of Blankness and Indignation (TM), which just makes her even crazier, so Heathen Hippie Family (HHF) takes her to a church to appease her. So now, let's recount. CCM is preaching to the kids about Jesus and God and they take her to a church so she can chill out. HHM goes to the other kid's dance lessons.

Again - I hope they pay these folks to act like jackholes, because CCM?? Acting like a total crazy bitch. Seriously.

OOOOh - CCM thinks that Astrology is "the dark side" LOVE! LOVELOVELOVELOVE!!!!

Hee - Heathen Hippie Dad (HHD) has declared that Jesus invented everything (which, y'know - Jesus is Lord, the Lord created the world, blah blah blah, ergo he invented Astrology), so why does CCM have a problem with Astrology?? Way to poke the rattlesnake, HHD.

ooH - commercial for that "Walk the Line" movie. Who do I have the KILL so I can look like Reese Witherspoon? HUH? HUH? WhO? Because I'm a good shot - I can make it quick.

I feel I should tell you that this entry has been brought to you by the 2003 Parducci Petite Sirah. Good sub $10 bottle. It tastes a little weird tonight, but my nose has been running all day (SHUT UP) and I taste-tested the kid's Zicam and so I think that's it. The other two bottles I had of this (at different times!!) were tasty.

AW, HHM is leaving the CC Household (they called her Ma Jeanne!!) and everybody's all sad. But now they're showing CCM leaving Hippie House, and the kids are all "what the fuck ever, get out bitch." LOVE!

CCM: "It got to a point where I couldn't get out of there fast enough." Um..well - maybe if you weren't such a proselytizing TWAT, it wouldn't be so difficult.

HHM is complimenting CCM on her wonderful family and how fabulous things are and how much fun they had. AAAAAnd, CCM is asking about Astrology. "I'm really concerned that if you aren't a Christian that you were in my household", "Put God in your heart", and she's all wiggy.

And on the cab ride home, she refers to herself as "fun-loving" and easy going". Um..OK.

"Spiritual warfare". Oh boy. I guess HHD was just way too pushy, but...y'know? I'm thinking some woman comes in and starts talking to *MY* kids about religion?? Um...I'm gonna be pushy too - pushing yo ass out da do', beeyotch. (There will be a personal anecdote about this shit tomorrow..or next week..um..later.)

So now, HHM is on the way home, talking about how she needs to talk to her husband and find out what happened and the general tone is very much "dude...I know my husband's a pain, what did he do to that woman??" MMMMMMK? Just bear that in mind.

Oooh - the letter opening and reunion at Casa de Hippie, hang on. I would love to totally recap this scene, but I?? am drunk. So deal. But - I will say that it sounds like HHM was all ready to take CCM's side, defending her against her family, until she found out how rigid CCM was. I can't believe how involved in this crap I am....FEH!! WHY AM I WATCHING THIS SHIT???? Oh yeah - the upcoming crazy.

Ok, CCM is bitching and crying that she was sooo uneasy and how she can't trust anyone (OH BOY) and how "you have to watch who you bring into your house" and "I brought an unGodly person into my house."

GODDAMN COMMERCIAL BREAK,I WANT TO SEE THE CRAZY LADY SCREAM, I'VE BEEN WAITING A WEEK, AAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

(Laura takes a deep sip of her wine and breeeeathes.)

OK, Chez CC, kids are playing, waiting for mom to get home, all is good - hapy to see mom, aaand mom comes in, all, "Worst time of my life" this and "It was so dark=sided" that.

This woman is insane. "THEY'RE NOT CHRISTIANS!!" "She's tampered in dark-sided stuff!!" "She is dark-sided too!!"

Oldest Daughter - "wait , are you mad at us too???" Good question, kid.

Ok, now she has ripped up the money letter, declaring it tainted and has ordered the camera crew out "in Jesus's name." And, the dancing girl is totally confused, because of course HHM was really nice and accepting and cool, and now Mom has come home and is wigging out because?? Astrology, Hypnotism* and Tarot readings. Yep. And the oldest has taken responsibility because she didn't pray enough - ooh, she just grabbed a pillow and put it between her and her mom, HELLO body language.

"I am a spiritual warrior" Oh good lord.
The oldest girl is seriously freaked out.
"I am the warrior." Anybody else hearing Patty Smythe??
"If you believe in Jesus, you can stay here."

Wow...real tolerant woman here. Ok why is the oldest daughter taking care of this?? Why isn't the husband saying anything?? What a ball-less motherfucker.
"I'm always the one that asks, why don't you ask??" Um maybe because you're a complete nutjob who needs to get a grip??

So the swappees (swappers?) get some money to donate to the other family as they see fit. CCM ripped up the letter and screamed that she didn't need somebody unGodly to decide how to spend the money (I should have gotten the quote, DAMMIT.) Anyway - here's how HHM allocated the dough: numbers may be wrong, see above in re:WINE

$5000 for the dancer for some certification
$1000 to help ashley and abigail to move into their own place (must have missed that one)
$15000 to the dad for general family stuff

$20,000 for gastric bypass for CCM, that CCM wanted

CCM later accepted the money on "further consideration."

Sooooo, yeah. I, uh...yeah....I'd like to defend this by saying that it's all some Anti-Christian, Left-Wing, Homosexual-Agenda, Pot-Smoking, Feminazi plot, but dude?? CCM SCREECHED at her family and the camera crew. Um...hard to edit that shit, OK??

Tomorrow, when I'm sober, I'll write about how I don't really hate Christian, I just hate intolerant hypocrites. K? So save the shitty comments for later.

I'm gonna go lay down now, because all this back-tracking over typos is making me crazy.

IIIIII loooooove yeeew guuuuuuuyz!!!!

*shit, I just noticed a footnote. Hang on - what? OOOh- the hypnotism. OK, so - I'm not a CCM, but I might get a bit upset if I came home and found out that somebody hypnotized my kid, 'cause control, vulnerable state, blah blah blee. So - this is not a religious thing, it's more of a "Hey, you did something weird to my kid" thing. Footnotes bite the bag when you're drunk.

'night

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