Subject Change

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

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

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

Whoops.

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

Subject change.

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

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

Subject Change

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

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

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

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

GODDAMMIT.

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

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

I got lost somewhere in the middle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goodnight.

potential

Kiddo has been asleep since I got home at 6:15, I've had a bottle of red wine, I'm watching crap TV and playing Mahjong to keep busy. One could say that I should be spending my time either cleaning my house, updating my blog, knitting or doing anything else and it would be more productive. And they might have a point. I mean, there are things I could tell you.

For example, I could tell you about the trip to Houston, where we saw the creepy plasticized bodies and the kids got along like damn brother and sister. Or I could tell you that I've been dealing with a funky sore throat/hoarse voice/post-nasal drip for the past week and gah! Or how TBFD is now sick as a damn dog, and I have no place to put my kid for the weekend, otherwise I'd totally go up there and just drown the boy in chicken soup, orange juice and creepy smothering love.

I do have the same birthday as Florence Nightingale, y'know.

Or I could tell you how I've been watching Project Runway and have JUST found this and OHMYGOD, it's so fuckin' funny and what the hell was I reading before???

But y'know, I think I'll finish this game of mahjong, put the leftovers away and then wander off to bed with Mr. Hemingway.

'night.

Two in one day. Whose blog is this anyway??

See, my brain is currently like my living room. It's full of boxes of crap and cat hair and I have no idea where to start in order to get it in shape.

That metaphor lost a little something on the trip from my brain to my keyboard.

Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say is I have tons of stuff going on over here - really!! I moved! I have bangs now! I re-created a scene from "Saw"!! TBFD and I are going to Bodyworld in a couple of weeks! My kid's in (muhfuckin') high school! But I don't know where to start, and as you can see, there is just no way on God's green earth to weave all that into a cohesive post.

Fuck it. Bullet points, the lazy blogger's friend.

*Yep, I moved. I actually moved back in the middle of June. It's a tad bigger, much closer to work, in a better school district, and the hike in rent is made up for by the fact that it's actually insulated and shaded and I won't have to pay $200 to keep my apartment at 85 degrees. But, as I mentioned before in my horrible opening, my living room is still full of boxes (yes, and cat hair, but that won't change.) The boxes are those last few boxes that tend to get labeled "crap" and then some are full of craft crap. It's really tempting to just pick them up, put them in my car and dump them at Goodwill, but I just can't quite do it. It's a sickness. Y'all know. Well - not Jane. Shut up Jane, you lovable organized freak.

*Bangs! Yes! Whooo! About 3 glasses into my bottle of cab the other night, I said "gah! My hair's driving me crazy! Will you cut my bangs??" Fortunately, the kid was actually at home for the first time in a month, so not only was I not talking to myself, I had somebody to help me with my hair. She responded with, "Sure! Get me a razor blade!" A Venus was disembowelled and about 5 minutes later, I was sporting layered, side-swept bangs. They're cute. Now I have a giant zit from the hair oil, but the bangs cover it. Oh, irony.

*Let's say you move and in the process of moving, you throw away your plunger because dude, it was 2 bucks and EW, just toss it. And let's say that a member of your household comes home from a long absence and uses the guest bathroom and comes into your room at 1AM (while you are sleeping!) to inform you that the toilet is having an "issue." You would buy a plunger the next day and take care of business, right?? Apparently, you are a better man than I, Gunga Din, for I forgot to get a plunger for almost a week. Yeah. That's the face I made too. I didn't have to reach into the toilet, like that guy from "Saw" (as evidenced by the fact that I am not typing this with my nose because I chopped off my own hands because EW) but the general sound effects and smell and gagginess from that scene?? All very present. Oh - and while I do still have my hands, I no longer have finger prints because I melted them off with all the bleach I used to clean up. Bllleeerg.

*Bodyworld (every time I see that, I hear "Body movin! Body movin'!") Yes - whoo! TBFD noticed a billboard on his way to work one day and thought it said "Coming Soon!" and texted me about it. Turns out that it said "Closing soon!" and is showing in Houston rather than Dallas. No problem - TBFD and his son (need a pseudonym - Spawn - heh, he'll like that) are going to come down the weekend of the 25th - 27th and we'll day trip over to Houston on that Saturday. (Yes, Houston is a daytrip.) Kiddo's going with us and TBFD charmed the pants off of me (figuratively, we were on the phone) when he said "I want it to just be us and the kids." Feel free to repeat the "Blleeerg" from above if necessary. I'll just sit here and moon.

*High school. I have no words. Well, I do, but they're words like "fucking old", "holy ass, how did that happen??" and "please pass me the wine, thank you."

*Oh! A bonus bullet!! Kiddo is currently in Louisiana, visiting Stepmom and the Grandparents. She was sounding kind of sniffly and gross when she left. Well, sniffly and gross has evolved over the past few days into "tonsils the size of golf balls" and "feeeel..ugh..like aaaaaass." I'm heading out tomorrow AM (anybody wanna come feed my cats??) to drive down there. Here's hoping I don't have to take her to an urgent care clinic or the like while I'm down there.

Y'all be good!

Oh, I'll probably regret this later

This started out as the last part of another entry and it got too long and FEH. So here. Enjoy.

Dear Do I really have to say your name??

Hi there. Look, we both know that I'm not the first person to be irritated by you and I certainly won't be the last. That's kind of the price you pay for laying it all out there and being widely known. Plus, you know the old saying about opinions and assholes. Anyway, I'm lucky in that I'm not widely-read enough to have to deal with people telling me I'm just jealous when I write this next bit.* I have had moles removed. I had one removed from my rib cage and one from my back - both of them were right at the bottom of where my bra hits. I've dealt with the little teeny hole. (No stitches - mine were both just left open!! That was super special!!) Fortunately, neither of mine turned out to be malignant. Considering the amount of sun I have exposed myself to, it's pretty surprising. Yours did turn out to be malignant, and there are more suspicious ones. That must be frightening. I am in no way trying to belittle or invalidate your fear. Cancer is a big scary word. However, the malignancy doesn't seem to have spread and it's not a serious kind and, well....look, you tell us about your bowel movements, and your time in a mental hospital, OK? I'm pretty sure we'd know by now if it was something really serious.

Again, pain and fear are individual things and I respect that. I would get pretty angry if somebody tried to tell me how to feel or what to write. But you must know that referring to the six stitches on your arm as "my cancer wound" all the time is going to piss off some people. I mean...don't you? Do you not understand how someone with a body racked with cancer and scars and a port in their chest might get a little offended by your flippant language? Or that the loved one of such a person might get awfully offended by it?

You don't know me and you probably don't care and who the fuck knows, maybe I'll get my own set of trolls after this. You seem like a nice person. I don't agree with every decision you've made with your life, but it's your life. I'm sure if we sat down over a bottle of wine and a list of choices, we'd do an equal amount of "you did what? why?"-ing. This is not a personal attack on YOU, OK? I'm just really tired of hearing about your grievous wound that really...isn't. It's an inconvenience and it'll leave a scar and it's a scary idea, but it's six stitches on the outside of your arm. Please stop.

Thank you,

Laura

*Ok, the jealous thing. Hell yes I'm jealous. Of exactly two things - your metabolism and your willingness to take a chance and stop working for The Man. I like having things like a steady paycheck and health insurance way too much to ever do that. And 14 years ago, I had a baby and my metabolism was replaced with that of a tree sloth. Somewhere in the jungle is a very confused, algae covered hottie. Anyway - am I jealous of anything else? No, not especially. I'm generally pretty happy with my life. I can have (and express) a negative opinion about a person and not envy them, you know. I mean - I think George Bush has Bertie Bott's Vomit-flavored jellybeans for brains, but nobody accuses me of jealousy when I express that opinion.

ugh

OOoooooh, my head.

Goddamn health freaks with their no pasta, no fat, no nice absorbent layer of grease and starch to protect me from the bad, bad red wine.

OW.

That is all.

Wednesday TV Party

Project Runway!! Tonight!! 8:00 Central Time!

AAAAW, YEEEEAAAAAAH!!!

This is the only TV show that I actually plan around. Anything else that I watch is the result of a complicated equation involving red wine, cats in lap and whether the History Channel has decided to air something *other* than a show about Nazis. It's very complicated.

ANYWAY. For the next couple of months, you will be able to find me at home, parked in front of Bravo on Wednesday nights. And sometimes on the weekend when they show the re-runs. And definitely whenever they do the full day marathon thing right before the finale.

I love this show.

Since tonight is a big ol' two hour extravaganza, I invited mom and Supergirl over for some food and wine and bitchy designer watching.

Supergirl is one of our salespeople here at Workplace. She's an *incredible* salesperson, always looks fabulous, has a beautiful condo, works out like a fiend and follows a diet that I can't even imagine. Her redeeming qualities are that she's funny as hell, incredibly sweet and drinks like a fish. heh.

Mom is doing the no carb thing (don't start) and Supergirl has gone vegetarian, so this is the cheapest dinner I've ever hosted. Right now, my shopping list is up to two bottles of wine, zucchini, summer squash, mushrooms and red bell pepper. Central Market makes this yummy grape/walnut/blue cheese salad and I think I'll pick up a container of that and...yeah.

Chicken breasts are thawed and I'll throw those in the oven to bake when I get home (anybody got any recipes? Bueller?), the veggies will all get sauteed w/ olive oil, garlic and onions (which I already have at home) and Supergirl is bringing another bottle of wine and a spinach salad.

No, I'm not using the Boyfriend Butter (WOW! That sounds dirty!) yet. I already HAVE butter, so the other stuff will stay in the freezer for the time being. Unless I decide to go on a wild cookie-baking spree. In which case, I'll call you. OK? OK.

After all these veggies, I'll have to hook up a gravy IV, lest my body go into complete shock. Damn crazy health nuts.

Things The Boy From Dallas gave me this weekend:

a lightly used cat condo that his cats ignored and mine have already taken over
a door-hanging fuzzy mouse cat toy
a bottle of windshield wiper fluid (convenient, because I just ran out)
a bottle of car Febreeze (is he trying to tell me something?)
3 lbs of butter
2 t-shirts
a 6 lb bag of frozen meatballs.

Folks. I am loving the direction this relationship is taking.

I hung the DHFMCT up last night and let the kitten rock out with it for a while. The best part is when he went running for it, lunged and flew head first into the wall behind it. Good times.

However, since it's a string toy and cats are dumb, you really should put it away if you're not able to supervise them with it, lest you come home to some sort of feline bondage scene. So, I took it off the door frame and rolled it up and put it in one of the kitchen drawers last night. This morning, when I was getting all my food for the day together (lunch, 10AM snack and 3PM snack, shut up) I opened up a drawer to get a baggy for my cherries and GAH!! A MOU....oh, it's that fucking thing.

The t-shirts were both too small for him and his son, and he's in the process of cleaning out his apartment. Which means I have a bounty of men's shirts coming at me soon. Whoo!!

The windshield wiper fluid and the Febreeze were also the result of rabid spring cleaning. It's cool though, 'cause on my way home, my fluid light came on and well, my car does kind of stink.

The butter. Heh. I'd love to make up some kind of story for this, but the truth is it's pretty damn boring. He works for a freight company that ships frozen stuff and apparently the butter was rejected because of the packaging. Not because of anything gross, like a giant salmonella germ (virus? wad?) driving the truck, OK? Anyway - I got a text the other night "how many pounds of rejected butter do you want?"

See? How could I NOT like this guy??

The meatballs were the result of a snack gone awry. I needed to eat something before I hit the road, so he opened up his freezer and asked if I'd tried these frozen meatballs. Uh..No.

"Well, they sell them at Sam's."
"I don't have a Sam's card."
"You don't??!?!? Here, here's a bag, take these"
**fwump!**
"um...could you get this off me, please?"

If you'd been in my parking lot last night, you would have seen me struggling to stuff a six pound bag of meatballs into a cat condo. They didn't fit, in case you were wondering.

5-7-fuck

The Boy From Dallas
totally consumes my mind
truly, I'm thirteen.

I'd like a milkshake
large, chocolate, if you don't mind
my wide ass thanks you.

House! full of boxes!
the cats hide with my dishes
bruises on my shins

where is my razor?
a week gone! had to buy new.
alas, in a box

ah, desperation
has its own stale aroma
it smells like haiku

Dudes

Dear Men -

Let me say something before I start - I LOVE men. I am unabashedly heterosexual. I don't always understand y'all, but I love y'all. Physically, emotionally, psychologically. I even love the cute little Male Ego, frustrating fucker that he is. Love - nothin' but man-love over here. But not in the gay porn sense...heh.

That being said - what in the ever-lovin' blue-eyed fuck is wrong with y'all??

For a while there, the only boy I could get to pay any attention to me was the Ex. And I'm not over here, all sad because I can't get a man, 'cause lord knows that despite the love, sometimes I'm real fuckin' happy I'm single. But a girl likes to have a beer with a cute boy now and then. And a girl likes to get laid from time to time, not to put too fine a point on it.

So now, there's The Boy From Dallas. The distance is an issue, but other than that, things are going along swimmingly. He's coming down to see me tomorrow, he has a 4 on/4 off work schedule which gives us ample visit time to work with, turns out he is as interested in me as I am in him, it's good.

Great, right?

But now! Now, you guys are coming out of the fucking woodwork. Boys that I chased who ignored me, the ex who said last weekend that he didn't want to have anything to do with me again, what the fuck?

Is it the old thing that once you're feeling happy, you look more attractive? Or is it that pheromone thing where you can tell I've had sex recently (not that recently, waah) and you're all wound up by it? What is it?? Tell me, please. I'd like to understand this one.

'Cause right now, y'all are getting on my nerves and the love is starting to wane just a little bit.

Oh, don't look at me like that - you know that you'll offer me a beer instead of a hug the next time I start crying and I'll fall in love all over again with your goofy ways.

Damn.

Laura

Wherein I Ramble Like a Great Lost Rambly Thing

First order of business, I've been asked, by Slick himself, to change Slick's pseudonym. He prefers Malkey, which is the Scottish word for a head butt, which should give you an idea of what I'm dealing with over here.

The man can actually carry off a kilt. I'm sayin'.

Anyway - Malkey it is. I don't like that name as much, because it makes me think of Balkey, which makes me think of Bronson Pinchot, which EW. But hey - whatever makes him happy.

I do this odd thing in relationships. I act a lot like I don't trust the person I'm with. And it's not that - I'm actaully a stupidly trusting person. Really, it's a wonder I'm not trying to trap a poodle from the bottom of a pit at this point. But I don't tend to trust people's feelings for me - I'm never really sure that I'm worth all the effort or interest, that if they like ME there must be something wrong, or that if they do something cool for me, it's for ME, therefore can't be that big of a deal. Sad...sad sad sad.

Oh man, I'm watching "Casino" and it's the part why the guy spits in the sandwich and dudes, y'all don't know how hard I have to shove down my paranoia in order to ever eat anything that I didn't cook. Gah.

So. The Boy. Siiiiiiigh. It's just disgusting. I fall way to hard and fast an easy. But y'know, it's not like I fall for every single guy I ever meet. Really! I don't! I went on other dates! Bad dates!

Ok, that's not entirely true - I went on mostly good dates just with boring guys. One guy works in concert security and got me into the VIP area of Stubb's to see the Violent Femmes. (I KNOW!!) Beer was free all night, the show rocked, we had good conversation, I thought things went well, aaaaaand...no phone call. Now, because of his job, he was going out of town soon and blah blah blah - but dude? Cell phones don't work in Chicago? Whatever. So I wrote that one off as good experience and The Time I Got To See The Violent Femmes And Dude, Why Didn't I Listen To Them In The 80's??

And then there was gigged frog guy. Nice, very smart, very funny, went to see the Mister Sinus of Showgirls and then to Pete's Piano Bar. Biggest problem there was that when he was relaxed and walking around? Total mouth-breather gigged frog look on his face. I almost couldn't look at him. But! He didn't call me! How rude! I should have not called him first! Wait. Ok, that one was apparently mutual.

Let's see...Oh god, there was the salesguy who just needed to shut.the.hell.up.already. Good lord. I'm already here and I'm on my second beer. It's either because you're funny enough to keep me interested, or I'm trying to drown you out with sweet sweet alcohol. Either way?? SHUT UP.

So yes. Malkey (HEE). Met online, chatted, talked on the phone a LOT, met in person and wow.

Yes! Yes! YEEEES!!! PROJECT RUNWAY STARTS JULY 12TH!!!! WHOOOOO!!

Let's review. Cute (Jane, Laura and a few co-workers can attest to this), funny as hell, smart, gets my sense of humor, has three cats and talks to them and for them in funny voices. You just won't believe how much fun it is to have someone segue from singing "Die Motherfucker" under their breath to chanting "Harold! Haaarold, come here! I love you!!" then go back to the song. Oh, and we click in some other pretty important ways. (Insert raised eyebrow here.)

Back to the point of this...how my insecurity makes me just a little stupid. The man texts me all the time (aaah, texting - how did we court without it??) drove to Austin to see me, and most importantly says things like "I miss you." And yet, I'm over here trying to convince myself that he can't possibly be as interested as I am.

I love Robert DeNiro's character in "Casino" - "...an equal amount of blueberries in each muffin!!" HA!!

And I know why - it's not just insecurity, it's also a safety net. If I convince myself that he's not as interested in me as I am in him, then if something goes wrong, it doesn't hurt as badly - right?? Yeah...right. I know, I know.

I was at a Cuban restaurant once (ironically enough, with the Ex, post divorce) and there were a whole bunch of pictures and framed articles and such on the wall by/about this one artist. Anyway, one of them had something about "loving wastefully" on it. I like that idea. I like the idea of loving so much that it's "wasteful." I don't think I've ever done that. I've always held back, afraid that even a nice gesture will "bother" someone. Feh.

Oh - in other news, I'm moving next weekend - whoo! Place is about the same size, but in a better school district and closer to work. It's also SHADED, which means I won't sit here with the air conditioner set to fucking 85 degrees because I honestly can't get it any cooler in here no matter what and anything else is a waste of money and gaaah! Send ice packs and Diet Coke!!!

Holy Lame Updates Batman!!

Wow. A little over a month since my last update. Let's see.....

The "tools at hand" (new meds and therapy) are working quite well. I don't feel quite so much like I'm being swallowed by a giant angry black cloud. Which is nice, as I'm sure you can imagine.

The past month, what's happened??

In no particular order, I hung out a bunch with the ex, and as a result had several fights with the Ex. Despite the good qualities that kept me with him for 14 years, somehow the bullshit that we're both capable of creeps up and reminds me of why I left him after 14 years. So, yeah...I think that ship may have finally sailed, 'cause lord knows I can't do this shit anymore. I am officially too old.

I celebrated my 35th birthday. It was a tad bit anti-climactic, but it did involve some Mexican martinis and Jenna Jameson's autobiography and a $100 James Avery gift card.

I met a few boys, went out on a few dates, some good, some laaaaaaaame.

I met another boy who I like a great deal, but he lives in Dallas. Feh.

I found a new apartment and kiddo and I move on the 17th. Anybody in the central Texas area free that weekend?? I'll pay in breakfast goodies and pizza!! [winning smile inserted here]

So yeah - of all of that, I think you can all guess that The Boy From Dallas is what I really want to write about. I need a pseudonym for him. I know he'd have his own ideas, but this isn't his blog, is it? Ha!

Slick. I dub him Slick.

Ok, so. Slick and I met on Myspace. Yes, I am over the age of 17, kiss my ass. I've actually met more interesting people on Myspace than on Match. Kiddo's explanation for this is that Match is full of desperate white men. I gotta kind of agree with her there.

Laura, honey? Why are you only meeting people on the internet?? Well - because I'm a social retard and I like emailing a few times before I talk to you. Something about knowing that you can write in a complete sentence before I get drunk in your presence. Wait, you expect me to have an internet date without alcohol? BWAHAHHAHAHA! Seriously - what the hell sles is the internet good for, other than settling bets and giving strangers an excuse to drink together. May I continue?

Slick responded to my profile, which I noticed a lot of guys did when I had the cleavage pic up.

By the way, young men of Myspace? I don't have a single problem in the world with younger men. I figure age, much like clothes size, is just a number. However, if you can't be bothered to find the shift key or the comma when writing a sentence, I have to assume you can't be bothered to find the clitoris either, therefore no, I'm not interested. Thanks though.

Anyway - cleavage pic, big scary guy with scary stuff on his profile responded, I went ahead and wrote back because his message was actually reasonably intelligent. We started messaging and then chatting and then talking on the phone. And he's smart! And funny! And has a great phone voice! And three cats! OH MY GOD.

so I went to Beaumont on Saturday for one of Sport's games (they lost, very sad) and then on Sunday I took I45 up to Dallas. I didn't feel like going home, what??

We met, we clicked. And we clicked some more, and I ended up getting home sometime around midnight on Monday. Heh.

He's coming down this weekend for the ROTRally. Y'all know I'm just a bg ol' biker slut. I'm sort of stupidly excited about this guy coming to visit me. I hate getting all wound up about a boy, because it happens so easily because I'm a big ol' goob, but I just can't help it. It seems like he just might like me back. Whoo!

Anyway - yes, there's a boy and he's my typical broad-shouldered, blue-eyed eclectic weirdo. I think I should start a charm bracelet or something.

Sigh.

I really do like this one. Dallas. Damn.

I, Laura, do hereby promise to update more often. I think I just needed a break. I love you guys.

a sport short

I just got done chatting with Sport and MAN, I love that kid.

Here he is.

You stalk him or bad-mouth him??? I cutchoo man.

therapy, meds and kittens, oh my!!

I really want to tell you guys that I'm fine, everything's better, it's all good, tra-la. But I can't. I'm not fine. I want to be, and I've started "using the tools at my disposal", but I'm not fine and I won't be for a little while.

In the meantime, rather than posting more of the Depression Diaries, I'll show you pictures of my new cat.



More here.

Yes, this is number three, yes I'm aware that I'm walking on a ledge alongside Crazy Cat Lady Canyon, yes you can shut up now.

His name is Miles, he's cute but completely fucking bonkers.

I have to go now, I have to tend to the fresh scratches on my scalp. Seems someone likes to sleep on my head.

Standard disclaimers apply

After a while, you begin to question your sanity. You wonder if anyone has ever felt like this. Clearly, there is something deeply wrong with you. You wonder what the hell is wrong with you, why can't you just be happy dammit?? Why can't you just get out there and talk to people, without sounding like a boob, or shooting yourself in the foot? Why can't you get up off the couch to clean your house or go to the gym? What the hell is wrong with you?

You know these are the things that need to be done - things that "normal" people do every single day. What's wrong with you? What makes you so fucking special? Your problems are so great, so deep and wide that you can't come out of the funk (you refuse to refer to it any other way) and just do what needs to be done??

Pull yourself up by your bootstraps, for crying out loud!! What the hell is wrong with you??

You tell yourself that you're just lazy.

You tell yourself that you don't really like people anyway.

You tell yourself that you'll run tomorrow, or that your knees hurt, or that it won't do any good anyway.

You tell yourself that a bottle of wine every night is normal.

You eat too much and you drink too much and you don't sleep.

You spend too much money.

You cry at the most random times - walking through Barnes and Noble, watching "The Sopranos", sitting in traffic.

You wonder if this is what it feels like to lose your mind.

You try sometimes, to pick yourself up. You force a smile onto your face and you wear something pretty and you sleep in bed instead of on the couch with the TV on. You clean the catbox and the kitchen, and you pull out an old project and start kniting. Knit 5, purl 5, knit 5, checkerboard pattern.

But after a little while, an hour, a day, a week, it all just seems so stupid and pointless. The things that are pulling you down are still there - it doesn't matter how much knitting you do. The things you clean will just get messed up again. You can't get away from yourself, can't knit a big enough bag to pack yourself into and mail it off to Berundi.

Wouldn't that be nice? A nice long drive away from all your problems? Get in the car, drain your bank account and just drive, just go. But when you get there, then what?

Then what?

How long do you go, before you snap? Before you decide "ENOUGH!!!" How long? Six months? A year? Two years?

You imagine feeling like you're drowning for two years. You imagine this underwater feeling, this feeling of isolation, of watching the rest of world through a bizarre lens for another two years and you know the answer to "how long?"

You decide that something's gotta give.


This entry was inspired in part by recent events in my own life, and events in the Ex's life that I'm not really at liberty to discuss. But please don't read anything permanent-like into it. Like everything else on this site, it's just me glarging up words.

Mop, please!

I feel a bit like I came into the living room and vomited, and now we're all just sitting here, staring at the puddle, wondering what to do next.

HI! Welcome to beerandcarnations, home of the disgusting metaphor!!

Let's do a stupid survey that I ganked from Robyn and see if it acts like a little virtual sawdust.

1. When you looked at yourself in the mirror today, what was the first thing you thought? “Jesus Christ, what the hell is going on with my forehead??" I have what's called a storkbite birthmark already, and a zit colony is setting up shop right between my damn eyes. Ugh.

2. When is the next time you will have sex? What a great question.

3. What’s a word that rhymes with “DOOR”? whore. Heh

4. Favorite planet? Earth. All my stuff is already there.

5. Who is the 4th person on your missed call list on your mobile? I don't have a missed call list right now because I got a new phone. Whoo.

6. What is your favorite ring on your phone? No idea - see above in re: new phone. Since my "new phone" is my daughter's old phone, there is no telling what the ring is. Guess I should find out before it rings and "Fuck Whitey" plays in the middle of my office.

7. What shirt are you wearing? An aqua? teal? blue-green? knit shirt w/ 3/4 sleeves, that I may go back to Foley's and stock up on every other color in this shirt because it is comfy and flattering.
Robyn? Whither number 8??

9. Name the brand of shoes you’re currently wearing? UM. Black? Fuck, I don't know - I'd have to take 'em off, and once I do that, they're staying off.

10. Bright or Dark Room? Bright.

11. What do you think about the person who took this survey before you? Robyn rocks in every possible way, except for the whole yellow thing. One day, I'm gonna drive to Alabama and steal Sugarbutt.

12. Hey Janet? Where’d #12 go? Heh - seems as if dropping questions is a trend.

13. What were you doing at midnight last night? Finishing up my last entry and drinking red wine.

14. What did your last text message you received on your mobile say? "Hey cutie."

15. Where is your letter box? With all the other ones right by the rental office. Aaah, apartment life.

16. What’s a word that you say a lot? Dude.

17.Who told you he/she loved you last? My kid.

18. Last furry thing you touched? Excuse me? Hee. One of the cats, I'm sure.

19. How many drugs have you done in the last three days? Advil and Excedrin Migraine.

20. How many rolls of film do you need to get developed? None. Digital camera + Snapfish = true luve 4ever

21. Favorite age you have been so far? This one's not too bad. Some shitty stuff has happened while I was this age, but I find that I like myself more and more. By 50 I should be completely insufferable.

22. Your worst enemy? Me, me,me.

23. What is your current desktop picture? A picture of kiddo getting loved on by Phantom - the dog that belongs to Stepmom's incredible neighbors. She's looking up and it looks like she's just laughing her ass off while this dog tries to give her kisses. It's VERY kiddo.

24. What was the last thing you said to someone? I have no idea.

25. If you had to choose between a million dollars, able to fly, which would you choose? Sadly, the million dollars. I'd be able to get rid of my credit card debt and buy a house. Plus, I can barely walk, and you people want me airborne?? Sadists.

26. Do you like someone? I like lots of people. Do you mean "do you want to fuck someone?" because the answer to that would be yes.

27. The last song you listened to? Some Sara McLachlan crap over streaming radio. ig. Her voice makes me want to poke out my ears.

28. If the last person you spoke to was getting shot at, would you jump in front of the bullet? Well, since it was a co-worker...probably not. (Sorry guys) But I would render shitloads of aid and/or go after the gunman.

29. If you could punch 1 person in the face who’s in your life right now, who would it be? Hm. Maybe one of kiddo's friends who constantly leaves half-eaten food all over my house and had PAINTED an ANARCHY SYMBOL on the FRONT PORCH OF MY APARTMENT the other day. killkillkill

30. What is the closest object to your left foot? The floor.

Loaded Questions

Hey Laura, how ya doin'??

Oh fine. Great. Wonderful.

Uh-huh. So - whatcha doin'?

Well, I'm sitting here, on my 3rd rather large glass of wine, watching the stupid last episode of stupid Sex & the City*, considering eating the leftover Chinese food that I'm supposed to take for lunch tomorrow and crying.

Um, is this a bad time?

Oh no, it's a great time. Really. Great. I'm fine. I'M FINE. FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE!!!!!!!!! {sluuuurp}

Dude.

Ok, look. Tomorrow will be a week and maybe I've spent the last 6 days squish-squish-squishing things down so I could function. OK? I admit it. I admit that last night I distracted myself by getting my nails done and my eyebrows waxed and letting kiddo color my hair. I admit it. Tonight I took the kid for some beautification of her own (not that I think she needs it, because my kid is beautiful, but anything I do, she has to get done, because she is woman, watch her wax) and getting Chinese food and well, you know the rest. At some point, it would be great if my brain chose to distract itself with housework, but whatever.

Fair enough. Anything else?

Yeah. I'm pissed off, and I'm pissed off that it took the worst episode of SATC, EVER, to make me cry and make me realize how pissed off I am. I'm pissed off because apparently I read too many infertility and adoption blogs to be able to deal with the whole insta-baby from China thing. I'm pissed off that Carrie's supposed to be this strong, independent poster-child for feminism, yet in the end, she needs a man to rescue her. And I'm pissed off about the whole cancer storyline.

And it's so stupid. Breast cancer vs. cancer of the lymph system.** Fictional vs. Real. Whole host of shit vs. Whole host of other shit. But dude....my dad never got to wear designer wigs, never got to whip his wig off heroically while giving a speech about cancer. He didn't get to prance around, all sexy and healthy-looking during chemo, and he certainly didn't get to fuck some hot actress while a flower bloomed symbolically on his nightstand.***

No, my dad went through years of painful, nauseating, exhausting chemo and was finally told that the medical community had no more cards in its hand. We're sorry Mr. Cajun, but there's nothing we can do. Instead of getting to die pretty, my dad died at home, in a rented hospital bed, incontinent, unable to control his muscles, unable to speak and gasping for breath. With the amount of drugs that they pumped into him to keep him calmed down, I'm sure (Good God I hope I'm right. Please God, let me be right.) he wasn't in pain. I know that after Tuesday evening, he wasn't really aware of what was going on. Or, if he was, he couldn't communicate it to us.

I found out at my dad's funeral that pretty much everybody who met him liked him. Which, yeah, I know - nobody's going to come to a funeral and say "GodDAMN, your dad was an asshole." Hee...I almost wish somebody had - dad would have appreciated their candor.

But see - the thing I heard most was how my dad was so great, had such a great sense of humor, was such a good employee and manager, was such a good dad, good example, great guy. He was such a great guy that the oncologist (Yadlapati, how's that for a last name?) had tears in his eyes when he told my dad it was just a matter of time. Such a great guy that the hospice nurse (Dawn, and I believe there is a special place in heaven for hospice workers) told us how great she thought he was - specific details here, not just general niceties. Such a great guy that an entire bench full of engineers for the state of Louisiana sat at his funeral and bawled. Such a great guy that Sport's and McBrother's friends showed up to the funeral - some of them it was just out of support, but some of them knew my dad and were visibly shaken by his passing, and were there to say their own goodbyes. His ex-wife (my mom) from 30 years ago, his former mother-in-law and former brother-in-law all came, and no - they didn't sit next to me. They were there with their own grief.

I'm not sure I can even talk about how they told me he waited for me to show up on Tuesday - how my flight took off TWO HOURS AFTER it was supposed to land in Baton Rouge, and I don't know how much I'd pay to get that time back - what if it was the difference between a few sentences and a conversation? Or the difference between him holding on and fighting until 11:30 vs. 9:30? What if, what if, what if? Or how I got to talk to him and hear him say he loved me and tell him I loved him on Tueday evening and then (with one tear-jerking exception) that was it, except for requests for water and morphine, until he finally just stopped talking at all.

"Hey pops, you awake??"
"Hey...yeah. Hey Sport - are you all here?"
"Yeah dad - we're all here."
"All three of you - hold my hand."
"Ok - we're here...whatcha got Dad??"
"Y'all...I love y'all. Y'all be nice to each other."
"Whitney, you haven't heard them in here, cutting up?? They get along great - you'd be proud."
"I'm always proud. Never not been proud. I love y'all."
"We love you too dad."
"Yep - love you."
"Love you daddy."

Breathe. You know...you don't have to actually make sense - just put it out there.

Yeah, yeah...I'm breathing. Did I tell you that on Wednesday afternoon, he threw up blood? And that when Stepmom woke up Wednesday night, he had thrown up again, and that one of the strongest people I have ever met welled up at the thought that she might have let her husband sit there, with vomit on his chin? This woman ground up Xanax and Lasix and made them into a paste and spread them on the inside of her husband's cheek so they'd absorb. She changed the pad under him. Jesus Christ. I can't even begin to imagine the spine that this woman has.

Sport helped load him into the hearse, because the stupid fucking funeral home only sent one employee. Read that again and let it sink in. My twenty year-old brother loaded our father into a hearse. I will go ahead and minimize other folks' pain here when I say that I doubt their late March 29th/early March 30th sucked as hard as Sport's.

When I was holding my dad's hand, I looked down and realized that I have his hands, almost down to the wrinkle. Long, thin, veiny, baggy-knuckled, yet surprisingly wide, with a weird bend in the middle finger. I compared the profiles of our thumbs and they matched exactly. He didn't bite his nails, so he had longer nail beds, but that's about it.

I also have my daddy's nose.

I have his watch. It's a silver Pulsar with a stretch band. I thought that maybe I should get some links taken out so it fits correctly, because I want to wear it all the time. Kiddo thinks I should leave it a little big, because that way it looks like what it is - my daddy's watch. Now I can't decide.

He also had the weird protruding bone on the outside of the wrist that makes wearing bangle and cuff bracelets impossible for me. I don't know if my dad ever wore bracelets. Heh.

I also have his class ring from when he earned his Master's degree from LSU. In case you thought I was exaggerating on the similarities of our hands?? The ring that fit him on his right ring finger fits me perfectly on either one of my index fingers. There's *maybe* one size difference between the two, and I wear a size....8? on that finger. My dad had artist's hands. Apparently so do I. Wish somebody would tell my brain, 'cause I can't draw my way out of a paper bag.

Hands, noses and leftover jewelry.

You sound a little calmer.

Eh. Not really. but it is funny how talking about stuff doesn't tend to do much for me. Rather, it just makes me cry and then I never feel like I can get it out accurately. There is no backspace key in speech. Dude, if there was?? How cool would that be?

.....???

Ok, look. It's going to be All Dad, All The Time around here for a little while. I haven't even gotten to the actual funeral yet (which, considering it was a funeral, was good), or the evening I spent getting blasted with Sport and his friends (dude, never play drinking games with 20 year-olds, OW) or the crawfish boil the next day and how we decided that on the last weekend of March, we should have the Whitney J. Cajun III Memorial Crawfish Boil, or how we put his "Cancer Sucks" shirt in the coffin as a sort of banner and now I have it and and and and and and.....

In other words, it'll take you time**** to work through all of this, just like it does with everyone else in the world??

Yeah. I suppose so. Guess it's time to face up to the fact that I'm human. Bah.

Before we get to the footnotes - thank y'all for the wonderful comments and the thoughts and prayers and IntarWeb Lurve. Believe it or not, it has helped so much. More than I think y'all will ever know. I vote for a beerandcarnationscon (wow..that's unwieldy) sometime soon.

*Heh. By the time I actually sat down to write this, SATC was over, and a re-run of CSI was on. The
rest of it is true.

**I know, colon cancer, but the colon cancer is not what killed him. Technically, kidney failure killed him, but that's because the cancer had spread into his lymph system and y'all know the story. I'm too tired/lazy/depressed/annoyed to link.

***Of course, Stepmom probably would have had some choice words if he HAD, but that is beside the point.

****I had to add the word "time" back into that sentence. Honest mistake or Freudian slip? Discuss.

He's gone

He's gone. 11:30PM, March 29th. The funeral's set for Friday. There's more, but trying to write those three sentences just took me 20 minutes of re-writing, so I think I'll just grab a Diet Coke and join everybody else in the kitchen.

The Watchers

I'm flying out to Baton Rouge tomorrow. The nurses have told Stepmom that she needs to call me and Sport and let us know that it's time to come home. He's still alive, but his kidneys have completely stopped working. So I have a one-way ticket and I'm leaving kiddo here - she'll stay with her dad while I'm gone. At some point, Ex and kiddo will drive my car down to Baton Rouge and then we'll all drive back up to Austin together.

I need to take a second to talk about how incredibly helpful and supportive Ex has been. His dad died of cancer before Ex and I ever met. When he was diagnosed, the cancer had spread through pretty much his entire body - the story is they diagnosed him with stomach cancer and sent him in for a surgery that usually takes a couple of hours. Forty minutes later, the surgeons walked out with the statement that the cancer was in his diaphragm and his lungs and his stomach and there was no way they could cut it out. They gave him six months. He lived for a little over two years, going through chemo and radiation and finally getting sent home to die, because there was"nothing else they could do." So when Ex says "I know how you feel", I know it's not just hollow bullshit - he really does. The only real variation here is the type of cancer.

There are two funny stories about Ex's dad - one is that when he was diagnosed, he asked the doctor, "Guess I should stop smoking, huh?" and the doctor looked at him and said, "Why? You've got six months - might as well have fun." A doctor after my own heart. The other story involves Ex and his dad shopping for suits - one for Ex to wear to the funeral and, well one for his dad to wear to the same event. Ex says he doesn't remember much about the trip, except for his dad saying, "Whatever you do, don't bury me in brown socks." I don't know why, but those stories make me laugh every time I think about them. They tell me a lot about a guy that I wish I'd gotten to meet - even now. And if anybody is sitting there thinking, "Hm...talking about Ex's dad - way to distract yourself from your own dad, Laura." I have two words for you: Fuckin' DUH.

Anyway, last week, I spent an evening at Ex's house, drinking red wine and laughing and crying and remembering how we used to be best friends, and taking full advantage of the fact that Ex knows me so well. The next morning I felt 5 pounds lighter. Ex paid for tomorrow's plane ticket and the driving thing was his idea. He's also made it very clear that I don't *have* to accept anything that makes me uncomfortable; he knows I'm not terribly good at accepting emotional generosities.

LIttle side note - depression and stress are fun - I'm watching "Point of no Return" and fucking CRYING at the part where Maggie asks "will you help me?" and gah! Somebody save me from myself.

Other than watching silly spy girl movies, I'm also drinking some beer, typing this and doing everything I can to avoid getting ready for tomorrow's trip - the catbox might even get cleaned. I want to be there, in the arms of my family and with my brothers and my step-mother (and Sweet Jesus, that woman is a fucking rock) and my grandparents and I want to hear that south Louisiana accent and sit in the recliner at my dad's house and I want to go. But I know that once I get there, my dad won't come out to greet me, won't come out in the living room, and with the way things are going, he may not even know I'm there. I won't see sick dad, I'll see dying dad. I'm going to Louisiana to watch my dad die. Getting up in a big ol' hurry and packing for that just doesn't seem all that pressing, especially not when there are two more cold Negra Modelos in the fridge, and Bridget Fonda and Gabriel Byrne are denying their sexual chemistry on my TV. Reality can wait another 45 minutes.

Sue says:
I have 2 teenagers and I also try to be loving when we all leave in the morning. However, sometimes I just have to tell them - you know, in nature, some mothers eat their babies when they are born. Not very nice, I know, but better than fuck you! Hang in there, there will be better days!

Which made me laugh out loud. I think next time kiddo gives me lip, I'll tell her "y'know, if we were tigers I totally would've eaten you by now" and see what happens.

Last night and this morning were much, much better. And the thing is, the good times are really the norm with us. Which is why it is just so hard when we have a problem. That, and she knows me really well and knows exactly what to say to hurt me. My Dirty Hippie Theory of Parenting says that this is normal, and my job is to tell her that that's wrong and set a better example of how to act by NOT responding in kind. Which, as we all know, is waaaaay easier said than done.

In other news, I have a headache that feels like somebody is pushing a spike through the back of my head and out my right eye. Whoo.

teenagers, bah

Ok, so.

While my daughter and I do, indeed, cuss like sailors most of the time*, I try really hard NOT to curse at her when I'm mad. It's difficult, because nobody can provoke like an intelligent teenaged girl - but I try. I also try, when leaving her for an extended period of time, like the workday, to not leave on a bad note. I like for the last thing that I sayto her before I go to work to be "I love you", not "Jesus, Kiddo - what the hell is wrong with you??" I do have a commute that goes from a suburb north of Austin all the way to just south of downtown. That's 22 miles of whoknowswhat. Maybe I'm a little more paranoid right now than before, but honestly - I've always tried to leave in the morning with "I love you!"

HOWEVER. When you spend an hour* trying to wake somebody up, and the first thing they say is "GO AWAY!!", and then when they ask you why you woke them up and hour later than they wanted and you explain that you'd spent that hour trying to wake them up and they respond with "God, whatever, just...don't talk to me right now!", you tend to get a little upset.

What I wanted to say?

"Jeezus Christ, you have an alarm clock and you're 14, you little bitch. Lay off."

What I actually said??

"OOooo.K. [deep breath]"

She did apologize for yelling at me, but with the disclaimer that "I just know I'll have a horrible day."

Then when I was dropping her off at her friend's house (it's on the way out of the complex and they walk to the bus stop together) I reminded her to PLEASE pick up a package from the rental office for me. See - that package contains my phone charger and my glasses; my stepmother had to mail them to me because I'd left them at my dad's house. I was so distracted when we left that I almost forgot my laptop, so I think glasses and phone charger are fairly minor.

However, this means my phone is totally useless. Little review for those in the back - I have a teenager and a terminally ill father. I'd sort of like to be able to make and receive phone calls. So getting my charger back is important to me. Anyway, I reminded kiddo again about it as she was getting out of the car this morning, and she said "I will, if you stop nagging me about it."**

*cough*

What I wanted to say?

"Fuck you. You bug the holy living shit out of me when I need to pick you up for something, frequently calling me waaaay before I'm supposed to be there, asking if I'm on my way yet, even though I've made you late for ONE THING in 14 years, and you're going to pull this manipulative, passive/aggressive bullshit on me about something that I NEED you to do because I don't get home in time to do it?? Kiss my ass, you spoiled brat."

What I actually said??

"Please try to remember. I love you. Have a good day."

Before you hit the comment button, I KNOW that it's my fault that she's spoiled. I know that the fact that it's easier for me to just do something myself instead of trying to get my kid to do it is why she doesn't have any chores, and that resenting that is futile and just a tad martyrish. OK? I know that she and I tend to relate to each other more like roommates than mother/daughter, and I can make all the excuses about only child, single mom, only model I know, blah blah blee, but the fact is, if I want her to talk to me like a mother rather than a peer, I need to hold up my end of that. OK?? I GET IT.

But "getting it" doesn't make this shit any easier and it doesn't make the answers just appear, like overnight graffiti, on a wall somewhere.

Ok, now? We're getting along fine and she's done her homework and apologized and is doing some cool artsy-craftsy thing involving a wooden wine box and some acrylic paints. Somebody look up "mercurial" and call me back.

*My child did invent the term whorebucket. C'mon, that's good.
**Ok, I just talked to her about that, and she said "that was a joo-ooke", which? Whatever dude. It didn't sound like a joke at the time and it still fucking pissed me off. And I told her that - without the f-word. REALLY.

Definitions

I'm finding that "raising a teenager" could also be defined as "learning how to stuff down the urge to yell 'why don't you go fuck yourself, you little shit'" at your offspring.

eat like Laura - a recipe

a small chunk of tasso, cut up (or a few slices of bacon, but tasso is better)
diced onion (amount is up to you)
tablespoon of minced garlic (what is that in fresh? 3 cloves?)
one fennel bulb, sliced, but not obnoxiously thin (just trust me)
chicken broth or white wine
one can diced tomatoes
whatever seasonings float your boat.

If you're using bacon, fry it down, then get rid of all but about 3 tbsp of the grease. If you're using tasso, heat some olive oil in a pan, then toss in the chunks of tasso. Throw in the garlic and onion and sautee/sweat* it all down. When the onions are nice and soft, add the fennel and swirl it around. Add some chicken broth or white wine (1/4 cup?), clamp a lid on it and let it cook for about 8 minutes - until the fennel has softened just a leeeetle bit. Add the tomatoes and whatever spices you like - I used some parsley, a little extra salt and some cayenne. Stir, turn the heat down and let it cook w/ no lid for...5? minutes, until it's nice and thick. Serve over pasta** with fresh grated parmesan and a big glass of red wine.***

Eat while lusting over Warrick and Nick on the re-run of CSI.

Seriously dude...if Warrick keeps saying stuff like "I can get a print off the air"?? I'm gonna have to take a cold shower. Yowza.

*Yes, I know that sauteeing and sweating are not actually the same thing. My point here is, use whatever method you like to get the onions sort of translucent and soft. Since I am a lazy motherfucker and there was red wine and pretty, pretty men on my TV? I turned the heat down and sweated the onions.

**I recommend penne. I used the last of the angel hair, and it wasn't right - you need something that picks up the sauce.

**I'm drinking Pillar Box Red, a nice sturdy red, available for like $10. It stood up quite nicely to the extra shake of cayenne I put in accidentally. I {{{heart}}} cheap wine.

conversations I can't get out of my head

"Anything you want to ask me? Want to know? Want to say? 'Cause I really feel like this is your last chance."
"Um...I don't know. Were you happy?"
"Yeah. I've had a good life."
"Good. I figured, but I still just wanted to know. Did I, uh....did I do OK?"
"Yeah - you were good. I was always proud of you. I just don't know if I disappointed you."
"No daddy...you didn't disappoint me."

"I really feel like this is it. About the time you get back to Texas, in fact."
"Ok, should I stay another day then??"
"Naah. Hell - if you do that, I might hang on for another three years."
"Shit, in that case, I'm stayin'! Lemme call my boss."

"Laura, I don't want to upset you, but he's in there crying because he thinks it's the last time he'll see you."
"I...I can go back in, or I can stay another day?? What do you think?"
"I don't know. I just don't know"
"Are you OK?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. I just can't stand to see him cry."

"Bye daddy. I love you."
"I love you too kiddo. You did good."
"You too."

Which sin is envy?*

I've been thinking about jealousy lately, because it seems like anytime one writer says something critical about another writer, third parties immediately start chirping "Jealous! Jealous! You're just jealous!!" as if the only reason one could ever disagree with, or dislike, another writer is jealousy.

Am I jealous of folks like Sarah Bunting and Pamie and Dooce and such? Yes. I absolutely am. They have managed to make a hobby into a money-making enterprise, which is something I have never ever figured out how to do. Am I jealous because I think they're better writers? Not necessarily. I'm not saying they are or are not better writers, just that's not what sparks any envy on my part. I know that I'm a decent writer in my own right - I'm not the next Atwood, semi-colons confuse me and let's not even get started on the whole lay/lie thing, but overall, I can get my point across in writing without making anyone's eyes bleed. (At least I sure hope so. If y'alls eyes are bleeding, dictate a little constructive criticism, OK?)

Here's how I think of it - am I jealous of runway models? Nope, not at all. Those women are genetically different than I am and there is no way on God's green Earth that I will EVER look like them. They are something I am not. However, if you asked me if I'm jealous of fitness models, I'd have to answer yes. Admittedly, those women are gifted genetically, but then again so am I. But they have something I do not - discipline. I am absolutely pea-green with envy of the drive and discipline that those women have in regards to their workout regimen and diet. Do I have a strong body that could do all the things they do? Yes, I do. Do I have the strong mind to go along with it? Nope. I'm jealous of that, because I feel like that's something I *could* change and haven't.

So see, I'm not jealous of writers on the internet, even if they are better than I am (which most of them are.) They are what they are. They can evoke, I can not - the world continues to spin. But I am not so horrible a writer that I couldn't do more with it - if I had a little more discipline and a little more drive and oh, let's not forget, knew that that's what I really wanted to do. See, I'm jealous of the ability to look at one's writing and say "this - THIS is what I want to do with my life", and to make it happen. I can't seem to do that, and it makes me a little green at times.


*I am not now, nor have I ever claimed to be just as good a writer as any of the people I mentioned, or anybody else you might think I'm hinting about. I am also not speaking for anybody except myself because I'm the only person that I really CAN speak for, thank you. I'm not talking to or about you. I'm not ripping anybody and I'm not saying I'm all that. Please just read the words. Thanks.

Q&A

Q: Hey Laura! Where ya been?
A: Well, kiddo and I drove to Louisiana last Sunday and came back late Thursday night. Yesterday I slept late, drank a pot of coffee, talked to a couple of people online and then hung out with my mom. Today I'm cleaning house and cooking red beans.

Q: Louisiana, huh? How is everybody?
A: Well, dad's still sick, which he's gonna be for a while - until he dies. Everybody else is about the same.

Q: Wow. You sound kind of, uh, flip about the whole dad thing.
A: Bite me. Or is that too flip?

Q: Dude!
A: Oh, Ok. Look, here's the deal. Dad is dying. We all know it, and we're all sort of just waiting at this point. I have a few choices here, all of which fall into two categories - wail and moan and fret until it happens, or live my life and deal with it the best I can until it happens. I choose Plan B. Unfortunately, my way of dealing with things is an uncomfortable bluntness and a black sense of humor.

Q: Ok, fair enough. How's the kid?
A: Oh, she's OK I guess - let's ask. She says "good...?" She's doing OK, I suppose. As well as any 14-year old kid can do when she's lost a grandmother, had her parents get divorced, watched a big chunk of her childhood get washed away and watched her grandfather deteriorate all in the course of 3 years. She's doing pretty fuckin' peachy, all things considered.

Q: What about you?
A: Hey - look! Weather!!

Q: AHEM.
A: Oh, fine. I'm doing OK. I'm probably drinking more than I should, but then again, when aren't I? And I start crying at some strange times, but I'm generally OK. There's not a damn thing I can do about my dad's illness, and leaving his house on Thursday was painful, because both of us are pretty sure it's the last time we'll see each other, but, I'm doing OK in a generally-speaking, holistic sort of way.

Q: What?
A: Look, if you're just going to be obtuse about this, I'm going to quit.

Q: Are you out of wine or something?
A: As a matter of fact, I am, not that that has anything to do with anything. Hmph. Look, the deal is, I'm walking that line between anger and depression and it really sort of sucks. That's all.

Q: Oh. Got it. Wanna change subjects?
A: Yes please.

Q: OOOOh, what are you wearing???
A: Freak.

This 3 Blind Moose stuff still sucks, but I had to finish it.

In my teeny little corner of the internet, I have the coolest readers in the whole world. Thank you very very very much for the sweet comments.

Miz S had some specific questions:

This is definitely not the time to give up booze. Your poor Dad. I hope they can get the pain under control. Is your step-mom checking into hospice care or is it not quite that time yet? What about your siblings? Are you guys close? Seems like a good time to stand together. I'm really sorry, Laura. How awful.

Yeah, the booze thing has been shot to hell. I haven't had any hamburgers though! Whoo! Go me!!

His pain seems to be under control - he has morphine patches and is taking liquid morphine right on schedule (about every three hours.) My stepmother said that they're keeping him on pain meds so that the pain doesn't get too bad, because like father like daughter, he tends to wait till the last minute before he takes anything, and then he has to wait for it to kick in and he's miserable for no reason. So, she has taken over the meds regimen as much as he'll let her and is making sure that he's not hurting too much. But it's still difficult and exhausting for him to move around, even something as simple as changing from laying in bed to sitting up. He also said that due to "[his] medical condition it feels like [he's] sitting on a grapefruit." Hence the wincing and the not sitting up too much.

He was set to start up with hospice over the weekend, but due to the Monday doctor's appointment and the possibility of being put in the hospital and the wrench that can throw in hospice care, they put off making any official hospice arrangements until Monday. I haven't heard anything from StepMom today (and no, I haven't called. I'm not sure what to say today - "anything changed?" "nope" I think - hell I don't know what I think. Eh - this ramble's getting to long for parentheses - moving on) so I'm assuming that he decided not to go with any other procedures and hospice has been called in.

The Bros and I are not super-close, but we're not really distant either. We get along fine when we're all together, but we tend to not get in touch with each other as much as we should. It seems to be genetic, this total inability to keep up any kind of correspondence. (My dad has (has! has! no past tense yet) it too.) Sport and McBrother are pretty torn up and at various points, I got to sit down with StepMom and each brother to talk about stuff. We couldn't quite manage all four of us at the same time, but it's OK. I think all of us are on the same page regarding funeral arrangements and such. I also told StepMom that when I say "do you need anything?" one of the things I specifically mean is "when/if you need me to get in somebody's face about arrangements, I'm there. Or if you need me to start shooing people out of the house? I'm there. Hell - if you need me to clean the kitchen because you just can't deal with it? I'm there."

The three of us (the bros and I) are all of the opinion that if dad wants to be cremated, we cremate him. If he wants to be buried upside-down in the backyard, we bury him upside-down in the backyard. Whatever. I'm of the belief that we get to control so little in this life, we should at least have control of our disposals, y'know? StepMom feels the same way, so the four of us can present sort of a united front. This is only an issue because dad has maintained for a long time that he wants to be cremated. Stepmom's not big on it, but she'll do what he wants. The Grand'rents (specifically Grandma) didn't seem to like that idea. Whatever. I have no problem getting up in my Grandmother's face. That sounds awful, like I'm going to throw down with a woman who just lost her only child. It's not like that, it's just that Grandma can be sort of, ooooh let's call it obstinate about things at time. She's a sweet, loving woman, but she tends to latch onto an idea and jeez. Anyway.

Another perc to being the oldest kid is that I think I'll get taken more seriously than the Bros will. I suppose RHIP after all. And no, I'm not looking for a fight. But I am prepared to deal with my Grandma's grousing. I think she's really only happy if she has something to bitch about, so I just have a sinking feeling that she'll bitch about the cremation around StepMom and...feh.

So here's where we sit - waiting for the other shoe to drop. I'm not crying as I type this, like I was last night. I wouldn't say I'm doing better necessarily, I'm just doing differently. And I promise that I'll write something light again. Really, I will.

Thank you guys for your patience and support. Huge internet hugs.

needless to say, that no booze for Lent thing has gone bye-by

Kiddo and I got back from Louisiana about 10:30 tonight. Kiddo is at a friend's house and I'm "enjoying" some fairly awful cab (3 Blind Moose, I don't care how cute your name is, your cab sucks) and an episode of Law & Order SVU. It's a weeknight and she's spending the night and I'm drinking because we both need a little decompression.

My dad was first diagnosed with colon cancer in November 1999. When they went in to check things out and do the re-section, they discovered that the cancer had spread to 3 of his lymph nodes. They removed a section of colon and the lymph nodes and he went through a round of chemo. He was clear for a long time.

In 2002, he went in for his 3-year checkup. I remember when we talked before that - he was flip about it, "Oh yeah, 3 years, it's just part of the deal." I also remember the tone of his voice when he called me after that appointment, when he called to tell me that the cancer was back. There was a mass in his lungs and in his stomach.

He went through chemo-therapy again. Because of the location, surgery and radiation weren't options, so he went through chemo again and again and again. He lost his hair, and he threw up. When his white blood-cell count was too low to go through chemo, he got $6000 shots that made him hurt almost as much as the chemo. The one treatment that actually seemed to have any effect on the cancer was the stuff that made him so sick he said, no...never again. Everything else just seemed to keep things in check.

A few weeks ago, he went into the hospital because he was having problems with his kidneys. I wrote about this - in the end, he wound up having stints put in so that things would work right. But the doctor said then, that with all the tumors, he wasn't sure how long the stints would work. That was when they told him he had a few months.

Last Friday, my step-mother called me. She said that his kidneys were giving him problems again, and the doctors told him there was nothing else they could do. They said "it's just a matter of time." They talked about checking for a blockage, but that got put off till today (Monday.)

My dad has spent 6 1/2 years with cancer. During this time, I've never seen him look or even sound sick. I've seen him bald and I've heard him tired and pissed off, but never ever sick.

The man I saw this weekend was not my dad. He was a man who needed help to get out of bed and had to walk with a cane. He was a man who lost track of what was going on with his checkbook and didn't joke his way through the uncomfortable stuff. He whistled when he breathed, and he winced when he sat down and the only thing he ate all day Sunday was an orange. This man was a sick man. This was a dying man.

He kept telling me that if I saw anything, or could think of, anything I wanted, to let him know, because he didn't know what to leave me. And I kept telling him, "Dad, I don't care" because I don't. I just want my daddy to get better, and if I can't have that, I don't know. I guess I want this over with. I don't want him to go through kidney failure - I don't care how "peaceful" it's supposed to be. It's a long, drawn-out death for a man that doesn't deserve it.

I suppose I should be grateful for the chance to give him one more hug, and tell him I love him one more time, and hear him talk like he used to during his all-too-infrequent moments of lucidity. I should be grateful. I suppose I am. But I think right now, I'm too angry to be truly grateful.

They went to the doctor today, and there's really nothing they can do. Well, they can put in tubes so that he drains the way you're supposed to drain, but they can't guarantee him how long that will work. He's supposed to let them know tomorrow if he wants to do it, but both my step-mom and I are pretty sure that he won't. Which is fine. I don't think I'd like to live with drains in my body either, so I can't blame him. If they could tell him definitely it would make things better for 6 months, he'd probably do it (these are his words via Stepmom) and again? I understand. But he's tired of living this way, and he's tired of no guarantees and, he's tired.

So they say that he'll get to a point where he just eats less and less and sleeps more and more until he just doesn't wake up. And it's so hard to think about a man who hunted and could fix just about anything and coached T-ball and took me fishing and fathered three children and knew everything about everything just fading away like that.

I'm just pissed right now. I'm pissed that I wasted time thinking my dad didn't care and I'm pissed that I waited so long between phone calls and I'm pissed off that this is how he has to go. I've spent a long time very serenely saying that there must be some higher power, there has to be something up there running the show, because if it's all just random, if good people die horrible deaths for no reason, then I'm just giving up now.

Higher power, if you have a reason for this, I'd like to see it right about now.

hittin' the road

I had a lovely time with Ms. Laura last night. We talked about kids and jobs and ex-husbands and everything except our uteruses. She even bought dinner. Hmm - sure hope she doesn't expect me to put out now.

Then I got up this morning to find the screen knocked out of my kitchen window and Charlie, the escape artist cat, missing.

And just now I got a phone call from my stepmother that they've changed my dad's status from "a few months" to "nothing we can do" and "it's a matter of time." The hospice folks are going to visit them later today to give them more info and do the, er, hospice thing.

I'm packing my crap in over here and heading home for the day. I'm going to pack some crap, hope my cat came back home (I locked Louie in my room and left the escape hatch open - that strategy worked last time Houdini, er, Charlie escaped) do some quick cleaning so my mom doesn't despair too badly that she raised a pig and then tomorrow morning I'm heading to Louisiana.

I'd already planned on going over Spring Break (3/11 - 3/18) but when I asked my stepmom if I needed to come down now, or if I could wait, she sounded pretty hesitant before she answered. And y'know what? Even if some miracle happens (Hi! Denial stage!) will I regret one extra visit with my dad? No.

last drunken post for 40 days

So.

I've decided to give up alcohol and hamburgers for Lent. Seeing as these are my two biggest tangible vices, I figure they're good candidates. My other vices - cursing, spewing invective at other drivers and glaring at fashion don'ts while walking around in stained capris and a baggy sweatshirt - I think I'll need even more if I can't fall comfortably into a Shiner and a patty melt at the end of the day.

And no, I don't intend to get around the whole hamburger thing by saying "It's a cheeeeeeseburger", or "It's a melt! Not a burger! NYEH!!" I will entertain the idea of cheating with chicken and turkey burgers, however, as they are lower in fat and healthier and less likely to be accompanied by fries and I have a really good recipe I want to try.

Look, I've given up my booze folks - I am NOT MADE OF STONE.

Speaking of food, I'm currently working on what I'll call Derivative Chicken. I got the fabulous recipe* for Clams a la Zilker from Twisty's site and I made it. Sort of - I made Clams a la Round Rock by making some substitutions and changes and yum. ANYWAY. Right now I'm making a chicken dish that follows the same general framework as the clams thing - tasso, fennel, garlic, onions, broth instead of wine, chicken breast, serve over pasta, eat greedily. I'm also being stared at by an orange cat - he's laying** on top of the monitor, doing the Snoopy gargoyle thing at me. Bastard cat.

My three readers already know that I'm meeting up with the fabulous Ms. Laura-Flea, that sexy, slutty piece of work, on Thursday for dinner. I, uh, have made an exception to the no booze thing for that night because a)it's barely into Lent! and b)internet stalker meetings require alcohol. Anybody who's ever read a JournalCon entry knows that. I'm looking forward to it. Heh - duh. NO, Laura - I'm really dreading it. HEE.

Anyway - I'm a little nervous, because part of me would like to swap about 30 pounds for IQ points before Thursday. But y'know, I can't.

On CSI, Grisham just let us know that jumpers will take their glasses off before they jump, therefore the dead guy on the ground was pushed, because his glasses were next to him. Of course, I can tell you that he was pushed because in the intro he won a bunch of money and then dumped the chick with him, saying "I'm a millionaire now, why would I want to waste anymore time with YOU?"

I love CSI. It's a sickness.

Back to the meeting folks in person thing - I think I'm pretty much the same in person as I am here. I speak in weird non-sequiturs, find bizarre things funny and sort of....wander..hey! Something shiny!!

The one thing you can't tell from here is that I blink a lot. It's a sensitive/dry eye thing. Jane says I'm fidgety. I dunno, I guess so. I promise not to sneeze/throw up/cough on you and I'll pick up my half of the check AND I'll wash my hands in the bathroom, OK? OK.

OH MY GOD, A NORMAN FELL JOKE. AUGH.

Dude - how old is this episode of CSI??

Ok, I just added spinach to this recipe and it is no longer Derivative Chicken. No - it is, shit, I don't know what to call it now, but I just spilled it on my keyboard. Actually, I spilled it on the kid's keyboard, heh. Keyboard Chicken, it is!! Regardless, it is delicious.

*Twisty doesn't really post recipes so much as she posts guidelines, which actually works really well with my style of cooking.

**I've seen the lying/laying thing explained over and over and OVER again, and I figure like Algebra II and subnet masking, one of these days I'll look at it and it will just click. Until then? Grammar Nazis can suck it.

suckage

So, I'm drunk...again?? Still? Man, I wish. Is it maybe a problem? When you wish you could be hip-deep in a bottle of wine/ book/ nap all the time??

See, here's the deal. I broke up with Max. He is an absolutely fabulous guy - sweet, considerate and, despite the stereotype, totally OK with commitment.*

The problem? Well.....me. Not entirely, if we're going to be honest - there are always things about the other person that, when magnified under the lens of discomfort and pressure, seem huge and insurmountable. But the fact is Max and I talked about a lot of Future and Forever and this and that and...I tried. I tried to jump, but the fact is, I am just not ready to take that kind of leap. I'm sorry.

What sucks about this is that in the process of not being ready, I have to hurt someone as incredbly sweet as Max.

Relationships, bah!!

I'm currently dipping into the wine that I bought for $6.99 yesterday at 7-11 ($6.99!!! 7-11!!), because I've already polished off the bottle of good stuff that I bought earlier - minus about 1/4 cup for the kid's tomato sauce.

So yeah - I'm typin' one-eyed and I'm, I dunno...upset? I dunno.

I think I just might be like Jennie Smash, and declare a booty ban.

Actually...that sounds really good right now. Men beware!! Bitter divorcee on board!!!

*Despite his stereotype-fighting, this is actaually The Thing that led to the end. He's ready to go and I'm just...not.


I take no responsibility for any typos. Don't like it? Bite me.

Dear Flea

In which I thank flea for her wonderful literary sense and general badassery and use an assload of footnotes. Also? Rambly and run-on?? Blame the red wine and David Foster Wallace.

Dear Flea -

Ok, so....I was wandering through your archives - but definitely not during work hours, oh NO! - and you mentioned Infinite Jest a couple of times. So I checked out the link and it looked interesting, and I put it on my mental wishlist. Later that night, I gave my 14YO her first driving lesson, and she did such a good job, I told her I'd take her anywhere she wanted for dinner. She chose Chuy's - a Mexican place - and since I NEVER get to eat Mexican food, I jumped on it. After cheese enchiladas and beer (Dr. Pepper for her, much to her chagrin), we went wandering around a couple of stores and then ended up at Barnes & Noble, where I asked the little book guy, "Hey - do you have Infinite Jest?"* He spouted off the author's name and told me to follow him, so I did and whoa! I BOUGHT THE DAMN BOOK.**

Anyway, later that nigt, I'm reading the book and kiddo's reading her book, (Virgin Suicides, which HOORAH, she found something to read, but YIKES, because of her problems with depression lately) and I'm thinking about my own book, "wow...this sure reads a lot like Broom of the System."*** A few minutes later, I get up to close the back door and turn off the living room light and make sure the front door is locked and all that jazz, and I flip the book over to check out the back (yes, I carry my book with me on breaks, what??) and I see that hey! this is the same guy who wrote Broom of the System. And now, I feel like I owe you a thank you note, for mentioning this book way back when, and inspiring me to check it out and reuniting me with someone who has turned out to be one of my favorite authors. I think of his writing like I think of going tubing - just relax, let it take you where it wants you to go.*****

Anyway - thanks for all the cool stuff you write.

Laura

*This actually sparked a whole conversation about books - good ones, bad ones, good writers (we both highly approve of Didion), writers we're not so sure about (Atwood's battin' about .500 with me - he hasn't read any Atwood, but has decided he must now), and books you shouldn't read right after a break-up (Play it as it Lays and anything that was your ex's favorite****)

**Crap...I had something funny here, but I will be fucked if I can remember it.

***I got this book when my mom was working at BookStop (which is now dead...sigh) and lovedlovedloved it. Loved the flow, loved the absurdity, loved it. So why in the hell did I give it away a couple of years ago?? I don't know. Am idiot.

****Fortunately, my ex hated reading fiction (14 YEARS, PEOPLE!!) so this was easy for me to avoid, as I have no interest in reading tech manuals or The Ultimate Sniper

*****My footnotes are all dicked up, aren't they? Anyway - this tubing analogy is sort of inaccurate for me, because tubing makes me anxious. Yes, The International Sport of Stoners makes me anxious and I end up with stone bruises and a rash on my upper arms from trying to control where the water takes me, convinced that I'll get left behind or something. However, when it comes to books, I have NO problem just letting the prose wash over me. Unless it's Hannibal, because dude?? that book sucked the root.

Profiles in Slobbery

On the wall in my shower is a single hair. I could wipe it off. I could hit it with the spray and wash it down my (rapidly clogging because good lord we are hairy beasts) drain. But I don't. See, the hair looks like a person's profile - one of those single line jobbies, almost like a Hirschfeld. And every day, the profile changes just a little bit. The first day I noticed it, it was a cute little button-nosed imp. The next day, a more sober, older woman. Today, the nose had shifted drastically down and straightened out - a Roman nose - an emperor in my shower.

All of this is to say, dude...I really need to clean my damn bathroom.

*twitch*

Oh my God y'all. You guys are the sweetest. I hesitated putting that stuff about my dad out there because a)it's painful and the way I typically deal with pain is to stuffstuffstuff it down and ignore it until my eye starts to twitch and the walls start to talk, and b) I didn't want it to look like I was trolling for sympathy. Which I'm not - but Laura mentioned free alcohol in her comment, and I am always trolling for that.

Heh

Anyway. For Christmas, my mom paid for belly dancing classes for me, kiddo and herself. Saturday was the second class, and my mom didn't feel well, so didn't show. Kiddo didn't feel well, but had to come with me because of some other stuff we had going on, so she ended up napping on a couch while I took my lesson. The instructor had brought hip scarves for us to dance in - scarves that (duh) go around your hips and have coins all over them so you make that nifty "shk shk shk shk" noise while you dance. So we're dancing, kid's snoozing and later she tells me that she had dreams about pepper grinders. Hee.

She had a therapist appointment later (yep, kid's in therapy - another thing I don't want to talk about until I get to the point of eye-twitching, but thanks) and then I dropped her off with her dad at a Chinese restaurant. I always feel weird dropping her off. Usually she sees him during the week, and he picks her up at the apartment and I'm not there. When I have to actually drop her off or pick her up, I'm unsure how to end a conversation with him. Like...I just say "Ok, bye" and tell the kid I love her and get in the car, but that feels weird - incomplete somehow. Feh. I guess a 14 year habit of ending every conversation with "I love you", even when you didn't necessarily feel it, is a little hard to break.

Saturday night, I...what the hell did I do? hm. OH! I took kiddo and a friend to Target and managed to spend a gazillion dollars and not buy a single GODDAMN thing on my list. I am the owner of a really cute shirt now, and the kid has some (much-needed) new clothes, but it doesn't matter because I can't see what I look like until I leave my house anyway, because I forgot to buy light bulbs.

On Sunday, we met up with Max and saw "King Kong" and I have to ask - was the protracted giant bug scene REALLY necessary? WAS IT?? Did I need to watch Adrian Brody fight off giant crickets? And the guy, with the toothy worm things and the ACK!! On his head? AUG!!! NOT NECESSARY. Mr. Jackson, please go back to shooting homoerotic hobbit movies and leave the guys in the creature shop alone. GAH!

Oh, and a little note here. If you have some sort of injury that requires you to erect a footrest out of booster seats and get all settled and stow your crutches and this routine takes you about 10 minutes and is NOT silent?? Do you think maybe you could make it to the movie AHEAD OF TIME, rather than come in ten minutes late and start all those shenanigans? Thanks ever so much. (Asshole)

Between that guy (conveniently located right behind us) and the family of four who came in EVEN LATER - who also started talking, and not in their movie voices, the very moment their asses made contact with the seat - I'm surprised I made it through the movie without hurting anybody.

Seriously - things happen, traffic gets weird, cars don't start, watches stop, whatever. So you made it to the movie late - come in, quietly, and shut.the.fuck.up. It's not difficult - see, there's a whole theater full of people already doing it. OH, and don't send the teenager with the mohawk and the clinkety-clanking baby punk pants on to get your popcorn. Good Christ.

Where was I? Oh yes - giant bugs [shudder]. When the lights came up, I told Max, "Jesus - between the bugs and the heights, I'm never gonna fuckin' sleep again." This has not been entirely true as I can still fall asleep just about anywhere, anytime, and waking up is quite an effort, but I can't even fathom watching that movie more than once and it's all the fault of those goddamn bugs.

I have been confused about what day it is all week - yesterday I kept thinking it was Wednesday, and even though today I had an appointment to drop off my car and should, theoretically, know what day it is, I keep trying to make it Thursday. This is fine, except when I get to the point where I'm thinking Thursday is Friday and then around 4:30 I realize I've been wrong all day I want to cry, because it feels like somebody cruelly slipped in an extra day. Being nutz is no fun.

Oh - last thing - Max made tuxedo chocolate-dipped strawberries for Valentine's Day. AW. I'd put a picture here, but I haven't figured out how to do that w/o using Hello and I don't like Hello, so...visualize. Let your mind run free. There's a Strawberry Fields joke in here somewhere, but I love you guys too much to do that to you.

Laura - San Marcos, baby - sounds great. Either that or we road trip up to Oklahoma City and meet up with Jane. Jesus, talk about feeling like a giant - going drinking with the two of you teeny people.

As I was posting this, an ant came crawling out of my laptop. AUG!

motherfucker

Fuck it.

My dad was in the hospital over the weekend. He'd been having a lot of problems with his kidneys, and I guess it got bad enough that he went in on Friday afternoon. For my dad to actually seek medical assistance, even now that he has cancer, is a fairly big deal. This is the man who poured an entire Fry Daddy of hot grease over his hand and said "hm....hon - could you get me a beer?" In the dictionary, next to the phrase "Typical Man" is a picture of my dad, smiling, splinting his own leg.

Anyway

He went in and after hours, literally, of waiting and starving the man and screwing up whether he needed and x-ray or a CT-scan, they took him into surgery and put stints in and let him go on Monday. (Yes, there was more, but that's the gist, wait wait wait, misinform, starve, wait wait, procedure, go home.)

He called me on Friday to let me know he was in the hospital and such. He sounded tired, but OK. We joked around a bit, and then we hung up.

Fifteen minutes later, my stepmother called me and told me that my dad had asked the doctor, point blank, how much time he has left and the doctor told him "a few more months."

So - there's that. And I've cried about it, and I'm starting to cry now that I see the words on the screen, and I'll cry again.

And I'd love to be a better writer, the type who could maybe find some sort of sense or nobility or peace or whatever in this. I'd love to be a poet. But I'm not. I'm just an annoying woman with a pain-in-the-ass kid and a talkative boyfriend and an obnoxious ex and two cats who shed all over her black clothing and a tenuous grasp on her job and a dad who's going to die, painfully, in a few months.

The Pollyanna in me tells me to find a bright side - at least this, and better off that. Fuck you, Pollyanna. Fuck you right in your stupid positive ass. I don't want to find a bright side. I want to cry and yell and stomp and pout and wail and gnash. I want to stand in the middle of Congress Avenue and scream at the top of my lungs, "FUCK YOU, GOD!" I want to drink until I'm numb. I want to run until my legs give out and my lungs burn and I pass out from exhaustion. I want to crawl under my bed and hide for 10 years. I want to wallow.

Bright side my ass.

Things suck right now. Period. Pass the wine.

Thanks. Not.

Dear Barton Creek Mall Coach counter lady -
Thanks for not telling me my fly was open. No, really, I mean it. The little blast of cold air on my crotch when I walked outside, as well as the little jolt of embarrassment and panic I felt when I realized I had not only fondled $350 handbags, but had also walked all the way through the mall and through Dillard's with my barn door open were really refreshing. I feel all alive and tingly now. So yeah - thanks.

Bitch.

Laura

So, um..HI!! I have this weird combination of all kinds of stuff to write about and yet nothing to write about at the moment. It's painful, really. Anyway - here's a list, in no particular order:

1 - BFF had her baby!!
2 - Some creepy old man felt the need to talk to me in Tuesday Morning, and can I ever go back to that one again, since it seems he's a regular?
3 - My grandmother's dog died, unexpectedly and in a pretty messy fashion in my mom's bathroom.
4 - I finally tried that Natural Glow crap that everybody else raved about and has since moved on from. I like it.
5 - I'm going to see "40 Year-Old Virgin" tonight. See #4 in re: me and my lack of timeliness.
6 - I got this wheat berry stuff in my salad today and while it tasted good, wheat berries are chewy little fucks and my face STILL hurts from all the chewing. When you pull muscles in your FACE while EATING???? You are out of shape, my friend.
7 - After a five-month hiatus, my period made a brief, painful return. (No, I was/am not pregnant - I changed birth control methods and no longer have to worry about a period. I do stil get cramps, PMS and fried food cravings, so um - Yeah?)

That's the gist of my life at the moment. And now, through a thoroughly scientific process, I'll pick one of these topics to write about. Drumroll please (I'm waiting for Jane to pick a number ) And! She came back with 5 - the movie. hm. 'Twould seem Jane wants me to be lame, which is actually kind of OK because a)that means I can blame it on her and b)I don't have to write about the dog, 'cause doing that right now will make me cry.

So, The Union shows movies on Thursday for free, and while they don't tend to do first-run stuff, it's usually decently popular, what-you-haven't-seen-that-oh-my-God-let's-go type stuff. Neither Max nor I have seen 40YOV yet, so hey! Free! And I think you can bring in food, which is good. I have a totebag that will totally fit a couple of tallboys and a can of Pringles. Heh. I'll let y'all know how that goes.

mmmmmmm, Pringles

Want to hear about something else? Comment - let me know that I haven't lost both of my readers due to never updating. Sigh.

mwah!