I know the layouts so well, I could navigate them blindfolded, in my sleep, in my dreams, drugged, drunk, through somebody else's eyes, on an overhead layout. I'd recognize the floorplans anywhere. I know these houses better than the back of my hand. I've never stumbled through the back of my hand in the haze of a bad dream to find comfort.
One is a ranch style house, so American, so typical, so suburban. There is a formal living room and dining room that only get used at Christmas and Thanksgiving. There is a den with light wood paneling. There is a huge 50's style kitchen with an obscene lack of counter space. It's obvious that you are meant to entertain in this kitchen, not cook in it. There is a long hallway with three bedrooms. Blue, pink and red. The house has been redecorated a few times, but the colors are pretty much the same, tan for the hallway, red in the master's, blue in the guest, pink in the back bedroom. The back bedroom was my dad's (it probably wasn't pink then) then it was mine. The front bedroom is supposed to be the guest bedroom, but in my mind it is and will always be Grandma Lena's room, even though she died in 1995. I can still remember the first time I came to visit and slept in the blue bedroom - I might as well have been sleeping on the carport, it felt so alien to me.
This house is gumbo and red beans and rice and etouffee and Christmas and Thanksgiving and Mardi Gras and football and crawfish boils. Carrie across the street, standing on the neutral ground yelling, "Hey!! Can you spend the night???" Wednesday night dance lessons, spaghetti and meatballs. My first car. A divot in the corner of the lawn where my Grandma always runs over the grass when she pulls into the driveway in her giant Cadillac. African violets and wandering Jew on the front porch, Creole tomatoes and strawberry plants in the backyard. Saturday morning breakfasts at McDonald's with my Poppa. Slip and slide. Homemade ice cream. Two broken arms, one chipped tooth and countless skinned knees were earned on the sidewalks in front of that house. This house is home.
The other house is a dark green cement block duplex that is almost completely obscured by a giant holly tree. It has the most cramped staircase in the history of cramped staircases. The woman who lives there is one of the smartest, funniest, wordiest, most literate women I've ever met. She's the reason I read. She's the reason I write. She has a cheap cabinet, the kind you put next to your desk to keep your office supplies in, that's covered with bumper stickers from all over the place. She used to have an antique victrola, but got rid of it. I'm OK with that - but I think if anything happens to the bumper sticker cabinet, I'll be bummed. She has a collection of Pogo comic books.
This house is Beatles albums and jazz and books and talking till two AM and the big blue van that we drove everywhere and camping in the Ozarks and going to Nebraska to see my Uncle Mike and cats and crazy dog after crazy dog and horse people learning to live without horses and stories about my nutty relatives and the Depression and World War II and my grandfather who I never really got to know. My bus stop was across the street - cold mornings (cold to me!) that I spent rehearsing my tap dance numbers, a crazy 9-year old girl, tap dancing away in the New Orleans mist, trying to stay warm - a whole busload of kids and a mystified bus driver watching her, trying to figure out what the hell she was doing. Monty Python, Benny Hill, Dr. Who, Fawlty Towers. This house is my friend Blair and the cabinet covered with bumper stickers and the bottle collection and trips to San Antonio. This house is enchilada pie and Mexican meatloaf and snacking on olives out of my grandmother's martini while we waited on our food at a restaurant. This house is home.
The people are safe. One set is at my dad's, driving him insane, but doing it safely. The other is (last I heard) in Birmingham, driving each other crazy, traveling in a tan van with two full-sized dogs. The people, the important part, the good stuff, that is safe. I know this. I know that the houses are just that - houses. I know they are bricks and wood and nails and insulation. I know that the things within them are just things and in the grand scheme of it all, things are incredibly replaceable. It's just a house, it's just a house, it's just a house. I know this to be true. But these houses, these simple contraptions of wood and cement and nails and all the things within them are the things that my grandparents have spent their lives working towards. It's just a house, it's just a house, it's just a house. Please let them just be houses that are still standing when they go back to them.
Monday, August 29, 2005
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Home front
So, the kiddo and I were sitting around talking. Ok, that's not really news in and of itself, but she's 13 very very soon to be 27 14 and that's an....interesting age, what with the urges to do awful things to your body and the being surrounded by stupid teenagers and all. A lot of her friends are smoking already, which briefly scandalized me, until I realized that a lot of MY friends smoked at that age and a lot of my parent's friend smoked at that age and my grandparents all started smoking at that age and and and and and....THANKS PHILIP MORRIS, YOU FUCKER. * Anyway....shit freaked, then calmed down by the realization that this was totally normal. So, we talked, she asked how I would feel if I found out that she was smoking. I told her the truth - I'd be upset because it's unhealthy, habit-forming, is a huge factor in what killed her paternal grandfather, paternal grandmother, her great-grandmother, is killing my father...do I need to go on??
"no.....I tried it a couple of times....."
"...OK...and?"
"I don't see what the big deal is."
"So - no smoking for Kiddo?"
"Oh no - I just wanted to see what big damn deal was - still don't get it...won't do it again. Don't tell dad, he'd freak."
"Don't do it again and I won't."
"I told my friends that I told you and they wigged out, all 'ohmygod!! Now she's gonna tell my mom' I said, 'no way man, I trust my mom.'"
"I trust my mom"
Wow. I'm not sure I've ever been paid a higher compliment in my life. She asked if I would tell the other moms and I said no - and I won't. I don't know - maybe that goes against some mom code or something but....my kid just told me that she trusted me, and y'know - I'm sorry if other moms don't have that going on, but..um...not my problem. Also? If it were a case where I suspected immediate bodily harm, then yes I'd be on the phone. As it is, this is little girls sneaking off to stage smoke once or twice a week. Trust me - they'll get busted soon - we all did. Again - normal, necessary. I'm not trying to set myself up as the Cool Mom by not ratting them out. I find them smoking on my back porch, I'll tell them they're not allowed to do that shit at my house ("but Max does!!" Hi, Max is a 35 year-old man...are you??) But neither am I going to set myself up as the bitch by getting on the phone w/ another mom, all "doyouknowwhatyourdaughterhasbeenUPTO???"
Right now, I'm way more interested in having these nice, neutral conversations that my daughter seems to thrive on. Reaction of any kind, positive or negative just makes her dig her heels in. Egads! I'm raising a teenager.
*I know, I know, I just grabbed a tobacco name out ofmy assa hat.
****BULLETIN****
Listen up...without getting terribly detailed and/or terribly political, I have a little bulletin for some men in the audience. Next time you make a sexist joke, and a woman gets offended, do not, I repeat DO NOT respond that she "just needs to get laid."
We are getting laid. Truuuuuuust me. I, for one, am gettin' laid jes' fine (thanks Max!) and I have a pretty healthy (or sick, depending on how you look at it) sense of humor and I can tell a blue joke with the best of them (see previous post in re: inappropriate remarks about Drew Barrymore.) This does not mean that I have to put up with sexism or misogyny or you being a jackhole. This also does not mean that when I do speak up in my own defense that it's because I need a cock in my life. I have a cock in my life. A very nice one, thanks. Cocks, or the lack thereof, have not a goddamn thing to with whether a woman finds you offensive. You being offensive has everything to do with it.
So dude - stop being an asshole, and maybe we'll all start getting along.
Thanks.
"no.....I tried it a couple of times....."
"...OK...and?"
"I don't see what the big deal is."
"So - no smoking for Kiddo?"
"Oh no - I just wanted to see what big damn deal was - still don't get it...won't do it again. Don't tell dad, he'd freak."
"Don't do it again and I won't."
"I told my friends that I told you and they wigged out, all 'ohmygod!! Now she's gonna tell my mom' I said, 'no way man, I trust my mom.'"
"I trust my mom"
Wow. I'm not sure I've ever been paid a higher compliment in my life. She asked if I would tell the other moms and I said no - and I won't. I don't know - maybe that goes against some mom code or something but....my kid just told me that she trusted me, and y'know - I'm sorry if other moms don't have that going on, but..um...not my problem. Also? If it were a case where I suspected immediate bodily harm, then yes I'd be on the phone. As it is, this is little girls sneaking off to stage smoke once or twice a week. Trust me - they'll get busted soon - we all did. Again - normal, necessary. I'm not trying to set myself up as the Cool Mom by not ratting them out. I find them smoking on my back porch, I'll tell them they're not allowed to do that shit at my house ("but Max does!!" Hi, Max is a 35 year-old man...are you??) But neither am I going to set myself up as the bitch by getting on the phone w/ another mom, all "doyouknowwhatyourdaughterhasbeenUPTO???"
Right now, I'm way more interested in having these nice, neutral conversations that my daughter seems to thrive on. Reaction of any kind, positive or negative just makes her dig her heels in. Egads! I'm raising a teenager.
*I know, I know, I just grabbed a tobacco name out of
****BULLETIN****
Listen up...without getting terribly detailed and/or terribly political, I have a little bulletin for some men in the audience. Next time you make a sexist joke, and a woman gets offended, do not, I repeat DO NOT respond that she "just needs to get laid."
We are getting laid. Truuuuuuust me. I, for one, am gettin' laid jes' fine (thanks Max!) and I have a pretty healthy (or sick, depending on how you look at it) sense of humor and I can tell a blue joke with the best of them (see previous post in re: inappropriate remarks about Drew Barrymore.) This does not mean that I have to put up with sexism or misogyny or you being a jackhole. This also does not mean that when I do speak up in my own defense that it's because I need a cock in my life. I have a cock in my life. A very nice one, thanks. Cocks, or the lack thereof, have not a goddamn thing to with whether a woman finds you offensive. You being offensive has everything to do with it.
So dude - stop being an asshole, and maybe we'll all start getting along.
Thanks.
Monday, August 22, 2005
Why Max's friends love me and fear me just a little bit.
Friend: What was that movie, that Drew Barrymore was so hot in.....what was the name of it...?
Me: E.T.??
Friend: I...I..think I love you.
He was KIDDING - this was the end of a fairly sick, drunken conversation we'd been having while my lovely boyfriend was off judging the seafood portion of a BBQ competition. Friend and I got the WILD GAME portion. YES! WILD GAME!!! Whooo. I'm not sure, but I think I may have gotten something that was killed with a Buick on the way to the competition. I know there was some alligator in there (dry, lemony! Dude, BBQ? is not lemony, just sayin')
It was all good though, because the judges are THOROUGHLY lubricated with free beer by the time the competition starts up - hence the really tacky conversation above. So yeah, um...all you folks in Williamson County this Saturday that were scandalized by the guy with the beard and the loud girl in the striped shirt and that other dude with them making really lewd jokes? That uh, that wasn't us. Those were some other rude motherfuckers.
Heh.
Me: E.T.??
Friend: I...I..think I love you.
He was KIDDING - this was the end of a fairly sick, drunken conversation we'd been having while my lovely boyfriend was off judging the seafood portion of a BBQ competition. Friend and I got the WILD GAME portion. YES! WILD GAME!!! Whooo. I'm not sure, but I think I may have gotten something that was killed with a Buick on the way to the competition. I know there was some alligator in there (dry, lemony! Dude, BBQ? is not lemony, just sayin')
It was all good though, because the judges are THOROUGHLY lubricated with free beer by the time the competition starts up - hence the really tacky conversation above. So yeah, um...all you folks in Williamson County this Saturday that were scandalized by the guy with the beard and the loud girl in the striped shirt and that other dude with them making really lewd jokes? That uh, that wasn't us. Those were some other rude motherfuckers.
Heh.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
getting on with your life????
I got this from Bitch Ph.D. and it just made me so angry, and I started to comment over there. It started out short and sweet, but as I started to write it, I got more and more angry. "Going on with my life"?? What the bloody fuck?
Mr. Bush....You do realize that you are the President of the United States of America, right?? Did you realize when you ran for office that this is a 24 hour a day, 7 day a week, 365 day a year job? That all of your "vacations" are WORKING vacations??? OK - I'm just an IT person, and I can't get lunch w/o running the risk of getting my lunch interrupted - you're running a country in the middle of a war - that you put us into, might I remind you (yes..you did...yeah - ya did) and you wants to "go on with your life"??? NO. nonono. I'm sorry. But no. This is not a job that comes with coffee breaks, or vacation time, or weekends or holidays. This is a job that requires you to work all the damn time, even on your cute little ranch in Crawford. It's a job that means you DON'T get weekends, you don't get time off, you DON'T get to get on with your life. If you don't like the fact that you don't get time off George, you shouldn't have run for office my friend. Plain and simple. Want weekends?? Sell furniture! Or shoes! I bet you'd make a GREAT shoe salesman!!! But dude - Presidents? Don't get weekends. They get ulcers and back problems and stress headaches and marital issues and all sorts of other bad shit, but they don't get weekends. Why do you think so few people REALLY want the job, and why do you think we look askance at the ones that truly want that kind of power?? Yeaaaah...that's why.
George - may I call you George? I will anyway, because it's my damn blog, and you'll never read this - there was a time when the American President could be held accountable to the individual voter. No, really. FDR would actually meet with individuals and talk to them about what was going on in their lives. I know you have different policies than FDR - I'm not going to get into that. But I am saying that now - the individual is declared a "threat to national security" or "dangerous" unless the President likes what they have to say. You have protesters moved out of your sight line. Um....'scuse me? You do realize you are going against one of the very basic rights upon which we built this country?? This, sir is bullshit. And it brings me to Ms. Sheehan. You have ignored, marginalized and shuffled this woman around, hoping that if you just avoid her long enough she'll go away. Wow - what a FABULOUS example as a leader you set. Really. You need to look Cindy Sheehan in the eye and give her some answers. Not some soundbite crap that you think she wants to hear, not some pap designed for the campaign trail, but some answers. This woman has stood out in the Texas heat for a month waiting on you to talk to her. She has handled watching her son go off to war, she has handled the death of her son, and she has handled hearing her son's Commander in Chief say he needs to "go on with [his] life." I think she can probably handle (and deserves) the truth from you. Not some pat apology. Sack up, be a man for once, make it good and real Mr. Bush, and give this woman some answers. All she's asking for is a conversation. Is that really so difficult?? Technically speaking, Mr. President - you do work for HER, not the other way around. This is one of your employers, coming to you, asking for some answers, and you are falling down on your job. If I ignored my boss the way you are currently ignoring yours, I'd be out on the street. Think about that while you get on with your life.
Mr. Bush....You do realize that you are the President of the United States of America, right?? Did you realize when you ran for office that this is a 24 hour a day, 7 day a week, 365 day a year job? That all of your "vacations" are WORKING vacations??? OK - I'm just an IT person, and I can't get lunch w/o running the risk of getting my lunch interrupted - you're running a country in the middle of a war - that you put us into, might I remind you (yes..you did...yeah - ya did) and you wants to "go on with your life"??? NO. nonono. I'm sorry. But no. This is not a job that comes with coffee breaks, or vacation time, or weekends or holidays. This is a job that requires you to work all the damn time, even on your cute little ranch in Crawford. It's a job that means you DON'T get weekends, you don't get time off, you DON'T get to get on with your life. If you don't like the fact that you don't get time off George, you shouldn't have run for office my friend. Plain and simple. Want weekends?? Sell furniture! Or shoes! I bet you'd make a GREAT shoe salesman!!! But dude - Presidents? Don't get weekends. They get ulcers and back problems and stress headaches and marital issues and all sorts of other bad shit, but they don't get weekends. Why do you think so few people REALLY want the job, and why do you think we look askance at the ones that truly want that kind of power?? Yeaaaah...that's why.
George - may I call you George? I will anyway, because it's my damn blog, and you'll never read this - there was a time when the American President could be held accountable to the individual voter. No, really. FDR would actually meet with individuals and talk to them about what was going on in their lives. I know you have different policies than FDR - I'm not going to get into that. But I am saying that now - the individual is declared a "threat to national security" or "dangerous" unless the President likes what they have to say. You have protesters moved out of your sight line. Um....'scuse me? You do realize you are going against one of the very basic rights upon which we built this country?? This, sir is bullshit. And it brings me to Ms. Sheehan. You have ignored, marginalized and shuffled this woman around, hoping that if you just avoid her long enough she'll go away. Wow - what a FABULOUS example as a leader you set. Really. You need to look Cindy Sheehan in the eye and give her some answers. Not some soundbite crap that you think she wants to hear, not some pap designed for the campaign trail, but some answers. This woman has stood out in the Texas heat for a month waiting on you to talk to her. She has handled watching her son go off to war, she has handled the death of her son, and she has handled hearing her son's Commander in Chief say he needs to "go on with [his] life." I think she can probably handle (and deserves) the truth from you. Not some pat apology. Sack up, be a man for once, make it good and real Mr. Bush, and give this woman some answers. All she's asking for is a conversation. Is that really so difficult?? Technically speaking, Mr. President - you do work for HER, not the other way around. This is one of your employers, coming to you, asking for some answers, and you are falling down on your job. If I ignored my boss the way you are currently ignoring yours, I'd be out on the street. Think about that while you get on with your life.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
don't call it a drive-by
Dear lady in the HEB -
Your son is adorable. You're pretty cool about the fact that he keeps getting called "she", which is good, since you keep his hair long enough to put up in that cute multi-pig tail look that so many African-American girls sport. And really, for a 2 year-old, he wasn't being especially bad. He was being a pretty typical two year-old boy. You weren't really paying any attention to him, and you let him get out of the cart, which...what's that about? And then you actually let him get out.of.your.sight. at an HEB during the busiest time of the day, right next to an exit door, and you seemed awfully chill about it....but ..um..OK.
I'm not trying to criticize your mothering style...I...well..Ok, fuck that, yes I suppose I am. Look lady, I've had a toddler. It's been a while, I'll admit it, but I've been there. I am not a Nazi about runny noses or socks or tied shoes or any of that - little kids are disgusting little creatures who will fuck with the best laid plans. But see, the basics, no matter what your parenting style, are pretty much the same. To wit: Pay basic attention to their whereabouts, keep them fed, keep them clothed, keep them breathing, keep them from bleeding or making other children bleed, keep them from setting themselves on fire, yelling inappropriate words, eating poop or glass and try not to let them grow up Republican, right?? As long as you keep the basics covered, all the fighting over attachment parenting, extended nursing, co-sleeping, crying it out, hemp slings, formula, organic baby food, immunizations, and any other thing that parents can come up with to criticize each other about is really immaterial. Really. It is. No....really...it is. We can go back and forth on all the other shit and the blah and the blah and the blee, but dude - the basics have to get covered FIRST, because if you don't make sure that your little darling isn't climbing up to the second level of the grocery store and then trying to climb over the rail when you say "come here!!!"???*....well, his emotional development won't really matter a whole lot after that swan dive is all I'm sayin'.
You seemed like a really nice lady, and like I said, your son is just adorable. Unlike the lady behind me, I really don't think you need to "spank that ass". He wasn't being bad - he was being normal. I think you just need to pay some damn attention to him. Maybe start with making him sit back down when he climbs out of the cart, instead of helping him out and letting him scamper off?? Or if you DO let him out, maybe keep your hands on him?? Or...like, watch him?? Because at first it was cute, when I thought he would just stay in the little rocket ship thingy....but then he just Houdini'ed and you didn't seem to mind and that seriously freaked my shit out, lady. Really. Watch your kid. Start now, or one day you'll turn around and he'll be gone permanently.
Sincerely,
Laura
*Yes, he did this. He also climbed to the top of one of the security gate dealies (the things that beep if you try to steal some frozen peas??) and I had to say "um..he might fall...?" before she even noticed that her child was AGAIN a)not anywhere close to her, b)right by the exit door and c)5 feet off the damn ground.
Your son is adorable. You're pretty cool about the fact that he keeps getting called "she", which is good, since you keep his hair long enough to put up in that cute multi-pig tail look that so many African-American girls sport. And really, for a 2 year-old, he wasn't being especially bad. He was being a pretty typical two year-old boy. You weren't really paying any attention to him, and you let him get out of the cart, which...what's that about? And then you actually let him get out.of.your.sight. at an HEB during the busiest time of the day, right next to an exit door, and you seemed awfully chill about it....but ..um..OK.
I'm not trying to criticize your mothering style...I...well..Ok, fuck that, yes I suppose I am. Look lady, I've had a toddler. It's been a while, I'll admit it, but I've been there. I am not a Nazi about runny noses or socks or tied shoes or any of that - little kids are disgusting little creatures who will fuck with the best laid plans. But see, the basics, no matter what your parenting style, are pretty much the same. To wit: Pay basic attention to their whereabouts, keep them fed, keep them clothed, keep them breathing, keep them from bleeding or making other children bleed, keep them from setting themselves on fire, yelling inappropriate words, eating poop or glass and try not to let them grow up Republican, right?? As long as you keep the basics covered, all the fighting over attachment parenting, extended nursing, co-sleeping, crying it out, hemp slings, formula, organic baby food, immunizations, and any other thing that parents can come up with to criticize each other about is really immaterial. Really. It is. No....really...it is. We can go back and forth on all the other shit and the blah and the blah and the blee, but dude - the basics have to get covered FIRST, because if you don't make sure that your little darling isn't climbing up to the second level of the grocery store and then trying to climb over the rail when you say "come here!!!"???*....well, his emotional development won't really matter a whole lot after that swan dive is all I'm sayin'.
You seemed like a really nice lady, and like I said, your son is just adorable. Unlike the lady behind me, I really don't think you need to "spank that ass". He wasn't being bad - he was being normal. I think you just need to pay some damn attention to him. Maybe start with making him sit back down when he climbs out of the cart, instead of helping him out and letting him scamper off?? Or if you DO let him out, maybe keep your hands on him?? Or...like, watch him?? Because at first it was cute, when I thought he would just stay in the little rocket ship thingy....but then he just Houdini'ed and you didn't seem to mind and that seriously freaked my shit out, lady. Really. Watch your kid. Start now, or one day you'll turn around and he'll be gone permanently.
Sincerely,
Laura
*Yes, he did this. He also climbed to the top of one of the security gate dealies (the things that beep if you try to steal some frozen peas??) and I had to say "um..he might fall...?" before she even noticed that her child was AGAIN a)not anywhere close to her, b)right by the exit door and c)5 feet off the damn ground.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Mushy
I woke up this morning and thought to myself, "self, it's Jane's birthday!! You should write something really funny and great and stirring and wonderful for her." And I wracked my brain all the way in to work (and I dug right down to the bottom of my soul....sorry...) and I tried (and I triiiiied to meeee-eeelt!....dammit!) but I couldn't come up with anything good.
And then I read Jane's entry about how all she wanted was for folks to stop being pretentious twits and so I thought about writing a parody piece - y'know, about how I woke up this morning and checked all my forums and boards and banned a few users just for the fun of it and oh look, there's that silly woman in Kansas bitching again, doesn't she have anything better to do? But honestly? I don't know enough about all that crap to write it convincingly.
hmmm...what to do?? what to do? what to do??
I know - I'll do what I do for all of my other friend's birthdays!! Stress about it inappropriately and then completely gloss over it!! TADA!!
So..yeah..uh - Happy Birthday...whatever dude.
Seriously, Happy Birthday Ms. Jane. You're my bestest internet buddy. Thanks for being my friend, for typing wonderful, funny, sane, insane, crazy, bitchy, loyal, hilarious, fabulous things at me every day. Thanks for making me laugh. Thank you for occasionally making me cry. Thank you for sending me the "Dating for Dummies" book, you fucker. Thank you for being the voice of reason when I freak the fuck out. Thank you for calling me negress. Thank you for taking my side against everybody, even my kid sometimes. Thank you for pointing out when I'm acting like a total nimrod. Thank you for being there during my divorce. Thank you for not recoiling in horror when I showed up in your driveway, exhausted and tried to hug you. Thank you for being my friend from a thousand miles away.
Happy Birthday Jane. Make Paco take you someplace nice. For the love of God - don't go to Red Lobster.
Smooches.
And then I read Jane's entry about how all she wanted was for folks to stop being pretentious twits and so I thought about writing a parody piece - y'know, about how I woke up this morning and checked all my forums and boards and banned a few users just for the fun of it and oh look, there's that silly woman in Kansas bitching again, doesn't she have anything better to do? But honestly? I don't know enough about all that crap to write it convincingly.
hmmm...what to do?? what to do? what to do??
I know - I'll do what I do for all of my other friend's birthdays!! Stress about it inappropriately and then completely gloss over it!! TADA!!
So..yeah..uh - Happy Birthday...whatever dude.
Seriously, Happy Birthday Ms. Jane. You're my bestest internet buddy. Thanks for being my friend, for typing wonderful, funny, sane, insane, crazy, bitchy, loyal, hilarious, fabulous things at me every day. Thanks for making me laugh. Thank you for occasionally making me cry. Thank you for sending me the "Dating for Dummies" book, you fucker. Thank you for being the voice of reason when I freak the fuck out. Thank you for calling me negress. Thank you for taking my side against everybody, even my kid sometimes. Thank you for pointing out when I'm acting like a total nimrod. Thank you for being there during my divorce. Thank you for not recoiling in horror when I showed up in your driveway, exhausted and tried to hug you. Thank you for being my friend from a thousand miles away.
Happy Birthday Jane. Make Paco take you someplace nice. For the love of God - don't go to Red Lobster.
Smooches.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Gary Busey's diet secrets
Watching Celebrity Fit Club and Gary Busey has lost 8 pounds (I have the day off and daytime TV sucks, what can I say??) and they asked him the secret of his success and what he said was "Nutri-system, mango juice, water, something something", but what I heard was "constant diet of crazy crazy crazy wheeeee!!!!!!!!!"
from here to there
I have a confession to make. I, well. I used to scrapbook. *sob* I know!! There you are, thinking I'm just way too cool for that sort of thing....
You can stop laughing now, really it's just not dignified.....hmph.
Seriously - I used to really enjoy scrapbooking. For the record, I am NOT a pink bunnies and hearts kind of person. Yes, I like the stickers, but there's a shocking lack of pink in my scrapbooks, even on the pages involving the birth of my daughter. I would go to scrapbook thingies (yes, they're called "crops", and yes, I would actually use the word "crop" as a noun not referring to an agricultural phenomenon and I'd use it as a verb not referring to chopping something off...shut.up.) and I'd wish I'd brought my CD player and headphones so I could listen to Prodigy or something, because inevitably some woman would start talking about her playgroup or Sunday school or breast-feeding or something and GAH. I can tell a birth story with the best of them (21 hours of labor, yelled at the doctor to "JUST GET IT OUT OF ME", thankyouverymuch) but seriously, I do not need to hear about your placenta AGAIN.
And it's not that there's anything WRONG with those things. OK? I'm a mom, HI! But...it's not ALL that I am. The whole reason why the scrapbooking thing is coming up is because I'd like to get back into it right now. I just ordered some pictures off of Snapfish and I have pictures from the Great Plains Road Trip that I'd like to get printed. But see, the pictures I have are pictures of me and my daughter being silly (one in particular is me flipping my daughter off and grinning like a loon) and me and Jane desperately clutching bottles of beer while watching Elliot light firecrackers by my car, and me and my boyfriend at a party. And I'm sort of wondering how to PhotoShop the wine blush before I print the pictures and if they have Camel Light and Lone Star stickers to properly accessorize the pictures of me and Max standing there, holding plastic cups of keg beer and cigarettes boozily holding each other up at midnight on Friday night. Somehow, I think when the Alpha Mommy of the Crop comes floating through the fellowship hall of St. Whoozit's Methodist up in Round Rock to see what everybody's working on and comes from Beta Mommy's breast-feeding shots to my table and sees what I'm working on, well....I guess I won't have to worry about them bothering me anymore, huh??
This has been part of the whole issue with me and mom-based groups.....and I've noticed it with some other moms on the internet - unfortunately, they seem to live in Chicago and Kansas and well, I suppose they live everywhere. There's this feeling with moms that a)if you don't eat, sleep, breathe, EXUDE your children you must be doing something wrongwrongwrong and b)if you're not doing it in the most frilly, pink, lacy, appliqued way possible, you're wrongwrongwrong.
I have three words for that - fuck. that. noise.
I just don't understand losing myself in my kids. Does that make me a bad mom?? I don't know - it just seems like losing my identity to my children does the children a disservice. If mom doesn't have a strong identity, who suffers? Um - the kids...hello... So - losing your identity, giving up everything you *ARE* for this idea of *SHOULD* for your kids doesn't do them any good.
Does this mean that you should do whatever the fuck you want whenever you want, let your freak flag fly, damn the torpedoes, I'm an individual dammit whooo!! UM no - you have to take some responsibility. But the whole concept of mother = sacrifice and NOTHING ELSE is really starting to frost my wienie over here. Mother = sacrifice, wife = sacrifice, daughter = sacrifice....apparently a woman's job is to give up everything that makes her a person. Um...no...? I refuse to accept that bullshit and I refuse to take that on. And I refuse to figure out how I got here from scrapbooking. *cough* anyway
I don't know - I just get tired of these women that martyr the shit out of themselves - they wonder why they're tired all the damn time, but then they talk about the how they're constantly driving to this, baking, sewing, doing, blah blah blah blahing, and never in there is mentioned anything resembling taking care of themselves. When that's pointed out, they respond "oh, well I'm a mom, that's part of the job." Um...no - part of the job is to set an example of how an adult lives their life, and adults set priorities and take care of themselves, which you're not doing you silly bitch...bah.
Look, I love my daughter. I love her beyond reason. I have baked muffins at midnight when I've needed to. I've gotten up at 5:30 in the morning to drop her off for field trips and I've spent my last dollar on school supplies before. I've also told her NO, I'm not driving you a block away because you have feet, it's a safe neighborhood and it's a pretty day - get to hoofin'. I've told her that she can go talk to the salesclerk herself because I won't always be with her. I've told her that she needs to learn how to make her own damn breakfast because I won't always be there. She makes a better pot of coffee than I do. She also makes a better vodka tonic. Scoff at that if you want to, but this is the child that I can trust at home with her friends. This is the child who charms the pants off of my friends. This is the child who wanted me to call HER when I got home from a party on Saturday night so she knew I was OK. I give her a ration of shit, but I will rip anybody, including her father, a new asshole if they say anything I think is unfair about my daughter.
I don't squash my identity for my child, and I don't expect her to ever squash hers for anybody else, be it a boyfriend, girlfriend, spouse, child, whatever. We may butt heads from time to time, and I can guarantee that she'll butt heads with folks in her future. But she'll be happy and strong in the long run. The folks with the bows and the pink and the schmoopy quotes in their scrapbooks may not understand this type of love. They see the picture of me flipping my child the bird and gasp in horror. They won't know that at the time it was taken, my daughter and I were laughing so hard that I almost had to pull the car to the side of the road. They don't understand how we work. Fuck 'em. They can cling and be so involved in every facet of their child's lives and have no identity of their own. If that is their form of happiness.....then I suppose more power to them. I can't live like that. I have to have MY self, MY time, MY crazy party pictures in the scrapbook. They'll be right after the pictures I take of my daughter sleeping and right before the one of me flipping her off. Heh.
smooches
You can stop laughing now, really it's just not dignified.....hmph.
Seriously - I used to really enjoy scrapbooking. For the record, I am NOT a pink bunnies and hearts kind of person. Yes, I like the stickers, but there's a shocking lack of pink in my scrapbooks, even on the pages involving the birth of my daughter. I would go to scrapbook thingies (yes, they're called "crops", and yes, I would actually use the word "crop" as a noun not referring to an agricultural phenomenon and I'd use it as a verb not referring to chopping something off...shut.up.) and I'd wish I'd brought my CD player and headphones so I could listen to Prodigy or something, because inevitably some woman would start talking about her playgroup or Sunday school or breast-feeding or something and GAH. I can tell a birth story with the best of them (21 hours of labor, yelled at the doctor to "JUST GET IT OUT OF ME", thankyouverymuch) but seriously, I do not need to hear about your placenta AGAIN.
And it's not that there's anything WRONG with those things. OK? I'm a mom, HI! But...it's not ALL that I am. The whole reason why the scrapbooking thing is coming up is because I'd like to get back into it right now. I just ordered some pictures off of Snapfish and I have pictures from the Great Plains Road Trip that I'd like to get printed. But see, the pictures I have are pictures of me and my daughter being silly (one in particular is me flipping my daughter off and grinning like a loon) and me and Jane desperately clutching bottles of beer while watching Elliot light firecrackers by my car, and me and my boyfriend at a party. And I'm sort of wondering how to PhotoShop the wine blush before I print the pictures and if they have Camel Light and Lone Star stickers to properly accessorize the pictures of me and Max standing there, holding plastic cups of keg beer and cigarettes boozily holding each other up at midnight on Friday night. Somehow, I think when the Alpha Mommy of the Crop comes floating through the fellowship hall of St. Whoozit's Methodist up in Round Rock to see what everybody's working on and comes from Beta Mommy's breast-feeding shots to my table and sees what I'm working on, well....I guess I won't have to worry about them bothering me anymore, huh??
This has been part of the whole issue with me and mom-based groups.....and I've noticed it with some other moms on the internet - unfortunately, they seem to live in Chicago and Kansas and well, I suppose they live everywhere. There's this feeling with moms that a)if you don't eat, sleep, breathe, EXUDE your children you must be doing something wrongwrongwrong and b)if you're not doing it in the most frilly, pink, lacy, appliqued way possible, you're wrongwrongwrong.
I have three words for that - fuck. that. noise.
I just don't understand losing myself in my kids. Does that make me a bad mom?? I don't know - it just seems like losing my identity to my children does the children a disservice. If mom doesn't have a strong identity, who suffers? Um - the kids...hello... So - losing your identity, giving up everything you *ARE* for this idea of *SHOULD* for your kids doesn't do them any good.
Does this mean that you should do whatever the fuck you want whenever you want, let your freak flag fly, damn the torpedoes, I'm an individual dammit whooo!! UM no - you have to take some responsibility. But the whole concept of mother = sacrifice and NOTHING ELSE is really starting to frost my wienie over here. Mother = sacrifice, wife = sacrifice, daughter = sacrifice....apparently a woman's job is to give up everything that makes her a person. Um...no...? I refuse to accept that bullshit and I refuse to take that on. And I refuse to figure out how I got here from scrapbooking. *cough* anyway
I don't know - I just get tired of these women that martyr the shit out of themselves - they wonder why they're tired all the damn time, but then they talk about the how they're constantly driving to this, baking, sewing, doing, blah blah blah blahing, and never in there is mentioned anything resembling taking care of themselves. When that's pointed out, they respond "oh, well I'm a mom, that's part of the job." Um...no - part of the job is to set an example of how an adult lives their life, and adults set priorities and take care of themselves, which you're not doing you silly bitch...bah.
Look, I love my daughter. I love her beyond reason. I have baked muffins at midnight when I've needed to. I've gotten up at 5:30 in the morning to drop her off for field trips and I've spent my last dollar on school supplies before. I've also told her NO, I'm not driving you a block away because you have feet, it's a safe neighborhood and it's a pretty day - get to hoofin'. I've told her that she can go talk to the salesclerk herself because I won't always be with her. I've told her that she needs to learn how to make her own damn breakfast because I won't always be there. She makes a better pot of coffee than I do. She also makes a better vodka tonic. Scoff at that if you want to, but this is the child that I can trust at home with her friends. This is the child who charms the pants off of my friends. This is the child who wanted me to call HER when I got home from a party on Saturday night so she knew I was OK. I give her a ration of shit, but I will rip anybody, including her father, a new asshole if they say anything I think is unfair about my daughter.
I don't squash my identity for my child, and I don't expect her to ever squash hers for anybody else, be it a boyfriend, girlfriend, spouse, child, whatever. We may butt heads from time to time, and I can guarantee that she'll butt heads with folks in her future. But she'll be happy and strong in the long run. The folks with the bows and the pink and the schmoopy quotes in their scrapbooks may not understand this type of love. They see the picture of me flipping my child the bird and gasp in horror. They won't know that at the time it was taken, my daughter and I were laughing so hard that I almost had to pull the car to the side of the road. They don't understand how we work. Fuck 'em. They can cling and be so involved in every facet of their child's lives and have no identity of their own. If that is their form of happiness.....then I suppose more power to them. I can't live like that. I have to have MY self, MY time, MY crazy party pictures in the scrapbook. They'll be right after the pictures I take of my daughter sleeping and right before the one of me flipping her off. Heh.
smooches
Friday, July 29, 2005
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Quickie
I need, in no particular order, the following:
two new bras (one black, one beige - the wimmins understand)
a milkshake
booze...lots of it
a day off
better time management skills so I can get all of my work done in a normal work day
a lackey to come organize my server area at work, because DAY-UM
someone to come do my laundry for me, because again with the DAY-UM
ok, let's face facts here, I need a mommy
time to actually FINISH one of the eleventy-jabillion books I've started lately
a kiss from my boyfriend (aaaaaw)
some ice for my not-quite-so-iced-anymore-tea
a pedicure (boy howdy do I need one of these)
any word on that milkshake?
Work is currently kicking my ASS, I've had a headache for 2 days - one of the railroad spike to the temple specialties too...loads o'fun, and I'm fighting that runaway car feeling again - you know, that feeling like everything in your life is spiraling out of control and there's not a damn thing you can do about it?
"Make a list."
Um..OK..yeah - I'll get right on that. First item - BREATHE.
So...eh - I don't mean to whine, but it's my journal and dammit I will. In reality, life's fucking peachy right now. Financially, I'm doing OK. I could learn to save money a little bit better, but my bills are getting paid, my kid and my cats are fed and I'm not freaking the fuck out like I was a couple of months ago. I'm not in danger of having to sell my ass or live under a bridge or anything....so...that's good.
Physically, the headache bites goat sack, but I'm OK. I joined a gym and actually WENT and have discovered that I do indeed still have muscles in my legs and ass, because now they all hurt. Goody. I can still run, and I still look like a penguin on meth when I do so. So yeah...that's good.
The kiddo and I aren't seeing a whole lot of each other lately, just 'cause I've got a boyfriend and the aforementioned work-kicked ass and she's doing the summer thing, where teenage girls turn into groups of locusts, moving from house to house, cleaning out the fridge and spending the night, only leaving behind empty Coke cans and the sounds of "ooohmagoodd!" (yes, they still say that.) But when we do see each other, we get along great. Well, Ok...great for a 13 year-old girl and her MOM...granted. I'm taking off next Monday (Hey! I get one of the things on my list! Cool) to hang out and do some girl stuff, so...that's good.
Max...heh..Max and I are doing just fine, thank you. That's very good.
There's tons and tons of stuff I want to talk about here, but I just don't have the time or energy to write it out right now. Feh. So instead, you get this. A list and a bullet update. Sorry guys. But seriously - in the past two weeks I've had server after server go tits up in one fashion or another and it's just been mass hysteria at work, and I've got upgrades coming up and a move at the end of August and AAAAAHHH!!!! So - soon! A rant on the myth of maternal instinct! and I'll tell you about my sex life! And some open letters! Or maybe you'll just see your local newscasters giggling about the chick in Texas who was found on the roof of her office building, mumbling "list list, need a list....list list, need a list..."
Who knows?
Kisses.
two new bras (one black, one beige - the wimmins understand)
a milkshake
booze...lots of it
a day off
better time management skills so I can get all of my work done in a normal work day
a lackey to come organize my server area at work, because DAY-UM
someone to come do my laundry for me, because again with the DAY-UM
ok, let's face facts here, I need a mommy
time to actually FINISH one of the eleventy-jabillion books I've started lately
a kiss from my boyfriend (aaaaaw)
some ice for my not-quite-so-iced-anymore-tea
a pedicure (boy howdy do I need one of these)
any word on that milkshake?
Work is currently kicking my ASS, I've had a headache for 2 days - one of the railroad spike to the temple specialties too...loads o'fun, and I'm fighting that runaway car feeling again - you know, that feeling like everything in your life is spiraling out of control and there's not a damn thing you can do about it?
"Make a list."
Um..OK..yeah - I'll get right on that. First item - BREATHE.
So...eh - I don't mean to whine, but it's my journal and dammit I will. In reality, life's fucking peachy right now. Financially, I'm doing OK. I could learn to save money a little bit better, but my bills are getting paid, my kid and my cats are fed and I'm not freaking the fuck out like I was a couple of months ago. I'm not in danger of having to sell my ass or live under a bridge or anything....so...that's good.
Physically, the headache bites goat sack, but I'm OK. I joined a gym and actually WENT and have discovered that I do indeed still have muscles in my legs and ass, because now they all hurt. Goody. I can still run, and I still look like a penguin on meth when I do so. So yeah...that's good.
The kiddo and I aren't seeing a whole lot of each other lately, just 'cause I've got a boyfriend and the aforementioned work-kicked ass and she's doing the summer thing, where teenage girls turn into groups of locusts, moving from house to house, cleaning out the fridge and spending the night, only leaving behind empty Coke cans and the sounds of "ooohmagoodd!" (yes, they still say that.) But when we do see each other, we get along great. Well, Ok...great for a 13 year-old girl and her MOM...granted. I'm taking off next Monday (Hey! I get one of the things on my list! Cool) to hang out and do some girl stuff, so...that's good.
Max...heh..Max and I are doing just fine, thank you. That's very good.
There's tons and tons of stuff I want to talk about here, but I just don't have the time or energy to write it out right now. Feh. So instead, you get this. A list and a bullet update. Sorry guys. But seriously - in the past two weeks I've had server after server go tits up in one fashion or another and it's just been mass hysteria at work, and I've got upgrades coming up and a move at the end of August and AAAAAHHH!!!! So - soon! A rant on the myth of maternal instinct! and I'll tell you about my sex life! And some open letters! Or maybe you'll just see your local newscasters giggling about the chick in Texas who was found on the roof of her office building, mumbling "list list, need a list....list list, need a list..."
Who knows?
Kisses.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Stranger danger
Question - Does a salad justify fried mozzarella sticks, or do fried mozzarella sticks cancel out the salad?? Discuss.
I've been inhabited lately by this awful woman. Seriously, this bitch is just....foul. She's not mean or vicious. I'm sure she'd make perfectly acceptable dinner company and she could be trusted to watch your children or your cats and maybe even water your plants on a regular basis. If you had her over for dinner, she probably wouldn't drink the last beer or clog the toilets or do anything gross in the flowerboxes. You might even want to go shopping with her. She's a snappy dresser!! If you don't mind flip-flops (see below.) But dude...I wouldn't want to date her, and I'm certainly not enjoying BEING her.
This woman is not me. I do not know who this woman is. I want her gone, evicted, booted out, shit-canned, eighty-sixed, exorcised, outta here. Whatever it takes. An old priest and a young priest? Fine. A diet? Fine. New meds? Fine. A daily exercise regimen? Fine. Give up alcohol? Well....let's not get crazy.
Seriously...I'm hearing the drivel coming out of my mouth and I just want to slap myself. Has this ever happened to you? You hear yourself talk and you just want to step outside of your body and yell at yourself?? Hmm...perhaps we've found part of the problem already.....
In the past two weeks, I've accused my boyfriend of not being attracted to me (Yes! Already! I KNOW!!) I've taken things personally that had NOTHING to do with me, I've cried for no reason, I've gotten mad for no reason, I've woken up angry, I've
gone to bed angry (I've been at home ALONE people!), I've flipped off total strangers for no good reason, I've generally turned into this surly, weepy, insecure, whiny, stompy, angry, grumpy, bitchy woman that I just do NOT WANT TO BE.
BAH.
Max has not done a single damn thing to EVER ever make me believe he doesn't find me interesting in any way. The woman he was attracted to was NOT this insecure, mealy-mouthed little bitch, but I can guaran-damn-tee you the woman he gets annoyed with
will be her. Wow...that was some awkward sentence structure right there....you might need to stretch a little after reading that...ow. But you got the point right? This version of Laura? She's that Nightmare Insecure High Maintenance Girlfriend. She's the woman I have prided myself on NOT BEING for 34 years. Ask my ex-husband, and even HE will tell you that I certainly have my issues, but this? NO, I'm not usually like this. "Do yeeew still loooove meeeee???" "Whaaat are yeew
thiiiinkiiiing???" Glllaaaaarrrgggg. Somebody shoot me! Pleeze.
So yeah - Max? I'm sorry baby. It's not you, it's me. Heh.
The other stuff??? I dunno....just weird stuff, like I've been convinced that the reason why BFF hasn't emailed me on some sort of regular basis (regular according to whom??) is because I've committed some kind of egregious error. I've pissed her
off in some way - by going to happy hours with the Austin crew (??) by taking pictures of the wrong things at the wedding rehearsal (wha?) by drinking two beers at the baseball game when we were in Lincoln (she got me the second one - hell, she
upgraded it!!) It couldn't possibly be that she's newly married, newly pregnant, just moved to a new town and just started a new job. Noooo - it's ALL. ABOUT. ME. See? Narcissism and paranoia - two great tastes that go great together!
Last night I almost got out of my truck and told a trucker to fuck off because I *thought* he honked his horn at me. Wrap your mind fully around this mental image: Me - in a sleeveless top, skirt and sparkly flip-flops (yes, I'm one of those women,
shut.up.) getting out of my car in the DARK on I-35, which has ONE LANE BLOCKED OFF, to go stand at the driver's side of an 18-WHEELER to tell the driver to fuck off, because I THOUGHT he honked at me. UM. Yeah. That's not the first time I had to talk myself down from a ledge over the past couple of weeks, either.
That, and the fatigue, and the obvious lack of focus exhibited in yesterday's entry (I swear, no crack was involved in that, I just got to a certain point and threw up my hands in disgust and hit publish) and I..just..I....I quit.
I had an appointment with the meds doc yesterday (as my entire readership - all 3 of you - breathes a sigh of relief) and she upped the meds I'm on...which is new stuff from what I HAD been on, which...eh...long story. My "issues" are not even comparable to some folks out there - we won't even start that discussion. I could probably deal with the grumpies - sometimes I actually sort of enjoy being in a bad mood. Hee. Stomping around all sort of angrily, projecting this kind of aura of "fuck off" is kind of nice - especially when you're 5'10" and have the physical presence to back it off. I am NOT one of those women that gets told "aw, you're cute when you're angry." I get told something more like, "dude...don't hit me, OK?" So being angry is not really that big of a deal to me. But I don't like walking around feeling defensive all the time, I do NOT like feeling like I'm going to cry all the time, and I most definitely do NOT enjoy being the type of woman who asks her boyfriend "what are you thinking?" when really all he's doing is wondering if he needs to get his oil changed or not.
Any of you folks need a roommate? I'll pay the bitch's first month rent!!! bah!!!
I've been inhabited lately by this awful woman. Seriously, this bitch is just....foul. She's not mean or vicious. I'm sure she'd make perfectly acceptable dinner company and she could be trusted to watch your children or your cats and maybe even water your plants on a regular basis. If you had her over for dinner, she probably wouldn't drink the last beer or clog the toilets or do anything gross in the flowerboxes. You might even want to go shopping with her. She's a snappy dresser!! If you don't mind flip-flops (see below.) But dude...I wouldn't want to date her, and I'm certainly not enjoying BEING her.
This woman is not me. I do not know who this woman is. I want her gone, evicted, booted out, shit-canned, eighty-sixed, exorcised, outta here. Whatever it takes. An old priest and a young priest? Fine. A diet? Fine. New meds? Fine. A daily exercise regimen? Fine. Give up alcohol? Well....let's not get crazy.
Seriously...I'm hearing the drivel coming out of my mouth and I just want to slap myself. Has this ever happened to you? You hear yourself talk and you just want to step outside of your body and yell at yourself?? Hmm...perhaps we've found part of the problem already.....
In the past two weeks, I've accused my boyfriend of not being attracted to me (Yes! Already! I KNOW!!) I've taken things personally that had NOTHING to do with me, I've cried for no reason, I've gotten mad for no reason, I've woken up angry, I've
gone to bed angry (I've been at home ALONE people!), I've flipped off total strangers for no good reason, I've generally turned into this surly, weepy, insecure, whiny, stompy, angry, grumpy, bitchy woman that I just do NOT WANT TO BE.
BAH.
Max has not done a single damn thing to EVER ever make me believe he doesn't find me interesting in any way. The woman he was attracted to was NOT this insecure, mealy-mouthed little bitch, but I can guaran-damn-tee you the woman he gets annoyed with
will be her. Wow...that was some awkward sentence structure right there....you might need to stretch a little after reading that...ow. But you got the point right? This version of Laura? She's that Nightmare Insecure High Maintenance Girlfriend. She's the woman I have prided myself on NOT BEING for 34 years. Ask my ex-husband, and even HE will tell you that I certainly have my issues, but this? NO, I'm not usually like this. "Do yeeew still loooove meeeee???" "Whaaat are yeew
thiiiinkiiiing???" Glllaaaaarrrgggg. Somebody shoot me! Pleeze.
So yeah - Max? I'm sorry baby. It's not you, it's me. Heh.
The other stuff??? I dunno....just weird stuff, like I've been convinced that the reason why BFF hasn't emailed me on some sort of regular basis (regular according to whom??) is because I've committed some kind of egregious error. I've pissed her
off in some way - by going to happy hours with the Austin crew (??) by taking pictures of the wrong things at the wedding rehearsal (wha?) by drinking two beers at the baseball game when we were in Lincoln (she got me the second one - hell, she
upgraded it!!) It couldn't possibly be that she's newly married, newly pregnant, just moved to a new town and just started a new job. Noooo - it's ALL. ABOUT. ME. See? Narcissism and paranoia - two great tastes that go great together!
Last night I almost got out of my truck and told a trucker to fuck off because I *thought* he honked his horn at me. Wrap your mind fully around this mental image: Me - in a sleeveless top, skirt and sparkly flip-flops (yes, I'm one of those women,
shut.up.) getting out of my car in the DARK on I-35, which has ONE LANE BLOCKED OFF, to go stand at the driver's side of an 18-WHEELER to tell the driver to fuck off, because I THOUGHT he honked at me. UM. Yeah. That's not the first time I had to talk myself down from a ledge over the past couple of weeks, either.
That, and the fatigue, and the obvious lack of focus exhibited in yesterday's entry (I swear, no crack was involved in that, I just got to a certain point and threw up my hands in disgust and hit publish) and I..just..I....I quit.
I had an appointment with the meds doc yesterday (as my entire readership - all 3 of you - breathes a sigh of relief) and she upped the meds I'm on...which is new stuff from what I HAD been on, which...eh...long story. My "issues" are not even comparable to some folks out there - we won't even start that discussion. I could probably deal with the grumpies - sometimes I actually sort of enjoy being in a bad mood. Hee. Stomping around all sort of angrily, projecting this kind of aura of "fuck off" is kind of nice - especially when you're 5'10" and have the physical presence to back it off. I am NOT one of those women that gets told "aw, you're cute when you're angry." I get told something more like, "dude...don't hit me, OK?" So being angry is not really that big of a deal to me. But I don't like walking around feeling defensive all the time, I do NOT like feeling like I'm going to cry all the time, and I most definitely do NOT enjoy being the type of woman who asks her boyfriend "what are you thinking?" when really all he's doing is wondering if he needs to get his oil changed or not.
Any of you folks need a roommate? I'll pay the bitch's first month rent!!! bah!!!
Monday, July 18, 2005
I...don't...know.....
Ok, first?? HA!!!
Second - Yes! I'm still alive! HI!
Last week was The Suck at work. I don't really want to talk too much about work stuff here because HI - I like to eat. Suffice it to say, Suu-uuu-uuu-UCK.
I am tired. I do not know why I am so tired. Every time I say I'm tired at work, I get leered at. Which y'know..if that were why I were so tired, I probably wouldn't be so tired, in a bizarre twist of logic.
Seriously, don't you find that when you get to spend the night before staying up screwing, you're not really *tired* the next day, whereas if you stay up until 3AM drinking, fighting, reading, watching TV, whatevering - you're just exhausted? No....just me? I'm the only....? OK-never-mind-moving-on..
So no - despite the wonderful and insanely talented Max, I am not tired due to a wacky schedule of trapeze sex. Sorry to disappoint. I'm just...tired. I remember feeling this way before I started taking meds. This constant low level fatigue, this feeling of being able to just curl up and take a nap anywhere, anytime. I go over to Max's after work for a visit and it's tempting to just curl up in his bed instead of hanging out. I get home - sleep please. I'm hitting my snooze ....lots. Thing is? I'm not sleeping worth a SHIT at night. So..um..what the?
I remember before I started the AD's that I was tired all the time - that's normal. But I also remember that I could sleep like a mofo. The first couple of questions they ask you in a depression screening are "do you have trouble sleeping?" NO!! And "Do you have problems with your appetite?" um...only if you consider the fact that I EAT LIKE A FUCKING PIG a problem....???
So yeah....this no sleep thing? This is new and weird and entirely unwelcome. I like my sleep. I've always enjoyed the fact that I CAN sleep, that I need very few rituals or special blankets or pillows or any of that. As long as the temperature is reasonable and I'm not sleeping on ground glass, I'm usually good to go for at least the first night. The notable exception is hotels. I can NOT sleep in a hotel (motel, whatever) for the first, like, three nights. Which makes me a cranky bitch on vacation...which yes, Virginia, defies the whole purpose of vacation. This is why I like vacations that involve a surplus of alcohol and a dearth of itineraries. Really - it's best for everyone involved if the closest thing to setting an itinerary on my vacation goes something like this:
"Ok, Laura - we have to be at the airport at noon in 4 days. Can you be sober and packed by then??"
"Absholooodley....had me anudder beer and go 'way."
heh
Actually - I'm a blast to travel with. NO! Really! I fall asleep in the car, unless I'm driving, which I'm totally willing to do. I'm not terribly picky about where I pee or eat on the road. I'm pretty flexible about temperature and music - I'm like a dog! Wait....
I just don't like over-planned trips.
And I digress...a lot...because somehow I got from the fact that my meds need to be either changed or increased to the fact that traveling with me is a lot like traveling with a Jack Russell with a license.
Thus proving my point.....y'all have a good one.
Second - Yes! I'm still alive! HI!
Last week was The Suck at work. I don't really want to talk too much about work stuff here because HI - I like to eat. Suffice it to say, Suu-uuu-uuu-UCK.
I am tired. I do not know why I am so tired. Every time I say I'm tired at work, I get leered at. Which y'know..if that were why I were so tired, I probably wouldn't be so tired, in a bizarre twist of logic.
Seriously, don't you find that when you get to spend the night before staying up screwing, you're not really *tired* the next day, whereas if you stay up until 3AM drinking, fighting, reading, watching TV, whatevering - you're just exhausted? No....just me? I'm the only....? OK-never-mind-moving-on..
So no - despite the wonderful and insanely talented Max, I am not tired due to a wacky schedule of trapeze sex. Sorry to disappoint. I'm just...tired. I remember feeling this way before I started taking meds. This constant low level fatigue, this feeling of being able to just curl up and take a nap anywhere, anytime. I go over to Max's after work for a visit and it's tempting to just curl up in his bed instead of hanging out. I get home - sleep please. I'm hitting my snooze ....lots. Thing is? I'm not sleeping worth a SHIT at night. So..um..what the?
I remember before I started the AD's that I was tired all the time - that's normal. But I also remember that I could sleep like a mofo. The first couple of questions they ask you in a depression screening are "do you have trouble sleeping?" NO!! And "Do you have problems with your appetite?" um...only if you consider the fact that I EAT LIKE A FUCKING PIG a problem....???
So yeah....this no sleep thing? This is new and weird and entirely unwelcome. I like my sleep. I've always enjoyed the fact that I CAN sleep, that I need very few rituals or special blankets or pillows or any of that. As long as the temperature is reasonable and I'm not sleeping on ground glass, I'm usually good to go for at least the first night. The notable exception is hotels. I can NOT sleep in a hotel (motel, whatever) for the first, like, three nights. Which makes me a cranky bitch on vacation...which yes, Virginia, defies the whole purpose of vacation. This is why I like vacations that involve a surplus of alcohol and a dearth of itineraries. Really - it's best for everyone involved if the closest thing to setting an itinerary on my vacation goes something like this:
"Ok, Laura - we have to be at the airport at noon in 4 days. Can you be sober and packed by then??"
"Absholooodley....had me anudder beer and go 'way."
heh
Actually - I'm a blast to travel with. NO! Really! I fall asleep in the car, unless I'm driving, which I'm totally willing to do. I'm not terribly picky about where I pee or eat on the road. I'm pretty flexible about temperature and music - I'm like a dog! Wait....
I just don't like over-planned trips.
And I digress...a lot...because somehow I got from the fact that my meds need to be either changed or increased to the fact that traveling with me is a lot like traveling with a Jack Russell with a license.
Thus proving my point.....y'all have a good one.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Great Plains Road Trip of '05
HI! Yeah, we went to Kansas and Nebraska, we met Jane, we saw BFF, we're back, that's it.
What? you want more? Oh, fine.
We hit I35, heading north about 8AM on Friday. We drove....for a loooong time. About 45 years later we made it through Oklahoma. Seriously - Oklahoma takes a long time to get through. I'm from Texas, y'all - I KNOW from taking forever to get through a state. Maybe it's because Oklahoma was just sort of in my way the whole time. No offense, Oklahoma - I'm sure you're a lovely state. Actually, driving through, the southern part is just gorgeous. But...I wasn't visiting anything/body there - just trying to get through it. Anyway, Oklahoma - it goes on forever. You probably won't see that on their license plates anytime soon.
Yes, Jane did indeed greet me by pulling a knife on me. Actually, she greeted me with "I don't hug", THEN she pulled a knife on me. But then she offered me a slice of the fresh peach that she was slicing with aforementioned knife, so it was all good. She then proceeded to spend the rest of the visit offering me beer and food - which is the quickest way to my heart. If you're ever in Kansas (or Nebraska - they sell it there too!(I'm sure it's available in other parts of the Midwest, just not Texas, sob!)) there's this Boulevard wheat beer (Jane, help me out here) that's just delicious. Get some, consume, lather, rinse, repeat. One warning - do not consume with food, or you will soon resemble a beached whale. WHEAT BEER. Just sayin'.
The in-law's house is lovely - Paco's dad apparently built it himself, and it is bee-yoo-tee-ful.
Jane is adorable - do not let anything she says about herself in her journal fool you. She also talks EXACTLY how she writes - big words and all. LOVE!!
Paco, Holly and Elliot are all just as beautiful in person as they are in pictures. I know - unbelievable, huh?? Kiddo's remark - "That entire family has beautiful blue eyes - all four of them. It's just disgusting." Hee.
Our visit was entirely too short - made shorter by the fact that I'm a complete dork and didn't pay any attention to the directions given to me by Mapquest, BFF AND my boyfriend. BAH. So yeah - going to Salina, KS?? TAKE 135!!!!! Just a suggestion.
Also? The folks in Kansas? So friendly!! The toll road employees are very nice when you do things like freak out and hysterically tell them that you have taken the wrong exit and need to pull a U-turn in the middle of the toll plaza. They stopped traffic for me! (BTW - that was my exit and totally where I SHOULD have gotten off. HEH) They are also really understanding when you do things like HIT THE TOLL BOOTH (yep) in an effort to get closer (??) and then ask for directions to a bathroom (the kid needed to go!) and then give them a 10 dollar bill for a 75 cent toll. Hee. No wonder Texans have such a bad rep. HI! SORRY KANSAS!! I'm actually really cool! Call me!
So yeah. Kansas - y'all rock. Next time I'll stay longer and try not to dork out quite so much in your state. Oh, and I'll obey the speed limit (thanks for just letting me off with just a warning, Mr. State Trooper Guy - also very friendly!!) and I'll actually spend some money, instead of just using the bathrooms for free. Hee.
The next morning there was coffee and cinnamon rolls and gossip and then we left for Nebraska. Wheee! Our directions to BFF's house involved the phrase "look for the 'Prick of the Prairie'" (the Nebraska capitol building, which is actually quite lovely, but does indeed look like a giant penis. Uncut. Just sayin'.)
BFF and To be named* have a cute little red brick house on the Sout' Siiiide of Lincoln. heh. Seriously. Cuuuute red brick house, garden in the back (with rabbits! who has rabbits in the city limits?? Folks who live in Lincoln, NE, that's who!!)
Oh, the next three days are a blur of food and fireworks. We went to a Saltdogs game, which was! SO! FUN! The Saltdogs kicked ASS, BTW. I don't even LIKE baseball, and I had a blast.
The next day, we went to TBN's parent's house, where there was foooooooood. Oh my GOD, was there food. Fruit salad, fresh pea salad, potato salad, this corn/macaroni and cheese casserole stuff, loose meat sandwiches, Polish dogs, regular hot dogs, sliced tomatoes, pasta salad and four different desserts (home made ice cream w/ home made fudge sauce, brownies with frosting, brownies WITHOUT frosting and some sort of cherry bar thing.)
Admittedly, there were 17 people there - BUT!!! There were LEFTOVERS!!! GAH!!! SO. MUCH. FOOD.
I think I may still be digesting portions of that meal. uuuuuuuh.
And there were fireworks. Good lord, were there fireworks. Apparently the laws about fireworks are a little different in Nebraska than in Texas, in that you can actually, oooh, GET THEM AND SET THEM OFF, so TBN and his brothers (3 of the 5, he also has a sister) had around $200 worth of fireworks, ranging from those black cats, to the little sparkly whirly things that stay on the ground, to the BIG boom! WOW! things that I just don't know the name of. yeah...cooooool. Hours, and I mean that literally, of entertainment.
Now see - that was the THIRD of July. We'd had fireworks on Friday night when we came in to Kansas (thanks Elliot!), on Saturday at the Saltdogs game, on the third at the Named's place, so on the fourth, what did we do?? Why we sat on the front lawn of BFF's house and watched a whole bunch of shows in the distance. Again, lots of fireworks available to just normal folks living in the city limits. Then, we had two professional shows that we could see off in the distance. And then - at 10:00, the good stuff - the Lincoln Country Club started their show. Whooo!! And after that, there was pie. Because the pregnant lady needed pie.
Oh? Did I forget to mention that part?? Heh. BFF is pregnant! WHOO! (Actually, I've known since mid-May, but we've reached the official "it's OK to announce time" so - Hey Internet! My best friend's gonna have a baaaybeeeee!!) So yeah, at one point we were joking around w/ sparklers and somebody mentioned apple pie, and she got that pregnant lady gleam in her eye. Luckily, Village Inn (yum) was open late on the 4th and we scooted in for some 11PM pie. Whee.
The next day, we left. SOB!!! And we drove. And drove. And drove. And drove. And then for kicks, we drove some more. And then we got to Oklahoma, where I gave up and decided to just move to the side of the highway, which is where I'm sitting right now while I write this.
No - seriously - I pulled a marathon driving thing (left Lincoln about 10AM, pulled into Round Rock about 11:30PM) got lectured the next day about how unsafe that was by my mother (thanks mom) and now I'm back.
It was fun. Loads and loads of fun. Next time, I will fly.
Heh.
Smooches!!
*I couldn't think of a pseudonym, so he got that, and I think I like it, so there we go - BFF's husband shall now be referred to as TBN. Don't like it? Start your own journal and give him a name of your own. hmph.
What? you want more? Oh, fine.
We hit I35, heading north about 8AM on Friday. We drove....for a loooong time. About 45 years later we made it through Oklahoma. Seriously - Oklahoma takes a long time to get through. I'm from Texas, y'all - I KNOW from taking forever to get through a state. Maybe it's because Oklahoma was just sort of in my way the whole time. No offense, Oklahoma - I'm sure you're a lovely state. Actually, driving through, the southern part is just gorgeous. But...I wasn't visiting anything/body there - just trying to get through it. Anyway, Oklahoma - it goes on forever. You probably won't see that on their license plates anytime soon.
Yes, Jane did indeed greet me by pulling a knife on me. Actually, she greeted me with "I don't hug", THEN she pulled a knife on me. But then she offered me a slice of the fresh peach that she was slicing with aforementioned knife, so it was all good. She then proceeded to spend the rest of the visit offering me beer and food - which is the quickest way to my heart. If you're ever in Kansas (or Nebraska - they sell it there too!(I'm sure it's available in other parts of the Midwest, just not Texas, sob!)) there's this Boulevard wheat beer (Jane, help me out here) that's just delicious. Get some, consume, lather, rinse, repeat. One warning - do not consume with food, or you will soon resemble a beached whale. WHEAT BEER. Just sayin'.
The in-law's house is lovely - Paco's dad apparently built it himself, and it is bee-yoo-tee-ful.
Jane is adorable - do not let anything she says about herself in her journal fool you. She also talks EXACTLY how she writes - big words and all. LOVE!!
Paco, Holly and Elliot are all just as beautiful in person as they are in pictures. I know - unbelievable, huh?? Kiddo's remark - "That entire family has beautiful blue eyes - all four of them. It's just disgusting." Hee.
Our visit was entirely too short - made shorter by the fact that I'm a complete dork and didn't pay any attention to the directions given to me by Mapquest, BFF AND my boyfriend. BAH. So yeah - going to Salina, KS?? TAKE 135!!!!! Just a suggestion.
Also? The folks in Kansas? So friendly!! The toll road employees are very nice when you do things like freak out and hysterically tell them that you have taken the wrong exit and need to pull a U-turn in the middle of the toll plaza. They stopped traffic for me! (BTW - that was my exit and totally where I SHOULD have gotten off. HEH) They are also really understanding when you do things like HIT THE TOLL BOOTH (yep) in an effort to get closer (??) and then ask for directions to a bathroom (the kid needed to go!) and then give them a 10 dollar bill for a 75 cent toll. Hee. No wonder Texans have such a bad rep. HI! SORRY KANSAS!! I'm actually really cool! Call me!
So yeah. Kansas - y'all rock. Next time I'll stay longer and try not to dork out quite so much in your state. Oh, and I'll obey the speed limit (thanks for just letting me off with just a warning, Mr. State Trooper Guy - also very friendly!!) and I'll actually spend some money, instead of just using the bathrooms for free. Hee.
The next morning there was coffee and cinnamon rolls and gossip and then we left for Nebraska. Wheee! Our directions to BFF's house involved the phrase "look for the 'Prick of the Prairie'" (the Nebraska capitol building, which is actually quite lovely, but does indeed look like a giant penis. Uncut. Just sayin'.)
BFF and To be named* have a cute little red brick house on the Sout' Siiiide of Lincoln. heh. Seriously. Cuuuute red brick house, garden in the back (with rabbits! who has rabbits in the city limits?? Folks who live in Lincoln, NE, that's who!!)
Oh, the next three days are a blur of food and fireworks. We went to a Saltdogs game, which was! SO! FUN! The Saltdogs kicked ASS, BTW. I don't even LIKE baseball, and I had a blast.
The next day, we went to TBN's parent's house, where there was foooooooood. Oh my GOD, was there food. Fruit salad, fresh pea salad, potato salad, this corn/macaroni and cheese casserole stuff, loose meat sandwiches, Polish dogs, regular hot dogs, sliced tomatoes, pasta salad and four different desserts (home made ice cream w/ home made fudge sauce, brownies with frosting, brownies WITHOUT frosting and some sort of cherry bar thing.)
Admittedly, there were 17 people there - BUT!!! There were LEFTOVERS!!! GAH!!! SO. MUCH. FOOD.
I think I may still be digesting portions of that meal. uuuuuuuh.
And there were fireworks. Good lord, were there fireworks. Apparently the laws about fireworks are a little different in Nebraska than in Texas, in that you can actually, oooh, GET THEM AND SET THEM OFF, so TBN and his brothers (3 of the 5, he also has a sister) had around $200 worth of fireworks, ranging from those black cats, to the little sparkly whirly things that stay on the ground, to the BIG boom! WOW! things that I just don't know the name of. yeah...cooooool. Hours, and I mean that literally, of entertainment.
Now see - that was the THIRD of July. We'd had fireworks on Friday night when we came in to Kansas (thanks Elliot!), on Saturday at the Saltdogs game, on the third at the Named's place, so on the fourth, what did we do?? Why we sat on the front lawn of BFF's house and watched a whole bunch of shows in the distance. Again, lots of fireworks available to just normal folks living in the city limits. Then, we had two professional shows that we could see off in the distance. And then - at 10:00, the good stuff - the Lincoln Country Club started their show. Whooo!! And after that, there was pie. Because the pregnant lady needed pie.
Oh? Did I forget to mention that part?? Heh. BFF is pregnant! WHOO! (Actually, I've known since mid-May, but we've reached the official "it's OK to announce time" so - Hey Internet! My best friend's gonna have a baaaybeeeee!!) So yeah, at one point we were joking around w/ sparklers and somebody mentioned apple pie, and she got that pregnant lady gleam in her eye. Luckily, Village Inn (yum) was open late on the 4th and we scooted in for some 11PM pie. Whee.
The next day, we left. SOB!!! And we drove. And drove. And drove. And drove. And then for kicks, we drove some more. And then we got to Oklahoma, where I gave up and decided to just move to the side of the highway, which is where I'm sitting right now while I write this.
No - seriously - I pulled a marathon driving thing (left Lincoln about 10AM, pulled into Round Rock about 11:30PM) got lectured the next day about how unsafe that was by my mother (thanks mom) and now I'm back.
It was fun. Loads and loads of fun. Next time, I will fly.
Heh.
Smooches!!
*I couldn't think of a pseudonym, so he got that, and I think I like it, so there we go - BFF's husband shall now be referred to as TBN. Don't like it? Start your own journal and give him a name of your own. hmph.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
workin' on it
Trip re-cap in progress. But let me just say - Oklahoma?? Takes for-fucking-EVER to get through. GAh!!!!
Thursday, June 30, 2005
open letter
Dear Dude at Starbucks,
Ok, first off, an apology is probably in order. You caught me on the first bad mood morning I've had in a long time. And while I wasn't exactly bitchy, I guess I was...curt. But dude....c'mon. First you pick on me about how I pour half of my coffee out. (Actually - I order a smaller size in a larger cup, so that I don't have to pour half of it out - they fucked up.) Then - "Oh - you like it creamy, huh?"
YOU LIKE IT CREAMY?????
Dude...no. Just...NO. I'm sure you weren't trying to be smarmy. In fact, at that point, I think you realized what had just escaped your face and had the self respect to just shut up and move on with your day. Which is cool. Good for you. Again, I've had some exceptional mornings lately, but ask any of my friends - even with this freaky good mood streak I'm on? Pre-9AM + pre-caffeine + "You like it creamy?" You're lucky you still got kneecaps, buddy.
Just for future reference, because you seemed like a really nice guy (see above in re: self-awareness of when foot went into mouth and the brain power to STFU at that point) the morning crowd at a Starbuck's might not be the best place for the critiquing-the-cup-of-coffee-as-the-icebreaker approach. Not to dis your game there, homestack, but - as a hopeless caffeine junkie, I can tell you, even on the best of days, nothing makes me bristle faster than somebody talking smack about how I take my coffee. Us morning coffee girls, we like to get in, get our fix and get on with the day. No chit-chat, hit us with the hard stuff and move along. Most of the time, we're running late - why? BECAUSE WE HAVEN'T HAD OUR COFFEE YET. Sensing a theme here??
So, Mr. Creamy (heh) - polish up your game (I'll say it again - "you like it creamy?" has GOT TO GO) and take it to the afternoon shift. Do NOT let me seeing you sipping anything that ends in 'cino and uses a straw - those are for girls and teenaged boys. But - stick w/ the hot drinks and the occasional manly iced coffee, and you'll see - you'll be knee-deep in some highly caffeinated stuff before Labor Day.
Good luck my friend!!
Laura
Ok, first off, an apology is probably in order. You caught me on the first bad mood morning I've had in a long time. And while I wasn't exactly bitchy, I guess I was...curt. But dude....c'mon. First you pick on me about how I pour half of my coffee out. (Actually - I order a smaller size in a larger cup, so that I don't have to pour half of it out - they fucked up.) Then - "Oh - you like it creamy, huh?"
YOU LIKE IT CREAMY?????
Dude...no. Just...NO. I'm sure you weren't trying to be smarmy. In fact, at that point, I think you realized what had just escaped your face and had the self respect to just shut up and move on with your day. Which is cool. Good for you. Again, I've had some exceptional mornings lately, but ask any of my friends - even with this freaky good mood streak I'm on? Pre-9AM + pre-caffeine + "You like it creamy?" You're lucky you still got kneecaps, buddy.
Just for future reference, because you seemed like a really nice guy (see above in re: self-awareness of when foot went into mouth and the brain power to STFU at that point) the morning crowd at a Starbuck's might not be the best place for the critiquing-the-cup-of-coffee-as-the-icebreaker approach. Not to dis your game there, homestack, but - as a hopeless caffeine junkie, I can tell you, even on the best of days, nothing makes me bristle faster than somebody talking smack about how I take my coffee. Us morning coffee girls, we like to get in, get our fix and get on with the day. No chit-chat, hit us with the hard stuff and move along. Most of the time, we're running late - why? BECAUSE WE HAVEN'T HAD OUR COFFEE YET. Sensing a theme here??
So, Mr. Creamy (heh) - polish up your game (I'll say it again - "you like it creamy?" has GOT TO GO) and take it to the afternoon shift. Do NOT let me seeing you sipping anything that ends in 'cino and uses a straw - those are for girls and teenaged boys. But - stick w/ the hot drinks and the occasional manly iced coffee, and you'll see - you'll be knee-deep in some highly caffeinated stuff before Labor Day.
Good luck my friend!!
Laura
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Listing
Before I get started, I want to thank you guys for the sweet comments about my dad. Thank you thank you thank you. Hugs and kisses to each and every one of you.
Moving on to the fun stuff ('cause the sad stuff will come hot and heavy in later entries, I fear.)
Road trip!!! Whoooo!!!!
Yes, this Friday, the kiddo and I load up Nelly (my car, and yes I'm one of those freaks who names her cars and NO she is not named after the rapper, she is named in the spirit of "Whoa Nelly". Shut. up.) and we head north to Kansas and then Nebraska! whoo hoo!
I told y'all yesterday that I get to meet Jane - which is true - but that's only the little teensy tip of my trip iceberg. After spending Friday night in Salina, KS partying with Jane and Paco (You know yer jealous) we load back up and drive to Lincoln, Nebraska to visit BFF* and her new husband and in-laws. Whee!!!! Fourth of July in the Mid-west - what's more American than THAT???
BFF said "yeah - come on up, we'll blow shit up and grill things!" I told her it sounded a lot like spending the Fourth in Louisiana, except it's blowing shit up and boiling things down there. heh.
So yes - loooooong stretches of flaaaaat road in my immediate future, punctuated by two of the coolest women I've ever met and have yet to meet. Of course, after all the hard-core partying and fun, I get to spend all damn day driving back on Tuesday.
Twelve hours of I35, y'all. With a 13 year-old. Gak. Send help...and caffeine.
Because I am the MOST organized person in the world (Jane, stop laughing) I'm getting all my travel stuff together NOW, two days before my trip. What? I'm not FLYING....it's not like I have to clear CUSTOMS or anything...damn.
I've got my oil changed, my tires rotated (of course, now my car feels all wonky and out of alignment, fothamucka), directions to BFF's house, Jane's cell number, directions to Salina (get on I35, go north, stop when you see the big "Welcome to Salina sign", moron), and the list-making has started.
Oh, the lists. heh. Max and I sat on his couch last night, he with a cigarette and some W-induced ire (not a Bush man, my boy...not a Bush man at all) I with my lists. He took a moment from ranting to look over.
"Four pages???"
"No...four different lists."
"....?"
"What???"
"NOthin' baby." (scoots over juuuust a bit further)
Yes - four lists. What I'm bringing to wear (no, it does not just say "clothes", smart ass - I'm a girl, it can't possibly be that easy) another of what I'm bringing for other people (I'm a Southern girl, and we are incapable of showing up empty-handed, it's genetic), a third list of things I need to do before I leave and then the fourth list...shit...what's the fourth list...? Hang on. Ha! It's just 3 lists!! I just folded the paper into 4 sections and had scribbled on the fourth section and he just thought it was four, and that completely vindicates me a sane person, right???
SHUT. UP.
Am I the only person in the world who has to squish the urge to go shopping for all new stuff before a trip of any sort?? I have a gafrillion tote bags, a closet full of clothes (that all fit! whoo!) yet, somehow I feel like I need to go get NEW stuff for this trip..what? why? is this a girl thing?? Somebody help me understand this. Because I am stumped. I'm also staying the hell away from Target right now. Because I just KNOW that I'll walk in there, all "OK, buying cotton balls and trash bags" and I'll end up walking out w/ a brand new toiletry case and $50 worth of tank tops. mmmmmm....taaaaaank tooooppssss. wha? sorry. But seriously - why this compulsion to get new stuff?
Hmmmm.....do I admit here that I'm a little nervous about meeting Jane in person?? Discuss.
smooches.
*If y'all remember, BFF=Best Friend Forever - she got married on April 23rd to a wonderful dude who then took her up to the Heartland (Lincoln, Nebraska). Which y'know, yay love and all, but SOB!
Moving on to the fun stuff ('cause the sad stuff will come hot and heavy in later entries, I fear.)
Yes, this Friday, the kiddo and I load up Nelly (my car, and yes I'm one of those freaks who names her cars and NO she is not named after the rapper, she is named in the spirit of "Whoa Nelly". Shut. up.) and we head north to Kansas and then Nebraska! whoo hoo!
I told y'all yesterday that I get to meet Jane - which is true - but that's only the little teensy tip of my trip iceberg. After spending Friday night in Salina, KS partying with Jane and Paco (You know yer jealous) we load back up and drive to Lincoln, Nebraska to visit BFF* and her new husband and in-laws. Whee!!!! Fourth of July in the Mid-west - what's more American than THAT???
BFF said "yeah - come on up, we'll blow shit up and grill things!" I told her it sounded a lot like spending the Fourth in Louisiana, except it's blowing shit up and boiling things down there. heh.
So yes - loooooong stretches of flaaaaat road in my immediate future, punctuated by two of the coolest women I've ever met and have yet to meet. Of course, after all the hard-core partying and fun, I get to spend all damn day driving back on Tuesday.
Twelve hours of I35, y'all. With a 13 year-old. Gak. Send help...and caffeine.
Because I am the MOST organized person in the world (Jane, stop laughing) I'm getting all my travel stuff together NOW, two days before my trip. What? I'm not FLYING....it's not like I have to clear CUSTOMS or anything...damn.
I've got my oil changed, my tires rotated (of course, now my car feels all wonky and out of alignment, fothamucka), directions to BFF's house, Jane's cell number, directions to Salina (get on I35, go north, stop when you see the big "Welcome to Salina sign", moron), and the list-making has started.
Oh, the lists. heh. Max and I sat on his couch last night, he with a cigarette and some W-induced ire (not a Bush man, my boy...not a Bush man at all) I with my lists. He took a moment from ranting to look over.
"Four pages???"
"No...four different lists."
"....?"
"What???"
"NOthin' baby." (scoots over juuuust a bit further)
Yes - four lists. What I'm bringing to wear (no, it does not just say "clothes", smart ass - I'm a girl, it can't possibly be that easy) another of what I'm bringing for other people (I'm a Southern girl, and we are incapable of showing up empty-handed, it's genetic), a third list of things I need to do before I leave and then the fourth list...shit...what's the fourth list...? Hang on. Ha! It's just 3 lists!! I just folded the paper into 4 sections and had scribbled on the fourth section and he just thought it was four, and that completely vindicates me a sane person, right???
SHUT. UP.
Am I the only person in the world who has to squish the urge to go shopping for all new stuff before a trip of any sort?? I have a gafrillion tote bags, a closet full of clothes (that all fit! whoo!) yet, somehow I feel like I need to go get NEW stuff for this trip..what? why? is this a girl thing?? Somebody help me understand this. Because I am stumped. I'm also staying the hell away from Target right now. Because I just KNOW that I'll walk in there, all "OK, buying cotton balls and trash bags" and I'll end up walking out w/ a brand new toiletry case and $50 worth of tank tops. mmmmmm....taaaaaank tooooppssss. wha? sorry. But seriously - why this compulsion to get new stuff?
Hmmmm.....do I admit here that I'm a little nervous about meeting Jane in person?? Discuss.
smooches.
*If y'all remember, BFF=Best Friend Forever - she got married on April 23rd to a wonderful dude who then took her up to the Heartland (Lincoln, Nebraska). Which y'know, yay love and all, but SOB!
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
bipolar much?
It's only fucking Tuesday. What the? How does it happen that lately I've had these Mondays that last, like, 14 days?? And I wake up on Tuesday morning, thinking "yippee! It's Friday!" Only to realize NO! Alack and alas! It is only fothermucking Tuesday.
I am most displeased.
In other news, I have a headache, and I'm hungry. What else is new??
Ack - I've written about 50 paragraphs and deleted them all, because I just can't quite get the right thing going here. I've got a little rant about depression going, I've got info on the boyfriend, I've got a trip to the heartland coming up! (NO! SLEEP! TILL! SALINA! Heh.) I want to talk about my dad (not good news.) I'm dealing with a lot of shit over here. Plus, I'm a giant perfectionist (HI!) which is what keeps me from writing for months on end...which is just sad. I suppose it's time for some literary vomit over here. I...apologize for that analogy. But you know what I mean. glllaaarrg.
So, um.....The boyfriend. Let's call him Max.* He's a sweetheart of a man, first off. Whenever we head towards a door, he does this little "hm hm hm" thing until I move out of the way, and then he opens it for me. Hee. It's cute - trust me. He's in a very giddy ga-ga (his word) phase right now. I'm pretty goofy over him (it's been two months, we're allowed) but I think I'm in a much more cynical place about relationships than he is. Which y'know, duh. I've been divorced a whopping 6 months - allow me some cynicism here. We're both pretty impatient people, and we're both in sort of strange places in our life, so this relationship has the possibility of some real disaster. But - it also has the possibility of some real magic to it. I'm kind of hoping for the second, just in case you're wondering. I'll keep y'all posted.
He also has the MOST amazing blue eyes I've ever encountered. Seriously..just..wow. And he plays guitar, which...I know I'm 34 and should be over this shit - but there's just something very sweet and romantic about getting serenaded, OK? bite me.
We'll see. I'm trying to sort of lead with my head, but not overthink. HA! Hee...snort.
Dad.....dad is not doing well. I called him for Father's Day and apparently the growths? tumors? tribbles? in his lungs spread during his time off between chemo treatments. He's on treatment again. He also told me, in his usual nonchalant, very practical way - "So...I'm making out my will. Anything you want??"
Heh.
I sort of smarted back that I wasn't sure, not having done a recent inventory of his stuff, did he have anything good?? We laughed - I told him that actually, I would like his diplomas from LSU. I know they don't mean much to him, but they sort of do to me. He said he'd find them. We laughed a bit more about other stuff, said our I love you's and hung up. And then I drove the rest of the way home crying.
And it's just not fucking fair.** I don't fucking want to hear anything about anybody else's dad dying of cancer or anybody's grandmother or anything. This MY dad. This MY FATHER that *I* barely got to fucking know as a kid. This is the man that I didn't get to spend any goddamn time with when I was little, that I finally FINALLY got to know as an adult and GODDAMN MOTHER FUCKING SHIT HE GOT FUCKING CANCER AND IS FUCKING DYING NOW. AND IT FUCKING SUCKS. AND IT'S NOT FUCKING FAIR.
And then the voices kick in, the ones that tell me that I'm over-reacting, that he'll be fine (HA!!), or that he's not dead yet, enjoy the time you have left (UM, OK, thanks for that) or that you never know, some new treatment may come along (ditto) or to shut and stop feeling sorry for myself, lots of people have lost loved ones (fuck you and the horse you rode in on.) The voices are the worst part.
Ok, well ..no - the worst part is hearing my father say "I'm going to die of colon cancer and this was totally preventable." THAT was the worst fucking part. The second worst part was him asking me what I wanted out of his estate......The voices pull a close third.
The voices are just the longest part - they don't quit. The other ones are sharp slaps - they come in, and WHAP, they're gone. They leave handprints behind and they sting and they hurt, but they're done. The voices are..I don't know...I can't think of what they'd be in terms of the physical....the hair pulls from the popular girls?? It's not that they hurt that bad, but you never know when it'll happen or what will provoke it. You never know - one minute everything's fine, the next minute - *yank* "hey, remember, your dad's dying - won't it suck that kiddo will only have one grandparent left soon??" and there you are, sobbing at your desk again.
So yeah - that's how dad's doing.
Which you would think I'd segue this nicely into the depression post, but now I just don't have the energy. And? I'm hungry and need to get my oil changed before my Great Plains Road Trip - which! I will talk about next time!
This weekend?? I get to meet Jane!! OOOOOOOO!!!!!
smooches
*HUGE Peter Max fan and collector - he (Max, not Peter) approved of the pseudonym.
**The other night Max told me that, as sort of a long-range art/grafitti idea he thought about writing "Life is Fair" on any available overpass, bridge, wall, etc that he could. That way, when someone said, "Well, where is it written that life is fair??" the response could be "dude - everywhere!!" See? See why I love this guy??
I am most displeased.
In other news, I have a headache, and I'm hungry. What else is new??
Ack - I've written about 50 paragraphs and deleted them all, because I just can't quite get the right thing going here. I've got a little rant about depression going, I've got info on the boyfriend, I've got a trip to the heartland coming up! (NO! SLEEP! TILL! SALINA! Heh.) I want to talk about my dad (not good news.) I'm dealing with a lot of shit over here. Plus, I'm a giant perfectionist (HI!) which is what keeps me from writing for months on end...which is just sad. I suppose it's time for some literary vomit over here. I...apologize for that analogy. But you know what I mean. glllaaarrg.
So, um.....The boyfriend. Let's call him Max.* He's a sweetheart of a man, first off. Whenever we head towards a door, he does this little "hm hm hm" thing until I move out of the way, and then he opens it for me. Hee. It's cute - trust me. He's in a very giddy ga-ga (his word) phase right now. I'm pretty goofy over him (it's been two months, we're allowed) but I think I'm in a much more cynical place about relationships than he is. Which y'know, duh. I've been divorced a whopping 6 months - allow me some cynicism here. We're both pretty impatient people, and we're both in sort of strange places in our life, so this relationship has the possibility of some real disaster. But - it also has the possibility of some real magic to it. I'm kind of hoping for the second, just in case you're wondering. I'll keep y'all posted.
He also has the MOST amazing blue eyes I've ever encountered. Seriously..just..wow. And he plays guitar, which...I know I'm 34 and should be over this shit - but there's just something very sweet and romantic about getting serenaded, OK? bite me.
We'll see. I'm trying to sort of lead with my head, but not overthink. HA! Hee...snort.
Dad.....dad is not doing well. I called him for Father's Day and apparently the growths? tumors? tribbles? in his lungs spread during his time off between chemo treatments. He's on treatment again. He also told me, in his usual nonchalant, very practical way - "So...I'm making out my will. Anything you want??"
Heh.
I sort of smarted back that I wasn't sure, not having done a recent inventory of his stuff, did he have anything good?? We laughed - I told him that actually, I would like his diplomas from LSU. I know they don't mean much to him, but they sort of do to me. He said he'd find them. We laughed a bit more about other stuff, said our I love you's and hung up. And then I drove the rest of the way home crying.
And it's just not fucking fair.** I don't fucking want to hear anything about anybody else's dad dying of cancer or anybody's grandmother or anything. This MY dad. This MY FATHER that *I* barely got to fucking know as a kid. This is the man that I didn't get to spend any goddamn time with when I was little, that I finally FINALLY got to know as an adult and GODDAMN MOTHER FUCKING SHIT HE GOT FUCKING CANCER AND IS FUCKING DYING NOW. AND IT FUCKING SUCKS. AND IT'S NOT FUCKING FAIR.
And then the voices kick in, the ones that tell me that I'm over-reacting, that he'll be fine (HA!!), or that he's not dead yet, enjoy the time you have left (UM, OK, thanks for that) or that you never know, some new treatment may come along (ditto) or to shut and stop feeling sorry for myself, lots of people have lost loved ones (fuck you and the horse you rode in on.) The voices are the worst part.
Ok, well ..no - the worst part is hearing my father say "I'm going to die of colon cancer and this was totally preventable." THAT was the worst fucking part. The second worst part was him asking me what I wanted out of his estate......The voices pull a close third.
The voices are just the longest part - they don't quit. The other ones are sharp slaps - they come in, and WHAP, they're gone. They leave handprints behind and they sting and they hurt, but they're done. The voices are..I don't know...I can't think of what they'd be in terms of the physical....the hair pulls from the popular girls?? It's not that they hurt that bad, but you never know when it'll happen or what will provoke it. You never know - one minute everything's fine, the next minute - *yank* "hey, remember, your dad's dying - won't it suck that kiddo will only have one grandparent left soon??" and there you are, sobbing at your desk again.
So yeah - that's how dad's doing.
Which you would think I'd segue this nicely into the depression post, but now I just don't have the energy. And? I'm hungry and need to get my oil changed before my Great Plains Road Trip - which! I will talk about next time!
This weekend?? I get to meet Jane!! OOOOOOOO!!!!!
smooches
*HUGE Peter Max fan and collector - he (Max, not Peter) approved of the pseudonym.
**The other night Max told me that, as sort of a long-range art/grafitti idea he thought about writing "Life is Fair" on any available overpass, bridge, wall, etc that he could. That way, when someone said, "Well, where is it written that life is fair??" the response could be "dude - everywhere!!" See? See why I love this guy??
Monday, June 27, 2005
Dude, at least it's an update
Conversation through a bathroom door with The Boy*
Me: I'm hanging just a wee bit this mornin' baby
Him: Well, we did party like rock stars last night.
Me: Um...I wouldn't say rock stars.
Him: OK, well - we partied like Menudo, how's that?
*Yes, there's a boy, and witness above conversation as to why I'm with him.
Me: I'm hanging just a wee bit this mornin' baby
Him: Well, we did party like rock stars last night.
Me: Um...I wouldn't say rock stars.
Him: OK, well - we partied like Menudo, how's that?
*Yes, there's a boy, and witness above conversation as to why I'm with him.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Euphemisms
Have you ever noticed that the things that we're not totally comfortable with in life have the most cute little nicknames?? Death, for example - the big sleep, the dirt nap, pushing up daisies, buying the farm, pushing up daisies, kicking the bucket, passing away. Barfing is the Technicolor yawn, ralphing, praying to the porcelain gods and my personal favorite, calling Ralph on the big white phone.
Then there's all the fun names for what happens when your brain and your emotional circuits just have a little more than they can handle. Your cheese slips off your cracker, you drop your basket, you hit the wall, you lose your marbles, you go 'round the bend, etc etc, ad nauseum.
I believe my cheese may be in the process of slipping. I don't know that I'm completely gone - I'm still functional...I think. Maybe I have highly dramatic ideas of what a nervous breakdown looks like. I always picture graceful slides down walls while crying and laughing at the same time, mascara artfully dripping down cheeks, hidden wine bottles, piles of pills, the back of the head bloody from rocking rocking rocking into the wall.
I don't picture this feeling of weight, of malice and intent and anxiety sitting on my chest, keeping me from taking me a full breath all the time. I don't picture being one syllable away from tears at all times. I don't picture the desire to smash bash break boom bang fragile glass just to hear it break, just to know that I've hurt and destroyed something, just to know that I've gotten this feeling OUT of MY body somehow.
What do I do with this emotion? What do I do when I start to think and I start to feel the anger build up and I can taste it and feel it in the back of my throat? Where do I put it?? Do I scream? Do I punch? Do I yell, push, kick, punch jab poke boom bash kapow crunch whack??? What do I do with it?? Where do I put it?? Right now it's sitting in a hole in my rib cage, somewhere between my solar plexus and my trachea and I tell you it makes it hard to swallow, hard to breath.
The breathing is important - it's so important right now. It's hard to breathe when you're running from a giant cloud of fear. Flap flap flap like a bird, then it goes silent and I think everything's OK, and for just a little while I can relax but then I see it, sitting next to me, waiting to pounce and I start running again. It flies behind me, chanting "vehicle inspection, no child support, dumbass should have gotten a lawyer stupid bitch, why didn't you get a lawyer, is the rent due? there aren't any groceries in the house, god you're a shitty mother you stupid whore, he was right, without him you're just gonna fall flat on your fucking face you stupid, irresponsible idiot. slut whore dumbass spineless bitch. do you even know when the electric bill is due? no. you're going to be everything you hate- borrowing money from your parents, fucking up your credit, floating checks, living hand-to-mouth, no retirement fund, bag lady, kiddo will hate you in 20 years, no clean laundry - she'll remember this you know, she'll remember and she'll hate hate hate hate hate hate you hate you hate you you have fucked up fucked fucked fucked fucked up up up up"
I have to grab the crazy - I have to wrestle this fucker to the ground, but first I have to give it a shape and a face and parts. What should it look like? Should it be a dragon? Or is that just the cheesiest thing ever? Should it be a bat? Or a man? How about a big man? That way I can fulfill those Wonder woman fantasies and kick the ass of some 6'3" man. But first I have to flesh it out so I can find a spot to grab it and drag it to the ground and then I can sit on it and then I can dismantle it.
Because right now all I'm doing is running from it. I'm running and running and I'm running out of breath and places to go. I feel like I have two options - I can sit down and let this thing eat me, or I can grab it and take it apart. I just need help.
Help. I've hit the wall.
Then there's all the fun names for what happens when your brain and your emotional circuits just have a little more than they can handle. Your cheese slips off your cracker, you drop your basket, you hit the wall, you lose your marbles, you go 'round the bend, etc etc, ad nauseum.
I believe my cheese may be in the process of slipping. I don't know that I'm completely gone - I'm still functional...I think. Maybe I have highly dramatic ideas of what a nervous breakdown looks like. I always picture graceful slides down walls while crying and laughing at the same time, mascara artfully dripping down cheeks, hidden wine bottles, piles of pills, the back of the head bloody from rocking rocking rocking into the wall.
I don't picture this feeling of weight, of malice and intent and anxiety sitting on my chest, keeping me from taking me a full breath all the time. I don't picture being one syllable away from tears at all times. I don't picture the desire to smash bash break boom bang fragile glass just to hear it break, just to know that I've hurt and destroyed something, just to know that I've gotten this feeling OUT of MY body somehow.
What do I do with this emotion? What do I do when I start to think and I start to feel the anger build up and I can taste it and feel it in the back of my throat? Where do I put it?? Do I scream? Do I punch? Do I yell, push, kick, punch jab poke boom bash kapow crunch whack??? What do I do with it?? Where do I put it?? Right now it's sitting in a hole in my rib cage, somewhere between my solar plexus and my trachea and I tell you it makes it hard to swallow, hard to breath.
The breathing is important - it's so important right now. It's hard to breathe when you're running from a giant cloud of fear. Flap flap flap like a bird, then it goes silent and I think everything's OK, and for just a little while I can relax but then I see it, sitting next to me, waiting to pounce and I start running again. It flies behind me, chanting "vehicle inspection, no child support, dumbass should have gotten a lawyer stupid bitch, why didn't you get a lawyer, is the rent due? there aren't any groceries in the house, god you're a shitty mother you stupid whore, he was right, without him you're just gonna fall flat on your fucking face you stupid, irresponsible idiot. slut whore dumbass spineless bitch. do you even know when the electric bill is due? no. you're going to be everything you hate- borrowing money from your parents, fucking up your credit, floating checks, living hand-to-mouth, no retirement fund, bag lady, kiddo will hate you in 20 years, no clean laundry - she'll remember this you know, she'll remember and she'll hate hate hate hate hate hate you hate you hate you you have fucked up fucked fucked fucked fucked up up up up"
I have to grab the crazy - I have to wrestle this fucker to the ground, but first I have to give it a shape and a face and parts. What should it look like? Should it be a dragon? Or is that just the cheesiest thing ever? Should it be a bat? Or a man? How about a big man? That way I can fulfill those Wonder woman fantasies and kick the ass of some 6'3" man. But first I have to flesh it out so I can find a spot to grab it and drag it to the ground and then I can sit on it and then I can dismantle it.
Because right now all I'm doing is running from it. I'm running and running and I'm running out of breath and places to go. I feel like I have two options - I can sit down and let this thing eat me, or I can grab it and take it apart. I just need help.
Help. I've hit the wall.
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