Happy Birthday Kiddo

Dear Kiddo,

Fifteen years ago today, you made you entrance into the world. Just like everything since then, you did it on your terms. Keep up the good work.

Every day since then, I find myself amazed by you - your humor, your strenght, your singing, your cooking, your intelligence, your goofiness, youir kindness. Every day, I thank God for making me your mother. Please always know that I love you, love you, love you.

Happy Birthday
Mom

And no, I haven't shaved my legs

I like open letter entries - they're fun to read and they're fun to write. Especially if one is a crappy writer *cough*likeme*cough* and does better with a rant than a narrative.

Anyway, for the past week, I've had a series of open letter entries semi-composed in my head. I sat down to write them out, but then realized they'd be a bit repetitive. Check it out:

Dear Lady in Front of Me on Mopac:

Fuck you.

Sincerely,
Laura

Dear Teenager in Starbucks:

Nice bag. Fuck you.

Sincerely,
Laura

Dear Hair, Big ass, Blister on my Toe, and Back Fat:

Fuck you, you, you and especially YOU.

Sincerely,
Laura

I think you get the point. The Mood over here has been so monumentally bad that I almost wrote one of these to TBFD. Why? Because he lives in Dallas. No other offense.

Then yesterday, it started raining and thundering and lightning and the power went out at Border's before I could check out and as I was leaving I realized that even though I'd have to go back to get my books, I was in a good mood. I was chipper! And cheerful! I still wanted the dude driving down the MIDDLE OF THE LANE in the parking lot to die a festering death, but I muttered my "fuck you, assmunch" CHEERFULLY! With a smile on my face! 'Twould appear that I've moved from getting horrible killer migraines when the barometric pressure shifts to getting grumpy and semi-suicidal. I'm not entirely sure this is an improvement, but it does make life interesting.

(Note to self - stock up on chocolate, wine and fashion magazines before the rainy season starts.)

I've spent today doing pretty much nothing. Let's see, I made the breakfast equivalent of shit on a shingle (mushrooms and sausage in a cream gravy over biscuits - it'll cure what ails ya) and burned my finger in the process.

Yeah - did you know that roux gets really fuckin' hot and that just sticking the end of your finger in it to taste it is really damn dumb??

On another note, I never realized a blister could form that quickly. Heh.

I've also spent just about all damn day reading the archives over at Fussy. Why? I do not know. But I have this weird thing I do, where I start at the very beginning of a site and then read the pages in chronological order (January '02, February '02, etc) but I read them from the top down (Friday, Thursday, Wednesday, etc.) So I'm reading them...inside-out? Upside-down? I dunno. But it kills a slow-ass Sunday.

I'm currently sitting on the floor, back against the couch, legs propped up on one of those seating cube thingies, laptop in my...well, lap. I'm watching a Law & Order re-run and drinking the last bit of one bottle of red. There's Italian sausage defrosted and the last bit of another bottle of wine in the fridge. My kid is up in Round Rock, visiting friends and has been told that somebody else needs to bring her home, since I hauled her and her friends back and forth twice yesterday.

In other words, you people are lucky I took a shower today and a bra ain't touchin' this bod till tomorrow AM.

Hey! Feral Mom, wanna hang with me?? Bring more wine, I'm almost out.

No YOU go fug yourself.

Listen up. I like leggings, OK? I like them on their own, I like them with a giant men's shirt, and I like them under all lengths of skirts. I like them with boots and with flats. I like them in a car, in a bar, underneath the stars.

So this fall/winter, if you see a 5'10" blonde in a skirt and leggings and mary janes and it looks like maybe this girl might have seen leggings the first time and maybe she might be a bit heavier than the recommended legging weight, so by all rights she should be in a pair of jeans? Keep your comments to yourself. Her bad fashion sense isn't hurting you.

Hmph.

Subject Change

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

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

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

Whoops.

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

Subject change.

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

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

Subject Change

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

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

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

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

GODDAMMIT.

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

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

I got lost somewhere in the middle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goodnight.

potential

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

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

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

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

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

'night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y'all be good!

Oh, I'll probably regret this later

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

Dear Do I really have to say your name??

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

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

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

Thank you,

Laura

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

ugh

OOoooooh, my head.

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

OW.

That is all.

Wednesday TV Party

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

AAAAW, YEEEEAAAAAAH!!!

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

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

I love this show.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things The Boy From Dallas gave me this weekend:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See? How could I NOT like this guy??

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

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

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

5-7-fuck

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

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

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

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

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

Dudes

Dear Men -

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

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

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

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

Great, right?

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

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

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

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

Damn.

Laura

Wherein I Ramble Like a Great Lost Rambly Thing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy Lame Updates Batman!!

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

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

The past month, what's happened??

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slick. I dub him Slick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh.

I really do like this one. Dallas. Damn.

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

a sport short

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

Here he is.

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

therapy, meds and kittens, oh my!!

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

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



More here.

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

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

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

Standard disclaimers apply

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

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

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

You tell yourself that you're just lazy.

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

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

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

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

You spend too much money.

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

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

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

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

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

Then what?

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

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

You decide that something's gotta give.


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

Mop, please!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

10. Bright or Dark Room? Bright.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loaded Questions

Hey Laura, how ya doin'??

Oh fine. Great. Wonderful.

Uh-huh. So - whatcha doin'?

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

Um, is this a bad time?

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

Dude.

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

Fair enough. Anything else?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I also have my daddy's nose.

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

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

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

Hands, noses and leftover jewelry.

You sound a little calmer.

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

.....???

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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