the other stuff

I've been reading a lot lately, which has been nice because somehow I ended up taking a long break from reading and it was driving me sort of crazy. Anyway, I've read The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion, The Omnivore's Dilemna, by Michael Pollan, On Beauty by Zadie Smith and I'm working on The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon.

I highly recommend any and all of these books, albeit with disclaimers.

The Year of Magical Thinking, as you know if you listen to NPR, is Joan Didion's autobiographical account of the year after her husband died. He died suddenly in their living room and Didion spent a lot of time, consciously and unconsciously, trying to figure out what she could have done to prevent it. There's more to it, obviously, but it's a beautifully written (good lord, that woman can build a sentence) book about a not-so-beautiful subject. If you have a problem with the occasional laugh at death and dying or you have a problem with very straightforward women? Not the book for you. Suggested beverage* - hot tea.

The Omnivore's Dilemna is about food. How we get it, what it's made of, who's making it for and delivering it to us and the costs involved. It's less brutal than Fast Food Nation, but still disturbing and thought provoking enough that I'm not sure I can eat beef again. Obviously, if you have a problem with the realities of the food chain or really REALLY like high-fructose corn syrup? Grab an issue of People. Suggested beverage - WATER.

On Beauty is about a family...there's more, but it just sounds weird because I can't write like Zadie Smith. It's British and funny and well-written. If you have a problem with inter-racial relationships, get over it. And then go read something else. And feel the pain, because this is a really good book and you missed out, suckah. Suggested beverage - a nice hefeweizen.

I'm still working on The Curious Incident of the Dob in the Night-Time, but so far I'm enjoying it. It's written from the perspective an autistic teenager who is trying to solve a mystery. Good stuff. If you have a problem with very simple sentence structure or digressions? Not for you. Right now, I'm enjoying it with my usuals - Diet Coke at work**, red wine at home.

Next on my list, I have The Last Thing He Wanted, another Didion. I also have two (free!) issues of Lucky magazine sitting on my table, but those are reserved for a time when I can sit on the couch, drink wine***, watch some crappy TV and rip out the pretty outfits and paste them in a notebook like a giant, eye-baggy 9th grader.

*Of course, I drink red wine with everything, but it can make one a bit maudlin when one (I) drinks too much. So, y'know...at your own peril and all that.

**I read on my lunch break, smart ass.

***This is a daily activity, but sometimes I do it while I'm folding clothes, talking to my kid, painting my toenails or one of a gazillion other slightly more productive activities.

SEGUE

I'm going up to Dallas this weekend, for the primary purpose of seeing my boyfriend and the secondary purpose of doing a (belated) Valentine's Day Thing with him. OOOOH, what are you two lovebirds doing, I can hear you asking. Well, we are going to the Auto-Rama!!! After which, we will drink some beer and then have some some hot monkey sex. You can take your flowers and shove 'em, sez I.

SEGUE

The kiddo and I spread two boxes worth of hair goop on my head Sunday night and I am once again a dark brunette. The original brown had faded so much that I was at my real hair color, which is one shade away from "Dude, when's the last time you washed your hair?"

I have an appointment this afternoon to get a bunch of my hair whacked off. I haven't told Jef yet, because a)UM...my head and b)I want to surprise him. Of course, he may read this sometime between now and Friday so - Hi honey!! I'm getting a haircut! Don't be scared!!

SEGUE

Never give out your email address at a Bridal Expo. Unless, of course, you like receiving emails from every venue that you've already ruled out, restaurants you wouldn't eat at anyway and people selling little beaded squares of fabric used for drink coverage. Honestly, you'd think I would have known better, but alas...I did not.

In closing, I need your vote. Tell me your favorite flavor of cupcake in the comments. Seriously, this is important shit.

By the way, y'all smell great today.

sleepwalking

Dear upstairs neighbors,

I know we live in a 24-hour society and sometimes you get the urge to turn your two bedroom apartment into a bowling alley at 1AM. Or perhaps your Aunt Marge sent you a pogo stick for your birthday and you just can't wait until daylight to try it out. Or maybe the current arrangement of your furniture reminds you too much of HIM, the one who broke your heart and you simply must move that chair HERE and that incredibly heavy dresser over THERE. These urges are hard to resist, I know.

I get it. We get strange urges sometimes. Saturday, my daughter walked in on me sitting on the kitchen counter, reading my book while eating Wheat Thins, spray cheese and red wine. I didn't feel like putting the book down and I wanted a snack, so I just followed my urges and plopped down (up?) right there on the counter. It happens. Impulsive living is fun sometimes.

I also think a certain amount of overhead noise is understandable when living in a multi-story apartment complex. I'm actually more relaxed about the noise than most. I drop things and fall quite a bit, and I know my downstairs neighbor has probably considered homicide more than once. Luckily for me, she checks her urges and this makes me not only still alive, but pretty understanding about ruckus from above.

However, when your activities actually wake me, a woman who sleeps like the dead, up from a sound sleep at 1 o'clock in the morning, it is entirely TOO MUCH.

So knock it off, before I come up there in my penguin pajamas and show you a whole new, much more interesting use for that pogo stick.

Sincerely,

Laura

roundish

My kid made the best dinner tonight. Barbecue chicken pizza and Caesar salad. Technically, the salad came in a bag, but the pizza was all her, baby.

Kiddo's Barbecue chicken pizza.

The night before, throw some ketchup, tabasco, spicy mustard, pureed onion, garlic, beer, worchestire sauce, apple juice, Tiger sauce, brown sugar and whatever-the-hell-else you want into a saucepan.

Stir and let simmer until your entire house smells like barbecue.

Refrigerate.

The next day, go with your mom to the DPS and get your driver's license. Drive to HEB with your mom, as she sits in the passenger seat and freaks out and wonders where the last 16 years went. Pick up a pre-made pizza crust, mozarella cheese, bagged salad and a bottle of wine for your freaking-right-the-fuck-out mom.

Hand mom the keys in the parking lot because she's a goddamn backseat driver and she's making you crazy.

Once home, cook up some chicken breasts (3 chicken boobies will cover 2 crusts.) Spread sauce on crusts. Cover with cheese, then chicken, then a little more cheese, then sliced red onions.

Cook at 450 for about 15 minutes (till cheese is melty and crusts are browned) while you hang out with a friend and your mom sips wine and flips through your baby book.

When the timer goes off, slice and serve with salad. Pour sobbing mom more wine and hand her the scrapbook labeled "Kiddo, Ages 3-5." Go to your room with your friend so she'll stop showing him nakie pictures.

I hope you enjoy it as much as we did.

AAAUUUUGHGHGHGH!!

competent
interesting
embarrassed
occasional*
definitely

you're = you are (You're using the wrong word.)
your = belongs to you (That's your mistake.)

its = belongs to it (Blogger sometimes has a mind of its own.)
it's = it is (It's not really that hard, if you think about it.)

there = a location (Hey! Look over there!)
they're = they are (They're coming to the party. Buy more wine.)
their = belongs to them (Those fuckers never bring their own wine.)

sight = vision/something that is seen (Look at all that wine! What a lovely sight!)
site = location/short for website (This site sucks!!!111!!11)

to = used to indicate direction or expression (He gave all my wine to that bitch.)
too = in addition (He gave her all my cheese, too. That fucker.)
two = one + one (There are only two bottles of wine left now

I can't explain the difference between lie and lay because I can never remember it. But if a comma-happy, wine-swilling, grammar ignoramus like me can get it straight?? Surely the rest of the internet can figure it out. Clean it up, people, you're KILLING ME.

*Thank you, Miz S. See?? See how it infects people??

Shiny objects

I hate jewelry commercials. They're designed to make the man feel obligated to buy the woman shiny objects to prove he loves her. You want to prove you love me? Let me sleep in on a Saturday while you take my car out to get detailed, the oil changed and then wake me up with a steaming cup of joe. That's love.

Anyway, I just saw a commercial for Kay Jewelers and the guy gives the girl one of those jewelry boxes with the spinning ballerina - you all know you had one, don't look at me like that. Anyway, she sighs "ooh, I had one just like this when I was a girl."

He goes on to inform her that he knows, because that is the very same childhood jewelry box, he got it from her mom* and she should look further. She does and finds that ridiculous black box which contains a (very pretty, actually) diamond ring.

"Oooh, Fred"**, she sighs.

Rings and necklaces and narrative ensue. They go back to guy and girl, jewelry box in the foreground. She looks at the twirling ballerina and coos, "I know just how she feels." Commence jingle.

She knows just how the ballerina feels? Starving, living off nicotine and criticism and in constant pain? Wow....romantic.

Yeah, keep the diamonds. You'll find my car keys on the hook by the door.

*Ok, that's kind of sweet, I'll give them that.
**Fred, Joe, Bob...does it matter what the boy's name is in diamond advertising?

Return of the Mack

Possible reasons for 4 month silence

*I was abducted by aliens
*I'm training for a marathon (hahhahhahahahaa)
*I joined the circus
*I wrote a book (Hahhahhahhahaaahahaa)
*I'm fostering baby badgers (have you ever tried to change the diaper on a badger?)
*I fell into a wine vat
*I've been committed
*I'm just a giant slacker

Pick one.

So yeah, here I am. Of course, due to my slackitude, the only people reading are Jane and my mom. But that's OK.

Let's see? Christmas? Excellent. Jef and Jake (his son, in case you lost your org chart) came down and spent a few days. Good presents, good food, fabulous time. I got a big, honking diamond ring in my stocking.

New Year's? It was OK. Kiddo had some friends over and Jef was working, so I spent the evening watching Kathy Griffin and hanging out with the underage set. At midnight, I kissed my kid on the cheek. Kiddo made black-eyed peas and stewed cabbage that I actually liked. My grandma always says that the peas are for luck and the cabbage is for money. I didn't have any cabbage last year and I ended up broke as hell, so let's see if this year is any better.

The wedding is in 4 months and I have..um..I have a location and I have a pattern and fabric for my dress and, yeah. That's all. I have a strange feeling I'm going to end up putting BYOB on the invitations and serving everybody bagel bites.

Not that there's anything wrong with that, if that's what you chose to do. Ahem.

Y'all want to know the truth? (No! LIE TO US.) I just haven't felt like writing. It's not a lack of things going on, it's just that I'd open up notepad and then sit there and stare at it. Today's the first day that I've actually felt like writing.

Of course, during the time I wasn't writing, I fell into a couple of incredibly deep funks and had my first ever anxiety attack. Good times. Perhaps I need an outlet or 5 because I'm completely insane?? Perhaps.

So...weddings. I've been wandering wedding sites and watching the occasional wedding show and yes, I've bought a couple of bridal magazines and OH, OK I went to a bridal expo and let me tell you something. The wedding industry? Is looney.

At the expo, there was the standard stuff - cakes, photographers, dresses, tooth whitening, work out programs (more on that later.) And then, there was the product that almost provoked me to punch the smiling brochure lady right in her overly lipsticked mouth.

The product? Pieces of fabric, about 6"X6", hemmed, with beads on each corner. Their purpose? To drape over your wine glass/drink so that bugs won't get in it. When I looked at the flyer and then looked up at her in disbelief, she chirped "And you can use them as your favors!!", as if I were going to say "OOOH, well if I can use them as favors, then FUCKIN' A!! Sell me 400!!!"

What. The. Fuck?

First of all, perhaps I'm white trash (Perhaps? fuck you) but I view bugs in your drink as part of the outdoor celebration experience. Provided it's not huge, drinking faster than me, or violent? Who the hell cares?? You're outside! There are bugs! Suck it up, Mary!!

Second, if I were to give my guests little scraps of beaded fabric that they'd already used as bug shields as favors? They'd have me committed. Or killed. It's a toss-up.

Third, there are these things you can use to cover your drink, that they already have at every bar and buffet, I'm not sure if you've seen them, but THEY'RE CALLED NAPKINS. Sweet pickled Jesus.

(Of course, the fourth option is that you just finish your damn drink and don't let it sit on the table, but not everybody has the sort of dedication that I do.)

The most useful thing I picked up was a brochure from a rental place - one of those low-rent places that rents chairs, tables, linens, archways, etc. It was amazing. It listed all of their products, their rental terms and their PRICES. I squealed (beer may have been involved) when I opened it up. Pricing! No need to call or meet or anything! Holy sweet cat shit, how do they stay in business?? OOOh, right. They give you what you're looking for. Madness.

The upside to the bridal expo was, of course, the cake samples. Yum.

Which kind of leads me to the whole bridal boot camp thing. Look, if you want to lose weight, great! Go for it! But don't lose weight just for your wedding day, because do you want to know what happens when you do that? You get to the wedding day and either you can't enjoy it because you're afraid to eat or, more likely, you feel as if you've reached your goal and now you can relax. And you gain all the weight back and you spend your marriage looking at a stranger in your wedding albums because that skinny girl in white? Is not you.

Start running to release some stress, eat some salads and drink water so your skin will look pretty, but just be yourself. This whole "lose weight for the big day" thing just feeds into the idea that the wedding, not the marriage, is the goal. Everything must be perfect for this. one. day. Forget what happens for the next 20, 30, 40 (60 for my grandparents) years, it's all about this ONE DAY being perfect. It's bullshit. Be the prettiest version of yourself that you can, but don't be somebody else. If he/she wanted somebody else, do you want to know what would have happened?? THEY'D HAVE ASKED SOMEBODY ELSE.

Ok, done with that.

Theoretically, I'm going to quit smoking tomorrow. Look for nicotine-withdrawal fueled rants on this space.

kisses

Boom! Crash!

Some of you may have been wondering why I haven't updated in a while. Of course, some of you probably don't give a shit and the rest of you have probably long wandered off, in search of something more interesting or perhaps a snack. Might I suggest Fritos and cheddar cheese? They go surprisingly well together.

Anyway - I haven't updated lately, because every time I sit down to write, all that comes out is complaints. I am just not doing all that great lately. I am overwhelmed at work, I am overwhelmed in my personal life and I'm just not handling it well.

And if I hear one more person say "but you're getting maaaaarrieeeeeed" when I tell them that I'm not doing all that well, I swear to ever-lovin' God, I will punch them in the damn neck. Sweet Jesus.

Yes, I am getting married. Eventually. But until then, I'm waiting. I'm waiting for Jef to find a job, I'm waiting for Jef to move down here, I'm waiting for this, I'm waiting for that, I'm waiting. I'm not over here, picking out colors and napkins and place settings. Of course, I probably wouldn't do a whole hell of a lot of that anyway, but you get my point.

I tried to get all wound up in the "maaaaaaarrieeeeeeed" part of things, but I couldn't, and do you want to know why? It's not because I'm not happy about the idea of getting married to Jef - I'm thrilled to death about it. It's because I don't know when it's going to happen. I'm goal-oriented, people, and right now I'm working without a goal!! I have no deadline!! And it's making me feel a little listless and sad and hopeless. So can it with the "maaaaaaaaaaaarrieeeeeeeeeeeeeed" crap, 'cause really all that does is make me want to cry! I have a blank wedding planner and some pretty material and a gorgeous pattern all sitting in a box, waiting to spring into action whenever my boy moves down here, but frankly, until he does, I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.

NEXT SUBJECT

I got rear-ended a week ago, and goddammit, I don't want to talk about that either, stupid teenaged driver and his goddamned excuses and now my trunk is held shut by a fucking bungee cord and my bumper's all cracked and shit and I have to file through MY insurance because, I don't know, maybe I copied a number down wrong and goddammit, little punk goes to my daughter's school and fuckin' hell.

I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.

NEXT SUBJECT

Work. Sucks. Servers. Everywhere. Software. Not. Working.

AUUUGHGHGHGHUUGHGHHGHHGHGUGHGHGH

NEXT SUBJECT

I rammed my little toe into a UPS at work and I'm pretty sure I broke it. It was swollen to twice its normal size and purple and I could barely walk on it, so y'know, I'm thinking broken. The problem is, for a pinky toe, what do you do? Whine? Wear flip-flops? Drink heavily? Suck it up? I did a little bit of all of those. The bruising has done this weird combination of spreading into my foot and fading, it's really quite lovely. Toe's still swollen, not as hurty. Am still pursuing the drinking heavily option.

NEXT SUBJECT

Ok, finally onto something kind of amusing and interesting. Well, to me at least. Kiddo and I were running some errands the other night and she tells me, "My Latin teacher is crazy."

"Oh honey, all Latin teachers are crazy. Wait, what's her name?"
"Ms. Laetus*"
"No. Fucking. Way."
"What?"
"That was my Latin teacher in high school!"
"No. Fucking. Way."
"You're right - she's crazy....but in a good way."

*No, not her real name, but it's the only Latin word I could remember easily and it means "happy", so I thought it would be OK.

listing to port

Wow, didn't mean to leave my little junior high rant up there for two weeks. I was busy trying to have a life. Said life seems to consist of red wine, bridal shows and staying up too late, but hey, what are you gonna do?

I took a couple of days off this week and went up to Dallas to see Jef (duh, why on Earth would somebody ever intentionally go to Dallas unless there was a cute boy involved??) Lovely weekend, we managed to hit all the highlights with beer, late night You-tubing, a walk at a local park and some other things I won't mention because my mom reads this.

Ok, so there's this horrible commercial for some Nintendo DS hooha and the main feature is a creepy digital Asian guy and you have no idea how traumatizing it is to fall asleep on the couch only to wake up to creepy digital Asian guy asking me in his creepy digital voice to pick a number.

I've been reading mimi smartypants' archives lately (do I have to link her? Y'all all know how to find her by now, right? Right) and while it hasn't done much for my productivity, maybe her writing talent will rub off on me. Or not, and I'll just accidentally sound like a big ol' derivative faker. Which is fine too, there's plenty of room on the internet for one more of us.

I've also been reading jezebel pretty much non-stop. I've ended my self-imposed moratorium on celebrity news, obviously, but jezebel doesn't make me want to throw things and hurt people like all the other gossip-y type sites did. Of course, they're more than gossip and they pick on the girl mags and they don't have a single picture of a celebrity with a paintbrush penis next to their mouth, so y'know..that might explain the lack of rage.

I had a couple of beers with a friend after work (a friend! from work! Holy ass!) and we were sitting outside, at picnic type tables. In the process of doing...something, God knows what, breathing? picking my nose? I managed to slam my ankle bone into the bench. It was fine until about an hour ago and now it hurts like a motherfucker. A large motherfucker. I'm actually kind of looking forward to the bruise - my bruises are usually just these pale smudge type things that inspire people to do that mom thumb-lick-rub-it-off thing, so if I'm gonna hurt like this? I want a damn rainbow on my ankle, pleaseandthankyou.

Back to La Smartypants - wandering through her site gives me this really deep craving for hummus. I have a few cans of garbanzo beans in the pantry, maybe I'll whip up a batch.

You're not still buying hummus (if you eat it, that is) are you? Because that's just silly. Pre-made hummus is ridiculously expensive, considering you can make your own with an 89 cent can of garbanzo beans, some olive oil, lemon juice and random spices. Yeah, yeah tahini. I make my own without tahini and it tastes just fine and saves me the other 2 bucks for other, more important things. Like wine.

Aforementioned friend said she'd call if they (she and some other folks she knows) decided to go out, but it's now 11:30 and I'm starting to wear out. Either they're not going out, she's standing me up (which is really not a big deal, I promise), or they're going to go out so late that I'll probably be pathetically asleep on a Friday night by the time she calls. Oh well. I got stuff to do tomorrow and probably don't need to be out all night.

Friend (a name, I need a name) is currently going through some icky personal crap that I can really, REALLY relate to. While it sucks for her, it's oddly kind of nice to be able to talk about my personal crap and have somebody relate.

The TMI report - my boobs itch. Specifically the underside, where the wire of my bra hits. This happened last summer also, so I'm sure it has to do with sweat and underwires and the disgusting combination thereof. Also, none of my bras fit me correctly (there is no droopage, Jane) because I lost some weight, so I'm sure that doesn't help at all.

So yes, a new person to talk to, too much late-night TV, random dip making, Jezebel, pants and itchy tits. It is just a non-stop party over here.

And now it's magically 10:30 on Saturday night, and my kid is home (she was at her dad's/Round Rock friends' for a few days), Chinese food has been ordered and consumed, a beer run was made (somehow eyeliner, mascara and fruity lotion showed up in the bag as well) and now she's watching some horrible movie and I'm chatting with the Jef. A very full schedule.

This entry has been nothing but lists. Interesting. Time for hummus.

no illusions

Y'know, I know I'm not cool. I'm aware of the fact that I own three cats, don't know the name of any current bands, would rather spend the evening hanging out with a book and some cheese than go out to a hip club, wear entirely too much thrift store black, don't do anything interesting with my hair and go without makeup too often. I know that I don't pay enough attention to current events and that things take too long to percolate in my brain for me to be truly witty and interesting in conversation. I make obscure jokes and have a rather odd sense of humor. I curse too much, I have no problems eating exactly what I want, I give strangers my opinion, I think women who wince at the word "cunt" are ridiculous, I brag about my daughter and my boyfriend, and I don't have a problem calling myself a feminist.

When the rare guy hits on me, I think he's actually asking me for the time or directions or if I really do come to that bar often and I give a guileless, honest answer and move on.

I always thought that one day I'd reach a spot where I was happy with myself and the random criticism and rejection of strangers wouldn't hurt, wouldn't matter. Somehow I thought one day I'd get to some magical zen-like state where I'd feel bullet-proof. Your thoughts do not sting me, mere mortal. I laugh in the face of your disapproval.

Better yet, I don't even see your disapproval, you don't exist.

But the fact is, I do see it, and it does hurt. It hurts because I don't understand it. Like I said, I hold no illusions about my coolness, but I also hold no illusions about how nice I am. I can be a crotchety pain in the ass at times, but if we were trapped in an eleveator or a crowded bar table, hell even a long line, I'd compliment your hair/skirt/glasses/watch and be nice to you and try to find something to talk about. I'd try to pass the time pleasantly.

I'm a little tired of being nice to people and being brushed off and rejected. I'm not out in bars cruising for love here, folks. I've found love - I'm just waiting for it to find a job in Austin. I have one favorite place that I go to every now and then to have a couple of pints and read my book or write in my journal. I'd just like to hold a conversation with someone other than my daughter or my mom or people in the computer.

Apparently I'm just not cool enough.

So fine. You wonder why I bring a book when I go out to have a beer? This is why. Because sometimes I want a pint of Guinness or a bowl of peanuts without any cat hair in it and without a pile of laundry staring at me and there are other people in those places. And my choices are to try to make conversation with those people, sit and stare at them or bring up the shield and read. It's safe behind the shield, the people back here don't look me up and down and judge me because I choose to wear Tevas or because I have the wrong color polish on my toenails or because I read Joseph Heller instead of the Wall Street Journal.

I have no illusions about myself. I just try to be a nice person and live my life. I wouldn't mind if I had a couple of people to talk to about it, but that doesn't seem to be working out very well.

So, y'know, fine. I've been told I'm brave for even going out by myself in the first place. I guess I got too brave by coming out from behind my book and trying to talk to people. I'll just go back behind the book where it's safe and wait for Jef, thank you.

roundup

I'm a copycat
Morning people
The smoking thing
Brown hair
Wedding, ad nauseum
Social Anxiety club

I keep thinking of things to write, but I get halfway through the first topic and forget everything else I wanted to say. So in the name of copycats followers admirers everywhere, I'll follow Jane's example and use an outline. That's it up there. Topic one, done.

Morning people

The other day I said something about hating morning people and nobody's commented on it, but in my usual neurotic fashion, I feel the need to explain/defend the statement.

If you are a morning person, I'm sure you are lovely and wonderful and a joy to be around the other 15 hours of the day that I might be exposed to you. But for the first hour that I'm awake, it's not that I'm grumpy (really, I'm not) I'm just not prepared to deal with someone who is fully operational, much less (dear God) chipper when they first roll out of bed.

I've dealt with people who are ready to go when they first roll out of bed and it baffles me. Much like it baffles them that I am not. Oh, I can get out of bed and shower and move move move, but I'd really rather not, thank you. I'd rather take a shower in silence, watch the news, and let my brain marinate in some coffee for a bit, if you don't mind. I'd rather talk to the cats for a few minutes before I deal with any humans. I'd rather you just leave me alone before I bite you.

Ok, maybe I'm just a little grumpy in the morning.

I guess that's what morning people don't get - they're so relentlessly cheerful that they think if they flutter around you, making coffee and jokes and trying to perk you up that it will help when really, all you want is 30 minutes of quiet after you become vertical to readjust yourself. Some of us don't transition well. OK? Let me do my thing, you go do your perky bluebirds-are-singing thing over there and I'll come talk to you in a few, all right, Mary Poppins?

Jef is not a morning person. He apologized for it when we first met and I didn't think much about it until the first time I woke up next to him. Lots of people say they're not morning people, I thought.

Wow, he wasn't kidding.

But y'know what? It actually makes our mornings kind of peaceful. I know what to expect. We wake up and can each do our own thing and when we're both sufficiently caffeinated, everything's cool. You'd think it would be like two bears after hibernation, (except for the butt scratching) but it's generally pretty quiet, other than some coffee slurping and lighter clicking. I like our mornings.

The Smoking Thing

I got told that I wrote a "love letter to smoking" and I guess I did. I didn't mean to, but I've been feeling guilty because I didn't tell you, Dear Internet, that I'd started smoking. I'd even admitted to my MOM that I was smoking. So, now you know all my secrets. Everything except for the thing about the Corey Feldman shrine. Oh...wait.

Brown Hair

I have brown hair! Another thing I hadn't told y'all! Oh..muh...GAWD!! I went brunette at the end of May. My natural hair color could best be described as "bleh" and I've been lightening it (anywhere from platinum to "could pass for natural") for about 15 years now. I decided it was time for a change. I tried red one time and that resulted in the Neon Pink Episode. Yikes. I like the brown. I look a LOT LIKE MY DAD, which is not a bad thing. It does feel a little strange, 'cause I've been the Blonde with the Hooters for so long that I still describe myself that way. Anyway. It's just hair, if I hate it, I can chop it off and grow it back.

Wedding, ad Nauseum

Wedding angst continues. I've made two actual, honest-to-God wedding related purchases and no, I'm not going to tell you what they are. Mostly 'cause if I tell you, I'd have to show you and Jef reads this and I don't want him to see them. So NYEH. Anyway, this makes me feel like a big weiner, because of course, he's not in a position to even move down here yet. BUT! I'm looking at it like this - why not go ahead and do as much prep work for this as I can now? Right? Right. I'm not being a weinie, I'm being proactive! That's it!! Shut up.

Social Anxiety Club

A while back, I signed up on meetup.com just for general purposes. I have yet to go to any meetups, because I keep chickening out. The other day, I'm browsing through there, because it occurs to me, good lord, all of my friends are either at work or live in the computer. I R anti-social dork. Anyway, I'm browsing, there's a knitting group, a walking group, a Magic the Gathering group (uh, no thank you) and up pops a Social Anxiety group. And I think "hey, that would be cool, 'cause obviously these folks would understand if I go in there and say 'look, I've been signed up for a year, but I'm too freaked out about the idea of drinking coffee and knitting in a room of strangers to actually do it, y'all down with that?'" But then I think for a second and wonder just how on Earth a social anxiety meetup would ever actually....MEET. I'm not trying to be mean, but wrap your brain around that for a second.

nic fit

I started smoking when I was working at Smiley-Mart. I started quite intentionally - nothing accidental about it. I'd had an incredibly shitty, stressful day at The Chair Comapny and then I'd gone on to work 5 hours at Smiley Mart (which might not sound like much, but go work 5 hours standing up after an 8 hour day and come talk to me. It's not coal-mining, but it still sucks) and I'd had customers yell at me for no reason and things go wrong and it was just a generally shitty day. Thirteen hours of suck.

As I was driving home, I thought to myself "I want a cigarette," quite clearly and plainly. Not "I want a beer" or "I want a glass of wine" - my usual de-stressors. But, "I want a cigarette." I thought of pulling it out of the pack and putting it between my lips and how you have to inhale just a little when you light it. I thought of how I'm such a lightweight that it would hit me right between the eyes around my third drag. I thought of that weird papery taste that lights and ultra-lights have. I thought about getting a Diet Coke or a candy bar or some gum or just waiting until I got home and having a glass of wine and I realized that no, even though the only time I ever smoked is when I was drinking (and even then only after I'd had a few) I wanted a damn cigarette and I wanted it right now.

So I pulled into a Seven-Eleven and I got a pack of Marlboro Lights.

I was right, the third drag hit me right between the eyes and made me just a little dizzy. I smoked that whole thing down to the filters and my God it was good. I smoked it with the windows rolled down and metal blasting from my CD player while I screamed up Mopac at 75 miles an hour. It was very, very good.

That was April and since then I've gone down to Ultra-Lights. I've smoked between a half-pack and a pack a day for the past four months. It depends on what I'm doing, how busy I am, how annoyed I am with the world in general, that sort of thing.

Every pack I buy is my last. I know I'll quit, at some point. Jef wants to quit, and I'll help him. Even now, even with this itch behind my eyes and this little man running around in my head, jabbering "got a light? got a light? gotalightgotalightgotalightgotalightgotalightgotalightgotalightgotalightgotalight????????????" because I left my cigarettes at home in an effort to cut down during the day, I know that I'll quit at some point, because that's what you do. I still firmly believe that the only things a person can't quit doing are eating, breathing and shitting.

The problem is, with the exception of the smell on my hands and the cost (dear lord, are these things made out of panda pancreas???) I like smoking. I've never really had a problem with smokers. Smoke bothers my eyes, but I can deal with it. Once I'm out of the smoke, I can't stand the way I smell, but I can handle being in a smokey room or house just fine. I've always viewed smoking in bars as part and parcel of being in bars.

Just like every other smoker out there, I like the ritual. Packing the cigarettes, stripping my pack the way I like it. I flip a lucky, because I'm a superstitious ninny and I hang out with teenagers. I like to leave the plastic on the bottom because sometimes I end up sticking stuff in there - money, matches, notes. My lucky is the middle front cigarette; I flip it upside down and put it back in the pack, then pull out the one right next to it. The lucky gets smoked last; everybody knows that.

I don't like soft packs. I'm too disorganized for something that doesn't close back up and might come open and spill all my cigarettes into my purse.

I like sitting with my boyfriend, at his desk, at my table, at a table in a pub and splitting a pack of cigarettes and talking while we drink beer. I like how he has his rituals and I have mine. I like how he spent half an hour showing me how to flick ash because I kept missing the ashtray the way I was doing it. I like how when I showed up with my own pack at his house the first time and they were Lights, he told me "no, you smoke these if you're gonna smoke" and gave me his Ultra-Lights. Chivalry isn't dead, it's just slowly getting cancer in the corner. I like how he offers me one and sometimes I say yes and sometimes I say no, because sometimes I don't want a cigarette, just like sometimes I don't want ice cream. (But I always want beer.)

I like to smoke while I'm driving. I used to gnaw my nails down to the quick - now I smoke. I light up, flick the ash out the window, listen to my music entirely too loud. I twist the filter when I'm done and push the rest of the tobacco out onto the ground. The filter goes into the trash bag in my car. I use a lot of Febreeze.

I like the look of my hand when I have a cigarette between my fingers and I pick up a drink. I've never thought smoking made a person look cool, or uncool, or like anything but somebody who smoked. Some people reek of smoke, some people don't. The facts are, I'm a fidgeter with an oral fixation and an addictive personality. Smoking is tailor made for somebody like me.

I refuse to buy them by the carton, because that would be admitting that I actually smoke and that this is not some temporary thing I've picked up. Some days I take smoke breaks at work, some days I don't. Today I didn't even bring my cigarettes with me and it's driving me crazy.

So yeah, for now, I'm a smoker. I'll let y'all know when that changes.

mmm, jelly

You would think, from the echoing stillness over here, that I spend my days in a vacuum or something. I don't really spend my days floating in a tub of nutrition jelly, doing nothing over here. I swear, I have a life.

Although, doesn't that sound pleasant? Screw planning a vacation. Just slip into some sort of body suit (I would think boxers would float around too much) and sploosh into a tub of nutrition jelly for the weekend, soak your vitamins in through skin, breathe through a tube, floating weightless...gurgle, aaah.

Hi, sorry - lost you there for a minute, didn't I?

My brain has been in overdrive for the past month. If this continues, it might melt. Seriously, pistons sticking and the whole works. And the topics in there are starting to piss me off.

Ok, I like weddings. I like going to weddings. And I would like to have a nice wedding. Not a big wedding. We've covered this. But my first wedding was kind of a mess. Poorly planned, a smattering of what everybody else told me I was supposed to do and frankly a little trashy because I just didn't know any better. OK?

I was not one of those girls who grew up with an idea of her dream wedding in her head. I haven't had this shit planned out since I was 10. I knew one day, yeah, I'd probably get married and it would involve a dress and some cake and hey I like cake! but that was about as far as it went. So the first time, when I was trying to order alcohol for the reception before I was even legal to drink it? Yeah, things were screwed up there.

Which leads me to this wedding, for which I don't have a date yet, which is making me crazy, not because I am desperate to get married, but because if I have a date for the wedding, that means Jef will have moved to Austin. It will mean that I can stop feeling like I'm living in limbo. It will mean that all the ideas I have and want to talk to him about? I can actually talk about and not feel like I'm acting like one of Those Girls. You know the ones. I call them The Cosmo Hive Mind. The ones that have been planning this shit their whole lives and all you really have to is paste some guy's head in the wedding album in their brain and they're happy. The ones who seem to think that once they find a man and get married, all their problems will be solved.

I remember when I was married and working with a bunch of single girls and they'd talk about how they wanted to Find A Man, like it was the Holy Grail and I'd look at them like they'd sprouted a second head and tell them, "You do know that life continues after the wedding, right? The problems don't go away. You just get some new ones." And they'd just look at me like I was crazy - or perhaps like I was a giant bitch. Which, y'know, maybe I was a giant bitch for ruining their little fantasy that you can put on a pretty dress and say a few words and *poof* all your problems go away.

That's why I'm so snockwabbered* over here. I am not in a hurry to be married again just for the sake of being married. Honestly, the idea of getting married again sort of scares me a little, considering how screwed up my last marriage was.

And considering that this marriage will unite two households into one consisting of a lot of big-ass furniture, two very independent adults, two extremely hairy teenagers and seven, yes count them folks! SEVEN cats.

Anybody want a cat?

But, I am happy right now - despite the rapidly overheating brain. A huge, vital part of what is making me happy is Jef. I know how silly it might sound to the intertubes, but there are so many little things about our relationship that thrill me. The fact that he gets along with both sides of my family. The fact that our kids like each other. The fact that we both retreat from anger so quickly and deal with arguments the same way (like cats - hiss spit, retreat. You still mad? Want a belly rub?) The fact that he likes chocolate more than I do, hates spicy food and doesn't like roller coasters.** The fact the wakes up in a foul God-damned mood in the morning, which means I don't have to deal with a fucking morning person for the rest of my life. Good Christ, I hate morning people.

So many other things, big and small, that make me unquestionably want him in my life.

The waiting is driving me bonkers, and the fact that it's not really about wanting the picture perfect wedding, it's about wanting Jef in Austin, and keeping all of that separate is making me even more nutty than I already am.

Maybe I should just give up and get a knot.com logon already and seal my fate.



*I couldn't figure out a word to express how I felt, so I made up my own. Fuck the limits of language, man.


**This means I won't spend my life not getting to eat dessert, getting called a wimp for not eating the salsa and holding somebody's damn wallet while they go on the fucking Superman when all I want to do is play Skee-ball.

A month? Wow, I suck.

It occurred to me, as I was typing the third comment of the day on SOMEBODY ELSES'S SITE, that maybe I should spend less time writing on other people's sites and spend a little time on my own.

So hi! How are you? I'm fabulous. A tad wedding-obsessed at the moment. Which feels a bit silly, considering we have the whole other horse to put before the cart of getting Jef moved down here to worry about. Problem is, I can't really DO much about getting Jef down here right now. I can't find him a job, I can't put money into his checking account (hell, I can barely keep money in my own), I can't find him an apartment. I suppose I can scope out apartments, but only he really knows his price range and what he likes and we still haven't talked about whether we'll move in together before the wedding or wait or any of that and oh my God do you have any beer? A beer would be nice, thank you.

So you see why it's so much easier to just bury myself in the pretty pretty pictures of flowers and dresses and cakes, right?? Right.

By the way, I have this thing pretty much planned in my head. Provided of course, Jef doesn't see everything that I like and think it's awful.

Hi baby, I love you - it's all just ideas and I won't be insulted if you hate it, I promise.

By the way, this is why I believe all wedding planning should take place over a plate of chili cheese fries and a pitcher of beer. Seriously, how can you disagree over shades of purple when you're wiping chili off your fingers? You can't.

OH! Which reminds. Ok, so I've always been attracted to those wedding trainwreck shows. I can't help it, it's a sickness. I like "Bridezillas" and "Platinum Weddings" and the occasional episode of "Whose Wedding is it Anyway".

Bridezillas is fairly obvious - it's like watching "COPS", only everybody's wearing tulle. "Platinum Weddings" is an opportunity for me to stand around in a wife beater and drink $5 wine and say "yew spent haaw muuuuch????" Try it, it's fun. And then "Whose Wedding is it Anyway" is just fun for a combination of both of those and the odd decorating idea.

Allright, so the point - I'm watching WWIIA and there's this bride on there who is apparently just obsessed with purple, which hi, I thought we all outgrew the purple thing in 8th grade, but whatever. She wants purple draping and purple drinks and purple blah and purple blee, etc etc, ad purpleum. So she meets with the wedding co-ordinator and the on-site people to discuss the fabric choices for the draping in the room (at which point yours truly went to the kitchen to pour a very large glass of wine) and they're talking and she's nitpicking between light lavender and very light lavender and hint of lavender ("Mah colahs are blush and bashful!!") and the voice over finally, after the longest runon sentence in the world, tells us that SEVEN AND A HALF HOURS LATER, the bride has decided on her color.

Seven and a half hours, to pick a shade of purple for tablecloths and strips of fabric for the ceiling.

Now look, I get that weddings are very important days. I get it. But seven and a half hours is a ridiculous amount of time. After 15 minutes in a shower, I start to get a little antsy, OK?? Seven and a half hours of looking at shades of purple, I would have probably lost my ever-lovin' mind.

It's purple tulle, it's one day, get some goddamn perspective.

Although, she did spend 2 hours getting the purple martini juuuuuuuuuuuuuuuust right, and I think *that* was time well spent.

Been a while

I haven't had much to say lately, but I figured I'd let y'all know that Tuesday night, Jef asked me to marry him.

I said yes.

Despite a married friend's insistence that separate residences are the key to a happy marriage, I think we've settled the whole moving to Austin question, eh wot?

ch-ch-ch-changes

There's a long (not terribly interesting) story about how I got this question, but here's the question for the day:

If you could have any plastic surgery alteration, what would it be? First tell me the realistic stuff - tummy tucks, butt lifts, third eye removals?? Then tell me the outlandish stuff - prehensile tails, wings, third joints in the legs so you could walk like an ostrich??

Me?

Ok, realistically, I'm actually pretty happy with my body. I know a few of you out there probably immediately thought "breast reduction" and you know what? Fuck y'all. I've finally gotten used to the damn things and I'm keeping 'em. My first answer was liposuction on my tummy, but then I thought about how painful liposuction has always looked and reconsidered. I think I'd see if they could do anything about the red circles/bags under my eyes. It doesn't matter how much sleep I get - lack of sleep just makes them more red - I always have red circles and bags under my eyes. More genetic payola from Dad. So yeah, I'd go in and have that taken care of in the least invasive way possible (no knives by the eyes, GAH! MUST WASH BRAIN AFTER PUTTING THOSE TWO WORDS IN SAME SENTENCE! AUGURGRGRGRGRRRGGRGRG!!)

Now on the outlandish stuff. I think I'd get big springs implanted in the bottoms of my feet so that when I needed to get somewhere, I could just *booi-ooi-ooing* over to it, like a giant flea. Wouldn't that be cool??

Oh quiet, you know it would rock.

All right - Hit me in the comments or leave a link to your own entry.

convenient truths

I had a break from Smiley-Mart tonight, so I decided to so something unsual. I went out and had a life. A friend and I wandered over to a psychic (the day job is in south Austin, right on the fringes of east Austin - you can't swing a dead cat without hitting a psychic, a hippie or a Mexican restaurant) and then we had margaritas.

Tarot and Tequila Tuesdays. If I had the money, I think I'd make this a weekly thing.

Anyway, because I am a child of the 80's, everything the psychic read in my cards made sense to me. Of course, when I cut the cards, I was thinking about Jef (and no, I didn't tell her that - that sort of negates the whole deal (deal! get it?)) I have lost my punctuation, what with the margaritas and the double quotes, so I'm just going to start here, in the middle, and fuck Garner's up the hole.

Ok, so. All the cards that had to deal with my past were very negative. It was the devil card and a guy lying on his back with an assload of swords stuck in him (hi mom! help??) I was told that while there was love in that relationship once, I needed to put all that behind me.

Well, duh.

Everything in my present pointed to me being veryvery busy, not taking care of myself, having a lot on my plate, worrying too much, but having a lot of opportunities soon and if I have faith and strenghth, it will all work out.

Now, look - I can hear Jane's eye muscles ripping from here, what with all the rolling they're doing, so listen up. I am not so naive to believe that the cards led themselves to me or that she could actually read my mind or blah blah blee. I also know that telling people in nice work clothes, coming from downtown at 5:30 that they have a lot on their plate and they have opportunities coming up is a pretty safe blanket statement. OK? OK. May I continue??

Then she told me that everything looked rosy and wonderful for me and my current relationship and asked if his name started with a "J." Again, not so naive that I don't realize that a LOT of men's names start with "J", but still, y'know.

Even if it was convenient bullshit, I haven't been to my therapist in a while and it was around the same price as going to see her and it made me think about some of the same things - where have I been? Am I hanging on to old injuries too much? Where am I now? What the fuck am I doing here? Where am I going? Is it where I'm supposed to be?

The cards, however full of shit they may be, say I'm doing OK. So I think I'll listen for the time being.

It also helped that SuperGirl picked up the tab for the 'ritas.

And according to my palm, there was something major, like life-threatening when I was a baby...mom???

Screechy, like an owl

Why I love Flea.

I try not to get to screechy about my feminism (or is the current term "shrill"??) because when I do, a voice that sounds suspiciously like one or both of my grandmothers tells me that women shouldn't make a fuss. Oddly, these are the same women who told me that men are all out to control women, and would tell me stories about life as an intelligent, strong-minded woman in the wrong generation and how hard it was. These are the same women who brook no bullshit from the men in their own life. But these are also the same women who instantly defer to a man, any man, when a question comes up.

If you ever want to see hackles actually rise, come around when this happens and check out the back of my neck.

My daughter makes fun of me sometimes when I point out the inconsistencies in how boys and girls are treated. How, for example, I show people her class picture and the class picture of Jef's son (they sit right next to each other in my wallet - just like in Jef's) and when they see his, they say "wow, good-lookin' kid," but when they see kiddo's, they say "she's so pretty, but she could've dressed up!!" For the record, he is wearing a red t-shirt and she is wearing a yellow t-shirt. Little things like this irritate me, because they are part of the larger picture.

My call to The Larger Picture is simple. Treat me like a person. If I make a mistake, it's not because I'm a woman, it's because I'm human. If I'm having a bad day, it's not because I'm on the rag, it's because I'm a human being and sometimes that happens.

Since I grew up with a pretty wide variety of female role models, it honestly never occurred to me that a woman couldn't/shouldn't be her own person. If anything, I had difficulty choosing a role. My mom worked and went to school full-time and raised me on her own (generous meddlinghelp from grandparents notwithstanding.) My stepmother quit working when my brothers were born, but is a tomboy who still gets in indoor water fights with her grown sons and will tell you exactly what she thinks. My maternal grandmother is incredibly intelligent and independent and went back to work in her 60's for a while. My other grandmother worked up as a hairdresser until Katrina hit - admittedly she had whittled her schedule down to one day a week, but that happens when all of your clients start dying off.

I started to write about what wonderful examples these women were of how women could still work and be wives and have kids, but that's not really what I want to say. What I want to say is that these four women set examples for me that women could be people and do things and live their lives. They did what they wanted or had to do, not just because they had vaginas, but because they are people. And this is the part of sexism that I just don't get.

Women don't want extras. I don't. I just want to be able to walk through HEB when I'm having a bad day and not be told to smile - would a man do that to another man?? I want people to look at my daughter's class picture and not notice how she's dressed - they don't notice it with the boy, why do they notice it with her? I want to be able to get angry about something and not have somebody ask if it's "that time of the month." I want to be able to go get a beer and read my book (Hi, yes, I'm a nerd with a boyfriend!) and not be intimidated into being polite to some jerk because I'm afraid he'll get mad and try to hurt me - would he bother another guy? Does he really care what I'm reading?*

It's been said before and better, but here's my point. Dudes, other than the plumbing, I'm not really that different from you. OK? I have bills and a gas tank to fill up at 3 bucks a gallon and a kid to feed and pets and two jobs and a boyfriend and parents and grandparents and siblings and books I want to read and movies I want to watch and laundry to do and my trash needs to be taken out and Good God what is that growing in the crisper drawer and man I could use a beer and what is that knocking sound under the hood, when's the last time I got an oil change and and and and and and.

Get it? I'm living my life over here. The point I'm trying, and failing, to make is that I don't understand why the same story or shirt or job or anything is different when it's told, worn, performed, whatever by a man than it is by a woman.** Individuals make the difference - not genitalia.


*And don't give me that "he's trying to be nice" bullshit. If he were really trying to be nice, he'd see that I was reading and leave me in peace with my book. People looking to get picked up DON'T BRING BOOKS TO BARS.

**This is the part of the conversation where Jef and I tend to derail, because he's former Navy and the Navy has a record of being the most sexist military branch and of being proud of it. I forgive them because they look so damn hot in their little sailor suits (two can play at that game, buddy.)

General Well-Being, Colonel Happy

Hello, party people. My birthday was fantastic, thank you for asking. I received all sorts of fabulous gifts - a box of truffles and a custom-made CD (OF LOVE!!) from The Jef, one of these from my mom, a $100 (whoo!!) Amazon gift certificate from D-mama, money from the other grand-rents and my step-mom, margaritas and a handmade fused glass pendant from a friend and an entire day of just chillin' out and doing stuff with my kiddo.

And on Mother's Day, I hung out with my kid by the pool and then she bought me a sno cone. Really, how do you beat that? You don't.

Of course, all good things must come to an end and Monday we spent the day all spiky and bristly and had a fight. But that ended the way most of our fights do - with us laughing at each other. So, y'now - it's all good.

I realized something recently. Open a can of Ro-Tel and a bag of chips, 'cause it's cheesy. I realized that despite some kvetching to the contrary, I actually really like myself. I have a weird sense of humor and I babble and overexplain because I'm pretty sure nobody understands what the hell I'm talking about half the time (and I have a deep-seated fear/loathing of being misunderstood), and I'm always underestimating how long it'll take me to get places and overestimating how much I can carry in one hand, but overall, I like me. I've managed to make it to my mid-30s without developing an eating disorder or a (major) drinking problem, I feel like I look at most of my shit head on (I said most) and I don't know, I'm a generally happy person. (With maybe a small parentheses problem??)

Of course, when I went down this road, I took a wander down Body Issue Avenue and I started to think about whether or not I was happy with that part of me/myself/I and I realized that, well yeah - I am. I'd like to start running again and I could probably stand to lose a couple of pounds, but eh. I used to really dislike my hands, but when I look down at them now all I see are my dad's hands and they make me unreasonably happy.

I don't know, you guys. I'm in a really good spot right now. Ok, let's re-word that. I'm tired all the time because I'm working all the time and my house is a constant mess, but I get to see my boy in 8 days and I have a girls' trip coming up with some friends and I'm starting to see some financial progress from all the toiling at Smiley-Mart and I'm feeling generally happy and optimistic and good about me in general.

It's a nice feeling.

Oh, honey. You have queso on your chin.

Birthday Suit

Actually, tomorrow is my birthday, but tomorrow I'll be too busy running around with my kiddo and drinking margaritas on a deck somewhere to write an update, so y'all have to deal with the birthday cat a day early.

I love my birthday. Some of you may scoff and say it's because I'm still young and perhaps that's true. I turn 36 tomorrow, which is a good age. I'm old enough to do all kinds of fun stuff, young enough to enjoy my body, but old enough to listen to the aches and pains and know when to stop. I'm wise about a lot of things, but still stupid enough to jump into situations feet first and look around, all shocked puppy-dog and wonder how I got here. I have a sex drive. The thirties are a blast so far.

But I can also tell you that I'm still here and I'd rather still be here than not. I'd rather turn older every year and watch my face wrinkle and my hair turn gray and feel my knees get stiffer and realize that I don't get checked out by bagboys anymore, and wonder when bread got so expensive and look up one day and figure out that I am old than not. I am still here and my friends, there is only one other alternative, and I don't like it.

So I will celebrate my birthday today at work and tomorrow with my daughter and I will enjoy every casual "Happy Birthday" thrown my way and I will savor every bite of chocolate cake and every truffle in the box that Jef sent me and every sip of my margarita(s) tomorrow and every single moment of my birthday this year and the next and the next and the next.

I think y'all should do the same when your birthday comes up. But tomorrow, have some chocolate cake and wine, and when people ask you why, say "Didn't you hear??? It's Laura's birthday!!"

Smooches

memmememmmeeeee

The post rattling around in my head right now is all serious and drab and about how divorce still sucks, even when you're in an extremely wonderful, yummy, incredible relationship and how I feel sometimes like I'm going to break right in half *snap*, like a dry twig and how lately I've taken to leaking from my eyes at random moments while driving from one job to the other and how maybe someone could bring me a candy bar and fix my fucking car for free and how I hate feeling this way because it makes me feel like the world's biggest whiney weiner and feh, nobody wants to read that so instead I present you with a long rambly sentence and a meme I stole from danatheb.

Enjoy.


1. What bill do you hate paying the most? Fucking Old Navy fucking credit card. Fuck.

2. Where was the last place you had a romantic dinner? About a month ago, sitting at Jef's desk. Gnocci and tortellini (what? we wanted pasta) and wandering through the internet on a Saturday night.

3. Last time you puked from drinking? About two years ago - in front of my mom. I'm so proud.

4. When is the last time you got drunk and danced on a bar? Uh, never.

5. Name of your first grade teacher? Mrs. Harris. Another in a long line to tell me that I wasn't living up to my full potential. I WAS 5 LADY BACK OFF.

6. What do you really want to be doing right now? Sitting on my back porch with my book and a glass of wine, please and thank you.

7. What did you want to be when you were growing up? Teacher. While I'm not thrilled about this whole IT/Smiley-Mart drone thing, I'm glad teacher didn't work out. I probably would've taken a PTA meeting hostage or something.

8. How many colleges did you attend? Two.

9. Why did you choose the shirt that you have on right now? Becaue it was clean and easily accessible and hanging right there with a coordinating skirt.

10. GAS PRICES??? Oh, fuck me running.

11. Where would you move if you could move anywhere? I think I'm there.

12. First thought when the alarm went off this morning? "Oh shit."

13. Last thought before going to sleep last night? "Jesus, why'd I have that Dr. Pepper, now I can't zzzzzzzzzzzzz.....""

14. Favorite style of underwear? boy short. Which I am, unfortunately, not wearing today. 'nuff said.

15. Favorite style of underwear for the opposite sex? Boxers.

16. What errand/chore do you despise? Cleaning the catbox

17. If you didn't have to work, would you volunteer? I'd like to say yes, but realistically I have no idea.

18. Get up early or sleep in? I don't know how to answer this. I'm always tired no matter what I do.

19. What is your favorite cartoon character? Brian

20. Favorite thing to do at night with a girl/guy? "At night" as in "when all the cool bars open?" Or "at night" as in "in the dark, bow-chicka-wowwow?" 'Cause the answer to the first one is go the Draughthouse for a couple of pints and then wander down Congress Avenue and pretend to be one of/laugh at all of the cool people. The answer to the second is none of your damn business, missy.

21. Have you found real love yet? I sure as hell hope so.

22. When did you first start feeling old? When I sold a pack of cigarettes to a kid who was born the year I graduated high school.

23. Favorite 80's movie?

24. Your favorite lunch meat? ugh - not a big lunch meat fan. Ham?

25. What do you get every time you shop at Sam's club. I don't shop there often enough to have a regular item.

26. Beach or lake? Beach

27. Do you think marriage is an outdated ritual? A little, but I still like it.

29. Favorite guilty pleasure? Cheesy 80's metal, these cookies, cheap wine, In Style magazine

30. Favorite movie you wouldn't want anyone to find out about? If I don't want anybody to find out about it, why would I tell you? Jeez.

31. What's your favorite alcoholic drink? Frosty cold beer, red wine, vodka tonics.

32. Cowboys or Indians? Cowboys, baby.

33. Cops or Robbers? Cops. It's the uniform.

34. Who from high school would you like to run into? "Run into??" Not a damn person. I'd maim, perhaps kill to see Lee though.

35. What radio station is your car radio tuned to right now? Uh...KLBJ? The ROCK OF AUSTIN.

36. Movies or Documentaries? Depends on what either one is about.

37. The Cosby Show or the Simpsons? God, if I have to choose, the Simpson. The Cosby Show was awful.

38. Worst relationship mistake that you wish you could take back? *snort*

39. Do you like the person who sits directly across from you at work? Well, if I look straight ahead, I see my own reflection in the server cabinet door, so I'll have to say yes.

40. If you could get away with it, who would you kill? Oh, I talk big but really, nobody. But I'd harass a lot of folks.

41. What famous person(s) would you like to have dinner with? Elvis Costello. I'm not even that big of a fan, he just seems like a cool guy.

42. What famous person would you like to sleep with? Natasha Henstridge. Yes, I'm 100% straight, but damn, girlfriend is hot.

43. Have you ever had to use a fire extinguisher for its intended purpose? Nope, nor have I used it for its unintended purpose.

44. Last book you read for real? Possessing the Secret of Joy. very good. I'm currently re-reading Catch-22, one of my all-time favorites.

45. Do you have a teddy bear? Nope.

46. Strangest place you have ever brushed your teeth? UH. I tend to just brush my teeth either at work or at home. I do seem to remember brushing them at a restaurant one time - in the bathroom, of course.

47. Somewhere in California you've never been and would like to go? I've never been anywhere in California.

48. Do you go to church? Only if my daughter's choir is performing in one.

49. At this point in your life would you rather start a new career or a new relationships? New relationship. But like - friends, I'm not looking for any new romantical crap.

50. Just how OLD are you? I'll be 36 in 5 days, Ms. Nosey.