open letters in place of real content

Dear Coke Zero*,


You are not as good as Diet Coke. I'm sorry. I'll stick with you for a little bit to see if I can get used to you, but I remain skeptical. I see a return to Diet Coke very soon. It's one damn calorie.

Laura


Dear stepson,

Vegetables will not kill you. In fact, they will do quite the opposite - they'll help you live a better, longer life. Trust me on this. Please, just try the spinach.

Your stepmother, who really only wants the best for you, so humor her.

Dear Jef,

The floor next to my side of the bed will always and forever be covered in books, notebooks, discarded hair ties and socks. If you can find a way to deal with that and still love me, I will find a way to put up with your (incredibly annoying) habit of leaving the water running THE ENTIRE GODDAMN TIME you do dishes.

Love you,
Laura

Dear Head,

What will it take to get you to stop hurting? I've tried caffeine, no caffeine, water, ibuprofen and snacks. Nothing has helped. Are you trying to tell me something? Is it the weather? Do you want a human sacrifice? There are several extremely noisy small children in our complex, if that's the case. I just need to know what you want to stop the constant pain and I'll do it. Please, nobody has a headache for four days straight. Help me out here.

No, it's not a tumor,
Laura

Dear cats,

Jobs, motherfuckers. Two of you owe us $1300 in vet fees and the rest of you owe us for years of kibble, litter, nip and mousey toys. Do not bore me with that "I don't have any opposable thuuu-uuumbs" bullshit either. There are people in the world with much lower IQs than any of you and they have jobs. Figure it out.

Laura

*I originally typed "Cock Zero", which I know we can all definitely agree is not as good as Diet Cock or, especially, Real Cock. Just be wary of the New Cock, you don't know where it's been.

I'll be better tomorrow

BFF uploaded a bunch of junior high and high school pictures to Facebook and has tracked some people down and I've spent a chunk of my day catching up on classmates and all I have to say is BLEH.

Lawyers and activists and nurses and doctors and musicians and just...bleh.

Along with all the pictures is that wonderful reminder, "Wow! Our 20th year reunion is coming up! Oh my God!"

In that spirit, I've made a list of things to do by summer of 2009. Behold, my neuroses in numbered format:

1)Lose 20 pounds

2)Learn to dress myself like a real grown-up lady and not a)bag lady or b)teenager playing dress up in mommy's work clothes, which are my two favorite looks.

3)Learn something about SOMETHING interesting to talk about. Nobody cares about my cats or my knitting projects or my beads. No really, they don't.

4)Earn that Master's degree. There has to be a super-accelerated Associate's to Master's program in 6 months or less SOMEWHERE.

5)Figure out what the hell I'd ever get a degree in. Maybe that should be #4? Fuck it.

5)Learn some magic tricks. If I can't master that adult conversation thing, I can always just disappear in a puff of smoke. If you need to find me once the smoke clears, I'll be by the cheese.

****

As you can see, I'm not having the best day. I'm going home now, where I think I'll spend the night nestled between my husbands shoulder and a glass of Newcastle. Hmph.

cancel November

November? Really? Wow.

Yes, I voted. And so should you.

So, Ok, um.

Wedding
Gorgeous, wonderful and yes, I can easily say it was the happiest day of my life. It was also one of the most stressful; things I planned down to a T didn't happen, other things I didn't even think about worked out perfectly and I got into a fight with my best friend. Hokey and schmoopy as it sounds, by the time I hit the top of the aisle, it really didn't matter anymore. It was wonderful.

Plus, Jef looked really hot in his kilt. There will be pictures eventually.

Moving

Moving sucks and we will never, ever be done putting stuff away and I'd like a drink, kthxbai.

Marriage

Is good. Very good. So comfortable and good and fun that a month later, we still look at each other and say, "dude...we're like...MARRIED." It's good.

Everything else

We have these cats, right? Well, a while ago, one of the cats was diagnosed with a fungal infection in his sinuses (stryptococcalwhozawhatsit.) He was a stray and apparently this is common in stray/outdoor cats because cats, while being very sweet and useful for keeping your lap warm and keeping your tables free of clutter (ahem) are kind of stupid and do things like snort pigeon poop, thus ending up with Jimmy Durante noses and half dead. So yes, there was that.

Well then, that very same cat, who was getting better due to daily feedings** and pilling got into something, we still do not know what or how because this cat spent all of his time in stepson's room, curled in a ball, but whatever, he got into a poison and nearly died AGAIN and got put on an IV for two days and cost us another eleventy-squillion dollars and now? NOW HE'S HAVING SEIZURES.

The seizures are believed to be related to the fungal thingie and should go away when we continue the anti-fungals, which we stopped because of the other problem, and all I have to say is that this is a very sweet, very pretty cat who sounds like a little parakeet when he talks because he just kind of trills at you but that little fucker better learn to wait tables soon.

Of course, intertwined in all that crap, another cat (Harold)got a lump on his back that apparently hurt like a motherfucker. One day the lump was gone, but Harold's back was kind of....crusty (ew.) We figured it was a boil or something and it popped and that's nasty, but OK. However, his back was still hurting him and he was starting to, frankly, STINK. So we hosed down his back and took a closer look and there was a giant HOLE in our cat. After a week of cleaning it, it looked like maybe it was getting better, but there was another hole. In the cat. On his back.

Jef took Harold to the vet, where they shaved off a 6"x 6" patch of fur and discovered a third hole in his back and a whole lot of necrotic tissue. Turns out the original abscess had nowhere to drain, so the fluid was just kind of pocketing and basically our cat's ass was rotting off.

Now Harold has 16 stitches across his back (seriously, it looks like he had ass re-attachment surgery) and one of those goofy collars on and is currently living in our room. He doesn't seem to be in any pain and is the same mildly grumpy cat he always was. He's a little more affectionate lately, but I think that's because he's lonely.

So yes, one nose full of pigeon poop, one mystery poisoning, several seizures and sixteen stitches later, we have re-named those cats Twitch and Stitch. Yes, we are fully aware that we are going to hell. We do not care, because we hear there's free cable and after all these vet bills we'll take some free shit, thanks.



*I kid, I kid, but seriously...not a lot of sunlight in this kid's life. Just sayin'.

**It is entirely possible that a big, bald, tattooed man syringe-fed a kitten for months on end so it could get healthy again. But you didn't hear it from me.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!

HOLY COCONUT SHRIMP BALLS! I'M GETTING MARRIED ON SATURDAY!!!!!!!!!

just trust me on this one

I'd like to clear up a little misconception about how women REALLY feel about lots of muscles. While I know my "hot" choices might be different than yours, I'm feeling pretty safe in speaking for a lot of women out there. Enjoy

Hot:
Oily and veiny (and suspiciously out of *ahem* proportion)


Hot (well, ignore the swastika):
Oily and veiny:
Hot as muhfuckin' HELL:

BWAHHAHHAHHAA:*


*Dude, I know this took a lot of hard work and I can respect that but...SNORT

Wow, I'm glad I didn't get married in the 80's*

41 days and counting. Invitations are popping up on co-worker's desks. I'm feeling a little tense.

Wedding websites will rot your brain, man. And, despite the humor factor, Etiquette Hell is starting to get on my nerves. Look, I get that a wedding is an important occasion, that there should be some reverence for the commitment two people are making to each other - I'm not a complete hippie, I respect the old institutions. But damn, some people get wound up awfully tight about things. Perhaps I'll be proven wrong in a really horrible way, but I still maintain that the only way my wedding could be truly ruined is if Jef or the officiant doesn't show up. Anything else? Window dressing. Emotionally charged window dressing, but still. So, inspired by the stories on Etiquette Hell, I present the things I really don't care about and the things I really DO. Enjoy.


Things I don't care about

1 - I do not care if you wear white to my wedding. Unless you're wearing a white satin dress with a train and carrying a bouquet, I don't think they'll mistake you for the bride. Neither do I feel that you're trying to steal my thunder by wearing a white sundress on a hot Texas day. I figure you're trying to stay cool. Wear what you want, which leads nicely into....

2 - I don't care if you wear black. Or red. Or pasties and peacock feathers in your hair. NO, REALLY, I DON'T. As long as you don't care about that particular outfit being immortalized on film, I don't care either. Co-workers, be aware that I'm inviting two of the three big bosses and let your freak flag fly.

3 - I don't care if you buy a present or not. We registered as a way of giving suggestions to those people who might want to buy a gift. I will still feed you, provide beverages and enjoy your company regardless. I am not trading hors d'ouvres for Pyrex. What I want the most is your company on my wedding day. If it weren't important to us that our family and friends be there, Jef and I would go the courthouse wedding/happy hour/sleazy hotel sex route.**

4 - I don't care if you act like an asshole at the reception. Obviously, I would rather you didn't, but you're an adult. You are responsible for your own shit. I am the bride, not the babysitter and if you choose to drink it up because it's free and act the ass, I will not feel responsible for you and I will not allow you to ruin my day. In fact, it might be a lot of fun, sitting back laughing at your drunk ass. As long as you don't spill wine on me or Jef, I don't care. No, really, I don't.

5 - I don't care if you bring your kids. I understand completely if people don't want children at their wedding and I'd like to know ahead of time if they're coming, so I can plan appropriately, but your children will not ruin my wedding day. (Unless they highjack the groom's car and keep him from showing up. In which case, damn...impressive four year-old you got there.) It's a civil ceremony being held outdoors so church manners are not necessary. Bring your kids - I'll put coloring books on some of the tables. Join in and color me a pretty picture for a present.


Things I do care about


1 - I care about you being comfortable. Unless we get some kind of freak September cold front (BWAHAHHAHHAHAHAAA) it will be hot. Welcome to Texas. I'll try to make it more pleasant, but see above about dressing comfortably.

2 - I care about you getting home safely. We're getting married out in the country and there are some curvy roads involved in that. Carpool, designate a driver, hit the water an hour before you leave, whatever. The only other way to ruin my wedding?? Die on the way home. That would definitely do it.

3 - I care about getting to talk to you, even if it's briefly. I'll try to get around to everybody, but come say hi - I'll be happy to see you!! Did you color me a picture?? How sweet!

4 - I care about you mingling with the other guests. We're going to have an interesting mix there and I think you'll lose out if you just sit with the people you know and don't wander around. Don't make me break out the icebreaker games, people. I have Twister and I know how to use it.

5 - I care about writing a thank you note in a timely manner. I have always sucked greasy goat balls at this particular skill and I figure if there's one time for me to get it right, this is it.

6 - I care about you signing the guest book. Sometimes people leave early or are camera shy and I won't remember if you were there or not. Sign in, leave me a note, draw me another kitty. I'll provide lots of pens.

6 - I care about you enjoying yourself and feeling appreciated for coming. Hmm...maybe if I'd just written that in the first place, I could have saved some time.

*Of course, by the time the 80's were over, I had just turned 18, so that would have been a trick. We'll ignore the fact that I just barely cleared that decade when I DID get married the first time. Shhhhh - have some more punch.
**Somewhere, Jef is muttering "dammit, that IS what I wanted to do!" I know, honey. Thank you for indulging me.

Ring! Ring! Answer the phone, it's an entry!

I'm starting to get nervous - nervous that my venue will fold on me at the last minute, nervous that it will be 34578567 frillion degrees outside and half of my guests will suffer from heat stroke. Nervous that I'll spill Diet Coke down the front of my beautiful dress while I'm nervously sucking it down right before the wedding. Nervous that my cupcakes will suck and everybody will stand around, muttering "stupid bitch should've gone to a bakery." Nervous that my reception will look like a grade school dance, with Jef's friends on one side and my friends on the other, all staring at each other in fear. Nervous that I won't have enough alcohol. Nervous that I'll have too much and my wedding will turn into Jerry Springer Takes on the Wild Outdoors. Nervous that the bridesmaids dresses won't show up in time, or won't fit, or have been ordered in the wrong color. Nervous that my invitations have the wrong address (they don't, I've checked about 30 times.) Nervous, nervous, nervous.

Here are some other things I've written but not posted/started but not finished over the past couple of years months weeks (ha!) that I haven't been writing. Enjoy. I'll be in the corner, biting off all my nails if you need me.

********

Folks, for the love of dumplings, if you're going to run a website, please learn to spell. I'm not asking for the next GAN in binary form; I know we all misplace a comma here or there or make an occasional oops. But dude, "reeks" means smells bad, "wreaks" means to bring about or cause something - usually something bad. You can't "reek havoc" and your gym shoes don't "wreak." Unless of course, their unholy reek wreaks havoc on your sinuses.

Feh. Fuckers.

Is it Ok to go home at lunch and change your shirt if the shirt you're (stupidly) wearing is gappy with too short sleeves and a weirdly huge waistline and made of some kind of fabric that only wants to bunch up in your armpits?

I'm tired, y'all. BFF and her entire (extremely cute, funny, talented, wonderful) family were in town for a couple of days. Wednesday night she came over and we split a bottle of wine and girl-talked until 1AM. Yesterday, we went shopping for bridesmaids dresses (oh, dear God) and then there was a happy hour with beer and some sitting by her hotel pool with more beer and then I sat at home and felt all maudlin and goopy about her living so far away and that was, of course, accompanied and sponsored by beer.

Today? My brain, she no work so good.

I miss my friend. We've known each other for 24 years, she introduces me as her sister, she put up with me when I was unhappy and angry and lashing out at everything and everybody around me.

This one might have actually been pretty good, if I'd bothered to finish it. Guess we'll never know, huh?
********

Because everybody checks out CuteOverload daily (don't lie, you know you do it - more than once on the shitty days) everybody already knows about the lions.

I can NOT stop watching these damn lions. I check in a few times every day to see how they're doing. I talk to them. AT WORK. I need help. I need a lion intervention. Quick, somebody send me some porn!

I also need a new umbrella. All the Austinites are looking at their monitor right now, head tilted to the right, saying "Umbrella? We're not gonna get rain for another 2 months - bitch be trippin'." Well, trippin' I may be, but I'm also roasting in the goddamn sun when I wait for the afternoon bus. I can cover myself in sunscreen before I leave work (which I always forget to do, mom be quiet) but that still leaves me standing in direct sun, feeling distinctly like a 5'10" chicken breast on a big stinky grill. With cars on it..or, something. ANYWAY. I need a new umbrella because I've decided to make my own goddamn shade, and my umbrella is a little tiny flimsy job that came free with a purse and it sucks. I sneeze and the damn thing turns inside out.

Maybe I could bring back parasols? Some straw deal, with a little flounce? Wouldn't that look darling with my t-shirts, thrift skirts and Chucks? I think so.

Which leads to another thing. I've never been terribly girly. I mean, I wear makeup and I wax my eyebrows (and occasionally my lip, Jane. And OW - I'd rather go back for a Brazilian than wax that little spot of skin under my nose - shit hurts)

Good God, I'm all about the digression today, aren't I?

Gah - I had this long thing here and it was stupid and rambly and I'll try to sum up. I'm in a fashion crisis, people. I'm 37 and I dress like I'm 16 (um, in a frumpy way, not in a belly-shirt way, because NOBODY needs to see that.) I'm lazy, hate dealing with my hair, like to carry everything I own to work and wear entirely too much black. I'd like to start looking like an adult at some point, or if I can't look like an adult, at least look like I got dressed on purpose with a little flair. Help me out here, people.

OH, and do NOT tell me to buy a Goddamn wrap dress, because wrap dresses are universally flattering, blah de bloop. When you have a huge chest and a very high, short waist, do you know what a wrap dress looks like? It looks like a bathrobe. If I want to look like I just got out of bed, I'll skip the shower and just wear a damn bathrobe, by God.

Hit me. Hair, makeup (actually, I have this down pretty well, but I wouldn't mind lip-related recommendations other than chap-stick, which is what I typically wear), clothes, shoes, cool bags so I don't look like I'm carrying my daughter's backpack (it's actually a hand-me-down from my little brother SHUT UP.) Help me kill the bag lady. K'thanx.


********

If you're still with me, thanks. If not, what the fuck, man? After all we've been through? Hmph.

Jef came in this weekend. In order, we: drank beer, got up too early, ripped carpet out of my mom's house, got cleaned up, walked around Bed, Bath and Beyond doing the registry thing until we couldn't see straight, drank more beer, slept like the dead, ate a big breakfast, got free ice cream, went BACK to BB&B to add a couple of things we forgot, watched "King of Kong", and then smooched a whole bunch before he left.

That is why I'm really, really tired today.

Kisses.

St. Arnold's Summer Pils, Paulaner Hefeweizen, Left Hand Wheat something, Fireman's 4

Before I start on my pub-based people watching, I present a recipe.

1 can white beans (or great northerns - same damn thing)
1 half white onion
1 or 2 sun-dried tomatoes in oil
1 tbsp minced garlic
olive oil
hot sauce of choice (tabasco, whatever)
herbs of choice (I used some Herb de Provence mix - basil and parsley would work well)
salt

Attempt to punch two holes in top of white bean can with church key. Curse when you figure out that the sharp part of the church key is fucked up, rendering the damn thing only useful for opening beer. Open a beer. Use regular can opener to open the white bean can about halfway. Put the can upside-down in a colander so that that most of the juice drains out. While the beans are draining, heat up some olive oil on medium heat in a pan and dice up your onion. Cook down a couple of anchovies that you won't mention in the ingredients because everybody freaks out about anchovies, but they actually do make a lot of things taste really damn good when you cook them down in oil first. Whatever. Add onion to alleged anchovies and cook for a few minutes - till they start to change color. Chop up the sun-dried tomato and scoop some of the tomato oil out of the jar. Throw chopped tomatoes and tomato oil in the pan with the onion and phantom anchovies and stir. Toss in the garlic, stir again.

When the beans are mostly drained (you want a little bean juice) take the top the rest of the way off the can and throw into the pan with all the other stuff. Um, throw the beans in the pan. Throw the top in the trash. Stir. Spice to taste with hot sauce, salt and herbs of choice. Lower the heat (medium-lowish) and leave everything in the pan for 5-10 minutes.
Dig out your food processor. Use the time while everything cooks to figure out how to get the damn thing together again. Scare the shit out of the cats when you hit the pulse button and discover that yes, you do have it put together correctly.

Dump bean mixture into a clean bowl. Curse that you just dirtied another Goddamn dish. Dump into food processor bowl. Curse again because you just had this thing, YIKES!! Ok, now it's working. Let it run for about 30-45 seconds - until everything's all mushy.
Spy that unnecessary bowl on the counter. Realize you now need it for the finished dip. Congratulate self on being so fucking smart. Scrape food processor bowl into serving bowl. Scrape some more. And some more. A little more. Say fuck it as you realize you will never, ever get all the dip out of the food processor bowl.

Cover bowl with clean dish towel and stick in fridge. Get impatient and eat it still kind of warm with Wheat Thins. Realize it would be better with corn chips. Next day, eat with corn chips and fourth beer of the night. Realize you were right - it's much better with corn chips, but you need some cheese to cut the spice.
Enjoy

********
Ok, on to my social voyeurism.

So - I'm sitting at a pub/grille (with an E!) type place down the road from my house and I'm wish-wish-wishing I had my camera with me. There's a man, easily 60 years old, tanned to the point of leather. He's ridden up to the the bar on his bike. He's wearing a pink and white horizontally striped shirt, bike gloves, sunglasses, a ball cap and extremely short - like bottom of the butt-cheek baring short - shorts. White shorts made of a shiny fabric; shorts equipped with their own belt.

I can't see his shoes. Maybe the shoes pull it together - explain it all.

He is standing, arms akimbo*, apparently agitated. I don't know if it's because the waitress hasn't acknocleged him - but I'm pretty sure she has - or because he's waitng for someone who's late or because he's just airing out after his bike ride or because he can feel the stares.
I wish he'd sit down - he's right in my sight line as I lift my eyes from my book or my beer and sidling off to the right is making my eyes tired.

I take to writing about him while peering studiously into my book, as if Middlesex, the saga of a hermaphrodite and his family, has resonated within me and urged deep, deep, gotta be recorded now feelings.

Thank God - he just sat down. Now I'm only distracted by the two corporate monkeys at the closest table, ordering Dos Equis after Dos Equis and talking about email. No real challenge there.

He stirs his iced tea with a flourish. God God man, stop. I'm already on my third beer, I have to pee and I can't afford to stay here, pretending not to watch you, all night. I have to get home and clean my catbox. Please, be ordinary for the next 45 minutes so I can get home safely.
Ting ting, with the spoon. Why? Is your tea more viscous than usual? How much sugar do you have to add to make your tea cling to the spoon that way?

I hope whomever you're waiting for shows up soon. You're sitting at a six top, so I can only assume you're waiting for somebody. Anyone who can leave the house in any part of your torso's wardrobe deserves happiness, my lycra-flaunting, stripey friend.

And now I've asked for my check and I've gotten my requested glass of water and I will probably smoke one more cigarette while I wait for the return of my check card. Whan it comes back, I'll load my book, my notebook and my cigarettes back into my sensible, boring black tote bag. I'll sign the slip, put my card in my wallet and my sunglasses on top of my head. I'l walk past the yuppies - I don't know what they're talking about now, I've been so succesful in ignoring them that I hear "rhubarb, rhubarb, they seem like good guys, rhubarb, rhubarb, escrow." I'll go in, go to the bathroom - my good luck charm against traffic** - climb into my car and drive home.

I hope you, my finely dressed buddy, will sit for only a few more minutes and then see a familiar face approaching from the parking lot. I hope he/she buys you enough drinks that you have to load your tricked out bike (did I mention the mirrors? No? My mistake.) into the back of his/her car so you can get home. This area can't be safe for bicycles after dark. It's scary enough for cars.

Good luck, Hot Pants Horatio. You are a brave, secure man.

*Akimbo!! Hi mom! see, all those Kathleen Woodiwiss novels paid off!!
**If I pee before I leave any location - house, bar, restaurant, doctor's office - I won't have to fight with traffic. If I don't pee, even if all I do is just graze the seat with my ass because I never really had to go? Traffic. Traffic for 45 minutes on a 2 mile trip. Traffic the likes of which inspire tragic poems and novels. The moon controls the tides and the bladder controls the traffic.

The catbox beckons. Y'all be good.

right now we're on the 183 flyover and I HATE THIS PART

The bus has taught me a few things.
One - cutting your fingernails in public has become socially acceptable. I thought it was still considered a tacky, disgusting thing to do in public, but judging from the amount of clipper action on the afternoon northbound, I guess I was wrong. Somebody update Emily Post.
Two - the bus is its own weather system. It doesn't matter what the temperature is outside or how much the A/C runs on the bus, the bus has its own ideas about what temperature it wants to be today and you and your comfort and thoughtfully packed cardigan can bite the bus's ass.
Three - There are chatty people and there are un-chatty people. The chatty people like to, well, chat. And chat...aaaaaand chat. The un-chatty people wish everybody else would just shut the fuck up so they can read their book in peace. Some unchatty people are unlucky enough to have a broken iPod this week and would like you to know that it kind of sucks. And that lady over there is going on vacation next week and that one over there has a daughter in dance and the daughter's recital is next week and that guy over there just doesn't understand how anybody could vote Republican in this day and age. Please. God. Make it stop.
Four - falling asleep on the bus is an exercise in terror. Twice now, I've dozed off on the bus, only to find that the driver has decided, for whatever secret bus reason, to take a detour. Waking up to shouts of "WHERE ARE YOU GOING??" is not a lot of fun. Note to self: start hitting that 3:00 Diet Coke again.
Five - People sitting at a bus stop at 6:10 AM are NOT chatty. I must start getting up earlier - that was just wonderful
Six - Halcyon has excellent coffee. And really, really fucking good blueberry muffins. If you're ever in Austin, give them a shot.
Seven - I no longer give a shit if I look like a dork. I wear black low-top Chucks with skirts, I carry a backpack on both shoulders, and I do not care. I do not care. If I have to walk roughly a mile from my bus stop to my office every day, I'm going to be comfortable. You don't like it? You can pay for my gas and I'll start driving again.
Eight - I'll narrow this down to Texans, but I suspect it's Americans in general - are spoiled when it comes to cars. You tell people you're taking the bus to work and half of them act like it's some sort of tragedy, like your car got repo'ed or you've been diagnosed with epilepsy and advised not to drive. Dude...it's a bus. New York is considered the most of the most and there are grown-ass adults in that town who get around by public transportation and never learn to drive. Consider Paris and London, where there are buses everywhere and it's not weird to ride one. Texans, I love y'all, but y'all are about a bunch of spoiled babies when it comes to cars.
Nine - There is one bus driver who does not know what the fuck she is doing. In my head, she's Crazy Carla. I have no idea what her real name is, but she looks utterly insane and scares the shit out of me when she drives. I try really hard not to catch her bus.
And - Ten - The big fancy red buses have wireless, but it doesn't like Firefox. That's cool - I'll just use it to post a long overdue entry.
HEH.

the theme of the day must be bugs

Unfortunately, I've already moved all of my plants outside, I've taken everything off the counter where the gnats like to hang out, cleaned that area thoroughly, cleaned the toaster oven as well as under it (and all I have to say about that is EW), sprayed bug spray in all the little crevices between the wall and the counter (what is the deal with apartments and the lack of proper fits?) and cleaned out my drains pretty damn well. The last option, which might seem a little obvious, is the leak under my kitchen sink that has left the whole underside of that cabinet damp. I called the apartment office and told them about it, so let's hope it gets fixed in the next couple of days and that's the end of the GODDAMN GNATS. If not? Flypaper baby. It's come down to class vs. aggravation. Aggravation is winning.

And if I start reporting weird symptoms like a fever, rash, third arm? I was so annoyed this morning by the number of gnats hanging out on my coffee canister (which is sealed - there are no gnats IN the coffee. Trust me, I checked.) that I spritzed the canister with bug spray. I'll let y'all know if anything major changes, like the number of eyes sprouting from my face.

Soon, like in the next couple of weeks, I need to start cleaning out my house - getting rid of clothes, plastic crap, paper paper paper that accumulates - all that shit? Gotta go. Because sometime in the next month or two, I'm gonna have two full-sized boys living in my apartment. While I'm thrilled shitless that Jef will be here full time soon, I'm a little worried that the 5* of us in this aparment for too long will lead me to completely lose my shit.

*5, yes 5. I know, this isn't really a footnote, bite me. For the last couple of months, we've had one of kiddo's friends staying with us. She's a good kid and her family is....I don't know. There are difficulties logistical, financial and teenagerial going on. So she's here for a while. I always have extra kids during the summer**, so that's not a big deal. But I've let it be known that this can't continue next school year.

Anyhoodles, for a while, there may be 5. That's me, two teenage girls and two full-grown men. And 6 cats. In a fairly packed slightly less than 1,000 square foot apartment. It should be interesting.

Of course, Jef thinks everything will go swimmingly. I have my doubts, because I am, to put it bluntly, a righteous pain in the ass when I don't have a sufficient amount of alone time. But y'know...we'll see. Maybe I'll exceed my own expectations and act like a human being instead of a spoiled grumpy hermit.

Anybody want to come help me clean out my house? I pay in home cooking, cat hair and wine. C'mooooon, it builds character.



**Ok, this is a footnote. I don't know if y'all did this or if the teenagers in your area do this, and I think it's more pronounced with girls than boys. In the summer, groups of teenage girls turn into giggly, tan locusts. The come to a house, invade the pool, eat all the food, use all the toilet paper and then leave, only to move on to another hapless victim. After a few days, enough time for the host adult to restock, they come back and repeat the cycle. On the one hand, I don't mind having a group of teenagers in my house because it can be kind of fun. On the other hand, after about 4 days and not getting to eat any of the cheese? I'm ready to pack them in a big twitchy box and ship them off to Aruba.

yes, I talk about my boobs

For Jane

I'm finishing this entry the next day. Work with me here.

For some strange reason, the Maxim Hot 100 is on my TV right now. It's really motivating. Whether it's motivating me to get up and run in the morning or just give the fuck up and make sloth a true profession rather than a hobby is a whole other question. I just need somebody to tell me that Beyonce has stress breakouts, Megan Fox has an IQ of 52 and Jessica Simpson wears a girdle. I'm feeling Mean Girls right now, somebody help me out.

Somebody also help me remember to mail back my damn Netflix. The whole reason I signed up with them was because the no late fee thing, but I think I might be stretching that just a bit at this point. There's probably somebody out there waiting for Bill Hicks to come back in and I just don't need that kind of stress right now.*

I'd also like somebody to come over and help me get rid of the gnats in my house. Yes, I leave my house open when it's not stupid hot outside, but I've never had a problem with these damn gnats. I clean my kitchen every night, I take out my trash regularly, I'm a clutterbug but I'm not a nasty slob, yet I have this cloud of gnats. Please, help before I resort to hanging those little fly strips all over my house like some kind of Goddamn white trash Christmas garland.

While we're on the subject of me, me, me, could somebody please help me figure out a way to remember all my shit in the morning? I could put a big dry-erase board on the back of my door, but unless I update it every night (rather than leaving a standing list on it) I will eventually start ignoring it. I can hear you say "well, dumbass, update it every night." Trust me, I'd do it for about 2 weeks and then? Start forgetting. Honestly, I fully expect Jef to get a phone call one day, "Mr. Sexy? Yes, we have your wife down here at the police station. Well, sir...it appears she forgot to wear pants."

I forgot my laptop this morning. My laptop - my WORK machine. Bah. Stupid brain.

And finally, I need someone to give me a way to make my boobs stop itching. I have to wear an underwire bra, otherwise I'd have a giant monoboob and Jane would stop talking to me altogether. And I don't know if y'all know this, but in Texas? In the summer? It gets hot. Motherfuckin' hot. Underwire bra + 100 degree heat = gross sweaty underboob, which then translates into itchiness. I've tried baby powder - that seems to make it worse. I've tried lotion - eh. I wear cotton as much as possible, but when you're dealing with the giant tits, you take what you can get. "Oh, burlap..and it's the only one in my size. Well okey-dokey then."

Anyway...yes, it's gross. But I can't spend another summer covertly clawing at the underside of my boobs. Help a sister out.

So yeah, that's it. I have NEEDS, people.

*Next morning and the Netflix are still on my coffee table, safely sealed up in their jaunty red envelopes.

Never-ending birthday

Back on the 9th, I had a co-worker ask me what The Boy was getting me for my birthday. Whent I answered "Uh....I don't know...he's gotta work and I'm staying in Austin this weekend...??" she looked kind of shocked, as if he was supposed to fling himself down I-35 and toss diamonds at me, regardless of things like jobs, bank accounts and the time-space continuum.

But now, I can give her an answer. I got an incredibly cool hard-side Samsonite suitcase in dark blue (I love that damn stuff), I got a tune-up on my car and I got drunk. And later? I'm getting laid.

So y'know? My birthday just doesn't fucking end. By the way, I'm typing this one-eyed from Jef's computer in Dallas. Gotta go. Y'all behave.

anywhere but here

I had a really great birthday yesterday. (Yes, it was my birthday. Hi! Why thank you, yes, it was wonderful.) I got the first part of my amazon loot (purchased with a $100 gift certificate from the grandmother) and I got taken out to lunch by WorkBuddy and another co-worker brought me a little pot of red gerberas (my favorite! How did you know? No, really.) and then WorkBuddy and I went out for Mexican martinis after work. I finished the night with a slice of leftover strawberry shortcake. Quite nice.

Since my birthday is in May, I use it as a kind of mid-year review. New Year's, I sit back and wonder, "dude, what the fuck did I DO this year?" In May, I tend to think of it more as, "wow, another year older...have I learned anything at all?"

The answer this year seems to be no.

Oh, I'm sure I've picked up some sort of wisdom just from walking through the world for another 365 (366? this was a leap year, right?) days, things like hey, don't walk across the liquor store parking lot on your from the bus stop on Monday morning, because there will be puke. And things like stop, just stop buying string cheese if you have teenagers in your house, because you will never get to eat any of it. Resistance is futile.

But I haven't learned anything useful. I haven't picked up any new skills, I haven't learned any languages or even how to cook anything new and nifty. Well, OK, that last part isn't entirely true, because I finally got around to making that cream of chicken/soup/rice casserole that every mom makes. Add a little onion, worchestire and garlic, top with cheese? Good shit, man.

I haven't written a book. (Well, Laura, do you WANT to write a book? Shut up.) I haven't finished any knitting projects, I haven't lost weight, I haven't even taken any pictures of anything. I have just sort of drifted from age 36 to 37 and I fucking hate it.

Ok, Ok...I...um. I planted some tomato plants!! And I actually have one, little teeny green tomato growing now.

I started taking the bus, which means I've done a lot more reading; I finally read To Kill a Mockingbird. My, what a lovely book.*

The bus has been really great. Obviously, I'm not having to (as frequently) feed my car the liquid gold that has obviously replaced the boring old dinosaur juice that gas stations used to sell. Also, in the morning and in the afternoon I get an uninterrupted hour of reading time - in the morning I have a nice little 20 minute walk with multiple coffee opportunities between my stop and work. I've been getting to work in a good mood every day (um, no guarantees on the quality of my mood once I've been here for an hour) and in the afternoon, I don't get home exhausted and in need of a fishbowl of wine and a nap before I can consider cooking dinner. Just a regular glass will do.

Which leads me to wonder a couple of things. 1)If this is what Austin traffic does to a person, what are people like in cities with truly disgusting traffic, like Dallas and L.A. and Congestionville, USA? Ick. And 2)it's just Austin traffic, which as I just said is not really that bad, comparatively speaking. So...am I just a big goddamn weinie. Nevermind, don't answer that.

Some random things that I found on the internet today, between various work-related tasks that, no matter how many I do, never seem to make a dent in my list. Perhaps because I spend the time between tasks looking for random tidbits instead of doing another task. Anyway:

From Esquire's list of 75 things every man should know how to do:

58. Avoid boredom. You have enough to eat. You can move. This must be acknowledged as a kind of freedom. You don't always have to buy things, put things in your mouth, or be delighted.

72. Stock an emergency bag for the car.
Blanket. Heavy flashlight. Hand warmers. Six bottles of water. Six packs of beef jerky. Atlas. Reflectors. Gloves. Socks. Bandages. Neosporin. Inhaler. Benadryl. Motrin. Hard candy. Telescoping magnet. Screwdriver. Channel-locks. Crescent wrench. Ski hat. Bandanna.

From Mighty Girls archives:

manque--unfulfilled or frustrated in the realization of one's ambitions or capabilities

somatize--to express psychological conflict through bodily symptoms

The more interest you take in your wardrobe, the more you’ll realize that caring too much about what people think can be the kiss of death.

On that last note, I think I'm going to stop at DSW on the way home (park and ride, baby, park and ride) and look for that pair of red converse low tops that for the past two weeks have seemed like the perfect thing to go with half of my wardrobe and still get me to work comfortably.

Ta.


*Obviously, the subject matter is not all that lovely, but it's beautifully written, so nyah.

lalochezia

I actually have a metric shit-ton of stuff to talk about, but every time I start to do so I get all bogged down. Instead, a stupid list! Stolen from somebody else's site! Enjoy!

1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?
My great-grandmother, Laura. One of my few great-grands that I never got to meet. From what I've heard, a really interesting lady, if not exactly warm and fuzzy.

2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?
UH. Don't know. I've felt like crying a few times over the past week or so, but have yet to make the leap.

3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?
Eh. I like my signature. My handwriting is too illegible for me to form an opinion.

4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?
EW.

5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?
One and a whole passel of loaner kids.

6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?
Probably not. I laugh at weird shit, I get all quiet and introspective and weird in group settings, I take things too personally and I almost never spring for a round. (Mostly because I'm broke, not because I don't want to.)

7. DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT?
Duh.

8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS?
Yep. See? aaaaaah

9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?
Are you fucking kidding? No.

10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?
EW.

11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?
Only my running shoes, because they're tied pretty tightly. They're also the only shoes I own with laces.

12. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG?
Mentally/emotionally? Yes. Physically? Sort of. I can do a lot of things that people don't think I should be able to do, but on the other hand, I have problems working a lighter and stirring cookie dough.

13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?
Plain ol' vanilla or Phish Food

14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?
Mouths. I can recognize actors in heavy makeup by the way they move their mouths.

15. RED OR PINK?
Red. Wearing it right now, as a matter of fact.

16. WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?
My temper and my insecurity around people.

17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST
My dad

18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO SEND THIS BACK TO YOU?
Why bother? I know everything about you anyway - my investigators are quite thorough.

19. WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?
Blue jeans, black cowboy boots.

20. WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE?
Marie Callendar's chicken pot pie and a Diet Coke.

21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?
Servers and an adding machine

22. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?
Black. Not an emo thing, just it's basic and simple and works with everything.

23. FAVORITE SMELLS?
Jef, freshly cut grass, my grandparent's old house

24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?
My kid

25. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU?
I stole it from JT and she seems pretty cool, yeah.

26. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?
Football, baby

27. HAIR COLOR?
Brown. I had an appointment with a box of L'oreal.

28. EYE COLOR?
Brown.

27. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?
No, but I blink so much that everybody offers me saline solution.

30. FAVORITE FOOD?
I don't know - what you got there? Can I have a bite?

31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?
Happy endings. I'll sit on the couch and watch a scary movie with you, if you want. I'll be the one hiding behind the pillow, yelling warnings at the screen.

32. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?
"Fliring With Disaster" Ah, Netflix.

33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?
Red sweater

34. SUMMER OR WINTER?
Summer. Winter makes me want to live under my bed.

35. HUGS OR KISSES?
Yes, please.*

36. FAVORITE DESSERT?
Bread pudding, chocolate cake w/ chocolate icing, flan.

37. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
Mom.

38. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND
Jane - she hates this kind of crap
.
39. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?
The Portable Dorothy Parker. But I just finished Consider the Lobster, which was excellent.

40. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?
A bunch of scribbles - my mousepad is a pad of yellow paper w/ grippy stuff on it.

41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON T.V. LAST NIGHT?
UM..Family Guy...then My Name is Earl and then Sex and the City.

42. FAVORITE SOUND?
The little "mrr?" noise one of my cats makes, Jef's obnoxious cop knock on my door, when my kid calls me "Ma!"

43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?
Three Dog Night

44. WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME?
Mexico? Nebraska? Cleveland? Somebody fetch me an atlas.

45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?
HEH. *cough* I can make dinner out of a practically empty pantry, cleaning my house in 30 minutes, cat snuggling, gummy worm eating and storage of totally useless information.

46. WHERE WERE YOU BORN?
New Orleans, Louisiana

47. WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK?
UM.

48. WHAT TIME IS IT NOW?
1:21 PM, CST

*OK, so I have one thing that's easy. Last week, I got a phone call on Wednesday night, about 6:30. It was R, one of my users, calling to let me know that a fairly important server was down. She and A were working late. I finished my salad, put on some shoes and drove down to work. Got it fixed pretty quickly and when I went to check it out at A's desk. Everything was fine. A says "Oh, thank you!!" and reaches out to hug me.

First of all, I'm not a very huggy person and second, I really don't like A. So I stood there, with my hands in the warding off position, just kind of repeating "oh, no. nonono" until my brain clicked in and spit out a semi-polite response.

"Oh, Uh, thank you. I'm just not all that huggy. It's not you, it's me. Um...gotta go."

ACK.

cat chewing through food bag, gotta go

**



So. After a lengthy discussion, Jef and I have decided to postpone the wedding date.
.
.
.
.
.
HEH...y'all probably think there's some big heartfelt, "I'm not ready for this change" crap going on, don't you? Sorry, but no. My lease ends at the end of March, his at the end of September, and none of the possible complexes we could move into (his on a transfer, my current one) have 3 bedroom apartments. SO...we decided to push the date back to September.

Sure hope all of those plane tickets are refundable/transferrable. (snort)

This also works out well for a couple of guests on my list and I'm hopeful that it will work better for my matron of honor and a couple of family members.

Shit, that reminds me, I need to call various family members who don't use email and let them know. Thanks. I'll do that tomorrow.

Advantages to September - obvious logistical/financial/slacker-who-hasn't-done-as-much-as-she-should-
have-by-now ones.

Disadvantages - probability of 100 degree day much higher.

Hm...guess those tents are a definite on the ol' rental list, huh? I love Texas weather, by the way. Heat is always a possibility. The day may start out at 40 and end up at 80. Layers, we haz them.

I've had a little bit of wine, so y'know...Hi.

I finished another book - White Oleander. It was excellent. I have a book swap buddy at work and the copy I read was hers, so now I need to go out and buy my own copy so that I can highlight/mark a few things. Really, I recommend this book but, as always, with a caveat. There is a section in the book where you will look up from the page and cry, "Oh, sweet crispy JESUS, does this book ever get any happier??" The answer is, well...read it. No, they do not all walk into the sunset together, holding hands and clutching vanilla lattes, but it gets better. Trust me.

And do not talk to me about the movie. I have this weird thing where I actually can't deal with most movie adaptations of books. I prefer the written word, thank you. I'm almost scared to see movies of books that I've enjoyed because they usually get ruined. A good writer uses words...like..well..shit. Like I'm unable to right now. But that almost NEVER comes across in movies. Maybe it's because I was a big 'ol Stephen King fan back in junior high/high school and we all know how great his movies are. Ahem.

The Dallas Auto-rama was wonderful. What's the word for things that you wouldn't ordinarily do on your own but end up enjoying because you do them with a certain person? Whatever it is, that's the deal with me and car shows. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE classic/restored/custom cars. No, really. I do. I actually know how an internal combustion engine works and can (sort of) explain it to you. The ex and I briefly owned a 1968 Mustang that was MY car. I helped rebuild the brakes and work on it. And by helped I don't mean stood there in short shorts while holding a frosty beverage. I mean I rebuilt one side of the brakes after being shown how to do it on the first side, packed bearings, bled brake lines, replaced leaf springs. I like cars and not just because guys think it's cool. Turn over the engine on a '69 Camaro and I'm yours, baby. Barumpabrumbrumbrumrumpa.

Pardon me, where was I? Oh, car show, yes. Despite my love of the four-wheeled, wandering around for 5 hours in two rooms of custom cars (including a ridiculous amount of Chevy Belairs) is something that you kind of need the right company to handle well. (Or beer, which I also had on hand.) I had the right company. We joked about the cars, liked a lot of the same ones, knew which one the other would get all goose-bumpy about. AW.

And Jef got to meet George Barris, and his reaction was the best thing I've ever seen. Seriously.

OK. I think I'm out of gas. I still have to hunt down the links for a couple of things up there and the Project Runway reunion is on and I'm just plain tired of typing. Bye.


**Taken at Oktoberfest, yet another thing I haven't told you about yet. I know, I know. I suck.

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?