brief

My boobs have been through a lot today. First, they were rudely thrust into a bra without the courtesy of a shower. Then, they were cruelly ripped from the nice, warm bra in which they had just become comfortable and put in an extremely unflattering front-tie hospital gown meant for someone a good 3 sizes larger. THEN, they were manipulated and moved around by a very nice radiology tech and squished between 2 large plates and exposed to radiation. Twice for each one!

They lost consciousness after this, only to awaken and find themselves strapped into a jog bra, bouncing in a most un-lady-like fashion down the hike and bike trail. I'm afraid I'll wake up tomorrow with a note pinned to my recently vacated breastbone, which reads "Left you for a less paranoid, less active sternum."

So yes, mammogram, work, run, now home. Am lying on the floor, digesting a kidney bean and couscous concoction, drinking a nice glass of red wine and half listening the the Hubble telescope program that Jef is watching.

The stupid cat came home yesterday. Kids* and Jef got home from a gift card-enable Starbuck's spree and thought they heard a cat outside. Sure enough, it was asshole Miles, wandering down the breezeway, yowling to be let in. Little fucker's gonna get us evicted.

So yes - my boobs have been very busy (and are quite possibly planning a revolution) and the cat came back. That about sums up my day.

I got nothing but more wine and a dirty kitchen - y'all have fun.

*Almost forgot the footnote! Kids do not equal Kiddo and Stepson - it equals Kiddo, Stifler (one of kiddo's friends) and boyfriend. Good kids, if perhaps a little....ever-fucking-present. Sigh.

Have you seen this kitty?

I have added one more thing to my chump Happy, Optimistic List of Stuff I'm Totally Going to do in 2009, WhOOOO!!

#100 - learn to parallel park

Yes, ladies and germs, that's right - I do not know how to parallel park. If I do anything downtown, I leave 30 minutes early because I know I will spend 20 minutes driving in ever-widening circles around my destination, 3 seconds in a highly illegal and blood-curdling Steve McQueen manuever when I find a free spot that I can nose into, 2 minutes hunting for change before I realize that duh, it's Saturday, the meters are free and the next 7 minutes, 59 seconds walking 6 blocks to my destination. People wonder why I do all my drinking at home.

Well, that and the extreme effort it takes me to put on shoes and a bra. Let us not speak of makeup.

So yes, my list does not end on a 9 anymore, but that's OK. According to Nikol's Uberlist rules, I have until the 8th the formalize it, so something may get dropped. Or more may get added (that breathing thing is getting more and more difficult) so I may end up with 109 after all.

And no, mom, I couldn't just do 9. I sat down to write the list and came up with 38 pretty quickly. No good can come of a list that stops at 38 - it's a weird number. I just don't like the way it looks. Of course, it's also how old I'll be this year. I may have to lie about my age for the first time in my entire life, just so I don't have to write such an unsettling number.

I've already managed to deal with one of the things on The HOLOSITGTOI'09W! (henceforth called the Holy Sit Go) as you may have noticed if you tuned in Wednesday. That's right - I scheduled my mammogram.

I am petrified.

No, I'm not scared they'll find something. If they do, they do, I'll deal with it (which is my way of saying "lallallalaa no lumps here, lalallaaa".) I'm scared of the actual test. I'm a tall woman with big boobs, so I have this very clear mental picture of me, crouched down, left breast mostly wedged into the machine when some tech decides it's too low and wwhhhhiiirrrr - I'm lifted up off the floor by my tit.

I don't care if it's realistic, I don't care if they actually have George Clooney look-a-likes in there, feeding me pina coladas to calm me down. I am freaked out. Jef is going with me - here's hoping he'll work like a big, blue-eyed, tattooed valium.

I started this on Friday and now it's Sunday night and one of our kitties has gone missing. He has a habit of darting out the door if we leave it open a millisecond longer than absolutely necessary, but since we know about this, we try to keep an eye out for him. We turned this place upside down and can't find him. Sigh. Stupid cat.

Now I'm off to drink a big glass of water and get my stuff together for tomorrow (not a resolution, I just hate standing naked and pre-caffeine in my closet, trying to figure out a work outfit that doesn't involve the jammie pants I just took off.)

Y'all be good.

rewards?

I got a jump on that whole New Year's thing and took care of #40 - go get a damn mammogram. Of course, I had to give all my information to a dude, which shouldn't bother me, seeing as my gynecologist is male, but it does.

I did manage to refrain from replying "Nope, just have big boobs!" when he asked if I had implants.

ball dropping

Good thing for the day - I've found yet one more reason to go to Belgium - "But just occasionally, when he would make the cauliflower curry of the devil, a collective sigh would go around the table and we would find ourselves secretly thinking 'the barrister would not make us a vegan dinner with no pudding. He would take us to Chez Gérard for steak frites'. Of course, the barrister would not have helped me squeeze the guinea pig's abcess either. But we were notoriously ungrateful." If you follow that link, make sure you scroll down to the one about the tortoise and his enormous penis. Seriously.

********

I hate New Year's Eve. It's a deceitful, tricky day that lulls you into believing that with a single tick of a clock, you can start over and fix your problems. Lose weight, stop smoking, drink more water, get out of debt, be nicer to your family, stop stealing nuts from the bulk bins, learn to bake bread, learn to speak Russian, stop crying at long distance commercials, realize that life-long dream, figure out your life-long dream in the first goddamn place.

It's bullshit. It's just another day. Resolutions are for the delusional. In a matter of weeks, you'll be right back where you were, eating too much cheese, drinking diet coke, smoking a pack a day, penniless, rude, cursing in Russian (because, really, curse words are the only thing anybody wants to learn in another language - that and how to order a beer), crying in front of crap TV and still stuck in the same dead-end job you've had for the past 10 years.

New Year's Eve is for chumps.

That being said - I have a list of things I'd like to do/change in 2009.* I? Am a chump.

I'll only give you a sampling because some of them are private (due to a high EQ (embarrassment quotient)) and because do you really want to read a 99-item long list of things I want to do in the new year? No, you do not, trust me. And no, "stop stealing nuts from the bulk bins" doesn't show up because I don't do that in the first place. I take extra samples from the cheese tray, and I hit up the sample people at Sam's multiple times with no intention of ever buying that package of pre-cooked wings. Haha!!

Behold!

5 Hook up DVD player (yes, we've lived in this apartment for 4 months and have not hooked up the DVD player - shut up)
6 Hook up VCR (continue shutting up)

8 Organize pictures (hahhahhahhaa)

10 Plant an herb garden (and try not to kill it this year)
11 Paint my terra cotta pots so the herb garden looks all cool
12 Purge underwear drawer ("purge" and "underwear" should never go in the same sentence, should they? My apologies.)

16 Make one project off that list in your head titled "stupid stuff nobody will like" because who cares if they like it?

21 Ask doctor about lump on knee (again with the shutting up)

25 Dig out sewing machine and make something (look for lots of festive tote bags)
26 Eat breakfast!
27 Eat more fruit (one piece a day!!)
28 Eat more protein (I could live off pasta and vegetables if left to my own devices)

31 finish that fucking clapotis (3 years! 3 motherfucking years!! That bitch is going DOWN!)

34 fix my hair like a real grown up, instead of relying on a ponytail at the age of 37

42 Intarsia (what is it? How do I do it? Is it contagious?)

45 knit a pair of socks (I have a feeling by the end of the pair, I'll start a movement to criminalize socks, but it seems like something I should tackle at least once)

47 Learn the Q with no U scrabble words
48 Learn to crochet (This is mostly for my mom. I make no guarantees I'll like it.)

68 Stop smoking (This is my year! I can feel it! chump chump chump)

70 Take more pictures
71 Take my mom out for coffee (Hi mom!)
72 Wake up on time
73 Watch the news (seriously, I'm like an ostrich)

77 Write in journal (shoot for 2x/week)

83 for the love of God, buy some new bras

I suppose I should be nicer about New Year's Eve. The idea of closing the lid on the shoe box marked "2008" and setting it up high on the closet shelf is kind of appealing. I'll give 2009 a chance - it's 365 more days to try to figure out what the hell I'm doing, I suppose.

You guys have a happy, safe New Year's Eve. I'm going to spend mine with a cute boy, a couch and some beer.


*The (sadly) now defunct Disgruntled Housewife** had fantastic annual lists and the number of items corresponded to the year - 99 in 1999, 107 in 2007, etc. I tried to follow the same format, but I'm either frighteningly lazy (did I say you could talk yet??) or unimaginative because if I try to push the list out to 109 items it will include things like "#105 - grow hair", "#106 - continue breathing through either mouth or nose" and "#107 - continue to chew food before swallowing." However, the thought of ending a list for 2009 on any number not ending with a 9 leaves me deeply unsettled, so here I am with 99 items and a nagging feeling that I am just a little bit crazy.

**Nikol moved to Kansas (Kansas!!) and opened up this incredibly cool knitting workshop/artist's retreat thing and I want to be her girlfriend, but she's all busy being creative and fabulous. Hmph. If anybody wants to buy me one of her calendars, I'll take really good care of it.

I've been really, really (really) down lately and haven't felt like writing much. Which is sort of counter-productive because when I feel like this, I should be writing. And running. And eating less cheese - but we all know how that goes.

Anyway, I'm going to steal an idea and post one good thing that happened so I can and until I get out of this funk.

One good thing for today, and it's so incredibly good and wonderful because it happens every day - my husband sets the coffee maker so I wake up to a pot of fresh coffee every morning.

Everything with Jef is fine - better than fine. In fact, things with Jef are about the only things that are OK right now.

oui, oui mon cheri

I love dictionary.com. It has settled a few bets and frequently turned me into a smug motherfucker ("See? I told you it meant 'ass-kissing weasel.'") I also love it because it has a translator. Which was very helpful today when I wanted to figure out how to say "with a chicken potpie." In French.

Those of you who just asked "why?" are clearly on the wrong site and know nothing, NOTHING about me and need to wander off the CNN or something.

Incidentally, I also learned the following phrases:

le pingouin est dans le pudding
The penguin is in the pudding.


Pingouin ! Sors de mon pudding !
Penguin! Get out of my pudding!

And in a Magritte moment - This is not French.
Ce n'est pas français

Keep those handy on that next trip to Paris. I'm sure they'll be very useful.

I didn't really regrout the tubs

Day one: Fuck you. Yes, you. And your little friend and your boss, your husband, your Aunt Sophie, your pharmacist, your mechanic and your cats. Fuck off. But before you do, bring me a milkshake. Thank you. Now fuck off.

Day two: Tired. So tired. So very, very tired. Why don't they allow naps at work? Please stop talking to me, for I am so ver..zzzzzzzzzzzzzz......

Day three: *sob*

Day four: Let's clean the bathrooms! And do the laundry! And sweep! And organize the books by author/subject/color!! Wheeeeeeee!! It's only 1AM, I have plenty of time to regrout the tubs before work tomorrow!! Whoooo!!

Day five: Sex. NOW.

Day six: Goddammit. I hate being a woman sometimes.

This is what my husband has patiently dealt with this week. If any man ever deserved beer and chocolate, it would be Jef.


**********************************

We've been watching a ridiculous amount of HGTV lately. We have PLANS. That involve the FUTURE. That we BOTH AGREE ON. It's a brave new world, my friends.

I hate comparing Jef to the ex because, well, y'know...they're two different people. But sometimes it's hard to sit here, with this person to whom I can say the most (in my opinion) off the wall, weird things and find out that he's thinking the same thing or thinks I've just said the most brilliant thing ever, and not remember a time when I was afraid to give ideas or opinions about anything. A time when I figured anything out of my face would be wrong, wrong, wrong, so why bother? Life with Jef has been such a change from that, that it's still sometimes hard not to compare.

I look forward to it being old hat for me to express an opinion, any opinion and it being heard and valued and not immediately dismissed. But for right now, I'll admit, I'm kind of wallowing in the novelty.

**********************************

Harold, the cat of the sixteen stitches, has his stitches out and his attractive blue collar off and is out of our room. Of course, Harold has the memory of a goldfish and is completely freaked out by the presence of other cats. So he's sitting at the end of the hall, totally losing his shit. All of the other cats are looking at him and then looking at us, all "what the fuck is up his ass?" We don't know, fuzzy buddies, we don't know.

I really, really wish I had the stuff to record and embed and audio file of Harold in the middle of a big stripey shit fit, because it is the funniest thing in the world. Ok, try this. Yes, even if you're at work - trust me, it's so stupid sounding, it might score you a day off. You ready? Make a cat hissing noise, but when you inhale to continue the hiss, make a pig snort noise.

Got it? hhhhhsssssssssssss, *snort*, hhhhhsssssssssss, *snort*. Right now, at the end of my hall, there's 14 pounds of angry, stripey, bald assed cat making that very noise. I love my life, man.

We have frozen margaritas in the kitchen and my glass is empty. Y'all behave.

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.