open letter

Dear Dude at Starbucks,

Ok, first off, an apology is probably in order. You caught me on the first bad mood morning I've had in a long time. And while I wasn't exactly bitchy, I guess I was...curt. But dude....c'mon. First you pick on me about how I pour half of my coffee out. (Actually - I order a smaller size in a larger cup, so that I don't have to pour half of it out - they fucked up.) Then - "Oh - you like it creamy, huh?"

YOU LIKE IT CREAMY?????

Dude...no. Just...NO. I'm sure you weren't trying to be smarmy. In fact, at that point, I think you realized what had just escaped your face and had the self respect to just shut up and move on with your day. Which is cool. Good for you. Again, I've had some exceptional mornings lately, but ask any of my friends - even with this freaky good mood streak I'm on? Pre-9AM + pre-caffeine + "You like it creamy?" You're lucky you still got kneecaps, buddy.

Just for future reference, because you seemed like a really nice guy (see above in re: self-awareness of when foot went into mouth and the brain power to STFU at that point) the morning crowd at a Starbuck's might not be the best place for the critiquing-the-cup-of-coffee-as-the-icebreaker approach. Not to dis your game there, homestack, but - as a hopeless caffeine junkie, I can tell you, even on the best of days, nothing makes me bristle faster than somebody talking smack about how I take my coffee. Us morning coffee girls, we like to get in, get our fix and get on with the day. No chit-chat, hit us with the hard stuff and move along. Most of the time, we're running late - why? BECAUSE WE HAVEN'T HAD OUR COFFEE YET. Sensing a theme here??

So, Mr. Creamy (heh) - polish up your game (I'll say it again - "you like it creamy?" has GOT TO GO) and take it to the afternoon shift. Do NOT let me seeing you sipping anything that ends in 'cino and uses a straw - those are for girls and teenaged boys. But - stick w/ the hot drinks and the occasional manly iced coffee, and you'll see - you'll be knee-deep in some highly caffeinated stuff before Labor Day.

Good luck my friend!!

Laura

Listing

Before I get started, I want to thank you guys for the sweet comments about my dad. Thank you thank you thank you. Hugs and kisses to each and every one of you.

Moving on to the fun stuff ('cause the sad stuff will come hot and heavy in later entries, I fear.)

Road trip!!! Whoooo!!!!

Yes, this Friday, the kiddo and I load up Nelly (my car, and yes I'm one of those freaks who names her cars and NO she is not named after the rapper, she is named in the spirit of "Whoa Nelly". Shut. up.) and we head north to Kansas and then Nebraska! whoo hoo!

I told y'all yesterday that I get to meet Jane - which is true - but that's only the little teensy tip of my trip iceberg. After spending Friday night in Salina, KS partying with Jane and Paco (You know yer jealous) we load back up and drive to Lincoln, Nebraska to visit BFF* and her new husband and in-laws. Whee!!!! Fourth of July in the Mid-west - what's more American than THAT???

BFF said "yeah - come on up, we'll blow shit up and grill things!" I told her it sounded a lot like spending the Fourth in Louisiana, except it's blowing shit up and boiling things down there. heh.

So yes - loooooong stretches of flaaaaat road in my immediate future, punctuated by two of the coolest women I've ever met and have yet to meet. Of course, after all the hard-core partying and fun, I get to spend all damn day driving back on Tuesday.

Twelve hours of I35, y'all. With a 13 year-old. Gak. Send help...and caffeine.

Because I am the MOST organized person in the world (Jane, stop laughing) I'm getting all my travel stuff together NOW, two days before my trip. What? I'm not FLYING....it's not like I have to clear CUSTOMS or anything...damn.

I've got my oil changed, my tires rotated (of course, now my car feels all wonky and out of alignment, fothamucka), directions to BFF's house, Jane's cell number, directions to Salina (get on I35, go north, stop when you see the big "Welcome to Salina sign", moron), and the list-making has started.

Oh, the lists. heh. Max and I sat on his couch last night, he with a cigarette and some W-induced ire (not a Bush man, my boy...not a Bush man at all) I with my lists. He took a moment from ranting to look over.

"Four pages???"

"No...four different lists."

"....?"

"What???"

"NOthin' baby." (scoots over juuuust a bit further)


Yes - four lists. What I'm bringing to wear (no, it does not just say "clothes", smart ass - I'm a girl, it can't possibly be that easy) another of what I'm bringing for other people (I'm a Southern girl, and we are incapable of showing up empty-handed, it's genetic), a third list of things I need to do before I leave and then the fourth list...shit...what's the fourth list...? Hang on. Ha! It's just 3 lists!! I just folded the paper into 4 sections and had scribbled on the fourth section and he just thought it was four, and that completely vindicates me a sane person, right???

SHUT. UP.

Am I the only person in the world who has to squish the urge to go shopping for all new stuff before a trip of any sort?? I have a gafrillion tote bags, a closet full of clothes (that all fit! whoo!) yet, somehow I feel like I need to go get NEW stuff for this trip..what? why? is this a girl thing?? Somebody help me understand this. Because I am stumped. I'm also staying the hell away from Target right now. Because I just KNOW that I'll walk in there, all "OK, buying cotton balls and trash bags" and I'll end up walking out w/ a brand new toiletry case and $50 worth of tank tops. mmmmmm....taaaaaank tooooppssss. wha? sorry. But seriously - why this compulsion to get new stuff?

Hmmmm.....do I admit here that I'm a little nervous about meeting Jane in person?? Discuss.

smooches.

*If y'all remember, BFF=Best Friend Forever - she got married on April 23rd to a wonderful dude who then took her up to the Heartland (Lincoln, Nebraska). Which y'know, yay love and all, but SOB!

bipolar much?

It's only fucking Tuesday. What the? How does it happen that lately I've had these Mondays that last, like, 14 days?? And I wake up on Tuesday morning, thinking "yippee! It's Friday!" Only to realize NO! Alack and alas! It is only fothermucking Tuesday.

I am most displeased.

In other news, I have a headache, and I'm hungry. What else is new??

Ack - I've written about 50 paragraphs and deleted them all, because I just can't quite get the right thing going here. I've got a little rant about depression going, I've got info on the boyfriend, I've got a trip to the heartland coming up! (NO! SLEEP! TILL! SALINA! Heh.) I want to talk about my dad (not good news.) I'm dealing with a lot of shit over here. Plus, I'm a giant perfectionist (HI!) which is what keeps me from writing for months on end...which is just sad. I suppose it's time for some literary vomit over here. I...apologize for that analogy. But you know what I mean. glllaaarrg.

So, um.....The boyfriend. Let's call him Max.* He's a sweetheart of a man, first off. Whenever we head towards a door, he does this little "hm hm hm" thing until I move out of the way, and then he opens it for me. Hee. It's cute - trust me. He's in a very giddy ga-ga (his word) phase right now. I'm pretty goofy over him (it's been two months, we're allowed) but I think I'm in a much more cynical place about relationships than he is. Which y'know, duh. I've been divorced a whopping 6 months - allow me some cynicism here. We're both pretty impatient people, and we're both in sort of strange places in our life, so this relationship has the possibility of some real disaster. But - it also has the possibility of some real magic to it. I'm kind of hoping for the second, just in case you're wondering. I'll keep y'all posted.

He also has the MOST amazing blue eyes I've ever encountered. Seriously..just..wow. And he plays guitar, which...I know I'm 34 and should be over this shit - but there's just something very sweet and romantic about getting serenaded, OK? bite me.

We'll see. I'm trying to sort of lead with my head, but not overthink. HA! Hee...snort.

Dad.....dad is not doing well. I called him for Father's Day and apparently the growths? tumors? tribbles? in his lungs spread during his time off between chemo treatments. He's on treatment again. He also told me, in his usual nonchalant, very practical way - "So...I'm making out my will. Anything you want??"

Heh.

I sort of smarted back that I wasn't sure, not having done a recent inventory of his stuff, did he have anything good?? We laughed - I told him that actually, I would like his diplomas from LSU. I know they don't mean much to him, but they sort of do to me. He said he'd find them. We laughed a bit more about other stuff, said our I love you's and hung up. And then I drove the rest of the way home crying.

And it's just not fucking fair.** I don't fucking want to hear anything about anybody else's dad dying of cancer or anybody's grandmother or anything. This MY dad. This MY FATHER that *I* barely got to fucking know as a kid. This is the man that I didn't get to spend any goddamn time with when I was little, that I finally FINALLY got to know as an adult and GODDAMN MOTHER FUCKING SHIT HE GOT FUCKING CANCER AND IS FUCKING DYING NOW. AND IT FUCKING SUCKS. AND IT'S NOT FUCKING FAIR.

And then the voices kick in, the ones that tell me that I'm over-reacting, that he'll be fine (HA!!), or that he's not dead yet, enjoy the time you have left (UM, OK, thanks for that) or that you never know, some new treatment may come along (ditto) or to shut and stop feeling sorry for myself, lots of people have lost loved ones (fuck you and the horse you rode in on.) The voices are the worst part.

Ok, well ..no - the worst part is hearing my father say "I'm going to die of colon cancer and this was totally preventable." THAT was the worst fucking part. The second worst part was him asking me what I wanted out of his estate......The voices pull a close third.

The voices are just the longest part - they don't quit. The other ones are sharp slaps - they come in, and WHAP, they're gone. They leave handprints behind and they sting and they hurt, but they're done. The voices are..I don't know...I can't think of what they'd be in terms of the physical....the hair pulls from the popular girls?? It's not that they hurt that bad, but you never know when it'll happen or what will provoke it. You never know - one minute everything's fine, the next minute - *yank* "hey, remember, your dad's dying - won't it suck that kiddo will only have one grandparent left soon??" and there you are, sobbing at your desk again.

So yeah - that's how dad's doing.

Which you would think I'd segue this nicely into the depression post, but now I just don't have the energy. And? I'm hungry and need to get my oil changed before my Great Plains Road Trip - which! I will talk about next time!

This weekend?? I get to meet Jane!! OOOOOOOO!!!!!

smooches


*HUGE Peter Max fan and collector - he (Max, not Peter) approved of the pseudonym.
**The other night Max told me that, as sort of a long-range art/grafitti idea he thought about writing "Life is Fair" on any available overpass, bridge, wall, etc that he could. That way, when someone said, "Well, where is it written that life is fair??" the response could be "dude - everywhere!!" See? See why I love this guy??

Dude, at least it's an update

Conversation through a bathroom door with The Boy*

Me: I'm hanging just a wee bit this mornin' baby
Him: Well, we did party like rock stars last night.
Me: Um...I wouldn't say rock stars.
Him: OK, well - we partied like Menudo, how's that?

*Yes, there's a boy, and witness above conversation as to why I'm with him.

Euphemisms

Have you ever noticed that the things that we're not totally comfortable with in life have the most cute little nicknames?? Death, for example - the big sleep, the dirt nap, pushing up daisies, buying the farm, pushing up daisies, kicking the bucket, passing away. Barfing is the Technicolor yawn, ralphing, praying to the porcelain gods and my personal favorite, calling Ralph on the big white phone.

Then there's all the fun names for what happens when your brain and your emotional circuits just have a little more than they can handle. Your cheese slips off your cracker, you drop your basket, you hit the wall, you lose your marbles, you go 'round the bend, etc etc, ad nauseum.

I believe my cheese may be in the process of slipping. I don't know that I'm completely gone - I'm still functional...I think. Maybe I have highly dramatic ideas of what a nervous breakdown looks like. I always picture graceful slides down walls while crying and laughing at the same time, mascara artfully dripping down cheeks, hidden wine bottles, piles of pills, the back of the head bloody from rocking rocking rocking into the wall.

I don't picture this feeling of weight, of malice and intent and anxiety sitting on my chest, keeping me from taking me a full breath all the time. I don't picture being one syllable away from tears at all times. I don't picture the desire to smash bash break boom bang fragile glass just to hear it break, just to know that I've hurt and destroyed something, just to know that I've gotten this feeling OUT of MY body somehow.

What do I do with this emotion? What do I do when I start to think and I start to feel the anger build up and I can taste it and feel it in the back of my throat? Where do I put it?? Do I scream? Do I punch? Do I yell, push, kick, punch jab poke boom bash kapow crunch whack??? What do I do with it?? Where do I put it?? Right now it's sitting in a hole in my rib cage, somewhere between my solar plexus and my trachea and I tell you it makes it hard to swallow, hard to breath.

The breathing is important - it's so important right now. It's hard to breathe when you're running from a giant cloud of fear. Flap flap flap like a bird, then it goes silent and I think everything's OK, and for just a little while I can relax but then I see it, sitting next to me, waiting to pounce and I start running again. It flies behind me, chanting "vehicle inspection, no child support, dumbass should have gotten a lawyer stupid bitch, why didn't you get a lawyer, is the rent due? there aren't any groceries in the house, god you're a shitty mother you stupid whore, he was right, without him you're just gonna fall flat on your fucking face you stupid, irresponsible idiot. slut whore dumbass spineless bitch. do you even know when the electric bill is due? no. you're going to be everything you hate- borrowing money from your parents, fucking up your credit, floating checks, living hand-to-mouth, no retirement fund, bag lady, kiddo will hate you in 20 years, no clean laundry - she'll remember this you know, she'll remember and she'll hate hate hate hate hate hate you hate you hate you you have fucked up fucked fucked fucked fucked up up up up"

I have to grab the crazy - I have to wrestle this fucker to the ground, but first I have to give it a shape and a face and parts. What should it look like? Should it be a dragon? Or is that just the cheesiest thing ever? Should it be a bat? Or a man? How about a big man? That way I can fulfill those Wonder woman fantasies and kick the ass of some 6'3" man. But first I have to flesh it out so I can find a spot to grab it and drag it to the ground and then I can sit on it and then I can dismantle it.

Because right now all I'm doing is running from it. I'm running and running and I'm running out of breath and places to go. I feel like I have two options - I can sit down and let this thing eat me, or I can grab it and take it apart. I just need help.

Help. I've hit the wall.

and we're back

OOO K...not sure about Blogger.

This is twice that I've written an entry and when I've gone to publish it, blogger has swallowed it whole and let out a big stinky belch. Fucker.

I suppose I could do the smart thing and write my entries in SOME OTHER PROGRAM and then COPY AND PASTE. But I SHOULDN'T HAVE TO DO THAT, SHOULD I????

bah
I'll write it again later.
hmph.

hi

Ok, so....this is a new place but not a new thing for me. In that spirit, I'll start out with The Annoying Blogger's Warning. If you know me from real life, please go away. Seriously. I'm not necessarily over here writing all kinds of scandal about my friends. Chances are really good that I have NOT written anything about you, because dude - once burned twice shy. But this is MY spot. I refuse to have things I've written here taken out of context and used against me. If you stumble on this and figure out you know me - leave. If you continue to read and start getting offended - tough shit, don't come whining to me. Nobody in my personal life has the address of this page. I do not hand it out to my friends or family. In fact, most of my real life buddies don't even know it exists. So nobody who matters, nobody who you have to look in the face, will ever read this stuff unless they, like you, have ignored this warning. In which casee I guess you can all band together and form a little "I hate Laura" club. Which is fine. This page is MINE - it reflects MY experiences, MY opinions and MY feelings. Don't like it? Leave. I will not go out of my way to offend or bash anybody, but neither will I pull punches in the name of being "nice". MINE MINE MINE. You have been warned. Do not wander around and explore the archives and then call me up all whiny because you don't like what you've read. You went there voluntarily and uninvited. That's like crashing a party and then bitching because they're not serving your favorite vodka. It's rude. Don't do it.

The rest of you, hang around. Grab a beer, change the channel, put your feet on the coffee table, pet the cat.......it's all good. Again, I won't go out of my to TRY to be offensive....frankly I'm too lazy for that. But I also will not pull punches in the name of some form of "nice" that just doesn't fucking exist. I like readers - readers comment, readers give me positive reinforcement, readers leave their URLs and give me new journals to read. Readers rock. But I ain't writin' this for you - I'm writing for me.

Cool?

So - now that that's out of the way, let's get on with the rest of the show. I'm Laura - I'm recently divorced, have a (magnificent, beautiful, amazing, genius) 13 year old daughter, two cats (thus ensuring that I will never get laid again), a caffeine addiction, affection for $10 red wines and a bizarre fetish for office supplies. I work in IT and don't hate it so much as I well...I'm in it for the money. eh. There's a reason they call it work, right??

I try to be a good person - some days are easier than others. I think that's true for everybody.

I use the words "so" and "anyway" entirely too much - you'll get used to it.

I fucking curse like a fucking sailor on motherfucking leave.

So (see?) read on. Hope you enjoy it.