Kiddo has been asleep since I got home at 6:15, I've had a bottle of red wine, I'm watching crap TV and playing Mahjong to keep busy. One could say that I should be spending my time either cleaning my house, updating my blog, knitting or doing anything else and it would be more productive. And they might have a point. I mean, there are things I could tell you.
For example, I could tell you about the trip to Houston, where we saw the creepy plasticized bodies and the kids got along like damn brother and sister. Or I could tell you that I've been dealing with a funky sore throat/hoarse voice/post-nasal drip for the past week and gah! Or how TBFD is now sick as a damn dog, and I have no place to put my kid for the weekend, otherwise I'd totally go up there and just drown the boy in chicken soup, orange juice and creepy smothering love.
I do have the same birthday as Florence Nightingale, y'know.
Or I could tell you how I've been watching Project Runway and have JUST found this and OHMYGOD, it's so fuckin' funny and what the hell was I reading before???
But y'know, I think I'll finish this game of mahjong, put the leftovers away and then wander off to bed with Mr. Hemingway.
'night.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Two in one day. Whose blog is this anyway??
See, my brain is currently like my living room. It's full of boxes of crap and cat hair and I have no idea where to start in order to get it in shape.
That metaphor lost a little something on the trip from my brain to my keyboard.
Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say is I have tons of stuff going on over here - really!! I moved! I have bangs now! I re-created a scene from "Saw"!! TBFD and I are going to Bodyworld in a couple of weeks! My kid's in (muhfuckin') high school! But I don't know where to start, and as you can see, there is just no way on God's green earth to weave all that into a cohesive post.
Fuck it. Bullet points, the lazy blogger's friend.
*Yep, I moved. I actually moved back in the middle of June. It's a tad bigger, much closer to work, in a better school district, and the hike in rent is made up for by the fact that it's actually insulated and shaded and I won't have to pay $200 to keep my apartment at 85 degrees. But, as I mentioned before in my horrible opening, my living room is still full of boxes (yes, and cat hair, but that won't change.) The boxes are those last few boxes that tend to get labeled "crap" and then some are full of craft crap. It's really tempting to just pick them up, put them in my car and dump them at Goodwill, but I just can't quite do it. It's a sickness. Y'all know. Well - not Jane. Shut up Jane, you lovable organized freak.
*Bangs! Yes! Whooo! About 3 glasses into my bottle of cab the other night, I said "gah! My hair's driving me crazy! Will you cut my bangs??" Fortunately, the kid was actually at home for the first time in a month, so not only was I not talking to myself, I had somebody to help me with my hair. She responded with, "Sure! Get me a razor blade!" A Venus was disembowelled and about 5 minutes later, I was sporting layered, side-swept bangs. They're cute. Now I have a giant zit from the hair oil, but the bangs cover it. Oh, irony.
*Let's say you move and in the process of moving, you throw away your plunger because dude, it was 2 bucks and EW, just toss it. And let's say that a member of your household comes home from a long absence and uses the guest bathroom and comes into your room at 1AM (while you are sleeping!) to inform you that the toilet is having an "issue." You would buy a plunger the next day and take care of business, right?? Apparently, you are a better man than I, Gunga Din, for I forgot to get a plunger for almost a week. Yeah. That's the face I made too. I didn't have to reach into the toilet, like that guy from "Saw" (as evidenced by the fact that I am not typing this with my nose because I chopped off my own hands because EW) but the general sound effects and smell and gagginess from that scene?? All very present. Oh - and while I do still have my hands, I no longer have finger prints because I melted them off with all the bleach I used to clean up. Bllleeerg.
*Bodyworld (every time I see that, I hear "Body movin! Body movin'!") Yes - whoo! TBFD noticed a billboard on his way to work one day and thought it said "Coming Soon!" and texted me about it. Turns out that it said "Closing soon!" and is showing in Houston rather than Dallas. No problem - TBFD and his son (need a pseudonym - Spawn - heh, he'll like that) are going to come down the weekend of the 25th - 27th and we'll day trip over to Houston on that Saturday. (Yes, Houston is a daytrip.) Kiddo's going with us and TBFD charmed the pants off of me (figuratively, we were on the phone) when he said "I want it to just be us and the kids." Feel free to repeat the "Blleeerg" from above if necessary. I'll just sit here and moon.
*High school. I have no words. Well, I do, but they're words like "fucking old", "holy ass, how did that happen??" and "please pass me the wine, thank you."
*Oh! A bonus bullet!! Kiddo is currently in Louisiana, visiting Stepmom and the Grandparents. She was sounding kind of sniffly and gross when she left. Well, sniffly and gross has evolved over the past few days into "tonsils the size of golf balls" and "feeeel..ugh..like aaaaaass." I'm heading out tomorrow AM (anybody wanna come feed my cats??) to drive down there. Here's hoping I don't have to take her to an urgent care clinic or the like while I'm down there.
Y'all be good!
That metaphor lost a little something on the trip from my brain to my keyboard.
Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say is I have tons of stuff going on over here - really!! I moved! I have bangs now! I re-created a scene from "Saw"!! TBFD and I are going to Bodyworld in a couple of weeks! My kid's in (muhfuckin') high school! But I don't know where to start, and as you can see, there is just no way on God's green earth to weave all that into a cohesive post.
Fuck it. Bullet points, the lazy blogger's friend.
*Yep, I moved. I actually moved back in the middle of June. It's a tad bigger, much closer to work, in a better school district, and the hike in rent is made up for by the fact that it's actually insulated and shaded and I won't have to pay $200 to keep my apartment at 85 degrees. But, as I mentioned before in my horrible opening, my living room is still full of boxes (yes, and cat hair, but that won't change.) The boxes are those last few boxes that tend to get labeled "crap" and then some are full of craft crap. It's really tempting to just pick them up, put them in my car and dump them at Goodwill, but I just can't quite do it. It's a sickness. Y'all know. Well - not Jane. Shut up Jane, you lovable organized freak.
*Bangs! Yes! Whooo! About 3 glasses into my bottle of cab the other night, I said "gah! My hair's driving me crazy! Will you cut my bangs??" Fortunately, the kid was actually at home for the first time in a month, so not only was I not talking to myself, I had somebody to help me with my hair. She responded with, "Sure! Get me a razor blade!" A Venus was disembowelled and about 5 minutes later, I was sporting layered, side-swept bangs. They're cute. Now I have a giant zit from the hair oil, but the bangs cover it. Oh, irony.
*Let's say you move and in the process of moving, you throw away your plunger because dude, it was 2 bucks and EW, just toss it. And let's say that a member of your household comes home from a long absence and uses the guest bathroom and comes into your room at 1AM (while you are sleeping!) to inform you that the toilet is having an "issue." You would buy a plunger the next day and take care of business, right?? Apparently, you are a better man than I, Gunga Din, for I forgot to get a plunger for almost a week. Yeah. That's the face I made too. I didn't have to reach into the toilet, like that guy from "Saw" (as evidenced by the fact that I am not typing this with my nose because I chopped off my own hands because EW) but the general sound effects and smell and gagginess from that scene?? All very present. Oh - and while I do still have my hands, I no longer have finger prints because I melted them off with all the bleach I used to clean up. Bllleeerg.
*Bodyworld (every time I see that, I hear "Body movin! Body movin'!") Yes - whoo! TBFD noticed a billboard on his way to work one day and thought it said "Coming Soon!" and texted me about it. Turns out that it said "Closing soon!" and is showing in Houston rather than Dallas. No problem - TBFD and his son (need a pseudonym - Spawn - heh, he'll like that) are going to come down the weekend of the 25th - 27th and we'll day trip over to Houston on that Saturday. (Yes, Houston is a daytrip.) Kiddo's going with us and TBFD charmed the pants off of me (figuratively, we were on the phone) when he said "I want it to just be us and the kids." Feel free to repeat the "Blleeerg" from above if necessary. I'll just sit here and moon.
*High school. I have no words. Well, I do, but they're words like "fucking old", "holy ass, how did that happen??" and "please pass me the wine, thank you."
*Oh! A bonus bullet!! Kiddo is currently in Louisiana, visiting Stepmom and the Grandparents. She was sounding kind of sniffly and gross when she left. Well, sniffly and gross has evolved over the past few days into "tonsils the size of golf balls" and "feeeel..ugh..like aaaaaass." I'm heading out tomorrow AM (anybody wanna come feed my cats??) to drive down there. Here's hoping I don't have to take her to an urgent care clinic or the like while I'm down there.
Y'all be good!
Oh, I'll probably regret this later
This started out as the last part of another entry and it got too long and FEH. So here. Enjoy.
Dear Do I really have to say your name??
Hi there. Look, we both know that I'm not the first person to be irritated by you and I certainly won't be the last. That's kind of the price you pay for laying it all out there and being widely known. Plus, you know the old saying about opinions and assholes. Anyway, I'm lucky in that I'm not widely-read enough to have to deal with people telling me I'm just jealous when I write this next bit.* I have had moles removed. I had one removed from my rib cage and one from my back - both of them were right at the bottom of where my bra hits. I've dealt with the little teeny hole. (No stitches - mine were both just left open!! That was super special!!) Fortunately, neither of mine turned out to be malignant. Considering the amount of sun I have exposed myself to, it's pretty surprising. Yours did turn out to be malignant, and there are more suspicious ones. That must be frightening. I am in no way trying to belittle or invalidate your fear. Cancer is a big scary word. However, the malignancy doesn't seem to have spread and it's not a serious kind and, well....look, you tell us about your bowel movements, and your time in a mental hospital, OK? I'm pretty sure we'd know by now if it was something really serious.
Again, pain and fear are individual things and I respect that. I would get pretty angry if somebody tried to tell me how to feel or what to write. But you must know that referring to the six stitches on your arm as "my cancer wound" all the time is going to piss off some people. I mean...don't you? Do you not understand how someone with a body racked with cancer and scars and a port in their chest might get a little offended by your flippant language? Or that the loved one of such a person might get awfully offended by it?
You don't know me and you probably don't care and who the fuck knows, maybe I'll get my own set of trolls after this. You seem like a nice person. I don't agree with every decision you've made with your life, but it's your life. I'm sure if we sat down over a bottle of wine and a list of choices, we'd do an equal amount of "you did what? why?"-ing. This is not a personal attack on YOU, OK? I'm just really tired of hearing about your grievous wound that really...isn't. It's an inconvenience and it'll leave a scar and it's a scary idea, but it's six stitches on the outside of your arm. Please stop.
Thank you,
Laura
*Ok, the jealous thing. Hell yes I'm jealous. Of exactly two things - your metabolism and your willingness to take a chance and stop working for The Man. I like having things like a steady paycheck and health insurance way too much to ever do that. And 14 years ago, I had a baby and my metabolism was replaced with that of a tree sloth. Somewhere in the jungle is a very confused, algae covered hottie. Anyway - am I jealous of anything else? No, not especially. I'm generally pretty happy with my life. I can have (and express) a negative opinion about a person and not envy them, you know. I mean - I think George Bush has Bertie Bott's Vomit-flavored jellybeans for brains, but nobody accuses me of jealousy when I express that opinion.
Dear Do I really have to say your name??
Hi there. Look, we both know that I'm not the first person to be irritated by you and I certainly won't be the last. That's kind of the price you pay for laying it all out there and being widely known. Plus, you know the old saying about opinions and assholes. Anyway, I'm lucky in that I'm not widely-read enough to have to deal with people telling me I'm just jealous when I write this next bit.* I have had moles removed. I had one removed from my rib cage and one from my back - both of them were right at the bottom of where my bra hits. I've dealt with the little teeny hole. (No stitches - mine were both just left open!! That was super special!!) Fortunately, neither of mine turned out to be malignant. Considering the amount of sun I have exposed myself to, it's pretty surprising. Yours did turn out to be malignant, and there are more suspicious ones. That must be frightening. I am in no way trying to belittle or invalidate your fear. Cancer is a big scary word. However, the malignancy doesn't seem to have spread and it's not a serious kind and, well....look, you tell us about your bowel movements, and your time in a mental hospital, OK? I'm pretty sure we'd know by now if it was something really serious.
Again, pain and fear are individual things and I respect that. I would get pretty angry if somebody tried to tell me how to feel or what to write. But you must know that referring to the six stitches on your arm as "my cancer wound" all the time is going to piss off some people. I mean...don't you? Do you not understand how someone with a body racked with cancer and scars and a port in their chest might get a little offended by your flippant language? Or that the loved one of such a person might get awfully offended by it?
You don't know me and you probably don't care and who the fuck knows, maybe I'll get my own set of trolls after this. You seem like a nice person. I don't agree with every decision you've made with your life, but it's your life. I'm sure if we sat down over a bottle of wine and a list of choices, we'd do an equal amount of "you did what? why?"-ing. This is not a personal attack on YOU, OK? I'm just really tired of hearing about your grievous wound that really...isn't. It's an inconvenience and it'll leave a scar and it's a scary idea, but it's six stitches on the outside of your arm. Please stop.
Thank you,
Laura
*Ok, the jealous thing. Hell yes I'm jealous. Of exactly two things - your metabolism and your willingness to take a chance and stop working for The Man. I like having things like a steady paycheck and health insurance way too much to ever do that. And 14 years ago, I had a baby and my metabolism was replaced with that of a tree sloth. Somewhere in the jungle is a very confused, algae covered hottie. Anyway - am I jealous of anything else? No, not especially. I'm generally pretty happy with my life. I can have (and express) a negative opinion about a person and not envy them, you know. I mean - I think George Bush has Bertie Bott's Vomit-flavored jellybeans for brains, but nobody accuses me of jealousy when I express that opinion.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
ugh
OOoooooh, my head.
Goddamn health freaks with their no pasta, no fat, no nice absorbent layer of grease and starch to protect me from the bad, bad red wine.
OW.
That is all.
Goddamn health freaks with their no pasta, no fat, no nice absorbent layer of grease and starch to protect me from the bad, bad red wine.
OW.
That is all.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Wednesday TV Party
Project Runway!! Tonight!! 8:00 Central Time!
AAAAW, YEEEEAAAAAAH!!!
This is the only TV show that I actually plan around. Anything else that I watch is the result of a complicated equation involving red wine, cats in lap and whether the History Channel has decided to air something *other* than a show about Nazis. It's very complicated.
ANYWAY. For the next couple of months, you will be able to find me at home, parked in front of Bravo on Wednesday nights. And sometimes on the weekend when they show the re-runs. And definitely whenever they do the full day marathon thing right before the finale.
I love this show.
Since tonight is a big ol' two hour extravaganza, I invited mom and Supergirl over for some food and wine and bitchy designer watching.
Supergirl is one of our salespeople here at Workplace. She's an *incredible* salesperson, always looks fabulous, has a beautiful condo, works out like a fiend and follows a diet that I can't even imagine. Her redeeming qualities are that she's funny as hell, incredibly sweet and drinks like a fish. heh.
Mom is doing the no carb thing (don't start) and Supergirl has gone vegetarian, so this is the cheapest dinner I've ever hosted. Right now, my shopping list is up to two bottles of wine, zucchini, summer squash, mushrooms and red bell pepper. Central Market makes this yummy grape/walnut/blue cheese salad and I think I'll pick up a container of that and...yeah.
Chicken breasts are thawed and I'll throw those in the oven to bake when I get home (anybody got any recipes? Bueller?), the veggies will all get sauteed w/ olive oil, garlic and onions (which I already have at home) and Supergirl is bringing another bottle of wine and a spinach salad.
No, I'm not using the Boyfriend Butter (WOW! That sounds dirty!) yet. I already HAVE butter, so the other stuff will stay in the freezer for the time being. Unless I decide to go on a wild cookie-baking spree. In which case, I'll call you. OK? OK.
After all these veggies, I'll have to hook up a gravy IV, lest my body go into complete shock. Damn crazy health nuts.
AAAAW, YEEEEAAAAAAH!!!
This is the only TV show that I actually plan around. Anything else that I watch is the result of a complicated equation involving red wine, cats in lap and whether the History Channel has decided to air something *other* than a show about Nazis. It's very complicated.
ANYWAY. For the next couple of months, you will be able to find me at home, parked in front of Bravo on Wednesday nights. And sometimes on the weekend when they show the re-runs. And definitely whenever they do the full day marathon thing right before the finale.
I love this show.
Since tonight is a big ol' two hour extravaganza, I invited mom and Supergirl over for some food and wine and bitchy designer watching.
Supergirl is one of our salespeople here at Workplace. She's an *incredible* salesperson, always looks fabulous, has a beautiful condo, works out like a fiend and follows a diet that I can't even imagine. Her redeeming qualities are that she's funny as hell, incredibly sweet and drinks like a fish. heh.
Mom is doing the no carb thing (don't start) and Supergirl has gone vegetarian, so this is the cheapest dinner I've ever hosted. Right now, my shopping list is up to two bottles of wine, zucchini, summer squash, mushrooms and red bell pepper. Central Market makes this yummy grape/walnut/blue cheese salad and I think I'll pick up a container of that and...yeah.
Chicken breasts are thawed and I'll throw those in the oven to bake when I get home (anybody got any recipes? Bueller?), the veggies will all get sauteed w/ olive oil, garlic and onions (which I already have at home) and Supergirl is bringing another bottle of wine and a spinach salad.
No, I'm not using the Boyfriend Butter (WOW! That sounds dirty!) yet. I already HAVE butter, so the other stuff will stay in the freezer for the time being. Unless I decide to go on a wild cookie-baking spree. In which case, I'll call you. OK? OK.
After all these veggies, I'll have to hook up a gravy IV, lest my body go into complete shock. Damn crazy health nuts.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Things The Boy From Dallas gave me this weekend:
a lightly used cat condo that his cats ignored and mine have already taken over
a door-hanging fuzzy mouse cat toy
a bottle of windshield wiper fluid (convenient, because I just ran out)
a bottle of car Febreeze (is he trying to tell me something?)
3 lbs of butter
2 t-shirts
a 6 lb bag of frozen meatballs.
Folks. I am loving the direction this relationship is taking.
I hung the DHFMCT up last night and let the kitten rock out with it for a while. The best part is when he went running for it, lunged and flew head first into the wall behind it. Good times.
However, since it's a string toy and cats are dumb, you really should put it away if you're not able to supervise them with it, lest you come home to some sort of feline bondage scene. So, I took it off the door frame and rolled it up and put it in one of the kitchen drawers last night. This morning, when I was getting all my food for the day together (lunch, 10AM snack and 3PM snack, shut up) I opened up a drawer to get a baggy for my cherries and GAH!! A MOU....oh, it's that fucking thing.
The t-shirts were both too small for him and his son, and he's in the process of cleaning out his apartment. Which means I have a bounty of men's shirts coming at me soon. Whoo!!
The windshield wiper fluid and the Febreeze were also the result of rabid spring cleaning. It's cool though, 'cause on my way home, my fluid light came on and well, my car does kind of stink.
The butter. Heh. I'd love to make up some kind of story for this, but the truth is it's pretty damn boring. He works for a freight company that ships frozen stuff and apparently the butter was rejected because of the packaging. Not because of anything gross, like a giant salmonella germ (virus? wad?) driving the truck, OK? Anyway - I got a text the other night "how many pounds of rejected butter do you want?"
See? How could I NOT like this guy??
The meatballs were the result of a snack gone awry. I needed to eat something before I hit the road, so he opened up his freezer and asked if I'd tried these frozen meatballs. Uh..No.
"Well, they sell them at Sam's."
"I don't have a Sam's card."
"You don't??!?!? Here, here's a bag, take these"
**fwump!**
"um...could you get this off me, please?"
If you'd been in my parking lot last night, you would have seen me struggling to stuff a six pound bag of meatballs into a cat condo. They didn't fit, in case you were wondering.
a lightly used cat condo that his cats ignored and mine have already taken over
a door-hanging fuzzy mouse cat toy
a bottle of windshield wiper fluid (convenient, because I just ran out)
a bottle of car Febreeze (is he trying to tell me something?)
3 lbs of butter
2 t-shirts
a 6 lb bag of frozen meatballs.
Folks. I am loving the direction this relationship is taking.
I hung the DHFMCT up last night and let the kitten rock out with it for a while. The best part is when he went running for it, lunged and flew head first into the wall behind it. Good times.
However, since it's a string toy and cats are dumb, you really should put it away if you're not able to supervise them with it, lest you come home to some sort of feline bondage scene. So, I took it off the door frame and rolled it up and put it in one of the kitchen drawers last night. This morning, when I was getting all my food for the day together (lunch, 10AM snack and 3PM snack, shut up) I opened up a drawer to get a baggy for my cherries and GAH!! A MOU....oh, it's that fucking thing.
The t-shirts were both too small for him and his son, and he's in the process of cleaning out his apartment. Which means I have a bounty of men's shirts coming at me soon. Whoo!!
The windshield wiper fluid and the Febreeze were also the result of rabid spring cleaning. It's cool though, 'cause on my way home, my fluid light came on and well, my car does kind of stink.
The butter. Heh. I'd love to make up some kind of story for this, but the truth is it's pretty damn boring. He works for a freight company that ships frozen stuff and apparently the butter was rejected because of the packaging. Not because of anything gross, like a giant salmonella germ (virus? wad?) driving the truck, OK? Anyway - I got a text the other night "how many pounds of rejected butter do you want?"
See? How could I NOT like this guy??
The meatballs were the result of a snack gone awry. I needed to eat something before I hit the road, so he opened up his freezer and asked if I'd tried these frozen meatballs. Uh..No.
"Well, they sell them at Sam's."
"I don't have a Sam's card."
"You don't??!?!? Here, here's a bag, take these"
**fwump!**
"um...could you get this off me, please?"
If you'd been in my parking lot last night, you would have seen me struggling to stuff a six pound bag of meatballs into a cat condo. They didn't fit, in case you were wondering.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
5-7-fuck
The Boy From Dallas
totally consumes my mind
truly, I'm thirteen.
I'd like a milkshake
large, chocolate, if you don't mind
my wide ass thanks you.
House! full of boxes!
the cats hide with my dishes
bruises on my shins
where is my razor?
a week gone! had to buy new.
alas, in a box
ah, desperation
has its own stale aroma
it smells like haiku
totally consumes my mind
truly, I'm thirteen.
I'd like a milkshake
large, chocolate, if you don't mind
my wide ass thanks you.
House! full of boxes!
the cats hide with my dishes
bruises on my shins
where is my razor?
a week gone! had to buy new.
alas, in a box
ah, desperation
has its own stale aroma
it smells like haiku
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Dudes
Dear Men -
Let me say something before I start - I LOVE men. I am unabashedly heterosexual. I don't always understand y'all, but I love y'all. Physically, emotionally, psychologically. I even love the cute little Male Ego, frustrating fucker that he is. Love - nothin' but man-love over here. But not in the gay porn sense...heh.
That being said - what in the ever-lovin' blue-eyed fuck is wrong with y'all??
For a while there, the only boy I could get to pay any attention to me was the Ex. And I'm not over here, all sad because I can't get a man, 'cause lord knows that despite the love, sometimes I'm real fuckin' happy I'm single. But a girl likes to have a beer with a cute boy now and then. And a girl likes to get laid from time to time, not to put too fine a point on it.
So now, there's The Boy From Dallas. The distance is an issue, but other than that, things are going along swimmingly. He's coming down to see me tomorrow, he has a 4 on/4 off work schedule which gives us ample visit time to work with, turns out he is as interested in me as I am in him, it's good.
Great, right?
But now! Now, you guys are coming out of the fucking woodwork. Boys that I chased who ignored me, the ex who said last weekend that he didn't want to have anything to do with me again, what the fuck?
Is it the old thing that once you're feeling happy, you look more attractive? Or is it that pheromone thing where you can tell I've had sex recently (not that recently, waah) and you're all wound up by it? What is it?? Tell me, please. I'd like to understand this one.
'Cause right now, y'all are getting on my nerves and the love is starting to wane just a little bit.
Oh, don't look at me like that - you know that you'll offer me a beer instead of a hug the next time I start crying and I'll fall in love all over again with your goofy ways.
Damn.
Laura
Let me say something before I start - I LOVE men. I am unabashedly heterosexual. I don't always understand y'all, but I love y'all. Physically, emotionally, psychologically. I even love the cute little Male Ego, frustrating fucker that he is. Love - nothin' but man-love over here. But not in the gay porn sense...heh.
That being said - what in the ever-lovin' blue-eyed fuck is wrong with y'all??
For a while there, the only boy I could get to pay any attention to me was the Ex. And I'm not over here, all sad because I can't get a man, 'cause lord knows that despite the love, sometimes I'm real fuckin' happy I'm single. But a girl likes to have a beer with a cute boy now and then. And a girl likes to get laid from time to time, not to put too fine a point on it.
So now, there's The Boy From Dallas. The distance is an issue, but other than that, things are going along swimmingly. He's coming down to see me tomorrow, he has a 4 on/4 off work schedule which gives us ample visit time to work with, turns out he is as interested in me as I am in him, it's good.
Great, right?
But now! Now, you guys are coming out of the fucking woodwork. Boys that I chased who ignored me, the ex who said last weekend that he didn't want to have anything to do with me again, what the fuck?
Is it the old thing that once you're feeling happy, you look more attractive? Or is it that pheromone thing where you can tell I've had sex recently (not that recently, waah) and you're all wound up by it? What is it?? Tell me, please. I'd like to understand this one.
'Cause right now, y'all are getting on my nerves and the love is starting to wane just a little bit.
Oh, don't look at me like that - you know that you'll offer me a beer instead of a hug the next time I start crying and I'll fall in love all over again with your goofy ways.
Damn.
Laura
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Wherein I Ramble Like a Great Lost Rambly Thing
First order of business, I've been asked, by Slick himself, to change Slick's pseudonym. He prefers Malkey, which is the Scottish word for a head butt, which should give you an idea of what I'm dealing with over here.
The man can actually carry off a kilt. I'm sayin'.
Anyway - Malkey it is. I don't like that name as much, because it makes me think of Balkey, which makes me think of Bronson Pinchot, which EW. But hey - whatever makes him happy.
I do this odd thing in relationships. I act a lot like I don't trust the person I'm with. And it's not that - I'm actaully a stupidly trusting person. Really, it's a wonder I'm not trying to trap a poodle from the bottom of a pit at this point. But I don't tend to trust people's feelings for me - I'm never really sure that I'm worth all the effort or interest, that if they like ME there must be something wrong, or that if they do something cool for me, it's for ME, therefore can't be that big of a deal. Sad...sad sad sad.
Oh man, I'm watching "Casino" and it's the part why the guy spits in the sandwich and dudes, y'all don't know how hard I have to shove down my paranoia in order to ever eat anything that I didn't cook. Gah.
So. The Boy. Siiiiiiigh. It's just disgusting. I fall way to hard and fast an easy. But y'know, it's not like I fall for every single guy I ever meet. Really! I don't! I went on other dates! Bad dates!
Ok, that's not entirely true - I went on mostly good dates just with boring guys. One guy works in concert security and got me into the VIP area of Stubb's to see the Violent Femmes. (I KNOW!!) Beer was free all night, the show rocked, we had good conversation, I thought things went well, aaaaaand...no phone call. Now, because of his job, he was going out of town soon and blah blah blah - but dude? Cell phones don't work in Chicago? Whatever. So I wrote that one off as good experience and The Time I Got To See The Violent Femmes And Dude, Why Didn't I Listen To Them In The 80's??
And then there was gigged frog guy. Nice, very smart, very funny, went to see the Mister Sinus of Showgirls and then to Pete's Piano Bar. Biggest problem there was that when he was relaxed and walking around? Total mouth-breather gigged frog look on his face. I almost couldn't look at him. But! He didn't call me! How rude! I should have not called him first! Wait. Ok, that one was apparently mutual.
Let's see...Oh god, there was the salesguy who just needed to shut.the.hell.up.already. Good lord. I'm already here and I'm on my second beer. It's either because you're funny enough to keep me interested, or I'm trying to drown you out with sweet sweet alcohol. Either way?? SHUT UP.
So yes. Malkey (HEE). Met online, chatted, talked on the phone a LOT, met in person and wow.
Yes! Yes! YEEEES!!! PROJECT RUNWAY STARTS JULY 12TH!!!! WHOOOOO!!
Let's review. Cute (Jane, Laura and a few co-workers can attest to this), funny as hell, smart, gets my sense of humor, has three cats and talks to them and for them in funny voices. You just won't believe how much fun it is to have someone segue from singing "Die Motherfucker" under their breath to chanting "Harold! Haaarold, come here! I love you!!" then go back to the song. Oh, and we click in some other pretty important ways. (Insert raised eyebrow here.)
Back to the point of this...how my insecurity makes me just a little stupid. The man texts me all the time (aaah, texting - how did we court without it??) drove to Austin to see me, and most importantly says things like "I miss you." And yet, I'm over here trying to convince myself that he can't possibly be as interested as I am.
I love Robert DeNiro's character in "Casino" - "...an equal amount of blueberries in each muffin!!" HA!!
And I know why - it's not just insecurity, it's also a safety net. If I convince myself that he's not as interested in me as I am in him, then if something goes wrong, it doesn't hurt as badly - right?? Yeah...right. I know, I know.
I was at a Cuban restaurant once (ironically enough, with the Ex, post divorce) and there were a whole bunch of pictures and framed articles and such on the wall by/about this one artist. Anyway, one of them had something about "loving wastefully" on it. I like that idea. I like the idea of loving so much that it's "wasteful." I don't think I've ever done that. I've always held back, afraid that even a nice gesture will "bother" someone. Feh.
Oh - in other news, I'm moving next weekend - whoo! Place is about the same size, but in a better school district and closer to work. It's also SHADED, which means I won't sit here with the air conditioner set to fucking 85 degrees because I honestly can't get it any cooler in here no matter what and anything else is a waste of money and gaaah! Send ice packs and Diet Coke!!!
The man can actually carry off a kilt. I'm sayin'.
Anyway - Malkey it is. I don't like that name as much, because it makes me think of Balkey, which makes me think of Bronson Pinchot, which EW. But hey - whatever makes him happy.
I do this odd thing in relationships. I act a lot like I don't trust the person I'm with. And it's not that - I'm actaully a stupidly trusting person. Really, it's a wonder I'm not trying to trap a poodle from the bottom of a pit at this point. But I don't tend to trust people's feelings for me - I'm never really sure that I'm worth all the effort or interest, that if they like ME there must be something wrong, or that if they do something cool for me, it's for ME, therefore can't be that big of a deal. Sad...sad sad sad.
Oh man, I'm watching "Casino" and it's the part why the guy spits in the sandwich and dudes, y'all don't know how hard I have to shove down my paranoia in order to ever eat anything that I didn't cook. Gah.
So. The Boy. Siiiiiiigh. It's just disgusting. I fall way to hard and fast an easy. But y'know, it's not like I fall for every single guy I ever meet. Really! I don't! I went on other dates! Bad dates!
Ok, that's not entirely true - I went on mostly good dates just with boring guys. One guy works in concert security and got me into the VIP area of Stubb's to see the Violent Femmes. (I KNOW!!) Beer was free all night, the show rocked, we had good conversation, I thought things went well, aaaaaand...no phone call. Now, because of his job, he was going out of town soon and blah blah blah - but dude? Cell phones don't work in Chicago? Whatever. So I wrote that one off as good experience and The Time I Got To See The Violent Femmes And Dude, Why Didn't I Listen To Them In The 80's??
And then there was gigged frog guy. Nice, very smart, very funny, went to see the Mister Sinus of Showgirls and then to Pete's Piano Bar. Biggest problem there was that when he was relaxed and walking around? Total mouth-breather gigged frog look on his face. I almost couldn't look at him. But! He didn't call me! How rude! I should have not called him first! Wait. Ok, that one was apparently mutual.
Let's see...Oh god, there was the salesguy who just needed to shut.the.hell.up.already. Good lord. I'm already here and I'm on my second beer. It's either because you're funny enough to keep me interested, or I'm trying to drown you out with sweet sweet alcohol. Either way?? SHUT UP.
So yes. Malkey (HEE). Met online, chatted, talked on the phone a LOT, met in person and wow.
Yes! Yes! YEEEES!!! PROJECT RUNWAY STARTS JULY 12TH!!!! WHOOOOO!!
Let's review. Cute (Jane, Laura and a few co-workers can attest to this), funny as hell, smart, gets my sense of humor, has three cats and talks to them and for them in funny voices. You just won't believe how much fun it is to have someone segue from singing "Die Motherfucker" under their breath to chanting "Harold! Haaarold, come here! I love you!!" then go back to the song. Oh, and we click in some other pretty important ways. (Insert raised eyebrow here.)
Back to the point of this...how my insecurity makes me just a little stupid. The man texts me all the time (aaah, texting - how did we court without it??) drove to Austin to see me, and most importantly says things like "I miss you." And yet, I'm over here trying to convince myself that he can't possibly be as interested as I am.
I love Robert DeNiro's character in "Casino" - "...an equal amount of blueberries in each muffin!!" HA!!
And I know why - it's not just insecurity, it's also a safety net. If I convince myself that he's not as interested in me as I am in him, then if something goes wrong, it doesn't hurt as badly - right?? Yeah...right. I know, I know.
I was at a Cuban restaurant once (ironically enough, with the Ex, post divorce) and there were a whole bunch of pictures and framed articles and such on the wall by/about this one artist. Anyway, one of them had something about "loving wastefully" on it. I like that idea. I like the idea of loving so much that it's "wasteful." I don't think I've ever done that. I've always held back, afraid that even a nice gesture will "bother" someone. Feh.
Oh - in other news, I'm moving next weekend - whoo! Place is about the same size, but in a better school district and closer to work. It's also SHADED, which means I won't sit here with the air conditioner set to fucking 85 degrees because I honestly can't get it any cooler in here no matter what and anything else is a waste of money and gaaah! Send ice packs and Diet Coke!!!
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Holy Lame Updates Batman!!
Wow. A little over a month since my last update. Let's see.....
The "tools at hand" (new meds and therapy) are working quite well. I don't feel quite so much like I'm being swallowed by a giant angry black cloud. Which is nice, as I'm sure you can imagine.
The past month, what's happened??
In no particular order, I hung out a bunch with the ex, and as a result had several fights with the Ex. Despite the good qualities that kept me with him for 14 years, somehow the bullshit that we're both capable of creeps up and reminds me of why I left him after 14 years. So, yeah...I think that ship may have finally sailed, 'cause lord knows I can't do this shit anymore. I am officially too old.
I celebrated my 35th birthday. It was a tad bit anti-climactic, but it did involve some Mexican martinis and Jenna Jameson's autobiography and a $100 James Avery gift card.
I met a few boys, went out on a few dates, some good, some laaaaaaaame.
I met another boy who I like a great deal, but he lives in Dallas. Feh.
I found a new apartment and kiddo and I move on the 17th. Anybody in the central Texas area free that weekend?? I'll pay in breakfast goodies and pizza!! [winning smile inserted here]
So yeah - of all of that, I think you can all guess that The Boy From Dallas is what I really want to write about. I need a pseudonym for him. I know he'd have his own ideas, but this isn't his blog, is it? Ha!
Slick. I dub him Slick.
Ok, so. Slick and I met on Myspace. Yes, I am over the age of 17, kiss my ass. I've actually met more interesting people on Myspace than on Match. Kiddo's explanation for this is that Match is full of desperate white men. I gotta kind of agree with her there.
Laura, honey? Why are you only meeting people on the internet?? Well - because I'm a social retard and I like emailing a few times before I talk to you. Something about knowing that you can write in a complete sentence before I get drunk in your presence. Wait, you expect me to have an internet date without alcohol? BWAHAHHAHAHA! Seriously - what the hell sles is the internet good for, other than settling bets and giving strangers an excuse to drink together. May I continue?
Slick responded to my profile, which I noticed a lot of guys did when I had the cleavage pic up.
By the way, young men of Myspace? I don't have a single problem in the world with younger men. I figure age, much like clothes size, is just a number. However, if you can't be bothered to find the shift key or the comma when writing a sentence, I have to assume you can't be bothered to find the clitoris either, therefore no, I'm not interested. Thanks though.
Anyway - cleavage pic, big scary guy with scary stuff on his profile responded, I went ahead and wrote back because his message was actually reasonably intelligent. We started messaging and then chatting and then talking on the phone. And he's smart! And funny! And has a great phone voice! And three cats! OH MY GOD.
so I went to Beaumont on Saturday for one of Sport's games (they lost, very sad) and then on Sunday I took I45 up to Dallas. I didn't feel like going home, what??
We met, we clicked. And we clicked some more, and I ended up getting home sometime around midnight on Monday. Heh.
He's coming down this weekend for the ROTRally. Y'all know I'm just a bg ol' biker slut. I'm sort of stupidly excited about this guy coming to visit me. I hate getting all wound up about a boy, because it happens so easily because I'm a big ol' goob, but I just can't help it. It seems like he just might like me back. Whoo!
Anyway - yes, there's a boy and he's my typical broad-shouldered, blue-eyed eclectic weirdo. I think I should start a charm bracelet or something.
Sigh.
I really do like this one. Dallas. Damn.
I, Laura, do hereby promise to update more often. I think I just needed a break. I love you guys.
The "tools at hand" (new meds and therapy) are working quite well. I don't feel quite so much like I'm being swallowed by a giant angry black cloud. Which is nice, as I'm sure you can imagine.
The past month, what's happened??
In no particular order, I hung out a bunch with the ex, and as a result had several fights with the Ex. Despite the good qualities that kept me with him for 14 years, somehow the bullshit that we're both capable of creeps up and reminds me of why I left him after 14 years. So, yeah...I think that ship may have finally sailed, 'cause lord knows I can't do this shit anymore. I am officially too old.
I celebrated my 35th birthday. It was a tad bit anti-climactic, but it did involve some Mexican martinis and Jenna Jameson's autobiography and a $100 James Avery gift card.
I met a few boys, went out on a few dates, some good, some laaaaaaaame.
I met another boy who I like a great deal, but he lives in Dallas. Feh.
I found a new apartment and kiddo and I move on the 17th. Anybody in the central Texas area free that weekend?? I'll pay in breakfast goodies and pizza!! [winning smile inserted here]
So yeah - of all of that, I think you can all guess that The Boy From Dallas is what I really want to write about. I need a pseudonym for him. I know he'd have his own ideas, but this isn't his blog, is it? Ha!
Slick. I dub him Slick.
Ok, so. Slick and I met on Myspace. Yes, I am over the age of 17, kiss my ass. I've actually met more interesting people on Myspace than on Match. Kiddo's explanation for this is that Match is full of desperate white men. I gotta kind of agree with her there.
Laura, honey? Why are you only meeting people on the internet?? Well - because I'm a social retard and I like emailing a few times before I talk to you. Something about knowing that you can write in a complete sentence before I get drunk in your presence. Wait, you expect me to have an internet date without alcohol? BWAHAHHAHAHA! Seriously - what the hell sles is the internet good for, other than settling bets and giving strangers an excuse to drink together. May I continue?
Slick responded to my profile, which I noticed a lot of guys did when I had the cleavage pic up.
By the way, young men of Myspace? I don't have a single problem in the world with younger men. I figure age, much like clothes size, is just a number. However, if you can't be bothered to find the shift key or the comma when writing a sentence, I have to assume you can't be bothered to find the clitoris either, therefore no, I'm not interested. Thanks though.
Anyway - cleavage pic, big scary guy with scary stuff on his profile responded, I went ahead and wrote back because his message was actually reasonably intelligent. We started messaging and then chatting and then talking on the phone. And he's smart! And funny! And has a great phone voice! And three cats! OH MY GOD.
so I went to Beaumont on Saturday for one of Sport's games (they lost, very sad) and then on Sunday I took I45 up to Dallas. I didn't feel like going home, what??
We met, we clicked. And we clicked some more, and I ended up getting home sometime around midnight on Monday. Heh.
He's coming down this weekend for the ROTRally. Y'all know I'm just a bg ol' biker slut. I'm sort of stupidly excited about this guy coming to visit me. I hate getting all wound up about a boy, because it happens so easily because I'm a big ol' goob, but I just can't help it. It seems like he just might like me back. Whoo!
Anyway - yes, there's a boy and he's my typical broad-shouldered, blue-eyed eclectic weirdo. I think I should start a charm bracelet or something.
Sigh.
I really do like this one. Dallas. Damn.
I, Laura, do hereby promise to update more often. I think I just needed a break. I love you guys.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
a sport short
I just got done chatting with Sport and MAN, I love that kid.
Here he is.
You stalk him or bad-mouth him??? I cutchoo man.
Here he is.
You stalk him or bad-mouth him??? I cutchoo man.
therapy, meds and kittens, oh my!!
I really want to tell you guys that I'm fine, everything's better, it's all good, tra-la. But I can't. I'm not fine. I want to be, and I've started "using the tools at my disposal", but I'm not fine and I won't be for a little while.
In the meantime, rather than posting more of the Depression Diaries, I'll show you pictures of my new cat.
More here.
Yes, this is number three, yes I'm aware that I'm walking on a ledge alongside Crazy Cat Lady Canyon, yes you can shut up now.
His name is Miles, he's cute but completely fucking bonkers.
I have to go now, I have to tend to the fresh scratches on my scalp. Seems someone likes to sleep on my head.
In the meantime, rather than posting more of the Depression Diaries, I'll show you pictures of my new cat.
More here.
Yes, this is number three, yes I'm aware that I'm walking on a ledge alongside Crazy Cat Lady Canyon, yes you can shut up now.
His name is Miles, he's cute but completely fucking bonkers.
I have to go now, I have to tend to the fresh scratches on my scalp. Seems someone likes to sleep on my head.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Standard disclaimers apply
After a while, you begin to question your sanity. You wonder if anyone has ever felt like this. Clearly, there is something deeply wrong with you. You wonder what the hell is wrong with you, why can't you just be happy dammit?? Why can't you just get out there and talk to people, without sounding like a boob, or shooting yourself in the foot? Why can't you get up off the couch to clean your house or go to the gym? What the hell is wrong with you?
You know these are the things that need to be done - things that "normal" people do every single day. What's wrong with you? What makes you so fucking special? Your problems are so great, so deep and wide that you can't come out of the funk (you refuse to refer to it any other way) and just do what needs to be done??
Pull yourself up by your bootstraps, for crying out loud!! What the hell is wrong with you??
You tell yourself that you're just lazy.
You tell yourself that you don't really like people anyway.
You tell yourself that you'll run tomorrow, or that your knees hurt, or that it won't do any good anyway.
You tell yourself that a bottle of wine every night is normal.
You eat too much and you drink too much and you don't sleep.
You spend too much money.
You cry at the most random times - walking through Barnes and Noble, watching "The Sopranos", sitting in traffic.
You wonder if this is what it feels like to lose your mind.
You try sometimes, to pick yourself up. You force a smile onto your face and you wear something pretty and you sleep in bed instead of on the couch with the TV on. You clean the catbox and the kitchen, and you pull out an old project and start kniting. Knit 5, purl 5, knit 5, checkerboard pattern.
But after a little while, an hour, a day, a week, it all just seems so stupid and pointless. The things that are pulling you down are still there - it doesn't matter how much knitting you do. The things you clean will just get messed up again. You can't get away from yourself, can't knit a big enough bag to pack yourself into and mail it off to Berundi.
Wouldn't that be nice? A nice long drive away from all your problems? Get in the car, drain your bank account and just drive, just go. But when you get there, then what?
Then what?
How long do you go, before you snap? Before you decide "ENOUGH!!!" How long? Six months? A year? Two years?
You imagine feeling like you're drowning for two years. You imagine this underwater feeling, this feeling of isolation, of watching the rest of world through a bizarre lens for another two years and you know the answer to "how long?"
You decide that something's gotta give.
This entry was inspired in part by recent events in my own life, and events in the Ex's life that I'm not really at liberty to discuss. But please don't read anything permanent-like into it. Like everything else on this site, it's just me glarging up words.
You know these are the things that need to be done - things that "normal" people do every single day. What's wrong with you? What makes you so fucking special? Your problems are so great, so deep and wide that you can't come out of the funk (you refuse to refer to it any other way) and just do what needs to be done??
Pull yourself up by your bootstraps, for crying out loud!! What the hell is wrong with you??
You tell yourself that you're just lazy.
You tell yourself that you don't really like people anyway.
You tell yourself that you'll run tomorrow, or that your knees hurt, or that it won't do any good anyway.
You tell yourself that a bottle of wine every night is normal.
You eat too much and you drink too much and you don't sleep.
You spend too much money.
You cry at the most random times - walking through Barnes and Noble, watching "The Sopranos", sitting in traffic.
You wonder if this is what it feels like to lose your mind.
You try sometimes, to pick yourself up. You force a smile onto your face and you wear something pretty and you sleep in bed instead of on the couch with the TV on. You clean the catbox and the kitchen, and you pull out an old project and start kniting. Knit 5, purl 5, knit 5, checkerboard pattern.
But after a little while, an hour, a day, a week, it all just seems so stupid and pointless. The things that are pulling you down are still there - it doesn't matter how much knitting you do. The things you clean will just get messed up again. You can't get away from yourself, can't knit a big enough bag to pack yourself into and mail it off to Berundi.
Wouldn't that be nice? A nice long drive away from all your problems? Get in the car, drain your bank account and just drive, just go. But when you get there, then what?
Then what?
How long do you go, before you snap? Before you decide "ENOUGH!!!" How long? Six months? A year? Two years?
You imagine feeling like you're drowning for two years. You imagine this underwater feeling, this feeling of isolation, of watching the rest of world through a bizarre lens for another two years and you know the answer to "how long?"
You decide that something's gotta give.
This entry was inspired in part by recent events in my own life, and events in the Ex's life that I'm not really at liberty to discuss. But please don't read anything permanent-like into it. Like everything else on this site, it's just me glarging up words.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Mop, please!
I feel a bit like I came into the living room and vomited, and now we're all just sitting here, staring at the puddle, wondering what to do next.
HI! Welcome to beerandcarnations, home of the disgusting metaphor!!
Let's do a stupid survey that I ganked from Robyn and see if it acts like a little virtual sawdust.
1. When you looked at yourself in the mirror today, what was the first thing you thought? “Jesus Christ, what the hell is going on with my forehead??" I have what's called a storkbite birthmark already, and a zit colony is setting up shop right between my damn eyes. Ugh.
2. When is the next time you will have sex? What a great question.
3. What’s a word that rhymes with “DOOR”? whore. Heh
4. Favorite planet? Earth. All my stuff is already there.
5. Who is the 4th person on your missed call list on your mobile? I don't have a missed call list right now because I got a new phone. Whoo.
6. What is your favorite ring on your phone? No idea - see above in re: new phone. Since my "new phone" is my daughter's old phone, there is no telling what the ring is. Guess I should find out before it rings and "Fuck Whitey" plays in the middle of my office.
7. What shirt are you wearing? An aqua? teal? blue-green? knit shirt w/ 3/4 sleeves, that I may go back to Foley's and stock up on every other color in this shirt because it is comfy and flattering.
Robyn? Whither number 8??
9. Name the brand of shoes you’re currently wearing? UM. Black? Fuck, I don't know - I'd have to take 'em off, and once I do that, they're staying off.
10. Bright or Dark Room? Bright.
11. What do you think about the person who took this survey before you? Robyn rocks in every possible way, except for the whole yellow thing. One day, I'm gonna drive to Alabama and steal Sugarbutt.
12. Hey Janet? Where’d #12 go? Heh - seems as if dropping questions is a trend.
13. What were you doing at midnight last night? Finishing up my last entry and drinking red wine.
14. What did your last text message you received on your mobile say? "Hey cutie."
15. Where is your letter box? With all the other ones right by the rental office. Aaah, apartment life.
16. What’s a word that you say a lot? Dude.
17.Who told you he/she loved you last? My kid.
18. Last furry thing you touched? Excuse me? Hee. One of the cats, I'm sure.
19. How many drugs have you done in the last three days? Advil and Excedrin Migraine.
20. How many rolls of film do you need to get developed? None. Digital camera + Snapfish = true luve 4ever
21. Favorite age you have been so far? This one's not too bad. Some shitty stuff has happened while I was this age, but I find that I like myself more and more. By 50 I should be completely insufferable.
22. Your worst enemy? Me, me,me.
23. What is your current desktop picture? A picture of kiddo getting loved on by Phantom - the dog that belongs to Stepmom's incredible neighbors. She's looking up and it looks like she's just laughing her ass off while this dog tries to give her kisses. It's VERY kiddo.
24. What was the last thing you said to someone? I have no idea.
25. If you had to choose between a million dollars, able to fly, which would you choose? Sadly, the million dollars. I'd be able to get rid of my credit card debt and buy a house. Plus, I can barely walk, and you people want me airborne?? Sadists.
26. Do you like someone? I like lots of people. Do you mean "do you want to fuck someone?" because the answer to that would be yes.
27. The last song you listened to? Some Sara McLachlan crap over streaming radio. ig. Her voice makes me want to poke out my ears.
28. If the last person you spoke to was getting shot at, would you jump in front of the bullet? Well, since it was a co-worker...probably not. (Sorry guys) But I would render shitloads of aid and/or go after the gunman.
29. If you could punch 1 person in the face who’s in your life right now, who would it be? Hm. Maybe one of kiddo's friends who constantly leaves half-eaten food all over my house and had PAINTED an ANARCHY SYMBOL on the FRONT PORCH OF MY APARTMENT the other day. killkillkill
30. What is the closest object to your left foot? The floor.
HI! Welcome to beerandcarnations, home of the disgusting metaphor!!
Let's do a stupid survey that I ganked from Robyn and see if it acts like a little virtual sawdust.
1. When you looked at yourself in the mirror today, what was the first thing you thought? “Jesus Christ, what the hell is going on with my forehead??" I have what's called a storkbite birthmark already, and a zit colony is setting up shop right between my damn eyes. Ugh.
2. When is the next time you will have sex? What a great question.
3. What’s a word that rhymes with “DOOR”? whore. Heh
4. Favorite planet? Earth. All my stuff is already there.
5. Who is the 4th person on your missed call list on your mobile? I don't have a missed call list right now because I got a new phone. Whoo.
6. What is your favorite ring on your phone? No idea - see above in re: new phone. Since my "new phone" is my daughter's old phone, there is no telling what the ring is. Guess I should find out before it rings and "Fuck Whitey" plays in the middle of my office.
7. What shirt are you wearing? An aqua? teal? blue-green? knit shirt w/ 3/4 sleeves, that I may go back to Foley's and stock up on every other color in this shirt because it is comfy and flattering.
Robyn? Whither number 8??
9. Name the brand of shoes you’re currently wearing? UM. Black? Fuck, I don't know - I'd have to take 'em off, and once I do that, they're staying off.
10. Bright or Dark Room? Bright.
11. What do you think about the person who took this survey before you? Robyn rocks in every possible way, except for the whole yellow thing. One day, I'm gonna drive to Alabama and steal Sugarbutt.
12. Hey Janet? Where’d #12 go? Heh - seems as if dropping questions is a trend.
13. What were you doing at midnight last night? Finishing up my last entry and drinking red wine.
14. What did your last text message you received on your mobile say? "Hey cutie."
15. Where is your letter box? With all the other ones right by the rental office. Aaah, apartment life.
16. What’s a word that you say a lot? Dude.
17.Who told you he/she loved you last? My kid.
18. Last furry thing you touched? Excuse me? Hee. One of the cats, I'm sure.
19. How many drugs have you done in the last three days? Advil and Excedrin Migraine.
20. How many rolls of film do you need to get developed? None. Digital camera + Snapfish = true luve 4ever
21. Favorite age you have been so far? This one's not too bad. Some shitty stuff has happened while I was this age, but I find that I like myself more and more. By 50 I should be completely insufferable.
22. Your worst enemy? Me, me,me.
23. What is your current desktop picture? A picture of kiddo getting loved on by Phantom - the dog that belongs to Stepmom's incredible neighbors. She's looking up and it looks like she's just laughing her ass off while this dog tries to give her kisses. It's VERY kiddo.
24. What was the last thing you said to someone? I have no idea.
25. If you had to choose between a million dollars, able to fly, which would you choose? Sadly, the million dollars. I'd be able to get rid of my credit card debt and buy a house. Plus, I can barely walk, and you people want me airborne?? Sadists.
26. Do you like someone? I like lots of people. Do you mean "do you want to fuck someone?" because the answer to that would be yes.
27. The last song you listened to? Some Sara McLachlan crap over streaming radio. ig. Her voice makes me want to poke out my ears.
28. If the last person you spoke to was getting shot at, would you jump in front of the bullet? Well, since it was a co-worker...probably not. (Sorry guys) But I would render shitloads of aid and/or go after the gunman.
29. If you could punch 1 person in the face who’s in your life right now, who would it be? Hm. Maybe one of kiddo's friends who constantly leaves half-eaten food all over my house and had PAINTED an ANARCHY SYMBOL on the FRONT PORCH OF MY APARTMENT the other day. killkillkill
30. What is the closest object to your left foot? The floor.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Loaded Questions
Hey Laura, how ya doin'??
Oh fine. Great. Wonderful.
Uh-huh. So - whatcha doin'?
Well, I'm sitting here, on my 3rd rather large glass of wine, watching the stupid last episode of stupid Sex & the City*, considering eating the leftover Chinese food that I'm supposed to take for lunch tomorrow and crying.
Um, is this a bad time?
Oh no, it's a great time. Really. Great. I'm fine. I'M FINE. FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE!!!!!!!!! {sluuuurp}
Dude.
Ok, look. Tomorrow will be a week and maybe I've spent the last 6 days squish-squish-squishing things down so I could function. OK? I admit it. I admit that last night I distracted myself by getting my nails done and my eyebrows waxed and letting kiddo color my hair. I admit it. Tonight I took the kid for some beautification of her own (not that I think she needs it, because my kid is beautiful, but anything I do, she has to get done, because she is woman, watch her wax) and getting Chinese food and well, you know the rest. At some point, it would be great if my brain chose to distract itself with housework, but whatever.
Fair enough. Anything else?
Yeah. I'm pissed off, and I'm pissed off that it took the worst episode of SATC, EVER, to make me cry and make me realize how pissed off I am. I'm pissed off because apparently I read too many infertility and adoption blogs to be able to deal with the whole insta-baby from China thing. I'm pissed off that Carrie's supposed to be this strong, independent poster-child for feminism, yet in the end, she needs a man to rescue her. And I'm pissed off about the whole cancer storyline.
And it's so stupid. Breast cancer vs. cancer of the lymph system.** Fictional vs. Real. Whole host of shit vs. Whole host of other shit. But dude....my dad never got to wear designer wigs, never got to whip his wig off heroically while giving a speech about cancer. He didn't get to prance around, all sexy and healthy-looking during chemo, and he certainly didn't get to fuck some hot actress while a flower bloomed symbolically on his nightstand.***
No, my dad went through years of painful, nauseating, exhausting chemo and was finally told that the medical community had no more cards in its hand. We're sorry Mr. Cajun, but there's nothing we can do. Instead of getting to die pretty, my dad died at home, in a rented hospital bed, incontinent, unable to control his muscles, unable to speak and gasping for breath. With the amount of drugs that they pumped into him to keep him calmed down, I'm sure (Good God I hope I'm right. Please God, let me be right.) he wasn't in pain. I know that after Tuesday evening, he wasn't really aware of what was going on. Or, if he was, he couldn't communicate it to us.
I found out at my dad's funeral that pretty much everybody who met him liked him. Which, yeah, I know - nobody's going to come to a funeral and say "GodDAMN, your dad was an asshole." Hee...I almost wish somebody had - dad would have appreciated their candor.
But see - the thing I heard most was how my dad was so great, had such a great sense of humor, was such a good employee and manager, was such a good dad, good example, great guy. He was such a great guy that the oncologist (Yadlapati, how's that for a last name?) had tears in his eyes when he told my dad it was just a matter of time. Such a great guy that the hospice nurse (Dawn, and I believe there is a special place in heaven for hospice workers) told us how great she thought he was - specific details here, not just general niceties. Such a great guy that an entire bench full of engineers for the state of Louisiana sat at his funeral and bawled. Such a great guy that Sport's and McBrother's friends showed up to the funeral - some of them it was just out of support, but some of them knew my dad and were visibly shaken by his passing, and were there to say their own goodbyes. His ex-wife (my mom) from 30 years ago, his former mother-in-law and former brother-in-law all came, and no - they didn't sit next to me. They were there with their own grief.
I'm not sure I can even talk about how they told me he waited for me to show up on Tuesday - how my flight took off TWO HOURS AFTER it was supposed to land in Baton Rouge, and I don't know how much I'd pay to get that time back - what if it was the difference between a few sentences and a conversation? Or the difference between him holding on and fighting until 11:30 vs. 9:30? What if, what if, what if? Or how I got to talk to him and hear him say he loved me and tell him I loved him on Tueday evening and then (with one tear-jerking exception) that was it, except for requests for water and morphine, until he finally just stopped talking at all.
"Hey pops, you awake??"
"Hey...yeah. Hey Sport - are you all here?"
"Yeah dad - we're all here."
"All three of you - hold my hand."
"Ok - we're here...whatcha got Dad??"
"Y'all...I love y'all. Y'all be nice to each other."
"Whitney, you haven't heard them in here, cutting up?? They get along great - you'd be proud."
"I'm always proud. Never not been proud. I love y'all."
"We love you too dad."
"Yep - love you."
"Love you daddy."
Breathe. You know...you don't have to actually make sense - just put it out there.
Yeah, yeah...I'm breathing. Did I tell you that on Wednesday afternoon, he threw up blood? And that when Stepmom woke up Wednesday night, he had thrown up again, and that one of the strongest people I have ever met welled up at the thought that she might have let her husband sit there, with vomit on his chin? This woman ground up Xanax and Lasix and made them into a paste and spread them on the inside of her husband's cheek so they'd absorb. She changed the pad under him. Jesus Christ. I can't even begin to imagine the spine that this woman has.
Sport helped load him into the hearse, because the stupid fucking funeral home only sent one employee. Read that again and let it sink in. My twenty year-old brother loaded our father into a hearse. I will go ahead and minimize other folks' pain here when I say that I doubt their late March 29th/early March 30th sucked as hard as Sport's.
When I was holding my dad's hand, I looked down and realized that I have his hands, almost down to the wrinkle. Long, thin, veiny, baggy-knuckled, yet surprisingly wide, with a weird bend in the middle finger. I compared the profiles of our thumbs and they matched exactly. He didn't bite his nails, so he had longer nail beds, but that's about it.
I also have my daddy's nose.
I have his watch. It's a silver Pulsar with a stretch band. I thought that maybe I should get some links taken out so it fits correctly, because I want to wear it all the time. Kiddo thinks I should leave it a little big, because that way it looks like what it is - my daddy's watch. Now I can't decide.
He also had the weird protruding bone on the outside of the wrist that makes wearing bangle and cuff bracelets impossible for me. I don't know if my dad ever wore bracelets. Heh.
I also have his class ring from when he earned his Master's degree from LSU. In case you thought I was exaggerating on the similarities of our hands?? The ring that fit him on his right ring finger fits me perfectly on either one of my index fingers. There's *maybe* one size difference between the two, and I wear a size....8? on that finger. My dad had artist's hands. Apparently so do I. Wish somebody would tell my brain, 'cause I can't draw my way out of a paper bag.
Hands, noses and leftover jewelry.
You sound a little calmer.
Eh. Not really. but it is funny how talking about stuff doesn't tend to do much for me. Rather, it just makes me cry and then I never feel like I can get it out accurately. There is no backspace key in speech. Dude, if there was?? How cool would that be?
.....???
Ok, look. It's going to be All Dad, All The Time around here for a little while. I haven't even gotten to the actual funeral yet (which, considering it was a funeral, was good), or the evening I spent getting blasted with Sport and his friends (dude, never play drinking games with 20 year-olds, OW) or the crawfish boil the next day and how we decided that on the last weekend of March, we should have the Whitney J. Cajun III Memorial Crawfish Boil, or how we put his "Cancer Sucks" shirt in the coffin as a sort of banner and now I have it and and and and and and.....
In other words, it'll take you time**** to work through all of this, just like it does with everyone else in the world??
Yeah. I suppose so. Guess it's time to face up to the fact that I'm human. Bah.
Before we get to the footnotes - thank y'all for the wonderful comments and the thoughts and prayers and IntarWeb Lurve. Believe it or not, it has helped so much. More than I think y'all will ever know. I vote for a beerandcarnationscon (wow..that's unwieldy) sometime soon.
*Heh. By the time I actually sat down to write this, SATC was over, and a re-run of CSI was on. The
rest of it is true.
**I know, colon cancer, but the colon cancer is not what killed him. Technically, kidney failure killed him, but that's because the cancer had spread into his lymph system and y'all know the story. I'm too tired/lazy/depressed/annoyed to link.
***Of course, Stepmom probably would have had some choice words if he HAD, but that is beside the point.
****I had to add the word "time" back into that sentence. Honest mistake or Freudian slip? Discuss.
Oh fine. Great. Wonderful.
Uh-huh. So - whatcha doin'?
Well, I'm sitting here, on my 3rd rather large glass of wine, watching the stupid last episode of stupid Sex & the City*, considering eating the leftover Chinese food that I'm supposed to take for lunch tomorrow and crying.
Um, is this a bad time?
Oh no, it's a great time. Really. Great. I'm fine. I'M FINE. FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE!!!!!!!!! {sluuuurp}
Dude.
Ok, look. Tomorrow will be a week and maybe I've spent the last 6 days squish-squish-squishing things down so I could function. OK? I admit it. I admit that last night I distracted myself by getting my nails done and my eyebrows waxed and letting kiddo color my hair. I admit it. Tonight I took the kid for some beautification of her own (not that I think she needs it, because my kid is beautiful, but anything I do, she has to get done, because she is woman, watch her wax) and getting Chinese food and well, you know the rest. At some point, it would be great if my brain chose to distract itself with housework, but whatever.
Fair enough. Anything else?
Yeah. I'm pissed off, and I'm pissed off that it took the worst episode of SATC, EVER, to make me cry and make me realize how pissed off I am. I'm pissed off because apparently I read too many infertility and adoption blogs to be able to deal with the whole insta-baby from China thing. I'm pissed off that Carrie's supposed to be this strong, independent poster-child for feminism, yet in the end, she needs a man to rescue her. And I'm pissed off about the whole cancer storyline.
And it's so stupid. Breast cancer vs. cancer of the lymph system.** Fictional vs. Real. Whole host of shit vs. Whole host of other shit. But dude....my dad never got to wear designer wigs, never got to whip his wig off heroically while giving a speech about cancer. He didn't get to prance around, all sexy and healthy-looking during chemo, and he certainly didn't get to fuck some hot actress while a flower bloomed symbolically on his nightstand.***
No, my dad went through years of painful, nauseating, exhausting chemo and was finally told that the medical community had no more cards in its hand. We're sorry Mr. Cajun, but there's nothing we can do. Instead of getting to die pretty, my dad died at home, in a rented hospital bed, incontinent, unable to control his muscles, unable to speak and gasping for breath. With the amount of drugs that they pumped into him to keep him calmed down, I'm sure (Good God I hope I'm right. Please God, let me be right.) he wasn't in pain. I know that after Tuesday evening, he wasn't really aware of what was going on. Or, if he was, he couldn't communicate it to us.
I found out at my dad's funeral that pretty much everybody who met him liked him. Which, yeah, I know - nobody's going to come to a funeral and say "GodDAMN, your dad was an asshole." Hee...I almost wish somebody had - dad would have appreciated their candor.
But see - the thing I heard most was how my dad was so great, had such a great sense of humor, was such a good employee and manager, was such a good dad, good example, great guy. He was such a great guy that the oncologist (Yadlapati, how's that for a last name?) had tears in his eyes when he told my dad it was just a matter of time. Such a great guy that the hospice nurse (Dawn, and I believe there is a special place in heaven for hospice workers) told us how great she thought he was - specific details here, not just general niceties. Such a great guy that an entire bench full of engineers for the state of Louisiana sat at his funeral and bawled. Such a great guy that Sport's and McBrother's friends showed up to the funeral - some of them it was just out of support, but some of them knew my dad and were visibly shaken by his passing, and were there to say their own goodbyes. His ex-wife (my mom) from 30 years ago, his former mother-in-law and former brother-in-law all came, and no - they didn't sit next to me. They were there with their own grief.
I'm not sure I can even talk about how they told me he waited for me to show up on Tuesday - how my flight took off TWO HOURS AFTER it was supposed to land in Baton Rouge, and I don't know how much I'd pay to get that time back - what if it was the difference between a few sentences and a conversation? Or the difference between him holding on and fighting until 11:30 vs. 9:30? What if, what if, what if? Or how I got to talk to him and hear him say he loved me and tell him I loved him on Tueday evening and then (with one tear-jerking exception) that was it, except for requests for water and morphine, until he finally just stopped talking at all.
"Hey pops, you awake??"
"Hey...yeah. Hey Sport - are you all here?"
"Yeah dad - we're all here."
"All three of you - hold my hand."
"Ok - we're here...whatcha got Dad??"
"Y'all...I love y'all. Y'all be nice to each other."
"Whitney, you haven't heard them in here, cutting up?? They get along great - you'd be proud."
"I'm always proud. Never not been proud. I love y'all."
"We love you too dad."
"Yep - love you."
"Love you daddy."
Breathe. You know...you don't have to actually make sense - just put it out there.
Yeah, yeah...I'm breathing. Did I tell you that on Wednesday afternoon, he threw up blood? And that when Stepmom woke up Wednesday night, he had thrown up again, and that one of the strongest people I have ever met welled up at the thought that she might have let her husband sit there, with vomit on his chin? This woman ground up Xanax and Lasix and made them into a paste and spread them on the inside of her husband's cheek so they'd absorb. She changed the pad under him. Jesus Christ. I can't even begin to imagine the spine that this woman has.
Sport helped load him into the hearse, because the stupid fucking funeral home only sent one employee. Read that again and let it sink in. My twenty year-old brother loaded our father into a hearse. I will go ahead and minimize other folks' pain here when I say that I doubt their late March 29th/early March 30th sucked as hard as Sport's.
When I was holding my dad's hand, I looked down and realized that I have his hands, almost down to the wrinkle. Long, thin, veiny, baggy-knuckled, yet surprisingly wide, with a weird bend in the middle finger. I compared the profiles of our thumbs and they matched exactly. He didn't bite his nails, so he had longer nail beds, but that's about it.
I also have my daddy's nose.
I have his watch. It's a silver Pulsar with a stretch band. I thought that maybe I should get some links taken out so it fits correctly, because I want to wear it all the time. Kiddo thinks I should leave it a little big, because that way it looks like what it is - my daddy's watch. Now I can't decide.
He also had the weird protruding bone on the outside of the wrist that makes wearing bangle and cuff bracelets impossible for me. I don't know if my dad ever wore bracelets. Heh.
I also have his class ring from when he earned his Master's degree from LSU. In case you thought I was exaggerating on the similarities of our hands?? The ring that fit him on his right ring finger fits me perfectly on either one of my index fingers. There's *maybe* one size difference between the two, and I wear a size....8? on that finger. My dad had artist's hands. Apparently so do I. Wish somebody would tell my brain, 'cause I can't draw my way out of a paper bag.
Hands, noses and leftover jewelry.
You sound a little calmer.
Eh. Not really. but it is funny how talking about stuff doesn't tend to do much for me. Rather, it just makes me cry and then I never feel like I can get it out accurately. There is no backspace key in speech. Dude, if there was?? How cool would that be?
.....???
Ok, look. It's going to be All Dad, All The Time around here for a little while. I haven't even gotten to the actual funeral yet (which, considering it was a funeral, was good), or the evening I spent getting blasted with Sport and his friends (dude, never play drinking games with 20 year-olds, OW) or the crawfish boil the next day and how we decided that on the last weekend of March, we should have the Whitney J. Cajun III Memorial Crawfish Boil, or how we put his "Cancer Sucks" shirt in the coffin as a sort of banner and now I have it and and and and and and.....
In other words, it'll take you time**** to work through all of this, just like it does with everyone else in the world??
Yeah. I suppose so. Guess it's time to face up to the fact that I'm human. Bah.
Before we get to the footnotes - thank y'all for the wonderful comments and the thoughts and prayers and IntarWeb Lurve. Believe it or not, it has helped so much. More than I think y'all will ever know. I vote for a beerandcarnationscon (wow..that's unwieldy) sometime soon.
*Heh. By the time I actually sat down to write this, SATC was over, and a re-run of CSI was on. The
rest of it is true.
**I know, colon cancer, but the colon cancer is not what killed him. Technically, kidney failure killed him, but that's because the cancer had spread into his lymph system and y'all know the story. I'm too tired/lazy/depressed/annoyed to link.
***Of course, Stepmom probably would have had some choice words if he HAD, but that is beside the point.
****I had to add the word "time" back into that sentence. Honest mistake or Freudian slip? Discuss.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
He's gone
He's gone. 11:30PM, March 29th. The funeral's set for Friday. There's more, but trying to write those three sentences just took me 20 minutes of re-writing, so I think I'll just grab a Diet Coke and join everybody else in the kitchen.
Monday, March 27, 2006
The Watchers
I'm flying out to Baton Rouge tomorrow. The nurses have told Stepmom that she needs to call me and Sport and let us know that it's time to come home. He's still alive, but his kidneys have completely stopped working. So I have a one-way ticket and I'm leaving kiddo here - she'll stay with her dad while I'm gone. At some point, Ex and kiddo will drive my car down to Baton Rouge and then we'll all drive back up to Austin together.
I need to take a second to talk about how incredibly helpful and supportive Ex has been. His dad died of cancer before Ex and I ever met. When he was diagnosed, the cancer had spread through pretty much his entire body - the story is they diagnosed him with stomach cancer and sent him in for a surgery that usually takes a couple of hours. Forty minutes later, the surgeons walked out with the statement that the cancer was in his diaphragm and his lungs and his stomach and there was no way they could cut it out. They gave him six months. He lived for a little over two years, going through chemo and radiation and finally getting sent home to die, because there was"nothing else they could do." So when Ex says "I know how you feel", I know it's not just hollow bullshit - he really does. The only real variation here is the type of cancer.
There are two funny stories about Ex's dad - one is that when he was diagnosed, he asked the doctor, "Guess I should stop smoking, huh?" and the doctor looked at him and said, "Why? You've got six months - might as well have fun." A doctor after my own heart. The other story involves Ex and his dad shopping for suits - one for Ex to wear to the funeral and, well one for his dad to wear to the same event. Ex says he doesn't remember much about the trip, except for his dad saying, "Whatever you do, don't bury me in brown socks." I don't know why, but those stories make me laugh every time I think about them. They tell me a lot about a guy that I wish I'd gotten to meet - even now. And if anybody is sitting there thinking, "Hm...talking about Ex's dad - way to distract yourself from your own dad, Laura." I have two words for you: Fuckin' DUH.
Anyway, last week, I spent an evening at Ex's house, drinking red wine and laughing and crying and remembering how we used to be best friends, and taking full advantage of the fact that Ex knows me so well. The next morning I felt 5 pounds lighter. Ex paid for tomorrow's plane ticket and the driving thing was his idea. He's also made it very clear that I don't *have* to accept anything that makes me uncomfortable; he knows I'm not terribly good at accepting emotional generosities.
LIttle side note - depression and stress are fun - I'm watching "Point of no Return" and fucking CRYING at the part where Maggie asks "will you help me?" and gah! Somebody save me from myself.
Other than watching silly spy girl movies, I'm also drinking some beer, typing this and doing everything I can to avoid getting ready for tomorrow's trip - the catbox might even get cleaned. I want to be there, in the arms of my family and with my brothers and my step-mother (and Sweet Jesus, that woman is a fucking rock) and my grandparents and I want to hear that south Louisiana accent and sit in the recliner at my dad's house and I want to go. But I know that once I get there, my dad won't come out to greet me, won't come out in the living room, and with the way things are going, he may not even know I'm there. I won't see sick dad, I'll see dying dad. I'm going to Louisiana to watch my dad die. Getting up in a big ol' hurry and packing for that just doesn't seem all that pressing, especially not when there are two more cold Negra Modelos in the fridge, and Bridget Fonda and Gabriel Byrne are denying their sexual chemistry on my TV. Reality can wait another 45 minutes.
I need to take a second to talk about how incredibly helpful and supportive Ex has been. His dad died of cancer before Ex and I ever met. When he was diagnosed, the cancer had spread through pretty much his entire body - the story is they diagnosed him with stomach cancer and sent him in for a surgery that usually takes a couple of hours. Forty minutes later, the surgeons walked out with the statement that the cancer was in his diaphragm and his lungs and his stomach and there was no way they could cut it out. They gave him six months. He lived for a little over two years, going through chemo and radiation and finally getting sent home to die, because there was"nothing else they could do." So when Ex says "I know how you feel", I know it's not just hollow bullshit - he really does. The only real variation here is the type of cancer.
There are two funny stories about Ex's dad - one is that when he was diagnosed, he asked the doctor, "Guess I should stop smoking, huh?" and the doctor looked at him and said, "Why? You've got six months - might as well have fun." A doctor after my own heart. The other story involves Ex and his dad shopping for suits - one for Ex to wear to the funeral and, well one for his dad to wear to the same event. Ex says he doesn't remember much about the trip, except for his dad saying, "Whatever you do, don't bury me in brown socks." I don't know why, but those stories make me laugh every time I think about them. They tell me a lot about a guy that I wish I'd gotten to meet - even now. And if anybody is sitting there thinking, "Hm...talking about Ex's dad - way to distract yourself from your own dad, Laura." I have two words for you: Fuckin' DUH.
Anyway, last week, I spent an evening at Ex's house, drinking red wine and laughing and crying and remembering how we used to be best friends, and taking full advantage of the fact that Ex knows me so well. The next morning I felt 5 pounds lighter. Ex paid for tomorrow's plane ticket and the driving thing was his idea. He's also made it very clear that I don't *have* to accept anything that makes me uncomfortable; he knows I'm not terribly good at accepting emotional generosities.
LIttle side note - depression and stress are fun - I'm watching "Point of no Return" and fucking CRYING at the part where Maggie asks "will you help me?" and gah! Somebody save me from myself.
Other than watching silly spy girl movies, I'm also drinking some beer, typing this and doing everything I can to avoid getting ready for tomorrow's trip - the catbox might even get cleaned. I want to be there, in the arms of my family and with my brothers and my step-mother (and Sweet Jesus, that woman is a fucking rock) and my grandparents and I want to hear that south Louisiana accent and sit in the recliner at my dad's house and I want to go. But I know that once I get there, my dad won't come out to greet me, won't come out in the living room, and with the way things are going, he may not even know I'm there. I won't see sick dad, I'll see dying dad. I'm going to Louisiana to watch my dad die. Getting up in a big ol' hurry and packing for that just doesn't seem all that pressing, especially not when there are two more cold Negra Modelos in the fridge, and Bridget Fonda and Gabriel Byrne are denying their sexual chemistry on my TV. Reality can wait another 45 minutes.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Sue says:
I have 2 teenagers and I also try to be loving when we all leave in the morning. However, sometimes I just have to tell them - you know, in nature, some mothers eat their babies when they are born. Not very nice, I know, but better than fuck you! Hang in there, there will be better days!
Which made me laugh out loud. I think next time kiddo gives me lip, I'll tell her "y'know, if we were tigers I totally would've eaten you by now" and see what happens.
Last night and this morning were much, much better. And the thing is, the good times are really the norm with us. Which is why it is just so hard when we have a problem. That, and she knows me really well and knows exactly what to say to hurt me. My Dirty Hippie Theory of Parenting says that this is normal, and my job is to tell her that that's wrong and set a better example of how to act by NOT responding in kind. Which, as we all know, is waaaaay easier said than done.
In other news, I have a headache that feels like somebody is pushing a spike through the back of my head and out my right eye. Whoo.
I have 2 teenagers and I also try to be loving when we all leave in the morning. However, sometimes I just have to tell them - you know, in nature, some mothers eat their babies when they are born. Not very nice, I know, but better than fuck you! Hang in there, there will be better days!
Which made me laugh out loud. I think next time kiddo gives me lip, I'll tell her "y'know, if we were tigers I totally would've eaten you by now" and see what happens.
Last night and this morning were much, much better. And the thing is, the good times are really the norm with us. Which is why it is just so hard when we have a problem. That, and she knows me really well and knows exactly what to say to hurt me. My Dirty Hippie Theory of Parenting says that this is normal, and my job is to tell her that that's wrong and set a better example of how to act by NOT responding in kind. Which, as we all know, is waaaaay easier said than done.
In other news, I have a headache that feels like somebody is pushing a spike through the back of my head and out my right eye. Whoo.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
teenagers, bah
Ok, so.
While my daughter and I do, indeed, cuss like sailors most of the time*, I try really hard NOT to curse at her when I'm mad. It's difficult, because nobody can provoke like an intelligent teenaged girl - but I try. I also try, when leaving her for an extended period of time, like the workday, to not leave on a bad note. I like for the last thing that I sayto her before I go to work to be "I love you", not "Jesus, Kiddo - what the hell is wrong with you??" I do have a commute that goes from a suburb north of Austin all the way to just south of downtown. That's 22 miles of whoknowswhat. Maybe I'm a little more paranoid right now than before, but honestly - I've always tried to leave in the morning with "I love you!"
HOWEVER. When you spend an hour* trying to wake somebody up, and the first thing they say is "GO AWAY!!", and then when they ask you why you woke them up and hour later than they wanted and you explain that you'd spent that hour trying to wake them up and they respond with "God, whatever, just...don't talk to me right now!", you tend to get a little upset.
What I wanted to say?
"Jeezus Christ, you have an alarm clock and you're 14, you little bitch. Lay off."
What I actually said??
"OOooo.K. [deep breath]"
She did apologize for yelling at me, but with the disclaimer that "I just know I'll have a horrible day."
Then when I was dropping her off at her friend's house (it's on the way out of the complex and they walk to the bus stop together) I reminded her to PLEASE pick up a package from the rental office for me. See - that package contains my phone charger and my glasses; my stepmother had to mail them to me because I'd left them at my dad's house. I was so distracted when we left that I almost forgot my laptop, so I think glasses and phone charger are fairly minor.
However, this means my phone is totally useless. Little review for those in the back - I have a teenager and a terminally ill father. I'd sort of like to be able to make and receive phone calls. So getting my charger back is important to me. Anyway, I reminded kiddo again about it as she was getting out of the car this morning, and she said "I will, if you stop nagging me about it."**
*cough*
What I wanted to say?
"Fuck you. You bug the holy living shit out of me when I need to pick you up for something, frequently calling me waaaay before I'm supposed to be there, asking if I'm on my way yet, even though I've made you late for ONE THING in 14 years, and you're going to pull this manipulative, passive/aggressive bullshit on me about something that I NEED you to do because I don't get home in time to do it?? Kiss my ass, you spoiled brat."
What I actually said??
"Please try to remember. I love you. Have a good day."
Before you hit the comment button, I KNOW that it's my fault that she's spoiled. I know that the fact that it's easier for me to just do something myself instead of trying to get my kid to do it is why she doesn't have any chores, and that resenting that is futile and just a tad martyrish. OK? I know that she and I tend to relate to each other more like roommates than mother/daughter, and I can make all the excuses about only child, single mom, only model I know, blah blah blee, but the fact is, if I want her to talk to me like a mother rather than a peer, I need to hold up my end of that. OK?? I GET IT.
But "getting it" doesn't make this shit any easier and it doesn't make the answers just appear, like overnight graffiti, on a wall somewhere.
Ok, now? We're getting along fine and she's done her homework and apologized and is doing some cool artsy-craftsy thing involving a wooden wine box and some acrylic paints. Somebody look up "mercurial" and call me back.
*My child did invent the term whorebucket. C'mon, that's good.
**Ok, I just talked to her about that, and she said "that was a joo-ooke", which? Whatever dude. It didn't sound like a joke at the time and it still fucking pissed me off. And I told her that - without the f-word. REALLY.
While my daughter and I do, indeed, cuss like sailors most of the time*, I try really hard NOT to curse at her when I'm mad. It's difficult, because nobody can provoke like an intelligent teenaged girl - but I try. I also try, when leaving her for an extended period of time, like the workday, to not leave on a bad note. I like for the last thing that I sayto her before I go to work to be "I love you", not "Jesus, Kiddo - what the hell is wrong with you??" I do have a commute that goes from a suburb north of Austin all the way to just south of downtown. That's 22 miles of whoknowswhat. Maybe I'm a little more paranoid right now than before, but honestly - I've always tried to leave in the morning with "I love you!"
HOWEVER. When you spend an hour* trying to wake somebody up, and the first thing they say is "GO AWAY!!", and then when they ask you why you woke them up and hour later than they wanted and you explain that you'd spent that hour trying to wake them up and they respond with "God, whatever, just...don't talk to me right now!", you tend to get a little upset.
What I wanted to say?
"Jeezus Christ, you have an alarm clock and you're 14, you little bitch. Lay off."
What I actually said??
"OOooo.K. [deep breath]"
She did apologize for yelling at me, but with the disclaimer that "I just know I'll have a horrible day."
Then when I was dropping her off at her friend's house (it's on the way out of the complex and they walk to the bus stop together) I reminded her to PLEASE pick up a package from the rental office for me. See - that package contains my phone charger and my glasses; my stepmother had to mail them to me because I'd left them at my dad's house. I was so distracted when we left that I almost forgot my laptop, so I think glasses and phone charger are fairly minor.
However, this means my phone is totally useless. Little review for those in the back - I have a teenager and a terminally ill father. I'd sort of like to be able to make and receive phone calls. So getting my charger back is important to me. Anyway, I reminded kiddo again about it as she was getting out of the car this morning, and she said "I will, if you stop nagging me about it."**
*cough*
What I wanted to say?
"Fuck you. You bug the holy living shit out of me when I need to pick you up for something, frequently calling me waaaay before I'm supposed to be there, asking if I'm on my way yet, even though I've made you late for ONE THING in 14 years, and you're going to pull this manipulative, passive/aggressive bullshit on me about something that I NEED you to do because I don't get home in time to do it?? Kiss my ass, you spoiled brat."
What I actually said??
"Please try to remember. I love you. Have a good day."
Before you hit the comment button, I KNOW that it's my fault that she's spoiled. I know that the fact that it's easier for me to just do something myself instead of trying to get my kid to do it is why she doesn't have any chores, and that resenting that is futile and just a tad martyrish. OK? I know that she and I tend to relate to each other more like roommates than mother/daughter, and I can make all the excuses about only child, single mom, only model I know, blah blah blee, but the fact is, if I want her to talk to me like a mother rather than a peer, I need to hold up my end of that. OK?? I GET IT.
But "getting it" doesn't make this shit any easier and it doesn't make the answers just appear, like overnight graffiti, on a wall somewhere.
Ok, now? We're getting along fine and she's done her homework and apologized and is doing some cool artsy-craftsy thing involving a wooden wine box and some acrylic paints. Somebody look up "mercurial" and call me back.
*My child did invent the term whorebucket. C'mon, that's good.
**Ok, I just talked to her about that, and she said "that was a joo-ooke", which? Whatever dude. It didn't sound like a joke at the time and it still fucking pissed me off. And I told her that - without the f-word. REALLY.
Definitions
I'm finding that "raising a teenager" could also be defined as "learning how to stuff down the urge to yell 'why don't you go fuck yourself, you little shit'" at your offspring.
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