the theme of the day must be bugs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

yes, I talk about my boobs

For Jane

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Never-ending birthday

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

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

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

anywhere but here

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

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

The answer this year seems to be no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From Mighty Girls archives:

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

somatize--to express psychological conflict through bodily symptoms

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

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

Ta.


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

lalochezia

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

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

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

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

4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?
EW.

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

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

7. DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT?
Duh.

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

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

10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?
EW.

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

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

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

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

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

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

17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST
My dad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

26. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?
Football, baby

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

28. EYE COLOR?
Brown.

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

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

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

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

33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?
Red sweater

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

35. HUGS OR KISSES?
Yes, please.*

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

37. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
Mom.

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

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

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

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

43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?
Three Dog Night

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

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

46. WHERE WERE YOU BORN?
New Orleans, Louisiana

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

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

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

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

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

ACK.

cat chewing through food bag, gotta go

**



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

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

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

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

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

Disadvantages - probability of 100 degree day much higher.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

the other stuff

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SEGUE

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

SEGUE

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

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

SEGUE

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

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

By the way, y'all smell great today.

sleepwalking

Dear upstairs neighbors,

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

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

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

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

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

Sincerely,

Laura

roundish

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

Kiddo's Barbecue chicken pizza.

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

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

Refrigerate.

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

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

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

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

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

I hope you enjoy it as much as we did.

AAAUUUUGHGHGHGH!!

competent
interesting
embarrassed
occasional*
definitely

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shiny objects

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

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

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

"Oooh, Fred"**, she sighs.

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

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

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

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

Return of the Mack

Possible reasons for 4 month silence

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

Pick one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What. The. Fuck?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ok, done with that.

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

kisses

Boom! Crash!

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

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

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

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

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

NEXT SUBJECT

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

I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.

NEXT SUBJECT

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

AUUUGHGHGHGHUUGHGHHGHHGHGUGHGHGH

NEXT SUBJECT

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

NEXT SUBJECT

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

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

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

listing to port

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

no illusions

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently I'm just not cool enough.

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

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

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

roundup

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

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

Morning people

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wow, he wasn't kidding.

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

The Smoking Thing

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

Brown Hair

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

Wedding, ad Nauseum

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

Social Anxiety Club

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

nic fit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

mmm, jelly

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anybody want a cat?

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

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

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

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



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


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

A month? Wow, I suck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Been a while

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

I said yes.

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