Lucky

I had lunch with a group of friends today. A gal was in from out of town for the holidays so it was like a mini-reunion.

Being with those girls makes me realize how much I miss them, how lonely my new job can be sometimes. And how lucky I was to be with them for as long as I was.

Bittersweet I guess.

No Need To Check In

Poor J is passed out cold in our bed. And has been since before I got home. I woke him up (I shouldn't do that but I can't sleep it night if I sleep during the day so I end up doing that and it is WRONG WRONG WRONG but . . .) and he moaned something about a headache.

Must be some headache.

My shoulder popped out of joint today. It has never done that before and it better not do that again or it is totally grounded young man. That pain is what I imagine being shot is like--burning and shooting and the whole can't believe this is happening thing. It numbed out after a while but is still so stiff and sore.

So basically we are just a couple of octogenarians here, just passing time until bingo and the early bird special.

Lotto

In the midst of my pity party last night I failed to mention the most exciting thing that happened yesterday.

J won five hundred bucks!

My mother always puts scratch tickets in our stockings and usually we are delighted if some one wins five bucks. Actually, we all had to check his ticket because we were certain he was either lying or just wrong.

Of course, since we are impossible, we had this moment of, "Shit. Does this mean we will never win the real lotto?" Because five hundred free dollars isn't enough for these two whiney babies. I totally had that feeling when our friend Sam started dating a guy who's parents had won 12 million in the lotto. Like what are the chances that she would know TWO couples who had won the lottery? And does that still apply since we aren't really friends with her anymore?

So it is lovely to have him win five hundred bucks. YAY!

But still, we have our house all planned out for if we win a few million. I mean, it doesn't hurt to be prepared does it?

Denial

I hope everyone had an amazing holiday. Even if you do not celebrate perhaps you had a lovely Sunday?

Our was nice, very low key. With food and fun with my parents and new comfy pajamas for all. We got to talk to everyone in our family and my aunt in particular had great news.

My cousin is pregnant.

My baby cousin, several years younger.

Naturally, I am very happy for her. And I know that she and her husband are going to be amazing parents. But I did have to give myself a stern talking to about how life is not a race and her ability to have a baby has nothing to do with mine.

I can't help but be jealous of her very quick pregnancy. I can't help but wish it were me. I suppose this was bound to happen. I was the first of my friends and family to get married but they were all bound to catch up and want to climb aboard the baby train eventually and since we are infertile they are going to pass us.

I was just hoping to avoid this particular infertility cliche.

I don't like to think of J and I as infertile. Most of the time I don't. In my head it is all a question of timing or bad luck or something, anything but infertility. I am totally in denial here and I honestly think that is best for me. It allows me to keep a grip on things. To not get too upset about things. And most of the time it works, I truly am happy for my cousin.

And I even meant that. Look at me, being a semi-adult.

Six Drunks And a Limo

Last night was J's work holiday party. There are only three people who work there so the six of us (three nerds, three wives) went on what I swear was like grown up prom night. Beginning with a limo (which I have only been in at a wedding) in which we all got drinky with wine and toasts, onto cocktails and dinner at a fancy place. We ate so much food, and drank so much liquor and I guess I was the only one working early the next morning because they all yelled at me when I stopped drinking. But FIVE AM people. SO EARLY!

We became that loud table in the restaraunt--the one with drunks who are talking just a hair too loudly and are rather . . er . . .jubliant.

Oh the people he works with are so nice, their wives are so lovely, everyone so kind of funny and interesting. I dread those sorts of things because I am by nature shy and worry too much about what I am going to wear (we both wore jeans! to a fancy place! me!? and I didn't care!) and oh we both always talk too much or not enough. But it was so lovely. J is clearly appreciated, which is always good.

And we were out on a school night! With other adults. The others have kids so they were even giddier than us.

Six drunks, cruising down the freeway in a limo.

What a lovely Tuesday.

Date Night

Gossip spreads like wildfire in my family so it should be noted that my parents almost knocked each other down trying to notify me this morning of the latest news (my dad using his cell phone, my mom with email--look at them with their multimedia selves). My sister. Has a DATE.

Now our excitement and whooping it up at this news could be misconstrued. No. We are not celebrating as if we have finally found a buyer for the fucking Edsel. Long time readers will recall that my sister is the pretty one. She is funny and interesting and owns her own home. Part of me just thinks that perhaps the men of northern Florida just woke the hell up and noticed that such a treasure was available to them.

I don't really know why my sister hasn't dated in years. I just know that she hasn't. And that would be fine, because really I have a man and it isn't THAT great, so GOD KNOWS she doesn't NEED one. But I just want her to be happy. And dating is fun.

If I was going to list out all the things that I think my sister needs a man would be pretty low on the list, below a way to teach her cats to use an automated cat box and above a Chia pet. But not WAY above the Chia pet. Know what would be very high on the list? FUN.

She has always been a serious one. Not much of a joker. Not one to just spend the day hanging out with friends (though she has always had the nicest friends). And dating is part of that. She was a serial monogamist (with questionable taste but that is a whole other story) and so the whole dating for fun and profit (not prostitution you pervs! the beer! the dinners!) was not so much for her.

I just hope she has a great time tonight. Relaxes. Laughs. Comes home happy.

Thank You, Kristin, For Saying What I Wanted To

I promise this is the last I will mention it but this post by Kristin pretty much sums up how I feel about the holidays right now. This section in particular:

"I think that the christmas season is pretty much rammed down the throats of non-Christians, and I can see that for some people it would be really, really irritating to have to live with the constant reminder, from November 1 to the middle of January, that (what appears to be) everyone in America is celebrating a holiday that you don't, and that you will be expected to go along with it regardless of your feelings. It is just stuffed down the throats of people who don't celebrate it - you can't get away from it, you can't ignore it, you are just stuck watching this veritable orgy of holidayness, and it isn't your holiday, and people who do celebrate it all seem to think that you should just suck it up and deal. You will have to play 'secret santa' at work, and get cards that wish you Merry Christmas and have people get angry with you because you aren't sending out your own 'holiday cards', and people will say it to you, and get angry if you don't say it back, and call you a grinch, and worse. And all those Christmas celebrants will just tell you that somehow you are the jerk, for not just going along with it. Or they will try to guilt you by stating that they are only celebrating the secular Christmas, not the religious one, so why dont you do the same." ***

This is the most brilliant thing I have seen written on the subject and I deeply wish I had written it. It isn't that I don't want y'all to have fun, I just don't want to join in. And I am so damn tired of people making me feel bad about that. Just enjoy your Santa Claus and eggnog and leave me out of it. Let's talk on January 2, ok?

***Edited to add that I have tried to email this poster, even registering for the board, to let her know that I have quoted her so extensively. Unfortunately, I have not been able to, if anyone is a member of ThreeWay please help!

I Guess This Makes Me Anti-Christmas

I generally avoid Fox News and Bill O'Reilly because I really like having an entire head of hear versus one that has had eat strand ripped out in fits of rage. But this WAR ON CHRISTMAS nonsense needs to stop. Because it has leaked out into mainstream media, because this bullshit needs to STOP NOW.

I do not understand what crawled up the asses of some people about Christmas this year. Because they are not protesting the removal of religious items from stores or public venues--the are angry because retailers are using Happy Holiday signage instead of Merry Christmas, because communities are calling their trees Holiday Trees. They are protesting the non-denominational expressions of commercial aspects of Christmas as being anti-Christian.

WHAT THE FUCK?!

Let me explain something to people.

Stores are using Happy Holidays because there are, in fact, several holidays during this season being celebrate and like good capitalists they want to make all of their customers feel welcome while they spend their money. This is not a wave of PC nonsense this is good business and O'Reilly should know this, in fact I suspect he does know this.

Communities are trying to keep religion out of their holiday displays because well the entire community is not Christian. Now I know that this simply STUNS many people in this country. Just makes them gasp with horror because how could this have happened as our forefathers fought for a Christian nation? Except they totally didn't. Most of them were not Christian. And a big sector of this country isn't either. O'Reilly has been floating this stat that 90% of Americans celebrate Christmas so he doesn't want to hear the diversity argument but well that is simple of him isn't it? Because there are a lot of people of different religions that celebrate the secular holiday of Christmas. And there are people who are inter-married. And there are those of us who don't celebrate it at home because we are big Jews but we celebrate it with our mothers because really who wants to make their mama cry because she cannot do a stocking for them? NO ONE.

The thing that makes me most crazy about this whole scenerio is that people are losing sight of what is really wrong with having Christmas programs in public schools or asking every child you see about their visit with Santa. Imagine how exclusionary that is for a kid who doesn't celebrate it. Imagine how hard it is to be different. Not because they or their family did anything wrong but because they believe something different. And because people are too caught up in their own shit about wanting to see little Timmy be in the nativity scene at school instead of church where it fucking belongs to think about how crappy that it. How WRONG it is.

I remember growing up I had this Jewish friend and every year before Winter Break teachers would have us do sing-alongs or something equally stupid (yay for public schools) and I would always ask if there were Hanukkah songs we could sing. This was a well intentioned question--even if I now know that I was a goddamn tool--but I missed the point. How depressing for that guy to have to sit through this shit every year. To be a freak. To miss out on it. And to have people get all in his business about why his family didn't celebrate (NOT EVEN A TREE?!).

I am not Christian anymore. But I do recall that some of the ethics of the religion involved kindness to others. Wishing peace and love to everyone. And screaming into the TV about how the Jews and the Muslims and Buddhists and the atheists and everyone else should shut the hell up because it is Merry FUCKING Christmas people and don't you forget it is not bringing Peace on Earth. It seems to me that this portion of the Christian community has lost sight of what is important (though in no way do I think they are the majority).

Since y'all are celebrating the birth of your savior and all, how about you be nice to the world for the rest of the month.

Just give it a shot.

A Moment

J was out working until almost three this morning. This pissed me off (not at him, at the world) because I worried about him--it was icy--and because the fucking dogs kept waking me up every twenty minutes to go and check to see if he was home yet.

I hate those goddamn dogs.

He slept in until 11 today and was quite chipper. I got up at my usually 5 and feel like some one hit me over the head with a bat.

I made it through the day. I just wanted to get to my reward of a hot shower with deep conditioning treatment and an early bedtime after watching last night's Project Runway. The perfect night right?

Except on my machine there was a message from my father-in-law. He is here.

SHIT.

My house isn't clean. I can never sleep when he is here (the smell of smoke gives me headaches and he always reeks of smoke). And it just makes me CRAZY that he pulled this crap.

I am going to go have a moment.

Hate Might Not Be Strong Enough

We have reached that point in winter where my skin starts screeching "OH HELL NO!" It begins slowly, so that I can pretend that I am not going to look like the Cryptkeeper before January. Little flakes form under my nose and between my eyes--which makes me look like I have dandruff of the eyebrows which is sexxxxy. Then I get small bumps on the temples. And last week the whole thing went to hell when sheets of my skin came peeling off my cheeks.

I know. Try not to crash your servers searching for my address so you can come gaze upon my hotness. Self-control please.

It is time to dig out the big guns, thick moisturizing creams, a whole crapload of lotion.

I am not stopping with my love for hot showers, I do not care if I need to coat myself in oil in order to survive them.

Of course I did have a moment when I was layering J with moisturizing (since he is a bit scaly too) and I was telling him how this stuff was great because it wouldn't make you break out and he looked at me and laughed. He said, "oh baby I haven't worried about that since eighth grade."

You hate him too don't you?

One Reason I Am Not A Lesbian

Almost every marriage shares certain hot button issues that cause nuclear meltdown fights with door slamming and towel throwing--money, family, money--these issues cause some of the most horrifying nights in the marriage. But eventually you sort it out, not that this issues solve themselves or even get settled, but they evolve into the sort of discussions that you can have with just strained faces and tense words.

My in-laws are such a topic.

Well, specifically my father-in-law.

I think I have written a bit about this before (but am too lazy to search) but my husband does not have much a relationship with his dad. J was brought up in a weird way (that I cannot think about too carefully or I will either cry or scream) and as a result just feels distanced from his dad. They do not have a lot in common. His father also has some mental health issues and no social skills at all. So usually when he comes to visit they sit and stare at each other, totally uncomfortable. His father will ask him pathetic questions that he should know the answers to like "how old are you?" and "what is your middle name?" and J feels frustrated by the whole thing.

And I am just tired of it. I am tired of dreading it. We have been here for three months and I have been dreading this visit since the day we moved in. I dread it not just because of the ugly time when he is here (which I often miss because my attempts at small talk just make it worse) but because J gets in a foul mood for days before hand.

He was already pissy this weekend--some mess with a computer he was building--and this has just made it worse. And I know as the wife I am supposed to just cope with it because my god that man actually talked to my crazy grandma with the photo album full of dead body pictures and sometimes he brings me cokes while I blog in bed and don't I owe him something?

No internet I do not.

I am tired of this. But I am at a loss as to what to do. I admire his unwillingness to just let go of his dad and not talk to him anymore since it causes so much tension for everyone. But at the same time their current solution is just maddening. Do I have relatives that make me want to rip my eyeballs out? SURE DO. But either I find a way to deal with it or I call them on it. Or both.

And I don't bitch at my wife about it either.

That is why I have a HUSBAND.

The Benevolent Dictator

Oh Darla.

How I hope you might forgive us one day.

J took the dogs to the groomers today as the clippers are lost somewhere in this house since the move and I was just not up to cutting her coat using a pair of manicure scissors. And not cutting that shaggy rug was not an option because well she smelled. I am sorry my baby but you did.

The chore probably came about three months too late because look at our before picture (left). Doesn't she look like she weighs about fifty pounds more than she should? Horrible, unimaginable things would get caught in her fur and she smelled like death.

Of course, I think that they went a little overboard. J told me that they butchered her but I didn't imagine that they cut off all of her curls. But they did. And all of her pale blond highlights (sometimes I like to pretend that I am the kind of woman that gets her dog highlights but alas I am not so rich or vain--they are natural). She looks so tiny tiny tiny and like a smooth dachshund instead of a long hair.

She is very very angry. But not so angry that she will not let me carry her around and feed her macaroni and cheese. She is benevolent like that.

How Sad Is It That The Bowling Alley Still Totally Has A Smoky Haze

This weekend was just so short y'all.

Yesterday was spent getting my mother done with her shopping for the holidays. And J stayed out to all hours of the night building a computer (he is such a wild one isn't he? am so tempted to just lie and say he was out with strippers). This morning we slept in (as he was out all late and the dogs would not BELIEVE that he was not in the basement and would not allow me to sleep--hateful beasts) and then took down some stuff to the guy who's computer he built and ate cheeseburgers and braved Toys R Us and then now the weekend is over.

How can this be?

I would like a do-over. One where we did not try to go bowling twice but could never get a lane (we were trying to celebrate Washington's new no smoking laws by going to the smokiest place in all of creation but sadly it was like busy with regular customers). One where I did not act like a big brat when I was too stupid to figure out my I-Pod. One where I have not absolutely demolished a bag of Doritos and eaten three grapefruits.

One where I do not have to go to work tomorrow.

OUCH

I am eating the highly nutritious and delicious (if gross sounding) dinner of Doritos and ruby red grapefruits. The dogs are highly uninterested in the citrus but are staring with HOT EYES at my Doritos. I think Darla wants to marry a Dorito someday. A nacho cheese one.

J is down with his friend, building him a new computer, and I am watching episodes of Degrassi Junior high on the Ti-Faux. (did you know that they play practically endless loops of Degrassi Junior High and Degrassi High on cable now?).

But. Uh. I am having a girly problem also. Because y'all my boobs hurt. As in, pain when I breathe, cough, or bounce around at all. Not that I am in the habit of bouncing around but you understand that it is uncomfortable.

So I am just going to keep eating foods that turn my fingers orange and trying not to move at all.

I Do Not Want To Drown

When I was younger I hated how my mother deferred to my father. She would not make a decision without him, she worried constantly about his opinion--even about silly things like her clothes. She cooked for him and fussed over him and let him have his way.

It would just enrage me. It just smacked of sexism and I just felt like she should stand up to herself.

As I have gotten older I see now that my mother lacked self-confidence but also had a tremendous respect for my father's opinion. They have been married for well over thirty years and part of that comes from coming to decisions together. And even though some of those decisions felt ridiculously trivial to me, I see now that whatever it takes to stay together is what it takes.

Still I hated it. And I never wanted to be that woman. I didn't want to defer to anyone and I wouldn't want any child I ever have to see me as unequal in any way. So imagine my pleasure at realizing that I do the same things that my mother has always done.

Not everything. I don't listen to him at all about clothes, other than "does my ass look hotter in this or that?" I don't worry about if I am buying the brand of corn that he prefers. And of course we talk about everything to do with our future, our money, the life that we are building.

BUT. I do this thing that I hate. I obsess about money. Part of this comes from the rather tenuous relationship we have had with money over our marriage. A couple of career changes, getting married young and a couple of layoffs will do that for a couple. I am by nature cautious anyway (I have vivid memories of my piggy banks as a child--I was such a damn miser) so I have a hard time giving myself permission to spend money.

Right now, Linda, is laughing. Because over the past few months I have bought new furniture, new clothes, stuff for my house--not exactly the behavior of some one who is worried about money. This is all true, but no one understands how much spending every dime of that fucked with my head.

I can't help it. I worry about whether it is ok to buy lunch, whether I can buy a new jacket (since I am fucking freezing), is it ok to go to the movies? I bother J all the time with this crap and I can tell it upsets him. He is used to it by now and just sort of impatiently snipes, "WHATEVER YOU WANT BABY."

I know I have talked about being afraid of turning into my mother and wow my mom has lovely qualities that I would like and this is SO NOT ONE of them. I would like her generous nature, her way with people, her capacity for love. I do not want to be the wacko lady who really wants to buy the fancy shampoo but is having a moment.

Also. I think J might hold my head under water if I don't quit it.

Racking Them Up

Look. I am still READING. Two more on the book blog.

GARSH, No One

Today was sort of all over the place. Good news (babies born early but much healthier than imagined!), bad (work stuff dull dull dull) and everything in between. It was the sort of day where I laugh outloud at my desk over nothing at all and then almost started bawling on the bus ride home.

I am not sure what is going on with me. My life-long claim that I am not a drama queen is really taking a credibility strain because just everything is such a Big Deal.

My work crap is the same story and dear GOD am I ever going to just not feel that way? I would really like to run away and join the circus and somehow I think I am too old. And really I do not think anyone wants to see my ass in a tutu. Perhaps I could be a lion tamer instead.

The holidays feel like they are happening to some one else. It is a funny thing when you throw out your old traditions, if you are me at least you find that you flounder around a bit without them. We aren't doing much, J and me, just getting through the month. Which seems a little sad but not as sad as the alternative. You know, murder-suicide.

My neighbor has this truly delightful Goofy light-up Christmas thing on her porch and oh how I envy it. I really want a light-up Goofy menorah. Something just a little awful. And fabulous.

Maybe that would snap me out of my drama queen zone. Because who can pull that shit on Goofy?

Perhaps I Still Have Some Humanity

Six years ago I worked on commission for an electronics store. I made a lot of money at that store as I was one of the few female salespeople in the company and one of the few people in the store that wasn't a complete asshole. I learned a lot about people, and why I hate them in that job, and decided that though I made a shit-load of money in sales they just were not for me.

When the company went under in this country I moved onto other things and hardly ever think of those people anymore. Except one. Who rides my bus.

Now this guy was a real prick back then, but probably most people would have never known. He stole sales and tried to guilt people by showing them pictures of his kids. He was no serial killer or anything, but I learned that a commission guy who would steal sales intentionally would run over his own mother in a John Deere tractor for money.

We have been riding the bus at the same time for a few years now. I am pretty good with faces and I have always been sure it is him, but he never said a word. Just looked at me with recognition. I mean what is he going to say? Hi I don't remember your name but didn't I try to get you to give me a four hundred dollar sale by talking about my kid's birthday party once? I mean I couldn't remember his name either so we just sort of road the bus.

But today I must have had my friendly face on because he came up and asked me all about what I am doing, talked about how all the guys were working in this one place, how they dicked him so he left. On one hand, he was the same old asshole, but on the other, who cares. Six years ago. No idea how old he was then or now but I wouldn't want to be judged entirely on my behavior when I was twenty.

On the other it is not like I am in danger of losing income to him now either.

So we part ways quickly and I get on the bus where this very nice young man starts telling me about how he sprayed water on a city inspector today. Got yelled at five or six times and still got promoted. Because he doesn't believe in prideful things. Kept reading me sections from his Bible. Telling me that it was no problem at all to not care about TV or work because this life doesn't matter only studying the Bible until you die and go to Heaven. Or something.

I didn't have the heart to explain to him that I don't believe any of that or in Heaven and really could you just eat your jelly beans and shut up?

Where is all this niceness towards people coming from?

Still Reading

Over on the book blog, Lolita, not all that sexy.

I Really Do Not Want To Do This

Oh colon-of-mine, I have such a BONE to pick with you.

I had a lovely dinner with my family yesterday, involving lots of rare red meat which is my favorite kind, and as a woman from the midwest I am ENTITLED to eat as much red meat as I want because that is the land of COW y'all.

But you, or some other nameless ugly part of my digestive system, decided to expel that meat in what could only be called an ASSPLOSION and that is unacceptable and we need to talk about it.

I spent entirely too much time in the bathroom today. This cannot happen again. Or you shall be fired. I have googled "colon exchange program." I will move us ALL BACK TO IOWA if I have to DO NOT MAKE ME TURN THIS CAR AROUND.

I trust your future performance will be less offensive to me and my red-meat loving soul.

It better be.

Only 364 Days To Go Baby

Yesterday was J's birthday and it was spent doing very J-centric things. Watching the USC game, having his friends over, eating his favorite foods. Actually it is alarming how normal a Saturday it was--apparently he always gets his every whim catered to.

He also wouldn't stop grabbing my boobs and yelling, "But it's my BIRTHDAY!" Because the b in birthday stands for boobs you can grab whenever you want? Dunno. V. v. annoying and I am thankful that it is over for the year, hope you enjoyed the groping homie.

Our friends came over and we played a viscious round of Uno Attack and I got drunk on a new cocktail J invented to use up the lime juice that I bought for my sister while she was here. I don't have a name for the delightful concoction which is loosely based on a lemon drop but I am thinking of Lime Cordial--DELICIOUS. Catchy huh? But only said in that precocious-British-child accent.

Today I spent my time snarking on J that, "It's not your birthday!" as he kept trying to grope my boobs.

Payback's a bitch.

Really It Is Not Even Real Goulash

The other night, my parents lost their heat.

Yes, during our snowstorm. I mean they got THREE INCHES. So I don't think my mother has been truly warm for about ten years. She is freezing in the summer. She wears fleece in eighty degree weather. My father jokes that at night if he licked her ass his tongue would get stuck (yes I know that is ALARMING to hear, they are my parents you think I ENJOY THIS?).

It is because of my mother that I keep blankets in every room of the house. I have strongly considered putting an afghan in the bathroom (for those moments on the toilet where the less clothing makes you feel well a little chilled) but I haven't found a place to hang it that is not scary and just WRONG. My mother leaves her coat on in my house. Sometimes she wears a scarf. The woman is cold (I am sympathetic to this because this is my future y'all and it scares the shit out of me). So that woman being without heat is possibly the most cruel thing that could have happened.

It is like the evil minds of every secret organization in the world got together to torture her for her secret recipe for Very Not Hungarian At All Are You Kidding Me Goulash. SHE WILL GIVE YOU THE RECIPE. The repair man was able to come right away but the part he needs to fix their furnace is not going to arrive until Monday. So my mom is having to spend all of her time in front of the oven or the fireplace and with a tiny dachshund wrapped around her for a personal heater.

Good luck getting that dog out of your bed once the heat works.

She Is Not Pleased

It is snowing here.

Part of the appeal of the Seattle metro area is our temperate climate. It doesn't get overly cold or hot here very often and dare I say we like it that way? People not born here (myself included) always cackle and laugh at the spectacle we make of ourselves in this town when it snows or there is ice.

People panic, it is not unusual at all for people to refuse to leave their homes at all during a "snow storm" (meaning snow fall of more than an inch). Schools close at the slightest provocation. People stay home from work. It's pathetic and funny and a little frightening to see how the whole town shuts down.

Part of it is our topography. This is a hilly region with a lot of water, ice can be difficult to manage especially for the very inexperienced drivers that live here. The rest is just the fact that no one in this fucking city has ever grown up when it comes to snow. They pray for it, wish for it, in a way that is just fucking stupid. And they PANIC when it falls. They would just rather die than drive in it. Or they pretend it isn't there and drive like madpeople which turns out just as well as you might expect.

This is how they had to close the freeway tonight.

For an INCH OF SNOW.

The animals and I are not pleased. Darla has sworn to me that she shall not need to pee at least until this shit melts and possibly until spring. Do not bother asking in otherwords.

Rooster.

Is not pleased.

Did you make it snow? Because she will CUT YOU bitch.

Perhaps I Should Call My Grandma For Advice

I fell today.

AGAIN.

What. Am I eighty? Because I tripped this time (which is better which is totally better than falling for no reason) and fell against the curb. My hip bone cracked against the cement. My knee was practically crushed. Both are swollen and discolored in a way that I cannot describe.

I would post pictures but I am way too vain to show the internet my ugly, swollen, unshaven knee and yet not quite vain enough to shave my legs.

That pretty much sums up my whole personality actually.

So I am dealing with ego blow that only a stupid fucking clumsy thing can give you, limping around, trying to think of a better reason to have fallen than "well . . I tripped on AIR."

And trying not to move my hip or knee at all because that shit HURTS.

Am I Next

Five years ago I had just quit being a massage therapist. I was starting out in a new job as a business manager for a school.

I loved being a massage therapist. It was the first and only time that I felt like I was the best at something. I am not exaggerating when I say I was a gifted therapist. But I am a practical person. I made almost no money (because of a long and horrible story involving the psychotically jealous man I worked for and how he fucked me over big time) and J was supporting us. We were getting married that winter and we just couldn't keep going on my erratic pay. So I got a desk job.

A desk job working for another crazy person. A crazy person who wanted me to do illegal things and who urinated on my desk and who was SHOCKED that I would not accept tuition payments in illegal narcotics.

And then I started working where I work now. A different position, a different part of the company. But it was the beginning. I was good at it. And I stayed.

I have stayed a long time.

It is a funny thing, work. How you just go into the office every day without thinking about what you are doing, what you have given up. I am not sure I could go back to massage therapy today. I might not have loved it for long. Not much changes. It is a physical job with a lot of strange people situations. I might have grown tired or gotten injured. I'll never know.

I get paid a good amount to do what I do.

Not a lot. For some reason because J and I have our shit together people assume we make a lot of money but we don't. Just enough that two practical sorts like ourselves can be just fine. My job pays our bills, builds our future, is our security. My job makes the past three years he has spent looking for his future possible.

But my future. I can't even imagine what that will be. I feel like I have to keep doing what I am doing forever. It is our health plan, our investment plan, our everything.

A lot of people would love my job. But I am bored. I took this as an interim stop on the way to something bigger and more interesting. Dear GOD I hope it comes soon because this is starting to feel like a soul-suck.

I don't regret giving up massage therapy. Five years ago I was a different person. I don't really know that girl anymore. I miss her sometimes. I want to go back and tell her to chill the fuck out and things will be fine. Even though that may not be true. Sometimes I feel like our shit was only saved because I was such a hyperactive lunatic about things. But she got me here.

I don't know what I want to do next. But I am having this moment wondering when it is my turn to figure it out.

Mother's Curse

Every woman I know, and I am assuming all of those I do not, has the same fear. Some wear it proudly across their perky boobs and some hide it in the backs of their closets next to their oh-so-stereotypical-but-stereotypes-come-from-truth jeans that do not stretch over their fat ass anymore.

They are afraid of becoming their mother.

This is true if your mother is a serial killer (obviously, and seriously, isn't society as a whole wishing along with you?) and it is true if your mother is a saint. Even if you never met your mother and only know her from loving tales and one faint, grainy photo you are thinking, "She has sort of a Sound of Music vibe, I really don't want to work that."

I say this now because my mother, she is afraid of becoming my grandmother. She fears this the way that gazelles fear lions in the wild. Especially the old sick ones who are just barely out-running the lion. The ones who know they are one trip over a rock from being lion dinner.

Run Run Run.

My grandmother isn't a bad person. And for all the fear that everyone in my family has of her she has never spent even a moment in San Quentin Prison. Not even on a tour. She is the kind of grandma your friends think is adorable, who buys you presents and crochets and volunteered at your elementary school. I mean I love my grandmother, she is the sweetest old lady I know.

But she is psycho.

I mean she is straight crazy. Can manipulate you into anything with guilt. Can burn through steel with her hot beady eyes. Her voice reaches an octave that makes Charlie Manson quiver in his cell. She wears a wig that I am fairly certain doubles as a Chinese fighting star.

My grandmother made me eat Vix Vapo Rub when I was seven years old. Because she believes Vix can cure anything. My sister has started a diabolical campaign to convince people I ate it of my own free will but that is MADNESS and wrong. I have not decided if she is just being a liar or has she forgotten. I somewhat suspect she is concocting a plot to have me committed based on my Vix eating but DEAR SISTER I AM ON TO YOU. YOU WILL NOT GET MY PIANO SO QUIT TRYING TO GET ME SENT TO THE LOONY BIN.

It is not really paranoia if your sister is totally trying to steal your large scale musical instrument.

This weekend I saw my mother living her future and that future scared the fuck out of me and everyone else in my family.

She was screaming in a voice that I am used to hearing blare at my grandfather, "LLLOYD!" (GASP there goes internet anonymity, my grandpa's name is Lloyd, I bet he was the only one in the twenties!). She wasn't screaming at my grandpa, but my dad. She had that frightening run not walk. She even had the scary eyes of death. I wanted to search her purse for Vix but I was afraid she would whip of a wig and through it at me all Bruce Lee style.

I worship my mother, but dear GOD she cannot do this to me. Because that means in ten years instead of taking me shopping and drinking cocktails she will be screeching at me on the phone about how she DOESN'T EVEN HAVE A DAUGHTER and COULD I PUT ON LIPSTICK I LOOK DEAD and then my head will explode in terror.

And that doesn't even begin to cover considering whether or not this means I will one day talk about how I haven't shaved my legs above the knee in ten years, insist on saying WARSH-ington and will I start wearing my pants inches too short.

So I am going back to bed, to quiver under my covers.

In FEAR YOU SICKIES.

Down For The Count

Apparently if you lose your last anti-biotic pill you will be punished by your doctor's office with a whole new set of pills to take.

As if my continued sinus infection wasn't bad enough.

Excuse me, I will be in bed moaning.

Not like that you pervs.

Thanksgiving Is The Real Holiday Of Rest

I love holidays with my family.

In part, because I am a selfish brat. J doesn't really have much to do with his family so we just spend them with mine. My mother still loves to do the dinner so I don't have to cook. Seriously, people keep asking me if I want to host, if I feel like I am missing out. Are they insane? Right now I get to sleep in until 10 and drive to my mom's house in my jeans, eat a huge meal, help with the dishes and take a nap. People have this idea that I should want to replace that with weeks of cleaning and cooking and god knows what else.

Pass.

Big pass.

So it was a lovely day with five dogs running around, a bunch of people eating like cows and the lovely end was everyone PASSED OUT asleep in the living room.

Tis the season indeed.

Not Funny In The Slightest

Oh my god WORD.

Right there is the sum total of everything that just makes me want to pull my hair out about this country today. Because this woman is 100% right and people know it and they are still going to insist crazy shit.

Like my dear friend who told me, "This is a Christian nation, and everyone else should just get used to it."

Like my father who believes that if you have sex than you deserve to get pregnant regardless of any circumstances and just LIE IN THAT BED damn you and don't worry your pretty head about how to feed that baby.

I am simplifying those people I know but man I am tired. Tired of fighting with them, tired of trying to stay hopeful, tired of being heartbroken by the bigotry that has really infected this country.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I am grateful so many things. Things like my beautiful family and gorgeous home. For having so many choices and the ability to live a life I choose.

But most of all I am thankful for the people that have the courage to continue to fight. Who understand that value of religious freedom, the importance of free education and that we are starting to pay the price for the complete bullshit that the US has been pouring into the universe for the past couple of years.

Enjoy your turkey tomorrow, enjoy your family and your celebrations. And pick up your papers on Friday to read about the crap that we are going through with the Supreme Court and Iraq and how people want to bring religion into public school. Start paying attention to the freedoms that we are losing and the scary country that we are living in.

Victory

God, I just loved that game.

I confess, I have always loved hockey. For no real reason, as no one in my family was very into it. But it is a bunch of men skating very fast and kicking the crap out of each other. What could be better?

And live is always better with hockey, I have long been a fan of WHL of which we have three teams in this area. But NHL has been so inaccessible for me because it looks slow on TV, if you can even find a game. But I had a blast live.

And it was fun going up there together. There was KILLER FOG. And oh we got so terribly lost and convinced half of Vancouver that we were a couple of dumb blondes from the States.

We got back just after midnight, nobody died and much fun was had.

Which is a victory.

No Need To Wear A Corset Under My Hoody Now

My father can prove that I was born! And a citizen! Look out Canada!

J and I had many many manic moments this past week looking for the envelope that I (BRILLIANTLY!) put every single important document in. Our birth certificates, marriage certificate, social security cards, etc. It is in the house. SOMEWHERE. Possibly in this house in another dimension?

But Daddy rescued me by having a backup in his safe deposit box. I mean, they let us through customs on both sides of the border on Friday. And the guy on the US side was nice enough, even though we got a mini-lecture about how we need to prove that we are citizens. But it was enough to give me chills about us getting stuck on the Canada for a few hours in the middle of the night.

So that won't be happening now.

And I won't even have to flash my boobs at anyone with a gun!

Which is great . . . I guess. I mean a little disappointing of course.

My house is not clean. I mean it isn't filthy but I did imagine having it a little more done before she visited. However, my sister and I shared a room before she is aware that I am basically a pig with thumbs.

Nothing is going to shock her in other words.

Though I suppose I could try.

For The Love Of Not Burning My Eyeballs

In case anyone was wondering, camel corduroy cargo gauchos with heather grey tights, a cropped grey sweater over a fucking beading camisole with suede wedge shoes is NOT IN STYLE. And is totally fucking unacceptable really.

Do not wear that shit out of the house.

Also please. Do not wear a maternity negligee belted with a huge leather and metal harness thing over a goddamn turtleneck with BOOTS.

You would think that I should not have to write all of that out but I guess.

Not.

Of Course I Still Fucking Need To Clean My House

Turns out that I am allergic to codeine. I mean, I didn't go into respitory failure or anything, just hives.

Precisely what I needed today.

Heh.

Actually, I do not care all that much because I do not have to work but one day this week and that really does make up for a lot.

On the schedule:

1. Trip over the border for a hockey game with my sister.
2. Lunch with my daddy and sister on Wednesday.
3. Thanksgiving dinner and napping.
4. Watching football.
5. Insane Black Friday shopping.
6. Ice cream cake!
7. Watching the entire first season of Fraggle Rock.
8. Singing along!
9. Trying to prevent my dogs from ripping my mother's house to shreds with her dogs.
10. Going to see Goblet of Fire on IMAX.

That seems worth a few hives.

I mean NO MORE than I have at this moment. But a few.

Regrets

Yesterday I got a haircut. I have been trying (oh dear I have been trying SO HARD) to grow out my hair a bit. I haven't had anything even approaching long hair since I got married (and even now I am shooting for shoulder length and will probably end up chopping it off a couple of months later but still THE TRYING). I have very thick, very wavy hair that other people seem to want but then again other people have never had this conversation with their hairdresser:

"I just want something a little more interesting, can we change it up just a little?"

"NO. You must have this exact haircut until you DIE."

I believe I have expressed my incredible devotion to my hairdresser and his dad here before. I love their bickering. I love their cute little shop, I love how they send my husband home looking even more handsome each and every time. And I have never gotten a bad haircut from them, which is amazing because DUDE everyone gives me a bad haircut at least once. My hair is difficult, but somehow this man has figured it out (I believe because he has the exact same hair I do except for color and you know he is a MAN).

But I think that makes him more cautious with my hair and I felt so annoyed and frustrated yesterday. I have brought pictures in, but he will tell me well she doesn't have your hair type so that won't work for you, I asked him who has my hair type, well NO ONE actually, no one that has pretty hair unless it is long long long.

I can't do long hair. I can't. It doesn't look good on me, first of all, and it is heavy and takes twenty seven hours to dry and NO YOU CAN'T MAKE ME.

So I got basically the same cut as before, with a few more layers and I actually don't dislike it. It is cute and easy to style and works just fine.

I just feel bullied. I feel like they steamrolled me and were rude and dismissive in the process. I didn't think I was asking much--I just wanted some ideas and suggestions--but somehow it just felt like I was being drama queen whore bitch of the year. And believe me I usually save that attitude for people who are bot around my head with scissors.

By the time I got home I was near tears. Not because of my hair, like I said it looks fine, but because I hadn't just gotten up and left without the cut. Because I paid him and tipped him for crying outloud. I am normally good about standing up for myself but I just didn't then and I am pissed at myself for taking it.

I guess there is nothing I can do about it now.

Just A Nice Saturday

So apparently I am not a big baby. I have a sinus infection and either bronchitis or pneumonia (she said she would treat them the same so she didn't want to do a chest x-ray). I am now the proud owner of anti-biotics, cough syrup with codeine and an inhaler.

The cough syrup did not deliver the sweet sweet codeine oblivion I was hoping for as I got a migraine last night.

So we are just going to pretend none of this is happening.

On a brighter note, J and I drove to Canada last night to pick up the hockey tickets for my sister and I to go on Tuesday. I am SO EXCITED for the game. Neither of us have ever been to an NHL game and it will be a great time.

And I will not still be sick. I have decided.

We had a good time driving up there, making the border agent laugh because we were just going for like an hour, trying to follow the really stupid directions we had and eating dinner at a gas station. Canadians actually have good burgers at their gas stations. And gourmet bulk candy! That just is just brilliant.

Today is all about cleaning the house (my steam cleaning will be working out because dear GOD I am germy), getting a haircut and college football.

Just a nice Saturday is what I am calling it.

Dr. Feel Good

This morning I didn't struggle out of my Nyquil coma until after six this morning, considering I usually get up at five and the last train leaves at 6:40. I did a run around like a maniac, put my hair in a tiny ponytail, powder the face fast fast and sprint to the car. A little lip balm and a green sweater made me look not like a corpse.

That sort of sets the tone for the day.

I feel like I played catch up all day and then I looked around at like 2 and was just rather . . . spent.

I am tired of being sick.

I am sure you are tired of reading about it.

So I am caving and going to the doctor tomorrow, even though I really don't want to. I am hearing the soft sweet call of prescription drugs. I have never had syrup with codeine but I am sort of hoping for it.

I am hopeful about a nap that lasts many many hours after which I awaken healthy and cough-free. Also with a size two body and a million dollars in my bank account.

I'll let you know how that works out.

NINE

Today is nine months for Ang**.

Nine months.

I really can’t understand it. I can’t understand how she can be gone that long. I’m not use to it yet, I am used to everything that has happened since—the new jobs, the new house, even the five or six haircuts I have had since then but I cannot get used to her not being her, to not having access to her, to not hearing her laugh.

Her daughter turned three a couple of months ago. Do you know that means her mom has missed almost a third of her life? How is that possible? How can a mom miss that much?

And why am I not more over this? Actually I am over it. Sometimes. Sometimes I feel guilty because I don’t think about her every day anymore and then sometimes I feel guilty because I feel like I think about her too much. Let the woman rest. Get a grip you emotional cripple. The thing that no one can explain about grief, that no one can help you deal with, is how sometimes it sneaks up on you. You are moving along through your day, through your life and then some one tells you about how their blood pressure is bad but who cares because they are young and no one their age has a heart attack and you are near tears. You are shakily talking about your friend who was thirty-three and died this past year. How she didn’t have bad blood pressure or cholesterol, how she was carrying her killer with her all along and no one warned her and you are rushing to bathroom to cry. Grief has smacked you over the head with a shovel again. You are in the bathroom trying to get your act together, where you can pretend that you have your act together again. But you are pretending.

No one tells you about how you can be fine for days, weeks and then you see that commercial for the American Heart Association—the one where the mom offers her life for her daughter’s? and you cry for an hour, for days. That sometimes you stop believing in anything. That sometimes you think that you need your medication. That sometimes you feel alone and then you feel her behind you and it is not as comforting as it should be.

That is what nine months feels like. Maybe ten is the time when I stop counting. Maybe eleven. One steps forward, two steps back. We are all Paula Abdul songs here.

**I have always called her Gladys here, because that it what she was before she died. But I mean who cares about internet privacy now? Also, Monica is Linda, which you would know if you were reading her site so there let me out everyone that is not me!

Love Is

Your husband listening to your whining and overly picky wishes for Kraft dinner even though there is perfectly fine frozen Marie Collander macaroni and cheese which is actually probably better and telling you to lay down.

While he makes you Kraft dinner and serves it to you.

Perhaps I Will Need That Twelve Step

My train this morning was delayed over forty minutes. And let me tell you normally that would freak me out and ruin my morning. Oh what a difference having my work laptop on the train makes. It is hard to worry about missing work while you are already working. Since this is my busiest time I have taken to trying to my actual job on the train and cramming all the extra stuff into my day.

This makes me feel incredibly efficient even though I know I am headed down the slippery slope into workaholicism. Next stop, getting to work at 5 am and begging for a network connection at home.

Let us pray it never comes to that.

Feeling Bitchy

Anyone else ever watch makeover shows on TV and get so annoyed with the person (oh I could NEVER cut my hair! I just hate jackets! Oh who wears HEELS!) that you hope that they come out of the experience just looking like shit because they are such a tight ass?

Uh me either.

Can I Get A WHEEEEEE

I AM TYPING ON MY LAPTOP AND CANNOT STOP USING ALL CAPS. IN FACT I MAY BE SPEAKING IN ALL CAPS!

I am so happy about the return of my pretty pretty laptop, MY PRECIOUS.

I love my darling husband who rescued me from the pits of 1975 or you know, life before my laptop. No one has suffered more than him with all my sniveling emails begging him to do anything short of selling our dogs into bizarre sexual trade to get it back. Clearly I was RATIONAL.

So Yes. LAPTOP.

Prepare for updates.

Happy Birthday To YOUUUUUUUUUU

Today is such an important day that even though my laptop is still off somewhere being ignored by giggling geeky evil tech monsters and even though I have a cold that is making me sound like the terrifying love child of a fog horn and Kathleen Turner I am still blogging.

Today is my big sister's birthday.

Internet, I am here to tell you that through the wonders of physics and many things I do not understand my sister is turning twenty-five today, even though I am twenty-seven and she is older except I am actually twenty-two so really it all makes sense.

My sister is the one that taught me about Santa Claus. And sex. On the same day. When I was four. And was disturbingly accurate considering she was like SEVEN at the time.

She used to shove me into a hamper shaped like a mailbox and jump on the top claiming that it was a covered wagon. Until I would cry. Then she would do it some more.

She used to gross me out by pulling all of the meat and veggies out of her canned chicken and noodle soup and mushing it together and then putting it back in the soup. She may actually still do this, but I have refused to eat chicken and noodle soup with her for almost twenty years.

She has looked exactly the same for almost fifteen years. Then it was a terror to my dad that she was in junior high and looked twenty-five, now it is a source of anger to everyone else that she has somehow defied the universe and still looks twenty-five.

She got the hook nose (HA) but the good legs and the only natural-looking smile in the entire family (the rest of us have these crooked ones that look like we are being held at gunpoint). I got the better hair, the non-hook nose and the fat knees.

She won. She always wins.

When I was little I wanted to be her when I grew up. Now I am just glad she lets me be her friend. She is going to be here in a little more than a week and we are running off to Canada to watch sweaty men skate around and try to kill each other. We might stay over and take over the whole damn country with our awesomeness. If we feel like it.

Happy Birthday Big Sister. Hurry up and get here, we have a giant ice cream cake roll to eat.

Another Wild One

Oh how I spoke too soon.

I had wild hopes Internet. Of posting pictures of my new pretty guest room. Of asking your opinion of the two bedding choices I have--of actually FINISHING the guest room. J and I got pretty far too, we had the bed all set up. And then the fucking thing fell apart.

My new pretty bed is broken and while the store is promising to fix it all the grand schemes we had for in there are on hold. And my sister will be here in ten days. The fine ladies at that store better get the lead out because I need to finish that room STAT.

I was a brave brave girl this morning, I spent the night hacking up a lung and still managed to drag my sorry ass out of bed (to the tune of J moaning PLEASE JUST FUCKING GET UP WOMAN) and to work this morning. Nyquil knocked me out last night but not before making me nauseated enough to start gagging and worrying I was going to suffocate in my sleep and oh my GOD poor J with all the whining.

I braved work today heavily sedated by various over the counter cold medicines all of which made me feel sleepy and oddly cheery. Only to have my boss screach DEAR GOD GO HOME at me when I saw her at 2:30. Shit woman. I DO THIS FOR YOU.

So it is the weekend and I am looking forward to many things. Antique shopping and lunch with my mother, taking J to dinner to celebrate 90 days of not getting fired and finishing like three books while semi-asleep on my couch.

Also, drinking large amounts of tea.

Try to control your envy here folks. I know it is hard.

At Least It Is Over

Today was not one of my best days.

I have been fighting this cold for what seems like eighty-four thousand days and I am just ready for it to be over y'all. Either become a Serious Illness that keeps me in bed or on my couch watching Ti-faux or leave me the hell alone because the hacking and the coughing and the general grossness of me is just very last season and is Unacceptable.

So I woke up this morning and got dressed and my hair just would no cooperate but man that is nothing new. But my eyes, LORD MY EYES, were so bloodshot that I looked like I was wearing novelty Halloween contacts. Which might be a lovely lovely look for others but for me? Er not so much. But whatever, if I drag my cookies out of bed at that time of the morning I am going to work and that is all there is to it.

At the bus station, well my feet decided otherwise. Because one moment I was standing on the curb and the next I was splayed out all over the cement with towo skinned kness and a purse-full of belongins scattered in the street--strongly considering going home.

SomehowI made it through the day, sucking down most of a bag of Hall Vapo-lozenges. And my reward was an early bus

AND

Success in the Find A Bed Now You Fucking Wacko Sweepstakes!

Without having to pay a million dollars! Without havin to go to the Dickhead From Craigslist's apartment even though that was freaking me out! From a store! For a reasonable sum!

So now, if I ever drag my snotty ass outside and bring the bed in, we will have a fully functioning and possibly even inviting guestoom for less than $150 dollars. Take that Design on a Dime!

Another

Another one.

My mother is a high school teacher. One at the rival high school to the one my sister and I attended. These types of shootings freak me out like no other because the school she teaches at is the type of school where they happen. The type of school where there are firm lines between rich and poor, white and black. There is almost no true middle class in that town anymore. It’s non-city status (until about twenty years ago) and close proximity to both Seattle and Tacoma made it a boon for willy nilly construction. On one hand there are incredible multi-million dollar homes on waterfront property and on the other there are a crapload of Section 8 apartments. With the kids attending the exact same school.

It is a liberal community. The kind where the parents teach their kids that we are all the same despite color but than encourage them to stick with their own kind. The kind of schools where the only Blacks and Hispanics you meet are poor. The kind that makes stereotypes about white yuppie brats feel incredibly true.

My mother is fifty-eight years old. She would not like my telling the internet that, as she likes to pass for forty-eight. She has a bad hip, two bad knees and a thumb that screams with pain if you breathe on it. She is always cold. She is a tiny 5’4” (though let us all let her believe she is 5’5 ½”) with a small frame. She does not belong in the middle of the knife fights and other physical confrontations that happen in her school.

But I know my mother, and I know that she would always interfere if a child was going to be hurt.

I am the worst sort of liberal. I think that all kids should be in public schools. That when the rich remove their children than it makes the problem worse. That our best teachers, like my mom, belong in public schools.

But I want it to be some one else’s mother who has to work in war zone.

We are not talking about a bad school or a scary school. We are talking about suburbia. With a lot of tension between white and black and rich and poor. But the kind of school where these things didn’t happen. Until Columbine. And the others that have followed.
Every time I hear of a school shooting my heart stops. Because I know my mother in her heart will always be a teacher and I know that in my heart all I really want is for her to stop being one.

One Week

It's been one week (shit, now I have that fucking song in my head) since my laptop has worked and it is SO LONELY without it. I cannot read endless blogs that have no meaning and I will never be able to find again as I love to do (total side note, my mom has decided she would like to "read blogs" but "how does one READ A BLOG," it took all that I am to not answer in my most formal snotty tone that ONE READS BLOG THE SAME WAY ONE READS A BOOK, ONE WORD AT A TIME MOM--but isn't she adorable) and not blogging myself. No online poker. No Webboggle while I watch TV. I have had to use J's computer to obsessively search craigslist for a bed for the guestroom. It is like living without PLUMBING y'all. How did people do this?

And project Find A Bed Because If We Put That Mattress On The Floor The Dog Will Piss On It And I Will Shoot Him Dead is not going well. As I am cheap, but want good quality and everything that is out there is expensive, crappily made and UGLY. J and I got into an argument this weekend because he said I was wanting something that didn't exist (possible) but mainly because we found something that met the barest of expectations and I did not immediately purchase it and he was pissed because we had spent more than ten minutes looking for something. And we had one of those fights that no one tells you about in a marriage. The ones that you won't ever get divorced over but are still oddly troubling because why are two adults screaming in a car that is driving 60 mph on the freeway with one of you crying and saying YOU JUST DON'T TALK TO ME and the other is all YOU READ TOO MUCH INTO WHAT I SAY and everyone looks purple and neither of you actually care about the fight anymore it is just a Thing in the car with you and you can't even apologize really because the other person is totally wrong. And nothing is resolved but neither of you care because it is a stupid fight and you like to just to pretend that It Never Happened.

Though, other than that everything was peachy this weekend.

I woke up this morning with my neck so stiff and painful that I couldn't really move it at all to the left or down. And I tried to sit up and breathe and almost died. I whined enough that J rubbed it and it stopped hurting enough that I could sit up without passing out but I am still getting through the day without looking down or to the left. As far as I am concerned LEFT DOES NOT EXIST. Also, I still have a cold and sore throat and really I am pitiful. I told my boss that my goal for the day was to not throw up, cough on anyone, or die.

But then my flowers from Friday came! And I had forgotten them and so they were a surprise. And so gorgeous, all sunflowers with this rather grumpy bear holding the vase. That sounds a lot cheesier than it is in execution--I mean have a Van Gough on my desk here. And I just decided to pretend that J was sending them to me because my back hurts and I have a cold and he just loves me (I did not give into the temptation to pretend that the flowers were an apology for arguing with me because he is totally not sorry for that).

Did you hear that? That is the sound of the internet swooning because my husband is so awesome.

So my neck is not so bad, and I have cough drops for the cold and One Week has been replaced by the theme from Greatest American Hero (BELIEVE IT OR NOT . . .).We'll call that an improvement

Success

Oh was I in a fine mood last night. Not only did I whine to the entire internet (or the three loyalists who read here daily) but I pissed and moaned to J until I am sure he had me on suicide watch. I am not sure what got into me because as per my usual nothing looked quite so dire this morning when I woke up.

J decided I needed flowers to cheer me and sent me some at work. This would have been a much more romantic gesture if they had arrived before I was leaving. But a hasty cell phone call as I was getting on the early bus had me trudging back into the office to pick up my delivery.

Which was not there.

Sigh. I missed the early bus, and would have to wait an hour and a half to leave for a really sweet gesture by my husband that never actually arrived. I mean the thought is what counts and all but I really wanted to beat those delivery people over the head because how cute is that shit? Sending your wife flowers because she has the whiniest pants in three counties? And then THWARTED by incompetent delivery services.

So I got neither the early bus or flowers but I mean I can't bitch because HI, that would make me an ungrateful wretch.

And it doesn't matter now as I am at home, wearing slippers and thermals and washing the towel that the cat puked on. Which isn't as gloomy as a scenerio as that probably reads.

I mean I didn't step in the cat puke.

That is a successful* day.

Horrifying, but does anyone else remember how to spell success by remembering the theme song to The Secret of My Succe$s?

Fall Blahs

I had just typed out this very angsty entry about how it is rainy and sad and I am busy but bored and BOO FUCKING HOO for me. I re-read half of it and got irritated my own damn self so I don't see why I should torture you all with it.

For the record, Seven jeans are apparently not gay and the hubby looks damn fine in them. Also, the Diesel ones were rather feminine in cut. Like I am fairly certain they were too girly for me.

I caught site of myself in a three way mirror today and am officially not looking mirrors every again. I looked terrible, my hairy flat and poofy at the same time and my ass looked enormous. Is it the pants? WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME?!

I swear, my weepiness would make me suspect PMS (which would also excuse my distended and bloated belly) but sadly even my irregular self cannot pretend on that one. I think it is just fall blahs and a hefty case of office butt.

I came home and colored my hair and gave myself a facial. We'll see if that makes me look less like a scary hag or not.

Tomorrow shall be spent coming up with ways to leave work early and dreaming of my sweatpants. And possibly eating cheese (no reaon to go crazy to banish the bloat--especially if I am giving up mirrors). That should cheer me up enough to write something that can at least pretend to be interesting.

Until then.

Painfully Sad Self Promotion of Side Project

New posts over at the book blog!

I Am Just Seaking Validation For Being A Bigger Bitch

My beautiful and precious laptop has been broken for almost forty-eight hours and J has yet to fix it and yet he still thinks he lives in this house. I am not sure what he thinks his job is here but it definitely includes laptop repairs and doing whatever the hell it is I am demanding right now!

Faster than that tool.

I found myself in a rather uncomfortable position today at the Rack (trying to buy jeans for J who is not wearing my pants today--I do not think--but has mysteriously lost his pants even though he swears he only takes them off at home). I was rooting through the piles of designer ones (Sevens for fifty bucks! AG for seventy! Mavi for twenty!) and this man asks me if the brand he is holding (Lucky) is "hot." Er no.

He says that he has been told that he needs jeans that are a hot brand and do I know anything about that. WHY YES I DO! So I pull out a bunch of different styles and point him in the right direction in a way that I assure you was not flirtatious or anything but polite and possibly friendly. Because while I come off as a royal bitch here and often to my friends and loved ones to the general public I am generally a lovely person because I was not raised to act like an animal. And I have a very "friendly face" which is code speak--you have a generic face in which I see my third grade teacher/best friend from college/favorite niece/favorite barista . . . Anyway, occasionally in public people forget that they do not actually know me and things get odd fast. This has lead to many fun and interesting things (as well as new friends) and to uncomfortable situations that make me wish I carried a large knife in my even larger handbag.

So this man is babbling about how he will not wear tight jeans (even though that is the entire point of designer jeans I mean not glued on but if you want saggy baggy shit go to Old Navy because it all looks the same) and I am to that stage where I am smiling and nodding but I have to find J some jeans that he will actually wear and not consider too gay (which well we'll see what he says but GOD he is picky) and then I want to go look for picture frames marked down to nothing and get some chicken McNuggets on my way back to work.

In other words, I have things to do and they do not include caring about this guys pants. So he says (holding a pair of Sevens), "so if I get these, then I will be hot right?"

Well I guess so and I will committ enough to that to nod (but I only sort of mean it because GOD wacko) and he was like OH YOU BROKE MY HEART BECAUSE I THOUGHT THAT I WAS ALREADY HOT.

And then he follows me around the store for fifteen minutes asking me weird questions which means I cannot go to the lingerie section because I am not talking to this schmuck about my cup size I do not care about being polite.

I did get my chicken nuggets so it wasn't a total loss.

But my GOD, I swear, I do not offer little tidbits of wit or wisdom to these people. And yet last week it was that weird guy at Costco and TERRY on the bus who told me all about how he left his bike on the southbound bus this morning and now he does not know where it is and before that was this woman at Victoria's Secret who was asking me about did men really like thongs and what if your butt was long and should she get a Brazillian. And that old guy on the train a couple of weeks ago that was very concerned that my pants were too long but DUDE NO YOUR'S ARE TOO SHORT BUT I AM NOT A RUDE ENOUGH BITCH TO MENTION THAT SO WHY DON'T YOU GET OUT OF ME AND MY PANTS' GRILL mmmmmkay?

Perhaps the moral of the story is I need to stop just acting like a bitch to my husband and spread it around? Not that way EW.

Are Those MY PANTS?

My stupid dummy, beautiful lovely laptop crashed again last night, J claims it needs a new battery but I think it is being a damn drama queen and he has programmed it to stop working the moment I am having fun.

I can’t even pretend to still be mad at Uncle Chris because J came back from his trip all happy and relaxed and I wouldn’t say rested but you know, boys don’t like resting. He needed a break and Uncle Chris provided one and given the er marital welcome I received I am guessing the break did not include hookers so Yay Uncle Chris! And sorry, to all who just imagined my uh marital happenings? Of course, no one, NOT EVEN MY HUSBAND WHO IS SUPPOSED TO LOVE ME, thought to send me a present which I just do not even know how that could be true. Not even a coloring book from the airport? What are you ANIMALS?

And J tells me that no one even made sure he gave Cadillac my love at the football game! How will he know how much I LOVE AND ADORE HIM CADILLAC I LOVE YOU if people do not pass along messages. I just totally typed that massages which that too.

But I forgive the world for their transgressions because oh, the universe provided me with something that is making me giggle even this morning. I was telling Monica all about it and she started demanding ARE YOU PEEING YOUR PANTS?

I wasn’t, but I COULD.

I got home last night and it was dark and rainy and all we wanted to do was eat candy and tater tots and wait for trick or treaters (who never came but FINE I will just eat bowls and bowls of tooth rotting candy myself like a good martyr). And I looked at J. He looked nice; handsome in a way that your husband can only look when you haven’t seen him in a while. Three days is enough in our case. Just a little absence makes the hubby look HOTT. But something was off. Just a little something, probably no one else noticed. But something that embarrassed the hell out of J. J who does not get embarrassed, who doesn’t understand why I care if he talks to loud or whatever, who does disco slides at weddings when he is sober and doesn’t know the bride or groom very well.

He was wearing my jeans.

I have approximately eighty-four thousand pairs of jeans since I am physically incapable of throwing them out even if I am sure I won’t wear them again and this was a pair that are too large for me. They also were not among the many many pairs of men’s jeans that I do own.

Oh no, my darling husband was wearing a pair of the low-rise boot cut jeans from the Gap.

In our bedroom about 90% of my eighty-four thousand pairs of jeans were on the bed and floor. He said he couldn’t tell what was his, couldn’t find jeans that were his. That he was late and just found some that fit and he thought might be men’s and maybe even his. And oh how he failed. Passed right over the men’s styles I own and went rise to the low rise.

Sad part is, he looks better in them than I do. They are too tight in the knee on me, and baggy in the waist but they fit him great, a little slimmer than he would wear normally but that is not saying much since he likes to wear jeans that fall off of him.

I offered them to him.

I am sure he will get back to me and let me know if he wants them.

But It's Not About My Period Fucking Asshole

I have an internal radar that is almost infallible to tell me where the nearest bathroom. This is because my bladder is almost legendary in it's inability to hold anything for long. I always have to pee and the introduction of gastro-intestinal disease to my delicate system only made things uh more interesting.

So I will pee anywhere and am only slightly more particular where I will shit. I have pee in fields and on the side of the road, in every type of bathroom. I am the type of girl that is too much of a Princess or too much of a pain in the ass to wait in a long assed line (if indeed I am even capable of waiting) and so upon occasion I have used the men's room.

As a rule the men's bathroom is much more a sty than the ladies'. Women care too much about what other's think to just make a mess (at least while others are in the room and in a women's bathroom others are always in the room). This is why most women wash their hands and men don't. Those of us with vaginas would like to pretend this is because we are civilized and well mannered but really we are just more vulnerable to peer pressure and do not want to be called on our peeing on the seat if we can at all help it.

So imagine my surprise, my dismay, at finding something that was possibly the grossest thing I have ever found in a public bathroom in the bathroom at work today.

Smears of blood.

Smears of blood on the floor, the toilet, drug out into the tile in front of the sinks. Dark brown blood which can only have one connotation. I mean I am sure every woman has done something embarassing during her period but I sincerly hope that some one did accidentally get a used pad stuck to the bottom of her shoe and them walk around with it oblivious, because that is what looked like happened. It was like a scene from Carrie in there.

Worse, when I came back hours later it was still there, in an office where the cleaning woman comes by every four hours. Where we are hyper-sensitive to germs, odors and even the appearance of slovenliness.

Which leads me to conclude that no woman wanted to call it in because they were convinced that they would be pegged as the stupid bitch who smeared her period all over the bathroom.

I mean that is why I didn't call it in.

There you have it, yet another sad commentary on the politics of the work bathroom.

That noise you heard is the entire male population of the internet thanking GOD they are not a woman. And also thinking Gee, would it kill her to put a warning on an entry about her fucking period?

Please, Like I Would Want To Get Close Enough To Cut Them

My dogs and my husband and his friends were operating in a horrifyingly evil conspiracy to not let me fucking sleep last night. The dogs kept hearing the raccoons rooting through our garbage and wanted to go out to play. Ten times they made me go out there until I figured out that they were eating garbage and drinking dirty water out of the lid. How much did I hate them? I seriously considered FEEDING THEM TO THE RACCOONS. Then my husband and his friend called me smashed out of their minds. They were mocking my steam cleaner (fuckers) and J was screaming "BABY I LOOOOOOOOVE YOOOOOOOOU" in the back ground. I hope they had fun because people who interrupt my sleep (I had taken a sleeping pill so I was all stoned and trying to listen to see if something was important) get their balls cut off.

YES CHRIS, YOUR BALLS. OFF. IN A JAR ON MY DESK MAYBE.

Actually, why should I care, since Darla and Buster were putting me through sleep deprivation drive the woman nutso operation #87. I was going to be up anyway, might as well get a drunk dial.

I took the dogs to my mom's house today, let them chase her dogs, let her dogs chase mine. Little bastards are passed OUT right now, and they better stay that way. I am eating celebratory fried rice and watching home improvement television.

And dusting a spot on my mantle for YOUR FUCKING BALLS UNCLE CHRIS THEY WILL BE MINE IN A BIG GLASS DECANTER.

Or something.

He Better Come Home With A Good Shave

This morning I made a Costco run and found out that apparently Costco on a Saturday morning is apparently a serious meet market. Why all these single people are buying in bulk is beyond me. I was just checking out light bulbs, Coca Cola and flaxseed oil and my ass was getting checked out. Tip to single men in Washington, sidling up to a woman at Costco when you have a giant box of KING SIZED condoms in your cart she will mock you on the internet. Especially if you note the felt pads she is buying to put on the legs of her furniture and offer to come over to help her "move things around and whatever else (you) need."

Though, single ladies of Washington, get thee to Costco if you want to meet a man who gets up early to shop on Saturdays and knows his way around the tool aisle. Several look extremely hot in their flannel shirts and hiking boots. If you like that sort of thing. With crew cuts. Which apparently I do.

My mom and I then spent the day looking at ridiculously expensive furniture (rest assured should we be forced at gunpoint to buy a 1500 dollar bed we CAN) and all kinds of goodies for people who are much more organized than us. I was sorely tempted to buy a shoe rack that I would probably never use and a sock drawer organizer. That store is not selling storage tools, they are selling the idea that YOU TOO CAN BE ORGANIZED, even though there is no fucking way I can be organized.

I am actually really enjoying my weekend alone. The dogs were so worn out by keeping my ass up on Thursday night that they let me sleep in until 9 this morning. I got to wander around Costco as long as I wanted and I have made my bed both mornings. My house looks neat and I have a crazy night planned of playing online poker in bed.

I suppose I will have to let him come home, can't have him camping out on the porch. But I must say, it is a good thing that he cleans the litter box for the cat--I mean he has to serve a purpose or he is not getting back in.

Looking cute may or may not be enough.

Oooooh Steamy

Because I am a wild and crazy single gal I just spent the last three hours cleaning my entire house.

Since we moved in two months ago I have gotten into the habit of cleaning the house when I get home on Friday night. I would like to pretend that I am taking on the traditions of my people and cleaning in preparation for Shabbat. But I get home after sundown and really I think it is more that I can see the end of the week and the end of my energy and I just want to cram it in before I collapse. I bought a steam cleaner (that is not the exact model but apparently that exists nowhere online) and man, I am in love. My floors are gleaming (the thing about having floors that hide dirt is that it is sort of hard to tell when they are clean but man so shiny) and you just have to be a geeky housewife to understand the joy that was walking around with the nozzle blasting everything in sight with steam. It kicked ass on my flat cooktop and on the mildew on the toilet seats (which NOTHING seems to get). It is sick as hell how excited I was to get those seats clean. Am officially an old hag.

I changed the sheets and washed dishes and Febreezed the fuck out of everything and now I just want to go to sleep.

My husband called (only mildly intoxicated, I think he wants to remember the concert) and I am sure he was HORRIFIED he was missing the excitement.

Little Bit Of What?

Because my parents are crazy dog people I was not surprised when I got a new baby brother a couple of weeks ago. They had coveted this puppy when it went home with his new owners and raised their hands eagerly when that couple decided to bail on their new treasure.

They are now the proud owners of a large ass Labrador (130 pounds), a medium sized mutt of undesirable origin (80 pounds) and a tee tiny smooth dachshund yippier than you can fathom (13 pounds).

That means my mother is dealing with 223 pounds of flailing animal flesh all alone this weekend while my father is off visiting my grandparents.

Which means I should shut up about how my two kept getting me up last night because Are you sure that Daddy is just not down in the cellar DEAD, can we go check ONE MORE TIME? every hour on the hour until I gave up and just went to fucking work already.

Of course my mom has thirteen pounds of this at home (one could argue that Darla is almost exactly that but she needs a haircut in the worst way and is not at her most attractive or best smelling).

As a side note, his name is Leon but my parents have taken to calling him LITTLE BIT. Does that explain everything you ever needed to know about me? I thought so.

Bon Voyage

J is leaving tonight, on a jet plane, for his weekend of faux bachelor debauchery. I didn't see him last night and really haven't seem him tonight since I guess it was more fun for him to watch Dodgeball than eat dinner with me. Did that sound bitter? I'm not really. This is just one of those occasions that I don't really understand the differences between us.

J is a very gregarious person in social situations, he talks a lot and just likes to be the life of the party. But when he is at home he likes to be alone. He thinks nothing of going down into his cellar and watching movies or playing games until the middle of the night. It is like entertaining people all day sucks it out of him and he can't take any more.

I am exactly the opposite, I am just a more quiet person at work. I do business and I enjoy my time there. I am just more of a one on one type of person, I really like talking with people on a more personal level. So when I get home that is what I want to do. Of course, I usually end up chatting with the cat and dogs because the husband is downstairs.

So I guess it makes sense what is happening--I am wanting to chat up a storm to get ready for my quiet weekend and he is just wanting to relax and be quiet because he knows he is in for non-stop noise and booze.

Of course the fucker could at least give the pretense of accommodating me. I mean white lies like that are what a marriage is built on. Is he trying to crumble our foundation by being HONEST IN HIS ACTIONS?

Heh. Actually, I am sort of enjoying myself, eating pizza rolls and watching HGTV. It's been a long week, maybe I don't need Mr. Slides-on-floors-at-weddings around after all.

Thanks Frank

Frank is a rock star, because he caved to my demands and posted in the comments. And he called me a celebrity. I just love Frank.

Talking About The Weekend Even Though It Is Only Wednesday--A New Low

J is off pretending to be twenty-one and still able to go see concerts on weeknights until the wee hours of the morning without looking like a hatchet face tonight--a fantasy that he will try to keep up through the weekend when he goes to San Francisco to visit Uncle Chris. They have eighty-four thousand things planned including multiple ball games and concerts and much much boozing. J keeps speaking in hushed and worshipful tones about doing Jaeger shots at a bar where a girl in a bikini pours them down an ice slide right into your throat. You can tell he thinks that that bar is just heaven and why on EARTH do Christians think that you have to die to go there? Clearly you just have to go to San Francisco. You even get to see her nipples for free.

I am playing single girl, something that I am embarrassed to admit I do not really know how to do. I am officially the old married hag who cannot remember living alone. Which I did live alone, for a few years even and I was great at it. With the going out with people every night and multiple boyfriends and all. Sadly, most of my activities would be verboten in the new harsh monogamy but still. . . one would think I would have some plans.

I actually do have plans. I plan to setup my attic painting space and buy light fixtures and go bed shopping for the guest room. Oh! And scrub my floors! Hot DAYAM. I am a wild woman. I should charge a cover to come to my house.

I also need to carve a pumpkin since HOLY SHIT it is almost Halloween. I feel like it was summer like a week ago and suddenly it is all wool coats and knee high boots and shit I have not purchased a vegetable in which to carve a silly face and lure small children to my home to amuse me with their funny outfits. Must get cracking on this.

The truth is that I really don't miss the old me that much. I take that back, I used to have a lot of fun, I had some really great friends to hang out with. One of the ugly truths is that even if you are not a smug married (which I swear I wasn't because dude I was a child bride and I knew it) your fun girl friends (and forget male friends, you have to start all over once you get married because the old ones now realize that you are never ever fucking them and hit the road Jack) abandon ship. I mean I was never so much on girlfriends to begin with (as am terrible with bullshit) but I do miss the going out and making an ass of myself part (as is every woman I know since we all were acting all psycho at that wedding). My best friend lives in Colorado and sometimes I just want to fly her out here so we can go get a pedicure and eat queso dip and have to call some one to come pick our asses up because we are not even entirely sure where we are.

Actually is anyone up for that this weekend? It sounds pretty good.

Seven

Since Monica tagged me, you get a meme today. It is internet law after all . .

7 Things I Want to Do Before I Die
1. Publish a novel.
2. Learn to play the piano.
3. Travel to the part of Germany my family is from.
4. Create my own special, signature dessert.
5. Be able to follow along (in writing and aloud) to a Shabbat service in Hebrew.
6. Raise a family with J.
7. Visit every major league baseball park to see a game.

7 Things I Cannot Do
1. Dance (at all, and I was on the dance team in high school so figure that one out).
2. Sing
3. Public speaking.
4. Let anyone be rude to my mother.
5. Resist a puppy.
6. Grow my hair truly long (middle to low back).
7. Not pop a zit.

7 Things That Attract Me To the Opposite Sex
1. Hairy toes, pale skin (I know, sounds like an ape. Or J. heh).
2. Listening ability.
3. A great laugh.
4. Long fingers.
5. Ability to argue.
6. Intelligence.

7 Things I Say Most Often
1. Seriously.
2. I was reading.
3. No??
4. MOTHER FUCKER!
5. No Buster, I will not give you a cookie.
6. No Darla, I will not give you a cookie.
7. Fucking Cubs!

7 Celebrity Crushes
1. Scott Patterson
2. Chris Pratt
3. Truman Capote (I know, SICK).
4. Sean Connery
5. Winona Ryder
6. John Corbett
7. Chaim Potock (SICKER)

7 People (or less) That I Want to Do This
1. Virginia
2. Eeek and Frank, either get blogs or do this in the comments stat!

Carnage

Miss Monica took these photos of her plate at the wedding this weekend.

Take a moment to admire the carnage. Because Monica and I ate like some serious cows. And swilled wine like they were going to pry our hands off the glasses.

Perhaps they should have.

VICTORY

Whoever wrote that recipe that said that margarine was an acceptable substitute for butter was a goodamn liar. Am brilliant. Have actual cookies baked.

Computer is acting like an asshole though so. . .

Who Wants To Pay Me To Post Those Pictures On The Internet

Last night we went to a wedding with Monica and other assorted people we know. It proved to me that you can still be really happy for a woman who turned into a horrifying fucking Bridezilla, that I am terribly unromantic and that all of us married folks need to get out more.

I'm just saying that Monica was using my digital camera to take boob pictures of every woman we knew there throughout the night. That I know the cup size of all of them. And that J ended our night by doing a knee slide and disco dance to Saturday Night Fever. Twice. The groom's father requested that he do it again so they could catch it on video.

He is such a team player he even ruined his pants and got himself a big ol' knee strawberry for his trouble.

We actually had a really nice time, thanks to good friends and lots of wine.

Today he woke up with a sore knee (said strawberry) and an aching back and I have a cold. We've spent the day napping and I am currently ruining ANOTHER batch of oatmeal cookies. Apparently I am incredibly fucking stupid.

A nice weekend, if too short.

Magic Time

For those who care, this is my magic magic potion that makes me oh so pretty. I know! The price! Even with my employer's generous discount I spent too much. But a girl needs to be pretty and I cannot help myself.

If you are also a spoiled middle class brat, who suffers from acne or rosocea or wrinkles or just needs to look fucking fabulous than get on those wipes STAT.

Smooth Skinned

When I was in high school I had "normal" skin. Nothing spectacular, just a few pimples but smooth enough. I abused it, used my skin care sporadically if at all, wore a shitload of foundation (which I now recognize was a shade or two darker than I should have been wearing why didn't anyone fucking tell me?) and really paid few consequences for all of that.

I hit college, took better care of it and promptly started looking like a leper. My skin was so sensitive, I had a lot of acne, it was ruddy and raw. And thus began a lot of searching for something, anything that could make me not look like shit. And nothing worked. Sometimes I would find something that worked a little and it would be a relief. But I was still in my mid--heading towards late--twenties with more acne than most teenagers.

I took anti-biotics for it--which made me feel terrible but I looked fantastic. I didn't need makeup. My skin was still blotchy but it was clear. Unfortunately, I was so dizzy I hated driving my car which really is no way to live. So off of that I went.

I work in an industry where it is important that I look the best that I can. Not that I am a supermodel or something and would be fired for bad skin. But when you work with gorgeous women in an industry where your appearance is noticed having bad skin is something I just don't like thinking about every fucking day.

A gal I know upstairs recommended these daily facial peels. They are obscenely expensive but she got me a sample and after two uses even J saw a difference. So I bought them, having middle class bullshit guilt all the way and after less than two weeks my god. My skin. Is clear. It is not ruddy and spotty. Today, I woke up really late and put on bronzer and ran, something I never would have done two weeks ago. And even though I know that it is an idulgence that I should probably use the money elsewhere. But FUCK. I'm a good person. I donate to the United Way and Planned Parenthood and the ACLU! I never kick puppies. And um, I got nothing.

For the first time in a long time I feel pretty good. I am skinny for me (we are all about relativity here), my hair isn't horrible and my skin is fantastic.

Now if I could just get my stupid hillbilly tooth fixed that would be great.

I suppose I shouldn't be so greedy.