I Need Eight Hours Sleep To Rip Good Ass

Our final piece of furniture (when I say final, I mean of the stuff we ordered--I mean there isn't anything in the guest room so this is final forever final) arrived this week. I had to deal with a rude little bitch at the store on the phone to find out (as a measure of how sick I have been I LET IT GO, I didn't talk to her boss or even say a word I was just meh about the whole thing CLEARLY DELIRIOUS WITH FEVER) but it was here.

It is just a cocktail table so I went to pick it up this afternoon. J was late, which is fine because they totally load it for you so I just went on my lonesome.

And the lovely young man loaded it into my car--carrying this very heavy package by himself. And then offered to come to my house and carry it in and maybe put it together.

Maybe my ass does look good in these jeans after all.

I had to decline, which was sad because seriously it is not often that cute boys with big muscles who carry things for a living hit on me. I mean, it might never happen again. I do so hate to waste life experiences. But there is that whole "forsaking all others" part of the wedding vows to think of. And also the awkwardness of J coming home to furniture man in the living room.

Complicated.

So J met me at home and he started putting the damn thing together. We were watching the Yankees game and so he was in a pissy mood. We normally watch the NY/Boston series on separate floors with good reason--I get happy when Boston wins and he gets downright pissed off.

And CLEARY the umpires and major league baseball and everyone in the world want Boston to win because every single call in the past two years has gone Boston's way BLAH BLAH BLAH.

We did get into a tiff when I pointed out that was horseshit and get over yourself etc. I mean a girl can only take so much nonsense, even when she is married to a Yankee fan and should be used to endless nonsense. So while he yelled and curse I just thought about furniture boy and how he would NOT BE YELLING AT ME RIGHT NOW.

It is a damn good thing J is so cute when he is angry. Except when he kicked the cardboard box that the crockpot came in across the room. You break glass and scratch these floors and you will be watching tomorrow's game from the grave honey.

He finally gets the table together and one of the drawers is not right. So I get to go back and rip that girl a new asshole afterall.

That was so thoughtful of him.

If only I can get rested enough to do it properly.

I Call My Sweatpants Lassie, As In LASSIE! You Better Be There When I Get HOME! So My Lassie Never Rescues That Little Fuck Up Timmy

Keeping your eyes open all day is hard y'all. It requires determination and skill and some serious fucking strength. I almost managed it too.

When I got home my key stuck in the lock. I am sure there is something wrong with the door and not little ol' so competent me but I just could not make it work so I stumbled into the back yard--twisting and falling like a drunk--and pretended that I wanted to see J before I went inside. I would have got away with it too, if it weren't for you damn teenagers! Sorry, thought I was on Scooby Doo. I could have gotten away with it if I would just stop telling the internet embarrassing shit.

But embarrassing shit is why people come here after all and falling down like a drunk without being drunk is not that funny or interesting. But it is all I got. I have chest pains, which I managed to freak Miss Monica out with but seriously they are muscular--the kind you get when you cough and cough until your ribcage says BITCH QUIT IT OR YOU WILL PAY and you don't quit.

And then you pay.

It is oh so very linear that way.

So the evening is being spent lying on my couch with the dachshund eating cheese and clearing out the Ti-Faux.

Also trying to imagine a way that I can wear my sweatpants to work tomorrow and still look professional enough to not get my ass fired. I need the sweatpants though. NEED. Because then I can just FALL into bed the very SECOND I get home.

Unfortunately, I cannot just not go to work because I actually have work to do. Why on earth did I tell my boss I wanted more responsibility? Did I forget that she is the type of manager who listens and tries to give people what they want?! I should have told her I want a job where I can sit at home and watch America's Next Top model in my sweatpants and slippers. I have heard, however, that the dental for that job blows chunks and GOD KNOWS I need to get my stupid ass front tooth fixed.

I can only claim Hillbilly Chic for so long.

Dreamy

Damn the girls at MATH, who linked the site that has this. Dreamy huh?

But There Is Not Room For All Y'all So Forget It

My teeth hurt. The temporary crowns they put in last week are not really shielding those nerves from the cold water, sugar and god knows what else I subject my teeth to on a daily basis. It is a dull ache that makes my whiney ass feel even worse. Add my sore throat and just serious fucking fatigue has wiped the floor with me today. I was doing great until 2:00 and then BAM. Wall. Meet my face. Can I nap now?

I have lived in the Seattle area for 18 years now. Much longer than I lived in Iowa, though for some bizarre reason I still identify as having grown up in Iowa. Driving around in our new neighborhood I am struck again by how much it reminds me of the towns in Iowa. The houses so obviously built during the wars, the tiny neighborhood churches, the old men who walk every afternoon with their brothers. But there is that Washington flavor too. How the colors here are soft--the sky, the sound, nothing is a harsh line. Even in fall the colors aren't crisp. How it smells salty and when the tide turns sometimes it is UGLY. How beach doesn't mean white sand to me--it means rocks and mossy logs and icy cold water.

Funny how places become home without you realizing what that even means. How I don't really remember the smell of fall leaves and then we get a couple and there it is. How after only a month I am used to the clanging of railroad cars being dropped all over the place.

This house has a weird effect on me. No one in my family has lived in one like it that I know of, and yet it feels like we have always been here. I feel sorry for everyone who doesn't get to live here.

Everybody Was RaCCOON Fighting

My poor darling husband is feeling a little poorly. Poorly enough that he skipped chili (made in the crockpot and oh how I love the crockpot and will probably make out with it later) and went right downstairs to nap on his futon and moan.

Apparently, we both had adventures last night.

I did that HORRIBLE thing that I used to do all the time in college, but when I described it to Monica she had NO IDEA what I was talking about. I woke up without the alarm and when I looked at the clock I was SO LATE. I rushed around, straightening my hair, putting on makeup and I was freaking out because J and the dogs weren't in bed. I was getting dressed and starting to look for him when I looked at the clock and noticed that it was 11:55.

DAMN IT.

I didn't even wash my face, I just pulled off my clothes and fell into bed. I was so exhausted already, yesterday just kicked my ass, and my bed was like heaven. And heaven had evicted me for no good reason.

Poor J woke up to a crying kitty and found a pack of raccoons in the garbage cans. They laughed at him when he tried to scare them away but he thought they were killing Rooster so he had to chase them out. Of course Rooster was fast asleep in the warm house where she belongs.

He gets credit with me for save at any rate.

We are going to bed early tonight. And NOT GETTING UP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.

Here is to less adventure.

The PJ's Even Have Winnie The Pooh On Them, How Cute is THAT? And He Is Totally Going To Kick My Ass For Telling the Internet That

Damn you internet, DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL. I admit that I have the theme from Johnny Appleseed in my head and you email me and get LAMBERT THE SHEEPISH LION stuck in it. HAVE YOU NO SOUL INTERNET?

LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMBERT

Bastards.

I came home late tonight and J had dinner cooking (pork chops wrapped in bacon, corn and rice--you want to marry him now don't you). This means I cannot bitch about him for a while. I still will of course, it is what I DO, but I will feel guilty while doing it.

Because BACON WRAPPED PORK CHOPS people.

So now I am very very bloated and very very full and loving my darling husband. Who looks damn cute in his pj's cooking rice and digging through the garbage to find the pork instructions.

Touchy Touchy

Oh how I had grand plans. I was going to make cookies! And watch cheesy musicals! And I did. Except the cookies in no way turned out and now my house smells delicious and I am starving but there is just a mound of wet and slightly oily oatmeal in my garbage can. I have read and re-read the directions eighty-four thousand times and I still cannot imagine what I did wrong. Apparently when I said to some one earlier this week, "Any idiot can cook," I should have added, "but I am way to fucking stupid to bake."

Sad. I am expecting my You Are A Bad Wife And Perhaps Now You Understand Why You Have No Children badge in the mail later this week. As soon as they figure out how to engrave all those words on a tiny tasteful tin brooch I suppose.

Speaking of wives. Our pal Travis is taking one.

Sadly, it is his girlfriend that we have never really cared for. Though in our defense we haven't spent that much time with her and I am sure she is delightful and I will find something about her that I find fantastic. I will just look very hard and for a real long time if I have to. We are thrilled for him because he is happy and Travis just is not the kind of person to be happy. I think in all the time I have known him I have seem him smile once and at least one of those times involved J presenting him with a Large Box Of Porn.

And really, what man wouldn't smile at that?

So we are happy. And I am thinking that we should get them an engagement gift or throw them a party or something? She has been married before (one that ended ugly about a minute and a half after she gave birth) and neither of them have much family here but still. Travis is getting married. It is an Occasion to be Remembered.

The etiquette of this is very confusing and only made more so by Modesto Boy saying lets get Travis a Congratulations card.

Sweetheart. Love of my life. DARLING. They have engagement cards. And it is for both of them. Or you could write a simple note on nice stationary. But that card has a BIG ASS TROPHY ON IT HONEY. Perhaps this is the wrong message.

Sometimes I forget why I allow him out of the house at all.

DAMN my kitchen smells divine I just want to eat some cookies. WHY ARE THERE NO COOKIES. I mixed them, I baked them and NOTHING. But I can SMELL THEM.

And I have the song from Johnny Appleseed (anyone else remember that little Disney cartoon) stuck in my head. I keep singing it in an angry voice because I have no cookies. Oh the Lord is good to me, and so I thank they Lord, for giving me the things I need, the sun and the rain and the appleseeds AND NO FUCKING COOKIES oh the Lord is GOOD TO ME.

The rustling you hear? Is old Walt trying to dig his way out of his grave to come kick my ass.

Temperamental.

Do You Think Dusting Every Twelve Hours Is Too OCD?

There are genes that you get from your parents that you are grateful for, I have naturally pale blond hair and I love it, thanks Dad, and things that you wish you didn't get like fat knees (fuck you MOM) or a stubborn nature (both, I had no chance at all). Today I felt the full brunt of the family pack rat gene and I feel a little shaken honestly.

My parents are in Disneyland and I decided, as the best daughter in the entire goddamn world, to go clean up a bit in their basement. My parents don't even use their basement anymore and it is packed to the gills with crap, most of it books, and I thought I could straighten up, take some things and dust the hell out of everything.

Because every conceivable surface is covered in dust. Three inches of dust, which is I guess what happens when you do not touch anything for years at a time. I took a lot of my old books and a statue of Mark Twain and a couple of textbooks from the fifties and dusted and vacuumed up about twenty-seven pounds of dog hair. It looks like I didn't do a thing even though it took hours.

And then I sat on the floor and cried for about twenty minutes straight.

Because my parents can't take care of that house. They don't have the time or the energy and honestly all that dirt scared the crap out of me. Because my mother hates dust, is allergic to dust and there was so much of it everywhere that it is a wonder that she doesn't go into anaphylactic shock just walking through it.

They need to have a maid service come through. They need a smaller house. And I am afraid.

I am starting to talk with J about my mom and dad they way my parents talk about their parents. And I don't want them to be old enough that I need to worry about this shit. But it is coming.

And yes, I did come home and dust everything in my house. Never can be too careful.

Her Curse Works

I have long bragged about my modern marriage and how J does half the housework and of course he does because we are partners and he doesn't even consider it helping because well hi there are two of us so of course the work should be divided in half and DEAR GOD DO I USE RUN ON SENTENCES.

I have been a tad smug about this. About how he is a good cook and cleans up and wow WHAT A CATCH I FOUND IN THIS HAIRY LITTLE MAN OH MINE.

Except. He doesn't cook anymore. And stopped about three years ago. And since we moved into the new house he has run the dishwasher twice, done a few loads of laundry and swept the floor ONCE. In three weeks. So I have done all the cooking (except grilling--I must be fair HE GRILLED), all the cleaning, made the beds, unpacked and put away all of our clothes, dusted and every other damn thing that is being done.

Suddenly my modern marriage is starting to look alarmingly like my parents' and oh my god do I not want to be my parents. Where my father expects a fucking parade should he scrub down the bathroom. He does their yard and washes pots and pans and thinks that he is doing her favor.

I feel like we are moving in that direction and it is making me crazy. He just doesn't care the way that I do even though he gives lip service to it. And part of me is all follow your bliss and why should he have to clean up if he doesn't care that the house is dirty. And the other part of me is shut up bitch we are not animals and he needs to stop letting this place become a sty. Because part of the pretty new house is keeping it that way. So pick up your shit and grab a broom asshole. So after dinner I walked around and dusted and swept and cleaned the kitchen and made the bed and hung up clothes and basically looked for my little mouse Gus because I am CINDERELLA.

And he played video games.

Hi. I am my fucking MOTHER.

Of Course Y'all Are HOTT

AW. A couple of y'all have little blog crushes on J. I believe some one called him dreamy. This is enough to make me want to auction his ass of on Ebay. I could be on my way to Aruba ASAP. Or I could just post some pictures of him laying shirtless on our new sofa. Ones that made Monica laugh for HOURS.

Because she was STUNNED by his gorgeousness of course.

He would like to know if any of y'all are hot. I tried to explain that naturally all of my readers must be hot--I mean they are reading ME.

What was he thinking with such questions?

I Mean Even The Vows Mention Death It Ain't Just Me Y'all

I try to keep my mouth shut sometimes, many times when I don't want to. When people say things that make me want to rip my eyeballs out I have to bite my tongue because sometimes it is just none of my damn business (I KNOW--can you believe that some people wouldn't want my opinion). I try very hard not to be an asshole and sometimes that is just a struggle.

I know a lot of people who are getting married soon or just got married or who haven't been married long. It is a sad commentary on our times that J and I, having been married for five years, sometimes seem like a wondrous and mythical couple to people. And people have some crazy ass misconceptions about what being married is like. Like people think it will make you happy or that it will solve all your problems or that it will make things easier.

Let me say this clearly and carefully. Being married to J is the best thing I ever did for myself. I love it. But it is also the hardest thing I have ever done. And it is something I have to decide to do every single damn day. Does this mean that it sucks? HELL NO. But it is work and expecting to come home from your honeymoon and be blissful every second without breaking a sweat is stupid and I am tired of your idiotic foolish face.

We perpetuate this myth, in this country in particular, that if you love some one living with them is easy. But living with anyone is hard, we are individuals, selfish and horrible. Sometimes J doesn't flush the toilet and DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS LIKE TO LIVE WITH SOME ONE WHO DOESN'T FLUSH THE TOILET? IT IS LIKE LIVING WITH A POORLY TRAINED MONKEY!

But that is what being married is. It is being home late and you are tired and hungry and your goddamn tooth hurts because the dentist banged the fuck out of your gums this morning and instead of yelling just taking a big deep breath and saying in the easiest, breaziest way possible, "Have you noticed that I do all of the goddamn housework around here FUCKER?"

I know that this is not what happens in Meg Ryan movies but I am just telling you that is how it is.

Of course it is also realizing that if y'all switch sides of the bed you wake up with a backache and Sunday morning football eating french toast and making the pug dance and noticing that he looks exactly like Karl Lagerfield and that is why you get up and decide to do it every single day.

I mean it does really help if you husband has a big giant cock.

Or so I have heard.

But it is work y'all. And I know it makes me unromantic and that is why I do not say anything to the blushing brides in my life. The work is what makes it worth it though. To go to sleep (or in my case wake up at two am to him stumbling in with two dogs and a cat and they all look stoned because they feel asleep on the floor together and are not even really awake and then everyone goes back to sleep) next to your beloved and wake up next to him (while he sleeps for another three GODDAMN hours) the next morning. Every day until you DIE.

Which is a much happier thought than it sounds.

I Am Not Sorry

I apologize a lot. For things that are not my fault, for things that I cannot control, for things that have nothing to do with me. I apologized to my dad because his dog is sick. I apologize for other people's computers being broken. I apologize for taking too long to find my bus pass as I get on. And I apologize to my husband for every little thing I do.

It has gotten to the point where I feel like I spend my entire life saying, "I'm sorry."

It is starting to change who I am a bit, as if I feel like I should feel grateful I am allowed to exist. It is making me timid. I feel like I can't control my sorries.

And just so J doesn't come off as a monster who has beaten me into guilty submission I should mention that he screeches at me to STOP APOLOGIZING YOU FUCKING FREAK about a hundred times a day. I can't seem to stop. It is my shorthand for listen to me, pay attention to me, NO REALLY LISTEN. But it is not a good shorthand for that, for once, it sounds so weak. And for two, J doesn't hear that. He hears guilt, he hears shame and he really doesn't understand where it is coming from.

I don't want to be this person. The one that stands stooped over and is afraid to speak up. Who doesn't want to be any trouble. No one ever got anywhere being that way and besides there are enough women in my family that have gone down that road only to turn into shrieking harpy martyrs for me to know that is not where I belong.

So I am trying to erase I am sorry. At least for things that do not have anything to do with me. I am sorry I stepped on your toe. It sucks that your email crashed.

It is a subtle difference. But one I think I need to practice.

Fuck Ozzieball

God. I hope the White Sox choke. I hate them. Hate them. Hate them.

And watching Ozzie Guillen try to shrug losing a fifteen game lead off would be quality entertainment.

J is trying to say it would be the largest choke in baseball history. But FOOL. That honor will still belong to your boys from last fall.

But still. If my Cubbies aren't in it, the White Sux can't be either.

Am Literally A Ten--Sort Of

Am having continuous clothing issues, specifically pants.

I have always had a big hip to waist ratio--as in I have a little waist and a generous ass. This makes buying pants an adventure. My big thighs do not help matters. But I have found certain brands that usually fit. I don't like buying pants so when I find pairs that I like I buy them--even if I don't really need them. Because by the time pants are a need I am screwed.

Well, in the last few months I have lost weight. I wondered if that was true. I don't feel thinner and when I look in the mirror I think I look the same. But y'all the clothes do not lie and I have many pairs of pants that simply fall off if I put them on. I can roll the waists. I put on a pair of jeans that I haven't worn in over a year because my stomach stuck out over the top and they are baggy in the butt.

I still wasn't convinced. To the point where Monica was ready to kick my ass (she is tired of watching pathetic me roll my waist). But I weighed myself at my mother's house this weekend. I try never to weigh myself, in fact when I go to the doctor I ask them not to tell me, but this year when I got my physical the nurse just blurted it out and let me tell you the number on my mother's scale was quite a bit lower than that one.

Normally I would be thrilled. My entire life my dream has been to lose weight without trying and it is happening. But I have a sinking feeling about exactly why this is happening.

I am eating less. I don't have much of an appetite. Many foods I used to enjoy make me sick or I just am not hungry. I am trying very hard to eat a lot of fruits and vegetables--even if those are the only foods I eat all day. These are all fine things, and not worrisome at all. And they may be the reason this is happening.

But Crohn's disease often has some weird consequences when it comes to the digestive system. Your body doesn't always absorb all of the nutrients and calories from foods. I take a prenatal vitamin every day for this very reason. So a un-tried for weight loss may be a sign of a progression.

Of course it is not like I am a stick--I am still in the normal range for my height. It is just that I used to be the very top weight exactly and now I am about fifteen pounds under that top limit. I could lose forty-five more I think before my doctor would blink an eye.

And y'all. I put size ten jeans on today. SIZE TEN JEANS. I haven't worn size ten since like the eighth grade.

I mean they buttoned.

And I ate a shit load of fried rice tonight (which I let my dogs eat off the floor when I spilled it. cleaning and dog feeding in one fell swoop!) so they probably wouldn't now.

I should have taken a photo of the tag with my camera phone.

Am A Regular Joy To People Watch

Since I had to give up my Princess Commute, where J dropped me off a half block away from work and picked me up right in front of the door on demand, I have a strategy for my commute. It involved a bus and a train and a large purse. I always carry at least two books (usually a third), food, water, and various pharmaceuticals. And it is possible that those pharmaceuticals need to include anti-psychotics.

It occurs to me that The Bell Jar and American Psycho may not be the best combination. That reading about crazy people might make you feel a tad unhinged. And, as is often the case for me, when I wait a long time to read a book I try to make it more complicated than it is. But books that have a huge impact on a fourteen year old do not hit a twenty-seven year old like a truck. So I often read a lot more symbolism or complications in plot than is really there. So American Psycho confused me. Was I trying to make all of it be a hallucination so that he was just a loon and not a killer? Or am I just making something complicated that really isn't? This question just kept turning around and around in my head for a long time while I had little conversations with myself which of course Made Me Feel Sane As All Hell.

I finished them both, getting more and more irritated. And then in every summary of Plath everyone talks about how London the winter she died had the coldest winter in a century. As though a medical history including shock treatments and time in an asylum is irrelevant. What matters is that it was really really cold.

So I finish them both and manage to convince the nice young man who always seems to be on my bus or train as if we are living parallel lives and I SWEAR TO GOD he could be my twin brother because he has my father's straight nose and my mother's hazel eyes, that I need medication and supervision because I Talk To Myself Angrily About Novels. My third book, the backup one? Terms of Endearment.

Uplifting.

Tomorrow I think I will stick to Curious George Goes to His Economically Suitable But Soul Sucking Job In The City.

Much better indeed.

Happy Birthday to E (Tuesday)

Today I got to go to Monica's daughter, Baby E's, birthday party. It is her first birthday, a very big deal in the Korean culture and they had this huge party. My mom went with me--because J is a punk--and we ate like pigs (with the guy at our table telling us what things were, we were clueless) and just people watched. What a fun party. Everyone was so happy. And E was so cute in her traditional outfit.

Monica is so lucky to have her family.

Of course I realized how different everything is in their family. People seemed surprised that I didn't have a baby. And Monica's husband kept coming over and telling me and our other friend there to hurry up and have a few.

It is just so strange to be old enough that people are telling you to have lots of unprotected sex. And even more strange that they do it in front of your mother.

I can't believe Baby E is a year old.

I bet her mama can't either.

Why Not Just Get Me Hustler

When I was eleven we were on vacation when I had finished all my books. On a trip! And we couldn't get more! For a child like me this was The End Of The World. So my mother decided I was old enough to be introduced to the female family guilty secret--cheap trashy romance novels.

The kind you buy at the drugstore for a couple bucks and have bright red covers. The series are called things like Obsession and Temptation.

And oh these are the very worst kinds of books to let a girl of that age read. Full of men who are surly and cruel until the love of a good woman changed them into Prince Charming. The women are all virgins (even in their thirties) and, don't get me wrong, if people's personal choices lead them to being a virgin at thirty-one than that is fabulous but if a woman meets a man who is BEYOND THRILLED that she is a virgin she should run run run in the other direction. After smacking the shit out of them.

God. The women who have had sex have never enjoyed it before because they WEREN'T IN LOVE. The men are allowed to be overly aggressive and come close to raping the heroines because he loves her so much he cannot control himself. I re-read the sex scenes over and over sure that I was learning everything I needed about sex. I was an authority. What? You mean sex ISN'T LIKE THAT? You mean I am never going to date a man named RAFE?

Now these books are marketing for bored housewives who hopefully know better but it was just madness for a preteen girl. I am not a prude, my mother should have totally given me porn to read instead. Much more realistic, scarily enough.

My real shame in all of this is how many of these I still read. All of the ones I have I took from my mother's house--since she own THOUSANDS of them. Most of them were written in the eighties so the women still wear scrunchies and tapered jeans and bold gold jewelry. I can't stand to put them in my nice bookcases--GOD KNOWS people do not need to see that crap. So I have them stashed around the house, shoved in drawers and cupboards.

Fortunately, I do not need many of them. I have my favorite stories--each more horrible than the next. Over dramatic. Annoying. Desperate. With everyone getting married and having babies in the end. But I do feel like I need to put them in a locked box or something.

So no other eleven year old should get any ideas.

Little American Pyscho

Yesterday afternoon in evil migraine took over my brain and took me down, sugar. My head felt like it was in a vice, my neck was hot and my chest was so tight I could barely breathe. J threw me in a hot shower, rubbed my back and pumped me full of sleep aid-filled painkillers.

This morning, like most post-migraine mornings, my brain felt like oatmeal. The neurons, they were not firing. I couldn't move too quickly. I tripped over the cat twice and I managed to knock our plug in nightlight/air freshener into the toilet which had just been pissed in.

BRILLIANT.

Everything took a little more effort today. My mind was just sluggish and easily confused.

Every fucking reading list I have seen lately has American Psycho on the Novels You Must Read Or You Are An Illiterate Fool side so when I went on a Barnes and Noble gift card-fueled shopping spree I threw it in the bag. Reading it on the train I kept having these weird images. I have never seen the movie, but I know Christian Bale plays the main character. I also know he plays Teddy in Little Women and in my mushy mushy brain I keep imagining all the fucked up shit he is doing being done by Teddy and I kept thinking that Jo would stop him.

Jo isn't in American Psycho you crackhead.

I finally had to stop reading it because it was messing with me.

I mean I just do not think Teddy would stab a sharpei. And I am pretty sure Jo would kick his ass if he did.

Yes, She Did Shop At The Dress Barn

Every night before I go to sleep I have to decide exactly what I am going to wear the next day. Since J is a scum-sucking bastard with a two minute commute and a 9am start time he sleeps hours after I leave in the morning, I have to get dressed in the dark. This is a good stretegy for me anyway, because if I start changing my mind about what I am doing to wear in the morning I will start looking around and changing my mind, trying things on until I am a hundred years late for work and die from old age.

Problem is I cannot find anything. I have had some inexplicable weight loss lately, so I am down to a couple of pairs of pants that I do not need to roll the waist to keep them up. And I can't find them. I went from my huge, gorgeous closet to sharing a small one with J. All of our stuff fits (with spillover in the guest room) but it is just hard to find things.

What is really sad is that even with some new additions I still don't have that many clothes. My mother is appalled by this--since she has acres and acres of clothes. I could encourage her guilt--as her only nearby child I know I could benefit from the clothing spillover. BUT. My mother lost a lot of weight a couple of years ago. And after years and years of baggy, dated and just plain ugly clothes I have her polished up in fashionable and flattering ones. And my mother deserves to have tons of gorgeous things.

And I know my sister and I deserve a mother who doesn't wear tapered capri pants covered in giant orange daisies.

Vacation All He Ever Wanted

J is going on a trip next month to see his one of his best friends and go to concerts and get drunk. I think when he called I was supposed to be put out and be crabby about him going away for the weekend but honestly once I got used to the idea that I was going to imprisoned with the damn dogs I was thrilled. Because J needs a break. I mean he has his fun but he needs a trip and to just be a damn fool. And honestly it is better that I do not see that.

And Uncle Chris is just the guy to take care of it for me.

I just need some one to supervise them because otherwise they will end up drunk in a gutter in Brazil and I will have to sell the dog to pay for his airfare home.

Oh well, I don't need two dogs.

Almost Even

My sister got her panties in a wad about that picture. There was much emailing about how she looks like a big grinning loon, etc, which is all true--she does. But I would be hard pressed to find a picture from that time when she didn't. Mainly because she was a big ol' ham that couldn't look at a camera without contorting her face into wacky positions.

We got into that little back and forth crap that sisters do. Who do Mom and Dad love the most, who got the best grades in junior high and all that shit. My sister says, "but you were always the CUTE ONE!" Well duh honey. My sister had a long and a little painful awkward phase. And then one day she woke up pretty and thin and she has looked twenty-five ever since. For fourteen years. I am the cute one, because she is THE PRETTY ONE.

I am still waiting for my awkward phase to be over y'all.

But this is what sisters do. They add things up, compare. The truth is we are scarily even. She got the good legs but my hair is better. Her teeth are fabulous but my nose is straight. These things even out I guess.

Except the bitch looks good in every single photo taken since 1991 and I haven't taken a good one since I was about seven.

Baby It's Cold Outside

It has turned cold here, and I love it. I love the crisp salty air. I want to wear boots and drink hot cider. I go to sleep huddled under a down comforter and take my showers as hot as my skin can take it.

I can't shake that school girl feeling--that the year begins in September. Everything just feels new.

It is a crazy time right now. New house. Turbulence at work. All kinds of things floating around. I have this feeling like all my pencils are sharpened--lets get cracking. It is not an atmosphere that makes me feel patient but patient is what I need to be.

But in the meantime I can just watch baseball and football on the same night. Drink red wine and each nachos for dinner. While wearing big cozy slippers. Not much better than that.

Just a Nice Sunday

I have had half a bottle of wine.

The boys all came over and watched football (49ers won! They beat the Rams! The partying in the AB household was so loud and oh so WHITE!) and lots of steak and potatoes. And then I had wine. And now all is good.

Football season! I impressed J with my hated of kickers and fun nicknames for teams I do not like. Do I have reasons to not like these teams? Why yes I DO. They bother me. So if I want to call them the goddamn San Diego Cuntlickers than that is my right.

I bought bedding today. And J hung a poster he stole from a bar in Japan. And we discovered that the light fixture in the hallway used to have cherries painted on it. It is becoming a home. The boys mocked my urgings for their coaster use--but seriously, everything is so nice. Don't fuck with the nice.

My dogs are exhausted from running in the yard and eating steak fat and are napping on the couch. I have somehow gotten tipsy on one glass of wine. I know I have had too much because I am thinking about how I would really like to take my top off. Any time nudity is considered I have to think about my alcohol intake.

As in I have to do the whole valley girl at the frat party, "AM I DRUNNNNNNNNNNNNNK?"

I love weekends. I love steak and potatoes with our friends and new bedding and big ass bottles of red wine. I haven't forgotten what today is, I am choosing to ignore it. I know what happened those years ago. I know what is happening in the gulf. But today I am a girl just having a Sunday with her friends, enjoying her gorgeous new house and eating like a hog.

Letting freedom ring.

Certainly, the Fucking Cutest Ever

The flash on my digital camera jacked this up a bit from the glare off the glass so it is rather bright. This is the picture I was talking about earlier this week. My sister is the one with the big ol tongue (and she is single guys, if you can believe that!) and I am the adorable one with the neon white looking hair.

The fat ass dachshund between us is Heidi. She is looking for a snack in my very large cuffs. Apparently small children are for food to dachshunds. Darla would like me to get her one please.

Aren't we the fucking cutest ever?

Assuming My Mother Can Visit A Site Not On Her Favorites List

I was trying to explain to my mother tonight why I blog. I know that people who don't have one don't understand this. What exactly would compel a person to right about boobs and shit and their sex life on the internet. And it is a hard thing to explain, but blogging is addictive. It is just such a mind dump to tell a story or just blurt out something you have been thinking and then let it go. The people in your life hear your obsessions to the point where they stop listening, but the blog just takes what you give it and spits it back out.

I don't get many commenters, though y'all it is a little pathetic how much I love every single one. Frank, who always wants me to grow my hair and talk about my boobs. Amy from NY who shares my softball obsession. Eeek who is so funny and Monica is convinced is my sister. There are not many of y'all but I just love you.

But I cannot really explain to my mother why I write some man who I have never met to explain that really my husband doesn't mind short hair and really I look better NO REALLY I DO. I mean she has never read this blog.

I've given her the address so maybe she has. I hope she hasn't. Because sometimes people do not understand that this is a vent. It is where I say stupid, petty, judgmental things. Where I complain because my husband works too much or my mother worries too much.

My mother, who now that I am an adult I realize is perfection. I see the relationships other girls have with their mothers. I can count the number of women I know who are friends with their mothers on one hand. My mom has never criticized my hair, made me think I was stupid or fat and that is a gift. She thinks I am perfect. Yes she worries about me too much and she craves grandchildren the way that junkies want crack. But she doesn't push and she is kind about it.

She came and unpacked and organized my kitchen. And told me it was fun! She looked at my tiny house and said she understood how I loved it even though I don't think anyone could.

So I could never bitch about my mother in real life. Because it is like inviting a thunderbolt of shit to strike you on your best hair day. You have a good thing going Blondie don't fuck it up.

So this is why I have a blog. So that I can complain about how my mother always says "WHAT'S WRONG!?!?!" when I answer the phone and how J plays videogames until 3 am and so that Amy from NY and I can gripe about ESPN's coverage of the softball world series.

I guess it is easy to explain after all.

One Foot In Front of The Other

Last night J and I spent unpacking furniture out of big huge cartons (because our backyard needed more trash and cardboard) and coming to the oh so alarming realization that we do not have such mad spacial relations skillz. We then moved everything around 84,000 times, put it all together and then cried real tears when we did not have a saw to cut the back of the armoire off.

All is well tonight, as I knew it would be, as J wanted to watch the OC.

I spent the day at work today feeling useless. Oh I have plenty to do. And it all matters in the end I suppose. But I do not talk to anyone all day. I could come or not come and no one would know. I went from a job where I talked to my customers all day, had hundreds of emails a day to only emailing with Monica and not talking to a soul.

It is draining me. I trying to be Polly Positive. I have learned a lot. A lot of skills but also how to work in a very different environment. How to care about things that no one else cares about because I have to do those things. How to just grind it out.

I don't hate my job. And the people are so wonderful. But I feel like I have taken a step backwards from where I wanted to be. I have always wanted to work. I have never been a girl who talks about working until she gets married or has a baby. I need to do something all day (not that taking care of a baby or a house isn't work--it is--I just know that I need to be out of my house around adults). This is supposed to be a progression of my career and it is.

It just doesn't feel like it right now.

Buster Is So Easy to Blame

Over the weekend, in a way that I still cannot pinpoint, I hurt my foot. It didn't hurt when it happened but it does hurt now. I cannot point my foot, I cannot flex my foot, and wearing shoes is not so much the fun thing right now. Sadly, I have to wear shoes, and most of my shoes are very high and very pretty and very not feeling good right now.

My foot has swelled up to look like a fat little sausage, one that would look fabulous wrapped up in a pancake but looks like hell shoved into a high heel.

Cruel cruel fate, give me back my shoe collection but don't let me wear anything cute.

I am at a loss as to what to do. If it is broken they won't do anything so why go to the doctor. Except for the pretty drugs, I might go for the drugs. Because the foot? Is very very hurty, y'all.

I am trying to think of creative ways I could have hurt it, it just makes me sound like a sad alcoholic that I can't remember and I didn't even get any wine first. I mean, honestly, it would probably be better for my reputation to say, "I got drunk and fell down," rather than, "DUDE. NO IDEA WHAT HAPPENED."

Perhaps aliens attacked it with tiny invisible hammers while I slept?

Eh, maybe I will blame the dog.

Maybe Even SEVEN Months

I have this urge to keep everything nice.

Part of it is necessity. We have smaller closets, few kitchen cabinets--we have to be more organized. But it is mostly that the house looks so great, everything is so nice--I just want to enjoy it.

This makes me do horrifying things like search the internet for ways to clean the flat-topped stove without damaging the cooktop. Say things like, "I really NEED A SPOON REST." It makes me do the dishes right after dinner.

I am not sure how long this wifey period will last--in the last house about six months. But I am sitting at my kitchen table--looking at my pretty backyard. And I am thinking it might be a while.

I Need A Scanner

In the move I found this picture of my sister and I that I love. We are sitting on the front stoop of my parents old red house in Iowa, with the old fat dachshund between us. This is before I was in kindergarten, back when I grew up I wanted to be my sister. We are in semi-matching nylon jackets with flowers stitched on the pockets with the hoods up and tied under our chins. The tops of the hoods are pointy so we look like demented little dwarves. Her jeans are too short and mine are so long they have to be rolled up several times--pretty common in our house where we were just far enough apart that sometimes hand me downs were not seamless. She has her eyes closed and is sticking her tongue out at the camera. She is missing her two front teeth. My head is huge and round like a big pumpkin, I have the chubbiest cheeks to ever be sported on a non-obese body.

It is my new favorite picture in the world and I have already framed it. I just have to figure out where to put it.

It goes perfectly absolutely everywhere.

Progression

Back to our regular schedule of poo and boobs talk. Today I had my first encounter with a really gross DEAR GOD I was hoping this would never happen to me symptom of Crohn's. I had undigested food in my poo. Actually (GRAPHIC) I had liquid coming out of my ass with chunks of ham in it.

Anyone still reading?

At any rate, it was very sick and strangely wondrous and might have even been interesting if I had not been in a luxury department store hoping and praying that I would not shit out an entire hot dog while shopping in lingerie.

My standards are so very low.

I don't worry about my Crohn's very much as I am very very aware that my case is so mild that if my father didn't have the disease I probably never would have been diagnosed. I am so incredibly lucky (which seems like an odd phrase to use when you have just shit out a piece of PORK CARTILIDGE but there it is) because so many people with Crohn's cannot eat solid foods or have had many surgeries. I just make terrible food choices and have gotten used to having to crap whenever and wherever the spirit moves me.

So something like this hits me hard. Not because it was painful, because it wasn't, or because it was a big deal, because really it was just weird more than anything. But because it is a reminder. I have a disease. If I am extraordinarily lucky I will be like my dad, who has mild attacks and has certain Foods To Avoid but lives a normal life. That life includes cutting in line in public bathrooms by threatening to shit on the floor but that is normal right? But even my dad had one big scary attack that almost killed him and I have so far avoided that.

Whenever I get a new symptom I am struck by how things are progressing. Not really worse, just moving forward. I could be like this forever (dear GOD please) or I could have a bag strapped to my stomach one day. You never can tell.

Of course now I do have a picture of how the undigested ham in that bag would look.

LOVELY.

Hell No We Won't Go

Guess where I am!!

In my pretty pretty new living room, on my soft new couch, trying to keep my very sleepy eyes open.

Yesterday was so long, the very sweet, very tiny, very Ukrainian movers worked their asses off. We have entirely too much shit, which filled the huge huge truck a lot faster than I would have dreamed possible. Even though they totally deserved it, I did not leave the house a disaster. While J, the movers and my parents were getting our shit into the new place I hosed down the old places and cleaned it up. And then came and unpacked for eighteen hundred hours.

My mother is not just an packing machine but she is ruthlessly efficient at unpacking and she organized my kitchen to be efficient. Imagine that, instead of doing what I have done in the past and just shoving things where they might fit.

There isn't much left to unpack, just odds and ends. The phone is on, the cable works and we have the internet. It is like a real house.

Of course Rooster had to go and puke on the carpet--totally destroying the pool on which animal would despoil the new floors first. Talk about a fucking bracket buster.

I haven't made out with the new floors yet, but we have definitely flirted.

Feeling at home already, which is a good thing. Because we are never fucking moving again.

One Or The Other

My dear dear husband has a new job. I don't write it about it because he has this nasty habit of telling anyone and everyone he knows about my blog and then I have to worry about him getting Dooced.

And he likes his new job. He likes the people, he likes the work, he finds it challenging and interesting and is excited and it is just great great great.

Except he is making me so angry.

I understand workaholicism. I understand wanting to do your very best. I understand trying to make a good impression. But he stays at work until weird hours, doesn't call, I can't get a hold of him, and then he comes home and won't even talk to me. He's talked at work. He is tired. He is worn out.

Fuck off! I am busy. I have questions that need answered. And I miss my fucking husband.

But I can't stand to pick a fight because he is happy. He is so happy it just annoys the fuck out of me because it is pretty fucking clear that he does not miss me a bit at the moment. And probably won't for a while.

I'd hate him forever if I weren't just so relieved he found something that he wants to do.

It is just the part where I am practically a single woman but I cannot fuck handymen in the bathroom at Home Depot part I am struggling with.

One or the other baby.

Final Countdown

My bank account is blasting a number never seen by this girl before (and shall never see again). Despite a little hiccup (J is one of those trusting souls that actually believes bank tellers and allows them to put holds on our funds for no damn good reason other than he is too nice to say "oh hell no, get a manager--fortunately, he is married to an evil whore who will park her ass in the bank until this is fixed) there is a lovely amount of money in our account. Of course we owe most of it to other people and it will be there for about thirty seconds but still, I have the urge to frame the receipt with double matting and display it in the dining room.

We have keys. We have cash. We have a moving truck coming on Saturday morning. Holy shit we might be actually moving out of this house and into another and dear god it is about time.

Last night the people across the street came over to borrow an egg (we totally live in that neighborhood, where everyone knows each other's dogs and borrows cooking ingredients--it is a little creepy honestly, how nice everyone is) and we were all "you have to be shitting us, we don't own anything resembling a perishable food and probably never will again."

I just want to hang my clothes up in an actual closet and make microwave popcorn and never ever come out of my new house again.

It is less than forty-eight hours away. For reals this time.