Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Perhaps I Should Call My Grandma For Advice

I fell today.


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.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

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.

Monday, November 28, 2005

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.


Saturday, November 26, 2005

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.

Friday, November 25, 2005

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.


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.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

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.


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.

Monday, November 21, 2005

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.


Sunday, November 20, 2005

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.


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.


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.

Saturday, November 19, 2005

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.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

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.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005


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!

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

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.

Monday, November 14, 2005

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.



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.


Prepare for updates.

Sunday, November 13, 2005

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.

Friday, November 11, 2005

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.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

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


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!

Tuesday, November 08, 2005


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.

Monday, November 07, 2005

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

Friday, November 04, 2005


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?

Thursday, November 03, 2005

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.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

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.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

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?