The Best Of Everything

My best friend is in the middle of a messy divorce. I still find it hard to believe that she and I are old enough that we could be married let alone be divorcing anyone. This wasn't even a crazy short marriage--they were together three years (which I realize is not forever, but I have a cousin that didn't even make it the first year so you know, relative).

Talking with her last night, I kept wondering why they got married to begin with. Which I wondered at their wedding. I can't help but think she must have thought it was bad idea at the time. Maybe she just got to the very expensive wedding and thought she had to go through with it.

She and I met our first year in college. I have seen her make some really bad decisions (and HI, she was there when I drank a whole lot of Artillery Punch--recipe: every kind of liquor ever made--and then was getting into a trunk in search of fire wood even though they were burning a giant tree at this bonfire) and I think that is why we are friends. She is the kind of person that just doesn't make mistakes, that struggled to tell her parents her marriage was over a lot more than she struggled with deciding it was over. I'm her friend because I am not invested in her being perfect all the time. She is my friend, I like it better when she isn't so fucking perfect.

I don't know, this is one of those times that I am struggling to deal with adult problems. Things like death and divorce and illness. My friend doesn't deserve to be so unhappy. She deserves only the best of everything.

I hope that I can help her get it.

Senseless Destruction Of Lovely Craftsman Details

Last night we went to T's and watched Zethura.

It was actually pretty adorable but I think I was annoying the fuck out of the boys. Because that movie takes place in a GORGEOUS craftsman house and I was . . .well . . .a little AGHAST at the destruction of said loveliness. After twenty minutes of me fretting about the tile around the fireplace I think J and T were cheering the wreckage on. Ruthless bastards.

Then I get distracted by how much this kid looks like the kid from Big (why is there no picture there? I am sure we all remember what he looks like BUT STILL).

I can't imagine why they don't want to watch movies with me ALL THE TIME.

Want To See My Cabinets

Oh y'all. Sometimes I get in these moods. Housewifey moods. Periods of time where I research how to get mold out of shower curtains, obsess about getting a Roomba. Days like today, where faced with an empty afternoon (after scooting out of work early) I choose to bleach my bathtub and clean out my cupboards and linen cabinet (this may be how your house looks but sadly both of these were just JAMMED with shit earlier).

Man I love it when my house is like this. I was so happy that when J got home I made him admire everything. And my college self just DIED with HORROR. I mean, seriously I remember when I had better things to do than dust behind the couch but you know, I just feel so comfortable when it is like this.

Of course I did have a moment where I was an idiot and a bit of a fucking blond bimbo housewife CARTOON. I decided to vacuum--which was my first problem. And I figure out that J hadn't changed the bag like I thought and the thing was too full. I knew we didn't have more bags but I thought I would at least empty this out. WHY DIDN'T I DO THIS OUTSIDE?

Turns out, it was so full it burst. And damn. Dust and kitty litter and lint just EVERYWHERE. And I had to do the grossest thing and root around in there to get it all cleaned up. I will be sweeping up that crap pretty much forever.

But seriously y'all. LOOK AT MY CABINET ORGANIZERS.

Crown Seems More Defensible Than Cran

My family moved here when I was nine years old. Until then I never thought that anyone was different than people that I already knew. For the most part I thought everyone was middle class and white and wore baseball caps for inappropriate situations. I didn't know that there was such a thing as a midwestern accent.

Even though I totally fucking had one.

It took me a year to shake most of it. I gained a lisp but it was totally worth it to sound like everyone else.

As I have gotten older I realize that I didn't shake it 100%. It is true that I can say Washington and not WARSHington like my mother. And I know the store is Walgreen's not Walgrins. But I have issues with a sounds. Specifically a after r like if trash or crap or traffic.

And crayon.

I was reading Dooce's entry on the word crayon and was feeling very smug. Because I had battled my accent demons. And OBVIOUSLY the word is pronounced CRAY-ON. But when I was saying it to myself I realize that I do not pronounce it that way. At all. I say in CRAN as in rhymes with BRAN and OH MY GOD I AM ABUSING CAPITALS WHILE I TALK LIKE MY MOTHER.

I can't stop. I really can't. I said it over and over in my car, trying to get it right. J coached me and I can say it real slow-like. CRAY-on. But when I try to say it fast then I I go right back into CRAN.

I should have skipped college and saved my daddy a whole lot of money y'all.

Bedtime

Today was a bad day.

Nothing happened really. But I woke up to Buster trying to scratch his way back onto the bed and a massive fucking migraine.

The day progressed with flashy eyes. And inflamed neck. Now with more VOMITING.

Not so much with the happiness.

I think I am going to go to bed now.

It is a good thing they are taking such good care of me.

I Got Married So I Wouldn't Have To Sleep With Strangers Damn It

J has had a beard or a goatee the entire time I have known him. I think he grew it when he was tossed out of the Navy as sort of a "fuck you I can do what I want to" since they couldn't control his appearance anymore. I made him shave it before we got married after I watched this Oprah where this woman had been married for seventeen years and had never seen her husband's bare face.

I know this isn't a good reason.

He looked freaky. Not bad, because of course my husband is handsome and perfect and delightful in every way, but just strange and not him. He has a weak chin, but with the cleft in the chin which I adore, but the chin is just sort of wussy other than that.

He shaved it off on Friday. And it freaked me out all night. We were at the movies and it was like I was on a date with a stranger. I kept waking up during the night and it was like I was sleeping with a stranger.

Thank GOD he only does this every three years (the beard gets itchy or something I am only sort of listening to the reasoning) or I might have to hurt him.

I Am Kidding About The Bleeding Part, GODDAMN Y'all Are Prudes

What a difference 24 hours, a ten o'clock run to Wendy's, freaking the fuck out, doggie kisses and a brand new EXTREMELY goddamn expensive blow dryer make.

Feeling a little better. Still screwed. But the kind of screwed where you know your ass will stop bleeding sometime and maybe next time you won't get so drunk you know?

Perhaps that metaphor doesn't actually work.

That new blow dryer sure makes my hair soft and shiny though. I considered taking it back but J threw out my old one and now it has been in a can with a rotting lemon and raccoon manure so I guess the really expensive fucker is staying.

Can y'all tell I just love my camera? I mean that picture has nothing to do with anything at all.

Back

My day really sucked today. I am a little heartbroken. And it is not going to get better.

I think I just need to go back.

Now With More Buster

I feel a little manic posting so quickly again, but honestly this expression says exactly how I feel.

Overwhelmed*.

Tired.

Not really happy or sad.

Just waiting for something to happen.

*Somewhere Linda is cackling as that word is wont to make her.

Too Much

So much shit is just spinning in my head right now. I suppose everyone goes through times like these. When they can't figure out what they want or what they should do. Mine has just been going on for several years now. Which is frankly, exhausting.

Work is either going to get better soon or I am going to start weeping with frustration. We shall know about that here pretty soon.

The house and everything with it just feels like a weight on my back and it is dragging me down.

And apparently my father got me in trouble with my sister. I SWEAR I didn't know that you hadn't talked to them about it. Seriously. And I told them that nothing was definite. Does anyone listen to me? NO THEY DON'T. SERIOUSLY I AM SORRY.

It is a little much is what I am saying.

Why Sometimes All Of Seattle Needs to Shut It

I am not a native of the Seattle area.

My family moved here in 1989, which really should be long enough ago that I could say that I am from here. I have lived here longer than anywhere else.

Here is how I know that I am not a native yet.

I actually like Seattle.

People who are from here, who have never really lived in another area, are pretty fucking wretched about it. As some one from a flat land that is either dry and brown or covered in fucking snow I marvel at this place I live in now. We have mountains and grass that is green year round. People here do not have air conditioners and own super warm coats only for skiing. They drive by some of the most gorgeous scenery in the world and don't even notice it.

And they just kill me about the weather. It was about seventy here today. Clear skies. And I heard NOTHING but bitching about it every fucking where I went. Most were complaining because it wasn't hot (even though it is only May here people) but many were complaining that it was too hot or too humid.

These people do not know hot or humid or cold for that matter. I know that I will whine at some point about being too hot this summer but even as I do it I will know that I am full of shit. But in Seattle we are not pleased unless it is between 65 and 80 degrees. And believe me the entire town has a fucking meltdown at 81 degrees buying air conditioners and becoming convinced that they will die of heat exhaustion**.

My idea is that everyone born here should be forced to relocate for at least three years. Somewhere outside of California. Somewhere that will force them to learn about windchill and the heat index. Where they will have to buy a snowblower and an air conditioner.

At the end of three years they can come back and maybe then they will stop bitching about having to mow their lawns in January.

I just do not understand bitching about this.

**True story, my mother used to have a rule that my sister and I could not wear shorts until it was over eighty degrees. Which meant we could wear shorts exactly ONE DAY the first summer we lived here. On that day the news was reporting that parents should keep children inside because they could die (apparently BURSTING INTO FLAMES) from the heat.

What I Did On My Spring Vacation

We're home now. Which I actually feel good about. Four days of unscheduled time was just what I needed.

I got a lot out of the four days. Rest. Some kick ass pictures. Sunburned shoulders. But in the end here is what I got:

1. A weekend away is the cure for a lot of shit.

2. If you don't drink anymore then four cocktails plus a huge and beery serving of bangers and mash (even served by a rather hot Irish waitress) plus a case of Crohn's means that you probably will make friends with the hotel bathroom.

4. Even if I tan ahead of time, my pale skin will be a beacon for old ladies in the outfield bleachers who will offer sunscreen STAT. Which thank GOD because seriously I still burned.

5. I need to go more places with hot tubs.

6. Hopefully those places will be minus the creepy man and his ODD son who were leering at me FREAK.

7. If I leave tampons in the garbage then the dogs will manage to get them out so the dogsitter has to clean them up (sorry Travis).

8. I love my new camera.

9. It is possible for me to pack EXACTLY the right amount of stuff (first time EVER that I wore everything that I took but didn't think if only I had taken X. . .).

10. Yankee fans are freaking everywhere and if you find a sportsbar to watch the game in there will always be some one obnoxious for J to whine about their vulpine with.

11. Trips away are damn near perfect if you manage to take them with a man who will pose with a Jewish sheep (yes, that actually is J).

God the Cliche Of I Left My Heart . . . Is Just True

We have to go home tomorrow.

This weekend was amazing. We needed it. Sunshine and baseball, too much booze, an art museum, carnival junk food and sea lions.

And then tonight we saw a girl fight at McDonald's. I think it is possible the city is telling us to get the hell out.

I didn't sleep at all this weekend. I think I just went too long wound up too tight. Or it could be that I knew I was only a few sleeps from having to go home.

Gorgeous

So Barry didn't hit number 714 today. Other than that (and the fact that my Cubs just laid a giant log in the middle of the field) our day was just about perfect.

We burned ourselves to a crisp, mainly because it was supposed to be a cloudy day and turned out to be warm and sunny and fucking fabulous.

This lovely old couple was behind us at the game, the wife made me put on sunscreen after forty minutes because she was certain I was going to burst into FLAMES, chatted us about the best places to play golf and tried to sell our friend Chris some pre-season 49ers tickets.

The ballpark was just full of people playing hooky from work, people who pulled their kids out of school--I am sure in anticipation of Barry passing Babe Ruth. There is something really fabulous about guys still in their dress shirts at the ballpark. Something irresistible about babies out for their first ball game. Something amazing about families at the game on a Thursday afternoon.

But. Who can resist this?

Vacation All I Ever Wanted

It took us longer to get to the hotel last night than the flight to Oakland did (for reasons involving a few bucks and a voodoo doll I think we flew to Oakland instead of San Francisco). J and I wandered around SF for a while with our little pully cases, being greeted by overaged drunken frat boys screaming WHOO. Apparently there is some sort of conference where men who are too old for This Shit are meeting to get drunk and scream Whoo.

Normally this would piss me off and dude my two vodka martinis had long wore off (though it was my first time getting ON a plane drunk) but I was pretty merry last night.

V A C A T I O N

I know that it is only four days but dude did I need this. Of course J is sleeping, and went to sleep a couple of hours before me but I think I am just so happy to not be at work that I can't sleep that much.

And we are going to see my Cubbies! In less than three hours! WHEEEEE

Of course it does make me laugh that even in a hotel room--completely dogless--we both slept in these elaborate contortions that allow for easy dog sleeping in favorite places. We are pathetic.

Less Than 24 Hours Until I Blow This Joint

I should be packing.

And cleaning my house since Travis will be staying here while we are gone.

I haven't slept normally in a week, worrying about the shit I need to do and am in semi-panic mode. Of course I am not packing or cleaning I am instead blogging. And watching shit on my DVR and the Yankee/Red Sox game (which frankly rules).

Let's see if my head explodes.

Why Baseball Needs To Shut The Fuck Up Already And Please Just Hit The Goddamn Homerun Already So People Will Stop Wigging

I am so very TIRED of all the kvetching about Barry Bonds.

I am tired of the fretting about him breaking a record that is not a record. I am tired of the hand-wringing-think-of-the-CHILDREN of a not so nice guy doing something amazing.

This is a uniquely baseball problem. I think it is the nature of the game, one that treasures and honors it's history in such a way, to take itself too seriously. But the hero worship of the game and of it's stars has really gone too far.

A lot of this is about Babe Ruth. And I will be blunt, the dick sucking of Babe Ruth by America just needs to fucking stop. It is about nostalgia, it is about longing for a person and an era that never really existed. I have no doubt that Babe Ruth was an extrordinary player, the numbers do speak, but I do know that those numbers do not say everything. For all the howling about Barry Bonds' alleged drug use (and guess what, a BOOK is not a conviction this is still America we can wait for some proof which probably will come), I am not certain he gained a greater competitive advantage over Ruth. Ruth played an era where many of the best players, African Americans were excluded. He played in an era where fixing games was routine. He abused every substance known to man. I am willing to guess he gained a few homeruns out of the deal.

Which is fine by the way, I have no qualm with Babe Ruth. My issue is with sports writers and fans and every other idiot in the world that has sought to turn him into a saint. But he did things that in a media soaked atmosphere like today would have people clamoring for his removal from the game--and cheering Bonds for passing him.

I never saw Babe Ruth play a game. Chances are no one who will read this post has either. But we are supposed to believe forever and ever that Babe Ruth is the best player that has ever and will ever play. This is why people don't watch baseball. Because we remove the possibility of something special. When Jimmy Rollins was on his hit streak half of the media and baseball world were bitching that it shouldn't count because it was over two seasons (despite the fact that it was a separate record and HI WOULDN'T THAT BE HARDER). The baseball world will NEVER allow any modern player to be as good as the Hall of Famers--they refuse to think about it. Is it any wonder that many of the best athletes turn away from baseball? Basketball is always talking about the next Jordan, and maybe that is a lot of pressure to be on a young player but it is an assumption that there will be another Jordan. That there will be another great player. And another after him.

The shit with Barry is only partly about steroids. That part could be reconciled. But it really is about a hero worship that is fucking up baseball. I always tell my husband you can tell how good some one's argument is because if they have to bring Hitler into it than it really sucks (this stemmed from a whole debate in Jew class about Hell and how there must be one because otherwise where would HITLER go). I feel the same way about Babe Ruth. If you need a special case for Babe Ruth than there is something wrong with the system. It was ok for Barry to pass Willie Mays and Mickey Mantle and a whole host of others. But it isn't ok for him to pass Ruth?

That says a lot about what is wrong with baseball. And that is not Barry's fault at all.

New! Improved! Apparently THINNER!

Oh y'all.

I just got the cutest fucking haircut. It is exactly what I wanted. It is fun and different but I still got to keep the length and can wear a pony tail if I want to. Was thrilled.

And J says "oh it looks THINNER."

How long does it take for a man to recover from a case of idiocy? We've been married five years and I am still waiting.

Guilt

When I read this post of Erin's (about last night's Oprah) I felt this sudden rush of shit to the heart. Erin mentions that she never knew that she had let herself become vulnerable to abuse and I know that not only did I do that once, but that I set that guy back into the world without saying a world.

When I was seventeen and a senior in high school I was in the process of just detaching from my life. I was going away to school, my friends were all staying behind, it had been a rough year with several deaths, my parents' marriage and our home life was not the best. It is normal for anyone to detach themselves a bit and in my situation I did it more extremely than most.

And I met a boy. A boy that wasn't like other boys that I ever dated. I went for the scrawny artistic type, who were full of themselves about the books they read and the music they liked. He was a football player, not going to college at all and was full of himself about sports teams and how much he could bench press. We spent a lot of time together that summer--I knew my mother was worried, worried that I wouldn't go to school, that he would ruin everything. I wanted to tell her that I enjoyed his company but I didn't love him, not to worry. But I kept things from my mother then--not because I wanted to hurt her but because I didn't really know not to.

And I went away at the end of the summer. We "stayed together" but I didn't consider us serious. But he did. He called me every night. He wrote to me, sent me terrible and unintentionally hilarious mixed tapes.

He was obsessive, calling over and over until I answered--even at 3am. And I was an idiot. I thought he loved me. I didn't break it off really--just let it keep going. I loved school but it was nice to have some one care about me so much.

And things happened at school, things that are too complicated to go into, but I wasn't going back the next year. I was welcome back but I wasn't going and I didn't know what I was going to do exactly. Get a job, go to school at home. Freak the hell out.

I got home and my friends had moved on. My parents were so crazy, I didn't want to live there. And they were angry with me--they thought I had come home for him. And, in a move that didn't prove them wrong in the slightest, I moved in with him.

And that is when he stopped thinking I was so wonderful. He didn't like my clothes anymore. Or my hair. He was the only one allowed to have friends. We ate what he wanted, watched the movies he liked, listened to only the music he liked. But I couldn't leave, that would be admitting I had made a bad decision. GASP.

So I stayed. I was so isolated. He manipulated me about sex--I wouldn't label it rape but it wasn't exactly consensual either. But still, I was an adult. It was my job to take care of myself and I was doing a shitty job. I was also falling apart. Until then I had been a fairly confident person. I thought I was intelligent and capable, funny and interesting. I wasn't afraid to try new things or meet people. I followed my impulses. But I wasn't that girl anymore.

Eight months later we were arguing about all the people he was having over, the drugs they were doing, it was just too much for me. And he slapped me across the face. We both freaked out a little. Staring at each other. And I realized that I was afraid of him. He outweighed me by more than 100 pounds. I would be hard pressed to protect myself from him.

And I left a week later. All the obstacles about pride and no support system and money just faded away. I felt blessed and feel grateful every day that I called my dad and he helped me.

He is angry with me about though. Even today. Disappointed. Because I didn't press charges. I didn't even report it.

I can't explain to him why exactly. I mean I give him the concrete reasons, how it was a slap which is sort of a gray area in the assault code. That I couldn't prove anything, that I had no bruises or witnesses. That all I could offer was me, the ex-girlfriend. What I couldn't explain was how I was grateful for that slap. How it pushed me into action. How I KNEW that was abuse, even though I had failed to recognize the things he had been doing to me for months. The things that changed me as a person I couldn't see. That slap woke me up.

I will never be the person I was in high school again. I mourn her. She was somebody I really loved. I like who I am now too, I think I am stronger for it. More watchful and wary. That is both good and bad.

I didn't press charges because I saw his face after that slap. Felt him watch me as I packed. And even though I fled that house as if he were chasing me with a torch he never attempted to stop me. I didn't press charges because I believe in the capacity for change. And we were barely adults, and maybe he grew up with that slap.

But I still worry. And when I hear stories of women abused I wonder if I betrayed my fellow women the way my father thinks I did. I have googled his name, not for the reasons that you usually check up on an ex, but to see if he has ever been charged with domestic violence.

It is hard to feel good even when there are no results. Maybe she didn't press charges either.

Fucking Internet Kharma

I feel like I am taking it in the kharmic ass for my rather smug post a couple of weeks ago about how we are in a good place. I felt so comfortable and safe and happy and since all of that things have gone all crazy. To be fair my life is still pretty great but there is a lot of just SHIT happening workwise and healthwise and good GOD I would like it to stop now.

I am tired. Tired in my bones. Some of that stems from my rather princessy sleep habits-I just live a noticeably happier life with eight hours a day of sleep-and some from stress and some from other shit.

I made a mistake at work today. Well actually over time. It is from being stretched a little thin but also from being careless and procrastinating and I am trying not to flog myself silly over it. It is a mistake, these happen, and I need to get over myself. No one died. But I am not good at getting over mistakes.

J hurt his back this weekend and has been basically an invalid all week. He cannot really stand up straight. He tosses and turns. He is sort of pathetic.

Things are just happening and I am a little lost. This happens sometimes and after a while we just get our bearings again. I hope it happens soon because I hate feeling like this.

BLERG

No sleep last night + leaving wallet, Ipod, cellphone and office key at home on dining room table + at work for more than thirteen hours (plus commuting time) = BLERG

Nothing left in the tank.