THERAPY NECESSARY

I know I have covered this before. I have this slight obsession with other people's obsession with my hair color (and seriously, by extension my pubic hair). And yesterday, a friend of mine, a friend who has long admired my hair a little too much and is naturally flirty went down a path he goes down so often with his coy, "OH? You are a TRUE BLONDE," and dude it was skeevy. He doesn't mean it that way but he does lear when he says it and maybe he was just messing with me, maybe J has told him this bothers me, HELL maybe he reads this blog (in which case QUIT THINKING ABOUT MY PUBIC HAIR PLEASE). It was especially weird in light of a few things:

1. He has told some one I know (but he doesn't actually know that I know) that he thinks I have a "juicy" ass.

2. He had just finished telling me all about his sex life because his wife just had a baby and there isn't one and was whining about "his needs" (and oh my god, don't get me started, that is the grown man's equivalent of a high school "but I'll get blue balls" and gets no sympathy from me. Buy some porn, grab some lotion and give that poor woman a break you ass).

3. He wants me to give him a massage.

But whatever, he doesn't actually mean any harm and is just missing the fact that seriously, my hair is blonde I didn't develop robotic pinchers for toes. This isn't really an important genetic expression you know?

But I also have issues with the phrase "natural blonde" because, I mean, I am one. Technically. Pretty much. It is actually more complicated than that and maybe I am just mincing words but I mean. I color my hair. I color it for stupid reasons and people just stare at me in amazement when I explain them. My hair is naturally medium ash blonde at the roots, light ash blonde in the middle section and platinum at the ends. This is a normal thing for blondes, people aren't used to seeing it of course because most blondes you know are really naturally something else. But I feel like the color at the roots makes me look sort of drab and sad. So I color it all one color. Sometimes darkening the whole thing to my root shade and sometimes to the medium shade and sometimes I go light (which is how J likes it). But it always bleaches out again, especially when I go tanning.

So I never know how to answer that, is my hair natural? Because yes. But no. And you can totally get this color with Feria. I mind-fuck it to death and actually now that I have typed this all out I think, perhaps I need to go to therapy for my hair.

When I got my hair cut last weekend the father-son duo who run my salon told me that they think my hair is too light. J immediately stomped his feet and started petting my head, saying that my hair is PERFECT right now. The right color, right length. Which perversely makes me want to cut it.

Dude, I cannot stop writing about my hair.

OH! When I was cleaning up my guest room I found THIS (admittedly the much older version)in my upper storage. My sister and I were the queens of the fucking Caruso during the 90's. We set our hair in those rollers and big giant curls. I have written before that I hated having big hair and curly hair and WHY DID I USE THIS HAIR APPLIANCE? I have no idea why.

That is a total life.

I do know why. I used the curlers to straighten my hair. The ends would be curly but the top would be straight and smooth. So I would set my hair at night and sleep on it and have straight hair.

But the fact that the damn thing is in my guest room makes me feel so SOUTHERN. Not that there is anything wrong with that. I just feel like I should love big hair and COLOR (channeling Kayne from Project Runway).

Heh. Maybe I should give it to my sister as a shower gift.

And sign up for hair related therapy.

Perhaps I Am A Little Too Involved

On Tuesdays I watch the Contender, the most manipulative show on television (even if you consider last week's episode of Project Runway, which for the fucking record if Jeffrey talked to my mother that way you all could be emailing me at anyabeth@federalwomenscorrectionfac.gov because motherfucker would have gotten some new piercings with one of those fancy industrial sewing machines. Fuck that noise, no one talks to Mama AB that way). For those of you unfamiliar with the Contender it is when ESPN stops playing Sportscenter and The World Series of Poker on repeat for an hour each week and puts sixteen boxers in the house and lets them beat the crap out of each other.

I don't even like boxing y'all. And I hate the cliches of reality TV, about honor and playing the game and blah blah blah and this show uses up it's cliche allotment in the first five minutes. Every guy on there fought like a champion, was a real warrior, is just trying to make a better life for his kids.

And THEY SHOW THE KIDS. Fortunately, this season some one at ESPN or maybe the mothers decided that maybe having babies in the actual boxing arena was a little unnecessarily dramatic. I can't say that I miss the hysterical screaming babies, but the ten year olds bawling their eyes out because they are old enough to actually understand what the phrase "irreparable brain damage" really means aren't thrilling me either. I could not watch my husband fight like that. I could not watch him bleed and sweat. I think I would just tap him on the shoulder and be all, "Baby, really. If we both work two jobs we can put you through night school. Then I'll go. I'll be a dental hygenist. Seriously, none of this. Get in the car."

One of my favorites was eliminated tonight. Not that I hate many of them. I just liked this one especially and of course I saw his demise coming in minute thirty because the Contender barely hides this shit from you. At least let me cling to my hopes.

I don't know how I got hooked on this show. It isn't even good.

One thing amazes me. Most of them are hard core religious and think that God wants them to win this show. I am not being disrespectful of anyone's beliefs here (actually I totally am) but GOD DOES NOT CARE ABOUT REALITY TV. I can imagine that it is comforting to believe that there is a plan for you. I can respect that belief. I don't share it but I get it. But I think the belief that God created this fucking reality show to reward you above all others is so arrogant and self-absorbed. God is busy with hurricanes and famine and nuclear weapons. He is hearing the good night prayers or little babies and looking in on those who are sick. He is dealing with heavy shit man. He wants your ass to be just fine, but he doesn't love you more than the guy you are hitting.

Also, I know I am not Christian but Jesus wants you to spread his message through BOXING?

I guess this is just my warm up for tomorrow when Project Runway will fuck with me more. That is a reality show God should get involved with because no deity wants Vincent and Angela on my TV another week.

ARGH

I am feeling just a general feeling of melancholy lately. I think this is due to just bullshit happening on the work front, the changing of the seasons, allergies and some crap that makes me feel like the universe that is fucking with me. I am trying not to get dragged down in it and power through the week but in the mean time these things are bugging me:

1. FUCKING bugs of some sort that keep swarming around my kitchen. If I wash the dishes or don't, put away food instantly NOTHING works just fucking BUGS.

2. My new bangs that are not the full bang that I wanted during my haircut on Saturday. They are neither long nor short and just keep falling in my face. BAH.

3. J working late all the damn time. Enough that I can't be zen about it anymore. Come home at a normal time or call. Don't give me a half-assed apology anymore.

4. The hives on my wrists from bug bites (possibly my kitchen bugs!).

There are a few things that are making me back away from the ledge:

1. Throwing out all the damn junk mail that has been accumulating all over the mantle, coffee table and dining room.

2. Doing laundry at 10 last night, even if it made me tired today--at least I had clean underwear.

3. Going grocery shopping. At least we can eat!

4. Buster and Darla chasing the cat around the house--may they all sleep deeply tonight.

5. Going to bed early tonight. I am guessing.

Like A Good Wife Should

A good wife would have let J have his moment with Jason Giambi and bask in the glow for a while.

I am not a good wife.

The really shitty Mariners beat the Yankees last night and what you don't see pictured here (with the beer chugging and crabby look and the rally cap) is his tappity tapping foot as the Yankees left about 84,000 runners on base. That is actually why this picture is blurry--he just kept moving. Also not pictured? His quickly hidden look of self-doubt when I asked if MAYBE he had cursed Giambi when he shook his hand (yeah, I am aware they actually won the game immediately following that but you know, baseball fans are a superstitious lot so the seed has Been Planted).

We had a great time at the game, the seats were fantastic, right on the third baseline and backed up to the walkway behind us so that you could just crawl over the back of your seat and there was the bathroom. Brilliant. We went with J's co-worker and his wife and even though I am incredibly bad at small talk I think everyone had fun.

I really like this couple as they seem to have a relationship that we can relate to and yet are interesting individually. Plus, he seems slightly afraid of his wife and that is a dynamic I truly approve of. It was truly lovely to have two other people to help me yell insults at the Yankees and to poke at J while he is depressed.

I heartily approve anyone who will help me kick J when he is down.

I Hate The Yankees But I Love Their First Baseman

J had a very good day.

I believe I have mentioned that he is a Yankee fan. A HUGE Yankee fan. The kind of Yankee fan that will bored the shit out of you babbling about Don Mattingly. The kind that put a fucking BOOT through a television in 1995 when the Mariner's beat the Yankees in the playoffs and Don Mattingly never got a World Series title. The kind of fan that will not buy a goddamn new hat because he only buys a new hat after a World Series title and he is not changing now even though his hat smells weird and is too small for his giant head and WILL YOU JUST GET ANOTHER ONE PLEASE I AM BEGGING.

And he met Jason Giambi today. There is photographic proof of the blessed event and I believe this is what finally will get my photo files backed up. Vacations pictures, photos of weddings, family events--these things do not need backing up. But a blurry ass (I cleaned it up the best that I could) camera phone photo is a precious gem that must be preserved like a precious gem. J is kicking himself because he didn't have a pen so he didn't get an autograph but Giambi did shake his hand and J is never washing it again. I plan on letting him grope my boob so he can tell people that Jason Giambi groped his wife's boob.

I have always liked Jason Giambi. Despite the scandals about steroids I think he got scapegoated in a really ridiculous way. He obviously made mistakes and is definitely paying for them. But he has always struck me as the kind of person who feels lucky to make his living playing baseball.

Anyway he was an absolute delight to my husband who I am sure acted like a little drooling fan-boy puppy. These men must deal with this shit every day and even though it is part of the job I am imagine it must get tiresome dealing with freaks every day. I mean there are pieces of my job that sometimes I just want to JAB MY EYEBALL out rather than do one more time and perhaps I am less than gracious about each and every occurrence. But Giambi shook my husband's hand, he asked him if he had a camera phone because he could take a photo, he treated J with respect.

GOD GIAMBI DO NOT MAKE ME LIKE THE YANKEES NOW.

I Had A Bad Day

I had a bad day today.

**I'm editing this post because I am super paranoid and because BAH I am done with it. Not really. But those of you who missed it, I had a really shitty thing happen at work, I handled it the best that I could which was not as calmly as I would have liked and now I hate everything and everyone. The End.

Shit

Fucking Red Sox.

Red Sox v. Yankees weekend is always a rough one in my house but this one has been rough for a different reason.

Red Sox have blown it. Assholes.

Dating Advice From Some One Who Doesn't Date

I would like a do-over.

My eyeball isn't being crushed inside my skull today. Amazing how that improves the day. So I am just pretending that today was my birthday. I made the executive decision to just sleep in and cruised in to work at 9. A much better way to begin the year so I'm thinking I will just switch to the 17th next year.

This is no excuse to anyone who might forget.
***

When my friend T was here, we talked a lot about her dating life. Now I have not dated in seven years (CHRIST ON A CRACKER) but I do recall that I was . . .not a good dater. I am not a very patient person, nor one to suffer fools kindly. My capacity for putting up with bullshit is about the size of a thimble and since dating is about 95% bullshit and 5% everything else I enjoyed dating but man I do not want to do it again.

Of course the next time, God willing, I will be like 90 years old and still a hot ticket because of my smoking ass.

But T and I were talking about the men she meets and what they are like and I was struck again, by no means for the first time in our friendship, how fundamentally different we are as people. Because, y'all, she is NICE. She puts up with so much crap that a girl that looks that good, is that smart, and has her shit together should just NOT DEAL WITH.

So I was thinking of some dating tips, just words of wisdom that dear GOD I wish people would take.

Never date some one that lives with their parents after age 21 (these are all excluding bizarre circumstances that are unavoidable).

Never date anyone keeps small dead animals that are not meant for food in their freezer.

Never date some one who says, "You are too good for me."

Never date anyone that blames their sexual dysfunction on you.

Never date some one who plays music/TV/literary police (as in you can't like Britney Spears because all pop music is CRAP sayeth He Who Knows Everything And Must Be Listened To)

Never date anyone who clips their toenails in the kitchen

Never date some one who won't give you a home phone number.

Never date anyone who doesn't admit they have kids until the third date.

Never date a man who hates his mother (I think for women this one is more the dad).

Never date a man who claims his mother is his best friend (again, Daddy issues for the ladies).

Never date some one who tries to dictate your hairstyle.

Never date anyone who tries to dictate your pubic hairstyle.

Never date some one who would vomit on your side of the bed, cover it with a towel and expect you to still sleep on it.

Never date some one with a tattoo related to Playboy.

Never date some one who flirts with your mother.

Never date anyone that tells all his friends what great blowjobs you give.

Never date anyone who tells you "they don't know how to love."

Never date some one who steals the silverware from the restaurant.

Never date anyone that asks you to show your tits to his brother to settle an argument.

Never date some one who asks about how you feel about fisting on the first date.

Never date anyone who has nicknames like The Crybaby and The Bitch for his ex-girlfriends.

Never date anyone who makes you call him Daddy.

Never date anyone who asks if he can call you a name that is not your own because yours is too similar to his ex-wife's.

Never date some one who has never had a real relationship before (after age 20).

Never date some one who doesn't like anyone to make A Sound during sex.

Never date some one who harps on your age (as in, I can't believe you are only 23!).

Never date anyone who shoplifts for fun.

Never date some one who pouts when you have your period and won't even consider having anal sex instead.

Kick that guy in the balls instead.

Damn. I think I could go on for hours. Imagine if I had stayed single long enough to get bitter.

Of course, I broke a rather large rule when dating J (but so far it hasn't bitten me in the ass). Never date anyone who has his crazy ex-girlfriend still living in his apartment after the break up (in my defense he kicked her out before we had a date).

Though I imagine it could have made a great story.

28

My body decided to welcome my fucking 28th year by swelling my eye shut. I have a sinus infection.

DELIGHTFUL.

So I woke up at 1, was at work by 5:15 and seriously want to die right now. My insurance company has a bug up it's collective ass about the anti-biotics the doctor prescribed and since I am allergic to a whole mess of things it has just been a chore dealing with it all today.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TOOOOOO MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

I did get to have some sort of x-ray, robotic brain scan thingy that seemed lot a ride at Disneyland.

OH SHIT, update, my damn scan came back negative so they are like "well we can't do anything bitch, your eye can just stay swollen shut"

FUCK

I take everything back, 28 sucks.

Early Bed

I listened to the will of the internet and the internet says my curly hair is just fine for public viewing. Since I was fucking WORN out from all the martini drinking and shopping this weekend I overslept and just left it alone.

And the world didn't end. Actually, I got a lot of compliments which confirms that the internet doesn't lie and that I should never bother doing anything to my hair since no one fucking appreciates it anyway.

I am still tired though. And overwhelmed by all the babies. Linda went and had Oliver this weekend and so did my cousin. Funnily enough they both had them exactly two weeks early.

So in their honor I am going to go to bed early.

Nap

It is hard having your best friend live across the country from you.

It means that you miss the details in each other's lives--even the big ones. You don't tell each other everything. Sometimes you get by onthe Cliff's Notes. It means that you don't get to be the hard ass that you want to with her--telling her like it is. Because you only see her once or twice a year so maybe how you are telling it isn't exactly how it is.

But it also means that you get to have a Disneyland of a weekend. Eat way too much food (including a lovely surprise dinner hosted by your husband at a fancy place), drink and carouse, meet her former employee that lives here and learn what it is like to shop for some one with perfect figure and a huge budget (which is, as I expected incredibly awesome). Sure, there are some pitfalls. It took us forever to get ready in my tiny bathroom. And sometimes, even the extra small was too big for her. But we soldiered through it and had a hell of a weekend.

I failed to convince her to move to Seattle though. She is selfish to the END that one.

Now I need a nap.

The Beach

When my family moved here from Iowa almost (OH MY GOD) twenty years ago I didn't really know anything about Washington. I knew it was on the west coast.

I thought it would be like California (which I had also never seen but knew about from TV and the Sweet Valley High books) only north.

My dad promised us a pool (still hasn't delivered because HI, it rarely gets over seventy degrees here) and I thought my sister and I would spend our summers by the beach.

This is the beach by my house. Not exactly sand-filled paradise I imagined at nine. It is rocky. Kind of cold and foggy. But check it out. CHERRIES GROW ON THE BEACH HERE.

My parents have a lot of what ifs about moving here. They worry about the crappy educations we got, the cost of living here. But beyond the fact that I cannot imagine what my life would be like (no J, no job in the industry I am in), I can't really imagine not living in this gorgeous place.

I'm spending the day bleaching my fucking bathroom and kitchen prepping for my best friend who is visiting this weekend. I am beyond excited. If anyone ever deserved a weekend of drinking and talking and eating melted cheese while quoting lines from Waiting to Exhale it is me.

And I bet at least some of those chats take place on the beach.

Proof That Parents Fuck Their Kids Up In Unknowable Ways

I was a tomboy as a child. I am not sure what brought that on but I do know that it was the source of a lot of problems between my father and I.

He had pretty rigid ideas of what a little girl should be. He was indulgent enough, he bought my sister a football helmet for her birthday when she wanted one. But I think that was because she was girlish enough for him.

I wasn't.

Arguments started over my clothes. I didn't like pink. I didn't like dresses. I remember crying tears of RAGE over being forced into frilly things. I wouldn't wear lace or ruffles. My mother had to start searching for an Easter dress for me right after Christmas. I remember my dad actually PAYING me to wear wool tights once. I just hated the feeling of skirts. You couldn't play properly, always having to make sure your underwear didn't show, and people just treated you differently. I liked jeans and sneakers and overalls.

Rather than letting it go my dad forced me to wear skirts and dresses not only for church but to school multiple times a week. No matter that the other girls, ones who were suitably feminine to my father, didn't do that. It was An Issue, and he couldn't let it go.

My hair was another issue. When I had my haircut I had to have it curled. I honestly cannot tell you why. I am not sure he could tell you why. Maybe because you could force a five year old. But I hated it. And I am not sure what it proved to anyone.

I don't know why my dad was so worried about my appearance. Was he worried that I was too boyish? Did he think I would become a lesbian? Did he think I would be ostracized by other kids? He never told me. I've thought of asking him now, but honestly my father is a totally different person now than he was twenty years ago. All I know is that he had an idea of what little girls should look like (namely, they should look like my sister) and he forced me into that mold.

It took me a long time to get over it. I don't think my dad was a bad father, of course not. I think he was trying to do what was best for me. I just can't figure out why the fuck it was so important. But it has made an impression on me. Even today I hate to wear skirts or dresses or pink in front of my parents (because I know they will fucking comment, BUT YOU HATE PINK--no one can change in their eyes) and I straighten my hair every day. It is pretty stupid when I type it out like that, but you know old habits die hard. And if my hair is curly than the terrorists win.

But above is a photo of my hair if I just let it dry (I am too photo shop stupid to blur out my face so see my clever way of dealing with it? Brilliant. Also, ignore the greasy roots it has been a long week). What do y'all think? Does it look dumb? I have no perspective on this issue. Of course whenever I ask for voting NO ONE COMMENTS but damn it. Am trying to get over childhood trauma here.

Even Though I Totally Wore Do-Rags in Tenth Grade, The Do-Rag Statute of Limitations Has Got To Be Over By Now

I went through this stage in junior high and high school were I wore shorts every day. I wore them for all occasions. Cut-offs, walking shorts, GOD HELP ME a snazzy little pair of velvet ones for those formal events. I even went through a particularly bizarre and ugly stage where I wore cut-offs over dark suntan colored panty hose.

I really was the sex goddess of the eighth grade.

But since high school I have gained new self awareness. A self awareness that brought to my attention that I have funky looking knees and they should never be seen in the light of day.

And so I haven't worn shorts outside of my home in like ten years. Not if it is ninety degrees. Not even if there is no breeze. Not even if you beg PLEASE (Dr. Seuss moment). I think the world deserves a AB weird knee-less existence.

Until a couple of weeks ago that is. It was approximately eighty-four thousand degrees and we were playing softball and I caved and bought a pair of work out shorts (lest y'all think I am not serious I didn't even own a pair of shorts). I would like to note that I wore those shorts for the first time at the game that I took the ball to the thigh. The universe telling me that it has seen enough of my thighs? Yes, I think so.

Since then I have continued to wear the shorts for our games--it is still summer after all and since I don't slide (really, I keep meaning to learn since my youth coach taught us the head first slide which is both stupid and gets your hair dirty so no) there is no real danger.

I just have to figure out a way to tell other people that I know I look bad. I am not kidding myself. I do not look like the cute gals on my team or other teams--the kind with fabulous legs who just look natural in their shorts. I look ridiculous and short and even less athletic than before (if that is possible). I've decided that not getting heat stroke is worth that but I would really like to prevent people from having, "that poor dear, I wonder if she knows," thoughts about me.

I do know.

I am not like the girl on the team last week who was wearing a DO-RAG unironically. She sure as fuck didn't know.

Everyone stare at her for a while.

The Correct Response is THANK YOU MORON

I can't take a compliment.

The sad truth is that I never have been able to. It is ridiculous, I am a grown woman and it is downright rude to brush off compliments from people about anything. I am not sure where this comes from, except that my mother can't do it either. Of course from her it is charming, I come off as some sort of drooling and arrogant bitch.

I take it back, I can take a compliment. If I concentrate VERY hard. I just say THANK YOU, which is all that is necessary. I manage this all the time because J is actually good with the compliments. But in my family it is normal to just joke back at the person and be incredibly fucking rude. Being rude is how we show we like you.

So something must have registered on my face when a guy at my office mentioned that I looked nice today. What a nice thing to say, and did I manage to croak out the correct response? I DID. But I sort of blurted it weirdly and since this guy is as socially awkward as me he seemed all embarassed and like freaked out like I was going to tattle to his wife or something and then I felt bad because why freak the man out he was just being polite and my god none of this would have happened if either of us were anything but socially impaired morons who just need to relax goddamn it.

It did go slightly better than the last time he commented that I look nice in skirts and I said, "Really, I always wonder if I look like a transvestite."

AT WORK. IN A ROOM FULL OF PEOPLE.

It is a wonder that I haven't been hired to write an etiquette book.

Am I Becoming One Of The Scary Bus People

I keep seeing this woman on the bus who I think may be an old friend of mine.

Does that make me sound sad that I don't know?

She looks a bit like her (of course a slightly older, heavier and not well dressed version of her), actually a lot, and has her mannerisms. But I can't quite be sure if it is her.

I could just ask of course. But it is a little complicated. This woman and I were friends and then roommates for a short time a few years ago. She was a good friend in that she helped my ass move out of a really horrible living situation I was in with a boyfriend. She and I had one of those can't-live-without-each-other friendships for about a year. And then.

She went crazy.

By then we were roommates. And she stalked me. Wanted me to tell her where I was going and when I would be back. Criticized my boyfriend (and got in bed with him). And I was a bad friend right back. Because I left. I didn't have a lease and so I just moved out with almost no notice.

I am well aware this makes me an asshole.

But I was only a couple of years out of an abusive relationship where some one tried to control my every move and this was starting to feel awfully familar. And I couldn't think of a damn reason that a good friend would climb into bed with my naked boyfriend (poor J was actually asleep) and not see the problem.

In our divorce she got my gay boyfriend, who wasn't too pleased with my heterosexual boyfriend and our mutual roommate (who liked me better but couldn't leave), I found a huge ass apartment in a scary neighborhood and got my freedom back.

I haven't really talked to her much since.

Sometimes I want to. DAMN we had fun for a while. That was a fun time in my life, full of many boyfriends (I developed a system of having 3-4 at a time) and parties and drinking. We made a lot of margaritas and smoked too many cigarettes and went to the fucking Tulip Festival. I knew she was jealous of me (she didn't have much luck with the 3-4 boyfriend system, or the 1 boyfriend system) and angry over something I did (or didn't do, because that doesn't make me look good but I didn't sleep with the guy she liked, he just wanted to fuck me--which I know because he whispered "I wanted to fuck you" in my ear *ROMANTIC*--but hi she was there the whole time and we didn't do a thing so I do not get how it is my fault he didn't like her but it probably is because we have established that I am an asshole). I knew she was angry and frustrated with her life. I just don't know why she went so crazy (even though I look back and damn I was a brat about it I mean I could have been nicer for crying outloud).

I could just ask this woman if she is who I think she might be. But if she isn't, it doesn't matter. And if she is I am not sure I want to know.

So I just keep staring at her on the bus.

Until she calls the cops I guess.

Needing a Medal For Domestic Making It Work

Today I toodled away the hours (when I wasn't obsessing and hand-wringing over Project Runway--fucking bastards on the East Coast are watching NOW) at work dreaming about the chili I had in the crock pot here at home.

It was going to be so spicy, with big chunks of tomato, and covered in cheese. I even planned what bowl I was going to eat it out of.

I got home and I didn't smell chili.

I admit, I had J all trussed up and ready to hang for being a No Good Rotten Crock Pot Non-Plugging Inner but no. Fucking crock pot is broken. Ice cold chili just sitting there uncooked on my counter.

Cue WEEPING.

I took the news stoically (if you discount the weeping) except for the very whiney phone message I left for J (sorry babe!). And raged in the shower. About cheaply made appliances that haven't been used that much and how I don't actually have anything else in the house for dinner and even if I did I didn't want THAT I wanted chili and OH MY GOD I COULD DIE.

But. I am a grown and mature woman. Who realized that her crock pot container is well insulated and that meant that the chili had been practically refridgerated for those hours. And could be modified and made on the stove.

Seriously, am a fucking trooper.

I need a new crockpot.

A Lot To Think About

I have a lot of things rolling around in my head but for now I am trying valiantly not to read Project Runway spoilers (WHO GETS KICKED OFF I MUST KNOW SOON). I am distracting myself with making chili and trying to figure out what to wear tomorrow.

My Cubbies traded Greg Maddox. Bah. I knew it was coming, I think that everyone handled it classily. But still. I wanted him to win a World Series with us. I know that isn't going to happen but still. I'm still wearing my jersey though. He is a Cub to me.

I'm annoyed with Mel Gibson. Even more after his "apology" today. He puts it entirely on Jews to find a way to "heal" from this incident. He is an anti-Semite. There is no denying that. Booze doesn't make you just come up with that shit on the spur of the moment. And does he want to claim that he was drunk during the entire filming of The Passion? Combine that with the incident in Seattle last Friday and I am so angry. Angry because honestly people want us to shrug it off. Like these are isolated events and we should forgive and forget. Some one actually quoted "turn the other cheek" at me today (in reference to Israel). Just for future reference, that isn't a part of Judaism. Judaism preaches justice and fairness. It doesn't teach it's people to take abuse from those in power. Neither of these events should inspire Jews to violence, I guess they are just a reminder that there is a lot of work to be done.

Bah. Project Runway, baseball and Anti-Semitism all in one entry. I need to get my shit together.