Pug Splash

Remember that weird experiment in elementary school where you dropped watermelons off the roof? It's to test gravity or something I don't actually remember the purpose. What I do remember is the sound of the watermelon hitting the pavement, a sort of sickening thud that is sort of squishy sounding.

That sound flashed back to me last night just before midnight. Since the same one came from my kitchen. I woke up in a start and rushed in to find a lump of pug called Buster lying on the floor an overturned chair next to him. Dipshit had jumped on a chair to get on the kitchen counter and then fell.

He just seemed stunned. But then decided to celebrate feeling ok by doing high-speed laps around the house--over furniture, up and down the stairs. I finally pinned him down so I could check his legs and chest for injuries.

He's fine Fucking dumbass.

Perhaps I Need To Get Out More

There is nothing like 24 hours of anti-biotics to perk a girl up. And wake you up to exactly how shitty you have been feeling.

It is strange how you can feel sick but not even realize it. It just gets worse and worse--you try to sleep more, take some vitamins--but as soon as you start to take of it BAM.

Anyway, some one more talented than me should write a little love song about anti-biotics. Bliss is peeing without burning.

J is off playing softball so the dogs and I acting like it isn't a school night. Things we have learned so far:

1. Darla loves Captain Crunch.
2. It is possible to play run around the house without breaking anything but some one will probably puke afterwards.
3. Rooster is not amused. About anything. Ever.
4. Captain Crunch for dinner rules.
5. One night is not enough to get through the eighty-eleven hours of The Dog Whisperer and Dog The Bounty Hunter saved on my Ti-Faux.

Everyone on the Band Wagon

I'm supposed to be at a baseball game right now.

A friend of J's offered at us free tickets and we were all set to go when I had to rush to the doctor this morning. Seems that my kidneys are infected. Fever, blood in the urine, the lovely sensation of a ginsu knife demo into my abdomen every few minutes--these are bad things.

It certainly made work a little surreal. Fortunately, I am home now, deep conditioning my hair, eating ice cream and crying like a sap over the Saints game (though dude, I cannot help feel sorry for Atlanta because the ENTIRE WORLD is against them--anyone who isn't rooting for the Saints tonight completely sucks).

I think I deserve a little more ice cream before they sing "When the Saints Go Marching In" again and I start sobbing.

The New Breakfast Club

We like to watch football at home.

This is because the best kind of football Sunday involves down comforters and greasy bacon. It it being in your pajamas until 2pm. It's about dirty hair and flipping to the NFL Network and laughing at the guys on the 49ers' message board.

Sadly, because of Direct TV's strangle-hold on the NFL we never get to watch good games. So we went to the bar for the early game (we wanted to watch the Indy/Jacksonville game) and to watch at least part of the 49er game.

The Eagles started to kick our asses early and often so we did come home early.

We enjoyed the ass-whoping that the Seahawks were putting on NY (which late in the game got entirely too close) because we all hate Eli Manning. Watching the game at the bar is just totally different. You have to get dressed first of all. And feel a little self-concious in jerseys for a team not the home team. Plus, no candy.

Or duvets.

We came home for the second half and immediately relaxed (until the Seahawks started to buckle a bit) and put our feet up.

I wonder if they would let us drag our couch into the bar next week. We're the early game after all--we need to be there for breakfast.

A Little Like I Am Speaking A Foreign Language

I think a lot of people are in the same position that I am. That their jobs, the things they spend most of their time doing, are careers that didn't really exist a generation ago. Business has changed, technology has changed, and a lot of us make a living doing something that most people don't realize people actually do.

My job is like that. And with the new one it has become even harder to explain. Especially to people like grandparents, who are genuinely happy for me but really are sort of flabbergasted that some one is necessary to do what I do. I read a letter from my grandmother and I can sort of hear her whispering in my ear, "they pay you for that?"

Yes they do.

It is one of those gaps that I suppose get wider every year. I mean my grandparents remember a time before plumbing and electricity were common. My grandfather worked in offices without typewriters, but did manage to graduate to a computer. There is a lot happening in the past eighty years so I feel a little guilty asking them to try to figure this out too.

I want to make it simpler. Perhaps I will start telling them I am a truck driver.

Homework

I have a big work thing in a couple of weeks and they assigned us homework to prepare for it. And one of my co-workers mentioned that she just wasn't going to do it.

Totally fucking blew my mind.

Not do it?

This honestly proves that I am such a goody-two shoes about so many things. I have never not done my homework. What if I didn't get an A?!?!?! Do I think that they will fire (or probably even notice) people who don't do this assignment? Not really. But I would obsess and worry too much over it to make it worth not doing the assignment. Worse, I don't think I can even do a half-assed job because I can hear my dad's voice in my head, "It's ok to get any grade AS LONG AS YOU DID YOUR BEST. . ."

Clearly I need some lessons on breaking rules and getting over myself.

And a lot of tequila. I still have an assignment to do.

But Obviously My Memory Is Not So Great

On my way home each night I pass the same billboard. It is an advertisement for the local transit system and it features a women who is blurred in the photo because she is riding a bicycle and throwing her head back with laughter. And every damn day I think the same thing (which, shockingly is not "bullshit, anybody doing that shit would crash"), "Why the fuck is Jamie Lee Curtis doing ads for Sound Transit?"

I think this same thing every single day which proves, 1. this model likely makes her living based on her, at least blurry, likeness to Ms. Curtis and, 2. I never fucking retain information.

Also in this vein, when I drive by this sort of sad roadside stand of "oriental rugs" and wall hangings, you know the kind that feature Elvis? There is one that always looks like two polar bears butt fucking. Honestly, the first time I saw it I almost drove off the road. Bear anal sex! AWESOME! But near an elementary school? Of course I sort of wanted to hang it in my living room. Sadly, it really is more of a bear family scene. I do not know why "loving bear family" reads as "zoological porno" to me but it does. This probably says a lot more about me than I want to think about.

Not to mention another thing I never learn, not to start entries with long stories because I can never remember what the fuck the entry was supposed to be about.

Something tells me it wasn't possible hermaphidite actresses and the sexual habits of the animals in Antartica.

At least I don't think so.

Monday Night Football

We don't even like Jacksonville but we are enjoying Monday night football right now.

Fuck you Ben!

Seriously. Way to throw a couple of interceptions on national TV. Maybe the fucking national media will stop sucking your cock for five minutes now.

Probably not.

But still. SHUT OUT. Fuck off asswipes. Go back to Pittsburgh.

My Vernon Davis jersey came today, courtesy of the best mother-in-law EVER. The 49ers won yesterday. Football season is BACK.

Bet You Money My Dad Didn't Ask Either

My mother and I took my dad and J to get fitted for their tuxes for my sister's wedding today. The whole experience sums up everything that is different (and WRONG) about men. We get there first and I fill out the paperwork for J and all he does is stand up while the girl measures him. He gets annoyed because I don't remember his shoe size (UM but neither does he so WTF DUDE). Once my parents get there lather, rinse, repeat (except my dad at least knows his shoe size) and my mom and I wander the store a bit. Once they are all done we end up paying for the stupid things and making sure that we know how they can pick things up and the guys stand around staring at the TV in the store.

Later I ask J what the tuxes that Sister picked out look like . . .he has no idea. He didn't even ask.

Guy just paid a hundred bucks (or I guess he let me pay a hundred bucks) for an outfit and didn't even ask to see it.

Weirdo.

This is in such a contrast to how bridesmaids work. I mean there are huge diplomatic conferences that take place about bridesmaids dresses (though not for this wedding thank GOD). Negotiations have to be made, usually one bitch cries, and most often the bride asks for something really unreasonable or heinous like everyone has to grow their hair to the exact same length and if that means that the girl with natural girls has to have her hair chemically straightened then SO BE IT THIS IS MY DAY.

The only other time I have been a bridesmaid this shit happened but blissfully I was not there. The other maids were her sisters and they had a battle royale that I was pleased to be a couple of thousand miles away from. It did result in us wearing crazily expensive dresses in a color that made me look naked but at least I didn't have to get in a cat fight over it.

Of course at least I knew what the damn outfit looked like.

Idiots.

Room For Three

A couple of weeks ago was my best friend's fourth wedding anniversary. She got her final divorce papers in the mail that very day.

Sometimes fate is a cruel cruel bitch.

Their divorce took longer than normal. Things got a little messy around property division (not uncommon) and he putzed around a lot--he didn't really want to be divorced. And the whole time she kept pushing harder and harder. She just wanted it over with. And when it was . . .well.

She was heartbroken.

I wasn't surprised.

She doesn't miss him. I think she was over him before she even filed for the divorce. But when you get married you aren't just marrying the person. You are signing up for a certain way of life. You are supposed to be partners, to share your lives, to grow old together, to support one another. You imagine the house and the family and she was mourning that part. Is mourning that part.

When you put on the big poofy white dress you never really imagine that you will spend your fourth anniversary opening up notices from the state family court. I mean I am the most cynical bitch around and I have never thought that.

I know that she will be fine. In truth she is already more fine than she was at this time last year. She isn't dreading the inevitable divorce now. She isn't putting off starting over. She's already done the hard part.

It is just hard to remember that when your best friend calls you in the middle of the night, making you promise that she can come live with your kids (that you don't have) instead of going into a home.

Sorry unborn children, make sure you have enough spare rooms for the three of us.

Sated

The past couple of years have been a little rough in my career. I don't think that is so unusual for people in their mid-twenties. Sometimes it takes time for opportunities to catch up with ability. Sometimes you have to learn hard lessons about professionalism, dealing with others, about politics, about balancing your life and your work. I never imagined myself doing the kind of work that I do now. I do not have the kind of job that easy to explain to people outside my industry. I do not save lives or build anything. But I find a lot of satisfaction in my work. I bust my ass and I am good at what I do.

Most of the people in my family have done physical labor of some kind. Not my parents or sister but my extended family. Even if they are professionals they are nurses or other types of jobs that require physical labor. They really do not understand how some one who sits all day at a desk can be working hard. Not that it is in any way the same thing as digging ditches.

I got promoted yesterday. It feels like I have been working towards this for a long time. And I have. I've pushed and pushed and had to wait a lot longer than I thought I would. It has been worth it though. I really believe that. That is not to say that I am not going to hate my job in the next couple of months--I probably will. It is going to be a tough time. But I worked for this, I earned this. And it's mine.

There is something really cool about calling your parents and telling them that you are getting what you wanted. Something that you have earned. There is something amazing about telling your husband that that thing that you have been obsessing about for months is finally here. And yeah, our bank account is going to benefit a bit too. I highly recommend it. I truly do.

It even makes a terrible night of softball (I was a sub--everyone else played fabulous, I hit for shit and did something terrible and swell inducing to my foot) feel good. Nothing matches that.

I need to save this feeling. I'm going to need it next month when I am all angsty and worried that I can't do this. But for now I just feel satisfied.

Empty

We went to a baseball game on Monday night.

It was surreal.

On one hand, the place was empty. It could be because the Mariner's suck and they were playing the Blue Jays who aren't so hot either. Or it could be that people are afraid still. Which I sort of understood.

For me it felt very right to be out that night. There were tributes to our local fire and police departments. And to those who died.

I wasn't in New York or DC that day. I don't know anyone personally who died. All that I lost that day was my feeling of safety and security--which five years later still isn't the same. And the ability to talk about patriotism. Because people have co-opted patriotism and made it something strange and ugly.

I love this country but it frightens me. It frightens me how we haven't learned much in the past five years. That we haven't changed or grown. And it frightens me that that stadium was so empty.

Treasure Found

After all my bragging about my sister not being a Bridezilla, I have to admit my mother has been a bit of a MOBzilla. A tad. About her dress.

I took my mom shopping for a dress for my sister's wedding a couple of weeks ago. The most successful part of the day was she only cried twice. We found one outfit she liked but it was a way out of our budget. It actually cost more than my wedding dress. It looked great on her but that did seem excessive.

Everything else looked like shit.

And we were a little traumatized. There are very few things as demoralizing and trying on thirty or forty dresses and having none of them fit. Or having a few fit but those make you look like a rotting summer sausage--the gases being emitted by the decay forcing through the casing.

We went again today. I have to admit I gave myself a little pep talk on my drive down there. In many ways, having this happen with my mother's dress was much worse than having it happen to me. My mother is a very kind person, who doesn't do much for herself. And she has the lowest self-esteem you can imagine. And of course looking terrible in all of these dresses just made her feel worse.

Finding the right dress became more than just finding the dress. I think for both of us it was symbolic. Our family has been through so much in the past few years. I think we have all worked through some of the ugly shit and our dynamic really feels good. It is just hard because I think we are all afraid of fucking that up. I know that my sister doesn't truly care what she wears. But we are not a part of her daily life so we want to make a good impression. And we really desperately do not want to do anything that would embarass her.

Today was so much better. We found three or four that looked great on her. And one she loved. Bought that one, and a gorgeous necklace (that actually cost more than the dress) so she is ready to go.

And we didn't have to burn down a single store to find it. There are retail gods after all.

Look Away Boys, Nothing For You Here

First. Period. In. Three. MONTHS.

GREETINGS AUNT FLO, WHY DID YOU STAY AWAY SO LONG?!!!

It's A Small World

I read this post at Weigook Saram with interest. She talks about how she feels like the differences between her culture and her husband's culture is both a strength and a strain in their marriage. I imagine that this seems more obvious in biracial relationships--or those between people who have obvious cultural divides. But I feel quakes of it in my marriage too, and J and I would be classified as from the same culture.

I think that is honestly the toughest part about marriage for me. Harder than money, harder than career. Harder than shit about kids. Because all of those arguments begin with culture for me. It may not be a racial or ethnic culture but more of based in the culture of my family of origin. How I was raised and what is normal for me looks pretty different than what is normal to him. And y'all KNOW THAT I AM RIGHT.

I am pretty uptight about being on time. I hate being late. It makes me feel uncomfortable. It's rude. I can't get passed that. J is late every day and doesn't think a thing of it. Especially in social situations when he thinks people don't care.

In my family we are typical midwestern and don't talk about money. I don't even like to tell my parents how much money we make or how much things cost or how we spend our money. Filling out the paperwork to buy the house gave me hives. J will tell anyone anything. He will blurt how much an item cost without batting an eyelash. He talks salary with anyone who asks and probably some who don't.

I do think that clear cultural divides would make this whole maze more complicated. But I also think that in some ways that they might make it easier. If your husband is Korean and you are not it is pretty obvious to you and to him and to all around you. Misunderstandings are expected. And you have constant reminders about how you might see the world differently. For us those differences are wrapped up in class and economics and our family dynamics. And that is a lot harder to handle sensitively. I can't just say to J, "You talk about money so openly because you are white trash!" I mean I could but it would be mean and not terribly accurate.

This could be why people get divorced. It can be hard enough to adjust to another culture without it being in your own home.

Insulting Compliment

I realize that my post last night made it sound like I expect my sister to behave like some crazy veiled banshee who wants my soul in exchange for the right place cards at her reception.

Way to insult the person you were trying to compliment AB!

I really didn't. It is just I have been regaled with bridezilla tales all week from various sources and it took me back to a dark dark place when everyone I knew was getting married and acting like their liveswould be ruined if they somehow didn't convince their bridesmaids to get matching pedicures, hairstyles and teeth capping.

I am just really thankful she isn't going there.

So I insult her on the internet.

Though it does show our family harmony that I didn't get a pissed off email right? RIGHT?!

And Easy On Me Is The Point

When my sister announced her engagement (and her plans of her wedding) I braced myself for the coming End of Days. My sister, despite her pronouncements to the contrary, definitely inherited the Drama Queen Gene. Sis did tell me that she wasn't going to be a bridezilla but honestly y'all, my experience has been that when some one says they won't be a bridezilla that means you are totally getting a three am teary call about how her day will be ruined! because the caterers won't make the waitstaff wear uniforms in the special wedding colors! or because they can't get mongrammed toilet paper at the ceremony!

I love my sister. I want her to have whatever she wants. But I am so relieved she has not pulled any of this shit.

I think it is to our credit as a family that (I think) everyone is keeping a clear head. Sis sent me an email talking about how similar I am to her future sister in law who is demanding and difficult and actually sounds pretty horrible. BUT. In the spirit of our new found family amity I figured she meant we were alike in some unnamed but positive way.

REALLY.

Honestly, she has been great, especially if you consider the strain of planning a wedding on the timeline that she has put herself on. My job is to be supportive, do whatever she wants, reign in any bratty behavior on our side of the family and look pretty. So far I am doing my job.

I am just glad she is making it easy.

All Of My Hipster Friends Can Fuck Themselves

I used to be cool.

Well, I once passed for cool. If the observer didn't pay too close attention, maybe squinted. Sort of.

I knew where the cool bars and clubs were. I managed to get strange men to buy me drinks and take me nice places. Then I met J, who was just as poor and broke as me. We got married, bought a house and never had fun again.

It is important to understand this so that y'all can understand our motivation for Thursday night. We had free bleacher seats for the local minor league baseball team. Free seats, free parking, cheap eats. That equals AB family fun right there.

We sat with a bunch of people J knows from work. Six adults, 847 children. I think I am the only one in the group that watched more than about half an inning of the game. I give this team credit, they had a bunch of activities for kids. They could play a game where they tried to catch a fly ball (and won a prize, whether they did it or not). They could jump around in a huge balloon bouncy thing. They could run around the bases. They sang Take Me Out To The Ball Game during the seventh inning stretch.

At some point during the game J got up to go to the bathroom and to get us some drinks. Forty minutes later I have to admit I wondered what happened to him. The little girl that had been spending her time poking him in the stomach and laughing was FRANTIC that he might not return.

He did show up, sodas in hand, but sweating, shaking and bleeding from one knee. Apparently every child in the group had attacked him at once and he was FORCED to play with them. He described it as being caught in a Ooompa Loompa civil war. Looking at him, I am not sure it was an exaggeration.

I have to admit that I am thrilled he has found playmates who are on his intellectual level. Even if they are ages 2-6.

We left the game much past our bedtime on a school night and were awarded a loaf of wheat bread from some sort of promotion. Which is how I ended running down the main drag of the city being chased by a man hitting me with a loaf of bread.

That isn't actually cool is it?

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.

To The Rescue

After we nearly cooked ourselves last weekend I whined enough to my dad and he came to the rescue today. The animals that have lived in our house before us had layered approximately eighty-four thousand buckets of paint on the window panes--sealing the damn things shut. My dad has said a million times that you "just use a pizza cutter and ZIP they are open!"

It was a little more complicated than that.

But, to give him credit, with a paint scraper, a hammer and pry bar he did get both windows in our bedroom and two in the dining room open. The big giant one in the living room defeated him, though he chipped enough paint off the sides to make it look like shit. I am suitably grateful though--I would rather touch up paint then suffocate with the hot air.

Of course it is only seventy degrees out and we shut them immediately.

I am now nursing a migraine from a lot of dust and paint (probably leaded). But still totally small price to pay.

My dad is the home improvement super hero.

Damn

Shit.

This is why I mentally flip-off people when they say that anti-Semitism doesn't exist in America. Even in liberal Seattle this can happen. Does happen. Did happen.

It isn't my synagogue.

Which doesn't actually help.

Mrs. Robot

My bruise has, sadly, not developed into Elvis. It looks more like a giant jawbreaker that has been sliced in half. A black layer, a purple layer, a blue layer, a green layer with a yellowy pink center.

The center does look like the profile of the Wicked Witch of the West though.
***

One of the hardest things about being married is when things catch you off guard. Like any relationship you fall into patterns. How you interact with one another is just instinctual and after a while you feel like you know how some one will react to any given situation.

And when they don't it just amazes you. And not always in a good way.

J and I had a fight last night. A screaming one. About nothing so important really, it wasn't unimportant but nothing that has to be solved right now if ever, just something that we may or may not have to deal with one day. And fighting is upsetting for me and I think for him. I assume for him, I mean he looked pretty pissed. We don't do it often and neither of us really behaved very well.

He made me so angry I could have ripped the telephone book in half with my bare hands. I could have ripped dozens of telephone books in half. Perhaps that could be my next career--I am guessing J could keep pissing me off if we being paid for it. Hell, it appears he can do it for free.

He fought with me like my dad used to. Dismissive. Patronizing. Like CRAZY AB, she couldn't know WHAT she is talking about. And that pushed my buttons. Actually it jammed those buttons flat back into the control panel so that the circuits fucking exploded. I don't think he meant to do it, I think he was as bewildered by the argument as I was. Normally we can see the why behind the other's point of view but I couldn't last night and I don't think he could either.

It sounds so stupid, to put it baldly, that the hardest thing about being married to another person is that they continue to be another person. You cannot control or direct their feelings or reactions or behaviors. You can't ever really predict with 100% certainty what they will do, no matter how close your relationship is.

I could be positive and say that these things lead to personal growth. But I am really not that kind of person and I don't give a fuck about personal growth right now, I am still sort of pissed. What I do know is that we will move past this, and solve the issue if we have to, this subject will be a soft spot until we do and maybe even after that. The way other couples are about who makes more money or the ex-girlfriend or somebody's car--actually when put in that context this is a really fucking tiny soft spot. Something that will probably never come up again. But it will be there. And there will be more. I can predict that with 100% certainty, I just cannot say when.

I should have married a robot. I bet I could just program the robot. And I bet the robot would fucking scrub the bathtub once in a while.

Where I Offend Probably Everyone Without Meaning To

I was reading an online forum in the past week or two (BLARGH it escapes me which one) where some one articulated something I have been trying to say for quite sometime. The discussion revolved around some one who was a having a baby and she is not Jewish but her partner is and they want to raise their child as a Jew. There was this whole round about discussion about what they needed to do to convert the child (since the mother is not Jewish some branches of Judaism don't recognize descent via the father) and how the laws work and some one (who was Christian but meant this sincerely and I think in a placating way) came in and said, "But where is God in all of this?"

I think she meant this as a call to what is important and to remind everyone that the law is not important but God is important.

And GOD that pissed off every Jew in there.

Because in Christianity your personal relationship with God is the important thing. But it isn't in Judaism. I remember just wanting to scream at my sister last year when she tried to tell me that some one who didn't believe in God was missing "the important part" of Judaism.

As some one who has been both, if you don't believe in God you can't be Christian. But you can be Jewish. And be a good Jew.

This is just an example, but it really is part of something that I think is very pervasive in this discussions. People want religions to be the same. Very accepting and tolerant Christians look at Judaism and what to know the Jewish equivalent to Christmas is or Easter or the Benediction. Let me say this so clearly:

There isn't one.

Jews see the world through a Jewish lens. How the religion functions is not a reaction to Christianity (I cannot tell you how many Christians have asked me what Jews think of Jesus--Jews don't actual care at all about Jesus, he isn't a blip on our radar). It is it's own religion and culture. It is a community with traditions and laws. And none of them have the slightest fucking thing to do with any other religions. J and I became Jewish because we wanted to live by a certain ethical code, by a certain attitude towards the world. We shared the values with Judaism that are very important to us. And it might surprise people how little our conversion has to do with God. In my case (I can't and won't speak for him on this one) it has NOTHING to do with God.

There is a rather common attitude that Judaism and Christianity are the same. That Jesus is the only difference. There is no such thing as a Judeo-Christian value system. They may be based in the same beginning source material (the Hebrew Bible) but they have branched into two very different views of the world.

Do I mean this as a way of saying that these groups cannot and should not get along? Absolutely not. I admire the way that Christians have faith in God. It is a relationship that I cannot have but it is one that I see a lot of value in. I just wish that people could understand that my faith looks and feels and IS very different from theirs and not feel threatened by it.

Right now there is a lot of anti-Semitism floating around. Especially in the media with the situation with Israel (that is not to say that all anti-Israel sentiment has anti-Semitic motivations). I can't help being enraged by it all. And frustrated too. Because sometimes different is just different, not better or worse. And trying to push us all into looking at the world the same way just is not working.

I hope that no one will read this and think it is a slam on Christianity. For all my talk about how that conversation helped me articulate something I don't think this actual post is very articulate. It is natural to try to draw parallels with your own situation and beliefs with ones that you do not understand. I just wish that people would recognize that those parallels are not always actually there.

He Did Use To Enjoy The Thighs Of Blond Women

The picture is not really showing this very well. Perhaps I need the fancy lens for my camera? Because this bruise is black. And has a strange shape in the middle that currently looks like a cartoon of the Man In The Moon but I am secretly (oh I guess not so secretly since I am writing about this on the internet) that it will morph into an image of Elvis. I mean how awesome would it be if the King decided to communicate with the world via my THIGH?

Reason Nine Hundred And Twelve That I Am A Stunner

This is my thigh. Notice the rather delightful bruise that is about the size (or exactly the size) or a softball?

A member of our team hit a HARD ground ball and hit me standing on first base (because sometimes I am an idiot who doesn't get the hell out of the way) but you know we were all safe so OK.

Hurts like a mother though.

Especially since I took this picture like two hours after I got hit. I am pretty sure I am going to look gory tomorrow.

Then I cut the shit out of myself while shaving in the shower, something I haven't done in like ten years. Since it will still be ninety degrees tomorrow I am going to look GLAMOROUS in a skirt tomorrow.

Somehow I Have Failed To Train The Dachshund To Fan Me Properly

I am not much of a sweat-er (as in I don't sweat so much but I guess I am not actually a knit garment either) but the last couple of days here in the Northwest have turned me into one of the pit-stained masses.

It has been in the high nineties, which I know is making some of you in other parts of the country PTHHHHHB in derision but I would like to remind you of a couple of important details.

1. We are total weenies here.
2. None of us have air conditioners.

Now this isn't poor planning, because you can't even buy a house with air conditioning here. It is only hot enough to even turn it on about three days a year. But man, we are on day three and JESUS JUNIOR it is hot in here.

We went and saw Jeff Dunham last night with my mom and dad (I know! My dad left the house! Never fucking happens!). Beyond the fucking kerfuffle with the Moore Theatre (which will lead to a bitchy call to the theatre manager tomorrow) and Ticketmaster we had a delightful time. But I have never seen a sweatier man in my entire life. The poor guy was a little surprised I think to realize that a large theatre, packed to the gills with people has no air conditioning. I thought he was going to pass out.

All of us in the balcony are guzzling waters and pondering the pools of sweat in our underwear and the only person in the place who is happy is my mother. Who, thanks to her very fucked up internal thermostat, is comfortable for the first time since last year's hottest weekend of the year.

My father tells me that Friday night they go to the mall, where the rest of the city is trying to cool off in the air conditioning, and my mother is wearing a hooded sweatshirt.

By the way, I am disappointed that no one that reads my blog is a Project Runway fan and recognized the title of the last entry as a Tim Gunnism. I also am sad to note that no one voted on the shoes which means I either am being fooled by my sister as my only reader wildly clicking away pumping up my stats (in which case click more, they aren't really that impressive) or I have vastly over-estimated how much y'all give a shit about my shoes.

I am going to go sit in front of a fan and eat ice cream.

Defending the Shoe**

Ultrasound was negative. Which is apparently a Good Thing.

And I am shockingly blase about the whole thing.

And a little befuddled about how I came to be defending my new bronze shoes to J. Apparently he thinks that these have put a blemish on my otherwise impeccable fashion record. Does the internet agree?

**My undying devotion to anyone who gets this reference.

No News Is No News

I never know exactly what to say to people when they ask when we are going to have kids. For a while now I have made use of an easy-breazy "someday" but I am afraid that might come out a little forced once in a while. And, sadly, it often leads to questions about when and why are we waiting so long and damn it woman you are not getting any younger.

No one ever is trying to hurt my feelings and I do know that this is partly my fault. I am not ashamed of our situation but to be honest I do not feel like getting into the Infertility Saga Why Things Just Sometimes Don't Work Out with every single person I meet. I am such a naturally reserved person (I understand why this might be difficult to believe since I have told the internet about my bowel issues and the time I got a tampon stuck in my cooter) that I just don't know what to tell people.

It is all very awkward and sad and it doesn't need to be this way. J certainly doesn't have a problem with it. It is just me the terminally socially awkward that cannot figure out how to ignore the question and Move On Already it is No Big Deal.

Last week I had my ultrasound. I haven't heard from the doctor yet which could be a good sign but I am paranoid to the extreme so I can't see it that way. Contrary to what I had heard my date with the dildo cam really was no problem. Perhaps this suggest that I am a loose-cootered whore (actually remind me to tell you the story of the many doctors who have told me I have a very small vagina, actually that is the whole story, many doctors have remarked on my very small vagina enough that I am a little weirded out about it) but mostly I think it has to do with the lovely tech I had (who chatted with me nicely including a cute anecdote about how she farted during her last pelvic exam) and the fact that maybe everyone else's sexual partners have teeny dicks? I don't know. I could see how that exam would not be so fun with an infection or while pregnant but for me it was no big deal.

But my lovely tech went out of her way to show me my right ovary, describing it in great detail but when we got to the left one she tilted the screen away from me. Since that is the side that hurts I cannot help but be a little afraid. Not that my ovaries are doing me any good but having two sure is nice. I'd like to keep it you know?

So now the internet knows what I know, precisely nothing. So much for my reserved nature. No internal organs have exploded yet (good) but the tech didn't exclaim about my nice healthy normal but somehow undetected pregnancy either so . . .

I suppose no news continues to be good news.

Nothing

Bah.

Today was my eighth straight day of working. I am spoiled brat office worker woman and am tired to the bone. Just burned out and wrung out and yet facing a sort of crisis because I am worried about my future for my job. So even though I feel stretched to the limit I have to just keep going.

I look like shit though.

And I've got nothing.

Where I Get Around To Updating What I Have Been Reading

Finally

Stupid Fucking Cats, Both of Them

Because of my haircolor I feel this sort of obligation to at least give off the appearance of having my shit together. I just do not want to be part of the problem, so to speak, that is perpetuating this myth of dumbshit ditzy blonds. Also, I do find that I get more credibility from the world at large if I don't act like an idiot--I am sure this advice works well for anyone regardless of coloring.

But still. I do try. And I am failing miserably this week. My brain simply feels full. Of useless shit, NATURALLY, but also of things that I need and am using. It is just that sort of week, with too much going on and since I have no short term memory at all I forget all sorts of things like names and the word pro-active (which you think I would remember since it is an acne system that Brooke Shields is a spokeswoman for) and I actually put GO TO THE BATHROOM on my to-do list today because I totally forgot yesterday and almost pissed myself.

The dogs have been all nutty and our schedule has been weird (since J has been doing FUN things which how dare he when I am busy forgetting his name here) and I haven't really slept much this week which is really not helping. But still some important or notable or probably really fucking boring things have been happening:

1. I colored my hair because the tanning booth had fucking bleached it white again. And men were leering at me. I think because Hugh Hefner's girlfriends all have hair that color (though much larger and faker looking breasts than mine) and so they all associate that color with woman who take off their tops in public. It is still really light but more flattering. I think. But also somehow makes my hair look LONGER. How is that possible? And why, when people comment on how long my hair is, do I feel compelled to EXPLAIN that I might maybe possibly be trying to grow it and blah blah blah until we both just want to die and why can't I shut up?

2. The guy who owns the car I hit last week called. Apparently he is my neighbor's brother who left the car there while he borrowed one of their cars. Apparently he is also a delightful person who doesn't think I should have to pay anything and doesn't care about that car so don't worry about a thing. And I didn't even have to take my top off!

3. The dogs have decided that they hate the cat across the street and there is nothing anyone can say or do or put in their food to drug them that will change their minds (ok, I didn't drug anyone but I really thought about it at about midnight last night). They keep barking and banging their heads on the front window trying to get at this cat who is either really stupid or taunting them. Am sorely tempted to just open the door and let the chips fall where they may.

4. Project Runway started yesterday and I still have not watched! Because J and I are watching together. Am a beacon of self-restraint!

Alright, the manic sleeplessness will undoubtedly continue but I simply must go pry my wedding ring away from the cat who is trying to throw it down the heating duct.

Baby Brother

I'm getting a new baby brother y'all!

This time, not Leon (dog featured at right) but my sister is getting married!

Wheeeeee!

I mean that in the least we-finally-found-a-buyer-for-the-Eidsel kind of way. Personally, I find it bizarre that I was married and my sister wasn't. She will be an amazing wife and someday an amazing mother.

And she wants J and I to be her bridesmaids!

So we are getting another J in the family. And we are thrilled to have him.

Gee, Maybe Nachos Don't Sound Good

I just popped what I lovingly refer to as a seven layer zit.

You know, like the dip. With a little less cheese and crusty enough you don't need chips.

Layer one: hard yellow crust (peel)
Layer two: greenish yellow pus (squeeze until it spurts out looking like a giant banana slug)
Layer three: clear oil (just keep squeezing)
Layer four: creamy looking pus (should shoot out so bonus points if you hit the mirror)
Layer five: blood (damn girl stop squeezing)
Layer six: more pure oil (we have solved the energy crisis)
Layer seven: a little more crust (just scrape)

Congratulations, you have found the big gaping whole in your chin. Come back next week when you will stop looking like you were attacked with a cheese grater.

Maybe I Do Not Want The Boys To Be Men

So the doctor thinks that a few things could be happening:

1. I was pregnant and am miscarrying.
2. I had an ectopic pregnancy and am miscarrying.
3. There is something wrong with one of my ovaries.

She is awesome though, kept trying to cheer me up saying well maybe this means we know you can get pregnant. I waver between that Pollyana view and the slightly more psychotic view that yes, I can get pregnant with embryos that will die.

The truth is that the option I want it to be (the mysterious and sadly absent #4) is that this is all not happening and I do not have to deal with it.

So instead of obsessing about this (and the also annoying fact that car crash man STILL HAS NOT PICKED UP THAT NOTE AND IT IS ALL WET FROM THE RAIN AND ARE YOU TRYING TO MAKE ME CRAZY) I am completely obsessed with this barbershop I drive by after work each day.

It is called Physique. Excuse me, actually it is Fiz-Eek. Oh how I wish I were kidding. It has tinted windows and is decorated with blue neon lights on the inside. The slogan printed on the banner reads:

Where boys become men and men become KINGS.

Y'all, tell me the truth, this is a whorehouse right?

Because I cannot think of a single other reason for that being the fucking slogan for a barbershop. Though personally I think a topless barbershop is a brilliant business idea because every single straight guy I know would go get a haircut from a topless chick. She wouldn't even have to be that hot. Just naked boobs and a pair of clippers.

I suspect it would be a health code violation. Which is a damn shame because I was already spending my retirement fund from the franchise fees.

I suppose this means I will be going to work AGAIN tomorrow.

Become KINGS indeed.

Carry On

Oh dear.

I am a little rattled.

This morning I crashed my car, oh that is a little dramatic, I smushed it. On the side of another car. Backing out of my driveway. No damage to my car, obviously no one hurt since I was going about two miles an hour. I have to admit that my first instinct was to haul ass out of there and admit nothing.

Instead I left a note and then obsessed all day about just leaving a note. I know that is what you are supposed to do and yet it didn't feel right. In fact, when I was waiting for the bus a police cruiser pulled in and for a brief moment I had a little panic attack. Because yes, the police who do not always respond to 911 calls in moments have time to come and pick up a woman who fled the scene of an accident and left a note instead of leaving an ounce of blood and her wedding ring as a token of her intent to pay.

Me thinks that I didn't escape without that drama gene that makes me roll my eyes at my mother.

I kept calling J (who was off work today) to make him see if my note was still there. It wasn't. He took this as a sign that they got it, I took it as a sign that the note blew off the windshield and I begged him to put another one on the windshield. He wouldn't. BASTARD.

Seriously, don't all rush off to try to find my real name on the internet so you can try to romance me away from him.

I think he was enjoying this, despite that I am sure it will wreck our insurance, because it confirms in his mind that I am a bad driver. I used to be certain that I wasn't but five years of him telling me how horrible I am and ridiculous have sort of made me internalize it a bit.

Heh. Did I just make this accident his fault? AWESOME.

Less awesome is the blood clot that fell out of my vagina yesterday (was that a startling segue?). Since it was not accompanied by my period but was with some stabbing pains very much unlike cramps I had to call the doctor today.

The nurse was so sweet and reassuring and OH I AM SURE IT IS NOTHING LET ME DOUBLE CHECK WITH THE DOCTOR.

And then BAM. An urgent phone call back and you must come in first thing tomorrow do not pass go and if there are more clots than go to urgent care.

DAMN IT.

Even though I am quite sure it is all very hyper-precautionary I am dreading it. Am guessing that she is not going to say, "Oh, well was the clot star shaped and the size of a nickel because those are GOOD LUCK!"

On a vainer and more ridiculous note I also just shaved my pubic hair which I try never to do before going to the doctor because even though I know many women do it and she isn't really the type to judge and golly how unprofessional would it be for her to be checking out my pubic hair anyway I still am slightly worried that she is going to be all, "look at that girl, shaving her pussy and propagating unreasonable sexual expectations to her husband and whomever else she whores around with, does she not understand the third wave of feminism at ALL?"

Which I do, and I am pretty sure that the third wave doesn't really approve of bald cooters in general but would certainly support my right to CHOOSE THE BALD COOTER.

Even if I think the third wave is totally offended that I took my husband's last name.

Anyway, there is no way it is all going to grow back before tomorrow morning so excuse me while I obsess about pubic hair grooming and blood clots and WHY HAS THAT GUY STILL NOT PICKED UP THE NOTE ABOUT THE DAMN CAR.

But everything is fine. Carry On.

Why Do People Keep Buying This Shit

Dear Very Pretty Pregnant Lady I Saw At QFC,

Why, for the love of GOD, were your wearing that thing in your hair?

I assume that you were trying to make your hair look fuller and longer. But whatever that thing was resembled neither the texture or weight of hair. Let alone come close to matching the color or shape of your hair. It look like a yarn and nylon craft project from a dunce student at Charlie Manson's School For the Psychotic and Demented.

That maternity dress was the cutest I have seen all spring though, and working at the chickiest place of all time I see a lot of maternity dresses.

Hope you have a lovely evening of eating the big old cartload of CARBS you were wheeling.

Sincerely,

The Woman Who's Boobs Your Husband Was Staring At

Should Be Snoring Not sniffling

I haven't been sleeping well.

When we were first together J and I went to sleep at the same time (God, that makes me sound both trampy and sedate, like we had sex right away but there was also SLEEPING). I got used to it. And being all schmoopy I just "couldn't" sleep if he wasn't around. Actually that is a total lie, I can always sleep once I get to sleep. You could rip the roof off of my house and I would probably keep sleeping. But I relaxed better when he was there and got to sleep faster.

Fast forward a few years and different schedules, add the two dogs and the damn cat and I am now very used to going to sleep alone. He gets up hours after I do so of course he comes to bed hours later too.

THIS SYSTEM WORKS FOR ME.

I get to spread out, have the pillows I like, read a little if I want to. Everything is MY WAY.

But lately he is so tired he has been coming to be earlier and earlier. And I just can't relax. He isn't doing anything, God knows he never talks or does anything, he is just there (and he brings his black dog of the damn RUNNING everywhere with him) and it is making me not sleep.

Separate bedrooms is starting to look fabulous.

Maybe we could have a third one to have sex in!

No one would have to sleep in the wet spot!

Houston, we have solved why everyone thinks they need five bedroom houses!

Of course if you have had a long day at work and are tired as hell and stressed about work and need to just relax and have a nice evening just do NOT watch this fucking movie. Unless you want to end up a sobbing mess who has no faith in the world and just keeps rocking back and forth in tears.

Smelling Good In The Neighborhood

Darla was starting to look a little like a mop. Also, possessed by an evil demon (but, undoubtedly a demon with MILK BONES). She was starting to bring in all manner of twigs and mud and GOD HELP US shit in the dregs of her coat. Just clumps of weird unmentionable things (that I just mentioned) would get caught up in there.

She smelled. Like a bog. A bog filled with strange toads that like to wallow in rotten pig pus.

Oh were you eating?


Anyway, that is the smell that clung to her at night when she would climb into my bed with it's PRISTINE just bleached high-thread count sheets and that is just unacceptable.

So yesterday, I said the words that every man longs to hear, "Baby, I think it is high time we shaved the dachshund."

Once he recovered from his disappointment that I did not want to do some erotic shaving and other sexual acts but rather wanted to groom the dog we got right to work. Or rather I did and he sat on the couch and played video games. Whatever works. He did hold her down through the belly shaving which is when I think she lost her dignity.

I swear to GOD about ninety-eleven pounds of hair came off of that damn dog. Things were caught in it that an entire team of top biologists, archeologists and zoologists could not identify. A team of experts would have looked at that fur and said, "Nope, NO IDEA what that shit is."

Anyway, then she got a bath and the water only turned beige which is a relief because last time it was gray and I can only begin to imagine what has to be caught in her coat for the water to turn gray.

Then I took this picture. Notice how the demon has been exorcised from her eyes? She hates me now. And you too!

But she smells DELICIOUS.

Memo

I do try never to write about work so here I am TOTALLY NOT WRITING ABOUT WORK, this is simply a hypothetical memo written to a hypothetical co-worker who might hypothetically sit next to some one who MIGHT RESEMBLE ME IN SOME SMALL WAY.

Notice to the worker in cube 666*,

Welcome to your new seat! We are pleased to have you settle with us. You might have noticed that you are not sitting at all with your team, this is because they have requested you be on another floor. Preferably as far as possible from them as you make them batshit crazy. Rest assured we are certain that you will make your new neighbors crazy too, but there was really nowhere we could seat you.

The way that you can make sure you fit in immediately is to make as much noise as possible. Bang on your keyboard and desk while programs load on your computer, screech into the phone as many hours of the day as possible, complain loudly about your new job which you took voluntarily and are being paid quite of money to do.

DO NOT turn off the sound on your computer! People REALLY like that little email notification blip sounding every three seconds for eight hours a day. It is like MUSIC.

The most important thing is to speak in baby talk. We know you want to make a professional impression and the best way to do that is to speak to EVERYONE very slowly and ask them several times where the "potty" is. If you can't think of a way to work the word potty into the conversation than just imitate two year olds. It is ENDEARING.

Welcome aboard! We have a pool going on when you the first person bludgeons you with a three hole punch. Try not to bleed on the carpet!

Sincerely,

The Welcome Wagon

PS. We chose July 3rd so if you don't mind.

*Actually, she is quite lovely and I am already growing used to her. Though she doesn't EXIST at all and is in fact totally made up. Mostly. Of course. DON'T DOOCE ME.

The Important Thing

My grandfather is apparently ok. My sister and I had a rather semi-weepy (I couldn't full on get into guilt mode on the phone because I was at work) conversation this morning about how neither of us called him for Father's Day. How neither of us sent a card. How WE DON'T DESERVE TO LIVE.

The truth is that neither of us is so terrible. Especially not her because she is MUCH better about calling our grandparents. They are old. They don't always understand you when you talk to them. My grandpa kept deleting my emails because he doesn't recognize my married name (and really cannot fathom why I stopped using the very twee nickname I went by when I was five). I love my grandparents, but it is just HARD. This is a reminder though, that it is worth the effort. That we need to do it now while we still can.

There are so many things I want to say to both my grandparents but I cannot think of a way to do it. Not without sounding like I am delivering the eulogy at their funerals while they are still alive.

I want to say thank you. For loving me and loving my sister so much. Thank you for playing ten thousand games of Candy Land. For cutting my bangs straight again after I butchered them again so my dad wouldn't find out. Thank you for the ice cream eating contests and the eighteen bedroom sets in your basement that you always let the kids play on. Thank you for having a GEORGE WASHINGTON themed bedroom. Thank you for Golden Glow*.

Every child deserves some one to think that they are perfect and to love them beyond reason. Your parents can't think you are perfect because they need you to push you to become more, to grow. Your parents have to see your flaws. But my grandparents just loved us and treasured us and would do anything for us. Every child deserves that but we are fortunate to have it even today.

We have much more to lose than other people. And we know we are going to lose it soon. But not today and that is the important thing.

No Idea

My 81 year old grandpa is in the hospital.

He is the nicest man to ever walk the earth. I cannot bear the idea of a world without him.

I really have no idea what to do.

Differently

Today was a great day. We woke up early, sort of groggy because of a late-running dinner with friends and Jenga-fest last night, and went to my parents' house for Father's Day. J and my dad smashed the shit out of their old entertainment unit--something I think my father has been dreaming of pretty much since he moved the fucking thing the first time. They put together the new stand and the very fancy and STUNNING plasma TV my parents just bought. We ate steaks and potatoes. We enjoyed each other and then J and I had to skate out earlier because our softball league started tournament play today.

Our dogs were in the dugout and being delightfully (and alarmingly) well-behaved. Our team was playing well, even hitting. The team we were playing had been undefeated all season but we were still in the game. And then it happened.

One of our best hitters hit a line drive way back, past the outfielders and onto the running trail behind the park. An asshole who was running by actually PICKED UP THE BALL and threw it in. UH HEY ASSHOLE WE ARE PLAYING A GAME. He had actually scored by then but the ump made him go back to third because of interference. Again THANKS ASS I KNOW THEIR CENTERFIELDER IS REAL PRETTY BUT GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.

He scored anyway so it didn't change the game. Except it did. Because when he got into the dug out and said, "I can't believe that guy Jewed me out of a homerun."

And that changed the game for me.

We kept playing, and couldn't really say much. But it really wasn't a fun day at the park anymore. I just wanted to go home.

I think we made a mistake. We chose not to say anything, we didn't want to ruin everyone's afternoon (obviously I do not give a shit about this guy's afternoon but the rest of the team didn't do anything). We should have jumped up and shouted. We should have done something.

It is hard to understand why we didn't.

Or maybe it isn't.

Because J put it pretty plainly in the car. Neither of us think the guy is anti-Semitic. It is pretty plausible that he didn't really think about the phrase (which honestly is worse because FUCK y'all, would you just drop any other racial slur?) but what if he is? What if one of us said something and he said that it is a free country and he can say what he wants (I know that is totally a fifth grade response but that is about his grade level).

Well if he did that we would have to leave. I couldn't have played. The team would have had to forfeit.

Instead we just said something to the manager at the end of the game. About how he should talk to the guy before the summer season starts or he is going to run into some problems with us. The manager half-heartedly apologized. I think he thought we were being too sensitive. Apparently Jews are just supposed to take that shit, just the way women are supposed to deal with sexist jokes and crude remarks.

But I feel differently about the day now.

I feel differently about the team and about the manager and about everything. And I feel differently about myself. I imagine myself as the kind of person that stands up for herself. And now I know differently.

Pimpage

More at the book blog.

Don't Say A Word

Last night I was cooking two dinners at once. That is right, cooking dinner for last night and assembling chili to put in the crockpot for tonight.

I am a domestic GODDESS.

Except not really.

I mean it worked out just fine, both dinners were good and I felt highly efficient. But I moved out of my parents house almost ten years ago and I still do not feel like I have this whole running my own house thing licked.

I actually like cooking. It is part pigging out part science experiment and who can argue with that. Especially since I can drink wine while doing it. It is the meal planning and the cleaning and the fucking dishes afterwards that I hate.

And I really hate that somehow it is my job.

This is not because J secretly expects me to do it. That he publicly talks about equality in marriage and then privately beats me with a stick until I make him a pie or something. It is just that he is a master of some husband games. Especially the one where he just doesn't do it because he knows, at least subconsciously, I will take care of it for him.

And I do. And the sick thing is that there is a deep dark part of me, a place that is too ugly and small and HIDDEN to even talk about, enjoys being able to do that.

Oh god, my college self just put a gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger. That was just too much for her to take.

It is too much for me to take. But you know, there is something deeply satisfying about having steam cleaned floors. There is something about being able to cook two meals at once.

But don't tell anyone.