I Know Technically It Is Tomorrow

I thought that I was home free and took DelSelva to the Nordstrom Rack to get him some shoes this morning. He pulled an Imelda and bought eight million pairs and I re-enacted Carrie in the bathroom.

Several hours, three clots the size of my fists and a trip to the ER later I have am now not miscarrying anymore. The hospital staff was a delight, DelSelva was a champ and of course my husband rules the world. I am so glad that it is over and have never had a more frightening day. Until you have filled multiple toilets with blood and clots in an hour you have couldn't understand. I was so scared and I knew what was happening--anyone who this happens to as a surprise deserves six months in Bermuda to recover.

I will be alright. The worst is definitely over now. Once you have an OB who is giving you a pelvic exam say, "oh crap, well I am glad I wore my SHOE COVERS" you have hit bottom.

Happy FUCKING NEW YEAR.

Still Here

I think the worst is over. It better be. The past two days have been me trying to fake feeling fine (failing miserably) and wanting to cry. I think I cursed myself 94,000 times for not just having the damn D&C because it sucks and it's still happening.

Thanks to everyone for their good thoughts, I am just trying to get through this and they really do help.

At least my tight jeans fit again. As do my regular bras. Amazing how that fucking works.

Time Bomb

Last week I was making all decisions based on what would be most likely to allow me to hold my shit together. I had a mixed success (only my boss at work knows what has happened but everyone keeps staring at me like I might start bawling and pull out a gun) and am just now sort of starting to feel much of anything (I mean besides the grief emotions and RAGE).

One of those decisions I made was to miscarry at home, I just couldn't face the surgery (even though I know it is so minor and BAH). Sometime Sunday I started questioning this, because it could take four weeks and damn it sucks having a ticking time bomb in your abdomen. So I put myself on a shortened timeline. Of course I have had cramps for three days and nothing doing (some blood today--sorry! GRAPHIC! Delicate people should come back later) so who knows how long this will take.

The doctor recommends using pads, no tampons, and while it took me a minute to figure out what he was talking about I did manage to drag myself to the drugstore to buy some after work. I haven't used a pad since about eighth grade (and somewhere on the internet lives the story of once I got a tampon stuck in my vagina yay me I am smart so look back for that treasure) because they are horrible. But somehow I sorted through the eighty-seven THOUSAND options and bought something. Resentfully. I don't see why I should have to PAY MONEY to bleed out my baby (wow, not doing as well as I thought, sorry for the bitter spurt).

Uncle Chris (ok funny story first, so I get home tonight and his dopp kit is on the back of the toilet. And no shit I could have SWORN his toothbrush holder was a little gray dildo and I was thinking HUH I mean I know this is his vacation but WOW. But no, TOOTHBRUSH HOLDER not anal penetration device, though I suppose it could be multi-purpose) is here this week and J was asking me all about how I was feeling and I look at the poor guy and I think SHUT UP HONEY DON'T MAKE OUR FRIEND LISTEN TO THIS. Because seriously, let's just watch Ninja Warrior on TV and let me enjoy the ibuprofen ok? We'll talk about it later.

All along I thought I just wanted this to be over. It isn't over, and may not be for a while, but the truth is that isn't what I wanted after all. I want this to be a dream, I want to go back to a week ago when I was so happy. But when this part is over I think it will be better, I won't have a bomb in my belly anymore after all.

What It Feels Like

Like the sudden rush of shit to the heart that comes with that phone call you get early in the morning from your mom, the one that starts with "Sweetheart, I have something to tell you . . " but repeated over and over for days and days.

Like the worst loneliness you can imagine, even when you are lying in bed holding hands with your husband who feels exactly the same as you do.

Like you have disappointed everyone you know. If you are like me, and ordinary, you have made both of your parents proud to bursting maybe twice in your life. And mine were so happy they were telling grocery clerks and now it's over.

Like your head is going to burst with rage. Anyone who says "it's God's will," will get a sharp object shoved up their ass. If God doesn't want me to have a baby then God can fuck himself.

Like the nights last for years because you are not sleeping.

Like your heart has been worked over with a cheese grater.

Like nothing matters.

Like the next thing that will happen to you is 4300 people will hock loogies on you at once.

Like your eyes have sprung open to how many people have gone through this very thing.

I know that it will not always feel this way. That one day it will not be so raw. But I know that I will never be quite the same--I'll be like a zipper that got off track and now sticks in that one little place. I just compared myself with a zipper so it also feels like being a crazy person.

Summing Up the Day

The Good: Darla did great with her surgery today and is home in a drug-induced loopiness.

The Bad: Baby is dead.

The Indifferent: Darla pissed all over me in the car.

Devastated

We had an ultrasound today. Where there was a gestational sac but not an embryo. Which means we are much less far along then we thought or no embryo developed.

I'm not doing much but crying at this point.

I hope that we were just WRONG. But I am pretty much sure it is over. And I am not sure what I am going to do.

Aftermath

The aftermath of this windstorm keeps dragging on. While we lost power for only a couple of hours thousands of people are still without it and will be for another week. And it has been freezing tempratures all week. There are record numbers of cases of carbon monoxide poisoning in the hospitals from people bringing grills and other outdoor heating elements inside. Many of these people are immigrants from warm climates--ill equipped to deal with the cold and unable to read the warnings against indoor use on the equipment.

J and are so lucky to have had power (and cable and internet--we are the spoiled brats of the world our wireless didn't even go down). My parents had their's returned over the weekend. It would be such a nightmare to not be able to go home.

I am pretty sure that this will finally stop the Californians from moving here. J and I joke and moan all the time when they show beautiful footage of the city on television. That is two thousand more Californians. This is such a beautiful area but so FUCKING CROWDED we need the bad publicity.

I was KIDDING UNIVERSE, no need to make the volcano erupt now too. I think the snow storm, the horrible Kim tragedy, this wind storm and the continued smokage of Mt. St. Helens should scare of most people--they'll go to Colorado instead.

Besides, look at our serial killer list.

Failure

Everyone has certain foods that start their day off right. For some people that is the classic bacon and eggs, for others just coffee and maybe a pastry. I am not big on breakfast but I love an English muffin (crispy if possible) with peanut butter. That with a glass of milk is a breakfast I can handle any day--whether I feel like it or not.

Except today, when my standard, always-delicious breakfast failed me. MISERABLY. Full body Excorsist puking.

Let us forget today ever happened.

I just need to come up with a new fail-safe meal. DAMN IT

Helpful

So. This sucked.

Hurricane strength winds y'all. We have had the most fucked up winter ever with snow and ice storms and flooding and now this shit. This is SEATTLE. We are supposed to have the mildest climate this side of San Diego.

Fortunately, we at the AB house lost power very briefly and were up and running again. I don't think we ever lost cable. I even got to keep my doctor's appointment this morning.

Others are not so lucky, namely almost everyone we know. Including my parents. My mother and I were talking this morning and she said, "well we have battery powered nothing." So I think she spent the day (schools were closed because no power) checking papers at Starbucks and shopping for baby furniture (she has picked out $1500 worth, UM? MOM).

But we are fine. J is still at fucking work (he is now pathological and I've given up, he just likes to work all the damn time) and I am lying on the couch moaning. I am so sick today I can barely stand it but stand it I will because actually I have no choice.

But at least I can try not to barf while watching MTV's The Duel. I mean that does help.

MIGHTY

I'm a strong, tough MIGHTY woman.

J has a potluck tomorrow. He wanted me to make scalloped potatoes (one of many dishes that I hate that I make that I absolutely hate but is apparently delicious). I really hate scalloped potatoes. The smell of the cream sauce just turns my stomach under the best of circumstances.

I am still baking them right now.

AM SAINT.

I haven't puked once. NERVES OF STEEL.

Brings New Meaning To The Phrase No Tears

It seems most pregnancy books agree, to paraphrase, that eight weeks is when you lose your damn mind. I would like to say that I have a better control of my hormones, emotions and damn self than that but that would make me a liar. The week ended in dry heaves, and heavy sobbing and many many tears. I was so sick and dizzy and miserable and seemed to make it my mission to take poor J along with me.

So I would like to pretend that none of this happened.

Saturday we went to his company's Christmas Party (since they make no pretense that this is a "holiday" party I see no reason I should). Last week I sent J to work with instructions to find out what the girls at his office were wearing to the party and he came back with these vague instructions of, "whatever. . . some people wear jeans some people wear dresses," which is decidely NOT HELPFUL and not his fault but fuck ladies help a sister out. If I had realized exactly how much older most of the workers were than us I might have skewed it a little dressier but I didn't and we showed up in cute jeans and nice shirts.

And were the most casually dressed people there.

There were people in beaded tops and cocktail dresses for fuck's sake. Of course, the bright side in all of this is that I could still rock my designer jeans and there was no damn way I was wearing a cocktail dress. So at least I didn't know ahead of time that I could be having a wardrobe crisis. Also, my boobs looked enormous. Like, I wondered if they were a little much but since I have never really had big boobs before I just went for it.

We won a crockpot though. That was worth going for. And we are still sort of inappropriately excited about it.

Today was a much better day. No heaving. No dizziness. No tears. That is practically perfection.

Why Garrison Keillor Can Suck My Dick

This (you have to watch an ad to get a site pass to salon) pissed me off beyond belief. Garrison Keillor, of Prairie Home Companion, basically demands that all non-Christians start celebrating Christmas or shut the fuck up.

At first blush, it seems like a much milder idea. And if Keillor was merely objecting people who are offended by Christmas well then I take this all back. But since I've encountered this idea a lot, that everyone should celebrate Christmas DAMN IT because we are AMERICANS AND IT IS REQUIRED BY LAW, and because I have never actually met a person who is offended by Christmas (people keep claiming they exit but I swear they are like Big Foot). Look, if you tell me Merry Christmas I will say thank you. If you send me a Christmas card I will thank you for the warm wishes and accept it as a lovely token of the season. I don't care if people hang lights or sing carols.

What I object to, is the FORCED participation in Christmas. Christmas doesn't belong in schools and I don't care if it is Santa or Jesus it just doesn't. There are millions of people in the world that don't participate in the holiday and believe it or not many live here in the US and some attend your local elementary school. Santa bothers me less than the religious stuff, obviously, but there is still this idea that Christmas is NORMAL AND RIGHT and people who don't participate are deviant and we will allow them to sit in this corner and watch. It's fucked up. So just quit it. If you want your kid to be in a Nativity or sing Santa songs well that is what church and community groups are for. Suck it.

Beyond anything else I HATE that people honestly cannot understand why two practicing Jews don't do Christmas. I was raised a Christian, I am well aware of the secular aspects of the holiday. But I was brought up to believe that the reason for the season is the birth of Christ. That all of the joy and generosity that now stem from these traditions are inspired by this event. And I don't believe in Jesus. So it strikes me as horribly disrespectful to all Christians to do their holiday with less than a whole heart. That may not be true for your family, even if you are Jewish or atheist or Hindu or whatever. But it is true for mine.

The other side is that Christianity and Judaism are incompatible belief systems. You cannot believe both, I do not care what people say about Judeo-Christian beliefs. You just can't. And Christians have a long, sordid history of forcing Jews to participate in Christianity. So it is pretty fucking incredible that people expect it of us now. DEMAND it of us now without thinking of that. We celebrate the day with my family. We help them celebrate. That is a way that we feel comfortable with. Would everyone else (including my parents) be a lot happier if we got a tree and sent out cards and just conformed? Probably. But that really is bullshit. It's inappropriate and disrespectful and I am TIRED of being pushed on it.

When I was a child, I really felt the joy of the season. I didn't have the capacity to really feel all the spiritual things that are tied up in it but I have fantastic memories of those times. I do not have the ability to feel that way about Christmas anymore. And that is fine with me. And it should be fine with everyone else too. Maybe the reason they get so upset about our practices is that they find their own wanting.

On The Market

I went and got a haircut on Saturday.

Let us all clap and cheer that I don't look like a yeti anymore. It had been three months people, I had enough hair for us all.

I love my hairdresser because he is just the right proportion of paying attention and self-absorbed. And he is single so he always has drama to tell me about. Example. This week? His girlfriend dumped him via text message.

I immediately blurted out, "Who do you think you are? K-FED?"

Which is funny right? And he snickered. And then he turned all twitchy faced and was all, "I bet she thinks that is HILARIOUS."

Way to be an asshole AB.

Honestly, I do not understand breaking up with your boyfriend of THREE YEARS over a text message. Or breaking up with anyone that way. I suppose this is the new breaking up with the answering machine but it is a monster dick move. And he was pitiful. All, angsty and talking about how he wanted to work it out but she wouldn't even talk to him and blah blah blah.

I swear he was about to write in his diary and listen to the Cure all afternoon after I left.

I've confessed here before that I think he is just adorable. Dreamy even. And can you imagine how great your hair would look if your boyfriend blew it out for you every morning?

Good thing J has me in lock-down huh?

Wide Awake

I've been up since 4 am. I woke up to pee and then had to deal with a dachshund who wanted to play in the now snow-free yard. By the time I got settled back in bed I was hungry and after yesterday I am not messing with hungry (even after my double cheeseburger I was still hungry, I could eaten five of those fuckers).

This is how I am lying on the couch, eating cereal (still hungry!) and watching City Confidential on Ti-Faux.

I grabbed a blanket out of the linen cupboard and it smelled a little stale. So I sprayed it down with Febreeze. Anyone else notice that Target's generic Febreeze smells exactly like Brut cologne? This is my grandpa's cologne so I find it a comforting and homey smell. Wrapped up in my grandpa--not such a bad way to begin a Saturday.

At Least I Didn't Actually Vomit On The Train

WHY does Mystery, Alaska make me cry?

I a had a terrible, dirty rotten, no-good day involving intense hunger and no desire to eat and PUKING. Y'all are on the edge of your blog-reading seats yes. It seemed to drag on forever and damn I am glad to be back at home on my couch under a blanket. If only J could hurry with the cheeseburger (the poor dear, he called early and I was crying because I was hungry--gee I AM RATIONAL).

So, go read Alice, who is a fucking genious. I am so irritated by the shit that this country puts women through about motherhood. And now we are supposed to be in a state of constant readiness to be incubators and GOD FORBID we enjoy any adult pleasures like booze when GASP think of the children.

Notice that men have to give up jack shit. So much for solidarity.

Nothing to see here, I am all het up about not much and lying on the couch hoping for death (or a cheeseburger).

Beware Kittens

J left Buster's ear medicine on the couch with the top unscrewed. The ENTIRE bottle saturated the couch and now the entire house smells like candy peaches.

I think this is the meanest thing he has ever done to me.

Clearly unintentional, he doen't usually read here so I am sure he had no idea that the smell makes me want to hack up kittens with an axe.

God, it is like living in an ear mite medicine SWAMP.

Who Could Blame Him?

For the most part I feel really good. Tired and headachey. And I HAVE to eat or the world will spin the wrong way and people will die and the sun will turn purple but overall I don't feel so bad.

Which freaks me out constantly. Maybe something is wrong. Why don't I feel sick? And then I will lie there and think about gross things until I am ready to puke and then I almost puke and can't make it stop and start whining OH WOE TO ME.

I wish I were kidding.

Certain smells, which used to be maybe not my favorites but not repulsive are now Unacceptable. Just the slightest whiff of them make me want to fry up some human eyeballs. RAGE.

1. Buster's ear medicine (which smells like candy peaches which what is wrong with that?)
2. J's breath after a bean burrito.
3. Dog food.
4. Beer
5. Coconut hand lotion

These scents are Day Ruiners and should be avoided by EVERYONE IN THE WORLD until they stop bothering me. Do not make me ring vengence upon you all.

Certain foods have become Essential. Cereal. Frozen waffles. CHEESEBURGERS. My god. Pretty much those three and lemon candies are all I want to eat anymore.

I am pretty sure J wants to hold my head under water.

Crimes Against Kittens

This is the only good thing that happened to me today. Which is a good sign that I truly belong in Hell because DAMN enjoying the humiliations of your cat is clearly wrong.

And so fucking fun.

Rooster done got herself hooked into a plastic bag and with a crash that made my heart jump into my throat she knocked over two chairs and scared the dogs. She went and hit behind the bathtub--something that she can only do because we have a clawfoot. I couldn't coax her out, not with cooing, not with treats. So I did what anyone would do.

I got my camera.

The flash pissed her off and she bolted for under the guest room bed where I took this picture (notice the kitty death stare--I am pretty sure my heart will stop at exactly two am tomorrow morning). I did free her from the stupid bag (while she tried desperately to be seem disinterested all, "YAWN, well free me from whatever this thing is I barely noticed it, I don't care at all, but HURRY").

And then I posted it on the internet.

I expect my Hell bus any moment.

Grand Plan Failure

I was stuck at home all day today. At one point I had worked myself into such a guilt-induced hissy that I was about to get dressed and just GO even if it was a dumb idea. But I didn't go and instead spent the rest of the day on the couch.

I had grand plans, my house is an absolute pig sty and I have not been able to get it together to get it clean, why not take advantage of a non-sick day off of work when I cannot do a damn thing and clean the house?

I didn't do any of it y'all. All I did was eat and sleep and then eat some more. I don't want food ever again at this point and yet I have to slop the hogs in my stomach every couple of hours. I am embarrassed by myself at this point but I am a big giant cliche. All I did was sleep today and yet here it is 8:30 and I am totally ready for bed.

It is supposed to fucking snow again. Delightful.

I Hate The Goddamn Snow

Oh for FUCK'S SAKE.

Snowed in.

I really needed to be at work today and it isn't like I could even go back to sleep so I am just chilling on the couch. Watching my neighbors attempt to get out. If they are struggling to get off the street, then how the hell would I get 20 miles south into the city?

More than six inches and everything is iced down (yeah I hear the laughing from the east coast but we don't have snow removal equipment and everything is so hilly here). So I guess it is me and the dogs and my sweatpants eating frozen waffles today.

That sounds more fun than it actually will be.

I Hate The Fucking Snow

Well shit.

I sort of chuckled when I talked to my mother this morning and she was surprised that we didn't have snow. Bah! It's not that cold so of COURSE it won't snow.

I came out of the mall and DAYAM.

Six inches of snow. We actually had a small tree buckled under the weight and be pulled up out of the ground by the roots.

And we are supposed to get six more inches tonight. If there is a foot of fucking snow on the ground tomorrow I am not getting to work unless some one brings a hovercraft to my door.

Which somehow I doubt they will do.

DAMN IT.

I Am Sure Buster Will Assist Me With The Napping

Every year my mom and I go shopping on the Friday after Thanksgiving. We have an elaborate strategy--early start downtown, while the parade is happening, and then lunch when the parade ends. If we do it properly we are pretty much ready to go after lunch.

We were pretty wildly successful today, even though I wiped out beyond belief.

I need a nap.

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving y'all.

The past year has been so amazing and I have so much to be thankful for: my beautiful home, being married to my best friend, the incredible directions both of our careers have gone, that my sister has fallen in love and gotten married--I can barely even list them all.

Of course I am most grateful for the chickpea that is making me feel so fucking sick today--a sure sign that he/she has stuck around another day. I had a crazy hormone driven sinus meltdown headache at my mom and dad's house today. I really missed being able to medicate that because DAYAM. Some of the pressure has been lifted now thanks to ice packs, hot rags and a shower but gross. And horrifying that nothing can be done.

But I am pretty sure the chickpea is still around.

So definitely a happy Thanksgiving.

I Fucking Hate Google

A friend of mine had a miscarriage yesterday.

She was twelve weeks, had pretty much told the entire world. She was supposed to be in the "safe" zone.

Of course you are never safe.

This was an oops baby, her first isn't even a year old. But she and her husband were thrilled, they wanted a big family.

I have nothing to say to that.

And because I am selfish and horrible I cannot help obsessing about myself. I read a horrfying thing--that 15% of known pregnancies end in miscarriage. And there is nothing to do but wait until you find out if you drew the short straw.

I do not know what would happen to me if I lost this baby. I only know that I feel as though I hit the jackpot playing with my last nickel--only to be told now that I have what I wanted all along I have to keep playing for nine more months.

I Mean What Do You Follow That Up With

I have nothing to follow that up with.

I guess what no one tells you is that after you find out and freak out and start being really paranoid there isn't much to do. I mean the little freeloader is in there growing but it's not like he/she needs me to toss a hammer in there to help with construction. All there is to do is wait and worry and sleep.

GOD THE SLEEPING.

Well I did go to the doctor today, because they require that you take a test at their office (even though FUCK that noise since I already took two) and I had a mini-panic attack. What if I made this whole thing up? WHAT IF I AM TOO DUMB TO TAKE A PREGNANCY TEST?

It didn't help that J kept asking me if I had studied.

Not surprisingly (says the girl who put off returning the nurse's call for an hour) I am totally still pregnant. Now I just have to sit around some more.

Take A Moment and Say It With Me--HOLY SHIT

Two weeks ago I started noticing some strangeness.

I have been sleeping a lot. Going to bed at like 9pm. Napping through a lot of the 49ers (huge upset!) win yesterday. I felt like I was getting some sort of weird flu that I couldn't shake.

My breasts starting getting huge. For a small-breasted gal, popping out of C-cups (especially when you were just measured last month) is alarming. My nipples have been hard for three weeks straight. And they are the size of dinner plates (are you blushing? sorry to be so graphic y'all).

Most people would see where this was going but J and I have been total fucking failures in the reproductive department and we had no real reason to see this changing. The denial is strong with me yes. But since my breasts were starting to look like they had been carved out of marble (SO HARD, they don't even move anymore--like I got the fakes implants ever) and I could sniff out an orange from seven miles away my pal Linda (who is still on a break so why link her) bullied me into testing.

The second line appeared instantly. And I went screeching (I would like to pretend that I did this with calm dignity but I am pretty sure I sounded like a hysterical hyena) into our bedroom to wake up J who stared at me all stoned-looking and shocked. He thought I was lying or making shit up.

But y'all I done got myself all knocked up.

It took two and half years and a whole shitload of unprotected marital activity but the AB's are having a baby.

Worst Wife Ever

J bullied me into going golfing with him since it is the last decent weather of the year. And he totally got schooled by the thirteen year old. The poor kid, I felt sorry for him paired with us (and we were behind the most obnoxious slow-assed drunks) and we did attempt to set a good example.

We failed miserably.

But J did get stomped by a child which was AWESOME. I probably shouldn't enjoy that so much.

BUT I DO.

A Little Scary

We went to a hockey game tonight which is always good for mullet spotting. It is also a way to become really fucking pissed off at the stupid bitch next to me--the one who couldn't keep her damn legs closed (they had to be spread WIDE open, no wider than that, so that she was shoving me with her damn fat knees--J kindly pointed out that obviously she had never kept her legs closed given the HERD of children she had with her) and kept screaching at her kids to keep quiet WHILE HANDING THEM NOISEMAKERS AND COWBELLS GEE LADY WHY WOULD THEY BE LOUD?

It was a fun night though and we got to see friends of ours for the first time in quite a while. It was scary though, because the wife (who has a chronic illness) has clearly lost a lot of weight, her hair has thinned, something is obviously wrong. She has been ill her whole life and is not one to talk about it, so it wasn't something we could ask about. But it was startling to see her like that.

At least she ate a pizza--she can't be that ill.

The Season

J is back from Montana (after a harrowing threat of being stuck there and then having to fly halfway around the damn country to get here--one would think that it wouldn't be so damn hard to get home from somewhere so close to here), not that I am enjoying his company. Dude's working late AGAIN.

I was talking to this woman I know about the upcoming holidays and how crazy they can be. And I know that being Jewish means that Christmas is a whole hell of a lot less stressful than for those who celebrate it and since my family is small Thanksgiving is actually relaxing (especially since my mother actually likes cooking the meal!). But she told me that she spends about ten thousand dollars on Christmas.

TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS.

Where do people get ten thousand dollars? And why would they spend it on a holiday and not on a trip to Hawaii in January? She buys her kids everything on their lists and elaborate gifts for every member of her family. Plus they have huge family meals.

Now I can understand wanting to make the holidays special for your children. And wanting them to have beautiful memories is a noble goal. But I don't know, maybe I am naive but I don't think you need to spend ten thousand dollars to do it. I was stressed out just talking to her, no wonder she was so freaked out.

What I really didn't understand was her assertion that she "had" to do the holidays this way. No one has to do Christmas any particular way. Even if you have always done elaborate celebrations you can change that at any time. The point is to enjoy the holidays (religiously, secularly, as family occasions, however) in a way that works for your family. And anyone who gets bent because they are used to cashmere throws as gifts and got a fruit cake instead because you are trying to work within a budget can fuck themselves.

Though possibly you could word Grandma's card differently.

I sympathized with her so much but at the same time just lost patience. Suck it up and admit that you like blowing that much money and you enjoy it (which ok) or change it. But complaining about it or wondering aloud if you are raising spoiled children (because yes you are, though I am sure they are lovely--but seven year olds who own 200 dollar jeans are generally spoiled) is pointless.

I can't even think of a way to spend ten thousand dollars on toys for my kids (even if I had them). DAYAM. Maybe she'll adopt me--I do want a KitchenAide mixer.

I Don't Enjoy Being A Girl

I just ate a dinner of onion rings and watched NFL Replay--what's next? Scratching my balls on the couch and practicing my belching?

I did buy these (but on SALE) today so I am not a complete man. I really love them even though I know they are on the hootchy side. When I tried them on I am was just skipping around all happy which is exactly how new boots should make you feel. Of course now I need to pick out an outfit so I can wear them tomorrow. WHAT? Like you don't do that? You have to wear them the first day or it means you don't really like them. My mom taught me that.

In other news my boobs are still larger than normal and now they hurt. Sometimes being a girl sucks.

SELFISH

J is off being all fancy businessman in Montana (where he had a long discussion with the rental car company about not giving him a BIG GIANT RENTAL CAR--I thought Texas was where everything is bigger) and I am kicking it single girl style. Sadly, no male strippers just too many pizza rolls and cans of Diet Dr. Pepper (am living the wild life).

I used to love to live alone but now I feel like a big giant cliche because not so much. It is just sort of creepily quiet plus the dogs are being pissy about having to accept their medicinal cheese from me. The also both decided to have diarrhea in the cellar today which made that smell . . . delicious?

Why does Buster's ear medicine smell EXACTLY like peach candy? It is totally ruining peach candy for me.

In other news my boobs are . . .looking odd.

Just prior to my ladytime the girls tend to swell up a bit. This month they have swollen a lot--enough that I am thinking that maybe J has been using them for a kick boxing workout--and are pointing just slightly uh outward? Like my nipples are two lazy eyes? I don't know, it is freaking me out. It took me entirely too long this morning to jam my breasts into a bra.

And sadly, the one person I could legitimately make discuss my breasts with me is in Montana. Damn selfish man.

Positive or Negative?

We have a Sunday routine now. There is usually an early football game we want to see, one that is unavailable on our cable network because somehow the schedulers think that even people who live on the West Coast don't give a shit about teams on the West Coast and award us the fucking Eagles/Redskins game, and so we head to our bar around the corner.

We fucking love this bar.

It is a total dive. It has improved as the season has progressed because they got a second toilet in the ladies' room and there used to just be a rusty hole.

But the people are nice, we have our designated TV, they are generous with the booze in drinks (and they are value priced) and the breakfast is pretty good for a bar. And cheap to boot.

I still like watching the game better at home. Usually the audio is for a game on another TV and I miss the commentary (well sometimes because sometimes football commentary is worse than baseball commentary and that seems fucking impossible). I like curling up under a blanket at home and asking dumb questions (I am trying to learn all the penalty hand signals this year because it annoys me that J can guess the penalties first). At the bar it usually takes me a couple of bloody marys (fortunately the double is only four dollars on Sunday!) to loosen up enough to not feel self-conscious to scream FUMBLE FUMBLE FUMBLE at every opportunity (I mean, I still do it, even though it makes me self-conscious I can't help myself).

But it is sort of interesting to have your bar. We've carved a little spot in there for ourselves. We know most of the regulars, at least by sight, and the bartender and cook. They through us off today though, the regular bartender was sick and they had their weekday gal in there. I missed the regular one, she was much faster and looser with the drinks. But you can't have everything.

Two years ago I had watched maybe one NFL game all together. Today I walked into a bar and was greeted by "HEEEEEEEEEEEEY, the fucking 49ers fans are here! Change the corner TV."

I'm not sure what kind of accomplishment that is exactly.

DIFFERENT AND DIFFICULT

One of the big issues in my marriage is food.

Well, I mean sort of. I guess food is just where some of this comes out at is--in big ugly messes that lead to weird judgments of each other--the truth is the big issue is more of he didn't grow up the same as me and I didn't grow up the same as him and so together we are weird.

We are busy people. I like to cook but don't really have time for extensive meal planning. I think I am a good enough cook--I could be better but again these things take time which is one damn thing I do not have the episodes of Ellen on my Ti-Faux aren't going to watch themselves you know. So to me, when I take time and make something special that is like a statement. Not to get to melodramatic and oh my GOD like those girls who squeal at work, but you know it is part of taking care of my husband (fuck, I sound like such a tool but whatever notice I don't do it every day--he is grown adult he can feed himself). Unfortunately, J doesn't take it that way. He just shrugs it off as dinner and will gleefully eat leftovers right before because he's "hungry NOW" and doesn't want to wait. I mean he is just snacking, he'll still eat dinner, but to me it is like he just doesn't fucking care about me and my efforts and to him it is just eating.

Yes, I am aware that I am a giant fucking cliche.

The truth is that neither of us are wrong, which is sadly usually the case. We are just different and even when we explain our sides to each other there is some heading shaking on both of our parts and how SILLY the other is. He thinks dinner is just dinner and not a metaphor for our entire MARRIAGE?! And he has already moved on to thinking about gravy or something.

DIFFERENT.

At any rate it is both frustrating and unsolvable really, unless we would like to go back in time and have the same family of origin which would create a whole NEW SET of issues and be about eighty-eleven kinds of gross. So we just try to slog through it and not kill each other. So far so good.

Not sure I will make brined porkchops with lemon pepper new potatoes again any time soon though.

Soon

I have to admit there was some boozing in the AB household last night. There were drinks because we were happy, drinks because we were nervous that we were being too optimistics, drinks because things could still go wrong and drinks because they didn't.

I gave up early, watching returns is kind of dull. But the boys were up forever obsessing about the details.

I feel like the President has set back the country a couple of decades. That civil rights and the economy and our reputation in the world is going to take a generation to recover. This doesn't fix anything it just stops the bleeding.

Of course now J is talking (ok he already was) about 2008. I'm not quite ready for that.

But more ready than I was on Monday.

Thanks Seneca

Since this town is entirely shut down by record flooding and rain and wind and the traffic from Monday Night Football I came home early.

The house is still standing, that feels good.

It is oddly warm out--am worried that we are going to get cyclones or thunder or something.

The weekend was eventful. We went to the chiropractor where various joints and bones were cracked. We took Darla and Buster to the vet. My parents' dog Madeline tried to come home with us and had to be bodily removed from our car.

I am not ready to talk about Darla yet. Let me just say she has a potentially dangerous but probably nothing condition that is going to have to be addressed. I am being a big fucking baby about it (including a kind of humiliating meltdown in the car where I wiped my nose with my HAIR) but trying to get it together.

She is going to be FINE because my dogs are IMMORTAL and CANNOT DIE ESPECIALLY RIGHT NOW.

Obviously I am rational.

Seneca Wallace is kicking the shit out of the Raiders right now. I think that is going to help my denial.

Why Is Skin So Annoying

Why is it when you get a sunburn it tans out in a day or two to a lovely brown color but when you burn your hand on the door of the oven it just turns into an angry red spot?

At least the cookies are delicious.

Damn Candy

I believe that the Milky Way Midnight Bite Size are either the most perfect food ever created or a diabolical weapon from an unknown foe. Because I CANNOT stop eating them. Except for now, because I ate them all.

Well played unknown foe. WELL PLAYED.

I Am The Only One That Misses My Meg Ryan Cut

I feel like all I talk about anymore is my hair but I am still going to do it. Since it has crossed over from medium into long (but just barely long) I am getting a lot of comments. Universally complimentary, usually of the vaguely insulting kind (ie, "it's so cute NOW). It is a little ridiculous how much the boys seem to like it--do y'all have to be cliches? But even J has become just a normal piggy guy with begging me not to cut it.

I seem to be the only one that misses the short hair. Don't get me wrong, I think it looks good and it isn't SO MUCH work. But I just really identified with the sort of spunky, messy cuts that I used to get. To me they were cute and a little sexy but could be made casual or sophisticated. I just felt really comfortable in them. Turns out I was the only one and people just love love love the new look.

So I am trying to adjust to the boredom of long hair (it just looks the SAME every day--I mean yeah sometimes I wear it wavy but I don't know, so SAME) and DAYAM am I loving the return of pony tails on the weekend. Which brings me to my major complaint.

Fucking hair accessories.

I know I was a little scarred by the eighties. I still can't do pastels or colored socks or anything with hearts involved. And those claw clips with weird shapes on them have made me shudder at anything but the most basic (black) pieces. I found this really cute one last week, round plastic with these rubber strips in the center (fuck I am not describing this well--I'm making is sound like a primevil gynelogical torture device) that holds your pony tail. Looks sleek and clean. And doesn't FUCKING FIT OVER MY REALLY THICK GODDAMN HAIR. Which is the story of my life with hair--I break clips and rubber bands all the time. Updos do not stay. My hair just wants to be big and all over the place.

SEE WHY I MISS THE SHORT STUFF?

Happy Halloween

I've only gotten four trick or treaters tonight. One came when J was here alone (a toddler dressed as a pirate--SHUT UP that is so freaking cute). The last three came together and not a one of them was in a costume. Fuck that noise. I mean I still gave them candy but dude.

I'm not a big Halloween person. I like it in theory. I really like the IDEA of scary movies. I do. They seem like they would be fun, others like them. And who doesn't love being scared shitless?

Oh wait ME.

I can't do the horror movies. Repeat exposure seems to help. But you know, that means I have to get through it a time or three to be able to stand it. And some of them I just cannot do. They don't even have to be actually scary. Like Scream scares the absolute shit out of me. That whole scene with Drew Barrymore in the beginning has reduced me to tears more than once when it is playing on the Lifetime Movie Network. How scary can a movie on Lifetime be. Apparently enough for me.

So we didn't do costumes this year. But I really wanted to. And I think we will have to come up with something fun to do next year. And I love seeing all the little kids in their costumes. That is why I am so upset about the trick or treaters.

There better be a small child dressed as some sort of ape or cowboy or something showing up at my door or I will probably cry worse than I do during Scream.

Landslide

So. I have written here about my unspeakable love for Jamie Hyneman.

My pal Linda made fun of me just this week about this. Even though she has a thing for freaking Bobby Flay. Which to me is much more embarrassing and unexplainable. But don't take my word for it. Let's have a Jamie vs. Bobby fight to the finish.

Bobby Pros: Can cook anything, anywhere, anytime. I imagine Mr. Flay would be on permanent KP duty in any household. And given the size of his man-boobies he shouldn't talk too much shit about any cellulite you might have. He does have hair--even if it is a little poofy. Excellent people skills and sense of humor. He's pretty famous, enough that I am sure he gets free shit but not SO FAMOUS that there are many groupies. And if they are food groupies and probably chubby. Or bulemic. He knows about wine. Also, he seems like the type to wear a man-thong if that is your preference. Just saying.

Bobby Cons: Man-boobies. Poofy hair. Kind of arrogant. Huge ego. Would undoubtedly be snobby as shit about any crappy food that you might want to eat--no boxed macaroni and cheese, no pudding cups. A peanut butter sandwich cannot be a fucking peanut butter sandwich it must also have cayenne pepper, pecan butter and four berry jam.

Jamie Pros: Rakish ability to wear berets. Handy with tools. Almost alarming science ability. Ripped out body (did you see the episode that he wore a latex body suit in? DAYAM). Calm in pressure situations. Owns a drill press. Could adapt Coke machine to actually deliver sodas to my couch. Walrus mustache. Blows shit up for fun. Drop dead sexy.

Jamie Cons: Bald. Eerily calm. Nerdy possible to a fault. Has annoying sidekick. Science groupies probably wear seductive underwear. Doesn't wear latex suit every day. Walrus mustache.

WINNER: JAMIE

Landslide victory baby.

THANK FUCKING GOD

Back when I got my new job we sort of thought J was getting one too. One of his clients had been sniffing around him for months. Since then it has been drug through eight thousand different kinds of drama. We've been up and down a hundred times. I admit I've hit the panic button at least three times thinking we were headed to my mom and dad's basement. But today, today he got the offer. He took it.

I have a feeling there will be some drinking tonight.

Like Actual Whore's Wear Tights

My mother and I have many long standing arguments about fashion.

She likes ugly shit covered in glitter and I rip it screaming from her hands. She wears colors that she knows are unflattering just because they are "bright," I really think you should stick to shit that looks good with your skintone.

I have talked her out of tapered pants, pleats, bulky sweaters and her scarily blond hair color. But I have never been able to make her budge on pantyhose.

I don't wear pantyhose. My mother thinks this is a generational thing, which maybe but the older women at my office don't wear pantyhose either. I think that they make you hot and sweaty in the warm weather and do not keep you warm at all in the winter. You still have to shave because squished down leg hair is even uglier than just leg hair. You are fooling no one with the skin color changes either--that shit ain't found in nature. Overall pantyhose serve no purpose and are uncomfortable and ridiculous.

And my mother fucking loves them. She wears them all of the time. WITH PANTS EVEN. With open-toed shoes. There is no stopping the pantyhose train for her. And she is just bewildered that I don't love them as much as she does.

She was further horrified that the only pair of hosiery I currently own are fishnet tights. Which are completely work appropriate in my fashion-oriented environment. Even the grey-haired executives in my office don't blink an eye, even complimenting me on how "sassy" I look. Older men and women on the bus look at me like I am a whore.

But I have news for you pantyhose lovers out there. Fishnets are the most flattering hosiery out there. The pattern makes your legs look firmer and leaner (and distract from any jiggliness of which I have none of course). They are infinitely more comfortable. They take a normal outfit--black skirt, black sweater--and make it fashion forward.

Plus they don't make you look my mother.

And I swear, you won't look like a whore.

Dear People At Work, I Don't Think You Want Me With You Today

Yesterday I got these flashes of light in my vision that tragically were not caused by dancing too close to a disco ball and letting the vodka martinis go to my head. I had a horrible, face-draining, doozy of a migraine. The kind of migraine that makes everything go flashy and that makes you use words like doozy unironically. I toughed it out at work as long as possible and them limped onto a bus. I didn't puke on the bus (go me!). And I took the longest, hottest shower in the history of showers and ended the day lying on the couch moaning and whining (much to the delight of J, who earned a Husband Scout Marriage Badge of some sort last night because he made pancakes).

I woke up this morning feeling like I spent the night contorted in a vice so I guess work wasn't happening. The dogs are supervising my day of moaning and whining (they are asleep so I think I am not doing it loud enough) and hopefully I will be chipper again soon.

I have a hard time staying home from work. I feel vaguely guilty even if I am really sick. Like somehow I need to prove to my collegues that I am sick enough to be home. Even though I know I don't give a shit when they stay home so why would they care when I do? But still, I am trying to resist the urge to take digital pictures of myself being pitiful and emailing them along. I try to at least appear professional to those at work. They don't need to know what a sad sack of patheticness I really am. I'm not really sure how well I am pulling that off though.

But Don't Hold Your Breath

J and I went golfing again today--uh we went last Sunday WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME WHY IS THE WORLD TURNING THE OTHER DIRECTION?!--and it was a gorgeous day. But why did no one tell me that golf courses in the greater Seattle area are not as warm as those in Florida? I was SHOCKED by the development since that meant I needed to wear a damn fleece and (sadly) I had my down jacket with me. It turned into a gorgeous day but the shady parts of the course were not so AB friendly. I take back all my whining in Florida. I will take 55 degrees over this 40 degree shit.

Also different? No palm trees or palmettos. WHO KNEW?

I feel like I am just now recovering from our trip. Work was just rough this week. SO much shit to do (and drama at home), still sort of jet lagged. So many hours. UGH. Plus, you know, had to stay up and watch Project Runway on Wednesday.

I gave Darla a hair cut and a bath yesterday (deserving a purple heart in the process let me say) because J had to take Buster to get his shots and ears checked. We are the kind of terrible dog owners that we allow our pugs ears to smell like a cesspool before we do anything about it. Understandably neither dog liked us much last night. Something about abandoning them for a week and then either trying to drown them of allow stranger to tackle and the jab needles into their skin.

We're sequestered in our cellar now. Eating cheetos, watching football (SHIT is Hasselback OUT?) and relaxing.

Maybe I'll stop being boring this week.

Confession

I must confess that I had mentally composed, but not actually written, a slightly smug but attempting to be uplifting post about how things are pretty damn good lately.

After a few years of just piles of shit falling on our heads good things had really started to happen in the AB household. My health is the best that it has been in a long time, we are getting ready to begin infertility treatments, my career is good, J's career is good, we have a gorgeous house, good friends, my parents are in good health. Everything is fucking fabulous.

I think I felt like we deserved the good stuff, after the bad. Even though our bad is nothing like the bad that people who have it really bad go through. It isn't losing your family in a tsunami bad, or being so poor you can't feed your children bad or even becoming a widow at an early age bad. And I don't believe that people earn happiness either. I don't think God, or whatever great force you might believe in, chooses sides that way. Rewarding one person seems like punishing those who are suffering. I don't really think that the world works that way.

But still, I felt so good and so confident that we had turned this corner.

I think everyone knows where this is headed. Nothing horrible has happened yet. I suppose that should be our family motto. Perhaps I will take up needlepoint and embroider that shit on a sampler. But things have slid downward a hair.

And I am devestated. Not because things are so bad but because I am losing the ability to ever feel good about my life. It feels impossible to feel hope or pleasure or comfort. I am heartbroken.

Maybe that is how it is supposed to be.

At Least I Am Not Posting Photos Of My Urine . . .YET

It's not that my sister's wedding wasn't grand and all it is just that it resembled nothing like a vacation. It was stressful and the hotel sucked and at times we were bored (it was vacation-like in that J whined about golf a lot and was drunk the whole time). We had the longest day in the history of the world yesterday--with delayed flights and a last second terminal change that had us running (ME RUNNING) to catch the plane and my mother got very stoned to convince herself that small planes don't bother her a bit.

We got home very late only to have to drive to Egypt to pick up the dogs who were PISSED that we left them with Travis for a week. And then we passed out. There is blood in my urine, I have a fever and feel like vomiting. Work was crazy. And I am just fucking tired.

I promise to be more interesting later. Of course I have been promising that for months so it just could be that this interesting is all relative.

Not Sure I Am The New Tiger

I went golfing this morning.

I didn't actually golf, GOD NO, but I got up for an early tee time this morning. I wore a jacket because the sun was not heating things up yet. I drove the cart and I hunted through the damn woods when J lost his ball at almost every hole.

Six months ago J started golfing. I was in denial at first. I thought he would get bored. Or lose interest. But he just got more and more sucked in. He goes to the driving range a couple of times a week. Tries to play a round a couple of times a month. He watches golf on TV. He reads books about it. I know where entirely too many golf superstores are located.

Clearly this is a more than a passing fancy.

Since we were trying to treat this trip as at least a partial vacation he golfed with my aunt on Friday and wanted to go again before we went home. So I came as the laziest caddy ever. And took a lot of pictures. And made fun of his posture.

I actually had a good time. Gorgeous course, beautiful day and just a nice relaxing time. He wants me to take lessons so that we can do this as a couple.

He has grand visions of golfing vacations and hours spent together on this new shared hobby. I guess I can try. Especially if he can manage to get tee times that don't make me drag my ass out of bed so early.

Low Standards

I am so pissed off at the fucking Comfort Inn.

We are not fancy hotel people. Mainly because we are cheap and can only afford cheap vacations. And I have long loved the Comfort Inn because they are a middle priced hotel (not CHEAP but not crazy expensive either) but clean and well . . comfortable.

My sister lives in a tiny town. A tiny town that has expensive ass hotels so the Comfort Inn here is nowhere near cheap. And is a fucking dump.

It is dirty. They didn't clean our room for fucking three days (and only cleaned it today because my mom pitched a fit). It is smoky. There is mold on the ceiling in the bathroom. An employee just walked right in when we were getting dressed for my sister's wedding (hope you enjoyed staring at my boobs dude). They were installing carpet at EIGHT AM above our room the first night.

And we are paying entirely too much for the priviledge.

When we get home I am going to be writing a lot of letters to their corporate offices and reviews on travel sites. If you are to charge this much you ought to not be completely fucking disgusting.

Happy Eight Hour Anniversary Kiddo

My sister got married today.

My mother was still baking wedding cakes this morning, J and I were doing hits off his flask throughout the day, my dad's zipper wouldn't close and I spent a surprising amount of my day taping my mother's breasts but she got married, she looked stunning and NO ONE GOT STABBED.

A very successful day.

There were moments of course. My feet swelled up like balloons because I was running around in hot as fuck weather in very high shoes. My mother and I were FERVENTLY admired by the men fixing the washing machine at the hotel but you know she had a serious rack going today and my ass looked fantastic. A person at the reception told J how they were praying for him because he was "lost" (do people not get how fucking offensive that is? It's not lost it is JEWISH). We almost lost her cat (my sister is reading this and having a stroke--he bolted but was corralled with no harm but dude we had eighty-four thousand things to carry in your house WE'RE SORRY WE KNOW YOU WARNED US). It took me twenty minutes to do my mother's makeup and about seventy of those were spent coloring in her eyebrows.

But it was a beautiful service. My sister has some lovely friends. I can see why she feels connected to this community.

And one would assume she is getting laid tonight and that can only be good right?

Conspiracy Of The Girly Bits

At EIGHT AM this morning (5 Pacific) there was loud banging and pounding on our ceiling.

OH HELL NO.

Fucking fly across the country, get in late, pay way too much for kind of a crappy room and then the front desk is RUDE when you complain about the POUNDING at 8am?

They were ripping up carpet. Above a paying customer's room. And I know 8 isn't early for business travelers but I seriously doubt that anyone here this week is a business traveler. SO SHUT THE FUCK UP.

And I got my mother fucking period. Early? After a hiatus of a few months last time? Is my uterus trying to make me nuts? Am I already there since I am referring to my uterus as a sentient being?

DAMN IT.

We're Here, I Need Some Booze

Things learned when traveling across the damn country.

1. If J takes a muscle relaxer because his back hurts he will be groggy, cranky and act kind of like a tool. This would be less annoying if I had seen him take the stupid pill and aren't all WTF?

2. My mother is afraid of tiny planes and filled a prescription for valium to help her get here. If a member of your traveling party needs medication to get on the plane then she will inevitable PACK SAID medication. Fortunately, she had convinced herself that we were flying in a paper airplane and was so relieved that it was a fifty seater that she practically skipped on the damn thing.

3. If you are going to rip your jeans on your trip, you will do it RIGHT AFTER your suitcase is carried outside and you can't change your clothes. They will also be your favorite jeans and the only ones that are the right length to wear with your flat shoes.

4. People are not lying when they mention that the Atlanta airport sucks. They also cannot get a flight off on time. We sat longer on the runway than the flight took.

5. If between five people there are nine pieces of luggage the airline will lose both of the bags of one person so they have no clothes or toiletries. Sadly, they will not lose J's golf clubs.

6. If J doesn't stop whining about his fucking golf I will shove a club up his ass. Actually, I didn't need to travel at all for that. I have felt that way for the past six weeks. I DON'T FUCKING CARE ABOUT YOUR GOLF.

BOO HISS

My god this weekend was just a whirlwind of trying to get over a cold and packing and cleaning and hiding from my semi-suicidal husband (three years in a row Yankee meltdown = awesome except I feel sorry for him). I am so tired from trying to get ready for this stupid trip (taking a vacation right after starting a new job is dumb, who knew?) not that going to my sister's wedding is stupid blah blah blah. I am tired yo.

And I have to get up at like 5 tomorrow.

I'm Human

The Yankees are getting their asses kicked. And I can't even enjoy it.

I don't like the Yankees. I respect them and I like their attitude. That expectation of winning. How their management is willing to DO ANYTHING to win. I wish the Cubs' management would be the same.

But I still want the Tiger's to win.

J loves the Yankees in a way that really does resemble mental illness. He throws tantrums and yells and screams and loses his shit during the losses. And like most Yankee fans he can't really enjoy the wins because they are supposed win. I think he mainly feels relief.

For all my talk about enjoying punching him in the balls I can't really stand for J to suffer so I can't enjoy their ass-kicking.

Unless it's Boston. I MEAN COME ON.

Not That I Am Willing To Pull Anymore Teeth

Our pal Travis got his wisdom teeth pulled today. Since my oral surgeon acted like I should notify Walter Cronkite for being 23 when I got mine pulled I can imagine his had a stroke since he is over thirty.

My husband is truly excellent at taking care of people following oral surgery though. He keeps you very drugged and eating pudding and sleeping. People talk about how much it sucked getting their's pulled and mine is sort of a funny memory. Lots of pudding and drooling and I think I called my surgeon "Dr. Lucky Charms." Since he was Scottish this was not nearly as funny as I thought it was. J also totally calls you on your bullshit when you try to get up and do things and rams the narcotics down your throat.

So poor Travis spent the day on our couch. I guess the extra twenty steps to the guest room was just TOO MUCH to bear. I brought him Jello and pudding cups and tried to talk him into staying the night. He was having none of it though we did manage to talk him out of going to school tomorrow and driving a goddamn car.

Man, I can't even get sympathy for my cold when he is so damn pitiful.

Not Just For Degrassi and 90210

I don't really use my TiFaux the right way. I mean I record shows and watch them commerical free. I have hours and hours of things I am embarassed about ready and waiting in my que.

But I abuse the priviledge because I also use my TiFaux for evil.

I pause during shows trying to freeze certain actresses in unflattering poses. This is particularly fun if you can make a very thin girl look fat.

I also use pause so I can throw things at the TV.

I save shows that have yummy men in them so I can watch them over and over (sad but true confession, there is a certain episode of Mythbusters that I kept for six months for that purpose).

I save shows that I will never actually watch because I feel like I should be watching them.

Worst of all, I still have a Sportscenter saved from when Harold Reynolds was on.

I really need to delete that.

A Lot Of Work To Do

The past couple of weeks have marked the holiest time in the Jewish calendar. The High Holidays are a time of celebration but also solemn contemplation. Sort of a yearly performance review. While God is passing judgment on us all our job is to make up for hurting each other. This is the sort of personal accountability that draws me to Judaism. It is not enough to be sorry you are a murderer, you need to get right with your victims' family.

I don't think I have hurt many people this year. Sometimes I say unkind things (sometimes I publish them on the internet) but I really do try to treat people in a respectful way. I am not much of a law breaker. But I do fail, at least for my own personal goals, that I don't always put my money where my mouth is. I believe in social change, in trying to set people up to make a success of themselves. My husband is a great example of what a person can do if they work hard enough and if people believe in them. But I don't spend the time or money to help create that change.

Which is how, last night, a young man came to my door. Selling magazines for a program that teaches at risk young people about professionalism and salesmanship (and gives them things like help getting their GED, childcare, grooming, clothing, etc). I couldn't turn him away, even though I didn't need any magazines, even though at the time I wasn't sure he was even legitimate (he was, I checked out the group last night). I talked to him for more than an hour, about what he wants to do with his life, what he wants for his daughter. I hated myself because I couldn't invite him in (honestly, I probably shouldn't have opened the door--in my neighborhood you don't answer the door late at night) and I felt racist because the young man was black. Maybe it was racist. Though to be honest, in a more racist way, I think I would have felt more threatened by a young white man. Every young black man in America is an at-risk youth. If his parents are millionaires he is an at-risk youth. Society has set him up to fail. But white men (as a rule, obviously there are exceptions, one of them is in my basement) are set up in every way to succeed. So to qualify for this program they might be a scary mother-fucker.

I bought a magazine subscription (I wanted to buy more but SHIT those are expensive) for more money than I really have for that sort of thing. This was better than giving to charity because this young man really wanted to do this, he was sincere in believing that this was his big opportunity. I do not know what his life has been like, if he is an ex-criminal or did drugs or maybe he just didn't finish school because he had a little baby at home. Maybe he was making the whole thing up (which would be sort of an impressive display of what an excellent car salesman he will be someday). But I bought it. I was really buying this feeling of doing something.

But maybe I don't treasure that feeling the way that I thought I did. Because I am sitting here thinking about how maybe I should cancel that subscription.

That Bitch Joan Rivers Better Not Say It

I would like to ban a phrase. Bling bling shall no longer be used by anyone, anytime, ever again. Not even ironically. It is bad enough that I once heard Barbara Walters use it on the View. It is deplorable that the term is used on the Oscar Red Carpet. But y'all, I had to explain BLING to my mother this weekend.

We are sitting at lunch, talking about shoes and my sister's wedding and should we get pedicures next weekend (answer: YES because damn my heels are crusty) when my mother leans over and asks quietly and sagely, "Do you know what bling is?"

I try to explain about rappers and the socio-economic source of the term and end up blurting out something about tacky-ass jewelry. And I am just dreading what she is going to tell me about why she wants to know.

My mother teaches high school. This is their Homecoming week and apparently schools still do those dressup days the week before. And they are having a "Bling-Bling" day.

Y'all, my mother thought it was one of the Sanrio characters like fucking Hello Kitty. She was so confused, she couldn't figure out what on earth she was supposed to do for that day? Dress up like a cat? Buy a t-shirt?

We bought her a HUGE cocktail ring. I bet that she will cut the hell out of her face with it.

But if a fifty-nine year old white woman starts using the term it is officially it needs to die a quick and ruthless death.

So speaketh AB.

Free Is For AB

Last night we had the chance to go to a Thunderbirds' game for free. We generally prefer our hometown Everett Silvertips in WHL hockey but free tickets are free tickets. Especially since this was a chance to use a luxury suite in the Key Arena.

I love WHL hockey. It is essentially glorified high school hockey. The passing and stick handling are sloppy. But the kids skate fast, they hit hard and there is a lot of fighting.

For the first time I felt a twinge of sympathy for the Sonics and their whining about the luxury suites at the key. I mean they are not really so luxurious. This is the Sonics' fault, of course, since they designed the damn things, but yeah.

It was fun up there though. You can see everything and we had the TV set to first the WSU game and then the dog show. It made watching the game really social. You watch the game sure, but also talk to your friends. Kind of a party atmosphere.

Best part by far? PRIVATE BATHROOM. Oh! And private entrance! No line! Next to the parking garage!

The only shitty part of the whole evening was this family that was sharing the suite with us. Now I am definitely not a kid hater and I actually think minor league hockey is an excellent place to take a child. But you know, letting a toddler run around, scream, push on the other people in the suite, throw cups over the ledge onto the people seated below and just generally act wild without even attempting to control him was just not cool. I wouldn't have cared at all if they were paying any attention to him, but they just ignored him. Even creepier was this whole moment when the mom got frustrated with him crawling all over the seat and shoved him hard and he fell upside down (he was not hurt). He cried and she laughed at him. Was strange. The little boy was actually a very sweet little boy his parents were just wackos.

But still. Free suite!

Notice That The Sugar and Grease Groups Are Well Represented

My little backslide into burny peeland seems to have ceased--I think it was brought on by dehydration. So today I chugged an incredible amount of water. I think I spent most of the day peeing but hell, small price to pay for pain-free girly bits.

I started my new job a while back and it has been pretty good so far. A little nuts because it is our busy season and I am learning the new gig, doing my old one, and training my replacements. It's just a lot. A great opportunity and I am really happy but it is just. A lot.

And the thing is people keep asking me if I am excited. I am. I mean I was so giddy when they gave it to me y'all just do not even know. But I mean, I've settled down. I have work to do, besides how can you do a good job if you are walking around "just so happy to be here?"

I think people are disappointed that I don't seem more excited. And I am pretty sensitive to that because I am just not a demonstrative person like that. I think my nature is more reserved that to wear every emotion on my face. But I can tell people just thought I'd be cheering around. I don't know, it is a strange thing. Like my mother keeps asking me how the first day felt. Well, I mean it felt like a day of work. I was just glad to get started, glad not to have to wait anymore. But I mean ultimately it is a job, it's not a day at Disneyland so I mean it isn't like I was going to come home all stoked about how fun everything is.
***
And into something totally unrelated
***
I realized today that in the past three days I have eaten the following:

one can of pineapple
one Dick's deluxe with fries
2 iced sugar cookies from fancy Dallas bakery
one cup oatmeal
one cup rice and veggies
a scoop of macaroni and cheese
a scoop of ice cream

Even ignoring the complete lack of nutritional content--that isn't a lot of food for three days. I was a wee bit worried until I looked at the side effects of the anti-biotics. May suppress appetites.

It is a nice excuse to eat only what I really want though. I mean if I am only going to eat one thing today it might as well be ice cream.

Modern Medicine

I was so smug. The anti-biotics were working I felt fabulous. And then today my stomach swelled up and my girly bits are burning and I feel like hammered shit.

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

What the hell is modern medicine for?

Modern Medicine

I was so smug. The anti-biotics were working I felt fabulous. And then today my stomach swelled up and my girly bits are burning and I feel like hammered shit.

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

What the hell is modern medicine for?

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.