Yesterday was J's birthday and it was spent doing very J-centric things. Watching the USC game, having his friends over, eating his favorite foods. Actually it is alarming how normal a Saturday it was--apparently he always gets his every whim catered to.
He also wouldn't stop grabbing my boobs and yelling, "But it's my BIRTHDAY!" Because the b in birthday stands for boobs you can grab whenever you want? Dunno. V. v. annoying and I am thankful that it is over for the year, hope you enjoyed the groping homie.
Our friends came over and we played a viscious round of Uno Attack and I got drunk on a new cocktail J invented to use up the lime juice that I bought for my sister while she was here. I don't have a name for the delightful concoction which is loosely based on a lemon drop but I am thinking of Lime Cordial--DELICIOUS. Catchy huh? But only said in that precocious-British-child accent.
Today I spent my time snarking on J that, "It's not your birthday!" as he kept trying to grope my boobs.
Payback's a bitch.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Really It Is Not Even Real Goulash
The other night, my parents lost their heat.
Yes, during our snowstorm. I mean they got THREE INCHES. So I don't think my mother has been truly warm for about ten years. She is freezing in the summer. She wears fleece in eighty degree weather. My father jokes that at night if he licked her ass his tongue would get stuck (yes I know that is ALARMING to hear, they are my parents you think I ENJOY THIS?).
It is because of my mother that I keep blankets in every room of the house. I have strongly considered putting an afghan in the bathroom (for those moments on the toilet where the less clothing makes you feel well a little chilled) but I haven't found a place to hang it that is not scary and just WRONG. My mother leaves her coat on in my house. Sometimes she wears a scarf. The woman is cold (I am sympathetic to this because this is my future y'all and it scares the shit out of me). So that woman being without heat is possibly the most cruel thing that could have happened.
It is like the evil minds of every secret organization in the world got together to torture her for her secret recipe for Very Not Hungarian At All Are You Kidding Me Goulash. SHE WILL GIVE YOU THE RECIPE. The repair man was able to come right away but the part he needs to fix their furnace is not going to arrive until Monday. So my mom is having to spend all of her time in front of the oven or the fireplace and with a tiny dachshund wrapped around her for a personal heater.
Good luck getting that dog out of your bed once the heat works.
Yes, during our snowstorm. I mean they got THREE INCHES. So I don't think my mother has been truly warm for about ten years. She is freezing in the summer. She wears fleece in eighty degree weather. My father jokes that at night if he licked her ass his tongue would get stuck (yes I know that is ALARMING to hear, they are my parents you think I ENJOY THIS?).
It is because of my mother that I keep blankets in every room of the house. I have strongly considered putting an afghan in the bathroom (for those moments on the toilet where the less clothing makes you feel well a little chilled) but I haven't found a place to hang it that is not scary and just WRONG. My mother leaves her coat on in my house. Sometimes she wears a scarf. The woman is cold (I am sympathetic to this because this is my future y'all and it scares the shit out of me). So that woman being without heat is possibly the most cruel thing that could have happened.
It is like the evil minds of every secret organization in the world got together to torture her for her secret recipe for Very Not Hungarian At All Are You Kidding Me Goulash. SHE WILL GIVE YOU THE RECIPE. The repair man was able to come right away but the part he needs to fix their furnace is not going to arrive until Monday. So my mom is having to spend all of her time in front of the oven or the fireplace and with a tiny dachshund wrapped around her for a personal heater.
Good luck getting that dog out of your bed once the heat works.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
She Is Not Pleased
It is snowing here.Part of the appeal of the Seattle metro area is our temperate climate. It doesn't get overly cold or hot here very often and dare I say we like it that way? People not born here (myself included) always cackle and laugh at the spectacle we make of ourselves in this town when it snows or there is ice.
People panic, it is not unusual at all for people to refuse to leave their homes at all during a "snow storm" (meaning snow fall of more than an inch). Schools close at the slightest provocation. People stay home from work. It's pathetic and funny and a little frightening to see how the whole town shuts down.
Part of it is our topography. This is a hilly region with a lot of water, ice can be difficult to manage especially for the very inexperienced drivers that live here. The rest is just the fact that no one in this fucking city has ever grown up when it comes to snow. They pray for it, wish for it, in a way that is just fucking stupid. And they PANIC when it falls. They would just rather die than drive in it. Or they pretend it isn't there and drive like madpeople which turns out just as well as you might expect.
This is how they had to close the freeway tonight.
For an INCH OF SNOW.
The animals and I are not pleased. Darla has sworn to me that she shall not need to pee at least until this shit melts and possibly until spring. Do not bother asking in otherwords.
Rooster.
Is not pleased.
Did you make it snow? Because she will CUT YOU bitch.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Perhaps I Should Call My Grandma For Advice
I fell today.
AGAIN.
What. Am I eighty? Because I tripped this time (which is better which is totally better than falling for no reason) and fell against the curb. My hip bone cracked against the cement. My knee was practically crushed. Both are swollen and discolored in a way that I cannot describe.
I would post pictures but I am way too vain to show the internet my ugly, swollen, unshaven knee and yet not quite vain enough to shave my legs.
That pretty much sums up my whole personality actually.
So I am dealing with ego blow that only a stupid fucking clumsy thing can give you, limping around, trying to think of a better reason to have fallen than "well . . I tripped on AIR."
And trying not to move my hip or knee at all because that shit HURTS.
AGAIN.
What. Am I eighty? Because I tripped this time (which is better which is totally better than falling for no reason) and fell against the curb. My hip bone cracked against the cement. My knee was practically crushed. Both are swollen and discolored in a way that I cannot describe.
I would post pictures but I am way too vain to show the internet my ugly, swollen, unshaven knee and yet not quite vain enough to shave my legs.
That pretty much sums up my whole personality actually.
So I am dealing with ego blow that only a stupid fucking clumsy thing can give you, limping around, trying to think of a better reason to have fallen than "well . . I tripped on AIR."
And trying not to move my hip or knee at all because that shit HURTS.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Am I Next
Five years ago I had just quit being a massage therapist. I was starting out in a new job as a business manager for a school.
I loved being a massage therapist. It was the first and only time that I felt like I was the best at something. I am not exaggerating when I say I was a gifted therapist. But I am a practical person. I made almost no money (because of a long and horrible story involving the psychotically jealous man I worked for and how he fucked me over big time) and J was supporting us. We were getting married that winter and we just couldn't keep going on my erratic pay. So I got a desk job.
A desk job working for another crazy person. A crazy person who wanted me to do illegal things and who urinated on my desk and who was SHOCKED that I would not accept tuition payments in illegal narcotics.
And then I started working where I work now. A different position, a different part of the company. But it was the beginning. I was good at it. And I stayed.
I have stayed a long time.
It is a funny thing, work. How you just go into the office every day without thinking about what you are doing, what you have given up. I am not sure I could go back to massage therapy today. I might not have loved it for long. Not much changes. It is a physical job with a lot of strange people situations. I might have grown tired or gotten injured. I'll never know.
I get paid a good amount to do what I do.
Not a lot. For some reason because J and I have our shit together people assume we make a lot of money but we don't. Just enough that two practical sorts like ourselves can be just fine. My job pays our bills, builds our future, is our security. My job makes the past three years he has spent looking for his future possible.
But my future. I can't even imagine what that will be. I feel like I have to keep doing what I am doing forever. It is our health plan, our investment plan, our everything.
A lot of people would love my job. But I am bored. I took this as an interim stop on the way to something bigger and more interesting. Dear GOD I hope it comes soon because this is starting to feel like a soul-suck.
I don't regret giving up massage therapy. Five years ago I was a different person. I don't really know that girl anymore. I miss her sometimes. I want to go back and tell her to chill the fuck out and things will be fine. Even though that may not be true. Sometimes I feel like our shit was only saved because I was such a hyperactive lunatic about things. But she got me here.
I don't know what I want to do next. But I am having this moment wondering when it is my turn to figure it out.
I loved being a massage therapist. It was the first and only time that I felt like I was the best at something. I am not exaggerating when I say I was a gifted therapist. But I am a practical person. I made almost no money (because of a long and horrible story involving the psychotically jealous man I worked for and how he fucked me over big time) and J was supporting us. We were getting married that winter and we just couldn't keep going on my erratic pay. So I got a desk job.
A desk job working for another crazy person. A crazy person who wanted me to do illegal things and who urinated on my desk and who was SHOCKED that I would not accept tuition payments in illegal narcotics.
And then I started working where I work now. A different position, a different part of the company. But it was the beginning. I was good at it. And I stayed.
I have stayed a long time.
It is a funny thing, work. How you just go into the office every day without thinking about what you are doing, what you have given up. I am not sure I could go back to massage therapy today. I might not have loved it for long. Not much changes. It is a physical job with a lot of strange people situations. I might have grown tired or gotten injured. I'll never know.
I get paid a good amount to do what I do.
Not a lot. For some reason because J and I have our shit together people assume we make a lot of money but we don't. Just enough that two practical sorts like ourselves can be just fine. My job pays our bills, builds our future, is our security. My job makes the past three years he has spent looking for his future possible.
But my future. I can't even imagine what that will be. I feel like I have to keep doing what I am doing forever. It is our health plan, our investment plan, our everything.
A lot of people would love my job. But I am bored. I took this as an interim stop on the way to something bigger and more interesting. Dear GOD I hope it comes soon because this is starting to feel like a soul-suck.
I don't regret giving up massage therapy. Five years ago I was a different person. I don't really know that girl anymore. I miss her sometimes. I want to go back and tell her to chill the fuck out and things will be fine. Even though that may not be true. Sometimes I feel like our shit was only saved because I was such a hyperactive lunatic about things. But she got me here.
I don't know what I want to do next. But I am having this moment wondering when it is my turn to figure it out.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Mother's Curse
Every woman I know, and I am assuming all of those I do not, has the same fear. Some wear it proudly across their perky boobs and some hide it in the backs of their closets next to their oh-so-stereotypical-but-stereotypes-come-from-truth jeans that do not stretch over their fat ass anymore.
They are afraid of becoming their mother.
This is true if your mother is a serial killer (obviously, and seriously, isn't society as a whole wishing along with you?) and it is true if your mother is a saint. Even if you never met your mother and only know her from loving tales and one faint, grainy photo you are thinking, "She has sort of a Sound of Music vibe, I really don't want to work that."
I say this now because my mother, she is afraid of becoming my grandmother. She fears this the way that gazelles fear lions in the wild. Especially the old sick ones who are just barely out-running the lion. The ones who know they are one trip over a rock from being lion dinner.
Run Run Run.
My grandmother isn't a bad person. And for all the fear that everyone in my family has of her she has never spent even a moment in San Quentin Prison. Not even on a tour. She is the kind of grandma your friends think is adorable, who buys you presents and crochets and volunteered at your elementary school. I mean I love my grandmother, she is the sweetest old lady I know.
But she is psycho.
I mean she is straight crazy. Can manipulate you into anything with guilt. Can burn through steel with her hot beady eyes. Her voice reaches an octave that makes Charlie Manson quiver in his cell. She wears a wig that I am fairly certain doubles as a Chinese fighting star.
My grandmother made me eat Vix Vapo Rub when I was seven years old. Because she believes Vix can cure anything. My sister has started a diabolical campaign to convince people I ate it of my own free will but that is MADNESS and wrong. I have not decided if she is just being a liar or has she forgotten. I somewhat suspect she is concocting a plot to have me committed based on my Vix eating but DEAR SISTER I AM ON TO YOU. YOU WILL NOT GET MY PIANO SO QUIT TRYING TO GET ME SENT TO THE LOONY BIN.
It is not really paranoia if your sister is totally trying to steal your large scale musical instrument.
This weekend I saw my mother living her future and that future scared the fuck out of me and everyone else in my family.
She was screaming in a voice that I am used to hearing blare at my grandfather, "LLLOYD!" (GASP there goes internet anonymity, my grandpa's name is Lloyd, I bet he was the only one in the twenties!). She wasn't screaming at my grandpa, but my dad. She had that frightening run not walk. She even had the scary eyes of death. I wanted to search her purse for Vix but I was afraid she would whip of a wig and through it at me all Bruce Lee style.
I worship my mother, but dear GOD she cannot do this to me. Because that means in ten years instead of taking me shopping and drinking cocktails she will be screeching at me on the phone about how she DOESN'T EVEN HAVE A DAUGHTER and COULD I PUT ON LIPSTICK I LOOK DEAD and then my head will explode in terror.
And that doesn't even begin to cover considering whether or not this means I will one day talk about how I haven't shaved my legs above the knee in ten years, insist on saying WARSH-ington and will I start wearing my pants inches too short.
So I am going back to bed, to quiver under my covers.
In FEAR YOU SICKIES.
They are afraid of becoming their mother.
This is true if your mother is a serial killer (obviously, and seriously, isn't society as a whole wishing along with you?) and it is true if your mother is a saint. Even if you never met your mother and only know her from loving tales and one faint, grainy photo you are thinking, "She has sort of a Sound of Music vibe, I really don't want to work that."
I say this now because my mother, she is afraid of becoming my grandmother. She fears this the way that gazelles fear lions in the wild. Especially the old sick ones who are just barely out-running the lion. The ones who know they are one trip over a rock from being lion dinner.
Run Run Run.
My grandmother isn't a bad person. And for all the fear that everyone in my family has of her she has never spent even a moment in San Quentin Prison. Not even on a tour. She is the kind of grandma your friends think is adorable, who buys you presents and crochets and volunteered at your elementary school. I mean I love my grandmother, she is the sweetest old lady I know.
But she is psycho.
I mean she is straight crazy. Can manipulate you into anything with guilt. Can burn through steel with her hot beady eyes. Her voice reaches an octave that makes Charlie Manson quiver in his cell. She wears a wig that I am fairly certain doubles as a Chinese fighting star.
My grandmother made me eat Vix Vapo Rub when I was seven years old. Because she believes Vix can cure anything. My sister has started a diabolical campaign to convince people I ate it of my own free will but that is MADNESS and wrong. I have not decided if she is just being a liar or has she forgotten. I somewhat suspect she is concocting a plot to have me committed based on my Vix eating but DEAR SISTER I AM ON TO YOU. YOU WILL NOT GET MY PIANO SO QUIT TRYING TO GET ME SENT TO THE LOONY BIN.
It is not really paranoia if your sister is totally trying to steal your large scale musical instrument.
This weekend I saw my mother living her future and that future scared the fuck out of me and everyone else in my family.
She was screaming in a voice that I am used to hearing blare at my grandfather, "LLLOYD!" (GASP there goes internet anonymity, my grandpa's name is Lloyd, I bet he was the only one in the twenties!). She wasn't screaming at my grandpa, but my dad. She had that frightening run not walk. She even had the scary eyes of death. I wanted to search her purse for Vix but I was afraid she would whip of a wig and through it at me all Bruce Lee style.
I worship my mother, but dear GOD she cannot do this to me. Because that means in ten years instead of taking me shopping and drinking cocktails she will be screeching at me on the phone about how she DOESN'T EVEN HAVE A DAUGHTER and COULD I PUT ON LIPSTICK I LOOK DEAD and then my head will explode in terror.
And that doesn't even begin to cover considering whether or not this means I will one day talk about how I haven't shaved my legs above the knee in ten years, insist on saying WARSH-ington and will I start wearing my pants inches too short.
So I am going back to bed, to quiver under my covers.
In FEAR YOU SICKIES.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Down For The Count
Apparently if you lose your last anti-biotic pill you will be punished by your doctor's office with a whole new set of pills to take.
As if my continued sinus infection wasn't bad enough.
Excuse me, I will be in bed moaning.
Not like that you pervs.
As if my continued sinus infection wasn't bad enough.
Excuse me, I will be in bed moaning.
Not like that you pervs.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Thanksgiving Is The Real Holiday Of Rest
I love holidays with my family.
In part, because I am a selfish brat. J doesn't really have much to do with his family so we just spend them with mine. My mother still loves to do the dinner so I don't have to cook. Seriously, people keep asking me if I want to host, if I feel like I am missing out. Are they insane? Right now I get to sleep in until 10 and drive to my mom's house in my jeans, eat a huge meal, help with the dishes and take a nap. People have this idea that I should want to replace that with weeks of cleaning and cooking and god knows what else.
Pass.
Big pass.
So it was a lovely day with five dogs running around, a bunch of people eating like cows and the lovely end was everyone PASSED OUT asleep in the living room.
Tis the season indeed.
In part, because I am a selfish brat. J doesn't really have much to do with his family so we just spend them with mine. My mother still loves to do the dinner so I don't have to cook. Seriously, people keep asking me if I want to host, if I feel like I am missing out. Are they insane? Right now I get to sleep in until 10 and drive to my mom's house in my jeans, eat a huge meal, help with the dishes and take a nap. People have this idea that I should want to replace that with weeks of cleaning and cooking and god knows what else.
Pass.
Big pass.
So it was a lovely day with five dogs running around, a bunch of people eating like cows and the lovely end was everyone PASSED OUT asleep in the living room.
Tis the season indeed.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Not Funny In The Slightest
Oh my god WORD.
Right there is the sum total of everything that just makes me want to pull my hair out about this country today. Because this woman is 100% right and people know it and they are still going to insist crazy shit.
Like my dear friend who told me, "This is a Christian nation, and everyone else should just get used to it."
Like my father who believes that if you have sex than you deserve to get pregnant regardless of any circumstances and just LIE IN THAT BED damn you and don't worry your pretty head about how to feed that baby.
I am simplifying those people I know but man I am tired. Tired of fighting with them, tired of trying to stay hopeful, tired of being heartbroken by the bigotry that has really infected this country.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I am grateful so many things. Things like my beautiful family and gorgeous home. For having so many choices and the ability to live a life I choose.
But most of all I am thankful for the people that have the courage to continue to fight. Who understand that value of religious freedom, the importance of free education and that we are starting to pay the price for the complete bullshit that the US has been pouring into the universe for the past couple of years.
Enjoy your turkey tomorrow, enjoy your family and your celebrations. And pick up your papers on Friday to read about the crap that we are going through with the Supreme Court and Iraq and how people want to bring religion into public school. Start paying attention to the freedoms that we are losing and the scary country that we are living in.
Right there is the sum total of everything that just makes me want to pull my hair out about this country today. Because this woman is 100% right and people know it and they are still going to insist crazy shit.
Like my dear friend who told me, "This is a Christian nation, and everyone else should just get used to it."
Like my father who believes that if you have sex than you deserve to get pregnant regardless of any circumstances and just LIE IN THAT BED damn you and don't worry your pretty head about how to feed that baby.
I am simplifying those people I know but man I am tired. Tired of fighting with them, tired of trying to stay hopeful, tired of being heartbroken by the bigotry that has really infected this country.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I am grateful so many things. Things like my beautiful family and gorgeous home. For having so many choices and the ability to live a life I choose.
But most of all I am thankful for the people that have the courage to continue to fight. Who understand that value of religious freedom, the importance of free education and that we are starting to pay the price for the complete bullshit that the US has been pouring into the universe for the past couple of years.
Enjoy your turkey tomorrow, enjoy your family and your celebrations. And pick up your papers on Friday to read about the crap that we are going through with the Supreme Court and Iraq and how people want to bring religion into public school. Start paying attention to the freedoms that we are losing and the scary country that we are living in.
Victory
God, I just loved that game.
I confess, I have always loved hockey. For no real reason, as no one in my family was very into it. But it is a bunch of men skating very fast and kicking the crap out of each other. What could be better?
And live is always better with hockey, I have long been a fan of WHL of which we have three teams in this area. But NHL has been so inaccessible for me because it looks slow on TV, if you can even find a game. But I had a blast live.
And it was fun going up there together. There was KILLER FOG. And oh we got so terribly lost and convinced half of Vancouver that we were a couple of dumb blondes from the States.
We got back just after midnight, nobody died and much fun was had.
Which is a victory.
I confess, I have always loved hockey. For no real reason, as no one in my family was very into it. But it is a bunch of men skating very fast and kicking the crap out of each other. What could be better?
And live is always better with hockey, I have long been a fan of WHL of which we have three teams in this area. But NHL has been so inaccessible for me because it looks slow on TV, if you can even find a game. But I had a blast live.
And it was fun going up there together. There was KILLER FOG. And oh we got so terribly lost and convinced half of Vancouver that we were a couple of dumb blondes from the States.
We got back just after midnight, nobody died and much fun was had.
Which is a victory.
Monday, November 21, 2005
No Need To Wear A Corset Under My Hoody Now
My father can prove that I was born! And a citizen! Look out Canada!
J and I had many many manic moments this past week looking for the envelope that I (BRILLIANTLY!) put every single important document in. Our birth certificates, marriage certificate, social security cards, etc. It is in the house. SOMEWHERE. Possibly in this house in another dimension?
But Daddy rescued me by having a backup in his safe deposit box. I mean, they let us through customs on both sides of the border on Friday. And the guy on the US side was nice enough, even though we got a mini-lecture about how we need to prove that we are citizens. But it was enough to give me chills about us getting stuck on the Canada for a few hours in the middle of the night.
So that won't be happening now.
And I won't even have to flash my boobs at anyone with a gun!
Which is great . . . I guess. I mean a little disappointing of course.
My house is not clean. I mean it isn't filthy but I did imagine having it a little more done before she visited. However, my sister and I shared a room before she is aware that I am basically a pig with thumbs.
Nothing is going to shock her in other words.
Though I suppose I could try.
J and I had many many manic moments this past week looking for the envelope that I (BRILLIANTLY!) put every single important document in. Our birth certificates, marriage certificate, social security cards, etc. It is in the house. SOMEWHERE. Possibly in this house in another dimension?
But Daddy rescued me by having a backup in his safe deposit box. I mean, they let us through customs on both sides of the border on Friday. And the guy on the US side was nice enough, even though we got a mini-lecture about how we need to prove that we are citizens. But it was enough to give me chills about us getting stuck on the Canada for a few hours in the middle of the night.
So that won't be happening now.
And I won't even have to flash my boobs at anyone with a gun!
Which is great . . . I guess. I mean a little disappointing of course.
My house is not clean. I mean it isn't filthy but I did imagine having it a little more done before she visited. However, my sister and I shared a room before she is aware that I am basically a pig with thumbs.
Nothing is going to shock her in other words.
Though I suppose I could try.
For The Love Of Not Burning My Eyeballs
In case anyone was wondering, camel corduroy cargo gauchos with heather grey tights, a cropped grey sweater over a fucking beading camisole with suede wedge shoes is NOT IN STYLE. And is totally fucking unacceptable really.
Do not wear that shit out of the house.
Also please. Do not wear a maternity negligee belted with a huge leather and metal harness thing over a goddamn turtleneck with BOOTS.
You would think that I should not have to write all of that out but I guess.
Not.
Do not wear that shit out of the house.
Also please. Do not wear a maternity negligee belted with a huge leather and metal harness thing over a goddamn turtleneck with BOOTS.
You would think that I should not have to write all of that out but I guess.
Not.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Of Course I Still Fucking Need To Clean My House
Turns out that I am allergic to codeine. I mean, I didn't go into respitory failure or anything, just hives.
Precisely what I needed today.
Heh.
Actually, I do not care all that much because I do not have to work but one day this week and that really does make up for a lot.
On the schedule:
1. Trip over the border for a hockey game with my sister.
2. Lunch with my daddy and sister on Wednesday.
3. Thanksgiving dinner and napping.
4. Watching football.
5. Insane Black Friday shopping.
6. Ice cream cake!
7. Watching the entire first season of Fraggle Rock.
8. Singing along!
9. Trying to prevent my dogs from ripping my mother's house to shreds with her dogs.
10. Going to see Goblet of Fire on IMAX.
That seems worth a few hives.
I mean NO MORE than I have at this moment. But a few.
Precisely what I needed today.
Heh.
Actually, I do not care all that much because I do not have to work but one day this week and that really does make up for a lot.
On the schedule:
1. Trip over the border for a hockey game with my sister.
2. Lunch with my daddy and sister on Wednesday.
3. Thanksgiving dinner and napping.
4. Watching football.
5. Insane Black Friday shopping.
6. Ice cream cake!
7. Watching the entire first season of Fraggle Rock.
8. Singing along!
9. Trying to prevent my dogs from ripping my mother's house to shreds with her dogs.
10. Going to see Goblet of Fire on IMAX.
That seems worth a few hives.
I mean NO MORE than I have at this moment. But a few.
Regrets
Yesterday I got a haircut. I have been trying (oh dear I have been trying SO HARD) to grow out my hair a bit. I haven't had anything even approaching long hair since I got married (and even now I am shooting for shoulder length and will probably end up chopping it off a couple of months later but still THE TRYING). I have very thick, very wavy hair that other people seem to want but then again other people have never had this conversation with their hairdresser:
"I just want something a little more interesting, can we change it up just a little?"
"NO. You must have this exact haircut until you DIE."
I believe I have expressed my incredible devotion to my hairdresser and his dad here before. I love their bickering. I love their cute little shop, I love how they send my husband home looking even more handsome each and every time. And I have never gotten a bad haircut from them, which is amazing because DUDE everyone gives me a bad haircut at least once. My hair is difficult, but somehow this man has figured it out (I believe because he has the exact same hair I do except for color and you know he is a MAN).
But I think that makes him more cautious with my hair and I felt so annoyed and frustrated yesterday. I have brought pictures in, but he will tell me well she doesn't have your hair type so that won't work for you, I asked him who has my hair type, well NO ONE actually, no one that has pretty hair unless it is long long long.
I can't do long hair. I can't. It doesn't look good on me, first of all, and it is heavy and takes twenty seven hours to dry and NO YOU CAN'T MAKE ME.
So I got basically the same cut as before, with a few more layers and I actually don't dislike it. It is cute and easy to style and works just fine.
I just feel bullied. I feel like they steamrolled me and were rude and dismissive in the process. I didn't think I was asking much--I just wanted some ideas and suggestions--but somehow it just felt like I was being drama queen whore bitch of the year. And believe me I usually save that attitude for people who are bot around my head with scissors.
By the time I got home I was near tears. Not because of my hair, like I said it looks fine, but because I hadn't just gotten up and left without the cut. Because I paid him and tipped him for crying outloud. I am normally good about standing up for myself but I just didn't then and I am pissed at myself for taking it.
I guess there is nothing I can do about it now.
"I just want something a little more interesting, can we change it up just a little?"
"NO. You must have this exact haircut until you DIE."
I believe I have expressed my incredible devotion to my hairdresser and his dad here before. I love their bickering. I love their cute little shop, I love how they send my husband home looking even more handsome each and every time. And I have never gotten a bad haircut from them, which is amazing because DUDE everyone gives me a bad haircut at least once. My hair is difficult, but somehow this man has figured it out (I believe because he has the exact same hair I do except for color and you know he is a MAN).
But I think that makes him more cautious with my hair and I felt so annoyed and frustrated yesterday. I have brought pictures in, but he will tell me well she doesn't have your hair type so that won't work for you, I asked him who has my hair type, well NO ONE actually, no one that has pretty hair unless it is long long long.
I can't do long hair. I can't. It doesn't look good on me, first of all, and it is heavy and takes twenty seven hours to dry and NO YOU CAN'T MAKE ME.
So I got basically the same cut as before, with a few more layers and I actually don't dislike it. It is cute and easy to style and works just fine.
I just feel bullied. I feel like they steamrolled me and were rude and dismissive in the process. I didn't think I was asking much--I just wanted some ideas and suggestions--but somehow it just felt like I was being drama queen whore bitch of the year. And believe me I usually save that attitude for people who are bot around my head with scissors.
By the time I got home I was near tears. Not because of my hair, like I said it looks fine, but because I hadn't just gotten up and left without the cut. Because I paid him and tipped him for crying outloud. I am normally good about standing up for myself but I just didn't then and I am pissed at myself for taking it.
I guess there is nothing I can do about it now.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Just A Nice Saturday
So apparently I am not a big baby. I have a sinus infection and either bronchitis or pneumonia (she said she would treat them the same so she didn't want to do a chest x-ray). I am now the proud owner of anti-biotics, cough syrup with codeine and an inhaler.
The cough syrup did not deliver the sweet sweet codeine oblivion I was hoping for as I got a migraine last night.
So we are just going to pretend none of this is happening.
On a brighter note, J and I drove to Canada last night to pick up the hockey tickets for my sister and I to go on Tuesday. I am SO EXCITED for the game. Neither of us have ever been to an NHL game and it will be a great time.
And I will not still be sick. I have decided.
We had a good time driving up there, making the border agent laugh because we were just going for like an hour, trying to follow the really stupid directions we had and eating dinner at a gas station. Canadians actually have good burgers at their gas stations. And gourmet bulk candy! That just is just brilliant.
Today is all about cleaning the house (my steam cleaning will be working out because dear GOD I am germy), getting a haircut and college football.
Just a nice Saturday is what I am calling it.
The cough syrup did not deliver the sweet sweet codeine oblivion I was hoping for as I got a migraine last night.
So we are just going to pretend none of this is happening.
On a brighter note, J and I drove to Canada last night to pick up the hockey tickets for my sister and I to go on Tuesday. I am SO EXCITED for the game. Neither of us have ever been to an NHL game and it will be a great time.
And I will not still be sick. I have decided.
We had a good time driving up there, making the border agent laugh because we were just going for like an hour, trying to follow the really stupid directions we had and eating dinner at a gas station. Canadians actually have good burgers at their gas stations. And gourmet bulk candy! That just is just brilliant.
Today is all about cleaning the house (my steam cleaning will be working out because dear GOD I am germy), getting a haircut and college football.
Just a nice Saturday is what I am calling it.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Dr. Feel Good
This morning I didn't struggle out of my Nyquil coma until after six this morning, considering I usually get up at five and the last train leaves at 6:40. I did a run around like a maniac, put my hair in a tiny ponytail, powder the face fast fast and sprint to the car. A little lip balm and a green sweater made me look not like a corpse.
That sort of sets the tone for the day.
I feel like I played catch up all day and then I looked around at like 2 and was just rather . . . spent.
I am tired of being sick.
I am sure you are tired of reading about it.
So I am caving and going to the doctor tomorrow, even though I really don't want to. I am hearing the soft sweet call of prescription drugs. I have never had syrup with codeine but I am sort of hoping for it.
I am hopeful about a nap that lasts many many hours after which I awaken healthy and cough-free. Also with a size two body and a million dollars in my bank account.
I'll let you know how that works out.
That sort of sets the tone for the day.
I feel like I played catch up all day and then I looked around at like 2 and was just rather . . . spent.
I am tired of being sick.
I am sure you are tired of reading about it.
So I am caving and going to the doctor tomorrow, even though I really don't want to. I am hearing the soft sweet call of prescription drugs. I have never had syrup with codeine but I am sort of hoping for it.
I am hopeful about a nap that lasts many many hours after which I awaken healthy and cough-free. Also with a size two body and a million dollars in my bank account.
I'll let you know how that works out.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
NINE
Today is nine months for Ang**.
Nine months.
I really can’t understand it. I can’t understand how she can be gone that long. I’m not use to it yet, I am used to everything that has happened since—the new jobs, the new house, even the five or six haircuts I have had since then but I cannot get used to her not being her, to not having access to her, to not hearing her laugh.
Her daughter turned three a couple of months ago. Do you know that means her mom has missed almost a third of her life? How is that possible? How can a mom miss that much?
And why am I not more over this? Actually I am over it. Sometimes. Sometimes I feel guilty because I don’t think about her every day anymore and then sometimes I feel guilty because I feel like I think about her too much. Let the woman rest. Get a grip you emotional cripple. The thing that no one can explain about grief, that no one can help you deal with, is how sometimes it sneaks up on you. You are moving along through your day, through your life and then some one tells you about how their blood pressure is bad but who cares because they are young and no one their age has a heart attack and you are near tears. You are shakily talking about your friend who was thirty-three and died this past year. How she didn’t have bad blood pressure or cholesterol, how she was carrying her killer with her all along and no one warned her and you are rushing to bathroom to cry. Grief has smacked you over the head with a shovel again. You are in the bathroom trying to get your act together, where you can pretend that you have your act together again. But you are pretending.
No one tells you about how you can be fine for days, weeks and then you see that commercial for the American Heart Association—the one where the mom offers her life for her daughter’s? and you cry for an hour, for days. That sometimes you stop believing in anything. That sometimes you think that you need your medication. That sometimes you feel alone and then you feel her behind you and it is not as comforting as it should be.
That is what nine months feels like. Maybe ten is the time when I stop counting. Maybe eleven. One steps forward, two steps back. We are all Paula Abdul songs here.
**I have always called her Gladys here, because that it what she was before she died. But I mean who cares about internet privacy now? Also, Monica is Linda, which you would know if you were reading her site so there let me out everyone that is not me!
Nine months.
I really can’t understand it. I can’t understand how she can be gone that long. I’m not use to it yet, I am used to everything that has happened since—the new jobs, the new house, even the five or six haircuts I have had since then but I cannot get used to her not being her, to not having access to her, to not hearing her laugh.
Her daughter turned three a couple of months ago. Do you know that means her mom has missed almost a third of her life? How is that possible? How can a mom miss that much?
And why am I not more over this? Actually I am over it. Sometimes. Sometimes I feel guilty because I don’t think about her every day anymore and then sometimes I feel guilty because I feel like I think about her too much. Let the woman rest. Get a grip you emotional cripple. The thing that no one can explain about grief, that no one can help you deal with, is how sometimes it sneaks up on you. You are moving along through your day, through your life and then some one tells you about how their blood pressure is bad but who cares because they are young and no one their age has a heart attack and you are near tears. You are shakily talking about your friend who was thirty-three and died this past year. How she didn’t have bad blood pressure or cholesterol, how she was carrying her killer with her all along and no one warned her and you are rushing to bathroom to cry. Grief has smacked you over the head with a shovel again. You are in the bathroom trying to get your act together, where you can pretend that you have your act together again. But you are pretending.
No one tells you about how you can be fine for days, weeks and then you see that commercial for the American Heart Association—the one where the mom offers her life for her daughter’s? and you cry for an hour, for days. That sometimes you stop believing in anything. That sometimes you think that you need your medication. That sometimes you feel alone and then you feel her behind you and it is not as comforting as it should be.
That is what nine months feels like. Maybe ten is the time when I stop counting. Maybe eleven. One steps forward, two steps back. We are all Paula Abdul songs here.
**I have always called her Gladys here, because that it what she was before she died. But I mean who cares about internet privacy now? Also, Monica is Linda, which you would know if you were reading her site so there let me out everyone that is not me!
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Love Is
Your husband listening to your whining and overly picky wishes for Kraft dinner even though there is perfectly fine frozen Marie Collander macaroni and cheese which is actually probably better and telling you to lay down.
While he makes you Kraft dinner and serves it to you.
While he makes you Kraft dinner and serves it to you.
Perhaps I Will Need That Twelve Step
My train this morning was delayed over forty minutes. And let me tell you normally that would freak me out and ruin my morning. Oh what a difference having my work laptop on the train makes. It is hard to worry about missing work while you are already working. Since this is my busiest time I have taken to trying to my actual job on the train and cramming all the extra stuff into my day.
This makes me feel incredibly efficient even though I know I am headed down the slippery slope into workaholicism. Next stop, getting to work at 5 am and begging for a network connection at home.
Let us pray it never comes to that.
This makes me feel incredibly efficient even though I know I am headed down the slippery slope into workaholicism. Next stop, getting to work at 5 am and begging for a network connection at home.
Let us pray it never comes to that.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Feeling Bitchy
Anyone else ever watch makeover shows on TV and get so annoyed with the person (oh I could NEVER cut my hair! I just hate jackets! Oh who wears HEELS!) that you hope that they come out of the experience just looking like shit because they are such a tight ass?
Uh me either.
Uh me either.
Can I Get A WHEEEEEE
I AM TYPING ON MY LAPTOP AND CANNOT STOP USING ALL CAPS. IN FACT I MAY BE SPEAKING IN ALL CAPS!
I am so happy about the return of my pretty pretty laptop, MY PRECIOUS.
I love my darling husband who rescued me from the pits of 1975 or you know, life before my laptop. No one has suffered more than him with all my sniveling emails begging him to do anything short of selling our dogs into bizarre sexual trade to get it back. Clearly I was RATIONAL.
So Yes. LAPTOP.
Prepare for updates.
I am so happy about the return of my pretty pretty laptop, MY PRECIOUS.
I love my darling husband who rescued me from the pits of 1975 or you know, life before my laptop. No one has suffered more than him with all my sniveling emails begging him to do anything short of selling our dogs into bizarre sexual trade to get it back. Clearly I was RATIONAL.
So Yes. LAPTOP.
Prepare for updates.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Happy Birthday To YOUUUUUUUUUU
Today is such an important day that even though my laptop is still off somewhere being ignored by giggling geeky evil tech monsters and even though I have a cold that is making me sound like the terrifying love child of a fog horn and Kathleen Turner I am still blogging.
Today is my big sister's birthday.
Internet, I am here to tell you that through the wonders of physics and many things I do not understand my sister is turning twenty-five today, even though I am twenty-seven and she is older except I am actually twenty-two so really it all makes sense.
My sister is the one that taught me about Santa Claus. And sex. On the same day. When I was four. And was disturbingly accurate considering she was like SEVEN at the time.
She used to shove me into a hamper shaped like a mailbox and jump on the top claiming that it was a covered wagon. Until I would cry. Then she would do it some more.
She used to gross me out by pulling all of the meat and veggies out of her canned chicken and noodle soup and mushing it together and then putting it back in the soup. She may actually still do this, but I have refused to eat chicken and noodle soup with her for almost twenty years.
She has looked exactly the same for almost fifteen years. Then it was a terror to my dad that she was in junior high and looked twenty-five, now it is a source of anger to everyone else that she has somehow defied the universe and still looks twenty-five.
She got the hook nose (HA) but the good legs and the only natural-looking smile in the entire family (the rest of us have these crooked ones that look like we are being held at gunpoint). I got the better hair, the non-hook nose and the fat knees.
She won. She always wins.
When I was little I wanted to be her when I grew up. Now I am just glad she lets me be her friend. She is going to be here in a little more than a week and we are running off to Canada to watch sweaty men skate around and try to kill each other. We might stay over and take over the whole damn country with our awesomeness. If we feel like it.
Happy Birthday Big Sister. Hurry up and get here, we have a giant ice cream cake roll to eat.
Today is my big sister's birthday.
Internet, I am here to tell you that through the wonders of physics and many things I do not understand my sister is turning twenty-five today, even though I am twenty-seven and she is older except I am actually twenty-two so really it all makes sense.
My sister is the one that taught me about Santa Claus. And sex. On the same day. When I was four. And was disturbingly accurate considering she was like SEVEN at the time.
She used to shove me into a hamper shaped like a mailbox and jump on the top claiming that it was a covered wagon. Until I would cry. Then she would do it some more.
She used to gross me out by pulling all of the meat and veggies out of her canned chicken and noodle soup and mushing it together and then putting it back in the soup. She may actually still do this, but I have refused to eat chicken and noodle soup with her for almost twenty years.
She has looked exactly the same for almost fifteen years. Then it was a terror to my dad that she was in junior high and looked twenty-five, now it is a source of anger to everyone else that she has somehow defied the universe and still looks twenty-five.
She got the hook nose (HA) but the good legs and the only natural-looking smile in the entire family (the rest of us have these crooked ones that look like we are being held at gunpoint). I got the better hair, the non-hook nose and the fat knees.
She won. She always wins.
When I was little I wanted to be her when I grew up. Now I am just glad she lets me be her friend. She is going to be here in a little more than a week and we are running off to Canada to watch sweaty men skate around and try to kill each other. We might stay over and take over the whole damn country with our awesomeness. If we feel like it.
Happy Birthday Big Sister. Hurry up and get here, we have a giant ice cream cake roll to eat.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Another Wild One
Oh how I spoke too soon.
I had wild hopes Internet. Of posting pictures of my new pretty guest room. Of asking your opinion of the two bedding choices I have--of actually FINISHING the guest room. J and I got pretty far too, we had the bed all set up. And then the fucking thing fell apart.
My new pretty bed is broken and while the store is promising to fix it all the grand schemes we had for in there are on hold. And my sister will be here in ten days. The fine ladies at that store better get the lead out because I need to finish that room STAT.
I was a brave brave girl this morning, I spent the night hacking up a lung and still managed to drag my sorry ass out of bed (to the tune of J moaning PLEASE JUST FUCKING GET UP WOMAN) and to work this morning. Nyquil knocked me out last night but not before making me nauseated enough to start gagging and worrying I was going to suffocate in my sleep and oh my GOD poor J with all the whining.
I braved work today heavily sedated by various over the counter cold medicines all of which made me feel sleepy and oddly cheery. Only to have my boss screach DEAR GOD GO HOME at me when I saw her at 2:30. Shit woman. I DO THIS FOR YOU.
So it is the weekend and I am looking forward to many things. Antique shopping and lunch with my mother, taking J to dinner to celebrate 90 days of not getting fired and finishing like three books while semi-asleep on my couch.
Also, drinking large amounts of tea.
Try to control your envy here folks. I know it is hard.
I had wild hopes Internet. Of posting pictures of my new pretty guest room. Of asking your opinion of the two bedding choices I have--of actually FINISHING the guest room. J and I got pretty far too, we had the bed all set up. And then the fucking thing fell apart.
My new pretty bed is broken and while the store is promising to fix it all the grand schemes we had for in there are on hold. And my sister will be here in ten days. The fine ladies at that store better get the lead out because I need to finish that room STAT.
I was a brave brave girl this morning, I spent the night hacking up a lung and still managed to drag my sorry ass out of bed (to the tune of J moaning PLEASE JUST FUCKING GET UP WOMAN) and to work this morning. Nyquil knocked me out last night but not before making me nauseated enough to start gagging and worrying I was going to suffocate in my sleep and oh my GOD poor J with all the whining.
I braved work today heavily sedated by various over the counter cold medicines all of which made me feel sleepy and oddly cheery. Only to have my boss screach DEAR GOD GO HOME at me when I saw her at 2:30. Shit woman. I DO THIS FOR YOU.
So it is the weekend and I am looking forward to many things. Antique shopping and lunch with my mother, taking J to dinner to celebrate 90 days of not getting fired and finishing like three books while semi-asleep on my couch.
Also, drinking large amounts of tea.
Try to control your envy here folks. I know it is hard.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
At Least It Is Over
Today was not one of my best days.
I have been fighting this cold for what seems like eighty-four thousand days and I am just ready for it to be over y'all. Either become a Serious Illness that keeps me in bed or on my couch watching Ti-faux or leave me the hell alone because the hacking and the coughing and the general grossness of me is just very last season and is Unacceptable.
So I woke up this morning and got dressed and my hair just would no cooperate but man that is nothing new. But my eyes, LORD MY EYES, were so bloodshot that I looked like I was wearing novelty Halloween contacts. Which might be a lovely lovely look for others but for me? Er not so much. But whatever, if I drag my cookies out of bed at that time of the morning I am going to work and that is all there is to it.
At the bus station, well my feet decided otherwise. Because one moment I was standing on the curb and the next I was splayed out all over the cement with towo skinned kness and a purse-full of belongins scattered in the street--strongly considering going home.
SomehowI made it through the day, sucking down most of a bag of Hall Vapo-lozenges. And my reward was an early bus
AND
Success in the Find A Bed Now You Fucking Wacko Sweepstakes!
Without having to pay a million dollars! Without havin to go to the Dickhead From Craigslist's apartment even though that was freaking me out! From a store! For a reasonable sum!
So now, if I ever drag my snotty ass outside and bring the bed in, we will have a fully functioning and possibly even inviting guestoom for less than $150 dollars. Take that Design on a Dime!
I have been fighting this cold for what seems like eighty-four thousand days and I am just ready for it to be over y'all. Either become a Serious Illness that keeps me in bed or on my couch watching Ti-faux or leave me the hell alone because the hacking and the coughing and the general grossness of me is just very last season and is Unacceptable.
So I woke up this morning and got dressed and my hair just would no cooperate but man that is nothing new. But my eyes, LORD MY EYES, were so bloodshot that I looked like I was wearing novelty Halloween contacts. Which might be a lovely lovely look for others but for me? Er not so much. But whatever, if I drag my cookies out of bed at that time of the morning I am going to work and that is all there is to it.
At the bus station, well my feet decided otherwise. Because one moment I was standing on the curb and the next I was splayed out all over the cement with towo skinned kness and a purse-full of belongins scattered in the street--strongly considering going home.
SomehowI made it through the day, sucking down most of a bag of Hall Vapo-lozenges. And my reward was an early bus
AND
Success in the Find A Bed Now You Fucking Wacko Sweepstakes!
Without having to pay a million dollars! Without havin to go to the Dickhead From Craigslist's apartment even though that was freaking me out! From a store! For a reasonable sum!
So now, if I ever drag my snotty ass outside and bring the bed in, we will have a fully functioning and possibly even inviting guestoom for less than $150 dollars. Take that Design on a Dime!
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Another
Another one.
My mother is a high school teacher. One at the rival high school to the one my sister and I attended. These types of shootings freak me out like no other because the school she teaches at is the type of school where they happen. The type of school where there are firm lines between rich and poor, white and black. There is almost no true middle class in that town anymore. It’s non-city status (until about twenty years ago) and close proximity to both Seattle and Tacoma made it a boon for willy nilly construction. On one hand there are incredible multi-million dollar homes on waterfront property and on the other there are a crapload of Section 8 apartments. With the kids attending the exact same school.
It is a liberal community. The kind where the parents teach their kids that we are all the same despite color but than encourage them to stick with their own kind. The kind of schools where the only Blacks and Hispanics you meet are poor. The kind that makes stereotypes about white yuppie brats feel incredibly true.
My mother is fifty-eight years old. She would not like my telling the internet that, as she likes to pass for forty-eight. She has a bad hip, two bad knees and a thumb that screams with pain if you breathe on it. She is always cold. She is a tiny 5’4” (though let us all let her believe she is 5’5 ½”) with a small frame. She does not belong in the middle of the knife fights and other physical confrontations that happen in her school.
But I know my mother, and I know that she would always interfere if a child was going to be hurt.
I am the worst sort of liberal. I think that all kids should be in public schools. That when the rich remove their children than it makes the problem worse. That our best teachers, like my mom, belong in public schools.
But I want it to be some one else’s mother who has to work in war zone.
We are not talking about a bad school or a scary school. We are talking about suburbia. With a lot of tension between white and black and rich and poor. But the kind of school where these things didn’t happen. Until Columbine. And the others that have followed.
Every time I hear of a school shooting my heart stops. Because I know my mother in her heart will always be a teacher and I know that in my heart all I really want is for her to stop being one.
My mother is a high school teacher. One at the rival high school to the one my sister and I attended. These types of shootings freak me out like no other because the school she teaches at is the type of school where they happen. The type of school where there are firm lines between rich and poor, white and black. There is almost no true middle class in that town anymore. It’s non-city status (until about twenty years ago) and close proximity to both Seattle and Tacoma made it a boon for willy nilly construction. On one hand there are incredible multi-million dollar homes on waterfront property and on the other there are a crapload of Section 8 apartments. With the kids attending the exact same school.
It is a liberal community. The kind where the parents teach their kids that we are all the same despite color but than encourage them to stick with their own kind. The kind of schools where the only Blacks and Hispanics you meet are poor. The kind that makes stereotypes about white yuppie brats feel incredibly true.
My mother is fifty-eight years old. She would not like my telling the internet that, as she likes to pass for forty-eight. She has a bad hip, two bad knees and a thumb that screams with pain if you breathe on it. She is always cold. She is a tiny 5’4” (though let us all let her believe she is 5’5 ½”) with a small frame. She does not belong in the middle of the knife fights and other physical confrontations that happen in her school.
But I know my mother, and I know that she would always interfere if a child was going to be hurt.
I am the worst sort of liberal. I think that all kids should be in public schools. That when the rich remove their children than it makes the problem worse. That our best teachers, like my mom, belong in public schools.
But I want it to be some one else’s mother who has to work in war zone.
We are not talking about a bad school or a scary school. We are talking about suburbia. With a lot of tension between white and black and rich and poor. But the kind of school where these things didn’t happen. Until Columbine. And the others that have followed.
Every time I hear of a school shooting my heart stops. Because I know my mother in her heart will always be a teacher and I know that in my heart all I really want is for her to stop being one.
Monday, November 07, 2005
One Week
It's been one week (shit, now I have that fucking song in my head) since my laptop has worked and it is SO LONELY without it. I cannot read endless blogs that have no meaning and I will never be able to find again as I love to do (total side note, my mom has decided she would like to "read blogs" but "how does one READ A BLOG," it took all that I am to not answer in my most formal snotty tone that ONE READS BLOG THE SAME WAY ONE READS A BOOK, ONE WORD AT A TIME MOM--but isn't she adorable) and not blogging myself. No online poker. No Webboggle while I watch TV. I have had to use J's computer to obsessively search craigslist for a bed for the guestroom. It is like living without PLUMBING y'all. How did people do this?
And project Find A Bed Because If We Put That Mattress On The Floor The Dog Will Piss On It And I Will Shoot Him Dead is not going well. As I am cheap, but want good quality and everything that is out there is expensive, crappily made and UGLY. J and I got into an argument this weekend because he said I was wanting something that didn't exist (possible) but mainly because we found something that met the barest of expectations and I did not immediately purchase it and he was pissed because we had spent more than ten minutes looking for something. And we had one of those fights that no one tells you about in a marriage. The ones that you won't ever get divorced over but are still oddly troubling because why are two adults screaming in a car that is driving 60 mph on the freeway with one of you crying and saying YOU JUST DON'T TALK TO ME and the other is all YOU READ TOO MUCH INTO WHAT I SAY and everyone looks purple and neither of you actually care about the fight anymore it is just a Thing in the car with you and you can't even apologize really because the other person is totally wrong. And nothing is resolved but neither of you care because it is a stupid fight and you like to just to pretend that It Never Happened.
Though, other than that everything was peachy this weekend.
I woke up this morning with my neck so stiff and painful that I couldn't really move it at all to the left or down. And I tried to sit up and breathe and almost died. I whined enough that J rubbed it and it stopped hurting enough that I could sit up without passing out but I am still getting through the day without looking down or to the left. As far as I am concerned LEFT DOES NOT EXIST. Also, I still have a cold and sore throat and really I am pitiful. I told my boss that my goal for the day was to not throw up, cough on anyone, or die.
But then my flowers from Friday came! And I had forgotten them and so they were a surprise. And so gorgeous, all sunflowers with this rather grumpy bear holding the vase. That sounds a lot cheesier than it is in execution--I mean have a Van Gough on my desk here. And I just decided to pretend that J was sending them to me because my back hurts and I have a cold and he just loves me (I did not give into the temptation to pretend that the flowers were an apology for arguing with me because he is totally not sorry for that).
Did you hear that? That is the sound of the internet swooning because my husband is so awesome.
So my neck is not so bad, and I have cough drops for the cold and One Week has been replaced by the theme from Greatest American Hero (BELIEVE IT OR NOT . . .).We'll call that an improvement
And project Find A Bed Because If We Put That Mattress On The Floor The Dog Will Piss On It And I Will Shoot Him Dead is not going well. As I am cheap, but want good quality and everything that is out there is expensive, crappily made and UGLY. J and I got into an argument this weekend because he said I was wanting something that didn't exist (possible) but mainly because we found something that met the barest of expectations and I did not immediately purchase it and he was pissed because we had spent more than ten minutes looking for something. And we had one of those fights that no one tells you about in a marriage. The ones that you won't ever get divorced over but are still oddly troubling because why are two adults screaming in a car that is driving 60 mph on the freeway with one of you crying and saying YOU JUST DON'T TALK TO ME and the other is all YOU READ TOO MUCH INTO WHAT I SAY and everyone looks purple and neither of you actually care about the fight anymore it is just a Thing in the car with you and you can't even apologize really because the other person is totally wrong. And nothing is resolved but neither of you care because it is a stupid fight and you like to just to pretend that It Never Happened.
Though, other than that everything was peachy this weekend.
I woke up this morning with my neck so stiff and painful that I couldn't really move it at all to the left or down. And I tried to sit up and breathe and almost died. I whined enough that J rubbed it and it stopped hurting enough that I could sit up without passing out but I am still getting through the day without looking down or to the left. As far as I am concerned LEFT DOES NOT EXIST. Also, I still have a cold and sore throat and really I am pitiful. I told my boss that my goal for the day was to not throw up, cough on anyone, or die.
But then my flowers from Friday came! And I had forgotten them and so they were a surprise. And so gorgeous, all sunflowers with this rather grumpy bear holding the vase. That sounds a lot cheesier than it is in execution--I mean have a Van Gough on my desk here. And I just decided to pretend that J was sending them to me because my back hurts and I have a cold and he just loves me (I did not give into the temptation to pretend that the flowers were an apology for arguing with me because he is totally not sorry for that).
Did you hear that? That is the sound of the internet swooning because my husband is so awesome.
So my neck is not so bad, and I have cough drops for the cold and One Week has been replaced by the theme from Greatest American Hero (BELIEVE IT OR NOT . . .).We'll call that an improvement
Friday, November 04, 2005
Success
Oh was I in a fine mood last night. Not only did I whine to the entire internet (or the three loyalists who read here daily) but I pissed and moaned to J until I am sure he had me on suicide watch. I am not sure what got into me because as per my usual nothing looked quite so dire this morning when I woke up.
J decided I needed flowers to cheer me and sent me some at work. This would have been a much more romantic gesture if they had arrived before I was leaving. But a hasty cell phone call as I was getting on the early bus had me trudging back into the office to pick up my delivery.
Which was not there.
Sigh. I missed the early bus, and would have to wait an hour and a half to leave for a really sweet gesture by my husband that never actually arrived. I mean the thought is what counts and all but I really wanted to beat those delivery people over the head because how cute is that shit? Sending your wife flowers because she has the whiniest pants in three counties? And then THWARTED by incompetent delivery services.
So I got neither the early bus or flowers but I mean I can't bitch because HI, that would make me an ungrateful wretch.
And it doesn't matter now as I am at home, wearing slippers and thermals and washing the towel that the cat puked on. Which isn't as gloomy as a scenerio as that probably reads.
I mean I didn't step in the cat puke.
That is a successful* day.
Horrifying, but does anyone else remember how to spell success by remembering the theme song to The Secret of My Succe$s?
J decided I needed flowers to cheer me and sent me some at work. This would have been a much more romantic gesture if they had arrived before I was leaving. But a hasty cell phone call as I was getting on the early bus had me trudging back into the office to pick up my delivery.
Which was not there.
Sigh. I missed the early bus, and would have to wait an hour and a half to leave for a really sweet gesture by my husband that never actually arrived. I mean the thought is what counts and all but I really wanted to beat those delivery people over the head because how cute is that shit? Sending your wife flowers because she has the whiniest pants in three counties? And then THWARTED by incompetent delivery services.
So I got neither the early bus or flowers but I mean I can't bitch because HI, that would make me an ungrateful wretch.
And it doesn't matter now as I am at home, wearing slippers and thermals and washing the towel that the cat puked on. Which isn't as gloomy as a scenerio as that probably reads.
I mean I didn't step in the cat puke.
That is a successful* day.
Horrifying, but does anyone else remember how to spell success by remembering the theme song to The Secret of My Succe$s?
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Fall Blahs
I had just typed out this very angsty entry about how it is rainy and sad and I am busy but bored and BOO FUCKING HOO for me. I re-read half of it and got irritated my own damn self so I don't see why I should torture you all with it.
For the record, Seven jeans are apparently not gay and the hubby looks damn fine in them. Also, the Diesel ones were rather feminine in cut. Like I am fairly certain they were too girly for me.
I caught site of myself in a three way mirror today and am officially not looking mirrors every again. I looked terrible, my hairy flat and poofy at the same time and my ass looked enormous. Is it the pants? WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME?!
I swear, my weepiness would make me suspect PMS (which would also excuse my distended and bloated belly) but sadly even my irregular self cannot pretend on that one. I think it is just fall blahs and a hefty case of office butt.
I came home and colored my hair and gave myself a facial. We'll see if that makes me look less like a scary hag or not.
Tomorrow shall be spent coming up with ways to leave work early and dreaming of my sweatpants. And possibly eating cheese (no reaon to go crazy to banish the bloat--especially if I am giving up mirrors). That should cheer me up enough to write something that can at least pretend to be interesting.
Until then.
For the record, Seven jeans are apparently not gay and the hubby looks damn fine in them. Also, the Diesel ones were rather feminine in cut. Like I am fairly certain they were too girly for me.
I caught site of myself in a three way mirror today and am officially not looking mirrors every again. I looked terrible, my hairy flat and poofy at the same time and my ass looked enormous. Is it the pants? WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME?!
I swear, my weepiness would make me suspect PMS (which would also excuse my distended and bloated belly) but sadly even my irregular self cannot pretend on that one. I think it is just fall blahs and a hefty case of office butt.
I came home and colored my hair and gave myself a facial. We'll see if that makes me look less like a scary hag or not.
Tomorrow shall be spent coming up with ways to leave work early and dreaming of my sweatpants. And possibly eating cheese (no reaon to go crazy to banish the bloat--especially if I am giving up mirrors). That should cheer me up enough to write something that can at least pretend to be interesting.
Until then.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
I Am Just Seaking Validation For Being A Bigger Bitch
My beautiful and precious laptop has been broken for almost forty-eight hours and J has yet to fix it and yet he still thinks he lives in this house. I am not sure what he thinks his job is here but it definitely includes laptop repairs and doing whatever the hell it is I am demanding right now!
Faster than that tool.
I found myself in a rather uncomfortable position today at the Rack (trying to buy jeans for J who is not wearing my pants today--I do not think--but has mysteriously lost his pants even though he swears he only takes them off at home). I was rooting through the piles of designer ones (Sevens for fifty bucks! AG for seventy! Mavi for twenty!) and this man asks me if the brand he is holding (Lucky) is "hot." Er no.
He says that he has been told that he needs jeans that are a hot brand and do I know anything about that. WHY YES I DO! So I pull out a bunch of different styles and point him in the right direction in a way that I assure you was not flirtatious or anything but polite and possibly friendly. Because while I come off as a royal bitch here and often to my friends and loved ones to the general public I am generally a lovely person because I was not raised to act like an animal. And I have a very "friendly face" which is code speak--you have a generic face in which I see my third grade teacher/best friend from college/favorite niece/favorite barista . . . Anyway, occasionally in public people forget that they do not actually know me and things get odd fast. This has lead to many fun and interesting things (as well as new friends) and to uncomfortable situations that make me wish I carried a large knife in my even larger handbag.
So this man is babbling about how he will not wear tight jeans (even though that is the entire point of designer jeans I mean not glued on but if you want saggy baggy shit go to Old Navy because it all looks the same) and I am to that stage where I am smiling and nodding but I have to find J some jeans that he will actually wear and not consider too gay (which well we'll see what he says but GOD he is picky) and then I want to go look for picture frames marked down to nothing and get some chicken McNuggets on my way back to work.
In other words, I have things to do and they do not include caring about this guys pants. So he says (holding a pair of Sevens), "so if I get these, then I will be hot right?"
Well I guess so and I will committ enough to that to nod (but I only sort of mean it because GOD wacko) and he was like OH YOU BROKE MY HEART BECAUSE I THOUGHT THAT I WAS ALREADY HOT.
And then he follows me around the store for fifteen minutes asking me weird questions which means I cannot go to the lingerie section because I am not talking to this schmuck about my cup size I do not care about being polite.
I did get my chicken nuggets so it wasn't a total loss.
But my GOD, I swear, I do not offer little tidbits of wit or wisdom to these people. And yet last week it was that weird guy at Costco and TERRY on the bus who told me all about how he left his bike on the southbound bus this morning and now he does not know where it is and before that was this woman at Victoria's Secret who was asking me about did men really like thongs and what if your butt was long and should she get a Brazillian. And that old guy on the train a couple of weeks ago that was very concerned that my pants were too long but DUDE NO YOUR'S ARE TOO SHORT BUT I AM NOT A RUDE ENOUGH BITCH TO MENTION THAT SO WHY DON'T YOU GET OUT OF ME AND MY PANTS' GRILL mmmmmkay?
Perhaps the moral of the story is I need to stop just acting like a bitch to my husband and spread it around? Not that way EW.
Faster than that tool.
I found myself in a rather uncomfortable position today at the Rack (trying to buy jeans for J who is not wearing my pants today--I do not think--but has mysteriously lost his pants even though he swears he only takes them off at home). I was rooting through the piles of designer ones (Sevens for fifty bucks! AG for seventy! Mavi for twenty!) and this man asks me if the brand he is holding (Lucky) is "hot." Er no.
He says that he has been told that he needs jeans that are a hot brand and do I know anything about that. WHY YES I DO! So I pull out a bunch of different styles and point him in the right direction in a way that I assure you was not flirtatious or anything but polite and possibly friendly. Because while I come off as a royal bitch here and often to my friends and loved ones to the general public I am generally a lovely person because I was not raised to act like an animal. And I have a very "friendly face" which is code speak--you have a generic face in which I see my third grade teacher/best friend from college/favorite niece/favorite barista . . . Anyway, occasionally in public people forget that they do not actually know me and things get odd fast. This has lead to many fun and interesting things (as well as new friends) and to uncomfortable situations that make me wish I carried a large knife in my even larger handbag.
So this man is babbling about how he will not wear tight jeans (even though that is the entire point of designer jeans I mean not glued on but if you want saggy baggy shit go to Old Navy because it all looks the same) and I am to that stage where I am smiling and nodding but I have to find J some jeans that he will actually wear and not consider too gay (which well we'll see what he says but GOD he is picky) and then I want to go look for picture frames marked down to nothing and get some chicken McNuggets on my way back to work.
In other words, I have things to do and they do not include caring about this guys pants. So he says (holding a pair of Sevens), "so if I get these, then I will be hot right?"
Well I guess so and I will committ enough to that to nod (but I only sort of mean it because GOD wacko) and he was like OH YOU BROKE MY HEART BECAUSE I THOUGHT THAT I WAS ALREADY HOT.
And then he follows me around the store for fifteen minutes asking me weird questions which means I cannot go to the lingerie section because I am not talking to this schmuck about my cup size I do not care about being polite.
I did get my chicken nuggets so it wasn't a total loss.
But my GOD, I swear, I do not offer little tidbits of wit or wisdom to these people. And yet last week it was that weird guy at Costco and TERRY on the bus who told me all about how he left his bike on the southbound bus this morning and now he does not know where it is and before that was this woman at Victoria's Secret who was asking me about did men really like thongs and what if your butt was long and should she get a Brazillian. And that old guy on the train a couple of weeks ago that was very concerned that my pants were too long but DUDE NO YOUR'S ARE TOO SHORT BUT I AM NOT A RUDE ENOUGH BITCH TO MENTION THAT SO WHY DON'T YOU GET OUT OF ME AND MY PANTS' GRILL mmmmmkay?
Perhaps the moral of the story is I need to stop just acting like a bitch to my husband and spread it around? Not that way EW.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Are Those MY PANTS?
My stupid dummy, beautiful lovely laptop crashed again last night, J claims it needs a new battery but I think it is being a damn drama queen and he has programmed it to stop working the moment I am having fun.
I can’t even pretend to still be mad at Uncle Chris because J came back from his trip all happy and relaxed and I wouldn’t say rested but you know, boys don’t like resting. He needed a break and Uncle Chris provided one and given the er marital welcome I received I am guessing the break did not include hookers so Yay Uncle Chris! And sorry, to all who just imagined my uh marital happenings? Of course, no one, NOT EVEN MY HUSBAND WHO IS SUPPOSED TO LOVE ME, thought to send me a present which I just do not even know how that could be true. Not even a coloring book from the airport? What are you ANIMALS?
And J tells me that no one even made sure he gave Cadillac my love at the football game! How will he know how much I LOVE AND ADORE HIM CADILLAC I LOVE YOU if people do not pass along messages. I just totally typed that massages which that too.
But I forgive the world for their transgressions because oh, the universe provided me with something that is making me giggle even this morning. I was telling Monica all about it and she started demanding ARE YOU PEEING YOUR PANTS?
I wasn’t, but I COULD.
I got home last night and it was dark and rainy and all we wanted to do was eat candy and tater tots and wait for trick or treaters (who never came but FINE I will just eat bowls and bowls of tooth rotting candy myself like a good martyr). And I looked at J. He looked nice; handsome in a way that your husband can only look when you haven’t seen him in a while. Three days is enough in our case. Just a little absence makes the hubby look HOTT. But something was off. Just a little something, probably no one else noticed. But something that embarrassed the hell out of J. J who does not get embarrassed, who doesn’t understand why I care if he talks to loud or whatever, who does disco slides at weddings when he is sober and doesn’t know the bride or groom very well.
He was wearing my jeans.
I have approximately eighty-four thousand pairs of jeans since I am physically incapable of throwing them out even if I am sure I won’t wear them again and this was a pair that are too large for me. They also were not among the many many pairs of men’s jeans that I do own.
Oh no, my darling husband was wearing a pair of the low-rise boot cut jeans from the Gap.
In our bedroom about 90% of my eighty-four thousand pairs of jeans were on the bed and floor. He said he couldn’t tell what was his, couldn’t find jeans that were his. That he was late and just found some that fit and he thought might be men’s and maybe even his. And oh how he failed. Passed right over the men’s styles I own and went rise to the low rise.
Sad part is, he looks better in them than I do. They are too tight in the knee on me, and baggy in the waist but they fit him great, a little slimmer than he would wear normally but that is not saying much since he likes to wear jeans that fall off of him.
I offered them to him.
I am sure he will get back to me and let me know if he wants them.
I can’t even pretend to still be mad at Uncle Chris because J came back from his trip all happy and relaxed and I wouldn’t say rested but you know, boys don’t like resting. He needed a break and Uncle Chris provided one and given the er marital welcome I received I am guessing the break did not include hookers so Yay Uncle Chris! And sorry, to all who just imagined my uh marital happenings? Of course, no one, NOT EVEN MY HUSBAND WHO IS SUPPOSED TO LOVE ME, thought to send me a present which I just do not even know how that could be true. Not even a coloring book from the airport? What are you ANIMALS?
And J tells me that no one even made sure he gave Cadillac my love at the football game! How will he know how much I LOVE AND ADORE HIM CADILLAC I LOVE YOU if people do not pass along messages. I just totally typed that massages which that too.
But I forgive the world for their transgressions because oh, the universe provided me with something that is making me giggle even this morning. I was telling Monica all about it and she started demanding ARE YOU PEEING YOUR PANTS?
I wasn’t, but I COULD.
I got home last night and it was dark and rainy and all we wanted to do was eat candy and tater tots and wait for trick or treaters (who never came but FINE I will just eat bowls and bowls of tooth rotting candy myself like a good martyr). And I looked at J. He looked nice; handsome in a way that your husband can only look when you haven’t seen him in a while. Three days is enough in our case. Just a little absence makes the hubby look HOTT. But something was off. Just a little something, probably no one else noticed. But something that embarrassed the hell out of J. J who does not get embarrassed, who doesn’t understand why I care if he talks to loud or whatever, who does disco slides at weddings when he is sober and doesn’t know the bride or groom very well.
He was wearing my jeans.
I have approximately eighty-four thousand pairs of jeans since I am physically incapable of throwing them out even if I am sure I won’t wear them again and this was a pair that are too large for me. They also were not among the many many pairs of men’s jeans that I do own.
Oh no, my darling husband was wearing a pair of the low-rise boot cut jeans from the Gap.
In our bedroom about 90% of my eighty-four thousand pairs of jeans were on the bed and floor. He said he couldn’t tell what was his, couldn’t find jeans that were his. That he was late and just found some that fit and he thought might be men’s and maybe even his. And oh how he failed. Passed right over the men’s styles I own and went rise to the low rise.
Sad part is, he looks better in them than I do. They are too tight in the knee on me, and baggy in the waist but they fit him great, a little slimmer than he would wear normally but that is not saying much since he likes to wear jeans that fall off of him.
I offered them to him.
I am sure he will get back to me and let me know if he wants them.
But It's Not About My Period Fucking Asshole
I have an internal radar that is almost infallible to tell me where the nearest bathroom. This is because my bladder is almost legendary in it's inability to hold anything for long. I always have to pee and the introduction of gastro-intestinal disease to my delicate system only made things uh more interesting.
So I will pee anywhere and am only slightly more particular where I will shit. I have pee in fields and on the side of the road, in every type of bathroom. I am the type of girl that is too much of a Princess or too much of a pain in the ass to wait in a long assed line (if indeed I am even capable of waiting) and so upon occasion I have used the men's room.
As a rule the men's bathroom is much more a sty than the ladies'. Women care too much about what other's think to just make a mess (at least while others are in the room and in a women's bathroom others are always in the room). This is why most women wash their hands and men don't. Those of us with vaginas would like to pretend this is because we are civilized and well mannered but really we are just more vulnerable to peer pressure and do not want to be called on our peeing on the seat if we can at all help it.
So imagine my surprise, my dismay, at finding something that was possibly the grossest thing I have ever found in a public bathroom in the bathroom at work today.
Smears of blood.
Smears of blood on the floor, the toilet, drug out into the tile in front of the sinks. Dark brown blood which can only have one connotation. I mean I am sure every woman has done something embarassing during her period but I sincerly hope that some one did accidentally get a used pad stuck to the bottom of her shoe and them walk around with it oblivious, because that is what looked like happened. It was like a scene from Carrie in there.
Worse, when I came back hours later it was still there, in an office where the cleaning woman comes by every four hours. Where we are hyper-sensitive to germs, odors and even the appearance of slovenliness.
Which leads me to conclude that no woman wanted to call it in because they were convinced that they would be pegged as the stupid bitch who smeared her period all over the bathroom.
I mean that is why I didn't call it in.
There you have it, yet another sad commentary on the politics of the work bathroom.
That noise you heard is the entire male population of the internet thanking GOD they are not a woman. And also thinking Gee, would it kill her to put a warning on an entry about her fucking period?
So I will pee anywhere and am only slightly more particular where I will shit. I have pee in fields and on the side of the road, in every type of bathroom. I am the type of girl that is too much of a Princess or too much of a pain in the ass to wait in a long assed line (if indeed I am even capable of waiting) and so upon occasion I have used the men's room.
As a rule the men's bathroom is much more a sty than the ladies'. Women care too much about what other's think to just make a mess (at least while others are in the room and in a women's bathroom others are always in the room). This is why most women wash their hands and men don't. Those of us with vaginas would like to pretend this is because we are civilized and well mannered but really we are just more vulnerable to peer pressure and do not want to be called on our peeing on the seat if we can at all help it.
So imagine my surprise, my dismay, at finding something that was possibly the grossest thing I have ever found in a public bathroom in the bathroom at work today.
Smears of blood.
Smears of blood on the floor, the toilet, drug out into the tile in front of the sinks. Dark brown blood which can only have one connotation. I mean I am sure every woman has done something embarassing during her period but I sincerly hope that some one did accidentally get a used pad stuck to the bottom of her shoe and them walk around with it oblivious, because that is what looked like happened. It was like a scene from Carrie in there.
Worse, when I came back hours later it was still there, in an office where the cleaning woman comes by every four hours. Where we are hyper-sensitive to germs, odors and even the appearance of slovenliness.
Which leads me to conclude that no woman wanted to call it in because they were convinced that they would be pegged as the stupid bitch who smeared her period all over the bathroom.
I mean that is why I didn't call it in.
There you have it, yet another sad commentary on the politics of the work bathroom.
That noise you heard is the entire male population of the internet thanking GOD they are not a woman. And also thinking Gee, would it kill her to put a warning on an entry about her fucking period?
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Please, Like I Would Want To Get Close Enough To Cut Them
My dogs and my husband and his friends were operating in a horrifyingly evil conspiracy to not let me fucking sleep last night. The dogs kept hearing the raccoons rooting through our garbage and wanted to go out to play. Ten times they made me go out there until I figured out that they were eating garbage and drinking dirty water out of the lid. How much did I hate them? I seriously considered FEEDING THEM TO THE RACCOONS. Then my husband and his friend called me smashed out of their minds. They were mocking my steam cleaner (fuckers) and J was screaming "BABY I LOOOOOOOOVE YOOOOOOOOU" in the back ground. I hope they had fun because people who interrupt my sleep (I had taken a sleeping pill so I was all stoned and trying to listen to see if something was important) get their balls cut off.
YES CHRIS, YOUR BALLS. OFF. IN A JAR ON MY DESK MAYBE.
Actually, why should I care, since Darla and Buster were putting me through sleep deprivation drive the woman nutso operation #87. I was going to be up anyway, might as well get a drunk dial.
I took the dogs to my mom's house today, let them chase her dogs, let her dogs chase mine. Little bastards are passed OUT right now, and they better stay that way. I am eating celebratory fried rice and watching home improvement television.
And dusting a spot on my mantle for YOUR FUCKING BALLS UNCLE CHRIS THEY WILL BE MINE IN A BIG GLASS DECANTER.
Or something.
YES CHRIS, YOUR BALLS. OFF. IN A JAR ON MY DESK MAYBE.
Actually, why should I care, since Darla and Buster were putting me through sleep deprivation drive the woman nutso operation #87. I was going to be up anyway, might as well get a drunk dial.
I took the dogs to my mom's house today, let them chase her dogs, let her dogs chase mine. Little bastards are passed OUT right now, and they better stay that way. I am eating celebratory fried rice and watching home improvement television.
And dusting a spot on my mantle for YOUR FUCKING BALLS UNCLE CHRIS THEY WILL BE MINE IN A BIG GLASS DECANTER.
Or something.
Saturday, October 29, 2005
He Better Come Home With A Good Shave
This morning I made a Costco run and found out that apparently Costco on a Saturday morning is apparently a serious meet market. Why all these single people are buying in bulk is beyond me. I was just checking out light bulbs, Coca Cola and flaxseed oil and my ass was getting checked out. Tip to single men in Washington, sidling up to a woman at Costco when you have a giant box of KING SIZED condoms in your cart she will mock you on the internet. Especially if you note the felt pads she is buying to put on the legs of her furniture and offer to come over to help her "move things around and whatever else (you) need."
Though, single ladies of Washington, get thee to Costco if you want to meet a man who gets up early to shop on Saturdays and knows his way around the tool aisle. Several look extremely hot in their flannel shirts and hiking boots. If you like that sort of thing. With crew cuts. Which apparently I do.
My mom and I then spent the day looking at ridiculously expensive furniture (rest assured should we be forced at gunpoint to buy a 1500 dollar bed we CAN) and all kinds of goodies for people who are much more organized than us. I was sorely tempted to buy a shoe rack that I would probably never use and a sock drawer organizer. That store is not selling storage tools, they are selling the idea that YOU TOO CAN BE ORGANIZED, even though there is no fucking way I can be organized.
I am actually really enjoying my weekend alone. The dogs were so worn out by keeping my ass up on Thursday night that they let me sleep in until 9 this morning. I got to wander around Costco as long as I wanted and I have made my bed both mornings. My house looks neat and I have a crazy night planned of playing online poker in bed.
I suppose I will have to let him come home, can't have him camping out on the porch. But I must say, it is a good thing that he cleans the litter box for the cat--I mean he has to serve a purpose or he is not getting back in.
Looking cute may or may not be enough.
Though, single ladies of Washington, get thee to Costco if you want to meet a man who gets up early to shop on Saturdays and knows his way around the tool aisle. Several look extremely hot in their flannel shirts and hiking boots. If you like that sort of thing. With crew cuts. Which apparently I do.
My mom and I then spent the day looking at ridiculously expensive furniture (rest assured should we be forced at gunpoint to buy a 1500 dollar bed we CAN) and all kinds of goodies for people who are much more organized than us. I was sorely tempted to buy a shoe rack that I would probably never use and a sock drawer organizer. That store is not selling storage tools, they are selling the idea that YOU TOO CAN BE ORGANIZED, even though there is no fucking way I can be organized.
I am actually really enjoying my weekend alone. The dogs were so worn out by keeping my ass up on Thursday night that they let me sleep in until 9 this morning. I got to wander around Costco as long as I wanted and I have made my bed both mornings. My house looks neat and I have a crazy night planned of playing online poker in bed.
I suppose I will have to let him come home, can't have him camping out on the porch. But I must say, it is a good thing that he cleans the litter box for the cat--I mean he has to serve a purpose or he is not getting back in.
Looking cute may or may not be enough.
Friday, October 28, 2005
Oooooh Steamy
Because I am a wild and crazy single gal I just spent the last three hours cleaning my entire house.
Since we moved in two months ago I have gotten into the habit of cleaning the house when I get home on Friday night. I would like to pretend that I am taking on the traditions of my people and cleaning in preparation for Shabbat. But I get home after sundown and really I think it is more that I can see the end of the week and the end of my energy and I just want to cram it in before I collapse. I bought a steam cleaner (that is not the exact model but apparently that exists nowhere online) and man, I am in love. My floors are gleaming (the thing about having floors that hide dirt is that it is sort of hard to tell when they are clean but man so shiny) and you just have to be a geeky housewife to understand the joy that was walking around with the nozzle blasting everything in sight with steam. It kicked ass on my flat cooktop and on the mildew on the toilet seats (which NOTHING seems to get). It is sick as hell how excited I was to get those seats clean. Am officially an old hag.
I changed the sheets and washed dishes and Febreezed the fuck out of everything and now I just want to go to sleep.
My husband called (only mildly intoxicated, I think he wants to remember the concert) and I am sure he was HORRIFIED he was missing the excitement.
Since we moved in two months ago I have gotten into the habit of cleaning the house when I get home on Friday night. I would like to pretend that I am taking on the traditions of my people and cleaning in preparation for Shabbat. But I get home after sundown and really I think it is more that I can see the end of the week and the end of my energy and I just want to cram it in before I collapse. I bought a steam cleaner (that is not the exact model but apparently that exists nowhere online) and man, I am in love. My floors are gleaming (the thing about having floors that hide dirt is that it is sort of hard to tell when they are clean but man so shiny) and you just have to be a geeky housewife to understand the joy that was walking around with the nozzle blasting everything in sight with steam. It kicked ass on my flat cooktop and on the mildew on the toilet seats (which NOTHING seems to get). It is sick as hell how excited I was to get those seats clean. Am officially an old hag.
I changed the sheets and washed dishes and Febreezed the fuck out of everything and now I just want to go to sleep.
My husband called (only mildly intoxicated, I think he wants to remember the concert) and I am sure he was HORRIFIED he was missing the excitement.
Little Bit Of What?
Because my parents are crazy dog people I was not surprised when I got a new baby brother a couple of weeks ago. They had coveted this puppy when it went home with his new owners and raised their hands eagerly when that couple decided to bail on their new treasure.
They are now the proud owners of a large ass Labrador (130 pounds), a medium sized mutt of undesirable origin (80 pounds) and a tee tiny smooth dachshund yippier than you can fathom (13 pounds).
That means my mother is dealing with 223 pounds of flailing animal flesh all alone this weekend while my father is off visiting my grandparents.
Which means I should shut up about how my two kept getting me up last night because Are you sure that Daddy is just not down in the cellar DEAD, can we go check ONE MORE TIME? every hour on the hour until I gave up and just went to fucking work already.
Of course my mom has thirteen pounds of this at home (one could argue that Darla is almost exactly that but she needs a haircut in the worst way and is not at her most attractive or best smelling).
As a side note, his name is Leon but my parents have taken to calling him LITTLE BIT. Does that explain everything you ever needed to know about me? I thought so.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Bon Voyage
J is leaving tonight, on a jet plane, for his weekend of faux bachelor debauchery. I didn't see him last night and really haven't seem him tonight since I guess it was more fun for him to watch Dodgeball than eat dinner with me. Did that sound bitter? I'm not really. This is just one of those occasions that I don't really understand the differences between us.
J is a very gregarious person in social situations, he talks a lot and just likes to be the life of the party. But when he is at home he likes to be alone. He thinks nothing of going down into his cellar and watching movies or playing games until the middle of the night. It is like entertaining people all day sucks it out of him and he can't take any more.
I am exactly the opposite, I am just a more quiet person at work. I do business and I enjoy my time there. I am just more of a one on one type of person, I really like talking with people on a more personal level. So when I get home that is what I want to do. Of course, I usually end up chatting with the cat and dogs because the husband is downstairs.
So I guess it makes sense what is happening--I am wanting to chat up a storm to get ready for my quiet weekend and he is just wanting to relax and be quiet because he knows he is in for non-stop noise and booze.
Of course the fucker could at least give the pretense of accommodating me. I mean white lies like that are what a marriage is built on. Is he trying to crumble our foundation by being HONEST IN HIS ACTIONS?
Heh. Actually, I am sort of enjoying myself, eating pizza rolls and watching HGTV. It's been a long week, maybe I don't need Mr. Slides-on-floors-at-weddings around after all.
J is a very gregarious person in social situations, he talks a lot and just likes to be the life of the party. But when he is at home he likes to be alone. He thinks nothing of going down into his cellar and watching movies or playing games until the middle of the night. It is like entertaining people all day sucks it out of him and he can't take any more.
I am exactly the opposite, I am just a more quiet person at work. I do business and I enjoy my time there. I am just more of a one on one type of person, I really like talking with people on a more personal level. So when I get home that is what I want to do. Of course, I usually end up chatting with the cat and dogs because the husband is downstairs.
So I guess it makes sense what is happening--I am wanting to chat up a storm to get ready for my quiet weekend and he is just wanting to relax and be quiet because he knows he is in for non-stop noise and booze.
Of course the fucker could at least give the pretense of accommodating me. I mean white lies like that are what a marriage is built on. Is he trying to crumble our foundation by being HONEST IN HIS ACTIONS?
Heh. Actually, I am sort of enjoying myself, eating pizza rolls and watching HGTV. It's been a long week, maybe I don't need Mr. Slides-on-floors-at-weddings around after all.
Thanks Frank
Frank is a rock star, because he caved to my demands and posted in the comments. And he called me a celebrity. I just love Frank.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Talking About The Weekend Even Though It Is Only Wednesday--A New Low
J is off pretending to be twenty-one and still able to go see concerts on weeknights until the wee hours of the morning without looking like a hatchet face tonight--a fantasy that he will try to keep up through the weekend when he goes to San Francisco to visit Uncle Chris. They have eighty-four thousand things planned including multiple ball games and concerts and much much boozing. J keeps speaking in hushed and worshipful tones about doing Jaeger shots at a bar where a girl in a bikini pours them down an ice slide right into your throat. You can tell he thinks that that bar is just heaven and why on EARTH do Christians think that you have to die to go there? Clearly you just have to go to San Francisco. You even get to see her nipples for free.
I am playing single girl, something that I am embarrassed to admit I do not really know how to do. I am officially the old married hag who cannot remember living alone. Which I did live alone, for a few years even and I was great at it. With the going out with people every night and multiple boyfriends and all. Sadly, most of my activities would be verboten in the new harsh monogamy but still. . . one would think I would have some plans.
I actually do have plans. I plan to setup my attic painting space and buy light fixtures and go bed shopping for the guest room. Oh! And scrub my floors! Hot DAYAM. I am a wild woman. I should charge a cover to come to my house.
I also need to carve a pumpkin since HOLY SHIT it is almost Halloween. I feel like it was summer like a week ago and suddenly it is all wool coats and knee high boots and shit I have not purchased a vegetable in which to carve a silly face and lure small children to my home to amuse me with their funny outfits. Must get cracking on this.
The truth is that I really don't miss the old me that much. I take that back, I used to have a lot of fun, I had some really great friends to hang out with. One of the ugly truths is that even if you are not a smug married (which I swear I wasn't because dude I was a child bride and I knew it) your fun girl friends (and forget male friends, you have to start all over once you get married because the old ones now realize that you are never ever fucking them and hit the road Jack) abandon ship. I mean I was never so much on girlfriends to begin with (as am terrible with bullshit) but I do miss the going out and making an ass of myself part (as is every woman I know since we all were acting all psycho at that wedding). My best friend lives in Colorado and sometimes I just want to fly her out here so we can go get a pedicure and eat queso dip and have to call some one to come pick our asses up because we are not even entirely sure where we are.
Actually is anyone up for that this weekend? It sounds pretty good.
I am playing single girl, something that I am embarrassed to admit I do not really know how to do. I am officially the old married hag who cannot remember living alone. Which I did live alone, for a few years even and I was great at it. With the going out with people every night and multiple boyfriends and all. Sadly, most of my activities would be verboten in the new harsh monogamy but still. . . one would think I would have some plans.
I actually do have plans. I plan to setup my attic painting space and buy light fixtures and go bed shopping for the guest room. Oh! And scrub my floors! Hot DAYAM. I am a wild woman. I should charge a cover to come to my house.
I also need to carve a pumpkin since HOLY SHIT it is almost Halloween. I feel like it was summer like a week ago and suddenly it is all wool coats and knee high boots and shit I have not purchased a vegetable in which to carve a silly face and lure small children to my home to amuse me with their funny outfits. Must get cracking on this.
The truth is that I really don't miss the old me that much. I take that back, I used to have a lot of fun, I had some really great friends to hang out with. One of the ugly truths is that even if you are not a smug married (which I swear I wasn't because dude I was a child bride and I knew it) your fun girl friends (and forget male friends, you have to start all over once you get married because the old ones now realize that you are never ever fucking them and hit the road Jack) abandon ship. I mean I was never so much on girlfriends to begin with (as am terrible with bullshit) but I do miss the going out and making an ass of myself part (as is every woman I know since we all were acting all psycho at that wedding). My best friend lives in Colorado and sometimes I just want to fly her out here so we can go get a pedicure and eat queso dip and have to call some one to come pick our asses up because we are not even entirely sure where we are.
Actually is anyone up for that this weekend? It sounds pretty good.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Seven
Since Monica tagged me, you get a meme today. It is internet law after all . .
7 Things I Want to Do Before I Die
1. Publish a novel.
2. Learn to play the piano.
3. Travel to the part of Germany my family is from.
4. Create my own special, signature dessert.
5. Be able to follow along (in writing and aloud) to a Shabbat service in Hebrew.
6. Raise a family with J.
7. Visit every major league baseball park to see a game.
7 Things I Cannot Do
1. Dance (at all, and I was on the dance team in high school so figure that one out).
2. Sing
3. Public speaking.
4. Let anyone be rude to my mother.
5. Resist a puppy.
6. Grow my hair truly long (middle to low back).
7. Not pop a zit.
7 Things That Attract Me To the Opposite Sex
1. Hairy toes, pale skin (I know, sounds like an ape. Or J. heh).
2. Listening ability.
3. A great laugh.
4. Long fingers.
5. Ability to argue.
6. Intelligence.
7 Things I Say Most Often
1. Seriously.
2. I was reading.
3. No??
4. MOTHER FUCKER!
5. No Buster, I will not give you a cookie.
6. No Darla, I will not give you a cookie.
7. Fucking Cubs!
7 Celebrity Crushes
1. Scott Patterson
2. Chris Pratt
3. Truman Capote (I know, SICK).
4. Sean Connery
5. Winona Ryder
6. John Corbett
7. Chaim Potock (SICKER)
7 People (or less) That I Want to Do This
1. Virginia
2. Eeek and Frank, either get blogs or do this in the comments stat!
7 Things I Want to Do Before I Die
1. Publish a novel.
2. Learn to play the piano.
3. Travel to the part of Germany my family is from.
4. Create my own special, signature dessert.
5. Be able to follow along (in writing and aloud) to a Shabbat service in Hebrew.
6. Raise a family with J.
7. Visit every major league baseball park to see a game.
7 Things I Cannot Do
1. Dance (at all, and I was on the dance team in high school so figure that one out).
2. Sing
3. Public speaking.
4. Let anyone be rude to my mother.
5. Resist a puppy.
6. Grow my hair truly long (middle to low back).
7. Not pop a zit.
7 Things That Attract Me To the Opposite Sex
1. Hairy toes, pale skin (I know, sounds like an ape. Or J. heh).
2. Listening ability.
3. A great laugh.
4. Long fingers.
5. Ability to argue.
6. Intelligence.
7 Things I Say Most Often
1. Seriously.
2. I was reading.
3. No??
4. MOTHER FUCKER!
5. No Buster, I will not give you a cookie.
6. No Darla, I will not give you a cookie.
7. Fucking Cubs!
7 Celebrity Crushes
1. Scott Patterson
2. Chris Pratt
3. Truman Capote (I know, SICK).
4. Sean Connery
5. Winona Ryder
6. John Corbett
7. Chaim Potock (SICKER)
7 People (or less) That I Want to Do This
1. Virginia
2. Eeek and Frank, either get blogs or do this in the comments stat!
Monday, October 24, 2005
Carnage
Miss Monica took these photos of her plate at the wedding this weekend.
Take a moment to admire the carnage. Because Monica and I ate like some serious cows. And swilled wine like they were going to pry our hands off the glasses.
Perhaps they should have.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
VICTORY
Whoever wrote that recipe that said that margarine was an acceptable substitute for butter was a goodamn liar. Am brilliant. Have actual cookies baked.
Computer is acting like an asshole though so. . .
Computer is acting like an asshole though so. . .
Who Wants To Pay Me To Post Those Pictures On The Internet
Last night we went to a wedding with Monica and other assorted people we know. It proved to me that you can still be really happy for a woman who turned into a horrifying fucking Bridezilla, that I am terribly unromantic and that all of us married folks need to get out more.
I'm just saying that Monica was using my digital camera to take boob pictures of every woman we knew there throughout the night. That I know the cup size of all of them. And that J ended our night by doing a knee slide and disco dance to Saturday Night Fever. Twice. The groom's father requested that he do it again so they could catch it on video.
He is such a team player he even ruined his pants and got himself a big ol' knee strawberry for his trouble.
We actually had a really nice time, thanks to good friends and lots of wine.
Today he woke up with a sore knee (said strawberry) and an aching back and I have a cold. We've spent the day napping and I am currently ruining ANOTHER batch of oatmeal cookies. Apparently I am incredibly fucking stupid.
A nice weekend, if too short.
I'm just saying that Monica was using my digital camera to take boob pictures of every woman we knew there throughout the night. That I know the cup size of all of them. And that J ended our night by doing a knee slide and disco dance to Saturday Night Fever. Twice. The groom's father requested that he do it again so they could catch it on video.
He is such a team player he even ruined his pants and got himself a big ol' knee strawberry for his trouble.
We actually had a really nice time, thanks to good friends and lots of wine.
Today he woke up with a sore knee (said strawberry) and an aching back and I have a cold. We've spent the day napping and I am currently ruining ANOTHER batch of oatmeal cookies. Apparently I am incredibly fucking stupid.
A nice weekend, if too short.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Magic Time
For those who care, this is my magic magic potion that makes me oh so pretty. I know! The price! Even with my employer's generous discount I spent too much. But a girl needs to be pretty and I cannot help myself.
If you are also a spoiled middle class brat, who suffers from acne or rosocea or wrinkles or just needs to look fucking fabulous than get on those wipes STAT.
If you are also a spoiled middle class brat, who suffers from acne or rosocea or wrinkles or just needs to look fucking fabulous than get on those wipes STAT.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Smooth Skinned
When I was in high school I had "normal" skin. Nothing spectacular, just a few pimples but smooth enough. I abused it, used my skin care sporadically if at all, wore a shitload of foundation (which I now recognize was a shade or two darker than I should have been wearing why didn't anyone fucking tell me?) and really paid few consequences for all of that.
I hit college, took better care of it and promptly started looking like a leper. My skin was so sensitive, I had a lot of acne, it was ruddy and raw. And thus began a lot of searching for something, anything that could make me not look like shit. And nothing worked. Sometimes I would find something that worked a little and it would be a relief. But I was still in my mid--heading towards late--twenties with more acne than most teenagers.
I took anti-biotics for it--which made me feel terrible but I looked fantastic. I didn't need makeup. My skin was still blotchy but it was clear. Unfortunately, I was so dizzy I hated driving my car which really is no way to live. So off of that I went.
I work in an industry where it is important that I look the best that I can. Not that I am a supermodel or something and would be fired for bad skin. But when you work with gorgeous women in an industry where your appearance is noticed having bad skin is something I just don't like thinking about every fucking day.
A gal I know upstairs recommended these daily facial peels. They are obscenely expensive but she got me a sample and after two uses even J saw a difference. So I bought them, having middle class bullshit guilt all the way and after less than two weeks my god. My skin. Is clear. It is not ruddy and spotty. Today, I woke up really late and put on bronzer and ran, something I never would have done two weeks ago. And even though I know that it is an idulgence that I should probably use the money elsewhere. But FUCK. I'm a good person. I donate to the United Way and Planned Parenthood and the ACLU! I never kick puppies. And um, I got nothing.
For the first time in a long time I feel pretty good. I am skinny for me (we are all about relativity here), my hair isn't horrible and my skin is fantastic.
Now if I could just get my stupid hillbilly tooth fixed that would be great.
I suppose I shouldn't be so greedy.
I hit college, took better care of it and promptly started looking like a leper. My skin was so sensitive, I had a lot of acne, it was ruddy and raw. And thus began a lot of searching for something, anything that could make me not look like shit. And nothing worked. Sometimes I would find something that worked a little and it would be a relief. But I was still in my mid--heading towards late--twenties with more acne than most teenagers.
I took anti-biotics for it--which made me feel terrible but I looked fantastic. I didn't need makeup. My skin was still blotchy but it was clear. Unfortunately, I was so dizzy I hated driving my car which really is no way to live. So off of that I went.
I work in an industry where it is important that I look the best that I can. Not that I am a supermodel or something and would be fired for bad skin. But when you work with gorgeous women in an industry where your appearance is noticed having bad skin is something I just don't like thinking about every fucking day.
A gal I know upstairs recommended these daily facial peels. They are obscenely expensive but she got me a sample and after two uses even J saw a difference. So I bought them, having middle class bullshit guilt all the way and after less than two weeks my god. My skin. Is clear. It is not ruddy and spotty. Today, I woke up really late and put on bronzer and ran, something I never would have done two weeks ago. And even though I know that it is an idulgence that I should probably use the money elsewhere. But FUCK. I'm a good person. I donate to the United Way and Planned Parenthood and the ACLU! I never kick puppies. And um, I got nothing.
For the first time in a long time I feel pretty good. I am skinny for me (we are all about relativity here), my hair isn't horrible and my skin is fantastic.
Now if I could just get my stupid hillbilly tooth fixed that would be great.
I suppose I shouldn't be so greedy.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Just Saying
A surprisingly delightful way to spend the evening even if you have a headache and sore tooth?
Eating cinnamon vanilla raisin toast and watching the baseball game.
This, of course, will all go in the toilet if the fucking Astros don't win.
No pressure guys, but I did get TWO CROWNS today.
Eating cinnamon vanilla raisin toast and watching the baseball game.
This, of course, will all go in the toilet if the fucking Astros don't win.
No pressure guys, but I did get TWO CROWNS today.
It Just Isn't Healthy To Feel All Woozy
Today it took me two and a half hours to get to the dentist, where I was an hour late for my appointment and almost vomited in the examination chair (I made it to the ladies room THANK GOD, the list of humiliating places I have vomited is long enough thank you). So I came home. Something about the novacaine and the stress of traffic and something else made me so anxious and queasy and UNABLE TO FACE WORK.
Of course I came home and went to the grocery store, washed my sheets and started cleaning the house which seriously is often what I do when I am sick. Which is sick I know. It is like I can't be properly sick unless my whole house smells of Febreaze.
So I am propped up on the couch with a dog on each side studying me. They are concerned, not that I am sick, but that one of them might get a better spot, an extra cookie, more attention, etc if they do not watch every fucking breath I take. Obviously, I AM A HORRIBLE PUPPY MOTHER CALL THE HUMANE SOCIETY.
Yup, still feeling anxious.
Of course I came home and went to the grocery store, washed my sheets and started cleaning the house which seriously is often what I do when I am sick. Which is sick I know. It is like I can't be properly sick unless my whole house smells of Febreaze.
So I am propped up on the couch with a dog on each side studying me. They are concerned, not that I am sick, but that one of them might get a better spot, an extra cookie, more attention, etc if they do not watch every fucking breath I take. Obviously, I AM A HORRIBLE PUPPY MOTHER CALL THE HUMANE SOCIETY.
Yup, still feeling anxious.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Pantless Porthole
At work today one of the toilets was broken and just kept up with the flushing.
It wouldn't have been so stressful if it had just been like repetitive flushing (it reminded me of this time I took a red-eye into Denver and this woman had her four year old twin boys in the bathroom, the two little boys just ran up and down in front of the stalls making the auto-toilets flush in this very fucked up round) (as a total side note their poor mom was like passed out asleep because it was like three in the morning and I was smashed drunk because I had been drinking Bloody Marys on the plane with this guy named Ed who wore a pink polo shirt and I feel deeply ashamed because PINK? and also I am old because I am pretty sure those boys are in junior high now).
But no, this was one long continuous flush, loud like a sonic boom. It was oddly unsettling, like a black hole was in the poo stall at work and it just might be a porthole to a very scary place.
Custodial had posted a very helpful OUT OF ORDER sign on the door. Because the loud sucking noise and spurting water would not have been enough of a hint and some one just might sit down to take a shit and OOPS into another dimension. Not wearing pants.
Which could be really embarrassing when you think about it.
It wouldn't have been so stressful if it had just been like repetitive flushing (it reminded me of this time I took a red-eye into Denver and this woman had her four year old twin boys in the bathroom, the two little boys just ran up and down in front of the stalls making the auto-toilets flush in this very fucked up round) (as a total side note their poor mom was like passed out asleep because it was like three in the morning and I was smashed drunk because I had been drinking Bloody Marys on the plane with this guy named Ed who wore a pink polo shirt and I feel deeply ashamed because PINK? and also I am old because I am pretty sure those boys are in junior high now).
But no, this was one long continuous flush, loud like a sonic boom. It was oddly unsettling, like a black hole was in the poo stall at work and it just might be a porthole to a very scary place.
Custodial had posted a very helpful OUT OF ORDER sign on the door. Because the loud sucking noise and spurting water would not have been enough of a hint and some one just might sit down to take a shit and OOPS into another dimension. Not wearing pants.
Which could be really embarrassing when you think about it.
Monday, October 17, 2005
LALALALA Not Happening
The fucking ASTROS just blew the lead in the ninth.
So go distract yourself with my new blog. Don't worry, the agenda here at Tantrum Warehouse will continue--we are all about boobs and shoes and haircuts here. But, in the spirit of the bookclub Monica and I are talking about starting, I have a lot of books that I need to talk about.
Let us just pretend that the nonsense is not happening in Houston.
So go distract yourself with my new blog. Don't worry, the agenda here at Tantrum Warehouse will continue--we are all about boobs and shoes and haircuts here. But, in the spirit of the bookclub Monica and I are talking about starting, I have a lot of books that I need to talk about.
Let us just pretend that the nonsense is not happening in Houston.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
God, Don't Tell My Mom The Math Teacher I Need A Tutor
Whoever decided that men are better at math than women just never met my dearly beloved wacko down in the basement. He who cannot buy one pair of shoes only two or three. And only the most expensive ones he tries on. Somehow I think he does not exactly understand that shoes come in pairs so buying two means you are really getting four and oh my I bet I just made his adorable little brain hurt.
I can't really complain because I am always the one that just tells him to buy both pairs and get on with it because shoes are the only things that I bring him along to buy. Everything else I pick out and just have him try on at home but he is so fussy about how shoes fit that it really is better for me to just veto anything that is too horrifying.
Hell I picked out the really expensive ones he bought. In my defense they are really cute.
Come to think of it his math really is excellent, he ended up with four shoes and I ended up with zero. Perhaps I need a tutor.
I can't really complain because I am always the one that just tells him to buy both pairs and get on with it because shoes are the only things that I bring him along to buy. Everything else I pick out and just have him try on at home but he is so fussy about how shoes fit that it really is better for me to just veto anything that is too horrifying.
Hell I picked out the really expensive ones he bought. In my defense they are really cute.
Come to think of it his math really is excellent, he ended up with four shoes and I ended up with zero. Perhaps I need a tutor.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Don't Sniff It Freak
I have had a rather bizarre obsession with Wet-Naps, those little moist towelettes that you used to get at KFC and the like to rid yourself of the greasy mess. I use to savor mine in a way that had to scare the fuck out of my parents. I would wipe my hands with it over and over and smell the lemony goodness. I would not want to throw it away until it was completely dry. I would stockpile more of them every time I was left with an opportunity.
I still don't understand it, but I still feel that way a bit. It is somehow more satisfying than just washing your hands. And it cannot be replicated with baby wipes even though everyone will tell you it is the same damn thing.
Perhaps I am a bizarre kind of OCD?
All I know is that I hate half a bag of cheetos at lunch today, pulled out a Wet-Nap to clean myself up and started sniffing it. Uh no wonder my cubemate thinks I am odd.
Sadly, there does not seem to be Wet-Nap aversion therapy.
I still don't understand it, but I still feel that way a bit. It is somehow more satisfying than just washing your hands. And it cannot be replicated with baby wipes even though everyone will tell you it is the same damn thing.
Perhaps I am a bizarre kind of OCD?
All I know is that I hate half a bag of cheetos at lunch today, pulled out a Wet-Nap to clean myself up and started sniffing it. Uh no wonder my cubemate thinks I am odd.
Sadly, there does not seem to be Wet-Nap aversion therapy.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Pretty Soon I Will Pass Go And Collect $200
There are a lot of things spinning in my head lately. I am trying to learn how to be a good wife and a good employee and how to do everything that I want and need to without making myself crazy.
And I am failing.
I am terrible at failing. Instead of learning from my mistakes and growing I always end up just being determined not to make any. Which, not only prevents me from learning, but also makes me feel like Mt. About To Lose Her Shit all steaming at her breaking point.
My parents did a beautiful thing when I was a kid, they always told me that they would never be mad about my grades if I always did my best. If I brought home an F and had worked my ass off for it than that was fun, but a B was unacceptable if I hadn't done everything I could. This paid off huge in many ways, I always had great grades and I never fought with my parents about it.
The problem is that my parents were unprepared for their neurotic child. Their neurotic child who worries too much about being Her Best all of the time.
I have a terrible history with stress. Lost a bunch of weight and look like a very tired Skeletor for much of my senior year in high school because of stress. I cry, I get too sensitive, I just cannot keep it together when I cannot do My Best.
I have been trying it to cope with it for all my life. Obviously, I am not that successful. I worry about our house being clean and not doing things for J that in my head I know he can do his own damn self and will happily but I still feel like I need to do to be a good wife. I am trying to deal with my expectations which are too high and oddly contradictory to what I hold in value. Everything feels overwhelming, and as much as I hate that word it applies to me here.
I am trying to learn to let go. To not always push so hard. To enjoy my home and family more. And somehow I am getting ambitious about that too. Which is, of course, so very beside the point I could be in another country away from the point right now.
I think a lot, probably way too much, about what kind of person I want to be and whether it is something different than I am today. I think about how my life needs to look and feel for it to feel like my own. I am trying to learn to be able to accept things and to feel more at peace with myself.
And all this zen-shit is kicking my ass.
I am too tired and too spun up in my head to even unravel it all. But someday, someday soon, I will figure it out and feel good in my skin.
And stop having to go to bed at 8:30 because my head is going to burst.
I will take the non-bursting as a start.
And I am failing.
I am terrible at failing. Instead of learning from my mistakes and growing I always end up just being determined not to make any. Which, not only prevents me from learning, but also makes me feel like Mt. About To Lose Her Shit all steaming at her breaking point.
My parents did a beautiful thing when I was a kid, they always told me that they would never be mad about my grades if I always did my best. If I brought home an F and had worked my ass off for it than that was fun, but a B was unacceptable if I hadn't done everything I could. This paid off huge in many ways, I always had great grades and I never fought with my parents about it.
The problem is that my parents were unprepared for their neurotic child. Their neurotic child who worries too much about being Her Best all of the time.
I have a terrible history with stress. Lost a bunch of weight and look like a very tired Skeletor for much of my senior year in high school because of stress. I cry, I get too sensitive, I just cannot keep it together when I cannot do My Best.
I have been trying it to cope with it for all my life. Obviously, I am not that successful. I worry about our house being clean and not doing things for J that in my head I know he can do his own damn self and will happily but I still feel like I need to do to be a good wife. I am trying to deal with my expectations which are too high and oddly contradictory to what I hold in value. Everything feels overwhelming, and as much as I hate that word it applies to me here.
I am trying to learn to let go. To not always push so hard. To enjoy my home and family more. And somehow I am getting ambitious about that too. Which is, of course, so very beside the point I could be in another country away from the point right now.
I think a lot, probably way too much, about what kind of person I want to be and whether it is something different than I am today. I think about how my life needs to look and feel for it to feel like my own. I am trying to learn to be able to accept things and to feel more at peace with myself.
And all this zen-shit is kicking my ass.
I am too tired and too spun up in my head to even unravel it all. But someday, someday soon, I will figure it out and feel good in my skin.
And stop having to go to bed at 8:30 because my head is going to burst.
I will take the non-bursting as a start.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
I AM Worth It
An ugly surprise greeted me at the dentist this morning, as if rushing out of the house before six am to go to the dentist isn't ugly enough, instead of fixing my hillbilly front tooth and replacing the temporary crown that has been killing me for the past three weeks as promised, they bait and switched me into get my teeth scaled. If you haven't had this horrifying procedure it is when they clean your gums with ultrasonic water and air (which totally sounds like baby dolphins being tortured) until your teeth feel loose and your gums feel like you flossed with razor blades. It doesn't so much hurt as it irritates you until you have a migraine.
Than I fought traffic to get to work, worked all day with a headache and then fought traffic to get home way to late. And then J ditched me with the damn dogs because apparently they DISTRACT him while he plays video games.
It was kind of a shit day.
I want my hillbilly tooth fixed. And more cheese for my chili. And a very long nap. But sadly I feel like I won't even get a good sleep because you know have to get up early every damn day.
I hate commuting. I really do.
I also hate the dentist and working with a headache and the fact that it is only Wednesday and I am just saying that America's Next Top Model better be good tonight.
I deserve it.
Than I fought traffic to get to work, worked all day with a headache and then fought traffic to get home way to late. And then J ditched me with the damn dogs because apparently they DISTRACT him while he plays video games.
It was kind of a shit day.
I want my hillbilly tooth fixed. And more cheese for my chili. And a very long nap. But sadly I feel like I won't even get a good sleep because you know have to get up early every damn day.
I hate commuting. I really do.
I also hate the dentist and working with a headache and the fact that it is only Wednesday and I am just saying that America's Next Top Model better be good tonight.
I deserve it.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Can You Snort Birth Control Pills?
Last night I was avoiding the Yankee game and all it's conflicted emotions and also the bellowing man in my basement and practiced parented some scary teenagers on the Degrassi Next Generation episodes on my Ti-Faux.
Oh. My. God.
Seriously. Sometimes there is no good answer and if you have bad PMS and conflicted emotions on baseball and have had a long day maybe you shouldn't think too hard about what would you do if your sixteen year old daughter tried to get breast implants behind your back and then got drunk after you threw her out (but you wouldn't have!) and took off her top in a video made by a boy in her class. Which got shown around the school. Which made you throw her out
permanently?
Oh how I wanted to slap that girl! Even my mother, so clueless about many things, warned me many times never to let any man ever take naked pictures of me. They will always turn up. What made my mom say that to me when I was twelve I have no idea (maybe she had some I Posed For Playboy issues that I do not want to know about?) but it was excellent advice then and is even better today. Especially since that was before the internet. My mom is a visionary.
I mean MANNY LEAVE YOUR TOP ON! This was worse for TV screaming and looking like a maniac through my windows that really need drapes than when Emma started giving blow jobs by the river for bracelets and got VD! Keep your top on, don't whore around! Come on girls, get it together!
The boys are no better with the bullying and getting shot in the spine and being diagnosed as bi-polar but refusing to take meds and running away to live in the school gym. It is exhausting!
And to all of them! Stop getting semi-mullet mophead haircuts you look ridiculous, you used to be adorable!
Having a baby sounds lovely and all but the whole sixteen years later finding out your daughter is a cutter and is sleeping with the student teacher is just Not Right.
I need to go mainline some birth control.
Oh. My. God.
Seriously. Sometimes there is no good answer and if you have bad PMS and conflicted emotions on baseball and have had a long day maybe you shouldn't think too hard about what would you do if your sixteen year old daughter tried to get breast implants behind your back and then got drunk after you threw her out (but you wouldn't have!) and took off her top in a video made by a boy in her class. Which got shown around the school. Which made you throw her out
permanently?
Oh how I wanted to slap that girl! Even my mother, so clueless about many things, warned me many times never to let any man ever take naked pictures of me. They will always turn up. What made my mom say that to me when I was twelve I have no idea (maybe she had some I Posed For Playboy issues that I do not want to know about?) but it was excellent advice then and is even better today. Especially since that was before the internet. My mom is a visionary.
I mean MANNY LEAVE YOUR TOP ON! This was worse for TV screaming and looking like a maniac through my windows that really need drapes than when Emma started giving blow jobs by the river for bracelets and got VD! Keep your top on, don't whore around! Come on girls, get it together!
The boys are no better with the bullying and getting shot in the spine and being diagnosed as bi-polar but refusing to take meds and running away to live in the school gym. It is exhausting!
And to all of them! Stop getting semi-mullet mophead haircuts you look ridiculous, you used to be adorable!
Having a baby sounds lovely and all but the whole sixteen years later finding out your daughter is a cutter and is sleeping with the student teacher is just Not Right.
I need to go mainline some birth control.
Monday, October 10, 2005
But They Really Do SUCK
Something sick and sinister has happened to me.
I keep finding myself rooting for the Yankees. I mean, not when they are playing a team I like, GOOD GOD no. But just in general. And I cannot work myself up into a rage over them either. I mean natural I still loathe Alex Rodriguez, I mean when I stop being able to make fun of his ass then I need to stop being a baseball fan because that is just no way to live.
But for the most part Yankee players I like.
HELP ME. What kind of fucking YES Network propaganda is J pumping into my vulnerable brain at night? I mean I don't love them or anything, but I respect what they are doing.
I don't want them to win the World Series but they are not even close to the team that would horrifying me the most. And that just alarms me.
My husband thinks that I am coming around to the Right Way Of Thinking but clearly I am chemically imbalanced. Depression could not chase me into therapy but I think Yankee sympathy could do it. I mean my entire marriage is based on fighting about baseball! What will we fight about?
I must have a fever. Or PMS. OR MALARIA.
Anything but Yankee sympathy.
I keep finding myself rooting for the Yankees. I mean, not when they are playing a team I like, GOOD GOD no. But just in general. And I cannot work myself up into a rage over them either. I mean natural I still loathe Alex Rodriguez, I mean when I stop being able to make fun of his ass then I need to stop being a baseball fan because that is just no way to live.
But for the most part Yankee players I like.
HELP ME. What kind of fucking YES Network propaganda is J pumping into my vulnerable brain at night? I mean I don't love them or anything, but I respect what they are doing.
I don't want them to win the World Series but they are not even close to the team that would horrifying me the most. And that just alarms me.
My husband thinks that I am coming around to the Right Way Of Thinking but clearly I am chemically imbalanced. Depression could not chase me into therapy but I think Yankee sympathy could do it. I mean my entire marriage is based on fighting about baseball! What will we fight about?
I must have a fever. Or PMS. OR MALARIA.
Anything but Yankee sympathy.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
I Will Cheer For Anyone To Beat St. Louis And The White Sox--Even The Yankees
I watched almost three hours of that Houston/Atlanta game today and still saw barely half of it. J had to drag me out of the house during the fifteenth because we were meeting friends for dinner. Good thing too, because it was not just "one more hitter" like I thought it would be.
Thank GOD that Houston finished them off, because I am counting on them to kick the shit out of the Cardinals for me.
Total side note, but does anyone else think that Robinson Cano looks like the lovechild of Whoopi Goldberg, Ted Danson and Diana Ross? You can't tell in that photo but the boy has lips that make Angelina Jolie look like she needs collagen. Are amazing really. Bet he will rival Jeter with the chicks in New York one day.
Thank GOD that Houston finished them off, because I am counting on them to kick the shit out of the Cardinals for me.
Total side note, but does anyone else think that Robinson Cano looks like the lovechild of Whoopi Goldberg, Ted Danson and Diana Ross? You can't tell in that photo but the boy has lips that make Angelina Jolie look like she needs collagen. Are amazing really. Bet he will rival Jeter with the chicks in New York one day.
It Would Clash With My Couch
Since I was such a big baseball fan when we met I think J thought I loved all sports. Which was sort of true. I love the Olympics in a cheesy and embarrassing way and can lose a Saturday afternoon just flipping around ESPN. I watch way too much Sportscenter. I liked baseball and hockey but had no use for basketball or boxing or football.
He doesn't care about boxing. Kobe Bryant's bratty behavior caused him to give up the NBA and he has managed to lure me into the wonder of March Madness. But my indifference towards football really bugged J.
I didn't really understand football when we got married. I mean I understood how you scored and some of the basic foundations but the rules seemed needlessly complicated and the games go so slow. But, in the spirit of marital harmony, I become a 49ers fan and started watching games with him most Sundays.
Of course now I get most of the rules and will make fun of the announcers with him and have my favorite players (I know he is with Tampa Bay but I have just LOVED Cadillac Williams since this great feature on him in ESPN the Magazine a couple of years ago). It is fun for us to be on the same side since we spend all of baseball season torturing each other.
But even I was a little surprised when I woke up this morning and practically skipped to the TV. And was PISSED because we had overslept and missed the first part of the Seahawks game (our second favorite team and they were playing the Rams who WE HATE).
J just grinned like a loon, apparently delighted he has managed to turn me into a football fan.
I am still not letting him put a 49ers fireplace screen in the living room though. There are limits to being a fan.
He doesn't care about boxing. Kobe Bryant's bratty behavior caused him to give up the NBA and he has managed to lure me into the wonder of March Madness. But my indifference towards football really bugged J.
I didn't really understand football when we got married. I mean I understood how you scored and some of the basic foundations but the rules seemed needlessly complicated and the games go so slow. But, in the spirit of marital harmony, I become a 49ers fan and started watching games with him most Sundays.
Of course now I get most of the rules and will make fun of the announcers with him and have my favorite players (I know he is with Tampa Bay but I have just LOVED Cadillac Williams since this great feature on him in ESPN the Magazine a couple of years ago). It is fun for us to be on the same side since we spend all of baseball season torturing each other.
But even I was a little surprised when I woke up this morning and practically skipped to the TV. And was PISSED because we had overslept and missed the first part of the Seahawks game (our second favorite team and they were playing the Rams who WE HATE).
J just grinned like a loon, apparently delighted he has managed to turn me into a football fan.
I am still not letting him put a 49ers fireplace screen in the living room though. There are limits to being a fan.
Friday, October 07, 2005
The One Where AB Loses Her Shit
When I was a little kid I used to smash my fists into my closed eyes before I would go to sleep at night. It would make me see swirls of color and stars and was just generally a terrible idea eyesight wise. Sometimes this would stress me out and make it hard for me to sleep and sometimes it was just what I needed to be soothed and sleepy. It always made me feel disoriented though and made it hard for me to get my shit together for a long time after whether I went to sleep or not.
I have felt like that all week. Just dizzy and out of control. With stars in my eyes and swirls in my brain and just sort of all over the place. Sometimes I just felt sleepy and wanted to spend all day in bed. Sometimes I would feel so stressed out and weepy that it was all I could do to not have a meltdown every ten minutes.
There are just all kinds of things up in the air right now. Nothing major, no, we have made all the big life altering changes already this year with new jobs and a new house and friends dying and such. Just little things. Maybe it is that I cannot seem to wind-down from the big stuff. Or maybe my hold on the family drama queen gene is much more iron-fisted than I thought.
My period is late, really late, not that this is so unusual, and that could be part of it. I am hoping it is part of the rock hard lump of stomach that keeps hanging over my pants. It must be water because that shit was not there last week and I would think it would be hard to get a potbelly in a week. Especially one that is made of something more firm than my car. PMS would be a handy excuse for my weepiness last night when I started to cry about mostly nothing all over J while screeching at him to go downstairs because he will get mad at me if I cry.
Such a lovely thing to say to your husband, I mean I made him sound like a puppy-kicker didn’t I.?
Last night the cat was HOWLING at the backdoor for what felt like hours so I was going to let her out. And then stand there, count to ten and let her back in because I know she hates being outside. But when I look out the door there was a rather BRAZEN raccoon sitting in our flowerbed. He did not run when I yelled, frantically scooping up the kitty so she didn’t become kitty-jerky and he actually started coming towards the door.
Those are some gold plated raccoon balls.
J heard the ruckus and came out to yell too, and had to bar the dogs in the cellar or there would have been much bloodshed.
So the whole family was all worked into a lather and now there is a GANG of raccoons invading our yard. And I could feel something snapping in me. I was either going to cry or I was going to take a knife and stab me some ugly ugly vermin.
But I would have probably gotten blood on my velour sweat suit so I shut the door and bawled and bawled.
I am hoping this is just a phase. That I will stop feeling like a crazy person any second now. Perhaps if I shove my fists into my eye sockets right now I can reverse the effect. And instead of being so confused I will feel like my head swing around to face the front.
Or I might just pass out. It really isn’t a foolproof method.
I have felt like that all week. Just dizzy and out of control. With stars in my eyes and swirls in my brain and just sort of all over the place. Sometimes I just felt sleepy and wanted to spend all day in bed. Sometimes I would feel so stressed out and weepy that it was all I could do to not have a meltdown every ten minutes.
There are just all kinds of things up in the air right now. Nothing major, no, we have made all the big life altering changes already this year with new jobs and a new house and friends dying and such. Just little things. Maybe it is that I cannot seem to wind-down from the big stuff. Or maybe my hold on the family drama queen gene is much more iron-fisted than I thought.
My period is late, really late, not that this is so unusual, and that could be part of it. I am hoping it is part of the rock hard lump of stomach that keeps hanging over my pants. It must be water because that shit was not there last week and I would think it would be hard to get a potbelly in a week. Especially one that is made of something more firm than my car. PMS would be a handy excuse for my weepiness last night when I started to cry about mostly nothing all over J while screeching at him to go downstairs because he will get mad at me if I cry.
Such a lovely thing to say to your husband, I mean I made him sound like a puppy-kicker didn’t I.?
Last night the cat was HOWLING at the backdoor for what felt like hours so I was going to let her out. And then stand there, count to ten and let her back in because I know she hates being outside. But when I look out the door there was a rather BRAZEN raccoon sitting in our flowerbed. He did not run when I yelled, frantically scooping up the kitty so she didn’t become kitty-jerky and he actually started coming towards the door.
Those are some gold plated raccoon balls.
J heard the ruckus and came out to yell too, and had to bar the dogs in the cellar or there would have been much bloodshed.
So the whole family was all worked into a lather and now there is a GANG of raccoons invading our yard. And I could feel something snapping in me. I was either going to cry or I was going to take a knife and stab me some ugly ugly vermin.
But I would have probably gotten blood on my velour sweat suit so I shut the door and bawled and bawled.
I am hoping this is just a phase. That I will stop feeling like a crazy person any second now. Perhaps if I shove my fists into my eye sockets right now I can reverse the effect. And instead of being so confused I will feel like my head swing around to face the front.
Or I might just pass out. It really isn’t a foolproof method.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Imagine How Many Showers I Wasted In The Cold
When I was a kid I was afraid of hot water. Not afraid like, Its Going To Eat Me afraid, but I really really did not want to get burned and was hyper-sensitive about it. I didn't like hot chocolate because it would burn my tongue and I wanted to take the coldest showers possible.
This would disgust my dad and he would nag me about it. On hot days he would tell me that a hot shower would make me feel cooler (which is true but don't tell that to a five year old). He would force me to take hot showers with a sunburn to take the sting out (which also works but HURTS and do not try to tell me different). I just hated the hot water and it became A Thing.
I still don't really like hot beverages and when I drank coffee I would usually wait for it to cool off. Even know when I make tea I put in a crap load of milk which takes the edge off.
But hot showers no longer scare me. My showers now are scalding hot, hot enough that pathetic low blood-pressure me gets a little woozy sometimes from the heat. I know that such hot water is terrible for my skin and hair. My hair dresser nags me all the time about it, saying that it is too drying. But tell that to a girl with a warmer house. My hot shower at the end of the day is how I wind down, how I warm up, how I relax, where I think. It is like therapy only with great shampoo.
Strangely enough, J doesn't like showers. I mean he takes them naturally. But he likes baths. And takes them several times a week. I don't understand it. Baths make me sleepy, bored and even more dizzy. Sometimes I like them but a shower has that white noise where you can sing or talk or cry and it just doesn't matter at all. Scream in the bathtub and some one is going to come running.
Tonight I was in the shower just letting water pour over my head. I could have stood there all night because I could feel my shoulders just easing down. It was the best moment of the day.
This would disgust my dad and he would nag me about it. On hot days he would tell me that a hot shower would make me feel cooler (which is true but don't tell that to a five year old). He would force me to take hot showers with a sunburn to take the sting out (which also works but HURTS and do not try to tell me different). I just hated the hot water and it became A Thing.
I still don't really like hot beverages and when I drank coffee I would usually wait for it to cool off. Even know when I make tea I put in a crap load of milk which takes the edge off.
But hot showers no longer scare me. My showers now are scalding hot, hot enough that pathetic low blood-pressure me gets a little woozy sometimes from the heat. I know that such hot water is terrible for my skin and hair. My hair dresser nags me all the time about it, saying that it is too drying. But tell that to a girl with a warmer house. My hot shower at the end of the day is how I wind down, how I warm up, how I relax, where I think. It is like therapy only with great shampoo.
Strangely enough, J doesn't like showers. I mean he takes them naturally. But he likes baths. And takes them several times a week. I don't understand it. Baths make me sleepy, bored and even more dizzy. Sometimes I like them but a shower has that white noise where you can sing or talk or cry and it just doesn't matter at all. Scream in the bathtub and some one is going to come running.
Tonight I was in the shower just letting water pour over my head. I could have stood there all night because I could feel my shoulders just easing down. It was the best moment of the day.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Who Am I Kidding? I Am ALWAYS embarrassed In The Morning
If there was ever proof that America's Next Top Model isn't rigged tonight was it. Because DUDE. Cutting a girl that could have gotten you a lesbian sex scene? That is reality TV gold. I should have known Tyra was all about the integrity.
Either that they were worried about Kim's girlfriend was going to storm onto the set and start a fire. Though tell me that wouldn't bring gangbuster ratings.
I bought a dress for a wedding that is coming up later this month, seriously two new dresses this year for weddings for other people--together they cost more than my wedding dress which makes them sound expensive but really my wedding dress was CHEAP--and now I just don't know. Either I look really hot and it is perfect. Or I look ridiculous and fat and slutty. This changes about every ten seconds because my self-esteem is, you know, STABLE.
J really likes it so I am thinking slutty.
I hate it when this happens. When you find something that is either perfect for you or so wrong it is just sick but those two things are close enough you are not objective enough to tell. Am I the only what that this happens to? I think it is like that fine line between love and hate. Where either the guy you fight with on your first date is the one or just a giant tool that takes the band Korn way to goddamn seriously.
Of course tomorrow I will feel differently. Hopefully, which ever personality attends the wedding will love the dress and feel great in it. Sadly, it is so hard to tell who that will be.
Of course this could all be the PMS talking and I am just a cliche who will be embarrassed in the morning.
Either that they were worried about Kim's girlfriend was going to storm onto the set and start a fire. Though tell me that wouldn't bring gangbuster ratings.
I bought a dress for a wedding that is coming up later this month, seriously two new dresses this year for weddings for other people--together they cost more than my wedding dress which makes them sound expensive but really my wedding dress was CHEAP--and now I just don't know. Either I look really hot and it is perfect. Or I look ridiculous and fat and slutty. This changes about every ten seconds because my self-esteem is, you know, STABLE.
J really likes it so I am thinking slutty.
I hate it when this happens. When you find something that is either perfect for you or so wrong it is just sick but those two things are close enough you are not objective enough to tell. Am I the only what that this happens to? I think it is like that fine line between love and hate. Where either the guy you fight with on your first date is the one or just a giant tool that takes the band Korn way to goddamn seriously.
Of course tomorrow I will feel differently. Hopefully, which ever personality attends the wedding will love the dress and feel great in it. Sadly, it is so hard to tell who that will be.
Of course this could all be the PMS talking and I am just a cliche who will be embarrassed in the morning.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Fall All The Time
Baseball playoffs are here and sadly the Padres were not able to pull out a comeback against St. Louis and Boston just screwed the pooch today. The whole thing is interesting because there are a couple of scenarios that I could live with and MANY that could send me into a rage. Naturally, I would like for Boston to win again, barring that Houston. I love me some Jeff Bagwell and that whole Clemens/Petite/Oswalt rotation is INSANE. But there are several teams I just loathe. I hate NY, St. Louis and the White Sox. Just the thought of any of them winning fills me with white hot pebbles of RAGE.
We have already split up for baseball viewing. J is downstairs doing shots and moaning even though his team is still winning. After last year you can understand how he will never be able to breathe during a game again. Which is excellent. As much as I suffer HE CAN SUFFER TOO.
Loving, isn't it.
This really is the best time of the year. I freestyle made some Hungarian goulash in the crockpot for dinner, it is cold enough to wear boots but not so cold you need a scarf, playoff baseball is on and I have a down comforter around my feet while I watch TV. I love how the air smells and how my hair doesn't want to frizz quite yet.
If only it could be early October forever.
We have already split up for baseball viewing. J is downstairs doing shots and moaning even though his team is still winning. After last year you can understand how he will never be able to breathe during a game again. Which is excellent. As much as I suffer HE CAN SUFFER TOO.
Loving, isn't it.
This really is the best time of the year. I freestyle made some Hungarian goulash in the crockpot for dinner, it is cold enough to wear boots but not so cold you need a scarf, playoff baseball is on and I have a down comforter around my feet while I watch TV. I love how the air smells and how my hair doesn't want to frizz quite yet.
If only it could be early October forever.
Two Hours Of Yelling At Your Mother Is Not OK
Ok I just now watched the episode of Amazing Race I Ti-Fauxed from last week and the two little boys who got eliminated? The most adorable boys ever! And their parents handled that perfectly, because it cannot be easy to be eliminated first when your kids wanted so badly to be in the race.
And that little Carissa? I am sure some people find her annoying but I LOVE her. She just seems like the kind of little girl who gets banged up knees and busts her ass and just literally cannot wait for the next thing to happen.
I don't like the concept, because they have slowed the whole thing down a lot to accommodate children and there are some ugly things happening between families that just really should not.
But the little kids they picked are just awesome (at least for now). Too bad they couldn't show the great taste in adults.
And that little Carissa? I am sure some people find her annoying but I LOVE her. She just seems like the kind of little girl who gets banged up knees and busts her ass and just literally cannot wait for the next thing to happen.
I don't like the concept, because they have slowed the whole thing down a lot to accommodate children and there are some ugly things happening between families that just really should not.
But the little kids they picked are just awesome (at least for now). Too bad they couldn't show the great taste in adults.
Monday, October 03, 2005
And You Can't Jump Through It
Neither of my dogs are speaking to me. Despite the fact that I fed them a frozen waffle with butter and syrup less than an hour ago. An act that they assured me guaranteed me Queen Status for life.
They are laying on the back of the couch staring out the window and taking turns trying to bust through the glass at the kitty in the yard. The kitty. Who is not ours. Who! Has the nerve! To be in our YARD!
And I am laughing my ass off because they keep smacking into the glass, sliding down it like they are fucked up little cartoon dogs and then doing it again.
I mean I know they are dogs but Learn You Lesson Idiot.
THE WINDOW IS STILL THERE!
They are laying on the back of the couch staring out the window and taking turns trying to bust through the glass at the kitty in the yard. The kitty. Who is not ours. Who! Has the nerve! To be in our YARD!
And I am laughing my ass off because they keep smacking into the glass, sliding down it like they are fucked up little cartoon dogs and then doing it again.
I mean I know they are dogs but Learn You Lesson Idiot.
THE WINDOW IS STILL THERE!
Tool, And Not Made By Craftsman
Just when I start to wonder, "why DO I hate Alex Rodriguez so much," he is just delightful enough to say something like this and remind me.
Because he is an entitled monstrous tool.
Just a little tip Alex, darling, Texas isn't obligated to win YOU home field advantage. If you had stopped whining and just won the game then you wouldn't have to be such a bitch in public.
This one in particular I love:
"There's a code of honor when so much is on the line," Rodriguez told the New York Daily News. "You hope people do the right thing. But you can't control what people do."
Yes, there is a code of honor. One that allows you to SLAP BRONSON ARROYO last year during a game and then GET HIS NAME WRONG the next day when giving your very insincere half-assed apology.
Honor. Rodriguez style.
Because he is an entitled monstrous tool.
Just a little tip Alex, darling, Texas isn't obligated to win YOU home field advantage. If you had stopped whining and just won the game then you wouldn't have to be such a bitch in public.
This one in particular I love:
"There's a code of honor when so much is on the line," Rodriguez told the New York Daily News. "You hope people do the right thing. But you can't control what people do."
Yes, there is a code of honor. One that allows you to SLAP BRONSON ARROYO last year during a game and then GET HIS NAME WRONG the next day when giving your very insincere half-assed apology.
Honor. Rodriguez style.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Why Even Dream Up That Scenario BASTARD
This weekend J and I renewed our love via our Fall tradition of watching baseball on different floors of the house. And since New York and Boston both made the playoffs the fun shall not stop now! No! We will be scowling at each other for at least another week.
It is more challenging to yell at each other now during the game as you have to go outside to get to the cellar and it is cold out. We did not stoop to calling the house phone with a cell phone but it is early yet.
More hostility to come I am sure.
We are now watching the 49ers blow their early lead against the goddamn CARDINALS.
He did dream up a scenario where I would cheer (loudly!) for the Yankees in the World Series. If they were playing St. Louis. I confess I think I would even cheer for fucking AROD to keep Larussa from a championship. That is how much I hate that smarmy worthless piece of shit.
Damn him for even thinking of it.
It is more challenging to yell at each other now during the game as you have to go outside to get to the cellar and it is cold out. We did not stoop to calling the house phone with a cell phone but it is early yet.
More hostility to come I am sure.
We are now watching the 49ers blow their early lead against the goddamn CARDINALS.
He did dream up a scenario where I would cheer (loudly!) for the Yankees in the World Series. If they were playing St. Louis. I confess I think I would even cheer for fucking AROD to keep Larussa from a championship. That is how much I hate that smarmy worthless piece of shit.
Damn him for even thinking of it.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Not A Good Planner
Today is the perfect example of why I should never let J plan anything. Earlier this week I was trying to talk him into buying hockey tickets since it is opening night and we didn't go to nearly enough games last year so lets a good start and he told me we can't go because Keith and Tiffany are coming for dinner.
I spend the rest of the week nagging him about what time are they coming, what do you want me to make, etc. He doesn't know because he is a man and doesn't think ahead and yet cannot remember that I will always ask him these same damn questions and couldn't he just plan ahead that much?
Anyway I stay up until midnight cleaning the house (it needed to be cleaned and I kept thinking about it and knew I couldn't sleep so I just kept going until it was clean enough I knew it could be done before they came over today no matter what time--I am mental).
And they didn't come today.
Because J didn't call and confirm (because he tells me all the time that we don't ever need to do that even though this has happened before) and Keith forgot to tell Tiffany and she made other plans.
So I ran all my errands and got everything ready and have now been sitting here bored for approximately eighty-four thousand hours. I am pissed. I don't get much free time. Hardly any at all, and when it is the weekend I want to have fun. Which for me is not playing that stupid fucking videogame until 2 this morning and then again from 11 this morning on.
So hell yeah I am a little bitter. Especially since he said that we could go out and do something fun tonight anyway and lets leave at four.
It is almost six and he is still playing the goddamn game.
I think I will be going to the movies by myself tonight.
And no more planning by him.
I spend the rest of the week nagging him about what time are they coming, what do you want me to make, etc. He doesn't know because he is a man and doesn't think ahead and yet cannot remember that I will always ask him these same damn questions and couldn't he just plan ahead that much?
Anyway I stay up until midnight cleaning the house (it needed to be cleaned and I kept thinking about it and knew I couldn't sleep so I just kept going until it was clean enough I knew it could be done before they came over today no matter what time--I am mental).
And they didn't come today.
Because J didn't call and confirm (because he tells me all the time that we don't ever need to do that even though this has happened before) and Keith forgot to tell Tiffany and she made other plans.
So I ran all my errands and got everything ready and have now been sitting here bored for approximately eighty-four thousand hours. I am pissed. I don't get much free time. Hardly any at all, and when it is the weekend I want to have fun. Which for me is not playing that stupid fucking videogame until 2 this morning and then again from 11 this morning on.
So hell yeah I am a little bitter. Especially since he said that we could go out and do something fun tonight anyway and lets leave at four.
It is almost six and he is still playing the goddamn game.
I think I will be going to the movies by myself tonight.
And no more planning by him.
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