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.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)