There is something sinister afoot….
Okay, sorry, couldn’t resist. Puns are generic and simple-minded but I adore them and use them whenever possible. Of course, I haven’t explained the pun yet so naturally you are waiting in a state of twittering excitement.
I have a corn. A corn? A CORN.
I was not even aware of what A CORN could be until I got one this weekend. I spent a good two hours whimpering about how badly my pinkie toe hurt until finally my mother took of my shoe (we had gotten back in her car, this was not in public) and examined my pinkie toe.
“It’s a corn.”
So matter-of-fact! And she looked at me with the head-down, eyes-over-glasses look that conveys total lack of faith in my abilities as a human being.
I, naturally, had never had any need to find out what a corn was until that very moment. I knew they existed. I knew Dr. Scholl’s carried a whole line of products to get rid of them. I knew it involved feet. And that was really where my interest waned. I don’t care for feet. And other people’s feet ailments are right up there next to grasshopper mating habits on my priority scale.
So I asked what a corn was. And why it hurt so very, very much.
Turns out, according to my mother, that corns are hard patches of skin that form under skin due to wearing incorrect footwear. There is a little hole-looking thing that appears on the offending area where the pressure is most intense and from where all of my pain is radiating in great, eye-ball loosening waves.
At this point I received another of my mother’s ‘looks’ coupled with a swift and knowing glance at my brand new turquoise-colored pointy-toed pumps.
(Sigh)
The agony. You have no idea.
So on my lunch break today I made a quick trip to Kroger where I purchased a bright yellow package of Dr. Scholl’s Corn Removers. It’s possibly even more embarrassing than having to fill up a buggy with tampons and wander around the store asking shoppers if they know where the Stay-So-Fresh wipes are. The humiliation. I imagined that everyone was watching and becoming mentally revolted at the thought of my corn-covered, scaling oozy feet. Now, my feet aren’t corn-COVERED and they’re certainly not scaly or oozy. But the store patrons didn’t know that. I felt like explaining to everyone that I was getting the Corn Removers for my dear, sweet little grandmother who just had HORRIBLE feet problems and wasn’t I a good little granddaughter for purchasing the required package of Corn Removers?
Really. I understand how overly-dramatic I was being about this. But. EEEWWWWW.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Friday, February 25, 2005
OOOOOOH, a Sparkalie! Can I have it Can I have it oh PLEASE Mrs. Brisbee?
This morning I awoke at 8:06. For no apparent reason. Though I’d hazard a guess my awakening was hastened by the 47 gallons of pure unadulterated sunshine flowing in through my windows. OH THE BLESSED SUN!!
It took me until 8:34 to convince myself it was okay to get up. I had not planned an excursion to the gym that morning so sleeping in should have been my top priority. But alas, THE BLESSED SUN showed me the way out of my bed.
Since I had planned to drive home to visit my parents this weekend, I thought that I might spend my time “wisely” by washing my car. A noble idea at 8:35 in the morning when nightgown is still askew and breath is still abominable. So, 2.5 minutes later, I plopped my sketchy self into my spanky black car and drove down the road to the car wash. (I long for the day when I have a water hookup where I can wash my car outside my house.)
I pre-soaked, soaped, foam-brushed, tire-cleaned, luster-glossed, rinsed and spot-free rinsed all thanks to the 7 dollars in quarters I scrounged out of my purse. After I had certified that my vehicle was dirt-free, I pulled it out of the bay to dry the outside and try out my new “spray detailer.”
**As a side note, I have a severe problem with car care products. I have amassed more waxes, tire cleaners, spray foam, wheel brushes, bug sponges and the like than any normal person in the tri-state area. I could start my own detailing shop with the mounds of products made specifically for the anal retentive of the human species.
Back to the previous story… I had pulled my car out of the bay and parked beside the foam and fragrance vacuum cleaner. I’m drying away with the lint-a-licious terry cloth towel purchased for a bank-breaking two dollars from the vending machine. (TWO DOLLARS FOR CLOTH? Just because it was manufactured by People With Disabilities does not make it worth two dollars. Come on.) So anyway. I’m sweating and icky and Lord knows I don’t have any make-up on and I haven’t taken a shower which means my deodorant is living on a prayer and my only redeeming quality is that my stretchy spandexy pants are partially covered by my giant hoodie. At his point I hear a THWACK off to my right and glance up—only to notice the short crackhead standing less than one foot from my person. I’ve got a naturally large personal space bubble and homeboy had popped that bubble about 16 feet ago. That’s when it dawns on me that the THWACK I heard a moment a go was, in fact, this idiotic human being snapping his drying towel on the side of my car in an effort to garner my attention. Now, you can harass me, invade my space and blast your crackhead vibes all around me BUT DO NOT TOUCH MY CAR.
So I stand up to my full height and look him dead in the eye. Which, as far as I’m concerned, should never happen because my ‘full height’ is a mere 5 foot 6 inches. Out of the corner of my eye I see his ’96 Chevy S-10 with it’s lowered suspension and chrome wheels. A serious offense in my book as trucks and SUV’s were built on a higher platform for a specific purpose. If you want a vehicle that close to the ground, BUY A CAR. Don’t insult truck and SUV-drivers the nation over by altering the make-up of your vehicle in such a sacrilegious manner.
“You got a booooyfriend?” he asks.
“Yes. Thank you,” I say. Obviously I’m lying but I’m hardly going to launch into any sort of negotiations with this cretin.
“You sho do got a fiiiiine ass,” he says. Somehow managing to be both lecherous and hilarious at the same time.
God forgive me for egging this on, but I did.
“You really think so? I’ll have to add that in my compliment book. I so rarely receive high-caliber remarks such as yours.”
Now here I’m thinking that I’ve probably overdone it, because I’m fairly positive the only reference to the word “caliber” he’s ever heard has been in conjunction with a high-powered rifle or handgun.
“Oooooh girl,” he slurs out, looking me up and down. He then makes some sort of strange slurpy-smacky nose that does hereby take the cake for today’s most thoroughly disturbing noise.
I try to give him my most scathing look.
“Thank you for you interest. I’ll pass.”
I then turn back around and resume drying off my car. I can feel him standing behind me for a good minute or so but, being the stubborn bitch I am, I refuse to give him any sort of satisfaction in watching me run off with my tail between my legs.
Eventually he walks off and I furiously dry the rest of my vehicle, annoyed that yet another ignorant Random has made me irritable. By the time I’m done drying and polishing, I’ve worked off most of my anger. I probably polished just a bit too hard and may have missed a spot or two of the detailing spray (a lovely product invented for the sole purpose of making vehicles shinier) but all was well with the world by the time I got to work. Not even the news that I would have to cover my brothers bills this month because he has even less money-skills than I (though he claims superiority) could ruin my mood.
There’s nothing like a shiny car to make the world a better place.
It took me until 8:34 to convince myself it was okay to get up. I had not planned an excursion to the gym that morning so sleeping in should have been my top priority. But alas, THE BLESSED SUN showed me the way out of my bed.
Since I had planned to drive home to visit my parents this weekend, I thought that I might spend my time “wisely” by washing my car. A noble idea at 8:35 in the morning when nightgown is still askew and breath is still abominable. So, 2.5 minutes later, I plopped my sketchy self into my spanky black car and drove down the road to the car wash. (I long for the day when I have a water hookup where I can wash my car outside my house.)
I pre-soaked, soaped, foam-brushed, tire-cleaned, luster-glossed, rinsed and spot-free rinsed all thanks to the 7 dollars in quarters I scrounged out of my purse. After I had certified that my vehicle was dirt-free, I pulled it out of the bay to dry the outside and try out my new “spray detailer.”
**As a side note, I have a severe problem with car care products. I have amassed more waxes, tire cleaners, spray foam, wheel brushes, bug sponges and the like than any normal person in the tri-state area. I could start my own detailing shop with the mounds of products made specifically for the anal retentive of the human species.
Back to the previous story… I had pulled my car out of the bay and parked beside the foam and fragrance vacuum cleaner. I’m drying away with the lint-a-licious terry cloth towel purchased for a bank-breaking two dollars from the vending machine. (TWO DOLLARS FOR CLOTH? Just because it was manufactured by People With Disabilities does not make it worth two dollars. Come on.) So anyway. I’m sweating and icky and Lord knows I don’t have any make-up on and I haven’t taken a shower which means my deodorant is living on a prayer and my only redeeming quality is that my stretchy spandexy pants are partially covered by my giant hoodie. At his point I hear a THWACK off to my right and glance up—only to notice the short crackhead standing less than one foot from my person. I’ve got a naturally large personal space bubble and homeboy had popped that bubble about 16 feet ago. That’s when it dawns on me that the THWACK I heard a moment a go was, in fact, this idiotic human being snapping his drying towel on the side of my car in an effort to garner my attention. Now, you can harass me, invade my space and blast your crackhead vibes all around me BUT DO NOT TOUCH MY CAR.
So I stand up to my full height and look him dead in the eye. Which, as far as I’m concerned, should never happen because my ‘full height’ is a mere 5 foot 6 inches. Out of the corner of my eye I see his ’96 Chevy S-10 with it’s lowered suspension and chrome wheels. A serious offense in my book as trucks and SUV’s were built on a higher platform for a specific purpose. If you want a vehicle that close to the ground, BUY A CAR. Don’t insult truck and SUV-drivers the nation over by altering the make-up of your vehicle in such a sacrilegious manner.
“You got a booooyfriend?” he asks.
“Yes. Thank you,” I say. Obviously I’m lying but I’m hardly going to launch into any sort of negotiations with this cretin.
“You sho do got a fiiiiine ass,” he says. Somehow managing to be both lecherous and hilarious at the same time.
God forgive me for egging this on, but I did.
“You really think so? I’ll have to add that in my compliment book. I so rarely receive high-caliber remarks such as yours.”
Now here I’m thinking that I’ve probably overdone it, because I’m fairly positive the only reference to the word “caliber” he’s ever heard has been in conjunction with a high-powered rifle or handgun.
“Oooooh girl,” he slurs out, looking me up and down. He then makes some sort of strange slurpy-smacky nose that does hereby take the cake for today’s most thoroughly disturbing noise.
I try to give him my most scathing look.
“Thank you for you interest. I’ll pass.”
I then turn back around and resume drying off my car. I can feel him standing behind me for a good minute or so but, being the stubborn bitch I am, I refuse to give him any sort of satisfaction in watching me run off with my tail between my legs.
Eventually he walks off and I furiously dry the rest of my vehicle, annoyed that yet another ignorant Random has made me irritable. By the time I’m done drying and polishing, I’ve worked off most of my anger. I probably polished just a bit too hard and may have missed a spot or two of the detailing spray (a lovely product invented for the sole purpose of making vehicles shinier) but all was well with the world by the time I got to work. Not even the news that I would have to cover my brothers bills this month because he has even less money-skills than I (though he claims superiority) could ruin my mood.
There’s nothing like a shiny car to make the world a better place.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Moisturization is Critical to the Development of the Seedling
So I’m sitting at my desk in cubicle land earlier today when my boss oh-too-casually saunters up to my desk and asks me if I “have a minute.”
Well, of course I have a minute. 1) You know how much work I have to do today and it’s not like I can lie and say it’s a giant assload. To be quite honest, we both know I’ll be surfing the net come 6 o’clock. 2) You’re my boss. I can no more say ‘no’ to you than a crack whore can say no to one more line of oblivion.
So with trepidation in my heart and vomit rising in my throat, I roll back my chair and manage to stand on my suddenly jell-o-esque legs. I follow him into the hallway where he asks me which interview room I’d like, pointing to two small available rooms both furnished with equally uncomfortable chairs and a table. I point to my left and take a seat inside while my boss quietly shuts the door behind us and places a manila folder on the desk.
“This is your 90-day review,” he says.
My gut clenches in fear. I mentally flip through everything I’ve said to anyone in our department, catalog every email I’ve ever sent for inappropriateness and, most importantly, review every car deal I’ve ever funded, checking for mistakes and errors that could potentially be job-threatening because of my lack of ‘detail-orientedness’ or some such rot.
So my boss pulls out a meager four sheets of paper, all with my name emblazoned in bold at the very tippy top of each one. He hands me two pieces and keeps two for himself. I can feel my left eyeball starting to twitch, as it does when I am tense, and I can’t force myself to focus on the paper less than one foot from my retina. He begins to read from the top but my ears are only focused on my inner monologue, chattering away at full speed, alerting me to each and every fault and vice I’ve exhibited in the last quarter-century of my life.
And then I hear the words:
“Overall, we think you’ve done an outstanding job.”
Head snaps up in Linda Blair fashion.
What? What’s that you say?
You like me?
You really like me?
I had to fight the urge to get up and hug the man, I was that overcome with relief.
He then goes on to tell me how impressed he was at how quickly I caught on and how appreciative he was of my attention to detail. He told me that HIS supervisor had noticed that the new girl held a number-two spot on the audit scores and was usually in the top two spots for same-day-funding. (All work lingo, which I hate, but I’m bragging about myself, so CAN IT, SLUT) He marks on his little currently non-threatening pieces of paper that I have met or exceeded expectations and that my score more than guarantees me a permanent place with the company.
HOLY CRAP. I recant every bad word I have every thought or uttered concerning cubicle land before entering into this company. Cubicle land is the equivalent of going to heaven and being presented with 99 virgins. Though, personally, I’m not really that turned on by boy-virgins. There’s nothing worse than two incompetents going at it and pretending to enjoy it. Well, the boy’s going to “enjoy” it, but the girl is probably going to fake it just to get him to stop thrusting away.
But I digress.
I AM SO RELIEVED! To use my much over-used expression: I almost peed down both legs!
Please understand, before you think I am a TOTAL ninny, that I have never had a peaceful job. Ever. And this job is just ever so peaceful and calm, the thought of having to give it up and face unemployment again or even (gasp!) a mall job, was enough to make me come within a hairsbreadth of vomiting up my roast beef and pepperjack sandwich.
For the first time I’m not:
*Working 80 hours a week with the police scanner glued to my ear 24/7, living in fear of missing the big story and seeing “that look” on my news directors face. Remember when the bridge collapsed in Oklahoma? Yeah. I didn’t get to leave the newsroom for 48 hours. Me, the one who had to drag my news director out of bed at 8am on a Sunday morning to beg for a helicopter to take our reporter to the scene. The same news director who tells the station owner he had to call me at work to tell me to hire a helicopter to get our reporter to the scene and that there’s really too much work to be done for me to go home quite yet—could I stay until after the furor dies down? 37 cut-ins and 6 full newscasts later, I go home to shower. And sleep. Did I mention sleep? (TV news job)
*Being promoted into a position that only one person knows how to do and given 2 days to train with departing employee. Who’d only been working there 3 months and didn’t really know what she was doing. At my 30-day review my boss tells me that I won’t be eligible for my pay increase because there was some accounting work I was supposed to be doing but had failed to show the initiative to ask about. Pardon me, bitch, while I shove my fist into your anus. Do you like that? SUCK IT. Need I mention that there had been no whisper of this work by either my boss – with whom I shared an office – or by the accounting team. Oh, the irony. I quit six months later and moved home to Little Rock. (New York job in postproduction)
*Again, being promoted into a position that only one person knew how to do. Unfortunately, my coked-up boss dallied around so long with threats of firing then-current employee that said employee just one day up and quit. SURPRISE! So the morning after ex-employee vacated, he plops my plump ass into the large windowless office at the back of the building and tells me it’s “pretty self explanatory.” Right. Which TOTALLY explains the company wide hate email the ex-employee sent out detailing the unfairness of shoving a three-person workload onto an individual and expecting him to keep his sanity. Right On. 6 months later I told my boss to go Fuck Himself and left. They hired two people to replace me.
*Not running my ass off getting a size 8, no, wait, maybe a size 8 and a half. Darn, that’s too small to… Could I get a 9? Selling Shoes. My very own personal hell. Why, you ask? Feet smell. They sweat. It’s sick. I used so much hand sanitizer when I worked there that the webbing in between my fingers started to crack and bleed. And I just ADORE working weekends.
So yeah. Cubicle-land is awesome. God bless it. May it flower and bloom for all eternity. My supply of Rolaids thanks you.
Well, of course I have a minute. 1) You know how much work I have to do today and it’s not like I can lie and say it’s a giant assload. To be quite honest, we both know I’ll be surfing the net come 6 o’clock. 2) You’re my boss. I can no more say ‘no’ to you than a crack whore can say no to one more line of oblivion.
So with trepidation in my heart and vomit rising in my throat, I roll back my chair and manage to stand on my suddenly jell-o-esque legs. I follow him into the hallway where he asks me which interview room I’d like, pointing to two small available rooms both furnished with equally uncomfortable chairs and a table. I point to my left and take a seat inside while my boss quietly shuts the door behind us and places a manila folder on the desk.
“This is your 90-day review,” he says.
My gut clenches in fear. I mentally flip through everything I’ve said to anyone in our department, catalog every email I’ve ever sent for inappropriateness and, most importantly, review every car deal I’ve ever funded, checking for mistakes and errors that could potentially be job-threatening because of my lack of ‘detail-orientedness’ or some such rot.
So my boss pulls out a meager four sheets of paper, all with my name emblazoned in bold at the very tippy top of each one. He hands me two pieces and keeps two for himself. I can feel my left eyeball starting to twitch, as it does when I am tense, and I can’t force myself to focus on the paper less than one foot from my retina. He begins to read from the top but my ears are only focused on my inner monologue, chattering away at full speed, alerting me to each and every fault and vice I’ve exhibited in the last quarter-century of my life.
And then I hear the words:
“Overall, we think you’ve done an outstanding job.”
Head snaps up in Linda Blair fashion.
What? What’s that you say?
You like me?
You really like me?
I had to fight the urge to get up and hug the man, I was that overcome with relief.
He then goes on to tell me how impressed he was at how quickly I caught on and how appreciative he was of my attention to detail. He told me that HIS supervisor had noticed that the new girl held a number-two spot on the audit scores and was usually in the top two spots for same-day-funding. (All work lingo, which I hate, but I’m bragging about myself, so CAN IT, SLUT) He marks on his little currently non-threatening pieces of paper that I have met or exceeded expectations and that my score more than guarantees me a permanent place with the company.
HOLY CRAP. I recant every bad word I have every thought or uttered concerning cubicle land before entering into this company. Cubicle land is the equivalent of going to heaven and being presented with 99 virgins. Though, personally, I’m not really that turned on by boy-virgins. There’s nothing worse than two incompetents going at it and pretending to enjoy it. Well, the boy’s going to “enjoy” it, but the girl is probably going to fake it just to get him to stop thrusting away.
But I digress.
I AM SO RELIEVED! To use my much over-used expression: I almost peed down both legs!
Please understand, before you think I am a TOTAL ninny, that I have never had a peaceful job. Ever. And this job is just ever so peaceful and calm, the thought of having to give it up and face unemployment again or even (gasp!) a mall job, was enough to make me come within a hairsbreadth of vomiting up my roast beef and pepperjack sandwich.
For the first time I’m not:
*Working 80 hours a week with the police scanner glued to my ear 24/7, living in fear of missing the big story and seeing “that look” on my news directors face. Remember when the bridge collapsed in Oklahoma? Yeah. I didn’t get to leave the newsroom for 48 hours. Me, the one who had to drag my news director out of bed at 8am on a Sunday morning to beg for a helicopter to take our reporter to the scene. The same news director who tells the station owner he had to call me at work to tell me to hire a helicopter to get our reporter to the scene and that there’s really too much work to be done for me to go home quite yet—could I stay until after the furor dies down? 37 cut-ins and 6 full newscasts later, I go home to shower. And sleep. Did I mention sleep? (TV news job)
*Being promoted into a position that only one person knows how to do and given 2 days to train with departing employee. Who’d only been working there 3 months and didn’t really know what she was doing. At my 30-day review my boss tells me that I won’t be eligible for my pay increase because there was some accounting work I was supposed to be doing but had failed to show the initiative to ask about. Pardon me, bitch, while I shove my fist into your anus. Do you like that? SUCK IT. Need I mention that there had been no whisper of this work by either my boss – with whom I shared an office – or by the accounting team. Oh, the irony. I quit six months later and moved home to Little Rock. (New York job in postproduction)
*Again, being promoted into a position that only one person knew how to do. Unfortunately, my coked-up boss dallied around so long with threats of firing then-current employee that said employee just one day up and quit. SURPRISE! So the morning after ex-employee vacated, he plops my plump ass into the large windowless office at the back of the building and tells me it’s “pretty self explanatory.” Right. Which TOTALLY explains the company wide hate email the ex-employee sent out detailing the unfairness of shoving a three-person workload onto an individual and expecting him to keep his sanity. Right On. 6 months later I told my boss to go Fuck Himself and left. They hired two people to replace me.
*Not running my ass off getting a size 8, no, wait, maybe a size 8 and a half. Darn, that’s too small to… Could I get a 9? Selling Shoes. My very own personal hell. Why, you ask? Feet smell. They sweat. It’s sick. I used so much hand sanitizer when I worked there that the webbing in between my fingers started to crack and bleed. And I just ADORE working weekends.
So yeah. Cubicle-land is awesome. God bless it. May it flower and bloom for all eternity. My supply of Rolaids thanks you.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Cotton Candy
Well, it’s currently 8:01 and 52 seconds. I have another five minutes to kill, sitting witless in cubicle-land, because SOMEONE didn’t get her ass in GEAR this morning. And yeah, that finger that’s pointing so unmercifully in the manner that your mother always told you not to do, is pointing right at ME. You see, I can always find something useful to do with my time when I’m running late. When it’s Saturday afternoon I’d sooner eat a bag of used kitty litter than do my laundry but GOD FORBID I let my clothes sit in the dryer just ONE MOMENT LONGER when Monday morning rolls around. And Lord Knows I couldn’t ever leave the house without running back upstairs to put away my straightening iron, left sitting on the counter last week when I was overcome with the need to fry my frizzy little strands into shiny submission.
I’ve got 30 seconds to go. And then I can make the breath-stealing walk up 40 bazillion flights of stairs so inconsiderately concreted into the side of a mini-mountain up to the parking lot where I insist upon parking my spanky new black vehicle. Might I specify that this is my DING-FREE spanky new black vehicle. It’s shiny soul-less black depths are like candy to diabetic eyes.
PEACE.
I’ve got 30 seconds to go. And then I can make the breath-stealing walk up 40 bazillion flights of stairs so inconsiderately concreted into the side of a mini-mountain up to the parking lot where I insist upon parking my spanky new black vehicle. Might I specify that this is my DING-FREE spanky new black vehicle. It’s shiny soul-less black depths are like candy to diabetic eyes.
PEACE.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Good Morning Vietnam!
Well, after a few dozen hours of restful sleep (interrupted only once, will explain later) and a few blissfull hours of book-reading this morning, I suppose I'm ready to spill my thoughts through this beautifully impersonal interface.
First off, sitting in front of my apartment this morning is a spanky new shiny black Honda Accord. I did not BUY this piece of machinery; in fact, I did not even want this piece of machinery sitting in front of my home. The keys were given to me yesterday afternoon by a very sweet but motive-ridden finance director at the Honda dealership out by where I work. Now, you'd think his only motives were to sell me the car. And after finding out how much my insurance was going to go up and how much my payments were going to go up, I realized that even though this vehicle is a shining example of what I should be buying i.e. multiple airbags, good gas mileage, good resale, good crash tests, etc, putting myself in the poor house and later having my car repossessed because I can't make the payments isn't going to be saving ANYONE's gas money or life. So selling me the car is out of the questions. And he is MORE than aware of this. No, he wanted me to take the car not only because he knows it's a good sales tactic but because he told me, point-blank, he wants to see me again. Gave me his cell phone number, told me he'd give me GAP coverage and an extended warranty for free if I bought the car, asked me to go to WestEnd with him later, showed me pictures of his daughter (I'm assuming that was to sprout some sort of latent maternal instinct into full-on suffocating coos and giggles), told me I was "hot," told me he liked my skirt (my mothers giant skirt from 1987, so I know that's a lie), told me he knew I probably wasn't going to buy the car but to take it anyway so he'd have a reason to see me on Monday...... the list goes on.
I have, by now, learned to keep my rising panic away from the watchful eyes of the randoms who hit on me. Though I probably would have lost it if he'd pulled one of those casual pats-on-the-back moves, so tense do I get in these situations. So I have a situation to look forward to on Monday when I go to return the car. And yes, I am fully aware that this is my fault. I am a spineless freak of nature when it comes to these things. Because, while I can make all manner of acid remarks to the true freaks of the world, I cannot deliberately hurt the feelings of a seemingly normal individual. Albeit one who may be a tad overzealous... but seemingly normal nonetheless.
After the car fiasco I found myself grazing on Saltines, sipping on coffee and spacing out in front of the mindless reality shows that can only hold my attention on a Saturday when seeing which celebrity can lose the most weight or which Surreal Life cast member is going to fuck a Brady can hold my attention for hours at a time. Later, I got a call from one of my friends, reminding me about a party I had probably made vague references to attending. Knowing, of course, that I will probably never grace one of these things but making the obligatory "Of course I'll be there" mumbles when an invitation was placed in my hand. So after some sublte coercion, I agreed that I would probably get dressed and go. Though there was the obvious problem that the party did not start until 11pm. And my friends won't going until 11:30. Way past my grandma bed-time. I agreed I would take a nap and then get up at 10:45, refreshed and wide-awake for the party. Also knowing (and assuming they did too) that the chance of me actually waking up after a nap taken so close to my actual bed-time were slim to none. So my phone started ringing at 11pm and didn't stop ringing until 11:15. I assume they were tag teaming my phone to increase their odds of getting me out of bed. This is completely useless as it only succeeds in pissing my sleep-induced self off. I wish I had never even told them I might go because it saves me the effort of rolling my eyes when I inevitably get the speech about staying home with my cats and not having a life and being a total heinous loser and then being hung-up on. I hate this about myself, but I will say 'yes' only to back out later so I can save myself the time spent arguing over why I SHOULD go somewhere and how there's bound to be just TONS of cute boys there, etc, etc. Truth is, I normally hate parties. Unless my small circle of friends are the majority of people there, I can barely contain my urge to bolt. Too may people, too many voices, too many thoughts swimming in a small space, too much drunkenness and fakeness and stupidness. I won't even talk to people of my same sex at parties because, in general, I don't meet girls with whom I have that much in common. Tolerate, sometimes. Enjoy, rarely. I normally gravitate towards talking with my same group of friends or making inane conversation with boys. Who are either trying to get in my pants or using me to get into my friend's pants. Sadly, I rarely notice this is happening until late in the game. I wish I could explain what it's like for me being at these kind of things... I hate knowing I'm that girl that sits there, frozen by the onslaught of music and thoughts and beer breath; knowing I'm the girl that has "that expression" on her face that scares off even the most well-meaning of folks. There are some days that are easier and I can relax and have fun and block out all the things that make me tense. There are other days when the thought of standing in a crowd makes my stomach clench, knowning I'll grip my watered down drink until my knuckles turn white, eventually finding a corner with my back to the wall (to prevent anyone from coming up behind me unannounced), watching the scene in front of me with detached horror and counting the minutes until I can leave without offending anyone or until my friends have found other friends to hang out with who I know will give them a ride home.
But enough randomness. I'm just melancholy and listless and restless all at once. Not unhappy, per se, just feeling slightly detached from the outside world.
Instead of continuing in the same vein, here is one of my top two favorite poems, who happen to both be written by the same author:
THE WAKING by Theordore Roethke
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Of those so close beside me, which are you?
Gold bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.
Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.
This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.
peace out.
First off, sitting in front of my apartment this morning is a spanky new shiny black Honda Accord. I did not BUY this piece of machinery; in fact, I did not even want this piece of machinery sitting in front of my home. The keys were given to me yesterday afternoon by a very sweet but motive-ridden finance director at the Honda dealership out by where I work. Now, you'd think his only motives were to sell me the car. And after finding out how much my insurance was going to go up and how much my payments were going to go up, I realized that even though this vehicle is a shining example of what I should be buying i.e. multiple airbags, good gas mileage, good resale, good crash tests, etc, putting myself in the poor house and later having my car repossessed because I can't make the payments isn't going to be saving ANYONE's gas money or life. So selling me the car is out of the questions. And he is MORE than aware of this. No, he wanted me to take the car not only because he knows it's a good sales tactic but because he told me, point-blank, he wants to see me again. Gave me his cell phone number, told me he'd give me GAP coverage and an extended warranty for free if I bought the car, asked me to go to WestEnd with him later, showed me pictures of his daughter (I'm assuming that was to sprout some sort of latent maternal instinct into full-on suffocating coos and giggles), told me I was "hot," told me he liked my skirt (my mothers giant skirt from 1987, so I know that's a lie), told me he knew I probably wasn't going to buy the car but to take it anyway so he'd have a reason to see me on Monday...... the list goes on.
I have, by now, learned to keep my rising panic away from the watchful eyes of the randoms who hit on me. Though I probably would have lost it if he'd pulled one of those casual pats-on-the-back moves, so tense do I get in these situations. So I have a situation to look forward to on Monday when I go to return the car. And yes, I am fully aware that this is my fault. I am a spineless freak of nature when it comes to these things. Because, while I can make all manner of acid remarks to the true freaks of the world, I cannot deliberately hurt the feelings of a seemingly normal individual. Albeit one who may be a tad overzealous... but seemingly normal nonetheless.
After the car fiasco I found myself grazing on Saltines, sipping on coffee and spacing out in front of the mindless reality shows that can only hold my attention on a Saturday when seeing which celebrity can lose the most weight or which Surreal Life cast member is going to fuck a Brady can hold my attention for hours at a time. Later, I got a call from one of my friends, reminding me about a party I had probably made vague references to attending. Knowing, of course, that I will probably never grace one of these things but making the obligatory "Of course I'll be there" mumbles when an invitation was placed in my hand. So after some sublte coercion, I agreed that I would probably get dressed and go. Though there was the obvious problem that the party did not start until 11pm. And my friends won't going until 11:30. Way past my grandma bed-time. I agreed I would take a nap and then get up at 10:45, refreshed and wide-awake for the party. Also knowing (and assuming they did too) that the chance of me actually waking up after a nap taken so close to my actual bed-time were slim to none. So my phone started ringing at 11pm and didn't stop ringing until 11:15. I assume they were tag teaming my phone to increase their odds of getting me out of bed. This is completely useless as it only succeeds in pissing my sleep-induced self off. I wish I had never even told them I might go because it saves me the effort of rolling my eyes when I inevitably get the speech about staying home with my cats and not having a life and being a total heinous loser and then being hung-up on. I hate this about myself, but I will say 'yes' only to back out later so I can save myself the time spent arguing over why I SHOULD go somewhere and how there's bound to be just TONS of cute boys there, etc, etc. Truth is, I normally hate parties. Unless my small circle of friends are the majority of people there, I can barely contain my urge to bolt. Too may people, too many voices, too many thoughts swimming in a small space, too much drunkenness and fakeness and stupidness. I won't even talk to people of my same sex at parties because, in general, I don't meet girls with whom I have that much in common. Tolerate, sometimes. Enjoy, rarely. I normally gravitate towards talking with my same group of friends or making inane conversation with boys. Who are either trying to get in my pants or using me to get into my friend's pants. Sadly, I rarely notice this is happening until late in the game. I wish I could explain what it's like for me being at these kind of things... I hate knowing I'm that girl that sits there, frozen by the onslaught of music and thoughts and beer breath; knowing I'm the girl that has "that expression" on her face that scares off even the most well-meaning of folks. There are some days that are easier and I can relax and have fun and block out all the things that make me tense. There are other days when the thought of standing in a crowd makes my stomach clench, knowning I'll grip my watered down drink until my knuckles turn white, eventually finding a corner with my back to the wall (to prevent anyone from coming up behind me unannounced), watching the scene in front of me with detached horror and counting the minutes until I can leave without offending anyone or until my friends have found other friends to hang out with who I know will give them a ride home.
But enough randomness. I'm just melancholy and listless and restless all at once. Not unhappy, per se, just feeling slightly detached from the outside world.
Instead of continuing in the same vein, here is one of my top two favorite poems, who happen to both be written by the same author:
THE WAKING by Theordore Roethke
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Of those so close beside me, which are you?
Gold bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.
Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.
This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.
peace out.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
6 Across: extensive, widespread
Today has been an interesting day.
One RIFE (lookit- the crossword puzzle word today! Thanks Brittany!) with all sorts of dramatic upheavals, scary moments and tearful incoherencies.
To save myself a complete rehashing of the events that led to my near mental meltdown, let me sum up by saying that Brittany is officially responsible for taking a good two decades off my life. And I have to say, if there is ANYONE who can say that wouldn’t suffer at least the SMALLEST of instability at the hands of a phone call made from the innards of an ambulance… well, then…. I question your sanity more than I question my own.
Yes, I received a phone call from a person who is much too important to me to delve into meaningless phrases. And this phone call was placed from inside an ambulance. Where she somewhat lucidly confirmed that there was blood and breaks on her person. Insert panic attack HERE. And though I know better, I flew down I-40 doing a good 110mph daring the morning rush-hour idiots to even glance in the direction of the interstate lane I had claimed as my own. My horn, never an object to go unused for long, got quite the workout. Not to mention my middle finger and several choice phrases because, in accordance with popular opinion of my driving skills, I have a tendency to over-react when the fast-lane creed is not observed.
Fast forward to ER where I finally ascertain that my friend is free from the immediate danger of impending death and that all of her limbs and whatnot are in their proper places. Not free of injury, mind you, but free of the kind of injury that renders one’s life vastly changed or modified. A couple refills of pain pills, a wheelchair, some crutches and later a cane may be needed in the recovery process but certainly not anything that we can’t handle.
And here we get to the meat of the story: This girl must have SACKfulls of karma lying about because, generally speaking, she walked away from this one. She WALKED AWAY. She kicked open the door of her log-truck sized vehicle with a broken leg and crawled out of the ditch where her vehicle had landed. And after seeing the vehicle, I know that Someone helped my friend out because no girl, much less a grown-ass man, could have kicked open that door without the help of a tow truck or similar mechanical object. In fact, there IS no definable door on that SUV left, so twisted and contorted is the metal surrounding the drivers compartment.
I am so unbelievably grateful that she’s okay. I hope God wasn’t too offended when my steady stream of prayer was interrupted to flip the bird or scream obscenities. I’m sure He understands. I seriously doubt a little F-word is going to offend Him at this point in my life. But I digress. Like I said before, this girl has Somebody looking out for her. This is the fifth wreck in 7 years, all of which totaled the vehicle she was either driving or riding in. And through it all, she’s come out okay. You have to believe in unseen forces and higher powers when you see from what she’s walked away… It’s unreal.
I know my friend has a lot to think about in coming months. The death of a person weighs heavily upon a person’s soul, no matter the person deemed at fault. If this man truly wanted to end his life, I am angry with him for so selfishly attempting to take my friend’s life as well. If this man was intoxicated, I am angry with him for so selfishly driving his car along ANY road—more specifically, the road my friend found herself on at the precise moment he swerved. I pray that his family can find peace. And I pray that my friend doesn’t let this affect her life in a negative way. It’s not your fault and it never will be.
Sidenote: Randomly, of all the phone numbers I couldn’t remember today (my work number, mainly—and thanks to Dillard’s friend for connecting me to my boss) I pulled Brittany’s parent’s home number from the darkest recesses of my mind to call her parents and let them know I was on the way to hospital and to give them my cell number. I’ve called this number maybe 4 times in my life and I didn’t think twice about it… My work number however-- which I rattle off probably 45 times a day-- wasn’t even close to the tip of my tongue. It was way back there with my tonsils and vocal chords. Just goes to show you that Someone is looking out for all of us, even when we’re burning rubber to get to the side of our friend in the midst of a full fledged mental disintegration. He’s also looking out for us when men with unknown motives swerve deliberately into oncoming traffic at 65mph. And he’s looking out for us when we find the strength to pull ourselves out of broken vehicles. And he shows us that even when things look less-than-pleasant, you’ll ALWAYS have friends and family at your side to get you through anything and everything you might face. It doesn’t matter if you’re the one on the ER gurney or the one holding the hand of the friend on the ER gurney. We all need a little help now and then and God help us if the day ever comes when we’re too afraid to accept it.
One RIFE (lookit- the crossword puzzle word today! Thanks Brittany!) with all sorts of dramatic upheavals, scary moments and tearful incoherencies.
To save myself a complete rehashing of the events that led to my near mental meltdown, let me sum up by saying that Brittany is officially responsible for taking a good two decades off my life. And I have to say, if there is ANYONE who can say that wouldn’t suffer at least the SMALLEST of instability at the hands of a phone call made from the innards of an ambulance… well, then…. I question your sanity more than I question my own.
Yes, I received a phone call from a person who is much too important to me to delve into meaningless phrases. And this phone call was placed from inside an ambulance. Where she somewhat lucidly confirmed that there was blood and breaks on her person. Insert panic attack HERE. And though I know better, I flew down I-40 doing a good 110mph daring the morning rush-hour idiots to even glance in the direction of the interstate lane I had claimed as my own. My horn, never an object to go unused for long, got quite the workout. Not to mention my middle finger and several choice phrases because, in accordance with popular opinion of my driving skills, I have a tendency to over-react when the fast-lane creed is not observed.
Fast forward to ER where I finally ascertain that my friend is free from the immediate danger of impending death and that all of her limbs and whatnot are in their proper places. Not free of injury, mind you, but free of the kind of injury that renders one’s life vastly changed or modified. A couple refills of pain pills, a wheelchair, some crutches and later a cane may be needed in the recovery process but certainly not anything that we can’t handle.
And here we get to the meat of the story: This girl must have SACKfulls of karma lying about because, generally speaking, she walked away from this one. She WALKED AWAY. She kicked open the door of her log-truck sized vehicle with a broken leg and crawled out of the ditch where her vehicle had landed. And after seeing the vehicle, I know that Someone helped my friend out because no girl, much less a grown-ass man, could have kicked open that door without the help of a tow truck or similar mechanical object. In fact, there IS no definable door on that SUV left, so twisted and contorted is the metal surrounding the drivers compartment.
I am so unbelievably grateful that she’s okay. I hope God wasn’t too offended when my steady stream of prayer was interrupted to flip the bird or scream obscenities. I’m sure He understands. I seriously doubt a little F-word is going to offend Him at this point in my life. But I digress. Like I said before, this girl has Somebody looking out for her. This is the fifth wreck in 7 years, all of which totaled the vehicle she was either driving or riding in. And through it all, she’s come out okay. You have to believe in unseen forces and higher powers when you see from what she’s walked away… It’s unreal.
I know my friend has a lot to think about in coming months. The death of a person weighs heavily upon a person’s soul, no matter the person deemed at fault. If this man truly wanted to end his life, I am angry with him for so selfishly attempting to take my friend’s life as well. If this man was intoxicated, I am angry with him for so selfishly driving his car along ANY road—more specifically, the road my friend found herself on at the precise moment he swerved. I pray that his family can find peace. And I pray that my friend doesn’t let this affect her life in a negative way. It’s not your fault and it never will be.
Sidenote: Randomly, of all the phone numbers I couldn’t remember today (my work number, mainly—and thanks to Dillard’s friend for connecting me to my boss) I pulled Brittany’s parent’s home number from the darkest recesses of my mind to call her parents and let them know I was on the way to hospital and to give them my cell number. I’ve called this number maybe 4 times in my life and I didn’t think twice about it… My work number however-- which I rattle off probably 45 times a day-- wasn’t even close to the tip of my tongue. It was way back there with my tonsils and vocal chords. Just goes to show you that Someone is looking out for all of us, even when we’re burning rubber to get to the side of our friend in the midst of a full fledged mental disintegration. He’s also looking out for us when men with unknown motives swerve deliberately into oncoming traffic at 65mph. And he’s looking out for us when we find the strength to pull ourselves out of broken vehicles. And he shows us that even when things look less-than-pleasant, you’ll ALWAYS have friends and family at your side to get you through anything and everything you might face. It doesn’t matter if you’re the one on the ER gurney or the one holding the hand of the friend on the ER gurney. We all need a little help now and then and God help us if the day ever comes when we’re too afraid to accept it.
Monday, February 07, 2005
Laaaaa la la la Weeeeeee! <--Sounds one makes on a rollercoaster
Might I give myself a pat on the back?
I think I shall!
In the past 6 months I have:
1) Quit/got fired (the word choice is entirely dependent on my mood, it’s really a gray area) from the most miserable job on the planet with groping technicians, leery-eyed salesman, a coked-up boss (not kidding) and a married office-mate who insisted on trying to have sex with me. Repeatedly. And with much uncomfortable-ness on my part. Not to mention really angry, vocal customers with limited vocabulary.
2) Tossed Jon ß look look! I can say his name without vomiting or throwing something! After 15 months of utter bullshit, he is officially out of my life. There has been not one single phone call, email, or in-person meeting since the first of November when he was unceremoniously kicked to the curb. Granted, the way I removed him was kind of shady but that is, unfortunately, on what we were based: utter shadiness. So while I regret the way I removed him, I do not regret the removing.
3) Quit drinking excessively. There’s nothing like drinking yourself into a stupor… KIDDING. It was never that bad…. But there was definitely excess amounts of fundage spent on liver-killing liquid.
4) Quit smoking. And I mean QUIT smoking. Not the pansy-ass quitting that I’ve done in the past. I haven’t cheated- not once. No lie. I made a deal with God, which everyone seems to find vastly amusing, that I would not smoke. I am not breaking a deal with God. That would be tantamount to strapping 40 pounds of cocaine to my chest and trying to pass through US customs. It just ain’t worth it.
5) Started working out again. Granted, it’s been three and a half weeks. And I’ve probably not lost a pound since through a hilarious trick of the genetic lottery I’m “blessed” with the ability to gain muscle mass at the speed of light but shed fat and poundage about as fast as Bush’s reign is passing. Yep. That would be heinously slow. But I don’t care. It’s making me healthy and already my decrepit, 80-year-old scoliosis-ridden back is feeling mounds better.
6) Not become attached to any f*wits, losers, drug dealers or men who are “otherwise occupied.” It has been made clear to me by friends and through the hours spent in reflection now that I do not waste time smoking, drinking or yelling at psuedo-friend-boy that I have a bit of a problem. They (friends) refer to it as commitment phobia. I refer to it as plain stupidity. And though I have had the occasional lustful thought concerning a passing boy with a ring on his finger or a certified friend-girl, I have not transferred that sporadic lustful thought into action or even flirting. I haven’t flirted with anyone since, oh, I don’t know, mid-November. Definitely not since I started working at my current job. It kind of feels like I’m floating. Not the creepy air floating but the floating with water under you.
It’s very peaceful having a virtually drama- free life. I mean, it’s never entirely drama free. I still have ulcers, though they pop up less frequently. And I still have no money though I made myself a budget and tried to balance my checkbook for last month. Though naturally I became overdrawn again this week. But I didn’t use my credit cards ONCE this last month. So there is something of which to be proud. And my brother makes me crazy sometimes. And my cats drive me batty when they bat picture frames and books and breakables around. But overall, I just had to say good-job-to-me. I stress over small things and hence had to write down some things that I could un-stress about.
So la-ti-da.
I think I shall!
In the past 6 months I have:
1) Quit/got fired (the word choice is entirely dependent on my mood, it’s really a gray area) from the most miserable job on the planet with groping technicians, leery-eyed salesman, a coked-up boss (not kidding) and a married office-mate who insisted on trying to have sex with me. Repeatedly. And with much uncomfortable-ness on my part. Not to mention really angry, vocal customers with limited vocabulary.
2) Tossed Jon ß look look! I can say his name without vomiting or throwing something! After 15 months of utter bullshit, he is officially out of my life. There has been not one single phone call, email, or in-person meeting since the first of November when he was unceremoniously kicked to the curb. Granted, the way I removed him was kind of shady but that is, unfortunately, on what we were based: utter shadiness. So while I regret the way I removed him, I do not regret the removing.
3) Quit drinking excessively. There’s nothing like drinking yourself into a stupor… KIDDING. It was never that bad…. But there was definitely excess amounts of fundage spent on liver-killing liquid.
4) Quit smoking. And I mean QUIT smoking. Not the pansy-ass quitting that I’ve done in the past. I haven’t cheated- not once. No lie. I made a deal with God, which everyone seems to find vastly amusing, that I would not smoke. I am not breaking a deal with God. That would be tantamount to strapping 40 pounds of cocaine to my chest and trying to pass through US customs. It just ain’t worth it.
5) Started working out again. Granted, it’s been three and a half weeks. And I’ve probably not lost a pound since through a hilarious trick of the genetic lottery I’m “blessed” with the ability to gain muscle mass at the speed of light but shed fat and poundage about as fast as Bush’s reign is passing. Yep. That would be heinously slow. But I don’t care. It’s making me healthy and already my decrepit, 80-year-old scoliosis-ridden back is feeling mounds better.
6) Not become attached to any f*wits, losers, drug dealers or men who are “otherwise occupied.” It has been made clear to me by friends and through the hours spent in reflection now that I do not waste time smoking, drinking or yelling at psuedo-friend-boy that I have a bit of a problem. They (friends) refer to it as commitment phobia. I refer to it as plain stupidity. And though I have had the occasional lustful thought concerning a passing boy with a ring on his finger or a certified friend-girl, I have not transferred that sporadic lustful thought into action or even flirting. I haven’t flirted with anyone since, oh, I don’t know, mid-November. Definitely not since I started working at my current job. It kind of feels like I’m floating. Not the creepy air floating but the floating with water under you.
It’s very peaceful having a virtually drama- free life. I mean, it’s never entirely drama free. I still have ulcers, though they pop up less frequently. And I still have no money though I made myself a budget and tried to balance my checkbook for last month. Though naturally I became overdrawn again this week. But I didn’t use my credit cards ONCE this last month. So there is something of which to be proud. And my brother makes me crazy sometimes. And my cats drive me batty when they bat picture frames and books and breakables around. But overall, I just had to say good-job-to-me. I stress over small things and hence had to write down some things that I could un-stress about.
So la-ti-da.
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Nice Mug
Well. It's 3:25 on a Sunday afternoon and as per usual I find myself slightly bored. I have plenty of books to read and tv to watch and cats to entertain yet somehow I find myself in front of this computer making my weekly confessional entry.
Only this time I'm in a bit of a beer haze.
See, what happened was.... I ordered a to-go salad from US Pizza, home of the yummiest salads on the face of the planet. Went to pick it up, brought it home, went upstairs to put up the purchases from Target and heard my brother and his friend Robert come in the door. Went downstairs to say howdy and ended up going BACK to US Pizza to eat with them. It's totally okay though. I hadn't yet eaten my salad so it's not like I had a double lunch. But I decided to go because I had this sudden and inexplicable urge for some beer.
So we went. And I had my beer. And now I'm home, my brother having departed for Conway to visit his girlfriend and Robert having left to go home to Texarkana. I called my friend Kasi from the short walk home to inform her how amusing it was that I was under the influence at 3 o'clock on a Sunday afternoon.
Random thought: I wish I knew how to post pictures because I just got a look at myself in the mirror and DAMN I'm attractive. I mean, truly. I walked into several public places today looking like I rolled outta a paper bag. ha HA! A little spandex in your pants never did anyone any lasting harm. :) And brushing your hair is really quite overrated.
Okay. I think it's nap time. My liver is requesting a conference call.
Only this time I'm in a bit of a beer haze.
See, what happened was.... I ordered a to-go salad from US Pizza, home of the yummiest salads on the face of the planet. Went to pick it up, brought it home, went upstairs to put up the purchases from Target and heard my brother and his friend Robert come in the door. Went downstairs to say howdy and ended up going BACK to US Pizza to eat with them. It's totally okay though. I hadn't yet eaten my salad so it's not like I had a double lunch. But I decided to go because I had this sudden and inexplicable urge for some beer.
So we went. And I had my beer. And now I'm home, my brother having departed for Conway to visit his girlfriend and Robert having left to go home to Texarkana. I called my friend Kasi from the short walk home to inform her how amusing it was that I was under the influence at 3 o'clock on a Sunday afternoon.
Random thought: I wish I knew how to post pictures because I just got a look at myself in the mirror and DAMN I'm attractive. I mean, truly. I walked into several public places today looking like I rolled outta a paper bag. ha HA! A little spandex in your pants never did anyone any lasting harm. :) And brushing your hair is really quite overrated.
Okay. I think it's nap time. My liver is requesting a conference call.
Friday, January 21, 2005
Save the Environment- Plant a Bush back in Texas
The title of this blog is perhaps my all-time favorite bumper sticker. Though not normally a fan of the back-of-the-car acoutrements expressing hate for mean people, political preferences, love for one's wife, or the fact that real women drive trucks, this is a sticker I would definitely consider brandishing on my vehicle. Though I'm sure no one can guess why...
Once upon a time, I was a fervent sticker-maniac. My ragged out camo-green 1993 Jeep Cherokee was covered in a veritable smorgasbord of stickers for the unfortunate driver who found themselves trailing my bumper to feast their eyes upon. I had stickers advertising my Eurpoean travel (stickers for The Netherlands, France, Belgium and Spain were placed on opposite sides of the rear glass along with a stereotypical Spanish black bull placed over my rear window taillight), stickers proclaiming that I was, in fact, a goddess, and one lone sticker asking you to "Please Use Tongs." The 'Tongs' sticker was actually, er, borrowed from the cafeteria on the campus of UCA. Until 1998, that sticker adorned the plastic cover over the ice cream cone bin. Heh. And as a present to me (as I had frequently admired the outright strangeness of making a sticker with the phrase "Please Use Tongs") my freshman roommate acquired it for me. Bless her.
But after I sold my Jeep for a new vehicle, I decided that the sticker fetish would die with my beautiful Gidget. (Gidget was the name of the Jeep. Gidget the Jeep.) My new car - a 1998 Montero Sport - lacked the jovial personality of Gidget. She seemed more refined, more luxurious. Possibly due to the fact that it was my first vehicle to ever have power locks or windows. I was high rollin. So this vehicle was christened Annabelle, a much more white collar name. That vehicle was followed by a 2002 Jeep Grand Cherokee, christened Dulce de la Noche. Don't ask why. I am fully aware that it makes no sense to name your car Sugar of the Night. It was just amusing at the time of purchase and unfortunately the name stuck.
And now, my world-renown short attention span has reared it's ugly head. I want a new car.
Okay. To be quite clear, it's not that I really want a new car. But Dulce drinks gas like it was lemonade... and it appears that my payoff amount is lower than my trade-in value. (WHAT? I have equity in my car? What is this nonsense?) So now would definitely be a good time to get out while my miles are low, my equity is high and gas prices are "reasonable" compared to what they were a couple of months ago. Meaning that I'm banking on the public to have forgotten about the $2.10/gallon we were paying not so long ago. And herein lies the problem:
I desperately want to convince myself that I should by a compact car. One that gets 35mpg... even in the city. A slight change from the 17mpg average I've got going in the Jeep. But I'm in love with SUV's. It's a vanity thing. I love them. They're beautiful. I am superior to the civic's, jetta's and accent's of the world. And more importantly, my ass does not drag the ground when I drive them. So maybe I can compromise with myself and purchase a compact SUV? Is this the solution? The Saturn Vue gets just as good gas mileage as a mid-sized sedan. And it's significantly better than my Jeep. Not to mention a lovely GM employee discount thrown in for good measure.
We shall see. I'm test driving cars tomorrow. I am leaving ALL bank information, employee information, etc at home so I am not even TEMPTED to purchase a vehicle on the spot. A common theme in my life as a car-buyer. But I am breaking the cycle. I will test drive, compare crash test ratings, MPG, safety equipment, etc until I arrive at a vehicle that does not totally offend me.
And since I've already placed an order for the above referenced bumper sticker, I have a feeling this car may be the one that gets to advertise my political leanings for the first time in vehicle history.
Nighty-night and cross-continent hugs for my soldier. Three more months!!!!
Once upon a time, I was a fervent sticker-maniac. My ragged out camo-green 1993 Jeep Cherokee was covered in a veritable smorgasbord of stickers for the unfortunate driver who found themselves trailing my bumper to feast their eyes upon. I had stickers advertising my Eurpoean travel (stickers for The Netherlands, France, Belgium and Spain were placed on opposite sides of the rear glass along with a stereotypical Spanish black bull placed over my rear window taillight), stickers proclaiming that I was, in fact, a goddess, and one lone sticker asking you to "Please Use Tongs." The 'Tongs' sticker was actually, er, borrowed from the cafeteria on the campus of UCA. Until 1998, that sticker adorned the plastic cover over the ice cream cone bin. Heh. And as a present to me (as I had frequently admired the outright strangeness of making a sticker with the phrase "Please Use Tongs") my freshman roommate acquired it for me. Bless her.
But after I sold my Jeep for a new vehicle, I decided that the sticker fetish would die with my beautiful Gidget. (Gidget was the name of the Jeep. Gidget the Jeep.) My new car - a 1998 Montero Sport - lacked the jovial personality of Gidget. She seemed more refined, more luxurious. Possibly due to the fact that it was my first vehicle to ever have power locks or windows. I was high rollin. So this vehicle was christened Annabelle, a much more white collar name. That vehicle was followed by a 2002 Jeep Grand Cherokee, christened Dulce de la Noche. Don't ask why. I am fully aware that it makes no sense to name your car Sugar of the Night. It was just amusing at the time of purchase and unfortunately the name stuck.
And now, my world-renown short attention span has reared it's ugly head. I want a new car.
Okay. To be quite clear, it's not that I really want a new car. But Dulce drinks gas like it was lemonade... and it appears that my payoff amount is lower than my trade-in value. (WHAT? I have equity in my car? What is this nonsense?) So now would definitely be a good time to get out while my miles are low, my equity is high and gas prices are "reasonable" compared to what they were a couple of months ago. Meaning that I'm banking on the public to have forgotten about the $2.10/gallon we were paying not so long ago. And herein lies the problem:
I desperately want to convince myself that I should by a compact car. One that gets 35mpg... even in the city. A slight change from the 17mpg average I've got going in the Jeep. But I'm in love with SUV's. It's a vanity thing. I love them. They're beautiful. I am superior to the civic's, jetta's and accent's of the world. And more importantly, my ass does not drag the ground when I drive them. So maybe I can compromise with myself and purchase a compact SUV? Is this the solution? The Saturn Vue gets just as good gas mileage as a mid-sized sedan. And it's significantly better than my Jeep. Not to mention a lovely GM employee discount thrown in for good measure.
We shall see. I'm test driving cars tomorrow. I am leaving ALL bank information, employee information, etc at home so I am not even TEMPTED to purchase a vehicle on the spot. A common theme in my life as a car-buyer. But I am breaking the cycle. I will test drive, compare crash test ratings, MPG, safety equipment, etc until I arrive at a vehicle that does not totally offend me.
And since I've already placed an order for the above referenced bumper sticker, I have a feeling this car may be the one that gets to advertise my political leanings for the first time in vehicle history.
Nighty-night and cross-continent hugs for my soldier. Three more months!!!!
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
hardy fucking har har har
So. In the grand scheme of things I am aware that I shouldn't let ridiculous comments from insecure individuals burden my thoughts. But somehow... they filter in. Which only makes me want to beat said individuals with wooden baseball bats.. Which seems to be a common theme in my head. But anyway.
I don't even want to delve into the subject. I'm just that mad. I'm pissed that I even for one second doubt myself. I work for YEARS to get certain thoughts out of my head and then BAM some ill-conceived red-haired fuck-up has to put his over-analyzed two cents in. No. I am not skinny. But how dare he reinforce what society imposes upon women of a certain stature? And I realize what this next statement makes me sound like, but, what right has he, this five-foot-ten MY ASS red haired, pale-skinned, psuedo intellectual chicken-legged freak afflicted white boy to whale on ME?
Fuck 'em. Fuck the lot of 'em. You people with your penises waiving about and such. Keep your thoughts to yourself. Or at least keep your thoughts in your own social circle. Don't feel the need to invade mine and present your views of my inadequacies to the unsuspecting ears of my friends. They'll be the first ones to vouch for my insanity after I beat you to a bloody pulp with whatever blunt object is handy and is deemed to inflict the most trauma.
I was so damn proud of myself for behaving in a marginally mature manner and not belittling his lackluster characteristics, both physically and mentally. Ha! Shows what I get for attempting to be mature.
And now I'm pissed I devoted a whole page to this nonsense. I am avoiding bigger issues. Ugh. I am unbelievably glad there are only two people who occasionally read this crap. And both are women. So maybe I won't be judged too harshly.
I don't even want to delve into the subject. I'm just that mad. I'm pissed that I even for one second doubt myself. I work for YEARS to get certain thoughts out of my head and then BAM some ill-conceived red-haired fuck-up has to put his over-analyzed two cents in. No. I am not skinny. But how dare he reinforce what society imposes upon women of a certain stature? And I realize what this next statement makes me sound like, but, what right has he, this five-foot-ten MY ASS red haired, pale-skinned, psuedo intellectual chicken-legged freak afflicted white boy to whale on ME?
Fuck 'em. Fuck the lot of 'em. You people with your penises waiving about and such. Keep your thoughts to yourself. Or at least keep your thoughts in your own social circle. Don't feel the need to invade mine and present your views of my inadequacies to the unsuspecting ears of my friends. They'll be the first ones to vouch for my insanity after I beat you to a bloody pulp with whatever blunt object is handy and is deemed to inflict the most trauma.
I was so damn proud of myself for behaving in a marginally mature manner and not belittling his lackluster characteristics, both physically and mentally. Ha! Shows what I get for attempting to be mature.
And now I'm pissed I devoted a whole page to this nonsense. I am avoiding bigger issues. Ugh. I am unbelievably glad there are only two people who occasionally read this crap. And both are women. So maybe I won't be judged too harshly.
Sunday, January 09, 2005
Cheesy Goodness
Ok. So I was wondering today who thought up the idea of frying cheese.
Who thought, "ya know, cheese is great and all... I really like it on my sammiches, it's great in my pasta, and it's super on crackers... but I really think we could do something more with it."
And then took that thought process which led to the not-so-logical conclusion of breading a stick of cheese and dropping it in a deep fryer?? WTF??
But it sure is tasty. Bordering on the less-than-healthy side but still incredibly yummy.
So yeah. It's a Sunday. Super. I start my 11-8 schedule tomorrow. And Kasi starts her first day at CompanyXYZ. And Lacy has an interview there. (!!!!!!!! help !!!!!!) Brittany is meeting a new guy that I'm not sure I approve of. My brother got in a wreck on Thursday that my parents didn't tell me about until Saturday because "he wasn't hurt so it wasn't necessary." ????? It's alright. He just junk-yarded the car. Totally okay. Not sure they would have even told me on Saturday if I hadn't called that afternoon to say hey.I think I jacked up my knee while spastic-dancing around the house yesterday. But there was this really snazzy song on the radio so it was totally acceptable. But being a spazoid while walking down steps is a mite more complicated than my normal daily activities. Hence the jacked up knee. And I watched this review on Car and Driver this morning about the Pontiac GTO. What a gay-ass car. I mean, I realize the original GTO was based off a simple sedan and they just muscled it up. And this new body style is also. But they only gave themselves SEVENTEEN MONTHS to create the new GTO. Which is just wrong really. It looks horrible. It's pathetic. And it pisses me off.
And that's a Sunday for ya. Getting pissed off at a car manufacturer for having heads inserted into assholes while gimping around on a fubar knee, making pasta combined with salmon-from-a-can (nasty, by the way) and talking briefly to friends who are spending their day off in much the same way. Hopefully their Sunday is salmon-from-a-can free.
I think it's naptime.
Peace.
Who thought, "ya know, cheese is great and all... I really like it on my sammiches, it's great in my pasta, and it's super on crackers... but I really think we could do something more with it."
And then took that thought process which led to the not-so-logical conclusion of breading a stick of cheese and dropping it in a deep fryer?? WTF??
But it sure is tasty. Bordering on the less-than-healthy side but still incredibly yummy.
So yeah. It's a Sunday. Super. I start my 11-8 schedule tomorrow. And Kasi starts her first day at CompanyXYZ. And Lacy has an interview there. (!!!!!!!! help !!!!!!) Brittany is meeting a new guy that I'm not sure I approve of. My brother got in a wreck on Thursday that my parents didn't tell me about until Saturday because "he wasn't hurt so it wasn't necessary." ????? It's alright. He just junk-yarded the car. Totally okay. Not sure they would have even told me on Saturday if I hadn't called that afternoon to say hey.
And that's a Sunday for ya. Getting pissed off at a car manufacturer for having heads inserted into assholes while gimping around on a fubar knee, making pasta combined with salmon-from-a-can (nasty, by the way) and talking briefly to friends who are spending their day off in much the same way. Hopefully their Sunday is salmon-from-a-can free.
I think it's naptime.
Peace.
Friday, January 07, 2005
Crazy Season is officially OVER
Just like the title says, I am no longer in season for Crazy. Done. Stick a fork in me. Roasted crispy. Ready-to-serve.
I had a five day span where I really did go off the deep end a little bit. But, I suppose we all have those moments. Or so I assume. Granted, sometimes I don't have the best surround sound in my head. I have body image issues that pop up at the most inconvenient of times and a basin full of self-deprecating thoughts waiting to explode. But it's by no means my every day thought process. When I wrote my previous entry, I felt like it would never get any better. I was conscious of every flaw, defect and blemish. Not to mention having become so obsessed with presenting to my family the image they so desperatly want to see. How could I ever knowingly disapoint the ones I love when it was something I could so easily change? Surely my dating/commitment reservations were not natural and merely a by-product of too much must-see-tv. Right?
Well, this whole shabang has (cheesily enough) taught me quite a bit.
1) I tried to mold someone into something I would like. And worse yet, I attempted to mold myself into something he'd like. I didn't listen to a single thought that said otherwise. I wasn't sure about his voice. And yet I told my friends otherwise. I explained a disproportionate amount of my humor. And still I told my friends how he got my jokes. I disregarded quirks that normally would be deal-breakers ... being the picky person I am it's easy to find these "quirks" in just about everyone. So I attempted to be less demanding. Overall, I was just as enthralled with my friends reaction to my date as I was with the actual date itself. It showed them I was participating in normal behavior. Not letting past mishaps cloud my thoughts. And I worked myself up into such a frenzy, there's no way I could have let anyone live up to such standards. Ridiculous, really.
2) In the process of trying to bring me out of my self-imposed panics, I learned way more about the minds of men who surround my friends. Turns out, they think I'm cute. I'm a little weirded out that the word "hot" was used as a descriptive word as I'm pretty sure I've never heard myself called that, but it's still kinda nice. Every girl needs a boost now and then. Let's be honest. I was a weird looking kid. And quiet. And brainy. And a little too goofy. Now, here I am at an age considered 'adult' by the majority of the free world, and I still think like I did when I was 12. But at least I am aware it happens.
3) I may want, desperately, to delete my previous post. But I will not. It will be there to remind me how ridiculous I can get.
So. I feel calmer than I have in days. The infamous date is over. I'm still not completely sure about this whole thing. I just don't buy into the theory that this has to be complicated. I think we make it complicated. But if we (I) listened to our (my)
head(s) in the process, we'd (I'd) be a lot better off.
Well. I've exhausted the self-centeredness for the evening. I'm going to go sleep the last of my crazy off. Contemplate how I let myself become such a huge freak over a five-day-period.
I had a five day span where I really did go off the deep end a little bit. But, I suppose we all have those moments. Or so I assume. Granted, sometimes I don't have the best surround sound in my head. I have body image issues that pop up at the most inconvenient of times and a basin full of self-deprecating thoughts waiting to explode. But it's by no means my every day thought process. When I wrote my previous entry, I felt like it would never get any better. I was conscious of every flaw, defect and blemish. Not to mention having become so obsessed with presenting to my family the image they so desperatly want to see. How could I ever knowingly disapoint the ones I love when it was something I could so easily change? Surely my dating/commitment reservations were not natural and merely a by-product of too much must-see-tv. Right?
Well, this whole shabang has (cheesily enough) taught me quite a bit.
1) I tried to mold someone into something I would like. And worse yet, I attempted to mold myself into something he'd like. I didn't listen to a single thought that said otherwise. I wasn't sure about his voice. And yet I told my friends otherwise. I explained a disproportionate amount of my humor. And still I told my friends how he got my jokes. I disregarded quirks that normally would be deal-breakers ... being the picky person I am it's easy to find these "quirks" in just about everyone. So I attempted to be less demanding. Overall, I was just as enthralled with my friends reaction to my date as I was with the actual date itself. It showed them I was participating in normal behavior. Not letting past mishaps cloud my thoughts. And I worked myself up into such a frenzy, there's no way I could have let anyone live up to such standards. Ridiculous, really.
2) In the process of trying to bring me out of my self-imposed panics, I learned way more about the minds of men who surround my friends. Turns out, they think I'm cute. I'm a little weirded out that the word "hot" was used as a descriptive word as I'm pretty sure I've never heard myself called that, but it's still kinda nice. Every girl needs a boost now and then. Let's be honest. I was a weird looking kid. And quiet. And brainy. And a little too goofy. Now, here I am at an age considered 'adult' by the majority of the free world, and I still think like I did when I was 12. But at least I am aware it happens.
3) I may want, desperately, to delete my previous post. But I will not. It will be there to remind me how ridiculous I can get.
So. I feel calmer than I have in days. The infamous date is over. I'm still not completely sure about this whole thing. I just don't buy into the theory that this has to be complicated. I think we make it complicated. But if we (I) listened to our (my)
head(s) in the process, we'd (I'd) be a lot better off.
Well. I've exhausted the self-centeredness for the evening. I'm going to go sleep the last of my crazy off. Contemplate how I let myself become such a huge freak over a five-day-period.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
As well meaning as our parents probably were, I'm always curious if they are cognizant of their effect on our lives.
Now, here's where you're thinking I'm going to launch into a philosophical discussion about the importance of those who share a DNA resemblance with us... hardly. I'm feeling much too superficial for anything so... trite.
I'm wondering if our parents, and to a larger degree those who surround us but lack similar genetics, realize how important even the smallest words can be. How a person can take a certain combination of words and morph them into something so unexpected, it blindsides you completely even years later. How a look, or lack thereof, can become a still frame in your memory, preserved, compressed and technicolor-ed.
Again, I'm sure one is expecting a much bigger follow up than what's about to happen. But I figure that's the purpose of this, right? I've heard (read) this described as an electronic confessional. So what's the use in not using it to it's full advantage? Why censor myself just because I'm afraid others will find me crazier than they already think I am? Why let myself care if anyone finds my rantings stale and banal? My self-centeredness is amusing... even to me. So if I prefer to be selfish by way of my electronic confessional, so be it.
Moving along. What I was writing about before is somewhat ambiguous. I clearly did not define what I was talking about by any stretch of the imagination. Probably on purpose, but that's another discussion entirely. The pea that prompted this discussion is, in fact, a date.
A date. As in with a person of the opposite sex where one is picked up, taken to dinner, to a movie and then home. Not a "let's hang out... as friends... and maybe we'll make out later." An honest-to-goodness date. And for once in my life, this date has no girlfriend, homocidal tendencies, no wife, and no leanings toward those of the same sex. Could be a fluke. Or I could actually be sticking to my list. But I digress. Though two three-hour phone conversations have been completed in no less than 4 8 hours as well as 1.5 hours spent making witty chit-chat on instant messenger... not to mention tonight's ongoing phone calls... we have yet to meet. My date is a friend of a friend. So our date will be blind.
And here's where the beginning of this rant ties in. I have, stored away in my head, snippets of speech from my father, brother and various others. In this particular storage bin are comments relating to my appearance. All of them revolving around my 'pretty face' but 'lackluster body.' The specifics are not worth repeating. They get enough airtime in my head. But you can see where my issue sleeps, right? My date has seen a picture of my face but not a complete photograph. Years of practice have shown me the right way to hold my head, dip my chin, crinkle my eyes and smile just right-- all in attempt in disguising the fact that my body doesn't match my face. Or so the evil demon says that drags up battered old storage bins from the dusty recesses of my mind. I even made a girl-esque phone call to a friend of mine, inquiring on what outfit was the most slimming. Not what outfit was the cutest, the most appropriate, the most fun.... but the most slimming.
How have I let these ridiculous comments rule my life? Where did it change from being just a random comment, to a comment I base my life on? And WHY am I letting the comments of people, specifically men, more specifically men who are related to me, force me into a cage with no door? Because as soon as I open the floodgates, as soon as one thought manages to slip by... all the rest come pouring in. It's RIDICULOUS.
I have no thoughts on how to fix this. Following advice from my mother and friends, I could choose to be more confident. And, at times, I am. But I'm not sure how to escape the times when I am not. Do I seek out the confirmation of others? Or do I just recognize it and let it play itself out? Will it eventually become less of a surround sound and more of a background murmur?
So. I have no idea what to do. The date is planned. I am going. Maybe flash of light promoting less self-centeredness will cure all ailments. Ugh.
Now, here's where you're thinking I'm going to launch into a philosophical discussion about the importance of those who share a DNA resemblance with us... hardly. I'm feeling much too superficial for anything so... trite.
I'm wondering if our parents, and to a larger degree those who surround us but lack similar genetics, realize how important even the smallest words can be. How a person can take a certain combination of words and morph them into something so unexpected, it blindsides you completely even years later. How a look, or lack thereof, can become a still frame in your memory, preserved, compressed and technicolor-ed.
Again, I'm sure one is expecting a much bigger follow up than what's about to happen. But I figure that's the purpose of this, right? I've heard (read) this described as an electronic confessional. So what's the use in not using it to it's full advantage? Why censor myself just because I'm afraid others will find me crazier than they already think I am? Why let myself care if anyone finds my rantings stale and banal? My self-centeredness is amusing... even to me. So if I prefer to be selfish by way of my electronic confessional, so be it.
Moving along. What I was writing about before is somewhat ambiguous. I clearly did not define what I was talking about by any stretch of the imagination. Probably on purpose, but that's another discussion entirely. The pea that prompted this discussion is, in fact, a date.
A date. As in with a person of the opposite sex where one is picked up, taken to dinner, to a movie and then home. Not a "let's hang out... as friends... and maybe we'll make out later." An honest-to-goodness date. And for once in my life, this date has no girlfriend, homocidal tendencies, no wife, and no leanings toward those of the same sex. Could be a fluke. Or I could actually be sticking to my list. But I digress. Though two three-hour phone conversations have been completed in no less than 4 8 hours as well as 1.5 hours spent making witty chit-chat on instant messenger... not to mention tonight's ongoing phone calls... we have yet to meet. My date is a friend of a friend. So our date will be blind.
And here's where the beginning of this rant ties in. I have, stored away in my head, snippets of speech from my father, brother and various others. In this particular storage bin are comments relating to my appearance. All of them revolving around my 'pretty face' but 'lackluster body.' The specifics are not worth repeating. They get enough airtime in my head. But you can see where my issue sleeps, right? My date has seen a picture of my face but not a complete photograph. Years of practice have shown me the right way to hold my head, dip my chin, crinkle my eyes and smile just right-- all in attempt in disguising the fact that my body doesn't match my face. Or so the evil demon says that drags up battered old storage bins from the dusty recesses of my mind. I even made a girl-esque phone call to a friend of mine, inquiring on what outfit was the most slimming. Not what outfit was the cutest, the most appropriate, the most fun.... but the most slimming.
How have I let these ridiculous comments rule my life? Where did it change from being just a random comment, to a comment I base my life on? And WHY am I letting the comments of people, specifically men, more specifically men who are related to me, force me into a cage with no door? Because as soon as I open the floodgates, as soon as one thought manages to slip by... all the rest come pouring in. It's RIDICULOUS.
I have no thoughts on how to fix this. Following advice from my mother and friends, I could choose to be more confident. And, at times, I am. But I'm not sure how to escape the times when I am not. Do I seek out the confirmation of others? Or do I just recognize it and let it play itself out? Will it eventually become less of a surround sound and more of a background murmur?
So. I have no idea what to do. The date is planned. I am going. Maybe flash of light promoting less self-centeredness will cure all ailments. Ugh.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
5.45 hour commute
So, needless to say, I joined the ranks of the idiot drivers on the road this afternoon, slowly making my home. And in lieu of bitching and complaining, I'm going to thank everyone that helped me as I will never have another opportunity:
To the lady that crawled under my car to attach a chain and pulled my Jeep up a hill with her giant 4x4 diesel truck, to the man that pushed my car out of a rut on Markham, to the man that let me pee in his house when I ran off the road into his yard, to the woman who took me back to her house, fed me cookies and coffee, gave me warm dry socks and a pair of waterproof snow boots, to the couple that hitched a ride and ended up pushing my car a half dozen times, to that same guy that let me pee in house for bracing the snow and ice to help me and others by pushing my car up a hill and wishing me a merry christmas, to the gentleman who got out his Lexus SUV to push my car around the corner and onto University Ave, to the guy on skis on Kavanaugh for taking off his skis and pushing my car across the intersection and to my mother, who was the first person I talked to once I got cell service on my way home and listened to me scream obscenities and cry like a four-year-old when it took me 11 tries to get up the St. Charles hill and onto Nappa Valley....
To everyone that helped or got out of the way of a scared-shitless girl driving a (unfortunately) rear-wheel drive black Jeep that insisted upon fishtailing, spinning wheels and backsliding at every opportunity, THANK YOU, BLESS YOU AND THANK YOU A MILLION TIMES OVER.
I hope Santa brings them everything thing they want and then some. :)
I'm just glad I'm home, all my limbs are attached, and I live within walking distance of US Pizza, Kroger and a liqour store. Whoo hoo!
To the lady that crawled under my car to attach a chain and pulled my Jeep up a hill with her giant 4x4 diesel truck, to the man that pushed my car out of a rut on Markham, to the man that let me pee in his house when I ran off the road into his yard, to the woman who took me back to her house, fed me cookies and coffee, gave me warm dry socks and a pair of waterproof snow boots, to the couple that hitched a ride and ended up pushing my car a half dozen times, to that same guy that let me pee in house for bracing the snow and ice to help me and others by pushing my car up a hill and wishing me a merry christmas, to the gentleman who got out his Lexus SUV to push my car around the corner and onto University Ave, to the guy on skis on Kavanaugh for taking off his skis and pushing my car across the intersection and to my mother, who was the first person I talked to once I got cell service on my way home and listened to me scream obscenities and cry like a four-year-old when it took me 11 tries to get up the St. Charles hill and onto Nappa Valley....
To everyone that helped or got out of the way of a scared-shitless girl driving a (unfortunately) rear-wheel drive black Jeep that insisted upon fishtailing, spinning wheels and backsliding at every opportunity, THANK YOU, BLESS YOU AND THANK YOU A MILLION TIMES OVER.
I hope Santa brings them everything thing they want and then some. :)
I'm just glad I'm home, all my limbs are attached, and I live within walking distance of US Pizza, Kroger and a liqour store. Whoo hoo!
Monday, December 20, 2004
She's got skills (or not)
After the brilliant turkey-cooking for Faux Thanksgiving, I figured I was a certified kitchen goddess. Because, naturally, if one has the skills to make a giant turkey, one has the skills to cook anything else one's heart my desire.
So tonight I tried my hand at chicken and dumplings.
My mother left a small chicken in the freezer a couple of weeks ago when she came up to visit my poor sickly mono-infested little brother. So in lieu of spending my non-existent funds on a deep-fried grease-marinated slab of beef, I decided I would make some good ol' home cooked food.
First, I took the chicken out of the freezer. It was wrapped in plastic, so I pulled off what I could and sawed off the bits that stuck on. Then I found a large pot and filled it halfway with water, slicing up onions and celery to flavor the broth. Then I put the rock of a chicken into the pan, sprinkled it with salt and pepper and covered it with a lid.
One hour later it still seemed a bit frosty and crunchy when I shoved a fork in the side, so I decided that it probably needed to cook at little bit more.
Another hour later and the fork test is still not going well. Random pieces appear to be cooked and succulent. Other pieces appear to be... not so cooked. And slightly oozey.
Another half an hour later (all whilst my stomach is munching happily on my spleen) and the chicken is exuding an offbeat sort of odor. Sort of a burnt chicken-ass smell.
So I remove the chicken and place it on a cookie sheet. I pull off what pieces seem to be cooked and place them back in the broth. I then make the dumplings.
A more apt word has never been found to describe these dumplings. 'Dumplings' pretty much covers it. I don't think I added enough milk. Or maybe I didn't cook them right. Some were deliciously light and fluffy.. albeit flavored with sketchy burnt chicken broth. Others were mushy and gooey and just plain weird.
Overall: I suck. and not in a good way.
In retrospect, the chicken should probably not have been a giant block of ice when I started cooking it. And I probably should have added more water when the water boiled down to a dark brown substance. Maybe I shouldn't have started with something so complicated. I'm going back to the basics: Rice a Roni, Ramen noodles and indivudually frozen, microwaveable chicken breast strips. Can't go wrong.
So tonight I tried my hand at chicken and dumplings.
My mother left a small chicken in the freezer a couple of weeks ago when she came up to visit my poor sickly mono-infested little brother. So in lieu of spending my non-existent funds on a deep-fried grease-marinated slab of beef, I decided I would make some good ol' home cooked food.
First, I took the chicken out of the freezer. It was wrapped in plastic, so I pulled off what I could and sawed off the bits that stuck on. Then I found a large pot and filled it halfway with water, slicing up onions and celery to flavor the broth. Then I put the rock of a chicken into the pan, sprinkled it with salt and pepper and covered it with a lid.
One hour later it still seemed a bit frosty and crunchy when I shoved a fork in the side, so I decided that it probably needed to cook at little bit more.
Another hour later and the fork test is still not going well. Random pieces appear to be cooked and succulent. Other pieces appear to be... not so cooked. And slightly oozey.
Another half an hour later (all whilst my stomach is munching happily on my spleen) and the chicken is exuding an offbeat sort of odor. Sort of a burnt chicken-ass smell.
So I remove the chicken and place it on a cookie sheet. I pull off what pieces seem to be cooked and place them back in the broth. I then make the dumplings.
A more apt word has never been found to describe these dumplings. 'Dumplings' pretty much covers it. I don't think I added enough milk. Or maybe I didn't cook them right. Some were deliciously light and fluffy.. albeit flavored with sketchy burnt chicken broth. Others were mushy and gooey and just plain weird.
Overall: I suck. and not in a good way.
In retrospect, the chicken should probably not have been a giant block of ice when I started cooking it. And I probably should have added more water when the water boiled down to a dark brown substance. Maybe I shouldn't have started with something so complicated. I'm going back to the basics: Rice a Roni, Ramen noodles and indivudually frozen, microwaveable chicken breast strips. Can't go wrong.
Sunday, December 19, 2004
Blurp
Today was a beautiful (if cold) day. I spent it finishing up a book, reading another one and sleeping. A lot.
Was completely unable to function outside of the realm of my feather mattress until I made a run to Nu Fun Ree, the chinese food place around the corner. Granted, I could have walked. Possibly might have counter-acted the order of cheese wontons I ate-- but what would've been the fun in that? So I rolled my shady-looking self into the car and drove 6 blocks to place an order for broccoli chicken and cheese wontons. And then drove six blocks back home (thanking the good Lord all the way that I had not run into anyone I knew), plopped my ass on my brother's 70's era brown velour couch and inhaled a good 40,000 calories in chinese food. But boy was it yummy.
And now I'm confined to the house for the night as I have no plans of making myself look even moderately attractive i.e. bathing, brushing hair, finding clothes that match, etc.
No telling when I'll get to sleep tonight as I spent most of the day in a comatose or semi-comatose state. I did have some vaguely interesting dreams though. Not sure if it's the whole sleeping during the daytime thing or if the vitamis I've been taking are messing with my neurotransmitters... but here's a quick rundown:
1) Dreamed I was at the office Christmas party, dressed in jeans, a black t-shirt and a piece of gold sparkalie cloth wrapped around my waist, sarong-like. The cloth I actually bought last night at Hobby Lobby, unable to resist the glinting-loveliness of it. So I know where that idea came from. But in the dream everyone was dressed up in cocktail outfits, tuxedos and the like. I was unconcerned that I was dressed in some weird get-up, eating mini shrimp and drinking champagne cocktails. I caught a glimpse of myself in a window and saw that I was wearing shiny red antlers on my head (very Bridget Jones-esque). Though there was no karaoke machine to emabarras myself on, I did do a back-handspring after there was talk of having a gymnastic competition...... WTF? Gymnastic competition at office Xmas party? Am I on crack? My co-workers seemed somewhat impressed with my skills until some girl (completely unrecognizable) did some fancy schmancy Olympic-like routine and ended up sitting cross-legged in the chadelier three stories above us. ??????
2) Dreamed was driving around my neighborhood with Kasi in the passenger seat trying to force me to listen to some obscure band and in mid-argument over the CD player, I ran over my Dillards friend. As in, ran over him with my CAR. Felt the bump and EVERYTHING. So I get out of my car and he's lying directly under the vehicle, untouched by any of the wheels. But he sho' wasn't movin'. Scared to death, Kasi and I pull him out from under the car and get him on one of those rolly cart things that mechanics slide under your car on. Where the rolly thing came from, I have no idea. But anyway, no one thinks to call the ambulance and eventually we're all on rolly cart things careening down the hill. ?????
3) Dreamed I was on the doctors table and there were tons of doctors standing around, all dressed in white, all very sterile. On the outskirts of the doctors are lots of random people I know-- mostly kids from when I lived in Mississippi that I haven't seen in years, a couple of girls from college classes that I never liked and even that random guy that I went on a date with a couple of months ago- the Volvo guy that was wearing weird underoos. So anyway, one of them says, "We're going to have to remove them." I start screaming in my head but I can't get any words out. Then, wham bam thank ya mam, someone's holding MY OVARIES up under a light and saying "yep, it's a good thing we got those out." WTF were people doing with my ovaries? Leave that shit alone, assholes! Very strange dream.....
Yeah. So that was my day. I'm a little disturbed by the above dreams and the ones I didn't right down but are still bumbling around in my head like a bad acid trip. Not that I've ever done acid. I'm just assuming. Anyway. Going to go find something productive to do until Desperate Housewives comes on. Yippety do dah.
Office quote of the day: "Damn it feels good to be a gangsta."
Was completely unable to function outside of the realm of my feather mattress until I made a run to Nu Fun Ree, the chinese food place around the corner. Granted, I could have walked. Possibly might have counter-acted the order of cheese wontons I ate-- but what would've been the fun in that? So I rolled my shady-looking self into the car and drove 6 blocks to place an order for broccoli chicken and cheese wontons. And then drove six blocks back home (thanking the good Lord all the way that I had not run into anyone I knew), plopped my ass on my brother's 70's era brown velour couch and inhaled a good 40,000 calories in chinese food. But boy was it yummy.
And now I'm confined to the house for the night as I have no plans of making myself look even moderately attractive i.e. bathing, brushing hair, finding clothes that match, etc.
No telling when I'll get to sleep tonight as I spent most of the day in a comatose or semi-comatose state. I did have some vaguely interesting dreams though. Not sure if it's the whole sleeping during the daytime thing or if the vitamis I've been taking are messing with my neurotransmitters... but here's a quick rundown:
1) Dreamed I was at the office Christmas party, dressed in jeans, a black t-shirt and a piece of gold sparkalie cloth wrapped around my waist, sarong-like. The cloth I actually bought last night at Hobby Lobby, unable to resist the glinting-loveliness of it. So I know where that idea came from. But in the dream everyone was dressed up in cocktail outfits, tuxedos and the like. I was unconcerned that I was dressed in some weird get-up, eating mini shrimp and drinking champagne cocktails. I caught a glimpse of myself in a window and saw that I was wearing shiny red antlers on my head (very Bridget Jones-esque). Though there was no karaoke machine to emabarras myself on, I did do a back-handspring after there was talk of having a gymnastic competition...... WTF? Gymnastic competition at office Xmas party? Am I on crack? My co-workers seemed somewhat impressed with my skills until some girl (completely unrecognizable) did some fancy schmancy Olympic-like routine and ended up sitting cross-legged in the chadelier three stories above us. ??????
2) Dreamed was driving around my neighborhood with Kasi in the passenger seat trying to force me to listen to some obscure band and in mid-argument over the CD player, I ran over my Dillards friend. As in, ran over him with my CAR. Felt the bump and EVERYTHING. So I get out of my car and he's lying directly under the vehicle, untouched by any of the wheels. But he sho' wasn't movin'. Scared to death, Kasi and I pull him out from under the car and get him on one of those rolly cart things that mechanics slide under your car on. Where the rolly thing came from, I have no idea. But anyway, no one thinks to call the ambulance and eventually we're all on rolly cart things careening down the hill. ?????
3) Dreamed I was on the doctors table and there were tons of doctors standing around, all dressed in white, all very sterile. On the outskirts of the doctors are lots of random people I know-- mostly kids from when I lived in Mississippi that I haven't seen in years, a couple of girls from college classes that I never liked and even that random guy that I went on a date with a couple of months ago- the Volvo guy that was wearing weird underoos. So anyway, one of them says, "We're going to have to remove them." I start screaming in my head but I can't get any words out. Then, wham bam thank ya mam, someone's holding MY OVARIES up under a light and saying "yep, it's a good thing we got those out." WTF were people doing with my ovaries? Leave that shit alone, assholes! Very strange dream.....
Yeah. So that was my day. I'm a little disturbed by the above dreams and the ones I didn't right down but are still bumbling around in my head like a bad acid trip. Not that I've ever done acid. I'm just assuming. Anyway. Going to go find something productive to do until Desperate Housewives comes on. Yippety do dah.
Office quote of the day: "Damn it feels good to be a gangsta."
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
Is that drool on your chin or are you just happy to see me?
Okay. Just saw the video for "Mr. Brightside" by The Killers. I have to say--- Mr. Leadsinger is quite tasty. Totally digging the eyeliner. Mentally fanning self. Wow.
Not normally a fan of dark-haired bad boys. WAIT. (laughter) I'm ALWAYS a fan of dark-haired bad boys. With the exception of ex-Evan and ex-Luke (reddish and blondish hair, respectively) they've all been dark-haired drug dealers, OCD-sufferers, fuckwits, liars, cheaters, etc. Bitter much?
Well, shit. Just finished googling Brandon Flowers, the lead singer. Turns out he's engaged and Mormon. Not very concerned with the engaged thing. I can still lust from afar and flirt atrociously. But Mormon? Had one of those. I'll pass.
Oh well. Will just have to find a new object of my lust.
Am trying to implement new program where objects of lust are not married, engaged or otherwise occupied. Though this takes them out of the objects of lust category. No longer objects if have to actually consider meaningful flirting. Totally safe to drool over ones who will never glance in my direction. May have to go to desperate measures. Have to bring home/be able to talk about a boy when I go home for Christmas. Much discussion in family concerning my sexual preference.
Prefer: boys
And yet... my extended family all think I'm a lezzy. Super. Short of having sex in front of those who have found themselves genetically related to me, I'm not sure how to correct this problem.
Oh well.
Will try to forget The Killers leadsinger is Mormon. Note: Mormon = NOT a turn-on
Not normally a fan of dark-haired bad boys. WAIT. (laughter) I'm ALWAYS a fan of dark-haired bad boys. With the exception of ex-Evan and ex-Luke (reddish and blondish hair, respectively) they've all been dark-haired drug dealers, OCD-sufferers, fuckwits, liars, cheaters, etc. Bitter much?
Well, shit. Just finished googling Brandon Flowers, the lead singer. Turns out he's engaged and Mormon. Not very concerned with the engaged thing. I can still lust from afar and flirt atrociously. But Mormon? Had one of those. I'll pass.
Oh well. Will just have to find a new object of my lust.
Am trying to implement new program where objects of lust are not married, engaged or otherwise occupied. Though this takes them out of the objects of lust category. No longer objects if have to actually consider meaningful flirting. Totally safe to drool over ones who will never glance in my direction. May have to go to desperate measures. Have to bring home/be able to talk about a boy when I go home for Christmas. Much discussion in family concerning my sexual preference.
Prefer: boys
And yet... my extended family all think I'm a lezzy. Super. Short of having sex in front of those who have found themselves genetically related to me, I'm not sure how to correct this problem.
Oh well.
Will try to forget The Killers leadsinger is Mormon. Note: Mormon = NOT a turn-on
If I were a rich girl, na na na na na na na na na na na........
I have $16.88 in my checking account.
This is not good.
I got a fortune cookie at Jasmine's the other night (a lovely meal purchased with my fabulous credit card)-- inside the fortune cookie was, per usual, a fortune.
This one:
"You will soon come into a fortune."
You'll forgive me for being overly analytical, but I'm sure they mean a monetary fortune, right? Not a fortune of love, a fortune of macaroni and cheese, a fortune of bad luck, a fortune of household cleaning supplies... But a fortune. A real one. Money. Moo-la. Dough. Greenbacks.
What I have to do to get this fortune is unclear. It's also unclear how soon the "soon" in the fortune cookie is suggesting. Tomorrow? Next Saturday? On my 30th birthday? In the scheme of eternity, "soon" could mean 50 years from now or, if it's being really obtuse, it could be referring to my genetic makeup, passed along in percentages throughout the future, ending at some great-great-great-great grandchild who carries a small bit of my DNA so graciously passed on to the following generations.
Ugh.
Will spend this evening thinking of money-making schemes. Viable ones. Possibly stripping? No.... I'm pretty sure no one wants to see me in pasties. Selling crack? No, much too easy for me to get caught. And go to jail. Besides, as Whitney Houston says, "Crack is whack." Ummmmm I could waitress. WAIT. I'm sorry. I must have been momentarily blinded by checking account depletion. I hate people. I would get fired as soon as I told someone they could get their own ass up and fetch the ketchup bottle. Thinking..... thinking...... I could sell my cats for scientific research. But I might miss them later. Thinking some more.... and still thinking..... yeah. Can't think of anything. I'd sell my car but then I couldn't drive to work and then I wouldn't have ANY income. I have no jewelry. No trust funds. Oh, to be a trust fund baby. I swear I would have turned out well-adjusted and not overly creepy, clingy and whiny.
Thoughts, anyone?
This is not good.
I got a fortune cookie at Jasmine's the other night (a lovely meal purchased with my fabulous credit card)-- inside the fortune cookie was, per usual, a fortune.
This one:
"You will soon come into a fortune."
You'll forgive me for being overly analytical, but I'm sure they mean a monetary fortune, right? Not a fortune of love, a fortune of macaroni and cheese, a fortune of bad luck, a fortune of household cleaning supplies... But a fortune. A real one. Money. Moo-la. Dough. Greenbacks.
What I have to do to get this fortune is unclear. It's also unclear how soon the "soon" in the fortune cookie is suggesting. Tomorrow? Next Saturday? On my 30th birthday? In the scheme of eternity, "soon" could mean 50 years from now or, if it's being really obtuse, it could be referring to my genetic makeup, passed along in percentages throughout the future, ending at some great-great-great-great grandchild who carries a small bit of my DNA so graciously passed on to the following generations.
Ugh.
Will spend this evening thinking of money-making schemes. Viable ones. Possibly stripping? No.... I'm pretty sure no one wants to see me in pasties. Selling crack? No, much too easy for me to get caught. And go to jail.
Thoughts, anyone?
Monday, December 13, 2004
The Brave
My prayer I say 100 times a day:
Dear Lord, I beg you to bring my friends home safely.
Please don't send them back into peril. Please God, keep them home, send them home, make them whole. Let their wives see a face untroubled by grief, death, despair and anguish. Let their children learn their names in truth and not in abstract. Let their families hug their strong bodies and kiss their gaunt cheeks. Let their friends hold them tight and never let them go.
I bring this up only because I got a phone call from a friend today. Tom-one of my high school pack -and the only one not serving overseas. Everytime he rings I can never bring myself to pick up on the first call. I always hit ignore on my phone. And I sit, terrified beyond all possible belief that someone isn't coming home.
You have to understand, first of all, that the five of us were like the three-plus stooges on crack. Matt-- the beautiful one who insisted on pushing everyone for an extra mile on the run and by my side at every turn. Randall--the sweet one who was always a pushover if a pretty girl showed him affection but the first one to stand up for anyone he cared about. Tom-- the smart one who reined in all of us when we got too rowdy-- preaching strength, determination and always full of faith in everyone around him. Josh-- a year younger than the rest of us but the one that always had a plan. A plan for the weekend, a plan for the summer, a plan for buying a jacuzzi... And me, the one strange girl in the group, loving the friendship of these boys and playing mom, sister and confidante for all manner of raging male eccentricities.
Today there came news of Josh. Josh was in Baghdad. He was sent to an undisclosed location after an "accident" and is now, or so we hear, on his way to the States for more treatment. We know only that it's been 3 months since he was injured and very few people can give us information. Very few people knew he was injured until a few days ago. Me included. We know he was in the way of a large explosion. We know he's lost a lot of hearing, permanent or not, we don't know. We know, however crude this may sound, that his head is not whole. He received a purple heart. He 'was severely injured but recovering.' A lot of his fellow soldiers were killed.
My stomach clenches in knots everytime I think about him. Any of them. But dammit. I chose these boys. I'm selfish and I can't for one second think of being any other way. I've watched these boys grow up. I saw them when they thought jumping into a lake in the middle of January was a good idea. I helped shave heads, chests, backs and legs for various swim meets. I slept crammed in tents with them when we still thought sleeping on the ground was a good idea. They didn't bat an eye when I bawled unattractively over the first boy to screw me over. They got even.
I can't think what's happened to him. I know they're all scared. They'll never admit it. But they are. I hope and pray that Josh isn't alone. That he's got a friend with him. I pray that he's safe. That he doesn't hurt. That he'll be alright.
And finally, my irrational rant at our (in my opinion) unfortunately chosen leader:
I will see you in hell you beady eyed fuck-up. I challenge you to spend 1day doing what your soldiers do-- day in and day out. Come back to your barracks after being out in the field only to find a mortar shell that landed three feet beside your bed. Pick up the arms, legs, and recognizable pieces of your friends so there is something to put in baggies and ship home. Carry around packs that outweigh you. Exist on 6 MRE's a week. Be so covered in dust you're not sure you remember what it feels like to be clean. Be away from your newborn son, whom you've never seen. Send emails to your wife, your mother, your father, your friends. Tell them about the the death you've become so immune to you pray, not for forgiveness, but to be able to feel. Anything. Tell your friends what it was like when you killed your first living soul. And your second. And your third. You tell your friends because you're afraid that your wife would never look at you the same and your mother would die of fear. Do THAT for one day. And I MIGHT listen to your ignorantly conceived speeches and watch your arrogantly smug smiles. Fuck abortion. Fuck taxes. Fuck social security. Fuck the environment. You bring my friends home you fucking bastard.
Dear Lord, I beg you to bring my friends home safely.
Please don't send them back into peril. Please God, keep them home, send them home, make them whole. Let their wives see a face untroubled by grief, death, despair and anguish. Let their children learn their names in truth and not in abstract. Let their families hug their strong bodies and kiss their gaunt cheeks. Let their friends hold them tight and never let them go.
I bring this up only because I got a phone call from a friend today. Tom-one of my high school pack -and the only one not serving overseas. Everytime he rings I can never bring myself to pick up on the first call. I always hit ignore on my phone. And I sit, terrified beyond all possible belief that someone isn't coming home.
You have to understand, first of all, that the five of us were like the three-plus stooges on crack. Matt-- the beautiful one who insisted on pushing everyone for an extra mile on the run and by my side at every turn. Randall--the sweet one who was always a pushover if a pretty girl showed him affection but the first one to stand up for anyone he cared about. Tom-- the smart one who reined in all of us when we got too rowdy-- preaching strength, determination and always full of faith in everyone around him. Josh-- a year younger than the rest of us but the one that always had a plan. A plan for the weekend, a plan for the summer, a plan for buying a jacuzzi... And me, the one strange girl in the group, loving the friendship of these boys and playing mom, sister and confidante for all manner of raging male eccentricities.
Today there came news of Josh. Josh was in Baghdad. He was sent to an undisclosed location after an "accident" and is now, or so we hear, on his way to the States for more treatment. We know only that it's been 3 months since he was injured and very few people can give us information. Very few people knew he was injured until a few days ago. Me included. We know he was in the way of a large explosion. We know he's lost a lot of hearing, permanent or not, we don't know. We know, however crude this may sound, that his head is not whole. He received a purple heart. He 'was severely injured but recovering.' A lot of his fellow soldiers were killed.
My stomach clenches in knots everytime I think about him. Any of them. But dammit. I chose these boys. I'm selfish and I can't for one second think of being any other way. I've watched these boys grow up. I saw them when they thought jumping into a lake in the middle of January was a good idea. I helped shave heads, chests, backs and legs for various swim meets. I slept crammed in tents with them when we still thought sleeping on the ground was a good idea. They didn't bat an eye when I bawled unattractively over the first boy to screw me over. They got even.
I can't think what's happened to him. I know they're all scared. They'll never admit it. But they are. I hope and pray that Josh isn't alone. That he's got a friend with him. I pray that he's safe. That he doesn't hurt. That he'll be alright.
And finally, my irrational rant at our (in my opinion) unfortunately chosen leader:
I will see you in hell you beady eyed fuck-up. I challenge you to spend 1day doing what your soldiers do-- day in and day out. Come back to your barracks after being out in the field only to find a mortar shell that landed three feet beside your bed. Pick up the arms, legs, and recognizable pieces of your friends so there is something to put in baggies and ship home. Carry around packs that outweigh you. Exist on 6 MRE's a week. Be so covered in dust you're not sure you remember what it feels like to be clean. Be away from your newborn son, whom you've never seen. Send emails to your wife, your mother, your father, your friends. Tell them about the the death you've become so immune to you pray, not for forgiveness, but to be able to feel. Anything. Tell your friends what it was like when you killed your first living soul. And your second. And your third. You tell your friends because you're afraid that your wife would never look at you the same and your mother would die of fear. Do THAT for one day. And I MIGHT listen to your ignorantly conceived speeches and watch your arrogantly smug smiles. Fuck abortion. Fuck taxes. Fuck social security. Fuck the environment. You bring my friends home you fucking bastard.
Sunday, December 12, 2004
This Week:
1) Kasi made a misguided attempt to dye her hair red. Kasi is a natural blonde with lots of chemical blond. Done correctly, her pixie-cut blonde hair makes her look like a wide-eyed translucent-skinned beautiful elf. The red hair decision was an attempt that all girls make at times (chop off hair, dye different color, change clothing sytle,etc) to improve their mood. The first attempt found her stumbling down her stairs with eyes full of tears, pulling her hair up away from her head as if to pull off the dye. The dye had, very unfortunately, settled onto her highlighted pieces as sort of a bozo the clown-esque neon orange. The natural parts of her hair were a not-so-subtle James and the Giant Peach-esque color. Very bizarre. Three boxes of hair dye later and we've got an interesting strawberry blond color.
2) Spent five very peaceful lunch hours sitting in my car reading my books. Parking lots are not generally a source of calm for me... but I park way up on the hill so I've got a view of actual trees and nature and shit. Nice breezes, though chilly. And most importantly, no noise or strangers attempting to make useless and aggravating conversation with me. :)
3) Have not made decision on new job. Am trying to be calm, rational and mature and not make rash decision. Seems bearable. Trying not to get hopes up or down and be ambivalent. This way I can neither be disapointed or elated. I am my own Zoloft.
4) Had mild episode in car driving home from work on Friday. Ended up with hives. Per usual. Thank God they went away by Saturday morning.
5) Went to my old college roommates graduation on Saturday. Six and a half years later.... and the girl finally managed to get outta school. ;) Spent the day frolicking about Conway. Found 2 bras in my size (YAY!!! This NEVER happens!!) that were 50% off at one of the random new strip malls that have sprung up out of NOWHERE. Also bought two sparkalie pins that I'm going to pin on my winter coat. Sat around Crystal's house... finally dawned on me that she's MARRIED and the guy that's been hanging around her for 6 years is, in fact, her husband. Very odd. Played with Marci's precious 7-month-old. Briefly re-thought ideas on having kids... then the baby started crying and I started to twitch and realized I am YEARS away from making any kind of decision about having kids. Currently standing firm on being a fabulous Auntie but a deranged Mother.
6) Threw up in the new Mr. Stir Fry in Conway-- previously Taco Express. No likey the bathrooms there. People with ulcers need to be able to vomit in relative cleanliness. Holy Crapola. Listen to me. I am an 80-year old woman. "My ulcers hurt. I get hives. My back hurts. My knees ache when it rains." Next thing you know I'll be buying Metamucil by the case and filing corns off my feet.
7) Volunteered to go to church tomorrow. Okay. I can do this. I can be this person. The person that finds a place of worship that fits my theology as close as possible, has good people and good sermons. Have not done well with this in the past. Ugh. BUT... in my attempt to make things better, I have decided to compile a list of things that I am going to change. And this is one of the things on it. So I'm going to try.
8) Found out my brother has mono. Sweet.
I'm sleepy. I'm sure there were other moderately interesting things that happened. These things really aren't interesting. I'm just delirious with lack of sleep and seek to amuse myself in any way possible. This may also include tying the cats up by their tails as I just heard a very unpleasant crash-like noise from upstairs. Shit. Going to go lay down on my bed with my newly purchased feather mattress (thank you, credit card), down comforter, soft sheets (rigorously bleached-- i love that smell) and warm fuzzy kitties by my feet.
Hago muchas cosas extrañas para guardar de ir insano. Pero espero que esto me ayude.
2) Spent five very peaceful lunch hours sitting in my car reading my books. Parking lots are not generally a source of calm for me... but I park way up on the hill so I've got a view of actual trees and nature and shit. Nice breezes, though chilly. And most importantly, no noise or strangers attempting to make useless and aggravating conversation with me. :)
3) Have not made decision on new job. Am trying to be calm, rational and mature and not make rash decision. Seems bearable. Trying not to get hopes up or down and be ambivalent. This way I can neither be disapointed or elated. I am my own Zoloft.
4) Had mild episode in car driving home from work on Friday. Ended up with hives. Per usual. Thank God they went away by Saturday morning.
5) Went to my old college roommates graduation on Saturday. Six and a half years later.... and the girl finally managed to get outta school. ;) Spent the day frolicking about Conway. Found 2 bras in my size (YAY!!! This NEVER happens!!) that were 50% off at one of the random new strip malls that have sprung up out of NOWHERE. Also bought two sparkalie pins that I'm going to pin on my winter coat. Sat around Crystal's house... finally dawned on me that she's MARRIED and the guy that's been hanging around her for 6 years is, in fact, her husband. Very odd. Played with Marci's precious 7-month-old. Briefly re-thought ideas on having kids... then the baby started crying and I started to twitch and realized I am YEARS away from making any kind of decision about having kids. Currently standing firm on being a fabulous Auntie but a deranged Mother.
6) Threw up in the new Mr. Stir Fry in Conway-- previously Taco Express. No likey the bathrooms there. People with ulcers need to be able to vomit in relative cleanliness. Holy Crapola. Listen to me. I am an 80-year old woman. "My ulcers hurt. I get hives. My back hurts. My knees ache when it rains." Next thing you know I'll be buying Metamucil by the case and filing corns off my feet.
7) Volunteered to go to church tomorrow. Okay. I can do this. I can be this person. The person that finds a place of worship that fits my theology as close as possible, has good people and good sermons. Have not done well with this in the past. Ugh. BUT... in my attempt to make things better, I have decided to compile a list of things that I am going to change. And this is one of the things on it. So I'm going to try.
8) Found out my brother has mono. Sweet.
I'm sleepy. I'm sure there were other moderately interesting things that happened. These things really aren't interesting. I'm just delirious with lack of sleep and seek to amuse myself in any way possible. This may also include tying the cats up by their tails as I just heard a very unpleasant crash-like noise from upstairs. Shit. Going to go lay down on my bed with my newly purchased feather mattress (thank you, credit card), down comforter, soft sheets (rigorously bleached-- i love that smell) and warm fuzzy kitties by my feet.
Hago muchas cosas extrañas para guardar de ir insano. Pero espero que esto me ayude.
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