I had a marvelous holiday weekend with friends and family and now it's almost over, and D and the G/f have gone back to school, and the Christmas tree is up, and there's only one tiny container of turkey left in the fridge. All is as it should be.
Sissy and I went out Friday night, for Ultimate Class Reunion Party Night in Hooterville, and while I didn't really see anyone from out of town that I haven't seen in forever (like I usually do) I did run into one of D's roommates. Which was weird. The boys are 21 now. I still can't get used to that. The roommate pulls his phone out of his pocket and calls D and says, "Hey, guess who I'm talking to? Your mom."
We moved on to an even more crowded bar up the street and I called D on my cell phone and told him where we were. Sissy shouted in the background, "Tell him to come down. Tell him we have money!" And the next thing I know, my kid is out with us. At a bar. With a beer in his hand. Legal. He drove me home.
I can't help thinking that if you do your job right as a parent, you wind up with a kid who is smart and sweet and gentle and caring and funny and interested and interesting to talk to and fun to be around, a good friend, and just in general, mutherfarking amazing. But I know that's pretty much a load of crap.
I actually have no idea how it happened. I just thank my lucky stars that my son turned out to be such a great guy.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Numbers
Today is my only brother's birthday and we had a tiny family shindig at my house to celebrate. Sissy and the kids across the street came over with brownies and candles and I made pizza and bro brought salad and we drank beer and had pretty much fun, for a family that's still trying to find our equilibrium after the loss of our parents five years ago.
Tonight was a numbers game....for example:
Number of years big bro has lived on this earth: 49
Number of hands little one-and-a-half year old nephew has: At least 15
Number of times little nephew started my dishwasher: At least 15
Number of times we lit the birthday candle so all children present (2) could have a turn to blow it out: 4
Number of times kitty came in the house and said, "WTF, I'm outta here," and went back outside: 3
Number of times I went to the fridge and got myself a beer: I'm going to guess 12, but I'm thinking that might be conservative estimate
Number of times the adults went out on the smoking porch to light up: Not nearly enough
Number of times Dora The Explorer chattered loudly from my computer while the adults were trying to talk: 67
Number of times I shut the bi-fold doors to the living room to lock little nephew in with us so someone could keep him from climbing into the Kitty Carry-All or starting the dishwasher: 42
Number of hours my family was at my house tonight: 2? They were only here for 2 hours????
Number of times Sissy looked at little nephew and said to me, "He's tough, isn't he?": 4 million
Amount of love I have for these people who happen to be related to me; who have to love me no matter what, and who I have to love no matter what: Infinity...and then a whole lot more.
Tonight was a numbers game....for example:
Number of years big bro has lived on this earth: 49
Number of hands little one-and-a-half year old nephew has: At least 15
Number of times little nephew started my dishwasher: At least 15
Number of times we lit the birthday candle so all children present (2) could have a turn to blow it out: 4
Number of times kitty came in the house and said, "WTF, I'm outta here," and went back outside: 3
Number of times I went to the fridge and got myself a beer: I'm going to guess 12, but I'm thinking that might be conservative estimate
Number of times the adults went out on the smoking porch to light up: Not nearly enough
Number of times Dora The Explorer chattered loudly from my computer while the adults were trying to talk: 67
Number of times I shut the bi-fold doors to the living room to lock little nephew in with us so someone could keep him from climbing into the Kitty Carry-All or starting the dishwasher: 42
Number of hours my family was at my house tonight: 2? They were only here for 2 hours????
Number of times Sissy looked at little nephew and said to me, "He's tough, isn't he?": 4 million
Amount of love I have for these people who happen to be related to me; who have to love me no matter what, and who I have to love no matter what: Infinity...and then a whole lot more.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Vote
Election Day was a pretty big deal while I was growing up. My mom always worked the polls, Grandma always came over to spend the whole entire day taking care of us, and my pop, who really never went anywhere but work and to Ty's Daily Double once in a while after us kids were all in bed, always made it a point to go and vote.
Election Day was also a pretty big deal while my son was growing up. We'd get up extra early to go see Grammy at our precinct. All the poll worker ladies would make a big fuss over D and he'd get his own ballot to vote for which he liked better, hamburgers or hot dogs. He'd get his own I Voted Today sticker to wear proudly all day, along with a cookie or two, and then we'd be off to Hardee's for breakfast before work and school.
While I was getting ready to leave the house this morning, a DJ on the radio asked people who weren't planning to vote to call in and explain why not. I listened to one idiot after another ramble on about how their vote didn't matter, or how all politicians are scumbags.
Whatever. If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem.
Election Day turned out to be a pretty big deal for me today. Only two of the three new electronic machines were working in my precinct at 7:10 this morning, and for the first time in my life, I waited for probably fifteen minutes to do my civic duty. By the time it was my turn, well I should have been at work already. While I was busy voting, some guy I'd never seen before (which was a bit weird....it's a very small town and these people are mostly my neighbors) had a mini-hissy fit about I'm not sure what; the ID issue or the wait or the equipment failure. Pick one...there was a lot to be ticked off about. But he actually cussed out loud. In the throes of exercising my inalienable right to get called for jury duty, I basically ignored him, but he said something like, "This is bullshit," pretty loudly, and then, "I am never going to vote again."
Whatever. That's the way to show everyone what you're all about.
Personally, I bitch a lot about what's wrong with America. I bitch because I want us to be better human beings. I want us to take better care of our environment and our poor. I want us to be better neighbors and better citizens of this planet. I bitch because I love this country with all of my heart and I want it to be the best it can possibly be for each and every American.
And I have the right to bitch because I use the only power we all share equally to make this country better.
I vote.
Election Day was also a pretty big deal while my son was growing up. We'd get up extra early to go see Grammy at our precinct. All the poll worker ladies would make a big fuss over D and he'd get his own ballot to vote for which he liked better, hamburgers or hot dogs. He'd get his own I Voted Today sticker to wear proudly all day, along with a cookie or two, and then we'd be off to Hardee's for breakfast before work and school.
While I was getting ready to leave the house this morning, a DJ on the radio asked people who weren't planning to vote to call in and explain why not. I listened to one idiot after another ramble on about how their vote didn't matter, or how all politicians are scumbags.
Whatever. If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem.
Election Day turned out to be a pretty big deal for me today. Only two of the three new electronic machines were working in my precinct at 7:10 this morning, and for the first time in my life, I waited for probably fifteen minutes to do my civic duty. By the time it was my turn, well I should have been at work already. While I was busy voting, some guy I'd never seen before (which was a bit weird....it's a very small town and these people are mostly my neighbors) had a mini-hissy fit about I'm not sure what; the ID issue or the wait or the equipment failure. Pick one...there was a lot to be ticked off about. But he actually cussed out loud. In the throes of exercising my inalienable right to get called for jury duty, I basically ignored him, but he said something like, "This is bullshit," pretty loudly, and then, "I am never going to vote again."
Whatever. That's the way to show everyone what you're all about.
Personally, I bitch a lot about what's wrong with America. I bitch because I want us to be better human beings. I want us to take better care of our environment and our poor. I want us to be better neighbors and better citizens of this planet. I bitch because I love this country with all of my heart and I want it to be the best it can possibly be for each and every American.
And I have the right to bitch because I use the only power we all share equally to make this country better.
I vote.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Norm!
I've tooted off at length about how inadequate the channel selection is on my TV, so I won't go there; suffice to say I'm watching PBS while downloading wads of cr@p I don't need for my Sims. Two of my most favorite things to do on a Sunday.
So it's This Old House / Hometime hour. And I'm dreaming about how marvelous it would be to just be married to some Dean Johnson-type guy that could just make all the fix up decisions about this haunted mansion and just frickin fix it the heck up. Pick out the fixtures and the flooring. Decide how the kitchen should flow, knock down some walls, put a shower in the bathroom, take wiring from the 1920's and put cable and phone hookups in every room....and Dear Jesus? A socket on every wall. Truly? My wildest dream come true.
So while Dean is working for Habitat for Humanity, my mind is wandering back to the guys that do the work on This Old Haunted Mansion:
Norm Abhram wears flannel. He's been around forever. He can take a pile of half rotten boards out of an old closet and turn it into a china cupboard with lead glass accents. He's grizzled and folksy and barrel-chested and I bet he hunts, fishes and listens to country music in his spare time. He's nice. He's dependable. He's capable and comfortable and safe. He carefully restores things to their original condition if at all possible.
Richard Threthewy rips out thousand year old furnaces and water heaters and puts in at least a million BTU's of overkill. He wears button-down shirts. He's smart and sincere, always eager to help. He's kinda like the not-so-attractive rich guy that thinks driving a Porsche makes up for male pattern baldness.
Roger Cook is the gentle giant that yanks out dead trees and sickly shrubs and makes the outside of the house look as good as the inside. He wears Carharts. He's the strong silent type that nurtures the little Maple that will someday grow into lovely shade for the front porch. He's Paul Bunyon that flexes his muscles and picks up the dumpster with his bare hands and moves it to a more convenient location.
Tom Silva. Sigh. Tommy is the general contractor that knows how to do absolutely everything in the world. He wears fleece hoodies. He's got tools swinging from his belt and a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand during meetings. He's beautiful. I've watched him age gracefully through the years as he climbs onto roofs and into crawlspaces; calmly telling homeowners that their foundation will cave in if serious steps are not taken. But there's no need to panic; Tommy can fix anything. Tommy is my favorite. Tommy is handsome and capable and funny and decisive and charming. Tommy is everything I like about men. I'm completely and totally in love with Tommy.
So here's my question: How come I only attract guys like Norm?
So it's This Old House / Hometime hour. And I'm dreaming about how marvelous it would be to just be married to some Dean Johnson-type guy that could just make all the fix up decisions about this haunted mansion and just frickin fix it the heck up. Pick out the fixtures and the flooring. Decide how the kitchen should flow, knock down some walls, put a shower in the bathroom, take wiring from the 1920's and put cable and phone hookups in every room....and Dear Jesus? A socket on every wall. Truly? My wildest dream come true.
So while Dean is working for Habitat for Humanity, my mind is wandering back to the guys that do the work on This Old Haunted Mansion:
Norm Abhram wears flannel. He's been around forever. He can take a pile of half rotten boards out of an old closet and turn it into a china cupboard with lead glass accents. He's grizzled and folksy and barrel-chested and I bet he hunts, fishes and listens to country music in his spare time. He's nice. He's dependable. He's capable and comfortable and safe. He carefully restores things to their original condition if at all possible.
Richard Threthewy rips out thousand year old furnaces and water heaters and puts in at least a million BTU's of overkill. He wears button-down shirts. He's smart and sincere, always eager to help. He's kinda like the not-so-attractive rich guy that thinks driving a Porsche makes up for male pattern baldness.
Roger Cook is the gentle giant that yanks out dead trees and sickly shrubs and makes the outside of the house look as good as the inside. He wears Carharts. He's the strong silent type that nurtures the little Maple that will someday grow into lovely shade for the front porch. He's Paul Bunyon that flexes his muscles and picks up the dumpster with his bare hands and moves it to a more convenient location.
Tom Silva. Sigh. Tommy is the general contractor that knows how to do absolutely everything in the world. He wears fleece hoodies. He's got tools swinging from his belt and a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand during meetings. He's beautiful. I've watched him age gracefully through the years as he climbs onto roofs and into crawlspaces; calmly telling homeowners that their foundation will cave in if serious steps are not taken. But there's no need to panic; Tommy can fix anything. Tommy is my favorite. Tommy is handsome and capable and funny and decisive and charming. Tommy is everything I like about men. I'm completely and totally in love with Tommy.
So here's my question: How come I only attract guys like Norm?
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Disgusting
Is it me or are TV commercials becoming a tad too...much?
Gotta go gotta go gotta go right now? Although erections lasting for more than 4 hours may occur rarely with ED treatments, it is important to seek immediate medical help. Suffering from Abdominal pain or discomfort, Bloating and Constipation?
At least all the ads for that junk use medical jargon and relatively normal looking people to illustrate the nasty images they bring to mind. Eeewww.
But I just watched a big fat cartoon phlegm couple take up residence in some unsuspecting little kid's chest. And frankly, I think the phlegm couple might be related to that nasty toe fungus b@st@rd that gives me nightmares.
Did we really need to bring cartoons into this? Is nothing sacred?
Gotta go gotta go gotta go right now? Although erections lasting for more than 4 hours may occur rarely with ED treatments, it is important to seek immediate medical help. Suffering from Abdominal pain or discomfort, Bloating and Constipation?
At least all the ads for that junk use medical jargon and relatively normal looking people to illustrate the nasty images they bring to mind. Eeewww.
But I just watched a big fat cartoon phlegm couple take up residence in some unsuspecting little kid's chest. And frankly, I think the phlegm couple might be related to that nasty toe fungus b@st@rd that gives me nightmares.
Did we really need to bring cartoons into this? Is nothing sacred?
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Dylan
I'm watching No Direction Home on PBS. That, and copious amounts of beer, are the perfect antidote to the day that falls behind. And frankly? It's my absolute most favorite day of the year.
I'm grooving that my extra hour today is spent with Dylan; while I think about the roots of rock and roll, and protest rock, and civil rights, and how it took so, so many voices to shape, and ultimately change, the landscape of America.
Each and every one of us truly makes a difference.
How effing cool is that?
I'm grooving that my extra hour today is spent with Dylan; while I think about the roots of rock and roll, and protest rock, and civil rights, and how it took so, so many voices to shape, and ultimately change, the landscape of America.
Each and every one of us truly makes a difference.
How effing cool is that?
Friday, October 27, 2006
Awkward
A coule weeks ago at work I was rooting around in a filing cabinet for some paperwork from 1998 and there were two guys talking about cars and trucks and gas milage behind me. One drives a big honking pick up and other drives a big honking SUV. They're on and on about this model and that model and I'm thinking about how neither one of them can possilby get more than 5 stinking miles to a stinking gallon of gas.
I pop off with, "Why don't you both go get a Hummer?"
"I'd like to," they respond in unison.
Dear. Lord.
So that's pretty much an indication of how my life has been going lately....
I pop off with, "Why don't you both go get a Hummer?"
"I'd like to," they respond in unison.
Dear. Lord.
So that's pretty much an indication of how my life has been going lately....
Saturday, October 07, 2006
For you:
An honest man
A thinking man
A literature man
A bulldozer man
A sailor man
A train and airplane man
A fiddle and banjo man
A no-nonsense man
A simple man
A fair man
A dedicated man
A working man
A man I use as a measure of a man.
Many happy returns, Pop...
with much love,
#1 Daughter
October 7, 1999
A thinking man
A literature man
A bulldozer man
A sailor man
A train and airplane man
A fiddle and banjo man
A no-nonsense man
A simple man
A fair man
A dedicated man
A working man
A man I use as a measure of a man.
Many happy returns, Pop...
with much love,
#1 Daughter
October 7, 1999
Tubby
Every fall for the last four years, right before he goes back to school, D takes Kitty to the doctor for his shots and whatnot. I have no knowledge of what goes on at the doctors. It's not my business. He's not my cat.
So this year, since Dan was only home for a week here and there, Kitty didn't get escorted to his doctor appointment by D and the G/f, styling in his Kitty-Carryall. It was up to me to take him. Prompted by three separate postcards from the vet's office. First: It's that time again! Second: Your pet's health is important to us! Third: You may not be eligible for the Bad Mother Of The Year Award anymore but Bad Pet Owner Of The Year is still within your reach!
Dang.
So this morning at 9:15 I jammed Jadn into his Kitty-Carryall (surprisingly, he hates his Kitty-Carryall....who knew?) and schlepped him to the vets office. At first it was all, "Hi there!" with smiles and small talk, and, "Bring Jadn into Exam Room #2 and someone will be right with you." I'm all like, "This ain't so tuff."
The nice smiley kitty nurse came and chatted with me for a moment before taking Jadn off to parts unknown, behind the closed door, where they apparently torture the household pets of unsuspecting b@st@rds like myself.
Kitty screeched. And cried. And howled. And then screeched louder and longer then I ever thought possible. It was waaaay beyond horrifying.
When the nice smiley kitty nurse came back with J (in one piece, I was pleasantly surprised to discover, even though by then I was a total emotional wreck,of course) she said he was an angel through exam and the shots, but he fought the good fight over taking the worming medicine. By mouth. I would have guessed "suppository" by the caterwauling.
And if I hadn't been slapped around enough (this is all about me, you know) she tells me that Kitty's weight is becoming "a concern", and proceeds to foist a wad of pamphlets at me about serious conditions that arise from "feline obesity", like diabetes, and how "we" need to look at his food intake and put him on a special diet and I guess I really am a shoe-in for that Bad Pet Owner Of The Year award.
D@mmit.
Before I can get big old fat Tub Of Lard out of there, I have to stop at the front desk and pay for our mutual torture and humuliation. To the tune of $136, thank you very little.
I'm like, "He's really not fat." Trying to rationalize. Trying save face.
The receptionist looks at his chart, "Well he is almost 15 pounds," she apologizes.
"Would you mind not announcing his weight to the waiting room?" I snot. "He's pretty sensitive about it."
Is it any wonder I drink?
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
ohforgodssake
I watched my niece and nephew yesterday for the hour before my sister got home from work. We hung out on my patio with a few neighbor girls (who obviously had nothing better to do). The conversation eventually came around who was going to be what for Halloween. There was talk of scarecrows and nurses and witches and ghosts.
"I know what would be funny" I told my niece, "How about if you dress up as Santa Clause?" We all laughed and agreed that would be very funny. Frankly, I thought it was pretty much a stroke of genius.
"How about if I dressed up as teeth?" she asked.
"That would be silly," I said. "How about if you dressed up as an eyeball or a big old bumbum?"
Well that was shocking and we all laughed and laughed.
So after sis got home and we were on our nightly walk, I remembered my Santa idea and said, "Hey....tell Mommy that great idea I had for you for Halloween."
And that little snip turns around from her seat in the stroller and looks at me and says, "She wants me to dress up as a bumbum."
I'm so stinkin' misunderstood.
"I know what would be funny" I told my niece, "How about if you dress up as Santa Clause?" We all laughed and agreed that would be very funny. Frankly, I thought it was pretty much a stroke of genius.
"How about if I dressed up as teeth?" she asked.
"That would be silly," I said. "How about if you dressed up as an eyeball or a big old bumbum?"
Well that was shocking and we all laughed and laughed.
So after sis got home and we were on our nightly walk, I remembered my Santa idea and said, "Hey....tell Mommy that great idea I had for you for Halloween."
And that little snip turns around from her seat in the stroller and looks at me and says, "She wants me to dress up as a bumbum."
I'm so stinkin' misunderstood.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Bathtime
The kids across the street have been taking baths at my house for the last week or so during Sissy's bathroom remodel. It's been all naked bumbums and baby lotion and splashing and teeny tiny damp footprints on my bathroom rug.
I took a tour of the new bathroom tonight...the fixtures are all in and it only needs small stuff to be completely finished. Looks like bathtime at Auntie's has come to an end.
Frankly, I'm going to miss having a sweet smelling naked baby getting his diaper on in my living room while his sister is crawling around on all fours (wearing only unders and a PJ top) meowing like a kitty and insisting we call her Jinxie.
Sweet.
I took a tour of the new bathroom tonight...the fixtures are all in and it only needs small stuff to be completely finished. Looks like bathtime at Auntie's has come to an end.
Frankly, I'm going to miss having a sweet smelling naked baby getting his diaper on in my living room while his sister is crawling around on all fours (wearing only unders and a PJ top) meowing like a kitty and insisting we call her Jinxie.
Sweet.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
American Masters
I've tooted off before about how I love the American Masters series on PBS. There's just so stinkin much I don't know about individual contributions to our society and arts. I either forgot it the day I left history class in grade school or I never knew it. Frankly, I blame George F Bush.
Anyway, I missed this week's episode about Preston Sturges so I could watch Emmit Smith on Dancing with the Stars. Because I am an @ss. When I realized this morning that I'd missed it, I looked him (Preston Sturges...not Emmit Smith) up on IMDB and found this:
Preston Sturges' golden rules for successful comedy: "A pretty girl is better than a plain one/ A leg is better than an arm/ A bedroom is better than a living room/ An arrival is better that a departure/ A birth is better than a death/ A chase is better than a chat/ A dog is better than a landscape/ A kitten is better than a dog/ A baby is better than a kitten/ A kiss is better than a baby/ A pratfall is better than anything."
Dammit. I'll have to try and catch the rerun.
Anyway, I missed this week's episode about Preston Sturges so I could watch Emmit Smith on Dancing with the Stars. Because I am an @ss. When I realized this morning that I'd missed it, I looked him (Preston Sturges...not Emmit Smith) up on IMDB and found this:
Preston Sturges' golden rules for successful comedy: "A pretty girl is better than a plain one/ A leg is better than an arm/ A bedroom is better than a living room/ An arrival is better that a departure/ A birth is better than a death/ A chase is better than a chat/ A dog is better than a landscape/ A kitten is better than a dog/ A baby is better than a kitten/ A kiss is better than a baby/ A pratfall is better than anything."
Dammit. I'll have to try and catch the rerun.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
DUI
What the heck is up with this? Can't Paris pay someone to driver her drunk ass around town? Couldn't she carpool with Mel Gibson or Haley Joel Osment? Why are all these celebrities driving around loaded? Am I the only one who thinks this is totally nuts? Either get a DD or stay the heck home and get trashed on your patio.
Like I do. Gawd.
Like I do. Gawd.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Secrets
Post Secret: I love this site. It always makes me feel better to read someone else's secret....it reminds me that my life just ain't that tough.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Burn
I've been on a slow burn lately. I think it's my age. Or maybe my hormones. Or maybe my job. Or maybe I just always hated everything in the entire world and never realized it. I've been thinking about what I want to do with my life now that I'm not defined by motherhood. Who knew there was an end to that tunnel? It sure caught me by surprise.
I want to do stuff I've never done and go places I've never been. I want to go to the desert. I want to camp, even though nature basically scares the crap out of me. I want to take off in the car with a tent and a laptop and see where I wind up.
And before I die, I will go to Burning Man.
Above photo "face to face" by Brian Herman from Burning Man 2005.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Claymates
What's up with Clay Aiken and his new look? Decidedly creepy. I saw him the other night on Entertainment Tonight getting powder-puffed and hairstlyed before a photo shoot for his new record. He was getting worked over with a flat iron. No lie. That 'do requires styling? I figure a ride in a convertible with the top down would be all that's necessary.
After much too much contemplation, I realized who Clay reminded me of. He's obviously been possessed by Chris Gaines. It's the only explanation. Garth "retires" and then Clay arrives on scene? Think about it....have you ever seen them both in the same room at the same time?
I rest my case.
After much too much contemplation, I realized who Clay reminded me of. He's obviously been possessed by Chris Gaines. It's the only explanation. Garth "retires" and then Clay arrives on scene? Think about it....have you ever seen them both in the same room at the same time?
I rest my case.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Endless
My sister and I took the kids for a walk last night, like we have most evenings in the last couple of years, weather permitting. We usually make a big lap around town, sometimes stopping to do a quick errand along the way.
So last night we stopped at the library and horsed around there for a while. By the time we rounded everyone up and moved on down the street to Dairy Mart, I was pretty sure we’d been walking for about five hours.
We ran into a very nice older gentleman we know at DM; I was in line behind him for about three hours while some tattoo-neck bought $800 worth of Pick Three tickets…I’m pretty sure he played every possible combination of numbers in the universe.
I started telling Sis a story when we were still about fifty miles from home that got interrupted probably forty thousand times by picking flowers and answering questions and soothing the baby and talking to neighbors and retrieving fallen flip-flops.
As we trudged uphill toward home I realized that I hadn’t finished my story. But I couldn’t remember what in the heck I’d been talking about. “I know I was in the middle of a story, but what was it about?” I asked her.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t seem to remember.” We thought about it for a while. “Was it something about work?” she asked.
“No, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t about work.” We thought about it some more. Still nothing.
“Jesus Christ,” I said, “How painfully boring must a story be when neither the person telling it nor the person listening to it can even frickin' remember it?”
Then we thought about that for a while.
“What time is it, anyway?” I asked.
“Midnight?” she guessed.
So last night we stopped at the library and horsed around there for a while. By the time we rounded everyone up and moved on down the street to Dairy Mart, I was pretty sure we’d been walking for about five hours.
We ran into a very nice older gentleman we know at DM; I was in line behind him for about three hours while some tattoo-neck bought $800 worth of Pick Three tickets…I’m pretty sure he played every possible combination of numbers in the universe.
I started telling Sis a story when we were still about fifty miles from home that got interrupted probably forty thousand times by picking flowers and answering questions and soothing the baby and talking to neighbors and retrieving fallen flip-flops.
As we trudged uphill toward home I realized that I hadn’t finished my story. But I couldn’t remember what in the heck I’d been talking about. “I know I was in the middle of a story, but what was it about?” I asked her.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t seem to remember.” We thought about it for a while. “Was it something about work?” she asked.
“No, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t about work.” We thought about it some more. Still nothing.
“Jesus Christ,” I said, “How painfully boring must a story be when neither the person telling it nor the person listening to it can even frickin' remember it?”
Then we thought about that for a while.
“What time is it, anyway?” I asked.
“Midnight?” she guessed.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
CNN
I neglected to mention that one of the bonuses on my comprehensive cable package is a preview channel that spotlights some (usually) amazingly boring network that I have no interest in for a week at a time. Like SpeedTV or ESPN Classics or FitTV.
I discovered yesterday that this week's preview has been CNN and I'm totally sucking it up. I've had it blaring all night and all day in the living room, where the only TV is. That would be the room that I'm rarely in of course; but dammit, just having it on in the building I'm occupying makes me so much more globally aware.
So on the one hand it's making me feel like back in the day when I was at a party on any given Saturday night and MTV's Alternative Nation was on and I'd glue myself to the host's TV and OD on videos I'd never seen before.
On the other hand, if I have to look at that creepy pencil necked guy that didn't kill JonBenet Ramsey one more time, I think I might barf.
I discovered yesterday that this week's preview has been CNN and I'm totally sucking it up. I've had it blaring all night and all day in the living room, where the only TV is. That would be the room that I'm rarely in of course; but dammit, just having it on in the building I'm occupying makes me so much more globally aware.
So on the one hand it's making me feel like back in the day when I was at a party on any given Saturday night and MTV's Alternative Nation was on and I'd glue myself to the host's TV and OD on videos I'd never seen before.
On the other hand, if I have to look at that creepy pencil necked guy that didn't kill JonBenet Ramsey one more time, I think I might barf.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Cable
While I admit that I do have cable TV, I always qualify that by adding that I only get 20 channels. It's the cheapest thing you can get on my cable system ($12/month) called Lifeline. Time Warner doesn't even advertise it on their website...I think they're ashamed of it. I get the big three networks (of course) as well as PBS, UPN, Fox, the WB, TV Guide, QVC, HSN, C-Span, MTV2, CMT and some local access junk that's basically painful to watch. The sad part is that without my little Lifeline hookup, I can't even get the local channels. I have a hard time wrapping my mind around the whole concept of paying to watch TV....and I simply cannot bring myself to pay the $55/month for basic cable. So I suffer. But still I bitch.
What really grinds me is that my sister is constantly telling me about some show she just watched about some fantabulous faraway place, or the secret life of circus freaks, or the Top 20 inanimate objects that have been surgically removed from the human body; and I'm all like, well it must be nice to watch some circus freak show every now and again. When I get jealous, which is what invariably happens in these conversations, she tells me she has a hundred channels and there's never anything to watch, and it's just so not worth the money. Easy for her to say, after she's already had her fill of Headline News and AMC movies and E True Hollywood Damn Stories.
So the other night I was babysitting at Sissy's and spent the hours after I put the kids to bed with the digital remote glued to my hot little hand, flipping from channel to channel. E! completely disappointed me with a Paris Hilton video shoot documentary, followed by back to back Simpletons, I mean The Simple Life.
I had to pursue other avenues, like Discovery Health:
The Shrinking Woman - Okay, this show is just a train wreck. A 619 lb woman who had weight loss surgery and lost like three quarters of herself does not need to be nekkid on the TV, even with her privates pixilated. They kept surgically sawing away at her mountains of excess flesh; and yes, it was as horrific as it sounds.
We Lost 800 Lbs - Okay, they're not just obese, they're Super Obese. As near as I can figure, they both lay around in hospital beds wearing backless gowns all day, getting oxygen and feeding tubes and stuff. And that makes me wonder if those backless gowns had to be special ordered, or if every hospital has a few backless gowns on hand that can easily wrap around a 500 pound woman.
Frankly, I see more than enough cellulite and stretch marks when I look in the mirror, thank you very little.
I tried Food TV, but I couldn't really get into it after watching all the dang fat people so I flipped to HGTV for a while, thinking I could find Candice Olson (did she ever have that baby??) or Design On A Dime. I kinda hated the couple on House Hunters, but I thought The Junk Brothers had promise. It was kind of interesting for a while, but they kept showing the brother's muscles bulging in closeups as they picked up large hunks of wood and lugged them around. It was kind of like a Ty Pennington show without the hysteria.
After flipping through a hundred channels trying to find something interesting to watch, I determined that the best bet was probably American Masters on PBS about Albert Einstein's life.
And I could have watched that at home.
What really grinds me is that my sister is constantly telling me about some show she just watched about some fantabulous faraway place, or the secret life of circus freaks, or the Top 20 inanimate objects that have been surgically removed from the human body; and I'm all like, well it must be nice to watch some circus freak show every now and again. When I get jealous, which is what invariably happens in these conversations, she tells me she has a hundred channels and there's never anything to watch, and it's just so not worth the money. Easy for her to say, after she's already had her fill of Headline News and AMC movies and E True Hollywood Damn Stories.
So the other night I was babysitting at Sissy's and spent the hours after I put the kids to bed with the digital remote glued to my hot little hand, flipping from channel to channel. E! completely disappointed me with a Paris Hilton video shoot documentary, followed by back to back Simpletons, I mean The Simple Life.
I had to pursue other avenues, like Discovery Health:
The Shrinking Woman - Okay, this show is just a train wreck. A 619 lb woman who had weight loss surgery and lost like three quarters of herself does not need to be nekkid on the TV, even with her privates pixilated. They kept surgically sawing away at her mountains of excess flesh; and yes, it was as horrific as it sounds.
We Lost 800 Lbs - Okay, they're not just obese, they're Super Obese. As near as I can figure, they both lay around in hospital beds wearing backless gowns all day, getting oxygen and feeding tubes and stuff. And that makes me wonder if those backless gowns had to be special ordered, or if every hospital has a few backless gowns on hand that can easily wrap around a 500 pound woman.
Frankly, I see more than enough cellulite and stretch marks when I look in the mirror, thank you very little.
I tried Food TV, but I couldn't really get into it after watching all the dang fat people so I flipped to HGTV for a while, thinking I could find Candice Olson (did she ever have that baby??) or Design On A Dime. I kinda hated the couple on House Hunters, but I thought The Junk Brothers had promise. It was kind of interesting for a while, but they kept showing the brother's muscles bulging in closeups as they picked up large hunks of wood and lugged them around. It was kind of like a Ty Pennington show without the hysteria.
After flipping through a hundred channels trying to find something interesting to watch, I determined that the best bet was probably American Masters on PBS about Albert Einstein's life.
And I could have watched that at home.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Kitty
I don't come from a cat family. We were a dog family. My mother hated cats and while my dad liked them well enough, he was always more of a dog person. Pop never wanted to have a pet that wouldn't come every time you called it.
My son is and always has been a cat person; his father is a cat person that comes from a long line of cat people. Dan wanted a cat all his life and I said no all his life, with every move, "because we live in an apartment and we're not allowed to have a cat". When we bought this house, the apartment excuse was dead in the water of course. I should have thought it out better....but how in God's name was I to know I'd buy a house at age 42, when that kid was a sophomore in high school?
To do his share for the family, kitty has occasionally left us his little "contributions" over the past four years; a plump little mouse here, a tiny baby mole there....usually outside the back door to make sure we know it's from him.
Eewww.
This summer kitty kicked it up a notch. I'm not sure whether he's getting better at hunting or what, but one night he came swinging through the yard with a baby chipmunk in his mouth. I was horrified. I ran to the house ahead of him and barrelled in the back door, slamming the storm door in his startled little face. Poor bastard....he was all proud of his hunter-killer instincts and there I was in tears, telling him through the glass, "Mama loves you kitty and she's very very proud of you....now take that little chippy and put him back wherever you found him. Go on....good cat....go on." And kitty was all WTF??
Kitty's finale was the week of the 4th of July, while my son was home from school. There was a mouse or mole (or half of one....eewwww) at our door every single day that week. It was gruesome. He even brought us a baby bird that turned out to be sill barely alive....which we found out when it tried to escape by flying up the girlfriend's skirt. Good times.
Since Dan went back to school, there have been no tiny dead animals on my doorstep. It was obvious that kitty was tying to impress him and not me...but c'mon...what am I? Chopped liver? I'm just the one who cleans your dang litter box and feeds you and pays your vet bills and buys your dang Frontline and keeps you in cat toys and lets you sleep in my bed. Gawd.
So one night last week, after a loooong and frustrating day, I found half a baby mole (the tail end....eewwww) on the sidewalk between the garage and the house.
Kitty threw me a bone. So to speak.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
"Quotes"
My life is so quiet now, with just kitty and me rambling around in this big old house. I'm not saying I don't like it....I'm just saying it's different. My son and I are still in pretty close touch with Sunday phone calls and an email every few days, but I'm getting a taste of what it'll be like when he really does have his own life.
Here are a few examples from recent email of why I think he needs a blog of his own.
And I quote:
"Last night I went grocery shopping, and I hope you are sitting down for this. I did not buy one...I didn't buy 2...I bought THREE items of the fruit/vegetable variety. I got a big slice of seedless watermelon, 5 ears of corn, and a little bag of apples. On top of that, a half gallon of milk. Ok...I'll give you a little break to stop your heart from racing over the sheer amazement."
On boredom at work:
"We are severely understaffed and as a result when I wasn't baby sitting the water leaks I was sitting at the main desk for over 4 hours today ready to stab my eyes out with a dull pencil just to feel something."
On justifying buying a digital camera:
"The camera is so cool and 'ultra-compact' and I think a good investment. For example, right now they have Mirror Lake completely drained and they're cleaning all of the crap out of the bottom of it. It's really crazy...all the ducks are like WTF?"
Responding to my request that he check out free AOL:
"Ummm....what AOL for free gig? AOL is Satan wrapped in pretty clothes trying to entice people to come party, then turns out to be a date-rape murderer...."
Kitty and I miss you, baby.
Here are a few examples from recent email of why I think he needs a blog of his own.
And I quote:
"Last night I went grocery shopping, and I hope you are sitting down for this. I did not buy one...I didn't buy 2...I bought THREE items of the fruit/vegetable variety. I got a big slice of seedless watermelon, 5 ears of corn, and a little bag of apples. On top of that, a half gallon of milk. Ok...I'll give you a little break to stop your heart from racing over the sheer amazement."
On boredom at work:
"We are severely understaffed and as a result when I wasn't baby sitting the water leaks I was sitting at the main desk for over 4 hours today ready to stab my eyes out with a dull pencil just to feel something."
On justifying buying a digital camera:
"The camera is so cool and 'ultra-compact' and I think a good investment. For example, right now they have Mirror Lake completely drained and they're cleaning all of the crap out of the bottom of it. It's really crazy...all the ducks are like WTF?"
Responding to my request that he check out free AOL:
"Ummm....what AOL for free gig? AOL is Satan wrapped in pretty clothes trying to entice people to come party, then turns out to be a date-rape murderer...."
Kitty and I miss you, baby.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Kids
Tonight I went to a church festival with my sis and her daughter. Under protest. When they called and asked if I was up for it, I was napping. Cuz I'm a thousand years old and that's what thousand year old women do, dammit.
I digress: I had emailed my son earlier in the day and asked him if they would dare have this particular festival without him, because when he was a kid it was in our back yard and he was pretty sure they put it on every year just for his personal amusement. He responded that he told them they could go ahead with it this year without him.
So two and a half hours later, after tromping around with the sun in my eyes, I'd totally had enough. The dragon roller coaster, the fishing game, the other fishing game, the two foot beach ball in my arms, won by picking a yellow duck out of a tub of typhoid water by an amazed three year old, we bellied up to the sno cone stand and watched as a grimy carny poured ice into a blender with her bare hands and made us a couple of germcicles. Good times.
And good Lord in heaven it all brought back such memories. Wasn't it just last summer that my kid was that three year old? Thrilled to be riding the dragon coaster over and over? And over?
Another friend hooked up with us on the (excruciatingly) long walk home. Her kids are teenagers, and she thought maybe a beer later would be a good thing. And I'm like....cool. I'd kinda been hoping I could sneak off to the beer tent at the festival all evening and no one would notice. Not.
So after our walking, riding, standing around, watching, germ drinking adventure, I ditched my sis and my niece and went out for a beer.
The first place we went had karaoke. Loud karaoke. Terrible karaoke. We had one drink and left.
The second place we went was an old haunt I hadn't been to in years and years. And the owner was all like, where have you been?? Such adventures I had at that place. So stinking long ago. It's nice to be missed, you know?
And then my friend's cell phone rang. Her kids were fighting over the computer and required an intervention. So she told them to knock it off and go to their separate corners. Then her ex-husband called and told her that the fighting children had called him, and he was going to go to her house and find out what the heck the problem was, and she told him that she could handle it. And then my friend called her kids back and told them they were both in Big Trouble. And then we finished our drinks and went home.
And now I can't stop thinking of the days when my son was growing up. Of church festivals when he was tiny; and being out when he was a teenager and having him call me and want me to come home...even though as soon as I got there he would just go to bed and sleep like a little lamb, knowing his mama was home with him. Not caring that he ruined my fun...not caring that he wouldn't say anything to me except, "Good night," when I got there. And that I would be up for hours; hang time, alone, laying on the couch, wired and watching TV till I could unwind enough to go to sleep.
Like my seventy-something friend says, "It's nice when your kids have their own lives."
Raising kids is a much better thing to have done than to actually do. It's work and it's sacrifice and it's lonely and it's sweet and it's bitter...but if you do it right, the reward you get at the end is a kid you can be proud of. An adult that is interesting and funny and smart, and such a blessing to your life.
Being out with two moms tonight reminded me that having a child is the only miracle you will ever get to be a part of.
I digress: I had emailed my son earlier in the day and asked him if they would dare have this particular festival without him, because when he was a kid it was in our back yard and he was pretty sure they put it on every year just for his personal amusement. He responded that he told them they could go ahead with it this year without him.
So two and a half hours later, after tromping around with the sun in my eyes, I'd totally had enough. The dragon roller coaster, the fishing game, the other fishing game, the two foot beach ball in my arms, won by picking a yellow duck out of a tub of typhoid water by an amazed three year old, we bellied up to the sno cone stand and watched as a grimy carny poured ice into a blender with her bare hands and made us a couple of germcicles. Good times.
And good Lord in heaven it all brought back such memories. Wasn't it just last summer that my kid was that three year old? Thrilled to be riding the dragon coaster over and over? And over?
Another friend hooked up with us on the (excruciatingly) long walk home. Her kids are teenagers, and she thought maybe a beer later would be a good thing. And I'm like....cool. I'd kinda been hoping I could sneak off to the beer tent at the festival all evening and no one would notice. Not.
So after our walking, riding, standing around, watching, germ drinking adventure, I ditched my sis and my niece and went out for a beer.
The first place we went had karaoke. Loud karaoke. Terrible karaoke. We had one drink and left.
The second place we went was an old haunt I hadn't been to in years and years. And the owner was all like, where have you been?? Such adventures I had at that place. So stinking long ago. It's nice to be missed, you know?
And then my friend's cell phone rang. Her kids were fighting over the computer and required an intervention. So she told them to knock it off and go to their separate corners. Then her ex-husband called and told her that the fighting children had called him, and he was going to go to her house and find out what the heck the problem was, and she told him that she could handle it. And then my friend called her kids back and told them they were both in Big Trouble. And then we finished our drinks and went home.
And now I can't stop thinking of the days when my son was growing up. Of church festivals when he was tiny; and being out when he was a teenager and having him call me and want me to come home...even though as soon as I got there he would just go to bed and sleep like a little lamb, knowing his mama was home with him. Not caring that he ruined my fun...not caring that he wouldn't say anything to me except, "Good night," when I got there. And that I would be up for hours; hang time, alone, laying on the couch, wired and watching TV till I could unwind enough to go to sleep.
Like my seventy-something friend says, "It's nice when your kids have their own lives."
Raising kids is a much better thing to have done than to actually do. It's work and it's sacrifice and it's lonely and it's sweet and it's bitter...but if you do it right, the reward you get at the end is a kid you can be proud of. An adult that is interesting and funny and smart, and such a blessing to your life.
Being out with two moms tonight reminded me that having a child is the only miracle you will ever get to be a part of.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Voting
Last night I made my yearly trip to a minor league ball game and I always forget in between seasons how much fun those games are. There are always people in costumes and there are contests between innings and everything is just so stinking cheap compared to major league games. It cost two bucks to park. A big beer is four bucks. Plus I only seem to go when I have free tickets so that's a real savings right there.
I noticed right off that something weird was going on at the game. For starters, an inordinate amount of people were wearing Vote for Pedro tee shirts. I actually don't personally wear shirts with words on them, but if I did, I would totally own a Vote for Pedro shirt. My friend and I find our seats and a kid gets up a few rows in front of us wearing a brownish three piece suit, made out of like corduroy. He had a head of curly hair that didn't look real. And it was 90 degrees. At 7PM. And that kid had to be roasting in his own juices. And then some guy gets on the loudspeaker and says that they have a special on tater tots. And I still don't catch on that it's Napoleon Dynamite night. God! Can I be any more pathetic? It's only like one of my most favorite movies ever.
And it turns out that Pedro was at the dang game, for crying out loud. He signed autographs. The line went on forever and I certainly didn't want to meet Pedro, but I did want to eyeball him. He signed some kid's arm with a Sharpie while we were standing there and the kid's friend said, "What did he write?', and the kid said, "He signed his real name." And then I said to my friend, "I wish I had my camera, I'd take Pedro's picture." And she said, "Well you've got your phone...doesn't it take pictures?" I really am a dumbass sometimes.
So yeah. I have a picture of Efren Ramirez on my phone. He's a lot cuter in real life than he was in the movie. I'd post it but I don't know how to get it off my phone. I said, "Hey Pedro," and he looked up at me smiling and waved and said hi back and I took his picture. It was really quite thrilling. Ask me and I'll show it to you.
And I would totally vote for Pedro.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Dyeing
My hair is red. Well it's really a muddish brown, bordering on black. And I don't need to mention the gray, right? As of a few days ago, I'd call it magenta, which I darkened yesterday to more of a shade of burgundy.
Truthfully? I'd describe it right now as burgundy straw that smells like a campfire and needs cut very badly.
I've been dyeing my hair red forever. A lot of years ago at a family function my great-uncle told me that my red color was the same as his mother's, my great-grandmother, so I kinda felt that gave me the right to call myself a redhead. And I was vindicated when my nephew was born last year with screaming red hair. My son trotted out his college knowledge when he asked who the redhead was on our side of the family because of the whole recessive gene thing that has to come from both parents. Well, duh. Grampy's mom was a redhead. I'm nearly a redhead! It's in the family!
But lately I've been thinking it's a little much. A little too red. A little too loud. When I saw a picture of myself from June in the beautiful sunny sunshine of San Diego looking like I Love Lucy, I figured it was time to kick it back a notch.
The color I chose was called "auburn brown". The picture swatch on the box showed a nice warm medium brown with some red tendencies. Which would have been perfect except for the fact that it turned my hair a purplish reddish dark, dark....well, magenta.
"How would you feel if this was your hair?" I asked my sis.
"Horrified?" she responded.
Nice.
I went to work the next day and said to everyone who looked at me, "We all know my hair is purple and I refuse to discuss it."
Yesterday I recolored it with my normal color, medium auburn, which turned it burgundy. I went swimming and was afraid to get it too wet for fear I'd leave a big maroon cloud in the pool. My hair guy is in Punta Cana at the moment and I'm afraid to even wash it to try and lighten it up because it feels kind of....crunchy. Like it could crackle off in wiry clumps if I do anything else to make it mad. So now I've got burgundy haystack hair that smells like chlorine and last nights campfire.
Some days it's just damned hard to feel attractive.
Truthfully? I'd describe it right now as burgundy straw that smells like a campfire and needs cut very badly.
I've been dyeing my hair red forever. A lot of years ago at a family function my great-uncle told me that my red color was the same as his mother's, my great-grandmother, so I kinda felt that gave me the right to call myself a redhead. And I was vindicated when my nephew was born last year with screaming red hair. My son trotted out his college knowledge when he asked who the redhead was on our side of the family because of the whole recessive gene thing that has to come from both parents. Well, duh. Grampy's mom was a redhead. I'm nearly a redhead! It's in the family!
But lately I've been thinking it's a little much. A little too red. A little too loud. When I saw a picture of myself from June in the beautiful sunny sunshine of San Diego looking like I Love Lucy, I figured it was time to kick it back a notch.
The color I chose was called "auburn brown". The picture swatch on the box showed a nice warm medium brown with some red tendencies. Which would have been perfect except for the fact that it turned my hair a purplish reddish dark, dark....well, magenta.
"How would you feel if this was your hair?" I asked my sis.
"Horrified?" she responded.
Nice.
I went to work the next day and said to everyone who looked at me, "We all know my hair is purple and I refuse to discuss it."
Yesterday I recolored it with my normal color, medium auburn, which turned it burgundy. I went swimming and was afraid to get it too wet for fear I'd leave a big maroon cloud in the pool. My hair guy is in Punta Cana at the moment and I'm afraid to even wash it to try and lighten it up because it feels kind of....crunchy. Like it could crackle off in wiry clumps if I do anything else to make it mad. So now I've got burgundy haystack hair that smells like chlorine and last nights campfire.
Some days it's just damned hard to feel attractive.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Daily
It always interests me to see what other people are reading on line. Here's a quick list of the sites I check out daily:
Gwen - The original trailer trash housewife.
Dooce - Heather lost her job because of her blog. She got dooced.
Mrs Kennedy - She's....well....she's Mrs Kennedy.
Iceblog - Beth lets us glimpse into a life of travel to icy places.
Bitchypoo - She met her husband on line and chronicles her daily life.
Daymented - You can watch her baby being born. On line. No lie.
Zoe Trope - She wrote a book and had it published. While she was in high school.
And what do all these sites have in common?
They're all written by women. Some young and fresh. Some not so young. Moms. Wives. Singletons. Adventurers. Amazing women who take me to places I've been but make me see differently, or places I would like to go someday.
Thanks, ladies. You all rock.
Gwen - The original trailer trash housewife.
Dooce - Heather lost her job because of her blog. She got dooced.
Mrs Kennedy - She's....well....she's Mrs Kennedy.
Iceblog - Beth lets us glimpse into a life of travel to icy places.
Bitchypoo - She met her husband on line and chronicles her daily life.
Daymented - You can watch her baby being born. On line. No lie.
Zoe Trope - She wrote a book and had it published. While she was in high school.
And what do all these sites have in common?
They're all written by women. Some young and fresh. Some not so young. Moms. Wives. Singletons. Adventurers. Amazing women who take me to places I've been but make me see differently, or places I would like to go someday.
Thanks, ladies. You all rock.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Always
My mom passed away five years ago today. In some ways I can't believe she's been gone that long, and in other ways it feels like it's been forever since I heard her voice.
I used to work with a girl whose mom died the year before she got married. I asked her if it was hard not having her mom there on her wedding day, and she said surprisingly no, it wasn't nearly as hard as she thought it would be. She said she was prepared for the worst; expecting to be sad and lonely somewhere deep inside on one of the happiest days of her life, but it wasn't nearly as bad as she had feared.
Your mom is so much a part of the person you are. She gave you life. She's the first person who loved you. Her name is the first word you learn to say.
And I realize now why my friend wasn't distraught on her wedding day. No matter how old you are or where you are or what you're doing, your mother is always with you.
Always.
I used to work with a girl whose mom died the year before she got married. I asked her if it was hard not having her mom there on her wedding day, and she said surprisingly no, it wasn't nearly as hard as she thought it would be. She said she was prepared for the worst; expecting to be sad and lonely somewhere deep inside on one of the happiest days of her life, but it wasn't nearly as bad as she had feared.
Your mom is so much a part of the person you are. She gave you life. She's the first person who loved you. Her name is the first word you learn to say.
And I realize now why my friend wasn't distraught on her wedding day. No matter how old you are or where you are or what you're doing, your mother is always with you.
Always.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Swing
I've felt for quite a while now that I need a hobby. Other than smoking and drinking, of course. My son went away to school two years ago and for the first time in twenty years, I live alone. Which is nice. And quiet. And kinda lonely sometimes.
Since I lost my mother I've kind of adopted one of the ladies I work with as sort of a surrogate mom. She's in her 70's and she's single and active and funny and opinionated and she's not afraid to cuss. She likes to golf and she likes to dance and basically, we're both looking for a man to do stuff with. A few months ago I saw in the local paper that there was going to be a dance at our VFW and we kicked around the idea of going, but it didn't work out for some reason or other.
So today at work she corners me as soon as I get in and says they're having dance lessons at the VFW and she thinks it might be fun....maybe we should check it out. Hmmmm. Five bucks. Men to dance with. What the hell....she says....if it's not fun we just won't go back. So tonight after work, the forty-something and the seventy-something had our first swing dance lesson. And frankly? It was a hoot.
We wound up in the intermediate class....which was intimidating to say the least. Especially since I'm one of those people you see at weddings doing the Electric Slide that turns the wrong way and knocks into people. There were probably 25 couples in a big circle and the instructor would demonstrate what we were supposed to do and we'd run through it a few times. Then she'd call for the ladies to move to the next partner and all us girls would move to the guy on the right. Or was that left??
We danced for an hour with old men and bald men and nice looking men and sweaty men and charming men and quiet men and serious men. But they were all very nice men. I stepped on toes and turned the wrong the way and thought I'd never get it...but we left the VFW sweaty and laughing, and made plans to go back next Monday.
For the beginners class.
Since I lost my mother I've kind of adopted one of the ladies I work with as sort of a surrogate mom. She's in her 70's and she's single and active and funny and opinionated and she's not afraid to cuss. She likes to golf and she likes to dance and basically, we're both looking for a man to do stuff with. A few months ago I saw in the local paper that there was going to be a dance at our VFW and we kicked around the idea of going, but it didn't work out for some reason or other.
So today at work she corners me as soon as I get in and says they're having dance lessons at the VFW and she thinks it might be fun....maybe we should check it out. Hmmmm. Five bucks. Men to dance with. What the hell....she says....if it's not fun we just won't go back. So tonight after work, the forty-something and the seventy-something had our first swing dance lesson. And frankly? It was a hoot.
We wound up in the intermediate class....which was intimidating to say the least. Especially since I'm one of those people you see at weddings doing the Electric Slide that turns the wrong way and knocks into people. There were probably 25 couples in a big circle and the instructor would demonstrate what we were supposed to do and we'd run through it a few times. Then she'd call for the ladies to move to the next partner and all us girls would move to the guy on the right. Or was that left??
We danced for an hour with old men and bald men and nice looking men and sweaty men and charming men and quiet men and serious men. But they were all very nice men. I stepped on toes and turned the wrong the way and thought I'd never get it...but we left the VFW sweaty and laughing, and made plans to go back next Monday.
For the beginners class.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Dumbass
Some days I amaze myself with my own dumbassedness.
I went out Friday right after a totally brutal day at work, convinced there could not possibly be enough alcohol in the world to obliterate a most heinous day. As I'm driving down the highway toward a frosty cocktail I decide I need to call a friend I used to work with to ask her to join us. The trouble is I don't have her cell number programmed into my phone. I wobble on down the highway paging through the number in my recent call list, trying to determine which number is hers with one eyeball (mostly) on the road and one eyeball on the teensie, tiny LED (or whatever the heck it's called) screen in teensie, tiny little letters on my cell phone. In a moving vehicle. Sheesh.
I get off the highway to stop in a parking lot to regroup and find the damn number. I scroll through recent incoming calls and don't recoginze her number. The problem is that while I of course know what city she lives in, I don't recognize all these dang new cell phone exchanges. I finally pick out the one I'm sure is hers and dial.
A woman answers the phone. I know immediately it's not the woman I wanted to call. After a few seconds I realize it's the wife of a guy I work with....my sister and I hooked up with him and his wife at Springsteen concert in June. I tell her how I'm a large dumbass and how I'm very sorry to bother her. She's very gracious and we chat for a few minutes....how have you been? What have you been up to? How was vacation? What's up for the weekend? We'll have to get together some night and have drinks.
I hang up and dive right back into crank calling people who know who I am.
I pick another number that I'm positive is the right one and dial. It rings and rings and rings. Do I hang up? WTF. The voice mail finally kicks in and it's a friend I haven't seen in years and years. We recently talked on the phone for a few minutes when we were both in San Diego, though we never did hook up in SD. Instead of leaving a "sorry to miss you" or even a "sorry to call you by accident but I'd really love to talk and I'll call you back over the weekend" message, I just hang up. Like a dumbass.
Like she's not going to know it was me? Like I'm not on her missed call list? Jesus.
Since the third time is the charm, I finally got the right number and when my friend answers I was like, "Sweet Jeebus I knew your number was in here and I was GD determined to get you on the phone!"
We never did hook up.
I am a dumbass.
I went out Friday right after a totally brutal day at work, convinced there could not possibly be enough alcohol in the world to obliterate a most heinous day. As I'm driving down the highway toward a frosty cocktail I decide I need to call a friend I used to work with to ask her to join us. The trouble is I don't have her cell number programmed into my phone. I wobble on down the highway paging through the number in my recent call list, trying to determine which number is hers with one eyeball (mostly) on the road and one eyeball on the teensie, tiny LED (or whatever the heck it's called) screen in teensie, tiny little letters on my cell phone. In a moving vehicle. Sheesh.
I get off the highway to stop in a parking lot to regroup and find the damn number. I scroll through recent incoming calls and don't recoginze her number. The problem is that while I of course know what city she lives in, I don't recognize all these dang new cell phone exchanges. I finally pick out the one I'm sure is hers and dial.
A woman answers the phone. I know immediately it's not the woman I wanted to call. After a few seconds I realize it's the wife of a guy I work with....my sister and I hooked up with him and his wife at Springsteen concert in June. I tell her how I'm a large dumbass and how I'm very sorry to bother her. She's very gracious and we chat for a few minutes....how have you been? What have you been up to? How was vacation? What's up for the weekend? We'll have to get together some night and have drinks.
I hang up and dive right back into crank calling people who know who I am.
I pick another number that I'm positive is the right one and dial. It rings and rings and rings. Do I hang up? WTF. The voice mail finally kicks in and it's a friend I haven't seen in years and years. We recently talked on the phone for a few minutes when we were both in San Diego, though we never did hook up in SD. Instead of leaving a "sorry to miss you" or even a "sorry to call you by accident but I'd really love to talk and I'll call you back over the weekend" message, I just hang up. Like a dumbass.
Like she's not going to know it was me? Like I'm not on her missed call list? Jesus.
Since the third time is the charm, I finally got the right number and when my friend answers I was like, "Sweet Jeebus I knew your number was in here and I was GD determined to get you on the phone!"
We never did hook up.
I am a dumbass.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
I Swear
So I'm plowing along through the entertainment news on Yahoo today and I find this:
"No programmer wants to piss off their audience," CBS Entertainment President Nina Tassler told TV critics. "Creating and building viewer loyalty is why we do what we do, so when that happens, it's unfortunate."
And gee was I p*ssed. Just kidding. It was more like I heard my father saying in the back of my mind that old Nina Tassler has absolutely no class.
I admit that I'm not very careful about what I say out loud. Usually, if I think it, I say it. I cuss. Sometimes I cuss horrible. When I'm mad, I could probably make a sailor blush. And I must not be proud of that because when I hear my son cuss, I know where he got it from....not that his father is a choirboy, but his father hasn't really been much of an influence. If I hog up all the pride I can in my son's honesty and goodness and courtesy and kindess, then I have to take the shame in his f-bombs.
Interestingly, I'm very uncomfortable typing cuss words, even in email to friends who I would think nothing of saying them to. I type freaking and flipping and f-bomb, but there's something about seeing a big old bad word written down and attributed to little old me that makes me squirm. Like someone could conceivably print it off and display it to the members of my church. If a situation demands absolutely that I must cuss, I type b@st@rd or, well, p*ssed.
The one cuss word that doesn't seem to bother me much is combinations of @ss; jackass, dumbass and asshat come immediately to mind.
And in my humble opinion, I think CBS Entertainment President Nina Tassler is a jackass.
"No programmer wants to piss off their audience," CBS Entertainment President Nina Tassler told TV critics. "Creating and building viewer loyalty is why we do what we do, so when that happens, it's unfortunate."
And gee was I p*ssed. Just kidding. It was more like I heard my father saying in the back of my mind that old Nina Tassler has absolutely no class.
I admit that I'm not very careful about what I say out loud. Usually, if I think it, I say it. I cuss. Sometimes I cuss horrible. When I'm mad, I could probably make a sailor blush. And I must not be proud of that because when I hear my son cuss, I know where he got it from....not that his father is a choirboy, but his father hasn't really been much of an influence. If I hog up all the pride I can in my son's honesty and goodness and courtesy and kindess, then I have to take the shame in his f-bombs.
Interestingly, I'm very uncomfortable typing cuss words, even in email to friends who I would think nothing of saying them to. I type freaking and flipping and f-bomb, but there's something about seeing a big old bad word written down and attributed to little old me that makes me squirm. Like someone could conceivably print it off and display it to the members of my church. If a situation demands absolutely that I must cuss, I type b@st@rd or, well, p*ssed.
The one cuss word that doesn't seem to bother me much is combinations of @ss; jackass, dumbass and asshat come immediately to mind.
And in my humble opinion, I think CBS Entertainment President Nina Tassler is a jackass.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Jesus
I'm reading Lamb by Christopher Moore. It's the story of Jesus' life, and the twist is that the entire tale is told by Christ's best friend, Biff. (Yes, Biff.) Jesus is Joshua and Mary Magdeline is Maggie and John the Baptist is a loon. They speak in a combination of Bible and ghetto. There are the requisite angels and miracles and magi and diciples and apostles, and while you're never really sure what's going to happen next, I'm quite certain that in the end, Josh will die on the cross. It's funny that Christ's life isn't documented beyond his childhood. It interests me to hear versions of what his life might have been like. I can't stop thinking about the book.
And this book comes to me at a time in my life where I'm pretty sure that at least 80% of organized religion is a bunch of hocus-pocus. I believe in God. I think the bible has important lessons about life and history in it....along with a lot of hooey. I believe in living by the golden rule and the ten commandments, but frankly, that's as far as I'm willing to take it until further study. I mean what does it say about us as a nation when middle-aged white evangelical christians are responsible for electing W to a second term in office?
So tonight, answering a timid knock at my front door, a nicely dressed, well groomed woman, smiling of course, greets me with, "Oh my, I almost didn't hear you open the door because I was admiring the grouping of your porch furniture. It's absolutely lovely." Swear to God. Heh. Turns out God sent her to my house. She was telling all the good folks in my neighborhood about a bible study to be held blah blah blah, yadda yadda.
If I had owned Lamb and not borrowed it, I would have given it to her; right after I cut her off with, "Sorry, not interested," and right before I shut the door.
Jesus.
And this book comes to me at a time in my life where I'm pretty sure that at least 80% of organized religion is a bunch of hocus-pocus. I believe in God. I think the bible has important lessons about life and history in it....along with a lot of hooey. I believe in living by the golden rule and the ten commandments, but frankly, that's as far as I'm willing to take it until further study. I mean what does it say about us as a nation when middle-aged white evangelical christians are responsible for electing W to a second term in office?
So tonight, answering a timid knock at my front door, a nicely dressed, well groomed woman, smiling of course, greets me with, "Oh my, I almost didn't hear you open the door because I was admiring the grouping of your porch furniture. It's absolutely lovely." Swear to God. Heh. Turns out God sent her to my house. She was telling all the good folks in my neighborhood about a bible study to be held blah blah blah, yadda yadda.
If I had owned Lamb and not borrowed it, I would have given it to her; right after I cut her off with, "Sorry, not interested," and right before I shut the door.
Jesus.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Oprah
Oprah Winfrey says she's not gay - Reuters
The Evidence: She talks to her best friend four times a day. She and her best friend are seen in public together all the time, but rarely with significant others. She's very close to her best friend and has been for thirty years.
The Paralell: My sister and I have lived within a block of each other for fifteen years. She is my best friend on this planet. We email or talk on the phone an average of four times a day. We're seen together in public all the time, usually without my brother-in-law, and without any significant other for me because I can't get a date to save my life. We've been this close for about twenty years.
The Conclusion: All women and their best friends must be gay. There can be no other reason for women to seek out each other's company. It must be sexual in nature.
Michael Stipe said it best (and I'm paraphrasing here), "Why would you care where my pecker is unless you're sitting on my lap?"
Amen, brother.
The Evidence: She talks to her best friend four times a day. She and her best friend are seen in public together all the time, but rarely with significant others. She's very close to her best friend and has been for thirty years.
The Paralell: My sister and I have lived within a block of each other for fifteen years. She is my best friend on this planet. We email or talk on the phone an average of four times a day. We're seen together in public all the time, usually without my brother-in-law, and without any significant other for me because I can't get a date to save my life. We've been this close for about twenty years.
The Conclusion: All women and their best friends must be gay. There can be no other reason for women to seek out each other's company. It must be sexual in nature.
Michael Stipe said it best (and I'm paraphrasing here), "Why would you care where my pecker is unless you're sitting on my lap?"
Amen, brother.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Projects
My house is dirty. I hate when people say, "My house might be messy but it's clean underneath." My house is usually pretty well picked up, but basically there's a layer of crud underneath. Laundry is usually done, but it's stacked in baskets all over my bedroom. The kitchen counters are cleared off, but the sink is full of dishes; and that's a shame since I have a dishwasher...that usually needs emptied of clean dishes. Per usual, I need to scrub floors, run the sweeper and get out the Pledge and the Windex. I really need to do something about this situation today.
I have a huge plastic storage bin full of family photos that need scanned and put on disk. I got custody of them when my folks died in 2001 and the plan is to make a copy of everything for each of my three siblings and then arrange the hard copies into some kind of albums or books or something and divide them up. This project has been in process since 2002 when I moved into the homestead. And honestly? It's not my fault it hasn't got off the ground yet. I unhook my printer every time I move my puter (at least once a week) and now I can't get it to work at all. Sometimes I get so far as to actually start sorting the photos into some kind of semblence of order...and then a holiday comes along and I shove them all into envelopes and back in the huge plastic storage bin. Freduian, perhaps? Am I not ready to deal with this yet?
My cellar scares me. Some people have basements....I have a cellar. This house was built in the twenties, with a ceramic block foundation. That leaks. And molds. And smells. Spiders love it down there. I think mice would love it down there if it weren't for my firece hunter - killer cat (heh). My parent's old worthless crap is down there. My old worthless crap is down there. My son's old worthless crop is down there. The world's old worthless crap is down there. I'm sorry. I just can't continue to think about this right now. It's bumming me out.
I spent about three million dollars when I moved in here on new windows and doors, a new furnace, gutters, paint job, a little fencing and a garage. My son, my sister, my brother-in-law, his entire family, and I worked our tails off on this place. The A/C is now broken (it needs a new motherboard) and the garage door won't open with the remotes. Not sure what the problem is with that. Honestly. What did I do in a previous life to deserve this?
So the plan this weekend is to make some real progress on these on-going, never-ending, hung-around-my-neck projects. I'm in a nesting mood, which is good. I got up this morning and I feel like cooking. I made pasta salad. I've got the stuff to make meatballs in the fridge....I'm going to do that next, right after I finish my coffee and quit horsing around on line. Then I'm going to do some major constructive shit.
My sister just called and asked if I was up for a trip to Target.
To hell with this house...I'm going to Target.
I have a huge plastic storage bin full of family photos that need scanned and put on disk. I got custody of them when my folks died in 2001 and the plan is to make a copy of everything for each of my three siblings and then arrange the hard copies into some kind of albums or books or something and divide them up. This project has been in process since 2002 when I moved into the homestead. And honestly? It's not my fault it hasn't got off the ground yet. I unhook my printer every time I move my puter (at least once a week) and now I can't get it to work at all. Sometimes I get so far as to actually start sorting the photos into some kind of semblence of order...and then a holiday comes along and I shove them all into envelopes and back in the huge plastic storage bin. Freduian, perhaps? Am I not ready to deal with this yet?
My cellar scares me. Some people have basements....I have a cellar. This house was built in the twenties, with a ceramic block foundation. That leaks. And molds. And smells. Spiders love it down there. I think mice would love it down there if it weren't for my firece hunter - killer cat (heh). My parent's old worthless crap is down there. My old worthless crap is down there. My son's old worthless crop is down there. The world's old worthless crap is down there. I'm sorry. I just can't continue to think about this right now. It's bumming me out.
I spent about three million dollars when I moved in here on new windows and doors, a new furnace, gutters, paint job, a little fencing and a garage. My son, my sister, my brother-in-law, his entire family, and I worked our tails off on this place. The A/C is now broken (it needs a new motherboard) and the garage door won't open with the remotes. Not sure what the problem is with that. Honestly. What did I do in a previous life to deserve this?
So the plan this weekend is to make some real progress on these on-going, never-ending, hung-around-my-neck projects. I'm in a nesting mood, which is good. I got up this morning and I feel like cooking. I made pasta salad. I've got the stuff to make meatballs in the fridge....I'm going to do that next, right after I finish my coffee and quit horsing around on line. Then I'm going to do some major constructive shit.
My sister just called and asked if I was up for a trip to Target.
To hell with this house...I'm going to Target.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Shame
Last night I met up with a couple of women friends to chat about a recent trip we took to San Diego; to share our pictures and have a few (too many) cocktails. Another friend joined us who couldn't actually go to San Diego with us, but the four of us went to New Orleans together last year, so we had to act out some of the highlights of the fun she missed.
For instance there was the trolley adventure to Old Town, where we were communing with a crazy lady with a stroller full of garbage and a hanger on her head (no kidding) and a young mentally challenged fella who would shove a tupperware container full of Almond Joys at you every time you looked in his direction (for your shopping pleasure). Lord knows we needed a cocktail after that.
And there was the Padres - Mariners baseball ball game, awesome, after which we went to a restaurant called Dick's. It's the place where the servers are mean to the customers. That was something. Such hijinx and hilarity. We definitely needed a drink after that.
It pretty much turned out that we needed a drink after everywhere we went. And always ready with a cold beer or a Boston Beach Something or Other was our good buddy William, the hotel bartender. William was so fine. William was our hero. William will live forever in my heart, so special was our brief time together in the land of perpetual sunshine and 75 degree weather. Though I'm not entirely sure William knows it.
So as we're rehashing our trip and telling our stories, one of the women (who is now my ex-friend) says, "Oh yeah, and remember how you drank the ice bucket in the morning, Liz?"
For the record, I clearly remember stating at the time, "I'm so thirsty I could literally DIE. Would it be a sin if I drank the ice water that's left in the ice bucket?"
"Oh go ahead," they said. "There's totally nothing wrong with that. Why we hardly had our hands in the ice bucket last night....go ahead and drink it."
I poured the water (which still had cubes!) into a glass and I drank the ice bucket. And water never tasted so good in my whole life.
And then I clearly remember saying, "Now what happens in San Diego, stays in San Diego, right?"
Wrong!
For instance there was the trolley adventure to Old Town, where we were communing with a crazy lady with a stroller full of garbage and a hanger on her head (no kidding) and a young mentally challenged fella who would shove a tupperware container full of Almond Joys at you every time you looked in his direction (for your shopping pleasure). Lord knows we needed a cocktail after that.
And there was the Padres - Mariners baseball ball game, awesome, after which we went to a restaurant called Dick's. It's the place where the servers are mean to the customers. That was something. Such hijinx and hilarity. We definitely needed a drink after that.
It pretty much turned out that we needed a drink after everywhere we went. And always ready with a cold beer or a Boston Beach Something or Other was our good buddy William, the hotel bartender. William was so fine. William was our hero. William will live forever in my heart, so special was our brief time together in the land of perpetual sunshine and 75 degree weather. Though I'm not entirely sure William knows it.
So as we're rehashing our trip and telling our stories, one of the women (who is now my ex-friend) says, "Oh yeah, and remember how you drank the ice bucket in the morning, Liz?"
For the record, I clearly remember stating at the time, "I'm so thirsty I could literally DIE. Would it be a sin if I drank the ice water that's left in the ice bucket?"
"Oh go ahead," they said. "There's totally nothing wrong with that. Why we hardly had our hands in the ice bucket last night....go ahead and drink it."
I poured the water (which still had cubes!) into a glass and I drank the ice bucket. And water never tasted so good in my whole life.
And then I clearly remember saying, "Now what happens in San Diego, stays in San Diego, right?"
Wrong!
Monday, July 10, 2006
WTF??
My son will be a junior at OSU in the fall and we've done a lot of driving back and forth to Columbus in the last two years. That's two and a half hours one way (when my son is doing the driving) and three hours back (when I am). Invariably there is at least one flaming asshat driver accompanying us down I-71.
Of course you get your usual assortment of annoying tailgaters and road ragers and little old people hunched over their steering wheels; but there's always at least one driver that you'd like to haul out of their car and throttle on the side of the highway.
So yesterday we were following a guy in the passing lane who would neither pass nor get out of the way. My son was getting more and more frustrated and finally turned to me and said, "Before I make this trip again I swear I'm going to get a piece of cardboard and write WTF on it with a black Sharpie and when I finally get past a jackass like this guy ahead of me I'm going to just hold up my sign as I drive by."
"Hey, I'm pretty sure we could market that," I said.
That kid? He's a clever bastard.
Of course you get your usual assortment of annoying tailgaters and road ragers and little old people hunched over their steering wheels; but there's always at least one driver that you'd like to haul out of their car and throttle on the side of the highway.
So yesterday we were following a guy in the passing lane who would neither pass nor get out of the way. My son was getting more and more frustrated and finally turned to me and said, "Before I make this trip again I swear I'm going to get a piece of cardboard and write WTF on it with a black Sharpie and when I finally get past a jackass like this guy ahead of me I'm going to just hold up my sign as I drive by."
"Hey, I'm pretty sure we could market that," I said.
That kid? He's a clever bastard.
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