Special guest apperances by:

Hello dedicated readership. I would now take this opportunity to inform you that your beloved author will NOT be scribing this post. She is, as of this moment, sitting in bed, reading a book and drinking a Pabst Blue Ribbon. Take heart however, for she is not infirm and will be back to dispensing her usual wit in the near future. For now you are stuck with me, T, as a special guest blogger. I will only ask one thing of you, and that is to bear with me because I am not.a.blogger.

With that said, I would like to take you all back to a previous post about a particular trip to a particular place.

Preparations for the trip to see M's mother began some three days before we left. And I'm not talking about lists of things to bring or what chores to do beforehand. For myself my preparation started at my work place. You see my line of work requires me to do shift work. Some people would think "that' not so bad, right?" Fuck that.
I'm not talking only swing shift or even the graveyard.
Let me break it down for you real quick. I work four days every week and I work twelve hours every day and I get four days off in between. Still not bad you say?

Wrong.

Here's how the shifts really work. I show up at 5am my first day shift of twelve hours, and muddle through the day until I finally get to go home at 5pm. THEN, I get twelve hours off, after which I get to do that again. When I get off the second day I then get twenty four hours off, at which point I start work at 5P.M. and go until 5 the next morning. Then I get twelves hours off again and do that for another night. So in one "week" I work two 12hr days get 24hrs off and then work two 12hr nights!

It's a pain in my ass sometimes.

Anyway, our flight for this trip was scheduled for around noon the day after my last night shift. Our ride to get to the airport (because I insisted on getting a towncar to pick us up) was set to pick us up at 9 o'clock.... at my sisters house in our nearby metropolis.

So by now I'm sure you've all figured out this means I would 1) get off work at 5am 2) drive home to get M and our luggage 3) drive the two hours to the city (making it around 8am) and 4) hopefully not misjudge my driving time and thereby missing our only ride to the airport. (we didn't park the car there because I don't trust their security.... and I refuse to). So basically I get to be awake for the near 24 hours it will take us to reach her mom's place.


..............Fuck that.

So I did what all smart and resourceful people do when confronted with this type of situation. I faked being sick.

And I must say that I had a fair few of my co-workers convinced. So I started this ruse on my First night shift, laying the groundwork for the theatrics to come....

So I get off work go home and to bed. And when I wake up I make my move.

*ring*ring*ring*ring* " You've reached the foreman, sorry we missed your call, please leave a message...."
Uh... Hey, yeah, I'm not coming in tonight, I feel like shit. It feels like the eighteenth Russian Calvary spent the night in my head with all their horses. So, yeah.... *click*

I chuckled to myself at that point. Mission accomplished.



And so we arrive at M's mothers, and I am pleasantly refreshed from a good nights rest. She picks us up at the airport and takes us home.

Now, I'm not stupid by any means. I knew what this trip would entail, what environment I was getting myself into. M asserts that I am the hardest person to surprise. Well dear....

We walk in the front door and I am literally STRUCK by the powerful smell of stale cigarettes and cats. This smell was so intense that I was immediately thrust back to my childhood and the memory of one of MY mothers close girlfriends.... who smelled overwhelmingly of stale cigarettes and cats.
This sensation thankfully passed rather quickly as I became more accustomed to it (probably owing to the fact that I am now a smoker too), and I was able to pass the rest of the trip in relative olfactory ease. I did however, have to become a pill popper because as luck would have it, I'm allergic to cats. Thankfully the claretin worked and all I suffered was getting licked and having cat hair on everything I brought with me.

So, with M having gotten as much a dose of her mother as she could stand, we come home. Thank. God. I didn't say anything, but I was going stir crazy having to spend SO much time there.

Within hours of our arrival home we began to get an idea of exactly how bad we really smelled. Having been confined in that RV with three smokers and two cats for four days, my once black fleece pullover had become white and the two of us smelled like ashtrays that have never been cleaned. *sigh*

Well needless to say we avoided as much contact with the public until we were able to make it home...... At which point EVERYTHING got thrown in the washing machine.

I still have cat hair on my pullover.

So on and So forth

I said that about 198 times on the phone with F the other day. It would seem that talking about the myriad of ways my mother has ruined my life will cause me to use redundancies. (It does seem a little fitting, as my mom is running quickly out of new ideas and repeats herself quite often.)

I am more than ready for my fucking chronic neck and shoulder pain that spirals into a migraine to break up with me. It's one of those relationships that has been dead for a long time, you know, where one party is more in love than the other, but the un-loving partner stays due to not wanting to hurt feelings and so on and just does ass-hatty things in hopes of pissing off the other party enough that they will end it and absolve the un-lover from any wrong-doing? Yeah. I'm trapped in a loveless marriage with my neck.


I am totally at a loss of something to blog about. Perhaps I should let loose a yarn about the white-trash-Mecca (Welcome, googlers!) I used to live in.

Hrmmmmm....there are so many to choose from. The dude that pulled all his own teeth? His brother, who cut his face in half with a chainsaw and walked out of the woods and then drove himself to the hospital for stitches and came immediately back to work logging? My ex's brother, the taxidermist, who had his ceiling 'raised' (Cut a hole in the trailer's ceiling insulation) to make room for the rack from his prize bull elk? (And yes, he used it as a gun rack.) How he and his wife were caught having sex in their 'garden' (Wife posted fake flowers in the dirt rather than plant real ones) by their son's friend at three in the afternoon? The 60 year old woman with no teeth who, for $50, sold her dirty panties to a stranger at the local bar?

Oh, I know.

Clown Faced Jimmy, aka 'Sparky'.

Clown faced Jimmy was an electrician of sorts. He wasn't licensed, to my knowledge, which never stopped anyone in that neck of the woods from doing anything. He was also famous for shitty work and being an alcoholic, which I believe is where his nickname came from.

Sparky, that is.

We called him Clown Faced Jimmy because, well....He looked like a clown.

Let me explain.

Jimmy was Canadian (I don't know how this applies, but my step father teased him about it a lot.). He was slender, about 5'9". He had insane black hair that stood up around his Stihl baseball cap at odd angles. He also had a very wide and pale face, and electric blue eyes. Like, not pretty blue, scary, 'there's-something-very-wrong-inside-this-man blue. And one tooth.

One. One of his front top teeth--that was it. The rest were small, worn, black nubs. They looked like he had fallen into warm road asphalt, come up with a mouthful and called it good.

Now, I know you are all wondering where the 'clown' part comes in. I guess I can't really do it justice by putting it in writing.....trust me. (I'm freaked out by clowns. Not because of Jimmy, but that fear may have something to do with the nickname.)

Anyway, other than questionable electricians work, I have no idea where Jimmy received any income. I know that he had a lady friend for a time who supported him, but I don't know where he lived, what he did with himself during the day or anything else.

Jimmy drank cheap ass beer and smoked cheap ass cigarettes. He laughed a lot, (Showing his road warrior teeth) and was generally a nice person. He was friends with a man who was quietly said to have a marijuana farm, but no one said for certain.

One day, in the middle of the summer, I was working at my parents store with my step father. I was about 17 or so. The store was busy-ish, it being the summer months. Our store was RIGHT ON THE HIGHWAY--not the busiest highway, by any means, but a major thoroughfare just the same. This is important.

So my step dad and I are working away, when we hear a rumbling 'Bang!' of a backfiring vehicle. We turn to look out the window and see just who it may be....

It's Jimmy. And his friend, the pot farmer. They have pulled into the store parking lot, next to the gas pumps, to reattach a tarp that was supposed to be covering the bed of the truck before they head to the nearest town.

They needed a tarp to cover the bed of the truck because the bed of the truck is piled, literally piled, with pot.

Now, take a minute and imagine this. Really.

My step dad and I just stood there, watching them use rope and tie-downs to cover this mountain of pot and make it road ready. The saw us, smiled, waved, and left.

In what reality is this even remotely possible? Plausible?

The best part? They didn't get caught. They drove through a town at 25 mph with a literal truck load of cannabis, cars all over the place, and no one thought twice about it.

I don't know whether to laugh or....be confused. I vacillate, really. At least we know how Jimmy supported himself.

No thank you

We're back.

Thank. Everything. Considered. Holy. Across. The. World.

Sweet Lord in heaven, never again. Never.

There are animals in the world that have wingspans larger than my mother's RV. AnimalS. Plural. Not that rare an occasion. Good God.

Anyway, my mother lives in an RV, and it's small. She has two cats, and smokes at least a pack a day per cat, more if she has something to celebrate. (I use that term loosely.)

While we were there, a mere three and 5/6ths days, my mother consumed (Not all at once, mind)

*Approx 4 bottles Pinot Grigio
*Approx 10 packs cigarettes (One carton, or 200 individual cigarettes, to those counting)
*One Hydrocodone, 5mg.
*Approx 4 16oz. Beers
*Approx 18 Ibuprofen
*Two prescribed blood-pressure reducing pills
*Approx 9 acid reflux pills
*24% of my sanity
*67% T's patience

(These are of course, not including what she drank and/or consumed while T and I were attempting sleep or, oh, showering.)

I hate to fly and I was counting the damn hours until we went back to the airport.

I had forgotten why I did all the driving. My mother is willing to put the car into third gear (If you're lucky)--No higher. She will happily go 35 mph, transmission screaming, down the left lane of a 70 mph highway.

I had forgotten how my mother loves to be catered to. I did all the cooking and shopping while we were there. (This is fine, but she demanded it. No "Oh, would you help me?" just a "You're cooking if you want to eat.")

My mother talks to the cats all day long. This is fine until it's 4am, you have finally drifted off to sleep on your prison-issue pallet of a mattress and are startled awake by high-pitched singsong talking, ten minute intervals of coughing and a cloud of cigarette smoke.

(I smoke. T smokes. But not like this. We don't smoke in the house, I don't give T cigarette 'Dutch Ovens' while he is asleep. Oh, and we don't live in a closet together.)

Sigh.

Anyway, more of that in a moment.

***************************************





This is Sprocket. Sprocket is a Taurus, enjoys being a terrible watch dog, chasing but not catching mice, and howling at odd hours. He dislikes being left alone for long periods of time and a man named Joe. His feelings on long walks on the beach and/or candle-lit dinners has not yet been determined.

Sprocket is also a wolf.

Sprocket is my mom's neighbor's pet. He is quite friendly, as well as huge.

Oh, and did I mention he is a WOLF?? (Does this strike a chord of mild panic and animal rights activism in anyone else, or am I weird?)

Anyway, I can now scratch "Get jumped up on and licked in the face by a wolf" off my list of things to do before I die. Also, wolves are huge. (Did I mention that already? I was raised with mastiffs--Huge in their own right--And I was impressed.)

This neighbor also has a lynx/tabby cat cross aptly named Bigfoot, who I did not have the pleasure of meeting.

*************************************

While we were there, T asked my mother for my hand in marriage. As she is the last living parent I have, and this is probably (God willing) the only time T would see her in person until an actual marriage occurred, it seemed like a good idea. (I'm speculating here. Attempts to get T to guest blog have been thus far thwarted--So I am forced to assume.)

We are not engaged. Please keep this in mind.

My mother, who cannot keep anything to herself for more than 13 seconds (The longest she has gone without speaking while conscious--I know this because we have timed her. Seriously.) took it upon herself to call everyone we both know and inform them that I am engaged, probably getting married this summer, and all sorts of juicy details ranging from the type of flowers I will have to what shoes I will wear.

I didn't know this until the phone calls started today. (People are thrilled, apparently, at my betrothal. I hope they are equally as thrilled when it actually happens.)

When I called my mother to tell her to lay off, she was totally wasted. When I explained my position to her, that I didn't realize that she needed to be sworn to secrecy about everything--Even common sense things like this--she was faced with a dilemma.

She could demur, apologise, and move on.....

Or she could get angry, start name calling and casting blame stones.

She chose that second one.

So now, on top of being engaged, getting married this summer and wearing flats while carrying daisies and/or peonies, I am a whore and a liar whom T is having to settle for.

(And for all parties interested, she did give her blessing. After asking T, "What are you going to do if I say no?" and him responding, "Marry her anyway.")

(See why we aren't going back anytime soon?)

***************************************

In an attempt to lighten the mood, more photos.








First off, the view from our holding area at the local one-gate airport.

Second, through the end, proof that anti-anxiety medication works--I was calm enough to take photos as we flew, rather than tear holes in T's hand and the arm rest of the seat.

Checklist, Referrals and Protection

We are leaving on Sunday to go see my mother.

We are flying. I hate, despise, abhor, detest flying. Terrified of it. (Basically I wanted to give my mental health a round-house-kick to the nuts by FLYING to see my MOTHER.)

Before we leave, there is a laundry list of shit I need to do. T is working up until nearly the moment the flight takes off (Flight leaves 7 hours after his shift at work ends. He obviously wants to destroy his mental health as well.) and considering T normally does all the packing (I am useless. I know.) I have made myself a list of things to do before we go, in an attempt to not wake up the morning of and run schreeching around my house flinging mis-matched socks and the toothbrush I use to clean the grout into a suitcase. (You think I'm kidding. T packs for a reason--I cannot seem to be able to retain a running tally of what I need in the suitcase vs. what is actually in the suitcase. I most often forget things like, oh, pants, underwear or shoes. Seriously. But I will think I have packed accordingly and put the kitchen sponge in there or something.)

This is my list.

-Finish laundry
-Put away/hang up all clothes
-clean top layer of crap off of house
-change sheets
-get books together (My mom wants a shit load of books. She cannot understand why we have to check our bags. She wanted me to bring a coffee pot. I have tried to explain TSA to her, the laws and so on--how things like that are more of a pain in the ass for all parties than it is worth {A coffee pot?}, but she doesn't listen. She hasn't been on an airplane since you stopped being allowed to SMOKE on them, so her views are a little skewed.)
-clean out fridge
-make secondary list of what to pack
-pack all things on secondary list.


This is what I have done towards the list.

2 loads laundry, which is sitting on my couch getting wrinkled. Stripped the bed. Written blog entry.

Poor T.

***********************************

I finally went to my sitemeter thing to see how you kids get here. (other than the obvious reasons, of course.) Here are some of the search-engine referrals, in no particular order.

*Purring Sound
*How to deal with explosions
*How do you know death rattle discomfort
*Twelveteen, a.m. homes
*Rattle fluid lungs
*Sweaty Hockey Pads
*Mullet eating habits
*Humped by a horse

I can only hope this site offered some insight into those pressing matters. I often ponder mullet eating habits myself. (Some of them would make rockin' band names, though.)

***********************************

My computer, being the Vista plagued beast that it is, can be a terrible pain in the ass. Since we purchased it, the Internet only went where it saw fit--some websites it simply would not show. It would load completely but show a blank screen. I ignored this, mostly.

A few days ago, the "Protection" hoo-dad thing updated itself. Suddenly, we could not use the Internet. Nothing would load--I did all the diagnostic shit thinking there was some bug or virus or something and it came up clean. I climbed behind the desk to make sure we were connected and in doing so cut a huge gash on my shoulder from the razor sharp metal corner on one tiny part of the desk, resulting in me crying from pain (something I have not done since childhood, thank you) and making T get out of bed to put a band-aid on me. (again, I'm useless.) Nothing worked. The computer was telling me to contact my network provider, which I knew was crap advice because the laptop in the other room worked fine.

I finally shut off the 'protection' thing (which I have since researched and found to be useless in and of itself) and the Internet is back. All websites work. Instant messenger works.

My computer decided the Internet itself was too big a risk to take. Sigh.

Southbound

So we're back from our little road trip to the Metropolis south of here.

It was fun.

The End.

No, no. I mean, yes, it was fun, but of course I have to tell everyone all about it.

We drove down on Saturday, with beautiful weather. When we arrived, it was 81 degrees. (Seriously? Thought something was wrong. Haven't been that warm outside in months, I tell you.)

We checked into our motel, and our room was situated out of the way, in a corner, with it's own little hallway. Slightly excited, we thought that perhaps Priceline was going to redeem itself after the plight that was our hotel experience at T's sister's wedding.....

Then we went inside.





I think they may have been concerned with us leaping to our deaths. Sigh. (It doesn't really matter. It's just the view. Our other options were the parking lot or the airport.)

Anyway, we went over to my cousin's house for a 'Southern Genteel' party, where we drank Hurricanes and I hurled an entire bowl of screaming hot melted chocolate to the floor and shattered it. (We did not have devils food cupcakes for dessert. You're welcome, dieters.)

Also, I swore a lot in front of a reverend (Sigh.), told the Vomiting Grandpa and Adult Boobie Sucker (Welcome, Googlers!) stories, and laughed. It was nice.

The next day we went back to my cousin's, for a rousing morning of crosswords and coffee.

Did I mention that my cousin has 4 cats? And T is allergic?



The cats don't care. T takes a lot of medicine before we go over.

Anyway, we came back through NOT 81 degree weather.....



And everything is fine.

We leave for my mom's on Sunday. God help us all.

(AnnieB--Please don't be mad that I deleted your comment. I try to discourage name calling in the comments--Given names, anyway. {And I know how stupid that is considering I post photos. I just don't want anyone searching for my name and getting this site--it's happened before and was really, really bad.} I should have told you that before hand. I are not smart. Anyway, I'm so glad you likey, and thank you. {You should come up with some weird moniker for me or something. Can you smell the freshness?})

Come Back When You Can Stay Longer

I was talking with a friend of mine tonight who requested that I post a particular story about my father that she is tertiarially involved in.

Don't say I don't do anything for you, love. :)

Alright.

I have made mention in the past about my fathers abiding love for Rachel Ray. If she told my father to eat goose poop on a dust bunny salad, I would be cooking it for dinner. (Don't ask me where I would find the geese. Dust bunnies I can do.)

Also, please keep in mind that my father grew up during the depression. He was by no means homeless or starving (unlike a good portion of America in that time), but he did learn to eat and appreciate some of the weirdest and/or grossest things on the planet. (Like Tomato Aspic Salad. Fucking GROSS. Or my childhood nemesis, Pea Salad. Green jello, into which you pour chopped raw cabbage and CANNED PEAS. You gel it, then serve it with mayonnaise on top. I still will not eat jello is there is anything in it. ANYTHING.)

So, with my fathers culinary indiscretions in mind, onward.

I am on the phone with my friend at the time--who is a consummate cook herself and was married to a professional chef--while attempting to fix dinner for my father. This was at the beginning of the "What will dad eat?" phase, where I cooked anything and everything, whether or not I found it appealing (Chicken livers, anyone?) in attempt to get dad some caloric intake.

I am muttering to myself about various casseroles, sandwiches....Asking my friend for ideas. From the living room, my father yells:

"Ham Hawaiian, Babe!"

I ignore him, having seen the recipe on the counter already.

"BABE!?? Ham Hawaiian! I left the recipe on the counter! Rachel (they were on a first name basis, apparently) made it yesterday!"

My friend is laughing. Wants to know what Ham Hawaiian is.

Gross, that's what.

You take ham steak. (Not the normal, good, salty and delicious ham steak you are all thinking of. No, the canned, processed, pre-sliced 'ham' steak that comes in a plastic wrapper filled with its own putrescent juices. The sweet, chewy, cloying false ham that was so huge in the state I used to live in.) You then char this....ham....in a pan with a 'glaze' made of mustard, brown sugar, pepper, clove powder, pineapple and grenadine. It has the potential to be good, with some tweaking. Like, oh, on a real fucking ham, perhaps. (I have seen REAL Hawaiian ham recipes. They look delicious. Nothing like this one. Ms.Ray, you dropped the ball here.)

I am muttering to myself about how I don't want to make this. How if I do, I want to tweak the recipe to my own specifications and not make it candied, which is what it is going to be. My friend is laughing her ass off.

My father does not agree.

"BOO! (Yes, that was my nickname. My whole life. He wasn't just trying to startle me into compliance.) (It's the shortened version of another more embarrassing nickname that I will not mention here.) Doesn't it look good? I think it sounds great....will hit the spot!"

I cannot change the recipe. He will know.

I make the damn candied fake ham, but I put more mustard, more pineapple chunks. Some ginger. I hide the recipe so he won't be able to compare.

I serve.

Dad takes one bite. (I am off the phone by now, having reduced my friend to a puddle from her laughing at my candied ham plight.)

He looks at me, eyebrows furrowed.

"You screwed with the recipe, didn't you?"

He doesn't give me time to defend myself.

"Hey, Rachel is a PROFESSIONAL. She gets paid to think up great recipes. Has she ever made something that wasn't good? I doubt it. That's why she's famous! She has her own goddamn TV show, for chrissakes. Don't try to fix it if it isn't broken, babe. I mean, come on."

Sigh.

"Dad, if it doesn't taste good, there's more 'ham'. I can make it again."

"No, babe, it's actually really good. I was worried hers was going to be too sweet."

It's my turn to furrow my eyebrows.

"But you still shouldn't screw with a masterpiece."

**************************************************

Since we are on the topic, I have another one for you.

My father was a recliner man. (Can't blame him there.) His last recliner, which I still own, was an off-white leather la-z-person, positioned so that it made a perfect triangle with the wood stove, the TV, and the ashtray/coaster where his drink was located. We still refer to it as the "Captains Chair".

My designated place in the living room was the couch--one corner specifically. It was as close to the TV/Ashtray/Wood stove as I could get. It was also just out of arms reach of my dad.

Sometimes I would fall asleep on the couch. (What? I can hear all of you gasping in disbelief. Really?) Hey, it happens.

If my father needed something from me while I was sleeping, or, most often, wanted to see if I was asleep, rather than say something, or, oh, look, he would pick up the newspaper and hit me in the head with it.

I'm serious. He wouldn't roll it up or anything, but he would still rap me in the head. Depending on my reaction, he would either laugh at me, apologise, or quickly pretend that he hadn't actually hit me at all.

I hated this.

He would also bang the unfurled newspaper to illustrate a point. I'm not sure what point is illustrated by hitting your youngest daughter in the forehead while she is asleep, but I'm not a parent yet. Maybe this is the sort of thing my mother keeps referring to when she says "You'll understand when you have kids."

Thieving Bastards!

I stole this. Like, totally. From here. (It's ok, because they stole it too.) Also, some seriously funny stuff over there. May have to dig a little for the gems, but if you have time to waste and a weird sense of humor....Go there.

Anyway, read. Stolen. Hilarity. (it was origionally marketed as a real thing, but, sadly, it is fiction. Real questions, real answers, just not from the tourism website officials.)


These were posted on an Australian tourism website and the answers are the actual responses by the website officials, who obviously have a sense of humor.

Q: Does it ever get windy in Australia? I have never seen it rain on TV; how do the plants grow? (UK)
A: We import all plants fully grown and then just sit around watching them die.

Q: Will I be able to see kangaroos in the street? (USA)
A: Depends how much you've been drinking.

Q: I want to walk from Perth to Sydney - can I follow the railroad tracks? (Sweden )
A: Sure, it's only three thousand miles; take lots of water.

Q: Are there any ATMs in Australia? Can you send me a list of them in Brisbane, Cairns, Townsville and Hervey Bay ? (UK )
A: What did your last slave die of?

Q: Can you give me some information about hippo racing in Australia? (USA )
A: Africa is the big triangle shaped continent south of Europe. Australia is that big island in the middle of the Pacific which does not ... oh forget it. Sure, the hippo racing is every Tuesday night in Kings Cross. Come naked.

Q: Which direction is North in Australia ? (USA )
A: Face south and then turn 180 degrees. Contact us when you get here and we'll send the rest of the directions.

Q: Can I bring cutlery into Australia ? (UK )
A: Why? Just use your fingers like we do.

Q: Can you send me the Vienna Boys' Choir schedule? (USA)
A: Austria is that quaint little country bordering Germany, which is ... oh forget it. Sure, the Vienna Boys Choir plays every Tuesday night in Kings Cross, straight after the hippo races. Come naked.

Q: Can I wear high heels in Australia? (UK)
A: You are a British politician, right?

Q: Are there supermarkets in Sydney, and is milk available all year round? (Germany)
A: No, we are a peaceful civilization of vegan hunter/gatherers. Milk is illegal.

Q: Please send a list of all doctors in Australia who can dispense rattlesnake serum. (USA)
A: Rattlesnakes live in America, which is where YOU come from. All Australian snakes are perfectly harmless, can be safely handled and make good pets.

Q: I have a question about a famous animal in Australia, but I forget its name. It's a kind of bear and lives in trees. (USA)
A: It's called a Drop Bear. They are so called because they drop out of Gum trees and eat the brains of anyone walking underneath them. You can scare them off by spraying yourself with human urine before you go out walking.

Q: Can you tell me the regions in Tasmania where the female population is smaller than the male population? (Italy)
A: Yes, gay night clubs.

Q: Do you celebrate Christmas in Australia? (France)
A: Only at Christmas.

Q: Will I be able to speak English most places I go? (USA)
A: Yes, but you'll have to learn it first

Photos, Rockband and the Like

So I bought a new digital camera. I hate the color, ("Copper", it tells me. Not so much.) but it's all they had and the price was right. So there.

Anyway, I can now photograph my adventures across this great nation. Considering I don't travel that much, sounds like an easy project.

Alright.

I am camera shy. Like to be behind the camera, mostly. Proof?



T was trying to take a picture of me while I cleaned the bedroom. I hid in the bathroom, as you can see. (And yes, I often use my drawer-pulls as closet space. So there.)

Anyway.

T and I went to the home of the F/A conglomerate last night to play Rock Band--Which is like guitar hero only rather than just playing the guitar, you play bass, drums and sing. (well, you and three friends.) It is a game that causes me emotional duress and hours of fun. (I'm the singer. That should tell you how bad at this game I am.)

Prior to the game, I made F take pictures of T and I, so I can show off the new haircut (Which is not fixed properly in these, but you get the idea).

For instance:



You can see up my nose in this picture.

Anyway, we had fun. I love this photo, so I am sharing it.

F disagrees with....my....skin? Tattoo? Shoes? (I was taking my shoes off. Honest. And my hands look so much like my mom's in this photo that it's creepy. Only my nails are fake and hers are bitten to the quick. Close enough.)



There are a few more embarrassing photos. Lets end on the one that I took of myself, where I am rockin' the "Runaway Bride" eyes and my skin looks feverish. Oh well.



Anyway.....probably more later.

Pagliacci

So.

Haircut has been procured. I like it--and all the party-goers we had at the home on Friday should as well.

(More to come on the party.)

I have decided that drinking, no matter how much, no matter the reason, no matter how badly I want to, seriously needs to be weighed as far as pros and cons go before embarking.

Things I need to think about before drinking:

1)Have I eaten today?

2)What do I have to do tomorrow, i.e., is there a scenario where vomiting could be a really bad idea?

3)Will the people around me be drunk as well? (Drunk people are more forgiving of other drunk behavior. I drink, do drunk shit, wake up and feel the need to apologise to everyone I saw while drinking. In the case of having a party where 20 people were in attendance, this is something of a chore.)


I didn't really consider any of these things before the "We don't work together anymore" party on Friday.

Most everyone I worked with, with the exception of the non-drinkers (mostly, we had one in attendance), those with car problems and those who were out of town came to T's house Friday night to celebrate/lament the fact that we can no longer spend 60+ hours a week together hoping for death. (Oh, and one girl didn't make it because she just bought a new vibrator. I guess she is to be commended for not making up some lame ass excuse for not attending.) This came out to about 20 people, give or take.

I had not really eaten Friday. Half a sandwich. (Mistake #1)

I started on the wine a little early. (Read:The moment I walked in the damn door. Like, hadn't put down my purse or taken off my coat before opening the bottle. No hellos to the F/A conglomerate, no kiss for T, nothing.) (Mistake #2)

I didn't consider the fact that I was supposed to be out at bars continuing the celebration Saturday in the Metropolis with T's family. (Mistake #3)

Basically, by the time people started to really arrive, I was half in the bag. My saving grace? Those bitches love to drink--several of them arrived more buzzed than I. The rest played catch up.

Anyway, drunk. Fun, talking shit, drinking more, finding out incredible dirt on ex-coworkers. Boobs were shown, (not by me), making the party a complete success.

Anyway, I rolled into bed at 3am, and when I awoke several hours later, I thought I was going to DIE. This is by far the WORST hangover I have EVER HAD. EVER.

All day.

I felt like crap the whole ride to the Metropolis to my hair appointment. I wandered around the high-end salon like a moron, parts of my robe dragging on the ground, my mouth agape, wondering if I was going to vomit or die. (Neither happened.) (Oh, and Emily appeared to have perfect depth perception and no hooves could be found. Not the most attractive woman on the planet, but that doesn't mean anything.)

We then went to eat, which was a blessing and a curse. Food was great, as usual. The consequences of food? I ran into T's sisters house and banished everyone from the bathroom.

We did not go drinking. (Well, T's brother in law did with his brother, but that just means the earth was turning on it's axis.)

We did have a nice time, however.

My hangover finally quit YESTERDAY. (It would appear that I took shots at one point. I think that may have been my final undoing.)

What have I learned from all this?

My ex coworkers really like my hair.

I cannot drink like I could 5 years ago. This is ok.

We are a bunch of nasty people. Apply that in any way you see fit--It works.

People are sad that I quit. Part of me is sad too.

I seem to be far happier as an unemployed member of society. This is ok.

Oh, and everyone give a shout out to T's sister, A (I really need to start assigning different initials to people--I know a lot of A's and C's.) as she is the newest key holder to the blog. (What, do you think I'm just giving out the address willy nilly?)

Randomlings

I am very tired.

This does not bode well for my future--if you only look as far into my future as tomorrow. (Today. It's two thirty in the morning.)

I have to get up early to go get my nails done (Yeah? What of it?) and to purchase supplies for the "Hooray We're Unemployed" party we are hosting tomorrow night before I go to my LAST DAY AT WORK.

Glee really isn't the word for it.

Anyway, I am tired. Probably because I have a new blog obsession and just spent the last 3 hours reading the archives therein.

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I am cutting my hair this weekend. No, I don't know what specific haircut I will be getting. I'm walking into an appointment in an overpriced Downtown Metropolis salon and entrusting my mane to a nice woman named Emily, who hopefully isn't stricken with hooves for hands or no depth perception or something, and saying, "My hair is naturally wavy/curlyish, I have cowlicks here and here, I straighten it daily and don't want something that is going to be a bitch to grow out. GO!". Hopefully she is up to the challenge.

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Being that I assume most of my readership has ears, I would like to think that most of you have noticed the addition of a music player on this blog. One person has commented, and I know her in RL and we have similar tastes in music and she loves it....and, being that the majority rules, I think everyone does. So there. But you may have noticed a spread of some vastness--Bob Seger to In Flames? Who the hell is VNV Nation? Why, in Gods name, does she have a Timbaland song on there?

Because I like it. So there. My blog, my playlist, my music. Actually, I have toned it down quite a bit on here.

Oh, and FYI--Turn the Page is probably one of the greatest songs ever written. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

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Lastly, I stole this from C, who refuses to send me the rest of the pics from her trip out here until I send the pics from her trip out here last year. C is brilliant, but obviously doesn't know how deep my kleptomania runs when it comes to hilarious photos.





This is about the 12th trip to the grocery store while C was here. She is over caffeinated, and T is, well, a boy. Therefore, they "fly" through the aisles at 2am.

(C, I love you. Please don't be mad.)

Also, just to spread the love around, a pic of T in Vegas looking slightly bewildered and like he has a very large body or a very small head.



Again, I love you, and please don't be mad. :)

Endeavours

As I tell the regular customers at both the restaurants that I am quitting, and that our time together is drawing to a close, strange things are happening.

They all want to know why.

So I tell them the diplomatic version. Not the "This company is run by a drunk monkey rodeo" version, but the "I am off to better myself in a way that does not involve kissing strangers asses" version.

Secondly, they all want to know if I have another job.

I tell them no, which is the honest answer.

Then they want to know why I would quit my job if I didn't have another.

I tell them that I want to go back to school. That I awoke on my 26th birthday and realized that I had not realized any of the goals or dreams I had set for myself. That I realized that time is short--that I don't want to be my mother. That before I have children I want to live the sort of life that my grandchildren will marvel over. I want to travel, I want to write. I want to take pictures for real again. I want to wake up every day and have a reason to laugh and smile and things to look forward to instead of dread. I want to be the person I want to be, the person I was supposed to be before all the death and addiction and guilt and drama happened. That I will take those life experiences and turn them from something I receive sympathy for into something people will cheer over.

Typically, at this point, the conversation goes one of two ways.

Either the people cheer, clap, shake my hand. Tell me how great that is, how they wished they had had the same thoughts when they were young, before they were strapped with kids and mortgages and jobs they hated.

Or they tell me I am a moron.

I really want to tell them that the most moronic thing I could do was to stay stagnant in a job I hate, that is taking me nowhere and doing nothing but offending my sensibilities and sucking away at what little soul I have left.

These are usually the same people that tell me that they are not surprised I am a waitress. You know, because I don't really have family and all that. Wasn't born into money.

Oh well.

I think I am going to bed.

(Oh, and to clear up some confusion in the comments: Brian, obviously you have not spent a lot of time with metal heads and punk rockers. They are, by distinction, a stinky group of people. The idea of being in a small, hot, cramped bar with 400 of them who were recently freezing cold and soaking wet makes my nose hurt. Imagine being trapped in an elevator in southern Florida with your son's fresh, sweaty hockey pads, skates, socks and underpants. Now spill some beer on them, have someone smoke a joint nearby, sprinkle on some patchouli oil and mist a hint of vomit over the top and now we are talking. That is what I walked away from.)

Sailing, Scotch, and Sousa

Everyone should take part in one of the above today. Or all, if possible.


Happy Birthday, Dad. We're eating cherry cake today, and I might get it right this time.