My 200th Post!, or, Freedom!

My siblings and niece just left. LEFT. I can't really tell you how.....relieved I am. Seriously, the door closed behind them and I just heaved this huge sigh and my posture changed and everything.

But now, some photos. Not of the darlings in question, but of T and I. ('Cause its funny and people like to look at pictures on blogs. So there.)

First, we went to some waterfalls which are like, right the flip by my house. I used to send tourists there all.the.time. but had never been myself.



T takes a picture and tells me to look just as the flash goes off. So, so flattering.



And these are the falls. Terribly exciting, no?




T poses, again, somewhere I fear to tread.

Here we are, posing with my huge, gigantic purse (I really didn't realize how large that thing is until just now.....) at the Rock and Roll Museum



Anyway. Mostly I am just relieved that my family has departed. I am so mortified by my one sisters' behavior--telling T that he must have a small dick--and all the other crap she pulled while she was here. She is obviously pissed off at me about something, but cannot bring herself to actually tell me what it is. She must punish me, and therefore T by proxy.

I'm really, really over it. And I am NOT going to California.

There aren't words, really

For how ready I am for it to be Sunday, and for my life to return to some semblance of normalcy.

I mean, really.

Went to city with 2 sisters and one niece. Niece has never seen this city. Did all the touristy crap that I hate. (but went to the Sci-Fi museum, which was far cooler than I could have hoped. Dork, that's me!) We did a reasonable amount of walking--nothing so hideous that my bad knees and aching back (I really, really should be going to the chiropractor/massage therapist for my old injuries. Really. God bless the healthcare system in this country.) protested. Niece held up fine, but she's 16. Her mother was fine. T was fine. My other sister? Not fine.

My other sister, who lives the closest to me, is overweight. Not huge, not fat, but overweight. She smokes (but so does everyone but my niece), and she does.not.excise. But neither does anyone but my niece, again.

We walked about, oh, a half a mile.

My sister, the overweight smoker that she is, laid into T something ferocious. She was displeased that he had told her we would be done in 5 blocks or so, when it was more like 6 after the shopping took place. After huffing and snorting her exhaustion and displeasure, she said to him, and me,

"Does T measure the size of his penis the same way he does city blocks?"

and it just went from there. Me defending him, T apologising in an attempt to keep the peace, her stomping off into a store before I could call her out for her wildly inappropriate comments.

We haven't really spoken to each other since. She has tried to act like nothing is going on, like it's no big deal, and I have answered in as few words as possible.(This is so, so my family. Insult someone, throw a tantrum, act like you haven't done a damn thing ever to anyone.....UGH! I am pissed off at her anyway for her complete lack of interest in getting her part in the estate settled and her mean spirited gossip about me to the rest of the family. She has to be an idiot to not think that my cousins, the only people in this family I can stand (aside from my niece, it would seem. I don't hate her one bit, the darling...unlike the rest of the nieces and nephews. Well, half nephews are ok but that's besides the point.) would tell me that they heard these things about me? Jesus.) I understand that my actions are technically passive aggressive, that I just went on this whole rant a few posts ago about how much I hate that shit, but my options are 1)Fume about it and do nothing or 2)Do something and have it turn into this gigantic pain in my ass as she holds the golden checkbook. She could, and has, punish me very easily with this. T is over it, he expects this kind of behavior from them. He doesn't want me to react in any way, and I respect that. Don't really agree, but I respect his wishes.

But really? Don't fuck with T. Not on my watch. I don't care who you are.

Needless to say, my ass will NOT be going to California next month. I don't care if she buys the tickets and gilds them for me, I will be here. Thanks.

I am over it. Over the back biting, the bitching, the two facedness. All this one sister has done (and she's normally the nice one!) is complain about me, my actions, behavior, words, everything. I cooked a HUGE meal last night and she bitched because she volunteered to do the dishes and there were a lot of them. I offered to help, but no, no! Fuck off. I just cooked a 6 item meal (steak, salmon, potatoes, stuffing, caprese, tomato salad) to every ones standards and requests, waiting for HER to arrive to start (Oh, and I made cookies too. And breakfast that morning, but those were before she got there) so it would be hot and fresh, and she is pissed off about the dishes.

She yelled at us in public for T kissing me on the temple.

I'm ready for them to go home.

Stolen....

Quick! (As posting shall be sparse, as well as the time to do it in, for a few more days...)

1)My sisters and niece are here. Sisters still themselves, niece is six feet tall, red hair and gorgeous. (haven't seen her since she was in diapers.) Also, not a horrible person.

2)Going to city tomorrow with sisters, niece and T. Please, lord, don't let me stab anyone.

3)Apparently, going to California next month with sisters to see horrible (different) niece's art show. Sigh. This involves flying....and family. Kill me.

4)I stole this from Brian. Accuse as necessary.



You find a fairy. With a wave of their wand they can change anything for you.

What is the one thing you would change about your body?
Lose 40 pounds and stop having the skin of a 14 year old pizza boy.

What is the one personality trait you would change?
My divine need to take care of everyone but myself.

What is the one thing about your job you would change?
I would love it to exsist. Or that it paid better, as I am currently busting my ass all the time for free.

What is the one thing about your home you would change?
Just one thing? New Floorswindowsbathroomskitchennoroomies.

What is the one thing about your Significant Other you would change?
I would love him to have more pride in himself and his accomplishments. (To see in himself what I see in him.) Otherwise, not a damn thing.

Who is the one person you would poof out of your life and why?
My mother. If you have read this blog before, you know. (Brian, I laughed my ass off when you called that dude a butt plug. Seriously.)

Who is the one person you would poof back in and why?

My dads. Both of them.


Wish me luck with the fam, kiddies. I may need it.

Bits and Bobs

I hate that term. Odds and ends, ok. Bits and Pieces. Gotcha. But Bits and Bobs make me imagine a spunky old couple, wearing matching pastel golf outfits, power walking around their retirement home, laughing so loud and big you can see their dental work glinting.

Anyway, just random updates today.

Watched South Park's Imaginationland last night....meh. It was ok. Some funny parts. Like watching Anubis pushing Snarf from the Thundercats down a slide. That's something I would think about.

T's brother J has made a complete 180 as far as helping out goes. I started lumping his filth in with M's, the new roomie--his filth puts all of ours to shame. Well, when J started having to clean up after M....the world changed. Reality Check for the man--now he not only picks up after himself, but helps me to do general upkeep as well.

And we are on the edge of evicting M. He never, never not once, has cleaned anything. Leaves a tsunami of shit behind him wherever he goes--he is so, so SO much worse than J ever considered being. But rather than behaving sheepishly, or ignoring me when I say something, M cops a huge attitude. He yells at me, tells me I am passive aggressive when I just clean up the mess after I ask him to do it and he stares at me like I have asked him to remove his testicles. Also, T and I bent some rules for him and rather than respect that, he has taken complete advantage. If something goes wrong with this, T and I, especially T, will pay a huge price.

T is having the big boy talk with him today.

He has no where else to go, we all know that. But he also doesn't know how fucking easy he has it. Don't burn your bridges--especially if you're standing on it.

T is enjoying his days off by sleeping. A lot.

My friend and bowling dude A had his first beer in over a year a few days ago, and it was hilarious. But I am glad that I was able to share this moment with him. (Note: Chugging a Black Butte Porter when you have had NO ALCOHOL for over a year will give you a buzz. A didn't realize this until it was too late, and hilarious. I have pics, I will post them later.)

My sisters and niece are coming next week, which means that I will probably have torn all my hair out by the time they leave. And blogging will be light while they are here.

Fire me some comments, people!! Please? :)

Mornings are Bad

My mother is famous for calling my house, no one answering, her refusing to leave a message and just calling back. Again, and again, and again, because she thinks we are sleeping. If I don't angrily answer the phone by the fourth call, she will usually leave a message. But I can't take it that long. A ringing telephone will rouse me out of the deepest sleep, and there is nothing worse than laying there, 'ignoring' the phone. Maybe it's a throwback to everyone around me dying, but I cannot NOT answer the phone.

Anyway, today is T's first day off in 12. We had huge plans of sleeping LATE, snuggled together under the covers, being caressed by the fan, being cute and grossing out every member of his family that reads this. (Hi!)

The phone began to ring. I woke up, pried myself away from T, and listened. (I can usually make it through one phone call if, I'm really tired, without answering.) Depending on what the answering machine told me, I would go back to sleep, or angrily go back to sleep.

There was no message. They called back, immediately.

I hurled the covers off the bed. Pushed myself to my feet, waking T in the process. Banged the door open, and charged towards the phone.

I answered it in a not-very-friendly voice. I thought it was my mother.

It was not.

The woman on the other end asked for our roomie, M, but by his full name. (Which we never call him) In my sleep addled, super irritated state, I barked, "I'm sorry, but you have the wrong number!" and hung up.

I then realized that it was probably M's mom. And that she had called twice because something terrible had happened, etc. (Spiralling into worry!)

So I wake up M, who works graveyard and hasn't been asleep that long, tell him what happened. He seemed unaffected by it. Still I feel really guilty.

I rock.

By the by, I must thank you for the way everyone came out of the woodwork over my recipes, people. Thanks. :)

Wants and Needs of My People

Hey, Dudes--yeah, all four of you....

You want I should post some of my more infamous recipes round these parts?

Things like my Lasagna Rolls, adapted from a Giada DeLaurentiis recipe?

Brie en Croute, with preserves?

California Caprese? Rosemary Chicken with Sun dried tomatoes and artichokes?

The salmon sauce that C hates?

Black and Bleu Burgers? Garlic Pub fries?

Banana/Zucchini bread?

Gumbo? Jambalaya? The POUNDCAKE?

Lets-Not-Make-This-A-Racial-Issue Brownies, newly expanded to LNMRaRI Cookies?

Spiced Wild Berries?

Any suggestions? I've prolly got a recipe for it if you can think of it.

Lemme know. :)

I'm off to make lasagna rolls and racial cookies for 21 people.

Creepy.....

I am terrified of animatronic toys. Beginning with good ol' Teddy Ruxpin when I was a child, the idea of an inanimate object talking and interacting with me goes against everything I stand for as far as my own mental health goes.

Tickle me Elmo. (Any of the interactive Elmo toys, really.) Aside from being the most annoying sounding toy on the planet, scary.

Furbies. Like gremlins on crack, they giggled and twittered me right into the fetal position. Ugh.

Robosapien. One of the kids I used to nanny for had one of these, and loved it. I wanted to put it in the closet and drink heavily after it wolf whistled at me.

Aibo, Robopet....They all make me want to hide.

FurReal Friends Cat, RoboReptile, Butterscotch the Pony.

And now....RoboPanda. Really?? I mean, come on.

They've already ruined dogs, cats, tribbles, and now the noble panda?

I understand the allure of these toys. They are, if you can get past the terror, kind of cool from a technology aspect. My father thought they were neat, simply because when he was a kid Lincoln Logs hadn't even been invented yet. This is the man that used to sing the praises of the microwave to anyone who would listen. TiVo about made him faint when I explained it to him. From that point of view, they are amazing.

One of the scariest things for me is the idea that there is something small and manevolent in my house, hiding, waiting to attack me. That scene in Aliens when the face hugger is in the medical bay, hiding and chasing Sigourney Weaver and the kid whose name I don't remember? So. Terrifying.

Understanding that the worst damage a Furby could do to me is kill me by annoyance, or cause me to trip over it and break a bone, I'm still afraid. I don't want to walk leisurely down my hall and have a small, disembodied voice giggle at me. I don't want a robotic panda bear to wave and ask me if I want to play. I don't want Elmo to laugh hysterically and beg me to dance, limbo, or do the YMCA.

It makes me feel as though I have lost my mind. Like reality has somehow shifted beneath me, and I am in the Toys 'R Us in hell.

T's youngest brother was terrified of the animatronic Godzilla toy they had as a kid. I'm sure everyone remembers this toy--A hard plastic Godzilla doll, about a foot high. If you pressed a button on it's back, it would screech, shoot sparks and smoke. Granted, A the baby brother was about a year old and the thing was nearly as big as he was, and he did have 8 elder siblings to torture him with it--But I feel his pain. Actually, I feel worse for him than for me, as he had recently discovered what his feet were for and suddenly there is a robotic, demonic screeching monster chasing him down the stairs. I have a good grasp on reality (most of the time, anyway) and understand what is and is not supposed to happen therein and can understand that Elmo truly does not mean me any harm.

It doesn't make me like the damn things, though.

For My Final Trick

I really wish I could sleep. If I could sleep, I wouldn't have thoughts that spiral out of control rolling through my head. I'm sitting in the house, blissfully alone (T and M are at work, J is out with the 'ladies', or at least that's what he's telling people) wondering who keeps calling me at this hour. Two phone calls, both different rings than normal (on my house phone!) both hang up the moment my hand touches the phone. It's not T, I called the control room and asked him.

Sorta creepy, were you into that sort of thing.

I am not, really. "The call is coming from inside the house!"

Anyway.

My ex-fiance got married a month ago. To the fat girl with the square head, who also happens to be the second person he cheated on me with. (That I know of.)

I am wildly unaffected by this information. I mean, really. I know that I am bringing it up on the blog, and therefore I have at least given it some thought, but I'm not mad, or upset, or really....anything. That time in my life is thankfully over.

I dated him immediately after T dumped my ass in HS. (Oh yes he did.) I dated this other dude, who doesn't deserve an initial, on and off for 4 years. He cheated, lied, was insane and did various sundry other bad things to me (and in general) the entire time we were together. I was young and really stupid.

We still have a lot of friends-in-common. This is the part that makes me smile--I'm getting to it.

Now, I am not a shallow person. But I am human, and sometimes, I derive sick pleasure from things......Like, oh, the knowledge that our friends-in-common have told him that T and I are not only back together, but getting married.

I know there is a good chance that he is as unaffected by my nuptials as I am of his. But unless he is a totally changed man from the last time I spoke to him--his ass, it is chapped.

His ass is chapped because he hated T. T hated him. Before I was even in the equation, these two didn't like each other. His ass is chapped because all of his friends, not just the ones that were also friends of mine, told him he was making a mistake when he and I ended things. Told him that he was 'downsizing', that I was a catch.

He obviously disagreed. I am glad that he did.

I haven't ever met the woman, but I am sure that she is lovely. (Even if she is fat and has a square head. But body type and head shape do not a lovely woman make.) He was (and is, I'm sure) a very funny and engaging man, and it would take a certain caliber of person to be with him.

I hope that they are happy together. I hope they are swathed in marital bliss for the rest of their days.

T is banking on them being at his class reunion next year. (Yes, we all went to HS together.) He is banking on shaking his hand, meeting the wife. Introducing me as his wife. Of seeing the look on my ex's face.

I am banking on my knowledge of the inner workings of this man's brain, and believe that he will avoid us like the plague itself. Which is probably a good thing, because T likes to remind people that have wronged me/us of how awesome we are, especially if he has had a scotch or 15. Endearing, yes, but on a case sensitive basis, perhaps.

And I really have no interest in seeing him again. I wouldn't stab him or anything--I really don't wish him any ill will, as much as I probably should. But I don't think he deserves the energy of forced pleasantries.

This post has no point. Nothing I type after 2 am is worth a shit....like last night, for example. The point is, it's almost 4am and I can't sleep. I have watched more TV than I care to admit, I have blown through a ton of knitting, I have read chapter upon chapter in my book. And so now I am writing a blog post about how I feel nothing about the fact that my cheating ex fiance got married.

Good Lord, I am one of 'those' bloggers. Perhaps that's who keeps calling my house--the Emo-Hipster police. They've gotten wind of my dreary self-righteousness, my misuse of internet space....and they're here to stop me.

That paragraph alone tells me I need to go to bed. Sorry, everyone. Maybe I will come back through and delete this under the cold light of afternoon.

If you like it or not....

No one said they wanted to see my dress.

But here it is anyway.

(Minus the lace overlay. You can see it pretty well under there....even though I need to get something like that since I can't show my damn shoulders in the church. And, contrary to popular belief, not because I am covered in tattoos. Which I am, all three of you that didn't know that already.)



T hasn't seen it on my person, but is thrilled with the knowledge that I cannot wear a bra with it.

The roomies said, "You've got the ta-ta's for it.", which I assume is a good thing.

Any thoughts?

BS, BM, Bullcrap.

I believe that line is from SNL. From, like, 15 years ago. But I have been wrong before.

There is a lot of bullshit going on in my life right now. I am, as a wise man once said, the fuck over it.

Between room mate issues, our coffee pot spontaneously combusting, the fact that I purchased no less than 80 individual cans of diet pepsi last week which are now laying empty at the bottom of the recycling bin, my knitting retardation, passive aggression from all fronts.....ugh.

Grow up, world, and please stop melting, coffee pot. Also, buy your own pepsi, roomies.

Oh, and the feeder fish died. It's a start, at the very least.

My mom called me a bitch today, which was a nice way to start my morning. I just really wish she would come out with what she is really mad at me about--sigh.

No, seriously. My mother loves her some passive aggressive behavior. I don't play that game. Until she tells me what the hell is bothering her, I am pretending I haven't noticed her ungodly behavior. She can be spiteful and mean all she wants, but until she tells me how I have factored into that behavior? I don't give a shit.

I dunno. I just really think that there are better ways of getting a point across. If you're pissed, say something. If you're not that pissed? Either say something or get the fuck over it. Don't punish me for not being intuitive enough to read minds.

AGH! She just enrages me. But enough about her.

I am wearing the socks I made myself. They (well, one more than the other) are comfy as hell. It would seem that I knit tighter on metal needles, and made one with metal, and therefore....it's smaller. But it's cool.

I have finished one baby item, and now need to procure buttons which will be strategically placed on the wrong side for a boy and then the whole thing will be sent off to Utah.

Dude, I am freaking out that it will not be well received. But it remains to be seen. I'm sure it will be fine.

I am making another one as we speak, but in a different color for a different baby.

Joined Net*flix, and love it. It gives me some leverage against the boys when the TV fight begins. (video games vs. movie...Fight!)

However, T and the boys do not share the same taste in movies as lil' old me. I like indie films and documentaries, with some horror and black comedy thrown in. When the mail arrives with more movies, and they are all documentaries......there are some sad pandas in the mix. (Oh well. I have seen enough Soul Caliber IV to last me the rest of my life. A little education about the life and times of a set of identical twins, both homosexual but one transgendered will not hurt them at all. Right?)

Blargh! (Also, Long Winded)

Quickly, before I forget:

On my meme, (Previous post) #16 is Epoisses--which is a super, amazingly, horrifying stinky french cheese. (So stinky they didn't want it shipped by train, lest the stink waft along behind the train, causing innocent bystanders to faint) It's made from unpasteurized milk, then bathed in Cognac.

It is on the cheese plate at my former place of employment, and bowling master A (chef, as well as bowling master, that one) was telling me a tale of woe featuring this specific cheese.

It would seem that this cheese is more expensive per pound than off season crab. It would also seem that this cheese was so odoriferous that even though it was packed inside it's little wooden house, as well as vacuum sealed, it was easy to smell. (That is pungent, people.)

Someone ordered the cheese plate. This cheese was new, and scheduled to be placed aside it's milder, more innocent cousins.

A cut the cheese (Literally), and not only did he nearly vomit from the smell, it stained the white cutting board. Cheese should not stain, people. (A is a man who has worked in commercial kitchens for over a decade. It goes without saying that he has seen some nasty, horrible 'food' in his career. If this little box of cheese was the thing to tip the scale into dry-heave land....whoo.)

A very mild mannered woman (the server who was toting said cheese plate) was unsure of the true violence of this cheese, and asked A about this. He waved the wooden box near her face, and she ran from him.

I want to eat this cheese. I am an adventurous, masochistic eater, it would seem. Just one bite, just to say I did.

I will then probably spend 45 minutes with my Soni*care. A tooth brushing scene to rival the shower scene in The Crying Game.

Anyway. On to the long winded part. (Edited to add: It's 2:30 in the morning, I am on my third cup of coffee {why fight the insomnia anymore, really?}.....Feel free to stop reading with that in mind, kiddos.)

My mother, god love the woman, makes me want to dig a hole and live in it, simply so that she will not be able to reach me by telephone. She scarred T's brother J for life via one drunken phone call. (She mistook J for T, and, although they are brothers with an age difference of just over 2 years, they sound nothing alike. Unless you are wasted on box wine and vicodin, I guess. Regardless, she accused J of lying to her about my whereabouts, and there was some loud, slurred swearing involved. Considering J had no idea who the hell he was talking to, the poor thing, it would seem he handled himself quite well. He didn't tell me too many details, probably for fear of insulting me, but I could tell he was at the very least super uncomfortable.)

What happened is what always happens. With the full understanding that the definition of "insanity" is "To do the same thing over and over again, always expecting different results", I am always surprised when mom does this.

I tell her, kindly "Mom, I am going to be out of town/at work/unavailable for any reason from Date/time to Date/Time. If you call, I will not be able to talk to you. Please do not assume I am dead, angry, or maimed in some way. Thanks!"

She usually makes it about 1/3 of the way into the allotted time before she calls. Like when my dad died. Like when I was in Vegas. Like this weekend.

I told her, repeatedly, that I was going to the city for the weekend.

She made it to Saturday.

The woman, she was SHIT FACED. Like, plastery plastered. Drunky McSlurryson.

I have no patience for this. She knows, full well, that I want nothing to do with her when she is drinking. That I will not talk to her when she is drinking, that calling me while intoxicated is a really, really bad idea.

She is weeping, which is typical. (Drunk or not.) She is lonely, her shoulder hurts, she 'just wants to hear my voice', because a friend of hers 'that she's had for a long time' yet I have never heard of (My mother cannot shut up and tells me everything about everything and everyone. Her having a secret friend is impossible.) was nearly molested. (This secret friend is a 12 year old girl who befriended my mother over her cat. This, at least, is plausible.)

Now, please, please, please don't get me wrong here. Molestation, sexual assault of ANY kind, is reprehensible. I firmly believe that sexual predators, especially those who prey on children, should be punished beyond the full letter of the law. Those kind of crimes do damage that cannot be undone, leave marks that do not heal.

I know this.

So my heart is moved by my mom's story. The fact that someone who lives so close to her is capable of such a terrible act is terrifying, that something so horrible could happen to any child, let alone one she cares about, it is hysteria inducing. It makes me ill to think of it. I'm with her so far.

What I am not with her for, however, is the drunken bullshit that comes with talking to anyone who is intoxicated. Especially someone who is a drunk like my mother is a drunk--mean. Mean, two faced, histrionic. And the complete lack of reason! Oh, how it enrages me.

She has to tell me this story no less than 15 times. I am saying the words with her on about the third time through. I am insulted that my mother is using this girl's trauma as a reason to go on a bender--which is what she is doing. (My mother takes other people's pain, their issues, and makes them her own. Because if she has a 'reason' to get shitfaced, then no one can judge her. I have seen her see a commercial and get wasted over it.) I do not doubt that she was upset, horrified. My mother is, when sober, a kind hearted and loving person. The idea of someone harming a child terrifies her, sickens her. But to then drunk dial everyone she knows, telling them the intimate details of what happened to this child, looking for sympathy of her own.....Oh, it makes me sick.

My heart hurts for this girl. I am so, so glad that she is alright, that she got away from her attacker, and that he has been remanded into police custody. (Which is where he can rot, thank you very much) That she doesn't fully understand what could have happened to her if she had not left when she did gives me hope that she will lead a normal, productive and happy life, unmarred by a loss of innocence.

My mother cannot leave it at that.

After the 14th telling of this grotesque tale, I remind her of the upside--that this girl is safe now, that she is ok, that the man is in jail and will stay there, unable to harm another child. That this girl (by my mom's own word) doesn't understand fully what happened to her, that she will be ok. Mom's drunk need for attention does not allow her to feel this way, to try and see these things.

She lashes out, as she is not getting her desired response from me. (While she is half weeping into the telephone, I am trying to cook dinner at 10pm, unpack a suitcase and entertain company from out of town. She is yelling at me for not 'talking' to her, but I couldn't get a word in edgewise if I wanted to.) She starts in on my wedding, on her disapproval of T's religion. She begins telling me that she knows more than I do about my life (she doesn't know my favorite color, for God's sake), that I will have children immediately following my nuptials (Uh, no. Good try, mom. Not gonna happen.), that she doesn't think I will be as good at mothering as she.

And then she starts in on what a terrible daughter I was/am. About how all the bad things that have happened to me (Very, very few of which does she know about, in all honesty. I do not trust this woman with anything, let alone details about some of the more horrific things that have happened to me.) happened because I didn't listen to her, that I rebelled. (I didn't rebel. I wasn't allowed out of my freaking house, like, ever. There was no way I could rebel. Sure, I went nuts in college, but what's that saying about 'the preacher's daughter'?)

She tells me how glad she is that she "isn't a mother anymore". That she is so, so glad that I am adult, that she is no longer liable for my "fucking retarded decisions", that my waste of a life cannot be traced to her. (It's all my father's fault, you see. The fact that she surprised a man 26 years her senior with an unwanted child with the intention of getting more money when she divorced him {she has openly admitted that is the only reason I am alive} and then spent the next 26+ years abusing and damaging that child in every way possible has nothing to do with her--Dad knocked her up. Good logic, that.)

Before I can open my mouth to respond to this, she launches another attack. Why haven't I spent the money to fly her out here? Why am I planning my wedding without her? She promised, after all, to remain sober while here--isn't her word good enough? How dare I do something with my life that doesn't revolve around her??

She exhausts me. I have no idea what to do. I want, so, so badly, to have a mom. Never had one, I don't think I ever will. Just for one day--My wedding day--I would love to have a mommy. I don't trust her, I don't even like her. But I love her--she is my mom. My fucked up, crazy mom. My last living parent.

I want to never talk to her again. I want to cut her out of my life, to try and heal all the wounds she has inflicted over and over again. I want, so desperately, to not have to worry about what she is doing/will do/could do at any given moment.

I can't. I cannot do this.

I know she will ruin my wedding. It terrifies me, but I am powerless to stop it. If I don't have her here, she will RUIN MY LIFE. If I do, she will ruin my wedding, make a scene in front of everyone, and give me a good reason (and lots of credible witnesses) to cut her out of my life.

I don't like either of those options. I know I am having a pity party for myself, that I am whining. That I should take action or shut the fuck up.

But she is my mom. I hate her, I love her, I want her to disappear. I feel guilty for resenting her so whole heartedly, for not being able to forgive her for the laundry list of terrible shit she has done.

I do not trust her to redeem herself on my wedding day.

And I feel like shit for it.

And this is nothing I haven't said before, again, and again, and again. I feel like shit for that, too.

My Kind of Meme

The Omnivore's Hundred is a list of foods the gastronome Andrew Wheeler thinks everyone should try at least once in their lives.

The rules of the meme: bold those you have tried, italicise those you wouldn't eat on a bet. (I have added an element of bragging, and 'starred' the ones I cook.)



1. Venison*
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros*
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue*
8. Bread pudding*
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush*
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich*
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans*
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters (I ate me the hell out of some oysters this weekend...)
29. Baklava*
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl*
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float*
36. Cognac
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly
39. Gumbo*
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more (And let me tell you...I still didn't like it. I do my fellow countrymen a disservice.)
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala (This is like, my favorite thing of all time. Oh, Lordy.)
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer*
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini*
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores*
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake****
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe(I have had absinthe, but not that brand....does it still count? I bet it still tastes like licorice and hate.)
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant
85. Kobe beef (It harms me that I haven't eaten this yet. They make Waygu beef hot dogs, which also harms me.)
86. Hare
87. Goulash*
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox* (Rub it on my body, I love it so.)
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta*
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee (Give me some of this. My life will be complete. Almost.)
100. Snake

Damn. Looks like I need to have more adventures in eating. :) 62% was a failing grade when I was in school, all those moons ago.

Bowling, Biking and Power Shopping

You asked for photos? I give you photos.

Bowling:



T is thrilled to be having his ass handed to him by my buddy/ex-coworker/bowling pro A. (In the background.)



I am sweaty. And wearing shoes that don't belong to me.




It would seem that my flash distracts Bowling Master A, and by distracts I mean displeases, and by displeases I mean he looks less like a dork in this pic than of the one where he is smiling. (My poor-mans flash-bomb did not work, however.)


Biking:

(Back story. T had a renter at one time, who was in the process of common-law divorcing someone we went to HS with. She won his tiny BMX-knockoff in the divorce, didn't want it, and promptly left the bike (sans seat, however) and some of her other unwanted shit in our garage when she FINALLY moved out. T bought a new seat for this bike, and now rides it, looking like a bear on a roller skate. But whatever, it's funny.)




Yes, he is smoking while riding the bike. It is more hilarious if you could see that he is wearing a Miller High Life T-shirt as well. And please don't judge my parking lot/driveway in the background.




From left: Roomie M, Good buddy/Maid of honor/Newly licensed paramedic E, T atop the bike. This is shortly before E and T traded places and a woman in the apartments in the distance said, "You're a little big for that bike!", to which M replied, "You're a pretty big whore for that house!".

Power shopping:

I found the dress.

I then went to two other bridal stores, one of which told me I was "too fat" for their dresses and another bargain basement chain who yelled things about only carrying "designer lines", none of which were priced over $400, (A good thing) and looked it. (A bad thing.)

Wanna see it?

Ominous Music

I am terrified that I spell things wrong in my title bar, and people will come here to read, see the misspelling, laugh, judge, and leave. (Because that's what I would do. Double standards abound, I tell you.)

It is so freaking hot in my house, I can't really tell you. I have all the doors and windows open, all the fans running, and it is still just as hot inside as outside. (Ok, so I know some of you kids live places far, far hotter than here. But take a moment to think about where I live....and then throw 95 degrees with 100% humidity on top of it. I'm hot.) T is at work, where he is operating (and therefore making the big bucks) and sitting in a blissfully air conditioned control room. But I am sitting in my living room with two sweaty twenty-something boys in various states of stinky undress, watching them play video games at full volume.

It's hot, and I am cranky. Mostly because I have to wear clothes because the boys are here, and, well, I love them and want them to have the gift of eyesight.

Anyway.

My dear, dear friend E is on his way up here from a job interview. He just received his paramedic license, and has years of experience as a fire fighter.....so he is a pretty hot commodity right now. I beam with pride. (He and I have been friends since we were kids, like, 9-10 years old and so he is essentially my brother. Also, my maid of honor.)

Anyway, he is coming up here not only to visit, but to take me wedding dress shopping this weekend.

Sigh.

He maintains that we should just get drunk and do it that way, but I have a feeling that T's sister (who is overseeing the entire operation, and to whom I will owe my first born child when this is all said and done) may not love that idea. Or she will love it, and the three of us will stagger into the bridal store and I will just take my clothes off and demand to be dressed by my 'minions'. Whichever, really.

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

So the baby knitting has begun in earnest.

Moni, we need to talk.

The item I am making for your son is nearly completed. This is the very first (!) item of this kind I have ever made--so that makes it extra special. (Maybe.) Anyway, if, say, hypothetically, I had made a mistake in button placement, like, oh, put the buttons on the side appropriate for girls rather than boys, would you or your husband explode? I assume your son has more important things to worry about, like, oh, learning to focus his eyes or use his tongue.....If it matters, I can tear the whole thing out and do it again. If it doesn't matter, however, this item shall be mailed to you shortly. Please lemme know if the buttons are an issue. (I'm such a dork sometimes.)

Anyway, I am going to turn into a puddle of goo if I remain sedentary. Perhaps more later. (Tales of bowling, with photos, perhaps!)

Divine Need

I have had something of an epiphany.

(One of my favorite excerpts from a book is in Augusten Burroughs' "Magical Thinking", where he says, 'Then it came to me, the way Jesus comes to people in trailer parks.....an epiphany.') (My apologies to any and all readers who are born again christians who live in trailers. The rest of you are....exempt.)

I am really, really digging on French Europop at the moment.

Please take a moment to let your shame wash over you at reading that statement.

And now allow me to explain.

I don't love France. I have never been to France, or to Europe at all, (Oh, but I will go. I will load my self up with enough anti-anxiety medication to take down a family of elephants, write a missive of apology to T for the next 16 hours of his life, and board that fucking plane.) but France doesn't really do it for me. I love Provencal style food, pan au chocolat, cafe au lait, and a good Beaujolais now and again, but....nah. (I am willing to amend that statement upon research. But sensors are pointing to no for the time being.)

Anyway.

Daft Punk: French. (That makes me love France. Well, at least have a small bit of respect for it. It can't be that bad if this sort of magic comes out of it.....)

Saint Germain: French. (It's totally obscure. Love, love, love. Everyone really needs to go hear this song. I'm serious. I can't think of a person that wouldn't like it. Maybe a communist or something.) (It gives me amazing memories of consuming illegal psychotropic substances on a roof top in the summer with more than a few bottles of wine, good friends, warm breezes through the top tree boughs, twinkling white lights.....Pot will do that to you. Anyway.)

Air: French. (Everyone knows these kids. Great stuff, though. I have really strange coming of age memories to this song. But this is good too.) (It's also T's theme song in my mind, but no one wanted to know that. Sorry, family.)

I was recently introduced, due to my insomnia and constant internet surfing, that there is something new (to me) to come leaping out of France and into my head, which gave me so much joy.....It is the most ridiculous thing I have seen in a long time, if you discount Japan. (They love them the weird pop.)

Sebastien Tellier.

I read the synopsis under the video, written by a blogger whose impression was very similar to mine. She compared him to a pre-Scientology Beck, and also said that if she had kids, she would tell them that he was Jesus.

Wildly inappropriate, but hilarious if you're a heathen like me. Apologies.

I do love me the inexplicable and strange music/ians. The Flaming Lips? Love. Modest Mouse? (Yes, they are main stream now, but they sure didn't use to be.)(Not the song I would have chosen to encompass their earlier work, but whatever. Another song with great memories.)

Anyway, all that linking.....Lord, it's 4:15 in the morning.

I can't sleep. Have I mentioned my insomnia? Yeah.

Anyway, all that linking goes to show several things you already knew.

1)I have really, really weird taste in music.

2)I want to go to France to get cheap(er) CD's

3)I cannot sleep, and therefore have too much time on my hands.

I'm off to collect T from work.

Victory....For a Moment

When T and I returned from our mini-vacation, the house was clean.

No, let me say that again, so you can genuinely understand....

The house? It was CLEAN.

No dishes, no laundry, no random detritus on the floor. No pop cans, no take out bins, no garbage. (Even the recycling went out!!!)

We were gone for four days. FOUR DAYS.

I could not leave for more than three hours without returning to a Hoover-ville prior to this.

My joy--It was epic. I gushed, I think, my thanks at the boys. My pride, my pleasure at knowing that they were capable....and all that needed to happen to make sure those abilities would continue to be used is the threat of my leaving....for good. You see, this is how I struck the fear of filth into the boys--I told them I would move out. That I didn't pay more than they do every month to be a maid servant--to clean, and cook, and launder, and clean, all the while they all sit and play video games at full volume.

This fear seems to have been a great motivator for them. They want me to stay, they want me to be happy, they enjoy my company, and most of all--I give good advice. (So they say. They could be buttering me up for all I know.)

Anyway.

Today, I had laundry to do. T has to work essentially every day for the rest of this month, and he needs his work clothes clean, and so on.

So I gathered the laundry, my heart aflutter with the knowledge that the only laundry I needed to do belonged to me or someone who sleeps with me every night. Took it to the garage, sorted it. Looked in the washing machine.

And this is where things went wrong.

Have you ever been in a situation where you were so confused by what was before you that your mind went blank for a few moments? Where you needed a mental "do-over" to make sure that what you thought you were seeing was not, in fact, what was actually the reality of the situation?

It was kind of like that.

So I had my mental do-over, and nothing changed. I could only come to one determination as to what was in the washing machine.

I went directly into the house, and asked J if he could assist me in the garage.

J came out, and I asked him, "J, where is the laundry soap scoop?"

He responded, "I don't know, I never found it."

"How did you get the soap in the machine?"

"Just picked up the box and poured it in."

I looked at him, I looked at my Cost*co sized 200 load box of Gain. I looked into the washing machine.

"J, is that why there is powdered soap in every orifice of the machine?"

"I guess I just have bad aim." He smiled, and went back into the house.

I followed him, got a 1/8th teaspoon out of the drawer, and began the arduous task of scraping laundry soap, now the consistency of cement, out of the fabric softener dispenser, bleach dispenser, hinges of the lid....the whole upper-level of the machine.

Several minutes, a few cups of hot water and a salad of curse words later, I was ready to unplug the holes in the agitator where the fabric softener cascades into the rinse water, and begin digging for the soap scoop throughout the entire laundry area. (It was behind the dryer. I don't want to know.)

Needless to say, I fixed everything. It was fine.

It was, I can only assume, like when your children make you breakfast in bed and pour coffee down the hall rug, the comforter, your foot....but you smile and thank them. You understand that the intentions were good, that they did this for you out of love, and simply because they don't have the adult thinking skills that tell them that blindly shaking four pounds of laundry soap towards the washing machine and calling it good is not the best idea....you can't be mad. You can't chastise good intentions.

But you can spend thirty minutes cleaning it up.

Vacation.....sort of.

So T and I went off to the fortress of solitude for four days, ending last night.

One would think it would have been quiet, uneventful, and relaxing.

Then that one person would realize that it is me we are talking about here, and I will only relax under the influence of coma-inducing drugs, and that's even questionable.

We did have a nice time, however.

I finished my first knitted sock, which, it would seem, makes me a 'real' knitter as well as a much larger dork than I knew. I am just over half way done with the second one....and then I will knit for the babies. (I'm not making them anything they can wear now anyway, plus, after the present hysteria clams down some when everyone gets used to the baby......That's when I will strike.)

We kind of threw our diet out the window this week, which was counterproductive as well as delicious. Ahhh. I did try to stay on track, and then I ate 5 peanut butter cookies.

We took my friend A (not T's sister A, my old coworker....So confusing) out bowling for the anniversary (I shant say which one) of his 29th birthday. A bowls. A lot. He knows what he is doing, he loves it, he does it all the time. He has jewelry and coats with '300' on it--and I assume you all know that has nothing to do with Frank Miller. (Oh, but if he made a bowling novel....)

I do not bowl. Sure, I knock things over all the time, I rock that that. But doing that shit on purpose? Not a chance. Me, hurling a sphere of 10 pounds in weight down a wooden hallway with the intention of knocking shit over? It's not pretty.

But we had fun, and I convinced A to come back to my house and cook me breakfast the next day, because I rock and am not above guilt tripping people circa their dates of birth.

The next day was the anniversary of my dad's death. (See guilt trip reference above.) I really just wanted to spend it quietly, eating homemade eggs benedict (Yeah, the diet was pretty much forgotten at this point. Bereavement eating, I tell you.), knit, and watch television.

My mother put a quick stop to that, as I'm sure none of you are surprised to hear.

It would seem that my mother has broken her shoulder. She seems to think that she broke her shoulder six years ago, and is just now suffering the consequences. She has been to at least 5 orthopedic doc. appointments, and none of them (!) ever picked up on it. I tried to explain to her that is physically impossible to have a broken bone for six years. She's not listening.

She is, however, enjoying the benefits of an unlimited prescription of Vicodin.

She told me it upset her stomach. (My mom has a long, long history of stomach issues. She nearly died a few years ago from internal bleeding from not eating anything, drinking super heavy, and taking aspirin and ibuprofen like it was candy. She has now reached the state of alcoholism where her diaphragm is swollen and engorged, along with the lining of her stomach, and so any 'hiccup' style movement of the tummy causes her to vomit. This can lead to rupturing one of the blood vessels in the diaphragm/tummy area, and cause her to bleed out quicker than she could be saved. This sounds like a recipe for an unlimited script of vikes to me.)
I asked her if she told the doctor about her stomach problems. (Of course not.) I told her that there are pain meds out there that don't upset your stomach like that, that if she would just tell the doctors about her medical history she would be fine.

She yelled at me, called me a hypocrite (I'm not sure how that applies.) and then asked me how my vacation was going.

I got off the phone and took a nap.

She called again, and again, but it doesn't matter.

At least she took my mind off of being sad.

Wed-Dink

Alright, since Moni posted photos of her little bundle of joy, I will add more info about the wedding.

For fear of boring the world, I had not mentioned much about the wedding. I don't want to come off like a bridezilla, or like one of those girls who allows their entire identity to become the wedding.

I am neither of those things. Big time. It is fun, I guess, to be planning a huge (and I mean HUGE) party in the name of T and My's love for each other. It's endearing, really, the concept that it will be a matter of public record, and therefore, history (to those people who like to pour over old records in little towns, anyway) that T and I loved each other.

I am not a romantic. I am not a girlie girl. I don't like dresses, I don't really like flowers, I am not the hearts and pink rhinestone kind of girl. Woman. Whatever.

This has been a bit of an issue for me. I am clinging to the expertise of others, to the ideas of those women more into girlie things. Sigh.

Anyway, here is the general idea(s) for the wedding. (All penis-owners out there, I'm sorry. Prepare to be bored.)

Alright.

Wedding colors:

Matte Black
Ivory
Dusky Tiffany Blue (More slate than that)
Dusky/slate lilac purple

We're going for more of a vintage feel. The black and ivory are the main colors--all other color is going to come from the flowers. (Those secondary colors are still kinda up in the air. I'm thinking the flowers are going to be in those families....but I am still kinda drawn towards the really bold colors as well. We will see.)

The men are wearing slim-fitting pin-striped suits. The girls are wearing very 'Audrey Hepburn' dresses, black, boatneck, with an ivory sash and under skirt.

Everything in the reception site is going to be either ivory or black, with candles everywhere and flowers. The flowers are going to not really match each other...does that make sense? Different styles of decanters, same flowers, but different arrangements.

Anyway. I'm boring even myself.

Here is the site:








Anyway, T is wandering around in there, as well as the site director, and E, my dude-of-honor.

Well....Any thoughts? Help is good. :)

Fortress of Solitude

So our bum-rush of wedding planning went well. Aside from some traffic hang ups (We do live in a part of the world that could only be more difficult to enter and exit if it required a bush pilot. Actually, that might be faster.) and oversleeping issues (A, thank you for being ok with a minimal time line!) everything went famously.

We crashed a wedding (well, pre-wedding) at our reception site, which, rude though it may have been, was quite informative as we could see what it looked like all 'trussed up'. Granted, these people had no taste and their colors were insane, but, whatever.

(Ours is going to be so much cooler. I mean, how could it not be? It's us.)

While A was in town, we stayed at 'my' house--the condo. I had forgotten! It's so quiet! It's so clean! I can watch television uninterrupted!

It has become my fortress of solitude. I did not realize how loud T's house is, with the constant video games, stomping, yelling, clanking of dishes and hurling of detritus.....Ahhhh. To be able to sit on my deck and listen to the ocean and birds--and that's it. No traffic, no top volume japanimation, no yelling....

After dropping A at the half way point, I went back to the condo to pick up the luggage and whatnot, and wound up lounging on my couch, watching an "American Justice" marathon on A&E. Such pleasure!

Then, my friend from my old place of employment stopped by (Also known as A....Sigh.) and nearly had a heart attack when I freaked out when a moth flew down my shirt. He assumed, from my reaction, that I had dropped my cigarette and was now aflame, and was somewhat....crabby, I guess, when it turned out to be 'just a moth'. (Dude, moths scare the holy be-jeebus out of me. I don't understand it either.)

I thought it was funny. Well, not at the time, but you understand.

When I returned to T's house, it was...CLEAN!!!! It would seem that yelling at our roomie, M, along with disappearing for a while will light a fire under the heinies of some. And, to ice the cake? No one was here. Alone. All evening. (Aside from the moth incident, but whatever.) So, so great.

Our fish are still (Have I mentioned this?) trying to kill themselves/each other during their mating ritual prize fight. I can only hope that they quit or succeed. It's getting old.

Did you know that Bobby Flay is married to the blonde ADA from Law & Order SVU?

How nice for him. (I hate him. He hasn't done anything to me, personally, but he's a pretentious ass. And he looks like a bratty kid. Does that make sense? Like the neighbor kid from "Leave It to Beaver". So there. NO! Howdy Doody. That's who he looks like....an evil, annoying puppet. Yes..... Anyway, there are very few celebrity chefs that don't come off as complete assclowns in my mind. So there.)

Anyway.

I'm quickly running out of topics. Someone give me a shout out with what they want to hear from me! Help! Help!

Oh, and go check out Moni's beautiful son. He has red hair (!!). Playing for the right team already, I tell you.

Moni, you and your husband are so blessed--I am thrilled for you both. The little man is gorgeous, and when you are less sleep deprived, I require more pictures. (I know you have four million of them! Your mom wouldn't have it any other way.)

Humor....Not Really.

So when T and I went to Vegas, and on to the Hoover Dam and Big Canyon, we stopped in two towns in Arizona, the names of which made us laugh our asses off. Mostly because we had been in the car for hours and hours and hours, were tired and hot, and we're jackasses.

Saligman and Kingman. (SaLIG-MAN! KING-MAN! Super Heroes!)

We decided that these two towns would fight each other, on and on....Yeah, we're weird.

Anyway, I just popped over to my site meter and saw that someone from Kingman AZ had taken a gander at the site.

Welcome, person from Kingman. Your presence made me smile. Thanks. :)

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

T's sister A is coming over today to help me sort out the screaming pile of stress that is my wedding. I am meeting with caterers and florists and so on this week, and need to be prepared. Also, I want to talk to her about the reception site and so on....The poor dear. She probably doesn't know what she's signed up for. (Actually, I think she knows exactly what she has signed up for, and the fact that she is still volunteering to do this stuff for me makes me wonder if she's a bit nuts. Actually, she's freakin' awesome (nuts or not), and I would be lost without her. I just have a hard time thinking that people who are not obligated to want to help me. But that's another post for another day, methinks.)

Then, two weeks from now, I am starting the process that makes me want to lie down on the floor and wail until it's over.....

Dress Shopping.

I hate to try on clothes. I hate to wear dresses. I hate anything uncomfortable. I hate people staring at me, I hate being the center of attention....and white? Really? The jig is up, people.

My mother is beside herself because I don't want a veil. I think my mother has fallen victim to the infamous disease that plagues mothers everywhere.... "I Always Thought You Would Do It This Way", perhaps with a smattering of "I Need To Live Vicariously Through You-itis".

No, but really? I have serious, deep seeded body issues. I have a really hard time wearing anything that could potentially show any flaw I feel I have. uuuughh.

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

Also, my sister(s) and weird, bitchy nieces that I haven't seen since they were toddlers (and are now in college/last few years of HS) are coming to visit later this month.

If anyone needs me, I will be weeping openly in the garage.