I suck.
I have no real reason to be blogging--sure, some funny/interesting/I'm entertained so of course you are too stuff happened, but I have no real drive to share it.
I went to my HOA meeting today and watched old people sling mud and name call for 6 hours. (I left early.) I got a lot of knitting done, at least.
I fell victim to what knitters refer to as 'stash enhancement', where you make several mistakes that all lead down the same slippery slope.
1)Go into a yarn store with no real mission in mind--browsing. Danger.
2)Have debit/credit card on person while browsing.
3)Do not bring logical person (i.e. Husband, etc) along to be the voice of reason.
1+2+3=I have a years worth of yarn at my house (at least), more came in the mail today, I bought some yesterday AND I spent $more than I would like to admit today.
NO MORE YARN. NO! No more yarn for me. Period. I have to be down to 1 (!!) skein of sock yarn before I purchase more. SO THERE. (Any bets on how long this lasts before I cave? I mean, really.)
I took part in a Ravelry swap, and my package arrived today. Getting things in the mail is nice.
I'm going to use that as an opportunity to let miss Circe know that her package will be mailed this Monday, hopefully. So long as I don't wander into any yarn stores on my way to the post orifice everything should be ok.
Also, go here. Then go here.
You now have enough time wasting ability to last you forever. You're welcome.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Woe Cake leads to a trip on the Wahmbulance
I got a job yesterday.
I am freaked out by this.
Yes, it's just weekends.
Yes, it has the potential for me to progress my beloved potential career as a pastry chef. Yes, it is money that is much needed by our household. Yes, it is very close to our house and I can walk there and the owner knows of my impending marriage and need to take time to deal with things of that nature.
But I fear.
I fear that I will hate the job, that the job will hate me. That I will have horrible coworkers again, that it will be akin to serving once more. I fear that I won't be any good.
At the same time, I hope.
I hope that I will be able to prove myself a worthwhile employee, that the manager will have heard my words telling her that I wish to become a pastry chef, will have heard the words that my references gave saying that I have real potential in that department, that I will be given the opportunity to shine.
I hope that this will happen and save me from having to spend money out the butt to go to college.
I'm always apprehensive before I start a job. I have had terrible experiences working in places like this, but I have to remember--this is not the same. This is not the same management, the same mission statement.
I'm just really tired of looking for the 'worst case scenario' in all things, my need to prepare myself for the worst so that I am never let down. Why can't I allow myself to be excited, to be happy that I finally have overcome the depressed job market in this county and we are going to have that much more money each month?
My anxiety--It sucks.
I need to just take all the negative feelings I've got, realize that they are potentially relevant, and then put them away and allow myself some optimism.
I am freaked out by this.
Yes, it's just weekends.
Yes, it has the potential for me to progress my beloved potential career as a pastry chef. Yes, it is money that is much needed by our household. Yes, it is very close to our house and I can walk there and the owner knows of my impending marriage and need to take time to deal with things of that nature.
But I fear.
I fear that I will hate the job, that the job will hate me. That I will have horrible coworkers again, that it will be akin to serving once more. I fear that I won't be any good.
At the same time, I hope.
I hope that I will be able to prove myself a worthwhile employee, that the manager will have heard my words telling her that I wish to become a pastry chef, will have heard the words that my references gave saying that I have real potential in that department, that I will be given the opportunity to shine.
I hope that this will happen and save me from having to spend money out the butt to go to college.
I'm always apprehensive before I start a job. I have had terrible experiences working in places like this, but I have to remember--this is not the same. This is not the same management, the same mission statement.
I'm just really tired of looking for the 'worst case scenario' in all things, my need to prepare myself for the worst so that I am never let down. Why can't I allow myself to be excited, to be happy that I finally have overcome the depressed job market in this county and we are going to have that much more money each month?
My anxiety--It sucks.
I need to just take all the negative feelings I've got, realize that they are potentially relevant, and then put them away and allow myself some optimism.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Travel Safely, Asshat
So T and I went south for a few days this week, to deliver a karaoke machine (Thanks, A) to my cousin.
T stayed up for 24 hours to drive us down there, because I am a spoiled princess and driving in the city makes me have an aneurysm.
We drove through the part of my state that was submerged in 10 feet of water not too long ago, and that was weird. Trees, trash, couches, chairs, what looked like a bear (and was probably something far less interesting) tires and general crap was everywhere along the highway. The rivers were swollen and coffee colored. The trees were stripped of leaves (I know it's winter but we're big on evergreens out here, people) half way up, showing where the water was.
Weird. Surreal.
T, being totally exhausted, was enjoying things like seeing a car being towed backwards, yet not seeing the tow truck and exclaiming "is that car driving backward? Oh my god!", seeing a moving truck with a mattress and two furniture dollys strapped to the back and saying "is that a backpack on that truck?".
We made it safely.
There was lots of eating, lots of singing, a trip to what I refer to as 'mecca' (A used bookstore with multiple floors that covers an entire city block), lots of waling, a successful ride on a city bus, and some really, really good sleep. Also, I got to play with my cousin's cats, so I was happy.
Then we went a wee bit north to see my friend E and his lady, G, who I taught to knit. Yes, that's right, the virus, it spreads. More food, more laughter, not so much sleep. (Futon. Yeah.)
Then, today, we came home. (Early, because I had an appointment that I will talk more about later.) We were nearly run off the road by a Mary**K car (that's gotta be towards the top of the list of stupid ways to go out), and then a rock flew into my windshield and took a chip out.
$60 later, the rock chip is fixed, kinda. But I still haven't heard from the auto body joint that is going to fix Master Sulu after his fight with the "NO CREDIT CARDS=CAR ACCIDENT" lady.
Hopefully there will be exciting news on the horizon.
Also, I would really like it if moving trucks wore backpacks. But that's just me.
T stayed up for 24 hours to drive us down there, because I am a spoiled princess and driving in the city makes me have an aneurysm.
We drove through the part of my state that was submerged in 10 feet of water not too long ago, and that was weird. Trees, trash, couches, chairs, what looked like a bear (and was probably something far less interesting) tires and general crap was everywhere along the highway. The rivers were swollen and coffee colored. The trees were stripped of leaves (I know it's winter but we're big on evergreens out here, people) half way up, showing where the water was.
Weird. Surreal.
T, being totally exhausted, was enjoying things like seeing a car being towed backwards, yet not seeing the tow truck and exclaiming "is that car driving backward? Oh my god!", seeing a moving truck with a mattress and two furniture dollys strapped to the back and saying "is that a backpack on that truck?".
We made it safely.
There was lots of eating, lots of singing, a trip to what I refer to as 'mecca' (A used bookstore with multiple floors that covers an entire city block), lots of waling, a successful ride on a city bus, and some really, really good sleep. Also, I got to play with my cousin's cats, so I was happy.
Then we went a wee bit north to see my friend E and his lady, G, who I taught to knit. Yes, that's right, the virus, it spreads. More food, more laughter, not so much sleep. (Futon. Yeah.)
Then, today, we came home. (Early, because I had an appointment that I will talk more about later.) We were nearly run off the road by a Mary**K car (that's gotta be towards the top of the list of stupid ways to go out), and then a rock flew into my windshield and took a chip out.
$60 later, the rock chip is fixed, kinda. But I still haven't heard from the auto body joint that is going to fix Master Sulu after his fight with the "NO CREDIT CARDS=CAR ACCIDENT" lady.
Hopefully there will be exciting news on the horizon.
Also, I would really like it if moving trucks wore backpacks. But that's just me.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
The Exodus, and Glee
Have I blogged at all about our neighbors? The insanity? The crackheads vs. the bikers? The old people? The foreclosure, and the HS peeps?
Well. Now is the time.
Our house is surrounded by other houses, but not in such a way that our privacy is directly compromised. This, however, doesn't mean that our neighbors don't project their weirdness into our home.
Across the street from us is what we all lovingly refer to as "the crack house". These people scream at and then beat the shit out of each other all night, throw huge parties every night in the summer, listen to music at insane volumes and rev the engines on their cars before squealing out onto our street. They also have derelict cars on blocks next to the street, as well as a boat that, inexplicably, has a small refrigerator where the engine should be.
Now, don't get me wrong. Our yard is not always what it should be. I understand that cars stop going sometimes. (T's Jeep, for instance, has been parked in our driveway permanently for a good length of time.)
But being that we live in such close proximity to all these people, we try to go out of our way to make sure that we aren't driving down the property values of those around us. We don't have huge parties, we don't scream and yell at each other in the yard, etc. etc. etc.
Across from them (sorta kitty corner from us....) is a small house that is a rental. The current renters are bikers (at least they look like the uber-negative stereotype, which is how we named them), and they hate the people that live in the crack house. (I can respect that. Many a night have I sat in my house/garage with the phone in my hand, preparing to call the cops for a noise complaint. Usually someone beats me to it.) Now, the bikers aren't much better than the crack house, as they sit in their back yard, swilling god-knows-what, sitting in a makeshift pool in various states of undress, their stained wife beaters and tighty-whiteys wet and transparent over their large bellies and sagging breasts. (Now, I mean no bikers any disrespect. I have known many, and they were all delightful people.) They schreech at each other, swear, scream, yell and basically create a cacauphony of noise at all times. What's awesome is when they get into it with the crack house--no greater entertainment is found for free around here.
On the other side of the spectrum, the houses on either side of us are owned by really, really old people, whom I adore. Problem solved.
Behind us are the foreclosure, which was an eyesore and a half--when it was foreclosed on the people left the entire place filled with garbage and general clutter, so we could watch (over the jungle like yard, which shares a property line with us) the slow decay of the interior. The house was recently purchased by someone who is planning on renting it out, but, in his attempts to make it habitable again, has decided to do all the work himself. So when he gets off work every day, until 1 am or so, he is there, banging and mowing. Next to them, sharing the entire back side of our property line, is a married couple with two children. T and I went to high school with the female of this union.
Ok. With all that, on to the exodus.
Crack house: They're moving out! Renting, selling, whatever comes first. Yes, I know that the future tenants could be worse.....but.....The boat should be leaving. Our property value will come up. I can dig it.
The bikers: Have been silent as of late. Nary a peep. I don't even know if they still live there.
The old people: On one side, our neighbor passed away. It's a deeply sad thing, but he was in his 90's, and had full independence till the end. What more can someone ask for? His children have been at his house the entire month, clearing out his things. I have no idea what will become of the house. I just feel bad for his family.
The other old people: Love them. They're talking about moving to Oregon and want us to find someone to buy their house or buy it ourselves when the time comes. Again, sad. But Oregon is a good place, and they will be close to their grand kids.
Foreclosure: Midnight banging has stopped. Yard looks less like a jungle and more like a war torn plain. Improvement.
HS Neighbors: Don't live there anymore. Husband and son both have serious, yet unrelated illness. Again, sad. Both will recover totally, but geographic distance to decent medical facilities was a must.
So essentially? We're getting a whole new neighborhood, in one way or another. Our plans of 'hood domination are coming to fruition.
*****************
The yarn I ordered online arrived today. This thrills me.
I ordered a magazine online for a swap I'm doing with a knitting group online thing. The magazine arrived today, with a bonus--free copy of November 'Women's Health'. Thanks?
My life--it's boring. If I'm not bitching about my family/wedding, I'm talking about knitting or my neighbors. How much lamer can I get?
Well. Now is the time.
Our house is surrounded by other houses, but not in such a way that our privacy is directly compromised. This, however, doesn't mean that our neighbors don't project their weirdness into our home.
Across the street from us is what we all lovingly refer to as "the crack house". These people scream at and then beat the shit out of each other all night, throw huge parties every night in the summer, listen to music at insane volumes and rev the engines on their cars before squealing out onto our street. They also have derelict cars on blocks next to the street, as well as a boat that, inexplicably, has a small refrigerator where the engine should be.
Now, don't get me wrong. Our yard is not always what it should be. I understand that cars stop going sometimes. (T's Jeep, for instance, has been parked in our driveway permanently for a good length of time.)
But being that we live in such close proximity to all these people, we try to go out of our way to make sure that we aren't driving down the property values of those around us. We don't have huge parties, we don't scream and yell at each other in the yard, etc. etc. etc.
Across from them (sorta kitty corner from us....) is a small house that is a rental. The current renters are bikers (at least they look like the uber-negative stereotype, which is how we named them), and they hate the people that live in the crack house. (I can respect that. Many a night have I sat in my house/garage with the phone in my hand, preparing to call the cops for a noise complaint. Usually someone beats me to it.) Now, the bikers aren't much better than the crack house, as they sit in their back yard, swilling god-knows-what, sitting in a makeshift pool in various states of undress, their stained wife beaters and tighty-whiteys wet and transparent over their large bellies and sagging breasts. (Now, I mean no bikers any disrespect. I have known many, and they were all delightful people.) They schreech at each other, swear, scream, yell and basically create a cacauphony of noise at all times. What's awesome is when they get into it with the crack house--no greater entertainment is found for free around here.
On the other side of the spectrum, the houses on either side of us are owned by really, really old people, whom I adore. Problem solved.
Behind us are the foreclosure, which was an eyesore and a half--when it was foreclosed on the people left the entire place filled with garbage and general clutter, so we could watch (over the jungle like yard, which shares a property line with us) the slow decay of the interior. The house was recently purchased by someone who is planning on renting it out, but, in his attempts to make it habitable again, has decided to do all the work himself. So when he gets off work every day, until 1 am or so, he is there, banging and mowing. Next to them, sharing the entire back side of our property line, is a married couple with two children. T and I went to high school with the female of this union.
Ok. With all that, on to the exodus.
Crack house: They're moving out! Renting, selling, whatever comes first. Yes, I know that the future tenants could be worse.....but.....The boat should be leaving. Our property value will come up. I can dig it.
The bikers: Have been silent as of late. Nary a peep. I don't even know if they still live there.
The old people: On one side, our neighbor passed away. It's a deeply sad thing, but he was in his 90's, and had full independence till the end. What more can someone ask for? His children have been at his house the entire month, clearing out his things. I have no idea what will become of the house. I just feel bad for his family.
The other old people: Love them. They're talking about moving to Oregon and want us to find someone to buy their house or buy it ourselves when the time comes. Again, sad. But Oregon is a good place, and they will be close to their grand kids.
Foreclosure: Midnight banging has stopped. Yard looks less like a jungle and more like a war torn plain. Improvement.
HS Neighbors: Don't live there anymore. Husband and son both have serious, yet unrelated illness. Again, sad. Both will recover totally, but geographic distance to decent medical facilities was a must.
So essentially? We're getting a whole new neighborhood, in one way or another. Our plans of 'hood domination are coming to fruition.
*****************
The yarn I ordered online arrived today. This thrills me.
I ordered a magazine online for a swap I'm doing with a knitting group online thing. The magazine arrived today, with a bonus--free copy of November 'Women's Health'. Thanks?
My life--it's boring. If I'm not bitching about my family/wedding, I'm talking about knitting or my neighbors. How much lamer can I get?
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Fortress....of Solitude. Sorta.
I'm at the condo. Like you didn't figure that out when you read the damn title.
Normally, staying at the condo is a relaxing and pleasurable experience. Aside from plumbing woes, pissy neighbors and my sisters, that is.
This time? Just my sisters. My asshat neighbors are back in good ol' Texas for the winter, and we fixed the plumbing problems already, so I was obviously having a huge moment of self delusion when I thought that spending the night over here with my sister this weekend wouldn't be a bad thing.
My sister, as we all remember (Like I could let you forget, darlings.)has openly admitted that she is fucking up/slacking on settling dad's estate, for reasons none of us can really decipher. We're coming up on 18 months, and I'm starting to get crabby about it. (Starting? Ha.)
Also, my sister is insane. Not the same brand of insane as my mom, of course, but she's nuts. I never know what she's going to do or how she's going to react to shit, I always assume the worst and she reacts the best, so I assume something above the worst and she brings forth a level of horrible behavior that leaves everyone reeling.
For instance: She has 3 kids. One of which is severely developmentally disabled. (Her first born.) Her younger two children she spoils rotten--I mean, ROTTEN (these are the ones in their 20's, one a year older than me) by spending thousands and thousands of dollars on them every Christmas and birthday, pays all their car payments, rent, bills, insurance, schooling, air fare, ski passes, etc. Her oldest child? She leaves him in his assisted living place year round, and told me about all the stuff she got him at the dollar store and goodwill this year for Christmas. Because 'He's not aware of what's going on.' When she said that I thought T was going to slap her. No, you don't have to break the bank on your son if he doesn't understand what's going on, but you should at least try to love him the same as your other kids. You should care about his happiness and well being, and want the best for him. Ugh. (My mom maintains that if something like that had happened to her, having a child who had seizures and was handicapped afterwards, she never would have had more children, simply so that she could devote all of her time and energy towards the child who would need her for the rest of her life. For once, I actually can see my mom's logic.)
She thinks the sun shines out her two youngest's asses, (and hers, of course) and everyone else can go to hell. I don't know if she's trying to make up for being an alcoholic (even though she spoiled them just as much then) or what, but it's kinda disgusting.
None of that really applies to why I'm currently enraged with her, but that's an underlying bone I pick on a regular basis.
No no, I'm pissed at her for meddling in my wedding business. All of it. And for nearly making T and I bounce our mortgage payment because she couldn't be bothered to do math/settle the goddamn estate in a timely manner. (She sent me a bad check, which I duly deposited and wrote checks from--to cover the 16 days we were income free in the house of O. Didn't bother to look or care--not 'her' money--didn't notice or react until I send her a screaming email after my bank called me. {I love my bank. It's wee--they know me, and know what's up, so when it came back NSF they called that moment, ran it back through and made sure that I was fully covered by free overdraft protection, which they waived the fees for because the branch manager knew it wasn't my fault. LOVE them. What other bank does that?})
When I announced that I was getting married 8 months ago (Christ, has it been that long? Oomph.) I asked my sisters if the 'clause' of marriage payment still stood. The 'clause' being that since dad paid for all of their multiple weddings, and college, would be be paying for mine posthumously? They all agreed. I then asked them how much money they would be willing to part with to make this happen, and they never answered me. So rather than let them jerk me around, I went ahead and set a budget. If they 'reimburse' me, great. I'm not holding my breath--It can come out of my share. (Hilarious side--they're supposed to be paying for my school--when I told them I couldn't afford it on my own {because I cannot trust them to send me the money, obviously, if I asked for it} and wouldn't be attending, my sisters said, "Oh, well, that's too bad.")
(I promise, I'm getting to the point. Eventually. This is all pertinent.)
Then comes my bridal shower. In my defense, I have no idea about bridal showers. I know (Thanks to T's sister A, my personal wedding "WTF" question answerer) that the name itself is the definition--People 'shower' the 'bride', and not in a bathing sort of way. (Maybe in some circles, but not this one.) This involves a party of sorts, wherein the bride is showered with attention and gifts, which seems totally normal if I weren't the bride and not being told that I have to let people throw a party for me and feed me and give me presents without me having to do any work. It's the not doing any work part that gets me--I'm still struggling with the idea that I won't be cleaning up after my wedding, or really doing any set up either. I feel like I am being demanding and bitchy by not taking charge and doing it all myself. (Seriously. Like, it makes me uncomfortable to think about people cleaning up after me/for me etc. T says I need to learn to delegate, to ask for and accept help, and, most of all, he would really like to see me on our wedding day and he won't get to if I do it all myself, so there.)
So the bridal shower. All the women who know and love me should be invited. This, in my mind, excludes my sisters (and most of the time, my mother) and I was totally cool with that.
But my sister. She starts hounding me--"Do you want a shower? I'll throw you a shower. I think you should have a shower, does anyone have anything planned?" I plead stupid. Then at Thanksgiving, she asked A, and A, being who she is (no bullshit, ever.) told her. So my sister demanded to be involved--told me, told A, and there we were.
Keep in mind that my sisters don't know a goddamn thing about me. Like, the real me. They know what I look like, where I live, that I knit, and that I'm marrying T. Other than that, they know I'm a great cook (which they exploit) and that's about it. You people know more about me than that and I haven't met you. Sigh.
With all of that said, we can now move on to the real story. If I haven't lost you already.
So my sister came to town this weekend, and there was talk of sharing a meal. I assumed that I would be cooking, as usual, but I didn't hear anything from her. Finally, day of her arrival, I finally heard from her, and she said that she had purchased food and was awaiting my arrival. (This conversation took place via text message while F the superstar and I banged out my save the dates which I had done a great job of fucking up the preparation for.) I assumed that she was waiting for me to get my ass over to the condo and cook for her--so when F and I finished up, I packed some things (I don't drive well at night, so I assumed I would just sleep at the condo) and headed off.
She immediately starts bitching. "Where's T? At work? Why the fuck did I bring so much food if he's not going to be here? Jesus." I explained that I had told her that T would not be in attendance, that left overs never hurt anyone, and that it would be just fine.
Shortly thereafter, she starts asking me about the bridal shower. "How much do you know? What do you think of what you do know?"
I don't know anything. I don't want to know anything. I have every confidence that my posse will do me right. I look forward to being surprised.
"You know there's a theme, right? I think the theme is totally inappropriate. I'm just worried because this is the only shower you're going to get, and well, I just don't know."
Nope, didn't know there was a theme. But whatever. I mentioned that it couldn't be THAT inappropriate since I had said up front that there were to be no penis hats, games, sex toys, lingerie or other 'naughty' gifts or anything else, not only because I don't like the idea of that, but I would rather not wear a penis hat while sitting between my mom and future MIL. And why would I need another shower?
"I shouldn't have said anything. I shouldn't have opened my fat mouth."
No, dear sister, you shouldn't have. I told her that if she had such a huge problem with it, that she should mention it to my posse, that they would be the ones to solve the problem. Telling me? Not going to do a goddamn bit of good. Actually, telling me anything was wildly inappropriate.
She then went on to talk about how my posse, and certain members in it, were very 'my way or the highway', which I shot down immediately. "They're working as a team. You are a guest who inserted herself into the planning process. You showed up late--you're not going to be able to veto stuff that has been planned for months already."
She backpedaled. And bitched and moaned and basically made me feel like a piece of shit for the rest of the night.
Then my friend A the bowler came over to help me look at wedding menus and decipher them for me. My sister starts talking about how I can't spend that much money on food, that I can't spend that much on my wedding.
Fuck off.
So I (of course) sent off an email telling T's sister of the problems, so that they could be handled accordingly.
Turns out--My sister wanted a 'couples' themed party--Beach Towels and BBQ. Sounds a lot like my engagement BBQ, which she refused to come to. The best part? We don't need, want, or really like either Beach Towels or BBQ's. Hilarious. So fucking typical!
At least no one is surprised. And my posse has enough gumption, strength and general misanthropy, as well as love for me (why I chose them!) to handle whatever hurdle is put before us/them.
So we're staying at the condo because going home makes me mad. But that's another too long post. (Sorry, kids, for the length. It's a theme lately--I'm writing emails that are pages and pages long for no real reason that I can decipher.)
Normally, staying at the condo is a relaxing and pleasurable experience. Aside from plumbing woes, pissy neighbors and my sisters, that is.
This time? Just my sisters. My asshat neighbors are back in good ol' Texas for the winter, and we fixed the plumbing problems already, so I was obviously having a huge moment of self delusion when I thought that spending the night over here with my sister this weekend wouldn't be a bad thing.
My sister, as we all remember (Like I could let you forget, darlings.)has openly admitted that she is fucking up/slacking on settling dad's estate, for reasons none of us can really decipher. We're coming up on 18 months, and I'm starting to get crabby about it. (Starting? Ha.)
Also, my sister is insane. Not the same brand of insane as my mom, of course, but she's nuts. I never know what she's going to do or how she's going to react to shit, I always assume the worst and she reacts the best, so I assume something above the worst and she brings forth a level of horrible behavior that leaves everyone reeling.
For instance: She has 3 kids. One of which is severely developmentally disabled. (Her first born.) Her younger two children she spoils rotten--I mean, ROTTEN (these are the ones in their 20's, one a year older than me) by spending thousands and thousands of dollars on them every Christmas and birthday, pays all their car payments, rent, bills, insurance, schooling, air fare, ski passes, etc. Her oldest child? She leaves him in his assisted living place year round, and told me about all the stuff she got him at the dollar store and goodwill this year for Christmas. Because 'He's not aware of what's going on.' When she said that I thought T was going to slap her. No, you don't have to break the bank on your son if he doesn't understand what's going on, but you should at least try to love him the same as your other kids. You should care about his happiness and well being, and want the best for him. Ugh. (My mom maintains that if something like that had happened to her, having a child who had seizures and was handicapped afterwards, she never would have had more children, simply so that she could devote all of her time and energy towards the child who would need her for the rest of her life. For once, I actually can see my mom's logic.)
She thinks the sun shines out her two youngest's asses, (and hers, of course) and everyone else can go to hell. I don't know if she's trying to make up for being an alcoholic (even though she spoiled them just as much then) or what, but it's kinda disgusting.
None of that really applies to why I'm currently enraged with her, but that's an underlying bone I pick on a regular basis.
No no, I'm pissed at her for meddling in my wedding business. All of it. And for nearly making T and I bounce our mortgage payment because she couldn't be bothered to do math/settle the goddamn estate in a timely manner. (She sent me a bad check, which I duly deposited and wrote checks from--to cover the 16 days we were income free in the house of O. Didn't bother to look or care--not 'her' money--didn't notice or react until I send her a screaming email after my bank called me. {I love my bank. It's wee--they know me, and know what's up, so when it came back NSF they called that moment, ran it back through and made sure that I was fully covered by free overdraft protection, which they waived the fees for because the branch manager knew it wasn't my fault. LOVE them. What other bank does that?})
When I announced that I was getting married 8 months ago (Christ, has it been that long? Oomph.) I asked my sisters if the 'clause' of marriage payment still stood. The 'clause' being that since dad paid for all of their multiple weddings, and college, would be be paying for mine posthumously? They all agreed. I then asked them how much money they would be willing to part with to make this happen, and they never answered me. So rather than let them jerk me around, I went ahead and set a budget. If they 'reimburse' me, great. I'm not holding my breath--It can come out of my share. (Hilarious side--they're supposed to be paying for my school--when I told them I couldn't afford it on my own {because I cannot trust them to send me the money, obviously, if I asked for it} and wouldn't be attending, my sisters said, "Oh, well, that's too bad.")
(I promise, I'm getting to the point. Eventually. This is all pertinent.)
Then comes my bridal shower. In my defense, I have no idea about bridal showers. I know (Thanks to T's sister A, my personal wedding "WTF" question answerer) that the name itself is the definition--People 'shower' the 'bride', and not in a bathing sort of way. (Maybe in some circles, but not this one.) This involves a party of sorts, wherein the bride is showered with attention and gifts, which seems totally normal if I weren't the bride and not being told that I have to let people throw a party for me and feed me and give me presents without me having to do any work. It's the not doing any work part that gets me--I'm still struggling with the idea that I won't be cleaning up after my wedding, or really doing any set up either. I feel like I am being demanding and bitchy by not taking charge and doing it all myself. (Seriously. Like, it makes me uncomfortable to think about people cleaning up after me/for me etc. T says I need to learn to delegate, to ask for and accept help, and, most of all, he would really like to see me on our wedding day and he won't get to if I do it all myself, so there.)
So the bridal shower. All the women who know and love me should be invited. This, in my mind, excludes my sisters (and most of the time, my mother) and I was totally cool with that.
But my sister. She starts hounding me--"Do you want a shower? I'll throw you a shower. I think you should have a shower, does anyone have anything planned?" I plead stupid. Then at Thanksgiving, she asked A, and A, being who she is (no bullshit, ever.) told her. So my sister demanded to be involved--told me, told A, and there we were.
Keep in mind that my sisters don't know a goddamn thing about me. Like, the real me. They know what I look like, where I live, that I knit, and that I'm marrying T. Other than that, they know I'm a great cook (which they exploit) and that's about it. You people know more about me than that and I haven't met you. Sigh.
With all of that said, we can now move on to the real story. If I haven't lost you already.
So my sister came to town this weekend, and there was talk of sharing a meal. I assumed that I would be cooking, as usual, but I didn't hear anything from her. Finally, day of her arrival, I finally heard from her, and she said that she had purchased food and was awaiting my arrival. (This conversation took place via text message while F the superstar and I banged out my save the dates which I had done a great job of fucking up the preparation for.) I assumed that she was waiting for me to get my ass over to the condo and cook for her--so when F and I finished up, I packed some things (I don't drive well at night, so I assumed I would just sleep at the condo) and headed off.
She immediately starts bitching. "Where's T? At work? Why the fuck did I bring so much food if he's not going to be here? Jesus." I explained that I had told her that T would not be in attendance, that left overs never hurt anyone, and that it would be just fine.
Shortly thereafter, she starts asking me about the bridal shower. "How much do you know? What do you think of what you do know?"
I don't know anything. I don't want to know anything. I have every confidence that my posse will do me right. I look forward to being surprised.
"You know there's a theme, right? I think the theme is totally inappropriate. I'm just worried because this is the only shower you're going to get, and well, I just don't know."
Nope, didn't know there was a theme. But whatever. I mentioned that it couldn't be THAT inappropriate since I had said up front that there were to be no penis hats, games, sex toys, lingerie or other 'naughty' gifts or anything else, not only because I don't like the idea of that, but I would rather not wear a penis hat while sitting between my mom and future MIL. And why would I need another shower?
"I shouldn't have said anything. I shouldn't have opened my fat mouth."
No, dear sister, you shouldn't have. I told her that if she had such a huge problem with it, that she should mention it to my posse, that they would be the ones to solve the problem. Telling me? Not going to do a goddamn bit of good. Actually, telling me anything was wildly inappropriate.
She then went on to talk about how my posse, and certain members in it, were very 'my way or the highway', which I shot down immediately. "They're working as a team. You are a guest who inserted herself into the planning process. You showed up late--you're not going to be able to veto stuff that has been planned for months already."
She backpedaled. And bitched and moaned and basically made me feel like a piece of shit for the rest of the night.
Then my friend A the bowler came over to help me look at wedding menus and decipher them for me. My sister starts talking about how I can't spend that much money on food, that I can't spend that much on my wedding.
Fuck off.
So I (of course) sent off an email telling T's sister of the problems, so that they could be handled accordingly.
Turns out--My sister wanted a 'couples' themed party--Beach Towels and BBQ. Sounds a lot like my engagement BBQ, which she refused to come to. The best part? We don't need, want, or really like either Beach Towels or BBQ's. Hilarious. So fucking typical!
At least no one is surprised. And my posse has enough gumption, strength and general misanthropy, as well as love for me (why I chose them!) to handle whatever hurdle is put before us/them.
So we're staying at the condo because going home makes me mad. But that's another too long post. (Sorry, kids, for the length. It's a theme lately--I'm writing emails that are pages and pages long for no real reason that I can decipher.)
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Lame Ass
That's me.
I was all inflammatory the other night, all fired up and ready to fire off a seven page missive on the evils of abstinence only sexual education in schools and how simple this would be to change and on and on. (Gets my fucking blood boiling just thinking about it. That post may come yet.)
Like now.
I will make it as short as possible.
Kids. Forbid them from doing something--they're going to do it the first chance they get. Not so much a terrible thing if it's "I forbid you to eat chocolate" or "I forbid you to wear high-top sneakers". You start running into trouble when you forbid your children from doing something that THEIR BODIES DEMAND THAT THEY DO.
Our physical bodies go through hormonal Armageddon during puberty (and pregnancy, which is connected here, obviously, but I'm not there just yet.) and kids need to know what the hell is going on beyond "It's wrong and bad and dirty and shameful and wait till you're married don't worry jesus will take care of it for you if you pray hard enough and you're good."
Kids are going to have sex. There is nothing anyone can do about it besides give them the tools to be NORMAL HUMAN BEINGS in a safe and healthy way. We are programmed to hump, people. I shit you not--It's revolutionary, I know, but we are.
Yes, abstinence is the ONLY way to make certain that you don't get a disease. Or a baby. (Or the baby disease, depending on who you're talking to. It's the STI that lasts forever.) However, the number of kids that abstain from sex until marriage is the minority number.
Being ashamed of your body, of sex and sexuality, it's a one-way road to hell. Not knowing what is happening to you when you get your period for the first time or have a wet dream is a traumatic experience.
There is scientific evidence (which I am not going to go bother to look up and site, bitch at me as you please, thank you.) that backs up the idea, nay, the fact, that having a negative image of one's body and sexuality can lead to a multitude of things like drug addiction, promiscuity, crime, depression, suicide and physical ailments. Yes, thinking your pussy is an evil creature the devil himself nests in can give you a higher rate of cysts, UTI's and so on. Concentrate that negativity elsewhere, my darlings--at the purveyors of this sort of thinking.
Parents who demand abstinence, purity and chastity of their children are cowards. But oh, our church says this or our church says that. Ok, sure, that may be the case. But the church probably also says something about raising your kids to the best of your ability to be normal, happy, functioning adults. Because you're embarrassed to tell little Billy what condoms are doesn't mean jesus loves you more. And guess what? Jesus himself, I believe says things about how humans are sinners, and all that's needed is repentance to be back in his good graces. So just because your kid humped his cute little girlfriend at the age of 17 doesn't guarantee him a spot in hades.
Kids need to be given the tools to cope. Being a teenager is fucking hell. Don't pile more shit on them by making them hate themselves more than they already do.
My parents, bless them and their fucked up ways, actually did me a good turn in the sex ed department.
From the time I was a kid, I knew what periods were. I knew why periods happened, and I knew that it happened to everyone. So when I was 12 and found blood in my undies, I didn't assume that I was dying and freak out. I was embarrassed, sure, because I was at my dad's house and I can't think of any 12 year old girl that wants to tell a 68 year old man she's really a woman now, can we please go to the store and get pads?
I knew about boobs. Saw them coming a mile away. (Probably thought that I would have fully developed boobies before the age of 25, but we don't all get what we expect.)
But I knew about sex.
My parents, they told me--answered every question I had, got me books from the library. Told me that it was not something to be embarrassed about, but that it was also something to be taken seriously. They hammered home the fact that not having sex until I was married was what they would prefer for my safety, but that ultimately, it was my decision, and that I needed to know how special, how huge losing ones virginity was. They also said that before I had sex, I needed to be using birth control and using it properly. (They also said, and I believe this wholeheartedly, that if you're too embarrassed to ask for/go get birth control and other forms of protection, you are too immature to be having sex.) I needed to understand the risk of failing to do so. They took me to the doctor and got me on birth control when I asked for it, without judgement. My step dad said a fine gem, however:
"You do know that anyone you legally have sex with now isn't going to know what the hell he's doing, right? You're probably not going to like it. You should maybe ramp up the masturbation in the interim, see if that does something for you instead. You probably won't really like sex until you're almost 30 or so."
You know what? He was right. (Sorry, all previous sexual partners who may be reading this.)(If any of them are, I am a very confused and angry human, so no, I'm not sorry.) Sex was terrible for a looooong time. But I had it--and I had it safely. Because my parents helped me and gave me the tools to be safe.
I was listening to Love*Line the other night in the car with T and J. A 15 year old kid called in, and wanted to know how many times you can have sex with someone before you get an STD. Not understanding the question, the hosts asked for more information.
It came out that the kid had no idea what STDs even were. He thought they were already in everyone already, and having sex 'too much' made god activate them and make you sick as punishment. That telling god you were sorry and stopping would make them go away again.
THIS! THIS is what abstinence only sex ed does. It sends a bunch of horny, stupid kids out into the fray, with NO KNOWLEDGE WHATSOEVER of any safe methods of dealing with said horny stupidity!
Every single adult I know that was trained in the ways of abstinence only as children has some issue with it now. Some far less than others--but they all have a story to tell. Some amazing trauma, mishap, close call or sickness that could easily been prevented if their parents had the balls to step up, be realistic and talk to their kids instead of shaming and scaring them into ignorance.
I will now put the soapbox away.
I was planning on posting pics of the tree that attacked our yard/house this week, of talking about how behind in everything I am right now, about the fact that I have a 2.5 foot tall inflatable Death Star in my living room.
But I'm all blogged out.
(Oh, and my darlings? This post was not implemented to offend or inspire horror in everyone. If your opinion is different than mine, I can dig it. Please return the favor.)
I was all inflammatory the other night, all fired up and ready to fire off a seven page missive on the evils of abstinence only sexual education in schools and how simple this would be to change and on and on. (Gets my fucking blood boiling just thinking about it. That post may come yet.)
Like now.
I will make it as short as possible.
Kids. Forbid them from doing something--they're going to do it the first chance they get. Not so much a terrible thing if it's "I forbid you to eat chocolate" or "I forbid you to wear high-top sneakers". You start running into trouble when you forbid your children from doing something that THEIR BODIES DEMAND THAT THEY DO.
Our physical bodies go through hormonal Armageddon during puberty (and pregnancy, which is connected here, obviously, but I'm not there just yet.) and kids need to know what the hell is going on beyond "It's wrong and bad and dirty and shameful and wait till you're married don't worry jesus will take care of it for you if you pray hard enough and you're good."
Kids are going to have sex. There is nothing anyone can do about it besides give them the tools to be NORMAL HUMAN BEINGS in a safe and healthy way. We are programmed to hump, people. I shit you not--It's revolutionary, I know, but we are.
Yes, abstinence is the ONLY way to make certain that you don't get a disease. Or a baby. (Or the baby disease, depending on who you're talking to. It's the STI that lasts forever.) However, the number of kids that abstain from sex until marriage is the minority number.
Being ashamed of your body, of sex and sexuality, it's a one-way road to hell. Not knowing what is happening to you when you get your period for the first time or have a wet dream is a traumatic experience.
There is scientific evidence (which I am not going to go bother to look up and site, bitch at me as you please, thank you.) that backs up the idea, nay, the fact, that having a negative image of one's body and sexuality can lead to a multitude of things like drug addiction, promiscuity, crime, depression, suicide and physical ailments. Yes, thinking your pussy is an evil creature the devil himself nests in can give you a higher rate of cysts, UTI's and so on. Concentrate that negativity elsewhere, my darlings--at the purveyors of this sort of thinking.
Parents who demand abstinence, purity and chastity of their children are cowards. But oh, our church says this or our church says that. Ok, sure, that may be the case. But the church probably also says something about raising your kids to the best of your ability to be normal, happy, functioning adults. Because you're embarrassed to tell little Billy what condoms are doesn't mean jesus loves you more. And guess what? Jesus himself, I believe says things about how humans are sinners, and all that's needed is repentance to be back in his good graces. So just because your kid humped his cute little girlfriend at the age of 17 doesn't guarantee him a spot in hades.
Kids need to be given the tools to cope. Being a teenager is fucking hell. Don't pile more shit on them by making them hate themselves more than they already do.
My parents, bless them and their fucked up ways, actually did me a good turn in the sex ed department.
From the time I was a kid, I knew what periods were. I knew why periods happened, and I knew that it happened to everyone. So when I was 12 and found blood in my undies, I didn't assume that I was dying and freak out. I was embarrassed, sure, because I was at my dad's house and I can't think of any 12 year old girl that wants to tell a 68 year old man she's really a woman now, can we please go to the store and get pads?
I knew about boobs. Saw them coming a mile away. (Probably thought that I would have fully developed boobies before the age of 25, but we don't all get what we expect.)
But I knew about sex.
My parents, they told me--answered every question I had, got me books from the library. Told me that it was not something to be embarrassed about, but that it was also something to be taken seriously. They hammered home the fact that not having sex until I was married was what they would prefer for my safety, but that ultimately, it was my decision, and that I needed to know how special, how huge losing ones virginity was. They also said that before I had sex, I needed to be using birth control and using it properly. (They also said, and I believe this wholeheartedly, that if you're too embarrassed to ask for/go get birth control and other forms of protection, you are too immature to be having sex.) I needed to understand the risk of failing to do so. They took me to the doctor and got me on birth control when I asked for it, without judgement. My step dad said a fine gem, however:
"You do know that anyone you legally have sex with now isn't going to know what the hell he's doing, right? You're probably not going to like it. You should maybe ramp up the masturbation in the interim, see if that does something for you instead. You probably won't really like sex until you're almost 30 or so."
You know what? He was right. (Sorry, all previous sexual partners who may be reading this.)(If any of them are, I am a very confused and angry human, so no, I'm not sorry.) Sex was terrible for a looooong time. But I had it--and I had it safely. Because my parents helped me and gave me the tools to be safe.
I was listening to Love*Line the other night in the car with T and J. A 15 year old kid called in, and wanted to know how many times you can have sex with someone before you get an STD. Not understanding the question, the hosts asked for more information.
It came out that the kid had no idea what STDs even were. He thought they were already in everyone already, and having sex 'too much' made god activate them and make you sick as punishment. That telling god you were sorry and stopping would make them go away again.
THIS! THIS is what abstinence only sex ed does. It sends a bunch of horny, stupid kids out into the fray, with NO KNOWLEDGE WHATSOEVER of any safe methods of dealing with said horny stupidity!
Every single adult I know that was trained in the ways of abstinence only as children has some issue with it now. Some far less than others--but they all have a story to tell. Some amazing trauma, mishap, close call or sickness that could easily been prevented if their parents had the balls to step up, be realistic and talk to their kids instead of shaming and scaring them into ignorance.
I will now put the soapbox away.
I was planning on posting pics of the tree that attacked our yard/house this week, of talking about how behind in everything I am right now, about the fact that I have a 2.5 foot tall inflatable Death Star in my living room.
But I'm all blogged out.
(Oh, and my darlings? This post was not implemented to offend or inspire horror in everyone. If your opinion is different than mine, I can dig it. Please return the favor.)
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Trip, Don't Fall
I talked to my mother this morning (read: she woke my punk ass up, as usual) and she told me that she has over 6 feet of snow at her house. She then went into a 30 minute dissertation on all things snow related, reminding me every few minutes that she cannot leave her home and so on.
I smiled. And then I kept smiling. Now I am smiling like a fool.
Small things, like the memory of having a ridiculous amount of snow and all the fucking crap that came with it (like my mother and her complete willingness/demand to make other people take care of everything, like getting fire wood (Not just out of the wood pile. Like, cut down a tree and bring it to me.), shoveling and plowing snow, building fires for heat, doing laundry, making sure the pipes didn't freeze, the care for the animals, oh, and, of course, running her business so she could have money to drink and smoke and drug away.) and the knowledge of the fact that I DON'T HAVE TO DO THAT SHIT ANY MORE EVER EVER EVER. It is like the lining of my brain hugged me.
Not that that made any sense.
Don't get me wrong--I don't like the idea of my mother being snowed in. Many, many things could go wrong with that, and the repercussions could be dire.
But dudes? Thrills me to no end to know that rather than shoveling 6 feet of snow etc. today, I am going to the city. (I'm groggy and kind of plugged up and tired and haven't had any coffee yet, and T just wandered out of the bedroom looking like a zombie, but I would rather be/have all those things in the car for a few hours than to have none of those things and have to deal with winterizing my mom.)
I'm like, uber ready to not be ill any more. This bug, it clings! to me. Loves me, doesn't want to leave.
Anyway, here's to traveling with minimal problems today.
I smiled. And then I kept smiling. Now I am smiling like a fool.
Small things, like the memory of having a ridiculous amount of snow and all the fucking crap that came with it (like my mother and her complete willingness/demand to make other people take care of everything, like getting fire wood (Not just out of the wood pile. Like, cut down a tree and bring it to me.), shoveling and plowing snow, building fires for heat, doing laundry, making sure the pipes didn't freeze, the care for the animals, oh, and, of course, running her business so she could have money to drink and smoke and drug away.) and the knowledge of the fact that I DON'T HAVE TO DO THAT SHIT ANY MORE EVER EVER EVER. It is like the lining of my brain hugged me.
Not that that made any sense.
Don't get me wrong--I don't like the idea of my mother being snowed in. Many, many things could go wrong with that, and the repercussions could be dire.
But dudes? Thrills me to no end to know that rather than shoveling 6 feet of snow etc. today, I am going to the city. (I'm groggy and kind of plugged up and tired and haven't had any coffee yet, and T just wandered out of the bedroom looking like a zombie, but I would rather be/have all those things in the car for a few hours than to have none of those things and have to deal with winterizing my mom.)
I'm like, uber ready to not be ill any more. This bug, it clings! to me. Loves me, doesn't want to leave.
Anyway, here's to traveling with minimal problems today.
No Photos
Mostly, I'm irritated. And bored. The 'boys', as I call them (meaning J and his buddies, and, recently, A) have taken to watching random acts of crap on the television at our house for hours and hours and hours into the night. Probably due to the fact that J purchased a huge flat screen television a few months ago (It wouldn't fit in his car. That's how huge the damn thing is. Total, complete waste of money as far as I am concerned. But it's J's, and he can burn through his money in any way he sees fit whether or not I approve.) making our house THE PLACE to watch movies/cartoons/tv shows/video games/things that drive me insane.
As we speak, I am smashed on the couch with J and T, while A and J's buddy D sit on the other couch. They are all watching episodes of "the justice league", which seems to be a cartoon about super heroes. Batman is in it, and Superman, Wonderwoman. T is reading his book, I am listening to the music on my my*space profile.
I dunno. The new year, man, it's got me thinking. Well, no more than usual, but I'm being more vocal about it.
There are big thoughts banging around in this head. Nothing I really feel like sharing here, as usual (when do I ever tell the whole damn story when it comes to 'my feelings' on the blog? Like, never.) but big thoughts, big, well, not really bad, but not...good.
I am happy about the events that are planned for this year. I am pleased to be getting married. I am pleased to get to see a lot of old friends again. I am excited to go on my honeymoon and see a new place for the very first time with T.
But there is a lot I am not pleased about. I am not pleased about my family, my mother, my sisters. I am not pleased about a lot of current themes in my life. I am concerned about my fear, my total unfounded fear that is creeping in slowly on all parts of my being.
Fear, in my mind, is a sign of weakness. (In me. Everyone else can be as scared as they like. I'm fair like that.) There should be no challenge, no feat that I bow before, no hypothetical 'badness' that will paralyze me. And there are a lot of them that are doing just that lately, and I hate it.
Yes, I know I am human, and I know exactly why I am feeling the way that I am feeling and what started it and all that great shit that doesn't change a goddamn thing.
Plus I'm terrified I am not going to be able to lose the weight I HAVE TO LOSE before I get married. But that's a totally unrelated subject.
I'm done.
As we speak, I am smashed on the couch with J and T, while A and J's buddy D sit on the other couch. They are all watching episodes of "the justice league", which seems to be a cartoon about super heroes. Batman is in it, and Superman, Wonderwoman. T is reading his book, I am listening to the music on my my*space profile.
I dunno. The new year, man, it's got me thinking. Well, no more than usual, but I'm being more vocal about it.
There are big thoughts banging around in this head. Nothing I really feel like sharing here, as usual (when do I ever tell the whole damn story when it comes to 'my feelings' on the blog? Like, never.) but big thoughts, big, well, not really bad, but not...good.
I am happy about the events that are planned for this year. I am pleased to be getting married. I am pleased to get to see a lot of old friends again. I am excited to go on my honeymoon and see a new place for the very first time with T.
But there is a lot I am not pleased about. I am not pleased about my family, my mother, my sisters. I am not pleased about a lot of current themes in my life. I am concerned about my fear, my total unfounded fear that is creeping in slowly on all parts of my being.
Fear, in my mind, is a sign of weakness. (In me. Everyone else can be as scared as they like. I'm fair like that.) There should be no challenge, no feat that I bow before, no hypothetical 'badness' that will paralyze me. And there are a lot of them that are doing just that lately, and I hate it.
Yes, I know I am human, and I know exactly why I am feeling the way that I am feeling and what started it and all that great shit that doesn't change a goddamn thing.
Plus I'm terrified I am not going to be able to lose the weight I HAVE TO LOSE before I get married. But that's a totally unrelated subject.
I'm done.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Ok, Ok....
So I blogged a lot today.
But this, this is so worth it. (Maybe.)
So tonight, like, just a few minutes ago, I was making T and J (who are two years apart in age, and have great tales to tell because of this) tell me stories about when they were children.
J (who has grown up to be a bit bigger than his big brother) mentioned about how when they were very small, he would ride on T's shoulders, making their combined height no more than J's current height. (About 5'10) To make things more fun, they would don a Ghost*busters sleeping bag, completely zipped around them. J would look out the little hole like gap at the bottom of the bag, where the zipper starts. (you know what I mean.)
They then told me about what made them decide to not do this any more--J would yell directions at T, who was supposed to follow them. At one point, T decided that 'left' meant 'right', tripped over the bed, and launched young J face first into the window sill.
I told them that I would pay good money to see J ride on T's shoulders now.
And mayhem ensued.
See photos for evidence.
Note the thrilled expression on both their faces. Also note J's work uniform, T's pajamas, and our roomie's killer tattoo in the background.
Reciprocated:
You may not find this as hilarious as I do. But oh, did I laugh. There were tears I laughed so hard. Tears.
But this, this is so worth it. (Maybe.)
So tonight, like, just a few minutes ago, I was making T and J (who are two years apart in age, and have great tales to tell because of this) tell me stories about when they were children.
J (who has grown up to be a bit bigger than his big brother) mentioned about how when they were very small, he would ride on T's shoulders, making their combined height no more than J's current height. (About 5'10) To make things more fun, they would don a Ghost*busters sleeping bag, completely zipped around them. J would look out the little hole like gap at the bottom of the bag, where the zipper starts. (you know what I mean.)
They then told me about what made them decide to not do this any more--J would yell directions at T, who was supposed to follow them. At one point, T decided that 'left' meant 'right', tripped over the bed, and launched young J face first into the window sill.
I told them that I would pay good money to see J ride on T's shoulders now.
And mayhem ensued.
See photos for evidence.
Note the thrilled expression on both their faces. Also note J's work uniform, T's pajamas, and our roomie's killer tattoo in the background.
Reciprocated:
You may not find this as hilarious as I do. But oh, did I laugh. There were tears I laughed so hard. Tears.
Less Cranky
Ok, I ate something and now feel less like stabbing someone. Even if I did go read the link on Circe's blog about the dipshit who says that Santa is actually Satan's emissary on earth and all his reindeer are gay (Queers, actually, is the term he uses) which made me have a small aneurysm, I think.
(Seriously? Santa isn't real. So if Santa is fake, but he's Satan's buddy, what does that say about Satan? Hrm? Either he doesn't exist or he has imaginary friends. Also, the reindeer being gay. Really? Really. There aren't words.)
I thought I would post photos from Christmas.
First off, here's me, with no makeup on, wearing T's HS graduating class sweatshirt (aka my pj's) preparing to open gifts a few days before Christmas proper. We were leaving our roomie behind for the actual holiday itself, and wanted to be able to open presents with him as well. Hence the early Christmas.
Here is T, in full throes of glee at seeing what I got him for Christmas. (I am a good gift giver, if nothing else.)
Here's T's brother J, realizing that Santa (The Gay Reindeer Captain) gives gifts that aren't always fun. For instance, TV screen cleaner, as seen here.
This is Christmas Day. T's baby brother, the youngest of the whole bunch, A, is crushing the holiday spirit right out of me.
Here's T and me, trying to pretend that we aren't sleep deprived and irritated.
T is here helping his baby cousin be Spider Man to the best of his abilities.
And, in closing, a Filipino man shoveling our car out of the snow. Because it's funny. (This is T's brother in law, R. Not just a random passer by. We know and love him, and not just because he shovels our snow. I also get a huge kick out of the fact that in current family photos in T's family you can easily pick out the 'interlopers'--Those of us that married in. The tall red-head and the Filipino guy in a sea of Italians. At least we know we will all have cute kids.) (I sound really racist. I'm not. Promise.)
(Seriously? Santa isn't real. So if Santa is fake, but he's Satan's buddy, what does that say about Satan? Hrm? Either he doesn't exist or he has imaginary friends. Also, the reindeer being gay. Really? Really. There aren't words.)
I thought I would post photos from Christmas.
First off, here's me, with no makeup on, wearing T's HS graduating class sweatshirt (aka my pj's) preparing to open gifts a few days before Christmas proper. We were leaving our roomie behind for the actual holiday itself, and wanted to be able to open presents with him as well. Hence the early Christmas.
Here is T, in full throes of glee at seeing what I got him for Christmas. (I am a good gift giver, if nothing else.)
Here's T's brother J, realizing that Santa (The Gay Reindeer Captain) gives gifts that aren't always fun. For instance, TV screen cleaner, as seen here.
This is Christmas Day. T's baby brother, the youngest of the whole bunch, A, is crushing the holiday spirit right out of me.
Here's T and me, trying to pretend that we aren't sleep deprived and irritated.
T is here helping his baby cousin be Spider Man to the best of his abilities.
And, in closing, a Filipino man shoveling our car out of the snow. Because it's funny. (This is T's brother in law, R. Not just a random passer by. We know and love him, and not just because he shovels our snow. I also get a huge kick out of the fact that in current family photos in T's family you can easily pick out the 'interlopers'--Those of us that married in. The tall red-head and the Filipino guy in a sea of Italians. At least we know we will all have cute kids.) (I sound really racist. I'm not. Promise.)
Uuuugh
So, you know how I said that I was feeling better for taking the liquid medicine and sleeping? How my nose was killing me but that I thought I was on the mend?
Lies, all mother fucking lies.
I feel like complete and utter crap. My nose is less angry, sure, I can breathe, but my ears are totally plugged up, I'm all hot and listless and cranky and generally ill and not fun to be around.
I assume this means that I am on the mend, my complete and utter lack of friendliness or patience or kindness of any sort.
I realized how shitty I must look/act/sound when I looked up to find T, fresh off of a night shift of work (read: Done at 5 this morning) cleaning the house without complaint or my having to ask. This means that he feels really bad for me. Or that he doesn't want to see me sob in my kitchen again. Or use hand sanitizer 20394585 times while emptying the dishwasher. (Because I'm nothing if not conscientious of other people.)
A good friend of my dad's passed away this morning. He essentially drank himself to death. His wife was a horrible, evil harpy of a woman, who, in my opinion, had a lot to do with his death. But mostly, and this is weird to most people, I am not sad that he has died. I feel like it's a blessing--he isn't sick anymore, he isn't dealing with his horrible wife. He had no quality of life, at all, really, and now the pain and sickness is over.
I'm just a ray of fucking sunshine today. I'm thinking seriously about going back to bed. I'm eating zinc lozenges like they are candy, drinking gallons of tea, putting layer after layer of lotion on my nose and trying to stay warm. It's not helping. And I'm really pissed off about it.
Happy New Year.
Lies, all mother fucking lies.
I feel like complete and utter crap. My nose is less angry, sure, I can breathe, but my ears are totally plugged up, I'm all hot and listless and cranky and generally ill and not fun to be around.
I assume this means that I am on the mend, my complete and utter lack of friendliness or patience or kindness of any sort.
I realized how shitty I must look/act/sound when I looked up to find T, fresh off of a night shift of work (read: Done at 5 this morning) cleaning the house without complaint or my having to ask. This means that he feels really bad for me. Or that he doesn't want to see me sob in my kitchen again. Or use hand sanitizer 20394585 times while emptying the dishwasher. (Because I'm nothing if not conscientious of other people.)
A good friend of my dad's passed away this morning. He essentially drank himself to death. His wife was a horrible, evil harpy of a woman, who, in my opinion, had a lot to do with his death. But mostly, and this is weird to most people, I am not sad that he has died. I feel like it's a blessing--he isn't sick anymore, he isn't dealing with his horrible wife. He had no quality of life, at all, really, and now the pain and sickness is over.
I'm just a ray of fucking sunshine today. I'm thinking seriously about going back to bed. I'm eating zinc lozenges like they are candy, drinking gallons of tea, putting layer after layer of lotion on my nose and trying to stay warm. It's not helping. And I'm really pissed off about it.
Happy New Year.
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