What's done is done

Well, I wrote it.

I will have you know that I got so upset during the writing process that I called my mother and woke her up to make her calm me down.

I will also have you know that I was so audibly upset that my mother actually rose to the occasion and did her motherly job.

Anyone who knows anything about my mother and our relationship therein will know that this is a big fucking deal.

Now all I have to do is edit it for grammar, which I appear to have lost all prowess in, and send it off to my sister.

I feel limp. I didn't realize just HOW emotionally draining this would be.

But it's done. And my eyemakeup is totally ruined.

And still no spellcheck from blogger.

Sigh

I am writing a blog rather than write the letter to the insurance people.

I really, really don't want to write the letter to the insurace people.

Really.

I know how emotionally strenuous it will be. I know that I will cry at least 4 times while writing it.

I would rather sit in my room and listen to the wind, which threatens to turn out the power and give me an excuse to not write the letter to the insurance people.

I just want it to be done. I know that it cannot be done by anyone other than me, and I can't fast forward time to where it is done, and I don't even have to read the damn thing.

But I will write it. And read it, again, and again, attempting to do justice to my father's life, and to the injustice that ended it.

I know that these people won't understand the anguish that is going to be in those pages. They are just that--words on paper--to them.

And to me....they are a haunting memory. Watching my father fall, the look on his face as he lay there on the floor in a puddle of blood. Of walking into the hospital room, only to have his heart stop, watching the heart monitor lines go flat. Of owning his last words on this earth.

I think if I knew that those reading this letter would understand what went into it, I would be more inclined to write it.

And now blogger is telling me I can't check my spelling. Please understand.

Sonic......BOOM!!!!

(Feel very included and dorky if you catch the reference in the title.)

Big deals going on at work. None really apply to me, well, none apply to me in a really overtly negative way. New high-level management. Few people got fired. I appear to have been moved to the other restaurant. Still no benefits, raise or increase in hours.

On a lighter note, T and I are applying for passports here shortly. Perhaps at some point in the near-ish future you will suddenly be reading a blog I am writing from Prague or something, for we have both quit our jobs, drained our savings, rented the house out and taken off across the world with no notice to anyone.

Or we will both have a new important document to diligently attempt to not lose.

Which ever, really.

I am really, really tired. I don't have a good excuse, as I slept all freaking day. Perhaps the fact that I have been reading my book for five hours may have something to do with it.

With that, I'm off to try and finish the book.

Minor Minutiae of Everyday Life!

My sister is fond of that saying. It makes me feel that she is a pseudo-intellectual, and therefore, resent her. More than I already do.

T is at the airport, awaiting his flight home from Vegas. Yes, he did witness the Monte Carlo in flames, and yes, I did have a small mental breakdown thinking he was going to be mugged, stabbed, run over or otherwise maimed in some way while this was happening. (I knew he wasn't IN the Monte Carlo, which is his fave, because he called me from the Drunk Shuttle to tell me it was on fire. Which may be the smartest move he has made while in a relationship with me next to the time he learned the statement "Whatever you want, honey.") I am a horrible, horrible worrier. Full time job. Made myself hysterical and almost ill when I thought about him flying without me.

I hate to fly, but apparently I need to be present in all planes to keep them UP. (Plane Viagra, whathaveyou.)

T, being the patient soul that he is, humored me. And he is safe.

But until I get the call that he is safely off the plane, I will worry.

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Blog Fodder, how I love you.

Ten things you wish you could say to 10 different people right now (don't list names):

1. I think you will someday get what you deserve, and that is the only thing keeping me from verbally or physically assaulting you in some way, so deep is my contempt for you.
2. You made your bed, now stop complaining about the sheets.
3. I love you, but I know that we will never be friends the way I think we could be because of my feelings about God. And that makes me sad.
4. It enrages me that you have no concept of how much pain you have caused those around you, and all you look at is either what you have to gain from a situation or how you can manipulate it to make yourself look like the victim.
5. I think you are probably a two-faced liar, but I can't prove it. If I can, I will make sure you go down in flames. But I have more important things to do.
6. In a perfect world, everything would smooth itself out. But it's not, and it's not going to.
7. You are a really, really bad mother.
8. Your semi-charmed life is one of my pieces of evidence that life is clearly unfair.
9. I will never change some things about myself, no matter how hard you try and make me. And I am sorry that it hurts you, but that's the reality of the situation.
10. Go fuck yourself.

Nine things about yourself:

1. I have more books than I will ever read, and I buy more constantly.
2. Having a clean house makes me calm, but I hate to clean. So I stress a lot.
3. One of the easiest ways to upset me is to call into question my intelligence.
4. I drink coffee all day, every day. If I can't for some reason, I am sick and very, very unhappy.
5. I am depressed far more than anyone knows.
6. Mold of any kind, especially on food, will make me gag. Always.
7. I am just starting to think I might be pretty.
8. I hate to have my pinkie toes or collarbones touched.
9. I am terrified that I will be "stuck" in my life.

Eight ways to win your heart:

1. Be honest. Even about uncomfortable things.
2. Love animals.
3. Be able to make fun of yourself.
4. Be diligent.
5. Don't be afraid to try new things.
6. Have some self confidence!
7. Be stubborn and steadfast about the things you love and are passionate about.
8. Have your priorities straight, and have a grasp on reality, even the non-pretty aspects of it.

Seven things that cross your mind a lot:

1. When can I quit my job?
2. The future
3. Sleep
4. Food/Cooking
5. The continual need to clean my house
6. The people I love
7. Where do I want to live?

Six things you wish you never did:

1. Started smoking
2. Allowed myself to be a doormat
3. Caused emotional pain to others
4. Fucked up college, as much as I wouldn't be where I am now
5. Gotten fat out of self loathing
6. Put myself last in all things

Five turn-offs in a guy/girl:

1. Bad hygiene and teeth
2. Lying
3. Immaturity
4. Stupidity
5. Emotional closed-offed-ness

Four turn-ons in a guy/girl:

1. Sense of Humor
2. Wit
3. Intelligence
4. Drive/Motivation

Three smileys that describe your life:

1. Fuck
2. That
3. Shit

Two things you want before you die:

1. Have a job I love
2. Travel the world without a care

One Confession:

1. I harbor a lot of resentment for people and they have absolutely no clue about it, and never will.

Alone Time

I am all by myself.

This is new.

T has gone off to Las Vegas for four days, today being the first. I dropped him at a midway point to the airport this morning, and he has arrived safely. My roomie of sorts is back at home until tomorrow....leaving just lil ol' me all by my lonesome.

I had thoughts of galloping around my house in various states of undress, watching bad television that normally I wouldn't, listening to annoying music too loud, or putting away a bottle of wine while in my bath tub.

Instead, I am sitting at my computer watching horrifying videos and drinking tea and a bud light from a can. See, I have no soda in the house--and yes, I have made a real attempt to not drink soda--and needed something fizzy. My friend from work left some bud light here--sort of like soda--so I popped one open while boiling water for tea. Tea was done before the beer, so now I have both sitting in front of me. Such glamor.

The horrifying videos, well.....

A man near here died from being humped by a horse. The video is of him, getting humped by the horse. Please don't ask how I found this, decided to watch it, know that it happened here, or really ever mention it again.

Thanks.

Explosions and The Many Variations Therein

I worked a wedding this weekend. I bartended it, actually. (Tarbended! All this really means is I get to wear all black and look surly. I do these things very, very well--Majored in Dark Clothing and Surly Attitudes in College.)

This was a gloriously weird group of people. Not big drinkers, actually, so I did a lot of standing around for a few hours, which is never a bad thing. It was a low key, quiet affair.

But some gems came out of it.

My good friend (Hi!) was sent down to cut the prime rib on the buffet line, which was stationed right next to my bar, so we could gossip and talk shit and quietly laugh the entire time, which was pretty much the highlight of the evening.

Until.

First, some back story. (I am so good with the back story.)

My friend, A, is tall. Quite tall. Built exactly like my stepfather, actually, but that means nothing to most of you.

A also smokes. He smokes Newports, which, to those of you who are better people than we are and have no frame of reference, taste like cigarette and mentholated cough drops. They are very popular with African Americans. (This is something I mean no offense by. I have sold enough cigarettes in my life to see trends--strong, heavily mentholated cigarettes are popular with African Americans, just as really really long and thin cigarettes are popular with post-menopausal women.) And when you see someone smoking one of these particular cigarettes that doesn't fit into the bracket of 'stereotype' that I have just mentioned, well, its funny.

For instance:

A (I am fuzzy on the details here, but you will get the general idea. I'm sure he will set me straight later.) was told by a black woman that his pack of Newports was a 'Ghetto Pass'. I think this is far, far funnier than I should.

Moving on.

So A is cutting the prime rib, and I am standing next to him in my dour tarbending outfit. (Tell me one thing--Is it not a perfect wedding reception where you can have a slab of beef put on your plate while ordering a double vodka martini?) A woman walks up to A--She is a very tall, (rather pretty, I thought) black woman, who is looking A directly in the eye and says, "I want the thinnest piece of meat you can cut. Like, shave it."

And A does, because he is good with a knife and also, not stupid.

She smiles at him, and says,

"Look at that, you big, tall, sexy white pimp. Cutting that meat so fine.....Mmmmm."

It took everything I have inside me not to squeal and laugh out loud.

I believe A blushed, which makes it doubly hilarious.

He then said, "I should have offered her a cigarette."

I replied with, "You probably would have come away a changed man."

(I know how wildly inappropriate this crap is, but you all know you are laughing a little. Or a lot, if you are an asshole, like me.)

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Later that evening, the other two servers and I were faced with the task of cleaning up. One of these girls is diabetic, and hadn't eaten all day, and the other is pregnant and becomes wildly enraged if she doesn't eat. (Which is also really funny. I'm sure my tune will change if and when I get pregnant, but watching her carry around a bag of food wherever she goes and bark "I'M PREGNANT AND HUNGRY!" whenever anyone questions her really makes my day.) I'm mostly just pissed off all the time, but I was hungry too. A cut off huge slabs of prime for us to eat...which we did, with our hands, locked in a closet. (I'm telling you, I have the most glamorous job on the planet.)

Shortly thereafter, the diabetic server and I were caught by the groom eating wedding cake. He laughed, and told us he was happy that we were eating it. Which is good, because the cake really sucked and if he had been pissed, it really wouldn't have been worth it.

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You're all waiting for the explosions, aren't you?

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While we were setting up for the wedding, my mother called me and left a message telling me that she has cancer.

I was reasonably shaken.

But I was at work, so I soldiered on. I walked into the kitchen and was attempting to ask the chef a question about the buffet line, when I started stammering.

He said, in normal chef talk, "Spit it out! I don't have time for this!", to which I responded, "I'm sorry. My mom just told me she has cancer, I'm not thinking straight."

He replied....And I shit you not, "Leave that shit at home! Tell me what you want!"

I freaked out. In the back of my mind, I knew I should keep my trap shut and just walk away with the knowledge that he was talking without thinking, which happens a lot, but I couldn't.

"Did you just fucking say that to me? Seriously? Just leave that shit at home? Do I need to remind you that my father has been dead a mere 5 months and my mother is the only real family I have to speak of? Do I need to remind you that I have not asked to go home and make travel plans to go see her, when she could potentially be dying, because I am COMPANY MINDED and know that I need to be here right now? Really? Oh, I'm sorry, you don't have time for this. How many plates and tongs do we need for the buffet line, that's what I was trying to ask. Is that concise enough?"

We stared at each other for a long moment, me waiting to be finally fired for insubordination, him probably waiting to be assaulted in some way.

"Ten.", he replied. Patted me on the arm and walked away.

We got along famously for the rest of the night.

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The other explosion is far more intimate and gross.

Eating the prime rib and wedding cake combo, along with the pound of cheese I ate the night before, was a really, really bad idea. I was not the only one afflicted, but still. I was at work last night when a sudden fear overtook me--the kind of knowledge and fear we have all had, and hate having in public or, especially, at work. The knowledge that everything in your lower GI tract wants out, NOW, and you are powerless to stop it.

Me, both my friends that also imbibed the cheese, both my coworkers from the wedding. We all had frightening experiences as a result of our culinary indiscretion. Luckily, not all at once.

I was sent home from work. So I guess that's good.

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Oh, and my mom? No cancer. Its coming up on three years since my stepdad was killed, and she is jonesing for attention. She did, however, have a small stroke and her blood pressure is through the roof. She is on medication, refuses to change her diet, quit smoking or drinking, and doesn't want to monitor her blood pressure because if it goes up she has to be hospitalized and she doesn't want that, so she will ignore the problem and it will go away. Magic!

Small amounts of stress, that's all.

IPod Drama, Reasons I'm Old

I would like to extend a big middle finger to Itunes for not letting me steal things from my friends. Sigh.

See, if you purchase something from Itunes, you cannot then copy those files to, say, an external USB drive and then give that USB to your friend, to put on to her Itunes package. Nope--you have to buy it yourself.

Stupid laws.

This works just fine with regular mp3s, just ripped from cd.

I do not own the new Daft Punk. I thought I did--I could taste it! But I don't. Nor do I own Mad Season, the entire Tool discography, or Ministry of any kind.

Oh well. I suppose I will just have to be a law abiding citizen and shell out the cash like the rest of America.

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I have to write a letter telling an insurance company how my father's death has affected me. I really don't want to do this. I fear of sounding trite, angry or insane. (I do all three regularly.)

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I swear I have arthritis. Sciatica, bum knees and general pain as a whole I have had...but the creaking in my hands and feet is reminiscent of arthritis.

Just to remind you all--I'm almost 26. Too. Young.

Don't fall down a lot, kids, lest you wind up like me. (Who knew klutziness would come back to bite you in the ass? Or knees, feet, ankles and hips, like me?)

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The desire to quit my job is waxing. If it weren't for the four friends I have at work I would have done this some time ago. The incessant pain is not helping things much, nor is my sudden inability to not be filled with rage when people drink their water too fast for my liking. Or eat bread and want seconds. Or have special orders. Separate checks. Or want to eat in the restaurant at all, that sucks too.

Sigh.

Enough bitching.

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which means I have nothing to say.