BBQ, Family, and Screaming As a Form of Birth Control

Our engagement party went well. Better than expected--there was no screaming, no real fighting, no real hysteria
or drama. My bloodline was represented by my cousin, (older brother to
the cousin who had heart surgery) and his common-law wife.

That's it, btw.

Lots of people were in attendance, family friends, parents of my close friends, T's family almost as a whole.

My
future father in law made a quip about my being a heathen, which was
par for the course and if that is the worst thing that happened I am
thrilled.

The food was great, there was enough beer for everyone
(but not enough scotch....why I didn't see that coming I will never
know) and lots of laughter. Nothing more could be desired from an
engagement party. Except, perhaps, the bride's family. But whatever,
I'm not bitter or hurt or anything. Ha.

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

My
mother is, as usual, making a spectacle of herself in attempt to assert
herself into the role of "More Important Than 'Blank'". This week,
'Blank' was the company that came from out of town and the BBQ itself.
She called no less than five times, once during the party to remind me
that she has a new dog (and still lives in a motor home. It doesn't
make sense to me either.), once the next morning at 6am to remind me of
the new dog and inform me that the state she lives in is suing her for
back taxes, again that afternoon, where she left a message telling me
in a horribly morose tone that she had done something "terrible", that
she needed help, please!

I returned this phone call. Mind, I was
in the car with my friends from out of town, attempting to run errands
and prepare a feast/scrabble tournament for that evening, and have a
good time.

I return the call, concerned. I have told my mother,
starting the week before the party, that I was NOT AVAILABLE TO TALK TO
HER for this entire weekend, and, assuming she has blown up her house
or killed someone by her tone on the voicemail, that it was not a cry
for the wolves.

(Backstory. I also told my mother the week
before (Thursday) that if I am going to pay for her to come visit me in
MY HOME at totally MY EXPENSE, she was not allowed to drink. She became
hysterical, which I expected, angry, which I expected, and defensive,
which I was totally prepared for. She then called me on Friday (the day
my company arrived, and my first day of "unavailability") to inform me
that she would NOT be coming out if she couldn't drink. My mother hasactively
, and of sound mind (at the time, I guess) made the choice to drink
alcohol rather than take part in the wedding of her only child. She was
also at varying stages of intoxication during each of the later calls I
have been detailing, even the one at 6am. Idon't think she realizes she
has uninvited herself from the wedding, but she has. I am far, far more
upset by this, as well as the story I am recounting, than I am letting
on.)

Anyway, I call mom back. I ask her what terrible thing she
has done, what sin was so atrocious that she needed to interrupt me,
again, to share it with me.

After a long, drunken pause, she informs me that she has slept with a friend of hers.

This friend is my age.

This friend has two children under the age of five.

This friend is married.

When
I asked her 1)If that was the 'terrible' thing she was speaking of and
2)Why in the name of all things holy she would share this information
with me, she said

"Yes, that is the terrible thing! It's terrible! I had to tell someone!"

When I told her that since she felt so terrible about it (and rightly so, I think) she should NOT DO IT AGAIN, she said,

"Oh no, missy. I am so doing it again, it was amazing....." She then went into more detail than I would like to remember.

I
then let on that this was not behavior I condoned, simply because this
man is married. (I seriously could give a shit that he is my age. Or
that he has kids. But married+young enough to easily be her child+two
small children=My sensibilities are offended. And it's gross.) She
became, guess what, enraged, and hung up on me. She then called five
hours later, SHIT FACED, a call I did not answer, and left me this
precise message:

"I pressed five, you bitch, you called me. Fuck
you." (I understand all of it besides the pressing of five. I didn't
call her, but she was shit faced and looked at her caller ID and saw
that I had returned the previous ill-fated call. Not being sober enough
to understand the concept of time, she assumed I had called again and
went on to swear at me, which she does a lot.)

Tomorrow/today is
her birthday. I sent a package. I doubt I will call. I really am over
it. It upsets me. A lot. I could write a book of this shit and it
wouldn't explain what I am feeling.

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

A coworker of T's was getting rid of two large fish tanks, complete with fish and all accessories, which we agreed to take.

Damn.

These
tanks are not even close to big enough for these fish--two 9 inch
Oscars in one and one 8 inch Jack Dempsey and a catfish in the other.
We went today and priced 100 gallon tanks, which we will be buying so
that the fish don't explode from over crowding. (and it's mean to keep
them confined like that....even though they have been in there for 7
years.)

We have spent a good chunk of dough already trying to
get things patched together well enough till we can afford a fish
mansion. I was terrified that the fish would die a slow, horrible death
when we reintroduced them to the new and 'patched together' tanks. (The
man who delivered them had stuck them in a kettle and driven them over
in the back of his truck. No, I'm not kidding.) The man mentioned in
passing that the Oscars had been extra aggressive that morning, and he
wasn't sure why. (Yet dumped them in a canning kettle with two new fish
for a thirty minute drive. Brings to mind the 'lets put them in a box
and shake it' mental image.)

We reintroduced the fish to their
respective tanks, after adding appropriate bacteria, plants, gravel,
rocks, etc. and letting feeder fish add to the symbiosis for a few
hours. (they poop a lot and get the bacteria going. Plus the big fish
will eat them later, so everyone wins.)

When the newly
aggressive HUGE Oscars went in the tank, it did not look promising.
They were sad, quiet, not really swimming. The Jack Dempsey and catfish
were happy as hell.

T and our company stood around the Oscar
tank, holding our breath. Would they just up and die? Would we be
digging graves for these fish too big to flush? We watched as they
ignored the feeder fish (which are still happy and living, as odd as
that is three days later), slowly came around and began to swim. A sigh
of relief was had by all.

Until they immediately started fucking. And laying eggs. And fucking. And laying eggs.

T was horrified. "NO! BAD FISH! STOP!!!! NoNO!", like they were children reaching for a grease fire or something.

That's
why they were fighting! Fish Foreplay! All they have done since they
were put back in the tank is lay eggs. Christening the new home, as it
were.

This development was met with some anger and confusion by
yours truly. (Not to the extent of T, however.) What the hell do we do
now, I wondered.

I looked online. I will let the eggs hatch, (I
can't really stop them, and the Oscars will attack us if we try to take
them out) but not feed them. The babies require special food, and I am
going to ignore that fact and let the tiny, tiny corpses either be
eaten by the feeder fish in a cruel, ironic twist or get sucked up in
the filter, as they will die rather quickly even if fed properly, and
almostimmediately without food.

And I was worried about them
being sad, unhealthy in a too small tank. (technically they are, and we
are going to change that shortly.)

T has taken to admonishing the Oscars every time he walks by the tank.

"STOP FUCKING!", he will yell. "QUIT! THE! SCREWING!"

I don't think they are listening.

Wherein I announce my Engagement to Store Clerks; Also, Learn to Play Dirty

This weekend is T and my's engagement party.

We took a trip today to large franchise overlord #1, and, upon check-out, the cashier said, "It looks like you kids are having a barbecue!". Rather than poke her in the face for stating the obvious (pickles, paper plates, relish and ketchup....I wonder...) I said, "Yes! We are! It's our engagement party, and we are morons and having it on Father's Day!". (Seriously. Father's day no longer applies to me in any real sense, and T seems to try and ignore it as best he can....so without consulting a calendar, we picked a date and it just happened to fall on a holiday I won't celebrate and T ignores. We rock. We did set a date for the wedding, however, and I need to Google it and make sure it isn't a holiday either. Just to be safe.)

Anyway, the cashier was overjoyed at our engagement. It's nice when strangers are thrilled for you, more than your own family. (One member of my family will be in attendance. We're looking at 80 people all told. One is related to me. One.)

We then went off to Gigantic Members-Only Franchise, where I wholeheartedly drink the Cool Aid. (I know its spelled with a K.) Five gallons of mayo? Sign this bitch UP. Of course we need 15 pounds of pasta! I cannot go in that store unsupervised....my need for a bargain is to great.

A car payment later, we left. The clerks there were not as interested in our engagement, but oh, did I tell them. After they made the same "You must be having a BBQ!" statement. (They refrained from calling us drunks. We bought.....70 beers? Something like that. I doubt its enough.)

When we returned home, I found that J, T's brother (who doesn't like cleaning up after himself) had left a huge mass of garbage and food wrappers in the living room....and left. This is after he and I had a serious talk about "There are people coming from out of state to stay with us this weekend. I need to feed 80 people on Sunday. I'm not asking you to re-grout the tub or anything, but please, please, PLEASE clean up after yourself so T and I don't have to.....at least for the weekend!"

I don't think he heard me.

So I was faced with options. I could leave the garbage there, where it would stare at me like a toad, mocking me and filling me with rage. I could throw it away, wait for J's return, admonish him and have nothing change--since I don't think his ears catch the frequency of my voice that often. Or I could......

Take the garbage (A styrafoam take out box, a plastic bag, chopstick wrappers and some soy sauce packets) and place it gently, delicatly upon J's bed.

Which is what I did.

I don't think I would be this irritated about it if I hadn't spoken with J about this EVERY DAY FOR THE LAST THREE MONTHS.

Sigh.

Also, I am not handling the whole "My family refuses to come to my engagement party, even though I hate most of them" thing that well. I know I am better off for it, not feeding people I hate, but.....yeah.

Also not handling the whole "I am getting married without either of my father figures in exsistance" thing that great either. Which is weird, because I thought I would be fine.

I have great pics to post, but T's dinosaur of a computer won't accept my cameras software, so I have to get my ass over to my place and do it there.

Happy Father's day. :)

Whoops

I suck at posting on a regular basis, even if I have no excuses. However, most of the blogs I read haven't been updated as regularly as in months past, so we can all blame eachother and call it a day.

All I do is clean. Seriously? I try to not clean for one day and the house is trashed. I don't like cleaning a trashed house, so I clean. Daily. And I grow weary of having to ask for help.....Oh well. I suppose I am a 'wife to be', so I can wear the 'housewife' shoes a little early.

But I did tell T's brother J that if he doesn't start pulling his own weight I am going to torture him.

As I sit here I need to empty the dishwasher, reload it, run the vacuum, sweep/mop the kitchen floor, put clothes away and start another load of laundry. If I stand in the center of the house and squeal at the top of my lungs, pointing at what needs to be done, J and his girlfriend will leave rather than help and I will be able to clean in peace.

Better put my keening outfit on.

Yeah...nothing else is really new. Booked our trip to Vegas in July, so that is going to be fun (and I bet I get a sunburn even with the 50 proof sunscreen), and I'm sure T is looking forward to another plane ride with me.

Random Hilarity, Recycling Drama

T's computer and I do not get along. We used to just fine, but lately
it has taken to thwarting me at every turn. Perhaps it is jealous of
our taking our relationship to the next level, maybe it knows that my
computer is better and will soon be joining us in this house. Whatever
the reason, it pisses me off.

"Oh, so you want to listen to music while you cruise the internet? I don't think so!"

"Oh, you want to actually ACCESS the internet? Sorry."

"Sure, try to run the anti-virus software. I'm just going to freeze."

It's about this time that I start swearing, slamming shut the desk, restarting the computer, and generally being myself.

I don't love it.

But
I think that everyone should go href="http://www.jaypinkerton.com/heston.html">here. I
nearly pee every time I go there.....Some people may find it less funny
now that Mr. Heston has shuffled off this mortal coil. But you know
what? I am not one of those people.

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

The garbage
trucks come once a week here. (Normal.) The recycling people come once
every two weeks. This would not be a problem if T's brother, who also
lives with us, could remember to take the damn trash and recycling out
to the curb....Since he cannot remember this, (this was more of a
problem when T and I weren't here that often.) the trash and recycling
would pile up in the garage. The garbage problem has been solved now
that T and I are here.....but the recycling, well, not so much.

I don't think the recycling has gone out (before today) in over a month. We drink a good amount of diet soda, and, being that this is a house with two twenty-something men in it, a lot of beer.

We
had more recycling than we could FIT IN THE TOTES. We took out what we
could, and when we re-fill the bins, it will be full again. I'm going
to have to bite the bullet and start taking the recycling to the center
myself or we could all be crushed in a soda-can avalanche.

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

We have a wolf spider problem.

I am IN NO WAY ok with this.

Those things are so, so huge. It's not ok.
Oh, and they will only bite when they feel threatened, like, oh, when
you are chasing after them to kill them. Then they will turn towards
you and LEAP ONTO YOUR FACE.

So I went to the hardware store
yesterday and purchased a product called "Spider Kill". I hope it does
what it professes, because seriously? I see one more two-inch spider
racing across the floor and I may have ananeurysm. And move.

Do Over!

Last night T and I decided to stay up all night. We were going to stay
up until just before the sun came up, and then make the 5 minute drive
to the beach and watch the sun rise.

This seemed like a great idea at 9pm. At about 3:30, it didn't sound so sweet.

But
we did it. And it was awesome. I took four billion pictures, having
never really seen the sun rise before. (Well, not actually paid
attention to it in any real way, I mean.) I will upload them later,
after I have figured out if I brought my photo software over here or
not.

The cool thing was that depending on which way we looked,
we either were looking at the sun rise, the mountains turning purple to
pink to orange, or a rainbow. (And it wasn't raining!)

Then I
had the crap scared out of me by a huge seal. How many people can say
they have stood on a beach in their pajamas and slippers and weresnuck-up-on by a huge aquatic mammal? Ninjas, seals are not. Sigh.

The
last time I stayed up all night for any real 'purpose' (as insomnia
doesn't count as a purpose in my opinion) was when I was in college. We
used to stay up all night on a regular basis--and not because we worked
graveyard or anything. We were all a little borderline crazy, you see.
(Some of us more than others. No, really.) Staying up for days at a
time will make even the most sane person crazy--think of what it
does/did to people with fragile mental health.

It was fun. Not
the kind of fun I would tell my children to have, mind, but fun. I
learned a lot about myself in those sleepless marathons.....I remember
how cold my face would feel, sitting out on the steps to smoke acigarette
, cup of cheap coffee in my hand, the music sounding muffled through
the door...How quiet the town was, how alone I seemed. My thoughts
seemed so clear, everything was so sharp, and, if I was lucky, life
made sense, if only for that one cold moment, the cement hard beneath
me.

I remember sitting in my car a few miles from my ex's
house. His dad lived in the expensive part of town up on a hill, where,
from the right street, you could look down into the rest of the city
proper and see every single street. I used to sit in my piece of crap
car at the top of that ridge with my seat all the way back, my doors
wide open, my feet in those black boots I wore everywhere planted on
either side of my steering wheel, my music pounding out into the night
as I looked down into the place I had hated for as long as I had been
there, wondering how todisappear.

How odd that something as
simple as a sunrise can remind you of how far you have come in your
life. How, in just over five years, you can re-invent yourself.

Maybe we should go watch the sun again sometime. (And maybe I should do something about my new fascination with run on sentences. Jesus....Maybe I should edit these before I publish them, rather than the old type-and-post. Hrm.)

Modernity!

T had cable TV and Internet hooked up at his house today. That is where
I am blogging from--T's house. It's amazing, thrilling, and very, very
comforting.

I didn't realize how much I depend on the Internet
and Discovery (Disco-Variety!) channel for my mindless entertainment--I
have the TV on while I read, knit, do dishes, blah...and the rest of
the time I am staring into the computer. (Errands? What? Never.)
Staying at T's house was something of a labor of love for a bit-- if he
was at work, there was nothing to 'entertain' me....So I was reduced to
things like laundry, vacuuming out the cars, mopping. Who wants to do
that crap? Bring on theInternet, baby.

I am such a consumer whore. Lord. I didn't realize it until I wrote that paragraph. Stupid American!

Girlhood dashed to pieces, also, my father was condemned to a tanning booth

When I was nine years old, I watched MTV for the first time. A music video came on for a song which, with the fear of sounding cliche, changed parts of my life.

This was the music video.



Yeah, it's kinda lame now. But--The image of John Frusciante (I could write an entire post about that man. Seriously? Seriously.) surrounded by clouds and wearing that weird outfit has stuck with me my entire life from that point on. I was entranced--this song was the first non-pop/boyband song that I had liked. I loved it. It was the first piece of music that 'spoke' to me on any real level. (I was nine. Work with me here.)

My nine year old self had never heard of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. (A lot of people hadn't until this song/album came out in '91. Yes, I am that young.) I wanted the CD, I wanted to know everything about this band.

My parents were not pleased. See, this is a band that not only made beautiful music like 'Under the Bridge', but also made songs like 'Sir Psycho Sexy', the lyrics of which have such gems as "....Creamy Beaver/Hotter than a fever/I'm-a-giving/'Cause she's the receiver...." Not appropriate for a nine year old. I didn't care, didn't understand what the hell they were even talking about. They were also famous for wandering around on stage wearing only tube socks on their genitals. (Causing my father to later, and forevermore, refer to them as 'Those socks-on-cocks boys you like so much', which is hilarious in it's own right.)

I soldiered on. Listened to what I could on the radio, made bootlegged copies of the album on tape. When I was 13 I went to see them in concert for the first time. (John wasn't the guitarist then. I don't know why I need to share this with everyone.) (I have seen them several times, thankyouverymuch.)

I was, for well over 10 years, a die hard Chili Peppers fan. I know, still, to this day the words to EVERY SONG they have. I'm serious. (No one said I was cool.) My knowledge doesn't end there, but it matters not. What matters is that I loved, loved, loved this band, and their music shaped my adolescence and young adulthood in great ways. It was the soundtrack to my coming of age, in a sense.

As I wander further into my 20's, they have fallen out of favor. The new stuff? Not so great. Haven't really loved anything since '99, when Californication came out. Even that album had it's failings, in my opinion.

Anyway, the sun stopped rising and setting for the Chili Peppers. I still listen to the old stuff, still sing along and embrace the warm feelings I get from the music, but gone are the glory days.

So when T mentioned a magazine article today that said Anthony Keidis had a seven month old son, I paused.

"What?" Something his major couldn't happen without my notice! How could Anthony Keidis impregnate someone and become a father without my noticing?

It seems that it could and did happen when I stopped paying attention to current pop culture trends and news.

It seems it happened when I grew out of my Chili Peppers decade.

It just goes to show....gone is my childhood. Gone is the era of my listening to bootlegged songs about graphic sex (and not understanding it), sung by a strung out (sometimes, depends on the album) junkie and his 'band of brothers' on a Walkman while sitting in my bedroom. Gone are the days where I would stay up all night to listen to an album over and over again, amazed at what I was hearing.

I don't think this was as eloquent as I intended.

(But for real? Everyone needs to find, and listen to, at least 6 times, the song "Ramparts" by John Frusciante. It's on the album To Record Only Water For Ten Days, and is just over a minute long. Go. Listen. Amazing.)

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

Before my dad went on dialysis, he was treating his kidney failure with diet and, to his chagrin, exercise. When that stopped being totally effective, and the uraemic acid began to build up in his system (causing serious itching), they treated him with "Light Therapy"--basically a 12 second tanning bed.

The first time this treatment was implemented, it worked great. Dad felt awesome, no more itching.

After about a month, the itching began again. In earnest.

Dad went back to the dermatologist for a second treatment.

Now, let me pause here. We're not talking about the conventional go-lie-down tanning bed, were talking the get-naked-and-stand-in-this-booth-while-shot-with-light-from-all-sides tanning booth. On steroids.

Anyway, appointment for second treatment in hand, my dad heads off to the doctor.

He strips naked, dons the weird glasses, and steps into the booth.

This is where everything goes wrong.

The tanning tech, rather than blasting my dad for 12 seconds with high UV light, blasts him for 30 seconds.

And literally fries my father.

His ENTIRE 80 year old body is sunburned. EVERY PART.

Just when he is starting to potentially heal, he went on a road trip. In a car with no air conditioning. And was promptly stuck in traffic, in unseasonably hot weather, for hours. And obtained a heinous case of 'drivers arm'.

I arrived for a visit the next day. My father was literally SNOWING dead skin. He itched, he hurt, he was swollen, he was peeling. And he was PISSED.

So pissed he refused my attempts to put lotion on his lobster body. I threatened to vacuum him to make the 'snow' stop. Finally I plunged my hands in cold water, lubed up with aloe vera, and attacked.

Oh, there was yelling. Swearing. The proverbial stomping of feet and gnashing of teeth. Then? Silence.

He heaved a huge sigh of relief, leaned back in his chair, and luxuriated in the moment.

Then he hit me on the top of the head and swore some more.

Damn, I miss that guy.