I really wish I could sleep. If I could sleep, I wouldn't have thoughts that spiral out of control rolling through my head. I'm sitting in the house, blissfully alone (T and M are at work, J is out with the 'ladies', or at least that's what he's telling people) wondering who keeps calling me at this hour. Two phone calls, both different rings than normal (on my house phone!) both hang up the moment my hand touches the phone. It's not T, I called the control room and asked him.
Sorta creepy, were you into that sort of thing.
I am not, really. "The call is coming from inside the house!"
Anyway.
My ex-fiance got married a month ago. To the fat girl with the square head, who also happens to be the second person he cheated on me with. (That I know of.)
I am wildly unaffected by this information. I mean, really. I know that I am bringing it up on the blog, and therefore I have at least given it some thought, but I'm not mad, or upset, or really....anything. That time in my life is thankfully over.
I dated him immediately after T dumped my ass in HS. (Oh yes he did.) I dated this other dude, who doesn't deserve an initial, on and off for 4 years. He cheated, lied, was insane and did various sundry other bad things to me (and in general) the entire time we were together. I was young and really stupid.
We still have a lot of friends-in-common. This is the part that makes me smile--I'm getting to it.
Now, I am not a shallow person. But I am human, and sometimes, I derive sick pleasure from things......Like, oh, the knowledge that our friends-in-common have told him that T and I are not only back together, but getting married.
I know there is a good chance that he is as unaffected by my nuptials as I am of his. But unless he is a totally changed man from the last time I spoke to him--his ass, it is chapped.
His ass is chapped because he hated T. T hated him. Before I was even in the equation, these two didn't like each other. His ass is chapped because all of his friends, not just the ones that were also friends of mine, told him he was making a mistake when he and I ended things. Told him that he was 'downsizing', that I was a catch.
He obviously disagreed. I am glad that he did.
I haven't ever met the woman, but I am sure that she is lovely. (Even if she is fat and has a square head. But body type and head shape do not a lovely woman make.) He was (and is, I'm sure) a very funny and engaging man, and it would take a certain caliber of person to be with him.
I hope that they are happy together. I hope they are swathed in marital bliss for the rest of their days.
T is banking on them being at his class reunion next year. (Yes, we all went to HS together.) He is banking on shaking his hand, meeting the wife. Introducing me as his wife. Of seeing the look on my ex's face.
I am banking on my knowledge of the inner workings of this man's brain, and believe that he will avoid us like the plague itself. Which is probably a good thing, because T likes to remind people that have wronged me/us of how awesome we are, especially if he has had a scotch or 15. Endearing, yes, but on a case sensitive basis, perhaps.
And I really have no interest in seeing him again. I wouldn't stab him or anything--I really don't wish him any ill will, as much as I probably should. But I don't think he deserves the energy of forced pleasantries.
This post has no point. Nothing I type after 2 am is worth a shit....like last night, for example. The point is, it's almost 4am and I can't sleep. I have watched more TV than I care to admit, I have blown through a ton of knitting, I have read chapter upon chapter in my book. And so now I am writing a blog post about how I feel nothing about the fact that my cheating ex fiance got married.
Good Lord, I am one of 'those' bloggers. Perhaps that's who keeps calling my house--the Emo-Hipster police. They've gotten wind of my dreary self-righteousness, my misuse of internet space....and they're here to stop me.
That paragraph alone tells me I need to go to bed. Sorry, everyone. Maybe I will come back through and delete this under the cold light of afternoon.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
If you like it or not....
No one said they wanted to see my dress.
But here it is anyway.
(Minus the lace overlay. You can see it pretty well under there....even though I need to get something like that since I can't show my damn shoulders in the church. And, contrary to popular belief, not because I am covered in tattoos. Which I am, all three of you that didn't know that already.)
T hasn't seen it on my person, but is thrilled with the knowledge that I cannot wear a bra with it.
The roomies said, "You've got the ta-ta's for it.", which I assume is a good thing.
Any thoughts?
But here it is anyway.
(Minus the lace overlay. You can see it pretty well under there....even though I need to get something like that since I can't show my damn shoulders in the church. And, contrary to popular belief, not because I am covered in tattoos. Which I am, all three of you that didn't know that already.)
T hasn't seen it on my person, but is thrilled with the knowledge that I cannot wear a bra with it.
The roomies said, "You've got the ta-ta's for it.", which I assume is a good thing.
Any thoughts?
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
BS, BM, Bullcrap.
I believe that line is from SNL. From, like, 15 years ago. But I have been wrong before.
There is a lot of bullshit going on in my life right now. I am, as a wise man once said, the fuck over it.
Between room mate issues, our coffee pot spontaneously combusting, the fact that I purchased no less than 80 individual cans of diet pepsi last week which are now laying empty at the bottom of the recycling bin, my knitting retardation, passive aggression from all fronts.....ugh.
Grow up, world, and please stop melting, coffee pot. Also, buy your own pepsi, roomies.
Oh, and the feeder fish died. It's a start, at the very least.
My mom called me a bitch today, which was a nice way to start my morning. I just really wish she would come out with what she is really mad at me about--sigh.
No, seriously. My mother loves her some passive aggressive behavior. I don't play that game. Until she tells me what the hell is bothering her, I am pretending I haven't noticed her ungodly behavior. She can be spiteful and mean all she wants, but until she tells me how I have factored into that behavior? I don't give a shit.
I dunno. I just really think that there are better ways of getting a point across. If you're pissed, say something. If you're not that pissed? Either say something or get the fuck over it. Don't punish me for not being intuitive enough to read minds.
AGH! She just enrages me. But enough about her.
I am wearing the socks I made myself. They (well, one more than the other) are comfy as hell. It would seem that I knit tighter on metal needles, and made one with metal, and therefore....it's smaller. But it's cool.
I have finished one baby item, and now need to procure buttons which will be strategically placed on the wrong side for a boy and then the whole thing will be sent off to Utah.
Dude, I am freaking out that it will not be well received. But it remains to be seen. I'm sure it will be fine.
I am making another one as we speak, but in a different color for a different baby.
Joined Net*flix, and love it. It gives me some leverage against the boys when the TV fight begins. (video games vs. movie...Fight!)
However, T and the boys do not share the same taste in movies as lil' old me. I like indie films and documentaries, with some horror and black comedy thrown in. When the mail arrives with more movies, and they are all documentaries......there are some sad pandas in the mix. (Oh well. I have seen enough Soul Caliber IV to last me the rest of my life. A little education about the life and times of a set of identical twins, both homosexual but one transgendered will not hurt them at all. Right?)
There is a lot of bullshit going on in my life right now. I am, as a wise man once said, the fuck over it.
Between room mate issues, our coffee pot spontaneously combusting, the fact that I purchased no less than 80 individual cans of diet pepsi last week which are now laying empty at the bottom of the recycling bin, my knitting retardation, passive aggression from all fronts.....ugh.
Grow up, world, and please stop melting, coffee pot. Also, buy your own pepsi, roomies.
Oh, and the feeder fish died. It's a start, at the very least.
My mom called me a bitch today, which was a nice way to start my morning. I just really wish she would come out with what she is really mad at me about--sigh.
No, seriously. My mother loves her some passive aggressive behavior. I don't play that game. Until she tells me what the hell is bothering her, I am pretending I haven't noticed her ungodly behavior. She can be spiteful and mean all she wants, but until she tells me how I have factored into that behavior? I don't give a shit.
I dunno. I just really think that there are better ways of getting a point across. If you're pissed, say something. If you're not that pissed? Either say something or get the fuck over it. Don't punish me for not being intuitive enough to read minds.
AGH! She just enrages me. But enough about her.
I am wearing the socks I made myself. They (well, one more than the other) are comfy as hell. It would seem that I knit tighter on metal needles, and made one with metal, and therefore....it's smaller. But it's cool.
I have finished one baby item, and now need to procure buttons which will be strategically placed on the wrong side for a boy and then the whole thing will be sent off to Utah.
Dude, I am freaking out that it will not be well received. But it remains to be seen. I'm sure it will be fine.
I am making another one as we speak, but in a different color for a different baby.
Joined Net*flix, and love it. It gives me some leverage against the boys when the TV fight begins. (video games vs. movie...Fight!)
However, T and the boys do not share the same taste in movies as lil' old me. I like indie films and documentaries, with some horror and black comedy thrown in. When the mail arrives with more movies, and they are all documentaries......there are some sad pandas in the mix. (Oh well. I have seen enough Soul Caliber IV to last me the rest of my life. A little education about the life and times of a set of identical twins, both homosexual but one transgendered will not hurt them at all. Right?)
Blargh! (Also, Long Winded)
Quickly, before I forget:
On my meme, (Previous post) #16 is Epoisses--which is a super, amazingly, horrifying stinky french cheese. (So stinky they didn't want it shipped by train, lest the stink waft along behind the train, causing innocent bystanders to faint) It's made from unpasteurized milk, then bathed in Cognac.
It is on the cheese plate at my former place of employment, and bowling master A (chef, as well as bowling master, that one) was telling me a tale of woe featuring this specific cheese.
It would seem that this cheese is more expensive per pound than off season crab. It would also seem that this cheese was so odoriferous that even though it was packed inside it's little wooden house, as well as vacuum sealed, it was easy to smell. (That is pungent, people.)
Someone ordered the cheese plate. This cheese was new, and scheduled to be placed aside it's milder, more innocent cousins.
A cut the cheese (Literally), and not only did he nearly vomit from the smell, it stained the white cutting board. Cheese should not stain, people. (A is a man who has worked in commercial kitchens for over a decade. It goes without saying that he has seen some nasty, horrible 'food' in his career. If this little box of cheese was the thing to tip the scale into dry-heave land....whoo.)
A very mild mannered woman (the server who was toting said cheese plate) was unsure of the true violence of this cheese, and asked A about this. He waved the wooden box near her face, and she ran from him.
I want to eat this cheese. I am an adventurous, masochistic eater, it would seem. Just one bite, just to say I did.
I will then probably spend 45 minutes with my Soni*care. A tooth brushing scene to rival the shower scene in The Crying Game.
Anyway. On to the long winded part. (Edited to add: It's 2:30 in the morning, I am on my third cup of coffee {why fight the insomnia anymore, really?}.....Feel free to stop reading with that in mind, kiddos.)
My mother, god love the woman, makes me want to dig a hole and live in it, simply so that she will not be able to reach me by telephone. She scarred T's brother J for life via one drunken phone call. (She mistook J for T, and, although they are brothers with an age difference of just over 2 years, they sound nothing alike. Unless you are wasted on box wine and vicodin, I guess. Regardless, she accused J of lying to her about my whereabouts, and there was some loud, slurred swearing involved. Considering J had no idea who the hell he was talking to, the poor thing, it would seem he handled himself quite well. He didn't tell me too many details, probably for fear of insulting me, but I could tell he was at the very least super uncomfortable.)
What happened is what always happens. With the full understanding that the definition of "insanity" is "To do the same thing over and over again, always expecting different results", I am always surprised when mom does this.
I tell her, kindly "Mom, I am going to be out of town/at work/unavailable for any reason from Date/time to Date/Time. If you call, I will not be able to talk to you. Please do not assume I am dead, angry, or maimed in some way. Thanks!"
She usually makes it about 1/3 of the way into the allotted time before she calls. Like when my dad died. Like when I was in Vegas. Like this weekend.
I told her, repeatedly, that I was going to the city for the weekend.
She made it to Saturday.
The woman, she was SHIT FACED. Like, plastery plastered. Drunky McSlurryson.
I have no patience for this. She knows, full well, that I want nothing to do with her when she is drinking. That I will not talk to her when she is drinking, that calling me while intoxicated is a really, really bad idea.
She is weeping, which is typical. (Drunk or not.) She is lonely, her shoulder hurts, she 'just wants to hear my voice', because a friend of hers 'that she's had for a long time' yet I have never heard of (My mother cannot shut up and tells me everything about everything and everyone. Her having a secret friend is impossible.) was nearly molested. (This secret friend is a 12 year old girl who befriended my mother over her cat. This, at least, is plausible.)
Now, please, please, please don't get me wrong here. Molestation, sexual assault of ANY kind, is reprehensible. I firmly believe that sexual predators, especially those who prey on children, should be punished beyond the full letter of the law. Those kind of crimes do damage that cannot be undone, leave marks that do not heal.
I know this.
So my heart is moved by my mom's story. The fact that someone who lives so close to her is capable of such a terrible act is terrifying, that something so horrible could happen to any child, let alone one she cares about, it is hysteria inducing. It makes me ill to think of it. I'm with her so far.
What I am not with her for, however, is the drunken bullshit that comes with talking to anyone who is intoxicated. Especially someone who is a drunk like my mother is a drunk--mean. Mean, two faced, histrionic. And the complete lack of reason! Oh, how it enrages me.
She has to tell me this story no less than 15 times. I am saying the words with her on about the third time through. I am insulted that my mother is using this girl's trauma as a reason to go on a bender--which is what she is doing. (My mother takes other people's pain, their issues, and makes them her own. Because if she has a 'reason' to get shitfaced, then no one can judge her. I have seen her see a commercial and get wasted over it.) I do not doubt that she was upset, horrified. My mother is, when sober, a kind hearted and loving person. The idea of someone harming a child terrifies her, sickens her. But to then drunk dial everyone she knows, telling them the intimate details of what happened to this child, looking for sympathy of her own.....Oh, it makes me sick.
My heart hurts for this girl. I am so, so glad that she is alright, that she got away from her attacker, and that he has been remanded into police custody. (Which is where he can rot, thank you very much) That she doesn't fully understand what could have happened to her if she had not left when she did gives me hope that she will lead a normal, productive and happy life, unmarred by a loss of innocence.
My mother cannot leave it at that.
After the 14th telling of this grotesque tale, I remind her of the upside--that this girl is safe now, that she is ok, that the man is in jail and will stay there, unable to harm another child. That this girl (by my mom's own word) doesn't understand fully what happened to her, that she will be ok. Mom's drunk need for attention does not allow her to feel this way, to try and see these things.
She lashes out, as she is not getting her desired response from me. (While she is half weeping into the telephone, I am trying to cook dinner at 10pm, unpack a suitcase and entertain company from out of town. She is yelling at me for not 'talking' to her, but I couldn't get a word in edgewise if I wanted to.) She starts in on my wedding, on her disapproval of T's religion. She begins telling me that she knows more than I do about my life (she doesn't know my favorite color, for God's sake), that I will have children immediately following my nuptials (Uh, no. Good try, mom. Not gonna happen.), that she doesn't think I will be as good at mothering as she.
And then she starts in on what a terrible daughter I was/am. About how all the bad things that have happened to me (Very, very few of which does she know about, in all honesty. I do not trust this woman with anything, let alone details about some of the more horrific things that have happened to me.) happened because I didn't listen to her, that I rebelled. (I didn't rebel. I wasn't allowed out of my freaking house, like, ever. There was no way I could rebel. Sure, I went nuts in college, but what's that saying about 'the preacher's daughter'?)
She tells me how glad she is that she "isn't a mother anymore". That she is so, so glad that I am adult, that she is no longer liable for my "fucking retarded decisions", that my waste of a life cannot be traced to her. (It's all my father's fault, you see. The fact that she surprised a man 26 years her senior with an unwanted child with the intention of getting more money when she divorced him {she has openly admitted that is the only reason I am alive} and then spent the next 26+ years abusing and damaging that child in every way possible has nothing to do with her--Dad knocked her up. Good logic, that.)
Before I can open my mouth to respond to this, she launches another attack. Why haven't I spent the money to fly her out here? Why am I planning my wedding without her? She promised, after all, to remain sober while here--isn't her word good enough? How dare I do something with my life that doesn't revolve around her??
She exhausts me. I have no idea what to do. I want, so, so badly, to have a mom. Never had one, I don't think I ever will. Just for one day--My wedding day--I would love to have a mommy. I don't trust her, I don't even like her. But I love her--she is my mom. My fucked up, crazy mom. My last living parent.
I want to never talk to her again. I want to cut her out of my life, to try and heal all the wounds she has inflicted over and over again. I want, so desperately, to not have to worry about what she is doing/will do/could do at any given moment.
I can't. I cannot do this.
I know she will ruin my wedding. It terrifies me, but I am powerless to stop it. If I don't have her here, she will RUIN MY LIFE. If I do, she will ruin my wedding, make a scene in front of everyone, and give me a good reason (and lots of credible witnesses) to cut her out of my life.
I don't like either of those options. I know I am having a pity party for myself, that I am whining. That I should take action or shut the fuck up.
But she is my mom. I hate her, I love her, I want her to disappear. I feel guilty for resenting her so whole heartedly, for not being able to forgive her for the laundry list of terrible shit she has done.
I do not trust her to redeem herself on my wedding day.
And I feel like shit for it.
And this is nothing I haven't said before, again, and again, and again. I feel like shit for that, too.
On my meme, (Previous post) #16 is Epoisses--which is a super, amazingly, horrifying stinky french cheese. (So stinky they didn't want it shipped by train, lest the stink waft along behind the train, causing innocent bystanders to faint) It's made from unpasteurized milk, then bathed in Cognac.
It is on the cheese plate at my former place of employment, and bowling master A (chef, as well as bowling master, that one) was telling me a tale of woe featuring this specific cheese.
It would seem that this cheese is more expensive per pound than off season crab. It would also seem that this cheese was so odoriferous that even though it was packed inside it's little wooden house, as well as vacuum sealed, it was easy to smell. (That is pungent, people.)
Someone ordered the cheese plate. This cheese was new, and scheduled to be placed aside it's milder, more innocent cousins.
A cut the cheese (Literally), and not only did he nearly vomit from the smell, it stained the white cutting board. Cheese should not stain, people. (A is a man who has worked in commercial kitchens for over a decade. It goes without saying that he has seen some nasty, horrible 'food' in his career. If this little box of cheese was the thing to tip the scale into dry-heave land....whoo.)
A very mild mannered woman (the server who was toting said cheese plate) was unsure of the true violence of this cheese, and asked A about this. He waved the wooden box near her face, and she ran from him.
I want to eat this cheese. I am an adventurous, masochistic eater, it would seem. Just one bite, just to say I did.
I will then probably spend 45 minutes with my Soni*care. A tooth brushing scene to rival the shower scene in The Crying Game.
Anyway. On to the long winded part. (Edited to add: It's 2:30 in the morning, I am on my third cup of coffee {why fight the insomnia anymore, really?}.....Feel free to stop reading with that in mind, kiddos.)
My mother, god love the woman, makes me want to dig a hole and live in it, simply so that she will not be able to reach me by telephone. She scarred T's brother J for life via one drunken phone call. (She mistook J for T, and, although they are brothers with an age difference of just over 2 years, they sound nothing alike. Unless you are wasted on box wine and vicodin, I guess. Regardless, she accused J of lying to her about my whereabouts, and there was some loud, slurred swearing involved. Considering J had no idea who the hell he was talking to, the poor thing, it would seem he handled himself quite well. He didn't tell me too many details, probably for fear of insulting me, but I could tell he was at the very least super uncomfortable.)
What happened is what always happens. With the full understanding that the definition of "insanity" is "To do the same thing over and over again, always expecting different results", I am always surprised when mom does this.
I tell her, kindly "Mom, I am going to be out of town/at work/unavailable for any reason from Date/time to Date/Time. If you call, I will not be able to talk to you. Please do not assume I am dead, angry, or maimed in some way. Thanks!"
She usually makes it about 1/3 of the way into the allotted time before she calls. Like when my dad died. Like when I was in Vegas. Like this weekend.
I told her, repeatedly, that I was going to the city for the weekend.
She made it to Saturday.
The woman, she was SHIT FACED. Like, plastery plastered. Drunky McSlurryson.
I have no patience for this. She knows, full well, that I want nothing to do with her when she is drinking. That I will not talk to her when she is drinking, that calling me while intoxicated is a really, really bad idea.
She is weeping, which is typical. (Drunk or not.) She is lonely, her shoulder hurts, she 'just wants to hear my voice', because a friend of hers 'that she's had for a long time' yet I have never heard of (My mother cannot shut up and tells me everything about everything and everyone. Her having a secret friend is impossible.) was nearly molested. (This secret friend is a 12 year old girl who befriended my mother over her cat. This, at least, is plausible.)
Now, please, please, please don't get me wrong here. Molestation, sexual assault of ANY kind, is reprehensible. I firmly believe that sexual predators, especially those who prey on children, should be punished beyond the full letter of the law. Those kind of crimes do damage that cannot be undone, leave marks that do not heal.
I know this.
So my heart is moved by my mom's story. The fact that someone who lives so close to her is capable of such a terrible act is terrifying, that something so horrible could happen to any child, let alone one she cares about, it is hysteria inducing. It makes me ill to think of it. I'm with her so far.
What I am not with her for, however, is the drunken bullshit that comes with talking to anyone who is intoxicated. Especially someone who is a drunk like my mother is a drunk--mean. Mean, two faced, histrionic. And the complete lack of reason! Oh, how it enrages me.
She has to tell me this story no less than 15 times. I am saying the words with her on about the third time through. I am insulted that my mother is using this girl's trauma as a reason to go on a bender--which is what she is doing. (My mother takes other people's pain, their issues, and makes them her own. Because if she has a 'reason' to get shitfaced, then no one can judge her. I have seen her see a commercial and get wasted over it.) I do not doubt that she was upset, horrified. My mother is, when sober, a kind hearted and loving person. The idea of someone harming a child terrifies her, sickens her. But to then drunk dial everyone she knows, telling them the intimate details of what happened to this child, looking for sympathy of her own.....Oh, it makes me sick.
My heart hurts for this girl. I am so, so glad that she is alright, that she got away from her attacker, and that he has been remanded into police custody. (Which is where he can rot, thank you very much) That she doesn't fully understand what could have happened to her if she had not left when she did gives me hope that she will lead a normal, productive and happy life, unmarred by a loss of innocence.
My mother cannot leave it at that.
After the 14th telling of this grotesque tale, I remind her of the upside--that this girl is safe now, that she is ok, that the man is in jail and will stay there, unable to harm another child. That this girl (by my mom's own word) doesn't understand fully what happened to her, that she will be ok. Mom's drunk need for attention does not allow her to feel this way, to try and see these things.
She lashes out, as she is not getting her desired response from me. (While she is half weeping into the telephone, I am trying to cook dinner at 10pm, unpack a suitcase and entertain company from out of town. She is yelling at me for not 'talking' to her, but I couldn't get a word in edgewise if I wanted to.) She starts in on my wedding, on her disapproval of T's religion. She begins telling me that she knows more than I do about my life (she doesn't know my favorite color, for God's sake), that I will have children immediately following my nuptials (Uh, no. Good try, mom. Not gonna happen.), that she doesn't think I will be as good at mothering as she.
And then she starts in on what a terrible daughter I was/am. About how all the bad things that have happened to me (Very, very few of which does she know about, in all honesty. I do not trust this woman with anything, let alone details about some of the more horrific things that have happened to me.) happened because I didn't listen to her, that I rebelled. (I didn't rebel. I wasn't allowed out of my freaking house, like, ever. There was no way I could rebel. Sure, I went nuts in college, but what's that saying about 'the preacher's daughter'?)
She tells me how glad she is that she "isn't a mother anymore". That she is so, so glad that I am adult, that she is no longer liable for my "fucking retarded decisions", that my waste of a life cannot be traced to her. (It's all my father's fault, you see. The fact that she surprised a man 26 years her senior with an unwanted child with the intention of getting more money when she divorced him {she has openly admitted that is the only reason I am alive} and then spent the next 26+ years abusing and damaging that child in every way possible has nothing to do with her--Dad knocked her up. Good logic, that.)
Before I can open my mouth to respond to this, she launches another attack. Why haven't I spent the money to fly her out here? Why am I planning my wedding without her? She promised, after all, to remain sober while here--isn't her word good enough? How dare I do something with my life that doesn't revolve around her??
She exhausts me. I have no idea what to do. I want, so, so badly, to have a mom. Never had one, I don't think I ever will. Just for one day--My wedding day--I would love to have a mommy. I don't trust her, I don't even like her. But I love her--she is my mom. My fucked up, crazy mom. My last living parent.
I want to never talk to her again. I want to cut her out of my life, to try and heal all the wounds she has inflicted over and over again. I want, so desperately, to not have to worry about what she is doing/will do/could do at any given moment.
I can't. I cannot do this.
I know she will ruin my wedding. It terrifies me, but I am powerless to stop it. If I don't have her here, she will RUIN MY LIFE. If I do, she will ruin my wedding, make a scene in front of everyone, and give me a good reason (and lots of credible witnesses) to cut her out of my life.
I don't like either of those options. I know I am having a pity party for myself, that I am whining. That I should take action or shut the fuck up.
But she is my mom. I hate her, I love her, I want her to disappear. I feel guilty for resenting her so whole heartedly, for not being able to forgive her for the laundry list of terrible shit she has done.
I do not trust her to redeem herself on my wedding day.
And I feel like shit for it.
And this is nothing I haven't said before, again, and again, and again. I feel like shit for that, too.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
My Kind of Meme
The Omnivore's Hundred is a list of foods the gastronome Andrew Wheeler thinks everyone should try at least once in their lives.
The rules of the meme: bold those you have tried, italicise those you wouldn't eat on a bet. (I have added an element of bragging, and 'starred' the ones I cook.)
1. Venison*
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros*
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue*
8. Bread pudding*
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush*
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich*
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans*
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters (I ate me the hell out of some oysters this weekend...)
29. Baklava*
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl*
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float*
36. Cognac
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly
39. Gumbo*
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more (And let me tell you...I still didn't like it. I do my fellow countrymen a disservice.)
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala (This is like, my favorite thing of all time. Oh, Lordy.)
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer*
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini*
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores*
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake****
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe(I have had absinthe, but not that brand....does it still count? I bet it still tastes like licorice and hate.)
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant
85. Kobe beef (It harms me that I haven't eaten this yet. They make Waygu beef hot dogs, which also harms me.)
86. Hare
87. Goulash*
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox* (Rub it on my body, I love it so.)
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta*
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee (Give me some of this. My life will be complete. Almost.)
100. Snake
Damn. Looks like I need to have more adventures in eating. :) 62% was a failing grade when I was in school, all those moons ago.
The rules of the meme: bold those you have tried, italicise those you wouldn't eat on a bet. (I have added an element of bragging, and 'starred' the ones I cook.)
1. Venison*
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros*
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue*
8. Bread pudding*
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush*
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich*
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans*
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters (I ate me the hell out of some oysters this weekend...)
29. Baklava*
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl*
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float*
36. Cognac
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly
39. Gumbo*
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more (And let me tell you...I still didn't like it. I do my fellow countrymen a disservice.)
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala (This is like, my favorite thing of all time. Oh, Lordy.)
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer*
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini*
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores*
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake****
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe(I have had absinthe, but not that brand....does it still count? I bet it still tastes like licorice and hate.)
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant
85. Kobe beef (It harms me that I haven't eaten this yet. They make Waygu beef hot dogs, which also harms me.)
86. Hare
87. Goulash*
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox* (Rub it on my body, I love it so.)
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta*
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee (Give me some of this. My life will be complete. Almost.)
100. Snake
Damn. Looks like I need to have more adventures in eating. :) 62% was a failing grade when I was in school, all those moons ago.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Bowling, Biking and Power Shopping
You asked for photos? I give you photos.
Bowling:
T is thrilled to be having his ass handed to him by my buddy/ex-coworker/bowling pro A. (In the background.)
I am sweaty. And wearing shoes that don't belong to me.
It would seem that my flash distracts Bowling Master A, and by distracts I mean displeases, and by displeases I mean he looks less like a dork in this pic than of the one where he is smiling. (My poor-mans flash-bomb did not work, however.)
Biking:
(Back story. T had a renter at one time, who was in the process of common-law divorcing someone we went to HS with. She won his tiny BMX-knockoff in the divorce, didn't want it, and promptly left the bike (sans seat, however) and some of her other unwanted shit in our garage when she FINALLY moved out. T bought a new seat for this bike, and now rides it, looking like a bear on a roller skate. But whatever, it's funny.)
Yes, he is smoking while riding the bike. It is more hilarious if you could see that he is wearing a Miller High Life T-shirt as well. And please don't judge my parking lot/driveway in the background.
From left: Roomie M, Good buddy/Maid of honor/Newly licensed paramedic E, T atop the bike. This is shortly before E and T traded places and a woman in the apartments in the distance said, "You're a little big for that bike!", to which M replied, "You're a pretty big whore for that house!".
Power shopping:
I found the dress.
I then went to two other bridal stores, one of which told me I was "too fat" for their dresses and another bargain basement chain who yelled things about only carrying "designer lines", none of which were priced over $400, (A good thing) and looked it. (A bad thing.)
Wanna see it?
Bowling:
T is thrilled to be having his ass handed to him by my buddy/ex-coworker/bowling pro A. (In the background.)
I am sweaty. And wearing shoes that don't belong to me.
It would seem that my flash distracts Bowling Master A, and by distracts I mean displeases, and by displeases I mean he looks less like a dork in this pic than of the one where he is smiling. (My poor-mans flash-bomb did not work, however.)
Biking:
(Back story. T had a renter at one time, who was in the process of common-law divorcing someone we went to HS with. She won his tiny BMX-knockoff in the divorce, didn't want it, and promptly left the bike (sans seat, however) and some of her other unwanted shit in our garage when she FINALLY moved out. T bought a new seat for this bike, and now rides it, looking like a bear on a roller skate. But whatever, it's funny.)
Yes, he is smoking while riding the bike. It is more hilarious if you could see that he is wearing a Miller High Life T-shirt as well. And please don't judge my parking lot/driveway in the background.
From left: Roomie M, Good buddy/Maid of honor/Newly licensed paramedic E, T atop the bike. This is shortly before E and T traded places and a woman in the apartments in the distance said, "You're a little big for that bike!", to which M replied, "You're a pretty big whore for that house!".
Power shopping:
I found the dress.
I then went to two other bridal stores, one of which told me I was "too fat" for their dresses and another bargain basement chain who yelled things about only carrying "designer lines", none of which were priced over $400, (A good thing) and looked it. (A bad thing.)
Wanna see it?
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Ominous Music
I am terrified that I spell things wrong in my title bar, and people will come here to read, see the misspelling, laugh, judge, and leave. (Because that's what I would do. Double standards abound, I tell you.)
It is so freaking hot in my house, I can't really tell you. I have all the doors and windows open, all the fans running, and it is still just as hot inside as outside. (Ok, so I know some of you kids live places far, far hotter than here. But take a moment to think about where I live....and then throw 95 degrees with 100% humidity on top of it. I'm hot.) T is at work, where he is operating (and therefore making the big bucks) and sitting in a blissfully air conditioned control room. But I am sitting in my living room with two sweaty twenty-something boys in various states of stinky undress, watching them play video games at full volume.
It's hot, and I am cranky. Mostly because I have to wear clothes because the boys are here, and, well, I love them and want them to have the gift of eyesight.
Anyway.
My dear, dear friend E is on his way up here from a job interview. He just received his paramedic license, and has years of experience as a fire fighter.....so he is a pretty hot commodity right now. I beam with pride. (He and I have been friends since we were kids, like, 9-10 years old and so he is essentially my brother. Also, my maid of honor.)
Anyway, he is coming up here not only to visit, but to take me wedding dress shopping this weekend.
Sigh.
He maintains that we should just get drunk and do it that way, but I have a feeling that T's sister (who is overseeing the entire operation, and to whom I will owe my first born child when this is all said and done) may not love that idea. Or she will love it, and the three of us will stagger into the bridal store and I will just take my clothes off and demand to be dressed by my 'minions'. Whichever, really.
*****************************************
So the baby knitting has begun in earnest.
Moni, we need to talk.
The item I am making for your son is nearly completed. This is the very first (!) item of this kind I have ever made--so that makes it extra special. (Maybe.) Anyway, if, say, hypothetically, I had made a mistake in button placement, like, oh, put the buttons on the side appropriate for girls rather than boys, would you or your husband explode? I assume your son has more important things to worry about, like, oh, learning to focus his eyes or use his tongue.....If it matters, I can tear the whole thing out and do it again. If it doesn't matter, however, this item shall be mailed to you shortly. Please lemme know if the buttons are an issue. (I'm such a dork sometimes.)
Anyway, I am going to turn into a puddle of goo if I remain sedentary. Perhaps more later. (Tales of bowling, with photos, perhaps!)
It is so freaking hot in my house, I can't really tell you. I have all the doors and windows open, all the fans running, and it is still just as hot inside as outside. (Ok, so I know some of you kids live places far, far hotter than here. But take a moment to think about where I live....and then throw 95 degrees with 100% humidity on top of it. I'm hot.) T is at work, where he is operating (and therefore making the big bucks) and sitting in a blissfully air conditioned control room. But I am sitting in my living room with two sweaty twenty-something boys in various states of stinky undress, watching them play video games at full volume.
It's hot, and I am cranky. Mostly because I have to wear clothes because the boys are here, and, well, I love them and want them to have the gift of eyesight.
Anyway.
My dear, dear friend E is on his way up here from a job interview. He just received his paramedic license, and has years of experience as a fire fighter.....so he is a pretty hot commodity right now. I beam with pride. (He and I have been friends since we were kids, like, 9-10 years old and so he is essentially my brother. Also, my maid of honor.)
Anyway, he is coming up here not only to visit, but to take me wedding dress shopping this weekend.
Sigh.
He maintains that we should just get drunk and do it that way, but I have a feeling that T's sister (who is overseeing the entire operation, and to whom I will owe my first born child when this is all said and done) may not love that idea. Or she will love it, and the three of us will stagger into the bridal store and I will just take my clothes off and demand to be dressed by my 'minions'. Whichever, really.
*****************************************
So the baby knitting has begun in earnest.
Moni, we need to talk.
The item I am making for your son is nearly completed. This is the very first (!) item of this kind I have ever made--so that makes it extra special. (Maybe.) Anyway, if, say, hypothetically, I had made a mistake in button placement, like, oh, put the buttons on the side appropriate for girls rather than boys, would you or your husband explode? I assume your son has more important things to worry about, like, oh, learning to focus his eyes or use his tongue.....If it matters, I can tear the whole thing out and do it again. If it doesn't matter, however, this item shall be mailed to you shortly. Please lemme know if the buttons are an issue. (I'm such a dork sometimes.)
Anyway, I am going to turn into a puddle of goo if I remain sedentary. Perhaps more later. (Tales of bowling, with photos, perhaps!)
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