I have sciatica.
This sucks, to those of you who are lucky enough to not know that this is.
It's horrible, weird back pain that radiates down from your pelvis to your feet (and if you're really lucky, your arm and fingers) as you have done something to piss off your sciatic nerve.
Basically, what happens is I do something stupid, like, trip over my own feet or collapse when trying to get out of the car (My parents seriously thought about naming me Grace. Hilarity.) and wrench my back. I wake up the next morning, and walking/bending is not an option.
This time the flare is due to the fact that I didn't wear my super-sexy mouth guard while sleeping the last week or so, and ground the hell out of my teeth, giving myself a huge tension headache with morphed into a migraine which morphed into my laying on any flat surface with a pillow over my head with my back at a weird angle because it stretched my neck out......
One thing leads to another.
I would much rather have this than a migraine/tension headache, though.
You know how you make sciatica better? You exercise. I can't open the refrigerator without swearing from pain, and I'm supposed to go walk 1-3 miles.
Hates it. That's me. Anyway, I have taken to suspending myself over the chair I sit in--holding my body out of it with my arms and letting my ass hover over the seat. My back cracks and pops and moans, and I feel better for about 25 seconds.
Anyway, enough bitching.
Nothing is really going on.....I've been out of commission the past few days from back pain, migraine or the flu-ish thing that A gave me. (thanks again, buddy!) So there's nothing really new to report. I mailed all the baby knitting! That's something. Uhm....Yeah. Well, at least I never promised to entertain you kids.
(Where did my commenters go? I mean, seriously?)
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Koalas and Rainbows
This entry is not light hearted. Consider yourselves warned.
I have been watching full episodes of the show Intervention on You*Tube.
I am obsessed with this show. I am obsessed with biographies of people who have had, or still have, drug and alcohol problems.
I am obsessed with them not because I like to see self-destructive behavior, but because of the families and friends that are effected.
It makes me feel less....alone. It sounds so fucking selfish, so horrible to say this, but seeing people with lives that have been destroyed in ways equal to or greater than mine-it makes me feel better. I don't want anyone to suffer the way I did, the way I still do, but to know that I am not alone, well, it makes me not blame myself.
Because that's what we do, you know. We adult children of alcoholics. There's a whole association devoted to us. And I have, or have had, every single symptom on the list. Shall we look at it?
"...We had come to feel isolated, and uneasy with other people, especially authority figures. To protect ourselves, we became people pleasers, even though we lost our own identities in the process. All the same we would mistake any personal criticism as a threat.
We either became alcoholics ourselves, married them, or both. Failing that, we found other compulsive personalities, such as a workaholic, to fulfill our sick need for abandonment.
We lived life from the standpoint of victims. Having an over developed sense of responsibility, we preferred to be concerned with others rather than ourselves. We got guilt feelings when we trusted ourselves, giving in to others. We became reactors rather than actors, letting others take the initiative.
We were dependent personalities, terrified of abandonment, willing to do almost anything to hold on to a relationship in order not to be abandoned emotionally. We keep choosing insecure relationships because they matched our childhood relationship with alcoholic or dysfunctional parents.
These symptoms of the family disease of alcoholism or other dysfunction made us 'co-victims', those who take on the characteristics of the disease without necessarily ever taking a drink. We learned to keep our feelings down as children and keep them buried as adults. As a result of this conditioning, we often confused love with pity, tending to love those we could rescue.
Even more self-defeating, we became addicted to excitement in all our affairs, preferring constant upset to workable solutions." (www.adultchildren.org)
Again, this is not something I delve into terribly often, nor is it something I share with very many people. Good lord, look at me--Oversharing on the blog, twice in one week!
Everyone in my family is an addict, or was at one time. Every single person. As far back as anyone can remember. Alcohol, predominantly, was and is the drug of choice. (Not for me. I'm special.) My mom, my dad, my step dad, sisters, step sister, my cousins, aunts, uncles, step grandparents, grandparents....everyone.
I was surrounded by addicts my entire life.
I didn't realize that this wasn't normal until I was in upper elementary school, when sleep overs became the thing to do. When my friends parents weren't mean to them, weren't drunk, didn't fight all the time. They tucked us in and made snacks and let us watch movies and play games and make noise. I didn't understand--that's not what my parents did.
My friends didn't want to stay at my house. They didn't want to come to my birthday parties, didn't want to come over at all. My mom was drunk all the time, and mean, and made an ass out of herself on a regular basis. She fell, shitfaced drunk, and broke her ankle while I had friends over to stay the night. She then called my father, from whom she was divorced at the time, to get pain pills from him. My stepfather was listening in on the phone, my mom knew it--so she screamed and screamed and screamed for me to come help her. I did--she wanted me to go tell my stepdad to hang up the phone. I was 11. I did it. My stepdad was also drunk--He threw the phone out the second story window, raining broken glass all over the yard. They spent the rest of the night screaming at eachother and breaking things and yelling, all the while I was trying to laugh it off to my friends. Who called their moms in the middle of the night to come get them.....And I was grounded for a month because I let the "family secrets" out.
My sister, who put herself through rehab a couple of years ago (she is to be commended for that choice and her hard work to stay sober. She may be a fucking bitch but she really deserves a pat on the back for that one.) tells me over and over and over that I should join Al Anon, that I should go into therapy, that I should write my mom out of my life forever, and so on and so forth.
Part of me knows she is right. Another, more prevalant part of me, feels that she doesn't know a goddamn thing about me, my childhood or my feelings. So there is no possible way that she could know what was right for me. I understand that her intentions are good ones, that she means well and wants the best for me.....But if this is something I decide to do, I am going to do it on my own terms, and she will definatly not have a goddamn thing to do with it.
I also don't love the 12 steps. I have a hard time with the "God" stuff. But that's just me.
I need to learn to be ok with the way I was raised. I need to learn to not hate and resent my mother for exsisting. For being weak.
Because that's how I think of her. Weak. And that is the last thing I want to be.
My mom, she looks for reasons to get wasted. Because if she can justify it to herself, then no one else can give her a hard time.
My grandmother's birthday would be this week. My grandmother has been dead for 16 years. Yet my mom gets drunk for about 2 weeks straight for that reason. Right after that is her wedding anniversary with my stepfather, which is also the anniversary of her mom's death. More drinking. Then comes Thanksgiving, which she has to be wasted for, and then Christmas. Drunk. Then the anniversary of my stepdad's death, then his birthday, then my birthday, then the date of her divorce being final from my dad....So basically mom has at least 6 months of hard drinking scheduled in, starting last week.
It makes me crazy. She does this partly because she is embarrassed and needs to justify it. She also does it because she has gotten away with it for so long. (The woman got out of a HUGE DUI by using the "my mom died of alzheimers last week" excuse in court. This is when it started. I think.)
This entry was pointless. And spell check won't work.
I have been watching full episodes of the show Intervention on You*Tube.
I am obsessed with this show. I am obsessed with biographies of people who have had, or still have, drug and alcohol problems.
I am obsessed with them not because I like to see self-destructive behavior, but because of the families and friends that are effected.
It makes me feel less....alone. It sounds so fucking selfish, so horrible to say this, but seeing people with lives that have been destroyed in ways equal to or greater than mine-it makes me feel better. I don't want anyone to suffer the way I did, the way I still do, but to know that I am not alone, well, it makes me not blame myself.
Because that's what we do, you know. We adult children of alcoholics. There's a whole association devoted to us. And I have, or have had, every single symptom on the list. Shall we look at it?
"...We had come to feel isolated, and uneasy with other people, especially authority figures. To protect ourselves, we became people pleasers, even though we lost our own identities in the process. All the same we would mistake any personal criticism as a threat.
We either became alcoholics ourselves, married them, or both. Failing that, we found other compulsive personalities, such as a workaholic, to fulfill our sick need for abandonment.
We lived life from the standpoint of victims. Having an over developed sense of responsibility, we preferred to be concerned with others rather than ourselves. We got guilt feelings when we trusted ourselves, giving in to others. We became reactors rather than actors, letting others take the initiative.
We were dependent personalities, terrified of abandonment, willing to do almost anything to hold on to a relationship in order not to be abandoned emotionally. We keep choosing insecure relationships because they matched our childhood relationship with alcoholic or dysfunctional parents.
These symptoms of the family disease of alcoholism or other dysfunction made us 'co-victims', those who take on the characteristics of the disease without necessarily ever taking a drink. We learned to keep our feelings down as children and keep them buried as adults. As a result of this conditioning, we often confused love with pity, tending to love those we could rescue.
Even more self-defeating, we became addicted to excitement in all our affairs, preferring constant upset to workable solutions." (www.adultchildren.org)
Again, this is not something I delve into terribly often, nor is it something I share with very many people. Good lord, look at me--Oversharing on the blog, twice in one week!
Everyone in my family is an addict, or was at one time. Every single person. As far back as anyone can remember. Alcohol, predominantly, was and is the drug of choice. (Not for me. I'm special.) My mom, my dad, my step dad, sisters, step sister, my cousins, aunts, uncles, step grandparents, grandparents....everyone.
I was surrounded by addicts my entire life.
I didn't realize that this wasn't normal until I was in upper elementary school, when sleep overs became the thing to do. When my friends parents weren't mean to them, weren't drunk, didn't fight all the time. They tucked us in and made snacks and let us watch movies and play games and make noise. I didn't understand--that's not what my parents did.
My friends didn't want to stay at my house. They didn't want to come to my birthday parties, didn't want to come over at all. My mom was drunk all the time, and mean, and made an ass out of herself on a regular basis. She fell, shitfaced drunk, and broke her ankle while I had friends over to stay the night. She then called my father, from whom she was divorced at the time, to get pain pills from him. My stepfather was listening in on the phone, my mom knew it--so she screamed and screamed and screamed for me to come help her. I did--she wanted me to go tell my stepdad to hang up the phone. I was 11. I did it. My stepdad was also drunk--He threw the phone out the second story window, raining broken glass all over the yard. They spent the rest of the night screaming at eachother and breaking things and yelling, all the while I was trying to laugh it off to my friends. Who called their moms in the middle of the night to come get them.....And I was grounded for a month because I let the "family secrets" out.
My sister, who put herself through rehab a couple of years ago (she is to be commended for that choice and her hard work to stay sober. She may be a fucking bitch but she really deserves a pat on the back for that one.) tells me over and over and over that I should join Al Anon, that I should go into therapy, that I should write my mom out of my life forever, and so on and so forth.
Part of me knows she is right. Another, more prevalant part of me, feels that she doesn't know a goddamn thing about me, my childhood or my feelings. So there is no possible way that she could know what was right for me. I understand that her intentions are good ones, that she means well and wants the best for me.....But if this is something I decide to do, I am going to do it on my own terms, and she will definatly not have a goddamn thing to do with it.
I also don't love the 12 steps. I have a hard time with the "God" stuff. But that's just me.
I need to learn to be ok with the way I was raised. I need to learn to not hate and resent my mother for exsisting. For being weak.
Because that's how I think of her. Weak. And that is the last thing I want to be.
My mom, she looks for reasons to get wasted. Because if she can justify it to herself, then no one else can give her a hard time.
My grandmother's birthday would be this week. My grandmother has been dead for 16 years. Yet my mom gets drunk for about 2 weeks straight for that reason. Right after that is her wedding anniversary with my stepfather, which is also the anniversary of her mom's death. More drinking. Then comes Thanksgiving, which she has to be wasted for, and then Christmas. Drunk. Then the anniversary of my stepdad's death, then his birthday, then my birthday, then the date of her divorce being final from my dad....So basically mom has at least 6 months of hard drinking scheduled in, starting last week.
It makes me crazy. She does this partly because she is embarrassed and needs to justify it. She also does it because she has gotten away with it for so long. (The woman got out of a HUGE DUI by using the "my mom died of alzheimers last week" excuse in court. This is when it started. I think.)
This entry was pointless. And spell check won't work.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Thwarted by Weather, Round One
I am lucky to live in a part of the country that has reasonably mild weather. Maybe I just think that because I lived somewhere for eight years that had a climactic reign of terror over me. 110 in the summer? -40 in the winter? Hooray!! Not.
No, where I live, we really only get the huge horrible windstorms in the winter that knock out power for days on end. That's the worst we have, and I'm ok with that. Nothing like camping in your own home...
When I first moved back here, it was the very beginning of February, and therefore, the height of shitty weather season. (Anyone here watch 'Deadliest Catch'? You know those arctic hurricanes they're always talking about? We get the tail ends of those. And now everyone with an atlas knows where I live. Hooray!) Anyway. I moved back, my friends left, and I began to settle into my "I'm horribly depressed/relieved that I am out of the hellhole" routine, which involved lots of sleep, no showering, and tons of internet and cable television abuse. (This was also the year that our notoriously shitty football team made it to the Superbowl. This is important.) Have I blogged about this before? Meh. You'll get over it.
Anyway, my dad was driving himself around then, and was a large fan of the "I have four daughters and sometimes they all go crazy" mode of parenting, so dad left me alone a lot. He (true to form) went to the store before I arrived and purchased everything he knew I liked to eat and drink, gave me a hug when I got there and then let me do my own thing.
So my friends leave, and dad goes to dialysis. I have whole days to myself, to do nothing but watch TV or cruise the internet, to read. It's awesome. I'm warm, I'm entertained, and I'm not dealing with my mom.
And then the storm hits.
The wind is screaming, the bridges are closed, trees are falling like drunks, and the power goes out. No power=no tv, no cable, no heat, no hot water. We have a wood stove (thankfully) and I had spent the last 2 years while living with my mom cutting firewood (From forest to furnace, baby! Never again.) so I was pretty good at getting a fire going so we didn't freeze. Even though all the wood was soaking wet.
Aside: Is there anything more sad and hilarious to look at than a horribly depressed, dishevelled woman in her early 20's splitting firewood in her pajamas while a storm rages around her? I think not.
Anyway, so my existence went from one of willingly going without showers and being a slug in front of the tv to one of not having a choice.
So I would build a fire and sleep on the floor in front of it, while the storm raged, the windows rattled and the sliding glass doors bowed inward. I had faith that the power would come back on in a day, two at the most.
10 days we were without power. 10 freaking days. I'm charging the coleman lantern in the cigarette lighter in the car, charging the cell phone the same way. Trees have fallen over most of the major roads, no one can get in or out. Dad stayed with his girlfriend so he could get to dialysis. I ate crackers and drank warm coke. Did crossword puzzles. No phone, no TV, no internet....no choice. The restaurants were closed...It was kinda cool for the first 48 hours or so.
On the 11th day, the power came back on. It was also super bowl Sunday. My dad came home for the occasion. I cranked up the heat, took a shower, went to the grocery. Dad was sitting in front of the television, thrilled to death to watch the super bowl. Rubbing his hands together.
The pregame show ends. The cameras are now zooming in on the stadium, the announcers are welcoming us to the biggest football game of the year.
And then the cable went out. 'CLICK'! and then nothing but snow.
I thought my father was going to explode. I had never in my life heard that sort of language out of my father. Up, out of the chair, he's accusing the television of ungodly acts and crimes against humanity. He is punching the remote control, creating new swear words out of thin air. He is calling the cable company and accusing them of being Nazis.
When he finished, I told him that I was sure we could go down to the hotel (my later place of employment) and watch the game there. That they were on a different power and cable grid than we were.
He stood there, his chest heaving with breath, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, glaring at me.
"FUCK THAT SHIT, GODDAMNIT! I just won't watch the GODDAMN SUPERBOWL, YOU FASCIST SONS OF WHORES!" And he went in his room and slammed the door.
You know, I think an 80 year old man addressing the cable company (in effigy, mind) in such a way may be more funny than me cutting firewood in my pajamas.
The cable came back on in time for the post-game highlights, but my dad was too pissed to come watch it. He just pretended that the Superbowl didn't happen that year.
We lost, by the way.
No, where I live, we really only get the huge horrible windstorms in the winter that knock out power for days on end. That's the worst we have, and I'm ok with that. Nothing like camping in your own home...
When I first moved back here, it was the very beginning of February, and therefore, the height of shitty weather season. (Anyone here watch 'Deadliest Catch'? You know those arctic hurricanes they're always talking about? We get the tail ends of those. And now everyone with an atlas knows where I live. Hooray!) Anyway. I moved back, my friends left, and I began to settle into my "I'm horribly depressed/relieved that I am out of the hellhole" routine, which involved lots of sleep, no showering, and tons of internet and cable television abuse. (This was also the year that our notoriously shitty football team made it to the Superbowl. This is important.) Have I blogged about this before? Meh. You'll get over it.
Anyway, my dad was driving himself around then, and was a large fan of the "I have four daughters and sometimes they all go crazy" mode of parenting, so dad left me alone a lot. He (true to form) went to the store before I arrived and purchased everything he knew I liked to eat and drink, gave me a hug when I got there and then let me do my own thing.
So my friends leave, and dad goes to dialysis. I have whole days to myself, to do nothing but watch TV or cruise the internet, to read. It's awesome. I'm warm, I'm entertained, and I'm not dealing with my mom.
And then the storm hits.
The wind is screaming, the bridges are closed, trees are falling like drunks, and the power goes out. No power=no tv, no cable, no heat, no hot water. We have a wood stove (thankfully) and I had spent the last 2 years while living with my mom cutting firewood (From forest to furnace, baby! Never again.) so I was pretty good at getting a fire going so we didn't freeze. Even though all the wood was soaking wet.
Aside: Is there anything more sad and hilarious to look at than a horribly depressed, dishevelled woman in her early 20's splitting firewood in her pajamas while a storm rages around her? I think not.
Anyway, so my existence went from one of willingly going without showers and being a slug in front of the tv to one of not having a choice.
So I would build a fire and sleep on the floor in front of it, while the storm raged, the windows rattled and the sliding glass doors bowed inward. I had faith that the power would come back on in a day, two at the most.
10 days we were without power. 10 freaking days. I'm charging the coleman lantern in the cigarette lighter in the car, charging the cell phone the same way. Trees have fallen over most of the major roads, no one can get in or out. Dad stayed with his girlfriend so he could get to dialysis. I ate crackers and drank warm coke. Did crossword puzzles. No phone, no TV, no internet....no choice. The restaurants were closed...It was kinda cool for the first 48 hours or so.
On the 11th day, the power came back on. It was also super bowl Sunday. My dad came home for the occasion. I cranked up the heat, took a shower, went to the grocery. Dad was sitting in front of the television, thrilled to death to watch the super bowl. Rubbing his hands together.
The pregame show ends. The cameras are now zooming in on the stadium, the announcers are welcoming us to the biggest football game of the year.
And then the cable went out. 'CLICK'! and then nothing but snow.
I thought my father was going to explode. I had never in my life heard that sort of language out of my father. Up, out of the chair, he's accusing the television of ungodly acts and crimes against humanity. He is punching the remote control, creating new swear words out of thin air. He is calling the cable company and accusing them of being Nazis.
When he finished, I told him that I was sure we could go down to the hotel (my later place of employment) and watch the game there. That they were on a different power and cable grid than we were.
He stood there, his chest heaving with breath, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, glaring at me.
"FUCK THAT SHIT, GODDAMNIT! I just won't watch the GODDAMN SUPERBOWL, YOU FASCIST SONS OF WHORES!" And he went in his room and slammed the door.
You know, I think an 80 year old man addressing the cable company (in effigy, mind) in such a way may be more funny than me cutting firewood in my pajamas.
The cable came back on in time for the post-game highlights, but my dad was too pissed to come watch it. He just pretended that the Superbowl didn't happen that year.
We lost, by the way.
Politics and Random Naps
*Disclaimer: Please don't write me comments, messages, or emails about what a horrible person I am for writing this entry. At no point do I do anything besides state my own opinion--And I went out of my way to leave all names out of it. If you are offended or disagree, that's your right. But please keep it to yourself, and, like all things blog, respect my right to an opinion as I respect yours. Thanks.*
Much like every other right-minded person in this country, I am totally obsessed/horrified/terrified/aghast of/with the current political situation.
Actually, I have been for a while, but things are coming to a head lately, what with all the election stuffs going on.
I really try to leave stuff like this out of the blog. I really try to keep my political views to myself, along with my religion (or lack thereof). I really try to be open minded at all costs, to accept all people and their failings and achievements together. People are people, no matter how small/black/white/catholic/muslim/republican/democrat and so on. Your identity is not defined by WHAT you are, but who.
Common sense, really. At least in my mind.
However.
T and I have discussed the current election at length, probably far more times than he wants to. (Bless the man. I get incensed about something and can't shut up about it, and he just wants to sleep, or drive, or eat dinner, or do laundry. So tolerant. I am the luckiest woman.) He seems to have more faith in the American people than I do.
Now, let me discuss that statement.
I love this country. I am proud to live here. But I am not in love with, or proud of the way a lot of people refuse to make educated decisions about the future of this great country. The look at the shiny bits that are dangled before them by candidates, take the ones they like and vote accordingly. They don't look into the track records, the history, the REAL thing they are voting for. It seems borderline retarded to me to make a decision that will effect every part of your life--even if it is in the slightest way--without knowing the facts.
My father was a party voter. The candidate running under his party still calls here on a regular basis (well, his voice recording, anyway) thanking my father for his support. The state I live in requires you to pick a party--which I hate. What if I like a democratic senator or governor, but a republican president? But that's another post for another time.
In wanting to make an informed decision for myself and my future, as well as for what I thought was best for this country (being a democracy and all) I began to research the candidates. When the vice presidential candidates were announced, the research intensified.
When E was here, he and I would get into hours long talks about politics. We are identically minded when it comes to the majority of the current political issues, and would talk for hours about them. (I think T was just happy to have a break so he could watch the History channel in peace.)
And then E told me a beautiful and terrifying thing.
If one of the candidates wins the election, E and his girlfriend G will be making noises about moving out of the country.
T and I will follow.
How sad and depressing is it when citizens are driven to the point where they have no faith left in their government? When they feel that the best option for them and their future children would be to live somewhere else? That the four of us would sell everything we own and leap off this continent, leaving behind everything and everyone we know rather than be governed by a group we have no faith in. It scares and disgusts me.
I really am trying to rally. Trying to have more faith in my fellow Americans to see the big picture.
Simultaneously, however, I am forced to believe in democracy. Perhaps my idea of 'the big picture' is the minority view. Perhaps my thoughts on gay marriage, abortion rights and laws, birth control, education, health care, the war, the economy, they aren't the same as the bigger part of America. Majority rules--that's the basic foundation of our government. Those who disagree with me have the same rights as I do, that's the beauty of democracy.
So I am torn.
But that can't stop me from doing what I think is right. (So long as I am not hurting anyone.)
***************************************************
With the previous novella in mind, I was watching CNN today. I was becoming more and more aggressive with the television, more worried, more stressed.
And then I suddenly, and without any preamble, fell asleep. Just passed the fuck out on my couch while watching Anderson Cooper. I woke up two hours later, having dreamed some of the most random and weird shit ever, confused.
I know I haven't been sleeping well due to my raging horrible back pain. But jesus--I was like a darted animal.
I'm going to bed soon. And I know I will sleep without any problem. (aside from pain.)
Oh, and weather? Yeah, if you could work your shit out and decide what season it is, that would be great. The fog horns keep T and I awake. So does the bitter cold, especially if it was sweltering when we went to bed and opened all the windows without getting the 'it will be fucking freezing here shortly' memo. Thanks.
Much like every other right-minded person in this country, I am totally obsessed/horrified/terrified/aghast of/with the current political situation.
Actually, I have been for a while, but things are coming to a head lately, what with all the election stuffs going on.
I really try to leave stuff like this out of the blog. I really try to keep my political views to myself, along with my religion (or lack thereof). I really try to be open minded at all costs, to accept all people and their failings and achievements together. People are people, no matter how small/black/white/catholic/muslim/republican/democrat and so on. Your identity is not defined by WHAT you are, but who.
Common sense, really. At least in my mind.
However.
T and I have discussed the current election at length, probably far more times than he wants to. (Bless the man. I get incensed about something and can't shut up about it, and he just wants to sleep, or drive, or eat dinner, or do laundry. So tolerant. I am the luckiest woman.) He seems to have more faith in the American people than I do.
Now, let me discuss that statement.
I love this country. I am proud to live here. But I am not in love with, or proud of the way a lot of people refuse to make educated decisions about the future of this great country. The look at the shiny bits that are dangled before them by candidates, take the ones they like and vote accordingly. They don't look into the track records, the history, the REAL thing they are voting for. It seems borderline retarded to me to make a decision that will effect every part of your life--even if it is in the slightest way--without knowing the facts.
My father was a party voter. The candidate running under his party still calls here on a regular basis (well, his voice recording, anyway) thanking my father for his support. The state I live in requires you to pick a party--which I hate. What if I like a democratic senator or governor, but a republican president? But that's another post for another time.
In wanting to make an informed decision for myself and my future, as well as for what I thought was best for this country (being a democracy and all) I began to research the candidates. When the vice presidential candidates were announced, the research intensified.
When E was here, he and I would get into hours long talks about politics. We are identically minded when it comes to the majority of the current political issues, and would talk for hours about them. (I think T was just happy to have a break so he could watch the History channel in peace.)
And then E told me a beautiful and terrifying thing.
If one of the candidates wins the election, E and his girlfriend G will be making noises about moving out of the country.
T and I will follow.
How sad and depressing is it when citizens are driven to the point where they have no faith left in their government? When they feel that the best option for them and their future children would be to live somewhere else? That the four of us would sell everything we own and leap off this continent, leaving behind everything and everyone we know rather than be governed by a group we have no faith in. It scares and disgusts me.
I really am trying to rally. Trying to have more faith in my fellow Americans to see the big picture.
Simultaneously, however, I am forced to believe in democracy. Perhaps my idea of 'the big picture' is the minority view. Perhaps my thoughts on gay marriage, abortion rights and laws, birth control, education, health care, the war, the economy, they aren't the same as the bigger part of America. Majority rules--that's the basic foundation of our government. Those who disagree with me have the same rights as I do, that's the beauty of democracy.
So I am torn.
But that can't stop me from doing what I think is right. (So long as I am not hurting anyone.)
***************************************************
With the previous novella in mind, I was watching CNN today. I was becoming more and more aggressive with the television, more worried, more stressed.
And then I suddenly, and without any preamble, fell asleep. Just passed the fuck out on my couch while watching Anderson Cooper. I woke up two hours later, having dreamed some of the most random and weird shit ever, confused.
I know I haven't been sleeping well due to my raging horrible back pain. But jesus--I was like a darted animal.
I'm going to bed soon. And I know I will sleep without any problem. (aside from pain.)
Oh, and weather? Yeah, if you could work your shit out and decide what season it is, that would be great. The fog horns keep T and I awake. So does the bitter cold, especially if it was sweltering when we went to bed and opened all the windows without getting the 'it will be fucking freezing here shortly' memo. Thanks.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Whump, Part 2, or, "Lies Make the Baby Jesus Cry"
Alright. Since you all seemed so interested after the first installment of this post, how could I NOT post the second half? I mean, really.
*Editors Note: The author has recently discovered the hilarity that is MS Paint, and the photos that follow may contain any of the following: Poorly drawn arrows, hard to read script, and a demonic piglet-bat interpretation.*
First off, some photos to clarify some points in the previous post. (Click to enlarge all.)
This is the condo. If you walk up the weird and pointless steps from the street, this is exactly what you would see. So thrilling.
If for some reason you were standing just before my welcome mat, and looked at my kitchen, this is the view. I know, it's offensive. You can also see the eyesore of a closet door in the photo.
And this, dear readers, is reason why MS Paint should not be used by people that can't read their own handwriting. Which, in my mind, makes it more hilarious, but whatever. If you were to peer into my kitchen window with your hands cupped around your eyes, this is what would await you. (The world's smallest kitchen. Home of such great stories as when my dad caught the mouse and mouse trap in his oxygen cord. Ham Hawaiian took place here as well.)
Anyway, hopefully now you understand my wrath and rage and several other sins towards this woman.
Moving on.
So my father was a collector of cars. Classic Mercedes, mostly. He had spent nearly all of his life loving these freaking cars, and had owned quite a few throughout his life.
When he died, he had three cars. 2 classic Mercedes, and one classic Porsche. (Classic, my ass. That car is and was such a pain in the fucking ass you didn't want to drive it without some lube and a few cocktails.) My sisters, being the highly decisive beings that they are, didn't know if they wanted to keep them or sell them or do nothing, which is eventually what they did.
Beneath the condo, on the other side, are six parking stalls. (The front of the condo is on ground, the back end is on 'stilts' of sorts, allowing you to park under your living room and scare the hell out of everyone inside.) Dad's cars took up three of these stalls, and when I bought my car, 4. Now, I understand TOTALLY that four covered parking spots for one person is a lot. That other people in the building could get irritated.
But there aren't any other people in the building. June and Floyd, part time. (They're from Texas. This should explain something.) The other two units are rentals, and empty like, 90% of the time. And there is an entire parking lot surrounding these six parking stalls--several of which are also covered.
Anyway, no one complained.
(I'm reading over this, and good God, is it petty. How is it that life has come to this?)
So no one complained, and the classics started to do what classics do--leak. A few drops of oil here and there, no one said anything.
Then one of the cars (the green one in the photo) decided it didn't like the taste of transmission fluid anymore, and had out with it.
This was a stain that took a while to spot. This is a large car we're talking about here.
Anyway, June took offense to this stain. I can understand that as well, seriously.
But does she come to me and ask me if we could move the cars, repair the stain, or both? No. She goes to the condo association, again, and this time PETITIONS them to make us move the cars and repair any and all damage or the cars will be towed at our expense and we will be fined.
The first I heard of this was via a phone call from the only woman on the condo board I can stand, last Friday. It would seem that they wanted the cars moved by Monday, as in, yesterday. (They were moved today.)
So I called my sister. All this shit is her deal, I mean, as the executrix. She has all the authority, and I just live here, so this was filed quickly in the "not my problem" file.
14 phone calls later, we have a plan. T and I will purchase concrete cleaner, pull the cars out of their spots, apply it, return the cars, repeat. At least until my sister can get in touch with the ass hat who used to work on dad's cars to see if we can store them there. (This is the man who called the day dad died to see if dad wanted to bring the cars over for something. When I told him dad had died, he chuckled and said, "Well, I guess I can kiss that business good-bye, huh?")
And so it begins. The jump starting, the application of concrete cleaner. June staring out her window at the water run off.
Finally, I heard from ass hat mechanic, who said that we could bring the cars over.
My car is not strong enough to jump the green car. (Four cylinders of sorority girl power, baby!) so my buddy A had to drive 30 minutes from his house to help us.
The cars are now located behind a barn near some farm equipment, in front of a derelict RV. Good enough spot for them, I guess. Sigh.
Anyway, T and I were applying the last coat of concrete cleaner when June came downstairs.
"OH!! They came and moved your cars!!", she said.
"We moved them. Today." I told her, without looking up.
"Oh, well, I know how it can be. They jumped all over me when I left my car here for six months. I had to give it to my son!"
T and I didn't look at her, didn't acknowledge her further. She stood there a few minutes and then drove off.
T looked at me and said, "Who is this 'they' she was referring to?".
And now everyone is happy. Well, most everyone. T and I have to submit the receipts to my sister for the concrete cleaner for reimbursement, then I will start leaning more towards happy.
This post was lame, I think.
*Editors Note: The author has recently discovered the hilarity that is MS Paint, and the photos that follow may contain any of the following: Poorly drawn arrows, hard to read script, and a demonic piglet-bat interpretation.*
First off, some photos to clarify some points in the previous post. (Click to enlarge all.)
This is the condo. If you walk up the weird and pointless steps from the street, this is exactly what you would see. So thrilling.
If for some reason you were standing just before my welcome mat, and looked at my kitchen, this is the view. I know, it's offensive. You can also see the eyesore of a closet door in the photo.
And this, dear readers, is reason why MS Paint should not be used by people that can't read their own handwriting. Which, in my mind, makes it more hilarious, but whatever. If you were to peer into my kitchen window with your hands cupped around your eyes, this is what would await you. (The world's smallest kitchen. Home of such great stories as when my dad caught the mouse and mouse trap in his oxygen cord. Ham Hawaiian took place here as well.)
Anyway, hopefully now you understand my wrath and rage and several other sins towards this woman.
Moving on.
So my father was a collector of cars. Classic Mercedes, mostly. He had spent nearly all of his life loving these freaking cars, and had owned quite a few throughout his life.
When he died, he had three cars. 2 classic Mercedes, and one classic Porsche. (Classic, my ass. That car is and was such a pain in the fucking ass you didn't want to drive it without some lube and a few cocktails.) My sisters, being the highly decisive beings that they are, didn't know if they wanted to keep them or sell them or do nothing, which is eventually what they did.
Beneath the condo, on the other side, are six parking stalls. (The front of the condo is on ground, the back end is on 'stilts' of sorts, allowing you to park under your living room and scare the hell out of everyone inside.) Dad's cars took up three of these stalls, and when I bought my car, 4. Now, I understand TOTALLY that four covered parking spots for one person is a lot. That other people in the building could get irritated.
But there aren't any other people in the building. June and Floyd, part time. (They're from Texas. This should explain something.) The other two units are rentals, and empty like, 90% of the time. And there is an entire parking lot surrounding these six parking stalls--several of which are also covered.
Anyway, no one complained.
(I'm reading over this, and good God, is it petty. How is it that life has come to this?)
So no one complained, and the classics started to do what classics do--leak. A few drops of oil here and there, no one said anything.
Then one of the cars (the green one in the photo) decided it didn't like the taste of transmission fluid anymore, and had out with it.
This was a stain that took a while to spot. This is a large car we're talking about here.
Anyway, June took offense to this stain. I can understand that as well, seriously.
But does she come to me and ask me if we could move the cars, repair the stain, or both? No. She goes to the condo association, again, and this time PETITIONS them to make us move the cars and repair any and all damage or the cars will be towed at our expense and we will be fined.
The first I heard of this was via a phone call from the only woman on the condo board I can stand, last Friday. It would seem that they wanted the cars moved by Monday, as in, yesterday. (They were moved today.)
So I called my sister. All this shit is her deal, I mean, as the executrix. She has all the authority, and I just live here, so this was filed quickly in the "not my problem" file.
14 phone calls later, we have a plan. T and I will purchase concrete cleaner, pull the cars out of their spots, apply it, return the cars, repeat. At least until my sister can get in touch with the ass hat who used to work on dad's cars to see if we can store them there. (This is the man who called the day dad died to see if dad wanted to bring the cars over for something. When I told him dad had died, he chuckled and said, "Well, I guess I can kiss that business good-bye, huh?")
And so it begins. The jump starting, the application of concrete cleaner. June staring out her window at the water run off.
Finally, I heard from ass hat mechanic, who said that we could bring the cars over.
My car is not strong enough to jump the green car. (Four cylinders of sorority girl power, baby!) so my buddy A had to drive 30 minutes from his house to help us.
The cars are now located behind a barn near some farm equipment, in front of a derelict RV. Good enough spot for them, I guess. Sigh.
Anyway, T and I were applying the last coat of concrete cleaner when June came downstairs.
"OH!! They came and moved your cars!!", she said.
"We moved them. Today." I told her, without looking up.
"Oh, well, I know how it can be. They jumped all over me when I left my car here for six months. I had to give it to my son!"
T and I didn't look at her, didn't acknowledge her further. She stood there a few minutes and then drove off.
T looked at me and said, "Who is this 'they' she was referring to?".
And now everyone is happy. Well, most everyone. T and I have to submit the receipts to my sister for the concrete cleaner for reimbursement, then I will start leaning more towards happy.
This post was lame, I think.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Whump
And thus begins my tale of the super bitchy neighbor.
Lets take it back a ways, shall we? To the days where I was waiting tables at the resort, nursing my father, and hating nearly every part of my life. At least, every part that required me to be nice to people, i.e. my job.
My neighbors are a retired couple. They are loaded with money--I mean, Big time bucks. They own multiple homes, and only spend their summers here. We live in a 4-plex--I am on the bottom left, they are on the top right. A huge staircase divides the front of our building--if someone is coming to see the neighbors, they will only look at my front door if they are lost.
This is pertinent. I'm getting to that.
Anyway, I'm waiting tables and hating every freaking moment of it, and the neighbors come in. Lets call them.....June and Floyd. June is one of those retired women you hate. Flashy jewelry, uber tailored clothes in every shade of pastel, the neck scarf. The attitude. The only thing missing is a small dog in a matching outfit. Floyd is the typical down-trodden husband--the sweetest man on the planet who obviously hates his wife but long ago learned to just shut his mouth and roll with it.
Anyway, they would come in and June would pitch a fit about getting a table on the deck, because, you know, she's LOCAL (for three months a year), and it's too NOISY inside (it's a fucking bar, bitch). I would always manage to wind up waiting on them because my coworkers were (and mostly still are) horrible people who didn't like to share. (Unless it was money. Then they wanted some of that.) Anyway, Floyd would be nice, and polite, and smile and make pleasant conversation, while June would bitch and complain (in the most saccharine of voices) about everything from the amount of ice in her cocktail to the formation of the birds on the beach.
One day, during 'happy hour' (which is the least happy hour for anyone in Food and Beverage) June and Floyd came in, and after their meal and drinks (which, at happy hour prices, came to under $25) June asked me if I would give them my employee discount.
I thought she was kidding.
When I laughed, she remained anus-lipped and gave a hearty sniff in my direction.
"No, dear, I mean it. Come on now, we're NEIGH-bors!!" When I explained that during happy hour we couldn't discount the already discounted food, and that I couldn't give my discount to anyone but myself, she asked me to pay for their meal. When I then explained that no, I wouldn't be doing that, and even if I wanted to couldn't purchase alcohol while on the clock, she grudgingly paid. To the penny and nothing more.
Floyd came back an hour later and pressed $5 in my palm. Told me I more than deserved it and thanked me for my kindness while dealing with his wife.
Cut to my father's death. June does nothing but stare out her windows and into the business of others, so she knew before anyone else did that something was amiss in our house. She had seen the ambulance at 3am, she said, after knocking on our front door at 8:30, and wanted to know 'if everything was alright'. Luckily, my sister answered the door as I would have punched her in the face repeatedly while sobbing. (Dad had been gone for under two hours at that point. We had all been up all night, and had just started the wonderful task of 'Making the Phone Call'. Not so much in the mood for company.)
When my sister told her that our dad had died just a few hours before, that we appreciated the concern, that wasn't enough for June. "What happened? He was sick, right? Did he die here? Was he alone?"
Hence the punching.
Anyway, she made a huge spectacle about it, pretended that she loved my dad, that he was such a great commodity to our community, and never mentioned the fact that she had never spoken to him.
She sent a card, flowers. All nice gestures. Seriously, people don't know what to do when someone dies--they send food, or flowers, or cards, and all it does is annoy the people who receive it. We're all guilty of it, and I now have 124 vases that I don't know what to do with.
So I have seen June a few times since then. She had invited T and me to her "Kentucky Derby Party", which we declined. "Wear a fun hat, darling!", she shouted down to me. Like hell I will, lady.
Anyway, since we declined her invitation, she has begun a war with me. I have apparently offended her sensibilities by not drinking mint juleps and wearing a ridiculous hat in her company.
I ran into her a few months back and she told me I needed to keep my kitchen blinds closed. "It's unseemly, dear, how everyone can see your coffee pot. They should be looking at the beauty of the garden, not what's on your counter."
You can only see my coffee pot if you stare intently in the window, which is what she had been doing.
"June, if people are coming to your house, they can't possibly see my coffee pot without trying", I told her.
What ensued was a huff of sorts.
My fucking blinds are open. All. The. Time. I could be running a sweat shop in that damn kitchen and it would be none of her concern. It's MY kitchen. I own the damn thing.
Later, she made a stink about my outdoor closet door being open. Didn't tell me, you see, but the members of the condo association. (All terrible bitches, save one, who is great.) So there is the huge to-do about my door being open.
I closed the door.
But the latest one, oh, the latest one.....The bitch is lucky I haven't keyed her car.
But that's a story for another time.
Some highlights, for those who care:
Our vacation? Not so much a vacation anymore.
Lets take it back a ways, shall we? To the days where I was waiting tables at the resort, nursing my father, and hating nearly every part of my life. At least, every part that required me to be nice to people, i.e. my job.
My neighbors are a retired couple. They are loaded with money--I mean, Big time bucks. They own multiple homes, and only spend their summers here. We live in a 4-plex--I am on the bottom left, they are on the top right. A huge staircase divides the front of our building--if someone is coming to see the neighbors, they will only look at my front door if they are lost.
This is pertinent. I'm getting to that.
Anyway, I'm waiting tables and hating every freaking moment of it, and the neighbors come in. Lets call them.....June and Floyd. June is one of those retired women you hate. Flashy jewelry, uber tailored clothes in every shade of pastel, the neck scarf. The attitude. The only thing missing is a small dog in a matching outfit. Floyd is the typical down-trodden husband--the sweetest man on the planet who obviously hates his wife but long ago learned to just shut his mouth and roll with it.
Anyway, they would come in and June would pitch a fit about getting a table on the deck, because, you know, she's LOCAL (for three months a year), and it's too NOISY inside (it's a fucking bar, bitch). I would always manage to wind up waiting on them because my coworkers were (and mostly still are) horrible people who didn't like to share. (Unless it was money. Then they wanted some of that.) Anyway, Floyd would be nice, and polite, and smile and make pleasant conversation, while June would bitch and complain (in the most saccharine of voices) about everything from the amount of ice in her cocktail to the formation of the birds on the beach.
One day, during 'happy hour' (which is the least happy hour for anyone in Food and Beverage) June and Floyd came in, and after their meal and drinks (which, at happy hour prices, came to under $25) June asked me if I would give them my employee discount.
I thought she was kidding.
When I laughed, she remained anus-lipped and gave a hearty sniff in my direction.
"No, dear, I mean it. Come on now, we're NEIGH-bors!!" When I explained that during happy hour we couldn't discount the already discounted food, and that I couldn't give my discount to anyone but myself, she asked me to pay for their meal. When I then explained that no, I wouldn't be doing that, and even if I wanted to couldn't purchase alcohol while on the clock, she grudgingly paid. To the penny and nothing more.
Floyd came back an hour later and pressed $5 in my palm. Told me I more than deserved it and thanked me for my kindness while dealing with his wife.
Cut to my father's death. June does nothing but stare out her windows and into the business of others, so she knew before anyone else did that something was amiss in our house. She had seen the ambulance at 3am, she said, after knocking on our front door at 8:30, and wanted to know 'if everything was alright'. Luckily, my sister answered the door as I would have punched her in the face repeatedly while sobbing. (Dad had been gone for under two hours at that point. We had all been up all night, and had just started the wonderful task of 'Making the Phone Call'. Not so much in the mood for company.)
When my sister told her that our dad had died just a few hours before, that we appreciated the concern, that wasn't enough for June. "What happened? He was sick, right? Did he die here? Was he alone?"
Hence the punching.
Anyway, she made a huge spectacle about it, pretended that she loved my dad, that he was such a great commodity to our community, and never mentioned the fact that she had never spoken to him.
She sent a card, flowers. All nice gestures. Seriously, people don't know what to do when someone dies--they send food, or flowers, or cards, and all it does is annoy the people who receive it. We're all guilty of it, and I now have 124 vases that I don't know what to do with.
So I have seen June a few times since then. She had invited T and me to her "Kentucky Derby Party", which we declined. "Wear a fun hat, darling!", she shouted down to me. Like hell I will, lady.
Anyway, since we declined her invitation, she has begun a war with me. I have apparently offended her sensibilities by not drinking mint juleps and wearing a ridiculous hat in her company.
I ran into her a few months back and she told me I needed to keep my kitchen blinds closed. "It's unseemly, dear, how everyone can see your coffee pot. They should be looking at the beauty of the garden, not what's on your counter."
You can only see my coffee pot if you stare intently in the window, which is what she had been doing.
"June, if people are coming to your house, they can't possibly see my coffee pot without trying", I told her.
What ensued was a huff of sorts.
My fucking blinds are open. All. The. Time. I could be running a sweat shop in that damn kitchen and it would be none of her concern. It's MY kitchen. I own the damn thing.
Later, she made a stink about my outdoor closet door being open. Didn't tell me, you see, but the members of the condo association. (All terrible bitches, save one, who is great.) So there is the huge to-do about my door being open.
I closed the door.
But the latest one, oh, the latest one.....The bitch is lucky I haven't keyed her car.
But that's a story for another time.
Some highlights, for those who care:
Our vacation? Not so much a vacation anymore.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Of Beer, Football and Cell Phones
E is still in town, which rocks. I am still using his Mac*book, which also rocks. And still does not bode well for my checkbook.
We have done a lot of driving since E has been here--Homebase out of the condo, but travels none the less. E starts his new, shiny real career here shortly, and is taking full advantage of his last few precious "able to sleep till noon and do whatever the hell I want until 3am" days. T has six days off this week (Cue excited noise here) and I don't have to do anything for school for a couple of weeks, so we are all having a glorious little vacation.
Today, we are heading out to the AT*&T store, due to the fact that E and I are both experiencing cell phone woes.
E cannot find the charger for his phone (A brand new LG "shine", which he hates with a passion) and my new i*Phone has decided that it doesn't like to tell time properly. I didn't pay that much moolah to have a super-device that can't figure out what time it is. This is effecting the way I receive text messages and phone calls, which drives me totally insane.
I will be bothering my super effeminate cell phone salesman and weeping at him. (Nothing wrong with his effeminate ways. Seriously. It is, however, sort of strange to see a man who weighs at least 300 pounds wearing eyeliner and having severely plucked eyebrows. Not something you see all the time. Nice dude, however. That being what matters.)
*****************************************
Last night we went out to my buddy A's new swingin bachelor pad to admire his orange counters and carpeted kitchen, and drink beer.
None of us are big drinkers (anymore) which put a cramp on our style a little. What could have been an uproarious evening of drinking and laughter and the shenanigans therein turned into a "lets watch a movie, talk about football and scare each other when we come out of the bathroom" sort of evening, which is normal. Also proof that we are adults now. Well, aside from that bathroom thing.
*****************************************
Went to T's little bro's football game last night. Sat right behind the band.
Nothing has changed, to the naked eye, however.
The football team is still not great. The band is still not great. The HS students are still clique-ey bastards.
The band, however not great they may be....is not spunky.
When E and I were in pep-band, those many years ago, we were spunky--had attitude, got involved in the game, were rowdy and often got ejected. (More in basketball than football, but ejected just the same.) The band now just treats it like a chore, whereas we treated it like a game, which is what it was. We all knew each other and were friends, we knew all the football players (some of whom were in band too....), so why not treat it like a social situation where half of us have musical instruments and the other half are beating the shit out of people/getting the shit beaten out of them. How could you not have fun?
Anyway, T's brother is a fucking brick wall of a kid. I never really noticed before, as I am usually praising him for his manners, feeding him or smiling while he mows my lawn. I knew he was an ox, as he often picks me up with one hand/swings his brothers around his head/moves the refrigerator for fun, but it didn't register until he went running out on the field with his pads and gear on and knocked two men over two hundred pounds to the ground without so much as a strain.
I thought T's head was going to fly off. Few things get my normally mild-mannered husband-to-be riled up like football--Defiantly football played by his old team, involving his baby brother. He couldn't sit still, couldn't have a conversation, couldn't answer a question. It was cute and endearing for about 45 minutes. Then I knitted and made fun of people with E, so everyone was fine.
(They lost. By a large margin. But it's ok. I don't know that T or his brother know that, but it's true.)
We have done a lot of driving since E has been here--Homebase out of the condo, but travels none the less. E starts his new, shiny real career here shortly, and is taking full advantage of his last few precious "able to sleep till noon and do whatever the hell I want until 3am" days. T has six days off this week (Cue excited noise here) and I don't have to do anything for school for a couple of weeks, so we are all having a glorious little vacation.
Today, we are heading out to the AT*&T store, due to the fact that E and I are both experiencing cell phone woes.
E cannot find the charger for his phone (A brand new LG "shine", which he hates with a passion) and my new i*Phone has decided that it doesn't like to tell time properly. I didn't pay that much moolah to have a super-device that can't figure out what time it is. This is effecting the way I receive text messages and phone calls, which drives me totally insane.
I will be bothering my super effeminate cell phone salesman and weeping at him. (Nothing wrong with his effeminate ways. Seriously. It is, however, sort of strange to see a man who weighs at least 300 pounds wearing eyeliner and having severely plucked eyebrows. Not something you see all the time. Nice dude, however. That being what matters.)
*****************************************
Last night we went out to my buddy A's new swingin bachelor pad to admire his orange counters and carpeted kitchen, and drink beer.
None of us are big drinkers (anymore) which put a cramp on our style a little. What could have been an uproarious evening of drinking and laughter and the shenanigans therein turned into a "lets watch a movie, talk about football and scare each other when we come out of the bathroom" sort of evening, which is normal. Also proof that we are adults now. Well, aside from that bathroom thing.
*****************************************
Went to T's little bro's football game last night. Sat right behind the band.
Nothing has changed, to the naked eye, however.
The football team is still not great. The band is still not great. The HS students are still clique-ey bastards.
The band, however not great they may be....is not spunky.
When E and I were in pep-band, those many years ago, we were spunky--had attitude, got involved in the game, were rowdy and often got ejected. (More in basketball than football, but ejected just the same.) The band now just treats it like a chore, whereas we treated it like a game, which is what it was. We all knew each other and were friends, we knew all the football players (some of whom were in band too....), so why not treat it like a social situation where half of us have musical instruments and the other half are beating the shit out of people/getting the shit beaten out of them. How could you not have fun?
Anyway, T's brother is a fucking brick wall of a kid. I never really noticed before, as I am usually praising him for his manners, feeding him or smiling while he mows my lawn. I knew he was an ox, as he often picks me up with one hand/swings his brothers around his head/moves the refrigerator for fun, but it didn't register until he went running out on the field with his pads and gear on and knocked two men over two hundred pounds to the ground without so much as a strain.
I thought T's head was going to fly off. Few things get my normally mild-mannered husband-to-be riled up like football--Defiantly football played by his old team, involving his baby brother. He couldn't sit still, couldn't have a conversation, couldn't answer a question. It was cute and endearing for about 45 minutes. Then I knitted and made fun of people with E, so everyone was fine.
(They lost. By a large margin. But it's ok. I don't know that T or his brother know that, but it's true.)
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