Wow. Just... wow.
I just have to tell you, in case you didn't know, that this world is just a weird, weird place and just when you think "THAT'S IT, that's as weird as it's going to get!", it will proceed to get weirder.
First, I have discovered that my karaoke masterpiece is Hey Ya by Outkast. Also, if you shove enough liquor down Lindsey's throat, The Boys Are Back In Town by Thin Lizzy becomes OH MY GOD HER FAVORITE SONG EVER WE HAVE TO SIT IN THE CAR AND LISTEN TO IT EXCLAMATION EXCLAMATION !!!
Thirdly, the more things change, the more they stay the same. Or something. I hung out with one of the fellows on Saturday who I mentioned here not too long ago. It's funny, because I've recently run into another one of those fellows several times and it's been nice, friendly, refreshingly bygones-are-bygones, and I've been able to put to rest some residual guilt and anger that had been hanging around for a while. So Saturday we went out for Lindsey's birthday and this other one came, and I literally haven't seen him in many years, at least 8 or 9 years, and it was sort of nice and weird and uncomfortable and normal all at once. He seemed uncomfortable at first, but as the drinks continued to flow he loosened up considerably and by the end of the night we were having conversations and giving each other high-fives and everything was fine.
The most interesting part of all of that was that at some point he leaned over to me and said, "Hey, I'm really sorry." I asked what he was sorry about, and he replied, "How I was back then." I smiled and said thank you, and then asked if we could not talk about that stuff. He said sure, and dropped it. I just figured that what Lindsey wanted for her thirtieth birthday was NOT for me to sit at the table and have some kind of come-to-Jesus with some guy I broke up with ten years ago. Besides that, I'm not really sure what could be said.
Now I'm hoping that he meant it, and wishing I had said a quick "I'm sorry too" before I put the matter to rest. I'm pretty sure that it was wrong of me not to have accepted some responsibility too, even if it was a ten-second conversation.
I can't even express how surprising it was for him to acknowledge that he had ever done anything wrong at all, ever, as it was always just generally accepted as fact that I had totally screwed the poor little guy over, that he was wonderful and sweet and I was the most horrible person in the world for having done him so wrong. The reality was that the majority of our relationship was spent fighting, having these terrible, volatile screaming matches during which we called each other the most horrible names we could think of. If I ever wanted to leave his side for any reason whatsoever, he was sure that I was cheating, that there was someone else, that I was out to make him look like a chump and he wasn't having any of it. Actually, I just had a couple of girlfriends who sometimes wanted to do something besides sitting around in the dirtiest bachelor pad ever drinking beer and sniffing dog shit. Occasionally they'd invite me to go places with them, and I wanted to go. Clearly I am just EVIL, right?
Anyways, point is, I'm sorry too, and if I thought hey, if I see him again, I'll tell him. BUT, but, at the end of the night I leaned over to him and said, "Hey, thank you for saying that." He said, "Saying what?" "Apologizing. That was nice." "Apologizing for what?" "Uh, for how you were back then?" He replied, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
So, yeah. NICE. I have absolutely no idea if he's just that forgetful, or if he was just that drunk, or if I embarrassed him somehow and he wanted to pretend that he hadn't said it. All I know is that, surprise!, it somehow negates it that he suddenly was like "wah?" about the whole thing. So, you know, anger and resentment back on!
Showing posts with label holy crap. Show all posts
Showing posts with label holy crap. Show all posts
Monday, July 13, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
Selections from an email exchange between friends:
I called him at NINE to see if he wanted to hang out. Fast fwd to 11:15 PM & he finally comes to pick me up. I was so sleepy (see my previous "Help, I have your sleep disorder!!" email), I figured a Red Bull would be a mere drop in the bucket -- WRONG. SO wrong. Luckily, he & his out of town guests were in it to win it, too, and so everybody is just now headed to bed after killing a 12 pack of Bud Light -- WITH LIME (ew), 1 entire bottle of Berringer white zin (oh God, college), and 3/4ths of another bottle of white zin (oh God, more college). Now I'm sitting outside basically sober, smoking a cigarette & trying to entice the neighbor's dog to come over so I can pat him on the head. (He's not buying it, though, & continues to eat grass in the front yard.) A neighbor just came outside, calling for Nick. I think that's the dog. A dog named Nick. I'm oddly amused. Yeah, the dog is DEFINITELY Nick. "Nick, come here RIGHT NOW!" etc. Hahaha. Also, I hope the neighbor doesn't decide to come over & get chatty w/ the stranger sitting on Jonathan's patio at 6:45 am, b/c I'm in no mood to be neighborly with strangers.
...
Holy fuck (by the way, I just typed "Wholy fuck!", and was like,
wait...)! I haven't gotten an email this long from you since I DON'T
KNOW WHEN.
...
I'm sure you know this, but I love when people give animals human names. And, like, names you regularly run across in casual conversation: Nick, Eric, KEITH. (One day, one of us WILL have a pet named Keith, I declare it. And by one of us, I mean me. That'll be the cat I get AFTER my Scottish Fold named Push Pin, which will be after I move out, which will be never, so you know. Yay! "And this? This is my imaginary bunny. Named Keith. Would you like to pet him? He's really imaginarily soft!")
In my drunken stupor last night, I left Dan a message on his wall, telling him "I totes understand about not being able to drive. I'm sure we can make some arrangements -- if you're not gonna bail, that is," with "totes" being my weirdo web speak for the word totally & something I try really hard to keep on the d/l in polite company, because not everybody gets it, and now that's all I'm hearing from him is "I'm not bailing....totes!" and, when I called him a smart ass, "What? I'm serious....totes serious!" Lordy. Do boys EVER grow up?? In other news, I think she is HIS AMPUTEE ROOMMATE. You totally wanna go to the party now, don't you?? (BTW, I just had to Google the word amputee to make sure I spelled it right, and you just don't wanna KNOW the shit it pulled up.) Also I just have to tell you that someone has flipped my poop switch and I CAN'T FIGURE OUT HOW TO SHUT IT OFF. I'm SERIOUS. PS: This email thread alone makes me hope and pray and hope and pray that somebody somewhere at your company is screening your emails, b/c this is what all snoopers hope for when they get into the business. Emails about amputees and pooping.
...
OH MY GOD AMPUTEES! CANCER!!!11 AAAAIIIIIIEEEEEEE!!!!117 You need sleep. I mean, if we were together right now, I would totally be on your level on account of I had some sleep and then I just had a cinnamon crunch bagel and a huge cup of coffee, but then around 11 you’d pass out and I’d be like, “Okay, now it’s time for Mexican.” “Totes?” “Totes?” “Totes?” Word's lost all meaning for me. He will probably never grow up; that is just him. I bet when he typed it he did his little squinty eyed laugh. I think it’s funny that he could even figure it out. If you want to pull out some 13-year-old, inside humor you could reply that he needs to drink his boooooooooost. You have to say it like that, Drink yer boooooooooooooost!
...
I bet he had to Google the phrase "internet slang" and "totes" to figure it out. Was it a cinnamon crunch bagel from Panera? Because I love that shit, except for when they sit in the break room for 8 straight hours and you go to the bathroom and the office smells like cinnamon crunch bagel and you come back from the bathroom and the office smells like cinnamon crunch bagel and you go to lunch and the office smells like cinnamon crunch bagel and you come back from lunch and the office smells like cinnamon crunch bagel until you want to Lysol every inch of your body because EVERYTHING SMELLS LIKE CINNAMON CRUNCH BAGELS. But. They are delicious. "A lighter: you have one?" Dude, I will never NOT love this. ALSO. WHAT THE FUCK WAS UP WITH THAT DRESS, MAN?? WAS SHE SAVING IT FOR LUKE PERRY, ER, I MEAN, ESPECIALLY, VERY SPECIFIC VAMPIRE SEX WITH BILL COMPTON???? That's got to be, hands down, the single ODDEST choice of wardrobe I've probably ever seen in a TV show. & I mean, it's not like she just APPEARED with it on! We had to SEE her picking that shit out! Intentionally! Some costume designer somewhere put SHITTONS OF THOUGHT! into Sookie's psychology behind that choice! In other news, I bet Bill was like "Awww, yeah! I get to fuck Maid Marian! Holla!"
...
First, yes, Panera cinnamon crunch. So, so good. I just went to the bathroom and found some of the crunch IN MY UNDERWEAR. That is not a joke- it is TOTES for realz. And yeah, after Jason and I watched the possum episode we sat at the table making funny dialogue and it was hilarious. And the dress! I was immediately like, “Where did she get that? A Rembrandt Fair?” And Jason was like, “Yes, that is exactly what they’re called, Buffy: a Rembrandt Fair.” And I was like, “Oh, what’s it called? What are those called?” He had to tell me IT'S A RENAISSANCE FAIR, BUFFY ‘cause I couldn’t remember. And that dress is fucking stupid as hell. Also, due to my facebook status and the ensuing comments yesterday, I will forever use the phrase “hanging up one’s meat coat” to refer to people who have become vegetarian. As in, Jason hung up his meat coat.
...
Well thank God you're going with the G-rated version. I was afraid it was gonna be the new "beef peach" -- gack.
...
Holy fuck (by the way, I just typed "Wholy fuck!", and was like,
wait...)! I haven't gotten an email this long from you since I DON'T
KNOW WHEN.
...
I'm sure you know this, but I love when people give animals human names. And, like, names you regularly run across in casual conversation: Nick, Eric, KEITH. (One day, one of us WILL have a pet named Keith, I declare it. And by one of us, I mean me. That'll be the cat I get AFTER my Scottish Fold named Push Pin, which will be after I move out, which will be never, so you know. Yay! "And this? This is my imaginary bunny. Named Keith. Would you like to pet him? He's really imaginarily soft!")
In my drunken stupor last night, I left Dan a message on his wall, telling him "I totes understand about not being able to drive. I'm sure we can make some arrangements -- if you're not gonna bail, that is," with "totes" being my weirdo web speak for the word totally & something I try really hard to keep on the d/l in polite company, because not everybody gets it, and now that's all I'm hearing from him is "I'm not bailing....totes!" and, when I called him a smart ass, "What? I'm serious....totes serious!" Lordy. Do boys EVER grow up?? In other news, I think she is HIS AMPUTEE ROOMMATE. You totally wanna go to the party now, don't you?? (BTW, I just had to Google the word amputee to make sure I spelled it right, and you just don't wanna KNOW the shit it pulled up.) Also I just have to tell you that someone has flipped my poop switch and I CAN'T FIGURE OUT HOW TO SHUT IT OFF. I'm SERIOUS. PS: This email thread alone makes me hope and pray and hope and pray that somebody somewhere at your company is screening your emails, b/c this is what all snoopers hope for when they get into the business. Emails about amputees and pooping.
...
OH MY GOD AMPUTEES! CANCER!!!11 AAAAIIIIIIEEEEEEE!!!!117 You need sleep. I mean, if we were together right now, I would totally be on your level on account of I had some sleep and then I just had a cinnamon crunch bagel and a huge cup of coffee, but then around 11 you’d pass out and I’d be like, “Okay, now it’s time for Mexican.” “Totes?” “Totes?” “Totes?” Word's lost all meaning for me. He will probably never grow up; that is just him. I bet when he typed it he did his little squinty eyed laugh. I think it’s funny that he could even figure it out. If you want to pull out some 13-year-old, inside humor you could reply that he needs to drink his boooooooooost. You have to say it like that, Drink yer boooooooooooooost!
...
I bet he had to Google the phrase "internet slang" and "totes" to figure it out. Was it a cinnamon crunch bagel from Panera? Because I love that shit, except for when they sit in the break room for 8 straight hours and you go to the bathroom and the office smells like cinnamon crunch bagel and you come back from the bathroom and the office smells like cinnamon crunch bagel and you go to lunch and the office smells like cinnamon crunch bagel and you come back from lunch and the office smells like cinnamon crunch bagel until you want to Lysol every inch of your body because EVERYTHING SMELLS LIKE CINNAMON CRUNCH BAGELS. But. They are delicious. "A lighter: you have one?" Dude, I will never NOT love this. ALSO. WHAT THE FUCK WAS UP WITH THAT DRESS, MAN?? WAS SHE SAVING IT FOR LUKE PERRY, ER, I MEAN, ESPECIALLY, VERY SPECIFIC VAMPIRE SEX WITH BILL COMPTON???? That's got to be, hands down, the single ODDEST choice of wardrobe I've probably ever seen in a TV show. & I mean, it's not like she just APPEARED with it on! We had to SEE her picking that shit out! Intentionally! Some costume designer somewhere put SHITTONS OF THOUGHT! into Sookie's psychology behind that choice! In other news, I bet Bill was like "Awww, yeah! I get to fuck Maid Marian! Holla!"
...
First, yes, Panera cinnamon crunch. So, so good. I just went to the bathroom and found some of the crunch IN MY UNDERWEAR. That is not a joke- it is TOTES for realz. And yeah, after Jason and I watched the possum episode we sat at the table making funny dialogue and it was hilarious. And the dress! I was immediately like, “Where did she get that? A Rembrandt Fair?” And Jason was like, “Yes, that is exactly what they’re called, Buffy: a Rembrandt Fair.” And I was like, “Oh, what’s it called? What are those called?” He had to tell me IT'S A RENAISSANCE FAIR, BUFFY ‘cause I couldn’t remember. And that dress is fucking stupid as hell. Also, due to my facebook status and the ensuing comments yesterday, I will forever use the phrase “hanging up one’s meat coat” to refer to people who have become vegetarian. As in, Jason hung up his meat coat.
...
Well thank God you're going with the G-rated version. I was afraid it was gonna be the new "beef peach" -- gack.
Friday, July 03, 2009
Some things Reed says.
The kid is hilarious, by the way.
For one thing, he randomly adds the letter d to ends of words. "I'm Batmand!" or "What about Kaned?"... come to think of it, perhaps it's only words that end with n? Because he'll also say "oned" and "wond" and "rund". What's really odd about it is that it's not all the time; in other words, sometimes he'll say simply "Batman", but other times it's "Batmand". WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY KID IS IT AUTISM DOES HE NEED RITALIN WHAT THE FUCK?
I should add that perhaps it's me with the problem; I had to type "KID" about fifteen times because every time I did it, it came out "DIS". Hm.
We're also smack-dab in the middle of a begging phase, a phase that, if I take into account my own mannerisms throughout childhood, should last approximately 26 years, I think. The other night he was begging for us to let him have another popsicle, and he actually implored to Jason, "Please, man. Man, please." Jason and I both cracked up and gave him the damn popsicle, for the love.
Also lovable and odd is "yaw". Reed says "y'all" frequently, but it comes out "yaw". "I want to come widj yaw!" "Do yaw want a popsicle?" "Can I ride widj yaw?"
OH MY GOD IS HE A HICK WHAT THE FUCK?
For one thing, he randomly adds the letter d to ends of words. "I'm Batmand!" or "What about Kaned?"... come to think of it, perhaps it's only words that end with n? Because he'll also say "oned" and "wond" and "rund". What's really odd about it is that it's not all the time; in other words, sometimes he'll say simply "Batman", but other times it's "Batmand". WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY KID IS IT AUTISM DOES HE NEED RITALIN WHAT THE FUCK?
I should add that perhaps it's me with the problem; I had to type "KID" about fifteen times because every time I did it, it came out "DIS". Hm.
We're also smack-dab in the middle of a begging phase, a phase that, if I take into account my own mannerisms throughout childhood, should last approximately 26 years, I think. The other night he was begging for us to let him have another popsicle, and he actually implored to Jason, "Please, man. Man, please." Jason and I both cracked up and gave him the damn popsicle, for the love.
Also lovable and odd is "yaw". Reed says "y'all" frequently, but it comes out "yaw". "I want to come widj yaw!" "Do yaw want a popsicle?" "Can I ride widj yaw?"
OH MY GOD IS HE A HICK WHAT THE FUCK?
Friday, June 26, 2009
One sentence for each year of my life for my 30th birthday, which is tomorrow:
0-1: I am born.
1-2: We move from Shreveport, Louisiana to Centerville, Alabama because my dad is tired of running an Omelette Shoppe.
2-3: I have my first crush on a boy named Kenneth, and I call him "Nuff".
3-4: We move from Centerville back to my parents' home town of Leeds, Alabama.
4-5: I play outside with the boy across the street named Beau; we share our first kiss and both come down with strep throat.
5-6: I hate going to school because I'd rather just hang out with my mom all day; we watch Charlotte's Web at school and it traumatizes me.
6-7: My friend Kasie and I sneak down to the creek during recess and stay too long and get left outside, resulting in our both being paddled by the principal.
7-8: I get in trouble in school because the boy next to me keeps taking my pencil from me and I argue with him to give it back to me.
8-9: I start having pretty severe acne, and the kids at school call me "pizza face".
9-10: My teacher is Mrs. Dawson who is one of my favorite teachers ever; she reads us The Hobbit aloud.
10-11: My teacher is Mrs. English, my least favorite teacher I will ever have; she says things like "social sturdies", "dunkey", and "pyahcil" (social studies, donkey, and pencil) and makes us carry all of our books home if we get into trouble.
11-12: I start junior high at a different school and don't know anyone except for a few people who travel from Leeds to Gresham as well; I have my first boyfriend who I am afraid to kiss.
12-13: I stay at the new school even though my best friend goes back to Leeds; it ain't that great.
13-14: I go back to Leeds for eighth grade and meet the girl who will be one of my best friends for the next several years, the girl who taught me how to act like an idiot in front of large groups of people.
14-15: I go to Shades Valley R.L.C. for ninth grade, where they stress independence and self-discipline; I am good at the independence, not so much the self-discipline.
15-16: I lose my virginity to a guy who has pressured the hell out of me to do so.
16-17: I drive a manual shift truck and am best friends with a girl who will eventually overdose on Oxycontin.
17-18: I break up with my boyfriend to be with a girl who tried desperately to convince me that I'm gay; alas, I will not be convinced.
18-19: I am engaged to my tiny Italian boyfriend; we fight A LOT.
19-20: I break up with my tiny Italian boyfriend so's I can drink A LOT.
20-21: My friends and I have discovered a few bars that we can go to even though we're not 21, so we take a whole lot of advantage of it.
21-22: I calm down quite a bit, discover the me that I want to be, and fall in love with a high school senior.
22-23: I take the high school senior's virginity without nearly as much pressuring as I required to lose my own; I meet Lindsey who will become one of my closest friends.
23-24: I fall madly in love with Jason and break up with the de-virginized, formerly-high school senior and realize how badly I miss my childhood best friend.
24-25: Jason and I get married, beginning what is now 5 1/2 years of wonderful, terrifying, scary, excruciating, exhilarating life.
25-26: I am let go from a part-time retail job for asking off to study for college courses after being told "If you ever have studying that you need to do just ask, because college should be your priority"; I also find out that I'm pregnant.
26-27: I have a baby; it is nuts.
27-28: I spiral into the worst depression I have ever experienced; I am fired for this blog, and subsequently take one of the most interesting, high energy jobs I've ever had with the worst, most horrifying, soul-crushing, rude, heinous boss I've ever dealt with.
28-29: Jason and I have become photographers, and I start making jewelry; Kane and Jude's mom begins the process of becoming the most difficult, scary, mean, uncaring person I've ever had to deal with personally.
29-30: I am fired from another job; I finally begin to get a grip on my depression and anxiety after starting the first job I've ever had where I feel valued and appreciated.
30-31: Holy fuck, what's going to happen this year? Can somebody at least warn me if it's going to be really awesome or really terrible?
Come show your love to your hoes at our 30th birthday party (Kristi, Lindsey, and myself) at Stealth Arts, June 27th, 8 pm. I may even be drunk by 10, hungover by 1, and drunk again by 3. Come place bets.
1-2: We move from Shreveport, Louisiana to Centerville, Alabama because my dad is tired of running an Omelette Shoppe.
2-3: I have my first crush on a boy named Kenneth, and I call him "Nuff".
3-4: We move from Centerville back to my parents' home town of Leeds, Alabama.
4-5: I play outside with the boy across the street named Beau; we share our first kiss and both come down with strep throat.
5-6: I hate going to school because I'd rather just hang out with my mom all day; we watch Charlotte's Web at school and it traumatizes me.
6-7: My friend Kasie and I sneak down to the creek during recess and stay too long and get left outside, resulting in our both being paddled by the principal.
7-8: I get in trouble in school because the boy next to me keeps taking my pencil from me and I argue with him to give it back to me.
8-9: I start having pretty severe acne, and the kids at school call me "pizza face".
9-10: My teacher is Mrs. Dawson who is one of my favorite teachers ever; she reads us The Hobbit aloud.
10-11: My teacher is Mrs. English, my least favorite teacher I will ever have; she says things like "social sturdies", "dunkey", and "pyahcil" (social studies, donkey, and pencil) and makes us carry all of our books home if we get into trouble.
11-12: I start junior high at a different school and don't know anyone except for a few people who travel from Leeds to Gresham as well; I have my first boyfriend who I am afraid to kiss.
12-13: I stay at the new school even though my best friend goes back to Leeds; it ain't that great.
13-14: I go back to Leeds for eighth grade and meet the girl who will be one of my best friends for the next several years, the girl who taught me how to act like an idiot in front of large groups of people.
14-15: I go to Shades Valley R.L.C. for ninth grade, where they stress independence and self-discipline; I am good at the independence, not so much the self-discipline.
15-16: I lose my virginity to a guy who has pressured the hell out of me to do so.
16-17: I drive a manual shift truck and am best friends with a girl who will eventually overdose on Oxycontin.
17-18: I break up with my boyfriend to be with a girl who tried desperately to convince me that I'm gay; alas, I will not be convinced.
18-19: I am engaged to my tiny Italian boyfriend; we fight A LOT.
19-20: I break up with my tiny Italian boyfriend so's I can drink A LOT.
20-21: My friends and I have discovered a few bars that we can go to even though we're not 21, so we take a whole lot of advantage of it.
21-22: I calm down quite a bit, discover the me that I want to be, and fall in love with a high school senior.
22-23: I take the high school senior's virginity without nearly as much pressuring as I required to lose my own; I meet Lindsey who will become one of my closest friends.
23-24: I fall madly in love with Jason and break up with the de-virginized, formerly-high school senior and realize how badly I miss my childhood best friend.
24-25: Jason and I get married, beginning what is now 5 1/2 years of wonderful, terrifying, scary, excruciating, exhilarating life.
25-26: I am let go from a part-time retail job for asking off to study for college courses after being told "If you ever have studying that you need to do just ask, because college should be your priority"; I also find out that I'm pregnant.
26-27: I have a baby; it is nuts.
27-28: I spiral into the worst depression I have ever experienced; I am fired for this blog, and subsequently take one of the most interesting, high energy jobs I've ever had with the worst, most horrifying, soul-crushing, rude, heinous boss I've ever dealt with.
28-29: Jason and I have become photographers, and I start making jewelry; Kane and Jude's mom begins the process of becoming the most difficult, scary, mean, uncaring person I've ever had to deal with personally.
29-30: I am fired from another job; I finally begin to get a grip on my depression and anxiety after starting the first job I've ever had where I feel valued and appreciated.
30-31: Holy fuck, what's going to happen this year? Can somebody at least warn me if it's going to be really awesome or really terrible?
Come show your love to your hoes at our 30th birthday party (Kristi, Lindsey, and myself) at Stealth Arts, June 27th, 8 pm. I may even be drunk by 10, hungover by 1, and drunk again by 3. Come place bets.
Monday, June 08, 2009
Reed Daniel.
I really enjoy reading birth stories like this one, and by "enjoy" I mean "panic and dry-heave". I realized that I hadn't ever talked about the day that Reed was born here.
I didn't go into labor naturally. About four or five days after my due date at an appointment with my doctor's office, an all-too-enthusiastic doctor told me he'd see if he could "get things going" since I was so late.
First let me say that I had one of those ridiculous experiences with an office full of rotating doctors and every time I went in I saw a different one so that I'd be "familiar" with all the doctors when I went into labor and just whoever could step in and catch the baby as it came flying out of my hoo-ha.
Next let me tell you what this fucking happy-ass guy did to me to "get things going": he put on a latex glove, stuck his hand into my yaya and "swooped" his fingers roughly about my cervix trying to "manually" open it up. I shit you not. This is not a joke. IT HURT LIKE A SON OF A BITCH and I very nearly levitated off the table with all the pain. Jason said he kind of wondered if he needed to punch that guy in the face, but somehow he refrained.
So the doctor tells me that I might see my mucus plug at some point and to call them if anything happens. Not a damn thing happened.
The next week at my appointment (now 10 days past my due date) the lady doing the ultrasound noticed that I suddenly didn't have very much amniotic fluid in there, and they did an exam and realized that I'd been leaking and holy cow! they better induce labor. Tomorrow. Tomorrow would be good.
So we went home and I hyperventilated a little and realized I really was not that interested in pushing a honey-baked ham-sized creature out of that particular orifice. Oh, I forgot to mention that when they did the ultrasound they estimated that the baby in there probably weighed anywhere from 9 to 10 pounds. In case any of you aren't familiar, that's an XL-sized baby, absolutely not what I ordered.
So we headed to the hospital and six the next morning and checked in and they started an iv of pitocin to get the labor going. For the first hour or so, nothing happened. Then all of a sudden THAT SHIT WORKED and I was writhing around on the bed in a whole lot of pain, the kind of pain that you can't talk through or think through and all you can do is imagine fire and bombs exploding and bright, searing light. So the nurse checked me out and found that I was still only dilated to about 1 or 2 centimeters and so they couldn't give me the epidural, but they could give me a shot of Demerol to help with the pain. I politely said, "Yes, that would be lovely." About five minutes later I was totally drunk and resting comfortably.
We watched tv and just generally rested until woops! those contractions started ripping and tearing through the Demerol. They checked me and I was at 3 centimeters so they called the anesthesiologist (Would you believe that I spelled "anesthesiologist" correctly? I just went ahead and spell-checked because I thought there was no way I had guessed it, but I totally did. That right there is a testament to my love for Dr. Carlson, the fellow who gave me my epidural.).
So guess what? Throughout my pregnancy, I was so worried about getting the epidural, about the pain involved with some fellow jamming a large needle into my spine, about how you can be paralyzed and blah blah blah. I am here to tell you: IF YOU ARE HAVING CONTRACTIONS, FOR-REAL-THOUGH CONTRACTIONS THAT MAKE YOU WANT TO HIT YOURSELF IN THE FACE WITH A HAMMER UNTIL YOU LOSE CONSCIOUSNESS, THE TINY PRICK OF THE NEEDLE GOING INTO YOUR BACK REALLY ISN'T THAT BIG OF A DEAL. I had to sit up in the bed and sit very, very still on account of you don't want him jamming it in sideways or in the wrong place or whatever, so of course I started having a really intense contraction right as he starting giving me the epidural. Sitting perfectly still during a contraction is very difficult, and I managed only because of the expected benefit of the drugs seeping into my spinal cord.
He finished and told me it would take a minute for the drugs to take effect, so in the meantime I had a couple more meaty contractions to entertain myself with. Then, suddenly, I felt so fucking good. I felt relaxed and unafraid and sleepy, and I laid my head back and dozed. I could still feel the contractions but instead of feeling like PAIN! they felt like pressure; I could feel the muscles in my body contracting, but it didn't hurt.
Basically the rest was just that, rest, until I reached 10 centimeters dilation and they got me to start pushing. Eventually Reed's heart rate got kind of erratic, so SNIP SNIP they did an episiotomy and got some forceps and tugged Reed out of there into this cruel, cruel world, away from the comfort of my hospitable uterus.
And then there he was, gooey and shiny, bruised from the forceps, uttering the tiniest, cutest shriek of FUCK NO, PLEASE CAN I GO BACK FOR JUST A WHILE LONGER. And then we were parents. I was a mama, and Reed was my son.
I didn't go into labor naturally. About four or five days after my due date at an appointment with my doctor's office, an all-too-enthusiastic doctor told me he'd see if he could "get things going" since I was so late.
First let me say that I had one of those ridiculous experiences with an office full of rotating doctors and every time I went in I saw a different one so that I'd be "familiar" with all the doctors when I went into labor and just whoever could step in and catch the baby as it came flying out of my hoo-ha.
Next let me tell you what this fucking happy-ass guy did to me to "get things going": he put on a latex glove, stuck his hand into my yaya and "swooped" his fingers roughly about my cervix trying to "manually" open it up. I shit you not. This is not a joke. IT HURT LIKE A SON OF A BITCH and I very nearly levitated off the table with all the pain. Jason said he kind of wondered if he needed to punch that guy in the face, but somehow he refrained.
So the doctor tells me that I might see my mucus plug at some point and to call them if anything happens. Not a damn thing happened.
The next week at my appointment (now 10 days past my due date) the lady doing the ultrasound noticed that I suddenly didn't have very much amniotic fluid in there, and they did an exam and realized that I'd been leaking and holy cow! they better induce labor. Tomorrow. Tomorrow would be good.
So we went home and I hyperventilated a little and realized I really was not that interested in pushing a honey-baked ham-sized creature out of that particular orifice. Oh, I forgot to mention that when they did the ultrasound they estimated that the baby in there probably weighed anywhere from 9 to 10 pounds. In case any of you aren't familiar, that's an XL-sized baby, absolutely not what I ordered.
So we headed to the hospital and six the next morning and checked in and they started an iv of pitocin to get the labor going. For the first hour or so, nothing happened. Then all of a sudden THAT SHIT WORKED and I was writhing around on the bed in a whole lot of pain, the kind of pain that you can't talk through or think through and all you can do is imagine fire and bombs exploding and bright, searing light. So the nurse checked me out and found that I was still only dilated to about 1 or 2 centimeters and so they couldn't give me the epidural, but they could give me a shot of Demerol to help with the pain. I politely said, "Yes, that would be lovely." About five minutes later I was totally drunk and resting comfortably.
We watched tv and just generally rested until woops! those contractions started ripping and tearing through the Demerol. They checked me and I was at 3 centimeters so they called the anesthesiologist (Would you believe that I spelled "anesthesiologist" correctly? I just went ahead and spell-checked because I thought there was no way I had guessed it, but I totally did. That right there is a testament to my love for Dr. Carlson, the fellow who gave me my epidural.).
So guess what? Throughout my pregnancy, I was so worried about getting the epidural, about the pain involved with some fellow jamming a large needle into my spine, about how you can be paralyzed and blah blah blah. I am here to tell you: IF YOU ARE HAVING CONTRACTIONS, FOR-REAL-THOUGH CONTRACTIONS THAT MAKE YOU WANT TO HIT YOURSELF IN THE FACE WITH A HAMMER UNTIL YOU LOSE CONSCIOUSNESS, THE TINY PRICK OF THE NEEDLE GOING INTO YOUR BACK REALLY ISN'T THAT BIG OF A DEAL. I had to sit up in the bed and sit very, very still on account of you don't want him jamming it in sideways or in the wrong place or whatever, so of course I started having a really intense contraction right as he starting giving me the epidural. Sitting perfectly still during a contraction is very difficult, and I managed only because of the expected benefit of the drugs seeping into my spinal cord.
He finished and told me it would take a minute for the drugs to take effect, so in the meantime I had a couple more meaty contractions to entertain myself with. Then, suddenly, I felt so fucking good. I felt relaxed and unafraid and sleepy, and I laid my head back and dozed. I could still feel the contractions but instead of feeling like PAIN! they felt like pressure; I could feel the muscles in my body contracting, but it didn't hurt.
Basically the rest was just that, rest, until I reached 10 centimeters dilation and they got me to start pushing. Eventually Reed's heart rate got kind of erratic, so SNIP SNIP they did an episiotomy and got some forceps and tugged Reed out of there into this cruel, cruel world, away from the comfort of my hospitable uterus.
And then there he was, gooey and shiny, bruised from the forceps, uttering the tiniest, cutest shriek of FUCK NO, PLEASE CAN I GO BACK FOR JUST A WHILE LONGER. And then we were parents. I was a mama, and Reed was my son.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Two random things I forgot about Costa Rica:
1. You aren't supposed to flush your toilet paper; instead you're supposed to put it in the garbage can, no matter what you have just wiped on it. This made for some stinky garbage.
2. We had a monkey attack during the night! We had a tendency to leave things on our front porch on the picnic table, including Jason's journal, cigarettes, lighters, hot sauce, and water bottles. One morning Jason got up and everything was strown about the yard. There are teeny bite marks in his journal. We could hear the howler monkeys every day around dusk and dawn; their roars were pretty creepy
*Edit*
FUCKING ALAGASCO, I HATE YOUR GODDAMN GUTS. Last week I paid half of what we owed. Yesterday they cut off our gas and left us a sweet little note saying we owe $604. I went onto our account online and WHAT A FUCKING SURPRISE it says we owe $154, just like I thought. As I got paid today, I went ahead and paid the $154 and then called Alagasco.
Bitch says we have to pay a FUCKING $400 DEPOSIT ON ACCOUNT OF THEY CUT THE GAS OFF EVEN THOUGH I MADE A PAYMENT. I went back and forth with her saying "Our online account doesn't say anything about a deposit. I have paid the balance. Now our online account says we owe nothing." She kept saying we had to pay the deposit because they cut the gas off. I said we made a payment, we shouldn't have been disconnected. She said we didn't pay in full, so they cut it off.
Finally I said "I WILL NOT PAY YOU $400 TO CUT MY GAS BACK ON WHEN I MADE A PAYMENT LAST WEEK AND A PAYMENT THIS MORNING AND NOW IT SAYS I OWE ZERO." So she said, "Okay. Is there anything else I can help you with today? Thanks for using our services."
So now we don't have heat or hot water. The heat may not be a big deal if this warm weather continues, but no hot water? WHAT THE FUCK?
1. You aren't supposed to flush your toilet paper; instead you're supposed to put it in the garbage can, no matter what you have just wiped on it. This made for some stinky garbage.
2. We had a monkey attack during the night! We had a tendency to leave things on our front porch on the picnic table, including Jason's journal, cigarettes, lighters, hot sauce, and water bottles. One morning Jason got up and everything was strown about the yard. There are teeny bite marks in his journal. We could hear the howler monkeys every day around dusk and dawn; their roars were pretty creepy
*Edit*
FUCKING ALAGASCO, I HATE YOUR GODDAMN GUTS. Last week I paid half of what we owed. Yesterday they cut off our gas and left us a sweet little note saying we owe $604. I went onto our account online and WHAT A FUCKING SURPRISE it says we owe $154, just like I thought. As I got paid today, I went ahead and paid the $154 and then called Alagasco.
Bitch says we have to pay a FUCKING $400 DEPOSIT ON ACCOUNT OF THEY CUT THE GAS OFF EVEN THOUGH I MADE A PAYMENT. I went back and forth with her saying "Our online account doesn't say anything about a deposit. I have paid the balance. Now our online account says we owe nothing." She kept saying we had to pay the deposit because they cut the gas off. I said we made a payment, we shouldn't have been disconnected. She said we didn't pay in full, so they cut it off.
Finally I said "I WILL NOT PAY YOU $400 TO CUT MY GAS BACK ON WHEN I MADE A PAYMENT LAST WEEK AND A PAYMENT THIS MORNING AND NOW IT SAYS I OWE ZERO." So she said, "Okay. Is there anything else I can help you with today? Thanks for using our services."
So now we don't have heat or hot water. The heat may not be a big deal if this warm weather continues, but no hot water? WHAT THE FUCK?
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Cleaning out my text messages.
- I finally grew a pair and cut my bangs and now it looks like I shaved a hedgehog in my sink.
- You have no idea about the REDWOOD I just pooped.
- I am a mortar GOD!
- Team Colonel Ingus!
- HOTTUB spelled backward is BUTTOH.
- Oh my god! Why aren't you a spoon in Ohio?
- Holy shit! Do you feel like you're living an inauthentic life?
- Pink straws: packed.
- And that's why they call me the shocker!
- I'll guard you both from the rear.
- *smacking noises smacking noises gross mouth noises*
- So now I am just texting to pretend I am not a fork in Ohio.
- You are paaaaaaaaaht of the rebel alliance and a traitor!
- He's a hypnotist of ladies.
- Real Raybans or testicles over my eyes?
- NUCULAR.
The idea for this post came from Sarah.
- You have no idea about the REDWOOD I just pooped.
- I am a mortar GOD!
- Team Colonel Ingus!
- HOTTUB spelled backward is BUTTOH.
- Oh my god! Why aren't you a spoon in Ohio?
- Holy shit! Do you feel like you're living an inauthentic life?
- Pink straws: packed.
- And that's why they call me the shocker!
- I'll guard you both from the rear.
- *smacking noises smacking noises gross mouth noises*
- So now I am just texting to pretend I am not a fork in Ohio.
- You are paaaaaaaaaht of the rebel alliance and a traitor!
- He's a hypnotist of ladies.
- Real Raybans or testicles over my eyes?
- NUCULAR.
The idea for this post came from Sarah.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Nawlins.
So this weekend we had a nice getaway to lovely New Orleans, Louisiana. We stayed with our friends Amanda and Luke in Algiers. It was a girly trip, just Lindsey and me, since my sister is trying to starve herself and consequently Jason had to stay home with Reed. But more on that another time.
We drove down Friday evening and let me tell you, Mississippi, YOUR SIGNS ARE A LIE. It never fails that I start getting low on gas somewhere between Meridian and the Louisiana state line. There is not much in that area, but there are a few exits with signs stating that there are gas stations off the exits. LIE. We had to get off of three different exits before we stumbled upon the Circle D where we got gas, ice, and SCARED.
We made it in around 9:30 and hung around their apartment for a while, then went out to the Quarter via the ferry.
Saturday we took the ferry in again and had lunch at Felipe's (yum) and then walked around the quarter for a while. We found Ignatius' statue and took some pictures and then headed back home for a nap and some cool-down time because IT WAS HOT THERE.
That evening we walked over to the Dry Dock Cafe for a burger and then to the Crown and Anchor for a couple of beers before we headed back home to film a new Drunk Psychology.
Sunday we went to the Clover Grill in the Quarter for breakfast. We ate omelettes and biscuits and gravy and saw Laurence Fishburne*. Yep. And guess what? I didn't have my camera. CLEARLY I learned nothing in Costa Rica. I had carried the camera around all weekend long, and when we went to eat I thought, we're just going to eat, I don't need the camera. Then I saw Laurence Fishburne. And let me tell you, HE LOOKED GOOD, and apparently he smelled good too from what Lindsey could tell after nearly elbowing him in the junk as he walked past our table. He and I made eye contact a couple of times, and I'm pretty sure we had a moment. Well, I had a moment of "HOLY FUCK HI LAURENCE" and he had a moment of "Is that girl having a seizure? Why won't she stop staring?"
Let me tell you, if you want to meet famous people and have a nice conversation with them I am not the person to spend time with. I am the girl who sees Cowboy Curtis and doesn't have a camera and furthermore doesn't want to interrupt his meal or stop him on his way out to say "OH MY GOSH I REALLY LIKED THE MATRIX, WELL THE FIRST ONE ANYWAY I NEVER SAW THOSE OTHER ONES CAN I HAVE YOUR AUTOGRAPH?"
*Laurence Fishburne, if you're googling yourself and somehow stumble upon this blog, I am the girl in the purple shirt who was sitting with the girl in the black shirt and the girl in the green shirt in the Clover Grill. I'm sorry we pretty much giggled and fluttered our eyelashes and ogled you throughout your meal. I'M SORRY, okay? It's just you look good and we love you and we could not help ourselves. Please send me one autograph since I'm too big of a pansy to ask you for one in person. Really you should just be thankful that we only considered the idea of asking you to sign my boob instead of actually asking you. Thank you.
We drove down Friday evening and let me tell you, Mississippi, YOUR SIGNS ARE A LIE. It never fails that I start getting low on gas somewhere between Meridian and the Louisiana state line. There is not much in that area, but there are a few exits with signs stating that there are gas stations off the exits. LIE. We had to get off of three different exits before we stumbled upon the Circle D where we got gas, ice, and SCARED.
We made it in around 9:30 and hung around their apartment for a while, then went out to the Quarter via the ferry.
Saturday we took the ferry in again and had lunch at Felipe's (yum) and then walked around the quarter for a while. We found Ignatius' statue and took some pictures and then headed back home for a nap and some cool-down time because IT WAS HOT THERE.
That evening we walked over to the Dry Dock Cafe for a burger and then to the Crown and Anchor for a couple of beers before we headed back home to film a new Drunk Psychology.
Sunday we went to the Clover Grill in the Quarter for breakfast. We ate omelettes and biscuits and gravy and saw Laurence Fishburne*. Yep. And guess what? I didn't have my camera. CLEARLY I learned nothing in Costa Rica. I had carried the camera around all weekend long, and when we went to eat I thought, we're just going to eat, I don't need the camera. Then I saw Laurence Fishburne. And let me tell you, HE LOOKED GOOD, and apparently he smelled good too from what Lindsey could tell after nearly elbowing him in the junk as he walked past our table. He and I made eye contact a couple of times, and I'm pretty sure we had a moment. Well, I had a moment of "HOLY FUCK HI LAURENCE" and he had a moment of "Is that girl having a seizure? Why won't she stop staring?"
Let me tell you, if you want to meet famous people and have a nice conversation with them I am not the person to spend time with. I am the girl who sees Cowboy Curtis and doesn't have a camera and furthermore doesn't want to interrupt his meal or stop him on his way out to say "OH MY GOSH I REALLY LIKED THE MATRIX, WELL THE FIRST ONE ANYWAY I NEVER SAW THOSE OTHER ONES CAN I HAVE YOUR AUTOGRAPH?"
*Laurence Fishburne, if you're googling yourself and somehow stumble upon this blog, I am the girl in the purple shirt who was sitting with the girl in the black shirt and the girl in the green shirt in the Clover Grill. I'm sorry we pretty much giggled and fluttered our eyelashes and ogled you throughout your meal. I'M SORRY, okay? It's just you look good and we love you and we could not help ourselves. Please send me one autograph since I'm too big of a pansy to ask you for one in person. Really you should just be thankful that we only considered the idea of asking you to sign my boob instead of actually asking you. Thank you.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Their names are called, they raise a paw: the bat, the cat, dolphin and dog, koala bear and hog.
We have a lot going on in the next few weeks.
This weekend we're headed down to New Orleans to visit our friend Amanda and film a new Drunk Psychology. The next weekend is our good friend John's 30th birthday party. May will bring Mother's Day and India's birthday and Linnea's birthday, and then we're photographing a wedding at the end of the month.
It will only get busier from there. June brings Kane's, Jude's, Kristi's, and my birthdays, plus we're planning a baby shower for our friend Brock (yep), and our friends Dana and Wes are getting married and we're taking pictures, and we're throwing a huge party for Kristi's, Lindsey's, and my 30th birthdays combined.
In July we'll have Lindsey's birthday, my mom's birthday, and Brock's baby will be born.
August will bring Kristi's bachelorette party and shower, and then she and Chris are getting married on the 8th. Reed and I are in the wedding and Jason is the photographer. Then Chris' birthday is on the 19th.
I think I might go to bed for a while in September. So don't bother calling.
This weekend we're headed down to New Orleans to visit our friend Amanda and film a new Drunk Psychology. The next weekend is our good friend John's 30th birthday party. May will bring Mother's Day and India's birthday and Linnea's birthday, and then we're photographing a wedding at the end of the month.
It will only get busier from there. June brings Kane's, Jude's, Kristi's, and my birthdays, plus we're planning a baby shower for our friend Brock (yep), and our friends Dana and Wes are getting married and we're taking pictures, and we're throwing a huge party for Kristi's, Lindsey's, and my 30th birthdays combined.
In July we'll have Lindsey's birthday, my mom's birthday, and Brock's baby will be born.
August will bring Kristi's bachelorette party and shower, and then she and Chris are getting married on the 8th. Reed and I are in the wedding and Jason is the photographer. Then Chris' birthday is on the 19th.
I think I might go to bed for a while in September. So don't bother calling.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Our new kangaroo is supposed to arrive next week.
I'll be honest with you: I think maybe something is wrong with me. And also with pretty much everybody I know.
As long as we've lived in our house, which is about four years, Jason has wanted a dog. A big dog. Some sort of large, bounding, herding dog that the kids can ride around the back yard and that can kill whole cows and bring them home for dinner. I have spent this last four years saying no, a thousand times no, we don't need a dog and we can't have a dog and if we were going to get a dog I want a Chinese Crested. Jason's response was "Hell no on the Chinese Crested but OF COURSE we need a dog and can have a dog. A BIG ONE."
So we've continued on in this manner for all these years.
Then last week happened.
Nothing in particular has changed or occurred. I don't have a clue what has happened to my brain. Maybe the prozac; I don't know. But suddenly Jason has been on this blue heeler kick and for whatever reason I said, "Okay, let's look at blue heelers."
So I've been looking up dogs, and it turns out Jason is incredibly particular. And it's not even like there is some list I can go by; Jason simply can look at the dog and know if it's "his dog" or not. This one is too tall. This one is to small. This one prompted Jason to say "I will not be able to fucking sleep knowing that dog is in our house."
I love all three of those dogs, so someone should go adopt them so I don't have to worry about them any more.
Anyway, we think we've found a dog we like. We've filled out adoption applications. Yesterday I finally got up the nerve to tell my mom about it. My mom is the lady who always says no, a thousand times no, we don't need a cat/dog/goat and if we get a cat/dog/goat she's going to throw herself off the roof of her house in protest.
What did she say yesterday? "Well, you know, I've had dogs all my life. I can't argue with you."
WHAT?!? So all I could think was, "Well I HAVE to send the adoption applications in NOW with all that flippant gauntlet-throwing she's doing right there."
Listen, the truth is I had dogs and cats throughout my childhood. I had Poochie, a little round mutt who followed me everywhere and took care of me and was a hell of a watch dog (the poor UPS guy). Then I had Ruppleduffie, a huge lab mix who was goofy and spent most of his puppyhood sleeping on top of a large basket of pecans. Now I'm not going to lie and say that I took complete care of them and my mom never had to lift a finger- she did the majority of the feeding and bathing and taking care of those dogs. But I helped. And I loved them intensely, and played with them, and pet them and stroked them and talked to them and took their pictures and dressed them in doll clothes. They were my pets.
Since my head has been so clear lately I've re-evaluating a lot, including how I'm raising Reed. I think we're doing a pretty good job, but I realized that I don't want him to grow up, to be a six year old and then a nine year old and then a twelve year old without ever having helped to raise a dog. I don't want him to grow up without knowing what it feels like to love a dog, to take care of it, to see its happy face when he comes home from school. Kane and Jude have had a wide assortment of pets, a few at our house and a lot at their mom's house, and I sometimes worry that their mom is teaching them that pets are disposable and you can just move on to the next one if the first one doesn't work out. I think maybe this might be good for them, too.
Last night I asked Reed, "Would you like to have a dog that lives here with us?" He got very excited very fast and said, "Yes! I wish I had a dog. I would like to have a dog."
So I guess that settles it. Reed is a normal kid and my mom and I are crazy as shit-house rats. Congratulations to us all.
As long as we've lived in our house, which is about four years, Jason has wanted a dog. A big dog. Some sort of large, bounding, herding dog that the kids can ride around the back yard and that can kill whole cows and bring them home for dinner. I have spent this last four years saying no, a thousand times no, we don't need a dog and we can't have a dog and if we were going to get a dog I want a Chinese Crested. Jason's response was "Hell no on the Chinese Crested but OF COURSE we need a dog and can have a dog. A BIG ONE."
So we've continued on in this manner for all these years.
Then last week happened.
Nothing in particular has changed or occurred. I don't have a clue what has happened to my brain. Maybe the prozac; I don't know. But suddenly Jason has been on this blue heeler kick and for whatever reason I said, "Okay, let's look at blue heelers."
So I've been looking up dogs, and it turns out Jason is incredibly particular. And it's not even like there is some list I can go by; Jason simply can look at the dog and know if it's "his dog" or not. This one is too tall. This one is to small. This one prompted Jason to say "I will not be able to fucking sleep knowing that dog is in our house."
I love all three of those dogs, so someone should go adopt them so I don't have to worry about them any more.
Anyway, we think we've found a dog we like. We've filled out adoption applications. Yesterday I finally got up the nerve to tell my mom about it. My mom is the lady who always says no, a thousand times no, we don't need a cat/dog/goat and if we get a cat/dog/goat she's going to throw herself off the roof of her house in protest.
What did she say yesterday? "Well, you know, I've had dogs all my life. I can't argue with you."
WHAT?!? So all I could think was, "Well I HAVE to send the adoption applications in NOW with all that flippant gauntlet-throwing she's doing right there."
Listen, the truth is I had dogs and cats throughout my childhood. I had Poochie, a little round mutt who followed me everywhere and took care of me and was a hell of a watch dog (the poor UPS guy). Then I had Ruppleduffie, a huge lab mix who was goofy and spent most of his puppyhood sleeping on top of a large basket of pecans. Now I'm not going to lie and say that I took complete care of them and my mom never had to lift a finger- she did the majority of the feeding and bathing and taking care of those dogs. But I helped. And I loved them intensely, and played with them, and pet them and stroked them and talked to them and took their pictures and dressed them in doll clothes. They were my pets.
Since my head has been so clear lately I've re-evaluating a lot, including how I'm raising Reed. I think we're doing a pretty good job, but I realized that I don't want him to grow up, to be a six year old and then a nine year old and then a twelve year old without ever having helped to raise a dog. I don't want him to grow up without knowing what it feels like to love a dog, to take care of it, to see its happy face when he comes home from school. Kane and Jude have had a wide assortment of pets, a few at our house and a lot at their mom's house, and I sometimes worry that their mom is teaching them that pets are disposable and you can just move on to the next one if the first one doesn't work out. I think maybe this might be good for them, too.
Last night I asked Reed, "Would you like to have a dog that lives here with us?" He got very excited very fast and said, "Yes! I wish I had a dog. I would like to have a dog."
So I guess that settles it. Reed is a normal kid and my mom and I are crazy as shit-house rats. Congratulations to us all.
Monday, April 06, 2009
You're nothing now and you never were; you're the empty core of a hollow shell!
Okay, so you know how I'm like "Crazy bitch!" and "Fuck this shit!" and "I'll choke a bitch!" and "Oh my gosh I am just going to throw myself off a cliff onto a pile of poop and porcupines and get it over with!"? You know how I'm like that? Well, here's some more.
Jason's ex is still trying to wring extra money out of him, money that he doesn't owe her, money that she is not entitled to. And the only way she'll communicate with him about it is via text message. He tried to go up and talk to her about it yesterday when we dropped Kane and Jude off; her husband was like, "She's in the bathroom, so she won't be able to hear you." FOR FUCK'S SAKES, I CAN'T EXPRESS IN WRITTEN WORD HOW CRAZY THESE PEOPLE ARE.
Just rest assured that we ain't giving her any more money besides the money we are court-ordered to pay her (i.e., the monthly child support). I am tired of all of this. I want to be able to live our lives without receiving these shitty, cowardly, God-forsaken text messages from two crazy people who are so totally self-involved that they can't see past the ends of their own noses, can't even see how their behavior is starting to affect the kids that they're supposed to be raising.
Anyways, just wanted to keep you up-to-date. Plus I haven't done any of my "I might fucking set myself on fire!" in quite some time, and I didn't want y'all to get worried that I had gotten over it. IN FACT, I HAVE NOT GOTTEN OVER IT.
Jason's ex is still trying to wring extra money out of him, money that he doesn't owe her, money that she is not entitled to. And the only way she'll communicate with him about it is via text message. He tried to go up and talk to her about it yesterday when we dropped Kane and Jude off; her husband was like, "She's in the bathroom, so she won't be able to hear you." FOR FUCK'S SAKES, I CAN'T EXPRESS IN WRITTEN WORD HOW CRAZY THESE PEOPLE ARE.
Just rest assured that we ain't giving her any more money besides the money we are court-ordered to pay her (i.e., the monthly child support). I am tired of all of this. I want to be able to live our lives without receiving these shitty, cowardly, God-forsaken text messages from two crazy people who are so totally self-involved that they can't see past the ends of their own noses, can't even see how their behavior is starting to affect the kids that they're supposed to be raising.
Anyways, just wanted to keep you up-to-date. Plus I haven't done any of my "I might fucking set myself on fire!" in quite some time, and I didn't want y'all to get worried that I had gotten over it. IN FACT, I HAVE NOT GOTTEN OVER IT.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Part Seven.
This is Part Eleventy-Million of the story of our trip to Costa Rica. Here are Parts One, Two, Three, Four, Five, and Six.
So, here it is Tuesday morning, Saint Patrick's Day. I am writhing around in bed. No more waterpoop; apparently Costa Rican prescription diarrhea medicine corks that shit right up. But I'm still having the bad cramps and the sweats. I am writhing around, twisting up in the mosquito net, and Jason comes in and gingerly says, "Uh, so, Kristi and Chris are hiking to the waterfalls." We look at each other. I say, "Okay." We look at each other. I writhe a little. He says, "Um, so, do you want to go?" FOR GOD'S SAKES, JASON. NO HIKING. I DON'T WANT TO HIKE. I HAVE NEVER CLAIMED TO WANT TO HIKE. I HAVE NEVER SUGGESTED THAT I MIGHT WANT TO HIKE. I HAVE NEVER LIED TO ANYONE AND SAID "Oh, I like hiking."
Point is, I don't want to hike and I tell him so. Kristi and Chris leave, and I decide that I cannot spend another day in bed waiting to feel better. I get out of bed and sit on the porch and watch Jason draw and play solitaire while I sweat and cramp.
Kristi and Chris come back from the waterfalls with tails of almost dying, having scaled a sheer flat rock face that someone lied and called a "mountain". Kristi and Chris are pretty adventurous so I have to tell you, it surprises me when they come back sweaty and shaky and dirty, telling us that they both got so scared that they were shaking and weren't sure what to do and got lost and were having to leap and grab and pray that roots would hold until they got to the top, where Kristi realizes that the camera is gone. Apparently her purse wasn't zipped and their camera is gone, killing forever any hopes of my ever laying eyes on this terrible climb that they've endeavored 'cause I SHO AIN'T EVER GOING UP THERE MYSELF.
We decide to go sit in the pool for a while. Sitting there, the cool water makes me feel a little better, and suddenly I make a decision which I announce: "Well, I guess I'm just going to see if the beer can heal me, since I didn't have any yesterday and I'm still not well." Chris likes this idea, has been suggesting it all along, and walks down to the house to get us all beers. We float around and drink a couple of beers. I sincerely feel better. Kristi's rash sincerely doesn't feel better. It has spread from her arms to her chest, stomach, and thighs. She still fears that it's a flesh-eating bacteria. She goes to the main house and asks the owners; they say it's probably nothing serious, but go to the Clinico.
Chris and Kristi head to the Clinico in Cobano. She sees a doctor in the pharmacy (I didn't know they did that!) who speaks English (I didn't know they did that!) and who gives her a skin cream and some Allegra and is able to tell her what she is getting and how to use it and what it does (I didn't know they did that!). She comes back, slathers on her cream and pops an Allegra, and gets back in the pool with us. We spend most of the afternoon floating around, feeling better all around, drinking beers.
Was this when we played Euchre? I know we played at some point on the porch. I think this is when. We played Euchre and continued to drink. Later Chris and Jason cook dinner: by now we've been living on a steady diet of gallo pinto- beans, rice, plantains, and any combination of onions, avocado, tomatos, hot sauce, and salsa. At this point I haven't eaten a meal since Sunday night on account of my intestinal distress. I push my food around while everyone else eats. My stomach starts to feel gross, and I give up on the eating. We sit up and play Spades for a while. Around 10pm, I give up entirely and go to bed feeling grody.
The next morning we get up early, pack up, and catch our shuttle back to San Jose. We have to do all that traveling in reverse: head to Paquera, take the ferry, then catch our shuttle from Puntarenas to Hostel Pangea in San Jose. Apparently Kristi's cream has made her sensitive to sunlight and her arms are covered in blisters. It's a pretty hot, sweaty trip, but we make it, and we're STARVING. We go to the Banco and get some cash, then head back to Hostel Pangea for casados.
This is the first meal I have eaten since Sunday dinner. It's Wednesday Lunch. I effectively didn't eat for about two-and-a-half days. I am ravenous. We drink beers and eat lunch and check into our rooms for a little rest. We go walking in San Jose and buy souveniers and meet the funniest, nicest Costa Rican lady ever. She says things like, "Fuckin' damnit!" and "fuckin' shit yeah!" while she tells us how much she likes Americans and how she traveled across the U.S. from California to New York (or was it the other way around?) and how Alabama has the best fried chicken. She said we need to come back to Costa Rica and bring all our kids and stay at her house "and we'll eat some fuckin' fried chicken!"
That night we sit at the bar at Hostel Pangea and eat the tastiest nachos I've ever had and drink Imperial and relax. Some of Kristi and Chris' law school friends have just gotten back from Jaco or Manuel Antonio or some place and tell us about getting pick-pocketed by gangs of hookers and harrassed by policemen (they have to bribe them to stay out of trouble) and going deep-sea fishing. At some point one of the girls says something like, "Well of course we had air conditioning. We had to have air conditioning."
WE DID NOT HAVE AIR CONDITIONING. NOW GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY TABLE.
The next morning, Thursday morning, we head to the San Jose air port and fly home without incident. And that's the story of Costa Rica, in only seven parts.
So, here it is Tuesday morning, Saint Patrick's Day. I am writhing around in bed. No more waterpoop; apparently Costa Rican prescription diarrhea medicine corks that shit right up. But I'm still having the bad cramps and the sweats. I am writhing around, twisting up in the mosquito net, and Jason comes in and gingerly says, "Uh, so, Kristi and Chris are hiking to the waterfalls." We look at each other. I say, "Okay." We look at each other. I writhe a little. He says, "Um, so, do you want to go?" FOR GOD'S SAKES, JASON. NO HIKING. I DON'T WANT TO HIKE. I HAVE NEVER CLAIMED TO WANT TO HIKE. I HAVE NEVER SUGGESTED THAT I MIGHT WANT TO HIKE. I HAVE NEVER LIED TO ANYONE AND SAID "Oh, I like hiking."
Point is, I don't want to hike and I tell him so. Kristi and Chris leave, and I decide that I cannot spend another day in bed waiting to feel better. I get out of bed and sit on the porch and watch Jason draw and play solitaire while I sweat and cramp.
Kristi and Chris come back from the waterfalls with tails of almost dying, having scaled a sheer flat rock face that someone lied and called a "mountain". Kristi and Chris are pretty adventurous so I have to tell you, it surprises me when they come back sweaty and shaky and dirty, telling us that they both got so scared that they were shaking and weren't sure what to do and got lost and were having to leap and grab and pray that roots would hold until they got to the top, where Kristi realizes that the camera is gone. Apparently her purse wasn't zipped and their camera is gone, killing forever any hopes of my ever laying eyes on this terrible climb that they've endeavored 'cause I SHO AIN'T EVER GOING UP THERE MYSELF.
We decide to go sit in the pool for a while. Sitting there, the cool water makes me feel a little better, and suddenly I make a decision which I announce: "Well, I guess I'm just going to see if the beer can heal me, since I didn't have any yesterday and I'm still not well." Chris likes this idea, has been suggesting it all along, and walks down to the house to get us all beers. We float around and drink a couple of beers. I sincerely feel better. Kristi's rash sincerely doesn't feel better. It has spread from her arms to her chest, stomach, and thighs. She still fears that it's a flesh-eating bacteria. She goes to the main house and asks the owners; they say it's probably nothing serious, but go to the Clinico.
Chris and Kristi head to the Clinico in Cobano. She sees a doctor in the pharmacy (I didn't know they did that!) who speaks English (I didn't know they did that!) and who gives her a skin cream and some Allegra and is able to tell her what she is getting and how to use it and what it does (I didn't know they did that!). She comes back, slathers on her cream and pops an Allegra, and gets back in the pool with us. We spend most of the afternoon floating around, feeling better all around, drinking beers.
Was this when we played Euchre? I know we played at some point on the porch. I think this is when. We played Euchre and continued to drink. Later Chris and Jason cook dinner: by now we've been living on a steady diet of gallo pinto- beans, rice, plantains, and any combination of onions, avocado, tomatos, hot sauce, and salsa. At this point I haven't eaten a meal since Sunday night on account of my intestinal distress. I push my food around while everyone else eats. My stomach starts to feel gross, and I give up on the eating. We sit up and play Spades for a while. Around 10pm, I give up entirely and go to bed feeling grody.
The next morning we get up early, pack up, and catch our shuttle back to San Jose. We have to do all that traveling in reverse: head to Paquera, take the ferry, then catch our shuttle from Puntarenas to Hostel Pangea in San Jose. Apparently Kristi's cream has made her sensitive to sunlight and her arms are covered in blisters. It's a pretty hot, sweaty trip, but we make it, and we're STARVING. We go to the Banco and get some cash, then head back to Hostel Pangea for casados.
This is the first meal I have eaten since Sunday dinner. It's Wednesday Lunch. I effectively didn't eat for about two-and-a-half days. I am ravenous. We drink beers and eat lunch and check into our rooms for a little rest. We go walking in San Jose and buy souveniers and meet the funniest, nicest Costa Rican lady ever. She says things like, "Fuckin' damnit!" and "fuckin' shit yeah!" while she tells us how much she likes Americans and how she traveled across the U.S. from California to New York (or was it the other way around?) and how Alabama has the best fried chicken. She said we need to come back to Costa Rica and bring all our kids and stay at her house "and we'll eat some fuckin' fried chicken!"
That night we sit at the bar at Hostel Pangea and eat the tastiest nachos I've ever had and drink Imperial and relax. Some of Kristi and Chris' law school friends have just gotten back from Jaco or Manuel Antonio or some place and tell us about getting pick-pocketed by gangs of hookers and harrassed by policemen (they have to bribe them to stay out of trouble) and going deep-sea fishing. At some point one of the girls says something like, "Well of course we had air conditioning. We had to have air conditioning."
WE DID NOT HAVE AIR CONDITIONING. NOW GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY TABLE.
The next morning, Thursday morning, we head to the San Jose air port and fly home without incident. And that's the story of Costa Rica, in only seven parts.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Part Four.
This is the story of our trip to Costa Rica. Part One is here, Part Two is here, and Part Three is here.
Jason drives us down the hill, and we're all clutching and screaming because apparently first gear is really loose, and ALL the gears are really hard to find, and the stick will pop out of gear at any given moment. Kristi and Chris are bumping around in the back, seatless. Jason manages to get us down and park, and declares that he will not drive that truck again.
We had a nice, calm, quiet dinner and then walked around Montezuma a bit. We came across a table of really beautiful hemp jewelry that Kristi and I both liked. The fellow selling them was a tiny, skinny boy with dreadlocks to his waist. He proceeded to talk to us in Spanish, all in Spanish, and somehow we picked up quite a bit of it. His jewelry is all totally unique, and you'll never never ("Nunca, nunca!") see anything else like it in the world. Each one is totally individual and no two of his necklaces are alike. The necklase that Kristi likes took him three days to make. The one that I like is the "purest stone".
He made the mistake once of letting someone take pictures of his work, and the next thing he knew he was in Mexico and saw a girl wearing a necklace that someone had copied from him. He stopped her and said, "That's my work." She said no, she bought it from someone else. He said, "Yes, that's my work." She said no; he said emphatically YES ("SIIII."). So now no pictures are allowed.
Kristi and I both fall under his spell and buy necklaces. We stand outside the market where Jason and Chris are buying beer.
We're standing there waiting, and I glance into the street and see a boy walking towards us and think, "Wow, that boy looks like Casey Affleck." Something makes me double-take, and IT IS CASEY AFFLECK. WALKING PAST ME IN MONTEZUMA BEACH, COSTA RICA. He passes and I grab Kristi's shoulders and say, "DO YOU KNOW WHO JUST WALKED PAST US? RIGHT THERE, THAT'S CASEY AFFLECK." Kristi says something hilarious like, "I don't think I've seen him in anything," and then Jason and Chris come out and I tell them the same thing. Jason immediately says, "Oh, where's Joaquin Phoenix?" About three seconds later, Kristi's eyes get really big, and she starts jerking her head towards the market that we're still standing around in front of, and there walks Joaquin Phoenix into the market, where he proceeds to start shaking hands with and hugging all the people who work there. We're pretty sure that he heard everything that we were saying about Casey and him. He has one stupid dreadlock sticking out of the back of his head (I love you, Joaquin, but it's stupid). He looks CRAZY. Even Puffy can't deny it.
And guess what? For this particular outing, this one fucking time, we left our cameras in the safe at the house. WE WERE PHOTOGRAPHERS WITH NO CAMERAS STANDING TEN FEET AWAY FROM JOAQUIN PHOENIX AND CASEY AFFLECK.
So I'm standing there trying to figure out how to approach them, and Jason and Kristi decide we need to go because it's pointless for us to stand around in the road staring. I kick them in the balls and then tackle Casey Affleck and lick his face, and then I spray Joaquin with Lysol. NO, WAIT, I whine about it a little and follow them to the truck and we go home and drink beer and FREAK OUT on the front porch about seeing famous people. And I'm like, "200 CIGARETTES CASEY I LOVE YOU and Joaquin I WAS IN LOVE WITH YOUR BROTHER AND I CRIED WHEN HE DIED. And also I hear Space Camp is pretty good."
Then we plan how we're totally going to see them the next night and we're totally going to party with them and take their pictures and hang with them and they'll come back to our house and drink our beer and play cards with us.
Does it happen? More tomorrow.
Jason drives us down the hill, and we're all clutching and screaming because apparently first gear is really loose, and ALL the gears are really hard to find, and the stick will pop out of gear at any given moment. Kristi and Chris are bumping around in the back, seatless. Jason manages to get us down and park, and declares that he will not drive that truck again.
We had a nice, calm, quiet dinner and then walked around Montezuma a bit. We came across a table of really beautiful hemp jewelry that Kristi and I both liked. The fellow selling them was a tiny, skinny boy with dreadlocks to his waist. He proceeded to talk to us in Spanish, all in Spanish, and somehow we picked up quite a bit of it. His jewelry is all totally unique, and you'll never never ("Nunca, nunca!") see anything else like it in the world. Each one is totally individual and no two of his necklaces are alike. The necklase that Kristi likes took him three days to make. The one that I like is the "purest stone".
He made the mistake once of letting someone take pictures of his work, and the next thing he knew he was in Mexico and saw a girl wearing a necklace that someone had copied from him. He stopped her and said, "That's my work." She said no, she bought it from someone else. He said, "Yes, that's my work." She said no; he said emphatically YES ("SIIII."). So now no pictures are allowed.
Kristi and I both fall under his spell and buy necklaces. We stand outside the market where Jason and Chris are buying beer.
We're standing there waiting, and I glance into the street and see a boy walking towards us and think, "Wow, that boy looks like Casey Affleck." Something makes me double-take, and IT IS CASEY AFFLECK. WALKING PAST ME IN MONTEZUMA BEACH, COSTA RICA. He passes and I grab Kristi's shoulders and say, "DO YOU KNOW WHO JUST WALKED PAST US? RIGHT THERE, THAT'S CASEY AFFLECK." Kristi says something hilarious like, "I don't think I've seen him in anything," and then Jason and Chris come out and I tell them the same thing. Jason immediately says, "Oh, where's Joaquin Phoenix?" About three seconds later, Kristi's eyes get really big, and she starts jerking her head towards the market that we're still standing around in front of, and there walks Joaquin Phoenix into the market, where he proceeds to start shaking hands with and hugging all the people who work there. We're pretty sure that he heard everything that we were saying about Casey and him. He has one stupid dreadlock sticking out of the back of his head (I love you, Joaquin, but it's stupid). He looks CRAZY. Even Puffy can't deny it.
And guess what? For this particular outing, this one fucking time, we left our cameras in the safe at the house. WE WERE PHOTOGRAPHERS WITH NO CAMERAS STANDING TEN FEET AWAY FROM JOAQUIN PHOENIX AND CASEY AFFLECK.
So I'm standing there trying to figure out how to approach them, and Jason and Kristi decide we need to go because it's pointless for us to stand around in the road staring. I kick them in the balls and then tackle Casey Affleck and lick his face, and then I spray Joaquin with Lysol. NO, WAIT, I whine about it a little and follow them to the truck and we go home and drink beer and FREAK OUT on the front porch about seeing famous people. And I'm like, "200 CIGARETTES CASEY I LOVE YOU and Joaquin I WAS IN LOVE WITH YOUR BROTHER AND I CRIED WHEN HE DIED. And also I hear Space Camp is pretty good."
Then we plan how we're totally going to see them the next night and we're totally going to party with them and take their pictures and hang with them and they'll come back to our house and drink our beer and play cards with us.
Does it happen? More tomorrow.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Part Two.
This is Part Two of our trip to Costa Rica. Part One is here.
So we're standing at the bus terminal with all our luggage with no clue what to do. This Costa Rican cab driver who barely speaks English starts shaking us down to take us to Puntarenas for $100. We are hesitant, and he finally says $80, and we take it (keep in mind it's a two-hour drive). The four of us and our five suitcases squeeze into his tiny red car and take off for Puntarenas. He is playing a mix cd that is all American 70's and 80's music and includes Journey's Faithfully and Billy Idol's Eyes Without a Face. He drives like a mad man to try and get us to the nine o'clock ferry. I fall asleep about half-way there. When I wake up we're pulling up to the ferry terminal as the ferry is pulling away. They tell me that the only reason we missed it is because some bitch on a scooter was driving really slowly and wouldn't let us pass.
So there we are, standing in the middle of the street with five suitcases, and the cab driver points out a restaurant where the food is supposed to be good. We drag all our shit up the long, metal staircase and take a seat in a lovely, open-air place that overlooks the water. The next ferry leaves at twelve, so we have a few hours to kill. We order gallo pinto with juevos, with sour cream, or with beef in sauce, and the waiter suggested we use this sauce. It is GOOD STUFF. We eat slowly and drink hot, strong coffee and smoke cigarettes until twelve.
It is HOT on the ferry, espcecially after dragging all those suitcases up the black, metal stairs. We sit inside and rest. I realize that I still get a little seasick, and curse everyone who ever told me that really big boats don't rock. YES THEY DO.
We get to Paquera and it is HOT. Dripping sweat. A swarthy little man tells us he'll take us to Montezuma for $50. He points at his SUV and says, "That's me." We take him up on it.
He proceeds to take us on one of the wildest rides I've ever been on (from this Wikitravel article: Driving in Costa Rica is, by American standards, dangerous. Costa Rica has one of the highest deaths by car accidents in the world.). He drives very fast on small dirt roads, passing people and honking and giving them dirty looks. He keeps giving us the thumbs-up and saying, "Montezuma! Pura Vida!" (from this article: Costa Ricans use the phrase to express a philosophy of strong community, perseverance, good spirits, enjoying life slowly, celebrating good fortune, whether small or large.)
He turns off the main road onto a red clay road that is so bumpy, so much like off-roading, and Kristi says, "Um, is this a short cut?" He replies, "Si. SHORT CUT." When we discuss it later, we realize that we were all thinking the same thing: he was taking us out into the woods to rob us and maybe kill us.
What happens next? More tomorrow.
So we're standing at the bus terminal with all our luggage with no clue what to do. This Costa Rican cab driver who barely speaks English starts shaking us down to take us to Puntarenas for $100. We are hesitant, and he finally says $80, and we take it (keep in mind it's a two-hour drive). The four of us and our five suitcases squeeze into his tiny red car and take off for Puntarenas. He is playing a mix cd that is all American 70's and 80's music and includes Journey's Faithfully and Billy Idol's Eyes Without a Face. He drives like a mad man to try and get us to the nine o'clock ferry. I fall asleep about half-way there. When I wake up we're pulling up to the ferry terminal as the ferry is pulling away. They tell me that the only reason we missed it is because some bitch on a scooter was driving really slowly and wouldn't let us pass.
So there we are, standing in the middle of the street with five suitcases, and the cab driver points out a restaurant where the food is supposed to be good. We drag all our shit up the long, metal staircase and take a seat in a lovely, open-air place that overlooks the water. The next ferry leaves at twelve, so we have a few hours to kill. We order gallo pinto with juevos, with sour cream, or with beef in sauce, and the waiter suggested we use this sauce. It is GOOD STUFF. We eat slowly and drink hot, strong coffee and smoke cigarettes until twelve.
It is HOT on the ferry, espcecially after dragging all those suitcases up the black, metal stairs. We sit inside and rest. I realize that I still get a little seasick, and curse everyone who ever told me that really big boats don't rock. YES THEY DO.
We get to Paquera and it is HOT. Dripping sweat. A swarthy little man tells us he'll take us to Montezuma for $50. He points at his SUV and says, "That's me." We take him up on it.
He proceeds to take us on one of the wildest rides I've ever been on (from this Wikitravel article: Driving in Costa Rica is, by American standards, dangerous. Costa Rica has one of the highest deaths by car accidents in the world.). He drives very fast on small dirt roads, passing people and honking and giving them dirty looks. He keeps giving us the thumbs-up and saying, "Montezuma! Pura Vida!" (from this article: Costa Ricans use the phrase to express a philosophy of strong community, perseverance, good spirits, enjoying life slowly, celebrating good fortune, whether small or large.)
He turns off the main road onto a red clay road that is so bumpy, so much like off-roading, and Kristi says, "Um, is this a short cut?" He replies, "Si. SHORT CUT." When we discuss it later, we realize that we were all thinking the same thing: he was taking us out into the woods to rob us and maybe kill us.
What happens next? More tomorrow.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
On 17 glasses of red wine.
So last night I had a dream about a headless dog.
I can't remember all the details of the dream, and I can't remember a lot of the whys, but Jason, Kristi, Chris and I were in Tuscaloosa, but in the dream Tuscaloosa was a big, windy, bustling city, and we were all dressed in nice clothes and nice wool coats and we were in a big hurry trying to get somewhere to catch a bus.
The next thing we knew there were pit bulls everywhere- nice, friendly, sweet pit bulls and for some reason this had something to do with Alabama football or perhaps Bear Bryant. And all of the pit bulls were wearing those wire and gossamer angel wings. And when they ran the wings would bounce in a way that made it look like the wings were flapping or fluttering, so fast that they turned into a blur, and the dogs were waiting politely for the signal to walk across the street.
Then, without warning, one of the dog's heads was on the ground, and its body was still walking around. The head was still animate, it was licking its lips and looking around, the body was walking around wagging its tail. And it wasn't bloody or gross or gory. And I was just standing there staring. Then I turned away for a moment, and when I looked back the dog's head was back where it belonged and he was trotting off with his wings flapping.
The end.
I can't remember all the details of the dream, and I can't remember a lot of the whys, but Jason, Kristi, Chris and I were in Tuscaloosa, but in the dream Tuscaloosa was a big, windy, bustling city, and we were all dressed in nice clothes and nice wool coats and we were in a big hurry trying to get somewhere to catch a bus.
The next thing we knew there were pit bulls everywhere- nice, friendly, sweet pit bulls and for some reason this had something to do with Alabama football or perhaps Bear Bryant. And all of the pit bulls were wearing those wire and gossamer angel wings. And when they ran the wings would bounce in a way that made it look like the wings were flapping or fluttering, so fast that they turned into a blur, and the dogs were waiting politely for the signal to walk across the street.
Then, without warning, one of the dog's heads was on the ground, and its body was still walking around. The head was still animate, it was licking its lips and looking around, the body was walking around wagging its tail. And it wasn't bloody or gross or gory. And I was just standing there staring. Then I turned away for a moment, and when I looked back the dog's head was back where it belonged and he was trotting off with his wings flapping.
The end.
Monday, February 02, 2009
And now for the Micro Wrestling Federation.
For fuck's sakes, if Kane and Jude's step-dad continues to send these assy, threatening text messages to us, I'm going to visit Pelham with a large bag of poop. I cannot stand this any more. See here for further explanation.
Somehow lately I frequently feel like I'm standing in the middle of a crowded room screaming, and no one is noticing. It's lonely and sad, this feeling, and I'm afraid that feeling it this frequently for this long is starting to make me a shitty person. I feel vindictive, mad, self-centered.
There is a lot going on in the next couple of weeks. There's Midget Wrestling this Thursday (click that link, scroll down to see the poster), we have the kids this weekend, I'm scheduled to go to San Antonio with work February 9th through the 12th, and then Valentine's Day is that weekend. Plus, there are three birthdays in a row from the 14th through the 16th (Josh, Deanna, Johnny). Busy time.
I know some people were having trouble getting to the Cutting Room Floor, and I've checked and re-checked and I'm not sure why that is. I'm linking here again just to see what happens. If that doesn't work, just go to www.flickr.com/photos/cuttingroomfloor.
I'm glad y'all are looking. It makes me happy.
Somehow lately I frequently feel like I'm standing in the middle of a crowded room screaming, and no one is noticing. It's lonely and sad, this feeling, and I'm afraid that feeling it this frequently for this long is starting to make me a shitty person. I feel vindictive, mad, self-centered.
There is a lot going on in the next couple of weeks. There's Midget Wrestling this Thursday (click that link, scroll down to see the poster), we have the kids this weekend, I'm scheduled to go to San Antonio with work February 9th through the 12th, and then Valentine's Day is that weekend. Plus, there are three birthdays in a row from the 14th through the 16th (Josh, Deanna, Johnny). Busy time.
I know some people were having trouble getting to the Cutting Room Floor, and I've checked and re-checked and I'm not sure why that is. I'm linking here again just to see what happens. If that doesn't work, just go to www.flickr.com/photos/cuttingroomfloor.
I'm glad y'all are looking. It makes me happy.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
I am in love with J.D. Salinger.
Some quotes from this Wikiquote article on J.D. Salinger:
He said I was unequipped to meet life because I had no sense of humor.
The fact is always obvious much too late, but the most singular difference between happiness and joy is that happiness is a solid and joy a liquid.
Life is a gift horse in my opinion.
You'd better get busy, though, buddy. The goddam sands run out on you every time you turn around. I know what I'm talking about. You're lucky if you get time to sneeze in this goddam phenomenal world.
She said she knew she was able to fly because when she came down she always had dust on her fingers from touching the lightbulbs.
I'm a kind of paranoiac in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to make me happy.
Marriage partners are to serve each other. Elevate, help, teach, strengthen each other, but above all, serve. Raise their children honorably, lovingly and with detachment. A child is a guest in the house, to be loved and respected - never possessed, since he belongs to God. How wonderful, how sane, how beautifully difficult, and therefore true.
Please accept from me this unpretentious bouquet of very early-blooming parentheses: (((()))).
What is it but a low form of prayer when he or Les or anybody else God-damns everything? I can't believe God recognizes any form of blasphemy. It's a prissy word invented by the clergy.
How terrible it is when you say I love you and the person on the other end shouts back 'What?'
He said I was unequipped to meet life because I had no sense of humor.
The fact is always obvious much too late, but the most singular difference between happiness and joy is that happiness is a solid and joy a liquid.
Life is a gift horse in my opinion.
You'd better get busy, though, buddy. The goddam sands run out on you every time you turn around. I know what I'm talking about. You're lucky if you get time to sneeze in this goddam phenomenal world.
She said she knew she was able to fly because when she came down she always had dust on her fingers from touching the lightbulbs.
I'm a kind of paranoiac in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to make me happy.
Marriage partners are to serve each other. Elevate, help, teach, strengthen each other, but above all, serve. Raise their children honorably, lovingly and with detachment. A child is a guest in the house, to be loved and respected - never possessed, since he belongs to God. How wonderful, how sane, how beautifully difficult, and therefore true.
Please accept from me this unpretentious bouquet of very early-blooming parentheses: (((()))).
What is it but a low form of prayer when he or Les or anybody else God-damns everything? I can't believe God recognizes any form of blasphemy. It's a prissy word invented by the clergy.
How terrible it is when you say I love you and the person on the other end shouts back 'What?'
Saturday, August 30, 2008
I haven't been sleeping well anyways.
Reed has learned how to climb out of his crib.
I cannot make a big enough deal about this, can't get across what a huge change this will mean for us. I'm pretty sure that he forgot almost as soon as he learned, but that means that we are that much closer to turning his bed into a big-boy-bed, that much closer to The End of Sleeping at Night for Mom. Like, POOF!- Now I lay awake at night listening for any noises that indicate that my child has padded into the bathroom and is drowning in the toilet. Or has wandered into the kitchen and is sticking his soft little hand down into the blender while pressing the "frappe" button. Or has gotten into mama's gin. MY GIN, REED. MY GIN.
I cannot make a big enough deal about this, can't get across what a huge change this will mean for us. I'm pretty sure that he forgot almost as soon as he learned, but that means that we are that much closer to turning his bed into a big-boy-bed, that much closer to The End of Sleeping at Night for Mom. Like, POOF!- Now I lay awake at night listening for any noises that indicate that my child has padded into the bathroom and is drowning in the toilet. Or has wandered into the kitchen and is sticking his soft little hand down into the blender while pressing the "frappe" button. Or has gotten into mama's gin. MY GIN, REED. MY GIN.
Monday, August 11, 2008
"buffy agan blog leeds"
So it's been a while, but I thought I'd mention that I called Mark A. Dutton on August 1st (in reference to all of this). It was a very interesting conversation: turns out that he wasn't leaving those comments. He was, shall we say, nonplussed. We had a long talk about my blog and who might want to leave such bizarre comments. Did you know that it is a CRIME to sling around legal advice when you aren't a lawyer? Did you know that what so-and-so did there- not only pretending to be a lawyer but pretending to be a PARTICULAR lawyer- could constitute identity theft, and certainly constitutes fraud?
Anyways, Mr. Dutton was very happy that I brought it all to his attention. I have no idea if he intends to do anything about it, but I know that he can if he wants to.
In similar news, HELLO IP NUMBER 68.185.251.116! How are you out there in Pelham, Alabama? How is Charter Communications treating you? Do you enjoy using Internet Explorer on your Windows Vista system? Did you catch Lindsey's comment after all those comments that you left as Mark A. Dutton, specifically:
Every modem is assigned a unique number by their ISP. Blogger, in their infinite wisdom and foresight, God bless 'em, automatically and without fail logs each and every IP address associated with every single comment left on this or any other Blogger/Blogspot blog. Utilizing your IP address, which is freely provided to the blog owner by Blogger, the public at large is able to utilize the common knowledge reverse IP look up process in order to pinpoint just who, exactly, is leaving these comments, right down to something as minuscule and specific as their area code.
THE INTERNET IS NOT AN ANONYMOUS PLACE, PEOPLE. People seem to think they can do anything they want, such as impersonating a lawyer, and no one will ever know. People can see when you look at their web pages like you did this morning at 8:31 am right after you got the kids off to school, like you did at 10:03 pm last night right after you got the kids to bed. Does your wife know what you've been doing, or are y'all in on this together? Because you know, should we ever end up in court, this is like a freakin' GOLD MINE for our case.
To the rest of you, I love you guys and thank you for putting with up with all this crap. CRAP ON A BLOG. That's new, right?
To Pelham, enjoy searching "buffy agan blog leeds" and "buffy jason agan blog leeds" on Yahoo Search over and over again. Thank you so much for your support.
Anyways, Mr. Dutton was very happy that I brought it all to his attention. I have no idea if he intends to do anything about it, but I know that he can if he wants to.
In similar news, HELLO IP NUMBER 68.185.251.116! How are you out there in Pelham, Alabama? How is Charter Communications treating you? Do you enjoy using Internet Explorer on your Windows Vista system? Did you catch Lindsey's comment after all those comments that you left as Mark A. Dutton, specifically:
Every modem is assigned a unique number by their ISP. Blogger, in their infinite wisdom and foresight, God bless 'em, automatically and without fail logs each and every IP address associated with every single comment left on this or any other Blogger/Blogspot blog. Utilizing your IP address, which is freely provided to the blog owner by Blogger, the public at large is able to utilize the common knowledge reverse IP look up process in order to pinpoint just who, exactly, is leaving these comments, right down to something as minuscule and specific as their area code.
THE INTERNET IS NOT AN ANONYMOUS PLACE, PEOPLE. People seem to think they can do anything they want, such as impersonating a lawyer, and no one will ever know. People can see when you look at their web pages like you did this morning at 8:31 am right after you got the kids off to school, like you did at 10:03 pm last night right after you got the kids to bed. Does your wife know what you've been doing, or are y'all in on this together? Because you know, should we ever end up in court, this is like a freakin' GOLD MINE for our case.
To the rest of you, I love you guys and thank you for putting with up with all this crap. CRAP ON A BLOG. That's new, right?
To Pelham, enjoy searching "buffy agan blog leeds" and "buffy jason agan blog leeds" on Yahoo Search over and over again. Thank you so much for your support.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
It's okay to try again.
When I was a kid I was scared of the dark. Okay, I am still scared of the dark. But when I was a kid that meant sleeping with my parents. I slept with my parents much, much longer than is appropriate for any child; my mom would try and come and sleep with me in my room, but I would wake up in the night alone and go crawl into bed with her. They had a queen size bed and it could be a tight squeeze with my dad, my mom, and myself. I'm sure it was super for their marriage, having a huge wiggling nine-year-old desperate to sleep with them all the time. I remember at some point telling them that it sure was crowded, and when I got married they were really going to have to buy a bigger bed- true story. HA HA HA.
Eventually my parents divorced, and it was much more comfortable in that bed with just my mom and me in it. Now with the foreclosure and all of our financial problems we are moving into my mom's house, that same house that I grew up in. As it turns out, my mom is going to take a different bedroom and Jason and I are moving into the master bedroom. It just feels funny that I will be once again sleeping in that same room, the room where I felt safest for all those childhood years. I sure hope that I feel as safe there now.
Yesterday we met with our lawyer and then had a celebratory, take-a-deep-breath-and-stop-worrying lunch at the local Mexican restaurant. We are still trying to get things straightened out with Kane and Jude's mom. Jason made the decision that the kids could move back in with her and we'd go back to the original custody agreement, which is what she asked for. She rewarded us by threatening to sue for backed child support for the years when the kids lived with us, the years when we were doing homework and sending lunch money and field trip money and attending parent-teacher conferences. The saddest part is that I predicted this years ago, and here it is. Thanks for being predictable. It will be so satisfying for me to revel in my rightness while living in my cardboard box.
I still don't know what's happening with the house- if the foreclosure if definite or if there are options. There has been so much going on over the past few weeks that I haven't been very good at staying on top of things, at following through. So I just don't know.
Reed is just amazing. He woke up this morning and told me that he dreamed about going to the beach, going to the ocean. He wakes up smiling almost every day, and even though the day goes on to present fits and fights and disagreements and floor-writhing, that moment when I first peer into his crib and he looks up at me and smiles is magic. He told me yesterday in the car, "I love Kane and Jude. Jude always talks to me. But they at they mommy's house." I almost cried.
These days have been marathons, racing to get to the end of the day without bursting into tears. Some days I win, and some days I lose. I have been listening to this song a lot, because it makes me feel better.
Eventually my parents divorced, and it was much more comfortable in that bed with just my mom and me in it. Now with the foreclosure and all of our financial problems we are moving into my mom's house, that same house that I grew up in. As it turns out, my mom is going to take a different bedroom and Jason and I are moving into the master bedroom. It just feels funny that I will be once again sleeping in that same room, the room where I felt safest for all those childhood years. I sure hope that I feel as safe there now.
Yesterday we met with our lawyer and then had a celebratory, take-a-deep-breath-and-stop-worrying lunch at the local Mexican restaurant. We are still trying to get things straightened out with Kane and Jude's mom. Jason made the decision that the kids could move back in with her and we'd go back to the original custody agreement, which is what she asked for. She rewarded us by threatening to sue for backed child support for the years when the kids lived with us, the years when we were doing homework and sending lunch money and field trip money and attending parent-teacher conferences. The saddest part is that I predicted this years ago, and here it is. Thanks for being predictable. It will be so satisfying for me to revel in my rightness while living in my cardboard box.
I still don't know what's happening with the house- if the foreclosure if definite or if there are options. There has been so much going on over the past few weeks that I haven't been very good at staying on top of things, at following through. So I just don't know.
Reed is just amazing. He woke up this morning and told me that he dreamed about going to the beach, going to the ocean. He wakes up smiling almost every day, and even though the day goes on to present fits and fights and disagreements and floor-writhing, that moment when I first peer into his crib and he looks up at me and smiles is magic. He told me yesterday in the car, "I love Kane and Jude. Jude always talks to me. But they at they mommy's house." I almost cried.
These days have been marathons, racing to get to the end of the day without bursting into tears. Some days I win, and some days I lose. I have been listening to this song a lot, because it makes me feel better.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
