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 oh fuck. Show all posts
Showing posts with label oh fuck. 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?
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
So the busiest month is finally drawing to a close, and somehow we made it.
Our birthday party last weekend was a success, i.e., we danced barefoot to George Michael and screamed along with some Jodeci and R. Kelly.
We photographed another wedding last Friday night, and it was lovely. We got really good photos and probably scored another wedding, so you know, awesome.
I am so very tired, as we stayed out just a little to late last night covering the Starlight Mints for al.com. I'm glad we went; their music is really good.
So now I am thirty. Last night I laid in bed and prayed to God, prayed for him to just please take care of Jason and Reed, keep them safe, give them a happy life. I am realizing more and more how important they are to me, how much happiness I want for them, how impotent I am in making their lives what I wish it could be. I've written before that I know that Reed has a mama who loves him and that's special and that's enough and some people aren't lucky enough to have that, but I still just want more for him. And it's not an I-wish-I-could-buy-him-more-stuff situation; that's not it. I wish he could have parents who didn't worry about money, parents who didn't have a foreclosure and loans and several maxed-out credit cards to deal with. I wish Jason's wife could deal with life more appropriately than she frequently does. I wish Jason could have a job that was never fucked up and wife who kept the house clean and food on the table. And suddenly, while I was laying there thinking all of this, I realized two things that hadn't fully occurred to me before: 1) I am not afraid of dying, and 2) I want to live.
I can't fully express what this realization meant to me. It probably all sounds trite and stupid, but this is a big fucking deal. Up until just a few months ago, I have been stuck in a dense fog for several years, one that I couldn't see out of and that gave me the feeling that no one could see into it. Now that fog has cleared just enough for me to see that it does not matter one bit. That fog makes no difference to me any more. I don't know how long this life will last but I am going to live it for however long I'm allotted, and I don't know what heaven and the great hereafter will be like, I don't know if I'll be able to hang around with all these people I love so much. I don't know if I'll be able to kiss Jason's face and smell Reed's hair, so I better do it now.
This isn't to say that I will never be sad again, never waste a day feeling sorry for myself, never let life get me down again, because I know that I will. BUT NOW IS THE TIME FOR THE EFFORT, PEOPLE. I am bringing it. So just look out.
Our birthday party last weekend was a success, i.e., we danced barefoot to George Michael and screamed along with some Jodeci and R. Kelly.
We photographed another wedding last Friday night, and it was lovely. We got really good photos and probably scored another wedding, so you know, awesome.
I am so very tired, as we stayed out just a little to late last night covering the Starlight Mints for al.com. I'm glad we went; their music is really good.
So now I am thirty. Last night I laid in bed and prayed to God, prayed for him to just please take care of Jason and Reed, keep them safe, give them a happy life. I am realizing more and more how important they are to me, how much happiness I want for them, how impotent I am in making their lives what I wish it could be. I've written before that I know that Reed has a mama who loves him and that's special and that's enough and some people aren't lucky enough to have that, but I still just want more for him. And it's not an I-wish-I-could-buy-him-more-stuff situation; that's not it. I wish he could have parents who didn't worry about money, parents who didn't have a foreclosure and loans and several maxed-out credit cards to deal with. I wish Jason's wife could deal with life more appropriately than she frequently does. I wish Jason could have a job that was never fucked up and wife who kept the house clean and food on the table. And suddenly, while I was laying there thinking all of this, I realized two things that hadn't fully occurred to me before: 1) I am not afraid of dying, and 2) I want to live.
I can't fully express what this realization meant to me. It probably all sounds trite and stupid, but this is a big fucking deal. Up until just a few months ago, I have been stuck in a dense fog for several years, one that I couldn't see out of and that gave me the feeling that no one could see into it. Now that fog has cleared just enough for me to see that it does not matter one bit. That fog makes no difference to me any more. I don't know how long this life will last but I am going to live it for however long I'm allotted, and I don't know what heaven and the great hereafter will be like, I don't know if I'll be able to hang around with all these people I love so much. I don't know if I'll be able to kiss Jason's face and smell Reed's hair, so I better do it now.
This isn't to say that I will never be sad again, never waste a day feeling sorry for myself, never let life get me down again, because I know that I will. BUT NOW IS THE TIME FOR THE EFFORT, PEOPLE. I am bringing it. So just look out.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Karaoke and appendectomies.
Holy cow, this past weekend was pretty nutty. Kane had an emergency appendectomy, I karaoked Shania Twain's Any Man of Mine, and Lindsey got hit on by a 23 year old. I AM SO TIRED.
Lindsey and I went out Saturday night and bar-hopped a bit and ended up at an all-night karaoke joint we have been known to frequent in the past. Of course we stayed out too late and arrived home to Kane power-puking in the bathroom with the door open. Jason got up and was like, "Oh, yeah, he's been puking."
The next morning as I was just about to expire from the hangover, Jason informed me that he was taking Kane to the emergency room because he was having some cramps that could indicate appendicitis. He called a couple of hours later and said it wasn't his appendix, it was just a stomach virus, and they were giving him nausea medicine and fluids. He called a couple of hours after that and said Kane was still cramping so they were taking blood and running tests and giving him an iv because he was so dehydrated. They eventually did an x-ray and discovered that Kane's appendix isn't situated in the normal place and woops! it WAS his appendix, he DID in fact have appendicitis and oh yeah, they needed to remove his appendix.
I would also like to point out, because it is just so predictable, that while Kane and Jason and Jude arrived at the hospital around 10:00 am, and Kane was finally wheeled into surgery around 5:30 pm, Kane's wonder-mom didn't show up at the hospital until 6 pm. The only reason I want to point this out is that it is just indicative of the kind of shit she pulls that makes me go WHAT THE FUCK, PEOPLE?
But all is well; Kane was in and out of surgery very quickly and everything went fine and he's recovering. I would also like to say that after the surgery, still high on the anesthesia, Kane was quietly resting in his bed and then would randomly spout lines from the Office ("What kind of bear is best?"). So funny.
It was just nutty, a nutty day and a nutty chain of events, and I'm glad everything is okay.
Lindsey and I went out Saturday night and bar-hopped a bit and ended up at an all-night karaoke joint we have been known to frequent in the past. Of course we stayed out too late and arrived home to Kane power-puking in the bathroom with the door open. Jason got up and was like, "Oh, yeah, he's been puking."
The next morning as I was just about to expire from the hangover, Jason informed me that he was taking Kane to the emergency room because he was having some cramps that could indicate appendicitis. He called a couple of hours later and said it wasn't his appendix, it was just a stomach virus, and they were giving him nausea medicine and fluids. He called a couple of hours after that and said Kane was still cramping so they were taking blood and running tests and giving him an iv because he was so dehydrated. They eventually did an x-ray and discovered that Kane's appendix isn't situated in the normal place and woops! it WAS his appendix, he DID in fact have appendicitis and oh yeah, they needed to remove his appendix.
I would also like to point out, because it is just so predictable, that while Kane and Jason and Jude arrived at the hospital around 10:00 am, and Kane was finally wheeled into surgery around 5:30 pm, Kane's wonder-mom didn't show up at the hospital until 6 pm. The only reason I want to point this out is that it is just indicative of the kind of shit she pulls that makes me go WHAT THE FUCK, PEOPLE?
But all is well; Kane was in and out of surgery very quickly and everything went fine and he's recovering. I would also like to say that after the surgery, still high on the anesthesia, Kane was quietly resting in his bed and then would randomly spout lines from the Office ("What kind of bear is best?"). So funny.
It was just nutty, a nutty day and a nutty chain of events, and I'm glad everything is okay.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Because the world doesn't have enough haikus, yo! Here are a few more.
Some haikus about my life lately:
I've been feeling crap-
tacular these days, for sure
Lobotomy-ho!
My throat hurts but lo!
Hot tea makes me pee too much.
Looks like beer it is.
Looking forward to
turning 30, not afraid
of the rickets. Ha!
Jason, your kid is
going to kill me, I fear.
Tell them to suck it.
I can't stop buying!
Anxiety makes me spend.
I need some more bling.
What the fuck, Prozac?
Where you been these past few months?
Don't do me like that.
"Holy fucking shit!"
my child exclaimed. I don't know
where he gets it from.
Kristi, Lindsey, Chris,
Jason and Duque and Reedy,
you my only friends.
I've been feeling crap-
tacular these days, for sure
Lobotomy-ho!
My throat hurts but lo!
Hot tea makes me pee too much.
Looks like beer it is.
Looking forward to
turning 30, not afraid
of the rickets. Ha!
Jason, your kid is
going to kill me, I fear.
Tell them to suck it.
I can't stop buying!
Anxiety makes me spend.
I need some more bling.
What the fuck, Prozac?
Where you been these past few months?
Don't do me like that.
"Holy fucking shit!"
my child exclaimed. I don't know
where he gets it from.
Kristi, Lindsey, Chris,
Jason and Duque and Reedy,
you my only friends.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Kane,
Today you turn 13.
This is probably the last time we'll ever speak since I'm moving into the bomb shelter until you turn 21, 'cause, dude, I don't want any part of what all is coming up.
I'm kidding. I am actually very excited about what is coming up, especially since you are suddenly very interested in watching The Office and that is so much more tolerable and interesting to me than Pokemon, or Yu Gi Oh, or Total Drama Island.
When I first met you, you were six years old, and in first grade. Your dad brought you into the store where we worked together, and he introduced us, and Jude hid behind his legs while you said, "Hello there, Buffy."
In the months following our meeting there were screaming contests (literally; this isn't a metaphor for a fight), swimming, sidewalk chalk drawings, Super Mario Brothers all-nighters, and tag games. We did a whole lot of stuff back in those days, mainly because your father and I didn't live together yet so we had to find cool stuff to do outside of the house.
We've had some tough times together as well. You had a lot of trouble understanding your mother's illness, how it kept her away from you so much when you were so young, and I had the simultaneous joy and guilt of being able to help you deal with that. I am very glad that I got to know you, got to sit up with you at night and help you through some rough nights, but I have to tell you it is very difficult to come up with a good answer to some of your questions, "why won't mom come home" or "why can't I go to my mom's house" or "can't she please just stay home with us tonight". All I ever knew to tell you was that she loves you, and she's working on it. I hope that was enough.
You are one of the smartest, brightest, most resilient kids I've ever known, and I can't even imagine what all lies ahead of you. You sure do like to talk so I might suggest a career in politics or lawyering. You clearly also combine with that talk-love a pinpoint accuracy in recalling detail, I can't even tell you how many episodes of Family Guy or The Simpsons that you have described to me, and I could tell that you didn't forget a thing because it would take the same amount of time for you to describe it to me as it would to actually sit down in front of the tv and watch the bloody show. HOLY GOD, MAN, you need to apply your talent for seven-hour oration to something besides shows I don't even like, I beg of you.
Seriously, never stop expecting a lot from yourself, because you have the charisma and smarts to do a lot of interesting things with your life, and that kind of stuff almost never just falls into your lap: you have to work for a happy life, to enjoy your pursuits and have a happy family. Just like Gordy Ramey used to tell my mama: Remember who you are. Know that this life just gets harder and harder, all the time, and there will be moments when you think you will break, when you think it will never get easier. And I'm not here to tell you that it gets easier, because sometimes it doesn't. But it changes. Your feelings, the situations you're in, your desires, your goals, it all changes all the time, and no matter how hard it gets you can always come to your dad or me to talk about it, because we will always love you just as much, and we will always be your parents no matter how scary or unpredictable life gets.
Listen, I ain't your mama, have never been your mama and will never be your mama. But I do love you and want good things for you. I will always be there to talk or help in any way that I can. This fall you start eighth grade, and I am here to tell you that this stage of life is hard, hard for everyone, and the best thing I know to say about it is don't let them see you hurting, save the hurting for when you get home, and always be open to new friendships.
And no drinking or drugs until you're older. And no sex. Or girlfriends. Maybe you should just come straight home from school. And don't be talking to hussies on the phone, either. No HBO or Cinemax. And punch a motherfucker in the face if he fucks with you. But don't be a bully. Oh for God's sakes, I have to go; the bomb shelter is calling my name.
Today you turn 13.
This is probably the last time we'll ever speak since I'm moving into the bomb shelter until you turn 21, 'cause, dude, I don't want any part of what all is coming up.
I'm kidding. I am actually very excited about what is coming up, especially since you are suddenly very interested in watching The Office and that is so much more tolerable and interesting to me than Pokemon, or Yu Gi Oh, or Total Drama Island.
When I first met you, you were six years old, and in first grade. Your dad brought you into the store where we worked together, and he introduced us, and Jude hid behind his legs while you said, "Hello there, Buffy."
In the months following our meeting there were screaming contests (literally; this isn't a metaphor for a fight), swimming, sidewalk chalk drawings, Super Mario Brothers all-nighters, and tag games. We did a whole lot of stuff back in those days, mainly because your father and I didn't live together yet so we had to find cool stuff to do outside of the house.
We've had some tough times together as well. You had a lot of trouble understanding your mother's illness, how it kept her away from you so much when you were so young, and I had the simultaneous joy and guilt of being able to help you deal with that. I am very glad that I got to know you, got to sit up with you at night and help you through some rough nights, but I have to tell you it is very difficult to come up with a good answer to some of your questions, "why won't mom come home" or "why can't I go to my mom's house" or "can't she please just stay home with us tonight". All I ever knew to tell you was that she loves you, and she's working on it. I hope that was enough.
You are one of the smartest, brightest, most resilient kids I've ever known, and I can't even imagine what all lies ahead of you. You sure do like to talk so I might suggest a career in politics or lawyering. You clearly also combine with that talk-love a pinpoint accuracy in recalling detail, I can't even tell you how many episodes of Family Guy or The Simpsons that you have described to me, and I could tell that you didn't forget a thing because it would take the same amount of time for you to describe it to me as it would to actually sit down in front of the tv and watch the bloody show. HOLY GOD, MAN, you need to apply your talent for seven-hour oration to something besides shows I don't even like, I beg of you.
Seriously, never stop expecting a lot from yourself, because you have the charisma and smarts to do a lot of interesting things with your life, and that kind of stuff almost never just falls into your lap: you have to work for a happy life, to enjoy your pursuits and have a happy family. Just like Gordy Ramey used to tell my mama: Remember who you are. Know that this life just gets harder and harder, all the time, and there will be moments when you think you will break, when you think it will never get easier. And I'm not here to tell you that it gets easier, because sometimes it doesn't. But it changes. Your feelings, the situations you're in, your desires, your goals, it all changes all the time, and no matter how hard it gets you can always come to your dad or me to talk about it, because we will always love you just as much, and we will always be your parents no matter how scary or unpredictable life gets.
Listen, I ain't your mama, have never been your mama and will never be your mama. But I do love you and want good things for you. I will always be there to talk or help in any way that I can. This fall you start eighth grade, and I am here to tell you that this stage of life is hard, hard for everyone, and the best thing I know to say about it is don't let them see you hurting, save the hurting for when you get home, and always be open to new friendships.
And no drinking or drugs until you're older. And no sex. Or girlfriends. Maybe you should just come straight home from school. And don't be talking to hussies on the phone, either. No HBO or Cinemax. And punch a motherfucker in the face if he fucks with you. But don't be a bully. Oh for God's sakes, I have to go; the bomb shelter is calling my name.
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.
Friday, May 01, 2009
And here is what I do at work...
I am a very busy woman.
In other news, we're going to get our dog tomorrow. He's excited, too.
And this right here is a very informative swine flu website you should check out. And here is another one.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
His rap name was Crazy D.
So, last night I dug out my journals from junior high and high school and read them.
BAD IDEA. Man, I was melodramatic as hell. And kind of a slut. A slutty, melodramatic bastard. There was also a short story about a fairy and poem about a twinkle- the title is What Is a Twinkle?
Dude, I thought I might submit to Cringe, or at least post some stuff here, but no way man. There is stuff in there that CLEARLY I have blocked out of my memory for a reason. When I got to the part where I wrote, "So I cheated on [redacted] yesterday with a boy named either Jon or Jay" (hey, mom!) I was like, "Okay, it's time to put these away."
Keep in mind by "cheated" I was talking about kissing, I was still a virgin at that point (BUT PROBABLY NOT BY CHOICE) but does that make it any better? DOES IT? And before you give me shit for not including his name in there, let me just say that with everything else I have going on I do NOT need to be screening phone calls from angry junior high boyfriends, boyfriends who had "rap names" and were in "gangs".
I'm pretty sure I'm going to burn them tonight in sacrifice to the god of cool because EVIDENTLY he must have thrown me a bone at some point, I don't know how any of you ever put up with me back then if the shit that came out of my mouth was remotely like the shit I was writing in my journals. I mean, I am well aware that I am not some kind of bastion of radness now, but I promise you I am cooler than a person who falls in love with a boy because he says "Damn, you got a big ass for a sixth grader!"
BAD IDEA. Man, I was melodramatic as hell. And kind of a slut. A slutty, melodramatic bastard. There was also a short story about a fairy and poem about a twinkle- the title is What Is a Twinkle?
Dude, I thought I might submit to Cringe, or at least post some stuff here, but no way man. There is stuff in there that CLEARLY I have blocked out of my memory for a reason. When I got to the part where I wrote, "So I cheated on [redacted] yesterday with a boy named either Jon or Jay" (hey, mom!) I was like, "Okay, it's time to put these away."
Keep in mind by "cheated" I was talking about kissing, I was still a virgin at that point (BUT PROBABLY NOT BY CHOICE) but does that make it any better? DOES IT? And before you give me shit for not including his name in there, let me just say that with everything else I have going on I do NOT need to be screening phone calls from angry junior high boyfriends, boyfriends who had "rap names" and were in "gangs".
I'm pretty sure I'm going to burn them tonight in sacrifice to the god of cool because EVIDENTLY he must have thrown me a bone at some point, I don't know how any of you ever put up with me back then if the shit that came out of my mouth was remotely like the shit I was writing in my journals. I mean, I am well aware that I am not some kind of bastion of radness now, but I promise you I am cooler than a person who falls in love with a boy because he says "Damn, you got a big ass for a sixth grader!"
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Part Three.
This is the story of our trip to Costa Rica. Part Two is here and Part One is here.
So we're riding further and further into the jungle, into nowhere, dust and hot sun and our cab driver giving us a thumbs-up with some huge, ruby ring on his finger, when we see the sign for Casa Colores where we're staying. He drives us right up to the door, helps us unload our luggage, and hands our hostess a card.
Our hostess walks us up to our house (no air conditioning) and shows us around the property, including the pool and the breezy, shady cabana with a fridge full of water, soda, and beer. The owner looks at our clothes (jeans, t-shirts and sneakers) and says we better change, because it's very hot. NO SHIT. As we knod, sweat drips off our chins. She tells us that she doesn't recommend walking to Montezuma because of the heat, dust, and degree of incline.
We unpack and settle in and sweat, sweat, sweat. We shower and change and decide to walk down to Montezuma in spite of the owner's warnings. Clearly we know better than a lady who lives there.
We proceed to walk down the steepest, hottest, dustiest hill I have ever encountered in my whole life. There is one stretch of silt where your entire foot will sink down into the dirt. By the time we get into Montezuma we are totally soaked with sweat and covered in dirt and I am seeing stars from the heat.
We eat supper and have a few drinks, then go to the supermarket and buy some food and beer. We are at a loss about how to get back up the hill with all our crap, and I've decreed that I shall not walk up or down the hill ever again. We go to a tourist information spot and ask if they can call us a cab, and the girl there calls one of her friends to take us up. The fellow pulls up within about a minute of being called, and silently drives us up the hill for a couple of dollars. I take aspirin and throw myself into the pool in protest. Actually we all sit at the pool and drink beer until bedtime. I sleep better than I've slept in ages.
The next day we wake up and head to the pool. We're drinking beer by 11. Kristi and Chris rent a car from the owners of Casa Colores. It's a manual shift Suzuki Samurai with windows that won't roll up, no radio, no air conditioner and no backseat. The first time we take it out, Jason drives us in the dark down the treacherous mountain to get dinner in Montezuma.
Does he kill us? NEARLY. More tomorrow.
So we're riding further and further into the jungle, into nowhere, dust and hot sun and our cab driver giving us a thumbs-up with some huge, ruby ring on his finger, when we see the sign for Casa Colores where we're staying. He drives us right up to the door, helps us unload our luggage, and hands our hostess a card.
Our hostess walks us up to our house (no air conditioning) and shows us around the property, including the pool and the breezy, shady cabana with a fridge full of water, soda, and beer. The owner looks at our clothes (jeans, t-shirts and sneakers) and says we better change, because it's very hot. NO SHIT. As we knod, sweat drips off our chins. She tells us that she doesn't recommend walking to Montezuma because of the heat, dust, and degree of incline.
We unpack and settle in and sweat, sweat, sweat. We shower and change and decide to walk down to Montezuma in spite of the owner's warnings. Clearly we know better than a lady who lives there.
We proceed to walk down the steepest, hottest, dustiest hill I have ever encountered in my whole life. There is one stretch of silt where your entire foot will sink down into the dirt. By the time we get into Montezuma we are totally soaked with sweat and covered in dirt and I am seeing stars from the heat.
We eat supper and have a few drinks, then go to the supermarket and buy some food and beer. We are at a loss about how to get back up the hill with all our crap, and I've decreed that I shall not walk up or down the hill ever again. We go to a tourist information spot and ask if they can call us a cab, and the girl there calls one of her friends to take us up. The fellow pulls up within about a minute of being called, and silently drives us up the hill for a couple of dollars. I take aspirin and throw myself into the pool in protest. Actually we all sit at the pool and drink beer until bedtime. I sleep better than I've slept in ages.
The next day we wake up and head to the pool. We're drinking beer by 11. Kristi and Chris rent a car from the owners of Casa Colores. It's a manual shift Suzuki Samurai with windows that won't roll up, no radio, no air conditioner and no backseat. The first time we take it out, Jason drives us in the dark down the treacherous mountain to get dinner in Montezuma.
Does he kill us? NEARLY. More tomorrow.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Part One.
Crazy morning.
We're back from Costa Rica! It was a pretty wild trip.
San Jose is bizarre, with crazy drivers and scary policemen and cold winds at night and really tasty casados. We stay there the first and last nights at Hostel Pangea, a fucking awesome place with a rooftop bar and restaurant that is cheap and really good. They also have complimentary music at night- apparently there is either a tiny odd venue or someone's practice space very close to the window of our room and we are treated to free, shitty reggae. This particular hostel also has a lot of safety features, because apparently San Jose is somewhat unsafe. Bueno!
The real excitement starts the second morning when we all get up early to take a shuttle to the bus station, where we we are supposed to catch a bus that will take us all the way to Montezuma beach, where we were staying for the bulk of our trip. Apparently the internet can't be relied upon for totally up-to-date information like bus schedules, because our bus leaves an hour before we get there. So we're standing around at a bus station, which is really just a metal shed with a bunch of buses parked outside, and we can't decide what to do.
You see, it's a two-hour drive to Puntarenas, where we're supposed to catch a ferry and ride it for an hour over to Paquera and then it's another hour's drive to Montezuma. In other words, we have a long way to go and not much clue how to get there, since we have missed our planned mode of transport, the bus. So we're four gringos, standing there with five huge suitcases, surrounded by native Costa Ricans who are looking at us like we're crazy gringos with a bunch of suitcases at this tiny bus station that might as well have chickens pecking around in front.
What do we do? More tomorrow.
We're back from Costa Rica! It was a pretty wild trip.
San Jose is bizarre, with crazy drivers and scary policemen and cold winds at night and really tasty casados. We stay there the first and last nights at Hostel Pangea, a fucking awesome place with a rooftop bar and restaurant that is cheap and really good. They also have complimentary music at night- apparently there is either a tiny odd venue or someone's practice space very close to the window of our room and we are treated to free, shitty reggae. This particular hostel also has a lot of safety features, because apparently San Jose is somewhat unsafe. Bueno!
The real excitement starts the second morning when we all get up early to take a shuttle to the bus station, where we we are supposed to catch a bus that will take us all the way to Montezuma beach, where we were staying for the bulk of our trip. Apparently the internet can't be relied upon for totally up-to-date information like bus schedules, because our bus leaves an hour before we get there. So we're standing around at a bus station, which is really just a metal shed with a bunch of buses parked outside, and we can't decide what to do.
You see, it's a two-hour drive to Puntarenas, where we're supposed to catch a ferry and ride it for an hour over to Paquera and then it's another hour's drive to Montezuma. In other words, we have a long way to go and not much clue how to get there, since we have missed our planned mode of transport, the bus. So we're four gringos, standing there with five huge suitcases, surrounded by native Costa Ricans who are looking at us like we're crazy gringos with a bunch of suitcases at this tiny bus station that might as well have chickens pecking around in front.
What do we do? More tomorrow.
Monday, February 23, 2009
I stole- I STOLE- this from Dooce. It's a marriage/relationship meme. Leave your answers in the comments!
Also, in rereading this I realized that this whole post illustrates perfectly the manic, a.k.a. entire, side of my personality.
What are your middle names?
Andrew and Claire.
How long have you been together?
We've been married for a little over five years, and we were together for a year before we got married, for a total of six years.
How long did you know each other before you started dating?
I think we'd known each other for about six months, maybe a year, before we started "dating", a term I use loosely because we were horny and broke so there weren't a lot of "dates" there in the beginning- unless perpetual sex with a few cigarette breaks thrown in for good measure counts. Hi, mom!
Who asked whom out?
Hm, who did ask whom out? I can't seem to remember... I'm having these odd flashes of myself standing in a bar asking Jason to come home with me... But I don't think that has anything to do with it.
How old are each of you?
I am 29 and Jason is 14. I don't care, he's 14, with just a little bit of 18 thrown in for good measure with all this motorcycle stuff.
Oh, have I not mentioned that? Jason bought a motorcycle; consequently I've started drinking frequently again.
Whose siblings do you see the most?
I suppose we see my sister the most, on account of Reed's second home is my mom's house where India lives. My mom is Reed's Ma and India is his Da. Ma and Da: So Happy Together.
Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
Money, definitely. It sucks that we let it get to us, but it's all very hard, what with my frequent and painful unemployment flare-ups and habitual money-spending, and Jason's I Never Ever Spend Money Ever Except In Secret When You Least Expect It. I think we've magically found a place where we stress out a little less about it, though, and it's been good for our marriage. Our checking account hasn't fared quite as well.
Did you go to the same school?
No. Jason went to somewhat-ghetto, and then somewhat-ghetto-Christian, and I went to possibly-trashy-redneck-or-maybe-just-country. I'm a little bit country, he's a little bit rock and roll.
Are you from the same home town?
If we were out of town and someone asked us where we were from, I think we'd both say Birmingham, so in that way, yes. But really no.
Who is smarter?
It depends on how you're gauging it. Jason can remember hundreds of bread and pastry recipes he has used at past jobs. I can manage to wait until a shirt I really want is clearanced to about 10% of its original price and still get the size and color I want. When the Wonder Twins unite, we form an unstoppable force that will one day rule the world with all our bread and shirts.
Who is the most sensitive?
Well shit, anyone who is reading this who actually knows me knows exactly who it is. It starts with "ME" and ends with "WHAT OF IT, AND WHY DID YOU LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT IN YOUR SLEEP LAST NIGHT?".
Where do you eat out most as a couple?
The local Mexican restaurant, hands down. Jason's butt suffers as a result.
Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
Savannah, Georgia, on our honeymoon. But that'll all change in about two weeks when we go to Costa Rica. Have I not mentioned that?
Who has the craziest exes?
Do you people READ this blog? Because the answer is JASON, JASON HAS THE CRAZIEST EX, NO PLURAL NEEDED BECAUSE SHE'S CRAZY ENOUGH FOR ALL HIS EXES PUT TOGETHER AND WHEN YOU THROW HER NEW HUSBAND WHO SHE MET IN THE NUTHOUSE INTO THE MIX THEY CRAZY ENOUGH FOR EVERYBODY'S EXES, EVERY EX I'VE EVER KNOWN, THEY CRAZY MILKSHAKE BRINGS ALL THE BOYS TO THE YARD AND THEY'RE LIKE, IT'S BIGGER THAN YOURS.
Who has the worst temper?
Jason has an Irish temper that explodes like a bomb when he gets mad, and I have a French and Indian temper that seethes and lurkes just under the surface sneering and smoking cigarettes and drinking a cocktail, ready to just SNAP, CRACKLE, and POP YO ASS. And you just shut your fucking mouth if you have anything to say about it.
Who does the cooking?
We both do, really. I never cooked much before Jason came along, and he always cooked, and cooked well, and isn't afraid to experiment and toss a little of this and a little of that, including my salad. BAH! Now I cook quite a bit, too.
But I don't toss salad.
Who is the neat-freak?
Oh, wow, have I ever written here about socks? The socks, here, there, and everywhere? How the socks whisper to me in the night, how I hear the voices of the socks inside my head, all the live-long day? How I live with FOUR BOYS and that's EIGHT SOCKS A DAY?!? Okay, I have to move on; my hives are coming back.
Who is more stubborn?
I am certain that Jason and I would both say that each of us is simultaneously THE MOST STUBBORN and THE LEAST STUBBORN, about ourselves and about each other, at exactly the same time just as loud as we could force our voices to go.
When Jason and I had been together for about two months I still lived in a teeny, tiny efficiency apartment with a little bitty bathroom, and Jason decided to tell me one day how every time you flush the toilet germs and particles and shit from the toilet spray as far as a six foot radius around the toilet. As six feet was the approximate size of the whole goddamn apartment I WIGGED OUT and decreed that from then on, we would both always ALWAYS put the lid down before we flushed NO MATTER WHAT. From that day forward, I have put the lid down every time, every single bleeding time, that I have flushed the toilet. Jason has not done it once, in spite of my constant nagging, my daily complaints, my frequent prophecies that one day we'll all die and it will be because Jason wouldn't put the lid down. NOT ONE TIME. What does that say about our stubborness?
Who hogs the bed?
Jason's favorite sleeping position is on top of me with 750,000 decibel snores screaming out of his nose. I don't want to talk about it.
Who wakes up earlier?
Jason does. He gets a good night's sleep, lying on top of me with his snore-nose screaming in my ear, and he leaps out of bed revived and refreshed at 6am most mornings to have a nice shit, shower, shave, and fresh cup o' joe, while I stay in bed, covered from the top of my head to the tips of my toes with three heavy blankets except for my lone, tiny fist escaping from the edge of the covers, shaking at him in protest.
Where was your first date?
I think I had a clever answer for this, but I'm just so tired after that last answer.
Who is more jealous?
That would be me, YOU STUPID BITCHES YOU BETTER STEP OFF BEFORE I WARP YOU WITH A TIRE IRON.
How long did it take to get serious?
In the first three months of our relationship, I lost 25 pounds because I was so in love with him, so uninterested in eating, so interested in getting into his panties and then having a cigarette, so consumed by everything about him. It sounds melodramatic, but I was absolutely love sick over Jason. It was very serious very fast.
Who eats more?
That's a toughy; I think we eat similar amounts. Jason's metabolism is definitely higher. We can eat a dinner like pasta with alfredo sauce, broccoli, and grilled chicken, and one hour later Jason will pour himself a huge bowl of frosted mini-spooners for dessert.
Who does the laundry?
I do more laundry than Jason does. He can't seem to noodle the fact that I don't dry my work clothes and my nice shirts. I try to be specific and say things like, "You can wash and dry our socks, underwear, t-shirts, and pajamas, and all of Kane, Jude, and Reed's stuff." And, "The pants that I wear to work are not for the drier." Alas, it's still too confusing. The man can take apart a motorcycle and put it back together, he can clean rust out of the inside of a gas tank with naval jelly (ew!) and screws, but he can't train his brain to look at a shirt and decide if it's one that I wear to bed or one that I wear to work. Science. IT'S FUCK ALL.
Who's better with the computer?
Until about two years ago the answer was a resounding I AM. But now Jason has had all this training in all these programs like Photoshop and Microsoft Word and all that, so I think the playing field has been leveled. I can still type his ass into a corner, though.
Who drives when you are together?
It really doesn't matter. Either way the person in the passenger seat is going to be screaming profanities and clutching the arm rest and Reed will be in the back seat saying, "You not post to say that!"
Also, in rereading this I realized that this whole post illustrates perfectly the manic, a.k.a. entire, side of my personality.
What are your middle names?
Andrew and Claire.
How long have you been together?
We've been married for a little over five years, and we were together for a year before we got married, for a total of six years.
How long did you know each other before you started dating?
I think we'd known each other for about six months, maybe a year, before we started "dating", a term I use loosely because we were horny and broke so there weren't a lot of "dates" there in the beginning- unless perpetual sex with a few cigarette breaks thrown in for good measure counts. Hi, mom!
Who asked whom out?
Hm, who did ask whom out? I can't seem to remember... I'm having these odd flashes of myself standing in a bar asking Jason to come home with me... But I don't think that has anything to do with it.
How old are each of you?
I am 29 and Jason is 14. I don't care, he's 14, with just a little bit of 18 thrown in for good measure with all this motorcycle stuff.
Oh, have I not mentioned that? Jason bought a motorcycle; consequently I've started drinking frequently again.
Whose siblings do you see the most?
I suppose we see my sister the most, on account of Reed's second home is my mom's house where India lives. My mom is Reed's Ma and India is his Da. Ma and Da: So Happy Together.
Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
Money, definitely. It sucks that we let it get to us, but it's all very hard, what with my frequent and painful unemployment flare-ups and habitual money-spending, and Jason's I Never Ever Spend Money Ever Except In Secret When You Least Expect It. I think we've magically found a place where we stress out a little less about it, though, and it's been good for our marriage. Our checking account hasn't fared quite as well.
Did you go to the same school?
No. Jason went to somewhat-ghetto, and then somewhat-ghetto-Christian, and I went to possibly-trashy-redneck-or-maybe-just-country. I'm a little bit country, he's a little bit rock and roll.
Are you from the same home town?
If we were out of town and someone asked us where we were from, I think we'd both say Birmingham, so in that way, yes. But really no.
Who is smarter?
It depends on how you're gauging it. Jason can remember hundreds of bread and pastry recipes he has used at past jobs. I can manage to wait until a shirt I really want is clearanced to about 10% of its original price and still get the size and color I want. When the Wonder Twins unite, we form an unstoppable force that will one day rule the world with all our bread and shirts.
Who is the most sensitive?
Well shit, anyone who is reading this who actually knows me knows exactly who it is. It starts with "ME" and ends with "WHAT OF IT, AND WHY DID YOU LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT IN YOUR SLEEP LAST NIGHT?".
Where do you eat out most as a couple?
The local Mexican restaurant, hands down. Jason's butt suffers as a result.
Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
Savannah, Georgia, on our honeymoon. But that'll all change in about two weeks when we go to Costa Rica. Have I not mentioned that?
Who has the craziest exes?
Do you people READ this blog? Because the answer is JASON, JASON HAS THE CRAZIEST EX, NO PLURAL NEEDED BECAUSE SHE'S CRAZY ENOUGH FOR ALL HIS EXES PUT TOGETHER AND WHEN YOU THROW HER NEW HUSBAND WHO SHE MET IN THE NUTHOUSE INTO THE MIX THEY CRAZY ENOUGH FOR EVERYBODY'S EXES, EVERY EX I'VE EVER KNOWN, THEY CRAZY MILKSHAKE BRINGS ALL THE BOYS TO THE YARD AND THEY'RE LIKE, IT'S BIGGER THAN YOURS.
Who has the worst temper?
Jason has an Irish temper that explodes like a bomb when he gets mad, and I have a French and Indian temper that seethes and lurkes just under the surface sneering and smoking cigarettes and drinking a cocktail, ready to just SNAP, CRACKLE, and POP YO ASS. And you just shut your fucking mouth if you have anything to say about it.
Who does the cooking?
We both do, really. I never cooked much before Jason came along, and he always cooked, and cooked well, and isn't afraid to experiment and toss a little of this and a little of that, including my salad. BAH! Now I cook quite a bit, too.
But I don't toss salad.
Who is the neat-freak?
Oh, wow, have I ever written here about socks? The socks, here, there, and everywhere? How the socks whisper to me in the night, how I hear the voices of the socks inside my head, all the live-long day? How I live with FOUR BOYS and that's EIGHT SOCKS A DAY?!? Okay, I have to move on; my hives are coming back.
Who is more stubborn?
I am certain that Jason and I would both say that each of us is simultaneously THE MOST STUBBORN and THE LEAST STUBBORN, about ourselves and about each other, at exactly the same time just as loud as we could force our voices to go.
When Jason and I had been together for about two months I still lived in a teeny, tiny efficiency apartment with a little bitty bathroom, and Jason decided to tell me one day how every time you flush the toilet germs and particles and shit from the toilet spray as far as a six foot radius around the toilet. As six feet was the approximate size of the whole goddamn apartment I WIGGED OUT and decreed that from then on, we would both always ALWAYS put the lid down before we flushed NO MATTER WHAT. From that day forward, I have put the lid down every time, every single bleeding time, that I have flushed the toilet. Jason has not done it once, in spite of my constant nagging, my daily complaints, my frequent prophecies that one day we'll all die and it will be because Jason wouldn't put the lid down. NOT ONE TIME. What does that say about our stubborness?
Who hogs the bed?
Jason's favorite sleeping position is on top of me with 750,000 decibel snores screaming out of his nose. I don't want to talk about it.
Who wakes up earlier?
Jason does. He gets a good night's sleep, lying on top of me with his snore-nose screaming in my ear, and he leaps out of bed revived and refreshed at 6am most mornings to have a nice shit, shower, shave, and fresh cup o' joe, while I stay in bed, covered from the top of my head to the tips of my toes with three heavy blankets except for my lone, tiny fist escaping from the edge of the covers, shaking at him in protest.
Where was your first date?
I think I had a clever answer for this, but I'm just so tired after that last answer.
Who is more jealous?
That would be me, YOU STUPID BITCHES YOU BETTER STEP OFF BEFORE I WARP YOU WITH A TIRE IRON.
How long did it take to get serious?
In the first three months of our relationship, I lost 25 pounds because I was so in love with him, so uninterested in eating, so interested in getting into his panties and then having a cigarette, so consumed by everything about him. It sounds melodramatic, but I was absolutely love sick over Jason. It was very serious very fast.
Who eats more?
That's a toughy; I think we eat similar amounts. Jason's metabolism is definitely higher. We can eat a dinner like pasta with alfredo sauce, broccoli, and grilled chicken, and one hour later Jason will pour himself a huge bowl of frosted mini-spooners for dessert.
Who does the laundry?
I do more laundry than Jason does. He can't seem to noodle the fact that I don't dry my work clothes and my nice shirts. I try to be specific and say things like, "You can wash and dry our socks, underwear, t-shirts, and pajamas, and all of Kane, Jude, and Reed's stuff." And, "The pants that I wear to work are not for the drier." Alas, it's still too confusing. The man can take apart a motorcycle and put it back together, he can clean rust out of the inside of a gas tank with naval jelly (ew!) and screws, but he can't train his brain to look at a shirt and decide if it's one that I wear to bed or one that I wear to work. Science. IT'S FUCK ALL.
Who's better with the computer?
Until about two years ago the answer was a resounding I AM. But now Jason has had all this training in all these programs like Photoshop and Microsoft Word and all that, so I think the playing field has been leveled. I can still type his ass into a corner, though.
Who drives when you are together?
It really doesn't matter. Either way the person in the passenger seat is going to be screaming profanities and clutching the arm rest and Reed will be in the back seat saying, "You not post to say that!"
Monday, February 09, 2009
Oh, it's already been broughten!
Oh man, have I been sick the past few days. I think it boils down to a really awful sinus infection that was causing constant and severe migraine headaches and was slowly moving down into my chest. I spent the past few days on the couch, either in terrible pain or dizzy and out of it from all the medication.
Then last night I came out of my medicoma long enough to pack for my trip to San Antonio.
Oh, wait, back up just a tad. You know I mentioned that Kane had strep throat and the flu a couple of weeks ago? Well last week Jude was feverish and feeling bad, and everyone assumed he was catching what Kane had. Then on Thursday their mom asked (in a text, naturally) if we wanted to take them to a sock hop at Jude's school Friday, since they were coming to our house anyways. So Friday, their mom texted and said nevermind the sock hop, Jude was sick, we should just pick them up at the normal time. Jason asked if she had taken him to the doctor; her response: "No, it's a stomach thing. If it gets worse you can take him to the doctor tomorrow." ("Tomorrow" being a Saturday, FOR FUCKS BLUE EYED SAKES)
Listen, back in the day when they lived with us there were more than one occasion in which their mom would say she was sick, not feeling well, and the kids would just have to stay with us for the weekend instead of going to her house.
Now consider just a couple of factors about this weekend: 1) I was terribly ill, and fairly incapacitated by the meds. 2) Reed was ill as well. 3) Jason is still trying like hell not to catch anything from anybody. 4) I am leaving Monday for a work trip, a trip in which all the arrangements have been made, a trip in which we fly and stay at a hotel, my very first flight ever. 5) Kane is still getting over strep throat and the flu. 6) Jude has a stomach bug.
So I was the bad guy, the mean guy and said, "Listen, I'm sorry, but I'm sick, Reed's sick, Jude's sick, and Kane's sick, and I have to pack and prepare and then manage to GO on a trip on Monday. Kane and Jude need to stay at their mom's this weekend. I can't handle this. That's just the way it's going to have to be."
So of course Jason said that to his crazy ex-wife, and she said, "Oh, I don't think it's a stomach flu or anything. He went to a party Thursday night and had too much cake."
So OF COURSE I was overruled and they came and Jude moped around feeling like shit all weekend.
And today, as I am about to get on a plane for the very first time, Jason is at home with Reed who is squirting poop and throwing up, and I am squirting poop and cramping and having chills and sweats.
FUCK YOU, EX-WIFE. It is on now. I hope you don't think that what you've witnessed to this point was me bringin' it, because NOW I AM GOING TO BRING IT.
P.S. Everybody wish me luck flying. Posting will be light this week as I'll be out of town. Let's hope I make it there and can chug margaritas and regret getting drunk in front of my boss.
Then last night I came out of my medicoma long enough to pack for my trip to San Antonio.
Oh, wait, back up just a tad. You know I mentioned that Kane had strep throat and the flu a couple of weeks ago? Well last week Jude was feverish and feeling bad, and everyone assumed he was catching what Kane had. Then on Thursday their mom asked (in a text, naturally) if we wanted to take them to a sock hop at Jude's school Friday, since they were coming to our house anyways. So Friday, their mom texted and said nevermind the sock hop, Jude was sick, we should just pick them up at the normal time. Jason asked if she had taken him to the doctor; her response: "No, it's a stomach thing. If it gets worse you can take him to the doctor tomorrow." ("Tomorrow" being a Saturday, FOR FUCKS BLUE EYED SAKES)
Listen, back in the day when they lived with us there were more than one occasion in which their mom would say she was sick, not feeling well, and the kids would just have to stay with us for the weekend instead of going to her house.
Now consider just a couple of factors about this weekend: 1) I was terribly ill, and fairly incapacitated by the meds. 2) Reed was ill as well. 3) Jason is still trying like hell not to catch anything from anybody. 4) I am leaving Monday for a work trip, a trip in which all the arrangements have been made, a trip in which we fly and stay at a hotel, my very first flight ever. 5) Kane is still getting over strep throat and the flu. 6) Jude has a stomach bug.
So I was the bad guy, the mean guy and said, "Listen, I'm sorry, but I'm sick, Reed's sick, Jude's sick, and Kane's sick, and I have to pack and prepare and then manage to GO on a trip on Monday. Kane and Jude need to stay at their mom's this weekend. I can't handle this. That's just the way it's going to have to be."
So of course Jason said that to his crazy ex-wife, and she said, "Oh, I don't think it's a stomach flu or anything. He went to a party Thursday night and had too much cake."
So OF COURSE I was overruled and they came and Jude moped around feeling like shit all weekend.
And today, as I am about to get on a plane for the very first time, Jason is at home with Reed who is squirting poop and throwing up, and I am squirting poop and cramping and having chills and sweats.
FUCK YOU, EX-WIFE. It is on now. I hope you don't think that what you've witnessed to this point was me bringin' it, because NOW I AM GOING TO BRING IT.
P.S. Everybody wish me luck flying. Posting will be light this week as I'll be out of town. Let's hope I make it there and can chug margaritas and regret getting drunk in front of my boss.
Monday, January 26, 2009
See that girl, watch that scene, dig in the dancing queen.
Happy birthday to Stephanie! Happy birthday to Barry!
Saturday night we celebrated Stephanie's birthday, as well as Kristi's Uncle Barry's birthday, at the Phoenix. I feel obligated to tell you that it's the most fun I've had in a long time. The bartender was probably the best bartender I've ever had in that he was sweet and nice and funny, brought fresh beers without even being asked, and put all my drinks on Chris' tab.
Chris, I owe you guys dinner.
The drag show started at 11 and lasted until about 1:30, and was RIGHTEOUS. Imagine my aunt CJ (if you know her) as a drag queen- that's what that was like. Well, that's what Libertee Belle was like. I drank entirely too much and stayed out entirely too late and don't regret a minute of it.
Well, it was regretable that I had to get felt up by some guy who, when I protested and told him to stop rubbing his hands all over my body, kept saying, "I'm GAY. I'm not STRAIGHT. God, loosen up." Keep in mind that I was seated at the bar, not dancing or even standing up, and he repeatedly rubbed his hands ALL OVER me, getting mighty close to the family jewels on more than one occasion. The first couple of times I smiled and kind of nudged him away- I've learned in these situations not to go straight for the righteous indignation- but he would not be deterred. Eventually I was saying, "I DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE GAY, I DON'T WANT YOUR HANDS ON ME. You need to go and find someone who wants you to put your hands all over them, because IT IS NOT ME." He just thought the whole thing was hilarious. I was not amused. It went on for about five minutes and finally he sort of moved on to someone else.
In somewhat related news, I got a thumb drive and have 119 photos on it just waiting to be uploaded. I have stuff from Halloween, election night, our anniversary party, our Christmas party, Christmas time, New Year's Eve, Mexican Train dominos night, inauguration night, the drag show, and of course lots of various pictures of Reed. I'm hoping to get those uploaded onto my Flickr, some on my own and some on the Cutting Room Floor, in the next couple of days.
Saturday night we celebrated Stephanie's birthday, as well as Kristi's Uncle Barry's birthday, at the Phoenix. I feel obligated to tell you that it's the most fun I've had in a long time. The bartender was probably the best bartender I've ever had in that he was sweet and nice and funny, brought fresh beers without even being asked, and put all my drinks on Chris' tab.
Chris, I owe you guys dinner.
The drag show started at 11 and lasted until about 1:30, and was RIGHTEOUS. Imagine my aunt CJ (if you know her) as a drag queen- that's what that was like. Well, that's what Libertee Belle was like. I drank entirely too much and stayed out entirely too late and don't regret a minute of it.
Well, it was regretable that I had to get felt up by some guy who, when I protested and told him to stop rubbing his hands all over my body, kept saying, "I'm GAY. I'm not STRAIGHT. God, loosen up." Keep in mind that I was seated at the bar, not dancing or even standing up, and he repeatedly rubbed his hands ALL OVER me, getting mighty close to the family jewels on more than one occasion. The first couple of times I smiled and kind of nudged him away- I've learned in these situations not to go straight for the righteous indignation- but he would not be deterred. Eventually I was saying, "I DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE GAY, I DON'T WANT YOUR HANDS ON ME. You need to go and find someone who wants you to put your hands all over them, because IT IS NOT ME." He just thought the whole thing was hilarious. I was not amused. It went on for about five minutes and finally he sort of moved on to someone else.
In somewhat related news, I got a thumb drive and have 119 photos on it just waiting to be uploaded. I have stuff from Halloween, election night, our anniversary party, our Christmas party, Christmas time, New Year's Eve, Mexican Train dominos night, inauguration night, the drag show, and of course lots of various pictures of Reed. I'm hoping to get those uploaded onto my Flickr, some on my own and some on the Cutting Room Floor, in the next couple of days.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
The tide is high, but I'm holding on.
Reed has stayed up until about 10:30 for three nights in a row.
I might crawl into the drier with a bottle of rum and see how long I can still breathe.
There is some good news. I think I'm being published in a local magazine. More later when it's finalized.
I forgot to even mention that Jason's cell phone was stolen at his work a few weeks ago- we've since ordered him a new phone, and tonight someone CALLED HIS PHONE asking for a person who works with him. I think I may have hyperventilated until I can no longer clearly make a point, but the point here is that now Jason thinks he knows who took the phone. Now we can at least try and get that person to pay for the $30 in downloads and the $80 in new phone.
There is more good news, but I think it's better not to go blabbing about it here, at least for the time being. It just feels good to feel some hope tingling down there somewhere.
WOW, that sounded dirty. I meant "down there" in my stomach, you PERVERTS! Gah!
I might crawl into the drier with a bottle of rum and see how long I can still breathe.
There is some good news. I think I'm being published in a local magazine. More later when it's finalized.
I forgot to even mention that Jason's cell phone was stolen at his work a few weeks ago- we've since ordered him a new phone, and tonight someone CALLED HIS PHONE asking for a person who works with him. I think I may have hyperventilated until I can no longer clearly make a point, but the point here is that now Jason thinks he knows who took the phone. Now we can at least try and get that person to pay for the $30 in downloads and the $80 in new phone.
There is more good news, but I think it's better not to go blabbing about it here, at least for the time being. It just feels good to feel some hope tingling down there somewhere.
WOW, that sounded dirty. I meant "down there" in my stomach, you PERVERTS! Gah!
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Now is the time for the breakdown.
There is nothing like ending a nice, long day of hard work with listening to a toddler scream.
Reed just finished a tantrum session that included some of the most gutteral, wild screaming I've ever heard him emit. He didn't want to put his shirt on, he didn't want to take it off. He didn't want a popsicle, a drink of water, milk, some french fries. He didn't want to be left in bed, he didn't want to be taken out of it. He didn't want me to leave him alone, he didn't want me near him, he didn't want me to talk to him, he didn't want any of his toys, his bah, Jude's slinky.
If ever there has been a time when I've thought "That's my boy!", this is it.
I am in day three of constant thought, worry, and rage about my step-children's mother's inability to see past the end of her own nose. It's eating me alive in a way that's both emotionally and physically painful. I allow myself to forget sometimes, when things go smoothly with her for a few months, that we're dealing with someone who is manipulative, thoughtless, and calculating.
I am in day 782 (or 60, if we're being literal) of bleeding like a stuck pig. It is wearing me out, I have to tell you. I often think of the ob/gyn, the doctor who delivered Reed, chuckling and saying, "Girl, you're headed for a hysterectomy!" as if it was funny or cute or something to be amused over. Part of me thinks, well, I guess I better call the doctor. But I have some experience with that, the seeing of doctors for this condition. I saw my pediatrician about it when I was thirteen; I've since seen general practioners and gynocologists alike. I've taken various drugs and herbs and eaten sweet potatoes and had a d and c ("dusting and cleaning") and slept with my feet on piles of pillows and drank hot tea. The only thing that's ever had any effect is taking birth control pills and that only helps somewhat, some of the time and the side effects include CRAZY and ILL and EMPTY BANK ACCOUNT.
I'm catharting all over the place and I hope you can bear with me, because I have a feeling there will be more of this over the next few days or weeks or months. For now I'm drinking beer and sleeping on a towel. Jason has never felt more lucky to be married to such a sex machine.
Reed just finished a tantrum session that included some of the most gutteral, wild screaming I've ever heard him emit. He didn't want to put his shirt on, he didn't want to take it off. He didn't want a popsicle, a drink of water, milk, some french fries. He didn't want to be left in bed, he didn't want to be taken out of it. He didn't want me to leave him alone, he didn't want me near him, he didn't want me to talk to him, he didn't want any of his toys, his bah, Jude's slinky.
If ever there has been a time when I've thought "That's my boy!", this is it.
I am in day three of constant thought, worry, and rage about my step-children's mother's inability to see past the end of her own nose. It's eating me alive in a way that's both emotionally and physically painful. I allow myself to forget sometimes, when things go smoothly with her for a few months, that we're dealing with someone who is manipulative, thoughtless, and calculating.
I am in day 782 (or 60, if we're being literal) of bleeding like a stuck pig. It is wearing me out, I have to tell you. I often think of the ob/gyn, the doctor who delivered Reed, chuckling and saying, "Girl, you're headed for a hysterectomy!" as if it was funny or cute or something to be amused over. Part of me thinks, well, I guess I better call the doctor. But I have some experience with that, the seeing of doctors for this condition. I saw my pediatrician about it when I was thirteen; I've since seen general practioners and gynocologists alike. I've taken various drugs and herbs and eaten sweet potatoes and had a d and c ("dusting and cleaning") and slept with my feet on piles of pillows and drank hot tea. The only thing that's ever had any effect is taking birth control pills and that only helps somewhat, some of the time and the side effects include CRAZY and ILL and EMPTY BANK ACCOUNT.
I'm catharting all over the place and I hope you can bear with me, because I have a feeling there will be more of this over the next few days or weeks or months. For now I'm drinking beer and sleeping on a towel. Jason has never felt more lucky to be married to such a sex machine.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Don't they have any cling wrap or anything?
Kane has informed us that today was a busy day at his school. One kid got suspended for bringing porn to school, another kid had a seizure, and an eighth-grade girl is pregnant.
Kane's day got even busier when I fell into the floor and started having a seizure of my own.
Seriously, this is what we have to deal with now. I imagined that we would have to worry about this stuff when Kane got to high school; I just got shafted out of two years of preparation time. Where "preparation time" stands for "heavy drinking".
I know that this stuff happens; I know that this 13-year-old girl isn't the first thirteen-year-old girl to get pregnant. I KNOW IT. But, just like people imagine that their children will be well-behaved, quiet, contemplative, calm, patient, people imagine that their children won't have sex until they're, I don't know, OLD ENOUGH TO DRIVE TO THE CHEVRON TO BUY CONDOMS. Seriously, that girl can't get her own contraceptives, and now she's pregnant. It's actually the fault of the DMV.
My point is that just as I have come to terms with the fact that my children are going to misbehave, yell, hit, and writhe, I am starting to fear that I will have to come to terms with driving my child's girlfriend to the doctor for prenatal care, since my child won't be old enough to drive her himself. Hell; my child's pregnant girlfriend's PARENTS might not be old enough to drive her there- less and less surprises me.
What I'm saying is that parenting is not for me. Nevermind. I'm returning all three of them tomorrow. Now I just have to find the receipt.
P.S. Kane was just telling us that in his English class they had to write and autobiography including some things they want to do in the future. "By the time I'm thirty I want to be the first man to land on an asteroid and discover a new metal." So I probably don't have to worry about the sex stuff for at least a few more years.
Kane's day got even busier when I fell into the floor and started having a seizure of my own.
Seriously, this is what we have to deal with now. I imagined that we would have to worry about this stuff when Kane got to high school; I just got shafted out of two years of preparation time. Where "preparation time" stands for "heavy drinking".
I know that this stuff happens; I know that this 13-year-old girl isn't the first thirteen-year-old girl to get pregnant. I KNOW IT. But, just like people imagine that their children will be well-behaved, quiet, contemplative, calm, patient, people imagine that their children won't have sex until they're, I don't know, OLD ENOUGH TO DRIVE TO THE CHEVRON TO BUY CONDOMS. Seriously, that girl can't get her own contraceptives, and now she's pregnant. It's actually the fault of the DMV.
My point is that just as I have come to terms with the fact that my children are going to misbehave, yell, hit, and writhe, I am starting to fear that I will have to come to terms with driving my child's girlfriend to the doctor for prenatal care, since my child won't be old enough to drive her himself. Hell; my child's pregnant girlfriend's PARENTS might not be old enough to drive her there- less and less surprises me.
What I'm saying is that parenting is not for me. Nevermind. I'm returning all three of them tomorrow. Now I just have to find the receipt.
P.S. Kane was just telling us that in his English class they had to write and autobiography including some things they want to do in the future. "By the time I'm thirty I want to be the first man to land on an asteroid and discover a new metal." So I probably don't have to worry about the sex stuff for at least a few more years.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
I would like some wine with this cheese.
So on Sunday Kane and Jude's bikes were stolen. They were on the carport, chained to a post with a titanium bicycle chain. It was midday, and I was at home. No shit- someone apparently came up and cut through the "impenetrable" titanium chain and hauled off two medium-sized trick bikes in broad daylight, while I was in my bed complaining about all the aches and snot.
Jason came home and was like, "Do you know where the kids' bikes are?" I was like, "NO. But I know where the FLU is. RIGHT HERE, BUDDY." But don't worry; then my indignation set in.
My flu-induced stupor kept me from encouraging Jason to call the police and file a report until he came home from work last night telling me about seeing some 15-year-old kid riding Kane's bike around just a mile or two away from here. Finally I was like, "Wait a minute! Before you go beat up a minor, how 'bout we call the cops?" Of course Jude was raring to go with Jason looking for this kid, and I let Jude know that if his dad was going to go abuse a child, he would have to stay at home. (He moped.)
So the policeman came over and got all the information from Jason; the entire time they were on the front porch talking, Jude was standing at the front door staring out with little hearts bubbling up above his head.
Reed heard Jason talking and asked what he was doing. I said, "He's outside, talking to a policeman." Reed thought about it for a minute and then exclaimed, "EWWWWWWWWW, NASTY!!"
So the policeman said the description sounded like someone they had busted several times stealing bikes, and said he'd call us if they found anything. We haven't heard back yet. It IS kind of sad, though; they haven't had the bikes for long, and they were kind of expensive. Plus, it's the SECOND time Kane's has been stolen.
For Pete's sake, we really need a break around here.
Jason came home and was like, "Do you know where the kids' bikes are?" I was like, "NO. But I know where the FLU is. RIGHT HERE, BUDDY." But don't worry; then my indignation set in.
My flu-induced stupor kept me from encouraging Jason to call the police and file a report until he came home from work last night telling me about seeing some 15-year-old kid riding Kane's bike around just a mile or two away from here. Finally I was like, "Wait a minute! Before you go beat up a minor, how 'bout we call the cops?" Of course Jude was raring to go with Jason looking for this kid, and I let Jude know that if his dad was going to go abuse a child, he would have to stay at home. (He moped.)
So the policeman came over and got all the information from Jason; the entire time they were on the front porch talking, Jude was standing at the front door staring out with little hearts bubbling up above his head.
Reed heard Jason talking and asked what he was doing. I said, "He's outside, talking to a policeman." Reed thought about it for a minute and then exclaimed, "EWWWWWWWWW, NASTY!!"
So the policeman said the description sounded like someone they had busted several times stealing bikes, and said he'd call us if they found anything. We haven't heard back yet. It IS kind of sad, though; they haven't had the bikes for long, and they were kind of expensive. Plus, it's the SECOND time Kane's has been stolen.
For Pete's sake, we really need a break around here.
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