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 hell. Show all posts
Showing posts with label oh hell. 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.
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.
Thursday, June 04, 2009
What dreams may come.
Right, okay, so last night I dreamed that I was watching Paul Simon, John Candy, and Bob Hope perform together.
I also dreamed that I watched this guy resuscitate a drowned hamster.
What the? Wow. I am not even making this shit up.
I also dreamed that I watched this guy resuscitate a drowned hamster.
What the? Wow. I am not even making this shit up.
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.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Reedy.
So much has been happening lately that I haven't gotten to write much about Reed. Here is a list of Reedy thingies:
1. He is SO IN to Spiderman and Batman right now. We haven't had cable/satellite for some time, but we still have our DVR box. We still get some gems like the Home Shopping Network and the Hallmark Channel, and whenever Dish Network is doing free previews of channels, we get those. We got a free preview of one of the fifty bajillion Disney channels a few weeks ago and managed to record about 75 THOUSAND episodes of Batman and Spiderman cartoons. I have seen all of them a lot of times. I am now intimately schooled in the stories of the Black Cat and Two Face and Venom and the Green Goblin and the Hobgoblin and King Pin. I realize that these are Disney cartoons but Jason- a.k.a. Comic Book Blowhard- says that most of the plot lines follow the comic books surpringly closely.
2. Reed has both a Spiderman costume and a Batman costume. They are both pretty cool, and we have a lot of trouble getting him to wear anything else. We can't exactly send him to school in a superhero costume so once or twice he has worn just the Spiderman mask to school, walked into his classroom with it on, then taken it off and kept it in his pocket all day long.
3. As a result of the combination #1 and #2, Reed is constantly wobbling and flipping and trotting through the house in his costumes saying "I'm Spiderman!" or "I'm Batman!" and falling into things and slipping and spilling stuff and just generally keeping me on my toes. He climbs up onto things and dangles about. He carried a shoelace around with him which he'll fling at you at any moment and then start hissing "Pssssss! Pssssss!" while holding his hand, wrist upturned, at you like Spiderman. Last night he spent some time wriggling along the top/back of the futon in his Spiderman costume. The minds of children: who the fuck knows.
4. We're still working on potty training, and we've almost got it. He goes to school every day in big boy underwear with no pull-up and makes it through the whole day without having any accidents. Then he comes home and I say, "Do you need to potty? Do you need to peepee? Tell me if you need to potty. If you feel like you need to use the bathroom, go to the bathroom. Let's just go for fun. Let's go to the bathroom and give it a try. Don't you need to pee? Don't you want to potty? Go to the potty if you need to pee." He inevitably resists and tells me over and over again that he does NOT need to go. Five minutes later he wets his pants, and the futon along with them. So, you know. Shit.
5. He goes to bed like a champ most nights. We start warning him at about 8:30 that it's almost time for bed, you have to go to bed in a minute, just so he'll be prepared. Then at 9:00 I carry him to bed and I sit in a tiny chair by his bed for about a minute-and-a-half. Then I kiss his hand, then he kisses my hand, and we say night-night. If Jason and I try and have a conversation in the living room Reed says, "Mommeh! Can y'all stop talking, please? I'm trying to sleep." So we talk quietly.
6. He is still sleeping in a crib. I think I'm just lazy on this point; plus I don't think that it's ever occurred to Reed that he might one day sleep in a big boy bed, so he doesn't complain, so I'm like, shmeh. His bed converts into a toddler bed and the prospect of his being able to just get up out of bed and wander about the house SCARES THE DOODOO OUT OF ME. See also #7.
7. A few months ago Reed reached the point in his growth and development when he figured out how to unlock and open the front door. FUCK. So we bought chains to put on all our doors (we have a bunch, our house is weird). Reed has figured out how to use his light sabre, or "white saver", to slide the chain out. MOTHERFUCKER, I said. He is agile and accurate as hell when he does this; there's no "he can do it sometimes". He can do it EVERY time with one hand tied behind his back, wearing a blindfold and a straightjacket. HE CAN, WE'VE TRIED IT.
8. When we went to Costa Rica he stayed mostly with my mom, and a little with my dad. He stayed with her from Tuesday, March 10th, through Friday, March 20th. It was a very long, crazy trip and a very long time to go without seeing my baby. On our last full day in Costa Rica I called my mom to check in and she told me that Reed had not only said the night before, "I want to go home and sleep in my own bed" but that he also asked if we were coming back. My child had to ask if I was coming back. Jason and I clutched each other in the questionable bed in our hostel room and cried together. I will never take another trip away from my child for that long as long as I live.
1. He is SO IN to Spiderman and Batman right now. We haven't had cable/satellite for some time, but we still have our DVR box. We still get some gems like the Home Shopping Network and the Hallmark Channel, and whenever Dish Network is doing free previews of channels, we get those. We got a free preview of one of the fifty bajillion Disney channels a few weeks ago and managed to record about 75 THOUSAND episodes of Batman and Spiderman cartoons. I have seen all of them a lot of times. I am now intimately schooled in the stories of the Black Cat and Two Face and Venom and the Green Goblin and the Hobgoblin and King Pin. I realize that these are Disney cartoons but Jason- a.k.a. Comic Book Blowhard- says that most of the plot lines follow the comic books surpringly closely.
2. Reed has both a Spiderman costume and a Batman costume. They are both pretty cool, and we have a lot of trouble getting him to wear anything else. We can't exactly send him to school in a superhero costume so once or twice he has worn just the Spiderman mask to school, walked into his classroom with it on, then taken it off and kept it in his pocket all day long.
3. As a result of the combination #1 and #2, Reed is constantly wobbling and flipping and trotting through the house in his costumes saying "I'm Spiderman!" or "I'm Batman!" and falling into things and slipping and spilling stuff and just generally keeping me on my toes. He climbs up onto things and dangles about. He carried a shoelace around with him which he'll fling at you at any moment and then start hissing "Pssssss! Pssssss!" while holding his hand, wrist upturned, at you like Spiderman. Last night he spent some time wriggling along the top/back of the futon in his Spiderman costume. The minds of children: who the fuck knows.
4. We're still working on potty training, and we've almost got it. He goes to school every day in big boy underwear with no pull-up and makes it through the whole day without having any accidents. Then he comes home and I say, "Do you need to potty? Do you need to peepee? Tell me if you need to potty. If you feel like you need to use the bathroom, go to the bathroom. Let's just go for fun. Let's go to the bathroom and give it a try. Don't you need to pee? Don't you want to potty? Go to the potty if you need to pee." He inevitably resists and tells me over and over again that he does NOT need to go. Five minutes later he wets his pants, and the futon along with them. So, you know. Shit.
5. He goes to bed like a champ most nights. We start warning him at about 8:30 that it's almost time for bed, you have to go to bed in a minute, just so he'll be prepared. Then at 9:00 I carry him to bed and I sit in a tiny chair by his bed for about a minute-and-a-half. Then I kiss his hand, then he kisses my hand, and we say night-night. If Jason and I try and have a conversation in the living room Reed says, "Mommeh! Can y'all stop talking, please? I'm trying to sleep." So we talk quietly.
6. He is still sleeping in a crib. I think I'm just lazy on this point; plus I don't think that it's ever occurred to Reed that he might one day sleep in a big boy bed, so he doesn't complain, so I'm like, shmeh. His bed converts into a toddler bed and the prospect of his being able to just get up out of bed and wander about the house SCARES THE DOODOO OUT OF ME. See also #7.
7. A few months ago Reed reached the point in his growth and development when he figured out how to unlock and open the front door. FUCK. So we bought chains to put on all our doors (we have a bunch, our house is weird). Reed has figured out how to use his light sabre, or "white saver", to slide the chain out. MOTHERFUCKER, I said. He is agile and accurate as hell when he does this; there's no "he can do it sometimes". He can do it EVERY time with one hand tied behind his back, wearing a blindfold and a straightjacket. HE CAN, WE'VE TRIED IT.
8. When we went to Costa Rica he stayed mostly with my mom, and a little with my dad. He stayed with her from Tuesday, March 10th, through Friday, March 20th. It was a very long, crazy trip and a very long time to go without seeing my baby. On our last full day in Costa Rica I called my mom to check in and she told me that Reed had not only said the night before, "I want to go home and sleep in my own bed" but that he also asked if we were coming back. My child had to ask if I was coming back. Jason and I clutched each other in the questionable bed in our hostel room and cried together. I will never take another trip away from my child for that long as long as I live.
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!"
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Part Four.
This is the story of our trip to Costa Rica. Part One is here, Part Two is here, and Part Three is here.
Jason drives us down the hill, and we're all clutching and screaming because apparently first gear is really loose, and ALL the gears are really hard to find, and the stick will pop out of gear at any given moment. Kristi and Chris are bumping around in the back, seatless. Jason manages to get us down and park, and declares that he will not drive that truck again.
We had a nice, calm, quiet dinner and then walked around Montezuma a bit. We came across a table of really beautiful hemp jewelry that Kristi and I both liked. The fellow selling them was a tiny, skinny boy with dreadlocks to his waist. He proceeded to talk to us in Spanish, all in Spanish, and somehow we picked up quite a bit of it. His jewelry is all totally unique, and you'll never never ("Nunca, nunca!") see anything else like it in the world. Each one is totally individual and no two of his necklaces are alike. The necklase that Kristi likes took him three days to make. The one that I like is the "purest stone".
He made the mistake once of letting someone take pictures of his work, and the next thing he knew he was in Mexico and saw a girl wearing a necklace that someone had copied from him. He stopped her and said, "That's my work." She said no, she bought it from someone else. He said, "Yes, that's my work." She said no; he said emphatically YES ("SIIII."). So now no pictures are allowed.
Kristi and I both fall under his spell and buy necklaces. We stand outside the market where Jason and Chris are buying beer.
We're standing there waiting, and I glance into the street and see a boy walking towards us and think, "Wow, that boy looks like Casey Affleck." Something makes me double-take, and IT IS CASEY AFFLECK. WALKING PAST ME IN MONTEZUMA BEACH, COSTA RICA. He passes and I grab Kristi's shoulders and say, "DO YOU KNOW WHO JUST WALKED PAST US? RIGHT THERE, THAT'S CASEY AFFLECK." Kristi says something hilarious like, "I don't think I've seen him in anything," and then Jason and Chris come out and I tell them the same thing. Jason immediately says, "Oh, where's Joaquin Phoenix?" About three seconds later, Kristi's eyes get really big, and she starts jerking her head towards the market that we're still standing around in front of, and there walks Joaquin Phoenix into the market, where he proceeds to start shaking hands with and hugging all the people who work there. We're pretty sure that he heard everything that we were saying about Casey and him. He has one stupid dreadlock sticking out of the back of his head (I love you, Joaquin, but it's stupid). He looks CRAZY. Even Puffy can't deny it.
And guess what? For this particular outing, this one fucking time, we left our cameras in the safe at the house. WE WERE PHOTOGRAPHERS WITH NO CAMERAS STANDING TEN FEET AWAY FROM JOAQUIN PHOENIX AND CASEY AFFLECK.
So I'm standing there trying to figure out how to approach them, and Jason and Kristi decide we need to go because it's pointless for us to stand around in the road staring. I kick them in the balls and then tackle Casey Affleck and lick his face, and then I spray Joaquin with Lysol. NO, WAIT, I whine about it a little and follow them to the truck and we go home and drink beer and FREAK OUT on the front porch about seeing famous people. And I'm like, "200 CIGARETTES CASEY I LOVE YOU and Joaquin I WAS IN LOVE WITH YOUR BROTHER AND I CRIED WHEN HE DIED. And also I hear Space Camp is pretty good."
Then we plan how we're totally going to see them the next night and we're totally going to party with them and take their pictures and hang with them and they'll come back to our house and drink our beer and play cards with us.
Does it happen? More tomorrow.
Jason drives us down the hill, and we're all clutching and screaming because apparently first gear is really loose, and ALL the gears are really hard to find, and the stick will pop out of gear at any given moment. Kristi and Chris are bumping around in the back, seatless. Jason manages to get us down and park, and declares that he will not drive that truck again.
We had a nice, calm, quiet dinner and then walked around Montezuma a bit. We came across a table of really beautiful hemp jewelry that Kristi and I both liked. The fellow selling them was a tiny, skinny boy with dreadlocks to his waist. He proceeded to talk to us in Spanish, all in Spanish, and somehow we picked up quite a bit of it. His jewelry is all totally unique, and you'll never never ("Nunca, nunca!") see anything else like it in the world. Each one is totally individual and no two of his necklaces are alike. The necklase that Kristi likes took him three days to make. The one that I like is the "purest stone".
He made the mistake once of letting someone take pictures of his work, and the next thing he knew he was in Mexico and saw a girl wearing a necklace that someone had copied from him. He stopped her and said, "That's my work." She said no, she bought it from someone else. He said, "Yes, that's my work." She said no; he said emphatically YES ("SIIII."). So now no pictures are allowed.
Kristi and I both fall under his spell and buy necklaces. We stand outside the market where Jason and Chris are buying beer.
We're standing there waiting, and I glance into the street and see a boy walking towards us and think, "Wow, that boy looks like Casey Affleck." Something makes me double-take, and IT IS CASEY AFFLECK. WALKING PAST ME IN MONTEZUMA BEACH, COSTA RICA. He passes and I grab Kristi's shoulders and say, "DO YOU KNOW WHO JUST WALKED PAST US? RIGHT THERE, THAT'S CASEY AFFLECK." Kristi says something hilarious like, "I don't think I've seen him in anything," and then Jason and Chris come out and I tell them the same thing. Jason immediately says, "Oh, where's Joaquin Phoenix?" About three seconds later, Kristi's eyes get really big, and she starts jerking her head towards the market that we're still standing around in front of, and there walks Joaquin Phoenix into the market, where he proceeds to start shaking hands with and hugging all the people who work there. We're pretty sure that he heard everything that we were saying about Casey and him. He has one stupid dreadlock sticking out of the back of his head (I love you, Joaquin, but it's stupid). He looks CRAZY. Even Puffy can't deny it.
And guess what? For this particular outing, this one fucking time, we left our cameras in the safe at the house. WE WERE PHOTOGRAPHERS WITH NO CAMERAS STANDING TEN FEET AWAY FROM JOAQUIN PHOENIX AND CASEY AFFLECK.
So I'm standing there trying to figure out how to approach them, and Jason and Kristi decide we need to go because it's pointless for us to stand around in the road staring. I kick them in the balls and then tackle Casey Affleck and lick his face, and then I spray Joaquin with Lysol. NO, WAIT, I whine about it a little and follow them to the truck and we go home and drink beer and FREAK OUT on the front porch about seeing famous people. And I'm like, "200 CIGARETTES CASEY I LOVE YOU and Joaquin I WAS IN LOVE WITH YOUR BROTHER AND I CRIED WHEN HE DIED. And also I hear Space Camp is pretty good."
Then we plan how we're totally going to see them the next night and we're totally going to party with them and take their pictures and hang with them and they'll come back to our house and drink our beer and play cards with us.
Does it happen? More tomorrow.
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.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
On knowledge.
Recently my boss asked me if I have a college degree.
I always feel like it's something special on my resume, like it gives me some extra oomph or something to have on there "Yes I got my degree in bullshitting just a few years ago. I am capable of sleeping in classrooms for several years at a time." It's funny that I've gotten a job that I really am very happy with and the fellow who probably chose me out of however many applicants didn't even notice that I graduated from college. My position is entry-level; a degree wasn't required. But you'd think they'd notice.
I must say though that I forget sometimes that I have one. I was in college for, like, 17 years; I took it pretty slowly, dropped a few classes here and there when they looked like they might involve much work or the professor was a shit. There were times when I forgot that college actually ended. Sometimes it seemed like I might just go to college forever, especially once I discovered film classes in which I could watch lots of movies and then do some reading on them at home and that was about it.
When graduation time finally came, I was finishing in December, and I just wasn't very interested in participating in the actual graduation ceremony, so I skipped it. They sent my diploma in the mail which kept me from having to demonstrate in front of my fellow graduees that I can't shake hands with my right hand and clasp onto something with my left at the same time- it's like chewing gum and walking: too much thought is required, especially at that time in my life when I was drinking about 43 beers a day and living off of deli food.
When I told my boss that I do in fact have a degree in philosophy, he laughed and said, "So what have you used that degree for?" In truth, I haven't used it for much professionally. I intended to use it for toilet paper, but I keep forgetting. It's one of those liberal arts degrees that is great if you're going to move onto something else, like law school, or teaching, or hanging around in a toga sitting on rocks and coming up with stories about dudes in caves and their shadows and what they were thinking about. But on it's own, it doesn't burst down doors to lots of jobs or anything.
What it has done is teach me a lot about thinking, about how I think and what kind of perspectives I have and how I can change them. Studying philosophy taught me a lot about having an open mind, being able to appreciate lots of differing opinions all at once even if they don't line up with my own. It taught me how to look at my thoughts and beliefs and evaluate what they were based on, strengthen them, even to throw some of them out altogether.
So in the end I think my study in philosophy is invaluable. Well, the value of it is actually about $15,000 in student loans that I have yet to begin to pay back. But who's counting? Say, if a philosophy degree-holder turns tricks in the woods to raise money to pay back her loans, does it make a sound?
I always feel like it's something special on my resume, like it gives me some extra oomph or something to have on there "Yes I got my degree in bullshitting just a few years ago. I am capable of sleeping in classrooms for several years at a time." It's funny that I've gotten a job that I really am very happy with and the fellow who probably chose me out of however many applicants didn't even notice that I graduated from college. My position is entry-level; a degree wasn't required. But you'd think they'd notice.
I must say though that I forget sometimes that I have one. I was in college for, like, 17 years; I took it pretty slowly, dropped a few classes here and there when they looked like they might involve much work or the professor was a shit. There were times when I forgot that college actually ended. Sometimes it seemed like I might just go to college forever, especially once I discovered film classes in which I could watch lots of movies and then do some reading on them at home and that was about it.
When graduation time finally came, I was finishing in December, and I just wasn't very interested in participating in the actual graduation ceremony, so I skipped it. They sent my diploma in the mail which kept me from having to demonstrate in front of my fellow graduees that I can't shake hands with my right hand and clasp onto something with my left at the same time- it's like chewing gum and walking: too much thought is required, especially at that time in my life when I was drinking about 43 beers a day and living off of deli food.
When I told my boss that I do in fact have a degree in philosophy, he laughed and said, "So what have you used that degree for?" In truth, I haven't used it for much professionally. I intended to use it for toilet paper, but I keep forgetting. It's one of those liberal arts degrees that is great if you're going to move onto something else, like law school, or teaching, or hanging around in a toga sitting on rocks and coming up with stories about dudes in caves and their shadows and what they were thinking about. But on it's own, it doesn't burst down doors to lots of jobs or anything.
What it has done is teach me a lot about thinking, about how I think and what kind of perspectives I have and how I can change them. Studying philosophy taught me a lot about having an open mind, being able to appreciate lots of differing opinions all at once even if they don't line up with my own. It taught me how to look at my thoughts and beliefs and evaluate what they were based on, strengthen them, even to throw some of them out altogether.
So in the end I think my study in philosophy is invaluable. Well, the value of it is actually about $15,000 in student loans that I have yet to begin to pay back. But who's counting? Say, if a philosophy degree-holder turns tricks in the woods to raise money to pay back her loans, does it make a sound?
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
On my packing list: butt plugs and pepto.
Only two weeks until Costa Rica.
Two weeks from this moment I will be tired as hell, probably sitting in the airport in Fort Lauderdale, dreaming of a rooftop bar in San Jose.
Right now I am just hoping, willing us all to be well when this trip happens. I want to be well, and I want Reed to be well so I won't be worried about him while we're gone, and I want my family to be well and our friends to be well. JUST BE WELL, for the love.
Two weeks from this moment I will be tired as hell, probably sitting in the airport in Fort Lauderdale, dreaming of a rooftop bar in San Jose.
Right now I am just hoping, willing us all to be well when this trip happens. I want to be well, and I want Reed to be well so I won't be worried about him while we're gone, and I want my family to be well and our friends to be well. JUST BE WELL, for the love.
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!"
Thursday, February 19, 2009
"Hang on, let me get my map."
While in San Antonio we didn't have a car, so we took cabs everywhere we went. There are some interesting motherfuckers there, let me just say.
When we first arrived, we took a cab from the airport to our hotel; our boss here had said, "Don't try to wait on the shuttle, because you'll be there all night." So we hop in a cab and tell the driver where we're headed. He is visibly and audibly exasperated and says, "AW, you could have just taken the shuttle." We said, "Sorry, we were told not to take the shuttle. We hope you don't mind." He grunted and said, "I've ONLY been sitting there for two hours waiting for somebody." Then, when we got to the hotel and tried to pay with the company card, he refused to take it. "Cash only." The credit card machine was visible in the front of the cab.
We had more than one cab driver who got lost taking us to our print facility there. One guy pulled over and got his map out. Another had to pull his famous u-turn, which he referred to as "my famous u-turn". That's where I got that.
The fellow who took us to the airport when we were departing was very talkative, very excited, and somehow ended up telling us all about his dog, how his dog always wants to take his pork chops and his steaks, and he could tell from the look in the dog's eye that he was doing it on purpose, that the dog knew he was doing something bad, so he had to give the dog away. On account of the dog always wanted the guy's food. Right.
By far my favorite was this pissy little guy who kept coughing and hacking all over the place and saying, "GOD, I hate getting sick." He asked what all we were going to do for fun while we were there, and I made the mistake of mentioning that I love Mexican food so I wanted to go to some good Mexican places. This really incensed him; he kind of rolled his eyes and said, "Well, there are some really good, really authentic Mexican places here, but I wouldn't want to go to any of 'em." I told him the name of a place that had been recommended to me, and he rolled his eyes some more and informed me that that place is entirely too touristy, I don't want to go there, I want to go to this other place. He then proceeded to dig around in all his crap, his cell phone and some pens and some TISSUES, PROBABLY USED, and dug up a business card for the Mexican restaurant he wanted us to go to. I very nearly told him no thank you, I'm not going to take your germy card from your hand that you've been hoarking phlegm into for the past fifteen minutes, but I gave in and took the card. Which I later burned in sacrifice to the god of Oh Please Don't Let Me Get Sick.
We didn't, incidentally, go to the restaurant he suggested because I looked it up and it was, like, $25 a plate, and that wasn't the experience I was looking for.
Anyhow, if you're going to San Antonio, be sure and take a few cabs, just to spice things up a little bit. But for Pete's sakes, DON'T, whatever you do, go to a Mexican restaurant.
When we first arrived, we took a cab from the airport to our hotel; our boss here had said, "Don't try to wait on the shuttle, because you'll be there all night." So we hop in a cab and tell the driver where we're headed. He is visibly and audibly exasperated and says, "AW, you could have just taken the shuttle." We said, "Sorry, we were told not to take the shuttle. We hope you don't mind." He grunted and said, "I've ONLY been sitting there for two hours waiting for somebody." Then, when we got to the hotel and tried to pay with the company card, he refused to take it. "Cash only." The credit card machine was visible in the front of the cab.
We had more than one cab driver who got lost taking us to our print facility there. One guy pulled over and got his map out. Another had to pull his famous u-turn, which he referred to as "my famous u-turn". That's where I got that.
The fellow who took us to the airport when we were departing was very talkative, very excited, and somehow ended up telling us all about his dog, how his dog always wants to take his pork chops and his steaks, and he could tell from the look in the dog's eye that he was doing it on purpose, that the dog knew he was doing something bad, so he had to give the dog away. On account of the dog always wanted the guy's food. Right.
By far my favorite was this pissy little guy who kept coughing and hacking all over the place and saying, "GOD, I hate getting sick." He asked what all we were going to do for fun while we were there, and I made the mistake of mentioning that I love Mexican food so I wanted to go to some good Mexican places. This really incensed him; he kind of rolled his eyes and said, "Well, there are some really good, really authentic Mexican places here, but I wouldn't want to go to any of 'em." I told him the name of a place that had been recommended to me, and he rolled his eyes some more and informed me that that place is entirely too touristy, I don't want to go there, I want to go to this other place. He then proceeded to dig around in all his crap, his cell phone and some pens and some TISSUES, PROBABLY USED, and dug up a business card for the Mexican restaurant he wanted us to go to. I very nearly told him no thank you, I'm not going to take your germy card from your hand that you've been hoarking phlegm into for the past fifteen minutes, but I gave in and took the card. Which I later burned in sacrifice to the god of Oh Please Don't Let Me Get Sick.
We didn't, incidentally, go to the restaurant he suggested because I looked it up and it was, like, $25 a plate, and that wasn't the experience I was looking for.
Anyhow, if you're going to San Antonio, be sure and take a few cabs, just to spice things up a little bit. But for Pete's sakes, DON'T, whatever you do, go to a Mexican restaurant.
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.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
San Antonio, birth place of Robert Dyer.
So I have six days until I leave for San Antonio.
I figure this trip will be like dipping my toe in the water as far as being away from Reed for so many days in a row. I'll be gone for four days, and it will be the longest I have ever gone without seeing my baby. I told him last night that I was leaving with work for a few days next week, and he was like, "Yeah. But can I have TWO carters [quarters] for TWO gumballs?" So, you know, he's real sad.
It will also be the longest I've ever been away from Jason. He went on a work trip once, but as I recall he was gone for three days.
It will be weird, sleeping alone in a fancy hotel room (they're putting us up at the Hilton, for pete's sakes), no coughing or talking in sleep or snoring or pitter-patter of feet who have learned to climb out of their crib to wake me up. I hope it will be restful; we do have to work, but we only work eight hours a day which leaves plenty of time for sleeping. And drinking. My boss is about to turn into my drinking buddy, I believe, so this will be an interesting trip.
I just feel so fortunate to have a job at all, and even more fortunate to have one that I like and that is teaching me stuff, and EVEN MORE fortunate to have one that wants to fly me places, basically pay for a vacation for me. It's nice and incredibly different to work for a company that has interest in my life, in my having a life outside of work, that values me as an employee and as a human being. That might all sound like a load of melodramatic crap, but it's very true, and it's a big deal to me.
So, I've been looking at San Antonio weather, and it's been sunny and in the upper sixties and lower seventies for the past several days. Lordy, I hope that weather will hold out for me.
I figure this trip will be like dipping my toe in the water as far as being away from Reed for so many days in a row. I'll be gone for four days, and it will be the longest I have ever gone without seeing my baby. I told him last night that I was leaving with work for a few days next week, and he was like, "Yeah. But can I have TWO carters [quarters] for TWO gumballs?" So, you know, he's real sad.
It will also be the longest I've ever been away from Jason. He went on a work trip once, but as I recall he was gone for three days.
It will be weird, sleeping alone in a fancy hotel room (they're putting us up at the Hilton, for pete's sakes), no coughing or talking in sleep or snoring or pitter-patter of feet who have learned to climb out of their crib to wake me up. I hope it will be restful; we do have to work, but we only work eight hours a day which leaves plenty of time for sleeping. And drinking. My boss is about to turn into my drinking buddy, I believe, so this will be an interesting trip.
I just feel so fortunate to have a job at all, and even more fortunate to have one that I like and that is teaching me stuff, and EVEN MORE fortunate to have one that wants to fly me places, basically pay for a vacation for me. It's nice and incredibly different to work for a company that has interest in my life, in my having a life outside of work, that values me as an employee and as a human being. That might all sound like a load of melodramatic crap, but it's very true, and it's a big deal to me.
So, I've been looking at San Antonio weather, and it's been sunny and in the upper sixties and lower seventies for the past several days. Lordy, I hope that weather will hold out for me.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The low tonight is 8 degrees farenheit. I need a hot toddy.
One of my favorite bitches came over last night to cut some of my hair off. Good times.
It's funny how things turn out. So much of what I hear these days is at once predictable and surprising.
Reed has noticed my perplexedness lately. "Don't be sad, mommy." He breaks my heart. I have been taking some very good advice and telling him, "Yes, I'm sad, but it will go away in a minute. I love you." That seems to help.
I am working on my life in a lot of ways, and letting it go in a lot of ways. I am writing a lot and coming up with new ideas. I'm working at a great job.
I'm about to change a lot of behaviors that I thought were for the best, for me and for everybody, but I realize now were only hurting me and keeping everyone else in the dark. This just goes back to my saying that I'm going to trust myself more and be more vocal about what's going on in my head and heart. I think it helps me to say it over and over, to remind myself that I'm supposed to be telling folks what's bothering me. I am just so accustomed to trying to be nice all that time, to trying not to stir anything up, trying to smooth things over. It's hard to change behaviors that are so ingrained in me that they come like reflexes, just pop up quickly without my even thinking about it. I am retraining myself to stop and think about it, think about my feelings, what I'd really like to say.
Some people are born without a filter between their brains and their mouths. I need to trim mine back a little. Please pass the scissors.
Have you ever wondered what all has happened on January 15th throughout history?
It's funny how things turn out. So much of what I hear these days is at once predictable and surprising.
Reed has noticed my perplexedness lately. "Don't be sad, mommy." He breaks my heart. I have been taking some very good advice and telling him, "Yes, I'm sad, but it will go away in a minute. I love you." That seems to help.
I am working on my life in a lot of ways, and letting it go in a lot of ways. I am writing a lot and coming up with new ideas. I'm working at a great job.
I'm about to change a lot of behaviors that I thought were for the best, for me and for everybody, but I realize now were only hurting me and keeping everyone else in the dark. This just goes back to my saying that I'm going to trust myself more and be more vocal about what's going on in my head and heart. I think it helps me to say it over and over, to remind myself that I'm supposed to be telling folks what's bothering me. I am just so accustomed to trying to be nice all that time, to trying not to stir anything up, trying to smooth things over. It's hard to change behaviors that are so ingrained in me that they come like reflexes, just pop up quickly without my even thinking about it. I am retraining myself to stop and think about it, think about my feelings, what I'd really like to say.
Some people are born without a filter between their brains and their mouths. I need to trim mine back a little. Please pass the scissors.
Have you ever wondered what all has happened on January 15th throughout history?
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