You want to know the living example of a bad idea? Besides teasing monkeys and trusting the Bush family...me having 8-10 cups of coffee this morning. That was a supremely ill-advised idea. I woke up at 6:45 for no good reason. Those of you that know me well will be shocked to know, no matter what time I go to sleep, no matter my daily schedule, I am incapable of sleeping past 8 a.m. So, I woke up and thought, "Ooh, I can watch the Emmys I DVR'd last night," because I love any awards show that has to do with movies or television. I could literally care less about any music awards. So, I decided, I'll set the coffee pot for 8 cups, which is really more like 3 normal cups...and as I watched Jimmy Fallon sing some questionable musical numbers, I drank the whole pot, and then I made more....and then I refilled my cup at work...
Picture it, Sicily...no, really, picture it, this morning around 11:30, I'm halfway through Cup 11, and I start to feel odd. Like, everything went kind of yellow, I got hot, and I swear I heard someone saying my name. So, I put the coffee down, and for the next 3-4 hours thought, "hmmm..throwing up sounds pretty sweet right now," but I didn't. I waited for it to pass and learned a valuable lesson about my caffeine consumption and my willpower. Apparently, my motto is "If it feels good at the time, just do it; don't worry about later." This is a very good motto to have at age 4; at age 33, perhaps not.
Bikers, meaning cyclists, listen to me and listen closely: You and your little stretchy pants bother me. No one that currently doesn't reside in an '80s Bananarama video should wear spandex in public. Frankly, I don't think you should wear it in private, but what you wear, furry suit, gimp mask, etc...in your private time is your business. Explain the stretchy pants thing to me, please. I rode a bike incessantly from age 4ish to age 15, when I lost all motor coordination, and I never wore stretchy pants, and I could pop mad wheelies.
So, stop it, wear normal athletic gear that does not highlight your male equivalent of a camel toe and make me think of Richard Simmons. And here's a thought, if you're riding to the park to hug a tree and dance naked with the fairies, drive your damn bike there and then frolic cyclically. Do not, I repeat, not, ride on the actual thoroughfare during rush hour traffic on your way to the granola/free the hemp plant/Prius meeting. I'm one more encounter away from getting 30 points by nudging you off to the sidewalk with my mighty Aveo. And then you'll have to tell your patchouli for Men club buddies that a car made of plastic ran you off the road...and then no Tofurkey for you.
I'm taking Adapex now. It's supposed to boost your metabolism and kick-start the whole losing weight process. I started taking it Friday, and so far all it does is make me want to drink 9 gallons of coffee and talk to the point that Smitty actually went to bed to get away from whatever I was saying at 30 miles an hour. I dunno if it takes a while to start its pharmaceutical purpose, but am starting to think that this only reinforces the fact that whatever medicine is supposed to do, it does the opposite for me...or makes my ears and face swell.
I am very excited about the impending 3-day weekend. We are supposed to have visitors, and it promises to be a lot of fun. Mainly, I'm excited that I, nor Smitty, have to work, and this will probably be the last relaxed-esque weekend we have, as he starts back to grad school this week. Wives of graduate students are the unsung heroes of our generation. Meanwhile, I want him to hurry up and finish so I can finish my English master's. And I'm proud of him and stuff.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
The polar opposite of raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens...
Until recently, I thought the line from that song was "whispers on kittens," which obviously makes no sense, but that's how I heard it. I could start an entirely new blog called "Those are not the lyrics I heard," but it would get redundant after a while.
After seeing two full-sized vans today with the windows blacked out, I started thinking of things that give me the creeps. Some of them are fairly transparent, and some of them go a little further into the joy that is me:
1. See above. Any full-sized van that doesn't have a logo on the side is creepy. If it doesn't have windows, that's doubly so. I guess I will always bring to mind the scene in "Silence of the Lambs" where Buffalo Bill kidnaps the girl and slings her into a van. However, I guess it's more likely now they're using the back for a moveable meth lab. Still, ew.
2. My fingernails or hearing anyone else's fingernails scrape and scratch on denim. You can put 1,000 chalkboards in front of me, and it doesn't cause chills to go up my spine as much as fingernails scraping on denim. I don't know if I was a seamstress in a former life or what, but there you go.
3. Married couples who call each other any variation of Mama and Daddy. If you do it when talking to your kids, fine, but if you're the only people there, and you say "Daddy, bring me a soda," you're in banjo, Toddlers and Tiaras territory.
4. People with wildly outdated hairstyles. I used to work with a woman who had a Dorothy Hamill haircut, like forever. I've seen pictures. Why use that particular icon to hitch your wagon to? It was a bad haircut even in the 70s. I've seen some people lately with these huge, poufy Golden Girls hairstyles. Look, I thank you for being a friend and adore those ladies as much as anyone, but if you're under 80, you should not have that hairstyle.
5. Anything on TV that involves showing surgery, blood, cutting of organs where you hear that squishy noise, all of that grosses me out to no end. I will either turn completely away or look through my fingers, which doesn't really help. I did that when I watched "Hostel" at the theater, and my gentleman caller at the time kept trying to pry my hands away from my eyes until I punched him in the stomach. Everyone in front of us laughed. I hate it when "Grey's Anatomy" shows really graphic surgery, and "Nip/Tuck" was ridiculous about it. That's not necessary.
6. Kids acting or dressing inappropriately. First of all, the clothes for younger girls say things like "Juicy," "Naughty," "Bad Girl," really? For 10 year olds? Is Paris Hilton the shopper for your department store. If I were 16 and wearing a shirt that said any of that stuff, my dad would've made me change and probably burned the shirt. And low-rise jeans? Yah, 'cos that's what little girls should be doing, showing off their nonexistent asses. I don't know what people are thinking; I assume the target market is the Lohans or perhaps wardrobe selections post-Toddlers and Tiaras.
In connection with that, I saw a video last night of children, no older than 8, dirty dancing or grinding or whatever the cool term is these days...chubawubbin (I made that up), while adults laughed and recorded them. I honestly think there should be a mandatory IQ test before you're allowed to have or be around children.
7. Food with chunky or seedy consistencies. You will never see me eat a strawberry. When you chew them, those little seeds crunch in your teeth like you're eating bugs. Also, smoothies or milkshakes with chunks of fruit, be it peach, strawberry or raspberry. Again, there is the consistency of something that could be partially digested invading your ice cream or yogurt.
Garbanzo beans/chickpeas...again, not only do they look like little, shrunken heads, they have the consistency of something that was already eaten or needs to be given to a pet.
Sausage on pizza. When I was younger, I watched a "Nightmare on Elm Street" movie where the dream had Freddy in a malt shop. The doomed teenager watched him pull a pizza from behind the counter that had little sausages on it, but when they showed a close-up, the sausage turned into little heads of past victims screaming. He impaled one of them on his fingernail and ate it. I will never ingest a piece of sausage from a pizza again.
After seeing two full-sized vans today with the windows blacked out, I started thinking of things that give me the creeps. Some of them are fairly transparent, and some of them go a little further into the joy that is me:
1. See above. Any full-sized van that doesn't have a logo on the side is creepy. If it doesn't have windows, that's doubly so. I guess I will always bring to mind the scene in "Silence of the Lambs" where Buffalo Bill kidnaps the girl and slings her into a van. However, I guess it's more likely now they're using the back for a moveable meth lab. Still, ew.
2. My fingernails or hearing anyone else's fingernails scrape and scratch on denim. You can put 1,000 chalkboards in front of me, and it doesn't cause chills to go up my spine as much as fingernails scraping on denim. I don't know if I was a seamstress in a former life or what, but there you go.
3. Married couples who call each other any variation of Mama and Daddy. If you do it when talking to your kids, fine, but if you're the only people there, and you say "Daddy, bring me a soda," you're in banjo, Toddlers and Tiaras territory.
4. People with wildly outdated hairstyles. I used to work with a woman who had a Dorothy Hamill haircut, like forever. I've seen pictures. Why use that particular icon to hitch your wagon to? It was a bad haircut even in the 70s. I've seen some people lately with these huge, poufy Golden Girls hairstyles. Look, I thank you for being a friend and adore those ladies as much as anyone, but if you're under 80, you should not have that hairstyle.
5. Anything on TV that involves showing surgery, blood, cutting of organs where you hear that squishy noise, all of that grosses me out to no end. I will either turn completely away or look through my fingers, which doesn't really help. I did that when I watched "Hostel" at the theater, and my gentleman caller at the time kept trying to pry my hands away from my eyes until I punched him in the stomach. Everyone in front of us laughed. I hate it when "Grey's Anatomy" shows really graphic surgery, and "Nip/Tuck" was ridiculous about it. That's not necessary.
6. Kids acting or dressing inappropriately. First of all, the clothes for younger girls say things like "Juicy," "Naughty," "Bad Girl," really? For 10 year olds? Is Paris Hilton the shopper for your department store. If I were 16 and wearing a shirt that said any of that stuff, my dad would've made me change and probably burned the shirt. And low-rise jeans? Yah, 'cos that's what little girls should be doing, showing off their nonexistent asses. I don't know what people are thinking; I assume the target market is the Lohans or perhaps wardrobe selections post-Toddlers and Tiaras.
In connection with that, I saw a video last night of children, no older than 8, dirty dancing or grinding or whatever the cool term is these days...chubawubbin (I made that up), while adults laughed and recorded them. I honestly think there should be a mandatory IQ test before you're allowed to have or be around children.
7. Food with chunky or seedy consistencies. You will never see me eat a strawberry. When you chew them, those little seeds crunch in your teeth like you're eating bugs. Also, smoothies or milkshakes with chunks of fruit, be it peach, strawberry or raspberry. Again, there is the consistency of something that could be partially digested invading your ice cream or yogurt.
Garbanzo beans/chickpeas...again, not only do they look like little, shrunken heads, they have the consistency of something that was already eaten or needs to be given to a pet.
Sausage on pizza. When I was younger, I watched a "Nightmare on Elm Street" movie where the dream had Freddy in a malt shop. The doomed teenager watched him pull a pizza from behind the counter that had little sausages on it, but when they showed a close-up, the sausage turned into little heads of past victims screaming. He impaled one of them on his fingernail and ate it. I will never ingest a piece of sausage from a pizza again.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Black (or bluish) snake moan and other mishaps
I do not like the outdoors or most of the creatures that reside in it. Partially, it's because I'm allergic to most everything outside, and if I am outside when things are blooming, I will soon look like an itchy tomato. Also, it's because there are bugs, spiders (which are technically bugs, but deserve their own category), weird birds that fly lowly at my head, and all manner of slithering reptiles. I know lizards are really helpful, but when there was one in our bedroom, I trapped it in there with handy plastic bags from the grocery store stuffed under the door and called Smitty saying "There is a lizard in the bedroom. I'm not coming home until it's gone, and I want photographic proof." He sent me a picture with the little bugger hanging out on the front porch.
So, the reason I preface the blog this way, is that last night, when I headed, skipping and singing show tunes to get into my car and leave work, there was a strange object near my front left tire. I thought it was a stick, but when I moved closer to the car, it moved. There was a bluish, black small, yes, but who cares!? snake hanging out by my front wheel. I was amazingly calm, I think I said, "Oh, crap, no, no, no, not getting in the car," and stepped back. I also made my alarm do the weird, chirpy bird noise it does when it re-locks, and that make Senor Snake-y Pants slither underneath the front of my car. That is where I got a bit panicky. As long as I could see it and it looked docile, it was sort of okay.
At this point, the girl parked next to me came outside and must've heard me muttering "snake, snake, snake" in the Rain Man-esque manner I was saying it at the point. We both decided we were not getting in our cars until we knew our little spineless pal was gone. Another co-worker came out to make sure our feet would not get attacked a la "Snakes on a Plane" style so we could get in our cars. I leapt into my car with half a cup of water that spilled all over me and the seat, but I got away safely.
However, I drove home batting at myself like a detoxing crackhead because I kept feeling stuff crawling on me. I thought I heard noises in the car, so I kept turning the interior light on, which is actually not at all a good idea driving down Hwy 280. Also, my car is so reprehensibly disgusting, he could've crawled in there and had a cocktail party. Then, I imagined a scenario that while we were debating about getting in the car, it crawled up into whatever metal thingie surrounds the tire, and he was making a little, tiny, snake-sized blueprint to figure out how to crawl into my vent or glove compartment. Smitty says I have a ridiculous imagination. And by ridiculous, I know he means whimsical and delightful to experience.
Now, I see snakes everywhere I go....not literally, of course, but in my mind's eye, there are creepy, little vipers waiting on me in our driveway, in the parking lot. I went to my car Ninja-style, or as Ninja as I am capable, eyes darting around, looking for predators, and deeming everything okay after almost getting on the ground, got into my car. Who's dramatic? I don't know what that means.
I leave you with a little story that pretty much encompasses everything I feel about snakes, snakes as pets, snakes as dinner companions, snakes as chess opponents, etc....:
So, the reason I preface the blog this way, is that last night, when I headed, skipping and singing show tunes to get into my car and leave work, there was a strange object near my front left tire. I thought it was a stick, but when I moved closer to the car, it moved. There was a bluish, black small, yes, but who cares!? snake hanging out by my front wheel. I was amazingly calm, I think I said, "Oh, crap, no, no, no, not getting in the car," and stepped back. I also made my alarm do the weird, chirpy bird noise it does when it re-locks, and that make Senor Snake-y Pants slither underneath the front of my car. That is where I got a bit panicky. As long as I could see it and it looked docile, it was sort of okay.
At this point, the girl parked next to me came outside and must've heard me muttering "snake, snake, snake" in the Rain Man-esque manner I was saying it at the point. We both decided we were not getting in our cars until we knew our little spineless pal was gone. Another co-worker came out to make sure our feet would not get attacked a la "Snakes on a Plane" style so we could get in our cars. I leapt into my car with half a cup of water that spilled all over me and the seat, but I got away safely.
However, I drove home batting at myself like a detoxing crackhead because I kept feeling stuff crawling on me. I thought I heard noises in the car, so I kept turning the interior light on, which is actually not at all a good idea driving down Hwy 280. Also, my car is so reprehensibly disgusting, he could've crawled in there and had a cocktail party. Then, I imagined a scenario that while we were debating about getting in the car, it crawled up into whatever metal thingie surrounds the tire, and he was making a little, tiny, snake-sized blueprint to figure out how to crawl into my vent or glove compartment. Smitty says I have a ridiculous imagination. And by ridiculous, I know he means whimsical and delightful to experience.
Now, I see snakes everywhere I go....not literally, of course, but in my mind's eye, there are creepy, little vipers waiting on me in our driveway, in the parking lot. I went to my car Ninja-style, or as Ninja as I am capable, eyes darting around, looking for predators, and deeming everything okay after almost getting on the ground, got into my car. Who's dramatic? I don't know what that means.
I leave you with a little story that pretty much encompasses everything I feel about snakes, snakes as pets, snakes as dinner companions, snakes as chess opponents, etc....:
The Little Boy and The Rattlesnake
They sat there and watched the sunset together. It was so beautiful. Then after sunset the rattlesnake turned to the little boy and asked, "Can I go home now? I am tired, and I am old." The little boy picked up the rattlesnake and again took it to his chest and held it tightly and safely. He came all the way down the mountain holding the snake carefully and took it to his home to give him some food and a place to sleep. The next day the rattlesnake turned to the boy and asked, "Please little boy, will you take me back to my home now? It is time for me to leave this world, and I would like to be at my home now." The little boy felt he had been safe all this time and the snake had kept his word, so he would take it home as asked.
He carefully picked up the snake, took it close to his chest, and carried him back to the woods, to his home to die. Just before he laid the rattlesnake down, the rattlesnake turned and bit him in the chest. The little boy cried out and threw the snake upon the ground. "Mr. Snake, why did you do that? Now I will surely die!" The rattlesnake looked up at him and grinned, "You knew what I was when you picked me up."
Friday, August 20, 2010
I'm not aware of too many things; I know what I know if you know what I mean...
Here are some things I don't understand: (in no particular order)
1. Why friends and sometimes family use you under the guise of friendship and familial love, yet they really could care less about you. Like if they heard you were ground up by a wood chipper, they would feel some remorse, sure, but mostly they would bask in the attention surrounding them while they explained how they found you, how close you were, etc....that drives me nuts. Fair-weather user friends drive me nuts, and frankly anyone that cares more about the inconsequential things in life also drives me nuts. Capisce? (Imagine I am Tony Soprano; it's more menacing that way)
2. What the hell is wrong with the world today? I read the list of things that entering college freshman are contributing to the zeitgeist, and I'm scared. They can't write cursive, they don't own watches because they use their cell phones for a clock, they don't know Clint Eastwood played Dirty Harry, and, this is the one I'm adding, I know they don't know how to diagram a sentence.
I'm sorry, but if you talk to the average 18 year old, or, hell, even 20 year old, they are not that bright. They text while at work and school, they think Jersey Shore is the most amazing show ever, and they can't write an intelligible paragraph. I'm getting to the old and cranky stage in life. I cannot stress enough how much good grammar and serviceable writing ability helps you make a good impression on the people that matter. If you say "Lol" out loud in an interview, even just to be clever, you need to get a job carrying Sarah Palin's suitcase of shoes and promise never to procreate.
3. Triviality of any sort. If you go into almost any office or work environment, there is so much gossip, you'd think Bravo had cameras hidden. I myself have, on very rare occasions, enjoyed talking about someone's botched stomach stapling or baby Daddy drama, but doing everything you can to avoid doing your actual job while at WORK drives me insane. You're lucky to have a job, and your decision is to be as lazy as possible, do the bare minimum and spend most of your day bitching about why you're not getting promoted and so-and-so is. Gee, I have a slight clue as to why that might be.
Apathy and bad attitudes at work have always driven me crazy. I'm not saying I have loved every single job I've ever had; far from it, but I am the type of person who if I am sweeping the floor for a living (God forbid), I will show you how sweeping is done. I cannot stand to know I'm not reaching my potential. That's how you move ahead, and it's really convenient to blame it on your supervisor or your boyfriend trouble or whatever, but somewhere along the way, we (of my esteemed generation) developed some ill-advised sense of entitlement that we don't warrant. With the state of the world and people who would love to have a job you suck at and don't want anyway, you can't afford to coast. Removing soapbox...stepping down....
4. How the hell is 80s music gonna be on the Retro music channel on cable? Won't be long before it's under Classics. How did this happen? How did Rick Springfield and Tears for Fears go Retro? If you ask me, Rick Springfield could wring Justin Bieber's wormy, little neck. I think I'm having a pre-midlife crisis. I'm 33 years old, and I wore pigtails in my hair, and if I were 15 and I had seen a 30-something person wearing pigtails, I would've made a snarky comment. However, that 30-something would not have been as cool as me.
I just realized the History Channel is being flung upon me without my consent. Must remedy.
1. Why friends and sometimes family use you under the guise of friendship and familial love, yet they really could care less about you. Like if they heard you were ground up by a wood chipper, they would feel some remorse, sure, but mostly they would bask in the attention surrounding them while they explained how they found you, how close you were, etc....that drives me nuts. Fair-weather user friends drive me nuts, and frankly anyone that cares more about the inconsequential things in life also drives me nuts. Capisce? (Imagine I am Tony Soprano; it's more menacing that way)
2. What the hell is wrong with the world today? I read the list of things that entering college freshman are contributing to the zeitgeist, and I'm scared. They can't write cursive, they don't own watches because they use their cell phones for a clock, they don't know Clint Eastwood played Dirty Harry, and, this is the one I'm adding, I know they don't know how to diagram a sentence.
I'm sorry, but if you talk to the average 18 year old, or, hell, even 20 year old, they are not that bright. They text while at work and school, they think Jersey Shore is the most amazing show ever, and they can't write an intelligible paragraph. I'm getting to the old and cranky stage in life. I cannot stress enough how much good grammar and serviceable writing ability helps you make a good impression on the people that matter. If you say "Lol" out loud in an interview, even just to be clever, you need to get a job carrying Sarah Palin's suitcase of shoes and promise never to procreate.
3. Triviality of any sort. If you go into almost any office or work environment, there is so much gossip, you'd think Bravo had cameras hidden. I myself have, on very rare occasions, enjoyed talking about someone's botched stomach stapling or baby Daddy drama, but doing everything you can to avoid doing your actual job while at WORK drives me insane. You're lucky to have a job, and your decision is to be as lazy as possible, do the bare minimum and spend most of your day bitching about why you're not getting promoted and so-and-so is. Gee, I have a slight clue as to why that might be.
Apathy and bad attitudes at work have always driven me crazy. I'm not saying I have loved every single job I've ever had; far from it, but I am the type of person who if I am sweeping the floor for a living (God forbid), I will show you how sweeping is done. I cannot stand to know I'm not reaching my potential. That's how you move ahead, and it's really convenient to blame it on your supervisor or your boyfriend trouble or whatever, but somewhere along the way, we (of my esteemed generation) developed some ill-advised sense of entitlement that we don't warrant. With the state of the world and people who would love to have a job you suck at and don't want anyway, you can't afford to coast. Removing soapbox...stepping down....
4. How the hell is 80s music gonna be on the Retro music channel on cable? Won't be long before it's under Classics. How did this happen? How did Rick Springfield and Tears for Fears go Retro? If you ask me, Rick Springfield could wring Justin Bieber's wormy, little neck. I think I'm having a pre-midlife crisis. I'm 33 years old, and I wore pigtails in my hair, and if I were 15 and I had seen a 30-something person wearing pigtails, I would've made a snarky comment. However, that 30-something would not have been as cool as me.
I just realized the History Channel is being flung upon me without my consent. Must remedy.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
All work and something something make Homer something something
I'm not keeping up with my internal promise to update the blog every two days, but it's funny how something as simple as sitting down and writing something that doesn't even seem to follow a stream of consciousness becomes cumbersome to do more than a few times a week. I'm sorry, loyal readers and peripheral well-wishers, I aspire to do better.
I found my iPod. I'm very excited. If you were to look at the last playlist I created and the one that I will wear out until it tires me, you would think I was musically schizophrenic. But if you are, in fact, a loyal reader, you know that there is a monkey DJ in my head who does suffer somewhat from a multiple personality disorder. The songs on my iPod range from "Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash to nearly the entire soundtrack of "Rocky Horror Picture Show," to Blind Melon to Frank Sinatra, and I love them all; and find that starting my day on the ride to work listening to my Sybil-esque playlist seems to alleviate the stress of the day..ooh, and Madonna, how could I forget her? She is my fall back when nothing else works. Which reminds me that when I was in middle school, I once recorded myself on a Fisher Price tape recorder singing "Dress You Up" and called my current crush and played it. Well, I played part of it, but I think he hung up after the first verse. Ah, the good 'ol days before Caller ID.
Speaking of the Fisher Price tape recorder, I also recorded myself singing Annie's "Tomorrow," because my mother cut my hair off when I was about 6 and forced me to suffer through Ogilvie home perms administered by my grandmother, which caused an actual Afro. Then, she made me sing in talent competitions. If I hadn't been so awkward and markedly untalented, we might've had whatever Toddlers and Tiaras turn into at age 8, but thank God after losing for the 3rd time to someone not much more talented than I singing "Rocky Top," a song which still haunts my dreams, she finally heard me say, "No means no." This is part of the reason why A. I refuse to ever cut my hair above shoulder length (although that's also because I look like a super butchy lesbian with short hair, and B. Pageants and talent competitions kind of creep me out.
I'm getting the old thyroid checked tomorrow. Well, actually, I'm going to the dr and saying "Take all the blood you need, check my thyroid, my blood sugar, my hormones, my cholesterol, my gravy to blood percentage, my prostate, whatever you got..." I have had swollen ankles for nearly a month, have possibly lost one pound that I gain back every day, and I'm getting cranky. If all of those things come out normally, she's giving me a new diet that includes carbs. My body needs carbs. You can't live a decent life without pasta or potatoes. Ask Sophia Loren; she's 400 years old, and people still think she's sexy. That's spaghetti..she's said it herself.
I found my iPod. I'm very excited. If you were to look at the last playlist I created and the one that I will wear out until it tires me, you would think I was musically schizophrenic. But if you are, in fact, a loyal reader, you know that there is a monkey DJ in my head who does suffer somewhat from a multiple personality disorder. The songs on my iPod range from "Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash to nearly the entire soundtrack of "Rocky Horror Picture Show," to Blind Melon to Frank Sinatra, and I love them all; and find that starting my day on the ride to work listening to my Sybil-esque playlist seems to alleviate the stress of the day..ooh, and Madonna, how could I forget her? She is my fall back when nothing else works. Which reminds me that when I was in middle school, I once recorded myself on a Fisher Price tape recorder singing "Dress You Up" and called my current crush and played it. Well, I played part of it, but I think he hung up after the first verse. Ah, the good 'ol days before Caller ID.
Speaking of the Fisher Price tape recorder, I also recorded myself singing Annie's "Tomorrow," because my mother cut my hair off when I was about 6 and forced me to suffer through Ogilvie home perms administered by my grandmother, which caused an actual Afro. Then, she made me sing in talent competitions. If I hadn't been so awkward and markedly untalented, we might've had whatever Toddlers and Tiaras turn into at age 8, but thank God after losing for the 3rd time to someone not much more talented than I singing "Rocky Top," a song which still haunts my dreams, she finally heard me say, "No means no." This is part of the reason why A. I refuse to ever cut my hair above shoulder length (although that's also because I look like a super butchy lesbian with short hair, and B. Pageants and talent competitions kind of creep me out.
I'm getting the old thyroid checked tomorrow. Well, actually, I'm going to the dr and saying "Take all the blood you need, check my thyroid, my blood sugar, my hormones, my cholesterol, my gravy to blood percentage, my prostate, whatever you got..." I have had swollen ankles for nearly a month, have possibly lost one pound that I gain back every day, and I'm getting cranky. If all of those things come out normally, she's giving me a new diet that includes carbs. My body needs carbs. You can't live a decent life without pasta or potatoes. Ask Sophia Loren; she's 400 years old, and people still think she's sexy. That's spaghetti..she's said it herself.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
The week of birthday suits and antibiotics
So, I have been sick since pretty much last Sunday. I'm okay now, I think, although food and I are still having a relationship laced with animosity. I've suspended the South Beach diet for a few days, as carbs were the only things I could eat that didn't make me cringe. But, I'm hopped up on Bactram, and it seems to be helping. So far, I'm not having a random allergic reaction to it, so that's a score for me after the incident with my face blowing up like Rush Limbaugh after taking Avelox last year.
I think I would rather have the flu or strep throat than a stomach virus. It's like you literally want to trade in your body for another one because yours is rejecting any and all forms of sustenance. And the fever, oh, the fever. I'm wacked out enough without adding fever to the mix. I think I slept like 30 hours between Wednesday and Friday. Enough about that; I'm mostly back to myself.
Smitty's 36th birthday is today...whoooo. Men are kind of funny about birthdays. Women will declare a "birthday week," wear tiaras and feather boas, and make an enormous deal out of our birthdays, and men, at least straight men, are like, "Meh, just another year." I simply don't understand this. This is the one day that should be for YOU, to do whatever you want, people have to be nice to you (also, this happens for 2 weeks after the death of a parent, believe me, I enforced this principle), and you get stuff. How could you not want to capitalize on that? Makes no sense.
I have yet to receive my birthday present from my mom because she mailed my gift to the apartment we moved out of ..... TWO years ago. She's 70, so you might suggest "senior moment," but no, this is a woman who went into the video store many, many years ago and said, "Do you have Mr. Opus' Holiday?" She has had a cell phone for at least 5 years and doesn't know how to do anything but answer it and make calls; she still can't remember the order that the components of Taco Salad go, and she's been making it for about 20 years, and she will call me sometimes, and I answer to complete silence and then hear either, "Oh, I didn't mean to call you," or my favorite is when she doesn't realize that her phone dialed and I just hear discussion between her and my grandmother about what they're eating for dinner. I am also one of the few people who can make her giggle uncontrollably, which as an added bonus, irritates my grandmother to no end. I can only guess it's because, as she recently confessed to me, she has no sense of humor.
In the past few days, I have had the following songs stuck in my head: "Copacabana," "Lola," "Let it Snow" (wishful thinking, I guess) and "Don't Stop Believing." Can you have musical schizophrenia? I'm mildly concerned.
But I will leave you with these Neko Case lyrics, because I love them:
"How will you know if you found me at last
'Cause I'll be the one, be the one, be the one
With my heart in my lap
I'm so tired, I'm so tired
I wish I was the moon tonight"
"I Wish I Was the Moon Tonight" -- Neko Case
I think I would rather have the flu or strep throat than a stomach virus. It's like you literally want to trade in your body for another one because yours is rejecting any and all forms of sustenance. And the fever, oh, the fever. I'm wacked out enough without adding fever to the mix. I think I slept like 30 hours between Wednesday and Friday. Enough about that; I'm mostly back to myself.
Smitty's 36th birthday is today...whoooo. Men are kind of funny about birthdays. Women will declare a "birthday week," wear tiaras and feather boas, and make an enormous deal out of our birthdays, and men, at least straight men, are like, "Meh, just another year." I simply don't understand this. This is the one day that should be for YOU, to do whatever you want, people have to be nice to you (also, this happens for 2 weeks after the death of a parent, believe me, I enforced this principle), and you get stuff. How could you not want to capitalize on that? Makes no sense.
I have yet to receive my birthday present from my mom because she mailed my gift to the apartment we moved out of ..... TWO years ago. She's 70, so you might suggest "senior moment," but no, this is a woman who went into the video store many, many years ago and said, "Do you have Mr. Opus' Holiday?" She has had a cell phone for at least 5 years and doesn't know how to do anything but answer it and make calls; she still can't remember the order that the components of Taco Salad go, and she's been making it for about 20 years, and she will call me sometimes, and I answer to complete silence and then hear either, "Oh, I didn't mean to call you," or my favorite is when she doesn't realize that her phone dialed and I just hear discussion between her and my grandmother about what they're eating for dinner. I am also one of the few people who can make her giggle uncontrollably, which as an added bonus, irritates my grandmother to no end. I can only guess it's because, as she recently confessed to me, she has no sense of humor.
In the past few days, I have had the following songs stuck in my head: "Copacabana," "Lola," "Let it Snow" (wishful thinking, I guess) and "Don't Stop Believing." Can you have musical schizophrenia? I'm mildly concerned.
But I will leave you with these Neko Case lyrics, because I love them:
"How will you know if you found me at last
'Cause I'll be the one, be the one, be the one
With my heart in my lap
I'm so tired, I'm so tired
I wish I was the moon tonight"
"I Wish I Was the Moon Tonight" -- Neko Case
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
A pirate looks at 33...
When I was about 25, I wrote in my journal "Things I Will Accomplish By 30," and I tried to find the journal, which I know I still have, but I couldn't. I remember listed on it was "learn to play the guitar," "be an accomplished writer," and "be with someone who understands me." There were other things listed, probably something about skydiving or bungee jumping, but I really don't recall. Seriously, it was 8 years ago.
I attempted to learn to play the guitar from a really, really cranky guy who lived in an un-airconditoned apartment in Manayunk, PA...and he made learning the guitar miserable. I had cut my fingernails and painted them and when I didn't immediately pick up on what he was trying to get me to imitate, he said, "Well, I know you don't want to mess up your manicure, but try it again." I paid him for two lessons and quit because I think if you're trying to learn something you want to enjoy, you shouldn't learn it from a cranky, mean man who can't afford air conditioning.
Be an accomplished writer..hmm..haven't achieved that one in the strictest sense, but I wrote a poem in the poetry class I took towards my master's in English that my professor, who didn't like anything he didn't write, told me could easily be published if I pursued it. I have loyal blog readers, even if they won't COMMENT, ahem, and I'm working as hard as I can to make my writing more than something I do in my spare time. I love words so much that if someone would just let me write commercial jingles, I'd be happy. It makes me sad when I hear of creative writing, the literary magazine, or creative arts in general being cut from schools. You can't stifle creativity in children or teenagers. What if that person you're stunting is the next T.S. Eliot or Emily Dickinson or John Irving? Words, grammar, and the ability to write an awe-inspiring phrase must still be valued...stepping off soapbox...
Being with someone who understands me...wow, did I hit the proverbial jackpot on this one. And I'll submit, Smitty made me so mad earlier, I cried on my birthday (break out the tiny violins), but one of things I love about Smitty is that our fights, discussions, disagreements, what have you, they only last for a little while. Neither of us can stand to fight with the other, we will not go to bed mad, and I don't care how long we've been married, that's a rule we will always follow, and we listen to each other.
Smitty understands that I trip over the carpet, bump in the yard, smooth hardwood, etc...for no reason at all; he understands that I sing a song that has no relation to anything happening at the time (example, last night, Rod Stewart's "Fascination," which is actually "Infatuation," but doing "Fascination....whoooo, fascination...whooo...while looking in the refrigerator); I will probably always have a dirty car; I refuse to admit there's anything I don't know, when in actuality, there are many things I don't know, but I can admit that to myself, just not to others; I become a crazy diva when there is karaoke involved, I'll snatch a microphone from a child, I'm not kidding; I have to have a recipe when I'm cooking, or chaos and fire ensue; it drives me utterly insane for anyone to mispronounce a word or use one incorrectly; and as long as I have coffee and he tells me he loves me, I'm pretty much satisfied.
And I understand a plethora of things about him, including there are some days when I do not need to share every unconnected thought that comes in my head; there are some days when he is physically incapable of sitting still; he likes guns, despite my outright hate for them, and he could literally watch the History Channel from the time he gets up until the time he goes to bed, and meanwhile, I'm trying to find a pencil to stick in my brain and swirl it around; he will not walk anywhere, even in the house, barefoot; he has a relationship to his mother that I will never have with mine, and I envy it; and he will do anything to shield me from even the slightest amount of pain, sadness, and hurt, despite the sacrifice to him at the time.
So, even though I can't remember the complete list, those are the fine points that I can recall. And I will eventually learn to play the guitar, but especially with having fulfilled the last major point, the rest of my goals will fall into place. I have a tall, bald guy who makes me laugh and feel safe, and nearly 4 1/2 years ago, I wrote about 200 thank-you notes showing my appreciation for people who celebrated our marriage, so I'm not kidding, I'm never doing that again. We're in this for the long haul. Thirty-three feels pretty nice so far...
In the words of Jimmy Buffet's song, "A Pirate Looks at 40,
" But I got stop wishin', got to go fishin'
Down to rock bottom again...Just a few friends, just a few friends."
I attempted to learn to play the guitar from a really, really cranky guy who lived in an un-airconditoned apartment in Manayunk, PA...and he made learning the guitar miserable. I had cut my fingernails and painted them and when I didn't immediately pick up on what he was trying to get me to imitate, he said, "Well, I know you don't want to mess up your manicure, but try it again." I paid him for two lessons and quit because I think if you're trying to learn something you want to enjoy, you shouldn't learn it from a cranky, mean man who can't afford air conditioning.
Be an accomplished writer..hmm..haven't achieved that one in the strictest sense, but I wrote a poem in the poetry class I took towards my master's in English that my professor, who didn't like anything he didn't write, told me could easily be published if I pursued it. I have loyal blog readers, even if they won't COMMENT, ahem, and I'm working as hard as I can to make my writing more than something I do in my spare time. I love words so much that if someone would just let me write commercial jingles, I'd be happy. It makes me sad when I hear of creative writing, the literary magazine, or creative arts in general being cut from schools. You can't stifle creativity in children or teenagers. What if that person you're stunting is the next T.S. Eliot or Emily Dickinson or John Irving? Words, grammar, and the ability to write an awe-inspiring phrase must still be valued...stepping off soapbox...
Being with someone who understands me...wow, did I hit the proverbial jackpot on this one. And I'll submit, Smitty made me so mad earlier, I cried on my birthday (break out the tiny violins), but one of things I love about Smitty is that our fights, discussions, disagreements, what have you, they only last for a little while. Neither of us can stand to fight with the other, we will not go to bed mad, and I don't care how long we've been married, that's a rule we will always follow, and we listen to each other.
Smitty understands that I trip over the carpet, bump in the yard, smooth hardwood, etc...for no reason at all; he understands that I sing a song that has no relation to anything happening at the time (example, last night, Rod Stewart's "Fascination," which is actually "Infatuation," but doing "Fascination....whoooo, fascination...whooo...while looking in the refrigerator); I will probably always have a dirty car; I refuse to admit there's anything I don't know, when in actuality, there are many things I don't know, but I can admit that to myself, just not to others; I become a crazy diva when there is karaoke involved, I'll snatch a microphone from a child, I'm not kidding; I have to have a recipe when I'm cooking, or chaos and fire ensue; it drives me utterly insane for anyone to mispronounce a word or use one incorrectly; and as long as I have coffee and he tells me he loves me, I'm pretty much satisfied.
And I understand a plethora of things about him, including there are some days when I do not need to share every unconnected thought that comes in my head; there are some days when he is physically incapable of sitting still; he likes guns, despite my outright hate for them, and he could literally watch the History Channel from the time he gets up until the time he goes to bed, and meanwhile, I'm trying to find a pencil to stick in my brain and swirl it around; he will not walk anywhere, even in the house, barefoot; he has a relationship to his mother that I will never have with mine, and I envy it; and he will do anything to shield me from even the slightest amount of pain, sadness, and hurt, despite the sacrifice to him at the time.
So, even though I can't remember the complete list, those are the fine points that I can recall. And I will eventually learn to play the guitar, but especially with having fulfilled the last major point, the rest of my goals will fall into place. I have a tall, bald guy who makes me laugh and feel safe, and nearly 4 1/2 years ago, I wrote about 200 thank-you notes showing my appreciation for people who celebrated our marriage, so I'm not kidding, I'm never doing that again. We're in this for the long haul. Thirty-three feels pretty nice so far...
In the words of Jimmy Buffet's song, "A Pirate Looks at 40,
" But I got stop wishin', got to go fishin'
Down to rock bottom again...Just a few friends, just a few friends."
Friday, August 06, 2010
Ben Harper makes me want to get naked and touch velvet
Got your attention, didn't I? Sorry, I found a Ben Harper song on mix CD and his voice makes me happy. It's very soothing and kind of lulls you, which is maybe not the best driving selection, but filled me with joy nonetheless.
I have decided to blame my lack of weight loss on a thyroid problem. I'm only partially kidding. It occurred to me the other day since my mom has thyroid issues that it could be the reason I initially gained so much weight so fast, why I seem incapable of losing any weight despite a complete dietary renovation, and my ankles and feet will not stop swelling, along with a number of other symptoms involving lady problems that I won't delve into. I do have some shame.
So, whatever, I'll get that checked out, but speaking of shame, I realized something today. When you're very young and very old, you have no inner censor. Examples, when I was about 7 and we had the visiting preacher over to our house for lunch, and his wife asked my parents how they met, I replied, "In a bar," which was largely due to the fact that our maid let me watch "As the World Turns," and I assumed everyone met in a bar. My dad thought it was hilarious; my mom, not so much. I used to correct my nursery caregiver at church when she mispronounced a word while reading. That still drives me bonkers, but I try not to correct anyone I don't know that well, as not to make myself seem like a smart ass...they'll learn that soon enough.
On the flip side, my grandmother will say anything and everything that comes into her head. Example: We were at her house one day, DYING of heat exhaustion because even in the summer, her house is about 80 degrees, and she finally allowed us to turn on the window unit in the kitchen. I stood in front of it, crying because I finally didn't feel like I was about to keel over, and she walked past and said, "That thing's not working; it's just blowing out cool wind," and then I asked her what exactly functioning air conditioners did, and she realized what she had just said and wouldn't answer me. Also, she had a neighborhood cat that was sleeping on top of her car, which she didn't drive, and decided to call the local auto mechanic to ask "What is that stuff you can feed cats and it kills them?" I had to wrestle the phone away from her because in a town of 2000 people, if the preacher's cat, yes, I said preacher, turns up poisoned, and he lives two houses down, people might put two and two together.
The best thing that came out of that incident was that someone put a note on top of her windshield that read "I hear you need to get rid of a cat; I remember you had a similar problem with a tree. It seems like you should remedy it in the same manner." Back story briefly: Their neighbor had a tree which had a limb that partially hung over their property. Allegedly, (because my grandfather was awesome and I don't want to libel him) my grandfather sprinkled it with poison nightly for about a month until the entire tree died because the neighbor refused to cut the limb. I know that the note was her other neighbor having a laugh, but she put the note in a plastic bag, and you could only touch the bag, mind you, you couldn't even remove the note, with plastic gloves. She wanted to get a DNA sample from the police, but we dissuaded her against that, not to mention, I'm pretty sure in a town with like 4 cops, that wouldn't have been possible. And she was completely and totally serious, as she recently told me, "Emily, I have no sense of humor. Maybe that's why I didn't get along with your daddy." Fair enough, Mamaw, fair enough.
I have decided to blame my lack of weight loss on a thyroid problem. I'm only partially kidding. It occurred to me the other day since my mom has thyroid issues that it could be the reason I initially gained so much weight so fast, why I seem incapable of losing any weight despite a complete dietary renovation, and my ankles and feet will not stop swelling, along with a number of other symptoms involving lady problems that I won't delve into. I do have some shame.
So, whatever, I'll get that checked out, but speaking of shame, I realized something today. When you're very young and very old, you have no inner censor. Examples, when I was about 7 and we had the visiting preacher over to our house for lunch, and his wife asked my parents how they met, I replied, "In a bar," which was largely due to the fact that our maid let me watch "As the World Turns," and I assumed everyone met in a bar. My dad thought it was hilarious; my mom, not so much. I used to correct my nursery caregiver at church when she mispronounced a word while reading. That still drives me bonkers, but I try not to correct anyone I don't know that well, as not to make myself seem like a smart ass...they'll learn that soon enough.
On the flip side, my grandmother will say anything and everything that comes into her head. Example: We were at her house one day, DYING of heat exhaustion because even in the summer, her house is about 80 degrees, and she finally allowed us to turn on the window unit in the kitchen. I stood in front of it, crying because I finally didn't feel like I was about to keel over, and she walked past and said, "That thing's not working; it's just blowing out cool wind," and then I asked her what exactly functioning air conditioners did, and she realized what she had just said and wouldn't answer me. Also, she had a neighborhood cat that was sleeping on top of her car, which she didn't drive, and decided to call the local auto mechanic to ask "What is that stuff you can feed cats and it kills them?" I had to wrestle the phone away from her because in a town of 2000 people, if the preacher's cat, yes, I said preacher, turns up poisoned, and he lives two houses down, people might put two and two together.
The best thing that came out of that incident was that someone put a note on top of her windshield that read "I hear you need to get rid of a cat; I remember you had a similar problem with a tree. It seems like you should remedy it in the same manner." Back story briefly: Their neighbor had a tree which had a limb that partially hung over their property. Allegedly, (because my grandfather was awesome and I don't want to libel him) my grandfather sprinkled it with poison nightly for about a month until the entire tree died because the neighbor refused to cut the limb. I know that the note was her other neighbor having a laugh, but she put the note in a plastic bag, and you could only touch the bag, mind you, you couldn't even remove the note, with plastic gloves. She wanted to get a DNA sample from the police, but we dissuaded her against that, not to mention, I'm pretty sure in a town with like 4 cops, that wouldn't have been possible. And she was completely and totally serious, as she recently told me, "Emily, I have no sense of humor. Maybe that's why I didn't get along with your daddy." Fair enough, Mamaw, fair enough.
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
Long, hot, never ending summer
I'm sorry, did I sign up to be an extra in "A Time to Kill" and not remember? I cannot stop sweating, which is gross. It is too hot; I can't even sit on the front porch at night, because the mugginess rises up and smacks me in the face..which is rude for an atmospheric status to do. I never thought I would say I was ready for football season, but I am, because football season signals cool weather, Thanksgiving, sweaters, etc...I saw a girl at work today wearing a cardigan outside. I literally wanted to punch her. It made me hotter just looking at her. Clearly, she's a transplant from Alaska; that's the only logical explanation I can glean. Otherwise, she's a moron.
South Beach Diet Week 3, pounds lost: 3. SRSLY...I am losing one pound a week, and the book mocks me with its "By Week 3, you should've lost anywhere from 8 to 14 pounds. Hey, Dr. South Beach, why don't you bite me? I'm following your stupid diet, I nearly made Smitty and I sick with questionable turkey meatloaf last night, I haven't eaten pasta in a month, and your printed words echo failure throughout my head. If I had known eating healthily wouldn't have caused me to lose weight, I would've been in mashed potato and spaghetti-eating contests. I'm not stopping the diet, b/c I feel perhaps my monthly hormonal intruder is causing interference with the diet. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. If I don't start to lose weight soon, however, I'm having a talk with my doctor who recommended this torture.
My nightly sleep aversion reared its ugly head earlier this week. I was so tired, and I lay down, and bam, wide awake. I flipped and flopped around until I heard this from Smitty, "SSSSIIIIIIGGH," (that's really the only way I know how to write a frustrated exhalation, and I knew I was getting on his nerves and "stealing his warm cocoon air," so I got up and went to the couch and watched bad TV, then "Dead Poets Society," (Oh Captain, my Captain indeed) until I fell asleep at 2:30. Thank God I had the next day off or there would have been some degree of taking phone calls the next day and saying, "What was that? I nodded off while you were talking. You wanted to add a '10 Mercedes with comp and collision? Oh, you wanted to add an '89 Toyota Corolla with liability only? That's what I thought you said."
I got an early birthday present from Smitty..birthday is Aug. 9 for those who have deep pockets and a generous nature. He gave me American Idol 2 for the Playstation 3. Oh, my Lord. We already christened it Saturday night with friends and an off-balance me, but this game, while fun for groups, is actually for me to do as loudly as I want when no one is home or when Smitty is on business trips. We have no neighbors to apologize to, and when I'm by myself, my renditions of "Tiny Dancer" and "Holiday" rival no other. I give myself chills and then get cranky when game Simon criticizes my performance. He's mean, even on video game. I have, however, beat the game and become video American Idol, but that was on the XBox. I'll have to see what I can do on this newfangled game system.
South Beach Diet Week 3, pounds lost: 3. SRSLY...I am losing one pound a week, and the book mocks me with its "By Week 3, you should've lost anywhere from 8 to 14 pounds. Hey, Dr. South Beach, why don't you bite me? I'm following your stupid diet, I nearly made Smitty and I sick with questionable turkey meatloaf last night, I haven't eaten pasta in a month, and your printed words echo failure throughout my head. If I had known eating healthily wouldn't have caused me to lose weight, I would've been in mashed potato and spaghetti-eating contests. I'm not stopping the diet, b/c I feel perhaps my monthly hormonal intruder is causing interference with the diet. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. If I don't start to lose weight soon, however, I'm having a talk with my doctor who recommended this torture.
My nightly sleep aversion reared its ugly head earlier this week. I was so tired, and I lay down, and bam, wide awake. I flipped and flopped around until I heard this from Smitty, "SSSSIIIIIIGGH," (that's really the only way I know how to write a frustrated exhalation, and I knew I was getting on his nerves and "stealing his warm cocoon air," so I got up and went to the couch and watched bad TV, then "Dead Poets Society," (Oh Captain, my Captain indeed) until I fell asleep at 2:30. Thank God I had the next day off or there would have been some degree of taking phone calls the next day and saying, "What was that? I nodded off while you were talking. You wanted to add a '10 Mercedes with comp and collision? Oh, you wanted to add an '89 Toyota Corolla with liability only? That's what I thought you said."
I got an early birthday present from Smitty..birthday is Aug. 9 for those who have deep pockets and a generous nature. He gave me American Idol 2 for the Playstation 3. Oh, my Lord. We already christened it Saturday night with friends and an off-balance me, but this game, while fun for groups, is actually for me to do as loudly as I want when no one is home or when Smitty is on business trips. We have no neighbors to apologize to, and when I'm by myself, my renditions of "Tiny Dancer" and "Holiday" rival no other. I give myself chills and then get cranky when game Simon criticizes my performance. He's mean, even on video game. I have, however, beat the game and become video American Idol, but that was on the XBox. I'll have to see what I can do on this newfangled game system.
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