My poor neglected blog...I've not paid much attention to the blog for a couple of reasons. One, we were without Internet for almost two weeks, and two, I had to process everything that's happened in the last few weeks before I could write about it.
The tornado: First of all, Smitty and I were/are extremely lucky, and I fully recognize that, and by perhaps making light of my experience during the tornado, I do NOT take away from the tragedy of what happened. But I have to get it out, because making light or no, it scared the ever-living hell out of me, and I am so grateful we are okay.
We watched the storms progress through early afternoon in north Alabama and west Alabama, thinking we would most likely be fine, until towards the end of the afternoon. We watched, horrified, as a tornado literally formed onscreen in Cullman, Ala., and laid waste to their downtown area. Shaken by that, we still thought we probably wouldn't be directly affected until we saw the tornado headed toward Tuscaloosa.
I have never, ever, in my life seen something so terrifying outside of a movie. My sister lives in Tuscaloosa, and as I a. have no sense of direction to know where the thing was hitting and b. was hyperventilating at that point partially due to a., I freaked out. We watched, paralyzed, as the angriest, darkest, widest cloud of destruction cut a swath through downtown Tuscaloosa, and more hyperventilating ensued once I heard "and this funnel is headed directly toward Birmingham." I was able to find out my sister and her family were okay (thank you, Lord) right before we had to deploy our tornado plan.
The plan consisted of my getting in the bathtub in the master bathroom, while crying, mind you, and putting a comforter over my head while listening to the scariest radio weather report I've ever heard. Smitty went to the bathtub in the guest bathroom, and when he left the bathroom and we said our teary "I love yous," I kid you not, I thought I might never see him again. I cried and prayed and sang "Amazing Grace" in my head while it sounded like every tree in the yard was falling. I heard nothing but the radio and the noise of limbs, pine cones, etc...falling on the roof and in our yard. This lasted maybe 3 minutes and then it got quiet. I did exactly what Smitty told me not to do and came out of the bathroom before he came to get me and saw that the abject darkness had passed. So, I went to get him.
I won't go through the power outage and how we learned we should never been on any type of Survivor-type show together, because it's smug for me to complain about losing power for 30 hours when some people were left with nothing. I can honestly say with no sarcasm at all, that the experience changed me; I can't speak directly for Smitty, but I think it changed him, too. It's hard to focus on the things that tend to consume us when literally faced with God's reminder that, as my father-in-law says, "We are not in charge; we only think we're in charge."
It's so easy to complain, believe me, I know, but it's so much easier just to be thankful for the things in your life that are important: your family, your friends, all the love that surrounds you at all times..and focus on appreciating and making those areas better. The other stuff is the gravy, the peripheral, the Grey Poupon..the stuff you may want, but doesn't really sustain you. My Lord, I love my husband. Thank you for finding me worthy of him.
On a different note, due to our storm-induced cable outage, we also missed all of the Osama bin Laden hoopla. If not for Facebook, I wouldn't have known he was dead until that Monday morning. Apparently, I ruffled some feathers on Facebook when I posted, "Obama caught Osama. Sweet." First of all, I am aware that the military, in fact caught bin Laden, I am not a moron. Just because I don't go around sporting a yellow magnetic ribbon affixed to my car or know all the words to that song about putting a boot in somebody's ass who doesn't like America, doesn't mean that I don't support our military. In fact, I don't think they ever should've gone to Iraq...how's that for support?
Second of all, I'm pretty sure Bush supporters attributed the capture of Saddam Hussein at least in some part to Bush, even though Bush's military experience consisted of running away from the National Guard like a cross-country runner with his little satin shorts on fire, to the best of my recollection. I didn't/don't/and will never like George W. Bush, but even I gave him some props for catching Hussein...and I get snark and sass for being proud of the President for whom I voted being able to orchestrate catching the #1 criminal on the FBI's Most Wanted List.
Also, I would like to point out, had the military not initially retreated from the Tora Bora region of Afghanistan under Mr. Bush's regime in '02, we might've caught the guy then. Or, if we had not focused our military efforts in Iraq, which had no connection to the 9/11 attacks, it could've been a bit sooner than 2011. I'm just saying, you want to tell me Obama had nothing to do with catching Osama, neither did Bush, and it certainly wasn't for lack of trying to mess it up in the most colossal ways possible.
Finally, when did it become impossible to have civil debates about politics with even close acquaintances? Yes, I'm a Democrat, yes, I worked for John Kerry, and I voted for Obama, and I cried with joy when he was elected. However, I am capable of having a political discussion if it doesn't involve personal attacks, straw man arguments, and you actually know about what you're talking. Otherwise, it feels like I'm talking to children who argue by calling someone a "poopyhead" and calling it a day.
Also, and about this I'm so serious I had a dream I got into an argument with a really old man...since when does any party or person have a corner on the religion market? As far as I'm aware, Obama has never indicated not being a Christian, nor have any Democrats that have run for office in the past, oh, I dunno, 50 years, yet somehow there are these little digs at Obama about how he doesn't want to say "under God" or mention God. Did I miss a crazy Falwell manifesto? I'm a bleeding heart, yellow dog Democrat, and I am a Christian. I pray, I feel I have a good relationship with God that doesn't involve judgment and finger-pointing at others but love and acceptance and witnessing by being a good person, and I'm getting a little sick of hearing that I must be a Buddhist or agnostic or cat-worshiping nut, just because I don't go around wearing a "WWJD" t-shirt with my baptismal dress. Enough is a-freaking-nough. Elephants and/or Tea Partiers, whatever the deuce that is, don't own the Trinity, last time I checked.
"Intolerance betrays want of faith in one's cause."
Mahatma Gandhi
Monday, May 16, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
The tow truck guy and I
In the spring of 2005, I bought my first car. I had cars before, but they were paid for my parents or just hand-me-downs by my parents, but after moving back from Philly in '05 and literally destroying the '97 Toyota Camry my mom gave me...(in my defense, there was salt from Pennsylvania snow trucks, someone stole my rearview mirror, and in a separate instance, hit me while I was parked)....the car did its best...and then after only about 3 months in Mississippi, poof, died. I sold it for parts for about $400.
So, I set about buying a new car. Keep in mind, I had terrible credit due to college credit cards and a job that paid well worth below what it should've....thank you, Columbus-inherited wealth. I bought, in '05, a '04 Chevrolet Aveo, with 13,000 miles at about $13,500, so I could have car payments at around $240. My interest rate, because of my terrible credit, was like 25%, which I had no idea was a bad interest rate, until I told Smitty, and this little thing in his head popped out, and we re-financed.
The car gets excellent gas mileage, like 36 miles per gallon, and I haven't had a lot of issues out of it...until the last few months. You could probably refer to a recent blog, I don't do the hyperlink thing, you either read it or you don't, where the radiator had issues, and I endured a commute with smoke billowing out of the hood. We had all that stuff replaced, plus a timing belt, all is well in Aveo land....until today.
I'm leaving work at 4 p.m., and the car made this weird noise like I ran over something. I clearly did not, so I kept driving. It wouldn't accelerate, and when it did, it make a clicking noise. Okay, Smitty is out of town, I just want to get home, so I say a prayer to make that happen. No, no, that is not to happen. The car completely died at the beginning of the on-ramp for St. Vincent's, which if you live in Birmingham, you know, is the worst place to have an incapacitated car. Did I mention Smitty was out of town?
So, 45 minutes after calling tow truck, tow truck man shows up, and immediately tells me to leave the keys in the car and get in the tow truck, because of the precarious location of the car. He ended up throwing a glove at a passenger bus because they wouldn't move over...Hell, yeah! He also gave me a ride home, which they're not supposed to do, but I think I was sufficiently pitiful and called the recent radiator hose replacement, the "radiator tube-y thing."
He also asked me some vaguely inappropriate questions about my length of marriage, his disdain for his own wife, pride that he had 5 kids, and a hope to find someone to carry more, to which I replied, "I only want ONE child, period, I think that's all I can handle." He said something about kids making the world go around, and I'm sure they do, if you get paid $105 for every person you tow. I literally have no idea if this was a hitting on me thing, as I NEVER know this sort of thing, but whatever...thank you for the ride home, and at least you weren't visibly scary. I don't like to play the Blanche Dubois card, but, oh, how I will, if I need to. Funnily enough, the people at the servicing place, who will eventually be footing this entire bill, since they used a faulty timing belt, also offered me a ride home. Apparently, the gal's still got it.
So, I set about buying a new car. Keep in mind, I had terrible credit due to college credit cards and a job that paid well worth below what it should've....thank you, Columbus-inherited wealth. I bought, in '05, a '04 Chevrolet Aveo, with 13,000 miles at about $13,500, so I could have car payments at around $240. My interest rate, because of my terrible credit, was like 25%, which I had no idea was a bad interest rate, until I told Smitty, and this little thing in his head popped out, and we re-financed.
The car gets excellent gas mileage, like 36 miles per gallon, and I haven't had a lot of issues out of it...until the last few months. You could probably refer to a recent blog, I don't do the hyperlink thing, you either read it or you don't, where the radiator had issues, and I endured a commute with smoke billowing out of the hood. We had all that stuff replaced, plus a timing belt, all is well in Aveo land....until today.
I'm leaving work at 4 p.m., and the car made this weird noise like I ran over something. I clearly did not, so I kept driving. It wouldn't accelerate, and when it did, it make a clicking noise. Okay, Smitty is out of town, I just want to get home, so I say a prayer to make that happen. No, no, that is not to happen. The car completely died at the beginning of the on-ramp for St. Vincent's, which if you live in Birmingham, you know, is the worst place to have an incapacitated car. Did I mention Smitty was out of town?
So, 45 minutes after calling tow truck, tow truck man shows up, and immediately tells me to leave the keys in the car and get in the tow truck, because of the precarious location of the car. He ended up throwing a glove at a passenger bus because they wouldn't move over...Hell, yeah! He also gave me a ride home, which they're not supposed to do, but I think I was sufficiently pitiful and called the recent radiator hose replacement, the "radiator tube-y thing."
He also asked me some vaguely inappropriate questions about my length of marriage, his disdain for his own wife, pride that he had 5 kids, and a hope to find someone to carry more, to which I replied, "I only want ONE child, period, I think that's all I can handle." He said something about kids making the world go around, and I'm sure they do, if you get paid $105 for every person you tow. I literally have no idea if this was a hitting on me thing, as I NEVER know this sort of thing, but whatever...thank you for the ride home, and at least you weren't visibly scary. I don't like to play the Blanche Dubois card, but, oh, how I will, if I need to. Funnily enough, the people at the servicing place, who will eventually be footing this entire bill, since they used a faulty timing belt, also offered me a ride home. Apparently, the gal's still got it.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Losing sight of the fun in dysfunctional
I've been told a few times by different people that they can't believe that I write such personal things on my blog, and if they were me, "they wouldn't tell anybody 'that.'" Well, it's my blog, which to my understanding, means I can write about whatever the hell I please. Also, when I do write my fortune-making novels, they will be thinly-veiled stories of my life experiences, so I tend to think holding things back in writing makes for boring and way less cathartic writing. Also, I can do what I want.
I find it interesting that you have to take a test to get a driver's license or a gun safety certification or to become a U.S citizen, but any crazy fool can have children and screw them up to the best of their ability. I'm am not a self-pitying person, really, I'm not. It bugs me when people blame their parents for their lack of station in life, or their substance abuse, or whatever, unless they're the child that New Hampshire teacher had with her student or Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love's daughter. In those cases, I'd say they were a little down in the parent lottery from the beginning. However, I think people make their own lots in life, and even those who come from horrible beginnings can end up perfectly fine, or functional, despite what hands they were dealt.
I say I'm scared to have kids for the weird physical things people post online that kids can get or eat or do, or the fact that I'm scared I'm going to dent that cushion-y part in their head before it solidifies, and those things are completely true, but I'm also terrified that I'm going to inadvertently, or just outright, screw up my genetic material. I'm talking Lizzie Borden or a new chapter to the Manson Family, just because I'll be honest, I don't have a truly functional reference guide.
If you look up co-dependency and narcissistic personality disorder, those are just a few of the things to which I refer, and I won't even name names at this point.
Co-dependency: Codependency describes behaviors, thoughts and feelings that go beyond normal kinds of self-sacrifice or caretaking. For example, parenting is a role that requires a certain amount of self-sacrifice and giving a child's needs a high priority, although a parent could nevertheless still be codependent towards their own children if the caretaking or parental sacrifice reached unhealthy or destructive levels. ( Pay super close attention to that last sentence, just my personal recommendation)
I will say this: there are certain things I will never say to my child, including, but not limited to, the following:
1. "You should be more like your (sibling, cousin, neighbor, etc...). It is not productive to make comparisons between your child and anyone. I plan to be my offspring's biggest cheerleader..not literally of course, I would look ridiculous with those little skirts, but whatever my child chooses to be or do or look like, that is their choice.
2. "You can't ________." Phooey. They can do anything they want, and even if they can't, I won't tell them. They'll figure it out, because I won't have dumb kids..um, kid, unless two shoot out of there at the same time. Seriously, don't put limitations on your children; they'll face that enough from the rest of the world.
3. This is not a specific thing I won't say, but if my child is ever in the hospital, sick, hurt, or what have you, I will not project my misplaced selfish drama on them. I've been scolded by a family member in the last 5 years while an IV was in my arm, and I was about 1/2 an hour away from surgery. As I gain more perspective, I don't really know why I care about this person's feelings, as they clearly do not care about mine.
Before I devolve into a Joan Crawford movie, I think I'll stop. I needed to get some of this out, this is what I do to keep from having the white coats take me away, and if you judge me for it, fine. Knock yourself out...literally. I will not, even more so now, apologize for being myself and making myself happy. If you're not happy, what's the point, and why invest so much time in such toxic relationships? I console myself with the knowledge that no truly successful writer came from a functional family unit...they also mostly died of alcoholism, but we'll just focus on the first part for now.
"Friends are God's apology for relations."
I find it interesting that you have to take a test to get a driver's license or a gun safety certification or to become a U.S citizen, but any crazy fool can have children and screw them up to the best of their ability. I'm am not a self-pitying person, really, I'm not. It bugs me when people blame their parents for their lack of station in life, or their substance abuse, or whatever, unless they're the child that New Hampshire teacher had with her student or Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love's daughter. In those cases, I'd say they were a little down in the parent lottery from the beginning. However, I think people make their own lots in life, and even those who come from horrible beginnings can end up perfectly fine, or functional, despite what hands they were dealt.
I say I'm scared to have kids for the weird physical things people post online that kids can get or eat or do, or the fact that I'm scared I'm going to dent that cushion-y part in their head before it solidifies, and those things are completely true, but I'm also terrified that I'm going to inadvertently, or just outright, screw up my genetic material. I'm talking Lizzie Borden or a new chapter to the Manson Family, just because I'll be honest, I don't have a truly functional reference guide.
If you look up co-dependency and narcissistic personality disorder, those are just a few of the things to which I refer, and I won't even name names at this point.
Co-dependency: Codependency describes behaviors, thoughts and feelings that go beyond normal kinds of self-sacrifice or caretaking. For example, parenting is a role that requires a certain amount of self-sacrifice and giving a child's needs a high priority, although a parent could nevertheless still be codependent towards their own children if the caretaking or parental sacrifice reached unhealthy or destructive levels. ( Pay super close attention to that last sentence, just my personal recommendation)
I will say this: there are certain things I will never say to my child, including, but not limited to, the following:
1. "You should be more like your (sibling, cousin, neighbor, etc...). It is not productive to make comparisons between your child and anyone. I plan to be my offspring's biggest cheerleader..not literally of course, I would look ridiculous with those little skirts, but whatever my child chooses to be or do or look like, that is their choice.
2. "You can't ________." Phooey. They can do anything they want, and even if they can't, I won't tell them. They'll figure it out, because I won't have dumb kids..um, kid, unless two shoot out of there at the same time. Seriously, don't put limitations on your children; they'll face that enough from the rest of the world.
3. This is not a specific thing I won't say, but if my child is ever in the hospital, sick, hurt, or what have you, I will not project my misplaced selfish drama on them. I've been scolded by a family member in the last 5 years while an IV was in my arm, and I was about 1/2 an hour away from surgery. As I gain more perspective, I don't really know why I care about this person's feelings, as they clearly do not care about mine.
Before I devolve into a Joan Crawford movie, I think I'll stop. I needed to get some of this out, this is what I do to keep from having the white coats take me away, and if you judge me for it, fine. Knock yourself out...literally. I will not, even more so now, apologize for being myself and making myself happy. If you're not happy, what's the point, and why invest so much time in such toxic relationships? I console myself with the knowledge that no truly successful writer came from a functional family unit...they also mostly died of alcoholism, but we'll just focus on the first part for now.
Hugh Kingsmill
Monday, April 18, 2011
Tra la la
I'm not a negative person; I'm a sarcastic person, and there is a huge difference, in my opinion. However, I think I do get bogged down in the ennui of day to day life and the fact that we don't have a mansion with a pool and monkey butlers, and I get surly. That shouldn't happen as often as it does. On that note, these are things that make me happy:
1. Laughing until it hurts. Think about it; how often are you overcome with that body-shaking kind of laughter that makes snorts and tears emit from your person? Not often enough. There's something cleansing and almost healthy about letting out a guffaw until your sides ache. This can be achieved for me through: animals wearing people clothes, funny voices, and "Bob's Burgers."
2. Singing at the top of my lungs. I do it every day. In fact, I didn't realize that I passed by a certain place every day until Smitty pointed it out because, frankly, during my commute, I'm too busy doing my Carrie Underwood impression to pay attention to silly things like landmarks..I love it when I'm really belting out something and am completely oblivious to the person in the car next to me, until I glance over, and they're laughing..I like to think perhaps I made their day a little better, too..
3. Cooking. I never, in 5 million years, thought I would say that, but there is genuinely something cathartic about putting together a meal for those you love. You get to become a little scientist with ingredients and measurements and even improvise (I'm getting better) and produce this tasty meal and say, "Yeah, I made that. I freaking rock." Plus, the stress of the day just rolls off while you have your mind focused on not burning stuff..or that could just be me.
4. My dogs. Norton, who is 11, and Zoe, who is about 1 1/2, are the funniest two animals I've ever seen. Norton barks at imaginary squirrels to make us think he's super protective, and Zoe will forgo a steak bone if you'll just let her lick you..which, I don't. I wish she'd stop that, in fact. It took them a little while to get along, but now, they're like a little crime duo...with fur.
5. Smitty. Duh...the boy makes me happy. We've been married now nearly 4 1/2 years, and the good times keep coming. We've been through a bit with the usual things that marrieds go through, but there is no one I'd rather have by my side. I can be in the worst mood, and he can give me a look or do a funny voice, and that's it, tension dissolved. I could not be luckier than if I had designed my own husband, "Weird Science"-style with a computer. I keep thinking my mom paid him to "get me off her hands." I hope everyone is lucky enough to find someone who makes them this happy. It's rare to find a best friend that you want to see naked...I think...
1. Laughing until it hurts. Think about it; how often are you overcome with that body-shaking kind of laughter that makes snorts and tears emit from your person? Not often enough. There's something cleansing and almost healthy about letting out a guffaw until your sides ache. This can be achieved for me through: animals wearing people clothes, funny voices, and "Bob's Burgers."
2. Singing at the top of my lungs. I do it every day. In fact, I didn't realize that I passed by a certain place every day until Smitty pointed it out because, frankly, during my commute, I'm too busy doing my Carrie Underwood impression to pay attention to silly things like landmarks..I love it when I'm really belting out something and am completely oblivious to the person in the car next to me, until I glance over, and they're laughing..I like to think perhaps I made their day a little better, too..
3. Cooking. I never, in 5 million years, thought I would say that, but there is genuinely something cathartic about putting together a meal for those you love. You get to become a little scientist with ingredients and measurements and even improvise (I'm getting better) and produce this tasty meal and say, "Yeah, I made that. I freaking rock." Plus, the stress of the day just rolls off while you have your mind focused on not burning stuff..or that could just be me.
4. My dogs. Norton, who is 11, and Zoe, who is about 1 1/2, are the funniest two animals I've ever seen. Norton barks at imaginary squirrels to make us think he's super protective, and Zoe will forgo a steak bone if you'll just let her lick you..which, I don't. I wish she'd stop that, in fact. It took them a little while to get along, but now, they're like a little crime duo...with fur.
5. Smitty. Duh...the boy makes me happy. We've been married now nearly 4 1/2 years, and the good times keep coming. We've been through a bit with the usual things that marrieds go through, but there is no one I'd rather have by my side. I can be in the worst mood, and he can give me a look or do a funny voice, and that's it, tension dissolved. I could not be luckier than if I had designed my own husband, "Weird Science"-style with a computer. I keep thinking my mom paid him to "get me off her hands." I hope everyone is lucky enough to find someone who makes them this happy. It's rare to find a best friend that you want to see naked...I think...
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
A full-blown phobia, it seems
I thought I would write a sentimental or maudlin post yesterday on the 1-year anniversary of my dad's death. It turns out, I wasn't feeling maudlin, and I was enjoying shrimp and a re-make of an old movie in his honor, so I didn't feel like writing about him. That's how I roll. I can write about him at any given time I choose, or I can remember him and connect with him in the way we would have, were he alive. I can do whatever I want. Boo.
In the meantime, my fear of bugs has grown to an alarming level. At 4:15 a.m., I woke up with a start. As I am nowhere near a morning person or an early rising person, I thought, "What the hell? Why am I awake?" Approximately, 4 times in a 10-minute period, it felt like a needle had stabbed me, in the left ankle, the right ankle, the left and right elbows, until I thought, "While originally, I thought I may've established the first case of restless foot syndrome, this really hurts." I got up, went to the bathroom to confirm 5-6 bites that looked like I had just gotten shots and were very itchy. I then went into the bedroom, turned on my night table lamp, and threw back the covers.
There, staring at me with a defiant look was Monty the Ant. I have seriously never seen an ant this big. I don't do bugs, and the only ants I recall are fire ants and wood ants. This little hooligan was as big as my pinky fingernail with a little actual hair. He looked at me as if to challenge my authority, and I scooped him up in toilet paper, but left the sample on the counter so I could show Smitty, since he did NOT wake up, so he could I identify if I were going to die from some rare Alabama ant disease.
This morning before I got into the shower, I unfolded my little friend, and there he was, all squished up, presumably dead. After I got out of the shower, I checked the Kleenex so I could show Smitty, and he had vanished. I looked all over the bathroom, as this was an injured ant with what I presume to be very little pep and vigor...no where to be found. Great. Smitty informs me had I crushed his thorax, he would have died and never made a break for it. I called him a nerd and told him to shut up.
So, for the day, I've been feeling twitchy hairs escaping from my hair, which is way overdue for a haircut and twinges and twitches from nothing at all, although I imagined Monty having curled up in my hairbrush and waiting for his time to shine. Logically, I'm sure he went down the drain or something rational to find water, but I am literally afraid to go to bed, because I feel, even though insects have tiny little brains, if you try to kill them, or they have previously attacked you, they will come back....like the bad guys in a Steven Seagal movie. And Smitty is out of town, which is perfect, because the damn ant didn't bother him....and now they can feast on their real target...
If I set Lysol around the bed, like a shrine, will that do anything? Or do ants get confused when you touch their little path, what if I literally draw a finger line around the bed? Seriously, bugs are my worst fear, and due to my lovely allergies, I'm itchy anyway so it's hard to distinguish the pyscho-somatic itching and the real thing. Do ants carry any lethal diseases??
In the meantime, my fear of bugs has grown to an alarming level. At 4:15 a.m., I woke up with a start. As I am nowhere near a morning person or an early rising person, I thought, "What the hell? Why am I awake?" Approximately, 4 times in a 10-minute period, it felt like a needle had stabbed me, in the left ankle, the right ankle, the left and right elbows, until I thought, "While originally, I thought I may've established the first case of restless foot syndrome, this really hurts." I got up, went to the bathroom to confirm 5-6 bites that looked like I had just gotten shots and were very itchy. I then went into the bedroom, turned on my night table lamp, and threw back the covers.
There, staring at me with a defiant look was Monty the Ant. I have seriously never seen an ant this big. I don't do bugs, and the only ants I recall are fire ants and wood ants. This little hooligan was as big as my pinky fingernail with a little actual hair. He looked at me as if to challenge my authority, and I scooped him up in toilet paper, but left the sample on the counter so I could show Smitty, since he did NOT wake up, so he could I identify if I were going to die from some rare Alabama ant disease.
This morning before I got into the shower, I unfolded my little friend, and there he was, all squished up, presumably dead. After I got out of the shower, I checked the Kleenex so I could show Smitty, and he had vanished. I looked all over the bathroom, as this was an injured ant with what I presume to be very little pep and vigor...no where to be found. Great. Smitty informs me had I crushed his thorax, he would have died and never made a break for it. I called him a nerd and told him to shut up.
So, for the day, I've been feeling twitchy hairs escaping from my hair, which is way overdue for a haircut and twinges and twitches from nothing at all, although I imagined Monty having curled up in my hairbrush and waiting for his time to shine. Logically, I'm sure he went down the drain or something rational to find water, but I am literally afraid to go to bed, because I feel, even though insects have tiny little brains, if you try to kill them, or they have previously attacked you, they will come back....like the bad guys in a Steven Seagal movie. And Smitty is out of town, which is perfect, because the damn ant didn't bother him....and now they can feast on their real target...
If I set Lysol around the bed, like a shrine, will that do anything? Or do ants get confused when you touch their little path, what if I literally draw a finger line around the bed? Seriously, bugs are my worst fear, and due to my lovely allergies, I'm itchy anyway so it's hard to distinguish the pyscho-somatic itching and the real thing. Do ants carry any lethal diseases??
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The thoughts that knock about...
Tomorrow will be the 1-year anniversary of my father's death. Damn. One whole year. In some respects, it seems like yesterday, and in others, it seems like 10 years ago. It affected me; in more ways than I admit, other than Smitty dragging unpleasant feelings out of me, it still affects me. This is part 1 of my Adrian Perry Gaither III tribute blog...(and frankly, I can do as many as I want...it's my damn blog)
I want to call my dad every day to tell him things like they're showing Elizabeth Taylor movies on AMC and discuss her life and tell him that I'm reading Marilyn Monroe's biography, and wow, what a trollop she was....and that I broke into hives on my arm, did he ever do that, since we share odd physical traits?
Do you know that he taught me the joys of riding in an un-air-conditioned truck in the dead freaking heat of Mississippi in a pick-up truck, with the windows almost completely rolled down, listening to Paul Harvey? And the fun of that were those were the days he took me to work with him at EMCC to show me off and take me to Brigg's, who made the best homemade French fries I've ever had, to this day. I was like 8, and met his friend Larry Salter, who taught psychology, and I said, "Psychology, huh? The ego, the id, it reads like stereo instructions, don't you think? It's tiring." First of all, I was EIGHT; second of all, I made a new friend for life.
I never would've known about the Smothers Brothers and the Yo-Yo Man or the complete odyssey of Elvis Presley, and I had the joy of having him teach me speech and English Lit, although, damn, he was a hard-ass. He critiqued my speeches ruthlessly, saying I "played with my hair too much," and he actually counted the times I said "like" and "um," damn smartass. He still gave me As, but I assure you, I had to work for them.
My mom asked me tonight if I realized tomorrow was the anniversary...it's funny, I'm terrible with dates, honestly, I'm horrible. Outside family, if I remember your birthday, you are gold to me. Otherwise, I'm useless with dates. Honestly, I'd forget our anniversary before Smitty would, but luckily, 11/25 is an easily date for me to remember. But, my dad's death, I will remember. I will do something tomorrow to commemorate, just for myself, if nothing else. I want to pick up the phone and call his snarky ass, and this is why I find death unfair.
Maybe I'm a woman child, I dunno, I don't think that I will ever be "over" losing him. We had too many memories and commonalities. He loved the ocean when we were little. I loved the ocean when I was super little, although one fateful summer day when were at Gulf Shores, it was raining, and we watched TV inside...Jaws 3...I have literally set foot past my ankles three times in 20 years as a result of that movie.
Further, the next day, the sun came out, and he was all about the ocean again. I refused...and he wanted a picture with me and my sister on our rafts. I had recently been given a kidnapping lesson at school, so when he tried to literally force me on the raft, I screamed, "He is NOT my father! I want to go home!" and those damn tourists completely ignored me, and there is a picture of me, forced on a raft, crying, but where it could be interpreted as really awkward smile. I made him regret that later.
We had a dog, Clyde, a black cocker spaniel, that my brother "gave us" when I was about 7. He was the sweetest dog on the planet. He was the best possible dog for kids, all he wanted was to be petted and loved, and we actually had him the longest we had a dog (prior to Mr. Norton, of course), and he got flattened in front of me and my mom one summer day by a grain truck, that not only saw that he killed the dog, but saw us reacting to him killing our dog, and he kept right on driving.
I saw my dad cry one of the maybe 3 times in my whole life when he collected Clyde and buried him in our backyard under a Christmas tree-esque tree in our backyard. He loved dogs and detested cats as much as I do, and it's funny, I feel like a part of his spirit of his stays alive in Norton, because of how much he loved him. They went to the post office every day, they attempted fetch, but Norton doesn't do fetch, and he genuinely kept my dad company.
I will leave you with a funny story, as tomorrow might be a dark, suicidal post..(nah, not really) I was really good friends in high school with a black guy named Romero. He and my boyfriend John were going to drive to pick me up for a movie. Not that my dad was ever a racist, but he never made things easy for anyone ever picking me up. So, John and Romero arrived, and I leapt to the door, "We're ready, I'm leaving, see you later," but he had to meet everyone. He had met my boyfriend John before, but he met my friend Romero, shook his hand, and said to him, "If you're cool with Emily, you're cool with me..." I wanted to die, while Romero and John were hyperventilating from laughter, and then he yelled, "She turns into a pumpkin at midnight!!" If I had could've crawled under the seat, I would've.
I want to call my dad every day to tell him things like they're showing Elizabeth Taylor movies on AMC and discuss her life and tell him that I'm reading Marilyn Monroe's biography, and wow, what a trollop she was....and that I broke into hives on my arm, did he ever do that, since we share odd physical traits?
Do you know that he taught me the joys of riding in an un-air-conditioned truck in the dead freaking heat of Mississippi in a pick-up truck, with the windows almost completely rolled down, listening to Paul Harvey? And the fun of that were those were the days he took me to work with him at EMCC to show me off and take me to Brigg's, who made the best homemade French fries I've ever had, to this day. I was like 8, and met his friend Larry Salter, who taught psychology, and I said, "Psychology, huh? The ego, the id, it reads like stereo instructions, don't you think? It's tiring." First of all, I was EIGHT; second of all, I made a new friend for life.
I never would've known about the Smothers Brothers and the Yo-Yo Man or the complete odyssey of Elvis Presley, and I had the joy of having him teach me speech and English Lit, although, damn, he was a hard-ass. He critiqued my speeches ruthlessly, saying I "played with my hair too much," and he actually counted the times I said "like" and "um," damn smartass. He still gave me As, but I assure you, I had to work for them.
My mom asked me tonight if I realized tomorrow was the anniversary...it's funny, I'm terrible with dates, honestly, I'm horrible. Outside family, if I remember your birthday, you are gold to me. Otherwise, I'm useless with dates. Honestly, I'd forget our anniversary before Smitty would, but luckily, 11/25 is an easily date for me to remember. But, my dad's death, I will remember. I will do something tomorrow to commemorate, just for myself, if nothing else. I want to pick up the phone and call his snarky ass, and this is why I find death unfair.
Maybe I'm a woman child, I dunno, I don't think that I will ever be "over" losing him. We had too many memories and commonalities. He loved the ocean when we were little. I loved the ocean when I was super little, although one fateful summer day when were at Gulf Shores, it was raining, and we watched TV inside...Jaws 3...I have literally set foot past my ankles three times in 20 years as a result of that movie.
Further, the next day, the sun came out, and he was all about the ocean again. I refused...and he wanted a picture with me and my sister on our rafts. I had recently been given a kidnapping lesson at school, so when he tried to literally force me on the raft, I screamed, "He is NOT my father! I want to go home!" and those damn tourists completely ignored me, and there is a picture of me, forced on a raft, crying, but where it could be interpreted as really awkward smile. I made him regret that later.
We had a dog, Clyde, a black cocker spaniel, that my brother "gave us" when I was about 7. He was the sweetest dog on the planet. He was the best possible dog for kids, all he wanted was to be petted and loved, and we actually had him the longest we had a dog (prior to Mr. Norton, of course), and he got flattened in front of me and my mom one summer day by a grain truck, that not only saw that he killed the dog, but saw us reacting to him killing our dog, and he kept right on driving.
I saw my dad cry one of the maybe 3 times in my whole life when he collected Clyde and buried him in our backyard under a Christmas tree-esque tree in our backyard. He loved dogs and detested cats as much as I do, and it's funny, I feel like a part of his spirit of his stays alive in Norton, because of how much he loved him. They went to the post office every day, they attempted fetch, but Norton doesn't do fetch, and he genuinely kept my dad company.
I will leave you with a funny story, as tomorrow might be a dark, suicidal post..(nah, not really) I was really good friends in high school with a black guy named Romero. He and my boyfriend John were going to drive to pick me up for a movie. Not that my dad was ever a racist, but he never made things easy for anyone ever picking me up. So, John and Romero arrived, and I leapt to the door, "We're ready, I'm leaving, see you later," but he had to meet everyone. He had met my boyfriend John before, but he met my friend Romero, shook his hand, and said to him, "If you're cool with Emily, you're cool with me..." I wanted to die, while Romero and John were hyperventilating from laughter, and then he yelled, "She turns into a pumpkin at midnight!!" If I had could've crawled under the seat, I would've.
"Dad, your guiding hand on my shoulder will remain with me forever."
Author Unknown
Monday, April 04, 2011
The 80s and me..
I'm currently watching "Karate Kid Part II" and thinking about a. There is NO Karate Kid unless it's Ralph Macchio and b. They just don't make movies like they did in the 80s. There were so many movies with an underdog and "the mean people." It was usually a glaring class sort of a thing; the underdog was poor, be it Daniel LaRusso or any one of Molly Ringwald or Anthony Michael Hall's characters, and the mean guy, who was always William Zabka, was rich.
I guess growing up in the 80s, I was 13 when 1990 came about, the 80s are where most of my cultural upbringing originated. Yesterday, when driving back from my sister's, I listened to Casey Kasem's Top 40 replay from April 1986..wow. It was full of one-hit wonders, Loverboy, and a long-distance dedication featuring Lionel Ritchie. Awesome. I mean, honestly, the movies and music were so cheesy, but you can easily tell from 30 seconds of either, from which decade it came.
My sister and I used to tape the Top 40 every Sunday, well actually, we had to physically listen to the Top 40, have the cassette tape ready to go, and record our favorite songs, including, but not limited to: "Right Here Waiting" -- Richard Marx, "Hard to Say I'm Sorry" -- Chicago, "What Have You Done for Me Lately? -- Janet Jackson, "Hold On" -- Wilson Phillips, and "All I Need" -- Jack Wagner. I kept a large majority of those tapes in a bag in my car until I bought a car that wouldn't play cassette tapes. It was awesome, hearing the broadcast before the actual song, and we would either cut it short or let it run too long. I bet my 9-year-old niece doesn't even know what a cassette tape is...*sigh* I'm turning into my damn dad...even more so...
On a different note, I heard a story today about black members of the NAACP being upset that Hispanics have been appointed as presidents of local chapters. A black minister in Worcester, Mass., said that "the NAACP was set up for black people, that black people have specific issues, and that their agenda would likely be hijacked by non-colored members being appointed to positions of power." He then likened letting Hispanics into the NAACP to the National Organization for Women letting in men. I'm sorry, but that is not the same thing. The NAACP is the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, and I think trying to keep Hispanics or Asians or anyone of color from being an integral part of it isn't much different than racist whites interpreting "all men are created equal" to mean all white, free men. It's 2011, and I think everyone's "agenda" should be the same, and discrimination in any form should not be tolerated.
"We all should know that diversity makes for a rich tapestry, and we must understand that all the threads of the tapestry are equal in value, no matter what their color."
-- Maya Angelou
I guess growing up in the 80s, I was 13 when 1990 came about, the 80s are where most of my cultural upbringing originated. Yesterday, when driving back from my sister's, I listened to Casey Kasem's Top 40 replay from April 1986..wow. It was full of one-hit wonders, Loverboy, and a long-distance dedication featuring Lionel Ritchie. Awesome. I mean, honestly, the movies and music were so cheesy, but you can easily tell from 30 seconds of either, from which decade it came.
My sister and I used to tape the Top 40 every Sunday, well actually, we had to physically listen to the Top 40, have the cassette tape ready to go, and record our favorite songs, including, but not limited to: "Right Here Waiting" -- Richard Marx, "Hard to Say I'm Sorry" -- Chicago, "What Have You Done for Me Lately? -- Janet Jackson, "Hold On" -- Wilson Phillips, and "All I Need" -- Jack Wagner. I kept a large majority of those tapes in a bag in my car until I bought a car that wouldn't play cassette tapes. It was awesome, hearing the broadcast before the actual song, and we would either cut it short or let it run too long. I bet my 9-year-old niece doesn't even know what a cassette tape is...*sigh* I'm turning into my damn dad...even more so...
On a different note, I heard a story today about black members of the NAACP being upset that Hispanics have been appointed as presidents of local chapters. A black minister in Worcester, Mass., said that "the NAACP was set up for black people, that black people have specific issues, and that their agenda would likely be hijacked by non-colored members being appointed to positions of power." He then likened letting Hispanics into the NAACP to the National Organization for Women letting in men. I'm sorry, but that is not the same thing. The NAACP is the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, and I think trying to keep Hispanics or Asians or anyone of color from being an integral part of it isn't much different than racist whites interpreting "all men are created equal" to mean all white, free men. It's 2011, and I think everyone's "agenda" should be the same, and discrimination in any form should not be tolerated.
"We all should know that diversity makes for a rich tapestry, and we must understand that all the threads of the tapestry are equal in value, no matter what their color."
-- Maya Angelou
Monday, March 28, 2011
Those who make us Yosemite Sam mad
I'm worried about a friend of mine. We've been friends for 15 years, and he periodically disappears and reappears and goes to rehab and gets okay and then descends into madness again. I'm pretty pissed, actually. I'm tired of losing people I love. It's funny, the people who come in and out of your life, who maybe at the time don't seem that significant, but who do have a pretty big impact.
I think addiction is selfish. There, I said it. My father was an alcoholic, and while he never laid one single hand on me in anger, it stole a part of my relationship with him. As close as we were and as much as we shared, I can't imagine what our complete relationship might've been, had that not been a part of him. I have had other issues with family addiction, which are not currently my story to tell, but they steal parts of me. The addicted person has no concept of their effect on other people, and I know this is a part of addiction, but that weakness makes me so angry, that I have a hard time coming to grips with it.
I've grappled with my own issues; I'll be the first to admit that I am nowhere near perfect. Alcohol has caused problems for me in the past, and I recognized it enough to metaphorically kick my own ass and pull myself out of it. I would never want to cause pain or suffering to anyone I love, and that is the thing that keeps me most grounded. I think that I don't and will probably never understand true addiction because I can't fathom picturing those who I love most so worried about me that it makes them sick or truly alters their lives.
It's funny the things that seemed commonplace or "okay" 10 years ago are most assuredly not okay now, when you have families and spouses and mortgages and responsibilities to consider. I have and do love some people that have deep roots in addiction and self-destruction, and it's literally like being stuck between a rock and a hard place. You don't want to turn your back and think you could've done something differently, but in truth, there's nothing you, singularly, could do to change a course of events.
For over 10 years, I've harbored a guilt that an ex-boyfriend I had reconnected with killed himself because I didn't answer a call the weekend that he shot himself. I thought it was cool that we were friends, but we needed to understand distance and what that meant, and when I didn't answer his call and was told 2 days later that he killed himself, I lived with, and partially still live with, the nagging thought that it's my fault, that if I had picked up the phone, I could've changed something or said something. If guilt were a talent, I could rock it at Miss America..srsly, I have a gift generally bestowed to the Jewish.
My point is, no one can make anyone do anything or choose a path or decide their fate. I am so worried about you, J.C., and I want to literally kick you in your ass, but you have to decide, in the words of the immortal Morgan Freeman (well, Stephen King, really) "Get busy living or get busy dying." For real. People with the talent that you possess are bound for greatness, you just have to find that opportunity, and I swear if you come out of this, I will cry with joy and punch you in the throat. I feel the Yosemite Sam anger rising....
I think addiction is selfish. There, I said it. My father was an alcoholic, and while he never laid one single hand on me in anger, it stole a part of my relationship with him. As close as we were and as much as we shared, I can't imagine what our complete relationship might've been, had that not been a part of him. I have had other issues with family addiction, which are not currently my story to tell, but they steal parts of me. The addicted person has no concept of their effect on other people, and I know this is a part of addiction, but that weakness makes me so angry, that I have a hard time coming to grips with it.
I've grappled with my own issues; I'll be the first to admit that I am nowhere near perfect. Alcohol has caused problems for me in the past, and I recognized it enough to metaphorically kick my own ass and pull myself out of it. I would never want to cause pain or suffering to anyone I love, and that is the thing that keeps me most grounded. I think that I don't and will probably never understand true addiction because I can't fathom picturing those who I love most so worried about me that it makes them sick or truly alters their lives.
It's funny the things that seemed commonplace or "okay" 10 years ago are most assuredly not okay now, when you have families and spouses and mortgages and responsibilities to consider. I have and do love some people that have deep roots in addiction and self-destruction, and it's literally like being stuck between a rock and a hard place. You don't want to turn your back and think you could've done something differently, but in truth, there's nothing you, singularly, could do to change a course of events.
For over 10 years, I've harbored a guilt that an ex-boyfriend I had reconnected with killed himself because I didn't answer a call the weekend that he shot himself. I thought it was cool that we were friends, but we needed to understand distance and what that meant, and when I didn't answer his call and was told 2 days later that he killed himself, I lived with, and partially still live with, the nagging thought that it's my fault, that if I had picked up the phone, I could've changed something or said something. If guilt were a talent, I could rock it at Miss America..srsly, I have a gift generally bestowed to the Jewish.
My point is, no one can make anyone do anything or choose a path or decide their fate. I am so worried about you, J.C., and I want to literally kick you in your ass, but you have to decide, in the words of the immortal Morgan Freeman (well, Stephen King, really) "Get busy living or get busy dying." For real. People with the talent that you possess are bound for greatness, you just have to find that opportunity, and I swear if you come out of this, I will cry with joy and punch you in the throat. I feel the Yosemite Sam anger rising....
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Not in a state of yo
I'm anxious. I've been this way for about a month now. I can't pinpoint what's causing it. I have a few ideas, but until I mull them over, I think I'll keep them to myself for a bit. Smitty says I share too much information anyway. That may be true, but as a writer, I genuinely feel I don't need to hide anything about myself. Yes, I walk into doors and fall into holes and wore two bras to work one day...that's the beauty of me...
I just saw a commercial for a Senior Citizen dating website. In theory, that's nice, although creepy. In reality, it brings to mind that my grandmother mentioned to my sister recently that my mother should "find somebody." It's been less than a year since my father died. While I don't begrudge my mother having another relationship, I think maybe more than a year should pass since your husband of 48 years' death before you start dating. And also, I would like to say for the record, this is not something for which I'm ready. If this happens soon, I will actually need therapy and will have to stop joking about the fake need for it.
Disorganized people can have children, right? I've been thinking about the whole "little person" (baby, not midget) thing seriously lately, and I worry. On the one hand, we always have milk and canned goods, and we have guns to fight against zombies and baby kidnappers, but on the other hand, I have sand in my car, and I don't know from where, there is a pile of at least 15 pairs of shoes on the floor in front of my dresser, and I think Jimmy Hoffa is in my closet.
Children need structure and order, but they also need milk (which we have) and maybe they need beets and oysters in a tin, which we also have ... for some reason. And they need creativity and imagination, which I have, in droves, and acceptance and love and unconditional support, but also a kick in their asses, which Smitty and I can both provide. I think we'll be okay...I just worry...these random things are the things that keep my neck in knots and cause insomnia and weird dreams and thoughts.
I think that Smitty and I balance each other out well enough to have ONE (only one) well-adjusted child. If you had told me 10 years ago I would marry a gun nut with more than a touch of OCD who lives for football season, I would've called shenanigans. But, I imagine if you had told him that he would marry a Noxubee County yellow-dog Democrat with no coordination who frequently runs out of gas and sings a soundtrack that ranges from Frank Sinatra to Carrie Underwood to Concrete Blonde to Sheri Lewis, and sings 80% of the words wrong, he would've guffawed and called his own shenanigans...but it works...oh, how it works. I internally give thanks every day for him.
I'm very excited to be on a reading dervish again. When my ADHD kicks in, I don't want to read, but I think recently, I need inspiration and a bit of escape..and I refuse to play any weird, role-playing games. I feel good things are afoot for Team Smittily. We'll see how it unfolds.
I just saw a commercial for a Senior Citizen dating website. In theory, that's nice, although creepy. In reality, it brings to mind that my grandmother mentioned to my sister recently that my mother should "find somebody." It's been less than a year since my father died. While I don't begrudge my mother having another relationship, I think maybe more than a year should pass since your husband of 48 years' death before you start dating. And also, I would like to say for the record, this is not something for which I'm ready. If this happens soon, I will actually need therapy and will have to stop joking about the fake need for it.
Disorganized people can have children, right? I've been thinking about the whole "little person" (baby, not midget) thing seriously lately, and I worry. On the one hand, we always have milk and canned goods, and we have guns to fight against zombies and baby kidnappers, but on the other hand, I have sand in my car, and I don't know from where, there is a pile of at least 15 pairs of shoes on the floor in front of my dresser, and I think Jimmy Hoffa is in my closet.
Children need structure and order, but they also need milk (which we have) and maybe they need beets and oysters in a tin, which we also have ... for some reason. And they need creativity and imagination, which I have, in droves, and acceptance and love and unconditional support, but also a kick in their asses, which Smitty and I can both provide. I think we'll be okay...I just worry...these random things are the things that keep my neck in knots and cause insomnia and weird dreams and thoughts.
I think that Smitty and I balance each other out well enough to have ONE (only one) well-adjusted child. If you had told me 10 years ago I would marry a gun nut with more than a touch of OCD who lives for football season, I would've called shenanigans. But, I imagine if you had told him that he would marry a Noxubee County yellow-dog Democrat with no coordination who frequently runs out of gas and sings a soundtrack that ranges from Frank Sinatra to Carrie Underwood to Concrete Blonde to Sheri Lewis, and sings 80% of the words wrong, he would've guffawed and called his own shenanigans...but it works...oh, how it works. I internally give thanks every day for him.
I'm very excited to be on a reading dervish again. When my ADHD kicks in, I don't want to read, but I think recently, I need inspiration and a bit of escape..and I refuse to play any weird, role-playing games. I feel good things are afoot for Team Smittily. We'll see how it unfolds.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
With the lights off, it's less dangerous, here we are now, entertain us
I'm having a day where I just want to scream and shoot a loud gun at some cans or a target with Sarah Palin's face. For over two weeks, I am seemingly incapable of unclenching. I lost a job I applied for within my company, and I'm okay with that on the face of it, but I'm reaching an odd point where I feel if I have to hear one more sob story or blatant lie in the course of a work day, I'm going to strip off my clothes and start acting like a monkey.
It is approaching the 1-year anniversary of my father's death, and it really hasn't gotten much easier to accept that he's not available for me to call and talk about the Oscars or what Norton is doing or what he thought about the super computer kicking ass at Jeopardy. This has not been a great year for me since last April. I keep going through stages where I think I'm okay and then I'm sooo not okay. I don't want to talk about my feelings all the time, though, I really don't, so Smitty has (thank GOD) identified and accepted my pattern of denial, denial, denial, then teary breakdown and catharsis...I couldn't be more grateful to have that tall drink of water as my husband than if I were Charlie Sheen and he was a big bag of cocaine.
On a completely different note, Smitty is gone until Saturday, and I'm concerned. What if a snake crawls in the house, or I start a fire, or hit my head on a cabinet and become concussed? See, this is not cool. I lived by myself for almost 10 years and was relatively self-sufficient, although I did have a family of rats living behind my stove in one apartment and had "Fight Club" in the garage of a house I rented in college, although I had roommates...I'm just saying, clearly, I can function by myself, but when I get used to having Smitty around to rub the head I bang on the freezer and use the scary Japanese knife that cuts the onions the best, I feel unsure.
Seriously, I just miss the hell out of him. He is my best friend...go vomit if you like, and I like having him around. However, we do, in fact, need time apart. He needs to do family stuff and outdoor man stuff like fishing and talking about bears and Nazis, and I need my time to play games and sing karaoke and perhaps attend an 80s movie showing. It's the glue, people....
I need a creative outlet other than this blog...desperately. I'm thinking of trolling for local writer's conferences and collecting money on the side of the road for the registration fee. I have got to feed this crazy brain with something other than fluff and piffle. How fun are those words? Let me know if you have any leads...
I leave you with this:
-- "Oh, the Places You'll Go!" Dr. Seuss
It is approaching the 1-year anniversary of my father's death, and it really hasn't gotten much easier to accept that he's not available for me to call and talk about the Oscars or what Norton is doing or what he thought about the super computer kicking ass at Jeopardy. This has not been a great year for me since last April. I keep going through stages where I think I'm okay and then I'm sooo not okay. I don't want to talk about my feelings all the time, though, I really don't, so Smitty has (thank GOD) identified and accepted my pattern of denial, denial, denial, then teary breakdown and catharsis...I couldn't be more grateful to have that tall drink of water as my husband than if I were Charlie Sheen and he was a big bag of cocaine.
On a completely different note, Smitty is gone until Saturday, and I'm concerned. What if a snake crawls in the house, or I start a fire, or hit my head on a cabinet and become concussed? See, this is not cool. I lived by myself for almost 10 years and was relatively self-sufficient, although I did have a family of rats living behind my stove in one apartment and had "Fight Club" in the garage of a house I rented in college, although I had roommates...I'm just saying, clearly, I can function by myself, but when I get used to having Smitty around to rub the head I bang on the freezer and use the scary Japanese knife that cuts the onions the best, I feel unsure.
Seriously, I just miss the hell out of him. He is my best friend...go vomit if you like, and I like having him around. However, we do, in fact, need time apart. He needs to do family stuff and outdoor man stuff like fishing and talking about bears and Nazis, and I need my time to play games and sing karaoke and perhaps attend an 80s movie showing. It's the glue, people....
I need a creative outlet other than this blog...desperately. I'm thinking of trolling for local writer's conferences and collecting money on the side of the road for the registration fee. I have got to feed this crazy brain with something other than fluff and piffle. How fun are those words? Let me know if you have any leads...
I leave you with this:
"You'll get mixed up, of course,
as you already know.
You'll get mixed up
with many strange birds as you go.
So be sure when you step.
Step with care and great tact
and remember that Life's
a Great Balancing Act.
Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.
And never mix up your right foot with your left."
as you already know.
You'll get mixed up
with many strange birds as you go.
So be sure when you step.
Step with care and great tact
and remember that Life's
a Great Balancing Act.
Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.
And never mix up your right foot with your left."
Friday, March 11, 2011
The Westboro Baptist Church and when God hated Emily
Sorry I've been AWOL the last few weeks. For the 4 of you that keep up with my blog, I'm sure you've been devastated. Sometimes, as a writer and a human being, I don't feel I have anything interesting to say. If I got paid to blog, I'm sure I could scrape out some bon mots in a hurry, but as it were, life and stress and headaches like Sumo wrestlers resting on my head intervened, and I went silent.
I've been following with amused detachment the cuckoo-kachoo Westboro Baptist Church in the news recently. This is the group of people based in Kansas who have decided to picket dead soldiers' funerals, because the war and/or the soldiers have something to do with homosexuality or the general loss of godliness. I'm not clear on the details, because these people are certifiable. I have, in fact, tangled with them before.
Picture it: Columbus, Mississippi, early-2002. A young, winsome girl is a plucky copy editor at a local daily newspaper. Alright, I was a cranky copy editor at a newspaper that paid me just above the poverty line...oh, and the Dorothy Hamill haircut-having boss I had treated me like something that she scraped off her shoe. Among my many genuinely important duties, I had to periodically check the fax machine. Heaven forbid, an important Rotary meeting or mayoral appearance fell through the cracks. One particular day, I pulled a press release off the fax machine, and in the boldest, largest font, it read, " Matthew Shephard burning in hell since 1999," with a link listed "www.godhatesfags.org."
I was absolutely horrified, and I forget why we were even receiving the fax. It may have been the year they picketed the University of Southern Mississippi for something inane, but my liberal sensibilities were shaken. Who were these people? Who gave them the right to invoke God's name in the name of hate? So, I went to their horrid website, saw more of the same, and immediately fired off an e-mail to them, something to the effect of "I don't know to what God you're praying, but my God doesn't foster hate and judgment and would never lend his name to a group as horrible as yours. You should be ashamed of yourselves." And then, as I always did, signed Emily Gaither, Copy Editor, Commercial Dispatch. Not because I was speaking for the paper, but because I wanted them to know why I knew who they were, and a title lends a certain strength, I guess.
Maybe about 12 hours later, we got a fax that said "God hates Emily and the Commercial Dispatch," with a press release detailing how they were planning to visit our city, picket the newspaper and also several local churches...why, I have no idea. Let me explain another thing, the managing editor and two of our reporters were gay. However, Emily was taking up the indignant cause of the rainbow at this particular point. Turns out, the managing editor was in agreement with me until she related this latest development to the executive editor/OWNER of the newspaper.
In short: He e-mailed or contacted these people, and what I like to imagine is that he told them I was a renegade, a rebel, a liberal with no connections, and I did not speak for the newspaper. I have to believe he must've also told them that he supported their wacked-out views, or they would've come anyway, but, whatever...Also, I was suspended from work for a day because I had nearly brought the crazies to Main Street, and at the time I was A. Extremely grateful for not losing my job and B. Extremely grateful I wouldn't have to explain to several news stations how these people had come to be in Mississippi.
In retrospect, had I had the boss that hired me, he would've welcomed the controversy, and I might've ended up on the national news, who knows, but I find it ridiculously amusing that the conservative nation as a whole is outraged by these people, who began, as far as I can tell, out of hate for a dead, gay teenager who never harmed anyone, yet endured the most awful, brutal hate crime since segregation days. They wouldn't have identified with that, which is bad enough, but when it comes to the troops, that's when we start to care. Personally, I like to believe that everyone's death is tragic, and one doesn't weigh more than the other.
Also, Westboro Baptist Church is batshit crazy. They're all related, they're all attorneys, and they know everything imaginable about the First Amendment. Smart, insane people...like the Unabomber...gives me the chills.
I've been following with amused detachment the cuckoo-kachoo Westboro Baptist Church in the news recently. This is the group of people based in Kansas who have decided to picket dead soldiers' funerals, because the war and/or the soldiers have something to do with homosexuality or the general loss of godliness. I'm not clear on the details, because these people are certifiable. I have, in fact, tangled with them before.
Picture it: Columbus, Mississippi, early-2002. A young, winsome girl is a plucky copy editor at a local daily newspaper. Alright, I was a cranky copy editor at a newspaper that paid me just above the poverty line...oh, and the Dorothy Hamill haircut-having boss I had treated me like something that she scraped off her shoe. Among my many genuinely important duties, I had to periodically check the fax machine. Heaven forbid, an important Rotary meeting or mayoral appearance fell through the cracks. One particular day, I pulled a press release off the fax machine, and in the boldest, largest font, it read, " Matthew Shephard burning in hell since 1999," with a link listed "www.godhatesfags.org."
I was absolutely horrified, and I forget why we were even receiving the fax. It may have been the year they picketed the University of Southern Mississippi for something inane, but my liberal sensibilities were shaken. Who were these people? Who gave them the right to invoke God's name in the name of hate? So, I went to their horrid website, saw more of the same, and immediately fired off an e-mail to them, something to the effect of "I don't know to what God you're praying, but my God doesn't foster hate and judgment and would never lend his name to a group as horrible as yours. You should be ashamed of yourselves." And then, as I always did, signed Emily Gaither, Copy Editor, Commercial Dispatch. Not because I was speaking for the paper, but because I wanted them to know why I knew who they were, and a title lends a certain strength, I guess.
Maybe about 12 hours later, we got a fax that said "God hates Emily and the Commercial Dispatch," with a press release detailing how they were planning to visit our city, picket the newspaper and also several local churches...why, I have no idea. Let me explain another thing, the managing editor and two of our reporters were gay. However, Emily was taking up the indignant cause of the rainbow at this particular point. Turns out, the managing editor was in agreement with me until she related this latest development to the executive editor/OWNER of the newspaper.
In short: He e-mailed or contacted these people, and what I like to imagine is that he told them I was a renegade, a rebel, a liberal with no connections, and I did not speak for the newspaper. I have to believe he must've also told them that he supported their wacked-out views, or they would've come anyway, but, whatever...Also, I was suspended from work for a day because I had nearly brought the crazies to Main Street, and at the time I was A. Extremely grateful for not losing my job and B. Extremely grateful I wouldn't have to explain to several news stations how these people had come to be in Mississippi.
In retrospect, had I had the boss that hired me, he would've welcomed the controversy, and I might've ended up on the national news, who knows, but I find it ridiculously amusing that the conservative nation as a whole is outraged by these people, who began, as far as I can tell, out of hate for a dead, gay teenager who never harmed anyone, yet endured the most awful, brutal hate crime since segregation days. They wouldn't have identified with that, which is bad enough, but when it comes to the troops, that's when we start to care. Personally, I like to believe that everyone's death is tragic, and one doesn't weigh more than the other.
Also, Westboro Baptist Church is batshit crazy. They're all related, they're all attorneys, and they know everything imaginable about the First Amendment. Smart, insane people...like the Unabomber...gives me the chills.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Some things to get off my chest...and my chest is big, so stay with me...
I do not like being stressed. I try to pride myself on using humor and my inner monkey DJ and the other various frenetic things that run about in my brain to keep the stress away....but I have my days. Today was one of those days. I attribute it to the fact that even though I'm on my 89th course of antibiotics, they are not really helping me completely. I was brought up to think that once you had the "good stuff," the Keflex, the Amoxicillin, what have you, you will be cured. With me, not so much. I have basically been sick since September with brief patches of wellness nuzzled in places.
Here's the thing. No, I don't have cancer or something horrible, but constantly being sick with sinuses, allergies, associated migraines with those maladies, it gets really old really fast. I'm not an old person, I'm freaking 33 years old, and I can't make plans that far in advance because I can't say if I'll be well or not. I'm to the point, and I am totally serious, of telling my ENT to remove my septum, my adenoids, my ovaries, and my prostate. Take whatever will fix it, and it can't possibly make it worse. This is a bunch of shit...
On a completely different note, I think it should be acceptable...and encouraged to tell everyone exactly what you think. I haven't so much had problems with this before, as you that know me well, know, but it seems that actually calling people or dumb policies or whatever out, is not acceptable. It also seems that the dumb are rewarded and promoted while the hardworking intelligent are left to flounder and hit a ceiling, because people in charge don't want intelligent people to work with, they want sycophants and yes-men to enforce their inane policies.
I always thought, and was raised to believe, that intelligence would be rewarded, and being the best at what you do made a difference, but sometimes it's political, and sometimes it's the degree behind your name, and a whole host of other ridiculous notions. I want to interject that this is not remotely specific to me at all, that my hard-working high blood pressure-having husband has worked himself to near-insanity and has little to show for it at this point. I want a better life for us. I want for both of us to feel fulfilled and rewarded and at the level at which we should be. I want to get my ass in gear and write, because I want us to have a cook and a maid and monkey butlers. I imagined great things for myself at this age, and I don't disparage myself for current expectations lacking, but, to be honest, I didn't picture a husband in the mix.
I feel that we are working toward good things, and we are doing better than most people our age at this point in the economy, but we are both frustrated, for different reasons. It's a part of life and a part of genuinely growing up, I know, but I've never been patient before, so this is tough. I mostly want Smitty to be rewarded for the time he puts in and the care he takes, and his genuine desire for the job to be done correctly. I never realized that I would care more about someone else's well-being than my own, but I do. I swear, I would create a scenario worthy of Lifetime Movie Network if it would help him. He is the most diligent, hard-working human being I've ever met, and he deserves like a $5 million bonus for all the stuff he's done. Plus, then I could get my maid and monkey butlers.
Here's the thing. No, I don't have cancer or something horrible, but constantly being sick with sinuses, allergies, associated migraines with those maladies, it gets really old really fast. I'm not an old person, I'm freaking 33 years old, and I can't make plans that far in advance because I can't say if I'll be well or not. I'm to the point, and I am totally serious, of telling my ENT to remove my septum, my adenoids, my ovaries, and my prostate. Take whatever will fix it, and it can't possibly make it worse. This is a bunch of shit...
On a completely different note, I think it should be acceptable...and encouraged to tell everyone exactly what you think. I haven't so much had problems with this before, as you that know me well, know, but it seems that actually calling people or dumb policies or whatever out, is not acceptable. It also seems that the dumb are rewarded and promoted while the hardworking intelligent are left to flounder and hit a ceiling, because people in charge don't want intelligent people to work with, they want sycophants and yes-men to enforce their inane policies.
I always thought, and was raised to believe, that intelligence would be rewarded, and being the best at what you do made a difference, but sometimes it's political, and sometimes it's the degree behind your name, and a whole host of other ridiculous notions. I want to interject that this is not remotely specific to me at all, that my hard-working high blood pressure-having husband has worked himself to near-insanity and has little to show for it at this point. I want a better life for us. I want for both of us to feel fulfilled and rewarded and at the level at which we should be. I want to get my ass in gear and write, because I want us to have a cook and a maid and monkey butlers. I imagined great things for myself at this age, and I don't disparage myself for current expectations lacking, but, to be honest, I didn't picture a husband in the mix.
I feel that we are working toward good things, and we are doing better than most people our age at this point in the economy, but we are both frustrated, for different reasons. It's a part of life and a part of genuinely growing up, I know, but I've never been patient before, so this is tough. I mostly want Smitty to be rewarded for the time he puts in and the care he takes, and his genuine desire for the job to be done correctly. I never realized that I would care more about someone else's well-being than my own, but I do. I swear, I would create a scenario worthy of Lifetime Movie Network if it would help him. He is the most diligent, hard-working human being I've ever met, and he deserves like a $5 million bonus for all the stuff he's done. Plus, then I could get my maid and monkey butlers.
Monday, February 14, 2011
An unconventional Valentine's...am I capable of any other kind??
As I have recently mentioned, Smitty and I are not big on Valentine's Day. We subscribe to being loving all year long and not just one commercially-induced day of the year. That being said, we "celebrated" last night, making dinner together and gazing lovingly into each others' eyes..Well, actually, we made dinner together, watched our favorite DVR's shows, and then did some other things I'm not at liberty to discuss...but pants were off..
I have had HORRIBLE previous Valentine's days. In fact, this blog started after the worst one I ever had, where I learned it's best A. not to discuss commitment on your 3rd date, and B. if during that conversation, the guy tells you he doesn't want a commitment, for God's sake, listen. We're friends now, but we both still refer to it as the "St. Valentine's Day Massacre," because we did, in fact, break up on that date, even though we did eventually get back together...only to break up again. Hence, point b. mentioned above.
I began today by driving to work, having my engine nearly catch on fire. Here's how this was a dually-faulted situation: (Once upon a time....)
On Saturday, Smitty sends me a text asking me to check underneath my car because I had left drops of green liquid on the carport. I ask, "What would that be?" He tells me it's radiator coolant, which, if leaking in excess, will burn up the engine. When I left work, I forgot to check it, but the temperature gauge was fine, and he had told me he would check the car on Sunday. Fault 1: I didn't check it. Fault 2: He didn't check it.
This morning, about 75% of the way to work, while sitting at a stoplight, the hood starts to smoke. I don't know what happened, I froze. My only goal was to make it to work. I wasn't at a place I could pull over, and I didn't want to be late for work or have to have him come retrieve me from the side of the road. Plus, I didn't want to be on the side of the road like a vagrant.
So, I drove an additional 8 miles with smoke coming out of the hood and the tailpipe, and eventually, the interior vent, while praying that the car didn't literally catch on fire. It didn't, but smoke did continue to come out of the hood after I turned the car off, and I had to tell our security guard at work, "If a white Aveo catches on fire, please page me on the intercom." Seriously...
So, now, we have the part, not installed yet, and we don't know if the engine is damaged. Apparently, the hose that connects the radiator and engine has a thermostat inside, and that exploded...The dealership told Smitty it was made of plastic. So, I am entirely correct when I say my car is made out of plastic. How incredibly unsafe.
So, all is well, considering, and this is a perfect example of how Smitty is a paragon of patience when it comes to dealing with me. He wanted to yell; oh, how he wanted to yell. But he restrained himself, only asking, "Why would you keep driving with smoke coming out of the hood?" I gave him my aforementioned reasons, and I'm sure there was sighing and eye-rolling when he read my e-mail response, but I didn't have to see it. God bless that tall, patient man. He even took me to dinner, so technically, we celebrated Valentine's Day..that's how we roll...
"Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be."
Robert Browning
I have had HORRIBLE previous Valentine's days. In fact, this blog started after the worst one I ever had, where I learned it's best A. not to discuss commitment on your 3rd date, and B. if during that conversation, the guy tells you he doesn't want a commitment, for God's sake, listen. We're friends now, but we both still refer to it as the "St. Valentine's Day Massacre," because we did, in fact, break up on that date, even though we did eventually get back together...only to break up again. Hence, point b. mentioned above.
I began today by driving to work, having my engine nearly catch on fire. Here's how this was a dually-faulted situation: (Once upon a time....)
On Saturday, Smitty sends me a text asking me to check underneath my car because I had left drops of green liquid on the carport. I ask, "What would that be?" He tells me it's radiator coolant, which, if leaking in excess, will burn up the engine. When I left work, I forgot to check it, but the temperature gauge was fine, and he had told me he would check the car on Sunday. Fault 1: I didn't check it. Fault 2: He didn't check it.
This morning, about 75% of the way to work, while sitting at a stoplight, the hood starts to smoke. I don't know what happened, I froze. My only goal was to make it to work. I wasn't at a place I could pull over, and I didn't want to be late for work or have to have him come retrieve me from the side of the road. Plus, I didn't want to be on the side of the road like a vagrant.
So, I drove an additional 8 miles with smoke coming out of the hood and the tailpipe, and eventually, the interior vent, while praying that the car didn't literally catch on fire. It didn't, but smoke did continue to come out of the hood after I turned the car off, and I had to tell our security guard at work, "If a white Aveo catches on fire, please page me on the intercom." Seriously...
So, now, we have the part, not installed yet, and we don't know if the engine is damaged. Apparently, the hose that connects the radiator and engine has a thermostat inside, and that exploded...The dealership told Smitty it was made of plastic. So, I am entirely correct when I say my car is made out of plastic. How incredibly unsafe.
So, all is well, considering, and this is a perfect example of how Smitty is a paragon of patience when it comes to dealing with me. He wanted to yell; oh, how he wanted to yell. But he restrained himself, only asking, "Why would you keep driving with smoke coming out of the hood?" I gave him my aforementioned reasons, and I'm sure there was sighing and eye-rolling when he read my e-mail response, but I didn't have to see it. God bless that tall, patient man. He even took me to dinner, so technically, we celebrated Valentine's Day..that's how we roll...
"Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be."
Robert Browning
Friday, February 11, 2011
Slip slidin' away
I am a strange person. Yes, it's like a Strange Person Anonymous meeting, "Hi, I'm Emily, and I'm strange." I have weird physical issues, like being allergic to everything they test you for, sinus infections can quickly turn into pneumonia, flu, or strep throat for me because it takes at least 2 rounds of antibiotics to cure anything I have, just tonight, my left hand and the side of my face broke out in hives for no apparent reason, and any prescription meds tend to do the opposite to me that they do to normal folks. This really only started to happen about 3 years ago, and let me say, it is not fun at all; yet, I have to laugh at it or I would be on Thorazine.
Which brings me to....I'm kind of an emotional basket case. I suspect I've always been this way, but being from a family of basket cases, notice to my special brand of nuts may've slipped through the cracks. Also, while I have had numerous serious relationships before marrying Smitty, I may've dated some emotional retards who don't know the difference. Only recently have I started to realize my cuckoo-cachoo-ness.
First off, for someone who truly likes to talk as much as I do, I don't really like to talk about things that are bothering me. I think this hearkens back to no one particularly listening before and also not wanting to whine about my "feelings." I don't blame my parents for my messed-up communication skills, and I have no interest in talking to a therapist who wants to make them the main focus. Not saying they don't factor in, just saying that it's a complete cop-out to blame your parents for your issues....unless of course your parents are the Gottis or the kind of people that kept children hidden in the basement. That's a whole other ball of wax...(bowl of wax? what does that phrase even mean?)
Smitty is the best possible human being I could've married. Not only is he funny and sexy and just the cat's pajamas in so many, many ways, he "gets" me. He knows I'm struggling with things when I don't even know, and he knows what they are, when I'm not ready to put a name to them. He has a knack for knowing when I am ready to talk and when I will not be forced to talk. It's a beautiful thing, marrying someone like that, an actual "man's man," who is emotionally in touch enough with me to know all of those things that make my little squirrel-on-crack brain work overtime.
I've had this weird anxiety for about 3 weeks. I'm not sleeping well, I'm grinding my jaw constantly, am very fidgety, and eating everything in sight. It's kind of an anxiety/compulsion combination, and I, after Smitty cornered me to talk tonight, finally think I've got a handle on it. That is to say, I know what it is, and now, I just have to go about fixing it or developing better coping mechanisms. I'll say this and nothing else on the matter: "Family, you can't live with them; you can't borrow Lizzie Borden's axe to slaughter them." It's so silly; in some respects, I'm like a guy. Information must literally be dragged out of me, I don't like emotional conversations or conversations about "what direction we're headed," but then I suppose the girl part of me feels like a weight has been lifted once I actually get things out of my crazy mind.
I think that's because in most ways, we all just want to feel like we're not alone, and I know that I'm not, but these little reminders help reinforce that..and are constantly letting me know how lucky I am to not only not be alone but to be not alone with someone who can descramble my addled psyche when it needs it.
"Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of joy, you must have somebody to divide it with."
- Mark Twain
Which brings me to....I'm kind of an emotional basket case. I suspect I've always been this way, but being from a family of basket cases, notice to my special brand of nuts may've slipped through the cracks. Also, while I have had numerous serious relationships before marrying Smitty, I may've dated some emotional retards who don't know the difference. Only recently have I started to realize my cuckoo-cachoo-ness.
First off, for someone who truly likes to talk as much as I do, I don't really like to talk about things that are bothering me. I think this hearkens back to no one particularly listening before and also not wanting to whine about my "feelings." I don't blame my parents for my messed-up communication skills, and I have no interest in talking to a therapist who wants to make them the main focus. Not saying they don't factor in, just saying that it's a complete cop-out to blame your parents for your issues....unless of course your parents are the Gottis or the kind of people that kept children hidden in the basement. That's a whole other ball of wax...(bowl of wax? what does that phrase even mean?)
Smitty is the best possible human being I could've married. Not only is he funny and sexy and just the cat's pajamas in so many, many ways, he "gets" me. He knows I'm struggling with things when I don't even know, and he knows what they are, when I'm not ready to put a name to them. He has a knack for knowing when I am ready to talk and when I will not be forced to talk. It's a beautiful thing, marrying someone like that, an actual "man's man," who is emotionally in touch enough with me to know all of those things that make my little squirrel-on-crack brain work overtime.
I've had this weird anxiety for about 3 weeks. I'm not sleeping well, I'm grinding my jaw constantly, am very fidgety, and eating everything in sight. It's kind of an anxiety/compulsion combination, and I, after Smitty cornered me to talk tonight, finally think I've got a handle on it. That is to say, I know what it is, and now, I just have to go about fixing it or developing better coping mechanisms. I'll say this and nothing else on the matter: "Family, you can't live with them; you can't borrow Lizzie Borden's axe to slaughter them." It's so silly; in some respects, I'm like a guy. Information must literally be dragged out of me, I don't like emotional conversations or conversations about "what direction we're headed," but then I suppose the girl part of me feels like a weight has been lifted once I actually get things out of my crazy mind.
I think that's because in most ways, we all just want to feel like we're not alone, and I know that I'm not, but these little reminders help reinforce that..and are constantly letting me know how lucky I am to not only not be alone but to be not alone with someone who can descramble my addled psyche when it needs it.
"Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of joy, you must have somebody to divide it with."
- Mark Twain
Tuesday, February 08, 2011
So, does rock bottom involve licking a CD?
I had a strong urge for Janis Joplin this morning. I was yelled at last night for having insomnia, and I wanted to sing out any remaining hostility before I got to work. My really, really old Janis Joplin CD was, however, stuck to another CD by an undetermined substance. I'm pretty sure it was coffee, I hope it was coffee, because when the CD kept skipping, I took it out, licked it, and then remembered the sticky substance. On a bright note, I got to hear all of "Bye, Bye Baby" and "Mercedes Benz," which was the goal. If I start to lose vision in either eye, I'll probably have to take a sample of whatever that was with me to the ER.
So, I'm married, and I still think Valentine's Day is stupid. I think possibly our first V-Day as a married couple, we may have done a faux elaborate thing, but we are both pretty cranky toward it since then. I'm speaking for Smitty here, and he's welcome to argue, but we love each other, and we genuinely like each other's company. So, Valentine's Day is no different than a Monday to us, except for judgment from others when asked what we did, and we say "dinner made together and the naked Lambada." Yes, those are things we do all the time, so Valentine's Day is not a particularly unique day. I guess my point is, if you love and enjoy each other, you don't need a commercial holiday set aside to exhibit that.
Apparently, we're bracing for a massive blizzard of up to 2 inches of snow tomorrow night...SIGH. I love cold weather, I do. Fall is my favorite season, when it just starts to turn into sweater weather, but this winter is starting to make me wish for Easter and Cadbury eggs to come next week. My hair is a mass of static electricity, and the wind is constantly causing it to smack me in the face, my hands are so dry, they look like those of a North Country miner, and I've almost given up trying to keep my legs shaved. I shave them, I get chill bumps, hair grows back, game over. I grow tired....
I realized once I got home to change clothes that one of my socks was on inside out. I frequently put my underwear on inside out and don't realize until later. Srsly, is this normal? There's no history of dementia (well, that may be debatable) or Alzheimer's in my family, but I swear some days, I forget names of things I know, actors' names (and if you know me well, that's really something), once I wore two bras to work, and Smitty says I forget conversations he swears we've had, and it's a little scary that I don't remember. I'm being half-way serious, although I think when I forget those conversations, I'm only pretending to listen. That's a normal marriage thing, right?
"It takes two to speak the truth — one to speak and another to hear."
Henry David Thoreau
I bet neither of those people had a monkey DJ in their head or the deep Harry Potter questions I've been pondering.
So, I'm married, and I still think Valentine's Day is stupid. I think possibly our first V-Day as a married couple, we may have done a faux elaborate thing, but we are both pretty cranky toward it since then. I'm speaking for Smitty here, and he's welcome to argue, but we love each other, and we genuinely like each other's company. So, Valentine's Day is no different than a Monday to us, except for judgment from others when asked what we did, and we say "dinner made together and the naked Lambada." Yes, those are things we do all the time, so Valentine's Day is not a particularly unique day. I guess my point is, if you love and enjoy each other, you don't need a commercial holiday set aside to exhibit that.
Apparently, we're bracing for a massive blizzard of up to 2 inches of snow tomorrow night...SIGH. I love cold weather, I do. Fall is my favorite season, when it just starts to turn into sweater weather, but this winter is starting to make me wish for Easter and Cadbury eggs to come next week. My hair is a mass of static electricity, and the wind is constantly causing it to smack me in the face, my hands are so dry, they look like those of a North Country miner, and I've almost given up trying to keep my legs shaved. I shave them, I get chill bumps, hair grows back, game over. I grow tired....
I realized once I got home to change clothes that one of my socks was on inside out. I frequently put my underwear on inside out and don't realize until later. Srsly, is this normal? There's no history of dementia (well, that may be debatable) or Alzheimer's in my family, but I swear some days, I forget names of things I know, actors' names (and if you know me well, that's really something), once I wore two bras to work, and Smitty says I forget conversations he swears we've had, and it's a little scary that I don't remember. I'm being half-way serious, although I think when I forget those conversations, I'm only pretending to listen. That's a normal marriage thing, right?
"It takes two to speak the truth — one to speak and another to hear."
Henry David Thoreau
I bet neither of those people had a monkey DJ in their head or the deep Harry Potter questions I've been pondering.
Saturday, February 05, 2011
What do I do?
After roughly two weeks of the sinus infection that will not die, I believe to be on the road to recovery. Or as on that road as I get, a pox on my immune system! I've been in a marvelous, albeit disconnected mood -- this is the Zen Emily to which I sometimes refer.
We had a pregnancy scare, no fooling. I was intermittently nauseous for about 3 weeks and because I'm on the crazy, yet lovely Pill where I only have a hormonal visitor every 3 months, it's often sort of a prayer ritual to make myself "not with child." I have taken two pregnancy tests in two weeks, and the thing is, I was actually disappointed when they were both negative. Well, Disappointment: 60%, Relief: 40%. I guess in my head, I just wanted to plan for a baby so we're prepared, but honestly, how many people actually plan? So, the new plan is "whatever happens, happens," but I would really like to not be 40 when we have a baby. Jus' saying.
To that end, previously I've mentioned things at which I excel and other things...not so much. I am AWESOME at getting along with children...and dogs. They both love me. Why wouldn't they? I let kids have popsicles for breakfast, I can be very silly, and I adore coloring. On the other hand, when I actually think about having a baby, I imagine that I will hover over their crib, making sure they are breathing and when anything weird happens, I'm calling the doctor, who will probably eventually discharge us as patients.
I mention this, because today, my 3-year-old nephew Matthew wanted me to take him to the bathroom at lunch. He only wants to go to the bathroom to frolic away from the table, but when it comes to a gamble between whether or not he has to go or not, you don't really want to hedge your bet the wrong way. Therefore, he asked for me to take him, and I froze....he's a boy....my first male nephew was Drew, who already was potty trained when I came into his life, and I said, "What do I do?"
My brother-in-law had a field day with this. Granted, he really enjoys making fun of me, but, still. Here's the thing: I'm a girl, I've had nieces until Matthew was born, I don't have any children, and frankly, I didn't know if he would need me to hold his winky or what. I didn't want to scar the child, nor did I want to refuse to take him to the bathroom. Turns out, all he wanted to do was have me escort him, tell me the bathroom smelled, brag about his Batman shirt, and wash his hands. Sigh...I actually prefer to have a boy, because Smitty wouldn't know what to do with a girl, and frankly, I'd lock her in her room until she went to college, but, still...their boy "stuff" at that age is a bit of a mystery.
Oh, but when I smell their hair, and they hug me....I'm done. Does it freak you out, reader, the thought of Smitty and I being parents?? It freaks the hell out of me, but I still think we'd be good at it. I'd like to think that because we have such a strong love and mutual friendship for each other, a little person would only strengthen our bond. Ahh...content...
We had a pregnancy scare, no fooling. I was intermittently nauseous for about 3 weeks and because I'm on the crazy, yet lovely Pill where I only have a hormonal visitor every 3 months, it's often sort of a prayer ritual to make myself "not with child." I have taken two pregnancy tests in two weeks, and the thing is, I was actually disappointed when they were both negative. Well, Disappointment: 60%, Relief: 40%. I guess in my head, I just wanted to plan for a baby so we're prepared, but honestly, how many people actually plan? So, the new plan is "whatever happens, happens," but I would really like to not be 40 when we have a baby. Jus' saying.
To that end, previously I've mentioned things at which I excel and other things...not so much. I am AWESOME at getting along with children...and dogs. They both love me. Why wouldn't they? I let kids have popsicles for breakfast, I can be very silly, and I adore coloring. On the other hand, when I actually think about having a baby, I imagine that I will hover over their crib, making sure they are breathing and when anything weird happens, I'm calling the doctor, who will probably eventually discharge us as patients.
I mention this, because today, my 3-year-old nephew Matthew wanted me to take him to the bathroom at lunch. He only wants to go to the bathroom to frolic away from the table, but when it comes to a gamble between whether or not he has to go or not, you don't really want to hedge your bet the wrong way. Therefore, he asked for me to take him, and I froze....he's a boy....my first male nephew was Drew, who already was potty trained when I came into his life, and I said, "What do I do?"
My brother-in-law had a field day with this. Granted, he really enjoys making fun of me, but, still. Here's the thing: I'm a girl, I've had nieces until Matthew was born, I don't have any children, and frankly, I didn't know if he would need me to hold his winky or what. I didn't want to scar the child, nor did I want to refuse to take him to the bathroom. Turns out, all he wanted to do was have me escort him, tell me the bathroom smelled, brag about his Batman shirt, and wash his hands. Sigh...I actually prefer to have a boy, because Smitty wouldn't know what to do with a girl, and frankly, I'd lock her in her room until she went to college, but, still...their boy "stuff" at that age is a bit of a mystery.
Oh, but when I smell their hair, and they hug me....I'm done. Does it freak you out, reader, the thought of Smitty and I being parents?? It freaks the hell out of me, but I still think we'd be good at it. I'd like to think that because we have such a strong love and mutual friendship for each other, a little person would only strengthen our bond. Ahh...content...
"A child is a curly dimpled lunatic." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
Friday, January 28, 2011
Needs a band-aid supply, a first-aid kit, and soon, pre-natal vitamins...oooohh
So, here's the thing. Sometimes, I don't eat responsibly. This is not so much a revelation as a rhetorical statement. Obviously, I don't eat that well. I'm creeping closely toward 200 lbs, and I am not proud of this. When I graduated from high school 15 1/2 years ago, I weighed 98 lbs, which was no more responsible on the other end of the spectrum, but still.
When I'm in a hurry in the mornings, and there are no leftovers to take for lunch, I will, indeed grab a Chef Boyardee treat. My favorites are ABCs and Meatballs, any form of ravioli, and Spaghettios with meatballs. In light of what happened today, I think my psyche or the cholesterol Muses are trying to tell me that 33-year-old women shouldn't eat pasta out of a can.
I heated the mini-ravioli in one of our poor, misshapen Tupperware containers that we use for tomato-based products, as they stain ridiculously, and waited patiently. When I pulled it out, because we've heated this container to the point that the plastic has shrunk and piece on the side has chipped, I burned the middle finger on my left hand to the point that I clearly said the F-bomb conversationally loud so that anyone in earshot heard. Immediately, a blister formed, and within an hour, atmosphere-sensitive pain ensued to the point that had to beg for a band-aid and explain the ridicularity. Sigh...
On a completely unrelated note, for about two weeks, I've been having random bouts of nausea. One minute I feel great, and the next minute, suddenly...BLEGGGGHHHH. That reminds me of my ex-boyfriend who once proposed to me over the phone while he was vomiting...touching, yes, but I did not accept that offer. I took a pregnancy test yesterday, and it was negative. As I explained it to Smitty, I was 70% glad it was negative, but the other 30% has been working at my brain for a bit. We are not currently "planning" for kids, but I think my uterus is starting to yearn for a little occupant. I know that I do want to wait as much as possible until Smitty finishes his Master's, but as my mother put it earlier tonight, "You don't need to wait too long. Y'all might need to get the show on the road. How old are you anyway?" Yes, I did say "my mother."
My brief freak-out thoughts yesterday when I blackmailed Smitty into going to get pregnancy tests in exchange to my typing his paper were, as follows:
1. How can we be someone's parents? I have to quit taking Cymbalta, and allergy shots, to which he responded, "If you stop taking Cymbalta, I'll rent an apartment for one of us, but we don't need to interact."
2. I can't smoke or drink anymore. That's fine, but I wanted to plan. I wanted to be able to say that was my last drink/cigarette, and now I'm making a temple out of my body or vaginal lily pad or whatever you do for babies. My point being, that I set the goals, not some Winston Churchill-lookalike.
3. When I really started to think about it, before he left to get the test, I said, "Holy fuck." Then I said, "You see, you can't say things like 'Holy fuck' when you have kids around, or at least when they're old enough to talk; I have no business being anyone's mother."
My point of all this is that I honestly didn't know that I really wanted kids that badly until yesterday, so I'm hoping to get all of my bad habits in check with my Ides of March resolutions so that I can healthfully conceive in the fall-ish. And let me tell you, fellow readers, boy will I need help. I so want to be a good parent, but I'm not entirely sure what that means. I want to, and will, raise children that are well-behaved, but that are free to pursue whatever makes them the happiest. You hear that, antechrist Tiger Mom? What the hell is wrong with you?
" Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me. Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.
-- Shel Silverstein
When I'm in a hurry in the mornings, and there are no leftovers to take for lunch, I will, indeed grab a Chef Boyardee treat. My favorites are ABCs and Meatballs, any form of ravioli, and Spaghettios with meatballs. In light of what happened today, I think my psyche or the cholesterol Muses are trying to tell me that 33-year-old women shouldn't eat pasta out of a can.
I heated the mini-ravioli in one of our poor, misshapen Tupperware containers that we use for tomato-based products, as they stain ridiculously, and waited patiently. When I pulled it out, because we've heated this container to the point that the plastic has shrunk and piece on the side has chipped, I burned the middle finger on my left hand to the point that I clearly said the F-bomb conversationally loud so that anyone in earshot heard. Immediately, a blister formed, and within an hour, atmosphere-sensitive pain ensued to the point that had to beg for a band-aid and explain the ridicularity. Sigh...
On a completely unrelated note, for about two weeks, I've been having random bouts of nausea. One minute I feel great, and the next minute, suddenly...BLEGGGGHHHH. That reminds me of my ex-boyfriend who once proposed to me over the phone while he was vomiting...touching, yes, but I did not accept that offer. I took a pregnancy test yesterday, and it was negative. As I explained it to Smitty, I was 70% glad it was negative, but the other 30% has been working at my brain for a bit. We are not currently "planning" for kids, but I think my uterus is starting to yearn for a little occupant. I know that I do want to wait as much as possible until Smitty finishes his Master's, but as my mother put it earlier tonight, "You don't need to wait too long. Y'all might need to get the show on the road. How old are you anyway?" Yes, I did say "my mother."
My brief freak-out thoughts yesterday when I blackmailed Smitty into going to get pregnancy tests in exchange to my typing his paper were, as follows:
1. How can we be someone's parents? I have to quit taking Cymbalta, and allergy shots, to which he responded, "If you stop taking Cymbalta, I'll rent an apartment for one of us, but we don't need to interact."
2. I can't smoke or drink anymore. That's fine, but I wanted to plan. I wanted to be able to say that was my last drink/cigarette, and now I'm making a temple out of my body or vaginal lily pad or whatever you do for babies. My point being, that I set the goals, not some Winston Churchill-lookalike.
3. When I really started to think about it, before he left to get the test, I said, "Holy fuck." Then I said, "You see, you can't say things like 'Holy fuck' when you have kids around, or at least when they're old enough to talk; I have no business being anyone's mother."
My point of all this is that I honestly didn't know that I really wanted kids that badly until yesterday, so I'm hoping to get all of my bad habits in check with my Ides of March resolutions so that I can healthfully conceive in the fall-ish. And let me tell you, fellow readers, boy will I need help. I so want to be a good parent, but I'm not entirely sure what that means. I want to, and will, raise children that are well-behaved, but that are free to pursue whatever makes them the happiest. You hear that, antechrist Tiger Mom? What the hell is wrong with you?
" Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me. Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.
-- Shel Silverstein
Monday, January 24, 2011
Two days in a row; how'd the Interwebs get so lucky?
I'm trying to make a concerted effort to update the blog more often. How long this endeavor will last is another matter, but let's give it a go.
I've recently confirmed, against my will, Smitty's assertion that people often "mess with me," because I give a trigger reaction, either returning the favor with a barrage of expletives or just engaging in a pointless back and forth until the other person is satisfied they've made me angry. Smitty has helpfully explained to me that this is a "Gaither" trait, because my people have to have the last word. Interesting theory...and shamefully, true.
Any argument involving any member of my family is an exercise in futility. Sometimes I view it as a war, meaning I must train, prepare, and head into battle with a logical game plan that must not be changed, or the carnage is multiplied. Logically, this works. In reality, something unexpected is said, and the game plan is destroyed. Grrr..
I'm really trying to work on, not just with family, how I react to things. I feel like it would save blood pressure spikes, being accused of having "PMS" (I simply adore that label), and a lot of unnecessary agitation. I'm not quite sure how long this transformation will take. I am, in fact, exercising restraint right now. No, really. A snarky comment was made to me by someone who has literally no idea about what they're talking and rather than respond with my first instinct, "F#$k your mother," I'm choosing to rise above it and visit my cave, a la "Fight Club."
The thing is, I think with these knee-jerk reactions, not only am I self-generating a tizzy, I'm usually arguing with people who are just not that smart, like Sarah Palin supporters. It's like being the sane person in a mental hospital. Yes, you know you're sane, but when those around you are making imaginary muffins and eating their shoelaces, does proclaiming it really matter? Not so much.
So, Zen Emily, I call you forth. I dub you my new method of dealing with things that are trivial and silly and completely inconsequential. In my head, I'm running through a meadow..only in my head, though, because in real life, I would be one giant hive if I ran through a meadow. No hives in Zenville, no dysfunction or snarkiness coming from unhealthy people. There is only sitar music and sunshine and monkey butlers.
“We can't be as good as we'd want to, so the question then becomes, how do we cope with our own badness?”
-- Nick Hornby
I've recently confirmed, against my will, Smitty's assertion that people often "mess with me," because I give a trigger reaction, either returning the favor with a barrage of expletives or just engaging in a pointless back and forth until the other person is satisfied they've made me angry. Smitty has helpfully explained to me that this is a "Gaither" trait, because my people have to have the last word. Interesting theory...and shamefully, true.
Any argument involving any member of my family is an exercise in futility. Sometimes I view it as a war, meaning I must train, prepare, and head into battle with a logical game plan that must not be changed, or the carnage is multiplied. Logically, this works. In reality, something unexpected is said, and the game plan is destroyed. Grrr..
I'm really trying to work on, not just with family, how I react to things. I feel like it would save blood pressure spikes, being accused of having "PMS" (I simply adore that label), and a lot of unnecessary agitation. I'm not quite sure how long this transformation will take. I am, in fact, exercising restraint right now. No, really. A snarky comment was made to me by someone who has literally no idea about what they're talking and rather than respond with my first instinct, "F#$k your mother," I'm choosing to rise above it and visit my cave, a la "Fight Club."
The thing is, I think with these knee-jerk reactions, not only am I self-generating a tizzy, I'm usually arguing with people who are just not that smart, like Sarah Palin supporters. It's like being the sane person in a mental hospital. Yes, you know you're sane, but when those around you are making imaginary muffins and eating their shoelaces, does proclaiming it really matter? Not so much.
So, Zen Emily, I call you forth. I dub you my new method of dealing with things that are trivial and silly and completely inconsequential. In my head, I'm running through a meadow..only in my head, though, because in real life, I would be one giant hive if I ran through a meadow. No hives in Zenville, no dysfunction or snarkiness coming from unhealthy people. There is only sitar music and sunshine and monkey butlers.
“We can't be as good as we'd want to, so the question then becomes, how do we cope with our own badness?”
-- Nick Hornby
Sunday, January 23, 2011
So, I killed a cop and got a headache..it's the Mafia way
I don't play video games that often. Yes, I will play "American Idol" all day long, but I don't really consider that to be a video game, more like karaoke with a goal. Smitty plays a lot of video games. In his defense, he only plays an hour here or there when he has free time, but he plays "more" games than I do. We get games from Gamefly, which is Netflix for games, and I think I may've played two in the year we've had the subscription.
I've been in Gamers Anonymous for about 10 years because I used to turn into a psycho when playing games. When the Playstation first came out, I can remember holing up in my dorm room when my roommate's boyfriend lent us Crash Bandicoot. I literally skipped an entire day of classes trying to beat the game, which I don't think I did, and she made me stop and go outside because it was "unhealthy" or something. I did the same thing with "Abe's Odyssey" or some game where you were this alien worker thing that had to set all your co-workers free before they got turned into Taco Bell meat or something.
I remember when we got Nintendo. I was about 11, because my sister was still living at home, and I set my alarm for 3 a.m., got my Barbie flashlight and sneaked downstairs to see what Santa brought. When I saw the Nintendo, I woke my sister up, scream-whispering "We got Nintendo; we got Nintendo!" And I really do miss Atari. I don't care what new, fancy games they come up with, nothing beats "Frogger," "Pitfall," and "Kaboom."
My point? Often I have no point, but today, I do. Smitty got a game from GameFly called "Mafia 2." Perhaps you've experienced my soliloquy on how awesome I find the Mafia. I had a brief, fleeting idea when I moved to Philly, that if the campaign job didn't work out, I would become a gumar (mobster's girlfriend), because there is actually quite the active Philly Mafia. Alas, I did not. For one thing, the campaign job did work out, and for another thing, when I actually saw alleged Mafioso, they were quite different from the Hollywood version. Imagine Tony Soprano with about 100 extra pounds and an excess of sweat and hair grease...so, I decided to get my Mafia fix only through "Casino" and all things Martin Scorcese.
I digress; I just spent 2 1/2 hours playing "Mafia 2," where you get to beat up and shoot cops, be a gun runner, fix up really sweet cars for your getaways, and whack people named Fat Freddy. Other than the fact that I can't drive on those games, and it's one of those where you have to move your point of view every time you walk, and I can't quite get that down either, it's great fun. I got to shoot an Irish gang with an Uzi in a distillery. However, Smitty can't understand why my hand-eye coordination is so bad, and kept yelling instructions at me, which only made it worse, as I kept forgetting which button did what, and finally I had played so long, the game and his instruction-barking gave me a headache.
But now I have a taste for blood lust and the underbelly of the law. That's right. Not only do we have new games to buy now (Mafia 2, and obviously the original Mafia...also, there is a Godfather game which I now must have), I sense a renewed interest in my old Italian pals. I have a book written by Donnie Brasco's children and one written by Henry Hill's children about growing up in the Witness Protection Program, we have a Sopranos cookbook and every Sopranos episode ever made on DVD, and I sense a ricotta pie or homemade meatballs coming while we watch "Goodfellas." Salute!
I've been in Gamers Anonymous for about 10 years because I used to turn into a psycho when playing games. When the Playstation first came out, I can remember holing up in my dorm room when my roommate's boyfriend lent us Crash Bandicoot. I literally skipped an entire day of classes trying to beat the game, which I don't think I did, and she made me stop and go outside because it was "unhealthy" or something. I did the same thing with "Abe's Odyssey" or some game where you were this alien worker thing that had to set all your co-workers free before they got turned into Taco Bell meat or something.
I remember when we got Nintendo. I was about 11, because my sister was still living at home, and I set my alarm for 3 a.m., got my Barbie flashlight and sneaked downstairs to see what Santa brought. When I saw the Nintendo, I woke my sister up, scream-whispering "We got Nintendo; we got Nintendo!" And I really do miss Atari. I don't care what new, fancy games they come up with, nothing beats "Frogger," "Pitfall," and "Kaboom."
My point? Often I have no point, but today, I do. Smitty got a game from GameFly called "Mafia 2." Perhaps you've experienced my soliloquy on how awesome I find the Mafia. I had a brief, fleeting idea when I moved to Philly, that if the campaign job didn't work out, I would become a gumar (mobster's girlfriend), because there is actually quite the active Philly Mafia. Alas, I did not. For one thing, the campaign job did work out, and for another thing, when I actually saw alleged Mafioso, they were quite different from the Hollywood version. Imagine Tony Soprano with about 100 extra pounds and an excess of sweat and hair grease...so, I decided to get my Mafia fix only through "Casino" and all things Martin Scorcese.
I digress; I just spent 2 1/2 hours playing "Mafia 2," where you get to beat up and shoot cops, be a gun runner, fix up really sweet cars for your getaways, and whack people named Fat Freddy. Other than the fact that I can't drive on those games, and it's one of those where you have to move your point of view every time you walk, and I can't quite get that down either, it's great fun. I got to shoot an Irish gang with an Uzi in a distillery. However, Smitty can't understand why my hand-eye coordination is so bad, and kept yelling instructions at me, which only made it worse, as I kept forgetting which button did what, and finally I had played so long, the game and his instruction-barking gave me a headache.
But now I have a taste for blood lust and the underbelly of the law. That's right. Not only do we have new games to buy now (Mafia 2, and obviously the original Mafia...also, there is a Godfather game which I now must have), I sense a renewed interest in my old Italian pals. I have a book written by Donnie Brasco's children and one written by Henry Hill's children about growing up in the Witness Protection Program, we have a Sopranos cookbook and every Sopranos episode ever made on DVD, and I sense a ricotta pie or homemade meatballs coming while we watch "Goodfellas." Salute!
Monday, January 17, 2011
My underwear is being held hostage at a UPS facility...
There are things in life that I highly anticipate: my birthday, our anniversary, 3-day weekends, that first glass of wine from a new bottle, and last, but not least, the Victoria's Secret semi-annual clearance sale. On a somewhat related note, if something is twice a year, it's "semi" annual, but "semi" is not really a finite measurement. I understand "bi-annual," but that means every two years, so why don't we have a better prefix to indicate twice a year?? Also, what's the deal with "lie" and "lay?" There are far too many conjugations of that verb set..Okay, I am done with my tangent.
How ever many times a damn year they do it, I love Victoria's Secret's clearance sale. This is largely because that is the only time of year I can afford their lingerie. I think that it is insane and part of a right-wing conspiracy that a good bra costs around $45. However, I don't actually order bras via mail due to the girls (my boobs' nickname) being so finnicky and particular. They have to be courted and wooed and measured before they'll agree to any satin or cotton companion. What I do enjoy ordering via mail is VS' 5/$25 or $7/$30 underwear. They make really good underwear and that way, I can force myself to throw out old underwear that I keep for some unknown reason. But after a nasty incident with the Salvation Army in Philly, I know not to donate underwear to charity. In my defense, it had not been worn and was a mistaken shipment involving thongs; apparently they still don't want you to donate it. Don't even get me started on thongs. If someone gives me the whole "you get used to them" speech again, I will counter it with, "Okay, then you wear glasses that aren't your prescription for a week. You'll get used to them."
I placed an order almost three weeks ago and didn't really think much about it until the snow and ice drama had ended, and I thought, "Hmm..I wonder where my order is." Turns out because Atlanta was nearly completely shut down for almost a week, and everything, be it airplane, package, or auto-tuned singer, must travel through Atlanta before it can get to anywhere else, my order is in limbo. I got an e-mail apologizing for the delay, a promise to refund my shipping costs, and a vague reassurance that my order will be here before next Christmas.
I understand; obviously, these things happen, but for some reason I got this image of my underwear surrounded by items in bigger packages threatening them. They have little knives and guns drawn, and dance fighting breaks out while they try to defend themselves and keep their quality intact before they can arrive. There's the striped pair in the corner rocking back and forth, obviously in shock, and singing "Let My People Go." But the red pair in charge of morale, is keeping spirits up and making sure hope stays alive. I'm confident they'll be here eventually. I pray for their safe arrival.
So, I cannot get the song "Islands in the Stream" out of my head. I heard it on "Saturday Night Live" the other night, and all I can hear in my head is "and we rely on each other...uh-huh..." The duet thing was huge in the 80s. For example, around Christmas, Smitty and I heard "To All the Girls I've Loved Before," with Willie Nelson and Julio Iglesias. Basically, this was a ballad about how many women the two of them had slept with...EW. I love Willie Nelson as much as the next person, but when I actually thought about the lyrics of the song and in my mind's eye pictured him and Julio Iglesias with a bunch of Aqua Net-ed women from the 80s doing the naked lambada, I felt a little sick. Try to get THAT image of your head. You're welcome.
How ever many times a damn year they do it, I love Victoria's Secret's clearance sale. This is largely because that is the only time of year I can afford their lingerie. I think that it is insane and part of a right-wing conspiracy that a good bra costs around $45. However, I don't actually order bras via mail due to the girls (my boobs' nickname) being so finnicky and particular. They have to be courted and wooed and measured before they'll agree to any satin or cotton companion. What I do enjoy ordering via mail is VS' 5/$25 or $7/$30 underwear. They make really good underwear and that way, I can force myself to throw out old underwear that I keep for some unknown reason. But after a nasty incident with the Salvation Army in Philly, I know not to donate underwear to charity. In my defense, it had not been worn and was a mistaken shipment involving thongs; apparently they still don't want you to donate it. Don't even get me started on thongs. If someone gives me the whole "you get used to them" speech again, I will counter it with, "Okay, then you wear glasses that aren't your prescription for a week. You'll get used to them."
I placed an order almost three weeks ago and didn't really think much about it until the snow and ice drama had ended, and I thought, "Hmm..I wonder where my order is." Turns out because Atlanta was nearly completely shut down for almost a week, and everything, be it airplane, package, or auto-tuned singer, must travel through Atlanta before it can get to anywhere else, my order is in limbo. I got an e-mail apologizing for the delay, a promise to refund my shipping costs, and a vague reassurance that my order will be here before next Christmas.
I understand; obviously, these things happen, but for some reason I got this image of my underwear surrounded by items in bigger packages threatening them. They have little knives and guns drawn, and dance fighting breaks out while they try to defend themselves and keep their quality intact before they can arrive. There's the striped pair in the corner rocking back and forth, obviously in shock, and singing "Let My People Go." But the red pair in charge of morale, is keeping spirits up and making sure hope stays alive. I'm confident they'll be here eventually. I pray for their safe arrival.
So, I cannot get the song "Islands in the Stream" out of my head. I heard it on "Saturday Night Live" the other night, and all I can hear in my head is "and we rely on each other...uh-huh..." The duet thing was huge in the 80s. For example, around Christmas, Smitty and I heard "To All the Girls I've Loved Before," with Willie Nelson and Julio Iglesias. Basically, this was a ballad about how many women the two of them had slept with...EW. I love Willie Nelson as much as the next person, but when I actually thought about the lyrics of the song and in my mind's eye pictured him and Julio Iglesias with a bunch of Aqua Net-ed women from the 80s doing the naked lambada, I felt a little sick. Try to get THAT image of your head. You're welcome.
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