Holy crap but that was a long weekend

As exhausted as it made me, I'm also very happy and a wee bit shloopy from the weekend. I'll try to do justice to my mini vacation, although I'm sure I can't top whitey, who always manages to paint words like patina on a canvas. One thing I can tell you with all confidence, is that I'm lucky. Oh so god damn lucky.

I was excited and slightly anxious about my trip. I knew it would be crazy busy and I've had some serious issues weighing on my mind. For one, I detest flying. Not only is the whole experience a giant fucking hassle, but I'm scared to be plummeting through the skies at 35 thousand feet. It's not natural. And I have no luck to speak of, so why wouldn't I encounter every problem there is to have while trapped in a death tube?

And I know by now that my energy reserves only last so long, so I was hoping I wouldn't crash until after I got home on Monday night. My body is so unpredictable, it's all a crap-shoot, but I tried to have some faith and be prepared for whatever.

Despite getting to the airport waaaaaay earlier than necessary on Friday, everything went rather smoothly. I locked myself into my tiny seat and promptly fell asleep. Or passed out from fear, whatever. I landed in San Jose and after walking 14 miles to the baggage claim area, I saw his red t-shirt in the distance. He was a sight for lonely eyes and the 3 weeks we've been apart seemed like 3 months.

I jumped into his arms, feeling my face press against his warm chest. We murmured our reacquaintences and got the hell out of there. We drove to our hotel (which I thought was pretty nice although he probably worried I didn't) and found our room, not with any help of the staff. Hey expensive hotel, why don't you make sure all of your rooms have a fucking room number on the door. We almost camped out on the stairwell!

As he mentioned in his entry, we walked around a little thinking about food and decided on burgers and fries. Fine with me. The one thing I am easy-going about it grubbin'. I don't need a 4 star restaurant. I can go with a drive-thru or linen napkins. Then we picked up some wine, a nice bottle for me, a jug of screw-top Carlo Rossi for the pimp daddy. (We need to work on that). Then headed back to the room to relax and watch another movie that had potential but ended with us going "wha?". Don't watch White Noise. It's like the phone ringing right when you're ready to cum.

After the movie, I had a pre-scheduled little nervous breakdown with tears and sniffling and hard questions and good answers and I was petted like a kitty and he made everything all better. Although I scared the snot out of him when I shifted a mere inch causing perhaps the worse charlie horse I've ever had in my left calf. You'd think I'd been lost in the desert for 40 days and drank nothing but lizard piss. I couldn't get the words out to tell him to flex my foot back. I just kept pointing and sputtering "toe toe toe argh toe" until he figured it out. It was bad. But I am still lucky.

I woke up earlier than God and tried to get some more sleep. When that was futile it was decided we needed (read: I needed and mandatory) to pack up and do a little shopping. He respects my love of all thing Target and is not an anti-shopper. That lucky thing I've mentioned? Envy me you beotches with men who act like little babies when they step one foot into Crate and Barrel and start whining and loudly jingling their keys. I laugh at thee.

After almost starving to death and refueling on some orgasmic meat and cheese dip at Chile's, we headed for San Fran. I was looking forward to seeing Matty and spending a couple nights in the palatial condo he lives in. Breathtaking views of the city. Plush towels. And a very comfy bed. (Clicken to embiggen).



Here's the view off the upper balcony. I know!



We messed that bed up more than once, btw. Bow chica. I love this house and always feel instantly relaxed. Except for this time. The neighbors were doing some "light" construction, love the sound of a saw at 7 in the morning, and have a "guard dog" who was doing a bang-up job barking at the fucking moon all night long. And we shared our room with one very neurotic and noisy hissing toe-eating turtle, Greta.



But it was still fun. We hung out for a bit and had a cocktail before dinner, then freshened up and walked to the Castro to meet Matt's family and some friends. Why lookie! There's the cutie patootie graduate now!



There were about 20 of us at dinner, complete with 2 wild kids and 1 quiet one. The food took forever but was really yummy and the bistro sent us every desert on the menu to share. The cheesecake blew (who makes cheesecake with a whole wheat crust? Gag). But there was some chocolate gooey decadent thing that I would have fought his 2 year old nephew for. He's spry but I could have taken him.



Sunday we slept in late then everyone came over for brunch where we enjoyed mimosa's and favorites from a local bakery. And thankfully there was a meat and cheese stuffed bread item for whitey and his no-green-things palate. The house was quickly getting wild and we decided to bug out of there and go do some sightseeing at Pier 39. I've been to SF many times but haven't had the chance to do some touristy stuff. I forgot how much I hate tourists. I was reminded...over and over and over.

On the way I took some snapshots of the city from the car. Nothing great, but I love architecture and am constantly experimenting with my cameras that I refuse to learn how to properly use because I'm incorrigible.









After a hundred million years we made it through the throngs of traffic and utterly fucked up over-crowded city with no parking and went here.





Since both whitey and I are lovers of animals, we were looking forward to the aquarium. I've spent some quality time under water and am continually fascinated by what lives in the sea. Whitey is equally as curious and awed but will never set a toe in the ocean. Which is good because he has to save that for the turtle to eat.

We had to maneuver our way around morons and idiots all day and when I'd had enough of the little girl with the powerful lungs screaming in short intervals in our confined space, I was compelled to say something. Worked too. Sometimes that pre-school teacher in me comes out with a vengeance.

Inbetween those inconveniences, we saw some very cool shit.













Stupid kid and her stupid hand.

Anyway. After the aquarium we stopped for a bite to eat and chill for awhile. I needed to try and find a graduation gift, nothing like waiting until the last fucking second retarded me, but it was not to be. (Everyone could use a cool bottle of Vodka, right?) We walked around a bit more and snapped a few more pics, most of which are on my Nikon to be developed this weekend, then headed home. Or tried to. Stupid crowded no left turn city. But I'm still lucky!!







We made it home a bundle of nerves and stress and had just enough time to relax and get ready for the big party. We looked hot, if I may say so myself, and had a good time drinking on the balcony and laughing with(at) strangers. We had to deal with the obligatory party poopers too. Why people go to a party and act like assholes who don't want to be there is beyond me. Stay the fuck home if you have that agenda, cause my invitation didn't say "please join us for a crappy time." Jebus H. My vote for the bartender was "straight".

I woke up not feeling as bad as I thought I would, although I was almost at the end of my reserves and would have enjoyed spending the day laying in bed rather then trekking to Berkeley to fry in the sun. But, we had commitments. Pah.

More driving through the fucked up city but the bridge was clear. Trying to find parking then literally baking for more than 3 hours in what felt like 110 degree heat. I was so miserable I didn't think I would make it. Whitey being a super trooper the whole time. Never blaming me once for "dragging" him to this thing. He's awesome and I'm lucky.

I bursted with pride when Matty walked across the stage in his flowing black gown, his square cap perched on his head. Took as many pictures as I had left in my camera, then got the fuck outta there. I didn't have time to join everyone for dinner and my prince drove me back to San Jose in rush-hour traffic and held my hand as I slept and drooled in his car. We said a melancholy goodbye but knew the time until we saw each other again would be short. And best of all, it was the last time we'd have to bid adieu like this. I'm so lucky.

All-in-all, the weekend was fantastic. Whitey is a damn saint and continued to hug and squeeze and pet me all weekend when I was feeling freaky or crappy. He brought me water and munchies when I was tipsy and hungry. He held my hand and kissed my face and returned every single one of my I love you's. And we laughed a zillion times, not to mention some most excellent lovin'. I got to spend just enough time with Matty, whom I love enough to explode my heart, and got to meet more of his lovely friends, and make fun of some others. Squee!

I'm so, so fucking grateful to have these cherished people in my life. A love that I've never known and friends that are my family. People who love me back and accept me for who I am. Psychosis, illness and all. I was surrounded by people who lift you up instead of put you down and it's healing for my soul. As cheesy as that may sound, I returned home tired but satiated to my core. I feel that excitement about life and the future again, something that has been AWOL for quite some time. And for that, I am lucky.

And I kissed a girl.

What?

Checking in and one mini rant

The weekend was jammed packed. There were airports and hotels and condo's and hills and crowds and kids and food and cocktails and flora and fauna and sight-seeing and freak-outs and laughs and CROWDS and stupid streets and love and pride and ONE MOTHERFUCKING BLISTERING HOT SUN.

I doubt I can do justice to my Bay area re-cap better then whitey, but I will try. And I have pictures, yo! Since I have to practically blow my system to get my digital download to work it might take me a day to put it all together, but I will work on it tonight and fill you in on the haps. I had a ton of fun and was reminded just how lucky I am. Grateful and lucky. Tired as a bitch, but lucky.

And now, a word from Princess Crankypants.

I am a grump. I know this. I can also be a giant, frothing bitch. This I also know. Things got worse when my the hormone fairy danced a jig on my thyroid. I can strike first and ask questions later, it is a flaw. Not one I'm proud of, but I acknowledge that it does occasionally happen. Occasionally. It is NOT my habit or my intention when I'm voicing my opinion in my own special way. (Sometimes, I don't want to be a lying sack of crap too. God knows I can be meeeeeeeean).

I'm also an extremely defensive person (with good god damn reason) and will tear your head off if you come after me. But I am also loyal to a fault and will tear your head off and shit down your neck if you come after someone I care about. I don't mince words and I don't sugar coat things when I'm making a valid point. I'm smart and I can be vicious, but I'm also fair. Or I try my hardest to be. I truly do.

That being said, I hate, HATE being accused of things I do not do. Being a strong person, a person who's not afraid to say what she thinks. A person who has the balls to relay the hard things and point out when someone is being an asshole. A person who has the ability to recognize manipulative behavior, and earns the accompanying reputation, comes at a price.

It's very easy to use those traits against me. When you're the person who stops the fucker in his tracks by calling him out, makes it very easy for people to accuse you of launching an attack that never happened. When you have a mouth like a sailor it's easy for someone to believe that I told them to fuck off, when in fact I wasn't in the room when the debate took place.

Most people who do this to me don't register on my radar. I can see right through their tranparrent motives and when I'm standing on solid ground, confident that I've not appropriated whatever sin I'm charged with, it doesn't phase me a bit. However, when I have random bullets whizzing over my head by multiple people who have become insipid sheep, or when the misconduct comes from the building behind the parking lot on the other side of the wall to left field, I get fucking pissed. It's some weak shit and it rubs me the wrong way like sandpaper across my ass. It's crap and will make me spit out any droplet of respect I had for you.

Fuckers.

How low, can you go

Limbo. What a weird feeling. Lack of feeling? Occasional feeling? I dunno. But that's where I am right now. Sort of like when you've been running around all day, doing a thousand and fourteen things, drank 12 diet cokes to wash down the 4 m-n-m's you had for lunch, then you get home and continue to chore around finally collapsing on the bed and that weird void of weirdness hits you and it's not exactly a rush, but a void.

A concentration of nothing.

I hope that made a modicum of sense. It's OK though. It's better than gallons of adrenaline and trying not to tear my face off with my bare hands. And like every bizarre mood I have, it'll pass. I have SO much to say and write about, but I think my brain worked so hard this week it's telling me, "listen you, go get laid, have a cocktail and shut up. Leave. Me. Alone. I worked overtime like the pretty girl in a whorehouse these last few days and I need a fucking break". OK brain, one break coming up.

And lucky me, I'm going out of town! Yay! And getting laid! Yay! And riding on an airplane! Boo. I hate to fly. HATE. Another flying tube of death, another pat-down by Helga the Security Bitch. Another Ativan, please. But my destination is sweet and the company I'll be keeping is even sweeter. I'm going here:


(I done stole this pic off the web and cropped out the copyright. Please don't sue me photoman)

I'll be spending 3 + days in the arms of my baby and hanging with my bestest friend in the world whom I love like crazy. He's graduating from college this weekend and I couldn't be more proud. I actually get choked up just thinking about it. He's so awesome and so deserving and I know he'll be successful like all get out. It's been a long, hard road and he's finally made it. Congrat's Matty! I love you.

He's also a doof. I have an actual itinerary for the weekend. Too funny. But he's managing his large family and a myriad of friends, dinners, brunches, catered parties, and the actual graduation. So I guess it's warranted. It should be a great time and I'm really excited. And during our allotted scheduled "free time" I hope to sightsee a bit and take some pictures to share. Told you he was a doof.

So once again, thank you to anyone who's reading these words of mine. I hope you all have a great weekend. I'll be extending mine an extra day and I'm sure I'll have tales to tell when I return. I shall leave you with this thought;

Winkers.

What the fuck is wrong with these people? Do they really think it's cool to blink a single eye at someone? Just what kind of message are you trying to send and how did this insipidly retarded practice start? I suspect some dumb King back in the day had Tourette's or something and had one gnarly facial tick. So all of the scaredy cat ass-kissers tried to make him feel better by adopting the habit and it spread from there.

Personally, I hate it. Makes me mad. I see anyone winking in any context and I immediately grimace with disgust and label you a moron. Oh, they're a winker. Lame. Fucking smarmy bastards. Don't you wink that patronizing porn eye at me or I'll poke out the other one with a rusty screwdriver. Pah.

Blood shed and cable bills

There are a lot of things we're warned about as children. How many times were we told "when you're older, you'll see"? Looking up at adults with envy, wishing to have the rights and benefits that come with that magic age when you're no longer considered a kid.

Whatever that fuck that number is. We all know it's pliable, depending on who you are and what you have between your legs. Society and law have assigned 18 and 21 respectively, but that doesn't mean shit when it comes to maturity. -puts tape on cats paw- There are late bloomers and stunted pysches and people who were born 40 (hi mom!). And despite anyone's particular place in life, one thing remains the same. Our taste for blood.

I was given a lot of advice as a kid. No, scratch that, I was told what to do. What to think, what to wear, etc., etc. I love my parents, but it was not a house of the open mind that I lived in. I still managed to have my own head about certain things, thanks to my large stubborn streak, having polar opposite opinions than my mom and dad.

Despite that, some, I won't say damage, was done, but there are things about my personality that were as bound as a geishas feet. And I'm as hypocritical and guilty as anyone who cranes their head at the carnage on the freeway. However, I'm perplexed at the level some people will go to harass and hound. Even I get affected by this.

I was told about bills and responsibilities and obligations. But I never really had the sense that being an adult would suck so much. I hope every kid is blissfully unaware, or else they might not want to join our club of crap. Wow, that was nice and negative.

I wasn't warned that some people's personailites and behaviors never get beyond 13. That they continue to treat each other with spite and disregard and crave conflict and carnage. Some like to be right in the middle, making the first strike and getting splashed with blood. Some prefer a voyeuristic view on the sidelines, vibrating with glee at the delicious devastation in their purview.

I've experienced some situations recently (too fucking many for my tastes thankyouverymuch) that have gone beyond the comparison of teenage antics and have left a decidedly bad taste in my potty mouth. Those battles between hormone enraged boys and vicious young girls. That's the first thing we think about when witnessing some intense and/or ridiculous drama between adults, isn't it? That they're acting like pre-pubescent children. "OMG, you're so junior high". Their maturity dripping down their chins like the verbal vomit being spewed.

But I don't think this is accurate. It's not like high school, or any grade within the teens. In my own personal observations, it's more akin to the Colosseum of the Roman empire. When thieves, slaves and innocents were thrust into a fight to the death. To be torn apart by hungry lions, their bloody entrails dragged and smeared on the ground to the cheers of the spectators. Willing witnesses by the thousands. Hungry for the sport of human destruction. People who touted themselves as God-fearing and gentle, right there to join in on the horror. Mob mentality is alive and well.

These grim predicaments are unavoidable. We'll all experience strife and drama in our lives. But I think things have been taken to a new and dangerous level. Remember when talking on the phone was the ultimate in invisible protection? It afforded a defcon shield and made things so much easier to say what you wanted, how you wanted because you weren't in the physical proximity of your rhetorical razors. It was technological courage.

With the invention of the internets, the ability to launch hand-grenades has turned into all-out nuclear war, with a side of napalm. Not only do you not have to see the live flesh and blood person on the other end of your attack, but you don't even have to believe they're real. We're all 4 times removed from compassion. The trolls are out in force, the cyber-relationships you try to trust fuck you over, and the psychotics encourage it all. It's unfuckingbelievable.

I wouldn't blame me or anyone else for turning off their system and never flipping the on switch again. Ever.

Fucking cats

As if this constant daily cat puking wasn't enough, now one of the nocturnal bastards is having an anal issue and I have not one, but TWO skid marks in my hallway. And I found a shit kernal in my bedroom on Saturday.

Christ on a crutch. How much more must I take? Whoever domesticated cats and inserted the 'I love animals' gene into my DNA is an asshole.

When I find out which one of those furballs is dragging their coated cornhole across my carpet there's gonna be hell to pay. I tell you what.

Stuff, I reject thee

I scan my surroundings, taking literal and mental inventory of everything I own. The closets and cupboards packed full of material possessions. The shelves lines with books, trinkets, knick-knacks and treasures. All the chattel I've collected over the years. Given as gifts, inherited, borrowed. The walls barely containing all these things. The fixtures and furnishings I can't live without. The tangible definition of who I am.

As I do my one millionth load of laundry, washing the equivalent to a Mt. Everest pile clothing I continue to collect, and maneuver a vacuum around the furniture crammed in every room, I think to myself, why do I need all this crap? Does it really make me happy? Do I truly want to spend such an enormous amount of time continually taking care of all this shit? Is it all necessary?

I have far more than my share. Millions of people live their lives within modest means and are productive and fulfilled. It's ridiculous that the mere thought of my garage packed full of nothing more than useless junk stresses me out so. My never-ending quest to decorate will not be satiated by the perfect accessory for the coffee table. Those coveted black boots are not the answer to my peace of mind. Nordstrom will survive just fine absent my patronage.

In moments like these, I contemplate with all seriousness a global rejection of this mounting girth of materialism bursting through my seams. Selling my condo and finding a quiet, tiny little cabin on a remote island in the Pacific Northwest is a fantasy that frequently runs through the clutter in my mind. Sans televisions, catalogs and malls within walking distance. My nights spent reading by a crackling fire. To strip my existence of burdening effects and become a whole person, pure in spirit, one with nature, real

How life-affirming and refreshing that would be. To pare down and concentrate on the truly important things in life. Friends, family, love. I wouldn't have the distractions of riches. I wouldn't be a product of my belongings. The smile on my face would come from what I have within and not from what I'm without. An authentic life.


Then I go to Target and I say, Fuck. That.

Bah Bah, I'm a sheep

All the cool kids are doin' it. Take a shot.

I made a Quiz for you! Take my Quiz! and then Check out the Scoreboard!

Friday the fucking 13th indeed.

Think you're having a bad day? Hair not perfect? Pissed off at your SO? Hating your job? Diagnosed with impotence? Fie, I say. My day is worse than yours, this is can guarantee. Compared to mine, yours is cake. Cake, mutherfuckers, CAKE!

I had no idea what horror I was to encounter this morning. Before the clock had struck 8, even. Everything started out innocent enough. I woke up early, after another night of crap sleep and restless cats. But it's Friday, even though it's that Friday, I could see the weekend from here so woot.

I took a shower and forgot to wash my hair. How does one do that? I'm not brain dead for chrissakes, so now I have my greasy hair pulled back into a tight ponytail as to fool everyone that no, I am not a complete pig who wallows in my own filth for days on end.

I continued getting ready for work and picked up my planned wardrobe for the day. Which included a comfy pair of cute low-rise cords, yes cords so shut up, that were freshly from the wash. And then I noticed that one of my feline fuckers had decided that my laundered trousers would make a very comfy chaise lounge for napping yesterday. COVERED in cat hair. Crap.

Then I though I was out of undies, but remembered there was a load sitting in the dryer from last weekend. Whew, got lucky there, because I was not about to wear a substandard emergency pair of panties. (The girls will know what I'm talking about). I walked into the laundry room where I promptly stepped into a fresh pile of cat puke. With my bare foot. And unlike my porkchop coif, a recently soaped bare foot.

After counting to eleventy-five and cursing to calm down, I got dressed and went into the bathroom to finish primping and attempt to make myself presentable for work, despite being a filthy-haired barf-footed fuzzy-panted mess. I was putting my make-up on, something I've done approximately one million times before, and my theme of not paying attention to a damn thing I'm doing today continued as I poked myself in the eye with my mascara wand. Which then caused both of my freshly coated eyes to slam shut, tearing profusely, thus smearing black lines under my puffy peepers.

This is quite the tale of woe, you might be thinking. Poor Betty, she's so right, her day does suck more than anyone else's. But wait. The collection of happenstances the befell me before I left the house is not the worst of it. In fact, I'd take 2 straight weeks of that same scenario in trade for what happened after I left the house.

I started to drive to work, a veil of paranoia still hovering over me after my accident a month ago, and decided that I'd fill up my gas tank and pick up some bottles of chilled spring water for work. Look at me, all hydrating and everything. And if I happened to find a sugary goodie to munch on too, so be it.

I pulled up to my normal pump, turned my car off, got out, slipped my card into the slot and waited for the screen to flicker asking for my pin number. All I got was a beep. I tried again. Beep. Again. Beep. Beep. Beep. Fuck. It. All. Out of 20 pumps, I pick the one that's fucking broken.

I back my car up to the working gasser and get things started, shove some money in my pocket and head into the mini-mart for my sundries. I rarely stop and do any shopping here, but have been in enough times that I recognized the girl behind the counter, and unfortunately for me, she knew my face as well.

I placed my water on the counter, paired with a pop tart and a small bag of plain m-n-m's. OK, so the damn Oprah show I watched yesterday about losing weight and her torturous Boot Camp and kick-ass attitude and how people who complain nothing works haven't tried everything I'm a big fat non-loser hasn't sunk in yet.

I know I've got a wee little problem. I know I'm not a small girl. I know I have a really crappy unfair disadvantage with my missing thyroid, fucked up system and teeny tiny life-long food issues. (And a big giant ass). But I don't think a few empty calories on a fucking Friday warranted the unfair, heinous, depressing, appalling, ill-mannered, stupid, brutal, never ever happened to me despite being a member of the Zoftig Club for Girls thankyouverymuch thing that happened next.

The cashier looked at my purchase, looked at me, then said;

"Are you pregnant?"


AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!



AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!


I replied with a stunned look, “no, do I look preganant??” All I received was a blank stare.

I'll be signing my Oprah Bootcamp Contract today.


Anyone want a pop tart?

If it's not one thing, it's your mother

I've come to the conclusion that I'm not too busy, or too lazy, or too dumb. I'm simply stubborn and will not adhere to anyone else's timeline for any fucking thing if I can help it. Therefore I will talk about Mother's Day on May 11th, 4 days late. So there.

This is a previous story I wrote and posted somewhere else, with some minor changes thrown in. I chose not to write something new because I'm stubborn, duh, I already mentioned that. Traditionally, I've had a very strained and difficult relationship with my mother. Tales to be told in another mindset. But this particular story has a happy ending, and a rare happy memory to go with it, and that's what I want to talk about today. And don't be fooled by the almost-pummeling of my mama, she would have deserved it. You'll see.

Despite it all, and the near forever-ending of our relationship a few years ago, I love her. And she makes kick-ass casseroles.
______________________________________________________

The phone call came, the arrangements were made, the schedule was set. My mom was coming for a visit, all by herself, just me and mom, alone, together, just the two of us, in my house… for 7...whole…days. Mamapalooza 2003. Maybe this trip would go better than the last one. Maybe we could get past the first 20 minutes in each others presence without lip-pursing and eye-rolling, eventually ending in the type of family drama and dysfunction seen only on the Lifetime channel, TV for vaginas. Maybe.

It was requested that a series of projects were available for mom, since I would be working full time and my mother alone in my house with idle hands and a head full of “great” ideas was as dangerous as a child playing with razor sharp knives. For example, the first visit sans dad, known as Mamagate 2002, had a very unfortunate pruning episode of my prized ficus tree.

I say tree because the one plant that I’ve managed not to kill had not only flourished into an enormous privacy-creating shade-making tree, but had also taken its plant initiative and busted through the bottom of its wooden pot and rooted. I really appreciated this plant. Not only for having the fortitude to go out on its own but relieving me of several responsibilities, watering, the 3 seconds of uncomfortable guilt I’d feel after killing it, and the incredible pain in the ass of trying to get rid of a dead 6 foot fucking ficus.

Mamagate 2002 included a project of cleaning up the patio. At no time was pruning ever mentioned. Not in any way were sharp objects to be used on any living thing. This task was to consist of sweeping, pulling dead leaves, disposing of dead plants and general tidiness. This was not to be the case.

I came home from work to find pruning shears sitting on the kitchen counter. My first thought, oh…fuck. I quickly dashed onto the patio, did a cursory scan, my eyes eventually trying to focus on the carnage in the corner. My big old beautiful boy had been butchered. Now, mind you, I had not told her to specifically stay away from that plant, but after reviewing what she’d done it was all I could do to keep my eyes from falling out of my head.

She had decided it was time for a little “trim” for my tree, but mom apparently didn’t put in the effort to tilt her head back and realize it had grown rather tall. This actualization was made AFTER cutting had commenced, and continued, until Mr. Ficus looked distinctly like a very skinny man with a very large afro. Needless to say, I was rather upset at this foolish looking foliage, promptly hid the sheers and banned mom from any pruning duties until said plant prohibition was lifted. And yes, it’s still active.

Moving on to Mamapalooza 2003. I arrived home from work on Monday to see mom finishing up this year’s patio cleanup. I sucked in a nervous breath and held it. Woah. Everything looked good. Whew. No need for bloodshed yet. Sigh.

I had brought some dinner home, made sure there was wine in the house, and the night went well. “Holy crap” I thought, this might go O.K. Only 6 more days to go.

Project number 2 was super simple. I had cleaned out my closet the previous weekend and ended up with about 5 bags of clothes and shoes. (Part of the curse of being a shopoholic). This was a slam-dunk. Pick up the bags, throw them in the car, dump them at shelter. Or so I thought. I get home Tuesday night and all the bags are gone. Yay!

Then I look in my laundry room. Hmm. Something is different. Oh, the towels were organized. All nice and neat. How nice. Wait. Hmm. There’s an awful lot of shelf room here. Hmm.

“Oh mother?” “What happened to my towels?”

“I took some of them with the clothes”

“Which ones did you take”

“I don’t remember”

“You don’t remember which towels you took just a few hours ago?”

“No, I don’t remember”

“Was it the pink ones?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?”

“NO, I don’t remember”

“Was it the tan ones?”

“Maybe, they weren’t very nice.”

“The pink ones were fine, and they were the only ones that had those big bath sheets”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?”

“No, I don’t remember.”

“But…”

“I’LL BUY YOU MORE TOWELS.”

“Sigh, no, that’s ok, thanks for taking the stuff.”

Wednesday’s conversation…

”Was it the pink ones?”

“I DON'T REMEMBER.”

“Ok!”

“What other projects can I do?”

“I’m sorry, your project privileges have been revoked. You went beyond the appointed task. Thank you, but I don’t have anything else.”

“How about some painting?”

-big cheesy smile, mouth silently forms the word NO...-

Thursday, Friday, Saturday, all pass by without a hitch. Christ on a cracker, I think we’re gonna make it. And I choose to completely ignore the fact that every time I go to work, she rearranges the furniture in my living room. Every day, she moves the ottoman against the wall, and every night I move it back. It was kinda like a little game. A little game that I chose to ignore. A little game that would have turned into a fight if SHE FRIGGEN MOVED THAT OTTOMAN ONE MORE FRIGGEN TIME. But it’s cool, I didn’t say anything about that. I’m cool.

Sunday arrives. Mamapalooza 2003 is coming to a close. The last act will be on stage shortly. We decide to go brunch. Mom chooses the restaurant despite my warnings. I told her the food sucked, but nooooo, she wouldn’t listen. Guess what? It sucked. But things were still going well. I was on the countdown now. Feeling the tension. If we could just make it through the next few hours, it would be the most successful visit in a long-ass time.

We decide to run one last errand, mom insisting on driving. Now, let me explain a few things about my moms driving. First off, she drives a brand-new, gigantic Yukon. Why on earth she needs to be driving that kind of acreage on wheels I have no idea, but she does. Now, secondly, she drives like shit. And it’s not just the fact that she doesn’t pay a lot of attention to her surroundings, but she does that thing. You know that thing where people drive .06758 miles per hour everywhere??

We’re slowly pulling out of the parking lot on our way to Home Depot, and she’s covering ground slower than a slug on sedatives. And given the fact that I had just been reminded of how bad my breakfast looked for the last half hour (silently saying I told you so), and the nicotine fit I was having was beginning to physically hurt, I felt my chest start to tighten while that inner voice in my head started screaming “THE FUCKING GAS PEDAL IS ON THE RIGHT!!” “FOR GODSSAKE, HIT THE GODDAMN GAS!!” But I gathered some type of strength from somewhere, fractured a tooth by gritting my teeth, and continued to somehow breathe without saying a word.

Things almost went south in the store. I definitely felt the verbal bullets whizzing by my head. But somehow it wasn’t escalating into anything worthy of one of our famous fights. I seriously don’t know how we escaped it. I thought for sure buying paint would be the catalyst to a brawl. Since I’m a Dove girl and mom is strictly vanilla, so to speak, my paint choices were getting “the face”, but she too held her tongue.

We drove home, crawled rather, and once again I felt my shoulders lifting up over my ears with tension, watching the speedometer bounce around the 5. How does she get the car to go that fucking slow? Jesus. Anyway, we made it home. Only a few hours till her departure. Could we make it? I didn’t want to get too cocky, but I was feeling pretty confident.

I decided to join mom on the patio for one last chat. Uh oh. The subject came up. Oh shit. I don’t remember who said it first. Here we go. Opposing teams. Fist-a-cuffs at the ready. The one subject that gets us both on guard... My brother. PFT PFT. Stupid brother.

Yikes, I can see her eyes getting red. She’s not in the mood. I’m not agreeing. We’re almost arguing. Oh jeez! I knew it! I knew something would happen!!!

Then, all of a sudden, as soon as it started it was over. No fight. No blood. We made it. I almost broke into song. I’m feeling rather giddy, actually. Or I was high from huffing paint in Home Depot, whatever. We loaded her car, hugged, said I love you, and I watched her slowly drive away. I walked back to my condo and sat outside in the sun, lit a much-needed cigarette and gazed up at my unscathed ficus. Took a deep, deep breath and smiled.

Yea, I love my mom.

Bah, I say. BAH!

So cranky. So very, very cranky. I don't know what fucking hormone storm is blustering around in my body, but I'm one pissy Princess. Frowny. Grumpy. Lookin' for a fight. Or it could be the trashcan of crap I've consumed in the last 3 days. Stupid, stupid me.

I had a pretty good weekend. Spent some time outdoors, rode my horse, went to a party, enjoyed a horse show, hung with good friends, had many laughs. Drank.

Ahh, the drinking. Here's where I made some mistakes. I didn't get hosed. In fact, I had to put in a college effort to get a nice buzz going. But I mixed champagne punch and wine, then cheap wine. And a couple cig's. Add all of that to a smattering of weird food and kaboom. My parts done 'sploded.

I feel like shit warmed over. Then I'm angry about it. Then I feel like shit some more. I don't know if it's a combination of age plus absence of thyroid plus being so out of shape if there was a lard ass mobile, like a dog catcher for people, tooling around netting fatties eating french fries, I'd be shoved into a little compartment and have my little button nose pressed to one of those vent things you see on the side of the Humane Society trucks. But the mere fact that I can't do what I did 10 years ago is irritating as all hell! And is this normal or just me?

I'm so mad at myself. How many fucking wake-up calls do I need? Pants don't fit? Nope. Allergies? Nope. Ass the size of a tanker? Nope. Coughing up crap? Nope Whole body hurts? Nope. Can't walk up the stairs without wheezing? Nope. Can't sleep? Nope. Head feels like it's going to pop off of my neck like a zit? Nope. CANCER? Hell nope!

I do a great job looking after everyone else, but I do not take care of me. I don't eat right. Don't work out. Don't get enough sleep. I'm really nasty to myself inside and out and I don't get it. I'm awesome. Well, most of the time I'm pretty darn kick-ass. Why don't I care enough?

I watched an episode of Oprah yesterday that I'd saved on my DVR. It was all about the damage we do to our bodies by not eating the right food and how it increases our risks of looking like an old shoe filled to the brim with polyps and plaque. These doctors showed up and brought actual body parts with them. A fucked up colon, a totaled pair of kidneys, a disease-ridden liver, etc. It was awful. And the worst part? I bet that's what I look like on the inside now. I'm teetering on the edge of totally giving up and kicking into good health overdrive. But I'm so tired. Lord amighty, it takes so much effort!

I've spent 2 days with my head pounding my back aching my knees throbbing, and my stomach yelling at me. But I still don't have the key. Every time I think I've had some god damn epiphany, something happens that crushes my little theatrical world and I'm back to square negative 10. Otherwise known as snotty whiny babyville.

Intellectually, I know this is all a conscious decision to make. It's not a matter of will power or luck or a sudden urge to eat broccoli. I'm just not sure what's keeping me from making this important conviction to myself. It's literally life and death for me and I don't know what's wrong with my fucking stupid brain that allows me to fool myself. How psychotic is that?

Bah.


p.s. I tried to find a pic of that mutated disgusting horrific snake-like thing I talked about but it made me want to poke my eyes out with a rusty screwdriver and I'm sure I'm going to have a nightmare about snakes tonight. Bah.

p.p.s OK. I found one, because I'm a trooper and you all owe me now because IT WAS TRAUMATIC. Go look for yourself and don't say you haven't been warned. BAH!

Back from the bed

Another lovely, long, weekend.

It took me a few days to recover from that one. Having several different styles of Olympics in a short time-span does a number on my energy levels. And truth me told, I'm not used to spending so much time with another person. Dude! That was my towel! But it was all worth it.

I got off work early last Thursday and raced home to put the finishing touches on my house and myself. Everything was fluffed and buffed when I heard footsteps coming towards my front door and I sprung off the couch like I'd been launched. He'd just spent a good 7 hours on the road and I didn't let him get through the doorway before jumping into his arms. His shaved head a sight for lonesome eyes.

We tumbled into the house and settled into getting reacquainted in person again. Leisurely sitting on the patio having a smoke and a laugh. Holding hands on the couch. Relishing his lips on mine. After a trip to gather some provisions we spent the rest of the night watching movies, relaxing, and topping it off with some [censored by the Parental Advisory Council of You'd Be Seething With Jealousy if I Told You What He Did To Me].

Friday was a quiet stroll through the day. Sleeping late and lazing around until we were ready to emerge from our cocoon. After he cooked us up his famous omelets and hash browns, we decided to go see a movie. Neither of us have the chance to go to the theater very often and I for one was looking forward to it. He chose the flick and we slogged through Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy. Frankly, I was more interested in the pile of junkfood on my lap. What is it about movie popcorn? Damn, I love that stuff. And I don't like to share. Lucky for me he wanted his own nachos. Get the fuck off my popcorn, man.

The movie was "eh" but it was fun to go. He thought it blew. I'm not a current member of this exclusive club of Hitchhikerphiles. I've never read the books and was not in the know about the towel. That stupid fucking towel. Didn't seem funny to me but maybe I'll get it when I finally trudge through the 10 pounds of bound fantasy.

We decided to go the San Diego Zoo on Saturday and thankfully the showers that soaked the earth on Thursday had moved on. It was a bright, sunny day and I hoped it wouldn't be too crowded. I often forget I live in a tourist town, but am grossly reminded whenever I frequent one of our popular attractions and am molested by throngs of tourons. Jesus H, where do all these fucking people come from? Kindly get your black-socked sandle-bedecked foot off the back of my heel, Cliff from Dayton, or I'll be forced to shove that Churo up your ass.

We got to the Zoo at the same exact time as approximately 40,000 other people, give or take 599 strollers, that had the same idea for weekend entertainment as we did. But since I'm a member of the Zoological Society, we cut right past the lines of 18 member families and soared through the turnstyle after I flashed my card. It would be so nice if I were actually that important in real life.

I'd made one huge faux pas and been incredibly stupid by telling him about the infamous snake house. A four-sided abode that contains a myriad of disgusting, fetid, horrifying, slimy, stinking, foul, unnatural, deformed, grostesque, fugly fucking reptiles found in all four corners of the world. And him being a penis owner, just had to go see it.

I was a brave little soldier and looked at a few of the creepy crawlies. Then I did a lot of squealing, quite a few heebie-jeebie dances and one plummet to the ground grabing at his leg when we ventured outside to peer at an exhibit that contained some colorful lizards and unfortunately for me, the sickest, most repulsive, obscence, gigantic snake-like wormish legless demon spawn reptile things in the history of the worst of the worst living creatures in all the world. And it was chasing the lizards. GO LIZARDS!! GET AWAY FROM THAT THING! I get the shivers just thinking about it. It was HORRIFIC. Seriously. Blech.

In order to wash away the vile snake-house, we went into the children's zoo where we could see newborn baby cheetahs just a few days old and moseyed into the petting corral to scratch stinky goats. Then we walked about 400 miles uphill and called everything in the zoo puppy like big dorks, inbetween seeing almost every creature take a shit. Talk about a weekend of ass. So I decided to take pictures of nothing but butts. There were some nice ones. When crap wasn't coming out of them.

I barely remember Saturday night. But I think there was food and showers and snogging and the discovery of a blister. More movies and falling asleep on the couch. Because we're 65. Or at least I am. He's 59.

Sunday I declared do-nothing day. And we pretty much did that, less a couple trips to the store for more junkfood. It was nice to hang out in complete relaxation, not having to worry about anything. And I got to complain every 5 minutes about some ache or pain without being shushed. I even took 2 naps. Oh happy day, 2!

After our day in the sun, I'd been so hot, sweaty and physically miserable all day, my body decided to react to that and my skin became uber hyper-sensitive. (It still hasn't gone away.) My body totally freaked out after the cancer diagnosis, surgery, radiation, etc. I'm truly a different person inside and out and I'm trying to accept the fact that it takes on average 5 years to recover from this shit, so it's something I constantly worry about burdening another person with.

When I get like that it's beyond uncomfortable to be touched in the slightest. Even certain clothing drives me crazy to be against my skin. This amounts to a total suckfest. When you want to be draped all over your beloved and it's akin to fingernails on a chalkboard, it's a precarious position to say, I love you, but get the fuck off me. So that blew, but I'm lucky that he doesn't take shit like that personally. And hopefully someday I'll figure out what the hell that's all about.

The alarm went off the next morning at some ungodly hour, he got ready in the dark and kissed me goodbye. But! I was surprised by an extra night of snuggling on Monday when he flew back in from a day in Vegas. I was still very tired and slightly cranky after a crap day at work, but it was cool. And he respects (laughs at?) my addiction to reality TV and the 30 minutes I totally ignored him while we watched Road Rules/Real World Challenge, the Inferno II. Ha Ha Tina, you cow, Dan totally bitchslapped your ass. -snap snap snap-

I feel the relationship moving into another stage and I likes it. Any new love is so exciting and every little exchange takes your breath away. But I know that can't possibly be maintained and I enjoy it when things get into a comfortable grove. When you like being in the same space but don't feel obligated to each other's existence. It's calming.

It's all scary as hell, but something to be treasured. And that's always nice.

Half a holiday hangover

Great weekend. Haven't had a moment to write. Not enough time. ARGH! Work has been crazy and I'm still tired from 4 days of frolic. We had a great weekend, post to follow.

In the meantime...

Go play with this thing.

http://www.planearium2.de/flash/spstudio.html


The resemblance is uncanny.



May I present, Princess Crankypants. Heh.