My 10 favorite things today:
1. Naps
2. Ice cold water
3. Naps
4. A surprise present from a friend
5. Naps
6. Saltine crackers
7. Naps
8. A long, hot shower
9. Naps
10. Naps
Saturday, November 08, 2008
Friday, November 07, 2008
Voyeur
I love people watching. Going to a really populated place like Disneyland is ripe for this and whenever I go I try to take some time to just sit and observe the folks walking by. Or count how many black socks with sandals combos I can find. Then I go nuts because crowds make me crazy and I'll have a melt-down tantrum if I don't get the fuck outta there.
Today I was in Walmart. Yes, I know, boo hiss scratch my eyes out but I'm broke as a joke and they be cheap so put on a curse on me and be done with it. And when when I'm there I'm usually so freaked by the jammed up aisles I start to scream on the inside until once again, I can get the fuck outta there.
Somehow this morning I remained fairly calm and took note of the usual freaks on parade with more observant eyes. Which is seriously the only way you can survive that fucking place because gawd damn, what a freakin' nightmare. It's almost not worth it to save 50 cents on a box of 100 calorie fake ding dongs. Christ.
Unfortunately some things I saw were disturbing to say the least but I held it together. And I do my best not to be a judgmental asshole, but I can't always help it. Like when I meandered down the craft lane looking for a supply I need and as I got about 5 feet away from an elderly Walmartian woman stocking a shelf she let out an audible and slightly impressive gurgly poot from her nether regions without so much as a glimmer of embarrassment on her face.
And as I turned my cart around as fast as possible, but not obviously so, to avoid walking through her freshly emitted ass cloud I thought to myself, you go on with your farty self old lady! That's right! Let 'er rip! You've earned the right to cough in your pants whenever you want! And then I threw up just a little.
Next I ran across an adorable young family. Young mom. Young dad. And cute little baby in the cart. Cute little boy cherub with a cute little crew cut and not so cute caterpillar eyebrows engulfing his wee little face. I know a baby can't help it but dammit, that poor kid looked like a tiny version of Groucho Marx minus the mustache. Seriously, I ran into them about 5 times and it just got worse. I feel bad for the little tyke but that was weird! I've never in my life seen a baby with eyebrows let alone big, thick, dark mini bushes crawling across his forehead. Eesh.
As my claustrophobia meter was about to go off I encountered one more oddity I wasn't prepared for. Another Walmart employee came dashing down my aisle and atop his head sat the worst toupee I've ever seen in my life. This thing looked like a road killed skunk. A pile of soiled brillo pads. A petrified wolverine. It was spectacularly awful, adhered all askew to his dome with wispy tufts of fuzzy gray hair sticking out the bottom.
I mean, my lord, is that better than being bald. Really? Looking like you have the muffs of 10 hippie chicks glued to your skull? That is preferred over a shiny pate? I wanted to pull him aside and say "Bald is beautiful, man! Throw that fried squirrel away!" But he was gone in a flash and I didn't want to get bashed in the face with discount chips.
I'm no better than anyone else and I know there was probably someone looking at me going, Oh Emm Gee, Becky, look at the size of her butt, but I tell ya, people watching is Eff Uu Enn.
Today I was in Walmart. Yes, I know, boo hiss scratch my eyes out but I'm broke as a joke and they be cheap so put on a curse on me and be done with it. And when when I'm there I'm usually so freaked by the jammed up aisles I start to scream on the inside until once again, I can get the fuck outta there.
Somehow this morning I remained fairly calm and took note of the usual freaks on parade with more observant eyes. Which is seriously the only way you can survive that fucking place because gawd damn, what a freakin' nightmare. It's almost not worth it to save 50 cents on a box of 100 calorie fake ding dongs. Christ.
Unfortunately some things I saw were disturbing to say the least but I held it together. And I do my best not to be a judgmental asshole, but I can't always help it. Like when I meandered down the craft lane looking for a supply I need and as I got about 5 feet away from an elderly Walmartian woman stocking a shelf she let out an audible and slightly impressive gurgly poot from her nether regions without so much as a glimmer of embarrassment on her face.
And as I turned my cart around as fast as possible, but not obviously so, to avoid walking through her freshly emitted ass cloud I thought to myself, you go on with your farty self old lady! That's right! Let 'er rip! You've earned the right to cough in your pants whenever you want! And then I threw up just a little.
Next I ran across an adorable young family. Young mom. Young dad. And cute little baby in the cart. Cute little boy cherub with a cute little crew cut and not so cute caterpillar eyebrows engulfing his wee little face. I know a baby can't help it but dammit, that poor kid looked like a tiny version of Groucho Marx minus the mustache. Seriously, I ran into them about 5 times and it just got worse. I feel bad for the little tyke but that was weird! I've never in my life seen a baby with eyebrows let alone big, thick, dark mini bushes crawling across his forehead. Eesh.
As my claustrophobia meter was about to go off I encountered one more oddity I wasn't prepared for. Another Walmart employee came dashing down my aisle and atop his head sat the worst toupee I've ever seen in my life. This thing looked like a road killed skunk. A pile of soiled brillo pads. A petrified wolverine. It was spectacularly awful, adhered all askew to his dome with wispy tufts of fuzzy gray hair sticking out the bottom.
I mean, my lord, is that better than being bald. Really? Looking like you have the muffs of 10 hippie chicks glued to your skull? That is preferred over a shiny pate? I wanted to pull him aside and say "Bald is beautiful, man! Throw that fried squirrel away!" But he was gone in a flash and I didn't want to get bashed in the face with discount chips.
I'm no better than anyone else and I know there was probably someone looking at me going, Oh Emm Gee, Becky, look at the size of her butt, but I tell ya, people watching is Eff Uu Enn.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
This is what I get
An acquaintance of mine has been touting the succulent wonders of a certain candy bar that I've never had. I've been told on numerous occasions that I'm a crack smoking idiot if I don't run right out and purchase said goody but it has proven to be an elusive bitch and as much as I've been looking I haven't come across her beloved bar until yesterday.
As I was returning back to work after picking up my automobile from theripoff over-priced whores Honda service department I felt a little peckish and stopped to pick up some lunch at one of the hoity-toity groceries in La Jolla you'reaworthlesspigifyoudon'tdriveahummer, California near my workplace.
While cruising through the throngs of Dolce & Gabanna sunglasses and designer dogs, trying to find some sushi among the free range starfruit and Peruvian purified by pious part-time priests bottled water, I spied the candy aisle. Sorry, the Ruelle de Sucrerie, shoo shoo poo poo. And what did my little eye spy but a Zagnut bar! The one and only sweet my friend has been bugging the shit out of me about.
Not one to pass an opportunity to munch on something bad for me I snatched it from the shelf with cat-like speed and trotted to the checkout (where I was soundly reprimanded by the snooty clerk for fucking up the cash back feature that, may I say, was stupid beyond all measure and their electronic cc slider thingy was over-sensitive and tried to give me $200 instead of $20 because when I gently and delicately barely touched the zero button it fucking freaked out and ran across the damn screen.) But I digress...
After returning to work and eating my over-priced and substandard sushi it was time to finally consume the candy confection I've heard so much about. I picked it up and scanned the packaging and was surprised to see there was no chocolate involved in this tantalizing treat. Hmm, I said to myself, I wonder what could be so good about it. No chocolate = no fun but I'm a gamer and a sugar fiend and would probably eat a dog turd if it was covered in frosting.
I pealed back the red wrapper and was perplexed by what I saw. It looked...fuzzy. Sort of like a fish stick. And not a color found in nature. This could be bad, I said to myself. I ingest enough cat hair to choke a chicken, I don't want to purposefully gobble up the edible equivalent of a mohair sweater covered in tuna sprinkled with pesticide but what the hell, I'll give it a shot.
I took a hearty bite, this was candy after all, and my first impression was, shit, I just bit into a compressed stick of wood shavings but then the taste hit my buds and it was good! Wait. Toasted freeze-dried coconut bits? Bad. But wait! A delightful peanutty taste. Good! Wait. Freeze-dried coconut PLUS a peanutty taste. BAD. But wait! It's sugary and sweet and not so awful. T'was GOOD! But wait again!
GAWD DAMMIT. THIS SHIT IS ALL STUCK IN MY TEETH LIKE HARDENED LAVA AND MY SHIRT LOOKS LIKE I RAN THROUGH A SAW MILL IN A HIGH WIND AFTER BEING DOUSED WITH HONEY! WTF?!?
Then I proceeded to spend the next 10 minutes picking pulverized floor laminate lodged in my molars but hey, it was sweet and not so horrible but kind of a waste of calories and without chocolate it's sort of like eating white label cookies that are crushed at the bottom of the bag. They're no Oreo but will do in a pinch. So, in conclusion, and on a scale of 1 to awsome, I give the Zagnut a big, fat MEH.
As I was returning back to work after picking up my automobile from the
While cruising through the throngs of Dolce & Gabanna sunglasses and designer dogs, trying to find some sushi among the free range starfruit and Peruvian purified by pious part-time priests bottled water, I spied the candy aisle. Sorry, the Ruelle de Sucrerie, shoo shoo poo poo. And what did my little eye spy but a Zagnut bar! The one and only sweet my friend has been bugging the shit out of me about.
Not one to pass an opportunity to munch on something bad for me I snatched it from the shelf with cat-like speed and trotted to the checkout (where I was soundly reprimanded by the snooty clerk for fucking up the cash back feature that, may I say, was stupid beyond all measure and their electronic cc slider thingy was over-sensitive and tried to give me $200 instead of $20 because when I gently and delicately barely touched the zero button it fucking freaked out and ran across the damn screen.) But I digress...
After returning to work and eating my over-priced and substandard sushi it was time to finally consume the candy confection I've heard so much about. I picked it up and scanned the packaging and was surprised to see there was no chocolate involved in this tantalizing treat. Hmm, I said to myself, I wonder what could be so good about it. No chocolate = no fun but I'm a gamer and a sugar fiend and would probably eat a dog turd if it was covered in frosting.
I pealed back the red wrapper and was perplexed by what I saw. It looked...fuzzy. Sort of like a fish stick. And not a color found in nature. This could be bad, I said to myself. I ingest enough cat hair to choke a chicken, I don't want to purposefully gobble up the edible equivalent of a mohair sweater covered in tuna sprinkled with pesticide but what the hell, I'll give it a shot.
I took a hearty bite, this was candy after all, and my first impression was, shit, I just bit into a compressed stick of wood shavings but then the taste hit my buds and it was good! Wait. Toasted freeze-dried coconut bits? Bad. But wait! A delightful peanutty taste. Good! Wait. Freeze-dried coconut PLUS a peanutty taste. BAD. But wait! It's sugary and sweet and not so awful. T'was GOOD! But wait again!
GAWD DAMMIT. THIS SHIT IS ALL STUCK IN MY TEETH LIKE HARDENED LAVA AND MY SHIRT LOOKS LIKE I RAN THROUGH A SAW MILL IN A HIGH WIND AFTER BEING DOUSED WITH HONEY! WTF?!?
Then I proceeded to spend the next 10 minutes picking pulverized floor laminate lodged in my molars but hey, it was sweet and not so horrible but kind of a waste of calories and without chocolate it's sort of like eating white label cookies that are crushed at the bottom of the bag. They're no Oreo but will do in a pinch. So, in conclusion, and on a scale of 1 to awsome, I give the Zagnut a big, fat MEH.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Can I get a Wah Wah?
One of the best things I've ever witnessed in all my life has become a joyful, internal mantra of mine. An inside joke running through my own head I enjoy endlessly. Sometimes paired with a loud verbal proclamation that usually causes those within earshot to wonder what the hell I'm talking about and just what exactly is my problem. This, of course, makes me even happier because I'm inherently evil and making someones prim little head snap around in surprise makes the devil on my left shoulder giggle like a schoolgirl. It just never gets old.
I've also attempted to epitomize the players in this story, borrowing lines and actions with thankful glee, to gain an advantage during a tense situation a few times. Although something usually gets lost in the translation and my efforts to weasel out of a predicament fall short. However, I encourage you to use the following and see where it gets you. Might be surprised. And besides, it's fun.
It was a normal Saturday afternoon and I was shopping in Target. Or it could have been a Thursday night. Or a Monday afternoon. Or any friggen day of the week since most people know Target is my self-proclaimed house of worship and on this particular occasion the angels sang on high and communion was served. Granted, it was musak being pumped through a loudspeaker, a bag of Hershey kisses and a liter of diet coke in my shiny red cart, but it still counts.
I'd made my way around the right side perimeter of the store, as is my usual Target trekking style. Past the clothing, jammies, purses, jewelry. Cruising through the shoes and picking up a few things here and there. (Very important necessary items, so shut up). Ignoring the men's clothing and hardware, but looking wantonly at the doggie isle.
My next move is usually down the home section for some decorating ideas, but today I made a right instead of a left. And I'm eternally grateful that I did. Inexplicably, perhaps through divine intervention (love you Target!) I ended up in a toy isle. Shielding my eyes from the blindingly pink Barbie boxes and getting wistfully woozy over the Easy Bake Oven.
And dammit, I never got one of those as a kid and I'll never forgive my parents for it, even though they knew I'd eat the cake batter in it's little miniature cake pan before it ever had the chance to slowly broil under the power of a 60 watt light bulb, they still should have gotten me one. Now I can't cook worth a crap and I still eat batter so who didn't learn their lesson? Huh mom and dad? WHO? But I digress...hmf.
I love toys and always will, so I was somewhat mesmerized and having fun silently oo-ing and awe-ing over the new-fangled play dough accoutrement's that involved shapes and squeezy things and bright colored doo-dads instead of my mother's broken, oily rolling pin. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed an obviously haggard young mother toting 3 very small children turning up my isle.
She was pushing the cart with a big fat baby stuffed into the front seat. His chubby, naked feet hanging through the leg holes. There was a young toe-headed boy standing quiet as a mouse at his mothers hip that appeared to be about 3 1/2 and a wee girl, long ringlets spilling down her back, who looked about 2. (Jesus lady, tell your husband to get off ya once and awhile.)
There seemed to be a little scuffle and I was trying to not give my eves-dropping away while I inched ever closer to the scene unfolding before me. Like a Ninja, I am. The mother grabbed the little girl with one hand and took the baby's foot with the other and I heard her loudly, but with straining restraint say "What did you do??" "What DID you do!?!"
I couldn't figure out what the hubbub was about since I hadn't seen anything obvious out of the corner of my voyeuristic eye and none of the kids had made a peep but it was clear something heinous had gone down.
And that's when all hell broke loose.
Or rather the baby, who I realized had been been doing one of those 5 minute inhales of rugrat rage finally exhaled with a scream that could shatter glass, melt your eardrums right down your face and kill a full-grown dog dead on the spot. With his next opened-mouthed pause between howls I heard the mother once again ask the little girl, who was now sporting an impressive pout, "Did you bite your brother's foot??" "DID YOU?"
The bitee was calming down pretty quickly, so now it was the biters turn to express herself. The mother was still pointing to the baby's foot and was leaning down into the little offenders face making it very clear that "you DO NOT EVER put your MOUTH on your BABY BROTHER and BITE him. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"
I could barely contain myself. It was like theater. I felt for all of them. The exhausted mom, the poor kid with teeth impressions in his toes and the little girl who, I imagine, felt completely warranted in dishing out her own rough justice however, getting caught sucks. Getting caught and your ass ripped by your mom in public sucks double. And I know a thing or eleventy thousand about that.
Little Shirley Temper, in all her awesomely selfish 2 year-old glory, did not care a fucking wit about the pain she herself had inflicted on her brother and no doubt having a damn good reason in her own mind for doing so. With her pudgy arms tightly folded across her chest and her bottom lip pushed out as far as it would go she stomped her foot and hmph'd loudly, completely ignoring the angry inquisition and giving her irritated mama a little taste of the hormonal teenage years to come.
The requested apology was not coming and I had a feeling hell could freeze over right there between the action figures and Lego's before any true remorse would be shared. And then it happened. A moment of truth so pure I still wish to this day that could have soaked up this scene just a little longer.
The little girl had reached her end. She threw her head back in glorious melodramatic fashion. Sucked in a huge, weepy breath in short staccato bursts. And with all the diva drama of an academy award winner proclaimed with great fervent indignation as powerful as her little voice could profess she said:
"I WANT TO BE HAP-PEEEEEEEEEE!"
And really, who can argue with that?
I've also attempted to epitomize the players in this story, borrowing lines and actions with thankful glee, to gain an advantage during a tense situation a few times. Although something usually gets lost in the translation and my efforts to weasel out of a predicament fall short. However, I encourage you to use the following and see where it gets you. Might be surprised. And besides, it's fun.
It was a normal Saturday afternoon and I was shopping in Target. Or it could have been a Thursday night. Or a Monday afternoon. Or any friggen day of the week since most people know Target is my self-proclaimed house of worship and on this particular occasion the angels sang on high and communion was served. Granted, it was musak being pumped through a loudspeaker, a bag of Hershey kisses and a liter of diet coke in my shiny red cart, but it still counts.
I'd made my way around the right side perimeter of the store, as is my usual Target trekking style. Past the clothing, jammies, purses, jewelry. Cruising through the shoes and picking up a few things here and there. (Very important necessary items, so shut up). Ignoring the men's clothing and hardware, but looking wantonly at the doggie isle.
My next move is usually down the home section for some decorating ideas, but today I made a right instead of a left. And I'm eternally grateful that I did. Inexplicably, perhaps through divine intervention (love you Target!) I ended up in a toy isle. Shielding my eyes from the blindingly pink Barbie boxes and getting wistfully woozy over the Easy Bake Oven.
And dammit, I never got one of those as a kid and I'll never forgive my parents for it, even though they knew I'd eat the cake batter in it's little miniature cake pan before it ever had the chance to slowly broil under the power of a 60 watt light bulb, they still should have gotten me one. Now I can't cook worth a crap and I still eat batter so who didn't learn their lesson? Huh mom and dad? WHO? But I digress...hmf.
I love toys and always will, so I was somewhat mesmerized and having fun silently oo-ing and awe-ing over the new-fangled play dough accoutrement's that involved shapes and squeezy things and bright colored doo-dads instead of my mother's broken, oily rolling pin. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed an obviously haggard young mother toting 3 very small children turning up my isle.
She was pushing the cart with a big fat baby stuffed into the front seat. His chubby, naked feet hanging through the leg holes. There was a young toe-headed boy standing quiet as a mouse at his mothers hip that appeared to be about 3 1/2 and a wee girl, long ringlets spilling down her back, who looked about 2. (Jesus lady, tell your husband to get off ya once and awhile.)
There seemed to be a little scuffle and I was trying to not give my eves-dropping away while I inched ever closer to the scene unfolding before me. Like a Ninja, I am. The mother grabbed the little girl with one hand and took the baby's foot with the other and I heard her loudly, but with straining restraint say "What did you do??" "What DID you do!?!"
I couldn't figure out what the hubbub was about since I hadn't seen anything obvious out of the corner of my voyeuristic eye and none of the kids had made a peep but it was clear something heinous had gone down.
And that's when all hell broke loose.
Or rather the baby, who I realized had been been doing one of those 5 minute inhales of rugrat rage finally exhaled with a scream that could shatter glass, melt your eardrums right down your face and kill a full-grown dog dead on the spot. With his next opened-mouthed pause between howls I heard the mother once again ask the little girl, who was now sporting an impressive pout, "Did you bite your brother's foot??" "DID YOU?"
The bitee was calming down pretty quickly, so now it was the biters turn to express herself. The mother was still pointing to the baby's foot and was leaning down into the little offenders face making it very clear that "you DO NOT EVER put your MOUTH on your BABY BROTHER and BITE him. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"
I could barely contain myself. It was like theater. I felt for all of them. The exhausted mom, the poor kid with teeth impressions in his toes and the little girl who, I imagine, felt completely warranted in dishing out her own rough justice however, getting caught sucks. Getting caught and your ass ripped by your mom in public sucks double. And I know a thing or eleventy thousand about that.
Little Shirley Temper, in all her awesomely selfish 2 year-old glory, did not care a fucking wit about the pain she herself had inflicted on her brother and no doubt having a damn good reason in her own mind for doing so. With her pudgy arms tightly folded across her chest and her bottom lip pushed out as far as it would go she stomped her foot and hmph'd loudly, completely ignoring the angry inquisition and giving her irritated mama a little taste of the hormonal teenage years to come.
The requested apology was not coming and I had a feeling hell could freeze over right there between the action figures and Lego's before any true remorse would be shared. And then it happened. A moment of truth so pure I still wish to this day that could have soaked up this scene just a little longer.
The little girl had reached her end. She threw her head back in glorious melodramatic fashion. Sucked in a huge, weepy breath in short staccato bursts. And with all the diva drama of an academy award winner proclaimed with great fervent indignation as powerful as her little voice could profess she said:
"I WANT TO BE HAP-PEEEEEEEEEE!"
And really, who can argue with that?
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Too nervous
Too keyed up to think. After months and months of having daily political enemas it all comes down to tonight. I'm so afraid the way I want things to go will not. And baby doesn't like not getting her way.
I feel like this country is a drowning victim that has been left to splash in shark infested waters for so long its skin is pickled and raw and there's only a few last breaths left before the carcass sinks to the bottom of the ocean. Please, let a life ring be thrown. Let the hypothetical coast guard come with warm blankets and cool, fresh water, and please, please let the healing begin.
Clearly the only way to get through this night, while we anxiously wait for the news on important Props and the biggest race of them all, praying for the rescue we all need, is drinking Irish whisky and watching Michael Myers chop up horny teens on TV. Clearly.
I feel like this country is a drowning victim that has been left to splash in shark infested waters for so long its skin is pickled and raw and there's only a few last breaths left before the carcass sinks to the bottom of the ocean. Please, let a life ring be thrown. Let the hypothetical coast guard come with warm blankets and cool, fresh water, and please, please let the healing begin.
Clearly the only way to get through this night, while we anxiously wait for the news on important Props and the biggest race of them all, praying for the rescue we all need, is drinking Irish whisky and watching Michael Myers chop up horny teens on TV. Clearly.
Monday, November 03, 2008
Eff you, Hershey
I love Halloween. I've often said it's my favorite holiday but I don't think that's true any more. For a long time I hated, nay, rejected with a pissy passion, Christmas, but now I'm fuckall crazy about it again. (I don't even mind that little plastic mangers are jammed up against the skeleton candles on store shelves but Christmas music playing within hours of stumbling home from the party where you drank too many booberry martini's and flirted with Darth Vader? Really? Just, no.)
And since the boy and I started our super rockstar kickass tradition of finding each other the most hideously awesome Valentine's Day gifts for 10 dollars or under that holiday fights for one of the best but I will admit, there's still something super fun about Halloween and it just might have something to do with the candy.
I mean, I know I'm an adult and I can buy anything I want at any time but feasting on fun size Snickers for breakfast and pawing through the candy bowl inbetween tricker treaters to snag a coveted 100 Grand bar (screw that little Velma, she can have the Twix) it's just somehow more fun.
Until now.
Christ on a sugar cookie am I candied out. I don't even want to think about chewy caramel or tasty chocolate or the thought of picking remnants of Skor out of my teeth. I don't want to hear the crinkle of a wrapper or imagine the pop of a Crunch bar or contemplate the goodness of a Peanut Butter Cup melting on my tongue.
I want to brush my teeth for a year, eat vegetables and take a walk instead of finishing off the potof hot fudge, for gawd's sake. I OD'd. And how. So no more spending the day licking the sweet bits of cocoa from the corners of my mouth. Walk past the co-worker's desk with the full jar beckoning. DON'T BE WEAK TO THE SWEETS!
Ironic that my dentist's office called me today to set up an appointment for my overdue cleaning. I'm just praying I don't have 14 cavities because after all the sugary confections I've consumed in the last week I won't be surprised if half my teeth fall out before next Monday.
Now excuse me while I go spend the next 3 months on the treadmill.
And since the boy and I started our super rockstar kickass tradition of finding each other the most hideously awesome Valentine's Day gifts for 10 dollars or under that holiday fights for one of the best but I will admit, there's still something super fun about Halloween and it just might have something to do with the candy.
I mean, I know I'm an adult and I can buy anything I want at any time but feasting on fun size Snickers for breakfast and pawing through the candy bowl inbetween tricker treaters to snag a coveted 100 Grand bar (screw that little Velma, she can have the Twix) it's just somehow more fun.
Until now.
Christ on a sugar cookie am I candied out. I don't even want to think about chewy caramel or tasty chocolate or the thought of picking remnants of Skor out of my teeth. I don't want to hear the crinkle of a wrapper or imagine the pop of a Crunch bar or contemplate the goodness of a Peanut Butter Cup melting on my tongue.
I want to brush my teeth for a year, eat vegetables and take a walk instead of finishing off the potof hot fudge, for gawd's sake. I OD'd. And how. So no more spending the day licking the sweet bits of cocoa from the corners of my mouth. Walk past the co-worker's desk with the full jar beckoning. DON'T BE WEAK TO THE SWEETS!
Ironic that my dentist's office called me today to set up an appointment for my overdue cleaning. I'm just praying I don't have 14 cavities because after all the sugary confections I've consumed in the last week I won't be surprised if half my teeth fall out before next Monday.
Now excuse me while I go spend the next 3 months on the treadmill.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Snapshot Sunday
Last week I took my best friend out for a little birthday excursion of scenic driving, photo-ing and pie eating. We headed up to a small town called Julian that rests in the Eastern part of San Diego county, our version of the country, and known for its rustic flavor, apple orchards and bakeries. (Mmmm, pie.)
The old-fashioned soda fountain also cooks a mean burger even though you might get some pervy attention by one of the town "characters" dressed in full Tombstone-era regalia who stares a second too long at your boobs but whatever, the iced tea was cold and the price was right.
One of our goals of the trip was to find the town cemetery and hopefully get some good shots, a location we've both been wanting to hit. We quickly found it a the top of a huge hill and made our trek up the crude, railroad tie steps to the graves, hoping to find some really cool, old headstones. What we hadn't really counted on was how sad some of the markers would be.
Of course, death is inevitable but it still sucks and seeing the babies graves was heart wrenching, as were the young people and headstones that gave a lot of information. "Wife and mother." "Beloved brother, father, son, and friend." "He always took the short cut home." But we also saw a lot of people that lived long, long lives. We hoped fulfilling ones.
As melancholy as it was, we tried to be respectful and it's a good reminder that life is short. Shorter still for some, so you'd better make it good. Flowers grow in the middle of poop, you know. (Hey, I should stitch that on a pillow.) So take a moment at least once a day to say, you know, I have a lot to be thankful for. I swear, it helps you see right through the stinky shit.
OK. Enough lecture. Here are some pics. The rest can be seen on my Flickr account.
The old-fashioned soda fountain also cooks a mean burger even though you might get some pervy attention by one of the town "characters" dressed in full Tombstone-era regalia who stares a second too long at your boobs but whatever, the iced tea was cold and the price was right.
One of our goals of the trip was to find the town cemetery and hopefully get some good shots, a location we've both been wanting to hit. We quickly found it a the top of a huge hill and made our trek up the crude, railroad tie steps to the graves, hoping to find some really cool, old headstones. What we hadn't really counted on was how sad some of the markers would be.
Of course, death is inevitable but it still sucks and seeing the babies graves was heart wrenching, as were the young people and headstones that gave a lot of information. "Wife and mother." "Beloved brother, father, son, and friend." "He always took the short cut home." But we also saw a lot of people that lived long, long lives. We hoped fulfilling ones.
As melancholy as it was, we tried to be respectful and it's a good reminder that life is short. Shorter still for some, so you'd better make it good. Flowers grow in the middle of poop, you know. (Hey, I should stitch that on a pillow.) So take a moment at least once a day to say, you know, I have a lot to be thankful for. I swear, it helps you see right through the stinky shit.
OK. Enough lecture. Here are some pics. The rest can be seen on my Flickr account.
Saturday, November 01, 2008
I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaaack
I've set the lofty goal of posting every day in November to participate in NaBloPoMo. Which is funny coming from someone who's written, what, 4 times this year? But I'll do my procrastinating best. I can't promise entertainment but at least I'll be here!
Maybe I can distract you with shiny objects and candy. If not, I put out, so there's always that...
Maybe I can distract you with shiny objects and candy. If not, I put out, so there's always that...
Friday, August 01, 2008
Here comes the ?
As I mentioned in a previous post I'm shooting another wedding tomorrow. I seriously don't know why I said yes to this. In fact, I'm pretty sure I said maybe but my co-worker clearly decided to ignore my wishy-washiness and inked me in. For the tune of less than a 1/3 of what I charged for the other wedding I shot. I nearly choked when she told me that's what she quoted to the bride and groom. The fuck, lady? It takes me at least 40 hours of work to prepare, shoot, edit and present the final results to the couple if not more. I'd better get a good tip or at least some rubber chicken for my troubles. Grumble grumble.
I expect it to be about 129 degrees in lovely Chulajuana tomorrow and will try not to faint onto the cake but at least I'm not as freaked out gut punching nervous like I was last time. Gawd, I hope this is not some type of false confidence and my ego will burst causing the universe to flip-flop on me and things will be a crapfest extraordinaire. Keep your fingers crossed for me, people! KEEP EVERYTHING CROSSED!
Speaking of weddings... I haven't been a guest at a ceremony in a very long time. Besides the one I photographed last February, which doesn't count, I think it's been at least 5 or 6 years since I witnessed loving nuptials exchanged while being strangled by twisty pantyhose and consuming way too much cheap champagne eventually making a fool of myself and perhaps playing swap the ice cube with a cute waiter type fella or sort of elbowing the ring girl in the face to keep her from catching my, ahem, the bouquet. (Kids should stay the feck out of that ritual anyhoo, grumble grumble.)
Question. Is it wrong to grind the groom's father on the dance floor?
But I digress...
I've attended all manners of ceremonies. From four star affairs with crab legs and live bands at the snooty country club to a magnificently white trash wedding complete with sloppy joe's and a self-serve keg, no, I am not kidding, and everything in between. My own wedding was fucking classy as all get out, if I do say so myself, and people still compliment me on it even thought the marriage lasted less than a blink. And I fully realize people have different budgets but sweet fancy Moses on the moon, do tastes differ.
Many years ago when I was a manager in charge of live people (the horror) one of my staff , we'll call her C., had found twoo wuv and was engaged to be married. She was an odd girl who was raised by odd parents in an odd way. For example, I remember her claiming she was never taken or went to an actual movie theater until she was in her 20's. I just could not comprehend that. What parent doesn't shlep their brood to the latest Disney dreck? It's in the parent handbook for chrissakes.
It sounded like C's folks maybe hadn't planned on a baby entering their lives judging by her increasingly bizarre stories. It was like she was deposited onto the coffee table by aliens in the middle of the night and her parents were too scared to do anything but take care of the foreign object screaming in their living room. Although they provided food and shelter they didn't teach the basics like personal grooming and social interaction so this poor girl was a lump of coal in K-mart pants trying to turn into a diamond painfully slow.
She was already going out with her guy when I hired her and became engaged about a year into her employment. And OK, I'm going to be a little judgy here because I was stunned in the first place that she had a main squeeze because lets just say she wasn't a looker and her personality was um...hard to take and ah...sta-range. But she did have a sweet side and when I found out her and the beau had met on some Klingon dating forum or something I got it. Then when I met the dude I really got it. They were meant for each other, and how.
Although I will say it was disturbing to see them together since they looked like they could be brother and sister, twins in fact. Burst forth from the same pod. OK, they looked exactly alike in all the wrong ways but it was love. Big ol' ugly love.
As I'm sure most of us have experienced, when a co-worker is planning a wedding they are obsessed. It's WEDDING WEDDING WEDDING, ALL ABOUT MY WEDDING, HERE'S WHAT I'M GOING TO HAVE AT MY WEDDING all the time. Makes you want to stuff a ring bearer in their gaping maw and shut 'em up for a gawd damn second. OMG! the wedding talk never ends and my employee was no exception.
The biggest problem was, she a crazy lady. Her ideas were nuts! I tried to help her out because, if I may brag for a moment, my wedding was kick ass 5 star class act all the way. I had a better budget than most but it was no platinum affair. I just have good taste. My little C. did not.
She was a big girl, which I can appreciate. I have extra curves myself, but she bought a dress that needed considerable alterations and she didn't want to shell out the extra 75 bucks to lop off 8 necessary inches of fabric at the bottom. Her solution? She bought herself a pair of honest-to-goodness stripper-whore platform shoes with 5 inch heels so her dress wouldn't drag during the ceremony. This idea coming from a person who wore nothing but plastic purple moccasins from JC Penny. She actually had "practice walking in big shoes" in her frilly wedding daily planner.
Thankfully she had the foresight to know she couldn't sustain herself in an upright position the entire night in her working girl footwear so she purchased a second pair of demure white pumps from Payless (also plastic). Her dress would pool a bit at her feet but at least we'd all be spared the potential trauma of watching the bride trip and topple onto the buffet table. At least in theory.
Another bright idea C. had was to have a dry wedding. Now, mind you, I know I should respect someones personal wishes especially when they have family members with past problems but in my opinion the reception is a thank you for the people putting forth the effort, time and money to be witnesses to your promise and the party is mostly for them. It's not like I expect a magnum of champagne with my name engraved on it but I'm gonna drink a damn cocktail with my cake.
And come to think of it, I helped organize her official bridal shower and a threw her a bachelorette party at my house that left my living room with a purple booze stain and riddled with every manner of penis shaped or related items and 10 condom balloons bouncing around. And I have some cringingly awful photographic evidence of a well-endowed stuff panda bear and the bride-to-be. So punch just isn't going to cut it with this bitch.
Oh, and did I mention the wedding was at a local CASINO? Why in the hell would you try and have a no booze affair in the middle of an establishment that gives it away for free? Why don't you just throw a pile of sex addicts into a naked pornstar store and tell them not to touch the merchandise. Sheesh.
So, because I'm a bad person as are my friends the girlfriend I was carpooling with and I devised a rotten little plan to get around the sober statute and brought a cooler of Cosmo's with us to consume in the hot parking lot like the fancy fucking ladies we were. After discovering that swigging down lukewarm Vodka in the sun is less than appealing we headed inside where we found a group of our co-workers with like minds heading to the bar. This would become a theme with us ne'er-do-wells. We all had enough time before the ceremony to kick back a couple of drinks a piece and were properly lubed to witness the, um, spectacle to come.
As we attempted to navigate the casino we were directed to a set of double doors only reached by walking a slalom course through a large contingent of slot machines. All, it seemed, to have a geriatric creature perched precariously in front of on a red vinyl stool, oxygen tanks attached and cigarettes sizzling. We opened the door and stepped in to a large theater-type room that was completely black from floor to ceiling. Black walls, black floor, black curtains. It was like a giant armpit.
The only bit of color was from the white cross-hatched wooden arch placed in front of the stage adorned with dusty silk flowers and 2 funereal standing wicker urns with again, dusty silk flowers stuffed into the tops. The lighting was a spectacular display of naked bulbs pointed towards the congregation and the faint "cha-ching, blingalingaling" of the slot machines could be heard through the walls.
Those of us from work were horrible people and as supportive as we were trying to be the site of this nightmare scene started us with a bad case of the giggles. I prayed for the thing to start and be over with so we could get the heck outta there before we really lost our shit. Finally the music started and the groom took his place at the alter. We were motioned to stand and here came the bride, in all her hooker shoed glory, slowly, slowly, sloooooowwwwwlllyyy, galumping down the isle on her huge shoes trying not to fall.
Galump.
Pause.
Galump.
Pause.
Galump.
She finally made it the 20 required feet and stood with her beloved, both wearing their matching glasses and hair, and said their "I do's." We all breathed a sigh of relief and got up to make our way in the adjoining room for the reception. Until a polyester vest wearing casino employee stopped us in our tracks to announce the room wasn't ready. Ok, then. Back to the bar!
We were all finally seated for an early dinner and much to my surprise I had not 1, not 2 but 3 little chotchkie's of crap sitting before me. So this is where her budget went! A porcelain swan filled with Michael's mints, mini Hershey bars with the bride and grooms name on the label and a tiny, useless basket with Easter m-n-m's in it. In June. Thanks for saving those! I just rolled my eyes and waited for the dinner line to start.
As you can imagine things get a little sketchy from here. I know we made at least 2 more trips to the bar and got properly shitty. I do remember walking up to the buffet, if you could call it that, and witnessed the staff lift a gigundous punch bowl off a rolling cart only to discover at the worst possible moment that another bowl was underneath and it fell with a deafening crash as if a jetliner had just come barreling through the building as it shattered into a zillion pieces all over the place. I thought we were going to have a group heart attack on our hands.
The glass was cleaned up and we went about inspecting the food we hoped to eat soon since I had nothing in my system but booze and stale candy. And that's when we saw it. The tray of "sushi". For my fellow sushi eaters the mere mention of the stuff makes you closes your eyes while a nearly orgasmic smile slides across your face as you daydream about your personal favorites. What I saw before me was NOT sushi.
Someone had taken the creative license and dyed all of the rice 4 horrifically nauseating day-glo shades of green, yellow, blue, and neon pink. And I don't know what was stuffed between the offending layers of rice and seaweed but it wasn't anything resembling fish or the normal ingredients found in my favorite food.
To be nice, and frankly out of my own morbid curiosity, I grabbed one and put it on my plate. When I gingerly took a test-bite nibble I can only describe the taste/consistency/texture as something like eating a vinegar-soaked leaf wrapped around sawdust and dogshit. Yum.
No amount of wasabi could hide the flavor of pure evil, and they had a ton of it. While I was back at the food line trying to figure out what I could consume that wasn't dusted with lead paint I saw an obvious family member of the couple trying to figure out what the big bowl of green was next to the odd looking pinwheels. In a thick southern-ish accent I heard the woman say to her male companion, "Way-ell, I 'spect that'n a musta be sum uv dat fi-yancy gwake-a-mole-a" as she slopped a spoonful onto her plate big enough to take the breath out of jabba the hut.
Of course I didn't say anything! Did you even have to ask!
The rest of the afternoon was fine. I gave a lovely little toast to the happy couple without slurring or swearing, although I do remember threatening the groom with bodily injury if he hurt our girl C. in any way, but I'm told my speech was moving and touching and made some people cry. Half of the room was a little disappointed I didn't drop an f-bomb but my friends at the time were deliciously horrible assholes who couldn't have everything so fuck them and the other half of the room was relieved I didn't.
We left after the fake cake was fake cut and I realized there would be no real cake to eat so off to McDonalds we went with about 5 swans worth of mints I'd swiped on my way out. I left the company about a year after that and have never seen C. again. I'm sure she's just fine and when the mood strikes straps those big stripper shoes on now-and-then for old times sake.
Galump.
Galump.
Galump.
I expect it to be about 129 degrees in lovely Chulajuana tomorrow and will try not to faint onto the cake but at least I'm not as freaked out gut punching nervous like I was last time. Gawd, I hope this is not some type of false confidence and my ego will burst causing the universe to flip-flop on me and things will be a crapfest extraordinaire. Keep your fingers crossed for me, people! KEEP EVERYTHING CROSSED!
Speaking of weddings... I haven't been a guest at a ceremony in a very long time. Besides the one I photographed last February, which doesn't count, I think it's been at least 5 or 6 years since I witnessed loving nuptials exchanged while being strangled by twisty pantyhose and consuming way too much cheap champagne eventually making a fool of myself and perhaps playing swap the ice cube with a cute waiter type fella or sort of elbowing the ring girl in the face to keep her from catching my, ahem, the bouquet. (Kids should stay the feck out of that ritual anyhoo, grumble grumble.)
Question. Is it wrong to grind the groom's father on the dance floor?
But I digress...
I've attended all manners of ceremonies. From four star affairs with crab legs and live bands at the snooty country club to a magnificently white trash wedding complete with sloppy joe's and a self-serve keg, no, I am not kidding, and everything in between. My own wedding was fucking classy as all get out, if I do say so myself, and people still compliment me on it even thought the marriage lasted less than a blink. And I fully realize people have different budgets but sweet fancy Moses on the moon, do tastes differ.
Many years ago when I was a manager in charge of live people (the horror) one of my staff , we'll call her C., had found twoo wuv and was engaged to be married. She was an odd girl who was raised by odd parents in an odd way. For example, I remember her claiming she was never taken or went to an actual movie theater until she was in her 20's. I just could not comprehend that. What parent doesn't shlep their brood to the latest Disney dreck? It's in the parent handbook for chrissakes.
It sounded like C's folks maybe hadn't planned on a baby entering their lives judging by her increasingly bizarre stories. It was like she was deposited onto the coffee table by aliens in the middle of the night and her parents were too scared to do anything but take care of the foreign object screaming in their living room. Although they provided food and shelter they didn't teach the basics like personal grooming and social interaction so this poor girl was a lump of coal in K-mart pants trying to turn into a diamond painfully slow.
She was already going out with her guy when I hired her and became engaged about a year into her employment. And OK, I'm going to be a little judgy here because I was stunned in the first place that she had a main squeeze because lets just say she wasn't a looker and her personality was um...hard to take and ah...sta-range. But she did have a sweet side and when I found out her and the beau had met on some Klingon dating forum or something I got it. Then when I met the dude I really got it. They were meant for each other, and how.
Although I will say it was disturbing to see them together since they looked like they could be brother and sister, twins in fact. Burst forth from the same pod. OK, they looked exactly alike in all the wrong ways but it was love. Big ol' ugly love.
As I'm sure most of us have experienced, when a co-worker is planning a wedding they are obsessed. It's WEDDING WEDDING WEDDING, ALL ABOUT MY WEDDING, HERE'S WHAT I'M GOING TO HAVE AT MY WEDDING all the time. Makes you want to stuff a ring bearer in their gaping maw and shut 'em up for a gawd damn second. OMG! the wedding talk never ends and my employee was no exception.
The biggest problem was, she a crazy lady. Her ideas were nuts! I tried to help her out because, if I may brag for a moment, my wedding was kick ass 5 star class act all the way. I had a better budget than most but it was no platinum affair. I just have good taste. My little C. did not.
She was a big girl, which I can appreciate. I have extra curves myself, but she bought a dress that needed considerable alterations and she didn't want to shell out the extra 75 bucks to lop off 8 necessary inches of fabric at the bottom. Her solution? She bought herself a pair of honest-to-goodness stripper-whore platform shoes with 5 inch heels so her dress wouldn't drag during the ceremony. This idea coming from a person who wore nothing but plastic purple moccasins from JC Penny. She actually had "practice walking in big shoes" in her frilly wedding daily planner.
Thankfully she had the foresight to know she couldn't sustain herself in an upright position the entire night in her working girl footwear so she purchased a second pair of demure white pumps from Payless (also plastic). Her dress would pool a bit at her feet but at least we'd all be spared the potential trauma of watching the bride trip and topple onto the buffet table. At least in theory.
Another bright idea C. had was to have a dry wedding. Now, mind you, I know I should respect someones personal wishes especially when they have family members with past problems but in my opinion the reception is a thank you for the people putting forth the effort, time and money to be witnesses to your promise and the party is mostly for them. It's not like I expect a magnum of champagne with my name engraved on it but I'm gonna drink a damn cocktail with my cake.
And come to think of it, I helped organize her official bridal shower and a threw her a bachelorette party at my house that left my living room with a purple booze stain and riddled with every manner of penis shaped or related items and 10 condom balloons bouncing around. And I have some cringingly awful photographic evidence of a well-endowed stuff panda bear and the bride-to-be. So punch just isn't going to cut it with this bitch.
Oh, and did I mention the wedding was at a local CASINO? Why in the hell would you try and have a no booze affair in the middle of an establishment that gives it away for free? Why don't you just throw a pile of sex addicts into a naked pornstar store and tell them not to touch the merchandise. Sheesh.
So, because I'm a bad person as are my friends the girlfriend I was carpooling with and I devised a rotten little plan to get around the sober statute and brought a cooler of Cosmo's with us to consume in the hot parking lot like the fancy fucking ladies we were. After discovering that swigging down lukewarm Vodka in the sun is less than appealing we headed inside where we found a group of our co-workers with like minds heading to the bar. This would become a theme with us ne'er-do-wells. We all had enough time before the ceremony to kick back a couple of drinks a piece and were properly lubed to witness the, um, spectacle to come.
As we attempted to navigate the casino we were directed to a set of double doors only reached by walking a slalom course through a large contingent of slot machines. All, it seemed, to have a geriatric creature perched precariously in front of on a red vinyl stool, oxygen tanks attached and cigarettes sizzling. We opened the door and stepped in to a large theater-type room that was completely black from floor to ceiling. Black walls, black floor, black curtains. It was like a giant armpit.
The only bit of color was from the white cross-hatched wooden arch placed in front of the stage adorned with dusty silk flowers and 2 funereal standing wicker urns with again, dusty silk flowers stuffed into the tops. The lighting was a spectacular display of naked bulbs pointed towards the congregation and the faint "cha-ching, blingalingaling" of the slot machines could be heard through the walls.
Those of us from work were horrible people and as supportive as we were trying to be the site of this nightmare scene started us with a bad case of the giggles. I prayed for the thing to start and be over with so we could get the heck outta there before we really lost our shit. Finally the music started and the groom took his place at the alter. We were motioned to stand and here came the bride, in all her hooker shoed glory, slowly, slowly, sloooooowwwwwlllyyy, galumping down the isle on her huge shoes trying not to fall.
Galump.
Pause.
Galump.
Pause.
Galump.
She finally made it the 20 required feet and stood with her beloved, both wearing their matching glasses and hair, and said their "I do's." We all breathed a sigh of relief and got up to make our way in the adjoining room for the reception. Until a polyester vest wearing casino employee stopped us in our tracks to announce the room wasn't ready. Ok, then. Back to the bar!
We were all finally seated for an early dinner and much to my surprise I had not 1, not 2 but 3 little chotchkie's of crap sitting before me. So this is where her budget went! A porcelain swan filled with Michael's mints, mini Hershey bars with the bride and grooms name on the label and a tiny, useless basket with Easter m-n-m's in it. In June. Thanks for saving those! I just rolled my eyes and waited for the dinner line to start.
As you can imagine things get a little sketchy from here. I know we made at least 2 more trips to the bar and got properly shitty. I do remember walking up to the buffet, if you could call it that, and witnessed the staff lift a gigundous punch bowl off a rolling cart only to discover at the worst possible moment that another bowl was underneath and it fell with a deafening crash as if a jetliner had just come barreling through the building as it shattered into a zillion pieces all over the place. I thought we were going to have a group heart attack on our hands.
The glass was cleaned up and we went about inspecting the food we hoped to eat soon since I had nothing in my system but booze and stale candy. And that's when we saw it. The tray of "sushi". For my fellow sushi eaters the mere mention of the stuff makes you closes your eyes while a nearly orgasmic smile slides across your face as you daydream about your personal favorites. What I saw before me was NOT sushi.
Someone had taken the creative license and dyed all of the rice 4 horrifically nauseating day-glo shades of green, yellow, blue, and neon pink. And I don't know what was stuffed between the offending layers of rice and seaweed but it wasn't anything resembling fish or the normal ingredients found in my favorite food.
To be nice, and frankly out of my own morbid curiosity, I grabbed one and put it on my plate. When I gingerly took a test-bite nibble I can only describe the taste/consistency/texture as something like eating a vinegar-soaked leaf wrapped around sawdust and dogshit. Yum.
No amount of wasabi could hide the flavor of pure evil, and they had a ton of it. While I was back at the food line trying to figure out what I could consume that wasn't dusted with lead paint I saw an obvious family member of the couple trying to figure out what the big bowl of green was next to the odd looking pinwheels. In a thick southern-ish accent I heard the woman say to her male companion, "Way-ell, I 'spect that'n a musta be sum uv dat fi-yancy gwake-a-mole-a" as she slopped a spoonful onto her plate big enough to take the breath out of jabba the hut.
Of course I didn't say anything! Did you even have to ask!
The rest of the afternoon was fine. I gave a lovely little toast to the happy couple without slurring or swearing, although I do remember threatening the groom with bodily injury if he hurt our girl C. in any way, but I'm told my speech was moving and touching and made some people cry. Half of the room was a little disappointed I didn't drop an f-bomb but my friends at the time were deliciously horrible assholes who couldn't have everything so fuck them and the other half of the room was relieved I didn't.
We left after the fake cake was fake cut and I realized there would be no real cake to eat so off to McDonalds we went with about 5 swans worth of mints I'd swiped on my way out. I left the company about a year after that and have never seen C. again. I'm sure she's just fine and when the mood strikes straps those big stripper shoes on now-and-then for old times sake.
Galump.
Galump.
Galump.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Anniversary
Five years ago today my body, mind and soul were changed forever.
Five years ago today my life was permanently altered.
Five years ago today I went under the knife to remove my jacked up thyroid with the butthole cancer growing all over the stupid mother fucker.
Thank the baby jebus and all the candy in all the stores in all the world that I can say "Five years ago today..."
Woo to the fucking Hoo!!
Now don't get me wrong, this hasn't been an effing picnic sweet ride on easy street by any means. It's been far from a chill time and I have issues and scans and more blood tests than I care to think about to deal with for the rest of my life but through the crankyness and mood swings and complications and all the other shit I'm so thankful for everything I have and try to remember that every single day. Even when I'm trying not to punch someone in the face for being an asscake, I follow that with, man, I'm so glad I'm still around to not kick your ass.
All of the crap I went through in 2003 was all terrifying and sucked sweaty donkey balls but also necessary and as hard/weird/melancholy/contemplative this date is, and if you're a cancer survivor you know how big 5 years is, I'm extremely proud that I'm still here to hopefully make people laugh, squeeze my kitty even though she hates it, watch horrible reality TV, consume enough sushi to choke a tuna, swear at assholes on the road, eat my weight in chocolate, make my photography dreams come true, love my man till he can't take it any more, and etc., etc., etc., I'm so damn grateful for the life I have.
Cancer blows, but in my case I've been more fortunate than others so today I'd like to salute anyone who's been touched by the effing cancer demon shit from hell in any way or who deals with a chronic illness. You are brave and strong and awesome even if sometimes you don't feel like it. Every time you voluntarily walk into a doctors office and put up with that massive bullshit you're a hero. Every step forward is a triumph. And every breath you take is precious.
Thank you to everyone and anyone who's supported me in any way. I owe you a lot. Thank you to science for figuring out how to keep me here to grumble and crab and laugh and love. Thank you to my body for, in all it's imperfections, still manages to work. Thank you universe for allowing me to hang out here for a bit longer. Just, thank you.
Vodka floats for everyone!
WOOT!
Five years ago today my life was permanently altered.
Five years ago today I went under the knife to remove my jacked up thyroid with the butthole cancer growing all over the stupid mother fucker.
Thank the baby jebus and all the candy in all the stores in all the world that I can say "Five years ago today..."
Woo to the fucking Hoo!!
Now don't get me wrong, this hasn't been an effing picnic sweet ride on easy street by any means. It's been far from a chill time and I have issues and scans and more blood tests than I care to think about to deal with for the rest of my life but through the crankyness and mood swings and complications and all the other shit I'm so thankful for everything I have and try to remember that every single day. Even when I'm trying not to punch someone in the face for being an asscake, I follow that with, man, I'm so glad I'm still around to not kick your ass.
All of the crap I went through in 2003 was all terrifying and sucked sweaty donkey balls but also necessary and as hard/weird/melancholy/contemplative this date is, and if you're a cancer survivor you know how big 5 years is, I'm extremely proud that I'm still here to hopefully make people laugh, squeeze my kitty even though she hates it, watch horrible reality TV, consume enough sushi to choke a tuna, swear at assholes on the road, eat my weight in chocolate, make my photography dreams come true, love my man till he can't take it any more, and etc., etc., etc., I'm so damn grateful for the life I have.
Cancer blows, but in my case I've been more fortunate than others so today I'd like to salute anyone who's been touched by the effing cancer demon shit from hell in any way or who deals with a chronic illness. You are brave and strong and awesome even if sometimes you don't feel like it. Every time you voluntarily walk into a doctors office and put up with that massive bullshit you're a hero. Every step forward is a triumph. And every breath you take is precious.
Thank you to everyone and anyone who's supported me in any way. I owe you a lot. Thank you to science for figuring out how to keep me here to grumble and crab and laugh and love. Thank you to my body for, in all it's imperfections, still manages to work. Thank you universe for allowing me to hang out here for a bit longer. Just, thank you.
Vodka floats for everyone!
WOOT!
Friday, July 25, 2008
Post revisited
I've recently (as of last night) decided that I need to hire a nanny for myself. For a long time I thought I needed a wife, which doesn't sound half bad, I like girls, I could use a house manager, and we could use the help, but now I think I need a soft spoken European au pair with flaxen hair and a sexy accent. I clearly need someone to take care of me and tell me when to go to bed and fix me healthy meals and take a lint roller to my clothes because I'm eternally covered in cat hair and I JUST DON'T CARE anymore! It's pathetic.
I'd still need to manage my own toys and be free to have a few tantrums and a nanny would be able to handle that. That's their forte. Although I probably wouldn't take so kindly to being put in the naughty chair, and if you go by the educational standards of a minute for ever year I'd be sitting there for an episode and a half of The Two Corey's and that would be a fucking crime. But I like the idea of Supernanny being my pseudo "muva" for a while. Damn, I lub her.
There's just not enough time in the day, week, month to do everything I want to do, need to do, have to do. I know it's a complaint we all have and sure, I could step away from the computer and plan a meal or clean something but I don't want to! I'm tired and fresh air is way overrated anyway. Blarg. I need a nap.
So, in light of me being a whiny turd today and beating myself up for doing most of this shit to myself I'm reserving the right to regurgitate a previous post. It's a couple of years old so it should be brand spanking new to the 3 people still checking on this blog. (Hi guys!) It's practically like going green, right? Consider it an upcycle.
The Very Very Very Bad Decision
It had been a long, hot day in the late 1970's. I'd spent the majority across the street at the much coveted 'house of fun' where my friend K lived. You know the one I'm talking about. The cupboards are stuffed with all the junk food a kid could want, (not a box of stale coffee nips hidden in the tupperware cupboard like my house), the front yard is as big as a football field and they have a game closet. OMG, a whole closet dedicated to games! It was better than Charlie and his freaky chocolate factory. (I mean really, do you think I want to put any candy in my mouth that Augustus Gloop has marinated in? I think not.)
As was the rule, I needed to head home at dusk to join my family for our nightly fight around the dinner table promptly at 6:00. I only lived a stones-throw away from K's house, hers being catty-cornered to the South-East from mine. Despite this close proximity, I still chose to ride my big yellow with the girly flowered banana seat bike and white basket (gag) over there. Mostly because my side of the street was the hilly one and I could get enough speed going down my driveway to coast all the way to K's house. Betty, thy name is Lazy.
Because of this fact, the reverse trek home was not a fun one for me since I'd have to actually pump the pedals a whole 300 yards. Oh. The. Horror. In my pre-teen lack of wisdom, and in an effort to avoid expelling one atom of energy, I thought I'd take a short-cut up my next-door neighbors driveway and just pop through the bushes to my driveway. Thus avoiding the very long and steep S-curve of my own and saving oh, 20 extra feet of effort. Hmm...I wonder why I've always had a weight problem. I just can't figure it out.
I climbed onto my bike and raced slowly and begrudgingly grunted and groaned willing my legs to work towards home. Half-way up my neighbors drive, with a violent yank that nearly catapulted me onto the handlebars, my gigantic bell-bottom jeans got caught in the chain. Aw fuck. Who the hell thought it would be cool to make the hem of jeans 25 friggen inches wide? And why did it take bicycle manufacturers a million fucking years to figure out the chain should be covered so idiots like me don't get their fashion statements stuck in them?
It ended up being good thing, I suppose, that I was aiming for the neighbors driveway and not mine or they would have found me laying by the mailbox the next morning in a heap of demin and dirt.
After assessing the situation and laying a respectable trail of swear words I managed to lug myself and my very heavy bike to the spot where I'd planned on "popping" through the bushes. As soon as I tried to drag my shit-show up and over the small asphalt curb and bushy incline to my own driveway I felt a blinding pain coming from my little pot belly. Christ almighty! What is killing me? I've been speared by a tassel!!
I looked down and saw that the unprotected, unlined, stupid zipper of my stupid 70's jeans had just caught a chunk of my stupid tummy skin and was now ripping my flesh apart like a rabid wolverine.
So now, not only am I practically fused with my huge bike, its giant banana seat wedged into my crotch, one leg held tightly in place in the grips of the fucking chain, but it feels like the teeth of Satan are tearing into my stomach and I neglected to remember that the "bushes" separating our house from our neighbors are not only contained in a steep slope, but they are inhabited by stiff foliage with unbending branches that I can't get me an my bike past!
And of course the evil bushes jumped out and took me down. Right down to China town. I'm on the ground, under a child-eating bush stuck to my bike and my pants are eating me. Stranded. Marooned. Wrecked. Ivy eating my face. I was doomed.
Like hell was I calling for help in that position and no one would have heard me anyway or my asshole brother would have stood over me like a dick and laughed while doing the spit-string above my filthy and bloodied face.
After what seemed like a hundred and fifty nine years I somehow managed to drag myself under the killer bush, out of the strangle ivy and catapult myself and the bike onto my driveway amidst the searing pain where I collapsed in a heap of scratches and chain grease.
I gritted my teeth, called upon all the dammit I had in me and finally freed myself of the skin chewing zipper and the bike chain of death and slinked my way into the house where I'm sure I enjoyed a lovely dinner of liver and onions and nursed my wounds with pink mercurochrome and a soggy bandaid .
The 70's were awesome.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Travesty
Your regularly scheduled weekly post will be interrupted by breaking news in the life of this here blogger who has suffered a mighty blow. A horror so devastating I'm sure you will all feel my pain, imagine my FURY, wipe my virtual tears, and assist in the teeny tiny 5 minute curse I'll be putting on my beloved, whom I love so so much, but deserves a least a twisted ass hair for his trouble over this monumental FUCK UP.
A fuck up that follows on the heals of leaving my car out all night with the door wide open and the keys in the ignition, cleaning the coffee table with caustic sink scrub thus effectively dissolving the veneer right off the mother, and vigorously scrubbing a kitty barf spot in the freshly-day-before-professionally-cleaned carpet with a brand new BLACK kitchen towel requiring an emergency and double the amount re-visit from said professional carpet cleaners to try and fix it.
I love this man more than anything but BLOODY HELL does he screw up sometimes.
In our attempt to clean the house for a showing (please, real estate gods, bless us with an offer - there might be brand new appliances in it for ya!) my boyfriend stashed some dirty dishes in the oven. But then he FORGOT about the dirty dishes in the oven and TURNED IT ON last night to cook himself some GAWD DAMN chicken strips.
Here is the result of plastic containers in 400 degrees of heat. Needless to say the theme for the evening was FUCKING. HELL. WHAT. ARE. WE. GOING. TO. DO. Seriously. What are we going to do? It all hardened again and the whole house smells like someone bar-b-cued a stack of tires covered in lead paint sprinkled with styrofoam peanuts.
Behold. Teh Tragedy.
The offending plastic:
The results:
sniff
sob
waaahhhhh
A fuck up that follows on the heals of leaving my car out all night with the door wide open and the keys in the ignition, cleaning the coffee table with caustic sink scrub thus effectively dissolving the veneer right off the mother, and vigorously scrubbing a kitty barf spot in the freshly-day-before-professionally-cleaned carpet with a brand new BLACK kitchen towel requiring an emergency and double the amount re-visit from said professional carpet cleaners to try and fix it.
I love this man more than anything but BLOODY HELL does he screw up sometimes.
In our attempt to clean the house for a showing (please, real estate gods, bless us with an offer - there might be brand new appliances in it for ya!) my boyfriend stashed some dirty dishes in the oven. But then he FORGOT about the dirty dishes in the oven and TURNED IT ON last night to cook himself some GAWD DAMN chicken strips.
Here is the result of plastic containers in 400 degrees of heat. Needless to say the theme for the evening was FUCKING. HELL. WHAT. ARE. WE. GOING. TO. DO. Seriously. What are we going to do? It all hardened again and the whole house smells like someone bar-b-cued a stack of tires covered in lead paint sprinkled with styrofoam peanuts.
Behold. Teh Tragedy.
The offending plastic:
The results:
sniff
sob
waaahhhhh
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Good times
We had a pretty good holiday weekend. Although why does 3 days sound so luxurious until you get to Sunday afternoon and realize, fuck, 3 days is still not enough. You really can't work up a good laze unless you have 2 full days dedicated to doing nothing but laying around in your own filth eating junk food and watching truly horrible television. This time I was only afforded 1 day and it wasn't nearly enough.
However, we did have a great 4th. It was spent doing next to nothing. Glorious, glorious nothing. We put a ban on laundry, tidying, dishwashing, eating of healthy things, etc. I actually had a real live moment of relaxation. Those don't come often, let me tell you, and it was nice. In between napping I enjoyed some Hitchcock and watched almost all of Jaws.
It probably goes without saying but Jaws in 2008 does not have the impact of Jaws 1975. Speaking of which, can you believe that movie came out in 1975? That's 33 years for my fellow math-challenged peeps. Hardly seems possible, doesn't it? That puts Spielberg in his 20's when he directed. Amazing. My mother actually took me to see that movie when I was 7 or 8. What the hell? Thanks for the 25 years of trauma and permanent fear of invisible pool sharks, mom!
But despite the goofy effects, super duper fake shark and ridiculous plot "a great white shark has staked a claim in the waters off Amity Island, and he's going to continue to feed here as long as there is food in the water" (no one likes a predatory squatter), it made me feel nostalgic for that period of my childhood when it was all about no school and all fun. It was all about Saturday. It was all about the best day in your life, where the sun seemed to hang in the sky forever and the mornings were spent watching the most awesomely ridiculous television in the history of entertainment.
For those of you born after 1980, or (farging hell) maybe even a little earlier than that you will have no idea what I'm talking about so just straighten your Strawberry Shortcake t-shirt and skip to the previous entry.
I don't know what kind of fucked up genetics are plugged into a kids brain that makes them positively narcoleptic during the school week and pops your eyes open at 5:59 on Saturday morning but we were up and ready to consume mass quantities of sugary cereal, if my mother had had a fit of generosity and actually bought some, park our asses in front of the boob tube and tune in to hours on end of live-action Sid & Marty Kroft koo-koo for cocoa puffs craziness.
Looking back on these things is always a precarious activity. On one had you get the great sense of sentimentality and on the other is the cringe-worthy realization that we must have been stupid as a box of hair to buy the lame crap they were selling us. I suppose I'll go for the former since it's way more fun and I don't have to admit I was stupid.
And let me just say, hooray for creativity and tapping into the crazy Swiss cheese labyrinth of rug rat minds but what in the fuck were Sid & Marty smoking? Their offices must have been thick as a New England fog with bong smoke at all times. There's no way else to explain how they came up with that kind of weirdness over and over again. Thank goodness we were only hopped up on Cap'n Crunch while watching or my dreams would have been plagued with giant puppets and talking monkeys all trying to eat my head.
One I started to think about it I did a little research and it all came flooding back. Let's see how many you remember.
How about this guy?
However, we did have a great 4th. It was spent doing next to nothing. Glorious, glorious nothing. We put a ban on laundry, tidying, dishwashing, eating of healthy things, etc. I actually had a real live moment of relaxation. Those don't come often, let me tell you, and it was nice. In between napping I enjoyed some Hitchcock and watched almost all of Jaws.
It probably goes without saying but Jaws in 2008 does not have the impact of Jaws 1975. Speaking of which, can you believe that movie came out in 1975? That's 33 years for my fellow math-challenged peeps. Hardly seems possible, doesn't it? That puts Spielberg in his 20's when he directed. Amazing. My mother actually took me to see that movie when I was 7 or 8. What the hell? Thanks for the 25 years of trauma and permanent fear of invisible pool sharks, mom!
But despite the goofy effects, super duper fake shark and ridiculous plot "a great white shark has staked a claim in the waters off Amity Island, and he's going to continue to feed here as long as there is food in the water" (no one likes a predatory squatter), it made me feel nostalgic for that period of my childhood when it was all about no school and all fun. It was all about Saturday. It was all about the best day in your life, where the sun seemed to hang in the sky forever and the mornings were spent watching the most awesomely ridiculous television in the history of entertainment.
For those of you born after 1980, or (farging hell) maybe even a little earlier than that you will have no idea what I'm talking about so just straighten your Strawberry Shortcake t-shirt and skip to the previous entry.
I don't know what kind of fucked up genetics are plugged into a kids brain that makes them positively narcoleptic during the school week and pops your eyes open at 5:59 on Saturday morning but we were up and ready to consume mass quantities of sugary cereal, if my mother had had a fit of generosity and actually bought some, park our asses in front of the boob tube and tune in to hours on end of live-action Sid & Marty Kroft koo-koo for cocoa puffs craziness.
Looking back on these things is always a precarious activity. On one had you get the great sense of sentimentality and on the other is the cringe-worthy realization that we must have been stupid as a box of hair to buy the lame crap they were selling us. I suppose I'll go for the former since it's way more fun and I don't have to admit I was stupid.
And let me just say, hooray for creativity and tapping into the crazy Swiss cheese labyrinth of rug rat minds but what in the fuck were Sid & Marty smoking? Their offices must have been thick as a New England fog with bong smoke at all times. There's no way else to explain how they came up with that kind of weirdness over and over again. Thank goodness we were only hopped up on Cap'n Crunch while watching or my dreams would have been plagued with giant puppets and talking monkeys all trying to eat my head.
One I started to think about it I did a little research and it all came flooding back. Let's see how many you remember.
How about this guy?
Gawd, I had an unnatural love for that stupid show.
And of course who could forget:
If that wasn't the result of a weekend opium bender than I don't know what.
And somehow in my memory merged Pufnstuff with another psychedelic extravaganza starring a mop-topped young boy hanging out with giant hat plushies (hats??) being pursued by a flamboyantly evil wizard type person and a drunken witch. I don't know what the fuck was going on and it didn't help that half the actors from Puf were in this crapfest, too.
As I was doing a little research about this I stumbled onto this site:
http://www.70slivekidvid.com/main.htm
And holy shitballs did it bring back memories! I'd totally forgotten about Electra Woman and Dyna Girl (who was 27 freaking years old when this show was shot, not a girl, totally a woman.) And yes, the blond is Deidre Hall of Days of Our Lives fame.
And did you know there was a Ghost Busters before Ghost Busters?
A gorilla with a beanie? Seriously? How did we watch this drek?
Then of course there was the beauty of The Bugaloos. This one I actually sort of miss.
I suppose these are not much different than what kids have now, like those horrible fake fingered Doodlebops, and we all know Barney should have his own special place in hell. And I can admit that I've watched more than one video of Lazy Town but as popular as these shows are now, as clever and educational as they may be, they'll never capture the craptacularness of shows like Wonderbug.
Of that I have no doubt.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Lovliness
Just in case you live in the dark reaches of a cave in outer Mongolia and haven't seen this, take a peek.
I've watched this about 400 times in the last few days and it never fails to make me tear up through a huge smile. I just love this kid. I love what he's done here and I love that he's sharing it with the world. Gawd bless Youtube, too.
There is a time, unfortunately, every damn day when I just hate people. The asshole tailgating me on the freeway, the check writer in line at the grocery store (I think we can all get behind the ire for that one), the puppy mill operator trying to defend their hell-worthy depravity. But when you see something like this it gives you a break from the negative turd that always seems to be floating in our pools.
It makes me want to do something special like that, too. Sometimes I dream of making some huge impact, imprint, impression that will touch people like Matt has. I really don't believe altruism exists and I struggle with the fact that doing something nice for someone else also makes me feel good so did I do the something to make them or me feel better? But in the end, does it really matter?
I say no.
Bringing joy to 3 million people on the internet or one little kid on the corner is equal. It makes a difference. One tiny drop in the ocean and how far it goes might not be visible to the naked eye but we can be rest assured it's there. The impact is felt, big or small.
And that's all that matters.
I've watched this about 400 times in the last few days and it never fails to make me tear up through a huge smile. I just love this kid. I love what he's done here and I love that he's sharing it with the world. Gawd bless Youtube, too.
There is a time, unfortunately, every damn day when I just hate people. The asshole tailgating me on the freeway, the check writer in line at the grocery store (I think we can all get behind the ire for that one), the puppy mill operator trying to defend their hell-worthy depravity. But when you see something like this it gives you a break from the negative turd that always seems to be floating in our pools.
It makes me want to do something special like that, too. Sometimes I dream of making some huge impact, imprint, impression that will touch people like Matt has. I really don't believe altruism exists and I struggle with the fact that doing something nice for someone else also makes me feel good so did I do the something to make them or me feel better? But in the end, does it really matter?
I say no.
Bringing joy to 3 million people on the internet or one little kid on the corner is equal. It makes a difference. One tiny drop in the ocean and how far it goes might not be visible to the naked eye but we can be rest assured it's there. The impact is felt, big or small.
And that's all that matters.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Dear Kitty,
You are the furry love of my life, KeeKee cat, and I appreciate the fact that you have an uncontrollable need to sleep as close to me as possible, even when that compulsion hits you at 5 fucking o'clock in the crackass of the morning. But must you park your butt on top of the pillow my head is currently occupying?
It is vital to snuggle with my face immediately after a visit to the poo poo house so I wake up with kitty litter stuck to my cheek? And as much as I Just. Can't. Get. Enough of your sweet purring it's not necessary to do so directly into my ear when mommy is trying to squeeze the last few drops of sleep out of her too-short night.
Also, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't CHEW MY HAIR like some circus freak with a follicle fetish.
Love you. Mean it,
Mama
p.s. please stop barfing. We all know it's you, despite the look of innocence you give me. Thank you.
It is vital to snuggle with my face immediately after a visit to the poo poo house so I wake up with kitty litter stuck to my cheek? And as much as I Just. Can't. Get. Enough of your sweet purring it's not necessary to do so directly into my ear when mommy is trying to squeeze the last few drops of sleep out of her too-short night.
Also, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't CHEW MY HAIR like some circus freak with a follicle fetish.
Love you. Mean it,
Mama
p.s. please stop barfing. We all know it's you, despite the look of innocence you give me. Thank you.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Long time no write
I guess it's time to give this blog a good dusting and push that gnarly pic of my broken arm down off the front page. Yes?
Hiya, kids? How are ya? Let's get all caught up, shall we?
Last December whitey and I went to visit my parents for Christmas. My brother and niece joined us as did whitey's mom for a few days. It was horrible. Of course whitey was awesome as was his mama but my mother and brother were bonkers in a bad way. In a word? It was fuckass.
(Some of you might have noticed I pulled 2 very long and gloomy posts detailing what happened with a lot of personal back story. And as much as I was hoping that would be an explanatory and cathartic thing it wasn't. Those words out there for the world to see never sat quite right with me and down they came. The short version is, my mother and I have always had problems, she crosses the line, I retaliated pretty hard, it was not good.)
My mother and I didn't speak for months. My brother can go suck it. I was depressed with a capital ugh. This lead to much crying and eating of chocolate and the inability to do much more than play Spider Solitaire (I will beat you 4 suits! I will!) and watch very bad reality TV day after day after day. (What were you thinking Big Brother? Seriously.)
In February I was the main photographer for a wedding and nearly lost my mind. Jebus H., the stress. That endeavor took up nearly every inch of space in my brain for 3 months solid not-to-mention most of my free fucking time. I said I'd never do that again but I've been booked by a co-worker to shoot her brother's wedding in August. It's a low-budget backyard affair and if the bride and groom are anything like my office acquaintance there will be a keg of Bud and illegal fireworks for entertainment so I'm not too bunched up about that one. As long as no one gets Velveeta on my camera we're all good.
Then in early April I fractured my arm in a horse fall. (See blechy pic below.) This was unfun. I put in a years worth of whining in the last 8 weeks and will have a sore arm for a couple more months but it's on the mend. Well, with the exception of some weird wonky scab issue from the wound that is usually found on horses and not humans (of course) that had to be treated with silver nitrate (!) but that's fixed now as well.
Also in April I finally retired my '95 Honda Accord (I cried like an idiot saying goodbye to that car. I'm such a girl.) and got a car I've wanted for a long time. Isn't she pretty?
Around that same time I'd had enough of the blubbering and fretting over the mom situation (brother can still suck it) and took my dad's advice and wrote my parents a letter, with a special paragraph to my mom. I didn't apologize outright, since it wasn't deserved, but I honestly expressed my sorrow for what went down, ate a little petite shit sandwich, and that did the trick.
My mother called me, sort of kinda apologized in her back-peddling way, but it opened the door and although my feelings are changed forever and I can't ever see spending more than 2 or 3 days with her under the same roof ever again, at least this wound isn't gushing blood all over my light beige carpet any longer. My mood improved a great deal and I could finally concentrate on new things.
Speaking of new things...
I've never considered myself the crafty or artistic sort. Oh, I've dabbled in a few things like quilt making (can you even imagine?) and I made a very ugly pair of earrings once. Mostly I just get a whim up my butt and buy all the supplies for the next, great objet d' crap that I'm convinced will be the envy of the world and prominantly displayed then I lose interest or can't bring myself to read the instructions and it gets shoved unmade in a cupboard or under a bed. (Anyone want nine thousand marble magnets?) Or I do things like glue my fingers together and stab myself repeatedly with pins. And there was that one night involving Saki and cement, but I won't go into it.
However, I've always enjoyed photography. I didn't start to take it seriously until about 2 years ago, or at least as seriously as I take anything. Taking pictures has nudged the desperate wanna-be artist I know is living deep inside my skull, lurking somewhere behind all the useless Brady Bunch trivia and memories of 5th grade. I have a serious technology disability but I'm learning and trying and sometimes getting lucky.
I've even opened up my own Etsy shop to hopefully sell some prints and things. (For those of you who aren't familiar, it's a place where people sell artist type hand-made stuff and supplies to make handmade stuff and handmade supplies to make more stuff.) Go check it out here:
http://www.tasteslikepurple.etsy.com/
So, I think that catches us up. I sure did miss you guys but how many posts could you have read that said "Still depressed. Ate my weight in cookies today. See you tomorrow." Not many, I'm sure. The AWOL is over, the bitchslappings and story telling shall commence once again.
It's good to be back.
Hiya, kids? How are ya? Let's get all caught up, shall we?
Last December whitey and I went to visit my parents for Christmas. My brother and niece joined us as did whitey's mom for a few days. It was horrible. Of course whitey was awesome as was his mama but my mother and brother were bonkers in a bad way. In a word? It was fuckass.
(Some of you might have noticed I pulled 2 very long and gloomy posts detailing what happened with a lot of personal back story. And as much as I was hoping that would be an explanatory and cathartic thing it wasn't. Those words out there for the world to see never sat quite right with me and down they came. The short version is, my mother and I have always had problems, she crosses the line, I retaliated pretty hard, it was not good.)
My mother and I didn't speak for months. My brother can go suck it. I was depressed with a capital ugh. This lead to much crying and eating of chocolate and the inability to do much more than play Spider Solitaire (I will beat you 4 suits! I will!) and watch very bad reality TV day after day after day. (What were you thinking Big Brother? Seriously.)
In February I was the main photographer for a wedding and nearly lost my mind. Jebus H., the stress. That endeavor took up nearly every inch of space in my brain for 3 months solid not-to-mention most of my free fucking time. I said I'd never do that again but I've been booked by a co-worker to shoot her brother's wedding in August. It's a low-budget backyard affair and if the bride and groom are anything like my office acquaintance there will be a keg of Bud and illegal fireworks for entertainment so I'm not too bunched up about that one. As long as no one gets Velveeta on my camera we're all good.
Then in early April I fractured my arm in a horse fall. (See blechy pic below.) This was unfun. I put in a years worth of whining in the last 8 weeks and will have a sore arm for a couple more months but it's on the mend. Well, with the exception of some weird wonky scab issue from the wound that is usually found on horses and not humans (of course) that had to be treated with silver nitrate (!) but that's fixed now as well.
Also in April I finally retired my '95 Honda Accord (I cried like an idiot saying goodbye to that car. I'm such a girl.) and got a car I've wanted for a long time. Isn't she pretty?
Around that same time I'd had enough of the blubbering and fretting over the mom situation (brother can still suck it) and took my dad's advice and wrote my parents a letter, with a special paragraph to my mom. I didn't apologize outright, since it wasn't deserved, but I honestly expressed my sorrow for what went down, ate a little petite shit sandwich, and that did the trick.
My mother called me, sort of kinda apologized in her back-peddling way, but it opened the door and although my feelings are changed forever and I can't ever see spending more than 2 or 3 days with her under the same roof ever again, at least this wound isn't gushing blood all over my light beige carpet any longer. My mood improved a great deal and I could finally concentrate on new things.
Speaking of new things...
I've never considered myself the crafty or artistic sort. Oh, I've dabbled in a few things like quilt making (can you even imagine?) and I made a very ugly pair of earrings once. Mostly I just get a whim up my butt and buy all the supplies for the next, great objet d' crap that I'm convinced will be the envy of the world and prominantly displayed then I lose interest or can't bring myself to read the instructions and it gets shoved unmade in a cupboard or under a bed. (Anyone want nine thousand marble magnets?) Or I do things like glue my fingers together and stab myself repeatedly with pins. And there was that one night involving Saki and cement, but I won't go into it.
However, I've always enjoyed photography. I didn't start to take it seriously until about 2 years ago, or at least as seriously as I take anything. Taking pictures has nudged the desperate wanna-be artist I know is living deep inside my skull, lurking somewhere behind all the useless Brady Bunch trivia and memories of 5th grade. I have a serious technology disability but I'm learning and trying and sometimes getting lucky.
I've even opened up my own Etsy shop to hopefully sell some prints and things. (For those of you who aren't familiar, it's a place where people sell artist type hand-made stuff and supplies to make handmade stuff and handmade supplies to make more stuff.) Go check it out here:
http://www.tasteslikepurple.etsy.com/
So, I think that catches us up. I sure did miss you guys but how many posts could you have read that said "Still depressed. Ate my weight in cookies today. See you tomorrow." Not many, I'm sure. The AWOL is over, the bitchslappings and story telling shall commence once again.
It's good to be back.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Intermission
Sorry for the delay. I've been stalled by an accident over the weekend that nearly broke my arm which is now hanging off my shoulder like a big meaty purple ham hock. It's impressive in a holy shit did you get the tag off the semi that ran you over kind of way and only half-functional.
I'm telling people I used my elbow as a battering ram to break down the door of a flaming orphanage to save 29 parentless children since confessing that my scaredy-cat widdle horsie didn't like the looks of my utterly terrifying light blue waterbottle which sent his pea-brain into a convulsion of horror causing him to jump 4 feet sideways effectively dumping my fat ass onto the ground and smashing my entire right side.
~sigh~
Be back soon.
**update: It's fricken broken!!
I'm telling people I used my elbow as a battering ram to break down the door of a flaming orphanage to save 29 parentless children since confessing that my scaredy-cat widdle horsie didn't like the looks of my utterly terrifying light blue waterbottle which sent his pea-brain into a convulsion of horror causing him to jump 4 feet sideways effectively dumping my fat ass onto the ground and smashing my entire right side.
~sigh~
Be back soon.
**update: It's fricken broken!!
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
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