I had one of those days today. Those days that start off with me telling my boss "I looked through those folders and the posters are not there." Then she sifts through said folders and finds what I was looking for right where she said it would be. Then I came home to listen to my daughter's reading home work. Which turned out to be a sweet little pagan story about a sun god who created night. Nothing about a big bang, or the rotation of a rock I like to call "earth", much less the mention of um, whatcha call it, ah...GOD. Because everybody knows that the sun created night by pulling a blanket over his head! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?! And what about the stars you say? Glad you asked. They are not flaming balls of gas as one might be mislead by modern astronomy. No, indeed stars were created when a bird poked holes in the blanket trying to find the sun. That my friends is required reading for my Angelbaby who will turn 7 on the 21st. Yes, before you even ask- I did explain to her that the story was total bullshit. Without a doubt, I should have gone to bed at that point. I don't want to talk about it. I'll just leave you with a word of advice. If you find a bug leg in your coffee cup, disassembling the coffee maker is a bad idea. Just throw the machine away and get a new one. Trust me on this one.
Well, at least they got the red hair right. You are the Elf of Wealth. Gold, wealth, happyness are important in your Kingdom. The people in your kingdom are all wealthy and happy. Make sure you don't overdo it, Love isn't the same as money. What kind of Elf are you? ( with pics) brought to you by Quizilla I totally found this through Kenneth.
I live in an apartment and I am the asshole who decides to hang her Christmas wreath on the front door at 9:30pm. Yea, my neighbors love me. Especially the young couple next door with the baby I woke up by hammering on my front door. Felice Navidad neighbor! Tonight I finished the last of my holiday decorating. I have a string of lights left over that should have went on my tree but I'm not taking all the ornaments off. Screw it- there's always next year. And that is my overall attitude towards Christmas this year. I absolutely refuse to get all worked up and/or depressed. I think I'll even wait till the last minute to do my shopping. ...and hurry down the chimney tonight.
Most of the time, I really hate the fact that I never moved from Birmingham. I feel like George Bailey trapped in Bedford Falls. For those of you who have never seen It's a Wonderful Life I'd first like to say: crawl out from under that rock, it's nice out here and second: the main character George Bailey never ends up leaving that hell-hole town called Bedford Falls because some stupid angel needs a pair of wings. Anyway. Today I had a wonderful life moment. No, friends and family did not gather to sing wretchedly off-tune and hand me fists full of money. However, the cop that pulled me over tonight for my expired tag just happened to be an ex-football player from my old highschool. When he remembered me, and by all accounts he should not have remembered for we never actually knew each other then, he let me go with a warning. Yep, it's great to be in my home town.
Well, not entirely a punk-rock Thanksgiving. Don't get me wrong, there was plenty of puking going on. However none of it was alcohol induced. And luckily, none of it was turkey induced either. Top 3 reasons Thanksgiving Day this year had all the potential of being quite disastrous:
- The Rascal met my parents for the first time.
- My father is a raging Democrat the Rascal is a staunch Republican.
- My Grandmother thinks everyone I date is in The Mafia. (no shit)
I aspire to be Marie Rudisill when I grow up. They call her The Fruitcake Lady and she has a spot on The Tonight Show called "Ask the Fruitcake Lady." For anyone who has never seen her go here , I promise a good laugh. Her bio is pretty interesting to. Unfortunately they removed the 3 videos of her cooking fruitcake on the show. My favorite quote came from the show where she was schooling Jay Leno and Cuba Gooding Jr. on how to cook a cherry pie. They were using ceramic birds to vent the pies and Cuba got some cherries in the mouth of the bird. Marie turned to him and said DON'T GET IT IN THE HOLE! Can't you men walk past a hole without trying to put something in it?
Usually when someone asks "how are things going with the Rascal?" my reply is "he hasn't dumped me yet." This usually invokes a barrage of questions aimed at determining whether or not the Rascal and I are gossip worthy. Then I have to explain that everything is fine except when I'm being a royal idiot, which is basically a daily occurrence. While I don't care for the attention that my stock reply gets, I must own that in a very twisted way I do enjoy seeing the wash of disappointment cover the faces of the gossip mongers when they realize that our conversation has been fruitless as far as gossip goes. Is that wrong? Anyway. My idiocy. I may as well change my name to Bridget Jones. Because no matter how hard I try to control myself, I always say to wrong thing. Like today- I told the Rascal I hated him. That's right, I looked at the man and said "I hate you." He had gotten me all wet. And by wet: I mean with a hose-pipe. And by hose-pipe I mean: we were finished burning leaves in his yard so he was spraying water on the fire and then he thought it would be funny to spray me a little. So I was forced to retaliate, but instead of getting the hose away from him to spray him back, he soaked my clothes. I am certain he knows I don't really hate him. But I am aware that some things once said, even in jest, linger. If today was the only example of my foot in mouth conduct I'd be less apt to brood. But the silverlining is: he hasn't dumped me yet.
I am not very ashamed to say that I have been reading smut on my lunch hour. Not porn you perv! A "romance" novel. I am on chapter 3 and there has already been a scandal and a funeral. Also, one leggy maid and one jilted rightful heir to the fortune have had an extremely passionate one night stand. With less than 200 pages in the whole book and a very sexy cover, there could be no better example of literary abomination. My muse would be very disappointed. Or maybe this is just the sort of thing she would expect from someone like me. Either way it is of no matter since I will probably never see Kittychan again. When I met Kittychan she was home for a break between her senior trip to Europe and her freshman year at some Russian art school. A Jewish American princess with a flair for anything "goth." I met her through the Drummer. In fact, the Drummer was infatuated with her the entire time we dated. I could not fault him for hanging on her every word because half-way through my first conversation with her, I was enchanted. I felt like young Kirsten Dunst in Interview with a Vampire. When she gets caught spying on a whore and she explains "I don't want her, I want to be her." Far better looking than myself and about 7 years younger, Kittychan was everything I wish I had been at nineteen. I never understood why Kittychan felt the need to slum-it by being friends with my ex, but I did come to realize the only thing she had that I really wanted was a proper education. And so, at some point after meeting her I decided since I can't go back to school right now, I would make an effort to find and read all the classics that I neglected in my youthful cloud of pot smoke. So far- I have managed to read the complete novels of Jane Austen. I won't shame myself any further by publishing the title of the smut I am reading now. It was there, I was bored, might as well finish it. I don't feel too bad about it, with the education I had it is truely a wonder that I learned to read at all. At any rate when I am done I have the complete novels of Charlotte and Emily Bronte waiting for me. By the by, my muse can be contacted through firstname.lastname@example.org . But don't send her spam at email@example.com because that would be bad. So only friendly emails should be sent to her at firstname.lastname@example.org . Again, that is email@example.com .
Got hooked today. Yep, a new addiction. An entire cup of coffee passed through my lips today and I didn't gag once. The full pot beckoned to me. "Just a sip." My mouth watered as I poured myself a steaming cup of liquid caffeine. The bitter mocha sweetness caressed the back of my throat before it sank deep in my belly. Mmm. Good to the last drop. I know what you're thinking- big fucking deal right? Well it is a big deal. Everybody knows coffee is a gateway drug. Next thing you know I'll be smoking 2 packs of Camel filterless a day. I've been so strong until now. I worked in a coffee shop for years and never fell to temptation. But those days are over my friends. I have brought shame upon myself. I wonder if there is a convenient Starbucks on my route to work.
Twice I have been mis-diagnosed with depression. The first time, I had gone to the doctor and told him-"I cry every day and I don't know why." He then asked if I had been sleeping well and when I told him no, he wasted no time before he started writing me a prescription for anti-depressants and one for sleeping pills. The drugs never made much of a difference. (Unless you count the 10lbs I gained.) Instead, I found that as soon as I signed the divorce papers all of my symptoms just disappeared. (Along with the extra weight I had gained.) The second time I was wrongly accused of being depressed: I thought I was loosing my mind and I decided to seek,ahem... Counseling. Week one, the diagnonsense was of course depression. By week two, my counselor actually used the words- post traumatic stress syndrome. I don't know how much I buy into that label but now that I am aware that being stressed out makes me look and act in a way that mimics the symptoms of depression, I pay closer attention to possible causes of my mood swings. Today I was in a rotten mood all day and I had no tangible explanation. That is until I started to explain it to someone else and I realized that the "jam band" music we have been listening to has really been taking it's toll. There is a reason only hippy stoners enjoy that kind of music. Jam band music = downer. With that said, for the sake of my mental health and yours, the only solution is to ban all jam band music everywhere. Therefore I am asking everyone to sign my comment section and have everyone you know to sign as a petition to end the Jam Band Depression. Thanks for your support.
The last thing I would ever want to be called is a feminist. I'm not saying that WonderWoman isn't my favorite comic book character, or that I don't own a Rosey the Riveter t-shirt. Because she is and I do. But I believe women should take their husbands name when they marry. And I know that our military (supposedly) will never draft for a war again. However should they ever decide to reinstate the draft and expand it to include young ladies- I WILL BE ONE PISSED MOTHER! I saw a bumper sticker the other day that read "Well behaved women rarely make history." I immediately thought to myself "Yes, I am making history." While pondering further on the matter I began to remember a certain self proclaimed feminist that I wanted to back-hand. She was my husband's best friend's fiancée. That troglodyte waltzed into my 23rd birthday party shouting that I was being oppressed because I had been given a Betty Page t-shirt. Nevermind the fact that I had specifically asked for the shirt. She then proceeded to explain to me that I was too stupid to think for myself and that some man had obviously convinced me that I like Betty Page. Furthermore, I should assert myself and make my man listen. Anyway, we argued until I started yelling "I'm being oppressed by a feminist!" which queued her fiancé to take her drunk ass home. After that incident I avoided her like the plague. That night I realized that the feminist movement is not about being equal anymore. It is about being dominant. And I don't want that job. Of course, I do not have any intentions of being well behaved either.
Even the title of this post sucks. I might as well have a big whiney-baby bumper sticker that says mean people suck. Boo-fucking-hoo! Ahem... What I mean to say is that someone that I really liked working with recently quit and it was mostly due to office politics. It reminded me of that stupid email that I've read a million times about the bird that freezes mid flight and lands in a cow pasture where a cow immediately poops on said bird thawing him. Then some other stupid animal shows up to clean the bird off then said stupid animal eats the bird. The moral of the story being that sometimes your friends poop on you and your enemies are in disguise. Or maybe it just means you shouldn't fly in freezing weather. Either way, it sucks having to watch nice people get shit on. Even if it ends up being for their own good.
In the comments of my last post Kenneth made a good point. It's no fun being angry all the time. I to dated someone who thought pissing me off was synonymous with turning me on. It took me a while to figure out what was going on. And when I finally explained that I would never- ever- ever- ever want to be intimate while I was angry, he tried to convince me that I was the crazy one. I still think it is healthy for a couple to be able to poke fun at each other from time to time. But Kenneth is right, "girls are weird" and angry isn't sexy. By the by, I have a female friend that totally swears by make-up sex. She and her husband fight constantly. They have 4 children. FOUR. CHILDREN.
I am not a "Bush supporter" but I do respect him for the decisions he as made concerning the war. I supported the decision to go to war and every September 11th I am renewed in the belief that we must finish what we started. And that is all I have to say about that.
I've had a conversation with my boss stuck in my head for a couple of weeks now. We were discussing men and she says to me "fighting to not be like your parents is a constant battle." I think nothing on the subject could be more true. For nine months now I have been in denial of the fact that Angelbaby has asthma. Nine months ago she came home from her fathers house with a nebulizer and a six month supply of a drug called Xopenex. Her father then proceeds to tell me that he took her to the doctor for vomiting and was diagnosed with asthma. Now, he's not the quickest of cats at the best of times, so I just thought that the Dr. was just trying to pacify the father by prescribing the asthma medication. I mean with the ever growing number of children on these nebulizers it does seem rather trendy. When I asked her regular doctor about it, he seemed put off by the fact that she had seen another doctor but didn't even question the asthma diagnosis. He just said that there was "no harm" in letting Angelbaby use the nebulizer if she was having trouble breathing. I was under the impression that it was psychological and I should just play along. And that is why I really didn't think much of it. Last Thursday the school called to tell me that Angelbaby was vomiting and I needed to come get her. When I got her home she was panting like a dog outside in the hot weather. I gave her the Xopenex and nothing. So that is when I started actually researching asthma on the internet. One of the first things I read was "this is not a psychological condition." I continued to read for about an hour before I came to the phrase "most deaths caused by asthma could have been prevented." DEATHS!?! And that is how she ended up spending the night in UAB Children's Hospital. She's fine now. She was released the next day with an albuteral inhaler and a list of doctors ( by request) so we could find a new pediatrician. What bothers me most about the whole situation is that I was so ill prepared, and considering the amount of information on the net about asthma I have no excuse for being so. That brings me to the bit about becoming your parents. My mother was extremely inattentive. I find that the fight not to become her is a constant battle.
This weekend is the Birmingham Artwalk. It's free people- all you have to do is show up. Also Dan Bynum has an art installation at Bare Hands Gallery. Opening Reception is Friday Sept 9 from 6pm to 10pm. Also free. For those of you that will be hitting both events on Friday there is free parking at Bare Hands Gallery and you can walk to the Artwalk from there. All puns intended.
How terrible, how completely terrifying would it be to be so ignorant that you would actually hold in contempt the very people trying to save your life. I have seen many of the Katrina victims being exploited on national television, placing blame in a fit of rage and it makes me sad. Like wounded dogs their backs are arched, ready to strike the hand that will lead them to safety. How painful it is to watch the grief one goes through after being washed clean of everything but your last breath. And then there is the irony: I bought a bottle of Tabasco sauce a couple of days ago. Tabasco is made in Louisiana. Inside the package there was a campaign advertisement aimed at saving the Coastal Louisiana Wetland. I did not ready anything on the site that indicated they would be handing over any funds for the Katrina disaster. It did however link a site set up by Governer Blanco for the purpose of taking donations. Since it is my understanding that the local government did not follow proper procedures for evacuation of the city (School buses could have been used to evacuate the poor), I'm not sure I would trust them with dispersing of the aid.
I decided to have breakfast for dinner tonight. Grits, eggs, bacon, and biscuits topped with honey. Angelbaby keeps one of my barstools in the kitchen so she can reach the upper cabinets. I put 4 slices of bacon for us in a pan on the stove. I thought nothing of the barstool in front of the stove as I turned to put the rest of the bacon away. When I turned back around, my cat was sitting on the very edge of the stool with his neck stretched as far as it could go-licking the bacon in the pan. Of course I cooked it. There is no way he licked it for more than 3 seconds.
Welcome to the bloggerhood SolderJunkie. Of the first four posts that I have read, I needed a dictionary for 3 of them. What I like most about SolderJunkie is this- no matter how many times I refer to his boss as "Auchbod" he always corrects me in the same calm, unassuming tone. As if he accepts me completely-even though I can never remember that his boss's name is "Hameed." I'm glad you figured out how to "toss your cookies."
Ordinarily I get really irritated when blogger eats a post before I have a chance to publish it. Last night was the exception to the rule. Half way through a rant about being in a bad mood blogger froze up and I had to reboot. I figured it was for the best and went on to bed. Tonight I got a late start, so I think I would just like to take a minute to point out to those of you in the Birmingham area it's not too late to volunteer for the Filmfest. That's all folks. Coming soon: I accidentally died my hair trailer trash red. The bottle which read sun fire was clearly mislabled. I will be posting pictures soon.
Well he was fueled by a lack Drew inspiration from a need So many problems to crack And mouths to feed Crooked was the path And brazen was the walk A cocky swagger, up the ladder And could he ever talk The last hurrah? Nah! I'd do it again The Rascal King behind bars Or the one in front of them The love of God And constant contradictions With just a smile, wink or nod What's stranger, fact or fiction? And never ceasing to amaze On a regular basis First hand into his pocket Or first fist into the faces The last hurrah? Nah! I'd do it again The Rascal King behind the bars Or the one in front of them A legendary character When? Only then Where? Only there A hero or a hooligan? Well that parts never clear Pride or shame, it's all the same Who's innocent or who's to blame? Politics or just a game? WELL IN THE END THEY KNEW HIS NAME! The last hurrah? Nah! I'd do it again The Rascal King behind the bars or the one in front of them The Rascal King By The Mighty Mighty BossToneS
Still unpacking from the move. I just found the return letter from the Cowgirl after writing this. It makes me sad that we have been reduced to writing letters. At the same time I know we are still too different to ever be as close as we once were. Be that as it may, there are still a few funny stories to be told. Imagine the most country-southern accent you have ever heard say the words "I got sum body I wont chuta meet." I fell for it 3 times before I wised up. If you check the Redneck to English dictionary "I got sum body I wont chuta meet" translates to- blind date from hell. Literally. The first time I was blind sided I think we were about 16. The Cowgirl came to my house for a sleep-over and had her boyfriend come and pick us up. I knew it was going to be bad when we drove to the seediest trailer park within a 10 mile radius. We walked in and the person I was supposed to meet appeared to be asleep. "Oh, well- you can watch tv since Dennis is asleep." She says as she runs off to the back bedroom to loose her virginity. And I had a seat across the room from Dennis who wasn't really asleep. The details are not worth repeating, I'll just say my virginity was ultimately safe and I left that nasty hell-hole thanking God that Dennis understood that no means no. The second time I was fooled we were 17. I drove 30 minutes out of town to spend the night with the Cowgirl at her grandparents house. When I arrived she informed me that her boyfriend, Andy, was coming over and he was bringing Burt for me to meet. Yep, Burt and Andy. I remember standing in the kitchen when in walks Andy with 384 lbs of stupid. Now, I like big guys so at first I thought he was a maybe. Then he spoke. Instantly I knew this ex-linebacker clearly took one too many hits without his helmet on. We argued all night. And as much as I would like to say I never let him touch me, that would be a lie. Sadly I have to admit that I was 17 and had never been kissed. I figured I might as well get it over with since I would never have to see him again. And so my first kiss was from a big dumb boy named Burt who thought he could impress me by lifting me over his head with one hand. The third and final time the Cowgirl tricked me into a blind date, we were 19. Luis was 29. The Cowgirl's boyfriend, who later became her husband, lived and worked with Luis. I thought Luis was very cute but it didn't take me long to figure out that he dated younger girls because he wasn't cool enough to get girls his own age. By this time I had lost my virginity but I had no interest in having the sex with Luis. At one point during the evening the Cowgirl's boyfriend leaned over and whispered that Luis was building his own house and if only I would have sex with Luis he would let me choose all capet and cabinets and lighting fixtures for his new home. I assumed the reference to the house was supposed to be a symbol of his ability to provide for me. That was the first time I realized I could never bring myself to date a man just for his money. Even if Luis had owned 10 houses, sex with me would still not have been on the menu. After Luis I told the Cowgirl in no uncertain terms that she was not ever allowed to introduce me to anyone under any circumstances as long as we both shall live. She has kept her promise.
Nothing bad really, but it drives me crazy when people say things in parting that leave me thinking "Did you really just say that?" Sales folks call it the parting shot. It is meant as a final effort to peak your interest and hopefully buy into what ever is for sale. Dictionary.com defines it as an act of aggression or retaliation... But in my experience people also use it as a way to get a point across without having to face a return opinion. Generally speaking, I am not very quick on the draw so, the parting shot almost always catches me off guard. Therein lies the rub. By the time I realize I've been "shot" my beautiful sub-conscience is already singing the "you can not be sure" tune. Then I think-well, maybe I just heard what I wanted to hear. That leaves me with the dilemma -to ask or not to ask. And that drives me crazy.
I have a syndrome. I'm not sure which one but I am positive there is a name for my syndrome somewhere out there. My days run together so that I never feel like I have time to blog. I find myself making up blog titles for every detail of my day. When I sit at the computer I can't decide on anything to write so I write nothing. Yep. A syndrome. That's what I have. Maybe if someone hasn't named it already they'll name it after me. Irish Geisha Syndrome or IGS. So anyways, before I was afflicted by the IGS I had the opportunity to attend the Art from the Heart auction last Sunday. A benefit for Studio By The Tracks at the B&A Warehouse. If helping a non-profit org."provide free art classes to special needs adults and emotionally conflicted children" was not a good enough reason to cough up $50 to attend, then maybe it was the food. It was catered by Kathy G. & Co and the turn out was far greater than I had expected. All the best artists from the Birmingham area contributed as well as students of the studio. I wish I could say I paid the 50-bucks to get in but contributors get in free. And since my company donated framing supplies... And since I am broke due to the new apartment rent and associated bills... I got in for free. However I did manage to bid, by silent auction, on a lovely photo by this fellow and won it for the bargain price of $10. A milestone has passed. Not to mention that I helped two birds with one stone. The studio and the local art community. And did I mention the chocolate fountain? Chocolate. Fountain. As I was sticking a skewer into a giant marshmallow some man walks up to me and asks "Is this really chocolate?" "No." I said "It is the Fountain of Youth, enjoy yourself." After some consideration, I am pretty sure I developed my syndrome shortly after partaking of the chocolate of the fountain.
I'm all moved. Well, mostly. Anyway I have the internets and a warm bed, what more could a girl ask for? Here's what- I would like all of youse driving in the Homewood area to please observe the yield signs that have been thoughtfully placed in strategic locations. Thanks. P.S. If you have a yield sign, and I am driving towards you, and you do not yield, I WILL hit you. Don't even worry about it because it's gonna happen. Yes, I should probably be living in a city with some sort of subway system.
Yesterday I came home to a note on my apartment door. It was a notice advising tenants that our apartments are prone to flooding. Because of this notice I am no longer kicking myself over getting a second floor apartment. I was surprised when I woke up to find that not only was there no flooding but I didn't even loose power. Got to work this morning and...No power. The boss declared it a Holiday. YEA! Now I am about to finally move my computer to it's new home. Where there is no internet connection. Hopefully that will be up and running soon.
"America is currently awash in an unpleasant surplus of clanging, clashing certitudes. That is why there is a rhetorical bitterness absurdly disproportionate to our real differences. It has been well said that the spirit of liberty is the spirit of not being too sure that you are right. One way to immunize ourselves against misplaced certitude is to contemplate-even to savor-the unfathomable strangeness of everything, including ourselves." A couple of weeks ago I had lunch at the Hunan Wok in Homewood. While I was waiting for my pre-cooked frozen chicken to be thawed in a dirty wok and slathered in ameri-Chinese hot sauce and served over stale rice, I picked up the remaining half of a magazine that was in the chair beside me. The first article I came to was the one I have linked above. Bill Bryson's discription of the universe and everything in it, is exactly what I pictured in my head when I wrote this silly retort. 1) Is human nature basically good or basically evil? Explain. How poetic, Mr. Interviewer, are you a Morrissey fan? Seriously, I could spend all day answering this question. But I'll try to keep it short without sounding too cheeky. It is a trick question. I am sure of it. I think human nature must be equally both. My answer is based entirely on a diagram I once saw of an atom.
Well, I do not mind changing locations I just hate getting every thing that owns me to the new space. I spent my 4th of July weekend moving. I had help and we got a lot done but I am sure I will still be spending all day next Saturday moving the remainder of my belongings. Once all my stuff has been moved and I unpack, I will then have the task of coddling one daughter and one cat until they are settled. That should take about a month. Angelbaby loves the new apartment but every time we move she throws at least one temper tantrum that makes me question my abilities as a parent. And then I think to myself maybe it isn't me. Maybe I have given birth to an alien. That always makes me laugh. So anyway in about a month I will be back to my old tricks again and hopefully I will have more to post about.
So my high school reunion is coming up in August. I have not decided if I am going to go. I mean the tickets are $70. It could just be the pms talking but, I am not sure I feel comfortable spending $70 to see a bunch of people that I did not connect with when I saw them for free on a daily basis. On the other hand I am curious. Anyway if I do decide to go there are a few things I need to do to prepare. The short list:
- Loose 15-no, 20 pounds.
- Get a tan.
Get boob job.Purchase Wonder bra.
- Win the lottery.
- Catch a tiger by his toe.