Since my family and friends live in other states and I have to ship their packages, my deadline for the hoopla is earlier. Last year, I waited until the 23rd of December and ended up having to FedEx them overnight so the little gremlins would have perfectly coiffed and coordinated gifts under the tree in time. It cost $186 - almost as much a flight I could have gotten to DELIVER the gifts in person. I am happy to report that this year I went to UPS (so I could use that awesome internet tracking device that tells me everything is currently in Sharonville, Ohio) and all my gifts should arrive in time. Eventually I'll get smart and send gift cards, but for this year, I can finally relax.
My ex- will be coming back from Iraq in about two weeks, which means he'll repossess his truck and I'll be buying a car. I can probably get a better deal if I wait until the last minute, right? RIGHT?!
"You bought a WHAT?!"
"And paid HOW MUCH?!?Being single means never having to rationalize any purchase or hide packages in my trunk. I stroll leisurely to the mailbox on the 22nd of each month, when the credit card bill arrives.
Meet my new Canon Powershot S80 8 megapixel digital camera...for no other reason than I wanted it. HA! Take that, you big fat man in a red polyester suit!
Right on schedule, this morning at 3:17, I heard the beginning of another puke ritual. I had two kittens sleeping beteen my legs, one on my chest and one near my head, so as I lept out of bed, I became twisted in the duvet and landed flat on my ass.
It's been one of those weeks.
Damn the Doritos.
Technically, yes, but he had Down's Syndrome so I took it with a grain of salt. I'm sure it's the hair combined with my regal nose, but it still made me smile...perhaps my son will look like Prince William.
If you change points of view
You may change a vote
And when you change a vote
You may change the world
- Depeche Mode
My son redeemed himself slightly: "Look at Lindsay Lohan - that's disgusting. Her arms are only this big...she has to wear a big dress to cover up how skinny she is. Why would she do that to herself - that's just gross."
Imagine two entire days and three WHOLE nights spent with an angry fifteen year old boy - listening to loud rap, watching crap tv shows and nagging for him to pick up after himself.
Next time I ground him, I’m sending him to someone else’s house.
My son was four when we were living on Ft. Campbell base housing. The playground was behind our house so I'd fill his little canteen with water, give him some chewy fruit snacks and send him out for the afternoon so I could study/play Minesweeper on the computer. There were huge concrete pipes - probably leftover bunkers from WWII or something - and the kids played on them, hiding inside or trying to knock one another off. One evening he came running in the house screaming, tears running down his dirt-streaked face. He had fallen off the pipe and hurt his arm, so I made him dinner, gave him a bath, and tucked him into bed.
His dad came home later and checked on him as he was sleeping. He asked me why I didn't take him to the emergency room - his arm was still discolored - what kind of idiot was I? (how many different types are there, and is it possible to fall under multiple categories?). A few hours later, they returned from the hospital with my son's full arm cast. I DID feel horrible. And I had been a medic? Thank goodness I never saw combat: "Oh, that's just a sucking chest wound - get back out there!"
Oddly, this "suck it up" mentality doesn't extend to my kittens. Crackhead's (whose real name is Kennedy) fur fell out this week, and the other three's whiskers broke. I researched it on the internet and came to the conclusion that they had a rare and contagious fungus from the Amazon. I bundled up the kittens in the cat carrier, and off to the vet we went.
He checked for fungus, parasites, leukemia, aids, etc. and gave them a clean bill of health. He said they were very healthy, well-socialized and the fur must have fallen out from the stress of being abandoned or switching to solid food, since he could find no other medical explanation.
Combined total weight of my four kittens: 5 pounds.
My mother used to loan me her mastercard when I was sixteen years old since we had the same first intial and last name (I had to pay for it - she wasn't that generous). I was using it to charge a pair of jeans when the saleslady asked if I would like my own store credit card - with a driver's license and a master card, I'd have my own name stamped on a Hudson's card. The subsequent power trip was wonderful.
As a newlywed private in the Army four years later, my then husband told me that I'd have to cut ALL my credit cards...we would never get them paid off...then handed me scissors. Oh, sure, I fought and tried to cry my way out of it, but eventually they were cut and stuffed back in my wallet (you can still use the cards for phone orders with the account number - if you're a tad sneaky like that).
My credit has been fantastic for the past ten years or so, but moving three times this year meant sometimes there was a delay getting my mail and I made a few late payments (we're talking a DAY!). I complained about the $35 fee each time, but paid it, thinking I had been duly punished. Au contraire. Capital One recently jacked up my interest rate to 27.9% .
I was livid...furious at this blatant robbery. I transferred the balance to a new credit card at 5.9% and feel like the best bargain shopper ever - I believe I will be buying myself a new digital camera - surprise! Credit card season is upon us - don't go to Capital One, even if they do have really great faux leather credit cards and their commercials are cute.
We all have defining moments in life, a specific incident or event that changes our perspectives forever. There I was, in Basic training, with my well-behaved self and stylish asymetrical haircut...completely out of my element. Reserved and quiet means I usually come across as arrogant, but a big female oaf from the Projects in Chicago was determined to put me in my place.
This particular day of training was spent with pugil sticks (from the latin meaning, "to fight, rock 'em, sock 'em, robot style, while bopping your opponent in the head"). I've seen a similar set up on Survivor: two opponents face each other on a beam, then try to pummel one other using a long pole, with two padded ends, until one falls off. This was also the day we learned how to gore a potential enemy with a bayonet attached to an M-16. How many times have I needed that particular skill?
My opponent, Ms. Badass Chicago street fighter thought being street savvy meant she was going to wipe me all over Ft. Jackson, South Carolina and I'd run back to the barracks snivelling, begging her in the future to help polish her boots. She was a gangly 5'10", I was a slight 5'7", which I think actually helped me in the end (lower center of gravity). What she didn't know is that I had been captain of the lacrosse team - I was well-versed in the handling of sticks. So I played her like a weekend tournament, pushed her off the beam, and emerged victorious. HA! I learned that I'm not intimidated by anyone and she learned not to judge OR trust the quiet ones in BDU's. Win-win.
My two years as a medic was child's play compared to the sacrifices soldiers and their families make daily for our freedom. Give thanks for them today and every day - I do.
No, no, honey, don't get up...here, let me fetch some of your toys for you (my smart ass dog enjoys sarcasm).
This is my new record for a monologue cleverly disguised as a phone conversation.
Bill & I have been friends for over twenty years. We don't see each other often because we both move regularly and frequently, but I'm starting to think our "friendship" should be redefined...he probably couldn't tell you what I do, where I live or if I'm single. Our phone calls, you see, consist entirely of BILL.
This summer, he:
- quit his job of seventeen years in order to enjoy life and travel
- took second in a Mr. Speedo contest (why would someone admit to owning a Speedo?).
- learned how to sail on Martha's Vineyard with James Taylor
- went to the Emmy Awards, where he sat behind and talked to the cast of Desperate Housewives
- talked to Donald Trump
- met and discarded 72 soulmates (fortunately, I had the sense to lie about picking up my son somewhere before he could carry on about his love life)
It's closing time, pal - I don't care where you go, but you can't stay here.
I grabbed last month’s Cosmo, put it near the lizard, and gingerly had him crawl onto…Scarlett Johansson. So far, so good. I started walking towards the door, when the lizard decided to take a FLYING leap for freedom…and havoc ensued.
I’m a cult leader of my house – a dog, two cats and four kittens are usually no further than 5 ft away from me at any given moment (under my feet is preferable). As the lizard dropped (semi-flew) and scrambled towards my closet, I screeched, the dog bolted, the cats pounced, and my sleeping son yelled ("MOM! I'm trying to sleep!"...concerned about me, per usual).
Sometimes I seriously believe my life is a series of Animal Kingdom episodes.
In fact, if I were to ever marry again, the perfect scenario would be a duplex, with a Holiday Inn-like adjoining door so we could just visit. And I would never have to watch Fox news. Or listen to AC/DC. EVAH!
Some days, though, when I'm hormonal and overly sensitive, what I really want, more than anything, is a nice strong pair of arms…to put my clothes in the dryer for me (and could you bring me a beer, while you’re up?)
The mother cat, aka not-Summer, abandoned her six kittens at the woman’s house so she (Kelly) had been bottle feeding them and called me again last week to see if I might like one. She was going out of town and hod no other option but to drop them off at the pound, and she worried they wouldn’t make it (they’re about three weeks old). So I stopped by her house on the way home from work.
I talked to Kelly – it turns out she had lived in MY house a few years ago (owner #2). What could I do – this was fate. So I took a kitten (or four) home.
The little white one will only take kitten formula from a bottle, while the rest of them have figured out how to climb in the bowl, then lick the stuff off their paws. My son’s already named one – Crackhead. I haven’t given up on Summer, but she is gonna be PISSED if she comes home to see four bottle-drinking, mewing fur balls in her house and kitty litter. And I? Have resigned myself to being that crazy cat lady on the corner.
I managed to get Summer's photo put in our area newspaper classified ads. It's very tiny, but between that and the seventy-five fliers around town, I've gotten three phone calls.
#1: "Is your cat black?"
Um, no, that's why there's a PHOTO!
#2: "I may have seen your cat..chasing chipmunks in my area."
This one was VERY promising, since my Summer did love bringing live chipmunks into the house for days of enjoyment (seriously, have you ever tried to catch one? They're like humingbirds...with legs). My two-year old son's version of the word was better...listening to him scream "motherfunk" every time he saw a chipmunk was well worth it.
"She's white and caramel-colored and has been around for about three months."
#3: "I saw her about 3 days ago. I had to stop my car to let her cross the street - a white cat with a dark tail. She didn't seem to be in any hurry."
Yep, that's her. And remember I wrote a few days ago that my dog was a dumb blonde with ADD? Well...it turns out she took us to the location near this woman's house so perhaps I should have trusted her instincts.
Back to the search this weekend.
If Skylar was a person, she'd be a friendly, yet dumb, blonde with attention deficit leanings, but I was starting to get desperate and hoped she could help. We drove up to the middle school, about a mile away, where Summer was last seen. I held her sweet, block-head face between my hands and said, "Where's Summer? You need to find her. You can do it - find Summer."
Skylar took off running. I was optimistic - for the first hour. We continued. I followed her lead for almost three hours. She found: two squirrels, a dead bird, a half-eaten chicken bone and a coupon for orange juice. No Summer.
If Timmy falls into a well near my house? I hope he carries a cell phone.
Mainstream has never been my father's forte. He was the third child of twelve born to Irish descendants living on a small farm in Michigan - this is where I pull my right hand out and point to an area in the general vicinity of my thumb. Seven boys and five girls - they all have Irish names (Shannon, Erin, Sean, etc.) - except my dad, Tony.
He was a tall, skinny kid who was usually squirrelled away in a corner, reading a library book, until his brothers found him to drag him back to reality by beating the crap out of him or throwing him off the roof. He always wanted to be a monk, surrounded by God, books, silence and maybe an alcoholic beverage or two. Unfortunately (or fortunately, I suppose, depending on how you view me), my mom never received the memo.
Facts and quirks:
- he wears a broken watch with no face from a motorcycle accident he was in 35 years ago
- he had a full scholarship to Michigan State, but left after one year to hitch hike to California
- an insomniac, he grocery shops between 3:00 and 5:00 a.m.
- he tries to keep telemarketers on the phone by talking to them as long as possible...his record is over an hour.
- he bought and fixed up 20 old Apple GS computers to set up a computer lab in his classroom
- he's an audio/video equipment junkie - and still has Harold and Maude and The Vanishing Point on Beta tapes
- he loves music, from Hank Williams to Bob Dylan to Tori Amos
- if you touch him from behind, duck, because he will turn around swinging
- he turned 60 this year and has no grey hair (of course, he does have my son for the summer, so that's likely to change).
He still pauses before words when he's anxious or stressed, but he went back to college at 42 and finally has that dream job teaching 5th graders. Apparently a late bloomer, he also got married last fall. Intelligent, philosophical, generous, honest, compassionate, caring and funny...I hope to be more like this old soul when I grow up.
My cat Summer has been gone since Monday but I refuse to give up hope.
People say you should be able to laugh at yourself. I don't really have to in this instance - everyone else is doing it for me.
A couple of years ago, I mastered the industrial fork lift. Not so much mastered, as "drove around recklessly and tried not to take out too many sections of wall or posts" (the first aid kit that used to hang on the wall? Yep, my collision). I have two guys that work under me, but both called in sick Monday, when an 18-wheel semi truck was scheduled to pick up some of our hazardous waste drums. No problem, get out of the way, seek cover - I can drive the forklift and load the truck.
I rolled over the ramp, into the back of the trailer. I wanted to be helpful, and started to raise the pallet higher so it would be easier to double-stack them on the lower level of drums. I vaguely remember hearing, "Whoa, whoa, whoaaaaaa", followed by a crunching noise as the top of the forklift went all the way through the roof of the trailer. Sheet metal sounds an awful like like stepping on crickets, only louder. We all sat, incredulous, staring at the newly installed skylight. I was hoping to slither up through that hole, never to be seen again.
So I did what any southern man would do, and found some duct tape.
Murphy’s law dictates that since I was seriously late already, there should be a flock of suicidal wild turkeys flying across the road, trying to smash themselves into my grill (second morning in a row, actually). I’m not sure if they’re called a flock…or even if it’s called flying. Dumbo the elephant with mashed potatoes and gravy comes to mind.
It's 8:30 a.m. and I need a drink. Make that a double.
The best part about road trips with my son (besides occasionally sticking my right arm out across his chest like we're coming to a sudden and complete stop): torturing him with my Sirius Satellite 80's retro station.
We used to have this game - I'd say, "I'll give you a million dollars if you know who sings this", but he started getting wise that I wasn't really going to pay up. So, yesterday, during West End Girls, I cranked it up and said I'd give him $10 if he knew the artist.
Wise ass son: "Let's see...they sound really gay..with a crappy, techno beat. It must be Pet Shop Boys."
SCORE! Part of me is so proud that he's been paying attention all these years (though I'd disagree with his assessment of PSB's talent). But now I have to hand over $10.
Tiffany: "Colleeeeeeen. This is your sister...and your mom. We are having a blast together. And we really want to talk to you because we love you. P.S. your mom is a HOTTIE...her body is banging and she looks great so answer your phone and talk to us. Bye, love you. Call us back. We're so over you. I'm OVER you. Haaaaaa. Your mom's over you. That's bad - that's hardcore if your own mom's over you. If you don't call us back, she'll be over you for the rest of your life. Bye, sister."I cannot WAIT until she has kids...
My driveway is full of boxes, I can't find my hairdryer, I'm going to bed and I'm NEVER doing this again!
He's staying with me during his two-week break from Iraq in order to move, pack and ship all his belongings out of his house then sell it (Open House is Sunday - stop by for cookies). The plan was to have me rent a U-Haul truck, then he would help me move the rest of our son's belongings out, the cherry entertainment center I bought last year, the 54" big screen tv I traded my laptop for, and any furniture, books, etc. that I still wanted.
Because I felt guilty when we were going through our divorce a couple of years ago, I let him keep everything except for a couch and my son's bedroom furniture. He kept two houses, 100% of his retirement, the dog, and all the STUFF. He makes three times more than I do. Does it piss me off sometimes that I never even talked to a lawyer? Yep. Did it REALLY piss me off today? Apparently.
Move #47 was a meltdown waiting to happen. He didn't think we should risk moving the tv OR the entertainment stand ourselves because they would most likely end up damaged. I whined, complained about giving him the best years of my life with nothing to show after 17 years, etc. and he told me to quit being such a selfish, greedy bitch. I politely told him, "Fuck you, prick. I don't want anything of yours. I'm loading up all this shit and I'm taking it to Goodwill, motherfucker!" (I never swore when we first met..and I know he really hates it, so I turn on the fountain of "fucks" when I get mad at him).
There really should be some sort of law against people of Irish descent marrying. We yelled, threw things, broke dishes, I cried and resisted the urge to run him over...ahhhh, just like the good ole days.
Ex: You changed the air filters in my house while you were living here, right?
Me (sporting a blank look from the Fall 2005 Collection): Uh...I'm sure I wanted to...where do they go, again?
Thank goodness he didn't have the foresight to get a deposit from me.
- one pro-Bush, Conservative, Right-Wing, macho military man
- one bleeding heart liberal
- one teen revolutionary/socialist
Preheat kitchen to 97 degrees Fahrenheit. Marinate soldier in bleeding heart liberal for two hours until eyes bulge and veins throb. Sprinkle generously with Che Guevara-t-shirt wearing teen.
Bring to a boil, then simmer indefinitely.
Who's ready for seconds?!
"You SAID you had to go to work but you went to Bowling Green with your 'friend' M (put an extra snide emphasis on the word 'friend'), stayed up drinking all night and came back with a camera-load of film of you drinking with a group of guys! This is not the way married women should act."
"Of course I threw all your clothes outside...I don't care who the hell he is, you shouldn't have a business card from Eric Hipple that says, 'thanks for a great night'" (hey, he used to be a quarterback for the Detroit Lions and he was in a hole-in-the-wall bar in Higgin's Lake, helping us carry out our friend who was busy throwing up).
[Wait: I see a pattern]
I think there should be a statute of limitations for an argument. Fight about it, slam doors, knock each other out, have make-up sex, then GET OVER IT!
I try to avoid politics here because I realize there are two sides to every issue (and I really hate conflict). While I don't always agree with Michael Moore, I wondered, too, about the U.S. Army helicopters sitting idly here this week on the military base I work. An excerpt from his letter to the president:
Friday, September 2nd, 2005The Home of Army Aviation is located in Southeastern Alabama, about 300 miles east of New Orleans - less than three hours by air. To prepare for Hurricanes Ivan and Dennis, helicopters were evacuated to Georgia for safety within a day's notice (phew - thank goodness the equipment is always safe during nature's wrath).
Dear Mr. Bush: Any idea where all our helicopters are? It's Day 5 of Hurricane Katrina and thousands remain stranded in New Orleans and need to be airlifted. Where on earth could you have misplaced all our military choppers? Do you need help finding them? I once lost my car in a Sears parking lot. Man, was that a drag.
With this same amount of advance notice, I don't understand why these helicopters weren't mobilized from here no later than day 2, at least until an organized relief effort could begin. Maybe the president needs a giant key alarm that will beep and make noise next time he misplaces his aviation units.
A few years ago I miscarried by taking St. John's Wort to help with my depression and working out 3 hours a day (6 mile run and weights in the morning, step aerobics and treadmill in the evening). I didn't see daylight for five days and played the same two cds - Sarah McLachlan's Surfacing and Cowboy Junkies over and over. I didn't think I could feel a bigger loss. I was wrong.
Homes in Alabama don't have basements because of the water table (or something). "Sitting in my dark closet looking at my shoes" isn't as poetic as heading for the basement, but that's where I'll be for awhile. I have a habit of ruining all good things in my life.
I think our choices in friends says a lot about us...my son has befriended a great 16 year old named "D" (because J, P and D are entirely too cool for whole names). They played Halo here part of the weekend, and when I ordered pizza, he offered to go pick it up so I wouldn't have to tip the driver - this is beyond thoughtful by teen male standards. He spent the summer in Spain with relatives and can actually hold up his end of a conversation.
D. has a congenital heart defect, making his life expectancy around 25 years. There is a surgery he's elected to have next month - it's only been performed four hundred times or so, and the odds of surviving it are 50/50. I can't fathom having to make this decision...knowing I could die before graduating high school; that this could possibly be my last month alive...wondering if I'm making the right decision....if I'm sure I want to risk everything.
I have no answers. Instead, I gaze at his sweet, young face and ask him if he wants another Coke.
Wrong. After the forty minute drive to my house, I discovered the tenants had completely trashed my carpet - who says Berber resists stains and hides dirt? It seems the spots they weren’t able to soil, they managed to tear. There’s a strange undercurrent of curry, decay and lemon, which is overpowered by the stench of cigarette smoke. It appears as though there might have been a small kitchen fire under one of the cupboards, my flower garden is buried under weeds AND a very hairy man must have been shedding daily to get his dark, curly locks in every nook and cranny.
I believe they took my cable modem, but left some direct satellite attachment/accessories, some computer head gear (?) and a big barbeque grill.
Other than that, I’m ready to move right in!
P.S. Thank you to one of my lovely neighbors for sharing their wireless signal - it is soooo much more practical than blueberry muffins.
I spent my afternoon today undigging my efforts to transplant here at my house. To be fair, I DID leave the saucer magnolia tree and some of the annuals, but I just couldn't leave my garden behind to be swallowed by weeds or ignored by new homeowners that would forget to water.
Tonight, as I was standing in my shorts and flip flops in my flower garden at my house, I was feeling quite clever gardening at night - not having to contend with gnats or the sun's burning rays - when it painfully occurred to me: red ants don't care what time it is (help!). I wonder if this ever happened to Martha Stewart ...
And I don't want ANY smartass comments about karma, got it?!
Sometimes, though, funny things happen when you share a computer. I wasn't TRYING to snoop, but I discovered my teenage son's blog tonight. Burning questions: why the hell doesn't he know how to spell? Punctuation is optional nowadays? Do I want to know what Turkish Jades are? Vanilla ICE?! Would it be okay to turn HIM into social services?
By the way, the punk's entry had fifteen comments....
ANY LADIES LOOKIN FOR A MOFUCKIN THUG!?
well im updating lol
my history book says alabama edition on it and i was thinking what that meant......i guess it means they just basically took out all the civil rights movement and martin luther king shit out but who knows
well i wanted to buy the new vanilla ice cd that came out yesterday but they didnt have it so i bought soopa villianz lol. but that woulda been the shit if they had vanilla ice because he is awsome!!
got some turkish jades today after school im pretty excited
assleys boobs looked really good yesterday.
well i guess ima go
Dr. L: Did you pre-medicate?
Dr. L: Do you need more antibiotics? I'll leave another script with the receptionist for you.
Me: Mm hm. That'd be great.
Dr. L: My wife has an MVP, too...I take it very seriously. Long limbs and a slender build, just like you.
Me: No kidding.
Most people make a mad dash for the dental floss twice a year for their 6-month dental checkup. I lie to my dentist and say my goodbyes.
I have a mitral valve prolapse, which is a relatively common heart condition in which the valve doesn't close properly, plus electrical problems exaccerbated by years of dexatrim (and every other diet pill on the market) so I'm supposed to take antibiotics before dental work. Actually, not all the diet pills have been on the market - I illegally purchased my obese cousin's Redux prescription when I weighed all of 112 lbs (a definition for wacko means I can tell you my weight during any given month/year for the past 20 years). He didn't have the money to fill the prescription...fortunately I only had enough to fill it for two months.
For me, it's my chance to live on the edge...bungee jumping with sparkling, fluoridated teeth. It's not that I have anything against life...I just wonder: is this IT? So I sit and wait, wondering if this will be the time some plaque settles in my heart and kills me.
[post script: if I had a wicked sense of humour, this would be my last entry...]
Fever when you hold me tight ....
Fire signs: Aries, Leo and Sagittarius (me, my son, my ex-husband, my mother...geez, I could go on but I'm getting a glimpse through the gates to hell...). People of the fire element are spontaneous and impulsive, they apply their energies wholeheartedly. Their emotional response is quick and they have a lively imagination. Okay, yeah, that sounds like me. The not-so-positive traits might be a tendency to be a little bossy, selfish and have a slightly overdeveloped ego. Nothing hurts them more than being ignored. Yeah, that part would be everyone else.
So, my drama queen/fashion expert son starts school TODAY (I don't even want to talk about how long it takes him to get ready in the morning). I had no idea shopping for school clothes could be such a hellacious experience. This year was even worse because Oh! My! God! there are no cool shoes worthy of his big feet - believe me, I've been in 20 shoe stores this weekend. Two fire signs in the mall, when one of them hasn't eaten and is a tad bitchy...not a good idea. I finally agreed to order Union Jack flag skate shoes online just to shut him the hell up - yeah, I know, they beat confederate flag/shotgun sole tennies.
And I'm really not sure if it's a gender issue, but when I try on clothes, I take AS MANY as my grubby little hands can carry into the fitting room at a time (generally everything I like in 3 different sizes - just in case). My son? ONE THING AT A TIME...it's excruciating, seriously, waiting in PacSun as he tries on one pair of jeans (that don't fit because he continually thinks he wears a different size), brings them out, digs through the pile, then tries on ONE more pair.
A prayer for the school year: please let him keep his smartass comments and opinions to himself until January, at least, so the principal and I aren't on a first name basis. Well, unless he's cute...then BRING IT!
The last time I drove to Hartsfield International Airport in Atlanta:
- I forgot about the time difference (Eastern time zone, an hour later)
- I drove like a maniac
- ...when I noticed a state trooper coming in the opposite direction, so I headed for a service road then pulled into someone's driveway, hoping to evade him.
- I didn't - he took his sweet ass time and handed me a speeding ticket for 77 mph in a 55 mph zone ($220)
- I finally found a parking spot at the airport, juggled with all my luggage and found out I missed my flight anyway
- ....and had to reschedule for the moring ($50 fee)
- Then stayed at the Holiday Inn ($110)
The lesson: invest in a really good radar detector. Bastards.
[I'm hoping today's trip is a little less eventful].
My son has flown solo since age seven, when he flew from Germany to Massachussetts, and has been doing it ever since. The airline keeps all the kids under fourteen in a room together, stewardesses help them find the next gate, and we've never had any problems. He's in a grey range age now, though...between 15-17 means I can still pay a little extra for supervision OR let him handle it himself. I booked a nonstop flight to Atlanta so he will officially be flying AS. AN. ADULT. (that's a new wrinkle between my eyes, isn't it? Argh).
Bad news for me: I'll be driving a little over four hours to pick his ass up, then turning around to come home. Note to self: pick up AAA batteries for his mp3 player. Yes, fine, I admit it...I missed him.
The firemen took fifteen minutes to get there, then another 15 minutes to clear the building - all that equipment and heavy clothing in this heat - no wonder they're so crabby. I think I have a semi-redneck tan going on my neck and arms, though, suh-weet!
Sometimes I love my job.
I'm a laid back person, rarely get too upset or irrational, and try not to rely on a potty mouth, which is supposedly the sign of a poor vocabulary (my mom's idea of cursing? "SHOOT!") and upbringing. Today, I say: fuck that.
The thing I hate most in the world: M-O-V-I-N-G (!!). After 46 moves in THIS lifetime, I cannot take it. As a shy person that gets lost easily, it sucks giant, cellulite-ridden ass. I want stability, a garden to keep, a place where neigbors recognize my face!
Divorced 2 years ago and moved from a gorgeous house (location A) to a 3rd floor apartment (location B). I pinched my pennies, drank Bud Light instead of Corona, and bought a house (location C) and moved in last October. In December, when my ex- received orders to Iraq, we thought it would work out best if I moved BACK into his house (location A) so my son wouldn't have to change schools again.
When he had trouble in school in April, I pulled him out and started driving him to the school in the school district of MY house.
Fine, now it's time to start another school year. I was going to kick out my tenants and move back to MY house (location C), gradually taking boxes and stuff during the year [total: this will be 4 moves in 2 years]. My ex, though, has a two week break from Iraq and has decided to sell his motherfreakin' house. This means a FULL move, including furniture, separating dishes, etc. and for what? For him to go BACK to Iraq and leave his crap in storage. He pisses me off. No, my son pisses me off more. Pass the goddamn tape - I have boxes to pack!
P.S. I wouldn't be surprised if the damn post office refuses to forward any mail addressed to me...
We lugged our big cooler, towels, paraphenalia and music down to the beach as a few clouds starting rolling in. [Sidenote: she's afraid of shark attacks, so she really wanted to lay out at one of the pools belonging to a beach hotel, which makes going to the beach seem rather ridiculous, if you ask me. I did manage to get her in the water up to her waist, though, before I started throwing chopped up fish guts around her]. By the end of the first hour, the sky had turned black and we were not nearly drunk enough to head home. Given my track record for all things impulsive, it should come as no surprise that we decided to get matching tattoos.
Our last name starts with a Q... as much pride as we have in it and our heritage, you would think it's a powerful, mystical name, that simultaneously inspires awe and fear. All my aunts (5 of them) and many female cousins have changed their middle names to our family name once they get married, just because we love it so much. My sister and I decided to get matching tattoos using a logo my graphic artist aunt Susie had designed years ago.
My chickenshit sister that I love, who already has a tattoo, told me it was the most excruciating pain imaginable (she might opt for adoption instead of childbirth) and made me go first. It honestly didn't hurt...much. Well, and when I was a medic in the army, we used to practice drawing blood and giving i.v.'s to one another so perhaps my perspective is slanted. She called me a badass...and I liked it. She whined a bit when it was her turn (shoulder location, but opposite sides) but Sean told her she wouldn't get a certificate unless she piped down. I'm seriously considering framing mine and sticking it up on the wall behind my desk.
We are gonna be SUCH a hit at our next family reunion.
We ate and were looking at old photos when two big delivery trucks pulled up to the house. The driver of one told us they had a furniture overstock sale and were driving in the neighborhood with unbeatable prices. I'd never heard of a moving truck sale, but it seemed belieavable enough...I AM in the south now...so who knows. I fell in love with this bench to put at the end of my bed and wingback chair and loveseat that would go perfectly in my rental house, BUT the man was only set up to take cash or check. I decided I couldn't live without the bench, took it home, and was telling my dad what a great deal I got (sturdy, cherry legs, only $165). He asked me if I thought it was a bit suspicious...but it seemed like it was a good deal for stolen furniture (!!)
I asked my co-workers if that's common practice down here, and they all kind of looked at me like I only had 1/2 of a functioning brain cell. "Did you get a bill of sale?"
"Yes, of course, he also wrote his phone number on there in case I changed my mind about the other stuff I loved...and there's a two-year warranty if I have any problems..."
Needless to say, when we called the number, there was no such furniture store, just a perplexed woman at the other end of the line. Looks like I'm in the stolen bench business...but look how cute:
Revision: they think it will last for the summer - I'm hoping for two weeks (I'm a realist). Still, that's fourteen days without that drama queen AND I won't have to cook...I can have beer and popcorn for dinner EVERY night...go gambling in Biloxi. Well, er, actually nothing much will change, but I'm still looking forward to the break.
I will now be under the constant and diligent care of my therapist, Bud Light.
After three weeks at this grueling pace of frantic behavior, I agreed to a pool party (yeah, 'cause even psychos need a day off). All day with lots of beer, splashing and sun, my pain and rage were temporarily numbed. I followed the advice in a Supertramp song, and took the long way home, driving by the ex's house out of habit by this time, when I had a brainstorm: I'll STEAL the dog out of the backyard! She loves me more, and he doesn't deserve her! Drama-filled phone calls followed when he noticed she was gone so he called to fight about dog custody (tell me: WHY argue with a drunk woman? Do you think I'm going to suddenly think like a rational human being?). I also vaguely remember calling his girlfriend and rambling on to her answering machine about the fact that she was white trash. I'm quite intimidating with a drunken slur, let me tell you.
The next morning, I was in bed (petting my dog, heh) when my heart started palpitating. No biggee, I'm used to it, it's happened all my life. My arms went numb and I started to worry a little but decided to give it another 10 minutes just to see if it would stop. It didn't. I drove myself to the hospital a few miles away (and repeatedly got bitched out about this, but I have crappy insurance) and could barely talk at this point. After an hour in the E.R. with a heart rate of over 240 bpm, they injected something to make my heart stop and start some sort of normal rhythym...twice! I'm in my THIRTIES!!
Maybe the events are unrelated. Maybe it was a coincidence. But until you're in my shoes, or my hospital gown with hangover hair and your heart stopped, crying with waterproof mascara clumping around your eyes, please don't ask me to hold onto anger any longer than I have to.
In February, I moved into my ex's house while he went to Iraq (so my son wouldn't have to change schools, blah, blah, blah). His office has his computer, bookshelves, etc. so I promptly took over the dining room. It is now my official READING ROOM (comfort is important in reading blogs). I bought a cheap computer armoire and a wireless router...so I open the doors and sink into my own little world. Bonus: I can eat and drink in there as much as I please.
Welcome to my space:
"I call upon all nations to do everything they can to stop these terrorist killers. Thank you. Now, watch this drive."
*Not that I'm not proud to have raised a mini-liberal, but he needs more material.
Travel my way, take the highway that’s the best
Get your kicks on route 66..."
My son is fourteen years old, which you would never guess by looking at the 6'1", lanky teen. He'll start driver's training soon, so I figured now would be the time for him to get behind the wheel and practice on something other than a go-cart. It was sunny, we were headed to the grocery store, and I tossed him the keys. I figured he could drive out through the neighborhood and I would drive from there - how many years could I age in a few short miles, anyway?
I have his dad's truck while he's in Iraq, which seemed even better from my perspective. The only trouble is it's a MONSTER Dodge truck with one of those hemi engines...not that it competes in the monster truck showdowns or anything, but it does require 3 steps for parking: pull in, back out, straighten and pull back in. It's a little intimidating sometimes - I've scraped the side mirror twice while pulling next to the ATM machine at the bank, but I figured he'd be fine, as long as he drove in the middle of the street.
He hopped in the driver's seat and buckled in, so I told him the basics about Park, Reverse and Drive, how to hold his hands on 10:00 and 2:00 on the steering wheel, and which pedal is which...I suggested taking his foot off the brake and coasting first to see how it steers, then gradually pushing down the accelerator. He must not have understood the word "gradually", as he stomped on the pedal and we went flying forward. He did, however, remember where the brake was located because he used his other foot and stomped on THAT pedal immediately afterwards! That Dodge apparently goes 0 to 60 to 0 in 5 seconds
He looked over at me with this endearing little smirk on his face and said, "Guess I'll have to practice getting the right angle with my foot."
*This photo should be ample punishment.
- For 24 years now, I have celebrated George Harrison's birthday every February 25th.
- I had two cats, George and Ringo, when I was a teen.
- The Beatles song Long, Long, Long is my earliest musical memory.
- I forged his signature perfectly and did so on all my parental permission slips in high school.
- I taped and watched his interview on VHI 2 or 3...or 47 times (an interesting sidenote: Ravi Shankar's daughter is Norah Jones).
- When he died, in 2001, I didn't leave my house for 3 days. I mourned the loss of this talented songwriter...a man whose voice could make me cry...a man who would rather garden and jam with his friends...a man whose wife left him for his best friend (Eric Clapton) and they STAYED friends!
- His ashes may be in the Ganges River...and Kasey Kasum isn't around, but I have a long distance dedication: play Something, Here Comes the Sun, While My guitar Gently Weeps, My Sweet Lord...and absorb some GEORGE
P.S. If you're curious, the Beatles song Long, Long, Long will fit 23 times in a row on a cd-r.
And the reason I have an EX-husband? Seems the idiot didn't know labels all face FRONT, sheesh
The big question of the day: who snuck that non-alcoholic diet pepsi in there?