Time to make the donuts

I've worked the past thirteen days straight, 12-15 hours per day, implementing a new hazardous waste tracking system on post that "goes live" on Monday.

I feel disoriented, with a brain full of mush, and unable to articulate simple thoughts. When I asked the date the other day, and the person replied, "the 3rd", I said, "No. What month?"

One lesson I have learned: if you send a 17 year boy to the grocery store to do the weekly shopping because he won't shut up about how there's never any food in the house, expect him to come back with cases of bottled water, potato chips, and pink wafer cookies.

Postcard from the brink of the edge

Blonde and Blonder

Tiffany came waltzing out of the bathroom at the bar on Friday night, holding a folded wad of twenties and a check written to 'Avon'.

"Look what I found in the bathroom," she said, as she showed me the hard, beer-buying cash.

She wrote her phone number on a bar napkin, with a note to call with the exact dollar amount, and left it with the eye-rolling bartender.

We're fully prepared to hand over a briefcase full of i.o.u.'s if someone ever calls...

Tiffany-berry

My Grandma Hope, who died shortly after my sister's birth, requested that she be buried in a red velvet dress. Finding the material during the summer was no small feat, but the task was accomplished in time for the funeral.

In seventh grade, my sister accompanied her sister to a fortune teller (no doubt to find out if their parents would be out of town in the near future) and asked, "Do I have a guardian angel?"

The wise seer replied, "You are surrounded by red velvet."

Slightly irked bovine

I was able to donate blood today for the first time since our return from Germany in 2000 and am relieved to find out I'm no longer a substantial mad cow risk (though witnessing flabby, old-lady-chicken-arms-from-a-tourniquet-tied-around-an-aging-bicep wasn't such a bonus). Let's just hope the lucky recipient doesn't get a DUI after the donation.

Uncle Sam and Moses

Patrick arrived back home sans truck. Seems a little gratitude and a 'thank you' was required, and he wasn't quite up to the challenge. I don't claim to understand him, and if I could, I'm sure I wouldn't admit it anyway, BUT the good news is he has a new job standing outside Liberty Tax dressed as Uncle Sam for $8/hr. I won't laugh, I won't laugh, I won't laugh.

I went to pick up my military driver's license today as a class of Army soldiers were simultaneously walking in the opposite direction in the hallway. Someone in charge yelled, "let the lady through", as half the soldiers went against one wall, while the other half went against the other. I felt a bit Moses-like, walking through a giant, parted sea of green uniforms.

I'm feeling a bit omnipotent, like I have commandments to write. Thou shall not covet thy father's Dodge truck.

Where was I, and where'd I put that baby?

Seventeen years ago, after the birth of my son Patrick, people (and by "people", I mean meddling women with secret agendas) would say to me, "Oh, the pain of childbirth will fade and you'll be wanting more kids before you know it."

Uh huh. Right.

The memory doesn't fade so much as get replaced by the temper tantrums of a screaming, headstrong toddler, to be followed by interactions with a hormonal, angry teenager. I suppose Bud Light might've induced a bit of memory loss, though: I didn't realize it was Patrick's birthday yesterday because I thought today was March 31st. It's not - it's April 1st. Who's the fool now?

He's in Savannah for the weekend with his dad, getting that black monstah Dodge truck. Surely he'll drive me to the drugstore to pick up some Gingko biloba when he gets back.

P.S. In the wagon above: Patrick and his Uncle David (or 'Trick and 'Vid, as they called each other one year for the sole purpose of being annoying).

Mission San Xavier del Bac

Founded by the Jesuit missionary Fr. Eusebio Kino in 1692.
[Tucson, Arizona]

Honey, we're home

Tall (5'9"), lanky, and naturally thin, my mother eats more than any other woman I've ever known (my dad is the same way, but did they pass those stellar metabolisms down to moi?? Of course not. BAH!). She had a baby a year after I did, when she was forty-two and her energy level makes me wonder if she found the secret fountain of youth (if that's the case, I plan on aging badly, thankyouverymuch). My mother is a goddess and today is her birthday.

Although she's extremely intelligent, kicks ass at all things mathematical, has memorized bridge hands for the past 20 years, and has flawless grammar skills, she is still able to embrace her inner fruitloop. When I was an angst-ridden teen, these idiosyncrasies would annoy me because I always wanted her to be serious. And Martha Stewart, dammit. Years later, however, these are traits I find most endearing:

Her odd medical mystery tendancies, like watches breaking from her electromagnetic energy? And the fact that she was hypoglycemic until she gave birth (now she's fine), or that she gets asthma if she stops smoking. Mosquitos never bite her and perfume turns rancid because of..too much vitamin B?

She would, and still does, stare at me in the car, drying my hair, while talking on the phone..."you're so beautiful," she'd say, "I can't believe I gave birth to you." Now that I'm older with my own son, I see this for the true psychological torture method it is.

She would laugh (especially in public with my aunt Susie) - gleeful, uninhibited, loud laughter that mortified me to no end. Now when we're in a quiet pub or at home, I'm proud to be sharing a space with someone so capable of expressing joy.

We'd be having a conversation, or so I would assume, when her end of it would suddenly stop. Thinking that the was the end of the discussion, I'd retreat back to my head...covering a range of several other thoughts when she would respond to the intial conversation. "Yes, I think so, too." Uh...huh? What?

Every time she pulled the car into the driveway, she' d say, "Honey, we're home." Every. Single. Time. In my head, I'd be yelling, "Duhhhhhhhhh, where else would we be?" (because I was obnoxious like that), and it makes me laugh now when I still hear her say it.

One year, I saved my allowance for several weeks to buy her a "hot to trot" keychain because I thought it meant she was beautiful...Happy Birthday, mom, and I still think you're beautiful!

Black(jack) Celebration

I fell in love with Tuscon the moment I laid eyes on my first 'Desert Diamond Casino - 2 miles' sign.

Just like other obsessive relationships, psychological warfare was employed and I was able to think of nothing else except my beloved Blackjack (which makes for a rather awkward work conference: HIT ME!). I won $100, which would be great if I hadn't acted like a hillbilly and spent $600 at the mall, but a girl's gotta have shoes, ya' know.

Route 66?

There's a billboard near a freeway on-ramp in Michigan with a picture of Jesus that says, "Are you on the right road?"

My Uncle Brian sarcastically feigns suprise and confusion, "What? Isn't this I-75 North?"

I have flown out of so many airports across the country, I'm quite sure I could find each and every one of them without a savior billboard. Eventually. Unfortunately, my internal clock runs on beach time and that pesky compass of mine is broken. I did break my four year streak of missing every flight booked, but just barely, pulling up at the gate with twenty-two minutes to spare.

After I arrived in Tucson, the gentleman at Hertz asked if I had a car preference. I told him anything American would be fine, but when he couldn't find any keys, he upgraded my rental car to a new, red, convertible Mustang with Sirius Satellite radio at no extra cost. Does it get any better than that?

Alimony in Meow Mix

The quickest, shortest, easiest route to my heart? Via a 20-pack of Bud Light (in bottles) left on the stoop where I feed the feral cats, accompanied by a note that says, "Forgive me?"

Sometimes my ex-boss and I act like an old divorced couple. We rarely agree about work responsibilities, I nag, and he yells hurtful things. Fortunately, though, we both have crappy memories and love cats, because he agreed to feed mine while I'm IN TUCSON FOR A BUSINESS CONFERENCE NEXT WEEK!! WOOOOOOOO! (I've noticed this "woooo" slips past my lips every time I mention it).

Cry Baby Cry

Ever cry so hard your arms shake and you can't be bothered to turn your head or wipe the tears, so they roll down your neck and stomach before they're absorbed by your waistband? And when you're frustrated because you can't cry harder, you kick the metal gutter alongside a building and possibly break two freakishly long toes?

Me neither.

Sanctuary

Apparently, the separation between church and state in Enterprise, Alabama is the width of one street. The row of churches (Baptist, Methodist, and Catholic) adjacent to the high school was left virtually untouched Thursday afternoon.

[St. John's Catholic church, minus one tree]

My sister and her best friend were in her 2nd story apartment in Troy, Alabama during another batch of tornadoes that day. The weatherman advised them to hunker down and her stepfather called, telling them to "get the fuck out of that building". Braless, in their wet, white wifebeaters and clutching their box of wine, they ran to the nearest house, where they must've seemed like a dream-come-true to the resident lesbian. Who said Mother Nature doesn't have a sense of humor?

Why I will never again say, "try not to get in trouble at school today, eh?"

"Mom, aren't you relieved I was suspended from school today?"

Relieved isn't half of it. Wednesday afternoon I thought the punishment a bit severe - detention seemed like a more viable option for getting up in the middle of PE class and ignoring the teacher's request to sit down.

Thursday, during the two-hour drive home from work, with twisted, uprooted trees dotting the landscape, rescue workers and concerned parents on every corner, I cried from relief. Sitting in the dark with no electricity, cable, phone or internet seemed like such a tiny inconvenience after the storm.

Beauty and the beast

I *heart* a jaded cynic

I brilliantly combined Walmart and Valentine's Day this year, kind of like plunging into icy Lake Michigan while simultaneously pulling a band-aid off an oozing, not-yet scabbed knee.

Entire aisles filled with candy, flower arrangements, and men holding giant red balloons filled with heart-covered stuffed animals and other cheap trinkets. Don't forget the brilliant marketing bastards at Hallmark.

I'll be inspecting worksites today, passing out little candy conversation hearts that say "bite me".

Pont Neuf

When darkness comes
And pains is all around,
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down

- Paul Simon

4 a.d. (after divorce)

How unfair that my ex should look so relaxed, fit, and well-dressed (he wore long, flowered surfing shorts when we first met), more distinguished and handsome.

I, on the other hand, look as if I've been hit by a runaway bus - full of lard. Then dressed in hand-me-downs, dipped in honey and rolled in cat fur.

Apache over Baghdad

Naturally, I was curious when my phone rang this morning and my ex-husband's number appeared. Being tax season, I figured he was calling to share his sob story about having all that income, with nothing to claim, poor baby, and didn't answer. He didn't leave a message, which was perplexing, so I hunkered down and prepared to stand my ground (crying if necessary) when I called back. He told me, instead, that his friend from Ft. Campbell had been one of the pilots shot down and killed in Iraq the other day. His family had stayed here in Alabama, while he finished his final year before retirement.

His wife & I had walked our kids to school together; invited one another to Tupperware parties and giggled over wine at aviation functions. Their daughter has a crush on my son, and they joke over whose car kicks more ass (neither's).

I feel such an overwhelming sense of loss for the family that was just like mine; for the daughters and wife he left behind. It could have been us, and nothing in the war thus far has hit so closely. All the numbers and statistics and finger-pointing because the U.S. didn't offer enough troops for sacrifice...and I still don't understand why. Lousy, shitty war.

Cats behaving badly

I'm contemplating snagging two feral kittens from work and decided I'll need a place to keep them quarantined from the rest of my brood for a while. My spare bedroom, which was used as a gift wrap room, with bows and ribbon separated by color in little plastic containers, was apparently the site for the 2007 cat mardi gras:

Which doctor

I'm still not sure if I had food poisoning, a stomach virus, or cat scratch fever this week, but I was horizontal for thirty straight hours.

I told my son I'd probably be dead before he returned from work, but if I could have one last wish, it would be for a McDonald's strawberry shake. I even told him he could drive my car, take all the money in my purse, and keep the change.

He told me dairy products would make it worse, brought me a glass of water with a straw (when I wouldn't stop whining), and KEPT THE MONEY anyway!

Yippee-ki-yay

I recently initiated a private family/friend group blog to get more interaction, then promptly deleted it when it failed miserably. I'm nothing if not consistent. When my cousin Kelly emailed to ask what happened, I might have replied with something along the lines of '...and you can all kiss my ass'.

She said she understood, but wisely mentioned that dealing with our family is like trying to herd cats. Part of our uniqueness is not following the program, and I love that about us. Damn rebels.

So I found my power cord, dusted off my keyboard, and decided to continue blogging on my merry, though solo, way. I like having a reason to organize my thoughts and having a record of my life, even if it's a lonelier this way. I wasn't an only child (for fifteen years) for nothin', you know.

Oddly enough, the next morning, as I was sneaking across the street to peek in the windows of the house for sale, I noticed a trail of five cats traipsing across the road behind me. Turns out I have other cats to herd.

Ugh.

Two sisters who don't wear watches should not go out drinking on a Wednesday night to meet a "classier" crowd of drunken misfits.

She slept in the next day until noon and missed all her classes. I had to be at work because I had stupidly taken the extension cord needed for a projector during this training week, but left shortly after to vomit in the privacy of my own bathroom for the rest of the day.

The good news? I lost 4-1/2 pounds!

Pyjama party

Since she's still a bit traumatized from having someone break into her apartment while she was gone over Christmas break, Tiffany has decided to drive to my house once a week to stay for the night (I like to think of the beer in my refrigerator as bait).

In between assorted cat ruckus Thursday morning around 3 a.m., she gave a bloodcurdling scream, sat up, said, "Oh, my God! I thought you were dead.", then promptly fell back asleep.

Me? I was a bit freaked out, but sometimes it's just nice to be reminded that you're alive.

Must like cats

"Sooooo...." I said, "do you think he liked me?"

Robbie, Tiffany and I all giggled and snorted at the possibility. Yeah, my first blind date. Who knew you weren't supposed to talk about politics, religion, or gay rights with conservative Baptist teetotalers that didn't swear? And the worst part? Tiffany told him about my blog, I gave him my url, and now I can't even talk about him in my online sanctuary.

I decided over Christmas that I needed to step out of my comfort zone shell and hang out with interesting, intelligent people at coffee shops. Or book stores. Perhaps even small talk at a grocery store wasn't out of the question. My shyness shouldn't be an excuse to hole up during the winter with a six-pack and a dvd player.

Deck the halls with Buddy Holly

I'm completely over Christmas, especially in conjunction with the US Postal Service Mafia. I spend holidays alone, or with my son, and easily spend over $100 to send gifts to loved ones in other parts of the country, where they open the crap, without me. My dad & I agreed that we've had enough of the so-called holiday spirit, rushing around, and last minute, guaranteed-to-get-there-on-time shipping fees. This Summer, we're meeting in Vermont, or somewhere equally random, to spend "Christmas" in July in a different state drinking beer together. Fa la la la la.

75 and sunny

Of course I got lost looking for the mall in Montgomery.

Would you expect anything less?

Finger prick

The last place someone like me (a rage-filled, man-hating shrew) needed to be was the town piss-scented police station, but there I was, getting my fingerprints taken for the third time this year because the powers that be at the Department of Defense judged me unworthy of current security status, and I have a new job and have to go through the rigamarole again, don't you know.

I was minding my own business, paying my fee, as some crackhead detoxed down the hall ("I need a bologna sandwich, fuck, that's all!") and a woman sobbed in the chair next to me.

He: you should have known better. What were you thinking? If I hadn't gotten there...

She: I'm so sorry, I know, I love you, I..I....(her words trailed off into snot-muffled sobs so I couldn't tell exactly what else she was saying, plus I was trying very hard not to eavesdrop. As if).

He: well, I guess you didn't try hard enough, and I can't even touch you because I'll contaminate the evidence and what were you thinking?

The man continued to nag and berate his too-young-looking girlfriend until the receptionist finally butted in, "Shut the hell up and stop discussing the case. Can't you just show a little compassion? Jeez."

Joy to the World.

Solo Etoh

I have this rule against drinking alone. Screw my stupid rules.

Blah, blah, oink: my new job is sort of a diagonal move up - I'm overseeing much of my old responsibilities, even though I work for a different company. At first, I tried being laid back - "Oh, hey, when you get the chance, this needs to be done". My ex-boss, though, seems to be caught up in semantics: "this scope of work says it will affect a few machines, but 4 is more than a few. What you're asking is labor intensive and we won't be able to do it."

Uh-huh, uh-huh, I hear what you're saying, but...DO IT ANYWAY!! My jugular has been bulging and twitching for 48 hours and for all the time we've spent disagreeing, the damn work could already have been done. I'm frustrated, annoyed, pissed off and wondering if men like to fight, just for the sake of fighting!