This morning I woke up from a shitty dream that put me in a really foul mood, so I've been avoiding the internet all day. There's enough hostility without me adding to it. It's also a good thing that Sundays have always been my husband's guy day, because irrational or not, he'd have probably been my main target. He just got home and I'm fairly docile now, so that's good.
I really didn't want to leave the house at all, but I did suck it up and go to church. I'm really glad I did, not because church was anything spectacular today, but because my parents kidnapped Pie. Outstanding! Oh, and they took her shopping, which boils down to more piles of stuff we don't need. That's okay, though, because now maybe she'll stop whining about all the creepy toys I got rid of last week.
So, basically, I had the house to myself all day. There was a time I'd have taken full advantage of that, but you know what I did? I slept. And I cleaned. Oh, and I played some video games and did about 40 seconds worth of video editing. Neato! I pretty much wasted an entire day. My house is immaculate, though, so I suppose there's that. Not that it's very interesting or anything.
In other news, now that George's work schedule is slowing down, I'm thinking of taking a class. I haven't decided what yet, but I'm really looking forward to it. There's so much I wanted to take, but could never fit in, and I'm glad for the opportunity to go at it from a laid back, personal enrichment standpoint. Should be fun and I'd love any suggestions.
Also, since we're probably the least responsible people that ever existed, we've decided to forgo making the rest of the house look nice (yeah, ugly living room wallpaper, I'm looking at you) and instead focus on creating a home theater in our creepy basement. We never have company anyway, but we do watch a lot of movies, so I guess that makes sense. I did some rough sketches of it the other day and it will be awesome!
Holy hell, I just re-read this and came to the realization that I'm even more boring than I realized. My brain is soupy right now. We have neat plans tomorrow, so hopefully that will be more interesting.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Pie Has a Big Mouth
I should clean the house and start dinner, but that sounds tremendously unappealing. Besides, George is working and Pie's sleeping, and I get the good computer, so bonus post! Yay!
Today was one of those days. Not at all a bad day, I just didn't care much. In fact, it can easily be summed up with the images one of my 54 favorite people in the world sent me.
I'm tired. I mean really tired. Probably could have slept last night, but Pie put an end to that. I've tried going to sleep tonight, but the insomnia has more or less decided that's not going to happen. I napped for two hours and now I'm up and feeling particularly pingy. Neato!
Anyway, today just wasn't happening for me. Aside from going to Giant Eagle, there wasn't really anything I needed to do, so it was okay. I let Pie and her toys have run of the house while I sat around in my pajamas and drank too much chocolate milk. At one point, I made cinnamon rolls--nothing fancy, just the kind in the exploding can--and I'm really not sure why I did that. I wasn't hungry. Now I am hungry and cinnamon rolls sound fantastic, but they're hard from sitting on the counter all day, so I can't eat them. I guess we can go feed them to the ducks tomorrow. I also finished an MS Paint picture I'd working on and photoshopped something else. They turned out great! I thought about posting those here, but they really only make sense to the person they were for and otherwise make me look all the more insane.
Around 3:00 Pie made it clear that she was bored and wanted to be entertained. Stupid parental responsibilities. That's alright, though, I have a trick just for this.
When I was Pie's age my dad would sometimes take me to work with him so my mom could have a break. Basically he'd show up, make sure everything was running the way it needed to, knock out any problems if it wasn't, buy me a soda in a glass bottle from the cool machine in back, and then we'd go get into some kind of trouble. Which either meant Cedar Point or going for a "music ride" depending on the season. Music rides are exactly what they sound like--driving around aimlessly, for hours, listening to fantastic music. Sometimes I wonder what my dad did when he went to work by himself.
Music rides probably aren't the best idea with $3 a gallon gas and all, but finding something to entertain both of us that requires minimal effort on my part seemed worth it, so I cleaned myself up, burned a couple CD's, and set off for a couple hours of back roads and music that would have been really good if I didn't feel the need to sing along.
Sometime around 5:00, Pie started getting bored and I figured I shouldn't waste anymore gas, so I headed home. On the way, we saw a guy standing on a street corner with a sign that said, "Homeless, hungry diabetic. Anything helps."
I might be a sucker, but stuff like that breaks my heart. I use my debit card for everything, but I try to keep a few bucks on me, just in case, so I pulled the $5 out of my pocket. Since he was on the passenger side of the car, I had Pie hand it to him.
George hates when I do stuff like that. Hates it. Since we moved in together, it's always been our money, except when I give it away. Then he gets all, "I work to support this family, not everyone else!" We're not wealthy people by any means, but I figure we have a house and fridge full of food and $5 isn't going to make us late on the mortgage. It's not like I see homeless people regularly, so when I do, I give what I can. I feel good about it, and Pie apparently thinks giving someone $5 is the coolest thing she's ever done.
The minute we get home, she runs inside yelling, "Daddy! Daddy, guess what?"
"What, baby?"
"Mumma gave money to a man standing outside!"
"What?"
"There was a man and Mumma gave him money!" She's incredibly proud. I'm getting a dirty look. I'm really going to have to teach her about when to keep things to ourselves.
In other news, I completely forgot that I was going to have the Magic 8 Ball dictate my actions this weekend. During the week there are actually things I have to do for my house to run smoothly, so I guess I'll have to wait until next weekend. I know some people were really looking forward to that, so I'm sorry! Remind me, because I'll really do it, I just forget stuff like that.
Being on the shitlist and all, I guess I'd really better go clean the house and think about food.
Today was one of those days. Not at all a bad day, I just didn't care much. In fact, it can easily be summed up with the images one of my 54 favorite people in the world sent me.
I'm tired. I mean really tired. Probably could have slept last night, but Pie put an end to that. I've tried going to sleep tonight, but the insomnia has more or less decided that's not going to happen. I napped for two hours and now I'm up and feeling particularly pingy. Neato!
Anyway, today just wasn't happening for me. Aside from going to Giant Eagle, there wasn't really anything I needed to do, so it was okay. I let Pie and her toys have run of the house while I sat around in my pajamas and drank too much chocolate milk. At one point, I made cinnamon rolls--nothing fancy, just the kind in the exploding can--and I'm really not sure why I did that. I wasn't hungry. Now I am hungry and cinnamon rolls sound fantastic, but they're hard from sitting on the counter all day, so I can't eat them. I guess we can go feed them to the ducks tomorrow. I also finished an MS Paint picture I'd working on and photoshopped something else. They turned out great! I thought about posting those here, but they really only make sense to the person they were for and otherwise make me look all the more insane.
Around 3:00 Pie made it clear that she was bored and wanted to be entertained. Stupid parental responsibilities. That's alright, though, I have a trick just for this.
When I was Pie's age my dad would sometimes take me to work with him so my mom could have a break. Basically he'd show up, make sure everything was running the way it needed to, knock out any problems if it wasn't, buy me a soda in a glass bottle from the cool machine in back, and then we'd go get into some kind of trouble. Which either meant Cedar Point or going for a "music ride" depending on the season. Music rides are exactly what they sound like--driving around aimlessly, for hours, listening to fantastic music. Sometimes I wonder what my dad did when he went to work by himself.
Music rides probably aren't the best idea with $3 a gallon gas and all, but finding something to entertain both of us that requires minimal effort on my part seemed worth it, so I cleaned myself up, burned a couple CD's, and set off for a couple hours of back roads and music that would have been really good if I didn't feel the need to sing along.
Sometime around 5:00, Pie started getting bored and I figured I shouldn't waste anymore gas, so I headed home. On the way, we saw a guy standing on a street corner with a sign that said, "Homeless, hungry diabetic. Anything helps."
I might be a sucker, but stuff like that breaks my heart. I use my debit card for everything, but I try to keep a few bucks on me, just in case, so I pulled the $5 out of my pocket. Since he was on the passenger side of the car, I had Pie hand it to him.
George hates when I do stuff like that. Hates it. Since we moved in together, it's always been our money, except when I give it away. Then he gets all, "I work to support this family, not everyone else!" We're not wealthy people by any means, but I figure we have a house and fridge full of food and $5 isn't going to make us late on the mortgage. It's not like I see homeless people regularly, so when I do, I give what I can. I feel good about it, and Pie apparently thinks giving someone $5 is the coolest thing she's ever done.
The minute we get home, she runs inside yelling, "Daddy! Daddy, guess what?"
"What, baby?"
"Mumma gave money to a man standing outside!"
"What?"
"There was a man and Mumma gave him money!" She's incredibly proud. I'm getting a dirty look. I'm really going to have to teach her about when to keep things to ourselves.
In other news, I completely forgot that I was going to have the Magic 8 Ball dictate my actions this weekend. During the week there are actually things I have to do for my house to run smoothly, so I guess I'll have to wait until next weekend. I know some people were really looking forward to that, so I'm sorry! Remind me, because I'll really do it, I just forget stuff like that.
Being on the shitlist and all, I guess I'd really better go clean the house and think about food.
Last Night Sucked
I have a king sized bed. Most nights, 3'2" of Pie take up well over half of it. I don't know what happened. Last year, she was great about going to bed in her own room, then slowly she began making her way into mine. It crept up slowly, starting in the middle of the night, until she was eventually just falling asleep there. She's old enough for her own room, so one of my new year's resolutions was to get her there all night, every night. Or, at least almost every night--I'm not heartless if she's sick or has a nightmare or something.
For the most part, this has been awful, but out of no where we had a break through. She slept in her bed for nearly a week and a half. How fantastic! Then last night happened.
"Mumma, where's Eugene?" Eugene is one of her dolls. Since the day we got him, he's gone everywhere with us. He talks too loud in the library. He refuses to be shared with the other kids at the playplace. He threatens old ladies at the supermarket. And he's tucked into whatever bed she's sleeping in every night.
"I don't know, sweetheart. Where'd you leave him?"
"I dunno."
We search the house for the better part of an hour, but sadly, no luck. I try thinking back to the last time she had him, but it's sort of fuzzy. In fact, I don't think she's played with him since we got home from the grocery store. The grocery store?
Oh no! I ran, fingers crossed, to check the car. Pleasebeinthecar, pleasebeinthecar! He's not in the car. The store will be closed before I can get there. Shit! At this moment, I know tonight is going to be difficult. And that's thinking positively.
"Babydoll," my eyes beg her to be agreeable, "Why don't you choose a different goodnight toy and we'll find Eugene in the morning?"
"No." She says it casually, dismissing the suggestion without even a hint of thought.
I try again, "Pie, I think you left him at Giant Eagle. We'll check in the morning, but you'll have to choose something else tonight."
"I don't wa--" My words register with her and horror paints her tiny face. Then the tears start.
I panic and do the only thing sensible thing in this situation--wake up my husband so he can handle it. He takes charge, pulling her into our bed and holding her, trying to coax her to sleep, but she's kicking and screaming that she needs her doll, and she just keeps crying. After 15 minutes, she wins. My husband has another idea.
We frantically check every Walmart in a 50 mile radius. None of them have one. Neither does Super Kmart and everything else is closed. This is just spectacular. Maybe I'm too much of a pushover, perhaps I should just tell her to pick something else and suck it up, but instead, I go into damage control mode.
"Why don't I put Tangled on the tv in my bedroom?" I hope with every fiber of my being that she'll take it.
"Okay." I rejoice internally, and her teary eyes light with something new. "Can I have a soda?"
"Sure!"
"And a cupcake?"
"Got it!" At this point I'm ready to give her my soul just to get her to go to sleep. And it works! At some time after 1AM, she falls asleep in my bed, surrounded by various junk food wrappers. I'm such a horrible parent.
On the bright side, Giant Eagle does have her doll and as soon as she wakes up, we'll go get him.
For the most part, this has been awful, but out of no where we had a break through. She slept in her bed for nearly a week and a half. How fantastic! Then last night happened.
"Mumma, where's Eugene?" Eugene is one of her dolls. Since the day we got him, he's gone everywhere with us. He talks too loud in the library. He refuses to be shared with the other kids at the playplace. He threatens old ladies at the supermarket. And he's tucked into whatever bed she's sleeping in every night.
"I don't know, sweetheart. Where'd you leave him?"
"I dunno."
We search the house for the better part of an hour, but sadly, no luck. I try thinking back to the last time she had him, but it's sort of fuzzy. In fact, I don't think she's played with him since we got home from the grocery store. The grocery store?
Oh no! I ran, fingers crossed, to check the car. Pleasebeinthecar, pleasebeinthecar! He's not in the car. The store will be closed before I can get there. Shit! At this moment, I know tonight is going to be difficult. And that's thinking positively.
"Babydoll," my eyes beg her to be agreeable, "Why don't you choose a different goodnight toy and we'll find Eugene in the morning?"
"No." She says it casually, dismissing the suggestion without even a hint of thought.
I try again, "Pie, I think you left him at Giant Eagle. We'll check in the morning, but you'll have to choose something else tonight."
"I don't wa--" My words register with her and horror paints her tiny face. Then the tears start.
I panic and do the only thing sensible thing in this situation--wake up my husband so he can handle it. He takes charge, pulling her into our bed and holding her, trying to coax her to sleep, but she's kicking and screaming that she needs her doll, and she just keeps crying. After 15 minutes, she wins. My husband has another idea.
We frantically check every Walmart in a 50 mile radius. None of them have one. Neither does Super Kmart and everything else is closed. This is just spectacular. Maybe I'm too much of a pushover, perhaps I should just tell her to pick something else and suck it up, but instead, I go into damage control mode.
"Why don't I put Tangled on the tv in my bedroom?" I hope with every fiber of my being that she'll take it.
"Okay." I rejoice internally, and her teary eyes light with something new. "Can I have a soda?"
"Sure!"
"And a cupcake?"
"Got it!" At this point I'm ready to give her my soul just to get her to go to sleep. And it works! At some time after 1AM, she falls asleep in my bed, surrounded by various junk food wrappers. I'm such a horrible parent.
On the bright side, Giant Eagle does have her doll and as soon as she wakes up, we'll go get him.
Friday, January 28, 2011
My Husband the Phone Stalker
Despite my grumbling, there are a couple parent groups I haven't dropped yet. One of them is a mentor program. Anyone is welcome, but it's mostly geared towards very young moms and unexpected pregnancies. Ignoring the fact that I probably shouldn't be any kind of mentor to anyone, much less a parenting mentor, I really like this group. It makes me feel useful and productive. Also, it only meets once a month, which is noncommittal enough, even for me. I'm on a call any time list, but I don't have to worry too much about actual meetings. Plus, it gives Pie a chance to play with other kids.
I have an alarm clock, but since I very rarely have anywhere to be in the mornings, I hardly ever use it. Most of the time, I wake up on my own, otherwise, Pie knows to wake me when she gets up. Her new method is less than endearing, but it worked this morning. I sat up quickly, the minute her wet little finger entered my ear. This really needs to stop. I was about to yell at her, but I noticed the clock--10:30. Shit. My mentor group was meeting at 11, and it's one of the few I haven't been ostracized from yet. I scrambled to get myself and Pie reasonably presentable as quickly as possible, which pretty much means I brushed my teeth, slapped on some deoderant, grabbed the first clean clothes I saw, and left looking like a complete bum.
I stumbled into the meeting five minutes late and half out of breath. Everyone was seated at a table, with the kids and one mom off playing in the corner. It dawned on me that I wasn't just late to the meeting, there was a speaker today. So much for inconspicuously sneaking in. I settled in at the table as quickly as possible, so the speaker could get back to her business.
She talked about the warning signs of abuse, at one point mentioning things that may seem romantic, like calling all the time just to hear your voice. After talking about the early phase, she went into some of the other phases, talked about having an escape plan, then opened it up to the moms for discussion. Over half the people there had some sort of story, which made me both sad, and extra appreciative of George who really is a fantastic husband. In the middle of hearing from a fifteen year old who has apparently had a very tough life, my phone rang.
Crap! I usually put it on vibrate for these sort of things, but in the morning rush, I'd forgotten. I fumbled to hit ignore, without looking at it. A few seconds later, it started again. I hit ignore without looking again and offered everyone an embarrassed, apologetic half-smile. The girl went back to her story, when my phone rang for the third time. I looked down. It was the husband.
My husband almost never calls me. Maybe a few times a month, usually to remind me to grab something from the store or to let me know he'll be at work late, but never just to chat. In ten years, he never has, and that's fine. When we left the house this morning, he was asleep. We're a one car family, so I figure he's probably calling to see where we are and when we'll be home. I quickly texted him that I'm in a meeting and would call him in a few minutes. It seemed to work, and I pushed my mind back to the meeting, then--
Ring!
"Oh, come on!" I muttered half to myself, starting to get irritated. "Excuse me," I said, everyone's eyes back on me. I answered the phone, "Hello?"
"Hey, Bean! Where ya at?"
"I'm in a meeting. I'll call you back in a few minutes."
"What kind of meeting? And where's my shirt?"
Everyone was still staring, and I tried to force my irritation down my throat. "I'll call you back in ten minutes." At this point, I'm pretty sure he could hear the annoyance.
"Okay. Love you!"
"Love you too..."
"Stalker!" the girl next to me shouted, and everyone started laughing. At least I'm good for lightening the mood.
ETA: I just asked him if I could post the picture of him doing the smolder to make up for making my group think he's a phone stalker. He said no. I asked him if I could at least post it on facebook. He said no again. Sorry, Jenn.
I have an alarm clock, but since I very rarely have anywhere to be in the mornings, I hardly ever use it. Most of the time, I wake up on my own, otherwise, Pie knows to wake me when she gets up. Her new method is less than endearing, but it worked this morning. I sat up quickly, the minute her wet little finger entered my ear. This really needs to stop. I was about to yell at her, but I noticed the clock--10:30. Shit. My mentor group was meeting at 11, and it's one of the few I haven't been ostracized from yet. I scrambled to get myself and Pie reasonably presentable as quickly as possible, which pretty much means I brushed my teeth, slapped on some deoderant, grabbed the first clean clothes I saw, and left looking like a complete bum.
I stumbled into the meeting five minutes late and half out of breath. Everyone was seated at a table, with the kids and one mom off playing in the corner. It dawned on me that I wasn't just late to the meeting, there was a speaker today. So much for inconspicuously sneaking in. I settled in at the table as quickly as possible, so the speaker could get back to her business.
She talked about the warning signs of abuse, at one point mentioning things that may seem romantic, like calling all the time just to hear your voice. After talking about the early phase, she went into some of the other phases, talked about having an escape plan, then opened it up to the moms for discussion. Over half the people there had some sort of story, which made me both sad, and extra appreciative of George who really is a fantastic husband. In the middle of hearing from a fifteen year old who has apparently had a very tough life, my phone rang.
Crap! I usually put it on vibrate for these sort of things, but in the morning rush, I'd forgotten. I fumbled to hit ignore, without looking at it. A few seconds later, it started again. I hit ignore without looking again and offered everyone an embarrassed, apologetic half-smile. The girl went back to her story, when my phone rang for the third time. I looked down. It was the husband.
My husband almost never calls me. Maybe a few times a month, usually to remind me to grab something from the store or to let me know he'll be at work late, but never just to chat. In ten years, he never has, and that's fine. When we left the house this morning, he was asleep. We're a one car family, so I figure he's probably calling to see where we are and when we'll be home. I quickly texted him that I'm in a meeting and would call him in a few minutes. It seemed to work, and I pushed my mind back to the meeting, then--
Ring!
"Oh, come on!" I muttered half to myself, starting to get irritated. "Excuse me," I said, everyone's eyes back on me. I answered the phone, "Hello?"
"Hey, Bean! Where ya at?"
"I'm in a meeting. I'll call you back in a few minutes."
"What kind of meeting? And where's my shirt?"
Everyone was still staring, and I tried to force my irritation down my throat. "I'll call you back in ten minutes." At this point, I'm pretty sure he could hear the annoyance.
"Okay. Love you!"
"Love you too..."
"Stalker!" the girl next to me shouted, and everyone started laughing. At least I'm good for lightening the mood.
ETA: I just asked him if I could post the picture of him doing the smolder to make up for making my group think he's a phone stalker. He said no. I asked him if I could at least post it on facebook. He said no again. Sorry, Jenn.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Does Survival Count?
I really want to post something to go with this, but right now I just can't. It just don't have it in me. And to be honest, I haven't even checked off survival yet, because I'm not certain it's guaranteed yet. Still, this was fantastic and needed to be shared. Take it wherever you'd like it to go. Perhaps more will come later.
In other news, this weekend, I will be letting my Magic 8 Ball make all of my decisions, then I'll post about it here. I loathe decision making, preferring to just sort of let things happen, so this should be a fun exercise.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
My Husband is the Better Parent
"Mumma, I want a dragon."
I'm thoroughly absent at the moment, one pencil clenched between my teeth, two more in my hair as I roughly draw designs for my latest house project. It is Pie, though, so I'm fairly sure I heard her correctly.
"Huh?" The pencil falls from my teeth.
"I want you to buy me a dragon." She says this in her you-know-you-can't-say-no voice, throwing in a few bats of of her eyes for good measure.
I scratch my head and momentarily wonder if I've been having the TV babysit too often. Maybe. Probably. But this must be unrelated, because having a dragon would be awesome and who wouldn't want one?
"Babydoll, you know dragons are just pretend, right?"
"No, Mumma," she rolls her eyes, "They're real. They live in the TV."
"Sweetheart," I start, kicking myself for all the times she's heard me say that my friends live in my computer, "The stuff on the TV is pretend. It's fun, but it's not real. I can look for a stuffed dragon, if you'd like." She looks at me like I just killed the dog, but slowly a familiar shine lights her eyes.
"I'll just ask Daddy." Normally, I hate when she pulls that, and I know I should put a stop to it, but since this request is impossible for him to agree to, I figure maybe he can explain it.
"Okay, go ask Daddy."
She heads out of the room, her face washed in triumph, and I think about her last unreasonable request.
(On a side note, I wish facebook had an easier way to find things I posted a month ago.)
I still haven't found a way to make that work, although to be fair, I haven't really put much effort into it. I sneak over to the other room, looking forward to hearing my husband be the voice of reason for once.
Instead, I hear, "Sure, baby."
What!? Surely, he's not promising her things that we can't possibly give her. He knows she remembers everything and that I'm the one who will have to deal with her tiny, broken heart all day, right? Right?
He continues, "...buuuuttt, I don't know if you really want one. If we get you a dragon, it'll ruin the tower we're working on in your bedroom. There isn't room for both."
I stand there, mouth agape, as I listen to the silence of her considering this.
"You're right, Daddy. I just want my tower."
Huh. Clearly, he is the better parent. Now, I'd better really work on figuring out how to make that tower happen. And turn off the TV.
I'm thoroughly absent at the moment, one pencil clenched between my teeth, two more in my hair as I roughly draw designs for my latest house project. It is Pie, though, so I'm fairly sure I heard her correctly.
"Huh?" The pencil falls from my teeth.
"I want you to buy me a dragon." She says this in her you-know-you-can't-say-no voice, throwing in a few bats of of her eyes for good measure.
I scratch my head and momentarily wonder if I've been having the TV babysit too often. Maybe. Probably. But this must be unrelated, because having a dragon would be awesome and who wouldn't want one?
"Babydoll, you know dragons are just pretend, right?"
"No, Mumma," she rolls her eyes, "They're real. They live in the TV."
"Sweetheart," I start, kicking myself for all the times she's heard me say that my friends live in my computer, "The stuff on the TV is pretend. It's fun, but it's not real. I can look for a stuffed dragon, if you'd like." She looks at me like I just killed the dog, but slowly a familiar shine lights her eyes.
"I'll just ask Daddy." Normally, I hate when she pulls that, and I know I should put a stop to it, but since this request is impossible for him to agree to, I figure maybe he can explain it.
"Okay, go ask Daddy."
She heads out of the room, her face washed in triumph, and I think about her last unreasonable request.
(On a side note, I wish facebook had an easier way to find things I posted a month ago.)
I still haven't found a way to make that work, although to be fair, I haven't really put much effort into it. I sneak over to the other room, looking forward to hearing my husband be the voice of reason for once.
Instead, I hear, "Sure, baby."
What!? Surely, he's not promising her things that we can't possibly give her. He knows she remembers everything and that I'm the one who will have to deal with her tiny, broken heart all day, right? Right?
He continues, "...buuuuttt, I don't know if you really want one. If we get you a dragon, it'll ruin the tower we're working on in your bedroom. There isn't room for both."
I stand there, mouth agape, as I listen to the silence of her considering this.
"You're right, Daddy. I just want my tower."
Huh. Clearly, he is the better parent. Now, I'd better really work on figuring out how to make that tower happen. And turn off the TV.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The Shirt That Loves Me Anyway
I have something fun planned. I mean, really fun, with more paint and everything. But, two days off, and I'm having trouble getting started again. Really, self? Way to suck! Guess we'll just see where this goes.
I have this t-shirt. It's a plain, light gray Fruit of the Loom t-shirt. It's about twelve years old. The neckline has torn off completely, so that the right side falls off my shoulder. More of it is worn thin than not, and the whole thing is littered with snags and tears. Oh, and there's a gaping hole that sits across the top of my left boob. It's really gross and should have been thrown out eight years ago, but it's so comfortable that the thought alone breaks my heart. Plus, my husband thinks it's sexy. So, I keep it.
My level of emotional attachment to this thing should probably be disturbing. Cliche as it may be, that scrap of fabric is an old friend. It's been around longer than anything else in my life, including my husband. It's seen me through a really bad break up. High school graduation. It's been there at the end of really bad jobs and even worse dates. It was with me when I spent three weeks living in a hotel (there's a story for you) and then when I went back home. I wore it the night I moved in with the man I'm now married to (although, this was before the neckline detached and the easy access boob hole happened, so it wasn't the sexy shirt back then.) It's seen horrible roommates, devastating mornings after, heart stopping crushes. It caught the drops as I painted the walls of my newly bought home. It kicked the ass of every sheer, frilly piece of lingerie on my honeymoon. It's been thrown up on, cried on, baked in, covered in snot, bled on, and just about any other trauma one t-shirt can withstand. If my mom wouldn't have been so uptight about it, it would have been the shirt that welcomed Pie into the world.
Actually, the more I think about it, it's not like an old friend, it's more like a second skin, one whose life has been far more interesting than my own. The tears and stains are its battle scars, and even as it reaches its golden years, it goes on creating new ones. I can't wear it anywhere other than home, but I guess that's good because it no longer gets washed as often as it needs to. I'm afraid of opening the washer to find nothing but a ball of thread, so I wait until the boob hole has stretched so badly that I could pop the whole thing out. When it finally does disintegrate, I know I'll cry. I know my husband won't get it, because it's just a shirt, but it's not just a shirt. It's part of me. Does this add to my crazy? Most likely. But the important thing is, the shirt doesn't care.
In other news, I have a couple side projects going on. Fun stuff, may even make it to the blog. Eventually. Thing is, I need avictim volunteer or two to test things out on. Message for details if you're interested.
I have this t-shirt. It's a plain, light gray Fruit of the Loom t-shirt. It's about twelve years old. The neckline has torn off completely, so that the right side falls off my shoulder. More of it is worn thin than not, and the whole thing is littered with snags and tears. Oh, and there's a gaping hole that sits across the top of my left boob. It's really gross and should have been thrown out eight years ago, but it's so comfortable that the thought alone breaks my heart. Plus, my husband thinks it's sexy. So, I keep it.
My level of emotional attachment to this thing should probably be disturbing. Cliche as it may be, that scrap of fabric is an old friend. It's been around longer than anything else in my life, including my husband. It's seen me through a really bad break up. High school graduation. It's been there at the end of really bad jobs and even worse dates. It was with me when I spent three weeks living in a hotel (there's a story for you) and then when I went back home. I wore it the night I moved in with the man I'm now married to (although, this was before the neckline detached and the easy access boob hole happened, so it wasn't the sexy shirt back then.) It's seen horrible roommates, devastating mornings after, heart stopping crushes. It caught the drops as I painted the walls of my newly bought home. It kicked the ass of every sheer, frilly piece of lingerie on my honeymoon. It's been thrown up on, cried on, baked in, covered in snot, bled on, and just about any other trauma one t-shirt can withstand. If my mom wouldn't have been so uptight about it, it would have been the shirt that welcomed Pie into the world.
Actually, the more I think about it, it's not like an old friend, it's more like a second skin, one whose life has been far more interesting than my own. The tears and stains are its battle scars, and even as it reaches its golden years, it goes on creating new ones. I can't wear it anywhere other than home, but I guess that's good because it no longer gets washed as often as it needs to. I'm afraid of opening the washer to find nothing but a ball of thread, so I wait until the boob hole has stretched so badly that I could pop the whole thing out. When it finally does disintegrate, I know I'll cry. I know my husband won't get it, because it's just a shirt, but it's not just a shirt. It's part of me. Does this add to my crazy? Most likely. But the important thing is, the shirt doesn't care.
In other news, I have a couple side projects going on. Fun stuff, may even make it to the blog. Eventually. Thing is, I need a
Friday, January 21, 2011
Feeling a bit Stabby
Pie napped today, which is rare in and of itself, but even more astounding, the nap lasted two hours. That's utterly unheard of! Being the responsible and productive person that I am, I spent the entirety of it making little pictures in MS Paint, then manipulating them in Photoshop. They turned out really nice (which means they look like shit) and I can't wait to use them. Problem is, the story that goes with them just wouldn't write today. Instead, you get this:
Yep, that's right--I'm having a pity party and everyone's invited! Say the right thing and you might even win an all expense paid guilt trip! My husband did, anyway.
So what's my problem? Honestly, I wish I knew. At least then I could turn it into something awkward and embarrassing and maybe we could all have a good laugh at my expense. That would probably get me out of whatever funk I'm in, and even if it didn't it would still be more interesting to read about. Instead, I'm chasing a shadow and picking on my family. Neat.
In any case, I'm just not in it today. I'm writing something, because if I don't it'll probably just make my mood shittier, but I really can't come up with anything interesting or good or fun to read. We'll try again tomorrow. In the mean time, the soda's flat and the cupcakes are stale, but enjoy the party anyway.
Yep, that's right--I'm having a pity party and everyone's invited! Say the right thing and you might even win an all expense paid guilt trip! My husband did, anyway.
So what's my problem? Honestly, I wish I knew. At least then I could turn it into something awkward and embarrassing and maybe we could all have a good laugh at my expense. That would probably get me out of whatever funk I'm in, and even if it didn't it would still be more interesting to read about. Instead, I'm chasing a shadow and picking on my family. Neat.
In any case, I'm just not in it today. I'm writing something, because if I don't it'll probably just make my mood shittier, but I really can't come up with anything interesting or good or fun to read. We'll try again tomorrow. In the mean time, the soda's flat and the cupcakes are stale, but enjoy the party anyway.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Plastic Toys Will Rape Your Cats and Eat Your Mother!
Today, I spend two hours in a parent planning meeting for one of the groups I'm desperately trying to learn to like in hopes of making my daughter a friend. I really don't understand the point of a parent planning meeting to begin with. I mean, what's wrong with a call or an email saying "Lets get together?" It can even be in advance, but do we need to sit for two hours and plan shit? It's kiddie play time, not a wedding. Needless to say, it did not go well and I don't care what my mom says, this is not my fault!
The women in this particular group are like a bad cliche of the hostile, tightly wound homemaker with no sense of humor. I planned to enjoy myself. I mean, I planned to tune the meeting out, but I thought I could make a good time of it by imagining they're actually a group of kinky superheroes and I have infiltrated their top secret meeting. I'd give them bizarre little back stories and neat super powers and try to figure out what they're up to today.
Then, I realized these women have no potential to be superheroes or kinky, much less kinky superheroes. Major bummer. Instead, I decided to try writing a dirty story under the guise of taking notes. They love taking notes at these things.
I've never actually written anything porny before and I should probably avoid it in the future. My story ended up gross and awkward, rather than sexy and I sort of wanted my characters to die. Maybe I'll write them into extreme violence at the next awful parent meeting. Anyway, about half way through some horrible foreplay, a paper worked its way over to me.
"What Plastic Toys Mean For Your Children"
...happily playing with her little plastic Tangled dolls that now go everywhere with us. Including the Anti Plastic Toy Rally. In fact, most of Pie's toys are plastic (and those that aren't are still dyed! Or painted! Oh no!) and she almost always brought one. Paranoia kicked in, and in the back of my mind, I wondered if this was all for my benefit. I mean, the other moms already knew all of the evils that go hand in hand with plastic toys. They began talking about all those awful places that offer plastic play things.
Then, I noticed something.
No! It couldn't be. They were drinking from... PLASTIC!? The very substance that they were trying to convince me would rape my cats and eat my mother? Surely, this could not be the case! But, in fact, it was. Which made me think of something else.
And that always makes me laugh. I opened my mouth to point out their plastic beverage receptacles, then I thought better of it. It might make the meeting take longer. I tuned out all the plastic talk and went back to my story, having decided that (with the exception of waking up to them literally stuck in my hair) Pie's plastic toys are fine with me. I guess I could shell out for toys made only of undyed cloth or wood. I could make her toys myself, I'm crafty enough. I could hand her my old pots and pans and tell her to have a blast. Or, I could just let her have all the fun she was having right then. Because playing with plastic toys looked like a hell of a lot more fun than bitching about them.
So, basically, I learned some things today. First, I should never write porn. Second, I'm comfortable with my apparently mediocre-at-best parenting. Third, I have a martyr limit and it has been met. Guess we're looking for a new group.
The women in this particular group are like a bad cliche of the hostile, tightly wound homemaker with no sense of humor. I planned to enjoy myself. I mean, I planned to tune the meeting out, but I thought I could make a good time of it by imagining they're actually a group of kinky superheroes and I have infiltrated their top secret meeting. I'd give them bizarre little back stories and neat super powers and try to figure out what they're up to today.
Then, I realized these women have no potential to be superheroes or kinky, much less kinky superheroes. Major bummer. Instead, I decided to try writing a dirty story under the guise of taking notes. They love taking notes at these things.
I've never actually written anything porny before and I should probably avoid it in the future. My story ended up gross and awkward, rather than sexy and I sort of wanted my characters to die. Maybe I'll write them into extreme violence at the next awful parent meeting. Anyway, about half way through some horrible foreplay, a paper worked its way over to me.
"What Plastic Toys Mean For Your Children"
Wait, what? There's a question that had honestly never crossed my mind. What do plastic toys mean for my child? And why had someone taken the time to type up literature on this? I scanned the page (Environment... blah, blah... Toxins.. blah, lacking mental stimulation... blah, blah, blah... produced in sweat shops... more blah....) unable to find a concrete answer. I thought of asking the other moms, but then I glanced over at Pie...
Then, I noticed something.
No! It couldn't be. They were drinking from... PLASTIC!? The very substance that they were trying to convince me would rape my cats and eat my mother? Surely, this could not be the case! But, in fact, it was. Which made me think of something else.
And that always makes me laugh. I opened my mouth to point out their plastic beverage receptacles, then I thought better of it. It might make the meeting take longer. I tuned out all the plastic talk and went back to my story, having decided that (with the exception of waking up to them literally stuck in my hair) Pie's plastic toys are fine with me. I guess I could shell out for toys made only of undyed cloth or wood. I could make her toys myself, I'm crafty enough. I could hand her my old pots and pans and tell her to have a blast. Or, I could just let her have all the fun she was having right then. Because playing with plastic toys looked like a hell of a lot more fun than bitching about them.
So, basically, I learned some things today. First, I should never write porn. Second, I'm comfortable with my apparently mediocre-at-best parenting. Third, I have a martyr limit and it has been met. Guess we're looking for a new group.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
The Binstigator
I started Kindergarten at a very small Catholic school in 1987, a couple weeks shy of my fifth birthday. My mom deeply regrets not waiting another year, and blames my social ineptitude on the fact that I went through school a year younger than my peers. The two aren't at all related, but I could tell my mom that until I'm blue in the face and she still won't be convinced. Besides, that means she technically blames herself, and it's sort of fun to watch her get squirmy.
Anyway, I have a handful of fairly vivid memories from Kindergarten. There was this girl named Stephanie. I didn't like her. The only reason I didn't like her was because she scribbled, and I took (okay, take) my coloring pretty seriously. Since we were stuck at the same table, it wasn't even something I could ignore, and it slowly took it's toll on whatever sanity a five year old has. So, I did the next best thing and started a war with her. Each table had three chairs, a red, a blue, and a yellow. I liked the red one, she liked the yellow one, and Matt liked the blue one. Cool. Except, I was a bitch and made sure I was there before her everyday to take the yellow chair. I also told the teacher she said "fuck" even though she didn't. I may have been a bitch, but I wasn't a very good liar and I lost that battle. I got in a lot of trouble for that.
Most of my other memories are pretty boring. I learned that if you wore a dress on Friday, someone would flip up the skirt. Oh, and that the red things on bushes are not for eating. And that paste isn't for eating either, even though I remember it as rather tasty. I remember getting in trouble for asking why we had to sit in a semi-circle every day. I wasn't being a smart ass, I just thought that perhaps we should branch out into other shapes. The suggestion was frowned upon. I do have one Kindergarten memory that really stands out. It's probably one of the first stepping stones to my life as an asshole. I was the binstigator.
In the back left corner of the classroom, were rows and rows of cubbies. Each cubby had a bin in it, and each bin housed a different child's school supplies and whatever little junk he or she had chosen to bring. A couple months into school, I was bored. I had the same feelings about boredom at five that I have at 28, so I decided to add a little spice to my school day. I did this by finding a little time every day to rearrange other kids' bins. I'd hide the crayons of someone from morning class in the bin of someone from afternoon class. I'd put her princess stickers in his bin. I'd trade this one's glue for that one's paste for the other one's glue sticks and other such douchery. I never stole anything, just made it messy and confusing. Then I'd bite back the giggles as the chaos unfolded around me.
I was pretty smart about it, even messing with my own things so that the blame would not fall on me. Every now and then, I'd have to lay low for a bit, while they tried to figure out who was behind this nonsense. I was either good at being an asshole or lucky, because I didn't get caught.
The year progressed and we had assessments. I could count and spell my name and read simple words, so they decided to promote me to the first grade. I couldn't help but feel a little sad about this. I didn't like Kindergarten very much, but what would first grade hold? Would there be little bins? Who wants to live in a world without little bins?
On the first day of first grade, I begged my mom to let me go back to Kindergarten. My mom, of course, just wrote this off as fear or nerves and forced me to move on. Looking back, this was a great decision on her part. I walked into that classroom, only to have my breath stolen from my chest. There was a fully separate coat room, lined with big cubbies with shelves and a hook and a lunch box slot! First grade and I would get along just fine.
Anyway, I have a handful of fairly vivid memories from Kindergarten. There was this girl named Stephanie. I didn't like her. The only reason I didn't like her was because she scribbled, and I took (okay, take) my coloring pretty seriously. Since we were stuck at the same table, it wasn't even something I could ignore, and it slowly took it's toll on whatever sanity a five year old has. So, I did the next best thing and started a war with her. Each table had three chairs, a red, a blue, and a yellow. I liked the red one, she liked the yellow one, and Matt liked the blue one. Cool. Except, I was a bitch and made sure I was there before her everyday to take the yellow chair. I also told the teacher she said "fuck" even though she didn't. I may have been a bitch, but I wasn't a very good liar and I lost that battle. I got in a lot of trouble for that.
Most of my other memories are pretty boring. I learned that if you wore a dress on Friday, someone would flip up the skirt. Oh, and that the red things on bushes are not for eating. And that paste isn't for eating either, even though I remember it as rather tasty. I remember getting in trouble for asking why we had to sit in a semi-circle every day. I wasn't being a smart ass, I just thought that perhaps we should branch out into other shapes. The suggestion was frowned upon. I do have one Kindergarten memory that really stands out. It's probably one of the first stepping stones to my life as an asshole. I was the binstigator.
In the back left corner of the classroom, were rows and rows of cubbies. Each cubby had a bin in it, and each bin housed a different child's school supplies and whatever little junk he or she had chosen to bring. A couple months into school, I was bored. I had the same feelings about boredom at five that I have at 28, so I decided to add a little spice to my school day. I did this by finding a little time every day to rearrange other kids' bins. I'd hide the crayons of someone from morning class in the bin of someone from afternoon class. I'd put her princess stickers in his bin. I'd trade this one's glue for that one's paste for the other one's glue sticks and other such douchery. I never stole anything, just made it messy and confusing. Then I'd bite back the giggles as the chaos unfolded around me.
I was pretty smart about it, even messing with my own things so that the blame would not fall on me. Every now and then, I'd have to lay low for a bit, while they tried to figure out who was behind this nonsense. I was either good at being an asshole or lucky, because I didn't get caught.
The year progressed and we had assessments. I could count and spell my name and read simple words, so they decided to promote me to the first grade. I couldn't help but feel a little sad about this. I didn't like Kindergarten very much, but what would first grade hold? Would there be little bins? Who wants to live in a world without little bins?
On the first day of first grade, I begged my mom to let me go back to Kindergarten. My mom, of course, just wrote this off as fear or nerves and forced me to move on. Looking back, this was a great decision on her part. I walked into that classroom, only to have my breath stolen from my chest. There was a fully separate coat room, lined with big cubbies with shelves and a hook and a lunch box slot! First grade and I would get along just fine.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Making the World a Scarier Place
My daughter is three. She's the size of a two year old and according to two different evaluators, has verbal and cognitive capabilities somewhere around five. This opens us up to a whole world of challenges and that's before tossing in that she's learning her social skills from me. That's like the insane leading the slightly less insane. Sorry, babe.
She gets away with a lot of shit based solely on the cute factor, but I think we're at the point where it's only cute to other people. Like right now. I'm in my bed, trying to type this with peanut butter smeared across the left side of my face and hair, because she thought it would be funny if her slice of toast mauled me. Her exact words were, "Mumma, it would be really funny if my toast mauled you." And she calls me strange... (On a side note, I'm perfectly aware that a normal person would go wash it off, but then I'd lose my train of thought and that's just so not worth it.)
I took her to the mall today, partly to show myself that I can go to the mall without breaking out in cold sweat (I can't) and partly because we're going stir crazy in the house, it's too cold for the zoo or pool, and I'm avoiding someone who goes to the library on Tuesdays. Tuesdays used to be our movie date day, since it's only $5 but I'm avoiding someone there, too. Linda, if you read this, I hate you. So, we went to the mall.
Our mall sucks, and I'm pretty sure it's about three stores away from going out of business, but that's one of my favorite things about it. Unlike the nice malls within a half an hour away in a couple different directions, ours is almost always empty, save for the old people who mall-walk for exercise. And they're awesome, so I can't even complain. Also, there's some sort of war going on in the food court and the sample guys pretty much assault you with food every time you pass by. It's like a free lunch. I actually knew a couple whose dates consisted of getting free samples at the food court, but that's another story for another day. But the reason Pie likes going to the mall is because of the playland. It's nothing more than a brightly painted rubber-foam cesspool, but she loves it and it gives me a chance to drink coffee and sit on my ass. I take a notebook too, but that never works out because if I don't watch her like a hawk, she'll eat someone's baby or something.
Yesterday, she threatened some old lady with one of her toys. Today, she tried to steal a little girl's glasses. And pulled another girl's shirt all out of shape. And tried to push a boy down the slide. And she always tries to kiss every one. I could feel the collective sigh of relief from the other moms when we left. I think the problem is that she needs friends because having me as the only guide to what's normal, sane, and socially acceptable is a complete set up for failure at life. There are two problems with this, though.
Problem one relates to her. She gets frustrated with kids her age. Pie's mouth runs non-stop and it's almost all questions (or threats, but every now and then there's an "I love you" sprinkled in if she wants something) and they're usually questions that a three year old is not prepared to answer. Older kids see three feet and 25 pounds and want nothing to do with the baby. Even if that baby is ready to have her favorite doll kick every one of their asses.
The bigger problem is me. I've never cared about making friends. It's always been one of those things where if it happens, cool and if not, that's fine, too. I have the most amazing friends in the world, but it was all sort of dumb luck, not some conscious search for companionship. I don't even know how to go about making her some friends. All my friends with kids live in my computer. All my friends who live within driving distance have no kids. We've tried a variety of meeting places, but every time one or both of us does something so socially unacceptable that I know it's the last time we'll see them.
Me: We should this again!
Other Mom: Oh, yeah. Definitely. I'll call you.
She nervously hurries away like I just told her one or both of us have rabies and I know she does not have my phone number. Sorry kid.
She needs to have some friends to learn to be a friend and in this I'm fairly sure I'm causing some irreparable and lifelong damage. Then, I look at her.
She's me. She's exactly me, but pretty and with fantastic hair and probably smarter, at least in relation to our ages. And if she's me, all that damage will only make her more fantastic one day. And as soon as I get this fucking peanut butter off of my face, everything will be okay again.
She gets away with a lot of shit based solely on the cute factor, but I think we're at the point where it's only cute to other people. Like right now. I'm in my bed, trying to type this with peanut butter smeared across the left side of my face and hair, because she thought it would be funny if her slice of toast mauled me. Her exact words were, "Mumma, it would be really funny if my toast mauled you." And she calls me strange... (On a side note, I'm perfectly aware that a normal person would go wash it off, but then I'd lose my train of thought and that's just so not worth it.)
I took her to the mall today, partly to show myself that I can go to the mall without breaking out in cold sweat (I can't) and partly because we're going stir crazy in the house, it's too cold for the zoo or pool, and I'm avoiding someone who goes to the library on Tuesdays. Tuesdays used to be our movie date day, since it's only $5 but I'm avoiding someone there, too. Linda, if you read this, I hate you. So, we went to the mall.
Our mall sucks, and I'm pretty sure it's about three stores away from going out of business, but that's one of my favorite things about it. Unlike the nice malls within a half an hour away in a couple different directions, ours is almost always empty, save for the old people who mall-walk for exercise. And they're awesome, so I can't even complain. Also, there's some sort of war going on in the food court and the sample guys pretty much assault you with food every time you pass by. It's like a free lunch. I actually knew a couple whose dates consisted of getting free samples at the food court, but that's another story for another day. But the reason Pie likes going to the mall is because of the playland. It's nothing more than a brightly painted rubber-foam cesspool, but she loves it and it gives me a chance to drink coffee and sit on my ass. I take a notebook too, but that never works out because if I don't watch her like a hawk, she'll eat someone's baby or something.
Yesterday, she threatened some old lady with one of her toys. Today, she tried to steal a little girl's glasses. And pulled another girl's shirt all out of shape. And tried to push a boy down the slide. And she always tries to kiss every one. I could feel the collective sigh of relief from the other moms when we left. I think the problem is that she needs friends because having me as the only guide to what's normal, sane, and socially acceptable is a complete set up for failure at life. There are two problems with this, though.
Problem one relates to her. She gets frustrated with kids her age. Pie's mouth runs non-stop and it's almost all questions (or threats, but every now and then there's an "I love you" sprinkled in if she wants something) and they're usually questions that a three year old is not prepared to answer. Older kids see three feet and 25 pounds and want nothing to do with the baby. Even if that baby is ready to have her favorite doll kick every one of their asses.
The bigger problem is me. I've never cared about making friends. It's always been one of those things where if it happens, cool and if not, that's fine, too. I have the most amazing friends in the world, but it was all sort of dumb luck, not some conscious search for companionship. I don't even know how to go about making her some friends. All my friends with kids live in my computer. All my friends who live within driving distance have no kids. We've tried a variety of meeting places, but every time one or both of us does something so socially unacceptable that I know it's the last time we'll see them.
Me: We should this again!
Other Mom: Oh, yeah. Definitely. I'll call you.
She nervously hurries away like I just told her one or both of us have rabies and I know she does not have my phone number. Sorry kid.
She needs to have some friends to learn to be a friend and in this I'm fairly sure I'm causing some irreparable and lifelong damage. Then, I look at her.
She's me. She's exactly me, but pretty and with fantastic hair and probably smarter, at least in relation to our ages. And if she's me, all that damage will only make her more fantastic one day. And as soon as I get this fucking peanut butter off of my face, everything will be okay again.
Request!!
Dear Friends: Please pray (if you do) or send good vibes for my dear friend on behalf of her little girl who is in the hospital with viral pneumonia.... She is very ill and could use all the good mojo that we can muster! Thanks guys!!!! Every bit of positive energy helps!!
Monday, January 17, 2011
Sugar Packet Questions
When I was a kid, we ate out a lot. By "a lot" I mean almost every night. My mom is a super cook, so I'm not really sure why we ate out so much, but who am I to complain? Brown Derby was my dad's favorite, plus they had a salad bar, so that's where we usually went, but sometimes we went to TGI Friday's.
To my nine year old self, Friday's was pretty much the most awesome place in the world. I think it was the flair and cool hats. Some kids want to be doctors or lawyers--for the entirety of 1991, I aspired to work at Friday's. I'd rock that hat and have the best flair out of everyone and it would be the most spectacular thing ever. Eventually, I turned ten and abandoned that dream for something else, but I actually did end up working at TGI Friday's. And that part really has very little to do with the rest of this, but I thought it was a neat little back story. I won't even bitch (too much) that they had gotten rid of the flair before I worked there.
Anyway, I haven't been in a Friday's since mine closed a couple years ago, but when I worked there the sugar packets on the tables had funny little questions on them. Some were trivia (who's face is on the dime) but some were just odd, random questions. One very boring day, we went through all of them. Then we were bored again. I can't handle boredom. There are too many ways to entertain myself to ever tolerate being bored. (Yes, I know that's in direct conflict with my screen name.) So, I took it upon myself to write new questions. Every now and then, someone else would come up with one, but mine were always the best. I'm not being conceited, they really were. That's not a good thing, anyway--the only reason mine were the best is because there's something wrong with me. And one day that became super extra mega clear. I came up with the question of all questions:
If everyone who worked here was stranded on a deserted island and you had to eat someone to survive, who would you eat first?
It was the question to end all questions and we spent weeks working on it. That person had a lot of meat, but they also had some very useful outdoor skills, so eating them might be shooting ourselves in the foot. This one was annoying as fuck, but might have some medical knowledge. And so on. There was talk of choosing the worst two and creating a factory farm of sorts. We even worked it down to the last five survivors. I was one of them, which strikes me as odd. Truth be told, if I were stuck on an island with someone who thinks up that level of disturbing shit, they'd be first to go. Actually, I'm glad no one else considered that. It really would have sucked to be the first to bite it in my own mind blowing scenario.
Anyway, the question game sort of died after that. I made a few half assed attempts, but that question just could not be topped. And despite my question-god status, it sort of made me sad, at least until I came up with the gnome game with was almost as awesome.
Then my time at Friday's died. Even though I was beyond ready, that was sort of sad, too. During that time, I learned so much about myself, and I met some of the most interesting people I have ever know. The disturbing thing is that I was in the most fucked up place I've ever been in my whole life. It's cool though, because I walked away having met two of coolest people I have ever known and I'm luck to be friends with both of them. Even if we are real adults now. Sort of.
The question itself, though? That will never die. It's been years, but every time I become a part of a group--any group--I find myself considering it. Who would I eat first...?
To my nine year old self, Friday's was pretty much the most awesome place in the world. I think it was the flair and cool hats. Some kids want to be doctors or lawyers--for the entirety of 1991, I aspired to work at Friday's. I'd rock that hat and have the best flair out of everyone and it would be the most spectacular thing ever. Eventually, I turned ten and abandoned that dream for something else, but I actually did end up working at TGI Friday's. And that part really has very little to do with the rest of this, but I thought it was a neat little back story. I won't even bitch (too much) that they had gotten rid of the flair before I worked there.
Anyway, I haven't been in a Friday's since mine closed a couple years ago, but when I worked there the sugar packets on the tables had funny little questions on them. Some were trivia (who's face is on the dime) but some were just odd, random questions. One very boring day, we went through all of them. Then we were bored again. I can't handle boredom. There are too many ways to entertain myself to ever tolerate being bored. (Yes, I know that's in direct conflict with my screen name.) So, I took it upon myself to write new questions. Every now and then, someone else would come up with one, but mine were always the best. I'm not being conceited, they really were. That's not a good thing, anyway--the only reason mine were the best is because there's something wrong with me. And one day that became super extra mega clear. I came up with the question of all questions:
If everyone who worked here was stranded on a deserted island and you had to eat someone to survive, who would you eat first?
It was the question to end all questions and we spent weeks working on it. That person had a lot of meat, but they also had some very useful outdoor skills, so eating them might be shooting ourselves in the foot. This one was annoying as fuck, but might have some medical knowledge. And so on. There was talk of choosing the worst two and creating a factory farm of sorts. We even worked it down to the last five survivors. I was one of them, which strikes me as odd. Truth be told, if I were stuck on an island with someone who thinks up that level of disturbing shit, they'd be first to go. Actually, I'm glad no one else considered that. It really would have sucked to be the first to bite it in my own mind blowing scenario.
Anyway, the question game sort of died after that. I made a few half assed attempts, but that question just could not be topped. And despite my question-god status, it sort of made me sad, at least until I came up with the gnome game with was almost as awesome.
Then my time at Friday's died. Even though I was beyond ready, that was sort of sad, too. During that time, I learned so much about myself, and I met some of the most interesting people I have ever know. The disturbing thing is that I was in the most fucked up place I've ever been in my whole life. It's cool though, because I walked away having met two of coolest people I have ever known and I'm luck to be friends with both of them. Even if we are real adults now. Sort of.
The question itself, though? That will never die. It's been years, but every time I become a part of a group--any group--I find myself considering it. Who would I eat first...?
Sunday, January 16, 2011
If I End Up In Hell, It's Going to be a Mall
For a moment, I'm confused, both about where I am and how I got there. I blink twice and look around and for some reason I never understand, it all makes sense.
Okay. Movie theater. It's a big, square room with fabric covered crimson walls and black and white checkered tile flooring. There's way too much neon surrounding soda fountains and bins of overpriced, stale popcorn. The pimply faced, greasy haired kid--Kyle, if I recall correctly--who's slinging it is always the same, but I'm never sure whether this should comfort or terrify me. I've been coming here for twelve years--shouldn't he have finished puberty by now? We're the only people there, something I've come to expect, and he shoots me a metal topped grin. It's not friendly, but it's not antagonistic, either. It just is. Welcome back, it seems to say. He looks exhausted.
I sit down on a nearby bench, the kind that are made out of expanded metal and dipped in some sort of rubbery plastic stuff. With the thumb and index finger of my left hand, I pinch the inner corners of my eyes. Hard. I wasn't going to see a movie today. In fact, I've never seen a movie here. But the theater seems to be a home base of sorts and that brings me some level of comfort. The colors don't hurt my eyes and even the air seems cleaner. I don't want to leave. I don't know why I always do.
I get up and head toward the double doors on the right side of the ticket stalls. Even though I can't see the inside of the booth from this side, I know the stall is empty--apparently, Kyle handles ticket sales, too--and for a moment I can almost catch a wish for someone named Linda.
Who's Linda? Kyle is the only person who has ever worked here. I shake away any alien thoughts and push through the doors. The air changes immediately. It's thick and harsh and full of that red brown smell that almost always consumes me here. The movie theater sits on a second level that is completely foreign to the rest of the mall. I always wonder why it was built that way, and I always tell myself to look into it later, but I can never quite remember why I didn't. Everything in the unnecessarily long tunnel leading to the lower level is stark white, made harsher by rows and rows of fluorescent overhead lighting and even with all that sterility it just feels like a
Tomb. Tomb? No. Not a tomb. A tunnel. It's a tunnel. Why the hell would I think tomb?
A chill runs up my back, down my arms, and settles in my palms as cold sweat erupts from them. I push myself through the tunnel anyway. The air grows more sickly with every step I take, and I know the closer I come to the end, the worse it will be. And finally, I see it.
The light at the end is softer, filtered and no where near as harsh, but it only makes the colors worse. The walls are painted with a chalky puce wash, which somehow reflects in the cool, beige tiles. Store after store punctuates the grisly hue, and I'm almost certain the stores are safer. Not safe as the movie theater, but healthier, more real than where I'm standing now. The potted plants are lush and vibrant and envy green, but there is no solace in them. Rather, they're a mocking reminder against the drawn and pallid faces of every shopper that has ever set foot in here. Sporadic clusters of matching beige furniture pop up in the center of the midway, but no one is sitting in them. No one ever sits in them and it's almost as if the high backed chairs themselves are damned.
I continue my course, past one store after another, waiting for the right one, the one I need to duck into. I check the faces of those around me, but not a single eye meets mine. Some of the shoppers are alone, others are in twosomes or even small groups. I can even hear bits of conversation, but instead of cheerful banter, it meets my ears as a tinny whine. The sound hurts my brain.
I wander the wide corridor, and even though it seems like I just entered, I know it's been much longer. Time is another thing that seems to work funny here. It's stolen quietly, pilfered before you're even aware it's gone missing, not that there's enough life left in you to try pulling it back if you did realize. I know it's been taken though. The dull ache in my muscles and that needling behind each temple tells me I've been here far longer that what's safe. I need to get to a store, to the movie theater,
Out! I need to get OUT!
but that second of clarity is ripped through my fingers before I can even try to catch it. Doesn't matter anyway. In twelve years, I've never seen the exit. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it wants to escape my chest and try to find a way out on it's own. I dash toward the nearest store, but my legs hold a protest and instead of madly running, I'm wading through jello and
Farther? My mind claws at the thought. Why is that store father?
My poor lungs are engulfed in flames, which an absurd split second finds hilarious, considering I'm hardly moving. One of my eyes pops and hemorrhages, and I watch as the red blurs across half of everything. I squeeze my good eye shut because that hazy red film is bliss next to the-
Unholy purple-
Of those repulsive-
Demon colored-
Walls around me.
Tomb.
I try to swallow, but my dry, swollen tongue won't allow it. I try to breathe, I try to run but everything just hurts. Everything feels like burning. I'm giving up, I'm falling, I'm too late, again I'm too late! I'm-
My eyes snap.
--Awake? I'm awake! I'm still gasping for breath, but the mutiny from my lungs and throat is gone. I'm soaked and shaking and thick curls cling to my face. From the far distance of Hissideofbed, my husband asks if I'm okay. I mumble that I am, and satisfied, he rolls over to face his own dreams. I lay in the cool darkness, wanting to go outside where the cold air will feel even better against my sweat soaked skin, but I'm too scared because I know--I know--once I open that door, I won't be stepping outside, but back into that movie theater with the red walls and the twelve year old popcorn and the concession boy that never moved on. So, I stay, lying in some sort of disgusting me soup. And when my breath finally catches up and my muscles stop twitching and every fiber in my body doesn't hurt anymore, I roll over and grab the blanket on the chair next to the bed, the one that's there for just this type of occasion. I hastily tuck into it, like a sleeping bag, so that distasteful wet all around me will just stop being there.
I fight against sleep, but I'm so completely drained that I know it's a useless war. In the moments before it claims me, a thought runs through my mind: There's a really good horror story somewhere in there. Except there's not, because who else is this terrified of a freaking mall? And my very last thought before my eyes close until sunrise makes way too much sense, more than any thought in any and all of the years I've had this dream...
That's not a mall. That's hell.
Okay. Movie theater. It's a big, square room with fabric covered crimson walls and black and white checkered tile flooring. There's way too much neon surrounding soda fountains and bins of overpriced, stale popcorn. The pimply faced, greasy haired kid--Kyle, if I recall correctly--who's slinging it is always the same, but I'm never sure whether this should comfort or terrify me. I've been coming here for twelve years--shouldn't he have finished puberty by now? We're the only people there, something I've come to expect, and he shoots me a metal topped grin. It's not friendly, but it's not antagonistic, either. It just is. Welcome back, it seems to say. He looks exhausted.
I sit down on a nearby bench, the kind that are made out of expanded metal and dipped in some sort of rubbery plastic stuff. With the thumb and index finger of my left hand, I pinch the inner corners of my eyes. Hard. I wasn't going to see a movie today. In fact, I've never seen a movie here. But the theater seems to be a home base of sorts and that brings me some level of comfort. The colors don't hurt my eyes and even the air seems cleaner. I don't want to leave. I don't know why I always do.
I get up and head toward the double doors on the right side of the ticket stalls. Even though I can't see the inside of the booth from this side, I know the stall is empty--apparently, Kyle handles ticket sales, too--and for a moment I can almost catch a wish for someone named Linda.
Who's Linda? Kyle is the only person who has ever worked here. I shake away any alien thoughts and push through the doors. The air changes immediately. It's thick and harsh and full of that red brown smell that almost always consumes me here. The movie theater sits on a second level that is completely foreign to the rest of the mall. I always wonder why it was built that way, and I always tell myself to look into it later, but I can never quite remember why I didn't. Everything in the unnecessarily long tunnel leading to the lower level is stark white, made harsher by rows and rows of fluorescent overhead lighting and even with all that sterility it just feels like a
Tomb. Tomb? No. Not a tomb. A tunnel. It's a tunnel. Why the hell would I think tomb?
A chill runs up my back, down my arms, and settles in my palms as cold sweat erupts from them. I push myself through the tunnel anyway. The air grows more sickly with every step I take, and I know the closer I come to the end, the worse it will be. And finally, I see it.
The light at the end is softer, filtered and no where near as harsh, but it only makes the colors worse. The walls are painted with a chalky puce wash, which somehow reflects in the cool, beige tiles. Store after store punctuates the grisly hue, and I'm almost certain the stores are safer. Not safe as the movie theater, but healthier, more real than where I'm standing now. The potted plants are lush and vibrant and envy green, but there is no solace in them. Rather, they're a mocking reminder against the drawn and pallid faces of every shopper that has ever set foot in here. Sporadic clusters of matching beige furniture pop up in the center of the midway, but no one is sitting in them. No one ever sits in them and it's almost as if the high backed chairs themselves are damned.
I continue my course, past one store after another, waiting for the right one, the one I need to duck into. I check the faces of those around me, but not a single eye meets mine. Some of the shoppers are alone, others are in twosomes or even small groups. I can even hear bits of conversation, but instead of cheerful banter, it meets my ears as a tinny whine. The sound hurts my brain.
I wander the wide corridor, and even though it seems like I just entered, I know it's been much longer. Time is another thing that seems to work funny here. It's stolen quietly, pilfered before you're even aware it's gone missing, not that there's enough life left in you to try pulling it back if you did realize. I know it's been taken though. The dull ache in my muscles and that needling behind each temple tells me I've been here far longer that what's safe. I need to get to a store, to the movie theater,
Out! I need to get OUT!
but that second of clarity is ripped through my fingers before I can even try to catch it. Doesn't matter anyway. In twelve years, I've never seen the exit. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it wants to escape my chest and try to find a way out on it's own. I dash toward the nearest store, but my legs hold a protest and instead of madly running, I'm wading through jello and
Farther? My mind claws at the thought. Why is that store father?
My poor lungs are engulfed in flames, which an absurd split second finds hilarious, considering I'm hardly moving. One of my eyes pops and hemorrhages, and I watch as the red blurs across half of everything. I squeeze my good eye shut because that hazy red film is bliss next to the-
Unholy purple-
Of those repulsive-
Demon colored-
Walls around me.
Tomb.
I try to swallow, but my dry, swollen tongue won't allow it. I try to breathe, I try to run but everything just hurts. Everything feels like burning. I'm giving up, I'm falling, I'm too late, again I'm too late! I'm-
My eyes snap.
--Awake? I'm awake! I'm still gasping for breath, but the mutiny from my lungs and throat is gone. I'm soaked and shaking and thick curls cling to my face. From the far distance of Hissideofbed, my husband asks if I'm okay. I mumble that I am, and satisfied, he rolls over to face his own dreams. I lay in the cool darkness, wanting to go outside where the cold air will feel even better against my sweat soaked skin, but I'm too scared because I know--I know--once I open that door, I won't be stepping outside, but back into that movie theater with the red walls and the twelve year old popcorn and the concession boy that never moved on. So, I stay, lying in some sort of disgusting me soup. And when my breath finally catches up and my muscles stop twitching and every fiber in my body doesn't hurt anymore, I roll over and grab the blanket on the chair next to the bed, the one that's there for just this type of occasion. I hastily tuck into it, like a sleeping bag, so that distasteful wet all around me will just stop being there.
I fight against sleep, but I'm so completely drained that I know it's a useless war. In the moments before it claims me, a thought runs through my mind: There's a really good horror story somewhere in there. Except there's not, because who else is this terrified of a freaking mall? And my very last thought before my eyes close until sunrise makes way too much sense, more than any thought in any and all of the years I've had this dream...
That's not a mall. That's hell.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
And Yet Again, I Have Disappointed My Mother
I am always disappointing my mother. Seriously, if there was an award for letting your mom down, I'd have won every time for at least the last 25 years, maybe even the last 28 although I kind of like to think I wasn't capable of disappointing her until I was aware of doing it. Sometimes it's on purpose. Sometimes it's because my mom is just wound way too tightly. Most of the time, I think it's because we're just very different.
Don't get me wrong, I have a great mother. I had a spectacular childhood with no real complaints, and it's not like the woman is constantly berating me or putting me down, I'm just very aware that I'm not exactly what she had in mind for her daughter. I think she had visions of my childhood being an ongoing tea party or fairytale or something. Then I'd grow up and become her shopping buddy or we'd get our nails done together or some other inane activity. She's sort of vapid sometimes. She'd be really pissed at me for saying that and rebut it with something about me not having pride in myself.
There are four main categories in which I fail to meet her standards:
1. I do not care what I look like. I just don't. The purpose of clothing isn't to look fashionable, it's to cover my body. Make up is for fun when I'm bored. Being fat is not a character flaw. Sleep is far more important than having time to do my hair. None of that means I don't have pride in myself, just that my sense of worth doesn't hinge on someone else's idea of what it should.
2. I'm a bit of a hermit. My mom is painfully shy and has trouble making friends. I'm not particularly shy, I just don't have a heap of interest in meeting new people. I like the people I know, and to be honest, I don't even have time for new ones. That would seriously cut into my antisocial life. It kills her that I could excel at what she can not, but choose not to. It also bugs her that I don't want to hang out all the time. We do stuff once a week or so, but that's enough for me. She really needs another friend.
3. My sense of humor. My mom is absolutely horrified at the things that amuse me. I can kind of see her point there.
4. My lack of direction in, well, everything. She is extremely organized. She runs on strict schedules and her house is devoid of any clutter. She plans and prepares and expects things to happen just so. I thrive on chaos. Plans give me anxiety. How the hell would I know on Tuesday what I'm going to feel like doing on Saturday? Why would I eat at noon if I'm not hungry or go to sleep at 10 if I'm not tired? Because the clock told me to? I love my clutter and I love the spontaneity of my days and more than anything, I love that I have no definitive plans for what to do if and when I grow up. She calls this lack of motivation. I call it freedom.
Anyway, I was thinking about this yesterday after one of her many (manymanymany) phone calls.
"Did you go to that playgroup I told you about?"
"Um...no...."
"Why not?"
"I told you when you told me about it, we already tried that one. I had the wrong stroller and the other moms didn't like me."
"Are you sure it was your stroller? You didn't try to be funny, did you?"
At this point, I consider hitting my head on something pointy. "Really mom? Does it matter? Why would I want to hang out with people I can't be funny around? Doesn't that sound like a waste of time?"
Her pause makes me think she's considering this.
"Maybe you need to give other people a chance." Nevermind.
That conversation continues going nowhere, so we finally give up. "Uh... Yeah."
"Did you at least write that essay I told you about?"
She found this essay in the paper a couple weeks ago and cut it out for me because the top prize is $500 and who does want $500? I actually feel sort of bad about this, because she was really excited, but I've really got nothing as far as this one goes. It's supposed to be about why poetry is still relevant today. I have no idea. I guess it's relevant to me because I like poetry. It's not really relevant to my husband. I have no clue if or why it's relevant to anyone else. The fact that people actually read the crap I spew here has given me some confidence that perhaps my writing does have some merit to it, but I highly doubt I've written anything worthy of $500, plus I don't know, that's just not a topic of interest for me. My best writing happens when the subject intrigues me. If the clipping said write a poem, I could do it. Badly, probably placing last, but I could do it. An essay on why poetry is relevant? I wouldn't even know where to start if I wanted to.
"I tried..." I really did, if only because she was so excited about it. I spent a good hour thinking about it before coming to the conclusion that it was a dumb question.
It's the heaviest sigh I've ever heard. "I really wish you would apply yourself."
"What? Apply myself to what?" What is she even talking about?
"You could do so much more..." Oh, this.
"I do a lot, Mom," I'm trying not to get irritated.
My mom was also a stay at home mom, and I know there's no way she can dispute the busyness of a day with a three year old. We both know that's not what she's talking about, though.
"I mean for you. You could do so much more for you."
"I do a lot for me."
"Like what?"
"Well, there's my blog. People even read it and make comments. And last night I got some new video editing software to start making little music videos. And I bake things and I PhotoShop pictures to be even more uncomfortable than they were to begin with. I have several little projects I'm working on." I know this list will disappoint her because these things couldn't interest her less.
"Why don't you get off the computer and find a real life? You aren't even trying anymore."
What the hell? She completely missed the part where I said I bake things. I don't bake things on the computer... Now, I desperately want to make this conversation end before I make her cry. She cries way too easily. Unfortunately, I choose humor, which is the worst possible way to make that happen.
"Well next week I'm thinking of making a foray into writing softcore porn (don't worry, I'm not) if you think you could find me a contest for that..."
"That's not even funny."
"Oh, lighten up, Mom. You know I wouldn't already have plans for next week!"
All of a sudden she needs to walk the dog, so I know I've won. I must have really won because she hasn't called me today. It's a hollow victory, though--I know I shouldn't bait her. She means well. I know she wouldn't be happy with my life, so it's really hard for her to understand that I am and I know she just doesn't want to see me sad and alone and burnt out. I also know my mom and she's sitting at home, angrily stewing over the fact that I haven't called her. I'll regret that later and I know it, but for now I'll just enjoy the freedom. In a few days I'll get to hear about her disappointment that I haven't called.
Don't get me wrong, I have a great mother. I had a spectacular childhood with no real complaints, and it's not like the woman is constantly berating me or putting me down, I'm just very aware that I'm not exactly what she had in mind for her daughter. I think she had visions of my childhood being an ongoing tea party or fairytale or something. Then I'd grow up and become her shopping buddy or we'd get our nails done together or some other inane activity. She's sort of vapid sometimes. She'd be really pissed at me for saying that and rebut it with something about me not having pride in myself.
There are four main categories in which I fail to meet her standards:
1. I do not care what I look like. I just don't. The purpose of clothing isn't to look fashionable, it's to cover my body. Make up is for fun when I'm bored. Being fat is not a character flaw. Sleep is far more important than having time to do my hair. None of that means I don't have pride in myself, just that my sense of worth doesn't hinge on someone else's idea of what it should.
2. I'm a bit of a hermit. My mom is painfully shy and has trouble making friends. I'm not particularly shy, I just don't have a heap of interest in meeting new people. I like the people I know, and to be honest, I don't even have time for new ones. That would seriously cut into my antisocial life. It kills her that I could excel at what she can not, but choose not to. It also bugs her that I don't want to hang out all the time. We do stuff once a week or so, but that's enough for me. She really needs another friend.
3. My sense of humor. My mom is absolutely horrified at the things that amuse me. I can kind of see her point there.
4. My lack of direction in, well, everything. She is extremely organized. She runs on strict schedules and her house is devoid of any clutter. She plans and prepares and expects things to happen just so. I thrive on chaos. Plans give me anxiety. How the hell would I know on Tuesday what I'm going to feel like doing on Saturday? Why would I eat at noon if I'm not hungry or go to sleep at 10 if I'm not tired? Because the clock told me to? I love my clutter and I love the spontaneity of my days and more than anything, I love that I have no definitive plans for what to do if and when I grow up. She calls this lack of motivation. I call it freedom.
Anyway, I was thinking about this yesterday after one of her many (manymanymany) phone calls.
"Did you go to that playgroup I told you about?"
"Um...no...."
"Why not?"
"I told you when you told me about it, we already tried that one. I had the wrong stroller and the other moms didn't like me."
"Are you sure it was your stroller? You didn't try to be funny, did you?"
At this point, I consider hitting my head on something pointy. "Really mom? Does it matter? Why would I want to hang out with people I can't be funny around? Doesn't that sound like a waste of time?"
Her pause makes me think she's considering this.
"Maybe you need to give other people a chance." Nevermind.
That conversation continues going nowhere, so we finally give up. "Uh... Yeah."
"Did you at least write that essay I told you about?"
She found this essay in the paper a couple weeks ago and cut it out for me because the top prize is $500 and who does want $500? I actually feel sort of bad about this, because she was really excited, but I've really got nothing as far as this one goes. It's supposed to be about why poetry is still relevant today. I have no idea. I guess it's relevant to me because I like poetry. It's not really relevant to my husband. I have no clue if or why it's relevant to anyone else. The fact that people actually read the crap I spew here has given me some confidence that perhaps my writing does have some merit to it, but I highly doubt I've written anything worthy of $500, plus I don't know, that's just not a topic of interest for me. My best writing happens when the subject intrigues me. If the clipping said write a poem, I could do it. Badly, probably placing last, but I could do it. An essay on why poetry is relevant? I wouldn't even know where to start if I wanted to.
"I tried..." I really did, if only because she was so excited about it. I spent a good hour thinking about it before coming to the conclusion that it was a dumb question.
It's the heaviest sigh I've ever heard. "I really wish you would apply yourself."
"What? Apply myself to what?" What is she even talking about?
"You could do so much more..." Oh, this.
"I do a lot, Mom," I'm trying not to get irritated.
My mom was also a stay at home mom, and I know there's no way she can dispute the busyness of a day with a three year old. We both know that's not what she's talking about, though.
"I mean for you. You could do so much more for you."
"I do a lot for me."
"Like what?"
"Well, there's my blog. People even read it and make comments. And last night I got some new video editing software to start making little music videos. And I bake things and I PhotoShop pictures to be even more uncomfortable than they were to begin with. I have several little projects I'm working on." I know this list will disappoint her because these things couldn't interest her less.
"Why don't you get off the computer and find a real life? You aren't even trying anymore."
What the hell? She completely missed the part where I said I bake things. I don't bake things on the computer... Now, I desperately want to make this conversation end before I make her cry. She cries way too easily. Unfortunately, I choose humor, which is the worst possible way to make that happen.
"Well next week I'm thinking of making a foray into writing softcore porn (don't worry, I'm not) if you think you could find me a contest for that..."
"That's not even funny."
"Oh, lighten up, Mom. You know I wouldn't already have plans for next week!"
All of a sudden she needs to walk the dog, so I know I've won. I must have really won because she hasn't called me today. It's a hollow victory, though--I know I shouldn't bait her. She means well. I know she wouldn't be happy with my life, so it's really hard for her to understand that I am and I know she just doesn't want to see me sad and alone and burnt out. I also know my mom and she's sitting at home, angrily stewing over the fact that I haven't called her. I'll regret that later and I know it, but for now I'll just enjoy the freedom. In a few days I'll get to hear about her disappointment that I haven't called.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
My Cookies Are Wet
I'm drunk. I don't mean tipsy or buzzed or even squirrely, I am drunk.
I'm not much of a drinker. Some of my upcoming stories may imply otherwise, but really, any drinking was a phase, and not even a particularly long one. Every now and then I'll have a drink or two, and that's usually enough to get me almost drunk. Today, I drank the whole six pack, plus, in a move that I'm deeply regretting, a couple of those tiny bottles of liqueur that I was given for Christmas. The huzz is home and the kid was asleep when I started, so I figured it would be cool. Kid ended up waking up, but that's okay too, because I always knew we had a TV for a reason.
She's watching Hello Kitty. I caught a clip where some cat said, ""We do it in the upright position! Not on our backs!" What's her beef with missionary? Also, the child and I just had a debate on threatening vs. non-threatening toys. She showed up with one of her creepy babies. It only has hair along the part lines, and huge bald spots if you take out her braids. She also sings To Grandmother's House We Go. The absolute last thing I need is to wake up half hungover, the creepy doll's whiny voice in my ear and bald spot nuzzled against my cheek. That's the stuff nightmares are made of.
"No. Choose a non-threatening toy." The sound is drippy and somewhat slurred. She returns with another, only slightly less creepy baby. This one has a heartbeat. "Honey, a non-threatening toy. Please!"
After two more attempts, and much insistence that her babies are not going to chew my face off in my sleep, she finally settled on a couple Flynn and Rapunzel and Yogi Bear. More toys than I like in my bed (that number is zero) but none of them talk or sing or blink their eyes, so it's an acceptable trade. Now she's all tucked in and I hope the movies keep her awake long enough to want to sleep in. We're trying to get her into her own bed, so I'm pretty sure letting her stay in ours is a bad move, but I don't so much care at the moment.
All in all it's been a awesome night. I'm still fuzzy, but the room has stopped spinning. I had egg rolls and fried rice and decent sex and spectacular company. I got some things out that I really needed to get out. I'm fairly certain I said some things that will fill me with shame and regret tomorrow (likely including this post) but now that they're out, perhaps I can begin to process them. Which would be fantastic. I really hold things in way too much. Also, I promised to tell the story of the first time I attempted to give a blowjob, but I'm about to pass out, and frankly, I couldn't give that story the justice it deserves right now anyway.
Right now, I think I need to do this more often. We'll see how I feel about that tomorrow. Probably not so much. Right now, I know I have the most amazingly fantastic awesome sauce covered friends in the world--and tomorrow that won't change. Oh, and better posting when I'm sober.
I'm not much of a drinker. Some of my upcoming stories may imply otherwise, but really, any drinking was a phase, and not even a particularly long one. Every now and then I'll have a drink or two, and that's usually enough to get me almost drunk. Today, I drank the whole six pack, plus, in a move that I'm deeply regretting, a couple of those tiny bottles of liqueur that I was given for Christmas. The huzz is home and the kid was asleep when I started, so I figured it would be cool. Kid ended up waking up, but that's okay too, because I always knew we had a TV for a reason.
She's watching Hello Kitty. I caught a clip where some cat said, ""We do it in the upright position! Not on our backs!" What's her beef with missionary? Also, the child and I just had a debate on threatening vs. non-threatening toys. She showed up with one of her creepy babies. It only has hair along the part lines, and huge bald spots if you take out her braids. She also sings To Grandmother's House We Go. The absolute last thing I need is to wake up half hungover, the creepy doll's whiny voice in my ear and bald spot nuzzled against my cheek. That's the stuff nightmares are made of.
"No. Choose a non-threatening toy." The sound is drippy and somewhat slurred. She returns with another, only slightly less creepy baby. This one has a heartbeat. "Honey, a non-threatening toy. Please!"
After two more attempts, and much insistence that her babies are not going to chew my face off in my sleep, she finally settled on a couple Flynn and Rapunzel and Yogi Bear. More toys than I like in my bed (that number is zero) but none of them talk or sing or blink their eyes, so it's an acceptable trade. Now she's all tucked in and I hope the movies keep her awake long enough to want to sleep in. We're trying to get her into her own bed, so I'm pretty sure letting her stay in ours is a bad move, but I don't so much care at the moment.
All in all it's been a awesome night. I'm still fuzzy, but the room has stopped spinning. I had egg rolls and fried rice and decent sex and spectacular company. I got some things out that I really needed to get out. I'm fairly certain I said some things that will fill me with shame and regret tomorrow (likely including this post) but now that they're out, perhaps I can begin to process them. Which would be fantastic. I really hold things in way too much. Also, I promised to tell the story of the first time I attempted to give a blowjob, but I'm about to pass out, and frankly, I couldn't give that story the justice it deserves right now anyway.
Right now, I think I need to do this more often. We'll see how I feel about that tomorrow. Probably not so much. Right now, I know I have the most amazingly fantastic awesome sauce covered friends in the world--and tomorrow that won't change. Oh, and better posting when I'm sober.
Monday, January 10, 2011
And They Lived Happily Ever After
I clicked publish, then closed the laptop. I sat on the edge of my bed, trying to convince myself everything was okay and I just needed to hold out until next weekend. Suddenly, the room's air turned acrid. I looked up to see Pie standing there, wet hair stuck to her face. Wet clothes, too. And that smell! What was that smell?
"What. Did. You. Do?" Each word pronounced so deliberately as I clawed desperately to hold onto whatever scrap of sanity I had left. I didn't really need to ask--it was clear what happened, and chasing her from the room confirmed it. There, in the middle of the hallway, was a huge puddle and a (now empty) gallon of white vinegar, the kind I use for cleaning, so that when the three year old gets into my cleaning supplies, it only sucks for me. I grabbed the container as I passed it, storming into the living room, all color drained from my face.
"Fifteen minutes! I asked you to watch her for fifteen minutes. You couldn't even do that."
He started talking, although looking back I have no idea what he said. I was concentrating on the increasing tightness in my chest. I forced myself to breathe. My vision blurred a bit and my face flushed red and hot. And wet? Why was my face wet?
"Bean, I'll take care of it. Why are you crying?"
I'm not a crier, so this new turn of things thoroughly freaked him out. The dam exploded and I was unable to stop. Weeks of frustration from too much togetherness tumbled out, with me helpless to stop it. Tears. Hot. Breathe. Think. Focus. STOP! I couldn't even answer him, I just stood there and cried and gasped for breath. He was absolutely horrified. I have no clue how long this lasted, but once I was able to speak again, it felt like a really long time had passed.
"I can't... get.. fifteen minutes... away.." I didn't care if it hurt his feelings, I only sobbed harder. "You.. don't get it. You hate being alone. If I don't get to be alone soon... it's going to.. kill me." I'd managed to pull myself together enough to speak coherently, even if I was still being overdramatic. I couldn't stop crying, which irritated the hell out of me, but more importantly, it scared my husband. It scared him into action!
"Okay," he said. "Okay, you just sit there."
As he ushered Pie out of the room, I could hear him whisper, "Mumma's okay, she's tired. Like you get tired. Just... just be real quiet and we'll go do something."
I felt a bit guilty at this, but then didn't he sort of get what was coming for not taking me seriously? Also, any guilt was overshadowed by the nagging annoyance of the tears that still would not stop. Moments later, he returned with a cup of coffee. It was old and stale from the microwave, and it burned my mouth, but it was the best cup of coffee I've had all year. He got the child in the bath, then I could hear him mopping up the vinegar in the hallway.
He popped back in to check on me twice, both of us relieved that I had managed to compose myself, and asked for my phone once, but otherwise left me alone. I could hear him in the bathroom--he called... someone, but I couldn't quite make it all out through Pie's excited splashing. I did catch the words "going to have" and "nervous breakdown" and "or something" and was about to fly into some sort of rage where I kicked him mercilessly and blamed him for every evil in the world, when he reappeared.
"Okay," he said. "I'm taking Pie outside. Your mom's going to get her before I leave for work. I don't know how to pack for her, you need to do that, but we'll stay out of your hair."
I stared back at him dumbly, all of a sudden feeling like an overgrown toddler right after an unnecessary tantrum. Except, I reminded myself, it obviously was necessary. Been trying to tell him this was coming for weeks. Whatever. I still felt like an asshole.
"I'm sorry," I mumbled. "I do lo--"
"No, I'm sorry," he cut me off. "I guess I was pretty shitty over vacation and I haven't really given you a break. Me and your mom can take care of Pie until Monday."
Monday!? What? I really didn't need that long. Perhaps I really had made too much of everything.
"You guys think I'm nuts." I was still pouting, no matter how much better I felt.
"No," he corrected. "I know you're nuts. I still love you, though."
Twenty minutes later, I finished packing her bag. I looked out the front room window and saw them. He was pushing her up and down the sidewalk in the oversized snow shovel and it was the most perfect thing I'd ever seen. For half a second, I considered joining them, but that would have just been lunacy. I ran for my phone to snap a picture, but by the time I got back they'd moved on to something else. For all the happiness of finally having some time to myself, I really picked a bad moment to miss.
"What. Did. You. Do?" Each word pronounced so deliberately as I clawed desperately to hold onto whatever scrap of sanity I had left. I didn't really need to ask--it was clear what happened, and chasing her from the room confirmed it. There, in the middle of the hallway, was a huge puddle and a (now empty) gallon of white vinegar, the kind I use for cleaning, so that when the three year old gets into my cleaning supplies, it only sucks for me. I grabbed the container as I passed it, storming into the living room, all color drained from my face.
"Fifteen minutes! I asked you to watch her for fifteen minutes. You couldn't even do that."
He started talking, although looking back I have no idea what he said. I was concentrating on the increasing tightness in my chest. I forced myself to breathe. My vision blurred a bit and my face flushed red and hot. And wet? Why was my face wet?
"Bean, I'll take care of it. Why are you crying?"
I'm not a crier, so this new turn of things thoroughly freaked him out. The dam exploded and I was unable to stop. Weeks of frustration from too much togetherness tumbled out, with me helpless to stop it. Tears. Hot. Breathe. Think. Focus. STOP! I couldn't even answer him, I just stood there and cried and gasped for breath. He was absolutely horrified. I have no clue how long this lasted, but once I was able to speak again, it felt like a really long time had passed.
"I can't... get.. fifteen minutes... away.." I didn't care if it hurt his feelings, I only sobbed harder. "You.. don't get it. You hate being alone. If I don't get to be alone soon... it's going to.. kill me." I'd managed to pull myself together enough to speak coherently, even if I was still being overdramatic. I couldn't stop crying, which irritated the hell out of me, but more importantly, it scared my husband. It scared him into action!
"Okay," he said. "Okay, you just sit there."
As he ushered Pie out of the room, I could hear him whisper, "Mumma's okay, she's tired. Like you get tired. Just... just be real quiet and we'll go do something."
I felt a bit guilty at this, but then didn't he sort of get what was coming for not taking me seriously? Also, any guilt was overshadowed by the nagging annoyance of the tears that still would not stop. Moments later, he returned with a cup of coffee. It was old and stale from the microwave, and it burned my mouth, but it was the best cup of coffee I've had all year. He got the child in the bath, then I could hear him mopping up the vinegar in the hallway.
He popped back in to check on me twice, both of us relieved that I had managed to compose myself, and asked for my phone once, but otherwise left me alone. I could hear him in the bathroom--he called... someone, but I couldn't quite make it all out through Pie's excited splashing. I did catch the words "going to have" and "nervous breakdown" and "or something" and was about to fly into some sort of rage where I kicked him mercilessly and blamed him for every evil in the world, when he reappeared.
"Okay," he said. "I'm taking Pie outside. Your mom's going to get her before I leave for work. I don't know how to pack for her, you need to do that, but we'll stay out of your hair."
I stared back at him dumbly, all of a sudden feeling like an overgrown toddler right after an unnecessary tantrum. Except, I reminded myself, it obviously was necessary. Been trying to tell him this was coming for weeks. Whatever. I still felt like an asshole.
"I'm sorry," I mumbled. "I do lo--"
"No, I'm sorry," he cut me off. "I guess I was pretty shitty over vacation and I haven't really given you a break. Me and your mom can take care of Pie until Monday."
Monday!? What? I really didn't need that long. Perhaps I really had made too much of everything.
"You guys think I'm nuts." I was still pouting, no matter how much better I felt.
"No," he corrected. "I know you're nuts. I still love you, though."
Twenty minutes later, I finished packing her bag. I looked out the front room window and saw them. He was pushing her up and down the sidewalk in the oversized snow shovel and it was the most perfect thing I'd ever seen. For half a second, I considered joining them, but that would have just been lunacy. I ran for my phone to snap a picture, but by the time I got back they'd moved on to something else. For all the happiness of finally having some time to myself, I really picked a bad moment to miss.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
I haven't killed my family, and I'm not drooling in the corner.
In a surprising turn (I scared the shit out of my husband and he, in turn scared the shit out of my mother) I got the whole entire day alone and I've gone into full on recluse mode. I have not interacted with anyone. I have no intention of interacting with anyone. In fact, I'd clean before I interact with anyone. (Hint: not doing that, either.) I do have a very fun little story coming for later, but I can do that when they're home again. Resolutions be damned, I've been waiting for this! Right now I'm going to hold onto every moment that I'm by myself, savor it, get drunk on it.
You never know when it will happen again.
You never know when it will happen again.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
I'm an unappreciative douche.
I've been grumpy this week. And bitchy and mean and impatient. I don't mean to be that way, it's just that I'm so itchy right now I would claw myself out of my skin for one day alone. Thing about me is that I need a lot of time to myself. I need it the way some people need alone time with their spouse or friends. I need it the way I need air or water. If I don't have enough time to myself, I don't process things and they keep bouncing around inside my skull until I'm half mad with them. Think I'm exaggerating? I'm not. I never write this much.
I really am itchy, too. I need some time alone so badly I can feel it and it makes me do stupid things like bite my nails and fingers and wrists. I've tried subtle hints. I've tried outright saying it. But since no one around me (my husband and parents) understands what I'm going through, they just think I'm being weird and melodramatic again. They love people and talking and being social. I love quiet and thinking, and this lack of that is shutting me down. My house is a disaster and it takes everything I have to so much as get in the shower. Maybe if I quit showering I'd stink so badly that everyone would leave. At this point, it's worth consideration.
In any case, between the husband's vacation and visiting family, I haven't had any significant time alone in my own home since before Christmas. He's back to work now, but by the time he goes in, I have maybe an hour or so before I need to go to bed. That or be exhausted and not really get what I need anyway. Last night he and the kid went to bed reasonably early and I thought I'd get a few good hours in, but nope--he woke up.
"Let's watch a movie!"
I wish I had a picture of my face. I thought about stabbing him, but I just went to bed, instead.
I can go out, but that's not really the same. Going out means I'm surrounded by other people. Sure, they're not talking to me, but they're there. The only people I want to be around are the ones who live in my computer. That's cool. Face to face? Not so much. Also, going out means I need to limit myself to socially acceptable activities. No talking to myself, no singing, no outbursts. No fun. No getting out everything I need to get out from the last month.
The final straw was that both my husband and my mother disappointed me this weekend. The husband was supposed to the kid to the movies yesterday. Cool. Including travel time, popcorn line, and previews, I thought I was looking at a good two hours. Maybe even two and a half. Then he decided he didn't want to go because she's already seen all the kids' movies that are showing. I pointed to the theater an hour away that was showing some My Little Pony extravaganza. "She hasn't seen that!" He definitely didn't take me up on that one. "Take her to see Tangled again," I suggested, "You know she'll sit through that." No luck. Instead he showered me with the worst words possible.
"Why don't I give you the money and you can take her?"
You. Asshole. Seriously? You really think that's what I'm saying? Guess so, 'cause he didn't take her. I ended up sitting at the supermarket for most of the day, alone, but not, and feeling very sorry for myself. At least she was really bad for him.
Then there's today. My mom was supposed to take her today, but now she's not. No real reason, she just doesn't feel up to it. Which in and of itself is fine--I know my mother (unlike my husband) owes me nothing in regards to watching my child, except that we've talked about it all week and she knew how excited I was. Guess it doesn't matter anyway, because my husband is awake and expecting me to cook and of course the good computer is all his.
Being so angry and frustrated over this makes me feel like the shittiest person alive. For one thing, it makes me distant. I desperately seek out ever minute, every second that I can be by myself. I avoid my family like they're lepers, ducking into the bathroom or kitchen or wherever I can. Douchy as he's been, my poor husband is really concerned about the state of my bowels. I can buy myself a good 15 minutes by pretending to poop. I've been a shitty mother and an even shittier wife, but this could have all been fixed by now if he'd just taken her to see a fucking movie.
The other thing is that I know there are so many people out there who miss their spouses or are lonely or would otherwise love to have my problem. And it makes me feel heartless and unappreciative. I really do love my family. I really do love having them around. But I really, really need some time to let everything inside of me out. Then I question if I really have a problem or if I'm just making something out of nothing. If I should just be happy to be surrounded by people who love me. The problem isn't them, it's me. Okay, fine, but the problem is there. If it wasn't, my ears wouldn't burn and sting every time I hear my name and my skin wouldn't crawl every time someone touches me. So yeah, selfish as it is, it is a problem. I wish I could be one of those people who loves being around others, but I'm 28 and it's never been that way. Instead, I'll just bitch here and hold out hope for next weekend. With any luck, I won't have exploded by then.
I really am itchy, too. I need some time alone so badly I can feel it and it makes me do stupid things like bite my nails and fingers and wrists. I've tried subtle hints. I've tried outright saying it. But since no one around me (my husband and parents) understands what I'm going through, they just think I'm being weird and melodramatic again. They love people and talking and being social. I love quiet and thinking, and this lack of that is shutting me down. My house is a disaster and it takes everything I have to so much as get in the shower. Maybe if I quit showering I'd stink so badly that everyone would leave. At this point, it's worth consideration.
In any case, between the husband's vacation and visiting family, I haven't had any significant time alone in my own home since before Christmas. He's back to work now, but by the time he goes in, I have maybe an hour or so before I need to go to bed. That or be exhausted and not really get what I need anyway. Last night he and the kid went to bed reasonably early and I thought I'd get a few good hours in, but nope--he woke up.
"Let's watch a movie!"
I wish I had a picture of my face. I thought about stabbing him, but I just went to bed, instead.
I can go out, but that's not really the same. Going out means I'm surrounded by other people. Sure, they're not talking to me, but they're there. The only people I want to be around are the ones who live in my computer. That's cool. Face to face? Not so much. Also, going out means I need to limit myself to socially acceptable activities. No talking to myself, no singing, no outbursts. No fun. No getting out everything I need to get out from the last month.
The final straw was that both my husband and my mother disappointed me this weekend. The husband was supposed to the kid to the movies yesterday. Cool. Including travel time, popcorn line, and previews, I thought I was looking at a good two hours. Maybe even two and a half. Then he decided he didn't want to go because she's already seen all the kids' movies that are showing. I pointed to the theater an hour away that was showing some My Little Pony extravaganza. "She hasn't seen that!" He definitely didn't take me up on that one. "Take her to see Tangled again," I suggested, "You know she'll sit through that." No luck. Instead he showered me with the worst words possible.
"Why don't I give you the money and you can take her?"
You. Asshole. Seriously? You really think that's what I'm saying? Guess so, 'cause he didn't take her. I ended up sitting at the supermarket for most of the day, alone, but not, and feeling very sorry for myself. At least she was really bad for him.
Then there's today. My mom was supposed to take her today, but now she's not. No real reason, she just doesn't feel up to it. Which in and of itself is fine--I know my mother (unlike my husband) owes me nothing in regards to watching my child, except that we've talked about it all week and she knew how excited I was. Guess it doesn't matter anyway, because my husband is awake and expecting me to cook and of course the good computer is all his.
Being so angry and frustrated over this makes me feel like the shittiest person alive. For one thing, it makes me distant. I desperately seek out ever minute, every second that I can be by myself. I avoid my family like they're lepers, ducking into the bathroom or kitchen or wherever I can. Douchy as he's been, my poor husband is really concerned about the state of my bowels. I can buy myself a good 15 minutes by pretending to poop. I've been a shitty mother and an even shittier wife, but this could have all been fixed by now if he'd just taken her to see a fucking movie.
The other thing is that I know there are so many people out there who miss their spouses or are lonely or would otherwise love to have my problem. And it makes me feel heartless and unappreciative. I really do love my family. I really do love having them around. But I really, really need some time to let everything inside of me out. Then I question if I really have a problem or if I'm just making something out of nothing. If I should just be happy to be surrounded by people who love me. The problem isn't them, it's me. Okay, fine, but the problem is there. If it wasn't, my ears wouldn't burn and sting every time I hear my name and my skin wouldn't crawl every time someone touches me. So yeah, selfish as it is, it is a problem. I wish I could be one of those people who loves being around others, but I'm 28 and it's never been that way. Instead, I'll just bitch here and hold out hope for next weekend. With any luck, I won't have exploded by then.
Friday, January 7, 2011
It just has to be said... (Possible Movie Spoilers!)
I have a secret: I think Avatar (the one with the blue people, not the cartoon) sucked. I mean, I didn't even like it a little. I know, I know, that's blasphemy. Perhaps it was because of all the marketing hype, perhaps it was the whole 3D thing. Perhaps it's because I walked into the theater expecting to be blown away. Whatever the case, I was really disappointed. And by disappointed, I mean I bitched for days about using my gift card to see that.
Yes, it was visually stunning, especially in 3D. There's no denying that. But that just makes me feel even more suckered. It's like they knew the images were the only thing the movie had going for it, but thought I would be too drawn in by them to notice anything else. Like the crappy plot. Or the boring, cliche characters.
Now wait, I know what you're thinking--but isn't that same as all the kids movies you watch? No. I go into kids movies expecting a certain formula. They're kids movies. Of course things are going to work out a certain way. This wasn't a movie I went to see with my three year old, it was one I splurged on evening prices to see on a date with my husband. I expected something more than pretty pictures. And to be honest, the last three kids movies I saw had more interesting little twists and better character development than that one. In fact, it's like they took a typical kids' movie storyline, added enough adult bits to make it PG-13, and left out any reason to actually care about the people involved in the ordeal. Sure, it could just be a matter of what expectations I go into each movie with, but again, in the last three movies I've seen--hell, let's go last 10--I can pick out something special, memorable, and unexpected. All Avatar had were the visuals, and that wasn't even unexpected. Or particularly special, with pretty much everything popping up in 3D now.
I happened to mention to a friend today that this movie just didn't blow my hair back. She looked at me like I'd somehow sprouted a second head right before her eyes.
"For real? You didn't like it? I thought everyone liked it..."
Well, not me. I feel angry and ripped off and I know I can't be the only one. And just 'cause I'm always one to ostracize myself as much as possible, I don't get the big deal about Toy Story 3, either. Maybe I'm just heartless, but I was no where near as emotionally involved in it as they were going for. That would be fine, except I've gotten way too emotionally involved in a couple of other kids movies, so I'm pretty sure it's TS3, not me. In any case, I felt ripped off there, too.
Now that I've probably alienated anyone who reads this turd, I suppose I'll go Google other people who thought Avatar pretty much sucked. Wishing all of you a fantastic evening.
Yes, it was visually stunning, especially in 3D. There's no denying that. But that just makes me feel even more suckered. It's like they knew the images were the only thing the movie had going for it, but thought I would be too drawn in by them to notice anything else. Like the crappy plot. Or the boring, cliche characters.
Now wait, I know what you're thinking--but isn't that same as all the kids movies you watch? No. I go into kids movies expecting a certain formula. They're kids movies. Of course things are going to work out a certain way. This wasn't a movie I went to see with my three year old, it was one I splurged on evening prices to see on a date with my husband. I expected something more than pretty pictures. And to be honest, the last three kids movies I saw had more interesting little twists and better character development than that one. In fact, it's like they took a typical kids' movie storyline, added enough adult bits to make it PG-13, and left out any reason to actually care about the people involved in the ordeal. Sure, it could just be a matter of what expectations I go into each movie with, but again, in the last three movies I've seen--hell, let's go last 10--I can pick out something special, memorable, and unexpected. All Avatar had were the visuals, and that wasn't even unexpected. Or particularly special, with pretty much everything popping up in 3D now.
I happened to mention to a friend today that this movie just didn't blow my hair back. She looked at me like I'd somehow sprouted a second head right before her eyes.
"For real? You didn't like it? I thought everyone liked it..."
Well, not me. I feel angry and ripped off and I know I can't be the only one. And just 'cause I'm always one to ostracize myself as much as possible, I don't get the big deal about Toy Story 3, either. Maybe I'm just heartless, but I was no where near as emotionally involved in it as they were going for. That would be fine, except I've gotten way too emotionally involved in a couple of other kids movies, so I'm pretty sure it's TS3, not me. In any case, I felt ripped off there, too.
Now that I've probably alienated anyone who reads this turd, I suppose I'll go Google other people who thought Avatar pretty much sucked. Wishing all of you a fantastic evening.
How Unfortunate
I arrived two hours early. I hadn't meant to arrive early at all, but something was going on inside me. Something with an uncomfortable vulnerability to it. I eschewed those feelings the best I could, but that sick suspense in my stomach continued to grow. I ordered another drink.
Martinis. I was on my third by the time he arrived. He was early by twenty minutes and it wasn't until then that I realized how desperate and pathetic my own two hours made me seem. I took another gulp of liquor, realizing exactly how drunk I was.
A line from a book--which one, I couldn't remember at the moment--flashed before me. The martians have landed. I liked the way it sounded in my mind, so I mumbled it aloud before another large swig.
"What?" he asked.
"Oh." It suddenly sounded much less clever. "Nothing. Just mumbling to myself."
He gave me a weird look and a small shrug and we returned to our drinks. My every sense registered the discomfort of the silence. My ears rang with it. My eyes shifted about in the thick fog of it. It felt like being touched by every nightmare I'd ever had. Even the too boozy smell and the taste, like my tongue on a battery. I wanted to say something, but I didn't know what. I waited for him to speak, but he didn't. I suddenly felt ill. Really ill.
I rocked in my seat, willing myself not to vomit. Don't throw up. Don't throw up. Don'tdon'tdon't THROW UP.
Despite doubling my liquor intake, my condition had improved by the time the rest of our party had arrived. I haphazardly grabbed his arm as I stumbled down from my stool, but all in all, I felt pretty good as we headed to our next destination.
I should have been sitting shotgun. I always sat shotgun, and I'm not sure why I didn't that day. Instead, I sat bitch. The music was loud and the company louder, and without warning, all the warm and fuzzy happiness was chased away by a sick and dizzy feeling. Nothing in the world was right. I covered my eyes with my hands, but it wouldn't stop the thoughts that I couldn't quite catch. It was the wrong part to cover anyway.
In the single worst moment of 21.5 years, six martinis errupted from my mouth. Part of me died that day. I don't know that it was ever reborn. I sort of hope it wasn't.
Prize if you know the book reference!
Martinis. I was on my third by the time he arrived. He was early by twenty minutes and it wasn't until then that I realized how desperate and pathetic my own two hours made me seem. I took another gulp of liquor, realizing exactly how drunk I was.
A line from a book--which one, I couldn't remember at the moment--flashed before me. The martians have landed. I liked the way it sounded in my mind, so I mumbled it aloud before another large swig.
"What?" he asked.
"Oh." It suddenly sounded much less clever. "Nothing. Just mumbling to myself."
He gave me a weird look and a small shrug and we returned to our drinks. My every sense registered the discomfort of the silence. My ears rang with it. My eyes shifted about in the thick fog of it. It felt like being touched by every nightmare I'd ever had. Even the too boozy smell and the taste, like my tongue on a battery. I wanted to say something, but I didn't know what. I waited for him to speak, but he didn't. I suddenly felt ill. Really ill.
I rocked in my seat, willing myself not to vomit. Don't throw up. Don't throw up. Don'tdon'tdon't THROW UP.
Despite doubling my liquor intake, my condition had improved by the time the rest of our party had arrived. I haphazardly grabbed his arm as I stumbled down from my stool, but all in all, I felt pretty good as we headed to our next destination.
I should have been sitting shotgun. I always sat shotgun, and I'm not sure why I didn't that day. Instead, I sat bitch. The music was loud and the company louder, and without warning, all the warm and fuzzy happiness was chased away by a sick and dizzy feeling. Nothing in the world was right. I covered my eyes with my hands, but it wouldn't stop the thoughts that I couldn't quite catch. It was the wrong part to cover anyway.
In the single worst moment of 21.5 years, six martinis errupted from my mouth. Part of me died that day. I don't know that it was ever reborn. I sort of hope it wasn't.
Prize if you know the book reference!
Thursday, January 6, 2011
I Can't Bullshit
My teen years were fairly uninteresting. I had a lovely home life, an okay school life, and a part time job. I had a boyfriend who liked to get high and chase me with chainsaws, but that was really the height of excitement for me. I couldn't figure out why my friend (yes, that's intentionally singular) had--in 16 years--every experience one could think of and a host of kick ass stories to go along with them. I didn't get it and to be honest, I was a little jealous. Took me a few more years to realize she didn't already know everything, she just liked to bullshit. A lot.
I don't know how to bullshit. If anything, one of the best descriptive words for me is "honest". Often preceded by the word "too". It's like that little sensor between my brain and my mouth malfunctions and whatever I'm thinking just sort of falls out. I think this is a good thing, but I'm fairly sure that's just me. Oh, and my husband, but that's just 'cause he's the same way.
Since I can't bullshit, and most of my life is pretty mundane, I have to come up with ways to make dull events sound interesting and full of fun. It helps that my life does involve some of the best dialogue I've ever heard, but it's still always in relation to pretty boring things. I'm okay with that, though. Somehow it always sounds better in my head.
I'm also the master of the inappropriate comment. I know I should hold things back and I really do want to be nice and supportive, but most of the time I don't even realize I'm saying (or sometimes typing) it before it's out. Meh, I suppose I'm good for lightening the mood.
Besides, who needs bullshit when you process things the way I do?
Lots of love for everyone and if I'm feeling sparky, I might have a really awkward and humiliating story for you all later.
I don't know how to bullshit. If anything, one of the best descriptive words for me is "honest". Often preceded by the word "too". It's like that little sensor between my brain and my mouth malfunctions and whatever I'm thinking just sort of falls out. I think this is a good thing, but I'm fairly sure that's just me. Oh, and my husband, but that's just 'cause he's the same way.
Since I can't bullshit, and most of my life is pretty mundane, I have to come up with ways to make dull events sound interesting and full of fun. It helps that my life does involve some of the best dialogue I've ever heard, but it's still always in relation to pretty boring things. I'm okay with that, though. Somehow it always sounds better in my head.
I'm also the master of the inappropriate comment. I know I should hold things back and I really do want to be nice and supportive, but most of the time I don't even realize I'm saying (or sometimes typing) it before it's out. Meh, I suppose I'm good for lightening the mood.
Besides, who needs bullshit when you process things the way I do?
Lots of love for everyone and if I'm feeling sparky, I might have a really awkward and humiliating story for you all later.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
A Good Day
Good things happened today. For one thing, I got an adequate amount of sleep. That alone works wonders for my outlook in life.
That wasn't the best thing, though. My new phone came. This is good because I scared my phone away like a month and a half ago and haven't seen it since. Seriously, one moment I was talking on it, the next it was gone. I have a feeling the minime hid it somewhere, but I've yet to discover where. So, now I have a new one and I can talk to people and avoid calls from my mom again. However, this still isn't the best part.
My husband finally disposed of the spider carcass that's been under a glass on my floor since around Halloween. I know how wrong that sounds, so I guess I'll try to explain it. A week of so before Halloween, I noticed a large and particularly menacing spider running across my livingroom floor. I didn't have anything flammable to counterattack it with, but I'm pretty resourceful and quickly came up with an alternative plan: I got my child to top it with a glass, so my husband could deal with it later. Except he kept forgetting to deal with it. Eventually, I sort of scooted the whole glass into a corner so I could just clean my floors around it. And there it stayed until today, when my husband finally decided to pay attention to me and deal with it. Okay, I guess that really didn't make it sound any better, but there's no sense in using the backspace key now. I wonder how long it stayed alive under there. I sort of feel bad about causing something such a horrific end, but I'm also pretty sure it was a scout trying to gather information for their plot to destroy me. Knowing that makes me feel completely justified. Anyway, the body removal was almost the best part of my day, but not quite.
The best thing? I found the world's biggest box of frozen blueberry waffles! There's 40 of them! That should last me the better part of the week! I had two for dinner (still frozen) and I'm thinking that in the morning I may toast a couple for my favorite sandwich. This involves two toasted blueberry waffles, a slice of provolone and three slices of extra crispy thick cut bacon. It's pretty much an orgasm for your mouth.
A few other notably awesome things happened today, too.
--I took the child to the grocery store childcare, but I did not shop. Instead I drank coffee and hogged a Hershey's with almonds bar all to myself. I spent a lot of time on a new idea I had, which may or may not grow legs and appear here in the future. Depends if I can get the appropriate software and how much I want to embarrass myself.
--The child asked her father why he's not as handsome as Flynn Rider. The husband proceeded to get all butt hurt and insecure about it. I'm torn between pointing out that it's a somewhat valid question and reassuring him that he is the more handsome. His anxiety over this is really amusing, so I suppose I'll just keep quiet altogether and let him sweat about it.
--I got every last stitch of laundry in the house done. That's not too big of a deal, but it's also put away! That never happens. Seriously, the only dirty clothes in my house are the ones on our bodies. That makes me so happy I could pee my pants. But then I'd have to wash them.
--I baked a pie. Apple. It's good and very aesthetically pleasing.
Given that it's only quarter to eight, I probably shouldn't jinx myself, but nothing bad has happened today. It's been a very needed good day. I have steaks thawing for morning dinner and I'll have extra time to myself tonight. Perhaps I'll even have time for a haiku later! On that note, I suppose I'll go catch up with my friends, play some video games, and prepare for tomorrow. Today can't happen twice in a row, and something tells me tomorrow will make up for it. That's just how my life works.
That wasn't the best thing, though. My new phone came. This is good because I scared my phone away like a month and a half ago and haven't seen it since. Seriously, one moment I was talking on it, the next it was gone. I have a feeling the minime hid it somewhere, but I've yet to discover where. So, now I have a new one and I can talk to people and avoid calls from my mom again. However, this still isn't the best part.
My husband finally disposed of the spider carcass that's been under a glass on my floor since around Halloween. I know how wrong that sounds, so I guess I'll try to explain it. A week of so before Halloween, I noticed a large and particularly menacing spider running across my livingroom floor. I didn't have anything flammable to counterattack it with, but I'm pretty resourceful and quickly came up with an alternative plan: I got my child to top it with a glass, so my husband could deal with it later. Except he kept forgetting to deal with it. Eventually, I sort of scooted the whole glass into a corner so I could just clean my floors around it. And there it stayed until today, when my husband finally decided to pay attention to me and deal with it. Okay, I guess that really didn't make it sound any better, but there's no sense in using the backspace key now. I wonder how long it stayed alive under there. I sort of feel bad about causing something such a horrific end, but I'm also pretty sure it was a scout trying to gather information for their plot to destroy me. Knowing that makes me feel completely justified. Anyway, the body removal was almost the best part of my day, but not quite.
The best thing? I found the world's biggest box of frozen blueberry waffles! There's 40 of them! That should last me the better part of the week! I had two for dinner (still frozen) and I'm thinking that in the morning I may toast a couple for my favorite sandwich. This involves two toasted blueberry waffles, a slice of provolone and three slices of extra crispy thick cut bacon. It's pretty much an orgasm for your mouth.
A few other notably awesome things happened today, too.
--I took the child to the grocery store childcare, but I did not shop. Instead I drank coffee and hogged a Hershey's with almonds bar all to myself. I spent a lot of time on a new idea I had, which may or may not grow legs and appear here in the future. Depends if I can get the appropriate software and how much I want to embarrass myself.
--The child asked her father why he's not as handsome as Flynn Rider. The husband proceeded to get all butt hurt and insecure about it. I'm torn between pointing out that it's a somewhat valid question and reassuring him that he is the more handsome. His anxiety over this is really amusing, so I suppose I'll just keep quiet altogether and let him sweat about it.
--I got every last stitch of laundry in the house done. That's not too big of a deal, but it's also put away! That never happens. Seriously, the only dirty clothes in my house are the ones on our bodies. That makes me so happy I could pee my pants. But then I'd have to wash them.
--I baked a pie. Apple. It's good and very aesthetically pleasing.
Given that it's only quarter to eight, I probably shouldn't jinx myself, but nothing bad has happened today. It's been a very needed good day. I have steaks thawing for morning dinner and I'll have extra time to myself tonight. Perhaps I'll even have time for a haiku later! On that note, I suppose I'll go catch up with my friends, play some video games, and prepare for tomorrow. Today can't happen twice in a row, and something tells me tomorrow will make up for it. That's just how my life works.
Our First Ten Minutes (My Perspective)
Wow. I slept like the dead last night, and now I'm ready to go. After the last two days, I guess I'm due for something fun, huh? Okay.
She blinked twice, looking from the plate of food before her, to the man across from her, then back to the food, trying mostly in vain to clear any hint of confusion from her face. His eyes were focused intently on her and it was making her increasingly uncomfortable. And now he was saying something.
She fiddled with her napkin. "I'm sorry, what?"
If he noticed her discomfort at this rather random turn of events, he didn't show it. "I tweaked the recipe a bit," he repeated. "I hope you like it."
Super! The girl forced her eyes not to roll, and glanced back up at the recipe tweaking stranger before her. He wasn't particularly attractive. He wasn't ugly or anything either, just not someone she'd have looked back at. The thing that really caught her eye was his bright orange hair. This interested her. Shooing those thoughts aside, she ran through a mental checklist again.
Work? No. School? Um...no. Church...? He seemed to know her, seemed to know her well enough to sit down uninvited and stare at her chest at least, but she could not figure out who he was. She teeters back and forth trying to decide if it's more rude to admit she has no idea who he is or to just go on pretending she knows. And again she catches herself paying no attention to what he's saying.
She's also unable to eat. Years of food issues have rendered it difficult to eat in front of others and impossible to eat in front of some stranger. If anyone was rude, it was him. Who just sits down with someone they don't even know when she's trying to eat? But, he seems to know you, she reminded herself, completely puzzled and starting to become irritated and--
Oh shit, he just asked her another question. She had no idea what it was and decided to just go ahead and ask him who the hell he is. But before she could, he realized something was wrong.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, just tired and--"
"Well, I really gotta get back there, I just wanted to see how you've been. Maybe I'll call you this week."
"Um, okay?" She is thoroughly puzzled as the fact that he has her phone number sinks in. She doesn't even answer her phone, much less give out the number, so how does he have it? As he headed back to work, she shook her head and made a mental note to avoid this restaurant until she could remember who this guy is and why he has her phone number. She finally lifted her fork to eat her now cold food, absolutely no idea that in less than a year she and this orange haired, nosy, recipe tweaking, semi-annoying master of confusion would share a home.
She blinked twice, looking from the plate of food before her, to the man across from her, then back to the food, trying mostly in vain to clear any hint of confusion from her face. His eyes were focused intently on her and it was making her increasingly uncomfortable. And now he was saying something.
She fiddled with her napkin. "I'm sorry, what?"
If he noticed her discomfort at this rather random turn of events, he didn't show it. "I tweaked the recipe a bit," he repeated. "I hope you like it."
Super! The girl forced her eyes not to roll, and glanced back up at the recipe tweaking stranger before her. He wasn't particularly attractive. He wasn't ugly or anything either, just not someone she'd have looked back at. The thing that really caught her eye was his bright orange hair. This interested her. Shooing those thoughts aside, she ran through a mental checklist again.
Work? No. School? Um...no. Church...? He seemed to know her, seemed to know her well enough to sit down uninvited and stare at her chest at least, but she could not figure out who he was. She teeters back and forth trying to decide if it's more rude to admit she has no idea who he is or to just go on pretending she knows. And again she catches herself paying no attention to what he's saying.
She's also unable to eat. Years of food issues have rendered it difficult to eat in front of others and impossible to eat in front of some stranger. If anyone was rude, it was him. Who just sits down with someone they don't even know when she's trying to eat? But, he seems to know you, she reminded herself, completely puzzled and starting to become irritated and--
Oh shit, he just asked her another question. She had no idea what it was and decided to just go ahead and ask him who the hell he is. But before she could, he realized something was wrong.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, just tired and--"
"Well, I really gotta get back there, I just wanted to see how you've been. Maybe I'll call you this week."
"Um, okay?" She is thoroughly puzzled as the fact that he has her phone number sinks in. She doesn't even answer her phone, much less give out the number, so how does he have it? As he headed back to work, she shook her head and made a mental note to avoid this restaurant until she could remember who this guy is and why he has her phone number. She finally lifted her fork to eat her now cold food, absolutely no idea that in less than a year she and this orange haired, nosy, recipe tweaking, semi-annoying master of confusion would share a home.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
I'm tired.
Alright. I'm dead exhausted and possibly sick, and at least the exhaustion is entirely my fault. My other New Years resolution is to get better at my husband's video game than he is, so that's what I did last night. Until almost 7AM. On the bright side, my daughter also made the decision to stay up all night, so at least I got to sleep in. Yeah, I know that's a horribly irresponsible thing to allow, but you know what? Who cares? It was fun. Except not, because it meant I got to sleep from 6:45 to 8, then from 10 to noon and that's just plain kicking my ass. But, I did promise fifteen minutes at least once a day, so lets see what I can come up with.
I used to work in a restaurant. Working for tips throws your whole sense of money off. It's no longer a matter of "can I afford it?" or more importantly, "is that worth it?" Instead, everything becomes a matter of how many customers you need to make it back. That's it. It was the easiest money I ever made. Sure, my in-field office job was more fun and came with benefits and advancement opportunities, but restaurant work? What else could I do that brought home $200 in nearly tax free cash from one six hour shift? Leaving an 18 hour a week job for less money from a 40 hour a week job was really tough, no matter how good of a decision it was. And really, I just ended up knocked up later that year, anyway.
The other thing about working in a restaurant is that it literally drives you to drink. I had four friends at work. Really, we all mostly got along--or at least I did, as I wasn't sleeping with anyone there--but there were four people I was really friends with. We'd work. Then we'd drink. Then we'd go to breakfast. Even if one of us didn't work, we still made it to that cheap little dive bar almost every night. After breakfast, I'd end up feeling around in my pocket, wondering why I only had $50. Didn't I leave work with $200? How many guests would I have to serve to make that back? This was truly the low point of my irresponsibility.
There's not really a whole lot to this. Don't get me wrong, there are tons of stories, and they'll all have their day, but today is definitely not it. I all can think right now is, "I don't know how I did that!" I went almost every day for a year and a half on the amount of sleep I had today. Give or take, of course, but still--I just can't figure out how I did it. Today is just about killing me. Hell, I got more sleep when I had a newborn. So here I sit in dumbstruck awe of the person I was at 22.
Yeah, this is kind of a cop out post, but I promise things should slow down now and I'll have plenty more time for fun stories and self deprecation. In fact, I have about four super embarrassing ideas in queue right now. Yay! Yay, and goodnight!
I used to work in a restaurant. Working for tips throws your whole sense of money off. It's no longer a matter of "can I afford it?" or more importantly, "is that worth it?" Instead, everything becomes a matter of how many customers you need to make it back. That's it. It was the easiest money I ever made. Sure, my in-field office job was more fun and came with benefits and advancement opportunities, but restaurant work? What else could I do that brought home $200 in nearly tax free cash from one six hour shift? Leaving an 18 hour a week job for less money from a 40 hour a week job was really tough, no matter how good of a decision it was. And really, I just ended up knocked up later that year, anyway.
The other thing about working in a restaurant is that it literally drives you to drink. I had four friends at work. Really, we all mostly got along--or at least I did, as I wasn't sleeping with anyone there--but there were four people I was really friends with. We'd work. Then we'd drink. Then we'd go to breakfast. Even if one of us didn't work, we still made it to that cheap little dive bar almost every night. After breakfast, I'd end up feeling around in my pocket, wondering why I only had $50. Didn't I leave work with $200? How many guests would I have to serve to make that back? This was truly the low point of my irresponsibility.
There's not really a whole lot to this. Don't get me wrong, there are tons of stories, and they'll all have their day, but today is definitely not it. I all can think right now is, "I don't know how I did that!" I went almost every day for a year and a half on the amount of sleep I had today. Give or take, of course, but still--I just can't figure out how I did it. Today is just about killing me. Hell, I got more sleep when I had a newborn. So here I sit in dumbstruck awe of the person I was at 22.
Yeah, this is kind of a cop out post, but I promise things should slow down now and I'll have plenty more time for fun stories and self deprecation. In fact, I have about four super embarrassing ideas in queue right now. Yay! Yay, and goodnight!
Monday, January 3, 2011
I'm a terrible housekeeper!
I have a problem.
Really, I have a lot of problems, but I also have a time limit at the moment, plus over analyzing freaks me out. One thing at a time. So, right now I have one problem.
It's always been there, but only recently, has it been given a name. When I was a kid, my room was always a disaster. I developed unhealthy bonds with inanimate objects, and those things, my lovely little treasure, my favorite friends, piled up around me. Every toy had it's own personality, even if I was the only one who could see it. Eating was a huge struggle, too. I'd look at my food and picture it crying out, "Don't eat me! Don't!" Of course, once I got to eating it, I always cleaned my plate--I just couldn't handle the thought of eating half of it, while the rest missed it's companions from the depths of the kitchen trashcan. Snack time at Pee Wee's Playhouse always made me especially uncomfortable.
My mom wrote me off as weird and lazy. My dad wrote me off as truly being his offspring. And lazy. To some extent, I am lazy. No point in denying it. But that wasn't what was going on. I really needed those things. Once in a while, my mom would threaten to clean my room. I pick up enough to pacify her. She'd be happy for a week, storm in, dump everything in the middle of the floor, then demand that I clean it. I wanted to, I really did, but I didn't know how. I'd putter around all day, picking through this and that, trying to make sense of it, only infuriating her more. Most of the time it ended with both of us in tears, while I watched her heap my beloved things into an oversized trashbag.
It spilled over into school, too. My homework was seldom done, and even when it was, I couldn't turn it in because it was mine and I wanted to keep it. Forever. In the 4th grade, my desk was dumped out and taped shut over my inability to keep it clean. That teacher was a bitch who thoroughly enjoyed bullying me, mind you, but I highly doubt she was the first one I frustrated so badly.
(SIDE BAR: This is the teacher that tries to talk to me in the locker room at the pool. If there's anybody I want to see naked less than her, I haven't met them. Having a childhood tormentor approach you like you're friends is bad. Having them laugh at the torture they put you through when you were only nine is worse. Having all this happen while they're stark naked is some special level of hell. If there's a more what the fuck moment, I haven't experienced it. This isn't really relevant, but it seemed necessary, just the same.)
So, where was I? Oh, okay. In my teens, I started to realize there was something wrong with me. My friends' rooms looked nothing like me. Neither did their lockers, or eventually, cars. Sure, some were messier than others, but not like mine, and not because every paper was a crucial memory or every tiny alien figure from the bubble machine was something special. The things piled up. When I met my first serious boyfriend, I cleaned, furiously stashing my prizes and making the room as normal looking as possible. It was still insanely cluttered, but the chaos was a little more organized. By organized, I mean packed into boxes and stashed as out of sight as I could make it. I kept it up for a bit, not wanting him to see how awful I really was. Then my parents started getting nervous and banned him from my room. That was actually pretty dumb on their parts--there really wasn't anything going on and having him there forced me to at least contain all my little collections. Things went back to normal.
A few years later, I met and moved in with the man I'm married to. Because of the circumstances, he had no idea what he was getting into until he was already madly in love with me. I moved out on a whim, taking only what was absolutely necessary and could fit into two trash bags. Since my parents didn't speak to me for months after I moved, I was unable to get the rest. I think I sorted through it two years later. In any case, we were pretty poor, so I really couldn't start much in the way of new collections. I was still sort of messy, but so was he, so this was largely unnoticed. I should also add that I am messy, not dirty. I wash my dishes and scrub my toilets, I just leave an endless trail of junk behind me. And I know it's junk, but it's my junk. My special junk.
I tried to change when we bought our house. I did better, but only marginally. I had to change when the child was born. It was a struggle--still is--but I have improved by at least 1000%.
Sometime last year, my mom called me.
"I know what's wrong with you!"
"Hey, Mom! Howyabeen? Fantastic! Me too. Yeah, I jus--"
"No, really. I know what's wrong with you. With all your clutter and stuff. I was watching this show yesterday and you're a hoarder!" She was really proud of herself. She kept babbling about this, but I don't remember what else she said. I was too busy letting this word--hoarder--sink in.
Later that evening, I googled it. She was right. All this time we just thought it was more of me being strange, but it really, truly wasn't just me. Other people do this too! I had a swelling sense of elation at the fact that I wasn't (at least in this case) just a complete failure at life. I may have even teared up.
Then my balloon my popped. I realized what this disorder meant for so many other people who have it. Oh no! Visions of divorce and abandonment and having my adult child hate me danced before my eyes. I looked around the room. It was tidy, impressively so, but without even trying, I could still spot at least ten things a normal person would throw away. I flew into a rage, going through the house filling four bags of garbage. In retrospect, I shouldn't have done that. I should have talked to my husband first. Instead I woke up in a sea of regret. I still regret the loss of some of those irreplaceable items, and to be honest, I don't know if it's because I'm me or because I really shouldn't have thrown them out. Or if there's really even a difference.
It needs to be said: I'm not a hoarder like you see on the show Hoarders. I think part of this is because I'm pretty sure they pick the worst of the worst. My mostly neat house just doesn't make for a good TV experience, regardless of the eyebrow raisingly interesting personification of my belongings. The other thing is that I'm only 28 and I do make as much effort as possible for my family. Yeah, there have been some young hoarders featured, but I've really only had eight years to collect, plus my husband would (rightfully) kick my ass. And I give myself some credit--I try really hard. So, it's nothing like that. Most of my struggle with this is internal.
In any case, I do my best. I wish I could hire a professional organizer. I can't even begin to wrap my mind around the meaning of that word. Organized. Sometimes I say it over and over again in my mind, thinking that if I say it just right I'll be able to reach out and grab it and make it mine. I love the thought of being organized. The thought of getting organized fills me with so much cold fear that I can feel it on my skin.
My house is, for the most part, tidy. I've found that if I keep up on it, cleaning one thing before we move on to the next, it's much easier and more manageable. If my first thought in a rational frame of mind is to throw something away, I do it. If I hold on and think about it, I never will. I don't throw anything out when I'm upset. I've found that doing that makes me agitated and neurotic even when it was the right decision. I have to stay on top of things. If I miss cleaning for a day or two, it turns into a week and by the time I get back to it, I drown. I get so completely overwhelmed that I can't even find a place to start, and instead I chase myself in circles, trying to make sense of it. If I clean the living room before I head into the kitchen, I'm okay. Every three months, I go through the house and force myself to throw away everything I don't use or don't need. I still have heaps more odds and ends than a normal person, but I throw away a lot of things. It also helps that my problem was finally given a name.
I am absolutely terrified over what this potentially means for my child. The way she acts with her toys, stuffed animals in particular, scares me. So, I do the only thing I know how to do. I make jokes about it. That's how I deal with things. I cleaned her room last week. It literally took me all week, partly because I'm me and partly because she has so much shit. I hauled off three bags of toys. She broke into one yesterday and cried for hours. Her room is still full of toys, so many that for every new one, she'll literally have to make space for it by getting rid of something else. I'll continue picking things off when she's not looking. I think my husband does that to me.
So yeah, there's one of my deep dark secrets, out there for all of the internet to know. I grew up feeling bad and dirty and wrong. Now I know that it just is what it is and I do the best I can with it. I think I've got things pretty well figured out, at least as far as the house is concerned. My mind, though... Wanna see a freakshow? My mind is what my house would look like if I never ever threw anything away. But that's mine and it's awesome. Besides, isn't this sort of like throwing things out? Just a thought.
Really, I have a lot of problems, but I also have a time limit at the moment, plus over analyzing freaks me out. One thing at a time. So, right now I have one problem.
It's always been there, but only recently, has it been given a name. When I was a kid, my room was always a disaster. I developed unhealthy bonds with inanimate objects, and those things, my lovely little treasure, my favorite friends, piled up around me. Every toy had it's own personality, even if I was the only one who could see it. Eating was a huge struggle, too. I'd look at my food and picture it crying out, "Don't eat me! Don't!" Of course, once I got to eating it, I always cleaned my plate--I just couldn't handle the thought of eating half of it, while the rest missed it's companions from the depths of the kitchen trashcan. Snack time at Pee Wee's Playhouse always made me especially uncomfortable.
My mom wrote me off as weird and lazy. My dad wrote me off as truly being his offspring. And lazy. To some extent, I am lazy. No point in denying it. But that wasn't what was going on. I really needed those things. Once in a while, my mom would threaten to clean my room. I pick up enough to pacify her. She'd be happy for a week, storm in, dump everything in the middle of the floor, then demand that I clean it. I wanted to, I really did, but I didn't know how. I'd putter around all day, picking through this and that, trying to make sense of it, only infuriating her more. Most of the time it ended with both of us in tears, while I watched her heap my beloved things into an oversized trashbag.
It spilled over into school, too. My homework was seldom done, and even when it was, I couldn't turn it in because it was mine and I wanted to keep it. Forever. In the 4th grade, my desk was dumped out and taped shut over my inability to keep it clean. That teacher was a bitch who thoroughly enjoyed bullying me, mind you, but I highly doubt she was the first one I frustrated so badly.
(SIDE BAR: This is the teacher that tries to talk to me in the locker room at the pool. If there's anybody I want to see naked less than her, I haven't met them. Having a childhood tormentor approach you like you're friends is bad. Having them laugh at the torture they put you through when you were only nine is worse. Having all this happen while they're stark naked is some special level of hell. If there's a more what the fuck moment, I haven't experienced it. This isn't really relevant, but it seemed necessary, just the same.)
So, where was I? Oh, okay. In my teens, I started to realize there was something wrong with me. My friends' rooms looked nothing like me. Neither did their lockers, or eventually, cars. Sure, some were messier than others, but not like mine, and not because every paper was a crucial memory or every tiny alien figure from the bubble machine was something special. The things piled up. When I met my first serious boyfriend, I cleaned, furiously stashing my prizes and making the room as normal looking as possible. It was still insanely cluttered, but the chaos was a little more organized. By organized, I mean packed into boxes and stashed as out of sight as I could make it. I kept it up for a bit, not wanting him to see how awful I really was. Then my parents started getting nervous and banned him from my room. That was actually pretty dumb on their parts--there really wasn't anything going on and having him there forced me to at least contain all my little collections. Things went back to normal.
A few years later, I met and moved in with the man I'm married to. Because of the circumstances, he had no idea what he was getting into until he was already madly in love with me. I moved out on a whim, taking only what was absolutely necessary and could fit into two trash bags. Since my parents didn't speak to me for months after I moved, I was unable to get the rest. I think I sorted through it two years later. In any case, we were pretty poor, so I really couldn't start much in the way of new collections. I was still sort of messy, but so was he, so this was largely unnoticed. I should also add that I am messy, not dirty. I wash my dishes and scrub my toilets, I just leave an endless trail of junk behind me. And I know it's junk, but it's my junk. My special junk.
I tried to change when we bought our house. I did better, but only marginally. I had to change when the child was born. It was a struggle--still is--but I have improved by at least 1000%.
Sometime last year, my mom called me.
"I know what's wrong with you!"
"Hey, Mom! Howyabeen? Fantastic! Me too. Yeah, I jus--"
"No, really. I know what's wrong with you. With all your clutter and stuff. I was watching this show yesterday and you're a hoarder!" She was really proud of herself. She kept babbling about this, but I don't remember what else she said. I was too busy letting this word--hoarder--sink in.
Later that evening, I googled it. She was right. All this time we just thought it was more of me being strange, but it really, truly wasn't just me. Other people do this too! I had a swelling sense of elation at the fact that I wasn't (at least in this case) just a complete failure at life. I may have even teared up.
Then my balloon my popped. I realized what this disorder meant for so many other people who have it. Oh no! Visions of divorce and abandonment and having my adult child hate me danced before my eyes. I looked around the room. It was tidy, impressively so, but without even trying, I could still spot at least ten things a normal person would throw away. I flew into a rage, going through the house filling four bags of garbage. In retrospect, I shouldn't have done that. I should have talked to my husband first. Instead I woke up in a sea of regret. I still regret the loss of some of those irreplaceable items, and to be honest, I don't know if it's because I'm me or because I really shouldn't have thrown them out. Or if there's really even a difference.
It needs to be said: I'm not a hoarder like you see on the show Hoarders. I think part of this is because I'm pretty sure they pick the worst of the worst. My mostly neat house just doesn't make for a good TV experience, regardless of the eyebrow raisingly interesting personification of my belongings. The other thing is that I'm only 28 and I do make as much effort as possible for my family. Yeah, there have been some young hoarders featured, but I've really only had eight years to collect, plus my husband would (rightfully) kick my ass. And I give myself some credit--I try really hard. So, it's nothing like that. Most of my struggle with this is internal.
In any case, I do my best. I wish I could hire a professional organizer. I can't even begin to wrap my mind around the meaning of that word. Organized. Sometimes I say it over and over again in my mind, thinking that if I say it just right I'll be able to reach out and grab it and make it mine. I love the thought of being organized. The thought of getting organized fills me with so much cold fear that I can feel it on my skin.
My house is, for the most part, tidy. I've found that if I keep up on it, cleaning one thing before we move on to the next, it's much easier and more manageable. If my first thought in a rational frame of mind is to throw something away, I do it. If I hold on and think about it, I never will. I don't throw anything out when I'm upset. I've found that doing that makes me agitated and neurotic even when it was the right decision. I have to stay on top of things. If I miss cleaning for a day or two, it turns into a week and by the time I get back to it, I drown. I get so completely overwhelmed that I can't even find a place to start, and instead I chase myself in circles, trying to make sense of it. If I clean the living room before I head into the kitchen, I'm okay. Every three months, I go through the house and force myself to throw away everything I don't use or don't need. I still have heaps more odds and ends than a normal person, but I throw away a lot of things. It also helps that my problem was finally given a name.
I am absolutely terrified over what this potentially means for my child. The way she acts with her toys, stuffed animals in particular, scares me. So, I do the only thing I know how to do. I make jokes about it. That's how I deal with things. I cleaned her room last week. It literally took me all week, partly because I'm me and partly because she has so much shit. I hauled off three bags of toys. She broke into one yesterday and cried for hours. Her room is still full of toys, so many that for every new one, she'll literally have to make space for it by getting rid of something else. I'll continue picking things off when she's not looking. I think my husband does that to me.
So yeah, there's one of my deep dark secrets, out there for all of the internet to know. I grew up feeling bad and dirty and wrong. Now I know that it just is what it is and I do the best I can with it. I think I've got things pretty well figured out, at least as far as the house is concerned. My mind, though... Wanna see a freakshow? My mind is what my house would look like if I never ever threw anything away. But that's mine and it's awesome. Besides, isn't this sort of like throwing things out? Just a thought.
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