Toy Story 3 was mediocre. At best.

Maybe, I missed something.  Maybe, I wasn't paying attention and walked into the wrong theater altogether.  Or perhaps, I'm just heartless, but I simply don't get all the Toy Story 3 love.  It wasn't the worst animated movie I've ever seen, but it certainly isn't anywhere near the best.  "Mediocre" would be the word I'd most likely use to describe it.  Or maybe "kind of boring".  Oh, and "overrated".  Ridiculously overrated.

I made the mistake of mentioning this at one of my parenting groups, and they were on me like a pack of rabid shrews in heat.

"How could you say that?"

"But it was so poignant!  You just didn't understand it."

"That stupid dragon movie was too violent for kids.  I can't believe you even let her watch it!"

And my favorite, "That's like spitting on my childhood!"
 
Ironically, the group happened to be the anti-plastic toy bitches.  While plastic toys themselves are clearly the work of Satan, movies about plastic toys are undying praise worthy, and woe to she who disagrees!  Spitting on her childhood?  That is truly all shades of awesome.  I mean, I know I have a tendency to get a little too involved in movies I took my kid to see, but that's a whole new level.  I'm already the black sheep of that group (who are we kidding, I'm the black sheep of almost all of our groups) so rather than debate this further, I just wandered over to the calorie free, all organic snack table.  Did you know some groups offer donuts?  Yeah, I just learned that.

Anyway, the movie didn't grab me.  I didn't feel any sort of attachment to the characters, which is the difference between me liking a movie and loving a movie.  The kid grew up.  So what?  Pie's only 3 1/2 and I already donate at least a bag of her shit every month.  I can't say I've ever gotten teary eyed over it.  Even Pie didn't really get into the movie.  It was hard to keep her still, and one could argue that it's her age, but it's not.  If she likes the movie, she's perfectly still, face painted with amazement right until the end credits.  The only movie that made her more fidgety was Yogi Bear.  Yeah.  I ended up leaving $8 poorer and a couple hours older with nothing else to show for it.  Not even an excited kidlet.

The movie seemed like it was designed with one goal:  Using nostalgia to make it seem better and more interesting than it was.  And it looks like it worked.  Not for me, but in general.  To be fair, I haven't seen Toy Story 1 since I was kid, and I've never seen Toy Story 2.  That could be why I didn't care about the characters and didn't have the investment in their fate that I was supposed to.  Still, an excellent movie should be an excellent movie on it's own, not relying on 15 years of back story support beams to hold it up.  Especially, if we're throwing the label of "best" at it.  Toy Story 3 was not that movie.

I guess it's possible that it is just me, especially since almost everyone else seems to have seen something entirely different.  I'm just going to say it, How to Train Your Dragon should have won.  That's a fantastic movie.  I didn't see the third movie, so I guess I can't really say, but I'm willing to bet it would fall in the middle.

And while I'm bitching, can I also add that I didn't even remember Toy Story 3 having a song?  I don't care enough to go back and watch it again, so I'll just assume it simply wasn't all that memorable.  I didn't leave Tangled (the first time) singing that song either, but I at least remembered there was one and that it was really cute.  I haven't heard the other two songs, so I'll just assume that should have won, too.

Okay, I'm glad to have gotten that all out.  Please let me know if I've spit on your childhood.  It makes me feel better to know I'm not the only one putting way too much thought into this.

The Walk of Doom

I'm in a funk today.  In an unusual, but nice, change, I know exactly why I'm not myself, but I can't find a way to put it into words without making myself sound like a crazy person.  No matter, I'm not writing about that, anyway.  Instead, we're going to try to snap me out of it.

When I was 22, I used to do this stupid thing where I'd be out somewhere with friends, and out of nowhere, I'd just be over it and not want to be there anymore.  So, I'd leave.  I didn't tell anyone, I'd just gather whatever things I happened to have, and walk home.  I don't mean I'd walk home a block or two, I mean I'd walk miles.

This would have been fine, great exercise in fact, except I was drunk whenever I did this, and it was always in the middle of the night.  Sometimes my location forced me to walk through the bad part of town.  Others, I ended up on a major highway.  Sometimes I didn't have a coat, sometimes I was dressed slutty, and once I even lost a pair of shoes because at some point I decided I simply could not wear them any longer and abandoned them altogether.  My friends would eventually notice my absence and go looking for me, but I guess I took really strange routes, because they were never able to find me.  I didn't have a phone, so no one could call.  One time, I even got lost and didn't get home until almost 7 AM.

I'm really not sure what the purpose of doing that was.  There were people who would have given me a safe ride home, and if not, I could have called George.  Probably, anyway.  He was going through some things, too, but I don't think those things involved wanting me to die walking home.  More than likely, he'd have been pissed off, but he would have come.  But, for whatever reason, whenever I got the wild idea that I just couldn't be there one second longer, I walked home.  I was a really self destructive 22 year old.

And now, I have no idea why I chose to write about this.  It didn't help my mood any.  I do, however, think I'll take a walk.  That sounds like just the thing I need.

Tonight Will be a Lucky Night!

Not for me, of course.  That was George's.  My fortune said:  The greatest ownership is embracement of emptiness.  Fantastic!  Thanks, fortune cookie!  At least you tasted good.  I do hope George enjoys his luck filled night.

We bought a new refrigerator.  There was nothing wrong with our old refrigerator, but the person in our attic needs a new one, so we decided we'd get the new one and move ours upstairs.  This thing is beastly.  If George ever snaps and decides to take Pie and I out, both bodies could easily fit without even removing the groceries first.  It also has a really neat digital display on the water dispenser that should keep him happy enough not to snap.  That's a plus.

I also ordered my new laptop.  It should be here next week.  Anyway, while we were Best Buy looking at refrigerators, I went over to check out their laptops.  I knew I wasn't going to buy anything, partly out of loyalty to Newegg (who has treated me very well over the years) and partly because it was almost certain I would not be getting the best buy.  I actually wanted to see if they had the one I was getting so I could get a feel for it before deciding for sure.  There weren't a lot of shoppers while we were out, so the sales guys (all four of them) swarmed me.  Mostly, they were just really nice and trying to be helpful, but one was determined to make a sale.

I don't exactly play fair.  Whenever I look at anything computer related, I neglect to mention that that's what I do.  Or did in my former life.  No, sometimes I still do a quick build or repair on the side.  Anyway, I know what I'm doing, and it's fun to leave the sales people in the dark about that and find out how honest they really are.  This guy was nice enough, but I did get a giggle over asking him questions he wasn't prepared to answer.  He didn't see that coming.  What can I say, I'm a jerk.  I made up for it by emailing the store about how friendly everyone was.  Also, the model he tried to sell me was two tiers below the one I bought and cost $100 more.  I did like the feel of it, though.  I think I did pretty good.

In other news, I think the blog is due for a redesign.  I went into it rather lazily.  I've tried to keep a blog before, and it always ended up with an entry here or there, usually months apart.  This was sort of a New Year's Resolution, but then, I've never kept those, either.  So, I'm actually pretty impressed with myself.  I shouldn't be.  I should be impressed with you lovely folks.  I'm still shocked that people read this, so thanks!  I had no idea I had so much to say and even less of an idea that someone else wanted to hear it.  You people really are awesome.

Anyway, when I started it, I just grabbed the first template that didn't give me a headache and slapped a generic title on it.  Since it looks like I'm sticking with it, I suppose I should start working on a template.  It'll happen, probably sometime in the next month.  I'm lazy and I have about eight different unfinished projects going on right now.  But yeah, it'll happen sooner or later.

Right now, though, I'm going to go embrace the emptiness that is my house.  Guess tonight's lucky, after all!

It All Went Downhill From There

I woke up feeling pretty good.  Maggots didn't explode out of my head during the night, the bump seems to have gotten smaller, and our tax refund should be deposited tomorrow.  Today was going to be great!

The first half of it actually turned out to be pretty mediocre.  Pie and I had a snowball fight in our pajamas and slippers, which was sort of fun, but then I had to yell at her for throwing icicles at the car.  Her Barbies have seriously been going through some things, which is always good for a laugh.  Especially, when I'm not in the room and I can hear her muttering words she's not allowed to use under her breath.  I keep trying to take a video of her and her dolls, but she always catches me and stops.  There was one particularly bright spot in the day, but otherwise, nothing outstanding.

Then, things began to unravel.  I baked a cake.  It wasn't for me, it was something I was being paid to do.  I left it cooling, while I made the icing.  I went into the living room for less than five minutes, and came back to find Pie standing on her stool, face stuffed full and little chocolate crumbs all down her shirt.  Before I could yell at her, she puffed her face up as big as she could, smacked her cheeks and sent partially chewed cake raining down in my kitchen.  I've never been so pissed off at her in my life.  That stunt earned her a spanking and both of us a nap.

When we woke up from the nap, I needed to run to the store because I didn't have enough cake flour to start over.  The first store I went to was out of cake flour, so I had two choices.  Deal with Walmart (which I wasn't in the mood to do) or pay twice as much as I should at the expensive supermarket.  I paid twice as much.  The time to myself improved my mood, and I thought I could get back to having a decent day.  Wrong.

My husband chose to be an extraordinary douche over a fucking cheeseburger.  He took one bite, looked at it, and threw it on the plate, exclaiming, "This is undercooked!  I can't eat."

I offered him a whole host of suggestions--trade me, I'll put it back on the grill, I'll make you something different, I'll go get you a cheeseburger from Wendy's--but none of them were good enough.  Instead, he decided the only way to handle this outrage was to stomp around, pouting and muttering to himself.  I tried to apologize (genuinely) but that was no good either.

"You know I can't eat them like that!"  (I feel the need to point out that the burger in question was not scooting across his plate or something, it was medium well, if that.)  Then he returned to his pity party, mumbling something about how his whole day was ruined.

I gave up.  "You're right.  I did it on purpose.  I woke up this morning and thought to myself, 'Self, you know would make today absolutely full of win?  Ruining it for George!  That would be spectacular!  Now, how can I make that happen?  I've got it!  I'll undercook his cheeseburger!  That'll get 'im for sure.'  Then, I laughed to myself while I imagined how awful it would be for you."

That was not the right thing to say.  Neither of our moods improved, and when he left for work, he made it seem like kissing me goodbye was some special brand of torture, right up there with having botfly lay eggs in your head of something.  I could call him to tell him I love him.  I should call him to tell him that I love him.  But I'm not going to.  He was in a mood and he took it out on me, and that's not cool.

After he left, the plan was to get Pie in the tub, put her to bed, then relax for an hour before starting a new cake.  That was delayed because, while tearing around the house like some sort of naked crack demon, she knocked a lamp down and it fell on her foot.  She's fine, but my lamp is broken. 

Right as I finally started the bath, my phone rang.  I didn't know the number, so I let it go to voicemail.  I don't know why I checked the voicemail.  I usually wait until I get a text message informing me I can't receive any new voicemails until I delete some old ones, but for some reason, I didn't.  It was my sister-in-law.  And she sounded like she'd been crying.  Fan-fucking-tastic!  I loathe calling people and we all know how I feel about my sister-in-law, but I know she's going through a really hard time, and I'm trying to be a more compassionate human being.  I forced myself to call her back.

The first thing she wanted to know is if we would buy her a carton of cigarettes because she's out but if she doesn't pay her gas bill, her heat will be shut off.  Her mom always bought her cigarettes for her.  I guess my sister-in-law is going to have to quit smoking.  Or be cold.  That's a little more compassionate than I was striving for.

After asking for smoke money, she spent an hour telling me about how much she raked in from the memorial service.  I didn't know you're supposed to get money from memorial services, but she said it was to help defray the cost.  The really great part of that is that WE paid for it.  But, that's the level of compassion I'm shooting for, so I neglected to point it out.

Then, she started crying.  There's one thing that makes me more uncomfortable than phones, and that's crying people.  I mean, she's perfectly justified in crying, I'm sure I would be too, but I just don't know how to react to other people crying.  I never know what to say, so just keep repeating stupid things and making the whole encounter even more awkward.  This was no exception.  I really do feel bad for her, but I spent the whole time wishing she'd call one of her friends or something.  Finally one of her kids fell down the stairs and she had to go.

And that's where we're at now.  Pie's angry because she didn't get her bath, but I sort of look at that like I'd have had more time if I didn't have to start the cake over.  My head hurts and I'm just ready for today to be done.  I guess the upside is that at this very moment, in my kitchen, there's a whole chocolate cake, minus only a child-sized fistful from the middle, with my name on it!

Fantastic News! I (Probably) Do Not Have a Botfly Larva in My Head!

It's been a quiet evening, with Pie in bed (hers!) at a reasonable hour for a change, so I thought I'd relax and see what the internets have to offer tonight.  The first thing I saw was this:

 

Yay! Friends who understand the joys of parasites FTW!

That was a truly horrific thought.  How had I completely overlooked that possibility?  I mean, was there something tunneling through my head at that very moment!?  I woke George up.  Again.

"Bean!  Wake up!"

"What?"  He was far more irritable this time than last, probably because it's almost time for him to go to work, and without even hearing what I had to say, he knew it was something utterly nonsensical.

"I need you to check my head for parasites."

"Like...  lice?"  That was actually a reasonable question.  Every time I get my hair cut, I go through a paranoid phase where I'm convinced I picked up lice.

"No.  Not like that.  Like botfly larvae."

"You don't have a botfly in your head."

"I could.  Do you want a giant worm coming out of my scalp while we're sleeping?  It could happen, you know."  It took me a few minutes of arguing, but he finally agreed to check my head.  That was really awesome of him, because I know he thought I was just being ridiculous.  I'll have to make sure he's paid back for this.

He thoroughly checked the whole bump for an opening, but couldn't find one, nor could he see or feel anything moving.  Just to be safe, we went outside and he held a lit cigarette next to my head for a while.  Nothing came out, so I'm pretty sure I'm safe.  I'm still going to cover the whole thing in Vaseline before I go to bed tonight.

As happy as I am not to have fly larvae in my head, I am disappointed about not getting to go on Discovery Science.  I would have said hi to both of you.  Since I've lost that opportunity, I figured I should at least write another blog entry in your honor.

What Happened to My Head?

I woke up this morning with a horrible, throbbing pain on the left side of my head.  Not like a headache, but like I'd been struck with something.  Really hard.  What the hell?  When it didn't go away, I reached up to investigate and found something disturbing--a huge bump!  The circumference is about that of a standard salad dressing lid and it's raised about a centimeter off of my scalp.  The bump itself isn't really out of the ordinary, but the fact that I have no idea what I did or when I did it really freaked me out.  I woke George up.

"Bean!  Wake up!"  He rolled away from me and snuggled deeper under the comforter.  "Bean, seriously.  I need you to feel something."

"Not right now, I'm still sleeping," he half mumbled.

"No, there's something wrong with my head."  Somewhere between irritated and amused ("Don't even say it!") he finally sat up.  I took his hand and pushed it to the bump.

"What the hell did you do?"

"I don't know.  I just woke up and it was like that."

He couldn't see much through all of my hair, which is disappointing because I really wanted to take a picture.  I have a weird thing about thinking others are as fascinated by my wounds as I am, especially ones that can't be explained.  If I'm going to hurt myself, I should at least be able to share that with the internet.

I eyed George suspiciously.  "Did you hit me with something while I was sleeping?"

He just rolled his eyes and went back to bed.  I still have no idea how this happened.  I considered the possibility that it happened last week, when I thought I could drink like a college student, but surely I'd have noticed it before now, so I don't think that's the case.  Or maybe I hit my head hard enough to not remember hitting it, but then, that would have merited a trip to the emergency room, at least, and I like to think I'm not that negligent about my health.  I can only think of two other possibilities:

1.  George did, in fact, hit me with something while I was asleep.  There's no motive (other than the fact that I think it would be really funny to hit me with something while I'm sleeping) and I can't think of a single way that would benefit him, but I can't rule it out completely.

2.  The stylist did something under the guise of giving me an outstanding haircut and I was too distracted to notice.

Actually, now that I think about it, there's a third prospect, and it's the most likely.  Pie did it.  I don't know whether it was on on purpose of accidental, but I'd be willing to bet it was Pie.  What I can't figure out is how I didn't wake up.

I'm a Foot Shorter!

I got my hair cut today.  I have to straighten my hair before getting it cut, because if I don't, I always end up with a stylist who thinks they know my hair better than I do and wants to do all kinds of weird shit with it.  I walk out looking like something out of a bad 80's music video or with something resembling a mullet that takes months to grow out.  I guess I could find a regular stylist, but that would require making an appointment.  Making appointments is an activity I expect to experience in hell.  Also, I'm too cheap.  Straightening it and having them cut it dry seems to work without any of that other nonsense.

Once it was straight, I was shocked at how long it had gotten.  I tried to figure out the last time I'd had it cut, and I think it was something like two years ago.  I usually just put some overpriced oily substance in it and let it do its thing, so this stuff tends to slip my mind.  It springs up to half it's original length and we're cool.  Except once it was straight, it just looked gross.

So, I went down to the Great Clips and had them take off...  wait for it...  a foot of hair.  Yep, a whole foot!  I wasn't going to put real pictures (besides my creepy eye) here, but I'm feeling reasonably pretty, and I'm excited about my haircut, so what the hell.

It's me!!

Okay, using that one really makes no sense, since you can't even see my hair, but it's George's favorite, and he told me to post it.  So, there it is.  And one more, just for the hair!

  I have no idea what's up with the weird lighting here.

I have a lot of hair.  Keep in mind that this is after removing a foot of it.  There's still another whole foot and half from the roots to the tips of the longest layer.  Scary, huh?  (On another note, I'm not sure why it looks red in that picture.  Must be the funny lighting.)  That got me thinking.  If I feel this great after losing one foot of hair, how great would it feel to lose 70 feet of it!?  I tried to talk to George about this, but he just asked me if the lead paint dust was getting to be too much.  He's also disappointed that we're one foot farther from me being able to tie him up with my hair.  I've yet to burst the bubble that that's never going to happen anyway, if only because I don't want that much hair.

I'm actually a little embarrassed to admit I've spent way too much time thinking about this in general, but I've always wondered if (hope I'm not ruining this for anyone) Rapunzel had any less than positive feelings about having all her hair cut off.  After today, I've decided that no, she didn't.  In fact, that probably made her love Flynn even more.  I know I wanted to kiss the woman who cut my hair off, and I'd never even seen her before today.

That happy look in her eyes?  It's not because he's alive, it's because she realized she doesn't have a headache anymore.  She thought that was just part of life.  No wonder she got interested in the sex shortly after.

Or maybe the magic flower prevented headaches.  It apparently granted her the power to walk upright despite all that extra weight.  Also, hair, on average, grows half an inch a month.  The magic flower must have made it grow faster, otherwise she'd have been in midlife crisis territory by the time it got that long.  And that's not even getting into how it stayed so healthy.  I mean, half of mine was disgusting after only two years.  And clean!  Look at all the stuff they walked through!  Oh, and no way would normal hair dry that quickly.  Mine doesn't dry completely between showers and I only have a foot and a half.

Okay, I guess I should quit while I'm ahead.  Or, perhaps, only slightly behind.  I think I'll go brush my hair.  Tomorrow's goal?  Get lead levels checked.

We Still Haven't Mastered the "Walk Away" Part

I had a whole post typed out, but it was stupid, so I deleted it.  I'm back, I'm exhausted, I had a fantastic time.  My husband is awesome.  We paid for the trip and came home $75 ahead.  Got a flat tire on the way home and had to make most of the drive on a donut.  In a blizzard.  That sucked, but otherwise, everything was perfect.  Hope all of you had as spectacular of a weekend as I did!

I Really Should Have Bought a Better Gift...

I spent most of the day between a Nyquil coma and a haze of particularly disturbing dreams, but I'm now awake, and feeling (mostly) better.  That's fantastic news because my ridiculously amazing husband planned a surprise trip for our anniversary!  In two hours, I'll be throwing money we don't have at a blackjack dealer, and it's going to be fantastic!  I'll drink scotch.  And smoke Marlboros with my long, skinny cigarette holder that George absolutely hates, but bought me anyway, just because he's the best ever.  He booked a massage for me.  We can even have sex in the room we're going to sleep in, rather than sneaking off to the guest room because, yet again, the child fell asleep on the floor.  Spectacular!  And with a little luck, the trip will pay for itself.  Probably not, but I can still hope.

I'm just excited for the surprise.  I was just complaining the other day that no one has ever thrown me a surprise party.  Every year, right after my birthday, I tell both George and my mom that the following year, I'd like a surprise party.  And I wait.  And my anticipation grows as the months pass.  And in the weeks before, I know this is the year, this year, I will get my surprise party!  But I never do, and it makes me all sad and bitter, when really, at this point in my life, I should just be happy I still look forward to my birthdays.  Anyway, I guess this isn't the same as a surprise party, but it's still really fantastic!

Not only that, but this means another year has gone by without my husband deciding he can't stand me anymore.  Not that I was expecting him to or anything--I am an excellent wife.

I'm a bit concerned about how Pie will handle this.  Not stay home worried or anything, just worried about the level of clingy she'll exhibit when we get home.  Sleepovers are relatively new for her, starting a couple months after her third birthday.  They're always fine, but they've always been upon her request--this time, she's being dropped off without her input.  Also, this will be the first time we'll be gone for two nights, rather than just one.  She adores my parents and will be fine, I just keep having flashbacks to the two days after her first sleepover.  That was a big mess of refusal to let me go anywhere, even to the bathroom, accompanied by shrieks of, "YOU LEAV-ED ME!" any time I wasn't in her direct field of vision.  They're going to the movies tonight though, so that should help.

Man, I was really hoping to catch up on comments and everything too, but I'm getting the we-needed-to-leave-20-minutes-ago look, so I guess it's time.  I still don't have a laptop (although, I think I found the one I'm going to order) so, I just won't be around for a few days.  Under any other circumstances, that would really suck, but I can't even be unhappy about that right now!  So yeah, happy anniversary to me and awesome sauce husband, and happy rest of the weekend to all of you!  Wish us luck!

I Hate Being Sick

Who can drink like a rockstar, completely avoid a hangover, but end up at the complete mercy of the flu two days later?  Me, apparently.  I really wanted to post something about how much I hate being sick, but now that I've started, I realize that even typing is painful.  And, it's really too cold to be awake.  I'm going back to bed.

I Didn't Die in My Sleep!

The penguin didn't get me, either.  Just thought you all should know.  I'm also really impressed with myself!  I didn't throw up, I'm not hungover, I did a fairly decent job of discerning good ideas from bad ones (well, with the exception of not stopping at five or six), I remained fully clothed the entire time I was outside, I don't feel the need to go back and delete my blog post, and I got up at 7AM to make blueberry muffins for my husband.  My text logs are relatively unintelligible, but I blame the tiny buttons because my typing here was fine.  Yes, I am impressed with myself.

Thank you, Great Lakes Brewery and Facebook for a much needed awesome time!  I am ready to face the day!

I'm gonna regret this in the morning!

I don't really drink much these days.  This is why.

George doesn't like to have booze in the house with the kid around, so, with the exception of my yearly bottle of Christmas scotch, if I bring it home, it's generally understood that I'm drinking it that night.  For some unknown reason, I had my doubts that a six pack would be enough, so I bought two.  And I've taken down eleven of them.  And I'm still typing!  And I'm looking at that last one like it's going to kill me.  It probably will.  Maybe I'll make a beer cake!  I already made brownies.  And banana bread.  And most of the house is outrageously clean.  I even wrote some really bad poetry and an even worse scene in my screenplay.  Oh, and just for shits and giggles, I slapped myself in the face.  It doesn't hurt!  Holy shit, I've been productive tonight.

I also tripped over a cord and fell really hard.  This is like, the fourth or fifth time I've fallen this week.  In my defense, the other three or four times were on the icy porch steps.  I was hoping I'd at least get a good ass bruise I could post here, but no such luck.  That's probably to my benefit, though.  George was far from thrilled that time I posted the picture of the spider bite on my boob on Facebook.  He's got this thing about not wanting me to post pictures of questionable body parts.  I bet George is planning to run for mayor or something one day!

Anyway, the whole reason I started this post was because I wanted to post a picture of my creepy looking humidifier.  It's creepy as fuck under normal circumstances, but even more so when I'm shitfaced drunk and alone.  I can't find my camera, but I did find a picture of it online.

Creepy!

I'm going to have to hide that in the closet before I go to bed.  I mean, it's cute, but I don't think I can be alone with it.

Hey, I don't think I said anything too bad!  Me, FTW!

I'm Going to get Drunk

And start some shit on the internet!  Okay, I probably won't do anything that exciting, but I am going to get drunk.  Realistically, I should probably avoid the internet, because it's more than likely I'll post something regrettable somewhere.  I should probably avoid my phone, too.  I don't really need to worry about any drunk dialing, but I do enjoy sending mostly incoherent texts.  I'm also planning to bake some brownies (while drunk) and mail half of them to akpeach. 

Other than that, only one interesting thing happened today.  I had to go to Walmart again today.  The husband broke another video game controller (imagine that) so I was nice and went to get him a new one.  While I was there, I encountered the coolest thing I have ever seen.  Two people were sitting in electronics, watching the movie.  I don't even think they were together.  I feel like such a trendsetter!  Or maybe, I just live in a really awful town.  Either way, made me smile.

This One's For the People Behind Us

I meant to post right after I got home today, but I wound up having to sand and cook and take a nap.  I hope I remember things correctly.

The first thing I woke up to today, was Pie telling me my hair was ugly.  What a nice start!  That's okay, though--I had a movie date today with one of the most fantastic people I'm lucky enough to know.  Friend (no, that's not for anonymity, that's really what we call each other) and I went to see Gnomeo and Juliet.  I thought it was really fun.  That might be partly because of my interest in tacky lawn ornaments, particularly gnomes.  If my husband wasn't such a funsucker, my yard would be littered with that stuff!  We have this discussion once a month or so.

Mr. Funsucker:  (Heavy sigh and/or dramatic eyeroll) Bean, we already have the ugliest yard on the block.  You're not adding a dozen plastic flamingos.

Me:  Here comes the funcuum.  (At the point, Pie will sometimes join in, which is great!  Still doesn't help my case, but it's good to know she's on my side.)

Speaking of, I saw this at Lowes the other day:

 I will win this one!

I need to have it.  Even if George won't let me put it in the yard.  I could put it in the living room or something, and it would just be like a big explosion of happy every time I look at it.

Since I'm already off topic, I've also decided to try to get a one day a week job at the movie theater.  My sole purpose in doing this is to get first dibs on the promotional materials, which would make excellent decorations for my (coming soon) home theater.  Years ago, I had a friend who worked at a movie theater, and her big gripe about it was only getting one day a week.  That's perfect!

Anyway, I really enjoyed the movie.  I'm glad I went with Friend.  We laughed at all the same things, which would make sense, except no one else laughed at the parts we found amusing.  I don't know if we were doing it wrong, or they were.  I'm going with them, because Friend and I are just that great.  Or, at least Friend is.  Pie seemed to like it when we were there, but when we got home she bitched to George that we didn't see Tangled again.  She's also holding a grudge because I wouldn't let her get the popcorn refill after the movie.  I was going to, but she set the bucket opening side down on the bathroom floor.  I'm not one to worry too much about most things, but that's disgusting.

After the movie, we went to Wendy's.  We really didn't need to go to Wendy's, considering the three of us had just demolished a whole bucket of popcorn, but Pie said she was hungry, coffee sounded good, and Friend and I had plenty of things to discuss.

Whenever Friend and I go out, I end up feeling sorry for the people behind us.  Our conversations are probably the stuff other people's nightmares are made of.  Actually, our conversations, for the most part, probably make no sense to anyone else, but I still look around and hush my voice before I say certain things.  I'm incredibly paranoid, sometimes.

At one point, Pie was relentlessly singing the Spooky Loo song from her Wee Sing for Halloween CD and otherwise be annoying.  Friend was telling me about the delightful paint she bought.  The color was called "Cracker Bits".  I asked the obvious question.

"Wait...?  Is it like the color of saltines or, like, Cheez-Its?"  I really hope to one day meet someone who painted their room the color of Cheez-Its.  Maybe I'll paint Pie's room that color.  It'll be a punishment if she wakes me up to tell me my hair is ugly again.  Friend's paint is the color of Ritz crackers.  How disappointing!

Most of our other discussions would make very little to no sense here, and to be honest, I don't really remember how they went, but toward the end, Pie was getting tired.  Tired Pie is a bad thing--whiny, obnoxious, and full of things only she finds funny.  (Wonder where she gets that from...)  She kept asking me for a drink of my coffee.  Pie needed coffee just about as much as I need chlamydia, so I did the thing that made the most sense.  I lied!

"It's not coffee."

"What is it?"

I put absolutely no thought into my response.  "Blood."

That shut her up a bit, while Friend and I continued our chat about her crazy roommate who's going to turn into Jesus in two years and probably poisoned all the beverages in their refrigerator.  I hope Friend gets a mini fridge and a padlock. 

But nothing keeps Pie--especially tired Pie--quiet for too long.  Five minutes later, she asked as loud as she possibly could, "Can I have a drink of your blood?"

Friend and I lost it.  Over the years, I've learned not to wear eye makeup when I go out with Friend, because tears are an inevitable part of the package.  There they were, streaming down my face, as the old people behind us stared in abject terror.  Clearly, it was time to go.  As we left, Friend informed me she expected this to make the blog.

Old People behind us, if you ever find and read this, apologies to you!  I hope we didn't ruin your Wendy's experience (although, in our defense, the coffee was old, and Pie's food was lukewarm, so I don't know how positive it could have been to begin with) and I swear that no one in my family drinks blood.

In other exciting news, I got home to find that George had finished almost a whole window and replaced both of the dead electrical outlets in my living room.  That's great, because I'm really going to need somewhere to plug in my flamingo!

Me, Lead Poisoning, and People of Walmart!

I'm pretty sure I have lead poisoning.  For the entire seven years that we've lived in this house, I've been nagging George to help me do something about the ugly turquoise and mauve wall paper in our living room.  He chose today to tackle it.  Well, not the wall paper, that's a bit down the road, but the start of the project.

My house was built in 1894.  I'm positive that in 1894, my house was absolutely stunning.  The hand carved woodwork around the fireplace and floor to ceiling windows is incredible, or at least it would be if years of slumlorded negligence didn't include coat after coat after coat of cheap paint.  Since we're not slumlords (at least, I think the person in my attic likes us) and we're planning to live here for at least the next ten years, George decided before we strip the wall paper and paint, we should sand the wood to its original condition.  What a horrible fucking idea! 

We went to Lowes early--like 10 AM early, the time I'm usually just getting up for the day.  We went into things excitedly.  Bought five gallons of Venetian Red paint.  A couple sanders.  A bunch of crap we probably won't need.  Went home and started sanding.  It's 10:39 PM and he's still sanding.  We haven't even finished one window.  Plus, given the age of the house, I'm positive that at least the lowest layers are loaded with lead.  Neat!  I got the stink eye for backing out so I could write here.  I'm also pretty sure I'll make an appearance on people of Walmart this week.

For all the crap we probably won't need, we sure forgot a lot that we do.  That resulted in me making three separate trips to Walmart.  By the third one, I was desperate not to go back to the never ending sanding, that I decided to slowly roam the store for a bit.  Then, hey, what do you know, electronics is showing a movie I like!  Outstanding!  So, I watched it.  I don't mean I watched it for ten minutes or so, I mean, I watched the last half of the movie.  With a snack and beverage.  Yeah, I'm classy.  I don't care, though; if an appearance on People of Walmart buys me an hour away from the awful sound of the sander, my husband's barking orders, and my child's never ending shriek, it's a small price to pay.

So, that was pretty much my Valentine's Day.  Lead poisoning, a headache, and a special spot as the county's trashiest person of the day.   It's okay, though.  Valentine's Day was never really a big deal to me until Pie came along.  I wasn't one of those people who hates Valentine's Day or anything, it just wasn't something we usually remembered.  The only reason I (somewhat) remember now is because Valentine's Day was the day I found out I was knocked up.

My mom is 47 shades of horrified that I call it that, but I didn't want kids, so I think it's a pretty fitting term.  I didn't dislike kids, I just didn't think I liked them enough to have one.  George didn't care, so no kids it was.  Until I got knocked up.  I was shaking on the sofa, while he was practically vomiting little balls of elation all over the living room. 

It all turned out much better than I thought.  Pregnancy was undoubtedly the worst experience of my life--sort of like having a tapeworm, but without any of the weight loss.  Birth sucked, but not nearly as bad as I'd imagined it would.  Actually being a mom has been absolutely amazing.  I knew I would love whatever child I had, but I hadn't counted on getting one I'd like so much.  She really is a fun little girl.

In a better world, I'd be posting that I'm knocked up again, but unfortunately, my broken reproductive system changed its mind.  I wasn't going to post about it, but since I've decided not to burden my husband with that little detail, I may as well tell some small corner of the internet.  I didn't even know I wanted other kids.  I thought we were cool as an only child family, and we probably are, it's just that today sort of sucks. 

But then, I think about Pie.  I couldn't be lucky enough to get two kids I like as much as I like her.  And the house.  First we didn't have the money to do all the work we want to, then we didn't have the time.  Pie's getting old enough to amuse herself, at least long enough for us to do some home improvement.  She's weaned and potty trained and feeds herself.  And who needs three birthdays in September?  Two already sucks for the budget.  Not to mention, this is the girl who spent an hour watching a movie in the electronics department at Walmart to get a break.  Yeah, today sort of sucks, but I'm good for finding the bright spot, even if it is totally inappropriate and wrong and will probably result in unwanted pictures of me on the internet.  Or maybe this is just all of the lead paint dust talking.  Whatever the case, I have a pretty good life exactly as it is.

Sympathy for the Dollar Store Employee

I really wanted to post about this yesterday, but I really wanted to be lazy, too.  Being lazy won out.  Actually, yesterday morning, I really wanted to post about something else entirely, but this was just too awesome not to share.  What I want in my funeral will have to wait for another day.

Yesterday was my mother-in-law's memorial service.  We've had an unusual (but pleasant) bout of sunshine, which makes the snow blinding.  George forgot his sunglasses and spent the whole drive to the funeral home bitching about it. 

"Why don't we stop at Target and buy some?"

"Are you kidding me?  We don't have time for you to run around Target."

"Okay, stop somewhere else..."

"It's fine."  Except if it was fine, he wouldn't have complained about again, less than a minute later.

"Do you want to wear mine?"  No answer, but a look like I'd just told him to go put on a dress.  "Okay, they're just sunglasses and you're in the car.  You don't have to use them, though..."  After that, I dropped it, but he kept grumbling to himself.  I have an unfortunate tendency to laugh when it's entirely inappropriate, so I kept my face toward the window.  Meanwhile, Pie's in the backseat, singing songs she probably shouldn't know the lyrics to.

Finally, when we were about five minutes away, he pulls in to the most ghetto looking dollar store I've ever seen.  He lets out this painful sigh like I've defeated him in some sort of contest, pulls out a $10 and says, "Just run in.  Be quick about it."

I love dollar stores.  If everything is only a dollar, it's not like you're really spending money.  George doesn't get that logic, either, but it makes perfect sense to me.  In any case, this wasn't a real dollar store and to be honest, I'm still not sure what to make of it. 

I finally found the sunglasses next to the frozen foods.  There was only one style of men's glasses, so choosing a pair was easy.  I also found a pair I liked for myself, so I grabbed those, too.  I headed to the register to pay.  I have dreadful luck when it comes to that sort of thing, so of course, I got stuck behind someone with a return.  Not just any return, though.  This return was the best part of my day!

The woman in front of me was trying to return a used hair relaxer because it had burnt her hair off at the scalp.  Only she wasn't just trying to return it, she was making a full on scene!  The poor teenage boy behind the counter shifted uncomfortably at the litany of expletives and threats coming from the hairless and enraged woman.  I instinctively stepped back a bit, as the argument continued.  At this point, I didn't know what to do.  I was supposed to hurry, but George needed his sunglasses.  Should I wait it out?  I mean, it looked like it might get physical.

Then the woman turned to me.  "You believe this bullshit?  That cocksucker won't give me my money back?  You believe that?"

I was completely nonplussed.  "Um...  S-sorry?"

She threw the box at the Coke display up front and stormed out, attempting to slam the glass door as she went.  The cashier, Jason, by his name tag, and I just stared for a minute.  I felt the giggles creep up.

"Okay, so how are you today?"

I absolutely lost it.  I laughed so hard I doubled over, unable to breathe, tears running down my cheeks.  "I am so sorry," I choked out when I could speak again.  "That was the most absurd thing I've ever seen."  I shoved the money at him before the hysterics took back over.  By this point, he was also laughing pretty hard, so I don't think he wrote me off as too loopy.  We chatted for a minute, exchanging sympathies, but I really was in a hurry and had to go.

I made it to the car, expecting George to be pissy with me for taking so long.  Instead, he pointed across the parking lot, and asked, "What is that about?"  And there she was!  The patchy headed woman, screaming obscenities to anyone who pulled in.  Oh, my. 

I spent the last uneventful five minutes of the drive fixing my destroyed eye makeup.

 These are my new sunglasses! I'm glad I got them instead of a hair relaxer!

The Light Bulb Thing

I have a lot of light bulbs.  When I tell people that, I think they assume I have a few extra packs so that I'm never caught in the dark without one.  That's because most people are sane.  I'm probably not.  My light bulb stash is in the thousands.   Yeah, yeah... I'm one of those incandescent stockpiling crazy people.  I'm okay with that.

Incandescent bulbs are warm and inviting.  The glow feels like happy.  So, it's my mission (one of them, anyway) to never run out.  Every time I go to the store, I buy a pack.  They're only a dollar or so, so I don't even notice, and like I said, I've gained quite a stash.  I really wanted to post a picture of it, but they're in my attic (the part without people in it) and I'm afraid of my attic.  My husband has been cool about the light bulbs, but not cool enough to go take pictures of them.  Boo.  Instead, enjoy my (lack of) paint skills!

 Feels like happy!

I hate the CFL bulbs, I really do.  I tried to give them a chance, thinking if I put one in an out of the way place long enough I'd get used to it, but I didn't.  I couldn't even stand the harsh, unloving light in a closet, how could I possibly go through daily life like that?

 I really, really do.

On top of that, I'm clumsy.  When, not if, I break them I need a hazmat team to clean them up?  No, thanks.  Of course, my brother and I routinely broke open thermometers as children and played with the mercury, and we seem okay.  Then again, I'm probably not the best example.  We'll stick with no.

I know they're cheaper in the long run.  I don't care.  Everyone wastes money.  One of the people who has pointed this out to me admits to having over 60 purses.  I don't own a purse.  I could point out the substantial savings that has brought me, but instead I'll figure we've all got our thing and mine is pleasant lighting conditions.  If and when we're that pressed for cash, perhaps I'll reconsider.  It would have to be pretty bad, though.

 

 I don't care.

I also know they're greener.  I still don't care.  I turn the lights off when I'm not in the room.  I walk a lot.  I shut the water off when I brush my teeth.  I'm not changing my lighting and if the world ends sooner because of it, I'm okay with that.

I still don't care.

Most of all, I don't care that I'm known in some (small and unimportant) circles as the crazy light bulb lady.  It's okay.  I feel confident that I will never run out and if in 2014, if I'm still writing here, you can rest assured I'll be doing it in the loving hug of incandescent light.

What an Asshole!

For the most part, I can navigate life tricking others into thinking I'm perfectly sane and mostly normal.  Unless, of course, the phone somehow becomes involved.  (Or we become close friends, or you read this, or any other number of things, but for the sake of this post, most casual acquaintances never catch on to how much is wrong with me.)  I have serious anxiety when it comes to the phone.  I went without one entirely (home or cell) until Pie was born and George forced one on me.  It's been almost four years and I still haven't adjusted.  I lost my phone a week before Thanksgiving and wasn't eligible for a new one until a week after Christmas.  That would bother most people.  It was the best month and a half of my life!

By "phone anxiety" I don't mean I get a little nervous or worked up, I mean it's not uncommon for the phone to stir up full on panic.  I generally don't make outgoing calls, even if the person wants me to call them.  I have a few friends I'll call on occasion, but it's a pretty sad sight.  It takes me about an hour to go through with it, starting to dial, hanging up, talking to myself.  I don't know why I'm like that--I mean, if they didn't want me to call, I wouldn't have the number, right?  Even calling businesses, where someone is being paid specifically to take my call, is a hideously nerve wracking experience.  George handles that when he can, as it's been known to reduce me to a trembling mess.  The only people I can call without heaps of stress over it are my husband and my parents.  Anyone else?  Forget it.

I also ignore calls unless I know who it is.  If an unknown number pops up, I google it before answering.  If google doesn't point me in the right direction, I just hit ignore and hope they leave a message if it's important.  Fielding all of George's calls this week has been a special brand of torture for me, but being the awesome wife I am, I've handled it like a champ.  I seriously want some sort of prize or a parade or something.

Anyway, I'm getting to the asshole bit.  I'm exhausted, and run down.  I haven't had a minute that wasn't dedicated to someone else's condolences or questions or tears, and between that and a few other things, life has been taking its toll on me.  I finally asked George if it would be completely insensitive for me to go out for a couple hours.  He laughed at me for thinking that was insensitive.  George is not an asshole!

I just went to the IHOP because it's close and they give you the whole pot of coffee and leave you alone.  I'm pretty sure they hate me because I only get coffee and not food, but I'm an excellent tipper, and I don't require a lot of work, so I could be wrong.

In any case, I'm sitting there enjoying my coffee and working on a terrible piece of writing, when my phone rings.  It's been doing that a lot this week, so I don't think much of it, and I answer without looking.

"Is Kendra there?"

This sets off alarm bells.  Most of the calls we've been getting have been for George.  Most of the callers don't even know my name, much less ask for me.  Half of them didn't even know he had a wife.  On top of that, it's a dude.  The only men who ever call me are my husband, father, or brother.  I know all of their voices, and their names come up on my phone.  Whoever this is, it's not one of them.  It doesn't look like a telemarketer number, besides, they usually ask for Mrs. --- or sometimes the more generic Homeowner.  I've never had one ask for me by my first name.  I panic.

"I'm sorry, you must have the wrong number!  Can I take a message?"  I'm not usually that dumb, I'm just panicking, and even before that, my mind was somewhere else entirely.  I don't catch what I just said, but the caller does.

"Oookay," he slips in before I can hang up.  "I have the wrong number, but you want to take a message?"

"Huh?"  It's still not registering.  Maybe I am that dumb.

"You said I have the wrong number, but you want to take a message..."  The sarcasm drips from his voice as he repeats himself.  "Can you explain how that works?"

Now it's making sense, and I'm a little pissed off.  You called me.  I didn't want to talk to you.  If I did want to talk to you, you totally destroyed any of that by being a douche.  "I don't know.  Guess I can't."  I'm starting to get my wits about me, but I'm still upset about this.

"Why would you offer?"

Who the fuck is this guy?  Literally?  "Look, chum.  I'm having a bad week.  If you have to know, I wasn't really paying attention when I answered.  I don't know who you are.  I don't know who you're looking for.  Why don't you do us both a favor, hang up, double check your number, and leave me the hell alone."  Disconnect!

Once I stopped shaking, I paid my bill and went home to google the number.  (Since I'm still without a laptop, I couldn't do it there.)  Unknown cell.  Super!  He didn't call back, nor did he call George's phone as I'd have expected from someone calling to offer him sympathy.  I'm really curious now, but not enough to call back.

In retrospect, I was probably unnecessarily bitchy, but then, I'm already tightly wound, everyone I normally talk to knows about my phone issues, and this guy really was being an asshole.  Something tells me to be glad I missed out on talking to him.

I Make Better Chocolate Chip Cookies Than You

It's been a terrible day, and I really don't trust myself enough to get into it without saying things I'll regret tomorrow.  Instead, I'll brag about my superior chocolate chip cookie baking skills.  I don't actually eat them (after baking four batches, I don't even want to see them, much less put them in my mouth) but I know they are awesome.  People (yes, plural) have been maimed in the name of my cookies before.  Be jealous!

Some Bad and Some Good

My husband's mom was not old.  She was not in particularly bad health.  A few years ago, she had a nasty battle with ovarian cancer, almost dying twice then, but she didn't.  She beat the cancer, and has actually been doing great.  It was a routine surgery, a minor, routine surgery, one she's been through dozens of times.  Yeah, every surgery is risky and all that, but death?  Death never crossed anyone's mind.  She was 54.  She beat cancer.  She had a minor, routine surgery, came home, bled out and died.  How the hell does that happen?

George's uncle died earlier this year.  He was also in his early 50's.  In fact, a lot of George's family seems to have a life expectancy around that age.  People in my family live forever.  90's or at least late 80's.  This scares the shit out of me.  I know there's not really any point thinking about it, but when it's in my face like this, I can't help it.  I'm terrified he will die young and I'll have 30 or 40 years to live without him.  It's one of the two worst, most morbid and horrifying things I've ever considered.

I mentioned this to one of my cousins when she called.  She told me I should probably get a job so I won't have to worry about it.  What?  Really?  That's actually the one thing that I wouldn't be worried about.  We have a fairly airtight plan that would allow me to continue to be home with Pie and ease into work gradually if and when I chose to.  We have a similar set up that would allow him to leave work to be home with her if anything happened to me.  That's not really what I'm afraid of.

I moved in with him when I was 18.  For my entire adult life, it's been me and him.  We did everything, almost entirely on our own, and we worked really hard to get to where we are.  Above everything else, he's my very best friend and I'm pretty sure if anything did happen to him, I would break completely.  No, maybe not, I think I'd be able to hold myself together for Pie, but I don't know.  And if Pie is grown up enough to not be fully dependent on me, I don't think so.  Like I said, I know it's not worth thinking about, but I can't help it.

In brighter news, I got to see one of my favorite friends today!  My main mission the past couple days has been dealing with arrangements, working things out with his employer, fielding calls from well meaning people he doesn't feel like talking to, baking--I will eventually post pics of the insanity in my kitchen, and keeping Pie occupied.  So, we took her back to the science center today.  It was, once again, a super time, especially getting to have more time with my awesome friend.

I always considered myself more or less unchanged by motherhood.  I mean, okay, my shoe collection has taken a hit.  Sure, I left my job.  And there's a car seat in my car, (usually) a cookie in my pocket, and I catch myself quoting kids' movies enough that I should probably be embarrassed.  But none of those things really define me, and I really thought I was the same person.

Today, after Pie was strapped in and I started the car, I joined my friend outside for a smoke.  I made an offhand comment, something like, "It's like I'm the person I used to be, only with no job and too much time on my hands."

Friend absolutely agreed.  "I was just thinking, Kendra's back!"

That got me thinking.  I really hadn't realized I was gone, but I guess I sort of was.  I haven't really been unhappy in years, but the past couple months have been particularly excellent.  I think this blog has something to do with it.  And she's right, I am back.  That makes me smile.

On a side note, I don't know how much I'll be around the next few days, with the funeral and making the food and all, but I'll return sooner rather than later and hopefully with more upbeat (and interesting) posting.  

Just Trying to Make Sense of Things

I really debated on whether or not I should do this here, whether I should post something else or not at all, but you know, this is my place, this is where I can (and do) say anything I want, and I'm doing it.  I'm going to be a Debbie Downer, and I'm probably going to feel undue pity for myself, so if you don't want to read that, here's your warning.

A couple hours ago, my sister-in-law flung open my door and walked into my house.  The lack of knocking is nothing new, but the look on her face was something I hadn't seen before.  Shit!  A ridiculous thought ran through my mind.  She found the tapeworm thing. 

"What's up," I asked her, half expecting a fist to my face.

Instead, she ignored me completely and headed to where George was sitting.  She stood there for a minute, just staring at him, finally choking out that they needed to talk.  George was thoroughly confused, but he got up and followed her into the kitchen.  At that moment, I knew it was something more serious than my stupid tapeworm pictures.

"They need to go in the other room," she insisted, nodding to Pie and I.

Normally, that would piss me off (and on some level, it did) but for once I had the good sense to keep my mouth shut.  I scooped Pie into my arms, headed into the living room, and plunked her down on the sofa to watch How to Train Your Dragon.  I tried to focus on the movie, but bits of conversation from the kitchen kept drawing my attention away.  She couldn't have just said what I thought she said, because that's not possible, and--

But that was what she said.  George's mom died.  She just completely unexpectedly died.  Went for a routine surgery, was released yesterday, bled out at home.  No warning, no sense to any of it, just game over.  And here I'm worried about tapeworms.

When my sister-in-law left, I went into the kitchen to hold him.  We left Pie on the sofa and went out back for a smoke.  I had one, too.  Then, life went on.  I finished making the tacos and we had dinner and he and Pie went to bed.  I'm alone with my thoughts and for the first time I can remember, it really, really sucks.

I have things I could do.  I paced around my kitchen, trying to make sense of how to start cleaning it.  I burned a dozen cookies.  I tried to distract myself with the internet, but I couldn't even get into my favorite story.  I have people I could call and I have people who would be here in 10 minutes if I asked, but it doesn't even make sense because I can't think about anything except my husband's hurt and the fact that I have no idea what to do for him.

There's something wrong with me.  I'm too emotionally stunted to process anything I can't turn into a joke.  I'm the mood lightener.  It's what I do.  When something's wrong, I say something so completely out there and inappropriate that no one can be sad anymore.  I always know what to say, and even when it's wrong, at least it's funny.  But I have no idea what to say.  Or think.  Or feel.  He's pretty much in shock right now, and I'm selfishly relieved because it means that if I do fuck up, he only half heard it anyway.  I'm his wife, I'm supposed to be able to comfort him, and I'm failing and useless right now.

On top of that, I've never experienced anything even close to this.  Over the past couple years, I've lost 3 of my grandparents, and it was sad, but it was also more or less expected.  And they'd all been ready.  This is an entirely different realm, and it's just too real.  I can't even relate through experience.  I just want him to be okay.

Then, and I know the two are unrelated, I feel like the biggest pile of shit ever over the tapeworm thing.  What the fuck is wrong with me?  That wasn't a nice thing to post and I knew it and I did it anyway.  Rational or not, I feel like maybe if I wasn't such an asshole all the time, things like this could be avoided.  I know that makes no sense, but that's how it translates in my mind anyway.

Further cementing my position as the worst person ever, during all of this, Pie pulled my laptop off of the coffee table and broke it.  Like, won't turn on broke it.  The laptop itself isn't a huge deal, it was an old as dirt HP Pavilion that I got for free from someone who was throwing it out.  I got it running, and it's served me well as a spare over the past couple years, but it's nothing worth shedding tears over.  The problem is that I've been trying to challenge myself lately, and have been doing a lot of writing.  I use the craptop for that because it's easier to write curled up under the blankets in bed, rather than at the computer desk.  I was ten pages into something I'd really been struggling with when it happened.  I hadn't yet emailed it to myself.  I'm taking it to my dad's tomorrow, where, with any luck, I can pull the hard drive, hook it up to an adapter, and retrieve my files.  If, the hard drive isn't broken anyway.  Thing is, what kind of person thinks about this when so much else is going on?  I can't really be that selfish, can I?  Apparently so.

I'm pretty much a selfish, useless, mean bitch, and now I'm making this about me.  And feeling sorry for myself.  God, I'm an asshole.  Anyway, I guess I just had to get this out.  I don't know how much I'll be around this week, but I'll be back sooner rather than later.  And while I'm feeling sentimental, I appreciate every single person who reads this, even if we've never actually interacted.  You are all wonderful and thank you.

My Dad Was a Slumber Party Crasher and a Terrible Influence!

When I was pregnant, I didn't really care if Pie was a girl or a boy.  Of course, no one believed that because everyone has to have some sort of preference, but really, all I wanted it to be was human.  At that point, I was fairly certain I was incubating some sort of demon whose only purpose would be to destroy everything in its path.  Turns out, I was somewhere around half right.

Anyway, I don't remember a whole lot about the last hour of her birth, but I do remember George getting all excited and emotional and telling me, "It's a girl! She's a girl!"  I was pretty excited, too, but mostly, I was just thinking about how cold I was and how much I wanted to tear the oxygen mask off of my face.  I'd done it three times, but my doctor kept putting it back.  Still, one thought, short and fleeting, ran through my mind at the word "girl".

Slumber parties!

I love slumber parties.  It's something I never grew out of, and I can't wait until Pie wants to have them.  From the ages of 9 to 14, when they (or I, who knows) became uncool to everyone else, I had one at least monthly, and I always had the best ones.  For one thing, it was never just a slumber party.  It always started with bowling or rollerskating or miniature golf.  After some sort of kick ass activity, we'd have the slumber party.

In the summer, we'd put the tent up and do it that way.  We didn't really stay in the tent, instead taking advantage of the opportunity to roam the neighborhood at night.  That ended when my art teacher, who lived a few houses away, called my parents to inform them that several of us were running up and down the street without pants.  Both of my parents were horrified by that, and from then on, all camp outs included someone checking on frequently and in random enough intervals that they couldn't be planned around.

Inside slumber parties weren't quite as cool because I constantly had to remind everyone that everything we said traveled through the heat vents and right into my parents' room.  They were still fun, though.  There was baking and bra freezing and even though they were banned from my house, someone always snuck in a Ouija board.  If my mom was sleeping, or not home, my dad let us make prank phone calls, and in the later years, let us use this magical thing called the internet that I was the first of my friends to have. 

My dad also hung out with us a lot, which is (according to my husband) weird, but my dad is awesome and everyone liked having him at the slumber party.  He gave great (meaning terrible, and should never ever be listened to) advice, he regaled us with tales of all the rockstars he used to hang out with (with pics, so we knew it happened), and most importantly, he let us get away with things no sane adult would ever let us get away with.  One time he even taught us how to build spud guns so we could shoot moldy tangerines at the neighbor's house.  He and the neighbor didn't get along well.  Now that I think about it, I wonder if the reason he hung out with us so much was to create an army of preteen girls to wage his war on the neighbor.  Brilliant move if that was, in fact, the plan.

Anyway, I'm wholeheartedly excited for the day Pie wants to have her first slumber party.  Hers won't be as amazing as mine were, because in all honesty, I'm pretty irresponsible, but not that irresponsible.  No prank calls.  No wandering the streets.  Everyone has to wear pants.  No shooting old food at others' homes.  But I know how to make a good slumber party happen, and I hope I'm cool enough to hang out.  And if nothing else, I guess I can enjoy being the one to listen in through the heat vents.

Look! It's a bag of me!

 I bet no one actually expected a bag of me!

Something happened today.  Something that usually doesn't happen in the winter, at least not where I live.  The sun was out!  It's still cold and snowy and so obviously winter, but we actually got to see the sun.  Because of that, we spent most of the day outside.  When it finally got dark, I put the bounce house up to occupy Pie while I tried to write something, but ten minutes later, I found myself in it with her instead.  Now, I'm too exhausted to even think of anything to write about.  But, I did promise a couple people that I'd get my (completely awesome) tapeworm pictures moved down, so here's some pictures no one else cares about and a few random thoughts.

We got Pie a bounce house for Christmas this year.

I'm outrageously jealous of it.  George won't let me bounce in it, despite the fact that I'm well under the 400 pound weight limit.  He keeps insisting that the limit is based on 400 pounds of children and it doesn't matter if I'm no where near it, it's not meant for adults.  George is a funsucker.  Let's take one more look at all this awesome!

Who wouldn't want to bounce in that?  I mean besides my husband and any other funsucker.

I also briefly considered deleting yesterday's post, partly because it was mean, but mostly because I should probably avoid getting myself into trouble.  Not with the husband--he thought it was great, but with the rest of the family.  Then, I thought about it a little more.  When you steal someone's wedding set (at Thanksgiving dinner, no less) you open yourself up to being compared to a tapeworm.  And the tapeworm will probably end up as the better option.  Consequences, folks.  Besides (and it wouldn't come as a surprise if this was just me) it was hilarious.

I'm also considering changing my creepy eye picture.  I know it freaks a few people out, but I really like the creepy eye picture.  I woke up to that monstrosity a few days before I found out I was knocked up and I like to think of it as Pie's first act of violence to me.  Plus, I have fond memories of using it to thoroughly terrify my former boss.  I liked my former boss, but it was still fun.  I don't really have another picture to replace it with.  I mean, I guess I could take a normal eye picture, but that's just not as much fun.  I could put up a real picture, but I like to pretend not having a real picture means I'm still anonymous.  I wasn't planning to use my real name, either, and I've already done that.  Maybe I'll take a poll to see how many people it actually bothers.

Oh!  Since I'm rambling with no clue what I'm talking about, I might as well brag for a minute.  I changed a fuse today!  By myself!  I know that doesn't sound like a big deal, but I'm scared beyond reason of my spider infested basement, so this was huge accomplishment.  That's all.  Better stuff tomorrow.

My Sister-In-Law vs. A Tapeworm (with scary pictures!)

I'm probably going to get in a boat load of trouble for this, but it's late, I've had too much coffee, and I got nothin' else, so why not...

It all started on facebook.  Facebook is where 99% of my best ideas come from, so this makes sense.

I realize that half my comment got cut off, but I really don't feel like digging through facebook again to find it.  It pretty much boils down to tapeworms are awesome!  I was glad to have found a friend who shares that opinion.  And the fun with intestinal parasites didn't stop there!

My gum swallowing friend was clearly unimpressed, but this got me thinking.  How would my sister-in-law rate in comparison to a tapeworm?  Let's take a look!

 

 

I've decided to trade my sister-in-law for the tapeworm of the first person who offers.  I'm also well aware that I'm going to hell.

Happy Groundhog Day!

I love Groundhog Day.  There's something about having a holiday dedicated to something that routinely tears up my neighbor's trash and drags over every inch of my yard that gives me the warm fuzzies.  Kind of like that guy up there, I suppose.

This morning when I tried to take my dog out, I discovered my front door had been sealed shut with what can be no less than 4 tons of ice and snow, so I'll go ahead and assume he saw his shadow.  We were able to get out the back, but my poor dog promptly sunk to her ribcage.  My dog is not a small dog.

I can't say I was unhappy when she just wanted to pee and go back inside.  It's really cold today.

Anyway, sometime way back in November, I bought Christmas cards.  I wrote in them and signed them.  I colored pictures to go along with them.  I stamped and addressed about half of them.  Then, I just gave up.  Good thing I don't seal anything until the very last minute, because this afforded me an excellent opportunity.  A couple weeks ago, I grabbed my huge stack of Christmas cards, finished addressing them, and went through every single one, crossing out "Christmas" and "New Year" and filling in Groundhog Day, instead.

 

(I know groundhog is one word, but somehow, it ended up as two on most of the cards.) 

Well, today's Groundhog Day and the cards are still sitting on my desk.  I really suck.  Since I didn't get to say it with a card, I'll say it here--Happy Groundhog Day!  Next month, you may or may not receive a gently recycled Ides of March card.  I make no promises, though.

Also, I have no idea what this groundhog is made of, but I want one.